Tarannon left Rinoas and headed for his tent. He ducked inside his small shelter, double checking his pack. He removed his sword and laid it aside. Next to it he laid his bow, followed by his quiver. He felt for the wrist sheath, then hesitated. He twisted his forearm with a practiced motion and the blade flashed into his hand. He listened for a moment, and the blade left his hand with an almost imperceptible flick of the wrist. It pierced the cloth covering the door of his tent; a tearing noise followed by an audible thunk. Rinoas' voice intruded on his senses, extracting a small smile.
"Very funny Tarannon."
The knife flew back at him, not even tearing another hole in the tent's entrance. It landed at his feet. Tarannon strapped it back to his wrist; just a little looser than before.
His pack in readiness, Tarannon lay down, his head cushioned by a rolled cloak. He slept, and dreamed. But his dreams were haunted by memory. The darkness swelled around him in a protective cloak. Such a thing, darkness. A veil, for or against you. In which nothing is certain.He rolled over. It is gone, he thought harshly. Fool, let it go! You cannot call it back. Still he haunted himself. Call it back. Yes, call it back. Anything to call it back.Not my fault! Again he turned, fighting the familiar emotions. A stray arrow, nothing more. Not my fault!Not my fault. It is gone.
Then his sleep was quieted, and his dream passed. But the memory did not.
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