- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
The Fellowship was battered, cold, wet, and miserable. Traveling through blizzards on top of Mount Cahadras was no small task, and save for their own body warmth - almost gone now - and the small fire that Gandalf had ventured to make, there was no warmth. Although Legolas did not seem to mind the snow, and Gandalf only slightly, the rest of the Fellowship certainly did. Even Aragorn, who had been a Ranger in the Wilderness for years, found himself shivering and wishing himself back in the warm, comfortable halls of Rivendell.
Gandalf watched the Fellowship getting more tired and drowsy and handed around the flask of miruvor from Rivendell. Aragorn looked at Gandalf. "You have brought miruvor?"
Gandalf smiled slightly. His grey beard was slightly frosted with snow and the cold. "A wizard is always prepared." Aragorn just shook his head and grinned a little.
The flask was passed around the members of the Fellowship. As each one drunk the Elven drink their body seemed to warm a little, and their spirits rise. The fire seemed more merry and the cold more bearable, as well. The Hobbits now had woken up more when they had been passed the drink, and Pippin and Merry's grins were back on, if a little tired and weary.
"What is this drink?" Frodo asked, as he felt his body warm. He opened his eyes, which had felt so heavy only a few moments before, wider.
"It is miruvor, the drink of the Elves," Gandalf replied. "From Rivendell. You have experienced its effects; it warms the body and - perhaps - rises the spirits. Very useful for traveling on the road." He closed the cap on the flask as it came back around him. "That is enough for tonight."
As they had to rest and could not go on under the harsh conditions of the blizzard, the Fellowship rested. Some slept while others watched, and vise versa. Aragorn and Gandalf was up, still discussing. Both had worried expressions on their faces.
"So we have come your way, Aragorn," Gandalf acknowledged. "The Pass of Cahadras."
"Yes," the other man sighed. "So it is. I have traveled this path but a several times, and then it seemed a safe choice. But I have never seen blizzards this strong before. Yet it might only be a coincidence."
"Yet even as we speak Saruman might be watching over the Pass. And as our friend Gimli stated - " he nodded to the sleeping Dwarf who had grudgingly fallen asleep, despite his protests, "it might be Cahadras' will and evil which is causing all this."
"Perhaps. But this is better than the Mines of Moria. I tell you, Gandalf, I have passed there once, and I do not like the way."
"Yes," Gandalf murmured silently. "You have been captured by the Enemy."
"I fear that the rest of the Mines have been taken by the Enemy. Perhaps the Dwarves defeated them and the Orcs retreated to the shadows. But there is an evil there I can sense, Mithrandir. I still do not advise the way."
"If Cahadras would be blocked, what would be our choice?" Gandalf asked softly.
"I am still musing over that," Aragorn frowned. "I would hope that we can all go through Cahadras safely, without any harm. But even not being seen by the Enemy is too much to hope for, it seems. One other way to Lothlorien other than the Mines and the Pass would be the Gap of Rohan. But, alas, that takes us too close to Isengard."
"I fear so. Saruman already knows of our presence, with the crebain spies. And perhaps he has more that we do not know of. Cahadras might even be under his power, but I doubt that strongly. We already know that many Orcs are under his power, yet less than those under the One Eye's. Yet no Orc would venture Cahadras willingly. There would be a spy on land who would be under his powers."
"Horses do not willingly come to his hand. Wolves, perhaps?"
"Perhaps, Aragorn. There have been reports of wolves being forced under Saruman's power and treachery, evolving into greater beasts. They are called Wargs. I am sure you know, from the years you were in Rohan?"
"Yes, but they were not so many, and did not openly perceive that they were under Saruman's orders. A few villages, not so far away from Edoras, were attacked, but only reports of Wargs remained. Regular wolves are more common. I have fought Wargs once or twice... But..."
A curious expression came over the Ranger's face, an almost anguished, bitter look lay there. He clenched his fists briefly and let them loose. It was an old pain, but it still ached him, along with his mother's death.
"The wolves have killed your father," Gandalf murmured knowingly.
"Yes." Aragorn met the Maiar's gaze with some difficulty. "I must admit, mellon nin, it still pains me to think of so. So many deaths..." He shook his head, as to clear it of all sad memories. "But it is not the time to dwell on the past now. We must think of the present."
As the girl traveled farther and farther north it got colder and colder, even far more colder than the nights of the desert. She got used to covering herself with fallen leaves or whatever natural debris she could find, and after a couple of experiments she found that animal fur did the best. She hunted rabbits with her knife, testing her agility and stalking abilities without the help of a bow, and soon enough she became slightly warmer with the rabbit fur for her outer clothing. But it still was not warm enough, and the nights came on much faster. She reckoned that this was ordinary for the Northlands, but she could not keep herself from grumbling.
By now her supplies from the debris of her camp had ran out pretty much, and her clothes were ragged. Despite the icy frigidness, she had cracked open some ice - strange thing it was, but she soon discovered that once melted, it made water - and washed her clothes and herself briefly. It did not do much help, but it had been better than nothing.
She still hunted for prey with her knife, and sometimes she could ignite a little spark with two sticks to warm them, if not cook them. She learned that the small red, bead-like things were bad to eat, at least this time of the weather, and the short, squatty things with a roofed top were to be avoided entirely. She had nibbled on one very colourful one, and had been sick with just that little nibble. That had delayed her traveling for some days.
By now she was completly in foreign territories. She knew she was at least close to the Numenorean city - the White City, it was called in Far Harad - but avoided it by going farther East. She often halted some leagues before a village, wondering whether to enter or not, and did not. She preferred herself the farthest away from civilazation.
Of course, she realized she needed help. Grudgingly she admitted that she could not find the Elf-havens alone by herself. Although a small part of her said that if she wondered for far and long enough she could find them, she could not know if they were one of the Elf-Betrayers' - the ones who had ruined her home as she had known it - or not. But no Humans ventured in her path, and in this time of the weather most seemed to stay home. Only a few men, clad in silver metal armor, rode back and forth, and the girl could sometimes see them like ants. 'Weaklings,' she scoffed at them. Yet even so she questioned if the Harad troops would have done so in this cold, frigid weather. Probably not.
The girl, however, admired the colourful views of the scenery. She had to admit that the Northlands were beautiful, in a strange, exotic way. When she had first stepped here the trees were bare, with only a few scarlet or brown leaves hanging on the tall things. But she had admired the mountains in the distance, looming slightly closer and closer with each far distance she traveled. And the plants! There were a variety of them, and even in the dead-seeming Northlands, some still stayed green. Even so it was a brighter green, a livelier green than the desert's, and she found the colour to be refreshing and found simple delight in it.
The girl traveled on by stars and the clues in the nature, even as she did now. The Eye of the Raven was over there, by the constellation of Mizlan, the Serpent, and south of the Sword Gleam, made of the seven famous stars. At the top, however, unmoving, lay the Heaven's Eye, which always stayed in the same direction and lay in the West.
From night to night she thought that she might have seen wolves around her, but she only clutched her glaive and sword more tightly. No thought came that it might be the Wolf.
This night was colder than the rest before, and the girl wondered why. She looked into the stars for reassurence, but the sky was clouded tonight, and the stars did not shine. Instead, the sky was black - not with just darkness of the night, but with storm clouds - a sight that was rarely seen in the desert. So the girl could not have known what was following.
The wolf froze and looked into the sky. The moon was paling, and the stars brightening suddenly and paling. The clouds were covering the sky; massive clouds. The temperature was dropping rapidly, and the wolf looked worriedly. Although he had thick furs to protect himself, what about the two-legger female wolf (or so he begun to think of her as)? She was a pathetic little creature. She probably couldn't survive. She was different from the two-leggers from the North, who could live.
Filitarn howled. Winter was coming. Winter had already arrived, and it was only waiting to strike its blow.