[Imladris]

Maethor

Maethor cursed himself as he heard the trace of guilt in Dulrain’s voice as he dropped the offending hand that had been rubbing his jaw. It was, after all, only a mere beating: others had been hurt worse and complained less.

Dulrain seemed disturbed and Maethor asked gently, “Are you all right?” He noticed pointedly that Dulrain, though he laughed, had not answered the question. Deciding not to press the issue, Maethor wondered what could have disturbed him. As the young ranger wondered, he looked about him and saw that the ethereal blueness of the sky, the sky that lifted sorrow from the heavy hearts of men. Bright sunlight streamed from the firmament below and bathed the town in the glorious brilliance: the iron that bound the milk pails glistened in the light, windows glittered brightly, a rainbow shimmered delicately as it spanned the droplets of an overflowing water jug. The world was deceptively bright and cheery -- oblivious to the eidolon of evil that hovered malignantly within the peaceful town.

Soon they reached Ferney’s wretched abode. Maethor glanced at it, wrinkled his nose, and, humming a dreary tune of his own composing, said,

Here lies the dirt of swine,
The stench of sound decay.
Here dwelleth the realm of grime;
I advise we make haste away!”

“I’ve heard better,” Dulrain remarked wryly.

“Naturally, good sir, you have,” returned Maethor airily. “ ‘Tis hard to think in such a dung heap as this, and I am not the best poet,” he added with a smile.

They saw Rauthain, Amandur, and the elf Lespheria hurry to meet them, Lespheria crying out, “What happened?” as she rummaged for her healing oils.

“Stay your hand, Fair Elven Maiden!” Maethor laughed as he pushed her hand away. “Save your herbs of healing for those in more dire straights than I.”

Quickly, Maethor told his story, telling how he had met Vanwe and how the two ruffians had beset him and, much to his chagrin, had left him cold, probably because of some sleeping drought Avanill had made him breath.

“If we follow the tracks of Vanwe and Ferney and Avanill,” Lespheria said, “then they should lead us to Naiore.”

“Hopefully,” said Maethor, a dark glint entering his eye as he thought of the elf.

Together they journeyed back to the fortress of the woods: the woods that held many secrets within. They came across Maethor’s tracks and presently soon fell in where he and Vanwe had precipitously fled. “I should have led her back towards Bree,” he said softly to himself, “instead of rushing headlong into nowhere.”

Dulrain looked at him sympathetically and said, “Usually the best course of action opens itself to us after it is needed.”

Maethor nodded glumly in reply and followed the path, his eyes fixed upon the ground. Before, he had had little leisure to observe the beauty before him and even now all he could see were the little dimples and ruts of the forest earth, the briars that grasped after his leather boots with their wicked thorns, the weeds that straggled among the roots.

“It appears that they lead towards Tallas’ place,” said Lespheria, concern mirrored in her eyes. Maethor had never heard of Tallas before, but he was obviously much beloved, for the same alarm passed over the faces of the others. “We must hurry,” Lespheria said, quickening her pace.

As they hastened on, Maethor stooped and cried, “The tracks split!” Indeed: the heavy trod of the scoundrels veered sharply from the main path.

Rauthain bent down and said, “It appears they went forward and then retraced their steps,” he said. “Here is Vanwe’s,” he said pointing.

“Lespheria and I shall go ahead to Tallas,” said Amandur quickly. “The others can follow this new track.”

As the elf and ranger hurried along the first path, Maethor, Rauthain, and Dulrain plunged into the forest following the new trail. The forest rustled with woodland spirits as the rangers passed like shadows beneath their boughs.