Part One
The air had become cooler with each passing of the sun, each day his journey taking him further North, further from home. It had been but a week since he had left the village of the horse-masters yet now that brief interlude in his journey was near forgotten in the passing of land and time. Even so, his spirit and his heart had remained buoyant and the weariness that had overcome him before that respite had not, as yet, returned.
His thick black cloak hugged his frame closely, a barrier to the chilling wind that swept from the West only to recoil from the towering, snow tipped, mountains to the East. The sun, barely visible behind the thick grey clouds that had masked the sky for the last few days, had offered little comfort or warmth in his passing and though he was becoming accustomed to the Northern climate, each morning frost offered a stern reminder of the more temperate lands of his former life.
He was no longer certain of the lands which he had passed, nor that which he now traversed, for he had met no man since crossing the Isen, some five days hence. He had passed untended flocks and grazing cattle left upon the fertile lands nearest the mountains, but of their keepers he had seen no sign. Perhaps, as he had often wondered, the people simply choose not to show themselves to the mysterious stranger in black that crossed their lands. In many ways, he was glad that none had come forth, for he knew little of the people and language of these parts, less still of whether they would welcome a sword bearing Gondorian within their borders.
The sword at his side, the last remnant of his former life, his only companionship on the long and distant road, was the sole comfort in the rugged lands. A reminder both of his struggles and victories, as well as the ill-fated moment that had cost him everything he held dear. He had released much of the regret he had for that day, yet the burden of self-doubt and guilt still clung to him as tightly as the cloak about his figure; a dark cloud of remorse that he could not bear to forgive himself for. Salvation, redemption, he had all but forsaken, yet there was still the slightest glimmer, the faintest touch of hope within his heart.
“Even in the clouded sky of the darkest night a single star may be seen”
The words of his father, spoken long ago when he had been but a child, unable to comprehend the meaning within the words. He had sat alone, awake, night after night watching the sky, watching the stars, as if to confirm the wisdom of his father to his childish eyes. On one eve, the eve before the passing of his mother from the world, there came a night as black as the deepest abyss, clouded with thick layers of seemingly solid cloud. Arathrandir had watched the shifting, roiling, clouds as they crashed like ocean waves across the sky, waiting, patiently, for a sign of light, for a single star. When his father awoke him from his slumber, upon the balcony which he had sat all night, no star had been seen. He had asked his father why the words he had spoken, had not been so and his youthful ignorance was met with the gentle, loving, smile that his father had always given him in his patient teaching. Arathrandir had not come to understand his father's wisdom until many years had passed, on the eve of his first expedition with the army. The realisation was not sudden, was not a flash of light, but it came with time, with understanding, with experience. It had been a single star that had kept him watching the sky that night, it had been that glimmer of hope, that shred of expectation which prompted him to do something which he would not otherwise have done . Hope, no matter how small, was enough to change the hearts of men and children.
Like much of the wisdom of his father, these words he now cherished, even utilised to inspire his men and peers. The words of a scholar through the mouth of a soldier had a greater effect than he had first anticipated and so it was that despite his father's reluctance to allow Arathrandir to the field, the wisdom that he had passed on served the soldier as well as they might the scholar. He knew not why this memory had returned to him now, yet in the gloom of the storm clouds above, and the first speckles of rain upon his cloak, he was glad of the reminder of home, of his father, of his childhood. Even in the darkest of days, such hope could be found, despite the burdens he wished he could remove. The storm clouds broke just as the first flames of his camp-fire breathed to life. The patter and hiss of the rain evoking curious thin streams of steam upon the precious dry wood he had been able to gather. To the East the dark clouds rumbled atop the mountains, like baleful giants awakening, the fanged pinnacles silhouetted at intervals by the occasional and shocking flash of lightning across the sky. Beneath the cover of the isolated and solitary chesnut tree he was dryer than most of the land about him, yet even beneath the thick cover of leaf and branch, he had not wholly escaped the downpour. With the hood of his ragged and mud-worn cloak raised and sodden he was glad only of the simmering stew of meat and herbs that sat over the fire. The meat had long since lost its taste and much of the bread he had left was stale and rock-like, yet even so he was glad each hot meal, despite the familiarity. He had eaten worse, he had gone without in times of need, this simple meal was the least of his concerns.
The storm settled in above with rhythmic pulses of lighning followed, at length, by the crash of thunder but he was not deterred from drawing the parchment map from his pack. He shielded the map with an outstretched arm, draped with his cloak, as he flattened it upon his camp-mat, careful not to allow the rain to destroy the parchment. His glances moved across the lands; West from Minas Tirith, North toward Rohan, and onwards, to places he was yet to see with his own eyes yet knew he would come to. To the North, several days ride away, lay Tharbad. Aethrid, the man that had so courteously given his hospitality in Rohan, had told him little of the town but Arathrandir knew what lay in store. The annals of Gondor had much to recount of the former glory of the now dead town, and much to tell of the ruins that now stood where once the great bridge and fortifications of Arnor once stood. It was still one of few crossings on the Greyflood, but the crossing itself was said to be perilous and treacherous to the unprepared. The once great bridge that had been but a part of the great North-South road was collapsed and fragmented to rubble, that rubble now formed a ford of shallow depth, but unpredictable nature; the crumbling rubble and stonework shifted with each passing summer as the waters of the Greyflood became dangerously swift with the melt of the mountain frosts. Few dared to cross in Tharbad in these times, for without the great road, without the bridge, Tharbad had been forgotten by most, and was ignored by those few who knew of it.
Arathrandir had memories enough to know that the crossing would prove more troublesome than anything he had encountered so far, yet with the hot meal before him, and the easing of the storm, he was comforted to know that such a crossing was still some days travel away.
Lightning streaked across the blackened sky, piercing the dense canopy of rain beaten leaves in brilliant flashes and casting flickering ghostly shadows between the trunks of the forest's edge. A slender face, barely visible in the darkness, topped with smooth silvery grey hair peeked from the uppermost branches of a rugged oak. Her light blue eyes piercing the gloom, scouring the darkness, for her quarry. In the rumble of thunder she would not hear the approach, and in the darkness she could barely see beyond the reach of her arm, yet her eyesight, she knew, was keener than that of the man that followed. A slender, finely crafted, ash bow was held tightly in the grip of her dark leather glove, a white feathered arrow nocked and readied upon the taut string held skilfully, yet lightly, between thumb and finger. At her back, a loosened pack, and her prize, burdened her, yet the burden was light enough not to distract from her intent gaze toward the forest floor nor from her otherwise graceful recline upon the trunk of the oak.
His footsteps were loud enough to wake the dead, each crash of his heavy, iron clod, boot snapping branch and twig alike on the littered carpet of the forest. His right hand glistened red in the flicker of lightning, the blade held within sticky with gore and still warm blood despite the pouring rain. The blood seeped in a gentle stream down the blade, flooding across the hilt in slow waterfall to the grip of his hand. His eyes raged with ire, their furious glances to left and right, despite the darkness, uncertain yet seemingly dedicated on anything they came to settle upon. He screamed in fury of confusion at the darkness, his thick muscles and sturdy frame impeding him upon the scent of his prey, the pitch black further rendering him without means to find the prize. The storm still ravaged above, in mockery of the rage of the man below, for the anger of the man was little to compete with the crash of thunder within the thick clouds and the blaze of light that seemed ever close; The man's shouts and roars were as raindrops against the cascading waters of the storm, the power of the man, to the might of the Valar, unimportant, unnoticeable.
The charge of the air had sparked the heated argument to something far more grim, the storm a catalyst to the pent up frustration and anger of the disparate band and their internal disagreements. Four now lay dead about the campfire, each in agonising repose, each with a deep cut across their throat. The man that now stumbled through the forest had killed each while they slept, the argument not forgotten to him, yet one had escaped before the kill. She was a stranger among them, yet had taken their charge and their lead despite the unfamiliarity. The others were soldiers, they were used to orders and the command of the woman seemed well enough to serve their own greed. Yet, they had resented her orders at times, resented the inexperienced and demeaning gaze of the youthful, inexperiened, girl. She was no soldier, the others knew that much, her skill with the bow and her swift feet would be ill placed in the ranks and her lean frame was built more for stealth, than for the clash of blades. The man that now stood alone in the darkness knew that in the woodlands, he would have no chance, yet blinded by greed and rage he had followed nonetheless.
Her hands remained steady despite the empty nausea that filled her senses and reverberated through her nerves to her goose fleshed skin. The space about her seemed to transform in curious reflection of her fear, the air tingling and heavy, dry and tinged with the unnerving taste of metal. She had distrusted her companions from the very start of the journey, aware of their desire for something more than coin and blood, but she had not thought they would betray one another for the prize she now held. They knew little of its worth, they had not even known what it was until she had told them, they would have little chance or opportunity to turn their find into profit. Even so, their greed had overcome their senses and now four lives were lost to that stupidity. She had heard the death screams of the third, agonising, gurgling, haunting screams of death that she would never forget. The revulsion and terror of those screams had saved her, but she still felt little comfort in knowing that a man had died for her escape. Now her eyes, keen and piercing of the darkness, could see the approach of the figure she had fled from, the blood stained hand and sword testimonies to the murder borne of greed. Her white fletched arrow, the tip steady and calm even as the storm raged about her, even as her nerves thundered with fear, lined upon the approach of the soldier. Her breath slowed in the familiar concentration and instinctive control of her art, her eyes focused solely upon the leather bound chest of her target to the exclusion of all else. With the release of breath, the subtle exhalation of control, the arrow loosed from the string, slipping through the air with a swiftness matched only by the crack of lightning above.
Part Two
The road had been little more than a lighter shade of grass in a line to the North for the last few days but it had at least offered some measure of guidance in the unknown lands. He had taken to a slow canter, his eagerness to reach Tharbad lessened with each passing day, but his progress had been steady and uninterrupted. He could now make out the fallen stonework of the ruined town to the North and they offered little comfort. Two great stone towers had once stood on either side of the bridge itself but he could see now that little remained of them but a outline traced in his imagination from the broken stones that arose ahead. The rainfall that had come for the last two nights had, at least, lessened to a light shower but with his clothes drenched and his pack dampened the cold wind from the North still had a chilling bite. He had made a fire each night from the dry kindling he had managed to find but the moments of warmth seemed fleeting while the moments of cold seemed to last. The northern climate was cooler than he had expected and the rain had helped little as he had become accustomed to the chill. While he had a fur mantle and warm clothing from the people of Rohan, he still could not shake the shivers that ran across his skin day and night. He knew it was likely to get worse.
Another stone marker passed on his right but his eyes could not make out the worn inscription. He had passed many as he had come North and knew that the markers once set distance toward the great kingdoms of his ancestors, markers for the many travellers, soldiers and merchants that had once passed along the artery of the old kingdoms. Now the markers were eroded, or covered in weeds and grass, and meant little to most who dared to use the Greenway. He had not seen any other upon the road, nor to East or West, but he was certain that someone had travelled North not long before him. He had come across an abandoned camp-site only the night before, its fire long since burnt out but still dry beneath the cover of three large oak branches, and had made his own fire within the ashes. He could not guess at how long it had been abandoned, or at who had made use of it, but he was gladdened to know that he was not the only one foolish enough to use the road. He had often thought of riding to East or West, of abandoning the road, in search of people and comfort once more, but every such thought he had so far ignored with memories of the advice of Aethrid, the old man that had guided and aided him in Rohan. To East and West were lands little more than grass and desolation, where once great forests had been, and in those empty lands the only comfort he was ever likely to find was the comfort of brigands. Though he was disgraced, though he was no longer the Captain he had once been, he was not about to allow himself to fall so low as to join with such company. But the thought was still there; He had not belonged in Rohan, where peace and a simple life could have been his, nor could he return to his old life among the Captain's of Gondor, what choice was there left but to accept life with companions disgraced and outcast such as he?
She dropped silently to the damp covering of leaves that masked the soil of the forest floor, her footfall unheard and unseen by the scurrying creatures of the forest that had begun to poke their noses from the undergrowth into the musty mist of the woods. With quick, but soft, steps she passed swiftly from trunk to trunk, her eyes ever glancing toward the centre of the clearing in mild confusion and curiosity. As she found a great oak large enough to conceal her in each direction she paused, turning her head with a subtle frown, and stared at the empty clearing once more. At the centre, where it should have landed, was her arrow, the white feathers dampened and frilled in the rainfall, but otherwise perfectly straight in the ground. About the edge of the clearing she could see no footsteps, no markings to suggest that anyone had come into or out of the clearing, yet that which she had shot two nights ago no longer lay beneath her arrow, as it should have. She stepped carefully from behind the great oak trunk, arrow held deftly between thumb and finger upon the bowstring, her graceful step nervously approaching the centre. As she reached her arrow she bent her head to the ground, her eyes seeking traps or trickery about the arrow, but only a reddish stain appeared to linger upon the body of the arrow. She pulled her ear from the ground as branches snapped towards the East, the sudden sound jolting her to flee back to the cover of the oak tree. She listened carefully, her heart pounding, her nerves stretched, but no further sound came but for the call of birds between the branches above. She shook her head as she relaxed offering only a whispered curse to her fear. She had grown up near the forest, had grown up with the strange and often terrifying sounds of woodland wildlife and creaking trees and had been scared of them only in her childhood. With her fear, her memories of home resurfaced, memories of a time when she had wandered in the forest with her father, times when she had little troubles and fewer scars. Once she had been so scared of the bark and call of some unknown creature that her father had stayed in his rocking chair beside her bed all night, in the morning he had taken her into the woodland and showed her how to shoot with a bow, but only at those creatures that they needed for the coming winter. She had seen foxes and wolves, rabbits, deer and even, at a distance, a brown bear and her father had explained the noises they made, the foods they ate, and their names in the elven tongue. That night the sounds had come again but she was unafraid and smiled as she thought of the prancing foxes within the woodlands. Now, she could not recall the names her father had taught, but she had used the lessons that he had shown her within the forest. The sound of a branch snapping, she knew, was not often natural, for the wildlife of such forests was too small to break branches, but often simply a result of broken trees split by lightning or drying after a great rain. She exhaled slowly, smiling at her own nervousness, just as another branch snapped in the distance, this time closer to the edge of the forest, towards the way she had planned to make her escape from the woods.
“Amid bough and bark, from dawn until the dark, the elven eyes are watching, beneath grey and hidden hood. N'er will you see them near, nor will you ever hear, elven eyes a' watching, in the Golden Wood” The song lingered between the boughs as the man pondered through the edge of the forest, his footsteps hardly one before the other, let alone taking caution of branches and undergrowth. As he began to whistle he paused for a moment, glancing behind him, but then moved on once more. He was dressed in a cloth and leather hauberk, tanned and dyed to an umber hue, under which a coat of chainmail seemed to cover his broad chest. A dark patch of black cloth covered his right eye, the knot passing beneath the brown hair that matched the unkempt beard that covered most of his face. Upon his back a pack, laden with all manner of bottles, bags and tools weighed heavily, though he did not show any sign of encumbrance, but the most troubling sight was the weighty hammer at his hip, and the huge shield that lay across his back beneath the pack. She shook her head as she dropped from the tree and began to follow the stranger, his motion through the forest leaving clear tracks in the wake. She could hear his voice once more breaking into a song, the words once more repeated as though he had whistled the rest of the tune until he had come back to those lines. Bright golden light filtered in from the East, shimmering in the mist and leaving curious shadows through which she could step silently. The forest's edge was far more welcoming than the clearing she had left, the ambience created by the warming light that trickled throught the lighter canopy offering peace of mind and calm to her senses. Deeper within the forest she had felt unwelcome, as though the forest itself was giving a warning and caution not to delve deeper into its secrets. She trailed at a short distance, her bow across her back but a short dagger in hand, as the man continued his march northwards. He turned at odd interval to glance behind, but his eyes never searched the shadows, his sight never seemed to be looking for anything or anyone in particular. She guessed it was but a habit, the trait of a suspicious nature, rather than the expectation that he was being followed. His whistling and song, if not the noise of his footfall, would after all give him away if there were any following. As he passed out of the trees, into the thin stretch of land upon the banks of the Anduin, she crouched within the shadow of a tall ash tree, cautious not to follow into the open land where his glances would easily spot her. He had turned to the East and begun the gentle descent towards the river and his pace had somewhat quickened on the grassland though it had become no less graceful. She glanced back to the forest and then over her shoulder at the prize she had retained, before darting swiftly from the cover in pursuit. The stranger, she thought, would be far less of a danger than the Golden Wood.
“A white feathered arrow?” One of the five asked, his voice soft and light, youthful yet wise, in clean elvish
“This is strange find for none saw any enter the ward”
“Not so, dear friend, for there is one who saw, one who knows, the intruder that breached our ward” The second spoke, his voice stronger, as he nodded to the figure at the edge of the group.
“You speak of the maiden Arneth, who has too long ventured out beyond the Naith and into the outer edge of our ward?” The first followed the glance of his companion, his tone scolding despite the gentle nature of his voice.
"Perhaps it was well that she ventured so far from the Naith, for had she not we would now be unaware at the stranger on the borders of our forest”
“The stranger has passed beyond concern and seen nothing but shadows, she ventured not near the Naith nor within our blessed realm, but she left this within our boundary” A third voice spoke, the elegant and soft sounds of the elven maiden like a harp-wrung melody. The maiden glanced at each of them in turn as she drew back the grey cloth that covered a large man, his chest soaked with blood. The five shook their heads in turn, each of them offering a blessing to the fallen man, but none of them had any pity or concern for the intruder that had died within their forest. Had he not been killed by the stranger, it would have been an elvish arrow that had struck his chest.
“Return him to the forest floor, we will abide the rites of men as far as we are able, and then we shall return as swift as able” The first spoke as he stood and pulled the grey hood of his cloak across his golden hair
“Should we pursue the stranger?” The maiden queried as she replaced her hood across her short grey hair.
“No” The voice was clear and definite “The stranger has passed our ward. We shall not pursue that which no longer is our concern”
Among the marchwardens of Lorien there were often disagreements, but in this they all bowed their head. As each began their silent descent from the Talan, Arneth gazed out across the tree-tops, her eyes longing for some sign among the stars, for some instruction, but, as ever, none came and the night sky was as beautifully silent as ever.
Arathrandir pressed the long branch into the swelling waters, his reach from the bank limited by the unstable footing, his fears confirmed as almost half of the branch disappeared before meeting the bed of the river. He had reached only a few feet from the bank, and the waters were already deep enough to reach his chest if he waded through them. He retreated back across the loose stones with careful steps, dropping the branch to the left with a sigh. He had made a makeshift shelter, out of the wind and spray from the river, at the corner of two barely stable walls and had taken some time to explore the ruins but his hopes of finding some remnant of the glory of the town had been unfulfilled. Stone was all that was left of Tharbad, and even that had been eroded and worn to such an extent that stuctures that once stood proud and tall were now unrecognisable. Anything of worth, anything not simple stone, had long been looted or destroyed. Even some of the stones were missing, taken, no doubt, to build homes and walls for the villages that once stood nearby. He sat beside the pile of warmed stones from the fire, pulling his cloak about him as he shivered, his eyes still watching the swift waters of the Greyflood crashing and roiling amid the stones that dared to intrude within the river. He had at first seen a line of stepping stones across the icy waters, but when he had attempted to cross them the path had proved impassable, the depth and flow of the water about them enough to drown far stronger men than he. Since that first attempt, he had remained on the bank, testing the waters to North and South of the old bridge-house to see if any shallow ford had been made but he had found the waters deeper still beyond the ruined bridge. When the bridge had collapsed, the stones had created a treacherous crossing across the river, but now that crossing was only a fraction more shallow than the river itself and barely more passable. Now, he was certain that there was no way to step across the river, even carefully, and had resigned himself to having to swim in the icy, swirling waters. He knew that he could never lead the horse through and keep himself afloat. He turned his gaze from the waters and nodded towards his steed, who had its head buried in the grass and weeds that grew as a carpet for the ruins of the bridge-house. He could not bring himself to abandon the beast, not yet, that had been a friend and companion on the road for so long. He wished he had at least left the horse among the folk of Rohan, who would have tended and cared for it like no other people. He stood slowly and approached the horse, his hand stroking the mane as he removed the reins and saddle.
“Well, this is the end of your journey at least my friend” he spoke quietly as he dropped the straps and saddle to the ground, removing the packs from it without much concern. The horse glanced up from the grass with a wistful snort, turning its head towards him and pushing his nose against the shoulder of the Captain. “You should go back along the road, the village is a few days back, they will care for you” He smiled lightly as he patted the nose of the horse, pointing a hand back to the South where they had come from. The horse turned its head briefly, staring at his hand, before turning back to the grass. Arathrandir sighed as he walked away, hoping that the horse had understood, hoping that when he came to cross it would not panic or try to follow. He had had men in his company that had needed comfort before a battle, the comfort of a few words of home, of ale, of laughter, every man needed something before joining battle in case they panicked, in case they attempted to follow unaware of the danger only to find themselves lost in waters beyond their reckoning. Arathrandir had always known that his greatest act as a Captain was simply to be among his men, to live and learn with them, to guide them, not with force, but with comfort and wisdom. He had always welcomed new soldiers to the Company even, at times, eaten with them, and he had often seen in their eyes the thanks they they rarely spoke. Arathrandir's watch (a smaller division of the Company of near to fifty men responsible for a period of guard duty upon the walls or gate) were among the most respected of the Company, not because they fought harder or earned more victories, but simply because the nature of Arathrandir earned them such respect. Despite the wall of formality that Arathrandir maintained, his own shield against emotion, there was a bond of understanding between his men and he. With the steed he had an understanding, not spoken but present, but he could never be certain if the horse would bolt despite the comforting words. This time, he had hoped it would, but was glad that it hadn't.
The axe flew past her left cheek faster than she had believed possible and fell some distance behind her but even before she could regain her balance the heavy shield slammed into her arm. She fell back with a cry of anger and pain, rolling to the left as the shield advanced toward her once more. Her dagger flashed in the sunlight as she rose still dazed and unsteady with the impact of the shield upon her. She had not expected the clumsy man to be so quick to react, so adept with the shield that he now hid behind, but now she knew that the drawn dagger had been a mistake as she approached.
“Stop” she shouted her tone more enraged than he hoped “I don't want to fight you”
“Then put your dagger down” The man spoke from behind the shield, his voice courteous if a little tinged with inebriation. She glared over the shield at the brown eyes of the stranger, her senses assessing the nature of the man, before turning her dagger back to the sheath. With a wary step backwards she removed the quiver from her back and lay it upon the floor. The man watched her carefully from behind the shield, only his eyes and the top of his head peering above the edge, but after a moment he drew the shield to his side.
“Much better, don'tcha think?” He nodded as he dropped the shield to the ground and followed swiftly after. She shook her head in astonishment at the oaf of a man, turning her left hand to reveal a second dagger.
“Much better indeed, friend, though perhaps not for you” Her voice was touched with humour, her smile, however, was not. She turned the dagger in her fingers as she studied the man before her with a mixture of disgust and amusement. She had seen men like him before, they were common in her home-land, though the man before her was a fine specimen of the drunken oaf.
“Now, before I decide whether you are worth the trouble of my dagger, perhaps you could tell me your name and your business in these parts?” The man laughed heartily as he reached across to his pack, pulling a flask from the outer pocket. He took a few swigs and pointed off across the river “Just on my way home, my girl, been a'huntin in the woods you see, gotta feed ma family”
She gripped the hilt of the dagger and turned the point once more towards the man, her eyebrow raised and her patience tested “Hunting, with the noise you were making it is evident why you haven't caught anything. That, and the fact that you have but a hammer. Were you hoping a meal would walk up to you and ask to be struck on the head with the hammer?”
The man glanced at his hammer, then to his pack, before returning his gaze to her “Well you got me on that one, girl, you got me on that one. Beogran of Dale, that's me. And at your service, as they say” “Dale, you are a long way from home” She smiled and replaced the dagger to her belt “But I know Dale, I grew up near Esgaroth. I know you too, if you are the son of Hegorn”
“Ah, my pa” Beogran smiled as he took a few swigs from the flask “and what do you know of me then,....girl?” She smiled at the space left for a name, but gave none
“You're a mercenary, if the rumours are true, though not one of great repute or riches. In fact you are known more for your...” She glanced at the flask “other talents than for your weapon”
“That's true enough” He laughed and pulled himself from the ground with some effort. He was muscular and broad, but it was not the weight that burdened him, more the drink that wearied his head.
He turned toward the river once more, collecting his shield and pack from the ground, and began to march off once more. She shook her head and followed after, slowing her own pace to meet his. If there was any man that could find a profit from her prize, this was he, and she knew that with such a drunk any profit could easily be forgotten with a round of drinks.
They had reached the Eastern bank of the Anduin without trouble although the rope bridge that went passed above the river had been far from easy with the heavy steps of the mercenary. She had shouted at him many times to slow down, to take the bridge more cautiously, but if he had heard then he had certainly not shown it. Despite the ignorance and drunkenness, however, she was glad of the company as it meant she didn't have to think back in solitude to the deaths that surrounded the prize at her back. Beogran had stories, always amusing, some unbelievable, that ensured the road was not long, nor time for quiet reflection. She was certain, however, that many of the stories were untrue. As they made camp she turned back to the ongoing story with feigned interest
“Great grey beasts there were, with coiled rope for noses, crashed upon us out of the sands and many fled that day before the fighting proper had even begun. But there we were, stood among the finest and finest of Gondor, in our dirty leather and mail and their shiny pointy helms. We laughed at them well into the night, bloody Gondorians...always think so much of themselves, think they are better than us because their homes stand closer to the enemy than ours. Well, we showed them that day, we fought as well and as hard as any pointy helm and the battle was won. But the real story is what happened after the battle back in the camp...”
Her eyes gazed back across the river towards the forest before the mountains with a sense of regret. Though she knew there was a danger there, unknown, she still longed to explore that woodland. To the East and North the forest of Mirkwood loomed, she knew well enough the perils of that dark forest, but of Lothlorien she had heard only passing rumours and tales. She tossed another log onto the fire, breathing softly into the awakening embers as it began to catch the flame, and interrupted the unheard tale “Do you have any tales about that forest? You were singing something when I first spotted you”
Beogran turned quickly, his original tale apparently over, and shook his head. “You don't want tales of that place, girl. It's a place of Elves, they say, and that's all I need to know to stay clear” Beneath the inebriation there was a touch of sobriety that suggested fear. She had expected that, most people feared Lothlorien even those who had heard next to nothing about it, but in the eyes of the mercenary there was also wonder at the mention of elves. She had never before encountered elven kind though her father had spoken of them to her. The woods about her home were upon the north-east of Mirkwood, after all, where Elves were said to linger between the trees, lights among the shadows, but all her father had ever said was a warning of peril. A story to scare her from other dangers.
“Then what was the song you were singing?” She asked hopefully. “ Amid bough and bark, from dawn until the dark, the elven eyes are watching, beneath grey and hidden hood. N'er will you see them near, nor will you ever hear, elven eyes a' watching, in the Golden Wood” He sang, before laughing “That's all I know, something a friend once told me but mostly forgotten”
She smiled and nodded politely but her heart was disappointed. There was something about that forest that still called to her, beckoned her, but every other sense warned against it. Perhaps it was the man she had killed, or rather believed she had, that had not been where he should have. She still could not guess at how or where the body went or why her arrow was left behind, clearly removed from the body and replaced in the ground, but she guessed at the magic that was at work within the woods. She shook her head to relieve herself of the thought, there was no going back now, even if she wanted to, the only way out of the situation was to get rid of the prize as soon as possible and return home. She turned and lay back upon the bedroll, the sound of another story reaching her ears but unheard, and stared at the sky.
Part 3 - Minhiriath and the North Road
He gasped for air as the waters swirled all about him, his head barely reaching the surface for a breath before being swept beneath the swift currents once more. The water was icy cold and though his gloves were thick, his fingers still felt rigid and frozen as his hands desperately sought something solid to grasp. Once more there was nothing in reach. Behind, and above the crashing tumult of water, he could dimly make out the panicked cries of the horse that had attempted to follow him across the river. The horse had been cautious, at first, as Arathrandir walked slowly into the shallowest part of the river, where the water had only reached his chest, but as the current had swept him away the horse had followed; as though hoping it could help the former rider. But the horse was now as much a victim to the perils of nature as was Arathrandir, and it too was struggling for breath against the deep water. Arathrandir closed his eyes as the last of his breath urged him to release, and inhale the fresh-water, and struggled upward against the current with the last of his strength yet even that was too little. His mouth opened in need of air and found only water. Choking, he swallowed more of the water, his eyes opening in sudden fright as images of his life flashed within his mind; He could see himself standing in a long line of Men, his fellows and friends, in the regalia of Minas Tirith. It was the day he had been made Captain, the day he had taken on the role of leadership and responsibility for more than his own life. Before the line walked the Captain-General of Gondor, his greyish eyes flitting along the line inspecting, and admiring, those who stood before him. Arathrandir could feel the weight of the Sword of Gondor at his side, the clean blade near fresh from the smith and without a scratch or stain to tarnish it. Yet, as he looked to his side, he saw deep red blood dripping from the blade, creating a dark pool upon the white stone of the courtyard. His eyes stared deep into the ever widening pool, watching as the drops splashed and created circular ripples upon the surface, and saw a reflection of himself as he was now, older and wizened, not as had been on that day. His eyes met those of his reflection but as he stared the image began to swirl and change, the deep shades of the blood shifting to a hue of aqua and green. Suddenly his eyes opened and he saw the waters calm, slow, motionless all about him. His arms pushed through the water without any resistance, his legs kicking at the bed of the river to push himself up, and in an instant he found the sky glaring down at him, the great shape of an eagle crossing the clouds high above. He coughed and choked the water from his lungs, gasping as air once more filled him, and found himself within reach of a long branch that lay across the river. As he pulled himself to the bank, he glanced back, but there was no sign of the horse and he could not see the camp where he had first attempted to cross. Falling to his back, he lay upon the grassy rise, weariness and relief pulsing through him.
He awoke to a starlit sky, the glimmering point of Elbereth shining like a beacon at the edge of his gaze, and shivered as the cold wind breezed across his soaken clothes. Instinctively he reached to his belt, relieved to find that the hilt of the sword met his hand, and then pulled himself from the grassy bank. The darkness of the night in the wilderness of the Enedwaith was all encompassing, and his eyes could make out little beyond the reach of his hand, but he could hear the flow of the river just beyond him and the scuffles of creatures in the grassland all around. In the distance, off to the north-east, he could make out torch-light, or campfires, loosely spotted on the rising hills of the landscape but they were too far to head for in the night, with no horse. Reluctantly he dragged himself upward, the damp clothing heavy and cold about him, and walked northward, uncertain of his path but hoping to find cover and shelter.
