Behind the Mask

Dolthafaer crouched over the corpse of a goblin lying face-down in the snow.  Two arrows protruded from its back – one was broken, perhaps tread upon by its own brethren as they fled the mighty company of Vanimar and Warband, but the other was intact.  He yanked the unbroken arrow free from the corpse and bit back a wince as he felt an answering stab of pain in his shoulder.

The wound had given him little trouble in the past few days, and so he had paid it little mind.  But the moment he had abandoned his bow and drawn his swords in this fight, he had started to feel it – a burn at first, and then a throbbing, growing stronger and stronger every time his blades had crossed another.  It must have been deeper than he thought.  It must have torn muscle, grazed bone.  It was a problem.

Damn you, Thendryt.

Dolthafaer set his teeth against the pain, thrust the arrow into his quiver, and moved on, one sword at the ready.  He could hear the faint sound of voices somewhere behind him, further into the camp.  He had broken away from the main company to retrieve his arrows.  What use was a Lord of the Arrow with an empty quiver?

The fight so far had been fast, furious, and effective.  They had fallen upon the largest surface goblin camp – Warband from the North, Vanimar from the South.  Dolthafaer himself had fallen into the company of the Warband.  The two had carved their paths through the camp and met in the middle, grinning and bloodied and victorious.  It was then that Dolthafaer had begun retracing his steps, but he knew that this was only the beginning.  He would need a full quiver for the second phase of Lord Veryacano’s plan. 

And a steady arm. 

He paused to catch his breath and rub his shoulder. 

The sound of a footfall behind him caused Dolthafaer to turn on the spot.  Vanimar and the Warband were thorough, but he had still encountered stragglers in their wake – those who had been hidden, now crawling from their holes. 

Thendryt approached, alone. 

Dolthafaer tensed, a spark of fear in his eyes, when the large Man stopped and hefted his spear, and he braced himself to leap away.  He flinched as the spear hurtled through the air – but well clear of him. He heard a gurgling shout and an answering thud when the weapon hit its target.  Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a new corpse settle into the snow. 

“Fair shot,” he growled, irritated at the display. 

Thendryt drew both of his swords. 

“I’m sure you had him.”

Dolthafaer could not help shooting him a snide look, though his eyes were trained on the weapons in his hands.  Thendryt’s eyes were unreadable above his mask.  Not for the first time, he wished to tear it from his face. 

“I am fortunate to have allies I can count on.”

He swung his own sword sharply through the air, scattering drops of goblin blood to the snow, and drew his second blade.  He tested it in the weakened grip. His shoulder throbbed.

“How’s the shoulder?” the Man asked, watching him, annoyingly and unnervingly observant, like a wolf sizing up its prey. 

“Working.”

Thendryt raised his head and then his swords, and then, suddenly, he swung at Dolthafaer’s left shoulder.  The deliberate absurdity of the act nearly caught the Elf off his guard, and he was quick to block the blow – but even as he raised the sword, he knew that it was too slow, too clumsy. He shoved the blade away with a growl and stepped back without bothering to engage.

Thendryt stepped closer. 

“Working, huh?”

Dolthafaer grit his teeth.  “What of it?” he snapped, furious, and slammed one sword back into its sheath.  He advanced on Thendryt, one sword gripped in both hands. Injured as he was, he could take this Man. There were no blizzards.  There was no uncertainty. 

He could hear shouting in the distance. 

“Can you still shoot a bow?  Because that sword-play won’t get you far.”

Thendryt simply tilted his head at his advance. 

He did not plan to engage, then.  He was toying with him.  Testing him. 

Dolthafaer snarled, “You saw me shoot.”

Crouching at the edge of a cliff, bow in hand, sentries wandering below at the place where Warband intended to descend.  A long shot.  A difficult shot.  A shot he made, twice. 

“Earlier, yes.  That was before you were covered in blood and winded.” Those eyes flashed again. “I asked you a question, Elf.  Can you still shoot your bow?”

Dolthafaer simply stared at him for a moment, and then he stamped down his anger, composing himself.  He relaxed from his offensive stance and lowered his sword. 

“I can. Well enough.”

Thendryt sheathed his swords. 

“I guess it can’t be helped,” he said, and then turned abruptly to start down the path.  “Let’s go.”

Dolthafaer ignored the command and sheathed his sword. 

“Why the concern?  Feeling a touch of guilt, Man?”

“Quite the contrary.  I’m saving you from guilt.” Dramatic nonsense.  “Now, let’s go.”

Dolthafaer stayed put. 

“Where?”

“Not going to trust me that easy, are you?  I’ll tell you on the way, now move it before it’s too late.”

“I might have missed the part where you gave me reason to trust you, Thendryt.”

But, reluctantly, he began to follow – only to stop just as abruptly when Thendryt explained himself.

“Themodir’s been captured.”

“What?”

“They were ambushed, apparently he was dragged down into the tunnels.  The rest of Vanimar and the Warband are just outside the entrance.”

Dolthafaer dragged a hand down his face and cursed under his breath.  They were drawing nearer to the voices.  Around them the strewn corpses lied silent and still, staining the snow beneath them.  The scent of the blood was beginning to turn his stomach.  He was homesick, suddenly, for the warm summer woods of the Trollshaws. 

“Veryacáno means to go after him.”

“Why do you think I went to get you?”

Thendryt led them to a cliff overlooking the company of Hammers below.  From this height, Dolthafaer could not make out what was being said, but he saw Veryacano at the lead talking animatedly. 

“Why do you do anything?” he asked, absently, watching his kinsmen gather.  It would not be long now.  He was glad that he had gone back for his arrows. 

“Why do you care, Arrow?”

Why do you think, was what he wished to say, but he was not in the mood to bait this strange Man.  Themodir had been carried into the tunnels.  When was the last time he had spoken to him? He had seen him at Hrimbarg, shivering, alone at his post.  He had spoken of his betrothed. 

Stay warm, Themodir, he had told him, patting his shoulder. 

“I care because you tried to drive an arrow into my head,” he replied, flatly.  “There are some who find Men inherently untrustworthy, treacherous, dangerous.  I do not believe that, but… there was that bit with the arrow.”

“You should,” said Thendryt, in a strange tone.  “We are.”

Dolthafaer simply snorted in reply.  Ridiculous, this Man.  Ridiculous.  Every word out of his mouth, a threat.  How exhausting it must be to keep up the act of smoldering intimidation.  He shot him a sidelong look – only to see that he had thrown back his hood, was taking off his mask.  He rose abruptly to his feet, his attention peaked. 

Scars. 

One long scar from his forehead, skipping over his right eye, continuing to the corner of his mouth.  One winding from his temple, below his left eye.  It was the second one that gave him pause.  The face itself was as unreadable as the mask, almost a mask itself.  He wondered if even Thendryt knew how to remove that one. 

“I knew full well what my kind is capable of.”

Dolthafaer continued studying the scars and the mask and the face, not even bothering to hide his regard.

“You think all Men are capable of this?  There is no choice in it?”

“Not all Men,” growled Thendryt, and he slid the mask back into place.  “Just the ones I’m around.”

Dolthafaer stepped closer, insisting, “Then, do you think only Men are capable of this?”

Thendryt laughed.

“Do you think me a fool, Dolthafaer?  Do you really think I’d be here if I thought that?  The question you should ask yourself is… do you Elves think any Men capable?”

Dolthafaer shook his head, frustrated. 

“Some do,” he snapped.  “Some do not.  I have met honorable Men, and I have met monsters.  I count among my closest family those who fell upon a haven of their kin, women and children and refugees, bathing in their blood, for want of a single jewel.  It is narrow-minded and ridiculous to judge one by the actions of their entire people. You, Thendryt – I am judging by your own actions.”

Thendryt did not seem impressed by his little speech. 

“Good luck with that.  We all have scars, Dolthafaer.  Not all of them show on your skin.  You cannot judge me.  You’ll never know enough about me.”

Dolthafaer turned to look back at the camp with narrowed eyes.  He could hear the Sergeant’s voice carrying through the air, now, and it made the hairs rise at the back of his neck. 

“I have time.  Watch anything long enough and it will reveal more than it means to.  You tell me you are dangerous.  I believe it.”  He rubbed his shoulder; the ache had lessened, slightly, but it lingered in the bone.  “But I have not decided if you are a danger.”

“I’m sure I won’t be around much longer.  So make up your mind, before it’s all over.”

Why was he indulging this Man? 

Why were they here, alone, watching their kinsmen prepare to take a leap into the dark? 

He cast the Man a sly look. 

“Why does it matter to you? What I think?”

“It matters, because I want the Elves you’ve put on me off my back.  And I want the Elves you haven’t put on me off my back as well.”  He concluded, with a growl, “I don’t like being watched.”

Dolthafaer flashed him a dark grin. 

“And why would that trouble you?  They merely watch.  Surely you must have come to realize by now that I do not intend to murder you in the night. 

“If I thought that, either you or me would be dead long ago.”

“You puzzle me, Thendryt.  You seem to embrace and even enjoy your own ambiguity.  You make no apologies for it. …And yet, you buck at the idea of others – me – not taking your loyalty for granted.”

“I don’t need you to take my loyalty for granted.  I don’t need anyone to take me for granted.”

“Then accept the consequences of it.”

Thendryt turned to face him. 

“You know what I’m tired of, though?” Dolthafaer arched an eyebrow and made no reply.  “I’m tired of being constantly questioned.  I don’t care if Vanimar doubts my loyalty. I simply need to be able to do one mission without Elves trying to prove my disloyalty.  I get it; I’m not a few thousand years old, I don’t have pointy ears.  My face is hardly appealing.  But if I was going to betray my Warband, or the Vale, I would have done so long ago.  I’m not your friend.  Don’t make me your enemy.  Don’t make me doubt why I never kill elves.”

Dolthafaer turned away with a growl of frustration.  Nonsense.  All of it.  Excuses.  What had he hoped to accomplish in speaking with this Man?  A child, he was, hollering at his elders for respect.  A reckless child with the eyes of a wolf and the strength of a bear. 

How could a child be a danger? 

“Because if you do,” that child continued, pressing his luck.  “That might change.  Some of your kind are called Kinslayers.  I’m more of a Kinslayer than most of them.  Play with fire long enough, Dolthafaer, eventually something you don’t want to happen… will happen.”

At last he fell silent. 

Dolthafaer did not fear this Man, he realized, standing alone with him on this cliff.  The realization came as a surprise, and yet – at the same time – not at all.  A threat understood was not a threat feared.  He was drawing closer to that point.

“I grow tired of these threats, Thendryt,” the Elf finally replied – low, calm, measured.  “I grow tired of the watch.  I grow tired of distrusting the Man who fights beside me, supposedly an ally.  I grow tired of feeling as though I was the only one in the snow that night.  Cry injustice all you like. I do not give half a damn what your face looks like, but I remember what happened every time I try to lift my sword.  This is no personal crusade against a hated Man.  Give me a reason to drop my guard, and I will.  Until then, bear it.”

Thendryt laughed – a sound as unnerving as the Sergeant’s voice. 

“I like you.  I’m sure we’ll be playing for quite some time.”

Dolthafaer shook his head – and despite himself, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. 

“Stubborn. So be it.”

“One has to be known for something.”

“The face is not enough for you?”

Down below, the company was beginning to move.