Wandering Paths

Warnings: some violence

Disclaimer: I own nothing except Elenor and Melia.

A/N: So this is a short ten chapter story that popped into my head and has refused to let go. This is set during the first Hobbit movie, about six months before the Company reaches Rivendell. This isn't entirely canon faithful but honestly tell me what you think. This is a tale of misconceptions and misunderstandings, of finding your identity and deciding your future, and the fear such choices can evoke. Now I'll stop rattling on and please, enjoy!

P.S I'll be updating every Saturday, and I have 4/10 chapters written already with the rest plotted out.

They came in the dead of night.

Elenor was shaken from her sleep by the screams and the ghastly yowls of the Wargs as she fell from her cot. Across the room, Melia too sprang from her bed, her eyes wide and her hair ruffled from sleep. With barely a word between them, they scrambled for the weapons that always lay in readiness beneath their cots, and rushed outside.

The moon waxed above them but Elenor could have cursed its light that night. The scene before her was enough to freeze her blood and fill her mouth with bile. Their town was aflame, the huts and homesteads of the townspeople glowing as brightly as the stars above them. Wargs, savage and bloodthirsty, prowled the land while Orcs scrambled from house to house, laughing and snarling as they hunted down their prey.

The damn fools. I told them we needed more protection than a mere wooden fence! The thought rushed through Elenor's mind but she cast it aside sternly. Now was not the time for such recriminations. The Wargs and the Orcs were concentrating on the eastern side of the town, which explained why their hut had not been attacked yet. In the confusion of the smoke and fire, she could see Eadwine and the small group of warriors in their town trying to repel the invaders but they were fast tiring. Many had already fallen, startled as they were from sleep, and the sentries overcome without a sound of warning. The screams filled the air, echoing in Elenor's head, and she fought within herself for the courage to move.

"Mother!" Melia's voice pierced through the fear and prompted Elenor to move, the heat of the flames thawing her frozen blood and awakening the long-suppressed courage of her race. She drew her bow from its quiver and set an arrow to the string. Its make was crude but its aim was true, as she quickly sent two arrows into the side of the nearest Warg, its dying howl drawing the notice of its fellows.

"Melia! Take Daeroch! Get the women and children out!" she shouted to her daughter, as the golden-haired girl nodded and rushed off into the flames towards where the horses of the town were screaming in fear of the flames and the Wargs. A pang of fear and uncertainty plagued her for a moment, but she forced herself to focus on the wave of Orcs and Wargs rushing towards her. At least Melia would avoid the worst of the fighting this way, and thanks to Eadwine and Doron and the others, she knew how to defend herself. As did Elenor.

Her will set now; she raised another arrow to her bowstring, taking careful aim. She managed to take down three of the five Orcs rushing towards her before she was forced to abandon her bow and draw her sword. Her stance was unrefined and her sword, as it swung through the air, was rough and imprecise but it would do to keep herself alive. She heard a shout of her name but ignored it as she was accosted by another Orc, a swarthy creature with long, crushing arms that leapt at her with a string of foul-sounding words and an already bloodied blade.

Thought of whose blood awakened an enraged fire in Elenor's veins as she fought on, the heat of the flames at her back and to her right unable to match the fire of hatred in her heart for these foul creatures. She thanked the Valar that she habitually wore leggings beneath her sleeping shift, so her movement was little impeded by her clothing.

She heard a scream, a child's, from the house to her right and her heart sank as she recognised it as Eadwine's. Retrieving her sword from where it rested in the belly of an Orc, she rushed towards the burning building, glimpsing Eadwine following in her train, his face a rictus of fear and despair. Miriel and Daewen, their newborn daughter, were inside. Elenor could just glimpse them through the flames and the smoke, Miriel trying to shift the debris from fallen roof beams that barred her escape with Daewen still in her arms. There was a small gap, too small for a mother and a child to slip through, but Elenor alone was small enough. Throwing aside her weapons, she shoved her way into the gap partway, holding out her hands for Daewen.

"Give her to me!" she called, as the younger woman hesitated. Elenor wanted to roll her eyes but forced herself to remain cool, as the roof creaked alarmingly above them, as the flames rose higher and the air became ever more choking. "There's no time for this! Give her to me and crawl through after us!" Elenor shouted over the howling and the screams, as the tortured wood gave its death-rattle. Miriel thrust the newborn baby into her arms, and Elenor managed to wiggle her way backwards in a very undignified manner, and out into the open air. Thrusting Daewen into Eadwine's arms, she reached for Miriel's hands, pulling her through just as the roof collapsed inwards and sparks flew up as the greedy flames were given more fuel.

Elenor panted, her lungs screaming for air, her hands on her knees. The sounds of the fighting died down for a moment as she sought inside herself for that small, serene place within her, her retreat from danger and pain in times of trouble, that had kept her sane throughout her life, and forced her breathing to slow and deepen, ignoring her body's instinct. The world slowed and she opened her eyes, calm and cool once more, to find Miriel and Eadwine watching her guardedly. "Thank you, Elenor," Eadwine said at last, and Elenor gave a terse nod.

"Get to the West gate. Melia is rounding up the woman and the children there," she replied shortly.

"You should go with them, my Lady," Eadwine murmured reluctantly, before Elenor simply eyed him narrowly and turned her back, back to the fight where she was needed.

They had been attacked by two packs of Wargs and Orcs, and the majority still roamed, looking for fresh prey. Elenor hid behind a still unburned hut, Eadwine and a group of ten men at her side. "We can't hold out against them," she breathed. Their town was too isolated, too removed from help, and there would be more Orc-packs to come join their fellows in the slaughter. "Gather what supplies you can, and rescue the horses, then find Melia. We have to leave."

"We cannot leave! This is our home! We must fight!" Doron objected fiercely, his pale blue eyes reflecting the light of the flames.

"If we stay, we will die with our houses. We must go while the Orcs are distracted!" Elenor replied heatedly. "There's nothing more we can do."

Doron looked ready to strike her but Eadwine cut across them both with a gesture. "Lady Elenor is right. We must leave now," he snapped, already turning aside and hugging the shadows to avoid being seen. Elenor didn't waste time on the others, but heard Doron curse her name, as she crept away to her own hut.

She didn't care. She'd heard plenty of curses since the day she was born.

Inside her hut was calm and still, the noise of the attack dimmed by the thick curtain just inside the door. Elenor wasted no time, going for the two packs and saddlebags that sat beside her bed, before packing as much food and clothing as she could into them. She tucked her shift into her leggings, pulled on boots over her bloodied feet, ignoring the sting of her wounds, then slung a jerkin and cloak over the top. She slung her quiver at her back once more, belting her scabbard to her waist, before lunging for the small box underneath her cot. She snatched up the contents, a folded, much crinkled rectangle of parchment and a ring on a chain, slipping the chain around her neck before she left the hut without a backwards glance.

Outside the screams had stopped and the snarls of the Wargs and the filthy Orcs were all that remained to be heard above the crackle of the hungry flames they had set. Elenor spared barely a glance for the burning town, as she crept along in the shadows, hiding her hair beneath the hood of her cloak. She saw the West Gate ahead of her and broke cover, only slightly impeded by the heavy saddlebags and packs she'd slung on her back.

For one terrifying, pounding moment, she feared the Orcs had seen her or the Wargs had scented her, but she made it through unscathed and out into the sheltering darkness of the surrounding land. Reeds soon smothered the sound of her footfalls, and the town receded into the distance, a burning crown on the horizon. She could hear no other survivors but suppressed the fear that she was alone. Melia would have survived, she had to survive, she had to…

She heard a shout and a curse, and rushed towards it, recognising Eadwine's brusque tone. "Eadwine!" she hissed, uncertain if there were any more Wargs or Orcs lurking outside the town to fear.

"My lady?" Eadwine replied quietly, and she could make out his dark bulk in the shadows. The moon was waning and the darkest hours of the night would soon be upon them. "I can barely see you."

Elenor had always been able to see well in the dark. "Follow me. Melia and the others will be waiting for us upstream," she told him quickly. It had been chosen as their meeting place if ever anything befell the town. She sensed Eadwine nod and fall in beside her, and couldn't stop herself from asking, "Why do you call me 'Lady' now? You've never called me that before."

"Only because your grandsire forbade it. Tonight, you have earned that title tenfold, I almost thought your grandsire, old Arahael, had returned to us," he replied and Elenor hid her shock, and slight displeasure at being compared to her grandsire, glad it was too dark for any to see her face.

"Unfortunately Doron does not agree with you," she remarked wryly.

"Fear not, my lady. I, and those loyal to me, will support you now," Eadwine said firmly, and Elenor nodded though he could not see her. Once they had found the others, they would need to discuss what to do next. They could not remain and rebuild the town. No doubt the Wargs and Orcs would return if they attempted such a course of action, but where could they go?

The parchment tucked into her jerkin rustled against her skin, whispering an ancient name to her. She had an odd feeling that their course was already decided, and now she just needed to convince the others of it. Eadwine's promise soothed her worries, but Doron and the others might prefer to make for the Gap of Rohan and the safety of King Fengel's realm.

As their feet began to sink into the reedy pools of the Swanfleet, Elenor finally spoke, testing the waters and the strength of Eadwine's commitment. "We will make for Imladris."

There was a slight pause, and then Eadwine's steady, firm, "As you command, my lady."

Well, wonders will never cease, she thought as she trudged on, trying to ignore the icy-cold waters now seeping into her boots. Who knew it would take the death of Arahael and the destruction of our town for them to stop treating me as a pariah?

As they walked ever further into the fens of Swanfleet, Elenor could not hold back a slight chuckle at the thought.

When they finally found Melia, they discovered she had managed to gather together a goodly number of their womenfolk and children, forty all told. Of the men, Elenor could see only a handful in comparison and there was much weeping among the women. When Melia saw her mother emerge from the darkness, she left Daeroch and rushed to embrace her, and Elenor held her close. Out of all the things in this wretched world she had been born into, Melia was the most precious and her only joy. She stroked her daughter's golden hair, silvered by the moonlight, and held her close for a moment longer before releasing her, watching from afar as Eadwine was reunited with Miriel and Daewen.

"How are they all faring?" Elenor asked Melia as she went to tend to Daeroch, the great black Rohirric stallion standing on one of the few spaces of firm ground, strong and unafraid of the howls and the screeches of the Orcs only a few miles distant. His sire had been a wedding gift from Elenor's husband, and his foal was now her mount, both named for their dark coats and quiet footfalls.

"Well enough, I'd wager," Melia replied quietly, as Elenor handed a pack to her and she gratefully began to exchange her flimsy shift for warmer clothing. "We managed to gather together some supplies but not enough to last long. The women grieve for their men, the children are too tired and shocked to know what to think."

"You have done well, Melia," Elenor smiled at her. "For a moment, I feared you had not escaped."

Melia smiled, her teeth flashing in the moonlight. "They tried to waylay me but I think they were not prepared for a young girl fighting back. Daeroch kept me safe also."

"Whatever happened, I am glad of it," her mother smiled back, as her eyes met those of Eadwine's once more, and he nodded. She inclined her head in return, as he turned away from his wife and child to call to the others and the few men who had survived the attack, calling on them to gather their few burdens and march onwards. There were only a handful of horses, and so Elenor permitted Daeroch to be loaded with their scant baggage and atop him rode two of the children, now orphans, Barawen and her brother Barador.

They walked, not daring to look back at the remains of their town where the Orcs now feasted and glutted themselves, as the cold dawn approached. Elenor trusted to the fens to conceal their trail, but feared for the horses as the pools grew deep and sometimes they stepped into muddy chasms that sucked them down to their fetlocks. But they managed somehow, forcing themselves onwards, as the first cold fingers of light reached across the darkling sky, and the sun began to rise. And hope began to bloom once more in Elenor's heart.

It took them until noon to get out of the fens of Swanfleet, and after they had put another few miles between them and the fens, they stopped for a rest beside the Hoarwell, bathing their soot-darkened faces, and tending to their few beasts and the wounded. Elenor did what she could, but she was no healer.

Melia cared for the children who had lost their parents, keeping them amused with childhood tales of errant warriors and fair maidens from the ancient times. Elenor kept an eye on her as she went around, seeing to the people's needs, but she seemed unaffected by the events of the night and the loss of the only home she'd ever known. Her long golden hair fell unbound down her back, above the worn but hardy green travel cloak, a pack and her bow and quiver by her feet, a dark grey scarf knotted around her neck, and to all appearances she appeared a true daughter of the Rohirrim. Her deep green eyes were the only sign that she was of mixed heritage, and maybe that was why the children were so at ease around her. Elenor was so used to being an outcast that she never noticed anymore when the children shied away from her, or the women whispered, or the men sneered.

They didn't whisper or sneer anymore.

Word of her deeds in the town's defence had spread and a new respect, along with a new wariness, now lived in their eyes. Well, except maybe for Doron and his friends.

As she finished on her rounds, she paused by Miriel and Daewen, the younger woman nursing the hungry infant at her breast. Feeling Elenor's gaze, she looked up, her dark hair falling away from her pretty features, and smiled slightly. And nodded, just once, but gone was the fear and the unease Elenor had always known from her.

Elenor had a feeling her new popularity would not hold for long, once their destination became known. But her people needed shelter and aid, and Imladris was the closest settlement by some miles. It would take days to reach Rohan, days they did not have, and there was a far greater risk of running into an Orc-pack. They would not survive another attack.

And Elenor possessed her own reasons for wishing to go to Imladris. As she knelt by the riverbank, careful not to slip into its fast-running depths, she thought of the letters tucked into her jerkin and the ring on a chain around her throat.

She'd had them ever since her mother had died, twenty years before. They had been her only inheritance, her only clue as to the truth of her origins, only guessed at in overheard snatches of gossip, and the insults thrown at her, and the coldness of her grandsire. Elenor had never known her father, and her mother had never spoken of him. Her grandsire's edicts had made the subject a forbidden one in the town, but even then, Elenor had still heard rumours. Whispered words and strange names that were forbidden knowledge to both her and Melia, since until her grandsire's death two years before, he had kept them ignorant.

Words like elf-born, changeling, bastard, elf-child…

For the sake of her daughter, and herself, Elenor could only hope the answers lay in Imladris.

Elenor could not truly read, but her mother had pointed out the words Imladris and Lord Elrond to her when she had passed the letters and the ring into her keeping, the cursive Elven script unfamiliar and hypnotic to her eyes, even now. The ring was a simple, if beautiful, piece; intricately carved. It was made of what looked to be plain silver, but it shone with a radiance no silver could match, with a chased design of a tall tree upholding a crown of stars, inset with tiny diamonds. She'd had no idea of its worth, but had kept it hidden since it was too conspicuous, and too large for her fingers, to risk wearing.

As Elenor splashed her face with water, gasping at the cold, she met the eyes of her reflection in the clear water. She was pale and still youthful at two and thirty years of age, her bright, curly red hair as vibrant as a flame against the dark greens and browns of her travelling gear. She'd been wedded at fourteen, had given birth at fifteen, and seventeen years later she still looked barely a day beyond her adolescence. The other women of her age were beginning to wither and age, due to the hard life they lived in isolation in the desolate lands between the sea and the Misty Mountains. But not she, and that was much of the cause of the unease and fear among the woman of the town.

What am I?

Not for the first time in her life, the thought rang in her head, and she closed her eyes to her reflection, reaching up and behind her to blindly braid her hair into some semblance of neatness.

She had never belonged in their town, never. The feeling had only worsened after her mother had died and she was unshielded from her grandsire, Arahael's, displeasure and loathing. Thoughts of her true origins had been the only thing to keep her sane during the few years of her unhappy marriage, from Melia's birth to Breyor's death, and they plagued her ever more now.

"Mother?" Melia's soft voice drew her from her reverie, and she opened her eyes as she felt gentle fingers bat hers aside and take over the braiding of her hair. "You always get it tangled."

"Whatever would I do without you?" Elenor smiled, eying her daughter over her shoulder as she worked quickly and carefully, removing the rough braids Elenor had managed, and tying the curly mass back with a loop of leather, before separating the tail into three sections and braiding each one. Forced into abeyance, the braids reached the small of her back.

"Oh, you would manage, as you've always done," Melia replied in jest, and the smile faded from Elenor's face. Sometimes she wondered.

Melia had no memory of her father, and Elenor thanked the Valar for that. Breyor had been a harsh, rough man, always cruel and dismissive of his wife who he had married for her dowry and her exotic ancestry. The vaunted nobility of the Rohirrim had been apparently misplaced in him, but not so in his daughter. Melia was good, kind and loving, with a valiant heart and a free spirit. She bore the looks of the Horse-Lords, but her heart was that of her mother's, and grandmother's, people, the Dunedain. There had always been an air of ethereality about her that had made her stand apart from the townsfolk, as her mother before her, and neither had ever quite belonged.

As for her grandsire, well who could say?

As Melia finished tying the last of the braids, Elenor opened her eyes and turned to her with a knowing smile, sensing the curiosity in her daughter's heart. "Well? Do we go to Imladris?" Melia asked at last, with all the impetuosity of a child despite her seventeen years.

"We do," Elenor replied.

To be continued…