[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim almost leapt a foot in the air when Gaeredhel suddenly laughed. The elves had been silent for so long - and he had come to the conclusion that they were most certainly communicating in some way, although to ask probably wouldn't be polite - that the sudden sound surprised him. He looked from one brother to the other, wondering what conclusion they had come to, but he did not have to wait long. Rôsgollo raised one eyebrow at his brother, then motioned to the Dunedain youth to come with them as he began to walk briskly.

"Gather your gear quickly, Faerim. We will take you up on your offer." At the elf's words, Faerim grinned widely, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise and delight, and he resisted with difficulty the urge to punch the air. Trying to regain a more serious composure, he listened to the elf's swift instructions, then nodded respectfully. "You won't regret it, Captain Rôsgollo, on my honour." He wasn't even sure whether it was the correct way in which to address the Rôsgollo, but it didn't seem to matter right at that moment. Unable to restrain himself, he shot the elves another brief grin, then left them to prepare.

As Faerim came through the tent flap and cast around for the few belongings he would need, he wouldn't have been able to describe the strange feelings that had welled up when the elves had accepted his offer. Pride, that they thought him good enough to come with them? Delight? No, surely not: it was a dangerous mission that they were embarking on. But independance? That certainly had a part in the compound; and a sense of excitement and, maybe, honour. Hold it back, Faerim lad, you don't want to dally with that yet; wait until you've got this done, then you can have time for honour...

Bow, quiver of arrows, knives slotted into place, sword at his side and his coat pulled hastily on: Faerim had what he needed. Renedwen had left the tent, taking her son and Gilly with her, and the tent was otherwise empty - so far so good, Faerim supposed, it allowed him to get out quicker. But as he moved towards the opening, a figure blocked his way, and he saw his father standing in front of him. He nodded his head respectfully and gave his father a smile - the first sign that Carthor, cynically but realistically, might have picked up upon that something was not right. "Good morning, father."

"Morning, Faerim," came the gruff reply. Carthor eyed his eldest son, standing slightly hunched in front of him because of the tent's low ceiling, and his gaze fell on the bow slung over his shoulder. He blinked, then looked back at Faerim, raising his bushy eyebrows slowly. "Going somewhere, son?"

Faerim hesitated, then made an indeterminate noise and shrugged, looking past his father. A flicker of impatience may have showed in his eyes, for Carthor's brows rose slightly higher and he moved his hand casually in his son's way. "Where?" he asked sharply.

Faerim shot him an almost impatient glance, tempered only by his respect for his distant father. Since when did Carthor care where he was going? He had never cared in Arthedain, only nudging his son into place when Lissi hinted at it, or when he got in his way - their relationship could hardly be described as close. So why now? Faerim knew the answer, but not the reason for it: over the time since the refugees had left the broken city, something seemed to have changed in his father. He seemed capable of emotion, for crying out loud! Faerim hadn't spent much time around his father relatively, but he had noticed the changes - how could he not? His father's changed attitude to his mother was more subtle; but his attitude to Brander, a mixture of tenderness and even a sort of pride in what his blind son could do, was truly astonishing compared to the past. Faerim wasn't sure what to make of it but, even in his hurry, he supposed it was reason to tell the reason for his departure - even if not in detail.

"I'm going to help some acquaintances with a few things," he answered cryptically. Carthor raised a sardonic eyebrow, suddenly alike to Rôsgollo, and he looked sternly at Faerim with dark blue eyes. "A fight?"

Faerim cocked his head on one side. "Not...exactly. I won't be getting into trouble, father, don't worry." He couldn't help a little sarcasm added in the last sentence. Sighing, he tried again, looking his father straight in the eyes and becoming more serious. "I am going to help the elves, Father. They needed help and..." he shrugged, looking away, as if it was nothing much, trying to shield his impatience. Carthor remained silent, and Faerim eventually looked back at his father - and on his father's face he was surprised to see a small smile and...was that pride? Carthor did not speak and Faerim eventually spoke again. "Could...could I borrow your horse, father?"

Carthor frowned slightly, then the smile returned and he sighed, seeming suddenly so old, seeming suddenly to know the gravity of his firstborn son's situation. He nodded and laid a hand on Faerim's shoulder. "Aye...aye." He seemed about to say something else, but instead simply grunted and nodded, releasing Faerim. The boy smiled solemnly back at his father and nodded in thanks, before he darted out of the tent opening.

There were few horses in the camp which could now truly said to be spare; but there were a fair few that could be said to belong to pretty much anyone. With Arthedain, men had fallen in their hundreds, but not all of their steeds had fallen with them, and some had been taken out of the city, having been seized by fleeing citizens or simply released when the soldier's, forced to run from the barracks, had opened the stable doors to give them some chance of survival. The people of Arthedain had had to learn fast, and although some stubbornly contented themselves with walking, many of the less experienced riders shared horses or took turns to ride, but wouldn't have a clue how to look after the animals, and so left them pretty much in the care of the army. As a result, there were some horses that could go missing for a while and would not be especially missed - and sure, wasn't Faerim going to return them in a while? Having managed to gain and saddle two such steeds - a young bay mare and a grey stallion - along with North and his father's stallion, Faerim led them by their reins to where the elves had said they would meet him.

Mounting up, Faerim organised himself briskly on North's back, sticking one knife into the horse's saddle beside the pommel, putting on his gloves and trying to sort the horses reins into some semblance of usefulness. Having worked at the blacksmiths, he was used to working with several horses at once, and had often been asked to test out several horses at once to make sure that their shoes fitted correctly; he was therefore able to quite professionally organise the horses together in a fashion that they would be able to run together. However, what he didn't let on to the watching elves was that the horses he had tested out before were generally lame, very young, or very old: in short, the ones that might have had trouble with new shoes and would not have been running all too fast in them. This could, he supposed, pose a new set of problems, but he glossed that over in his mind. He could handle this: the elves trusted him too, and that gave him some sort of confidence, as well as being a dire warning not to fail. Straightening up, he shifted in his saddle to get most comfortable and shook his hair back out of his face, looking to Rôsgollo. He nodded. "I am ready."