Disclaimer: I own nothing that is recognizable to the Lord of the Rings franchise. The languages used in this story are Quenya, Primitive Elvish, and Sindarin. These are all owned by J.R.R. Tolkien.

What ARE mine are the original characters and the Darkmen tongue

The Long and Winding Road

The trees whispered to themselves as the watchful wardens patrolled their borders, disguising their steps and apparel. A crisp breeze rustled through the canopy, causing a slight flicker of silver to glint between the leaves. If one should choose to look long enough, it would seem to appear is if the moon had simply given light to a golden leaf. However, if one was patient, and was gifted with Elvish sight, they could, perhaps, distinguish the pattern of leaves from the grey hood of a cloak.

Again the breeze rippled through the woods, tousling the folds of the Elvish cloak and flipping long strands of blond hair into the air once more. Cold, piercing eyes gazed out into the night-filled lands, ever vigilant of their duty. Brows black as the sky arched above those eyes, as hair silver as the stars rested haphazardly beneath the hood. A strong arm lifted itself to brush back the errant strands, then halted as the sensitive ears caught a distant sound.

Tucking the strands into place, the figure ran along the tree branches to the nearest flet, desiring a look at what his ears perceived. Landing quietly, he halted behind the lone guard standing sentinel. Pulling back the bowstring, the guard swung around and took aim, lowering his bow as he recognized the Marchwarden.

"My apologies, Marchwarden; I did not realize it was you."

"Peace, Radir, I approve your diligence," he replied in a low voice, straining his eyes to the darkness beyond the flet. The warden noticed this, and asked quietly:

"Man as, Haldir? Man hin lîn cên?"

He didn't respond, his cold eyes searching the distance for the sound he had heard. /There!/ His eyes riveted upon a speck in the distance. Narrowing them, he tried to make out the moving blur.

"Do you see that, Radir?" he asked, pointing an arm in the direction of the blur.

The guard followed his hand, looking for long minutes into the darkened gloom of night.

"No," he said finally, shaking his head, "I cannot; but then I do not have the strength of your sight. Let us wait a few hours, and perhaps what you see will move closer."

Haldir nodded absently as he made himself comfortable on the floor of the platform. The chill grew as the two Elves watched, eyes trained on the distant dark, yet neither shivered from the cold. Two hours passed without change in either warden; as the sun finally began to rise, the sky above them turned from black to grey, then purple, then pink, then streaked with orange, and at last the first hints of blue.

The land before them lightened, turning from black to green, and as he raised his eyes once more, Radir jumped in astonishment and shouted to his companion:

"Ai, tirio! There it is, I see it!"

Immediately, a piercing whistle was heard as Haldir called for support. Moments passed slowly until a tell-tale step sounded and six other wardens arrived, not a hair out of place and their bows at their sides.

"Yrch, Haldir?" asked the closest Elf, his blond hair braided back and his eyes eager in their expression.

"Bau, I know not; there is a shadow riding fast in our direction," Haldir replied.

As one the Elves turned to the place he pointed. In the light of day it was clear a dark shape was swiftly moving north along the Anduín.

Breathing hard, her aches and fatigue were forgotten as Anár rose from the black morning and flooded the land. Her wonder at the fertile landscape was ruthlessly pushed aside as she focused her mind on the wood before her. This was the Golden Wood: this was Laurinataur, the end of her long road.

The adrenaline-driven gallop of Hravan caused for the scenery to fly past them, the hair of Hravan's mane and tail streaming behind their furious run: her black hood was firmly tied around her head, securing her tresses.

"Rato, Hravan: en caitëa i mentë mestalva."

The horse's breath became harsh as he hurtled to his goal; he was exhausted, and would have fallen long before if not for his rider's strength. He pressed on up the river, gaining ground on the trees.

"It is a Black Rider!" whispered Menegal.

Haldir looked longer, searching for that presence of evil.

"No," he said at last, "It is not Nazgûl; something else comes to the Lórien. Yet what would cause a horse to ride so hard, so long?"

For he could see the flecks of foam streaking the horse's coat, slick with sweat; flanks glistening, the animal's chest seemed to heave and its head to charge as if spurred by the Orcs of Mordor.

"I have never seen a beast move with such speed," murmured a blond Elf to his right, placing a hand on the rail to lean in for a closer look.

Haldir swiftly moved his arm to block the warden's action, never taking his eyes from the furious pair, saying:

"They ride to the Wood: they cannot pass without reason and permission of the wardens. Position yourselves and ready your bows: do not fire until I say."

Silent were the Elves as they obeyed his order, their cloaks blending into the sun-filled trees perfectly: only to another of the Galadhrim could identify them for what the silent shadows truly were. Nearer and nearer the beast and its rider came to the borders of the wood, the foam-flecked body of the horse tireless and unrelenting in its course.

A frown appeared on the Marchwarden's face as he realized that the horse and its rider were not going to slow down.

A wave of exultation hit her as they came closer and closer to the trees, a wave that made its way to Hravan's heart, building another surge of speed as they raced to the boundaries of the wood. /Ecárienyes! Sín nomelmë nar, sé métima!/ came the thought, heavy with relief and tearful joy.

As the black horse thundered into the wood, the Elves all looked to Haldir, waiting for his command. Grimly, he signaled the one nearest his side; the warden nodded, and pulled taut his bowstring, lining his sights with that of the horse. The arrow was loosed, a whistle sailing through the trees as it hit its mark in the flank of the horse.

The beast let out a terrible scream, rearing up on its hind legs and crashing backwards onto its trail. All watched as the rider fell from the saddle to the ground, as the horse fell violently onto the rider's leg, and all heard the deafening Crack! that sounded through the trees.

A.N.:

Radir meaning "Hunter who finds a way"

Menegal meaning "Thousand Lights"

Translation (S in italics, Q in bold):

Man as, Haldir? Man hin lîn cên? What is it, Haldir? What do your eyes see?

Ai, tirio! Ah, look!

Yrch, Haldir? Orcs, Haldir?

Bau No

Rato, Hravan: en caitëa i mentë mestalva Soon, Hravan: there lies the end of our journey

Ecárienyes! Sín nomelmë nar, sé métima! I have done it! We are here, at last!