T.A. 3000
Amaethon tugged at the stale, soggy piece of bread with all his might. The rain pattered steadily on the top of his cloak. It had rained ever since he had entered the trees of the forest, which had to be hours ago. He trudged through muddy puddles and washed out paths, his boots completely brown and wet. The trees gave him some protection from the frigid drops falling from the sky.
His horse was lying in the mud, far away from him. As Amaethon rode into the forest, a random arrow had penetrated the horse's neck. It fell over dead. He was now left to walk hundreds of miles in the rain. The arrow troubled Amaethon, however. He did not see any sign of an archer in the direction that the arrow had come from. He kept his hand close to his sword, not that it would do any good against a skilled archer.
…
Suddenly, he heard squishy footsteps on the path. He dove into the bushes on the side of the road. A cloaked figure walked by. He walked slowly and carefully, looking back and forth for any sign of danger. The archer noticed that he was shorter than a typical Man, yet taller than a Dwarf or Hobbit. He smirked. This was a young boy. The boy continued down through the rain. The archer saw his chance and leapt over the bushes. He looked up at the sky. A snowstorm would soon begin. He ran to the other side of the path, towards the Gulf of Lune.
…
The rain almost instantly turned to snow. It blew with sheer force, whipping rapidly in different directions. Amaethon wrapped the sides of his cloak around his arms. He could not feel his toes. The snow piled up quickly as he attempted to trudge up the side of the mountain. The wet ground iced over in the storm. Amaethon reached for a rock, but slipped on the ice below his feet. He fell flat on his face and yelped as he slid all the way down the side of the hill, now completely covered in snow. He could not see anything. He was surrounded by blank whiteness.
Amaethon attempted to climb again, the snow already up to his ankles. He walked carefully and slowly. When he reached the rock once more, he reached out. The next thing he knew, he was deep in the snow. The ice grabbed his cheeks and nose, making them red and dark. He pulled himself up. The snow reached midway up his boots. There was nowhere to go. He slipped and went down the hill on his back.
"The Gulf of Lune, it's the only place to go," he told himself. Amaethon turned to his right, the direction he assumed was south.
…
The storm was increasing in its wickedness as the young Man tried to walk through the thigh-deep snow. His cheeks tingled and buzzed from the frost. He walked in complete white, not knowing where he was off to.
Without warning, he walked off of the land and fell into water. He went into shock from the frigidity. The thickness of the waterlogged cloak carried Amaethon down into the black depths. He could not get the cloak off of his shoulders, so he kicked and struggled for air.
Suddenly, he was lying in the snow, coughing and choking. He could not get the water out of his lungs, so his body's immediate response was to regurgitate. He spit and coughed into the snow. Chunks of his bad bread were scattered at his knees, along with a large amount of water. It was only now that he realized that it was salty. In fact, he turned and saw that the snow on the ground around him was gone, as if a great wave had crashed him to shore. The storm was still going. He had reached the north shore of the Gulf of Lune. To his left, there was a small wooden plank that jutted out into the sea. A three-person rowboat rocked up and down in place under the turbulent waves. Amaethon wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stood up.
A cloaked figure sat on a barrel, drinking from a tankard. Amaethon approached him, the water on his garments freezing in the wind. A strong smell of ale blew through the wind.
"The price is two pieces of silver," the voice said, leaning its head back and taking a long, final draught of the alcohol. His cloak covered his face in shadow. Not a single inch of his skin showed. He was prepared for the weather. Amaethon pulled his pack off of his back and pulled out his only two silver coins. He placed them in the hand of the figure. Amaethon wrapped his cloak around himself while he shivered, waiting for a response. "But seeing as you're headed upstream, it'll be four."
Amaethon scowled from under his cloak.
"That is all I have," he said, his voice shaking from the cold.
"Sorry!" the person said, leaning over and putting the coins into a sack.
"Would you be willing to strike a deal?" the young Man asked. The figure chuckled under his brown cloak.
"Depends on the reward," he said slyly.
"I will pay you with a ring."
The figure sat up. Amaethon had caught an interest.
"What sort of ring? How much is it worth?" he asked.
"If you take me upstream, I will pay it to you."
The person grumbled and stood up. He walked to the small boat and untied it from its mooring.
"Hop in," he said, gesturing to the boy. Amaethon stepped into the boat, steadying it so that it would not dump him into the sea. The person got in in front of him, but sat facing him. "What do you think you're doing?" he asked Amaethon. "Turn around and start rowing!" Amaethon turned to face the back of the boat. The waters were dark, and the sky was still windy and white. "We had better hurry. The water will soon freeze."
Amaethon pulled with all his strength against the current. They had been rowing for hours, and his arms were burning. He was extremely cold, and was certain that he would die before he reached the shore.
"We're going to the Grey Havens. From there, you'll be in the Shire. If I may ask…where are you going?" the person asked from behind.
"I'm going to live with distant family," Amaethon answered slowly.
"What happened to your close family?" he asked. Amaethon was annoyed with his pestering.
"They were killed and burned," Amaethon answered bluntly. The person was silent for a long time.
"So the servants of the Necromancer have reached even Forlindon…" he sounded shocked.
"I don't know of a "Necromancer", but I did hear that the Eye of Sauron is resting at the top of Barad-dur now," Amaethon said, pulling the oars back.
"We need to get to shore. I'm surprised that they have not yet found me…" the cloaked figure said timidly.
…
Amaethon pulled back on the oars again. The two sailors had not spoken for a very long time. In the wind, Amaethon thought that he heard a faint singing. He dismissed it and continued to pull. The singing grew louder and closer.
"Damn it!" the oarsman yelled. Amaethon turned around.
A large ship, much bigger than the small rowboat, was headed straight for them. He looked in shock at its size and beauty. The blowing snow whipped its mast around spasmodically. Amaethon became slightly mesmerized by the mysterious tune.
"Row! Row!" the figure yelled, kicking Amaethon in the back. He turned and grabbed his oars. The two people pulled back and forth with all their might. The white ship barely slid past the boat. Amaethon heard his guide let out a huge sigh. Amaethon looked curiously up at the ship. There were tall, slender Elves wrapped in cloaks, all standing on the ship and singing. One looked down at the small boat.
"May fortune be with you, strange sailor," the Elf said, raising his hand up towards the figure in the back. The singing died off and the ship vanished into the storm without a trace.
"Why are they leaving?" Amaethon asked, turning around.
"They do not want to be around when Middle-earth burns," the sailor said quietly. Amaethon turned and began rowing once more.
The two companions continued their route. They were close to shore.
…
The storm had finally subsided, but the sky was still thick with gray clouds and flurries. Amaethon's arms felt as if they were on fire when the rowboat finally reached the Grey Havens. Amaethon looked up at the massive towers on the cliffs above him. Stairways and steps led all over the place, all made of pristine white stone. There was not much snow in the harbor. Amaethon concluded that the storm must have only skimmed the area. A thick mist hung silently over the waters.
"Now is the time to look over your shoulder," the voice behind Amaethon whispered as he pulled back the oars. Amaethon turned around.
It was absolutely breathtaking. Even more towers stood upon the great cliffs, keeping watch over the Gulf of Lune. The trees were silver with frost. Many Elvish ships were in the harbor, and some Elves walked back and forth from them, loading supplies for their journey to sea. The gray-cloaked man rowed the boat up to a wooden plank and stepped off. He took Amaethon's hand and pulled him out of the boat. Amaethon stood on his own two feet and fell onto the deck. His legs felt like jelly and his feet were numb from cold. His head spun and he felt nauseous as he lay prostrate on the cold, damp wood.
"Now, time to get to business," the person growled. He dragged Amaethon by the arms and brought him behind an Elvish statue, out of sight. "Since you don't have the ring, I will need a ransom." Amaethon was shocked. He lifted his queasy body to his knees.
"How do you know?" he asked, shocked.
"I've been around liars and cheaters before, and I must say, you are a terrible one, boy. And just for your information, your father did not possess a Ring of Power. It was any other regular ring. He lied to you to save your life," he chuckled. Amaethon watched as he pulled back his hood.
The young Man pulled his blunt sword out of its sheath and pointed it at the Orc's chest. He had long, stringy black hair that went down to the middle of his back. His face and neck had a green hue. His eyes were like the brightest and most intense emeralds, staring boldly into the blue at his feet. He smirked and pulled out his long broadsword.
"I am Calen."
"Get away from me!" Amaethon's adrenaline kicked in and he stood back to his feet. He glanced down at his hands gripping the sword and noticed that they were a dark purple.
"You've been bitten by the frost, boy. You'll die either way," Calen said, whipping Amaethon's hood from his head. He put the point of his sword on the boy's neck.
"Glamhoth! Glamhoth!" a scared voice yelled. Calen whipped around and saw an Elf on a ship, yelling and pointing in their direction. The Orc pulled a longbow off of his back. He nocked an arrow to the string and fired instantly. Amaethon watched the arrow sail through the mist and slam into the Elf's chest. With a splash, he tumbled off the side of the ship.
"You were the one who killed my horse!" Amaethon suddenly realized.
"I have to make money somehow," he smirked. More Elves ran down the dock with swords. Calen spoke to Amaethon while he picked them off with his bow.
"What could you possibly need money this desperately for?" Amaethon asked boldly.
"Orcs aren't the most welcome characters in some parts, and I need something from someone. Keep out of my business, kid," he spat, continuing to fire upon the guards.
Suddenly, an Elf flew over Amaethon's head. He smashed the Orc in the cheek with the butt of his sword. He took a swing at Calen, but he suddenly had another blade embedded in his stomach. Calen twisted the hilt sharply and pulled it out. He kicked the corpse to the ground.
"I need to keep you in place," Calen said, wiping the small trail of black from his lips. He pulled coarse rope from inside his cloak and bound Amaethon's hands. The Elves' impetus ceased. "I hope you don't mind scraped knees," Calen said to Amaethon as he pulled his gray hood back over his head. He tugged the rope in his hand violently. The young boy fell flat on his face. The rope tugged once more and he slid over the harsh, cold bricks on the ground. He stumbled to his feet.
"I could pull out my sword at any moment and stab you in the back," Amaethon notified the Orc.
"Ah, of course! I believe I have more rope," Calen said with false enthusiasm. He pulled another line of rope from his cloak and cut it with his sword. He tied it around Amaethon's ankles. "And I'll take this, just for safekeeping," Calen pulled the sword from Amaethon's waist and held it up. "As if it were a weapon anyway," he snarled, tossing the blade into the icy water on the dock.
With a loud splash, it sank to the bottom of the sea.
Amaethon was tugged again. He fell hard on his front. His lip hit a sharp rock, and he instantly tasted blood. Calen pulled the rope over his shoulder as if he was pulling an animal. As he climbed the white stairs quickly, he heard hard thudding and grunting from the boy he was pulling.
"Only several hundred more stairs to go!" he mocked, climbing the exit stairway.
"Wait!" Amaethon yelled. Calen continued to drag the body up the stone.
"Yes?"
"I don't understand. How do you know anything about my father?" he asked, puzzled.
"'Isildur cut the ring from Sauron's hand!'" Calen said, turning to face him. Amaethon could not see his face in the darkness of his hood. He knew that voice. The elder who had taught him so much. Tears began to stream down his cheeks.
"You…I trusted you…" Amaethon sobbed. Calen said nothing and turned around. He yanked the line. Amaethon's nose buffeted the stair. Dark blood flowed into his mouth and down his chin. "Your skin was pale!" Amaethon spat blood onto the white stones.
"I put on a full disguise every day, kid. A lot of flour does the charm. The robes covered my limbs and hands. It was perfect."
"Why do you need me? Why did you watch me for all those years?" Amaethon stammered, exasperated.
"You could be someone. Someone others would not want to see come to power," Calen said. The two did not speak for hours.
…
The two of them followed the edge of the river Lune, which emptied into the Grey Havens. Amaethon was practically dead. His wrists were raw and the skin had been torn away from being dragged. His face was covered in dark smudges, cuts, and dried blood. The front of his tunic was in rags, and the knees were in no better condition. He lay on his front, tied to a tree on the bank of the river. His stomach rumbled and shook at the sides of his body. His throat was sore from inhaling dust and lack of water. He could not move by his own will.
Footsteps cracked branches and scattered stones. Amaethon heard wood being thrown onto the rocky ground. After several moments, he began to feel the warmth of a fire. The low orange light illuminated the surrounding area.
Suddenly, Amaethon felt someone turn him onto his back. He stared up at Calen. He was no longer wearing the gray cloak. He wore a black tunic that was torn and grimy. A white painted handprint was on the right side of his chest. Amaethon wondered what it symbolized.
Calen pulled a skin canteen from his side and kneeled, pouring fresh, clean, cold water down the boy's scratchy throat. Amaethon felt as if he was suddenly given life once more. He swallowed and sighed. The Orc put Amaethon's purple hands into a pot of hot water. He pulled off his boots and did the same with another pot.
"I am cooking some venison over the fire. I will bring you some when it is ready," he said softly. His long black hair hung over his green skin. Amaethon felt differently for the Orc kidnapper when he wiped his face with a wet piece of cloth. He scrubbed off the blood and wiped the grime from his cheeks.
"What…what is that symbol?" Amaethon's voice was slightly hoarse. Calen looked down at the white hand.
"I…you'll see soon enough, kid," he said quietly and walked back to the fire, avoiding conversation. Amaethon was puzzled, but more relaxed now. He turned to the fire.
"Where exactly are we going?" Amaethon realized that he had not the slightest idea where he was headed.
"Isengard."
