OF SNOW AND STONE AND WOLVES
by Soledad Cartwright
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.
Rating: PG – 13, for heavy angst stuff and implied m/m interaction.
Author’s notes:
Sorry, still no Caradhras – and at the speed how things unfold on their own, they will be in Hollin for one more chapter, I’m afraid. Originally there was supposed to be only one chapter in Hollin, but then it would have been much too long, so I broke it into two because I did not want to rush things.
Anyway, first of all many thanks to those who reviewed the former chapters, especially to Deborah who never fails to give me new ideas with her comments. Certain parallels and additional hints to this story can be found in ’’A Tale of Never-Ending Love’’, in case you are interested.
I want to apologize by the Tolkien-purists among us for giving certain lines into the mouths of other characters than the Great Maker has done. Remember, the canon is largely written from a neutral POV or from that of the hobbits. This is how Boromir remembers things – very personal and not necessarily correct, but since this is his story, I took some freedom here.
Chapter Three: Hollin – Dreams, Birds and Shadows
We have been a fortnight on the way – at least that was what the little ones said, for I had long ago stopped counting the twilit days –, when the weather changed. The wind suddenly fell and then veered round to the south, and my heart followed, feeling something akin to hope for the first time sice we left Imladris.
The swift-flowing clouds lifted and melted away, and the sun came out, pale and bright. There came a cold, clear dawn at the end of our long, stumbling nightmarch. It reminded me on cool winter mornings in Minas Tirith, when I often stood upon the walls of my city and could see far and unhindered towards the green fields of Calenardhon through the crystal clear air. I began to breathe easier.
On this morrow we reached a low ridge crowned with ancient holly-trees whose grey-green trunks seemed to have been built out of the very stone of the hills. Their dark leaves shone and their berries glowed red in the light of the rising sun.
Legolas left his place on the rear at once and ran up to the old trees lightly as a lizard on a sunlit rock. Soon, we could see him in deep, wordless conversation with them, his palm resting gently on the rough bark, his eyes shut in intense inward focussing. In his greyish green cloak he looked like a young tree himself.
Aragorn seemed angry at him for leaving his place and moved to bring him back, but Mithrandir, who stood at the Ring-bearer’s side, caught his sleeve.
’’Let him’’, he said. ’’You know the ways of the Silvan folk; after a fortnight with no trees to talk to, he needs this.’’ He looked out under his hand and added: ’’We have done well. We have reached the borders of the country that Men call Hollin; many Elves lived here in happier days, when Eregion was its name. Five-and-forty leagues as the crow flies we have come, though many long miles further our feet have walked.’’
I certainly could feel in my bones that, and – not for the first time – longingly did I think of my horse that was slain by the cursed Orcs at the ruined city of Tharbad. Though I was used to bear great hardness, I was not unsed to bear it afoot (unlike my brother who had spent the recent years among the Rangers of Ithilien), and my shield – great protection on horseback, yet of little use on the ground – became an added burden. I threw it to the ground and grunted.
’’The land and the weather will be milder now’’, the wizard added, ’’but perhaps all the more dangerous.’’
’’Dangerous or not, a real sunrise is mightly welcome’’, said Frodo, throwing back his hood and letting the morning light fall on his face.
I whole-heartedly agreed and watched Legolas returning from the trees. His face was strangely refreshed, as if he had just drawn a long, cold drink after having an endless walk in the desert of Harad.
Gimli the Dwarf, who had came up with him, was now gazing out before him with a strange light in his deep eyes. I had never seen him this excited during our whole journey. To think about it, I had never seen him excited at all, so far.
’’There is the land where our fathers worked of old’’, he said, ’’and we wrought the image of these mountains into many works of metal and of stone, and into many songs and tales. They stand tall in our dreams: Baraz, Zirak, Shathúr.’’
I followed his gaze, and away in the south I could see the dim shapes of lofty mountains that seemed now to stand across the path we were taking. At the left of this high range rose three peaks; the tallest and nearest stood up like a tooth tipped with snow; its great, bare northern precipice was still largely in the shadow, but where the sulight slanted upon it, it glowed red as if stained with blood.
’’There the Misty Mountains divide, and between their arms lies the deep-shadowed valley which we cannot forget’’, the Dwarf added: ’’Azanulbizar, the Dimrill Dale, which the Elves call Nanduhirion.’’
’’It is for the Dimrill Dale that we are making’’, said Mithrandir. ’’If we climb the pass that is called the Redhorn Gate, under the far side of Caradhras, we shall come down by the Dimrill Stair into the deep vale of the Dwarves. There lies the Mirrormere, and there the River Silverlode rises its icy springs.’’
’’Dark is the water of Kheled-záram’’, said Gimli with a sigh of deep longing, ’’and cold are the springs of Kibil-nála. My heart trembles at the thought that I might see them soon.’’
He continued ranting about the beauty of that valley, but – though I certainly could understand his longing for the place where his forefathers once lived – I did not listen to his ramblings. My eyes were on that ragged precipice and my heart filled with dread. Did the wizard know what he was about to do? Did he know the perils of mountains in the times of winter?
I still could vividly remember at that quest, nearly twenty years ago. My father decided to aid the Rohirrim in their fight against the Easterlings, who were falling into the Mark once again, slaughtering horses for food and capturing young children to raise them as their own, for their housings, moist caves deep under the hills, made their offspring die in great numbers, at a very young age.
Théodred and I, both young warriors at that time (Éomer and the Lady Éowyn were still but little children), were pursuing the men of Ragnar the Smith1 with naught but a small escort. They fled to the mountains, and we had to climb the passes of the Mindolluin to catch them – which is not so hard during summer, but deadly when the first snow has fallen… something we did not know back then. In the end, we somehow managed to get through, but we almost died; several Men of our escort, in fact, did. And though this quest led to the first awkward peace treaty between King Théoden and Ragnar the Smith, I still think back with dread to it, and so does Théodred, too, I know that.
How come Mithrandir cannot feel the coming of snow in his bones? Did he not consider that it would almost certainly be the death of the Halflings? Grown Men would be hard-pressed to pass the Mountains in the winter! Or does he think he could defeat the snow with the power that is in him?
I shook my head and forced myself to listen to the wizard’s explanations. Not that the names he mentioned would have said much to me, but at least I wanted to know what lay before us, in case I had to protect the little ones. Someone had to think of him, if all the wise forgot about them. The Ring-bearer and his servant were not the only ones that needed to be protected.
’’We must go down the Silverlode to the secret woods’’, he said, and Legolas’ eyes became even brighter hearing that, ’’and so to the Great River, and then…’’
He paused, clearly having no idea about the rest of our – their – way. I for my part would be leaving them as soon as we reached Anduin’s west bank. My white city is waiting for me, with or without her self-proclaimed King.
’’Yes, and where then?’’, asked Meriadoc.
Trust the Halflings that they would not let any one leave their curiosity unsatisfied – not even a shrewd old wizard like Mithrandir!
’’To the end of our journey – in the end’’, the old man said in his customary shadowy manner. ’’We cannot look too far ahead. Let us be glad that the first stage is safely over. I think we shall rest here, not only today but tonight as well. There is a wholesome air about Hollin. Much evil must befall a country ere it wholly forgets the Elves, if once they dwelt here.’’
’’That is true’’, said Legolas, yet his fair face was strangely hard and his eyes darkened. ’’But the Elves of this land were a race strange to us of the Silvan folk, and the trees and the grass do not now remember them. Only I hear the stones lament them.’’
Suddenly his voice deepened and the weight of many centuries long gone overshadowed his face, and he no longer looked young but ancient and strong and beautiful like the hills themselves, as he spoke:
’’Deep they delved us… fair they wrought us… high they builded us… but they are gone…’’
He shuddered lightly; then the shadow of ancient times was gone, and he was himself again, fair, kind and valiant Prince of Mirkwood.
’’They are gone’’, he said in his own voice again. ’’They sought the Havens long ago.’’
* * * * * * * * * * *
That morning we lit a fire in a deep hollow shrouded by great bushes of holly, and our supper-breakfast was merrier than it had been since we set out. Samwise, Frodo’s servant jumped at the chance to cook us ’’a decent meal’’, as he called it, and to my surprise, he proved to be quite a skilled cook. But, of course, my tastes had been greatly simplified since I started to eat at my soldiers’ table in the wardrooms some twenty years ago.
Still, it felt good finally get something hot into our stomachs, and the food tasted rather good. I sat with my little friends, silently wondering about the huge amounts of food they were able to eat in the shortest of time. I would have ere fed a whole company of grown Men than these two. And the more they ate, the higher their spirits became, and soon even the Dwarf was shaking and grunting with surpressed laughter over their silly jokes and funny songs. They were irresistible in their merriment.
We did not hurry to bed afterwards, for we expected to have all the night to sleep in, and we did not mean to go on again until the evening of the next day. So I remained with Meriadoc and Peregrin at the fire, listening to the funny tales of the latter about his three sisters (all of them older than him), his father, the Thain of the Great Smials (what ever that might be; apparently, he was called ’’The Took’’ under less formal circumstances, and their family seemed to have great respect among their own people), and, most proudly, about the brother of his great-great-great-grandfather, one Bandobras Took, called the Bullroarer, who was said to be so huge (for a Halfling, at least), that he could ride a horse and defeated an Orc-band in some strange place they called the Northfarthing.
’’Bullroarer charged the ranks of the goblins of Mount Gram in the Battle of the Green Fields’’, Peregrin told, swelling with pride, and calling the Orcs goblins, for a reason I could not understand, ’’and knocked their king Golfimbul’s head clean off with a wooden club. It sailed a hundred yards through the air and went down a rabbit hole...’’2
Both of which was highly unlikely, not to mention that Orcs never had any kings, save the Enemy himself, but the tale was funny and Peregrin clearly enjoyed telling it, and I soon lost count on all those weird names and peoples and places I had never heard of anyway, more so when Meriadoc joined in with his own little tales, concerning his home with the ridiculous name of Brandy Hall and his father, who seemed to be some sort of chieftain in Buckland, part of the land of the Halflings.
I listened more to the merry sound of their clear little voices; it was so light and heartwarming as the voice of untroubled children, though I kept reminding myself that in the measure of their own race they were both grown men. Well, at least Meriadoc was, having passed the important age border of 33, while Peregrin was still considered ’’tweenaged’’, as they said, meaning that he was not fully adult yet.
Mithrandir and the Dwarf, it seemed, knew a great many of the people and places the Halflings were talking about, and even Legolas joined us after he had his fill from the old trees, listening with a fond smile.
Only Aragorn was silent and restless. After a while he left the fire-site and wandered on to the ridge; there he stood in the shadow of a tree, mimicking the custom of Elves, looking out southwards and eastwards, with his head posed as if he was listening. Legolas noticed this and he, too, rose gracefully, leaving the others who were still laughing and talking. He joined Aragorn who now returned to the brink of the dell and looked down at us with a scowl on his face.
’’What is the matter, Strider?’’, the irrepressible Meriadoc called up to him, unconcerned about his obviously foul mood. ’’What are you looking for? Do you miss the East Wind?’’
If they realized at all who Aragorn truly was, the Halflings seemed not to care for his so-called destiny. It was refreshing.
’’No, indeed’’, Isildur’s Heir answered. ’’But I miss something. I have been in the country of Hollin in many seasons. No folk dwell here now, but many other creatures live here at all times, especially birds. Yet now all things but you are silent.’’
He did not add ’’and you should be silent, too’’, but it could be heard in the undertone all too clearly. Not that it mattered to the Halflings, though. Warnings of this sort were useless with them, as I came to learn.
’’There is no sound for miles about us’’, Legolas affirmed, still listening, his brows knitted in confusion, ’’and your voices seem to make the ground echo. I do not understand it.’’
Mithrandir looked up with sudden interest.
’’But what do you guess is the reason?’’, he asked. ’’Is there more in it than the surprise at seeing four hobbits, not to mention the rest of us, where people are so seldom seen or heard?’’
’’I hope that is it’’, answered Aragorn, while Legolas simply shrugged, not being familiar with this land. ’’But I have a sense of watchfulness and fear, that I have never had here before.’’
’’Then we must be more careful’’, said Mithrandir. ’’If you bring a Ranger with you, it is better to listen to him, more so if the Ranger is Aragorn. We must stop talking aloud, rest quietly and set the watch.’’
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
This put a sudden ent to the young Halflings’ merriment, to our all dismay – yet we all knew that our path was full of peril, and had to trust Aragorn who knew these lands better than any one, even Mithrandir. So we all went to sleep, save Samwise, for it was his turn that day to take first watch. Aragorn, though his would not came ’til sunset, joined him. The others fell asleep, myself including.
During that rest, I had a dream again. Not one of the nightmares that had haunted me ever since Osgiliath, nor one of those disturbing visions, sent by the Ring, in-between sleep and awakeness. It was a real dream, as I had not dreamt since the Riddle of Doom came to me, after Faramir and I had escaped the ruins of Osgiliath.
A truly disturbing dream it was – a queer one, as young Peregrin would have said. It seemed to me that I was floating on the waves of Anduin, lying in a small boat of strange fashion, with a high prow. It was glimmering in the water, which filled it to the rim, and I could not move as if the water itself would hold me down. The horn of Gondor lay upon my lap, broken in two halves, and I was not wearing the Stone, nor the silver clasp of the Lady Éowyn.
The water brought me towards my city that seemed in flames again, yet not fallen, and a great battle was roaring around her broken walls and all upon the fields of Pelennor. Immediately, I began to seek out my brother, yet I could never find him. There were many Riders of Rohan, carrying the banner of Théoden King, yet led by the young Éomer, fighting like only the fierce, gold-haired warriors of the Riddermark can fight.
And there came a company of the Rangers of the North, grim and dour-handed Men clad in rough grey garb, sweeping through the dark hosts of Mordor like a storm. And they carried a great banner with the White Tree of Gondor; but seven stars were about it, and a high crown above it, the signs of Elendil that no lord had borne for years beyond count. And the stars flamed in the sunlight for they were wrought of gems; and the crown was bright in the morning, for it was wrought of mithril and gold.
A great fight broke out when they reached the battlefield, and among them I saw a tall man, clad in shining armor that gleamed in the sunlight like pure gold – yet he wore no helm, just a bright white star upon his brow, and his long, dark hair was bound together on the nape of his neck and floated behind him like the horsetail crest on Éomer’s helm. He fought like Oromë the Great in the Battle of the Valar, with deadly force and fierce will, yet his moves were graceful as if he would perform a sacral dance to celebrate Death. His long sword never failed and his hands and the bright-burnished vambrances upon his arms were gleaming with the black blood of Orcs.
I watched his terrible dance with awe, for never had I seen someone fight in such cold fury before, and I was wandering who this mighty warrior could be and what lucky fortune brought him to the aid of my belaguered city in the last possible moment. For so great was the force of his wrath that all the other Men around him came to new strength and finally they were able to press the dark armies of the Enemy away from the walls.
Then he turned to me and I saw his face. Pale it was and yet flushed from the heat of battle, as I had seen it before only in the moments of our shared passion. For no Man it was, but Elladan Elrondion himself, my soft-speaking, gentle lover, as I had never seen him: grim and vengeful and full of wrath. And his clear grey eyes looked at me over the battlefield, and there was deep love in them again, and I heard his beloved voice in my heart, so clearly as if I were not lying helplessly in that overflooded boat but in the safety of his arms once more:
’’I promised you, meleth-nin, that I would protect you and all that is yours, as long as there is life in me still. ’Tis an oath I shall never break.’’
* * * * * * * * * *
I jerked awake with a shudder, cold sweat bathing my forehead. The others were still asleep, thank the Valar, giving me a chance to recover from that weird dream ere I had to face them. The silence had grown while I slept; it could almost be touched by bare hands. Even Samwise felt it, of that I was sure, for I could see his eyes wandering around nervously.
I sat up to take a look around, too, sweeping the sweat from my brow. That dream was so vivid, I could understand now why the cursed gift of dreaming took such a heavy toll from both my father and my brother. Still, I could not figure out its meaning.
Not fully, at least. The banner itself was easy to understand: whether I liked or not, Aragorn would come to Minas Tirith and claim the throne. And the people shall follow him into a glorious battle to fight the Enemy and save our city. But where were my father and my brother? And why had Elladan to come and fight in my stead? Was I going to die ere I could reach my home or was I captured and rendered helpless?
Why was Éomer leading the Rohirrim? He is only the Third Marshal of the Mark, and leading a host to aid Gondor was the right and the duty of the Crown Prince. What was going to happen to Théodred – or had it happened already, only that we did not get any tidings of it yet?
My heart was heavy with dark foreboding and I felt a great urge to set on right there, to rush to the aid of my home. I cursed bitterly my tardiness that kept me in Imladris, even after the Council of Elrond. I should not have waited for the scouts to return. I should have left right after the Council, even if it had meant to part from my lover in anger. Then he would be free, and I were halfways at home, where I was sorely needed.
Would you truly want for us to part in anger?’, the soft voice in my heart asked. I had not realized I was clutching at the Stone again. Would you rather be free and out of my reach?
I could not answer – I had not figured out yet how to answer him –, but it was not necessary, either. I more felt than heard his quiet laughter – and then he was gone. He knew me too well already, and his heart was so gracious, my thoughtlessness could not truly reach it. He simply accepted me with all what I was and who I was. This was a gift beyond imagination; one I only learnt to appreciate much too late.
* * * * * * * * * * *
I could hear my own joints creaking as I shifted position… sleeping on the ground became less and less comfortable with every passing year. Old injuries arose again with remembered pain, and my limbs got stiff from the hard ground and the wetness. I had grown accustomed to having a tent, even on the battlefield, it seemed.
Samwise and Aragorn sat still at the dying fire, their faces tense. It seemed, I did not sleep that long, after all. Not long enough for such a long and disturbing dream, at least, one would think. Dead silence was around us, and over all hung a clear blue sky, as the Sun rode up from the East. It remainded me of the early mornings in Edoras, after a long, merry night spent with beer and songs in the company of the Riders of Rohan, and I wondered whether I would sit with Théodred and Éomer at the table again.
Yet away in the south a dark patch appreared, and grew, and drove north like flying smoke in the wind. I suddenly felt very awake… somewhere I had seen something like this… or hear about it? I could not remember.
’’What is that, Strider? It do not look like a cloud’’, said the Halfling in whisper to Aragorn, his eyes big and round and frightened.
My King-to-be gave no answer at first. He was gazing intently at the sky; but before long Samwise could see for himself what was approaching. Flocks of birds, flying at great speed, were wheeling and circling, and traversing all the land as if they were searching for something; and they were steadily drawing nearer.
Cold recognition hit me at once. Never had I seen such birds before, I knew that now, but I had heard about them from Théodred, during my last, short visit in Edoras.3 The Crown Prince of the Mark had told me about the dark, evil birds that came out of Isengard in great flocks, roaming the green fields like locusts, ever spying, ever carrying tidings to their treacherous Master.
I threw myself flat to the ground, not caring for my hurt limbs. We must not be seen, so much I understood. I only hoped Aragorn would understand, too. He was a Ranger, after all.
’’Lie flat and still!’’, hissed Aragorn, pulling Samwise down into the shade of a holly-bush; for a whole regiment of birds had broken away suddenly from the main host, and came, flying low, straight towards the ridge. They seemed like they were a kind of crow of large size. As they passed overhead, in so dense a throng that their shadow followed them darkly over the ground below, one harsh croak was heard.
And my heart filled with worry, for I understood that our quest was followed not by the spies of the Enemy only, but by the greedy eyes of Curunír, too, who knew these lands all too well, and whose fortress stood tall and invicible in the middle of our path – well, at least in the middle of my way home.
Not until the evil-looking birds had dwindled into the distance, north and west, and the sky was again clear, would Aragorn rise, and in this case I found better to follow his unspoken lead. Then he sprang up and went and waked Mithrandir.
’’Regiments of black crows are flying over all the land between the Mountains and the Greyflood’’, he told the wizard, ’’and they have passed over Hollin.’’
’’They are not natives here’’, Legolas added; when did he awaken and leave his sleeping place high up on one of the ancient trees to join them, I could not tell. ’’They are crebain out of Fangorn and Dunland. I do not know what they are about, for they never nested in our woods and so I know their tongue not. Possibly there is some trouble away south from which they are fleeing.’’
’’They are spying out the land’’, I told them. ’’For Isengard and its master, Curunír the traitor.’’
They all turned to me with surprised faces. As if I could not know things they did not.
’’What?’’, I asked, irritated. ’’Just because you all seem to think I am a fool, I do not forget what I have learnt in all those years spent in battle against the Enemy.’’
’’And what exactly have you learnt of the crebain, Boromir?’’, Aragorn asked in that silky voice that usually meant trouble. He could not know, of course, that after having grown up as the son of the Lord Denethor, such methods could not frighten me any more.
’’I learnt in Rohan, that these birds nest in Isengard and serve as the spies of Curunír’’, I answered, locking eyes with him. ’’And I think we ought to move again this evening. Hollin is no longer wholesome for us. It is watched.’’
’’And in that case so is the Redhorn Gate’’, said Mithrandir, deliberately leaving the dismay on Aragorn’s face unnoticed; the would-be-King of Gondor did not like suggestions, unless he asked for them, ’’and how we can get over that without being seen, I cannot image. But we will think of that when we must.’’ Then he turned to me. ’’As for moving as soon as it is dark, I am afraid that you are right.’’
This was the very first time, I think, that the wizard had addressed me directly, ever since we left Imladris. And the very first time through all those years that we had known each other that he agreed with me in anything. He did not like it, I could see that much, but at least he was man enough to give me credit where I deserved it.
My King-to-be scowled a little – he did not like it either when decisions were made without his opinion being asked first; even less so when I had a word to say in the matter –, yet there was little he could do about it when I was so clearly right.
’’Luckily our fire made little smoke, and had burned low before the crebain came’’, he growled. ’’It must be put out and never lit again.’’
I rolled my eyes, for he truly did not need to tell me that. I might have spent most of my time on open battlefields, but I did get out with my brother and the Rangers of Ithilien often enough to know my way around the wildernes. A sharp answer was ready on my lips, when I caught the highly amused look in Legolas’ eyes. I knew not whether his amusement was for Aragorn alone or for our childish banter, but it took the wind off my sail.
’’The Halflings shall not be pleased to hear this’’, was all what I said.
Which was, of course, an understatement.
’’Well if that is not a plague and a nuisance!’’, cried Peregrin in dismay when I broke him the news: no fire, and a move again by night, as soon as he woke in the late afternoon. ’’All because of a pack of crows! I had looked forward to a real good meal tonight: something hot.’’
The devotion of the Halflings to food was truly amazing.
’’Well, you can go on looking forward’’, said Mithrandir, not looking too happy either, though because of a different reason, I guess. ’’There may be many unexpected feasts ahead of you. For myself I should like a pipe to smoke in comfort, and warmer feet. However, we are certain of one thing at any rate: it will get warmer as we get south.’’
’’Not soon enough’’, I murmured to Legolas. ’’I feel the coming of snow in my bones. It will catch us ere we could climb that pass.’’
’’That is my fear, too’’, the Elf nodded; then he added with a mischievous spark in his eyes: ’’Yet even another night walk is welcome for me, if it means that I could be spared of the ill-smelling smoke of pipe-weed.’’
We both laughed quietly, being the only two members of the Company not hooked to that stinking leaf. Then he sobered again and grabbed my arm.
’’Come’’, he said. ’’If we must stay put, let us make a comfortable nest for the hobbits. For though remarkable tough little fellows they are, their feet are already sore from the road, and they still seem cold.’’
I followed his gaze and saw Frodo shivering, Samwise grim and worried and Peregrin clearly miserable. Not even Meriadoc had a smile on his face. So I simply nodded and helped Legolas make a warm sleeping nest of blankets and spare clothes and even rubbed Peregrin’s back to make him warm again.
He looked up to me thankfully, and all of a sudden he did not seem to be a child to me any more.
’’Thank you’’, he said quietly. ’’I regret being a nuisance.’’
’’You are not’’, I told him. ’’Your body is much smaller and cannot keep the warmth so well, that is all. Rest now, while you can.’’
He obediently went to sleep again, while I sat next to him and Meriadoc, dreams blissfully avoiding me this time. We remained in hiding all day. The dark birds passed over now and again; but as the westering sun grew red, they disappeared southwards.
I watched them fly towards the fields of Calenardhon and wondered what Curunír might be planning. And more than ever did I want to be back in my own land, to be able to aid our valiant friends of the Mark. For was greatly worried about the safety of Rohan’s borders, about my good friend, the King’s only son and about the Lady Éowyn whom I gave my promise; and I asked myself in doubt what of that promise I would ever be able to fulfill.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
At dusk we set out, and turning now half east we steered our course towards Caradhras, which far away still glowed faintly red in the last light of the vanished Sun. One by one, white stars sprang forth as the sky faded, yet not even their pure light could lift the worries’ weight from my heart. For I could remember what Elladan told me of the Redhorn Pass: how his mother was waylaid there by Orcs and captured, and how she never truly recovered from the wound she had received back then, in spite of Elrond’s labours and healing skills, and I was wandering if we were going straight into the same trap.
I had to admit that the Lord of Imladris was still a riddle for me. He clearly disliked me, in favor of Aragorn who was his foster son, after all, not to mention the future husband of his daughter, yet he – reluctantly though – accepted my being in Elladan’s life. Not that his rejection would have kept my strong-headed lover fom me, for that Elladan was much too stubborn, yet his parting words to me were so strange… almost as if he had accepted me in his family.
Which was impossible, of course, for I had to return home, where such bonds would never be accepted, and I had to father an heir to our House – and still, at that moment he was almost fatherly to me. Certainly more so than my own father had ever been to Faramir. Elves are a strange folk, and Half-Elves even stranger, I guess, having both Elven and mortal blood in their veins.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Guided by Aragorn, we struck a good path. It looked like the remains of an ancient road, that had once been broad and well-planned, from Hollin to the mountain-pass… mayhap built by the Elves who once dwelt in Hollin. The Moon, now at the full, rose over the mountains, and cast a pale light in which the shadows of stones were black. Many of them looked to have been worked by hands, though now they lay tumbled and ruinous in a bleak, barren land. It had been ages ago that the Elves left this land, and, as Legolas said earlier, only the stones still remembered them.
We walked without a rest till the cold chill hour before the first stir of dawn, and the Moon was low. I felt weary again and looked up the sky to get my bearings, as I learnt in Ithilien from the Rangers. Suddenly I saw – no… more felt – a shadow pass over the high stars, as if for a moment they faded and then flashed out again. The icy grip of fear took my heart again, and I saw that Frodo, too, shivered.
’’Did you see anything pass over?’’, he whispered to Mithrandir, who was just ahead.
’’No, but I felt it, whatever it was’’, the wizard answered. ’’It may be nothing, only a whisp of a thin cloud.’’
’’It was moving fast, then’’, muttered Aragorn, ’’and not with the wind.’’
I resisted the urge to double over and scream as I felt the death-cold touch of the Shadow upon my heart again. Instead, I grabbed the Stone desperately, as if it were the hand of my lover and called out to him for help in my mind wordlessly, though I could not hope to reach him. I never had before; it had always been him to reach out to me when he sensed something wrong through our bond.
For a moment, there was nothing but cold, terrifying and empty darkness. Then I heard his soft voice in my heart, as clear as I had heard it in that strange dream earlier.
’’Have I not promised to protect you and what is yours to the end of your days and beyond? Trust me, meleth-nin, and darkness will not befall you again.’’
And then I could breathe again.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *