Legolas woke swiftly to a sudden and overwhelming state of alarm. His limbs jolted with the abrupt stir of his senses, jerking him upright, and he blinked and looked around at his surroundings hastily. There was little, however, to judge. His eyes were bleary with weariness, and his sight was further hindered by a thick mist clinging close to the ground.
He sniffed at the air. Smoke filled his senses and, for a moment, made him lightheaded. He turned his head in the direction of the source, and through the hanging fog he made out a large drift of black smoke climbing high into the dim light of day.
He leaned forward and groaned—the stiffness in his limbs was overwhelming. He felt more tired than ever in his life, as though he was never meant to wake when he had. It had been the smoke that had aroused his senses and brought him to consciousness, and interrupted as he was, he felt deprived of sleep. His body pleaded with him to lie back down and be lost to heavy slumber for ages. His eyes were heavy, and his head yearned for the comfort of a soft surface. It was almost painful resisting the urge. He wondered if what he felt was alike to the slowest known way of dying— from old age or sickness, wearily and with a desperate, grim, and numb struggle.
His head spun as he made a second attempt to observe the place around and above him. He rubbed his temple with his hand, breathing out heavily in tune with the slow beating of his heart to calm his mind. His eyes roamed to his right where not far away the fire pit smoldered. Even through the fog he could see it had grown massively in diameter, and amongst the larger flames were a few smaller ones, rising no higher than two feet above the ground and flickering within the trench. The burning stench was unnatural— something unearthly was being seared within the pit.
Legolas' eyes grew wide, his forehead creasing. He crawled closer to the fire on his hands and knees and then drew himself up slowly. Unsteady on his feet, he stumbled awhile as he fought his way toward the fire pit until he was standing within its outermost ring and able to distinguish the reason for the heavy nature of the flames.
Charred quilts, wilted in the flames, and remnants of leather sacks as well as items of clothing were engulfed in fire, though it was clear by their appearances they had been burning for many hours. He looked into the sky, finally realizing morning light had set in not long ago. He gazed back at the fire, brows furrowed. The fire had certainly burned all through the night.
"What have you done, Niélawen," he murmured, for it was as he feared. The sleep had been deep, but the dreams had been clear in their warnings. His thoughts never told him lies; he knew the dreams had not deceived him. She had fled, but not without making a statement.
Something at the toe of his boot suddenly caught his eye. He squatted in the ashes, balancing himself with one hand grasping the soil, the other reaching out to pick up a remnant of lembas. It was burned black along the edges of one side, and the leaf packaging it had been held in was not far from it, charred from the hot smoke. He tossed the ruined piece of bread into the fire, noticing there were other loaves stacked by the numbers in the flames near the other burning materials. It seemed to him for a moment that she had burned it all.
Dirt and snow shifted behind him. He peered over his left shoulder with immediate awareness and stood up from the ground. He stood still and rigid, listening to his breaths as they escaped his lips in clouds upon the cool winter breeze. He heard another's breathing over his own, but it was gruff, and unmistakably animal-like. He relaxed significantly.
"Turgon," he called blindly into the fog, and his feet stepped lightly out from the ashes and through the dead grass and small remnants of snow. "This way, Turgon," he beckoned, and proceeded forward through the mist.
A dark shape moved in front of him, dragging gravel with it while it rose from the ground. Four slow steps sounded Turgon's skeptical approach. He could not see through the fog as well as his Elven master.
Legolas' heart went to his blinded companion, and he murmured a slow melody to help aid the horse's search. The Elf's keener eyes and ears helped him to reach his ashen steed with less trouble. As he came within reach Turgon nuzzled him in the nook between his neck and shoulder and Legolas returned the favor with an affectionate scratch. The small smile that had been on his lips from the simple comfort of the horse's presence quite instantly fell away to severity. He peered around the hazy encampment in concerned observation, carefully examining the area in which he had found his friend.
Once nestled closely and safely to Turgon was a small, dark package wrapped in torn material and bound with leather string, set atop a dark green hooded cloak— one of his own which he had given to Niélawen for her own use. He lifted the package from the cold ground and unwrapped a corner to take a look inside. A good bundle of enclosed lembas pieces had been set aside. She had not burned everything, but had instead left him enough for the trip home.
He tucked the small package away within his jerkin, draping the light cloak over his arm, and he looked on through the fog with a new degree of annoyance written upon his face. "What a fool she takes me as."
He clasped Turgon's reins and led him to where the makeshift bed had been made. He lifted the thick blanket from the ground, shook it to rid it of dead grass and snow and folded it over Turgon's back. By doing this he was unexpectedly reacquainted with his dark yew bow, meagerly arrow-filled quiver, and his two pearlescent leather scabbards containing his precious knives lying upon the soil. He buckled the suspension system around his torso and grasped the body of his bow firmly as he took a final look at the encampment. Save for the dwindling fire, there was hardly any other trace of them ever being there.
Legolas guided Turgon through the bush and into the open plains of Rhovanion's outermost edge. The instant they set foot in open air, the entire world seemed to end at their feet. All was shrouded in the fog. Legolas kept the reins tight in his hands and faced them both eastward. Turgon pawed nervously at the dry ground— there was a strange air that came from the east, which Legolas, too, noted. But he started forward despite it, figuring without further thought that hard-east was his destined course. But in a brief moment after they started, he brought them to a slow halt.
His eyes gazed thoughtfully into the mist hanging in the east. He inhaled a heavy breath of air through his nose, bringing his body to stand tall and rigid in the dim, blue light of morning; an ethereal statue lost in the haze. There he stayed for a long time.
And then with all certainty he brought himself to face south.
He had no direct evidence to support this sudden decision of his, but he knew it in his heart to be the right and only course to take. It now occurred to him that it may have been her intention to mislead him all along. It was right to believe she thought she had two dependable options within her grasp: to leave him as she had at the camp to head home in grim acceptance with only meager supplies to make the distance, or to send him off desperately to a place she never intended to go, on a path she deceptively created in some wickedly hopeful, but naïve trench of her mind. But he had always believed she was never the one for logic. He would certainly outsmart her in that region.
And he couldn't be wrong. It was a powerful feeling that urged him southward; a deep, instinctive certainty that all elves could grasp more easily than men, and Legolas felt it could not be wrong when he was as close to Niélawen as a brother is to his sister.
Turgon stood uneasily, frequently challenging his master's strength upon the bridle. The southern wind was no more comforting.
"This is our road," Legolas explained to him. He gazed ahead absently. "She has left for all the wrong reasons. I know in my heart she has taken the wrong path, and that she knows this much but has ignored the warnings. She will need me yet, Turgon." He led his fretful steed forward through the mist, slowly at first, until his confidence grew, and purpose became his most steadfast guide. "She is farther from home than she knows."
An entire day ensued before the fog cleared.
A second day's trek across the dry and stony fields brought them no less trouble as a cruel and filthy wind stormed relentlessly over the flatlands. On this day they rested for the first time since they'd left the encampment, taking shelter in some lowly and wilted brush in the middle of nowhere. These tiny wooded areas of lifeless trees and shrubs dotted the plains with the odd passing miles, but few were ever enough to shield even Legolas from the bitter elements, let alone a horse.
Turgon collapsed into the heap of shrubs, his legs giving in as he was finally ensured dependable shelter. Dust and dirt blew in through the gaps in the bush, but he did not care. His heavy lids shut on impact, and he fell into a deep and undisturbed sleep even as he struggled for a clean, easy breath.
Cradled in a canopy of drooping trees, Legolas felt safe enough from the windstorm. He sat himself down on solid ground, propping himself against a crooked tree. Dusk was setting in, but weariness had not come over his body just yet. He would have gone on for another day without interval if he did not worry for Turgon. Two brief stops in a day were not enough, and Legolas felt a heavy burden of remorse for pushing his friend beyond his limits. The Elf had a strong feeling their journey would push his own limits, as well.
He leaned forward and deftly unfastened the leather straps around his body. Watching ribbons of dust swirl overhead in the roaring wind, he reached over his shoulder and pulled forth his bow holster, his scabbards, and his quiver, and laid them all at his side next to his bow. He extended his long legs across the ground, and relaxed his head against the trunk with a long sigh.
To his left in the west the sky was a pale crimson; directly above him the crimson blended to colors of lavender and blue. The east was nearly black, and had he gazed far enough, he was certain to have beheld some young stars twinkling in the early night. He shut his eyes for a moment and listened to the wind as it howled passed them.
The air smelled thickly of dust. He squeezed his eyes tight with agitation, knowing Niélawen's path likely led her straight through the storm— and against it. What bothered him most was knowing that she had so little for resources. Lembas would not be sufficient for her trek— however long it was, for he could not begin to guess at how far she planned to go— and she had nothing to hunt with.
His lids slowly opened, and his hand fell from his front to the jumble of leather straps and holsters at his side. He sorted through them without haste, and stopped in expectance to find the small scabbard, once holding a hunting dagger, empty. He clenched his jaw, feeling both relief and frustration.
The wind faintly died down. He leaned forward and observed the conditions from the largest gaps in the bushes. He peered into the west at the setting sun and decided they should continue within the hour.
"…There will be plenty of quiet, comfortable places to sleep, fresh water from clear pools, and all the grazing you could ask for." Legolas scratched Turgon's ears as they sauntered along in the warm, early afternoon sunlight, both pleased by a cool, gentle breeze that blew past them.
There was a great current of wind that blew north across the plains; in the early part of the day it was mild and refreshing, but from mid-afternoon until sundown it was brutal and humid. During the worst of these long hours they rested. They traveled almost continuously without rest from night until afternoon, only taking a brief stop for every vast distance that was covered. Legolas took to riding less, feeling he could take better advantage of his infinite stamina. He also let Turgon roam free without reins, which often meant that Legolas wandered far behind the horse in the wake of morning and drifted far ahead when the long hours of the day passed into late afternoon and took their toll on the steed's sturdy body. At the present, however, they were at a fine pace at each other's side.
Legolas peered into the west, quickly becoming consumed in thought with the help of the dullness of the whispering breeze. There was a dark line on the horizon— the gloomy border of Mirkwood. They had unintentionally wandered inward from their trail, bringing them closer west than he had anticipated. He did not know what to make of this, but excitement grew within him at the sight of a sudden break in the dark line of forest further ahead.
Legolas took his arm and wrapped it underneath Turgon's chin, beckoning him to the right. Having become accustomed to freedom and disliking the sudden break of routine, Turgon snorted his objection, jostling his muzzle free of handling, and stomping against the stubble grass. Legolas frowned at his grumpy behavior.
"Faarea!" [Enough!] he snapped intolerantly. He clasped Turgon's mane and mounted, grabbing the reins hastily and pointing Turgon westward. "Look there— the East Bight. There are men there that may have the answers we are seeking." He beckoned the horse onward, and they took off quickly toward the western horizon.
An hour's ride brought them close to the forest's edge and the lengthy gap that was the East Bight. Legolas' heart raced at the sight of a settlement located outside the Bight. Smoke rose from a chimney in the heart of the fortified barricade.
It took little time to reach the structure. When they were near enough for Legolas to note it looked as much an outpost as a farm, he brought Turgon to a cautious trot until they could safely slow to a brisk walk. There Legolas dismounted and reached for his bow before leading Turgon by the reins toward the tall gate of the stronghold.
The eight-foot-high outer wall was roughly constructed from the shaved trunks of oak trees. Every odd numbered trunk along the barricade was sharpened at the top, and all of them looked old enough to be decayed. He could see little within the walls save for a thatched roof and a high watchtower not quite twice as tall as the outer wall, and so he approached with much caution, uncertain as to what lied behind the wooden gate.
He was but a moment away from the gate when its hinges jostled and its planks creaked, and very slowly it opened. A small head covered in short, pale golden curls poked through the space between the frame and the door, and a little girl no more than five emerged shyly from the safety of the gate, opening it just wide enough to bring her petite arms across its length. Bold brown eyes gazed up at him fixedly as he stood tall above her, marveling at her round, pretty, and carelessly dirt-smeared face.
"Hello." He bowed his head and smiled warmly at her as she gaped below him in silence. He peered curiously through the gap in the door, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone who could offer him the assistance he needed immediately. However delightful the little girl was, he had little time to concern himself with her. Luckily for him, his silent inquiry did not go unanswered for long.
"Ayan! Get away from there." A heavyset man of average height with hair speckled grey from early aging swung the gate wide open and brushed his arm across the small body of the girl, steering her behind him and back to safety within the barricade. The man was quiet for a long while as he studied the stranger at his door with a mystified expression.
Legolas raised his right hand to his breast and bowed his head, greeting the man while keeping a close eye on him. "Forgive me, I—"
"What is this?" the man inquired guardedly, his narrowed eyes observing Legolas head to toe. "An Elf," he noted gruffly. Brows arched, he shook a finger at him. "You're from the Forest, eh? Up north there, by the river…?"
Legolas nodded once and kept silent.
"What's one of you doing down here?" the man demanded next. He paused, eyes still very narrow. "What do you want?"
"Directions," Legolas answered. "That is all." The air was thick with tension; he thought it best to keep things brief and to the point.
The man observed him for a moment longer, acknowledging the white, grey-speckled horse at the Elf's side, and then quickly scanned the emptiness around them. "You're alone…"
"My time here is costly," Legolas stated eagerly. "I have none to waste, therefore I will not waste yours. A moment is all I ask of you."
The man crossed his arms across his burly chest and sighed heavily. He examined Legolas again and then finally shook his head. "Sorry, lad. We don't help strangers here, unless on business."
Gravel shifted behind the doors, and a young woman swept her way between the man and the gate. She stopped short at the sight of Legolas and grasped the side frame of the gate, her face alight with surprise.
"What are you doing?" the man muttered sharply. He braced a hand across her broad shoulders and ushered her back inside. "I'm busy here, Eithne—go."
The young woman, looking to be only years apart from Niélawen, rose far above the man in height and did not seem to be hindered by any command. She had brown eyes behind thick lashes and gaped long at Legolas with a strange intensity. At the young woman's appearance and obviously bold manner, Legolas at last concluded he was not dealing with any ordinary, socially shy people. He was drawn to meet the quick gaze the young woman fixated upon him, fascinated by what he saw in her eyes. There was both a defenseless glimmer of confusion and a ferocity he had only seen in the angriest of people. It seemed to him she was seriously scrutinizing him; delving deep into his eyes to judge him before he could speak his worth. For a long while they stared at each other challengingly and wordlessly, neither thwarted by the other's reciprocated gesture.
"Eithne. Inside." The man warned, watching Legolas in agitation.
Their gazes fell. The young woman pulled a thick, dusty blonde braid off her shoulder and turned to the solid man, nodding her head in interest to the Elf at their door. "Who is he, papa?" she inquired softly.
The man's brow twitched uneasily. "He was just leavin'," he announced, just as much to Legolas as to his daughter.
Her attention shifted between them, and she tensed. "Is something wrong?"
"No—"
"Does he need help?"
"Eithne!"
She peered at Legolas, eyes wide and probing. "You lost?"
"He ain't lost!" the man snapped. He grumbled inaudibly in his throat. "Elves don't get lost."
"He's somewhat right," Legolas affirmed grimly. "Though I'm afraid that I am neither lost nor certain of the road I'm to take." He breathed through his nose and stood tall, his patience dwindling fast. "I have come this way tracking a woman." It was the last of all things he wanted to divulge to strangers, but it seemed that he had little choice. He didn't want to listen to them squabble again, even if it meant receiving the information he was seeking. "She may have come this way. It was my intention to seek what I could from… locals."
The man stepped out in front of his daughter, leaning his hand against the doorway in a blocking manner. "We ain't seen anybody around here for weeks, lad," he told Legolas firmly, though somewhat apologetically. "You'd best leave if—"
"I may be able to help you." The woman named Eithne moved out from behind her father, and she linked her arm in his as he peered at her with great concern and bewilderment. She nodded to Legolas without hesitation, and there was already a warmer, friendlier, and more trusting air about her. "I can help you."
The interior of the barricade was, in fact, deceptively spacious in contrast to what Legolas had assumed it to be from outside its walls. Passed the gate, which he noticed now was reinforced on the inside with steel plates, he and Turgon were led down a wide gravel path surrounded by surprisingly healthy-looking grass. It brightened his mood significantly to see terrain even relatively close to green. There stood two buildings on opposite ends of the path: on the left was what appeared to be a storehouse, and on the right was a considerably larger stable. On the same side, behind the stable, was a two-floored house. Its base level had been constructed from stone, its second-story from worn, stucco-plastered material, and its roof looked to be a combination of grass and timber. Altogether it was surprisingly welcoming. The path rounded to an end in front of the dwelling, and surrounding the smaller pebble walkway to the house, which was perpendicular to the main path, were simple gardens of wildflowers, many battered and wilting from harsh winds that even the outer wall could not obstruct.
Legolas gazed around him with vast interest and eagerness to see more. Eithne and the stout man led him passed the shadow of the storehouse and took him to the front of their house. His attention was drawn away from the dwelling to the left side of the main path where a fair-sized watchtower built entirely from logs stood. Below it the curly haired child he had seen earlier was presently crouched close to the ground, observing something small and unnoticeable in the grass while periodically looking up uneasily to acknowledge the stranger.
Eithne gestured to the small girl with a loving smile. "Ayan, my little sister."
Meanwhile Eithne's father had taken to finding Turgon's reins, and he led the horse back down the path towards the stable. "I'll be getting' him some water," he called back in half a grunt, and with that he went out of sight.
Eithne shaded her eyes with a slender hand and peered up at the tower. "Ayan was playing up there yesterday— still not sure why. I was in the house when she called for me. She saw some rider going across the plains."
Legolas moved from behind Eithne, and she looked at him with some concern. "That isn't common— to see a lone rider traveling this way without stopping for rest. We're the only settlement for days; I don't see why any one would just… keep going."
"What time of day was this?"
"Had to have been late afternoon. The rider looked to be headed south-east."
He approached the ladder and started his ascent.
"You're welcome to stay here," she offered after a while.
"I'll be setting off before dusk," he replied nonchalantly as he climbed.
She hesitated. "Who is this person you're following?"
He paused half way up the ladder, and stared at her for a long moment. She shrunk back from the look of subtle severity and watched him continue his climb and disappear into the loft without a word.
The tower had a roof too low for his holstered bow to fit beneath so he drew it from his back and carried it with him to the eastern facing overlook before leaning it against the banister. He crossed his forearms across the board that was nailed to the railing and let his hands dangle over the edge. The air was still and warm. In the far distance dark storm clouds veiled the blue sky.
He gazed across the desolate plains, able to see a great horizon ahead of him that was as dull and unpleasing to the eye from afar as it was up close. He averted his eyes to the south-east and found himself disturbingly drawn to it. He narrowed his eyes— resentment was once again on his mind.
But he wanted her back, and as he was listening to his heart more often than what could be considered wise in such a situation, it told him that his business still went unfinished. His logic tried to compel him against this emotional reasoning, and if that was not noteworthy enough, he didn't know what was.
He snatched his bow and made his way out of the tower. There was a clock inside of him ticking relentlessly— one look at what was to be his destination seemed to easily convince him that he now had only one chance to turn back.
And it was a chance he was willing to disregard, regrettable as this decision could eventually be.
From the opening in the loft he leapt the high distance that separated him from the ground. Upon his landing he strode passed the curly-haired child still playing amidst the grass. She peered after him with a sparkle of intrigue in her brown eyes, and then climbed to her feet to scurry after him. He followed the path to the stable and found Eithne where he suspected her to be. She stood beneath the frame of its wide doors with her back turned, but she faced him when she heard her sister's approach instead of his, though he was closer.
He was about to pass her with but a glimpse to her from the corner of his eye when Ayan stumbled on her own feet and fell hard into the gravel. He glanced over his shoulder in alarm, and Eithne stepped hastily to her little sister's rescue. Making the short distance backwards, Legolas gingerly snatched Ayan from the ground and carried her in one arm before handing her off to her older sister. He looked Eithne hard in the eyes.
"You told me she went south-east," he began solemnly. "You must tell me what lies that way."
Little Ayan did not cry from the wounds on her small knees, but instead leaned her head on her sister's shoulder with half a fist in her mouth, watching and listening intently to the Elf she would not take her eyes off of.
Eithne pursed her lips. "There's a place there only locals know of. You won't find it on a map, but the traders from Rhûn take the route through it all the time." She stroked her hand over Ayan's fair curls. "You don't want to go there."
"But I will." He walked away and strode through the stable passageway. Eithne scrambled after him.
"You know nothing of these lands— of the people that come through here!"
"Then it would be wise that you enlighten me," he replied impatiently.
Eithne placed her sister on the ground and followed after him. Her father was in a stall nearby, grooming Turgon as the horse drank clean water vigorously. "They won't treat you like we have here. Men of that town come from all over this world, but they are alike in nature. None deal kindly with strangers. Unwitting travelers are killed there."
Legolas packed the blanket, cloak, and package over Turgon's back. "How has this knowledge come by you? Travelers' tales?"
The stout man looked between them uncertainly.
"Actually, yes. The merchants come this way several times," Eithne explained carefully.
Legolas stopped his task and raised a brow.
"We trade, sell, and buy from them," she went on, agitated by his response. "That is what we do here! Our living is made through them and the folk that make the long journey from the woods. We know enough of their ways to be amongst them, but we are nothing like them." She paused meaningfully. "They live by the ways of Rhûn, but diverse they are, and therefore they are neither under its laws nor the laws of any other country. They make their own."
Legolas turned to her father. "How far is it from here?"
"Three days, if you be ridin' swift."
Legolas grabbed Turgon by the reins and led him out of the stable. They followed him out in disarray, looking after him uneasily as he slung his bow in its holster and mounted quickly.
"You go to your death, lad," the man told him hopelessly.
"They don't let you die there—you're forced to bear agony for months. They are skilled, not mindless and barbaric," Eithne told him. "We know what they do to unassuming people. I lost a mother and a husband to them— you cannot let our warnings go unheeded."
"They're damn yellow-skinned monsters— I don't care how much 'skill' they have," her father muttered, a fire of hostility burning strongly in his eyes. He added bitterly, "They even let themselves be ordered about by a woman."
Legolas turned sharply. "What woman?"
Eithne looked to her father for confirmation. "Sedda they call her, if I remember right. The traders say many things about her, all flattering. They seem to love her as much as their god." She sneered. "They even believe she is one… in part."
"How does a woman come to run a city?" Legolas asked.
"By the supremacy of lineage," Eithne answered flatly. "They uphold a hierarchical system, like that of all the Easterlings. Even the slaves will own slaves. It is all about power— that is why Sedda holds the law. You see, she is different, in both look and ability. Without her life story and that of her ancestors she would be as good to men there as any woman, different or alike to the norm."
Legolas furrowed his brows, responding with distress to the statement. "What do you mean by that?"
Eithne glanced at her father and crossed her arms.
The man looked to Legolas with despair. "There ain't no hope for your lady friend there… a man's world, it is, unless she's anything like that Sedda."
The determination in Legolas' eyes was immediately crushed by fear, and he was certain they could see it on his face by the growing sympathetic nature of their expressions.
"We're sorry," Eithne whispered. "But there is no hope for her, and neither will there be for you."
Legolas inhaled heavily and stared off ahead in anguish. Was he too late to hope that he might find her on the way? Perhaps he had already failed her, and seeking her in hostile territory would only escalate the severity of what he was doing. But did he not have a duty to her? To mend the mistakes she would unwittingly make? This was a thought that could never, ever be left unheeded. He would protect her— that was his duty.
His fingers grasped the reins tightly. "I would hope, then, that you pray she endures it there… until I find her."
Eithne's eyes softened with compassion. "We'll pray for you both." She looked on as her father rushed ahead to open the gates. She was certain she would not forget the look of pain and fear in the Elf's eyes as he galloped away into the fields and onward to a dark and menacing horizon.
A fierce windstorm— and the greatest they had yet seen— attacked the plains sporadically for many days. They had not rested once since their departure from the settlement of Eithne and her father on the fourth day of riding, and Legolas had long since lost track of time. He did, however, continue to accurately judge their direction by the wind, and this method kept them well centered on their south-eastern course.
The air was filthy, churning a thick cloud of red dust into the sky and across the plains. Often he walked at Turgon's side, usually to shield the animal's face from the blowing wind with his cloak so the horse would not suffer the sharp beating of the dust. There was much less shelter where they were headed, and this crude reality forced them to fight out the elements.
Legolas was frantic in their endeavor. His feet wanted to carry him swifter than Turgon's would, and his worn-out companion grew slower as the hours through the hard fields and vigorous wind currents went on. Legolas at last took to leading him by the reins.
Dust as sharp as chiseled flecks of granite thrashed in Legolas' eyes and stung them to near blindness, and his clothes were caked in dust to the very last of their outer fibers. But on he went, reinforced every now and again with new vigor fueled by greater desperation.
The reins in his grasp fell away. Turgon fell to the ground, and Legolas was drawn down with him. The Elf dropped to his knees as Turgon rolled to his side, his heart pounding rapidly in his chest. The horse huffed in great, struggling breaths. The wind beat against Legolas' back now, and he crawled to where his companion's head lay, unshielded and vulnerable in the path of the wind. Blindly Legolas searched the ground for the cloak that had fallen from his arms upon their fall, and when he retrieved it he quickly draped it over Turgon's eyes and laid his own head upon the steed's neck with closed eyes.
Turgon's intense breathing broke the dusty, swirling air around him. He emitted raspy, strangled grunts as he tried to breathe. Legolas licked his lips and tasted a thick layer of dirt. Deep, physical pain from his grief wrenched his insides, his guilt heftier than it had ever been.
This was the price he had to pay. At his side his friend struggled in overexertion against the harsh, inescapable elements— now it was his turn to suffer. Though it was certain that he would be able to stand strongly again on his feet and go on until his destination was reached, the burden on his mind would take him to a much heavier exhaustion. Either way, it seemed, they could both easily succumb to death. And then there would be no one to save them. No one would bring them home if they could not save themselves.
A thunderous current deafened him, ringing in his ears like every clamoring wind did when at the peak of its intensity. Hoards of dust bit his flesh like thousands of miniscule glass shards. Above the raging wind a horn sang in the distance, and so far away was its call that Legolas at first believed his eardrums were simply ringing in pain.
But it came again.
His sharp ears twitched and he raised his head, opening his eyes as he felt a break in the ferocity of the wind. He searched behind him, and he blinked his eyes in bewilderment.
He raised himself to his feet as his heart raced. It seemed that by chance the dust had suddenly cleared to but a mildly battering wind across the plains, and only mere wisps of brown clouds obscured the sight far away.
Many miles from where he stood was a wide structure with numerous smaller shapes surrounding it. His keen eyesight blessed him with distinct details— it was a high-walled barrack. A guarded city.
"Niélawen," he whispered, nearly smiling.
Turgon grunted behind him, hooves pawing at the dry ground. Legolas shut his eyes in devastation as inevitable reality bruised the sudden thrill that had come over him. He turned himself around slowly and he fell to his knees at Turgon's side. Tears threatened at the backs of his eyes. The steed's large brown eyes gazed his way as best as they could considering the angle of his head. Legolas stroked the side of his face, running his hand down his silver mane with great fondness.
"Ethelithon ten'lle," [I will return for you] he told him earnestly. Turgon was motionless and silent as he was spoken to, personifying the intelligent, human-like tendencies he was famous for in sitting as he did with such alertness. He was listening to every word, comprehending all that escaped Legolas' lips, and bringing more anguish to his devoted master than could be imagined.
"Before nightfall, I will come back." Legolas secured his cloak as a drape around his face. Turgon was still motionless, his bold eyes glistening wide and watchfully in the pale light. "You are too weary to carry your own body to where we must go, my friend," he went on to explain in a tender, low voice. "But should you find your strength, linger here awhile. Do not wander." He pursed his lips, inhaling a much needed breath of air, and then stood, his eyes resting mournfully upon his friend. Turgon began to stir.
Legolas turned on his heals and began to walk away, unable to watch any more. "Quel est tenna' moth, Turgon." [Rest well until dusk.]
The dry grass and dirt that was Turgon's bedding shifted. Legolas stopped and looked over his shoulder. Turgon had brought himself up onto his forelegs, but could go no further, as the rest of his body was immobile and weak. Legolas looked away. "Be safe," he whispered. He quickened his pace along his desolate trail, and kept it steady throughout the many miles.
Two thoughts pressed on his mind and drove him to greater haste— returning to his deserted friend, and reaching his destination and Niélawen in good time. The threat of Turgon's well-being was as much of a constant strain as Niélawen's. He could not begin to assume what situation beheld her. Considering she was a day ahead of him, he assumed she had definitely found her way safely, but in the two following possibilities he could not find much comfort. Either she had settled into the perilous lands in which she had recklessly established a place of safekeeping— a position that would make his task difficult— or she currently suffered the brutal reality that could only be found in an alien environment. He feared for her as he feared for Turgon.
For the latter half of the march, he ran ceaselessly.
The solid oak door opened brusquely. Warm light from within stunned Niélawen only briefly, well adjusted as she was to the heavy darkness of the evening. Nessa jostled in alarm within her rider's grasp, and the tall man in the doorway glowered hard at them.
"I'm sorry," Nielawen apologized quietly. He regarded her strangely, an annoyed scowl swiftly being replaced by curiosity. "We're in need of lodging… and food."
The man studied her carefully, observing her head to toe and back up again. He had an intimidating figure, a man of great stature and brawn despite the look of middle-age upon his wide face. He was very wary of the stranger and her horse standing on his porch, and he made a point of projecting this guardedness.
"I will make up for what you graciously offer us," Niélawen beseeched him. "Food and shelter for us both. I request no more than this, and I promise that we will not be a bother to you after morning."
He considered, and did not make her wait much longer. He opened the door wider in a welcoming gesture. "Don't suppose it will hurt to receive you for just a night. I might manage some leftovers anyway…"
Niélawen beamed and bowed her head in gratitude. "Thank you." She swung Nessa's loose reins over her saddle. "Thank you, sir."
He considered Nessa with a frown. "Won't you be wanting to tie it up?"
She smiled politely. "She is obedient— very tame, I assure you." She stroked Nessa's mane and kissed her above the eye. "Na quel," [Be good] she murmured with a smirk, and pat her back fondly. "Take care, love. I won't be far." She followed the man inside and he closed the door at her heels.
Her feet swept across a floor of smooth oak panels that were warm even beneath her elven boots. Though the exterior walls were constructed of a smoky-colored brick, the walls within were paneled in rich wood, and curtained with elaborate red quilts on bare sections. There were sheer curtains draped over narrow windows throughout the main portion of the dwelling.
There was an air of great wealth that Nielawen noted immediately. The furnishings were rich and in plentiful number throughout, and the area was dimly lit by random torches along the walls. There was a kitchen at her left and a good-sized table in the open suitable for four. The air smelled of foreign herbs, and she embraced the spicy scent with warmth.
"Take a seat. I'll find something for you." The man's voice rolled with an eccentric, rich accent, and she listened intently when he spoke, interested as she was in foreign languages.
She picked the seat that was closest to the wall on the left, allowing her an exceptional view of the room. There were many decorations suspended upon the walls—attractive quilts, shelves stocked with devices, texts, and containers. There were even weapons, some that were long and efficient, and some that were broad and vicious. Once her curiosity had been satisfied, she occasionally regarded the man at his stove. There was no hair on his head, and when he turned her way she noted his dark brows and dark eyes, and the sallow hue of his skin.
"Where are you from?" he asked, his voice deep and toneless. He placed a bowl of stew in front of her.
Her eyes wandered cautiously as she stroked her hands nervously in her lap. "…Far north."
He shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Right," he grunted. "Makes sense."
She frowned at the sarcasm in his tone, and began to eat from the fine dish. It was hardy, despite consisting of only vegetables and herbs, and a runny substance for texture. He took a seat on the opposite end of the table, holding a cup in his hand. He watched her intently as she ate.
"You have strange clothes," he commented after a long silence.
She did not reply, but instead stuck to eating even though she had suddenly lost her appetite to anxiety. His presence was unnerving.
There was another lengthy hush in the dwelling, and she felt pressed to eat more slowly and in silence.
"Are you here alone?"
Niélawen licked her lips, and forced a chuckle as she acknowledged his dark eyes briefly out of discomfort. She could not decide if she should admit to being on her own. "Nessa is very good company," she said finally. Her eyes lit up in recollection, and she took a last, quick spoonful before getting up from her chair and starting towards the door. The man stood up sharply behind her, and she paused to regard him over her shoulder.
"I'm just… I think she may be hungry." She smiled innocently, and when he turned away she opened the door and set her half-full bowl on the porch. Nessa emerged from the darkness and ate gratefully.
"Good night, love," Nielawen said before she disappeared inside the house.
"Are you finished?" The thick accent caught her off guard. He was standing very close behind her.
"What?"
"Do you need more food?"
She wrapped her arms around her body. "No. Thank you."
His watch upon her was heavy and unrelenting. It was almost… enticing; eager, even. She gazed away immediately and distracted herself with the interior furnishings. "This is a lovely home you have."
"Yes." It was a strange reply, but it seemed that he was looking quite impatient, as if in waiting.
"Is there something you would like me to do now? In return…" She wiped her hands on her shirt— Legolas' shirt. A strange, forlorn feeling came over her, and she quickly straightened it out. It was a precious item to her now. "I have no money to offer you, but I will work in payment for your generosity."
He studied her thoughtfully, though he had made up his mind long before. His eyes narrowed, glinting in a way that sent a frantic warning racing through her. He nodded his head in the direction behind him. "This way."
Keeping her distance, she followed him across the central part of the room where he led her to a door-less entryway, a red gossamer drape dangling overhead. It was dark within when he disappeared beyond the arch, but shortly a pale light arose far away in a corner she could not yet see, and he emerged into the open. She took this as an indication to follow, and she passed through the curtain.
It was a wide room of elaborate décor, much like the rest of the dwelling. There were some square, bronze shields strung upon the four walls as well as large, heavy talismans of great worth, polearms, and other unique but fascinating weapons. In the center of the widest wall on which hung a scimitar sword was a broad bed, covered with thin animal furs and a flimsy, crimson mantle.
Her heart beat furiously in her chest and her blood ran hot through her veins. She began to sweat. She took an abrupt step backwards. The man's tall shadow loomed above her and he took her aggressively by the arm, shifting close to her.
She released herself from his grasp and moved briskly out of the room. She had made a horrible mistake, and there was no other thought going through her mind but that of the frantic command to "run."
Her heart thudded madly, and her pulse surged rapidly in her head— a familiar indication that something far greater than fear was building up inside of her. Her thoughts ceased in an instant as she was suddenly snatched by the back of her shirt and brutally dragged backwards with a force that hurled her blindly into a wall.
His intention seemed to be to lunge at her, but her eyes caught this action quicker than he anticipated, and she swept her right forearm against the side of his neck, forcing him aside, landing her left fist in his gut. With a frantic cry she made for the door.
He cursed behind her in a language that was harsh and chilling, and very foreign. She applied the greatest swiftness she could muster to reach the only way out, but she was delayed by having to stop and open the door. He snatched her by her long braid and threw her back once again. She landed on her right side, skidding across the floor on her arm.
The cold touch of steel came against her throat. He yelled at her wrathfully in his callous, native tongue, as he straddled her on the floor and pinned her hands above her head. She could make no sense of his words and pursed her lips as he scorned her, until he eventually proceeded in the Common Tongue.
"Attempting to leave is a dangerous attempt of thievery, girl," he breathed through his teeth, pressing his face close to hers. "If I were you I would not want to be caught a thief out there."
She bore her teeth furiously as she spoke. "I'm no compensation," she snarled.
"You're a woman." His nostrils flared fervently. "This is all you are worth here. You want to live? You serve your worth and you will have food to eat and a place to sleep, or death will take you very quickly."
Her banked anger raged within her. Fire surged through her blood and there was an urgent need for her to release it— but she held it back. She was more afraid of unleashing it than dying viciously by the knife and having her body abused after her passing.
He lowered his knife swiftly from her throat and sheathed it, breathing excitedly. "You'll like it here. And for a pretty face, I won't disappoint."
Her teeth ground brutally under the intense pressure of her jaw, until she let out a great cry and, gathering her strength, freed her limbs from his restraint and clasped his thick throat with her petite hand.
His hand went for her dangling braid, but she released her grasp on his neck and hacked at his throat instead with the rigid edge of her hand. He stumbled to the side and she immediately threw herself on top of him. She drew the small hunting knife she had left concealed in her boot and pressed its tip against his flesh. Her hand began to tremble as she struggled to hold it steady.
She felt a strong need to weep, and so great was the influence on her that her eyes had already brimmed with tears. Her limbs grew weak from the fierce conflict ensuing between her fiery madness and her frantic, despairing mind. She could only think of one thing— her weakness. There was no one to help her mend this mistake.
Except for Legolas.
Her lip quivered. Only Legolas…
The knife fell from her hands and her tears made her blind. She felt a heavy blow to the side of her head. Her body went limp, and she was suddenly lifted from the floor and slung across a brawny shoulder. She fought with her fists, beating them against her assailant's back, but it was futile. The world swarmed around her.
A gossamer drape slid off her shoulders, and she let out a last cry of helplessness before the candle dimmed and the room grew dark.