The Heartbeat Drum

Snowflakes flurried down on eddies in the air, heralding the onset of winter at last. Trotter could smell the coming storm on the wind. It smelled dark and moist, heavy and cold, like a wave of sleep settling over the land. Tharbad seemed to huddle in on itself even more in the dreary light, flinching under the onslaught from the North. As soon it would cower, Trotter knew, before more than merely the northern winds.

          He stood beyond the last houses of the southeastern outskirt of the city, his back to the wild and his face turned towards a last glimpse of civilization for months to come. The longest and hardest leg of his journey lay before him now: the crossing of Enedwaith and the mountains into Gondor. He thought of it as his journey now, even though he and his companions had been reunited and the way lay clear before them.

          Gazing back on the sprawling streets and ramshackle buildings, he could hardly believe they had escaped from this tangle of humanity. He had difficulty admitting it to himself, but for a while there, at the mercy of strangers—and Men at that—despair had crept into his heart. Not being adept at manoeuvring a way through the complicated relationships of the Big People, he had been sure the quest would end there, in the stagnancy of Tharbad. As it would have, had it not been for Falathor.

          Trotter still felt a peculiar mixture of admiration, pity, and horror towards his tall friend, the three emotions warring like kingdoms, none having an advantage or seeming to come closer to victory. The strange bargain Falathor had struck with the First Lord—Trotter hoped only that he would never be faced with such a choice. Yet Falathor had not hesitated, despite the gravity of the price demanded of him. The First Lord had agreed to allow Trotter, Beleg, and Anna to continue on their way, even given them a convoy of sorts—a merchant's caravan travelling to Gondor with the last of the fall market goods from Cardolan. Anna's life had been spared on the condition that she never return to Cardolan. In return, Falathor had promised to reveal nothing of what he knew about Telpedur's betrayal—and to hunt down the Nine-fingered Captain. Trotter knew he would not go back on his word, not to save his life or Lomin's. Falathor was of the Dúnedain, and his people's oaths were stronger than mithril. For himself, the Hobbit knew quite well he was incapable of such an action.

          "I'm glad to leave it," Anna said in a low, dark voice at his side. She stood as still as a snow-covered hill and as unapproachable, wrapped in a cloak and an air of turmoil.

          "The city?"

          She nodded in reply, the black circles under her eyes accusing, though she was not looking at him. The Starflower necklace hung once more around her neck, its gem concealed beneath her clothing. He had given it back to her the day before. She had not wanted to accept it, insisting that he should keep it, it wasn't meant for her, but he had made her take it back in the end.

Trotter could think of nothing to say. In the two days since they had regained their freedom, the two of them had spoken little. A barrier had sprung up between them. Every time he looked at her, Trotter could not help seeing her tear-filled eyes, the horrible guilt and self-hatred on her face spilling out in the form of a sordid confession. And though he knew it had not been her fault, and thought no less of her—or so he told himself—she seemed to think she had let him down in some way, and he did not know how to reassure her.

          "The next city we'll see should be Osgiliath," he said as lightly as he could, "and they say it's the most beautiful one in Middle Earth!"

          If he was hoping for a smile, he was disappointed. Nothing in Anna's demeanour changed, and her eyes remained fixed on Tharbad under its shadow of storm clouds. Trotter stifled a sigh, feeling disheartened in a way he had never experienced before.

          "Come on, we should start," he said quietly.

          They two of them turned their backs on Tharbad and hurried to where the trading wagons stood in the mud some yards away. There were five of them, captained by a Man named Fleance Brady who was clearly of the Enedrim rather than the Dúnedain. He was of average height, muscular, weather-beaten, and in every way exactly what Trotter would expect a travelling merchant to be. Brady had not seemed surprised that three strange, undersized people were attaching themselves to his parties, and had asked no questions. Trotter did not doubt, however, that the Man kept a close eye on everything that happened in his domain, and the Hobbit was careful never to mention his business where any of the company might hear.

          Suspicion had become so much a part of his life that he did not so much as notice it anymore. Everyone was a potential enemy, a possible spy. He wondered if his father had felt this way, on his missions out in the wild.

          Trotter hoisted himself up onto one of the wagons and helped Anna after him. They had tacitly decided not to find horses for this part of the journey. Trotter wasn't sure why, but it seemed important that they move calmly and discreetly for a while, instead of prancing around on animals. It would have been hard to find a mount appropriate for a Hobbit in Tharbad anyway, so he told himself. But perhaps, he thought ironically, he was just becoming tired of all this adventure, if he was going to settle for a quiet wagon ride instead of a horse.

          He and Anna settled themselves on the front seat, wrapping their cloaks around themselves tightly. Trotter could hear Brady shouting orders somewhere, the creaking of wheels and of leather as the wagons began to line up. There were five of them, and twenty in the party, not counting himself and his companions. All were Men, needless to say, and more than one of them had cast a curious glance at him and at Anna, only to look away hurriedly, as if their small passengers were spirits.

          "Going to sleep the whole way?"

          All Trotter's muscles tensed and relaxed in an instant and he caught himself on the verge of breaking into laughter.

          "Beleg! I was wondering where you'd got to! What—are you going to walk?"

          Beleg flashed his token grin and leaned indolently against the wagon. Colour had returned to his face and his hair had begun to grow out to its full brown-and-gold streaked length again. He seemed to have recovered perfectly from his wound, and in fact looked happier and healthier than Trotter had ever seen him. A shadow had passed from his face; the anger that always bubbled close beneath the surface had receded, as if something poisonous had been burned out of him. He looked quite ready and willing to walk to Osgiliath, simply for the sake of proving he could.

          "Why not? We're on the open road again now and too far south for any of our northern friends to follow. Don't you want to feel the lovely earth under your feet?"

          "Lovely? Cold and hard, you mean. My feet are quite content where they are, thank you!"

          Beleg frowned teasingly. "Don't tell me you're losing your spirit. The adventure's only begun, friend! Winter is here, and the clock is running!"

          He sounded positively delighted at the fact that the New Year was drawing close, and their time short. Trotter was prevented from coming up with a sufficient retort, however, when a friendly-looking Man climbed up onto the wagon and plumped onto the seat.

          "G'day to you!" he said with cheery frankness, running a hand through his short, greying hair and grinning, "seems you folks'll be riding on my wagon, then, don't it?"

          "If you don't mind, Mr..."

          "Rode. Oliver Rode, that is. The men call me Ollie, but I'll answer to whatever pleases you best."

          Suddenly, Trotter's heart lifted as if a ray of sunshine had broken through the clouds to fall only on him. He felt an instant liking for this Man, who approached them so ingenuously, without any sign of wariness or fear. Perhaps, after all, things were not so bad. They had a month to get to Osgiliath, and the open plains were before them. There was no more danger but the weather, and that was trivial compared to everything else they had faced thus far. Soon his errand would be complete. And then... and then...

          "Well, Mr. Rode, it's a pleasure to meet you," Trotter said in his best gentlehobbit's voice, "and I hope you don't mind us taking up part of your seat." A whistle punctuated the end of his sentence, like a trumpet announcing the opening of a gate.

          "Pleasure's mine alone," Rode said, snagging the reins and giving them a flick. The horses pranced sluggishly and leaned into their harnesses. The wheels turned slowly at first, gaining speed as they went along, until they were rolling along at a fair pace. Beleg trotted briskly beside them, a tiny smile tugging at his lips, glancing occasionally up at the wagon-bound as if to say, now wouldn't you rather be down here with me?

          "Now then, they say your name's Trotter and you're from far away in the cold lands," Rode said without preliminary, "where the wine's made from snow and the faeries live in castles of ice. Now, my cousin's wife's brother, he's been up almost halfway to Bree, and he came back with a wagon-load of wild stories. If you don't mind, Mr. Trotter, I'd like to know just how much of his yapping is true..."

          Like a bough of flowers falling from a tree, Beleg laughed, open-mouthed and unabashed as a child. Rode faltered and stared at him as if unsure what to make of this, but Beleg did nothing to enlighten the Man. Instead, he shot one last grin at Trotter and sped up to a lope, passing the wagon swiftly and veering out to the side, off the road and onto the grey plain. His hair streamed out behind him, a banner of defiance flying in the wind of freedom.

          Watching him, Trotter couldn't help but laugh as well, to the great befuddlement of Mr. Rode. And at his side, her eyes on Beleg, even Anna smiled a small, half-melancholy smile, like a promise of spring before the deep of winter.

          *******

          On the far side of Tharbad, another journey was beginning. A great grey stallion pounded down the last road out of the seething heart of the city. People in the streets screamed and threw themselves out of the path of the mad beast. Children shrieked; women dropped whatever they were carrying; men cursed and shook their mud-splattered fists, safely out of reach of the flying hooves. The rider, lost to the world, did not see or hear them. He spurred his mount as if all the minions of the dark one who had been banished were howling at his heels.

          Thus the rider fled the city. He came quickly to the cover of the trees, but did not stop or slow down. The horse, caught in his master's contagious frenzy, neighed wildly, threw his head forward, and plunged into the drooping shadows. Roots reared up to trip him, branches cast down their fingers to tear at him, trunks shuddered and moved to block his path. Horse and rider, possessed by a stronger will, rode them all down, careless of themselves as fleeing criminals care not what injuries they contract in their flight.

          The rider sped into the night, forcing a path through the glooming forest, and into the next day. His horse frothed at the mouth, eyes red and rolling, legs trembling with every faltering stride. Yet he ran like a demon, head turned always towards the hills* that loomed closer and closer in the north.

          They ran through the day, until shadows grew long again and the forest was left behind and the downs ahead lowered their frowning brows before them. The stallion shrieked with every breath, his straining muscles tearing, heart labouring, yet unable to stop, driven always by something more terrible than pain. But willing as the spirit may be, the flesh has only so much strength. In the grey dusk, the stallion, halting, reared in mid-step and screamed a final cry of rage and agony. Then, slowly and softly as a tree, he fell to the ground, and with a shudder, lay still. His eyes stared, wide open, as if surprised at the sight of the thin tendrils of red seeping out of his nostrils and dripping onto the earth. A cloud of dust, disturbed and unruly, floated irreverently around the fallen giant, settling slowly like a faded blanket.

          The rider at first lay as still as his mount. A watcher might have thought the human, too, had succumbed to that fall and left behind his frail body for the ravens. But under the light of the first stars, a hand stirred in the dirt, fingers tracing what might have been an unconscious prayer. Then, as the moon leaves the horizon, he rose from the death-marked place, staggered to his feet, and halted.

          He looked around once slowly, as if to orient himself. The night was still, breathless and enthralled by the saga. Then the wind sighed in release.

          He began to walk. His feet followed no clear path, wandering without knowledge on the uneven ground. His eyes, fixed grimly on the distant horizon, saw something other than the empty countryside. His hand ceaselessly gripped the hilt of the sword buckled to his side. He made his way without halt, an arrow speeding towards its target as years before a wooden shaft, loosed by the hand of a Hobbit, had sought the same goal. The night waned into a half-hearted dawn. The sun rose and travelled demurely across the sky, beaming down shy encouragement upon the struggling head beneath her. He was oblivious.

          In the afternoon of that day, he fell, less dramatically than the stallion had perhaps, but with the same despair shuddering through his limbs. He lay as one dead, strange dreams moving before his half-open eyes as the sun sank once more. Curled upon his side, he might have been a lanky boy tired out after a day of adventurous play, but for the deep lines marring his young face. The sun said farewell to her beaten subject, thinking perhaps this would be the last she would see of him. But in darkness as well there are powers, and they do not always work as one expects.

          Only the stars brightened the deep black of that night, and only the stars witnessed a host of shadows rolling not silently across the open ground. They crept in unison, under the command of one they feared and adored, until they surrounded the still form, but a dim hump on the earth. Myriad tentacles drifted out of the communal mass, tentatively fingering their prey.

          "Yes! It's him!"

          At these words, the throng fractured and dissolved into a crowd of individuals—Orcs and Men, such that they were hardly distinguishable from one another. They drew away from the fallen Man, glancing around furtively, expectantly. A space opened up around him, as the goblins kept a careful distance. If they were waiting, they did not have to wait long. A path broke their ranks, admitting a figure taller than any of them, leading a horse by the reins. One of the Orcs stirred, troubled perhaps by a not-yet-forgotten memory; but it was quickly vanquished when the newcomer, obviously the leader, stopped and stooped over the one who held their attention.

          "Yes," Lomin said tonelessly, "you are quite right, Kralfug. It is him." He reached for the other Man's neck as if to strangle him; but his hands found the collar of the shirt instead, grabbing hold and shaking the foundling so that his head whipped back and forth. The traveller groaned and his limbs twitched. His eyelid fluttered, opening blindly into the night. His eyelid, for he had only one eye, the other being covered by a black patch held on by a string that tangled in his red locks.

          There was a brief silence before the one called Kralfug spoke. "We will do away with it, sir!" The Orc shuffled forward, a curved blade glistening in its hand. One look from Lomin was enough to stop it in its tracks.

          "Not at all." His tone was still flat, as if all faculty for human emotion had been drained out of him. "What do you take me for, Kralfug? A dishonourable coward? No," and here he smiled at last, though without mirth, gazing down into his captive's eyes, "no—I would not be a brother-killer. Men call me cruel, but I am not so forsaken that I would slay my own flesh and blood." His eyes glinted coldly, like fish in an underground cavern, and he seemed almost to laugh. His brother stared up at him, face slack with despair and shame.

          "Well, Falathor? And where might you be off to this time of night?" Chuckles skittered through the ranks of the watchers and died off quickly, nervously. Lomin's voice lowered almost imperceptibly. "Coming to find me perhaps? And then what—drive your steel through your own brother, born of the same mother? Oh, what would our mother say to that? Would you kill me, brother?"

          Falathor, sprawled in perfect helplessness before him, panted and gasped, "I would... would that I could..."

          Lomin shook his head dispassionately. "You couldn't. Not if all the world depended on it. We are made of different stuff, you and I. Even had you the skill, you have not the heart or the will to do it. And so you will have to forsake your oath, little brother."

          Surprise and angry humiliation battered Falathor's face. "You know," he whispered, "you knew!"

          "My poor brother. There is very little this side of the Misty Mountains I do not know. Do you think it chance that we happened upon you here? As for your dealings with the First Lord of Tharbad... well, you didn't truly believe I would base all my work in that city solely on Telpedur? No, no, there are others. Don't feel bad—there's no way you could have known."

          Falathor did not reply this time, blinded perhaps by rage and the sudden bleak realization every man must someday experience—the realization that our influence in this world is miniscule, that one person cannot, after all, make a difference. Here he had finally failed; here, in the wild, at the feet of his brother, he lost his confidence and forfeited his integrity. All his loyalty, his blind faith and rigid honour—an illusion. The good and the righteous did not win. Lomin had won. And for the first time he had an inkling of why his brother did the things he did, why he forsook his people and took to the cynical wilderness in the service of one even he had to despise.

          "You see now," Lomin said, with what might almost have been a trace of pity in his voice, "why I am what I am? It is no use. The Witch-King will win, and you will all die, even the faultless, beautiful Elves. The world is changing."

          "You'll die too."

          Lomin grinned lopsidedly. "And may it be in the heat of battle! What matters it what side I fight on? The hatred of Men is the same as that of Orcs. Steel does not differ from hand to hand. It matters not, I say: you are butchers as much as we."

          Falathor shook his head feebly, fending off something he did not want to acknowledge. "We fight for peace... to protect the good people, innocent people..."

          At this Lomin threw back his head and howled with laughter. The shadows circling them echoed the sound, hard and ghastly as it was. "You will force peace on your people with the sword?" Lomin asked tauntingly, "Look around—how many of those who follow the Witch-King are men? They are no different from those in your armies. I tell you, it is all a mockery—a mockery! Wake up from your childish dream!"

          Tension seemed to spill from the Man on the ground. His muscles slackened and his head fell back, too heavy with hopelessness to hold upright any longer. He looked to the stars, seeking some comfort or reassurance. But they only twinkled back at him coldly, no different from moonlight reflected in a killer's eyes. Lomin watched his brother for a long moment. Then he reached out a hand.

          "Stand up, brother, and welcome to the world."

          Falathor looked at him bleakly. Then, slowly, he reached out and took his brother's hand.

          *******

          Snow and fire laid aside their differences and swirled around each other in cheerful harmony, flickering mystically as if to entertain the five shapes huddled around the hearth, their backs to a wagon and their hands stretched out towards the flames. The night was dark and cold, but a bubble of warmth and good cheer existed steadfastly on in the company of Fleance Brady. The captain himself had come to pay a visit to his innocuous passengers and the wagon driver who had befriended them, taking a minor break from the almost ceaseless work of watching the wagons, seeing to the animals, observing the weather, calculating their position, checking the merchandise... and so on. They were a week on their way and the weather had grown harsh, though to Trotter it did not seem serious compared to northern winters in Bree. Though comparatively mild, the winds were unpredictable, and a blizzard had broad-sided them that afternoon. Brady had ordered the wagons drawn up in the lee of a stony hill—the main feature of this country—and seen to it that every man was protected from frostbite as well as might be.

          So Trotter, Beleg, Anna, and Ollie Rode made themselves as comfortable as a person can outside in a full-on blizzard with only a wagon as shelter. Rode had harrumphed and said this was one of the hazards of the trade, any true merchant man or wagon driver could deal with it well enough. Beleg had found the situation perversely humorous, and had almost managed to convince Trotter that there was something funny about freezing one's toes off in the middle of nowhere.

          Brady had come by briefly to inform them that the storm would last well into the morning and they would have a right time moving the wagons through all the snow; not to worry, however, he had travelled in worse weather a dozen times before and nothing was sure to go wrong. Then he had trudged back into the whirling snow, no doubt on his way to talk heart into any man who looked as though the turn of events were bringing down his spirits.

          "He's hard as a rock, that man is," Rode commented admiringly after Brady had disappeared into the storm, "it could rain fire and he'd say, alright, men, let's hitch up the horses!"

          "I wouldn't mind a little rain of fire right now," Anna muttered, huddling despondently between Trotter and Beleg. The cold affected her worst of them all, but no one dared mention this or offer her an extra cloak or blanket, as she was sure to bite their head off and spit it over the coals. Her spirit and strength had revived somewhat in the past week, but Trotter knew with regret that it was not the same between them as it had been. He could think of no better remedy than time, however, and he hoped they would have enough of it.

          Beleg, on the other hand, was an unquenchable source of dauntless good humour, though his wit was as biting as ever. He made them all forget their anxieties, and occasionally lifted the burden of worry from Trotter's shoulders. For he could not help but worry—the snow made him keenly aware how late it had grown, and how little time remained. It was winter, the time when the Witch-king was strongest. How Arthedain was faring he dared not guess. As there was little he could do now to hasten their way, he generally tried to turn his mind to other thoughts. This did not always avail him, however, as strange memories and stranger dreams plagued his waking and sleeping hours.

          "Brooding again, my friend?" Beleg asked pointedly, peering at him from under lowered eyelids.

          "Not at all," Trotter replied with false haughteur, "I was composing a song."

          Beleg's face lit up as if the flames had leaped onto his skin. "Excellent! Then you will sing it for us, of course!"

          "Not tonight, I think..."

          "Oh, come, don't be shy. You know you're just waiting to show off—why deny it? But if you want, I'll make you a deal. Sing your song, and in return I'll tell a story even Anna will be forced to like."

          "I like stories," Anna said, looking mildly offended, "why wouldn't I?"

          Beleg only blinked at her innocently and turned back to Trotter. "Well?"

          "How could I refuse a challenge like that?"

          Rode laughed and clapped his hands, and Anna smiled at him expectantly, making him feel almost confident for a moment. Unfortunately, Trotter had of course not actually been composing a song and was now left out in the cold, so to speak. But he had a small store of songs in his memory that he doubted his listeners would have heard before, and thought he might pass without too much ridicule. Bracing himself, he began to sing to a simple, popular melody he had heard often in Bree.

          "The wind was blowing and the snow was growing

          and the cows were lowing in their bright red barns,

          with foul weather winning and the firelight thinning,

old Gammer sat spinning her wildest yarns.

          'I'll reckon you a tale 'bout a brave warrior hale

          dressed all in bright mail of the finest gold;

          how he rode a magic wagon and fought with a dragon

          and then went about braggin' 'til his wife him did scold,

          sayin', 'A right fine story! But by the sound and the fury

          I'll top your big head with a glory of mine own!

          You've got your nose in the air and are looking mighty fair

          but nothing me will scare and I'll brave it all alone!'

          So she hitched up her skirt and packed a mail shirt

          and with a stride quick and pert made off to the wood.

          Her man stayed behind, wond'ring how he should find

          someone sufficiently kind to cook him his food?

          Now while he stood and waited his wife had invaded

          the realm long faded of the sorcerer Zaire.

          She hit him on the head with a frying pan of lead

          and dragged him off to bed before searching through his lair,

          where lay many strange devices and odd-smelling spices

          in tribute to the vices of the lords of black magic.

          But hap'ly the good wife was abhorring of strife

          else the end of her life and this tale been more tragic—

          she touched not the vault's dark contents and faults

          but took smelling salts as proof to her knight

          that she'd fulfilled her vow and he need not bow

          for she'd shown herself now his equal by right.

          After her depart the wizard woke with a start

          and clutched at his heart, for his treasure was stolen;

          for he was apt to faint and without the restraint

          of the salts on his complaint his days would be swollen

          with anxiety and fear. But he shed not a tear,

          but rode on his steer 'til he came at last to their dwelling.        

          He knocked on the door of the farmhouse poor

          and when it opened looked sore and commenced right yelling:

          'O heartless, grieve! Who from an old man would thieve

          his one, last reprieve from the multiplying dangers

          of imperturbable age that confine him to a cage

          of weakness. Ah, rage! In the hands of strangers!'

          "Why, sir, are you not that sorcerer whose lot

           fell to the womanly plot and mercy of my wife?

          I assure you, good fellow, there's no need to turn yellow

          your salts are on the pillow and are still full rife.'

          'Aye, man!' chimed she, 'and if they're your remedy,

          why, I'd not deprive thee of an essential need!

          Take them, poor soul, for I've achieved my goal

          and I'd not play the role of one ruled by greed.'

          Thus dizzy with surprise Zaire claimed his prize

          and his heart grew a size at the kindness of that pair,

          such that he whispered a spell before leaving their dell

          that the knight remain well and his wife ever fair."

         

          "Wonderful!" Rode applauded enthusiastically, "brilliant! Why, little sir, you've quite a voice on you! And do they always sing tales of that sort where you come from?"

          "No one could mistake it as anything but a Hobbit song," Beleg said authoritatively, "what with the jolly rhyme and the laughter and the unavoidable mention of food."

          "I liked it," Anna said, "I like how the wife proved she was as brave and worthy as her husband. He only beat a dragon, but she outsmarted a sorcerer! And she did it without even hurting him, and she was very kind to him in the end."

          "Without hurting him?" Beleg raised his eyebrows. "She hit him on the head with a frying pan!"

          "Yes, but she didn't really hurt him, only a little bit."

          "A little? Have you ever been walloped with a lead frying pan?"

          "You know exactly what I mean! She could've skewered him with a red-hot poker or chopped his head off with an axe but all she did was hit him with a cooking utensil. He only got a bump from it, anyway, since he woke up later."

          "Only? Alright then, let's put your ridiculous assertions to the test, shall we? I'll hit you with a frying pan and you can tell me how much it didn't hurt."

          "Well, aren't you gentil, Mr. Wandering Bowman—or Bowless Man, I should say! Tell me, is it hard work keeping up a reputation as the worst rogue between the East and the Sea?"

          "No more difficult than... say, Trotter, are you alright?"

          Trotter blinked and found himself looking into the quizzical eyes of his friend. Had he been dozing? He felt warm and heavy, and the voices had been coming more faintly, as if from far away. He thought he'd heard something else, too.

          "Sang yourself to sleep, did you?" Beleg asked wryly.

          "No," Trotter said, rubbing his eyes, "it was probably just the monotony of your argument."

          Rode laughed raucously and poked at the fire, turning the coals. They glowed brazenly, defying the wind and snow that still blew and howled around them. Trotter wondered how late it was, and guessed that night had come by now. No doubt that was why he had drifted off. His companions seemed fatigued as well. Anna rested her head on her knees and gazed into the flames, unaware of Beleg, who was watching her, serious now, with a faint line of worry between his eyes. Trotter could guess the Elfit's thoughts—not that Beleg would ever admit to them. How long would the storm last? How cold would it get? How much wood did they have? He and his friend often shared the same worries, but it was generally up to Trotter to express them. He was just about to speak when the same sound that had troubled him before, in what he'd assumed was a half-dream, returned.

          "Do you... do you hear that?" he asked, not realizing how hushed and tense the words were.

          As if on command, all three of his companions became suddenly still, listening in perfect silence. They had all of them been through too much to dismiss a sign of danger, however faint. For a moment only the wind blew, and Trotter half-feared and half-hoped it had only been his imagination. But then it came again: a low, deep, slow throbbing, as of a giant, distant drum. Badum... badum... badum...

          "Yes," Beleg said, his keen eyes searching the impenetrable wall of snow just outside the tiny circle of firelight, "I can hear it. Good ears, Trotter. Now what is it?"

          It was Rode who answered, with low voice and shining eyes. "The heartbeat drum. I've heard it a time or two before, on this road. There's many have heard it, and none who can say what it is."

          "The heartbeat drum?" Anna whispered.

          "Aye. Sounds like a giant heart beating, doesn't it? Some reckon it's the heart of the wilderness itself, the living forest and the animals and the darkness all together. Others say it's a tribe of witches doing their chants and dances out in the night. The only time anyone's ever heard it is at night. And it never moves, neither closer nor nearer. It just stays, beating away, until it stops. Strange." He shook his head. "Strange things out in the wilderness. But I wouldn't let it worry you—it's just a noise, that's all, and ain't never harmed anyone so far as I know."

          Badum, badum, the drum said as if in agreement.

          "But what happens when it stops?" Anna murmured as if to herself. No one answered, sensing perhaps that she had not meant the question to be heard. Trotter wondered what she was thinking. What was in her heart, what was it beating for? Once he might have asked, but things had changed now. They had both changed. It seemed to him that she had grown quiet. Only Beleg was able to rouse her from her silent musings, with his humour and his arguments and his occasional moments of sharp sincerity. Trotter wondered how this journey's end would see them all. Suspicion nudged at him, but he silenced it, for foreboding followed in its footsteps, and he had enough to worry about.

          Not for the first time, he counted the days left until the New Year. He had promised to deliver his message before the year drew to an end. Absurd as he knew it was, he held on to the belief that if he arrived on time, all would be well. Gondor would send her ships and her men to the North, and the combined might of the Dúnedain and their allies would sweep away the Witch-King. All he had to do was reach Osgiliath before the thirty-first of December. Three weeks remained. Not a long time, but he would make it suffice.

          Lost in his thoughts, Trotter did not mark the moment when he slipped into sleep. But in the dark turmoil of his dreams, a distant drum kept time with his heartbeat.

          *******

          The wind died down by morning, though snow still fell lightly. It took them until noon to dig the wagons out and get them moving, and even then the going was slow. Brady assured them that it would grow easier, since the weather had cleared and they were heading south. Sure enough, by the third day after the blizzard there was more mud on the ground than snow, which hardly put the travellers in a better mood but did allow the wagon train to make somewhat better progress. The terrain also began to change as they drew nearer to the Gap between the Misty Mountains and Ered Nimrais. The plain began to ripple, growing into hills more often than not, and leafless trees dotted their flanks. Scrub and underbrush appeared, some of it still green, and the air was no longer so bitingly cold. Grey and wet as the southern winter was, it seemed a world away from the freezing, embattled North.

          Trotter's spirits rose despite the dreary surroundings as they drew closer to Gondor. The end of his journey seemed very near, and he felt himself yearning for rest, a bed with sheets, days spent not walking and worrying but at peace—at least for a while. It would be nice put down the burden.

          For a week nothing eventful occurred, except for the ever-present and unchanging sound of the heartbeat drum, as Rode called it. Trotter heard it every night, somewhere miles away in the wilderness. It seemed to move with them, but did not draw near, and Trotter did not perceive it as threatening, though there was muttering among some of the men who said that the drum had not been known to follow people and this was an unfavourable omen. Brady wisely ignored this, toiling on with the same unshakable confidence. After a time the drum became almost familiar, a trusted and commonplace sound.

          It was not until they reached the Gap at the head of Ered Nimrais that the lull ended.

          It was evening once more, and Trotter sat with his friends around the fire. The night was relatively mild and no wind disturbed the flames. They had been talking of something trivial when Anna brought up the subject of stories, reminding Beleg that on the night of the blizzard he had promised to tell them one that even she would like.

          "Isn't it about time you lived up to your promise?" she asked innocently, but with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, "or will you break your oath, my dear Elfit?"

          "I?" Beleg drew himself up, eyes flashing mockingly. "I've made and kept more oaths than you can count."

          "Well, it's taken you a long time to keep this one. Or maybe you're just becoming forgetful..."

          Beleg cleared his throat. "Your pardon. I was waiting for an appropriate time. Building up suspense, you see."

          Anna nodded knowing and Trotter hid a grin. "Well?" the girl prompted once more.

          "It seems you're already hanging on to my every word," Beleg said with boyish satisfaction, "what can I do but oblige?" Then, with obvious relish and the full ceremony of an experienced story-teller, he began his tale.

          "Long years ago there lived on the western bank of the Great River of Anduin a people closely related to the Hobbits of the Shire today. They called themselves the Fallohides, and they were really more of a big family than a people. They lived in trees rather than holes in the ground, and had quick, nimble fingers. They loved making beautiful things—they loved art, one could say.

          "There was one among them named Peric Deepdweller. You may remember—he was my father. I promised I'd tell you his story someday, and that day, apparently, is here. Well, Peric was a bit different from the average Fallohide. Generally they were shy, quiet people who avoided Men and Dwarves, though they occasionally had dealings with the Elves in a modest, worshipful way. At first the Fallohides' land was unpopulated except for their tribe, and their only neighbours were the Wood-elves of Greenwood the Great. But then Men came, Enedrim or some other breed, and began to fill up the country. They were not hostile, but they were many and they took up the space that had belonged to the Fallohides. Peric had come of age by that time, and he was trusted among his people. A group decided to leave behind the riverbank and make their way west, over the mountains, to find a place empty of Men. Peric went with them, as one of their leaders.

          "They set out in the spring, not knowing how far they meant to go or how long it would take them. They feared the Misty Mountains, for the passes were and are treacherous and hidden, difficult enough for the experienced to tread—and the Fallohides were not mountain people. They held councils debating what paths to take, supposing they could find any at all. Doubt oppressed them and their progress slowed and slowed until their party stopped at the feet of the mountains. They encamped on the north bank of Sîr Ninglor, which is called the Gladden River, and there they stayed, afraid to go forward and afraid to turn back.

          "The Fallohides were not known for their boldness, but in this Peric differed from them. He had been born with a curiosity that some called foolishness and others courage. Whichever it was, it stood him in good stead on this journey, for he went scouting ahead of the company onto the forests on the very knees of the mountains, and so he found the way, though not without aid.

          "Now I must digress for a while, for this is where the second half of the tale joins its counterpart. In those days also, before the flood of Men overran all of what was once wilderness, the Avari still dwelt abroad in the land. They were and remain a very shy people, distrustful of strangers, even the other Elves. There was certainly no love lost between them and the other inhabitants of Middle-earth, be they Man, Dwarf, or Eldar. The Avari keep to the thickest woods and the dark nights, slipping like spirits from shadow to shadow, always in the loneliest parts far distant from farms and towns. They had no permanent dwellings of their own, but wandered always, sometimes in small companies, often alone. They were considerably smaller than Men or Eldar and very slight, with dark hair and grey eyes, moving always softly and silently like the starlight. Theirs was the dim time between night and day, when, like deer, they made their way unnoticed through wood or plain.

          "There was a maiden among them of melancholy mien, who shunned even her own people and travelled always alone. The Avari avowed her an odd creature, for she was estranged from them even as they were from other races, and loved her solitude. When she met with any of her people she was civil enough, but always departed as soon as might be. She loved the quiet of the mountains and the deep woods, and feared the roaring sea; but revered the glint of starlight on a high stream and the lowering shadows of evening in the forest. It was she whom Peric stumbled upon, on the knees of the mountains by the bank of Sîr Ninglor.

          "It was dusk when Peric wandered away from his company in hopes that an idea might come to him if he walked. There had been a council earlier in the evening, and a debate on which way to take. Peric had argued for the mountains, saying that they must stumble on a pass eventually, that there was no quicker way to go, and that there was no other way free of Men. But many others had gainsaid him, countering that they knew nothing of mountain-climbing and would doubtless lose their way and find only death if they attempted to cross without a guide. Some among them advocated turning to the South and making their way around the mountain range through the Gap; but most agreed that this path would lead them through too many inhabited lands. There was another group that counselled the Eastern way—to turn away and go to the East instead, where they might find lands as yet undiscovered by others. Too many that night seemed to be swayed by this vision, and Peric feared they might prevailed; but he had always in his heart had a strange dread of the East, though no threat had ever come to him from there. Still he resolved secretly that if the company decided to go East, he would continue on alone over the mountains, towards the setting sun and the sea, which seemed to beckon him on.

          "Such were his musings when he came upon the cold mountain stream, Sîr Ninglor, pure and clear as the dawn of the first days. His mind was elsewhere but his feet turned as if by inner knowledge to follow the water towards its source, uphill to the snow and stone. He did not notice the sky growing dark, and the stars were bright enough that he could see well enough that he was not forced to stop.

          "The stream, winding through sparse woods up until then, came suddenly out into a small meadow, and there Peric halted, surprised at how far he had come. The meadow looked peaceful under the starlight, overgrown with grass as tall as his knees. At the side opposite him stood a large white boulder jutting out into the stream. And then Peric caught his breath, for sitting on that boulder was a strange maiden, ghostly and fair and unlike anything he had ever seen. She had as yet taken no notice of him, but remained still, gazing into the leaping waters. She was dressed, as far as he could tell, in grey trousers, jacket, and cloak, with soft shoes and no weapon that he could see. Her hood was drawn up over her head.

          "Enchanted by this dream-like vision, Peric remained rooted where he stood, unable to move or speak. How long he would have stood there is anyone's guess, but presently the maiden took notice of him and leaped suddenly to her feet, startled. She made as if to run away, but Peric's tongue was loosened, and he called after her.

          " 'Stay!'

          "Whether she had wearied finally of her long solitude, or whether there was something in Peric's voice that gave her pause, I cannot say; but the maiden of the Avari hesitated, standing uncertain upon her white boulder. In that moment fate was decided, for Peric spoke to her and she felt herself captured by his voice, with no desire to escape. She came close to him, saying her name was Belafalathiel and her people were the Avari; and both of them were much amazed at the other, neither having come across the other's type before. Then Peric asked her what she did alone in those parts, and she answered thus:

          " 'I go west, over the mountains; for this land is become too crowded for me, with Men and their houses and quarrels. Even you yourself are proof of it, for Men never travel alone, and you must have others about you.'

          "Peric protested that he was not a Man, but that his people called themselves Fallohides, and they too were fleeing the same flood she had foreseen. Then he told her of his company and their longing for the west and how they knew not the way. A moment of kindness or a longing for companions must have sparked in Belafalathiel's heart, for she said she was going by secret paths over the Misty Mountains, and that she would guide them if he wished. Peric thanked her heartily, trying to persuade her to come with him back to the company of Fallohides to speak to them; but she would have none of it. She promised instead to wait for him and any that wished to follow him in that meadow at noon on the following day. Then she slipped away, despite all he could do to stay her.

          "Peric made his way back to the camp, hopeful and apprehensive at once, and got himself to bed. On the following morrow he told his fellows of his adventure of the night and how he had found a guide over the Misty Mountains. They were sceptical, quite understandably, and many would not heed him and decided instead to turn back and go toward the East. Some of the younger and bolder Fallohides, however, stuck with Peric and agreed to follow him and Belafalathiel over the mountains. In the end about fifteen of them broke camp and hiked up Sîr Ninglor to the meadow. There they found Belafalathiel waiting for them, and they were as amazed at the sight as Peric had been. For though they had known Wood-elves, she was little like that tall and light-hearted people, reminding them more of the fairest of their own maidens.

          "Belafalathiel lead them to a narrow pass near where Sîr Ninglor issued from the mountainside. She called it Cirith Eressëa, the Lonely Pass, and in all their journeying there they met with no other travellers. It was high and treacherous, and no doubt the Fallohides would have been lost and perished quickly without their guide. She led them surely and confidently, nimble as a roe deer; but she was reckless and took no care for her own safety, taking such risks that Peric often felt his heart stop with terror for her. You may have already guessed that Peric's feelings for Belafalathiel were not impartial; but he said nothing, concentrating instead all his efforts on leading his company over the pass.

          "On that pass one day something occurred that my father told me about but once later; and it was from this more than anything else that I could tell it had moved him greatly. It was a clear, bright day and the company had stopped for the mid-day meal under an overhang by the side of the path. The going had been good and they were merry, so that only Peric noticed that Belafalathiel had slipped away. He left his companions quietly and followed her prints in the snow until he came upon her, standing at the edge of a chasm and staring down into the depths. Following her gaze, he found the source of her fascination: a frozen waterfall, trapped delicately in a single moment of its fall.

          " 'Look at it there, falling forever and yet not falling at all,' she said. But he was uneasy, and bade her step back from the edge. She laughed at him, saying that if she fell it would be no great loss to anyone, least of all herself, and so what did it matter?

          " 'I would consider it a loss,' Peric replied, 'and so it would be, for no life is without value, and the value your life holds for me is beyond measure.'

          "Then Belafalathiel fell quiet and turned from the edge of the abyss, and they walked back together to the camp, speaking not a word. But from that day she was more careful, and smiled more often.

          "Presently the company came down out of the mountains into the lands south of Rivendell, and they rejoiced greatly at the passing, for not a one of them had been lost or seriously injured. Hope lifted their hearts when they saw the kind country around them. They travelled little further, but halted in the wedge of land between the rivers Mitheithel and Bruinen. There they made their abode, and in later years others came to join them. What became of those who went East no one knew, but I doubt not they came to an unpleasant end.

          "But the tale of Peric and Belafalathiel does not end here. Belafalathiel had fulfilled her promise and though the Fallohides had grown fond of her and loved her as one of their own, she would not stay with them, saying that a settled life was not yet for her. Some weeks after the company had settled in she determined to depart again, and there was a great leave-taking and much sadness. But no entreaty would stay her.

          "She left at dawn the next morning, in the quiet while the Fallohides still slept; but she did not get far before she was overtaken by Peric, apparelled as for a long journey.

          " 'What do you wish of me?' quoth she, 'no words will avail you, for I will not stay among your people, though I hold them in high regard. That life is not for me, nor would I give up my wandering for it.

          " 'I do not ask it of you,' Peric replied, 'only that I may travel with you as your companion and never leave your side.'

          " 'I am accustomed to travel alone,' Belafalathiel said, though by this time the burden of loneliness weighed heavily upon her.

          " 'Then I must ask your pardon, lady,' Peric answered firmly, 'but if you deny my company I will follow you ever, until the very ends of the earth. You will not be rid of me anymore than of your shadow, and you will not be able to hide from me anymore than from the stars. For the love and regard I have for you will lead me more surely than the sun does the shadows, and as tirelessly.'

          "Then Belafalathiel's heart softened and it seemed to her that her long exile was over, for now wherever she went she would have a dear friend always at her side. She took Peric's hand and kissed him and spoke thus:

          " 'Come then, and leave me not; for now that I have loved you I could not bear to be without you.'

          "So began the travels of Peric and Belafalathiel, the Fallohide and the Avari, the strangest couple ever seen in these lands. It would take many nights to relate the adventures that befell them. For long years they wandered together, until the time of my birth. By then the Shire had been founded, and for a time my parents took me and dwelled there. At the death of my father, of which you know, my mother took me and fled to the woods of Lûne; and from there you know, and my tale is told."  

          Beleg's voice died and the crackling of the fire took its place. It had grown late, as Trotter could tell from the stars, and he felt sleepy and content. The Elfit's tale had lulled him, as it had his companions. Both Rode and Beleg were gazing into the flames, their minds obviously far away. Anna was watching Beleg, but shadow hid her face and Trotter could not read her expression. The night was filled with the same steady, slow drumming that had followed them for the past week.

          Trotter fell asleep that night with the drumming in his ears. His rest was uneasy; he tossed and turned on the hard ground, slipping in and out of a doze. Some premonitory instinct, perhaps, kept him from slipping totally into oblivion. It was only his light sleep that saved him that night, else both he and all the North might have been overtaken by calamity.     

* The South Downs

A/N: Thank you for patience and I apologize for my slowness in updating. This chapter and the next were meant to be one but it grew too long so I split it in two and decided to post both at once. I'll do my best to write more quickly, but since finals are in two weeks there might not be anything new until Christmas break. Thanks again!