No one sees me, no one but you (Niphredil)

Niphredil’s fingers trailed over her harp, gentle as if the very instrument were flowers. Down the strings, a gentle thrum that she knew offered a single note into the quiet home, though her world was yet silent. She sighed, looking from the dusty instrument to the window that looked out over the street.

Even if the young woman had full use of her ears, the street at this time of night would have been quiet. The markets were long closed, and most citizens tucked into bed. In the air, she could still smell the sugar from the confectionary that was down the street, and the scent of the flowers from one of the peddler’s seemed to have lingered in the night air alongside it.

There was also another scent, one familiar and comforting in its way—that of the kiln and forge. Fire and ash, smoke. Sweat. Niphredil’s shoulders sagged and stood to pace her way to the window, pressing a hand against the pane as she peered down the road toward the glazier’s. It had been some time since she had seen Finlach, a fact that both worried and saddened her.

Even Lathron had expressed concern over the fact Niffy had not meandered down toward the bead-maker’s shop, though such expressions remained small. Niphredil knew her father was concerned he had been to harsh on the boy, and yet refused to seek Finlach out to speak on it further. Niffy suspected this was both because her father was certain he might frighten the glazier more and the fact his opinion on the matter of her venture to Dol Amroth had not changed.

Now from her vantage, the young woman could see a golden glow cast upon the grey-white stone. Niffy frowned faintly, marking the familiar pane, though unable to see inside. It would, perhaps, not have been the first time Finlach had lost track of time, finding himself in his shop long past the hours of its closure. If it was as simple as that, he would need someone to remind him to go rest. Yet, a thread of worry panged and whispered to her from her heart. If something were wrong…

Quietly, the young woman turned and slipped on her shoes.

--

She stood, cloaked, in the doorway of the shop, her presence calling Finlach’s eyes from a slew of paper scattered over his counter. For a moment she looked regretful, seeing his lips mouth the shape of her name, seeing the surprise in his eye and the fading fear that perhaps a sudden entrance to one’s closed shop might offer.

“I saw your light,” Niffy said to him, her voice quiet though easy to carry in the closed shop. “I was worried you might have—”

She did not hear the door open, though she felt its breeze as it was pulled in fervor, and smelled the metallic tinge that suddenly filtered in. With the smell came heavy steps behind her, vibrating through the floor; Niphredil did not have to see to know it was one of the king’s men, though she turned in surprise and took a step aside nonetheless.

An exchange passed between Finlach and the guardsman, though Niphredil could not read the lips fast enough to understand. A few words she thought she caught, though she frowned as she pondered why they strung together. Steward, swan, now—Niffy had never considered that Steward Denethor was one to make custom orders at such hours, though it seemed whatever he wised, Finlach was quickly complying.

"Come on, Niffy."

It was more the small smile than the words that called the young woman to follow, though perhaps a curiosity was growing within. Swan. She did not know why they would have come to Finlach in the case of such a bird, though with every step toward the citadel there came a thread more of understanding.

It was not, however, until they stood before the crypts of the royal family and the stewards themselves that Niphredil understood this was not, in fact to do with a bird in the way she thought. She glanced quickly to the glazier, her eyes widened faintly. “A-are we going…in there?” She asked tentatively.

The guard was already moving off; she could feel his retreating footsteps lessening beneath the soles of her shoes. “Fin—what’s going on?” She was, perhaps, ashamed and embarrassed she did not understand, though helmets always made things difficult, and quick exchanges alike.