Morning dawned clear and bright, with the promise of a radiant spring day. Tancamir set out early for the wooded slopes on the northern shore of the lake. The woods here seemed wider than the narrow confines of the forests near Imladris. Evergreen forests stretched north and west, a seemingly limitless sea of living green. Sunlight glimmered upon Amloth's chestnut hide, illuminating the white star upon his forehead.
Tancamir smiled fondly, remembering how he had raised Amloth from when he was a foal in Imladris. There were still those in the stables of Imladris who knew of the breeding of strong and beautiful horses. Many of these, including the chief groom, had come from the lands of Hithlum. There the steeds of the cavalry of Nolofinwë had run swift and proud, horses whose sires had been borne on ship from Valinor by the host of Fëanor. Tancamir liked to imagine that Amloth had some distant kinship with one of them, though it could not be proven. For the proud arch of his neck and the white star that he bore so proudly upon his forehead, he had given him the name Amloth - Crest, or literally 'Helm-flower' in the Grey-Elven tongue.
Amloth carried his master with youthful delight through the woods, now leaping fallen logs with the grace of a deer, now fording streams with thundering hooves. Tancamir could not remember a time when he had been so carefree and content. Gleefully he sighted a stag and pursued it through the firs, pausing at last in triumph when his arrows brought it down near a streamlet. The roast venison, as well as some berries and lembas, made an evening repast fit for a king, in his estimation. He would salt and dry the rest of the meat in the way his mother had taught him, and keep it for the road ahead.
He spent the better part of a fortnight wandering the woods near Nenuial, camping where he wished and revelling in the stark newness of the land. Every evening, the sunset over the lake was a new wonder to behold, and he never tired of watching the stars appear one by one in the dim violet haze of twilight. And with each passing day, the memories of his old life grew dimmer until he thought of himself no more as Tancamir Tyelcóre of Imladris, but Cúrandir, the Wandering Bow.
Cúrandir - It sounded right on the tongue, he thought, and would be a convenient name to give to others which he met on the road. Though the spring was young, and had yet to give way to the golden days that presaged the immediate coming of summer, he did not put away all thoughts of the future. He could not go on in the Wild indefinitely, pleasant though it was. It would be good to find another settlement where he could pass the winter. His thoughts often turned eastward, to the land of Lindon beyond the Emyn Uial, over which the star of Ëarendil rose at dusk. There dwelt the last remnant of the Falathrim of Beleriand, and many Noldor and Sindar also. It would not be unpleasant to live there, he thought, and he might even find a place to call home.
And so he set out westwards again, provisions replenished by the plentiful game he had found in the Emyn Uial. The lands west of the Emyn Uial were less densely forested, fir woods giving way to gentle plains of grass and low shrubbery, with a few trees dotted throughout. The land began to become more marshy as they drew closer to the River Lhûn. Three days after setting out from Nenuial, they came to the river, which flowed wide and deep as its mouth widened to meet the Gulf of Lhûn. Deep growths of reeds and rushes fringed its banks, where a multitude of waterfowl dwelt. A flock of swans rushed upwards from the reeds, trumpeting in indignation as horse and rider passed. The swans beat their wings and wheeled upwards, flying west toward the wilder lands of Forlindon, which bordered the Gulf to the north.
Lindon was aptly named, he thought, as he and Amloth forded the Lhûn and travelled west. Dense forests of fir and spruce grew upon the heights of the Ered Luin. The lower forests were a mixture of evergreen and leafy trees, and delicate ferns unravelled their fronds below the shade of beech and rowan. All around was a murmur that he could only call the music of nature - whether the distant sigh of waves upon the shore, the fluttering of leaves in the trees, the lyrical piping of birds - all a reflection of the Great Song that ran through every thing upon Arda and gave it being. This was what he had been seeking, he realised with a thrill. His entire being burst into song upon seeing the wild lands stretching farther than his elven eyes could reach, and the shores of white sand where waves foamed and crashed. For many days he and Amloth made the Wild their home, and the swaying beeches of Lindon their roof at night, through which the white stars shone like gems.
This morning Tancamir was crouched behind a beech tree, eyes trained on a slight rustling in the clearing ahead. He kept a firm grip on the bowstring as a stag emerged from the underbrush. A magnificent pair of antlers crowned its head, and the glossy chestnut fur on its flanks rippled in the sunlight. A feline smile spread across Tancamir's face. Here was a prize worthy of Lord Oromë himself. In an instant, the stag fell to the ground, shot through the throat. Tancamir strode forward, dagger in hand. After hauling it back to his camp, he would begin the laborious work of skinning it, and preserving the meat to last on the road.
Frowning, he bent to examine the stag's shapely neck. He had fired only one arrow, but two were embedded in its throat. The other arrow was fletched with white feathers, and bore a strange device resembling waves carved upon its shaft. Just as he began to pull it out, a branch creaked overhead. There was a light footfall and the sound of merry laughter as a young ellon sprang down from his perch in a nearby tree.
"Just where do you think you are taking that deer?" He quirked an eyebrow at Tancamir. "You are either very brave or very foolish, randír. This is the first time a stranger has dared to take my quarry out from under my very nose."
Tancamir scowled at the newcomer. "My sincerest apologies, but I was under the impression that this deer was my property. I shot it down not a few moments ago, as I am sure you saw." He produced one of his arrows from his quiver, holding it up to the identical arrow lodged in the stag's neck.
A curious expression stole over the stranger's face for a moment. Then he threw back his head and began to laugh uncontrollably, until his whole frame shook. Tancamir glanced at him critically. A finely carved longbow was slung across his back, as well as a strange-looking quiver made of a pale white material. A pattern of crested waves ran along the edges of his cloak, and was echoed in the leather tooling of his gauntlets. He must be one of the Falathrim, then. The young stranger's silvery-fair hair fell unbound to his waist, fluttering about with every musical laugh. Tancamir curled his lip in distaste. Who did this silly boy think he was, prancing about in the woods as if for some festival?
"Why - why we must have shot nearly at the same instant, then! What a strange coincidence, ha!" The youth glanced once at Tancamir's confused face, then doubled over with laughter again. Slowly his mirth subsided and he took a step closer.
"You must a very fine archer indeed, for I did not see or hear you coming near until you leapt out from behind that bush. I must say, you gave me quite the surprise, for I was hunting for deer, not for strangers in the wood."
Extending his hand, he bowed gracefully. "But where are my manners? I am Falasgil son of Glorengil, formerly of Mithlond. And what might be your name, stranger of the lucky shot?" His sea-blue eyes twinkled merrily.
Tancamir stuttered for a minute, eyeing Falasgil dubiously.
"I am called Cúrandir," he said bluntly. "Though I cannot see why that is any of your concern. Hand over the deer and I will not trouble you more." He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. "I hate to ruin your sport, youngling, but you should be more careful where you tread in these woods," he snapped.
Falasgil regarded him with a slightly miffed air. "Who are you calling youngling? It has been five summers since I came of age. Why, you hardly seem of age yourself! " He drew an arrow out of his quiver and twirled it playfully in one hand. "But there is no need for quarrel, Cúrandir. I obviously shot first, so the stag belongs to me." He nodded at the deer, eyes twinkling as he glanced at the two arrows stuck in its neck.
Tancamir glared at Falasgil, eyes flashing. "I think not. Someone like you could hardly hit the side of a tree at fifty paces, let alone a deer. " He stepped between Falasgil and the stag, resting a warning hand on his bow. "Let the better archer have the deer. Do you see that tree there?" He pointed in the direction of a birch some sixty paces away. The trunk forked some distance above the ground, leaving a narrow space barely two fingers wide between the two main branches of the tree.
Falasgil glanced over at the tree and laughed, a silvery, musical sound which set Tancamir's nerves on edge. "I could hit either trunk blindfolded, my hot-headed friend. Do you really think you have a chance of besting me?"
"Not that tree. The one behind it," Tancamir snapped. Forty paces behind the birch tree, a slender beech sapling stood. It was scarcely a hand's breadth wide, and on the side facing them was a small round scar where a branch had fallen off. "Whoever can shoot through the fork of the birch tree and hit closest to the centre of that scar wins the deer." He motioned for Falasgil to shoot first.
"Ha, you seem to have little confidence in yourself if you pick such an easy target," Falasgil quipped. But his brow was furrowed in concentration as he nocked one of his white-fletched arrows to his bow. The arrow sped through the fork of the first tree and stuck in the trunk of the sapling beyond.
"Not bad," whistled Tancamir nonchalantly. Falasgil's arrow had hit slightly to the left of the target. It would be a difficult shot to top, he admitted to himself. He hefted Cúringil in one hand, eyeing the narrow slit between the branches of the birch tree. He loosed an arrow and watched with satisfaction as it struck the centre of the target, barely a finger's width away from Falasgil's shot.
"There, you can see with your own eyes that I have won the deer," Tancamir said. He paused for a moment, then muttered, "Though I must admit that not many would have been able to make such a fine shot as yours."
"Ah, ah, ah! That is not how we do things in Lindon, my hasty young friend," Falasgil admonished, wagging a finger in Tancamir's direction. Though he had lost the match, he seemed to be as full of high spirits as ever, and blithely twirled a lock of his hair with one slender hand. "A single match can be lost or won by a mere caprice of chance. Even the best archer has his bad days. So I say the deer goes to he who can shoot the best out of three, and that was only the first."
"Very well then," Tancamir said, beginning to be amused by Falasgil's cavalier manner. "You may choose the next target."
"Do you see that rowan tree upon that hillock? Ah, how beautiful are the white blossoms of rowan in the spring!" Falasgil beamed. "That bough, over there, has but one cluster of flowers hanging from its end. The next match goes to the one who can sever it from the tree. You may draw first, as winner of the previous match."
Tancamir turned to his right, and peered into the wood. By his estimation, the tree stood roughly nine score paces away, nearly double the distance of the previous round. The white flowers hung by a thin stem from a lone branch hanging at eye level above the ground. He was not sure if this Falasgil was delusional, or truly a talented archer. Shaking a loose end of hair out of his face, he fitted an arrow to his bow. He had shot deer at distances greater than this, but his brow furrowed slightly. He had always been known among his comrades for the force and velocity of his arrows, and not his accuracy at long range. His last shot had only driven into the centre of the target by sheer force of will and a lucky draw. Nonetheless, he squared his shoulders, aimed for the swaying bunch of rowan flowers, and fired.
He let out a disappointed breath as the fletching of the his arrow brushed the thin stem and passed harmlessly by. He wondered if Falasgil could at least match his shot - it was not an easy target he had picked. What if this match ended in a draw? But Falasgil had been gazing resolutely forward, all trace of frivolity gone from his face. With fluid grace he drew an arrow from his quiver and nocked it, sea-blue eyes trained on the rowan tree.
As if in slow motion Tancamir watched the arrow fly through the clearing and sever the bunch of flowers from the branch. The cluster of blossoms floated to the ground gracefully, like a swan's feather on the wind. He sucked in a breath, winded by astonishment. There was certainly more to Falasgil than met the eye. Falasgil threw up his bow into the air with a whoop, caught it deftly, and sprinted forward towards his fallen arrow. He returned with the bunch of flowers stuck jauntily in his hair, and a wide smile on his face.
"I would like to see you top that," he said good-naturedly. He seemed to be genuinely happy at the turn their competition had taken, and not boasting of his own victory. Tancamir nodded curtly.
"It has been years since I met someone that was more than my equal with the bow," he admitted.
"I was about to say the same," Falasgil said with a smile, the white flowers in his hair bobbing with every word. "Now you may choose the next target." He stepped back in a flourish of white and silver.
Tancamir stood for a while, scanning the woods around the clearing for a decent target. There must be some way to throw Falasgil off his guard and shake that calm assurance that held him when he stepped up to shoot. A devious smile crept over his face as he took a few steps forward.
The clearing where they had shot down the deer was rather large, and a small stream ran through it. Nearly six score paces away stood a lone willow, which bent its fringed arms toward the water. Its hanging branches whispered in the gentle breeze that had begun to blow from the sea. Tancamir smirked. With the extra wind, and the branches partially obscuring the view of the tree's trunk, it would make a perfect mark for the next round.
"As you seem to be so fond of shooting down slender stems, Falasgil, the next match will go to the shot that does not sever any of the hanging willow-stems from the tree, and hits closest to that mark upon the trunk. Do you see it?" Falasgil nodded, but his face looked slightly troubled as he peered at the swaying branches.
"There is a wind from the sea, and one cannot gain a clear view of the trunk from here," he muttered.
"I have chosen, and may the best archer win," Tancamir replied. "You may shoot first."
Falasgil bit his lip, then fitted a swan-fletched arrow to his bow again. He waited until the wind blew the branches to one side, leaving a gap in the swaying curtain of willow-stems that veiled the trunk of the tree. Then he let fly an arrow that flew deftly past the willow-stems and struck the mark dead centre. Tancamir's eyes flashed.
"Do not be so sure of victory, Falasgil," he said as he hefted Cúringil in one hand and took aim. His arrow sped through the swaying willow-stems, driven by the greater force of his bow-arm. With a hissing sound its tempered iron head clove through Falasgil's arrow, splitting it neatly down the centre. Both archers stared at the two arrows for several moments. Finally Falasgil spoke.
"It is ... a draw. But ai, I have not ever seen an arrow split before. You shot marvellously." He gave Tancamir a good-natured grin, then extended one hand in salute. "I say we divide the stag, then. I will let you keep the antlers as a trophy, since I have not had such fine competition in a long while."
Tancamir shook his head. "Where would I have room to put such a trophy?" he asked with a wry smile. "It will only be an extra weight on the road. And travellers might mistake my horse for a deer if I began carting that around on horseback. Take the trophy for yourself, Falasgil. I doubt if I have ever met a finer archer than you."
"Ha, and I would say the same," Falasgil beamed. "I would not lose the company of such a worthy opponent so easily, Cúrandir. Come sup with me tonight. I have made my camp in a most convenient spot by a stream, where we can gut the deer and divide it among ourselves. And then I will show you where the best place to gather herbs and how to preserve it with salt fresh from the Great Sea, as we do here in Lindon."
A wide smile spread slowly across Tancamir's face as he saw the youthful delight in Falasgil's face. It would be good to have a companion, after so many days alone in the Wild with only Amloth at his side.
"You make an offer that is hard to refuse, Falasgil." He gave a low whistle, and moments later Amloth trotted out into the clearing. Tancamir stroked the white star upon his horse's forehead affectionately. "This is Amloth, Falasgil. I suppose we will ask him to help us bear the deer toward your camp?"
"Mae govannen, Amloth," Falasgil said gravely, taking out a carrot from his pack and offering it to the horse. Amloth sniffed it curiously, then ate it with relish. Falasgil laughed. "I have left my horse Limros wandering the meadows near my camp. But he will be glad to meet a new friend, I am sure."
Together they loaded the deer onto Amloth's back, and set out westward through the wood to Falasgil's camp. As they turned away from the sunlit clearing, Tancamir could not help smiling to himself at the thought that he had found a worthy companion in his wanderings, and that he would have someone to match skill with skill at long last.
