Doubt

Dolthafaer knew that he was treading upon thin ice – an analogy that seemed fitting in the bitter cold of the Hithaeglir.  A spark of uneasiness had lit in him the moment the Man had turned his back on him in the snow, his final words twisting in the wind. 

Choose well, Lord of the Arrows.

He had thought it would abate when he laid eyes on Limiriel, furious but alive, crouched in the narrow confines of Hrimbarg’s keep.  He had drawn her away from keen ears and curious looks to speak to her in the dark.  Oh how her eyes had burned when he had asked her what she had seen that night!

He stepped out for a few moments.  Probably to… do his business.  I… lost him in the snow.

Continue your watch, he had told her, but he had given her no further explanation. Watch.

But she was no Arrow. 

He had thought the uneasiness would disappear when he had finally gotten a hold of Yrill, but the look the huntress gave him when he had told her – only her – of his encounter in the snow had only made it worse. 

I want him watched, he had told her, soft and low. 

A second Arrow loosed at the Man.

It had grown, too, as he watched the Warband of Imladris moving about the camp – talking, laughing, sipping tea, sharpening swords, sleeping, watching, side by side with the members of his own house.  Allies, he knew, beyond shadow of doubt.  But trusted?  They trusted Thendryt.  He was an Elf-friend, they claimed, honoured and decorated and accepted as one of their own – the very same Man who had attacked an Ally in a storm. 

How would you explain the arrow-wound in my chest?

How would he explain a spy among friends?

Dolthafaer was uneasy as he climbed the stairs to his watch, so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he nearly did not see the Man standing post at the end of the platform.  For a moment, he simply watched him – a dark silhouette against the cold grey peaks in the distance. 

He called, low:  “Anything to report, Thendryt?”

The Man turned his head slightly.

“Here to try to push me off the edge, Dolthafaer?  Or was that question sincere?”

The elf chuckled, softly, and stalked up to the edge of the platform.  The view to the south was clear, for once.  He wondered what it must look like to the Man. 

“Quiet tonight,” he offered by way of reply.  “No blizzards to creep away in.”

Thendryt chuckled, quietly. 

“True. How’s the shoulder?”

Dolthafaer rolled his shoulder, testing the wound.  The muscles were stiff and the pain was minimal.  He had been too distracted to pay it much mind. 

“How’s the chest?  You might need to repair that armour.”

“I’ll live.  And unless you know of a forge in these Mountains, I doubt I’ll be repairing anything any time soon.”

Dolthafaer cast the man a sidelong look and considered him a moment.  Thendryt stood tall – impressively tall, even – and straight, eyes flashing cold above the mask.  No sign of fear.  No sign of guilt.  Nothing.  He could read no more from this strange creature than he could from a statue of stone. 

“I half expected you to be well on your way to Imladris by now,” he confessed.  “You truly must be mad.”

Thendryt snorted. 

“If that’s what you believe.  Don’t let me change your mind.”

What else am I to believe?

The Warband trusted him.  The wound in Dolthafaer’s shoulder ached.  He could not read the look in the Man’s face.  He could not make any sense of this. 

The Man continued, offhand, “You seemed surprised to see Limiriel.”

Dolthafaer turned his gaze back to the distant peaks. 

“I am always surprised to see Limiriel.  She is something like you.  You never know where she will turn up.”

“You knew she was spying on me, didn’t you?” Thendryt pressed him.  “But you didn’t tell her to, so you’re not the one I seek.”

He cast him a bored look, irritated with his preoccupation with Limiriel. Did he not understand that she, now, was the least of his concern? 

“Do you know who I am, Man?”

“Dolthafaer, head of the Arrow,” the man growled.  “Whatever that’s supposed to mean.  To me, you’re just the Elf who fired an arrow into my chest. …And the elf I did not kill for it.”

Dolthafaer turned to face the Man, a spark of irritation flashing across his face.  He remembered well the look in Thendryt’s eyes when he had held that arrow aloft, ready to drive it into his skull.  He would not soon forget it.

“And to me, you are the Man who ignored a warning in the tongue of his allies and attacked without thought.  You are a danger.”

Thendryt laughed. 

“Without thought, eh?  Brave words from the Elf that shot at me for trying to leap out of the way.”

The Man turned to face him and stepped in close, uncomfortably close.  The skin crawled along the back of Dolthafaer’s neck, but he stood his ground, meeting his stare with narrowed eyes. 

“But you are right about one thing,” continued the Man, growling low.  “I am most likely the most dangerous Man you’ll ever meet.”

Dolthafaer was suddenly aware of the dizzying drop mere paces from where they stood.

“Even the most dangerous Man is still only a Man.”

Thendryt stepped back and turned back to the view with a small shrug. 

“Believe yourself wronged, Thendryt.  I care not.  But know that you caught my attention.  And sleep easily; the watch here is very thorough.  Arrow’s eyes are keen.”

Dolthafaer turned away – from the Man, from the post – and stalked across the platform in silence.  He had hoped that this encounter would help stamp out that spark of anxiety, but with every step he took, now, it grew stronger. 

Enemy?

How would you explain the arrow-wound in my chest?