Chapter Four: The Monsters in the North

The Far Downs were silent and Maren, for all that she tried to keep her horse quiet, still felt that she was making too much noise. She always felt on edge in this part of the world, far too into her books and stories to ever really trust that it was completely safe. What creature of old would she alert if she let her horse stomp too much in the mud? What great and terrible monster would crack its way through the earth and swallow them both whole if she breathed too loudly?

She griped the reins tighter and took a deep breath.

Too into her books and stories.

It was the time to be present.

Galdor shifted on his horse next to her, waiting for her to move forward as they paused at the top of the small hill. A pale hand reached out from his fawn travelling cloak and wiped a bit of mud from his face. He let out a deep sigh when that did nothing but move the mud from one place to another. It had been unseasonably wet and the rain hadn't relented from the moment they left the Mithlond a few short hours before. There were very few things she hated more than being stuck on the back of a horse in a steamy, hot rain, but the idea of walking there appealed to her even less.

Galdor, already short of temper and patience, seemed to be of the same mind as he gripped his reins tighter, scowl deepening. They did not normally ride with saddles, but their intended speed and the weather made it a necessity. Whatever the reason, the feel of rarely used leather in their hands was rough and out of place and made their entire trip all the more miserable.

And that was to say nothing of how it made the horses feel.

"Why have we stopped?" Galdor asked, giving her a sidelong glance.

Maren knew that look well.

She gripped the reins of her horse a little tighter and observed the softly rolling hills, very sincerely hoping that he couldn't see through her carefully crafted mask despite the fact that he seemed uniquely qualified to do so. He was the only one with a mind for discipline when she was younger, the only one who bothered – or noticed – when she was craving mischief.

But just as he knew her, she knew him.

And she knew that his tolerance for her complications was near-endless.

So she smiled, feeling just the slightest bit of guilt, and leaned closer to him.

"What would you consider to be your most enduring quality, Galdor?"

"What an odd question, mellon."

"Surely you are used to it by now," She said, reaching a hand down to pat her horse's neck, hardly able to distinguish between perspiration and rain. "Humor me, please, if even just for a moment."

Galdor stared at her, pale eyebrows drawing together, before he sighed and inclined his head.

"I believe Lord Cirdan has always commended me on my impeccable sense of time."

"Yes, quite right. But also, more importantly, you are incredibly loyal to my family, often to your own detriment." She pulled just a bit on the right side of the reins and turned to face him full on, smiling in a way that she sincerely hoped was entirely benign and in no way suspicious.

Galdor narrowed his eyes instantly.

"No. Absolutely not, Marenya."

Galdor was normally not such a scold, but she supposed the stress of the day might have brought out his more uptight tendencies. There was a time when he was more carefree when he laughed freely and spent a great deal of time cliff diving with his wife. But she moved on – just as they all did – and Galdor was left with nothing but his duty to the Shipwright and his household. It was a shared heartache between them all, a solemn thread that bound them together in ways that outsiders could scarcely understand.

How could they?

How could others, even others of their kind, possibly hope to understand the deep-seeded ache of watching everyone slip away?

Maren paused, collecting herself and her thoughts before speaking again. She raised her voice just a little bit higher in the hopes that it might come across as more innocent.

A deception she would feel guilty about later, she was absolutely certain.

"It will only be a minor detour. A day at most, if we ride hard."

"And what do you suppose to find?"

"I do not suppose anything, Galdor," She said, although the words sounded entirely hollow.

She supposed she would find Ciro, safe and sound and very much the victim of some grim conspiracy to make it sound much worse than it was. But even as she thought it, it sounded quite foolish and she kept it to herself and instead opted for burying her more outlandish theories. She wished, fleetingly and only a little seriously, that it was Elrohir and Elladan that were here with her instead. For all their intermittent grimness, they never once questioned any of her less than well-thought-out schemes.

They would have been halfway to Forochel already.

But, she was thankful for Galdor nonetheless. Saddled with a dwindling population and an ever increasing sense of sadness that seemed determined to blanket them all, Galdor remained. Steadfast, loyal, responsible, he served her family well.

She loved him as dearly as she loved her bother and Uncle.

"We must move on." To his credit, the words did sound as if they pained him.

"Please, Galdor. One day is all I ask."

Galdor looked for a moment like he might continue to argue with her, to urge her forward on the path that they were already on, but then he let out another long sigh and nodded his head.

Maren smiled and moved her horse closer, holding out hand to brush against his forearm as they both stared out into the long distance. She lingered for only a moment, thankful that he did not pull back like he usually did. He was nothing if not committed to keeping a respectable distance between himself and his 'charges'. Even now, on the cusp of something she could not even begin to put into words, he only allowed the touch for a brief moment before he pulled away once again and built the wall between them once again.

Galdor looked to the north, jaw muscle working.

"I will give you three," He finally said, the very idea sounding very much like it pained him to his very core.

One was an indulgence.

Two, a miracle.

Three, nothing less than a gift of the highest order.

And she did not intend to waste it.

She spurred her horse forward before he finished speaking, too worried he might take it back if she lingered for a moment longer. She did, at least, throw a wide smile over her shoulder at her him as a parting gift, trusting that he would follow.

"Marenya, slow down," He called, moving to keep pace with her.

Her hood fell back as she set her sights forward.

They slipped into the blur of the scenery, smearing into a haze of rain-spattered hills and the last vestiges of summer green.

They rode for six hours in complete silence, each lost in their own thoughts, until a figure appeared on the horizon, silhouetted against the setting sun. Maren might have slowed her horse down, weary in this part of the world and all its complications, if not for the tell-tale layer of dirt and grime covering the man.

Aragorn – Estel to her, but Strider in this part of the world - had never met a bath he would not avoid above all else.

It had become an art form he perfected over the years, much to the great chagrin of all the elves that found themselves downwind and today he seemed to be in rare and positively filthy form.

He raised his left hand when they got closer, eyes darting between them both – measuring, observing, assessing. He only smiled when he finished drawing his own conclusions and pushed himself off his horse when she was close enough to do the same. They met halfway and she wrapped her arms around his middle and squeezed tight. He had long ago dwarfed her in height, but it still shocked her to think of the little boy who once barely reached her hips. He was a man grown, of course, and had all the burdens that came with that. But he was still a child in her mind, still so in need of protection and care, that she it made her heart ache to know that that was no longer the case.

"This is a surprise," Aragorn said, although there was something strange to his voice that gave Maren pause. "Last I heard, you were still in Imladris."

"It was time to return home," She paused, aware of Galdor watching them like a hawk. He was nothing if not committed to his role as protector and chaperone and, although she doubted he viewed Aragorn as a threat truly, kept his gaze firmly set on the Rangers hands. "For a time, at least."

Aragorn understood the meaning behind her words. For he felt it too, just as keenly and fully as she did. He loved Imladris just as much as she loved Mithlond, but they were both confronted with an oppressive sort of energy that only abated when they left. He found his peace out in the wilds, back amongst the men and women and children that he originally came from.

He found his peace covered in mud and dirt and free from the weight of all his great expectations.

And she found hers in the woods and streams of Imladris and in the company of the Sons of Elrond.

She dropped her hand down to his elbow and gave it a small squeeze.

"And now?"

"Now it is time to go back," She said, lowering her voice just a touch. The wind picked up, tangling her long hair into knots. He pulled his mud-splattered cloak tighter around his shoulders and tied it up to his chin.

"With an escort." He raised he eyebrows at Galdor, who returned the gesture in kind. He refused to give them more space, but he did do them the curtesy of turning around and tending to the horses.

"We ride with purpose."

"Then I will not keep you, for I ride with purpose of my own."

"Oh?" She wanted to know. Desperately, in fact, but she tried her best to school her features enough that it would not show. But she probably didn't need to bother. He knew her well enough to know that a seed of information given was likely to grow into a mighty oak of curiosity in her mind. "Last we spoke you were riding for Mirkwood."

"That was nearly a year past."

"Marenya," Galdor said, turning back to face the two of them. "We should move on."

"If Imladris is you destination, you are heading in the wrong direction," Aragorn said, a touch of something in his voice. He looked at Galdor first, eyeing the much older elf for a brief moment, before he turned to Maren. At some point in their friendship he no longer looked at her like one of the adults in his life, but rather one of his equals. An equal that could, as it were, pick through all her layers and get at the core of what she was trying to say.

Or, where she was really trying to go.

"Forochel."

Maren could practically feel Galdor glowering at the back of her head the moment she said it. He did not know Aragorn the same way she did, owing in no small part for his complete and utter disdain for spending any meaningful time away from Mithlond, but she doubted he truly distrusted the man. But that did not mean he wanted her blathering about, not when he was already so hesitant about the detour to begin with.

Maren shifted in place.

"Then I would not be a true friend if I did not advise you against that," Aragorn said after a long moment.

"I tol-"

"Why?" Maren asked, stepping closer to Aragorn.

"Our scouts have reported strange omens. Increased predator sightings, unseasonably warm weather, unusual activity. The trolls have begun to move from the Ettenmoors…" Maren looked back at Galdor, practically pleading with him with her eyes. "Why do I get the impression that you two going to Forochel is no mere coincidence?"

Great and terrible monsters.

Of a certain sort.

Maren shifted in place and bit her lip, fighting the incredible discomfort that built in her chest.

"Because it is not." Maren grabbed his arm, fingers splayed over his dirty cloak. "Come with us. You know this part of the world better than anyone and we could use your company and help."

"Help?" Aragorn looked down at the white of her fingers.

"Help."

Aragorn stared at her long and hard, the tiniest bit of lines that had already formed on his face deepening the longer they stared at each other. All of their friendship – all the days and weeks and months and years spent together – she had never asked him for help in such an earnest way. He lifted his other hand and squeezed hers, regret overtaking his normally passive face.

"I cannot."

"Bu-"

"Maren."

Maren tried not visibly show her disappointment, but she almost certainly did. The regret on his face deepened and she instantly felt bad for being the one to put it there. "Of course, of course. We will not keep you."

"We will speak more when I arrive in Imladris." He squeezed her hand again an unspoken promise behind his words that calmed her and quieted her racing mind for just a brief moment. Theirs was not a relationship built on kept secrets and lingering lies. He would tell her his purpose just as she would tell her his and the burdens that seemed to be ever growing on her heart and mind might finally start to lessen.

"Be safe," She said, lifting up on her toes to press a quick kiss to his cheek.

He inclined his head and stepped back.

Then he was gone.

And whatever brief reprieve she felt at his familiar presence was gone as well.

Her stomach churned, her blood turning to ice.

What creatures of old would they find?

She dreaded finding out.

But she turned back to the north and squeezed her thighs, spurring her horse forward.

She had asked for one day.

Galdor gave her three.

She would not waste them daydreaming and thinking of all the stories that had been written about the north. Those days had long passed them by and the only monsters that dwelled beneath the ice now were the ones of her making.

Galdor did not speak to her until they reached the ice bay. His foul mood on increased the closer they got, his dislike of rain and mud extending to ice and cold as well. He pulled his cloak up to cover the lower half of his face, leaving just his narrowed eyes and wind-chapped forehead exposed. She had little doubt that, if it came to it, he would drag her back to Imladris by the ends of her hair, her concerns for her brother be damned. Each and every time she caught sight of him staring at each – each glance and sidelong look- she was reminded of the promises she had made to her Uncle and the word that she was meant to keep.

And perhaps she should.

Perhaps she should have ignored the persistent nagging at the back of her mind and hurt on her heart and ridden through the night to Imladris.

She could have returned to the North after her duty had been done.

But by then it might be too late and whatever pieces her brother might have left behind would have been washed away by the ever changing ice.

Maren kicked her horse to move a little faster, bending down to offer it thanks and whispered apologies in equal measure. It took them the rest of the day to reach Forochel and the light from the sun, that had once lit their way, gave way to that of the moon and stars. An improvement, if she had been traveling with Elladan and Elrohir, but now it just slowed them down.

Galdor pulled his horse to a stop first and jumped down, patting its neck as he waited for her to do the same.

"Do you know where you want to look first?" Galdor asked, watching her as she jumped down from her horse as well.

"No."

"We do not have time for indecision, Marenya," He said, tone a touch scolding. He supposed he had that right. Old enough to be her father and nearly as involved in her life as her brother and Uncle, there was no one save for the twins that had known her longer and more fully. After her mother and father sailed, his concern for her seemed to increase tenfold. Cirdan would not- could not – see to her needs and Ciro did not care to.

If not for Galdor, she might have ended up as wild as the elves in Mirkwood and doubly as unsociable.

It was him who taught her to fish.

It was him who ensured she attended all her lessons.

And it was him who would take the blame when they inevitably arrived later in Imladris than they should, just as he had taken the blame for all her other failed endeavors for the last several centuries.

Maren ran her hand up and down her horse's neck, biting her lip.

"We should start with the caves."

Galdor gestured for her to start in that direction, hand dropping down to the long knife he kept strapped to his waist. Maren pulled her own cloak tighter and mirrored his posture.

It had been seventeen years since she last used her knife.

"You will stay close to me," Galdor said, turning back to look at her only long enough to see her nod. "And if I command you to return to the horses, you will do as you are told."

She nodded again.

Maren moved closer to him as they traveled deep into the ice caverns. Maren had been there once, nearly a two centuries before, and only remembered how cold she was. Today, it was much the same. The twists and turns, so foreign even back then, were nearly impossible to navigate. She was thankful to have Galdor, once again, and his ability to make a decision at every crossroads where she could not. Alone, she would have wandered around for hours and hours, aimless and hoping to stumble on something before she got lost forever.

Galdor turned right and then left and then left and then right again.

"Oro tried to map these caverns," Galdor said quietly, holding the arm back that was not holding his knife.

Oro. The brother that she knew so little about he might as well not have been her brother at all. Older than her by nearly an age and already committed to his desire to sail by the times she was born, the most she remembered about him was how pale his blue eyes were – so much like their fathers. She imagined they had once been clear and bright and full of life, but in the few years she could remember with her parents and oldest brother, they had all grown dull and drawn.

Like pieces of him were already on the other side of the world – on ships that would set them free and on shores that never grew cold.

Maren stepped closer to Galdor.

"They change too often."

"Indeed."

Galdor stopped and Maren very nearly ran into his back. His arm brushed against her middle as she tried to step to his side, only to be stopped in place. His fingers dug into the front of her clothes, twisting up and locking her safely shielded behind him. But she could still lean around him and she could still see the blood frozen on the ice.

She could still see the bloody knife.

And the elf face down in a puddle of his own blood.

"Nirdin!" Maren yanked her clothes out of Galdor's hand and ducked under his arm as he tried to grab her again.

She skidded across the ice on her knees and grasped onto whatever she could find first.

"Marenya!" Galdor cried, hands grabbing onto her shoulders to wrestle her back.

"He needs help."

"He is far beyond that," Galdor said, giving up on pulling her back and instead dropping down to the ground next to her. He stayed in a crouched position, however, still ready to spring up should he need to. And just as she focused hard on trying to flip Nirdin over, he focused on the knife instead.

Maren smoothed down Nirdin's blood stained hair.

Warm blond turned sickly red.

Skin - that used to be prone to flushing after a night of too much wine - now ashen and drawn.

Maren tucked her knee under his side and pulled, shocked by how difficult he was too move.

"Marenya, wai-"

She gave an almighty heave and pulled Nirdin onto his back, ignoring Galdor as he yanked on her again. Nirdin was rigid – either from his death or the cold, she could not say – and when she finally managed to lay him flat against the ice, his arms stayed frozen in the same position they had been.

"Oh," She breathed, chest clenching.

The age had just begun to show on his face in the last few years. The beginnings of a beard, just a few little wisps, fresh on his chin. He might have spent a few more years sailing before he finally decided it was time to move on. Perhaps, if he had felt so inclined, he might have even sailed along the coast one last time before he turned westward and followed the winds home.

"This was your brother's knife," Galdor said, speaking quickly so that she might not interrupt him again. He held up towards the ceiling, allowing the blade to catch what little light filtered down through the ice. She remembered that knife, even if she had given it very little thought up until that moment. It was part of set, gifted to Ciro by their father. She herself carried one as well, although she was certain she used it much left often. The others in the set had been given away years ago, when she thought they be of more use off on an adventure than gathering dust in her room in Imladris. What happened to them, she hadn't the faintest, but she sincerely hoped they were well loved and well used.

But now there were only two.

The one on her belt.

And the one covered in blood.

Maren moved her hand down Nirdin's side, probing until she found the wound.

But there was something else.

Some hard and cold wedged underneath him.

Maren slipped her hand under his waist, ignoring Galdor as he protested behind her, and grabbed something smooth – like a chunk of ice or a stray boulder.

She grabbed it and pulled it out from under him.

For just a moment, she saw it for what it was.

For just a moment, she held it in front of her face and felt the cold give way to unimaginable warmth.

For just a moment, she thought it stared back at her.

But then the warmth became unbearable and whatever she thought she was staring at pulled her under.

Voices, soft as spider silk.

Words, sweet as summer honey.

Warm, like the last sun before the long dark of winter.

It pulled her closer and closer and closer, holding her in place and wrapping around her mind.

It held her.

Like a lover.

Before it turned violent and left her face down in the cold snow, palm burned and eyes held wide open.

Find the others.

Find them all.

And the great and terrible monster cracked its way through the ground and finally swallowed her whole.