Disclaimer: Middle Earth and all its locations belong to the JRR Tolkien estate. The main characters belong to me and are copyrighted. I do not claim ownership of anything of JRR Tolkien's, and I bow down to him in thanks for his wonderful creations which act as inspirations to us all. *bows solemnly*

The River Speaks

Through the long hours of the early morning Aranarth tended the fallen Elf, and when the sun's rays broke in through the window, Thorongil's eyes opened, and he spoke aloud. Only three words he said, but these filled the hearts of all four listeners with dread so that even the dawn did not bring them hope.

        "They are lost."

        Dawn found Trotter and his companions in the lonely countryside, travelling west towards the Shire. They had passed the gate of Fornost without trouble, and ridden rather aimlessly through the night until they finally oriented themselves by the rays of the sun peeking timidly over the horizon.

        It was a cold sunrise. The sun shone with a weak, watery light, and armies of iron-gray clouds congregated on the horizon, overpowering the already faint light. The country was hilly but bare, and there were no houses in this northern part of Arnor. Few trees grew here, and the grass was short and brittle. All three travellers shivered and pulled their cloaks tightly around them; but this was little comfort.

        Trotter watched his shadow grow long before him as the sun lifted its tired head behind, then stared up at the sky with concern.

        "I think we're going to have some bad weather," he said, breaking the silence.

        Beleg lifted his head into the breeze, his eyes sparkling. Of the three of them, he seemed the least affected by the cold, and there was an air of energy and sprightliness about him.

        "Winter has come," he said, "Overnight, or so it seems. The Witch-king stretches out his icy arm. We'll have snow, if I'm not mistaken, maybe even a storm at worst."

        "Well, aren't you the bearer of good news," Anna remarked. Beleg cocked a mocking eyebrow at her.

        "Afraid of the cold?" he said, "Don't worry, between the two of us I'm sure we can keep you warm … eh, Trotter?"

        Trotter rolled his eyes. "Don't get me involved," he said, "This is your battle, my friend." He clutched the reins tightly and drew in his shoulders as a cold wind suddenly gusted over them, blowing out of the east. The chill seemed to sink into his bones, and for a moment he wished he were back in his cozy home in Bree, with the teapot singing over a crackling fire and breakfast just served, hot and ready to eat.

        The sunlight did not last long, for clouds soon pulled up and covered its fitful rays. The messengers rode on stubbornly for some hours, talking softly in an attempt to forget the depressing weather and the wind, which seemed to press against them more and more, tearing at their faces and clothing with frosty fingers. Beleg especially seemed undaunted by the threatening skies, and told many amusing tales that brought even Anna to laughter. Trotter was doubly glad to have the Elfit as his companion. Beleg really was an exceptional story-teller, and his head was full of forgotten lore and tales both strange and fantastic. Trotter wondered just how much his friend knew, and how old he was, and whether Beleg would be willing to teach him some of his art.

        "Why do the Elves have more than one language?" Trotter asked when there was a lull in the conversation; Beleg had just been speaking a verse in that strange and ancient tongue that they had heard among Thorongil's people on the way to Fornost.

        "The tongue of the Grey Elves is what is spoken in Middle Earth today," Beleg said, "But the ancient Quenya is the language of Valinor, and the Noldor brought it to this land ages ago when they revolted and followed the Great Enemy here."

        "Who were the Noldor?" Anna asked, eyes alight with curiosity, "Rebels, eh? Sounds like my kind of story … Who did they revolt against, and why? Won't you tell us about them?"

        Beleg mouth curled in a half-smile. "Maybe," he said, "If you ask nicely and agree to call me the Greatest Bard and Most Excellent Master of Middle Earth from now on."

        "There's no need to preen," Anna said irritably, "Just tell the tale."

        Beleg half-bowed in his saddle. "Your whim is my command, lady," he said, and, after clearing his throat self-importantly with twinkling eyes, began to chant as he had days ago when he told the tale of Túrin the Cursed.

"The Noldor were numbered by name and kin,

marshalled and ordered in the mighty square

upon the crown of Tirion. There cried aloud

the fierce son of Finwë. Flaming torches

he held and whirled in his hands aloft,

those hands whose craft the hidden secret

knew, that none Noldo or mortal

hath matched or mastered in magic or in skill.

'Lo! Slain is my sire by the swords of fiends,

his death he has drunk at the doors of his hall

and deep fastness, where darkly hidden

the Three were guarded, the things unmatched

that Noldo and Elf and the Nine Valar

can never remake or renew on earth,

recarve or rekindle by craft or magic,

not Fëanor Finwë's son who fashioned them of yore -

the light is lost whence he lit them first,

the fate of Faërie hath found its hour.

Thus the witless wisdom its reward hath earned

of the Gods' jealousy, who guard us here

to serve them, sing to them in our sweet cages,

to contrive them gems and jewelled trinkets,

their leisure to please with our loveliness,

while they waste and squander work of ages,

nor can Morgoth master in their mansions sitting

at countless councils. Now come ye all,

who have courage and hope! My call harken

to flight, to freedom in far places!

The woods of the world whose wide mansions

yet in darkness dream drowned in slumber,

the pathless plains and perilous shores

no moon yet shines on nor mountain dawn

far better were these for bold footsteps

than gardens of the Gods gloom-encircled

with idleness filled and empty days.

Yea! Though the light lit them and the loveliness

beyond heart's desire that hath held us slaves

here long and long. But that light is dead.

Our gems are gone, our jewels ravished;

And the Three, my Three, thrice-enchanted

globes of crystal by gleam undying

illumined, lit by living splendour

and all hues' essences, their eager flame –

Morgoth has them in his monstrous hold,

my Silmarils. I swear here oaths,

unbreakable bonds to bind me ever,

by Taniquetil and the timeless halls

of Varda the Blessed that abides thereon –

may she hear and heed – to hunt endlessly

unwearying unwavering through world and sea,

through leaguered lands, lonely mountains,

over fens and forests and the fearful snows,

till I find those fair ones, where the fate is hid

of the folk of Elfland and their fortune locked,

where alone now lies the light divine.'

Then his sons beside him, the seven kinsmen,

Crafty Curufin, Celegorm the fair

Amrod and Amros and dark Caranthir,

Maglor the mighty, and Maedhros tall

(the eldest, whose ardour yet more eager burnt

than his father's flame, than Fëanor's wrath;

him fate awaited with fell purpose),

these leapt with laughter their lord beside

with linked hands there lightly took

the oath unbreakable; blood thereafter

it spilled like a sea and spent the swords

of endless armies, nor hath ended yet:

'Be he friend or foe or foul offspring

of Morgoth Bauglir, be he mortal dark

that in after days on earth shall dwell,

shall no law nor love nor league of Gods,

no might nor mercy, not moveless fate,

defend him for ever from the fierce vengeance

of the sons of Fëanor, whoso seize or steal

or finding keep the fair enchanted

globes of crystal whoso glory dies not,

the Silmarils. We have sworn forever!'" *

Beleg stopped suddenly.

        "What's the matter?" Anna asked, "Aren't you going to tell the rest?"

        But Beleg was squinting at the sky, and all the humor had left his face. Trotter followed the Elfit's gaze and saw to his dismay that the grey clouds had become black and had drawn down close over their heads, frowning at the three small trespassers in the abandoned lands. It seemed the Elfit's prediction was destined to come true; a few snowflakes were drifting down upon their heads, and by the looks of things there would soon be more.

        "Do you think we should stop?" Anna asked nervously, "Those clouds look dangerous to me."

        "No!" Beleg said, "We can't waste any time! If we stop every time it snows we won't get to Gondor before the end of next year! It is winter, after all. Snow is normal."

        "That doesn't look normal to me," Anna said, gazing doubtfully at the sky, "Yesterday the weather was completely ordinary. It's so strange, as if the storm were sent after us on purpose."

        "If so," Beleg replied, "Then it is even more reason to keep on. A little thing like a snowstorm can't stop us, even if it was sent by the Witch-King …" his voice trailed off, and he swallowed. Obviously the idea of the Witch-King dropping untold amounts of snow onto their heads did not fill him with confidence. Anna looked pleadingly at Trotter, but he was inclined to agree with Beleg this time.

        "We can't let ourselves be delayed," he said, "Come on. Just everyone keep in sight!"

        They rode on through the falling snow. The wind changed direction, coming now from the west and blowing wet flakes into their faces, blinding them. The sky continued to grow darker, the snow fell faster, and the wind finally began to howl. Nori stumbled more and more often as the ground grew slippery and the footing unsure beneath them. Trotter drew up his hood to cover his face and bent his head into the wind. His eyes watered and the tears froze on his cheeks, but a stubborn anger had awoken in him, and he and his horse trudged on through the storm. His hands were clutched around the reins, and he wondered vaguely if he could still move them if he had wanted to. He peered ahead into the whirling whiteness in front of his nose, but could not see anything. He felt a sudden twinge of worry – what if they started going in circles? Perhaps they really should stop and wait out the storm. It was no use getting lost, after all, as that would only cause an even greater delay in the end.

        Trotter glanced to his left, about to suggest to Beleg that they stop and strike a make-shift camp, but he saw with a start that the Elfit was not at his side. He looked around wildly, squinting his snow-filled eyes, but could see neither Beleg nor Anna nor any other living form.

        "Anna!" he cried, but the wind ripped the words from his mouth and hustled them away. Gathering all his breath, he tried once more.

        "BELEG!"

        But the storm stole his words and, unmindful of its shameful theft, continued to blow even harder about him.

        Trotter stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do, but finally decided he might as well go on. Eventually he would run into the Brandywine River, and there he could stop and rest. His companions would find their way there in the end as well, and he would be able to search for them after the storm blew itself out. Or so he hoped.

        He turned back into the wind, judging that in this manner he would be able to keep on a straight line westwards, and fought on through the blustering snow.

        Trotter had no idea how long he rode like that, head bowed and hunched behind Nori's neck; it must have been hours, though he could not tell the time of day in the twilight of the snowstorm. At times he drifted into a half-dream, his head nodding and darkness hovering at the borders of his mind. He wondered what would happen if he fell asleep, but dismissed the thought. It seemed unimportant.

        Much later, after a seemingly endless period of riding and cold, snow and yet more snow, he could finally bear it no longer. He felt frozen stiff, like the snow-hobbits that he had built with his father when he was younger. And then he really might have slipped into a dream, never to awake, had it not been for Nori, his horse.

        As Trotter's head sank slowly down to rest upon his horse's mane, Nori whinnied once in fear, rebelling against the master who had led her into this unbearable cold, and suddenly reared upon her hind legs. Caught off guard, Trotter was thrown onto the ground; and before he even realized what had happened, Nori had galloped away and disappeared into the snow blowing around him. He stared after her in dismay, and for a moment he almost despaired. But Trotter was a Hobbit, and the Halflings are a cheerful people whom even the most hopeless of situations cannot daunt. So he stumbled to his feet, and muttering bad-temperedly under his breath about hot soup and feather beds, wandered further against the wind with one arm raised to protect his face.

        After a while, his steps slowed, and he frowned. It sounded as if the noise of the storm were changing. Was the wind growing softer? Was it finally over? He thought he could see a little; there seemed to be a flat plain ahead of him, and some dark tall figures like trees standing around. Snow blew into his nose, and he sneezed, quickly pulling his arm back over his face, and started toward the tree-like things. Excitement grew in him; he could not be mistaken, the storm really was growing weaker! The wind gusted less fiercely, and he could hear something else now. What was that? There was a gurgling noise in front of him. It sounded almost like water.

        Before he could reflect on the meaning of this, Trotter stumbled over a muddy bank and fell face first into the unfathomed depths of the Brandywine River.

        Anna lay stunned in the snow, all her breath paining her as if in punishment for her audacity in braving the power of nature. Her mind was numbed by cold; she felt as if she had been thrown into black, icy water, and all the warmth was seeping out of her limbs faster than she thought would have been possible. An uncontrollable trembling seized her, and she gasped for air, panicking, drowning in the snow. Her eyes watered as with shuddering hands she grabbed at her neck, clutching at the Starflower in the vain hope as if the beautiful necklace could somehow warm her.

        Suddenly a face appeared in her view, masked in darkness, and two vivid blue eyes stared down at her. Shrieking, Anna tried vainly to strike at whatever phantom had decided to haunt her at her moment of death, but the stranger grabbed her hands, stilling her weak struggles easily. He hauled her to her feet, and with a flood of relief Anna realized that it was Beleg. His eyebrows were frosted, but he seemed calm and undisturbed.

        "Easy!" she heard him cry through the wind, "It's me! You fell off the horse!" He pantomimed a person falling from a horse.

        Anna nodded, teeth chattering. She desperately wanted to say something bitingly clever, but nothing came to mind at the moment. Snow was frozen onto her face, and she could hardly move. She slumped and would have fallen once more, but Beleg wrapped his arm around her waist and dragged her with him to where his horse still stood, legs spread and ears flattened, snorting in the wind. The Elfit pushed her onto the animal and jumped up lightly behind.

        "Where's Trotter?" he yelled into her ear.

        Anna shook her head, trembling. "Didn't see …" she whispered through clenched teeth.

        Beleg looked at her with an unreadable expression on his face. His face was blurred in her eyes through tears and snow. Where was Trotter? What if he was lost? She felt like crying. Her only friend, and she had lost him already! She would be stuck with Beleg forever! Why had she let Trotter go on this stupid quest? She should have talked him out of it, shouldn't have put up with this nonsense, should have, should have, should have!

        "Don't worry," Beleg said, leaning close to her so he didn't have to yell over the wind. Anna realized that she was sobbing angrily and forced herself to stop. She wasn't about to give the Elfit the satisfaction of seeing her fall apart – it was bad enough he'd seen her fall off her horse.

        "We'll find him!" Beleg said. He didn't sound mocking, in fact, Anna would almost have thought he was honestly trying to comfort her. "Trotter's no fool," the Elfit continued, "He will keep going west, and he'll run against the Brandywine in the end. We'll meet him there!"

        "But what if …?" Anna swallowed and decided not to finish the question. What if he was lost or hurt somewhere in the storm? She didn't have to ask to know what would happen then.

        "Don't worry!" Beleg said again, "Just keep warm!"

        He reached around her with both arms and grabbed the reins. It took some convincing to get their horse moving again, but finally the animal obeyed the commands of its master and they started off again with the wind in their faces. Anna hunched her shoulders around her and shoved her hands under her armpits. She was still shivering, but the Elfit sitting behind her seemed to be radiating some heat; he pressed close against her, and she could feel the bitter cold retreating and her mind becoming clearer again. Beleg's head was bowed into the wind, leaning slightly over her shoulder, and she could feel his breath against her neck.

        Anna stared down at Beleg's hands on the reins. Although the Elfit did not seem to be suffering from the cold nearly as much as she, his skin was blue and his hands shook as well. She hesitated for a moment, then covered his hands with her own, drawing her cloak over them both. Beleg said nothing, but she could feel his skin warming beneath her own.

        Bowed against the storm, they battled through the elements, heading west.

        Trotter's cry of surprise was choked off by water closing over his head and rushing into his nose. It was unbelievably cold and seemed thicker than water should be, weighing on his body as he tried to kick his way back to the surface. Trotter could swim, but this was little help under the circumstances. Which way was up? All directions were equally dark. He blew a small stream of precious air out of his nose, watching the bubbles. They floated away in front of him, and off to the side. Frantically, Trotter tried to free himself of his cloak and pack, but found that one arm and leg were hopelessly entangled. His lungs began to burn while the rest of him froze. Something was pulling at him – the current, dragging him away from air. The darkness seemed to be closing in on his vision. His eyes stung and a deadly exhaustion gripped him. He had travelled far that day. It would be so nice to rest, just for a minute . . .

Panicking, Trotter kicked wildly with both legs, shutting his eyes and concentrating on moving. He wriggled and twisted, hoping blindly that he was going in the right direction. Air! He had to have air! The dark water was in his nose, his ears and eyes, his mind. Air, air! Oh, the sweet taste of air filling his lungs . . . He longed to breathe, to cool the burning in his chest. He opened his mouth, ready to gulp in air or water, life or death, unable to help himself.

        His head broke the surface of the water. With a huge gasp, he sucked air into his lungs, feeling it burn through him. Sweeter than any wine, it rushed through him. Slowly the darkness began to clear from his mind, and he found, to his surprise, that he could see. A pale light shone around him, rendering his surroundings dim but visible. He could not hear any wind, and there was no snow; as he looked around, he wondered if he had fallen asleep after all, or gone mad from the howling of the storm.

The bank of the river was a few feet to his left. Drawing on his last reserves of strength, Trotter paddled through the water until he reached it, pulled himself out and lay on the ground, gasping with exertion.

        He was in a grotto, underground, the far end on his right hand open to the sky. Through the opening he could see the snow blowing by, but he did not feel so cold anymore. He wondered why; by all rights he should be dead, falling into water that temperature. But warmth seemed to be suffusing him from somewhere. He realized that the stone beneath him was hot, and there was a strange smell in the air. The air seemed hazy and wet, warm like steam. Maybe it was magic, but whatever it was and wherever it came from, he wasn't about to complain.

        Behind him was the water; the river must flow underground to this place, a cave hollowed out in the days when the Brandywine was even greater. The floor was grey sand, the walls stone. Stone? But they shone, these walls, with light like that of the stars. As his breathing grew easier, Trotter said up and looked around him in wonder. The walls sparkled with white light, weak but still beautiful. Perhaps it was a mine … but there were no gems. It was the stone itself that seemed to give off light. Columns hung from the ceiling and rose from the ground. And the stone was carven too; there was a huge stone table, bare and shining like the walls, in the centre of the grotto. The walls and table dripped, and the sandy floor was covered with steaming pools. So that was where the warmth came from – hot water welled out of the ground and overflowed here.

        "Now where might I be?" Trotter said out loud to himself, forgetting his problematic predicament for the moment, "One would think it was Dwarvish, for the Dwarves love caves, or Elvish, as the Elves cherish everything lovely, and yet it feels different from either of these. Clearly it is not a place of Men, nor of Hobbits. And that table was not made by Nature." His curiosity got the better of him, and forgetting his previous fear and discomfort, he stood and made his way around the puddles to the table. It was so large that he could barely see over the top. Standing on a nearby rock, he climbed onto the tabletop.

        In the centre of the table was a hollow, filled with water so still it was nearly invisible. Spellbound, Trotter crept close to it. A strange mood gripped him; he felt that he must look into the water or be haunted by a desire to behold it for the rest of his days. The light of the walls reflected off the pool. Trotter knelt over the water, wide-eyed and intent. Suddenly, he started. The water changed; it seemed to shine of itself, like a mirror, and he saw his own face reflected in it. Two sets of grey eyes regarded each other in shock from beneath a sodden tangle of black curls; the high cheekbones and straight noses were equally marked with astonishment. As quickly as it had appeared, the vision was gone, and the water clear once more.

But all was not as it had been. Within the pool there now lay a gem, cold and clear as the water itself. It was shaped like a flower, its delicate petals opened. Trotter could have held it in the palm of one hand easily, and with this thought came the desire to do so. As mighty and mysterious as the Silmarils themselves, so seemed this jewel to the Hobbit as he knelt crouched upon the table. And with a power like that of the Great Jewels, it gripped his mind with a longing, a desire painful but sweet, of the kind that has driven Men and Elves to deeds unspeakable. Visions of himself, holding the gem in his hand, under the admiring gaze of the Men and Hobbits of Bree filled his mind. There was magic in it for sure – who knew what powers it might give him? Even the Elves would envy him such a treasure. He saw himself, respected among the peoples of the land. He saw them, looking at him with awe as he held the mirror in his hand and told them what he saw in its depths.

His eyes filled with the radiance of the crystal flower, Trotter reached out one hand to draw it out of the pool. As his hand touched the surface of the water, the surface rippled and the silence was broken with an echoing splash. Trotter jerked his hand back, looking around guiltily. What had he done?

        But no, the splash had come from the water at the other end of the grotto. Where only a few moments ago Trotter had pulled himself out of the river, a figure was now rising. Trotter leaped to his feet.

"What are you, that you have come here?" the figure asked in a voice like the low murmur of a small waterfall as it stepped out of the stream. The light in the cave grew, and Trotter saw that he faced a tall woman, clad in shimmering green raiment. Where she stepped, pools formed. Her hair was green as weeds, her skin pale and her eyes dark. Her face was fierce and hungry, unrelenting and cold.

        "I am Trotter, a Hobbit" Trotter said boldly, "And a wanderer. What are you?"

        "I am the River," she replied.

        And she looked it, too. She moved with the flowing movement of water, and water gleamed on her skin. Trotter swallowed.

        "Is it yours?" he asked, meaning the gem in the pool.


"You have seen the Lily?" the river-woman seemed shocked, her pale face hardening and her cold eyes widening in anger. "You covet it, Trotter the Ranger." It was not a question. "Seldom indeed do wanderers of the dry lands come here. Few see the Lily, but all hunger for it. I see the greed in your eyes! It is mine. You cannot have it!" Her eyes burned into him.

        But Trotter was no ordinary, timid hobbit. The river-woman's haughty tone struck a chord in him, and he firmed his stance, drawing Nyéra from its sheath.

        "You keep such a thing here hidden from all eyes!" he said angrily, "It should be seen! I shall take it! You have had it for an eternity; why should I not keep it now?"

The river-woman looked in fear at Nyéra. The sword was dark in Trotter's hand, and the shining walls cast no light on it.

"You bring sorrow into this place of peace," she hissed, "You seek to take the Lily from its rightful owner. Do you think yourself just, Trotter the Hobbit?" Her voice sneered at him. "The Lily is mine, and you but a common thief!"

        And as the light gleaming from the walls fell upon her, Trotter saw the river-woman in a new light. Cold she was, truly, but only as night and snow are cold; under sunlight she would warm even as water does. Her river had hollowed out this cave, and she had lived here for years before Trotter had been born, and would remain when he had long passed away. There was mud in her hair, and silt on her clothing. She knew only herself, and possessed only her Lily.

Slowly, Trotter lowered his sword. He looked down at the jewel in the water, and it was as if a shadow passed from his mind. For a moment he was tempted to laugh at himself. He was on a hopeless, secretive quest, wandering the wild lands - what did he want with a gem, no matter how pretty

        "I am sorry," he said. He felt himself blushing as he sheathed Nyéra. "You are right. I have no right to take what is yours." Without another glance at the Lily, he leaped down from the table.

        The river-woman stood, her arms hanging at her sides. She seemed at a loss, even more surprised than she had been when she first saw him. Then suddenly, she laughed, a fierce and wild laugh like that of the rapids.

"A Hobbit, are you?" she said, "Such a thing I have never seen! Hobbits must be held in great respect in the dry lands, for they are more steadfast and humble than Man or Elf!"

Trotter refrained from saying that most hobbits he knew were merely dull.

"I thank you for your kind words, lady," he said, "But I must leave now, and find my friends. We were separated in the storm …"

"Ah, but wait!" the lady of the water said, "You alone of all who have come here have given up the Lily of your own will. I would have swept you away with a flood had you tried to take it by force; but by your own fairness, you have resisted its call. So I know you, for I was told that only one would come who could deny it. You are he."

        "What?" Trotter asked nervously, "I'm who?"

        "You have been looking for me," said the river-lady, ignoring his doubtful expression, "And I have been waiting for you. I was told that one would come with a pure and steadfast heart. You have passed the test, and so I see that you are the one I wait for."

"Really …?" Trotter said, uncertain of how to respond. This was unexpected – he wasn't sure he wanted to be whomever the lady was waiting for. It was quite enough for him to be on a dangerous quest, without having magical beings and great ladies popping up with mysterious comments about his identity.

        "Yes," she continued, "I come to you as a messenger from the Lord of the Waters."

        This did not clarify things at all. "The Lord of the Waters?" Trotter asked, "Who is he?"

        She looked at him impassively. " Ulmo! You do not know him," she said, "But he knows you. Do you not dream of water? Do you not hear the voices of the lakes and streams you pass by? It is because the grace of the Ulmo shields you. He sees many things, and the affairs of the dry lands concern him, though he rules only the sea. Long ago his power faded from Middle Earth and he withdrew deep beneath the salt waters; but he still has strength when he chooses, and the rivers and lakes obey him and speak with his voice. I, now, speak for him. Do you wish to hear his message?"

        Confused, Trotter nodded his head, wondering what the Lord of the Sea could have to say to him.

        "Hear then, Trotter the Hobbit!" said the water-lady, "You have set yourself against Doom, and he does not like to be contradicted. In taking on this task you defy fate. But there are other powers in the world besides the one who sits in his halls beyond the Sea and knows all things, and perhaps you may yet change what will come to pass. Darkness is foreordained, but you are the Bearer of Light, and you may choose your own path. I do not know if you will succeed, but however your will leads you, remember this: In the end, if you so wish, you may come to the Sea. It awaits you." And she fell silent.

        Trotter did not speak for a moment, hoping that she would add something less mysterious.

        "Is that all?" he asked finally, "But I don't understand any of it! What is it supposed to mean?"

        "I cannot say," the lady replied, "I am only the messenger. Perhaps you will come to understand. But I know that you are under the protection of Ulmo. His grace is upon you, and so is mine. Do not fear water; it is your ally, and will aid you when you least expect it. Remember Arneniel, and fear not! But you must go now. The dry lands await you."

         "But I …" Trotter said. Arneniel paid no heed to him. She stepped back into the flowing river and began to sink back slowly into the dark waters.

         "Farewell!" she called.

         Too confused to protest, Trotter walked with heavy steps to the far end of the grotto. The storm had abated, but it was not over; and he still did not know where Anna and Beleg were. As he made his way toward the opening where the cave led to a pathway to the outside, he looked back but once. Arneniel stood watching him, one pale hand raised in farewell. He turned and plunged into the white world, leaving behind the river.

        Outside, the cold air smote him with a hand of iron, and he shivered in his wet clothes. All his exhaustion returned, and he would have slept on the spot had he not feared that the cold and snow might kill him. Ice began to form on his clothes. He stumbled on through the dark, for darkness had fallen indeed and the day died into a frozen night. He wondered blearily if he could coax his numb hands to make a fire. Strange night noises filled the air, half-heard through the fading snowstorm. At every eerie sound, Trotter started and grasped at his sword hilt, determined not to succumb to death without a fight, only to sink back into weary indifference a few moments later. His feet, as numb as his hands, were constantly stumbling, and he stubbed his toes more times than he could count.

        Finally, unable to go any farther, he fell to the ground and lay like one dead. The wind blew more gently, and a blanket of snow began to cover him until he was but another small drift on the white earth.

* Excerpt from The Lays of Beleriand, pgs. 161-163. Modified by the author in accordance with The Silmarillion.