Chapter Four: Journey

The months flew by in a whirlwind of days and nights, light and dark, until one day was indistinguishable from the previous and the next. Each morning I rose at dawn to begin training; each night I collapsed into bed in preparation for the morning yet to come. So time dripped by the black tower. Before the very end of the second year, I was summoned to the heights of the tower where I had first met the Lord.

I glided in with the same Elven grace as the initial meeting, but wisdom grows on young Elves. I sank to a knee, the white skirts falling around my feet, and murmured, "My Lord."

He raised a bony hand with white claw fingers outstretched and brought me to my feet. For a moment, we locked eyes, neither daring to move or breathe. Finally he lifted my chin and smiled like a hunting tiger ready to pounce.

"Yes, Sarelaine, this is the end. It is the end of our lengthy union. And are you not joyous that the day has come when I have one final command that stands between your current status and absolute freedom?"

My throat constricted slightly, for I was afraid that his words were false. But when he rubbed his hands together impatiently, I replied, "I shall be pleased to live for myself once more, but sorry that I shall be leaving you, my Lord."

A low, harsh chuckle sounded from his lips and became a cold laugh. "Excellent," he clicked his teeth together. "Then you shall."

"Sarelaine, do you know what drew me to you, rather than the Elven maidens who were more beautiful, intelligent, or courageous?" he asked thoughtfully, brows knitting together over his forehead. Without waiting for a response, he continued, "It was those eyes, girl, green and cold and smooth as a mirror of jade. They draw humans closer with their impassivity and icy elegance, and then—" A hand shot out with an immeasurable swiftness, then slowly drifted back to his side. "Then, they keep them near enough to strike."

"My Lord—"

He ignored my weak protests and spoke again. "Your task is as follows: to track the movements of the armies of Gondor; to create a written account of your journeys that can be referred to, should there be a need; and finally…to kill the king Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Elessar, the one who wields the Sword that was Broken, and who is wed to Lady Arwen Evenstar."

It was a nearly impossible task for anyone, the final part, since kings surrounded themselves with soldiers, advisors, and many other men of power. Unless I could find him alone, I did not stand a chance. And Aragorn of Arathorn would never be alone, for he was not stupid to believe that he could defeat an enemy that attacked en masse with only his sword flashing in the light. He would be a difficult opponent, even if I remembered all the skills I had learned over the years.

Of course, I stood no chance against him. I don't believe anyone today would deny that, and certainly, I did not fool myself with the mere dream that there was a possibility of my success. I opened my hand carefully and examined each of the tiny scars criss-crossed, which made me an experienced warrior maiden. Then I drew my sleeves farther up and saw the clean, white forearm unmarred by warfare. In all of its purity and delicate beauty, it condemned me to death.

A death for glory was not the same as a death for freedom. But which would I find myself lying at the feet of? Was it to be my own choice, or that of my Lord?

There are so many questions, but so few answers. Or perhaps they simply do not wish to make themselves known to me.

* * * * *

Only one hour had passed before I stood outside the tower, wrapped in a green-gray cloak and waiting for a horse. He had been generous enough to provide for one, as I had arrived by stepping with one foot before the other. Master Shadowman appeared presently with a white mare, and loosely roped to her side were a longbow and many of the supplies that I would need should something run amiss. But I doubted that I could not find enough to live upon on the trail.

He inclined his head humbly and passed me the reins, along with a whispered, "Good luck, my Lady." It was troubling how aloof, hard Shadowman behaved like a fawning servant now, so I nodded and smiled demurely in return. Then, springing up onto the smooth, firm back of the mare, I nudged it forward and it whinnied softly before tossing its proud head and settling into a steady trot.

She was a beauty, even to one who has seen many horses come and go. Her coat glistened in the morning sunlight, and waves of silky mane flowed down her neck. No common barnyard horse was she, neither she was a warhorse of Rohan—the small but regal head and build suggested a palfrey crossed with a desert stallion. But no matter her heritage, there was a certain amount of pride to be had owning or traveling with her. But no, such a horse could not be owned, and I felt lucky to be accepted.

Together we disappeared into the thick brambles. For the first time, they gave way at the touch instead of forming an invisible shield around the black tower. A great weight lifted off my shoulders, and I am sure that Ailwing, my steed, experienced the same.

We were alone and crowded, all at once, and it sent a shiver up my back. The very trees—sighing, crying in the wind—whispered to one another of my coming, their sacred pathways undoubtedly violated by hoof prints. Timeless and unyielding, I had heard stories of shepherds of the trees, Ents, that ruled their domains and protected them against humans and Elves alike with their hard, living-wood arms and legs. They were slow to act, so the old stories said, but once awakened, Lady, they were unstoppable. Almost unconsciously, I bowed my head in reverence to these greatest of woodland beings, whether they were present or not.

An entire row of trees bent their leafy boughs, sashaying to the final chords of the wind. Another followed, until a wave had rippled through the entire forest. Then the way before me closed into impenetrable undergrowth.

They were awake.

I stifled a gasp. It was all about maintaining the cool, observant manner that propelled me through life—the life that was sure to exist after one simple task. So I dismounted and stripped Ailwing of her saddle and bridle, leaving only a halter and the few supplies I truly needed. The rest? An offering to the woods.

Opening a canteen, I poured half of its contents over the small pile of food, leather, and woods on the trail and clasped my hands. As the vines teased my hair (dreadful nuisance, really) and a lone skylark trilled a melancholy note over head, I made sacrifice to the Guardians.

May the gods bless your souls. May the Havens grant you entry after their passings.

When slighted, may they avenge you with weapons and wizardry alike, and may your lives be long and your sufferings short.

The sun shines brightly upon your leaves of green. May you find warmth and light as such.

May it be so.

AN: What do you think? This story and this chapter, in particular, have been extremely difficult to write, which is why I've been neglecting it for so long. Review please, and flames are welcome as always.