The wind howled outside, but could not reach the haven where Tancamir and Luthelian were camped inside the ruins. It was a night not for rest, but reflection, he thought with a grimace. He had always hated the sound of wind howling in the high passes. Too eerily similar to the howl of wargs in the night, or the wails of unnamed horrors lurking beyond the iron hills of Angmar. Too much like the voices from his past he could not help but remember. Tancamir darted a glance at the rapidly dimming torch overhead. Hastily he pulled out something from his pocket, holding it up to the torchlight.
"What do you have there?"
Luthelian's words startled him and he looked up hastily, attempting to hide the object in his cloak.
"N-nothing of importance."
Luthelian raised an eyebrow." Oh come on, I already saw you had something.'
"So? That is none of your business." He stashed the object in his pocket as quickly as he had drawn it out, whirling round to face her with an impassive expression. Luthelian got up from her post reclining against a wall, and leaned forward toward him. He took a step back instinctively, eyeing her warily.
"You and all your secrets."
He looked up at her, slightly unsettled, and took another step back, eyes widening as she approached him. Damn himself and his own sentimental attachment to that compass. Ruinel had been dead nearly twenty years now, and he could still not bring himself to speak of her easily.
"Let me have a look." Luthelian glanced at him with an expression he could not quite place. Well, perhaps not talking about the compass would only make things worse. The last thing he wanted was to set Luthelian off quarrelling again.
"Fine." He sighed in defeat and pulled out the compass from his pocket, opening the lid and angling it toward the fire. "But do not touch it. Or speak of it to anyone else."
She looked up for a moment, startled by his serious tone. "Why not? Seems like a harmless object."
"It is dear to me, and few have seen it." Tancamir closed his eyes, sighing deeply.
When he opened them, he saw Luthelian regarding him intently. Her playful demeanour shifted as he sat up slightly and opened the lid of the compass. She brought up her knees and rested her chin on them, gazing at Tancamir in the dying torchlight. He dropped his gaze back to the compass, opening its lid again.
"It was a gift. Do you know how to use one of these?"
"I have seen them before. I have not used one, though." He laid the compass flat on the ground, watching the needle as it wobbled, then swung to face the north.
"Who gave it to you?"
Tancamir 's lips twitched slighly. "A friend." He bent over the compass, then turned his face in the direction of the needle. "There. That way is north."
"Hm, how simple."
He looked away, but did not have to glance back to feel the weight of her inquisitve gaze on him. "Simple yet necessary. It works when you cannot see the stars." He sighed and read off the Sindarin inscription inside the lid, more to himself than anyone else.
"Farongil - May your arrows fly true, and your paths ever lead you home." His voice was lower than a whisper, his lips barely moving as he mouthed the words. Luthelian had not heard them, he was sure.
"What makes it always point north?" He glanced at her, sitting with her knees drawn up, some ways away from him.
"I do not know. Some say that north-stone was first wrought by Lord Aulë, but then was wrenched from the northern reaches of Ëa when the world was still young, and scattered over Arda when the Valar contested with the Black Enemy in the days before the Trees. Ever will a needle made of north-stone seek the north, no matter how dark the night, or how drear the surroundings." He spoke slowly, eyes closed, as if recalling a tale from childhood.
"Why is it so special?" Luthelian began to whisper as the night grew darker.
Tancamir returned to attention, eyes snapping open." Why do you need to know?" He snatched up the compass, closing the lid and folding it into his pocket. The torch above them was dying quickly, its flame dipping and wavering in the odd drafts which ran through the cavern.
"Go prepare yourself to sleep. The light will go out any moment now."
Luthelian narrowed her eyes at Tancamir, disappointed. "You really are no fun at all."
Tancamir turned away sullenly, fiddling with his bedroll. He felt indignation rise within him at her flippant words. He had shown her a part of himself, which he would normally conceal, and she replied with ... this? Sullenly he peeled off his gauntlets, laying them beside him, and placing his bow and quiver within arm's reach. Last of all, he unclasped his hood, then balled it up into a pillow and stashed a dagger underneath it. Calm, Tancamir, he muttered to himself. Remember your Lord's orders, and do not provoke her. Oromë knows why she seems to delight in provoking you.
"Fun?" Tancamir replied bitterly."You call the weight of years ... fun? Surely you must have had some painful memories even in your short life. Forgive me if I do not wish to speak of them now."
Luthelian pursed her lips at his words, then turned toward her bedroll and pulled off her cloak, rustling her long hair down her back. At the sound, Tancamir looked up, and found himself staring at Luthelian's hair for a moment too long. He averted his gaze, coughing awkwardly
"You ought to wear that in a braid. Much more practical."
Luthelian turned sharply, with piercing eyes fixed Tancamir, looking severely annoyed. With a smirk, she ran her fingers through her long, long hair.
"Does it bother you." It was a statement, not a question, worded so confidently that Tancamir felt almost sorry for her. She was apparently so used to charming others with her looks that he sensed she felt at odds with his own response, which was cool and confused, at best. He watched with growing bafflement, as Luthelian pulled a part of her hair from behind her shoulder and brought it forward, smoothing it out in front of him conspicuously.
"Oh no - it is very pretty, I mean, er ... No, it looks fine." Luthelian caught Tancamir's glance and grinned with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. This would not do - he attempted to change the subject.
"So fine, in fact, that it would be a complete pity if it got tangled in the branches of some tree, and a warg got to you before anyone else could." He made a noncommittal gesture, ignoring her as she sat back, a frown marring her features.
"Or a goblin. Or even a Balrog. That was Lord Glorfindel's downfall, you know. His long golden hair."
She pouted, flipping her long hair behind her back and out of sight. Then she turned away, a glimmer of hurt in her eyes. Tancamir hummed awkwardly. He had not meant to offend her. What would Lord Dolthafaer say, if they returned from this mission as antagonistic as ever? His Lord had been most displeased to witness their constant arguing, both off the practice field and on it. Frantically he grasped for a topic of conversation. He had faced orcs, trolls, and Angmarim without flinching, but his mind seemed to be devoid of a plan when this strange girl was concerned. Without too much reflection, he said the first thing that came to mind.
"I knew a young archer once, with hair like yours. She was always getting it tangled in the branches of trees, and such. So, I suggested that she braid her hair. It never troubled her afterwards." The words tumbled out in a rush, and Tancamir wondered exactly what he was doing. Trying not to argue? Attempting to be civil? Or just being stupid?
Luthelian raised an eyebrow at Tancamir, twisting her hair together into a bunch between her hands.
"You really do not think it pretty?" She appeared suddenly vulnerable, peering at him from underneath her long eyelashes. He groaned and put his hand to his face. Where was Falasgil when you needed him? His friend would have had no problem sweet-talking any young elleth he chose, and would at least have been able to give him some pointers. But Falasgil was long gone, and Tancamir coughed awkwardly, trying to remember what advice his friend had once given him.
"Tis a fine colour, yes. But will not look pretty on you if you are injured, or worse. That is all." He glanced at Luthelian, eyes dead serious. "I meant no insult. Your hair is .... quite nice, as hair goes."
He could tell immediately that he had said something amiss. The air between them seemed to grow colder as Luthelian huffed and turned away, her back to Tancamir, and lay down on her bedroll. Tancamir shook his head. Elf-maidens were a mystery even his keen hunter's mind could not comprehend. Mumbling something incoherent to himself, he glanced at the torch as it sputtered out, then cleared his throat.
"Well, good night. We rise before dawn tomorrow and return to camp."
Her whisper floated over to him in the dark."Good night."
He lay in silence for a minute, the only sounds the wailing of the wind outside and the muffled noises of their own breathing. This scouting mission, he reflected, had gone much better than expected. He remembered when he and Luthelian had been sharply reprimanded by their Lord for quarreling in the Hall of Fire, and also an ... incident which had begun with a few sharp remarks and ended with her sharper arrow drawn and pointed at his face. He shuddered slightly. The girl more than made up in spirit for what she lacked in discipline. One think he knew for sure - she made him forget the troubles and regret of the past, for the confusion and annoyance which she inspired in him pushed all other thoughts to the back of his mind. He sighed and rolled over, facing her in the dark.
"You know the archer I told you about?" His voice was low, barely discernible above the wailing of the wind. "She gave me the compass." There was a long silence, as if Luthelian were pondering his words.
"Her name was Ruinel."
"She was special to you..." Luthelian also whispered, as if afraid to speak out loud.
"Aye." Tancamir swallowed awkardly, shuffling the cloak over himself, then rolled over to face the wall. "She died. That is all."
There was a rustling noise, and his traitorous mind supplied him with an image of Luthelian burying her face into his fur mantle, which he had grudgingly lent her a few days before. The chill in the air seemed to grow as the silence deepened, but he smiled to himself. This scouting trip had turned out ... better than he had expected. Slowly he drifted into sleep, as the voices of the past subsided, and the wail of the wind was drowned out by the sound of soft breathing, and the steady beating of his own heart.
