Chapter Four: Chance Meetings
Grey clouds still hung in tatters in the rain-washed sky. Shreds of pearl and silver intermingled and drifted lazily, revealing a burnt horizon edge. It looked as though the edge of the earth had been lit aflame; watery clouds parted to reveal the sliver of sun slowly soaring into the majestically welcoming sky. The elves looked to it with hope, their spirits lifted somewhat after the discomfort of the night.
The night had been miserable and long but the memory faded as they watched the strengthening sun paint the dew-beaded meadow blades. The Lórien patrol had been searching in vain for more than an hour before they pulled themselves from the dark grasp of the ghyll, rain-sodden and weary after an uneasy, restless night. But at last their patience was rewarded.
The rock had refused to yield up any of its secrets even to elven eyes and save for the orc corpse near the bottom of the cleft and the blood on the rocks, they had found no other trace of a living being. Not even the sharp cloven marks of a mountain goat's passing could be discerned among the limestone slabs.
Golden dew sparkled in the rising light, renewing their hope as they basked in the cool breeze. The fetid lairs of the orcs lay seven miles away to their left and miles beyond that lay Lothlórien, a mere golden blur on the edge of the horizon in the blue morning light. On their right in the far distance marched the last crags of the Misty Mountains and beyond that as far as elven eyes could see in the hazy air lay endless flat uplands. The darkness of the ravine receded behind them as the elves gathered upon the grassy slope.
In the mud near the ridge they found the undeniable imprint of a footstep where the long damp grass had been pressed flat and stood out like ash in fresh snow among the crisp unbroken sea of green. However, the pouring rain of the night before had all but ruined the print. Even so, the elves' keen eyes and well-honed woodland skill managed to make out a few things.
It was unlike anything they had ever seen before. The sole had been hob-nailed in a half-moon shape and the toe curiously pointed as though with a spike that had dug deeply into the muddy ground as whoever had worn it stumbled over a rock half-submerged in the mud. A stride away lay its counterpart, same shape and size heading west towards the mountains. At the very most they were half a day old.
"These were made by no elf," Orophin remarked, crouched on his heels beside the impressions. "But neither are they of orc-kind," he said with a puzzled frown as he pressed his fingers lightly over the hobnailed marks.
"We saw no humans last night," Rameil said, looking over his shoulder as he followed the footsteps onward into the high grown grass. It had been long in the memory of men since they had left their wood but there were those elves among them who had not forgotten the long scouting trips across this land. Every misty hollow and flowing stream, every deer path and rabbit den, they knew.
"There are wandering bands of men in this wilderness," Déorian put in, crouching also to closer inspect the ground. "But there is only one set here."
"The captive of the orcs. She must have survived the fall," Fedorian mused.
"So, what path do we take now?" Rúmil wondered aloud, wincing as he flexed his left arm. It still felt swollen and stiff from last night.
"There are other signs you have not yet read," Fedorian, ever the teacher, remarked from where he stood a few steps ahead of them, shading his bright eyes with a slender hand. "The land speaks. It remembers. Lasto."
All six of them paused, hearing the hissing of the nearly nonexistent breeze in the heather. Somewhere in the middle distance, they heard water chuckling over grey stones in the dim shadows unlit by the dawn. Déorian, stretching himself full upon the ground with an ear pressed into the grass, strained every sense. And they heard.
Rain. The swift rush of thousands of tiny water droplets striking the earth a staccato beat. The quiet song broken by the thump of heavy hobnailed boots and desperate scrambling, clattering of stones. Something approached. A dark shape, bloodied and bedraggled rose over the lip of the gorge like a wraith from a grave, nearly falling over a loose stone. Another followed, grey-cloaked, just as weary and bloody but more graceful somehow… The shadowy rain curtain closed around them once more, veiling them from sight as they vanished into the mist.
Rúmil's eyes snapped open wide.
"Haldir passed this way," he said with such conviction that the others looked at him curiously but did not question him, knowing well the younger elf's uncanny intuition. They made their way forward in haste, their keen eyes rapidly picking up the burgeoning trail that led onward across the meadowlands.
Haldir lay on his back, too exhausted to move from where he had fallen. With the loss of adrenaline draining from his body, the pain of his shoulder and side and all of the aches in his body returned with a vengeance but he could do nothing for them. All of his gear had been lost when he fell. Nothing left remained to him save the clothes he wore and the sword strapped to his hip which was currently digging into his ribs. With a pained grunt, he unbuckled it and laid it beside him within easy reach should he need it.
Misty rain slid down his neck to disappear under his shirt collar and gathered on his face and hands as he stared up at the dark sky, raising himself up on one elbow to look at his companion. She too remained wakeful but silent among the desolate night grasses. Neither spoke. Eventually, lulled by the rain falling on their faces and sheer weariness, they slipped into sleep.
Awaking cold, damp and supremely uncomfortable, Haldir rose in an irritable mood, achy and chilled by the rain and dew that clung to his skin. The sun fell onto his upturned face and he blinked in the pale light from which the ragged shreds of clouds drifted as he stretched cramped muscles stiff with cold.
The arrow wound, the haft of which was still buried in his shoulder, burned as though a red-hot poker had been stabbed into his flesh and mercilessly twisted. It hurt abominably and he knew that if he did not get it removed, he might not be able to use his arm again. But the sight of the sun cheered him slightly, glad for the light.
Beside him, the woman opened wide, black eyes that glittered in the coppery sunlight. She had spoken no word since she had told him her name and a few short phrases. She seemed reticent to even look at him, her gaze distinctly untrusting. She knew him for a man, nothing more. And though he had saved her life, she neither acknowledged it nor expressed gratitude for it.
With a groan, she stretched her back and rubbed the hollow pit in her stomach reflectively. He smiled mirthlessly as his own stomach ached with hunger. But the damp, hissing grasses were empty and barren of game and they had no snares or anything to catch it with. With nothing else to do, they began to walk. Their march turned long and hot as the sun rose higher into the sky and the dampness evaporated into humidity. No longer cheered by the light, Haldir felt every mile passing in uncomfortable silence, every step as he never had before.
Every hour grew more desperate, more fearful as the day dragged on. Hunger and thirst plagued him though an elf could survive without food. Water, however, was quite another matter. The most they had been able to find was a brackish puddle in the grasses, foul-tasting and dubious as to its purity. But by that time, they scarcely cared. Now they trudged mindlessly along a light deer path nearly overgrown with weeds but still visible to elven eyes. Haldir hoped it would eventually lead to a small glade where he had often hunted.
The woman followed like a grey shadow at his heels, never speaking but keeping close behind. The hot noonday sun burned upon the backs of their heads, unrelieved by tree or cloud shadow. Flat uplands receded endlessly into the grey distance. Shading his eyes with a slender hand, the elf could see for miles in every direction. To the east a golden blur loomed at the very edge of his sight- the eaves of Lothlórien misty in the blue haze of afternoon.
To the west perilously close reared the Misty Mountain range, the rose-tinged peak of Celebdil, the nearest, rose high and foreboding above their heads, its eastern-facing precipice swathed still in deep shadow. Cloudy-headed Fanuidhol the Grey sliced through the sea of deep delving clouds as the storm moved westward. Cruel Caradhras, the Redhorn, blazed bright and glowing under the high afternoon sun, snow gleaming on its upturned face.
A little ways below them lay a copse of pine trees growing close together, cut through by a small, glistening stream burbling over the sun-warmed rocks that protruded from its center. Thirst pressing them onward, they approached soundlessly, the soft needle-strewn floor carpeting their footsteps. A warm breeze hissed through the branches overhead as the revealed willows trailed long leaves through the freshet.
Haldir knelt, examining the area carefully. He knew this land well. During his travels, he and his companions had long journeyed here to hunt for game especially pheasant which flew plentiful here. As he crept nearer to the stream bank, he espied deep cloven marks in the soft mud like two delicately shaped half-moons. Deer had passed this way coming to the water to drink.
A warning tingled along his skin like static electricity as he knelt near the stream. The elf ducked back into the brush, his senses immediately wary.
Something did not feel right. The glade was too quiet. This place was often a haven for birds and yet he could hear none. It made him nervous, wondering if orcs had managed to penetrate even this peaceful place.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a narrow leather strip wrapped about the sticklike branches of an old pine. Cunningly hidden near its base a rabbit snare lay strung the noose hidden beneath a carpet of dead needles and twigs. He carefully skirted the trap and crept into the underbrush near a series of waterfalls like a flowing staircase that fell from stone lip to stone lip ending in the silver stream they followed.
Khiris lingered behind him, her dark face dappled by the fluttering shadows the wind-tossed limbs threw across her face. Twigs snapped underfoot and he grimaced at the noise of her footsteps.
Stepping as silently as only an elf can, he climbed up into the grey shadows of a lone oak tree to give him a better sight of what lay about them. Across the water, his eyes narrowed, he could have sworn he saw the glint of sunlight gleaming on bared steel. But as though sensing his gaze, the light abruptly vanished. Leaping down, he landed silently beside the woman, tense and edgy.
"Something lies hidden amongst the brush on the other side," he whispered. She craned her neck forward to try to see better but even Haldir's keen eyes could not pierce the deep draping shadows. A loud crack startled him and he wheeled about sharply, hand already gripping the hilt of his sword. The haft of a brown-fletched arrow quivered in the trunk of a tree not two feet away from them.
Immediately, they both threw themselves flat to keep out of sight of further missiles. Haldir twisted about nearly on hands and knees, every sense flung as wide as possible to discern their attackers. Lifting his head a little, he peered across the creek towards where he thought the arrow had come from.
Nothing.
Not a tree limb twitched which only served to heighten the elf's agitation. Something was hunting them and irritatingly good about remaining undetected too.
Skirting large patches of revealing sunlight, the dark woman and the elf nearly bent double crept away from the stream. The pine needles muffled the sounds of their retreat but the high uplifted branches offered no shelter and the needle carpeted floor no undergrowth to conceal themselves in. They were left horribly exposed.
Several yards under the dark interlacing branches of the pine trees that somehow blocked all sight of the sun, they stopped to listen. He could feel something drawing nearer and his grip on his saber tightened until his knuckles were white. The Haradrim woman beside him had dropped low into a defensive crouch, something clutched tightly in the folds of her tunic. Her wild eyes darted about like a hunted animal seeking a gap in the ring of its enemies.
A snap of a twig.
The brush of wind flapping against cloth.
Alarm shot through him like an electric jolt. Haldir drew his saber as he caught sight of a momentary flash of silver in the sparse sunlight.
In a shorter time than it took to blink, he found himself surrounded, brown-fletched arrows trained directly at his heart.
The grass bent before them, leading the Lórien elves to a much overgrown path choked with weeds and moss-covered stones. Tracking it with their eyes, the elves followed the shallow groove to the beginnings of a narrow dirt path. They trailed it single file, every nerve tensed, eyes straining to pierce the sticky haze of the late morning.
As the sun rose higher, their damp clothes dried and the dew evaporated, adding to the heat of the already muggy afternoon. Soon, they had divested themselves of their cloaks. Still nothing broke the somnolence of the day save the twitterings of a few nesting birds cleverly concealed among the long grasses. They stopped for neither food nor rest all day until they came to a stream. The brook braided its way among maple trees and the roots of close-growing willows.
Déorian sighed in relief as he upended half of his flask over his head, shaking his head vigorously. Droplets of water flew every which way, dotting his captain's tunic with silver beads. Fedorian brushed them off with a slightly remonstrating smile to which his subordinate flushed.
"You'll be needing that water by the time this day is done," he advised taking a parsimonious sip from his own flask.
They had stopped to rest a moment beside a blue freshet-one of many- that meandered across their path winding down towards the Silverlode. Rameil and Déorian had gone off to see about lunch and Ancadal was busily mending a broken strap on his pack. Orophin stood a little ways away, lost in faraway thoughts, his grey cloak twisting about his statuesque form.
Sitting beside the brook, Rúmil laved his face and neck in the cool water, removing the bandage from his head to bathe the cut and swollen lump on his brow. His forehead still ached but the deep rest last night had done him good.
"That's quite a lump, my friend," Ancadal said with a small smile as he hefted his pack experimentally by the newly repaired strap. "One would think you had fought with trolls instead of water."
"I don't think trolls hit as hard as that water," Rúmil joked dryly.
"Do not jest so. You were nearly killed," Orophin said, snapping out of his reflection. He looked down at his brother with protective concern which Rúmil grinned away as he tapped his forehead, flinching only a little.
"I'm all right," he said in answer to his brother's unasked question. "You fuss worse than our dear older brother." Orophin merely nodded and sat beside him, his eyes still searching Rúmil's face.
The younger brother turned aside with a sigh, inwardly irritated with his brother's overprotective nature. As the youngest of the family, Rúmil had been constantly watched over while he had been growing up. He remembered his parents only in little flashes of memory, scents, words, touches. His father had been long away in a war that many felt was not their own and his mother pined.
Even Lothlórien had not remained untouched by the growing evil in Mordor. As a child, he remembered waking at daybreak to the sounds of his father leaving. He would scramble out of bed in the cold, damp dawn and perch in the trees he so loved to watch the brightly arrayed soldiers in gleaming golden armor pass under him setting out upon the long road with their noble King Amdir, crowned in a silver leafed coronet and glorious as he led the brave column of over ten scores of their greatest archers and swordsmen into battle.
Many never returned.
Rúmil pushed that memory away with a small sigh. Why had he been suddenly reminded of that? Perhaps it was the thought of loss. Their father had not returned from that battle and their brother only nearly so having been of age to go and fight. Now so recently to have him returned to them only to lose him again.
"Do you believe he is still alive, sir?" Orophin seemed to echo the dismal turn of his brother's thoughts.
Their commander looked up. He had been holding himself apart from the others a little, staring at the glistening water as it laughed over green-hued stones. At Orophin's troubled words he stepped forward a few paces. Fedorian exhaled deeply, wishing not to give his friend false hope that would lead to a bitter end.
"I do not know," he said at last. "I pray that he is. He survived the fall; after that he should be able to survive anything…"
Rúmil smiled a little.
"I know that he is," he said confidently. "I feel it in my heart."
"But why would he not meet us if he lived?" Orophin wondered aloud, worry for his older brother clouding his eyes.
"I don't know," Fedorian answered evenly though he could think of several reasons, none of which he wished to say aloud. None of them dared voice the fact that maybe Haldir could not have waited. The slain orc on the rocks proved that they were in need of haste. The blood too that they had found on the rocks troubled them greatly. It was too much to hope that Haldir had not been injured from the fall but they were slightly cheered by the fact that he had been able to move at all- or had been moved at least.
The trail they had been following since dawn had been heading in a singular direction. Fedorian knew of a glade several leagues from here that wanderers might seek for refuge and guessed that Haldir might head there if he was able.
"If we keep our pace, we might catch them up by sundown," Fedorian theorized, his troubled eyes raised to the noonday sun.
"Let's go."
The arrow tip hovered an inch from his chest. Haldir stood carefully still, his hand relaxing on his saber as he narrowed his eyes at the weapon trained on him.
They were utterly surrounded.
By men though they had approached with the silence of elves. Tall, cloaked and hooded in dark green though the day was stiflingly warm. They looked like men who were accustomed to the wild and had been traveling many months for their boots were mud-caked as well as their cloaks and packs slung at odd angles over their shoulders. Eyes as bright and keen as lances pierced the elf who keenly felt his vulnerability.
One glance at the men was all it took. The woman bolted but fell with a cry before she had gone four paces. A bolas skillfully cast by a man in the trees had tangled in her legs, bringing her to the earth with a hard thud. Her dagger flashed, slicing through the bolas' cords and she scrambled back up, hobbling on one leg but they were already upon her, pinning her to the earth with the tips of their swords against her neck and back. Swiftly one of them bound her hands and ankles and dragged her upright by her hair, throwing her into the dirt beside Haldir who still reminded carefully guarded.
"At last! You've given us enough trouble already, witch," a low voice growled. A burly, muscled man goaded, kicking out at the woman. "Led us a merry chase you did. This time you're not-"
"That's enough, Ramir."
A man, taller than the rest, stepped forward, his deep brown eyes glinting underneath a dark green hood like the others. But unlike the others the banded longsword at his side and the richness of his tunic set him apart. He laid a hand easily on the hilt of his sword but did not draw it as he appraised his prisoners. His eyes alighted on Haldir and he froze, his mouth falling slightly open in shock.
Despite his bloodied and haggard appearance, the elf could be mistaken for nothing less than he was.
The man had heard many tales in his youth of the elves for Gondor's history was rife with them. From the downfall of Númenor in which Elendil the Tall and his sons had escaped the terrible flood to come to Middle-Earth and built the northern and southern kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor to the long ago battle on the Plains of Dagorlad: the deeds of the Elves interwove with those of Men.
But to see one here and now no less was something of a surprise to the soldier. Never in his life had he encountered an elf before and a salient mixture of curiosity and wariness warred for position on his face as he looked down at that golden head. Seeking a return to a semblance of reality, he turned his piercing gaze back upon the woman who still struggled fiercely against her bonds despite the fact that they cut into her wrists harshly enough to draw deep marks in her flesh.
"Now, Khiris. Struggling only makes it worse you know that- surely we cannot be as bad as the orcs can we?" he said gently, a dry eyebrow raised.
"I'd rather be orc carrion than in your hands, Anaric," she snarled hoarsely, spitting at his boots. Her ragged voice was heavy with the inflection of Harad and her eyes glittered with hatred as she glared at her enemy.
Undulating leaf-shadows danced across his lean, weather-beaten face and for a moment he looked as though he might strike her. Then he laughed and stepped away from her.
"I see you have not lost your sense of humor. Very good. Tergon, Peranir, take her up will you."
Two of the men obediently stepped forward and lifted the woman to her feet. Khiris spat a string of unintelligible curses in her own language that none of them heeded as the man now named Anaric turned his full attention back to the elf still held motionless with the weapons trained on him. Many of the men stared in open curiosity though they were careful to keep their bows steady.
"Is this the welcome you give travelers?" Haldir asked dryly, shattering the awe that held them spellbound.
"When they travel in such company, yes," Anaric answered sternly, doing a better job at concealing his shock and amazement than his men.
Haldir could not know that Gondor was currently at war with the Haradrim. This contingent had been sent out several months ago in pursuit of a dangerous band of the dark people that had escaped the execution squads in the south. Every last one of them had to be hunted down- no mercy to be shown for the vile deeds they had enacted upon the people of Gondor.
"I have no quarrel with you," the elf said calmly, struggling to keep his feet and not topple face first onto the arrow tips as a wave of dizziness passed through him. His wounds screamed relentlessly at him.
A quick cursory glance around him revealed that there were at least a score of them in all but more than enough for him to handle should they attack him. And all of them were staring at him with a mixture of wonder, fear and mistrust on their faces.
A dangerous combination.
These men did not trust him which Haldir could well understand for he wasn't feeling very well-disposed towards them either.
Anaric gave him a considering look from underneath his hood. "I have never met your kind before."
"Nor are you likely to," Haldir answered, a trace of weariness in his voice.
"Bind the elf, Anaric. He was in her company that makes him an enemy," Ramir spat impatiently, fingering his sword darkly. "What do we know of this elf? Why does he wander so far from his own lands? I say we take him to judge him with the woman," the man said, shooting the elf a vicious glare.
Haldir immediately disliked the man.
"Peace, Ramir." Anaric answered calmly though the furrow between his brows revealed his rapidly growing irritation. Although the man's words brought up a good point.
"However, Master Elf, I would like to know how you came to be in such company and what you are doing so far from your lands?"
"The company I keep is my own," the elf answered steadily. He did not feel like explaining himself to these inquisitive men particularly when purposefully throwing himself off a cliff to escape orcs had not been one of his better ideas. "And as for your other question, my lands are not far. This country is not as empty as you seem to think."
"Indeed."
The leader seemed to read more into his words than he had meant. But whatever thought had crossed his mind was gone before the elf could think of examining it further. Dark whispers edged around the circle immediately silenced by a look from their captain.
"And yet you have not answered my question. Why were you in her company?" he demanded, his voice thick with suspicion.
Haldir's frown deepened. He was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the proximity of the weapons and their badgering irritated him. He had done nothing to earn their suspicion save circumstance he had no control over. He was tired. Every muscle in his body ached and he wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep. But that fickle mistress fortune would not allow him respite.
"Whatever you think of me, you have the wrong idea," Haldir reiterated calmly. "Orcs attacked near my homeland. She was among them. We attempted to save her as any would have," he shook his head as though this were obvious.
The one named Ramir barked a laugh.
"She didn't need your help. Bet she headed that little raid on your forest," he sneered.
Anaric ignored him, more alarmed by something else the elf had said.
"'We'? There are more of you?" Anaric interrupted sharply, his gaze darting around the clearing as though he expected more elves to appear out of the trees.
"I left them some time ago," Haldir muttered absently, a wave of fear washing over him for the fate of his brothers. He had not seen if they had escaped the battle or not…
Anaric's lips pressed together in a thin line as he nodded slowly as though he had finally understood something. He turned to one of the men at his side. "Bind him," He ordered curtly.
Haldir looked up in astonishment. "I told you, you have the wrong idea," he insisted as several of the swords edged aside as a man wrenched his hands behind his back, jarring the wound in his shoulder. Haldir swiftly choked back a cry of pain as a flash of yellow light burst before his eyes.
"I cannot in good conscience let you leave until I know the truth of the matter," Anaric reasoned, pointedly oblivious to the suspect's pain. "You will be detained until you see fit to tell us the truth."
But Haldir barely heard this. His body had decided to quit on him at last. He would have fallen had the two men on either side of him had not been gripping his arms. Dimly he felt his knees hit the grass as the chilling darkness he had fought for so long finally overwhelmed his senses and he surrendered to the welcoming oblivion.
