Two weeks isn't that bad, right? Well, for those of you who like updates to come at least every seven days, I apologize that I took so long. I've been swamped: between rehearsals for Lion King, four AP classes, and a piano teacher who'll dump me if I don't practice an hour a day, I haven't had a lot of time for much else. In fact, right now I should be doing my math homework and finishing a biology packet, but… well, quite frankly, this is far more fun.
The cold, rushing water swirled around Andrin's legs, trying to force him under. The current, strong even next to the bank, made it seem as though he only went one step forward for every three he took. He could no longer feel his legs below the knees; his sturdy leather boots had only kept his feet from the cold for the first few minutes before the frigid water had swept away the warmth.
Two thousand thirty-three… two thousand thirty-four… two thousand thirty-five…He figured that three thousand steps would take him a mile where the soldier whose name he did not know had said it would be safe to leave the river. Each step seemed to take an eternity to complete. His thighs were burning with the effort of moving his feet forward, but he could not stop.
Two thousand, one hundred and ten… two thousand, one hundred and eleven…The moon was descending towards the western horizon, lighting the way before him. He would fix his sights on a tree a hundred yards in front of him and tell himself, I can make it to there. Each time, he was sure he would only be able to get to the next point, but each time he forced himself to go on.
Two thousand, three hundred ninety-seven… two thousand, three hundred ninety-eight…
He tried to force his mind away from the swirling cold, the pain in his legs, and the numbness in his feet. It landed somewhere even worse: who on earth wanted him dead? Surely no one hated him that much. Perhaps Rendeg was angry with him and Belín for breaking his quill and smearing ink all over his breastplate the month before…. But even Andrin knew that people did not murder boys for being boys, and he had felt the love and loyalty in Rendeg's arms as the captain of the guard had carried him from his father's body.
Two thousand, seven hundred fifty-two… two thousand, seven hundred fifty-three…He was counting methodically now, not even noticing the numbers going by. I wonder what Mother will think. She'll cry for Father, and then she'll hear about me. Will she think I'm dead?
Two thousand, eight hundred seventeen… two thousand, eight hundred eighteen…He was too absorbed in his thoughts to notice the heavy log riding the current towards him. It thudded broadside into his chest, crushing the breath from his body and sending him flying backward into the water. He felt his head plunge beneath the surface, and then the current had him, sweeping him back the way he had come. He groped fruitlessly at the bottom for something to latch onto and right himself, twisting in the rushing water. His lungs felt as though they were about to explode, his head pounded incessantly, and his mind was a confused jumble of pain and panic.
Finally, he felt his head break into the stinging air. He fought to keep it above and reached up to grab a branch of a low-hanging willow overhead. Gasping, he latched onto the branch, set his feet under him, and heaved himself onto the bank, collapsing on the thick roots of the tree. He had not gone a mile, but he didn't care; nothing could make him go on. The chilly air stung his wet face, and he quickly started shivering.
I'm going to die, he thought frantically. I'll freeze to death.
Eat something, he told himself. It'll help.
With a sinking heart, though, he realized that the pack the soldier had given him, though still on his back, was sopping wet. The dwarven crâm would be a soggy mass of slop. Nevertheless, he was starving; maybe the slop would be edible.
He slung the bag from his back and tugged the drawstring to open the neck. To his immense surprise and relief, the inside was completely dry; the canvas bag had been given a coating of water-proofing beeswax, which had done its job admirably. Ravenous, Andrin sank his teeth into the first loaf and immediately felt its strength flow through his body. Remembering after three bites what the soldier had said—that one was enough to last all day—he reluctantly put it back into the bag, and he realized that the waybread was not the only thing in there.
One after another, he drew out a thin, steel knife, a piece of rock that he suspected might be flint, a working compass, a small vial of oil, and a thin, golden chain with a small jade set in a gold-plated piece of metal dangling from it.
He shoved the compass, the vial, and the amulet back into the pack; he did not need them. Gathering a small pile of dry leaves and twigs from the ground, Andrin strained to remember the time that Belín had taught him to make a fire without a torch.
"You put the really little, really dry stuff on the ground," his cousin had told him, "and run the flint along the knife towards it. If you're lucky, it'll catch." He had added boastfully, "I can do it every time."
Fervently hoping that he was as lucky as Belín, Andrin set the rock against the metal of the blade, scraped it forward, and waited for something to happen.
There was nothing.
He tried it again, and this time he saw an orange spark flare briefly in the night before it died away once more into nothingness.
Please, he thought desperately, please catch.
Again. Nothing.
Oil burns, said the practical part of his mind. Use that.
Praying to any god that might be listening, knowing that if he could not get this fire started he would die that very night, sprinkled a few drops of the oil over the leaves, took a deep breath, and scraped the stone against the blade.
Several sparks landed among the leaves. Most died out immediately, but one spread, scorching a hole through the dead skeleton of a willow leaf. Barely allowing himself to hope, Andrin leaned forward and blew on it as softly as he could. The edges of the ever-widening hole flared briefly from dull red to glowing orange, then faded again. Another breath, another surge of orange, and then—
A tiny tongue of flame leapt up from the charred leaf, quickly catching onto the others around it. Five seconds later, the whole small pile was ablaze. Gently, Andrin laid a bundle of long, dry grass over the flame, barely avoiding smothering it. As soon as that was burning steadily, he placed some small twigs on the pile, progressing to larger and larger ones as the fire caught hold and began to crackle merrily. Finally, with a weary feeling of satisfaction, he dropped one end of a large, heavy stick into the fire, where it began to blacken and burn after a few moments. Content at least that he would not die of the cold before morning, he stripped the wet clothes from his body and laid them in front of the fire, huddling before the blaze in the thin, wet shift he wore under his tunic.
The cloak dried miraculously fast, and Andrin wrapped it around himself as he watched the moon move westward. It took several hours, until he could see the sky in the east begin to lose its shade of inky black, for the rest of his clothing to dry off, and when it did, he put it back on, rolled up in the cloak, and cried himself to sleep.
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Dawn broke, frigid and clear, over the small form curled on the ground. Andrin was asleep, shivering slightly, huddled against the stinging, cold air. A stick snapped nearby; the boy started from sleep, sitting up nervously and looking around to see the source of the noise: a small deer that was now bounding away through the trees.
Andrin stood stiffly and walked around for a few minutes, his hands thrust under his arms, to regain feeling in his legs. He tried not to think about the night before or the day to come: the first was a painful memory that he did not want to recall, and the coming day held only fear, for he did not know what to do. He was only ten years old, but even so, he was aware of his own vulnerabilities. He knew he was not the invincible, super-human warrior that he had pretended to be in his games with Belín. His father's death had put an end to most of his childish fantasies, and the events of last night had shattered the rest. He knew that, wet as he had been, he had been lucky to survive the night, and only by some god's divine intervention would he avoid catching pneumonia. He shuddered at the thought: pneumonia could kill just as effectively as the cold, but it would be drawn out and agonizing, whereas freezing to death was said to be virtually painless, just like falling asleep. Though, as Belín had once pointed out, those who had actually experienced freezing to death were in no condition to tell anyone about it.
Focus, he told himself. Father said that when you find yourself facing a problem, hold still a minute and think about it. Come up with a plan, be prepared for anything unexpected, and then carry it through confidently.
This oft-repeated philosophy of the late king had been burned into his son's memory, but never had the boy had to apply it without his father coaching him, always beside him to help when he made a mistake. It made the prospect a thousand times more intimidating than it had ever been before.
After a few moments' thought, he decided on a plan of action: eat. After all, Mother always said it did not do any good to think on a hungry stomach.
He had trouble restricting himself to one bite; he needed it to last as long as possible, but he was hungry, and whether or not it gave him all the nutrients he needed, it certainly did not feel at all filling. Then he remembered just why he was not back with the army, with a comfortable blanket and warm food: there was someone who wanted to kill him. This was motivation enough to start him moving again. He slung the soldier's pack over his shoulders, wrapped the soldier's cloak around him, and set off, following the river and very grateful that he did not have to walk in it this time.
The sun climbed higher and higher, and Andrin's dread grew with every hour. They would have discovered his disappearance by dawn, and, if they used an expert tracker, they would find where he entered the river within two hours. That meant that they would catch up to him barely four hours after daybreak. He was not scared of the moment they found him: he was not a criminal, and rather than being punished, he would be met with welcoming arms. What he was afraid of was what would come after; if the soldier whose name he did not know was right, there was someone in Gondor who would stop at nothing to kill him.
But as noon came and went, as the sun began its descent to meet the horizon, as the sky first turned orange, then pink, and then began to fade to a deep blue, nobody had caught up with him. At first, he thought that perhaps they had missed his trail and had to backtrack, but after all the light had gone and Andrin was forced by the darkness to stop, he started having his doubts. He sat down, gathered some dry leaves about him, and after nearly an hour of distracted frustration, he managed to get a fire started.
When he awoke the next morning and the soldiers still had not found him, he decided that they were not coming. This realization came with a myriad of mixed feelings. A lot of it was relief: surely if the best trackers of Gondor's army could not find him, then his would-be murderer would not be either to, either. This was mingled with indignant incredulity. He was the new king: he should be such a high priority that they should search to the very ends of the earth to find him.
But the overpowering emotion was sadness. If the army did not find him, he was going to be alone—more alone than he had ever been in his life. If they did not find him, he would never see his mother again, he would never see Belín or Uncle Drían or Aunt Endrai or Captain Rendeg again. He would never return to Minas Tirith, his home, again.
And as he gazed into his smoky fire, he felt sick with longing. The tears were burning at his eyes again, but he would not let them fall. He forced himself to be strong—his father would have wanted him to be strong.
But the ache of loneliness still lingered.
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Follow the river for seven days, the soldier whose name he did not know had said. Take the left fork every time it branches. The days wore on, and with one, Andrin's despair grew. He was walking away from everything he had ever known. He understood that there was someone out there who wanted him dead and that if he did not flee, he would remain within his enemy's grasp, but half of him was just as sure that he would perish out here, alone in the wilderness. He could not understand why they had not yet caught up with him, but even though he was trying to evade their grasp, a very large portion of his heart hoped they would stop him.
Maybe, he thought as the sun sank on the fifth day, maybe I could go back, find the soldier, and ask who it is who wants to kill me. I could have him put in prison. Then there would be no danger.
But what if he got to me first?
And so he pressed on.
The first thing he thought when he awoke on the seventh morning was, I'll be in Rohan by nightfall, where the army of Gondor cannot follow me. If I keep going, I leave Gondor behind forever.
What else can I do?
With the helpless despair of a betrayed child, who does not know where to turn, Andrin set off north for the final leg of his journey into exile.
The morning progressed, and with it Andrin's sense of alienation. The scenery did not change much from what it had been, but knowing that this was the seventh day, the day that the soldier whose name he did not know had said he would come to Rohan.
Noon came, and Andrin sat heavily on a flat rock that was twisted into the roots of an enormous tree. He set his knapsack on the ground beside him, reached in, and withdrew what was left of the first loaf, tearing a hunk off with his teeth. He chewed slowly, trying to think of something he would not give for a hot meal and a sip of the diluted wine his father had sometimes offered him. His eyes blurred sharply at the thought of his father, but he pushed the tears back angrily. The past is another land, he told himself, shoving the bread back into the bag and rising slowly. Put it behind you.
The rushing river echoed in his ears, as it had for an entire week. Its dull roar had faded to background noise as he had grown accustomed to it, and now he did not notice it at all. He forged forward, trying hard not to think about what he was leaving behind.
He halted as the sun met the horizon. A feeling of utter dismay filled him, and he knew that, dangerous as it was, he did not want to leave his country, his kingdom—his home.
There was a brief moment of indecision that seemed to hang in the air for an eternity. Behind him lay a nameless, mortal enemy; ahead lay something that seemed far, far more terrifying: the merciless unknown. The choice lay in deciding which was worse.
With a final glance south, towards a city that lay far beyond his sight and a land that could no longer be his, Andrin struck northward up the river once more, determined not to look back again.