The Hunt for the Bride (Cont'd from SilverThread Winner 2003)

Thud.

The body of the newly wedded elf, while light and soft, made a horrific noise as it met with the frozen wasteland. The area she had landed upon, a formerly lush grassland, wilted at the footsteps of the creature who had dropped her, shuddering beneath its frozen dew. The elf moaned as she began to awaken, her head pounding, the frigid air ruffling the torn and soiled wedding gown, once so resplendent but now simple dull cloth. A dim figure blocked the healing power of the moon and her beloved star, both of whom she would have called upon for strength, as she knew their ancient powers for the Eldar.

Her eyes focused in elven clarity, the pupils dark and slightly cat-like, yet she saw nothing but the absence of light.

*************************************

Leonir sneered as the princess tried to make out his form, but failed. True, he was not a creature of great power, nor was he any sort of sorcerer, but he knew the basic spells, especially that of cloaking one's form. It had served him well as he roamed the halls of her forebears, never seen, never heard. Yet, even if she had caught his full form now, she would not recognize him, for he was the Unseen.

None knew his true form, none except his Masters and the Great Sorcerers. They alone could see through his magic, his silven hair that burned with the chill of ice, grey eyes that flickered in bolts of icicles, limber frame greater than the strongest of elves on MiddleEarth. But with his mental cloak, he could fool them all into believing him a cripple, a petty thief, a prince, a pauper. Even the strong-minded could not see through the magic he had practiced for so long under so many Masters.

He twisted a simple ring inlaid with mithril around his index finger as he thought of his greatness, vain as he was. However, from this happy reverie he was awoken, as he heard the princess struggling to stand. She was still powerful and a threat to him, but with the spell of sleep he had laid upon her, her powers were harnessed for now. Yet, it was due to her and her meddlesome brother that he was here now, lurking in the shadows as he had done for so long, and bitterness had consumed what little of his heart remained.

As Leonir watched her elegantly clad figure, he imagined himself in such finery. It should have been him in the best fabrics, bowing to no one! It should have been him parading foolishly about the city with the proud, royal family!

Filthy wench! You are not so deserving!

Enraged, feeling the old, slow burn of bitterness, he lunged at her, kicking her in the side. The princess, usually so quick and agile, was slowed by the spell and took the full brunt of the injury, doubling over in pain, still lying upon the ground.

Not so tough now, eh, Princess? Not so tough without all of your friends who bow down to you, worship you? Without your powers to control the weather?

He mocked her, but she did not recoil in horror, nor did she allow the strength she still bore beneath the spell's effects to weaken. She had heard such mockings before, such terrible blows meant to wreck her pride. She knew what it was to be tormented until she wished to die. And this time, she would not give in. Not even if he disfigured her for life. Her Hobbi would still love and cherish her until death did them part.

This placidness only further aggravated the creature, his eyes glittering dangerously as molten silver. It was as though she had mocked him back, brushing his words aside as though they were merely feathers falling across her face.

You dare to ignore me? I am much higher than any of your friends, and without any doubt, greater in status than the one you now call husband.

He sneered at the Weatherspeller, spitting out his last word in disgust, as she, though enfuriated by his words, chose only to bite her lip until it began to trickle blood. She wanted to fight him for the words he spoke, the insults against her friends and her beloved hobbit—especially her hobbit. No one was allowed to say such things! But if she gave him any fuel, he would linger forever, continuing to run her down. She prayed that he would tire of her, for she could see no reason why he had cause to take her from her beloved, except under orders of some terrible master.

Yet he did not tire of her, and indeed chose the way of pain for her instead, as she did not respond. He grabbed a hold of her deep chestnut hair, his hot breath, fetid and reminiscent of a morgue unkempt, was heavy upon her face, yet she could not make out any features upon his face. She did not cry out as he tore a handful of hair from her scalp, not allowing him the pleasure of seeing her in pain, though her eyes told the tale of one recalling a previous trauma.

Still enraged, he tore the two necklaces from her neck—the Heart of Diadron and Hobbi's family heirloom. Erinhue's charms had been left in her bags for the honeymoon, as she had trusted him to assure that nothing went astray. She did not now have the time to think of how horribly things had turned out, nor did she have time to blame him for the day's sorrows. Survival thoughts filled her mind and she was determined to make it through this ordeal.

Not thinking, Leonir simply tossed the heirloom into some reeds beside the bank, as it meant nothing to him. But the Heart of Diadron, that was a prize indeed. His jaw dropped slightly as he ran his fingers across the gilded edge, the stone ensconced within sparkling with an eerie radiance.

So, you carried the Heart all along, did you? I wondered where it was hidden. It has been so long since I saw your brother wear the jewel in his proud grandeur. It figures that he would send it on to the vainest creature in existence!

Leonir kicked the princess again and then went in search of the boat that would take them to his hidden lair. They had made good time, for Braun had run swiftly and even made it through the Misty Mountains in a small pass that made the journey faster. Once Leonir had the princess in the boat here at the River Anduin, the others he knew pursued them would lose the trail. His beloved stallion would wade to the other side of the river, leaving deep tracks, and continue to lead them on in a chase in which they would never find their quarry. Eventually, Braun would return to the banks once he was sure that the others had given up the trail, where his master would row from his hidden isle to retrieve him, and all that was Leonir's would remain so.

Despite his surety that the others were far behind, Leonir took no chances. He placed another spell of sleep upon the princess, so that she could not call out, lifted her into the boat, and slipped away with only the breeze and the lapping of water upon the light canoe invading his senses.

__________________________________________________________________
(Please see OOC--The Hunt for the Bride OOC--to join)
Read the First Chapter of this Saga for Coherence:Turelie_Lurea and Hobbituk's Wedding--A Bard's Festival (Winner of the Silver Thread 2003)

Herbert Took lay on his back and stared upwards at the sky. His eyes were fixed upon the moon, it’s bright eye was clear this night and it was indeed prominent upon the high tapestry.

He had been staring at it now for a good few hours, examining all it’s visible spots and making faces from the little pock-marks that were visible. He remembered when he was a child, before his brother was born when his father still loved him and he had taken the young Herbert out to the garden and told him the tale of the man who lived in the moon and ate cheese for breakfast, lunch and tea! Hobbi had laughed then, one of his few happy memories from his youth. He allowed these memories to flood back to him and his eyes never flickered from the moon.

He was trying not to think, that was it. If he thought about…what had happened, if he allowed it all to come back and haunt him once more then the tears would once more begin to roll and his heart would thud. It was the evening of the second day since he had looked back in sorrow at the Lucky Fortune Inn and he had not shed a tear in the rising of two moons.


This evening he had passed Rivendell, perhaps the only other place in all of the world that he had ever called home. He did not stop there, too many familiar faces who might talk him out of his action, who might delay him. It had taken much courage for him to pass that haven without stopping for the night and taking advantage of a warm bed, healing for his lame leg and advice on where to go next.

Tonight his bed was some moss beneath the trees some way off the road and his blanket was Matilda the pony who without instruction had planted herself firmly beside him and was doing her best to keep him warm. For his healing he had inexpertly changed the bandages on his leg which were a bloody mess and had bathed them using the Scribe’s herbs, his stomach clenched slightly when he remembered how harshly he had spoken to his old friend who had never been anything but the dearest of companions. He hoped she would understand, he judged she probably would but in a way that made it worse.

As for council, that perhaps was what he was in most sore need of. So far he had not encountered any trouble, the kidnapper had not been over careful in removing his tracks and so as unskilled as Hobbi was in woodcraft and tracking he had been able to follow the heavy horse prints east without a great deal of struggle, but soon the tracks would become harder to follow. It did make it slow going though, he ought to be going much faster than he was. He dreaded to think with what speed the rogue might be travelling and knew in his heart that there was no chance he would catch up with him and his wife. There was only one hope.

At first he had been panicking, thinking to catch them as soon as he could before his wife was murdered or worse. Then he had slowed down and thought more rationally, this was no random act. The man had planned carefully in order to spirit Lurea away and was obviously intending to travel to a specific spot. If he was planning murder then he could have killed her a thousand times by now. No, he wanted something from her and although Hobbi refused to think what that might be he knew that once at their intended location he would have at least a small amount of time to catch them there. That was his goal and he would not think past that. It was important not let his mind wander to the near future and even more important not to let is mind descend back to the past…where the arrogant grin of erinhue and smug perversity of the beast Culanir awaited him.

His eyes were finally drawn from the moon as black clouds covered it. His eyes shut and his nostrils twitched, a storm was coming. Exactly the weather he did not need for crossing the mountains in his condition.

“Oh Lurea, where are you?” he whispered.

A heavily burdoned figure staggered from the wreckage of the Lucky Fortune Inn. Erinhue carried an unconscious Culanir over his shoulder and bore him from the smoking ruin of the once lively tavern. The dead weight of his former advesary was dropped at Leoba's feet without cerimony. Barely clinging to his own senses, Erinhue trudged blindly towards Aerin, who ran to him as he collapsed at her feet.

There were no tears. Parm had given them all.
There was grief. Like a fist, it slammed into Parm, making his
spirit stagger. Years of memories destroyed in minutes!
How quickly tragedies come. How slowly we heal from them.
While the Inn was being engulfed in searing sorrows, Parm had
stood, leaning heavily on his precious staff, that someone had
found. When its flames had finally died down to a snickering
crackles, Parm swallowed hard, closed his eyes, and wearily sank to his seat.
Nothing had prepared him for...this. Agarak had sent a warning,
but not a hint as to what was to come to the Inn.
This was no mere building on fire. He had seen many other
kinds of fires before this. Some had been wreckage cleared for
grander schemes, others the target of pillaging and looting.
Not this one. No. This was profane.
The Inn had been a symbol, a symbol that had called: "Come,
and be welcome! Come, and well met, friend!"
Even as the embers sullenly smoldered, Parm's heart, too,
began to smolder. His eyes narrowed. His grip tightened.
Vengeance was a fool's errand. Parm wanted justice.
He would join any quest to right these wrongs foisted on friends
whom he had come to love, even as his own family. He would
help to find Lurea, a bride not only snatched away from her
beloved, but from all promises of love, joy and delight.
Parm rose again from his seat, excused himself from his
friends, and walked purposefully to a clear place. From within
the folds of his new cloak, he withdrew a silver whistle, that
special silver whistle. He blew it, but despite the silence, his
breath had pattern. He knew what was going to happen and
waited. Others watched him, puzzled, intrigued, but not
bemusement. Parm, the Bard, was not given to foolish things.
As Parm returned to the bench, where his travelling pack had
been laid, again by some thoughtful soul. He took out a
travelling set of quills, a stoppered vial of ink, and a sliver of
parchment. From the hem of his robe, he pulled off a single,
thread, long, but also strong. He knelt down, unfurled the
paper and wrote:
A. (for Aravel) Questing. (He would not be returning
for some time.)Safe.(He was well.) Protect.
(Look after his affairs and the children).Vigil.(Look for
more messages). P.(His own signature). Cryptic, yes, but
Aravel knew his mind and he knew his children. Aravel would
understand. The message, though, was for his children.
Minutes passed, and then, out of the swirl of clouds, a tiny
winged form appeared. Silvertongue. Parm knew it before it
had arrived. It cawed as it approached. With a raucous, jaunty
cry, it landed, hopping near Parm. To the astonishment of
many, Parm rolled the message around the leg of the crow,
tied it on with the thread. and spoke to it:
"Silvertongue, my friend. May Eru speed you well.
Now, off home! Fly straight and true."
With those words, Parm lifted the bird with his left forearm and
like a practiced falconer, released the bird to complete its
errand. Parm had determined to join these noble folk, whom
he knew had every intention of finding the fair Turelie_Lurea.
For the briefest instant, Parm felt compassion for the poor soul
upon whom would be visited the accomplished wrath of
seasoned warriors.

However, following closely on the heels of that decision, came
a sudden vision: a fair face, with her finger laid delicately on
her lips. Speak not of the things you have seen, it seemed
to warn. Parm shook this mental apparition away and strode
back to the bench, to await the decison of the others as to
their course and purpose.

"The words, they are like a riddle." He looked up at Rho. "In your language it would say, 'Embrace the past before you; reject the future behind you; see what is not there, and feel what will always be.' I do not know if these words will carry any special meaning for you." His voice trailed off slightly, and he looked back at Moujhadin.

Rho then looked over the other Easterling who laid upon the bed and noticed both the red headed healer sitting next to him, as well as the blonde haired woman standing at the foot of the bed. The calm shield maiden continued to watch as the events unfolded around her. Unaware of anything else that was happening either in the room or throughout the Inn. Just the silent communication happening between the blonde woman and the Easterling on the bed whom the healer now moved next too.

But when Moujhadin cried out in anguish, Rho felt as though she had been hit in the stomach...hard. She doubled over on the floor, catching herself and struggled. Breathe would not come, she was gasping for air, and Jiyadan was no longer at her side. Blackness started to come upon her, or perhaps it was darkness from another source. For several moments she found herself caught between two worlds, but this time there was a new voice leading her back to reality and she found new strength.

It was then that Rho heard the voice of the harp. It was both a warning and a calling. As her breath returned, she slowly she looked around the room. Jiyadan and Moujhadin were gone and she was unaware of the others who still remained. She picked herself up off the floor and was headed towards the door when she felt prompted to look back one last time. That’s when she saw it, lying innocently on the floor. A knife unlike any she’d ever seen before, it was the sparkle that caught her attention. Slowly she made her way back to where it was laying and picked it up. For a moment she pondered the simple beauty of it including the ivory carved handle. Yet a chill ran through her when she noticed the small streak of dried blood still clinging to the steel blade. Something in her then sensed, no knew, that it belonged to one of the Easterlings.

The call echoed again and Rho suddenly remembered her own weapon.

With the knife in hand, the shield maiden quickly made her way back to her room. Once inside she strapped on her sword, shoved her traveling clothes and the Easterling medicine into her pack, and then grabbed both the knife and the pack and made her way out the door. Had she paused just a little longer, she would have noticed that Fala’s belongings were no longer in the room.

Once she reached the back stairs, Rho hurried down, stopped at the bottom, and then looked around. Only a short distance away she saw the light from Inn illuminating the form of Jiyadan, moving slowly as he disappeared into the shadows.

Uncertain what to do next, she continued to looked around until she noticed the darkness that appeared to be surrounding the Inn and how it was beginning to come apart, almost ripped apart by some unseen force. Yet Rho still felt disconnected from what she was witnessing.

The call of the harp faded and was replaced by a new call. A memory from her vision...

‘See what is not there...’

Leaving the destruction behind, Rho turned and looked back towards the direction that she last saw Jiyadan. The Easterling had gone away from the Inn...she would follow.

It didn't take her long to make her way past a small group of trees which then open up into small grassy area. There before her, in the middle, were the two men. One lying on the ground and the other cradling him. She hesitated to go further, but then remembered the knife.

“Jiyadan” she softly called out as she continued walking towards him.

“Get away from me!” he yelled back and then began his verbal attack . An onslaught of words mostly Eastron came at her one right after the other. Quickly Rho backed up, retreating from this unexpected assault from the man who had so gently tended to her wounds only a short time ago.

But then she saw something in his eyes, the tears of pain and also confusion, the confusion of being torn between trust and doubt. And she understood.

Rho stopped and bowed her head down. Slowly she knelt down onto the ground and unstrapped the knife from the outside of her pack. Then after she placed it on the ground, the young woman quietly rose to her feet, and continued to backed away from the two men. All the while keeping her head down, averting her eyes from Jiyadan's gaze, until she heard a noise behind her. One that could only be made by another.

In an instant her pack was cast aside and her sword drawn as she protectively turned around to face whoever was now standing in front of her. Into the darkness she cried out.

“I would stop and come no further if I were you!”

"NO!" Jiyadan yelled at the blond woman, "I will take him. None of you touch him!"

He had only barely restrained himself as Moujhadin had pleaded, tears again coming to his eyes, but he would not let any of them touch him again. He also had felt the urgent need to leave this place and quickly gathered both his and Moujhadin's packs.

He then lifted Moujhadin, as if he were a child still wrapped in his blanket, and carefully carried him down the back stairs and out into the cool night. As he went, he absent-mindedly whispered words of comfort to him. Jiyadan carried him a ways from the inn and laid him upon the grass, wrapping the blankets tightly around his brother's body. He paid no attention to the others, not noticing whether they had come out with him or not.

Jiyadan cursed himself for allowing that blond witch anywhere near his brother, cursed himself for having trusted those people. If any of them tried to touch Moujhadin again, he would kill them.

"My brother," he whispered in Eastron, "Moujhadin, what happened? What did they do to you, what did that witch do to you?"

Jiyadan gently cradled Moujhadin's head in his lap, looking for a sign of recognition in his blank eyes.

* * * *

Jiyadan had not heard the sounds of Rho's approach until she softly called his name, but the night cast strange shadows and he was too filled with grief and anger to even focus on this intruder, to even recognize the voice.

"Get away from me!" he bellowed in anguish. Then a torrent of words propelled by grief, guilt and his ever growing rage followed in Eastron. He did not even listen to his own words.

Tears flowed down his face and he reached to draw his sword and run this creature off but her sudden retreat startled him out of his emotions and he focused at last on the young woman before him; Rho. He watched her with a kind of numbness as she took the dagger from her pack and laid it gently upon the ground. The Dagger of Heratt; he had forgotten it upon the floor.

He released the hilt of his sword and slumped back to the ground. He understood, she was only returning it, though she did not truly understand it's significance.

"Thank you," he whispered but she had not heard him. She had drawn her sword and turned to face some unknown intruder, and Jiyadan again tensed, this time following through and drawing his. "Are we to find no peace in any land?" he wondered to himself.

He was startled slightly by Rho as suddenly the injured girl from the room became a warrior, taking on a distinctly protective stance.
Her earlier words suddenly sunk in, Shield Maiden, Mithril Knight.

The explosion of the Lucky Fortune held enough force to roll the unconcious form of a black-haired elfmaid from the patch of grass she had lain upon, down a slight slope, and into the pond underneath the waterfall. With a splash and a splutter, Mellaurelom woke rather violently from the visions that had clouded her mind for so long. Pulling herself out of the water, she stumbled to one of the gaily decorated tables that, such a short time ago, had graced the wedding of one of her dear friends. Now, as she shivered from the wet, she looked around in disbelief. Tables were overturned, flowers trampled into the ground. There were guests and wedding party members scattered like the forgotten memories of an ancient mind.

Mell gasped as she looked up and saw the charred remains of the Inn. There were some rooms intact on the upper level, but she didn’t envy those that needed to still exit from them, the stairs were a ruin. The front of the Inn was all but gone, though the back wall of the common room was more or less intact, including the niche where Agarak rested. Mell shook her head, dispelling the image of a glow surrounding the Dragonharp. Surely that was her imagination, or a left over vision.

The bard shivered again, feeling a cold breeze wash over her at the sight of the injured and dazed people wandering about the formerly beautiful gardens. Beginning to shake, Mell realized that there was much more at stake here than she had previously known. Stumbling to her feet, she decided to find her Guildmaster, Erinhue would know what needed to be done. And then she needed to find a cloak or something, for despite the autumnal eve, the elfmaid’s breath was beginning to plume, as though she stood in a snow filled glade.

She looked from one face to the next, looking for Erinhue, but finding him not. She finally saw Aerin, standing and looking in disbelief at the Inn. Mell started to go to her, then stopped, as she recognized the look upon the beautiful woman’s face. A look of hopelessness, a look of utter desolation. Mell blinked back tears that formed in her eyes, but one managed to drip down her cheek, to freeze on her face. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the memories, and forced herself back to the present. Opening her eyes again, she saw Aerin rush forward, as Erinhue, charred but whole and struggling under a body, came out of the Inn. Mell fell to her knees, crying openly now, and Aerin embraced her beloved.

Mell felt the joy of her friends at their reuniting, and bit her lip to keep from interrupting them. She reached up to the table next to her and grabbed the tablecloth from it, to wrap about her shoulders, as frost began to coat the edges of her hair.

The destruction took them by surprise, despite Agarak's warning. Nessamelda and Alfirin sat at opposite ends of the bench, Alfirin drinking her coffee, nursing her hot drink, her headache and her grudges. Nessamelda sat thinking bitter thoughts of another drunkard who should have known better, who shold have been the pride of her father, not his worry and shame.

Alfirin stood first after the initial shockwave. The blast sent debris crashing down around them, and also seemed to blow away the remaining darkness and effects of alcohol from her mind. She walked carefully towards the common room, or rather what was left of it, and looked in. The corner where she had been lying, closest to the outer wall and the door was no longer there. She considered for a second whether having been left in her stupor, never to wake would have been a better outcome all round, and then rejected the thought.

She turned her back on the inn and looked over at her rescuers. Again she considered, turning over in her mind the best course of action.

Parm's crow flew off, a strange messenger, black wings quickly disappearing against the dark sky. Alfirin walked towards Master Parm as he stood leaning on his staff, Ness and Nin behind him.

"I owe you my thanks, and my life, Master Parm, and you too, ....Nessamelda " (she sifted through her sharp memory for the tall woman's name) "and your other friend here. I have not had a good day - my hopes have been raised and then dashed, and I did not handle it well. I fancy, from what I can remember that I owe all here an apology and I am not sure that it would be accepted."

She turned before the others could say anything. There on the ground before her was the Inn sign, burnt almost beyond recognition; only the gilded lettering around the edge remained faintly visible, ironically promising "fine food, good beer and friendly company".

"Perhaps it could be repainted" Alfirin said softly - she had undertaken this task before, and the gilded letters were in her bold hand. "It could be true again".

"Alfirin," Parm spoke gently, "let it be. It is wisest not to cling to
the jetsam of memories. We will begin again, if we need to,
and create a new place. If it is better, it will be because of what
we bring, and not the nails, boards and paint that cover places
where hospitality dwells.

"As for you, it was a great joy to bring you out and into safety.
Alfirin, I like you a great deal, because in moments like these,
I see a friend who cares, despite the despair that encrusts us.
Come, join me over here with Nienor_niniel. If I know Willum,
he has stashed a number of sturdy treats in my travelling
bag...ah! See? Four sweet rolls. One for each of us. Here, it
goes well with your coffee. Now is the time for friendships to be
nurtured, to counter-act the darkness that has hurt us all."

Parm's stretched out his arm, palm up, the roll inviting and
held with kindness. Erinhue, Aerin and the others were in good
hands. Parm knew that some of the wounds were not from
burns, bruises and battles. Some wounds needed different
kinds of healing. Nessa and Alfirin were hurting, but neither
seemed eager to accept the tonic needed...forgiveness.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion. All events occurring had a surreal dreamlike quality about them. Alandriel unwittingly was cast into the role of a by-stander, a spectator. It felt like being utterly removed from the scenes playing out in front of her, as if watching a stage play. Her eyes, though uncomprehending, took in all that was going on.
Moujhadin stayed her gently tracing hand with an iron grip, a flood of emotions washing over his disturbed face in quick successions, muttering what sounded like Eastron curses. The woman Bardwhyn, she had caught the name while the woman talked to Edain, approached while an almost tangible icy air blanketed the room. A chill Alandriel knew all too well from her occasional forays into other realms. The Dale woman completed tracing the symbols; she herself now seemingly moved by strange forces. Alandriel watched on, emotionless as if in a stupor, as the drama unfolded before her very eyes. She did not understand the language uttered, did not understand the actions that followed. The only thing that touched her was yet another shift in the energy patterns around her.
Some note that had been part of the background hum before began asserting a new role, pushing ever more to the foreground. It was even more chilling, darker than the already present coldness.

Her eyes moved over to Maelgwn and she saw a shadow of gloom and ill foreboding creeping over his features. He had sensed something too.
Acting on his deepest, finely honed instincts, Alandriel watched him wrap his arms around the elf, calling to her and Edain of the necessity to be away. Alandriel heard but the words did not reach her. She looked on as an unseen force threw Bardwhyn into Edain’s arms and when they recovered from the impact, Bardwhyn also called out an urgent warning. Yet it did not get through to her.

She watched Jiyadan race to Moujhadin’s side, his scream of anguish still echoing around the room. After gathering a few belongings, he scooped up the life-less seeming body into his arms, then carried him out of the room. Soon they were followed by Edain and Bardwhyn. A cry of warning echoed down the hall but not even that registered with Alandriel. She still sat as if rooted on the bed, turning her head here and there, seeing but not comprehending.

However, all the warning signs finally seemed to reach the Gondorian lady. She picked herself up and started to move towards the door. But then she hesitated, lost in her own thoughts for a moment and came back to pick up an object. A knife …..of almost indescribable splendour. The lady seemed to be taken in by its beauty too, turning it in her hand, admiring the exquisite weapon. Some faint memory stirred in Alandriel’s mind. A question slowly formed. Where had she seen this blade before? The question took on an ever more burning presence in her mind…. but no answer was forthcoming. Her emotions and a memory had connected with the blade and now her mind finally reeled back into action. That blade. Had it been in her vision when she traced Moujhadin’s scars? In vain she tried to reach that which was almost at her grasp but kept slipping. Then the Gondorian lady turned and left the room.

All of a sudden Alandriel realized she was the only person still left. What had happened? She felt still a bit dazed and definitely confused. With this realization however also came a deep and urgent feeling to flee this place, like everybody else had done. Alandriel shook her head to try and get rid off the emotions and energies that had held her as if in a nightmare. Finally she broke free and clear thinking once more returned. She jumped up and quickly gathered her medicine bag, tossing in the utensils used earlier in quick succession.

It was then that the floorboards began to shake, the walls began to glow. By Eru! Why had she waited so long? This place was being ceased by an immense force, light and dark all mixed up together. Was the world coming to an end?
As fast as she could, she ran for her room, urgency and dread now taking full hold of her. She ripped the key once more from her neck and gained entrance. Where were her things? Her travel pack lay by the window and she quickly took hold of it and strapped it on her back. Her dagger was in her boot… there was nothing else. By now shards of wood and glass were flying everywhere from the pressure on the windows, walls and floor and she had to shield her face and head with both hands as she ducked out of the room again. Pain raced though her, as her arms were bombarded and cut in many places. Smoke filled her already restricted vision and the intensity of the glowing walls was reaching levels that made seeing a virtual impossibility. She had to find a way out, panic was near.

***
The sound of a tremendous explosion brought her back to her senses. She felt a violent gust of wind taking hold of her, whirling her about and throwing her to the floor. Instinctively she curled up like a ball and let herself be tossed until she hit a wall. Bitts and pieces of timber and stone were flying everywhere. When the worst of the raging storm had subsided she looked up and was awed: a huge whole had been blasted through the roof! The glow was still there but it was fading fast. What by Eru had just happened? Faint cries could be heard ringing out. She had to get out. Painfully probing her way she eventually found the remains of the back staircase. The forces unleashed on this once cheerful and welcoming place had not stopped here either. The stairs were heavily damaged although still passable. Gingerly she made her way down over the rubble and eventually reached the ground.
A deep sigh escaped her parched and cracked lips but she could not help feeling elated at having escaped with her life. Never mind the many cuts, never mind the many bruises. They would mend quickly enough. What would not mend quickly though, were the burning questions in her mind. They needed answers. Alandriel straightened once more and set out to find the people she had met and become irrevocably entwined with on this fateful day. From the periphery of her vision only a short distance away she saw several people huddled together. It could be them. Quickly making up her mind, she started in their direction.

‘What did it all mean? How did everything fit into this puzzle?’ The questions started tormenting her once more, filling her mind. So much so that she did not notice her step falling on some dry twigs of wood that had fallen into the soft grass.

The ground shakes as if trying to rip itself asunder and ripples quiver on the surface of the lake where Arwen bathes. Glancing up she sees smoke rising above the trees, the unatural silence fills her ears. Quickly she pulls her clothes onto her still wet body and grabs her pack. Pulling out her bow and notching an arrow she runs swiftly toward the source of the smoke blackening the skies.

From a distance she can make out the remains of festivities, and the guest milling around the ruined Inn. Drawing closer, a miasma of despair washes over her and she grimaces, swallowing the bile rising in her throat. Bodies lie on the ground all around her, some get up, but some do not. She searches frantically for her Guild Master Erinhue, and finally her elf-eyes pick out his haggard face, his body lying on his lady's lap. Aerin's tears fall softly on Erinhue's face as she embraces him, their paths wiping clean lines through the soot covering his face. The man she'd seen Erinhue carry out of the wreckage lies unconcious next to the reunited couple; the blood and wounds covering all three of them snaps Arwen out of her shock.

Straightening a fallen table, she begins pulling things out of her pack; bandages and some healing ointment. Luckily she'd bought extra after her recent trip to the GreenWoods. Formerly white petals litter the floor, now burnt and blackened, and crushed into the darkening ground. She walks up to the Guild Master's wife and places a hand on the other's shoulder. "Hiril? Lady Aerin... please you must come away from here, I must tend to your and the others injuries first before plans can be made to sort all this out" Aerin, still in shock, manages to follow Arwen as she and and another bard half drag their Guild Master and Culanir away from the burning rubble. Seated at the trestle table, Arwen cleans the wounds with a wet cloth and rubs a mixture of camphor onto their wounds. Questions still remain in her eyes but for now, the hurts of the people would have to be tended.

Colour returns to Aerin's face and her eyes lose the glassy look of shock as she begins to take in the horror around her. "Can you tell me what happened here my lady?" Arwen asks gently, not really expecting a coherent answer but feeling the need to talk and rationalize the destruction. She'd recieved an invitation to the wedding of two fellow bards earlier that week. She knew she'd had little time to get to the Lucky Fortune Inn as the missive had arrived nusually late as she'd recently been visiting family in the GreenWood.

Wound after wound was tended to until the faces of her patients began to blur together. Mechanically, Arwen cleaned and applied medicine, using a little of her elven healing powers to hasten the process. But it was draining her already diminished store or energy as the trip had been long and arduous. She despaired that she hadn't been able to help her new friends in their time of need... and no one dared tell her, atleast not yet, that the bride was still missing.

"Telta had entered the stable her coins in hand ready to bargain for a horse. There was no one around. Her first instinct was to simply leave her coins and take one but she could not. Her time here at the inn and the promise to Erinhue not to steal anymore stopped her and frustrated her for if ever she needed something it was now.

Out of the corner of her eye she spotted something black...Shadowdancer. How could she have forgotten this wonderful gift. A gift from the first person to welcome her here at the inn. A gift from Vana that up until this moment she thought of as charity. Telta recalled the moment Vana had given him to her..." Shadowdancer is a gift Telta, may you always ride in safety and may he always bring you home to friends and family. He is swift and sure footed. Treat him well and he will take care of you." A silent thank you she gave for Vana’s thoughtfulness as she made her way to where Shadowdancer stood watching her.

She stroked his silken mane then buried her face in it tears coursing down her cheeks. She spoke to him her voice thick with emotion.

"I am in need of your help Shadowdancer. I cannot aid in the search for Turelie on foot." The tall black horse remained still listening to her. "Hobbituk needs help. He cannot do this alone."

Telta wiped the tears from her face. She was alone once more. A situation she was familiar with. There was no time for regrets as precious moments passed by taking the hobbit farther away. Whether he wanted it or not she was going after him to help. He had not been in any condition to be on his own and she should never have let him leave. The elf threw her bag over her shoulder and it rested lightly on her left hip. Then she mounted Shadowdancer and left the stable at a gallop heading in the direction Hobbituk had taken.

She looked back only once and that was to see a black cloud hovering above the Lucky Fortune and the inn itself was seemingly going up in smoke. The ground shook and she saw the inn collapse. Had everyone escaped? Her keen eyes picked out the cringing bodies as they tried to protect themselves from flying debris. A sound she could not identify came to her ears just before the black cloud dissipated. Telta could see no sign of Erinhue or this Culanir he had been fighting. The inn was in ruins and it had seemingly taken Erinhue with it. But even as she thought this the man came stumbling out of the ruins carrying his adversary. He was alive! And Aerin was making her way to him. He would be taken care of by his loving wife. Then her eyes caught sight of Beliran and it felt as if someone had tightened their hand around her heart. As hard as it was to leave there was nothing she could do. She turned away knowing that she was not needed there.

"Let’s go Shadowdancer." Telta did not look back again.

*******
Telta-Master Bard
Official Vana Honourary Adoptee
E.O.
AKA: Laraelia

Mellaurelom stared through the curtain of tears falling from her eyes, as a young elven woman reached out to Aerin, helping her move Hue farther away from the wreckage of the Inn. The young woman moved purposefully, beginning to tend the wounded. Mell realized, as the water from the falls began to freeze on her body, that she also needed a healer’s aid. Gathering her strength, wiping her eyes, she moved towards the young lady. “Your p-p-pardon, M-milady, Could you help-p-p me please.” Mell was finding it hard to speak clearly, her teeth were rattling so, “I n-need to get warm. S-s-something is f-f-freezing me. If-f-f you can help m-m-me find my harp, I c-c-can warm myself, and then h-h-help you.”

Arwen looked up at the shivering figure standing above her. She saw another elven woman, wrapped in what was clearly a tablecloth, shivering in the warm autumnal evening. “You look chilled! How did you,” she stopped when she realized the other woman was also soaked through, “Ah, never mind, you are soaked! Of course I can help you? Where is your harp?”

Mell shivered again, “It’s up-p-pstairs, the first room on the right f-f-from the front. I hope it’s all r-r-right. Please, help me to the Inn, I am-m-m feeling unst-t-table at the moment-t-t.” Arwen helped Mell across the grass, once flower petal strewn, now dusted with ashes. As they reached the front stairs, they realized that they could not climb them, they were too unstable. “Around the b-b-back, there are other stairs.” Mell managed to say, shivering harder. B-by the way, m-m-my name is Mell. I am als-s-so a bard. You I h-h-have never seen before. Welcome t-t-to the Guild.”

Arwen smiled, amused that even as this woman was chivering with unnatural cold, she still introduced herself to a stranger. “I am Arwen, newly come to these parts. Good Master Erinhue has accepted me not long ago into the ranks of the Bardic Guild.” They found the stairs, climbing slowly and carefully, the journey made more difficult by the frost that seemed to form when Mell placed a foot down. Finally they reached the top, stepping over pieces of the ceiling, chunks of wall, and belongings strewn across the floor. When they reached the front of the hallway, they realized that they could see out what had been a solid wall, to the grounds in front of the Inn. The door to the room where Mell had helped tend Anorast was gone, as well as half the room. But there was her harp, lying on the bed where she had let it, unharmed. Mell and Arwen looked at the harp in amazement, for the coverlet was ashes, the mattress underneath still smouldering. But the harp lay in a perfect circle of untouched linens, crusted with frost. Steam rose softly from the scrap of cloth under it. Mell reached out to the harp, her hand shaking. She touched the carved wood, inlaid with gems, and realized it was also cold, like herself. As she brought her harp and held it to herchest, she felt the cold leech out of it, and warmth began to spread through her limbs. She glanced at Arwen in astonishment, as she felt the warmth leak into her very bones, dispelling the chill even faster than it had set upon her.

The frost that had formed on Mell's skin started to melt and tiny icicles fell from her hair, turning to water before they hit the floor. Arwen felt tiny prickles in her left hand where Olnathron her Fire-ring rested on her middle finger. Narrowing her eyes, she peered at the harp, there was strange magick here.

But the mystery of Mell and her harp would have to wait for already the remaining structure of the Inn was falling in on itself. Silently the two made their way back the way they came, Mell's shivering body still holding on tightly to the harp.

Back outside, the Guild Master was finally gaining full conciousness and Aerin hovered over him in concern. Arwen and Mell smiled when Aerin glared at Erinhue and tried to make him lie back down, he, on the other hand was having none of that. Arwen sighed, some things never changed; she was glad Erinhue had finally come to, she didn't want to think what would have happened to Aerin if her husband had...

No use dwelling on what didn't happen! Supporting Mell, Arwen led them back to the improvised medical center and handed the soaking girl a towel. "Dry yourself off before you get..." but the words died in her mouth because heat was radiating from Mell in visible streams. People who'd sought medical attention were backing away in fear, the recent events were still too fresh in their minds. However, the heat was not painful and Arwen reassured everyone.

Aerin had taken over seeing to the casualties, and Arwen, reassured that Aerin was a much more proficient healer than herself, left to go look for the people who were still not accounted for. In silence Arwen and Mell continued searching all around the Inn. As they approached the waterfall she saw flowers and petals strewn around... all that remained of the wedding that had taken place here not so very long ago.

Heather rode on, occasionally making her steed go faster for Willum's amusement. As she expected, they arrived at about supper time. She roused the sleeping hobbit lad when the first lights of Hobiton came into view.
"Lead me Willum."
They got a few strange looks as they rode through the village. He stopped her outside his door. She dismounted then set him down, as his family came out to greet them. Looks of concern, joy and couriosity filled their faces.

There was a deathly silence after the Inn exploded, like there now existed a vacuum, and time itself hesitated. In awe of the magnitude of Evil unleashed, time seemed to hold its very breath.

Time restarted, and the debris began to fall, wood, masonry, returned to the earth, in fragments accompanied with staccato sounds. Edain did not doubt that he would ever forget this ‘forsaken beyond a doubt’ day. Later in that selfish, grateful, period that follows such cataclysmic events he acknowledged that he was alive and thanked Eru. Remembering his charge, he rolled over to find that the blonde healer Bardhwyn was also safe. There was space now to breathe, at least for a while. The events of those last few moments in the inn soon raced through his mind again. Over the next few days Edain relived those last moments periodically, each time considering whether he could have done things better. Edain remembered fragments that loomed in no particular order, and gathering them together, this is what had happened from his perspective.

Once Bardhwyn had healed Moujhadin with the help of her locket powders, Edain had hoped that would be the end of it all. There seemed then, a real chance of an interlude. However there was no interlude. He had leaned forward handing her his handkerchief. He could then sense the spilt whisky amidst the wedding pomanders, and along with the events of the day he had been sorely tempted to head back to the bar with lively banter, or seek solitude and rest. Something other made him stay, somehow he had seemed tied to that room. He now knew that Bardhwyn must have had a vision, seen on to a spiritual plane perhaps. Being a practical, earthy, man he did not completely follow that line of reasoning, but accepted it for now. At times in the past he had healed: gripping a gaping wound with his strong fingers and willing the individual to live. They always had it seemed. But he couldn’t at that time make a connection between his efforts and those of the Dale lady. He digressed momentarily from his story as the energy returned to his limbs while he lay still after escaping the blast. He returned to his narrative also and there seemed to be a gap in his memory then: he next remembered Bardhwyn swooning into his arms, and the urgency of the moment.

“We must get out” was all he could think of at that instant.

He was struck with an image from his past and he had to shrug the meaningless name Ellandar from his thoughts, if he was to continue with his personal retelling of the situation. For some reason it would not go away. Forcing the name into a corner, he moved to think on, but no! He remembered the name’s significance, Ellandar was the name of his dear uncle’s comrade in arms. A conundrum solved, Edain continued with his tale once more in his mind's eye:

Like fugitives the others had left. Alandriel alone had stood there transfixed, Edain had glanced at her incredulously, but could not recall if he had got her to move. The corridor to the stairs had been crammed with people in a haste to leave, so in the spur of the moment Edain chose another exit, when there appeared to be none. Here the survival instincts of the hunter or the animal caged, surfaced. With no further thought the man had grabbed his gear and thrown it mightily at the window, shattering the rest of the glass. The window frame splintered as he savagely kicked and tore out the lattice work that had supported it. Then he had torn the down-stuffed mattress from one of the beds and heaved it out of the window. He stooped and retrieved poor, faint, Bardhwyn, before slinging the other mattress after its fellow. All the other gear in the room followed the bedding, as Edain tried to judge the distance to the ground.

In vain he had attempted to wake Bardhwyn, but nought had come of it. Edain sought solace in the fact that in a semi-conscious state she would be relaxed and less prone to injury. Undulations of perilous energy made his hair stand on end and he had known that they should leave the inn so very quickly.

“Here goes nothin’.” he had remembered muttering.

The next thing he knew was that he staggering to his feet, legs jolted from the drop. With no time to recover and bearing Bardhwyn over his shoulder Edain moved as swiftly as he could from the fell site, away. A thankful stone had tripped him and so they had tumbled, gambolling, just as the tumult of evil did vent forth and its energy unleashed. Lying prone the blast did fly over them. For the duration of the ground-shaking roar, Edain had simply gripped the sweet earth (and Bardhwyn) for dear life, and waited for the moment to past.

Sensing the event had gone and the patina of evil that now lay around covering everything, Edain returned to the present. He stood up gingerly, a now battered, bruised, and bleeding ranger. His singed, ragged, cloak slipped from his shoulder, unpinned. Part of him was lost and somehow he doubted if he would find it again. He grunted and grimaced as his head pounded with an unseen pressure.

"Alfirin," Parm spoke gently, "let it be. It is wisest not to cling to
the jetsam of memories."

Alfirin looked at the ruins of the Inn before her and thought of the ruins of her life that lay behind her. Oh if it were only that easy! If it was as easy to walk away from her past as it was to walk away from these blackened walls.

For her life had been a long story of clinging to the past, of clinging to the might-have-beens. And they had led her only into deeper sadness and lonliness. Yet now what had she left to cling to but this flotsam and jetsom of memories - without them surely she would drown.

And letting go would not be that simple. Long ago she had sworn a bitter oath. It was an oath of revenge, sworn in a moment of rage, anger and sadness, by a girl who had seen her husband and babies die and her daughter taken. An oath sworn in the name of the One who had sung the first song, an oath on the name of Eru himself. As Feanor had found, such undertakings will bind whether or not thay could be fulfilled. It too was a vain oath, and yet its power drove her.

She shook her head sadly.

"I thank you for your kindness, Sir, although it is little deserved. You know too little of me to make such judgements. "

Alfirin turned to Ness: "I do not need your trust or approval, lady, or disapproval either, but I will say this to you. I am no habitual drunkard. A traveller alone through the wilds cannot afford to become drunk, unless she wants her purse cut, or her throat, or worse to happen. A madness seems to have taken all today, all with any hint of pride or darkness in their nature, and twisted and turned it. I would not normally have acted so. Although I am no gentle maiden and I do not suffer fools gladly, I usually have enough self-control to control my demons. You are fortunate, Nessamelda that you seem to have no chink that these dark temptations can enter - at least not yet."

She paused, and looked at the angry woman before her. "You are brooding over some wrong - do not follow my poor example. As Parm says, cut your ties with the past. Make a new start for yourself, or you will end up like me with nothng but the past, and no future. For me there is no hope. But perhaps I can make amends a little for past wrongs that I have done to others."

Ness shook her head in puzzlement. It was true that she had been brooding over her foster brother's behaviour that had ultimately led to her leaving home. But she would never let that dominate her life, surely.

Alfirin settled back down on the bench and ate the roll that Parm offered. Nessamelda watched her warily. The scribe was now talking reasonably and (for her) almost politely. Yet she still did not trust her.

‘Where is he? He was here, just now... no, please…not him, too…’

Still prone on the ground, Bardhwyn gripped at the soil, not registering the cool grass between her fingers. To her it was hard stone and above her, a cavern’s roof and around her swarmed the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain and the desperate refugees of Dale. The poison Easterling arrow she’d taken in front of the Gates of Erebor had sent her into sick and heated dreams… visions of Easterling men and women, of sand, sun and wicked winds. The thunderous roar had momentarily deafened her ears. She groped, afraid to open her eyes.

“The Gates! They’ve destroyed the Gates!” She cried out. “Bard! Bard! All is lost.. Bard!
She shrieked. A pair of strong arms collected her up and she blinked her eyes open, but still they were sightless. “The children!” She exclaimed, struggling to stand. “We must hide the children…they will kill them all..Bard!”

“There are no gates and no children, and no one named Bard here, Bardhwyn. It is over.” The man’s voice was calm, even. “You’re safe…the Inn was destroyed but you’re safe.”

It was not Bard’s voice but another man’s. Bardhwyn focused her eyes and saw the Ranger, Edain, a trickle of blood tracing down from a cut above his right eye. Gripping the man’s arms, Bardhwyn frantically looked about in shock and surprise. She was not in the caves of the Lonely Mountain, under siege by the Easterlings, her shoulder was not pierced by a poison arrow. This was not the battle of Dale and Erebor…it was many years hence.

She was on the front lawn of the Lucky Fortune Inn. The Dale woman collected herself, regulating her breathing as best she could and looked again upon the young Ranger.

“You…you’re bleeding..” She whispered. “By the Gods what happened?! Last I remember, I had just spoken to SilverScribe and you gave me a handkerchief.”

Her eyes fell upon the gutted remains of the Lucky Fortune Inn, where she’d spent many a happy hour. It was like a home to her.

“You mean, you don’t recall performing some rite on the Easterling, speaking again in another language? One I have never heard before.” Edain asked, a perplexed tone coloring his voice. "And the Inn, the tremendous wave of energy..?"

“No…no, I don’t.” Bardhwyn replied, trying to make out the shapes of people in the gloom. “You mean after SilverScribe left? No, I did nothing!” She then shook her head, aware that there was too long a blank in her awareness. She remembered dreams, but no waking memory. Bardhwyn suddenly fell silent and sinking sensation dragged her guts down into the earth. It was beginning, what Ani-la had warned her of so long ago. Bardhwyn was to set out on a journey over which she was to have no control and that journey had begun, it seemed.

“Are you all right, Bardhwyn?” Edain asked, seeing the strange cloud pass o'er her.

“Yes, yes Edain, I am. You’re hurt..”

“Are you?” He asked, his voice kindly.The Ranger steadied her as she stood.

“No, no I don’t think so but I can help you. There must be others..” Bardhwyn then stopped, seeing her things flung onto the ground some ways away and through the wreckage noting two mattresses. A vague memory returned to her.

“You saved my life, didn’t you?”

Aerin slowly stood up and turned to look at the Inn, shaking her head silently in disbelief. The Lucky Fortune had been her home, the only home she had, for so long now. It was where she had met many of her friends, became a Bard, danced with Erinhue. Now it was gone.

Her eyes searched frantically for Erinhue, willing him to appear alive and whole. The elf gasped in relief as he finally appeared, carrying his opponent, and rushed to him.

He let his burden drop gently to the ground as he fell into her arms, weakened by the fight and explosion, and nerves. Aerin held her husband tightly as they sank down. She didn't even try to assess his injuries at first; it was enough knowing he was alive.

Nessa, Alfirin, if you will excuse me. I have other friends I need
to see, and bring come measure of comfort.
Parm reached down to take up his travelling bag, noticing its
now heavier weight was a result of Willum's hoarding...or
planning. Parm smiled to himself at the thought. Then with
a more solemn face, turned to walk toward Aerin and
Erinhue.
He moved with silent grace to where his bard friends were
huddled. Kneeling down, he opened his pack, withdrew a
stoppered container, and offered the contents and the refreshing
liquid to them both.

I am so very glad to see you safe, but I know it will take more
than my humble offerings to make you well. Please take what
you find that appeals to you. If you have a purpose beyond this
day, then I will place my skills and my staff at your service,
M'lord and M'lady.

Parm rose with his pack, and proceeded to mingle among the
refugees scattered in different places away from the wreckage
of the Inn. To some, he needed no introduction, for others
a brief greeting, a gentle hand laid in tender comfort, a
whispered prayer and an offering of something from his pack.

It was during this time of wandering, that he met the lady his
eyes had seen only briefly, and for whom his heart had leapt
in happiness...Alandriel.

Stepping nearer to her, and reaching into the folds of his robe,
he found what he had carefully removed from the previously
ruined robe: a small pamphlet of paper, into which had been
pressed a single bloom.

You are, Alandriel, I believe. I have brought this for you, and
the greetings of my family. You have been often in our
conversations the day we saw you come to Imladris for a
time of solace. You dropped this as you were picking flowers
one day, and I saved it. My wife, Aravel, said it would be a tender
token to use to begin a friendship. It is offered to you in that
spirit. At this time of horrors, it is best to know who our friends
truly are and how deep their loyalties.

Parm placed his hand to his heart, bowed low, offering his
gift to the maid.

Heather was welcomed warmly when the tale had been told. It was odd for the healer to feel so at home, yet have to duck everywhere she went. The duo were first fed, then pressed for more stories before Willum was packed off to bed.
Heather was sitting cross-leged by the fire, lost in memories.
She was a child again, sitting by the fire at her addoptive father's feet as he worked with herbs or repaired her boots. He hummed as he worked, his stubbly face looking strange and creagy in the dancing firelight. The cottage on the plains of the Wilds was small and cozy; and it was home. Home; she had not seen that little cottage for nearly twenty years. She had only been back once since the old man she called "Pop" had passed away in his sleep. she nearly cried as she wondered how some place so diffrent and far away could make her feel as if she were back to the place she loved best. Heather looked into the fire, the light playing earilly in her green eyes.

Elana winced at each blow either combatant struck. Erinhue and a strange red-haired man struggled violently. Elana and Deore perched on chairs toward the rear of the crowd watching the fight.

Suddenly a quiet but intense music impinged on Elana’s consciousness. She closed her eyes to concentrate on the sound. Warning, it pulsed in her blood. Get out.

Elana hesitated, but the urgency of the warning only increased. All their things were tucked away upstairs, in the room where they’d been staying. Everything she owned, all her clothes, her money, her spindles and knitting needles, even, and her heart caught, the beautiful carved wooden flute she’d been given just a few weeks ago. But the urgency of the music would allow no delay – they had to get out of the inn, fast, before destruction raged. She swallowed hard. But her nomad’s life had taught her not to become too attached to things, which might have to be abandoned. Only her daughter’s life, and her own, were important. Mentally she consigned her possessions to the fire, and opened her eyes in preparation to dash for the door.

Turning to Deore, she found the chair next to her empty. She caught a glimpse of Deore slipping through the crowd, dodging past masses of people all crowding for the exit, headed for the stairs leading to the second floor.

“Deore!” she yelled, voice shrill with worry. But her daughter either didn’t hear or ignored her, continuing on her way. “Drat the girl,” Elana muttered, her fear seeking outlet in anger. She began to push her way through the crowd in pursuit.

Deore’s smaller body was quicker, and she didn’t hesitate to shove a bit to make a path for herself. She increased her lead over Elana. By the time Elana had made her way up the stairs and to their room, Deore had already opened their packs on the bed and was busy stuffing all their belonging inside.

“Leave it! We’ve got to get out!” Elana shouted, and tried to grab Deore’s arm and physically drag her from the room. But Deore was strong, and tore away, continuing to pack. She shoved the last few things into the packs, jerked them closed, and threw Elana’s at her. As Elana put up her hands reflexively to catch it, Deore darted towards her, and the girl’s hand snaked into the pocket of her mother's skirt. Coming out with a key, Deore turned to the small locked cabinet beside the bed. The walls were starting to glow with an eerie light, and Elana could feel the floor starting to tremble. “Stop!” Elana insisted, but Deore ignored her. The key twisted, the cabinet opened, and Deore drew forth a small but heavy purse and a delicately carved wooden flute. Then she flashed a smile at Elana, shouldered the other pack, and ran for the door.

Infuriated, Elana followed Deore into the hall and down the stairs. The inn was all but deserted now. Only the music chased them, now built to a peak of screaming urgency. The whole inn was shaking, and the glow of the walls grew brighter and hotter. As they fled across the common room, Elana caught a brief glimpse of a human figure, features lost in the glaring brilliant radiance consuming it.

Then Deore was out, and Elana followed. As her foot left the doorstep, a tremendous explosion rocked the inn, hurling the two women forward. Elana was knocked hard into Deore, and they both slid sprawling for many yards. They came to rest in heap, as quiet descended around them and the last few tattered clouds overhead blew away.

Elana struggled to catch her breath. She sat up, finding she was not seriously hurt, only covered with bruises and scratches. She felt her daughter stirring next to her. “Are you all right?” she queried anxiously.

“Mother?” Deore sounded frightened, and younger than her sixteen years. “I’m okay, I think. But my arm hurts.”

Elana helped Deore sit up, and her stomach turned to see the unnatural angle of Deore’s left forearm. She held her daughter tight, burying her head in Deore's hair, trying to master her emotion. Then she gathered her resolve, and said with forced calm, “We will have to have that looked at. I know there are several healers around; hopefully one of them will be taking care of the wounded. I don’t think you’re the only one.” And indeed the formerly festive crowd of guests was now a pitiful sight, fine clothes torn and dirtied, blood streaked on many faces, smoke and ash blackening hair and hands.

Elana tore a strip from the bottom of her forest green dress, and used it to fashion an impromptu sling to support Deore’s arm. Then supporting her daughter, she led her towards a table where it looked like those with more serious wounds were gathering.

Their packs, and the carved flute Deore had clutched protectively against her body with her right hand, while her left went out to break her fall, lay unharmed and forgotten behind them in the grass.

Some things... You cannot escape.

Lindonbayne’s clenched fist met the wall of the room as Slayer turned her back on her. She ground her teeth, her whole body tense. As was her mind.
Though perhaps he was right. She would never escape her mother’s fate. Try as she might, it was hopeless, for the man who had walked out of the room seconds before was the man she had feared and desired all her wandering life. She had fallen in love with the silver haired stranger.

Her breath slowed, her body relaxed a little, as her mossy eyes filled with tears. She suddenly felt trapped, helpless. She needed to get back to the spaciousness of the open road before she did something she would soon regret.
She took a deep breath and slung her pack back onto her shoulders, heading out of the room. As she reached the door, she turned to look inside once more. She spotted the intricately woven floral garland exactly where she had left it, the white of the blossom contrasting the dark bed sheets. She turned away, resting her head on the doorframe for a moment as her tears finally flooded down her pale cheeks.
Peering through her tear-filled eyes, she made her way down the staircase. As she gripped banister she felt a stinging pain in her hand. She looked down at it, having reached the bustle of the wedding reception. Blood dripped from her white fingers onto her clothes and the floor below. She was so numbed by Slayer’s actions that she had not realised just how hard she had hit the defenceless wall in her frustration.
She fished a few coins from her purse with her one good hand, tossing them as she neared the bar. The barkeep caught them, furrowed his brow then got back to work.
Lindonbayne sighed, trying to calm herself, keep the flood of tears at bay. Then she caught Slayer’s eye. She blinked and the tears came crashing down once more. She tore her eyes away from his and ran out of the inn to a nearby oak tree. She sprang up it with ease, perched on a branch out of sight, and sobbed silently into her cape.
When she finally prised her blood smeared face from her hands, she saw the smouldering remains of the Lucky Fortune. She did not know what had happened, nor did she care this minute. She cared about only one thing: finding Slayer alive and well.
A crowd had gathered outside. She scanned the guests one by one, she saw many wounded, she was no use to them at present. Her elven eyes searched desperately for her love, checking each face over and over, her heart plummeting yet further with each, panic rising with it. He was nowhere in sight.

The clouds of dust and stone that the explosion has sent in the air slowly fell down. Nienor- Niniels face was covered with dust, and the tears had drawn little trails of dirt on it. Unlike Parm, she could not hold back the tears and was crying openly. But those tears did not make her feel lost and weary like the ones earlier on this day. She rather felt as if they were washing her, letting the grief go with the dirt.

She felt completely lost, and tried to hold on to Nessamelda and Parm. But through the midst of her tears, she could not clearly distinguish who managed to escape from the ruins and who was outside sound safe – or at least alive and unhurt. At one moment, Parm offered them something to eat, and she took it mechanically. For once, she was not hungry, and sweetness did not bring her any comfort.

Slowly the distress ebbed and the fear took over. Parm, she asked, have you seen some of our fellow bards. Where is Matrim? and Scribbles ? Leoba? Where are they? When have you seen Matrim latest? She cut herself in the middle of the next question, remembering even in this very moment, that she should not inquire about the Easterling more than about anybody else. And of course, she cared for her friends too, even if, in case someone would have told her in this moment where she could find the Lord of the Band of the Red Hand, she would have rushed off immediately.

Parm looked at her with a strange expression, and as she began to move forward towards the smoking ruins, held her back on her forearm, a little to strongly, so that it almost hurt her. He ignored her protest and his eyes were dark and severe. Just not like himself.

A blink later, he said he had to look for friends and left them, and she had the weird feeling that he did not remember her questions and that he had not felt the strength of his hand, when he had hold her back.
She sighed and searched for Ness’s glance to see if the other woman had realized this odd behaviour or if it had been a flicker of her imagination. But Nessa and Alfirin seemed lost in their thoughts.

I’m going to look, if I can be of some help with the hurt, she said to Nessamelda. Although she had no particular healing skills, she had lived alone long enough to know how to take care of all basic injuries.

She wiped the dust out of her eyes and went to the smoking ruins, half wishing half dreading to find some known faces. Or at least one....

As Nin hopelessly searched the ruins of the Inn, she kept hearing one name repeated in the back of her mind, Matrim.

Had she not been so intent on finding him, she might have even noticed the voice was not her own.

It pulled at her mind, taunting her with images and sounds of him. Quietly, subtly, the voice called to her.

There had been nowhere to go other than out of the front door. Not a chance of choice or resistance as the crowded taproom emptied in swift dark confusion. Leoba, let loose by Aliana at last, was bowled along on its tide and out into the darkness of full-blown nightfall. There she could only watch dumb and helpless as Agarak wreaked its vengeance upon the evil that was gathered about that place. Could only hope for mercy as the frame of the inn was wreathed in brilliant light and dust and shards of glass and stone fragments and splintering wood hailed down upon the wretched onlookers, as though all the furies of the ancient days were to be unleashed upon this shattered party.

Faces and voices began to emerge through the settling dust. Leoba cast her eyes high and low but nowhere could she see those she was looking for. In frantic fear she racked her brains, trying to remember where she’d last seen people, desperate to ascertain what had become of those she cared for. Dirk; she knew he was out the back somewhere, she would have seen had he come back into the building, he had to be safe. Scribbles; she’d left, Leoba remembered that much, remembered the strange hurried leave-taking of her peredhel friend and the disconcerting feeling that had hit the pit of her stomach as the door swung to behind. But Bardhwyn; where was the Dalewoman? They’d not spoken since they’d parted at the door so many hours earlier, even before Lurea had been snatched. And Culanir. Her heart skipped a beat. She knew he was still in there. Knew that there was no way he would have got out. Nor would he have been helped; she had seen the thoughts painted vividly in the eyes of the onlookers.

“Erinhue!”, Aerin was running, her first thought for the man she loved.

Leoba swept her hair impatiently out of her eyes, inadvertently dislodging the dust that had gathered in its tresses. And gathering her skirts out of the way of her feet she started to hurry back towards the door. The taproom seemed to be still standing; someone or something was on her side she prayed. But she got no further before there, staggering towards them, was Erinhue. And it was Culanir he carried and deposited at Leoba’s feet.

Relief surged through her, her worries for the others momentarily forgotten as his eyes opened on hers. He was breathing and he was conscious. She did not argue as a stranger helped her carry him away from the rubble to where some of the people had thought to find lanterns but she cried out and grasped at the woman’s wrist when she tried to anoint her brother’s wounds from an unknown bottle.

“Don’t you touch him! Please,” she added the last almost as an afterthought. “I bid you tend to Erinhue instead.” Leoba moved between Culanir and the others, her green eyes narrowed and in the yellowed half-light taking on an unnervingly feline quality. The other woman backed off and knelt at the Bard’s side.

She feared what had brought on this cataclysmic effect but she knew she had to protect her brother first, before she searched for anyone or anything or thought beyond the immediate. Leoba looked down at Culanir and her heart wept. What was there here in this battered and bruised body that bore any resemblance to the knight in shining armour she had always adored. His beard was matted with blood, drying now to a russet hue. His eye socket was swelling up in violent objection to the blows with which it had fallen victim and already the whites of his eyes were bloodshot and sickly. His tunic was torn. His arm bent badly out of line and it too was swelling about the elbow. His throat was marred with thumbprints of purple and inky black.

Yet no woman wept for Culanir, as Aerin shed tears for her handsome knight. And there were precious few people here Leoba could trust to help him and she knew he needed the urgent assistance of a skilled pair of healing hands. And aside from Aerin she knew precious few healers; perhaps Bardhwyn or even Alandriel could help, wherever they were, if they were still hale. Leoba crouched down and reached for his hand, that too was bruising; was there no end to the pain he’d been drawn to.

“Culanir, can you hear me? I’m going to try and help.”

He whispered something, his parched tongue struggling to take command of the words. But it was too faint, Leoba could not hear it. She leaned closer still and this time the broken sentence was faintly audible.

“Find Rho…. left behind… please.”

“I don’t know where she is Culanir. Last I saw she was with you, hours ago.”

He shook his head.

“Upstairs.”

“She’s upstairs?”

This time he nodded in reply.

Leoba sat back on her heels, closed her eyes and forced herself to repress a sigh. She racked her brains but she had simply no idea how she would go about trying to find the young shield maiden, her compatriot. It was dark, there was precious little artificial light and the inauspicious chain of events had chased the moon away to hide deep behind a shadowy cloak of dark cloud. Not losing anyone, let alone finding them in this was well nigh impossible and she knew it. But she looked back at Culanir again and saw the desperate guilt and weariness etched in his face and knew she would do whatever he asked of her. But she wouldn’t leave him.

“Can you walk then?” Leoba was about to help her brother to his unsteady feet when she spotted Aliana hovering in the shadows, uncertain now what Leoba’s reaction to her would be. But the young woman of Ithilien knew nothing but relief at seeing a familiar face at last.

“Ali, would you help us, me? I need to find Rholarowyn but I can’t leave Culanir to go and search for her.” Leoba lowered her voice, to shield the recumbent knight from her fears. “I fear she might have been upstairs but maybe someone else has seen her?”

The Rohirric maid nodded and said she would do what she could. In turn, Leoba handed her their lamp, all they had to see by. And then they were left in the dark, alone.

Still clutching her brother’s hand, Leoba struggled to engage him in conversation, to keep his mind off his hurts and to keep him alert. And slowly whilst they waited, she began to piece together what had happened over the course of the afternoon and of some of the ever-encroaching darkness that had seeped into their world.

But the night was pressing hard around them and the damp was seeping up through the earth into the remnants of what had once been wedding finery. It smelled sweet, the ground, as though the pungent scent of dewy grass and age-old clay could cleanse the dust and the charcoal from their nostrils. Yet still no single star to bring them hope. In vain did Leoba scour the heavens for just one twinkling hint of the familiarity of Menelmacar’s bright belt. But he too was swathed in mist and midnight shadow. Instead, towering in ominous strength over them, even in its shattered state, loomed the skeleton of the Lucky Fortune Inn. And the sodden mists began to penetrate through to their very bones.

Many questions and puzzles filled her mind as Alandriel advanced slowly towards the group of huddled figures. All of a sudden she felt somebody approaching from the back and she turned to face…. With a startled surprise she realized it was the officiate she had seen during the ceremony. What did he want from her? Yet another puzzle. But his eyes were lit with a deep kindness and care and so her alarm quickly subsided. She listened attentively to his words and with each passing sentence her astonishment became greater. This man knew her, he claimed, from Imladris. He recalled an event of which she had no memory. Yes, of course, she had visited Elrond’s hall a few times…. it was all so long ago, in another age, in another life it seemed.
What he held out to her was a carefully pressed flower. Athelas, Kings foil, one of the master healing herbs. Slowly the memories seeped back but however hard she tried, she could not recall the man before her or the event of which he spoke. In a way this was hardly surprising, for she had been much pre-occupied during those times. Alandriel accepted this token of friendship with a gentle nod. For a moment she was lost for words.

‘I don’t know how to answer and thank you, kind Sir. You present me on this dark day with a gift from a past that I would rather not recall, but through it and through your kind words you have made a light shine where before only darkness was. Much, too much has passed today… and something tells me it is not entirely over yet. I must beg forgiveness for appearing rude. Believe me it is born out of urgency and great need. I must leave. I sincerely hope we will have an opportunity later. There is still much that I would talk to you about.’

Parm nodded and smiled his understanding and so Alandriel took her leave, striding out once more towards her destination.
What a day! His last words were still ringing in her ears: ‘…, it is best to know who our friends truly are and how deep their loyalties..’ Yes! This was exactly what she needed to find out. She was so taken with her ponderings as she walked, she did not notice her step falling on some dry twigs of wood that had fallen into the soft grass.

A voice rang out: “I would stop and come no further if I were you!” Alandriel stopped dead in her tracks.

She knew that voice, although the tone was much changed. The person before her was deadly serious, ready to defend with her life who ever she was shielding. A far cry from the hurt maiden being swept away by dreams and visions not so long ago. This was no ordinary lady, although, with her now tattered dress, she still held that outward appearance. The way she stood there, perfectly poised and balanced, the sword gleaming dangerously … No, this was a trained fighter and no mistake.

‘You do well to be alert’ Alandriel called out, raising her hands slowly up, palms facing outwards in a gesture of peace.
‘The people you are shielding will be much in need of protection after today’s events. I am sure they will be blamed, implicated, if not worse. But not by me.‘

The woman seemed unimpressed with these words, her sword still ready to strike. Alandriel could not see her features and therefore she concluded, it would be difficult for the Gondorian woman to see hers. Maybe if she stepped closer, she would get a chance of being recognized. And so, hands still outstretched, she slowly took a few more steps.

‘You might not recognize me, as your mind and body has suffered much on this dark day. Listen with your heart, I am friend, not foe.’

Then with a much louder voice, Alandriel called out to the people behind her: ‘Is that not you, Jiyadan and your compatriot? For sure you know my voice. Tell her to let me pass. If I am not mistaken, your friend still needs my help.’

And silently she added in her mind: ‘And I need answers …’

Try though she might in the years to come, Aliana would never be able to reconstruct in her memory the sequence of words and actions which had led her out of the Inn for the last time. There was that final moment: it seemed that the hot fury which consumed those two men grappling at the base of the stairs, and the tremors of heat consuming the walls and the taproom were one and the same. She released Leoba's arm from her tight grasp. And then there was a warning, a gathering of panicked voices, and deep rumbling sound as the air began to shimmer...

And the next thing Aliana remembered, she was standing on the grass some distance away, hands trembling slightly, a cold sweat on her brow.

She stood facing what had once been the Lucky Fortune Inn.

It seemed a hideous kind of joke, at first. The remains of the building stood gutted and blackened like a rotted grin. The walls upon which the flickering warmth of many a roaring fire had been reflected were now lost to ashes. Smoke wafted slowly heavenward in the night, a leisurely, mocking coda to the cacaphonous music of destruction. And now everything was so quiet. Some years ago, the young maiden thought she had finally come to accept the inherent brutality of the world- nothing more would ever shock her. At the sight of these smoldering ruins, however, something snapped inside of her, some piece of flesh or bone or memory that she hadn't known she even posessed in the first place.

She watched, her dark eyes dry and clear, as Erinhue emerged from the wreckage like a man who had clawed his way out of a fresh grave. She watched as the Master Bard dropped the red-haired knight at the feet of Leoba several feet away from Aliana, and then collapsed before his wife. It was like being totally submerged- the motions seemed slow and dreamlike, the sounds heavy and muffled.

Sensation returned to her sharply as she heard Leoba's voice, clear and urgent, saying her name. The short version of it, the way it was used in affection or informality. Aliana crossed the space between them and found her eyes drawn down to the earth, to the bloodied and broken form of the young woman's brother. Not long for this world, probably, Aliana thought to herself, looking back up at Leoba. She didn't know how to feel about that. None of the fierceness or frustration with which the Gondorian lady had bristled in their last exchange remained on her face. Now there was only relief, perhaps some fear, and a bravely maintained calm.

"...would you help us, me? I need to find Rholarowyn but I can’t leave Culanir to go and search for her.”

Rho. Aliana nodded and forced out some banal words about trying her best. Leoba put a lantern into her hand, and the girl started off, suddenly as anxious to find the shieldmaiden as the other woman seemed to be. Aliana had not spoken to Rho at all today, and in all the chaos and confusion she had briefly forgotten that her former mentor was even there. It had been a year since they had parted. What would she say?

Find her, first, she thought to herself, her own small light treading a path through the darkness. Words would come later. They always did.

‘Is that not you, Jiyadan and your compatriot? For sure you know my voice. Tell her to let me pass. If I am not mistaken, your friend still needs my help.’

Pushing past Rho roughly, but without hurting her, Jiyadan brought his sword down in a diagonal arc towards the woman who spoke. His eyes burned with a deadly fire as the healer blindly stumbled backwards in an attempt to escape his blade, astonished, for she had not expected this attack.

"I do not know you!" he shouted at her as he advanced. "Leave! If either of you witches try to touch him, come anywhere near him again, by the gods I'll kill you!" His voice became an eerie calm as he spoke his last words.

Jiyadan now stood towering over her, his blade just inches from her throat. His body seethed with rage, and the healer knew that it would not take much for his sword to find its mark.

Edain held Bardhwyn still, she looked as fragile as he now felt. Swept up with the intensity of the inn’s explosion, Edain’s perception appeared sharper, brighter and more immediate, his pains brushed aside for that brief moment. His eyes flicked searchingly over the Dale lady looking for signs of obvious injury, but other than her weight sinking into his hands he felt none. She seemed perhaps a little listless or preoccupied still, understandably so considering the deeds done on this day. He hoped that as a healer she had not overstretched her strength, that could prove perilous. Edain spoke to her softly lest he agitate her more. From her stilted speech she seemed to be reliving a dark past and he had no wish to cause her unwitting pain through probing questions. The detached corner of his mind compared her to the Rohirrim, but the hard fierceness he thought he had seen in her eyes was not the same as that of Rohan maidens. Was it knowledge tempering a like for direct action? He knew not. His own limbs began to tremble slightly. Why he knew not. The air was not cold, and the fear had gone.

She was speaking again: in that elongated speech of the North East, a cadence that Edain had rarely heard before. Having visited Mirkwood he thought that he would be able to follow it. The carriage of the words seemed so different, yet Dale lay only a few, good, leagues from that forest kingdom. How strange! Edain enquired after her health, his own healing instinct returning, but she deflected the phase back; seemingly equally concerned for the ranger. He could feel the sharp sting of his cuts now, and the dull throb of his bruises. For perhaps the first time in his life Edain felt definitely mortal. He managed a melancholy smile and responded.

With support from Edain Bardhwyn moved around, searching first one way and then another in a quest for her possessions. Unquestioningly Edain followed, trying to figure how he had covered the terrifying distance to the ground from the upper storey window. It did not bear thinking about! In a small way fear returned, but a positive one, one that kept you alive. Both of them were back on solid ground and that that was what mattered.
Feeling Bardhwyn pause, he focused on her.

“You saved my life, didn’t you?” Bardhwyn stated plainly.

“What?!” Edain said to gain time, as he recollected his thoughts,

“Yes I suppose I did.” he stated in a simple modest way.

Edain had acted completely without thought, and to be told that he had behaved heroically seemed to strike him like a thunderbolt, - his face open and his eyes widened.

“I just did it, Bardhwyn, anyone else would have done the same.” he continued before mumbling:

”Oh c’mon... Really.” as he pulled her close to hug her. After the truma of the day he was overcome with the need to hold somebody. Silently he gave thanks that they were both alive and well.

The nightly gloom finally registered with Edain, darkness dwelt on the lands. Lanten and torches flickered like Will o’ Wisps, as the shadows of other people came into view. Holding Bardhwyn close, Edain dared to look to the inky, black, implacable skies. He fancied that he saw a glimmering, a distant star, shining a hope on the accursed place, but he blinked. The star seemed gone.

Eyriel was one of the last people to exit the inn, pushing the few remaining patrons outside. It was then that the ground, the walls, and the very air itself began to tremble and groan as if suddenly put under a tremendous weight.
Pausing just outside the doorway, Eyriel turned and glanced back inside to see the spreading glow and waves of power moving around Erinhue. She stood transfixed and would have stayed to watch had the sudden warning in her mind not forced her to flee just before the explosion rocked the inn apart.

She threw herself behind an overturned table, and as debris flew by she knew it was the only thing protecting her from a variety of injuries. Though she was positioned fairly close to the inn, Eyriel knew there where others who would not be as protected as herself. As she sat crouched on her knees, she realized that her first visit to the Lucky Fortune Inn had become her last.

She waited for the dust to settle some before pulling herself to her feet. Half of the inn had been blown apart, and the part that remained standing didn’t look like it would remain so for very long. People were milling about all over the place, but the dark shadows of the night made it impossible to identify anyone in particular.

Eyriel stood in shock, surveying the scene and quite unsure of what to do. Any real movement seemed beyond her realm of thought or ability. Time seemed to have slowed to a near stop. She let out a huge sigh, and suddenly the tears began to flow. Her heart was filled with a sadness that was indescribable. Eyriel wasn’t even sure herself what could have caused such an ache in her heart, for though she had good friends here, she held no deep bonds with anyone in particular, and if she had, as far as she knew none of them had been cut. Perhaps, she decided, it was simply the corruption and destruction of something that had once been so pure, so full of joy and healing strength that made her very soul bleed. Such troubles, she thought, were supposed to have ended with the War of the Ring.

“Sweet Eru,” she whispered to herself. “Protect us…”

Surveying the scene once more, she noticed that a good-sized group of people had begun to gather around a cluttering of tables dimly illuminated by lanterns, seemingly a makeshift hospital for the more seriously injured. Hoping she might be of some help, though all her supplies were buried beyond immediate recovery in the wreckage, and also hoping for a task to stop up the tear in her heart, Eyriel made her way to the others.

No one took immediate notice of her, however, and once she was among the others the young healer realized that the number of people in need of aid was not nearly as large as she’d thought it to be at first. In fact, there did not seem to be anyone in need of her aid.

Then out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed Leoba, hovering over her brother and grasping his hand tightly. As the Gondorian woman spoke to Culanir, Eyriel could see her beginning to shiver in the cold brought on by the night and the evil that even now had not been wholly driven away.
Not wanting to intrude, but desperate for something to do, Eyriel approached Leoba and gently place a hand on the older woman’s arm.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked quietly, awkwardly.

It was instinct that had led her to draw her sword, on the unknown person behind her. But once she turned around and her warning headed, Rho listened to the words that the female voice spoke.

At first she was unmoved by the them, but when her tone became reassuring, the shield maiden knew the truth of what was said.

“You might not recognize me, as your mind and body have suffered much on this dark day…”

Rho’s thoughts focused on those words blocking out any others that followed. It was true. And whoever this woman was, she knew of what she spoke.

Finally, she considered dropping down her sword but then the female voice called out to Jiyadan behind her. And before the healer could finish her sentence, the Easterling had pushed his way past Rho.

As the scene unfolded before her eyes, Rho watched as the female form fell back onto the ground and Jiyadan was suddenly towering over her. The tip of his sword precariously close to her throat.

Consciously resheathing her sword, Rho yelled out.

“Jiyadan, no!”

Suddenly the last bit of fog, the remaining mist from the vision, left her mind. The hour was up, happening just as Moujhadin had foretold.

And in a moment she was at Jiyadan’s side, her hand firmly on his right arm. But instantly his free hand had grabbed hers.

“Don’t do this... Jiyadan...look at me…”

Jiyadan snapped his head around and stared hotly at Rho. He opened his mouth as if about to say something but stopped as her gaze met his eyes. Rho grabbed his arm more firmly. Trying to reach him, trying to break through his fierce protectiveness that was blinding him to everything else. Then she spoke again.

“She won’t hurt him. I won’t let her hurt him. I promise, I will help you to protect Moujhadin. Please you must lower your blade.”

He continued to look at her for what seemed like an eternity as the rage in his eyes began to evaporate and his face softened slightly. His grip on her wrist slowly became a gentle hold of her hand and, at last, he lowered his blade.

"Yes," he said quietly, almost in a whisper. "I will trust you." He continued to look into her eyes for a moment longer, then gently took her hand off his arm, giving it an almost imperceptible squeeze before he quickly turned away.

As Jiyadan walked away and quickly returned to Moujhadin's side, Rho let out an audible sigh of relief just before extending her hand out to the woman who was still laying on the ground.

Willum's folks were so grateful for Lady Heather's kindness
in taking care of Willum's return. Despite protestations of
second and third helpings of the evening meal, Lady Heather
knew she had to return to her friends at the Inn, completely
unaware of the destruction that awaited her. Gilda, Willum's
Granmum spoke up:

Well, if a meal is not to your liking at the moment, ma'am,
I hope that you will find some cozy nook at the inn nearby,
the Great Trout. The proprietor is the cousin of Meriadoc
Brandybuck, Marroc, and always has a bed ready for a elf, man,
dwarf and hobbit alike. The night is cold. You had best get
a good rest, some bone-drying warmth and some filling
food.

Just tell Master Marroc, that Gilda Bracegirdle sends you
on with her compliments. Yes, dear, the bread and cheese
are your payment. He'll understand, don't worry. Now. Off
you go,dear.

Cloaks, gloves, a dry cape and some "extras" in a pack were
sent along with Lady Heather, who thanked the Bracegirdles
profusely. As was expected, she found the Great Trout very
much to her liking. Marroc received her "gift" warmly and found
her a very cozy room near the great hearth. The heat of the fire
had filled her room quite nicely. Lady Heather was glad of a
warm bath, a change of clothes, a soft bed and a fine meal.
Marroc was an excellent host, setting out a table that rivalled
the larger inns renowned beyond the Shire. She settled down
to rest and the sweet oblivion of gentle dreams.

Parm was delighted beyond words to have finally met and
given his token to the great lady, Alandriel. He well understood
her urgency, but wondered if their paths would indeed cross.

His thoughts returned to Nienor_Niniel, Nessa and Alfirin.
He knew dear Nin needed to find other friends. Nessa and
Alfirin together, without some sort of mediator, would make
things increasingly tense. Parm sensed he needed to return
to his former group soon. As he turned from his meeting
with Alandriel, he stepped out into the courtyard, still shaking
his head at the unbelievable disarray that cried out to him.
Aerin and Erinhue, Leoba and other notable bards were doing
what they could to help each other and those nearby. Someday,
Parm vowed, I shall be of use. For now, he knew that his
usefulness in small things would give him practice for far
weightier responsibilities later.

He finally found his three friends. It never ceased to amaze
Parm how much adversity seemed to bring people together in
ways that diplomacy could not. He stepped over to Alfirin, gently
placing his hand on her shoulder, smiling into her face.

How have you been M'lady? Are you able to walk?
Shall we find some shelter and warmth near our other friends?

Nienor-Niniel walked towards the ruins, which were still smoking, as if drawn by a magnet. She was so afraid for her friends that she did not think at all. Her mind was blank, filled only with one name, like an obsession, as if someone whispered it in her ear. Where was Matrim?

But however long she wandered through the destroyed inn, how many chairs she lifted and how many tables she turned around, there was no sign of life left in the inn. Carefully she walked up to the few rooms that the explosion had spared. The staircase was cracking under her feet, threatening to break down under each of her steps. Luckily, she was light. All the rooms showed signs of panicked people leaving in haste and hurry. Most of them had left clothes; some bags were left in disorder, open, torn. One of the dresses she recognized as the one of a bridesmaid. She wondered whose it had been. It was a vision of desolation and destruction, a vision of a peaceful Middle-Earth where all races and people could meet and become friends that was gone, broken into pieces.

Nevertheless, all was empty and silent. Nobody was now in the ruins. Agarak’s warning had reached the guests in time.

NN walked back out, feeling the stones of the staircase break under her feet, making an aching sound. Some dust fell down in the moments she put her feet on them. She hurried. Her anguish was as vivid as it had been when she had entered. Not one of the objects she had found allowed her to find a trace of any of her friends.

When she found herself in front of the destroyed building, she took one of the stones lying on the ground. It was covered with black traces of the fire. But there still could be see a slight sign of the Y that had been graved on it – lucky, it must have been. She decided to keep it, a souvenir that should remind her of the place and what it had been in the hours of luck.

Outside, voices, screams and tears could be heard. NN was looking for Nessamelda or Parm or any friendly face, someone she might ask for news. Then she heard two voices speaking, one clearly in pain. A rough voice, though female, harsher than most she knew. The answers had a slight Rohirrim accent, one she would know among all others. Following their voices, she went towards them, finding Elana and Deore.

She remembered the woman, who had talked to her at the very beginning of the wedding party. They had talked about flute lessons. And now that she saw her face again, another moment came back: Elana had taken her to the inn and handed her that little sweet to comfort her in this moment of distress. Although she had given it to Willum later, she was nonetheless grateful for this gesture of delicacy and friendship.

Elana, Deore, she said, I’m glad to see that you are safe.

Deore’s arm is hurt answered Elana and her voice was tired. Let me see said NN, taking carefully the torn limb in her cold fingers. Deore was sighing slightly, and NN was sure that someone with a less steady character would have cried some heavy tears of pain. But Deore did not. NN had met the half-orc girl for the first time in the Lucky Fortune Inn, one of the very few times she had come to the inn. Her first reaction then had been revulsion and disgust. Now she took the girl in her arms and hugged her firmly.

I had been looking for Ma – she interrupted herself – for my friends, and I have found them. There were several healers invited to the wedding. Do you want me to look for one? Deore nodded.

NN turned to Elana: I have not forgotten the help you have given me. I’ll try to be back quickly, if not with a healer, than at least knowing where we should take Deore.
It was easier now to think of something else than the urge to know what had happened to Matrim, now that she had a task, however small it was in midst of the disaster.

THE FIVE ELVES STORYLINE

Resting where he'd fallen as the Lucky Fortune was destroyed, Anorast took stock of his situation. Already he could sense that his wounds were healing, with both his natural stamina and the healing power he'd received cleansing the wounds and closing the flesh. The broken bones he knew would take a few days, but none were critical enough to keep him from walking, though he decided he'd be asleep as much as possible.

Staring down at himself, he realized that all he'd come out of the inn with was his cloak, still his only clothing. Muttering a curse, Anorast lay back and slipped into a trance. Knowing that he needed every bit of power he could get, Anorast began to draw energy from around him. A few people stood by, and he quickly sent a suggestion to their minds, and not knowing they were forced to, they moved away. Anorast was always carefull to keep the risk to lesser beings as low as possible. Fortunately the only danger here was accidentally pulling power from bystanders.

Letting the gathering of energy be monitered in the back of his mind, Anorast sent his consciousness out, searching. He knew that in the ruins of the Lucky Fortune Inn were his formal clothes, though likely to be slightly ripped and burned now. Along with them would be his weapons, and those he knew would be in fine form. Not for nothing had he received the finest work, and the spells that protected his gear were the best.

Floating above the ruined structure, Anorast saw the bright presences of several people poking around the remains. Moving towards the back, where the room he'd been first tended in had been, Anorast looked for the power of his sword. After a moment, like a hound, he caught the scent of a vanished wind, the smell of Eregion. Knowing that he was close, he dove into the rubble, and soon felt his blade close at hand. Quickly, he found the pile of debris where his clothes and weapons had fallen.

With his spirit's hands, he took hold of the essence of his belongings. Holding that bond, he let his spirit return to his body. As Anorast returned, he felt the power he'd collected waiting, a bulging presence in his mind. Coming out of the trance, he sat up. Holding his hands out, he muttered a few faint phrases. The energy he'd collected burst out like a river freed from a dam. No one noticed the small puff of dust as a section of rubble collapsed. Looking down, Anorast smiled as he again felt the comforting weight of his weapons and clothing. Sending out a quiet request, he waited.

Only moments later, the great grey stallion he'd befriended came to him. Standing to greet the horse, Anorast was glad he'd left most of his stuff with him, and taken only his formal garb and weapons to the wedding. Pulling his regular outfit out of the saddle bag where he'd stashed it, Anorast noticed that he'd need to get more provisions soon. Putting away his ruined formal garb, Anorast then slipped into his clothes and slung his weapons around him again. Except for his healing wounds, he now felt completely ready to face whatever could come his way.

Slowly, and still painfully, Anorast led his horse away from the ruins. Seeing that no one had yet established a place of gathering, he moved over towards a wide tree. It seemed an ideal camp site for the evening. Yet as he moved, his keen ears began to pick up the general strand of the many conversations around him. Though there was much talk of the Inn and it's destruction, there was also much talk of a search. Pausing, Anorast listened in. After a moment, he heard that it was the bride who'd been kidnapped. Shocked, Anorast moved forwards again. Clearly much had happened while he'd lain injured in the rooms above the inn. And just as clearly, there would be much happening soon. Anorast decided he'd better get a good nights sleep, for he sensed that he would not get another undisturbed rest for quite some time.

Music, restful, soothing melodies played at the fringes of his mind as Erinhue lay in Aerin’s arms. He was not aware of her but she was a sweet strain in the music that had always been there

Music. Erinhue lay in Aerin’s arms and listened to the soothing melodies playing at the fringes of his mind. Aerin wept over him but he was unaware of her, except as a sweet strain in the ongoing, ever present composition that played as subconsdious background to his life. Some times the music spoke to him, now it simply played and he was content to listen.

Erinhue only realized that he stood in total darkness when a small light drew near to him hovered a moment and then moved away. Parm Erinhue thought and Agarak answered Yes, he seeks to heal you, what you see is the light that he himself has just discovered. He does not have the power of the Champion but he will grow to have a great Light of his own.”

“You’ve said that before, Old Worm,? Who is this Champion?”

“He is here” Agarak replied and then spoke to the bard no more.


The great spirit that inhabited the dragonharp realized that the brood of little lights ignited in the destruction were all flickering and fluttering and dangerously near to being extinguished. The darkness that had been chased from the sky now sought refuge in their souls.

This was only to be expected, the spirit thought, The power of the Lucky Fortune had drawn them all together and now they would need to be protected and strengthened so that the Light, their Light could be nurtured in each one of them and given a chance to grow.

The darkness knew this also and would try to stop it just as it would try to confuse and confound them and lure them from the destiny laid out for them for only they contained the force that would ultimately defeat it.

Great evil was lurking at the edges of the world, laying in wait, using what influence it could exert to assist the forces that would grant it greater access to the world. Those gathered here and all those departed that had been called to this place would now be challenged to the fullest by this evil and those who served it, for they possessed and shared the power to destroy it.

The music of the dragonharp once again sang out into the night. Its song was full of healing for the spirit and the mind. Some would walk in vision while they slumbered and some would now find strength to overcome the darkness that strove within them while still others would rest as never in their lives and all would strengthen in the Light.

Darkness shrank back from the sound and starlight fell upon the ruins and the people scattered all about. Soon everyone had found some comfort and settled to sleep or if not sleep then quiet repose, some to dream, some to heal, all to rest and grow. And as they slept the stars shot through the sky in sparkling showers and the moon’s face appeared to weep and the morning dew was like its silver tears, shed for the Lucky Fortune and what was and what would be no more.

With a sigh, Heather settled into the bed and slept peacefully, untill little tendrils of fog filled her mind, bringing with them a vision; a vision of the bards and other wedding guests, some injured, all dirty, milling about, crying recovering.
"From what?" she thought.
She saw the golden dragon harp. He smiled at her, eyes glinting earilly.
"No!"
She awoke violently as somethng in the vision exploded.
Trembling, she poured and drank a glass of water before she finally managed to go back to sleep.
She left with the rising of the sun, with many heartfelt thank yous to her host.
Once out of Hobbiton, Her steed willingly kicked up his heels. They made better time without the young hobbit, though less pleasent. She reached the inn; or what had been the inn a little after two the same afternoon.
The Elvish horse skidded to a halt, kicking up a cloud of dust as Heather lept from his back and stood, frozen with shock at the remains of the Lucky Fortune Inn. Her breath came in ragged gasps as the scanned the faces, looking for Parm, N_N, Ness or any leader which she could speak with. She finnally spotted Parm and ran up to him.
"Parm! Are you alright? Please tell me what happened and is everyone alright?!"

Moujhadin opened his eyes to see the blackened vault of night wheeling above. The stars were attempting to prick their light through trailing wisps of cloud. In and out they weaved, little lights they seemed to him, little lights all fighting for life, for growth - some brighter than others. He felt the tight binding of blankets around him, the hard ground underneath him.

He was no longer in the desert, no longer by his mother’s side, walking, ever walking, listening to her soothing voice explaining why she did what she did so long ago. Her face darkened as memories of his life returned to him, however: He was Moujhadin, El Zikher and man of the Prince of Near Harad, Easterling in exile, Haradrim by choice.

‘No, you are more than that now.’ A still voice replied from within.

He grimaced.

“No..” he whispered… “I am not that…”

“…I promise, I will help you to protect Moujhadin...” he heard a woman’s voice declare.

“What?! Protect me?!” He stammered barely audible. The thought shook him. He was sent to protect Jiyadan!

“No…no!” He said aloud, “I do not need protection! It is Jiyadan.. I am to protect Jiyadan!” Moujhadin protested, struggling against his blankets. The scene about him became clearer in his vision…the night had fallen and the Inn was destroyed. He pulled the blanket free and suddenly saw the bare flesh of his shoulder, his caramel skin showing no sign of a wound.. only the small scar where the Elven Ranger’s blade pierced him. Beside him lay the Dagger of Heratt, it's jewelled hilt picking up the light of the far torches.

In his mind, a sudden flash: two pillars of sand rose up from the desert floor, one white, one gold… Beauty…such pure Beauty. A woman, straw haired, walked away…Eastwards. He felt a wave of gratitude, wanted to beckon to her...

“Moujhadin! You're awake!” Jiyadan’s voice exclaimed, breaking the vision. Two hands grabbed his arms and Moujhadin looked into the face of his friend and mentor, startled.

“My brother, what happened? Who attacked? It must have been a company of 100 men…” Moujhadin asked, struggling against the blankets in an attempt to stand. “Are you hurt. I was sent to protect you! The woman, what of the woman?”

“No, I am not hurt, Moujhadin and the woman lives. The Inn was destroyed by some power beyond reckoning… it was as if the Demons of the Four Winds found themselves trapped in its walls and broke free. Have you the strength to stand? I fear what the Westron witches did to you.”

“What?” Moujhadin said, looking long into Jiyadan’s face. “What witches?” He asked, settling back onto the ground.

“The blonde Westron woman, the witch who healed you and the red haired witch, together they placed you in some sort of trance,” Jiyadan said, whispering, “Causing you great pain. I didn’t understand until it was too late… are you in pain now, brother? Tell me and I will see that they pay…”

“Jiyadan, I have no memory of what you speak. I collapsed carrying the Gondorian woman. Then, I had only visions…” Moujhadin replied, his voice trailing off.

“Visions?” Jiyadan asked.

“Yes, many visions…and memories, old memories returning. My mother, I saw and spoke with my mother.”

Jiyadan settled down, sitting on his knees, listening to his protégé of old, looking closely for some spell at work. “So, you don’t remember the Westron woman healing you, and you swatting her away.”

“No, I was in the desert.”

“You were moved to a bed and there the red haired woman, she initiated some ritual, the blonde woman finished it. Moujhadin, she spoke using the tongue of Zahor, performed some rite and you cried out..”

“STOP! Say no more..” Moujhadin begged, burying his hands in his face. The dream memories returned, the Shaman’s long ritual performed on him as a child, the re-awakening rite…the coursing energy that welled up in him. To all these memories he recoiled in terror.”

“You are vexed! They have placed some spell on you!” Jiyadan exclaimed, jumping to his feet.
Moujhadin reached out, grabbing the man by the hand, holding him else the Easterling would have lurched off, into the darkness.

“NO! No…” Moujhadin cried, tears streaming down his face. “No…they’ve done nothing, Jiyadan. It began long ago and I must fight it… I must. Zahor! Zahor...my mother was from Zahor. They were wrong, I am not what they think…"

‘Sleep.’

In his mind’s eye he saw something, a great worm. There was music…a voice echoed out again…

‘Sleep.’

Jiyadan felt Moujhadin’s grip weaken and the hand that held him fast dropped to the ground. He watched as Moujhadin slumped forward, unconscious… asleep.

Tale of the Warriors of Light

Parm was visibly relieved to see Lady Heather again.

"Parm! Are you alright? Please tell me what happened and is everyone alright?!"

My dear lady, this is Agarak's doing. You may have heard is
music in the corners of your mind. Music of urgent warning.
The Inn and its surroundings, the guests and even the hosts
of the Inn themselves, all have been touched by a great evil.
Tell, me m'lady, how many weddings have you been to that
have been as ill-fated as this? From the first disturbance of
Tinu to the final blow made against Lord Erinhue, all have been
orchestrated by a malevolent power, far-reaching and potent,
yet not so powerful as to actually have its full desires. We,
as you can see, have survived the purging fires of Agarak.
Erinhue's companion knows us all well, knows friends and
foes alike. Look deep within yourself Lady Heather. If there are
any traces of evil, any indifferent decisions to choose inactivity
rather than virture, these will be used against you and against
us. Confront them, confess them and be at peace with Eru.

As for me...as for me...

It was then that Parm's voice trailed off and he noticed
Nienor_Niniel's sharp look, not unfriendly, but wary, as if, as if
she knew something more than Parm was able to understand
or want to.

********
Aravel felt her son, Arahn's hand on her shoulder.
"Mother. Are you... all right?"
Aravel sighed deeply, opened her eyes, and gazed at her
son with the profoundest sense of comprehension. "Arahn,
I am...fine. And your father...., well, he is being called to a task
elsewhere. He has not deserted us, but he has been given
a responsibility that will take him from us for a time. Oh, Arahn,
your face looks as if you ate a sour nut. Your father will be fine,
in fact, I think he will return to us even better than when he left.
He may have a few more wrinkles, cuts and scrapes, but he
will be quite well. I have that assurance.

"Now, find your sisters, find your tutors and see what help you
can give to the kitchens! We all have to eat...and a mealtime
is fast approaching." Aravel smiled and almost laughed as
she spoke. Fast on the heels of her smile, came a dark look...

"Arahn...do not worry. Above all else, do not worry. It will help
no one and may actually do more harm than you know. Now,
there, see? Thingalin is standing at the door...and he looks
eager to see you. Off with you, my little starling, and find some
mischief to make your laughter sing."

“NO! No...” Moujhadin cried, tears streaming down his face. “No... they’ve done nothing, Jiyadan. It began long ago and I must fight it.. I must. Zahor! Zahor...my mother was from Zahor. They were wrong, I am not what they think.."

Moujhadin's mother? Jiyadan had heard him cry out to her in the room, but knew so little about her.
"Your mother?" he pressed in Eastron, but Moujhadin's grip weakened, then his hand fell way all together.

Holding the now unconscious form of Moujhadin, Jiyadan gripped him to his chest.

"Forgive me, brother," he whispered. "I did not mean to cause you pain."

Jiyadan gently eased him back to the ground, again pulling the meagre blankets tightly around him. He brushed the tears from his brother's face and smoothed back his hair.

"Be at peace, my brother," he whispered. "Sleep."

He brushed another whisp of hair back from Moujhadin's face, then unconsciously let his hand move to where the scars on Moujhadin's body lay. Quickly recoiling, almost as if having been pained, he looked again at his face. "What did they do to you," he thought again to himself. Then taking Moujhadin's hand, he held it tightly between his own two.

Part of him was glad that Moujhadin slept, anything that would bring peace to him if only for a while. Part of him wanted to lay down and go to sleep also, but he knew he could not do that, not yet. But he was so tired, so tired of pain, of running. He, too, wept. He bent over and brought his hands, still holding Moujhadin's, to this forehead, making earnest prayers with silent lips to whatever powers could protect them.

Heather was releaved to know that eveyone got out of the inn, but as Parm's words sank in... her insecurrity about comming; the reawoken memories and feelings of guilt from her past; her lonelyness from a broken heart. This was probably her greatest weakness, for she knew that it had affected her before. She drew a ragged breath. "I deal with things better when I'm busy-is there something I can help with?"

Tale of the Warriors of Light

Parm looked uncharacteristically uncomfortable hearing Lady
Heather's request. Nienor_Niniel's prolonged gaze, and
a similiar look from Nessa, made him wonder if something
about him was not right. He took a very deep breath, sighing
with a weariness of heart he had not felt for some time.

My dear Lady Heather, while it would be very flattering for others
to think I am some sort of leader here, truth to tell I am not.
Look over there. Do you you see our Guild Master, Erinhue
and his beloved Aerin? *They* are the leaders and it is from
them that I am waiting to hear what our next course of action
shall be.

I saw in your face how relieved you were that all, yes, everyone
is relatively safe, but you have every reason to have that shadow
in your eyes, either from insecurity or apprehension, I am
not sure which. I also see that loneliness and many sorrows
have visited your heart, a once broken one, I believe. However
weak you may feel from those troubles, my own teachers have
taught me that they can be our very strengths, teaching us
how to take future steps with more prudence, guiding us to
be sensitive to the inner injuries of others, which are no less
deadly than a sword thrust or poisoned potion. In fact, my
dear Lady, I fear that something is amiss within me. I fear that
I may have a quest ahead of me, first to find what foe it is that
has planted the seeds of inner turmoil and to understand, at
last, who and what I am. No longer will I be satisfied with
smiles and diplomatic smoke and mirrors to detract me from
seeking the truth.
My encounter with that...being...has made me realize how
vulnerable I am. I am also coming to appreciate the hidden
treasures that are in Lady Alfirin and the maid, Nessa, who
helped me when I feared for my life.
Lady Heather, if your skills and passions are needed elsewhere
I fully understand. However, if Lord Erinhue bids me to take
on different tasks, I would be honored to have you join me. You
have much to teach me, I believe.

Heather smiled a little and blushed at Parm's words.
"I know that Eru has put me here for a cause, so if I am to be with you, it will be an honor face the future with a friend like you; if you will consider me a friend. I will go speak with Lord Hue, but will be back soon." She leaned close and whispered. "be strong and cling to what you know to be true, no matter what."
The healer turned and began her search for Erinhue and his beloved.

*Aranel walks nearby to the scene,she hears voices and curiousity forces her to take a look*
Hello?

Tale of the Warriors of Light

Parm, startled by a stranger's intrusion, turned and looked sharply at the person
near him.
I trust you have a very good reason for being here, venturing where there is sorrow,
pain and distress. The people gathered here have come by invitation and have suffered greatly from guests who have come uninvited. Were this a festive occasion,
no doubt some place could be found for you, but since curiosity has brought you
here, perhaps discretion would lead your feet to the inns beyond. There, I am sure,
would be a warm welcome, delicious food and much entertainment. If you had come
with a friend of our kindred, no doubt you would be welcome, but the uninvited guest
is often the most suspected. If you wish, I will write you a letter of introduction to
the inn keeper at the "101 Red Ponies " or as it it affectionately called
RP 101.
Should we have need of your services, I am very sure the proprietors there will
alert us.
If you will excuse me, now, I have several pressing duties awaiting me.

With that, Parm moved with considerable briskness to find Alfirin and Nessa,
but he was a little less eager to be with Nienor_Niniel.

I am sorry sir,I simply heard raised voices,I will leave you be!
*leaves them*

Telta, astride Shadowdancer moved quickly heading east. Her cloak was pulled tightly around her and the hood pulled up over her head. Rain was on it’s way and it was close. Night had come and yet she moved ever forward not stopping. She was not sure if she pushed on solely to find Hobbituk or if she was also trying to put some distance between her and Beliran. A sad sigh escaped her. She dared not let herself dwell on what had happened between them for it rested to close to the surface and threatened to crush what little hold she had on her emotions.

The black stallion moved quickly and Telta focused her attention on the way ahead. Hobbituk was somewhere ahead of her she had found a trail of blood, his blood she knew. The wound he had received was bleeding and quite a bit from the trail he was leaving. It would hinder his progress but would not stop him no matter what. She knew he was stubborn. Had she not seen it first hand when he fought against the Maiar at the Lucky Fortune, that had nearly cost him his life?

The thought of the inn brought to mind the image of it in ruins. It had been her home for a while now where she had made a step in the right direction away from where she had been heading. Erinhue, Vana, Aerin, Hobbituk, Turelie and the others welcomed her into their midst not once questioning their decision. A decision she had hoped to never let them regret for she was grateful more than words could say. This was the only way she knew how to repay them for their kindness and friendship. She would keep him safe for Turelie’s sake so that he in turn could find her.

The wind whipped her hood back and she felt the cold air rush by her face. It did not bother her the cold but Hobbituk would be susceptible to it in his condition. Time was not on her side. With the weather turned against him and the wound seeping his life’s blood away she hoped she would find him soon....

*******
Telta-Master Bard
Official Vana Honourary Adoptee
E.O.
AKA: Laraelia

Jiyadan’s attack came wholly unexpected. The shock of falling and feeling the threat of his razor sharp blade at her throat struck her mute. Fortunately for Alandriel, the Gondorian lady seemed to have an understanding of her intentions and she was able to quickly gain control of the situation, convincing Jiyadan to back off. While he returned to Moujhadin’s side, the lady extended her hand to Alandriel.

‘I am Rho’ she said as she helped Alandriel get off the ground. The herbalist righted herself and smiled her thanks to the woman, glad to be finally able to make proper introductions: ‘Alandriel is my name and I am much relieved to see you well.’ Looking around, she caught sight of an object lying in the grass not far from where she had fallen. She stepped over, picked it up and turned to Rho: ‘I believe this pack belongs to you.’ The shield maiden took it with a gracious nod and together they slowly made their way over to where the Easterlings rested in the grass.

“Moujhadin! You're awake!” Jiyadan’s voice rang out in relief and joy.

Touching the woman’s shoulder, Alandriel stopped their walk a good 15 feet away from where the two men were. Moujhadin stirred and both men started talking, but they were too far for her to make out any of the conversation. Alandriel addressed her companion in a hushed voice:

‘Rho, I don’t know how much you remember of what has passed, but it is imperative that I get to Moujhadin. I fear that I and the Dale woman, Bardwhyn, have unleashed something in him …. Jiyadan is right in wanting to shield and defend him, but the protection and help Moujhadin might need goes beyond of what he can provide. I have to make him understand. He must let me….’

‘Alandriel, Jiyadan will try to kill you if you touch him again’, Rho replied. Then after a short pause she added: ‘What is it exactly that you have done?’

Alandriel sighed and shook her head in frustration. ‘I wish I really knew. I think I am beginning to understand…I saw many things while I traced his marks… but I need to find Bardwhyn and talk to her before I can be sure….and talk to Moujhadin. There are so many questions, so many riddles…. You’re probably right. Jiyadan is highly confused and concerned about his friend, and that’s a dangerous mix.’
This last sentence did not reach Rho. Her focus had shifted momentarily to the two men talking.
‘Stay here’ she said to Alandriel more harshly than she meant to, then cautiously walked towards the two men.

Alandriel looked on as Rho made her way over to the Easterlings. She saw her kneeling down next to Moujhadin who soon thereafter slumped forward, lifeless once more.

Alandriel gave a deep sigh, sat down in the soft grass cross-legged, un-strapped her pack and put it into her lap. She buried her face in her hands, feeling responsible and yet so very helpless at this moment. What had she done?
She desperately needed to understand but the only two people that could help her were unreachable. Bardwhyn was hopefully still with Edain. For sure they had gotten out of the Inn if Edain’s skills had developed the same way he had grown into full manhood since she had last set eyes on him. Running into him here on this day of days had been quite a surprise and Alandriel had had no leisure to converse with him. But it had been there, momentarily, a flash of recognition in his eyes. Did he truly remember? It was all so long ago…He had been just a youngster then, full of promising potential. Having observed him earlier, albeit only shortly, Alandriel had no doubt, that he had indeed mastered many of those latent talents she had discovered in him. They would be well, she knew but she still would have to find them both to make sense of so many things.
Alandriel dropped her hands, stretching her aching neck as she looked once more upon the three people a good distance away from her. Moujhadin was the other person that she needed to speak to. But seeing how he just lay there, claimed finally by utter exhaustion with Jiyadan guardedly at his side, she realized there was no way. Not now. How to gain Jiyadan’s trust? Did he not remember how she had pulled him back from the threshold of death? Did he not remember her voice?

Suddenly her brooding was interrupted by a faint voice calling out. Several seconds of silence passed. Then the voice was back again, this time more distinct. Somebody was approaching… a woman. She was calling out Rho’s name. Alandriel quickly moved into a squatting position, dropping her pack to the side, her hand reaching for the dagger in her boot. Looking over once more to the group, she realized that Rho was still busy with the Easterlings. She had not heard. And so Alandriel called softly but loud enough to cover the distance between them: ‘Rho, somebody is approaching, calling your name.’

Would this prove to be friend or foe? Alandriel was not willing to get caught off guard again. Too many strange and unexpected things had happened today. But she waited for the stranger to approach, the shadowy figure now appearing off to the side from her and the group.

Tale of the Warriors of Light

Parm was eager to find Alfirin and Nessa, if not for fellowship,
then to be sure that their previous acrimony would not flare. Parm
well remembered how his own two daughters sometimes took opposite
sides of an issue and would shoot venomous looks at each other
during the day. Nothing was ever really said, they just glared.
Eventually Aravel and he would have to sit down with the two
princesses of pouts and smooth over the disagreement. It was easier
then, but little girls become women and the distresses become more
tangled and the issues more complex. Parm's genuine appreciation
and almost affection for Alfirin sometimes prevented him from seeing
the tensions Alfirin may have caused. Nevertheless, Parm was most
eager to travel with Alfirin as a companion-scholar and colleague.
He sensed, perhaps all too keenly, that his heart was tugging him
to do some research as to the source behind the virulent attack
against the Bards at the wedding. Why there? When then? What lay
behind it all? Answers. He had to have answers. But where?
The Archives at Gondor? Would they receive him? Imladris would be
ideal, but then he would have to leave and oh, his heart would be
torn to leave his family on some sort of quest. Would Aravel
understand? Would Arahn? He, of all people, counted on his father for
companionship and encouragement. Parm knew his was being missed.
As he walked briskly away from the surprising encounter with the
curious stranger, he drew nearer to where he had left his friends.

M'lady Alfirin. If it is required of me, for I have yet to learn
Lord Erinhue's desires, that I travel to search out answers, I
would need to go to the Archives of Gondor. Would you be willing
and able to travel there with me? I could use your consummate skills
in various languages to search out some critical answers to very
puzzling questions. To speak plainly, I would enjoy your company
very much. I admire your spirit and passion for knowledge. There is
much I would enjoy learning from you, if you mind my journeying
with you.

Nessa, Nienor_Niniel and you have been loyal friends and valiant
rescuers. However, I know that you have other paths and other folk
who would know how to use your skills and abilities better than I.
I would savor your company, but I would not want to hold you back
from journeying with those who desire your company more. So I leave
the choice with you.

Perhaps, though, it might be best to say more when Nienor_niniel
returns.

Should we venture to travel together, I think we will be a special kind
of group, a special group of warriors, warriors of light, if you will.
One's who do battle not merely with dagger, sword and staff, but other
arts. I have only begun to discover some of my own hidden gifts.
The crow, Silvertongue, seems to have alerted me to that fact.

Well, I will say no more until Nienor_niniel returns. Have no fear, Lady Heather,
we are not leaving just yet. I think it wisest to find out the general plan and
fit our own interests into that.

When she couldn't find him, Heather trudged back to Parm, mulling over what the scribe had told her and wondering about her private demons. She reached him just in time to hear him telling some others that he was leaving. She waited, respectfully for him to finish speaking before stepping forward.
"I couldn't find them, so as promised, I came back, in time to hear you speak of leaving on a journey. Might I ask where you intend to go?"

Mellaurelom breathed a sigh of relief, her clothes were dry, and the chill was completely gone. She looked around the grassy field, scattered with feast remains and guests, and realized that with very minor healing talents, and the chaos that had been sown, she would do better by her Guild and friends to leave this once happy ground. With a sigh, she found a small piece of paper and jotted a note,

- Good Master Erinhue, I can not be of aid right now, so I have returned to Imladris. I will be there for a few weeks, so if you have need of my aid, please send a message, and I will be to you at once. Fare thee well. Mell-

She saw that Aerin was still by Hue, so she passed the note to the Lady, “Milady, would you see that Master Erinhue receives this?” Aerin smiled, and nodded, then returned to her husband. Mell turned, whistling a high noote to the sky.

An owl, of giant proportions, swept to her side, from atop the stable, “Come, my friend,” Said the elfmaid, “Let us return home.” She slipped to the owl’s back, settled twixt his powerful wings, and they launched themselves into the still smokey sky.

He was walking over the glooming ashes of the ruined Inn, still in the shining boots, with the conquering smile Nienor-Niniel had seen him on the morning of the wedding. Under his steps, the grass began to grow over the broken walls and flowers were spreading under his feet. His hand was stretched towards her, and his voice resounded in her ears.

Did I not tell you, we might even share a dance tonight. She saw nobody else any more, his figure filling the horizon, but for glimpse of bright blue sky behind him.

Matrim, whispered NN, so you have come back.

She stretched out her hand, to take his, to rise and live. But she touched only steel, the cold and cutting edge of a sharp elven blade.

It was no longer the Easterling, but Scribbles standing there, and it was her sword instead of a greeting hand. Nienor’s hand was sliced up and puzzled, she looked in the palm, covered with blood pouring out of the deep wound the sword had done to her. Scribbles, NN only muttered her name, I’m sorry.

I don’t care said the peredhel in a hard and cold voice. NN felt her breath on her face. You do not deserve to be called a friend. You are a snake. The voice of the half-elven was growing, filling out all the space; the entire horizon was filled with her face, torn in anger. And the expression in her eyes was the one NN had always dreaded, the expression of Elrond’s eyes. Like she had told the Scribe on their very first meeting. Elrond’s eyes, his voice: you are a murderer and shall be one for the rest of your days.

I have paid the price of a life. But now I’m not alone any more she tried to say. I have found company and they will help me. They will help me.

Will they? hissed the voice. It was no longer Scribbles voice, it was no longer Elrond’s voice it had nothing human or elvish. A storm was howling in her ears, all around her, gliding into her thoughts and bones. Look at them.
A circle was now around her, a hedge of people and in panic she looked up to them, all of them tall and stern, their faces closed. like stone.

Leoba, Rho screamed Nin. She will kill me.

Both of her companions bowed own to her, shaking her heads.

And what shall we do about it? asked Leoba in her melodic voice. You deserve it. And they turned away, in their silk garment of a bridesmaid, rustling around her legs. They were laughing and chatting. She heard the guests passing, most of them laughing. Some of them pointing their fingers on her.

How could she dare to come whispered some voices. Do you know who she is? The Scribe should kill her.

Alone, howled the voice, alone.

Who would be there? She felt the blade on her throat, right on the scar. Parm, she yelled, I have helped you. Will you not save me?

The servant of Eru stepped out of the circle and bent over her.
You helped me? You let me go with a stranger on my mind. You are no better than the meanest Orc under the sun. Become what you are. Let your face show your character. He lifted his hand, a lightning flashed in the air and she felt how she was changing. Shrinking. Her hand became claws and her jaws largened, her teeth became fangs. She was to become an Orc! Then in the middle of the metamorphosis, all stopped and she stood there, a miserable creatures, not herself anymore, half orc, half woman. Parm had returned to the others forgetting her.

Dou you know now what it feels like to be a ruined creature and to be forgotten. the voice had turned into a whisper inside her head. How could you forget? How could you forget?

No, she screamed. No. And screaming, she awoke, covered with sweat. She had fallen asleep under the spell of Agarak’s tune. She remembered she had a task before falling asleep like this. But what had it been? And who was sending her dreams like that?

East Meets West...

“You saved my life, didn’t you?”

“Yes I suppose I did…I just did it, Bardhwyn, anyone else would have done the same.”

At this modest remark, Bardhwyn smiled slightly. The young Ranger… ('Young!', she laughed to herself. He was probably older than she by a score of years…) was wrong. Not everyone would have done the same and she’d seen too many instances of selfish cowardice in times of danger.

“Oh c’mon... Really.” He mumbled, moving close to her.

As he slipped his arms around her, she did not protest nor did she feel that familiar upwelling of trepidation when ever a man approached. It seemed so simple to just allow Edain to hold her.
Simple, uncomplicated, unlike others before… and she could feel him tremble, slightly before his strength took her up, into his arms.

“No, Edain, not everyone would do the same. Trust me.” She whispered, tightening her arms around the man. How she needed to be held in that moment! Deep down she was so tired and, yes, afraid.

“You’re brave… a Dunedan.” Bardhwyn added, pulling away so to look in his eyes. “And you are a credit to your kin. I know this, though we’ve hardly spoke, … somehow I know.”

The Dalewoman looked up into the Ranger's face, dim lit by the nearby torchlight and pinpricks of starlight. Echoes of voices reached them and names were called out as friends sought for missing friends in the dark.

“Why is it, Edain, I feel that I *know* you. I can’t explain it. When I first saw you, during the ceremony I recognized you yet I had never seen you before.”

Though he didn’t speak she could see, by the look in his eyes he, too, felt this strange acquaintance. This ‘knowing’ yet not knowing.

“Thank you. Thank you for saving my life. Were it not for you, I…” She said in a whisper. She stopped herself. ‘I would be dead.’ She thought to herself. Their eyes met and they looked long, it seemed, into the depths of one another.

It was clear; the desire was present between them both. He leaned forward and a part of her would have happily allowed his lips to meet hers but she reached up, gently placing her fingers on his lips.

“Edain… I am sorry, I …” Edain reached up and gently lifted her fingers and hand off and away from his lips, causing her to stop and look into his eyes. He kept her hand and looked expectantly for her finish. Her breath had shortened and her face felt hot. What had she done!? Who was this man!? Why!?...

“Edain, I am bound to another.” She said feeling horrible and embarrassed. “Please, don’t think ill of me.”

He gently kissed the palm of her hand.

EAST MEETS WEST...

So the two had finally met, the shield maiden and the healer. And after Rho had assisted Alandriel to her feet and her pack returned to her, the two women moved closer to the Easterlings, but still stopped a safe distance away. The Gondorian woman listen as Alandriel attempted to answer her question, but when Moujhadin yelled out the Eastron word ‘SHUD,’ stop, all her attention became focused on the man who had saved her life. She could sense his duress, but there was more. She could sense terror in his voice.

Stay here’ she said to Alandriel more harshly than she meant to, then cautiously walked towards the two men, reaching them just as Jiyadan stood up.

She watched as Moujhadin pleaded with his brother and then went limp. And as Jiyadan knelt down beside him, Rho also knelt down next to the unconscious Easterling, uncertain as to what all that was happening to the man. But there was one thing that she understood. This was not the same man that had held the knife to her throat earlier. He was either breaking or had been broken, just as she had.

Closing her eyes for a moment, she thought back to when Moujhadin had looked into her eyes, and how it felt as though he had seen into her very soul. It had been in the moment of her greatest fear. She had been dying, and was terrified too.

Opening her eyes she watched as Jiyadan moved his hand to the scars on Moujhadin's body, and then the words that Alandriel had spoken only moments before entered her mind… ‘I saw many things while I traced his marks…

Then the healer’s real voice broke into her thoughts. “Rho, somebody is approaching, calling your name.”

Still on her knees, but turning away from the two men, Rho saw the light from a lantern off in the distance and heard the familiar voice of Aliana. She then looked towards Alandriel and tried to reassure her.

“It’s ok, she is a friend.”

Standing up, Rho then backed away from the two men, and began to make her way over to where Alandriel was sitting on the grass. Then she called out to her friend.

When Aliana finally arrived Rho did not notice her tenseness and instead just listened intently to the request that she was needed by Leoba. Rho then tried to explain to her reasoning for not being able to go. She had just promised Jiyadan that she would protect Moujhadin. It was impossible for her to leave now, nothing would make her break her word to the Easterling.

But when Aliana told her a little more, that it wasn’t Leoba that needed her as much as it was her brother, she looked away from the young Rohirrim for a moment Rho did not want her friend seeing the brief pain that Culanir’s name had brought back to her heart. The memory of him leaving her up in the room had been forgotten. It had been pushed back and successfully buried. Until now.

Silently she stood there torn. Torn between two men that needed her protection here, and another man, her friend and once mentor, who needed her elsewhere. The honor of her word was being challenged against her loyalty to friendship. And if had been anyone else but Culanir, her decision would have been simple, the choice easy to make.

After much silent consideration and some gentle prodding by Aliana, Rho could only reach one concluesion. It was one that she did not take lightly. In fact it was one she’d only done once before in her life. For once it was done, it could not be undone. But time was running out, there were no other options.

“Aliana, please wait here until I call you over.” Rho said quietly and then walked towards the two men again.

Once she reached them she knelt down next to Moujhadin who was still who was still being looked after by his friend.

“Jiyadan” she softly called out, but he did not seem to hear, being lost in his silent speech.

"Jiyadan," she called again, a bit louder, and waited until her looked at her. “I am going to need you to trust me again,” and then Rho thought to herself. ’And I you.’

Jiyadan looked at her with a hint of skepticism, said nothing, but nodded slightly.

She then motioned Alaina over to them. When Jiyadan began to object, Rho answered back. “Please Jiyadan, there is no other way.” Once the Rohirrim woman sat down, Rho began.

“This is Aliana, she is both a good friend and was once my apprentice. I trust her with my life. She needs to be here now and she will need to stay here….there is another that needs me... I promise you I will only be gone a short time, but I must go.”

Jiyadan looked at her a moment, trying to decide what he should do. Finally he relented. "Yes, go, I can see that only a greater need would draw you. But take that red-haired witch with you!" he said, picking up his sword and pointing to where Alandriel sat. "I don't want her anywhere near us!" Jiyadan spat.

He then looked at the new arrival. "And take that with you too," he said, motioning to Aliana. "I don't want anyone to stay if you are leaving!"

Rho took a deep breath and continued, "Jiyadan, she will need to stay..."

"I don't want her here!" he replied sharply, cutting her off.

Rho looked down, paused for a moment, and then began to unstrap her sword from her waist. Once she held the sheathed sword in both her hands, she then reached out and offered it to Jiyadan.

“If anyone is to come upon you, to challenge or to threaten you, then you need to show them this sword and inform them that you are a friend of Rholarowyn...A friend of the Steward’s house.” She paused again and then looked into his eyes. “I am giving you and Moujhadin the highest form of protection that I can. My sword will be the evidence of this until I can return.”

“Aliana is to be a witness as to what I have just done, and she will need to stay in case you are challenged, as I won’t be here to defend you or Moujhadin.”

Jiyadan looked from Rho to Aliana, then back to Rho. Finally, he nodded, laid down his sword, and took hold of Rho's. "Yes," he said, "I will accept your word and your sword. And I will accept your word on this woman."

Rho looked over at Aliana. “Please do not leave their side for any reason until I back.”

And with that Rho got up, motioned to Alandriel to follow.

"No, wait!" Jiyadan yelled after her, "My horse, my packs! Rho, I need my packs. In the stables, he is a Harad horse, very different from your western horses and you should have no trouble identifying him. Call him
by name, Nothea, and he will allow you to remove the bags. Please, I need them, bring them back with you."

Rho nodded, and together the two woman quickly went to the stable to get Jiyadan’s pack from his horse. And then they went to the front of the Inn.

Rho had been oblivious to the extent of destruction the Inn had succumbed too, but now it was impossible to miss. Broken pieces from wood from what appeared once to be doors, furniture, things that shouldn’t be lying around outside and yet were, all caused Rho to pause for a moment. Until Alandriel pointed out a woman in a green silk dress kneeling down beside someone.

As the two got closer, Rho knew who it was that Leoba knelt beside, she did not need to see him to know.

Slowly she approached the red headed knight. No longer thinking of the healer at her side, nor Culanir’s sister at his. And her heart broke as she looked upon the brutality that had been thrust upon his body.

She went to him, knelt by his side, and gently reached out, softly touching his swollen face.

“Culanir.” She whispered and then looked up for a moment, but not releasing her touch. Tears began to streak down her checks. The memory of her earlier pain from him forgotten. Erased from her mind. Instead only her deep concern for him filled her now.

Finally she looked back at him. Then leaning her head next to his, she whispered into his ear.

“Culanir...it’s Rho... I’m here….”

EAST MEETS WEST...


"Jiyadan."

He was too lost in his silent prayers to even hear his name; pleading with the gods to send help, to send a sign, so that he would know what to do. Never had he felt so helpless and vulnerable. Never would he have stood down from a threat on the promises of being protected by another, but he had; and now, he felt utterly lost.

"Jiyadan," the voice called again, and he looked up to see Rho. "This is Aliana, she is both a good friend and was once my apprentice. I trust her with my life. She needs to be here now and she will need to stay here... there is another that needs me, I promise you I will only be gone a short time, but I must go.”

She was leaving? Part of him was too numb to care; part of him wanted to scream at her for breaking her word, but he sat silent, ordering his jumbled thoughts. Jiyadan looked at her a moment, trying to decide what he should do. Finally he relented. "Yes, go. I can see that only a greater need would draw you. But take that red-haired witch with you!" he said, picking up his sword and pointing to where Alandriel sat. "I don't want her anywhere near us!" Jiyadan spat.

He then looked at the new arrival. "And take that with you too," he said, motioning to Aliana. "I don't want anyone to stay if you are leaving!"

Rho argued with him, and Jiyadan could feel himself becoming very angry. 'Why was she doing this?' he thought to himself. 'She swore her protection, now she leaves? I don't want this woman here!'

But then Rho did something he did not expect. She unbelted her sword and held it out to him, promised him protection by both her name and the Steward's House. The Steward's House?!? Jiyadan almost laughed, but not becaue it was funny. He suddenly understood, she was of the house of the Stewards of Gondor. Her word was the word of a Noble, akin almost to royalty in his mind. Her word, he knew, was more precious than mithril.

So it was he accepted her sword, her word, and accepted the woman she swore by. Placing Rho's sword reverently beside him, he then turned his attentions back to Moujhadin. He knew they could not stay outside unsheltered for long. The blankets were not enough to stave off the chilling cold of this northern winter that they were both unaccustomed to. Jiyadan could already feel it's effects and he shivered, knowing it would only get colder before the sun rose. He needed to build a fire, to set up a shelter for them. He needed his things...

"My packs," he murmered, and looked up just as Rho was leaving with the red-haired woman. "No, wait!" Jiyadan yelled after her, "My horse, my packs! Rho, I need my packs. In the stables, he is a Harad horse, very different from your western horses and you should have no trouble identifying him. Call him by name, Nothea, and he will allow you to remove the bags. Please, I need them, bring them back with you."

And so she left, and Jiyadan waited.

Tale of the Warriors of Light

Alfirin looked up in surprise at Parm's invitation. His words appealed to her vanity - she was immensely proud of her knowledge. Once again he was offering a hand of friendship.

She ran her hands through her long dark hair and considered. The call to return to the place of her birth and see once more the only place where she had ever known happiness was very strong. Yet she had been banished form there long ago. But who would now remember that? The stewards were gone and there was a King now. And she did not look like the fair young woman that she had been then. Perhaps it would be safe now, for a brief visit.



She looked up at Parm.

"I do not know that I will help you in your self-appointed task. But my feet seem to turn in the direction of home, so I will accompany you. But now I will sleep. Please awaken me in the morning before you leave. I have no luggage to collect" She made a wry shrug at the smoking ruins of the Inn, and settled herself down in her cloak in the shelter of the stable wall. She slept and her dreams were now untroubled.

Nessa too had settled down, as far as she could get from Alfirin. She looked up at Parm, and speaking quietly that no other ears might hear said

"I still do not trust her. She has a darkness in her past and i fear also in her future"

Nessa's dark grey eyes showed her concern. "I would not have you travel alone with such as her. I will accompany you if you will let me. I too was born in Minas Tirith, or so I am told. And I feel that my feet too would take me there, even if I am not happy with all my traveling companions." She smiled again. "And I promise to try not to argue with the woman and bite my tongue. Perhaps with luck she will prove me wrong!"

And Ness too slept, for it seemed weeks, not just one day since she had arrived at the wedding.

East Meets West...

The moment was gone, like the star he had seen, it winked out, gone. Edain looked aside for a few seconds, drew breath again, and kissed her hand. The expected words came and:

“No, I am sorry.” he countered, equally embarrassed at causing an uncomfortable scene. He stood and gazed deeply into her eyes briefly, as if searching for the ‘truth’ behind her words. He could see nothing, as if she shielded herself once more, and with a little more difficulty on his behalf he guarded his own eyes. For once a woman was right. If she was indeed, bound to another this behaviour was then quite improper. Slipping into the formal language of his profession he said,

“A certain propriety must be maintained.” the words tumbled out of his mouth stiffly, as he rationalised their actions. “We were simply caught up in the moment.” He wanted to spin on his heel and walk away, but didn’t. Somehow and from somewhere he felt that he knew her, and something made him stay. Perhaps, he did trust this total stranger like she had asked him to. They now stood, moved apart.

“Perhaps we should not speak of this again.” he concluded.

“So that was that” Edain thought to himself. He felt horrible inside. Like something was wrong. Like his cloak which lay in a crumpled heap nearby. But no, that would not be so for long, Edain scooped it up from where it lay: the scarlet charred in places. A cloak could be straightened and hung correctly, well it would once he found his ray-starred brooch.

“Darn! I’ve lost my brooch.” he exclaimed, venting his pent up energy.

“Do you want me to help you look for it?” Bardhwyn asked.

Edain ran his hand through his tousled hair. Glancing around, he measured up the situation.

“Nah. With the blast, it may have fallen anywhere. I think that there are more pressing problems at hand here.”

Seeing that Bardhwyn was obviously about to move away and in his mind might have started helping with the recovery of the inn or... (Elbereth forbid) attempted to heal further, he commanded.

“Please do not even think about it! No, no we should find our friends or at least the people who were in the bedroom…” Edain struggled to find names, “…at the very least: Alandriel should take a look at you, she is an former teacher of mine.” he let the last snippet slip, proof that the weariness of the day was seeping into his bones. Even so Edain seemed to have made a decision in his mind.

“As for my brooch, I have a spare. It is worn and the silver is almost burnished black, but the memories that people hold of the man who bore it, are truly precious to me.” Edain nodded as if acknowledging his unknown forebear.

“Yes it is time that, that ranger’s brooch stepped abroad once more.”

Shuddering his head at the new idea, that he dared to let go of one past and instead grasp the future with all its frightening possibilities, Edain widened his eyes and raised an eyebrow in query.

“I think that it is time I found the others who sheltered in that room back there. Do you? And would you come with me?”

4 Elves and a Master Bard

The great spirit that inhabited Erinhue’s harp kept a nightwatch over the makeshift camp spread out around the ruins of the Lucky Fortune Inn. As the one time wedding guests rested and slept another spirit watched an opportunity. The evil that had gathered was dispersed but not destroyed and it was drawn towards the gathering of those who would play a part in opposing its will.

It sensed the spirit of the harp and its power, and something of its purpose. If it guarded those gathered around the Inn than those same were also targets to be rendered ineffective if not eliminated. The seeds of its greatest tools were already sown. Doubt and confusion and despair were already at work among them and these things could be used.

There could be no ultimate destruction, not in this place, not at this time, but failure was something almost just as good. Test them before their time and the defeat would feed the uncertainties within them and that was the beginning of the end.

Beneath the deep vault of a velvet sky the water of the River Horwell began to churn and pitch fitfully in its bed The water entered the dreams of a few. In some it was little more than a gentle background that blended itself into parts of other dreams. It had no effect on one because that one did not dream but sat in a deep darkness, self imposed because he would not see. Another felt it more powerfully than any other for it called to her and a fledgling power she possessed.

Parm told her his plans with a grim smile.
With a little "Oh!" sound she plopped down on the ground to think. Resting her elbows on her raised knees, she burried her face in her hands as memories came flooding her mind. Good memries;happy memories filled her heart and she wondered if someone were still living in the white city. She remembered the cook's name, and the battles she faught while living there. Then the other memories came, unbidden. The feel of the paper between her fingers as she read the last words from her beloved before he sailed and the mix of emotions she had felt reading it; the guilt that she felt when she realised that she had learned to love again; the pain of loss from friends killed in battle...
She looked up at Parm, a strange glint in her ageless, depthless green eyes.
"I guess I have enough demons waiting for me there. I will go with you, if you'll have me. I have history in the White City, both good and bad."

Tale of the Warriors of Light

Parm took Lady Heather's hand into his own. She did not
flinch from his touch. His touch was comforting, kind and
assuring. It was something in which to have faith...to the death,
if need be. Parm was not unaffected by the glint in his new
friend's eyes. They gazed into each other's eyes, searching,
probing, creating a bond of trusting. It was mere seconds, but
time seemed to expand in that moment. Finally, Parm looked
down, less embarrassed as doubtful, doubtful of his own
abilities to be part of such an intrepid band.
Slowly Parm raised his head and sighed, painfully.

There is one thing I fear...this dream, this shadow that follows
me. It is like a flicker at the edge of sight, but real and a growing
threat. I feel as if a part of me is about ready to do something
truly dreadful, to betray you in a way I least suspect. No matter
what happens to me, my friend, be assured that I am now
committing myself to this task: I will give what ever skills and
gifts I have to protect you, M'lady, you and the ladies Alfirin,
Nessa and...and nienor_niniel, should she decide to be with
us. I believe her feet are taking to other places and other
persons.
*********
Aravel rarely worried for herself. She knew how to take care of
herself before all darkness and dread. No, any anxiety she
bore was directed to her beloved, her Parm. His was a heart
both valiant and yet vulnerable, down-to-earth and yet innocent.
Aravel's thoughts were suddenly broken when she heard a
caw-cawing and tap-tapping at her chamber window. It was
Glorfingol's special messenger for Parm. What could it want?
Stepping briskly to the window, she opened it and the bird
hopped in, then flew to the back of Aravel's chair and perched
there. Inspecting the crow, she noticed the note tied to its leg.
Smiling, she removed it. From Parm, she guessed. Unrolling
it she read the seemingly cryptic message and understood it
at once. The children would be both relieved and concerned.
Parm had begun his quest. It was something she knew would
come some day. Now, at last, he would learn the truth about
his life. How he would embrace it...well, that was the test, now
wasn't it? Tragedy and triumph, a legacy and a lie all wrapped
up in his life. Aravel bent her head, and whispered a petition
to Eru, that Parm would find good companions and that they
would learn what was needed to combat the terror and threat
against them all, the beautiful bards, the borrowers of beer
and messengers of cheer. Again she smiled at the thought,
then quickly sobered. He would become a warrior at last,
a warrior of the light.

Mellaurelom and Whisper circled the remains of the Lucky Fortune, remembering fondly evenings spent there, gathered around a table with friends, playing cards, talking, or just quietly listening to fellow bards. She would miss those evenings, when she felt that she fit in, and she could forget the past and enjoy the present. So much had happened in the last few days, a wedding, and an explosion, and the Maiar knew what else. Looking for her friends again, she spotted several, though Scribbles was missing, as was the Bride and Groom. That caused Mell to think for a moment, why would they not be there? She fought the urge to reach between her shoulderblades and scratch, there was a chill running down her spine. Why would the absence of Ture and Hobbi cause her uneasiness? She filed that feeling away, to speak with her uncle about later. She saw the Easterlings, again wondering why there were so many here, where Mat used to be alone. That was another problem that needed to be dealt with, though it was not Mell’s place to do so. The waterfall sparkled, falling like so many tears had fallen these last days, reminding the elf of the quickling tendancies of memories and emotions. One moment sane, happy, and laughing, the next weeping and forlorn. Even elves could fall prey to quicksilver emotions, herself was an example. Alas, she thought, I shall return to these forests soon, to rejoice once more with singing and companionship. For now she had to return home, for she much wished to speak with her uncle and she knew there was one other who would like news, Aravel, wife to her great friend Parm. With one last sigh, she urged Whisper up, into the dawning sky, home towards Imladris.

The Tale of the Warriors of Light

Heather smiled at Parm and he knew that she was ready: Ready to face any number of dangers and the long road itself.
"I'll be resting somewhere near by. Just yell when you're ready."
The healer made her way to her horse and proceded to remove the mare's saddle, saddle bags and harness. She whispered to it in Elvish and the beast nuzzled her, whinnying softly.
Heather walked over to the stables and found her other saddle bag; her herb bag, which she slung across her chest; her bow and quiver of arrows which were also quickly settled in their place; and her own light pack. She carried the two bags out to add to the pile of her gear and settled down next to it to rest, if not sleep, as the milk-white, elvish mare nibbled grass and dosed on her feet.

4 Elves and a Master Bard

Tinu awoke, the tears now dry upon her pallid cheeks. Her body was refreshed and ready anew for the day's trials, but her mind was unwilling to move forward.

In a way, she was happy that Lurea had been kidnapped. A piece of the pure soul was still jealous and wished terrible things upon the one who was the cause of her pain. Pain, suffering, anything akin to what Tinu was forced to bear. These uncharacteristic thoughts, however, were weighing down her soul, as they were not true to her character. She knew that she would not survive long upon Middle Earth in this condition, so, after reviewing her previous decision, she chose to leave for the Undying Lands, where all pain would cease forever.

But that would be too easy, too simple a fate for such an elf.

As she stood from her stable root to gather what she could of her belongings, a soothing voice spoke to her:

"You are needed."

Turning, her body tensed at this sudden invasion of space without her knowledge, expecting someone to be standing behind her. To her shock, there was no one. She walked around the ancient oak, her hand trailing along its rough bark, the sensation soothing and real. But it seemed that no one had spoken. Yet, she could not be going mad, could she?

As Tinu mulled over the puzzling voice and whether or not it had existed, the voice repeated itself more insistently:

"You are needed."

Who are you? Tinu whispered, her eyes slowly panning across the demolished Inn, unbidden memories flooding her mind. The picnic with Hobbi and their friends, her work as a waitress, Lurea's arrival and eventual marriage.

However, instead of showing the end of the Inn, her mind chose to linger upon the honeymoon baggage of Lurea. The leather suitcases were filled with elegant gowns that only a princess could afford, newlywed supplies, and the beloved jewels and baubles that the Master Weatherspeller adored. One jewel in particular caught Tinu's mind's eye--the Hobbit Protector.

Tinu almost laughed at the absurdity. Perhaps none of this would have happened if the vain princess had not chosen the Heart of Diadron over the more practical (and no less beautiful) Protector. At least her dear Hobbituk would have been safe, she sighed.

None of these images provoked movement from her, so the voice returned once more:

"Retrieve it. The necklace is still unharmed and shall be necessary on your journey."

Why would I need it for my journey to the Undying Lands? Besides, it is not mine to keep, Tinu replied, her lips unmoving.

"You are not going to the Undying Lands. You are going to help the hobbit."

Why of course! Tinu nearly laughed. Her mind most certainly was playing games with her now. To be telling her one thing and then another? No, she would not be going on the journey to find Lurea or even the beloved hobbit. She had made up her mind. Yet, she was curious about this voice.

Who are you? Why do you ask this of me?

"I am a friend, a powerful friend who once tried taking Lurea from her beloved and failed. There is true love there and it shall not be destroyed as long as I walk Arda. As another ancient, you should understand and push back your feelings, as you have done always in your long life. You are of a strong and noble line--do not fail it now."

But why not another? Tinu asked. But the voice no longer replied and the presence she had sensed, but could not see, was gone, taking with it the slight touch upon her mind.

Conflicted, she stood, trying to sort out what had happened. She had no idea who this creature could be, or why it had chosen to speak to her. Yet, there was one thing she could do and lessen her guilt somewhat: she could find the necklace and hand it over to someone who would inevitably go on the search for the missing bride and her husband.

Having decided something at least, Tinu went to the charred Inn and began rifling through the ashes.

It was difficult sifting through the belongings of others, both physically and emotionally. She had always been one to care not about materialism, but for some, these items had made up their livelihoods. Humans, with their short lives, usually had some sort of livelihood, and if they lost the tools of their trade, they were usually miserable.

She ended up salvaging a few items of her own--some extra clothes that merely needed airing and a good wash, her air harp Wista. The apron she wore as a worker of the Lucky Fortune she left, along with anything else that belonged in MiddleEarth. She wanted no reminders of pain as she made her way home.

Finally, the Noldorin found the Hobbit Protector wrapped in badly seared leather. The deep garnets that trimmed the large black jade still sparkled with life, ready to protect the hobbit. The jade, however, Tinu did not understand the purpose of, as Lurea had never told her its significance. Quickly, she wrapped the bauble in a less-scarred piece of leather lest anyone see her pulling it from the rubble.

At that moment, she heard soft footsteps behind her. Determined to catch the perpetrator this time, she spun around, her cheeks red.

Falathiel!

She exclaimed. The last thing she needed right now was someone who would question her about Lurea and the long-lost cousin of the bride would likely say something to that extent. However, it was also possible, since the cousin was a full-blood, that she would have more of a sense of discretion. Whatever the case, Tinu was curious as to what reason she would have for joining her upon the depressingly torn Inn.

(Edited to add title)

East Meets West

Despite the light of the lantern she held aloft, Aliana felt blind as she wandered through the dark. The acrid odor of smoke still burned at the back of her throat. The hem of her soot-dusted gown swished insubstantially about her ankles in the cold air. Finally, a disembodied answer came to one of her calls. The voice was instantly familiar to her, crossing the gulf of months as if no time at all had passed.

"Aliana! Here!"

It felt shamefully good to be called to some place, to be beckoned forward, even in these horribly dire circumstances. The figure of a woman with a sword at her waist came into view.

"Rho?" The fact that her former mentor was wearing a dress added to
Aliana's already considerable disorientation. For a moment her sense of apprehension at speaking to the shieldmaiden for the first time in nearly a year dropped away, then resurfaced with a vengeance. She swallowed the lump in her throat and forced herself to focus on matters at hand.

"Rho, I . . . it's Leoba, the Gondorian lady. She asked that I get you- you're needed, urgently."

"Ali, I can't go." Rho paused, then continued. "You'll need to find someone else." The girl was surprised but relieved to note that Rho's face registered no irritation or awkwardness. She looked only tired and resolute in the flickering glow of the lamplight. After a long moment of silence Rho spoke again. "Look, I've given my word, I've made a promise." She cast a glance off to the side. "I won't leave them now." Following her gaze, Aliana could discern two figures, one lying on the grass, the other seated, some distance away. She wondered just what kind of a contract Rho had gotten herself into.

Normally that would have been the end of the conversation. When Rho gave her word, no other questions remained. But then Aliana thought of the red-haired man, pale as death, the blood on his face all the more vivid and bright because of it. . . Already she had too many memories of such broken young men. There was so much she could have said. So much she wanted to say. But there's the knight, Rho, no better than a savage animal, perhaps, but he's dying now and he wants you and I don't know why. And not even an animal should die in the dark, like that . . . Instead, all she could manage was: "I think it's more Culanir, the brother, than Leoba who needs you, Rho. He's in a bad way."

She expected another firm refusal, another affirmation of duty, but instead the other woman stood silent, her face turned away. Absurdly, considering the situation, Aliana realized that she had always thought of her teacher as being more handsome than pretty, but here, tonight, she looked lovely. She looked as though she'd just been to Mordor and back, perhaps, but she looked lovely and perilous, as if she’d reached a point from which there could be no return. There were too many things Aliana didn't understand, that she would probably never understand, but the raw instinct in her Rohirric blood
told her that things were at stake. She took two steps forward, two steps which would turn her life in an unexpected direction, and reached up to rest her hands gently on Rho's shoulders.

"I know how important your word is to you," she began softly, "but I think you should go to him, now.” She took a deep breath, and then: “We . . . I was once linked to you by oath, too, as your apprentice. I would gladly honor that oath once more, as a friend, and help you tonight, if I can. Think on it.” She brought her hands away, and Rho remained silent for a long moment after. When she met the other woman’s eyes again, Aliana knew that she had made her decision.

“Aliana, please wait here until I call you over.” And then she walked over to where the two figures were. She was speaking with the seated man, and then she signaled for Aliana to come and join them. The girl walked towards them, walked through her own doubt and uncertainty, grounded by her own tired, stubborn heart.

She saw that the two men to whom Rho had given her pledge were a pair of warriors, black-haired Easterners, from the looks of things. The one lying on the ground was clearly ill and in need of help, himself. The seated one looked wary, anxious, and dangerous. She listened as Rho set out the terms of her leave, struggling with this man, debating with him...I trust her with my life... That was good to hear, if nothing else. She let herself sink to the ground.

“. . .But take that red haired witch with you! I don’t want her anywhere near us!” Aliana was suddenly alerted to the presence of a fourth person, a small woman sitting some distance apart from them. She didn’t look much like a witch, Aliana reflected, but even by the light of her lantern she could see that her hair was of a shade she had never before encountered in nature. She gave a silent nod to acknowledge the other woman, though she couldn’t tell whether or not it had registered with her. She looked back at the man, his dark eyes blazing through the gloom.

And then Rho and the Easterling- his name was Jiyadan, it seemed- were going back and forth over Aliana’s presence, as if she were not even there to hear. She raised an eyebrow when Rho presented Jiyadan with her sword- These two must be bound by something strong, indeed, she thought. Finally, he seemed to have accepted the state of things.

“Please do not leave their side for any reason until I get back,” Rho instructed her, and the girl nodded, though she didn’t know how on earth she would be able to defend them, if it came to that. She was dressed for a wedding and foolishly unarmed. She listened as Jiyadan made a request to Rho for his things, pleading with her, almost. He was shivering. Rho assented, and she and the red-haired woman started off into the darkness.

“Ellen*, Rho,” she called after her friend, though she said it just as much for herself. They were already out of sight by the time she realized she had forgotten to offer them the lantern. She gave a long, weary exhalation, and reached up to begin to remove the autumn-colored ribbons which had been plaited loosely through her earth-colored hair. Beside her, the tall Easterling had retreated into his own silence.

“Hail and well met, Master Jiyadan,” she murmured, though she didn’t expect a response. And welcome to the night.



*”Courage” (Old English, which I am using to represent Rohirric)

East meets West

The hand on her arm had started Leoba back into sudden awareness of her surroundings and a realisation of how long Aliana had been gone. At least, she thought Aliana had been gone a long while, although sense of time and place and the natural order of things had been flung into such disarray that the young woman wasn’t entirely sure.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” came the small slightly hesitant voice which belonged to the hand and Leoba looked up into the face of her inquisitor.

“Eyriel it’s good to see you. You’re alright?” she murmured sleepily.

The half-elf nodded in reply.

Eyriel looked keenly at Leoba who then recollected that she’d been asked a question. But she was interrupted in her train of thought before she could make reply.

Culanir groaned in his restlessness and Leoba bent her head nearer to hear him. “Yes, don’t worry, someone’s looking”, she told him. Leoba tried her best to give her brother ease, talking to him all the while in response to his incoherent mumbling. She could make out words of remorse and shadows of a great weight that was dragging him down, intermingled with repeated pleas to find Rho. It didn’t make sense to the young woman who listened, trying to put the pieces of this vast shattered puzzle together, based on what she’d seen and what she’d heard.

From out of the gloaming two figures emerged. Leoba tensed, unsure who now came upon them now; friends to aid or foes to mock or worse. Rho and Alandriel gained on her and Leoba breathed a sigh of relief. “You’re safe. We thought….. weren’t you upstairs?” The ranger nodded but Rho had carelessly dropped the pack she’d been carrying and was looking past Leoba and said nor indicated a single word.

As the shieldmaiden knelt at his side, Culanir stopped his fitful moans. Her tears shed onto his bloodied and bruised face, as though she would through her own innocence wash away the stains of the shame he bore in his eyes. And he was suddenly stilled by the touch of her hand against his cheek. Even in such dim light as shrouded them, Leoba thought that Rho had a strange sort of light about her, a grace in her bearing perhaps. Or maybe it was just an unusual flight of fancy that gave rise to the impression of calmness and peace flowing selflessly through her outstretched fingertips to Culanir.

Suddenly Leoba felt very uncomfortable, a spare part in this melodrama, and she felt herself instinctively backing away towards Alandriel. The ranger woman extended a gratefully accepted hand to help Leoba to her feet.

“Your brother looks like he needs urgent attention”

“Can you help?” Leoba asked the ranger.

A slight frown wrinkled Alandriel’s brow but she nodded surely, it was less than she had already dealt with this day. “That I can, but not here. I left my pack and all my medical supplies over there”. She gestured towards the back of the inn whence she and Rho had originally come. “We should move him. Aliana has a lamp and I have tinder, we’ll be better able to see.”

Leoba nodded. “Between us we should be able to help him gently”. She caught sight of Eyriel again, who had been looking in the opposite direction back towards the inn, intent on something none of them had seen.

“Isn’t that Bardhwyn?”, Eyriel asked, her keen eyes picking out the shape in the dark; she had seen the Dalewoman in Leoba’s company enough to recognise her now.

Sure enough as Leoba looked, the shape of a woman swam into view. No, shapes. It was a man and a woman standing out on the lawn in front of the torn and blackened building which so many had called home. It was the friendly glow from a passing lantern, of someone else going to search the rubble, that cast the couple into sudden light. They stood close, almost as lovers, their bodies leaned forward towards one another, their hands clasped in union. The light retreated and Leoba was left straining into the blackness.

“You’re right” she hesitantly said to Eyriel, struggling to make sense of what she’d seen or not seen. Whoever her friend was with it certainly wasn’t the man she had professed so much love for, for Lysandros was well away from this accursed place. “You know you asked if you could help. I think we’ll manage with Culanir but would you mind seeing how Bardhwyn is and, whoever is with her? We have to move my brother urgently but we’ll be round the back, if she would join us; I’d not want to lose another friend in this chaos.”

The peredhel smiled and agreed readily; her offer to assist had been from the heart.

Alandriel was tapping Rho on the shoulder, understanding the need for haste and urging the maid of Rohan to help them move this Gondorian where they could see to him properly. Leoba went round behind him and she and Rho helped Culanir unsteadily to his feet between them, whilst Alandriel led the way.

The path was broken under foot and uneven with fallen debris. It was by no means an easy route for those of them who were well but it was a sore trial for the vanquished knight and Leoba could see in his pain-filled eyes how each hard-won footstep reverberated through his broken body. The glow of Aliana’s lantern finally swam into view and they followed it, drawn to the homely comfort of the flickering flame. But they halted a fair distance away from the light and the men who seemed to be gathered about it.

Gently the two women eased Culanir down onto the ground as Alandriel directed. The grass here was longer than it had been around the front of the buildings and the knight sank into it; it made a fair make-shift bed for the time being. Alandriel’s hands were already fast at work, rummaging through her pack and she handed Leoba a small tin box. It was stiff to open and she broke a fingernail in the process but at least the container holding a candle and tinder box was watertight. Fortunate that the wind had dropped hand in hand with the temperature, Leoba wedged the wax taper tight in the cleft of a half-chopped log and gently coaxed a flame into life. All the while Rho hovered uncertainly, looking hither and thither between Culanir and the figures hustled not so far away.

“Have you got any linen?” Alandriel asked “I’m out of bandages or even cloths for cleaning”.

Before the ranger could say anything more, Leoba had reached for the eating knife at her girdle and was rapidly hacking strips from the fine-woven under-dress she was wearing and handing them over. Deftly Alandriel’s fingers worked, cleaning the dried blood, assessing the damage, pasting unguent onto cuts, binding his injured hand tight.

“How is he? Is anything broken?” Leoba asked, her voice riddled with concern.

“Oh I think he’ll mend, with rest and some tender loving care” Alandriel remarked. “It’s mostly bruising, a lot of bruising.”

Leoba nodded. And more than just bruising to the body, she thought.

Tale of the Warriors of Light
Parm knew a great quest was lying before him. What hour it was
he did not know, nor cared. Wearily he walked over to the sleeping
forms of Nessa and Alfirin, who were, even in doze, guarding his
baggage. With whisper-stealth he withdrew from the contents of
one bag, his beloved quills, travelling bottle of ink, scraps of
parchment, candle, flint and stone and a candlestand. Retreating to
another bench, Parm laid out his equipment, lit his candle, and
set to work, writing. He made each note the same, yet on each he
whispered a prayer of blessing, holding the Air Ring of the
Healing Word as he did so. He wrote as follows:

Dear Bardic friend and ally,
I shall travel with whomever will, to the Archives of Gondor.
There I hope to find help and knowledge to aid our greater
quest, which is the defeat of a great and growing evil. If you
have word to send, do so through our friend, Mell, who is my
liaison in Imladris. A winged friend, SilverTongue, knows my
whereabouts at all times, and will deliver word to me when
needed. Bright blessings on your own quests. I seek the bride,
and the source of the villiany. Ever faithful, Parm

Despite the length of the message, he wrote legible, compact letters.
Each message finished was sealed, and set aside. How many hours
passed did not concern him, when he felt weariness finally weigh him
down like a warm blanket, he had finished 30 scrolls. These he put
into a special bag, on the bag he wrote a label:
PLEASE GIVE TO MY FRIENDS.
Parm.

He rose, stretched, searched out Aerin and explained to her
his deed.

I am no great warrior, M'Lady, but as much as it lies within me,
I am setting out to do what I believe I can and must to help this
great and good company. Ture will be found and the ones responsible
made to pay the debt of their evil. I set out on the morrow.
Bright blessings, fair lady.

Aerin took the bag, puzzled, but with an understanding smile
promised that each message would be delivered as best as she could.

Bowing low, hand on his heart, he stretched again, gripped
his strong staff tightly, strode to a bench near Nessa and Alfirin,
nestled his head against the trunk of a tree, with a wrapped cloak
as a pillow, and found some rest...though his dreams continued to
tease him and offer enticing promises.

Follwers of the Tangled Thread

The silence of the woods grown up around the ruins never ceases to amaze Orion as he sits in the old apartments of his parents or as he walks along the rolling hills of Eregion. In the growing light, the white-blond elf slowly stirs from his slumber in the mossy, Wild-reclaimed city and gazes out over the land and is dismayed to find, wafting almost placidly in the morning light, a hazy smoke rising from the north, in the direction of the Lucky Fortune.

Smoke, from near the Lucky Fortune... and its far too much for even all of their chimneys to be burning at once... that boom I heard as I was riding away... but certainly burning the alcohol wouldnt make it explode... I hope Eru guards them and keeps them safe.

Watching the mists of the morning burn away and letting his mind drift over past events, namely the past day, consumed much of Orion's morning. The wedding stood so vividly in his mind: the music he helped to play, the beauty of the bride so happy, the finery displayed by everyone, the incredible richness of the air, the magical snowflakes, the awarding of Bardic ranks including Orion's own induction to the Guild...

Then his mind turned towards the darker moments: the barely-perceived tensions from the direction of the Inn, the elf-lady that stood to complain, Master Erinhue's look of concern at the strange Gondorian's presence, Elana and Deore's trouble with the thief Donaldo, the rapid decent into chaos with Donaldo's escape and the kidnapping of the bride, the abusively drunk vulturish woman and her words against those with the blood of Eldar, the sense of warning and foreboding that encouraged Orion to leave so quickly, and now the smoke in the north from the area between Amon Sûl and the Last Bridge...

Shaking his head, the elf set to watching clouds drift and playing softly on his whistle Lindraugedhel. The songs floated gently upon the air and, for a moment, the idea of Elves still living in the fortress-city was not beyond the realm of possibility. His horse Kemenroch could be seen grazing contently, while deer and rabbits slowly joined the horse in the fields outside the tumbled-down, overgrown remains of Ost-in-Edhil. The green fields beckoned to Orion, calling him to wander among the springy turf. Finally heeding the welcome call, Orion steps from the walls and starts a pleasant run, laughing for pure joy in the wholesome air and sunshine.

His feet carry him along, a relaxed and reviving run over field and stream, until something out of place near one creek: hoof prints. While ordinarily hoof prints should be nothing of concern, very few people wandered in the lands south of Bruinen. Certainly the occasional company of travelers, usually heading towards Redhorn Pass, but these prints were alone and made a fast turn back towards the north. Leaning over the prints in the fresh mud of the creekbed, Orion studied the shape of the print. It seemed very familiar, as though he had just seen it... Letting his mind drift and pick through memories, one memory stood out

*a haughty wave... a galloping horse... the silken words*

Searching his memory farther, an image of the horse shoe and the unique pattern it bore slowly fixes its image into his mind. A single word escapes Orion's lips, filled with disgust and a unpleasant anticipation

Donaldo...

Giving a sharp whistle, the thudding of hooves grows louder as Kemenroch approaches him. The elf leaps astride his horse and rides off, following the turn of the tracks back to the north, with the realisation about the track bursting inside his mind "...Those tracks cant be more than 8 hours old..."

FOUR ELVES AND A MASTER BARD

From darkness to darkness there seemed to be no change and Erinhue only knew that he had opened his eyes when he closed them. A few more moment to realize that he no longer dreamed and Erinhue opened his eyes again to the sprinkling of silver stars set in an infinite sky. Closer, lying beside him in protective repose, was Aerin

Aerin, daughter of the First Born who would stand against the world to be with him, the sweet dove that brought such tenderness to his often lonely life. The starlight touched her delicate features illuminating her beauty in a vision that came very close to stopping the bard’s heart.

He remembered searching for her, longing for her and here she was, and it was enough. His heart ached with his love for her, but his spirit would not soar, could not, with its heavy burdens, but for a blessed moment he remained unaware and uncaring for anything beyond the soft curve of his wife’s cheek and the sweet sound of her breathing and her heart beat so near to his.

What if they had taken her?

The question whispered into his soul as an arrow might have pierce into his flesh. Dread, anger and bottomless fear were as thick ice in his blood and his body shivered involuntarily. His sickened soul cried out," Hobbituk, forgive me", and the sorrowing thought wailed wordlessly on the last of the night wind.

His involuntary shuddering was more than what was needed to awaken Aerin. She lay still, listening to his heartbeat and his breathing to assure herself that if not hale and hardy, her husband, her beloved was at least alive and able-bodied.

“Erinhue?” The elf woman’s inquiring whisper was soft as a whisp of wind.

There was no response and she listened again to the rhythm of his breathing and determined that he was indeed awake.

“Erinhue.” This time there was less tentative questioning in her tone. “Are you all right?"

The silence of two long drawn breaths stretched out behind the words before a deeper whisper answered,

”No, I’m not, beloved, and I don’t think I shall ever be again.” More silence filled the night until Erinhue’s strained whisper began again, “Eru help me, Aerin. He trusted me. I told him nothing would bad happen. He was so very nervous that I swore it just to make him feel better. Aerin, he believed me and I failed, I let him down. I was his Best Man and I let Turelie be stolen.”

His voice dropped and became so softly spoken that Aerin, even with her elven senses had to listen hard to hear. “ I let Turelie be taken. I have no right to even lie here in your arms.”

Tale of the Warriors of Light

The delicious malevolence of interior battles is that no one, save the mind thus assaulted, knows of the carnage, the hacked limbs of self-confidence, the disembowelment of soul, the putridity of the true person, disguised artfully, delicately, sweetly by years of training, which lurks, luridly beneath the surface of smooth, unruffled demeanors. Thus it was that Parm, the officiator, the joiner of lives with vows in verse and song, was dragged, kicking and screaming into a throne room to encounter
another dream being.

Seated there, hooded in reaking darkness, sat a figure, grey-bearded but nearly bursting his garments by the sheer power of his brawn and bulk. The figure toyed with a staff, very much like, yet unlike Parm's. His smile, maggoty white, leered at Parm, and the voice, deep, resonant and the very essence of masculine power, echoed through out the hall and in Parm's mind. It laughed, derisively, mockingly, coldly. Finally, after the taunting, the being spoke:

Fool. Weak, effeminate fool. Did you really believe that by pretty songs and iambic pentameter you could win friends? You yearn for stories of adventure, because you would never be invited to join any. Who has any interest in you? You inspire jealousy,
and silent mockery. People loathe you, as they do a whining
sychophantish dolt. Remember Wormtongue? You are not
even close to his level. You do not create respect. You create nausea. You write songs of praise of others. People claim your poems are lovely, but in truth, they expect such lyric skill from a woman, not a man. Even that woman Rho has more respect from her peers than you! She can wield sword and shield with
the best of them. You? You write pretty letters with pen and
ink. Pathetic!
Look at me! I command respect by my mere presence. You? You. You sicken me. Wrapped in the form of a man, you mince and step like some strumpet. You sing with the voice of a boy who has yet to become a man. Your beard took scores of years to produce, your frail arms are untried in battle and yet you have sired children? How I pity them. What son could take pride in a father such as you? What bloody battles have you be asked to join? None. Who wants you as their companion? None.
You could not do damage to me with a sword in your hand, even if I were to let you have the first free blow, with skin bared to your striking! What a pathetic weakling! Did you think you would long escape my notice? Did you think I would charitably allow you to achieve some modicum of greatness without telling you who you really are? Do you know? No, you don't. Silly scrap of flesh. You are the product of shame. Yes. Shame. Let that wrap itself around your feeble heart a bit! Not only that! Do you know how despicable that shame is? I shall tell you. Oh, I will delight in
telling you!

Did you think that Saruman fell before he met Gandalf that fated day in Isengard, when that grey fool was held prisoner? No. No tale tells Saruman's full story, because none have the courage to set quill to parchment to write it. So I shall engrave it within your pathetic brain. Saruman found the women of Middle Earth to be...entertaining. He declared himself to be Saruman of many colors. Was he always white? No. He could be red with passion, burn hot like orange flame with desire. He could tempt with cool greens and blues and woo maidens with a face ageless and serene. And from such playthings came...you! A quasi-istari.
Oh, I made a poetic phrase, Parm! Suitably impressed?

Fah! Poetry disgusts me, as you disgust me, you undigested
piece of pork rind. Behold me, and tremble!

With that, the being stood, and from his body blazed a blue-white flame, painfully bright and a cacophony of voices, raw,
rough, furious, despairing, shrieks, wails, curses and yells.
Anti-music, absorbing all beauty, melody, light and goodness
like a greedy, gorging parasite. The garments rippled with
power and the voices demanded awe. Parm felt hot tears
run down his cheeks. At their sight, the cowled being, laughed raucously, pulled back the hood to reveal...Parm himself.
The Doppelganger Parm.

East meets West

From the brief conversation between Rho and the newcomer it was clear that the woman, Aliana as she quickly learnt, posed no threat and so Alandriel tucked the blade away again. Rho obviously knew the dark haired maiden quite well, well enough to decide to introduce her to the Easterlings. Alandriel was surprised to see that Jiyadan accepted Rho’s suggestion of Aliana staying in her stead while she would go off to find Leoba and her brother. Her brother? Leoba had a brother and he was here?
Yes, she would follow Rho. She would be better off and away from this place in any case, at least for a while… out of Jiyadan’s sight. His last words still rang in her ears as she set off with Rho: ‘.. and take that red-haired witch with you.’ How those words stung, partly because he was right. Her craft, like any skill, could be used for good or ill and sometimes, many times actually, she had found it necessary to act on her instincts alone. Not often had she been let down but this time she was not so sure. Doubt and worry once more crept over her. Why had she traced those marks? What wheels had she set in motion by her actions?

They made their way over to the stables, retrieved Jiyadan’s packs and set loose his horse. Undoubtedly the fine beast would find its way back to its master shortly. Rho soon found Leoba and Alandriel quickly assessed the situation. Seeing the knight sprawled on the ground, his face albeit covered in blood showing a distinct resemblance to Leoba, Rho at his side shedding bitter tears of anguish, a few puzzle pieces clicked into place and she remembered the scene he had caused earlier at the wedding, how he had disappeared from the room. So this was Leoba’s brother, Culanir, and Rho was indeed very familiar with him as she had suspected earlier. Quite obviously he had gotten himself into yet more trouble. However, what worried Alandriel more right now concerned the whereabouts of whoever had put the knight in his present state. Judging by the many ugly bruises this had been an intense fight and his opponent, should he still be alive, might want to finish the job, possibly finding an excellent opportunity soon, right here and now: they were vulnerable and exposed. In any case, she had left her medicine pack behind and without it she could not provide efficient help. Taking all this into consideration her proposition made sense:

“We should move him. Aliana has a lamp and I have tinder, we’ll be better able to see.”

Alandriel overheard Leoba’s conversation with Eyriel and followed her gaze. Had she really spied Bardwhyn and Edain? That would be good news indeed. Eyriel took off to verify Leoba’s suspicion and Alandriel hoped that soon she would have a chance to talk to them both.

She led the way back, Leoba and Rho supporting Culanir, and they laid him gently in the soft grass a distance away from the others where her pack was. A closer assessment under candle light revealed that thankfully no bones were broken and so, with Leoba’s help and the shreds from her dress she quickly took care of her patient.

‘He will mend, with rest and care’ she reassured both women, ‘There is nothing more I can do at present.’

Now that Culanir was provided for to the best of her abilities, she felt that her presence was no longer necessary, no longer appropriate. It was clear that the three people needed some privacy to settle matters between themselves. She glanced over at Jiyadan but only received a hostile stare back in return. No, not even here was a chance for an attempt at reconciliation. It would be better for her to take care of her own affairs and return later to check on them. And so she excused herself to the ladies, grabbed her pack and headed for the stables once more. During her earlier trip there she had spotted a trough of water for the horses and that would do just fine for a much needed clean-up and a change of clothes. Better than an icy shower under the waterfall which she did not fancy at all.

Entering the stables she soon found what she was looking for and proceeded, in the dark, to wash her face and arms. The cuts and bruises stung but they did not ache as much as her mind. She quickly put some healing paste on the worst of the grazes and bound them with shreds torn from her undergarment. Leoba’s dress that she had so graciously lent her for this night! ‘Oh well, she will understand and one day I will make amends for it’ she sighed into the silence.
She pulled out her travelling garb, soft brown leather leggings and a dark green tunic with detachable sleeves and hood and quickly changed. Reverently she then removed her soft grey elf cloak and fastened it around her shoulders. Once it had kept her mentor safe and warm… now it belonged to her. For a while she then stood, alone in the dark, trying to sort her thoughts. The brooch! Picking the discarded dress off the floor she almost frantically searched for it and breathed a sigh of relief as she found the small piece of silver embedded in the torn folds of the dress. Carefully she peeled it out of the fabric and held it in her hand. It glowed almost ominously in the darkness.
What did it all mean? How were all these strange events of today connected? Yet again, no answers were forthcoming. She had begged Erinhue for help but it was clear that his paths must lie east and not west. Her riddle, although probably part of the evil that had disrupted this night, must wait. The master bard, as best man, would take off after the groom feeling responsible and blaming himself for the events, while she would seek answers from Moujhadin and Bardwhyn. Maybe they all would play their part in the hunt for the bride and she as a ranger would do her duty as well.

Leaving the green gown behind, she strapped her travel pack once more on her back and headed for the outdoors. As she rounded the ruins of the once splendid Inn, she saw a shadowy figure leading away another. Acting on a sudden instinct she called out: ‘Maelgwn, is that you?’

(edited to add title.... sorry!)

East meets West...

Maelgwn had been going to follow Anorast but the Elf was determined to accept no further aid and so Maelgwn let him go; there was no purpose in forcing help where it was not wanted.

Suddenly, after all the frantic excitement of the past few hours he was alone and strangely grateful for it. For a while he just sat down by the tents that had that afternoon been so charmingly bedecked and crowded out with guests enjoying the festivities. Now they were deserted and dusty but strangely the peredhel didn’t mind, it gave him time to collect his thoughts.

Certainly these were strange happenings and a far cry from what he had anticipated when he’d stepped up to the welcoming door of the Lucky Fortune earlier that day, in hopes of nothing more than refreshment and mayhap the cool invitation of clean linen sheets. Instead here he sat, bandaged, tired, aching in every limb and having bumped by chance into others of his calling whom he’d not seen in a while. And then there was the destruction of the building and that sensation so unlike anything he’d felt before. He gave an involuntary shiver. Something unpleasant was at work in the wide world.

Time slipped by and he overheard voices passing; people looking for friends, for possessions, talking of the kidnapping of the bride.

So that was what the Gondorian knight had been talking about as he took his hurried leave, Maelgwn realised with sudden clarity of vision and his heart plummeted like a stone. That coupled with everything else made up his mind. He would change his tack and ride not for the Havens as he’d intended but would rather turn down the Greenway towards Gondor. Whether of great import or no in the grand scheme of things, these happenings ought to be duly reported.

The ranger got somewhat stiffly to his feet and brushed the dust off his once rather fine grey velvet tunic. There were hardier travel clothes still in his saddle bags and that he thanked his lucky stars for as he made to go back to the stable, to saddle up his horse and head out on the road again with the first light of dawn. Assuming that was that something as beautiful as dawn’s gentle mists and hopeful glow could succeed this night’s work.

But instead of the stables he was drawn back to the inn, what had been the inn. There were others searching the rubble but that was not what had drawn him thither, for he had heard screams as though a soul were rent in piteous torment. Maelgwn began to run towards the sound, for nothing else but to shut out the terrible pain it caused in his ears but also to see if he could help to ease the hurt, whatever it was.

What he found was not as he expected. Rather than an injured person, trapped beneath masonry, bleeding, he saw a young woman. She was crouched in the shell of a room, her blonde hair loosed and wild about her tear-stained face. The half-elf ran to her and gingerly put an arm about her shoulders. She tried at first to fight him off. He tried switching into Sindarin thinking that the melody of the ancient words would ease her but it seemed to have the opposite effect and so he returned to Westron, asking her “What is your name?”

“Nienor Niniel” she told him in reply.

“The tear maiden” he murmured. Thinking how sad and tragically fitting her name sounded.

Yet she would not be drawn on what it was that had upset her so, could name neither person nor precious object she had been searching for.

“If you would come with me perhaps you should find some ease”, Maelgwn explained gently hoping that she would agree. “Perhaps somewhere to sleep, something to ease your dreams. Matters may seem much less oppressive on the morrow?”

N-N acquiesced and allowed him to lead her out. Not that the peredhel really knew where he was taking her expect vaguely to continue in the direction he had originally planned and to walk her free of the inhalation of dust. He was so intent on his charge that he did not take in the comings and going of those displaced persons who could not rest but the voice of his old acquaintance cut through his concentration: “Maelgwn, is that you?”

He looked up to see Alandriel coming towards him. Alandriel no longer in her wedding finery but dressed once again for the road.

“Yes, yes it is!” Maelgwn called back. “And I have a maiden here who is not well”. As they gained on one another he spoke in a softer tone again, his vowel inflected with the distinctive tones of the Greenwood realm. “If you have the makings of a hot posset – I know it’s a lot to ask – but something that might help the lady to sleep without ill dreams.”

Alandriel nodded and beckoned to him to follow her as she wended her way through the dark, his keen eyes followed her every move as his arm guided the blonde maid.

A newly sparked fire greeted them when they stopped. And Maelgwn saw once again the Gondorian from earlier and three women and were those the Easterlings sitting beyond the cosy ring of the campfire’s glow. Maelgwn took off his cloak and wrapped N-N in it against the cold and himself crouched down to watch as his ranger-friend drew a small packet of powdered herbs from her pack and set to boiling them in a small receptacle over the young fire. The peredhel just watched, hovering so close that he felt his face scorched by the proximity of the blaze as the sparks danced around, gold against the vibrant auburn of Alandriels’s hair.

N-N drank of the draught without much argument, exhaustion showing in the droop of her sad eyes and the slump of her shoulders until, much warmed and greatly relaxed in posture she sank at last into repose. Alandriel too soon joined her. And Maelgwn kept his eyes open and his knife close, keeping watch over his two charges.

East meets West...


Jiyadan did not look up when Aliana addressed him. He nodded his acknowledgement of her greeting, but did not answer.

When Rho returned, he thanked her quietly for his packs, immediately pulling out a thick blanket to cover Moujhadin better, then donned a heavy robe to stave off his own chills. He noticed the new arrivals, among them a man who looked like he was at death's door. The figure was so changed; Jiyadan almost did not recognize him. He looked at the bruised and bloodied man for a few moments trying to tell if it was indeed the man from earlier, up in the room. 'Yes,' he finally decided. 'That must be the man; who else could have drawn Rho away? How she cares for him... if he had only stayed by her side...' Jiyadan cut the thought short. He did not know why the man left but he was certainly in no position to judge his motives.

Turning again to the maid before him, Jiyadan placed a soft hand on her shoulder to get her attention. "If you could gather some wood, I will build a fire. The weather here is much too cold for us, I'm afraid we are not used to your northern winters."

Aliana looked at Rho for a moment, her old mentor had said not to leave for any reason, but she sensed that Jiyadan was in no danger and he even seemed to have accepted her presence. It was obvious that he was indeed very cold, and that could be as dangerous as any armed opponent, and so she complied.

When Aliana had returned, Jiyadan hurriedly built a fire, warming himself and Moujhadin and any who gathered around. It was not until he was warm that he noticed he had not eaten since the previous morn. 'No wonder I have felt so weak,' he thought to himself. Between the wounds he had sustained and his lack of food, he had nearly consigned himself to death. His mind suddenly turned to his wounds, tended and bandaged, and he placed his hand under his robes, feeling the wrap where the arrow had pierced his side. He never did get the story of events from Moujhadin as to what had happened. 'Tomorrow,' he thought. 'It can all wait until morning.'

Pulling some travel rations from his pack, he began to fill the hollow pit in his stomach, though he knew food alone could not quell the inner turmoil he felt. Moujhadin had stopped shaking from the cold and had settled into a deep, peaceful sleep, and Jiyadan relaxed a bit more. The red-haired witch had left, and in a way he wished she was back, if only so he could keep an eye on her location, but his trust in Rho held. He pulled apart some salted meat, offering some also to Aliana, who graciously, though a bit reluctantly, accepted.

Rho, meanwhile, was tending to her injured man along with another woman, and Jiyadan sighed inwardly. He watched her silently for a while, watched as she kept a silent vigil over the man until he had fallen into a deep slumber, her hand upon his. After a time, she stood and turned to look at him and Jiyadan felt she looked suddenly very sad, old almost, as if carrying a great burden. She touched the other woman on the shoulder and told her something that he could not hear, then started walking towards him.

Jiyadan watched her intently as she made her way across the clearing until she reached them. Looking down at Moujhadin she softly asked, "How is he doing now? Is he resting more peacefully?"

Jiyadan dropped his gaze to Moujhadin's face, which now looked almost peaceful. "Yes, he rests. Thank you," he replied softly, offering her a piece of salted meat.

Rho took the meat and then turned to Aliana. “Could you please go and see if you can find anymore food for us and for the others that are here? Perhaps there is still some food left over from the wedding.”

Aliana quickly nodded in agreement, and rose to her feet while Rho sank to her knees.

"Please, tell me what happened there?" Jiyadan said, motioning to the fallen knight.

Rho looked into his eyes, silent for a moment before she answered. "I don't know, I didn't ask and his sister didn't seem too eager to tell me."

Jiyadan saw what he perceived to be pain in her face, sensing she felt torn between two places. "Rho," he whispered, placing a hand on her arm, "we are well enough here. Please, return to your man, or bring him to the fire to stay warm, yourself as well."

The woman looked away from him, her thoughts appeared to carry her off to another time, another place, but she didn’t stay there long. Looking back at him she made a brief attempt at an explanation. “Jiyadan, he’s not my man, he’s...well...he’s...a friend…one that I haven’t seen in a very long time.”

He grew quiet at this new revelation, and they both sat silently for a time, chewing the dried meat. Jiyadan stared into the fire, watching the flames lick at the dry wood.
Wanting to break the silence, as well as truly being thirsty, Rho finally asked if Jiyadan had a water skin.

Jiyadan was roused from his thoughts by the question. "Yes, yes of course. Forgive me," he said as he pulled the skin from his pack, handing it to Rho.

After taking a long drink from the skin, she handed it back to him and he also took a drink, replacing the stop and setting it aside.

"Jiyadan, you should get some sleep," she said. "I'll keep an eye on things."

Jiyadan made to argue but found that he had no arguments to make. Rubbing his hand across his face, he nodded, knowing he would not have been able to keep himself awake anyway. "Please, bring him to the fire. It will be much too cold before the night is up," he said again. "And his sister as well. Do not let them sit in the cold."

Rho went to retrieve Leoba and Culanir, bringing them to the fire, and Aliana returned with some meager rations, left from the wedding feast after the destruction of the inn, that were shared among those around the fire. Jiyadan laid himself beside Moujhadin, pulling the blanket around the both to combine their body heat. It was not long before he fell into a turbulent sleep, filled with troubling dreams, yet when he woke the next morning he could remember none of them; he felt well rested and found Rho’s sword to be still at his side.

Followers of the Tangled Thread

Deore shifted around on the hard ground, trying to find a position that didn’t hurt her broken arm, envious of the ease with which her mother, stretched out on the ground beside her, had dropped into slumber. After the healers had set and splinted the fracture, Elana and Deore had gathered up their belongings and found a small space under the shelter of one of the reception tents. Elana had moved among the confusion, helping distribute food left over from the celebration to the remaining guests. Many had left already, if their homes were nearby, or if they could no longer bear to remain under the shadow of the ravaged inn’s ruins. But many others, daunted by the quickly falling night, chose to find what shelter they could under the tents until the sun rose once again.

Deore wondered what she and her mother would do come morning. They were homeless again now. In the weeks at the Lucky Fortune she had become accustomed for the first time to sleeping in a bed, and returning now to the hard ground she found it uncomfortable. So she wriggled and tossed. Would she be able to persuade her mother to join one of the search parties? Turelie-Lurea and Hobbi had been among the first to welcome them when they came here, and with fierce loyalty Deore was determined to scour the length and breadth of Middle Earth to locate the kidnapped bride. But she doubted Elana would be so eager to set out on a long journey into possible danger.

But I must go! Deore insisted to herself. I have the only clue! Momentarily she panicked, sure she had lost the precious bit of cloth. But then she remembered, how as she watched Erinhue fight the red-haired stranger, she’d tucked the scrap for safekeeping into the bodice of her gown. She fished anxiously inside her neckline, and sighed with relief when her fingers touched the piece of fabric. She drew it forth, and turned it in her hands, then tucked it back into its hiding place. Then she lay back down, and eventually drifted off into a restless and troubled sleep.

Tale of the Warriors of Light

One moment the room seemed ready to burn and burst from
the white hot light and horrific noises, then in an instant, silence.
However, even as a limb is broken in an instant, as flesh is
ripped in an instant leaving behind agonies to nurse, Parm
too, felt pain. Pain! Such pain! It crackled through nerves,
boiled through veins, exploded like malevolent fireworks in
his brain and thrust through his bowels like spears. Still standing, Parm screamed...noiseless screams. Mouth open, face stretched taut in torment, he screamed again and again. Nothing. Not one sound. His eyes were drawn in like the shrunken rind of a withered fruit. Yet nothing would end it...and then, like the light and noise, the pain ended, too.

See? a voice chuckled sadistically,
See what power is mine? Not just in sinew, but also in
sorcery. I am great! You are great, too. Oh, yes. Great in folly.
Great in stupidity. Great in weakness and fragility. One breath
of occultic power from me and you would shatter as an egg
dropped onto a stone floor. Do you doubt me? Perhaps a
another small sample?

Gloating, almost gleeful, yet mindless of its own folly, the
anti-Parm, raised his smallest finger, like a dandified court
jester. Piercing Parm's mind came a single note, off-key,
joined, in unresolved harmonies by another and another,
a symphony of cacaphony. Pandemonium pelted Parm.
He felt himself fall, first to his knees, then to his side.
Curled in a fetal hope of comfort, Parm heard himself
whisper...Eru, sweet Eru, help.

In that instant, a new voice entered Parm's mind. Strong, but
kind, commanding, yet gentle: Rise!

Struggling to his feet, to the explosive, guffawing delight of
the enthroned being, Parm stood.

Find your note. Sing!

Obediently, Parm opened his mouth. Where there had been no sound for a scream, now Parm found himself creating a note– a
single note. Clear, rich, full and unsullied by any thought of
revenge or violence. Then, in harmonic counterpoint a second, a chord, harmonic chords, from his single throat. The first note swelled in effortless crescendo, joined by its companions in music. Sweet pianissimo, to pianoforte, forte, fortefortissimo until even the mightiest trumpeter, the most powerful drummer
could not match the cannonesque might of the sound.

The creature's laugh lessened into a shocked diminuendo.
For the first time, it began to feel what its victims felt.
Pain!
Agony!
Harrowing. Piercing. Ripping.

Now amount of strutting and flexing could shield the arrogant creature from this assault. At first it had been bemused, then puzzled, then unnerved and now terrified. The sound became focused. The chords seemed to sharpen themselves like a blade. Bass and treble fused into a single entity of of matchless power. Parm energy was growing, swelling, tirelessly, joyfully, rapturously. It was ecstasy! All encompassing and festooned with gladness. Unknown to Parm, but even more horrifying to his torturer, Parm was also beginning to glow with light and then, heat. He was a cautious spark, a tenuous flicker, a growing flame, a blaze and conflagration of careless, enthralled abandon.
Parm was being transfigured into a vessel containing pure joy. Joy!
Joy?!
Not joy! The creature finally saw the real peril. It was being unmade. Its own evil was unravelling. Not being challenged, but untangled. Bentness was straightening. Wrongness was returning to its truer, former good. Lurching, stumbling, from the
throne, shrieking, screaming, scratching the air in hopes of find
some way to escape, the being drew closer inexorably closer to
Parm. Parm stepped boldly, gladly, cheerfully closer, too. Parm seemed almost dancing, the rancourous beast was staggering. For an instant, they were a paper's thickness apart. Then, like a bested warrior, it fell to its knees. First one hand, then the next raised in penitent pleas.

I...AM....SORRY.....F O R G I V E M E !

Like thunder, the voice rumbled from its sinuous chest, now
bare and scratched from torment.

Parm, ceased his song, and in the sacred silence that followed,
lifted the being in front of him, and embraced him.
Both were weeping.
In that instant, Parm felt less of an embrace and more of an absorption. Now, Parm felt as if he had dined on greatness, valor and nobility. He raised the sleeve of his robe, but his arm was no less muscled as it had been before. Yet, he felt a newer confidence. An undiscovered treasure.

He had forgiven...himself.

East Meets West

"I think that it is time I found the others who sheltered in that room back there. Do you? And would you come with me?” Edain asked, standing tall and almost courtly.

‘The others?’ Bardhwyn thought with a shock..yes, there had been others. What was it about this day?! There was a strange power at work, somehow, for she had completely forgotten about the others. For the last while there was only Edain and herself, the stars…

Bardhwyn looked about, recognizing shapes moving in the shadows and the voices echoing off the shrubs and fragment of wall they stood near. Yes, there were many others, the remnants of the Wedding Party all milling about, still in shock. She reached out and took Edain’s offered arm.

“Yes…I would. But…” Bardhwyn faltered. She heard music, so deep, melodious, almost intoxicating. She desired to go no further.

“Edain, I am suddenly very sleepy. I think,.. I think I will stay here…” She said, releasing his arm and sinking to the ground, the deep purple of her silken skirts pooling about her. “I can sleep here, Edain…”

“No, Bardhwyn, not here…” Edain urged.

A young Peredhel maiden emerged from the gloom saying: “Is she alright? That is Bardhwyn, is in not? Bardhwyn of Dale? The Lady Leoba sent me to find her.” The Peredhel maid pointed off into the distance where in the dim light it was clear that Leoba was leading a small party of survivors towards a fire and small makeshift camp. “My name is Eyriel, I can help you. She seems ill.”

“No, I am fine, just very tired. So very tired.” Bardhwyn murmured, resting her head onto the damp ground. “Edain…stay nearby…please. I am unarmed.”

She fell asleep quickly, having allowed the music to lead her on and she dreamt full and busy dreams where much was imparted and much discussed.

In her dream she said. “I will go north and seek her.”

East meets West

Edain barely noticed Bardhwyn take his arm, her touch so subtle. He did certainly notice her keel over in a graceful slow motion, however. The dress she wore Edain seemed to notice for the first time, and in his simple male vocabulary which possessed few words when it came to describing clothes, he could see that it was lovely. The young ranger could hear an annoying tinny harp sound somewhere in the back of his mind. He decided to shrug it off as a kind of tinnitus, the ranger’s defences chasing the music away as he could not bear sleep at this moment.

This turn of events was most exasperating, Edain didn’t think that his request for Bardhwyn to accompany him had been that boring or dull. Mentally rolling his eyes as he knew that she must have been hovering on the edge of sleep from her labours of the past day, he made to scoop up the blonde, stranger maiden. When suddenly he felt a presence behind him. He straightened up and in a measured manoeuvre stood between the new person and the recumbent Bardhwyn. The stalwart ranger appeared ready for anything in this dark hour.

Squinting at the sudden light of the oil lantern Edain could make out a soft faced maiden through which Elven blood coursed most clearly. As Bardhwyn swooned into a gentle slumber, Edain now focused on the maid, who had said that she was called Eyriel. Softly did speak Bardhwyn and only Edain seemed to hear her quiet words.

“She says that she is merely tired after such a full day.” Edain stated matter-of-factly. He then continued replying to the woman's queries.

“Not ill, I do not think she is that. What she does need is sleep, and a warm fire. Perhaps you could direct us to where her friends are gathered.”

At this point Edain truly realised just how few people he knew well at this wedding. Some of the guests were known to him: Maelgwn, Erinhue (How could he not know the Master Bard?!!), Hobbie (through chance meetings in the ‘Pony, and around the Shire), the Gondorian shield maiden, the foolish knight, the Eastern men and now he had met this Bardhwyn. He continued to deliver his words to the Perehrel lass.

“You may tell the lady Leoba that she is found. Now please light the way, dear lass.” Edain said softly as not to disturb the sleeping bridesmaid, as he swept her into his arms, once more. Edain grunted as he took stock, “uuff”
Her slight figure must conceal some muscle mass there, he thought to himself as he bore her away.

With the reddish glow of the lantern guiding them Eyriel and Edain soon found themselves back with the comrades who had shared the danger at the inn. Edain found a place for Bardhwyn near the fire, with a tender care, he placed her on the ground. Then seeing that there were no spare blankets immediately to hand, he unpinned his cloak and laid it on the ground. He wrapped the blonde bridesmaid in it lest she suffer a chill in her vunerable state, the night air being a trifle brisk. Edain made a mental note to retrieve his possessions from his horse Durfre whom he had left in the stables, as he started to shiver slightly. Evaluating the area he could see that Moujhadin and Jiyadan were snug as two bugs in a fine eastern rug could be in these cool northern climes. Rho was tending the fire with another maid whom Edain didn’t recognise nearby. Alandriel and her vivid hair was, near Maelgwn who seemed to be fairing well, he was watching over an Elvish(?) maid. The fallen knight looked to be in a horrific state, and another young woman lay nearby, Edain felt he could notice a family resemblance, between the knight and the young woman that slumbered. Introductions would have to wait as the weariness of the day bore him to the ground, and that damn harp music was booming loud in the background.

He struggled to remain on his knees and managed for a sort while. Swaying he recollected the events of the day and what had become of all of those who had participated in them! Edain hugged himself for a second as he pondered on what to do now. For he was a Ranger, a full Ranger of King Elessar, he sat in travel clothes, which had been improved by a scarlet cloak in honour of the previous day. The cloak now appeared worse than his usual green travelling cloak, bearing scars that normal travel would never bring. The red cloak which now graced Bardhwyn had been pinned with an ancient star rayed brooch once held by the father that Edain had never known. He ran his swordhand through his tangled red hair and a far away look lay in his piercing blue eyes. He had several options before him as he could see. He could travel to Rivendell or Farnost to inform the authorities there of the events of the day. Or he could travel with these new comrades and pursuit of the lost bride, and Herbert Took. Or he could stay here and help with the people who had suffered grievously through the explosion of the inn. Which option would best benefit his skills, and who would need him the most were the questions that demanded his attention swiftly.

Edited for title and small yet vital addition.

East Meets West


As the evening sky began to give way to the morning light, Rho was still to be found wide awake and sitting near the fire, just as she had done through out most of the night. There were a couple of times she had left, once to change out of her dress and into her traveling clothes, and another to collect enough wood to feed the fire through the long night. The Easterlings were still sleeping comfortably on her left, and Culnair and his sister were on her right.

Rho attributed her inability to sleep to the current dilemma she now found herself in and spent much of the night trying to figure out what to do next. However, if Moujhadin had been able to talk to her, he would have explained that it was actually the direct affects of the antidote keeping her awake more than anything else and how tonight would be different. Tonight she would sleep deeply.

Looking over at Culanir, Rho was reminded of their past all those years ago and then wondered why fate had brought them together now. At this time and at this place. She then remembered what the Easterling had said the night before and her concern grew. Jiyadan’s assumption of the relationship between her and Culanir had been wrong, but how many others who had seen the two of them together the previous day thought the same thing?

And now there was Leoba too. The shield maiden could see the questions burning in her eyes, which up to this point she had successfully avoided. The night had provided her with some relief, but it was only a matter of time before she would have to face Culanir’s sister.

A chill ran through Rho’s body at the last thought, but she believed the chill was from the morning air, so she wrapped her deep blue Mithril Knight cloak more tightly around her and stared back into the fire.

"Rho?" Leoba asked softly as though ascertaining whether her fireside companion was also awake. The shieldmaiden looked round and Leoba continued. "Several times we've met now and yet it's becoming clearer and clearer how little we truly know of one another."

“Yes I know.” Rho began, thinking, wishing, that things could have been different between the two. “Our paths do seem to be crossing more lately?”

"And more today than any other", Leoba mused half to herself, "and that's more than mere coincidence. Yesterday when you offered to look after Culanir.... it was not just a friendly gesture from one Bard to another was it?" Leoba gaze narrowed somewhat, scrutinizing Rho hard. But before the shieldmaiden could reply she pressed on. "And to be blunt with you, unpleasant matters have been, are being, unfurled and I fear for those I hold dear. Tell me honestly, what prompted you to stand by my brother?"

Rho looked away, and ran her fingers through her hair. This was the moment. The moment she knew was coming. The one she had spent much of the night trying to figure out how to respond to. Her actions and those of Culanir the previous day had revealed too much. In essence their actions had already broken their word. Their word that they had given many years ago. And if she could have talked to Culanir right then, gotten his advice, she would have gladly done so. But it was now up to her and her alone. Finally she answered.

“Loyalty...it was loyalty to him that I chose to stand by your brother.”

"Loyalty", Rho could see Leoba almost rolling the word over her tongue, tasting it, fathoming every subtle nuance of its possible meaning. A slight frown wrinkled her forehead and the puzzlement was clear in her eyes. "How and why loyalty? Do you know one another then?"

There was a long silence before Rho said anything. Her moment of truth had arrived. Taking a deep breath she finally replied, “Yes Leoba, we know each other. Although it’s been along time since we’ve seen each other...or even spoken to one another.”

Leoba was fiddling with the purse-strings at her girdle, avoiding immediate eye contact, as though she was trying to gather her thoughts together. "Forgive me, I have to ask this", Culanir's sister said, "and I wouldn't normally be so straight with someone I barely know but I hope you'll agree that this day and night have quite shattered convention". She looked pointedly at the bruised face of the still sleeping knight then back at Rho. "I could not help but overhear a little of the conversation earlier. The Easterling, he called Culanir 'your man'. Is that, well, is that what you meant by knowing each other?".

Rho smiled to release some of her tension, but then she looked seriously at the woman and answered. “No Culanir is not, nor ever has been ‘my man’. For as long as I have known him his heart has only belonged to Lurea. But your brother helped me once, many years ago. He was a friend, a good friend, when I truly needed one. His friendship changed my life and that’s why I am and will always be loyal to him…as a friend.”

"Thank you. And I'm sorry for suggesting..." Questions were still hanging in the air between them, natural and understandable curiosity about the nature of that friendship no doubt. Leoba's tone lightened a little.

"So, that was in Minas Tirith?"

“Yes, it was.” Rho paused again, and then it became clear to her. There was no reason to hold back anymore. She could only hope that Culanir’s sister could understand what she was about to do.

“Leoba, the reason you never knew about us, about the friendship that we shared was because we both had given our word that it would never be revealed. And for 10 years we’ve honored that. We’ve kept away from each other, not spoken to each other. Even when we were at the same functions we avoided each other.” The shield maiden looked away as tears came to her eyes. How she was so tired of these tears that had seemed to plague her. She had shed more tears since arriving at this wedding, than she had in previous years combined. But she pressed on.

“Yesterday, when I saw Culanir here, my concern was only for him. I knew what seeing Lurea marrying another would do to him, how it would tear at his heart. So I let my actions override my promise, our promise. I wanted to protect him from the pain, shield him from the hurt. I didn’t think about the fact that what was happening was in essence breaking my word to a promise I once made.”

She then looked over to the two sleeping Easterlings. If Jiyadan was awake and hearing any of this, Rho fully expected for him to stand up at any moment and throw her sword back to her. Claiming that her word had no meaning, no value. And he’d be right.

Another tear fell onto her cheek.

Rho then looked back at Leoba, and proceeded to tell her everything. The night she approached Culanir with her request, the following year of secret training sessions between the two, and then what happened when they were caught. When she was finished Rho turned her head away in shame. But Leoba now knew the truth. That her brother Culanir had been her first mentor. He had been the first to train her with the sword.

Leoba listened in silence as the tale tumbled from Rho's lips. By the end tears were stinging her eyes as well.

Tentatively she reached out a hand towards Rho but evidently thought better of it and withdrew again. "I think you did the right thing" she said after a long pause. "And I thank you for it, more than I can find the words to say."

At first her words didn’t sink in. Rho wasn’t expecting to be thanked, she was expecting to be chastised. But when she finally looked over at Leoba, looked directly into her eyes, she saw both sincerity and compassion. The two emotions the shield maiden didn’t expect to see, and certainly didn’t feel she deserved.

Yet when everything finally sunk in, when Rho finally understood, she quietly said, “You’re welcome.”

East meets West...


The conversation with Rho had fallen into a lull but Leoba couldn’t remember falling off to sleep. She only knew now that her feet in their thin bridesmaid shoes felt like blocks of ice, but that strangely her body wasn’t as cold as it ought to have been given the fact that she’d been out all night without a cloak to shut out the probing fingers of cold. As the foggy mist of sleep cleared from her consciousness she realised why; she was enveloped in a cloak. But it couldn’t be hers, for that was somewhere in the inn, along with everything else she called her own and hoped for some slim chance of recovering when the sun gave them light to see by again.

The fire was still going and she shuffled a little closer, holding out her feet towards the flames as though she would toast them. Swiftly the leather warmed through and the damp they had picked up from the dewy grass began to dissipate.

“Be careful there,” came a low grating voice close to her ear. “If you set your toes alight I might have to dump you in the waterfall to put you out”.

Her head spun round, wild joy leaping in her eyes as she saw her love and felt his strong hand reaching out to take hers.

“Dirk, where did you come from? I had no hope of finding you till morning…” she would have gone on, but as further words of greeting rose to her lips they were swiftly silenced with a kiss.

SB put an arm around her shoulders, “Do you think I’d stop until I found you safe?” he asked her without the faintest hint of reproach. And then murmured into her hair, “And it is morning, beloved.”

Morning, that was something that ought to be announced with a hearty burst of bird song and the vibrant splash of gold in the East, instead of this gradual spread of a lighter grey trying to crack the inky blackness on the horizon. But at least the daylight was putting up a good fight against the dark that had blinded them all for so long, made any attempts at salvage futile.

Leoba tried to snuggle up against Dirk, quite ready to drift off into a nap again but he was having none of it insisting instead on helping her to her feet.

“Come, you’ll catch your death of cold if you sit on the ground much longer and there’s things to be done”.

She allowed herself to be pulled up and coaxed to one side out of earshot of the others, where she explained to Dirk as best she would just what had been going on, from the sight of her brother tussling with the Master Bard, through the piercing song of Agarak to their current straights and what she’d just heard tell from Rho. Leoba felt in something of a quandary. She was torn between an urge to stay by her brother’s side and hold him back from further scrapes until he was safely home again. And yet also she was drawn by a strange sense of loyalty to this inn and the people here; so short a time in the grand scheme of things and yet it had become a home, one of many in a life of upheaval.

Her thoughts were interrupted. “I want you to come back with me to Dale.”

“But what about the inn? What about Culanir? And Lurea?”

“They’ll be fine. Your brother will make his own bed just the way he wants it, whether you will it or not. And Erinhue has enough people to help him rebuild, if indeed that is what he’s going to do. And Hobbi has already gone to seek his wife and the authorities will be on the case before you know it.”

“Yes I know that” she replied, watching the ground all of a sudden, forming her thoughts. Then something snapped inside her. What was she doing wasting her time worrying about all these people, these matters. Leoba looked back up at Dirk and all the myriad problems began to drop away. Why was she worrying when all the time the answer was here right in front of her, staring her right in the face with those beautiful deep grey eyes. It was true that she owed loyalties to Culanir and Erinhue and Lurea but not before him.

“Of course I’ll come with you. Though I have nothing but myself and the clothes I stand up in.” She felt a pang of sudden sadness then for material things, items she hadn’t thought would matter. All those belongings she marked as precious to her were lost in the inn, all except the amulet she always wore around her neck.

“We’ll see about that” Dirk told her. For already with the coming of the dawn the shell of the inn was being searched properly as people endeavoured to recover whatever they could and so they headed back towards the Lucky Fortune to see what could be found.

When they returned some time later before making their goodbyes, Leoba was in possession of a travel cloak and her harp, both of which had been downstairs in the taproom. But the rest of her possessions were upstairs and it was deemed too unsafe to venture there until the walls and floors had been properly shored up. More than anything she desired her sword but that she would have to live without for the time being, much as it was a terrible wrench to leave without this heirloom of her mother’s side in her hands or girded at her hip. But she had had a word with Aerin, asked her to take care of her things and promised to be back. There was little else she was placed to do.

Bardhwyn was still asleep but neither Dirk nor Leoba were prepared to depart without taking proper leave of their friend the Archer. Leoba gently shook her until the barding stirred unwilling from slumber.

“Bardy, we’re leaving here. I’m taking Leoba to Laketown, to my father’s inn”, Dirk told her

Leoba knelt down and kissed the Dalewoman lightly on the forehead. “Until we meet again my friend, take care and may the Valar protect you on your path, where’er it might lead.”

Alandriel was also stirring and scrambled to her feet to say goodbye when she made some mention of the green dress Leoba had loaned her.

“Oh no, please don’t worry about it. You’ve more than paid for it in the care you gave Culanir.”

The two women hugged and vowed that their paths would cross again.

Rho’s ears had pricked up at the mention if the Gondorian knight. “What happened to him?” she asked Leoba at last.

Clutching hard at Dirk’s hand Leoba bit her lip. Part of her thought she should tell this brave shieldmaiden just who her loyalty had allied her to. And another part thought that the best she could do for her brother would be to continue to shield him. Then she looked down at the knight, still lost in slumber, the ointment applied by Alandriel now dried in his beard and cloying at his hair.

“I think that’s something Culanir should tell you” Leoba said very gently. “It’s not my place to explain”.

Rho looked over at Culanir for a moment and then back to Leoba. The need for answers now reflected in her eyes, but she would wait.

"Alright, if you think that is best." She finally replied and then wished the couple a safe journey.

Lastly Leoba went to her brother. He slept still, the best cure for his bodily wounds at least. She brushed a finger across his cheek, soft as a feather lest she disturb him. All she could hope for was that he would take the right turns.

Dirk was beckoning to her; they had a hard ride ahead of them and needed to get out on the road. With a last glance back at the assembled group, they headed to the stables where their horses were waiting.

As they rode out East, Leoba allowed herself one last look at the closing of a chapter.

Tale of the Warriors of Light

A single tear.

That was all that remained of Parm's dream. A characteristic sigh, his subtle smile and a new resolve. He knew that he was not vital to the search. The others were intent on that. They were not hounds out to hunt for a rabbit. They were friends, deeply hurt, profoundly angered friends in search of justice and the restoration of the happiness of other friends.

This was no game. This was a bitter, wretched reality. Honor had been sullied. Now was the time for responsible action,
well-planned approaches. Parm had been an officiator at an event. That was all. His duty had been raggedly performed.
He had attempted to heal a hurt friendship.
That friend was gone.
He had attempted to help a troubled soul who had shattered the tranquility of the ceremony with her outcry. She was gone.
Family waited.
A position waited.
He had no business joining the others whom he knew were far more capable of this sort of quest than he. It was the height of madness.
Insanity!
Outside of the ceremony he was a mere scribe.
Was his aid enlisted by any? No.
Was he sought out to join any band? No.
What skills could he lend? What possible use was he? None. None at all. He was mere decoration. Pretty. Appreciated at the moment, but hardly the furniture of a home, the stuff of life that mattered. He sincerely doubted if anyone knew or even cared whether he would lend any aid at all.

Twice he had made his rounds to offer help. It was as if he had been a ghost. His visit to Lady Aerin was as if he had been an annoying fly, brushed away so that previous comforts might be enjoyed. He was unnecessary, he was...in the way.

However.

He had made a commitment, to be a member of the Bard's Guild. He was a twice-recipient of a Bard's pin...for poetry, not sword-play. Others were warrior Bards. Well and good. He was not like them.

Yet his dream had revealed something potent. Not all warriors carry swords. Some carry other weapons. The Light of Truth.
The Music of Knowledge. A knowledge of one's gifts and the ability to use them. He did not want to be in the way.

He had, nevertheless, made a vow to support his Guild. He had proclaimed it to all. That vow was the single thread that linked him to this group of people who, for now, and possibly for the rest of time, would only remember him as the pleasant fellow
who made nice rhymes at the wedding and nothing more.
So be it.

Unable to express why he felt hurt by the seeming rejection,
he turned that sorrow into a new resolve. Lady Heather was ready to go with him. Alfirin and Nessa had said they would come too, so that they might get to the bottom of this evil by delving into the past: by research.
Romantic? Hardly.
Enthralling? Please.
Critical? Possibly, and perhaps even certainly.

For there is one thing an enemy hates more than a sword in its belly: it is to have its own strongholds broken down and its defenses lost because the opponent has the battering ram to break it all down. That battering ram would be the truth and
the understanding of all of Parm's gifts and those of the little
company travelling with him, as well as his reinforcements at Imladris. Aravel...and Mellaurelom.

Mellaurelom would be his guide, his eyes, ears and voice there.
She would help Aravel to calm the children, to assure them that
all was well. She was a friend.

Parm rose, stretched and went to the stables to seek out
Lady Heather, then Lady Alfirin and Nessa.

It was time to go.

Four Elves and the Master Bard

As Falathiel stepped down from the sheltering ledge beside the Falls she paused a moment as a familiar voice blew across her mind:

"You are needed…You are needed…Retrieve it. The necklace is still unharmed and shall be necessary on your journey…You are not going to the Undying Lands. You are going to help the hobbit…I am a friend, a powerful friend who once tried taking Lurea from her beloved and failed. There is true love there and it shall not be destroyed as long as I walk Arda. As another ancient, you should understand and push back your feelings, as you have done always in your long life. You are of a strong and noble line--do not fail it now."

Maelan! She looked about for some sign of the great Maian eagle, but could not see him anywhere. Then she realized her Telerin mind was hearing a message meant for another: Tinuviel Undomiel!

Fala knew then she must find the Noldorin Elf. After Tinu's tragic outburst during the ceremony Fala suspected she might be contemplating going to the Undying Lands. She had heard from afar Tinu's thoughts of devastating rejection, of wanting to flee, of despairing of any hope for happiness this side of the Sundering Seas.

Her heart was broken. Her spirit was almost as shattered. But this was not her fate, not yet. She was indeed of a noble line and once aroused she would muster the courage and valor of her heritage. Though disheartened and disillusioned, shamed and rejected, she was merely bruised, not truly broken—as the deceptiveness of evil would have her believe. She needed someone to counter the lies that the gathering evil was whispering to her spirit and snatch her from its hold.

Fala believed that Tinu would not shun a call to help. In her heart Tinu loved both Turelie and Hobbi. Her Noldorin blood was rich with nobility, self-sacrifice, courage and mercy. And Fala had to find a way to wake that up!

The slender Elf made her way over to the ruins of the Inn, where she believed Tinu would be searching for the dark shimmering piece of jewelry. As Fala walked she became suddenly aware of the churning of the waters of the River Horwell. What was disturbing its deep wells? What powers might still be lying in wait to do further damage to those gathered here?

She felt a tug at her very being—as if every molecule of water in her body was crying out: beware, beware, Fair Friend of the Waters! Something was indeed stirring—for good or ill. And a vision of fire and the dragonharp flashed through her mind like a bolt of lightning.

Indeed a fledgling power had been recently awakened in her, and she did not know yet the extent of its power, nor her purpose in being granted it. But so it was often with the gifts to her from Yavanna. And she knew in time, with discipline and discretion, she would learn the reason for the stewardship of such a gift. And what her connection was to the great dragonharp—she admitted to herself with a smile—was a mystery she longed to figure out.

'No time for contemplation now,' she thought. 'The evening is fast waning and soon the morning light will bring the dawn and many inquisitive voices. I want to be well down the road by then.' She had seen Teltasarewen send off the injured Hobbi and follow him on horseback soon after. Fala knew just what direction to take.

Falathiel had witnessed many of the events of this day from where she sat away in the solitude of the Waterfall. The gathering cloud of shadow, the mounting tension between many of the guests, the abduction of the Bride—she had see them all.

She had heard the lies murmured into the hearts of the wedding guests—rangers and Easterlings, Elves and Hobbits, women and men. This evil seemed to have whispered into the heart of every person there some thorn of sadness or despair, some memory of pain or loneliness, some treachery of deceit or violence.

When suddenly the Bride had been abducted Fala was dismayed and angry, but not completely shocked. She knew some evil was afoot. It was further confirmed in the confusion that followed the abduction, when even trained warriors moved as if in a dream, floundering and confused, held back by some strange spell. Otherwise Master Erinhue, Captain Beliran, and the host of Swan Knights would have quickly chased and overtaken the kidnapper.

No, this confusion, this shadow of evil, this introspective depression and despair, this accusing finger pointing at friends and sowing seeds of separation and suspicion had played a well-planned and foul hand this day.

But it was not the end. No, this was but the beginning of some blazing trial, some grander theme and greater glory for those who would be fashioned by its fires.

Falathiel believed in her heart that this evil would prove to be only the unwitting instrument of a greater plan. For this she believed about any evil that Eru allowed to intrude into the lives of those he loved. And she knew that the magic of the great dragonharp was part of the sovereignty at work. He too had watched and listened all through the day. He too had risen, at the appointed time, to meet the call and accomplish a great task.

The Elf's footsteps were as light as mist as she sprinted across the river-rocks and over to the smoldering ruins of the Inn. Fala was quiet and quick—like a gentle breeze blowing through the rubble. She needed to work fast and find in this mess something she knew would assist not only the faithful Hobbit in his search, but his Bride as well, once she was found.

"Ye! Utuvienyes!"* she sighed, as she discovered her traveling pack. Everything inside was intact, if a bit jostled about. Even her spare riding clothes were still neatly folded. 'Thank you, kind Eru, for your never-ending grace!' sang her heart.

Suddenly behind her she heard the voice she was hoping to hear.

"Falathiel!"

She was delighted to see the lovely Noldorin Elf she had hoped to find. She was pierced to the heart, though, at the great sadness in her face and the darkness of confusion in her usually twinkling, beautiful eyes.

"Tinu, fair one! Elen sila lummen' omentielvo!** I am indeed glad to see you." Fala took Tinu by the hand, squeezed it gently, and looked with great affection into the slightly clouded, sky-blue eyes of the lovely Elf before her.

"What a sad day it has turned out to be! And yet it seems even now that fortune is changing. Look! I have found my pack, and now I have found you! And even as we speak the stars are glowing brighter and there is the sweet scent of night jasmine in the air.

"My friend—if I may be so bold as to presume your friendship—may I have a few minutes to speak with you? There is an urgent matter on my heart and I need your help."

Tinu nodded, a little hesitantly. As if she was not sure she wanted to hear what might be forthcoming from this Elven cousin of the Bride.

"I know that this is a very painful time for you—please forgive my intrusion on your grief—but I very much wish to have your help. I need to find Hobbi. I need to give him something that I think may be useful to him. And I may need to stay with him to help him find Turelie. Will you please come with me?

I know this would be hard. I know it would be a sacrifice for you. And I know that your own heart is breaking on many levels. But I also know how highly Turelie has spoken of you—that you are kind, noble, and brave. I believe that you are one of the few here tonight who can rise above the adversity of her own grief and disappointment to answer a higher call.

I know which way Hobbi has headed and I know something also about where Lurea may have been taken. It means we must leave tonight. Will you come with me? Will you help me aid Hobbi and Turelie?"




*I have found it!
**A star shines on the hour of our meeting!
********************

The Groom’s Hunt


It was cold, so very cold. And damp with it. The dark clouds, which had been threatening to open all morning, did so mid-afternoon and although the rain was but a pattering on the rocky path at first it soon became fiercer until both Hobbi and his faithful steed were soaked to the bone.

It was now the third day since the Hobbit had left the Lucky Fortune Inn and he was now struggling through the High Pass above Rivendell.

Hobbi was squinting his eyes in an attempt to see through the downpour but his long hair refused to stay out of his face and insisted in whipping around in the wind and striking his red cheeks. His hands were raw with the rain and the freezing wind and clutched at the reins of Matilda loosely. His body swayed in the saddle as if he might tumble from his seat at any minute but Matilda seemed to sense this and had slowed to a cautious walk without instruction. The rain had gotten behind the bandages on his leg and now the wound was stinging painfully, teasing him for the fact that there was nothing he could do with it. He had bathed it three times with the herbs the Scribe had given him and although it was healing already at a speed most unnatural he could still not put any weight on it and it continued to hurt. Hobbi knew that there were wounds he had that hurt more and he would bear for much longer, in a way it helped to concentrate on the pain coming from his leg…it was a welcome distraction sometimes.

The wind grew stronger and the rain turned to hail. The hail was larger than any Hobbi had ever seen before…every time he was hit it felt like he had been pelted with a stone, Matilda grew increasingly uneasy as she was hit many more times than her master. Hobbi reached his rigid fingers into his pack looking for his blanket, he fumbled for a few moments. His fingers would not move, he felt helpless and a sudden frustration overcame him. With sudden ferocity he tilted his head back and as loud as he could he swore with all his heart at the sky.
Whatever the sky might have thought of his foul language it made no response, but Hobbi suddenly felt a little better as if part of his stress had vanished. He gave up looking for the blanket and instead leaned further forward in the saddle to try and avoid some of the hail been blown across at him.

Hours passed and Hobbi had reached the halfway point of the pass when Matilda gradually slowed to a stop. For a few minutes Hobbi did nothing, his limbs felt heavy and he was unable to move. Eventually he leaned forward and patted Matilda’s neck, whispering in her ear,
“Matilda…please, we must go on…” was all he could manage to say but Matilda would not move. Gripping the reins as tightly as he could Hobbi leaned heavily to his left and then half grappling half falling he slipped off Matilda to the floor. The ground was hard and has the weight hit his damaged leg a bolt of pain shot up through him. He cried out aloud and fell in a heap on the rocky floor. Matilda moved then and began to nudge his body with her long nose. Hobbi’s head sagged to one side, his entire body was shivering and the pain in his leg suddenly developing into sudden sharp tugs. He spoke but had no idea what he was saying for his mind wandered elsewhere and he saw the valley of Rivendell, the Blue Mountains and for the first time in a long while the fields of the Shire appear in his mind.

Matilda was weak. The trauma of the last few days had tried her strength. She would do anything for her master but she knew her limits and had for a long time now been pushing hard at their boundaries. She had unearthed stamina from places long hidden, had continued when her whole body cried halt and now as her precious master lay lifeless before her and she could not take one more step she suddenly keeled over too.

The Hobbit and the Pony lay together in the mountain pass. The rain and hail continued to fall, plish, plash, the wind continued to blow, but both Herbert Took and Matilda were now far away in roads seldom trodden trying to find their way back home.

Four Elves and a Master Bard

"Tinu, fair one! Elen sila lummen' omentielvo! I am indeed glad to see you." Fala took Tinu by the hand, squeezed it gently, and gave her such a look of great affection that Tinu nearly turned away, for she did not feel deserving of such love. Why was she here now? Why was she speaking so kindly to the one who could have made her cousin miserable for the rest of her immortal life?

"What a sad day it has turned out to be! And yet it seems even now that fortune is changing. Look! I have found my pack, and now I have found you! And even as we speak the stars are glowing brighter and there is the sweet scent of night jasmine in the air."

"My friend—if I may be so bold as to presume your friendship—may I have a few minutes to speak with you? There is an urgent matter on my heart and I need your help."

What could be so urgent and of such a nature that she was being taken into such confidence? Tinu wondered, yet nodded. Her mind told her to do otherwise, for it believed that this might be a threat to her plan of sailing to the Undying Lands. It knew that she had a kind soul that usually gave in to helping others, whether she liked it or not. She could not stand to see others suffer as she had done in her long life.

The ancient Noldo looked upon her kin as she waited for Fala to continue, her eyes still threatening to pour rivulets of tears once more at this sudden kindness from Ture's cousin. She could not see the brightness of the stars, nor could she smell the sweetness that wafted so gently upon the swirling eddies of the air. Oh, how she wished she could, but for her, these things were nonexistent now, for she could no longer savor the sensations of her existence upon MiddleEarth.

"I know that this is a very painful time for you—please forgive my intrusion on your grief—but I very much wish to have your help. I need to find Hobbi. I need to give him something that I think may be useful to him. And I may need to stay with him to help him find Turelie. Will you please come with me?"

At the mention of Hobbi's name, Tinu grew ashen. Her suspicions had been correct--the cousin was trying to find her relative and the newlywed husband. She began to withdraw from the conversation, the words becoming hazy in her mind, holding on more tightly to the Hobbit Protector. No, she could not do what Fala was asking her, even though she knew things about Lurea that Fala most likely did not. Her mind reminded her that she had already pledged herself to joining the dwindling numbers that sailed west and to forget about the troubles of MiddleEarth, for there was nothing there for her anymore.

But then Fala began to plead with her, her eyes alight in her passionate speech. This elf was determined to find the hobbit and his wife, oh how Tinu cringed at that word, and she knew that Tinu had some piece of the puzzle. Ture had once spoken to her about Falathiel, about her family and her Telerin blood. Nearly cursing in her stupidity, Tinu realized that she was most likely trying to read her thoughts at the moment. She closed her mind much as she closed her body off to others as she spoke, pushing herself away from what might hurt her. Tinu was ready to give her answer, but Fala was not yet done trying to convince her.

"I know this would be hard. I know it would be a sacrifice for you. And I know that your own heart is breaking on many levels. But I also know how highly Turelie has spoken of you—that you are kind, noble, and brave. I believe that you are one of the few here tonight who can rise above the adversity of her own grief and disappointment to answer a higher call. I know which way Hobbi has headed and I know something also about where Lurea may have been taken. It means we must leave tonight. Will you come with me? Will you help me aid Hobbi and Turelie?"

Oh, how she wished she could speak up and vocally take all validity out of Falathiel's beliefs regarding her. Tinu was no longer the kind elf who helped others. She wanted to help herself this time. Never had she been brave--why had Turelie lied to her cousin about that? Perhaps Ture had projected her own qualities upon her, as she so often did with others. Besides, she was no longer friends with the Master Weatherspeller--she had put an end to their friendship the moment she had acted upon her passions and spoke aloud at the wedding. She had, in effect, said that her friend was not good enough for the hobbit, and for that Ture would never forgive her. For as few faults at the Master Weatherspeller had, her pride made up for the lack of others.

"I cannot."

Tinu spoke simply, bowing her head in shame. She was not the elf that Falathiel believed her to be.

But the longer she thought, the more she worried about Ture's responsibilities. And what of her own? Ture was gone and Tinu was the second-in-command in RaumoVaiwa--what would happen to the weather of MiddleEarth if no one watched or weatherspelled? The more she thought, Tinu realized that until Lurea was returned, she could not leave.

But the worst was seeing Fala's face fall--she could not miss that expression as her head bowed, nor could she ignore it. How could she let another down? She asked herself, tears coming unbidden.

Suddenly, she recalled the Hobbit Protector she had clenched so tightly in her palm, so tightly that it left imprints upon her smooth flesh, marring and bruising her physically, just as the day's events had bruised her soul. The Protector needed to be with the hobbit--she knew this. But Fala would not bear it alone, even if she knew why it must find the hobbit; she would ask Tinu to join her. And suddenly, Tinu felt very weak and unable to control her life. She felt uncertain about going west. What should she do? Fear shone in her eyes, as she no longer knew which way her feet would point. What did Eru wish for her? Oh, how she wished her wise friend Yavanna were here...

Finally, after this battle within, her guilt grown terrible and menacing, only to be alleviated by an act of good will toward another, Tinu slowly turned to look at the elf who still stood there, observing all with a keen eye and an open mind. Fala knew her decision before she spoke it, so obvious was the change of heart.

"I shall go with you, mellon lissë*. But do not be convinced that I shall remain with the party. I have my own hand to deal in this game and must do so before I can have peace at last.

"Yes, I have suffered, but I do not wish your pity."

Seeing the slight protestation in Fala's kind eyes at this, Tinu quickly added:

"You do not seem to be such a creature to pity another of your kin, I know this. But I warn you; if I had not, troubles might have arisen along the path you have chosen.

"I have decided that I shall indeed follow your journey, but only so far as to-- She stopped abruptly, clenching her teeth to keep from crying at the thought of him --Hobbituk. I must give him something that will aid his investigation--and yours. After that, I have decided that I will make my way home at last."

Tinu stood there, silent once more, gauging Fala's reaction. Would she take on someone who was not likely to accompany her all the way to Lurea's captor?


*Sweet friend

Followers of the Tangled Thread

“You know you asked if you could help. I think we’ll manage with Culanir but would you mind seeing how Bardhwyn is and, whoever is with her? We have to move my brother urgently but we’ll be round the back, if she would join us; I’d not want to lose another friend in this chaos.”

With a nod of her head, Eyriel grabbed a lantern from the table and hurried towards the two figures Leoba had directed her to. She reached them just as the woman slumped to the cold ground with exhaustion. The man knelt down over her.

“Is she alright?” Eyriel asked, holding up the lantern in a feeble attempt to brighten the situation. “That is Bardhwyn, is in not? Bardhwyn of Dale? The Lady Leoba sent me to find her. My name is Eyriel. I can help you. She seems ill.”

The woman stirred and responded. “No, I am fine, just very tired. So very tired. Edain…stay nearby…please. I am unarmed.”

She closed her eyes and immediately fell off into a deep, and most likely well-deserved, slumber. Eyriel turned to the man.

“She says that she is merely tired after such a full day,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Not ill, I do not think she is that. What she does need is sleep, and a warm fire. Perhaps you could direct us to where her friends are gathered.”

Eyriel nodded. Swiftly and gently, the man lifted Bardhwyn into his arms. She led them across the field and around to the back of what was left of the inn and watched to make sure they made it to the others without trouble. Then she turned and started walking back across the field, but with no purpose or any clear direction.

Perhaps I should just leave, she thought to herself. But something inside told her she ought to stay; it did not feel right simply to walk away from such a situation, even if there was nothing left for her to do. Besides, where would she go?

Leaving her lantern on a table under one of the tents, the half-elf sat and leaned back against one of the tent poles. She closed her eyes. Perhaps things will seem clearer in the morning, she told herself.

The Groom’s Hunt

The sun had set three hours earlier and yet Bryttar continued to press on. Although there really was no reason to. Not only had his unexpected encounter and need to assist in it resolution taken him away from his intended destination, but it had cost him time. Time he didn’t end up having. Hobbi’s wedding had been held the previous afternoon and he had missed it.

But his destination had been the Lucky Fortune Inn, and so he continued to head in that direction. Of course Hobbi and his new bride would no longer be there, but Bryttar still had their wedding gift to drop off, and he was hoping to hear about the ceremony from some of the guests that had remained.

Bryttar and his horse continued on the narrow path that followed beside a small stream. The lack of trees in this particular spot aided in his ability to see the path from what little light the moon was giving off, and his small torch was useful in illuminating the details of the ground.

As the path began to veer away from the creak and towards the trees Bryttar noticed a small orange glow off in the distance. He proceeded to keep his horse at a walk until he was close enough to make out a figure sitting alone next to the fire. Stopping, he dismounted and called out.

“Hello. May I approach your fire?”

A female voice responded. “Who are you and what is it you want?

“My name if Bryttar, I’m from Rohan and I wish some information about the Lucky Fortune Inn.”

“Is that where your headed?

“Yes,” he replied back. “And I’m hoping that I’m close...well within a days ride.”

“Closer to two days.” She answered back and then asked, “Why do you seek the Inn?”

Still holding his horse, Bryttar sighed and realized that his little side venture had taken him further away than he thought.

“I was to attend the wedding of a friend...he was to be married yesterday.”

Suddenly the voice became a lot friendlier, “You know Hobbituk?”

At the sounds of his friends name, Bryttar’s smiled. “Yes, I know Hobbi, he’s a good friend of mine. May I approach?”

“Yes, please!” Came the reply.

Bryttar slowly made his way to the fire and after introductions were made, then he and Telta sat down next to the fire as she began to fill him in on all the details. The wedding, the kidnapping, Hobbituk’s quick departure, and the destruction of the Inn.

When she was finished Bryttar sat speechless. Never had he heard of such calamity and destruction falling upon a place in such a short period of time. And then there was Hobbi. The thought of him loosing his bride and now off alone in the wilderness, almost broke his heart. He knew that the Hobbit was stout, but still to be emotionally, as well as physically wounded would be affecting him greatly.

It didn’t take long for the elf and the Rohirrim to agree. He would join with her, together they would pursue the hobbit. And if it hadn’t been for Telta's horse needing some rest from their twenty four hour pursuit, Bryttar and the elf would have left right then. However, they both agreed that leaving in the morning would be best.

When the conversation appeared to be over, Bryttar went off to untack his horse and then brought his pack over to the fire. Quietly, he unrolled his bedroll and said goodnight to Telta. From the look of sadness in her eyes, he doubted she’d get much sleep, and he knew that he wouldn’t either, but at least if he laid down and closed his eyes it would provide her with a little privacy throughout the night.

When morning finally arrived they shared some food, quickly packed up camp, and were soon tracking the hobbit’s trail. His path was easy enough to follow, since it was clear that he wasn’t trying to hide where he was going. But for some reason even though the elf and the man made good time, they were still unable to catch up to him.

They rested again that night but not because they were tired. The terrain had become so difficult to navigate that it was impossible to continue in the darkness. When morning arrived, the third day after the Inn’s destruction, Bryttar and Telta were once again up early following Hobbi's trail. They both knew that they were close too. Unfortunately as they begin to navigate the high pass over Rivendell, the dark clouds, hovering off in the distance, were slowly moving in their direction.

Four Elves and a Master Bard



"Yes, I have suffered, but I do not wish your pity…You do not seem to be such a creature to pity another of your kin, I know this. But I warn you; if I had not, troubles might have arisen along the path you have chosen."

"I have decided that I shall indeed follow your journey, but only so far as to— She stopped abruptly, clenching her teeth to keep from crying at the thought of him --Hobbituk. I must give him something that will aid his investigation--and yours. After that, I have decided that I will make my way home at last."

Falathiel smiled into the eyes of the Noldorin Elf before her. The deep blue of a summer's clear sky rather more resembled at this moment a deep pool of sparkling waters, brimming with tears and fathoms deep in memory.

But even as she smiled at Tinu, Fala's posture straightened, her shoulders squared, and her delicate chin gave a barely perceptible outward thrust.

"Alas, my friend, we are Elves of honor. Pity does not become us, nor is it warranted here. You must indeed choose your path. And I would not keep you from it. If you are willing to come with me as far as our journey takes us to find Hobbi, it is enough. And I would be grateful for your company, as well as your help."

Fala again grasped Tinu's hand, squeezed it gently, and laughed softly.

"Come, we will need to quickly gather some provisions, find our mounts and rekindle a sense of humor. We should both look a sight to undertake such a journey in these wedding clothes! Do you have some traveling clothes you can change into? If not, I have something fresh that should fit you well enough for travel."

Fala picked up her traveling pack and turned her gaze toward the open area away from the rubble. People were scattered about, some still stirring, some sleeping contentedly--or so it seemed.

"I believe Master Erinhue has some part to play in this tale with us, as does his fair lady and the dragonharp. I must speak with him right away."

Turning back to Tinu, she smiled again. The lovely Elf was so fair, yet so full of pain. There was nothing to pity here, but there was something to admire: something timeless, something noble that was hidden in this Noldorin jewel, as if she were a gorgeous diamond that had yet to reveal her most beautiful facets.

"If then your will is decided to ride with me to find the Hobbit, please gather what things you have need of and come with me to find the Master Bard. I hope to put a good distance between us and these smoldering ruins before another day passes. Do you have a mount in the stable?"

Tale of the Warriors of Light

The dawn had not yet quite come, but a blackbird sang over the camp, promising light and a fair start to the morning. On the horizon the black night was just starting to turn pale.

Alfirin turned over in her huddle of cloak and blankets that she had pulled together from goodness knows where and cursed the bird's melody. What did the feathered beast have to sing about so loud and so cheerfully? It was but another morning, just the same as so many others she had faced. Then she recalled. Perhaps it was rather different. But not necessarily better than all those others.

Slowly, the memories of the night before returned to her sleep hazed mind. How could she have been so foolish!. First to drink like that, then to get caught up in this ridiculous explosion that the pestilential dragon harp had caused, and last (and worst) of all, if she remembered truly, she had agreed to go off to Minas Tirith of all places, with that naive and well meaning scribe, Parm. She had nothing against the man, unlike most others she had met, but she knew his innocent enthusiasm would gall very soon. She would, as ever, lose her temper, say something outspoken. And then, like all the rest of those that she had tried to form friendships with, he would hate her and she him. So her oath drove her, and there was no escaping it.

And the drink she had had last night. What had it been made from? She hardly dared open her eyes, fearing what light and sensation would do to her alcohol abused brain. Slowly and carefully she pulled herself into a seated position, and shading her face with her hand, opened first one eye and then the other.

By some miracle, the dim early morning light was pain free! Perhaps the magic of the dragon harp's fire had burnt away the alcohol as well as the temptations of ancient evil. If she could make a start now before the others awoke, then maybe she could get away from this idiotic promise.

But in front of her, silhouetted aginst the first rays of the sun was the familiar figure of Master Parm.

"Good morning Lady Alfirin. I trust you are rested and ready for our journey?"

She groaned and closed her eyes again.

East meets West

The cold of the pre-dawn hour seeped into Alandriel’s bones but that was not the only reason why she shivered and wrapped herself closer into her grey cloak, still half asleep. Her fitful slumber had been haunted by many dreams. In her semi-conscious state she tried holding onto any remaining vision shreds before they would slide forever from her mental grasp, tried to make sense of them while they were still fresh in her mind. Some of the images were similar to the ones she had experienced while tracing Moujhadin’s scars. Others were new but, nevertheless, she sensed that they were all somehow connected. She had seen the face of a woman bearing some resemblance to the Easterling. The lady had smiled at her in her dream but then also wept, her expression changing into one of great pain and sorrow. There had been an image of two trees, reminiscent of the legends of the trees of Valinor and, surprisingly, Bardwhyn’s face had faded in and out of that scene. With each effort at clarity the dream slowly faded more and more and what remained were questions, questions for which she would seek answers.

Opening her eyes to the now slowly fading darkness, she saw the lone figure of Maelgwn standing guard not far from where she lay and she gave a mental ‘thank you’ for keeping her safe this night. Turning her head, she took in the curled up shape of the elf woman next to her. The draught she had made for her seemed to have done its task well.

Some distance away she recognized Leoba and the shape of a strange man making efforts to wake the Dale woman. From the way they interacted it seemed that Leoba was taking leave and so Alandriel got on her feet, hugging her cloak closely in an attempt to drive out the cold. If Leoba was indeed departing, then at least she must tell her about the dress. Not wanting to intrude, she stood and waited for Leoba to approach her. Alandriel was glad to see that the lady held to grudges over her ruined gown but then, she had known her reaction would be precisely so. Few people she had met were as generous and kind in spirit and action and with a sad heart she hugged her goodbye. Farewells were never easy, but seeing Leoba go left her more sad than she had thought possible. It was only a short time she knew her, yet Alandriel somehow felt very close to her.

Sighing deeply, she cast a glance around for her pack. It would not do to let her spirits be dampened any further and the best way to drive out the chills would be a hot drink. Rummaging around in her pack, she quickly located a small boiling vessel, a cup and her herb pouch. In the semi darkness it was not possible to identify visually which small parcel held what she was looking for but her nose soon found the one holding mountain mint. She unwrapped it with stiff fingers and put a pinch of the herbs into the pot, adding some water from her flask. Careful as not to wake any other sleepers she made her way over to the still glowing fire and put the pot into the hot coals. Alandriel sat rubbing her hands and shoulders until the welcome warm yet refreshing aroma of the boiling infusion wafted up.
She poured a cup full then removed the hot vessel to the side where it could stay warm. Taking a cautious sip from the piping hot and fragrant liquid in order not to burn her lips, a content smile spread over her face. Mountain mint was one of her favourites, and she enjoyed the warmth now spreading through her body.

Looking around her she saw that many sleepers were starting to stir. Bardwhyn sat not far from her, her arms hugging her knees, the glow of the fire throwing highlights onto her red cloak. Red cloak? Alandriel had no memory of a red cloak, especially not one that looked so fine. Who was this woman and what role had she played in yesterday’s events? Looking down at her cup she decided to find out. Maybe with a gesture of kindness she would be able to tackle one of the many questions that bothered her so. With ease Alandriel stood and walked slowly over to the Dale woman. She seemed to be deep in thought and did not hear her approach.
The ranger went into a crouch, holding her steaming cup out to the blond and pale woman and said quietly:

‘Maybe you would like some of this. My name is Alandriel and I am a little versed in herblore. I trust you will find this draught refreshing and warming. It seems to me you could use both on this chill autumn morning.’

Tale of the Warriors of Light

Parm stood in front of Lady Alfirin, silhouetted against the first rays of the sun. He spoke flatly. Allowing very little inflection of
either pleasure or irritation to enter his voice.

Good morning Lady Alfirin. I trust you are rested and ready for our journey?

She groaned and closed her eyes again.

In my pack, over here, you will find a fresh flask of black coffee. I found a bit yet remaining, heated it, and have it ready to drink.
There are two still rather fresh sweet rolls and some cheese.
Take what you like. If Nessa awakens as well, please let know
what food is available this morning. I will return as soon as I may with Lady Heather and then I need to explain my plans.

He nodded politely, turned briskly and headed for the stables.
He knew that Alfirin was not even near to being a good friend, but
she was civil to him, and it was up to Parm to show her that
despite his grating kindness and sweetness, the evening
experience has tutored him in new lessons of life. He also had
to make it very clear that their journey to Gondor was of the utmost importance if they ever hoped to thwart the evil that was
gathering to harm not only the bride, but the Guild of Bards. He would have to convince her that it was a worthwhile task, but
one that was not without costs. It would not please her at all for
her to discover how limited Parm's knowledge was. He would
need to draw on the knowledge of others surreptiously.

Instincts nudged him to believe that Lady Heather would be
at the stables. She was a healer, wise in the ways of many forms of leech-craft and herb lore, but she was also a skilled warrior. Parm reached the stables and called out her name.

****
Aravel saw a large owl return from where her husband had left.
Mellaurelom! Returned? But why? If she had word to bring her
it would come.
Valaniel, their youngest, wandered into Aravel's chamber, with
a piece of parchment on which she had written, in the smallest
letters she could muster, a message to her father:
F. Be brave. Be safe. I love you. V.
"Could this be sent to Papa?" she gently pleaded.
"I will take care of the message, dear," her mother responded
with equal gentleness. "Now, off to your morning lessons."
Valaniel, who normally skipped here and there, simply walked
out, with a decidedly slower and more pensive gait.

Tinula pulled her aside, once outside the chambers and the
whispering games began. Aravel smiled, amused by the silliness, and charmed by the earnestness of the dialogue.
"So?" Tinula pressed.
"Mama will take it in hand."
"And do what?"
"Take care of things."
Tinula rolled her eyes and whispered a bit more harshly,
"Of course she will. And that means it will stay here for a while.
Oh, Vala! You have thistledown for brains! Well, at least the
message is writ and we have to wait. Arahn is bound and
determined to set out to find Papa. Only Farafalin is keeping him
close at hand with woodcraft skills and some tracking games."
Valaniel began to wander off away from her plotting sister.
"Well, at least I have done something. Now I plan to do something else, as should you. Lessons?"
*****
Willum had heard the whispered rumors as he made his
rounds to do errands for his family. He loved the rumors, but he
always got into trouble believing them. They were, after all, just that: rumors. News without proof. Suspicions masked as fact.
However, he knew that the absence of Lady Heather and Master
Parm hinted at something.

A sudden tug on the ear and he was reminded of his chores.
Perhaps his chores could take him on a longer route, maybe
even back to the Prancing Pony to see what he could see?
But first, second breakfast...blueberry muffins and fresh milk
at Aunt Daisy's. She always fed him, complaining he was
shrinking away to nothing.

East meets West

Dispite the Dragonharp's spell Edain slept little that night, there was too much to be done. When he was rested enough to stand again, he had fetched his horse and gear. Durfre he tethered nearby. Grabbing his green travelling cloak he had slumped to the ground and pulled the garment close, to ward away the crisp night air. He must have slept at some point.

When he came to he was in a sitting position, hugging his knees. His eyes felt gritty from too little sleep. Keeping quiet he warily surveyed the surrounding ground, he noticed that the lady he would know later as been named Leoba had left and his fellow rangers Alandriel and Maelgwn were up.

Edain tried to doze off again, but his active mind wouldn't let him. Besides with Alandriel providing the lady he knew as Bardhwyn with a hot morning drink. The previous events and the night before seemed like a tangled dream. Dispite the earlyness of the hour he managed a smile.

Four Elves and a Master Bard

"Alas, my friend, we are Elves of honor. Pity does not become us, nor is it warranted here. You must indeed choose your path. And I would not keep you from it. If you are willing to come with me as far as our journey takes us to find Hobbi, it is enough. And I would be grateful for your company, as well as your help."

At the end of her noble speech, eyes glittering in golden hues, reminiscent of the shimmer upon the leaves of the mallorn, Falathiel took Tinu's hand, look earnestly into her eyes, and squeezed the hand ever so gently with a laugh upon her voice. Tinu could find nothing more to say, as it seemed that Fala understood her desires. However, she was also intrigued by this elf, as ancient as she, yet so mirthful and vibrant upon the Earth.

"Come, we will need to quickly gather some provisions, find our mounts and rekindle a sense of humor. We should both look a sight to undertake such a journey in these wedding clothes! Do you have some traveling clothes you can change into? If not, I have something fresh that should fit you well enough for travel."

Tinu nodded, lifting her simple leather bag from beside her bare feet. Contained within was her riding gear, the numerous bard pins she had accumulated (the most recent upon the cloak she wore over her delicate shoulders), her notebook of poems and quill, and finally, her everyday gown, the tightly woven sky blue gown that was warm enough for a cool day and cool enough for a warm day, being of one of those mystical fabrics that only the Weaver’s Guild can produce. The sleeves were long and reminiscent of Galadriel's; its overlying layer was one of lace made of the tiniest shimmering beads, only visible to the human eye when moonlight pierced the dead center of the bead. Durable and resistant to dirt, it was both befitting of a Noldor and practical.

The hardy, well-worn leather boots that were conformed to her delicate feet, the laces worn with age, yet apparently well-made, she placed on her feet before she sought out a quiet, private place in the woods where she could dress.

"I thank thee, Fala, for your kindness. Indeed we are too well-attired at this moment, but I need only a moment to change."

Fala nodded and continued with her plan.

"I believe Master Erinhue has some part to play in this tale with us, as does his fair lady and the dragonharp. I must speak with him right away. If then your will is decided to ride with me to find the Hobbit, please gather what things you have need of and come with me to find the Master Bard. I hope to put a good distance between us and these smoldering ruins before another day passes. Do you have a mount in the stable?"

Tinu, still somber, though slightly lightened from her miserable load by the cheerful countenance that emitted such sunshine with each smile, nodded.

"Yes, I do indeed have a mount waiting in the stable. Alagos, my steed, should be well-rested and ready for even the most difficult of paths. As for items of necessity, I have none, save for that found in my knapsack. However, if you desire provisions, these I can acquire with little difficulty. It appears that much of the food this day has been salvaged and will soon be divided among parties determined to find their quarry."

The elf swallowed with a bit of difficulty at the thought of Lurea, her face flashing before her eyes, but managed a wan smile.

East Meets West

"Bardy, we’re leaving here. I’m taking Leoba to Laketown, to my father’s inn.”

"Laketown?" She whispered in reply to Dirk, her eyes still heavy with sleep. Leoba knelt down, kissed her forehead and wished her well yet cast a quick glance to the red haired man, sitting yet asleep, his head down on his knees.

Bardhwyn followed her eyes and saw in them a passing cloud of concern.

"Wait, both of you, please," She whispered, grabbing Leoba's hand. "Dirk.. get a message to Lysandros, please. I won't be returning to Dale."

At this comment, Leoba's face darkened.

"I need to get to Les.. to Ani-la. I will be traveling alone, or with Scribbles, Leoba." Bardhwyn added with a nod. "Please, ask Lys to come find me, in Les.. in three months time. And tell him I" Bardhwyn stopped, her face flushed, "He knows he needn't worry about me, in any respect." She finished saying.

Leoba looked confused but Dirk smiled and understood. These two Dalers, Lysandros and Bardhwyn, they were so much alike. So much in love yet so reticent - hesitant to speak aloud the obvious as if it were a spell that would break if they dared.

"I will tell him all that and more, fear not, Bardhwyn. Farewell." Dirk whispered.

Leoba and Dirk departed and Bardhwyn, now wide awake, sat up and drew her knees up to her chin, wrapping the Ranger's cloak about her. Edain sat in shirtsleeves, apparently waking, off to one side.

The memories of the previous night returned and Bardhwyn wrestled with them. Why had she done what she did? And why the loss of memory?Why did she have this feeling of connection with this man, Edain, and with these other people: the Easterlings, these two women and the Knight of Gondor. Strange.

Her thoughts drifted as she watched the dancing flames of the fire. She grimaced at the long, arduous journey over the Misty Mountains that awaited her - in late Autumn it would be hard going. She thought of the long wait that would come with it. It would be at least 5 weeks before she'd reach Les and be able to get some ideajust what was happening to her. Ani-la, Bardhwyn's mentor and apprentice to a Maiar, a peer of SilverScribe's, lived there and she could help her.

Bardhwyn then thought of SilverScribe.

SilverScribe!

Bardhwyn's heart stopped in her chest. SilverScribe could help her understand what had happened. If not all, at least some! Bardhwyn needn't wait till Les.The strange events really began with the healing trances she'd taken to help the Peredhel. Yes! Find SilverScribe and then set out for Les with a clearer mind, hopefully. Or at least some idea of what new dangers she may face.

But where was the Half Elf? In Rhudaur, somewhere, in retreat - alone and hidden.

"Maybe you would like some of this."

Startled, Bardhwyn saw a mug enter her field of vision. She took it and and smiled. "

My name is Alandriel." the red haired woman continued, "and I am a little versed in herblore. I trust you will find this draught refreshing and warming. It seems to me you could use both on this chill autumn morning."

Alandriel. Yes, that was the name Edain used the night before.

"Thank you. I am called Bardhwyn. I am from Dale, hence my manner of speech." She said, struggling to find apt conversation so early in the morn. She took a sip of the tea and found it proved better tasting that she expected. Off to the side, the Ranger was now awake and smiling wanly.

"Good morrow, Edain." She said. "My thanks for seeing me to the fireside." Bardhwyn said. She looked to Alandriel. "I was overtaken with such tiredness last evening, I would have happily slept in the bushes back there. It was if a spell was about."

"I think, perhaps there was." Alandriel added, dropping onto the ground next to the Daler. "Forgive me, Bardhwyn, there are some things I must ask you. Things that occurred last evening … may I ask you now?"

Bardhwyn took a deep in breath as this request was laid before her. The words felt very heavy to her heart and she felt tightness in her chest. Could she answer? The request caught the Ranger's interest as well, it seemed.

Taking another sip of the hot tea, Bardhwyn struggled for words and her gaze fell and became fixed on the sleeping Easterlings.

The Easterlings. Snatches of dreams returned. Sand, wind…

"Or perhaps you'd like some food?" Alandriel asked, breaking the Barding's reverie.

"Food? Oh, food.. I can't recall when I ate last. Early yesterday?" Bardhwyn commented, putting down her empty cup and diverting her gaze from the two foreigners. "Yes, Alandriel, let's break fast and we can also speak, though I do not know how informative I will be. I am, I fear, as full of questions as you."

Bardhwyn looked over at the Ranger once again and she recalled the Dunedan's comments the night before, that she'd spoken Quenya and some other tongue.

" I think Edain may be able to answer a few questions, as well." She added.

Tale Of The Warriors Of Light
Through the haze of dreamless sleep, Heather heard her name. Instantly awake she lept to her feet and whistled for *Araondoiel before answering.
"Here, Master Parm! Are you ready to leave?"
*Star Song, Heather's Elvish mare.

East meets West

‘I think Edain may be able to answer a few questions’.

Bardwhyn’s statement made Alandriel’s head turn. Edain was indeed awake and seeing him there, sitting on the cold, damp ground in shirtsleeves, oblivious to the early morning chill yet sporting a smile, she could not help but smile in return. Bardwhyn had finished her tea and Alandriel picked up the empty cup again.

Holding it out invitingly to Edain, she said: ‘Maybe you would like a hot drink too. The pot is by the fire and maybe you can help locate some food. I have some cured meat and dry fruit in my pack but if we can supplement that with other fare I certainly would not mind.’

She put the cup down into the grass once more where Edain could recover it if he so wished and walked off to fetch her pack. A quick search revealed some strips of dry meat, raisins and dry apple slices. Not much of a breakfast but then maybe Edain would be resourceful too.

On her way back she noticed that Jiyadan had woken and was now sitting up still wrapped warmly into his rug. He surveyed his surroundings, casting a weary eye in her direction when he saw her. Rho was sitting by the fire, seemingly lost in thought.
Should she take the chance and try and approach him? Why not? There might not be another chance soon to say what she needed to get off her chest. Tucking the food quickly into her tunic pocket, she stepped closer to the fire but stopped short, when she realized his tenseness.

‘Good morning Jiyadan’ she called out softly, holding out her hands in a gesture of peace. ‘Do not be alarmed. I will step no closer until invited.’
Sighing, she continued: ‘You are a stranger to these lands and its customs and you do well to be apprehensive. But don’t let your weariness blind you to the truth hidden in your heart. If I was indeed your foe as you assume, then why did I pull you from the threshold of death only yesterday? You do remember, don’t you?’
After a short pause that passed without a comment from the Easterling she added: ‘You see a witch and a healer in me, but I am more than that. First and foremost I am a ranger, like Edain, like Maelgwn, sworn to the service of King Elessar, to uphold the law of these lands and fight evil where-ever and in what-ever form it presents itself. I do not yet fully understand what has come to pass here and what has happened to your friend, but I believe neither do you. Dawn is bringing a new light and I hope some of our questions will be answered.’
Casting another long almost pleading look in his direction she finished by saying: ‘All I ask is that you search truly in your heart and consider my words. I might yet need to help.’

She left him to ponder her speech and returned once more to Bardwhyn and Edain, setting out the supplies in front of them. Edain contributed some bread and they shared the food between them. Chewing on a dry apple silently, Alandriel mulled over Bardwhyn’s last words: ‘I am, I fear, as full of questions as you’. It seemed then, that she had no clear recollection of what had transpired or certainly had not been fully aware or conscious of her actions. Maybe if she could jolt the Dalewoman’s memory by revealing some of her experiences and dreams, then possibly some of the questions could be answered. She fixed Bardwhyn with a ponderous stare and started:

‘Bardwhyn, I believe we both share a rare gift; the gift of being able to occasionally touch the hidden web of energies behind this physical world; to see and experience things most others don’t, maybe even manipulate and change events or set things in motion of which we might not have a clear understanding but a deep knowing that it would be right.’

Seeing that the Dale woman did not flinch at this statement, she continued:

‘I studied with the help of a mentor, an ancient wise woman once, and she taught me much about herb-lore and the ways of the hidden web as well as relaying tales of the secret ways of other races. When I took care of Moujhadin yesterday, some old memory of just such stories prompted me to look for ritual scars. When I found them a deep intuition led me to trace them, until he interrupted me but then you stepped in and finished the last two symbols. His reaction was one of anguish and intense pain. Do you remember any of this?’
Bardwhyn was now deep in thought as Alandriel continued: ‘Many confused dreams disturbed my sleep last night. Images of endless sand dunes, fire, a man with a blazing mark on his forehead, a stunningly beautiful Eastron lady not unlike Moujhadin; but most puzzling of all pictures that remind me of the legends of the trees of Valinor with your face fading in and out of focus. Does any of this make sense? Do you have any recollections?’

The Groom's Hunt

The dark clouds that had been hovering off in the distance since she left the inn loomed closer as the morning wore on. Another day had passed and still Hobbituk eluded her.

Turning to her left she looked at the man riding beside her. Until two nights ago she had been on her own searching for the wounded Hobbit and if she had not stopped to rest Shadowdancer then their chance meeting would not have happened. She had been fortunate that he had come across her fire and had stopped considering that she almost decided not to start one and at the last minute thought better of it in case Hobbituk was nearby and saw it.

Focusing on the path ahead and keeping her keen eyes ever watchful for any sign. How he had gotten so far ahead of her in his condition was astonishing. She was no horse expert but at the speed he must be urging Matilda on the pony could not survive the strain. Nor could he. Telta silently berated herself for having been foolish enough to let Hobbituk talk her into letting him go. If she had been any kind of friend she would have gone with him right then...

The wind picked up and the clouds let go the rain. She pulled the hood of her cloak up over her head to help keep some of it from her face. At first it was light but as it neared mid afternoon the wind picked up as the storm moved in it grew worse. The rain soaked their cloaks but neither stopped. The further they rode through the pass the more Telta felt that she had missed something. This weather would slow Hobbituk down no matter how much he wanted to push forward and they should have seen some sign of him by now.

The elf cupped her hand around her mouth and shouted over the howling wind at Bryttar
“I think that we have missed Hobbituk. We should turn back.”

Bryttar shouted back. “I think it is a possibility. But if we do not find any sign then we must continue.” Telta nodded her agreement and turned her black stallion back in the direction they had come from.

They rode slowly trying to take in every detail looking for some sign but the storm wasn’t making it any easier...then Bryttar spotted something lying in the mud just off the path. Jumping down off his horse and yelling as he went “OVER HERE TELTA!!” Her first thought was they had found him.

She jumped down too making her way through the mud but was disappointed to see it was only a blanket nothing else. Bryttar saw the disappointment and felt it himself. “I‘m sorry Telta I thought it was Hobbi.”

“I thought so too Bryttar.”

“Don’t worry we’ll find him. I’ll not let my old friend perish out here.” he said as much to try and convince himself as her.
Telta wiped her wet face clearing her vision of the rain. Bryttar turned to walk back to his horse when a flash of lightning lit up the sky and Telta saw something just up ahead.

“Bryttar wait. Over there.” she ran as fast as she could and stopped just short of her objective with Bryttar right beside her. There lying in the mud and rain was Matilda and beside her was Hobbituk. Telta knelt down beside him he moaned as she lifted his head carefully off the wet, muddy ground. He was alive...

*******
Telta-Master Bard
Official Vana Honourary Adoptee
E.O.

Four Elves And A Master Bard

”I don’t have the right to lie here in your arms"

Instead of replying, Aerin touched the sensitive tips of her slender fingers to Erinhue’s forehead. He was talking nonsense and must be fevered. His brow was overly warm to her touch but not uncommonly so for him. Once again she feared the long ago fever that nearly claimed his life had never truly left him for it was surely fever or folly that made him talk that way.

Erinhue was young by comparison and only a few years had shaped his vision, but Aerin was both deathless and ageless like her kind and she saw with greater clarity than her husband in this matter. What happened here today was not his fault, it wasn’t anyone’s fault and no one could have forseen the horrendous turn of events fated for that luckless day.

There were other forces here at work and the clean darkness of the night seemed to harbor evil shadows. The destruction of the Inn had not destroyed that cloud, not completely. It’s essense crept among them seeking out what ever weakness it might exploit to feed the despair and hoplessness already entrenched in every heart.

She suddenly realized the source of those disheartened words. The darkness sought to engulf her husband’s soul. She murmured softly that it was not his fault. She tried to gently explain that Hobbituk was hurt beyond words and it was much easier for him to be angry with Erinhue than it was to face all the implications and possibilities of this cruel twist of fate.

Again she stopped. Her words would do no good, the darkness swallowed up her words before they could deliver the comfort of their intent. Aerin stopped,gathered her strength and prepared to fight the battle her beloved could not fight for himself. She placed herself between his spirit and the darkness and took it on.

It was no stranger to her, not at its core. it was the same sort of force she battled with her healing skills. This was an illness, a disease of the mind and soul and spirit and that was a battlefield she knew, it was an opponent she could conquer. Calling on her healing skills, Aerin held her husband close and rocked him like a child. She sang her love to him knowing it was the best medicine and the strongest shield against the powers that assailed the man she loved. She could not heal his heartsick spirit, that he would have to find a way to do for himself. She could protect him, now, in this moment, she could protect him from the darkness which she knew sought to do him further harm.

Her voice sang soft but rich with power, strong in love and invincible in battle on her chosen field She sang as gentle breath beneath a sky primed for dawn's first beginings and while she sang she had the power to keep her beloved safe.

Tale of the Warriors of Light

Lady Heather's eager response was tonic to Parm's tired soul. Oh yes,
he liked this elf maid. Wiser than mortal women, brave and skilled in
arts Parm could only admire, but never produce for himself. Yet, even
so, his dreams, his visions, looks and snatches of conversation were
making it all too clear to him that he, too, possessed gifts and a
kind of power that needed focus and control.

M'Lady, if all is ready with our other two companions, we are ready
to plan our journey.
Yes, I know my voice is softer than necessary, because I must speak
with you carefully about three critical things.
First, the dowager Alfirin will join us. As much as it lies within
you, do not give in to sharp replies, chiding words and anger. These
are poison to her spirit. Some of us bear burdens so great, that the
slightest addition to them will break all. You have already sensed
the tornado of emotions within her, the pain, the jet-black memories
that rob her of inner peace, joy and charity. She acts kindly because
she knows it is to her best interests, not out of some deeper desire.
Be kind. Be very kind to this hurting soul!

Second, I have, of late, been the victim of a horrific attack upon
my mind. Yet, to be honest, the details are no longer clear to me.
From time to time I see things, hear things, feel things and I am
not sure if they are reality or not. Watch me close! If behave rashly,
oddly, even cruelly, do what you must to bring me back to where I
should be. By no means allow me to become angrier than a mortal might.
It will have serious consequences.

Finally, we set out on a journey, not a pursuit. If we encounter
ruffians along the way, and I am sure we will, I will rely on your
renowned battle skills. I can use my staff, but no more than is
necessary to defend. I am bound by solemn oaths to attack no one.
Our goal is to find information that will help us learn how to undo
the great evil that descended on the Lucky Fortune Inn and brought
about its need to be purged of that evil by Agarak. I am also on a
quest of my own to find out who I really am, who sired me and why this
knowledge has been kept from me. I have gifts, Lady Heather, that may
surface at dire moments. Note well how they were used and explain to
me what triggered them and what took place. Only an elf can do this.
Only they have the gift to see beyond sight and to remember beyond
time. I have more need of you than you might ever possibly know or
understand.

Please accept this crystalline pendant as my thanks for your
willingness to come. The crystal is said to bring warmth when it is
cold and refreshment when the bearer is fevered.

Parm knelt, took Lady Heather's hand, and in gentlemanly grace,
kissed it gently.

Tale of the Warriors of Light
Heather smiled and accepted the crystal pendant, hanging it about her neck. It clincked against another medallion, one of elvish metalwork, engraved with the aphrodel flower in a pair of healing hands.
As Parm stood, she imulively embraced him; the quick, light sort shared between friends.
Thank you Master Parm, and I will do my best, with Eru's help to assist you as I can.
My sword and my gifts are at your service. I will join you in just moments, since I have them, then wil be able to assis the others if they need it." The half elf's smile widened. "Araondoiel is ready to be on the move."
At the mention of it's name, the milk white mare nuzzled parm's hair then sneezed.
Heather laughed for a moment, but then her look grew serious. "I will find you in moments."
Heaer and horse walked behind the stables, where Heather quickly changed, then saddled Araondoiel. Last of all, she replaced all her weapons and securred her extra baggage in the saddle for now.
The two found Parm, Ness and Afrin talking, and eating breakfast.
Heather wore brown trousers, tucked into her tall black boots. Her oversized, light blue tunic was tucked loosely into the waist of the trousers and covered with a wide black belt. A black camisole was just fisable under the tunic and her green/grey, elvish cloak topped it off. The girl was bristling with weapons, clashing with the Healer's Bag slung over her shoulder.
She joined them for breakfast, then waited patiently for them to be off.

East meets West

Dawn had risen and slowly the rays of sunlight would be bringing some warmth to the shattered groups of wedding guests.
Was it a small echo of the sun on her cheeks or the effect of the drink and the spell both gone? However, finally Nienor-Niniel woke up. She was blinking in the morning sun, not remembering exactly where she was among the ruins and how she had come there.

She had been wandering around, like in a living nightmare, when all of a sudden; Elrond himself had walked out of her dream to give her rest. Elrond himself? It was not possible. Nin rose in a quick movement: have I lost my mind? she wondered. There had been moments in the last day; she knew it, when she had been closer to madness than to sanity. But those she remembered very well. But his riddle had to have an answer, and she was determinate to find it.

The answer was easier than she thought. She interrupted her first, instinctive movement to rise, because of a small, stitchy pain in her back – she must have been sleeping in a very uncomfortable position. Best was to get on her feet. There was a nice smell in the air, something that reminded her of mint or basilica and would fit better in this weird morning than even the best coffee.

Back on her feet, when she looked around, she saw some small fires burning, and close to one a group of people which held the answer to her riddle. One was a red-haired woman, whom she seemed to remember. She had seen her briefly at the beginning of the wedding- and Leoba had borrowed her a dress. Where was Leoba? And what had been her name – Aleiniel – something like that. Maybe she knew. The man standing beside her could have been her brother – at least by the colour of hair. She was sure that she had never seen him before. Both of them were dressed like Rangers. They were talking to Bardwhyn – at least one known face. Yet, Nin did not call out for Bardwhyn, she always felt shy about the Daleswoman who so openly disliked Matrim.

Close to this small discussing group, stood another Ranger, and though she did not recall his name or face immediately, Nin understood when she saw him. He was a peredhel – so that was why she had thought that Elrond himself had been coming for her. Elrond would never be back – and he would never have forgiven her. But in her state of mind, any peredhel would have carried his features.
Nobody had realised that she was awake and she decided to take the time to recover herself fully, before talking to anybody. So many other people were still around, and she still wanted to find some of her friends and understand what had happened to them since events had split them apart.

Tale of the Warriors of Light

Ness had awoken early, with the dawn's first light. She looked at herself in dismay. She had come to the wedding after a hard day's ride and her clothes and hair had been in no pretty state then. But now, her face and hands were begrimed and her shirt and trousers torn. It had been a cold night too, with the Autumn chill cutting through her - her cloak, which she had lent to Parm the previous evening was still somewhere in the charred remains of the inn.

At least the stables still stood, and her horse and pack were in one piece. She picked her way through the scattered debris, across the lawns and under the trees to the waterfall pool. The water was icey cold, but it was peaceful and secluded and she washed off the dust and dirt from her body and hair, and once again gave thanks for her decision to cut off her long braids. While her short hair often got her strange looks, particualrly from other women, it was so much easier to handle.

Returning to the stables with clean clothes and damp hair she found Alfirin and Parm sharing coffee and bread.

She sat down beside them. Master Parm had pulled out a map and was considering the way to go.

Ness peered over his shoulder.

"I came North up the old South road from the gap of Rohan - it sees more traffic now the King has opened up the roads to his North Kingdom again and is the Greenway no longer- the way is easy and it is relatively safe. But we are quite a way East of Bree and the road, here at the Last Bridge. It would be more direct to head South through Rhudaur and then the wilds of Dunland, to reach the Gap that way. But I do not know that the way would be any quicker as there is no road, and we would have to cross the Bruinen - the only easy ford is near Rivendell, and that is rather out of our way to the East. It is close enough to Winter that I would not wish to risk the mountain passes. "

Alfirin grimaced at the mention of Rivendell, and the thought of the elves.

"How will we be traveling?" Alfirin asked. "I have no horse, and would not care to ride one if I did. Master Parm, do you ride, or will you join me on foot?. "

"I ride" said Ness. "But I can reduce my pace to the slowest if need be. Besides it is a long journey, and there are few inns on the way - although once we reach the gap of Rohan there are more places where we will find shelter and food available for a price, as the King's peace spreads across the land. But until then we will rely on what little we can salvage from this wreckage and what we can hunt ourselves - having some of the party on horseback will help that task."

Heather arrived, clearly ready to set off. Nessamelda moved over and made a place for her in the small circle.

East Meets West

As the hours of that long night wore on, Aliana tried to make herself as useful as she could, gathering food or firewood, and later helping to tend to the injured young man—what little help she could offer. Mostly, though, she watched the flickering light of the fire and the otherworldly way it reflected upon the faces of those gathered around it, bringing their eyes out of the darkness like beacons from a distant hilltop. As she finally succumbed to sleep, listening to the deep steady breathing of the Easterling men, her mind was riddled with questions. Those would have to wait until the morning, she thought—it would be foolish to expect any lucid explanations at this point.

* * *

She opened her eyes to daylight. She was warmer than she had been when she’d first lay down—someone had draped a heavy blanket over her. Blinking, she sat up, keeping the covering wrapped around her, and took stock of the situation. The small, ragged company—if indeed they could be called a company—had shifted. Jiyadan and his friend were still there, asleep, as was Culanir. The red-haired knight looked much better for Alandriel’s skilled ministrations—he would live, it seemed. And what about Jiyadan? she wondered, rubbing her eyes. After his initial burst of anger last night, he had shown himself to be a decent enough man. Why had he lashed out at Alandriel so?

Leoba was gone. There was a man in ranger’s garb whom Aliana had spotted among the guests during the ceremony the previous day. And Bardhwyn, the Dalewoman, was there, too, speaking with Alandriel. And Rho remained. As Aliana stood, she saw that the shieldmaiden had changed back into her familiar traveling clothes. She was sitting quietly near Culanir’s still form. Her eyes were red and tired and fixed on some far-off point. Aliana rose, her body sore from sleeping on the ground, and slowly made her way over to her former mentor. She was grateful for the coolness of the air, grateful for the solid earth beneath her soft leather shoes—grateful for anything that could ground her in reality once more.

“Good morning, Rho,” she said, her voice rough-edged with the traces of sleep. The other woman looked up, as if she had just noticed her standing there. Aliana cleared her throat. “Are you all right?” she asked softly.

Rho nodded, and smiled faintly. “Yes… I’ll be fine, Ali,” she replied; though without much conviction, Aliana thought. “Thank you for all your help.” She glanced at Culanir, then looked back at the girl. “And how are you?”

“I’m…well, I—“ She had seen a beloved haunt demolished, seen people grievously ill and injured, spent a night in the open with strangers… She returned Rho’s smile. “I’m as well as can be expected, under the circumstances. And a little bit confused,” she added, turning her head to peer pointedly at the Easterlings, then at Culanir.

“It’s a long story.” Aliana waited for her to elaborate, but Rho’s marked silence after this brief sentence told her that that was all the information she was going to get for the time being. Why did Rho do that? She must know by now that Aliana hated it when she did that…

“Well, I’m going to the stables, then,” Aliana said after a time, remembering her poor horse. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Ali, could you please check on Tamir, as well?” Rho requested, in regards to her own mount.

“Of course,” Aliana replied. And then she turned to go.

* * *

By the light of day, the ruins of the Inn had lost their sinister quality—now they were just wood and ash; almost prosaic, and all the sadder for it. She stopped as she rounded the back of the gutted building, where the waterfall was. She had fallen asleep with her face to the fire, and now her skin felt as dry as one of those splintered timbers. Her hair and clothes smelled of smoke. A splash of cold water would do well to wake her up and bring her back to her senses. Standing near the edge of the pool, she carefully removed her shoes, and then the small cloth bag which she had been wearing at her waist ever since she had arrived the previous day. It held her coins, her ever-present quills and ink, her now-decommissioned hair ribbons, and a carefully folded piece of parchment. All the other belongings she had brought with her, thankfully, were safely tucked away in her saddlebags.

Stepping cautiously on to a rock in the water, she tucked up her skirts slightly to keep the hem of the green fabric dry. The last thing she needed was one more piece of weight to drag her down. She reached out to wet the palms of her hands in the mist made by the rushing falls, and brought them to her face, shivering slightly as she savored the bracing coolness. She took a long step forward off the rock to stand directly behind the waterfall on the little hollowed-out stone shelf that was there. She took another handful of water and damped down her disheveled locks. She had never been a vain girl, but she had always liked the way her hair looked when it was wet, the muted brown deepening into raven-black.

She shut her eyes and took a deep breath of the moist air. The steady roar of the waterfall shut out all other sounds. Aliana let her thoughts go, and for a moment her mind did not dwell on the past, nor did it worry itself with the future. She felt only the present, the smooth rock on the soles of her feet, the overpowering voice of the water. For the first time in days she felt at peace.

Tale of the Warriors of Light
To the surprise of all, seemingly to appear from nowhere,
an elven man strode into view. It was the same man whom
Parm had seen at the wedding, always in the shadows, always
watching...him. He had kept Parm from danger during the
terrible fight in the inn. He had pulled Parm aside when the
interloper came to snatch away Ture...and then seemingly
disappeared. Close by, but never there. Now he appeared
again. This time he spoke
"You will no doubt ask my name. Suffice it to say I am an
elven prince, in the service of Aravel, maid of Imladris. I have
always been at her beck and call and was sent here to protect
you, Parm, from mortal danger. Yes, I know you were horribly
abused back in the woods. However, did you not think it odd
that twice the dagger of that creature failed to strike? That was
my doing and combined with your own powers, it was effective
enough to discourage its attempts to take your life, but not
draw attention to me or to your own latent gifts. In the stables
you will find a pack horse. It is well-provisioned. You fill find it
has an abundance of durable wares for your journey and some
extra supplies to make your time away from your home somewhat pleasant. It answers to the name, Amrodel.
Remember, the horse is not for you to ride, since you are not skilled as a rider. However, if needed, it can be ridden safely.
The others may ride ahead of your company if need be, but
I strongly advise you to stay with one of your company called
Alfirin. She has skill and lore enough to help you on your journey.
I also convey a warning: do not hope to find the information you
seek in Imladris. It is there, but there is also the temptation to
stay. If you make your way to Rivendell, it will be perilous to your
greater purposes. Do not look for me. I shall be near, but do not
count on my aid unless needs are dire and you are near to
death. I am bound by strong oaths not to reveal my true nature
unless no other way is to be found."

With that, Parm's secret guardian turned quickly, stepped into
the forest and seemed, for a moment to shimmer and then
vanish.

I remember Willum's words: Well that's a brow-raiser and not
doubt about that! It seems, M'lady Alfirin, that we now have a
horse to help us...and that I am to walk. Our pace may be
slower, but I think it will give us time to think through what we
need to search for when we arrive at Gondor. We may also
need to travel by river. My wife will, no doubt, have found a way
for us to have boats, when we need them. I sense that even
though she is not here, she is making her presence known in
many ways.

If there are no objections to Nessa's plan, I think that it is good
one, but as we have learned, we need to avoid Rivendell. We
will need to make adjustments there. We might consider
journeying south on the Brandywine, travelling south to the
coast at Eryn Vorn. The woodlanders there are ever friendly
to strangers. It was from there that I took a ship on a journey
many years ago. The ships there are excellent means to travel
to the port at the entrance to Gondor. If we need to get more
stores, the good people at Dol Amroth will certainly aid us there.
We are, after all, Bards under the Guild Leadership of one of
their greatest Knights, Lord Erinhue. From there we can
continue on by ship to Minas Tirith and the great Archives there.

What do you think?

East meets West...


The chill morning pierced the fog of sleep that wrapped around Jiyadan, and he reluctantly opened his eyes. He stared up at the lightening sky, the last whisps of night fleeing before the coming sun. Taking in a deep breath of the cold air, he rubbed a hand over his face and rolled onto his side looking first at the still sleeping form of Moujhadin, then beyond at Rho. She had kept her word, nothing had harmed them that night. She hadn't seen him wake, and he watched her for a bit, unnoticed. She was hunched over, writing a letter of some sort and looking very frustrasted with it.

He could hear the sounds of others waking and talking, and looked over at who else had joined their little, but seemingly growing, group. Jiyadan sat up and looked around. The red witch was there, as was the blonde, but several others had also come. He noticed Rho's sword still next to him and picked it up, studying it. He would not have even noticed Alandriel speaking to him had she not used his name.

He was not yet fully awake and found it difficult to follow what she was saying, not that he would have cared. He had no interest in listening to the woman, though he now had faith in Rho to keep her far enough away. He was still trying to sort out the words to a reply in his head when the witch walked away. He just snorted in frustration.

"How did you sleep? Are you feeling better today?" Rho asked when Alandriel had left.

Jiyadan rubbed his face again. 'sleep,' he thought. "Yes, thank you. I slept well." He looked around, getting his bearings in this strange place, then looked back at Rho. "Thank you," he said again, quietly.

"You’re welcome." She replied and then laid aside the letter. "Moujhadin slept well throughout the night too."

He looked back down at Moujhadin, nodding slightly. "Yes, good." Then, looking to her sword in his hands, he ran his fingers over the wood scabbard and up to the cross guard. "You.." he began, but stopped. He looked up at the shield maiden sitting beside the dying fire. "Your sword," he said softly, handing it to her.

Rho reached out and took her sword back from him. “Thank you.” was all that she replied. Then she looked down at the sword, really looked at it, before placing in down on the ground beside her.

"You are of Gondor, then," he said, "of the Stewards house." It was not a question but a statement. Jiyadan noticed she had abandoned the dress of last night, seeing it crumpled on the ground under her sword, and looked at her current attire. "Your neck, it pains you?" he asked.

“Yes, Gondor...My mother was Denethor’s sister.” She said reflectively. A moment of silence passed before she looked back at him and answered. “It burns a little. Is that normal?"

Jiyadan nodded. "I will change your dressing later. It should be changed every day." he said, almost absent mindedly. This woman seemed so different today. 'Everything seems different today,' he thought to himself. Speaking slowly, trying to find just the right words, he continued, "I would not have though a woman of that... of your status would need to learn the sword. How came you to be trained?"

She smiled, “Let’s just say that I didn’t take to being a Lady of Gondor very well, although they tried.” Then a look of sadness filled her eyes as her voice got quieter. “They tried hard.”

Jiyadan smiled at her, a genuine smile of understanding. "I did not take well to my birth status either," he said, a hint of sadness in his own voice.

Rho looked up at him, wondering if he really understood. “Well perhaps if I had been born into that life, things would have been different. How was it for you? What were you born into?"

He quickly looked away, realizing he said something he wished he hadn't. He stared at the dying embers of the fire, his face taking on a sudden pained look, as if from an old memory. Closing his eyes, he said, so quietly she could barely hear him, "Slave. I am.. I was a slave."

“"You were a slave? But your not a slave anymore...are you.” Compassionately she asked, “Jiyadan, where was this?”

He did not open his eyes. He could almost feel the lashes hitting his back, hear the curses of the 'master.' It had been so long since he allowed himself to say those words, 'I am a slave,' and he was unprepared for the wave of memories it brought. His life, his mother.. his father. He squeezed his eyes tighter, trying to block out the images that flooded his mind.

“Jiyadan, I’m sorry...I shouldn’t have asked. ” She hesitated for a moment and then reached out, touching his shoulder reassuringly. “Please, forgive me.”

At her touch, the tension in his body seemed to dissapate, and he took a deep breath. He reached up and patted her hand slightly, opening his eyes and looking at her again. "It was long ago," he said, though the pain did not leave his eyes. "Please, what can you tell me of yesterday? Much, it seems, happened while I was not conscious. How did you come to be injured by Moujhadin? And do you know who bound my wounds?"

Rho thought for a moment, playing the scenes over in her head, remembering the details of each of the events. Finally she came to the part about Moujhadin, and knowing that Jiyadan deserved to know, she slowly began.

She explained the fight between the elf and Moujhadin and how he had turned on Culanir when the knight had tried to separate the two. Then Rho explained where she came in and how she attacked the Easterling with the fire poker. Then came the part about the dagger, the one her cousin had tried to give her, but instead it had ended up in the Easterlings hands, and how he had then held her at knife point.”

Rho paused for a moment, wondering just what details she should include, but then decided that he deserved to know everything, so she continued. There was how Moujhadin had backed her up the stairs, what he had said to Culanir. Then she told him what his friend had said to cause her to fight so violently in his arms, which was then followed by the moment he had pierced her neck. She also told Jiyadan of how she had disarmed Moujhadin once they reached the room. Finally she concluded that is had been Alandriel who had been the one to heal him.

Jiyadan hid his anger at his friend, but also his inexplicable humor at the oddity of the events. He knew she told the truth, for indeed, that is exactly what Moujhadin would have said and done. He sighed inwardly. Then, turning his attention to the strange name, Alandriel, he asked, "Who is this person you speak of, Alandriel?"

“The woman you drew your sword upon last night.” She hesitated knowing the implication of what she just said. Then pointing she gently continued. “Alandriel is the red headed woman sitting over there.”

His eyes narrowed as he looked back at that red-haired witch. "You are certain of this?" he said, not wanting to hear the answer.

“Yes” was all Rho replied.

Tale of the Warriors of Light
Heather said nothing, but Parm seamed to hear her speek in his mind.
"I care not how we get there, I will travel with you."

Followers of the Tangled Thread

The gradually brightening light and the stirring of people around her rising to the new day woke Elana. She huddled under her cloak, the chill dampness of early morning making her long for a few more moments of warmth and sleep. But there were many decisions to make this morning, and probably much to do before nightfall. So she sat up, brushed out clothes wrinkled from being slept in, and went to find some breakfast.

Some kind soul had brewed coffee, and others shared bread and fruit with her. She took them back to where Deore had roused, and was sitting hunched over, staring at something she turned over and over in her hands.

“What’s that you’ve got? Here, I brought something for us to eat.” She seated herself beside her daughter.

Deore held out the scrap of fabric to her mother. “It’s the cloth from the kidnapper’s cloak. You were going to tell me something about it yesterday, but you got interrupted.”

Elana took the bit of black cloth. By the light of the now-bright sun, she examined it closely. The torn piece was roughly triangular, about three inches across. Two sides were ragged where it had ripped free, but the third was the folded over and sewn hem of the garment. The material was black, soft and warm.

“Hmm,” Elana murmured. “It feels like wool, common enough for a cloak. It’s woven in a twill pattern. Oh, look at this. Most of the hem is sewn with the same wool thread the material is made from, but it looks like some of the hem came loose once, and it was mended with a different kind of thread.” Deore could see the slightly greyer thread against the black. A long strand of it hung from one side of the scrap.

Elana fingered the dangling bit of thread, thoughtfully. “It’s some kind of plant fiber, definitely not wool. It could be linen, I guess, but it feels different somehow. It’s not quite like anything I’ve come across before.”

Deore bounced with excitement. “We have to find out what it is! It might let us know something about the kidnapper. It’s got to be pretty rare, if you don’t know what it is, with your skill in spinning and weaving.”

Elana smiled at her daughter’s enthusiasm. “There’s lots I don’t know. But it does seem like it might be some unusual fiber.”

“Who could we ask who might know?”

‘Well, the Weaver’s Guild hall is just down the road. I suppose we could take it over there and have Wisteria have a look at it. If anyone would be able to identify it, the Master of the Weaver’s Guild would.”

“Great! Come on, let’s go!” Deore jumped to her feet and dragged Elana with her. Laughing, Elana indulged her daughter and followed.

They walked among the inn’s refugees, who were gathering together in small groups, discussing what was to be done, sharing what food was available, and taking comfort in each other’s presence. They passed the burned ruin of the inn, and went on down the road. A few blocks away, they turned down a narrow side street. The street was bordered by stone walls on either side, and every now and then a wooden door was set deep into the wall. Elana paused before one of these doors. The morning sun slanted down, falling brightly on the polished wood of the door. Faintly visible was a lightly etched carving of a swirling, flowing symbol.

Elana pushed on the door, and it swung open, unlocked. The two women passed through a lovely garden, filled with flowers, many of which grew on plants useful for fiber or dye. This late in the fall the goldenrod along one wall was in full bloom, tall yellow flower spikes ready to be harvested and used to brew a sunny golden dye.

They rounded a bend in the path and ascended three stone steps to the arched doorway. Elana entered without hesitation, for she was a member of the guild and had free access to the hall. In they went through the entryway and into the main hall, tall and spacious, morning sun entering through the many windows. Looms and spinning wheels filled the space, but all were presently idle, except one. Near the far wall under the windows, a woman was seated at one of the looms, rhythmically throwing her shuttle back and forth across the growing fabric.

“Wisteria,” Elana called. “Do you have a moment? I have something I’d like to show you.”

East meets West

Like an eagle, aloof and distant, Edain observed unblinking. His tired vision seemed fixed, unable to behold little beyond the view to his immediate front. He watched as Bardhwyn drew her knees up to her chin almost mirroring his own pose.

She grimaced at something that Edain couldn’t fathom. A sudden expression crossed her face and Edain supposed she missed a dear friend or her betrothed. At this point Alandriel gave her the hot herbal brew. About to sink into his own thoughts Edain was moved from his reverie with her bright “Good Morrow.” he accepted her greeting and thanks with a gingerly raised hand, accompanied by a smile unusual for this early in the day. Thus Edain was drawn into the conversation of the women. At Alandriel’s mention of the deeds and events of the past day Edain became intrigued, just as the Dale lady seemed to fall into difficulty at that point. A hiatus passed, and Alandriel did pay credit to her Healer’s art, she presumed that Bardhwyn was stricken with hunger. The women exchanged softly spoken words in the pale morn, and Edain gathered that they were as equally intrigued, vexed, and bewildered by the visions and other-worldly realms which he could only begin to imagine, yet that they had all (to a lesser or greater degree) been touched by.

For a short interval Edain felt his gaze drawn away to the Easton men, men with strange ways yet who had honour which was little paralleled in Gondor’s own knighthood, as far as Edain knew. Questions bred only questions on this morn it so seemed. At this point the ranger remained quiet, his own answers and problems incomplete in his mind.

Alandriel again offered her brew and placed it near to the ranger for him to take when he felt ready. The mention of breakfast was a catalyst, drawn to the familiar rituals of the day Edain responded and found some bread from his pack. That he had bread in his pack at all was fortunate, because on the previous dawn when he had ridden forth, bidden by his dream, he had thought little on preparation.

By now Alandriel had returned, she seemed to have placated Jiyadan. As Edain placed the bread together with the foodstuffs already provided, he stood. Alandriel stood too and together they of the blood of Westernesse, looked to the true west, their eyes unseeing, yet dreaming of the land of Númenore that lay beneath the sea, far beyond the Elvenhome. It was a peculiar ritual to the lay bystander, but Edain and Alandriel both assured Bardhwyn that it was a custom of the Ranger folk to do so. A mere fragment of the knowledge that remained of that once fair, Isle and people, knowledge that was preserved even in these modern times!

Twas a short interlude before the trio continued their evaluation, the witcher-woman attempting to breathe some clarity into the mental fog that shrouded them all. It was when she spoke the word “dream” that called to Edain’s mind. Alandriel explained her dream and Edain felt now was the time to tell of his dream, the one that had plagued him, the one that called him to this place, this “wedding”. He did not look around, focused as he was in this small group. The man felt rather than saw his Peredhel counterpart attending to a maiden. Glancing first at Bardhwyn, then Alandriel, Edain’s quick blue eyes became clever once more. It was Edain, not Bardhwyn who answered Alandriel’s proposal.

“I have a recollection, for I dreamt also.” he said simply. “But not of sand, fire, or the Eastern woman of whom Alandriel spoke. Nor did I dream on the eve just gone.”

“I dreamt of this place, the wedding place, though I did not then know it. I dreamt of Mr Herbert Took waiting for his bride. Of the Elf maiden whom he was to marry. They stood but frozen in time. I saw curved blades in the dark, and a fear swirling around like a Maelstrom. I saw a rushed journey undertaken on horseback as I raced on a task heavily weighed with folly. I saw faces I knew and strangers. Then I saw one being who stood glowing with light. I thought of the Lord Elrond upon gazing upon her, but no he was the Half-Elven lord and she a lady.”

At this Edain paused licking his dry lips, his tale sinking in. He followed on with:

“This dream came to me seven times, the last time I could bear it no longer. I grabbed what lay to hand and rode forth. It was yesterday’s dawn. I rode South, for I was in Farnost at the time. I have little recollection of the journey, only the maddening urge to haste, the sensation that I was not where I should be. Then I rode into the courtyard, and it sank into place. I recognised Mr Took as a friend from before, and his beloved became known to me. The rest of the tale I’m sure you can both remember.” Edain then added his misgivings,

“This dream troubles me - with it’s hidden values which are wreathed in shadows.”

Forestalling a shiver, Edain closed swiftly. Perhaps between them they could detect the significance of the dreams or at least know where to begin their search. Now the sun glinted on the man’s hair, and he swept up the cup into his hands, glad to be able to slake his thirst. He had hoped that perhaps Bardhwyn would now speak, but she remained silent. If he could jog her memory by recalling her deeds perhaps they could make headway. Replacing the cup half drunk on the grass he posed to Bardhwyn.

“I heard you speak Quenyian. You did indeed. You seemed to be gazing at a figure that was not there. A figure whom to you seemed to stand at the foot of the bed, but I saw nothing. Can’t you remember any of this?”

East Meets West

For hours now, Marius slept whilst the others dug through the rubble that was once the Inn or prepared to rescue the maiden in distress, not noticing the little dramas that ensued near him. His week had been a trying one-from having his possessions scorched by the flames (including his sketch of Byronie-where did she go, he wondered?) to being literally sorely dismissed by Alandriel. All he wished now was peaceful slumber, and gratefully, he was granted it, as he slept through even the loudest of laughs.

However, he found it hard to continue this slumber when someone kicked him. Sleepily he muttered,

"No, Eonde, I do not have lessons today. I can sleep in." The kicker laughed and Marius blearily opened his eyes to discover that he had a new attacker. Sitting up abruptly, he immediately shielded anything that might be wounded from this unwarranted attack, but she merely laughed at him and returned to her group. What makes such women tick, he wondered. Why do they gain so much pleasure in injuring him whilst they care for others? Of course, he did not consider that she was merely giving him his wake-up call, as she could not stand to see such a no-good man sleep all day while she worked hard to prepare for departure.

The Rohirrim decided that there would be no chance that he would find any more sleep here as long as she was around, so he stood from the cold, back-breaking ground. He felt dusty and bruised, as he often did after a long journey. Indeed, though he did not go far, he had been on a journey ever since he had found this Inn.

Resolving to clean himself, despite the lack of a bath (which fell with the rest of the building), he went in search of the waterfall whose roar was faint where he stood. As he grew closer, he awoke a bit more and walked faster, so that he could leave this wretched place all the sooner.

Taking off his starched white tunic he wore for the wedding, Marius stretched in the clear, crisp morning air, his muscles tensed slightly as a slight breeze hit the bare skin. Later in the day, the coolness would be welcome, but until the sun rose fully and began its patient beaming, the water from the falls themselves would be unbearably chilly. His shirt, boots, and weapons (both Laikemuil and his short blade) he placed upon a large, flat boulder to keep dry.

As he walked down to the ledge within the falls, he noticed not a lady coming from the opposite direction, intent on that very spot. And indeed soon he could not see her, even if he had looked toward her, since there was a blind spot due to the roaring rush that thundered below. She was hidden by the other side of the falls as he moved forward, nimbly jumping from stone to stone.

Finally, he reached the final ledge before the tiny platform behind the falls. However, as he jumped onto the natural platform, he saw the Rohirric maiden, identifiable by the markings upon the fabric of her gown and her wild, proud stature. Her hair was a gleaming raven-black, much like his own, though hers was such apparently only when damp. Pushing back his own shoulder-length hair clinging in ebony tendrils about his face, some brushing his forehead, his aquamarine eyes glittered in anticipation. Here was a fine Rohirrim of good breeding and taste, and perhaps even a shieldmaiden, though he could not see her weaponry nearby.

As he confidently strode toward her, she turned his direction and gasped aloud, stepping backwards--and off the ledge. Marius leapt and tried to grab hold of her lithe little form, but succeeded only in propelling himself forward, following her to their icy bath.

The frigid water made Marius gasp as he went under the surface, water finding its way into his nose and mouth. As he came up, he did not see the maiden at first, so he swam toward the point of entry into the water, ignoring the chills that ran through his body. He wished that he knew a name of some sort, so that he could call her aloud, but alas, his charms had not the time to work upon that ledge.

"Fair maiden!" He called, hoping that she would hear him. A sputtering sound came from behind him and up surfaced the maiden, drenched and apparently with a little less cloth than before. It seemed that the gown was too heavy for her to rise to the surface, so she had to make what Marius assumed was the ultimate sacrifice for a woman--tear and dismantle the dress. Her hair, no longer the luxurious raven, but more of a nest of dying black snakes, was flipped partially over her face and it was all Marius could do not to laugh.

"What were you doing?!" Asked the irate lady as she waded toward the shore, hobbling, the breeze causing her teeth to chatter a bit.

"Taking a bath--weren't you, milady? " Marius looked at her with his winningest smile, his teeth perfectly straight and white, a twinkle in his eye, awaiting the answer of this intriguing woman.

Followers of the Tangled Thread

"Elana! Good to see you -- you haven't been at the Guild hall in a while -- and Deore," the weaver sighed. "You are growing up so fast!"

The girl and her mother smiled, but Wiste could see there was something troubling them. "What is it?"

Quickly Elana explained about the hunt for Lurea and the evidence they had found. Wiste nodded, she'd been at the wedding but had left before the tragedy had struck. It had been the talk of town ever since. She'd felt bad that she hadn't been there, although she very much doubted there was anything she could have done. The opportunity now to help out was one she welcomed.

"Let me see the thread . . ." Reaching out, she took the scrap from Elana's hand and walked over to the window. She squinted at it, pulling the hanging thread gently, then harder. It didn't break. She sniffed it and nodded, coming back to them.

"Well, you're right about the fabric of the cloak itself. Plain black wool, twill weave. Could've been made anywhere by any weaver. But this thread IS rare -- and very hard to get in these parts. At least it is, if it's what I suspect it is." She stopped and looked at Elana, weighing her words.

"There's only one way to confirm my suspicions. We need to burn a short section of the thread. Not the cloth!" she added at Deore's alarmed look. "But I would need to cut off a section of this thread and destroy it to be sure."

At Elana's nod, Wiste cut off a piece about the width of her hand. Picking up a small glass bowl, she put the thread in, lighting the end of the thread with a punk from the fireplace. It only took a moment for the end to catch.

But far from fizzling out and burning the thread in a fast blaze, the thread glowed, its embers giving out a pungent smoke. Wiste inhaled deeply, then grinned, pouring water from a nearby glass onto the thread to put it out.

"Yes, there is no doubt. This is from a plant called 'hemp.' It's a plant like flax, only it grows taller. And, just like flax, the fibers are in the stems. It's used by seaside peoples to make strong rope, and the finer fibers make soft fabric. Some people burn the leaves and breathe the smoke, and it causes them to see visions..." She paused, her own vision blurring a moment.

"But where does it grow? And who would use it to mend a cloak?"

"As far as I know of, there is only one place where hemp is grown in enough quantities to make thread. It might be cultivated in other spots, but I've never heard of any."

Elana refrained from stamping her foot at the weaver's apparent inattentiveness. "Where, Wiste? I need to know where."

"Oh! Tolfalas. The island of Tolfalas. That's the only place it's cultivated and spun."

Tale of the Warriors of Light

Ness grinned at Parm. She'd never been on a boat before, and it would be a new experience - although she worried a little about what she would do about her horse if they took to boats. Myre might be an odd looking beast - the result of one of the plough horses getting into the field with the king's brood mares - but she had been Nessa's companion for several years now, and she would not swap her for a faster and more graceful horse, for all her ill-temper and rough gait.

Breakfast over, Alfirin stood and stretched. She had not been impressed by Parm's mysterious visitor. She had past experience that led her to be wary of strangers offering amazing gifts and help. But still, her heart called her towards her homeland and it was always better, safer and above all cheaper to travel in a group, even if it did not suit her disposition.

"If you will wait a liitle, I would gather what little posessions I can salvage. In the madness of yesterday I have lost even my satchel and pens." And my book, she could have added, but did not.

Parm looked a little worried. Would this strange woman return or try to escape her bargain?
Alfirin caught his look, and said, a little stiffly. "Do not fear. I have given my word, and I will not go far. Before the sun has topped the trees I will return and we can set off. But I would like to have at least a change of clothes and the tools of my trade with me"

She turned and walked to the inn. The back stairs were still, more or less, intact and she made her way carefully to the upper levels where her room had been. There was little of it left now. In the corner where she had set up a makeshift desk the beginnings of the wedding portrait sat, soot stained now and torn, burnt on one corner. The sketches she had been working from were strewn around the room in disarray. No need to rescue those. Alfirin managed to find a few unmarked clean sheets of vellum; the little sketch box of paints that Parm had given her, some inks and pens and brushes. Her spare clothes were a little dirtier and more ragged than they had been before, but mainly intact. She stuffed the lot into a shapeless canvas bag in no particular order. But her leather satchel and the blue-bound book in which she had recorded the important scenes and events of her life were missing.

She thought back to yesterday and remembered. Donaldo! She had argued, chased and lost, that's right, and then in her distress had thrown them down.

Perhaps they were still in the grass by the hedge.

She returned down the stairs, ignoring the amused, disgusted or puzzled glances that she got from those who had seen her outburst of the previous night. She was not proud of her behaviour, but it had happened, she could not change it now and there was no point dwelling on it or apologising.

She carefully followed along the line of the hedge, concentrating on her search, although she did raise her head and her eybrows at one point as the distintive sound of a startled maiden followed by a splash came from the waterfall that lay behind the copse of trees.

At last Alfirin found both the flat leather satchel and the book where they were nearly hidden by long, very wet grass. The dew had got to the pages in the book which had fallen open as it spilled from the bag. It was open at the beginning, a picture of a striking young girl, proud and defiant - the only drawing in the book that was by another. Her father had drawn that portrait when he presented the book to her on her sixteenth birthday. It was smudged now, almost unrecognisable, the vellum cockled and buckled. The other pages were stuck together with the damp. As she opened them, the scenes depicted on them ran in the damp, the reds and blues mixing with the black, the magic, the truth in the images, fading.

Alfirin looked down disbelieving. She had drawn in that book the truth of everything that had ever happened to her. No one had seen all the tales it contained. In it dwelt her pride, her anger, the oath that she had sworn; her dead children, her missing daughter, her husband, also gone.....now all had been washed away, washed away by the dew, her past dissolving before her eyes.

With a shaking hand she dropped it back on the grass, picking up only the satchel. Carefully she took off the silver ring in the shape of a fox biting its tail, set with moon-opal. She had worn it for many years because it had been useful. But it was a ring of deceit, given to her by a deceiver and all of a sudden she felt unclean and dirty wearing it. She tucked it into the depths of the bag and gave a sigh. What she need now was time alone; time to consider what all this meant. She knew it was significant: the power of foresight in her blood told her that she had a choice now.

But right now she had no time to think.

She returned to the others.

"I am ready. I can walk as far as most in a day and it is time that we set off, for there are many leagues to cover."

Tale of the Warriors of Light
Had this elven princeling only revealed himself at the wedding, Parm would have been in a far better disposition to believe his story. However, Parm had been through enough to no longer be in awe of the surprising, no matter how beneficial it may appear to be. Excusing himself from the company, Parm walked to
the stables to look more closely for Amrodel.

Amrodel! Hello, Amrodel!

In that instant Parm felt ridiculous. Calling a horse? What was
it going to do, speak in Westron? Yet a neighing, ninnying sound
caught Parm off-guard. From a darker corner a creamy-white
creature clip-clopped over to stand in front of Parm. The horse
shook its head and mane, bowed slightly, and then looked at
Parm to await further instructions.

Ah...well...now, what do you have here? Saddle bags, good.
What is this? Aravel's hair pin on one of your reins. Well, this is
a good sign and no doubt. A message...from Vanaliel and Tinula! A message from Arahn, too. I shall have to look at these
later. Now is the time to travel. Well, Amrodel. Let us be off.

East Meets West

As she stood there, soaked to her skin, clad in little more than her thin sleeveless undershift, and armed only with the sense of rage which was swiftly overcoming her quiet reserve, Aliana remembered an excellent piece of advice her sister-in-law had once given her: when presented with daunting circumstances, it was often helpful to form a list of concrete, necessary tasks to accomplish. Very well. The first thing she needed to do was find some way to get this bothersome wet hair out of her face. And the second order of business would be to find some way to get her fingers around the smug throat of the man standing smiling before her.

Fix hair. Kill idiotic man. Manageable enough goals for an autumn morning, she thought as she made her way towards the edge of the pool.

"Taking a bath--weren't you, milady?" he responded to her outburst. He looked quite young, and, Aliana grudgingly admitted to herself, quite handsome in a blunt and obvious sort of way. And well-built.

"Apparently I was, thanks to you," she said, struggling to keep her voice under control. She folded her bare arms across her chest, in as much of an attempt to conserve body heat as it was to affect a mood of indignation. "And if I catch my death of cold, it will be your fault, too!"

She was mildly satisfied to see that the man looked slightly taken aback to discover that his dashing smile had not had the desired effect, and that he was starting to feel a chill, as well. He quickly recovered, however, and said, "Forgive me. I had no idea that a lass of the plainslands would be so easily startled." His grin returned, though he was rubbing his hands together.

Aliana had waded to the lip of the water. She was about to fashion a barbed retort, and also ask how he could tell she was from Rohan, when she suddenly came into full awareness of the sharp, violent pain in her right foot. Uttering a Rohirric obscenity, she sank down to sit at the edge of the pool, her legs still submerged to mid-calf. Out of the cooking-pan, into the fire, she thought as the man approached her.

"What is it?" he asked, kneeling beside her with what appeared to be genuine concern. He pushed a section of wet, coal-black hair behind his ear, and Aliana realized that he looked vaguely familiar. He had the dark features of the people south of Rohan, though that was coming to mean less and less as a signifier of birthplace these days. He was still breathing hard from the shock of the cold water, as was she.

"It's my ankle," she said, gritting her teeth in pain and annoyance. "I must have turned it on a rock."

"May I have a look?" he asked, placing a warm hand lightly on her shoulder.

"Fine," she spat, shrugging off his fingers. Perhaps he would come within throttling range. Turning her body away from the pool, she gingerly lifted her feet from the water and sat on the grass with her legs straight before her. A slight breeze came again, raising goose bumps on her exposed skin.

"The right one?"

"Yes, the right one." As he gently examined her ankle, which was now visibly swollen, she reached down in a vain attempt to adjust the skirt of her shift, which was clinging to her legs in a rather indecent fashion. It was already bad enough that her arms were uncovered. The slightly ludicrous nature of the situation struck her; here she was, soaking wet and inadequately dressed, being closely tended to by a man in much the same condition. He could be anyone, really. Not that it mattered, since he didn't have too much longer to live...

"If I may say, my dear, you have exceeding lovely ankles," he was saying. "Slender, but quite strong."

"Exactly," she said, pulling her foot away and trying not to flinch at the fresh wave of pain this caused. "And if they were both sound," she smiled sweetly, "I'd give you a swift kick in the--"

"Ah, the lady has spirit," he smoothly interrupted her, though he may have winced ever so slightly at her words. "Though it seems to be painful, I doubt that the damage is particularly serious," he continued. "I'll admit that I was partially responsible for this mishap-- shall I help you find some more comfortable circumstances?"

"Partially?!" she cried, before taking a deep breath to calm herself down once more. By this time she was shivering violently. "Yes, I believe I have some extra gear stowed in my saddlebags. If you could go to the stables and find my horse, it would--"


"Nonsense, and leave you here by yourself?"

"Oh, right," she snapped, "and then who would there be to defend me from people like you?" The look in his large, irritatingly soulful blue-green eyes told her that he was not going anywhere, however. "Fine," she conceded with an exasperated sigh. "I've been hurt like this before," she said, examining the injury more closely. "If I just wait for a bit, I'll probably be able to put some weight on it, and the cold water should help keep the swelling down, so..." She looked up again. The young man had apparently stood up and disappeared from her line of vision. "Pardon?" she said, loudly enough to ensure he would hear.

"Don't worry," he said, coming back into view after a few moments, sporting that infernal smile. He was still naked to the waist, though now he was wearing boots. He had also retrieved a few pieces of weaponry, including a sword which was fastened at his waist-- unfortunately, she couldn't get a good look at the scabbard, which may have provided some clue as to where he had come from. He must be a knight or a ranger, Aliana realized. Probably a knight, since his manner was so polished. "What kind of a gentleman would I be to abandon a damsel in her hour of need?"

Aliana preferred rangers, she suddenly decided.

"These are yours, I take it?" he asked, handing Aliana her bag and her shoes. She nodded, setting the items in her lap. He was also carrying a white garment draped over one well-muscled arm, which he now folded once and placed carefully over her shoulders. Aliana suppressed a groan as she realized what was happening.

"You know, if I wait a few minutes, I'm almost sure I can walk on it," she said in an unnecessarily loud voice. "It's all right, you really don't need to--" And he bent and scooped her up as if she presented no more of a burden than a feather pillow. "--lift me," she finished with another sigh. There was little she could do now, other than scream like a fool. "Well, if you go over in that direction, there should be a group gathered about a fire," she told him with resignation in her voice. Oh, for the love of Eru...rescued by a man. What was Rho going to say?

"Sounds superb," he replied. She could always poison his coffee. Providing he drank coffee. If not, she could poison his wine...

The walk back around the remains of the Inn was fortunately fairly short. "Forgive me, milady, I haven't yet asked your name," he said as the smoke from the hearty blaze that Jiyadan had kindled came into view. She squirmed slightly in his arms. Even though she was freezing, she still felt that he was holding her a bit too close for her liking. It was odd to be in this kind of physical contact with a man again, particularly one she had just met.

"Aliana Marsàlan," she said. And then, smiling once more: "Remember it when you wake to a knife in your back...Who are you?"

Four Elves and a Master Bard

Relieved that Tinu was amenable to traveling together to find the injured and emotionally devastated groom, Falathiel tried to figure the next course of action. She believed in her heart that Master Erinhue was to be a part of their traveling party, as was the dragonharp and yet another Elf, a male—someone Fala had seen in her mind's eye but had not yet met.

He was strong and noble, a knight with special skills of perception and an ability to draw energy from his surroundings as well as from deep within himself—and brave. He was resting somewhere close by, under a tree, with his mount, a grey stallion. She could feel his presence. 'Ah, he is wounded,' she realized. She sent a thought to him—would he hear it?

'Kindred spirit, do you hear me? Soon we shall meet, for I believe our paths are destined to intertwine for a time. You will need all your strength of mind and body for what lies ahead. Rest a while longer and draw refreshment for your mind and spirit from my energy—as if it were the sparkling waters of Cuivienen washing you clean of all traces of shadow and confusion. Isto i dur i chuiyl*

'You have need of healing. That too will come. Rest, noble Elf. Indeed you will know me when we meet before the stars go out tonight. Rest… '

Fala whispered these words first in Sindarin, then in Quenyan, then in the Common Tongue. Rather more like a soft lullabye, and a gentle chanting song that to anyone other than the one for whom it was intended would be perceived only as the gentle rustling of the trees.

She realized that the night was fast waning and even now the light of morning sun was beginning to dim the stars in the sky to the East.

She knew they must gather some provisions for traveling and get their mounts ready. She also knew she still needed to change into her traveling clothes—but that could be remedied easily enough once she got to the stables.

She wondered if the Master Bard would be willing to come or whether he too would need convincing. She sensed the tension of the dragonharp close by. She breathed a sigh and blessing of gratitude to him for his constant vigil. This gathering shadow of evil had not disappeared or entirely dissapated, as some thought. No, it was merely restrained, removed for a time—held back by the magic of the dragonharp and some powers of Light that were not quenched, nor even intimidated by its presence. But something lingered still that gave this evil an anchor, a sanctuary of shadow from which it still waited, watching.

She turned to Tinu, who had slipped on her boots and was looking over toward the woods. Tinu slung her brown leather bag up on her shoulder effortlessly, with the characteristic grace of an Elf.

***"I believe Master Erinhue has some part to play in this tale with us, as does his fair lady and the dragonharp. I must speak with him right away. If then your will is decided to ride with me to find the Hobbit, please gather what things you have need of and come with me to find the Master Bard. I hope to put a good distance between us and these smoldering ruins before another day passes. Do you have a mount in the stable?"

Tinu, still somber, though slightly lightened from her miserable load by the cheerful countenance that emitted such sunshine with each smile, nodded.

"Yes, I do indeed have a mount waiting in the stable. Alagos, my steed, should be well-rested and ready for even the most difficult of paths. As for items of necessity, I have none, save for that found in my knapsack. However, if you desire provisions, these I can acquire with little difficulty. It appears that much of the food this day has been salvaged and will soon be divided among parties determined to find their quarry." ***

Provisions. Clothing. Mounts. Fala did not want to insult Tinu by asking for her to assist with some of the practical necessities of readying for the trip. But there were things to be done, and she couldn't do them all herself. And Tinu had offered in a way to help find some provisions.

"If you would be so kind Tinu, may I take you up on your offer? Would you see what provisions we might be able to lay hold of? I do have a good weeks' worth of lembas in my packs at the stable, 2 skins of clear water, and a few other things. So don't mind if you are not able to find much here after all."

It was not difficult to deduce that Tinu came from a family of means. Her noble lineage was obvious in the way she carried herself. Some called the Elves aloof—but in fact it would be natural for one who's eyes are set on the stars to have ever an upward glance. And her gown, though soiled and torn, still spoke of impeccable workmanship and elegance.

"Do you have need of currency? I imagine not a few people this night have lost their purses in this rubble. And who knows who may have been rummaging about before we got here."

Tinu shook her head and slightly smiling, with a hint of twinkle in her proud blue eyes, she patted a small sack that jingled merrily with the clinking of gold coins.

"Splendid!" Fala exclaimed quietly. "I really must find and speak with Master Erinhue right away. Then you and I can meet at the stables or over there by the firelight."

Fala gave Tinu's arm an affectionate squeeze and said, "Then I shall see you in a little while and we will be off!"

Tinu nodded. And it seemed to Fala that she was relieved to have something concrete to set her mind to. The lovely Noldorin Elf smiled back wanly, but sincerely, and took off toward where the pantry of the Inn used to stand.

Fala took a deep breath and surveyed the area. The soft light of night seemed to lessen the harsh reality of the devastation to the Inn. How she loved to look at things—any things—by starlight. It was so much kinder and gentler than that bright stark sunlight. For a moment her mind drifted away—away to a dream of the glory of the Two Trees waxing and waning in their glorious light. Never harsh, never shadowed—perfect. Perfect for another time, that is. Another time more elegant in simplicity and beauty. A time before even she was born.

*Feel the power of living things (Sindarin)

Four Elves and a Master Bard

The Telerin Elf shook her head. No time for such visions now. Falathiel spotted Master Erinhue a ways off, being rocked gently in the arms of his beloved. How she hated to disrupt such a beautiful sight. But there were things that needed to be done and things that needed to be said.

As she approached Aerin and the Master Bard, he stood up and stretched. Seeing Fala his face broke into his usual warm and friendly grin. But Fala could not help but notice the weariness about his eyes that usually twinkled with mirth and mischief. And his posture seemed weighted and less proud and confident than usual. His strong physique belied an underlying tension and something a little darker that Fala could not quite put her finger on. He rather reminded Fala of a valiant knight in that moment—a champion who had come back from a duel a little worse for wear, having underestimated the power of his opponent. Diminished, but not defeated.

"Good evening fair lady!" Fala smiled and hugged the Bard's lovely Elven wife, Aerin.

"May I have a word with your husband?" Aerin smiled back and said, "Of course."

And Fala knew that Aerin knew that she would be asking the Bard to come away.

Fala pulled the Master Bard aside.

"I think you know why I am here. Hobbi needs help. Tinu and I each have something that will help him. And I believe an aspect of your destiny is tied up in what has happened here this day. I believe you are to come with us to find him—and perhaps even to find and rescue Turelie."

Erinhue looked intently at Fala, then his eyes broke away and he cast his glance downward. He looked over toward Aerin and there his gaze remained fixed. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again, his eyes still locked on his beloved.

Fala realized then she would need a stronger plea. "Eru, help me please," she whispered in her mind.

She put her hand gently on Erinhue's arm for just a moment.

"Come, we must put our own grief, our own disappointment in ourselves aside. Hobbi has need of the Hobbit Protector and I have need of you to assist me in getting it to him. Do not allow your spirit to be overcome with grief and deception. It is the darkness that would work to convince you that you have already failed when in fact you have not even started.

There are more forces at work here than just the will of evil. And often in the fires of adversity are the purest bonds of friendship and character forged. It is the way of Eru with all of his children at times to shed only as much light as is needed to take the next step along the journey. Much may be revealed in time, for each of us who take up this call.

I do not know the end to this tale, but this I do know: that to fight for what is good, to honor our friendships and seek reconciliation, and to muster courage when our hearts would fail—all these are reward enough of themselves to give us the hope we need to begin this quest. If in fact we are willing to take hope.

What do you say, Master Erinhue, Iluvatar's Bright Spirit, Warrior-Bard of Belfalas and Faithful Friend of Hobbituk? For in truth that is what you are—in spite of your disappointment in yourself. Do not listen to lies and the deceit of shadow in this hour of trial. Will you join us? Will you come with us to deliver to Hobbi what is needed--and perhaps even discover a way to find and rescue my cousin, the fair Princess Turelie?"

Four Elves and a Master Bard

The depths of night diminished and its stars receded as dawn’s approach was heralded by the first dim hints of light. The honest clouds of natural dark were gently nudged across the sky by daybreak’s waking breath. As he rested Anorast became aware that he was hearing his own name riding on that gentle breeze. His sharp senses soon detected something more, a sonorous deep voice sheathed in the sound of harp strings. Anorast instantly knew that he was hearing the voice of Agarak, the master bard’s dragonharp.

Child of Iluvatar a call will come to you and you must pay it heed. The sad events that saped this tarnished day have set the wheels of Fate in motion . It is no mistake that you were in attendance here. You were drawn to this place, as each one here was drawn, because the Light has need of you. You, Anorast, have lingered here in Middle Earth to serve Eru’s true purpose. Your powers were granted to you that you might triumph over the Darkness as it challenges the Light.

Son of the Firstborn, your destiny awaits. You have been chosen to redeem the spirit of the DragonStar Reborn. The sword has a long history and at the time of its creation it had a noble purpose. It was aligned with Egarak, a dragonharp, the harp of Daeron the Minstrel and both were charged with the protection of Doriath.

Both were betrayed and lead to darkness. Daeron fell to blighted love for Luthien and misused the harp in his deceit. Maeglan, ill-begotten son of Eol, bore the blade in his betrayal of Gondolin. Egarak has long atoned and passed into the West. It is time the spirit of the DragonStar Reborn redeam itself.

And you yourself shall be tested as you are thrust into great deeds. Hold well to what you know to be the truth and let not the shadow play upon your mind and heart. There is a task for each one here to do and the success of every one depends upon the completion of all others. Search out what was stolen. Find what is not lost.”

The Groom’s Hunt

Bryttar knelt down beside Telta, and was overcome with relief when she uttered two words. “He’s alive!”

Hobbi barely opened his eyes when the elf lifted his head and the Rohirrim couldn’t tell if he recognized them or not.

“Telta, we have to get him out of the rain and by the looks of him, soon.” Bryttar yelled. Nodding her head she agreed but then pointed to the pony who did not look well.

The Rohirrim looked around for a small place, somewhere that could shelter them, but there was none to be found. They all would have to move on.

Rising to his feet, Bryttar then picked up the ponies reins and began to encourage her to get up. The exhausted little pony was reluctant at first, but once he began clucking to her she rose to her feet. Bryttar then leaned down to Telta and the two talked briefly.

As the rain grew worse the Rohirrim finally picked up the hobbit. Then he turned to the elf who was now standing a few feet away.

"Telta," Bryttar called, "You lead the pony, I'll ride with Hobbi in front of me until we can find a place to get out of this rain, either a cave or some type of shelter in the rocks.”

She nodded and once they were mounted on their horses with the pony following behind, the ragged bunch set off down the trail. Hobbi securely in front of Bryttar and tucked under his cloak.

It was over an hour later when they finally found something that would work well enough to protect them. Just off the trail there was a sheered area of large rock with overhanging piece that acted as a ceiling. While it wasn’t perfect they both decided it was better than anything they had passed up to this point.

In just a short time, Telta had a strong fire going and Hobbi was now resting beside it. His wet clothes having been replaced with warm dry ones. He was also now bundled in a nice wool blanket.

Bryttar had attended to the horses and the pony getting the three of them untacked and then took some extra time with Hobbi’s pony. Noting that the pony had no signs of any cuts or heat in the legs to indicate physical stress, she was simply tired and needed rest.

Returning to the fire, Bryttar gave Telta a brief update, then sitting down he then glanced at Hobbi who appeared to be resting comfortably. The smell of meat stew was now filling the air and he knew that if the hobbit was anywhere near consciousness he would be awake very soon.

Four Elves and a Master Bard

As Anorast slept peacefully, his wounds were slowly healing. Yet his dreams were dark, and his sleep was light and fitful. Several times he awoke, strangely tired, finding that his wounds were still painfull, healing slower then he'd ever seen. To Anorast it was like a force was about him, placing its will against him. All he could do was turn onto his side and try to get back to sleep.

Descending into sleep again, a faint voice came to his mind. In the twilight between consciousness and dreams it was a breeze, barely perceptable.

'Kindred spirit, do you hear me? Soon we shall meet, for I believe our paths are destined to intertwine for a time. You will need all your strength of mind and body for what lies ahead. Rest a while longer and draw refreshment for your mind and spirit from my energy—as if it were the sparkling waters of Cuivienen washing you clean of all traces of shadow and confusion. Isto i dur i chuiyl*

'You have need of healing. That too will come. Rest, noble Elf. Indeed you will know me when we meet before the stars go out tonight. Rest… '

Strangely comforted by the unfamilier voice, Anorast let sleep take him. Now, there seemed to be a wall between him and the darkness, yet still his dreams were dark.

After an eternity of shadowy, broken images, Anorast felt a presence near. Comforting, it protected him from the attacks. After a moment, it began to speak. Quiet words, but Anorast listened carefully. They spoke of his past, and the sword he bore. Also, it mentioned a quest. He did not know the full import of all that he heard, but he knew he'd remember the words, look back upon them.

East Meets West

Marius laughed to himself at the lady's actions and very clear thoughts. Indeed, she appeared to loathe his presence, which puzzled him, but must be some illness the maidens were sharing these days, much like this crazy trend of elven women falling for hobbits. Never before in one place had he met with so much resistance by women!

How amusing this one was, he thought, his eyes dancing with more than their usual mischief. She would kill him if she had the chance.

However, he was a bit afraid of her hitting his very tender region as he checked over the ankle. Once this week had been quite enough, thankyouverymuch!

As he turned from her to retrieve their tossed articles, he had the distinct impression that she was preparing to leap at him and attempt his murder for touching her beautifully carved ankle that now throbbed with the heat of her anger. A bit smug in seeing such a lovely girl in a white, soaked undershift, his gentlemanly side nevertheless chose to drape his warm, dry shirt around her shoulders so that she would not shake as badly.

Then, when she had suggested that they sit beside a fire, he resisted the urge to waggle his eyebrows at her suggestively. Instead, he merely held her tighter as he walked toward the aforementioned fire, wondering who they would meet there.

However, when she spoke once more of violence toward him, he grew weary of her mumbled threats and even felt the shards of anger prodding his proud heart. Who was she to not desire aid from a man such as himself?! After all, he had given her his only shirt that was not scorched by the flames.

With her own self-satisfied glance at him, she spoke her name and continued her soft threats, yet asking him for his name!

"Does thy tongue always wag with such meaningless, empty-threated prattle? I would that you were silent, or bound at the mouth, so that your empty threats could be directed at the cloth and not at the one trying to give you aid."

For a moment, Aliana was silent, stunned by this sudden remark after his gentlemanly ministrations, her jaw slightly ajar.

"What?! Meaningless... empty-threated? I do think, sir, that you are mistaken. For surely you are the one with nothing to say. I am quite sure that you enjoy merely hearing your own voice as it vibrates across the air."

She looked at him pointedly as he took this in, his face reddening. Then, she chose to further this progressive burn:

"Aid? You have done nothing but disservice to me this day—pushing me into the freezing waters in a gown of finery! Keep your formalities and your false concern, I'll have none of that."

Aliana spat this last out, her eyes ablaze.

"I have done what?" Marius glared back at her, thinking all this time how easy it would be to walk back a bit and dump the maiden back into the pond. It would certainly cool the temper she seemed to have developed.

"It was truly an accident, m'lady. I believe that you must have hit your head harder than you believe."

"I did no such thing, man-with-no-name."

"My name is Marius di Brendar. I am the son of your king, though now I am doubting your Rohirrim lineage. Perhaps you are the illegitimate spawn of a dishonored Rohirrim? " He cocked one eyebrow, as though he judged her, looking over her nearly naked form. Aliana, doing as well as she could, considering she was being carried against her will, wrapped her arm across her chest and glared.

"And by the way, if you try the bit with the knife, just remember that a hundred more will find their way into your back, Lady Coward. If I were you, I'd attack from the front, so that I could see you and fight an equal battle. "

"Fine!" Aliana said sourly, regretting the things she had spoken aloud, for it had ruined her element of surprise. "Why do you not fight me now? I am ready... Put me DOWN!"

Marius grinned, stopped abruptly, and dropped her in a pile of mud beside one of the now-dismantled wedding tents. It cushioned her fall splendidly, thus she was not hurt, but her pride was well-wounded. Sputtering in her fury, she tried to make her way out of the suctioning goo, but the more she struggled, the more she found herself being covered in the mess. She tried her ankle, but it was still swollen and sore, causing her to cry out.

"Marius, you foul wretch! Just wait until the others hear of this. They will pull you apart limb from limb for treating me this way."

"Oh, you mean for treating a lady this way, don't you?" Marius winked and Aliana grew flustered, for she was caught. But this was not fair, he saw upon her face, and indeed it was not. If they were on equal ground, such a spectacle could easily be avenged (or at least possible for her to try), but at this moment, she had the handicap.

He stood there a moment, realizing that the two of them were acting childishly indeed. He was a knight, for Eru's sake! There was no reason for such foolishness.

So, reluctantly he pulled the maiden from the mud and lifted her up once more, though she struggled again and searched desperately for her blade with which to slice through his throat, to no avail.

"Claws back, you foul-tempered cat. I'll have none of this for the rest of the journey to your friends." Marius seethed at her apparent lack of self-control, especially as it left his arms bleeding.

"Well, if you had not dumped me into the mire, I would not have to struggle against you." Aliana gave him a look of reproach, condemning him in his immaturity.

"Yes, well, if you hadn't said to—now wait one minute! It's starting all over again. Do I need to find a gag for you, so that I no longer have to listen to your biting tongue?" Marius, tired of the debate and ready to be rid of this weight, looked for possible methods of silencing the maiden, but Aliana wisely chose to close her mouth, though not before opening it in preparation for a retort.

Finally, they rounded the wreckage of the inn, seeing the inviting blaze not too far before them. Both were weary of the day's excitement and shivering, though they were still incensed by the other.

When they reached the fire, Marius decided that he was no longer attracted to this Rohirrim woman and would complete any task, no matter the risk, to escape her lashing tongue.

Tale of the Warriors of Light
Willum patted the growing roundness beneath his neatly-pressed shirt. It was half-past second breakfast and soon would
be the top of the hour heralding elevenses. The very kind
elf-lady had taken him all the way back home to Staddle, but his feet were beginning to get itchy to travel again. Da and Mum had
plenty of chores for him to do. Then there were the lessons with Master Leventine Took, Peregrin Took's nephew, who insisted
that being able to read was as important as learning to plow.

Of that, Willum had no doubt. His hours spent at the Bard's Wedding had proven that to him. He wanted to help Mr. Parm,
but how? Travel? Well, he could hunt for game. He had a pony
of his own and even a boat, thanks to Master Took, who loved
to stay cool on the river while conducting lessons. He indirectly
taught Willum the art and skill of boating along with grammar
and writing.
It was nearly time for something to happen. He got up from the
fireside, found a plate, fork and mug and joined his family
outside at a little table where a berry juice had been prepared
along with boiled eggs, plates of toast and several half wheels
of good cheese. Elevenses was underway.

Between mouthfuls, Willum talked to his parents.
"Remember the elf-lady who came?"
"Aye, and what of her, son?" his mother replied.
"She's a famous lady, mum. Helped the man who was helping
people getting married."
"An officiator, dear." helped Grandmum.
"Aye, the officitator, Parm, he was."
"Parm? The Bard of Imladris?" chimed in his father.
"Aye, he's him. Is he trouble?"
"Nay, quite the opposite. Came here once before. To become
a bard at their festival. Heard from local folk he sang quite the
jolly song. Loves us Hobbits, I heard from Daddy Dewleaf, the
supplier of some of the ale that was sold there."
Now his voice lowered in secretiveness.
" Parm is a man of great mystery. Some say he is not even a real man. May have the wizard's blood in him. So says, Derry
Dinglewood. He goes to Rivendell, he does, to get herbs for
his apothecary shop. Say him there. Heard the whisperings and saw the guarded looks. Only we Hobbits know well enough to
put together a hint here and a idly-dropped word there and come up with a fact. If you have hopes of travelling with him anywhere
Willum, my lad, I think it would be a marvel. I always liked the stories from the Bagginses. Wished I could've gone meself.
So, get a good jump on the chores and we might send you off
with our blessin's."
Willum nearly fell of his stool with shock and delight. Permission, no less, to go on an adventure! Stars and comets!
What a gift!
******************
Parm was eager to get going soon, especially to travel south,
where the weather would be milder, the ease of travel greater,
and the risk of highwaymen danger far less. He had come to the
wedding with a tired, old horse. Sold it out of pity to a local innkeeper who needed it for simple chores and riding. With the gift of Amrodel, and the help of Lady Heather and the good
women Alfrin and Nessa, Parm felt he could now travel much
better and faster.
Parm opened the note from Aravel. This was the wisest
choice he had made today. With the note was a pure white
gem, almost glowing with inner light. The note read thus:
My love:
I know of your love for the sea and rivers.
Stay far from Eryn Vorn. There are dark forces gathering
there. Travel instead along the Hoarwell to the Greyflood.
You will meet some men at the junction of the Bruinen
and the Hoarwell. They will have special barges for you
and your steeds. Ask for Dahrin of Staddle. He is a friend
to elf, hobbit, dwarf and man. It was his father who helped
to keep watch over Frodo that night in the Prancing Pony.

When you read Tharbad, you will find that the ruins there
have been refurbished with new homes, now that there is
a king of Gondor and Arnor. The settlers there are river
folk, good with game and fish, skilled workers in wood and
gems. They were refugees from the raids of the Uruk-hai in
Rohan. Together with 20 other families, they are building a
new community in Tharbad. Slowly prospering from trade
from the Greenway to the Shire.
Give this small gemstone to a family called the Greenleaves.
The wife was the one who found you in the woods south
of Lothlorien and brought you to...us. She has a token to give
you. In exchange, they will help you on your journey to the
mouth of the Greyflood, where you will find two strong ships
ready for you all. These are my gift to you. Do not fear, my
beloved. You will find many watchful, helpful eyes along your
way.

Friends, according to my wife, if we are to get to the southern seas, from here, we will need to travel to the mouth of the
Greyflood and avoid Eryn Vorn, which is no longer a haven for
us. Instead, we will be well taken care of along our way if we
go down the Hoarwell, to the Greyflood. It seems as if our plans are not merely a shared thought between us. We have hidden benefactors along the way. So, once we have settled breakfast,
let us find our way to the Hoarwell and travel along it.

Tale of the Warriors of Light

Nessamelda looked a little askance at this route Master Parm was suggesting - it seemed to go unecessarily far to the West, and, little though she knew of ships and the sea, it seemed foolhardy to try to round the cape that made the north side of the Bay of Belfalas in the storms of winter. What was it that Master Parm, or his advisors was trying to avoid on a more direct South- Eastern route?
But still, she was no great traveller and had never made the trip from the North in winter. Perhaps there were things that she was unaware of. It was only too likely that it was so.

"Very well." she assented. "My father's sister has kin in Tharbad I believe - when we were all scattered at the time of the War of the Ring some could not face rebuilding once more what Saruman's orcs had destroyed and decided to start afresh. They have done well I believe. But running an inn is not the same as farming the land on which one's ancestors have raised their horses for generations. Too many have been left exiled and dispossesed after the wars against darkness."

Nessamelda turned into the stable-yard and came back leading Myre. At the sight of the two Elven horses Nessamelda's steed put back her ears and snorted. She was a good three hands taller and much more heavily built than the other two.
"She's not very social I'm afraid" apologised Ness, as she carefully examined Myre's left hind hoof. She had cast a shoe the previous day but it seemed the put-upon blackmith had done a good job despite having his left foot trodden on and being backed up against the wall twice.

Ness saddled and bridled the grumbling mare, and after a litttle persuasion managed to get both her gear and herself in the saddle. Heather watched carefully as Ness assembled her things. It was clear that despite her size and obvious ability with horses, Ness carried no weapons.

"You are unarmed?" asked Heather softly.

"Yes" said Ness "I can use a spear if need be, but I have never, nor will I ever if I can help it, raise a weapon against another. I have killed wolves aplenty and other dark creatures that attack our flocks - but never anything that can talk or reason. " She paused, and then continued:

"When I was young - in my early teens - all of us that dwelt on the plains fled in fear of the armies of Saruman. We hid in Helm's Deep, under siege. Our King and the King of Gondor and the wizard Gandalf and all our menfolk, and some of the women and children too, we all fought against that army. And then five years later, when the remnants of the dark army had regrouped and came once more out of the mountains, and King Eomer called all the men of his holdings to fight, then our men fought once more, and once more our homes and farms were burnt. And my husband never returned from that fighting. I have seen what war and edged weapons do to those who fight, whether they fight for good or ill. I saw enough blood spilt before I was twenty to last me a life time, and I wish to have no further part in spilling blood now. So Mistress Heather, I carry no weapons, although I do not wish to be disrespectful to those who choose a different path".

Alfirin gave a sly glance at Heather's well equipped person and laughed. "Well it seems that the elf has enough weapons for the whole party in any case. I do not fight either. I do not like the sight of blood, particularly my own, and I prefer to talk my way out of trouble - or avoid it in the first place." or bargain my way out of it; or run away she added silently to herself.

So the oddly assorted party began their journey, each thinking their own thoughts, each assessing the other, for they were a group of strangers thrown together on this strange quest.

The sun was well risen now and the four walked on foot or on horseback through the groups of wedding guests. Ness waved a farewell to Nienor-Niniel as they passed. She wished she had had time to get to know the sad young woman, as they seemd to have some things in common. Who could tell when the bards would next have a chance to gather together again to sing glad songs of happiness and stirring songs of heroic exploits done and evil vanquished?

Heather nodded. "At fifty years of age, I tried to put away my sword, for as a Healer of my age, I too have seen more bloodshed than I care to think about. But Eru seams to have another plan for me; one that often involves the sword as well as the gift of healing."
Heather turned her gaze to Afrin as the woman spoke. The healer said nothing, her sympathetic look saw the unvoiced additions. She nodded again, and se off beside Parm on foot, Araondoiel following her mistress=friend withought halter or lead.

The Groom's Hunt



In the very pits of despair into which Herbert Took had now descended reached a warm and comforting hand. Like a trickle of warm bath water it ran down his cheek, to his shoulder and soon enveloped his whole body in it’s warmth and comfort. He hung his head back and took one long deep last breath,

So this is what it feels like to die he thought.

There were no ghosts in this world. No demons anymore, the Valar would bear his body away to heaven or wherever and he would be safe at last. And what of those he loved? What of her?
Well, she would join him eventually would she not? When her sentence of suffering had passed she too would be granted this same blessing, she would be with him and they would be as one forever.

But she does not deserve to suffer as I have suffered he thought.

He had made a promise to her only a few days beforehand. It had been on that fateful day, the day they had joined in matrimony, that he had promised to follow her wherever in Arda she might go. Would he break that promise? Would he lead and not follow?

I can not he thought.

So at last he made up his mind, that he did not yet wish to die. He could not give in…not while there was still any hope…any hope at all that she might yet live.

I want to go back!

Too late. The feeling of warmth and comfort remained and he did not return to the cold lifeless body, that he knew lay still on the ground high in the mountains. Alone, but for his faithful steed who had given all and yet failed at the last. A light in the distance grew brighter and with all his strength he aimed for it.
He was not in heaven, and yet neither was he returned to the cold wet hell from which he had been dragged. His eyes opened slowly and although at first his vision was a little blurry he could make out certain things. First, the almost surreal smell. A smell of stew, as good as any he had himself managed to conjure up. How? A fire good and strong blazing merrily in front of him and warming his body. Why? The comfortable blanket in which he was wrapped, insulated against the still cold weather. When?

And finally…two strange figures sat nearby. One a man, fully grown with blonde hair and a grim expression. The other, an elf it seemed stirring the pot of stew which hung above the fire. She looked worried. Who?

I know them both, he suddenly realised, but how are they here? Is this a dream or did I truly die and these are but ghosts of my past life?

Who was the blonde man though…he knew him and yet he could not think of the name or how he might have known the fellow, it seemed so hazy. The elf was easier to place, for he had seen her but very recently.
“Telta…” he began, speaking slowly for still it pained him to speak, “I thought…I hoped you would stay at the Inn, there is much to be done there and I…” he paused a moment, “I apologise…it seems I owe you my life. And to you sir…” he said speaking to the man and as he met the man’s eyes suddenly he knew him,
“My…by all the stars in the sky…Bryttar of Rohan…how come thee here?”

Tale of the Warriors of Light

Screaming, Tinula and Valaniel ripped off the drowse from their
afternoon naps. Aravel rarely ran, but with her heart beating
hard from genuine fear, she sped to the girl's bedchamber.
Sweat glistened on the brows of both her daughters.
They were panting, shaking almost uncontrollably, and clung to
each other, hoping to find strength or comfort from the other.

"Mother! Oh, mother!" sobbed Valaniel. "It was such a bad dream! We were in it together! It was about...Father!
He is going into great danger!"

" A shared dream? Parm going to danger?" Aravel felt her skin
go cold. This was Imladris! The realm of peace. Not even in the
days of the War of the Ring had a thing like this visited itself on
any here! She felt a rising anger.
What? Who? How?
Questions raced within her mind.

However, after a great degree of effort, she calmed herself.
Perhaps the girls had ventured not into dreams, but prophecies.
A message, a warning. How could they not be afraid if it meant
great danger to their beloved father?

"Tell me. Be careful to describe it as best as you can.
Do not try to be brief."
As the eldest, Tinula felt she should speak for them both.
Valaniel did not object.

"We saw boats and ships and horses. There was a storm.
Great waves crash against them, but the waves become fire.
Father is with three women and a boy. The women escape
safely, but father and the boy...are...swept into a great cave
and we cannot see anymore. Vala and I are on the bank. We
keep shouting, 'Swim here! Swim here!' The women hear us
and come, but not father and the boy. I think it is a Hobbit,
mother. From the cave, we see a light begin to grow and the
voice of Father singing, but not a song that soothes, but a
song, sharp like arrows or a spear. A song to attack. We hear
a horrible scream....and then we screamed, too, and woke up!"

Aravel looked carefully at her daughters and spoke in measured
tones:
"This is a dream both of symbol and prophecy. We must be very
sure that Father Parm goes where he is to go and faces the
danger he is to face. It is difficult, dangerous, but necessary in
order for him to do what he needs to do. Now, lie back down,
and I shall sing to you songs of resting."

Clear as a nightingale, with the fresh gladness of a sparrow,
her voice grasped the edges of the fear and cast it out.

While the thunder claps of stormy gales
Cause our hearts to shake and fear,
It is but the music Eru gives
if you free your hearts to hear.

While the crashing waves that foam and fight
burst against the rocky shore,
they are ways the land and sea embrace
as from many years before.

All the things that cause your heart to quake
when you understand them right
lose their hold on you to bring more harm
and have lost their power to fright.

When the shadows that creep up your wall
are but merely cloak and gown
when the light dispels all the darksome foes
then you smile instead of frown.

All the things that cause your heart to quake
when you understand them right
lose their hold on you to bring more harm
and have lost their power to fright.

The lullaby worked well.
Anxious, wrinkled faces, smoothed into the calm, tranquility of
peace. Tremors subsided into sighs and the girls fell back
again to sleep.
Aravel knew the words were partly true. However, shadows
cloak genuine foes and all the candles in the world have never
fought off orcs. Even so, she knew that many times much
fear sprouts from tiny seeds of doubt.

My dear Parm, peace be with you wherever you are.

************
As Parm readied himself to travel with this interesting band
of travellers, he felt, for a brief instant, a settling calm, and
a fragrant breeze blew past him. He smiled, thinking,
'Even now, even now I am watched and loved. Blessed Aravel.'

The horse was indeed well-packed. Alfirin, true to her word,
was also confidently skilled with her own beast. Lady Heather
and Nessa found, it seemed, an instant and friendly bond.

Off the small company headed to find the banks of the Bruinen
and to follow its relatively smooth embankments to the junction
of the Greyflood. The further south they ventured, the warmer it
would become, but still, the weather was chill and they took
great care to keep themselves warm and dry.

Happily, the day was starting with warming sunshine. That was
almost always a good way to start a journey.

Parm allowed Lady Alfirin to read his note from Aravel and
awaited her reaction to it.

The Groom's Hunt

Telta and Bryttar had finally found Hobbituk lying unconscious in the mud, the rain and the cold depriving him of any body heat. The thought that they had nearly missed him kept intruding into her thoughts and she pushed it away. How long he had been lying there they had no way of knowing. His wound and the exposure to the cold, wet weather could have done more damage and if Bryttar had not spotted the blanket... but he was there with them now and she was grateful.

Everything had been done to make him as comfortable as possible. Wet clothes had been exchanged for dry ones and she had found a small pouch of herbs used for healing and had changed the dressing on his leg. She touched his face gently. No longer was he pale and cold to the touch. A warm blanket and a fire under the overhanging rock sheltering them from the pouring rain helped and Hobbituk’s colour was returning.

Telta stirred the stew the smell floating up to her from the pot. It was for the hobbit‘s benefit that she had made it thanks to Bryttar’s supplies. He had taken care of the horses telling her that Matilda was weary but otherwise unharmed. She looked over at the Rohirrim as he sat staring into the fire her mind wandering over the last few days. And it all seemed a jumbled mess as her thoughts moved from the destruction of the inn, the wedding, meeting Bryttar to helping Hobbituk leave but the one that was most vivid in her mind was Beliran...

Telta looked back down at the stew stirring it with quick, forceful strokes spilling some of the juice over the edge, emitting a hissing sound as it hit the flames. She stopped stirring knowing that Bryttar was watching her. It was Hobbituk that needed her attention not herself and her troubles. “Telta… came Hobbituk’s quiet voice. He was awake.

Together she and Bryttar went over and knelt beside him. “I thought…I hoped you would stay at the Inn, there is much to be done there and I….. I apologize…it seems I owe you my life." Telta looked down at the hobbit her blue eyes reflecting the sadness she felt. How could she tell him about the Lucky Fortune demise? He had enough worries without that burden added to them. She was spared the task for the moment when he continued to speak “And to you sir…They both saw the moment when he recognized Bryttar. “My...by all the stars in the sky…Bryttar of Rohan…how come thee here?”

When Hobbituk tried to sit up Telta’s gentle but firm hands held him where he lay.

“Just relax Hobbituk. You are in need of rest. Do not push yourself. Questions can be asked from where you lie.”

“I am fine Telta. Just a little tired.” he tried to convince her of this though he did not resist her efforts to make him remain where he was.

“Telta is right Hobbi. You need rest. So be a good lad and do as she says.”

“Alright but..” a thought occurred to the wounded hobbit “How is it that the two of you know each other?” he looked from one to the other “And how came you to be here together?”


*******
Telta-Master bard
Official Vana Honourary Adoptee
E.O.

Tale of the Warriors of Light

The light filtered through the leaves of the beech trees above them as they made their way through the woods, following a faint path leading them towards the river. The leaves were turning red and gold, and now and then drifted slowly to the forest floor. At the side of the path in the beds of damp leaves, mushrooms and strange fungi could be seen peeping through. It was a peaceful Autumn day and only the sound of footsteps and hooves broke the silence. The smell of woodsmoke gradually dissipated as they followed the path along.

Ness and Heather rode slowly and companionably together, although Myre was inclined to bare her teeth if the handsome elvish horse came too close.
Behind them Alfirin and Parm walked together, Parm leading his fine steed, Alfirin followed by a slightly unwilling small grey donkey, which carried her canvas bag on its back. When it became too recalcitrant, or tried to stop to take a mouthful of grass or leaves, Alfirin would turn round and give it a hard stare and the beast would glower back, but eventually slowly follow once more.

Alfirin was occupied with distant thoughts, her mind travelling far into the past and into distant places, when Parm offered her the note. She took it, admiring the fine strong elven script in which it was written and quickly read it through.

She looked at Parm thoughtfully

"Why do wish for my approval in this? I assume that you trust your wife's judgement. ' She paused, again briefly wandering the paths of her past. She added softly: " But foresight is a perilous thing. Often when we act to avoid a danger foreseen it will throw us into deeper and less charted waters."

Another pause: " I do not like the sea. From the West my forefathers came in the times of legends, their own lands drowned as a result of their pride and fear and greed. The lords of the waves do not love the folk of Westernesse, and I fear the rolling green deeps, for they haunt my dreams, flooding the lands and the trees and the beauty that was Numenor. I have not the foresight that many of my people posess. My gift is a gift of seeing through my pen. But my heart tells me that we should not take ship. But I say again - do you trust your wife? It is her gift - would she put you into peril?".

Tale of the Warriors of Light
Parm smiled gently back at Alfirin, understanding both her
reluctance and her pain.
My wife has told me of a saying among her people:
" In a multitude of counselors there is great strength."
I consider your frame of mind to be perfect for making hard
decisions, since you are not one to tolerant a waste of time or
money. While we may take boats to the Tharbad, we have yet
to see what that meeting will preclude. Though I love the sea,
my love for it is from a safe embankment, not on board a ship.
If it is necessary, we may need to take the road from Tharbad
and go south along the newly-opened roads through the
Gap of Rohan and then on to Gondor overland. The presence
of the King has certainly brought about many good changes
as well as difficult ones.

We are well-provisioned for encampments, but I am not at all
fond of doing so. Nevertheless, we shall see what happens at
Tharbad. One step at a time, I have often been told.

I find your company enjoyable and I appreciate your advice
and observations.

Heather and Ness talked quietly about general stuff; little things; and discovered a few common interests as they rode just a little ahead of the other two. They finally grew silent and the healer began to think seriously about their ultimate destination. The path didn't bother her, she cared not what road was taken, but to see the White City again! So many memories; so many demons...

Tale of the Warriors of Light
"I'm off on a quest that is great and fine
I'm off for adventure that's mine all mine!
Just like the stories of Bilbo the Bold
I'll come back home with gems and gold!"

To the rhythm of the tune, set to his own merry lyrics, Willum cut, stacked and prepared several cords of wood beside his parent's dwelling. Eggs were gathered, cows were milked, vats of water for baths were filled. Willum was almost inspired from enthusiasm at the thought of being able to go on a real adventure. No sneaking off. No late-night dwarvish visitors. Not he! He was going with hugs and blessings.

At long last the chores were done. For good measure, to the shock of Mum and Da, Willum had cleaned the windows overlooking the field that spread out before their home. Cleaned? No, polished! Starbright they shone. So, Willum sat astride Poppy, the family pony (borrowed, mine you!), with 10 silver pennies, a good-sized pack of hobbit-boy provisions, a note to Ponto and Violet Bracegirdle, who lived out near the Last Bridge to be sure that young Willum would be "well provisioned to join his new friends on whatever quest they might find to do.

Most sincerely, Gaffer Bracegirdle."

With a jaunty wave, Willum pulled, tugged, wrapped and fussed with his clothes to make himself a little warmer, and clip-clopped out of sight. Not looking back, and a good thing, too, for it would have quailed his heart to see the shiny tears on his mum's cheeks and glinting his Da's eyes. They knew full well that he might very well be turned back, but just the prospect of him being the first Bracegirdle to join the ranks of the highly-esteemed Bagginses as being an adventurer was enough to bring a swell of great pride to Gaffer Bracegirdle's heart.

Willum knew the road well...at least as far as the Midgewater Marshes. He had no fear of evil folk along the road. Quite the opposite. He fully expected the other hobbit boys to bound along with him for a bit, grow tired and head back, which they did. Little crocks of mushrooms and beans (never mind the jar, lad), loaves and cheeses, a well-sealed bottle of raspberry cordial (oh, joy!) and some butter tarts with raisins, found their way into his quickly swelling pack.

Somewhere past the Forsaken Inn, the number of well-wishers dropped to one, and even brave Peony Took knew that she, too, must turn back. blowing him a kiss, which Willum looked at with bewilderment (what on earth is she doing?), she sped off home.

Toward late afternoon, Willum reached a place south of Amon Sul, found a marvellous cleft off to the side of the road, set to work to build a fire, unpacked his sleeping gear, set up his candle lamp (with five other candles to last him) and enjoyed supper, with some afters. Warm, fed and content, he curled up to sleep and dreamed of finding caverns of gold with the elf-lady.

***********

Aravel had heard that someone had returned from the Lucky Fortune Inn, the very place where Parm had gone to officiate the ill-fated wedding. She wanted to get more information, so she quietly slipped out of their residence, past Farafalin and Arahn, nearly buried in ancient scrolls and books as they worked on history and language, up to the balcony overlooking the Bruinen Valley. Tinula and Valaniel were fine, now. The lullaby had its own powers to wrap young limbs in tiredness to seek rest.

Aravel, though, did not need rest. She needed assurance. She needed news. At long last she spotted Glorfingol, the keeper of her special bird-friend, whom Parm had named Silvertongue.

"Glorfingol! To see is like sunlight that warms my heart. I hear
you have news for me."

"Ah, M'lady Aravel! Yes, thanks to our friend, Parm's Silvertongue. He has told me to tell you to seek out Mellaurelom, the Traveller Bard. She has returned, by a great owl, to find some rest here, enjoy some time of music and feasting, and then desires to see you about Master Parm...yes, Master! He has become a Master Bard. I can see that news such as this brings you gladness. Well it should. Parm has labored long and hard to be given such a rank. I fear, though, that despite his love of lore and legends within the safe confines of our libraries, he has been compelled to go elsewhere. However, Parm's friend Mellaurelom, no doubt, has more to tell. Seek her. She should be well rested by now."

Sharing a mutual and respected bow, Aravel left Glorfingol and hurried away to the Hall of Fire, where poets and lore-writers sat, as well as those, like Bilbo of old, who enjoyed a nibble of something, even as Parm would do, whether supper was about to be served or not.

Parm...oh, where are you, my beloved? Do not stray too far from my purposed plan for you. The men I have sent are trustworthy. Be resolute to follow the plan. Do not give in to the fear of others.

Be brave, my darling! Oh, Eru, keep him on the starlit path!

East meets West

There was a bright light burning through to Culanir’s eyes, although the lids felt sealed tight, pinned down with the leaden weight of exhaustion intermingled with the work of the healer’s arts on his body. Consciousness was returning to the Gondorian, as faintly as the soft pearled light of the heavens, but present nonetheless. His head pounded as though Aulë had inserted his hammer and anvil therein and was smithying away for all he was worth. And his tongue felt too large for his mouth; swollen and furred and feeling rather as though something had crawled in there and died.

If he’d not known better, he’d have presumed that he lay prone where he’d fallen as a result of a bout of drinking. But that was not Culanir’s style; he appreciated quality liquor as much as the next man but his way was not that of the common soldier, thinking of nothing but a quantity of ale, a full belly (and giving the same to the locals’ daughters). He had always been marked out from his fellows by his extraordinary dedication to his craft, commitment almost to the point of obsession to perfect his skills. Food and drink he took sparingly and from need rather than desire. And women he avoided so wholeheartedly as to have earned more than one sideways glance from his curious comrades. He knew with absolute certainty that he’d not been drunk, indeed had barely touched a drop.

Steadily the mists began to clear from his memory and as Culanir’s recollections of the day before swam into focus he attempted to trace the footprints left across his thoughts by the passage of time. His arrival at the inn, that seemed to his mind as though it had been weeks ago rather than less than a day. He remembered the impact of the long-expected pain as he discovered the truth of the rumours about Lurea’s wedding, that bitterness conversely blended with the sweetness of reunification with Rho. As Culanir’s memory drew him still deeper into the darkness of the day he saw again those Easterlings, felt his hand throb and the small of his back ache at the recollection of his tussle with Moujhadin. He remembered Rho’s injury, with no thanks to the stupidity of that egotistical Rohirrim cub, and he felt his blood run suddenly cold. In all the mayhem, the sudden shock of Lurea’s kidnapping, he had failed her, the woman who had gone out of her way to help him that previous day. But she was alright, he knew she was alright because he’d seen her. He remembered that much. Just before he’d gone to sleep. Culanir breathed easier again at this realisation, although each intake burned his weary body as the fresh life of air hit his bruised and resistant spirit. He would make it up to her, would try to.

Culanir tried to move his fingers but found them bound stiff, resistant against the firm bandages. At last he carefully opened his eyes. The brightness hurt them though, strong as it felt, it wasn’t quite hardy enough to penetrate through to the depths of his soul which still remained wreathed in the shroud of shadow he’d woven himself.

From his vantage point he took in his immediate surroundings. He was outside and the glow from a fire was warming the whole right hand side of his body. He realised that he wasn’t alone. Strangely familiar faces were gathered nearby as though all drawn as moths to the flame of the fire. There was a dark-haired maiden; had he seen her before? He couldn’t quite recall. And that man again, the one who owned the poisoned blade, crouching proprietarily nearby, his ebony hair slicked back and damp, highlighting his strong cheekbones. Culanir painfully twisted his neck away, too tired to waste precious energy on one whose very presence tested his patience. There he could see Rho and the ranger woman who’d healed the Easterlings, although for the life of him he couldn’t remember being told her name, a woman with a mop of short blonde curls and the two rangers and two Easterlings who’d fought their way through the inn.

The inn. As though a sudden bolt had caught him off guard, Culanir found himself reeling, remembering. Although to all outward appearances he hadn’t moved a muscle except for his eyes, across which ghosts of done deeds flickered.

He looked up at the inn and saw what he expected to see; a ruined edifice watching him. Like some vengeful battle-scarred monument standing in perpetual reproach to those who’d dared to defile its marble. Everything came back to him, much as he would have desired to bury his head in the sand away from reality, the enormity of the events was unfolded wide before his consciousness.

On three counts he had failed himself and others; he’d deserted Rho, attacked Hobbituk and stooped far lower than his opponent ever would in his treatment of Erinhue. The knight felt his spirit cower within. Honour and nobility had been trampled in the dust. ‘You call yourself knight?’; the bitter venom of the Bard’s words carved themselves again and again into Culanir’s ravaged brain. Yes, he had called himself knight, had, despite his best attempts at humility, taken pride in that fact.

As the Gondorian lay, his eyes staring unseeing at the scene of the unhappy wedding party, he thought not of himself, or of Lurea, of Rho or the others he’d injured. All he saw in his mind’s eye was Hardedhil; the man he had trained under when he was but a squire, the man who had taught him everything he knew, not just how to fine-hone talent with steel but how to behave, to think, to be. And Culanir saw the look of disappointment in his mentor’s eyes, just as clear as if he were still alive and there before him standing as witness to this sorry mess. He heard Hardehdil’s voice echoing down the years, telling him: ‘As knights' spurs goad the war-horse so should they goad the knight to valour, service, and diligence. They should be worn with honour and discretion lest they be hacked from your heels in shame and disgrace.’

He had failed himself and those who placed faith in him, that he acknowledged for all his discomfiture in doing so. But, lying broken and dragged deep into this abyss of his own making, he doubted as to his own strength to face the challenge of hauling himself out.

The knight swallowed hard. His throat hurt and was sore; unshed tears and dust and blood and grief all intermingled. His lips were cracked and parched. Water was the first step he needed if he were to have any hope at all of cleansing. But he needed to ask for it and words were not forthcoming. He gave a slight moan.

East Meets West


Jiyadan's eyes narrowed as he looked back at that red-haired witch. "You are certain of this?" the easterling said, not wanting to hear the answer.

“Yes” was all Rho replied.

When it became apparent that he, did not want to discuss it any further, Rho reached down and picked up the letter she’d been working on earlier. Rereading what she had already written, Rho quickly decided that it wouldn’t do, so she crumpled up the paper and threw it into the slowly diminishing fire. Quickly the evidence was gone, burned into ashes, but it didn’t make her feel any better. The letter still needed to be written and taken to Minas Tirith, the sooner the better.

Rho continued to stare into the fire, thinking and reworking the words in her head, until the sound of a steel blade scrapping across a whet stone broke into her thoughts. Looking over she noticed that Jiyadan too seemed to be lost in his own thoughts as he skillfully sharpened his dagger. She then looked over towards his friend who was still sleeping and wondered about him. This man who almost took her life...only then to save it.

Suddenly her mind returned to the letter, and she began to focus on that. It took only a few moments for her thoughts to flow out onto the paper, at least at first. But when she came to the part, that part where she tried to explain her actions regarding Culanir and the previous days events, her mind once again froze. Sighing, she set the letter back down and again looked over at the sleeping Easterling. Finally, she spoke, “Jiyadan, your friend Moujhadin, he his a man of honor isn’t he.”

He stopped, the blade still resting on the stone, but did not look at her when she spoke. Looking down at his brother, he nodded slightly and said, "Yes." He then resumed his task.

The shieldmaiden thought back to what the Easterling had said to her on the stairs and smiled softly. The word ‘honor’ was not what she would have used to describe him the previous night, at least not before her vision.

“How long have you known him? How long have you been friends?” she asked, genuinely wanting to know.

This time Jiyadan stopped and put the blade and stone down. Looking again at Moujhadin he thought back on the years. "How long," he mused to himself. "Over nine years it has been." he answered at last. "Perhaps more, since he first came to my command."

“So he served under you, where was this?”

"Yes," he replied, "In Harad."

‘Harad,’ she thought to herself, and wondered what that land looked like. ‘Was it possible that her vision had reflected this place?’ Suddenly a chill ran up her spine when she realized that she was now sitting next to a small fire with Culanir, Jiyadan, and Moujhadin, just like she had in her vision. These were the same three men who she’d been told were waiting for her return.

She glanced back at Moujhadin and then back to Jiyadan and remembered his fierce determination towards protecting his friend the previous night. Clearly there was a bond between the two men, a strong one. He had stayed with his friend, made sure he was taken care of, and had never left his side. It reminded her of how she had wanted to protect Culanir.

Glancing over towards her former mentor, who was still sleeping, Rho tried to ignore the sudden pang the she felt. Not wanting to remember the pain of him leaving her the night before. Then she looked back at her new easterling friend and asked, “Jiyadan, could you please tell me what the words from my vision meant again?”

As he began to translate the Eastron words into Westron, she picked up her paper, took out a fresh piece, and wrote down all four of the sentences. When she was finished, she asked if he could write out the phrase in Eastron for her upon the same page. He quickly agreed.

“You know,” she began while watching him write. “I wonder if these words were meant just for me? Do you think it's possible that….”

Stunned, Rho stopped talking and watched when she saw Aliana, who was being carried by Marius, approaching the fire. The young woman's fury was more than apparent to all who observed.

When the Rohirrim finally sat Aliana down on the other side of Culanir, Rho was quickly at her side. Taking off her blue Mithril Knight cloak, she wrapped it around the young woman and asked how she was doing. Rho was relieved to find out that other than being cold, wet, very angry, and what appeared to be a sprained ankle, Aliana was otherwise alright.

The two talked briefly, Rho doing her best to calm down her friend and former apprentice, but the fire in her young friend eyes remained, even after she stood up to deal with Marius. Looking at her cousin, the one Rho quickly and thankfully reminded herself, she was only related to by marriage, then asked, “Marius, how is it that you have this unique ability to be at the wrong place at the wrong time? And always when there are ladies around?”

She couldn’t miss the look his eyes, but continued on, “I’m not talking about last night, and what happened with the dagger, I know that you were just trying to help me then. What I’m talking about how you have the unique gift to provoke and incense women in such a short period of time?”

He began to reply when they both suddenly heard a moan from Culanir, without even thinking, Rho left her cousin, and quickly went his side.

“Culanir, it’s Rho. I’m here.”

She watched him as he tried to speak, but then realized what he needed. “I’ll be right back.”

Moving towards her pack, she asked Jiyadan if she could have some of his water. Once he agreed, Rho brought a cup and small rag over to where he held out his water bag. After filling the cup and wetting the rag, the shieldmaiden was back at Culanir’s side. She helped him to lift his head, slightly, and then gently held the cup to his lips. Slowly letting him drink as much as he could.

When he was finished, and again resting his head, she set her cup down and began to wipe his face with the cool cloth. Trying to be as gentle as she could be to sooth his wounds and swollen eyes.

The Groom's Hunt


As soon as he and Telta heard Hobbi’s voice, they were both quickly at his side. Bryttar had to smile when the hobbit finally recognized him.

“Well before I answer your questions, I have one for you,” Bryttar began. “Are you the least bit hungry? Because I sure am and I believe Telta is too, but we’ve been waiting for you.”

When the hobbit nodded his head yes, Telta helped him to sit up while the Rohirrim took a saddle and a few of the softer packs and placed them behind him. Giving him something to rest his back against. After Telta had dished up the stew, Bryttar had cut up some bread, and they all had there food in front of them, Bryttar then began to answer Hobbi’s questions.

“Well up to three days ago, we didn’t know each other. But it appears that what I thought was a bit of bad luck turned out to be a good thing. I met Telta a few nights ago out on the trail, when she was going after you and I was working my way towards the Lucky Fortune Inn. Once we became acquainted with each other and I found out what she was doing out there, we quickly decided to work together in trying to find you.”

He stopped for a moment, wanting to be careful of just which words he used. Certainly he didn’t want to condemn the hobbit for taking off after his new bride, and Bryttar was going to try his best not to refer to the wedding, at least not until Hobbi brought it up.

Telta took advantage of the silence to find out if they both had liked the stew. To which they both replied that they did, even though Bryttar had only taken a bite. Then Hobbi asked where the fresh meat and vegetables came from, and the Elf then looked back at the Rohirrim.

“Well,” he began, “That is the other part of the story as to how Telta ended up meeting each other. What we are enjoying tonight I guess you could say is my reward.” He then smiled at the elf, hoping she wouldn’t mind hearing the story again.

“You see I should have arrived at the Lucky Fortune Inn a good three days before your….” He then stopped and started over. “Well let’s say I should have made better time in my travels from Rohan to the Inn towards the end of my journey. But about a week ago, I ran into a young lad, I’d say no more than 10, who had decided to run away from home. He’d done fairly well for the first few days, that is until his food ran out. Luckily I found him in the afternoon of the following day. And as determined as the little guy was not to return home, I was finally able to convince him to at least let me join him in his little ‘adventure’. Of course being able to provide him with some food helped. Anyway it took me a good day and a half to build his trust enough to find out where he lived, then it took another half a day for me to persuade him that it would be in his best interest to return there.”

He stopped for a moment to take another bit of the stew and to get a drink of water. Then he continued.

“So it took me about 3 days before I finally got him back to his village. And of course I was hoping the entire time that he was actually leading us back to where he lived and not further away from it. But when we finally peaked the last hill at midday, me on Krestil and him on his little pony, a pony very much like yours Hobbi, I couldn’t help but laugh as he went riding off as fast as he could towards his home. For a much as the lad had told me how grown up he was and ready to face life on his own, I do believe that he discovered there are a few more things he needs to learn first and that home was a welcomed site after all.”

At this point he stopped for a moment, allowing Telta to fill up both her bowl as well as Hobbi’s with some more stew.

“As you can only imagine, his mother was quite relieved and wanted me to stay with them for a few days, at least until the boy's father returned,. So I could meet him and all, but I needed to continue on my way. I didn’t know how many days I was behind now, but I was certain that I was further east than I wanted be. So after I finally agreed to some meat and fresh vegetables as a payment for returning her son, I then started back on my journey, which then lead me to Telta a few days later, and has now lead us here, to you.”

Bryttar then looked down at his bowl and realized that he’d been talking so much that most of his stew still remained. He laughed slightly, this always seemed to happen. No matter how hungry he was, the opportunity for telling a good story always seemed to win out. But now that his story was finished, at least for the moment, he leaned back against the rock wall and began to eat with the other two.

The Groom's Hunt

“You should have been a bard Bryttar,” said Hobbi dryly, his lips making a smacking sound as he licked the stew from them that he was getting stuck into, “For all the tales you tell! Why, I believe some of that story might even be true!”

He winked at the large man and then turned his attention back to his bowl. A strange sensation passed through his body. For the first time in days his head felt a sudden lightness. He felt…comfortable, safe and secure. There was something about Bryttar, he always seemed to inspire a certain confidence in a person. No situation seemed beyond him, Bryttar would always be laid back and offer a smile and a grin. That was what had drawn Hobbi to him in the first place he supposed. As for Telta, she had long been a good friend. One he could depend on, she emitted a graceful warmth, soothing and calm. With these two companions his worries suddenly seemed to fade slightly. Of course, what their motives might be in following him up into this forsaken place was another matter entirely…and one which he intended to discern as soon as possible.

Right now however, all he could think of was the warmth of the fire, the healing taste of the stew and two of his greatest friends sitting on either side.
Bryttar laughed at the Hobbit and leaning over with his huge arm he ruffled Hobbi’s hair. It was not in a condescending or patronising manner but in a way which suggested a great friendship, “Hobbi, I see you have not lost your sense of humour despite…your troubles.”

Hobbi stopped short and paused. It was true, he had almost immediately fallen back into the same rapport he had always had with the horseman…indeed with any of his friends, what did this mean? Did this mean that nothing had changed? That his love had not been stolen away? That his heart had not been broken?

How dare you make merry while your beloved is in captivity? Tortured and hurt for all you know…

His face fell. There was a moment of silent awkwardness. It was broken by Telta.
She leant forward, “So, I am still not entirely clear as to how the two of you became friends? Both your homes are sundered by many leagues, you are hardly neighbours!”
Bryttar grinned, “Well, that is a long story and perhaps not one to be told in full this day. What do you think Hobbi?”

Hobbi looked up again, he smiled once more feeling he owed his old friend that much at least, “It is indeed an interesting tale. I will tell you the bare bones. As you know I have spent almost my entire career in Eriador. Travelling the distance between Rivendell and the Blue Mountains many times indeed. Well, on a few occasions I have crossed the Misty Mountains and I spent the majority of my time in Rohan. I found that the horselords appreciated my style of performance, my songs and my stories. I travelled around the many villages and farmsteads putting on a show for the people. After one such show I had the misfortune to encounter this rascal…and some of his family. To cut a long story short his family was very good to me…when I returned home we kept in touch.”
“I see!” said Telta, her smile sparkling in the dull surroundings, “So you are old friends indeed!”
“Yes. You are both good friends to me. Though I must ask you, why did you follow me here. I swear, if it was to make me go back…to abandon my pursuit then you are to be disappointed! I will not rest until Lurea is back in my arms…I could find peace with no other in the whole of Middle-Earth!”

The mood darkened slightly, as Hobbi added a hint of anger and venom to his voice. He would not be thwarted.

The Tale Of The Warriors Of Light
Morning progressed to afternoon and the small group stopped for a rest and some lunch, but quickly set out again.
Afternoon progressed to evening and Heather dismounted to walk with Parm for a while.
"Do you have a planned place for the night or should we be looking for a camp site?" The healer suddenly shivered, ever-so-slightly, as a bone deep chill settled into her soul.

Tale of the Warriors of Light
Parm smiled gently at Lady Heather, rubbed the side of his nose in the characteristic way he did when thinking carefully,
and gave the elf-healer his answer.
According to the list my wife left me in one of the packs, there
are some special rain-resistant canopies that we can put up.
The hithlain ropes will hold well and the walls made of elven
cloth will serve as their own cloaks do, to shelter us from unwelcome eyes. I am sure that together we can make a very nice fire and cook some of the broth and bread we carry with us. Ah, if only Willum were here! I'm sure he would have brought much nice fare, but the provisions we have with us will give us strength enough to reach the joining of this river to the Bruinen.
The beans with us and herbs we find along the way will help to
make our stews more enjoyable.
Naturally, if you can find a few conies to dress and add to the
pot, I think we would all be grateful!
At this, Parm's smile coaxed one out of Lady Heather and they
even shared a gentle laugh. I/I]
********
Willum had forgotten how rough the first night out can be. He
awoke, stiff, dampish and cold. Oh he had wrapped himself
warmly enough, but good earthen walls keep out the night
chills far better than woollen wraps. Willum rolled noisily out
of his sleeping roll, slapped his cheeks left-right-left-right in
rapid succession to wake himself up and then padded off to
fill his tea-pail with water. There were creeks and rivulets all
over the place, so it was not hard to find a water source.
After several halting attempts, a fire was made, and it soon drove out the chill from Willum's shivering frame. How he loved the
morning, though! Toast on a stick, sausages sizzling in the
pan, and water nearly at a boil for tea, Willum thought himself
to be a Hobbit Ranger. His reverie caused him to miss keeping
the toast from burning, the sausages split angrily in the pan and
the water boiled over, almost putting an end to his nice fire.
His excellent breakfast sank to a mediocre level, but edible
nonetheless.
At last, his camp site cleaned and his pony reading for riding,
Willum set out on day two of his journey. He made excellent time
and almost before sunset say the twinkling lights of the houses
and inns around The Last Bridge. He looked forward to lodging
in a nice bed at the home of his relatives, the Bracegirdles.
The thought of a tasty mushroom and bacon stew spurred him
on to the doorway of his great uncle Ponto and aunt Violet.
The cries of delight and surprise from his relatives made Willum glad he had pushed himself to venture this far. The gifts sent
along with him didn't hurt matters any either.

Tale Of The Warriors Of Light
Heather started watching for a nice level place, near the road, but far enough back to avoid casual interest. After pointing out several, Parm finally settled on one and the foursom started to set up their camp.
Once the tents were up, the half elf disapeared for nigh on an hour. Darkness was just setting in when she reurned, her brow slightly creaced with a frown, the edge of her cloak dripping and a small leather bag in her hand.
Someone had started a fire and had found the stream that was about ten yards into the brush, so their small cooking pot was ready for the cleaned and chunked meat she dumped into it from the leather bag. Afrin started stirring the contents, as Heather settled near the fire without a word, drawing her cloak tight about herself. Something was wrong; she couldn't place it, but something other than the cool Autumn air was making her cold. Her frown deepened as she stared into the flames and a certanty that the neither the fire, nor the stew was going to make her warm, settled into her mind.

The Groom's Hunt

The elf nodded her agreement of Bryttar’s obsevations. She was indeed hungry but had not realized it until the aroma from the stew had set her mouth to watering and as she chewed thoughtfully on the stew she listened to the exchange between Bryttar and Hobbituk. Telta saw his hesitation and knew that he would be considering his words carefully before going on with his tale. With the awkward silence when Bryttar stopped talking she intervened with some asking them if the stew was satisfactory.

The Rohirrim smiled at her when Hobbituk asked about how they met and she nodded and smiled back knowing Bryttar was about to tell the story of the young boy.

Hobbituk ate his stew not missing a bit of it as Bryttar talked away and when the Rohirrim was done the Hobbit did not believe his story. Bryttar looked shocked when Hobbituk said as much which soon turned into laughter.

“Hobbi, I see you have not lost your sense of humour despite…your troubles.” The hobbit’s attitide changed almost immediately. The conversation had been brought back to the present and Telta tried to distract him form his troubled thoughts.

“So, I am still not entirely clear as to how the two of you became friends? Both your homes are sundered by many leagues, you are hardly neighbours!” And she thought that she had been successful as he told her about how the two of them had met but it did not last long as he came back to why they were here. “ I swear, if it was to make me go back…to abandon my pursuit then you are to be disappointed! I will not rest until Lurea is back in my arms…I could find peace with no other in the whole of Middle-Earth!”

The anger in his voice stung a little and the elf set her bowl down suddenly no longer hungry. She looked over at Bryttar, he too had felt the bite of the hobbit’s angry, accusing words. He would not be easily turned from his search for his beloved and she had no intention of doing so. Nor would she let him move on in his present condition. He would be no good to Turelie if he took sick. Determined that he should listen to reason she began

“Hobbituk I did not come here to stop you. I only want to help. I tried to tell you that at the inn. I wanted to go with you then but you asked a favour of me. But I am here now and wish only to help as does Bryttar."

A little of Telta's own concern for the hobbit's well being came through in the slight harshness of her next words.

"Yet if needs be I could find a rope to tie you to the nearest tree in order for you to rest and regain some of your strength”

Telta placed her hand on his arm her voice gentle once more.

“ Hobbituk let us help there is no need for you to do this alone.”

*******
Telta-Master Bard
Official Vana Honourary Adoptee
Wielder of the Star Ring of the Tale Bearer
E.O.

Tale Of The Warriors Of Light

It was a good camping spot, thought Ness. In a clearing among the beech trees, just away from the path that they had been following, close to fresh water. And they had made good distance today, despite their late start. Alfirin had been as good as her word and kept up a good pace. At this rate in two days or a little more they would make junction of the Hoarwell and the Loudwater.

The sun was setting, light filtering through the Autumn leaves. A gust of wind made the leaves eddy, more branches showing bare to the sky above them.

Alfirin looked up at the bare branches and the swirling leaves and shook her head. Winter was getting closer. Not a good time for travelling. She returned her attention to the pot, moving it out of line of the direct heat, so that it would simer gently. Heather seemed jumpy, she thought. But who knows what elves can see or hear? Who could fathom them, who could, in the end, really trust them? For their aims and concerns were not those of the children of men.

She gave the stew a halfhearted poke with her wooden spoon. She had eaten more than enough rabbit stew in her lifetime. Even with herbs and beans and potatoes it was still stewed rabbit, and with advancing years, she wished to dine on something a little more elegant. If things had been otherwise then she would not be limited to grubbing in the wilds for this poor fare. If all the promises that had been made had been kept, if all those who had bargained with her had kept their sides of the deal, as she (nearly) always had; well, then things would have been different. No one would have been sneering at her poverty then. She would have been treated with respect.

Alfirin looked up to find Parm looking at her. She shook her head slowly. This train of thought did her no good. Hadn't she decided to make a fresh start? Or at least try to put her past behind her. Yet even here in this beautiful woodland, with the stars starting to shine through the branches, she could find no peace. Something kept pushing her mind back to thoughts of old wounds. She could not shake off that feeling of injured pride.

The siren song of darkness was singing to her ever louder. Agarak's fire had burnt it clear away for nearly a day. But now it had returned louder than ever, distorting Alfirin's thoughts, tempting her and threatening her at the same time. It had been there, a part of her life for many years, driving her decisions and her path through the world, although she had not realised its significance. Now it had returned after a day's absence she recognised it for what it was. But that made its call no easier to resist. Only more terrifying, more seductive.

She stood and turned to Parm and Ness. She seemed vulnerable, her veneer of self-composure cracked. "You are bards you say! Mistress Heather and I seem somewhat disturbed despite the finess of the night and peace in this woodland. Can you sing songs that will drive away our fears?"

East meets West...


As much as Jiyadan had tried to lose himself in his thoughts, this shield-maiden persisted in not letting him and he at last resigned himself to answering her questions. She asked about her vision again and he thought for a moment, trying to recall the words she had spoken the night before and she wrote the words down on a piece of paper as he gave her the translation again.

When she handed him the paper and asked him to write in Eastron up on it, he agreed though thought it odd, and then she began to say something about the words possibly being for... for who, he wondered? She never finished her thought for she was suddenly distracted as her friend, the woman from the night before, was carried into the clearing by someone she obviously did not desire to be carried by, both of them looking bedraggled and not at all in their right minds. He smiled slightly at the oddity of these people. "So strange," he muttered to himself and shook his head.

Finishing his writing, he placed the paper back near where Rho had been sitting and looked down at Moujhadin. Jiyadan placed his palm on his friend's head, checking for signs of fever though feeling none. He worried slightly that he still slept, hoping it was only the sleep of exhaustion and not of some greater evil inflicted on him by those two tsayka witches. Some of the rage from last night began to seep back into his mind and he glared at them for a moment before again looking back at Moujhadin.

The sounds of a muted argument then caught his attention and he saw Rho and the new arrival, Rohirrim from the look of him, disputing something, but he could not catch the words. Just then, the other man by the fire groaned and Rho was immediately by his side and once again Jiyadan could not help but think they must have some great connection to each other, something more between them, despite her denial of last night. 'Perhaps he does not return her affections,' he thought, reflecting on the previous night's events. She seemed to be very devoted to the man, and a sad smile spread on his lips.

She asked him for water, which he provided, and watched her gentle hands as she cared for the man, holding the water to his lips then softly wiping his face. 'That man is a fool,' he thought to himself. 'If I had someone like..' He stopped abruptly. What was he thinking? His mother... that's what it was. Watching Rho tend to this man suddenly brought a flood of memories of his mother, how she would so gently tend to him after he'd been beaten. He continued to watch, almost fascinated at the sight before him. Is this what he had looked like? Is this the scene that others would have witnessed all those years ago?

His thoughts may have lingered there had not a new event caught his attention...

Tale of the Warriors of Light

Parm smiled warmly at Alfirin. Her request was not only good,
but well-timed. The warmth of the fire was gradually claiming
more and more territory. None of them were shivering, and
were even relaxing. Parm stood, walked over to his travelling
pack, and carried back to the circle around the fire his unique instrument that always accompanied him, Bisei, "Beautiful Voice".
Testing the strings, Parm strummed lightly and then more confidently once he was satisfied by the tone. He swallowed and began a soft hum, that swelled to some introductory sounds before he began to sing:

One simple candle, banishes the gloom,
One simple raindrop, coaxes out a bloom,
One simple blossom, shows that spring is near
One simple melody soothes a heart in fear.
We are blessed by simple things,
Butterflies and sparrows wings,
And the firelight warms and glows
and the comfort in us grows,
all because of simple things,
all because of simple things.

One simple kindness, changes paths of hate
One simple favor, shows a heart that's great
One simple token, seals a promise made
One simple lullaby, calms a child afraid,
We are blessed by simple things,
Herbs that heal from wounds and stings
And the firelight warms and glows
and the comfort in us grows
all because of simple things,
all because of simple things.

Neither gems or mithril bright,
Give us solace in our fright,
but the closeness of a friend,
brings our worries to an end.

One simple garment, shields us from the cold,
One simple pasttime, even helps the old,
One simple purpose, keeps our pathway clear,
One simple friendship, fills our heart with cheer.
To be blessed by simple things,
More than riches meant for kings,
As this firelight warms and glows,
and the comfort in us grows,
may we cherish simple things,
may we cherish simple things.

With a graceful melodic flourish, Parm finished the song...
but his eyes were fixed on the fire...
the fire...
the fire...

East meets West

After she had woke up for a first time and taken a look around, Nin had first set down again, hiding her face in her knees. None of the faces she would have wanted to see had been there – no Leoba, no Eari, no Rholarowyn, no Matrim, no, nobody.

She closed her eyes only for a moment, feeling the touch of the chilly morning wind on her cheek. It felt warm a minute after it, and when she opened her eyes, clinging in the sunlight, she realized that she must have fallen asleep again – as strange as it seemed in this uncomfortable position. The wind had blown the clouds away, but ashes were turning around in the air, the last memories of a day of doom.

Nienor-Niniel pressed her eyes together, the sun blended her. She remembered then, whom she had seen earlier this morning and turned around to see if the small group was still standing there. Maybe had she not slept so long after all, all still seemed to be there, but what was not her surprise, when she saw Rho kneeling not very far, by the side of an unknown knight. She did not wear her beautiful wedding garnement any more, nor her magnificent Mithril Knight cloak. The sun was right behind the shield-maiden and Nin put her palm over her eyes to distinguish something against the bright light.

But she did not really see any clearer, the only person she managed to distinguish was – could it be – an Easterling – so it could only be – even though she could not understand by which miracle it should have happened, Nin whispered the name like a spell. Matrim.

Excited, she tried to rise, decided to run over to her friend and to be sure of the good news. She had forgotten that not only she had been sleeping for a time in a rather unusual position, completely crisped, but too that she had hardly eaten anything during the last 36 hours and been fed with a strong sleeping draught. When she tried to unfold her legs, they felt as if one million of little ants were running through them or as if thousands of tiny, sharp needles were picking her at every inch of her body. Still, she was determinate to get on her way quickly.

With a resolute movement, she rose on her feet. And the earth began to move under her feet, a light of wall rushing towards her blinded her completely. She was not only dizzy; she was indeed almost fainting out of weakness. She just managed to call her friend’s name: Rho, Rholarowyn. In a desperate attempt, Nin stretched out her hands, trying to find hold on something, anything, somebody, anybody, to prevent her from falling right over on her face.

Tale Of The Warriors Of Light
Heather snuggled deeper into her cloak. she wasn't cold, but a kind of chill had settled into her marrow and the more she thought about Gondor and the White City, there more it ached. Despite the beautiful song from Parm, she couldn't shake the broody mood that had clamed her as she stared into the flames.
After they had eaten and shared a few more songs, Afrin and Ness eventually retired to their blankets, leaving Heather and Parm by the dwindling fire.
Heather looked up at Parm. The glow from the tiny flames waivered and danced across the scrib's face erilly. She knew that he had his own concerns at the moment, but something had been bothering her all evening.
"Parm?"
"Yes, Lady Heather?" He met her green eyed gaze evenly.
"I know that you have your own concerns, but I wondered if you would talk with me and try to answer some of my questions."
He smiled patiently, with an understanding air. "Ask."
"You said that this enemy will use past demons to bring us down?"
He nodded confirmation.
"I'm walking into some serious trouble on this journy and I'm not sure I know how to face... How to deal with these demons that are starting to wake up. Parm, frankly, I'm scared and have a bad feeling aboout this. It's chilled me to the bone, as if something evil were breathing ice down my neck and into my joints. What do I do? Where do I start in order to deal with this?"

Tale of the Warriors of Light
Lady Heather's initial question was like someone calling out
to another who is about to fall asleep. Parm had felt an evil
trance settle about him. Thanks to Lady Heather's question the
subtle call of the trance had been broken. His gaze was even.
His answers brief, but now the depth of answers required was
even greater than a mere acknowledgement. Parm looked again
at Lady Heather. What profound depths there were in those
amazing eyes! All elves had that...look. Here but not here,
simple, yet subtle, innocent, yet probing. Lady Heather was no
different. However, mingled with the characteristic mystery in
those eyes was another look–concern, genuine anxiety. This
was new. Once Aravel had had a look like that, but Parm never
found out why. He sighed deeply, then tried to wrap his words
around thoughts that seemed too great to be contained.

It is well that you are concerned. These past disgraces, our past
darknesses are the areas where we are both weak and strong.
We fortify ourselves against others penetrating these fortresses
we build, but we know that our walls are mere webs, and our
bars are but slender vines. We hope these illusions will fool the
dark ones who love to probe for these ugly parts of ourselves,
but we know they will not last.

In Valinor I learned a very difficult truth: admit your faults, but also admit that regardless of how we stand with others, they are known and forgiven by Eru, Who knows, understands and is ever ready to receive the repentant heart. Even Melkor tasted pardon, but the sweetness of that fruit soured in his stomach and he was not eager to let its goodness have its place in him. Great evil came from him, but great good had been given to him.

When evil knows that it cannot hold us ransom, when it cannot bring more shame, when it cannot bring more grief, then it is disarmed. It grows spiteful, then, and no power here or beyond can prevent it from carrying out its spiteful desires. However, I am discovering that it can be confronted and its own evil turned back on itself.

I had a dream, Lady Heather, where I met all that was evil in
myself. Everything I heard, everything I was told was true. Awful
things, horrid things, but true. However, when I accepted that
truth and embraced it and agreed with my accuser, then my
words became a song, a song of joy and forgiveness. The joy
ripped apart the hate and my forgiveness absorbed the evil
accusations. My greatest weapon was a song of love, absorbing
and affirming and accepting love. The evil that had risen against
me literally burst apart and the power used to harm me became
the very power I drew on to revive me. I forgave and in forgiving
I was set free and being set free I could fight by loving. It was
the most remarkable experience I have ever had. The cold of
the night is not so cold as the cold of the memories that are
growing in me. I still see that creature's face and I believe I am
about to enter a battle that will test every part of who I am and
reveal to all exactly what I am.

Heather nodded, letting Parm's words sink in. "Thank you, Parm. It's just that I could feel the evil because of my elvish blood, but felt inferrior to face it because of my human blood. Guilt, uncertanty and the feeling that I'm not doing all that I'm supposed to be doing has been my curse since my early adulthood. Eru is often (not as often as he should be), my comfort, my center for dealing with this, but I tend to try to do it myself. I'm a "fixer"." She laughed, remembering many times that her help fixing a problem had not been appriciated and even more trouble. "To a fault, sometimes. Thank you, Parm for talking with me." She reached into the folds of her cloak and withdrew a small flute, carved from a piece of wood and overlayed with bands of silver. Heather looked back up at him with a smile. "I can even make music now." She watched the flames dance for a moment before putting the flute to her lips and began playng a song with no tune, chorus or way to put words to it. It was pure sweet music with no begining or end. It took a few minutes for Parm to realise that the healer was "playing the flames", her music moving with the dance of the small, flickering fire between them.

Calling out to his dark minions in the suffocating silence, Leonir found it harder to ward off the presence that was growing within. He could try to ignore it, but a promise he made long ago was beginning to come to fruition. He had not believed that such a thing could be possible, that the power of a being could actually inhibit another, that after asking for such great powers, he would actually have them, though not have full control.

He called once again, cursing the lazy mongrels who served him when they found it convenient. Where could they be?

Dark shapes began their sloth-like descent down to the river from the woods and hills that bordered the water. The boat in which the sleeping Princess of Diadron lay remained motionless in the river, as though an anchor had been thrown, yet there was none. Leonir, waiting for the creatures to find their way down, glanced down at her.

"If I did not loathe thee, Princess, as I do, I would say that you are much like the Lady who made her deathbed of a boat in the old tales, beautiful and serene."

He stroked her face, then caught himself, snarling and spitting into the river. His spittle caused a sizzling hiss in the pure water of the Anduin, and he was satisfied that he had caused pain to something. He could almost hear the river scream at the descent of the dark things left from Morgoth and Sauron's days. Yes, his time was coming, his time to control these rag-tag minions and make them fully his own. But there was still the Princess to deal with, as well as those who no doubt followed the false trails. Leonir was not so stupid as to believe that all would follow the fake path, for some he believed would come across the correct path by accident. Speed and time were on his side, though, and as soon as he was safely ensconced in his stronghold, none of them would be a threat.

"Yes, m'lord?" gurgled one mold-covered mass, moving in what was his bow, though it looked more like a swaying motion.

Leonir sneered at them, standing a bit taller. Though these creatures were far older than he, he knew he was their intellectual superior. It would be easy to manipulate them.

"You are to hold back any who try this path so that they might rescue the Princess. Do what you will with them, but see that they do not pass.

"As for those that may stray far from the river's influence, you are to make your way across the lands and listen for the true-hearted who may come in search of my prize. You are to act as spies only, reporting to me."

Finally, Leonir summoned one of the orcs that hid amidst the other creatures.

"You are to find my contact. You know of whom I speak. He is to put his plan into effect immediately. Tell him, 'K, the vulture flies with those who seek the goods'."

The orc nodded and each creature moved slowly to carry out the plan, none protesting the commands from the diminutive creature. Another novice sorcerer would wonder at this, but Leonir was certain that they were afraid of him and what he might do to them, so they abided.

Tale Of The Warriors Of Light

As the flames slowly died away, consuming the wood to ashes, Heather’s tune also faded until at last both fire and music ceased. Parm slept while Heather kept watch over the motionless forms of her companions, looking off into the darkness with her half-elven sight, seeing all the little movements of the night: small creatures scurrying through the woodland trying to fill their stores of food before the harshness of winter.

Alfirin looked up at the sky through the trees. She always preferred to sleep without a cover between her and the stars when she could, and tonight was fine and clear.
A little after midnight the moon rose: a crescent but casting a clear light through the branches, fading the fainter stars in the sky around it. It was a waxing moon, growing stronger and brighter as the month went on. Old wives’ tales said that this was a time for planting, for growing, for new beginnings, The plants and the plans both would grow as the moon increased her size, reaching their maximum strength at the time of the full moon. By then they should be well on the river, and well on their journey. A journey home for Alfirin. The old wives would say that it was a propitious time to start such a task. She smiled wryly to herself She was fast entering the territory of becoming an old wife herself – she knew many such tales, and also was well versed in sorting those that had a grain of truth from those that were mere fear and superstition. Well perhaps the moonrise was a good omen.

Her sleepless thoughts then turned to Parm’s song: a simple melody with words that carried a simple virtue – but a powerful one.

One simple friendship fills our heart with cheer.
To be blessed by simple things,
More than riches meant for kings,
As this firelight warms and glows,
and the comfort in us grows,
may we cherish simple things,
may we cherish simple things.

Could friendships do so much? Alfirin had always been solitary, even as a child when her only companion had been her scholar-father. She had despised other children with their attention only turned to childish games, with nothing in common with her interests in reading and drawing. Then when Arren had come along….well, she could see now that while then she had thought there had been love between them, it was more obsession and dependence than any true relationship based on equality and trust and friendship.

Since his death any attempt at forming friendships had been tainted by the oath she had sworn and by…she tried to stop the thought half-formed but could not. ….by the power that she had served, half unwilling and not in full knowledge of who or what she had served. But she had served the dark, and had agreed to do so even when she knew that what she did was wrong – although not how black and how foul it was; not at first. She had not drawn back until it was too late and then the thongs that tied her into servitude were knotted fast. It had taken the King to break them, although he probably never knew that he had done so. And then she had run away and hidden in fear and terror, fearing the vengance of her dark masters. The destruction of the One Ring had given her a modicum of peace on this score, if not on others - until now, when she realised that the safety that she had felt had been baseless, for the song of darkness had been singing to her all this time.

Heather stifled a yawn. Alfirin knew that she would not sleep now, not with this train of thought. She sat up and made a quiet offer:

“Lady Heather, I cannot sleep. Now that there is enough moonlight for my mere mortal eyes to see by, perhaps I could take over the watch from you and let you rest.”

Heather gratefully accepted the offer and rolled herself into a bundle with her cloak. Now the silence was only broken by Nessa’s occassional snores. The moon rose higher, the night grew colder, and frost began to form on the edges of the remaining leaves The white shape of a barn owl flew silently over the clearing and sat on the branch above the sleepers. Alfirin watched as it thoughtfully and methodically devoured some small furry creature; and she shivered.

Four Elves and a Master Bard

Tinu did not mind the menial task, as it gave her time to think. As long as her body was busy, her mind was clear, free from the evil that lingered even in lit corners of the destruction. She knew that she had to leave soon, lest her soul be burdened further. She did not know how long she could last in such an environment; it was enough to make her question her quest to return the Protector to its hobbit.

The Eldar was grateful that her Telerin friend did not insult her by providing money for the provisions, for she had money to spare. At her final destination, she would have no need of such a load and she was always eager to use her coins for others. Yes, that was how she had always made it through the world—by helping others, by knowing that she was needed. And this time was no different.

Treading carefully through the rubble, Tinu gathered the wrapped foods that had fallen from the pantry, leaving plenty for the others who would come in search of sustenance.
Most of the food she gathered would be for Erinhue, as Falathiel and she would be able to easily sustain themselves with the lembas bread. She checked her bag for her own supplies: a skin of water, several months of lembas, and some dried fruits from the Golden Wood. More than enough for a long journey, though I am sure that this one will be short. We are only going to find Hobbi and then go on our way, or at least I am.

Yet, a sensation tickled the back of her mind. There would be another joining them, though she knew not who it would be. Ages of existence had not given her a psychic sense per se, but "feelings" would occasionally tell her something about her environment, or about the past and future. These feelings were usually incomplete and made little sense, but she knew to always listen. She grabbed another food package and then made her way toward the stables.

As she walked, she packed the items into her leather pack, looking up occasionally to make sure that she would not run into anyone. Her ears were keen, listening to the sounds of the others as they arose from their slumber. The sun's rays had begun to crest the hill, a deep ruddy-orange bleeding across the sky.

"Rossë utúlië*," Tinu said softly to herself. Soon they would be able to smell it, the cumulonimbus clouds were that close. She thought of the lightning that was likely associated with the system and could not help but think of the adoptive sister who controlled the electrical system of the heavens. Sighing, she moved an errant sunstreaked strand behind her ear. There was no use in thinking about the past, for she could do little about it now.

Suddenly, her face grew ashen as she saw Anorast propped up by the sturdy rough trunk. He was wounded and in apparent pain; her heart lurched into her throat. She had to do something, she could not leave him alone any longer. The feelings that had been growing on her as lichen grows upon even the smoothest stones were quickly returning. Her heart belonged to Hobbi, of course, but somehow there was still room there for this deep affection. He suffered as she did and she could not abandon such a kindred spirit.

"Anorast," Tinu said softly, the sun's glow turning her hair into a golden frame around her sorrowful face. He stirred, his eyes, ever-filled with longing and weariness of his travels, lifting to meet hers. A slow flush took over her body the longer they gazed into each other's eyes, speaking in a language that only the two of them knew, just as they had done not so long ago. But that was when the Inn was still secure and the marriage had yet to be realized.

"May I?" She asked him before she placed her hands upon his wounds to check for serious injury. He nodded, and she looked for signs of anything that might scar or impair him. She could find nothing, but he was weary from his toils and injuries, which would keep him from straying far from the safety of the Inn's ruins. That was her greatest concern at the moment—that he not travel far until he had healed. She could help with the worst injuries, but the minor ones would have to heal on their own.

"Where are you going, Tinu? I see that you are packed for a long journey." He spoke every bit as softly as she. Tinu shook her head.

"I must take care of something before I go home," Tinu colored slightly. She did not care to discuss this with one who was older than she and just as weary of the world. Anorast took her hand with the softest of touches.

"Why?"

She sighed. It was too hard to explain to him—did he not see her heart break? Did he not see the pain she had struggled with for so long? She sat beside him, leaning her golden head upon the tree, clinging to its stability. She needed the firmness behind her back, the ancient strength that flowed through the xylem, the comforting touch of nature. No one was here to support her, except this tree, and so she took the comfort where she could.

*Rain comes our way

Tale of the Warriors of Light
Parm was asleep. Parm was in grave danger. He had stepped into the world of
dreams. She...it...was there. No, not so much that Parm could actually make out
eyes or a mouth, but there was the shape and the menace. An icy chill scratched along the skin of his mind. First, there was teasing. Wisps of whispers formed words.
"Fool...great...fool..." "Come...let me play with you!" Then came the moaning, keening
cries of pain and pleading. "Stay...away...go...leave us!" "You...can do...nothing..."
"You...are...powerless..." Clinging to the moanings came the rising wail of noise.
Oh! The noise! It was like spears of sound stabbing. It twisted. It pierced. Parm was
afraid. Parm felt tears rise in his eyes. He felt alone and unloved. He felt unwanted
and despised. He felt dirty and defiled. Who did he think he was? A warrior? What
nonsense! A sage? What idiocy! He was mere man. Mere flesh. Mere and less than
mere. He felt himself crumbling inside. He felt himself shrivelling. He was breaking
down again. His mind was starting to unravel...unbidden.

Heather slept, but she didn't dream, she remembered. She remembered the thing that had driven her to leave the White City.
He had been handsome, the spitting image of his father, Legolas Greenleaf. His name was Nevon and she had learned to love him.
For years she had pined for her life-bonded, her first love. When he had sailed for the Gray Heavens, she had lost part of herself. Since then she had been cursed with the inability to stay in one place. Nevon had been a friend to her through it all and she had, eventually learned to love him. They had grown close, but they had never solidified their relationship. Eventually, the overwhelming grief and guilt for loving another man had driven her away from Minas Tirith in tears.
She tossed lighly in her sleep as her last day and the argument she had had with Nevon. She moaned quietly and writhed in her bed roll.
She should never have let herself fall in love again; she was a fool for ever thinking of going back...

4 Elves and a Master Bard

Dark clouds like grasping fingers clawed their way across the stark face of a blanched white moon driven by fateful winds. Heralds of a cataclysmic storm the wind scourged sky and land and sea with the foreknowledge of its coming power the like of which had not been seen since the making of the world.

Against the tides of storm and fate a lone figure clamored up the forbidden pathways to the very summit of Meneltarma. Using the force of destiny to carry forth his cry, Elendil cried out into the building fury of Iluvatar’s vengence.

“I know that Ar-Phaarazon has brought Numenor to doom but is there to be no hope for mankind? Is there not some what that even now our homeland might be spared? Are we and the children of our sons to be cast into ending darkness as we are now being cast homeless upon the mercy of the seas?”

The rising wind did not lessen in its fury but a voice of deepest wisdom rode upon it, a voice like unheard music that played upon the soul.

“Son of the Second Born all hope is gone for Numenor. Ar-Pharazon and all his followers have been betrayed and lost to darkness. There is no time to linger, Elendil if you and your heirs are to escape the doom laid on this place. That cannot now be changed but I shall not leave you and the children of your sons in darkness. As the need arises there will be those who bear the power of the Light within, those whose bright spirits can withstand the darkness and in the time of darkest need from your blood I will set forth a Champion among them and the power of the Darkness will be broken.”

Erinhue opened his eyes to the predawn sky and realized he had fallen back to sleep. Aerin still lay beside him buther singing had quieted to a murmur. Listening to the wordless melody breathed softly by his beloved wife, Erinhue felt he was in heaven. He would be more than content to spend whatever life he had left unmoving in this spot, in this place in time, a moment stretched out into eternity.

The moment ended with a staccato burst of notes sounding at the edges of his mind.

“I know someone is coming Agarak.” the master bard responded inwardly.
Another short flurry of notes came from the distant dragonharp.
“I don’t care what they want,” Erinhue replyed, “I don’t want to talk to them.”
There are more notes in response but the bard ignores the sound in his mind and tries to concentrate on Aerin’s murmured song.

As Agarak said, Falathiel and Tinuviel soon came towards where Aerin and Erinhue lay together in the grass. The two elves stopped, paused by polite propriety and one of them coughed as courteous announcement of their presence. Aerin stoped singing and looked up to acknowledge them. Erinhue did not turn his head towards them, hoping, almost praying that they would go away.

Fala begins to speak. Erinhue tries to block out the sound of her voice not wanting to listen to her plea. Aerin does. She listened to every word. Erinhue notices the change in the pattern of her breathing and knows that she is waiting for him to respond. The master bard does not say anything at all.

“Beloved you must say something?” Aerin whispers.

The tone of her voice is gently prodding but there is more iron behind the soft expression. Trapped by her unspoken command Erinhue realizes that he must indeed say something.

Only then does he sit up and look at the two elf women standing before him. The look of pain in Tinuviel’s eyes come from some other source but it mirrors exactly what the bard is feeling. He looks at Fala and is crushed again by the hopeful expectation he sees there.

“ I can’t go with you and you don’t really want me to. I couldn’t be of any help I’ve already allowed enough disaster. Hobbituk does not want to see me, he made that very clear and I can’t blame him for feeling the way he does. He has no reason to trust me now and whatever you might want to do for him he might not trust it if I were with you. All in all you will both be better off if you don’t have me along to blight the outcome of your search.”

Fala stared at him as if she could not believe his words. She seemed to forget herself and what ever shyness she migh have felt to make a heartfelt plea for him to accompany them in finding Hobbituk. When she says that she knows he has a part to play in this, Agarak begins to chime in with its agreement. Whatever part there is will have to play without me, Erinhue thought and the harp set up a din of protest.

Aerin lexchanged looks with Fala and Tinu. Tinuviel went off towards the ruined inn to search out supplies. Aerin nodded at Fala and moved gracefully to come stand beside her husband. “You must go. Hobbie needs you, If he doesn’t know it yet, he will and he’ll forgive you. What happened is not your fault but my saying that a dozen times won’t change your mind. You need to go and make things right so that you can forgive yourself. Besides, I too have a part to play and I don’t need you underfoot getting in my way.”

Surprise momentarily shocked the bard out of his self pity and Aerin smiled impishly when he asked, “What part have you to play my love? And why shouldn’t I stay here to help?”

“Because you can’t help me at all my love. The Lucky Fortune needs to be rebuilt and it is a more important thing than us needing a place to live. Agarak has explained it all to me. The Lucky Fortune Inn was more than stone and logs, it had a spirit of its own and that spirit had been poisoned by the touch of overwhelming evil.

I understand why it had to be destroyed and now it must be rebuilt. More than that, my love, it must be healed and you can play no part in that. Your presence would only serve to distract me.

Her voice trailed off as she considered her next words. “The whole depends upon the completion of all its parts. I shall need all my strength and skill to meet the task set before me. The task that awaits you will require nothing less, will you meet it or remain and hinder the work that must be done?”

Something in the simple reasonableness of her tone stung him deeply. Aerin had delivered a strong reprimand for his behavior and her displeasure was all the scourge needed to bring about contrition. Erinhue sighed and knew that she was right, he had to go, for Hobbie, for Turelie and for himself.

Falathiel and Tinuviel were able to take care of themselves to some extent but neither one was by any stretch a warrior. If any ill fortune, naturally occurring or otherwise, were to befall them that would be another mark against his already wounded spirit. The one he bore was painful enough for him not to want another.

A wan imitation of his famous grin darted behind his eyes as he looked at Falathiel and wearily nodded his head. In a voice heavy with resigned acceptance the bard called out “ Clarion. Agarak. To me.”

In an eye blink of time Agarak appeared in the grass at his feet. The green-gold dragonharp was set atop the great runesword. Clarion was still in its belted scabbard, the blood thirsty blade covered in the charmed leather. Erinhue picked up the sword belt and strapped the sword to his back. Looking towards both Fala and Tinu he tried once again to muster an honest smile and said, “ If we are going to make any time at all we had best round up a few horses and head out towards the Last Bridge and make our way east.

Four Elves and a Master Bard

"Why"

Looking over at Tinu, Anorast was troubled. He had seen how she felt for Hobbituk, so he imagined that she wanted to look for him. But she mentioned home. He didn't know for certain, but he was worried she meant the west.

Pulling himself over towards her, he winced as his injuries were bumped. He was still too injured to go far. Reaching the unhappy elf, he wrapped an arm around her, comforting her.

"Tinuviel, do you mean to take the ships? Why are you so sad here in Middle Earth?"

Four Elves and a Master Bard

Tinu could hardly keep herself from crying out as he exerted himself to comfort her. This was not what she wished. Guilt began its pounding upon her mind and she bowed her head, yet accepted the arm wrapped around her. Through the guilt, she couldn't help but feel better. Perhaps someone did indeed care.

Then came the question she dreaded, for she knew not how to answer.

"Tinuviel, do you mean to take the ships? Why are you so sad here in Middle Earth?"

She sighed, moving away slightly, though trying not to injure the elf she had grown to care for in the short time he had resided in the Inn. How could she think of leaving him behind? He too was ancient and had just as many, if not more, reasons to leave.

"Anorast, I do indeed mean to sail West. This land holds nothing for me now and I realize that it never did. My home has always been in the West, and why I left it, I do not know, other than the fact that my family left with Galadriel."

Tentatively, she continued, watching his expression for any sign of emotion as she continued,

"There is no one here who I could give my heart to and have my love requited. My family is gone and all chances of love are past. I have loved a few in MiddleEarth and each one was taken away by..." She stopped, unable to speak the dark-haired elf's name. Her eyes filled with tears, and an unwanted sob, soft, yet audible, broke from her.

Looking at Anorast, her eyes glistening, she whispered, "After all this time, I have finally learned that Eru does not intend for me to stay."

Four Elves and a Master Bard

Feeling Tinu pull away, Anorast realized that the question may have been too much. He listened as she explained, told him of her plight. Indeed, she had little here to live for. Yet surely, there was something here for her.

"Tinu, surely you need not leave. Perhaps there is nothing here for you, but can you not make your life here anyway? Middle Earth would miss you, I am sure. And no one can know the mind of Eru. He may still have a role for you to play."

Pulling Tinu close, he hugged her, trying to comfort the grieving elf. He'd become close to her since they had met, and he refused to let her fall into dispair.

"There is always something you can do with your life here. Do not give up hope!"

Four Elves and a Master Bard

Anorast's words echoed in the Eldar's mind as she allowed his embrace:"...And no one can know the mind of Eru. He may still have a role for you to play."

Shaking her head, she did not know how to explain the feelings in her heart. There were so many signs she had been blind to all these ages and the only way they made sense was in the context of Eru trying to tell her that she was not meant for this land, and never was. For why else would he give her so many trials and leave so little hope?

"I know that I must get something of value to Hobbituk," she breathed deeply, trying to keep her stinging eyes from tearing again at the mention of the hobbit's name. "That is all, my last act upon MiddleEarth. The story of the elves upon this Earth is soon ending, I can feel it; I can hear the call of the Undying Lands. It is sweet, alluring to one's mental ear, promising what we cannot hope to find upon MiddleEarth—can you not hear it? I have done what I can for this land; I have given it all that I can give and then some. I have nothing left but this mundane chore of restoring a charm to one who needs it."

Four Elves and a Master Bard

Anorast listened to Tinu. She was truly convinced that there was nothing left for her here. He sighed. It still saddened him, how the elves continued to leave Middle Earth. He'd seen so many leave.

"No, I have not heard the call of the sea, the longing for the west. I was born here, in this Middle Earth, and here I am doomed to stay. My place is here, though I know not the purpose for which I am kept here, against my will. I have watched as the grey ships leave, seeing friends pass beyond the world. I would not see another leave as well.

"Yet that is the future, and none can know that. The present is what concerns us. You say you need to return a charm to Hobbituk? Where is he? Is he not here?"

Four Elves and a Master Bard

The smooth brow crinkled slightly as Tinu's face registered her questions. Why was he being kept here? What magic was this that kept him against his will? It could not be that he was born in MiddleEarth, for many elves that had left already had been born here, she thought.

Her worries centered on Anorast once more with his deep sigh. She could see that this was troubling him, thinking of his departing friends, unable to join them. This disheartened her further, and she felt quite guilty indeed, for not only had she unloaded her problems upon another, but she had done so on one so much more troubled than she.

She decided to no longer focus on such unhappy thoughts, and he seemed to need a change as well, for he switched subjects. Unfortunately, it was another touchy subject for her and she did not wish to invoke curiosity in him regarding the journey. So, delicately, edging around much of the details, Tinu spoke:

"Yes, a charm must be returned to him." She stopped before continuing, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. It appeared that he knew nothing about Hobbituk's crazed dash after his wife. A pang hit her at the word, but she knew that she had to concentrate and work past such destructive thoughts.

"Hobbituk is pursuing the bride. He left in a rush, before anyone could go with him. I am afraid that he is in dire need of aid, but perhaps some friend has caught up with him. Nevertheless, I feel that he will not survive these trials without the charm."

With this, she was quiet once more, silently p