[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim stumbled slightly as a taller, thicker set figure pushed past him, and turned angrily towards the latter. Recognising the individual as Lieutenant Belegorn, Faerim hastily mellowed his expression and nodded stiffly to the superior soldier. Since Hirvegil's strange request and even stranger threats, however thinly veiled, before Faerim had set off with the elves, the youth had felt less sure of the leaders of the army. For a time, in his own mind, he had angrily laid some of the blame for Gaeredhel and Rosgollo's deaths on the Captain of the Rearguard; now, as his frustration had disintegrated over the weeks to a complex regret and sadness, his anger at Hirvegil had softened as he resigned himself to the fact that the blame could not be laid entirely at the Captain's door. He had not been himself over the last few weeks... But although he was no longer so much angry at those in charge of the army, he remained wary of them. Of course, he had no reason to be cautious of Belegorn specifically, having spoken to him but once, at the very start of the exodus from Fornost when Faerim had fairly blagged himself into the army, outgoing and brassnecked. But the young man's cynicism was maturing rapidly, and that seemed a world ago. For this reason, his greeting of the lieutenant as he was literally shaken from his reverie was rather more formal than it might have been a few more weeks ago. Approach with caution.

However, Belegorn could not, in this instant, have ever been called exactly fear-inspiring. He looked positively sheepish, Faerim noted with surprise, as he turned back to the younger man, apparently forcibly removing himself from his own world, too.

"Forgive me Faerim; I should have been looking at where I was going."

Faerim almost started in surprise, taken aback at Belegorn's words. Firstly, the lieutenant had called him by his name: Faerim could not help but be impressed. But secondly, and even more surprisingly, the lieutenant was actually apologising to him. Taken off-guard, Faerim floundered slightly, lost for words. "I...erm, that is, it was my..." Inwardly shaking himself, Faerim pulled himsef together and yanked himself out of the pit of sycophancy that he knew he was headed towards. Nodding politely, he started again. "My mistake, Lieutenant Belegorn; I fear I was as lost as you were."

Belegorn nodded slowly, looking intently at Faerim, and after a second, the youth looked away, clearing his throat and glancing towards where Carthor sat with a few other men, a look of busy determination on his rough features. The second surprise in as many minutes: Carthor had never had much authority to wield, yet he appeared to be commanding several of the men to do things. And they were obeying. Fascinated for the first time in many years by his father's activity, Faerim was distracted from Belegorn until the lieutenant spoke again.

"Your father's new appointment suits him well, Faerim," Belegorn murmured enigmatically. Faerim turned, his eyebrows raised and his lips half open, to the other man, frowning slightly. "What do you mean, sir?"

Belegorn grinned more openly, rubbing his stubbly chin thoughtfully as he too turned his eyes to Carthor, then back to Faerim. "Why, his appointment as a Captain," he replied, smiling.

Faerim's jaw dropped open as he stared incredulously at the lieutenant. Captain?! The young man could not actually remember a time when his father had last been promoted; Carthor had stood still in the army for years, drink and gambling ensuring that his pitted features remained solidly behind the stripes of the same rank apparently for all eternity. Faerim, like Lissi, had stopped expecting more, respecting his father for his history but feeling the regular pangs of contempt for his future, and for every time a younger, less able man passed the older war veteran simply because his father could not motivate himself to change things. So now to see his father finally promoted...why, Faerim might as well have been told that Arvedui had been bumped off the top spot and Carthor had been crowned king in his place and he could not have been more surprised. Stunned, he simply stared at his father, and as Carthor caught his eye, the older man gave a small, anxious smile, raising a hand self-conciously to his eldest son like a boy looking for his father's approval as he stepped out on a new venture, anxious for his parent to see that he really could do it: a strange role reversal for a father and son who had never been close, for a seventeen year old who was half-accustomed to looking after his family.

Smiling back at his father, Faerim gave a small laugh as he tore his eyes away and took once more at Belegorn, nodding silent thanks to the lieutenant. Belegorn smiled modestly and began to walk away, and as he did so, Faerim saw his eyes turn to the two elves, Erenor and Bethiril, who stood conversing a few metres away. He watched them for only a moment, but it was notable to Faerim when he was watching for it, and the sharp-witted boy wondered about it, wishing he could see the older man's expression. The elves did not appear to notice, but Belegorn nonetheless appeared to come to some sort of decision, for he made a small, decisive sound in the back of his throat and half turned back to Faerim, weighing him up appraisingly with sharp grey eyes. After a moment, Belegorn nodded, apparently satisfied with what he saw, and began to walk once more, but this time beckoned for Faerim to walk with him.

Confused, the youth obliged, falling into step with his superior. "Sir?"