[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.]
Before dawn. 15 January, 3019. Third Age.
"Misty Mountains indeed," grumbled Anarwen. She rubbed a stiff hand across her eyes to focus them better. Rising on one elbow, she looked around slowly. Night still held the world in its grip. A heavy fog wove between the thick tree trunks that surrounded her. Dark pine trees reached toward the sky but the mist shrouded all save the first tier of boughs. White snow crunched beneath her as she shifted. That would account for my clothes, she thought irritably. Everything she wore clung to her damply. Groggy and aching, she eased herself up into a sitting position and tried to remember what had happened.
There had been a driving snow storm. Bitter winds had fought her but she had been determined to scout around the bend, warn the others of anything that awaited…warn the others…"Legolas!"…"Legolas!"… Her voice croaked out his name, and she coughed harshly. "Aragorn!"……"Gimli?" The silence grew heavier each time she called. None answered.
A rising feeling of panic knotted her stomach. Where?…I… The last thing she remembered was a bolt of lightening striking above their heads, a glimpse of snow descending, and then the rocky shelf beneath her feet gave way…falling…falling…
Her insides churned with the sensation. She held her hands flat to the snow to steady herself. Only the memory of it…I am fine…I am fine…The dizziness receded but left a dull throbbing behind her eyes. She felt along the side of her head. Dried blood flecked her fingertips as she brought them forward. Damnable…wretched…Her father's many pet curses jumbled together before ending in an exasperated sigh.
Anarwen had no idea where she was or how long she had been here. Evidently she had been thrown downslope of the pass, but the storm had rendered the landscape invisible that day. She recognized nothing in her surroundings, and the mist made it impossible to orient herself. She folded her knees to her chest and looked around into the dark forest.
Not lost. Just…Faces skittered through her thoughts. Frodo's shy smile. Gimli's booming laugh. Gandalf's stern expression thawing into amusement. Anarwen stared sightlessly into the murky shadows. Clear blue eyes seemed to glow in the distance.
"Ah! Stop it!" Anarwen hissed and rubbed her eyes harshly. Suddenly her stomach grumbled loudly. Her difficulty in concentrating became embarrassingly clear. Have you been knocked senseless, girl? Her father's gruff voice blended with that of Duilin, the last captain of Legolas's guard. The first thing she should have done on awakening was to check her supplies and weapons. She fumbled at her side. Her long knife was still sheathed there, but as she pulled her battered quiver off, she realized her arrows and bow were gone. A pouch slung at her waist produced one square of lembas. She broke off a small piece and washed it down with a little melted snow.
Pulling her knees to her chest again, Anarwen munched quietly at one last bite of the Elven-bread. The rest was tucked away for another day. She would have to eat sparingly. It would not be a quick or simple matter to find the others. They could be anywhere by now.
She startled at the sudden thought that they might have tumbled down the mountain with her. Frantically she replayed each second of the storm, the sound of the wind, the sensation of her fall, her last glimpse before everything turned to black. Images flickered in her mind's eye. Legolas pulling Gandalf back to safety at the cliff wall. A white curtain descending on all of them. Her body plunging downward, the snowy ledge receding from her sight. She had fallen but they had not. For a moment, it was absurdly comforting.
She stared up where she imagined the ledge might be, but the mist hid any sign that might have proved her right or wrong. The only solution was to wait for Anor to burn it away. Then she would be able to locate the ledge and determine which direction to take to find the Fellowship. Until then, there was little she could do.
Deciding the best course would be to revive her strength, Anarwen crawled toward one of the towering pines and eased her back against its solid base. She tucked her legs under her and drifted into a shallow state of semi-consciousness. The healing power of Arda slowly seeped into her body, soothing the aches. As her body restored itself, her mind wandered through time and memory. Dark woods gave way to shadowy halls. Wind stirring the trees became the soft rustling of long silken gowns. The hushed tones of spoken Elvish. The familiar feeling of being utterly alone.
November, 3017. Third Age.
Dark felt boots padded soundless along a narrow gallery. Red torchlight illuminated the room to her right, but here under a balcony carved from living rock, Anarwen moved quickly between bands of light cut by deep shadows. The gallery circled one of the upper halls of Thranduil's caverns, where tonight a feast marked a successful hunt. A row of columns separated her from the throng of celebrating Elves. Anarwen had her own reasons for commemorating the day but she kept them to herself. No one else knew that today marked the date of her birth.
Elves did not celebrate birthdays, but Anarwen had been raised among the children of Lake-town and birthdays were among her favorite memories as an elfling. The half-elven girl received a gift wrought by her father's hands each year, along with some special sweet bought from the shops that lined Lake-town's market-pool. The expense drained her father's meager coin, but he had been determined to make up for his wife's abandonment of their only child. Long after Anarwen had made a home in Mirkwood, her mother's birthplace, she would receive a small gift each November. The tradition ended with her father's death. All the Novembers since had been a time of memories and melancholy. The loss of both her parents, who were her entire family, seemed especially difficult on this day.
Tonight she found solace in duty. She had delivered a message to Sador, the captain of Thranduil's personal guard, who was here with the leadership of Mirkwood's Elven forces. The task was simple enough to complete without being noticed by too many of those gathered. For that she was grateful. She did not feel like talking to anyone. A pile of log books waited for her in the guards' quarters. Ten more paces and she would be out the door, free from any obligation to pretend what she did not feel.
"Anarwen, I am happy to see you here."
The clear Elvish voice startled her out of her thoughts. She turned around to find an alarmingly handsome elf standing behind her. His dark velvet attire was both elegant and perfectly chosen to illuminate his bright blue eyes. He regarded her with quiet composure.
Had any among the crowded hall noticed, they might have been surprised to recognize Antion as the ellon now striding toward Anarwen with a pleasant smile on his face. His very public sparring match with her had occurred years ago, but all of Mirkwood's Elves, with their perfect memories, remembered the outcome as if it was yesterday. Despite her disqualification that day, Anarwen had joined Legolas's guard within the year but it had taken Antion three more to be welcomed into the same service.
They were circumstances almost surely designed to fuel Antion's antipathy for the half-elven girl. But, as always, fate had intervened and circumstances had changed. During Antion's first expedition as a royal guard, the prince and his contingent were surprised by an orc attack. The Elves made quick work of the creatures, but at one point, Antion had turned to find himself facing a charging orc…and froze. As she spent her last arrow, Anarwen caught a glimpse of his wide-eyed expression and recognized the certain death it foretold. Without a second thought, she threw her dagger at the orc, catching it in the throat. The creature fell at Antion's feet but Anarwen's quick thinking had left her without any weapon. The end of the skirmish came soon after, but Legolas's wrath had waited until they were safely back in the Elven-king's caverns. Not until the prince was half-way through upbraiding both of them did Anarwen realize that Legolas must have dispatched another orc sneaking up behind her. She may have saved Antion, but she had also lost concentration on the foes around her and foolishly left herself open to attack.
After the prince's angry dismissal, Anarwen and Antion had walked back to their quarters in awkward silence. She would have wagered that to Antion the only thing worse than Legolas's criticism was Anarwen's presence in the same room. It did not matter that she had received an equal share of Legolas's anger. Antion's pride was obviously smarting, probably far more than when she had held him at knife-point on the tournament field. They had reached his door without a word spoken between them. Anarwen had continued walking toward her own chamber until a small cough brought her to a halt.
"Anarwen?" His voice seemed unnaturally strained. Anarwen turned back slowly. The ellon stood in his doorway, shifting his eyes between her face and the floor. "I am sorry."
He had clearly expected a reply but she hadn't known what to say. His apology could have referred to anything—the orc, their lord's anger, his own actions years ago. Venturing two steps toward him, she fumbled for the right words. "I have been told a thing," she said quietly and looked into his eyes before continuing. "In battle, the winner is the one who survives the day. We did not greet Mandos on this one, Antion." A small grin softened her face. "There seems to have been little else to praise, but that is worthy of some gratitude at least."
Antion had given her a brief nod before lowering his eyes again. Anarwen had turned away and resumed walking quickly down the passage. As she reached a connecting hallway, she heard Antion clear his throat again. He called out to her, "I suppose facing the grip of your blade for once offers the better perspective."
If she had not looked into his eyes, she might have thought his words some defensive rebuff. But Antion's self-conscious, tentative expression seemed to suggest something else. She returned his tight smile and resolved to dispel the tension. "Yes. Avoid the sharp end more often and you will be fine." She had laughed and then left him.
Whatever lay between them had faded over the years into a quiet, respectful regard for each others' talents. And, much to Antion's chagrin, it was occasionally accompanied by a measure of Anarwen's wit. Now as they stood in the shadows of Thranduil's hall, she swept her eyes over his beautiful garments and couldn't resist a small jab. "Antion, I am surprised to see you alone. Surely a dozen maidens are fretting at your inattention."
"But I am not alone," he replied earnestly. His polite smile didn't waver. He turned slightly to contemplate the crowd of dancers, and Anarwen joined him at his side, not quite sure what to do.
She should have guessed that he would be here as someone's escort. Antion spent most court functions at the center of a wide circle of admirers. Anarwen gazed toward the center of the hall and found Legolas dancing with the one elleth stunning enough to ensure she had been accompanied by either Antion or their lord. Lady Laineth. Anarwen glanced to her side and found Antion's eyes locked on the same sight. She finally caught his attention with a knowing smile.
"No, I did not mean…I…" Antion's words trailed away into silence, but Anarwen was paying little attention.
She gazed at the prince and the elleth moving in and out of his arms. The flaxen-haired girl stepped gracefully to circle Legolas before moving to face him. Her delicate features shifted into a sly ghost of a smile. Raising a hand to meet his, her fingers trailed along his open palm and then quickly threaded his fingers to entwine his hand in her own.
From the shadows, Anarwen unconsciously tilted her head to one side as she studied the elleth's beautiful movements. They only reminded her of her own inadequacies. She had never learned much of such arts. The prospect of making a fool of herself kept her here under the balcony on the rare occasions that she bothered to attend these celebrations. Whatever Laineth had done had caused Legolas to arch an eyebrow and break into his own smile. Both dancers laughed lightly and spun away as the music shifted tempo.
Anarwen's attention drifted back to Antion. She ventured another look his way and found his eyes fastened on her. Something had altered his mood, although she could not fathom it. "What did you say, Antion?"
"Ummm…I…" Abruptly he turned his back on the hall and faced Anarwen. "Did you hear that the King has requested volunteers for a special mission?"
"Yes, I have heard." The Elves of Thranduil's forces had spoken of little else during the previous week. Rumors ran wild, but few knew much other than it was to be a year-long expedition within Rhovanion.
"No one has come forward yet."
"No," Anarwen said quietly. She doubted many would. Rhovanion encompassed vast and foreboding lands bounded by the Misty Mountains in the west, the Sea of Rhûn in the east, the Grey Mountains in the north, and the Ash and White Mountains in the south. Mirkwood occupied a large portion of the area but Anarwen suspected that their home forest was not to be the mission's focus.
Even though Sauron had long ago abandoned Dol Guldur—his fortress in Mirkwood's southern reaches—his servants seemed to have held onto small territories within a few days' journey of the forest. During the last few years, their surprise attacks on Elven patrols had quadrupled in number. They seemed to be able to strike at will from all compass points. With such forces in place, the Enemy would not have to launch a large attack from Mordor to greatly harm Thranduil's Elves. The Elven-king was undoubtedly plotting his own stratagem with surveillance the likely starting point.
"I have been thinking that I would do so."
"Do what?" Anarwen replied vaguely. The crowd of dancers swirled behind Antion's back.
"Volunteer."
It took a moment for Antion's meaning to sink in. Anarwen hid her surprise with a look of exaggerated disbelief. "Antion, the mission will last a year. Two weeks without your presence and Mirkwood's ellyth will stage a revolt. I imagine our King prefers to keep his throne. Do not be foolish."
"You think the mission foolish?" he asked quickly.
He cannot be serious. Sending Antion on such a journey was nearly as preposterous as sending Legolas. "No, I think it requires a…a certain type of person. It will be a long and solitary campaign." She gave him another lopsided grin. "Think of it…no one to appreciate your fine clothes for months and months and–"
"You think me as shallow as that?" Antion's expression begged her to deny it.
"No, Antion, I do not. It was only a jest. Do not be so serious."
"Do you not think me brave enough to face–"
"I do not question your bravery. I think only that you have much that ties you here. Family, friends." Anarwen gave him a sidelong glance and added, "More foolish moon-eyed girls than can be counted."
Antion opened his mouth but Anarwen cut him off before he could object. She abandoned her glib tone and tried to make him understand. "It is not the same as our duties here. Whoever takes this quest must live by their wits alone, apart from all they know. There will be no comrades to share the responsibility. And those left behind will know nothing of your fate for months at a time. Maybe never, if fate turns against you. It is a heavy burden to place on those who love you. Think of your mother and father, your brothers..."
The smile faded from her face and she turned back toward the crowded hall. The torchlight seemed almost painfully bright and the joyous Elves unreal in their beauty. She added quietly, "No, whoever does this must be someone who is alone in this world, someone who will not be missed if things do not go well."
"There is none among us such as that. Each of us leaves behind someone every time we patrol the forest."
Not all of us. "Well, let it be someone else, Antion. Do not volunteer for this quest."
Antion's eyes searched her face for a long moment. Finally he moved back to her side. Both guards stared at the dancers, lost in thought. Minutes passed before she heard him speak. "I will think on what you have said."
Anarwen forced a smile on her face. "Enough thinking for today. Better that you retrieve your lady from our Prince." Before he could come up with another protest she gave his shoulder a light shove. "Just go," she said with a laugh.
The handsome elf wandered back into the throng and was immediately surrounded by a glittering array of Elven-maidens. Moths to the flame. Anarwen watched for another moment, a bemused expression touching her lips, before her eyes wandered over the crowd again, finally falling on Legolas. Partnered now with a stunning raven-haired elleth, Thranduil's only son shone like no other.
Left behind. Something in Antion's words weighed on her heart. Already hidden within the gallery's deepest shadows, she edged a little nearer to a column. Dancers faded from her view until only Legolas remained. Anarwen stared at the radiant vision as if seeing him for the first time.
He had plucked her from obscurity to give her more than she had believed possible. Because he had ignored both caution and tradition, she had gained honor in service to others and pride in true accomplishments. But there was a price to be paid. The passage of time, so very long and slow for the Elves, had not proved her friend. Spring had come and gone more than twenty times since he had appeared in her doorway, looking for his arrow and her. In all that time, the Wood-elves had only hardened their sentiments toward her. Many among Mirkwood's forces viewed her as competition for advancement, while nearly every elleth considered her a rival for Legolas's attention. It dawned on her now that what kept her in Mirkwood also stripped her life of other possibilities. Was there to be nothing else but the discipline of duty, alleviated only by the heat of battle?
Her eyes burned. Stop it, you morbid fool! Anarwen turned to leave but could not stop herself from gazing back. In the middle of the dancers, Legolas spun the dark-haired girl.
Not all those who wander are lost. Perhaps it was time to begin anew.