The closing of an age

Vanimelda, namárië

※※Chapter four※※

Beautiful and beloved, farewell.

- Quenya, Aragorn's words to Arwen

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Silence. Complete and utter silence. The camp was at peace for several long hours, every man fast asleep and unmoving. Almost all were still in armour with their weapons an arm's length away at most, and the others -though not armoured- had their weapons closer.

There was a lone man awake, seated at the outskirts of the camp facing into the forest with his back propped up against a thick wooden post. He was meant to be on guard, but his half closed eyes and tightly-drawn cloak were tell-tale signs that the appointed man of night-duty was being far less than efficient. It had not been brought to anyone's attention. After all, he would be changing over shortly and no ill had come of his nap so far, but that would not be the case a few seconds later.

The quiet night air was interrupted by a sudden yet soft sound of a bow-string being released, the whistle of a crudely crafted arrow flying in an arc into the camp, and the dull thud as it pierced the chest of the half-asleep night guard. He was killed soundlessly and with expert precision in such a way that the rest of the camp remained blissfully unaware. Exactly as the enemy desired. Except for one fatal mistake.

The man had been wearing thin armour, but it was still thick enough to make a sound when pierced. However quiet it was, the dull thud was out of place to a high enough degree that it caused Neston to stir from his rest. He carefully pushed the thin blanket from over himself and sat up, brows furrowed deeply in concern. Though the sound had awoken him, the clearing was once again engulfed in silence.

Still, he refused to trust that all was well after the previous words of caution from his king and stood as quietly as he was able in a near complete set of armour. To be on the safer side he woke his companion, Mírdanion, and alerted him with gentle touches and his name in the most hushed tone he could muster. The older elf did not realise why Neston was being so quiet, and woke with a groan and a rather loud "What is it?"

"Hush!" he scolded, keeping his voice low through the harsh and desperate word ", It was a strange sound that woke me, something unnatural... Stay sheltered here, but be prepared to wake the King and everyone else should I call for it. I expect something bad, so I'll be safe since I'm on guard. I promise."

He then lifted his helmet from the ground and fixed it over his dark hair before moving the tent flap and walking out to investigate, but not without a brief glance back and wave to Mírdanion.

It was far too dark for even an elf to see any further than a metre into the line of trees, but there was undoubtedly something there. Something watching with the eager eyes of a hunter from beneath the blanket of darkness, like a monster ready to pounce on unsuspecting prey. He was incredibly cautious with the path he took through the camp, making sure that his body was covered from the trees at all times by at least one ivory tent in the hope that it may protect him from those prying eyes as much as his golden armour may halt the course of an arrow.

When his path finally crossed with that of the night-guard, he had to choke back an exclamation of horror, raising a hand to his heart as he knelt on the scarlet soaked soil to lay the soldier down and carefully remove the arrow from his chest. A single glance at the tip was more than enough to tell its origin. The way that the metal was crudely chipped away to form a point and hastily tied onto a stolen human-made shaft proved that the assailant was an orc. A bold orc, to be killing someone as openly as it had in a populated camp. There was no way it would be a lone company.