In the forest near Esteldín, TA 2989
Tancamir stalked through the forest, heedless of the sights around him. He had come from a long scouting trip in the Hithaeglir, where he had trudged through snow and ice in the company of a few Elves and some Rangers, bent on ridding the passes of danger to travellers. There had been some good hunting, he recollected grimly. They had happened on a wargs' den, and had slain all they could find of the beasts, even the pups. And there were always the yrch and goblin-scouts, he thought with mounting fury. He had spared none that dared to cross his path. After their provisions ran out, he and his companions had been obliged to seek the lower lands, and descended from the pass. In the lands north-east of the Mitheithel, where the Coldfells marched up to the foothills of the Hithaeglir, he had parted from his companions. And now he wandered alone in the forest, shoulders slumped and head bowed.
It was not yet high summer, and the leaves rustled and murmured in the branches above as he passed below them. How strange it was, to see the world alive and garbed in green, after the bleak and perpetual winter of the Hithaeglir. To see flowers nodding their heads among the ferns, and to hear the sound of birds warbling among the trees. For too long he had only seen tracks upon the snow, and heard only the wailing of the wind upon the passes. It unsettled him, though he had no eyes for the beauty all around. Tancamir walked wearily, lost in thought, heedless of the world that was bursting with life all around.
It had been long since he had left Mithlond. Longer than the span of the lives of Men, even that of the Dúnedain. And long he had wandered in the fields and woodlands of Eriador, since then. Absently, he fingered the ivory hunting-horn slung at his hip. It had been a gift, given the better part of an Age ago by the laughing, silver-haired archer who was no more. Falasgil. The name echoed in his head, repeating itself mockingly until he shook his head in frustration. That had been so long ago, and yet he remembered it as if it were yesterday - seeing his friend fall upon the bloodied fields of Angmar, pierced by a black dart launched from the crossbows of the Angmarim.
A part of him had also died that day, and though he did not leave Mithlond straight away, he grew restless in his duties as an archer in the Guard of Mithlond. It was only when he had caught sight of the Lady Celebrían, about to depart a ship for the Blessed Lands, that he knew he had to leave Lindon. Leave the land that had been more a home to him than the Valley of his birth, and seek once more the lands of his kin. Yet he was still a coward, he thought with mingled rage and shame. For he could not bring himself to enter the Valley of Imladris, the vale which he forsook as a youth, casting all memories of family and home to the wind. Did his father yet live? He was sure Nolomir had disowned his eldest son long ago. Did his mother, or his younger sisters? He could not, would not reflect on the pain his long absence had surely caused them. They must think him dead - perhaps it would be better that way.
And so he had wandered the nearby lands, often venturing into the Hithaeglir to slay whatever lurked in the passes. His travels had led him through the lands patrolled by the Dúnedain many a time, and he had found in them steadfast allies in his singular war against the enemies which still lurked in the lands. But now he passed beneath the trees of the North Downs, lost in thought. He wondered absently if there were still trolls in the lands near Imladris, as one of his companions had mentioned seeing one in the forests north of the Bruinen. Lost in thought, he turned his steps southwest, hoping to strike the eastern shore of the River Mitheithel, and make camp there.
A noise from above startled him, and he whirled around, one hand on his bow. Years of wandering the wild had taught him wariness, and to always expect the unexpected. Yet he was caught off guard as he came face to face with neither a wandering orc, nor a marauding troll, nor even a wild bear.
"Ha! Put down your bow, Elf!" A young girl leapt from an overhanging bough, an arrow nocked to her bow. She pointed it straight at Tancamir, grey-green eyes glimmering with neither malice nor suspicion, but with bold curiosity. From head to toe she was garbed in muted greens and browns, hardly seeming to stand out from the colours of the trees around her. Tancamir regarded her warily, but put down his weapons and held his hands out in a gesture of peace. Her face was young, blooming even, with rosy cheeks and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Auburn hair coiled in a braid around her left shoulder, though a few unruly curls escaped from the braid to frame her forehead and ears. Her eyes held an expression which was at the same time fierce and inquisitive, as she raised one eyebrow at him, a smirk spreading across her face.
"Well, well. Never thought I could surprise one of the Fair Folk out in the woods. Da has always told me my tracking skills were near Elven-wise, but I never believed him. " She cast an inquisitive look at Tancamir. "You must have poor wood-craft, for an Elf. I always heard your kind could hear anything from miles away, and see through the darkest of shadows."
Tancamir glanced at her, scowling. Who was this slip of a mortal girl to challenge him? Judging from her raiment, she was one of the Rangers of the North, the Dúnedain who lived still in exile though the kingdom of Arnor had crumbled to dust. He rounded on her, drawing himself to his full height and flinging his hair back from his face.
"How dare you say such a thing, mortal child. I have handled a bow for longer than you have even been alive. I have seen the kingdoms of your people rise and fall, seen the glory of Annúminas in its day, and the fortresses of Rhudaur set upon the hills like a crown. Where are your kings now? Once they were elf-friends, but I see much has changed." He stared at her, grey eyes flashing with indignation. Gone was the torpid nostalgia, the sense of aimless wandering that had seized him after he had departed from the Hithaeglir. In its place, indignation flared to life within him and he glared at her, as if daring her to make a clever retort.
"Hmf. I have heard tell of the arrogance of the Eldar. I seem to be seeing it first-hand." The girl met his gaze with an equally determined gaze of her own, still pointing her drawn bow at his face. "You cannot deny that I startled you, though. What do I care if you are older than the very ruins I see every day? I still surprised you. Your back was turned, and you jumped when I leapt down from the tree. " She gave a triumphant grin.
"Even the best tracker and hunter may let down his guard, on a time." Tancamir stared at her, scowl deepening. "You would think to match one of the Eldar in wood-craft? I think not."
"Wait 'till Saerion and Tarlas and all the others hear that I surprised an Elf in the woods today, " she shot back. "That is more than they could ever boast of. And they are older than I, even. "
Tancamir narrowed his eyes, taking a step forward. Valar, she was short, he remarked to himself. He stood more than a head above her and yet she was not intimidated, staring defiantly back at him with eyes like that of an angered wildcat.
"You will do no such thing. I have hunted orc and warg with some of your kinsmen, but have never found one to boast of bettering an Elf in anything. " He took a step forward, one hand on the hilt of his sword. "Know your place, girl, before one of the Firstborn."
She was unfazed by his reaction, and stared defiantly back at him. Huffing, she adopted a defensive stance and said in a clear voice,
"Who are you to command me, stranger? I am Ruinel, daughter of Targon, scout and archer in training of the Rangers of Esteldin. State your name and why you are passing through the lands guarded by my kin."
Tancamir glanced at her, as if seeing something for the first time. She was young, he judged, surely less than twenty summers old, and yet she stared him down as if the weight of thousands of years between them were as nothing. She was either very brave or very foolish, he would give her that. With a sigh he lowered his hands from the hilt of his sword, expression softening.
"Tancamir called Cúrandir, son of Nolomir. I am passing through your lands, having returned from a hunt in the Hithaeglir. A long one." He sighed and passed a hand over his brow. "Does that answer your question, girl?"
"I have a name, you know. Ruinel. Learn to use it, Wandering Bow." She wrinkled her nose at him, lips forming into a decided pout. "If all Elves are as rude as you are, I wonder why our kings even bothered befriending your kind. " She lowered her bow, slipping the arrow back into the quiver, then turned to walk away with a toss of her auburn braid.
"Anyways, I suppose you can go on your way. I will have quite the story to tell when I get home." With a swish of her forest-green cloak, she stalked away, already vanishing into the sun-dappled shadows.
"Ruinel - wait!" Tancamir stepped forwards, hand reaching out toward her retreating figure. "I will not permit you to speak so. You have not seen wood-craft, all you saw was myself .... letting my guard down for a moment. "
The girl turned toward him, a confused scowl etched on her sharp features. "What in the name of Arda do you mean? I have been told Elves speak in riddles, now I know it for sure."
Tancamir stepped forward, attempting a smile. "We are both archers - I would challenge you to a contest of arms, before coming to a conclusion. Tell me, what is the farthest shot you have made at a still target, either on the field or in the practice arena?"
Ruinel tipped her head to one side, auburn curls bobbing around her face. "Hm. Now that is a language I can understand. I'd say about four score paces practice, ten and three score in the field." She smiled proudly. "None other archers my age can match that."
"Archers of the Eldar can easily shoot three times that distance, Ruinel. And I am no exception. But from what I know of your kin, that is a remarkable range for someone your age." Tancamir attempted a smile.
"I ... have nothing better to do, at the moment. I have hunted orc and warg with Rangers, your kin, for the better part of five hundred years, and would like to see if you really match up to the best of them." He flashed her a challenging smirk. "Are you up for it?"
Ruinel gazed at him, eyes widening as she heard his remark about Elven archers. "I would, but Da and the others expect me home before nightfall. " Suddenly an idea crossed her mind and she smiled wickedly, pulling out a strip of burlap cloth from her satchel.
"Why don't we settle this properly, at the practice field? I can take you to where we are camped, but I will have to blindfold you first. Scout's rules and all that." She gave him a cheeky grin. "Though with your 'wood-craft,' Master Elf, I think you would have no problem finding our encampment in the dark."
Tancamir laughed, all trace of annoyance gone from his face. "Very well then, lead the way. I should know better than to underestimate you and your kin. Varda knows they have been at my back in the most dangerous of situations, more than one time." He extended his hand, grasping her own wrist and clasping his fingers around it.
"Well met, Ruinel of the Dúnedain. Perhaps we 'got off on the wrong foot,' as your people say. Shall we try again?" He grinned, bowing his head as she tied the blindfold over it.
"Well, Wandering Bow, I am not sure if you deserve a second chance. You were stupid enough to not hear or notice me, when I surprised you. But I suppose we can decide that later. Come now, it grows late and Da will have my head if I am not back by nightfall."
She walked with sure steps through the brush, Tancamir following. He walked close to her, listening to the sound of her footsteps. The darkness was not as disorienting as he expected, and he could follow her blindfolded without stumbling, making his way down the path with the dexterity expected of his kind. He smiled to himself as she chattered away, sometimes more to herself than to him. Ruinel - her name meant "Blazing Star" in Sindarin, he reflected. It suited her. When he had set out from the Hithaeglir, weary , conflicted and with grief still heavy upon his heart, he had not thought to find this girl in the wilderness, her very eyes bright with life. She was so very young, so very alive. Naive but determined, proud but inquisitive. He sighed to himself. The Secondborn were so different - their lives but a blink of an eye, and yet he could not help feeling that they lived life to the fullest, awake for every thrilling, fleeting moment. He wondered, as he followed her light footsteps toward Esteldín, how one so young could be so alive, so full of the moment and unshadowed by grief. Perhaps he could learn something from this child of Men, after all.
