Chapter 3: Avhe Fellowukhip: Includaumn ij Sulj Heaavun Diukcuukukion Abouav avhe Meriavuk ro Guavavaumn Fiukh (The Fellowship:Including a Very Heated Discussion About the Merits of Gutting Fish)
The first thing that I see is a grim looking human looming over me. Something is pushing down on my chest and I push against the man frantically, struggling for breath.
"Stop struggling, I'm trying to help," the man says, pinning my arms down.
"I..."the croak that escapes my mouth sounds pathetic and weak. I start again, "Get off me." I try to put as much authority into my voice as possible. It still sounds pathetic.
The man takes his hands away and gives me room to sit up. The world spins, and I groan, my head pounding and my chest aching. All of a sudden I am overcome with the need to vomit. River water pours out of my sore throat, and I gasp for air. The world spins again and it is all I can do to fall back against the ground. The elf looks over me, concern and suspicion filling his face.
"Why do you carry orcish blades? And what are you doing out here?" he questions. I see a bow and quiver upon his back. His weapon looks like that of the elves of Mirkwood.
"I could ask the same of you, what is a Mirkwood elf doing with this odd bunch?" as soon as the words escape my lips I bit my tongue. Perhaps that was not the best way to get them to trust me. I quickly add on, "All I meant was that it is strange for your kind to leave the forest, and as for what I am doing here, well that's a rather long story."
"We have time,"the man says, he is eyeing the scimitars, "And what of your weapon?"
"I killed an orc,"I answer simply, they stare at me. I realize that it is strange for them to see a female in battle. So I correct myself once again, "Or rather my fellow traveler did. We were on the road when two orc scouts attacked us. None of the others survived."
"Where were you heading one might ask? And what do they call you?" the elf grips his bow now.
I think fast, AgonZajar and I flew over this land on our way to find the fellowship. "Rohan," I say quickly, "And they call me Mel…," I think fast, if I say Melkor they will know that I am one of the Shadow. What is a friendly innocent sounding name? Then it hits me, the word for friend in Sindarin is Mellon and I look quite similar to an elf, perhaps I can pull it of. "Melloniel,"I say, hoping my voice sounds confident.
"I see, Melloniel," the elf responds, looking back at the huddle of people behind him staring at us, wide eyed and suspicious. I do my best to smile sweetly at them, but the expression is unnatural on my frown-creased face. Not to mention my head throbs from where it hit the rock.
Now that the world has stopped twirling and the edges of my vision are no longer blurred I stagger to my feet, unprepared for the rush to my head and imbalance at my feet. I awkwardly fall forward, knocking into the elf who somehow manages to catch me, gracefully. He steadies me, and I am about to glower at him when I stop. If I want to sell the "I'm a sweet, fair, lost little damsel" story and avoid suspicion, then I will sadly have to play the part. So instead I flash him a smile and say thank you, the words foreign in my mouth.
Turning my back on the cursed river, I clumsily walk towards the fellowship, the man on one side and the elf gently guiding me on the other. I desperately want to shove his hand off my shoulder and maybe stick a blade in his stomach, but that might be a bit of a give away. Had I known before that if I revealed myself they would just take me in, I would have done it ages ago. I guess I overestimated their intelligence, and that's saying something.
Supposedly having determined that I'm no threat, they help me towards the fire, bright orange against the turquoise darkness of evening, and wrap a thick blanket around my shoulders; I hadn't even realized I was shivering. After handing me a warm bowl of fairly disgusting stew, they start prodding me about my dead companion and what attacked me. In the end I am forced to improvise a story filled with blubbering and fake tears, death, blood, guts and glory, which they eat up. It all comes to a climax when on my way to ask them for directions and assistance, feeling hopeless and still reeling from the loss of my friend, I am "attacked by a rabid beast!" and shoved into the river. By this point I have gotten quite adept at fake tears and lay it on rather thick, maybe even too much, but they look at me with compassion in their eyes and I know they will not simply leave me to the animals. It takes serious self restraint not to laugh at their stupidity.
I fall asleep, feeling content and my stomach is pleasantly full, this is a feeling I have never felt before. I don't have to stay alert, and the elf is standing sentry which makes me feel safer in this weak injured state that I am in. Though I would never want to put my trust in anyone but AgonZajar, the elf has the best senses out of the whole fellowship so there is a feeling of protection from the ghastly beast that attacked me.
In the morning rough hands shove me awake, and when I wearily open my eyes I am face to face with the scraggly dwarf. Shocked, I bolt up and almost impale myself on his axe. I catch myself just in time and scowl up at him, quickly turning it into a smile when I remember what I'm here to do. Satisfied that I'm awake, he grunts and trudges off, leaving me sitting wide eyed and thoroughly irritated, my heart jumping in my chest. After a second I begrudgingly get up. Still a little weak from my encounter with the Presence, I almost topple over, but I manage to steady myself, sighing, my head throbbing and my shoulder aching.
I gather myself and plaster a smile on my face, bringing my eyes up and letting them sweep the camp. As I look around I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment; I am the last one awake and everyone else is huddled in a clump eating breakfast and chatting. Great.
The fat hobbit makes surprisingly good breakfast, with the given resources(mostly fish, and some potatoes). I try to smile and chat with the others in the group, it is awkward and sounds forced to me but they fall for it quite easily. The other Man, whose name I discover is Boromir, is quite interested in my tale. I find out that he comes from Gondor, I have probably slunk past his room on the way to assassinate a Gondorian noble. The Man who pulled me out of the river is a good friend to the elves, and the heir to the throne of Gondor. Aragorn, he is the most suspicious and the most difficult to talk to. The elf, prince of Mirkwood, is as snobbish and arrogant as I suspected he would be when I first saw him. The four halflings are a fat one, two energetic ones, and a sullen one. Then there is the dwarf of course, filthy creature, I've never been fond of them and after they killed one of AgonZajars best friends, Smaug, I've hated them. On top of that, I still have no idea who the Ringbearer is.
When we're finished eating everyone around me gets up and wordlessly starts repacking everything with a monotony that makes it clear that this is a task they perform everyday. Unsure of what to do, I stay seated on the damp log, watching the curls of smoke drift up from the dying fire. Just when I start to feel awkward, I hear a grunt behind me and turn around barely in time to catch a sleeping mat before it can knock me over. When I look up I see the dwarf once more, a scowl in his beady eyes.
"Go on, make yourself useful." he grumbles, before trudging off towards the boats, his arms loaded with supplies. Sighing, I follow him with the mat crooked under my arm, silently seething about being bossed around in this manner. Seeing my discomfort, one of the jolly halflings bounds up to me, the bundle clutched in his hand dragging on the ground, and starts making conversation. Though I have to hold my tongue so as not to reveal my true nature, the chat is surprisingly pleasant. Later, after the camp is cleared and it appears like we were never there, I find myself in the same boat as the hobbit. I am pleased to see that he also squirms when he eyes the water; at least I am not the only one who doesn't trust the rippling river.
The boat ride is boring, but so much better than being stuck under the food crate and running through the brush and mud on the side of the river. Though I must ride behind the stern Man, Aragorn. I feel as though he can see through the slim facade of being a fair maiden. The questions that I am asked make me only slightly uncomfortable and the answers come easily. The lying isn't the hard part, that is second nature, but the story of how I came to be in the river… I don't have all that much experience with being a lady.
But in the end the strange Man seems to tire of me and instead gazes at the riverside, occasionally nudging the boat in the right direction so we don't crash. The silence stays heavy in the air until the young Halfling, whose name is Pippin, I believe, starts up another conversation.
By the time the sun is bright and glaring overhead, we are deep in a very heated discussion about whether it is necessary to fully gut and cook fish. It is my firm belief that as long as you chop off the head, the fish is edible. If you can give it a little toast over the fire, great. But it seems like a tremendous waste of time and effort to meticulously empty the fish of it's innards, sprinkle herbs and seasoning over it, and cook it to perfection over a fire which can draw attention to you if you are trying to hide. But Pippin stays adamant in his belief that even out here in the wilderness your fish should be a culinary masterpiece.
We continue to bicker lightly about roasting the fish or simply shoving it into the fire for a few seconds. I find that I am enjoying this more than ripping their heads off and stealing the ring. This makes me uncomfortable though, happiness is what is supposed to come with brutally murdering someone, not idly bantering with them. My train of thought is stopped right then by a flock of dark crows flying off in the distance. The fellowship begins to panic, apparently these birds have flown by them before and are the birds of Sauroman. Personally I don't understand their fear, the crows love to play with me and Zarry, games of fetch and tag last forever when one plays with them.
Everyone is frantically discussing what to do, though I find it better to keep my mouth shut and try my best to look uneasy. My acting has been steadily improving, and now the sickly sweet smile that must stick plastered to my face doesn't feel quite as foreign. But fear is harder to sell than sweetness. Growing up, I was often terrified but I was never allowed to let my fear show, something I learned the hard way. Whenever I am afraid (which is a rare occurrence), I have become accustomed to pushing it down. Skilled enemies can tell when one is afraid, and a caught breath or small step backwards can notify them that they have the upper hand, giving them the confidence they need to defeat you. So after decades of punishments for betraying my fear, punishments that paved the way to near fearlessness, it is unnatural for me to have to fabricate fear and make a public display of it.
Still, no one bats an eye as I clunkily speed my breath and widen my eyes, trying my best to pretend that I am terrified by the little black specks faintly silhouetted in the distance. I see a raised eyebrow or two, but by now everyone has accepted that 'Melloniel the weary traveller' is quirky, and thinks no more of it. They occupy themselves with safely guiding us to shore, away from the eyes of the crows, leaving me to my sucky acting. I'm beginning to wonder whether I'm overdoing it, or if anyone is even watching anymore, when Pippin scoots over to me, gently swaying the boat, and tenderly takes my hand. I almost recoil, at home if someone goes to touch you it usually signifies that there is a beating coming, but there seems to be no malice in his eyes. I think….I think he is comforting me; he believes I am scared and wants to reassure me. Something feels strange, and in this moment I realize that I have no urge to scoff at his stupidity at comforting the enemy. Rather, I feel like we are….friends.
The next morning comes swiftly, but it is Pippin who wakes me and it is not so bad. The breakfast of crisp fish is surprisingly enjoyable and the potatoes taste incredible, certainly much better than the stale biscuits I stole at the beginning of my journey. As we begin to pack our supplies, I hear a cracking noise coming from the bushes. The elf seems to be the only one besides me who notices anything unusual, he shushes the rest of them and then Aragorn seems to hear it too. I place myself between Pippin and the bushes, feeling a strange urge to protect the halfling. Then there comes a roar as an orc leaps out of the bushes, straight at the sullen hobbit who is closest to him. The others shout and surge to protect him, that's when it clicks, he must be the ring bearer.
However, it's clear that the early start and days of weary travel have taken a toll on my companions, and though they are holding their ground I can hear the sounds of more in the distance. I cannot turn against my own people, cannot sink a blade into an orc. But at the same time I cannot just let this mission go and watch these people die; the people who pulled me from the depths of the river, who fed me and gave me shelter. Sweet Pippin, still firmly rooted in his mindset that fish must be cooked to perfection, and even the grumpy dwarf who is begrudgingly starting to tolerate me. No, I cannot let them die. Of course, only for the sake of the mission, at least that's what I tell myself as I grip my scimitar. When I have what I need, I will slaughter them all, they are not my friends no matter what my traitorous heart says.
With this thought in my head I draw out my scimitar and charge headlong into the group of orcs.