They rode through that night with little incident, passing like fleeting shadows through the northern fringes of the forest. Already Tancamir felt strength returning to his right shoulder. It would not be long before he could take up his bow again. The stars wheeled overhead in an endless parade, a familiar constant as the lands grew ever stranger. As dawn crept over the peaks of the Hithaeglir, they halted by a stand of trees overshadowing a little hollow. Far off in the distance, he could hear the rushing of the Mitheithel River as it clattered over stony shallows. One day's journey more and he would be in the lands of Men.
Though he and Amloth soon fell into a restful sleep, they awoke late in the afternoon to find sunlight streaming through the branches. Here and there a thrush would sing over the distant murmur of the Mitheithel. The entire wood smelled of growing things and the promise of new life. Tancamir looked upwards at the canopy of young leaves, mouth blooming into a wide smile. Soon there would be no need for haste, once he was several days' journey from Imladris, and he could roam at his leisure over hill and under trees.
"Amloth, what say you to an early start?" Tancamir laughed as he took in the sun, hanging low in the sky. "Or, perhaps a late one." Now that they were farther from the Valley, he deemed it safe to travel by day.
The handsome chestnut flicked his ears intelligently in Tancamir's direction and nosed at his saddle lying on the ground. Tancamir swatted him on the neck.
"Very well, but there is no need to be hasty, mellon. It takes a while longer to saddle you with only one hand." Tancamir grimaced slightly as he hefted the saddle with his left hand and slung it over Amloth's back. In a matter of moments his gear was packed again, and all signs of their camp concealed. Whistling a few bars of his favourite hunting-song, he mounted Amloth and set out north and west for the Mitheithel.
It was not difficult to find the eastern bank of the Mitheithel, for the river flowed noisily and Tancamir had only to follow the sound of rushing water. Brambles and vines overhung the riverbanks, which for the most part were raised above the riverbed by walls of stone a few paces high. The river itself was shallow, but there was no place for a horse and rider to cross. After spending the better part of an hour nosing along the bank for an opening, they found a pebbly beach where the river bent in a wide swath round a stand of beech trees. They forded the stream easily, scrambling up the steep western bank into the woods of northeastern Arnor.
That evening, Tancamir felt sufficiently at ease to light a small fire, which drove out the chill from his dampened clothes and bedding. He stared into the flames, suddenly overcome by moodiness. Idly he wondered if his father had sent out any search parties from Imladris. Probably not - in recent years Tancamir had taken to leaving on hunting trips that lasted a fortnight or more. By the time he was missed, he would be far away from Imladris. With a snort, he thought of his father, the strait-laced scholar, humbling himself before the captain of the Guard and asking that a search be made for his wayward son. Nolomir would sooner burn the entirety of his mathematical treatises than allow his image among the residents of Imladris to be tarnished so. But his mother - he frowned into the embers of the fire. Tinuilos was her name, and she was as gentle and soft-spoken as his father was overbearing and strict. Her voice held the golden music of Lórien and the whispered songs of Doriath which her own mother had taught her.
If there was one thing that could have kept him from leaving, it would have been his mother, who had told him tales of the wild woods of Doriath and the milder forests of Lórien - of the Great Hunter Oromë and his mighty steed Nahar, and the wide lands through which they fared. He thought of his two younger sisters, Uilossiel and Tinwen, who were as different as night and day. Uilossiel he loved, yet envied, for with her midnight-black hair and studious ways she was the perfect picture of her father. Yet she adored her older brother and would always listen with rapt attention to his accounts of recent hunting-trips, or peek at him through the hedge with wide eyes when he sparred with his friends. Tinwen was not yet halfway to her majority, but already a tyrannical young beauty with long flaxen hair. Tancamir tossed his shorn hair out of his eyes with a snort. He would be glad to be rid of her presence, for sure.
There was no returning to Imladris for him, stained as he was with the blood of his rescuer. It would be too dangerous to double back along the road towards Imladris and risk being confronted by more woodsmen. He shivered, though the night was young and not yet chill. There was no place for him to go but forwards - for he would never look back, bitter though the parting might be. Absently he fingered the golden bracelet hung on his right hand. Let that be the only reminder he carried of his former home. All else, he must throw to the wind.
For the next few days Tancamir and Amloth travelled from dawn till dusk, making at a leisurely but still steady pace for the North Downs of Arnor. The woods on the western bank of the Mitheithel gave way to plains covered only with long, waving grasses. Always careful to elude the sight of Men, Tancamir gazed on the tall, bare hills which marched north and west toward the fortress of Amon Sûl. It was a mighty watchtower, standing proud and bleak upon a high hill. It was far too distant for even his elven-sight to distinguish any figures standing upon the tower, but he imagined that its ramparts were bristling with men of Arnor, valiant descendants of the Faithful from Númenor. The history of the Dúnedain had fascinated him as a youth. How did these Atani, mortal and brief though they be, manage to escape the drowning of an entire continent and rebuild their kingdoms, proud and steadfast, upon strange shores? And why must the Eldar, though mightier and more long-lived, be left to dwindle in obscurity until only a whisper remained of their memory? He had no more time to ponder such things, as the allure of the Wild drove him farther north, into rugged lands where trees grew seldom, save for a few stunted pines. These lands were sparsely populated by man or beast, where the bleak hills marched north and east toward the summit of Amon Sûl.
It was five days since his encounter with the trolls when he finally unwrapped the sling on his right arm. He had no reason to use his bow in the past days of travel, as his supplies were still adequate and the wild beasts seemed charmed by the calmness of spring. All the same, he had felt incomplete without it. A fierce thrill ran through him as he hefted the smooth yew bow in his hands. Lovingly he ran his fingers over the surface that he himself had carved and polished. Cúringil was inscribed along its curve, in both the Cirth of Doriath and the tengwar of Beleriand. Bow of the Chill Spark, he had named it, echoing the name of Ringil, the blade of High King Fingolfin. It was strange, he reflected, to be caught between two worlds as the child of both Gondolin and Lórien. While nothing drove him to rage more than the tale of the ruin of Doriath and the kinslaying by the havens of Sirion, he nonetheless read of the kings of the Noldor with mingled pity and admiration. He admired their courage in the face of certain doom, of the fierceness with which they defended their homes and their Oath. Shaking his hair out of his eyes, he drew an arrow and nocked it to the string, revelling in the familiar pose and tension of the bow.
He loosed a few arrows at the gnarled bole of a dead pine tree. All tension melted from his shoulders at the sound of the bowstring singing near his ear and the whizz of the arrows speeding toward their target. He frowned as one arrow veered past the tree, and his shoulder twinged. His skill would not be regained in a day, and rest would help it along faster than over-taxing himself. With a sharp whistle to Amloth, who had been standing by obediently, he swung into the saddle and was off again, turning north toward the distant fir woods on the horizon.
It was a scant two days' journey, travelling light and swiftly, until the line of dark green resolved itself into dense woods of evergreen trees. At times, Tancamir would dismount and lead Amloth through the wood, stopping every so often to look upwards at the tall, straight trees that stretched like pillars to the sky. A reverent hush lay over the forests in the morning, and soft golden light filtered through the branches, which arched upwards like the peaked roof of a great palace. Deer gazed shyly out of the tall ferns at their passing, and birds of a sort Tancamir had never seen before roosted in the trees. But he stayed his bow. The lembas and dried meat he had packed would last them for several days more, and he took no delight in hunting simply for sport. It was enough to ride through the unfamiliar woods and breathe the fresh air.
Freedom was at once delightful and bewildering. The spring weather was golden and hospitable, even in the northern woods of Arnor, and he was perfectly content with making his camp at night under the stars, taking shelter under the branches of a low-growing fir or under a rocky ledge. Though he had nearly memorised the lay of the lands beyond Imladris, he found himself consulting his map more often in the lazy evenings spent by the fire, stretched out against Amloth's resting side. It was one thing to see shapes and lines laid out on parchment - it was another to relate them to the rivers and hills he had ridden past, all so vividly real. With a sigh he tucked the map into his pocket. He remembered the day his sister Uilossiel had given it to him, when she had barely passed half her majority. Her peaked, white face, hair bound in the braids of a scholar-in-training, flashed before him unbidden. He would miss teasing her, and telling her fantastical stories of his adventures. He grinned as he recalled her strangely serious demeanor, and the little ways she twitched her fingers or twirled her hair. She had pressed the map of Eriador into his hand, smiling gravely in that odd manner of hers.
"It will help you find your way," she had said. "For no matter how far you wander, Tyelco, I know it will bring you back home."
Tyelco. It had been a joke between the two of them, that name. His mother had given him the name Tyelcóre, Hasty Heart in the High-Elven tongue forbidden in Doriath, yet still spoken in Lórien. And Uilossiel, scholar that she was, had been quick to draw comparisons between him and the third son of Fëanor, Turcafinwë Tyelcormo, Celegorm in the tongue of the Sindar. Brash, quick to anger, a lover of forests and the hunt - he had grudgingly seen the similarity and borne her teasing.
But now, as the leagues grew ever greater between himself and Imladris, he found that the sight of new lands began to wash away the last vestiges of homesickness. The stronghold of Fornost Erain, North-Fortress of the Kings, stood proudly amid the rolling hills of the North Downs. From atop the fir-clad heights he could descry its square towers and proud battlements, clothed in shining white stone. He began to see the rising smoke of villages along the outskirts of the wood. These he avoided, riding far to the north where the woodsmen dared not venture, and no clatter of wheels or song of axe marred the stillness of the forest. By now he had only a vague idea of where he would travel after passing through the North Downs. He had not given it much thought, but his provisions were running low and he meant to replenish them on the hunt.
His thoughts turned to the woods around Lake Nenuial. Along the southern shore of the lake the Dúnedain had built their great city Annúminas, the proud capital of Arnor, the North Kingdom. But the Atani there were elf-friends, and he had heard tales from others in Imladris of the dense forests of the northern shore, and the plentiful game to be found there. For five days he rode east at a leisurely pace, snaring the occasional pheasant or rabbit. The dim peaks of the Emyn Uial, the Hills of Twilight, drew ever closer as the land grew wilder and less inhabited. Finally he caught sight of Lake Nenuial spread out before him like a glassy mirror. The sun was setting as he made camp on a rugged hill overlooking the water. For a moment he gazed westward, lost in the glory of scarlet and gold as the flaming vessel of Anor sank below the horizon. The hills flamed with colour, their hues echoed in the still waters of Nenuial. Far to the south the ramparts of Annúminas glowed proudly, and the city gleamed like a star set upon the shore. As the light faded, so also did the fire in the sky, as the grey and violet colours of dusk crept over the Emyn Uial. It was still, so still, that Tancamir dared not make a sound. He gazed silently on the twilit waters as the first stars began to glimmer reflected in its depths.
Had the first Eldar felt more wonder than he, when they woke by the starlit meres of Cuiviénen? In breathless awe, he looked up towards the Emyn Uial and saw a bright star glimmering on the horizon. Gil -estel. Star of Hope, winged ship of Ëarendil lit by the hallowed radiance of a Silmaril. Reverently he bowed his head, whispering a short prayer to Elbereth, who had set the stars in their courses before even Isil and Anor sailed the sky. There must be hope for him to make a new life, far from the confines of Imladris. He gazed westwards, and thought of lands beyond the Emyn Uial - of the fair woods of Lindon beyond the river Lhûn. At the mouth of the Lhûn stood Mithlond, last haven of the Eldar beside the Sundering Seas. In that moment he resolved to fare westward, beyond the Hills of Twilight, enchanting though they were, and seek the lands of Lindon. He would roam the woods beside Lake Nenuial for a season, but his path lay west toward Lindon - the Land of Song, last vestige of the lands of Beleriand that now lay broken beneath the sea.
Amloth stamped at the ground and whickered softly, and the moment was broken. Tancamir turned to his horse, rolling his eyes slightly.
"What do you want now, Amloth? A good fire is before us, and many days of hunting in the wilderness are ahead." He patted his horse's flanks and secured his tether to a nearby tree. "And to-morrow I shall see if you are still any good at the chase, for you have gone fat and lazy with all this walking."
He busied himself with banking the fire and unpacking a few of his belongings. His bow Cúringil and his quiver he lay on the ground, within arm's reach of his resting place. Dagger tucked under his pillow, Cúrongrist sheathed and ready at his side, he stretched out his bedroll beside the embers of the fire. He folded both hands behind his head, staring contentedly at the stars. The lands beyond Imladris were wilder and more wonderful than he could ever have dreamed. Slowly horse and master slipped into restful slumber as the stars wheeled above the mirrored waters of Nenuial.
