[Eorl of Rohan]

"Greetings, fellow huntsmen of Harad! You wander far from your own land, we see. Why would you trouble us?" Ferethor spoke in the foul and uncouth language with ease, for he was versed in the speech of Harad. He struggled to keep his face expressionless and void of fury. but his eyes smoulderd with battle-lust.


"Fellow huntsmen, say you?" The man who seemed like a leader stepped forward, sneering derisively. "But we acknowledge no comraderie nor lordship with folk of Gondor. We live by our own laws and do as we wish."


Ferethor swallowed as he realised that persuasion was not going to work with these fierce outlaws. Some of the raiders have already notched the black-feathered arrows to their longbow, he noted. Atharen made a slight move and Ferethor knew that he had drawn his dagger. A little more time...


The leader, one who was clad in rough garments of leather and adorned with heathenish golden chains slowly raised his lance. "And my word is the law, Die, and curse in vain!"


Ferethor at once severed his lance-handle with an unexpected swift stroke of his own steel, crying, "For Gondor!" In the same, fluid movement, the blade buried itself in his chest and took his life. Instantly cries and uproar reverbrated the forest and echoed back in desolate sounds.


Ferethor wrenched his blade out and reeled to face others, trying to slash out of the scene of battle. Pinning a striken outlaw with his own spear to a tree and shattering his sable shield with foul designs engraved as if it was glass, Ferethor ducked from the arrows that whistled overhead. For a moment even as he broke out of the ring he could see Del holding a mounted raider at bay with a broken spear pole and a double-edged sword.


Del dealt a death stroke to one of the other bandits, crying "Flee!" as he battled. His splintered shield of earthen-bornw lay beneath his feet as he faced the others. Yet Ferethor stood transfixed on the spot.


"Leave him!" Atharen called, his voice tinged with pain. "Del buys us time to escape with his blood. Let us take it, and go! It is ours to live." But still Ferethor hesitated in a dreamlike state, lingering. Only when Atharen, driven by urgency, cried, "Ferethor!" did he come back to full awareness. Turning with his hands clenched, Ferethor asked, "Leave him there?" Atharen replied as he mounted his horse "There is nothing we can do."


And Ferethor knew that it was true. He ran through a mounted raider who met a swift end at his alreay bloodstained blade, and leaped on his horses, galloping across the open fields. A volley of arrows whistled over his head, and the arrowheads seemed aflame in the light of the sunset. The poor horse whinnied in pain and fell heavily on the ground as it was shot through the heart. Ferethor, narrowing avoiding falling with it, made for the woodlands on foot.


He winced as a searing pain cut through his shoulders, one of the parting gifts from a bandit archer. He hid himself in the shadows of trees. A few moment later, the raiders themselves came to look for him.


"Sir! He wouldn't have gone far." One said confidently, shouldering his bow. "I am pretty sure that I got him." But thw man who seemed to be in command now turned. "We do not have times to search for a single man in the woodlands all night! We head back to our refuge by Anduin by nightfall."


The darkness of night fell on the forest slowly. Ferethor lost conciousness by the loss of blood.


Ferethor came to his conciousness painfully, as the sun sank behind the snow-crowned peaks of Misty Mountains. Passing a hand over his fevered brow, he slowly rose to his feet. Ferethor was faint with loss of blood and in great anguish, so that he had taken but few steps before he swayed and grasped a tree for support in dismay. After a moment of strife with his weariness and grief, he sank down by a young birch to comtemplate his next move as darkness gathered.


"A bitter end is this to all my hope!" He cried out in bitterness. "Yet while my strength remains I must go on." Indeed it was only his stern will that aided him as he crept from the eve of encircling trees to the scene of battle, which was terrible to behold. So it was that Ferethor came upon Del in the midst of slain.


"Del!" Ferethor knelt down, clasping his hand. "Awake! We are alone." At his call Del stirred and opened his eyes, bright and moist but foreshadowed with death."Ferethor, my time has passed. Falling valiantly in battle was my desire, rather then fall prey to old age and die witless and alone." Del winced as he slightly raised his head to meet Ferethor's concerned gaze, speaking in a low voice strained with effort and anguish. "Such desire is fulfilled, and I am content. Do not mourn for me. I have only this to bid you - watch over the company in my stead. Farewell, until we meet again beyond the circles of this world!" So ended Del, not the least valiant of the warriors of Edain. Ferethor fell silent stricken with sorrow, utterly regardless of his own pain and weariness.


At last Ferethor gently took the hilt of hte sword from Del's lifeless hand and saw that it had broken asunder. Laying it at his feet wiht all the other weapons of bandits that he could gather, Ferethor laughed as one fey with bitter anguish of mind, crying "Thus have you been enmeshed in the Doom of Illuvatar to children of Men, and have escaped the circles of this world."


Then Ferethor sought to cool his fevered brow as he took his flint and kindled a bundle of leaves, gazing at the fiery flame as if hypnotized by it's rhythmic movements before casting it down. The barren dune was set aflame and wreathed in smoke, as consuming flame devoured the bloodstained field. Turning, he left the charred and blackened field behind him, naming it "@#$#@-en-@#$@", the plain of Immeasureable Sorrow.


Ferethor then took to tracking the lost company through the woods, spent with grief and the wound ever sapping his strength. He had little hope to follow a horseback company in such a state. Indeed Ferethor would have fain laid himself down and embraced death had he not been driven by Del's bidding to watch over the company in his stead.


it was, when thrice the sun have risen over the Misty Mountains, Ferethor limped into the camp weary and utterly spent. He leaned upon a young birch silently as he watched the others. Maen and others were all gathered around the campfire with darkened countenance shadowed by grief.


Atharen it was who first broke the silence. "Thrice already have the sun risen and brought us no news of Ferethor or Del. If Ferethor at least were alive they should be here with us by now. It is my belief that Ferethor, who was proud and would not run from the terror of death have been slain also by the ruthless raiders from the far east where the stars are strange."

A low murmur pervaded the regions by the fire. Maen then spoke at last heavily, "It was suicidal mission. I will not try to console anyone of their grief for I know I cannot ease their minds, but time presses. We must leave by dawn."


And then Ferethor had found the strength in his mind to manage a weak smile, as he spoke aloud from the shadows, by the tree in which he was leaning and supporting himself. "I must disappoint you by pointing out that I am still alive, Maen Il Garoth. Long have the trek been from the scene of battle to this glade, with my injury, so you'd have to excuse me of being rather late." And then, his wound got better of him and his will almost swooned to the darkness. Ferethor swayed for a moment, then fell heavily as he vainly grasped at the tree. Why would not my body respond? Pain, blood...