The trio decided unanimously to make their way due south, hugging the Mount Celebdil's skirts through the pathless wilds west of Lothlorien. They had confidence that Rhavanielle could lead them safely through the forest. The orcs would be angry about their losses, but their control of Moria was not challenged by the loss of two score or more warriors. But there were always foraging patrols of goblins to worry about by night. Bears with young and Wargs were a danger. As were the big hunting cats that prowled the crags and ravines of the Misty Mountain's steep foothills.
So between the caution and the difficult terrain, it took four uneventful but arduous days travelling by dead-reckoning to reach a high spot from which they suddenly spotted the Nimrodel from a distance.
“Another full day at most. It's all downhill too,” said Rhavanielle with a relief that was shared by the dwarves. “The country levels out as you approach the ford. The river spreads out over a broad stony place. In the springtime it's a dangerous rapids, but as hot as it's been this summer, we ought to have no trouble on foot. I expect the wardens of Lorien will mark our passing but they've no reason to reveal themselves or hinder us.”
On they went, their pace leisurely but steady, working their way by fits and starts down, down toward the valley below until they could hear the distant water rushing even when their view was obstructed by the densely woven pine forest. The elf insisted they push on before making camp, despite the blackening shadows thrown down by the mountains to their right hand. “On the banks of Nimrodel's flow, we will be under the watchful eyes of the Galadhrim,” she said, “and they will not suffer us to be waylaid by orcs.” The dwarves shrugged. There was nothing for it but to trust her judgement on the matter.
The first stars had begun to shimmer and Alkarinquë shone first and best. The Nimrodel here was broad and from their vantage seemed to be waist high. They filled their water skins and drank deeply of the waters. It being too late to hunt small game or seek other wild things to eat such as mushrooms, Rhavanielle shared some small portion of her elven bread with her companions. Much heartened, they assembled their accustomed shelter, a square of canvass and had their first real rest since they'd left Moria behind.
-----
Along the World Axis
The Empress Lay Sleeping
To the Rhyme of the
Star Clock
------
A tidy and knowing smile crept across the elf's face as she heard the owl call. The spotted owl was common in the north of Greenwood but almost unknown this far south. She silently sat upright. The two dwarves had snored softly not troubling her rest save for the annoyance of their lip smacking and incessant kicking in their sleep.
She tilted her head. There it was again. From another quarter. She gauged the distance and crawled out of the tent clad only in her linen shift. She saw the sentinels then. In the starlight, her fey eyes saw them across the river as clearly as another's might in midday, though the starshine lent them a ghostly sheen, making them seem like men made of living quicksilver. She walked over the bare smooth jumble of stones of the riverbank. Not wanting to wake her companions, she made her way carefully through the softly singing stream, cold as ice and clean as the midsummer sunrise.
“Hail to thee, daughter of Nurwé,” came a soft voice.
Rhavanielle gained the other bank, her shift at mid-thigh. “Hail to thee, Warder of the Galadhrim.”
The soldiers smiled, relaxed. They appraised her form cursorily. “At last you deign to speak to us!” one laughed lightly.
“At last I have time. We dared not presume upon thy protection until we were within the borders of the Lady's realm.”
One of the soldiers pretended to pout. “That you should doubt our vigilance...it causes me grief.”
“Your vigilance has its limits, friend. We are glad to be within the bounds of Lorinand.”
“You know the Law, of course,” stated the soldier. “My name is Menedlor.” His companion observed the barely dressed woman's form all the while with an open interest but said nothing. Bold young elf, thought Rhavanielle.
“I do,” she replied. “The dwarves I will be responsible for. We require nothing, but would be glad of a little food and perhaps some brandy? The waters of the mountains are pure and of Nimrodel the purest. But I've had nothing but water for days.”
The warder nodded to his lusty eyed junior who tossed Rhavanielle a silver flask. She caught it one-handed, keeping the hem of her shift dry with the other.
The guardsman spoke on, his manner probing. “Did you enter Moria?” he asked.
“The dwarves were part of an exploratory group seeking old relics and family heirlooms,” she answered, eliding.
“And your interest in Moria?”
“The dwarves were not the only folk who labored in Moria,” she answered, her eyes flashing.
“You dwelt there?”
“Once I dwelt there for a time. When it was new. But my interest lay in ring-lore,” she answered. At last coming to the point.
“I had thought the great rings were made in Eregion?” Menedlor asked. His manner seemed genuinely curious and her suspicious mind remembered that not everyone was versed in lore. She was among friends and kin here, after all.
“There they were wrought. But the art of their making had many minds and many hands. I sought and found something that was long thought lost, even by those who had a hand in its making. A spell. A song that can awaken the light.” Rhavanielle replied. She came up onto the bank and sang a verse in a voice that seemed to echo the burble of the water through the stones, glowing brightly in the moonlight to elven eyes:
My destination is a secret And the doctrine is soft
And just between the verse and me
It’s a place where you can see
Lost, last and luminous
Scored to sky yet never found
Relics of jewels
And ant-track tools
A true ghost dance
Rehearsal Ground
Menedlor and his fellow guardsman were struck suddenly by the power of her spirit and perceived suddenly that she was one of great age.
“Ought you not carry tidings of this to the Lady? Or to the master of Imladris?”
Rhavanielle cast her eyes wearily at the two. “I will not abandon my two friends who have suffered much. I ask you only to tell the Lord and Lady that I have passed close and that my errand in Moria is achieved. I will carry word to Imladris in due course unless I find means to communicate more directly. For now we make for the safety of Gondor and will there take ship.”
Menedlor had questioned many trespassers in the wood but had never had to deal with a peculiar troupe such as this ancient elf and her two pet dwarves. Had it merely been Rhavanielle, they'd have exchanged pleasantries and escorted her to Caras Galadhon. Instead he was vexed by the dwarves. But she clearly knew they were forbidden to trespass in Lothlorien. What troubled him was her obscure tale. No one went into Moria who had any sense. Not without a small army. Still, she was an elf and they were not within the bounds of the ban of Galadriel. All he could offer was news and advice. “You will find it difficult indeed to reach Gondor these days. Calenardhon is beset by many woes and the Calenardhrim have set their hearts against us out of fear. It matters not to us, but of travelers south across that land there are now none. Save packs of warg mounted goblins looking for horse-flesh...or worse. You will have need of stealth if you would cross Limlaith and pass over the downs there. I recommend traversing Fangorn and follow the Onodlo to Anduin. That will take you into the domain of Gondor. Beyond that, I cannot hazard so much as a guess what path is safest.”
Rhavanielle handed the elf soldier his flask back. “Getting to Gondor will suffice for now. Farewell, Warden Menedlor. Bear a word to one called Iaurmenel if you can that I am well. She is a friend in Caras Galadhan.”
“So I shall,” he said, bowing lightly at the waist. The two of them faded into the night forest as though they had been nothing more than mist and she returned to the little shelter by the riverbank.
