[Feanor of the Peredhil]

In the village ther was dwellynge a poure scoler, hadde lerned art, but al his fantasye was turned for to lerne a thyng most literarye, and koude a certeyn of conclusiouns to demen by interrogaciouns if that men asked hym in certein houres what he wit of tales, and he could say.

And he knew great things, and spoke with great clarity, and he made those around him smile, and during his time in the village, the Dark Lady cared most specifically to speak with him, but she did not, for she could not. A power of will she did not know possessed her kept her from him, but at his final moment, when the village had spoken, and his fate had been sealed, she could say to him many things, and she could ask him many things, and she delighted in his answers in a way she had never known before. And so bifel bidene opon a somers day Anguirel and the Quen spoke within her play.

"What is bettre than Gold?” he responded to her, “Jaspre. What is bettre than Jaspre? Wisdom. And what is bettre than Wisdom? Womman. And what is bettre than a good Womman? No thyng."

And she told him with a laugh, “The first vertue, sone, if thou wilt lerne, is to restreyne and kepen wel thy tonge.”

And for a time, her Darkness seemed more light. And she told him something: “A few miles from here a frost-stiffened wood waits and keeps watch above a mere; the overhanging bank is a maze of tree-roots mirrored in its surface. At night there, something uncanny happen: the water burns.”

And he did not shiver with fear or wonder, but was curious, as all scholars are, and as they spoke, he forgot his death, and no longer saw the villagers around him, though they spoke to him, and about him, and with him. In his mind, he spoke with the Lady, and they shared many things, and he asked her about the wood and the mere, and the burning water and her Tower, and she told him of her past, and of her present, and for a long time they spoke, but never, she thought, long enough, and she regretted that the village would end his life this evening, now, in moments, in seconds, because he had not been cruel, had not been evil, but had been a scholar, one who delighted in learning what he could, of himself, of her, and of them.

For the first time in this dark, fogged time, the Dark Lady felt a hint of remorse for the cruelty she had thrust upon the village. He did not deserve to die…

And yet… he did.