Thanks for your patience, everyone! As always, please see the endnotes for translations and commentary.
Ivorsel woke minutes later with a ringing in her ears. Her forehead throbbed from where she had been struck, and her eyes stung with tears. Peeking out from behind the horse's head, she observed that they were still beside the White Mountains, though they had stopped moving the moment she awoke. She sniffled and hugged the horse's neck, wishing that she could disappear.
She jumped when she heard a steely voice behind her ask, "How fare thee, Lady?"
But Ivorsel was too afraid to answer, and she buried her face into the horse's mane and began to weep. Behind her, Nethanar smiled. "You see, my intent was not to wound you, but to warn you. Should you try and contend with me on this journey, Tithessel, you will have my blade to answer to."
"Why are you doing this?" wailed Ivorsel. "I do not want to go with you anymore. I want to go home!"
"Silence, child, or I shall put you out for even longer," growled Nethanar, kicking the horse into motion again. Ivorsel did not dare speak again after that, and silently wished that she had stayed in her bed. This caused her thought to turn to her mother and father, who doubtless by now had noticed their daughter's absence. She choked at the thought and immediately pushed it away, then squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself to sleep.
Queen Hendunare had often remarked on how peacefully Ivorsel slept. But as soon as she closed her eyes, she found herself immersed in a sea of nightmares, most of which found her at the mercy of Nethanar's ghoulish blade. And so she began to thrash restlessly in her sleep, and tears trickled down from her closed eyelids. And ever and anon Nethanar would look down upon her, fixing her body with his forbidding gaze.
When next Ivorsel woke, it was to the stench of hay and horsedung, and the harsh whinnying of restless steeds. Blinking owlishly, she examined her surroundings: a rickety stable that had undoubtedly seen better days, and above, the red-gold hues of the setting sun. A lump rose in her throat, and her thought flickered once more to her mother and father. No doubt a search party had been dispatched—yes, Ivorsel was familiar with the search parties, being the elusive sprite that she was. This time, however, there would be no discovery. They would seek for her, yes, but she would not be found—and very soon, she would be mourned along with the rest of her siblings who had passed.
She was shaken from her thoughts when firm hands grasped her sides and deposited her onto the ground. Immediately her knees buckled beneath her, and she latched onto the stirrups of the horse for support. Once she had steadied herself, she met the eyes of Nethanar, who had been watching her expectantly.
"I suppose you wish to know where we are," he said at last. "Have you been here before, my lady?"
Ivorsel peered outside the battered stable. The White Mountains were no longer beside them, and now towered some distance away to the south. Surrounding them now instead was a vast, marshy expanse stretching for miles into a desolate sea of gray. She looked sheepishly at Nethanar and shook her head.
"This is the Wetwang, the great fen just north of Cair Andros. I have been accorded a settlement here."
"A settlement?" echoed Ivorsel. "Here, in the swamp?"
A look of hostility crossed Nethanar's face, but it subsided. "Yes," he replied with some restraint. "It has suited me well, and will serve an even greater purpose tonight." This earned a shudder from poor Ivorsel, and she drew her cloak closer about herself as if it were some means of protection. She winced as Nethanar yanked her by the scruff, leading her from the stable and onward through the twilit bog.
They came at last to a small cottage that had long ago fallen into disrepair. A thick layer of moss coated every inch of the settlement, and tendrils of sedge and cattails snaked their way between through the sodden logs of the wall. The settlement itself reminded little Ivorsel of the tales of Rhosgobel, the village that lay nestled on the eaves of Mirkwood. The nurses had told her that one of the five wizards dwelt there and acted as a caretaker of the forest. Squeezing her eyes shut, she imagined herself standing atop the porch of the kindly wizard—and thus she was allowed a brief escape from the cruel grip of Nethanar.
Her reverie ended abruptly as she found herself being shoved through the doorway, and into the cottage. A fetid odor clung to the air, rumoring of marsh-water and mold. Only two candles flickered in the dim of the house, and Ivorsel found that she had to blink several times before her eyes could adjust. But when at last she could see, she nearly cried out in shock, for she had discovered that they were not alone.
Two figures sat hunched in the far corner of the cottage, both regarding her with hungry, glittering eyes. They were clad in dark cloaks similar to that of hers and Nethanar's, their hoods drawn close about their faces. One immediately rose and threw back its hood, then strode away from her companion and towards Ivorsel.
In the dark, Ivorsel could just make out the features of the woman that towered over her. She was quite tall, and dark-haired—clearly she too hailed from Gondor. She was clad in tattered riding gear, and at her belt dangled a short sword and an item that looked rather like a crude hammer. And as she studied little Ivorsel, she wore the expression of one who is about to indulge in a helping of roast pig.
"Ah, the young heiress comes. Ki-nâkhi izinda, little one." She turned to Nethanar, who still dwelt in the doorway and had since taken to fiddling with his knife. "You did not send word, Nethanar. Why not?"
Nethanar gave her a sour look from his place on the threshold. "I doubt many would be eager to bear a message that told of the little lady's capture, Rivernil," he growled. "Moreover, I had no immediate intention of delivering the child tonight. The opportunity had simply presented itself at the time, and as such, I reacted."
A shadow of fear crept across Rivernil's brow. "They will have sent Rangers to fetch her," she fretted. "They shall track your horse across the plains."
"Then I think it best we depart now," was Nethanar's sharp reply. "Come, Rivernil. We have a long journey ahead."
At this, the hooded figure in the corner (whom Ivorsel had quite forgotten about) rose and strode towards the door, paused before the group, then whisked away into the night air. Nethanar and Rivernil exchanged a quick glance before following suit, tugging along little Ivorsel in their wake.
The three trudged through the muddy pools that led to the stable, a task that had become increasingly more difficult since the sun had set. Every so often Nethanar or Rivernil would mutter an oath if a misstep was made. Thus it was so that the company had found themselves miserable and drenched in bog-water by the time they had reached the stables.
By the time that Nethanar and Rivernil had mounted, the hooded figure had long gone. Swiftly the two kicked their horses into motion, and followed their leader in dogged pursuit.
Ivorsel did not fall asleep this time. Rather, she stared listlessly as her surroundings flashed beside her: the oozing mires, the muddied banks of the Entwash, the starless night overhead—all of which had passed by without a second thought from Ivorsel. This ride was not nearly as long as her previous venture, but she did not care anymore. She was cold and sore, and above all things, tired. She longed for her bed back in Minas Tirith, safe in the high tower of the citadel.
The gruff hands of Nethanar closed around her shoulders, and she was lifted out of the saddle and tossed to the ground once more.
The earth no longer felt soft beneath her limbs. Rather, it was coarse with grass, and as she looked about her, she saw that the swamps of the Wetwang had since faded into barren moorlands. Unbeknownst to her was that the company had since departed the realm of Gondor, and now stood upon the thresholds of the Eastfold of Rohan.
A small bivouac had been established by Nethanar and Rivernil; here they would take rest and refuge for a small while in the realm of the Horse-Lords.
The other companion, however, was nowhere to be seen. Ivorsel suspected that he had gone to keep watch from some secluded place, should any unwelcome visitors happen upon their location. Nethanar and Rivernil, who had since finished preparing the camp, now sat in deep conversation beside a flickering fire. Ivorsel, suddenly aware of how utterly cold she was, huddled gratefully towards the blaze. To her surprise, neither Rivernil nor Nethanar seemed bothered by her presence, and they continued to exchange words in hushed and urgent tones.
Rivernil was the first to speak. "And after we have crossed the Gap of Rohan, what then? Shall we risk blundering into the Northern Kingdom before we are to reach Carn Dûm?"
"It is no blunder," said Nethanar. "We may find safe passage within the Barrow-downs of Cardolan. There are few who would dare travel through that region of Arnor."
"Then I misspoke before," growled Rivernil. "It is a gamble, Nethanar, and one that I am unwilling to take. They say a powerful force dwells near the Barrow-downs, a guardian of growing things. Iarwain Ben-adar he is called, oldest and fatherless. I do not wish to chance an encounter with him."
"What then do you propose?"
There was no hesitation in Rivernil's response. "I say that we head north along the Anduin, and traverse the mountains westward," she announced. "The route is treacherous, yes. But it remains unguarded."
Nethanar folded his arms. "The child will not survive such a journey."
"She will."
The third companion had since joined them, a great hooded tower that loomed before the fire. A pair of hands appeared from the folds of his raiment and cast back his hood, and what Ivorsel saw sent a shiver down her spine. It was as if one of the great kings of Númenor had climbed out of the pages of lore and now stood before her. He was tall and dark-haired, and carried an authority about him such as that of her father, though perhaps more ruthless and less just. His cold eyes flicked first to Nethanar, then to Rivernil, and fell at last upon Ivorsel, who sheepishly hid her face.
"Ki-tuda ni-yad, nithil," he said sternly, and with inexplicable compliance, she beheld him once more. He was dark and terrible, cold and ancient as one of the King's Men of old. He regarded her for what seemed to be ages, his eyes ever fixed upon her being. Here beneath his gaze she felt shackled, bound by unseen irons. She began to tremble, wishing at once that he would look elsewhere.
"Hear me now, Ivorsel, daughter of Eldarion," he said at last. "Whatever hope you had of returning to Minas Tirith must be forsaken. Know now that you are at the mercy of the will of the Dark Tree, whose roots shall eradicate the fraud-king of Gondor, and all other lesser men.
"My name is Herumor. My company are those who hold fast to the customs of Ar-Pharazȏn the Golden. No elf-friends are we, for elves are deceitful and covetous, and undeserving of the gift of immortality. We believe only in the makings of man, and in Tar-Mairon, Lord of the Earth and King of Men."
Mairon. The name flickered like ashes in the wind, whispering of a great evil of an older time. The fire swelled suddenly, billowing into the air like a pillar of trembling marble. And then, in a single, fleeting moment, an image of a great blazing eye struck Ivorsel's vision and was gone.
Shuddering with terror, she hugged her knees and bowed her head. It seemed that she had wandered into a nightmare so vast and intricate that waking was no longer an option. Images of home flitted across her mind: the tree, the fountain, the tower of Ecthelion; each a welcoming memory that allowed her a brief sense of peace. She stood no longer beside the campfire, and walked now within the glimmering courtyard of Minas Tirith. Like a distant echo, she heard the relieved cries of her mother as her father pulled her into a tight embrace. She lingered in his phantom-arms for a heartbeat or so, before she did as Herumor commanded and forsook her hope.
A shrill cry pierced through the night air, like that of a startled horse. Herumor and the others immediately sprang to their feet, glancing about wildly for the source of the noise. Rivernil, who had already drawn her sword, hissed, "Rangers. They have found us!"
"No," replied Herumor, his expression unreadable. "Not rangers, nor any being of this world." He turned away from the others and whispered, "Another time, perhaps."
What happened next was entirely incomprehensible to Ivorsel, and was later recalled with much difficulty, for she felt as if she had somehow strayed once more into the world of dreams. A great wave of white light seemed to rise above the small camp and towering above the small company. It was as if the sun now stood before them, and they cried and hid their faces. And with a hungry roar, the wave surged forward and engulfed them.
Notes:
The ending feels rushed. I'd like to fix it, but I'm not quite sure how to.
HOLY PROPER NOUNS, BATMAN! If you wish to indulge in a fun game, I suggest taking a hearty swig each time one of those pesky propers crosses your path.
I kind of spammed this chapter with locations. The Wetwang, White Mountains, Entwash, Cardolan… it's a tad excessive. My apologies.
There's a bit of Adûnaic in this chapter, which is something that will be explained further on in the story. "Ki-nâkhi izinda" means "Welcome," and "Ki-tuda ni-yad, nithil" means "Look at me, girl."
Also, Iarwain Ben-adar is a reference to... *sharp inhale* Tom Bombadil. As some of you may already know, I'm not particularly fond of Bombadil. So really, that cameo was kind of unexpected.
Please help me improve my writing! Reviews and constructive criticism are always appreciated!
