One Afternoon By The River
By Thalia Weaver
Disclaimer:
It's not mine,
That's not fair,
Life sucks all over everywhere!
A/N: Yay! Three consecutive chapters! Iiiit's a record!
Chapter Three: Morhen
We ran, until my breath came hard and fast. My sword slapped against my leg painfully with every step, and Gilraen was falling behind. The tramping of feet behind us was fainter now.
I winced as the bandits (loudly) discovered our tracks- there had not been time to cover them, and now they would be hot on our trail.
"I know this place," whispered Gilraen, her breath still ragged. "There is a hollow past that creek." She pointed to a small, muddy stream that was flowing eastward. "I will show you."
She grabbed my hand and pulled me past the little river. Once we had waded through it, I stopped her, and placed leaves on my boots and her bare feet so that our tracks would be erased.
Her dark eyes widened as the tramp of boots came even closer. Hurriedly, she pulled me into a small tree-sheltered cave far from the path we had run down earlier.
There was barely enough room for us both, and I found myself sitting on the ground, Gilraen in my arms. She looked surprised, but not unpleased, by this arrangement.
"It took me years to find this place," she whispered into my ear, "and I have lived here all my life. I used to come here often, long ago."
Again came the familiar feeling of envy that surged up in me whenever someone spoke of their home. The life of a Ranger was a hard one, but the worst part was not having any place to call your own- wandering ever in search of the servants of Sauron, never resting, never stopping for longer than a day in any one place or another. Gilraen's hair smelled of straw and green trees, and I found myself wishing that I was not a Ranger; imagining a life with Gilraen filled me with a peculiar pleasure and heat that washed through me.
"It must be a hard life, that of a Ranger," she continued, cutting into my thoughts. "Never having a home, or a place to call your own."
"Aye, it is a hard life," I agreed, "and a dangerous one. Not every villain is as treacherous as Morhen, thank the Valar! What happened, that such a one should attack you? I had not heard that he was in this region."
"It was through no fault of mine! Today is wash day in my village, and I had no wish to speak to the women- for I have no husband, and do not wish to be a part of their petty gossip about the business of wifehood. I was washing my clothes- mine and my mother's- when I heard voices behind me, speaking of their good fortune at finding a woman to- to do foul things to," she said, and blushed to the roots of her dark hair. "They would have taken my honor and then left me to die there, by the side of the river. I-"
"Kicked one of them in the manhood?"
She blushed deeper. "I did. He pushed me into the river, and the next moment there you were-" she stole a glance at me- "about to do the same to me, or so I thought. By the grace of the Valar, I was wrong."
There was a moment of heavy silence. Then Gilraen's eyes grew wider than ever as the bandits' voices sounded close outside our cave.
"Where are they? The tracks stop here!" came a loud growl, close by us.
"It matters not about the bitch. But I think a Ranger found her…" The second voice was cold and hard. I could feel Gilraen trembling, and I hesitantly placed a comforting arm around her. That one was Morhen's. I could feel it.
"A Ranger, master? Are ye sure?" The first voice again, this time filled with hate. I could not fight them all, but if we were found, I would die trying.
"Of course I am sure. It is not your place to question my orders, Ethnahor- it seems that you have outlived most of your usefulness. You grow cocky, and my patience wears thin. Find the bitch, and have your pleasure with her- bring the Ranger to me. Then you might live to see another day."
Gilraen was shaking harder now within the protective circle of my arm, and I cursed my helplessness. Trying to fight them would surely cause both of our deaths. Yet I was stunned by the depth of my rage at the bandits outside- raging at them, for reducing Gilraen to this frightened state, for attacking her- raging for myself, raging for the fact that we would probably die here and I would never truly fall in love with Gilraen, though I had already begun.
There was the sound of rustling, just outside our cave, and heavy breathing. My heart thumped so loudly I was sure that it would be our undoing, and the bandit outside the cave would find us and we would die. But he did not, and the sound of his breath faded away. I sighed in relief, softly.
"M-master, they're not here- we couldn't find 'em," came Ethnahor's voice, trembling and submissive.
"You are a coward, Ethnahor," came Morhen's voice back, low, soft, clipped and dangerous. I knew that Morhen was a far more dangerous man than Ethnahor would ever be, for I had run into him once before, and he had killed one of my fellows. "A coward, and a poor servant. I have no use for bad servants. You have failed me, Ethnahor."
There was the sound of a knife thudding into flesh, and a grunt. Ethnahor was dead.
"Let us move on- we will find them soon. They must have followed the stream eastward." The tramping of boots receded, and I let out the breath I did not realize I had been holding in.
Gilraen flew out of the cave, her steps thudding on the ground, and flung herself down, sobbing. I ran to her, and put my arm around her. She huddled into my chest, her tears staining the travel-worn cloth of my cloak.
"He killed him. Morhen killed him. Right in front of us! Oh, Arathorn," she sobbed. Then she seemed to realize what she was doing, and drew back, embarrassed. She drew herself upright and wiped her eyes, and I knew she was of Dunedan blood then. Her bearing was tall and noble, and in her features I could read the strength and purpose of my ancestors. She turned slightly away, and her profile was outlined against the setting sun. There was valor in that face, and my heart panged at the thought of continuing to wander without her.
"We must leave this place. They might come back," I said, and cursed the cowardliness of those words. She turned her face up to me, and under the tears her eyes shone.
"Come with me back to the village," she said. "I wish to show you my home." And then she slipped her hand into mine, calloused from long hard work, but to me it was more beautiful than that of any untried, simple maiden.
"I will."