(Another long) Author note (sorry): Guys I feel like we need a metaphorical group hug after that last chapter! Some reviews of it made me take stock and accept responsibility for what I'm putting out there that could potentially really, really upset someone or mess with their head. I probably should have put a warning of some kind at the start of that chapter. I'm so touched those of you who had such a hard time with it are choosing to stick with the story, although I must point out I accept no responsibility for future damage caused to Diarona's Mac ;) (Also thanks Diarona for writing your thoughts on Keren and Legolas so beautifully - you are spot on! I always find it exhilarating when I realise that people understand/analyse them just as much as I do).

And yes, poor Hrafn fulfilled his role, a role I leave up to you all individually to decide how willing he was to fulfil, and why. Also, how long he had been aware of it… Would love to hear your thoughts.

For my own sanity I can't stay in this level of grim for too long. I always hurry through some of the bleaker chapters in LOTR, even though I know everything works out ok (ish) in the end, so I get it if some of you feel the same about this section of the story and just want it done and out of the way. There's nothing specific here I would say, it's just generally a bit depressing, and I know not everyone reads fanfic for that, in fact quite the opposite. I promise, cheerier, nay ecstatic, times are ahead :) Please, if anyone feels I need to add a trigger warning for anything anywhere in the story, tell me and I will. I want to entertain and move you all emotionally, not cause anyone trauma. x

ElflingoftheShire - Hi, welcome, and WOW what a compliment. Also, you seeing 'part of me' in this story means a great deal. It's been an intensely personal thing, writing this over the years.

Beatrice3 - Thank you thank you thank you! I refuse to believe just yet that I'm better than many published authors, but that and your earlier comments have certainly given me a confidence boost! I hope you enjoy the rest of the story :)

HELLO NEW FOLLOWERS!

FYI today is the anniversary of Tolkien's death. It feels very special to happen to publish the chapter I'm most proud of on this date. It really is a pivotal moment, and one I've had in my mind as something to work hard on for a very long time. I've stayed up way too late the past few nights finishing and editing it, and kinda dreaded going to work the next day. The thought of getting home and working on it makes my day better, and actually makes me think differently about how I'm living my life (deep!) so it seems fitting to leave this quote from the prof. himself: 'One is not abandoning the truths of reality by immersing oneself in the beauties of a story. Rather, the beauties of a story may reveal truths about reality otherwise lost from view.'

Chapter Eleven - To the end

Walk.

Just walk.

Just have to walk forward and you'll be alright.

These were the words that Keren had set to a rhythm in her head ever since she had descended the cliff, a rhythm that matched her steps. Slow to begin with, as her feet took one step, then another, then another, in shock, in fear, in denial, until she was marching fast, as fast as she could, away from the place where her heart had snapped. And now she had walked so far and so fast that the words didn't mean anything, but were just comforting sounds in her head.

She had felt her heart snap before - at her mother's death and at Faramir's rejection, both of which she thought must have actually happened to someone else, someone from long, long ago, someone decades younger. Now her friend had been brutally murdered in front of her, a friend who had given his life so that she could get away. She could walk as fast as she liked, run even, and she would never get away from that. Hrafn had died because of her. She had led him to his death.

Hrafn died because of you. You led Hrafn to his death.

This happened sometimes. The words in her head would change, though her pace would be relentless, the rhythm the same. And it would be many minutes before she realised what had happened, and that her mind was torturing her. She would blink, and take a breath, and start again.

Walk. Just walk. Just have to walk forward and you'll be alright. Walk. Just walk. Just have to walk forward and you'll be alright.

If she just walked, what could go wrong? If she just kept walking, however lost she would get in the marshes, then she would not have to think, or to face the fact that it was all over. If she just kept walking, maybe eventually she would find the right way through. And if she didn't find it, she would just keep walking until her body gave out from lack of food and water and rest, and then all she'd have to do was fall asleep.

No food. No water. No way through. Hrafn died because of you. You led Hrafn to his death. No food. No water. No way through.

After a time Keren could not stop these other words from taking over, but she decided she would rather have them than silence, as proof she could still think.

Half a day's march brought her to the edge of the marshes. A foul stench filled her nostrils - sweet yet sulphurous, a smell of rot and wetness, of lost hope and empty hearts. The Dead were waiting.

She did not stop to take stock, or run back, or collapse in despair. She found a tussocky piece of earth that looked solid, and walked on, without breaking her stride.

No food. No water. No way through. Hrafn died because of you. You led Hrafn to his death.

She pinned her eyes on the horizon. She needed to head towards Mordor, not Ithilien, for Legolas had said that was the way Frodo and Sam had gotten out, the only way. Her only hope lay towards the dark mountains that loomed up before her, closer now, rather than the far line of green to the west of them, just brushing the edge of her vision. She would get out, she would get out, then she would head west and south through the barren plain. And then she would smell a fresh breeze, and hear running water, and drink deep, then lie in the flow of a shallow stream, just to feel alive. And then, refreshed, she would march on further under the trees until she reached Cormallen and the oak tree and her journey's end. Her new home, her new life, with Legolas. Legolas who she had not seen for… she didn't know anymore.

Sometimes she felt as if she was forgetting things. How sure could she be that her memories of the sound of his voice, the feel of his hair, the way his lips curved up at the corners when they shared a look, were real? Could she truly recall the sound of his voice, how his hands would feel as they touched her? Callouses. Rough with smooth. Yes. She remembered. His voice, husky with wisdom and warm with care, yet youthful and free. The way it rolled and lilted. Yes. She remembered. His hair, golden in some lights, silver in others, soft and silky beneath her fingers. His eyes, grey and bright, like the moon shining on clear water.

Hold on. Hold on. He was real. He is real. Find him, find him.

Her engagement ring had been hidden on a chain round her neck the entire journey. Tinúnil was still in its pouch at her waist. Both remnants of her life before she had become the wanderer she was now.

It was all real. Walk. Just walk. Just have to walk forward and you'll be alright.

But everything else had gone. Her gifts, from the bears, from Eomer, and of course her food and water skins.

No food. No water. No way through. Hrafn died because of you. You led Hrafn to his death.

And then she reached the first parting of the ways, and she knew not what to do. The path to the right looked firmer, wider, but seemed to go straight east. The way that veered slightly to the left was winding and narrow, and had many other paths branching off it. She had planned to try and keep to as straight a line as possible, but neither option gave her that choice.

She stood still, stopping for the first time since she had turned her back on Hrafn's cold, broken body. And when her feet stopped, the words stopped. Thought stopped, and feeling rushed in. Understanding. Her dream of finding a stream, of wandering, hungry but alive, into the forest - it was a dream, nothing more. She was not going to make it.

And Hrafn. Lying there all alone, never to see his forest again. Hlíf would look for him every day, and he would never return. The shaman with his runes would have seen the end of his road, would have known what Keren had brought to their leader. The look in his eyes… What had she done? All of his people, left unknowing what had befallen their young chief. She would in all probability die out here on the marshes, the barren sickly green tussocks the last thing she would ever see, and she could never send word to them.

So many people in fact, that she wanted to see, to talk to, before she died, now never to be seen again. She wanted to thank them all, to share stories, and take their hand in friendship, and smile at all they had brought her. Hlíf and Katla, Yrsa and Grimbeorn, Negeneth, Haldir, Pippin. None of them could help her now. Her family, her beloved Palen, and her father - they would not see her return. She sat, after swaying on the spot, her empty eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she put her head in her hands and allowed a keening to begin in her throat, which became a racking cry, which became a roar of agony. She had to go on, she knew she had to go on, for Hrafn, for Legolas, for herself. She had to try with every part of her, until she had nothing left. But how she longed to close her eyes and wake up in Lórien, Legolas at her side, a day of peace and joy ahead of them, to find that all of this had been a horrible dream. She longed for it so much it hurt her heart and made her retch.

The burning in her throat made her take stock. She would starve if she stayed here, certain death. At least if she kept going there was the smallest of chances. She may not now ever make it as far as Cormallen, but she was going to try to get through the marshes. She had to try. Feeling gave her strength, and she decided no more would she try to stifle it with thoughts and words. This feeling of grief would drive her on, however hard, for grief was what she had left - hope was all but gone. She had lived with grief before, and it had not destroyed her. Let her at least die with purpose behind it. The thought of lying down and giving up in this dreadful place made her weep further. Let her at least get clear of the dead.

Go. Go. On. On. Get up. Go.

Her own voice. No-one was coming to help her. There was no voice in the air that could help, other than to keep her company. She would get herself out of this, or she would die. She stood so quickly it made her dizzy - exhausted from the hard journey and the fight, already she was feeling the effects of no food all day. Her ankle was more painful than ever after days tramping through the hills. But on she would go.

She took the path to the left.

Keren awoke after a short sleep where she had fallen as it had grown dark, too tired to care if she was strewn across the path, to check if anyone was following her. She felt entirely alone - there was no-one who would choose to track her through the marshes, for no-one would risk a watery grave.

Her stomach growled, and her mouth was dry, but she was not desperate enough to try the fetid marsh water yet. Perhaps that time would come, soon, but she dared not disturb the waters. She had seen nothing so far, nothing like Sam had once described, when Frodo had gone silent and excused himself in the telling of the tale. But the smell, rather than fading as her nostrils grew used to it, was growing stronger, and she knew she was heading towards the heart of the marshes, and it would not be long before she saw the spectral lights that guided weary travellers to their doom. She had to stay alert and keep her wits about her as much as she could. She would not die here, she would not. She marched on, making sure she kept the mountains ahead of her, picking paths at random, though with no way of knowing if she was choosing the right ones.

Don't think about it.

She went past hunger, her stomach contracting so that it hurt, so that she would not have wanted to eat even if she could have. But she could live with it, though she would grow faint and cold. It would not kill her. And if she made it through, there would be plants, maybe even berries. On and on, and the mountains grew nearer, though the paths started weaving and winding, much like in the Emyn Muil. Often she felt overwhelmed, but she allowed herself to be so, letting the tears drop, hot and angry in the sun, or slow and cold in the wind, whenever they wished. So long as she kept on, she could let grief carry her forward.

And then - as the sun set on her third day in the marshes - she saw them.

She knew straight away what they were, never wondering if her eyes were playing tricks. The dead, shining their lights under the water, wanting her company. Never had she felt so afraid. Legend come to life. But not life. Death.

They can't hurt you if you stay on the paths. They're close, but they can never get close enough unless you let them. Don't let them. They're just dead. There are worse things.

A man she saw first, in Gondorian armour, his face sunken in and rotted. Then an elf, still fair, though his hair knotted and twisted about him like weeds, green and glowing. Their eyes were closed, though she felt rather than heard any call from them. She gasped in horror and turned away, walking on swiftly, but she had not gone more than five steps before her gaze was drawn again to a pool beside the path, the water black as pitch, the only light coming from the eerie glow around the corpse that lay in the shallow mere, one arm outstretched as if beckoning her. Another elf, though this one's face was sharp, and wrong, his fair hair silver as Legolas's.

"No," she whispered, then regretted it, for she felt as though all about her the air quickened, as if they had heard, just as the sun disappeared. The night's chill came quickly, and she forgot that she was hungry, and thirsty, and tired, as the last of the light left, and true terror took hold. She could not sleep here, she had to keep moving. But to wander about in the dark was foolish.

Better foolish than dead, she thought, and she backed a few steps away from the sleeping figure. A splash sounded, and she pivoted on the spot to see that her foot had come down upon the mud and ooze around the edge of another pool - this one containing an orc, grinning in death, skin mottled and wrinkled and torn. She dragged her foot up quickly, in blind panic, and almost lost her balance righting herself on the path. All she could hear was her own breath, fast and quavering, until another sound crept up on her in the darkness. Was it the wind, or was it a low whispering of many voices? Frozen with fear, she thought she could hear words, and breaths, and sighs.

'Come stranger, down

to the deeps. Come

join us in rest, never

to wake. Forever

we slumber, weary

traveller, join us in sleep.'

"No!" she yelled aloud this time, and ran, despite her body protesting with every step. She could not see clearly, and her feet kept splashing at the edge of the many pools, which had seemed to multiply in number.

'Come stranger, weary traveller, never to wake.'

Whispers all around her. Pools appeared everywhere, some right in her path, all containing sleeping faces, deceptively peaceful and rested, some rotted, some fair.

'Join us in sleep, come join us in rest, down to the deeps.'

She lost her bearings completely, just trying to stay on a path, any path. It was too dark to see the mountains, for the moon was hidden behind cloud, and the stars did not shine.

'Forever we slumber. The dead. The dead are here.'

Feet splashing with almost every step now, she knew she was lost, right on the edge of a pool. She could try blindly leaping to one side in the hopes of hitting a path, but all was dark and grey, and she could not see where water ended and moss began.

Splash. Splash. Her feet grew cold. Already she knew she was in their power.

'The dead are here.'

Not like this, not like this, Keren was thinking - it was all she could think. But still she found herself stumbling towards a pool where another figure lay, pale green orbs floating in its hands, lighting the way for her. Another man, in garb she did not recognise, his face young and his hair dark, but with skin grey and rotting. His eyes, unlike the others, were open, ageless and empty, and they were looking straight at her.

Not like this, not like this, she thought, even as she fell forward and splashed down, down into the murky water.

'Weary traveller, join us in sleep.'

Keren felt putrid water hit the back of her nose and mouth, for she had screamed under water. The man was before her, eternally young but rotted, putrefying, swimming up to meet her.

No, no, not like this!

'The dead are here. The dead are here.'

The man grabbed at her, freezing hands, heavy, laid down with the water of centuries. She struggled, but he had her firm. Her lungs burning, she squirmed and writhed.

Not like this. Not. Like. This.

'The dead are here! Stranger, down to the deeps!'

The voices sounded more urgent now, and she dimly registered something unexpected in their tone - panic, uncertainty.

'The dead are here!'

And then she heard it, unmistakably. The loud, angry call of a raven, shrill and harsh and mocking. And she felt, rather than saw, the rotting corpse's eyes widen in surprise, as he loosened his grip, and turned to bat something away. Keren could not see what, or who, it was, but she thought she knew. She took her moment, lungs fit to burst, and kicked up for the surface.

Her head broke through the water immediately, disorienting her, for the pool had seemed cavernous and deep. She gulped in the cold night air, once, twice, then staggered out of the pool, her feet somehow on the bottom already. She did not understand how, nor did she wish to.

Shivering, she sprawled across the mossy path, breathing in hard, each breath precious, life-giving. Dimly she could still hear the whispers, and then an answering call of a bird, a raven, silencing them each in turn. She could not think about it too hard, but her heart ached. She let herself shake with cold and shock, drawing her cloak about her, already dry and free of the scummy water. Just for a moment, she closed her eyes.

The next thing she knew it was morning, the sun waking her. She must have fallen into an exhausted sleep, right by the side of where she had almost met her death. She was almost afraid to open her eyes, in case she had died after all, and she would wake to see water all around her. But no, when she dared to look around, the sun was shining, halfway through its climb already, and all was silent. Mist lay across the marsh, as far as she could see, but she could see the mountains again. All was as it had been before, except she did not feel the ominous presence of the dead things in the water. Why should that be?

She stood, shakily, and examined herself, her healer's mind not entirely dormant yet. Her ankle, a little swollen, a little painful, but bearable. Her head, light, but there was nothing to be done for that. Her throat, sore, and with a foul taste after the water of last night. The cut to her ribs, fine before, now causing her trouble. She grimaced as she inspected it. She had thought it was healing nicely, but now it looked, and felt, infected. Perhaps the stagnant water? Well, there was little to be done for it, and perhaps a little blood poisoning would cause enough delirium to make her trial more pleasant. She chuckled grimly. What strange things her blessings were, now.

Her main concern was water - she needed it, and soon. Lack of food she could survive, but humans were not designed to not drink for days on end, and it had been… how many days? Her head swam.

She would never make it, she knew. But she could get out of these marshes.

But how? She had been guessing and guessing at the path, and the mountains seemed no nearer.

Then she heard it, again, loud and clear. The dull croak of a bird.

She turned, as quickly as she could without her head spinning, and saw something not too far in the distance, atop a spindly, broken tree. A raven, large and proud, its black plumage shining blue and purple and green in the sun. It croaked once more, then took off, soaring low and steady, before landing in a slightly comical, awkward bounce on a lump of moss. It turned and croaked again.

Keren blinked. It could not be. It could not be.

She had had her share of magic, and the dead, but she was willing to take a little more of either, if it would help her. So she followed. And followed - tiring, lagging behind, sometimes having to sit as she grew too dizzy to continue. But always, as the sun climbed then fell through the sky, the raven would stop, and wait, and croak, and fly off again. The mountains drew nearer, the path grew wider, and less frequented with pools and offshoots of other paths. The sun began to set, and suddenly Keren realised the ground did not squelch as her foot fell. It hit solid earth. The day was over, and so was her journey through the marshes. The raven had led her out.

She fell to the ground on her hands and knees - relief, and some emotion she could not quite place, coursing through her. She lay there a little while, just breathing, feeling the hard, reassuring earth beneath her hands, her knees, her toes. She felt sick and faint. But she was through. Now all she had left was the long march south-west across the plain. She would try her very best not to let her body give up over such a little thing as walking.

She looked up, ready to see the raven again, and smile, but it was not there. She turned all the way around - the bird was nowhere in sight.

"Hrafn?" she tried to say, but her voice caught in her throat, both with thirst and with foolishness. Perhaps it had been a vision in her mind all day, and her thoughts had created something to see her through. But she had not known the way…

He did tell me to follow you. That you would need me. Told you.

She almost smiled, but instead she slept again.

When she woke she was chilled, for the wind was whistling down off the dark mountains. Her throat felt as if it would tear with the dryness, and the cut to her ribs was burning.

Don't think about it. On. On. Get up. Go on.

She hauled herself to her feet, every joint stiff and aching, and only as she went to rub her tired eyes did she realise she held a long, black, feather in her hand.

She stared at it for a long while, then tucked it into her belt above her Tinúnil's pouch.

This stone. I want it. I want you.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I'm sorry. Rest, now."

And she fixed her eyes southwards, towards paths of green.

One day passed, then another. Her eyes were starting to play tricks on her, she was sure, the forest seeming to get further away rather than nearer - the times when she was conscious that is, which were becoming more rare. She found she had to just stop sometimes - stop where she stood, sink to the ground, and sleep. It mattered not if it was day or night, warm or cold, wet or dry. And always the last thought before her eyes shut out reality was wondering if she would wake up this time. But she always did, and each time she felt a little bit worse.

She had started retching from hunger, though there was nothing in her stomach to eject. Her limbs were dull, tingling, heavy, her feet often shuffling rather than stepping. She had not the strength to cry, or even yawn, every muscle and system preserving what little strength she had left. But on she went.

To the end, she had started saying in her head. To the end. Whether she meant the end of her journey or the end of her life, she did not know.

On the third day she fell, and could not get up.

She did not want to get up, she realised. She was entirely done with this journey, this adventure. Let it be done. She couldn't do it anymore.

Find Legolas. Don't fall. Mustn't give up. Promise.

And she sighed - a tiny sound, if anyone had been next to her they would not have heard it. Yet it was heavy within her bones.

I promise.

She lifted her head, then her shoulders, then felt her arms tremble as she pressed into the ground to rise to her knees.

I promise.

She planted one foot on the ground.

I promise.

She raised herself up on legs that felt both heavy and light.

My feet will be bare. And I will be singing. Until Cormallen.

She took a step.

Until then. To the end.

She did not know how many miles were left, or how long she had been walking again, but suddenly the forest was closer. She even thought she could smell flowers, blossom, though there must have still been a way to go. A kindly southern breeze bore the scent to her, perhaps.

But the dust from the plain still blew around her, into her scorched face and her cracked lips - for the sun had been high and strong. Summer must almost be upon her, she thought. Had she passed the date? Did it matter anymore?

She sweated in the heat, but not just from the sun. She was burning - a fever, from the infected wound across her ribs. She would have known it even if it were not from her years as a healer. She was dying, her body knew it had to give up soon, as steadily and surely as a bear knows to retreat to its cave in winter. Exhaustion and exposure and infection, a promise of death.

But she was so nearly there.

How cruel it was.

And she would never see Legolas again. It was unbearably sad - the thought that the last touch of his hand had been in front of his father, as she left to undertake this journey. She had feared then, that it would be so. And she would never hold that hand again, nor feel the touch of the long, gentle fingers upon her cheek. But she could not cry - not any more. There was nothing left. Numb - she was numb.

Sometimes she would take deep breaths, pretending they were food, and water, and hope, and life, coursing through her veins. Sometimes it cheered her a little, and made her march on a little further. Sometimes it exhausted her, and she would fall again and sleep.

The exhaustion she had once felt, years ago, that fateful week of the siege in the Houses, was nothing to this. If she had known this lay ahead of her she would never have left, never gone off to find the elves, for look what they had brought her. Death, alone, on a barren plain, far from any who loved her, whom she loved.

But something made her stagger on, between the rests which had grown longer and longer until they took up most of her days. Something, though she could not say exactly what - the call of the green trees, the fresh smell on the wind, the memory of Legolas. He would hear of her death, and he would mourn, and he would curse his father, but he would be proud of her. She too would be proud, from far beyond the stars, wherever she vanished to. Perhaps she would see Hrafn again, perhaps even her mother. But no elf would she see. She would never see Legolas again, even in death.

And when that thought hit her, it hit her like a physical blow, and she staggered, and fell once more. She lay still, her cheek cut on the tiny stones that were scattered about the dusty road - for, if she had had the strength to realise, she was now on a road. The cut to her torso burned and stung, for she had fallen heavily upon it. But the pain was dim, everything was dim, as her head swam even as she lay still and quiet, her breathing soft and light as a sleeping child, and she lost consciousness.

She was one mile from the borders of Ithilien.

A voice whispered, close to her ear. Was she awake again?

It is your love for him that will overcome all. Keep that knowledge in your heart and you will weather any trial that comes.

Who was it? She knew the voice, had heard it say those words before. She wanted it to speak again, for it was soft, and kind, and wise. But all went silent again. She felt her spirit fold in on itself a little, in despair. She was alone after all. Was this death? She did not like it much.

But no… Perhaps that was… Was it footsteps she could hear, light and steady across a forest floor? Bare feet upon soft grass and fallen blossoms?

Wake, daughter. Wake. You are so near. Someone is coming to your aid. Just make it to the green of the forest. Crawl if you must, all the way. But get there.

Mother? Mother?

Nay, dear one, she is far beyond this earth now. But you are a daughter to me. I need you to be a warrior now. Not all battles are fought with a sword. Fight. Help is near. Another mile and then you can rest. Fight through until you reach the forest. Go on, daughter. You can, and you must.

And whatever shadowed figure it was seemed to fill her vision, fill her, though all was grey and black within, and the next thing she knew her eyes were open, and she looked upon the same road, and the same waste, except the trees seemed to be beckoning, waving in the wind, pulling her in.

Fight, daughter. Crawl if you must.

So she did.

For almost a mile she half walked, half crawled, her head spinning and all of her body screaming at her to stop, to rest, to sleep, to cease. Eventually it became too much, and her legs gave out completely. But they were there - the trees, she could hear the breeze rustling their leaves. She could hear - could she hear? - the gentle trickle of a stream. Water. She would crawl if it meant she could drink.

Fight. You can and you must.

She could barely keep her eyes open, but through the spinning haze of her vision she could see them. The trees of Ithilien. It was there. Just one more push. She would get there, and then she could die, and she would be pleased, for she could not endure this, not a moment longer than she had to.

So. She would crawl. For the final few hundred yards, she dragged her hands, her feet, painfully slowly, down the road, until she veered off to the left, taking the direct way to the nearest trees. There was grass, actual grass, fresh and smooth and green, just out of reach. But it seemed so far. The few feet she needed to crawl - it was too far, surely it was too far.

Have hope. I promise. Someone is coming. You are destined for great joy. Weary traveller, join us in sleep. Your love for him will overcome all.

So many voices, all swirling and jumbling and twisting and turning, all around her.

You're wonderful, quite frankly. I hope he's worth it. There are forces at work I do not wish to understand. Think of me. Where were you? I would like to try.

But one voice rang out, stronger than the rest.

I love you.

So she crawled towards that voice, her fingers scrabbling and scratching in the dirt, reaching, searching for the feel of the soft grass beneath them. Once she felt the grass of Ithilien, then she could rest. All of her being she put forth into her fingertips, and her soul sang as they felt the first few blades, dry and dusty from the dirt and stone. Onwards a little further then, until she lay on the soft lawn, then she could rest.

I love you.

Onwards, and she heard the water again, a babbling stream, close at hand, under the eaves of the forest. The grass turned soft and lush beneath her fingers, and she lay still at last. The oak tree was still far to the south, but she had done what she had not thought possible. Here, with the sound of the stream, and the cool breath of the breeze, and the soft grass beneath her, here she could be at peace.

"My lord! To the right!" the guard shouted, as he and his patrol headed north up the great road.

The captain turned his head to where his guardsman pointed. There, upon the grass, a strange figure lay, asleep or dead. His slowed his horse to a walk, and went a little nearer. Elvish garb, and… a female.

"Halt!" he cried to his company, and dismounted. He walked over to the still body. What had brought an elf here? All the woodelves interested in colonising were either deep in the forest already, or with the King in Minas Tirith. Also… this female was very short for an elf.

He knelt beside her, still unsure if she was alive. She had not responded to his presence. Gently he turned her on her back, brushed the dark hair away from the thin face.

He froze, and his world tilted on its axis.

"It can't be," he whispered.

"My Lord Faramir?" Beregond came up behind him, having been the first to spot the body.

Faramir's face was stricken as he turned to face his friend.

"It's Keren," he said. "It's Keren."