A fire crackled merrily before Falasgil and Cúrandir as they ate in companionable silence. The summer day was drawing to a lazy close, light falling honeyed and golden through the whispering leaves of beech and elm surrounding their camp. The low murmur of the nearby stream mingled with the distant music of waves upon the shore. A little ways aside, Amloth and Limros grazed contentedly on the lush grasses which sprang up beside the stream. Falasgil took one last bite of his roast venison, and grinned at Cúrandir.
"So, what brings you to Lindon? You do not look like you are from here." He adjusted the spray of rowan flowers in his hair, which hung at a rakish angle over his left ear. "At least you do not seem to be much older than I, but I have never seen you among the other youths of Mithlond. And your bow-arm .... you do not shoot as the archers of the Falathrim do, that is for sure."
Cúrandir shrugged, glancing at the clear blue sky overhead. "It is true that I do not hail from Lindon, though I do not see how that is any of your business. I learned archery in Imladris, from a Noldo who had fought in the defence of Eregion. "
Falasgil leaned forwards, a conspiratorial glint in his blue eyes. "Oh? Imladris is a long ways off from Lindon. You and your bow must have found plenty of adventure on the road, Cúrandir. Would you mind telling one or two of them to a poor shore-bound son of Lindon?"
Cúrandir stared at him with an unreadable expression. Why would he want to relive the first days of hardship and terror that had accompanied his flight from Imladris, or remind himself of the innocent blood that stained his hands? There was no sound save the crackling of the flames and the music of the stream for a long time, as Cúrandir dropped his gaze moodily to the embers of the fire.
He laughed drily. "There is not much worth telling. I am not sure if hunting stag and boar around the hills of Nenuial counts as adventure."
Falasgil gave him an incredulous look. "You have come all the way from Imladris just to hunt? A poor hunter you would be, if you have truly met nothing of interest on the way here."
Cúrandir frowned for a moment, hand straying to the hilt of his sword. A feral grin flashed across his face. "Well, Falasgil, as good a shot as you are, I am not sure if you can claim to have felled a troll, can you? "
Falasgil laughed, eyes gleaming. "A troll? That is sport indeed! Surely you jest, for I hear that neither hide nor hair has been seen of the beasts since the past Age. And definitely not near Lake Nenuial, I would hope." He leaned forwards eagerly, eyes fixed on Cúrandir. "Tell me more."
"The lands north of Imladris have long been the haunt of the miserable creatures," Cúrandir said. "They were driven back to their caves in the Hithaeglir after the war of the Last Alliance, but now they venture southwards from the mountains, even unto the borders of the lands around Imladris. I came across two or three of them as I was riding north and west from the Bruinen. "
He drew his sword, turning it over contemplatively in the fading light. "A troll on its own is no match for a few carefully aimed arrows and a deftly wielded blade. I had sighted one, and thinking it alone had decided to shoot at it from a nearby tree. It all happened so quickly - no sooner had I slain one than the second came charging at me, and my horse had fled. I barely escaped with my life."
"But you managed to kill one of them? Ai, that is a feat worthy of song, I say. " Falasgil's eyes flickered to the curved blade in Cúrandir's hands. "That is a fine sword. You ought to have something like Dagnir Teryg etched upon the blade, you know. We have not had more than the occasional orc patrol on the outskirts of Lindon since the Last Alliance. "
Cúrandir chuckled drily. "Cúrongrist, my sword is called. Perhaps I will take your advice - Cúrongrist, Slayer of Trolls does not sound so ill. But that is hardly practical out of doors, where there is not a decent forge to be found. " He slid Cúrongrist back into its scabbard and looked up at Falasgil, a rare smile playing across his angular features. "Now let me ask you - what brings you to the woods of Forlindon?"
Falasgil's clear laughter rang like bells in the deepening dusk. "Why, I came here to hunt, just as you apparently have. Game is more plentiful in the autumn, it is true, but I intend to stay here and wander the woods the whole summer long. There is nothing like the woods of Lindon in the summer, Cúrandir. Ah, the sun upon the beech groves, and the sound of waves upon the strand! The very air is thick with music and with life. I can think of no better place in Arda to be." He sighed contentedly.
"You would make quite a decent poet, Falasgil," Cúrandir said with a short laugh. "I quite envy you - have you no other duties than to wander the wood and make merry the whole summer long?"
At these words, Falasgil drooped slightly, shapely lips curving into a frown. "I have plenty of duties awaiting me in the autumn, back in Mithlond. I have enlisted in the Guard, as an archer, and our training begins at the end of summer. But I have the whole summer ahead of me, and I intend to make the most of it." He grinned roguishly. "There are worse ways to spend one's last summer as a civilian, I would wager."
"I see no reason to look upon taking up arms to defend one's homeland with apprehension," Cúrandir said bluntly. "It is something I would have greatly wished, had I been allowed it. "
"Allowed?" Falasgil looked at him incredulously. Then understanding seemed to dawn upon his face and he nodded in a sage manner. "Parents, I suppose. That is something I have never quite had to deal with - you see, I have lived with my older sister in Mithlond for as long as I can remember."
Cúrandir regarded Falasgil with a raised brow. "And she is perfectly agreeable to you whiling away the summer in the woods of Forlindon, rather than preparing for your enlistment?"
"Oh, it has always been a manner of habit in our household for one of us to spend a few weeks hunting up in Forlindon. Usually my sister's husband Súlrohir and I go together, but he is busy this year. So I have begged leave of Ningloriel to make this into a holiday of sorts. And so far, I am enjoying it very much. A last hurrah before I join the ranks of the Guard!" He tossed a bone into the fire. With a grin, he looked up at the darkening sky.
"Already Anor sets in the West. What say you to a bit of riding, before we make camp for the night? I am taking Limros to the shore, which is not that far off. " Dusting off his hands, Falasgil stood up and stretched. "You can come along, if you like. I think we ought to do something relaxing, after all that skinning and carving."
They had gutted and skinned the stag that afternoon. It was messy work and had occupied the greater part of their day. They had taken great care to preserve the antlers to be mounted as a trophy, though they still could not agree whose property the trophy would become. Cúrandir roasted some of the venison for the evening meal, but Falasgil had saved the rest, wrapping it up in parcels with large, broad leaves which Cúrandir did not recognize. After they had finished, Falasgil had nimbly scaled a nearby tree and secured the venison in the fork between two branches, high above the ground where no prowling beasts could reach it. Now, as the sun dipped toward the horizon, Falasgil cast a quick glance around the camp to make sure all was in order. Cúrandir looked on with amusement as Falasgil made a circuit of their location, an intent expression of concentration on his face. He seemed to be mentally checking off a list of tasks as he banked the fire, re-arranged several bags of provisions, and finally slung his bow and quiver over his shoulder.
"Where are we going?" asked Cúrandir. "And are you sure it is wise to leave the camp like this?"
Falasgil waved his hand dismissively. "It will be fine - the most we have to fear in this land is wolves, perhaps, and the venison is safely out of their reach. Orcs have not been seen in Forlindon since the Last Alliance, and that was before I was even born."
A handsome dapple-grey horse neighed in greeting as Falasgil approached. Falasgil flicked a lock of his mane playfully and patted his neck. "Take us to the shore, Limros. And make sure to show Amloth and his master here the way - they seem to be strangers in these parts."
Amloth whinnied happily as he saw Cúrandir approach. Eagerly he nosed his master's hand and pawed at the ground. "No, Amloth, it is not the season for apples," Cúrandir laughed. "Keep your wits about you, and do not stray far from Falasgil and Limros."
Falasgil took hold of a handful of his horse's foam-white mane and swung himself onto Limros' back. He rode without saddle or bridle, the picture of understated elegance as he sat astride his dapple-grey horse. Cúrandir quirked an eyebrow, then set aside the saddle he had been holding. Though he preferred a light saddle for travel, he was no stranger to riding without one either. So, Falasgil, you ride bareback? he mused. Challenge accepted. With a grin he mounted Amloth and urged him forwards.. They rode in silence, the dusk falling all around them until the light of the setting sun could be seen in the west.
Cúrandir found himself smiling, for some reason he could not place, and began humming an old hunting-song under his breath. Amloth's ears flickered back and forth, as if he too shared his master's merriment. It took little to guide the chestnut horse, as he followed Falasgil and Limros with steady pace down the winding path. Now the music of the waves grew louder, and Cúrandir felt a thrum of anticipation as the roar of the ocean echoed through the trees. He had heard tales of the Great Sea, and the strength with which it called to all Eldar. What would it be like to see it for himself?
Rocky slopes gave way to sandy banks as they rode on. As they emerged from the last fringes of forest, the entire shore lay open before them - a vast expanse of dusky sand, crowned with surging waves to the west. The setting sun turned the waves to gold and crimson, and gulls wheeled above the surf, their mournful calls rending the air. Falasgil gave a whoop and Limros shot forwards, a blur of silver racing across the sands. In a moment Amloth and Cúrandir joined in pursuit, and the sound of laughter and pounding hooves joined the music of the waves. They came now to the edge of the shore, and Limros plunged into the surf, foam spraying upwards from his hooves. Amloth followed suit, racing across the foam-flecked sands like an arrow loosed from the bowstring.
Wind ruffled Cúrandir's tawny hair, which flew in disorder about his face. A fresh, tangy smell hung in the air, and he could taste the salty spray that flew up from the waves. The roaring of the ocean, the wailing of the gulls, and the pounding of Amloth's hooves that mirrored the exhilarated beating of his own heart surronded Cúrandir in a symphony of sounds. To the west, the Great Sea glimmered with a thousand shades of gold and scarlet. A fierce exultation bloomed within him. Never had he felt so fearless, so free - as if he could rise on the wings of the gulls that circled over the surf, defying the expectations that had clung to him since childhood. He would make a new life for himself here in Lindon, his past be damned . And he would forge his own path upon these shores, with bow and blade at his side.
The light upon the waters paled as the last rays of sunlight disappeared below the horizon. Cúrandir tugged on Amloth 's reins as he heard a shout from behind. Falasgil and Limros stood motionless on a rocky promontory to his left. Far away as they were, he could not discern what Falasgil was saying, but he was pointing upwards toward the darkening sky, an expression of delight on his face. His back to the waves, Cúrandir looked up and saw a star, gleaming silver-bright in the east. Gil-Estel, the Star of Hope, hung low in the sky, as if it had come to rest over the western shores of Forlindon. And directly below the gleaming star stood Falasgil, head upturned in wonder. The waning light cast a dim sheen upon his hair and silvery-blue garments, as if he were a fallen star cast upon the shore. Slowly, almost reverently, Cúrandir dismounted Amloth and led him up the narrow path towards Falasgil and Limros, eyes trained on the star above them. He remembered when he had first seen Gil-Estel rise above the waters of Nenuial, and how he had decided to seek westwards for the lands of Lindon. The light of Ëarendil in the sky seemed to blink encouragingly at him, as if to offer him hope of starting afresh in this new land.
Falasgil turned around, hearing Cúrandir approach, a wistful expression on his face.
"Beautiful, is it not? I never tire of watching the Gil-Estel rise over the shore ... I suppose that is why my parents gave me the name Falasgil - the star upon the shore. I wonder if they too look upon the light of Ëarendil, beyond the Great Sea." He turned to face the ocean, face limned in the pale light of evening.
Cúrandir watched the eastern sky darken in silence, turning Falasgil's words over in his mind. He seemed distant, almost ... sorrowful? In the deepening twilight it was difficult to reconcile the pensive young ellon with the lively youth he had met that morning. Cúrandir attempted to say something, anything, to break the tense silence, but Falasgil cleared his throat awkwardly.
"We should return to camp now." He fumbled for a handful of Limros' foam-white mane and mounted quickly. Cúrandir followed astride Amloth, casting one last look toward the shore. Falasgil sat stiffly upon his horse, head slightly bowed. Did he regret what he had let slip, in that moment by the shore? Cúrandir kept his wondering to himself, as they rode silently westward, and the shadowy woods closed in around them once more.
Evening had fallen when they made their way back to their camp by the stream, where the embers of the fire glowed dully beneath their banking of ashes and damp moss. Falasgil swung himself off his horse in one fluid motion and bent down by the fire, blowing away the ashes to reveal the still-bright embers. Cúrandir watched, leaning against a tree, as Falasgil built up the fire again, piling on bits of dry twigs and leaves until tiny flames flickered up from the glowing ashes. Falasgil's intent concentration on the fire made Cúrandir suddenly self-conscious of his own idleness. He ducked under the branches and picked up an armful of firewood that had been stacked at the tree's base, beside an assortment of satchels and tools Falasgil had meticulously secured and organised. Hesitantly, he crouched by the fire and tapped Falasgil on the shoulder.
"If you want that fire to last longer, you ought to put on some more substantial fuel, like this." The firewood made an earthy clatter as he set it down beside the campfire. Falasgil looked up and smiled, all traces of whatever feeling had overcome him earlier gone from his face.
"What sort of hunter would I be if I did not know something as basic as that?" he quipped. "All the same, I thank you for bringing the logs here, my friend. " He turned back to the fire and began arranging the logs above the kindling, all the while giving a narration of how exactly he was building the fire in a quiet, but merry voice. Cúrandir quirked an eyebrow.
"There is quite a method to your fire-building, Falasgil. Though I would prefer the kindling to be arranged somewhat more like this - " Cúrandir took a long stick from the ground and shifted the firewood slightly. The fire sprang to life, tongues of flame licking upwards at the dry logs and casting their faces in a ruddy glow. Falasgil tossed a few chestnuts into the fire.
"These are the last fruits of the past autumn - they will have to do, I suppose." He sat back with a content sigh. "So, Cúrandir, what plans do you have for your stay in Lindon? "
"Nothing much, I suppose, but I would like to know this land better. I wondered at the tales of the game and scenery in Forlindon which the older hunters of Imladris would tell, but now, I am almost convinced." He winked at Falasgil. "Though they said nothing of the other hunters I would find here in Lindon." They both looked at each other for a moment, then burst into laughter. Cúrandir fumbled in his pack for a moment before drawing out a tempered-steel flask, wrought in the shape of a budding mallorn blossom.
"Miruvor from Imladris. Would you care for some?" He proffered the flask to Falasgil, who grinned and took the bottle of cordial. He uncorked it and gave it an experimental sniff, before taking a sip.
"This is quite ... strong, but I like it. Though it tastes nothing like the miruvor we make here in Lindon." He took another drink, and nodded appreciatively. "You must come round to Mithlond sometime - the vintages of Lindon are justly famous, and a good drink is always served best in good company. There is always a feast or some occasion to be celebrated in Mithlond, and our hospitality is quite renowned." Passing the flask back to Cúrandir, Falasgil smiled to himself, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"I may take you up on your offer come autumn, when it is not so pleasant to sleep outdoors," Cúrandir said, taking a sip of miruvor. "But at the moment, I find the company here to be quite enough. " He looked around at the campsite, and recalled the venison left in the branches of the nearby tree.
"What exactly are we going to do with the venison, Falasgil? I cannot imagine having to dry and prepare it here. " He shot Falasgil an amused glance.
"My family has a hunting-lodge a ways north of here. I will be spending a few days there, and you are welcome to come along, if you like. At any rate, you will only have your share of venison if you help me prepare it." Falasgil smiled, blue eyes dancing with merriment. "Well, come along if you can tolerate my company for more than a few days. I have no Súlrohir to annoy this year, so you will have to do."
Cúrandir chuckled drily. "Your sister's husband is fortunate to escape this year, so it seems. But I thank you for your hospitality - and I am rather curious to see what your 'hunting lodge' looks like, so I will take you up on your offer. " He waved the cork of the miruvor flask at Falasgil in a mock-threatening fashion. "And we have not yet settled the matter of who exactly is going to be taking home the magnificent antlers of the stag we found today."
"I already said that you should have it, but we can settle the matter tomorrow." Falasgil grinned lopsidedly, a few strands of silver hair falling over the left side of his face. "You know, I am quite glad I ran into you today - I was already looking forward to spending an entire summer alone in Forlindon, but it will be so much more delightful with two."
"I am sure of it," Cúrandir replied, and tossed the corked flask of miruvor toward Falasgil. "Catch!" Falasgil reached out one hand and caught the flask while looking in the opposite direction.
"Please, that was not even difficult. I would think that an archer of your caliber had more tricks at his disposal." Falasgil took another sip of miruvor. "We will see tomorrow, eh? Do not think that I will let you win, the next time we match arrow for arrow."
"As if I would need it," Cúrandir retorted with a grin.
The sounds of the night drew close around them as they sat by the flickering fire, sometimes in silence, sometimes breaking into conversation. Stars appeared in the sky one by one, pinpricks of pale light in the gloaming darkness. As the murmur of the stream and the faint rustling of the sea breeze in the nearby boughs mingled once more, Cúrandir's mind hummed with anticipation. He had a premonition that this summer would be unlike any other he had seen in his life.
