Chapter 18 - Fragments

19th February, 3019 (Third Age)

Sam surveyed the land about them with narrowed eyes. The fresh, gold light of dawn fell upon the grey landscape about them, unable to mask its desolate ugliness. The trees of Lothlórien had thinned and disappeared as they had journeyed south and east, leaving Sam with an uncomfortable feeling of exposure.

He bent down to retrieve his sleeping pallet, reassuring himself with the knowledge that no orc would escape the watchful eyes of Aragorn or the Elves. Nearby, Gimli was tending a small fire.

"Would ye like some breakfast, Master Sam?" the Dwarf asked, in his gruff yet kindly tone.

Sam merely nodded, bundling his belongings together and moving towards Gimli. The fare was fresh and fulfilling, as the Fellowship had replenished their supplies amongst the Elves.

"Thankyou," he said, accepting his breakfast and sitting down beside the Dwarf. The other members of the party were also beginning to stir, though Sam suspected that Legolas, Glorfindel and Aragorn had been awake for some time. Their sleeping pallets were empty, and the three stood slightly apart, deep in conversation. Heavy lines of grief and weariness had settled upon the company, for Gandalf's fall had shaken them beyond even the Golden Wood's capacity to heal.

And yet somehow, the two younger hobbits maintained a fair semblance of their usual boisterousness.

"Morning, Sam," called Pippin, cheerfully, and reached over and grabbed one of Merry's ears. His cousin yelped indignantly, drawing the interest of all of the members of the camp.

"Whadidya do that for?" groaned the young Brandybuck, sitting up and scowling.

"Mornin', Pippin," Sam grinned, unable to resist the good spirits of the other hobbits.

Merry rubbed his eyes vigorously. "Is that breakfast I smell?"

Gimli gave a low chuckle. "Aye, it is. Come and get it, you young rascals!"

The day was still new by the company broke camp. No one was in a hurry, for to hurry would hasten the moment in which a decision must be made.

A decision he must make, Sam realised.

For some days, he had been aware of a palpable tension within the Fellowship. It was evident that even Aragorn—faithful, dependable Aragorn—was indecisive about the course they must take. Boromir, he knew, would press for the company's journey to Minas Tirith. In fact, most of the others seemed to prefer such a course, save for Strider. He alone shared Sam's qualms.

Shaking his head, Sam clambered cautiously into the flimsy Elvish boat. Aragorn was already aboard, and held out a hand to steady him. Ahead, Boromir and Glorfindel were helping Merry and Pippin aboard their own boats, whilst Sam could hear Gimli grumbling to Legolas at the rear.

"All right, Sam?"

He turned to face Aragorn for a moment, his brow wrinkled slightly. The tall Ranger's grey eyes held deep-rooted concern. Sam shook himself and mustered up a smile.

"All right, Strider."

Seemingly satisfied, Aragorn guided the boat out into the swift current of the Anduin, idling a little to allow the others time to catch up.

Sam closed his eyes, feeling the familiar panic grip him as they left the security of the shore behind. Like most hobbits, he had a profound dislike of water, and of boats. He gripped the sides nervously. After a time he was able to open his eyes, but he would not relinquish his death grip on the edges of the vessel.

Aragorn did not hurry them on their course, instead allowing the boats to drift leisurely down the Great River. The western bank—upon which they had camped—was no longer dotted with trees, but flat and green. In many places it was covered in reeds, obscuring all view to the west. The eastern bank, by contrast, stretched away from the river in long, formless slopes. Sam felt his stomach shift uneasily as he watched the land drift by; the eastern slope was utterly desolate, devoid of life.

"Why is that," he murmured, his discomfort at being in the boat magnified as the disquiet of the eastern shore settled upon him.

"Sam?"

The hobbit turned hesitantly to face the rear of the boat, acutely conscious of it's movement as he shifted his weight. "The eastern shore. Why is it so… empty?"

Aragorn frowned pensively. His ordinarily grim face had grown further lines as they had journeyed south and east of Rivendell.

Particularly after Gandalf…

Sam shuddered a little.

"I do not know what pestilence or war or evil deed of the Enemy might have left the region in its present state," Aragorn spoke, slowly. "And yet, my heart is filled with foreboding, as if the Enemy draws nearer as we speak."

"Mine too," Sam admitted, with a sigh.

His companion graced him with a close-mouthed smile. "Then let us hope we are both incorrect."

They sat in silence for a time, Sam's hands cramping as they journeyed on.

"Where are we, exactly?" he asked, risking another turn as curiosity got the better of him.

"You are looking now south-west across the north plains of the Riddermark, Rohan the land of the Horse-lords. Ere long we shall come to the mouth of the Limlight that runs down from Fangorn to join the Great River. That is the north boundary of Rohan; and of old all that lay between Limlight and the White Mountains belonged to the Rohirrim. It is a rich and pleasant land, and its grass has no rival; but in these evil days folk do not dwell by the River or ride often to its shores. Anduin is wide, yet the orcs can shoot their arrows far across the stream; and of late, it is said, they have dared to cross the water and raid the herds and studs of Rohan."

Sam looked from bank to bank uneasily. The trees had seemed hostile before, as if they harboured secret eyes and lurking dangers; now he wished that the trees were still there. He felt that the Company was too naked, afloat in little open boats in the midst of shelterless lands, and on a river that was the frontier of war.

Let us hope we are both wrong indeed, Strider.

Glorfindel guided his boat with a skilful hand, sweeping through the current in the narrow vessel. He had adapted to the leaf-shaped paddles with ease, and handled the boat of Lothlórien as well as any of that land.

Before him sat the hobbit Merry, uncharacteristically quiet without the company of his other half. Glorfindel was rather thankful for the silence, save the sound of running water. He steadied the boat mechanically, glad to release his thoughts to wander.

The Elf's heart was heavy within his chest, for the departure from the Golden Wood did not sit well with his fëa. He had longed to remain, grieving the loss of Mithrandír with others of his race.

Their songs of mourning still echoed painfully in his mind.

Well, he thought, grimly, at least I know now the cryptic meaning of Elanor's words… and the importance of her warning concerning Boromir.

His fair brow lowered as he studied the man in the boat in front. Boromir carried Pippin with him, and something about his posture filled Glorfindel with trepidation.

Would that Elanor had told me the circumstances of the man's doom!

Often that thought had strayed into Glorfindel's consciousness, and often had he wished that Elanor had spoken more explicitly about Boromir's demise. She would not, he was certain, place a burden upon him without great need; yet still he felt the crushing weight of responsibility for the man's life.

I shall not fail her.

Sighing wearily, he turned his paddle to guide their boat after the others.

The time Elanor had prophesied drew near, and he was as close to discovering a solution to saving Boromir as Sam was to destroying the Ring.

…Aragorn shall be in need of his kindred ere long…

"Ada?"

The quiet interruption startled Elrond out of his reverie. Blinking rapidly, his gaze fell upon the figure of his golden-haired foster-daughter, standing nervously in front of him.

"Elanor," he smiled, rising from his armchair and embracing her. "Forgive me; I was buried deep in my thoughts."

She smiled back, before sitting down on a chair nearby and fixing him with her sea-green gaze.

"What is troubling you, ada?"

"I have just received word from the Lady Galadriel of Lórien," he began. As he spoke, a look of comprehension and of excitement flittered across Elanor's features, swiftly suppressed. "But I see you know of this already, muin?"

Elanor gave a light laugh. "You should cease to marvel at the knowledge I posses, father. I have expected such news for quite some time."

"Then I suppose you could recount the message to me?" Elrond responded, a playful note in his voice despite the troubles in his heart.

"Easily."

Elrond raised his eyebrows in expectation.

"Lady Galadriel advises that Aragorn is in need, ada. And you shall call upon the Rangers of the North, with your sons accompanying them."

If I ever doubted her, she has proved herself countless times… Were it not for that book of hers, I should believe her gifted with great foresight…

Like yourself?

Perhaps…

And yet you are fearful at the idea of allowing her to journey forth.

I should not allow Arwen to do as much; why Elanor?

Elanor is not of Arda, nor is she my kin.

Is she not, Elrond son of Eärendil?

Smiling slightly and pushing aside his thoughts, Elrond nodded. "You are correct, iell. I suppose you shall now inform me that it is your time to journey forth also?"

The words hung heavy in the air.

Elanor hesitated, before holding out her hands in a helpless shrug. "I have done all I can for the Fellowship, but I still feel as if I need to be… involved, somehow. Do not say I must convince you all over again, ada!"

"No, Elanor. I do not believe you will come to harm in the company of your brothers. And yet—" He broke off, uneasy. Fixing her with his eyes, he spoke gently. "What shall you do, daughter? You have little direction, and are largely defenceless. I do not doubt your fortitude or your wisdom—"

"I know, ada—I'm only a human woman with very little weapons training," she supplied, with no hint of bitterness. "I understand that. But I will be with Elladan and Elrohir, and a company of thirty Dúnedain. We shall arrive in Rohan, where there shall be countless warriors whom shall provide protection. I will never be alone or defenceless." She placed one small hand upon his. "I don't want to hurt you, because if the war was not on I would be content to stay in Rivendell forever. But I am not of this world—I was sent here for a reason, and I would know why."

Elrond's lips twisted.

"And still I am reluctant to let you leave."

Elanor nodded. "I know."

Silence fell for a moment. Elrond warred with his emotions, his calm facade disguising a tumultuous contest within. If Elanor were correct, Arwen would leave his side within the year to be wedded to Aragorn, and he should travel over the sea. His sons would remain, for a time, but would ultimately join their father and mother in Valinor.

And here stands your daughter in all but blood, whom you must also lose because of her mortality. A bitter cup stands before me.

"And even with all of your understanding, you cannot foresee your role in events?" he inquired, at length.

Elanor merely shook her head. "I won't lie to you and say that I have a great sense of duty or responsibility. All I know is that I cannot stay here, waiting for the summons that will take you and Arwen to Minas Tirith."

There was a resoluteness to her voice as she said this, her shoulders straight and chin thrust outwards ever so slightly.

Elrond smiled ruefully, knowing the words would taste bitter upon his tongue: "I will not prevent you going, daughter."

Elanor sprang forward in an impulsive hug. Her golden curls pressed against his mouth, smelling of fresh spring flowers.

"Thankyou, dad," she murmured into his shoulder.

Elrond wrapped her close against his chest, and did not release her for some time.

The courtyard was filled with the steamy breath of man and horse. The ground was hard and frosty, though the air was mercifully still. Dawn had come, though the light had yet to slip over the tall mountains which surrounded the Valley of Rivendell.

Elanor stood beside her mount, a proud chestnut gelding—Fundanár, the Elf in the stables had informed her. He nuzzled Elanor, his liquid eyes blinking at her curiously. Like all the Elvish horses, he had a fine-feature face, high withers and a deep chest. His legs were clean and elegant, and he reminded Elanor of a thoroughbred. Something about the set of his head was hardier than the graceful racehorses of her home world, however, and she knew he would carry her long and swift.

All about her stood the mounts of the Dúnedain; stocky, coarse-haired horses all, though Elanor had long ago learned not to judge a horse by it's appearance. The hardy Ranger mounts attracted less of her interest than the riders themselves.

The arrival of the Dúnedain had piqued Elanor's interest. These were the only humans she had encountered, save Boromir and Aragorn, and they had not appeared in Peter Jackson's films.

She had been in counsel with her foster-father when Erestor had announced the arrival of Halbarad, their leader.

He struck her immediately with his resemblance to Aragorn, possessing the characteristic black hair and grey eyes she had come to associate with the Noldor and their mortal kin. He appeared just shy of middle-aged, and Elanor wondered if he was as long-lived as the future king of Gondor and Arnor. The rest of the company was of varied ages, though all appeared as stern and deadly as their leader.

Not to mention tall!

Elanor grinned into Fundanár's shoulder, feeling extremely small amidst the six-foot-plus crowd loitering in the crisp morning air. Several metres away she observed her brothers; Elladan and Elrohir stood mightier than all the men around them, darker of hair and fairer of face than the descendants of Elros. They stood together in silence, almost perfectly identical and bearing a strong resemblance to their sire. Elanor prided herself on being able to tell them apart, though it had taken her over a week to correctly note the almost imperceptible differences between them.

Across the courtyard, Elrond engaged in quiet conversation with Halbarad. He and Arwen had farewelled all three of the adventurers in private, for which Elanor was glad. She had never been able to abandon the demonstrative ways of her world, and did not want to expose herself in front of the sombre company that had gathered. Her heart faltered a little as she felt again the tight embrace of her foster-father.

"Come back to me, muin."

"I will, ada."

She thanked Eru that she didn't have to farewell Elladan and Elrohir also.

"Lady Elanor?"

Turning away from Fundanár's chestnut hide, Elanor sought out the one who addressed her.

"Yes?"

The Ranger standing before her was characteristically tall, though his brown hair was lighter than that of his kin. His eyes were faintly blue, and he was the youngest person she had encountered in Middle Earth. He grinned at her in a boyish fashion, affirming her immediate liking of him.

"My name is Eärendur, lady. I was bidden to accompany thee by the lords Elladan and Elrohir, your brothers, as they shall be occupied in counsel with Halbarad." He spoke respectfully, but Elanor couldn't help but notice the unveiled curiosity on his face. The Elves of Rivendell rarely fostered Edain in this age, and she was sure that the young Ranger wondered at her position and significance.

Not to mention the fact that a woman is going with them on the journey south. I'm sure that turned some heads!

Smiling, Elanor nodded in reply. "Thankyou, Eärendur. I would enjoy hearing some tales of your homeland."

The Ranger was prevented from speaking again by a sharp whistle. The company sprang into action about Elanor, as the tall grey-cloaked figures mounted their shaggy horses. Eärendur gestured towards Fundanár, and Elanor gratefully accepted his aid to vault into the saddle. She had been permitted to abandon her dresses for the journey, but was much hampered by her thick cloak and many layers. The young man held her stirrup politely before seeking out his own horse, a nondescript bay.

Elladan and Elrohir guided their horses to the head of the party, alongside Halbarad. Their father stood upon the stairs, and the Ranger exchanged a few last words with the Elf-lord before urging his horse towards the gate.

The company filed out of the courtyard at a brisk walk. The steady clopping of hooves rang out in the still morning. As they passed the steps upon which Elrond stood, Elanor braved a glance at her foster-father. He stood proud and lordly as ever, though his grey eyes lingered upon her with sadness.

As much as Elanor desired to be part of the coming adventures, she could not prevent the torrent of emotion which afflicted her. Rivendell had fostered her for many months, weathering her most petulant storms and tantrums. It had seen her come to terms with remaining in Arda, and with calling Elrond father.

Inconvenient things, feelings.

Aye.

And as Elrond watched her, a wistful smile playing at his lips, Elanor knew that she was not the only one who felt the pain of their parting.

Her foster-father was soon lost to sight, and she breathed deeply as they passed beyond the borders of the Last Homely House. She gritted her teeth to prevent the spilling of tears. This was what she had wanted, something she needed to do.

Eärendur nudged his mount forward, drawing alongside Fundanár.

"How long have you dwelt in Imladris, Lady Elanor?" he inquired.

Muttering stern internal warnings to her tear ducts, Elanor turned to smile at her new companion.

"Since last October. Lord Elrond fostered me after I lost my parents and sister."

Eärendur's countenance was twisted in anguish as he realised he had stumbled upon some tender information.

"Lady Elanor, I must—"

"Don't apologise," she smiled gently, for the wound did not sting as much as it used to, and the awkward boyishness of the Ranger was surprisingly refreshing. "It is not your fault."

The young man looked suitably chagrined, and blushed into his horse's mane. He appeared at a loss for a new topic of conversation, and Elanor took advantage of the short silence to scold her emotions into submission.

This is an adventure. I will not sit idle until the Ring is destroyed. I will do my part. I won't shirk from my duty.

She breathed deep, willing her thoughts back to the raven-haired Elf-lord who lingered upon the steps.

And ada… I will come back.

TRANSLATIONS

Fundanár - means "thundering fire" (or close enough). I made it up myself so I apologise if any of you are masters of the Elvish languages and I have desecrated grammar.

Eärendur - refers to three characters in the Tolkienverse; the second son of a Númenorian King, the fifteenth Lord of Andúnië, and the tenth and last King of Arnor. I chose this name because many of the characters in Middle Earth have a namesake, and I struggled to come up with a suitable name for the young Ranger who shall (spoiler alert!) feature in this fic. We have so many sage and world-weary Elves—I thought it time Elanor interacted with someone as fresh-faced and naive as herself!

Chapter 18! And we're well over 50k words now.

This was a progressive chapter; time for the plot to thicken once more. The Fellowship travels down the Anduin, whilst Elanor manages to orchestrate her departure from Imladris. I decided Elrond would not let her leave with anyone less than his sons, and she becomes swept up in the journey south with the Rangers to meet Aragorn and co. in Rohan.

Hope you liked it!

Finwe ^_^