The darkness settled, thick and cloying, over the rocky cliffs guarding the entrance to the Rift. Huddled in a cleft below the bluffs with the rest of the party, Cúrandir drew his cloak about himself tighter as the chill night wore on. Close behind him came the raspy breathing of the two warriors he and the others had rescued - Themodir and Belorion. He had not expected that they would make it this far, when he had decided to join Belethoriel and his company in Gath Forthnir. He had been sure their venture would end in death, but here they were, alive if wounded, and having found the lost comrades whom they sought.
Yet who knew if they would survive to make it out of here? Casting a glance around the camp, he saw the sergeant Ancalasse leaning against a boulder, pale and cradling his broken arm. Themodir and Belorion were no better off - haggard and weakened by their long imprisonment. It had been a week since the company had left Gath Forthnir, and already their supplies were running low, even more so with the addition of these two to their party. Uneasiness flickered over his face, mirrored in the eyes of all those in the camp who were not resting.
A dull throbbing in his left wrist roused him from his thoughts. The wound was healing well, in spite of the harsh surroundings. With some effort, he unwound the bandages with one hand, then wrapped them tighter around his wrist. He smiled grimly. If they were to perish in this dark land, he would insure they took down with them as many foes as possible.
A wind stirred from the south-east, bringing with it the stench of sulphur and ash. Cúrandir turned to examine his quiver, frowning at how few arrows remained. With the dark all around him, he closed his eyes and thought of forests, green with living things, and of great oceans crashing against rocky shores. He thought of Falasgil, grinning cheekily at him while besting him at archery, and of Ruinel, so young and fiery, full of life and laughter. They were gone now, and gone were the days of carefree roaming through green woods and by sapphire seas.
In the dark, he felt for the golden chain clasped around his right wrist, imagining its pale luster and the red glitter of the ruby set in its center. Red - the colour of blood, the colour of fire. Idly, he tugged on the gain, feeling its links bite into his wrist like tiny teeth. A present for his fiftieth begetting day from his father, it was a bitter reminder of the life he had left behind in Imladris.
Home, he thought. What home is left for me in the havens of Lindon or in the forests of the North, where those I loved are dead and gone? Only in Imladris, which once was home … yet what welcome would I have if I returned? A lurid red glow appeared over the eastern cliffs, and Cúrandir lifted his head.
If this day is to end in wrath and ruin, so be it, he thought. I have not stood idly against the Shadow. He thought of the blows he and the Dunedain of Gath Forthnir had struck the enemy in his own land, of the many camps and fortresses of the Angmarim laid waste by their efforts.
Ruinel and her people have been avenged, and Falasgil’s blade has tasted the blood of many an orc. I am done with this land, whether I return alive out of it or not. Yet if I live to see the end of this venture I will go back to Imladris and seek whatever welcome awaits me there, he resolved.
As the sun rose, drenching the iron-clad hills in blood, Cúrandir gripped his bow and quiver. Let the day come, he thought. There is far to go, and much blood to spill before darkness falls once more.
