2173
BS
Saturday, July 17, 2004
Monday, July 19, 2004

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings and all its characters, places, plot, etc. belong to other people. Too many to list them all. No infringement intended. Not claiming it as my own . . . not that it really matters. -sigh-
Warnings: More drama. And more AU-ness.
Notes: Hah ha! Oh ho oho ho. Umm . . . hahaha. It's just one of those fics. Hahaha.

Ephemeral

chapter two

Nightfall crept upon him quickly that night. The house had been chaotic with its Lord's trip, and he had been able to easily sneak food from the stores behind the kitchen and in the cellars. That night, there had been a large feast for his father's departure, and all had been in attendance. He had taken his normal spot next to Arwen. At one time, he had sat with his brothers, but they no longer made available that seat. Subtly slighted, he had taken second-best and learned to enjoy it. He quickly found out that Arwen felt pity for him and gave him sweets. He could even snatch them from her plate -- if he ignored his father's disapproving eye -- and she wouldn't stop him. He ate on a sugar roll as his father spoke to the crowd. He couldn't see any of it, so he didn't bother watching.

After dinner, his father saw him to bed and hugged him -- his goodbye -- and wrote a little letter in simple words and big letters telling him that he would be home at four months the latest. Estel had nodded sadly -- he would miss his father so! Then, Elrond had left to give some more instructions to Erestor and Arwen, then he would be away. Estel had wanted to see him off -- it would be the last time he would see his father for a long time. Maybe forever.

He counted the seconds in his head as soon as his father left the stable. He watched as the party of Elves and horses wound through the valley and toward the mountains. He watched until he could no longer see them, then crawled under his bed and retrieved his pack of supplies. He held the bag to his chest and performed a mental checklist of the contents. When he was satisfied that he had all he needed, he tied the bag to his back with a long piece of rope -- taken from the stable when he knew there would be no horses there -- and sat on the windowsill. He took one last look of his room, and then focused his attention on his task. He perilously teetered on the window ledge, then jumped onto the adjacent birch tree. He nearly missed -- he did miss -- but his hands managed to grab hold of a lower branch and he clung to it tightly. The tree swayed under his weight, oscillating back and forth until finally leaning toward the house. He was high in the air; the slender branches would not hold his weight for long. Palms sweating, he carefully scaled down the tree until the trunks grew wider. It was not leaning then, and he felt more secure. The wind blew gently through the valley, ruffled his hair, and made him shiver.

He lost his footing, slipped once, twice, then found his little shoe a space against the branch. He was about to move lower, when he felt his feet drop and the bark of the trunk scraped against his face and chest. He felt his heart stop beating and his blood flood with energy. He clawed for the trunk and hugged it tightly until he stopped falling. His arms were bleeding, he realized once he could breathe again. He was seven feet into the air, now. He looked up and could see his window high above him. He wrapped his hands tightly to low branch, then let his feet fall. He hung from the tree and his feet dangled in the air. He dropped onto the ground and felt the impact shake his body. Breathing hard, he stood under the tree and looked around.

No one seemed to have heard him. He didn't know how much noise he had made during his descent, but it didn't take much to rouse their attention. None appeared after several long minutes, and he reached behind his back to make sure that his pack was still there. It was, and he scurried away from the tree. He moved quickly when darting from cover to cover, and very slowly when in the open. He had his traveling cloak tightly around his shoulders, and the hood over his face. He had seen Elves wear them before, and knew that they were magically hard to see. He had studied maps diligently in the library and had a vague idea of where he should be going. East was over the mountains, then to Mirkwood. That was where his father would be, and was not an option. South led down a long expanse of mountains, and eventually came to a place called 'Hollin.' He didn't want to go that way, it seemed too long, and he knew that mountains were cold. To the north, there were no towns on the map, only mountains extending to the edge of the cloth. West seemed to be his best option. There was a road from Rivendell in that direction and it ran for many miles. He could probably walk through the ford, and if he stuck to the road, there should be few problems. He had traced the path with his finger, and it stopped at a place called 'Bree.' There, he would sell whatever he had for food, then set off toward the north. It seemed the most logical choice -- Fornost. The road went right to it!

It had occurred to him that he would be low on food when he reached Bree. He had counted the miles in his head, and it was a little over three-hundred miles from home. It would take several days, at least. When he reached Bree, he might have to do work until he replenished his provisions, then it was only ten and one hundred miles to the city in the north.

Moving stealthily from the Last Homely House, he clung to the riverbanks to avoid the road. No one stopped him and within the hour he was at the valley edge. He would have to stay on the road until he crossed the bridge over the Hoarwell, despite the risk of being caught. He had a short knife, and he thought it would be enough to fend off danger. There were Elves on watch here, he knew. He had hoped to sneak out shortly after his father's departure, but the trip down the tree had delayed him. He hadn't planned on it being so hard to climb from his window. He would have saved time by just walking out the doors, but the risk of being caught was too severe. There were always people there, lurking in halls and on the corridors.

He couldn't hear if any Elf was around, so strained with his eyes to look for them. Since losing his hearing, his vision had improved, as had his smell. He would rather have had his hearing, but was grateful that he was still alive. He had gathered as much from his father's raw love and surprise when he had first awoken from his sleep. There were no Elves that he could see, and he scanned the trees above him. The moonlight was dim this night, and it cast the world into shades of purple. He saw a slight parting of the grass, and then the dark head of an Elf walking his way. He covered himself in the cloak and did not move. He could neither see nor hear the elf, and remained motionless in the fabric until he could no longer wait and peeped outside. There was no one nearby and he rose shakily to his feet.

He crossed out of the valley without being thwarted, and felt warm tears roll down his face. He had never been out of the valley since coming there as an infant. For the nine years of his life, Rivendell had been safety and he felt as though he had violated some sacred code of faith. Don't leave the valley; the valley will protect you . . . He couldn't remember life before Rivendell. When his mother had left him, he had found solace in the gentle hum of the river and the constant echo of the falls. When his father had stopped visiting him as a baby and he had been full of unanswered questions, Rivendell had been there for him. Later, he had learned that his father had been killed, and he had felt betrayed by the knowledge. Elrond and his brothers had been there for him, and in time he had forgotten his pain.

Now, he was alone in the world. The valley was mere feet behind him, but there was no returning.

He started down the road, moving more quickly than he would have thought possible. The road was a ribbon of moonlight winding in front of his feet. He walked quickly, the hood over his head and his fist clenched around his knife. He was terrified of being there, alone in the dark. He had studied the maps well, but they had not prepared him for the reality of travel. He was at the ford in two hours and the water looked dark in front of him. He pulled his cloak up to his shoulders and then tugged his pant legs up. He slipped off his shoes and held them in his left hand as he stepped into the water. The water was cold and he immediately jerked his toes from it. "What am I going to do?" he said aloud. It made him uncomfortable -- speaking and not being able to hear his own voice. After a moment more of hesitation, he peeled off his leggings and bunched his shirt with his cloak. Nude from the waist down, he stepped into the water again and shivered against the cold. Still holding his shoes in one hand, he tried to keep his balance on the slippery rocks. He nearly fell twice, then made it safely across. On the other side, he stood against the cold with water dripping from his chest down to his toes. He looked back solemnly across the ford to the little road that ran up to his home.

He crossed the bridge at sunup. The sun rose behind him and cast his shadow over the entire length of the bridge. He could see the rushing waters below him, feel the wood give beneath his feet. He crossed in a hurry, then sat down on the other side. There, he untied his cloak and pack, and pulled a silver cup from the bag. He dipped water from the river and drank it quickly. He chewed on a piece of meat that was left from the night's feast, and swallowed it with more water. His legs ached and his feet were sore. He rubbed his soles for several minutes, then tugged his shoes over his slightly swollen feet and retied his pack. He donned the cloak and started walking again. The road was hard on his feet, but it was too slow to walk through the wilds around him. He walked steadily until noon -- or, at least it looked like noon because the sun was directly overhead of him and stifled him terribly until he thought he would collapse. His pace lagged in the heat and he nearly removed his cloak. He kept it on, though, because he didn't want to carry it. He stopped a few times on the roadside to relieve himself, and stopped altogether when a herd of deer sprang into the road. They crossed in a mighty leap and Estel was awed by them. He remained still long after they passed, then shook himself as if to wake from a daze.

He walked until nightfall, then turned off the road and found a space between trees where he sat and drank water. Then, he curled onto the forest floor and wrapped himself tightly in his cloak. He rubbed the small silver brooch between his fingers and thought despairingly of home. He slept well that night, for he could not hear the noises of the forest and could not be frightened by wolf-howls or night-birds.

Awaking in the morning at sunrise, he dusted dirt from his clothing and stretched. His muscles were sore and every step brought pain shooting through his legs. He ate dried fruit and drank more of his water. He hoped to find a lake or spring somewhere where he could refill his canteen, and kept his eyes open for any brush he knew grew around water. He sighed to himself and stepped onto the roadside. He took long looks up and down the road, then started his journey again. He did not have the sense of righteousness this morning. The road loomed dark before him and he felt more and more miserable with every step. In the opposite direction, his home was lying quiet and peaceful in the valley. Past Rivendell, his father and his brothers were journeying eastward to Mirkwood, no doubt enduring many of the same inconveniences of traveling. He hardened his resolve and pressed onward to the west.

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next update: Monday, August 23, 2004