Winter, some years ago.
Eglagor ran, desperately looking behind every few paces, but his pursuers were relentless. Some orcs, he knew, close at his heels, and he had been unable to lose them in these lands he thought he knew so well. It was a dark night, the storm was in earnest now and the pouring water mixed with the blood flowing down his face from a deep cut as he ran half blind in a desperate attempt to save his life. Rain was pelting mercilessly upon him, as it had been falling for the last weeks, transforming the ground of the bare hills of the Lone Lands into a sticky sludge of mud. At every step his soaked boots stuck deep into the brown mire, their deep imprints easy to follow to the least skilled of trackers, even as it slowed his own escape.
He finally managed to reach a bush, breathless, and he let himself fall behind it, panting and exhausted, heedless of the wetness soaking his clothes and the bitter cold as he sat on the ground. He listened anxiously to the sound of his pursuers, knowing that as long as night lasted, they would not be stopped in their search. A quick look at the stars gave little hope. The nights were long in the cold winter of the north.
Bitterly he rued his own stupidity. He had scouted the goblin camps in the area and had found the goblins easy foes. But when he had challenged the sentries of one of the larger encampments, he had been overwhelmed as orcs, not goblins, rushed towards him; the careless mistake of a young Ranger too eager to prove himself. He had managed to slay some from afar, for he was rightly proud of his skill as an archer, but they were still too many to defeat with his meagre ability as a swordsman, so when he could stand the beating no more he turned and ran as arrows whistled around him, fearing that he might pay for his unwariness with his life. Still, he had thought he would be able to lose them soon.
But it had not been so. How long he had been chased, he knew not, only that his chest burned with exertion and that his legs, young and sturdy, might not bear him much longer, wearied as they were of the effort of traversing the muddy ground. After what seemed as only a few moments, he heard again the snarling voices of orcs behind him and he cursed softly. In the sparse lands he travelled now, a bush was no hiding place. He tiredly climbed to his feet and set off again. In a moment he heard the foul beasts screeching: he had been seen and the chase began anew. He knew not how long he would be able to go on. Certainly – he thought with a hasty look at the sky before returning his eyes to the treacherous ground – not long enough to outlast them before the sun rose.
Suddenly, he saw dark shadows ahead. As he came closer, he recognised them: the thicker vegetation of Weatherfoot. For a moment, hope burned in his chest. He remembered being told that another Ranger camped there sometimes, some aid coming unexpected in the houseless hills. But as swiftly as they had risen, his spirits dropped. Would he dare to reveal the encampment of one of his people, to lead enemies to his very fire, with the memories of his noble ancestors watching from the broken ruins of Amon Sûl? He moaned softly, staggering as a wave of despair and resignation washed upon him.
Another dart grazed him and he sped up again, but he did not make for the hope and the safety hidden among the trees. Instead, he veered off to the side, seeking the rocky cliffs of Weathertop. When he reached them, he turned and taking his bow, he nocked an arrow on the bowstring, hoping against hope that the water had not damaged it overmuch. It would be a futile attempt to hold his doom at bay just a moment longer, but he would not dishonour the blood of Númenor in his veins and the star on his shoulder by receiving the Gift of Men cowering in fear or exhaustion. So, he pulled the bowstring and aimed even as the orcs jeered, slowing to a walk, certain of their victory.
Suddenly, in the dark, the twang of a bow not his own was heard, and to his surprise, instead of feeling the arrow pierce his own flesh, Eglagor saw one of his foes fall, quickly followed by another when the bow sang again. He let fly himself, joining the one-sided battle, but there was no need. The enemies that had nearly, so nearly, worsted him lay dead in a few moments.
The young Ranger sagged against the rocky face behind him, resolve leaving his limbs fast now that the danger was over. He called out into the gloom, seeking the name of his saviour. A figure appeared from the sheets of falling rain, clad in a similar manner to himself, and his eyes came with relief upon the star on his shoulder.
“A Ranger of the North I am, and it seems that we are akin. Come, my camp is near, and you can tell me your tale when you are rested”.
And Eglagor allowed himself to be led away as he slumped at the rushing relief of being still alive.
