It was difficult to tell exactly when the sun rose the next morning, for the sky was shrouded with heavy clouds which had settled during the night. In the distance, heavy rain could be seen pelting the parched earth of the plains of Gorgoroth. Nimoë shuddered and pulled her heavy cloak firmly about her shoulders.
She stood just outside the Healing House, along with Gilmin and Raven, both silent and thoughtful. Legolas had gone inside to retrieve Caldarion. It ate on Nimoë's mind that she had hardly visited with her friend in all the days since he had returned to Núrnelven but, truth be told, she found that she was more than a little bit afraid of him. His erratic actions in her presence had disturbed her greatly and she prayed fervently that whatever it was about her that was setting him off had lessened.
After many long, cold minutes, the door opened, and Tinunél stepped out, holding the door wide for the two men. Caldarion exited before Legolas. His bearing was bent, but he held himself firm. A bow was strapped over his back, and a sword hung from his waist. The burn which marred his face had begun to heal, but the scabs were still prevalent, and it would be some time before it completely recovered, into what would surely be a permanent scar.
Timidly, Nimoë glanced up and caught his eye. To her great relief, he did nothing out of the ordinary. He only inclined his head slightly to acknowledge her presence, then waited for Legolas to introduce him to the Dwarf and the Hobbit.
As Nimoë watched the introductions begin, she felt a soft hand on her arm. Turning, she regarded her foster mother, looking down at her with tear-filled eyes. "Mother," she said, trying to sound reassuring, "I will miss you terribly. Keep the city safe, for when we return, we will have ushered in a new age for the Elves."
Touched by her daughter's show of bravado, Tinunél reached out and pulled her close in a fierce embrace. "You can still chose not to go, child."
"No. I cannot. Do not ask it of me."
Tinunél nodded, with her head buried in Nimoë's shoulder. "As you wish. Take care of yourself. Do not take unnecessary risks." She pressed something small and hard into Nimoë's palm. "This is a salve for Caldarion's burns. Apply it every night, to help with healing and to minimize the scar."
Nimoë pulled open her small pouch and dropped the container in, then was startled when yet another object was placed into her hand. Backing away, she glanced down, knowing by the feel what it must be, but unwilling to believe it. "Your blade, mother?"
"Aye. I will have little need of it here. It has been passed down through my family as long as memory recalls. It is forged of mithril, and it will serve you well. Hide it where you can easily reach it for, as a last resort, you will undoubtedly need it quickly."
Nimoë gazed down at the small weapon, which she had pulled from its worked leather sheath. It was no more than three inches in length, and deathly thin. The blade was etched with runes, which were so ancient that their meaning was not immediately clear. "I am not your blood daughter, Tinunél. Do you not wish to save it for one of your kin?"
Tinunél pressed a firm kiss on Nimoë's cheek. "You are all the family that I have left. I will not dishonor your foster father's memory by taking another husband. Take the blade and bear it proudly. My thoughts are with you always." She gave a most un-Elf-like sniffle, and pushed Nimoë firmly away. "Now go, before I find that I cannot release you."
Nimoë turned and saw that the other four were watching the farewell, awaiting the time they could take their leave. "I am ready," she said simply.
Into the dreary dawn they walked, five companions on a quest most dire. And one small woman watched after them, the only soul to observe their departure.
Legolas was aware of the silent tears running down his beloved's face, and he drew near, offering her his quiet support. Caldarion walked in the lead, his eyes scanning the route ahead, seeing things that the others could not, for they had no knowledge of them. Raven guarded the rear, although they felt it unlikely that an attack would come from that direction.
For many hours they walked, until Caldarion began to sway on his feet, his injured body finally rebelling against the hard toil. They found a solitary tree growing in the middle of the plain, and they sat down around it, pulling out some of the travel bread they had brought with them.
Legolas thought wistfully of lembas. Oh, he knew how to make it well enough, but they simply did not have all of the ingredients. So the packs that they carried were heavier than they would have been otherwise. They were also forced to carry all of their water, for once they left the relative safety of Nurn and entered Gorgoroth, there would be no safe drinking water to be found.
Legolas shrugged out of his heavy pack, wincing at the tight pain of his shoulder muscles. If he was suffering, how much more so for Nimoë? If he could have, gladly would he have carried her burden as well but, as it happened, since Caldarion could carry very little, the other four had been forced to share the bulk of his gear between themselves. There was no way they could carry more.
The Elf Prince glanced over at Caldarion, and found the younger man's gaze rested intently upon Nimoë's back. A strange expression was written on his face, and Legolas found himself at a loss to explain it. It was not threatening, although it bordered on it, and it was not lust, although, again, it was similar. One way or another, it made the Elf Prince decidedly uncomfortable.
To dispel the dark mood that threatened to descend upon him along with the approaching rain, Legolas asked, "Caldarion, how many days would you say we must travel?"
Broken out of his reverie, the dark-haired Elf brought his head up abruptly. Seeing the eyes of the others upon him, he spread his hands in a gesture of uncertainty. "I had traveled two days before I was captured. I am afraid that the time after that event is blurry in my mind. Another two, three days? If we can avoid detection?"
His eyes strayed again to Nimoë, and she shied away unconsciously. Legolas broke in, "Earlier, you tried to give Nimoë some kind of warning. What was it that you were worried about?"
A bizarre expression crossed Caldarion's face, almost as if he was listening to someone speaking. "I do not remember that. If I did, it must have been a fever induced delirium. We all know the danger we are going into. That to Nimoë is no greater than to the rest of us."
Only moderately reassured, Legolas finished his meal in silence. Once they had all eaten and rested a bit, the four healthy companions pulled on their heavy packs, and all five set out again into the north.
No, Legolas! Do not listen to me! It is a trap! Morgoth is wise and cunning, and he has plans beyond what you know.
Nimoë, run! Turn back now before it is too late. Your gift is your curse, and the doom of us all. If you should come within his grasp… Run!
That night, as they slept, each was set in turn as the watch. During the darkest hours Caldarion sat, staring out through the drizzle, awaiting something. A howl arose to the west and he rose to his feet, moving stealthily away from the camp, unaware of a pair of eyes staring after him, unaware of the feet that followed his retreating form.
In a clearing many yards from the sleepers, there stood a tall, midnight black creature, proud on its four paws, its muzzle raised high towards the spot where the moon would be seen, were it not curtained by clouds. Caldarion approached the beast, slowly, but without visible fear. When he was only feet away from it, he knelt, bowing his head.
"Great Warg, I bring news for the master. The girl who travels with us is the One. She holds the power that is sought by our Lord. We will continue due north throughout the next day. Keep the orcs and your brethren from our path. Our master does not wish our progress to be hindered. Circle around behind us, but do not let your presence be detected. I will meet with you again tomorrow night, when we will be within the land of Gorgoroth."
The Warg nodded its dark head slightly, allowing that it understood his words, but not giving him enough acknowledgement to demonstrate respect. Caldarion backed away from the beast, not turning his back, for he did not trust the creature.
Quick but silent feet returned to the campsite, laying themselves down where they had been earlier. When Caldarion came once again to his post, a glance told him that everything was as it should be.
He dropped his head down into his hands and allowed soft tears to fall.
