Happy New Year, everyone!

My thanks goes out to Diarona, Doria Nell, and spring94 for the lovely reviews that absolutely warms my heart. Thank you so much for the kind words, and I'm "glad" you all felt Rell's torment. I do feel a tiny bit bad for her, but not enough to not throw her through even worse things in due time! But let's see what the future has in store for her (and this slightly mean author). Though I can say, without spoiling too much, that she is indeed in the area in which Aragorn finds himself in Tolkien's books. Perhaps something is about to happen?

I hope you, and all readers, enjoy the following chapter – my longest one so far, because I really did not know where and if I should cut it into two. Oh well! If anyone's got words of wisdom on how to overcome writer's block, do send it my way! I really want to write this story, and I most certainly have the ideas for everything, I just can't seem to get it down on paper. Anything is welcome! Now do enjoy a hopefully less cruel, and quite long chapter.

Little Sparrow

Chapter XIII: A Frail Light of Hope

Strangely enough, when Rell woke again she felt refreshed. She had been dreaming, of what she could not remember; yet the dream had been pleasant, and there was still the ghost of a smile on her lips when she opened her eyes. At first she felt disoriented, mind muddied by confusion. The dark shadow of night had passed, and a fair vision lay upon the tall ridges of Emyn Muil. The sun was cold, but bright, skirting the jagged teeth of rock with a light both clear and biting in her eyes. Morning had already passed.

Her head was blurred still by exhaustion, from the sharp pain and the fatigue that had drained much of her spirit. A twang carved through her mind, making her finch and pull a face, yet sleep had not been without its healing features. Then she slowly sat up, leaned against her uninjured hand and settled against the wall. Her trousers were stained red with blood, a large patch that had seeped through the fabric, but the blooming flower had already turned darker; it had not bled much recently. Rell brushed her hand over the fracture with gentle attention.

It stung, and her muscles seized up. Purple welts lined the open tear, though the bone was no longer bent at an odd, sickening angle. The pain in her arm had lessened, dulled with the setting of the bone, yet still it lay limply in her lap. Her brow was furrowed as she willed her fingers to move, and she let out a small breathy laugh as they twitched and curled. The tension in her shoulders crumbled, for a fear – one she had tried to hide in the deepest, darkest corner of her mind – had lingered long over her.

If she had lost the use of her arm, Rell could not imagine what she would have done.

She continued to examine her injury for a while longer. It was only when her hunger became too great, and she could no longer disregard the aching discomfort that she turned her attention elsewhere. There was still no strength in her legs, so she called Luin to her once more; the horse came to lie by her side, muzzle brushing against her shoulder in greeting, and nostrils flaring as it picked up the scent of blood. Rell fumbled through the satchels for something to eat and fresh bandages.

Her mind was set to the task, but her ears remained alert to her surroundings. She had not forgotten the fearsome creature. It had haunted her every fevered nightmare, a lurking shadow drawing ever closer; pale eyes that found her no matter where she hid. At the mere thought, a shiver ran through her and a stab of pain shot through her arm.

Rell loosened the last leather bag of dried roots from the saddle.

She slumped in dejection, tired and discouraged as she peered inside, for there was so little left.

Torn between eating the last moldy remains now, or saving them for the long journey ahead, Rell drew her lower lip between her teeth. They were chapped, dry, and a taste of tangy iron lingered. She had no water, neither to drink nor to clean her injuries. The risk of infection hung heavy over her mind. In the end she ate a few stringy roots, just barely enough to quench the worst bite of need, and instead rummaged about for clean linens.

It took a long while to wrap her broken arm, fumbling and redoing it several times over, but at last she could rest. Her fingers were coated in crimson; sticky and warm, yet the skin was paler than ever before. Feebly, Rell tried to rub them clean against her tunic, until at length she gave up on the endeavour. She was much too tired. Eyelids so incredibly heavy, and soon it became a struggle to even remain awake. Rell turned her head, careful as the gash brushed against cold stone, and looked to Luin with half a smile.

The horse returned her gaze with steadfast devotion. Rell tried to speak, but the words felt coarse in her throat; she wetted her lips. "It is fine," she said. Again she touched the silvery coat with fondness, soft like silk against her shaking hands. How pale they looked even in the light of sun! Luin pressed its head against her hand and snorted. She swallowed a lump. "You need not stay with me. I am tired – drained – and I do not think I can carry on anymore. Leave me here to sleep and go on home." Her chin dropped to her chest.

The struggling ceased, and her eyes closed.

"I know you can find your way."

But her companion would not let her rest. A loud whinny tore through the gully, and she felt a gust of hot air against her face as Luin nudged her; rough and insistent, adamant until Rell looked up. Her eyebrows were scrunched up, but a tired laugh played on her lips. With satisfaction, the horse lay its head on the ground and appeared to have no intention of leaving any time soon. Rell smiled, leaning down to rest against the large and warm body; moving with every breath drawn, and she could hear the constant beat of a heart.

"You should not die here with me," she mumbled, but her heart was glad.

It was to her a frightful thought; to be left alone in the desolate hills, to wither away until no strength was left. The creature had fled from the wrath of Luin, escaped the trampling hooves, but how far? Rell could not know if it would return, sneaking back with the crawling shadows of night. Waiting. Biding its time. With her eyes closed, she could see the gangly creature in her mind. So strange – pale and thin – it was, yet also horrifying to behold.

Never before had she seen anything quite like it. Truly it could be nothing else but a creature spawned of evil, though she still wondered of what use it was to the Grey Wizard. What importance was it, to be hunted so throughout the lands? The long, chilled hours of day passed as Rell pondered many things; weary exhaustion made her thoughts slow and dull, and often sleep claimed her. Restless were her dreams, clouded and joyless, laced with pressing desperation that made her snap awake. Drenched in cold sweat and heart hammering.

Many a time she tested her limbs, but great uncontrollable trembles racked her body so that standing became impossible. The effort left her breathless.

The light around her had become grey, for the sun had then climbed from East to West and was now only peeking out over the black ridges. A gloom fell on her; the air was damp, as if mists crawled slowly across the ground. Rell drew her legs close and curled the cloak around herself, seeking warmth to protect her from the approach of night. She dearly wished for a fire but no trees grew in the gully, and she was too weak to find any twigs or branches of use. There was frost in the air, turning her breath to crystals before her.

An idea came to her.

She loosened the straps around the saddle and pulled the empty satchels down to her. Making sure they were empty, she then piled them near her on a slab of stone; there was little use of them if she was frozen to death. It was difficult to rouse a fire, but soon small orange flames licked against the leathers much to her delight. Black swirls of smoke welled up, twisting and curling between the towering stones, as wind picked through the gully.

She shifted closer, feeling a prickling warmth skim across her skin as the cold abated. Then, flanked by the fire on one side and Luin on the other, Rell allowed sleep to claim her, and she drifted off into the darkness. No hissing creature came to her dreams that night. All before her was a formless grey of nothingness, where not even the dull aches of her wounds mattered much to her. Deeper and deeper she fell, swallowed by her own harrowed mind.

Suddenly she was torn from the dream.

Falling, her eyes snapped open and her arm shot out to brace against the ground. Disoriented and with thoughts whirring through her mind in bewilderment, Rell saw her horse rise and leave her side. "Luin?" She asked. The sky was without cloud, and many stars were strewn across a deep blue; the moon hung high and large above, making the frost-covered stones shimmer like precious gems. The fire was but embers.

Hooves clip-clopped in the silence. Rell could do nothing more than watch as her companion stepped into the darkness, disappearing behind the tall ridge.

"Luin!"

Her voice died between the stones. Rell scampered to her feet, fingers digging into the stone to draw herself up, as confusion raged within. She did not understand. Her breathing became more rapid, more shallow, until they were but short gasps; panic took hold of her. Do not leave me. In her haste she forgot her injuries, and only when her knees buckled and sent her hammering into the rocks, did she realize she could not follow. Let alone stand. Pain sprung through her muscles as Rell crouched on the ground. Please, come back ...

It did not take long before the clacks became soft, dulled, and finally falling into silence once more. She was alone.

Only shadows were left, her lone companions that haunted and suffocated her. Rell pressed the palm of her hand against her eyes, hard, until lights danced across her eyelids; something wet trickled down her cheeks. She had asked the horse to leave – so how could she blame it? But the harsh rawness of abandonment still cut deep, and it was a painful reminder. The Ranger would likely die amongst the rocky cliffs of Emyn Muil. The terror of death lay long above her.

A patch of cloud sailed across the sky, obscuring the moon's view, and coated the lands in true darkness.

For many moments she sat there, and long minutes passed; only the wind was to be heard, howling through the cracks it blew cold from the North. Gnawing it was against her back, cool it bit into her skin. She clutched her injured arm, sending prayers to the Valar that, somehow, she was not without hope. She was not abandoned. That this would not be the end. Yet time dragged unending, and there was no change around her. "Come back, come back!" She called with a voice weakened.

It felt hard to breathe.

Again, the clouds broke and light filtered into the gully. Pale and silver. The wisps of white mists that had crawled across the ground were drawn away, borne upon the stiffening breeze. With a final crackle, the fire hissed and died out.

And it was in those moments that a sound came to her; faint, merely a tremor that shook the ground at first, and she raised her head to peer into the darkness. Rell held her breath in waiting, hoping beyond all else that her ears had not failed her – that it truly was what she believed. The sound of hooves could be heard, and moonlight soon glinted upon the silver coat that came into view. Her heart skipped in joy as she cried out. "Luin! You came back!"

At the same moment she then saw a dark shape approaching slowly on the path behind the horse, slipping through the shadows almost unseen. He was tall, a dark standing shadow, and her flickering eyes sought for her weapons. She gripped the hilt of her sword tightly, slowly, carefully, slipping onto her heels to lunge forward. She knew well there was little she could do if it came to a fight. Barely her trembling hands could hold the weight.

Then his clear voice rang out. "I did not believe my own eyes, but truly it is so. You are here before me. Yet how it has come to be, I do not know."

Rell dropped the sword.

There, before her in the gloom of Emyn Muil, stood her uncle.

Her eyes brimmed with tears, and she gave a shout of astonishment. Rell gazed at him in wonder. She had been blessed by the mercy of the Valar! His grey hood was drawn across his features; his clothes ragged, dirtied with mud and dust from a long road, and he looked as haggard as she felt. But the eyes under his deep brows were bright; between wonder and fear he stood for a long moment. Silent.

Rell could find no words to say.

At last he stirred. With swift steps her chieftain came forward; purposeful the Ranger crouched before her, stooping close, and large hands cupped her face. A gloved thumb trailed across her cheek, gently tilting her head one way and then another as he regarded the swelling bruises. Rell flinched at the touch, though it was not ungentle. He swiped away a solitary tear, cold and wet upon her skin, and he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. He did not lessen his appraisal. Then he lowered his eyes, gaze flickering across her many injuries until settling on her broken arm. A frown came to his brow.

She leaned forward to rest her head against his shoulder, seeking the comfort and warmth of closeness. The last remnants of strength were swiftly leaving her tired body, seeping away; her eyes closed, and her breath came laborious when she finally managed to speak. "I fell."

Again, he said nothing.

Instead her arm was carefully turned over and examined, a tender touch that made her wince in pain. He let out a soft thoughtful hum, pressing here and there, before returning to a previous part of the limb. Up, then back down. The movement of her fingers and elbow was tested. Her mind was but a blur, unfocused and weak, and her vision swam when she tried to look up once more. For a long moment she savoured the familiar smells that wafted up from her uncle; the pipe-weed, the faintest touch of rain and dampness, and his mere presence calmed her frayed spirits. He was truly there – with her. He had found her, rescued her when all else seemed utterly dark and hopeless.

All at once, her long journey came rushing back to her like vivid pictures burned into her memory. Rell clutched the coarse fabric of his tunic, distraught eyes seeking his as words spilled from her mouth. "The creature! I saw it, just here in Emyn Muil! I followed the sounds and I climbed." Cold sweat coated her skin. "It was so terrible to behold, uncle, and it reached for me ... I lost my grip, and I fell," she said, motioning with her uninjured hand to her wounds. She swallowed. The pain came back to her and her grip tightened, turning her knuckles white.

Rell remembered the drop all too vividly.

"It should not have gone far yet, there is still time to catch it if only–"

"No," Aragorn quietened her with swiftness. "I know well it is here, for I have followed its tracks for many days now. Whether it followed your path, or it came with an unknown purpose, I cannot tell. But neither is it important in this moment." He brushed hair from her face, concern clear in his grey eyes; silver they appeared in the moonlight, wise and deep, and a tautness held his posture rigid. "We must tend to your injuries – and you have much to tell me while we do so. When I saw your horse coming out to meet me in the ravine, I was at first angered by the sight. I still am," he added and gave her a long hard look.

Rell diverted her gaze to the ground.

"Yet I am anxious, first and foremost. Your safety, your life, is irreplaceable." He drew from his bag a leather satchel and placed it on the ground before him. Then he searched through its contents. "You are not meant to be here," he stated. His voice was neither cruel nor reproachful, but still it dug deep, and shame washed over her; a tide that swallowed all else. All she had done, her long journey and all her mistakes, came back to her now; raw, harsh, they dug into her. She was well aware of the reality. The consequences of her actions. The Ranger carefully began to undo the bloodied rags, tied with difficulty and inconsistency, around her broken arm. "Yet here you are."

"I felt like you needed me," Rell sniffled, the excuse naught but a feeble attempt to explain her foolishness. The shame burned more than her wounds. "And so it was that I tried to follow you ..." It did very little to soothe the ache in her heart, to confess her misbehaviour and the disregard of his orders. New and warm tears rolled down her cheeks as she watched his work; his fingers were slow and careful, making sure to not bring unnecessary pain to her. Clotted blood clung to the fabrics. "I am sorry, uncle. Truly, I am."

When Aragorn had finally cleaned the exposed wound, he turned the limb one way and another with caution as his fingers trailed searching touches from her wrist to her elbow. "You did well on your own," he said. "But this is not enough." He slowly stood, allowing her arm to return to her lap, before he looked back into the gloom from whence he had come; for a brief moment his gaze returned to hers, grey eyes sparkling silver. Regarding her thoughtfully.

Then he walked away, soon disappearing between the shadowed cliffs and further, out of her sight.

Rell peered after him, into the gloom of night, as fearful thoughts wove into her mind. Would he return? Her fingers tightened, digging deep into the skin of her leg. Her eyes sought the comfort of distant and cold stars far above, tiny dots in a dark sky. No, she thought, he would never abandon me – not here, not in a place like this. The distraught but faithful thought was her only comfort, and she clung to it with desperation; waiting, hoping, that the cloaked figure would emerge from the shadows once more. And quickly.

She cupped her sleeve and wiped her tear-stained face, sniffling, and watched the still rocks that surrounded her. Tall and grim they appeared, their tops lost in a deeper blackness, yet they no longer seemed menacing to her frayed heart. Her uncle would protect her now; the gangly, horrid creature could harm her no more, even if she could still hear its hiss upon the wind. Even if it felt ever-present around her.

It would haunt her for many days to come, if not months.

The late hour of night stretched unending, and Rell knew not how long she waited; her trust in her uncle chased away any fretful and fleeting fears of abandonment before they could take root. He would come back. There was a dull ache throughout her body, a constant pain that oozed into her mind and she felt drowsiness come over her. She was hungry and tired; beaten and bruised. She shifted against the hard, cold stones beneath her, careful not to startle her injuries. In silence she sat, ever glancing from side to side and listened to the sounds of the rock-lands.

Beneath the shadow of the rock she felt small.

With quiet footsteps, Rell could finally hear her uncle's approach from beyond the sharp bend of the ravine; she allowed a heavy breath to escape her, and her shoulders sagged in relief. In his arms he held a bundle of twigs and wood. He watched her briefly before searching the gorge for something; the veiled moon shed some light upon the rocks, but it took him a while to find what he was looking for in the dimness of night. He crouched down near broken stones, where the ground hollowed out and the cliff wall slanted slightly inwards.

Here he placed down the collected wood, and not long after a fire came to light up the night; plumes of grey weaved into the air, and a glow came on the rocks. Warmth bathed the face of her uncle, orange and red and yellow, and the flames leapt, devouring feverishly, the dry sticks. Even from where she sat, Rell could feel the heat – or at least so it felt, for long had a chill held claim to her body.

Aragorn then returned to her and, wordlessly, drew an arm around her back and shoulders. Rell was eased to her legs, trembling like a new-born foal; unstable and wary, but her uncle supported her when her own strength failed. He helped her forward, towards the fire, and it was not long after that Rell could slump down against the wall of the steep cliff. Here, there was shelter from the coldness of the wind.

Already she was breathing heavily. But the warmth brushed against her skin, soft caresses that slowly, but surely, lulled her asleep; though she could not rest.

Not yet.

Rell forced her eyes open.

There was no hesitation as Aragorn worked swiftly. He looked through the bags fastened to Luin's saddle, whispering soft words to the horse as he did, quickly finding the clay bowl he had searched for; then he filled it with water from his waterskin and placed it by the fire. While the water simmered, he came again and knelt beside her. He held a hand to her brow. Rell watched him through heavy eyelids, stifling a yawn, and saw his face grey with weariness. Such dread and unneeded worry she had caused him! Forgiveness would be hard to ask for.

Then he drew the satchel from his back and found, draped in thin cloths, leaves familiar to her.

He laid three leaves in his hands and crushed them; a freshness, clear and comforting, filled the air, and Rell could feel the exhaustion leave her uneasy mind. Her heart felt lighter. It was as if the very air sparkled. The Ranger then cast the leaves of athelas into the bowl of steaming water, and the smells bloomed. Pinewoods and clear waters; crystal rain in Spring, and the softness of grass touched only by the morning's dew. She could feel the worst of the pressure that had been building behind her eyes fade away. The fatigue was still there, as was the hurt – she would not be running through the Emyn Muil any time soon – but she did not feel as raw as she had moments before.

"Have you other injures?" Aragorn asked and drew her attention back to the present.

"Yes," Rell said, running her hand slowly across the back of her head. "A cut, though it is not very deep and only needs cleaning; and bruises on my shoulder and legs. My arm took the blunt of my fall."

Her chieftain nodded, considering her words, as he soaked a white cloth into the water; first he laved her brow with it, and it seemed then that the first pale light of a fair morning rose out of the shadows to the far East. Next, he cleaned the cold and motionless arm, washing away the dirt and stones embedded in the raw, torn flesh, until it glowed red against her whitened skin. Rell bit into her lower lip, keeping her features blank despite the sting, and watched quietly.

Another cloth was wetted, and she was then instructed to clear her remaining wounds where needed. Meanwhile Aragorn withdrew new and fresh linens from her bags, and then began the meticulous work of rebinding the broken limb; the white strips were pulled tight across her arm, wound around with much greater precision than her own earlier attempts. Soon she could feel the continuously dull throbbing fade, and a numbness came instead.

There was room in her mind for other things now; first and foremost, she could feel gnawing tugs of hunger, and her stomach let out a low rumble that, at once, caught her uncle's attention. He paused in his work, resting his hands against her arm, before he looked up. "When did you last eat?" He questioned, brow furrowed as if only now noticing the sullen gauntness upon her face. Her lips felt dry and chapped, hands and legs as heavy as ten stones where once that had been vigour. Indeed, how long ago had it now been?

"I do not remember clearly," she said with hesitation. "Perhaps two, possibly three, days ago I had some berries and roots. They quenched the worst bite of hunger – and I had some water. Before then I cannot recall. There is not much to find in these lands, and the days are much the same ..."

Aragorn frowned. "Then it is a good thing I have brought food with me," he said, once more returning his attention to the bag by his side. The smell came quickly, wafting into the air and made water fill her mouth, and he found inside dried meat and bread; enveloped in large, yellowing leaves and flax-strings that brought a memory to her mind.

"You passed through Lothlórien?"

He shook his head, removing the wrappings to hand her a loaf of bread. Gladly she accepted. "No," he then said, "I came only to the outskirts of the forest and walked within sight of the border-wardens; they came to me on my journey, by fortune, and food I received to aid me onward." While the Ranger told his story, he once more tended to her wounded arm; he rifled through a small pile of wood, not used to feed the flames, and found two pieced useful to him. "For a night and a day I stayed with them. News we shared, but I was swift on my way once more through the woodlands at the banks of the Anduin. With haste I had to follow the words brought by the Elves of Mirkwood."

The lengths of the splints were compared to her arm, turned one way and then another to properly fit, until Aragorn finally seemed satisfied. He chipped away a small protruding part with his knife.

Rell listened with rapt attention, for she then heard a tale previously untold; speculations had been her company throughout a long and arduous journey, a way over fen and field where every step had been plagued by doubt. Which way had her uncle taken, and had she been right in her choices? She winced as he pressed the splints tight on both sides of her bone, securing them with thin cords of rope. What had been his purpose? "I tried to find your tracks along the Great River, but I found nothing."

He briefly assessed his work, tugging on the strings, and deemed it acceptable. At last he made a sling of linen.

Then he looked at her.

"That would have been a difficult task, indeed, even for a seasoned hunter." The waterskin was offered to her, urging her to drink until there was no more, before he spoke again. Rell drank greedily, feeling his gaze upon her. When she returned it to him, empty, he gave her a piece of meat and carried on. "I left my horse with them – whether it will find a new home beneath the golden trees, or returned to Rivendell, I cannot say. I travelled the river by boat, only stepping onto the banks in the late hours of night, until I came to the most southern part of the Brown Lands. Then, by foot, I came around the Emyn Muil."

Thoughtfully, Rell chewed on her food, picturing the long pathless ways through a desolate desert; formless withered slopes, without tree or grass to hide the small, grey figure of a lone Ranger. Never had she expected him to leave his horse, nor take the North-way around the rocky hills. Orcs and other evil creatures often moved in great numbers there. How mistaken she had been! "I went South," she said, gulping down the salted meat despite a dryness in her mouth. Still, there was a grave hunger present, yet the many days without food also made it hard for her to stomach much. Rell felt nauseous.

"Through Rohan?"

"Yes, and then I followed the river into Gondor." Rell told only very little of her own journey, far too concerned and interested in her uncle's path through the Wilderland. "I was given leave to pass the ford of Cair Andros. My intention had been to meet you somewhere in the marshlands, since I believed you were to come through Emyn Muil. For what reason I still do not know," she added, hoping the anticipation in her heart did not seep into her voice. So many questions filled her mind, whirled into one tangled mess that she, alone, could find no answers to.

Yet her uncle knew her well, and his grey eyes regarded her long and with sternness.

She squirmed under his gaze; wetting her lips before swallowing. For a long while he said nothing, but at length he let out a sigh and nodded. "Very well. Here, then, more shall be made clear to you, and perhaps your inquisitive mind will find some peace." He settled on the ground and drew his cloak tight. "Our home is in the North; us, Rangers of the wild, hunters of the Enemy," he began. Rell did not understand why he started as he did, but she remained quiet and shifted closer to the flames. Her head came to meet his shoulder. "Mostly we find our foes in Eriador and Arnor, and many leagues lie between here and our home. So, what made me cross mountains and plains, into far countries where others are tasked with protecting the peace?

"To fully understand my reasons, one must first look to another time and another story; though this story is keyed together by speculation and guess-work, where I only know parts. Not even Gandalf, for it was he that set me to the task, knows the full tale. But you will now hear all that I know, and I know that my trust in you will not be misplaced. What you hear now will never part from your lips again."

Aragorn fell silent, gazing eastward to the far horizon where a pale blue-grey tinted the clouds.

Dawn crept over the lands of Mordor.

Rell pulled her legs close, knees under her chin; no longer did she feel tired. "I promise," she said.

And so it was that the Ranger told her about a company of thirteen Dwarves and a Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, on a quest to reclaim a long-lost kingdom from a dragon of old. Of a strange creature, lurking in the deep darkness beneath the Misty Mountains; a game of riddles, and a magical ring hiding its wearer from the Seen world. A gift, it had been called. But the creature was not a known evil of the world, so strange that for a long time it remained in the mind of one person of wisdom, who once had heard the tale. The Grey Wizard had grown increasingly concerned, until at last he sought counsel with the Dúnedain chieftain. The hunt began.

Rell listened with amazement, but though she wished to question and consider every step, she kept quiet. Mostly her thoughts fell upon the ring; a cold chill crawled across her skin, slowly, dreadful. It had been the wizard's guess that this creature – this Gollum – would search for the ring, and in so he had been right. It left its dark sanctuary beneath the Misty Mountains, lured out by some vile purpose. Yet the wretched Gollum escaped the watch and disappeared into the wild, without a trace or tracks to follow.

"The Elves of Mirkwood had seen a ghostly-pale creature sniffing about their borders, so told their emissaries, and they had once been asked to watch for it. But long before they could capture him, he had slipped away south," Aragorn continued. "That is now many moons ago, for there are leagues upon leagues between the Elvenking's Halls and Rivendell, and long I feared the trail had gone cold. While the Elves would not go far beyond their own borders, it would seem Gollum was headed closer to Mordor from what they could tell ... Though what dark and evil purpose he had in mind I cannot imagine."

"I believed you had left to hunt for the creature, the one we had looked so long for, when I read your letter to Halbarad–" She avoided his eye."–and I, too, came here so very close to the Dark Land with this in mind. It would seem that we walked two different paths, yet our journeys ended in much the same way. But why would Gollum come here? Is he a creature wrought by the evil of Sauron, called back to its master's side?"

"No," Aragorn said. "I do not believe he is, at least not entirely and wholly."

The memory of pale eyes and grasping hands came to her, and Rell shivered. There had been a strange green gleam in the fathomless orbs. "Certainly there is evil in him!"

"Perhaps." The last twigs were cast upon the flames as the first light of morning came; thin and pale strips coating the dark sky in orange, as a wind swept in from beyond the eastern hills. "I have searched far for tracks over the Dagorlad and walked in sight of the Black Gate, though there I found nothing to follow. At last I felt despair, defeated by the craftiness of Gollum, and put my last hope and effort into searching here within Emyn Muil before turning back. Finally, it would seem, that some luck was upon me – indeed I found a clear trail to follow. Though what I found was not what I had expected."

Heat came to her chilled cheeks.

"Why did you not tell me this sooner?" She ventured to ask. "How I wished to have known before."

"If you had known, would your decision have been different? Would you not then have disregarded my orders? Rather stayed at home, finished your training as I had instructed? No, I think not. I did not tell you all this before, for it is not a burden of worry you should carry. Your desire to join me would not have lessened, nor been easier to resist, if I had spoken sooner," Aragorn said. "It was best to tell you nothing."

She ducked her head, knowing well there was nothing but truth in his words.

"You will continue the hunt," Rell mumbled as understanding dawned on her, drawing her knees closer as her gaze was diverted. It was not a question, for she knew well her uncle would not return to the Angle with her. Not now. Not when he had finally sighted this malicious thing; so close he was, yet it would be no small feat to capture Gollum within the Emyn Muil. Least of all with her and her injuries. "And all I have become to you is a burden."

Aragorn shifted and came to sit by her side. His larger hand grasped her shoulder, a weight of reassurance and comfort, and he shook her lightly. "Never that," he said. "Never will you be a burden to me." A smile stole over his lips as he retracted his arm, brushing hair away from her face before it came to rest by his side once more. "Though, admittedly, you can often be a great worry for me."

Rell gave him a brief, half-humoured look, but then the pair of Rangers fell silent; gazing eastward from their spot to the high peaks of the Emyn Muil, where now the first glowing touches fell upon the rocks. Day approached. There had been no rest for them throughout the night, and she could feel a drowsiness linger in the back of her mind. Her eyes were heavy, but her wounds had been tended to and there was little more reason to remain where they were currently resting. If they were to have a chance to search for Gollum once more, they were, already, at a clear disadvantage.

It had been several days since Rell's fall from the cliff. Her first encounter with the pale creature, that had been less than advantageous, felt like a blurred memory. A nightmare clouded by pain and despair. Her uncle had found tracks, still fresh on the rain-washed stones, the morning before – but going in an entirely different direction than she had last seen it. First one way and then another, back and forth as if it went in circles. Was it clever enough to cast a ruse; to trick them to take a wrong turn in the stony hills? They would have but one chance, or else have lost their only possibility of capture.

Struggling and breathing heavily Rell was assisted into the saddle by her uncle, where after he stomped out the last dull embers of fire. Grey smoke trailed into the brightening sky, and as she looked to the East, to Mordor beyond the horizon, the sun pierced the cover of clouds with reddened streaks. The morning appeared fair, much to their luck; a much welcome aid in their continued hunt.

Rell stroked Luin behind its piqued ears, leaning forward to whisper her heartfelt gratitude to the horse.

Her death would have been one of great pain and torment, if Gollum had had unhindered access to her broken body. She could not have fought off the searching, digging, hands. "When we come back home I will give you all the oats, carrots, and apples you want," Rell said. "And I shall groom you twice a day!" She kissed its forehead. Then she twisted the reins around her uninjured wrist, pulling tight until she felt properly secured, and glanced to her uncle.

Remote grey shapes moved on the wind, drifting and rolling clouds, as morning lay before them. The wind was in her face; cold, but no longer biting. Around them the black stones glimmered in the rising sun, and Aragorn stepped forward and back through the ravine. Waning shadows drew narrow and long. Luin fell into place behind him, unguided by Rell as if the horse well knew to follow their chieftain. The clacking and clicking of hooves echoed into the silence, so loud that the Ranger's feet went unheard.

Rell shifted and settled, trying to not apply unnecessary pressure to the broken arm rested in her lap. Restless and aching. Her sword had been unbuckled and hung now from a strap in the saddle; she felt naked without it, though not entirely unsafe with the straight and unwavering back of her uncle before her. She smiled. To have company once more truly was a blessing, after so long alone in the wilderness. The solitude had driven her to fear and despair, clouded her judgement until mistake after mistake had been made.

While she rode, silent in thought, it gave her plenty of time to think about her long journey. Of course, if one was to ask and Rell had to honestly admit when it had all gone wrong, it would have been upon leaving the Angle – she understood that now. Too much value had been put into her own skills, believed she understood the world enough to venture out alone, and certainly she had been proven wrong. There was no need for Aragorn to chastise her foolish actions, for she had by then felt punishment in both body and mind aplenty.

She sighed and turned her gaze to the narrow path through the ravine.

It was a little farther off when Rell was taken with astonishment. Where she had gone one way and then another, only describable as rash indecision until she was truly lost, the much older Ranger stepped with surety. As if the path was as familiar as the old dust-trails of Eriador. At times he would crouch to the ground and pause for many moments, long fingers brushing against the hard, gleaming rocks or soft mud; at once knowing which way to then go. Other times, when the ground rose and fell or the path forked into many turns, he looked at the stones around him. It seemed as though they whispered to him, a language only he could understand; showing him the way.

Then he would nod to himself and quickly, face without the shadow of uncertainty, choose a way to follow. The Rangers passed through gullies, skirted deep ridges until the ground began to slope down; for several miles they went without rest, and above the sun climbed from morning to noon, yet still they went slowly but steadily downhill. There was no memory of this place in her mind, but the trust in her heart was unwavering. Whether he would find the creature, or a way out, Rell cared only little. As long as she was no longer lost.

Rell had at one point dozed off, slumped into the saddle, until she woke with a start as the ground came to an incline and she almost tumbled off. They had passed through a deep hollow, and the road behind was covered in shadows as she peered back; now the slope reached towards the chill, blue-grey heavens, and the Rangers followed.

Through bleary eyes she found her uncle to have fallen back, now walking by Luin's side. Then she looked about her. The gulch widened ahead, stretched into a wide tumbled flat of rock; boulders lay scattered, and amongst them grew many stunted trees. It was the first green – if they could be called as much – Rell had seen for many days. Wind-bitten and broken, gnarled they stood; bent and wretched until nothing but grey boles remained. Broken stumps and roots that had not completely surrendered their grip on the stones.

The ravine had been deep, deeper than she had first thought, for despite the long climb they were still surrounded by towering ridges and they continued ahead further still. When they came to the end of the trees, Aragorn took Luin's reins and came to a halt by the odd-twisted trunk of an old beech. With a gloved hand he motioned to the grey-brown bark, beckoning for her attention. Rell leaned forward, grip tightening on the saddle.

"Emyn Muil is a treacherous maze, which you know well," he said. "There are ways through – though few and hidden. You should always know how to return, if the path chosen proves wrong. This is one way to do so."

Small, easily overlooked unless one knew it would be there, a rune had been scratched into the tree's trunk. So this is how, she thought and reached a hand forward; gently she swept a finger across the carving. It was yet another proof of her rash thoughtlessness, for in her gladness to have finally reached Emyn Muil she had entered without rhyme or reason. Certainly, lost she had been! Rell shook her head. You fool!

Though they did not linger. Aragorn went by the slow path, bringing Luin after him, and only once in the afternoon did they halt briefly to eat and rest. Her uncle had walked far, but haste was clear upon his face. He did not plan to break for long. The creature weighed in his mind, heavy and ever-present. Rell ate a little more, bread and fruit, but declined the meat. A silvery-grey fog crept slowly over the high ridges, across the dark stones like long searching fingers. It grew colder around them.

The Rangers spoke very little, only passing comments, and both were left to their own thoughts.

Then they continued; until the chill day turned darker, and shadows crawled out of the East. The sun of Winter passed beyond the ridge, while the wind turned cold and biting against her face. It would soon be night. Exhaustion was upon Rell, and she could travel no further that day without succumbing to the strain in her mind and body. With the slow climb of the moon, a tremble rose through her; faint it was at first, in her fingers and hands, yet surely, steadily, it spread. It did not take long before her uncle noticed.

Her brow burned with a fever, as she was eased off the horse. A warm feeling rose through her chest, scalding until her throat clenched. Ashen faced, she clung to her uncle until she could feel the hard stones beneath her feet. She felt like throwing up, yet all that came were dry-heaving coughs and struggled gasps for air. No clear thoughts took shape in her mind.

Twilight was about them, and her vision turned dark.

Trembling, she stood there; cold sweat glistened and fell like silver drops from her face. Aragorn helped her lie down, despite the gnawing and cutting rocks, and the coolness numbed the burning sensation of her skin. A hand was pressed against her brow, rested there for a while, until her eyelids became too heavy to keep open. She could hear Aragorn's voice, but understood it not. There was a rustle about her and her face was carefully lifted; she felt a soft bundle of fabrics placed below her head, but then she lost the fight against her fatigue and the fever.

The night passed silently, though her fevered dreams were visited by swift-passing glimpses of the world, of memories, and the softest murmurs that wove between her thoughts. Fleeting and quick they were, as if she could reach out only to have them slip between her fingers, and Rell could not understand them. Though they seemed familiar. Around her all was black, an endless darkness with no way out, and the voice the only flicker of light that came and went. If only she could hear the words!

For a long time she chased the calling words, in what felt like an endless night.

The morning came, pale and clammy, when Rell was shook awake by her uncle's gently insisting hands. He sat, stooped over her, on the ground and watched her. His gaze showed concern; he laid his hand on her forehead, spoke with a soft voice she could barely hear, in a language she knew but did not understand. Rell allowed her eyes to close again, wishing to return to sleep, yet he would not allow it. Again, she was roused. "You must stay awake," Aragorn urged. "Cast aside the malady that claims you."

Cold water met her parched lips, and she drank with difficulty. Droplets trickled down her neck and into her hair. Still she was lying on the hard rocks, but over her white-puffed clouds drifted lazily ahead; borne upon a faint wind, painted in gold by a sun peering only just through a foggy haze. Day had come. Already it had climbed the eastern ridges of Emyn Muil. Her gaze flickered about, disoriented, and her breathing came as shallow rasps. "For how long–," she paused and swallowed, attempting to sit. "How long have I been asleep?"

Her body ached and burned.

A wet cloth was pressed against her brow, its soothing touch and the smell of athelas chased off the worst, demanding caresses of fever. He would not let her rise. "You have been plagued throughout the night," he answered slowly, "I believe the worst is now over, but your long fatigue and injuries had become too much for your body." Her uncle then washed her face, coated in a sheen of sweat, and spoke again. "You need to eat something, and then rest once more."

The day was now growing, and the fog had lifted. Everything came back to her slowly, through a haze of drowsy dehydration and weakness, and she struggled to keep her eyes open. For a brief moment she did not remember much, least of all where she was or why, but it all then came back to her.

Rell shook her head, attempting to swat away his hand. "No," she said. With great exertion, she leaned against her uninjured arm and came to sit. "How can I delay you further! There is a long way to go yet, if we wish to catch Gollum before he disappears in the hills. I can ride." His gaze was stern, yet a flicker of concern crossed his face as he was about to speak against her. If she could, she would then have sprung to her feet. The younger Ranger cut off his words, stubbornness evident in her tone. "I can, uncle, believe my words. In this I will not fail you."

Aragorn opened his mouth as if to speak, but he said nothing. He looked at her face, seemingly to hesitate. Fingers curling tightly into a fist, Rell made no sign; silent, patient for a decision not yet made. Over her heart crept a darkness, a fear of defeat, as if they only had this one chance to catch Gollum. To make up for the time lost tending to her injuries. What thoughts her uncle strove with, she could not tell, but instead she watched the pale sun fall upon his face.

A light kindled in his eyes at last. He sighed. "Very well," he said and stood. With a hand outstretched to her, Rell was pulled to her feet; her head spun, dizzying patches of light and dark flickered across her vision, but swiftly she steadied herself. "Though know this! If the choice comes to it – between your safety and the capture of Gollum – I will not hesitate to let him go. Even if I will have travelled the long road for naught."

Rell ducked her head, yielding to his words, and muttered a reply of understanding.

With his help she climbed the horse and left the task of packing up camp to her uncle. Instead she rummaged through the satchels for food, quickly dividing the last bread in two equal halves; she finished it with a great hunger, long before the other Ranger accepted the other half, and still she could feel her stomach rumble. She wetted her lips. They could not forage for provisions for many miles ahead, so she welcomed what little she could get. No bird nor beast made Emyn Muil or the Dead Marshes their home, and certainly the two could not live off withered snakes and worms, or the vile things in the pools.

She could not imagine fish to live there!

And certainly not any she could eat.

As the day wore on there was little change about them, at least at first. The sky was mostly clouded, leaving their path to many shadows, but when the hour passed midday the cover grew increasingly dense. The Rangers went on as icy pellets, a mixture of rain and snow, fell from the sky. They moved slowly, following attentively the winding paths and sloping hills, and it grew more and more difficult to find solid footings. If not for her uncle's marks, never would they find a way through.

Rell had her hood drawn down across her head, almost to her mouth, and she could feel the sleet trickle like rills of water down her cloak. She felt cold and tired and miserable. One hour stretched into the next, until at last the downpour was over. A windless and sullen quiet fell upon the Emyn Muil; though much welcome it was, for slowly the clouds parted, drifting apart by a breeze that did not reach them, and a dim light came. The pools glistened black, and she could finally turn her gaze up from the ground.

They followed a hollow, delved in the side of a low hill, as it came to a sudden turn. A spark of recognition came to her then. "I have walked here before!" She exclaimed. "This is the way out!" Joy stirred in her heart; her uncle had led them to the end of the rock-maze. Through the narrow ravine, where she many days before had guided a reluctant Luin, she could discern an opening before them. They came to a sharp brink, and the path cut between walls of rock into the wide uplands. Vast fens lay ahead; already the reek, foul and heavy, came to her. She craned her head, glancing back one last time to the shadowed walls of stone.

The sound of running water echoed, accompanied by the soft clip-clop of hooves, through the ravine.

Finally they came out in the open; the ridges ended abruptly, and an openness spread for many miles beyond the horizon. The small river trickled and gurgled by, feeding the stagnant pools, and Rell looked with clear dislike across the marshlands. Only few bushes grew, and there were patches of grass and reeds upon the river's sides. Aragorn led her horse forward, soon reaching the muddy bank where he then allowed Luin to drink. With some difficulty, limbs and joints screaming in agonized complaint, Rell scrambled out of the saddle and came straight to the river. The stony stream was here shallow, and it was with great delight she found a stone large enough to sit upon.

The water was icy-cold in her hand, but, as she scrubbed her bruised face, clarity came to her mind. Her wounds looked raw and red. The cold did not help against the pain she felt there; it stung, sharp needles biting to the marrow of her bones, though her treatment was without mercy. Clean she certainly would be! The silence around her was only broken by the burbling of the marshes, and the soft splashes and squelches of Luin's hooves in the mud.

Meanwhile, Aragorn surveyed their surroundings. Often he stooped, finding rumours in the earth and searched for traces of strange feet. Then he walked further, strides purposeful, and with eyes locked upon the ground. Satisfied that she would be no cleaner than this, Rell halted her ministrations and watched him quietly. Back and forth between the river and the tall ridge of Emyn Muil he stepped. The Ranger missed nothing, moving with care and diligence; no blade of grass bent, or marks in the soft mud, would go unnoticed. This, of course, went on for a while until Rell grew restless.

She wiped the water from her hands and stood, looking first with disheartened eyes to the lofty cliffs of Emyn Muil; rising like an impenetrable wall, and it barred the way West for many leagues. It had been suggested that Gollum, driven by a hunger through the Dead Marshes, had followed her through the rocky hills. The very thought made her blood run cold, and swiftly she turned her gaze away; it did not sit well with her – to be hunted so – yet also it would be their greatest fortune. The creature would not then continue his current path, to be lost within Emyn Muil where the Rangers could not follow. If luck was with them, he had turned instead to the open, easier crossings of the wetlands.

Stepping slowly from rock to rock, wet and slippery beneath her feet, Rell crossed the lazy river and reached the other bank. She cast a glance to her uncle, but then began searching the muddy ground for tracks. The reeds grew in greater numbers, swaying and singing in the cold wind; a smell of rot and foulness was in the air, uninvited, and once more Rell remembered ghostly figures in the mists.

Her hand moved to her belt, searching for the hilt of her sword, only to find it not there. Luin was moving from one tuft of withered grass to the next, grazing what little there could be found, and there, strapped to the saddle, hung a long sheathed blade. She frowned. For a while longer she searched the ground, finding nothing, yet never did the distance to the river grow; without her weapons the Ranger dared not go far.

In the end Rell crossed the river once more. "There is nothing to be found," she said. "No living thing has passed here."

Rell clicked her tongue, calling the horse over to her. Perhaps Gollum had taken another way, slipped away by paths only his wicked hands and feet could tread. Lost now to them. With her thoughts wandering, she loosened the sword and welcomed the familiarity in her hand. Heavy but balanced. Sharp, and so long unused. Twice she turned it over in her palm, tracing her thumb across the blade's edge. While she fastened it to her belt, she looked to Aragorn.

He had paused at her words, watched her with long contemplation; his eyes did not betray his thoughts, and Rell knew not if her words struck true. Behind him a light grew, a dimness suddenly turned to blazing gold, as the clouds parted. The water shimmered, as if gems were hidden beneath the surface, and the sullen brown of the land became green. The glooms of Mordor were broken. At last he spoke. "In light and darkness of our age many things shall pass away, yet not this frailty of hope that remains. Would you be released from my service – from the Dúnedain and the star upon your chest – and so return to home and hearth, though you were not asked to be here?"

"No," she said with haste, "I do not want to be parted from you. By my life and my sword, never would I turn my back on my duty. Such shame I did not ask for!"

"Then do not be so quick to despair."

Aragorn started off again. With earnest perseverance he searched; following the slow stream and the boulders strewn across the land. Abashed, Rell quickly followed after, accompanied only by the sound of hoof and foot in the quiet of the marshlands. The towering ridges of Emyn Muil stood stark against the open sky, twisting and tall teeth tearing through blue, and the wind howled through its jagged edges. Rell's feet were heavy, yet it felt good to walk once more; strength had come back to her with food and water.

While her uncle sought tracks in the ground, she kept her gaze on their surroundings. She watched ahead and back, the open plains that stretched far; the meres and fens, and the sky for all things living. Her sword was ready. Ahead the bank descended gently to a shallow shelf of stone where the river widened. Mirror-still, its depths deceptive, they had come to a great lake; it widened further, until its waters lapped against the cliff-wall of Emyn Muil. No ripple tore across the surface, no movement or sound came, yet the air was pungent with some hidden decay.

The cold chill of Winter lay upon the lake; thin sheets of ice and frost crept slowly across the still waters, and if not for the stream's constant flow, it would have frozen over completely. The ground crunched beneath her feet.

To the west the sun had begun its descent, climbing over the rim of Middle-earth; it seemed like the hills smoldered, a fading glare before a fire goes out. They could go no further in the shadow of the hills, for the water blocked their path, though neither would they venture into the marshes with the light waning. There was nothing to do but camp and wait for the approach of night.

Slowly they clambered down to the riverbank, where here the reeds grew densely and proved some shelter, down until they could go no further.

Side by side they sat, their backs against a large solitary boulder and faces turned to the open land southward. The ground was soft and damp, slowly seeping through her clothes, and a feeling of misery fell upon the Rangers. Only very little did they eat; some dried fruit, and a small slip of salted meat; keeping provisions for the evil days ahead until they could reach friendlier lands. There was a bitter and dry tang in the air, and the wind had died.

"You sleep first," Aragorn told her. "Your strength is yet to recover in full."

Rell did not argue much, for exhaustion was soon over her, though she asked to take the watch of early morning. Drawing the cloak tight around her, she lay down. It was a struggle to sleep; twisting and turning to rest her broken arm without having to wake with a sore neck or stiff limbs. The camping place was cold, damp, and uncomfortable. For a while she looked out over the still lake and further, to the barren lands; as night crawled steadily up from beyond the Mountains to the East, soon all was lost to a formless gloom of grey. Aragorn sat by her side, his blade rested over his out-stretched legs; dark-grey eyes stared ahead into the night as he hummed softly.

Her last thoughts, brooding, were those of loathing. Such a hateful land.

The young Ranger's sleep was heavy and without dreams. Long, undisturbed until the breaking of dawn where she was slowly shaken awake. A hooded face appeared before her, masked by shadows, and for only a moment she startled. Her uncle rose, holding out an arm to pull her up; Rell took it and felt the confusion of sleep clear as wind, dancing across the lake, washed against her. She drew the cloak tight, feeling a shiver run through her body; misty-white puffs of breath disappeared into thin air before her. "It is cold!" She said.

He hummed a reply of agreement. Then she looked about them. Only a thin trail of light could be seen in the distant horizon, turning the dark blue to a gentle glow; the marshlands were still deep shadows, endless and shapeless, and small stars glistened above. The waxing moon was but a sickle, barely discernible above the western hills. Its silver light danced over the water surface, rippling as the wind blew. Rell stamped her feet.

"Can we not risk a fire?"

Aragorn tapped his ear, gesture clear, and Rell stilled to listen.

She heard naught but the enfolding silence; broken only by the soft lulls of waves lapping against the banks and the chuckling river, but Rell closed her eyes and sharpened her hearing. At first, she felt it – the tremor of a drum-beat, doom-doom-doom, running through the frosty ground – but soon she heard it. Many footsteps. Heavy they fell, clacking of iron; the faintest screech borne upon the wind, and at once she knew what made such sounds. "Orcs." She looked to her uncle, a scowl of distaste turning her eyes hard.

He nodded. "Marching for the Black Gate for hours now. They are many miles away, hastening up the road from the Grey Mountains, but certainly a sound enough reason not to start a fire."

There was no arguing against such reasoning, so Rell instead took to walking as her uncle settled. He would get only little sleep. By the breaking of dawn they would have to start again. She followed the riverbank, treading slowly and carefully for the ground was wet, and her gaze stalked the dim plains for movement. While no army of Orcs would venture into the marshlands, she still felt on edge; suddenly made aware of their closeness to Mordor. They were in a land without allies, far from the borders of friendlier places. Two against many. The thought of war was dreadful, yet also horribly anticipated.

Her fingers tapped soundlessly against the hilt of her sword, brow drawn tight in worry and thought. Her injuries an aching throb when she moved. The pale sunrise, fair but dull, seemed but a mockery; a great foreboding unease hung over them, and it was difficult to cast off the hopelessness that clung to her heart. Rell picked up a stone and rolled it around in her hand. Then she threw it far out into the center of the lake, watching it disappear with a plop below the surface. Thin, shimmering rings spread, then vanished.

Rell walked a bit further along the shore, getting warmth back into her stiffened limbs, but then returned to her uncle. Luin stirred from sleep and turned deep, brown eyes to the approaching Ranger; running her uninjured hand repeatedly through the mane, she stood for many long moments and watched the ground. Her boots were caked with mud; edges frayed, and a hole was starting to appear by her left toes. Again, she listened to the quiet lands and found that the drum-beat of many marching feet had disappeared.

The host had reached the plain of Dagorlad. Now only silence was about them, while Rell settled on a protruding boulder. More vicious beasts to join Mordor's ranks, she thought, drawing her knees to her chin with some difficulty. An ever-present red glare could be seen in the far horizon, East beyond the mountains there; such was the evil of Sauron, and for many years – long-forgotten by those who should have watched – he planned and built. Perhaps some, wise men and elders, had foreseen the return of darkness, but it was over-late. The Enemy would soon be ready – but would they be as well?

Sleepless, the Great Eye watched far and wide, always searching; yet the two grey-clad Rangers went unnoticed in the dull night. Rell was left with her thoughts, spinning webs of concern and pressing fear. The day of arising was drawing near. A fell wind blew, drawing with it ash and smoke; rot and everything foul. There she sat, and watched, and waited for the slow-creeping dawn in the distance; so it was that far away and almost straight ahead, a pale reddened glow grew under the black sky. The sun was fenced in by the great, dark mountains and the edge of night, almost entire swallowed by black.

Rell stood and sniffed the air. A light came in her eyes.

Hoarfrost glittered. It was impossible to look far, veiled and misty where the sun could be seen rising pale. The wetlands ran away in the flats, until they faded into a featureless and shadowy distance. Grey and brown blending with the hem of the sky. Rell quickly stepped to her uncle; he became instantly awake with her approach, and briefly she wondered if he had slept at all, yet there was no alarm in his actions when clear eyes sought hers. "It is morning," she said.

While Aragorn shook of the last remnants of sleep, Rell brought their waterskins to the lake; breaking the thin sheet of ice, she filled them with cold and fresh water as her gaze looked across the mirror-surface. Then she drank and washed her face. For a while she looked to her injuries and her bruises. Slowly, she rolled her aching shoulders; one way and then back, flexed her fingers and stretched until her joints popped. Her left arm throbbed and she sniffed the linens, smelling for infection. There was none.

The last faint stars disappeared with the breaking of dawn, and the Rangers began their journey. Following the bank back, they soon came to the mouth of the river; a heavy silence had fallen, for not even the pale sunrise could chase away the desolate gloom of the marshes. Smoke-like wisps of mist crept up from boggy pools, drifting high into the sky where light grew. There was no wind and the air was cold. While they did not speak, soon they came into familiar roles as they had back in Eriador. Her chieftain searched for tracks along the banks of the lake, continuously making a way northbound, and Rell kept her gaze high in all directions. Watching the horizon for enemies, though her bow and weapon was of little use.

They would hold the course North, following the Emyn Muil for many miles, until the hills led into the Noman-lands. The path was hard and dreary, and they made only slow progress; there were fewer mires and flooded fens, but the ground was soft with deep mud. It slowed their walk. Rougher and more barren than the Dead Marshes. Exposed, out in the open they felt, and so they walked with weary steps.

The clouds of night had passed, swift-flowing, borne upon a high wind that reached them not. The sun came out, pale and bright. As their cover melted away, the Rangers halted in a low hollow shrouded by reeds and thorny bushes. For a while Aragorn stood on the ridge, looking both eastwards and southwards. Silent and watchful. He stood with his head posed, as if he was listening, and Rell watched with quiet attention. Light fell on him; fair and grim he seemed all at once.

Suddenly, and with great haste, he ran quickly to the left.

She could only watch in a daze, thoughts disrupted by his unexpected movements. Ten long strides he took, head bowed low as he stooped over the ground; swiftly he then turned and crouched. Deep-set eyes watched the earth with great deliberation. Brushed across the surface of the mud; twirled dry, yellow straws of grass between his fingers. Quickly, Rell rose and walked carefully to him, watching her steps. Her heartbeat quickened.

With disbelief and wonder she watched his findings.

The marks of feet.