[Durelin]

“You three.”

The curtness of the elf’s voice and the gesture toward Calenvása and the other scouts brought the Captain out of his thoughts with a shock. His eyes snapped up to stare at Ambarturion, one of the newly rescued ambassadors, part of an envoy from Lorien to the Woodmen in Mirkwood, with anger. Blinking, Calenvása realized he had no reason to be angry, and felt a new frustration arise that was directed at himself. His thoughts and feelings had no reasoning to them, and he had decided long ago that his mind required logical explanations to most everything, especially things that stemmed from himself. Very few things had been at all logical in some time, and it frightened him. He wanted so to run away. But he felt cornered as the ambassador spoke.

“You are still armed with bows. When the orcs come, shoot as many as you may. The rest of us will engage them here, in the midst of the trees where their advantage in numbers might be lessened.”

At a surprising thought that emerged his mind as Ambarturion finished, Calenvása brightened. It may have been a sad thought to cling to, but he of course refused to consider this. He refused to think of anything that might make him feel uncomfortable with himself and his state of mind. His state of mind was completely up to him, but he did not even wish to confront this fact. This would mean feeling a weight of responsibility. But all weight was lifted from him as he realized what Ambarturion was doing. The severe elf was taking charge. It felt good, in a way, to be following orders. And yet he could not help but frown at the ground before where he stood. Forcing his features to lighten, he brought his eyes up to nod in response to Ambarturion’s instructions.

For some unknown reason, though, he turned to face the other scouts, to speak to them himself. He felt the weight upon him grow slightly, but he ignored it. “Targil?” he asked softly, refusing to speak with any command. “I’m assuming that you wish to engage them with the others.” Calenvása knew Targil, and knew his weapon of choice. His companion nodded, eyeing Calenvása strangely. The Captain would never be able to ignore that elf’s gaze. “I’m hoping three bows will be enough to cut down the numbers enough that when we engage the enemy, our knives will be enough to cut them down to nothing.” It was strange. It seemed a small slip of his humor had caused him to say that last statement, and yet no smile played on his lips. He looked at each of his comrades. Where had the smiles gone?

“It is all we can hope for,” Targil said, answering Calenvása’s unvoiced question.

~

Targil

Taking his eyes away from his Captain, knowing that there was nothing left to say, Targil watched the two ambassadors speak with each other. He studied them, slowly discovering who they were simply through his eyes, and found his eyes resting on the female. She was a puzzle. Ambarturion was puzzling, as well, but… She, Coromswyth – Thorvel had loosely introduced them to Targil and Calenvása – smiled. Her eyes were full of a profound wisdom, a deep understanding, and yet any sadness did not overcome a brightness of innocent, almost youthful happiness. There was an energy about her as well, a positive one, that she was focusing on helping her land and her people. Targil was already beginning to admire her. She swung her two blades around with skill and familiarity. Yes, admiration was due. She caught his gaze, and smiled again. If he had not been caught by surprise by her eyes, and he was not busy worrying about what had shown in his eyes, Targil would have smiled back. It seemed she had an effect on people. He wondered how Ambarturion could remain so severe around such a warm and jovial presence.

Her eyes quickly passed from his, and back to the other ambassador’s she smiled no longer. Targil could practically feel the energy in the air as the two great minds worked. Looking from one to the other, he wanted so to tap into their thoughts, but refused to do anything to lose their trust. There was no reason for him to mistrust them, or for them to mistrust Targil and his companions. Giving up his quiet observations, he made his way over to the ambassadors and their guards, breaching the gap that had automatically formed between the two parties. He did not apologize for intruding, determining that any considered intrusion would have to be put up with. They were all fighting against the same enemy, and fighting for the survival of themselves and their brethren in Lorien, and they would fight together.

“I am Targil; my knives skin orc with yours, and I bleed with you.” He bowed slightly, with only the slightest amount of respect. Unlike Calenvása, he was not prepared to allow this Ambarturion to take the command that he most likely thought was rightfully his. He considered a separate greeting for Coromswyth, but her eyes stopped him once again.