Reunion by ohboromir

Reunion

"Someone's watching us."

For once, there was no one on watch. Well - one of the newer members of their band was supposed to be on watch, but in the celebration of their latest raid, no one felt like enforcing it. A trading cavern had made the mistake of passing too close to the wilds, and now they had new furs and shiny trinkets and booze aplenty. Trinkets might be useless out here, but the prize still put even the surliest of outlaws in a good mood.

Ulrad's declaration was, therefore, met with a groan. "You're spoiling the fun." Andróg complained, squinting out into the darkness. There was nothing - oh, he saw it. The brief flash of something bright, moving like no animal did.

"Oi, Captain." Forweg looked up from his tankard and frowned when he saw the look on Andróg's face. "Bring us a torch. Someone out there."

Forweg - taller than either of them - lifted a torch above their heads. Their shadows danced over the leaf-litter. Ulrad had the sharpest eyes - or perhaps the best nose for blood - and drew his sword, stalking into the darkness ahead of them.

Scuffling and swearing followed, Ulrad's gruff voice and a higher, softer one. Andróg's ears twitched. Taliska. Valar, what sorry bastard out of Dor-Lómin was this?

Ulrad dragged a boy out of the bushes, his laughter cold. The boy had fought hard - Ulrad's nose was bloody.

"What's this?" Forweg laughed, "A feisty little pup. What are you doing out here, boy? A scout of the damned woodsmen?"

The boy was tall and lanky, his face still round with youth, only the faint hint of stubble. Hardly even old enough to grow a beard.

Andróg scoffed. "He's a little skinny to be out of Brethil. They feed their spies better."

His voice made the boy's frightened gaze. Something changed in his face then - there was a flash of recognition; he squirmed against the hand at the scruff of his neck.

"I am Andvír of Dor-Lomin." He tried to draw himself up, make himself prouder. "I came looking for my father. And I have found him."

Ulrad barked in laughter. "You've a pup, Andróg?"

Andróg froze. He thought of his son. His little boy, as he remembered him - small and chubby, with a thick head of shining golden curls. The youth in front of him was the right age and had the right name: but how could it be him?

Andvír had been bright and joyful. He'd been a large child for his age; promising strength and height. The youth had the height, but he was so pale, almost ashen, and not much more than skin and bone. His curls were dirty and dull. How could this be his Andvír?

"Like you haven't spread your oats further and wider, Ulrad." Forweg snorted, looking expectantly at Andróg. "Well, is he your spawn or should we gut him, Andróg? I want to go back to my beer."

“Pa?” Andvír’s voice shook with fear despite the boy’s brave face. His face - it was like looking in a mirror, but distorted. He did not see his own face. Andvír took after his mother, mostly. But he saw himself still: reflected in his eyes, in the jut of his jaw, in his stubborn pride.

Andróg extended his hand and Ulrad let Andvír go, wiping his nose with a grumble.

Andvír picked himself and dusted himself off, as the camp drifted back to their partying - none of them were that interested in domestic drama.

“Let’s get some food in you, lad.” Andróg tried to fall back into fatherhood, but the words felt awkward on his tongue. “What has your mother been feeding you? You look like you have spent half a year in the wilds.”

“Pa,” Andvír winced around the word, as if it tasted strange. “There’s nothing to eat in Dor-Lómin now. It might as well be the wilds.”

It was Andróg’s turn to wince. He did not want to imagine what Dor-Lomin was like now, in the hands of their enemies. Perhaps he was fortunate to have left - no, there was no doubt about it. If he had not left when he had, he would be dead.

“Ah.”

“It’s…” Andvír struggled to continue. “It’s bad, Pa. We are thralls in our own homes. People get out, or they die. That’s why Ma told me to leave. To find you.”

Andróg ushered him into the camp and sat him down, handing him a bowl and a tankard. He didn’t know what to say: that he was sorry, for fleeing Dor-Lomin? He wasn’t and he had no choice in the matter either way. He had not spared much thought for Andvír in the intervening years. He’d been with his mother and her family; he hadn’t needed Andróg.

“You’ll be alright out here, lad. Just stay near me, and I’ll keep an eye on you.” he smiled and clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder. He could make up for lost time now. “I’ll make you a bow. We’ll have a good time out here, you and me. And your Ma was right: If we die, we die free.”