Amloth's flanks heaved as they came to the crest of a hill. On the horizon, nestled in a hollow of elm trees, lay a dark shape which Tancamir's weary eyes knew to be the abandoned lodge. He gasped and fell forwards against his horse's neck as Amloth stumbled over a tree-root. Pain shot through his right arm and shoulder. He stroked Amloth's neck with his left hand, whispering hoarsely to him. They were almost there.
They drew up to the entrance of the lodge, a rude building constructed out of logs fitted together in the manner of the Atani who dwelt on the fringes of the forest. Tancamir had made it one of his haunts since discovering it in ruins a year ago. He had stored provisions for his journey here, thinking that it would be out of sight of any pursuers from Imladris. But now fear gripped him as he slid from the saddle and staggered toward the door. More than any search party from Imladris, he feared the companions of the man he had slain mere hours ago. When they returned to find their camp deserted, and their comrade dead, would they look for him here? Tancamir cursed as his right arm jostled in the sling, and fumbled for the door with his left hand.
He drew a breath of relief. His supplies had not been touched, and the lodge was deserted. But he could not stay here, lest the woodmen find him. Leaving Amloth to rest outside, Tancamir slumped against the rough wall. Through his dimming sight he could see the bundle of waybread he had set aside, as well as a pouch of dried meat and a flask of miruvor, all piled neatly against one wall. An extra sheaf of arrows lay on the floor, all fletched with hawk feathers that had come from the mews of Imladris. Cobwebs spread their shadowy tendrils from corner to corner, and for a moment Tancamir was reminded of the tales he had heard of Nan Dungortheb, where spiders wove their webs of darkness in ages long before he was born. His head felt heavy, his arm like a weight of lead which flamed with pain every time he moved. Darkness threatened to take him again, as the weariness of the past hours caught up with him. It would be so easy to lie down and let oblivion wash over him, to rest even for a short while and blot out the pain ... His head lolled to one side as his arm began to throb again.
Outside, Amloth gave a nervous whicker and nudged the door open. Stepping over to his master, the chestnut brought his velvety muzzle to Tancamir's cheek. He blew a whuffing breath, urging Tancamir upright. Tancamir groaned and rested his head against Amloth's muzzle. The look in his horse's liquid brown eyes was one of utter trust. Though his hide was flecked with sweat, Amloth patiently stood in the doorway awaiting his master. With much effort, Tancamir grabbed a fistful of Amloth's chestnut mane and braced himself against the horse's neck. Little eddies of dust swirled around his feet as he staggered upright, gritting his teeth against the pain in his shoulder. Once he got to his feet, his head seemed to clear somewhat. Overhead, stars shone through holes in the ceiling like watching eyes. There was scarcely an hour left before dawn would come, and they must be safely away by then. Motioning Amloth to stay, Tancamir bent to place the spare arrows within his quiver. Slowly, painfully, he fastened the other provisions to Amloth's saddlebags.
Haste, haste, he repeated to himself. The word drummed through his head as he guided Amloth out of the cabin and shut the door with shaking hands. Setting his jaw firmly, he grasped the saddle and swung himself up onto Amloth's back. Haste, before they find you. Tancamir glanced at the stars again, then pressed his heels to his horse's side. Brambles and trees snagged on the loose ends of his grey cloak as they travelled onward. Tancamir wrapped his cloak more tightly around himself and shivered. It was still early spring, and the chill of night seeped into his bones. It was all he could do to stay upright in the saddle and keep his left hand on the reins. Soon the dense undergrowth and overhanging trees began to thin, and large boulders began to appear scattered among the thinning forest. They had come to the northwest fringes of the forest, beyond which lay the river Mitheithel and the North Downs of Arnor. Tumbled formations of rock dotted the wood, some large enough to form caverns, some only as large as tree-stumps. They rode onwards, always keeping to the edge of the wood, but ever west and north.
He would make for the wild lands on the outskirts of the North Downs, where game was plentiful. The rugged woods would conceal him from unfriendly eyes, and under the sheltering branches of the tall fir-trees he would make his camp each night. Or so he had planned when he had left the Valley of Imladris, in what seemed to be a lifetime ago. Now the first fingers of dawn began to grope across the sky, and the eastern horizon glowed faintly. Tancamir glanced around, hoping to find a place where he and Amloth could safely lie hidden until dusk came again. He had come seldom to this part of the woods around Imadris, preferring to ride to the southwest where game was more plentiful, and sightings of trolls were fewer. A dark shadow loomed in the distance, and Tancamir's hand was halfway to his bow before he realised it was nothing more than a great mass of rock.
The welcome babble of running water met his ears, and he saw that he had come to the bank of a swift stream, still running clear and cold from its source in the Misty Mountains beyond Imladris. The mass of rock butted against a gentle swell in the ground, forming a hill. Amloth lunged forwards toward the clear water, and bent his head to drink. Sharply Tancamir jerked on the reins. To let Amloth drink his fill now, when his sides still heaved from exertion and his nostrils were flared wide, would mean certain injury on the morrow.
"Not now, Amloth. You must rest a bit before you take your refreshment." With effort he steered Amloth away from the stream and eased him into a walk. He circled the hill curiously, and came to a rocky opening on the other side which seemed to lead into a cave. Cautiously, he drew near to the entrance. His eyes could not pierce the darkness within the cave, but there were no signs of habitation. If this was a troll's den, or indeed that of any other beast, it had long been deserted. No tracks issued from the cave-mouth, and there were no bones littered about the entrance. It seemed large enough to house himself and Amloth comfortably. After a few more minutes of steady walking, Amloth's breathing had slowed to an easy cadence. Tancamir patted his horse's neck comfortingly and halted by the side of the stream.
"Drink now. You have more than earned your rest." Sliding down from the saddle, Tancamir leaned against his horse heavily before turning to fumble in one of the saddle-bags. He found flint and steel, then bent low to the ground and struck a flame in some fallen twigs. Quickly he drew an unlit torch from his pack and touched to the fire, then held it aloft. He stamped out the flame on the ground, then began to make his way towards the mouth of the cave. The torch cast strange shadows on the walls of the cavern that wavered and danced like living things. Carefully putting one foot in front of the other, he scanned the cave for any sign of foes. The cavern was deserted, as far as he could tell. It stretched further into the hill beyond the reach of the torchlight. By now, he was too weary to care if anything else lurked in the dark, for he had read all the signs like any skilled tracker would and found nothing. Tancamir gave a low whistle and Amloth trotted inside, water still dripping from his nose. He made a sign for Amloth to stay within the cave, then began to slowly unbuckle his saddlebags. Finally he unfastened Amloth's saddle and laid it on the ground. Tancamir clumsily undid the bridle with his left hand and hung it on a rocky ledge.
The pain in his right shoulder and arm had dulled to a low throb. He felt along his right forearm, wincing when the leather of his gauntlet met open flesh. The woodman had bound his wounds well, he thought guiltily. Strange - he had thought the forearm broken, but it was whole. His left hand travelled to his upper arm, pulling away with a hiss at a sharp twinge in his shoulder. He had merely dislocated the shoulder, then. Tancamir sagged against the wall in relief. He could not fare into the Wild with a broken arm, much less draw the bow to defend himself. With a groan he rolled his right shoulder forwards, and though pain bloomed through his arm he was grateful. It could still be moved, so evidently his rescuer had placed the shoulder back into joint successfully. As dawn crawled over the eastern horizon, Tancamir blew out his torch and slid to the ground. With his back propped up against the cold stone of the cavern wall, he slipped into restfulness, eyes still open and trained on the mouth of the cave.
The shadows of twilight had crept up on the hollow outside the cave when Tancamir returned to wakefulness. Inside, Amloth stood with head lowered, still sleeping. Tancamir blinked groggily and shifted his weight to rest on his left arm. It was still light enough outside that the inside of the cave was no longer completely dark. He gave his right shoulder an experimental prod, and immediately regretted it as a deep ache flared to life. Gritting his teeth, he rose to his feet and looked around. No sign of any life within the cave, save himself and his horse. His feet moved more steadily as he made his way to the mouth of the cave and peered out. His grey eyes glinted with renewed determination.
He had not yet seen one hundred summers pass, and the blood of youth ran hot within his veins. Already he felt the sinews of his shoulder knitting themselves together, and the wounds on his arm closing over. Soon, he thought with satisfaction, in a matter of days he would be fit to hold the bow again. Then he would fare forth into the wilds of Arnor, giving the lands of Men a wide berth. For it was the wilderness that he loved, where the sound of Oromë's horn echoed in the thunder of waterfalls and the rush of wind among the trees. Where the trees grew dense and verdant, dappling the wood with their shade. Where stag and hind ran wild among the ferns, and one could fare wild and unfettered under the great dome of the heavens. There he would go, seeking solitude and adventure. The wilderness called him - it was in his blood, in the songs of Doriath his mother had sung to him every evening, in the stir of his heart when he surveyed the wood from high in the branches of a mighty tree.
He crept into the dusky stillness, broken only by the far-off song of a thrush and the babble of the stream nearby. Farther upstream, the waters formed a clear pool before rushing downwards over tumbled rocks in a small cataract. Tancamir clambered up the shallow slope to the pool, gladdened by the music of water falling over stone. He knelt beside the stream and bent his left hand to cup a mouthful of water. After he had filled his waterskin, he sank down onto the mossy bank with a contented sigh. He was wounded, but not broken - harried, but not overcome. Slowly he crept forwards until his face was mirrored in the still water. A haggard visage stared back at him, sandy hair matted and torn, brow stained with blood. Cold, steely grey eyes gazed into his own. They were not the eyes of the boy who had left Imladris, rash and determined to prove himself. They were the eyes of one who has faced death for the first time and come away hardened by the ordeal. The eyes of a warrior, perhaps, but also of a murderer of the innocent.
He looked away in shame, left hand on the dagger hidden in his hauberk. He drew it out, still sticky with blood he had spilled. The blade seemed heavy as lead as he lowered it into the water, watching with morbid fascination as the blood swirled into the water and was borne downstream. Pulling out his slender sword, Tancamir washed away the troll's blood coating its blade. Delicate letters were etched into its gently curved blade, reading Cúrongrist - Dagnir Dúath. Crescent-cleaver, Slayer of Shadow. He smiled grimly. Now it had earned another name: Dagnir Teryg, Slayer of Trolls. Tempered steel glinted in the failing light as he laid both weapons upon the moss. Grimly he reached with one hand for his bow, but found it snarled in the tendrils of his hair.
As a boy, he had delighted to ride with hair unbound through the wood, imagining himself in the following of Lord Oromë on a great hunt. Even as he grew older, he scarcely suffered it to be cut, defiantly wearing it in the simple braids of a Sindarin hunter, and not in the intricate Noldorin fashion of a scholar in training, as his father had wished. Now Tancamir ran his left hand over his hair, matted with sweat and dried blood, and grimaced. His hand wavered for a moment over the hilt of his dagger. Then he snatched it up resolutely. With each tangle of hair that fell severed from his shoulders, he felt the last shreds of his past life disappear. He stared at his reflection. Jagged ends of hair now framed his face, falling nearly to his shoulders. He shook his head once like a hound, sending the loose ends of hair flying in a flaxen blur. With a thrill he tossed his head back and laughed wildly. He was free - unencumbered by the conventions of Imladris, or by the pressuring of his father.
A moment later he looked around, face sobering as he took in the strands of hair scattered upon the bank. He could not afford to be so careless. Painstakingly he bent and gathered every loose bit of hair upon the ground, then shoved them into a hollow in the ground. He buried them in earth and dead leaves, artfully concealing the ground with a tracker's skill. With a sigh he turned toward the stream once more, sheathing his sword and dagger. Tancamir glanced at his blood-stained gauntlets in disgust. He fumbled for the buckles his left gauntlet with his other hand, still bound in a sling. Painstakingly he peeled it off with his teeth and set it by the stream. The right gauntlet was much harder to remove, but he finally managed to loosen the buckles and began to ease it out of the sling. The leather caught on something around his wrist, and Tancamir cursed. His left hand met something smooth and cold looped around his right wrist. After a brief tussle with the gauntlet, it slid off his right hand, revealing a golden bracelet that glinted in the half-light.
Tancamir stared at it for a long while, face pale. Of all the things he could have brought out of Imladris... Intricate gold filigree in the shape of vines wound around his wrist, and the tiny figures of two leaping stags supported a glimmering emerald set in the bracelet's center. It had been a gift from his father, for his fiftieth begetting-day. Guilt flooded him as he glanced at the bracelet resting so innocently on his wrist. It had never left his wrist since then, even through the tumultuous years when his will clashed with his father's own. His father. Nolomir Turcasanwë, eminent scholar of Imladris and survivor of the ruin of Gondolin. He had named his eldest son Tancamir, steadfast jewel in the High-Elven tongue, hoping that he would carry on his work as a scholar. Tancamir scoffed. He had skill enough in the study of histories and old tales, loving them rather for their tales of heroism than for their academic value. How could his father have failed to realise that he was more his mother's son, the child of green woods and running rivers?
He fingered the bracelet absently. It had been wrought by a jeweller of the Heavenly Arch long ago in Gondolin, gifted to his father for some service. It was for this reason that he wore it, he argued, not because it reminded him of his father in any way. At a sharp snap in the underbrush, he whirled around, dagger in one hand. Amloth trotted towards him, ears pricked in the direction of his master. Tancamir relaxed and put his blade away. Here was one friend more faithful than any he had known in Imladris.
"Eager to be off, are we?" He stroked the horse's muzzle with his left hand. "I think you had better have something to eat first, mellon." Amloth shoved his muzzle into Tancamir's side playfully, then wandered over to a patch of wild grasses growing on the side of the hill. Tancamir looked at the darkening sky and smiled to himself. To the northwest lay the river Mitheithel, and beyond it the rolling downs and fir woods of northern Arnor. They would set out for the river as soon as night fell. By dawn two rivers would lie behind him and his past, and he would fare out into the great unknown. He cracked a smile and shook hair out of his face. Bow at his side, he tramped back into the cave and began preparing for another night's journey.
