Caethel

Tancamir sat crouched with his back to the wall of the ruin, fire crackling in the distance. Before him lay a worn but clean piece of parchment, as well as a battered leather-bound journal covered in scrawling notes. He sighed.

She had been planning to go rejoin her old patrol for this, their final night in the forest. She knew they were still near enough to reach, to the North of their planned stop - Erion's failed attempt at a signal had told her as much, and she'd appreciated their careful eyes keeping watch over her progress, as she led the healers back to Echad Sirion. The paths they'd told her about made the journey entirely quiet – only a single warg scout had interrupted their travel, and Caethel had dispatched that easily enough.

Remember.

She might already be dead.

Remember.

It’s your fault.

A tree, another one, the swamp, the lights... Seven days and no findings. My hands, my bag, my phials, all empty.

The sound of Elvealin’s crystal bell pendant. Norliriel knows I do not want to go back yet, I am sure. The crystal bell, once again. Norliriel’s hand is on my hands. I feel woozy.

I have to ask. “How much more do you think we can keep looking?”

The sun was sinking below the horizon, bathing the ruins in a soft red glow. Its rays gave some final warmth before the darkness of the night took over. Gwingris was more occupied today than usual with a group of travelers who had just come from Imladris. They sat beside the fire now, sharing its warmth and a kettle of herbal tea. Some of them had stepped aside to stand watch or speak with the inhabitants of Gwingris. At this time, Eliriael broke away from the group quietly and inquired into borrowing writing instruments and the use of a messenger bird.

 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.”

Oh, Diary! How long have I been unwilling to touch your pages, to record what has really happened?

“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.

(This incident took place after the fight with the frost giant at Vindurhaal)

In all the time she had been striving to join the Warband and after she had done so, Lilleduil had never known Khalis to be wounded.  So she was shocked to see him rubbing his side and up under his sword arm after the fight with the ice giant, speaking to Faorie in a low voice.  She kept an eye on him during their journey back to the camp and he seemed to be traveling well enough, though he complained once of missing the trail.

In the silence amongst the trees, a lone archer waits, still, and patient. All is quiet. The birds sing high in the trees, calling to the summer sun with their merry greetings. Finally, in one smooth, graceful motion, she raises her bow and draws back the string. A breeze from the lake lifts the leaves of the trees, sending some spinning slowly to the ground. With a movement as natural as breathing, the archer releases the string, standing motionless for what seems like a long moment, while her arrow speeds to its target.