A/N: This chapter is not what I wanted or intended it to be. I intended to write and post several chapters of upcoming events at once. But life had other plans. Shortly after I posted the last chapter, I contracted meningitis. I had a couple other infections at the time as well. While I was in the hospital, I also found out I will likely have to have brain surgery. I also have a shoulder injury that may need to be operated on. Needless to say, it's been a rough summer. I'm a lot better now, but this is sort of the calm before a pretty nasty storm. I've been hit with the depression stick pretty hard, but that's to be expected. This scene popped up in my head recently, and I've decided to go ahead and post it. I know it's a lot shorter than any other chapter so far, and it doesn't do much to advance the plot, but I'm happier with it than I suspected I would be, and I want to be able to give you guys something.


Chapter 11: The Silence in Between

"What am I to do, Isolde?" asked Lydia as she rode her horse leisurely through a copse of evergreens.

Lydia had not understood what had drawn her to this particular horse. She remembered the day she had met Isolde. Gilrohir had summoned her to a paddock and in what seemed like an uncharacteristic gesture, invited her to choose a mount. Her eyes passed over several chestnut beauties and shining white steeds until they found a broad-chested mare grazing contentedly away from the others. Her blue dun coat matched the clouded sky above. She had a black mane and tail and black stockings on her thick, feathered legs, and her sturdy build suggested she had been bred for strength, not speed.

"Not that one!" said Gilrohir, as his protege walked toward the horse. But the animal caught her eye and obligingly trotted over. "Minariel, that is a cart horse."

"She would do well over snow," had been her quiet response as she sized up the animal, not truly knowing what she meant.

"She is not a war horse," insisted Gilrohir. "She was not bred for battle."

Just like me.

Lydia had let the rejoinder die unspoken, but she made herself clear. She would ride no other.

Lydia had also received many a quizzical look from the wood elves at the mare's name. The name Isolde was strange to them and came from no language any of them knew. Back then she had no answer, but decided the name fit the animal well enough and kept it. Now, with her memory restored and under the present circumstances, Lydia felt that giving her mount the name of an infamous star-crossed lover to be painfully and embarrassingly appropriate. Not that the animal cared a whit what her rider called her as long as the pats and sugar lumps kept coming.

Now that Lydia and Minariel were at last one and the same person on the back of the stormy-coated mare, she finally understood what her instincts had been telling her. Even without her memory intact, she had somehow known her path would lead her back to the winterland of her youth. And right her instincts had been. The mare walked, trotted, and even galloped over the snowy landscape as easily as she would the solid ground. She had also, despite Gilrohir's misgivings, proved rather agile in spite of her size. Intelligent, brave, and friendly, she had fast become a reliable companion during Lydia's loneliest moments. Her lonely days were plentiful too, and she had taken to riding her horse to secluded spots in the snowy tundra and addressing the mare as though she were human.

Despite the obvious danger, Lydia often came out to these particular woods on the back of Isolde. Solitude was a difficult commodity to find at the Pole at the best of times, and these times were certainly not the best. She had taken to carrying out entire conversations with her equine friend, finding them occasionally illuminating and altogether less exhausting than many of the dialogues she had had lately. After all, horses rarely answer back, and never demand a round of drills in response to a perfectly legitimate question. Certainly some might call these constitutionals of hers hiding. Lydia, on the other hand, would prefer words like "contemplative" and "necessary" and of course, "hiding."

Isolde snorted in response to the question which had been put to her.

"I know I'm avoiding him," said Lydia petulantly. "But he avoided me first. It's only fair. Besides, I am in no mood to spend what few moments I have away from one chronically ill-tempered elf seeking out the company of another."

Lydia knew she was being stubborn.

Perhaps for that alone, we deserve each other, she thought.

As Isolde plodded between evergreens, Lydia cast her mind far back through the years to her days as a young girl, wandering about the English countryside or lying awake in her bed in her uncle's estate, a certain stubborn, curly-haired elf never far from her mind. It was a dark and wondrous time when her worries were less complicated, when "I'm fine" was Bernard's favorite lie, and he was only a snow globe's shake away. Even remembering her past, she had forgotten that snowglobe until now. She remembered its gold filigree base, the intricate details of the deer and frozen lake inside it, and the hypnotic dance of the snowflakes inside the water, and she remembered the words that came with it.

"Whenever you go somewhere new, just shake it. I'll be able to find you wherever you are."

The globe had been a promise, to find her, to come back. She wondered now what became of it.

Lydia would never, could never admit she was smitten with him. Not until that day they walked together in the snow, and for the smallest moment, laid down their cares and kissed. Then she had waited until her last breath to tell him how she felt.

"I suppose I will have to talk to him sometime."

Lydia could indeed match him for stubbornness. She had wrung the truth out of the evasive elf once before, had she not? Bernard might intimidate his underlings, but she was easily his match for persistence, and he would not wriggle away from her so easily. True, she feared the result, rejection or worse, but little could be worse than the silence between them now. In any case, he owed her more than that.

"Right," said Lydia out loud. "I'll pin him to the floor if I have to. Maybe Quinton would help me. Or Orëna. She can put her arms around him and squeeze him. He'll be forced to talk to me. How does that sound, Isolde?"

Lydia expected a friendly whinny from her equine companion, but she was met with silence.

"Isolde?"

Isolde stood stock still, her head pointed toward the line of trees ahead of them. The horse held her ears back, flat against her head. She had gone completely quiet, as had the woods around them. Not a birdsong nor the skitter of a rabbit could be heard. Silence had fallen so heavily that Lydia's ears hurt with it. She bent forward in her saddle and saw the whites of Isolde's eyes.

"What is it, Isolde?"

Looking with sharp elven eyes, Lydia tried to follow Isolde's sight line. A few yards into the trees loomed a cloud of darkness that had not been there before. Deep in the shadow, something moved. Isolde tossed her head but did not fly.

Lydia reached into her saddlebag and pulled out a glass orb, which burst into light in her hand. She held it aloft and walked Isolde forward into the dark. It hung heavy, like a blanket, smothering them. Low, heavy breathing echoed around her and surrounded her like a vortex of wind. The darkness swallowed the light from the orb except for two shining lights before her. Lydia stared into the tiny pinpricks. They stared back.

The shadow pressed down on her, as though it had taken physical shape around her. The air was cold and thin. Something moved in the dark beneath the eyes, and the orb's light fell on a set of gleaming claws attached to what appeared to be a hand. Lydia's hand crept to the hilt of her sword.

The being shifted and began to take shape. It stood tall under its cloak of shadow, both human and inhuman at once. It crept closer to Lydia. The clawed hand reached for her. Isolde reared onto her hind legs with a wail….

"She is not a war horse."

"Just like me."

...and kicked the being in its formless face. She turned as she landed and struck out with her back legs. The creature stumbled. Lydia urged the horse forward into the light and drew her sword.

The blast of a horn rang out in the distance. Lydia instinctively turned her eyes away from the dark as she heard the summoning call. As she gripped the reins in her hand uncertain, she looked back at the shadowed wood. But the darkness had gone, taking the eyes and the claws and the formless being with it. She could see clearly through the trees as though the dark had never touched them. The horn sounded again.

Lydia put away her orb and rode Isolde back to the village. She did not sheath her sword until she arrived, nor did she look back again.


A/N: I fell down a wikipedia rabbit hole researching horse markings. I'm fairly certain I use the wrong terminology for Isolde's markings, but I didn't want this to read like a wikipedia article on horse markings.

I can't say when the next chapter will come out. I'll try to get a couple posted before my surgery. I'll be honest, I thought about not posting about my health issues, not because of privacy concerns, but because after all the other stuff that's happened that I've told you all about, I have serious concerns some of you won't believe me. I may actually be cursed.

I love you all and wish you better luck with the rest of your summer than I have had.

Song Title from "No Light, No Light" by Florence and the Machine.