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The Valley is Jolly  by Canafinwe

Note: Sorry. Couldn’t help appropriating a little Kipling. Hope nobody minds.

Chapter XXXII: Swiftly Through the Night

Rafts and swan-vessels were ferrying the armies across the Anduin. Celeborn and Galdor were overseeing the process, while on the far side of the river Saruman and Galadriel and Elrohir were responsible for the organization and arrangement of the disembarking forces. The final count was just over seven hundred and fifty soldiers – all the might, it seemed, that the White Council could muster, though it was better than the half-thousand originally estimated. Emissaries sent to Thranduil asking for aid had returned yesterday bearing respects and apologies from the woodland King, but no promise of help. His folk were much beleaguered, the lord of the Greenwood said, by the incursions of the spiders and other servants of the Enemy; to say nothing of cutpurses and vagabonds and jailbreakers who wandered the Elf-lord’s realm without leave and departed without consent. He sent them his hopes and his prayers, but he could give them no archers.

On the western bank of the river, Elrond stood silent by a gnarled old tree. They were beyond the borders of Lothlórien, and the battered elm that offered him support in this moment of weakness was bare of leaves. Autumn was drawing to a close, and soon winter would lie heavy upon the northern lands of home. Behind the hosts, in Lothlórien, the trees were still golden and the elanor yet bloomed. Elrond closed his eyes, walking in the memories of his brief, blissful days in Caras Galadhon in the company of his daughter, and their unforeseen end in dissension.

As Galadriel had promised, Arwen was well. She seemed contented, her gentle laughter ringing among the mellryn as she regaled him with tales of her experiences with her friends and her maidens in the Golden Wood. They had passed their evenings in song, roaming arm-in-arm beside the river. She had asked for tidings of Imladris, for news of companions left behind in the North, and she had read the pain and worry in his heart, and pleaded with him to ease his spirit. At last he had relented.

In the secrecy of her chamber in the house of Celeborn, where there was no chance that any of Saruman’s folk might overhear, he had broken his own ban and explained, as best he could, the situation that he had left behind. He had told her of the bright-eyed baby brought to his arms on a winter’s night, and how he had come to love the boy; his joy, his Estel, his beloved son. He spoke of the terrible illness, and the nightmares, and his fears for the child’s sanity if left too long to the devices of the Enemy. Then he had looked into the eyes of his daughter, the dearest treasure of his heart, welcoming her understanding and her wisdom and her gentle words of comfort.

Instead, he saw only bewilderment. ‘A mortal child?’ she had said, drawing back a pace and staring at him with veiled eyes. ‘Your son?’

Even now Elrond felt the sting of those words. He knew, of course, that Arwen no interest in the Second-born and little pity for their struggles over the long years. She had never associated closely with any of the Dúnedain, and they were not so dear to her as they were to her brothers. When she spoke of the folk of Númenor there was disdain in her voice, and no understanding; like so many of the Firstborn she could not countenance their scorning of the will of Ilúvatar and their defiance of their lot. Though her gentle heart wept for the marring of the world and the sorrows of the Eldar, few tears could she spare for the race of Men. Yet he had expected, somehow, that she would comprehend his love of Estel and his devotion to the child. ‘My son,’ he had affirmed, as if by doing so he could win her approval. ‘He is as dear to my heart as your brothers, as well-cherished as you.’

‘But a mortal child...’ There was no envy in her voice, no rancour towards the boy. It was merely that she could not conceive of such a thing: that a child of the race of downfallen Westernesse might so enchant the heart of her sire. ‘I know that you have ever loved the Line of Elros, but to claim its last scion as the son of your heart seems extravagant beyond even your generosity, my father.’

‘It is no act of charity,’ Elrond had said. ‘Oh, Arwen, if you could but lay eyes upon him you would understand! He is so fair and so noble. He is merry, yet he is grave. He is at once innocent, and far wiser than his ten years should allow. He is courageous and courteous and selfless. He will grow to manhood surpassing any of his folk born in Middle-earth. If once you saw him, you could not help but love him also.’

‘That I doubt,’ she had answered him. ‘While he is young it is natural that you should find him sweet of disposition and handsome to look upon, but he will grow. He will become grim and cynical like the rest of the Dúnedain, and his hands will be black with blood, and he will have no joy left to share with you. I foresee that he will somehow wound your heart, Father, and that I cannot bear.’

Nothing that Elrond could say would sway her. He spoke of Estel’s valiant struggle with the darkness, of his compassion for living things, of his love of learning and his gift for languages, but to no avail. In Arwen’s eyes he was nothing more than a lowly mortal lad. He was the Heir of Isildur, perhaps, but she remembered the deaths of every one of that long line, since Valandil’s passing when she was two years younger than Estel. She had witnessed the slow decay of Arnor, the crumbling of the North Kingdom, and the fading of the Dúnedain; and she did not see, as Elrond did, the long and bitter struggle to cling against all odds to the shards of hope. She was not moved by their plight, save as a mighty queen may pity the beggars upon her stoop. In her eyes Isildur’s Heir was but a successor to a broken kingdom, with nothing before him but a brief life of toil and hardship and a premature death in the mud of Eriador like his father and his father’s father before.

Of Maglor he had said nothing that night, though it might have helped her to understand. To Arwen most of the heirs of his body he had spoken little of his own lonely childhood. He could not bare his soul to her at that moment, when he looked into her eyes and saw only detachment and the scholarly puzzlement of her mother’s people. Too long had she dwelt in Lórien: hers was the isolation of the Galadhrim, and she had little patience for those of lesser race and dilute lineage.

Uneasily had they parted, for she like her brothers abhorred his marching into battle, and on this question, too, they debated. In the end, of course, she could not dissuade him any more than he could make her appreciate the depth of his love for Estel. He was determined to discharge his duty, and so he stood now, waiting for the last crossing.

A hand descended upon his shoulder. ‘You are troubled, my lord,’ a melodious voice said.

Elrond closed his eyes and nodded. ‘I am troubled.

The bright eyes searched his heart. ‘My Lady Undómiel has dismayed you.’

‘She is my best beloved,’ Elrond murmured; ‘but she is high and she is proud, and she does not see the world as I do. She does not understand.’

‘She will come to,’ Glorfindel promised. ‘And perhaps then you shall wish that she had not.’

‘She told me that he would wound my heart. Gandalf gave a similar warning. Am I blinded by my love, that I cannot see some great evil that my son shall do?’ A sudden dread drowned Elrond’s spirit. The higher and more noble the soul, the greater its downfall. The fairest of all the Ainur had become the Lord of Darkness. The mightiest king when turned to evil made the most hideous tyrant. What deadly trial awaited Estel in some distant year? What choice between darkness and light? What calamity would befall them all if he stumbled when put to the test?

‘Perhaps they, being unable to look with love, see only the possibility of failure,’ the golden warrior reasoned gently. ‘In every life there is the unending struggle between goodness and evil. It does not follow that Estel will chose evil. Even the insight of the Valar cannot foresee all ends; therefore Vairë weaves scenes only of that which has already come to pass.’

A wan smile touched Elrond’s lips. ‘You are as wise as always, my friend.’

‘Not “as always”, surely,’ Glorfindel rebutted, eyes twinkling. ‘I recall a foolish elfling who was the despair of his teachers – and his dear friend’s exceedingly patient father.’

‘Whoever that young miscreant was, he did not tarry long,’ rejoined Elrond, his heart easing a little at the banter. Infectious was the joy that burned in Glorfindel’s breast, as if the light of Laurelin had been captured by his eyes and sequestered there to shine for all eternity. As he had many times before, he offered a prayer of thanks to the Valar for this helpmate sent to aid him and protect him and his children – as he had aided and protected his ancestors. Even so near to the shadow of Dol Guldur, his bold seneschal glimmered as a bright beacon of hope for his spirit. He resumed the friendly jibe. ‘It is as well he did not, for I doubt that Imladris would have managed to survive the full duration of his childhood.’

The golden smile endured for a moment, but then Glorfindel’s gaze fell upon the last battalions waiting to be carried across the river, and his face grew grave. ‘Elrond, you do not need to come with us. You could tarry here. If we reached the point of desperation someone could be brought to fetch you: it is less than two days’ ride to Dol Guldur. You do not need...’ At the look in his lord’s eyes he stopped, and shook his head. ‘Forgive me. I know that you cannot be left behind. I am as foolish as your children, even to ask.’

‘Estel did not attempt to persuade me,’ Elrond said, the dark thoughts threatening to return.

‘That is so; he did not.’ Glorfindel turned pensive eyes back towards the Sun, riding low over the distant mountains. ‘He knew, I think, that it would avail him nothing to do so, and that it would only distress you if he tried.’

‘Was he well when you left him?’

‘As well as could be expected. His faculties have not suffered from the change in his routine: I fear that when we return the three of us shall have to sit down and discuss the question of Elven rebirth.’ Something like an apology tugged at his brows.

‘You have been subtly hinting at your unique nature for years,’ Elrond sighed, for a moment enticed by the simple challenges of fatherhood, his greater worries belayed a little. ‘Why must he finally catch on when I cannot be present to explain?’

‘Furthermore, he seems to be developing an unhealthy habit for listening at key-holes,’ Glorfindel continued.

‘That I cannot in good conscience discourage,’ said Elrond. ‘Proprieties of polite society or no, it is a skill that he may need one day.’ He sighed and drew a hand across his brow. ‘What am I to do, dear friend? I am far from home and my son is suffering. I cannot go to him, I cannot help him.’

Glorfindel frowned. ‘The scouts who brought us news of Elladan’s misadventure in the mountains brought word from your eldest son that the youngest is well. We have heard nothing to the contrary. How do you know that he is suffering?’

‘I am his father,’ Elrond said bitterly. ‘I know.’ He scanned the eastern horizon, where darkness was beginning to gather. ‘Can you not feel his hatred, his malice? He is searching for the Heir of Isildur. He is pouring forth the strength of his will to find him, to prey upon his doubts, to drive him to reveal himself. All the evil that he sends out into the North, hoping to cow and conquer the seasoned warrior he thinks he is seeking, is focused unwittingly upon a child. Upon my child. Can you not feel it?’

‘I cannot,’ Glorfindel murmured. He took Elrond’s hand and his fingers found the hidden Ring. ‘Why do you not remove it, at least for a time? Would it not ease your heart?’

‘I will not. I must not. We are one, after so many thousands of years. My spirit shrouds it, and what little influence I can still wield over my wards in the North relies upon it. If I let that last tenuous protection fall away, then the Enemy might see how he has succeeded. No.’ His ageless face set itself into unyielding lines, etched with grim determination such as had not touched his brow since last he rode to war. ‘It is time to press on. All that I can hope to do for Estel is draw the attention of the Enemy. With an army on his doorstep he will be less inclined to spend his strength elsewhere.’

He moved down towards the shore. The last boat was preparing to cross. Celeborn offered him a hand, raising him over the low stern with dignity befitting a general and a prince. Glorfindel sprung lithely from shore to ship. Elrond moved down to where Gandalf leaned against the rails, puffing on his pipe as if unaware of the shocked and scandalized looks the nearby Galadhrim were exchanging amongst themselves.

‘What now, Pilgrim?’ Elrond asked. ‘Do we go to triumph, or to perish?’

Gandalf shrugged, untucking his off hand from beneath the arm that held the pipe. He pointed a wizened finger eastward, where the slender, waning moon was rising into the golden blaze of the sunset.

‘Tonight begins the last week of autumn,’ he said. ‘It’s a new moon tomorrow, and the Sun is in the sky. Durin’s Day.’

Elrond smiled sadly. It seemed he was not the only one whose mind and heart were far away.

lar

It was some time after midnight when Gilraen awoke. For a moment she could not remember why she did so, but her mind cleared quickly despite the brief hours of rest. She got out of bed and cast about for her shoes. Her loose gown was laid out on the clothes-press, and she wrapped the heavy velvet garment around her shoulders, slipping her arms into the sleeves and fasting the row of hooks with fingers made clumsy by sleep. She found her way through her parlour in the darkness, and downstairs.

The dining hall door stood open, candlelight flickering into the corridor. Gilraen approached quietly, halting beneath the lintel. At the top of the second table, numerous candles provided a small orb of light. A meal for two was laid out: an assortment of tantalizing dishes such as only the cooks of Imladris could supply. One chair was pushed back, abandoned in haste. Before it on the board lay several dispatches, also cast carelessly aside. Across from this place, Estel was sitting, staring vacantly at the untouched plate before him while one hand plucked at his temple. Elladan was rounding the table, and Gilraen watched as he crouched by the boy’s chair. One hand took Estel’s, drawing it away from his forehead. With the fingers of the other, Elladan tapped the pale jaw gently.

‘Estel? Estel, can you hear me?’ There was no response. ‘Estel.’

The grey eyes flitted over the Peredhil’s face, fixing at last upon his own sterling orbs. There was the barest of nods and a frightened whisper; ‘Yes.’

‘Your meal is growing cold,’ Elladan said gently. ‘The kitchen folk went to great trouble to prepare it just for us: you ought to eat a little, at least.’

‘I am not hungry,’ Estel murmured miserably, glancing at the food. A thin trickle of spittle appeared at the corner of his mouth, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

‘You are not hungry, or your mind is telling you not to eat?’ Elladan challenged, his voice carefully level. ‘You ate so little at supper; you must be famished.’

Gilraen’s pulse quickened. She did not fully understand what the son of Elrond had told her. Evil was whispering in the mind of her son – but what did that mean? She had asked, half frantic, if Estel was losing his reason. No, Elladan had assured her; he was not mad. In all likelihood these doubts were coming from the same source as his nightmares, and they were feeding on the fears and uncertainties of his young mind. Though this seemed a still more terrifying prospect, it was beyond her comprehension. What she could understand was that her child was suffering, and had once more been suffering in silence while she busied herself with the care of another.

‘Breakfast, not supper...’ Estel mumbled, and for a moment there was a light in his eyes, like a half-forgotten memory of mirth. It faded quickly and he seemed once more like one walking in some evil dream.

‘Here, taste just a little,’ Elladan urged, plucking up a piece of the richly flavoured fowl and bringing it to the child’s lips. They parted obediently, and the boy chewed and swallowed with methodical precision. ‘Is it not toothsome? Try a little more.’

He managed to coax the boy to take two more mouthfuls. Gilraen came forward, and Elladan saw her. His eyes were grave, but his mouth quirked in a sad half-smile, inviting her aid. She drew out the chair beside her son and sat.

‘Estel,’ she said, keeping her voice smooth and pleasant; ‘you must eat your dinner. I know you do not wish to, but you must.’ She took his hand and placed it on the side of the plate. ‘Come, my dear one. Eat.’

‘No, please...’ he whispered, a tendril of panic filtering into his voice.

Elladan shot to his feet and strode away towards the dais. ‘I cannot bear it any longer!’ he snapped. As quickly as his composure had broken, it was restored, the moment of desperate anger replaced with grim resolve. He came swiftly back, lifting Estel from his chair and sitting him on the corner of the table. Using his thumbs he raised Estel’s hooded lids and peered into his eyes. Then he wrapped his left arm around Estel’s shoulders, bracing him firmly against his torso and leaning him backwards a few degrees. The right hand Elladan laid upon his brow, long fingers splayed.

‘Estel,’ he said imperiously. The boy tried to shake his head, but Elladan held him fast. ‘Estel,’ he repeated, but the sound seemed to recede. ‘Estel.’ More softly still. The steely eyes grew misted and Elladan swayed. Gilraen sprung to her feet, lips parted in a noiseless cry. ‘Estel...’ It was less than a whisper, an almost silent spilling of breath.

A shuddering gasp, like the first sharp intake of air when a swimmer surfaces after a desperate chase beneath the water, tore from Estel’s lips. Elladan broke away, staggering backward with horror in his eyes. Estel almost toppled off the table, but his hands shot out at the last moment to brace himself. He looked around, dazed and frightened, and his eyes fell on Gilraen.

‘Mother!’ he yelped, sounding dismayed by her presence. It was all the invitation that she needed: she flew to his side and he clung to her, fingers gripping the heavy braided border of her garment. He was trembling, and there were tears upon his cheeks. ‘M-Mother, please...’ he moaned. ‘Please, do not be frightened.’

Elladan stumbled towards the support of the table, clutching it desperately. In the bright candlelight his face was cast with a ghastly pallor and his chest heaved as he strove to keep his legs under him. Gilraen plucked Estel’s hand from her breast and moved hastily to slide one of the chairs within the reach of the Peredhil. Elladan convulsively nodded his thanks, groping for the back and easing himself down. He crossed his arms upon the tabletop and lowered his head down upon them. Gilraen hesitated for a moment, torn between her son and her friend. Estel saw no such choice. He turned, swinging his legs to the other side of the corner on which he perched, and placed a quaking hand on Elladan’s head.

‘I am sorry...’ the half-Elf moaned. ‘I had to try, but my gift is spent. I am not strong enough for this. I cannot help you.’

‘You have,’ Estel said. ‘I can think more clearly now.’

Elladan’s head rocked a little against his arms; an approximation of a negative gesture. ‘The voice remains, the doubts, the fear...’

‘B-but I can think rationally again,’ Estel said. ‘I was lost, I could not find my way out. I...’ His eyes fell on Gilraen. ‘Mother...’ The word was half apology, half supplication.

She understood, and she drew herself up a little, trying to smile for him. ‘Dearest one, do not fear for me,’ she said. ‘It is kind of you to worry, Estel, but I promise I shall not weep. My tears cannot help you.’ They would only hurt him. She understood that now. Resolve set, she kissed his brow, and he made a soft nickering sound, leaning his head briefly against her lips.

Then he turned again towards the Peredhil beside him. ‘Elladan...’ he said softly, once more laying his hand upon the dark, silken head. ‘You must bring help, Mother. He is very weary.’

Abruptly, Elladan sat up, snatching Estel’s hand away from his skull. ‘Do not do that!’ he cried sharply. ‘Do not lend me strength: you have too much need of it yourself!’

‘I did not, I was not,’ Estel protested, bewildered. ‘I cannot!’

Elladan’s expression softened, and his deadened eyes were sad. ‘Perhaps not,’ he said, raising one hand to support his head. ‘Mayhap my mind is playing tricks upon me, as well. Estel, if your reason has returned surely you see that you must eat.’

Estel nodded and Gilraen picked up his plate. She intended to help him, but he took it from her. ‘Please, go and bring someone to help Elladan to bed.’ His brow furrowed, and for a moment Gilraen was afraid that he was going to slip away again. ‘No,’ Estel whispered, staring down at his plate. ‘No. I am hungry. No.’ Not troubling to grope for his utensils, he began to eat as quickly as he could.

Elladan exhaled heavily. Gilraen turned fearfully towards him, and his dour expression frightened her. ‘I have bought you a poor respite, I fear,’ he mourned, placing a hand upon Estel’s knee. ‘Forgive me.’

‘I can fight it again,’ Estel told him resolutely, remembering too late that he was in the midst of chewing. He tried to hide his mouth behind his hand as he swallowed prematurely. ‘I can fight it until morning.’

Unsure whether she could bear to hear any more without weeping, Gilraen drew back from the table. ‘I will go to find someone to help you upstairs,’ she said as steadily as she could. Waiting for no further encouragement, she hastened from the room.

lar

The hosts of the White Council made camp upon the very eaves of Mirkwood. They were so near to Dol Guldur that its shadow eclipsed the eastern sky. No pavilions were erected, nor any shelters thrust up, for though the night was cold the wind was low, and the cloudless vault of the heavens spread above. No moon shone. The Men who served Saruman made a camp of their own, but the two armies of Elves intermingled among the hillocks. Long had it been since such a large number of the folk of Imladris had ridden south, and old friendships were being resumed – old rivalries, too. Glorfindel and Celeborn had already dissolved several disputes between the Galadhrim and the people of Rivendell.

Elrond had taken his evening meal with Gandalf, the simple camp-fare seasoned by the hunger of a hard march. Neither Elda nor Istar proved very animated company, for they spoke but little. So near the stronghold of the Enemy their hearts were heavy, and the burden of their Rings weighed upon their wills. Without the One Sauron could not find the Three, for never had his hand sullied them, but Vilya and Narya at least were all too aware of their master’s presence. Though neither gave voice to any of this, they could read the duress in one another’s eyes.

When they had eaten, Gandalf rose and left the fire, striding off northwards with his eyes staring unseeing through the woods towards the distant realm of the Wood-Elves – and the Lonely Mountain beyond. Elrond did not follow him: it was plain that the wizard wanted to be alone with his thoughts.

‘Atarinya?’ Elrohir stepped over a discarded pack and sat down next to his sire. The firelight gave his skin a strangely mottled appearance, and peering more closely Elrond realized that this was because he was as blanched as a corpse. He reached out to grip his son’s arm.

‘You look exhausted,’ he remarked softly.

‘I assure you I am not,’ Elrohir replied grimly. He sighed, chaffing a hand against his brow. ‘It is Elladan. He has spent his strength, and I feel only failure. I do not know... perhaps the wounded Ranger has perished. A grievous loss: he had an infant son.’

Elrond bowed his head. ‘Let us hope then that he lives,’ he said. When he had learned of what had befallen his eldest son, he had been torn between relief and sorrow: sorrow for the loss of a young and hardy warrior, for dead or no he would never range forth again; and relief that the distress Elrohir had sensed had not pertained to Estel. Now, when he was so near to the seat of the Enemy that he could taste the pulsing hatred for the race of Númenor through all its long history and translate almost into words the murmurings designed to bring fear and shame, he longed for the wings of the Eagles of Manwë to bear him over the mountains and back to his child.

Elrohir scrubbed at his eyes and sighed. ‘I could use a few hours of deep, uninterrupted sleep,’ he said. ‘How early do we march?’

‘As soon as we can get Saruman’s folk moving,’ said Elrond. Lowering his voice circumspectly he added; ‘It would seem that the stock of Gondor has declined in nobility since last I rode South, for his folk are neither fair nor especially driven.’

‘Perhaps it is only the uncouth and the shiftless who will consent to serve him,’ Elrohir bristled. ‘I would not bow to such a fair-seeming, conniving and prideful lord.’

There was a shout from one of the sentries that caused both the Peredhil to straighten and follow the sound. The party sent to approach Dol Guldur and reconnoitre the path ahead had returned, and they seemed to have done so in some disarray.

Elrond and Elrohir rose and hurried towards the far edge of the encampment, where Glorfindel was calling for water to be brought to the returning scouts. From various corners of the camp the other commanders were also approaching at a run.

‘What is it? What has sent you back in such haste?’ Glorfindel was saying, looking from one to another of the forerunners. All three began to speak at once, each addressing a different person: the scout from Saruman’s group turned to the White Wizard; the marchwarden from Lothlórien spoke rapidly to Galadriel in the dialect of the Golden Wood, and Calmiel seemed torn between reporting to Elrohir or Glorfindel. With all three speaking at once, in three different languages, even Elven ears could not pick out a coherent report.

‘What’s all this commotion?’ Gandalf demanded, striding up with his staff rocking. ‘Silence.’ All of them obeyed, including the scout from Lórien, who did not even understand Westron. ‘Let the lady speak first.’

‘Orcs!’ Calmiel exclaimed, the word coming out heavily punctuated. She collected herself and reported crisply to Glorfindel. ‘A large band of orcs, travelling at a great pace. Rúmil makes the count to be no less than a hundred, no more than seven score. They were pouring out of the tower, armed for battle.’

Celeborn had reached the assembly by now, and his face darkened at those words. ‘To arms,’ he said, his voice resonating around them. ‘To arms!’

‘Wait,’ Saruman said silkily, putting out a hand to bat at the Elf-lord’s arm. A gesture from Galadriel stayed the soldiers who were scrambling off of bed-rolls in response to their lord’s call. Saruman continued. ‘Let us hear what the others have to say before we muster the whole camp. It is obvious that the girl does not know how to deliver an accurate report: let my man try.’

‘Calmiel is a loyal soldier and a capable scout!’ Elrohir protested angrily.

Saruman regarded him coolly. ‘You’ll forgive us, of course, if we are reluctant to trust your inept readings of the hearts of others,’ he said with a disparaging smile.

Elrond whirled upon him. ‘Say what you will about my carnal appetites, but do not presume to criticize the capabilities of my son!’

‘My lords,’ Radagast interjected with a shade of reticence; ‘this is no the time to settle such quarrels. If we are to be set upon, let us at least hear what we are facing!’

‘Orcs,’ Saruman’s agent reported. ‘Chiefly black Uruks, large and vicious. A smattering of the smaller, more avaricious breeds. I did not see any of the wretched serving creatures: it is a swift journey, or if they are to be gone long, they do not hope to return. The leader was a massive beast with fangs perhaps three inches—’

‘What does the breed matter?’ Gandalf said dismissively. He turned to Galadriel, who had been quietly conferring with her soldier. ‘How swiftly will they be here?’

The lady shook her dark head, and her coiled plait came loose of its binding and slithered over her shoulder. ‘They are not bound for us,’ she said. ‘Rúmil reports that they are marching north, towards the realm of Thranduil.’





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