They call these the Lone Lands, and the name seems apt because there's almost no one and nothing here. I can see from the shapes and contours that there was once water aplenty, long ago. Streams, or perhaps rivers, maybe even lakes. But the land dried up, and rough-edged gorse displaced whatever vibrant green things once grew.
When I crossed these lands last spring, I went slowly, and did not stay on the road. Instead I explored, seeking every spot that might have once caught the eye of migrating horse-folk. Are there people in those ruins? Perhaps the remains of a long-lost settlement tucked into that defile between stony bluffs? An ancient hoof-beaten track, now overgrown by sedge, crossing that plain? I found no sign of the Éothéod, and I am all but convinced they never crossed the High Pass.
But there was wildlife, and in a few places, mostly tucked into ruins, there were some people, hard and prickly as the land they lived in, offering neither comfort nor welcome. This winter's day, though, we scarcely saw any sign of anything on four legs or two. Perhaps it's because we stuck close to the road, making the best time we could. Perhaps it was because, though the cold eased slightly, much of the day the sky was full of light flakes of snow; not enough to make it hard to see, nor to make the ground white or even noticeably damp, but perhaps enough to send man and beast scurrying for shelter.
Something about the emptiness of the land made it seem wrong to fill it with voice. In the spring, as I crossed it, at times I sang, loud as I could; such open spaces seem like they should suit it, with no one to tease me for it. But the vast openness swallowed the sound and seemed displeased by it somehow, so I usually fell quiet before long. In the chill of winter, Miss Adri and I scarcely spoke at all the whole day, until the Last Bridge came into view; and there was certainly no song.
After crossing through the forests in spring heading west I had wondered about this bridge, standing as it did far from any other sign of the hand of Man, Elf, or Dwarf, not even ruins; yet the bridge seemingly well-maintained, unlike the vine-choked ruins I'd seen in both the forest and would see later on the plains. Who had built it? Did someone visit it from time to time, clean it, repair it, peel away the encroachments of nature and smooth over the pitting of weather and sun? And if so, who? I asked Miss Adri as we crossed it, but she did not know either. Perhaps the Elves of Imladris maintained it, when no one else was watching, and kept it as new, but to what end?
It wasn't until we had found the high slope overlooking the river Hoarwell, not far from the tree-line, that I realized that the sun hadn't even set yet. We had made exceptional time, and I wasn't even aching from the ride. Firewood was plentiful, and we had time to linger over supper before finding the shelter of our tents. While the Lone Lands had discouraged song, something about these woods seemed to beg for it; but I didn't dare sing in front of Miss Adri, so I simply hummed quietly, recalling the melody of the dance I'd shared with Miss Syaven, as I watched the sun dropping over the Hoarwell and into the plains through my tent flap. My thoughts followed it, looking not forward to Imladris where they would dwell on worry of what was to come, but back towards Bree, which more and more felt like home.
