Thud. Twang. Whizz. Thud.
Tancamir smiled grimly as arrow after arrow hit the centre of the wooden target. With each thud of an arrow biting into the target, his mind seemed to calm, centred by the steady rhythm.
Nock. Draw. Shoot. His last arrow landed in the dead centre of the target, surrounded by a bristling ring of its companions.
Striding forwards, he picked up the target and moved it fifty paces further, then began pulling arrows out of it one by one. Each arrow made a satisfying snick as it slid out of the target. Tancamir's smile widened fractionally. He had missed the Valley, and the times of peace where practice and hunting were the only occupations of an archer.
When he and Belethoriel's company had ridden into the Trollshaws, he had felt a sudden panic seize him at seeing the lands of his childhood again. He had dreaded crossing the Bruinen and approaching the Valley which once was his home, and had parted from the company at Thorenhad, where he had camped for a few days.
Grimacing slightly, Tancamir gathered up the arrows and placed them in his quiver. Two days ago, he had finally crossed the Bruinen and ridden into the Valley. Hood drawn over his head, he had quickly left his horse Amruin in the travellers' stable, then had made for the wooded path high above the river. There he had spotted his sister, carrying a journal and harp. Silently, he had tracked her to her destination and surprised her by dropping out of a tree, earning several slaps and a fond (if rather tearful) welcome.
The confrontation with his parents that evening had been less of a disaster than he had expected. Surprisingly, his father had remained silent for most of the conversation, while Tinwen and his mother spoke the most. Tancamir had only hung his head and muttered an apology. He deserved no less, he thought guiltily. To his relief, they did not ask for details of his travels, but he understood from his father's words that their conversation was far from over.
Now he and his family had come to an uneasy understanding, and Tancamir's room was occupied once more. He had hung his tattered travelling cloak hung on the wall, and changed his worn ranger's garb for a smart-looking tunic - one of his old favourites which his mother had kept folded in a drawer.
It was good to be home, he reflected, as he nocked one arrow after another, letting them fly with precision. The bow sang in his hands, and he nodded with satisfaction as most of the arrows found the centre of the target. Frowning, he wondered if his bow would be of any use besides for practice, if he were to stay in the Valley. He had no intentions of remaining here while minions of the Shadow still lurked upon these shores.
His last shot went wide, narrowly hitting the edge of the target, and he growled with frustration. Perhaps he would speak with Dolthafaer, and offer his bow to Bar-en-Vanimar. As much as he was relieved to be reunited with his family, it was not his part to stay here, caged and idle. He had been among war and strife so long that he was unused to the peace of Imladris. Though he had returned home, his bow would not rest until it found a worthy purpose to serve, and neither would he.
