Author: Luinëturiel (aka Zoe)
Feedback: is more than welcome!
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters from Lord of the Rings. They belong to the wonderful J.R.R. Tolkien. Any other characters in this story, however, are mine.
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A Spark in the Dark
2 Legolas: Blue ShroudRivendell has called, and its call has been heard. We are on our way to the Last Homely House – a delightful thought were it not for an unpleasant reason that our coming has been asked for. The dark forces of Mordor are gaining strength, and it is at Rivendell that it will be decided how to respond to the growing threat.
None of us know what exactly is awaiting us at the council; what news Lord Elrond will have in store for us, and the closer we get to our destination, the more introspective we all become. Even Caranhil has stopped talking for a while, riding on next to me without saying a word, brooding. But only for a while, of course. He has never been one to endure silence for long, and so he soon brings up a conversation again, purposely avoiding the one serious theme that keeps circling in our minds.
So we ride on, talking more or less vividly, yet never taking our eyes completely off the road before us. We have almost reached our destination when our attention is drawn to the path in front of us even more than it has been anyway. Straight ahead, a figure has come into sight. A single horse is standing there on the path, motionless, its head hanging half way down. On its back, the horse is carrying a body that seems lifeless at first sight.
Caranhil and I exchange glances, and all talking stops as our small group approaches the miserable figure. Even from a distance, it becomes obvious that the inanimate rider is of the race of Men; a woman, to tell from the long, braided hair and from what little is visible of the face, most of it being hidden in the horse's mane. I dare not place a guess as to the woman's age, but she is quite young, if my first impression is not fooling me.
The horse is a mare, a chestnut of ordinary breed, yet well-fed and muscular. Her breath is quickened notably, flanks pumping, nostrils wide and pink. Steam rises from damp curls of fur. The mare must have run hard over quite a long distance.
But what does a female rider do here, and above all – why is she all on her own? These are dark times, and one should think that even ordinary Men were aware of it... And yet another question takes shape in my mind: Why does the woman not move?
Is she dead?
No, as we come closer, I see that she is breathing – faintly, but the movement of her ribcage is nonetheless perceptible to the searching eye. And her hands are shaking ever so slightly.
O thank the Valar!
The chestnut's ears twitch nervously when we approach and I let my own horse come to a halt next to her. She looks exhausted, but holds up her head just high enough to support her motionless rider. That little sign of loyalty the horse displays towards its rider calls an involuntary smile upon my lips.
I bend forward in order to both pat the mare's neck in a calming gesture and at the same time have a closer look at the woman. The horse seems to understand that I mean no harm, for it relaxes visibly at my touch; the woman however mutters something under her faint breath. Most of her words' meaning gets lost, since her voice is muffled by the masses of reddish brown horsehair her face is still buried in, yet I do not miss the hostile tone of her utterance – which is in fact more of a hiss than anything else.
Did my ears play a trick on me, or did the woman really say something about 'bringing an end to this'? Bringing an end to what?
I am utterly confused. If she looked up now, she could see my forehead wrinkle in a slight frown. Hesitantly, I touch her shoulder, my fingers barely closing around the delicate bones. I do not intend to frighten her.
"Bring this to an end? What are you talking about? Who are you, and what has happened to you?" I ask, my voice a mere whisper.
There is no reaction to the touch, nor to my words, spoken in the Common Tongue.
What shall I do now?
Caranhil as well as my other companions seem to be no less clueless than I am myself; I hear them whisper. Yet I do not strain my ears to get what exactly they are saying; all of my attention is drawn to the woman in front of me. Still she does not make any move to sit up or give an answer to any of my questions.
Please speak to me! Or move, at last!
Without really willing it, my fingers slightly increase the intensity of their grip, and – much to my relief – the woman seems to get the meaning of the wordless gesture, for she struggles to sit up ever so slowly. With a little help from me, she is finally sitting straight in her saddle, the thick braid of dark brown hair brushing against my fingers.
Now that I get full sight of her face, I conclude that my first impression was right – she is young, not only by elvish standards; maybe nineteen or twenty years of age, I would guess.
I wait a moment before I ask her once more, "Now will you tell me what has happened, young lady?"
An unreadable expression crosses her features when she turns her head in my direction. Her face is flushed, the skin all around her closed eyes red and swollen like from hours of weeping.
When she eventually opens her eyes, the blood in my veins freezes at the unexpected view, and I cannot help but gasp. There is no life in this woman's eyes – they are enveloped in a milky fog; the pupils two grey dots hardly standing out from a shroud of light blue.
Unseeing.
"Thalwyn. My name is Thalwyn."
I have just come aware that she has spoken, when the young woman's eyelids flutter shut again and her body goes limp. It is but thanks to my hand still holding her by her upper arm that she does not slide off the horse.