[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim had been moving in a daze over the journey to Ered Luin, his eyes dull and his speech infrequent. The death of the two elves had hit him hard, as hard as if one of his own friends had died. But could he even have called Gaeredhel and Rosgollo his friends? They had remained distant and spoke little, and yet...and yet they had trusted him. They had gone behind the backs of every other Dunedan in the camp, but they had trusted Faerim.

Surely that stood for something?

Propped up against one of the stone walls, out of the way of the rest of the Dunedain, Faerim shifted uncomfortably in his half-lying position, staring at the ceiling high above with disinterested eyes. What did it matter now, what his relationship with the brothers had meant? They were gone now, passed into whatever peace elves believe in, whatever oblivion their souls transcended to...if they believed in souls, that is...

"We do," said a mellifluous voice from nearby, answering his thoughts aloud.

Faerim started and sat up, looking around at the owner of the voice, his hand on his sword although he had already recognised it: Erenor. The elf was sitting about a metre from Faerim, her hands clasped around one raised knee, watching him brightly as if she had been there all day, her cool grey eyes watching him as if studying some rare animal. He returned her gaze silently for a moment, then nodded courteously although suspicion flickered in his eyes: she had listened in to his thoughts, and it made him uncomfortable. However, he did not show his misgivings when he spoke. "Good day, Lady Erenor."

"The souls of elves go to the Halls of Manwe, Faerim; we do not simply pass into an oblivion." Erenor continued as if she had not heard the boy. "We go back to the the bossom of the Vala, the creators, and to our ancestors...." She trailed off wistfully, looking through Faerim, her gaze distant. Faerim watched her for a second, then looked away. "You listened in to my thoughts," he said shortly.

Erenor raised her eyebrows. "I did not 'listen in', Faerim," she replied sardonically. "I have just seen that look before in they eyes of those who grieve. Why is it that you grieve so for a pair who you barely knew, who did not share your generation, your interests, your race?"

Faerim did not answer. Erenor arched one eyebrow and Faerim looked sharply at her, angry at the uncaring action. "Do you not care that they are gone, Lady? They died fighting a battle brought about by your rescue-"

"-And similarly I fought in that battle, as did you, and a hundred other men." Erenor cut him off sharply.

"They saved your life, Erenor!" Faerim instantly regretted his angry outburst, his disrespect in calling her directly by her first name, in snapping at her: she was a lady, and an elf, and he suddenly felt his pitiful seventeen years shrink at those ageless, immortal eyes. He averted his gaze, looking at the ground. "Apologies, Lady, I did not mean to snap, I was-"

"I understand." Erenor replied shortly. Faerim flinched inwardly at the coldness in her voice, but when he looked back at her, she was watching him with her head on one side and a new, unexpected emotion in her eyes, a sort of interest, as if she had just found that this strange, rare animal really did have claws and was capable of caring for itself. She gave him a small smile as if reaching out to him. Her voice had a gentler note.

"When I said before elves believe is souls - believe was not the right word. We know that the fea of a slain elf is called to Mandos but after a while they are released to dwell in the realms of Bliss. Do not grieve overmuch for Rosgollo and Gaeredhel they are together an reunited with their kin who have gone before. They chose their path and knew the risk. Battle is a necessary evil, Faerim; No one would chose it - it is the fruit of the seeds of evil sown by Morgoth. Evil will not be eradicated until the world is remade. We have to fight it when we find it lest the world be entirely overgrown.

You should know this; you are of a line of warriors -as indeed am I . Loss of life of those near you has to be expected - although it may be harder for you than I. You are young and the fate of men is sundered from ours. Warfare is not something to delight in for its own sake but it may prevent a greater evil. Do not shy away from it - you have skill in battle, I have seen that."

The Dunedan youth looked surprised at the unexpected compliment, and couldn't help grinning back at her. Flicking his eyebrows up and down, he replied, "You weren't at all bad yourself, Lady."

Erenor laughed, and the sudden, joyful sound seemed to signify some sort of bond or alliance between she and Faerim, however distant. She gave him a sort of satisfied, appraising grin, nodding slowly. Rising in a fluid motion, she held out a hand and Faerim stood. Looking to where a group of men were gathered, the elf looked slightly disdainful. "My kin and I were called to join that motley group in some exploration of the tunnels. You are no doubt expected to join them: some of them appear several summers younger than yourself even."

Faerim sighed and nodded, looking sidelong at the group, led by Belegorn. "Times have become rather desperate for the Dunedain," he murmured softly, his voice older than his years, and Erenor gave him a curious glance.

She thought for a moment and rummaged among her belongings. Anyone who had bothered to notice such things would have noticed that they had increased somewhat from the small pack she had borne from the evacuation. She handed Farim a cloth wrapped bundle which contained a mail shirt and a dagger. The youth started when he recognised them as belonging to the dead elvish guards. "Don't be squeamish - they need them no longer - I think they would approve

Bending to retrieve his sword and sheath, Faerim buckled the belt around his slim waist and stifled a yawn: sleepless nights had left him tired, like many of the travellers. Reaching out, he took Erenor's gifts with utmost care, as if they were more precious and rare than the finest stones mined from these caves throughout the years. The mail felt strangely solid in his hands, and their heaviness surprised him, although of course it made sense: where mannish chainmail was concerned it was deceptively light, of course, but the elves...they had seemed magical, weightless. A foolish concept, Faerim thought wryly, turning the mail in his hands. Gaeredhel and Rosgollo were as solid as you. More so, probably. In that moment, the childish magic of the elves that Faerim had imagined died a little - and his understanding increased. Stowing the folded chainmail in one pocket of his coat, he attached the fine dagger onto his belt, on his right side. Feeling strangely reassured by the heaviness in his pocket, Faerim looked once more up at Erenor. "Thank you, my lady," he said softly. She smiled back and inclined her head, and with that, started briskly towards the group led by Belegorn.