Recommended listening: MacCunn, The Land of the Mountain and the Flood

CHAPTER XI: HWEODRIÁS

Early morning fog spread a fleecy blanket upon Eámicel as Truva stole through the silent streets of Osgiliath to bid Roheryn one final farewell. Not even the ever-industrious bakers were about when she directed her steps to the docks. There, bobbing in the river currents upon the eastern piers of the city, was a tiny canoe, dwarfed by the tremendous vessels surrounding it. So light and inconsequential it appeared, despite its heavy burden of supplies for the trio's journey.

'Let's get this over with,' groused Gimli, tromping up behind Truva without so much as a 'good morning'. The boat's silvery wood dipped and swayed in the dark waters as he stumbled into its sleek hull, nearly overturning it.

'Have caution,' said Legolas, who appeared in his companion's wake. He leapt deftly onboard before extending a hand to Truva. 'Though they are of the highest craftsmanship, such vessels are accustomed to bearing only those with the grace of Elves.'

'That is a kindly way of implying we are clumsy,' said Truva.

'I will not be faulted for the heavy-footed manner of my people,' Gimli protested. 'Take an Elf underground and see how well his far-seeing eyes fare in those close, dark tunnels!'

'Fairly well, I would presume,' Legolas retorted, handing a paddle to Gimli as the trio tucked their packs into what little free space remained and settled onto the seats.

'And yet you have not seen fit to venture into the Glittering Caves.'

'Scarce sixmonth has passed since you so much as entertained notions of taking up residence in Aglarond,' said Legolas, speaking over his friend's grumbled complaints. 'And there is time yet for such adventures – let us focus now upon that which lies directly before us. I would get some rest if I were you, Marshal; the boat is light, but even so, it shall be a laborious task to propel ourselves northward against the current.'

Truva was tempted to contest this distribution of roles, but already Gimli was splashing his oar ineffectually in the water, and so she settled into the rear of the canoe and reclined against a large, fur-covered pack. Even as the travellers cast off, Truva turned to gaze upon the receding sights of the city. She did not yet have any deep fondness for Osgiliath, having spent only the briefest of sojourns amidst its charming, flower-adorned streets. Yet some ineffable mood overtook her, some mystifying premonition rose within her heart; here was her final anchor to lands familiar, her final glimpse of all that she knew, disappearing into the morning mist.

When the last stone spire slipped into nothingness, she adjusted to a more comfortable position. Constructing a nest out of the fur, she crossed her arms upon her chest, and no more than a few minutes elapsed before the gentle rocking of the boat – and her two companions' affectionate bickering – lulled her to sleep.

'Waybread?'

Truva's right eye cracked open to reveal Legolas squatting directly before her, holding out a gauze-wrapped wafer in offering.

'No, thank you,' she mumbled, though she was quick to sit up, wondering how she had dozed off for so long after a night of restful sleep – the morning was half gone! In the bow, Gimli forged onwards alone, swinging his paddle from one side to the other in response to the vessel's light touch.

'Why don't you rest, my friend?' Legolas suggested to him.

'Oh, aye – though such activity is light work for those who delve into rock and ore,' he said, passing the oar to Truva and surreptitiously shaking out his arms. 'Yet I've a feeling the Marshal would like to earn her keep.'

'You are astute in your observations,' said Truva, readily taking the smooth wooden handle into her palm. She wobbled forward to take over the Dwarf's position, yet no sooner had she dipped the paddle into the water than the canoe went careening across the river, nearly upending itself entirely.

'Steady, steady,' Legolas cautioned. 'You must pull it, like so – neither too shallow nor too deep in the water. And mind the angle!'

'It is far more challenging than I expected,' Truva remarked. 'Not in any way similar to the large dromunds.'

'I suspect you shall grow familiar with paddling a canoe far more swiftly than rowing those monsters of marine travel,' said Gimli, already throwing a length of fur over his eyes – for the weather was chill and another dusting of snow threatened to fall. Soon, his less-than-gentle snores mingled with the sound of the bubbling river current.

Relative silence overtook the tiny dinghy, for neither of its waking occupants were inclined to chatter; even so, Truva wondered whether she ought not strike up a conversation as an overture of good will. She cast about for a topic that would not wholly bore her companion, yet she still had not landed on one when Legolas raised his voice in quiet song. Out across the waters of Eámicel did his melodic tones thrum, as though unburdened by worldly fetters, borne upon wind and waves to an existence beyond the perceivable:

Ai! laurië lantar lassi súrinen,
yéni unótimë ve rámar aldaron!
Yéni ve lintë yuldar avánier
mi oromardi lisse-miruvóreva
Andúnë pella, Vardo tellumar
nu luini yassen tintilar i eleni
ómaryo airetári-lírinen.

Truva knew not what meaning the Elf's words held, and yet she felt her spirit transported within the music's ensnaring spell. Inexplicable sorrow overcame her – not the cutting pain of grief she had endured so much of late, but a heavier despondency, a melancholy more harrowing.

The song had long faded away before Truva realised it was ended. Quietude descended over the pair with a strangely reassuring rush, the steady dip of oar into water all that could be heard for quite some time. Truva no longer felt the need to fill the void; the spirit of Legolas' melody lingered.

Even so, he soon saw fit to grant her a second reprieve. 'Watch for eddies,' he said, indicating a distant swirl of water that circled back against the current. 'Linger as long as you need; it will give you a moment's respite before forging on.'

When they lapsed once more into silence, Truva came to acknowledge Legolas' taciturn spells were not nearly as uncomfortable as she had once believed, though the Elf surpassed even Aragorn in his reticence. An easy peace settled between them as northern Ithilien and its hills slipped by, the sun rising up behind the cloud cover to cast a diffuse light over the scene. Upon the opposite bank, the open fields of Anórien unfurled westward. Truva could almost imagine she saw a messenger riding along Hérweg, bearing news for Elfhelm Marshal.

There was no noontide break, no luncheon; the travellers pressed ever onwards, driven by some inexplicable desire to gain as much distance as possible. When Legolas at last saw fit to rest, Gimli replaced him, and proceeded to spend a great deal of time lamenting to Truva how – while he loved his family dearly – he was in no rush to return.

'You shall see, lass,' he warned, digging his paddle into the water. 'Overbearing, the lot of 'em! It was not until I removed to my own lands that I discovered how impossibly stubborn the Dwarves of my family are. They care for naught beyond that which lies directly beneath their feet – not the walking trees of Fangorn Forest, nor the mysterious geological features of Mordor now unveiled to us – not even the Glittering Caves of Rohan! Dwarves, lacking interest in nature's beauty on account of its being 'too distant'? Absurd! Have ye not been into the depths of Glǽmscrafu itself? No? Bah!'

Gimli continued on in this vein for quite some time, scarcely allowing Truva a word in edgewise as he transitioned into bemoaning the denied opportunity to explore Umbar – or give its navy a second thrashing. Even so, his ramblings were of good nature, and helped pass the otherwise bland hours.

Come late evening, the isle of Cair Andros and its twin bridges loomed ahead. As with Osgiliath, the fortress of Elminas bore extensive signs of battle, though its less tactical location meant the southerly city's repairs had taken precedence. Great rends were still hewn into the garrison's battlements – some clear down to the grassy earth of the isle itself – and the keep showed evidence of a fiery assault. Thus proving insufficient accommodations for the company stationed there, a swath of tents had been erected on the greensward beyond the southerly postern.

Osgiliath had not been Truva's last tie to the familiar, after all; for no sooner had she laid eyes upon the isle than she was visited by a vague recollection of its stately stone keep, glimpsed during her departure from Ithilien and the Field of Cormallen. Even as the travellers' canoe drew abreast of Cair Andros' makeshift docks, shadows of the battle before Morannon nipped at the corners of her mind, only to be chased away by the sounding of a trumpet.

From a particularly ostentatious tent emerged the Captain of the Guard, who descended across the sloping greensward to greet the visitors. His voice boomed across the distance: 'Greetings!' cried he. 'Never have I seen so strange a company set foot upon Cair Andros, not even during the War.'

'We travel under orders of your King,' said Legolas. Too long had the Elf's minute expressions been foreign to Truva, but she suspected now that his tone bore some peevishness, and that his lips were pursed.

'And of the King of Rohan,' she added.

'A horsemaster!' exclaimed the Captain. 'I'd recognise that accent anywhere. It was the succour of your brave people that restored this very isle in its most desperate hour of need, and we shall forever owe you a debt of gratitude most deep.'

Truva's poor impression of the Captain was immediately called into question. Though she knew any, having a passing familiarity with Eorling, would think her pronunciation of the language ungainly, still her heart flared with a gentle flame of pride to hear the Eorlingas referred to as 'her people'. But the Captain paid her silence no mind, and forged on: 'You'll excuse me, for I intended no ill will in my comment – it is no terrible thing to be strange, I don't think.'

'Your expression of remorse is duly noted,' grunted Gimli.

'You may call me Amander,' said the Captain; not even the Dwarf's glowering countenance could fluster him. 'But come, come – you must forgive our lack of hospitality, for we had no forewarning of your arrival, and provisions have been in short supply of late. It shall be no meal fit for the emissaries of Kings, but I shall see that you are fed and rested, and set upon your journey fully refreshed.'

Amander bade the travellers ascend the greensward towards several rows of tents – immense canvas shelters emblazoned with the tree of Gondor – and escorted them into the very first they came upon. He had not spoken falsely, for the meal they found there was indeed humble. Yet it was all the more endearing for being shared in spite of hard circumstances (those with less often being more likely to possess generous hands) and in his company, Truva and the others passed the night comfortably and peaceably, with many a shared tales.

Only the sentries were awake when the trio stole towards the docks the following morning. Fog smothered the scene as they untied the canoe and set out once more upon the Eámicel. Legolas took an uncharacteristic rest, leaving Truva and Gimli to cut through the unceasing currents beneath a gradually lightening sky. The Dwarf was garrulous as ever, and his words washed over Truva as she sought to shake off the webs of sleep. She ardently wished he would allow the quiet melody of a new day to speak for itself, yet as his ramblings grew more and more animated, she became intrigued in spite of herself.

'Do you not know the tale of my father, Glóin son of Gróin?' Gimli enthused. Truva shook her head no. 'By rights I ought to have ventured forth on such an expedition myself, yet my father was blinded by my perceived youth. Sixty-two I was – a prime age for adventure! To this day I regret not being allowed to partake in the liberation of Erebor, the Lonely Mountain, our home – the very place we make for even now.'

Truva listened as he told a story of many years ago: a strange fantasy of Dwarves and trolls and dragons, and a Holbytla not so very different from those she had encountered during the War. She was not entirely certain how much she ought to believe – for Gimli had taken to telling fantastical mistruths in recent days, such as insisting it was he who had bested both herself and Legolas at the Battle of Hornburg. But more than a few words in his narration struck her as true, and so Truva found herself falling wholly enraptured into the Dwarf's tale.

No sooner had he begun to describe terrible, great spiders – double or treble the size of Men, which strained Truva's willingness to believe to its furthest extent – than a soft whistle streamed through the air, followed by a soft thunk.

An arrow embedded itself into the canoe hull. It was fletched with black feathers.

Legolas was on his feet at once, bow drawn. Before Truva had so much discerned the band of Orcs upon the far banks, the Elf had loosed a salvo of arrows in return, felling at least one.

Not nearly so sure-footed in the unsteady canoe as he, Truva knelt in the stern, drawing her own bow, though her shots fell increasingly short as Gimli paddled frantically towards the western banks of Eámicel. The Orcs' arrows, however, continued to find their target, until the distance became too great even for Legolas.

'They will cross the river and follow us this night if we do nothing,' was all the Elf said before diving gracefully into the water. He reappeared halfway across the distance, only to be spied immediately by the enemy and come under their renewed assault.

In an attempt to grant the Elf some semblance of cover, Truva drew her bowstring back. But in that very moment, she felt a familiar sensation blossom within her breast, and a warmth spread from shoulder to arm until her fingers tingled.

'Aiya—' she began, the words just barely a whisper. Yet she felt no compulsion to complete the phrase. She released as if in a trance, her body moving as if through a vat of tree sap. A heavy breath escaped her lips.

Upon the far bank, a swath of Orcs fell – though whether it was due to her arrow or Legolas' own onslaught, Truva could discern; the distance was too great and her eyesight too poor. The faint sound of conflict drifted across the rush of Eámicel, and even as Gimli nestled the canoe amidst a thicket of reeds, Legolas reappeared. Dripping with river water, he lifted himself over the gunwales, nearly upsetting the vessel despite his Elven grace.

'Ruddy Orcs,' Gimli muttered.

'They rove these lands far too freely,' said Truva. 'A similar band attacked Prince Imrahil as he travelled to Edoras for Éomer King's coronation. Another assailed Prince Faramir's settlement in Ithilien, just before the birth of Prince Elboron.'

'It is the natural consequence of Sauron's overthrowing,' said Legolas, wringing out his long hair. 'There is none who can unify those left adrift in his wake. And so the forces of evil rely upon taking from others rather than forging their own path forward. It is good we have no need to venture into the region of Dagorlad.'

'I'd like to forge them a path straight to the blade of my axe,' Gimli grumbled, picking up his oar.

Truva rejoined him, and the travellers struck out upriver once again, hugging the western bank. As dusk fell, they made camp just before the southern reaches of the Entwash delta, where innumerable river mouths spilled over the plains of the Wold and into Eámicel. Blown from the east, the sulfuric stench of Nindalf – that treacherous fen – stung their noses, and even in the last glow of sunset, an eerie fog spread across the river from bank to bank, as far as the eye could perceive.

Yet the mood was not all unpropitious. Graceful egrets winged and dipped above the splayed Entwash waters, revealing the choicest areas to fish; thus it was a luscious meal of roast shad that Truva and the others dined upon that night. Then, their meal concluded, they sat about the carefully screened campfire, relishing in the particular contentment born of being well-fed. After a time, Gimli leaned forward to pull a branch from the pile of firewood, but rather than add it to the dwindling flames, he began to whittle away at it with his knife.

'What is it you make?' asked Truva, curiosity compelling her to speak.

'Have ye never seen a Dwarf carve before?' asked Gimli, astonished. When Truva shook her head, he turned once more to the pile and passed her a short, stout branch. 'Strange it is, for the horse-lords are renowned for their woodwork.'

'They are, though I have never had any particular penchant for the arts myself,' Truva confessed. 'My skill with a whittling knife is even less impressive than my skill with song.'

Gimli grunted in recognition. 'You had best learn, then, lass! I will show you. Now, what is it you wish to make?'

Truva pondered a minute. 'A horse, I suppose.'

'Right,' said Gimli. 'One carven Bron it is.'

When Truva looked up suddenly, he gave her a swift wink, then rapped at her branch with his knife. Step by carefully-explained step, he demonstrated how to first etch the desired shape, then to chip away at the wood. When Truva accidentally split her block, he tossed the two halves into the fire and offered her a new one – though even then she was met with little success. During her night watch and throughout the following day, Truva spent her hours attempting (and failing spectacularly) to recreate her beloved companion.

She had just tossed yet another misshapen figure overboard when, around midafternoon, a steady whisper of sound became ever so faintly audible. At first, Truva took it to be winds streaking across the East Emnet delta; yet it grew ever louder as the tapering waters of Entwash were replaced by the crags of Emyn Muil, which rose faintly until they formed a nearly impassable fence of razor-sharp teeth gnashing at Eámicel.

In a single moment, just when the roar was most deafening, Hweodriás emerged from around a bend: the Falls of Rauros. The tremendous riverwaters, bifurcated by Tindrock at the Falls' very crest, plunged down to crash upon the rocks below, casting up a screen of mist at Hweodriás-foot. Truva craned her neck back in wonder, for not even in the haven of Rivendell had she borne witness to such awesome might; the waterways of that Elven land were dwarfed by the immense display of fury and power before her.

Such a prodigious sight brought with it new troubles, however.

'We shall have to disembark and trek the ascent from Rauros-foot to Nen Hithoel,' said Legolas. Though he spoke no louder than ordinary, his voice was clearly audible over the Falls' roar. 'On our last passage, Aragorn insisted there was yet an ancient portage-way by which the Men of Gondor journeyed from the Wilderland to Osgiliath long ago – least, it would seem long to Men.'

But already the sun had begun to set in the dips and valleys of Emyn Muil. Scarlet light crept across the foggy fen of the Entwash, only to be sent scattering skyward once more upon the mist of Hweodriás.

'Perhaps we ought to make camp at the base of the Falls,' Truva shouted, scarcely able to make herself heard. 'I do not think it wise to risk such a treacherous climb at night.'

'In truth, I suspect it shall not be easy to locate the passage, even in the light of day,' Legolas admitted.

'Aye, though nor do I fancy circling the Emyn Muil and finding again that passage through the East Wall of Rohan,' Gimli added. He, too, was forced to raise his voice, though he had no need to strain nearly so hard as Truva. 'Having been thataway once before, and found it difficult enough to descend, I should like to avoid ascending it at all costs.'

'Where once was a trail, there might now be little more than rock and weeds,' said Legolas. 'The portage-way could very well prove inaccessible; we may have no alternative than to retrace our tracks from that fateful venture, my friend.'

With wary glances towards the bluffs on either side of the Falls – hoping by some miraculous stroke of fortune to spy their path even as they hauled the canoe upon the western shore – the three made camp, tucked beneath a rocky outcrop. The rush of water descending from heights untold placed a chill haze upon the winter air, cutting to the bone. Thunderous sound rendered conversation impractical, as well; thus the travellers settled in without a word further, to rest as best they could, ears ever assailed by the unceasing roar.

Truva was wakened in the early dawn by a gentle shake of her shoulder. No sooner had she rubbed the sleep from her eyes than she observed the figure of Legolas dancing about excitedly.

'I believe I have found the passage!' he exclaimed, beckoning to her and Gimli (who had likewise been roused abruptly from slumber, to his great displeasure).

Together, the trio gazed at the sheer cliffs of Hweodriás. There was no indication of passage. Undeterred, Legolas followed the western riverbank, making for the bluffs which framed the great cascade of water. Then, quite suddenly, he disappeared between a cleft in the rock scarcely large enough for a single Man to fit through.

Truva and Gimli darted after him. Behind the cleft was no more than a deep scar, offering the possibility of ascension but not inviting it. Yet up, up the small company climbed, slipping on shale wet with mist, until they emerged onto a tiny outcrop.

'There!' exclaimed Legolas, pointing even further upwards. 'Do you see?'

Truva followed his finger, and indeed spied a narrow stair descending from the very crest of the hilltop, which suggested a once-passable route. Years of neglect and exposure to the elements had caused sections of it to crumble away.

'It looks a mite treacherous,' said Gimli, his tone wary.

'I know the East Wall only in name and reputation,' shouted Truva over the Falls' roar. 'The way in which you spoke of it makes me think I would not enjoy the delay it would cause. Let us first attempt this path, and if it proves impossible, reconsider only then.'

'A reasonable compromise,' said Legolas. As the three gazed upon their proposed path, however, a second thought struck them.

'But how are we to get the boat up, as well?' asked Gimli. 'The stair is scarce wide enough for your light feet, Legolas, and steep enough for even a goat of the mountains to look askance at it.'

'We shall have to devise a pulley system,' said the Elf decisively, turning to descend back towards their camp and set to work.

'I do not like this one bit,' grumbled the Dwarf as he followed his friend.

There was little to be done in striking camp (for the trio travelled light), though Truva ensured the ashes of their campfire were scattered and disguised. The Orcish party of the previous afternoon had not returned to harass them, suggesting Legolas had thoroughly dispelled that threat, yet there was no need to risk the attention of any others who might stumble upon their tracks.

By the time her task was completed, Legolas had located a long, thin line of Elven rope and hauled the canoe to the cleft in the rock, laying their packs and cargo beside it. There, he and Gimli stood rubbing their chins thoughtfully.

'It won't fit, lad,' said Gimli, shaking his head.

'There is no vantage point that will allow us to utilise the rope from here,' Legolas argued. 'We must carry the canoe to the outcrop at the very least.'

'But the gap is simply too narrow!'

'It widens at the top of the cleft,' Truva remarked. 'If we can raise the canoe high enough, it will pass, sure enough.'

'Not even lifting it over our heads would suffice,' countered Gimli, standing in the crevice with his arms raised to their fullest extent to demonstrate his point.

'Not one of our heads…' Truva mused.

'And just what is that supposed to mean?' Gimli demanded.

'Come, Gimli,' said Legolas, immediately taking to Truva's meaning. He crouched low and motioned for the Dwarf to draw near.

'Do not jest so!' cried Gimli, realisation dawning. 'Not in a hundred generations of the long-lived Dwarves of Durin would I consent to being lifted upon the shoulders of an Elf – friend or no!'

'Stout as you are, the Marshal is no slight maiden herself, and she has not your balance – if you will excuse my base words,' said Legolas.

'You speak nothing save the truth,' said Truva with a perfunctory shrug.

'It is the only way,' Legolas insisted. 'Unless perhaps you would prefer to travel by way of the East Wall?'

Gimli considered a moment, arms crossed upon the barrel of his chest, until at last he gave a short grunt. 'Very well, let's have at it!' he huffed. 'No use standing around and wasting daylight!'

Using Truva's hand to steady himself, Gimli climbed atop Legolas' shoulders. Once the pair stood just within the crevice, Truva lifted the boat above her head and passed it to the Dwarf, though even he struggled to balance despite Legolas' unfaltering support. The boat wavered, tipping first one way and then the other, drawing cries from all involved. Truva leapt up in an instant, bracing one leg on each side of the rift and grasping the canoe's stern to prevent both boat and travellers from tumbling down.

Once they regained their equilibrium, Legolas began to inch ahead. Truva followed behind to maintain the canoe's stability, sometimes balancing it upon her shoulders when using her hands to swing along the upper heights of the cleft. At one such point, Gimli lost his grip and the boat fell forward, only to become lodged in the rift mere inches above Legolas' head. Otherwise, they were met with no obstacles.

Though their progress was slow and laborious, they emerged upon the outcrop shortly before noon, only to make an additional trip to carry their supplies up, as well. Thoroughly exhausted, Truva and Gimli took a brief rest, but already Legolas was devising the manner in which they would lift the boat the remaining distance.

'I think we must abandon all hope of the stair,' said he. 'Instead, I shall ascend the cliff face first, taking the rope with me and securing one end about a promontory once I am at the top. Gimli, thread the second end beneath the seats of the canoe, then climb up after me; we shall draw it up together with the packs inside. Truva, if you would be so kind as to guide the canoe from below.'

Before either could reply, he turned round and leapt up the escarpment, more lithe than the tabby cats that stalked the haylofts of Edoras. Shortly, a sharp whistle floated down from above. Gimli set out after the Elf, though he was far less nimble – indeed, even in his first step towards the cliff face, he misjudged his footing. The edge of the outcrop crumbled beneath him. It was only Truva, reaching out with lightning speed to grasp his beard, that prevented the Dwarf from tumbling to the rocky shores below.

'Not the beard!' he cried as Truva pulled him back to safety.

'Apologies,' she said, unhanding him at once.

'Nay, mine was but an instinctual response,' said he, smoothing his beard along his chest. 'In truth, I owe you, lass.'

Truva shook her head. 'No, I believe it was I who was repaying a debt,' she said. Gimli peered at her thoughtfully a moment.

'Then let us keep no such scores from here on out,' he said. With a half-smile, Truva handed him the second end of the rope in silent agreement.

Tying the rope about his waist, Gimli turned to the cliff face with a determined grunt. His ascent proved tense as he inched up the rock, sturdy boots slipping more than twice or thrice. But then he disappeared over the top of the escarpment in a flash, and following a brief pause, the canoe began to be drawn upwards.

Truva followed, sometimes scrambling from ledge to ledge, sometimes using the very tips of her fingers to search for purchase on a seemingly sheer face. She nudged the boat this way and that as she went, when it became caught on a ledge or scraped against sharp protrusions. In less than an hour – albeit an exhausting one – all three companions stood upon the clifftop, looking down into the Hweodriás-foot far below.

'I should not have liked to descend thataway,' Gimli remarked, peering back down the rock.

With nods of agreement, the travellers turned then from whence they had come, and looked to whither they were bound: ridges and pinnacles, which drew a maze-like path before them. High upon the western bank, at the very edge of where Eámicel tumbled over the hang of Hweodriás, soared a rocky peak.

'Amon Hen,' Legolas pronounced.

Gimli glowered up at the tor, a fierce flame flickering in his eye. 'I do not like the look of it from this angle, any more than I did from the other side,' he said.

'I doubt we shall be so unlucky as to encounter any foe this time, my friend,' said Legolas, laying a reassuring hand upon Gimli's shoulder.

'Your path with the Fellowship led you this way,' Truva hazarded.

'Aye,' answered Gimli. 'Have you not heard each detail of our exploits, Marshal? I was certain Aragorn would have narrated the entire story for ye, start to finish.'

Legolas shot his friend a piercing look. 'Aragorn, or any amongst our company – least, those that lived to tell it. Even so, we were not long in each other's company, and the Fellowship split upon many paths soon after converging; few know the full tale.'

Clearly eager to divert from the topic at hand, Legolas lifted the canoe above his head in one fell motion, leaving Gimli and Truva to shoulder its contents. Once Gimli had lashed the last fur to his pack, he stepped forward, leading Legolas along the most even-footed path, with Truva following in the rear to guide from behind.

The trek was arduous, for the rock was so sharp it gave little purchase to place their feet, and their path took them ever upwards, ascending towards the looming peak. They travelled in silence – and not exclusively due to the bulky craft that divided them. A melancholy mood had overtaken Truva's companions, which only intensified as they neared the snow-dusted summit of Amon Hen, where the first glimpse of a forest could only just be discerned over the hillcrest.

But this beauty seemed lost on Legolas as the company took a brief respite. The Elf's head scanned their surroundings in the most perfunctory manner, eyes glassy and unseeing, shoulders boldly square and yet heavy at the same time. Gimli, too, was especially sullen, and his beard twitched downwards every now and then, between sips from his waterskin.

The pair's agitation permeated Truva's own mood when they set out again, Gimli taking it upon himself to bear the canoe. The softening hum of Hweodriás was all that joined the sound of the trio's laboured breathing as they continued their ascent.

It was some time before Truva summoned the courage to ask, 'What happened in this place, that causes you to be so ill at ease?'

Neither companion gave any indication of wishing to speak. Truva began to think they would not answer at all. Only after a great pause did Legolas' voice call out over the boat's curved hull: 'It was at Amon Hen the Fellowship was sundered.'

What followed was a long, protracted silence. Truva knew better than to break it. Eventually, Legolas spared her the need:

'From Lórien, our company sailed south upon the Anduin,' he continued. 'On the seventh day following our departure came the fellbeast – though we knew not what it was at the time.'

'The fellbeast?' Truva questioned. 'So you encountered it, too. That creature would shift westward to harass my own company as we brought recruits out of the north to aid in the defence of Mundburg.'

'Perhaps, or perhaps another of its kind,' mused Legolas. 'Yet that would not be the end of our woes. Hard on the heels of the fellbeast's attack came another: Uruk-hai – the very same you and the Rohirrim slaughtered on the plains of Rohan not three days later – descended upon us and bore away Peregrin and Meriadoc. One of our number fell whilst defending them.'

Realisation sprang into Truva's mind. 'Boromir, the man you spoke of in Osgiliath,' she murmured gently.

'Yes,' Legolas confirmed, the grief and sorrow of an eternity all contained within that single word. 'Boromir son of Denethor II, Captain of the White Tower and steadfast jewel of Gondor.'

'Durin keep him,' said Gimli, his voice echoing richly beneath the boat.

'May his horn sound forevermore in the peaks and valleys of his homeland,' Truva added in the manner of the Eorlingas.

'Though it be shattered,' Gimli muttered.

Who had gone untouched by the War? Each man carried his own torment nestled within the corners of his aching heart, or heavily upon his stooping shoulders; the warriors of the Fellowship were no exception. Truva's own anguish redoubled when she tallied the days of Legolas' story in her mind, for its timing aligned with the battle at the Fords of Isen – Boromir must have been slain shortly after Théodred.

The sudden remembrance of her Prince's beloved visage suffocated Truva, yet even as she grew consumed by melancholic thoughts, Legolas sent a lament up in the air. Its melody was canorous yet chilling, and when compounded with the late winter air that offered no hint of spring, left icy shards of despondency within her breast.

It was no more than a short verse, but when the song died away, none of the company could bring themselves to break the quiet which hung fragile about them. The sound of Hweodriás was all that could be heard once more.

But Truva's curiosity remained unsated, and she was desperate to stave off the inner turmoil threatening to close in around her.

'And before then?' she asked eventually. 'You spoke of Lórien; of what nature is that place? And long ago, at the feast of Meduseld when you first arrived in Edoras, I recall one of your party mentioning a failed attempt at crossing the Redhorn pass. At what point in your travels did that occur?'

'I will not speak of Lórien, for soon you shall bear witness to its splendours yourself,' said Legolas. 'And regarding what we encountered at the pass, perhaps our friend might like to elucidate, as the topic is so near to his heart. Come, Gimli – I shall carry the boat a while.'

'Oh aye,' said the Dwarf. 'It pains me even now to think back upon the tragedy of those cursed halls, yet I think it would do me good to describe it with all deserved glory.'

He ducked out from beneath the canoe and passed it to Legolas, then launched into the history of Durin the Deathless and his halls beneath the Misty Mountains. Distracted by Gimli's enthusiastic narration, the company made good time, and soon gained the tor of Amon Hen even as the sunlight faded from the western banks of Emyn Muil.

The vision at the hills' crest rendered Truva breathless, for the spectacle of Hweodriás when viewed from below was dwarfed by the majesty of above. Southward cascaded the ever-flowing Eámicel, split by the sheer-sided and impassable Tindrock; yet behind the Falls pooled the tremendous azure lake of Nen Hithoel, flanked by the Emyn Muil and stretching more than five leagues to where the river rent the towering cliffs at the far end.

Upon the flat summit of Amon Hen itself lay stone ruins – little more than the circular foundations of a watchtower now lost to the abyss of time. It was there the company made their camp. Soon, both Gimli and Truva dug into a well-earned but simple meal of waybread, wary as they were of lighting a fire on so conspicuous a promontory. Reluctant to take supper (as was his manner), Legolas scaled the ruins to their highest point.

Several minutes passed before he called down to them: 'I have found the North Stair!'

Abandoning their meagre meal, Truva and Gimli scrambled up after him. They squinted southward in the encroaching gloom – for not even a Dwarf's vision was so keen as an Elf's in the darkness – until they could make out what Legolas indicated: nothing save a few broken stones which wended a stuttering path down the cliff face to the river below. Their treads were sundered by tree roots, and subsequently overwhelmed by weeds and brambles.

'Perhaps it was best the Fellowship split as it did,' said Gimli. 'A path there once was, but is no more.'

Thus the company turned the following morning from a path that might have been, and instead looked to the path laid before them. Truva shouldered the canoe as they descended through a wood of rowan trees encroaching upon Parth Galen, where great swaths of verdant sweetgrass and soft brome sloped gently down to the glimmering waters of Nen Hithoel. No sooner had the trio gained the shore than the canoe was set afloat once more, and they set out about the circumference of the lake, where the current was weakest.

Their pace now swiftest since their departure from Osgiliath, it was not Truva alone whose spirits were greatly lifted.

By midmorning, however, their progress grew slower as they neared the northern end of Nen Hithoel, where the Emyn Muil rose to towering heights upon both sides. Here, the Eámicel flowed with swift and terrifying force between the narrow gap.

Legolas passed an additional oar to Truva, who rested in the rear. 'We will need all of our might to overcome this passage,' he said simply.

All three travellers dug their paddles into the coursing waters then, fighting against a current that strove to throw them off course and draw them back towards Hweodriás. Each passing minute grew torturous; Truva's arms strained as they never had during battle, or even whilst rowing the massive dromunds of Gondor's navy. Perspiration beaded on her forehead and soaked her tunic, mingling with the mist off Eámicel. Her jaw clenched, determination pulsing at the muscles there and consuming her every thought.

Suddenly, Gimli gave a great laugh, startling Truva from her concentration.

'It is not so different from a song my father once shared!' cried the Dwarf. 'One he learned from none other than the Elves upon his journey long ago:

'Down the swift dark stream you go
Back to lands you once did know!
Leave the halls and caverns deep,
Leave the northern mountains steep,
Where the forest wide and dim
Stoops in shadow grey and grim!'

As Gimli sang, Legolas lent his voice in addition, and the company's toil was lessened for the music that echoed off the rocks and harmonised with the river's rush. At great last, and after great effort, the Eámicel widened once more and the companions' breathing eased. Legolas guided the boat towards the western shore for a brief rest, yet even as the canoe's prow nosed into a riverbank thick with rushes, the Elf bade Truva turn round.

There, carved upon the near side of the cliffs, stood two immense giants, tall as the peaks of the Emyn Muil themselves, with axes clutched to their chest and left arm extended, as if in warning. A weak sigh escaped Truva's lips; not even upon her first sighting of Hornburg had she been so enthralled by the craftsmanship of Men.

'The Argonath,' said Legolas. 'Isildur and Anárion, in eternal protection of the lands of Gondor.'

Gimli's previous jollity evaporated. There was a peculiar edge in his voice when he set aside his waterskin and said, 'Let us make haste for Lothlórien.'

Their respite thus concluded, the company set out once more upon a much calmer stretch of Eámicel, yet Truva could not draw her eyes away from the splendid figures in stone, solid and immutable.

First poem: 'Namárië', or the 'Lament in Lórien', as appears in The Fellowship of the Ring, LoTR Book II Chapter 8, 'Farewell to Lórien'
Second poem: 'Roll-Roll-Roll-Roll', as appears in the ninth chapter of The Hobbit, 'Barrels Out of Bond'