Greetings, dear readers!

Here comes Chapter 6. You will notice that sentences in Westron are in italics. This is because it is not my characters' native language, and I wanted to differentiate it from French (or Sindarin).

I am not forbidding anyone from commenting. To be completely honest, I'm starting to understand all those authors who give up along the way. It's quite disheartening to see views on your story but no messages, except for advertisements. Luckily, I have a few chapters ready in advance for when I feel down. I really hope this trend will change.

I wish you all an excellent reading!

CHAPTER 6 : EMMA

The creature's eyes, a piercing yellow, glowed with an unnatural light, catching the dim rays in an almost unreal way. It watched them with cold hunger, raw and undisguised. The air around them seemed to freeze, weighed down by the intensity of its gaze. Even the forest, usually alive with murmurs and rustling leaves, had fallen into a hushed stillness, as though holding its breath.

Then, in a flash of steel, everything shifted.

The man moved with the lightning speed of a predator. The attack was swift, relentless. With barely a whisper of metal, his sword sliced through the air, striking with a deadly whistle. The sharpened blade cut cleanly, precisely, and the creature's head separated from its body in a burst of shadow and flesh.

A thick arc of crimson sprayed across the fresh grass. The headless body collapsed with a dull thud, shuddered once in its final spasms, then stilled, lifeless. No cry escaped its lips. No warning to its kin. Only the indifferent wind carried away the last remnants of the gruesome scene.

Silence fell, heavy and suffocating. Even the forest seemed to recoil.

The man slowly lowered his weapon, letting the blood trickle down the blade in a thin, dark stream. Then, he turned to Emma.

She sat frozen atop the horse, her face drained of all color, pale as the moon hanging in the sky. Her wide eyes, stretched in horror, seemed unable to look away from the smoldering corpse. Her breath was short, erratic. One hand clutched the stallion's mane, the other wrapped around Marie with an almost desperate grip.

Emma could feel the warmth of the child's frail body against her, but it brought no comfort. Cold seeped into her bones—not the chill of the night air, but something far more insidious. Fear. A fear that gripped her chest in an iron vise, merciless and unrelenting.

She could not falter. Not now.

Swallowing hard, her throat dry and bitter, she tightened her hold on the reins. Her lips pressed together in a thin, trembling line, but she forced herself to stay in control.

The man studied her, his dark eyes locked onto hers—intense, unreadable. There was no pity in his gaze, no trace of condescension. Only quiet certainty, unsettling in its calmness, as if he had always known things would unfold this way.

Then, in a voice surprisingly steady, almost gentle, he said:

"All will be well, my Lady."

His words hung in the morning air, weighted with an eerie solemnity. There was no forced reassurance, no attempt to soothe with empty comfort. Only that cold conviction, that unshakable serenity, as if his words carried an ancient knowledge, an undeniable truth.

He paused, scanning the shifting darkness between the trees, then added, his tone graver:

"But we must hurry. Others are lurking in these woods."

Emma followed his gaze. There, in the deep shadows of the forest, something moved. Faint, elusive, patient.

Her heart pounded in her chest, the sound echoing in her throat. Terror surged once more, deeper, more visceral, crawling through her like a cold, insidious poison. She closed her eyes for a fraction of a second, trying to ground herself. But everything felt unstable. Even the air seemed heavier, more oppressive, as though the entire forest was closing in around her, its gnarled trees forming a cage from which she could never escape. Her breath hitched, and inside her mind, a terrifying void threatened to swallow every thought, every shred of reason beneath the crushing weight of panic.

But just as the fear threatened to consume her, a small voice within her—fragile but firm—urged her not to surrender. There was still hope, however faint, as long as she held onto clarity. To lose herself now was to die. And that, she would not accept.

Her teeth sank into her lower lip, an unconscious gesture, a mark of her inner battle. She clenched her fists, gripping the horse's mane tighter. Every quiver of the beast beneath her was an anchor, proof that she was still here, that she had not fallen apart. Slowly, she straightened, swallowing her fear with a quiet, stubborn resolve. She would not show weakness. Not before him. Not before Marie. Not before this sinister forest that seemed almost sentient in its malice.

A twig snapped in the darkness. Then another. Faint, nearly imperceptible sounds blended with the rustling leaves, too deliberate to be the wind.

A shiver ran down Emma's spine. They were being watched.

"Let's go", she whispered, her voice tight with the heat of panic constricting her lungs.

The words felt hollow, carried away by the damp breath of the undergrowth. The thought of what awaited them in Bree sent a chill through her. A village she knew nothing about. Was it truly a refuge? A safe haven against the creatures that hunted them?

Those monsters, with their piercing golden eyes, their stench of decay, their insatiable fangs... Emma struggled to believe that any village could hold them at bay.

She pictured towering walls, impenetrable, bristling with ramparts. Armed guards keeping an unyielding watch, blades drawn and ready to cut through the darkness at the first sign of danger. But deep down, she knew it was a fantasy. There were no safe places left. Only brief respites before the next threat.

A bitter taste filled her mouth. She turned her gaze to the man—the stranger whose name she did not know, whose true intentions remained hidden. And yet, he was their only chance.

"Very well. If Bree is where you're taking us, then let's go", she said, her voice steadier now, though uncertainty still lingered beneath.

The silence that followed was heavy, hanging in the damp forest air. Emma drew a deep breath, trying to reclaim a sense of control. Then, on a strange impulse, she decided to break the barrier of anonymity between them.

"My name is Emma", she finally said, her voice barely a murmur in the darkness. "I'd rather you use it. I give you permission, if you deem it necessary."

The title he had used—"my Lady"—felt foreign. It belonged to another world, another life, one that no longer fit. It clung to her like an ill-fitting garment, a role she could not bear to play.

The man observed her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, unexpectedly, a smile touched his lips. A real smile, warm and genuine, briefly softening his hardened features.

"I am grateful, Lady Emma", he replied, inclining his head with a hint of amusement. "You may call me Arathorn, if that suits you. A proud Ranger of these wild lands."

The name echoed within her, striking a strange chord, like the reverberation of a plucked string. A wave of something unknown rippled through her, a shiver down her spine. There had been a gravity in the way he spoke it, a weight that cracked the wall of distance she had tried to maintain.

No, he was not a friend. Not yet. She did not fully trust him. But a thread—thin, fragile—had begun to weave between them. An invisible tether, binding them in a way neither could ignore.

Silence settled once more, but it was no longer one of wariness. It was the quiet of an unspoken understanding, of a respect still uncertain but real.

Arathorn was no longer just a shadow emerging from the night. He was a name, a voice, a presence she could grasp.

And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Emma no longer felt entirely alone in the dark.

The sun rose slowly above the treetops, casting beams of golden light between the dense leaves. The heat was rising, making their progress more difficult, their clothes sticking to their skin with the sweat. When they reached a clearing hidden by a thick thicket, Arathorn decided that a rest was necessary. They only took a few minutes, just enough to catch their breath and swallow some stale bread that the man had brought with him. Emma took a sip of fresh water, then poured a little over her fingers to cool Marie, whose small cheek was burning against her chest.

Taking advantage of this break, she began to fashion an improvised diaper by tearing an old shirt belonging to their traveling companion. The fabric, though rough and worn, would do... at least, she hoped so. Hers had been soiled for a long time, and she had no way to properly wash her daughter's belongings. When she moved the dirty cloth aside, her heart tightened painfully. A rash was spreading over Marie's fragile bottom, an irritation likely caused by the lack of hygiene and persistent dampness.

A cold weight pressed down on her chest, and a wave of guilt blurred her vision. She wanted to cry, even scream, so unfair did it all seem. Her daughter, her baby, was suffering, and all she could do was try to minimize the damage with the meager means she had. Gritting her teeth, she placed a trembling kiss on the child's hot forehead, murmuring comforting words she herself only half-believed.

"Hang on, my darling... Mummy is here."

She carefully repositioned the new diaper around Marie, then gently pulled her back against her, hoping the discomfort would be lessened. She looked up at Arathorn, who was silently watching the scene. He didn't say a word, but in his piercing gaze, she thought she detected a shadow of understanding. Perhaps even a hint of compassion.

The moment was brief. Already, he was straightening up, scanning the surroundings with caution.

"We must move on," he said in a low, but firm tone. "We've lingered too long."

Emma nodded, tightening her grip on Marie. It didn't matter how tired she was, the pain, the anguish that crushed her soul. She would keep moving, again and again, as long as she could. For to stop was to die. That realization had hit her that very morning, the horror of their encounter raging in her memory.

Soon, the trees became sparser, their density thinning until it was just a fragile tangle of weak branches and scattered brush. The forest, which until now had stretched around them like an oppressive barrier, gradually gave way to a vast expanse bathed in light. The air felt lighter, less heavy with moisture, and the underlying tension that had weighed on their shoulders since the previous night seemed to dissipate.

Emma lifted her eyes to the sky, momentarily blinded by the brilliance of the sun, which now stood proudly at its zenith. The vast, golden fields stretched before them, swaying gently with the breeze that made the wheat stalks dance in slow, lazy waves. Nature was no longer a threat, but a living tableau of poignant beauty.

Beside her, Arathorn, who had been silent and tense until now, seemed to relax. His steps grew less hurried, his posture less rigid. Here, he was no longer a fugitive stalked by the shadow of the woods, but a man in familiar territory. A barely audible sigh escaped him.

"We're almost there, Lady Emma," he said, his voice carrying a weariness tinged with relief. "I know a friend who will take care of you and your child while I report back to the Elves. You won't have to wait long before you're in the warmth and comfort of a home, I assure you."

A home.

The word echoed in Emma's mind with a cruel sweetness. The idea was tempting, almost comforting, but a deeper unease lingered beneath the surface. She barely knew Arathorn, yet, through that terrifying night, he had seemed like a rock, a presence to lean on despite the unknown. But his friend? Would he be as kind?

And the Elves... who were they, really? A race of peaceful sages or formidable warriors? Should they be wary, or would they find protection among them? And more importantly, were Marie and she even human anymore? Or had they now become part of the species their companion so often spoke of?

She instinctively tightened her grip on her child. That tiny, fragile body was the only certainty she had left.

"I understand," she whispered finally, though it was a lie.

The path wound its way between the fields, occasionally bordered by wild hedgerows and small stone walls weathered by time. Ahead of them, an old man stood out against the landscape, his back bent over a wooden plow, his slow, measured movements matching the steady pace of the two horses pulling the cart.

Emma froze.

A strange sensation gripped her as she observed this scene from another time. Of course, she had suspected this world was different from her own. The absence of artificial light, Arathorn's clothes, the steel of his sword—all of it pointed to a medieval-like universe. But seeing this farmer, this rudimentary tool, this earth being turned without the aid of any machine... it was something else.

There were no tractors here. No paved roads. No cars. Not even those enormous farming machines she didn't know the name of but had often seen on the side of highways. Here, everything was done by hand. With time. With effort.

A shiver ran down her spine. It was no longer just a difference, an inexplicable oddity. It was another world.

And yet, when the old man looked up and met her gaze, she felt inexplicably relieved. He squinted his eyes, sizing up the strangers on the road for a moment, then flashed a smile. A genuine, kind smile. With a slow and friendly gesture, he raised an arm in their direction, greeting them without suspicion, as if they were ordinary travelers.

This simple, universal greeting was like a lifeline thrown into an ocean of uncertainty. With a tight throat, Emma awkwardly returned his wave. Civilization was there. So close. Within reach.

"You're in time for the Wine Festival, strangers!" the farmer called out cheerfully in perfect French, his voice ringing brightly in the fresh morning air.

The shout startled Emma almost as much as it had surprised the farmer himself, a shiver running up her spine. French. The man spoke French, with a fluency that was completely unexpected. Emma froze, her mind whirling. But how? Did the people here speak her language? Then why had Arathorn, their traveling companion, greeted her earlier with that rough, unknown tongue from which she had understood only fragments? Confusion settled in her mind.

She almost forgot to respond to the farmer's greeting.

"You should stop at the village!"

Arathorn nodded toward the farmer, a tired smile forming on his lips. It was a smile touched by the weariness of the journey, a subtle gleam in his tired eyes. He responded amiably:

"We do plan to, dear friend! But tell me, does Alfred still run his inn with a firm hand?"

The old man appeared momentarily confused by the question, his gaze scanning Arathorn as though trying to understand how a man so out of sync with the world could be familiar with an innkeeper. Then, after a brief hesitation, he regained his composure, his face returning to its cheerful demeanor.

"Master Butterbur still watches over his establishment with the same care, if that's your concern," he assured them in a voice full of confidence. "Do not fear any disruptions due to the festival, for no one would dare trouble his domain under his watchful eye."

The old man's words, though addressed to Arathorn, brought some relief to Emma. They soothed her irrational fear, the one born from the little she had understood of this situation, the mysteries that seemed to weave themselves around them. Her companion seemed intent on stopping at an inn in the middle of the festival, a celebration where alcohol would likely be at the heart of the merrymaking. But she couldn't help but think of what she knew of her own world: drunkards stumbling on the ground, too intoxicated to remember their names. That thought brushed her mind like a bad omen. If the inn was run seriously, perhaps it would be a chance for them. A few hours of respite, away from the chaos, a bit of comfort. Water, food, a bed to rest... These simple ideas seemed like precious rarities after the events of the previous day.

"I thank you for your words," Arathorn said, his voice deep yet sincere. "However, allow me to advise you not to linger in your fields once night falls. We crossed blades with an Orc on our way. Be on your guard, for these creatures never travel alone."

A shiver of fear briefly crossed the old man, and Emma noticed his face pale slightly. Yet he quickly straightened up, his gaze hardening despite his fright. He nodded in silence.

"I will remember," he replied in a lower voice. "Safe travels!"

Arathorn did not respond this time. He did not need to say more. Without a word, he resumed his march, gently guiding the reins of the horse that Marie and Emma were riding. The silence grew heavy, almost oppressive, but it was not uncomfortable. It was a silence that everyone seemed to appreciate after their exchange. Then, as if the tranquility of the past moments allowed them to confide in each other without words, Arathorn spoke in a soft, almost whispered voice:

"The man we just crossed is from a distant branch of my lineage. He probably learned the Elvish language from his ancestors, just like other inhabitants of Bree. Alfred himself knows a few words of Sindarin, although his mastery is still imperfect. Rest assured, you won't be as isolated as you might fear."

The calm of these words brought Emma an odd form of comfort. The thought that others here spoke her language, even imperfectly and in small numbers, seemed to connect her a little more to this world. But she did not have the strength to ask questions. Nor the strength to understand. She merely murmured a sincere "thank you" before becoming lost again in the contemplation of the landscape unfolding before her.

The walk was long, and although the lush scenery around them was beautiful, Emma felt increasingly exhausted. Her body was heavy with fatigue, and her mind, overloaded with chaotic thoughts, could no longer focus. She could no longer think about everything that had happened the previous day, about the accident that should have killed them, about Léo's disappearance. It had become too much. Too heavy, too complex. The ground seemed to shift beneath each step of Hépérion. The events haunted her, and everything felt so distant, as if a thick fog were shrouding her thoughts.

As she fixed her gaze on the thatched roofs of the village finally appearing on the horizon, a familiar sound caught her attention: Marie was crying. The cry, brief yet alarming, made her flinch. Emma quickly lowered her head, an immediate anxiety tightening her heart. But when she caught sight of her daughter, her entire body relaxed. Marie, her brows furrowed, her lips pouting in displeasure, seemed more annoyed than scared. That little child's face was so expressive, so unique in its mannerisms, that Emma couldn't help but smile tenderly. She resembled her father so much.

She watched Marie sucking her thumb, a dull noise coming from the child's belly. Emma closed her eyes for a moment. Her small body was desperately demanding food. It had been far too long since they had eaten properly. Only a few pieces of stale bread had filled their stomachs, but it was no longer enough.

"Let's take a quick break," Arathorn decided after a moment of silence.

The pause was brief, barely enough for Emma to give Marie a few sips of water and some pieces of dried bread. It wasn't much, but it would suffice for now. The inn was not far; she hoped with all her heart. She needed this small comfort. This human warmth, this refuge that they were so lacking. But for now, she knew they would have to endure a little longer. They had no other choice.

Seeing the men dressed in coarse woolen garments and the women in long conservative dresses caused Emma a growing discomfort. The curious gazes that fell upon her seemed to probe every fiber of her being, and she felt her heart grow heavy under the weight of that attention. Her worn jeans, simple cashmere sweater, and faux leather boots... Everything about her seemed to clash in this anachronistic universe. She felt like a stranger, an intruder in this world.

Her hands tightened on the saddle of the horse, her body tense, as she felt the weight of the crowd closing in around her. She wanted to melt into the scenery, to disappear under a veil of shadow. The warmth of their curious yet not necessarily malevolent gazes made her feel like a spectacle, an anomaly to be scrutinized and deciphered.

Seemingly understanding the young woman's obvious discomfort, Arathorn briefly turned and, with a fluid motion, removed his long cloak. He draped it over Emma's shoulders, covering a bit of her foreign silhouette. This simple gesture comforted her for a moment, like a breath of fresh air in a room too crowded. She held Marie tighter, trying to shield her from the gaze of the villagers who, though busy with their own affairs, kept whispering among themselves and casting furtive glances in their direction. The murmurs rose in a language Emma still couldn't quite master, a hum that was incomprehensible but strangely familiar.

They crossed the market, the hustle and bustle of the stalls stirring her thoughts. The vendors, animated by a cheerful verve, called out to passersby with sales pitches that Emma could almost make out despite the language. Every shout, every voice, seemed to fill the space around her. The scent of fresh fruit, warm bread, and spicy herbs intertwined with the smell of leather and wood.

She squinted her eyes, trying to catch the words shouted by the merchants. Some terms slowly slipped into her mind like distant memories. "Maybe... maybe this sounds like English?" she thought, intrigued. A familiar feeling, one she had already experienced when she first met Arathorn. But here, everything felt stranger, more distorted. The words rolled off the tongue with a thick, choppy accent, but Emma eventually managed to make out a few phrases. They were distorted, barely understandable, but they were there. A small flicker of hope sparked within her. What if this language wasn't so unfamiliar after all?

A powerful sense of relief, like a weight slowly lifting off her shoulders, washed over her. Perhaps, with time, she could understand more, maybe even make herself understood. Marie, nestled against her, seemed curious about the commotion around them, her wide eyes darting everywhere at once, her finger pointing at the colorful stalls. Emma hugged her little girl tighter, the weight of uncertainty mingling with the comfort of that contact, wondering what the future held for them.

She didn't have time to lose herself in her thoughts, for Hépérion, the horse she had been riding since the day before, suddenly stopped. The movement made her stagger, and she had to grip the saddle firmly to avoid losing her balance. The horse, evidently alert to something, shook its head, and Emma, slightly disoriented, searched for the cause of this abrupt halt.

Arathorn pointed to a sign gently swaying in the wind. A carved wooden plaque, in vivid green, depicting a rearing horse, magnificent and almost unreal. Beneath the image, golden letters faintly gleamed, their paint worn by time. "The Prancing Pony"... The name struck her with a strange familiarity.

Arathorn then turned to her, his face suddenly more serious, marked by the wear of travel. He leaned slightly towards her, lowering his voice as though afraid someone might overhear them:

"Do not call me by my name here," he commanded. "In this village, my name must remain concealed. If you must call me, know that I am known as Shadowcloak."

A cold shiver ran down Emma's spine. Why this strange, mysterious request? Why, after all he had done to protect them, did Arathorn now want to hide his identity? She felt unsettled, her mind spinning under the weight of doubt. Why the secrecy, after everything he had told her, after all he had done for her and Marie?

Doubt crept in like a cold mist, but Emma quickly pushed the thought away, unwilling to let it settle too long. Since the day before, Arathorn had not stopped protecting them, guiding them without asking for anything in return. He watched over their safety with a near-paternal diligence. Could she really question his loyalty over such a strange request?

A small, insistent voice whispered to her that it might be wiser to be cautious. Even a wolf could resemble a lamb if it tried hard enough. But Emma pushed the doubt aside firmly. Her instincts hadn't betrayed her yet. She shrugged, determined to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, this wasn't an unbreakable secret. Just a choice... for a reason that he might explain, perhaps later. She would follow him, as she had done up to this point.

"Very well," she answered calmly. "I will be careful how I address you here. But perhaps you will explain this secret to me one day?"

Arathorn gave her a reassuring smile, one that seemed to promise answers to come, like a silent promise of clarity. The smile lifted some of the weight from her thoughts, but the mystery still hung between them.

Emma dismounted from the horse awkwardly, her legs stiff from the long ride. She swayed slightly, briefly ready to collapse under the weight of her sore thighs. She grabbed the horse's reins, narrowly avoiding falling. Riding, it seemed, had never been her strength.

She held Marie in her arms, reassuring her with a smile as her daughter continued to gaze at the world with wonder. Then, taking a deep breath, she headed toward the heavy wooden door of the inn. The sounds emanating from within were a mix of cheerful voices, laughter, and the clinking of mugs. The noise seemed to invite her in, to take a step into this new, uncertain world, one that she hoped would offer a bit of comfort.

She exchanged a glance with Arathorn, who, out of the corner of his eye, gave her a subtle gesture of encouragement. Well, she no longer had many options. She could only move forward.

Pushing the door open, a shiver of apprehension passed through her, mingled with a fragile hope. Perhaps everything would finally be all right. She entered with hesitant steps, but what awaited her inside caught her completely off guard.

The inn was a veritable treasure trove, full of life and color. Wrought-iron lamps cast warm light on rustic wooden walls adorned with floral tapestries. Joyous voices resonated in the air, punctuated by bursts of laughter that filled the space with a festive atmosphere. But what immediately caught her attention were the beings sitting around a large central table.

Small figures with round faces and eyes sparkling with mischief chatted while eating and drinking with contagious camaraderie. They wore simple but colorful clothes, checkered shirts and loose pants, their large, hairy feet sticking out from beneath the hems of their trousers. Emma watched them, fascinated.

She had never seen creatures like these, so full of life, so joyfully outside the norms. They seemed to possess a natural lightness, playing and teasing each other, their laughter ringing like little bells. She suddenly felt lost in a world she didn't fully understand, a world that seemed so much simpler and happier than her own, and for a moment, the fatigue and anxiety of her journey faded in the face of this scene.

Her heart beat faster as she ventured further into the inn. Who were these beings? Why were they here? The smell of warm bread and spiced wine filled her nostrils, but her mind was too occupied trying to decipher the reality before her. What she was discovering here, in this inn brimming with life and mystery, was far beyond anything her fertile imagination could have conjured.

Like a distant echo, Emma repeated the same words she had spoken to Marie the day before, though this time they carried a good deal of irony:

"We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto."

And, as far as not being at home went, she was definitely no longer there. No more Auvergne, no more France. They weren't even on Earth anymore.