The Hunting Trip
Chapter 28: A Hopeful Path

A short drop found Aragon and Arwen with solid ground beneath them, but absolutely nothing of traction to hold them in one place. Gravity carried them away and down, and as a unit they splattered and splayed, spun and sped, rolled and writhed, and skewed around and about in a landslide of collapsing earth. Their travel had taken them through an ever-widening chute of soggy muck that fell in upon them as their bodies were hurled ever onward to the tunnel's lee. Puddles of sludge lubricated their path, and so long as their course stayed clear, on they raced. After a journey of at least a hundred feet from whence they started, the chute leveled off, and instead of being a sharp diagonal in nature, it turned horizontal. Lord Grunge and Lady Sodden could not have been better-fitting names for the duo that sloshed to a mucky halt after tumbling down that tunnel of sloppy, oozing, sticky mire. With a splot they came to a stop. Which body was which the observer could no longer tell.

The King sat up, pleased to find himself unscathed after so tumultuous a journey. So many times in this day had he descended further underground by rather violent means, yet except for being incredibly filthy, he seemed none the worse for it. A sound erupted from beneath Aragon in a curse that was unmistakably one of vexation and he thought perhaps his partner did not share his sentiment.

"Aiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeuuuuuuuuggghhh!"

At the base of his mind he thought the rending of this call must hurt the throat of the one screaming it, so primal was its guttural pronouncement, but senseless musings like this were not endearing him to his wife. The squirming form of a body beneath him gave clue to the voice's source, and a grunt in the more normal voice of his wife told him the worth of this tale. Unlike the earlier predicament in which he had found himself with Arwen bearing weight upon him, now it was he who handed landed upon her. Fortunately she had landed face up, but his form laid nearly prone over hers, and the image was of two shapes stacked in a crisscross of opposing directions.

Quickly he made to rise, though the thought of doing and actually doing were two separate things. Instead of standing, he was slogging in a grand gesture, held down by the thick mud making sucking and bubbling noises as he rose while his legs kept pushing and slipping from beneath him. Yet his movement was enough to free her, at least to the point of raising her head from the thick muddy bath. And all the while in his exhaustive efforts to right himself, his tongue kept spilling out the words, "Arwen! Are you all right? Arwen?"

Of course she did not answer, for she could not hear him. Her ears were quite filled with mud. And even had she heard, it was doubtful any words he might have said could have restrained her from screaming in the best of her anger's fine form. She shrieked out again, "Aiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeuuuuuuuuggghhh!"

If it was possible to give such a bellow any greater emphasis the second time, she did it. In fact, so great was the cursed scream that Aragorn found himself unbalanced by the major shift in his prim wife's persona and fear quaked in him that the walls might come tumbling down again. Awkwardly he found himself reeling only to topple and land side by side with his wife as a small wave of mud came up and slapped her in the face.

Nothing about them resembled that of the King and Queen of Gondor. And it was a fortunate thing indeed, for in the moments to follow, Aragorn was certain his people might derail his sovereignty in the surprise over the creature often assumed to be his wife. No other eyes but his graced the form of one Arwen Undomiel Evenstar, who, at the moment, looked ready to chew metal, so great was her wrath. Another frightened idea occurred in Aragorn's head. Dear Valar! he thought. I hope this ire is not directed at me. I cannot imagine what I could have done now to deserve the scorn of this . . . this. . .??? He could find not the words. Luckily, it was not he for whom the Elven Queen howled. In this case it was the Valar themselves to whom she directed her fury and Aragorn felt perhaps they too might be quaking, even if they were better armed for it.

Foisting herself out of the mud that encased her body and covered every square inch of her form, tooth to nail, she looked rather demonic in the murky gloom. Further, the sounds that escaped her lips surely were not those that inspired the songs of lore oft sung of her. Aragorn blanched at the string of curses that littered the echoing chamber walls. Arwen spat words of which he did not know she had been aware, and a few of which he had not been aware himself, some going so far back as to be Quenyan in origin. After several minutes of this rant, accompanied all the while by her helpless flailing to be free from the goo, she calmed.

Breathing one last exasperated gasp, she shrugged, pushed a muddy strand of hair from her face, and then sighed, turning to Aragorn and saying, "Would you help me to stand?"

Aragorn blinked, not knowing what to think. This was certainly a day of odd events, not least among them being the wild displays of temper shown by his wife. Calmly he asked, "Are you quite done now?" though he prepared himself to duck should she choose to lash out.

"Quite," she said demurely, not even giving hint that a torrent of barroom language had just passed her lips. She attempted to brush the layer of mud from her shoulder as if a fleck of dust was all that disturbed her pretty frock.

And so he stood, gracelessly finding his legs and nearly skittering again before gaining his balance Then offering his hand, he raised her to her feet with a tug that made a sad popping noise as she pulled free. Squinting into the near blackness, she searched their landing area and smiled wanly at something she found. Raising her skirt as if she were merely crossing a puddle, she gracefully stepped to the muddy lump, and dipping in her hand she pulled out the lamp she had been carrying prior to their last fall.

She wiped her hands off on her dress, though the cloth was hardly cleaner, until she bore only a minor layer of dirt on them. Then, shaking too the lamp, she brushed away the heavy coat of mud and made to open its fastenings and closures so as to free the kerosene onto the wick. She found the small tinderbox contained within the housing, and deftly she sparked a small fire. Handle of the lamp over one arm and hands nursed around the flax threads holding the small flame, it was an admirable task done, especially for someone who had been lolling in a fit of rage only a minute before. Aragorn gawked as the light illuminated their space. She merely smiled the sweetest of smiles in return.

"Arwen?" he started with trepidation. Now that he could more fully see her, he realized he was afraid of her in ways he had never thought possible.

"Yes dear?" she answered, delicately picking through the goop to find what she might of their other belongings.

"What just occurred here?" he asked, feeling a little braver with each passing minute.

"What do you mean, love?" she asked, calmly lifting now the rope from the mire as if she were picking wildflowers for a bouquet.

"That," he said, waving his hands about in a wild gesture, which he meant to be interpreted as the screaming fit that had previously transpired.

She stood and cocked her head at him in what was a very Elven expression, her face stoically withholding any sign of emotion. Then she brightened slightly before shrugging and turning back to her work as she said, "Oh. That."

Aragorn paused, waiting for her response, but he knew one would not be forthcoming. Elves had an uncanny ability to act flighty and evasive when they wanted to do so, and Arwen was no exception among them. After a very long break in the voicing, he drawled, "And?"

She acted as if she had not noticed the long wait for reply. Shrugging again and answering blithely she said, "I was merely angry."

Another chuckle followed as he digested this news. "Angry?" he inquired as delicately as he could. "It appeared to be more of an eruption to liken Mt. Doom," he said, wincing and again steadying himself, ready to duck should the need arise.

Arwen sighed, nodding in slight agreement. "Aye, I suppose it was a bit . . . extreme." Then she stated simply, "I do not like mud."

Aragorn laughed. He did more than laugh. He guffawed. He snorted. And then he broke into a fit of raspy chortles that nearly sent him toppling into the mud again. All the while, he pointed to Arwen, eking out the words "Do not . . . like . . . mud . . ." He could barely contain himself, and only the stony stare of Arwen seemed to stifle his fit.

Still, a snort and a giggle trickled past his sealed lips when she looked away and Aragorn had to wonder if there was more to this tale than she was revealing. A sudden, baleful glance silenced him fully an instant later though the thoughts continued to ruminate and he could not help but urge the news out. "I know Elves are fastidious in nature," he taunted, "but surely a tirade of that magnitude is a little much given the circumstances."

"I am not enjoying this experience much, Estel. Allow me to vent my fury if I must," she countered in a lecturing voice.

He could not seem to cease the jocularity given the uncouth manner of her tantrum. "Aye. But the Valar? That is a mighty wrath you keep penned."

She smiled in a merry way seeing his mirth, quite contrary to the oddity of her prior outburst. "One tirade per century is my motto. I think I was due. It has been a rather tedious day, would you not agree? Or would you rather I directed my antagonism toward you?"

He held up his hands as if to push away an unseen enemy, though the laughter continued as he answered, "Nay! Nay! I have borne witness to that already and would happily wait another century before seeing it again." Secretly though, he suspected more to the story than what she told and he wondered what it might take to pry it out of her.

"Very well then," Arwen said, mustering up what dignity she could given the circumstances and her appearance. "I think it is time we got on to business," she said, looking quite serious, which Aragorn admitted was difficult to pull off under all the layers of mud. "There is still Gimli to consider," she reminded him.

Aragorn very much sobered then as he shrugged past her as best he could and wandered toward the sloping light that filled only a small part of the room in which they found themselves. He looked up the shaft, sighing at the distance they would need to cover in order to get back to where they had started. It was an impossible task given the urgency of their situation, the pitch of the slope, and the absolute slippery quality of the incline, and so he turned his attention on this new cavern.

The space was dark as midnight, blacker still in places beyond where the small trickle of light barely reached. It was much larger than where they had been before, and unlike their past experience, this room appeared to be contained within stone, not mud, the exception, of course, being the tunnel that had led them there. He felt gladdened for that for he was uncertain his luck might hold when it came to falling into holes again, and he did not think he could take another muddy turn down.

Trudging back to her side in the mid-calf deep slop, he held out his hand for the lamp, which she surrendered silently. Slowly he waded about the room, water pooling about his legs where the mud gave way. It was very difficult to step, the consistency being that of watery porridge and each tread causing the other foot to pull with suction before leveraging free. In a moment though he discovered a way to release himself of the ooze as a broad step took him up to a ledge that appeared to follow the circumference of the room. He dropped the light lower, seeing better the path, and realized another room jutted off from this one and, better still, appeared to lead on to another past that.

"Arwen, I see a way beyond," he announced. "Come with me."

"What of the healer kit?" she asked as she retracted a waterskin that bobbed to the murky surface.

Aragorn looked back upon her and her efforts to regain their lost items. Scanning the outer cavern he discerned the kit was not available to them any longer, and had most likely been buried when the cave-in had sent them down. "Leave it. Even if you were to find it, it would probably be in ruins," he said as he took the rope from her shoulder and offered a hand in helping her make the next step. "We must hope that Gimli will fare well on his own without need of our ministration. So much time has passed already."

She stood before him, and in the light she was an unsightly visage. He could not help but quirk a smile once again. "My Lady," he said, scraping and bowing before her as he offered his arm and turned back to a merry subject to avail them in their journey. "Now you must tell me the true story of why you 'do not like mud', for Elf you are and I know you are not prone to magnificent tirades of the sort I have witnessed, even once per century."

She sighed. A shy grin was barely visible beneath the grime covering her skin. He did not need to see it to know that she blushed. "You will not let this pass, will you?" she asked.

"Not when I witness scenes that would make a Balrog flee," he answered.

The floor of the cave suddenly seemed fascinating to her, though he did not ease his gaze. At last she looked up and confessed. "It was Elladan and Elrohir who were truly at fault."

"We speak in the past?" he guessed.

"Aye. My brothers put me up to it," she confirmed with a nod, frowning at the memory.

Aragorn smiled knowing fully well the mischief those two Elves could stir. "So there is a tale behind your tantrum. I would guess that the twins somehow goaded you into a situation having to deal with mud. Am I correct? I would expect nothing less of them. But surely it was not as bad as this," he said, holding out his arm once again so he might lead her. This time she took it.

"It was worse."

He gasped, playing all innocence to her answer and egging her on.

"And I was practically an Elfling at the time, barely past my second century. So you can see how finely honed it is in my memories. Of course, it was a natural mistake on my part if you consider it," she said in her defense, as if they were conversing over tea.

"Your countenance was sullied greater than now? I find that difficult to believe," he said. All his mannerisms were sarcastically those of a gossiping female. He could not help himself. He was amused by what he knew would be a great tale, and more so that her ire seemed to be lifting. It would be good to vanquish those feelings and he knew in his heart as they journeyed into the unknown it would be better for them both to be in high spirits.

He kept the truth hidden. He knew they could be lost for days or weeks in these tunnels, though he did not wish to say that aloud, and anything he could do to offset that gloom he would do. Already his stomach growled for food, but he ignored it, afraid to look at the meager biscuits he had tucked away in his pack, fearful of ruin to the dirt. He hoped their path would be easy, for they were not really prepared if it was not. They would back track and return to this spot if need be. At least a route was visible to them here, even if it was not passable. At the entrance he marked their path by using a small sandstone that lay on the floor. He scraped the walls with the design of an arrow marking the direction they took for any followers. He pocketed the stone to use for later markings, and then held the lamp high so to lead the way. Turning again, he smiled and said, "Do tell more, please, Lady Sodden," in the attempt to keep alive their discussion.

It was then that she struck him, and by this time he had forgotten the need to duck. Still he laughed, as did she for it was a light blow and not really intended to harm. She continued, "You know of the Hoarwell Fens?"

Aragorn turned to stare, blanching slightly as he did. "That stinking cesspool of polluted filth? You did not?" Then when she did not negate him, he added, "But Arwen, it bubbles," as if that was justification enough for her never to approach such a place.

She only nodded in confirmation. "So it does, Lord Grunge. I knew not what I was getting myself into at the time, but hindsight makes it all that much clearer," she said as she picked her way in the darkness at his side. Together they stepped into the black, unaware indeed of what might come next.

****

Despite the ache in his foot, the throb at his temple, and the hobbling manner in which he was forced to move along, Gimli was having, in an odd sort of way, a splendid time. He was in his element in the deep, dank spaces below ground, and as any Dwarf might contend, there was nothing that made Gimli feel more at home than that. The darkness did not bother him as it might other creatures. In fact, so accustomed were Dwarves to making way through dark corridors without access to great light, that they had many learned traits that had become second nature to them in situations such as these.

Like Wood Elves that flittered through the trees, Dwarves made easy access through the rocky tunnels below ground. While above ground, in the sunny amber light among twittering birds and frolicking squirrels, such a thing as Dwarven grace might be mocked. Here in the deep dwellings of the rich earthen caverns, Dwarves had uncanny skill, so keen in fact that they could rival that of the Elves in the trees.

Among these skills were some most fitting for pitch places, and Gimli was employing them well. For example, the ability to use the sound of their footfalls was considered great benefit to Dwarves. Many a time had the plodding tread of Gimli been the subject of amusement to his Elven companion. Yet Legolas most likely did not realize that the booming sound was as intrinsic to the nature of a Dwarf as was that of the silence to the of Elves. To appreciate such a thing, it was important to know just how adept Dwarf ears could be. In the confines of a grotto, a Dwarf had sensitivity to sound that was heightened to a peak of pinpoint accuracy, giving him the ability to tell distance and know measure of obstacles in his path without aid of light. It would have been an insult to say a Dwarf's hearing was like that of a bat, but truth told, they were more alike than different.

Though their heavy steps were a positive trait in Dwarven custom, Dwarves also had the craft to adjust their tread. Like an Elf in that respect they were for they could make their noise nearly as inaudible as their bodies were invisible in the dense blackness, which was no small task given the repercussion of noise within those hollow walls.

And together, with knowledge and manipulation of sound, a Dwarf could be a mighty foe in his place in the earth. It was long said that no Man, or Elf even, could enter a Dwarven stronghold without detection, and in their history Dwarves bragged much on this fact. Though many attempted to steal away with those infamous treasures of Dwarven kings, none ever succeeded to carry out even a farthing with all of his limbs intact. Such was the Dwarf talent to manage sound.

Still, Gimli was being extra cautious in this trek. He was no fool, and he knew in his injured state he would not want to fall prey to any misadventures. Thus, one arm was poised beneath his crutch while a bundle of tied brush was harnessed to his back. In his other hand was the heavy end of his weapon. The other end of his axe, as might be described as the grip, Gimli scraped over the floor before him like a blind man wielding a cane. Gimli understood well his shortcomings. Despite his ability to 'see' when no light was allowed for it, the Dwarf had enough experience to know one could still fall into a pit that might not catch the echo of his steps. The going was made slower with this device in hand, but Gimli knew his only options were to give up the crutch, give up the halberd, or carry on with both items. And even though the third choice was the more difficult, Gimli opted for it, knowing full well he would desert none of those things he came to carry.

When comfort took hold, Dwarves also were known to utilize their talent for hearing well in caverns in other ways, and Gimli was making handy this skill as he trod. He was singing.

Without Legolas to jeer at him, the Elf's friend felt at ease enough to hum with some relish, and this too, like his heavy steps, aided in his going. Thus, he was humming for many reasons. One was to drown out the throb in his head that, though disconcerting, was only a mild hindrance. The second was to utilize the echo much like he would his footfalls and determine the size and depth of the caverns. And the third reason was because it sounded nice and it lifted his spirits. It made him think of many times in the dwarrows of his home in the Misty Mountains that he had heard the sound of Dwarven voices rise in song to meet his own. That was a joyous memory. Dwarven voices are rich and deep, like the earth, and when they join together in song, it is lumbering and moving, resonating in places of the soul that are seldom so stirred. The choir of those baritone vocalizations echoing through chambers and singing in tandem and harmonic renderings of song was very much a moving thing. There had been a time once during a visit to the Aglarond when Legolas had heard it, and Gimli had been astounded to see tears in his friend's eyes, though the Elf had denied it. Dwarven music could indeed be a beautiful thing.

In fact, Gimli had often thought he and Legolas might pair to make very lovely songs together, if only Elves were not so queer in how they went about music's making. Many a time had Gimli chimed in on one of the more familiar tunes his Elven friend sang only to find his notes sounding flat as Legolas veered off, changing the tune. Stubborn and selfish, Gimli scowled, for in the origination of Iluvatar's song Gimli knew that one of the Valar had done much the same. But then there were other times when the Elf joined Gimli in the Dwarf's hummed tunes, and at those moments the combination was lovely. Deep down Gimli was certain Legolas changed the tunes to show the superiority of his race for such things, for try as he might, he could not anticipate when the Elf might alter the music. It was amazing, in fact, that Elves could do so with such easy adaptation. Gimli had traveled through Legolas' realms in the past, first Eryn Lasgalen, then Doro Lanthiron, and each time he heard a barrage of Elven vocalizations chorusing through the trees, all singing as separate entities, yet united as one. In those moments, Gimli too often found tears in his eyes.

Of course, there would be no song in these caverns if Gimli suspected menace to be about. His keen hearing detected none, so onward he sang his song. Every few dozen yards he would stop and break off another of the small twigs, using it as a marker for his trail should he need to find his way back. And if such were the case, it would be then that he would light a torch so he might see his markings. For the moment, at least, he did not need it. Certain also was he that he had not doubled back on himself and crisscrossed his path. Another trait of the Dwarves was this. He had a remarkable sense of direction while looming in the dark. Most Dwarves did, and Gimli could tell he had pretty much stayed a course going west to northwest, which was the direction in which he recalled the river to be, and the place where he thought this cave might empty.

It was not to break off twig though that Gimli suddenly halted his steps after journeying for some time. His reasoning was clear in his earlier prediction; he suddenly knew the caverns about him had changed. Perhaps it was the way the air moved, or the scent of the dirt, or even the minor difference one heard in the echo in the walls, but all of it added up to a very interesting find, and Gimli felt his heartbeat speed in anticipation. A lucky Dwarf was he if he discovered his prediction true. Most Dwarves lived a lifetime without ever discovering what Gimli thought he might find and he was not about to let such an opportunity go by untested.

He reached to his parcel and pulled out one of the torches he had manufactured earlier, for now was not a time to be frugal with light. It was not a torch in the true sense, for there was no oil cloth or kerosene to serve as a wick and to urge a slow burn to the staff. Instead the torch was the brush itself, and he knew it would have a short life, burning for just a few minutes and flaring brightly only at first before petering out to a dull glow. Still, he needed to confirm what his ears and nose told him was there, and so with shaking fingers he pulled out his flint and steel and easily sparked a light. A short minute later the torch was lit.

Gimli gasped.

It was as he suspected, though greater than anything he truly thought might be. His hands shook as he took in the magnitude of what he saw. And while the torch was at its greatest, his eyes reveled in the glory of what lay before him. The glow filled the teary pools of his eyes. He smiled. The torchlight dimmed. A laugh broke free from his gut.

"Legolas," he said after all the illumination had faded to black again. He relished the sound of the word, letting it fill the chamber as if it might mark his claim. "I think I have found a way to save you, my friend," he said softly. Then he stepped forward and touched the stony wall.

****

Eowyn grumbled to herself, cursing her failing legs and wondering if she had somehow made a wrong turn. Impossible that was, for she had followed the river as it flowed southward toward the Anduin. Somehow they had managed this path in their travels to the cave of Henneth Annûn before, yet it had not seemed so rugged and contentious then. She grunted, summoning up her depleted strength on somewhat shaky legs. She realized they had been on horseback before, and they had pretty much allowed the horses to find their way up the rocky slope, wandering a bit away from the river's course where need required, and using the sound of the falls to bring them back. She wondered if she might fare better by traveling inland a bit more, away from the water. Here, near the shores of what was becoming rapid currents, the terrain was almost treacherous. It certainly was hindering her way, and Eowyn's progress was far slower than she would have hoped.

In fact it was so slow, Eowyn began to wonder if she had misjudged the situation. The raw frustration of being out and traversing this steep ridge was unraveling her earlier resolve. Would it not have been wiser to have stayed in their refuge and waited for all to return? Likely it was that the moment she departed they had arrived. She cursed that she had not thought to leave a note, but then she had been certain dire fate had befallen at least some, and she had felt this the wisest choice. Now she doubted herself.

It did not help that she had forgotten to pack a meal to fortify herself along the way. On consideration she realized she had not supped since that morning. So focused was her mind on more tragic things, she had not noticed the missed meal until now, the hour when she might normally dine (or at least be in preparation to dine). Then again in these days of early pregnancy and sickness, it did not surprise her she had forgotten. Her stomach seldom wanted for food. But when it did, it was a fierce monster, making its will known with the force of a dragon.

It had been long since she had suffered this way last, but yea, did the memory return quickly. Very few moments there were when the nausea did not press on her. Even in her direst hunger it called to her, leaving her shaken and ill. She was certain this is what ailed her most in her fumbling steps. True, the slope was steep, but not so steep that some sustenance might not firm up her wobbly knees. That is, once the queasy turn in her stomach had passed.

She took a draw on her waterskin, filling her stomach at least with some fluids. This way, too, if her gullet decided to divest itself of contents, it would merely be bringing forth something mild. Still, even the thought of such things nearly made her gag, and she pushed it away quickly before her fears became reality.

Deciding the horses most likely had the best idea, she walked further from the river in hopes of finding safer ground to step and perhaps some berries as well to tide her over. Her skirts made the walk more difficult, and she almost wished she had donned one of Faramir's trousers. It might have been a ridiculous scene to witness a woman in leggings, but it would not have been the first time Eowyn had done such a thing. For the sake of comfort and ease, she might well have forsaken tradition, had she the presence of mind to think of it earlier. Truthfully, the time when she had taken the guise of Dernhelm had been a liberating one, and she had been a bit saddened to return to the familiar attire of feminine endowment after having taken reign for a time as a man.

True to her desires, the terrain did level off as she moved further from the water, and this pleased Eowyn. She wiped the sweat from her brow and continued her southward trail, though she was still able to detect the water's sound. Her deepest fear in leaving the river was that it might veer off without her realizing and she would find herself in the thick of forest when her intent was to find the soldiers' camp near the shore. Still she judged she had many more miles to travel before making her destination, and so long as she skirted the water by this distance she would hem in on it after she had reached leveler ground.

She had not traveled far this way when all the landscape of her mood changed to something which gave her fright. In the distance she could hear the sound of dogs barking and she fretted, touching the hilt of her sword. Her first reaction was to think that it might be wolves or wargs. But neither of those creatures was known to give away their presence when hunting, unless they were already in pursuit of quarry, in which case Eowyn knew she was not their target. Still, she was vulnerable to them as they came.

Darting beside a fallen tree she found a place to take cover should the animals come her way. Her eyes shifted as they watched the trees and ground, listening intently for progress. She jumped at a sound in the forest before her, dodging below a sheltering branch as she watched the motion of something nearby. Her heart began to thump more furiously in her chest, and the echo of the dogs' barks quickened as it grew nearer. She made ready her sword, feeling the weight of the pommel balanced in her grip as she held it loosely ready.

There was no warning. All forms of distraction were upon her. Motion from above gathered her attention and a shrill cry from the throat of a predatory creature rang through the air. There was commotion and more cries. The rustling of leaves and snapping branches caught her sights and she fell witness to the most disastrous of events she could imagine. She flinched, gasping. Cruel injustice and nightmare were upon one she loved, and Eowyn's heart went into shock at the disaster of it. Eyes went wide. She released a scream, and without thinking, she ran.