The Night Watch

Dolthafaer stood still and straight at his post, keen eyes moving restlessly over the view before him – snow, for the most part, broken only by the pathetic silhouettes of tall spindly trees and ancient hunks of rock.  The camp was silent below him, save for a few moving carefully amongst the sleeping company. 

It was a quiet watch. 

Peaceful. 

Dolthafaer briefly turned his eyes to the heavens, watching the clouds move across the stars.  Too many clouds for his liking.  He could almost smell the promise of snow on the air. 

A tap on his shoulder broke him from his reverie. 

He turned at once, startled.  How had he not heard their approach?  Who—?

A dark-haired elleth clad in green and brown was grinning back at him, and once he recognized her, Dolthafaer relaxed into a warm smile himself.  Yrill.  Of course.  Not many even of the Arrow could creep up on him unawares. 

“Well met!” she exclaimed, and then, softer: “What a surprise!”

“There you are!” he chuckled.  “‘Scouting ahead,’ Danel told me.”

“Well, I did.”

Dolthafaer had been slightly disappointed to not set out with his scout from Imladris that morning, but not entirely surprised.  Yrill had been eager to leave the Valley for quite some time, and he had known beyond any shadow of doubt that she had gone ahead simply to claim the first goblin kill of the expedition. 

The look of surprise on her face was satisfying indeed.

“You said you would send a detachment?”

Dolthafaer chuckled and spread his arms. 

“You! You sent yourself!”

“I decided to detach! I am a half-decent scout, after all.”

“Half decent?” Yrill tilted her head to one side, as if making an assessment.  “You will do.”

How could he -- Lord of the Arrow -- sit idly in Imladris while the rest of his house ventured forth on an expedition to the Hithaeglir? 

Noticing a small stirring in the camp below, the Arrow Lord and his Arrow ventured down to investigate.  There were other scouts posted around the camp – Caethel, Tancamir.  His own eyes could be spared for tonight. 

They found Lilleduil, a great white cat hunkered at her feet, just arrived to their camp.  Norliriel, too, and Faorie were wide awake in the dead of night.  The company of friends – new, old – and the scent of the snow stirred something in him, driving thoughts of sleep from his mind.  They spoke of wargs – of the pack he, Caethel, Luthelian, Faorie and Curundar had slaughtered earlier that day.  Twice he had heard a howl pierce the silence of the night.

The pack had been too near the camp, their number too great to ignore.  What if stragglers returned?  What if they did not fall for the false trail they had left for them? 

It was time to hunt again. 

Dolthafaer, Yrill, Lilleduil, Faorie, Luthelien moved like ghosts over the snow – as well as Norliriel, the gentle healer, the only one left awake in a camp and lured by the promise of adventure.  They made no sound and left no trace as they approached the frozen lake. 

A bowstring snapped and an arrow thudded home into the heart of a great shaggy beast, and it fell to the snow with a dying groan. 

The wargs returned. 

One, two, three.  They skirted along the edges of the frozen lake, occasionally darting sure-footed onto the ice in pursuit of their prey.  Five. Six.  The clouds moved overhead, casting shadows over the grizzly scene, white snow spattered with blood that looked black in the silver light.  Ten.

“So many!” hissed Dolthafaer.

They paused to catch their breath, count their arrows, when they could find no more.  Dolthafaer paced restlessly along the frozen bank, clutching his bow tight, sharp eyes searching for sign of more. 

“There were as many as there were before.  More!”

“They did not take it as a warning, but as a challenge,” replied Faorie.  “These beasts are territorial. …But so are we.”

The warrior flashed a feral grin, one that Dolthafaer returned with enthusiasm.

“Perhaps there is a den nearby.  We should find it.”

Norliriel, pale and tense, stood at the center of the group in silence.

They moved again, talking quietly amongst themselves, discussing the threat and its nature as they searched for stragglers.  No howls pierced the night.  No sound of retreating feet.  Dolthafaer thought the hunt was over when he noticed Faorie kneeling upon the ground.

“Do you see something?”

The short-haired elleth was peering at something. 

“Do you see this?”

Tracks in the frozen snow – large tracks, deep tracks, tracks that were strange to Dolthafaer and even Yrill. 

“Perhaps,” ventured Faorie, after they had spent some time puzzling over the strange print. “It was not our warning they heeded, but that of something else…”

There were more tracks leading further down the lake, and they followed them.  Dolthafaer felt the tension grow with every step towards the far bank, sheltered by steep hills and crooked trees.  Their murmurs sounded like shouts in the heavy silence.

Faorie spotted it first. 

“There!”

Dolthafaer stopped in his tracks as what had been an outcropping of snow and ice a moment ago began to move, rising up on its long legs – and rising, and rising.  Even from a distance he knew that the six of them had no chance against a beast of this size.  They would need more than arrows and a pocketful of herbs.

“Back!” he snapped. “Fall back!”