Chapter Two: A Grey Departure

She dreamed of her mother that night; hair the colour of a starless night, eyes like a storm at sea.

She dreamed of the white horse that had borne her mother away, under the yellow blossom of a spring four hundred years ago. She could feel the soft grass under her feet, Gilrendel's hand on her arm, the chill of the tear tracks on her cheeks in the breeze. In the dream, she turned away, and behind her was her father's grave; that grassy mound rising from the green, speckled with niphredil and elanor. Despite the sun bathing it in golden light, despite the singing of many birds above her, it was horrible to look upon, and she woke with wet eyes and a damp pillow, limbs tangled in her white sheets.

The dream soon faded, forgotten, and her anger at the previous night's events returned. After breakfast, she presented herself at the door of her mistress's study, determined to plead her case.

"You think you can spare me now, my lady, but my absence will be felt. Keenly."

The Lady of the Wood folded her hands in her lap. "Nimwen, Gilrendel and Mîreth may not have your… steely efficiency, it is true, but they are more than capable of keeping this house running for a few months." Galadriel's eyes danced. "I do not make that much work for you all, do I?"

"Well, no," Cadhríen faltered, "but –"

"And Lord Celeborn's books will still be here when you return, I can promise you that."

"But I –"

"You may even take a few with you, if you'd like."

Defeated, Cadhríen slunk away to find Nimwen, whom she eventually discovered in the dining chamber, sitting at the long oak table with a rag, methodically polishing the silver. Birds chattered in the branches beyond the veranda, and a cool draught wafted her hair as she sat down beside the older maiden and picked up a candlestick.

"I admire her for it, you know," Cadhríen said, not looking at her companion. She rubbed vigorously at a small black stain. "The ease with which she can send people away. Someone who's been by her side for so long. How I wish I could be so carefree."

Nimwen gave her a sidelong glance, one eyebrow raised. "It is not permanent exile. And have you not stopped to consider that she might be sending you because she trusts you?" Her blue eyes returned to the goblet she was polishing. "Perhaps above all of us."

Cadhríen huffed softly. "No. We all know she favours you." She held up the candlestick, inspecting it in the sunlight. "She is sending me because I was there, and she doesn't want to 'spare another marchwarden'. She said that."

Nimwen surveyed her for a long time, then placed the goblet back on the table. "She is not abandoning you, Cadhríen. This isn't the same."

"I don't know what you mean." Cadhríen's voice was light, but her chest felt like a coiled spring. "What time is it? I'm going to turn down the beds." And she put down the candlestick – stain still stubbornly intact – and strode out of the room, her mind a black cloud.

It was terrifying, how quickly the day of departure rolled around. It felt like only a moment ago that she had had a week stretching ahead of her, plenty of time to fume and argue and change her Lady's mind. But already it was the night before they were due to leave, Galadriel remained unmoved, and Cadhríen was moping over a plate of venison in the kitchens, painfully aware that this was the last hot meal she would enjoy for weeks. Haldir had already informed her that they would be subsisting on lembas for the journey – cookfires would draw unwanted attention in the lands east of the mountains.

"I don't know what you're so unhappy about," said Mîreth, ever the idealist, her silver-white hair glittering under the kitchen's wooden chandelier. Her fretfulness of a week ago was forgotten now that Haldir and Maeron had returned safe. "I think it will be awfully exciting. Imagine – renewing contact with our long-lost cousins!"

Nimwen and Gilrendel exchanged amused glances as Cadhríen shot her a disgruntled look. "I've been reading about them," she replied, "and if the stories are anything to go by, they will throw us in their dungeons as soon as look at us, and we'll rot to death." She took a bite of venison and chewed it grimly. "So much for our Lady's grand plan."

"Hush," said Gilrendel, and they looked around. No one was listening.

"Surely not," Mîreth insisted, cutting into her own food. "They have sent Amrohil ahead as a messenger. The Elvenking will be expecting you."

Cadhríen swallowed her mouthful. "How do you know Amrohil is not already their prisoner?"

"Cadhríen," Nimwen murmured, and she put a hand on Gilrendel's knee to stop her snorting with laughter.

Mîreth frowned and put down her knife. "You ought to be grateful, Cadhríen. The Lady has put great trust in you. I – and I'm sure I speak for Nimwen and Gilrendel, too – would be honoured to be in your place. Yet you grumble and moan as though you've been asked to scrub the marchwardens' barracks." She looked down at her food, only half finished. "It's late. I am going to snuff the lamps." And she pushed her chair back, got up and left the room.

Nimwen sighed. "Do you always have to be the voice of doom and gloom, Cadhríen?"

"I am only being a realist," Cadhríen objected, spearing more venison. "There is doom and gloom out there, in the wide world – what does Mîreth know of the lands beyond our borders? She has never left the wood. She is a child; she has not even seen her thousandth birthday."

"She is a romantic," Gilrendel acknowledged reluctantly, "but do you really think we can face what is out there alone, Cadhríen? Have you considered that not allying ourselves with distant kin while we have the chance might, in the end, be our undoing?"

The conversation had taken a dark turn, and the three of them sat in silence a moment, lost in troubled contemplation. Eventually, Nimwen reached out and began to stack the plates. "Come," she said briskly, "have you finished packing, Cadhríen? Do you wish to borrow my leather gloves?"

They went to bed late that night, having packed and repacked Cadhríen's supplies several times to get them down to a suitable size and weight. The company would be taking two packhorses with them, but with Celeborn's 'small' tribe of representatives now numbering a dozen, there was little room for more than a bedroll, a blanket and a few changes of clothes; and there was no room for home comforts. Cadhríen drifted into an uneasy sleep, wondering how long it would be until she next encountered a hairbrush – surely they had those up in their northern caves?

Before dawn broke the next morning, when her bedchamber was dark and still, she woke to a soft hand on her shoulder and a familiar, hushed voice in her ear: "One more thing to carry with you. Come."

She followed Haldir down the silent hall and into the house's armoury. Long daggers and knives were hung around the walls; gauntlets and baldrics and gleaming Galadhrim helmets were piled on shelves that towered almost to the ceiling. As Haldir rummaged in a corner, Cadhríen yawned and rubbed her arms; it was cool in the large room, and she was still in her nightgown. She quirked an eyebrow as her friend came over bearing a mallorn shortbow, intricately carved, and a quiver of feathered arrows.

"I know that you and the Lady's other companions all carry a silver dagger," he said, glancing down at the belt of her gown – she slept with it sheathed, just in case; in the unlikely event that trouble reached Caras Galadhon, she wanted to be prepared. "But out there, it is better to fell the enemy before he reaches you than go hand to hand in combat."

He held the bow out and she took it, still sceptical. She could use one, of course – you could not grow up in Lothlórien and avoid being taught – but she knew she wasn't very good. "I can handle an Orc or two," she said, touching the knife at her belt. She would be far swifter than they; and if they presented a problem, she could always run.

"There may be more than one or two," Haldir said, his gaze concerned. He held the bow out further. "Please. For me."

She took it with a sigh, weighing it in her hand. It was a good bow. "Very well. Give me the quiver."

He handed it over, looking happier, and she shouldered them and followed him out into the hall.

They were to leave at first light. The spring rain, which had held off for most of the previous week, returned as they gathered on the lawn beneath the great mallorn at the centre of the city. The fine drizzle dampened their grey cloaks and the glossy coats of the horses, and splashed into the bubbling fountain, which was lit by glowing silver lamps. Cadhríen had made up with Mîreth over an early breakfast, and her three fellow ladies-in-waiting now stood sheltering under a large bough, sending small smiles and waves her way. A few other onlookers had gathered to see them off, but Celeborn had not wanted too much fuss; and in any case, the marchwardens were all off on their patrols by now.

Celeborn was the last to arrive, accompanied by Galadriel, who looked unusually grave. Cadhríen wondered briefly if she had seen something foreboding in the Mirror, but knew she would have warned them if it pertained to their route north.

Cadhríen had never seen the Lord of Lórien dressed in travelling garb, and she stared, astonished, at his grey tunic, hooded cloak and leather baldric. But he wore a silver circlet on his head and carried a long, slim sword at his side, which marked him out from the rest of the company. He embraced his wife and exchanged a quiet word with her before turning and mounting a dapple grey steed.

"We set out north-west and hug the mountains," he ordered, "at least as far as the Gladden Fields. Following the Anduin now would only take us too close to Dol Guldur."

She felt a ripple of unease pass through the group, of which only Haldir was a seasoned warrior. She saw him give Celeborn a nod.

"Farewell, Cadhríen!" Mîreth called through the rain, and Cadhríen felt a prickle of guilt at having teased her friend the night before. She hadn't changed her mind – she would much rather be staying at home than embarking on this trip – but she had to admit there had been some sense in what Gilrendel had said. They could only try. With any luck, Celeborn would succeed in convincing Thranduil of this wisdom quickly, and they could turn around and be back in their feather beds before the month was up.

A small voice in the back of her mind insisted it couldn't – wouldn't – be that easy; but as they set off, single file behind Celeborn's mount, down the path to the white bridge and out of the lamp-lit city, she determinedly pushed it away.