Innocence
by Soledad

Disclaimer:
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only the individual Lórien Elves belong to me.

Rating: PG for this chapter.

Please read Warnings before the Prologue.

Author's Notes:
Summary: Lindir and Erestor go to the South Haven with the Lord Celeborn's people, who have trading business with Gildor's settlements.

This one is a rather contemplative chapter - not to mention lengthy - following the boat journey of Lindir and Erestor from Lórien to Edhellond, partially based on the early decriptions of ''the Treason of Isengard, since we are some 2,400 years before the Ring War.

Sorry, Finch, but the cliffhanger at the end of the previous chapter will only dealt with a lot later. Also, the explanations will be given then (considering the ah-so-interesting question of Elven reproduction).

Many thanks to Isabeau of Greenlea for beta reading - and for cleaning up the geographical mess I've caused.

Chapter 9: Waterways

[The 14th day of lairë in the year 641 of the Third Age.]

The next two days were spent with eager preparations, and on the third morrow Rúmil woke their house-guests, saying:

''Rise and shine like Anor, my friends; for our boats shall be leaving ere midday this very morning.''

''Our boats?'' Erestor repeated in surprise. ''Are you coming with us on this journey too?''

''Not with you, exactly...,” Rúmil answered with a wry grin. ''I am to take a message from my King to Gildor Inglorion in Edhellond, for he went not through Lothlórien the last time he returned home, and ‘tis safer to go with the fleet on the water than ride alone through the woods... even if it takes a lot longer.''

''Why, I always thought you people never leave the woods,” Lindir remarked sleepily, offering the Lórien Elf one of his shy smiles. Rúmil laughed.

''Not very often, that is true. Yet now that Hathaldir is needed on the King's side, someone else has to run his errands.''

''So, King Amroth is trying to make new alliances,” Erestor remarked absently, watching as Lindir raced out to take a bath in a nearby pond, as had become his custom during their stay in the realm of Amroth. ''Well, Gildor Inglorion certainly is the right person if he is looking for someone who dislikes the Lady Galadriel.''

Once again, Rúmil made a wry face.

''Sometimes I believe Gildor dislikes every one on the face of Earth... except his own niece... and his people, of course. He is a great leader of Elves, in spite of his rather... annoying nature. I wonder what he would say if he knew about the Kinslayer Princess' plans considering our King and the Lady Undómiel.''

Erestor gave him a sharp look. The fact that the Lady Arwen and Gildor had ended their relationship was no secret, still he did not want it to be discussed widely in the Golden Wood. Not even by his friends.

''What do you know about him and the Lady Arwen?''

''Ai, Erestor, I beg you!'' Rúmil laughed. ''Have you forgotten that Fíriel belongs to our family now? By all but the letter of Noldorin law,” he added softly, more seriously. ''I have never seen my brother happier... they share body and heart and soul - you truly believe they would keep aught in secret from each other?''

''By all but the letter of our law,” Erestor repeated, just as softly. ''You believe they would choose to remain in Middle-earth and eventually fade away?''

Rúmil remained silent for a while, his eyes downcast.

''I cannot tell for sure,” he finally answered, ''yet I do have a feeling that they have already chosen.''

''How can you speak of this so calmly?'' Erestor wondered. ''That would mean that you shall never again see your brother, once you have set sail to the West.''

But Rúmil only shook his head with a sad little smile.

''Nay, my friend,” he said, ''for this we already decided many years ago: should one of us not wish to go to the West, the other two would stay as well. The Sea calls us not the same way it calls to you. We are perfectly content in our forests; for this is where we belong.''

''But you shall inevitably fade away if you stay in Middle-earth!'' Erestor warned, saddened by the thought that his friends would never seek out the peace of the Blessed Realm.

''So what?'' Rúmil shrugged. ''Thus had been the fate of the Moriquendi ever since the Dawn of Days. Every living thing shall perish sometime - even Arda itself, and with it all the Elves, no matter here or beyond the Sea. I mind not vanishing sooner, so long as I can spend the time that I am given in freedom, under the trees. Besides,” he added bitterly, ''not even the lights of Aman could wash the shame away that our father was accused of. Here at least we are accepted for what and who we are. But can you promise me that it would be so in the Blessed Realm, among all those Noldor and Vanyar?''

The return of Lindir brought the grave conversation to its end. Erestor washed hurriedly too, then they ate and left Cerin Amroth for the haven in Calendil, the Green-tine. It was a rather lengthy way, for they had to go around Caras Galadhon - neither Erestor nor Rúmil wanted to go through the Tree City. Lindir pouted at that a little, for it meant that he could not say his farewells to Elrond's children, but Rúmil was adamant. So the way was walked in stubborn silence, all ten miles of it, and Lindir only softened a little when they reached the banks of the Celebrant and he caught his first glimpse of the magnificent boats that were waiting for them - so very unlike the small and quick grey ones he had already had the pleasure to travel on during the length of his stay.

These were boats made for long journeys and shipping wares - more barges than boats, indeed, wrought and carved by the skilled hands of the Galadhrim in the likeness of great swans - their long necks curved gracefully, their beaks shone like burnished gold, and their jewelled eyes glinted as if alive, for they were made of obsidian and topaz - with their half-lifted, huge wings balancing them perfectly to ensure safe travel upon the water.

''These are the boats of the Lord Celeborn,” Rúmil explained, ''made in Teleri-fashion. They bear his sigil only.''

The barges were loaded with goods, but there still remained enough room for a few passengers and for the grey-clad Elves who steered them with broad, black paddles so contrived that the blades folded back, as a swan's foot does, when they were thrust forward in the water(1). There also sat an archer in each barge, armed with the famous longbows of the Galadhrim, protecting both passengers and goods. Though the waterways had been mostly safe in the recent years, no one was foolish enough to travel unarmed.

A rather large fleet it was, containing a dozen of these barges, for this was the time of the loa when the goods of the Golden Wood - mostly wares of woodcraft, clothes made of hithlain and other such things made by the Silvan folks only - were shipped down to the South in exchange for what Edhellond and the other settlements of Gildor's small realm could offer. It was a long journey, so it was not made every year; therefore a rather large amount of wares were shipped each time.

Erestor and Lindir were directed to the second barge, for that one had been less deeply laden in order to bear their weight and bags, while Rúmil found his place in the one directly behind them and relieved one of the paddlers, who got out of the barge and into one of the small, grey boats that were to escort the fleet.

Lindir looked around a little disappointed - yet the greater was his joy when he finally detected the Lady Arwen and her brothers passing the border of the outer woods of Caras Galadhon and hurrying towards the small haven. They embraced both their foster brother and the young minstrel, exchanging brotherly kisses on the cheek and giving them small presents and message tubes for their friends among Gildor's people, and Lindir sniffled a little, for it was not easy for him to leave them after all the long years they had spent together.

At last, when all of this had been done, Erestor and Lindir finally boarded the barge, and the Galadhrim who served in the haven pushed the heavy boats away from the river bank with long poles. The others in charge, wielding the wondrous paddles of ingenious Elven carpentry, skillfully turned the vessels into the direction of the stream. While the long line of swan-ships escorted by the small, swift, grey boats majestically floated eastwards, both the Elves on the water and the ones on the river bank began to sing the old farewell song of the Teleri, the origins of which reached back to the Great Journey of the Eldar to the Blessed Realm.

I sing of leaves of gold, and leaves of gold here grow:
Of wind I sing, a wind here comes and in the branches blows.
Beyond the Sun, beyond the Moon, the foam is on the Sea,
And by the strand of Tírion there grows a golden Tree.
Beneath the stars of Ever-eve in Eldamar it shines,
In Eldamar, beside the walls of Elven Tírion.
But far away and far away beyond the Shadow-meres
Now long the golden leaves have grown upon the branching years.
And Lórien, O Lórien, the river flows away;
And leaves are falling in the stream, and leaves are borne away;
O Lórien, too long I dwell upon this Hither Shore
And golden yri here I twine in a fading crown.
But if a ship I now should sing, what ship would come to me,
What ship would bear me ever across the wide Western Sea?(2)

The last tones of the sweet music were still trailing behind them when they passed along the green banks of Calendil, and it seemed to Lindir that Lothlórien itself would float away from them, slipping backwards like some wondrous green and white ship, with enchanted trees as its masts, sailing on forgotten shores, while they sat motionless in the midst of frozen waters.

And as he sat there and watched Lothlórien fading away behind them, a vision came to him, born from ancient songs he had been taught and old legends he had been told about a strange land, far beyond the Bent Sea - a realm far removed in time and space - a realm called Fairie, existing mayhap in Elven nursery tales only.

He saw himself standing upon a desolate shore, beside the Sea of Windless Storm, where the blue waves like snow-clad hills rolled silently out of Unlight to the long strand, bearing the white ships that returned from the Battles of the Dark Marches of which Men knew nothing and even among Elves only the oldest minstrels had ever heard of.

He saw a great ship cast high upon the land, and the waters fell back in foam without a sound. The Elven mariners were tall and terrible in their grim beauty; their swords shone like living flames and their spears glinted like ice, and a piercing light was in their dark eyes. Suddenly they lifted up their clear, ringing voices in a great song of triumph, and his heart was shaken with fear, and he sank to his knees as they passed over him and went a way into the echoing hills(3).

And as he was kneeling in the sand, still shaking from the intensity of this encounter, a Lady came out of the hills, tall and grave and beautiful beyond even Elven measure, clad in shimmering white and with white gems adorning her brow like tiny, twinkling stars. She seemed to be made of mist and moonlight rather than of flesh and blood, and her long, shining black hair embraced her slender frame like an ankle-long, black silk coat. Dark were her eyes, too, like the living night that had once been without fear, and yet there was a light in them, unlike any brightness he had ever seen.

She held out a slender white hand and helped him to his feet again, and as they stood face-to face, Lindir could hear her thoughts as if they were spoken aloud.

/A great gift you have been given, young one: the gift of true innocence. The Music is therefore pure and undisturbed in your heart. Remember what you have seen and the song you have heard upon these shores - and lighten the savage burden of the Firstborn by singing of them./

Lindir could not answer, not even in thoughts; he only nodded mutely. The Lady returned his nod and laid a blessing hand upon his bowed head.

/Follow your heart, Son of Pure Music; listen to the Song that dwells in its depths, and it shall lead you rightly. Yet should you ever lose the gift you were given, you must set sail yourself and return here. For this is the only place that your heart might be healed.../

''Lindir? Lindir, can you hear me? Little one, is something wrong?''

Strong hands were shaking him, gripping his shoulders hard, and slowly Erestor's worried voice crept through the thick mist of his exaltation. He blinked several times, fighting the searing feel of utter loss, trying to shake off the slight dizziness that had befallen him from the much too abrupt return from the Unseen Realm, and gave his mentor a weak, reassuring smile.

''Nay, Master Erestor... nothing is wrong.''

''What happened?'' Erestor asked. ''You went very pale all of a sudden, stiffened like a stick, and you did not hear us calling you.''

''I...,” Lindir hesitated, ''I believe I had a vision... like the ancient minstrels used to have in the Elder Days.''

''You believe?'' Erestor repeated in surprise. Lindir shrugged.

''It could have been a waking dream, after all... though I believe it was not. For I saw things I have only heard of in the eldest lays... and I heard a song that I did not know before.''

This surprised Erestor even more, for Lindir had learnt songs and tales and lays from Aiwendil and Iarwain and the River-daughter that were unknown even to Glorfindel - and he never forgot any of them.

''What song?'' he asked carefully. Lindir gave him a confused look.

''I know not. I believe it was in the secret tongue of Valinor; yet of that I cannot understand much. Master Aiwendil never truly taught me; I only picked up some stray words when he was talking to himself. And yet the Lady told me to remember my vision... and that I should sing of it to the Firstborn, in order to ease their burdens.''

''Which Lady?'' Erestor asked, almost tonelessly, but Lindir only shook his head in defeat.

''No name I was given; yet I did see a white Queen with stars glittering like gems in her dark hair, and eyes dark like the fearless night before the coming of the Enemy; the Night Iarwain often spoke of. I know not who she was, but I could hear her thoughts in my heart.''

''Varda,” Erestor murmured breathlessly, naming Elentári, the Queen of Stars, by her true name in his shock. ''Varda Oiolossëo has revealed herself to you in a vision... Can you imagine how rare a gift this is for someone still dwelling on this side of the Sea? What else have you seen?''

''I cannot speak of it,” Lindir sighed, ''not yet. 'Twas terrible and beautiful at the same time; I shall have to understand it a little better first. I believe I will need to seek out Orgof's counsel once we reached Edhellond; he is now the oldest minstrel in Middle-earth, and he used to be a trusted friend of Daeron, the greatest of our Order(4). Mayhap he can help me to comprehend my vision.''

This was very true, for born minstrels had gifts that other people could not understand, not even the greatest lore-masters of old. Their gifts were given to them at birth, or - as some guessed - in the womb of their mother, therefore they were very selective about accepting someone into their midst. Lindir had been accepted by Orgof, the Eldest, for his gifts were obvious and greater than those of any other minstrel still alive, but he had much to learn ere he received his title as a Master Singer. Thus it was only reasonable that he would want to discuss his powerful vision with the Eldest of his Order.

Still, it hurt Erestor a little that Lindir would not share it with him. Was this a sign that his young charge was slowly growing apart from him? The mere thought caused him unexpected pain. He could hardly imagine his life without Lindir in tow any more.

While he was sitting there among saddened thoughts, the Celebrant finally passed out into the currents of Anduin, and the barges slowly turned southwards and began to take on speed. The Great River swept round a bent, and the banks slowly began to rise upon either side, so that the lights of Lothlórien now were completely hidden.

Erestor now looked southwards, too, watching the hurrying waters and the woods along either bank, green and lovely in the lush splendor of early summer. The woods were so dense that not even his keen Elven eyes could see any glimpse of the lands beyond. A light breeze kissed their faces time and again, and the dark, wide waters of Anduin rolled southwards without a sound. The sweet voices of far-away songbirds floated above the companionable silence, and Lindir listened to their merry chatter with tilted head and a dreamy smile on his face, as if understanding what they were talking about. Mayhap he truly did. Growing up with Aiwendil could do that to an Elf.

The sun deepened in color as the day grew old, til it gleamed like molten true-gold in the darkening sky. Then it slowly faded into the West, and finally dusk came, and Varda's stars appeared on the dark velvet carpet of the sky like bright silver lanterns. And when Eärendil's ship sailed high above their heads, the Silvan Elves in the barges, true children of starlight, burst into a wonderfully harmonic, yet wordless song, that seemed to Erestor like the first songs of the Quendi at the waters of Cuiviénen, ere even their kin learnt how to speak.

It took him a moment to realize that Lindir joined their song, his sweet, clear voice rising above those of the others, his wide eyes mirroring the starlight, his pale hair gleaming like silver as the light of Ithil kissed it. And Erestor understood why the Lady of the Stars would grace the youngling with a vision; for it seemed to him that never since the Days of Awakening had a being of such innocence and such exquisite beauty walked the Earth.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

All in all, it was a very pleasant journey on the broad back of the Great River. Lindifar, the leader of the fleet, counted on reaching the Falls of Pensarn in a mere twelve days(5) - a fast voyage for such large, heavily loaded vessels, but the current was very strong this year due to the unusually high number of rainy days during the seasons of echuir and ethuil(6). Which meant that they might even be on time to celebrate the Autumn Festival with the folk of Edhellond - a chance that all welcomed, knowing how merrily the festivals were held in Gildor's realm.

Erestor, who had never traveled southwards before, asked about their route and Lindifar readily explained to them that there was no direct waterway to Edhellond. They needed to travel with the current far, far down Anduin until the Sea itself; then they had to set sail and continue upon the Sea around the island Tolfalas in the bay of the Ethir Anduin. From there, they would sail north-west along the coasts of Belfalas, and around the peninsula of Tol Ondren(7), finally coming upon Edhellond from the Sea.

It was a long way around indeed, but the only way to come to the South Haven by boat, for there was no river upon which they could have crossed the Mountains of Lamedon. And the Galadhrim preferred the waterways, for their barges were built to protect them from arrows, should some Orc-pack or other robbers have bows strong enough to shoot arrows over the distance of half the width of Anduin. Of course, the same distance was no true challenge for their magnificent longbows, as Rúmil playfully demonstrated during one of their short rests.

Fortunately though, they saw no sign of any enemies on the second day of their journey, nor on the next one. The golden sunlit hours passed without event, and every now and again a song arose from one of the barges, and Lindir listened intently, soaking up the music of the Galadhrim like a dry cloth soaks up spilled water.

As the third day of their voyage wore on, the lands changed slowly: the trees thinned and then failed altogether. On the east bank to their left, long formless slopes stretched up and away towards the sky; brown and unfriendly waste without even a withered tree or a bold stone to break the emptiness. Lindir shivered at the sight and shot a questioning look towards Erestor, who only shrugged, not being familiar with the lands east of the Hithaeglir.

''We are come to Úwanwaith(8), the Withered Wold that lays in a vast desolation between Dol Dúghol(9) in the southern Emyn Galen and the hills of Sarn Gebir.” Ithildor, the archer watching their barge, explained in his stead. ''Those are the lands where the wives of the Onodrim(10) once had their gardens and taught Elves and Men how to tend the fruits of the Earth.''

''What pestilence of war or fell deed of the Dark Lord has so blasted all this region then?'' Erestor asked, truly shaken himself. Ithildor sighed.

''During the last Age, in the War of the Elves and Sauron, the Dark One burned all the great forests in his way to ash; for he wanted us not to have any hiding places. These lands suffered greatly from dragonfire(11); the Earth itself had been scorched many a foot deep. That is why Men call this region the Brown Lands - for dead it is still, and mayhap never shall bring forth any fruit again, unless Palúrien(12) herself comes over the Sea to heal it.''

Lindir shivered again and turned away from the dreadful sight. Upon the west bank to their right the land was treeless and quite flat, but green: there were forests of reeds of great height in places that shut out the view as the broad barges floated by along their fluttering borders. The great, withered flowering heads bent in the light, warm air, murmuring softly and waving like funeral plumes in Mannish settlements. Here and there in the open places he could see across the wide rolling meads hills far away, or - on the edge of sight - a dark line where still the southernmost phalanx of the Hithaeglir marched.

''You are looking out across the great pastures of Calenardhon,” Ithildor said. ''These lands belong to Gondor, the South-kingdom of the Men of Westernesse. I heard they are very good for horse-breeding, though the herds are rarely brought down to the Great River. There are many lesser streams that serve their needs better.” He shot Erestor a questioning look. ''You never came this far southwards, did you? Or else you would remember the Úwanwaith and its sad tale. You are old enough to have fought in the Last Battle upon Dagorlad...''

''I did,” Erestor replied, shuddering from old memories, ''but I originate from Ost-in-Ethil in Eregion, the fair city of Celebrimbor, and after its fall I rarely left Imladris.''

They fell in silence again, and Ithildor returned to the back of their barge, for the river broadened and grew shallow; bleak stony beaches lay upon the east, there were gravel shoals in the water and the Lórien Elves had to steer carefully. The Brown Lands rose into bleak wolds, but the light breeze still blew from the West, and that eased their hearts.

Upon the other side the meads had become low-rolling downs of bright green grass, sparkling in the sunlight like emeralds. There was something incredibly peaceful about sitting in the middle of the broad barge, safe and protected, Erestor thought. His back leaned against the well-rounded sacks of suncorn flour(13), while Lindir snuggled against his side, resting his head on Erestor's chest and humming in a sweet, low voice in his waking dreams.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

So the long days of golden summer passed in peace, between song and merriment and old tales told by starlight, until the end of the seventh day. The banks were still bare, but on both sides of the slopes above them bushes were scattered; behind and further south ridges with twisted fir-trees could be glimpsed.

''Ai! Finally,” Lindifar cried back from the lead barge; ''we are drawing near the hill country of Sarn Gebir. We have done well indeed.''

''Tis the southern border of Wilderland, beyond which lay the Nomanland and the foul marches that lie for many leagues before the passes of Mordor,” Ithildor explained. ''Thank the Valar, that black land is now bereft of its Dark Lord and closely watched by the Men of the South-kingdom, so that the paths along the Great River are considerably safer.''

''Why should that be any concern to us?'' Erestor asked. ''Are we not safe on the water?''

''We are,” Ithildor agreed, ''but we shall have to stop for tonight and bring our boats to the west bank. The rapids of Pensarn(14) are ahead. They are not very long, nor very fierce, yet too dangerous to venture in the dark, even for us who know the Great River well.''

And indeed, the small horn of Lindifar called the fleet to a halt only a few moments later. They brought the barges near the west bank, and some of the Lórien Elves leapt up to the river bank to secure them with the famous, silver-grey ropes of hithlain to the tree-trunks above. Every one save the watches got off, a small fire was lit, and soon they could enjoy their first hot meal in many days.

Rúmil joined Erestor and Lindir on the sun-warmed grass, and with him came a female archer of the Wood, tall and slender and with long, ash-blonde hair like his own. He introduced her as Calagniel(15), and old friend of his. To Lindir's surprise neither Rúmil, nor his lady friend ate aught from the delicious roasted meat that was the main dish of the evening.

''Tis a custom of the Green-Elves(16),” Erestor explained with a smile. ''They have not eaten meat ever since the days of their glory in Ossiriand. Nandor Elves are a strange lot,” he added with a grin. Rúmil rolled his eyes.

''Say aught like that to my baby sister, and you shall regret the day you decided to visit Edhellond,” he warned. Erestor laughed.

''Your 'baby sister' is older than Elladan and Elrohir, and she has been married for... how many years?''

''Sixty-four,” Rúmil replied. ''Nevertheless, she would tear your head off, should you speak badly of our people. She is very proud of our heritage.''

''Are not you all?'' Erestor shrugged. ''But do tell me: how long til we reach the falls of Tol Brandir? I deem that will be the most dangerous part of our journey, for we will go upon land around the Rapids.''

''Mayhap not so much dangerous in these days as tiring,” Rúmil said, ''for we shall climb down from the hills to Pendarn-foot carrying first the barges and then our load, and then take boat again. Two more days to the Rapids, if all goes well, and nearly two more til we can return to Anduin. ‘Tis always the hardest part of such a journey; but one that cannot be avoided,” and he yawned discretely. ''But at least tonight we can sleep on the firm floor of these woods... it eases my heart as well as my limbs.''

They all laughed in agreement, for no matter how spacious the barges were, every one felt cramped after all those days spent on water. That night they camped on the small eyot close to the west bank and slept peacefully under the watchful eyes of the Lórien archers.

On the next morrow they ate swiftly and returned to their barges, paddling now for long spells, and the banks went swiftly by. For two days they traveled with short rests only, for Lindifar wanted to reach the Rapids as quickly as possible. The weather remained beautiful, with golden sunshine and a clear, blue sky, and the songs had not ceased from sunrise to sunset, not even for the better part of the night.

During those days the country on either side was changing rapidly. The banks began to rise and grow stony. Soon they were passing through a hilly, rocky land, and on both shores there were steep slopes, covered in bushes or short grass. Behind them stood low crumbling cliffs of grey, weathered stone dark with ivy; and beyond them again there rose high ridges crowned with wind-writhen firs. They were drawing near to the open hill-country of the Emyn Muil, the southern march of Wilderland.

Lindifar wanted to reach the Rapids on the following morning, so they traveled all day and during the next night as well, sleeping in the barges, save those who steered them. In the morning, the rushing of the River over the rocks of the Rapids seemed to grow louder and closer. The twigs of the trees above them began to drip, and the air grew pleasantly warm when they steered their boats to the west bank once again, glad for the chance to stretch their cramped limbs.

''Now we shall have to empty our boats and pull them up on land,” Lindifar announced, mostly for Erestor and Lindir, since the others knew it already from past experience, ''for not even Elven boats could come through Pensarn unharmed. But there is a portage-way here, on the western shore, and that is where we shall carry both the boats and their load for quite some length. This will be hard work, yet there is no other way, I fear.''

''How far is it?'' Erestor asked; he feared not for himself but for Lindir, who - though always taking his fair share of work in Imladris - was not used to bearing great hardship.

''Not very far, if you are not loaded with a burden,” Lindifar answered with a shrug. ''From this landing, the head of the Rapids is but half a mile below us; and they are little more than a mile long. Beyond them, the stream becomes clear and smooth again, though it runs swiftly. Getting there is the hard part of the work. Let us begin now!''

It was a hard task, indeed, to unload all the barges and carry them up to the portage-way that ran a furlong or more from the shore, well back from the water-side, under the lee of a rock-wall. But the Lórien Elves were used to this route, having traveled it every ten or twelve years, and they knew their way around the hindrances. It took a few hours only to take the goods out of the barges and bring them to a level place on top of the bank, where they were left under the protection of a few archers. Then the barges themselves were drawn out of the water and carried up - a difficult task even for the skilled Galadhrim, for though they were surprisingly light, they also were rather broad and hard to balance out of the water.

The hardest part was to haul them over the ground, up to the portage-way. Once there, it took little effort for the Galadhrim to lift them onto their shoulders and carry them away to the next serviceable landing. Nevertheless, it took them all day to transport both the barges and the goods on land and load the wares into the boots again, even with every one taking their fair share of the work. They were all tired, and so Lindifar ordered one more night spent on the shore, for they all needed to rest; and so they ate and sang and slept in good spirits, ready to face the Rapids on the next day.

In the early morning they finished packing and took off once gain, keeping as close as possible to the western side, for they already could see the dim shapes of low cliffs rising ever higher, shadowy walls with their feet in the hurrying water. The channel grew narrower and the River swifter, so that the Galadhrim needed all their considerable skills to keep the barges on the safest path in the water. It was an eerie way, with the bright blue sky high above their heads, the dark, over-shadowed water all around them and the black hills of Emyn Muil, in which no opening could be seen, right before them, shutting out the warmth of the golden sunshine.

Lindir shivered, instinctively shifting closer to Erestor as he peered forward towards the rapidly approaching great rocks at some distance. The great pillars seemed to rise up like giants before him as the River whirled their boats like mere leaves towards them. In his mind's eye he saw them carved and still preserving through the suns and rains of many forgotten years the likenesses that had been hewn upon them. Upon great pedestals founded in the deep water he thought he saw two great Kings of stone standing, gazing through blurred eyes northwards. The left hand of each was raised beside his head in a gesture of warning and refusal: in each right there was an axe. On each head there was a crumbling crown and a helm. There was a silent power in these grim wardens of a long-vanished kingdom(17), reminding everyone of the once overwhelming greatness of Westernesse, now preserved only as a faint remembrance in the Mannish kingdoms of the Dúnedain.

''These are the Gates of Sarn-Gebir(18),” said Ithildor quietly, ''marking the northern border of Gondor, the South-kingdom of Men. After we have passed the Gates, you shall be able to see their high seats upon Amon Lhaw and Amon Hen, the Hills of Hearing and of Seeing, where they always keep watch. We shall travel in safety for the rest of our journey.''

And indeed, in a short time they whirled, broad barges dancing like frail nutshells upon the water, under the shadow of the huge, frightening rocks, through the dark chasm of the Gates, filled with the noise of wind and rushing water and echoing stone, shooting out after what seemed eternity to both Erestor and Lindir into the wide, clear light again.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

End notes:

Well, this seemed as good a place to stop as any other, for I didn't want to go into any more boring detail about the journey. And since I have no idea how they could go around the waterfall without having them carry the boats on land once again or missing up the geography totally (saying that landscapes change in 2,400 years), I simply decided to avoid saying anything about it. There might be a few explaining lines in the next chapter, though.

(1) A concept that Tolkien later rejected, according to ''The Treason of Isengard'', because it was too much ''ingenious carpentry'' for his taste.
(2) Earlier version from Galadriel's song from ''The Treason of Isengard''. I altered some parts of it - and, of course, it's not a canon fact that it would origin from the Teleri.
(3) See: Smith of Wootton Major by JRR Tolkien. Quoted after Michael Martinez' article: ''Have you been to Valinor lately?''
(4) There is no canon fact supporting my idea that the Elven minstrels belonged to a sacred Order. Absolutely none. But again, it is no-where said that they did not, correct?
(5) The Fellowship of the Ring needed ten days to reach the Rapids in winter with the smaller, faster boats.
(6) Stirring and spring. Unlike in Rivendell, Wood-Elves used the Sindarin names of seasons.
(7) Dol Amroth, actually - but I had to give the place another name at that time, since Amroth still was alive and kicking; Tol Ondron was supposed to be an island in the middle of Anduin, similar the Carrock in ''The Hobbit''; an idea that Tolkien rejected afterwards.
(8) The Brown Lands
(9) Earlier, rejected name of Dol Guldur. I just decided that this would be how the Silvan folk called it.
(10) The Entwives. And no, I did not made up the fact that they once lived where the Brown Lands were in the Third Age.
(11) We don't know a thing about that, of course. But it could have been.
(12) Yavanna.
(13) I named the special corn of which lembas is made suncorn, for lack of a better name. Suggestions are welcome.
(14) Earlier, rejected name for Rauros.
(15) One of the Lórien extras from the movie (in Haldir's group).
(16) Says Michael Martinez in his article about the food eaten in Middle-earth, ''Pasta la feasta, baby!''
(17) Quoted from ''The Treason of Isengard''. It was part of an early draft of LOTR, where the Kings had swords in their hands instead of axes. Of course, the statues could only be a precognitive vision at that time, having been made almost 700 years later.
(18) Earlier name for the Pillars of Argonath - which were as-yet nonexistent at this time.

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