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It was dark by the time he found her, nearly missing altogether, for her dark hair and robes melted into the shadows of the Last Homely House. Glorfindel had not seen her since the morning, since his own folk had gathered to watch the Fellowship leave on their quest, nine walkers setting forth against the nine wraiths. She had been there, Amera, standing so silent and still she all but seemed a statue. He had caught glimpse of her speaking to Mithrandir & Aragorn earlier in the morning, though he feared he could only guess at the intent of their conversation. Amera, while more talkative than she first had been brought to Imladris nearly a week ago, all the same remained quiet, shy. Glorfindel was reminded that she must be unused to conversation, for he could not begin to imagine the infrequency with which the Line of Anarion and their households traveled westward to Annuminas.
"You are difficult to find, Amera," He said gently as he stepped into the moonlit room, not wishing to alarm her.
She instantly looked over her shoulder, fingers twitching by her side. "I had not known you were looking for me, Glorfindel," Amera replied quietly, turning her gaze back towards the mural before her, "Or I would have sought you out. My apologies."
He said nothing, instead walking beside her. Glorfindel looked upwards at the painting. It was beautiful, perhaps even more so clad in the silver moonlight than in the light of day. There was Isildur, his grey eyes blazing with sorrow and anger and there also, hope, as he raised the broken blade in defiance before the looming form of the Dark Lord. He stood aside her, silent, then finally spoke. "I had not expected to find you here, Amera."
"I had not seen the Shards," She said faintly, "And wished to."
"And what do you think of them?"
Amera appeared surprised by the question, "They are beautiful, in their own way," She stated, turning to face them laid out delicately over a silken fold, "But fierce. It seems strange to me, that something so simple as this was that which struck the deepest at the Dark Lord."
"Strange?," Glorfindel perked a brow, "Why?"
"It seems to me that the greatest weapons should oft bring about the most good, that of all things, it was a broken blade that cut the Ring from Sauron's hand."
"Do you not believe broken things can bring forth good, Amera?" That pierced her. He saw it flicker in her pale eyes. When she said nothing, Glorfindel continued gently, kindly, as he nodded towards the mural, "All hope seemed lost when Isildur drew up the shattered remnants of Narsil, his father broken beside him and the Lord of Mordor stretching forth to see him undone. His great sword, dashed and crushed beneath a heel, yet he drew it all the same."
"There is a painting of Elendil in Annuminas," Amera said unexpectedly, her pale gaze flickering on the form of Isildur, "In chambers of the library there. It shows him setting foot in the bay, along with his sons and his ships, brave and bold." A faint smile graced her porcelain features. "Once did I go there, to find courage and counsel when I needed it most. I had thought perhaps his son might offer me what wisdom I found before his father long ago."
"And when did you seek out Elendil?" Glorfindel asked.
"Before I left for Fornost," The smile remained, but grew more distant, "Before I disobeyed Earnur and rode out to battle, before I met you."
"And why is it you now seek out the shards, Amera?," He questioned softly, knowing full well the answer she would give.
"Because I do not know what to do, Glorfindel," Her voice was a murmur and when she turned to face him, there was an honesty in it, delicate and pained, that he had never heard before. "When I drew my sword at Fornost, there was nothing left to defend. That day was won, yes, but at such a cost as could never be repaid. The Northern Kingdom fell, Arnor was all but destroyed, the Dunedain slaughtered and," She drew in a small breath, tempering her emotions, "You know as well as I, Glorfindel, that there was nothing left to save with that victory."
"I do," he answered.
"I cannot do the same now," her voice cracked quietly, "I will not act only when there is nothing left to save."
Glorfindel was touched by the determined sorrow etching her words. There was a reason, he reminded himself as a hand reached out to rest over her own, Amera had left an impression upon him from their first meeting over an age ago. Her skin was cool beneath his and she nearly flinched, he saw, but kept still all the same as he spoke, "Act then, Amera, now, tonight. Do what it is you would do and go forth bearing the hope and favour of the Free Peoples."
Her eyes widened at that. "I am too late," She lamented, a tongue running over her lower lip, "I kept silent and what chance I would seek is gone."
"It is not," He reassured, a kind smile touching his noble features, "If you leave tonight and travel quickly, you will be able to reach them, Amera. Worry not."
She drew in a small breath, steeling herself and meeting his eyes. "Do you think I have business in this, Glorfindel, since it seems you so easily guess as all that troubles me?"
"I do," Glorfindel said, "From first I saw you, Amera Aeliniel," His hand gripped her own tenderly, "For all your fear, you were brave. You have always been brave, even if you do not see it yourself, and through you, men are made better. I would have you use this second chance you have been given for greatest good." He nodded once. "I would not have you live in regret any longer, Amera."
"Then I will do this," She said determinedly and Glorfindel saw in her eyes the bright courage, touched with fear and pierced with hope, that marked Isildur's upon the mural.
"We're lost!" Sam remarked angrily, kicking a loose rock, "We had no business wandering off like this and now look what you've got us into!"
"What I've gotten us into?" Merry replied indignantly, his brow furrowing, "You seemed just as eager to find a bit more to eat, Sam, so don't you think you can go and pin this all on me!"
"Gandalf's going to be furious with us!," He lamented further, "We'll have a tongue lashing for this and I'll never hear the end of it!"
Frodo sighed heavily from beside him and Merry did his best to keep down the anxiety quickly growing inside of him. It was true, they were lost. It had seemed like an easy enough, simply going for a bit of a stroll to find some mushrooms or vegetables with which they might supplement what he, and Pippin for that matter, considered an inadequate amount of dinner. He had been comfortably napping, Pippin, and had sleepily shrugged off Merry's request for a quick hunt. Frodo had overheard and had kindly offered to join him, which Merry suspected was an excuse to have a bit of breath away from the rest of the Fellowship, and in turn Sam had trudged along, as well.
"I knew we should've asked Strider or Boromir to come with us," Sam said glumly, scanning the rocky horizon for signs of their camp, "Even Legolas might've known where to find something to eat. He's an elf, after all, and they're good with that, aren't they? No, but now we're lost and-"
"We're not lost!" Merry quickly replied, "And even if we were, which we're not, whinging about it wouldn't do any good. Instead, let's just do our best to retrace our steps. I'm sure everyone's just over the next hill." He glanced to Frodo, who offered a weak smile. Looking back to the rolling hills before them, he gulped nervously. They had been traveling for three days now, a rather awkward three days as each of them, decidedly different, had tried to get to know each other and avoid stepping on as many toes as they could. Eregion, that was the name of the land, Merry remembered Boromir telling him with a friendly smile.
It was a rough land, utterly different from the placid Shire he had known all his life. Where he was familiar with green grass, there was only brown, dry dirt and where he had come to love flowering trees, there were only small shrubs and rocky outcroppings. Still, he thought it beautiful in its own feral, foreign way, though his toes did yearn for the soft soil of the Buckland.
"Are you certain we came this way?" Frodo asked quickly and Merry gave a nod.
"Yes! Just a bit farther this way, I'm sure!"
Before long, the sun began to set and Merry grew increasingly worried as the shadows grew and stretched over the empty hills before them. They were lost, very lost, and while they all knew none seemed eager to voice the realization. He did not know what might roam these lands and while they seemed void of any life save the occasional squirrel, he found himself on edge all the same. His hand rested on the hilt of the sword he was not yet comfortable with yet as they walked onwards.
"There!" Sam suddenly called out and both he and Frodo jumped in surprise. "Do you see it? There! Just over there!" His hand extended outwards.
Merry squinted, then caught glimpse of the faint, bright flames of a distant fire along the next hill. He grinned widely. "See! Told you we'd find them soon enough!" They began to walk quickly towards it, all eager to put this small adventure behind them and enjoy the security that came with camping with the Fellowship, "See, Sam!" Merry continued brightly, "Did that worrying do you any good save twist your stomach in knots?"
Sam mumbled something in reply, casting a dark look in Merry's direction. Merry ignored it. The fire grew closer and closer as the cool of the night settled over the plains, much to his relief. He made a mental note to not venture out on his own from now on, not when Strider, the dwarf or Boromir seemed eager enough to lend aid. They were kind, all of them, in their own way and he found himself growing quite fond of them.
"We're back!" Sam called out as they approached the campfire, a grin of sheer relief stretching across his features. However, Frodo leapt forward and clasped a hand over his friend's mouth, casting a frightened glance towards Merry.
"Frodo, what're you on abo-" Before he could question further, Frodo shook his head violently and attempted to pull Sam back away from the firelight. Merry looked towards the camp in confusion, his eyes widening in horror a moment later. Instead of nine bedrolls spread out, there were only four and the wealth of provisions the Fellowship had brought with them from Rivendell was replaced by dirty hides and bones. A crude pot hung over the fire, a rusty knife resting on a rock beside it.
This was not their camp.
As the realization set in, Merry frantically turned to run, but ended up slamming into something and fell straight to the ground. Glancing upwards, he found himself staring into the dirtied face of a tall man, thick black hair falling over his shoulders in greasy strands. The firelight flickered over fierce features, dark eyes and rotten teeth that appeared beneath a grin.
"Just what've we got ere'?", He growled, words masked beneath a rough accent.
"Run Frodo!" Merry tried to cry out, but was quickly silenced by a hand that wrapped over his mouth and stifled him. He struggled furiously, doing his best to reach the blade at his side, and saw that Frodo and Sam were attempting the same, each held by another figure. Terrified and frantic, he bit down on the hand and upon hearing a cry of surprised pain, cried out, "Strider! Gandalf! Lego-" The hand came down again, angrier than before, and Merry caught a low curse rumbling forth from the man's chest as he was given a swift kick.
Soon, all three hobbits were aptly silenced and drug back towards the fire. A tall man stepped forward from behind one of the large rocks surrounding the camp, surveying the three with a mixture of curiosity and what Merry assumed to be foul intent. "Names, eh?" He furrowed his brow, "Who you callin' out for? There more of you?"
Neither of them said a word, though Sam glowered fiercely. The leader nodded to the man holding Sam and Sam was given a rough shove forward towards the fire. The man held out a crooked blade and Merry's eyes widened in horror. "Now, little un'," He growled, "Either you start tellin' us where these friends of your's are or we'll have to make you tell us. You won't be likin' that."
Before Sam could reply or so much as move, a loud crack suddenly rang through the camp. The man stood up instantly, wrapping his dirtied fingers around the hilt of his sword. It was dark now and the moon provided little light. Merry squinted and searched the shadows illuminated by the firelight for sign of one of the Fellowship, hoping they had heard their cries or had found them. However, nothing moved and whatever had caused the noise was silent once more. The leader, though clearly still on guard, sighed and shook his head, turning his attention once more to Sam. "Speak up now or I'll have my sword do the talkin' for you!"
A whistling, quick and high and soft, then rang through the night air. Merry blinked in confusion and a moment later the hands holding him captive fell away. The man that had been forcing him still cried out and Merry caught glimpse of something cutting through the darkness, a bright flash that buried itself in the side of the leader. "Run!" He yelled to Frodo, who in the confusion had also been let loose, as well. A shadow then moved from the corner of his eye and as he turned to watch it, he could only stare as it leapt forward from the darkness. Something shone in its hand, quicksilver in the firelight, and he gasped as it cut towards the leader of the men. A spurt of crimson shot out and the man grasped at his throat, choking and stumbling forward.
By now, the other men had rushed forward with a cry to aid their friend, who had fallen, twitching, beside the dying fire. Merry watched as the figure quickly raised their sword to parry a blow, then ducked another, moving as quickly and as fluidly as Legolas, though he knew it was not his companion. He then remembered the sword at his side and drew it, feeling the unfamiliar leather beneath his fingertips. Slashing wildly, he cut into the leg of one of the men, who toppled forward with a cry. The figure took advantage of this, side stepping a swinging blow from a crude mace with a snarl, and moved their sword downwards across the man's chest. He screamed and Merry saw blood stain the dry earth before them, flickering in the firelight.
Two more men remained and one of them chanced a lucky strike, managing to swipe the figure's arm. The cloaked figure gasped in surprise, stumbling backwards for a moment, but fought back all the fiercer for it, their blade movingly through the air effortlessly, practically gracefully in its lethal dance. They ducked another hit, turning and thrusting in a smooth motion, taking down yet another. The last man fell to his knees then, much to Merry's surprise, and began begging. He raised his hands up pitifully, practically crying, but the figure did not so much as flinch before the bright sword came down once more and silenced his whimperings.
The bloodied camp was utterly silent then, save for the crackling of the ashen wood, and Merry simply stared. The figure raised a hand to their upper arm, winced once, then took a step forward. Frodo and Sam leapt back, Sam drawing his sword with a cry. Both hands rose up, dropping the sword, and the figure knelt onto one knee. "I will not hurt you, I swear it, but if you are hurt then I will aid you as best I can until we can find the rest of the Fellowship."
Merry's brow furrowed. They knew about the Fellowship, however they were, though he was certain that this entire endeavor was supposed to be rather secretive. His gaze trailed back to the slain men and the blood soaking the ground, suspicious of whoever had rescued them. "Forgive me," A soft voice rang out and hands moved to throw back the hood, "I did not mean to startle you, only-"
An arrow cut through the air and buried itself in the trail of the figure's cloak. They gasped and Frodo called out, "No! Wait!"
The figure extended their arms higher as a sign of surrender and though Merry could not make out what they were saying over Frodo's cries to stop, he found he recognized the voice. He looked from where the arrow had appeared and saw what could only be the figures of Pippin, Strider & the rest of the Fellowship springing towards them, Legolas quicker than the rest with bow drawn. "I'm a friend!" The figure called out, the voice distinctly feminine now, then slipped into a strange tongue and cried out once more. Legolas stopped at that and Merry saw his eyes widen in surprise in the moonlight, Gandalf & Strider rushing forward with Pippin trailing behind.
However, Boromir rushed forward from the side of the camp with a cry, slamming his shield into the woman and tackling her from the shadows. She fell with none of the grace she had exhibited a moment earlier. Boromir kicked her sword away from her hand and drew his own with a snarl, instantly placing it at her throat. She raised up both hands, panting now, and as her cloak fell over her, Merry could make out the feminine form beneath it. "Show yourself!" He growled and roughly tore her hood away. Dark hair tumbled out, clinging to a pale brow dotted with beads of sweat. Boromir stared for a long pause, blinking in surprise, then took a step back.
The woman from the Council, the one who Gandalf had called Aeliniel and had spoken to Strider before their journey had begun, stared back.