Written really, really slowly and with much respect for (but no ownership in) the works of J.R.R. Tolkein, Peter Jackson, Philippa Boyens, and Fran Walsh.
15 January, 3019. Third Age.
Anarwen leapt to her feet. Eyes raking the misty forest, she strained to locate any movement, hear any sound. A slight wind sent the trees murmuring, but the hushed noise was drowned out by an echo in her head. Run! The tranquil surroundings were in sharp contrast to the images of shadow and flame that flickered in her mind's eye. Her breath came in short gasps. The fear, so overwhelming that her hands trembled…somehow she knew it was Legolas. The presence of another, as if both of them were joined in one body, thrummed under her skin. Sensation and thought jumbled together, passing back and forth across the void so that fear and confusion wracked them equally.
"Move, now," she muttered fiercely. Unused limbs lurched forward. Wherever Legolas was, she had to find him. Mist-shrouded ground flew under her silent footfalls. Daylight had come sometime during her reverie, but the unseen sky above must have been too clouded to cast shadows within the forest. There was nothing to guide her direction except the sense of the Elven prince. It had to be enough.
Swiftly she ran across a landscape of twisted trees and low scrub. Time passed without meaning. The ground, which had been even under her feet when she started, began to slope upward. For a brief moment she wondered how long it might take to find the ledge the Company had traveled along. Flashes of that snowstorm overtook her thoughts. The memory of Gandalf's incantation booming across the mountain pass sent a chill along her spine, followed by the churning feeling of her remembered fall. Something vibrated along the bond with Legolas, and in that momentary sensation, Anarwen knew her tenuous grip on him was ebbing away.
A hidden tree root sent her stumbling. She caught herself against the tree's massive trunk and pressed her forehead against its solid body. Logic, training, discipline—all cried out for her to stop, that she didn't know where she was going or how far away Legolas could be by now. But the flagging bond between their souls was all she cared about. Her path was taking her toward him; that was the only certainty. Fly!
The elven-girl sprang forward again, long limbs erasing the distance between one tree and the next, one rocky outcrop and another ahead. The landscape continued to angle upward, becoming steeper as hours passed unnoticed. Anarwen was only faintly aware of her surroundings. Drifts of snow had become more prevalent with the day's passage. Tall oaks had given way to towering pines. The light of Anor had brightened enough to dissipate some of the mist.
None of it made any impression as Anarwen bent her mind to the link between herself and Legolas. The sensation of him, so real when she had awakened, was only a faint shadow now. Her throat tightened at the knowledge that the bond would be lost in moments. Frantically she summoned memories of him, hoping against all odds that she could bolster the strange tie to him.
Slowly at first, hampered by her body's exertions and her tangled emotions, images of him kindled in her mind. Turning an arrow lightly in his fingertips, bending over a map in his quarters, riding alongside her during a patrol, walking through the Elven-king's halls, laughing at something she had said and teasing her with his reply…A thousand simple moments in their time together, each coming more rapidly than the one before. Each memory, each image so small, so precious that holding it too tightly threatened to crush it to nothingness. Faster and faster they washed over her. A tide of twenty years at his side. And then just as the forested slope gave way to an alpine clearing, the sun broke through the clouds and cast a piercing ray directly in her face.
Colors exploded behind Anarwen's eyes. Blindly, she lurched to a stop. Her heart pounded in her chest, but sensations from the past blotted out the present. A screen of golden light seemed so very near. Although they touched nothing, her fingertips tingled as if tracing another's skin. That awful day on the shores of the River Carnen. Legolas had held her poisoned body tightly in his arms when it seemed that death had come to part them. You musn't…
Anarwen pressed hands to her head and tried to pull herself back from the abyss. You…There is only you… "Stop," she whispered. "Please, stop." Her eyes fluttered open. The small clearing was bathed in afternoon sunlight. Clutches of small white flowers sent a sweet fragrance into the air. Her breathing slowed and she struggled to focus on the scene before her. At the far edge of the clearing, a massive boulder broke through the tree line. Beyond it, the forested slope resumed its rapid rise. For the first time that day, Anarwen had a clear view up the mountain side. She stared upward at the vast stretch of trees fading into complete snow cover. The mountain's summit was hidden in gray clouds.
Walking slowing across the clearing, she scanned snow drifts far up the slope. Winter white landscape glittered at the touch of Anor. Methodically, she checked the vista in each direction, but one section of the mountain looked as foreign and unknown as another. And it was then that a sinking feeling entered her heart.
The rocky boulder ahead jutted out from the mountainside. Hand over hand, she scrambled up its face until she reached its top and turned around slowly. From this perch, the view opened out over the downslope forest and across a broad span to another mountain's snow-covered landscape. Her breath caught in her throat. Shrouded by patches of fog in some places, hidden entirely under snow in others, a narrow ledge wound its way across the distant slope.
In disbelief, Anarwen followed its uneven course to her left, a path she now knew to be westward, until she saw a jagged edge where one side of the ledge was severed from the other. She bit her lip hard enough to drawn blood. A smooth plane of snow stretched down from the gash. With stinging eyes, she followed the slide lower and lower until she found it. Only Elven sight could have spotted it, and the wretched irony of that was too much to endure. There in the distance, mid-slope on another mountain, a Mirkwood bow pierced the white drifts.
"Noooooooooooo!" Her voice echoed out across the span separating Caradhras the Cruel from where she stood. The sensation she had been so quick to name as Legolas had led her away from the Fellowship's path through the Misty Mountains. In aching defeat, Anarwen sank to her knees. The boulder beneath her belonged to Celebdil, the mass that towered over the Mines of Moria. She was on the wrong mountainside.
Silent snow had fallen for hours before Anarwen raised her head. Tears of anger and hopelessness had come and gone. She scooped up a small handful of snow and wiped it roughly over her face. Pinpricks of cold dotted her cheeks. She uncurled her knees from her chest and dragged her eyes slowly across the landscape once more.
Night had fallen while she had sat on the boulder, pressing her forehead to her knees and rocking herself into numbness. The canopy of stars was largely hidden by thick clouds. Darkness that would have spared most others, though, was no match for her keen Elven eyesight. In the far distance, the ledge mocked her. She forced herself to stare at it until the wash of shame had passed.
At a measured pace, Anarwen followed the line of the ledge eastward. From the gash that marked her fall days ago, she traced sharp twists and turns, until the track was swallowed by treetops that lined her view. In four, maybe five other places, the path was either buried in a wall of snow or cleaved in two. Saruman's spells had done their work. Even if she were to make her way back down the slope of Celebdil and up to the Redhorn Pass, the ledge itself looked impassible. Haltingly she reached out with her senses once more, trying to find some brief twinge that might mean that Legolas was…
Fool! There is nothing there. Only your mind playing tricks. He is gone. Gone.
Too drained to think any more, Anarwen climbed gingerly off the boulder and once again found herself in a forest of towering, mist-shrouded pines. She picked her way carefully through the darkness. Her feet moved in an easterly path, but not for any particular reason. There was just the sensation of moving forward, from one tree to the next, as if comfort could be found in the ground disappearing behind her.
Hours slide away. Finally, Anarwen reached another rocky outcropping and found a shallow cave at its base. The inky blackness enveloped her. Emptied of all thought and feeling, she huddled on the dry floor, staring out through the cave's mouth. White snow fell in heavy silence.
16 January, 3019. Third Age.
The steel blade reflected the dim light of a new day. Holding her white knife at arm's length, Anarwen studied the smooth, dark surface. Unlike the knives wielded by the heir of Mirkwood, this blade was perfectly plain. No etching or engraving marred its tapered length. It was a simple, clean design, honed on only one side. She angled the tip toward the cave's ceiling. The curved handle fit perfectly in her grip. Had it been an Elven design, it might have borne some inscription, words to give the weapon strength and magic. But this blade had been forged by a Man, and she would not have had its elegance diminished by any marking. It had been her father's gift to her before she left home for the Woodland realm.
"I am so very proud of you, my daughter" he had said. Fumbling hands had held hers briefly, and she had bent a little so that he could press a kiss to her forehead. As she pulled away, he had suddenly caught her hands again and whispered, "You must be with your mother's people now. Do not come back here." Tears had watered his aged eyes. "Do not come back."
She was forty years old that year, still a child to the Elves whose world she traveled towards. Old enough, though, that the difference between an Elven-girl and Laketown's other youth had become starkly apparent. Men, the second children of Eru, tarried briefly in this world. One by one, childhood friends had aged into adults, married, and borne children of their own. Some had died, and their passing had been deeply painful. There was no second life for Men once the coffin lid closed. Anarwen's father had not wanted her to watch over his own end. He had sent his only child away and died alone seven years later.
Anarwen slide the blade back into its scabbard and looked towards the cave mouth. Snow had ceased falling at daybreak. Soft sunlight filtered down through the roof of tree branches. It would a pleasant day to travel.
Assuming one knew where to go, she thought ruefully.
Whatever sensation she had felt yesterday, relying on it had been a mistake. Only cold logic could help her now. But in the hours that had passed between night and dawn, logic had provided little comfort.
Idly, Anarwen drew her finger across the dirt floor. The Redhorn Pass. The Company's original route through the Misty Mountains. She had seen the devastation that Sarumen had inflicted on that path. The others could not have taken it much farther after her fall. No, they must have turned back. But then where?
Directly north of the pass were two mountains, Redhorn itself, known to the Elves as Caradhras, and Fanuidhol. Facing the pass to the south was Celebdil, whose peak rose above the Dwarf halls of Moria. To the north and south of these elevations, the Misty Mountains spread for some 900 miles, a vast divide across the face of Middle-earth.
The Redhorn Pass was the easiest way through the range, the best choice for a fellowship that included Hobbits and a pack horse, but it was not the only one. Nearly eighty years ago, Bilbo and his Dwarf companions had taken a northern route during their journey to the Lonely Mountain. But that course was also north of Rivendell. Gandalf would not have let Sarumen send them backtracking to Elrond's home.
Aragorn had said there were no passes south of Celebdil. The only choice in that direction was to head for the southernmost end of the Misty Mountains and travel east through the Gap of Rohan. But that would have sent them through Dunland, where Saruman's spies would have tracked their every step, and put them nearly on the wizard's doorstep at Isengard.
Gimli, of course, had wanted to go under the mountain barrier. Moria. Anarwen stared at her rough map in the dirt and suppressed a shudder. Gandalf had been firm about that, though. And she could not believe that Aragorn or Legolas would willingly enter that cursed realm.
By Anarwen's best guess, Gandalf must have taken the Company back down the ledge and into the Hollin foothills. Perhaps he or Aragorn knew of some other pass near to the north. She has tracked some of that country on the opposite side of the range. But the Misty Mountains were full of cheats and deceptions. A traveler who did not know the way usually had his guesses rewarded with death. At best, trying to find the Company's path now would be shooting in the dark.
From the slopes of Celebdil, she had few options. To the north, there was only the broken pass of Caradhras. To the east and west, Celebdil's slopes fell in sheer cliffs above the Gates of Moria. Her route had to be down Celebdil's southern spur. She estimated she was halfway across the northern face. If she could continue farther around, picking her way above the eastern cliffs, she could reach the southern face in several days. From there, the slope descended gradually into foothills. She could escape the mountains by following the source of the River Nimrodel down to the enchanted wood of Lothlórien.
Anarwen traced a tiny line representing the river's course and a faint smile touched her lips. The forested realm was home to Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel, who were among the Elves long-time foes to Sauron and all his deceits. In Lothlórien, she could take counsel from the Lord and the Lady and learn how best to rejoin the quest.
Rising to her feet, Anarwen stood at the cave's mouth and considered the brightening light of day. "As sun upon the golden boughs in Lórien the fair…" she whispered and set out for the Golden Wood.
AN:
Yes, 1,000 interruptions later and still the chapter isn't finished. Only one scene remains to be written and then we can go find the pretty elf boy.
The chapter (actually most of this story) was greatly assisted by The Atlas of Middle-earth by the late Karen Wynn Fonstad. Like Bilbo and Anarwen, I'm a big map geek.
