[Airerûthiel]

Maikadurion's heart was as heavy as the stones of Meduseld as he wandered aimlessly in the countryside surrounding the pursuers' last camp, not particularly concerned with whether or not he lost the group. Secretly he suspected that, while his new companions were hospitable towards him, he was about as much use to them as the end of a broken sword is to the child of kings.

"Mayhap this is not my place," he said to himself in a sombre tone barely audible by even himself. "I asked only for the chance to avenge the name of my family and the strength and wisdom to find my mother's horse. Instead I find myself as what I am - barely out of childhood, yet not grown to be a man worthy of the position and name bestowed upon those whose blood flows through my veins."

The keen eyes he had inherited from his mother - her only legacy save Formenelen - searched the landscape surrounding him. Not seeing the other riders, he continued on ahead, still trying to present the constant cheeriness and good humour that hid who he truly was - an orphan attempting what seemed to be an impossible task for even the greatest king of Men.

And then he saw it.

The remnants of a camp, complete with charred ground where a small fire had blazed and the compressed patches of grass where figures had lain and horses had stood. But the sight that disgusted Maikadurion's eyes the most was the unmistakeably recognisable rectangular patch of raised ground, left in sickening condition due to marauding small animals.

"Death has visited this place," whispered the half-Elf, kneeling down in the verdant ocean of soft green blades, stained with rivers of pale red in patches that sent a horribly familiar taste into his mouth, which was already dry as as a river after a seven-season drought, making him feel incredibly ill. "One of those who took the horses of my friends has met his end here, and while it may be no more than he deserves, common decency says that we should bury him with the correct decorum employed in this matter."

But his attention was diverted by trampled, bloodied tracks leading east. He picked up one of the indelibly stained grass blades and rubbed it between the index finger and thumb of his right hand, inhaling the stench that came from them shortly afterwards. It was a distinctive smell that had reached his senses many a time when he had worked as a stable boy - it was the blood of a horse.

Suddenly, he turned at the sound of thundering hooves that shook the ground to its very foundations, and his new-found friends came riding up to him. Ælfritha dismounted from her horse and walked towards him. "Are you all right?" she asked, looking from the Gondorian's face to the makeshift grave and back again. "We thought you'd run off again. But I won't scold you for that this time - you've helped put us back on the right route after the thieves. Well done, my young friend!"

The funeral of the nameless robber was the first Maikadurion had ever attended - his father had not been lucky enough to receive a decent burial, and he was not permitted to attended that of his mother on the grounds that 'no child should have to see their parent buried when they are as young as the sons of Orowethwen and Théomer'. As the others lowered the companion of those they tracked into the ground, he followed the trail of horse blood a little way ahead of everyone else. All he hoped for was that the blood shed was not that of the North Star, for if it was so then he would have to go back to being a Ranger once again.