You can never truly return home after leaving. No matter how long your time spent there, or the moments you experienced, or the memories you made...time, heartless bastard that it is, alters all: your shape no longer fits the imprint you left behind.
The process of regaining his memories was proving to be a frustrating and painful experience, but even without some of the larger pieces returned he remembered the maze of muddy streets and dark alleys the moment his boots touched the uneven paving stones as he and the others returned to Bree that fateful day. He'd broken away from the group - as he so often did, now - and as he ducked beneath low-hanging eaves and passed by old haunts, headed towards Beggar's Alley, he came to the realisation that he had not come home at all, as he'd expected.
When would he come home?
His first plan of action was to seek out the beggars and whores, the most reliable sources of news in Bree if you knew what to ask and could call in the right favours. The besmirched and downtrodden faces did not all seem overly familiar to him but thankfully they remembered Hawk as one of their own. He'd grown so tall, they remarked, so mature. Where had he been?
He'd died, he told them.
Then moved onto the business which had brought him slinking back to the Alley in the first place: namely, the wanted posters with his name and face on them. After gathering as much information on that as he was likely to find without tempting someone overmuch and risking being turned in (after all, Hawk was wanted for a great deal of coin), Hawk adjusted his hood lower about his face and headed back towards the Mud Gate, intending to make his way to the Pony and rejoin his companions. Finchley wanted to visit the grave of her Grams the next day, and as torn as Hawk was about the whole thing, he wanted to be there.
In the dark of a sodden alley, Hawk felt the creeping sensation of danger along the back of his neck and turned, but too late.
The shadow which had been stalking his steps all day pounced, and before he could draw his Elven dagger a hand shot out and struck like a snake, knocking the lad backwards into the wall. Then a voice halted Hawk's counter-attack.
"So the lovely bird lives. This one wondered if you truly were he."
Hawk's features relaxed as Ahmrun melted from the shadows, the flash of his smile white against his dark skin. The knife which the Haradrim had been poised to use vanished with a twist of one skilled hand.
This was the selfsame assassin who had come to their aid during the Battle of the Spike, where Ahmrun risked life and limb and eventually took grievous injuries. Hawk questioned him about this, frustrated and contrite that neither he nor any of the others had sought Ahmrun out to inquire about his well-being, or to thank him for his part in the horrific battle. To this the assassin merely smiled and shook his head, the long black braid of his hair swinging like a pendulum.
"Such is the way of shadows: easily forgotten until one has need to hide."
The Haradrim led Hawk to a secluded hovel, where they sat beside a brazier and Ahmrun pressed Hawk for news of all that had occurred. He seemed particularly interested in Xanderian (whom he called "Zan") and Xandilif (Alshum - the Banshee), and almost appeared to shiver in anticipation at the idea that the sisters had returned. Each detail of events the assassin took in stride in his usual way, the set of his handsome features serious at the news that the foul spirit had returned, and that Hawk's companions were in danger yet again. One, in particular.
"This 'Finch' of yours...the lovely bird sings a different tune for her," Ahmrun noted, and Hawk's expression was an interesting mixture: tenderness - even wistfulness - at the mention of Finchley, followed by defiance, as if the lad were not allowed to love anyone, least of all her, and resented the fact. Ahmrun understood then, perfectly.
Their conversation continued until it was well and truly dark. The onset of the harvest season had brought the chill of winter's breath to the night air and even the brazier failed to keep the two men warm. Hawk stood, and what Ahmrun said next turned his blood cold.
"The coin for your head is very tempting, yes?"
Hawk stared warily at what he had assumed was a friend, and the steady gaze of the assassin's black eyes seemed suddenly unsettling. Had he misremembered this man's character? Until that smile appeared and Ahmrun stood, his hands raised placatingly.
"This one means only that you should take care. This one knows you belong to Zan...and this one owes a debt to the sisters. This one also bears a slave mark - like you, like your lady bird. This one understands."
Reassured, and more than a little chagrined at ever having doubted the man, Hawk had a thought, and told the Haradrim that he should join their journey to Rivendell - they would be leaving after they gathered whatever information they could about Finch's grandmother. The assassin said he would consider it, and the two of them parted ways after agreeing that Ahmrun would keep a close eye on the bounty on Hawk's head and any who took interest in it, as well as watch for any sign of Angmarim in the city.
This time, as Hawk hurried along the streets towards the Pony, he knew that the shadow haunting his steps was a silent protector.
