Arrow

Valanduir travelled from the Bay of Belfalas with Nethillon until Minas Tirith. This time was different than always as he was permitted in the city once again after Nethillon's request. Valanduir Alagaer was always seen as a hooded figure but no one ever paid attention (no one but Nethillon) how he really looked like. He was a tall man with skin tanned by sun. Valanduir's face was smooth and young, he had well-matched nose and lips that always had a smile drawn on them. His eyes were inky black and his hair was short and well-kept.

Notes for Arrow Field Medic Training

Lord Anglachelm,

Pray forgive me for not seeking you out in person, but a personal matter of great urgency demands my immediate departure from the Valley and from my post as Arrow Lord.  It is my hope that this errand will be brief and my return swift, but should that not be the case, I leave the Order of the Arrow in your capable hands to command as you see fit. 

 The watchful eyes of the lone sentry found her as soon as she stepped out from the shadows of the trees, but he only nodded, eyes flicking to the stitched mark of her company on her arm, and gestured for her to pass.

As she moved closer, one corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile, and he remarked: “You're getting sloppy, Cae. Saw you coming from miles away.”

“But what if I want to come home? What if it's all too strange, and I get frightened? What if I miss you all too much?” Linneth suppressed a laugh, looking at the small face of her daughter, crumpled with worry. She held out her arms, and Caethel ran forward and scrambled on to her lap, pressing her face against the front of her mother's robes. Gently, Linneth stroked her hair, waiting until Caethel pulled back a little and stared up into her face, grey eyes clouded with anxiety.

Dolthafaer found himself standing a lonely vigil on one of the balconies of Elrond’s house, watching the stars light up one by one as night crept across the Valley.  He was clad still in the garb he had worn upon the road, the thick fabric and leather stiff and caked in mud.  He had lost his cloak days ago in the effort to bind Danel and Estarfin’s wounds.  He was exhausted, hungry, and uncomfortable.  His task was over, and it was time for him to return home.

Dolthafaer stared down at the valley, the snow reflecting the sun’s dying light.  A lone howl drifted up to the crumbling stone ruin where the Arrow had stopped to rest.  He grimaced, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword, and turned to face the rest of his company.

“We have rested enough.  Time to move on.”

Dolthafaer twirled an arrow in his hands, keen grey eyes flickering in the light of the fire as he examined the fletching – one white feather, two speckled brown.  Satisfied with the spacing, he took up a length of thin sinew and began to bind the feathers to the shaft.  A quiverful of arrows was already stacked neatly on the floor beside him, but his mind was full tonight and the familiar task helped him think.