A Symphony of Shadows - Revenant_22 (2024)

Chapter 1: West of Westeros

Chapter Text

She stood at the bow of the ship, gloved hand resting on the rough wooden rail. The biting cold wind blew into her face, but she did not waver or flinch. She looked out on the rippling grey waves, cold and dark under the evening sky. Clanking and bustling sounded from behind her, the crew preparing the ship to sail through the coming night. The Eastward blowing breeze brought the smell of sea-salt washing over the vessel.

“Lady Stark.”

She turned toward the sound of the voice. A young man stood behind her, steadying himself on a barrel of salted pork. He had sandy blond hair and a muscular build. He was handsome, she supposed. Not that she paid much attention to that sort of thing. She waited silently for him to speak.

“Lady Stark.” He repeated. “Your cabin is prepared. We’re all going to turn in for the night. Only old Laeric is staying out.” He pointed upward to a thick-bearded man with an eyepatch sitting in the crow’s nest.

Arya nodded and looked back out at the sea. “Thank you, sailor. What’s your name?”

“Colden, my Lady.”

“I’m not a lady, Colden.” She answered quietly. “Just Arya is fine.”

“As you wish, my… er, Arya.” He shifted uncomfortably.

A smile played at her lips as she turned and strode past him, stepping lightly down the steps toward the main deck. Since she was in command of the ship and leading the voyage, her cabin was the largest, located at the stern, under the wheel platform.

She went inside, glancing at the modest furnishings. A large table sat in the center, covered in maps and charts, with a couple of spindly wooden chairs on either side. A small cot had been pushed into the far corner. The room was lit by a lamp hanging from the ceiling, swaying on its chain with the rhythmic rocking of the ship.

Arya sighed and walked over to the cot. She removed her outer cloak and belt, placing Needle on the table gently, making sure it wouldn’t roll off in the night. Her valyrian steel dagger she kept, sliding it under her fur pillow, before climbing in herself. She lay in silence, listening to the creaking and groaning of the hull, and the clanking of pulleys against the masts outside.

With the death of Cersei, her list had been completed. She had no more deaths to ensure, no more names to repeat as she drifted off into sleep. It made the silence uncomfortable, yet peaceful at the same time. Eventually she managed to fall into a dreamless slumber, and her only thought was of the steady rolling of the waves below.

A soft tapping emanated from the door. When there was no response, it grew into a louder, more persistent knocking. Arya rolled nimbly from her bed, blinking the sleep out of her eyes. The ship was still mostly silent, no sound indicating that the crew was awake. A quick glance out the window confirmed that it was still dark out.

She grabbed her dagger from underneath the pillow and hid it behind her back as she walked quietly over and opened the door a crack. The man who had just been knocking straightened and nodded a greeting to her. She recognized him as Laeric, the man from the crow’s nest.

“Is something wrong?” She asked, furrowing her brow. “What time is it?”

“Not yet dawn, m’lady.” He responded, face gaunt and pale in the moonlight. “But yes, I do believe there is a problem. I wanted to wake ye first, let ye take a look.”

“At what?”

He gestured for her to follow him, then walked over to the center of the ship, waiting. She hesitated. Sansa had hand picked this crew for her. She had said they were some of the best and most honorable men in the North. Most of them had served under her brother Robb when he had ridden to war, and many of them had fought to defend Winterfell from the army of the dead. She doubted there were traitors among them.

Stepping silently, she made her way over to Laeric, who was looking up toward the sky, his one good eye squinting in confusion.

“Look.” He said when she had reached him. “Look up at the stars. Tell me what ye see.”

Puzzled, she looked up with him, making sure to stay aware of her surroundings so as not to be caught unawares by an assailant.

“I see stars.” She told him, pulling her eyes away from them and glancing back at his face. “But I still don’t see what’s wrong.”

“Ye see the stars, eh?” He looked down at her. “But which stars? Look again.”

She did, this time even more confused. She tried to identify the constellations she knew. The ones her father had taught her when she was a child, back at Winterfell. Her favorites had been the ones that had the glorious stories behind them, full of battles and warriors. But she couldn’t seem to locate any of them. She frowned, scanning the night sky again.

“I… What’s going on? I don’t understand.”

“Nor do I, m’lady.” Laeric confessed. “Forty years I been sailin’. Ain’t never had this happen before. The stars have changed, it seems.”

“No…” Arya murmured thoughtfully. “That can’t be possible. It shouldn’t have…”

“That’s not all.” Laeric said solemnly. “I had words with the pilot. Says he can’t rightly navigate without the stars.”

Arya frowned. “Were we still heading West when they changed?”

Laeric nodded. “As far as we know, aye. But neither of us saw ‘em change, exactly. Jus’ noticed it a short time ago.”

“Well.” Arya pointed toward the sky in front of the ship, where a bright star was glaring down from the heavens. “That star seems to be directly in our path. Follow it, until the sun rises. Hopefully it will lead us in the right direction.”

When he didn’t respond, she looked over at him sharply. “Laeric?”

He was gazing out past the bow, his eye wide and jaw slack. “I don’t think there’s a need for that, m’lady. We’ve reached land.”

Arya leaped onto a barrel to get a better view. Even in the darkness, she could make out the dark mass in front of them. To their left, a cluster of lights twinkled, like thousands of fires burning as one, pinpricks of light on the ever-nearing shore.

“How…” Arya’s head was swimming. “How did we get this close?”

“I don’t know!” Laeric rubbed his eyes as if to make the illusion go away. “‘Twasn’t there half an hour ago!”

“That’s not possible.” Arya growled. “And how is there land this close to Westeros? We would have known about it.”

“Aye.” Laeric agreed. “But something strange’s goin’ on. Mayhap we’re not even in the Known World any more.”

Arya thought about that. Had they crossed into some other realm? One with a different sky and land? Or had they turned a full circle during the night and arrived back at Westeros?

“Regardless.” She said aloud, trying to clear her head. “Wake the crew and get them prepared. Tell the captain to make for those lights. There may be a harbor to dock at.”

Laeric nodded and ran to the hatch that led below decks. With some effort, he heaved it open, the iron top scraping loudly as he pulled it away from the opening.

“Oi!” He yelled down. “Oi! Wake up! Wake up, ye lazy bastards! We’ve got land! Make ready to dock!”

A great clamor started below, men falling out of their hammocks and scurrying about, groaning and shouting, dressing quickly. Laeric ran back to the wheel, shouting and gesturing animatedly. Arya felt the ship shift beneath her feet, cutting across the current, turning. More thuds sounded from below. Men started clambering out of the ship, most of them shirtless or only partly dressed. They ran about the deck, pulling ropes and hauling barrels. The ship cam alive with noise and movement, like a fort before a great battle.

Not wanting to get in the way, Arya sprang lightly down from her perch and walked briskly to the bow of the ship, watching the steadily growing mass of land in front of them. She couldn’t make out much in the dark, but it was becoming evident that the lights belonged to a large cluster of towers built into the rocky coast.

She heard feet pounding on the stairs behind her, and saw that Colden was rushing toward her, a slender spear grasped in his hand.

“What is this madness?” He asked, panting. “Where in the hells are we?”

“We don't know.” Arya murmured. She raised an eyebrow at him. “Colden, right? Shouldn’t you be at your station?”

“I am.” He said, lifting his chin. “I’m not a sailor, exactly. I’m a fighter. Here to help defend this vessel. That job seems to be getting a bit complicated.”

“You volunteered?”

“No. I’m being paid.”

“So you’re a sellsword.”

He winked at her. “I prefer the term ‘mercenary’. It’s got a more refined ring to it.”

She scowled and turned away, directing her attention back toward the shore in front of them. The sun was beginning to rise, peaking over the horizon.

In front of them.

Arya groaned inwardly. Did that mean they really had gone in a circle? Was that land Westeros? But no. She didn’t recognize this coastline at all. And the whole thing with the stars changing…

“Do those towers look odd to you?” Colden questioned from beside her.

She followed his gaze. The rising sun was illuminating the group of buildings they were heading toward. They did look odd, Arya realized. They were grand and smooth sided, connected by elegant, arching bridges. And they appeared to be made entirely of hewn stone. The architecture was beautiful. More beautiful than King’s Landing, or even Braavos.

“M’lady!” Laeric shouted from the crow’s nest. “They look to have a harbor! Several ships docked there already! It’s in a little cove jus’ a wee bit to the right.”

“Make for it!” Arya yelled back over the tumult on deck. “And prepare weapons!”

“Yes, cap’n!”

A crate full of swords was brought up from belowdecks. The blades were not castle forged, or even well forged, but they were blades nonetheless. Men ran over to it between duties and grabbed one for themselves. There was more than enough for everybody. Arya ran back to her cabin, donning her belt and cloak and picking Needle up.

When she walked back out, the ship was sailing into the cove, great walls of stone rising up on either side. The cliffs around them hosted multitudes of the same, smooth, towers. Chiseled stairways led down to ornate wooden docks by the water. Several small, white boats were tied up here and there, knocking against their pilings. There was no sign of life, other than the lights still burning in many open windows.

“Prepare the ropes!” Laeric was yelling. “Aim for the second dock off the starboard!”

Colden was still standing at the bow, twirling his spear in anticipation. His eyes were darting around, watching the silent harbor suspiciously. Sailors rushed forward with thick, knotted ropes. When the ship drew even with the designated dock, they reached out and looped the ropes around the pilings, tied them off, and secured the vessel in place.

With a sudden jolt, the ship ground to a halt. Arya tumbled backward, but quickly turned her fall into a roll, landing in a crouch. Colden fell as well, although much less gracefully, landing hard on his back.

“We’re all set.” An old sailor came up to Arya and pointed toward the dock. “What are your orders, m’lady? Shall we disembark?”

“No.” Arya held up a hand, thinking. “Wait a bit. Let’s see if anyone comes to us. And make sure everyone is ready for a fight.”

He nodded and hurried off, shouting commands. All the sailors had flocked to the rail, and were peering over the edge, gripping their swords tightly. Laeric remained in the crow’s nest, gazing about.

Colden got up, groaning. “I f*cking hate boats.”

Arya walked briskly over to the line of bodies at the side. They were wedged shoulder to shoulder, and with their superior height, they blocked her view completely. She knew she could just order them to move, but she still wasn’t completely comfortable with her role as ‘Lady Arya,’ so she just climbed the mast latter until she was high enough to see over them.

Other than the jostling and whispering of her men, everything was silent. No movement could be seen in any of the windows. The air was alive with the cries of seagulls, however, so the place was not completely devoid of life. Suddenly, Laeric gave a shout from above.

“We have company, lads! Three men, off to starboard!”

Everyone started clamoring again, trying to get a look at the newcomers. A few moments later, they came into view, striding out from behind one of the towers, and began descending the stairs. Arya leaped from the mast and shoved her way through the crowd. She knew that as captain, she was expected to negotiate, though she wasn’t looking forward to it.

The two men in the back were dressed in gold and scarlet robes, and had flowing brown hair that fell straight down their backs. They were tall, and walked with a grace unlike anything Arya had seen before. The man in front was alike to the others, but his hair was silver, and his raiment was of sky blue. He looked kingly, with a highborn, noble air about him.

The trio stopped when they had reached the ship. All three gazed at the crew curiously, their eyes unblinking. The one with the silver hair spoke, his voice clear and melodious. His words, however, were foreign and strange, and sounded like some language of forgotten times, rich and smooth.

“ Ai! Gîl síla na lû govaded.”

“I… do not understand your speech.” Arya called down to him haltingly. “Are there none here that speak the Common Tongue?”

The man blinked in confusion, then responded. “Forgive me. Most ships out of the West bear only the First Born, as is the way of things. We did not look for the coming of men over the great sea.”

The sailors started muttering among themselves, and Arya was silent for a moment, surprised that this strange man knew their language.

“Nevertheless, we will host you, and learn something of your tale, perhaps.” The man continued. “Would you break your fast with us this morning?”

Arya, taken aback, narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “The courtesy of your hall must be great, that you feast with foreigners without first asking their names or titles.”

“Titles have little meaning here.” The man answered curtly. “Lest it be the title of the king to whom we pay homage. Alas, such a king there has not been for an age of the world.”

Arya looked back at her men and raised her eyebrows. Laeric, who had climbed down from the crow’s nest, just shrugged. The other sailors shared anxious glances.

“Well.” Colden said quietly. “He seems kindly, to say the least. And we are armed. Let’s go with him. We’re in as much need of bloody information as he is.”

Arya nodded thoughtfully. “We will join you.” She told the man. “For a while, at least. Do you have enough room for all of us?”

“Indeed.” The man smiled warmly. “Our halls have been nigh empty of late. Many of our kindred have left for the undying lands. Perhaps your company will once again light this place with the cheer and merriment it once knew.”

“Then we will eat with you.” Arya decided. “But first, I would learn your name.”

“Ah.” He nodded once. “Nowë, I am named. But men call me Círdan, the shipwright. I am lord and protector here in the Grey Havens of Mithlond.”

Chapter 2: The Grey Havens

Chapter Text

Arya stepped cautiously as she followed Círdan and his companions up the steep stairway. Her men followed closely, trailing down the cliffside like some sluggish brown snake. She had left five of them on the ship to guard it, but the rest were accompanying her. Colden and Laeric walked directly behind, talking quietly.

“Not very cheerful here, is it?” Colden was asking.

“Eh…” Laeric said, taking a whiff of the air. “It ain’t bad. Not like some places I been. Jus' quiet, ye know?”

“Too quiet.” Colden muttered suspiciously. “I feel like we’re walking into a f*ckin' ambush.”

Laeric belted out a laugh, slapping Colden on the back. “Ye sure are funny, son. I’ve been walkin’ into ambushes since before ye picked up that damn toothpick yer holdin’. And I can tell ye now, this ain’t one.”

“Age isn’t the same as experience.”

“No.” Laeric agreed. “But I’d say yer lacking in both, laddy. Stop tryna play soldier, will ye?”

Colden glared at him indignantly. “Now see here, old man. I’ve been in more battles than you’ve even-”

“Seven hells!” Arya cut in exasperatedly, turning to face them. “Will you two shut it?”

Colden’s face crumpled into a scowl. “Yes, my lady.”

They trudged along silently after that, the waves breaking on the rocks below providing the only sound. After a few minutes, Círdan reached the entrance to one of the stone towers and stopped, waiting for Arya to catch up. When she did, he opened a heavy wooden door at the base, gesturing for her to enter. She walked through the doorway, but her hand strayed to Needle’s hilt, eyes alert.

There was no need, as it turned out. Inside was a simple stone room, tall and circular, with a large gilded table at the center. Círdan entered, and spoke some words to one of the men with him, who departed down a different pathway along the cliff.

“Come.” He said to Arya, indicating a chair. “I would have you sit with me. For it is strange that such a young maiden travels with a company such as you keep, and I would speak with you.”

“I suppose it is strange.” Arya said with a smile. She sat down where he had gestured, the wooden chair sliding smoothly along the polished floor as she pulled it out.

He pulled out a chair next to her, and the rest of her men took the cue, gradually filling up the table. When they had all come in, only four chairs remained empty. The size of the table was impressive, Arya thought. It seemed to be made for kings, rather than filthy, disheveled sailors. She was just about to comment on that when a procession of more tall, long haired men entered. They were all very similar in build and face, so that it would have been difficult to distinguish them if not for their different outfits.

In their arms they bore bowls, which they set about the table in front of each man. The bowls each contained a small fish set in a bed of leafy greens. After dishing out the food, the tall men walked out silently.

Arya looked around and noticed that all of the sailors were watching her. Waiting for her to start eating, she thought. The meal looked delicious, especially after several days of salted pork. But she hesitated, looking to Círdan. Experience had taught her not to trust anyone, no matter how good or honorable they seemed.

“Where we come from, it’s customary… for the host to begin first.” She told him.

His eyes twinkled, and she knew he saw right through her lie, but didn’t seem to mind.

“Very well.” He said. “But do not fear. You are in safe lodging now. I will not suffer any harm to befall guests in my own hall, especially not that which is inflicted by my own hand.”

He lifted the utensils that lay in the bowl and took a bite out of the fish, then ate some of the greens. Arya nodded her thanks, and gestured for her men to commence with their meal. They did, and the room filled with the familiar clamour of a feast.

“So.” She said through a mouthful. “I have many questions I would ask you.”

“As have I.” Círdan answered. “And as I have already told you my name, I would learn yours as well.”

She swallowed, wiping at her mouth. “I am Arya, of House Stark. These men are under my command.”

“So it would seem, lady Arya. But to what purpose do you lead them? And from whence do you come?”

“I…” She paused, trying to decide on how much to say. “I was leading them on a voyage of exploration. Searching for new lands. We come from Westeros.”

“There is a name unfamiliar to me. Curious, that is, for I have travelled far and seen many things. How came you to the Havens? Clearly you are not of the Undying Lands.”

Arya’s forehead creased. “Um… No, we’re not from… wherever that is. It’s odd, actually. We were sailing Westward… Until we weren’t. The stars shifted, and we found ourselves here, at your harbor.”

“Strange tidings indeed.” Círdan pursed his lips. “I do not fully understand you, or your tale. But I feel that it is the will of Ulmo that set you here. And I will honor his will, as I may.”

“Ulmo?” Arya asked. “And who is that?”

Círdan smiled. “Yes, clearly some strange power is at work here. Ulmo is lord of these waters, and all waters in the world. He is a being greater than we, and wields great power and dominion.”

“He’s your god.” She realized. “You worship him.”

“In a way. Do you not partake in your own faith?”

Arya took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. “I do. And I serve my god well. But I would like to learn more of this place. Mithlond, you called it.”

“Ah, yes.” He said. “That is its name in our own tongue. The greatest surviving city of Lindon the old. We who dwell here were once in the service of Gil-Gilad, who was among the last of the great Elf Kings of old.”

“Elf Kings?”

“Truly,” He said, “You are from a land far different from this one. Have you not then heard of the first born, the elves, children of Eru Illuvatar?”

Arya shook her head slowly. “I don’t think so. None of that sounds familiar to me.”

Círdan sat back in his chair and gazed at her. His eyes were deep and soulful, yet bright and intelligent at the same time. Looking into them was like staring into a vortex of stars.

“I am not of your race.” He said after a moment. “Nor are any who live here with me. We are the Quendi. Elves, the men call us. Alike to them, but far older, and without the blessing of mortality.”

Arya stopped chewing and cast him a sidelong glance as his words sank in. “I would call you a liar, but from the moment I saw you, I knew you were no mere man. Can you not die, then?”

“We can perish on the battlefield, at the hand of another. But age and time have little meaning for us.”

“Well.” She finished eating and pushed her bowl away. “I have certainly never encountered anyone like you in all of my travels. But what will you do with us now? I would like to explore more of this land, if I could. It seems like there is much I could learn.”

“I would not have you depart yet either.” He said. “I wonder though…” He cleared his throat. “It seems fate now is in our favor.”

“What do you mean?”

“A letter came, not two moons ago.” He started. “It bid me to ride to Imladris with all haste, for a gathering in the house of Lord Elrond. Verily, I was not intent on going, for there are matters on this very shore that require my attention more desperately. ”

He paused, surveying the men in the room. They were eating loudly, without manners or utensils, and bits of food littered the floor. Arya didn’t mind; she ate like that herself sometimes. And these were sailors, not used to dining with lords or ladies. Luckily, Círdan didn’t seem to mind much either. He just sighed and looked back to Arya.

“However,” He carried on, “It seems to be now that I should ride there today, and you along with me. Speaking with Elrond may answer a great many of both of our questions, for he is wise in lore. Indeed, it may chance that you were sent here for a purpose. Who can say? These are indeed strange days."

“So you want me to ride with you to see this… Elrond?” Arya repeated slowly. “How far is the ride? And do you have enough horses for my men?”

“The ride is about four days.” Círdan told her. “The gathering is to take place in seven. I might spare five horses, but no more. Most of your crew would have to await your return here in the Havens.”

Arya thought hard. She was supposed to be exploring, right? Meeting new people? Maybe she should go, and find out more about this country. And maybe Círdan was right. Maybe she was here for a reason, and had a part to play, before the end. But could she trust these people with the lives of her men?

I’ll be with Círdan. She thought to herself. If worst comes to worst, I can take him hostage.

Her decision made, she rose from the table and clinked her fork against the empty metal bowl in front of her. Everyone quieted down, and she felt uncomfortable as all of the eyes in the room once again fixed on her.

“Lord Círdan,” She announced, “Has offered to take me to see a master of lore, who may be able to tell us something of our predicament.”

She looked out over the room. Most of the men were staring at her blankly, but a few started whispering to each other.

“I will accept his offer.” She continued. “I think we all want answers, and this seems to be the surest way to get them. But I can only take four others with me. Who among you is willing?”

Immediately, the sailors erupted into noise, shouting and raising their hands, all clamoring over each other. She tapped the bowl again, and they quieted down gradually.

“I take it that all of you are willing. Alright, then. I’ll choose.”

She scanned the crowd, searching. She considered several men, including a heavy-set man with a great black beard who was holding a large axe, a small, wiry man who looked like he would be a good thief, and a young, stout fellow with a jagged scar running across his face.

“Laeric.” She said. “And Colden. You two can accompany me.”

Both men rose, and Laeric gave a small bow. “I’m honored, m’lady.”

“And you.” Arya pointed to a tall bald man with a large hammer strapped across his back. “What’s your name?”

“Barroth, m’lady.” He answered in a deep, scratchy voice. “If you choose me, though, I’d ask you to take my brother Teidrin as well. He’s a good lad, and loyal. I’d not be separated from him, if that’s possible.”

His words made Arya think of her own siblings back home, and she smiled sadly at the memories.

“Teidrin can come.” She agreed. “And the rest of you will stay here, for now. Treat your hosts kindly. I should return within the fortnight.”

“Then it is settled.” Círdan spoke aloud. “You five will journey with me to Imladris. We will take our leave ere midday.” He raised his hand in farewell, then turned and strode from the room, leaving Arya alone with her men.

“Are you sure about this?” Colden asked quietly, walking up to her. “I do not trust these men.”

“No.” Arya responded. “I don’t either. But we cannot hope to learn more without taking some risks. I believe this is necessary.”

He nodded reluctantly. “True. But my heart warns me that we should turn now and sail back. Get away from these pointy-eared c*nts.”

“And then what?” Arya asked. “I don’t think we can go back home now. Our only option is to move forward.”

“I’m just saying. This man could easily be leading you into a trap.”

Arya smiled ruefully. She hoped she was doing the right thing, but the whole situation was so unprecedented that she wasn't really sure any more.

“Maybe he is" She told Colden. "Who knows? I guess I’ll just have to take my chances.”

Chapter 3: The Coming of the Darkness

Chapter Text

Dead brown leaves crinkled underhoof, the horses trampling them headlessly. A refreshing Autumn breeze was blowing up from the South, rustling through the undergrowth. Birds chirped overhead, nesting in the branches of the overhanging trees. Arya sat silently on her steed’s back, watching a deer foraging for food off to the side of the wide dirt path. She rode alongside Laeric, who was keeping silent for the most part. Círdan and another elf, Galdor, were leading the group. Galdor was blond-haired with high cheekbones, one of the ones who had served them food the previous day.

Whinnying and snorting sounded from behind, and Arya turned swiftly, looking for the source of the commotion. Teidrin was lying on the ground, flat on his back, and his horse was stamping around nervously. He was smaller than his brother, with a mop of light blond hair hanging down in front of his eyes.

Arya had almost decided not to let him come when she had realized who Barroth had been referring to, but had gone against her better judgment and allowed him to remain. He was loyal, like his brother had said, and hardworking too… But he had very poor coordination, always blundering around and bumping into things.

“Brother!” Barroth exclaimed, shaking with laughter. “What have you done this time?”

Teidrin stood up and dusted himself off, blushing profusely. He tried to clamber back onto his horse, but slipped in the stirrup, falling once more, and landing in much the same way as the last time. Barroth only laughed harder, but rode forward to help his brother, hauling him upward with one hand. Teidrin managed to stay on the horse this time, though he swayed dangerously.

“Sorry, sorry.” He apologized once he noticed that everyone had stopped. “I wasn’t trying anything, I swear. It’s just… I’ve not been around horses very much, if you take my meaning.”

Arya just sighed and turned to face forward again. She herself had not had much experience with horses, but she remembered enough not to make a fool of herself like Teidrin was doing. The group started moving again, at the same brisk pace that they had been travelling at for the last few hours. Colden urged his horse forward this time, drawing even with her.

“Teidrin?” He asked quietly. “Really? He was the only one of those bastards who didn’t know a thing about surviving or fighting. And you chose him.”

“Yes.” Arya replied simply, keeping her eyes fixed to the road ahead. “I chose him because I wanted Barroth with us. And he’s not all that bad. He has a good heart.”

Colden snorted. “A good f*cking heart ain’t gonna get you anywhere if you're fighting for your life. And you could’ve ordered Barroth to come without him.”

“That’s not the kind of leader I want to be.”

“No?” His eyebrows shot up. “Then what kind do you want to be?”

“I don’t want to be a leader at all.” She admitted. “I’m not good at this. I never was. But I couldn’t have sailed here by myself, could I?”

They were both silent for a moment. Arya’s horse gave a snort and dipped it’s head, reaching for a bush full of bright red berries. She tugged the reins to the side, preventing him from taking a bite.

“Your brother was a great leader.” Colden told her. “Proud, fierce, inspiring. Clever, too.”

Arya turned her head to look at him, raising an eyebrow at the description. “Jon?”

“No, no.” He chuckled. “Though I suppose he was a good one as well. No, I was talking about Robb.”

“You served under him?” Arya asked.

“For a time.” Colden’s eyes drifted toward the sky, lost in memories. “I was a young boy, then. Probably only sixteen. Reckless, immature.”

“You haven’t changed much.” Arya observed.

He smirked. “Well, you’d be surprised.”

“But how did you survive?” She pressed. “Were you at the Red Wedding?”

“No.” He said. “I had a stroke of luck there. About a week before, some dumb Lannister c*nt brought a damn hammer down on my leg. I slit his throat, but the damage was done. The bone was f*cking broken clean in two. They sent me home to heal.”

"That is lucky."

"I know. At the time, though, I was mad. Thought I could've stopped it if I had been there, or something. I know better now, but..." He trailed off, then looked over at Arya. "I was glad to here that somebody took care of the Freys, though I'm not sure how they managed it. The whole house, wiped out overnight. I mean, whoever did that is a bloody hero."

Arya looked away. "Yeah." She said softly. "I'm sure they are."

“And-” Colden was cut off by another tumult of noise coming from behind them. There was a loud thumping, followed by a horse whinnying again. Arya sighed in exasperation and turned to look back.

“I swear, Teidrin, if you fall of that horse one more…” She trailed off, eyes widening in surprise as she caught sight of the ongoing fiasco. Teidrin and Barroth were on the ground. Teidrin appeared to be unconscious, his eyes rolled back in his head. Both of their horses were backing away from their riders, panicking loudly. And when Arya saw Barroth, she understood why.

The large man was being dragged off by a massive white wolf with a scraggly coat, it’s fangs embedded in his shoulder. He was grunting and moaning, trying in vain to free himself from the iron grasp of his captor. It was over four feet tall on all fours. Blood was pooling out of the afflicted area, turning one side of Barroth’s cloak crimson.

Colden shouted a curse and fumbled for his spear, which he had strapped to his horse along with his saddlebags. Laeric was trying to get his own horse under control, as it had started to buck around with fright. Arya reached behind her back and swiftly drew her valyrian steel dagger. She raised it and prepared to throw, but stopped herself at the last second. It was too risky. The wolf was mostly hidden behind Barroth. Even with her deadly accuracy, she could very well kill her own man if the wolf decided to so much as shift it’s grip at the last second.

She changed tactics, twisting out of the saddle and dismounting. As she was about to start running toward the retreating animal, however, an arrow whizzed past her, narrowly missed Laeric, and lodged itself in the wolf’s eye. The creature sank to the ground almost immediately, dead. Barroth yelled and flung himself away from the carcass, clutching his bleeding shoulder.

Arya looked back sharply, and saw Galdor sitting calmly upon his horse, a bow in one hand. He inclined his head, then knocked another arrow, glancing around at the surrounding forest. Círdan had climbed off his horse, and was hurrying toward Barroth.

“Stay alert.” He called to Arya as he passed. “Seldom do wolves such as these travel alone.”

She scanned the sparse foliage. A few large squirrels ran about here and there, but there was no sign of any other such beasts.

“What in the hells was that?” Colden demanded. He had finally managed to free his spear, and was leaning forward atop his horse, poised to throw.

“It…” Arya began with uncertainty, “Well, it looked like Ghost. Jon’s direwolf.”

“It was a white wolf.” Galdor said solemnly. “They roam the wastelands of the Forodwaith. Never have I seen one so far South. An ill omen, this looks to be.”

“Nay.” Círdan called over. He had removed Barroth’s cloak and was wrapping the wound with long white pieces of cloth. “It is no omen. Merely it means that the days grow colder, though that news does not bring comfort to my heart.”

After he had finished bandaging Barroth, Círdan cast one last uneasy look at the shadowy forest before climbing back onto his horse. Colden and Galdor both put their weapons away as Arya roused Teidrin and helped him back onto his horse. He had hit his head on a rock, but didn’t seem to have suffered any serious injury.

They set out once more, this time at a faster pace, all watching their surroundings warily. The rest of the day passed without incident, save for one time when Laeric gave shout, thinking he had seen another wolf. It turned out to be only a small white goat, probably escaped from a nearby farm, and they continued on.

The sun sank lower and lower in the sky as their path wound away eastward. Eventually it dipped below the treeline, casting the world below into ominous shadow. Círdan signalled for them to halt in a small clearing off to the side of the path, next to a trickling stream.

“Here we will take our rest.” He said. “We will depart again at sunrise. Sleep now, for you are all weary.”

They all dismounted and began unpacking their horses. Arya quietly fed her horse an apple she had kept from the ship. It snorted happily as it ate, and she smiled. She had always liked horses; this one was no exception. They were honest and straightforward, never lying or deceiving.

“Her name is Findel.” Círdan’s voice sounded from over her shoulder. “She was once the steed of a great warrior, but old age has turned her soft and gentle.”

Arya managed to keep her composure, though he had startled her.

“It’s a lovely name.” She replied, not turning around. She opened one of her saddlebags and withdrew a tightly wrapped sleeping roll.

“Yes.” Círdan agreed. He walked up to Findel and began stroking her mane. “A lovely name for a lovely horse.”

Arya set to work unravelling her roll, choosing a flat, grassy spot with no roots or rocks. She was used to sleeping in uncomfortable places, and much of the time she had not had anything to sleep on except the cold hard ground.

She turned back to her Findel, about to tie her up for the night, when she saw Círdan lifting the flap to another one of her saddlebags, peering in. She rushed over and closed it quickly, but not before he had caught a glimpse of the severed human faces inside. They were gaunt and pale in the moonlight, staring upward with opened mouths like the tortured faces of the damned. He raised an eyebrow at her, mouth pulled into a thin line.

“There is more to you than at first there seems to be, lady Arya.” He said in a low voice. “I would warn you to tread lightly in this land, lest you endanger yourself or others.”

“And I would warn you to mind your own affairs.” Arya responded coldly, glaring up at him. “Lest I be forced to kill you.”

He regarded her with a blank expression for a moment, a strange light entering his eyes. He said no more, however, walked back to Galdor, who had prepared his bedding for him. Arya watched him go with narrowed eyes. She had only brought a few faces, just in case. She hoped not to have to use them, but something told her she would. She briefly considered killing Círdan and using his face to speak to Elrond, but dismissed the notion. There was really no need. And he seemed to be aiding her, at least for the time being. Laeric walked up to her, glancing back over his shoulder at Círdan.

“What did he want with ye, m’lady?” He asked softly.

“It doesn't matter.” Arya said. “You should get to sleep. Tomorrow will be another day full of riding.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, but I was thinkin’ that I could take the first watch, if you'd allow me.”

Arya sat down lightly on a tree stump, eyes distant, lost in thought. The moon was shining brightly through a hole in the shreds of cloud drifting above. The night was still, and the sound of crickets chirping emanated from all around them, mixing in with the bubbling of the nearby stream for a calming effect.

“No, Laeric.” She said. “I won’t be able to sleep for a bit anyway. Get some rest. I can wake you in a few hours, if you'd like.”

“If it pleases m’lady. Jus’...” He hesitated. “Ye do need to sleep. Don’t think ye can stay up all bloody night.”

The corners of her mouth twitched. “I’ll be fine, Laeric.”

He nodded again, then walked off awkwardly, looking back at her every few seconds. She was glad to have someone care about her so much, but a life of fending for herself had left her more than capable of surviving on her own. Accepting help was not exactly in her nature.

After a few minutes, everyone had fallen asleep, and Arya sat alone on the stump, watching over them. Though she had told Laeric she would wake him, she had no intention of getting any sleep. The only person she knew she could trust completely was herself. She would rather not place her life in anyone else’s hands, at least while she had the choice.

Suddenly, without warning, the night was broken by an ear-splitting shriek. It was the most horrible sound Arya had ever heard, full of darkness, despair, and terror. It was like a fell voice carrying over the wind, full of malice and contempt. Her heart was seized with horror, and she crumpled to her knees, hands over her ears.

Dimly, she was aware of her companions waking up at the noise. Colden tried to stand, but his knees buckled underneath him. Laeric was rolling around, clutching at his head. Barroth and Teidrin were curled up in fetal positions. Círdan and Galdor were kneeling on the ground, eyes shut tightly.

The shriek cut off as suddenly as it had started. Arya rose shakily to her feet, hand resting on Needle’s hilt.

“What…” She gasped, out of breath. “What… was… that?”

Círdan had risen as well, though everyone else remained lying on the ground. Teidrin was so still that Arya worried he was dead until she caught sight of his chest rising and falling slowly. Even Galdor, the great elven warrior, was still shaking slightly.

“That,” Círdan said, his voice full of sorrow and pain. “Was a sound I had hoped never to hear again in my lifetime. I fear that we are too late. Already it has begun.”

“What has?” Arya demanded.

“The coming of the darkness.”

Chapter 4: Brigand's Blood

Chapter Text

She ran through the forest, feet pounding against the dirt floor. Branches whipped past her, scratching at her face and tangling in her hair. She had to get away. The sound of hoofbeats thundered behind her, growing louder and louder. She was panting, seized with fear, running for her life. The moon shone brightly down from the sky, casting eerie shadows through the bare branches.

This was wrong. She knew that. Why was she running? She was Arya Stark, slayer of the Night King, faceless assassin. She did not run . With a great effort, she forced herself to skid to a stop, her momentum digging a trench in the soft wet ground. Turning, she looked for her pursuer. It seemed to her a shadow, faceless, not living, and yet not dead. Grimacing, she drew Needle, the moon reflecting off of the shiny hilt as it flashed into her hand. The shadow kept coming, undaunted. Closer and closer. It was almost on top of her. She steeled herself for the impact. One more second and-

“Arya!”

She woke with a start, only to see a face looming over hers. On instinct, she reached up and grabbed the person’s shoulder, twisting them to the ground and rolling on top, placing her knee on their chest. It took her a moment to realize that the person she had just pinned down was Colden. His eyes were wide in a mixture of surprise and amusem*nt.

“sh*t.” He said from underneath her. “Is that always your first reaction to being woken up?”

She stood up and backed away, breathing heavily. “Sorry. You startled me.”

“I’ll say.” He pushed himself up, groaning. “It’s dawn, by the way. Círdan said something about ‘travelling Southward with all haste.’ He seems a little on edge.”

“After last night, so am I.”

After they had recovered from hearing the awful sound the night before, Círdan had refused to provide any further information on what it had been. All he would tell them was that they needed to go to Elrond now as fast as they could, and warn him. Arya had tried not to fall asleep afterwards , but it seemed now that she had failed in her task. It was for the best, she supposed. She did need sleep, despite what she tried to tell herself.

Carefully folding her sleeping role, she tucked it back into one of Findel’s saddlebags. Most of her companions were already mounted, waiting about twenty yards down the road. Colden was now waking Teidrin, who was the only one left still sleeping. When he had been roused, the three of them rode forward together.

Círdan had been engaged in conversation with Laeric, but turned toward them when they caught up.

“Our road has changed.” He announced. “I would no longer deem it safe to travel as far North as we have been; therefore, we will cross Southward in a short while. A small town there is, half a day's ride Southeast of here. We will make for it, and from there take the East Road straight to Imladris.”

“Might we stop in this town?” Laeric inquired. “For food and ale, ye understand.”

“Aye.” Barroth put in. “It’s been a while since I had a decent brew.”

Círdan sighed. “Very well. We might learn some tidings at the inn there. Whether they be good or evil, I cannot say, but my heart warns me not to hope.”

And so the company set out once more, Círdan and Galdor again taking the lead. Arya rode next to Barroth this time. He had made a remarkable recovery after the attack yesterday. It appeared that the wolf’s teeth had only left flesh wounds, not puncturing deep enough to cause serious damage. It would leave a scar, but as long as he kept it covered with the white cloths, Círdan had said, it would not get any worse.

They rode in silence for most of the journey, broken only by Colden’s occasional attempts at song, which never ended well. Arya found herself wishing for better company. Hot Pie would have been nice to have. He was annoying, sure, but there was something about his constant talk of baking that put her at ease.

After about two hours, Círdan directed them off of the main road, and onto a larger, Southward-leading one. A sign hung at the entrance, but it was written in a language Arya had never seen before. This path was much easier to traverse, smoother and more level, with fewer fallen trees blocking their way.

Great cloud rolled overhead, blocking out the sun. It started to drizzle as they rode, and the light rain persisted with no end in sight. The surrounding land was cast into a greyish hue, bleak and monotonous. Arya was used to long travels, but even she was growing weary of riding through that dull country. They finally crested a hill a short while later, and a small town came into view. It was cluttered and shabby, the thatched wooden rooftops pressed so closely together they were almost touching in some places. The whole area was surrounded by a high wooden wall.

“There is the town I spoke of.” Círdan called over the sound of the rain. “Bree, it is named in the common speech. The chief town of the Bree-land. A place of little importance in the world, yet always it seems to lie on the traveller’s road.”

“Looks like bloody Flea Bottom.” Barroth said, smirking at his brother. “Don’t it, Teidrin?”

“Uh, erm… I suppose it does.” Teidrin squinted at it, shielding his eyes with his hand. “Don’t remember Flea Bottom very well though, so don’t take my word for it.”

“Should we stay there until the rain stops?” Arya asked, ignoring the two brothers. “Maybe it would be better to wait out this storm.”

“Nay.” Said Cirdan. “Already we have little time to spare. Rain or no, we must persist. Come now; I would lead you to the Northern Gate.”

He started down the hill toward the town. The rest of the group followed, now thoroughly soaked. The ground evened out under their feet as they drew nearer, and soon a small barred gateway came into view. Círdan and Galdor stopped to dress themselves in simple brown cloaks with hoods. The cloaks hid their long flowing hair and brightly colored garments, leaving only their faces visible. They could have been mistaken for common men now, if any average person saw them.

“We would not have found kindly welcome from the folk in this town, attired as we were.” Círdan explained. “Great lords such as ourselves are seldom seen in these parts, and are looked down upon by the common people.”

As their horses sloshed up to the gate through the mud, they could make out a short, squat man sitting on an overturned bucket next to the gate, smoking a pipe. He jumped up suddenly when he saw them, and lit a small lantern, holding it up against the downpour, squinting at the travellers.

“What do you want, and where do you come from?” He asked gruffly.

“We are travellers, out of Arthedain.” Galdor answered for them. “We are making for the inn here, where we hope to stop and break our fast, before we should set out again.”

The man stepped closer, examining him. “Those are some mighty fine horses you got there, traveller. What may your names be, might I ask?”

“I am Nenuial of Evendim, if that is enough for you.” Galdor lied stiffly. “Our business is our own.”

“Of course. I meant no offense, good sirs. Just doing my duty, you see.” The man stepped back and unlatched the heavy gate with a small key. It swung open, revealing a dark, almost deserted, street beyond, lined on either side with rickety stone houses. They rode in slowly, and Arya glanced back to see the man still looking at them curiously. She held his gaze until he looked away uncomfortably.

“Well this is… dreary.” Colden said, looking around. “And I thought your ‘Havens’ were dull. Do you have any cheer in this land at all?”

Círdan smiled softly. “Do not pass judgement so hastily. The inn, I think, will be more to your liking.”

They passed down a few more streets, each just as empty and dark as the last. Only a few people were outdoors, and all of them seemed to be in a hurry, bustling back and forth, carrying various odds and ends. One man - a swart, slant eyed fellow with a crooked nose - eyed the company with a hungry look, fixated on their horses. He started toward them, but Arya discretely shifted her cloak, revealing Needle hanging at her side. The man stopped, then turned and headed down a small alleyway.

“Ah.” Círdan broke the silence, and held up a hand, signaling them to halt. “Here, at long last, we have arrived.”

Theyhad stopped in front of a large, tall building, three stories in height, with many windows overlooking the street below. Over the door was painted in bold white lettering: The Prancing Pony by Barliman Butterbur. Most of the lower windows showed lights filtering out from behind thick curtains. Someone inside was singing a song, and as they listened, many voices joined loudly in the chorus. The song ended, and there was a burst of laughter and clapping.

“Leave your horses here.” Círdan instructed. “Galdor will stable them out back.”

They dismounted, and Galdor did as he was bidden, leading the horses away down a narrow street. The rest of them were left standing in the drizzling rain, looking at the door.

“You’ve been here before?” Arya asked.

Círdan tilted his head. “Yes, I believe so, though it has been some time since I passed this way. ‘Butterbur’ is not a name familiar to me.”

He climbed the steps to the door and pushed it open, ushering them through. The inside of the inn was about as different from the outside as was possible. It was bright, and filled with a haze of smoke. Men of all sorts sat around at tables, talking and laughing, all holding mugs of ale. Círdan stepped in behind them and shut the door, looking uncomfortable in the noisy room.

Colden, Barroth, and Laeric were all grinning broadly, and Arya had to keep herself from doing the same. Here was something familiar, at least. She had been to many taverns around both Westeros and Braavos, and though they had frightened her at first, with their loud noises and rowdy men, she had grown to like them. It was easy to disappear, in places like this. No one cared who you were or where you were from; it was a house of freedom and good spirits.

“I’ll go get some drinks and food.” Colden offered. “You guys grab a table. I’ll meet you there.”

Laeric slapped him on the back. “Good lad. Ask for some strong ale, if they have it. None of that weak horse piss.”

Colden smirked and headed off toward a large bar lined with wooden stools. Arya watched him go, then led the others through the throng to an empty round table in the corner, big enough for all of them. Teidrin tripped on a chair on the way over, face planting onto the hard floor. The men around him erupted in laughter, and Teidrin got up quickly, embarrassed. He rejoined his companions, and Arya just shook her head and sighed.

They all sat down heavily, hungry and tired from their journey. Arya narrowed her eyes when she saw the ill-looking man from earlier enter, sidling up to the bar. He didn’t seem to be there for them, but his presence still made her uneasy.

She was snapped out of her thoughts when a short fat man with a red face came up to their table. He was wearing a white apron, and smiled broadly at them, showing dirty yellowing teeth.

“Good morning, whoever you might be!” he said loudly. “Barliman is my name. Barliman Butterbur, at your service. What may I do for you, if I might ask?”

Círdan regarded him keenly. “Already our companion has gone to retrieve refreshments. But come, Master Butterbur, I would ask for news of the land, that we may hear it to our advantage.”

“Ah.” The landlord said thoughtfully. “News, you say? Well I’m afraid there isn’t much to tell on that account. It’s been mighty quiet around these parts, it has.”

Arya noticed his eyes shifting around shadily as he said the last part. She opened her mouth to speak, but Círdan beat her to it.

“Withhold nothing from us.” He told the other man softly. “We mean well, and our errand is of great importance. I would know of any queer business that has happened here of late.”

Butterbur leaned in closer. He looked a little pale, and glanced around to make sure no one else was listening in. “Well you see, good sir, there’ve been some strange things going on for quite a bit around here, in truth. First old Gandalf stops by, all mysterious like, then we get these visitors.” He shivered. “Black men, they are, cloaked and hooded. They were looking’ for-” He stopped suddenly and stood back up, looking sheepish. “Well, I’m really not supposed to say. Elseways I’d be in even more trouble than I already am.”

Círdan leaned back. “Gandalf, you say? That is well, for I am friend to him. These black men… I fear I know who they are also.”

“If you say so.” Butterbur said warily. “Though I don’t know what to think these days. Other friends of Gandalf stopped by this very inn just the other day, in fact. Well, friend or foe, you are welcome here for now. But I must be going. I’ve probably said too much already.”

“One more thing, if you would.” Arya said. “That man over there, with the crooked nose. Who is he?”

Butterbur glanced over to where she was pointing, and a sour look came over his face. “That’s Bill Ferny, that is. Right nasty swindler, and no mistake. I’d stay clear of him, if I were you. Though it does please me to see that someone seems to have damaged that ugly face of his.”

With that, he turned on his heel, and hustled back over to the bar. He stopped to pick up a few mugs on the way, and exchanged words with some other man, who laughed loudly at whatever joke had been told. Arya looked at Círdan for a few seconds before speaking.

“Well?” She asked. “Are you going to tell us who this Gandalf is? And what about those men he was talking about?”

Círdan nodded. “Gandalf is an old friend of mine. He came to my harbor long ago, and I aided him on his way. As for the black men…” He hesitated. “They are servants of an ancient enemy, I would guess. They it is who cry with fell voices, bringing terror and despair where they go.”

“That was them?” Laeric asked sharply. “Then what are they after? He said they was lookin’ for someone, he did.”

“I know not whom they seek.” Círdan answered. “But I would speak no more of this here. In Imladris you might learn more of them… and their master.”

A sudden cacophony of noise came from the center of the room, where a man was standing up on a table. He raised his cup of ale into the air, and began belting out a song. He was a poor singer, and appeared to be drunk, but everyone else in the room was enjoying the performance, clapping along to the beat as he warbled out the lyrics. In the background, Arya noticed Bill Ferny slip out the door, casting a wicked grin in her direction. Immediately, she worried about what he was up to. She cleared her throat quietly.

“I think I’ll go out for a minute. Get some… fresh air.”

“I’d come with ye, if ye’d like.” Laeric told her.

She shook her head. “No, I’ll be fine. I shouldn’t be too long.”

She stood and maneuvered her way through the crowd, ducking to avoid the occasional swinging arm. When she reached the door, the man was finishing his song, and the room exploded with clapping. She exited quietly, and looked down the street both ways. A flash of movement caught her eye, disappearing into a nearby alley, and she moved to follow. Large buildings towered up on either side of her as she walked down the narrow path. The rain had let up a but, but was still coming down, muddying the ground. She glanced about, but there was no sign of Ferny. She was just about to head back when a large shape came leaping out of the shadows, where it had lain hidden behind a large barrel. It collided with her, and they both tumbled roughly to the ground.

Arya stood up quickly, wiping the mud from her eyes, just in time to see Bill Ferny rising to his feet as well. He sneered at her.

“Shouldn’t be walking around on your own, little dove.” He snarled. “Never know who you might find.”

She glared back. “Maybe I found exactly who I was looking for.”

“And maybe you and I can have some fun later.” He said, licking his lips greedily.

She looked at him with a mixture of anger and disgust. “Not likely.”

He growled and pulled out a short, jagged knife. It looked tiny in his massive burly hands, but Arya knew it could be deadly if she let him get too close. He raised it menacingly and charged her again. Quick as lightning, she ducked to the side, avoiding his first swipe, and stuck out a leg, sending him to the ground. The knife flew from his grasp. She walked over to where it had fallen and picked it up, wiping the mud off.

She turned to her attacker, who was lying in the mud, groaning. Striding over quickly, she bent down and placed the knife to his throat. He gasped at the touch of the cold metal, and lay still.

“Should I kill you now?” Arya asked. “I would like to. But maybe if I spare your miserable life, you’ll behave better in the future. What do you say?”

“I…” He croaked out, still lying completely motionless. “I’ll be good, you little short-shank. I swear it. Just lemme go.”

Arya nodded. “Very well. I’ll drop this knife and leave you here. But I never want to see you again. Do we understand each other?”

He nodded, or tried to nod until he remembered the knife at his throat. Arya smiled grimly, and removed the blade, dropping it into the mud beside his head.

“Good.” She stood up, and started walking away.

Of course, she didn’t really expect him to be true to his word. But she felt he deserved a chance. Maybe he would surprise her, she thought. A few moments later, however, a howl of rage came from behind, and Ferny came charging toward her back, knife raised. Sighing, she crouched to the ground and braced herself. Unable to halt his momentum, the large man tripped over her prone form, crashing once more to the muddy street. She walked over, tore the knife from his grasp, and looked down at him coldly.

“I’m disappointed.” She told him. “I thought we had a deal.”

He looked up at her, face covered in mud, eyes full of terror. “I didn’t mean… I’m sorry… Please, just let me go. Keep the knife. Just let me-”

She cut him off with a quick lash, the knife passing easily through his exposed throat. He gasped, hand flying to his neck, as blood began pouring out, running over his hands and pooling at his feet. His face was a mask of fear, his mouth hanging open in shock. He reached out with one hand, as if still begging her to spare him, but within a few seconds, his eyes rolled back and he dropped to the ground, dead.

Arya looked calmly at the body for a moment. Her first kill in this new land, she thought to herself. But he had deserved it. She dropped the bloodied knife and walked away quickly, heading back towards the inn. The alleyway was far enough removed from the main street that no one would find his body for a day at least, with a little luck. And by then she would be gone.

She spent a few minutes tidying herself up, trying to wipe some of the mud off of her clothes, then walked back into the room. It was much the same as before, but Galdor and Colden had both returned, and were now sitting at the table. Colden had brought over some kind of pie, along with a few mugs of ale.

“What happened to you?” He asked when Arya walked up to them. “Decided to take a bath in the mud?”

She looked down at her filthy garments. “Not exactly. Is that pie?”

Barroth bobbed his head up and down animatedly, shoving a piece into his mouth. “Sure is. Best pie I’ve ever had. I’ll have to thank that Butterbur fellow, when I get the chance.”

“Ale’s good too.” Laeric put in. “Not sure if ye’d want any, m’lady.”

She shot him a look. “Of course I would.”

Sitting down, she grabbed one of the mugs, taking a long drink. Laeric raised his eyebrows and shared a look with Colden. After she had finished, she tore off a piece of pie.

“So…” Colden started. “How was your walk? Did you get some fresh air?” He clearly knew she was hiding something, judging by the tone of his voice. Arya smiled and started eating, ripping into the pie with her teeth.

“Oh yes.” She told him through a mouthful. “It was lovely.”

Chapter 5: Fighting Spirit

Chapter Text

The sound of clashing steel echoed throughout the forest, startling a group of birds into flight. They rose into the air, squawking and flapping wildly, and passed over the source of the noise: A small grassy clearing just off to the side of the East Road. Arya stood there, arms folded, watching in amusem*nt as Teidrin faced off against Colden.

They had collectively agreed that It would be best for Teidrin to learn how to wield a sword, and Colden had offered to teach him whenever he had the chance. So here they were, circling each other, swords held at the ready.

“Come on!” Colden urged. “Hold it a bit higher! You’re leaving your head completely open!”

Teidrin shifted his grasp, just in time to block a strike aimed for his neck. His eyes widened and he took a step back.

“Hold your ground!” Colden called. “Stay on balance!”

Teidrin tried to comply, shifting his feet around, but he only succeeded in getting his legs tangled up and toppling over, blade falling from his grasp. Arya winced and looked away. She was legitimately concerned that Teidrin would accidentally fall on his own sword one of these days. It was a disturbingly likely possibility. She remembered her first lessons with a sword; she hadn’t been very good, but she had usually managed to stay on her feet.

The thought almost made her feel bad for Teidrin. He was eager to learn, and he was no coward. But he wasn’t built to be a great strong fighter like his brother. She considered helping him out a bit. After all, she hadn’t been warrior material at first, either.

The afternoon was now growing late, the sun sinking towards the horizon. They had stopped to have some supper, and Colden had decided to work with Teidrin a bit while they were off the road. Círdan and Galdor were sitting on a nearby stone outcropping, conversing in their own language and gazing out Eastwards over the forested lands. Barroth and Laeric were sitting on a log nearby, watching the training session. Barroth was eating a piece of pie he had saved from the inn at Bree. It had been over a day since they had left, bidding farewell to old Butterbur and riding out through the Eastern gate. Nobody had said anything about Ferny, but somebody would probably have found him by now.

Though nobody will miss him. She thought to herself. A man like that doesn’t make many friends.

She was pulled out of her thoughts by Teidrin yelping as he nicked his hand trying to retrieve his sword. Barroth facepalmed, and Arya sighed, stepping forward.

“Before you start attacking him, you might want to teach him to at least hold it properly.”

Colden glanced over at her. Sweat was beading on his brow, though the air was chilly. He had borrowed Laeric’s sword, having only brought his spear with him, which he had deposited next to an old dead tree with low-hanging branches.

“There’s not much to teach.” He said flatly. “He just has to wrap his f*cking hand around it.”

Arya ignored him and walked over to Tedirn, who had managed to pick the sword up, and was holding it away from himself carefully, as if it were a venomous snake. He threw her a wary look as she walked up to him. She stopped next to him, then drew Needle.

“Grasp it like this.” She told him. “Slide your hand a little lower, and wrap one finger around the back. No, only one. Good. Now slide your thumb over this finger here…”

Once he had managed to copy her hold, she gestured toward his feet, which were positioned right next to one another. He moved them apart, mimicking her sideways stance as well. Colden was watching them with his eyebrows raised.

“He shouldn’t stand like that.” He told Arya. “He won’t be able to swing it effectively.”

Arya inclined her head. “He doesn’t need to. He’s smaller, like me. This way, he makes himself an even smaller target. And if he can learn to dodge and stab, he can fight just as well.”

“That doesn’t work.” Colden snorted. “I’m trying to train a fighter, not a damn dancer.”

Arya regarded him coolly. “It doesn't work? Would you like to test that?”

Colden looked taken aback. He looked over his shoulder at Barroth and Laeric, who were listening to the argument with interest. He turned back to Arya warily, holding up his hands.

“Wait… Um, that’s…” He stuttered. “You… you want me to fight you?”

Arya kept a straight face, though she was laughing inside. He looked so worried, it was comical. She twirled Needle over in her hands a few times.

“Sure. I could use some practice. It’s been a while since I sparred with anybody.”

He shrugged nervously. “Uh, okay. Just… Don’t be too disappointed if you lose. I’ve heard stories about what you can do. They call you the Hero of Winterfell, I think. But I’m not too sh*tty myself. I've taken down lots of heroes.”

She smiled, taking a few steps backward. “That’s fine. I like a challenge.”

Teidrin backed away quickly, getting out of the way, and Colden hefted his sword. He and Arya began circling one another, both looking for and opening. Pine needles crunched softly under their feet. Barroth and Laeric leaned forward almost simultaneously, eager with anticipation.

With unnatural speed, Colden lunged forward, bringing his blade downward in a glittering arc. Arya twirled aside gracefully, but before she could strike back at him, his sword was already coming back around, this time swiping for her legs. She jumped to avoid it, then took a step back. They paused, both breathing heavily. She needed to get in close. That’s what Syrio had taught her. When you had the shorter blade, you had to get in close.

Steeling herself, she darted forward, thrusting Needle in a swift jab. He barely managed to parry the strike, catching it at the last second on the hilt of his sword. She kicked out for his legs, trying to trip him up, but he stepped aside, and her leg swung through empty air. She recovered just in time to deflect another blow he sent her way. They continued on like that for a few minutes. Arya would dodge all of Colden’s attacks, but wasn’t able to land any of her own.

Eventually, though, Colden made a mistake. With a grunt, he heaved the sword over his head in a mighty sweep. It was slow enough for Arya to dodge with practiced ease, but hard enough that it stuck in the ground with a wet thunking noise. He tried to pull it free, but it didn’t come out on the first tug. Arya seized the opportunity, stepping forward and pointing Needle at his throat. He sighed heavily.

Applause sounded off to the side where the other three men were sitting. Arya saw Barroth pass Laeric a few coins, his expression frustrated.

“That was so f*cking good.” Colden said once she had sheathed her sword. “How were you so fast? It was like trying to hit a cat.”

She grinned. “I’ve had practice. That was well fought, Colden. You almost had me several times.”

He smiled back. “I did, didn’t I?”

They shared a laugh, all chuckling merrily. Maybe this wasn’t such bad company, Arya decided. She didn’t much like other people in general, unless they were her family. That was how it had always been, ever since her father had been killed. Yet it was getting harder and harder to distrust these people.

Círdan and Galdor came down then. They were still trading words, but as they approached the others, they stopped talking. Círdan halted and told them that they had all been idle long enough.

“We must make for Imladris with all haste.” He insisted.

He had been saying that all the time over the course of the last day, and it had grown rather tiresome. Nonetheless, they readied their horses and set forth, following him once more. The East Road, as it turned out, was far busier than the other roads they had taken. They often passed other travellers, most heading West, but a few walking in the same direction as they were.

The two elves had shed their drabby brown disguises, and were riding once more in their kingly garments from the Havens. Arya had not had a chance to clean her muddy clothing, but she didn’t mind it all that much. She had spent far longer dressed in far worse.

At one point, just as the sun was disappearing, a foul stench came over them, a reek like a thousand rotting corpses. Arya gagged reflexively as it grew stronger.

“What is that?”

“A bog, just off to our left.” Galdor said. “We should pass by it soon enough.”

Arya covered her mouth and nose with a portion of her cloak. The smell of mud and sweat, at least, was far better than the bog’s horrible odor. She wondered how it could possibly be so bad. It was just a swamp, after all.

It soon subsided, however, true to Galdor’s words. Arya removed the cloth from her face and began to breathe more easily. The land around them evened out, and the forests gave way to great rolling fields, broken only by the occasional hill or grove. The few remaining trees cast long shadows in the dwindling light.

One tall hill stood out against the evening sky. It towered over the land around it, and was crowned by what looked like the ruins of a great tower. Arya could make out a fire glowing faintly on the slopes, just below the summit.

“There is the great watch-hill of Amon Sûl.” Said Círdan. “A stronghold of the men of Arnor, before its destruction. Now it serves only as a point for travellers to look out at the lands around them.”

“Should we go up there?” Laeric asked. “Ye know, to spend the night, maybe?”

“Nay.” Galdor told him, gesturing toward the fire. “It looks to be already occupied. I would not risk meeting strange folk on a dark night like this.”

“Nor would I.” Círdan agreed. “And our horses would likely not make the climb. We will make camp just off the road here, sheltered by a grove of trees. But be wary; there is evil abroad. I would sleep lightly.”

With those foreboding words, he led them off the road. They dismounted and started preparing to sleep. To her own surprise, Arya decided to let Laeric take the first watch this time. She lay on the ground, listening to a horse neighing in the distance, and for the first time in a long while, she felt at peace. Just as she was starting to drift off to sleep, however, the unearthly shriek from two days ago once again split through the night.

Arya jumped to her feet, and this time, through sheer force of will, she managed to stay standing, and was able to tell the direction from which the noise was coming. She saw her companions stumbling around, trying toblock the sound out by holding their hands over their ears. As soon as it stopped, she made her way over to Círdan.

“It’s coming from the hill.” She rasped. “The one with the watchtower on it.”

Círdan exhaled slowly. “Yes. But why they would go there, I cannot guess.”

As soon as he finished speaking another cry filled the air. This one was shorter, but was followed by other shouts and yells, also coming from the hill. These voices sounded human. And they were scared; panicked, almost.

“ They were looking for someone.” Círdan recalled softly. “So the innkeeper said. I wonder If they have not found their prey.”

Arya raced to the edge of the grove and looked out towards the hill. The fire had been put out, and several dark shapes could be seen in the faint moonlight, climbing the sides swiftly.

“We have to do something.” Colden said, appearing next to her. “There are people up there.”

“You would only hinder them.” Círdan answered dejectedly. “They are too powerful. Let us not interfere.”

Arya was torn. On one hand, she agreed with Círdan. This wasn’t their problem. They would only get themselves hurt. But on the other hand, there were people that could die if she didn’t do something. She couldn’t just let that happen, could she?

“I’m going.” She said aloud. “Whoever those people are, we can’t abandon them to their fate. If you would aid me, come quickly.”

She ran to Findel and leaped onto her back, slicing the tether that bound her to a nearby tree with a quick swipe of her dagger, before tucking it hastily into one of her saddlebags. Once free, she urged the horse into a full gallop, heading straight for the towering ruins. Looking back, she saw Colden, Laeric, Barroth, and Galdor all climbing onto horses as well. Findel’s hooves thundered over the grassy fields as they drew nearer and nearer.

Arya worried for a brief moment that she had made a terrible mistake, getting in the way of whatever was making that noise. But this was no time for hesitation, she chided herself. How was she any better than all of those people she had killed if she just left innocents to be slaughtered?

Onward she rode, heading toward an unknown foe; but in her heart burned a fire that told her she was going in the right direction.

Chapter 6: Shadow and Steel

Chapter Text

As soon as she had reached the edge of the hill, Arya twisted out of her saddle and dropped to the ground. Findel whinnied and bucked, stamping the ground behind her. The sound echoed loudly in the quiet lands. The hill rose up above them, dark and menacing, silhouetted by the moon.

Wasting no time, Arya started clambering up the boulders and rocks at the base. Twice she slipped and cut her knee on the sharp stone, but she kept going, heedless of the pain. She heard her companions bring their horses to a halt below her, but she did not wait for them.

The shouts and yells from earlier were no longer audible; Arya wondered for a moment if she was too late. Could they already be dead? That seemed unlikely, though. There had been no sound of battle as of yet. Perhaps the dark men were still searching for their quarry.

Her foot slipped on a loose stone, sending a shower of pebbles to the ground below. The loud clatter made her wince, but there was no response, or sign that anyone had heard. The shadows loomed dark and silent. Looking down, she realized suddenly how high up she was. A fall from there could be deadly. Her pulse quickened, but she took a few deep breaths, trying to calm herself. It was fine. She wouldn’t fall.

After another minute of tedious climbing, she reached a narrow, stone path winding its way up the hill. She pulled herself onto it, breathing heavily, and rose to her feet shakily, glancing around. She was just about to start up the path, toward the top of the hill, when she heard a faint voice off to her left.

“What’s that?” It gasped.

Another voice quickly shushed it.

Turning on her heel, Arya sped quickly toward the sound. She left the path, and climbed over the rough, earthen incline, making sure to step quietly and surely. The last thing she wanted now was to be spotted. Stopping, she listened for any more noise, but couldn't discern any. Continuing on in the same direction seemed to be the best option. She walked stealthily onward.

Then, from just ahead of her, there came the sound of a blade being drawn. Arya froze, dropping to the ground, and went forward in a crawl. Faintly, she could make out heavy breathing somewhere in the dark.

She came suddenly to the edge of a steep drop-off, which ended in a small dell about ten feet below. A fire was burning brightly in the center, illuminating four figures that were standing there. Three of them appeared to be children, and one was a tall, dark haired man. Two of the children were lying huddled on the ground, as if cowering in fear. The other was backing away from the edge of the dell, a sword clenched tightly in his grasp. The man wielded two flaming brands of wood, and was standing in front of the children protectively.

All of a sudden, many things happened at once.

A shrill voice cried out, breaking the silence. “ O Elbereth! Gilthoniel!”

At the same time, a shadowy figure lept from the darkness, towards the people gathered in the center of the dell. The ground beneath Arya crumbled away, and with a muffled cry, she tumbled down, landing on her stomach next to the children curled up on the ground. A sharp scream of pain resounded to her right, echoing along the hillside.

The man with the flaming sticks ran forward, swinging them at the dark shape. With an icy hiss, it turned and fled, vanishing back out into the night. The child with the sword gave a yelp of fright when he saw Arya, and hefted his sword to strike her. She raised her hands defensively, but the blow never came. He was hesitating, looking at her in confusion.

“What?” He started. “Who-?”

The dark haired man looked over sharply and did a double take when he saw Arya lying on the ground. She dropped her hands and gave him a little wave.

“Hello. I’m Arya. I’m… here to help… you.”

She winced, realizing how stupid she sounded. The man stared at her incredulously for a moment. Just as he was opening his mouth to respond, however, more dark shapes appeared at the edge of the hill. Arya sprang to her feet, drawing Needle with a flourish. There came a harsh ringing in answer as the dark figures drew wicked black blades.

“I…” The man was still looking at Arya in bewilderment. He shook his head, as if trying to clear it, and turned to face the shadows, once more raising his blazing branches.

“Sam!” He called over his shoulder, taking a deep breath. “Find your master and tend him as well as you can!” He looked to Arya. “If you would aid me, then do so. I am in as much need of it now as ever I have been.”

The child with the sword, who Arya assumed was Sam, ran off to the side, out of the range of the firelight, and started shuffling around in the dark grass. Arya took the time to look more closely at her opponents. They were black; so black that they seemed to suck out all of the light around them. Cloaks and hoods adorned their body, but no flesh could be seen under the garments.

One of them headed for the man with the fire. The other one moved toward Arya, and it seemed almost to drift across the ground, it stepped so smoothly. It emanated a chilling sort of fear, which pierced the very heart of those who felt it. Arya stood her ground, though her legs shook ever so slightly.

She lunged forward, thrusting Needle toward the creature. She expected it to dodge the strike, or at least to block it, but it just stood there and let the sword impale its abdomen. Even more surprising, however, was the fact that Needle seemed to pass through open air. Arya looked up, alarmed, and withdrew her arm, but was too late. The dark figure took advantage of the fact that she was off balance, and, with a quick, disciplined strike, it disarmed her.

Needle went flying off into the darkness.

Arya stumbled back, stunned, and fell. She propped herself up on her arm, and raised her head just in time to see the dark shape towering over her. It raised its long, straight blade. Arya tried to crawl backward, but she knew there was no hope. She braced herself for the blow. Faintly, she thought she heard somebody calling her name.

But at that moment, her outstretched hand brushed against something hard and cold lying on the ground behind her. Without looking, she reached back and grasped it, feeling the firm, familiar touch of a hilt. With a yell, she lashed out blindly, swinging her newly found weapon toward her attacker. This time, she felt it connect with something solid.

What followed was the loudest, most ear-piercing scream Arya had ever heard. It was similar to the ones they had heard earlier, but this one did not fill her with fear. It was a cry of pain and anguish, and it ripped through the night like the sound of sheet-metal being torn in two. But Arya, too, felt a stab of white-hot pain race through her sword arm. It was relentless, numbing her senses. She collapsed back to the ground, gasping.

Dimly, she was aware of more shrieks and screams coming from the shadowy creatures, but they seemed to be fading into the distance, growing quieter and quieter.

A face appeared above her suddenly, taking up her field of vision. It was the tall man. His face was dirty, scratched, and weary, and his hair a greasy mess. Yet he had a strange sort of kingly beauty about him, and his eyes were full of a wisdom beyond his years. His brow was creased in confusion and worry.

“Truly,” He said, “That was valor unlooked for in one so young. And yet it seems, you have paid the price.”

“My… Arm…” Arya moaned. In fact, she could no longer feel anything with that arm other than the piercing pain within it.

The man nodded. “It is a grievous wound, but not fatal, and not beyond my skill to heal, with time. I cannot say the same about the sting you gave your enemy.”

“Did… Did I kill it?”

“No.” The man smiled softly. “I think not. They would not be so easily destroyed. But you hurt him greatly, and he will remember your bite sorely.”

He reached over to the side and picked up the sword she had stabbed it with. But even as he did, it dissolved into dust and drifted away in the air. He looked in awe at the particles as they drifted away.

“Now here is a wonder.” He said aloud. “That dagger came out of the Barrow Downs, and before that, out of the lost kingdom of Arnor. Surely it was woven with some spell of great potence, enough leave a mark on such a terrible foe. Fortune was in your favor, that you stumbled upon it in the dark.”

Arya nodded mutely. The pain was growing even more intense, and dark spots swam across her vision. She couldn’t think clearly; her mind was a jumbled mess, darting around and clinging on to random ideas. A panicked cry came from off to the side.

“Strider!” Arya recognized the voice as Sam’s. “Strider, come quick! It’s Mr. Frodo, sir!”

The man stood and turned, hurrying off in the direction of the shout. Arya wondered what it might be about. Not that she really cared. It was hard to care about anything, when the entire left side of her body was on fire. Another face appeared over her, also full of worry. This time, it was Colden.

“Arya!” He shouted. “Come on! Stay awake! You have to stay awake!”

She frowned. Did she really have to? But she was so tired. So tired. She looked upward, trying to distract herself. Her gaze wandered, going out past Colden’s face. Past the top of the hill, crowned in ruins. Past the great grey clouds, moving Westward over the plains. Her eyes settled on the moon, slender and bright, directly above her.

It was so beautiful, she thought, and smiled sadly. Too beautiful for such a cruel world. And yet it shone on, like some beacon of hope, blazing white against the night sky for all to see.

With that thought, the darkness and pain flooded her senses, and everything went dark.

Chapter 7: The Broken Sword

Chapter Text

Slowly, Arya lifted her eyelids. As soon as they were opened, bright, dazzling sunlight filled her vision, and she closed them quickly, wincing. Blinking, she tried again, this time prepared, and was able to look out at the pale blue sky. The sun rising, low to the ground, just coming over the high peaks of mountains visible on the horizon. Birds were chirping loudly, and a horse was neighing somewhere off in the distance. She could hear hushed voices faintly.

She lay there for a few seconds, trying to get her bearings. Her memory was suddenly flooded with the events just prior to her losing consciousness. There had been a fight. The dark shapes had fled. And her arm…

Furrowing her brow, she realized that her arm was no longer in any pain. It still felt a little numb, and had an odd, icy cold sensation whenever she moved it, but its condition had been much improved. She lifted her head to look at it.

It was coated in some kind of wet, crushed, green material, like seaweed. Arya propped herself up on her good arm, examining the substance more closely. It looked like leaves.

She sat up, grunting with the effort, and looked around suspiciously, trying to figure out where she was. Tall earthen walls loomed up around her, and the ground was firm dirt. The smoldering remains of a fire sat off to one side, and smoke drifted up lazily. The dell. That was it. She was still in the dell where she had fought the dark creatures. Except now, it was sunny and bright out. As she looked around, her gaze settled on a figure slumped over against a boulder, sleeping. He was snoring softly, eyes flickering back and forth behind his lids. Laeric.

“Laeric.” She called softly. When he didn’t answer, she tried again, louder. “Laeric!”

He snorted and sat up, blinking away sleep. He looked around wildly before spotting her. When he did, his eyes widened in surprise and he scrambled to his feet.

“Oh! Forgive me, m’lady. I was supposed to be watchin’ ye, I was.” He scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. “Only, I was mighty tired, ye understand…”

She smiled slightly. “That’s alright, Laeric. I’m fine. But what happened after I… fell? Where is everybody else?”

His eyes darted to upward, where the ruins on the top of the hill were visible. “They’re up above. Talkin’, I think. Some strange folk, they are. Downright queer.”

“Did you talk to them?” Arya asked. “The man and the children?”

“Well…” Laeric started. “That’s one of the strange things, m’lady. They ain’t children. Jus’ really short. Like that fellow back home, I should say. The Imp, ye know?”

Arya raised an eyebrow. “Well, that is very interesting. I’d like to meet them.”

Laeric nodded and walked over to her. “Of course. Strider said ye could take them leaves off when ye woke up. How’s yer arm feel, if ye don’t mind my asking?”

She looked at him quizzically. “It’s fine. Great, actually. Is Strider the man?”

“Oh yes, that’s the one. Tall, grim fellow. Seemed to be leading them short folk. He’s the one that done and fixed yer arm, m’lady.”

Arya started scraping the wet leaves off of herself. They came off easily, but left her skin pocked with oddly shaped red marks. Faded greyish-black marks were visible too, crossing at random around the afflicted limb. She frowned and rolled her sleeve down, covering them up.

Standing slowly, she almost toppled over, her legs wobbly and unsteady. Laeric tried to help her, but she brushed him away, and took a few unbalanced steps forward, regaining control of her body. She started the walk to the top. Laerci followed close behind, anxiously watching to make sure she didn’t fall.

Halfway up, they came upon the stone pathway Arya had seen the night before. She stepped onto it and began following it. It wound upward, curving along the rim of the hill, and was never very steep. Looking outward, Arya could see for miles around the flat, grassy countryside. To the South, wisps of smoke and cloud were drifting on the wind, as if the remnant of some great fire. To the East, the peaks of mountains towered dark and black.

At last, they crested the hill, and found themselves standing at the edge of a circular stone platform that perched like a crown at the top of the incline. Ruinous walls adorned the edges, and the cold hard floor was scorched black, as if a great fire had rolled over it. Around the area, seated on various chunks of rock, were Colden, Galdor, the four small people, and the man Laeric had called Strider.

As Arya got closer, she noticed that one of the short people was lying on the ground, much as she had been just a few minutes ago, with a damp cloth placed on his forehead. His eyes were closed. Strider and the one Arya recognized as Sam were stopped next to him. Sam was reaching up occasionally to brush tears from his eyes.

Colden immediately stood up when he saw her, and strode over. He was smiling, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“It’s good to see you on your feet.” He told her. “You gave us quite the scare last night.”

“Well, I’m alright now, I think.” She said, then gestured to the figure lying on the ground. “What happened to him?”

Colden frowned. “I’m not really sure. As near as I can figure, he got stabbed. But it looks like the blade was poisoned or something.”

Concerned, Arya walked over to the victim. Strider looked up as she neared, and gave her a small nod. Sam just stared despairingly at the ground without acknowledgement. She sat down on a large stone block that was crumbling with age. Laeric lowered himself onto the ground near her, his one good eye darting around.

Now that she could get a look at them, Arya noticed some odd things about the people she had mistaken for children. They were clearly adults, as Laeric had said, but they had several peculiar features. They all had curly mops of hair on their heads, as well as on their feet, which were uncommonly large and hairy. Sam had lighter hair and brown eyes, while the one on the ground had darker hair, and wore clothes of a finer caliber. The other two were huddled off to the side, conversing quietly.

“Will he be okay?” Arya asked softly.

Strider didn’t look up. “His wound is dire. It requires healing beyond my skill, but your friend Galdor has told me of one among you who might possess that ability.”

“Aye.” Laeric said. “We sent Barroth off to fetch him, and the rest of the horses. Should be back soon, I reckon.”

Arya nodded slowly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get there in time. I came as fast as I could.”

Strider stilled, and raised his head. “And for that, my lady, I am grateful. But there lies yet another mystery. How came you to us in our time of need? And why? Greatly those questions press at my mind. Once young master Frodo is well again, I would learn the answers.”

“I have many questions of my own.” Arya said. “I think we all do.”

“So it would seem.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the small man on the ground, who Strider had called Frodo. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow, though he appeared to still be sleeping. The cloth wrapped around his shoulder was beginning to turn crimson. Strider reached down and unwrapped it, revealing an ugly stab wound, tinted black around the edges. He had placed more of the crushed greens under the wrappings. Both Sam and Laeric flinched when they saw it, but Arya’s expression remained neutral. She had seen far worse in her lifetime.

The sound of trotting hoofbeats reached their ears, and Colden leaped up, walking toward the edge of the ruin. He shielded his eyes with his hand, looking downward.

“Barroth’s back.” He reported. “And he’s brought everyone else.”

“I would help them up.” Galdor said, striding over. “Or at least tend to the horses. For haste, now, is our chief hope.”

He started down the path and disappeared from sight. The hoofbeats came to a stop, and they waited patiently in silence. Frodo gave a small moan in his sleep and shifted restlessly. Sam quickly reached down and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. Frodo stilled at the touch and relaxed slightly. Arya regarded the two curiously. She couldn’t quite tell what the relationship was between them, but they seemed close.

Suddenly, a voice broke through the silence loudly.

“ Cin thír gum, nin mellon !”

Strider’s head snapped upward a moment before Arya’s did. At the edge of the hill stood Círdan, blue robes billowing lightly in the breeze. He was smiling warmly at Strider, who was staring back in wonder.

“ I dú na- dúr a an.” Strider responded in the same language. Then his face broke down into a broad grin, and he rushed forward, pulling Círdan into an embrace. The elf lord looked uncomfortable, but remained smiling. Arya watched the exchange with mounting interest.

“My friend!” Strider cried, this time in the common tongue. “Well met indeed! Had I known you were the companion spoken of, I would have gone in haste to greet you myself! But alas, ill is the hour of our reunion. I have here a hobbit, gravely wounded by some devilry of the enemy. I have done my best to remedy it, but it is beyond me to cure such a hurt. The hands of an elf, perhaps, would be better suited to the task.”

Círdan looked past him, and, seeing Frodo, he walked over and bent down, examining the injury. He murmured softly to himself, passing a hand lightly over Frodo’s face. Sam scooted away and looked on in wonder. Arya kept looking back and forth between Círdan and Strider. She was about to say something, but was cut off when Barroth crested the ridge, followed closely by Teidrin and Galdor. His face lit up when he saw her.

“M’lady!” He said. “Well, I’m glad to see you alright, that's for sure.” He glanced around, and saw Círdan stooped over Frodo’s limp body. Leaning in conspiratorially, he whispered, “Looks like I’m not the only one with a bite on my shoulder any more, eh?”

A ghost of a smile passed over Arya’s lips, and she shook her head slightly. Barroth smirked but said nothing more, and instead sat down heavily on the ground, gingerly tightening his bandages. Arya stood up abruptly, and turned to face Strider.

“You know Círdan?” She asked.

He nodded. “I have spent many years travelling these lands. He has always been a friend to me when I have journeyed far enough Westward to come to his havens.”

Arya considered that. It made sense, she decided. Of course Círdan would know people. He had been around for a long time, if what he told her was true. She sat back down, thinking. She didn’t trust Círdan completely, and she definitely didn’t trust Strider yet. But she was willing to put up with them for the time being, at least until she learned more. Círdan stood and spoke then, breaking her out of her thoughts.

“It is a grievous injury.” He said gravely. “But not deadly, perhaps.” He turned to face Strider. “You did well bathing it with athelas , Estel, and other than that, my skills here will not be of any avail. We must bring him swiftly to Elrond in Imladris. There are few maladies he cannot cure. Our road lay there from the beginning, and now it seems our paths have aligned.”

“Our road lay there also.” Strider answered. “But we have no riding horses save those you and your company brought.”

“Then I would bid you ride ahead alone with your wards.” Círdan said. “I would send also the Lady Arya with you, for her errand is of great importance, and her injury, too, is in need of proper healing.”

Arya started at her name, but said nothing, watching Círdan keenly, trying to sense any evil intent in his words. She found none. It did make sense for her to get to Elrond before he did. Strider looked over at her.

“Do you object to that, my lady?”

She shook her head slowly. “No, It makes sense. I’ll go, as long as my men can go with me.”

Círdan stroked his chin thoughtfully. “ I believe we could make that work. Galdor and I will stay with the three perian , which leaves seven remaining. We will go on foot, and should reach the valley nigh two days after you, with luck.”

“Then it is settled.” Said Strider. “We will leave immediately. Time, I fear, is against us.”

Sam, who had been listening in from his position next to Frodo’s body, jumped to his feet indignantly.

“Beggin’ your pardon,” He started, “But I ain’t gonna leave master Frodo. No sir, I ain’t. You’ll have to bring me with you.”

He looked up at them defiantly, a small, bright fire blazing in his eyes. Arya suppressed a laugh at the sight of such a small, ordinary little figure like Sam glaring at the noble, kingly elf lord. Strider, too, had a look of amusem*nt on his face, but kept his voice steady as he answered.

“Of course you won’t, Sam. I shouldn’t have expected it. You and your master should both fit on one horse. Anyway, I doubt he’ll be able to ride long on his own.”

Sam gave a curt nod, but the relief in his eyes was clear to see. He straightened his back, and gave another small nod before casting his eyes downward.

“I… uh… Well, thank you, sirs. I’ll take good care of him, you can count on that.”

Strider smiled. “I know you will.”

They all set off together, descending the hill. On the walk down, Arya was up front, beside Strider. Galdor brought up the rear, bearing Frodo in his arms. As they passed the dell where the battle had taken place the night before, Arya suddenly remembered something.

“S-Strider.” She began haltingly. The name felt strange in her mouth. “Where is my sword? I lost it last night.”

“Ah, yes. I had almost forgotten.” Strider pulled aside his long, shabby cloak, revealing Needle hanging from his belt, next to another sheathed sword with an ornate handle.

“I found this on the hillside, where it fell. It is a fine blade, I must say, if quite small.”

He handed it over to her carefully, hilt first. She accepted it gratefully, and slid it back into its place in her own belt. The familiar weight was comfortable, lifting her spirits. She did not like to be parted from it, even if it was only for a little while.

“You have a sword of your own.” She pointed out as they continued. “Why didn’t you use it?”

Strider looked down at the sheath at his side, then gazed out over the plains, as if deep in thought. Arya wondered for a moment if he had heard her or not. Eventually, though, he answered.

“It would not have done me much good.” He reached down and unsheathed it. To Arya’s surprise, it was broken off just above the hilt jaggedly, as if it had been torn in two.

“Then… Why keep it?” She asked.

“The day is coming when it shall be reforged.” Strider told her. “And it is an heirloom of my house, and has been passed down through the generations. I would trust it to no other man.”

He slid the broken weapon back into its resting place gently, almost reverently. Then he gestured toward Needle, hanging at Arya’s hip.

“What of your sword, then? Would it not be better to exchange it for one a bit… Larger?”

Arya smiled as they came to the end of the path, and found the horses tethered to a large, crumbling stone pillar, fallen from the heights above. Findel snorted in recognition when she came into view. She stroked her horse’s head gently, then turned back to Strider.

“In my experience, I’ve found that it’s not the size of the blade that matters. It’s how you use it.”

Chapter 8: A Song of the North

Chapter Text

Findel grazed happily on the surrounding grass while Arya packed away the last of her things. She slid her dagger back into its sheath, and rummaged through her saddlebags a bit more. Withdrawing a spare cloak, she replaced her soiled on that she had been wearing since Bree. She stowed her old one in a different bag, wrapping it around her faces, hiding them more carefully in case someone else decided to go poking about her luggage. Círdan had not spoken of the matter since, but Arya still worried. He had no way of knowing what they could be used for, but that just might make them seem even more suspicious to him.

As she was just finishing up, and tightening Finel’s girdle a bit, she noticed one of the small people approaching her. He was walking slowly, almost cautiously, but there was no mistaking where he was heading. She straightened, watching him from the corner of her eye. He was one of the ones she had not met before, with light brown hair and fine, blueish clothing. He hesitated a couple of yards away from her, as if unsure how to proceed.

“Did you want something?” She asked, still facing away from him.

He started abruptly, as if surprised that he had been noticed. He quickly overcame his shock, however, and took another step toward her.

“Well, uh, hullo.” He started “I just… That is, we just wanted to thank you. Merry and I. You know, for saving us… and all that business.” He winced, then cleared his throat. “Well, here I am forgetting my manners. I’m Peregrin. Peregrin Took. You can call me Pippin, if you like.”

Arya closed her saddlebag, and looked at him curiously. She watched as he gave an exaggerated bow, almost toppling over before managing to right himself. She wasn’t quite sure what to think.

“You are very strange.” She mused aloud. “Are all you four related? I’ve never heard of four dwarves from the same family.”

“Dwarves!” Pippin cried, aghast. “Certainly not! We are hobbits, if you please. Halflings of the Shire.”

Arya’s mouth quirked upward. “My apologies.” She said. “I’ve never heard of a… hobbit, did you say? You’ll have to tell me more about yourselves.”

That seemed to placate Pippin a bit. He straightened and nodded, gazing upward at her face. “When we reach the house of Elrond, my lady, I would be delighted to regal you with the tales of our people over a good smoke.”

With that, he turned and strode back toward the hobbit he had named Merry. Arya just shook her head, a small smile creeping onto her face. She untied Findel and led her toward the road. The day was hotter than the last, but a cool breeze blew over the plains every few seconds, light enough to be refreshing without being a nuisance. The horses were enjoying it, sticking their noses out and snorting curiously.

As Arya neared the others, she was surprised to see Sam leading a small, scrawny horse that she had never seen before out of a nearby thicket. He was stroking its snout and whispering to it, as if it could understand him. She spotted Strider and walked over to him, still leading Findel by her harness.

“You said you didn’t have any horses.”

He turned, having been gazing out toward the distant mountains. When he saw where she was looking, he gave a short chuckle.

“I said riding horses, lady.” He corrected. “Old Bill is a good and loyal beast, but would not last long under so much weight. He is but a light pack horse, to lessen the load. Though I daresay he and Sam have forged quite the bond, ever since we rescued him from Ferny.”

That stopped her cold. Her mind spun, but she kept her face completely neutral. “Ferny?”

“Indeed.” He turned his gaze back to the rolling fields around them. “A deceitful brigand from Bree. He sold us poor Bill as we were leaving, and made quite some profit out of it. Fortunately for the horse, I might add.”

Arya nodded slowly and moved away, not wanting to discuss the topic any further. It seemed very coincidental that she should have killed the very man he was speaking of. Climbing nimbly onto Findel’s back, she pushed the thoughts out of her mind. It was no good to dwell on the past, she told herself. Ferny was dead.

Frodo had woken up shortly after they had reached the bottom of the hill, but he was still in a daze, sitting mutely on the ground nearby. Arya had decided to let him be, and not berate him with questions for the moment. That was the last thing he needed after sustaining such an injury. As she watched, Sam walked over to him and spoke quietly in his ear, then lifted him gently to his feet. Together, they walked over to Galdor’s horse and mounted it, the saddle barely wide enough to accommodate the both of them.

When they had all packed and prepared their horses, they led them to the road, then turned to say goodbye to Círdan, Galdor, Merry, and Pippin. The hobbits were silent, but the elf lord raised a hand in parting.

“I bid you farewell, my friends.” He said. “But do not be sorrowful, for we will soon meet again in Imladris, and there be free from fear and doubt. Ride now in peace, and may your road be ever safe from peril.”

Then turning to Strider, he spoke softly in his own tongue. “Cín anand na- neve.”

Strider acknowledged his words with an inclination of his head. Then, with a shout to his horse, he spurred it down the road, and the rest of the company followed. Arya fell back next to Frodo and Sam, keeping an eye on them. Frodo was more alert now, sitting up straight and glancing around, but he still had yet to speak.

Soon even the tall elves faded into the distance as they rode Eastward over the plains. Strider led them, riding ahead on Círdan’s proud white stallion. They did not take any breaks for a long while, and moved at a brisk pace. Teidrin managed to stay on his horse for the entire ride, though he had a few close calls. He seemed to be trying hard not to make a fool of himself in front of Strider.

After they had ridden for several hours, the landscape around them became rockier, and trees began to pop up around them. Soon they were entirely surrounded by a thick, dense forest. To their left, the ground rose in a steep incline just off the path, about ten feet high. Arya caught sight of several large squirrels racing up and down the slope.

As the sun was starting to descend behind them, Frodo began to doze off. Sam had to steady him from behind while trying to steer the horse at the same time. He was doing an admirable job so far, but It was clear that he too was exhausted, and would not be able to keep up for long, the way he was going. Arya marveled that he had not fallen already. She was about to call for a halt, but Strider seemed to be aware of Sam’s difficulties as well, and led them off to the side in a place where the incline was not quite as steep.

They dismounted at the top, and it soon became clear why Strider had chosen that spot for them to rest. It was near to the road, but hidden by a thin veil of ferns, which allowed them to see anyone who might come down the road, but kept them from being discovered. Sam passed around some apples that he had been keeping in a small satchel at his side, and they ate in silence. Frodo refused any food or drink, and instead slept quietly off to the side.

After a few minutes, Colden broke the silence, and began singing in a low, warbling voice that made Arya cringe:

“The dark lord brooded high in his tower, in a castle as black as-”

“By the gods, will you shut it?” Barroth cried, covering his ears. “I think we were all better off without hearing that noise!”

Colden stopped and shot him a mock glare. “Well, I’m sorry if my singing isn’t up to your standards! At least I’m trying to lighten the damn mood a bit.”

“I was fine with the mood the way it was.” Laeric said, laughing. “There's no need to make that bloody racket again, son.”

Colden snorted indignantly, but Arya could tell he wasn’t really offended. He had known what the response would be, but had wanted to break the monotony. Suddenly, he sat up and looked at Strider, who was leaning against a tree, gazing at the sky, ignoring the banter of his companions.

“Oi, Strider!” He called. “Why don’t you sing us a song? You look like a man with a good voice.”

Strider brought his gaze down slowly, and ran a calm eye around, noting everyone's expectant looks. He gave a long sigh, and leaned his head back against the tree, silent. Colden frowned, having clearly expected some sort of response. He opened his mouth to pose the question again, but his words were drowned out by Strider’s clear, ringing voice, which rose up in a drifting melody.

O great and fair was Eärnur,

The mighty prince of old.

And high and proud his banners were,

The white tree flowing bold.

But there the Lord of Angmar rode;

Men fled before his face;

For terrible and cruel he was,

Bourne of an evil place.

Arise! Arise! Cried Eärnur, stout hearted to the end;

And let not the fell captain win,

Ere we make our final stand!

And great was the clash of arms that day,

As will the minstrels sing;

And heralds on their trumpets blew,

With a great and mighty ring.

But Lo! There came a new note clear,

Carried far across the wind;

Like cry of gull upon the coast,

Risen high above the din.

For there came true across the field,

The children of the sea;

And at their head one tall and bright,

Upon a great white steed.

And still ‘tis sung that proud elves came,

And naught in the world is fairer;

So was that foul dark host undone;

The Black Captain fled in terror.

And so thence victory was afoot;

For prince, banner, and bearer.

Everyone was staring at Strider with wide eyes. Even Frodo had been awakened by the song, and wonder was in his eyes as he watched the man. Strider said nothing more, only closing his eyes. His face was peaceful, almost content.

Though Arya would never admit it, she had been roused by the song as well. It had been so beautiful, so flowing and rich, like nothing she had ever heard before. She had never been one for music, but found herself longing to hear it again. Colden started clapping loudly.

“Woah…” He said. “That was… Well, good doesn’t really seem to cover it, but you get the idea. Where did you learn to sing like that?”

Strider took a moment before responding, eyes still closed. “I have travelled far, and seen many things. But in Imladris, as you will find, the art of music is of great importance and beauty. As it would chance, I was raised there.”

“And what was it you sang of?” Sam inquired. “It was not like any tale I’ve ever heard.”

“It was a recount of the great battle at Fornost.” Strider said. “Where the hosts of Arnor and Lindon defeated the armies of Angmar in one mighty stroke. A glorious battle, but poorly remembered; for Arnor fell soon thereafter.”

“That’s too bad.” Sam said sadly. “I would have liked to learn more about it. Especially the parts about the elves.”

He blushed when Frodo laughed at the last part, but Strider smiled kindly. His eyes glinted as he opened them and looked over at the hobbit.

“Then I would teach you of it.” He said. “And any other histories of elves that you may want to know, my dear Samwise.”

“T-Thank you.” Sam stuttered, his blush deepening. “I-I’d like that.”

Arya gave a short laugh. There was something so… Pure, about Sam, and good. He had a kind and gentle heart, and if she was being honest, he was the one in this land who she trusted the most, even though she had known him for less than a day.

Teidrin gave a sigh. “I wish I could be like those great lords and warriors in the songs.” He said sadly, looking out into the forest. “Cutting down my enemies, leading armies to victory.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’re practicing with me.” Colden told him confidently. “I’ll make you the greatest warrior the world has ever seen.”

Teidrin tried for a skeptical look, but Arya saw that he was smiling happily. She wondered if Colden had been trying to make him feel better, if he actually thought he was that good of a teacher. With him, she couldn’t really be sure.

Laeric and Sam got into a discussion about gardening, talking about different herbs and watering techniques, and other things that Arya had absolutely no interest in. She blocked out the conversation, instead focusing on the small birds flitting about in the branches above. They made soft chirping noises every time they landed, almost like the ringing of bells…

She froze. Those were bells she was hearing, not birds. And accompanying them was the soft clop of hooves on the road, coming from just around a bend up ahead. She turned back to the others, who were now laughing loudly at some joke Laeric had made.

“Someone’s coming!” She hissed.

They quieted down immediately. Strider co*cked his head, listening, and a strange expression appeared on his face when he heard the jingling bells and clopping hooves coming from up ahead. Sam’s eyes were wide with fear, and Frodo was crouched behind him as if hiding.

“Is it the black riders?” Sam asked softly. “It’s them, isn’t it?”

Strider shook his head thoughtfully, but Sam did not look reassured. Then, to everyone’s surprise, he smiled. Arya narrowed her eyes. They were stuck here in the wilderness, with no one to help them, and dangerous enemies abroad. What did he have to be happy about?

Suddenly Strider stood from his hiding spot, much to the dismay of the others. Sam cried aloud, Colden swore under his breath, and Arya reached for her dagger. Before any of them could stop him, he bounded down the slope and stepped onto the center of the road. Looking completely at ease, he walked purposefully toward the source of the strange noise. Arya was just about to go after him and try and pull him back when a horse rounded the bend, coming straight for them.

Chapter 9: Phantom Pursuit

Chapter Text

Surprise was not a feeling that Arya was very familiar with. She prided herself on being able to take everything in stride, emotionlessly, without hesitation. When she had succeeded in ambushing and destroying the Night King, she had been relieved and exhausted, but not all that surprised. When a mass of land appeared from thin air in front of her ship just a few days ago, she had been curious, but had easily maintained her composure.

Despite that, however, she could truthfully say that she was surprised by the rider that came around the bend ahead of them. He was mounted on a proud white horse, whose harness and girdle were adorned with small silver bells that clinked lightly as it ran. The rider’s white cloak streamed out behind him, and seemed to glow brightly in the shadows. His hood was thrown back, long blond hair blowing in the breeze like a flag.

Arya had been half expecting something foul or evil, some nameless menace come to hunt them down. So when this fair elf (she had decided that he must be one) came into view, her anger at Strider was completely forgotten, and could only watch as the horse slowed gradually to a stop beside him.

Strider walked calmly up to the horse, and stroked it’s head lightly. Looking up, he exchanged some words with the rider. Try as she might, Arya couldn’t discern what they were saying to each other. Not that it would have mattered; she doubted they were speaking the common tongue.

With a small nod, Strider turned abruptly, and made a gesture toward their hiding place, as if beckoning them to come out. Warily, Arya rose to her feet. Around her, the others followed suit. Sam helped Frodo to his feet, and wrapped an arm around him for support. They made their way slowly over to the newcomer. He dismounted and dropped gracefully to the ground.

“This is Glorfindel, who dwells in the house of Elrond.” Strider said as they neared.

“Hail!” The elf said, “And well met, at last. I was sent from Rivendell to look for you.” He looked curiously at Arya for a second, and she felt as if his soulful grey eyes were searching her very soul. They were wise and aged, yet powerful. She looked away uncomfortably.

“Is Gandalf there, then?” Frodo asked excitedly. “In Rivendell?”

“Nay.” Glorfindel said. “He was not, when I departed.”

Frodo’s face fell.

“I was to look for four halflings.” The elf continued slowly. “Yet here I find a different company entirely. Have you then replaced members of your party, Estel?”

Strider let out a short, strained laugh.

“Nay.” He said. “The other hobbits are West of here, travelling on foot. We had not enough horses, and one of us was grievously wounded. I could not risk his safety.”

“And it was well that you did not.” Glorfindel paused to survey the group, eyes lingering on Frodo for a moment. “But did you then leave two hobbits to wander these perilous roads alone? And who may be these other folk with you?”

“That, my friend, is a long tale, which would be better recounted over a warm meal in the house of Elrond.” Said Aragorn. “As for the hobbits, they are not alone. Círdan of the Havens is with them, for we met him on the road ere nightfall yesterday.”

“So now have many strange things come to pass.” Glorfindel mused. “In Círdan’s care, at least, they will be safe. But now I fear that I have delayed you for too long. Your friend is in need of the healing of Elrond, if I have judged rightly. I will guide you from here, and protect you if I may.”

He turned and once more mounted his horse, which had been waiting patiently off to the side, untethered. As Arya watched him, she decided that it wasn’t just a trick of the light that was making his clothing shine. He actually seemed to be glowing faintly, even as he passed under the shadows of overhanging branches. Shaking her head, she looked to Strider, who was also gazing at the elf.

“Do you trust him?” She asked cautiously.

Strider blinked and looked down at her. “There are few of the Elves who are not to be trusted, lady. It is among men that deceit breeds like vermin.”

"Ha!" Colden barked out a laugh from where he was standing nearby. "That's a great way to put it.Breeds like vermin. I love it."

"Only because it applies to you." Barroth joked.

Both men shared a laugh, and Arya just chuckled in amusem*nt.

They moved out together, bringing their horses carefully down the slope from where they had been hidden. As they mounted, Arya took a moment to watch Frodo. At first glance he seemed fine, but she could see the pain in his eyes as he walked with Sam, the way he held his arm loosely at his side. His silence was unexpected. She would have thought that he would have begun complaining long ago, asking to be carried. Apparently he was made of sterner stuff than she had thought.

As soon as they were all mounted and ready, Glorfindel set off with them. They all rode in a close group, except for Strider, who hung behind a bit. Arya found herself watching Glorfindel’s back for most of the ride. He intrigued her greatly, with his powerful aura and piercing eyes. He was like Círdan, and yet unlike him. While they were both fair, noble lords of the elves, Glorfindel lacked Círdan's refined disposition. He seemed warmer, more approachable and down to earth.

As they continued East, the land became more forested, and they found themselves often under the shadows of great trees. And now the land was spotted with hills and valleys, rolling and steep. Great boulders lay here and there, as if they had fallen there out of the sky ages upon ages ago, and lay still in broken ruin upon the countryside. The mountains rose ever higher in the distance.

No one spoke much during the journey, save for when they stopped to rest. Glorfindel engaged in conversation with Frodo, and talked to him for a long time, drifting in and out of a foreign language, which Arya guessed was of the elves. She made a mental note to ask Strider about it later. Or perhaps Glorfindel, if he was willing to explain.

She was pulled back to the present by Glorfindel himself, who was sidling up alongside her. Findel snorted and sniffed at the other horse suspiciously, but it made no response.

“I feel it is my duty to provide some cheer to you, my lady.” Glorfindel said lightly. “Why do you look so sorrowful? The day is new and bright.”

Arya frowned. “I’m not sorrowful. I’m just thinking.”

“And yet deep thought often leads to sorrow.” Glorfindel replied. “Would it not be better to stay ignorant and enjoy this fair country while we remain in it?”

“I have no need for happiness.” Arya said, remembering an old saying of Littlefinger’s. “I have only a need for knowledge. Knowledge is power.”

Glorfindel sighed, as if disappointed in her response. Ary wondered why he was even talking to her. The conversation seemed to have no purpose. Then again, maybe he was just trying to get to know her better. She decided to use this opportunity to get to know him as well.

“You desire power.” The elf said. “Yet undoubtedly you have heard that power corrupts the hearts of men. So why pursue it?”

Arya considered his words for a moment. She hadn’t thought of it like that before, and knew there was some truth to his words. Her mind worked to find a suitable answer.

“I don’t believe power corrupts us.” She said at last. “Not really. I think we corrupt the power.”

At her words, Glorfindel laughed suddenly. It was a beautiful sound to hear, full of joy and merriment. It rang through the stone valley around them, echoing in unseen fissures and crevices.

“Truly,” Glorfindel said at last. “You have wisdom unbecoming of your years, my lady…”

“Arya. Of house Stark”

“Arya.” He smiled at her. “A curious name, yet befitting of one so curious as yourself. I do enjoy your company, my lady, and I hope to aid you in the future, if ever you should need it.”

She nodded her thanks, a little confused by the praise. Before she could respond, they came suddenly over the crest of a small knoll, and saw that a wide river ran swiftly in front of them, only a hundred yards away. Arya wasn’t sure how they had missed hearing the telltale sound of running water, which was now clear to her ears.

“The Ford of Bruinen.” Strider said, riding forward. “We are nearly there.”

“Yet now our peril is greatest.” Glorfindel warned. “If your pursuers were to attack, they would do so near the river. We must make haste.”

“Indeed.” Strider said. “Sam, give Frodo to me. We will ride faster if I hold him, for now.”

“I can carry him!” Sam said angrily. “Yes sir, I can! I won’t be parted from him now, so close to the end!”

Strider sighed. “Sam, I do not doubt your strength or courage. But I ask you now to bring your wits about you. Your master will be safer with me. You must have faith.”

Sam grumbled a little, but finally relented, allowing Frodo, who was now sleeping fitfully, to be passed over. Strider nodded gratefully at him, then turned to the rest of the group.

“We will ride as fast as the slowest of these steeds may carry us.” He said. “Do not fall behind or ride ahead. Together we are strongest.”

Then spurring his horse in a circle, he assumed a position at the head of the group, and pointed an arm Eastward.

“Ride!” He cried loudly. “Ride swiftly and surely! The house of Elrond is not far now. Ride!”

With that, they took off across the river. Foaming water swirled around the horses’ feet and frothed at their legs, but they splashed through, heedless of the current. Soon they were across the river, and still they rode on. Arya kept looking around, expecting to see dark shapes cresting the hill behind them, or come bursting from the bushes to the side. But no attack came. All else was still and calm.

Soon Glorfindel slowed suddenly, and came to a stop. The others pulled up alongside him. Arya couldn’t tell why he had halted, until she took another few steps forward. Then she saw that the ground in front of her dropped away into a sudden steep cliff, which descended for a long way before coming to an end in a large valley that had been hidden from her sight until a moment ago. Waterfalls poured down into it in several places, and beautifully constructed buildings adorned the cliff walls and valley floor. A narrow path ran down the incline, switching back and forth several times before it reached the bottom. It was breathtaking to behold.

Sam looked like he was about to swoon. His mouth was hanging open, and his eyes were wide with awe.

“Well.” He said at last, guiding his horse a bit closer to the edge. “We made it, Master. Made it at last.”

Chapter 10: The Garden of Glorfindel

Chapter Text

Arya hated it in Rivendell.

Usually, when she was in a town or city of any kind, she would slip among the common people and hide, unnoticed and inconspicuous. She liked it that way. But here, there was nowhere to hide in the open courtyards and balconies. Wherever she went, she stood out like a sore thumb, a young woman in a place full of elves and men. She couldn’t go anywhere without being spotted. There were eyes on her at all times.

They had ridden down into the valley the day before. Frodo had been taken to Elrond immediately, and she and her companions had been taken to separate rooms, where they had been given a chance to wash and eat before nightfall. An elf named Lindir had roused them in the morning and brought them to a small stone terrace overlooking a magnificent pond, where they had eaten a light breakfast. After they had eaten, he had informed them that the Lord Elrond was busy tending to Frodo, and they would have to wait to speak with him. They were all offered new clothes, but Arya had declined. All the garments in Rivendell, she discovered, were either long flowing robes or soft silk dresses.

With nothing else to occupy her time, Arya had decided to explore. Laeric and Colden had offered to accompany her, but she had wanted to be alone. As she soon found out, however, being alone was a much more difficult task than it first seemed. She went into various buildings, climbed random stairways, even left the paths and walked over the rocky valley floor to get closer to the lakes and pools. But there was always someone there, some elf who would smile and nod and greet her warmly. She just wanted to get away for a bit. To spend some time with her thoughts.

Just as she was beginning to consider looking for a suitable cave in the surrounding cliffside, she stumbled upon a small, hidden stairway that wound away into a crevice in the rocks. It had been hidden by a strategically placed statue, depicting a tall man seated atop a horse. Arya didn’t even hesitate; she started climbing the stairs immediately. They were smooth and polished, with unique engravings on each step. But what she found at the top was far more wondrous.

The stairway led to a small, intricate garden. Flowers of all shapes and colors were planted all around, and a great, leafy tree with golden leaves sat in the center. Birds chirped in it’s branches. Going to the edge, Arya saw that the garden looked out over the valley a short distance below, but was hidden by an outcropping of rock.

She sucked in a deep breath. While the beauty of this newfound paradise was not lost on her, she was more relieved at the peace and quiet. Here, she could sit and think, watching everyone come and go below, and remain anonymous. And so she did.

For the remainder of the day, Arya sat beneath the shade of the tree, relishing the cool breeze rustling through the leaves. Somehow, she was never bored, though she sat for hours. It seemed that one could sit forever and not grow weary of that garden.

When at last she came down for supper, she said little to any of her companions, only inquiring whether Elrond would meet with them yet. Lindir told her that Elrond would see her the following day. Satisfied with his answer, Arya went to sleep peacefully.

The next day after breakfast, she immediately went back to the garden. She knew people would start to wonder where she was if she stayed too long, but she couldn’t help herself. It was so relaxing, so freeing, to sit in the shade and think. She watched the birds flitting back and forth, building a nest high in the branches above her. Suddenly, a soft, barely perceptible footstep sounded from behind her.

Arya whirled around, jumping to her feet. At the top of the stairs, watching her keenly, was Glorfindel. She hadn’t seen him since they’d arrived. He looked much the same as he had on the road, except now his robe was gilded with golden flowers, and his hair shown even more brightly. A sword Arya had not previously noticed was sheathed at his side in an elaborate sheath.

“Lady Arya.” He gave a small bow.

“What are you doing here?” She snapped, a bit flustered by his sudden appearance.

He smiled slightly. “The very thing that you were doing, I imagine. Thinking, pondering, relaxing. Truly, I am surprised that you found my garden, my lady. There are few who know of its existence.”

“I don’t-” Arya began. Then she stopped abruptly. “Wait. Your garden?”

His smile persisted, much to Arya’s annoyance. “I enjoy believing as much. For I did not by my own labors construct it, nor did I breathe life into its vegetation. But I have never until now seen another up here among the blossoms.”

“I’m… Sorry for intruding, then.” Arya said with a frown. “I just-”

“You misunderstand, my lady.” Glorfindel cut her off. “I only meant that it is a curious thing, finding you here. You have done me no wrong.”

Arya nodded, then slid back down to sit at the base of the tree. Glorfindel walked past her and looked out over the edge at the valley below. He stood perfectly still, hands clasped confidently behind his back, hair blowing slightly in the breeze.

“I’ve never been one to sit and think.” Arya said, breaking the silence. “I’ve always needed some adventure and excitement in my life. But this garden… It’s soothing.”

“You are perceptive indeed, to notice such a thing.” Glorfindel said. “And not in the wrong. For that is the very reason I come here. Taking time to do nothing, I have found, often brings everything into perspective.”

“Do you come here often?” Arya asked.

“Some would say so.” Glorfindel responded. “Though time is short nowadays, and often I am hard pressed to run one errand or another.”

He turned then, and Arya saw that his smile had vanished.

“But I am forgetting myself.” He said. “I did not come here simply to enjoy the pleasantries of life. Rather, I was sent to find you. Lord Elrond is ready to meet with you and your companions. I would guess that most of them are with him already.”

“Will you take me to him?” Arya asked, standing and brushing herself off. She was eager to meet the Lord of Rivendell, whom she had heard so much about.

Glorfindel nodded, and without a word, strode softly over to the stairway and began to descend. Arya hurried to follow. She marveled at the speed he was walking. His steps were so graceful and flowing, he seemed to be floating sometimes. Her own sturdy footfalls looked like the stumblings of a baby deer compared to his.

After leaving the garden behind, they passed through a large grassy courtyard, then into an open pathway crossed by swooping arches that wound along the side of a small pond. Arya could see fish darting about in the water, the sunlight reflecting off of their shining scales.

Finally they arrived at a large, ornate building, with a heavy wooden door. Glorfindel opened it and ushered her inside.

The single room Arya found herself in was no larger than the armory back in Winterfell, and dominated by a massive table in the center, around which many people were gathered. She saw Colden and Laeric there, standing silently. Barroth was talking with an elf Arya had never seen before, and Teidrin was situated by his side. There was no sign of Strider or the Hobbits. Glorfindel had just closed the door behind her when Arya’s eyes settled on a piece of parchment splayed out on the table.

She rushed over and looked down at it, heedless of her friend’s greetings, letting out a breath as her hopes were confirmed. It was a map, complete with rivers, mountain ranges, and cities. Arya tried and failed to soak it all in instantly.

“Where are we?” She demanded.

The elf silently pointed to a spot on the map not far from the central mountain range.

“So then the Grey Havens…” Arya muttered to herself, finding the location on the map. “And we went…”

She traced her finger along the path from the Grey Havens to Rivendell, noting familiar landmarks like Bree along the way. After checking the scale to make sure the distance seemed right, she leaned back, satisfied. Only then did she notice everyone else staring at her.

“Sorry.” She apologized. “I’ve been curious.”

She turned to the elf, looking at him closely for the first time. His hair was dark as shadow, and upon his head was set a circlet of silver; his eyes were grey, and in them was a light like the light of stars. Arya immediately felt foolish for acting so rashly in front of him.

“Er… Lord Elrond?”

He gave a small nod of affirmation. Arya noticed how quiet and inconspicuous he was at first glance, but when a more watchful eye was turned to him, there was no mistaking his lordly bearing. Gentler and more humble than Círdan, and more reserved than Glorfindel. It was amazing, Arya thought to herself, that all of the elves were so similar and yet so different at the same time.

Colden cleared his throat. “The Lord Elrond was just explaining to us where we are. We seem to have landed on the Western shores of a land called ‘Ennor,’ or ‘Middle Earth.’ At least, that’s what I’ve gathered.”

“That is correct.” Elrond spoke. His voice was smooth and melodical. “By some fortune, you passed from the Great Sea into the Gulf of Lune unknowingly.”

“And…” Arya hesitated. “Do you know about Westeros at all? Have you been across the sea?”

“My Lady,” Elrond said apologetically. “I fear that many of our kindred have passed that way in years of late, and it is said that Elves first came to the shores of this land from across the sea.”

Arya frowned. If they had already been across the sea to Westeros, she would have known about it. There definitely weren’t any elves in Westeros. “Well, that combined with the stars… I’d say there was some magic or sorcery involved.”

Barroth barked out a laugh. “Sorry, m’lady, but there’s no such thing. Just stories for the children, and all that.”

“I’ve seen a man rise from the ground after taking a sword through the heart.” Arya turned to look at the larger man. “I’ve heard prophecies about my fate that came true. You may not have been there, but both Laeric and Colden saw the Night King raise an army of dead men. Is it too much to believe that we were… Taken… Somewhere else?”

Barroth lowered his head, though he still didn’t look convinced. “Of course not, m’lady. I meant no offence.”

Elrond had been watching the exchange silently. He glanced back and forth between the two of them for a moment before sighing and rolling up the map.

“There is likely nothing else we may learn, at the moment.” He said. “Our knowledge is limited, and there is doubtless some other power at work here, likely one greater than all of us.”

“So that’s it then?” Colden asked incredulously. “You’re just going to give up and leave us? We came all this way for answers!”

“And you will receive them, in due time.” Elrond responded calmly. “There are other pressing matters that must be discussed also. I have called here a number of peoples from across the lands. Most have already arrived, while some are near at hand. In two days time, I would hold council here, and there we may all find answers.”

“Two days?” Colden said angrily. “We’re not here to stay! Our crew is waiting for us back in the Havens-”

“And they can wait a little longer.” Arya cut him off. “It’s alright, Colden. There’s more to this than meets the eye. We can afford a delay.”

Colden looked like he was about to argue, but forced a stiff nod. After shooting one last reproachful glance at Elrond, he walked briskly from the room. Arya watched him go.

“I apologize for his behavior.” She said to Elrond. “He has a bit of a temper.”

Elrond smiled. “He is within his right to be angry, as are you. But come, let us go sup together. Before the day is spent, I believe some old friends will find their way here.”

“You mean Galdor and Círdan?”

“Perhaps.” He said cryptically as he turned to leave. “Perhaps.”

After he left, Arya stood there for a moment, staring at the empty table, trying to decipher his words. She turned to look at Glorfindel, who was still standing quietly by the door, and amused expression resting on his face.

“Do you have any idea what he meant by that?” She asked.

Glorfindel grinned at her and raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps.”

Arya scowled after him as he left the room.

Chapter 11: The Council of Elrond (Part 1)

Chapter Text

The morning came bright and clear, heralded by the sunlight streaming through the window of the small, well furnished room Arya had been given to sleep in. She woke quickly and walked to the door, as was her custom. A small piece of twine was tied to the handle, set to snap if anyone should open the door from the outside. Seeing that it was intact, Arya untied it and stuffed it into her pocket. She wasn’t really suspicious of these elves anymore, but old habits die hard, and she slept easier with the rope in place.

After splashing some water on her face from a basin near the window, she stepped out into the fresh morning air. The valley was quiet, the soft chilling breeze providing the only audible source of noise. Spotting a thin trail of smoke winding up from the dining hall, Arya went in that direction.

Upon entering, she noticed that the hall was more crowded than usual. Not only did there seem to be more elves present, other, unfamiliar faces were there as well. There were two short men, alike to the hobbits in size, with long, thick beards and muscular arms. Círdan and Galdor were sitting near an old bearded man in a grey cloak. Arya assumed that they must have arrived some time in the early hours of the morning.

All four hobbits were also sitting together, next to Strider. A fifth hobbit had joined them, older and jollier looking. He was talking with Frodo, and after looking between their faces for a few seconds, Arya decided that they must be related. Perhaps he was Frodo’s father. What he was doing in Rivendell was beyond her, but she supposed it didn’t really matter.

After a quick breakfast of greens and venison, Elrond, who had been sitting at the head of the table, tapped his fork against a glass. A hush fell over the room as everyone turned toward him expectantly.

“My Friends.” He began in a loud, commanding voice. “I have summoned many of you here to this very place, and others it seems have been brought by fortune and fate. Now the hour is nigh when a great many matters shall be settled. Come hither, those of you who I have bidden council with me. We shall speak long into the day, and perhaps longer still.”

There was a great murmuring as he left the room. About half of the occupants, including Strider and Frodo, stood to follow. Arya shared a glance with Laeric, who gave a curt nod. She motioned for her company to rise.

Elrond led them down a winding stone path that led toward the Southern side of the valley, away from the loud streaming waterfalls. There they found themselves in a small circular pavilion, around which many chairs were set in a large circle. A dias was positioned in the middle, casting a long shadow in the light of the sun hanging low in the sky.

As everyone took their seats, Arya wasn’t surprised to find that there were enough for everyone. In fact, several seats were left unoccupied. She sat with Colden, Laeric, Barroth, and Tiedrin near the entrance, opposite from Lord Elrond. Glorfindel looked at Arya and offered a smile.

As the last few people walked in, one man caught Arya’s eye. She didn’t remember having seen him at breakfast. He had a fair and noble face, dark-haired and grey-eyed, sitting proudly but quietly, watching everyone else with interest. His garments were rich and lined with fur, but stained from travel. A great horn was laid across his knees.

His appearance immediately made Arya do a double-take. With his hair and eyes, he looked very much like a Stark. His powerful build and stern face only enhanced the similarities. Although she had never met her uncle Brandon, Arya imagined this was how he would have looked. Strong, tall, alike to her father and yet different. She was drawn to the man, and had to remind herself that he could very possibly be her enemy.

When everyone was seated, the talking started.

First, Elrond and other elves gave news from distant lands with names strange to Arya. Most of the tidings made little or no sense to her; men invading from the East, evil stirring in a land called Mordor, and tension growing between two countries, Harad and Gondor. She tried to understand or memorize as much as she could, but it was difficult.

A glance to her right showed that her companions were not faring much better. Colden had drawn a small knife and was sharpening it discreetly, Barroth was slumped over, confusion written all over his face. Tiedrin seemed to be falling asleep. Arya saw Laeric give him a quick kick in the shin, which made him sit up with a start.

One of the short bearded men introduced himself as Gloin, a dwarf. As far as Arya could tell, the only difference between him and the hobbits was that he seemed gruffer and had a beard. He spoke of trouble away in his homeland, mentioning an ill-fated mission to the mining colony of Moria. Arya perked up when she caught a familiar word.

“The messenger asked for news concerning hobbits .” Gloin was saying. “He knew that one at least was known to us, and said that the Lord Sauron desired something of this hobbit. A ring, he said, of little importance. Merely a trifle fancied by his master. Should we retrieve this ring, or learn of it, we were told that we should be in the friendship of Mordor and its allies.”

“And what did you say to this messenger?” Elrond asked slowly.

“Nothing.” Gloin said. “We gave no answer, and would not betray our trust or friendship with old Bilbo here. But the kingdom of Dale received the same message, and they, I fear, may accept Sauron’s terms. War is already marching on their lands.”

Elrond sighed. His eyes were heavy and tired, and he seemed to be steeling himself for something unpleasant. Arya caught him glancing in her direction. He took his time responding.

“Know that your people are not alone in this fight.” He said finally. “War marches on all lands, whether they know it or not. Your trouble is but part of all the trouble of the Western world. As for the Ring-” Here he paused and looked over at Arya again. “-Well, that is the purpose for which you are called hither. You have come here and are met by chance, as it may seem. Yet it is not so. Believe rather that it is so ordered that we, who sit here, and none others, must now find counsel for the peril of the world. And first, so that all may understand what is the peril, the Tale of the Ring shall be told from beginning even to this present. I will begin it, though others shall end it.”

Then Arya listened intently as Elrond began a long and great tale, beginning with the forging of the rings of power by Sauron, and following the One as it was cast about through the ages. He told of how it had found its way to the creature Gollum, and then fallen into the hands of an unsuspecting Bilbo, who she discovered was the old, jolly looking hobbit sitting by Frodo. Other people told other parts. Bilbo himself gave a rather amusing account of his own adventures, and Strider told of the fall of Isildur the Great.

Arya was riveted by the whole story. It was a good one, she had to admit, full of war, glory, and treachery. But it felt surreal, like something a poet would make up to entertain a king of Westeros. Her first inclination was to laugh and blow it off as just that; a story, purely fantasy, meant for children rather than stern warriors and elven lords. There was no way any of that could have actually happened, was there?

But then Arya remembered her words to Barroth just the other day. After what she had seen back at her own home, was it really so hard to believe this tale? Maybe there really was a Sauron, and maybe he really was as evil as they said. Maybe this “One Ring” truly did exist.

Finally, Frodo finished it off by saying that he had brought the ring to Rivendell himself. Arya looked at him sharply, just as he was standing, reaching for his neck. He pulled out a slender silver chain, at the end of which a small circle of gold was fastened. Arya had to squint to see it.

“Behold Isildur’s Bane!” Elrond proclaimed.

A hush fell over the courtyard. The grey-eyed man was leaning forward, studying it intently. Arya noticed how uncomfortable Frodo looked presenting it to everyone. His hand shook, and he shoved it back down his shirt quickly. Everyone was silent for a moment.

“What proof do you have of this Ring’s power?” Arya asked. She spoke quietly, but everyone heard her. The old man with the staff answered.

“You have already seen proof.” He said. “Did you not fight the Nazgul themselves on the heights of Weathertop? Did you not hear their voices crying for it in the night?”

Arya’s stomach dropped. “But those were just-”

“Men?” The man asked gravely. “They were, once, in a time long forgotten. But now they are slaves to the power of the ring, corrupted by it’s darkness. Their master has sent them to reclaim it.”

Arya opened her mouth to argue, but closed it again. It made sense. Those dark figures had clearly not been of the mortal world. Their cries, their strength, the fear they emitted… And they had been after Frodo when she had found them…

“And how do the wise know that this ring is indeed the bane of Isildur?” This came from the grey-eyed man, who was looking at Elrond doubtfully. “ I have seen a bright ring in the halfling’s hand, but may we not hear proofs?”

“You speak for me also.” Círdan said, sitting forward. “And I would ask this also. What of Saruman? He is learned in the lore of the Rings, yet he is not among us. What is his counsel?”

“Those questions are bound together.” Said Elrond. “And I call upon Gandalf to make clear the answers, for they have not been overlooked.”

At this, the old man stood, staff in hand. He didn’t seem to need it, but carried it nonetheless. Arya noted that although he looked old and wisened, his face was noble, and his eyes showed great wisdom and intelligence. She remembered that the name Gandalf had been mentioned back at the inn at Bree, but had expected someone like Strider: A proud, fierce, survivalist type.

“Some would think the tidings of Gloin and the pursuit of Frodo proof enough that the halfling’s trove is of great worth to the enemy." Gandalf spoke. "And it is a ring. The Nine the Nazgul keep. The Seven are taken or destroyed. The Three we know of. What then is this one he desires so much?”

He paused, stroking his long beard, a faraway look in his eyes. He seemed to be remembering something unpleasant.

“I was lulled by the words of Saruman the wise.” He said at length. “He assured me that the One was lost, carried out to sea. For too long I waited idly by while the enemy poised himself to strike. At long last, however, I became aware of many spies around the Shire, and knew that there was more to this ring of Bilbo’s than I had first guessed. I sent Aragorn here to search for the creature Gollum.”

He gestured toward Strider at the last part. Arya started, looking quizzically at the ranger. He caught her narrowed eyes and shook his head ever so slightly. She shot him a look, silently promising that they would be having a talk later.

Gandalf was now telling of the hunt for Gollum, who, as far as Arya could tell, was a miserable little beast who had once possessed the ring. His lifespan, Gandalf said, was abnormally long, which was solid evidence that the ring was truly the One. Arya, knowing nothing of the matter, decided to take his word for it.

Then Strider (Or was it Aragorn now?) gave an account of the interrogations of Gollum, and the information they had learned from him, most of which had little meaning to the Westerosi present. He finished off by saying that they had left Gollum in the hands of the elves of Mirkwood. At this, an elf clad in green and brown stood abruptly, distress in his fair face.

“Alas!” He cried. “The tidings that I was sent to bring must now be told. Smeagol, who is now called Gollum, has escaped.”

Everyone fell silent. Arya sighed heavily. Of course there was a murderous little monster on the loose. As if she didn’t already have enough to worry about.

“But how then did the folk of Thranduil come to fail in their trust?” Gandalf asked.

The elf proceeded to give an account of Gollum's escape, which really just confirmed what Arya had already guessed. Elves were far too trusting, she decided. And gentle. If it had been up to her, Gollum would have been locked away in a cell for the rest of his life, or executed, if he was no longer of any use.

“Well, he is gone, my dear Legolas.” Gandalf said. “We have no time to seek for him again. He must do what he will. But he may play a part yet that neither he nor Sauron have foreseen. And now I will answer the other question. What of Saruman? What is his advice to us?” He frowned deeply. “Well, this tale I must tell in full.”

This story intrested Arya almost as much as the one about the ring. Looking around, it was clear that no one else had heard it before either, save perhaps Elrond. All were dismayed as Gandalf explained that Saruman, apparently a man of great wisdom and importance, had betrayed them all and sided with their enemy. While Arya didn't know the man in question, those who did seemed greatly disturbed by his treachery. Arya guessed that he must have been a powerful ally, and his new allegiance would only cause problems. When Gandalf was finished, angry murmuring broke out all around the circle. Elrond clapped his hands once, causing everyone to fall silent.

“Well, the tale is now told, from first to last.” He said. “Here we all are, and here is the Ring. But we have not yet come any nearer to our purpose. What shall we do with it?”

The silence continued. Arya looked around, wondering who the first to present an Idea would be. To her surprise, it was Laeric.

“Ye said this ring here was thought to be at the bottom of the sea.” The old sailor spoke slowly and deliberately, trying to remember the details. “And everyone thought it to be lost. So why don’t ye jus’ throw it in there now? If ye can't break the damn thing, seems to me that’s the only way to get rid of it for sure.”

“But not rid of it for good.” Said Gandalf. “There are many things in the deep waters, and seas and lands may change. It is not our part to delay the day of doom; rather, we must seek a final end to this menace.”

“It cannot be destroyed by any craft that we here possess.” Elrond argued. “We have not the strength to unmake it, nor the strength to defend it. And it would be folly to try. But another answer may be at hand.”

He looked straight at Arya. She felt everyone else's eyes turn to her, and shifted uncomfortably. Colden quickly slipped his dagger away, now that attention was in their direction.

“The Lady Arya arrived here merely days ago.” The elf lord continued. “And her story is a strange one. It seems that now is the time to speak of this matter, for in it we may find the answers to our other problem.”

Círdan stood up, surveying his audience. “I will, by your leave, begin this tale. But before I begin, my lady, I beg your forgiveness.”

He bowed to Arya, stooping low. She saw a sad and apologetic look in his eyes that immediately put her on edge.

“For I fear.” He said. “That I have not been entirely truthful with you.”

Chapter 12: The Council of Elrond (Part 2)

Chapter Text

A cold feeling of dread washed over Arya as she regarded Círdan bowing low in front of her, but she kept a straight face. Now was not the time to betray emotion. And since Círdan was admitting to his betrayal, she doubted it was going to be too severe. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help the anger swelling up inside of her. As much as she longed to make the elf pay for lying to her, she restrained herself.

“Go on.” She said simply.

Círdan stood gracefully and clasped his hands together. His face portrayed no emotion either, but if she was being honest, it never really had, in all the time she had known him. He began walking in a slow circle, making it clear that he was talking to everyone, not just Arya.

“Two nights before the Lady Arya came upon the shores of Mithlond,” He began, “I went down to the water, and there gazed West across the waves. To Aman I looked, ere the setting of the sun. It was there that I heard, distantly, the great blowing of horns. Horns such as those I have never heard before in the long ages of the world, and had never hoped to hear in my time.”

He paused, looking at Elrond meaningfully. All of the elves in the room were on the edge of their seats, intent on Círdan.

“I shall never forget the sound, even should I perish. Like the sea it was, fair and wonderful, yet with a wild fury that rose into cacophony. Alas, I fear that never again will my heart find peace.”

He smiled nostalgically. “But I did not come hither to tell you only of my heart’s desire. For soon thereafter a voice spoke aloud to me, from whither I could not tell. And it said to me ‘One shall cometh on tides of fate to this very shore, in the eaves of the morn. They it is who shall mark the doom of this age, for good or evil. They shall seeketh for me in Edhellond, when all purposes are thereby fulfilled.’”

There was a moment of silence in which Arya mulled over what the elf had said. She was relieved that he didn’t appear to have directly lied to her or betrayed her, but was still angered that he had withheld the truth. In addition, he seemed to think some sort of deity had spoken to him, and Arya’s own experience with the Red Woman made her wary of anyone that took orders from gods.

“I find no reason to doubt your words.” Elrond said. “But who then was it that spoke?”

“I know not,” said Círdan. “Perhaps a messenger of Aman. Perhaps the Lord of Waters himself. Who can say?”

“And what do you make of the message?”

Círdan paused. “I would make this: The lady Arya is the one that was spoken of. Her purpose here has yet to be accomplished; for good or evil. And it seems now that we are all merely pieces in a game, far more complex than we could yet imagine.”

Arya mulled that over for a bit. While she didn’t like being referred to as a piece, she had to agree with Círdan. Something larger than all of them was in motion. She could only hope to make an impact before her part was played.

“You knew.” She said softly. “You were expecting us. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Círdan sighed, obviously having expected the question. “The voice warned that either good or evil would come of your arrival. I wanted to first judge which it would be.”

“And did you? Decide?”

He tilted his head. “Do you think I would be speaking with you if I had not? I was wary at first, but you have more than proven yourself, even in the short time since your arrival. Whatever your methods, I believe your intent to be truly good.”

Arya studied Círdan for a moment. He was speaking in earnest; that much was clear. She was a little unsure of why he thought so highly of her, though. Maybe it was because she had held off the shadows on Weathertop, or simply because she had agreed to ride with the elven lord to Rivendell.

“Um…” Colden said. “That’s nice and all, but what does this weird voice have to do with the ring? You said it would help give us a solution.”

“And I believe it has.” Elrond said. “Our answers lie in the same direction. I said earlier that the ring cannot be destroyed by any craft that we possess. That is true. But it can be unmade. If we could bring it to the very cracks of doom in Mordor, it’s power could be ended.”

The name cracks of doom didn’t seem like a place she wanted to go, but it also intrigued Arya. And if it had the power to destroy the One Ring, which had been made out to be one of the most evil and corrupting objects in existence… Well, she doubted the journey there would be pleasant, for whoever had to make it. She was pulled from her thoughts when the grey-eyed man stood suddenly, his chair grinding audibly against the stone ground.

“I do not understand all this,” he said. “Saruman is a traitor, but did he not have a glimpse of wisdom? Why do you speak ever of hiding and destroying? Wielding it, the Free Lords could surely defeat the enemy. That is what he fears most, I deem.”

“We cannot use the Ruling Ring.” Elrond said sternly. “Few have power to wield it, and those who do are in the greatest peril. The ring corrupts, Boromir. If any of the wise tried to use it, there would only be another Dark Lord to take Sauron’s throne. If the ring is not destroyed, it will ever be a danger to all free peoples.”

Boromir looked at him doubtfully, but sat back down and bowed his head. Elrond acknowledged him with a nod, turning back to address the group as a whole.

“The fate of the ring may lie in the South, if we seek to end its reign.” He said. “And does not Edhellond lie also to the South? For that is where the Lady Arya was bidden go.”

“Hold up.” Colden interjected. “We did not agree to go to… Edel-whatever. You expect us to go on some journey just because some old guy said he heard a voice in the water?”

“That decision is yours to make.” Said Elrond. “But I would urge you to go. For there a solution to all problems may be found. We could send a company to Mordor with the ring, and a company with Lady Arya to Edhellond. The first leg of the journey they could make together. Through their efforts, all ends would be reached.”

“And why Arya?” Colden countered. “You don’t even know who you’re talking about. She is sister to the king of bloody Westeros-”

“Then perhaps she should decide.” Gandalf broke in.

All eyes turned to Arya. She stilled, disliking all of the attention. Everyone was looking at her expectantly. She hadn’t even really thought about the question at hand. Should she go? It seemed like a stupid thing to do, considering the fact that she knew absolutely nothing about this land or the people in it. But then she looked at Glorfindel. His eyes were sparkling as he watched her, as if he already knew what she was going to say. She eyed him curiously, head swimming with a strange energy. After a moment she leaned back, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“I’ll go.” She said.

Colden coughed incredulously. “What?”

“I said I’ll go.” Arya looked around at everyone. “I don’t know any of you. I don’t trust any of you. If anyone betrays me, I’ll make sure they die. Painfully. But… I’ll go. I want to go.”

“B-But Arya!” Colden spluttered. “What about the crew? You can’t just leave them!”

“They follow my orders.” Arya reminded him. “They’ll do as I command. But…” She hesitated, turning to face her companions. “I'm not asking any of you to come with me. This is a journey I can make on my own. Return to the ship and explain my decision to the others.”

“Sorry, m’lady.” Laeric said. “That's an order I’m gonna have to ignore. I vowed to stay with ye and protect ye, I did. And I like to think I’m a man of my word. I think we all are.”

Barroth and Teidrin murmured their agreement, but Colden remained silent. Arya realized why. He was a mercenary, like he had said. He was under no obligation to stay with her, just to protect the ship. A shame, she thought. They could have used a good fighter like him. She smiled gratefully at Laeric, and he gave a kindly nod in return.

“I could travel with the rest of your crew by ship to Edhellond.” Círdan offered. “One of your companions could accompany me on the way there, to provide assurance of your wellbeing.”

“That should work.” Arya agreed. “I’ll send Laeric with you. He will return before we set out, won’t he?”

“Indeed,” Said Elrond. “We should not be too rash in our movements. One small slip could cost everything. And even now we have not yet decided on who shall take the Ring South. Strength and wisdom will be of little use on that perilous journey. Rather, it is a stout heart that will prevail. Too gladly would I send one of my household on the journey; Glorfindel here is of great power even among the elves of Rivendell. But to send him would be folly. His presence would do little, save to arouse the power of Mordor. So then the question remains. Who will go?”

No one said anything for a long moment. Small birds flew to and fro overhead, filling the empty silence with their staccato chirping. The rush of waterfalls could be heard distantly. Arya looked around the circle, scanning everyone’s faces. She wondered who would take up the burden. Her gaze lingered on Boromir, the grey-eyed man. He seemed like a good candidate. Tall and strong, clearly experienced in battle. To her great surprise however, it was not Boromir who spoke first.

A small voice penetrated the tense silence. “I will take the Ring, though I do not know the way.”

Arya turned with everyone else to look for the speaker. It was Frodo, perched in a chair far too large for him, somehow managing to look both nervous and confident at the same time. His eyes were wide, as if he himself were shocked by the words that had just escaped his mouth. Boromir gave a short laugh, but stopped when he saw that everyone else was regarding the hobbit seriously.

Elrond raised his eyebrows, his glance keen and penetrating. “If I understand all that I have heard,” He said, “I think that this task is appointed to you, Frodo; and that if you do not find a way, no one will. This is the hour of the Shire-folk, when they arise from their quiet fields to shake the towers and counsels of the great.”

He paused, looking deep into Frodo’s eyes. “I do not lay this task on you. But if you take it freely, I will say that your choice is right.”

Frodo seemed to think for a moment, co*cking his head. He remained absolutely still, face stony, muscles tense. Everyone held their breaths. Finally, watching Elrond carefully, he gave a small, deliberate nod. Elrond smiled.

“But you won’t be sending him off alone surely, Master?” A voice cried from nearby. Sam came into the circle to stand behind Frodo, a fire kindling in his eyes. Arya smiled to herself, watching him try to act fierce.

“No indeed.” Elrond laughed. “You at least shall go with him. It is hardly possible to separate you, even when he is summoned to a secret counsel and you are not.”

Sam blushed but said nothing, obviously relieved.

“Other companions you shall have as well.” Elrond continued, “But it is not my place to choose them for you now. That will be decided in the days to come. For now, rest here in Imladris. You shall set out in two fortnights.”

The tension seemed to dissipate from the room, everybody talking and murmuring among themselves. Arya saw Colden scowling off to her side, obviously not pleased with the outcome. Tiedrin was dozing off, and Arya wondered if he even knew what had happened. Barroth and Laeric were watching Gandalf, who was giving some closing remarks as the council adjourned.

Slowly, people began to leave, filing out into the hallway they had taken to get there. Boromir was one of the first to go. His face betrayed an inner conflict, as if he were debating a matter of great importance. Frodo, Sam, and Bilbo left together, presumably to go find Merry and Pippin. Arya still marveled at Frodo’s courage. He had no idea what he had just signed up for; only that the road was frought with danger. Yet he had still agreed to go. With a start, Arya realized that she herself had done something similar.

Had she really just done that? She frowned, wondering if she should take back her decision. But… no. She still wanted to go. She still felt like she needed to go. What would Sansa say, she wondered? The thought brought a sad smile to her lips. She might never see her sister again. But she had known that when she had set out on this adventure. This was no time to turn back.

Colden stood suddenly and stormed out of the room, pushing past several elves engaged in conversation. He didn’t look back, just walked briskly away down the hallway. With a sigh, Arya stood and followed him.

She found him on a small ornate balcony not far from the meeting place, leaning against the rail, gazing into the distance. Arya moved to stand beside him, looking out on the valley. He made no sign of having noticed her. They stood like that for several minutes, the sounds of conversation slowly dying away behind them. After a moment, she sighed and looked up at his face.

“We’ll be leaving soon. The other company should be decided before long. We’ll have to travel with them.” When Colden made no response, she continued. “I know you don’t agree with my decision. I probably wouldn’t either, if that makes any sense. But I want you to go with me.”

He still said nothing, and Arya scowled in exasperation. “Seven hells, what will it take? How about I double whatever Sansa's paying you. Would that do it?”

Colden turned his head, and Arya saw that he was smiling. “Oh, that’ll do it. Though for the record, I was planning on going with you anyway.” He laughed when her scowl deepened. “But I thought I was a hotheaded, tactless smartmouth.”

“You are.”

He snorted. “So why do you want me?”

She thought for a moment. “Because packs need to stay together.”

“And is that what we are? A pack?”

She gazed off, watching the elves return to their work around the valley. The hobbits were all gathered in a small courtyard below, exchanging news.

“I think that’s what we have to be.” She said, “If we’re going to survive.”

Chapter 13: Nameless

Chapter Text

The next few weeks passed by quickly, Summer slowly fading into Autumn. Laeric departed with Círdan for the Grey Havens, and returned shortly afterwards with an escort of elven guards to see him safely back. He reported that the crew was rather confused by Arya’s orders, but had taken to them with general enthusiasm. They had reportedly left the harbor on the same day the message had been delivered.

Arya kept to herself for the most part, only talking to her companions and the occasional elf that decided to strike up a conversation. She spent most of her time sparring with Colden, studying maps, or sitting in Glorfindel’s Garden, as she had come to call it. She had also discovered that there were a few books in Rivendell written in the common tongue, and had quickly chosen a few to try and read. So far, they made little more sense than the ones written in Elvish.

She was still trying to help teach Teidrin as well, but his lessons weren't going so well. He could now hold a sword properly without injuring himself, but actually swinging it was another matter entirely. Elrond had offered to find an elf to assist in the lessons, but Arya and Colden had both declined at the same time. Arya had taken training Teidrin as a sort of challenge, and didn’t want any outside help.

About a week before they were set to depart from the valley, Arya was sitting on a terrace overlooking a beautiful fountain, reading a book on the history of some mariner named Eärendil. She wasn’t overly fascinated with the subject, but it was one of the few books that was actually interesting to read. Most of the others not written in Elvish were dull and mundane, dragging on with useless accounts of boring events in various parts of the world. This particular book was written by someone who understood what it was like to actually read .

As she sat there reading, Barroth came walking past purposefully, a hammer hanging loosely at his side. Arya looked up, watching silently. He noticed her and stopped.

“Good morning, m’lady.”

“Barroth.” She acknowledged. “Where are you heading off to?”

“The forges, m’lady.” He said. “I found ‘em a couple of days ago, and, well… they got real good steel, see? I’ve been making some blades.”

“You’re a smith?”

He grunted. “Used to be. My father, too. But I never had the talent he did. Just make some basic things now and then.”

Arya paused, looking around the terrace. She sighed, putting the book down and standing. Barroth was watching questioningly.

“I think I’ll go with you and take a look around, if you don’t mind.” She said, “It’s been really dull around here lately.”

“Of course.” Barroth said. “I wouldn’t mind some company.”

They walked together off of the terrace, Arya letting Barroth lead the way. She thought it strange that she had not found the forges herself, with the amount of exploring she had done. As they continued through the valley, however, she discovered why. They were hidden nearly as well as the garden was, tucked away in a niche in the cliff wall behind a large building, with only a small path allowing access. It was in the more populous side of the valley, a place Arya had avoided as much as she could. There was thick smoke pouring out from the niche, but it looked like the smoke from the chimney of the nearby building from a distance.

As they entered, Arya could see several workspaces built into the cliff walls, along with hammers, anvils, and other tools dotting the area. Several elves were already at work at one of the forges near the back, so Barroth set his hammer down at the one closest to the entrance. Arya sat down on a nearby boulder, watching him prepare the furnace, picking out a mold and several choice pieces of steel.

He set to work heating the forge and preparing the metal. Once everything was in order, he withdrew a small sword from a nearby rack, studying it intently. After evidently making a decision in his mind, he set it back, turning his attention to the forge. Arya watched him curiously.

“Just like the forges back home, isn’t it?” She asked.

Barroth nodded. “Just about. Bit nicer than any I’ve been in, though.”

He looked to the fire, where the steel was turning yellow, starting to sag and droop. He pulled over the mold of what appeared to be a short sword, setting it in position. A few minutes later, the melted metal started to drip into it slowly, eventually becoming a steady stream of fiery liquid. The mold soon filled, and Barroth closed the pathway to the forge, then poured sand and water on it to dampen the flames.

As they waited in silence for the metal to set, Arya took a better look at the elves working tirelessly near them. They weren’t using a mold, taking turns beating an unseen piece of metal with hammers. Their strikes were graceful and fluid, each one seeming to hit with purpose and accuracy. Arya could only imagine the quality their blades must have been. Indeed, she had seen a few swords around Rivendell already. Many were straight and broad like the swords she was used to, but there were also some with elegant curves to the smooth blade, and finely wrapped handles. They were the kind of quality only kings and knights could afford back in Westeros.

Barroth used a pair of tongs to pick up the partly cooled sword, setting it on a nearby anvil, and began striking at the hilt, bending it more and more with each blow. Arya furrowed her brow.

“Aren’t you supposed to cool it now?” She asked. “It’s already shaped.”

“I’ve been in one or two.”

“Well, usually you’d be right.” He said, resuming his hammering. “Thing is, I’m trying something new today. I thought my brother might do better with a longer hilt and a short blade. It’d give him more room for his hands, and he needs that. So I figured I’d change this one up a bit.”

“This is for Teidrin?”

“Aye.”

Arya watched as he slowly knocked at each side of the hilt until it broke off. He then sanded down the sides to smooth them before beginning work on a new hilt, heating up a piece of steel and setting it on another anvil. She watched him work for a few minutes longer before beginning to lose interest. Instead, she watched the elves, who had still not stopped their persistent hammering.

“What do you think they’re doing over there?” She asked aloud.

Instead of Barroth, a new voice answered from behind her. “They are here on Lord Elrond’s command, and at my behest.”

Arya slid off of the boulder and turned to face the newcomer. It was Aragorn, dressed in new and finer clothes, looking far cleaner than she had ever seen him. He had made himself scarce after the council, going off with a group of elves to scout out the area around Rivendell for any immediate dangers. She had not been informed of his return, but he had clearly been in the valley for some time.

“Lord Aragorn.” She greeted, a hint of bitterness to her voice. Barroth glanced up for a moment, then wiped the sweat out of his eyes and bent back over his work, seemingly unconcerned.

Aragorn sighed. “I did not deceive you, my lady. Though that was the name given to me at my birth, I am called Strider in Bree. Beyond that, I have many names in many distant lands.”

“Yes.” Arya said. “But I told you my true name.”

“Had I any way of knowing that?”

“Fair enough.” She conceded. “So what were you saying? What are they making over there?”

He looked at the elves, a faraway gleam in his eyes. It seemed to Arya that he suddenly looked taller and more kingly than he usually did, and she felt small beside him.

“I showed you the sword that was broken.” He said, “And did I not tell you that it would be remade anew?”

Arya started, looking back at the elves with a newfound interest. The way they were crowded together, she hadn’t been able to see what they were working on. A glance at Aragorn confirmed that his sword was no longer hanging at his side; the first time Arya had seen him without it. She didn’t know what the importance of that specific sword was, but Aragorn seemed to treat it as an ancient relic. Probably from one of his ancestors, she guessed.

“Does it have a name?” She asked, her thoughts turning to her own sword.

Aragorn smiled softly. “Indeed it does. Andúril, it is called. Flame of the West.”

- - - - -

Later that day, Arya ventured back into the Garden of Glorfindel, wanting to spend some more time in the place before she had to leave it behind forever. She found the elf lord himself waiting there. He was facing the entrance, as if he was expecting her. A smile was on his face instantly, and she couldn’t help a small one of her own as she approached.

“I thought you would come to this place, my lady.” He said. “And it seems that I was not mistaken.”

“Am I that easy to predict?” She asked with a laugh.

“You will be departing soon.” Glorfindel said. “Should I be in your position, this is where I would spend my final days in Imladris.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

He looked at her shrewdly. “As we speak of your journey, it might interest you to know that your other companions have been chosen.”

Arya furrowed her brow. “Are they my companions, or Frodo’s?”

“For now, they are both.” Glorfindel said. “But they will likely accompany the ringbearer after your roads become separate.”

“Alright. Who are they?”

“It was decided that all free peoples of the world that are present should be represented.” He said. “As such, Gimli son of Gloin is to go for the dwarves. Legolas is for the elves. Boromir of Gondor is for the men, as is Aragorn. Gandalf was chosen as a guide. And of course, the three other perian have refused to be left behind.”

Arya processed the names, surprised that she was familiar with all of them.

“Fourteen in all.” She said aloud. “That seems like a good number. But I thought you would be going as well.”

He shook his head. “Sadly, I cannot. You heard the Lord Elrond. I would only draw attention to the company and endanger us all. I was, however, granted leave to lead another party East, over the mountains.”

“Why?” Arya questioned. “To do what?”

“I thought it wise to have a false company set out, to draw Sauron’s might away from the ring. As I said, my presence would not go unnoticed. It is my hope that your company might be spared from unwanted conflict by my journey.”

“I see.” Arya said. “Well, thank you. I hope it works too.”

He smiled. “Indeed. But that is not all, my lady. I was hoping to find you so that I might deliver you a gift, before we part.”

“A gift?” Arya asked, startled.

In answer, he reached into his cloak, which was glowing silver in the waning sunlight. He withdrew a tightly wrapped parcel, handing it over. Arya took it gently, not sure what to expect. It was a bundle of leather and cloth of a mottled brown and grey. Looking more closely, she realized exactly what it was. It was a set of travelling clothes, almost identical to the ones she had been wearing when she had arrived, with a few obvious differences. The leather was much finer and lighter, and a new fur-lined cloak had been included. But what caught Arya’s eye the most was the Stark symbol proudly displayed at the center. Her breath caught in her throat.

“I- How…”

“I had assistance.” Glorfindel said with a chuckle. “Your companions were most helpful, and the elves of Rivendell have nearly no equals in the art of craftsmanship.”

Arya smiled. A true, genuine smile, like she hadn’t experienced in a long while. She looked back at the outfit, and the icon it bore that she knew would always remind her of her home. She met Glorfindel’s eyes.

“Thank you.” She said.

“You are most welcome, my lady. But there is one more thing I would give you.”

He reached down and withdrew the sword that hung at his waist. It flashed in the sunlight, the keen blade ringing as it was pulled out. It was a small weapon by most standards, just a bit longer than Needle, but with a thicker blade. The hilt was silver as well, but plain and unadorned. Arya watched as Glorfindel took it in both hands and offered it to her.

“Your sword?” Arya asked. “I, um, already have a sword.”

“You do.” The elf agreed. “But my heart tells me that you may need this, before the end. Why, I know not. Take it, I beseech you, until it’s part is played.”

Arya took it hesitantly, not really sure what he wanted her to do with it. One sword seemed perfectly sufficient, and even if something happened to Needle, she was confident enough to survive and even fight without it. Nevertheless, she decided that it couldn’t hurt to accommodate Glorfindel’s wish. If worst came to worst, she would just end up with a useless piece of baggage. So she tucked it under her arm with the bundle of clothes, carefully keeping the blade away from herself.

Thinking of her conversation with Aragorn, she turned to Glorfindel. “Does it have a name?”

He tilted his head. “Nay, it does not. It has never seen war nor battle. I’m afraid that I have not made much use of it, since it was made for me. But I foresee that it will earn its name before your journey’s end.”

Arya considered his words. He seemed to know a lot about what was going to happen to her, but she wasn’t sure how much of that was just intuition.

“Thank you again, for everything.” She said, “But I’m afraid I don’t have anything to give you in return.”

“Your way has been set.” Glrofindel told her. “Do not falter from it, and you will have repaid me tenfold.”

Chapter 14: Axe and Sword

Chapter Text

Arya shouldered her pack, shifting the heavy weight to her left shoulder. Though the pain in her right arm had mostly subsided since the attack on Weathertop, there remained a lingering presence of weakness that often caused her to use her dominant left arm instead, whenever possible. She hoped it would go away soon; it would only hinder her on the battlefield.

She stood with the other thirteen travellers, all with packs of their own, and Bill the Pony, who was laden with several bundles. All of the other horses, including Findel, had been deemed too much for the journey, and had been left behind. Elrond had said that such beasts would only draw further attention to the company, with few benefits to outweigh the cost.

The early morning air was thin and chilly, biting through even the thickest garments. Only a few birds could be heard overhead; the forest around them was quiet and still, it’s occupants still sleeping. Though some of her company had been disgruntled at waking up so early, Arya was used to it and made no complaint. She was wearing the outfit that Glorfindel had prepared for her. It fit just like her old one, but with less wear and stain. She fingered the Stark symbol emblazoned on the front. The familiar pattern felt good under her fingertips. She had sewn it in fabric so many times with Septa Mordane that the feel was almost as recognizable as the sight.

Boromir, Legolas, and Gimli stood apart, brooding as they awaited the Elf lords who were due to bid them farewell. Arya stood with her men closer to the gate, silently watching everyone else. Gandalf, Aragorn, and the hobbits were near to each other, conversing quietly.

Finally, they arrived. A large procession of elves, headed by Elrond and his daughter, Arwen. Arya caught herself searching the crowd for Glorfindel, and kicked herself mentally. She knew that he had left already with a company of his own, taking the Eastern paths into the mountains. She hoped to see him again, but nothing could be certain. Not even her own survival.

Elrond stopped short of the company, his procession coming to a halt behind him. “Now, it seems, is the hour to bid farewell.” He said, arms spread grandly. “That we shall do, though it is not a pleasant task. For you shall set out ere break of day to lands far distant, and who can say what perils you shall meet? Nevertheless, it is with a hopeful heart that I wish you good fortune.”

Gandalf stepped forward and bowed. “You have our thanks, my friend. Good fortune we shall need on the road that may await. I say farewell to you also.”

Then he turned and whispered something to Frodo. The young hobbit slumped visibly, looking back, then set off down the dirt path ahead of them. One by one, each member of the company followed. Arya took up the rear, directly behind Colden and Laeric. She hesitated before stepping forward, casting one last glance back at Elrond, who stood watching her. He gave a brief nod, giving her the motivation she needed. She followed the rest of the company southward, away from the safe haven of Rivendell she had only just come to appreciate.

The first leg of the journey was deceptively easy. After the first steep incline out of the valley, they traversed rolling meadows and hills, the terrain smooth and well-trodden. They stuck to a wide dirt road, lined with light forests on either side. To Arya’s surprise, there were no other travellers on the road at all; in fact, there weren’t even many animals. It was as if the country had been abandoned. The silence was eerie, ringing in her ears louder than any noise could have.

“Where is everybody?” She asked Aragorn, who was walking beside her.

He kept his eyes fixed on the road in front of them. “For a time, not long ago, many came fleeing up this road from the terror in the east. There were families, with women and children. They flooded into the Breeland, which the folk there were none too keen on. But now it is only unsavory figures that travel these parts. Pray we find no company on our road until we have left this land.”

“Is it safer across the mountains?”

He glanced at her. “My lady, I would not now call any region safe. The evil from the land of shadow has reached even into the heart of the Shire. There may be no limit as to the length of our enemy’s reach. We must always be wary.”

Gimli sidled up next to them with a grunt. He had removed his helmet while they were walking, and it hung from his hip alongside his axe. “I would have to mark my own homeland as well beyond his reach, Aragorn. The dwarves of Erebor are a stout and hardy folk. We would not be so easily deceived, nor could any force hope to assail our stronghold through strength of arms. But let them try, if they will! We haven’t had a good fight since the days of my father.”

“And yet you would do well to heed the warning your father gave to us all.” Aragorn responded. “I fear our enemy has already set his eye on the mountain. Let us hope it stands, as you say it will.”

Gimli grunted again and turned away, clearly not pleased with Aragorn’s answer. Arya watched his hunched shoulders. She found herself liking the dwarf, whatever the others seemed to think of him. He was blunt and honest, which she much preferred to the polite, smiling ways of the elves of Rivendell. It reminded her of the Northmen back in Westeros. He was also short like her, but despite his stature, she guessed he was probably one of the fiercest warriors of them all.

When they stopped next in a small clearing to eat, she went to sit by him, ignoring the anxious glances Laeric was shooting her way. His overprotectiveness was annoying, but it was nice to feel like somebody actually cared about her for a change. Gimli glanced up at her from under his bushy eyebrows, forehead wrinkling in suspicion.

Arya took a bite of the small chunk of bread she had been given, taking her time chewing. At length she swallowed and looked at the dwarf beside her.

“Tell me about your home, Gimli.”

He let out a small, annoyed grunt. “And what do you want to know, my lady?”

“I don’t know.” She said, “What’s it like? What do you do there?”

He sighed. “Well, I suppose there is a lot to tell. Erebor is truly an ancient city. We dwarves have lived there for a very long time. Well, not counting the incident with the dragon, that is…”

He went on to tell her all about the history of the Lonely Mountain and the dwarves of Erebor, starting with the fall of Moria and Thrain I leading his kin into the North. Arya listened intently. Gimli wasn’t by any means a master storyteller; he wasn’t even a very good one, stumbling and backtracking and going off on random tangents of thought. But he seemed to forget himself, not even pausing to eat as he talked to her. She made occasional comments to keep him going, but stayed silent for the most part. Colden and Laeri were clearly listening in from nearby, but Gimlie either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

Arya was especially interested in what he had to say about old Bilbo's journey to the mountain some years ago. The dragon that had taken the fortress over seemed to link this world to Westeros; it was one of the only things besides men that they had in common. She also found it intriguing that the Ring had been discovered on that same journey, which seemed to have sent a great many events into motion.

“So you’re telling me,” Arya said, suppressing a chuckle, “That Legolas’s father imprisoned your father, who was then saved by Frodo’s uncle?” She glanced over at the elf, who was sitting quietly beside Gandalf some distance away, out of hearing range.

“They’re actually distant cousins, I believe.” Gimli said. “But aye, that’s what happened. You might see now why I have no love for elves. All I have ever seen of them is greed and scorn.”

“Well,” Arya said, “The families here seem to be almost as messed up as the ones back home. You do seem to get on rather well with Legolas after what happened, though.”

Gimli shrugged, making the links of his chainmail clink together. “He’s not as bad as his father, I’ll give him that.”

“And-” Arya was cut off by someone walking up to them, blocking out the sun as they stood looking down at the pair. A glance upward revealed that it was Aragorn, his hands hanging loosely at his side. He was wearing the same shabby brown cloak that he had worn when she had met him on Weathertop, having exchanged his fine leather clothes in Rivendell for a more practical outfit. Arya stood and picked up her bowl, expecting a reminder that they had to get back on the road.

Aragorn motioned for her to stop. “Time is not as short as you would believe, my lady. Gandalf and I have deemed it wise to stay a while longer. In this time I hope to have Boromir instruct the Hobbits in swordplay. That skill may prove more valuable to them now than any amount of dreary walking could. Sit now and rest. I have not come to rouse you.”

Arya blinked. “Um, alright.”

She watched as Aragorn walked off to talk to Boromir, his long strides crunching over the leaf-strewn ground. For some reason, she had not even thought about the Hobbits needing to learn how to defend themselves. It made sense, though. They were small and had no training with weapons, as far as she could tell. It made her wonder why they were even brought along in the first place. Frodo was the Ringbearer, of course, and Sam was sort of his personal assistant, along with being the best cook by far. But what about Merry and Pippin? So far they hadn’t done anything other than lighten the mood with their sense of humour.

As she was thinking about their helplessness, Arya realized that Teidrin was nearly as bad as they were, if not worse. And yet she had brought him along. Why? She wasn’t really sure. It had just seemed wrong not to let him go. She supposed Elrond had felt the same way about the Hobbits. Thinking about Teldrin, Arya had a thought.

“Colden.” She said, just loud enough for him to hear. “Why don’t you and Teidrin… Practice a bit?”

Colden nodded, picking up his spear. “Excellent idea. C’mon, Teidrin. Today might be the day that you actually hold onto your sword.”

The pair headed off to the side of the clearing, stopping in a flat area under a large spruce, the overhanging tree branches providing shade from the sun. Boromir had led Merry and Pippin off to the other side, and was already showing them how to hold their little swords properly. The tiny blades made Arya smile. They were short and broad, not much different in size from her Valyrian steel dagger. Somehow, they seemed like the perfect weapon for a Hobbit.

Arya sat back down next to Gimli. If they had more time to spare, she decided it wouldn’t hurt to talk with him a while longer. It was hard to tell if he shared the sentiment; he kept his eyes averted, and his expression was hidden under his bushy beard. To her surprise, he initiated the conversation.

“I’ve told you about my home, lady Arya. Now I would ask about yours. Is it a land only of men? For you know little of Elves and Dwarves.”

“Yes.” She said, “We have different races of men, but no Elves or Dwarves to speak of. I never even knew you existed until I arrived here. This land is rather complicated.”

“I wouldn’t say so.” Gimli said. “There isn’t much to understand about Dwarves, at least. We love the Earth and all things within its depths. Loyalty comes easily to us, though I am told we can be a bit stubborn at times. We respect anyone who can swing an axe and hold their ale. Of course, not all of us are alike. But I have found that we are more similar than we would like to admit.”

Arya smiled. “Well, I can’t swing an axe like you, but I know I can hold my ale.”

For the first time, Arya heard Gimli laugh. “I don’t doubt that, lady Arya. Nor would I wish to make an enemy of you. You may not be able to handle an axe, but I’m sure that sword of yours could do as much damage in a hand like yours.”

Just then, a yell of pain echoed across the clearing. Arya and Gimli both whirled toward the source of the noise. It had come from Colden and Teidrin’s direction. At first, Arya was afraid that Teidrin had been injured. A single glance, however, told her that was not what had happened. Colden was clutching his hand, which had a long cut running across the palm. He had dropped his spear, which lay in the grass by his feet. Teidrin was standing across from him, his eyes wide, a look of pure terror taking hold of his features.

“I-I… I’m sorry!” He blurted, dropping his sword like it was white hot. “I didn’t mean to…”

Colden looked up from his hand, which was starting to drip blood onto the ground. His expression was blank for a tense moment, and Arya held her breath. Then his face broke into a wide grin, and he went to Teidrin and clapped him on the back with his uninjured hand.

“sh*t!” He said, still grinning. “That was bloody good! Where’d you learn to counter like that?”

“Uh,” Teidrin said, still looking nervous, “You taught me. A couple of days ago, remember?”

Colden chuckled. “That’s right. I did. Well, now we know you remember what I teach you. Not many people have been able to land a hit on me like that. Damn, it stings! Well done!”

He ripped off a piece of his shirt and used it to bind his hand, wrapping the fabric tight around the wound. When he was finished, he noticed everyone else watching him with concern from around the clearing. Even Boromir and the Hobbits had stopped practicing. He gave a small smile.

“Hey. Sorry about that. I’m fine, don’t mind me. Carry on.”

Aragorn glanced over at Arya, who shrugged, a smile playing at her lips as well. After a minute, everyone had gone back to what they were doing, and Colden was still laughing and congratulating Teidrin, who still looked like he was on the verge of a breakdown from the trauma. Gimlie grunted out a chuckle from beside Arya, his eyes glinting with humour.

“You keep good company, lady Arya.”

Arya leaned back, smirking. “Well, that is one way to put it.”

Chapter 15: Crossroads

Chapter Text

The next several days passed much as the first. They woke early and ate breakfast, then walked south until about midday, when they would break for lunch and training. Colden didn’t seem to hold any grudge against Teidrin at all for the gash that now ran across his palm. In fact, the incident seemed to have given Teidrin some confidence, and he fought with renewed strength. Even Arya had to marvel at how quickly he was learning. Watching him fight was also very strange. He wasn’t as strong as Colden, and didn’t swing his sword like a traditional knight, but he wasn’t as quick and fluid as Arya, either. He seemed to have found a sort of balance in between the two, and it was working well for him.

After nearly two weeks had passed in this manner, the company was camped on a large plateau of rock on the top of a hill, overlooking a rolling forest that stretched out to the horizon. The Misty Mountains were visible on their left, though partially hidden by a thick layer of mist that had rolled over the area overnight. Bill the Pony was tied to the nearest tree, already wide awake. Arya herself had just woken up, and scanned the campsite, eyes pausing on each motionless body. She frowned. There were only eleven other people in sight.

She stood silently, stretching her back while remaining vigilant of her surroundings. It was impossible to tell which two people were missing because of how hidden everyone was by their coats and cloaks in the dim light, but she had her suspicions. They were confirmed a moment later when she spotted the tip of Gandalf’s hat poking out from behind a tree some distance away. Arya crept toward him cautiously, careful to avoid the dry leaves and branches that littered the ground. The tip of the hat remained perfectly still, giving no indication of Gandalf having heard her.

Going a little closer, she could make out the wizard sitting with his back to the tree, a long pipe sticking out of his mouth. Every few seconds, he would blow a perfect smoke ring off into the sky, where it would dissipate. Aragorn was sitting beside him. He too held a pipe in his hands, but it wasn’t lit. Instead, he twirled it pensively between his fingers. Arya studied the pair for a moment, curious.

Gandalf suddenly spoke aloud, a hint of merriment to his voice. “There’s no need to hide, my lady. Come and sit, if you wish. It is a fine morning to sit, is it not?”

Startled, Arya stepped out into his field of vision. Gandalf glanced over at her, as did Aragorn. Arya scowled. “I wasn’t hiding.”

“No indeed!” Gandalf laughed. “And I suppose your hand is not at your sword, either?”

Arya hastily withdrew her hand from the weapon, blushing. She hadn’t even realized it had been there in the first place. Gandalf seemed to be very amused at her discomfort, chuckling into his beard. Even Aragorn had a small smile on his face, though his eyes were on the ground. Arya cleared her throat, trying to change the subject.

“So… Why are you here so early? Isn’t it Gimli’s watch?”

Aragorn looked up. “We relieved him some time ago. As Gandalf said, it is a fine morning to sit. And so we are here to sit and think. For there is much on my mind, my lady, as there is on yours, no doubt. Ere the day ends, I hope that we shall reach the Redhorn Gate, and come thence across the mountains. But you, my lady, have a different path ahead of you; one which might not appear so plain as ours. The time is upon us now to decide who shall accompany you, wherever you may go.”

Arya looked back toward the campsite. Colden had just woken up, yawning and stretching. The rest of the company was still asleep.

“I don’t think anyone other than my companions should accompany me. Frodo needs the rest of you. Anyway, his task is more important than mine. Go with him. I’ll be fine with just my men.”

“So I thought you would say.” Gandalf said. “And I would agree. For though your errand is shrouded in mystery, the journey of the ringbearer is paramount. Onn his dangerous path, he will need as many allies as can be found. You know the way to Edhellond as well as any of us here, and your road is far less perilous. But we shall speak more of this later, when the time has come to part; for this decision does not lie with us alone.”

Arya nodded. “Well, I’ll go wake Sam, then. He did say he’d make a stew of those squirrels for us, right?”

Gandalf’s mouth twitched. “He did indeed.”

After a delicious breakfast of squirrel stew, courtesy of a slightly disgruntled Sam, the company packed quickly and set off along their road once again. Today the terrain wasn’t quite as easy as it had been in the past. They were walking along little-used paths through the forest, most of them very poorly maintained. They spent the first half of the day fighting their way through dense undergrowth and tripping over rocks. Rain from the day before had turned the ground muddy, too, and they had one incident where Pippin sank in up to his knees and Boromir had to pull him out.

The foul conditions were only worsened by the prospect of Arya’s departure once they reached the mountain pass. It loomed over them like a heavy fog, though no one spoke of it. They all knew that this could very well be the last time they ever saw each other.

As the day grew late, the ground grew rockier, and started to slope upward. The air grew colder, and dark clouds drifted toward them from the North. Thunder boomed faintly in the distance, like the falling of some great hammer beating down on the mountain peaks. Not even Colden seemed to have the heart to try and strike up a song or conversation. The walk was long and silent, which only gave Arya more time to think. She considered her situation. So far the journey had been almost completely devoid of danger; even more so than her original trip to Rivendell. If the roads stayed safe until Edhellond. she might be out of this whole mess soon. Unfortunately, she seriously doubted that possibility.

The sun was just beginning to dip below the treetops behind them when they arrived at an inconspicuous fork in the road. They had passed many branching paths just like this one, but had always ignored them, sticking to the main road. This particular junction, however, was one they had all been dreading for some time. Arya and her companions would stick to the main road, yes; but this time the rest of the fellowship would take the smaller trail up into the mountains. Gandalf brought the company to a halt in the center of the road.

There was a pause. Then Gandalf said, “Now we have come to the place where our paths split. Yet we have no time to linger in our farewells; I would reach the lower slopes of Caradhras before we rest. And you, lady Arya, should go a little farther, while the light still holds.”

“Speak not of haste, Gandalf!” Legolas lamented. “This day is evil enough. We have traveled long with these companions. Now that the hour of parting is upon us, should we not say our farewells?”

Gandalf was about to respond, but Aragorn beat him to it. “Legolas speaks truly. We have time to spare, Gandalf. Let us depart in an easier fashion than this. Caradhras will not have moved, come the morning.”

Gandalf seemed to relent, so everyone set down their packs. They decided that Arya would travel the rest of the way with only her men from Westeros, which she thought made sense, as did Gandalf. However, that meant that would be leaving everyone else behind, perhaps forever. Arya had never been much good at goodbyes. She usually preferred to just leave quietly and unnoticed, disappearing before anyone could force her to endure a drawn out parting filled with annoying pleasantries. That didn’t seem like an option this time, but she still held on to some semblance of hope that it would be short.

Aragorn approached her first. His expression was neutral, and so was hers, but she knew the conversation must have had some meaning for him. While she wouldn’t call their relationship a friendship, it was true that he had been a trustworthy ally over the course of the last few weeks, and she hoped she had been the same for him. Despite her misgivings, she knew he was a good man. They were all lucky that he was on their side.

Their side . The thought gave her pause. Since when was it their side? She was one her own side, and the side of her family. That was it. She never affiliated with larger causes. That kind of loyalty had only gotten her hurt. So why was she even helping these people? How did she know they were even the right side to be on? She shook her head, clearing the thoughts away. There was no way to be completely certain that she was doing the right thing, but at the moment, this seemed like the best choice. She would have to let that suffice, for the time being.

The next to say goodbye were the hobbits. They came as a group, with Frodo at the head. She wasn’t very close with any of them, but she had saved their lives on Weathertop, and they made sure to thank her profusely for it. She brushed off the compliments, and eventually got Merry and Pippin to stop bowing every five seconds. As they turned to leave, Arya caught Frodo by the arm. She felt she owed him some words. They had hardly spoken the entire journey.

“Frodo…” She didn’t really know what to say. “Um… Look. I know you’re small, and young, and inexperienced…” She trailed off. Then she saw the look on his face and rushed to continue. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t do it. Sometimes all it takes is a stout heart. Courage is far more important than anything else. Remember that.”

“Thank you, Lady Arya.” He said quietly. “I pray your words will prove true.”

Arya nodded. “Well, good luck to you.”

A ghost of a smile passed over Frodo’s face. “And to you as well.”

Gimli and Boromir both bade her farewell rather quickly, which she appreciated. Beneath Gimli’s stern exterior, she knew he was sad to see her go. They understood each other, in a way, and were more alike than Arya would care to admit. She made sure to take one last look into Boromir’s grey eyes before he departed. He still reminded her of home. Something about him made her think that he would fit right in with the Starks of Winterfell, and it wasn’t just his looks.

Legolas’ parting was too drawn out for Arya, but she allowed it. The elf hadn’t made much of an impression on her since she had met him, but that might just be because she had met so many elves in her time here. He wasn’t much different from the rest, as far as she could tell. When he had finished, she turned to look for Gandalf. He was the only one she hadn’t yet talked to. Her companions were still busy saying goodbye to everyone around her, so she walked to the edge of the path.

She finally saw him, standing off to the side, leaning on his staff. He was observing the rest of the company, his eyes wandering. He saw her watching him and his eyes crinkled in a kind smile. She didn’t approach him. There didn’t seem to be any need. They just nodded to each other from across the road, and somehow, that nod conveyed more than any of the conversation she had just had. Despite the perils and hardships that awaited them both, she knew that both of them were prepared. They weren’t the same; they weren't even all that similar. But they had come to an understanding. Somehow, they knew they could trust one another in the dark days to come. And that was enough.

Chapter 16: Ambush

Chapter Text

It was strange, being alone with her countrymen once again. So far, they had always been accompanied by a native of this strange new land, whether it was elves, men, or dwarves. There had always been someone there, advising them, teaching them the ways of the country. Being on their own almost felt… Wrong. Like they were out in the open, completely unprepared. Without a guide, Arya felt vulnerable. Even things that were normal back home set her on edge. A squirrel scurrying through the undergrowth would make her muscles tense up in anticipation. A sudden birdcall would bring her hand to Needle’s hilt.

Only Laeric seemed more relaxed, and Arya could guess as to why. Though he had done a good job hiding it, she had seen how much he distrusted everyone they had met thus far. He must have been relieved to get away from them. While Arya had grown closer to the members of the fellowship, Laeric had always kept a watchful eye on them, especially when any one of them had been near her.

It had been over a week since they had parted ways, and since then, the terrain had barely changed. They still traveled over rolling, tree covered hills, interrupted by occasional swathes of grassland, though they had crossed two rivers in the past few days. One of them had an old stone bridge allowing access to the other side, but the other river’s bridge had fallen in ruin, and they had to wade across with their bags. The experience had left them cold and wet, but things could’ve been much worse. The weather, for instance, was actually far better than it had previously been. It had been breezy and overcast, but not so much as a single drop of rain had fallen as of yet.

Arya’s only real grievance so far was that they had lost Sam. His cooking was sorely missed, and Barroth’s attempts at imitating his meals had gone poorly. Instead of breakfasts of stew or cooked venison, they now had to settle for a measly loaf of bread, or a burnt squirrel.

They were now winding their way along the same South-bound road, though it had gotten considerably smaller and narrower. Laeric led the way, leading them along the road, while Barroth followed closely behind with their map, which he would consult frequently. Colden and Tedrin came after them, and Arya brought up the rear once again. She knew the other’s didn’t like not being able to see her, but she had insisted, and there didn’t seem to be any real harm in it.

The only real “danger” they had faced so far had been an angry boar that had crossed their path. It had burst out of the underbrush, startling Teidrin and knocking him down, before being skewered by Colden’s spear. That had been one of the few decent meals they had eaten in a good while.

Laeric stopped suddenly, holding up his hand to signal a halt. They all put their bags down, and Laeric went to Barroth, taking a look at the map. Colden, Arya, and Teidrin soon joined them, forming a tight circle around the piece of parchment.

“I’m tellin’ ye.” Laeric was saying. “We’re too far south. Should’ve crossed Westward yesterday, after we crossed the river.”

“I know we’re too far south.” Colden told him. “I decided not to go west when I was leading us yesterday.”

Laeric gave him a sharp look. “And what the bloody hell’d you do that for?”

“Look,” Colden said, tracing his finger along the map. “I know Elrond told us to split away from the mountains after we crossed the river. But he told us to do that so we would avoid Isengard. That means we could wait nearly two more weeks before we go west, and we’d still be safe. Besides, the terrain is much easier in this area. If we had gone where Elrond told us, we would’ve hit a rockier region, and it would’ve slowed us down.”

“And you figured that all out on yer own, did ye?” Laeric growled. “What a damn hero. Saves us two days' time and leads us into enemy territory.”

“It’s not enemy territory.” Colden replied hotly. “It’s some uninhabited place called Dunland. We’ll be fine.”

“Still isn’t your decision to make, lad.” Laeric said.

“No,” Arya sighed. “It’s mine.”

She didn’t relish the idea of being in charge, but she was trying to make an effort towards being a leader. She would need to be one, whether she liked it or not. Small decisions like this might prove crucial in the days to come. She had to make sure she knew how to handle them. Looking at Colden, she let out a breath.

“I’m with Colden here. We should keep heading south, at least for the next few days. As long as this land is uninhabited, I don’t see any danger in staying.”

Colden smirked and Laeric glowered at the ground, but Arya wasn’t finished. “However,” She said, wiping the smirk off of Colden’s face, “Laeric is right as well. You can’t make decisions like that on your own. Colden. We all need to know what’s happening.”

“Of course.” Colden murmured. “Sorry.”

Arya nodded. “Let’s keep going. We still have a long day ahead of us.”

They started up walking once more, Laeric in the front again. Colden hung back more this time to avoid the older man’s wrath, which Arya found amusing. The day grew colder as they walked, though it was still a far cry from the icy winds of The North that they were all used to. A large mass of dark clouds was visible on the horizon, but none were overhead. As Arya watched, however, a small piece of cloud broke away from the mass and began drifting toward them. She squinted at it, unsure what she was seeing. It was a sort of wisp in the sky, darker than most of the other clouds. She pointed it out to Laeric, and he furrowed his brow.

“Don’t look like a cloud.” He said. “Moves too damn fast. Birds, maybe?”

Arya looked back at the shape, which was drawing steadily nearer. “But it’s so big.”

Laeric shrugged. “Alright, a lot of birds.”

As the shape swooped overhead in a low pass, Arya saw that they were indeed birds. Large and black, like some kind of raven. She had never seen a flock so big before. The noise they made as they passed by was deafening. Squawks and screeches filled the air. Teidrin covered his ears and winced. But just as soon as it had begun, it was over. The birds flew away into the distance, growing fading into the sky behind them.

After the flock had gone, the group continued on, unperturbed. The incident did seem a little strange to Arya, but there wasn’t really anything to do about it. They were just birds, after all. Anyway, she thought, they really should hurry up their pace. She wanted to make it to Gondor before the end of the month, but it didn’t look like that would happen, at the rate they were going. Without Gandalf in front, their pace had suffered significantly, and it was showing. With the rivers behind them, at least, they would be a bit faster. At least, Arya hoped they would.

It was around noon when they reached a heavily wooded area. The trees there were close together, mostly pines and fir trees. Their needles littered the path, covering it like a thick carpet and muffling every footfall. Walking was easy, because the ground was flat and soft, with almost no underbrush in sight. Not even Teidrin managed to trip himself up, which was a rare thing. Arya was thinking that they should break for lunch soon. This land was perfect for sparring. Maybe she could even join in with Teidrin’s practices, or challenge Colden to a rematch. She was about to call for a halt when, suddenly, a man came into view up ahead.

He was tall and muscular, his heavy frame covered in rags and animal skins. His hair was long and scraggly, as was his overgrown, unkempt beard. He was standing in the center of the path, staring straight at them. Laeric brought the group to a standstill, and they all stood looking at the man, who was still watching them intently. His wild eyes remained unblinking. Arya looked over at Colden.

“I thought you said this land was uninhabited.” She hissed.

“Uh, yeah.” He said uncertainly. “He’s probably a traveller, like us. Only, he got lost. And, uh, lost his clothes.”

Before they could react, the man began striding forward at an alarming rate, closing the distance between them quickly. Arya drew Needle, and her companions readied their weapons as well. The man did not falter when he caught the glint of their steel. He stopped about ten feet away, still looking them over without the least hint of worry. Arya gritted her teeth, her finger’s tightening around the hilt of her sword. Then the man spoke. It was the common tongue, albeit a rough version, spoken as though it were not his first language.

“Hail.” He said. His voice was deep and gravelly.

“Hail yourself.” Colden said warily. “Who the hell are you?”

The man gave him a craggy grin, revealing yellowing, rotten teeth. “Jus’ a lowly farmer, lord. Thought you might spare some food for a poor old man.”

Colden leveled his spear at the man’s throat. “Move. Now.”

The man stayed put, not so much as twitching a muscle. His face remained impassive.

“Get the f*ck out of our way,” Colden said, voice becoming dangerous, “Or I’ll run you through.”

At that moment, Arya realized several things. First, it was strangely quiet. Where there had been birds chirping and squirrels scurrying around before, there was only silence now. Second, the man had no visible weapon, yet remained completely confident. That meant he was either insane, or he knew something they didn’t. Judging by the knowing glint in his eyes, she would go with the latter. And then, as she was trying to guess what he was up to, Arya’s ears picked up the faint twang of a bowstring creaking as it was pulled taught. She knew that sound all too well. And it was coming from somewhere behind them. Reaching out an arm, she laid her hand on Colden’s spear.

“Wait.” She said, “Don’t.”

Colden squinted at her. “Don’t what? This guy's a f*cking maniac.”

She shook her head, looking him in the eye. “We’re surrounded.”

That made Colden pause. He lowered his spear shakily, glancing around. The man’s craggy grin returned, this time directed at Arya. He seemed to be appraising her, as if curious.

“This one ‘as some wit.” He said.

Arya glared at him. “What do you want?”

Instead of answering, the man threw his head back and let out a warbling yell. It sounded inhuman, more like the roar of a wild creature than anything else. In answer to his call, the forest around them came alive. Men emerged from the treeline or from behind rocks, bows drawn and aimed. They were all similar in appearance to the first man, though none were quite as large and burly. It was clear that their furs and wild hair had helped to disguise them as they lay in ambush. Arya cursed herself for not seeing them sooner, though it may not have made any difference.

Arya and her companions closed into a tight ring, standing back to back. Barroth hefted a hammer, Laeric brandished a small scimitar, Colden twirled his spear, and Teidrin was managing to hold his sword firmly, though his legs were shaking visibly. Arya, for her part, held Needle in ready position, it’s tip pointed toward the nearest bowman. She shifted onto her toes, ready to spring into action at any moment. The standoff lasted for some ten or fifteen seconds. No one on either side spoke a word. Then Barroth broke the silence, whispering out of the side of his mouth.

“Do we fight?”

Arya didn’t respond at first. She considered her options. These men appeared to be some kind of savages, probably just natives of the land. They had no real reason to be enemies, other than the fact that Arya and her companions were carrying fine clothes and weapons, which the wild men might find valuable. Of course, she knew nothing about these people. Maybe they were cannibals, reeling in their next meal. Then again, they hadn’t loosed their arrows yet. It seemed they were more interested in taking prisoners. After one last look at the multitude of archers facing them, Arya made her decision.

“No.” She said. She sheathed Needle, making sure to keep the movement as non-threatening as possible. “Put down your weapons.”

No one did anything at first, reluctant to follow her orders. Then Laeric dropped his sword to the dirt. He turned to the others, sighing in resignation.

“Do as she says.”

Barroth, Teidrin, and Colden all laid down their arms. The wild men surged forward, picking up the weapons and grabbing each traveller roughly. One man pinned Arya’s arms behind her back, while another took Needle, then her Valyrian steel dagger. She stiffened, but made no protest. She would just have to get them back later. After they had all been hastily searched, their hands were bound with coarse rope.

The original man, who Arya had decided was the leader, came up to her as one of his followers was finishing up knotting the rope around her hands. He wasn’t grinning anymore, but a smug expression still persisted on his face.

“You have wit.” He said again. “But still, you lose. A fine prize for Zalmodoc.” He thumped his chest, indicating that he was talking about himself.

“Look, uh, Zalmodoc.” Arya said. “We have no quarrel with you. We’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Quarrel?” The man replied. “You have come to our lands. That is enough quarrel. But you have courage, little lady. Maybe I will let you live. Come. We will go to Gornhold. There we will reach… An agreement.”

He chuckled as he walked off, clearly very pleased with himself. He didn’t seem very intelligent, but he also had a small army of savages at his command. However, as Arya was led away into the forest, she had to fight a smile of her own. They may be prisoner’s, tied up and at the mercy of a madman. They be on their own, with no friends or allies to save them. But there was one positive development. One small thing that almost made Arya laugh out loud. Her captors had forgotten to check the sleeves of her cloak. And as she fingered the knife she had kept hidden there, things didn’t seem so hopeless after all.

Chapter 17: Of Wolves and Savages

Chapter Text

When Arya saw Gornhold for the first time, she immediately thought of Harrenhal. This ruined stronghold bore an uncanny resemblance to the abandoned castle back in Westeros, though it was much smaller in scale. It was built atop a bald hillside, dominating the surrounding landscape. The canopy of the forest had hidden the structure from view as they had approached, but now that they had emerged from the treeline, it was fully visible in the waning light of the sun. Crumbling, broken towers reached into the sky, and thick vines grew up the decaying stone battlements. A small path wound its way up the hillside, disappearing into a yawning opening in the fortress walls, where it seemed a gate had once stood.

Arya didn’t realize she had stopped to stare until the man leading her yanked her rope impatiently, and she started forward again with a jolt. They had been walking for nearly five hours straight at a brisk pace, and her feet were starting to get sore. At least it looked like they would be stopping soon, she thought. Not that she expected their stay to be pleasant. She would gladly have accepted any amount of time walking with sore feet to facing whatever they would have to deal with next.

Arya turned to the guard next to her. He was a large, lean man, like the rest of them, and had a crude wooden bow slung over one shoulder. His eyes were focused on the hilltop in front of them. She had not yet tried speaking to her captors during their long walk, but she decided it couldn’t hurt to try.

“What happened to this place?” She asked.

She was genuinely curious. Harrenhal, of course, had been destroyed by dragons. Gornhold did not exhibit the same scorched or melted stone, which probably meant that it hadn’t been dragons, but something had decimated this place. The guard glanced at her for a second, then turned his attention back to their destination without any acknowledgement. Arya frowned, but didn’t ask again.

Instead, she focused on Zalmadoc, who was walking at the head of the pack. Needle was hanging loosely from his waist, and he was inspecting her dagger, studying the shiny blade. She glared at his back, angrily watching as he swished the weapon through the air experimentally. He seemed to be enjoying himself. She swore to herself that if she got the chance, she would make sure he died by her hand. Of course, it would be preferable to get out of this situation peacefully, but she wouldn’t really mind if things got a bit… violent.

They were led through the entrance, the high guard towers of the stronghold spiraling into the sky above them. Overall, the structure was probably around the same size as Winterfell, though it was hard to tell because of the way it sprawled over the hillside. Inside the entry tunnel, the stone was wet and slick. Some vines had found their way inside and wound their way up to the ceiling, thriving in the damp environment. A single rat scurried along the floor in front of them, scampering away from Zalmadoc’s heavy footfalls.

On the other side of the tunnel was a small courtyard, which they only passed through briefly, before proceeding into one of the many ruined towers dotting the wall. At that point, most of the guards left and headed off in a different direction, leaving Arya and her companions with only Zalmadoc and a handful of other wild men. Despite the lessened security, Arya knew they still had no hope of escaping. Not yet at least. She never stopped looking for chances, however. Her eyes darted back and forth constantly, prepared to take advantage of even the smallest opportunity she was provided.

The walking came to an end when they arrived at a small, windowless cell at the top of the tower. One of the guards pulled the heavy iron-barred door open, and Arya was thrown roughly inside, followed by the rest of her companions. As soon as they were all clear of the doorway, the guard slammed the door shut once more, locking it with a small key. Zalmadoc rested his hands on the bars, looking at Arya.

“Stay here.” He said, as if they had any choice. “We will come back for you later, after the feast is prepared.”

He began walking away, flanked by the guards. Their footsteps receded into the distance.

“Uh, feast?” Colden called after him. “What feast? We’re not going to be… part of it, are we?”

There was no response. Instead, they heard the sound of a door opening and closing down the hall. Colden looked at Arya uneasily. “They’re not going to eat us, right?”

Arya sat down against the back wall. “I doubt it. We’re still here, aren’t we? They must want us for something.”

She took a look around the small cell they had been locked into. It was falling apart, just like the rest of the castle, but retained enough structural integrity to make it impossible to break out through force. Rags and bones were strewn across the cold stone floor, some of them clearly the remains of past occupants. In the corner of the room, the large, fur-covered body of a man was curled up in a fetal position.

“Is he alive?” Colden asked, clearly having noticed the corpse himself.

Barroth craned his neck to get a better view. “Looks dead to me.”

“Alright, good.” Colden said. “Then we can walk about our plan.” He looked at Arya. “You have one, right?”

“Me?” Arya said. “You’re the one who got us into this mess.”

“I know, I know.” Colden held his hands up in resignation. “I shouldn’t have brought us here. It’s just that Pippin told me this region was uninhabited, and I thought we could cut off a day or two-”

“Pippin ?” Arya asked incredulously.

“Okay, maybe not the most reliable source.” Colden admitted. “But seriously, I was just trying to help out. How was I supposed to know that there was some tribe of madmen living out here in the forest? Just my luck, I guess.”

Arya groaned, rubbing her temples. Colden seemed to sense her frustration and stopped talking, much to her relief. He sat down against the opposite wall, letting out a pent-up breath. Despite her annoyance, though, Arya knew he was right. They did need some sort of plan. She felt the reassuringly cold steel of the knife in her sleeve once more. It gave her more options, but she wasn’t sure if it would be enough. She considered using it to cut all of their bonds, but decided against it. They were still stuck in a cell, and acting rashly would only give away her advantage.

All of a sudden, the body in the far corner of the cell stirred. Teidrin yelped and sprang away from it. The man kept shifting until he had assumed a sitting position. His face was pale and scarred, dried blood caking his forehead. His eyes flicked back and forth between the other occupants of the room. He was wearing the same ragged clothing of animal skins as Zalmadoc and his men, and had similarly wild hair. Although Arya had been startled at first, she quickly composed herself. There didn’t seem to be any danger; the man was manacled to the wall.

He coughed dryly, then spoke. “You may need more than a plan to escape these dungeons, my friends.”

Arya regarded him with new interest. “And why is that?”

The man shrugged, which seemed to take a great deal of his energy. “No way out of here, lass. To many of them. Even if you made it out, they’d catch you. And if they catches you,” He looked around meaningfully. “They throws you in the pit.”

“The pit ?” Colden echoed dubiously. “The hell is the pit?”

The man chuckled into his beard, then rolled back over onto his side. “Best hope you don’t find out.” He closed his eyes, as if trying to fall back asleep.

“Wait!” Arya said. The man opened one eye to look at her. “How many?” She asked. “How many of them are there?”

“I’d say a score, at least. But don’t get your hopes up. They’re warriors, every one of ‘em.”

“And how do you know all this? Who are you?”

The man sighed from his position on the floor. “Should’ve let you think me dead.” He griped. “I’ll tell you who I am, but then you’d best leave me in peace. Won’t have much more of that, I expect. These old bones ain’t gonna last much longer.”

“Well?” Barroth prompted.

“Name’s Dolffe. And I know who these bastards are ‘cause I used to be their chief.”

- - - - -

It was nearly two more hours before someone came to retrieve them. In the meantime, Dolffe refused to say anything more, and had swiftly fallen into unconsciousness. He was in bad shape - that was easy to see. Arya didn’t know what they had done to him, or why, but she didn’t think he’d live more than a few more days if they kept him locked up in that cell.

When Zalmadoc finally showed up, he was again flanked by eight of his followers. He didn’t say anything, just unlocked the door and swung it open. The rusty iron hinges squealed in protest. Five guards stalked in and grabbed each of the companions, hoisting them to their feet and shoving them out the door. They paid no attention to Dolffe, walking past him like he wasn’t even there.

After a long, tense walk down the tower staircase, the prisoners were ushered deeper into Gornhold, away from the main gate. Outside, the day was growing late, the crumbling stone battlements casting eerie shadows across the ground. They passed several passageways and offshoots, all of which were shrouded in shadows, making it impossible to tell where they led. Even the vines on the walls seemed sinister in the fading light, twisting their way up the stone's like giant snakes.

As they drew nearer and nearer to the heart of the fortress, Arya could hear a loud noise coming from up ahead. It sounded like voices chanting and cheering, though it was faint. At one point, she thought she heard the roar of an animal mixed in with the rest of the noise. As they rounded one final corner, the source of the racket became apparent.

Up ahead, illuminated by hundreds of flaming torches, there was a massive arena.

It was built in a giant courtyard, but the walls had been lined with wooden planks, and more wood had been laid out around the rim to serve as stands to watch from. Wild men ringed the hole, which was nearly twenty feet deep, chanting and hooting. There must have been nearly forty men in all, which was far more than Dolffe had told them to expect. Arya’s felt her spirits drop. When she came into view, the cheering grew even louder, becoming deafening. She stared straight ahead, not making eye contact with anyone.

“Woah.” Colden said, as soon as he had rounded the corner. “So that’s the pit.”

As they came up to the edge, Arya saw that several large, metal gates were set into the sides of the arena, as if to allow access from underneath the stands. Ropes were attached to the tops of the gates, and they all converged at a single wooden pole right near the entrance, where Zalmadoc was standing with the prisoners. Arya failed to make any sense of what the ropes were meant for, much less the gates. It all seemed like a very complicated system; she had no idea how a group of savages had managed to come up with it.

Zalmadoc drank in the jeers and yells with a broad grin. He held up a single hand, and everyone abruptly fell silent.

“Men of Dunland!” He yelled. The stands roared, but quickly quieted down again. “Today,” He continued, “We have guests! Caught them trespassin’ near our Northern border. A fine prize, for fine men! And now we shall see what they are made of. To the pit!”

“To the pit! To the pit!” The crowd cheered.

Zalmadoc turned aside to Arya and her companions, running his tongue over his lips. “Now.” He said, just loud enough for them to hear. “Which one of ya cowards wants to go first?”

Before Arya could react, Colden stepped forward. “I’ll go.”

“Colden!” Arya hissed.

He looked at her and shrugged apologetically. Zalmadoc belted out a laugh. “Good lad. Well then, in you go.”

He promptly shoved Colden over the edge.

Teidrin yelled out angrily, and Arya rushed to the edge of the pit just in time to see Colden splat down into the muddy bottom face first. Barroth was struggling helplessly against his guard, squirming and shouting. The men in the stands roared with laughter. There was a tense moment where Colden didn’t move; Arya was sure he had died. Then, groaning, he rolled over and stumbled to his feet.

He was completely covered in dark brown mud. It was in his hair, coating his face, and all over his clothes. He bent over, gasping, and coughed out a large quantity of the foul substance. It took him a few seconds to get his bearings, but after wiping his eyes clean, he managed to stand up straight. He looked up at Arya, who was watching with concern. When he saw her face peering over the edge, he gave her a lopsided smile, obviously trying to put on a brave face.

Arya stood up and faced Zalmadoc. “What the hell are you going to do to him?”

Zalmadoc laughed yet again. “Oh, you’ll see. We keep ‘em nice and hungry, just for times like this.”

Arya felt the blood drain from her face. “Keep who nice and hungry?”

In answer, Zalmadoc drew a long serrated knife from within the folds of his rags. It glinted wickedly in the torchlight. He strode over to the nearby wooden pole, and slashed one of the ropes tied to it. The rope went slack, it’s loose end falling into the pit. The gate it was attached to began to swing open slowly. It became evident that the rope had been holding it shut. Now that it has been cut… whatever was behind it had access to the pit. Arya held her breath.

Colden turned to face the new threat, arms held up in front of his face in a defensive stance. He had no available weapons; just his fists. And his hands were still bound.

“What… What’s in there?” Arya asked pensively.

Zalmadoc joined her by the edge, peering into the pit. “Not really sure, to be honest. Different beast behind every door. But don’t you worry; they all have a taste for man-flesh.”

The gate finished swinging open, revealing a yawning black space behind. A hush fell over the crowd. In the sudden silence, Arya could faintly hear a low growl emanating from the blackness. In the pit below, Colden tensed up. He scanned the surrounding walls, looking for a way to escape, but it was hopeless. They were far too tall, with nothing to serve as a foothold anywhere on the flat wooden surface.

Then, slowly, a dark shape emerged from the shadows. At first, Arya couldn’t tell what it was. It looked like the darkness was shifting, twisting in on itself. Then a shape emerged, huge and hulkling. A bear. Not the biggest Arya had ever seen, but certainly large enough to present a serious threat. It’s back was about as high as Colden’s chest. The beast advanced towards Colden slowly, mouth foaming, a snarl corrupting it’s features. It’s body swayed as it walked, muscles rippling under tight skin. It looked half starved, ribs showing through its fur. Colden looked pale, but he held his ground.

Arya looked around desperately for anything she could do to help. Maybe she could use her hidden knife to kill Zalmadoc. But what purpose would that serve? It would just get the rest of them killed, too. And the bear would still get Colden. Maybe she could jump in there with him and kill the bear. But Zalmadoc would only release more animals, and there was only so much she could do. No, that would get her killed too. She couldn’t think of anything. All she could do was watch helplessly as the bear picked up it’s pace, coming at Colden in a charge.

But then, the least expected thing happened. To Arya, it seemed like a miracle. Colden would later remark that it was nothing, but they all knew it hadn’t been.

Just as the bear was about to crash into him, Colden twisted to the side, narrowly avoiding it’s outstretched claws, and brought his bound hands down onto the bear’s back with a fierce yell. The creature stumbled, then tripped and fell, the force of the blow knocking it off balance. Colden shouted in triumph, already turning to face the next assault. The bear stood, shaking mud out of it’s fur, and growled menacingly. It lowered it’s head and charged again.

This time, Colden delivered a sharp kick to it’s underbelly as it barreled past. The blow knocked it to the ground once more. As it scrambled to get up, however, Colden charged forward, taking advantage of his foe’s position. He lunged and slammed the bear on the head, then sprang out of the way as it swiped at him with it’s claws. Every time the animal tried to stand, Colden would jump in and keep it down, pummeling it with both his fists and feet. The bear roared furiously, clearly not having expected such a fight.

It finally managed to stand, staggering to its feet with effort. If nothing else, Colden had managed to weaken it significantly. He had a chance, Arya thought, stunned. A good chance. He had nearly managed to even the odds. In all of her days, she had never seen someone fight with so much skill and ferocity. If things kept going the way they were, Colden might actually win. The bear seemed to sense that, too. This time, it didn’t charge: it stalked forward, teeth bared. Colden began backing up, staying out of reach. They circled each other for some time in that manner. Colden utilized the space inside the pit well, making sure never to trap himself against a wall.

Quick as lightning, the bear made a move. It heaved itself toward Colden, mouth wide open. But Colden had been expecting that. He ducked down, and the bear’s teeth snapped harmlessly over his head. Then, in one fluid motion, he slid his arms over the bear’s head, pulling the ropes on his wrists taught against its throat. They both fell to the ground, Cold hanging on to the bear’s neck while it thrashed and bucked wildly.

He pulled with all of his might, squeezing the breath out of the massive beast. It made horrible retching sounds, flailing it’s claws around wildly, trying to break free from the stranglehold. But somehow, Colden managed to keep his grip firm, never allowing his opponent even a single breath. His face was beet red with the strain of the effort, and sweat beaded on his forehead. Arya wasn’t sure he would make it.

But then he did. The bear went limp, it’s head lolling to the side. Colden flopped onto his back, exhausted. The men in the crowd went crazy, hooting and cheering like never before. At first, Arya thought they would be angry. After all, it didn’t seem like Colden was supposed to live. She still wasn’t exactly sure how he had . But then she saw the smile on Zalmadoc’s face, and her muscles relaxed slightly.

Indeed, Zalmadoc seemed almost as impressed by the performance as Arya was. “This one’s a fighter!” He bellowed. “A true man! Never have I seen such a great beast bested so easily! Come now. let him up! He has earned his life.”

A rope ladder was lowered into the pit. Colden limped toward it and clambered up the rungs. When he reached the wooden platform at the top, he collapsed onto his knees, panting and heaving. Arya ran over and crouched down next to him.

“Are you alright?” She asked.

Colden looked up into her face, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Yeah” He rasped. “Just peachy. Why?”

Arya had to resist a smile of her own. She had been sure that Colden was going to die. And yet somehow, she had been spared the hard decision of leaving him to perish, and for that she was grateful. She would have to thank him later. Her relief was washed away, however, by Zalmadoc’s next words.

“So.” He boomed, silencing the crowd. “This one has proven himself. Who shall be next?”

Arya whirled to face him. “What?”

“He has earned his freedom.” Zalmadoc told her, chuckling. “You’re other friends have not. They must survive the pit or die. That is our way.”

“But-” Arya didn’t know what to say. There was no way her other companions would survive. Colden had only escaped by the skin of his teeth, and that was only after an incredibly skillful performance on his part. It was extremely unlikely to happen again. But as Arya stood there, a plan formulated in her mind. It was so simple she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before. She looked Zalmadoc dead in the eye, trying to exude confidence.

“My companions and I will agree to your terms, and do what you want without a fight. But only if you agree to speak with me first. Alone.”

Zalmadoc hesitated. She could see he was weighing her offer in his mind. The men around him paused, waiting for him to make a decision.

“I’m just a girl.” Arya pressed. “What harm can I do? And my companions will stay behind. If I so much as touch you, your men can kill them.”

“As you wish.” Zalmadoc conceded. “I see no harm in it. If I do this, your friends will go into the pit?

“Yes.”

“Then come.” Zalmadoc said. “We shall speak alone.” He began to walk off, away from the pit. His men parted to let him pass, murmuring amongst themselves.

“Wait.” Colden pleaded from his position on the ground. “Arya, don’t.”

She ignored him, following closely behind Zalmadoc. She paid no heed to the rest of the savages, who were glaring daggers at her as she passed. Zalmadoc led her out of the courtyard, then down several different winding passageways. They were going into a part of Gornhold that she had not yet seen. It looked, however, very much the same. They finally arrived in a small, circular stone room with no roof. The flickering torches of the pit were now too far away to cast any light, but night was almost upon them, and the moon shone brightly up above, illuminating Zalmadoc’s face as he turned to face her.

“We are alone now.” He said. “Come. What is it that you would say to me?”

Arya regarded him coolly. “What would I say? Well, how about this: You will set me and my companions free, and won’t harm us. We will leave your lands peacefully, and hold no grudge. If you fail to do that, I cannot promise that you will live to see the dawn.”

At first, Zalmadoc seemed taken aback by her bold words. His eyes widened and he took a step back. Arya held his gaze, trying to look intimidating. But then he barked out a laugh.

“You are in no position to make demands, girl.” He said.

“I’m not?” Arya asked. She grasped the knife within her sleeve, and with a flick of the wrist, used it to sever her bonds. Then she rushed forward, holding it up against Zalmadoc’s throat. “What about now?”

Zalmadoc gulped, a single drop of blood trickling down his neck from where the knife had nicked him. “If you kill me, your friends will never escape.”

“And if you don’t release us, you die.”

“We seem to be at an impasse.”

Arya laughed softly. “No. You’re at an impasse. I have another way out.”

Like a striking snake, she drew the knife back, then plunged it upward into his chest. The blade passed right under his ribcage and punctured his heart. A perfect kill. Just like the Hound had taught her. Zalmadoc gasped, crumpling to the floor. He lay there, staring up at Arya’s face with a mixture of anger and fear.

“You… have… no… honor.” He wheezed .

Arya leaned over his body, looking down at him as the life drained from his eyes. “No?” She said, “Well, at least I’m still alive.”

He let out one final, shuddering breath before slumping back against the cold, hard stone. His eyes stared blankly up at the moon, reflecting it’s light in their emptiness. Arya wiped the knife on her cloak, throwing her broken bonds to the side. She retrieved her dagger and sword from Zalmadoc’s corpse, inspecting them carefully before sticking them in her own belt.

Then she went to work on his face.

- - - - -

Colden still couldn’t believe he had killed a bear. An actual freaking bear. When it came out from behind that gate, he thought he was doomed. But then he had killed it. He didn’t have time to relish the feeling of pride, however, because he had a much more serious problem on his hands. His friends were about to be put to death, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. And then, to top things off, Arya had actually agreed to it. He had no idea what she was thinking.

He lay on the wooden walkway now, covered from head to toe in gooey black mud, and reeking like a swamp. The chilly night air made him shiver in his wet clothes, and he was still having trouble getting his breath back after the ordeal in the pit. He was a complete mess. He wouldn’t be up to saving anybody from wild animals any time soon.

He lifted his head when he heard loud footsteps approaching. Zalmadoc came into view, striding back onto the walkway. And Arya was nowhere to be seen. Colden’s mind immediately jumped to the worst. Had Zalmadoc killed her? Had he taken her to some remote corner of the keep and slit her throat where no one could hear her screams? The thought made him furious. He had been hired to protect her, after all. And he did not fail his missions. But also, more importantly, she was his friend. Of course, she might not think of them that way. He knew she didn’t like to get close to anyone; that much had been clear from the moment he met her. But he trusted her, and he hoped she trusted him.

Gritting his teeth, he stormed over to Zalmadoc, blocking the man’s way. Zalmadoc paused, looking down at him.

“Where is she?” Colden asked, voice dangerously level. “What the f*ck did you do to her?”

Zalmadoc just sighed. “Get out of my way, boy.”

“You bastard.” Colden seethed. “You killed her, didn’t you? You f*cking bastard!”

“Stop.” Zalmadoc put out a hand. “Your lady is fine. Trust me .”

Colden opened his mouth to respond, then stopped abruptly. ‘ Trust me’. The words echoed in his ears. There was something about the way the man had said them…

Without really knowing why, he backed down, stepping aside. Laeric shot him a funny look, but he ignored it. Zalmadoc gave him a grateful nod, then walked forward to stand beside the wooden pole with the ropes tied to it. He raised his hand again, and everyone stopped talking. Within a few heartbeats, the chief had everyone’s attention.

“Men!” He called. “I have reached an agreement with the young lady. It seems that she wants an honorable death for her companions. They will go into the pit… But they shall not be food for our beasts. No. We shall kill them ourselves.”

Confused murmuring broke out among the crowd. Colden himself was blinking rapidly, trying to make sense of the statement. Arya had arranged for them to get killed by savages instead of animals? How was that any better? Did she know something he didn’t? Or maybe she just wasn’t thinking straight. Unless… unless this was some sort of plan she had come up with. A way for them to escape. He decided to trust her, and waited silently to see what would happen.

“A strange request.” Zalmadoc continued. “But one worthy of honoring. So now, my fellow warriors; into the pit with you. You shall be the ones to slay these cowardly souls. All of you in, I say! Whoever strikes the killing blow shall be rewarded!”

There was a moment of hesitation; it seemed the wild men were thoroughly confused by the command. But none of them were very bright, and no one wanted to disobey their chief. So, one by one, they went into the pit. Some jumped down, landing heavily on the floor below, while others lowered the rope ladder and began to descend the rungs. The prisoner’s guards, however, stayed where they were, unsure of what to do. Zalmadoc gestured for them to follow their brethren into the pit.

“The prisoners will be of no harm to me.” He said. “I shall throw them down to you. Go now.”

Reluctantly, the guards left the prisoners with Zalmadoc. As soon as the last one of them had descended the rope ladder, Zalmadoc hauled it up, presumably to ensure that the prisoners would not escape once they were thrown down. He stood at the edge of the pit, looking down at the savages amassed below him. There were nearly forty, as Colden had estimated before, all waiting expectantly, looking up at their leader. Zalmadoc didn’t move.

“Well come on now!” One of the men bellowed. “Throw ‘em down and let’s be done with it!”

And then, Colden’s world was turned upside down.

Because Zalmadoc took off his face.

It was the strangest and most horrifying thing Colden had ever seen. The huge man reached up to his head, grabbing hold of his skin, and pulled it off, like it was some sort of mask. And then it got even more unbelievable. Colden’s mouth dropped open, and his heart skipped a beat. His eyes were telling him one thing, and his brain another. This couldn’t be possible. There was no way.

There, standing where Zalmadoc had just been, was Arya.

She was dressed in the garb of the wild men, but there was no mistaking who it was. Her face was expressionless. Her grey eyes looked down on the savages with no semblance of pity or mercy. There was a collective gasp from the pit. It seemed that they were just as surprised as Colden.

“What-” Colden started haltingly, not sure he could trust his own tongue. “Arya… how…”

Laeric, Tedrin, and Barroth, were equally stunned. Laeric was clutching his chest, and took several steps back. Barroth looked like he was about to faint. And Teidrin simply stared with wide eyes, unblinking. All of them watched as Arya drew a small knife, the smooth steel flashing in the firelight of the torches.

“Arya…” Colden said again, mind racing. He looked down at the wild men, trapped in their own pit. They were beginning to shout angrily, the noise growing into a steady roar of fury.

Colden gulped, looking at the knife in her hands. “W-what are you going to do?”

Arya her head to look at him. Her eyes remained stoic, and her voice was level as she spoke. “What does a wolf do when it is set loose among the sheep?”

Then, without a moment’s hesitation, she slashed the knife toward the wooden pole. It was a fluid strike, and the keen blade passed easily through the ropes attached to the pole, slicing through every single one of them. They all went slack, loose ends falling away. And then, slowly, all of the gates in the pit began to swing open.

What followed could only be described as a bloodbath. The wild men, numerous as they were, were no match for the starved beasts that came upon them with great fury. There were nearly twenty different animals; bears, wolves, boars, and even some large dogs. Screams began to fill the air as they tore into their prey, ripping and mauling without remorse. Some men tried to climb the wall, only to fall back down into the pit and be devoured.

Arya watched the hellish scene unfold before her. Men were dying, bleeding out on the ground. Others were being eaten alive as they screamed for mercy. Blood was everywhere, pooling in the mud and staining nearly every surface below. Horrible dying shrieks echoed throughout the stone courtyard. And as Arya looked down on the carnage she had wrought with her own hands, she whispered a single phrase into the night, drowned out by the terrible clamor below.

“Valar Morghulis.”

Chapter 18: Demons

Chapter Text

“When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.”

If she concentrated, she could clearly hear her father’s voice repeating those words, and picture the way he looked down on her with those kind, loving eyes. The memory was among her fondest; something she kept close to her heart, and treasured beyond anything of material worth.

Yet even now, her pack was falling apart.

Arya didn’t regret what she had done; it had been a necessary action. The ghosts of dead men no longer bothered her in the slightest. But it was the way that her companions looked at her that she couldn’t bear. They wouldn’t meet her eyes any more, and when they did, there was something in their gaze that nearly broke her every time. Fear. Watching them as they walked in front of her now, there was no mistaking it. They were afraid of her. And it was that fact that left an empty hole in Arya’s stomach, bigger than any number of dead enemies could fill.

Before leaving Gornhold, Arya made sure to go back and release Dolffe. It wasn’t that she owed him anything; no, she just thought it was the decent thing to do. It had seemed like he was on their side, and despite the fact that he was a one of the wild men, he didn’t deserve to rot away in a cell. He had done them no wrong.

Arya had found keys in Zalmadoc’s clothing, and used them to unlock Dolffe’s cell. The rest of her companions followed her at a distance, still watching her warily. She tried to ignore them, opening the iron-barred door and listening to the hinges squeal in protest. Dolffe was still lying down in the far corner, but he propped himself up when Arya entered, torch in hand. He squinted in the orange glow, trying to discern who had come.

“Lass?” He asked. “What’re you doin’ here?”

Arya tossed the keys onto his lap. “You’re free to go.”

Dolffe jolted fully awake, sitting up. He muttered something under his breath in some foreign language, then looked back up at Arya. “How the hell’d you get these? What happened to ol’ Zalmy?”

“He’s dead.”

“Could’ve guessed that.” Dolffe responded. “I meant how did he die?”

“I killed him.”

“And what? You kill the rest of ‘em too?”

“Yes.”

Dolffe stared into her eyes, his brow creased. She thought, at first, that he might be angry. After all, they had been his people, his kinsmen. Even after being imprisoned by them, he might hold a grudge against her for what she had done. After a moment, however, he let out a breath.

“Then I owe you my life, lass.”

Arya shook her head. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“And yet you’ve given me everything.” Dolffe countered. “I shall not rest until the debt is repaid.”

“Just leave. Go your own way. I’ll consider that your payment.”

She turned and left the room, paying no heed to Dolffe’s protests from behind her. She had given him a chance at freedom. There was nothing else to be done. Even so, her heart was heavy as she went. She didn’t say a word to anyone as they descended the tower staircase, contenting herself with watching the flickering shadows that her torch cast upon the walls. They were fast and fleeting, brief flashes of light pushing back the darkness. She wished she could burn this place to the ground. Burn through the stone, burn through the shadows, burn through the sinister malevolence that seemed to brood within the walls.

Arya tossed her torch onto the stone floor as they passed under the entry gate, watching it sputter out. Travelling without the light would be harder, but she didn’t want to risk attracting any more attention. They had been through enough for one day.

They walked for an hour or so. It was late in the night, and they would need some rest before the next day, but Arya wanted to get away from Gornhold first. The farther away, the better. She knew they would need to stop, though, and brought them to a halt under the shelter of a large, many-leafed tree. They weren’t near any roads, so they had been trekking through the wilderness, but Arya wasn’t worried. She knew that if they went West for a bit, they would come across the road again. This detour had cost them lots of time, but they were lucky that was the only thing they had lost.

They had recovered nearly all of their possessions, including their sleeping rolls, which they now laid down at the base of the tree. Arya distanced herself from the others, not wanting to talk. Those hopes were dashed, however, when Laeric approached her. Colden followed closely behind the older man, watching Arya expectantly. She sighed heavily, leaning back against the trunk of the tree and closing her eyes.

“M’lady…” Laeric started, rubbing his hands nervously. “I was thinkin’ we should talk.”

Arya remained silent, not opening her eyes.

Laeric glanced back at Colden, then cleared his throat. “All I mean is… Well, yer worrying us, m’lady. Actin’ strange, not talkin’...”

Arya exhaled, looking up at him. “I’m fine, Laeric.”

“But yer not.” He said. “I can see it in yer eyes.”

When she didn’t respond, Colden spoke up. “If we’re going to make it through this, Arya, we need to trust each other. That means trusting us, too. I know you don’t like it, but… Well, if you want to be a good leader, this is how you start.”

The words jarred Arya. Her muscles tensed, and she clenched her jaw. It was like there was a battle raging inside of her. She didn’t know why, she didn’t know how, and she certainly didn’t know who was going to win.

“What do you want me to say?” She asked.

“For starters,” Colden said, “You could tell us what the hell happened back there.” Laeric slugged him in the shoulder and hissed something under his breath, but Colden continued. “I’m serious. I mean, what, we’re not supposed to ask questions? That was one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever seen. Are you some kind of witch or something? Where’d you learn to do that?”

Laeric was glaring daggers at Colden. Clearly he hadn’t been supposed to be so… straightforward. Somehow, though, Arya found herself appreciating his bluntness. It made things feel less complicated.

There was a pause, then “Braavos.”

“Braavos.” Colden repeated flatly. “Yeah, I’ve been to Braavos too. But I didn’t learn how to change into a whole ‘nother damn person.”

Ary sighed again. “It’s a long story.”

Colden was about to respond, but Laeric beat him to it. His voice was low when he spoke, almost a whisper. “The faceless men? ”

Arya gave a nod. There was a short silence after that. Colden clearly had no idea what they were talking about, and Laeric didn't seem to know what to say. He opened and closed his mouth several times before sucking in a breath.

“I’ve heard the stories," he said, "But I never… yer one of ‘em?”

“I was.”

“I… I never knew.” Laeric said, almost apologetically.

Arya chuckled ruefully. “Not many people do.”

There was a another brief silence. Arya felt numb. She hadn’t really told anybody except Sansa about her time in Braavos. It felt wrong, like she was giving up some important secret. But at the same time, her heart felt lighter. They weren’t afraid of her. Of course not. She had been stupid to think it in the first place.

“Thank ye, m’lady.” Laeric told her. “For trustin’ us.”

He ushered Colden back to their sleeping roles, away from Arya. She lay down, trying to clear her mind. She hadn’t slept in a long while, and the events of the day pressed down upon her with an unearthly weight. Sleep would help, she told herself.

Over on the other side of the tree, she could hear her companions settling in as well. Colden’s voice drifted over to her, a harsh whisper. “Can anybody tell me what the f*ck a faceless man is?”

“Shut up.” Laeric whispered back. “And take first watch.”

A faint smile played at Arya’s lips as she listened to Colden’s grumbles. There was still conflict in her mind; a heated debate on whether or not she had done the right thing. But there was a clear victor emerging, and it put her at ease. Sleep was not so hard to achieve any more. It came quick and clear, dreamless and silent.

- - - - -

Colden woke Arya in the morning. All it took was a quick jostle and her eyes snapped open, already alert and on edge. When she saw his face, her expression softened slightly. She grunted, sitting up and brushing off the dead leaves that clung to her back. Colden appraised her with interest.

“You didn’t attack me this time.” He noted.

Arya shot him a glare. “Consider yourself lucky.”

He laughed. “Of course. Teidrin shot a lion, so we’ll be eating that for breakfast.”

Arya squinted at him. “What?”

“Joking.” Colden said. “I wanted to make sure you were really awake. We do have a couple of squirrels, though.”

Laeric had indeed started a fire, and two blackened squirrels were suspended over it. He, Barroth, and Teidrin were picking at it, pulling strips of flesh off and eating them. It was the same way they had been consuming most of their food; none of them cared much for manners or customs, Arya least of all. When she sat down to join them, she was surprised at how… normal it felt. There was some tension left over from the day before, but not much at all. Laeric greeted her kindly, and Barroth and Teidrin were too busy to notice that she was even there, which was exactly on par for them.

The squirrels were burnt and tough, but Arya barely noticed. They ate quickly, finishing both squirrels in a matter of minutes, then discarding the remains by the base of the tree. After the food had been disposed of, Arya had Barroth get the map out once more. Everyone gathered around it.

“Just to be clear this time around,” She said, “We’re going west . Following the path that Lord Elrond set for us.”

Everyone looked at Colden.

His face turned red. “You’re not still on about that, are you?”

Arya sighed, ignoring him. “We should reach this river here in a few days. The Isen. Then we’ll cross through the White Mountains and into the realm of Gondor. The steward there is on our side. He and his people should help us on our way.”

“Seems like we’re almost there.” Teidrin commented, his voice hopeful.

Just then, a branch snapped somewhere out in the woods. Arya froze, listening. A few seconds later, another branch snapped. Then another. And another. The cracking noises became more frequent, eventually turning into a consistent crashing sound. And it was growing louder.

Arya drew Needle with a flourish, pointing it toward the oncoming threat. The rest of her companions scrambled for their weapons, standing behind her. The crashing grew nearer. Arya briefly wondered what it could be. A wild animal? More savages? Some other, more dangerous threat? Images of black riders flooded her mind. Her right arm ached, the old wound reawakened. Her stance faltered. Needle’s point lowered slightly.

Whatever was coming, it was nearly upon them. The dense underbrush hid the approaching enemy from sight, but they could now see bushes shaking as it smashed through them. Beside Arya, Teidrin hefted a flaming log from the fire, his face a mask of determination and fury. Seeing him like that, Arya steeled her nerves. Needle leveled out again, her grip firm and unwavering.

Then the undergrowth burst open in front of them. A shape stumbled out, tall and broad. Arya yelled out and lunged toward it. But just then, the shape raised its head. Arya barely managed to stop herself in time, her blade coming to a halt just inches from the man that now stood before her. He stood there panting, breath coming out in short gasps. Familiar grey eyes looked up and met hers.

Boromir.

Chapter 19: Breaking Point

Chapter Text

For a few seconds, the only sound Arya could hear was her heart hammering wildly in her chest. She took a deep breath, waiting for it to slow. Boromir seemed flustered, too, as if he hadn’t expected to find them there. They stood like that, panting heavily as they looked at each other. Everybody seemed to be calming down as the adrenaline from moments before faded away. Teidrin dropped his log onto the ground, where the fire fizzled out against the moist leaves. The sound brought Arya to her senses. She stepped back. Her sword arm hung loosely at her side, but she didn’t put Needle away; a spark of suspicion still lingered in the back of her mind. Laeric and Colden seemed to be thinking the same thing, keeping their weapons trained on Boromir. The man, however, didn’t seem to be of any threat to them. He was breathing hard, gasping slightly as he tried to suck in the cold air. Arya glanced behind her.

“Get him some water.”

The command seemed to break everyone out of their stupor. Teidrin rushed back to their packs and retrieved his flask, returning with it quickly. Boromir accepted it gratefully, gulping down several mouthfuls before handing it back. He stood up straighter, the water giving him new strength, and Arya got a better look at his face.

He was a mess. His hair was soaked in sweat, clinging to his face, and his eyes were bloodshot. His cloak, which had been rich and fine when they had first set out, was now tattered and stained.

“My thanks,” He said, coughing a few times. “I have had nought to eat or drink since nightfall.”

“I’m glad you like it.” Arya said. “But I think we should get to the point. What are you doing here?”

Boromir walked over to the tree they had slept under, slumping down against the trunk. His sword clanked against the rough bark as he sat down, alerting Arya to its presence by his side. Suspicion still clouded her mind, but she tried to look past it, and waited silently for him to speak.

“The others are a few leagues North of this place. I parted from not two days ago, and have been searching for you since.”

Arya’s brow creased slightly as she listened to him. “But why?” She asked. “ I thought you would be across the mountains by now.”

Boromir sighed. “Indeed, we made for the mountain pass. Yet misfortune befell us, and we were turned back.”

“Turned back by who?”

“Rather you should ask ‘by what.’” Boromir said. “For it was the mountain itself that was nearly the death of us. Caradrhas did not take kindly to our feet upon his slopes. Had we continued on our path, I doubt that I would now be standing before you.”

Arya put a hand to her temple, trying to figure anything out. Everyone else was watching her. Of course they were. In a strange sort of way, she was the one in charge here. Boromir was in her hands now, not the other way around. She slid Needle back into her belt, resting a hand on the pommel. The stance gave her confidence.

“How long?” She asked. “Before they get here?”

“I have left a trail in my wake.” Boromir said. “One that might not be discovered by the enemy, yet read clearly by a ranger of the North. If fortune is with us, they should be in this very place before midday.”

He looked back the way he had come, and Arya followed his gaze. There was nothing there except evidence of his path through the bushes. She turned back to Boromir.

“We have food.” She told him, “You should eat. If what you say is true, we still have a while to wait.”

“I thank you again, my lady.” He said. “You have a kind heart.”

Arya couldn’t help but chuckle ruefully, but chose to ignore the comment. “I still don’t understand. Why risk your life to deliver us this message? Why split up at all? Wouldn’t it have been safer to find us together?”

“Safer, yes,” Boromir agreed. “But slower. We were in need of haste, as it was.”

“Why?”

Boromir hesitated, looking at the ground. “My lady… I fear that we are being… hunted. The nine are yet abroad, and they have not given up the chase.”

- - - - -

It was several hours later that the rest of the fellowship arrived. Boromir had been given the remainder of their burnt squirrels. He seemed a little put-off by the charred flesh, but made no comment, digging into it with vigour. Arya and her companions waited silently, keeping their eyes trained in the directions Boromir had come from. After Boromir had finished his meal, he joined them, arms folded across his chest. Seconds had turned into minutes, minutes had turned into hours, and hours had turned into what felt like an eternity.

Teidrin had suggested that Boromir blow his great horn to let the others know where they were, but Arya refused adamantly. After the events of the previous day, she had no wish to draw unwanted attention. Still, she felt like they would do something . Standing around was entirely unproductive. It went against her nature to waste time like that. Just as she was about to suggest sending out a scout, however, Laeric yelled out abruptly, pointing into the foliage.

Arya strained her eyes, but still couldn’t see anything. Then she caught the sudden glint of steel in the distance. Perhaps it was the reflection of the sun off of Gimli’s axe, or Aragorn’s sword. Whatever the case, the sight was a welcome one. She let out a breath that she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Aragorn was at the head of the group, and they were travelling in a pack, rather than single file. The reason for the formation was clear: They weren’t risking any stragglers being picked off by potential attackers. It made sense, Arya knew, but it still left her feeling unsettled. She had known the Nazgul were still out there, but had nearly forgotten about them. After all, it had been several weeks, and they hadn’t seen or heard any sign of the shadowy men at all. It was like they had just… Vanished. That thought did even less to calm Arya’s nerves.

Aragorn was bent over as he walked, pausing occasionally to examine the bushes around him. He was coming along the same path Boromir had taken, so Arya assumed he was tracking the other man. When he finally looked up from his search, his eyes landed on Arya. Although his face betrayed little emotion, his shoulders sagged visibly, as if he had just set down a great burden. Behind him, the other members of the fellowship spied their friends as well. A cry of joy sounded from somewhere near the back of the grouping; Arya assumed it was Merry. Aragorn walked toward her, and his pace was now far more relaxed. He covered the distance between them in a few strides. Arya stepped forward to meet him.

He let a smile slip onto his face as he looked down at her. “It seems, my lady, that our fates are intertwined still.”

Arya’s mouth twitched. She was aware of other reunions going on around her; Boromir was greeting Gimli, Colden was showing Pippin the new scar running across his palm, and Barroth laughed at something Legolas had said. She focused on Aragorn’s face, still looking down at hers.

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away for long.”

The ranger laughed. “Indeed. But truly, my heart is glad. There was no certainty of finding you, and I will rest easier now that we are reunited. For I fear that there is a great evil in our wake.”

“Boromir told me.” She said, “The nine. The Nazgul. Why did they wait so long to make their move? We left the safety of Rivendell weeks ago.”

“One might only guess.” He responded. “Perhaps they were waylaid by some unforeseen circ*mstance. Perhaps they lost the scent of the ring, by whichever foul art they use to seek it.”

“Bad timing for them to start now.”

Aragorn shrugged. “I would not say so. We are near the borders of Rohan, where we might seek refuge. There we would not be pursued, I deem. And the Nazgul are not upon us yet. Only their cries in the night tell us of their pursuit. It will be days ere we are found.”

“I thought you didn’t want to go to Rohan.” Arya said. “It would bring you too close to Isengard, wouldn’t it?”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow. “You are learning swiftly, I see. Indeed, we will be in peril from the treacherous grasp of Saruman. With the path of Caradhras closed to us, however, only two options remain: To risk the passage into Rohan, or to brave the darks of Moria. The ringbearer has chosen our path for us. I believe it was his desire to stay closer to your side, my lady.”

“A smart choice.” Arya laughed.

Gandalf walked up to them, leaning heavily on his staff. His hat was pulled down low over his brow, masking his face in a misleading glare. In truth though, his eyes were soft, crinkled around the edges and smiling from within. To Arya, it felt like no time at all had passed since their parting at the crossroads. His kindly face was so engraved in her memory, every wrinkle and hair. He coughed twice, as if trying to clear out some smoke from his lungs. Both Aragorn and Arya looked over at him.

“As good as it is to see you all again,” He said, “There are far more pressing matters at hand.”

“Of course.” Arya turned her body to face him. “I hear you plan on cutting through Rohan.”

“Not a very wise course of action, I fear.” Gandalf said. “But a lesser of evils. It was my hope, lady Arya, that you might accompany us farther than you had planned. Come to the hall of Theoden, and then on to the White City. It seems now that breaking the fellowship was a mistake; stay with us until we reach Gondor. Your path shall not be lengthened much, if at all.”

Arya looked over at Teidrin, who was laughing with Barroth and Legolas. “Sure.” She said, “I think that would be good for their morale.”

“And not your own?” One of Gandalf’s eyebrows shot up in a way that made Arya look down at her feet. She hated how he always seemed to know more about her than she knew about herself. She was just opening her mouth when her response was cut short by a commotion near the edge of the clearing.

Someone yelled out in fear, the sound cutting through the air like a scythe. Then the metallic ring of a sword being drawn echoed through the woods. Everyone spun to face the source of the noise.

When she saw the scene before her, Arya’s alarm was dwarfed by her surprise.

Boromir had drawn his sword, and was pointing it at a figure that had just emerged from the treeline. Sam and Pippin, who had been near him at the time, were huddled behind his back. He had a protective arm out, as if shielding them. Eyes flicking over the grouping, Arya quickly turned her attention to the mysterious newcomer.

He was a large, burly man, dressed in animal skins, his hair unkempt and curly. He would have been threatening, except that he had his hands up in sign of surrender, and was slowly backing away from Boromir’s outstretched sword arm. Arya squinted, trying to get a closer look at his face. It was hard to see in the shadowy light, but with his wild beard, stern brow, and bright eyes, it almost looked like…

“Dolffe?” The question wasn’t so much meant to be confirmed; she could already tell who it was. What she was really confused about was what he was doing there.

“Lass.” Dolffe stopped backing away, relief cascading over his features as he saw her.

Arya started toward him, but Boromir blocked her path with the same arm he had been using to shield the hobbits. “Stay back, my lady. Here is a Dunlending. His kind have plagued this region for far too long, and now have allied themselves with the traitor Saruman.”

Arya pushed past his arm. “I know him, Boromir. I saved his life. Dolffe, what are you doing here?”

“I needed to warn you, lass-”

“Be silent!” Boromir cried, cutting him off. “Poison us not with your treacherous speech. I will have your head, savage! Your crimes will not go unpunished. You have betrayed the very race of men with your foul practices. Kneel now, and I will give you the mercy of a quick death.”

“Boromir, let him speak!” Arya said, exasperated.

“Nay, lady.” Boromir inched closer to Dolffe, who was watching him carefully. “The servants of the White Hand cannot be trusted. He will seek to poison our very minds with his words. Such is the way of savages.”

“Savages!” Colden step forward now, spear in hand. “He has done you no wrong, you fool. The only savage here is yourself, ready to skewer an unarmed man.”

There was a heavy silence. Arya held her breath. She could see Aragorn’s face off to one side, and the fear in his eyes as he waited for Boromir’s reaction.

When Boromir turned to face Colden, his eyes were filled with a vengeful fire, but when he spoke, his voice came out in a deathly whisper. “Recant your words.”

Colden looked more frightened than Arya had ever seen him, but to his credit, he stayed his ground. “No.”

Another tense silence. Then Boromir turned his sword upon Colden. The steel flashed in the light of the sinking sun, it’s tip bathed red by the light as if covered in blood. There was a collective feeling of shock around the clearing. Arya saw most of the company reaching for their own weapons; Legolas fitted an arrow to his bowstring, Gimli rubbed the handle of his axe, and Aragorn was reaching for his own sword.

Boromir looked hard at the younger man in front of him. “I cannot forgive this insult.”

“And?” Colden raised his chin defiantly. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Colden!” Arya hissed, but was too late.

Boromir let out such a heated breath that Arya was surprised fire didn’t come out of his nose. “I will do what I must.” He raised his blade as if preparing to strike.

“No!” Arya stepped in between the two men. She had not drawn her weapon, but felt sure that Boromir would not strike her. As it turned out, she was right. He hesitated, his blade hovering in the air above his head as his muscles strained to keep it in place.

“My lady,” He said, all of the patience gone from his voice. “Move away. My quarrel is not with you.”

“Your quarrel is with me.” Arya corrected. “Colden is in my service, and under my protection. You will not harm him.”

Boromir hesitated a moment longer, then lowered his sword to the ground. “Out of respect for you, Lady Arya, I will forgive his insult. But the savage must die. He is a danger to our cause.”

Dolffe shifted uncomfortably. Arya had expected him to run once the confrontation started, but, surprisingly, he stayed right where he was. He looked like he wanted to say something, but wisely held his tongue.

“No.” This time Arya did draw Needle, shifting over so that she stood between Boromir and Dolffe. “He is also under my protection. You have no right to judge a man’s loyalties as soon as you lay eyes upon him.”

She was surprised by her own words. After all, she barely knew Dolffe. This was the first time she had seen him outside of that dingy cell. He had even admitted to being the former leader of the group of Dunlendings she had slaughtered only the night before. But killing him was wrong. She knew that. He hadn’t done anything to harm them.

“He is a Dunlending.” Boromir repeated, voice dangerous. “They all serve the same master. If we let him go, he will tell the enemy of our movements. We will all be dead ere we reach the borders of Rohan.”

Arya’s mind raced. “You don’t know that.”

“He’s right, my lady.” This came from Gimli. The dwarf moved to stand beside Boromir, axe in hand. “We cannot leave this man alive. Please, stand aside. You cannot defend him alone.”

“You think she’s alone?” Colden stepped forward, earning a glare from Boromir. Laeric, Teidrin, and Barroth quickly followed, forming a wall. All of them drew their weapons.

In response, Legolas joined Boromir and Gimli, hand brushing the feathers of his arrow. “I regret that it has come to this, Lady Arya.” He said. “But you must not defend this man. I am sworn to protect the halfling, as long as there is breath within my lungs. Who knows what harm this small act of mercy may do?”

The Hobbits backed away to the trunk of the large tree at the center of the clearing, standing in a tight circle, out of harm’s way. Aragorn and Gandalf stood to the side, watching the standoff with growing dismay.

Boromir ran a dubious eye over the five figures in front of him, then looked at the elf and dwarf that stood beside him. He seemed to be weighing the odds in his mind. “My lady, I would remind you of your promise to Lord Elrond. You swore to protect the ring and its bearer. This action is necessary for that protection.”

“Promises?” Arya said, her voice rising. “Yes, I left Rivendell on a promise. A promise that I was fighting for the right side. The good side. Yet here you stand, ready to put an innocent man to the sword. So tell me, my lord, what exactly are promises worth to you?”

Boromir grimaced. “You would draw blood here?”

Arya stilled, his words jarring her. What was she doing? Drawing a sword on her own companions? This was crazy. But then she thought of what would happen if she stood down. Dolffe would be killed. He was here because of her, so his death would be on her hands. Just because Boromir would be the one swinging the sword didn’t change that fact.

“I would.” Arya got into ready position, Needle held firmly in her grip. “If you force me to.”

“Stay this madness!” Gandalf cried, striding forward. “A plague on you all! Have you forgotten your duty? Your honor? We are all fighting for one purpose. Do not let vanity and pride tear that same purpose apart!”

His words made everyone pause. Doubt flooded Arya’s mind. On some level, she knew that the wizard was right. This was a terrible mistake. But she also knew that she was right. This matter could easily be resolved, but she would not be the one to back down. Focusing hard, she pushed the doubt aside, leaving only iron resolve in its place. She couldn’t afford to have any qualms about what she was doing. She couldn’t afford hesitation.

“Lass…” Dolffe started again, taking advantage of the monetary silence. Boromir stiffened, but said nothing this time. After a moment, the Dunlending continued cautiously. “Lass, I said I needed to warn you. There’s no time for this fightin’. You have to go. All of you. Now .”

Arya furrowed her brow, momentarily distracted. “Why?”

As if in response, a loud gasp emanated from her side. She looked over sharply. The noise had come from Laeric. The old man let out another, softer gasp, then coughed wetly. His face was stricken, mouth hanging open in shock. His arm fell limply to his side, the sword sliding out of it and falling to the ground with a resounding thud.

Immediately, Arya knew something was wrong. That hadn’t been a normal sound.

She looked over in time to see a glistening black arrowhead protruding from his chest.

Chapter 20: Shattered

Chapter Text

Chaos.

That was the only word Arya could think of to describe what happened next.

Laeric dropped to his knees, coughing out a wad of blood. He began to fall sideways, but Arya dropped down and caught him. She looked at the body in her arms with horror-filled eyes. Laeric’s eyes were wide too, whether with shock or pain she couldn’t tell. His body felt limp and cold. He stared blankly toward the sky with his one good eye, shivering uncontrollably.

“Laeric…” There didn’t seem to be anything else to say.

Laeric’s gaze seemed to latch onto her face. The ghost of a smile passed across his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“M’lady…” He whispered softly. Blood began pooling in his mouth, seeping out of the corners. He tried to say something else, but only ended up making a horrible choking noise. A spray of red spurted from between his lips, which were moving silently, mouthing something unintelligible.

Arya wasn’t even aware of what was going on around her. She could have been sitting in the middle of a battlefield, and she wouldn’t have noticed. All she could fixate on was the dying face in front of her. Laeric’s body gave one final convulsion in her arms, then went perfectly still. He could have been sleeping, except for the expression of shock that still lingered over his features; one final mask that he would wear for eternity.

Slowly, the world faded back into existence. Arya could discern yells and shouts. The twang of bowstrings echoed in her ears. One voice in particular seemed to be repeating one word, over and over, almost like a prayer.

“Arya! Arya! Arya!”

She looked up slowly, letting Laeric’s corpse fall to the ground. Her vision became filled with Colden’s face, shouting at her, eyes frantic. She blinked once, twice. Then reality flooded back to her, rushing over her body with a sensation like running water. Colden’s voice became clear, drowning out the other noises of battle that seemed to come from all around them.

“Arya! Arya, come on!”

She stood up quickly, snatching Needle off of the ground. She must have dropped it there when Laeric had fallen. Strange. She hadn’t even noticed.

Colden grabbed her by the arm, and they ran together, away from the body of their fallen friend. More arrows whistled through the air, most flying harmlessly past, while a few lodged in nearby trees or ricocheted off of stone's in the ground. As they ran, Arya spotted other members of the fellowship running as well. There was Gimli, a little ways off, taking cover behind a large boulder. On her other side was Gandalf, shepherding Frodo and Sam away from the clearing. He had an arrow stuck in his hat like a feather, but didn’t seem to notice.

Arya didn’t know where anybody else was, and didn’t really have time to look. Colden guided her, grasping her arm he sprinted for cover. She was grateful for his help; her head was spinning so much that she doubted she could have made her way to safety alone.

Soon they were crouched behind a fallen tree with thick, grey bark. Boromir was pressed to the ground beside them. Arya glanced at him, saw the anger gone from his face, replaced with surprise and confusion. She thought about their feud, only moments ago. It seemed so stupid now. So pointless. As if to emphasize her point, an arrow whizzed through the air just above their heads, making them all duck.

Then, suddenly, the arrows stopped. The air became still and silent, like the calm before a storm. Arya took the opportunity to clear her head. They were under attack. She didn’t know why. She didn’t even know who was attacking them. But then again, she thought, it didn’t really matter. Whoever it was, they had killed Laeric. And she was going to make them pay.

Colden raised his head and peeked over the top of the log. He only looked for a second before crouching down again.

“What’d you see?” Arya asked.

Colden shook his head. “Nothing. I don’t know where they are.”

Arya wiped the blood from her gloved hands absentmindedly. “We can’t stay here. They could be flanking us right now, for all we know.”

Beside her, Boromir stirred. “There is a knoll, not far to the West. There we could make our stand.”

Before they could discuss the matter any further, however, the world erupted into chaos once again. Just as suddenly as the arrows had stopped, a new attack began. A dozen armored figures came charging through the trees, accompanied by a roaring battle cry that seemed to shake the very ground.

Orcs.

Arya had, of course, been told about the creatures. Elrond had mentioned them, calling them dark, evil, misshapen beasts with a tendency for violence. Words, however, had not prepared her for the real thing. She hadn’t even thought very much about it; Elrond had assured her that she was unlikely to cross paths with them, and if she was being honest, part of her had never really believed they actually existed.

Her doubt was put to an end by the brutes barreling through the forest. They were large, hairy, and lanky, with arms that looked like they would touch the ground should they be left to dangle. Each of them was clad in black armor, and held a crudely forged weapon. They yelled and jeered as they drew nearer, mouths open wide to reveal sharp, crooked fangs. Arya looked at Colden and Boromir beside her, and they seemed to reach an unspoken agreement. At the same time, they stood up, turning to face the coming onslaught.

Before the first orc had even reached the trio, it stumbled and fell, one of Legolas’ arrows lodged in its throat. Arya didn’t know where the elf was hidden, and didn’t have time to look. The rest of the orcs were descending upon them with inhuman speed, swords held high. Not waiting for them to attack, Arya leapt over the fallen tree to meet them.

She ducked into a roll as soon as she hit the ground, easily dodging the first strike that came her way. The orc barely had time to react before she was on her feet again, and Needle passed straight through a gap in his armor. He dropped to his knees, clutching at his abdomen, but Arya had already moved on.

She danced aside as another orc swung a large spiked mace, then jumped back to avoid the wide sweep of a broadsword. Her own sword was silent and deadly, already glistening with blood as she drove it through the neck of one of her attackers. At the same time she drew her dagger, sending it flying with a flick of the wrist. It flew end over end until it lodged itself in the eye of a particularly hideous orc, half a head taller than the rest. He was dead before he hit the ground.

A moment later, two new yells resounded from behind her back; Colden and Boromir leaping into the fray to join her. Their presence offered her a brief reprieve. The orcs that had been swarming around her were now being driven back, Boromir’s sword making a shimmering arc through the air as he swung it again and again, relentless in his assault. Colden knocked an orc down with the butt of his spear, then drove the tip downward with the force of a thunderbolt.

Arya barely paused a moment before sprinting to join her companions. Her presence only made the battle even more one-sided. They finished off the remaining orcs quickly, littering the ground with their bodies. The final orc tried to flee, but he didn’t make it more than a few paces before Colden hurled a spear into his back.

The trio stood in the clearing, panting, surrounded by the bodies of their enemies. The grassy forest floor was trampled flat, and pools of steaming black blood pocked the ground like craters.

Arya went and retrieved her dagger, pulling it free from the orc’s head easily. She wiped it on her cloak, noted how dark and thick the blood seemed. As if she needed any more proof that these monsters had not been any sort of men. Legolas emerged into the clearing just then, creeping like a hunter, an arrow fitted to his string.

“It would seem you have slain them all.” He said, eyes roaming the multitude of corpses.

Boromir scanned the trees, still dark and silent. “I think not. This was but the first wave. We must retreat to the knoll I spoke of. Tell me, Legolas, where are the halflings? Are they safe?”

“I know not.” The elf said. “We were separated. Neither have I seen any of the others. They were driven off, it seems, when the attack began.”

“We should search for them.” Colden said, picking up his spear. “If what you say is true, and there are more of these bastards out there, we’d be wise to stick together.”

Boromir nodded. “Indeed. But we cannot-” He was cut off by a strange sound, almost like a loud crack. It was followed by another, then several more. Soon the forest around them seemed to come alive with cracking and crunching noises. It took Arya a moment to figure out what was going on. Then she remembered. It was the same noise Boromir had made as he charged through the forest and into the clearing. Except this time, it was much, much louder.

Colden’s eyes grew wide as he came to his senses as well.

“Run!” He said, gesturing frantically. “Run! Make for the hill, or whatever! We need to get out of here!”

Nobody argued. They began running, sprinting wildly away from the source of the noise. Just as they were leaving the clearing, another army of orcs erupted from the opposite treeline, hot on their heels. Judging by the sound of their jeers and tromping feet, Arya guessed that there were at least fifty, if not more. She pumped her arms even faster, struggling to keep up with Colden and Boromir. Legolas was far ahead of them all, running swiftly and surely through the forest, pausing every now and then to fire an arrow back into the approaching horde. A few orc-arrows flew past Arya, too, speckling the ground in a sporadic pattern.

Just when she felt her legs begin to weaken and falter, the knoll Boromir had spoken of came into view. It was a large outcropping of rock that jutted from the earth like the fist of a giant, it’s sides high and sheer. It would make for a perfect spot to defend, if only they could reach it. And it was close. So close.

Adrenaline surged through Arya’s veins. She ran faster than ever, arms and legs burning. The orcs were closing in. She knew that, even without looking. Their ugly yells and bellows were drawing nearer every second. She just had to make it a little bit farther. Just a little bit-

Legolas stumbled suddenly, crying out in pain. A black-feathered arrow protruded from his shoulder. He fell forward, tripping over a log and landing hard on the ground. Colden and Boromir were still running, seemingly oblivious to their fallen comrade. Legolas groaned, trying to rise shakily to his feet.

Arya didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop.

She ran past Legolas, eyes glued to his prone form. There was nothing she could do, she told herself. There was no time. She just had to make it to the knoll. Then she would be safe. She just had to make it…

That was the thought racing through her mind when something hard collided with the back of her head, and the world went dark.

Chapter 21: A Dark Horizon

Chapter Text

“Arya! Arya!”

Colden stumbled through the trees, breathing hard. His clothes were torn and bloodstained, but he hardly noticed. He hardly felt anything, to be perfectly honest, other than a cold feeling of dread in his stomach.

Other shouts echoed through the forest as well, Gimli and Boromir’s voices ringing out faintly.

“Frodo! Sam!”

“Merry! Pippin! Legolas!”

He knew the hobbits were missing. Knew Legolas was missing. But at the moment, he didn’t really care. Couldn’t care. Because he had failed. He had sworn himself to Arya. Sworn to protect her. And yet here he was, alive and well, and she was missing.

So he only called her name, trying not to let the fear in his heart seep into his voice. Hoping against hope that he wouldn’t find a body on the ground.

And then his eyes caught the glint of metal in the leaves, not ten feet away. Somehow, he knew what it was. Standing up, he walked forward slowly, mind in a daze. When he reached the object, he stooped, picking it up gently.

Needle.

Anger gripped him, washing through his mind like a red wave. He clenched the small sword tightly. Visions of revenge danced through his head. Of shoving his spear through… Who? He didn’t even know. His rage abated, muscles loosening. There was no sign of Arya other than her sword. That was a good thing, wasn’t it?

There was no telling how long he stood there, staring at the ground. His mind was disconnected from the world, wandering in a void of darkness. The shouts in the distance stopped after a while, but Colden hardly even noticed. He was only pulled back to reality when a hand gripped his shoulder suddenly, and he spun around. Aragorn stood behind him. The tired, defeated expression on the ranger’s face completed the feeling of despair that permeated the air.

“Arya…” Colden started thickly. His tongue felt like lead in his mouth, and he was forced to swallow. Aragorn glanced down at the sword in his hand, then back up to his face.

“Do not believe that all hope is forsaken.”

Colden met his eyes. “How? How can I not believe that? Arya’s missing, Laeric’s dead, and we’re stuck in the middle of this bloody forest. f*ck ! We should never have come down here with you idiots!”

Aragorn didn’t answer at first. He gazed off into the distance. Colden almost thought he saw a shadow of guilt pass across the man’s face.

“There is always room for hope, even when the horizon is darkest,” He said at last, “For no night can last forever. Lady Arya is captured, not dead. The same seems to be true for Merry and Pippin.”

His words made Colden pause. He remembered that Aragorn must be going through the same thing that he was. After all, Arya wasn’t the only one that was missing. He calmed down, softening his voice. “I know. I know it could be worse. That it still might be. It’s just hard to remember that, sometimes. What about the other hobbits? And Legolas? Have you found them?”

“I tracked Frodo and Sam about a league to the South, where I lost their tracks in a stream.” Aragorn told him. “It seems that they escaped, in the heat of the fight. As for Legolas…” He shifted. “Come with me.”

Colden didn’t like the sound of that. The sense of foreboding only increased when Aragorn turned sharply, disappearing into the trees. Colden slid Needle into his belt and followed quickly, curiosity mingled with dread.

Orc bodies lay everywhere, small black mounds leaving a trail through the forest. Aragorn seemed to be following that trail, and Colden wasn’t far behind him. He saw that many orcs had been decapitated, their severed heads lying feet away, connected to the bodies by no more than an oozing pool of black blood. Gimli, most likely. Colden had never seen the dwarf fight before, but immediately made a note to have more respect for him in the future.

After following the hideous path for a few minutes, they arrived at the knoll. Colden remembered clambering up it’s rocky walls, with Boromir just behind him. He remembered collapsing at the top, utterly exhausted. But for the life of him, he couldn't remember what had happened to Arya. She had been right there, running with them. Legolas had been there too. And now… He had no idea.

At the top of the knoll, he found Legolas.

Boromir, Gandalf, and Gimli were there as well. Legolas was flat on his back, head resting on a discarded cloak. His eyes were drifting, unfocused. Gandalf was stooped over him, muttering under his breath, but as far as Colden could tell, it wasn’t doing any good. Gimli and Boromir barely glanced up when Aragorn and Colden approached. They too were watching the elf, eyes dark.

Colden wanted to say something, ask what was happening, but he restrained himself. This clearly wasn’t the time for that. He bit his lip, a sinking feeling growing in his stomach as he tried to ignore unwelcome thoughts. Gandalf’s muttering became faster and more urgent, closer to a desperate prayer than any kind of incantation. With detachment, Colden realized that he had already given up hope. Legolas was gone. Dead. He didn’t even try to persuade himself otherwise. So it came as no surprise when Gandalf stood shakily, face full of a deep sorrow. The look in his eyes said it all.

“What devilry is this,” Boromir said through clenched teeth, “That one so fair should be brought low by such a hideous evil?”

“No devilry,” Aragorn responded, “Save the poison darts of the mountain orcs. I have known many a great warrior to be slain by but a single one. It is ill fate that guides such an arrow, but no more.”

He bowed his head. For the first time since he had known the ranger, Colden realized the burden he must have been carrying. There were times that the weight of the world seemed to rest upon his shoulders, but he had never faltered from his steady uphill climb. Even now, a light of grim determination burned in his eyes. His proud face showed no sign of despair. A sudden movement from Legolas brought Colden’s attention back to the ground. The elf was reaching an arm upward slowly, fingers grasping the empty air, as if he was trying to touch the sky. His eyes were glassy, clouded over with a dark mist.

His lips began moving soundlessly, then an incoherent mumble became audible. It sounded like he was trying to speak. After a moment, a few words became decipherable.

“The sky…” He whispered, voice trailing off, “...It stoops to touch the sea. So bright… silver wings, soaring - soaring high over the waves… ” Then he was silent, his body sagging down onto the grassy forest floor.

Aragorn stooped down, laying a calloused hand on the dying elf’s forehead. He closed his eyes, murmuring softly, pushing aside a lock of Legolas’s golden hair. Colden bowed his head. His spear felt heavy in his hands, and he let it slip to the ground. He had never felt so helpless. If death were an enemy he could fight, he told himself, it would never stand a chance. Aragorn stood, brushing leaves from his clothes. His face was ashen as he spoke.

“So passes Legolas, son of Thranduil, prince of the Woodland Realm.”

“May he find peace now, in a forest of green trees.” Gandalf added softly. “There shall his spirit walk forever.”

A long silence followed. Gimli cast his hood over his face, turning away. And Boromir knelt to the ground, his sword across his knees. No one seemed to know what to say. Of course, they had known the peril of their journey when they had set out. But knowing and feeling were two entirely different things. There wasn’t really any way to prepare for death. Not really. You could tell yourself it was coming. Try to brace yourself, fortify your mind and emotions. But it would always find a way to break through. Just then, Barroth and Teidrin came walking up the slope. Barroth was limping slightly, but otherwise, they seemed to be fine. In fact, Colden noted with a small spark of pride, Teidrin’s blade was splattered with orc-blood. As they came up to the body of Legolas, they both stopped.

“sh*t.” Barroth breathed, looking down at his dead companion. He closed his eyes, panting heavily with exhaustion. Teidrin also looked ready to collapse, but he stayed on his feet. No words were spoken for a long while. Then Boromir stood, sheathing his sword. He looked around, taking in all of the stricken faces.

“We have not the time to bury him,” He said. “Nor erect a cairn in his honor.”

“Then we burn him.” Colden answered.

Gandalf looked up as well. “Yes, I think a pyre will have to do. He deserves better than being left for the crows.”

Nearly an hour later, they had gathered a large pile of dry branches, stacking them at the base of the knoll. The pyre was not very good, but it served its purpose. Aragorn and Boromir bore Legolas’ body down the slope, placing it gently onto the rough wood. Then Gandalf stepped forward. He leaned heavily on his staff, and muttered a short prayer. After another brief silence, he touched his staff to the base of the pile, and it ignited swiftly. The flames raced from branch to branch, rising higher and higher. In a matter of seconds they had reached the top, and framed the body of Legolas with a ring of fire. Then they moved in, and the raging inferno blocked him from view. Colden watched from a distance, memories of Winterfell flooding his mind. And now his watch is ended , he thought darkly. If he thought about it, this wasn’t really much different, was it?

“So,” He started aloud “What now?”

“We search for Frodo.” Gimli said, hefting his axe. “And we ensure that the ring reaches the cracks of doom. Whatever the cost.”

There were murmurs of agreement, and Colden was about to object on Arya’s behalf. But then, unexpectedly, Gandalf did it for him.

“No.”

“No?” Gimli repeated. “What then shall we do?”

Gandalf studied him for a moment from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “Frodo and Sam are on their own road now. They have likely reached the Isen by now, perhaps even crossed it. We will be hard pressed to find them, even with a ranger as skilled as Aragorn. They will not come back; for all they know, we were all slain. Nay, they will make for the border of Gondor. That may be the safest route for them, for now. But we have another task ahead of us.”

“Indeed.” Aragorn moved to stand by the wizard’s side. “I would not leave our companions to torment and death at the hands of the orcs. We will pursue them, do whatever end we may find. For good or ill, the fate of the ring is out of our hands.”

Everyone considered the proposal. Leaving the ring behind did feel like a step in the wrong direction, even to Colden. After all, the fate of the world rested on it. But no one objected. Because all of them knew what the right choice was. It was only a matter of time before they made it.

Colden drew himself up, squaring his shoulders. “Well, what are we waiting for?”

Chapter 22: The Die is Cast

Chapter Text

The first thing to register in Arya’s mind was the smell. Before she had even opened her eyes, it hit her like a physical blow. A mixed stench of rotting food and of dead things, assaulting her senses. Despite the pain and discomfort, however, she managed to stay completely still. Completely silent. That was a skill that had taken years to master, but it had easily been worth every ounce of effort. When no one else knew you were awake, Arya had found, all sorts of opportunities presented themselves.

As her senses began to return, she listened intently, straining to hear something that would tell her where exactly she was. That was the biggest question on her mind at the moment. She seemed to be lying on some sort of stone slab, judging by the cool sensation of rock underneath her fingertips. Water dripped faintly somewhere in the distance, the falling droplets landing in an irregular pattern. She found the sound strangely soothing, and it allowed her to relax and focus. Okay. One thing at a time. Her weapons had clearly been taken; the familiar weight of both Needle and Catspaw no longer present at her sides. So she had been taken somewhere. Captured by those hideous orcs, more likely than not. The thought made her shudder inside, but she tried to maintain a positive outlook on the situation. There were no restraints on her arms or legs, as far as she could tell. That was odd. She was probably in a cell then, she decided. In some sort of keep, or castle, maybe. The stagnant air suggested that she was underground. Perhaps the orcs had taken her back to their lair, or stronghold, or-

“You are in the dungeons of Isengard.”

The unexpected voice was so jarring that Arya almost flinched involuntarily. It was so rich, so melodically and deep, that she was momentarily distracted from the fact that it seemed to have literally read her mind .

“Many who are brought here are not fortunate enough to see the inside of a cell,” The voice continued. “Unlike you, they are of no value to me. They hold no importance, And things of no importance tend to be… cast aside.”

Arya held her breath. She waited for some other voice to call out in answer, to let her know that her imagination was running rampant. But no. There was no response. Nobody else in the room. Which could only mean one thing. The voice was talking to her.

“What…” Arya hesitated, hating how weak her voice sounded. “What am I worth to you, then?”

There was a soft chuckle, but the deep tremor of the voice made it seem far louder than it actually was. “Can you not guess, child? You are worth everything to me.”

Arya sat up and cracked open her eyes. As it turned out, she had pictured her surroundings almost perfectly; a small, stone room with a dirt floor, lit only by a single torch on the wall. She had been lying on a narrow stone slab against one wall; the closest thing to furnishings the place had at all. And there, standing by the barred iron door, stood the owner of the voice.

After all her time in Middle-Earth, Arya would have thought she would be used to the surprises. Apparently not.

He was old: that was the first thing that came to mind, though it would later seem like an insignificant detail. His clothing, too, was peculiar. His robe, which was long and flowing, seemed to shimmer with different colors as it shifted, creating an endless rainbow kaleidoscope that seemed to draw her eyes in. She blinked rapidly, confused and disoriented. She had no idea who this was. Simply the dungeon warden, or perhaps a torturer? But no. Her eyes flicked to his long beard, then to the staff he held clasped in both hands.

“Saruman.” She had paid enough attention back in Rivendell to be fairly confident in her guess.

The wizard gave a wry smile, almost a sneer. “So Gandalf has turned you against me already. Expected, of course, but I cannot say that I am not disappointed.”

“He said you imprisoned him.”

“I did. And now I have imprisoned you. Does that make me your enemy? I suppose you shall have to decide. You have, after all, done far worse in your own time. How many men, I wonder, have died with your name on their lips? Or your face in their minds? And how many of them truly deserved such an end?”

The pointedness of the question threw Arya off for a moment, but she recovered quickly, ignoring it. “Where are my f- uh, companions? What did you do with them?”

“Hm, your companions?” Saruman seemed to find amusem*nt in pretending to ponder the question. “Perhaps they, too, are lying in cells at this very moment. Or perhaps I had them all slain. After all, keeping prisoners is taxing, and my wolves are ever so hungry…”

He was toying with her, Arya knew. Playing games. Fortunately, he wasn’t as good at them as he thought. She had seen his left eye twitch slightly when she had asked the question, as if it irritated him. A faint smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “They got away, didn’t they?”

Saruman regarded her keenly. “You are quite observant. Yes, most of your friends have evaded my reach, for the time being. However, they were not the prize I was searching for. No, no. You were.”

Arya’s muddled brain didn’t know what to make of that statement. He had been looking for her ? Why? Did he think she was weak, more likely to tell him something? The thought wounded her pride, made her angry.

“I… I won’t talk. You know that, right? Whatever you try to do, it won’t work.”

“Child,” Saruman’s voice took on a condescending tone. “Do you really believe that you have been kept alive for information? No, I have other means of attaining that. You do not know your own worth.” He paused, as if waiting for a reaction. When Arya said nothing, he continued. “There is great power within you. Strange power, marked by both light and darkness. I sensed it the moment you set foot on the shores of Lindon, and since then its presence has weighed heavily on my mind.”

Arya furrowed her brow, thoroughly confused. “Power? I… what?”

Saruman nodded. “I suspected you would be unaware. It has not manifested, after all. Perhaps it never will. And Gandalf… he would not have trusted you with the truth, even if he had the wits to know what you actually were.”

Arya bit her lip. What she was? He was just messing with her more, she decided. Some convoluted ploy to turn her against her allies. She trusted Gandalf. Maybe not completely, but definitely more than Saruman. This whole story was probably a worthless effort to make her crack. At least, that’s what she tried to convince herself.

“However,” Saruman carried on, “There is another matter I hope you might be able to help me with.”

He reached into the folds of his robes. When he withdrew his hand, he was holding her valyrian steel dagger. Arya shivered involuntarily at the sight of it, though she didn’t know why. “This blade,” Saruman said, “Was found on your person when you were taken captive. It is unlike any I have ever beheld. Ancient, and yet unknown to me, who am a master of ancient lore. How did you come upon such a weapon?”

Despite her rattled, aching mind, Arya kept her lips sealed. She stared back at Saruman, unblinking. Telling him about how she got Catspaw wouldn’t have any negative repercussions, as far as she knew, but there was no way to be certain. Anyway, she had learned that staying silent was the safest option. Even the most insignificant detail could prove deadly in the hands of an enemy.

Saruman waited for longer than she would have expected. For some reason, knowing about her dagger was important to him, it seemed.

Finally, though, he simply sighed, then moved toward the door. “Very well. I have more significant matters to attend to. Our conversation is at an end, for now. But I can promise you this, little lady: If you do not prove yourself to be useful, your time here will be… very unpleasant.”

“Oh, good.” Arya mustered her nerves, looked him dead in the eye. “I was getting bored.”

- - - - -

Teidrin’s lungs burned. His arms hurt, his feet ached, and his head was pounding relentlessly with what felt like the clomping boots of an entire army. In fact, there wasn’t a single part of him that wasn’t in agonizing, grueling pain. The only thing that kept him from collapsing were his friends, running at his side. They didn’t seem to be getting tired. They ran like cold, emotionless machines compared to him. And Teidrin refused to be the one that slowed them down. He strained his every muscle to keep up, trying to concentrate on anything other than the pain and weariness. To pass the excruciating hours, Teidrin turned to his thoughts. His thoughts, naturally, turned to the day before.

They had burned Laeric, too. That didn’t take very long, since the flames of Legolas’ pyre were still raging.

His body was not yet cold when they had found it again, lying exactly where Arya had dropped it. Teidrin had avoided looking at the old man’s face; it only brought unwanted memories. They had never been that close, really. Teidrin knew that Laeric had found him incompetent and annoying; most people did, if he was being completely honest. And he himself had always resented the way Laeric seemed to be taken more seriously by everyone else. But all of that seemed like a faded smudge now. Laeric had, after all, been one of the few remaining ties back to Westeros. With his death, home felt farther away than ever before.

But what really haunted Teidrin was just how suddenly it had happened. One second everything had been fine, they had all been safe, and then… bam. Laeric and Legolas dead, Arya and the hobbits missing. Without warning, without mercy. So the next time it happened, who was to say it wouldn’t be Barroth with an arrow in his chest? The thought chilled Teidrin to the bone. Barroth was the only family he had left. After their parents had been killed in a fire in Flea Bottom, the brothers had stuck together, grown close. They had traveled North together, started a new life, and… well, now Teidrin was terrified that their story would end here, in this godforsaken land, far from home. But he swore to himself that he would do everything in his power to stop that from happening.

For the moment, at least, there was not much fear of danger; only exhaustion, fatigue, and weariness. They were running through the rocky hills and valleys of the Enedwaith, just West of the Northern curve of the Isen. It had been Gandalf’s best guess that the orcs would take their captives this way, if indeed they were servants of the white hand of Isengard. Gandalf, Gimli, and Colden had stayed behind. The wizard, for all his gifts, would not have been able to keep pace, and there was always hope that Frodo and Sam would return to the place where they had been attacked. That had left Aragorn, Boromir, Barroth and Teidrin to pursue the orc host. Aragorn had been stopping regularly to stoop the ground and track their targets, at first, but eventually he had decided that speed was more important, so they were now running with the assumption that the orcs were making for Isengard. That seemed the most likely scenario, after all.

A rock caught Teidrin’s foot, pulling him from his thoughts by throwing him to the ground with a thud . He grunted, so tired that he was unable to cry out or even catch himself before his face connected with the hard-packed dirt.

“Halt!” Aragorn’s strained voice called out a moment later. The sounds of pounding feet came to a stop, and Teidrin could sense everyone’s eyes turning toward him. sh*t. He lay on the ground for a second, unable to resist using the opportunity to take a brief rest. His gasping breaths were close to the moist grass, and his hands grasped at the muddy earth. The dirt in his hands was coarse, refreshing, calming.

Heavy, uneven footfalls approached. Teidrin turned his head slowly, saw Barroth’s travelworm, dirty boots approaching. He waited for the harsh words, the disappointment, the annoyance. Instead, his brother plopped heavily onto the ground beside him. His panting, shallow breaths mixed with Teidrin’s own. It was a few moments before he spoke.

“You alright?”

Teidrin just groaned, rolling onto his back. He stared up at the sky, bright blue and cloudless. At least they weren’t running in the rain, he thought. He didn’t even want to imagine what that would be like.

Aragorn walked up a moment later. He looked winded, but nowhere near as tired as either Barroth or Teidrin. Well, he probably had experience doing this sort of thing, Teidrin told himself. Probably.

“We must not let up our pursuit.” Aragorn said. “Already the distance between us and our quarry shortens. If we hope to reach them before they reach the safeguards of Orthanc, we must hasten.”

“Just… just give us… a minute.” Teidrin huffed. He managed to sit up, but his chest was still rising and falling rapidly. One look around jolted his mind. Apparently, he hadn’t been paying attention to their surroundings as he had been running. Not only had the rocky, forested landscape transitioned into rolling fields and pastures, they seemed to be halfway up the slope of a rather large hill. Oh, Teidrin thought with a hint of amusem*nt, No wonder it was getting so hard. He would have laughed aloud if he had any breath to spare.

“Where did, uh, Boromir go?” Barroth asked, regaining his footing. Teidrin looked around, wondering the same thing. Boromir had been uncharacteristically quiet ever since the attack; it wasn’t hard to guess that he felt responsible for all the tragedies that had occured. No one else really blamed him, though. Well, Arya might, once they got her back… If they got her back…

Aragorn pointed up the hill, toward the rounded summit that was just out of view. “He has gone to the top, to look around, I think. Come, we should meet him there.” He offered Teidrin a hand. Teidrin grasped it, and was promptly pulled to his feet. He wobbled a little, but stayed upright. Barroth came over and slapped him on the back.

“You’re doing well, Tei. Keep going.”

Teidrin nodded mutely, trying not to think about how much longer they probably had to go. Just to the top of the hill, he told himself, just to the top of the hill . Aragorn and Barroth started climbing, and Teidrin was forced to follow. The slope wasn’t too steep, at least, curving gently upward like a wrinkle in some giant blanket. Nevertheless, his boots felt like they were made of bricks, and his legs threatened to buckle under the stress. One step. Two steps. He drove his body forward, mind blank, unfeeling, unseeing. Just when it felt like he would have to walk for eternity, a firm hand was placed on his chest, holding him back.

“Hey, you made it.” It was Barroth. “You’re fine. You made it.”

Teidrin stopped, eyes shut. He didn’t sit down- if he did, he was fairly certain that he wouldn’t be able to get back up again. But then Barroth’s voice registered in his mind, and he realized something was wrong. His brother’s voice had sounded sad, almost… defeated. He looked up.

“What’s wrong?”

Barroth stepped out of his way, wordlessly pointing down the other side of the hill. Teidrin’s gaze followed his finger. They were overlooking a land of sprawling green grass, with only a few low hills interrupting the landscape. The Misty Mountains rose just beyond the plains, towering over everything else. And just below the hill they were standing on, a wide, winding river ran, cutting through the landscape like a shimmering blue snake. Barroth, however, was pointing to a specific point in the river, and Teidrin saw why.

It was a low point; a ford, clearly, with a wide sandbar in the middle. And all around it- in the water, on the land, everywhere -there were bodies. Hundreds of corpses, of both men and horses, littering the riverbanks. The scene was brutal, even from so far away, and the rotten stench of death was already reaching his nostrils. Carrion birds circled overhead, some already dropping in to feast on the fallen. Teidrin gagged, closing his mouth and looking away.

“What the hell? What is this?”

“This,” Boromir said grimly, materializing at his side. “Is the Ford of the Isen river.”

Teidrin looked around at everyone’s faces, and still felt like he was missing something. “So… What does that mean?”

Aragorn scowled down at the desolate battlefield. “It means we are too late. I had hoped the orcs would be forced to go farther upriver to avoid the Rohirrim garrison at the fords. That would have hindered their crossing, and thereby allowed us time to shorten their lead, but… it seems that garrison is slain, down to the last man. A second, larger host from the North, I would guess, attacked them unawares. Now the orcs would have had no trouble with the river, and are likely almost to the very gates of Orthanc. Our only chance of success has been taken from us. It is clear now that the enemy has carefully planned this attack. We have failed.”

“Wait…” Teidrin stared downward, blinking. “That’s just… it? We’re done now?”

“So it would seem.” Boromir turned away in disgust, his face contorted angrily. “Curse the wizard Saruman! Has he then designed this strategy in secret, giving us false hope until he deems it time to reveal his hand? I would have slain his servants one by one, had we caught up to them. Curse it all!”

Teidrin was still trying to come to terms with the fact that he had done all that running for nothing . He felt dazed, like he had just found out that his entire life was one big lie. “But… Isn’t there anything we can do? There has to be something!”

Aragorn shook his head. “Nay. The die has been cast, and the roll is not in our favor. Our friends are now under lock and key within the tower of Orthanc. It would be folly to assault such a stronghold with naught but four warriors. We would need an army of thousands.”

Teidrin was silent. His mind spun, searching for ideas and solutions. None came to him. He could sense Barroth beside him, also thinking hard, but to no avail. Neither of them even knew enough to even begin to formulate a strategy, anyway. Luckily, they didn’t have to. Boromir did it for them.

“We may not have an army,” he said, “But there are others in this land who have as much reason to hate the white hand as we. And they will not readily turn down a summons from the prince of Gondor.”

His eyes turned to the East, where the rising sun was glowing brightly. Its rays warmed Teidrin’s heart, kindling a renewing fire. If we can’t rescue Arya from Isengard, He thought grimly, then we’ll burn the damn place to the ground to get to her. From the hard-set determination in everyone else’s eyes, he knew they all shared the same sentiment.

- - - - -

Strong, calloused hands grasped his arms, lowering him slowly off the edge of the precipice. He looked down toward the rocky riverbank below, trying to judge the distance. Five feet, maybe? Ten? There was only a narrow strip of slippery stone to land on, and missing it would mean a plunge into the roaring rapids of the Isen. He steeled his nerves, preparing for the drop, then looked back up.

“Alright, you can let go.”

Sam’s straining face came into view, sweat beading on his forehead. He was clearly struggling to hold up so much weight, but was also trying to hide it. “Are you sure, master?”

All it took was a solemn nod from Frodo, and Sam released his grip, grunting. Frodo dropped lightly, landing in a squat. He breathed a sigh of relief when his bare feet were firmly planted, and took a moment to look at the rushing river beside him. It was narrower, here- that’s why they had chosen this spot to cross -but it still looked far too menacing and dangerous to swim through. Perhaps if they could find a fallen log to use as a bridge of some sort… No, that wouldn’t work. They’d have to think of something else. Frodo looked back up at the top of the small cliff he had just descended.

“Your turn, Sam. Here, I can try to help lift you-” He was cut off when Sam’s body came plummeting downward. The hobbit landed hard on his back, the pots and pans strapped to the outside of his pack clanking loudly. He squirmed around for a second, arms flailing like an overturned turtle, before managing to roll to his feet.

Frodo’s eyes widened. “Sam!”

“Sorry, sorry.” Sam brushed himself off, blushing.

“I was going to help you, Sam!” Frodo admonished.

“Sorry, master.” Sam repeated, “I didn’t want you to trouble yourself. I thought I could make it.”

“Oh, Sam!” Frodo didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Don’t be a fool. You must think of yourself!”

“Beggin’ your pardon, Mister Frodo,” Sam rubbed his thumbs a little “But I ain’t as important as you.”

“No?” Frodo took a step closer to his friend. “And what do you think I would do without you, Sam? Starve and die in the wild, more likely than not. Or perhaps I should have fallen off this ledge and straight into the river, had you not been here.” Sam said nothing, eyes downcast. Frodo sighed. “Well, how do you think we shall cross? The water looks far too wild and deep. Is there not a bridge nearby?”

Sam finally looked up, the new problem seeming to invigorate him. “No bridge, Mister Frodo. But the river is all swelled up from that bit of rain last night, see? If we wait till morning, I wager it’ll settle down. Then we might chance a swim across.”

“Maybe,” Frodo looked over his shoulder pensively. Of course, there was nothing to see but the earthen wall they had just descended, but his thoughts were conveyed by the direction of his gaze. “But I think it would be unwise to wait here, with so little distance behind us.”

Sam followed his master’s gaze uncertaintly. “Do you… do you suppose they all died? Gandalf, and Strider, and Legolas and all the rest?”

“I don’t know, Sam. I like to think they made it away, somehow. But we can’t risk going back. Not now, not ever. We’ll finish this journey on our own.”

“But why, if you’ll pardon my askin’?” Sam said. “Shan’t we go back and see for ourselves what happened? We could stay quiet, and keep a distance, and…” He stopped when he saw Frodo shaking his head. “What is it, Mister Frodo?”

“I…” Frodo seemed to be struggling to find words. “I was going to leave anyway, Sam. Sometime soon. I was going to wait a while longer, but…” He didn’t need to finish. The attack had provided the perfect opportunity to make an escape. The perfect excuse, too. As horrible as it had been, a small, guilty part of his brain was grateful that it had happened. Now he was justified in leaving. He tried to push those thoughts away. They could be dead, he reminded himself. Merry, and Pippin, and…

If Sam sensed Frodo’s thoughts, he made no comment. Instead, his eyes turned sorrowful. He looked away. The setting sun framed his head in a somehow dismal light, highlighting the dirty streaks on his face and arms. Frodo was confused. He recalled what he had said, looking for the source of this new reaction from his friend.

“You… you weren’t thinking of takin’ me along, were you, Mister Frodo?”

Oh. Frodo hung his head, guilt washing over him yet again “I’m sorry, Sam. I wanted to, I really did. But, well, it wasn’t your burden. I didn’t want you to get hurt. Didn’t want you to suffer… because of me. But now that it has come to it-” He stepped forward, placing an arm on Sam’s shoulder, “-I’m glad you’re here with me.”

Sam sniffed once, but a smile passed across his face at Frodo’s words. “Me too. Me too.”

Without warning, he surged forward and wrapped Frodo in a tight embrace. His weight, combined with that of his pack and cooking gear, threatened to send both hobbits toppling over, but Frodo managed to keep his balance, returning the hug. After a moment they seperated, and Frodo offered a smile, which was returned. He really was happy to not be alone, and he knew Sam wouldn’t have had it any other way. Maybe it had been fate that they had escaped together, maybe luck. Whatever the case, Frodo couldn’t help but feel a sense of optimism that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He looked down at the churning river beside them. All they had to do now was cross the Isen, and then they would have a clear path into the realm of Gondor. Then they could travel through friendly country for a while, and maybe even solicit aid from Boromir’s kinsman, and then… well, then they would be almost there. Almost done. The thought brought a steady confidence into Frodo's heart and mind.

But then everything was torn apart. His confidence, his optimism, everything came crashing down as a horrible sound echoed through the hills. A sound he hadn’t heard in a long time. A sound he had hoped never to hear again.

The cry of a black rider.

Chapter 23: Cry at the Moon

Chapter Text

Drip. Drip. Drip. Thunk.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Thunk.

The sounds were strangely consistent, unfailing in their regularity. It wasn’t hard to guess the source of the dripping; the place was dank, dark, and miserable, full of leaking water and puddles. It could have been emanating from any number of places. The strange, heavy, clunking noise, however, was harder to figure out. Arya had spent hours trying. Maybe it was a cell door down the hall, she had speculated, swaying in some draft or breeze. Or perhaps it was the sound of a blacksmith’s hammer, muted by distance. Whatever the case, neither noise had ceased at all throughout the day.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Thunk.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Thunk.

Eventually, it faded into the background, as if it had always been there. For nearly two days Arya had heard it. For the entirety of the first day, she had anxiously paced the cell, waiting for any sign of someone’s approach. Saruman had not returned, nor had anyone else come by. At night, a small loaf of bread and a slab of some kind of meat were shoved hastily through a slot in the door by a large, noisy thing that Arya guessed was an orc. The bread had been stale, but she had welcomed it heartily after so long without anything to eat. After a long internal debate, she had devoured the meat, too. She tried not to think about what it might have been.

The following morning, or what she assumed was morning, another chunk of bread was thrown into the cell. After eating it, the boredom finally kicked in. She walked around the small room for a bit, searching the walls and corners for… well, anything, really. Not that she expected to find something important. She was just trying to combat the dull hours as they crept by. The floor was next; it was dirt, but hard packed and rocky. Digging anywhere would take a long time, and someone was bound to notice. Escaping that way was probably off the table. She did find a long, slender bone, however. It looked human. An arm or leg bone, probably. It had been covered by a thin layer of dirt, invisible to the naked eye. she picked it up, examining it more closely.

One end of it had clearly been chopped off, evidenced by the rough, flat tip. Arya didn’t even want to think about how it had gotten there. But maybe she could find a way to use it. It was far too old and brittle to use as a weapon or lockpick; she could tell that just by holding it. Anyway, the door to her cell opened outward, with no visible lock on her end. No other immediate uses came to mind. Unless… she twirled the bone through her fingers, testing its weight. Then she lunged forward suddenly, stabbing it into empty air. Another swing parried the blow of an imaginary sword, and then she rolled to the side gracefully, coming up in a crouch.

Arya smiled to herself, looking at the bone again. If nothing else, she could at least practice her swordplay down here. Water Dancing, as Syrio had told her, was not something that you learned once. There was always room to improve. So as the mysterious drip ’s and thunk ’s beat out a systematic melody, Arya whirled and swung, blocked and rolled, keeping her movements fluid and precise. She would have preferred using Needle, of course; the bone was too light, too short, and hard to grasp. A small chip in its side dug into her hand. But it was better than nothing, and as her mind zeroed in on the movements, she noticed the discomfort less and less.

She had been at it for nearly an hour when she heard the footsteps. There were two sets, each approaching at a leisurely pace. One was obviously Saruman: she could tell by the clipped pacing of his gait, and the sound of a metallic staff hitting the ground every few steps. The other was… different. Very different. Arya strained her ears. The footfalls were soft, and whoever was behind them seemed to be walking with some sort of limp. They were also dragging their feet quite a bit, the hollow scraping sound of leather on stone echoing eerily. Arya quickly tossed the bone back into the corner, scraping a layer of dirt over it. Satisfied that it was hidden well, she sat down on the stone slab and waited.

The door shuddered a moment later as a key was thrust into its lock; then it swung open with a horrible screech. A hulking orc-guard who had been positioned near the door looked into the room, a long spear held at the ready. He saw Arya sitting against the back wall and gave a satisfied grunt, stepping out of view. Saruman was the first to enter, his flowing, kaleidoscopic robes taking up the entire entrance. As soon as he had stepped through, another figure followed on his heels. The man was small, stooped over as if in constant pain. He had long, greasy black hair that clung to the sides of his pale face, which was narrow and gaunt. His large, unblinking eyes held Arya’s gaze for a moment, before Saruman stepped in between them, his expression stern.

“You’re back early,” Arya said. “And it looks like you’ve brought a pet this time.” She co*cked her head. “Does he bite?”

“Hold your tongue!” The small man snarled in a raspy voice that perfectly matched his face. “Have you no respect? You stand in the presence of-”

“Silence, Worm!” Saruman struck the ground with the butt of his staff. The man flinched and ducked behind him. Saruman ignored the movement, turning to Arya, who had cracked a small smile. “A night in the dungeons does not seem to have quenched your spirit, I see. Of course not. I imagine it was naught but a trivial matter in your mind. You relish the challenge, do you not? The challenge of persistence? You believe that by withholding knowledge from me, you have won some victory. Perhaps you have. But is such a small victory really worth the toll that will follow? The answer is no. No it is not. You will come to know this soon, if I do not receive your full cooperation.”

“Is that what he’s here for?” Arya gestured to the man crouched behind Saruman. “To get me to cooperate?”

“If need be.” Saruman reached into his robes, and once again retrieved Catspaw. Arya’s stomach dropped. There was only one way this could go, she knew. The question was asked curtly, as expected. “From whence did this weapon come?”

"Haven't we already been through this?"

Saruman fixed her with an intense stare. "I believe we are both aware of what will happen if you should fail to give me what I need. I wish to avoid such... unpleasantries, so I offer you this one last chance as an act of mercy. From whence did it come?"

Arya didn’t answer. The disappointment in Saruman’s eyes was cold and lifeless. He held the dagger aloft for only a few seconds before tucking it away once again. “Very well. Hold true to thy petty beliefs, girl. It will not be long before they are nothing more than shattered illusions of a time long past. Worm!” He looked sharply at the greasy man, who flinched again. “Have your way with her. Only… leave enough alive to be of use to me.”

With that, he strode from the room with a flourish of his multicolored-robes. The heavy iron door slammed shut behind him, the rumor of its echo lingering in the stagnant dungeon air. The silence inside was deafening, even with two people. The man across from Arya was gazing at the door, silent. She watched him cautiously, Saruman’s words haunting her ears. A second later he looked up. In his eyes was a disturbing light of hunger, like a lion circling its helpless prey. He limped forward until he was only a few feet from her. She could smell his putric breath as it hissed out from between his teeth, and wrinkled her nose. Her nerves got the better of her then, and she spoke aloud.

“Should I call you Worm, then? Or would you prefer roach? Rat, maybe?”

The man grimaced, reaching over to the wall, where a rusty iron chain was dangling from a metal ring. “Silence.”

He took the chain and fastned it to one of her wrists. It bit into her skin badly, but she maintained a stable expression. Her body ached to reach out, grab the man by the throat, and squeeze. But she didn’t. No, she would have to be more strategic than that. Any escape would have to be planned meticulously, or it would ruin her chances. So she let him wrap the chain around her other arm, securing her in place.

“Alright then, Worm. I do hope you know what you’re doing.”

The man contorted his face, clearly irritated with the nickname. He hesitated, then spat out. “Grima. If you speak to me at all, I am Grima.”

He took a few steps back, admiring his handiwork. Arya felt very trapped and exposed, unable to move her arms. This is necessary, she told herself. Suffer through it. You will have your revenge soon. It became hard to maintain that thought when Grima produced a short, jagged knife. Arya swallowed hard. She wasn’t worried that he would kill her. No, she had made her peace with that void a long time ago. What plagued her mind were visions of something far worse than death. Grima seemed to sense her discomfort. He sneered at her, walking forward slowly with the knife extended.

“Where is your fire now, girl? Where are your brave words?”

Arya raised her chin in defiance. “I am no girl . I am a Stark of Winterfell. I am a wolf of the North. You can chain me, you can beat me, you can torture by body. But you will never break my spirit.”

He took another step closer.

Then another.

Now he was mere inches away. His face leaned in, gaunt and horrific in the shadows. His hissing words fell upon her ears with a dripping venom. “A wolf, you say? Well then. Cry at the moon, little wolf. Cry at the moon.”

The world erupted into agony as the knife burrowed deep into her flesh.

Chapter 24: Allies

Chapter Text

A small black spider crawled slowly up the side of the leather bag. Scurrying legs carried it higher and higher, gliding easily over the brown surface. It stopped once or twice, as if making sure its ascent had gone unnoticed, then continued on its way. Once it had pulled itself up onto the opening flap, it paused for a moment, taking in the triumph of its victory. Then, as suddenly as if it were a brief flash of light, a hand slapped down. The spider crumpled and fell, its body tumbling back to the hard earthen ground.

Colden ignored the miniscule arachnid, wiping his hand on his shirt absentmindedly. He stooped over the bag, untied it, and pulled open the flap.

Inside there were several odds and ends, piled up almost to the top. A drinking flask, a spool of rope, a few random pieces of cloth. He removed each one carefully, putting it aside on the ground with an almost graceful reverence. These were, after all, Arya’s things. He hated going through them like this. Like she was dead, and he was scavenging around in the broken pieces of her memory. But they were short on supplies, and it would’ve been wrong to leave her bag untouched when it could have provided them with something. Anything.

He cast a glance over his shoulder. The others were no longer in sight. They were packing up camp, getting ready to move out, a little ways off through the trees.

He, Gandalf, and Gimli had waited for a full day at the place where they had been attacked. But Frodo and Sam had never returned. Gandalf’s best guess had been that they were making their way through the White Mountains and into Gondor. There, at least, they would be relatively safe. But with no hope of finding them again, they had been forced to leave the Ringbearer to his fate. The wellbeing of Arya and the other hobbits weighed heavily on all of their minds.

They had caught up to the rest of the company a little while later, at the Fords of Isen. The news of even more failure had been hard to hear; any hope of rescuing their friends before they reached the dungeons of Saruman was now lost. But there was one small glimmer of good news that Colden had embraced in an effort to ward off despair: They had been able to find three stout horses, not far from the bloody battlefield at the river. Presumably they had once belonged to the men of Rohan who had been stationed there, and had escaped during the fight. They were skittish, but clearly tamed, fit with saddles and bridles. Alongside Bill the pony (who had had the sense to hide as soon as the orcs had ambushed the company), they now had enough mounts to carry all of them and their supplies. Which was good, because the plan was now to head for the city of Edoras, capital of Rohan, and ask the king for help. And as far as Colden could tell, Edoras was a long way away.

Today was their third day of travel since the Isen. The landscape had hardly changed at all since then, still consisting of rolling hills and grasslands. But they had found a small forest of trees in a valley, where they had camped for the night. And now everyone else was preparing to set out once more, Colden knew. Readying the horses, gathering up the sleeping rolls.

Meanwhile, he had been tasked with this unpleasant business. Muttering a few choice words, he reached back into the bag. After digging through it a bit more, he finally came across something useful: Arya’s food rations. A few bread cakes from Rivendell, and some edible plants that had been foraged on the road since then. It didn’t amount to much, but it was better than nothing. After the attack a few days before, they had lost most of their food packs, presumably to the same Orcs that had taken Arya, Merry, and Pippin. Amidst the other losses, it had seemed rather insignificant, but was now becoming painfully obvious as the few rations they had left were beginning to dwindle.

He gathered up what he could find, ready to head back. But then something caught his eye from the bottom of the bag. It was a glint of shining metal. Colden frowned, putting the food down, and stooped over the bag once more. He reached in, and his finger felt the cool smoothness of steel. A sword. That was odd. He’d already found Needle; it was back in his own pack. Other than that, the Valyrian steel dagger was the only other weapon he’d known Arya to have. So what was this?

His fingers found the hilt, and he grasped it, pulling the sword easily from the pack. Once it was out in the sunlight, it flashed brightly, and he had to squint to see it clearly.

It was beautiful; one of the finest blades he’d ever seen. Unadorned, yet perfect in every facet. The silver hilt fit perfectly into his hand. He swished it through the air a few times, admiring how light it felt. Like a feather. He immediately wanted the weapon for himself. A small flicker of guilt made him pause. This was Arya’s. But then again… She wasn’t going to be using it any time soon. And it would be a shame not to put such a masterpiece to use. He placated himself by deciding that he would give it back to Arya, as soon as he had found her again.

A twig cracked behind him. Colden turned carelessly, expecting to see Teidrin or Barroth standing there. They were probably just coming to fetch him. But instead, he was greeted by the sight of another familiar face that made his blood run cold.

Dolffe.

Colden’s response was immediate and instinctual. He raised the sword in his hand, pointing it accusatorially in the direction of the wild man. Dolffe took a few steps back, staying just out of reach. He had his arms raised in surrender, but showed no sign of fear.

“Son, you don’t-” He started in his deep, scratchy voice, but Colden cut him off.

“No. I don’t care what you have to say. All I want is one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you where you stand.”

Dolffe tilted his head, keeping his arms raised. “It wasn’t me that killed your friend, son. Fact, I tried to warn you, didn’t I? But you was quarrellin’ and fightin,’ and… well, you know what happened.”

“You stalled us.” Colden didn’t lower his sword. “You made us stop and lower our guard. I don’t give a sh*t if you were trying to help us or not. Laeric’s death is on your hands either way.”

“Laeric.” Dolffe repeated the name slowly, as if pondering what it meant. “I never knew his name. But he seemed a good man.”

“Shut up!” Colden yelled. Blood rushed to his head, and his vision was tinged with red. “Shut up! You killed him!”

“No.” Dolffe spoke softly. “No I didn’t. And you know that.”

His words stung. Colden wanted to lash out, strike him down, simply for being right . But looking at the man in front of him, he couldn’t find the strength to hate. He was still furious. But Dolffe had done nothing wrong. He was an easy place to unleash all of the anger, all of the frustration… but he wasn’t the right place. There were others who were far more deserving of wrath. So when Colden spoke again, his voice was full of bitterness, but calm.

“Then… then what are you doing here, Dolffe?”

Dolffe scratched his head. “I… I been followin’ you for days… tryna get you alone…”

“Yes,” Colden pressed, “But why?”

A sigh from Dolffe. Then, “Because there’s only one thing in this life that really matters, son. Most people think it’s love, or family, or strength.” He shook his head. “It’s pride. Being able to take a look at yourself and be satisfied. And how can a man be satisfied if he doesn’t stay true to what he believes?”

“And what is it that you believe?”

“I believe in honor.” Dolffe said. “In repaying debts. The lass… Arya, was her name? She saved my life, right and true. If there’s any chance of my returning the favor, I need to take it, see?”

“You want to help get her back.” Colden realized. He received a stiff nod in response. Despite how much sense it made, the concept still surprised him. A flicker of doubt still lingered in his mind: What if this was all some ploy to cause even more damage? Could Dolffe really be trusted? But it was overcome when he thought of a new, far more likely problem.

“You can’t.” Colden said. “Boromir would never have it. If he even knew you were here right now…”

“He won’t know,” Dolffe said. “I’ll stick to the trees, follow you like I been doing. But if there’s ever a time you need my help… I jus’ wanted someone to know that I’m here and willin.”

Colden thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, I think we’ll take all the allies we can get. Just don’t let any of the others see you. And don’t try to talk to me again. If you’re found out, you’ll only make things worse.”

“O’course.” Dolffe bobbed his head appreciatively. “But-”

He was interrupted abruptly by a rustling in the bushes behind them. A few clomping footsteps through the undergrowth accompanied the sound.

Quick as a rabbit, Dolffe darted back into the cover of the forest. Colden marveled at how little noise he made. No crinkling leaves, no cracking branches. A few seconds later and it was almost as if he’d never been there at all.

Barroth emerged from the woods on the opposite side, swatting bugs away from his face and making a great deal of noise. He looked surprised to see Colden staring into the trees, sword drawn, a distant expression on his face.

“Uh, hey.” He followed Colden’s gaze, but saw nothing unusual. “We thought we heard somebody yelling out here. Are you alright?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah.” Colden pried his eyes away from the spot Dolffe had disappeared from. “I hit my toe on a rock, sorry.” He pointed to Arya’s food, which was still lying on the ground where he had dumped it. “But I found that.”

“Great.” Barroth looked at the rations, then to the sword in Colden’s hand. “And… A sword?”

“Oh, yeah. That too. Pretty neat, isn’t it?”

“Very.” Barroth took a second to admire the weapon. “Where’d you find it?”

“Found it in her pack.” Colden said. “Thought I’d return it, once we find her.”

“If we find her.” Barroth corrected absentmindedly. Then he realized what he’d said. “I-I, uh, sorry. Sorry. We, uh, we should head back now.”

He scooped up the food and ducked awkwardly back into the foliage without waiting for a response. Colden didn’t really mind his slip. They were all trying their best to stay positive, he knew, even with so little hope left. As he turned to follow Barroth, he couldn’t help shooting one last look out into the woods, hoping to catch one last glimpse of Dolffe. But there was no one there except a pair of squirrels, chasing each other around the base of a tree.

Just in case his newfound ally was out there somewhere, watching, Colden raised Arya’s sword above his head in a farewell salute.

Then he too disappeared into the trees.

- - - - -

Frodo had never thought of fear as something tangible.

A shadow, perhaps, that loomed always at the edge of one’s vision. A darkness that clouded the minds of even the wisest of men. There was never really a reprieve from its invisible influence, whispering in your mind, corrupting your heart. For no matter how brave one might be, it was impossible to avoid the deadly seed of doubt. A seed that could soon blossom into terror.

At least, that was what he used to think.

Before that fear had become something very, very real. Before it had started to hunt him through the wilderness.

Their beastly cries never became easier to bear. If anything, they had only become more horrible over time. During the nights they echoed through the hills, as if to remind their prey that they were still out there, searching. The shrieks would begin at darkfall, and Frodo and Sam would cower on the ground together, taking what shelter they could find, even though they knew it was pointless. They hardly spoke anymore, their wide-eyed looks of dread communicating more than enough.

And the ring - it was as if it sensed how close it was to being returned to its master. It weighed heavily on its chain, with far greater weight than seemed possible for such a small piece of jewelry. If he let his mind wander, Frodo could almost hear its enticing whispers in his ear: Drop us. Free us. Let us go. You know we won’t escape. You know there is no hope. Do you really wish to die for something so pointless? He ignored the thoughts. They weren’t his own, he told himself firmly. They were a trick, some devilry or sorcery of the enemy. He must keep going.

It had been days since the hunt had first begun. Days since this plague of madness had gripped their hearts. The black riders were always at the forefront of their thoughts: hiding in every shadowy dell, waiting for them around every bend in the path. At every snap of a twig, Frodo braced himself for the ring of cold steel, and the hiss of evil breath from beneath a dark hood. Sam was no better off. He carried his sword unsheathed as they walked, and flinched whenever the cooking pots strung to his pack clinked together. The vulnerability of the situation was all too clear. There was no Strider or Gandalf to protect them anymore. They were on their own, lost and confused. It was a miracle they had not been discovered already. And of course, Frodo knew, it was he who had landed them in this mess. He had naively thought that somehow, two inexperienced hobbits could do what an entire company of experienced warriors and adventurers could not. How foolish he had been! And now they were both paying the price.

And Sam - poor, stout-hearted Sam! He should never have been here in the first place. This was not his burden. He should have been at home, pulling weeds from his garden and minding his old Gaffer, not facing certain doom in such a forsaken region of swamp and rock. And yet he was easily the bravest of the two of them. It was he who pushed his companion onward, refusing to admit defeat. Even now, Frodo thought, watching him trudging along through the muck, Sam still carried some hope that they could evade their pursuers.

As if he had heard Frodo’s thoughts, Sam stopped just then, in a small clearing of trees. When he turned around, there was a strange glimmer of excitement in his eyes that seemed for a moment to drive away the fear.

“Mister Frodo!” He called out in a hushed voice, trying not to make much noise. “Mister Frodo, come quick!”

Frodo stumbled forward, feet splashing through the ankle-deep bog that seemed to have engulfed this forest. When he reached Sam, the younger hobbit pointed up through a gap in the trees. There, clear as day, the frosty peak of a mountain stood out against the bright morning sky to the West. Sunlight reflected brightly against its The sight was incredible, but not nearly so much as the implications it brought with it.

“The White Mountains!” Sam said, his face aglow. “Ered Nimrais!”

“But…” Frodo said, “But that would mean-”

“We must have passed into the gap yesterday, during that cursed fog!” Sam said. “Only we didn’t realize it because of the trees! Mister Frodo, we’re on the doorstep of Gondor! We’re nearly there!”

Despite Sam’s joy, Frodo knew better than to get his hopes up. Nearly there, he thought bitterly. And then what? They would magically be saved by a line on a map? No, the servants of the enemy could cross into Gondor just as easily as a couple of miserable hobbits. There would be no safe-haven awaiting their arrival. But he couldn’t say that to Sam, so he mustered a smile. “Yes Sam. We’re nearly there.” The words tasted hollow in his mouth.

His thoughts returned then to the black riders, and the familiar cold feeling of dread returned, sending a chill down his spine. He had a sudden urge to move, to run away. But he stayed put, because there was no way he was going to wipe off the look that Sam had on his face. A look of pure optimism and delight that seemed so out of place amidst the events of the last few days. It seemed that just by existing it had made the sun shine out brighter, and the birds sing louder in the trees. But all things had to come to an end, Frodo knew. So he wrenched his eyes away, already shifting guiltily for what he was about to do.

“Sam…” He rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder gently. “We must go.”

Sam didn’t react at first, eyes still fixed on the glimmering mountaintop above.

“Sam,” Frodo repeated, more forcibly this time, “Come. We must go. Before…”

“Before what?” A voice asked suddenly from behind them.

Though he was jarred by the voice, Frodo was strangely surprised to find that his immediate reaction wasn’t panic. Rather it was… relief. Though he had not admitted it to himself, there was a small part of his mind that had been certain that he would never hear another voice besides Sam’s again. So as he spun around to face the newcomer, his mind was not overtaken by fear, but by curiosity.

A man had materialized at the edge of the clearing, and he seemed just as surprised and confused as Frodo felt. He wore silver chain armor, with great rounded shoulder pauldrons, and a spear hung on his back. Bushy eyebrows obscured his narrowed eyes, and a thick beard covered the lower half of his wizened face.

Sam did not manage the same calm response as Frodo. He cried out, trying to turn quickly, but the weight of his pack was too much. He toppled over backwards, landing with a squelch in the mud. He panicked for a moment, unable to stand.

Frodo had no time to help him, however, because just then, several more men came tromping out of the forest. They wore the same armor as the first man, yet their faces were clean shaven. They too stopped, bewildered, and watched the hobbits in silent befuddlement. Then Frodo perceived even more men behind them , their shining armor glinting through the underbrush. The dense trees made them unable to see Frodo or Sam yet, but they began murmuring annoyedly, clearly unsure as to why their companions had stopped.

“What is it now, Dunwine?” A voice called out impatiently from somewhere back in the woods. “More rabbits?”

“Aye.” The bearded man called back, not taking his eyes off of Frodo. “Rabbits. Though I daresay these won’t taste very good in a stew.”

There was more brief murmuring, then a silence. Then a new figure stepped forward out of the trees. He was tall, with flowing black hair and hard gray eyes. He wore similar armor to the rest of the men, save for a high silver helm, which he held tucked under one arm. He stopped beside the bearded man, and beheld the hobbits.

“You seem to be right.” He said to the man beside him. “No good for a stew.” Then a mischievous glint entered his eyes, and he grinned. “I suppose we’ll have to eat them raw!”

There was a roar of laughter from the men behind him. A few more soldiers came forth from the forest. The wonder in their eyes was clear, but they made no sign of aggression, nor did they draw their weapons.

“Well?” The leader’s demeanor sobered, and he took a few steps forward. “Are you mute rabbits, too?”

“We - we’re just children, lord.” Frodo told him.

The man raised an eyebrow. “This is an odd sort of place for children, isn’t it?”

“Y-yes, lord.” Frodo said haltingly. He looked to Sam for help, but received only a slight shrug. Looking back around, he said “Well, you see… our hole - er, house , that is - it caught fire the day before last, and burned to rubble. We have been wandering the wilderness since.”

The man regarded him coolly. “And your parents?”

“Gone, sir.” Frodo replied. “They took ill and died two summers ago.”

“I see.” The man stooped and laid his helmet on the ground. “A good story. I almost want to believe it. It sounds so… truthful.”

Frodo felt his stomach drop. “It is the truth, I swear it.”

“Oh, do you now?” The man chuckled. “Shall I call you oathbreaker, then? I see through your deception, little one. Perhaps you were unfortunate to find me here, of all the people in the world, for I am among the few who could recognize your falsehoods. You are not of this land. You had no home here, nor was it set aflame. And-” He stepped closer “-You are no children. No, no. You are halflings. Hobbits of the Shire.”

Frodo looked at him in amazement, but it was Sam who spoke first. He sighed miserably from the mud. “Well this is just our luck, Mister Frodo. Running into the only man in Gondor who knows what a hobbit is. Rotten, I say. Just rotten.”

“It would seem so,” Frodo said at last. He looked up at the man. “But how?”

The man laughed, and Frodo saw that he was not angered by their lies. He seemed more amused than anything else. “Well, my dear hobbits, I could tell you all manner of tales from my adventures in the North, but I will stay to a brief account, for the sake of time. It will suffice to say that though I am still quite young by most reckonings, I have journeyed far in my days . Farther, even, than most men travel in their lifetimes. And it so chanced that my travels brought me close to the borders of your land, where I learned of your curious race.” He laughed again. “But it is of no matter. I see clearly that you are on some secret errand, and are wary of strangers. Therefore I will tell you my name and status, and hope to gain your trust. Elphir, I am called, son of Imrahil, prince of Dol Amroth. I too have come forth on an errand, though likely not one as pressing as yours. So come, tell me of yourselves. What strange fate has brought two halflings this far South?”

Frodo and Sam shifted uncomfortably, and shared a sidelong glance. Frodo said, “I fear we cannot tell that even to you, though you seem true of heart. We cannot risk the peril it would bring. All I can say is that we are in great danger, and must travel East with all haste. Help us if you will, but I beg you, do not hinder our passage. Much depends on our success.”

“Indeed.” Elphir pondered his words for a moment. “I will not pretend that your obstinance does not irk me, master hobbit. But I can also see that your words are genuine this time. Therefore I propose an arrangement: My company heads back home ere first light tomorrow. You shall accompany us, if you like, and I will bother you no longer with questioning, though I hope you will tell me more in time. In exchange…” He paused, “You will tell me your names.”

Frodo blinked. “Our names?”

“Yes.” Elphir smiled “Otherwise, what would I call you? It is a long journey back, and I do not wish to spend it in estrangement from one another. But I must warn you against any deception this time. It would be unwise.”

“Of course.” Frodo said. He swallowed, looking at Sam, and the two reached a silent agreement. “I am Frodo Baggins of Bag End, and this is my loyal friend and servant, Samwise Gamgee. There, that is the truth, as you asked. But now I pose a question of my own, lord: How far from here is Dol Amroth, as the crow flies? And how long is the march?"

There was a light rustle of chuckling through the men watching the exchange. They seemed to know something that the hobbits did not, and their eyes sparkled with mirth. Elphir, too, seemed like he had just heard a good jest.

“Both of your questions are irrelevant, Frodo,” The prince told him. “First, because we are not going to Dol Amroth. It was not my father who comissioned me here, but Denethor himself, Steward of Gondor. My destination is Minas Tirith, and that is where I will take you. And secondly, we will not be going by foot.” He flashed yet another smile, and donned his tall silver helm, which Frodo now saw bore the sigil of a white swan. “We will be going by ship.”