Again, sorry for not updating for so long. My school play is on this week, and if you've been reading my author's notes, you'll know that I'm an avid drama freak, and of course, I'm involved in it. (I haven't gotten any homework done! Wah!) So, please wait patiently for the next update, because that one might be a little late in the coming too.

I'm sorry, but hopefully, this will cheer you up...

Chapter 8

Letters of the Tengwar

As night fell, the travelers slowed their hiking to a halt. Rain was rarer now, and judging by the brilliant stars and full moon, no tents would be needed that night. Though spring had overtaken the cantankerous Misty Mountains, a chilly wind still blew, and Eordhe pulled the spare cloak tighter around her shoulders. She was thin after the wearying journey with the Orcs and the unrelenting zephyrs seemed to blow through her fragile frame.

Watching the elves, Estel, and Cuiladan spread the blankets for the night, Eordhe felt the square, hard object in her right pocket with a trembling hand, and then the lighter, round bottle in her left. The familiarity from these objects against the wilderness reassured her, and she looked towards the southwest. The people of Rohan and Gondor had long since gone to bed.

Her gaze fell on Cuiladan, and she felt her heart leap in a way that she could only remember once before… No! she admonished herself silently. Already, an aching throb was spreading across her chest, filling the pits of her belly with ice. She must not think of that, for it would bring anguish and a feeling too deep to match with this simple, quiet character she had made for herself. She must remain clam. She could not love Cuiladan except as Eordhe.

A good spy never broke cover.

She waited until most of the party had climbed into bedrolls. She made as if she was going to do so as well, but at the last minute, gestured in Rohirrim and blushingly in Common that she had to relieve herself. No one would inquire further on this subject, and for once, she was glad she was a woman. Unable to repress a smirk, she nearly turned away with a royal air.

Remembering suddenly, she ducked her head in apology as any salve would, and did her best to scuttle to the surrounding bushes. She paused and looked over the thick green leaves, squatting. Elladan and Elrohir were speaking and had their heads close together.

One of her hands dug hatefully into the dirt beneath her and she turned her head, never leaving the twins with her eyes.

She knew them. Who did not?

The famous sons of Elrond, known for their pursuits and murders of bands of Orcs that had supposedly tortured their mother into leaving the shores of Middle-Earth. She gripped the loose, barren soil in one hand, clench her nails into it, pushing the anger in her heart into the earth.

She left them to their own devices.

"One more day is my estimate," Ranien, the Mirkwood elf, was saying. Orophin, Gildor, and Lindir, who had become good friends during her travels with them, were now each in their separate blankets. She did not have to worry about Orophin and Lindir. Gildor, perhaps. An elf lord of his standing could not be underestimated. The others would have to be reckon with.

And there was Cuiladan and Estel. One was showing something to the other.

Eordhe narrowed her eyes. Something about the boy, Estel, had always made her uneasy. Every time she was with Cuiladan, whether she was standing close enough to smell his piney scent, bring his soft lips to hers, or running a hand through his unruly mass of beautiful brown hair, she could feel Estel's eyes on her back.

But he was not looking for her now. She would not be missed.

Treading with the points of her toes, she moved through the newly grown bushes with the stealth of a professional. She should be, she realized. She had, after all, watched trained men become assassins all her life.

Steadily, she moved away from the campsite with only the moon and stars to guide her. Picking her spot, she slowly removed the leather bound book, much too expensive looking next to her slave garb, and the bottle of ink and quill from her skirt's wide pockets.

Laying them next to a bush she used for cover, she made sure her entire book, with it s fresh white pages, were entirely in the moonlight. Then, removing the stopper on the bottle, Eordhe dipped the quill into the quill and flipped to the last ink-filled page. Smiling, she looked proudly at her information addressed to her lord. At last, she brought the quill to the page and scratched out everything she had learned that day.

She wrote quickly in elven script, but her words were in Common. Her own devised short-hand made sure that even if this journal fell into the wrong hands, only a genius cryptologist would be able to decipher it. Quickly, she laid out her events:

April 15, 2950 of the Third Age

My Dear Lord,

I have not written for fear of discovery.

Today we are near level ground. The Misty Mountains have proved to be a safe passage into Wilderland. The two elven brothers have no suspicion of who or what I am, and the rest are all too trusting of me. They still believe that I am a slave of Rohan and that I can only speak broken sentences of the Common Tongue.

Cuiladan and Estel are still a mystery. They have said nothing that gives a clue to their birth, yet they call Elladan and Elrohir "brother." I have seduced the elder of these brothers, and perhaps, through this, he may tell me of his origin.

At this, Eordhe felt her heart leap uncomfortably. With frustration, she hit her chest with her left hand, suppressing the aching feeling spreading again. After all, what was Cuiladan to her? Just another man, young and inexperienced. She was seducing him because she had to, not because she wanted to.

A spy.

That was what she was. If she became too soft, she would reveal too much of herself to him and he would find out. Would he still be the same man then? She doubted it. Like all the other men in her life, he would turn away, disgusted or fearful of whom she was.

No. She must keep her heart cold and aloof. She could offer her flesh, but her heart already belonged to another. With this in mind, she continued her account.

There has been no word of an Arathorn III in all of my travels. If he is indeed alive, his secret is well kept and those that know of him are either dead or mute. I will continue to follow this band of travelers, for I already know their purpose. I will carry out my duty as soon as I speak with my other Master.

Your servant always,

M. of L.

She closed her book and put the ink and quill away. Writing to her lord always sunk her spirits to their lowest point. She did even know why she still did it. It would be a miracle if she returned alive with this intact. But if she did… perhaps… then perhaps he would love her again.

"Where is Eordhe?" Cuiladan suddenly piped up, raising his head from his blankets. The rest of the company had grown comfortable in their bedrolls before they realized that the woman was gone. It had nearly been a quarter of a candlestick since she had said she needed to relieve herself.

Estel, not at all sleepy, rolled over where he lay and sat up, observing the darkness around him. The moon provided sufficient light, but the surrounding bushes made it so that he could not see beyond a certain radius of the camp. Already, he had grown uneasy of the Rohirrim slave, as he had noticed that every time she went off by herself, she stayed either a quarter or more of a candlestick. What could she possibly be doing?

"I will look for her," he volunteered, determined to find where this woman was and learn of what she was doing. He did not think it was safe for his brother to continue to be with her, but because he was younger, he could not say anything for fear of looking ignorant if Eordhe proved innocent.

"No," Elladan objected, already standing. "I will." Elrohir made a move to follow him, but Elladan put out a hand. "No, stay," he told him in Quenya. "I have a reason to look for her by myself."

Elrohir cocked his head once to the right, then nodded and sat back down. The others looked on curiously.

"Act as if everything was normal," the oldest elf said. "If I am not back within the next stripe of a candle, then come and investigate." With these mysterious words, he entered the nearest crowd of bushes and disappeared into the night.

Orophin muttered something under his breath, and Gildor put a hand on his shoulder to comfort him. "He knows something," he explained to the other elf. "I know him, and he has not been wrong yet."

Eordhe pocketed the ink and quill, looked down at the leather bound book, and considered her options. She was still in her sitting position, legs crossed, and head down. Even now, she still had to act as a slave.

Why? She asked herself. In truth, she did not understand why she was still helping her lord. She could go off now, leave the travelers, and not be any worse off than she had been before. She could do it. None of them knew where she was right now. She could run. But no.

She could not. Her other Master would know of her unfaithfulness and would have her face a sentence worse than death. Even if she were to fly to the depths of an unknown cave or find shelter with the elves, if she was anywhere in Middle-Earth, her Master would have the power to find her.

"You are only Eordhe now," she whispered to herself, and reached out for her book.

Another hand, quicker than lightning, was there before it. "And who, I wonder," the cold voice of Elladan came from behind her, "were you before?" Eordhe felt the pit of her stomach grow cold, as if she had just swallowed snow, and whispers of cold breath fluttered along her spine.

Before she could react, a strong hand grabbed her around the collar, and she cried out as the elf dragged her back towards camp.

TBC...

There! Finally I updated.

Did you like the cliffy:) Please review!