Chapter Ten

That night, we camped out next to a riverbed that had run dry. Saruman's doing, of course. Needless to say, I was liking the bastard less and less every waking moment. Couldn't wait to introduce him to a pair of friends of mine. Mr. Utility Knife and Mr. Bang Bang.

On Gandalf's advise I tried to get some shut-eye with the others, but after an hour of tossing and turning I opted for guard duty. So, I climbed the nearest tree and nestled myself in it's upper branches, looking out into the inky blackness ahead.

It was an unsettling sight.

I wasn't used to this sort of stillness. No blinking flashes of gunfire in the distance. No dull roar and high pitched whistles of bombs being dropped so far away it looks like a fireworks display. Nothing. Just darkness. It freaked me out.

At the edges of my mind, I noted a faint sort of fluttering sound, like a moth too close to your ear. Then in got louder. And louder. Until a deep thrum was booming overhead and we were suddenly plunged in complete darkness. The faint light from the moon and stars struggled to be seen, but was almost completely smothered by the black cloud. I heard the shouts of the watchmen on the ground far below me.

"Stay where you are! Draw no weapons! Wait and it will pass you by!" Gandalf shouted to the men when I heard the unmistakable sound of swords being drawn. I frowned and stood up, pulling myself to the very top of the tree so I could see exactly what was happening. And let me say this right now:-

Big, bad mistake.

The moment I stuck my head up I knew something was terribly wrong.

"Bugger!" I yelled when I felt leathery black birds started dive bombing for me, smacking me with their wings and pecking me with their hook-like beaks. Purely on instinct I lifted my hands to defend myself, thus causing me to lose my balance. Well, you can guess what happened next.

"FAITH!! NO!!"

CRASH. SMACK. BANG. CRASH. SNAP. THUD.

"Ow," I muttered, gasping to get my breath back. The world was spotty but I could just make out the shape of Haldir's face above mine, his features twisted with smothered worry. Because Elves never worry. They are politely concerned, but never worried.

"Captain Faith … can you hear me?" He was asking, his voice calm and clear.

"Faith? Faith can you move?" Gandalf asked, kneeling next to me. I wanted to tell him to stand up so he wouldn't get grass stains on his nice white robes, but I was still too winded. But not hurt, I noted. Not hurt at all.

Odd.

"I'm ... alright." I coughed, pushing Haldir to the side so I could sit up. I looked around me, amused by the various reactions of the others. Aragorn was staring at Haldir suspiciously, Legolas was staring at Aragorn wonder why he was staring at Haldir, and Gimli was staring at the tree. I think he blamed it for my little mishap, and was wondering how quickly he could chop it down with his axe.

"No man could have survived a fall like that," Someone I didn't know muttered. There were murmur's of agreement throughout the group and I wasn't sure what I was supposed to say. So, I simply came out with,

"The stars must have smiled on me,"

The rest of the night was pretty run of the mill, though nobody could sleep after our frightening encounter with the birds. Most of the men talked quietly about the future, or about Isenguard. Some talked of me. I listened in on many of the conversations, feigning sleep.

"It is not the natural order of things. No man survives a fall like that, no matter how fate favours him," One man whispered, glancing fearfully at the mountains where the crow-things had flown.

"Yes, but maybe Captain Faith is not a man," One said. My eyes widened and I held my breath, my teeth biting into my lip. Had they guessed? "Maybe he has Elf blood in him. He holds a wisdom that no one as young as he looks holds. He has delicate features and is as tall as any Elf," He continued. I let out my breath in a whoosh. False alarm.

"No, look how he is with the horses. He is no Elf," Another man argued. As one could imagine, I had to fight the urge to stand up and prove to him that even though I'm not great with horses, I'm pretty damn good with my fists.

"What I want to know is where he came from. Appearing out of nowhere in strange attire and even stranger weapons. And word has it that he looks at men the way a man should look at a woman," Oops. Damn hormones. I'm a fifteen year old girl, what do you expect!?

"Nay, you must not accuse a brave and noble warrior of such filth if you hold no proof!" I raised an eyebrow and decided that if I was going to stay in Old Middle-Earth, I would have to start giving some social awareness lessons. Homophobe alert anyone? Filth, indeed.

"I agree with Eomer. You must not say these wicked things with nothing but your own suspicions. The man saved us in a time of war, asking for nothing in return. The peoples of Rohan owe him their lives."

The conversation at that point and they turned to the politics of Gondor. As interesting as that may sound, it was utterly snore-worthy. And so, I slept.

When I awoke, it was still dark. Not pitch black dark, but a navy – coloured -dark, which meant sunrise was imminent. The group were mostly asleep, though a good few were up and about, taking care of their horses or sharpening their swords. Altogether though, it was a rather uncomfortable atmosphere. Uncertainty had manifested itself into every man's heart, burrowing itself deep inside so that nobody could get a moment's peace. Not real peace.

There may be no rest for the wicked, but there was certainly no more for the good.

Good and Evil. Light and Darkness. Purity and Corruption.

Opposites that could not exist without one another. Without the light, we would be cold and alone, with nothing but destruction to fill the need in our souls. Without the darkness, we would be blinded by a light no being could possibly understand. There would be no real point to carry on. No drive. No cause to believe in or stand up for.

"We must move before first light!" Someone shouted, shoving me from my brooding and back into the real world. Well, I hoped it was real anyway. Then everyone was up and moving, packing up their horses and whatnot.

"It shall not be long before we reach the gates of Isenguard. We are close," Gandalf said to Theoden, glancing at me as he said so.

"Whoop – de – bloody – do." I muttered, hauling my backpack up onto Spirit. The tales I could tell you about what that bloody backpack and I have been through. I swear, if I had a penny for every time I had to sew the damn thing up with shoelaces or hair-ties I'd be a millionaire.

Because I had already packed the night before, I really had nothing to do. So, I took out the book Gandalf had given me, settled myself a little bit away for the others, and looked through it. I had managed to work out that the text was the very same as the ancient texts you could go and see in the London Museum of Old Middle-Earth -- but I still couldn't read it.

As I stared at it, it felt as though the world had slowed down to accommodate me. As though the very trees had stopped growing so I could have more time to read. Weird? Definitely. Real? Maybe.

I stared hard at the text, my nose barely an inch away from the surface of the rough parchment. The symbols were flying around my head at a dizzying pace, desperately trying to get me to understand their meaning. Trying to teach me. And then, I'm not sure how to describe this -- I clicked. Ding! This light lit up all these part of my mind that I had never even known existed. A part of my mind that was still tuned to the Old ways. The traditions, the ceremonies, the languages. It was all there for the taking. All I had to do was sit down and allow it to open up.

The text seemed to pulse with energy as my eyes scanned the surface with a furious pace, trying to read it all before I forgot how to read it.

Hey, you never know.

The book was like a compendium of the experiences of people who had been 'To the Other Side'. And let me tell you, there weren't very many.

Four people. That was it.

Four people who had gone there and come back to tell the tale. And you want to know something else? None of their stories were even remotely the same. The only thing that linked their stories (and mine) was one recurring factor. The Voice. The Voice of whatever had been Up There. That Voice had spoken to all of us, effected all of us.

I wanted to read all of it but something told me there would be time for it later, so I snapped the book shut decisively. The moment the pages touched one another, the world set back to real time, and I looked up in shock when the peaceful calm I had been settled into was shattered.

I sat up and I ran a hand through my hair and was disgusted to find it was stiff as a board with a foul substance that I preferred not to think about. "Aragorn!" I said, jogging up to him.

"Yes?" He said, snapping his gaze up at me and letting go of the angel pendant on his necklace that he had been staring intently at.

"I was wondering if you knew how to get this out of my hair. I dread to think what it must be doing to me," I said, grimacing as I scraped a handful of gooey stuff from my roots. Aragorn's lips twitched perilously. "Laugh and on my honour, I shall sew your lips together with your own hair," I growled, not in the mood for being made fun of. Then again, I'm not often in that sort of mood, if ever.

"Here. Rub one palm full of this into your scalp. It's an old Elven mixture," He said, reaching into his pack and throwing me a bottle of -- something.

"Thank you," I said sincerely, pouring out some of the pearly white substance from the beautiful little glass bottle into my hand. I did as directed, rubbing it into my hair before I could think better of it.

Heaven. No wonder the bloody Elves have that whole 'shining hair' thing going on.

It felt silky and fresh and it smelled of lilies and limes. It felt like a tiny little slice of the Old Days. The days of shopping malls, movies and ice cream. The days of showers and beds. The days that had died off with every man woman and child that fell to the ground.

I often think of the Old Days. I remember that sometimes, when you were waiting for your favourite program to start, you used to flick the channels around. You may stop on a news station for a minute, your eyes flicking across the screen as you watched the reporters dispassionately reading out their papers. They tell you eighteen people have died in this explosion, fourty people injured in that attack, nine children killed in friendly fire yesterday -- blah blah blah. You feel the faintest bit of sorrow for the poor sods, get bored and switch back to your program, the idea that your fellow man is suffering quickly replaced by the latest plot of your program. When you buy your newspaper, you flick to the cinema section, or maybe the sports pages. You don't even blink at the news on the front page, that however-many people have been murdered in Congo or Sierra-Leone or the East-lands.

Because it's not your problem.

Those people dying are not your brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers. They're faceless victims that mean nothing to you. They're just people who probably had it coming. None of it concerns you, you need to get a pass on your Algebra test.

That is, until it's you who's the one getting shot at.

Until it's your best friend who's leg was blown off in an air raid.

Until it's you who is responsible for a hundred other people who are just as scared shitless as you are.

You don't want to die. You don't want to fight. But you don't get a fucking choice. It's 'Here's a gun, point it at the bad guy and pull the trigger. If you miss, you'll probably end up dead. Good luck.'

Suddenly, those computer games where you have to shoot everyone are a terrifying reality. Suddenly, everything is far too loud, far too real. Before you can blink you find yourself staring at some nameless dead bastard that died at the end of your gun ... and you don't feel one bit sorry for him. You're glad. Glad because it was that bastard who killed your best friend. That bastard who shot at you. There's no honour in the kill. None. You're just getting one up on the bad guys. You're trying not to get shot.

War is not an art form. Survivors aren't skilled warriors, or well trained honourable soldiers.

They're just really fucking lucky.

"That feels better. What is it?" I asked Aragorn, forcing myself to concentrate on the present.

"Old remedy. The Lady Arwen gave it to me," Aragorn said. He blinked, seeming to realize the implication of his words and he looked up sharply. I smiled and plopped down next to him, putting my hands on the grass behind me and leaning back so my face was tilted towards the forest roof. It was beautiful.

"I cared for someone very much, once. I learnt you cannot control who your heart longs for. All you can do is cherish that love, and hope for the best. If things are meant to work out, they shall," I said, standing and walking away. I'd leave him to stew for a bit.

Right now though, I had to see and Elf about a horse.