Duarion tugged at the material of his dark, grey and slightly muddy cloak. He felt comfortable with his shadowy appearance, although some might mistake him for a brigand or thief. It was useful for moving unseen, not to mention recalling some of the sable materials of the armies of Gondor, his home.
"Are you ready?" an elf called from the door.
Glancing over at his sleeping wife, he bent over and gave her a gentle kiss. "I'll be back soon, my dear," he whispered.
Turning, he strode from the room, tightening his belt as he went. Breathing the air of the valley of Rivendell invigorated him and made him feel like a boy again. Yet, there was an unfamiliar weight at his side, throwing him off. He checked his daggers. One was in its usual trusty place, but the other had been swapped for a slightly longer, thinner blade. He drew it carefully and examined the delicate embroidery on the hilt.
"Ah," the elf said. "I see you have noticed a change we made. I hope you do not mind."
"Where is my weapon? What is this?"
"Your old blades are so dull they could barely skin a hare!" Elrond himself laughed, emerging to join them at the front of the house. "I had them sharpened, but thought you may appreciate a gift from the elves."
Duarion looked at him quizzically.
"In answer to your question," Elrond continued, "that knife has seen service more times than anyone would care to count. It is not, perhaps, the most powerful weapon in Middle Earth - those are few and far between. Yet, it will protect you better than anything crafted by Men."
Staring for a moment longer, Duarion decided to sheathe the dagger again. It was light and sharp. It would not take long for him to get used to it. "I thank you for your gift."
"Where do you travel to today, Laedhir?" Elrond asked, addressing Duarion's brown-haired companion.
"I was going to scout the road south. Duarion offered his assistance."
"Then you wish to return to your homeland also? It is strange that in these dark times, folk always retreat to places they know."
Duarion shook his head, mounting his horse. "Not strange at all, Lord Elrond. We protect the lands we love, that is all. Every day under your care I gather strength and I will soon wish to return to the streets of Dol Amroth. I am not surprised Laedhir here is as eager to return to Mirkwood. Though, I hear that place may be more dangerous than my own road."
"Do not be so sure, son of the south," Elrond reprimanded him. "While darkness indeed lies over the Greenwood of old, Gondor faces an even greater threat. Your home may not be as you remember."
"You really know how to raise spirits, don't you?" Duarion chuckled. It was almost impossible to be saddened in this place.
"Do not underestimate the evil at work, even in Eriador. Yet there is hope still, though I cannot speak of it here."
Laedhir glanced at the brightening sky. "We should make haste."
Duarion nodded and pulled his horse about to face towards the bridge. The roar of the falls was loud in the morning air. "Do me a favour and tell Saeldith not to worry. I will be back soon enough."
Elrond nodded and raised his hand in farewell. "I will do so."
The two contrasting figures, one dark and mysterious, the other tall and powerful, rode quickly from the vale, once again venturing forth into the wilds of Eregion.
