INTO THE MOUNTAINS
PART TWO
The little party pushed hard to make up time the first few days, traveling until late and rising before dawn to start again. They climbed the rough foothills along the western border of the Misty Mountains, heading ever higher and to the south. Eloëssa was able to keep up with her brothers and more, she felt in her grief as if she could not get back to the Golden Wood fast enough.
Celemedril and Eömeril kept watch through the night in turns and neither slept deeply or long as they climbed further into the mountains. After several days of hard travel, Eloëssa became aware that both her brothers were looking tired and drawn. "I will do my part and share night duty with you." She insisted. "Like you, I possess eyes and ears capable of keeping watch."
Celemedril at first grumbled and resisted her pronouncement. Eömeril grinned at this familiar clash of wills. "Let her do as she will, brother. I, for one, could use some more sleep." After keeping watch with her to see how she did (Eömeril surreptitiously and Celemedril more openly), both came to trust in her ability and shared the watches equally.
On the twelfth night from Rivendell, Eloëssa had the last watch before dawn. They did not venture a fire for they had heard Wargs howling in the distance right after they made camp. They were not far now from the Redhorn Pass, south of Caradthras. Eloessa had her own bow near to hand, made for her by Eömeril before they left the last of the tree line behind. They camped underneath an outcropping of serrated rock that looked to Eloëssa like a dragon's tooth. The air was yet cold at this height and no warmth of spring filled the wind that caught at her hooded cloak and bit at nose and fingers.
Eloëssa pulled her cloak closer around her as she remembered the last storm of winter that passed through the valley of Imladris. Then, she had been warm and snug at Rivendell. The guests of Elrond gathered in his Hall after the evening meal for singing and tales in front the great fire.
As was his wont during Eloëssa's visits, Elrond called for her to sing. That night she sang a haunting lay of Nimrodel and Amroth, of love wandering and lost, but ever faithful. She remembered the warm appreciation in Elrohir's fine gray eyes that night, while the wind whistled through the pines outside. As she sang by the fire she'd dared hope her feelings were returned. In the end her hopes turned cold as ashes in the hearth on a winter's morning.
Now, the wind increased in intensity, shrieking and howling through the tumbled rocks. She thought the Mountains themselves mirrored the evil Master served by those who now made the high peaks their home. Even the wind echoed the hungry Warg cries. Suddenly she realized the sounds carried on the wind were real Warg howls, and they had been getting steadily closer. While she had been contemplating the reflected evil of the landscape, evil itself was stalking her camp.
She silently touched Eömeril, the closest to her, her finger to his lips. He woke instantly. "Wargs", she mouthed, and pointed to where elvish eyes could pick out two, then three, four and five shapes slinking from boulder to boulder west of the out-cropping.
Eloëssa picked up her bow and fitted arrow to string. Celemedril woke just seconds after Eömeril and now, sword ready, took position to his sister's right. Eömeril also had his great bow in hand. Each of the siblings targeted one Warg. The closest leapt at Eloëssa with a great howl and fangs that gleamed in the moonlight. She screamed even as she shot at another Warg behind it.
The first Warg fell dead with an arrow through its neck from Eömeril's bow. The second Warg received Eloëssa's arrow in its tender ear and ran off screeching and bleeding. Muffled snarls and yelps beyond their sight told the group that a larger pack was yet out there, feasting on the fallen, as Wargs do.
Celemedril, having beheaded a third and slit the belly of a fourth, now turned at a sound behind him. A great Warg more than 6 feet in length leapt from the dragon's tooth outcrop and brought Celemedril down under him with the weight and force of his body. Celemedril's sword was knocked from his hand as he fell. The Warg went for his throat, jaws ready to rip and slice.
Celemedril brought up his hands and wedged them between the great jaws. The back teeth lacerated the warrior's knuckles but Celemedril refused to let go. His hands were so far back that the Warg's jaws could not close on his throat. But the Warg still had four legs and monstrous claws mounted thereon. He scratched and tore at Celemedril's vulnerable belly with his back feet. Celemedril felt the skin over his hip slice open and his inner warmth spill on the cold ground. His grip on the jaws began to weaken.
Just when Celemedril felt he could hold on no longer, he felt the great body above shudder. The beast cried out in an ascending howl that seemed to shake the very boulders around him. The Warg fell heavily onto Celemedril's chest, pierced by three arrows. One came from Eloëssa's bow and two at once from Eömeril's great bow.
Celemedril pushed the carcass off him with the last of his strength and struggled to gain his feet and find his sword. He did not know how many were left, or how much of a fight they could yet maintain. At least eight of the fell creatures lay dead around them. Celemedril suddenly realized it was very quiet.
He looked at Eömeril, who faced the direction the Wargs had come from, two more arrows at the ready. Celemedril's hand closed around his sword. Eloëssa, pale but steady, pulled an arrow out of the body of a Warg near her feet to put in her bow. Celemedril met Eömeril's eye and jerked his head in the direction of a faint snarling and muffled rustling. Eömeril was gone a few tense minutes then silently returned.
His bow was slung on his back and he was leading the other three horses. "They have taken the pack pony and are making a meal of it with some of their own fallen comrades. There are more than 20 left. We must take the horses and leave now, while they are occupied. If we can make the Redhorn Gate by sunrise, we can cross by the falls at the Dimrill Stair and they will lose the scent."
Quick and silent the party slipped away from the killing ground under the dragon's tooth. The moon had set and they led the horses in near total darkness over rough and rocky ground, climbing ever higher toward the Redhorn Gate. The wind continued to whip about them, pushing at them as if warning that whatever lay behind, worse was to be found ahead.
The brothers had purposely waited until late enough in the season for the Redhorn Pass to be free of snow. Otherwise, the only pass toward Lorien over the Misty Mountains was far south in the Gap of Rohan, many weeks journey out of the way. Neither brother considered the road through Moria, the Black Pit. No one, Elf, Man or even Dwarf ventured there now.
As the sun peeked over the eastern edge of the mountains, Eloëssa was finally able to make out the faces of her brothers. Eömeril appeared grim, stooping and listening for sounds of pursuit as he ran. Celemedril's face looked pale and sweat beaded his brow, even in the chill dawn wind. His breathing was labored.
Eloëssa looked down and saw blood spreading down his left hip and leg. "Eömeril, stop! She cried. "Celemedril is injured!"
She dropped the reins of her horse and ran back to Celemedril. Despite his weak efforts to push her hands away, she made him sit before he fell. She tore away clothing saturated with blood and bared the flesh of his hip and thigh. A great gash tore the skin from hipbone to knee. It was not wide but it was deep. Her brother clearly had lost a great deal of blood.
Eömeril came and watched anxiously as Eloëssa examined the wound. "How goes it with him?" he whispered. Eloëssa did not bother to answer, intent on the injury.
"My leg may be in tatters but there is nothing wrong with my hearing, brother," Celemedril replied through lips tight with pain at the probing. "Go keep watch while we stop. There was an old Orc camp near here when last we came this way. They may have returned to occupy it now winter is past."
Eömeril ignored the command for the moment, but took heart that his brother's spirit, at least, remained intact. He put a hand on Celemedril's shoulder and felt the great muscles bunched with pain.
Eloëssa suddenly stood and ran back to her horse. She returned quickly with a small, exquisitely decorated leather wallet. She opened it and revealed splendid needles made of mithril, gifts from Lady Galadriel. She threaded one with fine silk.
"You are fortunate, my dear brother," she said with forced lightness. "Not everyone is favored enough to wear the needlework of the Golden Lady's greatest seamstress. Of course, you must bear it in your skin," her voice broke slightly. "But, I promise to be quick."
"There is no one else I would trust to put needle to skin, Eloëssa." Celemedril put his hand over hers that held the needle and thread. "Do what you must. Then we will go on."
Eloëssa refused to look at her brother's face as she washed the wound with water from their water flasks then began the grim task of stitching the slashed skin together. The Warg's claws had been brutal.
More than once, Eloëssa had to take Eömeril's knife and cut away skin too shredded to be sewn back together. The second time she did so, Celemedril, silent till now gave a great moan and fell back against the rocks, senseless.
Eloëssa's shoulders slumped with relief that Celemedril was no longer conscious of the pain she inflicted, but she continued to place her neat stitches. Finally, she tied off the last knot. She dressed the wound as best she could with clean cloths from her pack. "He must rest now, for a few hours at least," she said.
"A few hours are all I can give him. We must make it through the pass and on to the Mirrormere by dark, or it will go ill with all of us, no matter his wound." Eömeril took a last look at his unconscious brother then climbed a nearby tumble of rocks to keep a lookout. Their stopping place was precarious, in the rough cleft that marked the start of the Redhorn Gate.
While Eloëssa watched over her brother, she could not help but remember that Orcs had taken Celebrian in the Pass, and then slaughtered the rest of her party. Celebrian had been well avenged by her sons and the number of dead Orcs burned in the Pass had never been counted. But the poison in Celebrian's wound had stolen her joy in life and she sailed away from Middle Earth within a year of her rescue. Eloëssa remembered well the sadness in Elrond's eyes when Celebrian left, for it remained there still.
Very quickly, Celemedril began to burn with a terrible fever and thirst. He wandered in nightmares beyond the imagining of most Men, for he had already lived over two thousand years and seen much he wished to forget. Such is the bane, and the gift, of an Immortal's life. His siblings watched in silent worry as the day wore on.
Finally, Eömeril knew they could delay no longer. The sun had passed its noon and there were still miles to go before they reached the relative safety of the Mirrormere, before the ancient eastern gates of Moria. "Get him ready to move," he said to his sister. "We have far to go." Then Eomeril brought the horses to where his brother lay in fevered restlessness.
Had he the choice, Eömeril would have preferred to lead the horses through the narrow pass and down the steep carved stair on the other side. But Celemedril could not walk and the day passed too quickly on to darkness.
Eloëssa said "I will mount behind him to keep him steady. May the Lady grant that the ride does not undo my needlework." Eloëssa tied the mare Vesta to the saddlebow of Celemedril's mount so she could guide both. Eömeril followed at the rear, ever watchful as the walls of the pass grew taller on either side, rising up out of sight, nearly closing out the sun.
A chill mist settled on the pass as they came out the other side. Despite Celemedril's calculations, even this late in the year the mist seemed to hold the threat of winter. Sure enough, within an hour, sleet began to fall on the weary party. Celemedril's initial fever passed into a clammy dampness. Celemedril shivered without ceasing, shaking so he tilted in the saddle, almost taking Eloëssa over with him.
The eastern side of the Redhorn Gate wound down to the Mirrormere in a series of broad deeply cut shelves, along side the many-leveled waterfalls, known as the Dimrill Stair. With the sleet and the spray from the plunging water, the Stair became treacherously icy. Eömeril's horse slid to its haunches, but he valiantly dragged the animal upright again. Their pace slowed even more as the sleet thickened, limiting their visibility to no further than the nose of the horses. Eömeril finally got down off his horse and led the party on foot. The late afternoon light failed. They were still eleven miles from the Mirrormere that lay in Dimrill Dale.
Almost by feel, Eömeril led his brother and sister on into the icy darkness. "It is a fell wind that brings ice to the Mountain this late in the season. What dark fate turns our every step on this journey amiss?" he muttered.
The burden of the party's safety lay heavily upon him. Celemedril was the warrior. Eömeril was the wanderer, singer of heroic songs, not a hero himself. "But I am all we have right now. And I will get us home, brother. I promise." He thought silently. He tightened his hold on the reins of his horse and plodded on, head down against the icy wind.
After several hours, the sleet tapered off. Though it was still very cold, there was no wind and a watery early moon shone weakly in the sky. High thin clouds hid any stars that might have given comfort to the Elves, who first walked Middle Earth by starlight. Still, the light of the moon was a small improvement and at last Eömeril saw the reflection of the Mirrormere, the lake that lay before the East Gates of Moria.
The Gates were tightly shut and had been for centuries. With their backs to the Gates, it would be a relatively safe place to camp for the night. Tomorrow, Eömeril thought, or perhaps the next day, given Celemedril's injury, would see them safe within the wooded protection of Lothlorien.
Eömeril lifted his brother from the horse, alarmed at the cold rolling off him in waves, as if it sought to infect others with its iciness. Celemedril muttered strange half-words that Eömeril could not understand. Suddenly, the tall Elven warrior went limp in his brother's arms and spoke no more.
Eömeril shifted him gently to the ground, laying him flat on a pallet Eloessa had prepared. Eömeril had chosen for their camp the broad plaza that had once marked the entrance to the great Dwarf City of Khazad-dum, now called Moria.
"We will risk a fire. Celemedril must get warm," Eloëssa insisted as she laid all the cloaks and blankets from their packs about her brother's shivering form.
Eömeril did not turn from his work caring for the horses. "A fire will bring Orcs, even this far down the mountain," he said, removing the saddle from his mount. "We are almost home. If we can avoid the notice of the Orcs tonight, I swear by Elbereth, I will see our brother safe in Lorien by tomorrow!"
Eloëssa's fear and anger burst forth. "Without a fire, he will not last long enough to see the Golden Wood, ere his spirit departs for the Halls of Mandos! The Warg wound is poisoned and its deathly cold is spreading throughout his body. There is nothing I can do to stop it! Nothing, except try to keep him warm enough to survive this Morgoth-ridden night!"
Eömeril laid his forehead on the warm, gently heaving sides of his horse, but said nothing. Suddenly, from behind, he felt a blade at his throat. He barely restrained himself from reaching up and breaking the attacker's wrist, for he recognized the knife and the slender hand that wielded it. His sister. "Gather wood for the fire or I will have to stitch up holes in two brothers this day". She said savagely.
Eömeril turned slowly, hands held away from his body, to show his good intentions. His expression was sorrowful. He gently reached out and curled both his hands around hers that held the knife. She let him take it. They looked at each other for a moment in mutual grief and worry.
"All right." Eömeril agreed finally. "A small fire. We will gather together with the horses and each other for warmth, as well." Eloëssa smiled gratefully and went back to administer a draught of elvish wine in hopes that would help ease Celemedril's suffering.
Eömeril called, "Stay alert. Here is your knife." He tossed it to her and she caught it expertly. "I will not be gone long."
Eömeril found little fuel for the fire on the rocky ground and he ranged further than he intended. He thought of his brother's shiver-racked body and pale cold skin. Fear clutched his heart. He determined to bring enough fuel back to keep his brother alive through the night, little knowing how high the cost of his quest would be.
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At her brother's side, Eloëssa saw that Celemedril stopped shivering at last. At first she was relieved. But then she realized that his skin was even colder, if possible, than before. She was losing him. "Brother, don't go where I cannot follow," she cried.
She had to do something, no matter how little. She drew the horses into a circle around them for any warmth they might provide and as a break against the wind, which picked up again. She knelt down by her brother and drew him into her lap. She cradled his head and held him close. Her gilded hair escaped its thick braid and hid her brother's face, mixing with her tears.
She sang an Elven song of healing for the spirit. She chanted what small healing charms she knew, over and over until she had no voice. She knew it was not enough and felt Celemedril's spirit draw further away into the darkness. Eloëssa poured out all the grace and power of her love for her brother to pull him back.
"Where can Eömeril be?" she wondered desperately. "Surely he should have been back by now." She held her brother closely, as the night grew ever colder.
For the first time since the Wargs attacked, Eloessa allowed herself to think of Elrohir. She wished he were beside her, holding her and reassuring her that all would be well. She wept a little for herself, then. She knew that even if she and her brothers survived to see Rivendell again, Elrohir would never look at her with passion. He did not return her love nor ever would.
Still, to give herself a little comfort in this dark place, she imagined herself wrapped in the strong arms of her beloved. She envisioned them making a life together in the protected valley of Imladris. And as she slipped into exhausted slumber she was sure she even felt the sweet weight of their child nestled in her arms.
PART TWO
The little party pushed hard to make up time the first few days, traveling until late and rising before dawn to start again. They climbed the rough foothills along the western border of the Misty Mountains, heading ever higher and to the south. Eloëssa was able to keep up with her brothers and more, she felt in her grief as if she could not get back to the Golden Wood fast enough.
Celemedril and Eömeril kept watch through the night in turns and neither slept deeply or long as they climbed further into the mountains. After several days of hard travel, Eloëssa became aware that both her brothers were looking tired and drawn. "I will do my part and share night duty with you." She insisted. "Like you, I possess eyes and ears capable of keeping watch."
Celemedril at first grumbled and resisted her pronouncement. Eömeril grinned at this familiar clash of wills. "Let her do as she will, brother. I, for one, could use some more sleep." After keeping watch with her to see how she did (Eömeril surreptitiously and Celemedril more openly), both came to trust in her ability and shared the watches equally.
On the twelfth night from Rivendell, Eloëssa had the last watch before dawn. They did not venture a fire for they had heard Wargs howling in the distance right after they made camp. They were not far now from the Redhorn Pass, south of Caradthras. Eloessa had her own bow near to hand, made for her by Eömeril before they left the last of the tree line behind. They camped underneath an outcropping of serrated rock that looked to Eloëssa like a dragon's tooth. The air was yet cold at this height and no warmth of spring filled the wind that caught at her hooded cloak and bit at nose and fingers.
Eloëssa pulled her cloak closer around her as she remembered the last storm of winter that passed through the valley of Imladris. Then, she had been warm and snug at Rivendell. The guests of Elrond gathered in his Hall after the evening meal for singing and tales in front the great fire.
As was his wont during Eloëssa's visits, Elrond called for her to sing. That night she sang a haunting lay of Nimrodel and Amroth, of love wandering and lost, but ever faithful. She remembered the warm appreciation in Elrohir's fine gray eyes that night, while the wind whistled through the pines outside. As she sang by the fire she'd dared hope her feelings were returned. In the end her hopes turned cold as ashes in the hearth on a winter's morning.
Now, the wind increased in intensity, shrieking and howling through the tumbled rocks. She thought the Mountains themselves mirrored the evil Master served by those who now made the high peaks their home. Even the wind echoed the hungry Warg cries. Suddenly she realized the sounds carried on the wind were real Warg howls, and they had been getting steadily closer. While she had been contemplating the reflected evil of the landscape, evil itself was stalking her camp.
She silently touched Eömeril, the closest to her, her finger to his lips. He woke instantly. "Wargs", she mouthed, and pointed to where elvish eyes could pick out two, then three, four and five shapes slinking from boulder to boulder west of the out-cropping.
Eloëssa picked up her bow and fitted arrow to string. Celemedril woke just seconds after Eömeril and now, sword ready, took position to his sister's right. Eömeril also had his great bow in hand. Each of the siblings targeted one Warg. The closest leapt at Eloëssa with a great howl and fangs that gleamed in the moonlight. She screamed even as she shot at another Warg behind it.
The first Warg fell dead with an arrow through its neck from Eömeril's bow. The second Warg received Eloëssa's arrow in its tender ear and ran off screeching and bleeding. Muffled snarls and yelps beyond their sight told the group that a larger pack was yet out there, feasting on the fallen, as Wargs do.
Celemedril, having beheaded a third and slit the belly of a fourth, now turned at a sound behind him. A great Warg more than 6 feet in length leapt from the dragon's tooth outcrop and brought Celemedril down under him with the weight and force of his body. Celemedril's sword was knocked from his hand as he fell. The Warg went for his throat, jaws ready to rip and slice.
Celemedril brought up his hands and wedged them between the great jaws. The back teeth lacerated the warrior's knuckles but Celemedril refused to let go. His hands were so far back that the Warg's jaws could not close on his throat. But the Warg still had four legs and monstrous claws mounted thereon. He scratched and tore at Celemedril's vulnerable belly with his back feet. Celemedril felt the skin over his hip slice open and his inner warmth spill on the cold ground. His grip on the jaws began to weaken.
Just when Celemedril felt he could hold on no longer, he felt the great body above shudder. The beast cried out in an ascending howl that seemed to shake the very boulders around him. The Warg fell heavily onto Celemedril's chest, pierced by three arrows. One came from Eloëssa's bow and two at once from Eömeril's great bow.
Celemedril pushed the carcass off him with the last of his strength and struggled to gain his feet and find his sword. He did not know how many were left, or how much of a fight they could yet maintain. At least eight of the fell creatures lay dead around them. Celemedril suddenly realized it was very quiet.
He looked at Eömeril, who faced the direction the Wargs had come from, two more arrows at the ready. Celemedril's hand closed around his sword. Eloëssa, pale but steady, pulled an arrow out of the body of a Warg near her feet to put in her bow. Celemedril met Eömeril's eye and jerked his head in the direction of a faint snarling and muffled rustling. Eömeril was gone a few tense minutes then silently returned.
His bow was slung on his back and he was leading the other three horses. "They have taken the pack pony and are making a meal of it with some of their own fallen comrades. There are more than 20 left. We must take the horses and leave now, while they are occupied. If we can make the Redhorn Gate by sunrise, we can cross by the falls at the Dimrill Stair and they will lose the scent."
Quick and silent the party slipped away from the killing ground under the dragon's tooth. The moon had set and they led the horses in near total darkness over rough and rocky ground, climbing ever higher toward the Redhorn Gate. The wind continued to whip about them, pushing at them as if warning that whatever lay behind, worse was to be found ahead.
The brothers had purposely waited until late enough in the season for the Redhorn Pass to be free of snow. Otherwise, the only pass toward Lorien over the Misty Mountains was far south in the Gap of Rohan, many weeks journey out of the way. Neither brother considered the road through Moria, the Black Pit. No one, Elf, Man or even Dwarf ventured there now.
As the sun peeked over the eastern edge of the mountains, Eloëssa was finally able to make out the faces of her brothers. Eömeril appeared grim, stooping and listening for sounds of pursuit as he ran. Celemedril's face looked pale and sweat beaded his brow, even in the chill dawn wind. His breathing was labored.
Eloëssa looked down and saw blood spreading down his left hip and leg. "Eömeril, stop! She cried. "Celemedril is injured!"
She dropped the reins of her horse and ran back to Celemedril. Despite his weak efforts to push her hands away, she made him sit before he fell. She tore away clothing saturated with blood and bared the flesh of his hip and thigh. A great gash tore the skin from hipbone to knee. It was not wide but it was deep. Her brother clearly had lost a great deal of blood.
Eömeril came and watched anxiously as Eloëssa examined the wound. "How goes it with him?" he whispered. Eloëssa did not bother to answer, intent on the injury.
"My leg may be in tatters but there is nothing wrong with my hearing, brother," Celemedril replied through lips tight with pain at the probing. "Go keep watch while we stop. There was an old Orc camp near here when last we came this way. They may have returned to occupy it now winter is past."
Eömeril ignored the command for the moment, but took heart that his brother's spirit, at least, remained intact. He put a hand on Celemedril's shoulder and felt the great muscles bunched with pain.
Eloëssa suddenly stood and ran back to her horse. She returned quickly with a small, exquisitely decorated leather wallet. She opened it and revealed splendid needles made of mithril, gifts from Lady Galadriel. She threaded one with fine silk.
"You are fortunate, my dear brother," she said with forced lightness. "Not everyone is favored enough to wear the needlework of the Golden Lady's greatest seamstress. Of course, you must bear it in your skin," her voice broke slightly. "But, I promise to be quick."
"There is no one else I would trust to put needle to skin, Eloëssa." Celemedril put his hand over hers that held the needle and thread. "Do what you must. Then we will go on."
Eloëssa refused to look at her brother's face as she washed the wound with water from their water flasks then began the grim task of stitching the slashed skin together. The Warg's claws had been brutal.
More than once, Eloëssa had to take Eömeril's knife and cut away skin too shredded to be sewn back together. The second time she did so, Celemedril, silent till now gave a great moan and fell back against the rocks, senseless.
Eloëssa's shoulders slumped with relief that Celemedril was no longer conscious of the pain she inflicted, but she continued to place her neat stitches. Finally, she tied off the last knot. She dressed the wound as best she could with clean cloths from her pack. "He must rest now, for a few hours at least," she said.
"A few hours are all I can give him. We must make it through the pass and on to the Mirrormere by dark, or it will go ill with all of us, no matter his wound." Eömeril took a last look at his unconscious brother then climbed a nearby tumble of rocks to keep a lookout. Their stopping place was precarious, in the rough cleft that marked the start of the Redhorn Gate.
While Eloëssa watched over her brother, she could not help but remember that Orcs had taken Celebrian in the Pass, and then slaughtered the rest of her party. Celebrian had been well avenged by her sons and the number of dead Orcs burned in the Pass had never been counted. But the poison in Celebrian's wound had stolen her joy in life and she sailed away from Middle Earth within a year of her rescue. Eloëssa remembered well the sadness in Elrond's eyes when Celebrian left, for it remained there still.
Very quickly, Celemedril began to burn with a terrible fever and thirst. He wandered in nightmares beyond the imagining of most Men, for he had already lived over two thousand years and seen much he wished to forget. Such is the bane, and the gift, of an Immortal's life. His siblings watched in silent worry as the day wore on.
Finally, Eömeril knew they could delay no longer. The sun had passed its noon and there were still miles to go before they reached the relative safety of the Mirrormere, before the ancient eastern gates of Moria. "Get him ready to move," he said to his sister. "We have far to go." Then Eomeril brought the horses to where his brother lay in fevered restlessness.
Had he the choice, Eömeril would have preferred to lead the horses through the narrow pass and down the steep carved stair on the other side. But Celemedril could not walk and the day passed too quickly on to darkness.
Eloëssa said "I will mount behind him to keep him steady. May the Lady grant that the ride does not undo my needlework." Eloëssa tied the mare Vesta to the saddlebow of Celemedril's mount so she could guide both. Eömeril followed at the rear, ever watchful as the walls of the pass grew taller on either side, rising up out of sight, nearly closing out the sun.
A chill mist settled on the pass as they came out the other side. Despite Celemedril's calculations, even this late in the year the mist seemed to hold the threat of winter. Sure enough, within an hour, sleet began to fall on the weary party. Celemedril's initial fever passed into a clammy dampness. Celemedril shivered without ceasing, shaking so he tilted in the saddle, almost taking Eloëssa over with him.
The eastern side of the Redhorn Gate wound down to the Mirrormere in a series of broad deeply cut shelves, along side the many-leveled waterfalls, known as the Dimrill Stair. With the sleet and the spray from the plunging water, the Stair became treacherously icy. Eömeril's horse slid to its haunches, but he valiantly dragged the animal upright again. Their pace slowed even more as the sleet thickened, limiting their visibility to no further than the nose of the horses. Eömeril finally got down off his horse and led the party on foot. The late afternoon light failed. They were still eleven miles from the Mirrormere that lay in Dimrill Dale.
Almost by feel, Eömeril led his brother and sister on into the icy darkness. "It is a fell wind that brings ice to the Mountain this late in the season. What dark fate turns our every step on this journey amiss?" he muttered.
The burden of the party's safety lay heavily upon him. Celemedril was the warrior. Eömeril was the wanderer, singer of heroic songs, not a hero himself. "But I am all we have right now. And I will get us home, brother. I promise." He thought silently. He tightened his hold on the reins of his horse and plodded on, head down against the icy wind.
After several hours, the sleet tapered off. Though it was still very cold, there was no wind and a watery early moon shone weakly in the sky. High thin clouds hid any stars that might have given comfort to the Elves, who first walked Middle Earth by starlight. Still, the light of the moon was a small improvement and at last Eömeril saw the reflection of the Mirrormere, the lake that lay before the East Gates of Moria.
The Gates were tightly shut and had been for centuries. With their backs to the Gates, it would be a relatively safe place to camp for the night. Tomorrow, Eömeril thought, or perhaps the next day, given Celemedril's injury, would see them safe within the wooded protection of Lothlorien.
Eömeril lifted his brother from the horse, alarmed at the cold rolling off him in waves, as if it sought to infect others with its iciness. Celemedril muttered strange half-words that Eömeril could not understand. Suddenly, the tall Elven warrior went limp in his brother's arms and spoke no more.
Eömeril shifted him gently to the ground, laying him flat on a pallet Eloessa had prepared. Eömeril had chosen for their camp the broad plaza that had once marked the entrance to the great Dwarf City of Khazad-dum, now called Moria.
"We will risk a fire. Celemedril must get warm," Eloëssa insisted as she laid all the cloaks and blankets from their packs about her brother's shivering form.
Eömeril did not turn from his work caring for the horses. "A fire will bring Orcs, even this far down the mountain," he said, removing the saddle from his mount. "We are almost home. If we can avoid the notice of the Orcs tonight, I swear by Elbereth, I will see our brother safe in Lorien by tomorrow!"
Eloëssa's fear and anger burst forth. "Without a fire, he will not last long enough to see the Golden Wood, ere his spirit departs for the Halls of Mandos! The Warg wound is poisoned and its deathly cold is spreading throughout his body. There is nothing I can do to stop it! Nothing, except try to keep him warm enough to survive this Morgoth-ridden night!"
Eömeril laid his forehead on the warm, gently heaving sides of his horse, but said nothing. Suddenly, from behind, he felt a blade at his throat. He barely restrained himself from reaching up and breaking the attacker's wrist, for he recognized the knife and the slender hand that wielded it. His sister. "Gather wood for the fire or I will have to stitch up holes in two brothers this day". She said savagely.
Eömeril turned slowly, hands held away from his body, to show his good intentions. His expression was sorrowful. He gently reached out and curled both his hands around hers that held the knife. She let him take it. They looked at each other for a moment in mutual grief and worry.
"All right." Eömeril agreed finally. "A small fire. We will gather together with the horses and each other for warmth, as well." Eloëssa smiled gratefully and went back to administer a draught of elvish wine in hopes that would help ease Celemedril's suffering.
Eömeril called, "Stay alert. Here is your knife." He tossed it to her and she caught it expertly. "I will not be gone long."
Eömeril found little fuel for the fire on the rocky ground and he ranged further than he intended. He thought of his brother's shiver-racked body and pale cold skin. Fear clutched his heart. He determined to bring enough fuel back to keep his brother alive through the night, little knowing how high the cost of his quest would be.
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At her brother's side, Eloëssa saw that Celemedril stopped shivering at last. At first she was relieved. But then she realized that his skin was even colder, if possible, than before. She was losing him. "Brother, don't go where I cannot follow," she cried.
She had to do something, no matter how little. She drew the horses into a circle around them for any warmth they might provide and as a break against the wind, which picked up again. She knelt down by her brother and drew him into her lap. She cradled his head and held him close. Her gilded hair escaped its thick braid and hid her brother's face, mixing with her tears.
She sang an Elven song of healing for the spirit. She chanted what small healing charms she knew, over and over until she had no voice. She knew it was not enough and felt Celemedril's spirit draw further away into the darkness. Eloëssa poured out all the grace and power of her love for her brother to pull him back.
"Where can Eömeril be?" she wondered desperately. "Surely he should have been back by now." She held her brother closely, as the night grew ever colder.
For the first time since the Wargs attacked, Eloessa allowed herself to think of Elrohir. She wished he were beside her, holding her and reassuring her that all would be well. She wept a little for herself, then. She knew that even if she and her brothers survived to see Rivendell again, Elrohir would never look at her with passion. He did not return her love nor ever would.
Still, to give herself a little comfort in this dark place, she imagined herself wrapped in the strong arms of her beloved. She envisioned them making a life together in the protected valley of Imladris. And as she slipped into exhausted slumber she was sure she even felt the sweet weight of their child nestled in her arms.
