Chapter Five: Strangers in Forodwaith (III. 2924)
Haldanor glanced behind him quickly, making sure the rest of the company was still within the line of sight. The snow was piling up in huge drifts with alarming speed. It swirled about him, alighted on his dark cloak and shrouded his eyelashes in a blinding haze. It hurt to blink. The moment when his eyelids shut out the scene before him was bliss, to see something other than the dazzling, biting glare of silver and feel slight, fleeting warmth slick over his eyes.
He had no sensation in his toes, his fingers from tips to knuckles were numb. Though his head and face were bound, leaving only a slant for him to peer out of, he felt chill gnawing at his skin. He was shivering uncontrollably and every step he took filled his marrow with aching pain. Haldanor was robed in many layers of wool, but show that made it through all of the layers promptly melted and left his flesh wet and clammy. 'Dead,' he thought. 'My skin feels dead.'
The Rohirrim man brought fire to his mind, coals, roasted fowl, rabbit over a spit. Water at a rolling boil. And still he trembled.
"Éodreth! We can not go on in this!" An unembodied voice yelled above the howl of the blizzard.
A voice Haldanor presumed was Éodreth's replied in a muffled scream. It did not take long for the company to realize what his excited voice was trying to say: ahead, there was light. Not the biting whiteness that swept over the landscape from ground to heavens- it was a warm golden glow. He would have smiled, if his lips weren't nearly frozen shut with blood.
*
The door flung open wide, unhinged by a man's gloved hand and encouraged by the raging wind. Six men in varying styles of garb lunged into the room, falling atop one another, clamoring for the fireplace. The floors immediately became slick with the melting snow, making the finely grained wood shimmer in time with the flames. The scent of cold and near death, the smell of soaked wool and wet man underlay the previous flavoring of the air. The miserable, shivering company picked it up immediately: stew. Some sort of delicious stew was cooking over the fireplace they huddled around.
Many candles sat melting in sconces on the walls, filling the surprisingly large cabin with caramel light.
Haldanor pulled off his hood, shedding the soaked cape. It was rabbit that was cooking. How the hunters in this barren wasteland had managed to capture a rabbit, he could not fathom.
"The storm! It came from nowhere!" Mendelnir turned to survey the rest of the room. There were many other men, obviously fellow snowbound travelers. All had a weary, bored expression, were regarding the six new men with a glimmer of distrust.
"Aye, as they do this far north." One of the men commented, pulling the pipe languidly from between his lips. His Westron had a slight accent to it, indistinguishable. It sounded like a blending of many cultures.
Éodreth nodded slowly, still trembling. The clack of clattering teeth competed with the crackling wood. The men in the cabin slowly turned their attention away from the newcomers, immersing themselves in pints or games or discussion once more.
The man with the pipe continued. "Where are you from?"
"We hail from the land of Rohan, to the south-west of here." Haldanor pressed his fingers to his smooth cheeks, silently wishing sensation to return. Éodreth glared at him.
"And what business do riders of the Riddermark have in Forodwaith?" He raised his blonde eyebrows. Passively, Haldanor realized that this man was a Forodrim, the forefathers of the Rohirrim. The same straw-colored hair and pale complexion; the same tall and solid build.
"We are merchants, traders. Looking to return to the south with rare items." Éodreth sighed, collapsing backwards in exhaustion. "But we have found nothing, traded not at all."
The Forodrim laughing heartily, but kindly, his booming voice seemed to echo off of every crack of the cabin. "Nay, I fear not! Unless you propose to bring snow back to Rohan!" He chuckled a few more times before continuing. "I am Éoldrew the Tall! And it looks as though your company found this outpost at the last moment before death."
Haldanor nodded in silent agreement and opened his mouth to offer his name, when the door swung open once more, and one last black-garbed stranger stepped in. He stomped his feet loudly, shaking off the snow at the entrance, and removed his cape. The stranger walked to the right, going to the counter where (what Haldanor presumed) the proprietor was. Several of the other men glanced up to the stranger, recognition in their expression.
"Lómëí! Mae govannen!" Éoldrew suddenly jumped to his feet and walked in huge, purposeful strides to the stranger.
*
She turned to see an old friend gating towards her.
"Éoldrew! It is always amusing to me to hear you speak the language of the Elves. But, yes, we are well met today." She smirked as she pulled her veil down from above her nose, nestling the silky material under her chin. She peered about the room, noticing the six men who faced away from her, towards the fireplace. All but one had flaxen hair. The one on the far right had black. "Who are they?" She lay her cape on the counter, removed her overcoats.
"They are Rohirrim. Men of the land of Rohan." His smile increased, something Lómëí thought not possible, given the amount of teeth that were already exposed. "They came north to find fortune and glory. They have found frostbite and hunger!"
The Rohirrim with the dark hair turned slightly at this boisterous comment, the fellow looked rather hurt. She met his eyes and froze. He was no man of Rohan, she was convinced. He was Dúnedain, for he had a strong Elvish sense about him that she felt. The shocking pale blue eyes and coal hair were enough for even the most culturally unaware individual to recognize he was not an Éorlingas. He looked to have perhaps forty years behind him, a mere child elf. Lómëí tossed her overcoats with the cloak onto a nearby table and sauntered over to join him at the fire.
"Él síla lúmena vomentienguo." She whispered into his ear. He jumped slightly, turned to his right with a baffled look.
"I am sorry, I do not know what that means. Do you speak Westron?" He smiled tiredly, eyes shone like stars against the darkest night.
"You do not know the language of your foreborn?" She was taken aback. "I was raised in the deep, deep South, yet I speak Quenya!"
Haldanor continued smiling helplessly. "I am Rohirrim." Suddenly he realized what she was implying. "Oh, oh! No! I am no Elf!" He laughed, a full, musical sound.
"You are a Dúnadan, then. But some blood of the Valar flows through your veins." The woman reached for his hair, running her fingers from the bottom of his ear to his shoulder. It was fine and soft but still wet.
The other men from the company were watching them, all were amused.
"Haldanor is no Elf!" One of them snorted. "He is just a weak Rohirrim."
She ignored the comment, still whispering into his ear. "You have a structure of face and body that reminds me of my kin in Mirkwood." Lómëí was fascinated by the man, it had been many long years since she had seen another Elf. And if it took a man who merely appeared as an Elf to make her feel comfortable, she was ready to accept that as the next best thing.
Haldanor was flattered by the assumption he was an Elf, a permanent smile seemed to sink into his lips and eyes. She did not look like an Elf, the dark hair and short build seemed reminiscent of. something else. He could not place it.
"I am halfelven." She lowered her voice even more, leaning in until her lips brushed against his ear. She felt his hair tickling her face. "My father was a Haradrim. That is what you were wondering, ays?"
"Aye."
She liked the man, he was humble and she sensed a goodness about him that most of the Younger Children of the Ilúvatar did not possess.
He liked the woman, she was gentle and he sensed a kindness in her that he had not encountered often, whether it be when he was days into the middle of the frigid wastelands or even in his own home back in Rohan.
The sides of the cabin screamed and creaked under protest of the snowdrifts that had piled up, nearly burying the building. The candles flickered and a sudden burst of cold seemed to fill the room.
"It is going to be a long night." Haldanor watched the door suspiciously.
"The storm will last longer than the night." Lómëí continued looking him up and down.
"It shall be a long several nights, then." He sighed.
"Indeed." She smiled, kicked her boots off and pushed her bare feet closer to the fireplace.
*
[Author's Notes: It's a fun game! There's an Indiana Jones reference in here. **Upcoming Chapters- Gríma will meet Saruman, Lómëí will discover what became of Gálmód!**]
[Disclaimer: I do not own Rohan or Forodwaith or any of the according lore.]
Haldanor glanced behind him quickly, making sure the rest of the company was still within the line of sight. The snow was piling up in huge drifts with alarming speed. It swirled about him, alighted on his dark cloak and shrouded his eyelashes in a blinding haze. It hurt to blink. The moment when his eyelids shut out the scene before him was bliss, to see something other than the dazzling, biting glare of silver and feel slight, fleeting warmth slick over his eyes.
He had no sensation in his toes, his fingers from tips to knuckles were numb. Though his head and face were bound, leaving only a slant for him to peer out of, he felt chill gnawing at his skin. He was shivering uncontrollably and every step he took filled his marrow with aching pain. Haldanor was robed in many layers of wool, but show that made it through all of the layers promptly melted and left his flesh wet and clammy. 'Dead,' he thought. 'My skin feels dead.'
The Rohirrim man brought fire to his mind, coals, roasted fowl, rabbit over a spit. Water at a rolling boil. And still he trembled.
"Éodreth! We can not go on in this!" An unembodied voice yelled above the howl of the blizzard.
A voice Haldanor presumed was Éodreth's replied in a muffled scream. It did not take long for the company to realize what his excited voice was trying to say: ahead, there was light. Not the biting whiteness that swept over the landscape from ground to heavens- it was a warm golden glow. He would have smiled, if his lips weren't nearly frozen shut with blood.
*
The door flung open wide, unhinged by a man's gloved hand and encouraged by the raging wind. Six men in varying styles of garb lunged into the room, falling atop one another, clamoring for the fireplace. The floors immediately became slick with the melting snow, making the finely grained wood shimmer in time with the flames. The scent of cold and near death, the smell of soaked wool and wet man underlay the previous flavoring of the air. The miserable, shivering company picked it up immediately: stew. Some sort of delicious stew was cooking over the fireplace they huddled around.
Many candles sat melting in sconces on the walls, filling the surprisingly large cabin with caramel light.
Haldanor pulled off his hood, shedding the soaked cape. It was rabbit that was cooking. How the hunters in this barren wasteland had managed to capture a rabbit, he could not fathom.
"The storm! It came from nowhere!" Mendelnir turned to survey the rest of the room. There were many other men, obviously fellow snowbound travelers. All had a weary, bored expression, were regarding the six new men with a glimmer of distrust.
"Aye, as they do this far north." One of the men commented, pulling the pipe languidly from between his lips. His Westron had a slight accent to it, indistinguishable. It sounded like a blending of many cultures.
Éodreth nodded slowly, still trembling. The clack of clattering teeth competed with the crackling wood. The men in the cabin slowly turned their attention away from the newcomers, immersing themselves in pints or games or discussion once more.
The man with the pipe continued. "Where are you from?"
"We hail from the land of Rohan, to the south-west of here." Haldanor pressed his fingers to his smooth cheeks, silently wishing sensation to return. Éodreth glared at him.
"And what business do riders of the Riddermark have in Forodwaith?" He raised his blonde eyebrows. Passively, Haldanor realized that this man was a Forodrim, the forefathers of the Rohirrim. The same straw-colored hair and pale complexion; the same tall and solid build.
"We are merchants, traders. Looking to return to the south with rare items." Éodreth sighed, collapsing backwards in exhaustion. "But we have found nothing, traded not at all."
The Forodrim laughing heartily, but kindly, his booming voice seemed to echo off of every crack of the cabin. "Nay, I fear not! Unless you propose to bring snow back to Rohan!" He chuckled a few more times before continuing. "I am Éoldrew the Tall! And it looks as though your company found this outpost at the last moment before death."
Haldanor nodded in silent agreement and opened his mouth to offer his name, when the door swung open once more, and one last black-garbed stranger stepped in. He stomped his feet loudly, shaking off the snow at the entrance, and removed his cape. The stranger walked to the right, going to the counter where (what Haldanor presumed) the proprietor was. Several of the other men glanced up to the stranger, recognition in their expression.
"Lómëí! Mae govannen!" Éoldrew suddenly jumped to his feet and walked in huge, purposeful strides to the stranger.
*
She turned to see an old friend gating towards her.
"Éoldrew! It is always amusing to me to hear you speak the language of the Elves. But, yes, we are well met today." She smirked as she pulled her veil down from above her nose, nestling the silky material under her chin. She peered about the room, noticing the six men who faced away from her, towards the fireplace. All but one had flaxen hair. The one on the far right had black. "Who are they?" She lay her cape on the counter, removed her overcoats.
"They are Rohirrim. Men of the land of Rohan." His smile increased, something Lómëí thought not possible, given the amount of teeth that were already exposed. "They came north to find fortune and glory. They have found frostbite and hunger!"
The Rohirrim with the dark hair turned slightly at this boisterous comment, the fellow looked rather hurt. She met his eyes and froze. He was no man of Rohan, she was convinced. He was Dúnedain, for he had a strong Elvish sense about him that she felt. The shocking pale blue eyes and coal hair were enough for even the most culturally unaware individual to recognize he was not an Éorlingas. He looked to have perhaps forty years behind him, a mere child elf. Lómëí tossed her overcoats with the cloak onto a nearby table and sauntered over to join him at the fire.
"Él síla lúmena vomentienguo." She whispered into his ear. He jumped slightly, turned to his right with a baffled look.
"I am sorry, I do not know what that means. Do you speak Westron?" He smiled tiredly, eyes shone like stars against the darkest night.
"You do not know the language of your foreborn?" She was taken aback. "I was raised in the deep, deep South, yet I speak Quenya!"
Haldanor continued smiling helplessly. "I am Rohirrim." Suddenly he realized what she was implying. "Oh, oh! No! I am no Elf!" He laughed, a full, musical sound.
"You are a Dúnadan, then. But some blood of the Valar flows through your veins." The woman reached for his hair, running her fingers from the bottom of his ear to his shoulder. It was fine and soft but still wet.
The other men from the company were watching them, all were amused.
"Haldanor is no Elf!" One of them snorted. "He is just a weak Rohirrim."
She ignored the comment, still whispering into his ear. "You have a structure of face and body that reminds me of my kin in Mirkwood." Lómëí was fascinated by the man, it had been many long years since she had seen another Elf. And if it took a man who merely appeared as an Elf to make her feel comfortable, she was ready to accept that as the next best thing.
Haldanor was flattered by the assumption he was an Elf, a permanent smile seemed to sink into his lips and eyes. She did not look like an Elf, the dark hair and short build seemed reminiscent of. something else. He could not place it.
"I am halfelven." She lowered her voice even more, leaning in until her lips brushed against his ear. She felt his hair tickling her face. "My father was a Haradrim. That is what you were wondering, ays?"
"Aye."
She liked the man, he was humble and she sensed a goodness about him that most of the Younger Children of the Ilúvatar did not possess.
He liked the woman, she was gentle and he sensed a kindness in her that he had not encountered often, whether it be when he was days into the middle of the frigid wastelands or even in his own home back in Rohan.
The sides of the cabin screamed and creaked under protest of the snowdrifts that had piled up, nearly burying the building. The candles flickered and a sudden burst of cold seemed to fill the room.
"It is going to be a long night." Haldanor watched the door suspiciously.
"The storm will last longer than the night." Lómëí continued looking him up and down.
"It shall be a long several nights, then." He sighed.
"Indeed." She smiled, kicked her boots off and pushed her bare feet closer to the fireplace.
*
[Author's Notes: It's a fun game! There's an Indiana Jones reference in here. **Upcoming Chapters- Gríma will meet Saruman, Lómëí will discover what became of Gálmód!**]
[Disclaimer: I do not own Rohan or Forodwaith or any of the according lore.]