-Albert Camus
At once the girl found the nighttime march to be cool and satisfying. The temperatures were certainly lower, and with her cloak she could stay warm if she wanted to. She found many advantages to the time of this march: for instance, she could always defend herself if an animal was to meet her; she was not asleep and vulnerable. So she marched on north, feeling vaguely pleased with herself, despite the drowsiness from lack of sleep. But that was all right; she was used to longer marches than this.
She was pleased, that is, until she met the morning.
As the bloody red sun rose -- the girl remembered the superstition that a bloody morning meant that blood had been spilled last night, and wondered who had been the victim this time -- the desert warmed up. Most animals had retreated to their shadows and cool shelters before dawn, but even now lizards, with their shining, reflective skin, crawled under the rocks.
The girl tried sleeping for a while, but it was an extreme change after sleeping in the cooler temperature of the night, and found that she was sweating. She tried stripping off her cloak and her outer clothes, but no luck. Although it was winter — the girl did not know that, however — up north, the Southern lands were not affected and stayed as hot as summer of the North (no, hotter than summer of the North). It was quite uncomfortable, but the girl was used to a lack of sleep for as long as two days, so she did not mind so much.
She had been trained not to think of other things — in other words, daydream — in the Harad training methods, but she often disobeyed the "rule." As she went striding on she thought of the wolf last night, and wondered if he had only been a dream.
The wolf's name was unknown, but he was called Filtiarn in the Common Tongue. Filtiarn: a fitting name, as it meant "Lord of Wolves." So he looked like a lord among wolves: his fur was a majestic silver, nearing toward white yet black at the same time, and his gray-amber eyes seemed to know more than a simple animal should. But wolves are more humane than most think. Wolves are, in fact, more humane than some Humans. For not all predatory animals are born to mindlessly kill. Such are wolves. Yet along the way a young wolf gets lost on the track.
Filtiarn's past was hidden to him. The first thing he remembers, he says, is the cold morning rain drenching him. A series of brief images follow thus: a bloody sun hanging between the earth and the sky, a star above his head, a blue-winged bird flying without fear, a pair of dark eyes that might have belonged to one of his pack's. But he cannot remember, for his original pack was gone. The only one who had cared for him was an old female - Otsanda her name was. She-wolf. But she is gone now.
Filtiarn does not remember this clearly. Like all animals of the wilderness he dwells in the present, neither the past nor the future. He relys on his senses to defend him, and every wolf - other than the ones in one's pack - is expected to fight for his or her own life. Filtiarn grows and one by one, under his proud leading, he gets a pack to love and care for, but not a mate. Not yet. So the days go by.
The wolf shakes his head. He is hot and his fur itches. He was not made for the desert. He longs to go back to the woodlands of the North, but he cannot. He is an outcast there; and others will attack if he dares to tread beyond his now newly claimed territories. He does not like it here.
He has hunted and gulped down several desert hares. He has tried eating the scaly things on the rocks, but they taste horrible. He has also seen his cousins, and he thinks they look very strange, and did not approach them but looked at them warily. Their long ears, short reddish hair,and slightly smaller bodies seemed humorous to him, at first, for they looked like untrained, burned younglings. Now he does not blame them. The cruel sun is too hot when it should be colder, a lot colder, up north. It is hotter than the summer up north! He sweats and wishes his coat of fur was lighter.
The wolf tries to go back to his regular routine. But he cannot do so for two reasons. One, he is unused to the desert. Two, the image of the Human disrupts him often.
By its smell and appearence the two-legger had been a female, one who is growing up, one who is neither an adult or a child, but quickly passing into adulthood. But it had formed the stance of an adult.
Then he remembers: it had been alone. Then it must mean it had been an outcast, like him.
There was something in the girl's eyes and the girl's pose that it was one of his pack. Then he shakes off the feeling, feeling very irritated with himself. A two-legger has never been of any use or interest to the four-leggers. It had always been so, except for the wondering Elves who sometimes pass by. But they, too, have not been seen in Filtiarn's life. Not yet.
His throat is parched. He must have water.
All those memories must have overwhelmed him. Other than the places he've been and recent memories, and his pack, wolves do not visit the past. This wolf feels uneasy. He has dwelled in the past more than he feels comfortable with. It is time to live in the present, he feels, and lets his senses take over until he is nothing but another wild, wandering wolf.
There are - had been - seven, including himself, in the pack. Adalwolfa, the white-haired one, who is not Filtiarn's mate but assums the position of the head female. Nuntis, the cheerful one, the scout, who has lively, dancing golden eyes. Tala, the other female, the mate of Nuntis. Chann and Convel, the only pups of the pack, and twins at that, of Nuntis and Tala. And finally: Randale.
Randale is the traitorous one. Filtiarn only accepted him because he was a good fighter, and he was intelligent. He also seemed very loyal, but that was not his purpose for coming here.
Randale is a black wolf, from the East. He is beautiful, and he knows that, too. His face is unmarked save for a long scar going down from left eye to his snout, and one of his sharp fangs are broken, probably an old war wound.
Randale has never been seen in the forest before. So when he wanted to approach the pack, the pack had many a discussion over him. But finally they decided they would let him in, as the lowest rank. He took this cheerfully, yet he was a somber, unblinking wolf.
Filtiarn still felt uneasy about him. He paces him each day, and snarls at him whenever he makes a charge at ranks. For wolves the leader is the leader, unless others prove him wrong in a just fight. That was what Filtiarn was waiting for, perhaps. Randale never made a move to fight, but it seemed so.
So when Randale snarls at him and knocks him down one day, he is surprised.
They fight - clawing each other, rolling on the ground, snarling and biting. The pack watches. They know they must not interfere, even the pups.
Filtiarn suddenly feels that something is not right with Randale. He is too strong for an wolf. What is he? Randale manages to overtake him, and Filtiarn retreats, although only after throwing him a cold glance. His proud tail unusually down and between his legs, he limps away. For now Randale is the leader of the pack.
Then Randale leads the pack to the East. He says something about their maker, their creator. The other wolves are afraid. They do not like what they are feeling: a sense of old evil. But all of them are too ignorant of the old evil, save for the presence in their stomaches.
At the boundary Randale chases him off. You are now not one of our pack, he snarls. They engage another fight, but with that inhumane strength Randale beats Filtiarn. Filtiarn, secondly humiliated, now limps off again. Leaving them for a while, Randale chases Filtiarn on and on, for days and days, until they get to the hot lands with no forests and not enough animals. He is an outcast.
The wolf woke suddenly. He remembered, and he hated. But old deeds were old deeds, and he did not intend to set revenge against Randale. Yet in his stomach he felt an old evil he cannot put a name to. He felt his pack is in danger. But the two-legger he had seen was in danger, too, and he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. He felt something strange, once again, that the girl had been one of his pack.
What is Happening of the Fellowship
It had all been decided: the Ring-Bearer, along with eight more companions, called the Fellowship of the Ring, would set out for the quest to destroy the One Ring of Doom.
It had been the eleventh day since they had left the Elf-haven, and Frodo and Sam felt themselves missing the soft beds already. They were now nearing Hollin.
The Fellowship was getting to know each other slowly, other than the already-made friendships: Merry and Pippin found Boromir quite fun; the Hobbits began to trust Aragorn more and more; Legolas was setting himself. It is the Hobbits, Gandalf reflected as they hiked over a hill, who are making it work. Just as the Ring-Bearer is a Hobbit. By now Frodo had returned to his top health, yet he still blanched whenever Nazguls were mentioned, or thought of.
There were quite a few strains between the Fellowship as well, however. For instance Aragorn and Boromir avoided each other, and so did Legolas and Gimli. Boromir did not trust Elves, while Gimli had a profound disliking for them. So it was not perfect, but it was acceptable.
Now they were traveling over hilly lands of Hollin. Gandalf was in front, with his grey hair, robes, and pointy hat, his right hand ever-clutching his staff. An Elvin sword lay beneath his robes, but the Hobbits did not know so much, save Frodo. Behind Gandalf came Frodo, lost in his deep thoughts. He already seemed to have worry lines etched on his face, and his green-blue eyes were faraway.
Behind Frodo paced Legolas. He did not strain to make a conversation; rather, he stayed silent like most of them. Behind Legolas came Merry and Pippin, who was once more chattering among themselves, then Gimli. Gimli was not looking uncomfortable, as he had gone over many journeys.
Behind Boromir came, his round shield buckled over his shoulder, and at last Aragorn, his silver eyes clouded for the time being, strided with his long steps. They were all thinking about the days ahead, while some preferred not to as they frightened them, a little. Those were turblent days; full of danger and darkness. It was well that the Fellowship had eight hands (swords, bows, and axes) to help the Ring-Bearer. He would need it.
At night they camped, but dared not lit a fire yet. "I do not like the sense of the place," Aragorn murmured quietly. "It is too quiet here. I feel a forboding presence that had not been here before."
They all stayed strangely silent after that, for in fear of the unknown. As Gimli took the first watch for the night, and the rest settled into sleep or at least prepared for it, they heard the wild cry of wolves somewhere in the distance.