Color the Stars: Chapter II

When they returned to their camp, Danlin's eyes widened with alarm. The site had been sacked, and the horses, taken. Clumps of dirt lay strewn upon the ground and there was a foul smell in the air.

Danlin could see that in the still smoldering fires lay the glowing embers of the emblem of Imladris torn from the saddlebags. His paper and paintbrushes were also destroyed, but his inksticks had somehow survived the heat. These he carefully scooped up and placed into his pockets.

Arwen looked worried, even afraid, though Danlin knew she was trying not to seem so. He also knew that put together, all they had were a set of inksticks, his traveling hat, Arwen's cloak, five copper coins, a sling and twelve round stones. And resourceful as elves are, he knew his hat and his paints would not be very useful.

"What are we going to do?" said Danlin, very very quietly.

"We'll take the main road to the nearest town. Perhaps the people have heard some news…"

"And then?"

"We'll walk to Lorien."

"Who did this?" Danlin finally asked, as they headed towards the little village of Ticksborough.

To his annoyance, she didn't answer. Sometimes, elves were just so secretive.

* * *

Ticksborough contained three farmhouses, seven shacks, a stable and a tavern. These were built to form a circle facing inwards, and in the center of the village was a rusty old well. No one drank the water from that well.

Before entering the tavern, Arwen put her hood over her head so that it hid her face. The bar was a dingy room with no windows. Three lanterns lit the room. The thick air smelled of pipe smoke, grog, and vomit. The floors were slippery with who-knows-what.

They sat down at the counter and waited for bits of conversation. The bartender kept giving Arwen impatient stares, glaring as he poured frothy drinks into the mugs of the men around her. After the bartender frowned at her for the fifth time, she ordered the cheapest beverage there, a murky frothing concoction that she didn't dare touch. The Lump on her right took her tankard and chugged it all down in one breath. He didn't even choke.

The drink must have loosened the guy up, because he started telling his life story. He complained that his goat was too old to plow and his useless rooster couldn't lay eggs. Then he told them about the raiders who stole his corn, and Farmer Dudd's squash, and marm Mothfield's prized cider apples, and how Mr. Wine's ol' hound Jugger was found sliced to smithereens in Babbling Brook just yesterday.

The Lump went on and on and on, with his eyes all glassy and numb. Being careful not to trip over the mess on the floor, Danlin quickly followed Arwen out of the tavern.

* * *

"How many more days is it to Lorien?" Danlin asked, tripping along to keep up with Arwen. They were on the southern road again, headed for foothills of the Misty Mountains.

"About eight days."

He nodded. Already he could see the transition from forest to tundra. Soon, the ground would get rocky as they approached the Mountains. Already, he could imagine how much his feet would hurt hiking up a mountain. There would be a lot of blisters to pop before the day was over.

A warbler whistled cheerup, cheerup in the trees. Blowing hard on his knuckles, Danlin tried to answer back. He managed only a feeble whistle, but the bird still sang a reply anyway. This made Arwen smile for a moment.

Then, her eyes narrowed as she motioned for Danlin to be silent and hide. From where he crouched behind a boulder, he could see Arwen standing in the shadows. Somehow, she'd picked up a solid switch of wood, even though he hadn't heard or seen her move at all.

He tipped his hat forward a bit, hoping it would block his vision and dampen his breathing. Even then, he could imagine a band of attackers encircling them from all sides of the woods. Shut up, shut up, shut up, brain, he ordered.

The silence broke. To his horror, Arwen moved into plain view. The thousand arrows he pictured were not fired. Arwen was still in one piece and she hadn't been skewered or punctured. Then she shouted, "Hail Gildor of the House of Finrod."

Danlin saw Arwen talking to another elf. He was very tall and although he was very graceful, he still looked every inch a warrior.

Suddenly, he felt someone from behind yank his collar and raise him a foot above the ground. "What be this?" the voice called.

"Why, it's a Hobbit."

Danlin wiggled a bit. The hand that was grasping him was very strong.

"Hobbits haven't gone journeying since Bilbo Baggins."

"Wait, Limlir, put him down. He's no Hobbit. He's a boy! A scruffy little human boy."

Danlin felt a dozen eyes staring at him. "Hi?"

After explaining to Gildor and his band of High Elves their destination as well as their dilemma, Gildor offered to accompany them throughout their journey. "Especially," he said seriously, looking hard at Arwen, "especially over the Redhorn Pass."

"I can manage," she said, quietly.

"The Shadow is growing. The Enemy is moving," Gildor said, noting how she avoided his eyes. "And accidents can happen again."

"Thank you, but I can manage."

Danlin left them to discuss the matter further. He wandered towards the elves' fireside, where there was much music and food. Limlir waved him over and handed him a hot bowl of soup. It was good, much better than the food they'd bartered for in Ticksborough.

"So, I heard you're a painter," Limlir said. "What do you like to draw?"

"Animals," said Danlin, as he stirred the broth, "and rocks. No, really, painting rocks are a lot of fun. Each stone comes out different, depending on how wet your brush is and how absorbent the paper is. So every stroke counts. You have to be bold."

"Complicated. I prefer doodling with a charred stick."

"That's too messy for Rivendell. When I was little, I liked to finger-paint. Me and Elrohir, we'd go and doodle all over the paths. Master Elrond got pretty mad at us when we spilled paint over the gazebo, and we spent the next week white-washing it."

"That's too bad."

"No, white-washing's a lot of fun. Only we got carried away and coated one of lord Glorfindel's favorite statues."

He paused to listen to the music. The story-teller was in the middle of the Lay of Luthien, which he found terribly long and boring. Of course, that was because it was a love story. But he never forgot that tale and he could always bring back a mental picture of Luthien after that. Quickly, he shook that thought away. "Say, is that your dog over there?" Danlin pointed at the mutt curled by the fire.

"Yes, he's ours," said Limlir proudly, "we picked him up in Hobbiton. He doesn't look like much, but he's got the best nose of anyone east of Valinor."

"What's his name?"

"We haven't decided yet. He's just Boy right now." At this, the dog wagged his tail and trotted over.

Danlin let Boy lick his soup bowl. "You're a good boy, Boy"

"Are you planning on crossing the Caradhas on foot?" Limlir asked, casually, as he gave Boy a belly rub.

"Yeah, we are. Is that bad?" Danlin asked, worriedly.

"Well, it's a difficult mountain," said the elf, slowly, "You'd best start before dawn. And you had better take Boy with you."

* * *