A/N Thank you to all who reviewed my first chapter, it is greatly
appreciated.
Also, I have included some definitions for some terms at the end of this chapter for anyone who has not read the books and in some instances the Silmarillion. There are only a few such words, but I was hoping it might make the read a bit more enjoyable.
Chapter Two
The Hands of a Healer
Annalome held the bow steady as she eyed the target some 50 feet away. She took a deep breath and exhaled long and slow letting herself relax. The target seemed to become more focused, and everything else disappeared. Satisfied, her fingers pulled away from the bowstring sharply and loosed the arrow. With a satisfying thump it landed in the very center of the target and stuck. Smiling to herself she lowered the bow and admired the feat.
"In the hunt or in the midst of battle you will not have the luxury of time to perfect your shot. You must learn to shoot quickly as well as accurately."
Outwardly Annalome wore a mask of calm and restraint. Inside she was seething. At the age of five her father, Gaerlin, had taught her the ways of archery. It was one of the few weapons she had actually enjoyed learning, though like all the others in Thranduil's kingdom, she had also spent time learning the sword and the use of knives. It had been one of her great pleasures to practice shooting with Gaerlin, but in the past year Gaerlin had made her practice with his brother. The change was not a welcome one to Annalome.
Gaerlin had always been patient with his adopted human daughter, and he had never ceased to provide encouragement even when he gave criticism. She learned much more slowly than an elf would, and her skills, though outstanding for a woman of her age, paled in comparison to even the least adept of the firstborn. As in all other things she was unable to meet the high standards of the firstborn, but she refused to stop trying. Some of the elves of Thranduil's realm looked down upon her for her deficiencies, but others were more like her father. Though she struggled on a day-to-day basis they praised her for her accomplishments and were ready to help her improve if need be. Then there was Legolas.
Legolas was Gaerlin's younger brother, and it was he who had now taken over as instructor for Annalome's archery lessons. He had no patience for her, and he had never praised her for a single thing she did. In fact, she was fairly certain that with each lesson he tried to better the number of criticisms he provided for her. He had nearly destroyed whatever love she might have for the bow.
"We shall try a new exercise. First, relax. Let your bow hang at your side, and leave the arrows in your quiver." Annalome did as she was told. "Now close your eyes." The young woman stared at the elf with a questioning look. "It is part of the exercise." Reluctantly she closed her eyes. "Good. Now, imagine you are walking through the forest, alone. A great wind is blowing causing the shadows of the trees to dance upon the forest floor, but under their protective boughs you feel only a breath of air. The rustling of the leaves is loud in your ears. Suddenly, a wolf appears in front of you. Unknowingly you have wandered too close to the place where she keeps her newborn pups. She charges. You have only seconds. Open your eyes and shoot." Annalome's eyes flew open as she pulled an arrow from her quiver and set it to the string. Raising the bow she noticed that the target was now ten feet to the right of where it had been. She aimed and let the arrow fly. It embedded itself soundly in the target a foot to the left of its center.
"You missed her. Perhaps there would have been enough time for you to draw your knife and defend yourself, yet your only real chance of survival was to use your bow." She could feel his gray eyes upon her as he spoke, but she could not bring herself to look at him. Instead she stared lamely at the target where the arrow was. "You will practice improving your speed, and I am increasing your practice time to four hours a day. You are dismissed." With that the elf turned and walked back towards the great underground hall of his father.
Annalome calmly walked over to the target to retrieve her arrows. She made great pretense of checking the shafts for wear and damage until the prince was out of view. Then, as quickly as she could, she threw her arrows into her quiver and then followed in Legolas's footsteps. She crossed the bridge over the Forest River and climbed the stone steps leading up and away from the riverbank, but when she reached the top she did not continue forward to the gates leading into Miregroth, instead she turned left and followed the path that lay at the foot of the mountain, which housed the great hall of the Woodland Elves.
Small pebbles littered the pathway she trod upon, and she kicked hard at any that lay close to where her feet trod. Any elvish eyes that might spy her from a distance would likely not detect that she was angry. The last thing Annalome wanted was for Legolas to find out that he had upset her to the point of anger. In fact, she tried as best she could to remain emotionless and calm in the elf-lord's presence. Not an easy thing to do when you are a human among elves, but she had the advantage of having grown up with them. Her father had taught her well in how to read the physical signs of what a person was feeling on the inside. The blink of an eye or the position of a hand told much of a person's state of mind, and Annalome was better than even most elves at reading these telltale signs. Still, the elves had the advantage of being able to feel more than read a person – that extra sense which all elves possessed and gave them the advantage over all the other races. She could only hope that Legolas had not picked up on her fury during her target practice.
Annalome rounded a large shoulder of the mountain and came within site of the stables of Miregroth. A large wooden structure that was not so much made of wood as it utilized the surrounding trees to form the basis of its infrastructure. A thatched roof had been made from the boughs of the trees themselves to keep the steeds and their food dry. The stables were very large for several hundred horses were housed there, and they required nearly forty of Thranduil's elves to maintain them. A familiar face was coming to greet her as soon as she had entered the gate leading into the stables. "Greetings, Rochir," Annalome bowed low before the Horsemaster.
"Greetings, Annalome. Have you come to take Tinnuchwest for a walk?" The kindly elf smiled at her with genuine warmth. Annalome had always found a comfort in being around animals, especially the horses. The Horsemaster shared this love, and the two of them had been able to bond on that level so much so that the only elf she was closer with was her father.
"Yes, has he been given exercise yet today?" Annalome smiled back at the elf.
"Yes, but I do not doubt that he would gladly take more, especially with you." The Horsemaster motioned toward the heart of the stables, "My duty calls me to another part of the stables, or else I would accompany you. One of our mares is giving birth, and I must attend to her. The foal within her has not turned and so decided to come out feet first."
"Do you require any help, Rochir?" Annalome really wanted to leave with Tinnuchwest immediately, but as she had a way with the animals she could perhaps be of some assistance in calming the poor mare.
"Nay, all is under control. By the look on your face I would say you are in need of some time alone. Go. All will be well with the mare and her foal." Annalome bowed once more to the Horsemaster, and then he departed for the rear of the stables where all the foaling took place.
Grimacing, Annalome moved towards the heart of the stables first grabbing a small feedbag and a skin of water. How had the Horsemaster been able to detect her mood? Perhaps she had let down her guard too much as she made her way towards her beloved horse. Still, she would have to remember that. At no time could she let her guard down lest the elves, or worse, Legolas, discover her mood. That would invite questions Annalome did not wish to answer.
Tinnuchwest started stamping his feet the minute he saw her coming. He was a large stallion, solid black from nose to tail, a color deemed ill-fated by Thranduil's people. The elves had intended to give him to the Eotheod, the horse-lords who lived to the west, but for Annalome. She and the young stallion had bonded instantly, and she had begged her father to let her keep him. Gaerlin could deny her little, and so the horse had gone into her keeping. He was a proud horse, and would bear none other than Annalome, not even one of the elves. Like Annalome he was well taken care of, but he too suffered the indignity of being different and unwanted by Thranduil's people.
"How are you today, Tinnuchwest?" The stallion stamped his feet and tossed his head in the air. Annalome laughed, "I see the morning's exercise was not enough to quiet you down." The horse snorted in indignation. "How do you feel about a long ride today?" She lowered her voice and whispered in his ear, "I have need to be away from this place and its inhabitants for awhile." Tinnuchwest whinnied softly and nuzzled her cheek. "Good, let us be gone then." Lifting the beam out of its cradle Annalome swung the stable door out and the stallion came out at a trot. She nearly had to run to keep up with her exuberant mount, but soon they were outside the stables. Immediately Tinnuchwest knelt down so that Annalome could mount him. Like the elves, she did not use a saddle, nor did she think Tinnuchwest would suffer such a device.
Horse and rider followed the path back east toward the gates of Miregroth. They saw no other elves along the way, for which Annalome was grateful. She was in no mood to answer questions, and she did not think she was up to lying an elf. More than likely they would see right through it and prevent her from leaving. She continued east, past the way leading to the gates. Undoubtedly the guards had seen her, but she was permitted to take Tinnuchwest for rides close to Miregroth, and so the guards would likely think nothing of her passing. As soon as they had passed out of earshot, however, she urged the horse into a full gallop.
Annalome laughed as the wind blew past her face, red-hair streaming behind her. There was no feeling in all of Middle-earth that the young woman had ever experienced like riding a horse while the wind whipped your hair. Crouching low over Tinnuchwest's neck she urged him left and right, easily threading their way between the giant oak trees of Greenwood the Great as good as any elven rider. The path she chose angled to the north away from the river and, hopefully, away from any elves who might be nearby. Those traveling through the forest would stay near to the river, but there was still a chance that she might run into the many companies that kept watch throughout Thranduil's realm. That was a problem she would deal with if and when it arose.
It was only a few short miles to the forest's edge from Miregroth. Annalome and Tinnuchwest burst from the trees out into brilliant sunshine. The stallion slowed for a moment giving himself time to let his eyes adjust to the noontime sun, but soon Annalome was urging him on. With a jolt the horse leapt forward and they were soon speeding their way across the flat grasslands. The sunshine fell hot onto horse and rider, but the cool north wind brought refreshment and invigorated the both of them.
Away to the east was a single peak rising high out of the flat grasslands. The elves had named it Erebor, the Single-Mountain, for so it seemed. It's nearest companions were the Iron Hills some 100 miles to east, and the Ered Mithrin, or Grey Mountains over 100 miles to the north. Erebor had always seemed so lonely, so out of place to Annalome, and yet she always took great comfort in its sad visage. It's stark stony face thrust up amidst the beautiful grasslands, and the steel gray peak stood in sharp contrast to the beautiful blue sky around it, yet it did not change. It did not crumble under the sky's cruel stare or allow the grasses to encroach upon its slopes covering its unattractive surface with more comely vegetation. It remained cold and bleak amidst the other beauty of the land of Rhovanion, and it made no apologies. Annalome urged Tinnuchwest towards Erebor each stride taking her further and further from the demanding and unforgiving elves.
Try as she might, though, her mind could not leave Thranduil's people behind. She loved the elves. They were the only family she had ever known, but they were completely unable to relate to her, and rare was the elf that would even try. She had accepted her limitations as a human being from the very start, but there were those who were simply too embarrassed to be in her presence. Somehow her deficiencies were more of a burden to them than to her. It was as if being in her presence reminded them only too well of the gifts Illuvatar had bestowed upon them, and they felt guilty because the creator had not deemed to confer the same to the other races. It was ridiculous, and yet she could do nothing to change their attitudes, nor would it even be appropriate for her to try.
There were many among the elves who had befriended her: the Horsemaster and her father, as well as a few others who seemed to enjoy her company though they made little attempt to seek her out. But there were also those who avoided her presence. They were never overtly rude to her in any way, the elves were much too proud for that, but they would not suffer long to be in her presence. Such was Legolas, and as much as Annalome hated to admit it, his disregard hurt her more so than all the others.
Legolas was the youngest of Thranduil's children, only a mere twenty years older than she. When Annalome had learned this she had mistakenly thought that she might have found a kindred spirit among the elves. Legolas was a young elf who was also learning the ways of his people, might he not find companionship in another such person? Annalome had thought this extremely likely since the elf nearest in age to Legolas was 524 years old, but this was not to be. She had sought him out numerous times, but the prince had proved close-mouthed and usually found some reason to excuse himself within minutes of her arrival. He had been her one great hope for companionship, but Legolas clearly wanted nothing to do with her.
Distracted by her thoughts Annalome did not notice the figures on the horizon until she was nearly upon them. A group of eight men with horses were huddled around something. It being too late to avoid them completely Annalome checked the knife at her belt. She did not expect trouble, but it was never a bad idea to be prepared. As she drew closer she could see that there were nine horses but only eight men. It stood to reason, then, that the object they were huddled around was the ninth man. As she drew close two of them aimed arrows at her but held fast. Seeing that it was a woman who approached, however, the two lowered their bows, but they kept their arrows notched and ready.
"Halt in the name of King Badil of Dale!" one of the bowmen called to her.
Instantly Tinnuchwest slowed and stopped some thirty feet from the men of Dale. "Hail, men of Dale! I am Annalome of Greenwood the Great. I was out exercising my horse when I saw you. Are you in need of assistance?"
"Aye," said the same bowman, "we are, but only if you are skilled in the healing arts. One of our men was thrown from his horse when it stumbled. He has broken his leg, and it bleeds most grievously. We are binding his leg with a tourniquet, but I fear he will not last the return journey to our city."
"Might I have a look at him, then, good sirs. I may be of some assistance."
The two bowmen looked at each other. Annalome noted a slight tilt of the head from the quiet one, which indicated to the one she had spoken to that he saw no harm. "You may approach, but have a caution if you have a weak stomach for the sight of blood."
Annalome dismounted and made her way to where the injured man lay. In truth she had studied little of the healing arts, and she knew not what drove her to see the injured man. Yet, something deep within her compelled her, and before she knew it she was kneeling at the man's side. "I am called Annalome. What is your name?"
The man looked to be only in his twenties. His dark hair lay drenched in sweat on is forehead, and he was shaking slightly. "Mar . . . Markos."
Annalome took his hand, "Markos, do not fear. I will mend your leg, and you will be home in time to partake in the nightly toast." Annalome knew something of the men of Dale since Thranduil did trade with them from time to time. The nightly toast was a long tradition in which the men of the city drank to the king's health at the setting of the sun." Markos smiled wanly at her. Moving to his injured leg, Annalome could see that the young man had indeed lost much blood, but the bone was not showing. Turning to the bowman who had first spoken to her she asked, "You have set the leg then?"
"Aye, ma'am."
Not knowing why she did so Annalome placed her hands above the gaping wound. Closing her eyes she offered up a prayer to Este. Suddenly, it seemed as if a warmth were coursing through her body from somewhere deep within. The sensation flowed outward through her arms and hands and into the wound of the injured man. He moaned softly as the energy coursed into him, but made no other sound. Annalome knew not how long she remained thus, but just as suddenly as it had come the warmth ceased its flow. Looking around she could see the sun was sinking into the western horizon. Annalome was shocked. She had spent two hours at this man's side. She removed her hands from the wound to find that only a scar remained of what had once been rent flesh.
"By the Valar," whispered the nearest man to her. A second man whistled to the others who soon had gathered around astonished at the sight before them.
Annalome was too stunned to notice. She had never performed any act like this before in her life, and she was unsure how she had healed the man. Nevertheless, she was certain it was through her that the wound had been closed. From all around her she heard frightened whispers and more than a few mentions of the word "sorceress".
"Nay, good sirs, I am no sorceress. I have . . . an ability . . . to heal the sick and wounded, as I have done here with your comrade. Please, do not be frightened, but know I did this only for the good of all." The men relaxed only slightly and they did not approach her or Markos. Sighing, Annalome rose to her feet, "Please, your kinsman is healed, but he still requires rest and sustenance. I beg you return with him to Dale so that he may recover fully and quickly. It is time that I was on my way."
"Yes, high time," a voice spoke from behind her. Annalome froze as she recognized the voice of the speaker as her father's. "It is many miles back to the forest, and we should be home before nightfall." Annalome turned to face the elf she called father, and was dismayed to see the form of Legolas on the horse next to him. The youngest son of Thranduil did his best to wear a mask of indifference, but the look on Gaerlin's face was entirely different. Rarely had Annalome seen her father so angry, and never at her. It was going to be a long ride back to Miregroth.
Firstborn – the elves
Illuvatar – God, the Creator, the highest of all the gods.
Valar – the twelve highest gods under Illuvatar
Este – one of the Valar, her specialty was healing
Also, I have included some definitions for some terms at the end of this chapter for anyone who has not read the books and in some instances the Silmarillion. There are only a few such words, but I was hoping it might make the read a bit more enjoyable.
Chapter Two
The Hands of a Healer
Annalome held the bow steady as she eyed the target some 50 feet away. She took a deep breath and exhaled long and slow letting herself relax. The target seemed to become more focused, and everything else disappeared. Satisfied, her fingers pulled away from the bowstring sharply and loosed the arrow. With a satisfying thump it landed in the very center of the target and stuck. Smiling to herself she lowered the bow and admired the feat.
"In the hunt or in the midst of battle you will not have the luxury of time to perfect your shot. You must learn to shoot quickly as well as accurately."
Outwardly Annalome wore a mask of calm and restraint. Inside she was seething. At the age of five her father, Gaerlin, had taught her the ways of archery. It was one of the few weapons she had actually enjoyed learning, though like all the others in Thranduil's kingdom, she had also spent time learning the sword and the use of knives. It had been one of her great pleasures to practice shooting with Gaerlin, but in the past year Gaerlin had made her practice with his brother. The change was not a welcome one to Annalome.
Gaerlin had always been patient with his adopted human daughter, and he had never ceased to provide encouragement even when he gave criticism. She learned much more slowly than an elf would, and her skills, though outstanding for a woman of her age, paled in comparison to even the least adept of the firstborn. As in all other things she was unable to meet the high standards of the firstborn, but she refused to stop trying. Some of the elves of Thranduil's realm looked down upon her for her deficiencies, but others were more like her father. Though she struggled on a day-to-day basis they praised her for her accomplishments and were ready to help her improve if need be. Then there was Legolas.
Legolas was Gaerlin's younger brother, and it was he who had now taken over as instructor for Annalome's archery lessons. He had no patience for her, and he had never praised her for a single thing she did. In fact, she was fairly certain that with each lesson he tried to better the number of criticisms he provided for her. He had nearly destroyed whatever love she might have for the bow.
"We shall try a new exercise. First, relax. Let your bow hang at your side, and leave the arrows in your quiver." Annalome did as she was told. "Now close your eyes." The young woman stared at the elf with a questioning look. "It is part of the exercise." Reluctantly she closed her eyes. "Good. Now, imagine you are walking through the forest, alone. A great wind is blowing causing the shadows of the trees to dance upon the forest floor, but under their protective boughs you feel only a breath of air. The rustling of the leaves is loud in your ears. Suddenly, a wolf appears in front of you. Unknowingly you have wandered too close to the place where she keeps her newborn pups. She charges. You have only seconds. Open your eyes and shoot." Annalome's eyes flew open as she pulled an arrow from her quiver and set it to the string. Raising the bow she noticed that the target was now ten feet to the right of where it had been. She aimed and let the arrow fly. It embedded itself soundly in the target a foot to the left of its center.
"You missed her. Perhaps there would have been enough time for you to draw your knife and defend yourself, yet your only real chance of survival was to use your bow." She could feel his gray eyes upon her as he spoke, but she could not bring herself to look at him. Instead she stared lamely at the target where the arrow was. "You will practice improving your speed, and I am increasing your practice time to four hours a day. You are dismissed." With that the elf turned and walked back towards the great underground hall of his father.
Annalome calmly walked over to the target to retrieve her arrows. She made great pretense of checking the shafts for wear and damage until the prince was out of view. Then, as quickly as she could, she threw her arrows into her quiver and then followed in Legolas's footsteps. She crossed the bridge over the Forest River and climbed the stone steps leading up and away from the riverbank, but when she reached the top she did not continue forward to the gates leading into Miregroth, instead she turned left and followed the path that lay at the foot of the mountain, which housed the great hall of the Woodland Elves.
Small pebbles littered the pathway she trod upon, and she kicked hard at any that lay close to where her feet trod. Any elvish eyes that might spy her from a distance would likely not detect that she was angry. The last thing Annalome wanted was for Legolas to find out that he had upset her to the point of anger. In fact, she tried as best she could to remain emotionless and calm in the elf-lord's presence. Not an easy thing to do when you are a human among elves, but she had the advantage of having grown up with them. Her father had taught her well in how to read the physical signs of what a person was feeling on the inside. The blink of an eye or the position of a hand told much of a person's state of mind, and Annalome was better than even most elves at reading these telltale signs. Still, the elves had the advantage of being able to feel more than read a person – that extra sense which all elves possessed and gave them the advantage over all the other races. She could only hope that Legolas had not picked up on her fury during her target practice.
Annalome rounded a large shoulder of the mountain and came within site of the stables of Miregroth. A large wooden structure that was not so much made of wood as it utilized the surrounding trees to form the basis of its infrastructure. A thatched roof had been made from the boughs of the trees themselves to keep the steeds and their food dry. The stables were very large for several hundred horses were housed there, and they required nearly forty of Thranduil's elves to maintain them. A familiar face was coming to greet her as soon as she had entered the gate leading into the stables. "Greetings, Rochir," Annalome bowed low before the Horsemaster.
"Greetings, Annalome. Have you come to take Tinnuchwest for a walk?" The kindly elf smiled at her with genuine warmth. Annalome had always found a comfort in being around animals, especially the horses. The Horsemaster shared this love, and the two of them had been able to bond on that level so much so that the only elf she was closer with was her father.
"Yes, has he been given exercise yet today?" Annalome smiled back at the elf.
"Yes, but I do not doubt that he would gladly take more, especially with you." The Horsemaster motioned toward the heart of the stables, "My duty calls me to another part of the stables, or else I would accompany you. One of our mares is giving birth, and I must attend to her. The foal within her has not turned and so decided to come out feet first."
"Do you require any help, Rochir?" Annalome really wanted to leave with Tinnuchwest immediately, but as she had a way with the animals she could perhaps be of some assistance in calming the poor mare.
"Nay, all is under control. By the look on your face I would say you are in need of some time alone. Go. All will be well with the mare and her foal." Annalome bowed once more to the Horsemaster, and then he departed for the rear of the stables where all the foaling took place.
Grimacing, Annalome moved towards the heart of the stables first grabbing a small feedbag and a skin of water. How had the Horsemaster been able to detect her mood? Perhaps she had let down her guard too much as she made her way towards her beloved horse. Still, she would have to remember that. At no time could she let her guard down lest the elves, or worse, Legolas, discover her mood. That would invite questions Annalome did not wish to answer.
Tinnuchwest started stamping his feet the minute he saw her coming. He was a large stallion, solid black from nose to tail, a color deemed ill-fated by Thranduil's people. The elves had intended to give him to the Eotheod, the horse-lords who lived to the west, but for Annalome. She and the young stallion had bonded instantly, and she had begged her father to let her keep him. Gaerlin could deny her little, and so the horse had gone into her keeping. He was a proud horse, and would bear none other than Annalome, not even one of the elves. Like Annalome he was well taken care of, but he too suffered the indignity of being different and unwanted by Thranduil's people.
"How are you today, Tinnuchwest?" The stallion stamped his feet and tossed his head in the air. Annalome laughed, "I see the morning's exercise was not enough to quiet you down." The horse snorted in indignation. "How do you feel about a long ride today?" She lowered her voice and whispered in his ear, "I have need to be away from this place and its inhabitants for awhile." Tinnuchwest whinnied softly and nuzzled her cheek. "Good, let us be gone then." Lifting the beam out of its cradle Annalome swung the stable door out and the stallion came out at a trot. She nearly had to run to keep up with her exuberant mount, but soon they were outside the stables. Immediately Tinnuchwest knelt down so that Annalome could mount him. Like the elves, she did not use a saddle, nor did she think Tinnuchwest would suffer such a device.
Horse and rider followed the path back east toward the gates of Miregroth. They saw no other elves along the way, for which Annalome was grateful. She was in no mood to answer questions, and she did not think she was up to lying an elf. More than likely they would see right through it and prevent her from leaving. She continued east, past the way leading to the gates. Undoubtedly the guards had seen her, but she was permitted to take Tinnuchwest for rides close to Miregroth, and so the guards would likely think nothing of her passing. As soon as they had passed out of earshot, however, she urged the horse into a full gallop.
Annalome laughed as the wind blew past her face, red-hair streaming behind her. There was no feeling in all of Middle-earth that the young woman had ever experienced like riding a horse while the wind whipped your hair. Crouching low over Tinnuchwest's neck she urged him left and right, easily threading their way between the giant oak trees of Greenwood the Great as good as any elven rider. The path she chose angled to the north away from the river and, hopefully, away from any elves who might be nearby. Those traveling through the forest would stay near to the river, but there was still a chance that she might run into the many companies that kept watch throughout Thranduil's realm. That was a problem she would deal with if and when it arose.
It was only a few short miles to the forest's edge from Miregroth. Annalome and Tinnuchwest burst from the trees out into brilliant sunshine. The stallion slowed for a moment giving himself time to let his eyes adjust to the noontime sun, but soon Annalome was urging him on. With a jolt the horse leapt forward and they were soon speeding their way across the flat grasslands. The sunshine fell hot onto horse and rider, but the cool north wind brought refreshment and invigorated the both of them.
Away to the east was a single peak rising high out of the flat grasslands. The elves had named it Erebor, the Single-Mountain, for so it seemed. It's nearest companions were the Iron Hills some 100 miles to east, and the Ered Mithrin, or Grey Mountains over 100 miles to the north. Erebor had always seemed so lonely, so out of place to Annalome, and yet she always took great comfort in its sad visage. It's stark stony face thrust up amidst the beautiful grasslands, and the steel gray peak stood in sharp contrast to the beautiful blue sky around it, yet it did not change. It did not crumble under the sky's cruel stare or allow the grasses to encroach upon its slopes covering its unattractive surface with more comely vegetation. It remained cold and bleak amidst the other beauty of the land of Rhovanion, and it made no apologies. Annalome urged Tinnuchwest towards Erebor each stride taking her further and further from the demanding and unforgiving elves.
Try as she might, though, her mind could not leave Thranduil's people behind. She loved the elves. They were the only family she had ever known, but they were completely unable to relate to her, and rare was the elf that would even try. She had accepted her limitations as a human being from the very start, but there were those who were simply too embarrassed to be in her presence. Somehow her deficiencies were more of a burden to them than to her. It was as if being in her presence reminded them only too well of the gifts Illuvatar had bestowed upon them, and they felt guilty because the creator had not deemed to confer the same to the other races. It was ridiculous, and yet she could do nothing to change their attitudes, nor would it even be appropriate for her to try.
There were many among the elves who had befriended her: the Horsemaster and her father, as well as a few others who seemed to enjoy her company though they made little attempt to seek her out. But there were also those who avoided her presence. They were never overtly rude to her in any way, the elves were much too proud for that, but they would not suffer long to be in her presence. Such was Legolas, and as much as Annalome hated to admit it, his disregard hurt her more so than all the others.
Legolas was the youngest of Thranduil's children, only a mere twenty years older than she. When Annalome had learned this she had mistakenly thought that she might have found a kindred spirit among the elves. Legolas was a young elf who was also learning the ways of his people, might he not find companionship in another such person? Annalome had thought this extremely likely since the elf nearest in age to Legolas was 524 years old, but this was not to be. She had sought him out numerous times, but the prince had proved close-mouthed and usually found some reason to excuse himself within minutes of her arrival. He had been her one great hope for companionship, but Legolas clearly wanted nothing to do with her.
Distracted by her thoughts Annalome did not notice the figures on the horizon until she was nearly upon them. A group of eight men with horses were huddled around something. It being too late to avoid them completely Annalome checked the knife at her belt. She did not expect trouble, but it was never a bad idea to be prepared. As she drew closer she could see that there were nine horses but only eight men. It stood to reason, then, that the object they were huddled around was the ninth man. As she drew close two of them aimed arrows at her but held fast. Seeing that it was a woman who approached, however, the two lowered their bows, but they kept their arrows notched and ready.
"Halt in the name of King Badil of Dale!" one of the bowmen called to her.
Instantly Tinnuchwest slowed and stopped some thirty feet from the men of Dale. "Hail, men of Dale! I am Annalome of Greenwood the Great. I was out exercising my horse when I saw you. Are you in need of assistance?"
"Aye," said the same bowman, "we are, but only if you are skilled in the healing arts. One of our men was thrown from his horse when it stumbled. He has broken his leg, and it bleeds most grievously. We are binding his leg with a tourniquet, but I fear he will not last the return journey to our city."
"Might I have a look at him, then, good sirs. I may be of some assistance."
The two bowmen looked at each other. Annalome noted a slight tilt of the head from the quiet one, which indicated to the one she had spoken to that he saw no harm. "You may approach, but have a caution if you have a weak stomach for the sight of blood."
Annalome dismounted and made her way to where the injured man lay. In truth she had studied little of the healing arts, and she knew not what drove her to see the injured man. Yet, something deep within her compelled her, and before she knew it she was kneeling at the man's side. "I am called Annalome. What is your name?"
The man looked to be only in his twenties. His dark hair lay drenched in sweat on is forehead, and he was shaking slightly. "Mar . . . Markos."
Annalome took his hand, "Markos, do not fear. I will mend your leg, and you will be home in time to partake in the nightly toast." Annalome knew something of the men of Dale since Thranduil did trade with them from time to time. The nightly toast was a long tradition in which the men of the city drank to the king's health at the setting of the sun." Markos smiled wanly at her. Moving to his injured leg, Annalome could see that the young man had indeed lost much blood, but the bone was not showing. Turning to the bowman who had first spoken to her she asked, "You have set the leg then?"
"Aye, ma'am."
Not knowing why she did so Annalome placed her hands above the gaping wound. Closing her eyes she offered up a prayer to Este. Suddenly, it seemed as if a warmth were coursing through her body from somewhere deep within. The sensation flowed outward through her arms and hands and into the wound of the injured man. He moaned softly as the energy coursed into him, but made no other sound. Annalome knew not how long she remained thus, but just as suddenly as it had come the warmth ceased its flow. Looking around she could see the sun was sinking into the western horizon. Annalome was shocked. She had spent two hours at this man's side. She removed her hands from the wound to find that only a scar remained of what had once been rent flesh.
"By the Valar," whispered the nearest man to her. A second man whistled to the others who soon had gathered around astonished at the sight before them.
Annalome was too stunned to notice. She had never performed any act like this before in her life, and she was unsure how she had healed the man. Nevertheless, she was certain it was through her that the wound had been closed. From all around her she heard frightened whispers and more than a few mentions of the word "sorceress".
"Nay, good sirs, I am no sorceress. I have . . . an ability . . . to heal the sick and wounded, as I have done here with your comrade. Please, do not be frightened, but know I did this only for the good of all." The men relaxed only slightly and they did not approach her or Markos. Sighing, Annalome rose to her feet, "Please, your kinsman is healed, but he still requires rest and sustenance. I beg you return with him to Dale so that he may recover fully and quickly. It is time that I was on my way."
"Yes, high time," a voice spoke from behind her. Annalome froze as she recognized the voice of the speaker as her father's. "It is many miles back to the forest, and we should be home before nightfall." Annalome turned to face the elf she called father, and was dismayed to see the form of Legolas on the horse next to him. The youngest son of Thranduil did his best to wear a mask of indifference, but the look on Gaerlin's face was entirely different. Rarely had Annalome seen her father so angry, and never at her. It was going to be a long ride back to Miregroth.
Firstborn – the elves
Illuvatar – God, the Creator, the highest of all the gods.
Valar – the twelve highest gods under Illuvatar
Este – one of the Valar, her specialty was healing