Friendly Encounters

Friendly encounters are rare for a man of the wilds. 

Thorontir knew this well. For many years he would wander far to the east of Eriador as far as the Misty Mountains, vigilant of the movements of the Enemy in dark and forgotten places. Winters too cold and cruel he would find refuge among the elves of Rivendell, residing in comfort and kind company. But even during these days he would long for the hills and mountains, content in the steadfast bond of his steed and the distant companionship he found in the great eagles. 

Today it was no longer an option. Few of his noble kinsmen remained to watch the North and fewer there in the past weeks. A friendly encounter in the wild was rare, and now he had every reason to carry doubts. Though the prospect of a steady campfire and a warm meal tugged him forwards inexorably, and he recognized the garb of another man upon the trail, the seven-pointed star clasping his tightly wound cloak. 

The wind howled and stirred up the snow in its wake, the clouds above were dark and heavy depriving the sky of the stars and the earth of their light. It was no surprise the ranger were startled as he came upon him, Thorontir raised his hand and spoke. "Gi suilon." The stranger rose to his feet at his own pace, there was a glimmer of smile under his hood. "Mae govannen! Nathlo!" Came the response and the tension washed away from Thorontir's shoulders at the familiarity of the phrases.

"I am known as Thorontir," Even so, he were more comfortable in speaking the common tongue of Men. "Well met indeed, friend."

His kinsman stepped forward and grasped his hand, the smile all he could catch in the fire's light. "I am Celoross, I've heard of your name. Did the call of Halbarad bring you so far west belatedly?" 

"Nay, but it is the reason that I am here. I can no longer be so far away from the folks of the North when so few of us remain here." Thorontir said. "I've heard your name, too. You would usually be farther south yourself, would you not?" 

"That is so." Celoross replied with a gentle shrug. "But I tread closer to the lands of Bree-folk for the same reason as you, only recently." 

"Are you also here for the same task? Have you heard aught of Calant?" Thorontir stepped closer to the fire and shuffled the snow aside with his boot to clear a seat. 

"Nothing more, we search for him still." The ranger lamented with a shake of his head. "But tracks do not remain long in this weather, and in this dark? Don't trouble your mind now when you can do nothing, join my camp till dawn and we will continue together." 

"You are right," Thorontir sighed and draped his cloak tighter and unburdened his pack, turning his head toward Celoross wistfully. "It troubles me. I've seen dark things I should have you aware of. Did you ever come to know Sîdhên?"

"Sîdhên," Celoross leant down to feed the dwindling flames, cloak falling around him as he leant forward, rummaging through his sack for more firewood. "I grieve for him, to befall that fate so young."

"It was recent," Thorontir peered down at his feet and kicked aside another mound of snow. "Sîdhên's trail was in the north, yours was in the south. How is it news have come by you so fast?" He raised his eyes, his mind worked too slow. 

"Hmm," Celoross straightened, but what he had found in his bag weren't for the fire. He sprang forward, his boot scattered the smoldering logs in a muted crash of cracking wood and fiery sparks. A cold and cruel point drove into his flesh and strove to sink between his ribs, the throbbing pain flashed through his being and then was gone. 

Thorontir grasped onto the weapon driving into him with strength he didn't realize were in his possession and pushed back, exchanging the cold steel in his side with the rush of warm blood. Celoross grunted in surprise, and then in frustration, drawing back and away from Thorontir but he would not let go of the dagger. His hand found the hilt of his sword and drew it, but no sooner than that naked steel appeared the true ranger was upon him. 

Finding his own weapon, Thorontir set his blade to work, each blow struck true and deep. Celoross did struggle, his dagger checked and sword too unwieldy to adjust, a second was all he needed but a second he would not have. The fight was brief and terrible, Thorontir knelt down upon the broken body of the man he had spoken to as friend, now expiring from many wounds. A steady hand tightly gripped Celoross' hood and tucked it back, revealing no kinsman of his.

The face was Mannish, true, though it were no Man that stared up at him now; wrong in many subtle places, not merely ugly but Orcish. Yet he were in pain, and there were no other options now. Thorontir ended the impostor as quickly as he could, only then he allowed his hands to tremble as he withdrew. A spy that wore his own colours, his own badge, that easily assumed even his customs and language. Yet it was not the first. Was Celoross another casualty, whose cloak this creature now bore, his body left disrobed and discarded? 

The pain reminded him of itself as he rose, Thorontir cursed and grasped at his side. Only by the thickness of the gambeson he wore had the blade been halted, and he may have been another ranger slain in this vile scheme. Applying pressure to the wound he drew a laboured breath and stared down upon the half-orc in wonder, what wicked process created it? 

But he could not bring himself to hate it. Its being was a wicked one from the beginning, it understood its more redeemable side enough to pass as one of their own though filled with the cruelty of orc-kind. He only found himself with a sense of pity at this victory, remorse that such a creature had been born and that he had to play the part in ending its violent and cruel life. 

Thorontir proceeded with that which must be done, that evening he would find none of the rest and respite he had hoped for in spotting this campfire. 

Friendly encounters remain rare for a man of the wilds.