Edenic
A/N: Hi! The information on fight scenes was absolutely amazing. I hope you didn't spend too much time compiling it, LD, but thank you v.v.much. I use it a little here, but it'll mainly be later. Everyone else, I love you very much too for reading. I am sorry there are such large gaps between chapters. You will, however, notice that they have become longer – not that the first one was hard to exceed lengthwise! Hello particularly to The Scarlet Serpent (I am not one of those people who has anything particularly against serpents and I wrote this chapter before reading your review so please don't come away thinking anything else…!). Reviews would be amazing if possible, but I appreciate all too well that there are exams looming (or upon us) for many…
Snowy Owl
She was set down just into the trees; the urgency in the other eagle's eyes making her stumble as she slid to the ground. Her ankle almost turned but still the great birds seemed to have no doubts over her ability to get Éowyn and Arwen. The time had gone to absorb the fact that her sister was in the same trees, somewhere, with Éowyn, whose hurt Ilesté feared equally. She only needed to know where to find them, and trust in the eagles' wisdom to be right, even in their faith in herself. But the trees were not giving up their secrets for need, nor fear. Suddenly, she turned back to them. There was something, she was sure…
"Where will we meet you again?"
The grey eagle, the one who had flown her away from Rivendell, answered,
"We shall listen for you."
"How-?" She cut off her own question.
"Follow the path, child; second daughter of Celebrían."
Ilesté could not see any path, just the thin silver trees, like wooden needles in a storm of shadows. Their movement was unceasing. She edged further in, until the watching eagles were some way behind her and mostly blocked by trees, and gradually she began to make out a path. The tree roots over which it led were smoother, as though worn away by feet, and the grass had been reduced to earth in places. Though wide, its width wasn't constant.
She flitted from pool of dark shadow to the next pool of shadow collected in the earth. Her feet trod carefully and quickly on the thinner grass while around her the trees became thick and tall. Old. So old that they no longer needed to grow, and if they did it was unnoticeable to elven and human eyes – the only one who could have noticed was Galadriel, her palm resting occasionally on a tree trunk as she walked through.
Finally, Ilesté stopped, still. The ground ahead was a sea of rippling grass, with no path visible across it. Apprehensively, she looked up, and stared. Houses were carved from the great trees; roofs and floors balanced, held by the branches which they fitted among; wooden bridges had been tied on, spanning the small distances from one to another, and in some trees stairs wound, spiralling down around their trunks to the ever-moving ground. She wandered across the grass, tiny underneath it all, listening for any sound other than the rustling coming from far, far above where the tumultuous wind was throwing the treetops against each other. The bridges creaked. Éowyn and Arwen were not here, but the eagles had said to follow the path. Perhaps the path re-appeared somewhere.
Suddenly, she heard the sound of water, very faintly, but it was loud enough for her to follow. It was a landmark, so surely there would be a path in sight from there. The sound led her to the edge of the great trees, and stepping around a smaller one, she abruptly found its source. There was a tiny curving cliff, with stone steps leading down, and a stream trickling through. Ilesté descended the stone steps, noticing how the cliff was held together by rock and tree roots, and how on the side the stream came from there was a little bowl – a natural lip in which it collected and spilled over to the ground in a waterfall. But it was clogged with leaves and the water only dripped into the bowl. She tiptoed up to it and, using a stone which stuck out from the cliff, pulled herself up until she was balancing on the lip of the bowl. Reaching over the precipice's edge, she dragged her spare hand along and pulled a handful of sodden leaves from the centre. Three hadnfuls of moss and decomposing leaves came away. She walked along the rim, her arms not quite able to hold the edge of the cliff all the way around to the other side. She repeated the process for another three handfuls. The water was flowing a little better as she jumped to the ground, then turned, and cleared the rim of the bowl. It was trickling more strongly.
A short distance away there was a low stone font. Ilesté didn't understand what it had been used for: it stood too high and small for a washbasin and was too grand to wash hands in when anybody could use the waterfall. It was full of leaves too, and she scooped them out in double handfuls, placing each at the bottom of the cliff. When she was finished, she washed her hands, the water flowing properly now. She was still puzzled by the stone basin, and was unsure where to go to search for the captives. She knew it was urgent that she find them quickly but she felt, strangely, that if she just filled her hands with the water falling into the lip and carried it to the basin, the basin would give her an answer. So she did so, pouring in the water and looking at her reflection. Nothing happened. She was just going to get another cupful of water when her reflection changed.
There was a face looking back at her – a beautiful face. It changed back to herself again: brown hair, brown eyes. The edges of her face were blurred by the water.
She glanced up for a moment. The trees still towered behind her and the sea of grass was pushed by the wind, and the stream flowed behind her, but there was no other noise or difference. She looked back down at her reflection: it was different. Surprised, Ilesté's eyes widened and a second afterwards her eyes widened in the mirror. The change was subtle; her eyes were full of light, but it was a darker light, and Celebrían's necklace was altered. It was no longer clear but grey, shot with black lines.
Suddenly, a shadow from above flickered on the mirror. Ilesté made herself stay still, in the hope that whatever it was would not notice her.
Meanwhile, the reflection was gradually altering again; to the beautiful lady she had first seen: golden-white hair, blue eyes. Ilesté could tell that the lady had seen her by the way she was looking at her from the water. They stared at each other, confused as to the meaning of the changed reflection. The lady smiled, her eyes still staring but twinkling, and vanished. The mirror showed her walking along the grass in a white cloak, carrying a grey bundle. Ilesté saw her pause at the top of some stone steps and look down – at the mirror-basin. Then she turned, very deliberately, and strode into the smaller trees, hesitating at a large oak, she touched it, and turned so that she walked in the direction pointed by its lowest branch. For a while she continued, ducking under branches as the trees became smaller and touching several with an inexpressible sadness. Finally, she reached an especially tiny tree, and placed her bundle down in between two of its roost, placing her hands just above. She stayed like this, crouching, for a moment and when she took her hands away there was a hollow there. Pushing the bundle inside, she crouched in the same position again; healing and closing the hollow until the parcel could not be retrieved but the knot-hole was visible to anyone looking for it. The lady straightened, smiled directly at her again, and Ilesté was pushed backwards from the basin, flying, until she hit the ground with a crumpling thud sufficient to re-orientate her again. Gazing up, the fringes of the smaller and greater trees parted with their movement, and for a moment she could glimpse a blacker line of sky. She brought her gaze back to the earth, began to uncurl and froze. Something had moved. Yet there was no place for something to stand up there, and the leaves wouldn't take anything's weight.
It was not only urgency or curiosity that drove her now. Having picked herself up, she ascended the stone stairs to the top of the cliff. It was an odd feeling, knowing that the lady whom she had just seen had stood here – a long time ago. The wood had changes since she had done so and she had left no trace here; just the image in Ilesté's memory, but its detail was slipping like water through her hands. She counted off the turns on her fingers. Certain of the way, if only tremulously certain, she glanced into the smaller trees. She couldn't quite see the oak, despite her searching for it, and soon she found herself among the trees. Then she was by its side. Remembering, it was the lowest branch that she needed, but the lowest pointed back the way she had come. She circled the tree again, running her hand over it in exactly the way the Lady had done. Ilesté concentrated on feeling, the quiet of the wood lending itself to this, noise fading from the tree. It was the third branch.
She hesitated, feeling sick at the thought of how slowly she was progressing. Now she simply had to walk straight – and she recalled how she had tried to walk straight in a wood before to find the way through and had fallen, with a collapsing cliff, ending up in the river. Her awareness was brought back by the sensation, again, of being observed from above. More sickness addled her stomach, twisting tensely. She didn't have enough time. Éowyn would be killed. Queen Arwen, Evie's mother would die too – her half-sister.
The guilt made her fight quickly and effectively through the undergrowth, climbing around the edges of the tangled bushes and branches and weeds, ducking through when she couldn't go over. It was impossible to go faster, but she tried. After several minutes, she was using a tree to pull herself onto its roots for a few steps when she recognised it. It was one that Galadriel's hand had drifted over: she could sense it through her fingers on the bark, similar to the power she had felt rise in the deep valley's white stones. Yet it had a different quality. Her next arm reached out to lean against the next tree as she stepped over something; this one too had been touched. Realising how useful this was, she ran her fingers over the subsequent tree, lightly and a little nervously but instantly knowing, and did the same for the next, and the next. She picked her way through like this, in the footsteps of the Lady of the Wood; her guide. The trees became alive around her, and it was as if she could not see them, but only hear them while she wandered through, small but not as much younger than them as she should have been. Suddenly, Ilesté caught sight of the little tree, just ahead and to the right. But she didn't see, curled in its branches, the huge snake. Running forward, she dropped to the ground between the two roots, in front of the hollow and placed her hands around it in the way the lady had done. Concentrating, she sent her mind into the tree, feeling flowing both ways through her hands and through her bloodstream, she gave energy to it, and took energy from it; the roots seemed to stir, sliding into the crooks of her knees and over her calves as if the tree was holding her close.
Ilesté opened her eyes and the hollow had widened – become larger so that she could put her hands inside the tree's trunk itself. It was so smooth, like living stone sculpted by age into a beautiful form. The bundle was a cloak: she pulled it out and began to carefully unfold it on her knees. It had no clasp. In the hood were carefully tucked two coiled golden-white hairs, and a fragment of bark, inscribed. She ran her hands around the inside of the hollow to check she had not left anything, and her fingers nicked on something sharp. Carefully pulling it out, she held a little metal stylus. Puzzled, and growing inexplicably uneasily again, she sealed the hollow. The tree-roots seemed to slide over her legs, but the weight remained – increasing. There was a slight pressure around her torso.
She reopened her eyes.
The snake pressed against her and, encircled, she could feel its cold pulse rippling on her left side.
Ilesté's lungs told her she had to breathe. Hoping that her stomach wouldn't move too much, she breathed.
The snake contracted. Ilesté resisted twisting and tried instead to breathe in time with its pulse, quickly drawing breath and letting it out. The thick coils were tight, and painful. She couldn't breathe at all. Ilesté scrabbled for the little metal object. It was crushing her – she needed air! Found it! She jabbed it down at the pulse, under the scales. She had to press it through the ribs, leaning her weight on it to drive it in.
The snake writhed, loosening, and she stopped but the stylus was still half in it.
With one hand she held it and with the other she grabbed the snake's head and brought it to face her. They stared at each other coldly, her fingers keeping the stylus above its heart. Having pulled it out, the heavy coils of snake unwound around her. Their eyes stayed joined while she put on the cloak, and put the inscribed bark and hairs in a pocket. The stylus remained in her closed hand, held downwards.
She didn't understand why it wasn't going. It was hurt. But it only remained, staring into her eyes. It was waiting for her.