In years to come…

Ithil had sent her summons hours ago. And yet Cúronsûl could still not bring himself to answer. Why she had called upon him was by no means a secret. He himself had brought the news from Minas Faer, the City of Falling Waters. Lord Winthallan had sent for Ithil’s assistance in seizing one of his men. An oathbreaker. And oathbreaking had only one possible consequence.

Another servant knocked at the door. “Milord! Your wife calls upon you.” As well he knew she would. There was no point in delaying her any further. He should not have done so in the first place. She would be gracious enough to forgive him that, keeping in mind who she would send him after. Once more he donned the sand colors which in this castle only he ever wore. Not even his son, since he had to be raised as a lordling.

When he finally appeared before her – Ithil, who was still as glamorous as ever – her words offered no comfort to him. Only her eyes tried to, knowing that the attempt itself was in vain. “My love and husband… My lord… You know why I have bid you here. Our ally, His Grace Winthallan, has asked for your services in hunting down an oathbreaker. You know all too well that we cannot deny him – doing so would slight him and shatter the fragile ties that bind our houses.” For Cúronsûl there was nothing left but accepting his task. Once more he would be Sandwind and do as was asked of him.

He went for Anor, just as they had asked him to. It had taken him weeks to pick up on his trail. Then, for another week, he had watched him from a distance, wondering whether the other knew of his presence. As for himself, he could not decide which of the two was better: knowing that he was close, close enough to reach out and touch. Or trying to pretend that he had not longed for his presence.

For months, years he had wished for nothing more than to see him again. But a safe distance had been put between them. It was better to know the other safe than to invoke the wrath of his lord, the duke. Yet now that he saw him… He thought that perhaps he could not draw his blade. He could not strike the fatal blow. He could perhaps not even grasp the hilt of the dagger.

How am I to live a life without Anor? In perpetual night, never fearing his warmth? But then, how were I to live and renounce my claims on Ithil? To live too close to him and be undone by it. How is any man to decide for either the one or the other?

The answer came easy. Cúronsûl glanced down at both of the daggers he had drawn, watching the moonlight reflect on their polished blades. And when he finally came close to him, he whispered softly. “All water… must bow to the moon.” It was known.