25 – FUGITIVES

Drifts of late summer leaves gusted over Legolas's balcony under a stormy afternoon sky. Flynn paced back and forth, anxious. In her hand she gripped the message so tightly that her nails dug into her palm. Cilien had seemed just a wisp of a threat far away under cover of Lórien until now. But here was reality inescapable, amassing on the horizon. From the west-facing side of Legolas's house Flynn could see the dark shape on the plains following the river, and she knew without doubt that this was the host from Lórien. In her imagination she saw the sharp features of Cilien at its front, barking her orders with vitriol and malice

Flynn halted and watched the dark shape on the plane, and suddenly panic overtook her. She had to get out. She could not stand here and wait for soldiers from Lórien to overcome Ithilien; she could not wait around for them to take her away, hoping that Legolas would return and save her before too late. If she were to escape this fate, she would have to do it herself, the way she had always done. She was no stranger to fleeing.

As she rushed to the bedchamber the first raindrops began to fall, and Flynn skidded on the wet stone, tumbling into the room she had shared with Legolas. Shaking herself, she ran about the room gathering up her possessions. On this journey, her requirements would be very much different than before. If she were returning home, she would not need her compass, or her map of Middle-earth, or her hunting knife or climbing ropes. The 21st-centruy native would not need her fine elven gowns, either. She ran the fabric of one of her dresses through her fingers. No, she would keep these.

She stuffed her belongings into her now bulging pack, heavy stitching revealing itself along the strained seams. Flynn glanced around the room. What would Legolas want? He carried with him so few possessions, and here in his private chambers there were hardly any trinkets or personal effects besides the furnishings. The Elf had his weapons – his pride and joy – with him at the river, as well as his more robust clothing. Flynn hurried to the dresser and from a drawer took a fine silver circlet, one which had adorned is head at many a special occasion. Hunting through the room she found clothes and adornments belonging to him. She took them, momentarily feeling sentimental, momentarily feeling as though she would need proof that this had not all been some crazy dream. She shivered.

Changing into better travelling clothes, Flynn pushed her hair back off her face and glanced around, casting her eyes one last time over the beautiful home Legolas had wrought in this beautiful place, and felt tears stinging behind her eyes. She drew a fortifying breath. This was it; there was nothing more to take and nothing more that she could do in the time she had left. There was only to flee.

The smell of horses and placid face of Isilyn had never been so much of a relief as when she found the mare still stabled with the Ithilien steeds. Flynn had no idea how to saddle a horse properly, though, and resigned to the fact that she would have to go bareback the way she had done many times in her time with the elves. She still could not go comfortably with speed, but there was no option. Climbing quickly on to Isilyn, her pack hung from her front and her longbow and quiver sat at her back. She was not confident to use them, but she could not bring herself to leave such a gift behind.

The Ithilien guard knew nothing of her plans to leave but she took no time to inform them, kicking Isilyn to ride as hard as they could manage, heavily bumping down the streets of the town, eliciting strange looks but resolving not to stop to answer any questions. Down through the poplar lane she rode, wind whipping her hair about her face, rain smattering the earth and glancing off her eyes so she could hardly see. The clouds hung heavy and sultry grey, and the air whispered with electric charge, but Flynn rode on, her focus bent on reaching the river. Maybe she could elude the Lórien guard. Maybe she could buy just one more day.

It was night before the rain abated and Flynn, fearful of Isilyn's health, gave in to the need to rest. She did not risk a fire, for her sight out on the lowlands was useless, the plains offering no such vantage point as Legolas's home high in the hills. No longer aware how far away the Lórien guards were, or which path they took to Ithilien, she wondered if she were riding straight into their course. All she knew was that if she followed her compass due west she would reach the river, and if she was lucky, safety. She just hoped that the Lórien host would choose a course more southeasterly than she did. There was a very real possibility that they would come within just a few miles of each other. Shuddering at the thought, Flynn fed Isilyn and tried to sleep, though rest never really came.

- - - -

Flynn was up with the first light, riding hard west before the sun had even fully loosed itself from the pull of the horizon. But the day was dim, clouds still heavy and dense, promising more of the same dismal sky. The morning crackled with electricity and Isilyn was jumpy, but Flynn's strength of purpose gave them momentum. She pushed the horse on, though her bruised seat bone exploded with pain for every step Isilyn took.

Some hours after setting off, Flynn halted Isilyn and froze. Through a dull haze of misty rain there was a figure in the distance, dark against the grey rain. It was coming on horseback from the west, barely concealed on the bare plains. Flynn's heart leapt with terror. She wiped the water from her eyes. Surely she had not crossed paths with the Lórien host – oh, gods, no. She pressed Isilyn to keep moving. This time she turned southwards, hoping to give this rider a wide berth. But she knew her chance of not being seen was laughable.

As she veered to her left and sped across the wild grass the rider veered. It headed straight for her. There was nothing for it; she would just have to bolt. Flynn kicked Isilyn harder though her body screamed in protest. White tendrils of foam flew from the horse's mouth, breathing hard and noisy. Flynn stole a glance to her right, hoping against hope she was taking the lead, but it was no use. The rider was gaining steadily on her, and would catch her, and she would be forced to fight.

But then the strangest thing happened. The rain suddenly ceased, the clouds dissipating in the high wind, and her vision of the rider grew clearer. Flynn could make out the strangely familiar markings and gait of the horse and the fair head of the rider. Breath catching in her throat, she slowed Isilyn, and she bit down on the side of her hand, willing herself not to cry. It was Legolas. It was Legolas galloping towards her, riding as though a Balrog itself nipped at his heels.

Flynn could not restrain a yelp of relief, and she pressed Isilyn to move again, this time steering her northwards, towards the rider. For a few agonising moments she could only hold Legolas in her sights, willing him to draw nearer, faster, and then he was close, and slowing, and she was sliding from the horse's back, her body aching, and he was holding her tight in his arms and stroking her head as she breathed deeply of the scent of him, relief flooding her.

But it was short lived. Legolas drew away from the embrace and held her gaze, steady and sombre, and said, "They are here."

All relief drained from Flynn. "What do you mean?"

Legolas whipped his head around, gazing north for a moment, then turned back to her. "There is a host of Lórien soldiers in the distance. They come this way."

"How did you – who told – oh, Legolas, this is all wrong! I rode hard since yesterday to get to you, to warn you, so that we might have had a chance to get away from them. But you have seen them?" Flynn slumped back against Isilyn's side, no strength left in her legs.

Legolas nodded, distress tightening his fair face. "They have followed the river to get here and are but a few leagues off –"

"Leagues?" Flynn exclaimed with despair. "Not miles? Oh, we have no chance!"

Legolas took her by the hands, his touch momentarily calming. "We must away; we cannot linger," he said. "In but a few hours they would be able to see us here, for this ground is far too flat to hide."

Flynn squeezed her eyes shut tight, blocking out reality, and let out a low groan. "I will never escape her, will I, Legolas?" she said without opening her eyes. She pressed a palm to her forehead, defeated.

"Flynn, we must leave now," Legolas compelled her. "If we ride hard, we will reach the river by sunset, and we have only to take the boats and sail."

At this Flynn opened her eyes. "They are ready?"

Legolas nodded, and Flynn saw a flash of hope in his eyes. She swallowed, and nodded in agreement, and, acting on a sudden urge, stood on her tiptoes and kissed him fiercely, clutching his head between her hands. His arms slid around her and he held her with all the urgency crackling in the charged air. Flynn pulled away when she no longer had breath to draw, and the lovers parted with a lingering look, Flynn wishing she could dive into his eyes and stay there, swimming in the clear pools where everything was safe and beauty never faded.

Legolas took the lead, forging due west, and Flynn felt almost hopeful, almost positive, almost as if everything would be all right.

- - - - -

In a few hours, when the deep, dark blue of the Anduin shined in the visible distance and Flynn imagined she could see the Ithilien party and their ships, it became clear that everything would not, in fact, be all right. Flynn heard Legolas's cry of distress from ahead of her, and she followed his line of sight, looking north, and what she saw struck fear into her very core. The Lórien host was here. There, along the river some distance north of the ships, was the dark, fleet-footed mass of a host of riders pressing hard towards the harbour, the same safe harbour that Flynn now knew she would never reach.

Glancing ahead she could see that she and Legolas were roughly as far from the harbour as the Lórien guard were, but approaching from the east. Flynn's advantage was that she had only to cross straight, flat ground, and the host were, for some reason, following the meander of the river. Legolas kicked Rhaia, and the mare shot off. Flynn gritted her teeth against the searing pain in her seat and did the same, spurring Isilyn harder though she could feel the horse's strength wavering. She did not know how much longer either of them would hold up. All they had to do was outrun the Lórien elves. That was all.

But they closed in on the harbour just as quickly as their pursuers did, and by the time Flynn could see the silver sails and shining wood of the ships close at hand, the guards from Lórien were already within sight, and her heart fell as she picked out, at the front of the mass of elves, the white head of Cilien. Flynn set her sights on the ships and rode harder than she had ever ridden before, and she and Legolas closed in on the last few hundred metres to the harbour, and she thought she could see the incongruous forms of Brennewyn and Gimli, and for a brief moment her heart was cheered.

But glancing north again her heart quailed. She saw as if in some horrible nightmare the entire mass of the Lórien guard switching, changing direction, obviously sighting Flynn and Legolas riding in from the east. Suddenly the elves were bearing down on them. They were so close Flynn could almost pick out individual faces; faces she recognised from Lórien, faces she had thought would know her better than to believe Cilien, faces she had danced with, laughed with, eaten with, greeted as she strolled through the woods. Elves she had held the highest respect for were now all high atop their horses, arrows at their backs, stern reprimand on their faces.

Legolas's voice cut into her haze as he shouted, "Hurry! They are gaining on us!"

Flynn kicked Isilyn again, and smiled with stupid glee as Brennewyn's fair visage at the edge of the river drew into focus. There was relief in the sight of the Elf's golden halo of hair, despite the mask of panic on Brennewyn's face and the alertness in her body, ushering Legolas and Flynn to the edge of the river, kicking sailor's knots loose, readying a small boat fit for two.

Flynn watched from her bumpy seat as Legolas reached the harbour well ahead of her. Giddy with adrenaline, she was not aware of Isilyn's gradual slowing, and she was not aware of the lone soldier gaining steadily on her. She was not aware of the heavy, loud sputters and wheezes issuing forth from her horse. All she saw was Legolas hurriedly rushing to Gimli, preparing the other boat to sail, glancing back at her, not aware she was no longer close behind him, and Brennewyn... shrieking?

Suddenly Flynn zoned back in to reality, the terror in Brennewyn's voice slicing through the air. Flynn stole a glance behind her, and then she saw. There on her heels was a Lórien soldier, so close that his horse's breath fanned out condensation Flynn could clearly see. In fear-wrought denial, she glanced back to the front and saw Legolas, his fair face streaked by panic, drawing an arrow with frightening swiftness and nocking it to his bow. It was going to be all right. Legolas would shoot the soldier. Flynn would reach the boats; she drew now so close she could almost taste the river water. The swift-flowing Anduin would carry them away. It would be all right.

But two things happened at once which stopped Flynn from reaching the boats. The first was that, as she kicked Isilyn, one last time urging her to go this last quarter of a league, the mare suddenly and inexplicably gave in. She had never been ready for this prolonged stretch of hard riding, and pushed to the edge of a marathon runner's capabilities, she was beaten, defeated by exhaustion, and suddenly, resigning to failure, she fell. The horse went down in a horrible tumble of legs and muscle, and Flynn was thrown from her, hitting the ground on her back and losing all the air in her lungs.

The second was that Legolas shot an arrow just as Isilyn fell, and had the mare not given in so close to the end of her trial, Legolas would have hit his mark: the soldier biting at Flynn's heels, close enough almost to grab her. But when Isilyn fell and Legolas took his shot, the soldier on the horse behind Flynn swerved to avoid the arrow, in doing so tripping over Isilyn. The soldier went down with her, and Legolas's arrow caught empty air. Flynn and the soldier were down. The light seemed to go out around her when Flynn hit the ground. There was no boat for her now, no safe passage down the river, no escape.

She was slapped back into consciousness again by the threatening hands of an unfamiliar Elf as he grabbed her by the straps on her pack, pulling her roughly to her feet. Spots swam in front of her eyes and she was aware of a dull, throbbing pain at the back of her head. She swayed and sucked in horrible shrieking breaths, refilling her empty lungs. The Lórien Elf dragged her upright, and she saw his pale face emerging from under a curtain of dark hair, and its realness there in front of her suddenly filled her with anger. Flynn convulsed away from him, desperate to be free from his grip, knowing if she could just get away then she could surely sprint the last short stretch to the harbour.

But the Elf was strong, as well he should have been. Flynn had no chance pulling from his grip. Glancing to her left she could see the rest of the Lórien guard catching up, and there at their front, high atop a white horse, was Cilien wearing a horrid and sickening smile. Anger coiling her tight like a spring, Flynn snapped away from the Elf again, and this time felt herself jolt as she came a thread free. A thin arrow lodged suddenly in the wood of the quiver at his back, the force throwing him back. His grip slackened for a moment and Flynn did not waste this opportunity, and with all her might she pushed against him, seeing the blonde flurry of Legolas as he ran to her and set upon the soldier, his fists rocketing the Lórien Elf down to the ground.

Flynn did not wait for Legolas to finish the soldier, and tearing herself away she was vaguely aware of the sound of flying punches. She sprinted for the dock, legs pumping, heart burning. There was the wood of the ships, the dock. There were the Ithilien elves who had given their time to help them build the boats. All her muscles pounding she skidded along the pier at the riverbank and took Brennewyn's outstretched hand, allowing the Elf to yank her within her ship, Flynn tumbling ungracefully to the bottom of the boat. Hardly allowing herself to draw breath again she stood up, steadying herself against the side of the ship. Biting down hard on her bottom lip, she watched Legolas sprint back to the dock, his legs carrying him faster than any creature Flynn had ever seen, with a mass of soldiers at his back whose arrow tips glinted in the few shafts of sun piercing the clouds.

She was barely aware of Brennewyn at her side, pushing the boat out from the bank and into the river's swell. Watching Legolas approach she did not see the silver-white form of the boat next to her and the tense, panting Dwarf within it. She did not breathe as Legolas sprinted the last few flying steps along the dock. He took a running start and leaped for all his Elf legs were worth, and in a second landed within the boat. Gimli pushed away from the dock as he wrangled with ropes, attempting to control the sails. The boats sunk low in the water and Flynn could hear the gurgle of the river all around, dragging the two small crafts out into the middle of the flow. She watched as a thundering group of Lórien guards came to an abrupt and precarious halt on the edge of the docks, horses breathing hard, anger and frustration on the soldiers' faces. Flynn turned and saw Brennewyn then, her white face awash with relief and her breaths heavy as she threaded ropes through her hands and glanced hopefully up at the little sails. In the other boat Legolas stood, his hands at its edge, his eyes trained on her. They were free.

The dull throbbing ache in the back of Flynn's head started up again then, and suddenly she was overcome with nausea, the gently rocking boat and blinding head pain stirring up unease in her stomach. She threw her head over the side of the boat and heaved. Hot pain shot up in front of her eyes like red fireworks and she barely managed to scrape the bow and arrow from her back with weary hands before she fell back against the bottom of the boat. A mist of sleep rolled over her and strange, giddy thoughts skittered across her mind. How funny it was, she thought, that she was here in the boat with Brennewyn, and that Legolas, somewhere ahead of them, sailed on down the Anduin with Gimli, just as Tolkien had said. And how amusing were the prophetic words of Galadriel when she had first met Legolas, some 120 years ago in Lothlórien:

Legolas Greenleaf, long under tree

In joy thou hast lived. Beware of the Sea!

If thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore

Thy heart shall rest in the forest no more.

As she blacked into unconsciousness, those words came back to Flynn, playing across her mind like a familiar old record, and for a while she was aware of nothing more.