Oathbourne

by Lothithil, A DarkElf Adventure


Chapter Twelve, Tracker

Wayland's sword is strapped across my back, riding in a special sleeve within the quiver that hugs me around my shoulders and ribs. I revel in the freedom of movement this allows, and that the new arms I have received do not weigh me down. It will take some adjustment to come to use my sword as well as my old one, but such things can be rehearsed in practice so much, and tested truly only in battle. I almost itch for the chance to wet the blade, suppressing a small twinge of guilt for the desire to slay a living thing. Am I bloodthirsty? Perhaps. I know that fighting lay in my future. I pray only my next kill is worthy of the honour.

The mastersmith complained bitterly when I refused to wear the mail he had fashioned for me. I found the leather tunic and breeches most adequate for my needs, and beautiful, also. Darkly coloured and artfully stitched, they fitted tightly and felt like a second skin. The boots were snug around my calves and ankles, and there was no whisper from them as I ran. I firmly refused the mail, even as finely woven and silent as it was wrought, dark-coloured like my sword so that it threw no warning gleam to a watchful enemy, still it was weighty. O, how he complained!

"You would discard the mail? Have you no value for your life? I have wrought it to serve your stealth and guile, and it goes with the sword... you cannot bear one without the other!"

"I cannot bear both and remain light and stealthful, Master Wayland. In warfare I would proudly wear your arms, and none would withstand me. Yet in the wild your mail would but slow me and hinder my movements. There are rivers to swim and limbs to walk that would break beneath my weight were I thusly clad."

In the end, I had to accept the mail, as well as a riding skirt and weskit that fit over the clothing I had chosen. I sent them with Eärendil with a plea to Jacinth to store the things until my return. I knew she would not mind. I wore the weskit as I walked to the quay, knowing that Wayland would be watching. Once within the trees I would remove the garment and skirt, rolling them into small bundles that would store easily in my small pack. Wonderful clothes, indeed!

But now, I was heading back to my aspect and I am eager to get started. Silently I bid a farewell to my dear ones, boarding a light fishing vessel that is heading toward the mainland. For once, I spend more time looking behind than ahead. Fingol seems to be anchoring my heart. While the voyage lasts, my thoughts fly to him. When will we meet again, and who shall we be at that time? All of the world seems a series of obstacles between me and my desire.


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He is not difficult to track, my wandering elf-bard. I find his old campsites by the smell, passing two sometimes three each day. I find also that this player is no easy prey for woodwight or bandit, for signs of battle I find and ever has he emerged the victor.

I keep up my pace, but the trail grows scarce as he adjusts to living in the wild. On the morning a fortnight and a few days after I set out from Arvernien, I find a flamescar still warm in its coals, incompetently doused with water and no attempt made to hide. Ever before had my quarry used perfect caution to protect the woods, so this leaves me with feelings of unease. He may realize now that he is followed or, perhaps, he is stalked by some other threat; I had passed many sentries crossing the borders of Taur-Im-Duinath.

In retrospect, greater caution I should have myself employed, but I preceived no threat from the one that I hunted, deeming him an Elf of skill but little craft. This to my own near undoing, for quite suddenly I found myself lying upon the leaf-strewn forest floor, clutching my ears that were tortured by a sharp, painful sound.

The wind crushed from my body and my sword is pined out of reach, I could see him standing over with his sword drawn, its tip poised at the hollow of my throat. I am gasping, too stunned even to inventory for broken bones.

"Thou art no orc," he said after a moment, holding his weapon steady though he felt some doubt in his mind. "Neither appear ye as an Elf, though here my heart pauses. Speak, dark minion, and if you sing sweetly, I may let you run on. Are ye one of those who stalks me or merely an unlucky wight?"

"Lord," says I, fighting for breath. In the very top branches I had been running, and my fall had been great. How he had brought me down, I had no inkling. I laboured for breath. "Lord, in truth it is I that has hunted thee, but not as prey nor for bounty. Give me peace and soften your steel; I have no air with which to sing appealingly."

Daeron shifts the harp he holds in his other arm, increasing the pressure of the sharp blade against my skin. "I know you, dark elf. Are you following me? They sent you to try to turn my path aside. The king could not stay me, nor the gentle word of Elwing, and no counsel of yours can disuade me. Or did they send you to kill me?"

Through the ground on which I lay, I can feel them approach. A score, at least, of iron-shod feet. In his eyes I see awareness of the threat, and he looks at me accusingly.

"Lord, turn your sword aside or use it. We are beset." His weapon hesitates at my throat for an instant, then sweeps upward to take two heads from the orcs rushing him from the trees. I roll away from a rain of blows and get to my feet, drinking air in great draughts.

I have six brutes to myself, circling me as Daeron carves though his attackers. What doubts he had of me I am sure will be laid to rest, but first, are these worthy of Wayland's steel? Perhaps not, but they will prove another test.

I reach up past my ear and grip the hilt of my sword. It is like taking the hand of a friend.