[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim awoke slowly, his eyes remaining shut as his ears tuned in to the sounds around him. The camp was still largely peaceful and still, although the sounds of the first early birds moving around, and the enticing smells of cooking starting, drifted lazily over to Faerim. He sighed contentedly and turned over onto his back, opening his blue eyes and blinking a few times in an endeavour to wake himself up a little more. Not that he wanted much to wake up - sleep was at least a peaceful place where he could rest, alone with the stirrings of his own mind, and his own largely dreamless peace: where Brander appeared to give dreams much grave respect, Faerim had never paid them much attention, and rarely dreamt, or not generally of anything specific that he could remember in the morning. But he knew his largely peaceful sleep was not shared by everyone: during the past few nights since they had left the city, the youth had often been awoken in the middle of the night to the sound of shallow breathing or even cries as others in the camp woke in the thrall of nightmares. Probably dreams of Arthedain, he mused grimly.

Propping himself up on his elbows and shaking his tousled hair off his face, Faerim looked around the crowded, makeshift tent at the others nearby. The refugees had stayed largely in families, but with some groups of women departing and staying together for modesty's sake, and the soldiers had their own quarters. Much as he had leant towards the idea of slipping in with the soldiers and attempting to keep up his pretence of genuinely being conscripted, Faerim had stayed with his family in the end: Brander slept beside him, his eyes, as always, slightly open, a slither of white showing beneath his lids. Faerim saw the blind boy's lips move slightly, his brow creasing lightly, then he turned over onto his back, sighing deeply. Dreaming...

Keeping his elbows tucked into his sides and his feet still as he pushed his cloak-blanket off, so as not to disturb anyone by nudging them, Faerim sat up carefully. He yawned silently, rolling his stiff neck from side to side and running his fingers through his hair to collect it into some semblance of sanity. Dressing quickly - that is, as far as he had been able to undress the night before - he eased his boots on, and stood.

Having disturbed only the specks of dust, Faerim slipped out of the tent and into the still morning air. There was no breeze - nearby the flag hung limp on it's pole - and as a result it was not particularly cold. Faerim stifled a yawn and sniffed the air: the smells of cooking still wafted through the air from where a group of three or four women were cooking. He grinned and began to whistle a tune as he purposefully ambled in that direction, hoping to find someone he knew to take a bite of breakfast with.

The sounds of low, frantic voices caught Faerim's attention as he passed one tent, and as one particularly agitated voice interrupted another, he hesitated. Feeling guilty, he looked around nonchalantly to check no one was watching him, then edged towards the tent and began to listen. The voice that was speaking was an elven one that he did not recognise.

"...not for Rôsgollo's intelligence I would almost think the culprits were Men, rather than Orcs. They did not despoil the tent, shed no blood and showed stealth and woodscraft in the capture. There is much about this that I do not understand." You and me both, mate, Faerim thought, puzzled. What the...

The elven voice continued. "But the answer to this puzzle must wait. Lord Hírvegil, we must give chase soon!"

Faerim jerked back guiltily at the sound of the Dunedain captain's name. He didn't want to be caught eavesdropping on some matter of state, and bearing in mind the serious tone of the elven voice, this was no light matter certainly. Yet curiosity stopped him from leaving. He listened harder, having the strain to hear over a sudden flurry of noise which came from a the civilians' camp.

"A Dunedain woman was taken as well, you say?" Hirvegil

"In addition to two of our own, Ladies Betheril and Erenor."

"How would the orcs have got in undetected? It doesn't make sense!" A more agitated, furious voice spoke next, panic tinged with fury. Another shushed him but the first snapped back something in a strange language. The other replied in the same, and another human voice attempted to come between them, speaking in the Common Tongue again. But before he could pick up on the words, someone approached the tent flap, the silhouette looming towards Faerim and the youth scrambled backwards guiltily, running a few steps away back towards the camp where he had come from. He frowned, dissatisfied, digging his hands into his trouser pockets as he slowed to a walk: he hadn't learnt much and now the bits and pieces were simply confusing...

"'Gone'?" An old woman's incredulous screech pierced the peace of the still air making Faerim jump. "What do you mean 'gone'? People don't just up and vanish, Sara, even children as difficult as your Tathy-"

"He has!" A younger voice butted in, and Faerim pinpointed it to a particular tent. "He has! He ain't anywhere to be found, mam, I've looked everywhere-"

"Outside? You haven't looked outside, have you? Don't worry, Sara, didn't you say that no-good sister of yours had gone as well? They'll simply have gone to get breakfast, you know what Tathy's like, all stomach, that's what I've always said..."

"No, mam! I've looked! I can't find either of 'em, not even getting breakfast! Oh, my Tathy, I hate it when he strays like this.." the woman moaned forlornly. The front flap of one of the nearby tents stirred and the owner of the voice stepped out, wringing her hands anxiously. Seeing Faerim, she flung up her hands and approached him. "Ah, you, boy, you haven't seen a little lad wandering about have you? A skinny wee tyke of about so high, dark-"

"I...haven't, I'm afraid, sorry ma'am," Faerim replied. The snippets of conversation he had heard were beginning to fit worryingly. The woman made a small worried noise then stuck her head back into the tent. "That's it, mam, I'm going to report it!"

Despite her elderly mother's muffled cries of disagreement from within the tent, the mother set off determinedly in the direction of Hirvegil's tent. Faerim watched he go for a moment, then caught up with her, walking along quickly beside her to keep up with her cracking pace. "Er, ma'am, that may not be such a fine plan - Captain Hirvegil is a little busy at the moment I think-"

"Poppycock!" The woman crowed. "He'll see me about this - we can't have people vanishing left right and centre and I want something done!" Her accent was that of the upper society of Arthedain - a voice that was used to having things done for it. Faerim winced. "Ma'am, your son may just be getting break- er, ma'am, please..." Faerim trailed off, his attempts having failed as the woman flung open Hirvegil's tent flap and striding in purposefully, with Faerim somehow beside her.

"Captain Hirvegil, it is my understanding that-"

The elf who had been speaking stopped suddenly, spinning around on his heels to face Faerim and the woman beside him, and the youth felt keenly on his face the eyes of three immortals and, somehow more terrifyingly, Lord Hirvegil. The tableau remained in stunned silence for a moment before the elf who had been speaking flung up his hands and glared at Faerim in disgust. "What is the meaning of this interruption?"

The woman appeared to be frozen in terror, her mouth having dropped open and her eyes like saucers. Faerim resisted the urge to elbow her hard in the ribs and stepped forward. "Captain Hirvegil - and my elven Lords, " he added hastily, including the elves in his address. "My name is Faerim. I believe this woman may be relevant to your discussion. She awoke this morning to find her son and her sister gone - presumably taken also by the orcs."

The woman gasped, then slapped solidly Faerim on the arm. "Taken by orcs?" She squawked. "I don't bloody think so, mate, I would have noticed if a crowd of flamin' great monsters had stormed through my tent in the middle of the night-"

"So you did not hear anything?" Rôsgollo pounced as the woman paused to take breath. Her eyes bulged but she managed to reply, carried along by her outrage. "I...well, no, no of course not - and I'm a very delicate sleeper, mind, quite accustomed to waking at the slightest noises in the night, so I am-"

"Her tent is some way from the quarters of the other elves, Lord Rôsgollo," Faerim added, his voice respectful and understated in an attempt to rule out the fact that he had obviously been eavesdropping. "I presume her son and sister must have been outside the tent when they were taken - but nonetheless the orcs must have moved with surprising stealth."

"It was planned then!" spat the elf who had been speaking when Faerim entered. He turned and paced across the floor, looking across at Hirvegil sharply as he began to speak to the Dunedain lord once more. Now that attention had apparently been transferred away from him, Faerim glanced at Hirvegil and began to edge out of the tent quickly. The woman did the same, darting out and expressing her distress quite vocally enough for the entire camp to hear as she returned to her mother. Faerim opened the flap and followed, but as he did so a quiet voice arrested him in his tracks. "Stop."

Faerim turned, dreading some sort of reprimand for eavesdropping, but he simply saw Rôsgollo standing behind him, those grey eyes fixed steadily on his face. Behind him, his brother, whose name Faerim did not know, was also watching. Rôsgollo nodded curtly at Faerim. "Our thanks for your help, Faerim son of Carthor," he said. The youth smiled quickly, not quite knowing what to say, then nodded to all four of the others in the tent and removed himself into the fresh air sharpish, breathing a sigh of relief as he did so. He couldn't help a slight grin though, however inappropriate to the situation. Who says eavesdropping doesn't do any good...