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Chapter 14 - Wolves at the Door
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The camp was deserted, the fire long cold, when the brethren reached it. However, all the signs told that those they sought were not that far ahead. The trail divided in two directions. One marked by the same tracks that they had been following, heading in the direction of the river, while the other bore the signs of mostly riderless horses heading the more direct route south.
"What say you, muindor? Do we divide?"
Haldir was kicking through the debris left behind by the Edain in their haste, looking for a sign that Rúmil was still with them. Tipping over a discarded pile of poorly dressed pelts, he let out a loud, angry curse. Hidden beneath the stinking skins lay Rúmil's bow and quiver. Picking up the weapons, he handed half of the arrows in the quiver to Orophin and put the remainder into his own.
"Nay," replied Haldir, "we stay together," and he walked over to the horses, securing Rúmil's bow.
"I will not be separated from another brother."
Haldir's fingers brushed lovingly across the intricate carvings of the bow that marked its owner as one of the Galadhrim, a gift of great honor from Lord Celeborn to Rúmil.
"We will continue to follow the original trail. Traveling in the direction of the river takes the Edain away from their settlements to the south. The only reason they have for going the long way around is to elude us."
Orophin's throat tightened painfully as his hand slid over the white and green fletching of one of the arrows that Haldir had given him, the tip of one finger gliding over his brother's mark on the shaft. Orophin trusted his brothers above all others, and Haldir's shrewd reasoning and keen perception was why he was now their Captain; he would follow him without question.
"The river it is then."
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"So much for the superiority of the Elves, eh?"
More relaxed than they had been in a long time, the Faradrim sat in a tight group around the campfire, smoking pipe-weed and laughing raucously. Callin had returned, albeit in a somewhat dark mood, and thankfully, his newest pet, the elf, had not been with him.
"I will say this, though," said one of the men wistfully, "I don't think I've ever seen a creature as comely as that one." The other men around the fire quietly nodded their heads in agreement. "I fear I won't be able to look at the ladies the same way again."
"I should say not!" replied one of the men jovially to his fellow. "Especially considering the *well used* wenches resident in that little tavern you frequent. And even they won't come near you unless they've been into the ale for a considerable while." A rough curse and a loud yelp followed as the rest of the group burst into another loud bout of laughter.
Occasionally, the men would glance over at their sullen leader, who was sitting a small distance away from the group. They had noted his foul humor when he stalked into camp, and they assumed it was because Daris had just taken away his newest plaything and then sent him packing.
Callin had not let them anywhere near the elf after that first day, and the way he seemed to stand guard over his prize, lingering close to it whenever they stopped, hadn't escaped their notice. Curiosity piqued, one of the men disregarded Callin's potentially explosive temper and finally asked the question that they all were dying to know the answer to.
"So, tell us, Callin. You kept the elf all to yourself. Did you have a go at it? Give it a bit of a poke?"
Every muscle and nerve in Callin's body tensed, but he never had the chance to strike out, for he was not the only one who heard the question. His only warning was what sounded like a wet, soggy thwack, and then Callin suddenly found himself splattered with blood. He stared dumbly, blinking drops of the warm, viscous liquid from his eyes as the man in front of him seemed to sprout a horn from his forehead and then tip face forward into the dirt, lifeless, an arrow protruding from the back of his skull.
A pained shriek pierced the night, causing Callin to jump as another of his men fell to the ground, hit behind the knee, struck as he attempted to flee. Lying just few yards away, one man had an arrow deeply imbedded in his neck, struggling to breathe but only managing a few choked, gurgling gasps.
Chaos broke out as the ghostly projectiles continued to slice through the air, and Callin finally snapped out of his daze when another of his men began yelling to no one and everyone at once.
"The trees! They're in the trees!"
His stomach lurched. He recognized the fletching of the arrows whistling about him; the Elves were here. Without looking back, he ducked quickly into the trees, not caring one whit as the rest of his men fell one by one, their terrified screams following his retreat into the woods.
After what seemed like hours of running and weaving through the trees, Callin stopped at the edge of a small clearing. Chest heaving, he leaned against the trunk of an ancient oak, listening for any sign of pursuit. Hearing none, he slid down over the rough bark of the tree, uncaring of the scratches it caused, trying to catch his breath and relaxing slightly.
A smug grin spread across his face, and whispering into the night, he said, "It appears that the Gods again smile down upon me."
His smile soon faltered, though, as the air around him seemed to thicken and still. The hair on the back of his neck bristled, and a sound, like the deep, rumbling growl of a great cat, reached his ears. Callin stumbled to his feet, his heart thudding painfully against the inside of his chest as two glowing, leonine figures stepped out of the shadows.
"Where is the elf you have taken?"
The elves separated and moved around him in a wide, slow circle, and Callin had to pivot constantly to keep at least one of them in view.
"I have taken no one. I know not of what you speak."
"Long, blonde hair; bright, blue eyes; pointed ears. Ring a bell?"
"Oh! You speak of Rúmil."
A mirthless smile passed across the face of the taller elf.
"Aye, we speak of Rúmil."
"I did not *take* him. He stumbled into a trap. When I found him, he was unconscious and injured. My men and I searched for others of his kind, others like you, but were unsuccessful. I thought it best for him to accompany us so I could tend to its… his injuries."
Haldir glanced over the shoulder of the feredir to his brother. "But alas, he appears to no longer be in your tender care, so I must ask again. Where is the elf you have taken?!"
"He much improved… and my brother is escorting it… him back to the Elven Wood, wanting to assure his safe return. I'm surprised that you did not cross paths on the…"
Haldir covered the distance between the man and himself in one long stride, hefting him up by the neck in an iron grip. Startled by the quick movement that had him gasping for breath and his feet dangling, Callin began to kick wildly, clawing at the slender hand that held him in a choking grasp.
"We met no one!"
As the man thrashed, a glint of light off metal caught Orophin's gaze. Eyes narrowing, he reached down into the man's boot to retrieve the all too familiar object.
Orophin leaned forward, close to the man's ear, and even with the dread he was feeling, a thrill ran through Callin as the striking elf's warm breath brushed against his skin.
"How come you by this dagger?"
"The elf… gave it… to me… as a way… of th… thanks… for helping it… him.
Haldir's gaze snapped to the object in Orophin's hand as the man struggled to choke out yet another lie. Recognizing the dagger, he ruthlessly tightened his grip, pulling the man toward him until there were but inches between them.
"That dagger is but one of a pair gifted to *the elf* by his brothers when he was accepted into the Galadhrim. He would not part with it willingly, even in thanks."
"The last… I saw…"
"Silence! I grow WEARY of your lies!"
Haldir released Callin suddenly, watching coldly as he fell to his knees, gasping for air. Stepping forward, Orophin grabbed a handful of the man's greasy, coarse hair and pulled his head back sharply. Pressing the dagger against the rapidly thudding pulse beneath the now bruised skin of the man's throat, Orophin spoke with a menace that made Callin's breath catch.
"I smell his scent on you, adan. If you have hurt him in *any* way, I promise I will slit you from neck to navel and leave your carcass for the crows and maggots. The truth! Now!"
"All right! All right, but lower the blade, please…"
With a flick of his wrist, Orophin removed the blade only slightly but did not loose his grip on the man's hair.
"THE TRUTH!"
Callin's muddy brown eyes fixed on the dagger; denial was not working with these creatures. Quickly, he decided to switch to a tactic that had worked many times for him in the past. Lowering his voice, he spoke in a whisper, trying to convey as much sorrow and regret into his words as possible.
"It was an accident… I'm sorry… he's dead."
"'Tis but another LIE!" Haldir spat out wrathfully.
"No! Listen! There was a misunderstanding between Rúmil and my brother, Daris. They grappled and Rúmil stabbed him… in defense of course. Somehow, during the struggle, they stumbled. They both lay within an old bear pit but a league west of our camp ere our departure on the river trail! I swear I did naught but try to help the elf, and it cost me the life of my brother."
Callin ceased his ramblings, turning false, tear-filled eyes up to the elves. As if burned, Orophin released his grasp on the man and stood to face his brother, his gaze reflecting both grief and anguish.
"Nay, Orophin! Do not believe this deception!"
His voice flat and lifeless, Orophin said, "I do not believe his tale of self-sacrifice to our brother, Haldir. His story changes too often, and his voice drips with barely concealed disdain whenever he speaks of him."
Orophin grasped Rúmil's dagger in a white-knuckled grip as he turned a harsh, merciless glare on the man kneeling on the ground before them.
"I do, however, believe he has caused Rúmil great harm, and if he is telling but one truth, it may be of Rúmil's fate."
Then, with all the grace and alacrity of his Elven heritage, Orophin did not hesitate to carry out his promise.
The man stared into the hard, jewel-like eyes of the elves in stunned disbelief as he felt a warm, heavy wetness settle on his thighs and knees. As they turned to walk away from him, Callin remembered his brother's words and began to laugh hysterically.
'The prize is not worth the risk.'
Jolted from his madness by the growing fire in his belly, Callin resolved to make them finish him.
"Just so you know -- I am the one. *I* did it. I took my pleasure from him, and afterward, I granted your sweet, dear Rúmil a most painful and wretched death. I left his used, broken body to rot in the bottom of a dark, filthy pit."
Seeing Orophin falter, Haldir reached out to support his brother, retrieving the bloody dagger still clasped tightly in his hand.
"He tasted sweet, like a ripe fall apple. And the surety of rescue still glimmered bright in his eyes up until the very last; it was a delicious sight."
Orophin's body trembled with fury, and he reached for his bow. Haldir again stilled his hand and held onto it firmly. "He taunts us with purpose, muindor. Do not give in; do not give him what he wants."
As he continued to try to provoke the elves, Callin sneered, "Surely you aren't going to let the slayer of one of your kin live on, even if only briefly?"
Arm dropping to his side, Orophin still held tightly Haldir's hand, and in a small, whispering voice, said, "Let us retrieve our brother."
"Didn't you hear me?! Don't you understand you pitiable creatures?! I did it! I killed him!"
Callin again started laughing madly as the elves disappeared from view. He began to wonder if he could do it himself, if he could take his own life.
'Well, actually, I wouldn't be taking my own life,' he thought with a chuckle, 'only hastening it a bit,' and he glanced around looking for something, anything, that might aid him in his endeavor.
His eyes cut short their roaming, though, opening widely, as they met the returning mirror-like shine of luminous, yellow eyes. He looked to the other side of the clearing just as another stepped forward. Laughing loudly, he marveled at the irony of it all as more of the pack crept into view, growling lowly and baring their teeth.
Callin opened his arms wide, welcoming their advance, and he admired their pelts as the wolves began to fight over the slippery jumble of entrails lying about him on the forest floor.
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~* To Be Continued *~
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Muindor = Brother (family, by blood)
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