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And so, the weight of all the travails they had suffered and overcome so far burdening their tongues, the six Elves passed around their supplies and water, set about hacking apart a chair and lighting a fire, and ruminated in a moment of tranquility.
When they spoke, it was not to speculate on the character or the whereabouts of the Diviner, nor even to blame each other for the manifold events that had overtaken them, but to exchange words that seemed trivial. Of such moments is existence formed; not in the unnatural vividness of battle, the horror of approaching death, the confusion of the unknown, but of banter around a lowering flame; quiet words of appreciation on food or drink; glances that reminded all of the Elves who they were and why they were, and made where they were seem, temporarily, unimportant.
So the latest hours of the night passed; and finally the fire burnt out, and the company gratefully snatched the chance of a little sleep. It was agreed that Lomwe should take the first watch, then Endamir, and finally Tasareni. So Lomwe alone was left while the others drifted into sleep and dreams; Malris's confused, a succession of strange episodes.
He saw his wife, sitting at her loom, in the bedchamber they had shared; a raven fluttering across it; the room again, now crumbling and despoiled, an embroidery half finished...he could not see the words. A face. Her face. The crow's return again. A few bars of harp music; Tasareni tossing her head; and then, at last, dreamless repose.
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