We journeyed upstream for miles, weeks passing as we traveled. The Plains horses loved the free head we gave them, eating up the miles in long loping strides that easily matched the speed of the lighter Rohirrim mount that Legolas and Gimli rode. I also enjoyed that section of the journey, for it gave me an opportunity to watch the others without notice.
I fretted over my Shadowwalker companions. Maranwë avoided all contact with anyone whether of our original company or the two new additions. The Warriors were restless with the peaceful trip; I saw them training every evening after we stopped, pacing through the intricate patterns of their obscure Sword dances. Gimli joined them on occasion, for the Warriors welcomed any opportunity to practice with an unfamiliar opponent.
I found myself watching Legolas most often. He put himself to every task with a fierce determination that belied his gentle exterior and graceful body. The sun glittered in his fair hair, picking out strands of gold and cream; his eyes were unnaturally brilliant, the color of deep lake water. More than once, I shook myself out of some pleasant daydream of walking with him in the forests of my childhood. And more than once, I noticed his eyes on me also.
Often, Legolas sought me out when we rested. We talked of different things, legends, poetry, ancient lore. He slipped in and out of his language as easily as diving into a pool of warm water, drawing me into the unfamiliar tongue; he picked up words of my language quickly and remembered them to use later. We walked, when we could, along the river or into the trees. He would point out trees or forest creatures, talking of his childhood and his home in the great forests of Mirkwood. I began to feel comfortable with him and with Gimli; they were the first unChosen friends I had since I was young in the Deep Forest.
On one quiet evening, I sat alone at the foot of a crumbling stone wall. I closed my eyes and idly reached out for energies in the forest around me. I teased a strand of glowing energy from a nearby puddle of water, playing with the pale blue threads, winding them around my hands, twisting them into complex patterns and forms.
"What are you doing?" The strands disappeared. I opened my eyes and looked up into the Elf's face.
"Just...exercising, I suppose you could say." He looked at me oddly and sat down on the ground beside me. "I have to keep myself sharp. I'm too used to the schedule we have at home, constantly working or studying."
"You never talk about your Talent." Although it was a statement, I could hear the question behind his words.
"No. Truth be told, I have very little in the way of Talent. Most of our people wield some amount of magic; some are extraordinarily skilled at it, but I am not one of those. For me, magic is difficult. It demands a price, both physically and mentally, that I can seldom afford to pay. But it is so clean here, the forests are so strong and alive, that it is almost effortless." I caught his eye; the curiosity had returned. "Why? Did you wish to know something?"
His brow creased slightly; I could almost see him weighing his words. "What do you do?"
"Do you mean what magic, or what vocation?"
He thought carefully. "Both."
"As for magic, I suppose I do what all wielders do, really. Work with natural energies, shift things, move things around. I can Heal, a little. I See, as well." He blinked at me in surprise. "Not always. Not accurately all the time. It's more like I see...possibilities...things that might come to pass, sometimes things that I need to know, things that affect those close to me. I play with the weather a bit- but I cannot do that as often as I would like, for fear that I would disturb the natural rhythms of things. So I mostly do little things like campfires and lights and weatherproofing. Nothing significant."
He chuckled with me. "Those skills could be quite useful as well. And otherwise?"
"Otherwise, I am exactly what I said I was." I examined his face before continuing. "I am a scholar of history and languages and religions. I serve as my Teacher's secretary, I do research, I am occasionally called on to serve as a priest, and sometimes I teach younger students."
He touched the blade at my side. "And you have this."
I laid my hand over the Blade. "That's not exactly a Talent. At least, it's not my Talent."
"How did you come by this?" His voice was firm, allowing no evasions.
"I think it was a mistake. Or an accident. I don't think I was supposed to have it." I drew a deep breath. "I lied, before, when I said I had never gone far away from my home. I traveled with my Teacher, five years ago. I wanted to see what lay beyond the borders of our land- I'd only heard stories, rumors from travelers. He traveled into Mirkwood that year, and convinced my parents to let me go along."
I drew the Blade, letting the fading light dance on the etched steel. "We were still near the Iron Hills. I stumbled on a traveler, a Plains Elf, while gathering wood for the fire. He'd been attacked by...something, some kind of animal. He was dying, he was in terrible pain. I tried to Heal him, but he was too badly injured for my meager ability. The last thing he did was put the Blade in my hand."
Legolas touched my hand where I gripped the handle. "And the geas passed to you." I nodded. "You have said a little of it before. What is it? What does it have you do?"
"She likes anger. She feeds on anger, on rage. My Teacher told me she would never have stayed with me if I didn't have what she wanted. In return, she allows me to fight. She makes me a very competent swordswoman. Not as good as Aragorn, not by half, but enough to do a good deal of damage and keep myself in one piece. But I can't control her, and I can't not fight when she senses the possibility of combat, not without almost crippling myself." I sighed and sheathed the Blade.
"What is her name?" The question surprised me. No one I knew, other than he, seemed to know anything about these Blades. I wondered where this Elf had read about such things. I turned the Blade over in her sheath so that light fell on the inscription. He stroked the carved lettering; his voice, when he spoke, was bewildered.
"Aha. That's Quenya." He turned his icy eyes to me. "Mornië, how would one of your people come to have this blade?"
"I don't know. No one knows. We have searched and searched, all the books in all the forms of Elvish, all the records of every Clan and Rhûnish people we could collect...nothing. Not a single mention of a Blade named Rage."
~***~
I slept fitfully that night. My dreams were strange and troubled, full of images of a dying Elf or Walker, blue eyes and shining blades and rings and great walls of flame. I tossed restlessly in my bedroll until first light, then struggled out of the blankets in peevish irritation, treading lightly so as not to awaken the others. I packed my things into Hellebore's saddlebags, then pulled out a set of currycombs and began to work over her iron grey coat. She muttered to herself around a mouthful of oats- a special treat- and leaned into the brushes, twitching one ear.
I combed until her coat was smooth and silky, then turned to examining her legs and feet. I ran my hands down each muscular leg, probing for bruises or cuts. I carefully lifted each massive, steelshod hoof, picking out small stones and packed dirt. As I lifted her near hind leg, she leaned hard against me, a trick she had picked up from the other horses during our trip. I grunted as the whole weight of her body settled on my hunched back. I slapped at her flank, unable to stand up, but she ignored me.
"All right, little sister. You've had your fun. Up with you, then, and let me stand. Come on. Enough of your nonsense." I leaned against her as hard as I was able. A soft whistle sounded from her far side, and she suddenly leaned away from me. I stood, cursing in my own tongue and several others, and ducked under her head to see who had called her.
Hellebore stood, perfectly still, allowing Legolas to stroke her face. I set my arms akimbo.
"You shameless flirt. Hellebore, you never let anyone touch you but me before." I scratched her neck and smiled at Legolas. "Good morning. Thank you for getting this great lump off me."
He laughed, the first I had heard. His voice, like Galadriel's, was full of crystal and music; I thought briefly that he would fit in well with my own people. "You looked like you could use some help, though I admit I was loath to disturb her rest. She looked quite content."
"I'm sure," I replied drily. "My backside is her favorite place to rest these days." His eyebrows shot up. Oh dear. I'd shocked him. "Pardon my lack of refinement. My Master used to say I oughtn't be allowed to speak before I'd eaten breakfast. I'm afraid I have no control over my words until I've had a cup of tea."
He grinned, sunny and warm. He extended his arm to me, just as if we were back at Minas Tirith rather than in the middle of the woods. "Shall we rummage about in the packs, then, and find you a cup of tea?" I grinned back at him, took his arm, and let him lead me back to camp.
~***~
We rounded the lower edge of Mirkwood Forest several days later. We planned to cut across the forest at a narrow place on the map. My fellow Walkers were irritated that we had come so far north and complained at every moment that we had not proceeded directly to the Sea. I could feel my patience fraying and withdrew from them more as each day passed.
We made camp just inside Mirkwood the first night. Legolas warned us not to wander far from the fire, but as the evening wore on I noticed that Maranwë was missing, and the warrior Runyo as well. We tore into the woods, searching for them. The Warriors outpaced us all, disappearing into the heavily wooded hills. I sprinted after Legolas, reaching out with my Sight, trying to locate any of them. I Saw a great wave of evil creatures swarming through the woods, the two Walkers lying at the foot of a statue. A wall of rage slammed into me, Aha reaching for me along the thread of Sight I threw out, plucking at the edges of my mind. I stumbled, almost fell, then I heard Niquë's horn and the fighting.
I crested the hill and recoiled at the scene. Legolas, Gimli and the Warriors battled against dozens of Orcs; blades flashing, arrows singing. The rage reached out for me again, roaring in my veins like fire. I drew the Blade and, before the bloodlust took me, I whistled for Hellebore.
The Orcs around my companions heard the high shrieking notes of my whistle. Two jerked around and dashed toward me. My Blade glittered in the sunlight at the edge of my vision; I saw the Orcs approach as in slow motion. I whirled low, avoiding their rusty blades, slashed out in a twisting, circular pattern. The first fell, spilling his innards across the forest floor. The second roared and charged at me, weapon sweeping toward my legs. I crouched, then propelled myself off the ground. I cleared his blade, balanced delicately on one shoulder, and lopped off his head.
Rage was singing now, a chorus of death and anger crashing in my head. A coughing roar echoed behind me; I barely heard Gimli's shouted warning. I flowed around, my feet tracing an intricate dance on the leafy hillside, my blade weaving and darting. Two more Orcs fell, cut through. A third hung back, drawing a heavy arrow. I rocked lightly on the balls of my feet, waiting. His arrow loosed with a great booming like a drum of war. I dodged lightly aside, striking the arrow out of the air. He rushed me; I feinted around him and ripped the Blade through his back.
The creatures came in waves; I was barely aware that the others were dashing toward the horn that continued to sound. I was too caught in Rage's hunger, too absorbed in the need to kill to follow them. Hellebore appeared beside me; I swung myself into the saddle and gave her the signal to fight. We wheeled and spun, her hooves flashing and pounding against thick skulls. Rage snaked out of her own accord, catching Orcs as they tried to slip past Hellebore's teeth and hooves.
A sharp whistle rose over the din of battle. Hellebore dropped to all four feet and broke away from the crowd of Orcs. I hauled on the reins, screaming at her, the bloodlust strong yet, but she refused to turn back. We galloped through the woods, tree branches whipping at my face and hair, passing Orcs in full flight. Hellebore surged through the woods and skidded to a halt mere inches from Legolas.
He grabbed her reins in one hand. He looked into my face, read the traces of Rage's hunger still in my eyes, and stood well away from my reach. I stared into his eyes, heavy and dark with sadness.
The hunger fled. I dropped the Blade as I slid out of the saddle. I miscalculated the amount of energy Rage had sucked from me; my knees buckled as my feet hit the ground and I dropped into a heap. I was shaking badly, my mouth was dry, and my head throbbed with pain. Legolas knelt beside me, dragging me to my feet by one arm. I turned my face toward him, panting.
"What is it? What's happened?"
He pointed toward a crumbled statue. "They have fallen."
~***~
We buried their bodies in the soft earth of the forest, marked by piles of strange black rock. I stood over their graves for long minutes, silently asking their forgiveness for my failure to care for them, our inability to return them to their homes. We were all shaken, equally stunned by the deaths and by the presence of Orcs so far out of Rhûn. Legolas and Gimli packed the camp quickly, preparing to flee before any more Orcs appeared.
I stood beside Hellebore, obsessively checking her legs, worried that the dash through the forest had injured her. I leaned into her warm hide, breathing in the hot musky scent of her mane. My fingers tightened in the coarse hair; I was shaking again, still weak from the battle. I felt a hand on my back, gentle and soothing. Legolas's voice murmured in my ear.
"Are you well enough to travel?"
I nodded weakly. "As long as I can ride."
His hand rubbed along my shoulders, stroking my neck. "I would ride with you, but I daresay Gimli would have my hide if I left him to cope with Arod alone." He smoothed my hair away from my face. "Mornië. It is not easy for you, is it? Even though Rage makes you skilled and strong, she cannot help you live with what she makes you do."
I shook my head, swallowing back a knot of nausea. "I hate it. I hate the smell of blood. I'm not trained for it. Even now, after so many years, I cannot reconcile my calling with this... thing I have become. And it is of no use. I cannot even protect my friends."
He leaned his forehead against the back of my head; I could feel his breath soft across my neck and cheek. "Would that I could lighten that burden for you. Know this, though- if you need anything of me that it is in my power to give, you have only to ask."
He slipped away then, to finish packing the camp. I hoisted myself slowly into the saddle, reeling with the height, and nudged Hellebore over to the others. Gimli glanced up and smiled grimly at the mounted Walkers. Legolas hoisted him onto Arod, then mounted lightly. I reined Hellebore short and nodded at them, raising my voice in a last attempt to break through their grief and confusion.
"Let us ride. We are but a few days from the Deep Forest. Keep caution, and be aware of what is about you."
~***~