3: The Journey

Imrahil frowned as he looked at his daughter where she sat on an old stone bench set to gain the greatest amount of shelter it could from the wall behind it.  Even on the coldest, most windswept days of winter his wife had come here to sit and watch the sea. Seeing Lothiriel now, beside the slight elf she resembled, made him realise again how much his daughter had missed in not knowing her mother.

‘Did you not have family to travel with you to the sea?’ he asked abruptly.  ‘What of your parents?’

Mithrellas returned his look.  ‘My father died on the plains of Dagorlad,’ she said simply.  ‘He followed Lord Amdir to battle and did not return.  Nimrodel’s father, too, was lost.  Her mother chose to sail rather than remain in the Wood.  My mother stopped eating when she sensed that my father was no more – she faded quickly as elves often do.’

‘Just a minute,’ Erchirion frowned.  ‘If your father died in the Second Age, does that not mean that . . ?’

Mithrellas laughed briefly, a sound like the chiming of small bells.  ‘I was indeed somewhat older than Imrazor,’ she said gravely.  ‘Just as the Evenstar is rather older than Elessar.  Age matters little among elves.’

Erchirion digested her words.  ‘How old is Queen Undomiel?’ he asked curiously.

‘Ask her,’ Mithrellas smiled.  ‘I do not know her age to within a century or two – and I would not tell you if I did.’ 

Elphir moved restlessly.  ‘How were you foolish?’ he asked.  ‘Your party left the Wood with little time to prepare, but that should not have put you in danger – there should have been enough experienced elves to see you had all you needed.’

Mithrellas smiled wryly.  ‘That would certainly have been the case, had we had enough sense to employ their aid – but we were accustomed to riding off headlong on Nimrodel’s adventures, and they were accustomed to allowing it.  I doubt there were any who suspected that this time Nimrodel meant to carry through her threats.  We were woefully under-prepared.’

***

It was fortunate, Mithrellas reflected, that it was early summer and that elves did not feel the cold.  It seemed to have done little but rain since they had left the wood and she did not think that there was a single dry garment left among them, but at least there were plenty of rabbits to provide them with food.  Nimrodel was, unsurprisingly, in a very bad temper.  She did not appreciate sleeping in the dripping boughs of wet trees, wearing mud-stained clothes and riding across endlessly dreary rain-swept plains.  Still less did she appreciate the fact that Amroth had not yet arrived to assure her of his everlasting devotion.   She had been slowing the pace of the journey steadily: leaving later in the mornings, stopping for the night by mid-afternoon and riding at an ever easier pace, but still there was no sign of a party following them from the north.

‘Lady Nimrodel, we must ride together,’ Randir repeated wearily.  ‘There are not enough of us to guard you if you insist on riding away from the group.  There are not enough warriors anyway.’

‘But, Randir,’ Nimrodel said winningly, ‘we will be able to stay dry if we ride in the shelter of the forest.  It will be much better.’

‘That is Fangorn, lady,’ he sighed.  ‘It is not safe to linger under its canopy – the trees there are wild and do not welcome elves.’

She pouted.  ‘I am sure that cannot be true, Randir.  All trees enjoy the presence of elves.’

‘Not these ones,’ he said firmly.  ‘We will not enter the forest.’

‘We need to ride more swiftly, too,’ Mithrellas said flatly.  ‘We are not carrying enough food to linger as we are, even if we stop every day to hunt.  And more, this countryside is too open and we are too visible.  We need to travel discreetly if we are to arrive safely.’

‘But,’ Nimrodel looked back towards their home.

‘If he is going to come, he will come,’ her friend said.  ‘We have fewer than half a dozen warriors to guard us, Nimrodel.  We are not safe.  We either must ride faster or return to the wood.’

Nimrodel drew a sharp breath.  ‘It is our destiny to sail,’ she said with the captivating earnestness of which she was capable.  ‘Elves are creatures of light – we should not be forced to live in the darkness of Arda any longer.’

For a moment, as Nimrodel’s compelling silver eyes met hers, Mithrellas was convinced that their flight was not only justifiable, but also meritorious.

During one grey early dawn before sunrise, Mithrellas roused to the sound of arrivals and her hand went to the hilt of her belt knife before she recognised the sound of elven voices and relaxed into momentary limpness.  With luck, she thought, Amroth would have brought warriors with him.  On the other hand, the way things were going, it was quite likely that he had rushed in pursuit of Nimrodel so quickly that he had forgotten even to bring his own sword and bow.

Full morning found them waiting in golden sunlight as Amroth and Nimrodel talked to each other at the edge of the trees.  Breakfast had been prepared and eaten; their camp had been cleared away so that a casual observer would not even have known that they had been there.  The horses had been rubbed down and readied, yet they remained waiting patiently for instructions.

Mithrellas watched Nimrodel with a somewhat jaded eye.  The elleth, who had been displaying the less attractive side of her personality as she waited to see whether her lover would give in to her demands, was now being at her most enchanting.  Amroth bent and kissed her hands and she rewarded him with a smile brilliant enough to put the sun to shame.  She tugged him up and threw herself in his arms, tangling her fingers in his golden hair and kissing him with an enthusiasm that made Mithrellas raise her eyebrows.

‘Betrothed, would you say?’ Randir enquired wryly.

‘I would say so,’ Mithrellas replied.  ‘Which means that we are still heading towards Edhellond.  She will not wed him until he has done precisely what she wants.’

‘For a friend, you seem to be very cynical about our lady,’ Randir commented.

‘I love Nimrodel dearly,’ Mithrellas told him, ‘but that does not stop me thinking that she gets her own way far too frequently – and that she will make Amroth miserable if he does not learn to refuse her.’

Nimrodel drew Amroth towards her attendants, a look of blushing modesty on her fair face.  ‘We have come to an agreement at last,’ she said.  ‘And I have consented to be wedded to my lord.’

The look in Amroth’s eyes, Mithrellas decided, was somewhat less simple to read.  Much as he loved Nimrodel, he clearly felt ill at ease about whatever he had done to enable himself to arrive at this point.  ‘I have passed the lordship of Lorien to others,’ he confessed to the small group.  ‘I cannot remain there when my heart is elsewhere.  Celeborn and his lady will guide Lorien through these desperate times and I will escort you to the land of peace and safety that is to be found in the far West.’  He dropped his head briefly before seeking Nimrodel’s beauty as a moth is drawn to a flame.  ‘I have come alone to join you,’ he said simply.  ‘I could not ask warriors of the Golden Wood to leave their posts to follow me into exile.’

Mithrellas was aware of a clutch of pain deep in her heart.  How could Nimrodel demand so much of the one she loved, she wondered?  Did she not see what she was doing to him?  She sighed, looking at her friend.  No, of course she did not.  To Nimrodel, personal satisfaction would always be more important that abstract virtues such as duty and reason.  It was highly unlikely that she would ever realise how much she had asked of Amroth, or how much he had paid for her love.

‘Come,’ the former Lord of Lorien said authoritatively.  ‘Let us ride.  We must seek such safety as we can find in Gondor as quickly as possible.  We do not want the forces of the Dark to find us while we are on the road.’

They rode long and they rode hard.  Days blurred into one as they rose in the first light of dawn and moved constantly southwards.  Nimrodel’s attendants slept the sleep of the exhausted, barely able to eat the simple meals of waybread and water, occasionally supplemented with any meat that could be hunted without slackening the pace.  Mithrellas wondered how Amroth, Randir and the other few guards were managing to endure as they spent each night watching carefully over the ellyth in their care, only to be ready each morning to shepherd the small group further on its way.

Few signs of danger had been apparent.  The open land around them showed little evidence of being populated and, Mithrellas thought, had few places where orcs could hide from the fierce sun.  Cautious as they were being here, the real worries would surface when they had to pass through the White Mountains to descend into Gondor.  Mountains were, after all, the breeding ground of the evil that had sent its tendrils of darkness out into the peaceful groves of the Wood.  Nevertheless, the party was uneasy.  The land was too open, the sky too wide, the sun too hot – elves were not meant to live in the open, crawling beneath the heavens, Mithrellas decided.  A little time away from the trees could be endured – it was even pleasant – but weeks of riding hard without connection to the song of the forest, without the presence of trees you knew, trees you had known from the nut, trees that recognised you, were intolerable. 

She looked east, on occasion, across the spreading grasslands and wondered what it had been like for her adar, far across the Great River, beyond the Emyn Muil on the plains before Mordor.  How had the Silvan elves of the forests – those of Lasgalen and Lorien – endured so long without the comfort afforded them by the trees of home?  She felt her own contact with the land stretched thin.  How would it have been to face the hordes of Mordor in a place where the very soil itself was poisoned?

The land began to rise; gently at first, giving clearer views over the endless green of summer grasses, but soon it began to change and the terrain became rougher.  They had to slow the horses and start to pick their way up trails that only sharp elven eyes would have identified.

‘Can we not remain here awhile?’ Nimrodel asked winningly.  ‘It would do the horses good to rest before we cross the mountains.  We have been pushing them hard.’

Amroth’s face softened as he looked at her, lightening the shadows in his eyes, but he shook his head.  ‘There are too many places for dangers to hide in the hills,’ he told her.  ‘When we come down into Gondor we will be able to rest – and the final part of the journey to the sea will be easier.’

The mist had come down unexpectedly as they descended the western slopes, bringing with it a clinging cold and a feeling of doom that made Mithrellas shiver.   This was not the soft silver haze that made the woods shimmer, nor yet the white smoky carpet that rose from the autumn glades.  It had surrounded them with the aggression of an attack, twisting itself around the legs of the horse, blinding the elves’ vision, muffling them. 

‘Slow,’ Amroth said sharply, ‘but do not stop.’  He dismounted, even his light step dislodging a fall of stones that rolled mockingly across the hillside, hitting bare rock as they tumbled. 

‘We have seen no signs of orcs – or bandits, my lord,’ Randir said anxiously.  ‘It would be better to stop.  The horses cannot see where they are putting their hooves – it is too dangerous.’

‘We are nearly through the pass.’ Amroth listened more than he looked, moving his head carefully to pick up any sound in the enveloping grey.  ‘If I were seeking an opportunity to attack, I would try to be in place when the fog lifts and strike while we were unprepared.  It would take little to pin us up against the mountain and pick us off one by one.  If we keep moving it will make that harder.’

‘It will also make it much more likely that someone will have an accident,’ Randir protested.  ‘And that will hold us back more than delaying for the fog to pass.’

The fingers of mist left a trail on her skin that made Mithrellas’s flesh crawl.  She had never thought of weather as being actively malevolent, but there was something in the air that felt ill-intentioned.  She stiffened as her sharp hearing picked out the sound of metal striking rock.  It could be nothing – but it did not feel that way.  Someone – something was waiting for them.  Small shifts in the shadows suggested that there were more than one – considerably more.

‘Remain mounted,’ Amroth said softly, jumping softly astride his horse.  ‘When the attack comes, we will clear a path and you are to ride through as fast as you can.  They can see we are a small party, but I do not think they realise that we are elves.  They do not know what they will be tackling.  Do not stop – we will catch you up.’

‘But, Amroth,’ Nimrodel protested.  ‘You cannot stay.  Randir can lead the guards while you come with us.’

Mithrellas grimaced to herself.  On this, she did not think that Amroth would give way.  There were few enough with the skill to fight and Amroth would be needed if there was to be any chance of escape. 

‘I want you to ride to safety, Nimrodel,’ he said. ‘I will join you as soon as possible.’

The assault came just as the mist thinned.  The attackers were men, bearded and short, and they were clearly experienced at picking off mist-muddled travellers as they came through the pass, but they had not expected the sheer power in the slender bodies of the elves.

Amroth thrust forward sharply, so that a gleaming arrowhead of power sliced through the raiders.  ‘Now,’ he called insistently as the men’s shaggy ponies gave way before his small force.

Mithrellas took her short knife in her hand as she and Gwingil took up protective positions on either side of Nimrodel and they urged their horses into a hoof churning gallop.  As they swept through, Mithrellas found herself slashing automatically at a figure as he tried to stop her and then following Nimrodel as she streaked across the valley only to pause on the wooded slope on the far side. 

‘Amroth said to keep riding,’ she insisted, as Nimrodel turned her mount.

‘We will wait,’ Nimrodel cried.

Mithrellas did not know that she was weeping until the cold wind began to dry her cheeks.  She knew that elves were great warriors, but they were outnumbered – they were so badly outnumbered by the wild and dangerous-looking creatures who had chosen to attack them.  What chance did they have, their half-dozen brave fighters, against thirty or more?  It seemed so unfair: to flee the dangers of the spreading Dark only to fall, far from home, against a foe that wanted only to rob them when they were within reach of an promise of eternal safety.

The trees stirred anxiously.  Although they were strangers to each other, Mithrellas could understand them well enough to tell that men with blood on their weapons were approaching. 

‘Separate,’ Nimrodel ordered in panic.  ‘They cannot follow us all.  Get beyond their hearing and take refuge in the trees.  They will pursue the horses.’

Even as she obeyed, Mithrellas was filled with doubt.  Although the trees would hide them, would they really be any better off trapped among the people who were seeking them?  Would it not be better to stay together?

She could hear them behind her.  She could hear them, yet she could ride no faster without endangering herself and her mount.  The ground was less treacherous than that of the pass, but she knew it not, and her ignorance was their advantage.  Her breath was shortening as the danger approached and she urged her horse to still greater effort.

The path gave way suddenly and her horse scrambled desperately in a losing battle to regain his footing, hurling her from his back.  She struck rock as she fell, losing consciousness and tumbling, limp as a rag doll to final stillness on the slope, her grey cloak settling over her motionless form like a shroud.

***

Amrothos drew a deep breath.  ‘History says that Nimrodel was lost in the White Mountains,’ he said.  ‘That Amroth could not find her and rode on to Belfalas.  It doesn’t mention their companions.’

Mithrellas shrugged.  ‘History is selective,’ she informed him.  ‘It remembers that which makes a good story – and it is told by those who survive.’

‘Did you find out what happened to those who left the Wood with you?’ Imrahil enquired. 

‘Most of them,’ she said, her voice soft and mournful.  ‘Randir was killed, there in the mountains, and three others of the guards died before they fought their way to safety.  Amroth arrived at Edhellond with two guards, still hoping to find Nimrodel and her attendants waiting for him – but there were none to greet him.  In later years Imrazor helped me seek in the mountains to see if traces could be found of any others and we learned the fates of most.  Gwingil died on the day we escaped the trap – she had been sliced open by a blade as we rode for freedom.  One elleth was captured – she was sold to traders and taken south, but finally escaped from slavery – and two others eventually found their way to the coast.  Of Nimrodel herself, there was no sign.’

‘How could that be so?’ Erchirion wondered.  ‘She does not – forgive me – sound as if she was the kind of person to hide successfully for very long.’

‘So would I have thought,’ Mithrellas shrugged.  ‘Yet still none know what became of her.’  She looked at her fingers as she laced them in her lap. ‘I believe she must have died there in the mountains,’ she said.  ‘Amroth would not accept it, and surrendered his own life when the autumn storms blew out to sea the grey ship that was to carry us west.  He refused to leave without her – and threw himself into the waves so that he could return to wait for her, but he never made it to shore.  They are together in the care of Namo,’ she sighed with resignation, ‘and in time they will be reborn for their love to live again in the bliss of Valinor.’ 

And in the long silence that followed, the breaking of the waves on the shore provided a soothing song of comfort that seemed designed to ease the minds of those who listened in the garden above.