Chapter Two
In which our Heroine receives another vision.
The Ranger had followed the trail long enough this day. The beast and its rider had travelled slowly, and so should not be too far ahead when first light came. The breemen had sent to Rivendell for a Kingsman, as the Rangers were now known, to track a missing horse, but as soon as he scouted the area of its disappearance he had found its tracks, and knew it had a rider. A tall yet gaunt man, he thought, limping a little, stumbling. It was a wonder he had made it this far. The horse-thief had travelled slowly yet steadily to the Forodwaith, the plains before the realm of Angmar. A desolate, empty place in the lost realms, known as the spine of middle earth. The ranger travelled light, surviving on what sustenance he could find in the wilderness, which for a ranger was enough to feed three. It took him more than a year to reach Mount Gundabad, on foot as he was, to see again the start of the Grey Mountains that were as far as any had travelled and survived, except the rangers and the elves. By now, he realised, the Breelanders would have given him up for dead or lost, as he followed the trail now for his own pleasure. He was surprised that the Horse Thief had gotten this far in such inhospitable territory. He had learned much about the identity of his quarry from the tracks he left, not seeming to care if they showed in the deep snow. He had left such items behind on the way to show that he had indeed come from the shire, his store of Bree-made foodstuffs must be running low, as he had made several attempts, more unsuccessful than he would have wished no doubt, to catch fish in the mountain streams or shoot wild birds. He knew that he had dark, long hair, and wore dark garments. The Kingsman rested lightly before setting off at dawn. He should catch the thief soon, if he was lucky.
Eowyn shifted in her sleep as she lay in her tent, the soft breathing of her handmaiden beside her, the loud snores of the Riders mingling with the horses' snorts outside, the ambassador silent for once, on watch. The wind blew from Lothlorien, over the river Umlight and carried with it a droplet of water from the Witch-Queen's Mirror, to find Eowyn as she drifted in her dreamless sleep...
Chilled to the bone, but still going on...trudging through bare stone valleys ...on and on...to the mountains, tall, jagged and black, raised like fists of defiance on the horizon...falling into deep snow...cold...blackness...
Eowyn started awake. She felt the snow around her, felt it chill her bones, and yet...it had been him she had sensed, she was certain! Could it have been Grima's death she had witnessed? No...he had been filled with determination, she felt it. She felt sure he was alive. Surely he was? She hoped with all her heart that he was alive... Until she realised what she had wished, and sank down to lie troubled and awake until dawn, and the last leg of their journey. They would cross the great river Anduin on hastily constructed rafts on the morrow, which would put them in sight of Mirkwood, home of the Wood Elves. Rhovanion was a strange, dark country. Mirkwood itself had once been a stronghold of the Dark Lord while he gathered strength to go back to Mordor, under the guise of a necromancer; one of the lords of the dead, and harmless to the living. The trees had been tainted by the evil presence, and even now rose silent and forbidding, the shadows clinging to their limbs, foul insects and spiders roamed free in its depths. There was but one path through it, or there had been in older times. Now the Wood elves patrolled the entire Wood, under the command of their Captain, Prince Legolas. It was one of his command that Eowyn hoped to reach, for their intentions would surely grant them safe passage, if not an escort directly to the Elf King's Palace.
Grima pulled his cloak tighter around his gaunt yet toughening body. A year of trudging across plains and through mountains had brought new strength to his lithe and sinuous frame. Once they had called him Snake; in a scarce moment of rest he reflected upon how true that now was. He felt a strange empathy for the solitary predator; his thoughts bent solely on survival, except for those moments of penance, when he thought of hair the colour of moonlight, of feminine laughter in golden halls...of ice cold eyes that watched his as he in turn watched hers... of what had been promised to him, if he surrendered his mind to madness... He had wound his way here from the Shire, that blasted country in which he had lived in hiding for so long. He remembers the stinks of Bree along with how those putrid odours had clung to him, and thought with what in any other mind could be called pleasure, at his new solitary existence. Who would have thought one could survive three arrows in the back? And hide while his wounds healed, under their very noses? He almost laughed. Instead, his lips curled into a wry smile as he thought again of how he had escaped, and made his way here. And soon he would be home...would they know him there? He doubted that his family survived. It was fortunate that none now lived who knew of his origins in the Rhunlands. It was a long and arduous journey, but where else could he go? To enter any town from the Shire to Mordor would result in immediate death. But there in the Northlands at least he would belong, in however a twisted and strange manner. There he might find peace...
The journey through Mirkwood was one Eowyn did not care to repeat. The trees lent in oppressively so that the sky could not be seen, and all seemed dark and malevolent. They progressed so slowly that she was uncertain whether they had rode any further at all. Eowyn coped well, although she was uncomfortable in such company and surroundings, but her handmaiden seemed distraught and hunched low on her saddle, wrapped in her cloak. When they camped by night she would huddle close to the fire, and beg her Mistress in a timid whisper to recount what elf-lore she knew, to lighten her spirit. This Eowyn did, although unsure as to what she could tell the girl that would soothe her.
As the night drew in Eowyn thought once more about the man she sought. Why was she so bent on finding him? She did not understand. The vision in the mirror of Galadriel had unnerved her, yet seemed as if it was nevertheless her natural recourse to seek Grima out, but what then? To kill him? Hatred swelled in her breast. The evil worm had killed her King, caused the deaths of hundreds of good men and women. Of course she would kill him! He deserved no less. Again she could not rest, her dark thoughts tormenting her. She had thought Grima dead all this time, and remembered how her heart had leaped in her chest when she learned he lived still. How long had he been travelling? What hardships had he endured? She did not know where he was, or where he was going. The mountains she saw, she realised, could be the key. She had felt his determination to reach them, at whatever cost. Maybe the Elves would know what mountains they were. Eowyn slept fitfully that night, haunted by the ghosts of long forgotten dreams.
In which our Heroine receives another vision.
The Ranger had followed the trail long enough this day. The beast and its rider had travelled slowly, and so should not be too far ahead when first light came. The breemen had sent to Rivendell for a Kingsman, as the Rangers were now known, to track a missing horse, but as soon as he scouted the area of its disappearance he had found its tracks, and knew it had a rider. A tall yet gaunt man, he thought, limping a little, stumbling. It was a wonder he had made it this far. The horse-thief had travelled slowly yet steadily to the Forodwaith, the plains before the realm of Angmar. A desolate, empty place in the lost realms, known as the spine of middle earth. The ranger travelled light, surviving on what sustenance he could find in the wilderness, which for a ranger was enough to feed three. It took him more than a year to reach Mount Gundabad, on foot as he was, to see again the start of the Grey Mountains that were as far as any had travelled and survived, except the rangers and the elves. By now, he realised, the Breelanders would have given him up for dead or lost, as he followed the trail now for his own pleasure. He was surprised that the Horse Thief had gotten this far in such inhospitable territory. He had learned much about the identity of his quarry from the tracks he left, not seeming to care if they showed in the deep snow. He had left such items behind on the way to show that he had indeed come from the shire, his store of Bree-made foodstuffs must be running low, as he had made several attempts, more unsuccessful than he would have wished no doubt, to catch fish in the mountain streams or shoot wild birds. He knew that he had dark, long hair, and wore dark garments. The Kingsman rested lightly before setting off at dawn. He should catch the thief soon, if he was lucky.
Eowyn shifted in her sleep as she lay in her tent, the soft breathing of her handmaiden beside her, the loud snores of the Riders mingling with the horses' snorts outside, the ambassador silent for once, on watch. The wind blew from Lothlorien, over the river Umlight and carried with it a droplet of water from the Witch-Queen's Mirror, to find Eowyn as she drifted in her dreamless sleep...
Chilled to the bone, but still going on...trudging through bare stone valleys ...on and on...to the mountains, tall, jagged and black, raised like fists of defiance on the horizon...falling into deep snow...cold...blackness...
Eowyn started awake. She felt the snow around her, felt it chill her bones, and yet...it had been him she had sensed, she was certain! Could it have been Grima's death she had witnessed? No...he had been filled with determination, she felt it. She felt sure he was alive. Surely he was? She hoped with all her heart that he was alive... Until she realised what she had wished, and sank down to lie troubled and awake until dawn, and the last leg of their journey. They would cross the great river Anduin on hastily constructed rafts on the morrow, which would put them in sight of Mirkwood, home of the Wood Elves. Rhovanion was a strange, dark country. Mirkwood itself had once been a stronghold of the Dark Lord while he gathered strength to go back to Mordor, under the guise of a necromancer; one of the lords of the dead, and harmless to the living. The trees had been tainted by the evil presence, and even now rose silent and forbidding, the shadows clinging to their limbs, foul insects and spiders roamed free in its depths. There was but one path through it, or there had been in older times. Now the Wood elves patrolled the entire Wood, under the command of their Captain, Prince Legolas. It was one of his command that Eowyn hoped to reach, for their intentions would surely grant them safe passage, if not an escort directly to the Elf King's Palace.
Grima pulled his cloak tighter around his gaunt yet toughening body. A year of trudging across plains and through mountains had brought new strength to his lithe and sinuous frame. Once they had called him Snake; in a scarce moment of rest he reflected upon how true that now was. He felt a strange empathy for the solitary predator; his thoughts bent solely on survival, except for those moments of penance, when he thought of hair the colour of moonlight, of feminine laughter in golden halls...of ice cold eyes that watched his as he in turn watched hers... of what had been promised to him, if he surrendered his mind to madness... He had wound his way here from the Shire, that blasted country in which he had lived in hiding for so long. He remembers the stinks of Bree along with how those putrid odours had clung to him, and thought with what in any other mind could be called pleasure, at his new solitary existence. Who would have thought one could survive three arrows in the back? And hide while his wounds healed, under their very noses? He almost laughed. Instead, his lips curled into a wry smile as he thought again of how he had escaped, and made his way here. And soon he would be home...would they know him there? He doubted that his family survived. It was fortunate that none now lived who knew of his origins in the Rhunlands. It was a long and arduous journey, but where else could he go? To enter any town from the Shire to Mordor would result in immediate death. But there in the Northlands at least he would belong, in however a twisted and strange manner. There he might find peace...
The journey through Mirkwood was one Eowyn did not care to repeat. The trees lent in oppressively so that the sky could not be seen, and all seemed dark and malevolent. They progressed so slowly that she was uncertain whether they had rode any further at all. Eowyn coped well, although she was uncomfortable in such company and surroundings, but her handmaiden seemed distraught and hunched low on her saddle, wrapped in her cloak. When they camped by night she would huddle close to the fire, and beg her Mistress in a timid whisper to recount what elf-lore she knew, to lighten her spirit. This Eowyn did, although unsure as to what she could tell the girl that would soothe her.
As the night drew in Eowyn thought once more about the man she sought. Why was she so bent on finding him? She did not understand. The vision in the mirror of Galadriel had unnerved her, yet seemed as if it was nevertheless her natural recourse to seek Grima out, but what then? To kill him? Hatred swelled in her breast. The evil worm had killed her King, caused the deaths of hundreds of good men and women. Of course she would kill him! He deserved no less. Again she could not rest, her dark thoughts tormenting her. She had thought Grima dead all this time, and remembered how her heart had leaped in her chest when she learned he lived still. How long had he been travelling? What hardships had he endured? She did not know where he was, or where he was going. The mountains she saw, she realised, could be the key. She had felt his determination to reach them, at whatever cost. Maybe the Elves would know what mountains they were. Eowyn slept fitfully that night, haunted by the ghosts of long forgotten dreams.