Through Cold Mist to Clear Sun by StarSpray

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Chapter 1

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Third Age
1974

The plan had been to go west, to try to reach Círdan in Lindon. But their party had been attacked and separated just east of the Baranduin, north of the Barrow Downs of old Cardolen, and Fíriel and her ladies found themselves fleeing through the Downs southward, toward the forest that stood between them and the East Road. If they could but make it to the West Road, perhaps they would have a better chance of reaching Lindon, or Rivendell.

The Barrow Downs themselves, however, had other ideas. Evil spirits had come to dwell in the graves, and while they were able to pass through while the sun shone, as darkness fell whispering voices filled the air along with the mist rising out of the grass and twisting up out of the river flowing through the ancient wood. Fíriel's ladies huddled around her, blades drawn. Fíriel herself held Narsil clutched to her chest with trembling hands, bound up with other smaller treasures of the royal house of Arthedain.

Cold be heart,

be hand,

be bone…

"Pass the barrows on the western side," Rhovaneth whispered. She gripped Rían's arm with a gloved hand and pulled her away from the closest hill.

Somewhere behind them, to the north, came a scream, a shrill cry that carried words but also the heavy weight of crushing fear and horror. Fíriel nearly dropped her burdens in an effort to cover her ears, though it did little good.

"Go, go, go!" Nelien pulled Fíriel along, the mist whirling around them.

Cold be sleep...

Fíriel ducked as something swooped low over their heads. Rían cried out.

Sleep…

Sleep…

Sleep under stone…

She stumbled, and a shape loomed up before them, tall and dark with eyes that burned like coals. It reached toward them with long bony fingers. Fíriel opened her mouth to scream, but no sound would come.

"Get back! Be gone, foul creature!" Rhovaneth cried, leaping forward, brandishing her sword. It burned red as a brand, and the barrow wight shrank back, but only for a moment before another cry of the Nazgûl echoed through the hills around them. The wight laughed, high and cold and nearly as terrible as the wraith of Angmar, and Rhovaneth faltered and fell back.

Never more to wake on stony bed
Till the Sun fails and the Moon is dead!

Then, all of a sudden, it began to rain—a gentle but steady rain, cool but not cold, that washed away the mists and dripped like gentle tears down their faces. Another voice wound through the hills and barrows around them, wordless, but young and ancient as spring, and warm, and welcoming. The wight hissed, and somewhere behind them the Nazgûl cried out again, but the voice that had brought the rain was stronger, and in the distance another started singing—this one with words, though not in any language that Fíriel knew, and the words were mingled with laughter.

As the wight turned, hissing curses, and fled back to its barrow, a woman appeared out of the rain and fading mists, clad in pale brown shot with green, her golden hair shimmering in the growing twilight. She reached pale hands skyward, and the rain stopped, the clouds parted, and the stars shone on them. Then, "Come!" she said, gesturing to Fíriel and her ladies.

There had been rumors and tales of some strange, benevolent spirit dwelling in the wood by the Withywindle. But Fíriel had not heard that it was a woman. Rhovaneth, however, did not hesitate, and pulled Fíriel to her feet and urged the other ladies to start walking again.

They entered the forest, and the shadows fell around them, thick branches woven together overhead to block out the starlight. The woman led them along a clear path, but when Fíriel looked behind her, the trees were thick and close and tangled. The air was still, and there was no breeze, but overhead there was a rustling of leaves like whispers.

"Where are you taking us?" Nelien whispered. It seemed like a dangerous thing to speak at all.

"To the house of Tom Bombadil," said the woman. She did not whisper, and over her shoulder she smiled at them. "Fear not! You are with the River-daughter."

The house of Tom Bombadil sat on a hilltop overlooking the river, where it fell laughing down a hill, foaming at the bottom. The grass was cropped short, and there was a small stable beside the house, which was lit from the inside with golden candlelight. Overhead the clouds had dispersed, leaving only tattered fragments drifting across the stars.

"Tom is busy on the borders, keeping Angmar away," said the woman as she shut the door behind them. "But have no fear! Nothing can harm you in this house! Come! Sit and rest yourselves a while." She took their cloaks to hang on pegs by the door, and took their packs to set beneath them, and in a few minutes Fíriel and her ladies found themselves sitting comfortably by the hearth, where a fire danced merrily and chased the chill out of their bones. The River-daughter disappeared, but returned soon to lead them down a corridor to a wide room furnished with five beds, with warm blankets and down mattresses and pillows. There were windows to the east and west, closed and latched against the night, and a pair of stands with basins filled with clear water. "Refresh yourselves, my friends, and when you are done supper will be ready," said the River-daughter, and vanished back down the corridor.

"Well," said Meril once they were alone, as Rían dropped onto one of the beds.

Fíriel looked at Rhovaneth, who had gone to one of the basins to begin washing. "Have you been here before?" she asked. Rhovaneth had traveled often, before Angmar had risen again—it was why she was with them, since she knew most of the lands of Eriador as well as Fíriel had once known the streets of Minas Tirith. They would not have made it as far as they had without her.

"Once," Rhovaneth said. "I have not met the River-daughter, but I met Tom Bombadil once—the Elves call him Iarwain Ben-adar." She smiled grimly. "I think he could hold back the forces of Angmar by his laughter alone."

"What sort of creature is he?" Rían asked, sitting up. The fear of the Barrow Downs was passing, and even the dread of the Witch-king and his Nazgûl servants was fading in the comfort of this simple house.

"I don't know. I don't think anyone does."

"But are we really safe here?" Nelien wanted to know. "There are no walls or defenses, and I've heard things about the forest…"

"I think this house is the safest place in Eriador, except maybe Rivendell," said Rhovaneth. "There are no fortifications because—well, because it doesn't need them."

By the time they emerged from the bedroom the River-daughter had the table laid, and they sat down to a meal of fresh soft bread and honeycomb and berries and fruits, washed down with clear, sweet water that cheered them like wine. They were not at first inclined to speak, but the River-daughter—Goldberry, she told them her name was—gently coaxed conversation out of them, filling most of the silence herself with tales of the passings seasons and the doings of the river and the creatures that dwelt in and by it.

Nothing at all was said of the war in the north, or the Witch-king, or the or the barrow wights, until the meal was done and Goldberry had cleared the table—refusing Meril's offer of help.

"Will you tell me where you were going, when the wight tried to snatch you?" Goldberry asked as they moved from the table back to the comfortable grouping of chairs by the merrily blazing hearth.

"We were trying to flee west, across the Lune," Fíriel said, "to Lindon. But we were separated from the rest of the party—perhaps my sons will reach Círdan, but I fear we cannot."

"We hoped at least to reach Bree, but got lost on the Downs," Rhovaneth said. "Thank you for your help—if you had not come…"

Goldberry smiled at them. Her hair rippled as she sat. "It was lucky I was out walking today. There is not much I can do against the wights in the barrows, if they catch you," she said. "You need my Tom for driving them away. My power is in the land and in the water."

"Could you guide us, then, through the forest?" Fíriel asked.

"Yes, of course! You will need a guide. These trees are old—their roots have been growing deep since there was only starlight in the world—and they are not all friendly to those that go on two legs. I can take you down the Withywindle to the Brandywine, where a bridge will take you into the Shire."

It was not the way to Bree, but the road through the Shire would take them into Lindon, to Círdan and—hopefully—to Aranarth and his brothers, and perhaps even Arvedui. It sounded a much better plan to Fíriel than trying to make their way east.

"But you are weary now, from journeying and from fright," Goldberry said. "Do not trouble yourselves this night! Heed no noises—nothing but starlight and moonlight comes into the house of Tom Bombadil without his leave."

Fíriel slept that night deeply, and dreamed of waves on a pale shore, and towers in the distance glimmering in the sunset like pearls. She woke to sunshine on her face.

It was early yet, and her ladies were still asleep. Fíriel pulled on yesterday's clothes and wandered barefoot outside onto the dewy grass. The river splashed down the hill, glittering in the pale morning sun, and Goldberry was nowhere to be seen. But Fíriel could hear singing down by the water, past a clump of tall reeds, and she made her way towards it, curious to see what the River-daughter did on sunny mornings.

There was a pool by the reeds, where the water flowed in and stayed a while, calm and clear. Goldberry stood waist-deep in this pool, unheeding of the morning's slight chill, clad in pale green with skirts that billowed around her like lily pads. Her song was one of greeting and good morning, and after a few minutes Fíriel realized she was singing to the fish, tiny silver things that darted about her feet, flashing in the pale light like tiny gems.

Wen her song was done, Goldberry looked up to Fíriel and laughed. Her hair was wound about her head with daisies and forget-me-nots, and her eyes were bright as sunlight on clear water. "Good morning!" she cried, wading up onto the bank to join Fíriel. "Did you find your rest last night?"

"I did, thank you," Fíriel said.

"Excellent! And you will rest more today; it will rain this afternoon, I think, and that is no weather for walking."

Fíriel agreed, but still… "But we must leave soon. My sons—"

"They will find their way," Goldberry said. She laid a cool hand on Fíriel's arm. "And so will you. I will take you as I said to the Brandywine Bridge. Tom and Goldberry have many friends in the Marish! It will be an easy journey then through the Shire to the Elf cities by the Sea. In the meantime, do not worry! There are dark clouds in the north, and fog on the barrow downs, but the sun shines in Tom's country! Where are your ladies? They should join us and we will sing together!" She turned and went back up to the house.

Fíriel stood a while longer beside the river, listening to the water flowering, and to the wind in the willow trees. She looked north, where the sky was indeed dark, a heavy grey with a haze under the clouds that suggested rain, but reminded her more of bone-chilling cries on the wind. Shuddering, she turned to the west, and the sky pale but clear. Somewhere a nightingale trilled; elsewhere a lark sang. Behind Fíriel, Goldberry started singing again, her voice like the lark's but also like the river's, and like the wind's, clean and clear and old and young, and safe.