[Estelyn Telcontar]

The flickering fire threw its reddish light on the faces of two men sitting beside it and showed concern in their eyes. “Will he live?” asked the brown-haired one of his companion.

“I know not what strength is left in him,” the other answered, gazing at the prostrate body lying opposite them. “He has been severely wounded and should have been resting, not fleeing.”

“He is burning with fever,” said the first. “Should we not take away the blankets to cool him?”

“Nay, Andros,” replied the taller of the two, “the fever will take its course and heal him, if that be possible. We will keep watch through the night; by daylight I will search for fresher healing plants than those I have in my pack.”

“Do you rest now; I will take the first watch.” Andros, apparently younger than the other and with a deferential bearing that showed respect for his companion, moved to sit next to the wounded man. With a nod and a faint smile that softened his rugged features, the other laid down and fell into exhausted sleep at once.

Several hours later he awoke. “How does he?” he enquired of the watcher.

“He grows more restless,” whispered Andros, “and more heated too, I deem.” He added wood to the dwindling fire before exchanging places with the older one and falling instantly into sleep. When he awoke, the grey light of early morning had dawned. His companion was nowhere to be seen; the wounded stranger tossed about and murmured unintelligibly in his fevered dreams.

With scarcely a rustle to betray his movement, his comrade stood beside him. “His condition has grown worse,” he said gravely. Worn lines of care were visible in his face.

“He looks so very like –“ Andros began. “Yes,” the other answered, “yet I hope to save him from the fate our kinsman suffered.”

“Had I not known that he had gone from us, I would have thought –“ “I thought the same.” Both turned to look westwards for a moment, eyes seeing inward, recalling a memory.

With a light shake, the leader stirred to open the pouch fastened to his belt and take some leaves from it. “Athelas?” Andros enquired.

“Yes, praised be Yavanna, it is well that it grows in many places, since it is so often sorely needed.” He tore two leaves into pieces, strewing them into the heated water in the kettle over the fire. A pungent, clear scent filled the air, which had been acrid with trailing wisps of smoke.

“I wonder whether this wounded soldier has something to do with the riderless horse that came to us?” Andros mused.

“He spoke much in his sleep,” answered his comrade, “saying the names of companions, most of all the name of ‘Thenamir’. I ask you to go seek for them while I tend him; perhaps they have survived battle and are looking for him. Be cautious; though he has not the appearance of an enemy to me, his gear is strange – Dwarven armour, Rohirrim clothing, and a Gondorian dagger. Let us attempt to solve this riddle in hopes that he will end this day yet alive.”

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Thenamir’s alert eyes noted the slight movement of Volkmar’s head. “Wait here – I shall return shortly!” the ranger spoke, disappearing among the trees. Running swiftly and noiselessly, he soon reached the source of the signal he had heard. He grasped Andros’ shoulders in greeting, whispering, “What has brought you here? I knew not that any of our company were near!”

In low tones, Andros told him of the riderless horse that had alarmed the Ranger camp and of the wounded man they had found, before asking him about the man to whom he was speaking. Upon hearing the name ‘Thenamir’ his eyes lighted and he listened attentively to Volkmar’s story.

“Tell him his wounded comrade lives, but fares not well enough to rejoin the group. I shall follow with him if I can. May we meet again soon!” As quietly as he had come, he disappeared.