Farothwen rode hard through the wilderness, along the Elf-Path. She had been riding for a day and a half, and she wished to be out of the borders of Mirkwood as fast as she could. Rochtári was one of the fastest horses in Mirkwood, so she was right on target. She had not slept, as she was deathly afraid of the other Elves that may catch her.
She was riding fast, tears stinging her eyes. She cursed herself for being so stupid as to fall in love with an Elf. They were right, she thought, humans are weak.
How could he do that to me? How could he betray me like that? Why did I ever think he was the one for me? Why did I marry him?
Rochtári sensed she was becoming fatigued from lack of sleep. She shifted herself so that Farothwen was balanced evenly on her back. Rochtári did not slow her pace but she did her best to make sure she moved smoothly along so that Farothwen could fall asleep on her back.
Farothwen did just that, a couple of hours later, when they were about three-quarters of the way out of Mirkwood. Rochtári kept riding through the night.
When Farothwen woke up, she was clear of Mirkwood, heading towards the Great River of the Wilderland. She felt better, having slept.
'Thank you, Rochtári,' she said, stroking her mane gently.
Within the next few hours, they reached the River. Farothwen stopped Rochtári so they could both rest, eat and rink.
'Come on, girl, you need the rest.' Farothwen sat down and ate some food, while Rochtári drank from the calm and shallow river. When Rochtári was finished, Farothwen tossed her some fruit.
They crossed the river soon after, and at the end of the second day in the Wilderland, they camped at the foot of the Ered Hithaeglir.
Farothwen looked up at the Misty Mountains and sighed. She didn't plan her journey after she left Mirkwood. She decided to head for Rivendell, on the other side of the mountains.
But she was scared to take the mountain passes, so she decided that the safest journey would be through the Dwarven realm of Moria. She heard they were hostile to Elves, but she hoped they would be hospitable to her.
The next morning, she took Rochtári's reins in her hand and made for an entranceway nearby. It looked dark, and she could see no Dwarves, but she saw a fire far within. She was surprised there were no Dwarves stationed on the pathway. She could just see a path through the darkness. It was dusty, dirty, like it hadn't been used for years. Rochtári had trouble negotiating the pathways and stairs, but she was able to keep her balance. The going was tremendously slow, and Farothwen had to light a torch to make camp. She was cold and hungry and hoped she would find some Dwarves soon.
Four days later, she was still going. Rochtári was weakening: Farothwen's food was dwindling. Her water was going the same way. She was at a loss. The caverns echoed horribly, she did not want to cause a fuss, but she needed help. The winter chill was starting to bite. She guessed she was near the end, but she needed some food.
Beleglor had taught her some Dwarvish from his extensive travels: he was good friends with some Dwarves of the northern realm of Erebor. She called out a greeting in Dwarvish. Her voice echoed. There was no response.
She heard something behind her. She looked up, but there was nothing there but the wall, ancient Dwarvish runes carved into the ageless stone. Suddenly, there was a large smash above her. She tried to look around, but the cavern was far too vast to be seen with her pitiful torch.
The cavern was a large pit, covered and traversed with old crumbling stone stairways. Farothwen and Rochtári were standing on a small ledge with a stairway in front of them, too narrow for Rochtári to descend. Farothwen would have to send her back to Mirkwood, she could not make it to the other side. Rochtári was nervous, and she neighed loudly, the echo deafening in the silent and endless cavern.
'Shh, Rochtári,' Farothwen whispered. She was frightened now. She knew that was she was lost, and there was no one to help her.
Suddenly, a great cry echoed. Orcs came scurrying out of every crack in the stone, the number beyond reckoning. Farothwen gasped and dropped her torch in panic. Rochtári reared up, spooked. Before Farothwen knew it, Rochtári was trying to descend the narrow stairway in front of them. She couldn't get a grip and she slipped and fell. She tumbled off the stairs into the abyss.
'Rochtári!' Farothwen screamed. The orcs came after her. She fought a few off, but the sheer number was overwhelming. Without warning, one struck her in the back of the head and she instantly fell to the ground...
She was riding fast, tears stinging her eyes. She cursed herself for being so stupid as to fall in love with an Elf. They were right, she thought, humans are weak.
How could he do that to me? How could he betray me like that? Why did I ever think he was the one for me? Why did I marry him?
Rochtári sensed she was becoming fatigued from lack of sleep. She shifted herself so that Farothwen was balanced evenly on her back. Rochtári did not slow her pace but she did her best to make sure she moved smoothly along so that Farothwen could fall asleep on her back.
Farothwen did just that, a couple of hours later, when they were about three-quarters of the way out of Mirkwood. Rochtári kept riding through the night.
When Farothwen woke up, she was clear of Mirkwood, heading towards the Great River of the Wilderland. She felt better, having slept.
'Thank you, Rochtári,' she said, stroking her mane gently.
Within the next few hours, they reached the River. Farothwen stopped Rochtári so they could both rest, eat and rink.
'Come on, girl, you need the rest.' Farothwen sat down and ate some food, while Rochtári drank from the calm and shallow river. When Rochtári was finished, Farothwen tossed her some fruit.
They crossed the river soon after, and at the end of the second day in the Wilderland, they camped at the foot of the Ered Hithaeglir.
Farothwen looked up at the Misty Mountains and sighed. She didn't plan her journey after she left Mirkwood. She decided to head for Rivendell, on the other side of the mountains.
But she was scared to take the mountain passes, so she decided that the safest journey would be through the Dwarven realm of Moria. She heard they were hostile to Elves, but she hoped they would be hospitable to her.
The next morning, she took Rochtári's reins in her hand and made for an entranceway nearby. It looked dark, and she could see no Dwarves, but she saw a fire far within. She was surprised there were no Dwarves stationed on the pathway. She could just see a path through the darkness. It was dusty, dirty, like it hadn't been used for years. Rochtári had trouble negotiating the pathways and stairs, but she was able to keep her balance. The going was tremendously slow, and Farothwen had to light a torch to make camp. She was cold and hungry and hoped she would find some Dwarves soon.
Four days later, she was still going. Rochtári was weakening: Farothwen's food was dwindling. Her water was going the same way. She was at a loss. The caverns echoed horribly, she did not want to cause a fuss, but she needed help. The winter chill was starting to bite. She guessed she was near the end, but she needed some food.
Beleglor had taught her some Dwarvish from his extensive travels: he was good friends with some Dwarves of the northern realm of Erebor. She called out a greeting in Dwarvish. Her voice echoed. There was no response.
She heard something behind her. She looked up, but there was nothing there but the wall, ancient Dwarvish runes carved into the ageless stone. Suddenly, there was a large smash above her. She tried to look around, but the cavern was far too vast to be seen with her pitiful torch.
The cavern was a large pit, covered and traversed with old crumbling stone stairways. Farothwen and Rochtári were standing on a small ledge with a stairway in front of them, too narrow for Rochtári to descend. Farothwen would have to send her back to Mirkwood, she could not make it to the other side. Rochtári was nervous, and she neighed loudly, the echo deafening in the silent and endless cavern.
'Shh, Rochtári,' Farothwen whispered. She was frightened now. She knew that was she was lost, and there was no one to help her.
Suddenly, a great cry echoed. Orcs came scurrying out of every crack in the stone, the number beyond reckoning. Farothwen gasped and dropped her torch in panic. Rochtári reared up, spooked. Before Farothwen knew it, Rochtári was trying to descend the narrow stairway in front of them. She couldn't get a grip and she slipped and fell. She tumbled off the stairs into the abyss.
'Rochtári!' Farothwen screamed. The orcs came after her. She fought a few off, but the sheer number was overwhelming. Without warning, one struck her in the back of the head and she instantly fell to the ground...