[Durelin]

Targil stared with a look of disgust that bordered on hatred at the scene. He had moved slightly closer to the orc camp upon the disappearance of Lómarandil, and he now saw what his heart had been dreading since Thorvel had said the young elf was missing. Now that it had happened, it seemed that the capture of Lómarandil had been inevitable from the beginning of this mission. With the rest of the scouts having to look after the young elf, while still carrying on with their duty, the focus on this task was lessened, while its importance would never diminish. And its importance would never be forgotten. Not by Targil, at least. He glanced at Calenvása. Thorvel was still trying to believe make the elf his Captain, when he did not want to be. Targil supposed he was the only one who saw it, and this saddened him greatly. Calenvása would not lead, as he had lost all confidence in himself and his actions. Targil had watched for so long, disapproving of the leadership he followed, and now, when all leadership was gone, he smoothly took control.

Feeling a sudden dread come over him, he quickly rose from where he crouched and looked around him, ready to move, even though there was no reasoning behind this feeling. He had learned long ago not to ignore such signs. Today, it was of the utmost importance that he did not, for there was now no sign of Thorvel. Targil turned to look at Calenvása, who sat on the ground, staring at nothing. It was a rather pitiful sight, and so made the elf’s disgust grow. For a fleeting moment, he felt his eyes burn with anger and hatred, one that went beyond the surface, beyond simply annoyance. But this was a quickly passing moment, and one that left him feeling guilt. He did not look at the elf that he should be calling Captain as he spoke.

“Thorvel was with you a moment ago, Calenvása, was he not?” Targil no longer tried to remember to call him ‘Captain’. He now tried not to. The elf had lost the respect that went with such a title when he had gone beyond the greatest extent that Targil would put up with and given up. A Man given up with life and hope was a sad thing, barely worthy of being called living. But an Immortal who had given up was a disgrace to Elvenkind, and a disgrace beyond the reaches of human disgrace fell upon that elf. The fact that an immortal being without any hope or grace walked the earth marred the beauty of the Children of Illúvatar, who were one with Eä, their souls tied down by it and to it.

“He was…a moment ago.”

From several yards away, a small noise rang in his ears. Calenvása practically jumped at the sound, automatically brought out of his thoughts by a foreign sound, the habits gained as a scout not lost, even in his sad state of mind. He rose from where he sat to join Targil as the elf immediately made his way toward the sound. Perhaps it was not the wisest move, but they had few choices, and he knew how to silently come upon a single person or a group of people; enemies, he quickly assumed, in this case. Coming upon the sight he had expected, he did not waiting to see if Calenvasa had followed him before flying out upon several orcs snooping around in the trees, his two hunting knives drawn for the first time on this seemingly fated mission. Finally the elf had something to direct his anger towards, and he battled only to slaughter.

As his third orc went down missing an eye and with its throat cleanly slit, Targil frantically searched the area around him for another enemy, his heavy breathing caused by more than the simple exertion of the fighting. But he was surprised, and his breathing lost its furied heat, his heart slowed and his mind cleared, as he watched Calenvasa stab a quivering orc body on the ground through the middle. Head tilted slightly in a plainly curious look, Targil eyed his Captain. The elf's expression did not change as he pulled his knife out, took his eyes away from the dead orc, and looked his companion in the eye. Targil kept himself from shuddering, as a strange light that glowed behind the despair in the Captain's eyes sent a shiver up his spine and a warning to his heart.

Taking his eyes away from what should not frighten him, Targil scanned his surroundings, even though it was obvious that the rest of the orcs - he had briefly counted 6 - had fled. He knew the creatures, and after watching four of their comrades die, they would not stand to see any more. Another small sound among the trees and Targil tensed up, his eyes darting to where the sound had come from. Looking at Calenvasa out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the elf had not moved, had not tensed. The scout Captain looked disinterested. Luckily the face that emerged from the leaves was immortal.