The Turn of the Heart (Pt1)

The sun edged lazily into the sky before his eyes, the dappled white clouds dissipating before the glare into blue sky. Even in the clear morning of winter, the air retained the warmth and humidity of autumn despite the diminished radiance. The light, not as bright as midday, hung beneath the canopy of the chesnut trees, lingering in gentle shafts between the fading bloom of the woodland like thick golden spider web hanging from the leaves. Few passed on the pathway before him, save the occasional resident or soldier of Fanwater, but this morning there came the chatter of the local storekeep along the path. Arathrandir paid little heed as the man passed by, his dark eyes remaining fixed upon the soft buttered bread in his hand, and the cup of water at his side. A swift breakfast, and little enough for the road, but he knew he would have to ride hard and swift if he were to reach Imladris in time... In time. The message had come but the evening before, marked with the familiar seal of his shadow, Arneth of Lorien. Ever was he cautious of her warnings, ever did he take heed of her words, for though youthful, lithe and free-spirited, she had lived a life five times his own. An advisor, a protector, even a friend, she had been to him at many points in his life, yet often he heard nothing from her for months or even years. Yet he could trust her, though he often doubted the riddled speech of her warnings. This message was no different "The last homely house hides a thing fond to you, though you do not speak it. Do not trust words unfounded until your own eyes have seen the truth. In Imladris, I shall await" He had given it much thought the evening before, yet no answers had come forth. His mind had sought to delve into his doubts, his concerns of thought, yet in all of them he could see none that would be resolved in Imladris. He had barely slept that night, his mind occupied with thoughts and waking dreams of his life behind in Minas Tirith, seeking further in his memory for an answer to the riddle. A thing fond...perhaps she spoke of the Standard, the Standard of the Company, but he knew that was not so. She would not make him suffer so if the standard had been found, for that was all that kept him from his home, from his men. He drifted to sleep eventually, yet without an answer, without a clue. Now he sat upon the step, watching the world pass by in the morning light, still without answer. He had saddled his horse at the earliest light of dawn, and his pack had been filled with supplies and rations enough for the road. The sword, the only relic of Minas Tirith he retained, strapped to the saddle, the glimmering silver pommel dazzling and reflecting the sunlight in the morning air. He had been ready to leave but an hour ago, yet still he sat upon his doorstep, chewing his meagre breakfast with a distant gaze. Only the distant "Hullo" of the passing storekeep broke him from his wearied thought, and then it still left his mind blank and without the answer that he sought. He did not return the greeting, his eyes glancing from his morning meal to the horse that grazed at the fence. Without a moments further pause, he threw his cloak about his shoulder, tightening the belt of the black leather hauberk, and mounted his steed. "Rivendell" he muttered to himself, patting the horse softly with a tenderness that whispered of friendship between the two of them, before spurring the horse to a canter along the pathway toward the gate of Fanwater. * * * The days had passed as swiftly as the tumult of leaves that surrounded him fell to the ground, a multitude of dark reds and browns, the last leaves of the fall. Between the boughs and trunks of the Trollshaws he had made his way at a canter, ever cautious of the motions in the bushes and the tumbling of rocks. There was a reason that this land was named the trollshaws, and it was a reason he cared not to see in the flesh. He had kept to the road for the most part, meandering long routes to the South and the North, in hope of avoiding danger, yet with the sunlight overhead and the day passing swiftly to night, he had chosen the swifter route between the trees. So far the wilds had been lifeless, save for the passing deer, or scampering squirrel, and had caused him no danger. He had enjoyed the distraction from thought, the endless chatter of the remaining birds, the rustle of leaves of retiring hedgehogs, the sweet and musky smell that permeated everything beneath the diminishing canopy of colour above. Here, like so many places, seemed untouched by the world beyond, and he knew, and hoped, it would ever remain so. As the day began to descend to the horizon, ever following the sun before the chase of the moon, the sounds about had quietened to be replaced with silence. The silence beneath the cover of branches and leaves hung heavily across all, as though it brooded and awaited its prey. His sword, no longer strapped and tightened at his back, shone silver in the pale moonlight, the tip glinting at the nervous turn of his hand with each screech of bat, or hoot of owl in the darkness. He had never felt a night so heavy, so threatening, so contrary to the daytime which had just passed. It was as though a spell of beauty and protection had lifted from the lands to reveal cold and dark reality, with danger at every turn. He felt glad that he was at least close to the river and closing on the fords, for beyond he knew he would need no sword. The softening rush and tumble of water over rock came slowly to his ears, at first a whisper beyond the trees yet now a loud torrent just out of sight. He could see but a few feet before him, the clouded moon offering no guidance within the darkness of the woodland, yet he listened closely to the surrounding sounds, trusting his steed to find its footing in the gloom. Suddenly his horse stopped, its head raising swiftly, ears pricked to a sound the Captain had yet to hear. A soft, nervous whinney murmered from its mouth, even as Arathrandir's hand patted its neck in comfort. He spurred the beast onwards with his heels, his hand still upon its neck, yet it would not move, save for the tremor along its spine that reverberated even through the saddle. Fear, something lurked in the darkness which had rendered the steed paralysed with dread, yet Arathrandir knew not what. He loosed the reins slightly, urging the horse to relax, as his leg swept across the creature to the ground, a curse on his lips as the echo and crack of dried and broken twigs shot into the darkness. The horse bolted, its paniced call diminishing to the distance as Arathrandir struggled after it, sword in hand. He too could now feel the fear, he could sense it from the horses reaction and now it seemed to permeate his heart as well. Yet unlike the steed, he would not bolt for fear, nor run from dread, for to cower or retreat in fear was to beckon retreat. As the distance gaped, he stopped, his hand leaning against the thick bough of the tree beside in rest and support. Now he heard it too, a sound both familiar yet strange in the darkness and the woodland, a growl more akin to the rumble of rocks upon a mountain than that of a predatory beast, yet abstract too from rock and mountain and imbued with the rasp of living, moist flesh. It grew louder, accompanied by the breaking of branches, louder than his own as though it were whole logs that broke, and closer in the gloom, yet the echoe and the tumble of water masked the direction from which it came. Arathrandir stood firm, his back toward the tree, the Sword of Gondor firmly gripped in his hands, merely waiting for sight of the oncoming shadow. It came in a blur of motion, faster than he had expected, and from behind rather than within his line of sight. The tree at his back had cracked swiftly and been tossed into the darkness and far out of sight. A deep rumbling roar stormed toward him, huge jagged, broken, teeth and a dark tongue grimacing from the stout grey fleshed face that was but a few feet from his own. The creatures arms were akin to rock, the flesh dry and gravelled, yet hugely powerful and muscular, each almost the size of the Gondorian, and the body from which they protuded was equal in proportion upon two stout and short legs. A few tangled and tousled knots of hair hung over its dark eyes, and down the length of its broad flattened nose, unkempt and ragged save for a few which seemed tied with a piece of bone. Arathrandir had been tossed as though a leave before a gale across the woodland, his shoulder breaking his impact upon another tree before he fell to the ground. He had regained his feet almost in an instant, though his breath was shallow, his lungs and heart winded from the impact, and now held his sword high above his head. The roar came once more, followed swiftly by the pounding feet of the Stone Troll as it lumbered toward him. He ducked low, rolling to the side, avoiding the clumsy sweep of the creatures arm yet raising his sword just enough to catch the monsters reach. The troll reeled, yet only at the suprise fight in its prey, for the skin seemed near unmarked. It turned slowly, the hulking form awkward and inaccurate, yet as deadly as any opponent Arathrandir had faced, and now a hint of anger and ire lighted its dark eyes. Arathrandir met its gaze with the calm composure he ever maintained in the heat of battle, no show of emotion, no show of fear, only duty and valour in the glimmer of his eyes. He had steeled himself against fear upon the fields of battle and against pain in the Houses of the Healing, where he had suffered both pain of flesh, as the scars upon his skin told, and pain of heart, as the plaques above his fallen soldier's graves pronounced, and though in the moments alone, the moments of solitude, the emotions broke forth, in battle he had only time to think of the emotions of his men, of his charge, of his duty. The beast crashed forward again, its arms raised high as though deeming to crush its meal beneath them, yet Arathrandir once more fell to the side, narrowly avoiding the crash of arms that seemed to break the very ground. A flurry of arms followed him, met only by his blade which never broke the force, but deflected it with sheer determination. His arm felt ragged and worn with but a few deflections, and no blow could he land upon the enraged troll before him. Yet the troll was foolish, it struck without thought for its next action, without anticipation or foresight, and each time it did so Arathrandir was able to move aside, or deflect the blow with a turn of his sword. The beasts stone line arm was marked with shallow lines of deep vermillion, a spatter of blood upon its grey skin mirrored to that which lingered on the steel sword of Gondor. Yet the slight cuts were not enough, would never be enough, to win the battle. Arathrandir fought on gallantly, each moment his weariness beginning to tell against the unrelenting arm of the troll, his sword looser in his grip with each deflection, though he knew soon the beast would have him. His struggle broke, the sword slipping from his hand at the last deflection, his legs crumbling beneath him despite the effort of futile resistance, and above him the beast raised its arms in a ferocious roar of victory. Arathrandir glanced to the ground before him, the patternation of leaves and blood mimicking the outline of a tree, red blood upon brown and yellow leaves, to his blurred vision. Still the beast roared, its feet stamping upon the ground with the impact of an earthquake, sending leaves and broken twigs flying in every direction. Yet the tremors ended, as in time with the roar, the beast returning to silence and calm without even the rasping swallow of its huge throat, or the grating of its broken teeth. Arathrandir glanced up, expecting a crash of arms upon him, yet all he saw was a stream of thick blood gushing down the trolls neck, covering its chest with sticky red liquid, a trio of white feathered arrows deep within its throat. The troll lurched, already dead yet still balanced precariously on its broad feet, swaying backwards, falling like a boulder from great height to the ground. With the crash of impact, an echoing thud of colossal fall, Arathrandir too fell backwards. The weariness and drowsiness of exhaustion overcoming him, his eyes closing to unconciousness. *** The silver haired Elf brushed back a fringe of hair with a solemn smile to her companions, her diminished blue eyes glimmering softly in the sunlight. She had travelled far to meet him, her only true friend among men and one whom she was both indebted to and owed by. Now he owed her another, though she would never hold him to repayment. In the course of her lifetime, she had met few Men, and of those that had strayed within the boundary of Lorien, few, if any, had lived long enough to converse with. Yet she had met Elena as he were but a young child, within the home of his father in Dol Amroth. She had little reason to leave Lorien, yet it was at the simplest request of her father that she did so. He had never told her all that he knew, save only that the name of Elena would have need of her. It had been so, and she had been there for the young Arathrandir as she was now there for the Arathrandir of wearied years. In that time, she had changed little, still youthful in the Elvish count of years, and still free spirited, content and at ease with Middle Earth. Her father was to pass West, along with her Brother, yet she had chosen to remain in her watch over Elena in hope that she might someday be charged to watch over the next of his line. As yet, there was none, and her hope had begun to fade with the passing of the years. She stood apart from her companions, elves of Imladris, visitors from lands afar and near, and companions of the Lord Elrond. There were none, save for her, of Lothlorien. Her kindred had become insular, introvert, aside from the world and distant from the peoples of the lands. The woodland borders were but trees and streams, yet any that crossed them met with death as well as they were guarded towers and walls. There was no room for visitors in Lothlorien, no time for strangers, least of all Men. Imladris was far removed from the strength and caution of Lorien, for it seemed that all were welcomed with gracious arms to the House of Elrond. Elves, Dwarves, Men...even small folk, Hobbits, from the distant west of Middle Earth. She had seen them rarely, but she was more familiar with their kind than many of the others that stumbled upon them in the great hall of welcoming. Yet of all the visitors, only two had truly concerned her. The first had arrived some time before, a face seen only at a distance prior to that day, yet a face easily remembered. She had been carried, near death, to the outlying homesteads of the Valley, and the whispers that followed her coming spoke that she was but a hairs breadth from departing to the unknown. Arneth had gained a closer look upon the departure of the man that brought her, and her inquiry was soon confirmed by the tending healers. For many weeks she had watched and waited, ever with her eyes upon the healers and ever in expectation of further answers. Few answers were forthcoming, yet improvement, it seemed had been made. Had the note not arrived, she would have thought no more upon it, yet the note had come even as she was preparing to depart back to the wilderness. The raven, wisest of all birds save for the Eagles, had reached her at the edge of the Valley, and the note had been carefully tied upon its talons. The note had shocked her, for it was from one she had never hoped to hear from. A man she knew little, yet a man that had watched in her stead ever since he had met Elena upon his road north. She trusted him little, yet could see truth when he spoke it and deception when it tainted his eyes with the briefest of twitches. There was truth in the note, in the hand that wrote it, and a truth that was inescapable and called for attention. She had turned back to Imladris almost immediately. Now she and her fellows stood outside another place of healing, though it was but a place to tend to minor wounds. The Gondorian had been exhausted, his muscles wearied and racked in combat, yet he was not beyond the salvation of a simple rest. A simple rest in Imladris, after all, was more worth than many a nights rest elsewhere. The morning had passed and now the midday sun was hastening across the sky, but he had not awoken yet. She was not concerned by his slumber, her concern was for his reaction to the words she would have to speak to him. She knew him greater than he believed, saw the things in his heart that he would not even admit to himself, both the pain and the love. "Arneth" His familiar voice drifted from the doorway even as the Sun sunk behind a cloud high in the sky. She turned, her face illuminated with the faintest of smiles and the slightest incline of her head in greeting. While she was the elder, and ever had been, she always bowed her head. "Arathrandir" She spoke softly, her voice enchanting and as slight as the passing wind but behind its tone lay strength, and untold vigilance "You have awoken though the day has now all but passed and the eve hastens. I am gladdened that you have found rest however, after..." "What happened?" He interrupted, leaning against the arch of the door and running a hand over the bruises upon his right arm "Was it you who brought me here?" Arneth nodded, her bowshot had been fine and three arrows were all that had stood between life and death for the Gondorian. When he had collapsed, her companions had aided her with the burden in the return to Imladris, each of them bearing an arm, and she retrieving the sword. The horse had bolted, and none could find it, yet there were no signs that it had come to any harm in the darkness. Upon arrival they had granted the Captain a room to rest, and a healer to tend to his arm, and to his weariness, with swift attention but without panic. There was never reason for panic among elves, ever was there reason for haste, but never was haste ungraceful. "You should perhaps return to rest, Arathrandir, I shall arrange for some food, mere fruit and bread but enough..." She paused, glancing at her companions and giving each a nod. They hurried off, their strides placed carefully despite their pace "Then we must speak" "Your note" Arathrandir glanced at her with a degree of caution, his dark silvered eyes attempting to perceive some hint within her own "I do not understand" "You will, my friend, you will" she turned with the slight wave of her hand "But before you see that which has brought you here, you shall eat" With her final words, she followed swiftly after her companions. Her head turning only slightly at the departure. *** He tensed the muscles in his arm, resisting the dull pain the coursed through the forearm amid the dark bruises that sat like patchwork upon his skin. With a deep sigh he glanced to his companion, his eyes meeting the shimmering blue depths of the youthful, yet aged, Elf. She had returned with plentiful food some while ago, yet his appetite had not been impressive, he had taken but a few bites from the array of fruit and bread that lay out on the table between them and now the platter merely sat idle in a glistening array of colour between them. "I have much to thank you for, Arneth" Arathrandir relaxed his arm once more, returning it to the table with a gentle smile upon his lips "At least I would, were it not your beckon that brought me to such injury" She returned the smile, her eyelids closing in slow descent before awakening in a motion of equal pause "I would not have beckoned, were I to know that you would be so harmed in my calling, yet I fear the pain your arm bears is less to you than another pain" "Another pain?" He questioned, the upturn of his eyebrow revealing his cynicism "If you refer to Minas Tirith..." "No, not the White City, Arathrandir" She interrupted, her hand flicking her silver fringe from the side of her face "Perhaps something almost as close to your heart, though you will speak of that even less, even to yourself" Arathrandir shook his head, his eyes averting their glance back to the fruit in an unnoticeable deference to her insight "Ever do you speak in riddles, Arneth of Lorien" he laughed lightly as he turned back "speak plainly if you have news for me" "She is alive" Arneth said without pause, without averting her stare. Her tone simple, light, plain. Arathrandir's silent stare met her eyes, the absence of sound bring a cold chill to the room, a chill that emanated from the Captain, from the doubt aroused within him. He said nothing, his brow furrowed half in confusion, half in doubt, his mind struggling to comprehend the three words. "Who?" He uttered after an age "Arneth, of whom do you speak" She said nothing, but stood from the table and walked gracefully to the edge of the room. With the slightest of bows, she reached down for his pack, for the glimmer of silver that stuck from beneath his black cloak. Her supple fingers, more used to the bowstring than the sword, held the Sword of Gondor loosely, without intent, and turned it to Arathrandir. With a pause she ran her finger along the edge of the clean blade, as though tracing invisible lines where blood once ran. "This has killed many a man, and many other evils beside" She muttered cryptically "Men of Dunland, of Rohan, of the far south and east and...of Gondor" She glanced with the final word, as though attempting to impress some meaning through the abstract clue. Arathrandir met her glance, his thoughts retracing those slain at his hand, yet no Gondorian came to mind, no fellow of his, no soldier or man at arms, not even the enemies he had within Minas Tirith...He had killed no Gondorian, of that he was certain. Thoughts collided, the distant past, his presentation of the Sword, and the present..in service to Greymoor. "Greymoor" he muttered, the thought forming. The image flashed within his mind, a head tumbling, rolling upon green earth amid the fall of flower petals of celebration. He knew not the face that rolled, bloodied and enraged, yet he saw his sword, his blade in the hand of his slayer. The sword had killed a Gondorian, yet not by his hand. His eyes turned back, the steady realisation coming upon him as a shadow crossing his heart, a shadow of emotion untold and feelings hidden...a shadow that he bore on learning of... "She is alive?" He jumped from his seat, his eyes staring in shock to the elf, who met his inquiry merely with the slightest of nods.