And whither then? I cannot say

its existence is never investigated, accounted for, or even really questioned at all for the whole episode

It’s Corunir’s turn to feed the chickens, mostly because it’s Caladhel’s turn and she would rather set the chickens loose in the forge or the practice field than herd them back into their “boring” fence. She’ll grow out of it, his aunt assures him. She’s only eight. So today Corunir has elected to simply take over his cousin’s turn rather than rescue feathery jailbirds from the forge-fires for the eighth time.

How he got from there to here, in just under twenty minutes, is a mystery.

“How old are you?” A senior Ranger demands. He’s not one of the ones Corunir knows, who come over sometimes to ask Aunt Alariel for advice or history.

“Fifteen, sir,” he says. Fifteen and a Ranger cadet, so any prank gone too far— as this doubtlessly appears— could earn him anything from a week’s extra chores to suspension from the watches.

It is all fuzzy light and darkness after Lastadron’s head hits the ground. His shoulder is shoved down, his arm wrenched up as some Easterling levers his sword from his grip. There are five of them: two on each arm and one spare to spit in his face.

“You should know better than to trespass twice, horse-lord,” the spare Easterling snarls. He had clearly learned the Westron term as an insult; the implied honorific is lost on him. As is Lastadron’s black hair.

He’s not wrong about one thing: “Then don’t steal my— horse!” Lastadron’s wild headbutt in the middle goes absolutely nowhere except down. The flagstones are cool and stinging against the cut on his face.

Sċytta is free, at least. Him and the four other pitch-black stolen horses Lastadron found in the pen. He’ll know where to go— straight to Horn and his boiled-sap treats, to Nona and her endless apples, and they will know how he died. Lady Cíllan may keep her husband’s horse and remember the foolish adventurer she’d hailed a hero by him as well. 

Why isn’t he dead yet?

The flagstones beneath him are suddenly warmer than the air, suddenly the only heat in a frigid winter.

“Hssss… The thief caught in a net.” The Easterlings around him go still. They are all human and living, only the bare division of loyalty left to keep any of them safe from this. “I know your face.”

Barghests howl through the night, occasionally breaking into frantic barks like kicked dogs. Amathan does not wonder why: they are only alive insofar as they are dying. He keeps walking, instead. The only thing dumber than going into the Downs at night (he is told) is camping in them.

So he walks. Slow and hazy for lack of sleep.

There is an end to the Downs, where the land slopes up and then down to the green earth, the grassy road, and friendly voices. He cannot find it in this endless night with its strange stars.