Disclaimer: Tolkien created Middle Earth, not I. I take no credit for the geography or political characteristics of this story. I only added my own character.

III

Searching

"No!" Déor shouted, jumping up. He stood still, shaking. It was dark. The reeds crackled under his feet. Around him men sat up.

"What is it?" they asked.

"Nothing," Déor said, lying back down.

"Déor," the men said to themselves, "he must have dreamed about his father's death." They too lay back down.

Déor waited till the men began snoring again, then he sat up and pulled his knees to his chin. He felt the pouch crackle against his back and remembered what it was. He knew he must read it soon. He had dreamed of his father. Again he had heard his father gasp, "The pouch, the pouch." The urgency in his father's face weighed upon him.

He knew what he must do. He must slip out as soon as the sun rose. The next watch did not start till several hours after dawn. He must find time to read as much of the information as he could.

Déor stood and crept to an archer's slit in the wall. He looked out at the stars, gauging the time. Already the stars were dimming. He rested against the floor beneath the slit, watching the few stars he could see from his position. Soon he could no longer see them for the brightness of the sky. He stood up.

One of the men rolled over. "Where are you going?" Sigebryght's voice asked.

"To read my father's letters," Déor answered.

"So early in the morning?"

"When else would I have time? They are urgent."

Sigebryght sighed and closed his eyes.

Déor crept to the center of the tower and began climbing the stairs. He cradled the pouch in his arms as he wound his way up to the small platform he had gone to the night his father died. If a horn were sounded here the cliffs behind caught the sound and threw it back multiplied so it sounded as if an army resided in the narrows. For some reason Déor felt that a large army would be comforting.

Déor sat down with his back against the tower and pulled his cloak tighter. He looked eastward, waiting for the sun. As the light grew he pulled out a parchment and tried to decipher the letters. But the light was too dim. He set the parchment by and waited.

When he glanced down again he could see a strange flowing script. He pulled it closer, but still he could not read the words. At first he thought the light was too dim, but then he realized the words were strange. He pronounced a few out loud, testing the sound. Suddenly he knew they were some form of elfish. The meaning seemed vaguely familiar, but he could not grasp the full importance.

He opened the pouch, searching to see if any there were any documents he could read. He pulled out a sheaf loosely bound with a leather cord.

Déor recognized the writing as his father's, and saw also that he had written in the Rohirric script. His other letter had been in the common tongue. He wondered why his father had written so. The first sentence told him why.

I write in my own people's script to guard what I say from foes. It has been many months since I left Dol Amroth, yet I fear constantly that one may have followed me. I realize I must record what has happened for you, my son Déor, yet I must use caution. You know that you were born in Dol Amroth, yet you also know that I am from Rohan. While in Amroth I swore to serve the Prince Imrahil. You have heard how I pleased him in battle against the Harradrim and risked my own life to protect his. That was the reason for the sword I wear.

When you were ten years old I received an urgent request from Prince Imrahil. A woman came to me with his daughters, and a message. It was written in the Sindarin script, an elvish script that the rulers in Gondor oft use for special business. I could not read that language, but thankfully, the nurse could. She told me it said that Prince Imrahil's life was in danger. He had discovered some plot, but could not yet move against the knaves. He feared for the lives of his daughters and begged me to take them with me to Rohan. He commanded that I tell no one of my venture, for he could not be sure of any of his men. I was to flee at once, taking the nurse and children with me.

I obeyed immediately. That night we left in secret.

Déor paused, remembering the night. His father had woken him with his hand over his mouth. Wide eyed, he had dressed warmly and followed his father to the stable. There they took four horses and crept to the back of the jousting fields. An old woman with two girls waited for them. His father loaded a pack onto one horse, then told him to mount his own horse. He helped the woman mount and gave her the smaller girl. The older he placed before him. Then he took the packhorse's reins in one hand and led the way through the night.

Déor was glad of the large cloaks they wore. The cloaks themselves were so common in that region that they would not attract attention, and the party traveled only a night.

Déor could still remember how sometimes during their journey the girls had cried and he had tried to comfort them. He remembered coming at last to Erkenbrand's fortress. Helm's Deep had awed him, the tower hidden to high in the mountains. But the caves had excited him most. For several days he remembered seeing the girls, then one day when he emerged from another exploration in the caves, they had disappeared. His father said they had gone to live somewhere else, where they could have a mother to take care of them.

Gradually the girls had faded from his memory. Then the fight with Sigebryght had driven them out of mind. He threw himself into adventures with the other lad and they both became the terror of any boy who dared comment on Déor's first trouble with the language of Rohan, the spark of his original conflict with Sigebryht.

Déor smiled. His mother always spoke the common tongue to him, for it was the language of Dol Amroth. His father often spoke the language of Rohan when they were alone together, yet he had not learned many words till he came to Edoras.

He turned back to the parchment. The last page had been left half blank. Now a new page started with a different kind of ink.

Until you have read these pages, I have not told you who the girls were. I feared lest the rumor that Prince Imrahil's daughters were at Edoras should reach the ears of those that wish to do him harm. Now I tell you clearly. Those girls are Culurien and Lothiriel, daughters of Prince Imrahil.

I write again because of certain doubts that have entered my mind. The nurse, Fíriel, left not long ago. It seems that a man wished to marry her. She left suddenly and did not tell me where she went. I wonder why, after we fled so far together.

I have also puzzled over the orders the nurse gave me. I know little of Sindarin, yet at I read it again and again, I can find no hint of fear about a plot on the king. I know it is the king's script, for I have seen his edicts, signed by himself. Yet the meaning is unclear. If you can, find someone who knows the words and will give you a translation.

I fear that perhaps the nurse lied to me. Why? I do not know. Perhaps she wished to hurt Imrahil and used me to carry away his daughters.

Here a large blot showed where the pen had broken and smeared ink. A short space down, the writing began again, with a new pen.

If these fears are true, then the girls must go back to their father immediately. You must allow nothing to stand in your way. My allegiance to Prince Imrahil hangs in the balance.

Folcwine son of Elfwine took the girls into his house. His wife seemed like a good woman. They had two sons several years older than the girls and a daughter their age. Two of her children had died of fever and so she was willing to take the girls. Folcwine sent word to me about the girls each year, though he disguised it as news about his herd of horses. I know he lives in a village north of the Fords of the Isen.

My son, you must find Folcwine and take the girls to Prince Imrahil.

Here the writing ended. Déor sighed and rubbed his eyes. The coldness of the stones had seeped into his back. He stood and turned to the sun, letting the warmth soak into his chill body. There was more to read, but Déor had enough. He must find out who Folcwine was and somehow track him down. It was his father's last wish.

Déor descended the steps, the phrases revolving in his head. He ate breakfast with the other men, but he seemed not to hear their conversation. Sigebryht watched him closely, wondering what he had read.

As the men rose to go to their watches, Déor seemed to rouse himself. "Has any heard of Folcwine son of Elfwine?" he asked.

"Yes," several men turned toward him. "I have heard of him," said one. "He is head of a village and owns many horses."

"Do you know where I can find him?" Déor asked, stepping toward the man.

He shook his head slowly. "Nay. I have only heard of him. You know that herdsmen move frequently. He could be anywhere."

Déor sighed. "Does any know where he might live?" None answered.

"Why do you need to know, lad?" an older man asked.

Déor paused. "His name was mentioned in my father's writings," he said.

The men nodded wisely. Déor said no more and followed them out the gate.

Throughout the day he asked everyone about Folcwine son of Elfwine. He even questioned the peasants as they entered. Many had heard of him, but few seemed to know where he lived. A few mentioned something about his being somewhere north of the Fords of the Isen. Even his father's writings had told him that much.

One man told him he had met Folcwine's herds near the mountains east of Wizard Vale, where Isenguard stood. Saruman, the keeper of Isenguard had been Rohan's ally for years beyond count, yet many now believed it was he who incited the wild men and herdsmen of Dunland to attack them. The man shook his head when Déor asked if he knew where Folcwine lived.

Déor continued asking about Folcwine. He considered asking if any could read Sindarin, but thought better of it. That would seem too strange for Rohan.

"Did you find any news?" Sigebryght asked, walking toward Déor.

It grew dark near the end of their watch, and they waited eagerly for the relief to arrive.

Déor shook his head. "I have to find out where Folcwine is soon," he said.

"Why?" Sigebryht asked.

"I can't tell you yet," Déor looked grim.

Sigebryht shrugged.

"All I know is that his village lies to the north of the Fords of Isen."

"Why not ride out and see if you can find it?" Sigebryht suggested. "If nothing else, you'll probably find people who can tell you where he is."

"Will I even get permission?" Déor asked. "I might have gone with Erkenbrand, but my father was sick, so I stayed here. Even if I were with Erkenbrand, I doubt if I could get permission to go looking for a village. Not as things are now."

"You could still ask," Sigebryht said.

Déor smiled. "Perhaps tomorrow," he assented

"Talk to Gamling first," Sigebryht said.

"Of course," Déor smiled, catching sight of the old man riding out with the night watch. When he dismounted he walked with a certain swagger that the young men loved. Many of those men were gone now. Déor and Sigebryht were some of the few young men left to admire him. Erkenbrand had left a strong force to guard the fortress, but most of the men were old, or very young. Even Sigebryght was several years younger than Déor.

He glanced at Déor with his boyish smile. "Who's faster?" he asked, before he broke into a run.

Déor charged after him, stumbling over the ground in the twilight. Sigebryght reached his horse first and tried to lead off Déor's horse as well. But he dropped the picket line as Déor charged toward him. Déor leaped on his horse and pursued him all the way to the gate, then stopped, laughing at his cornered victim. The gate wasn't opened yet. Sigebryht whirled, then joined Déor in laughter. They chuckled together as they waited for the rest of the men to come up before the guard opened the gate.

"It is nice to hear laughter in these days," one of the men said as they reached the gate. "Perhaps you could share the joke."

Déor stopped laughing. The cloak of dread settled upon them like the night. "I don't even remember why we laughed," he said.