The Roads Not taken by Idrils Scribe

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Winter Journey

This chapter is part of an alternate ending for The Stars Above the Sea.

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Hollin was desolate, a vast wilderness of tumbled foothills climbing to the snow capped mountains that loomed in the east. 

Elrohir was a fortnight into his journey from Tharbad to Rivendell, and he was utterly and completely alone. He had found neither hamlets nor homesteads, no charcoal burner's hut, not even a lonely fur trapper or vagrant - let alone a mythical Elvish realm. 

All around him the land lay still, expectant. No beasts crossed his path, no birdsong greeted the sunrise. There was no sound but his own footsteps and the wind whistling in the holly trees’ branches. Both seemed far too loud for comfort. 

He had never known that loneliness might hurt. A dull ache throbbed behind his breastbone whenever he thought of Harad. He did not let himself think of Hamalan, because then the pain would flare up, roaring like a bushfire until tears sprung to his eyes. He must not cry. 

Still, it would have been nice to have a companion - anyone, really. A friend, or even just a friendly face. Someone who might talk to him - how he missed the sound of a human voice! - look at him with a smile, share a laugh and perhaps some food. He had little, but then he had not felt like eating much, of late. 

Or someone to ask directions. Following the river Loudwater upstream had seemed such a simple proposition. Elrohir was not lost, as such - not with an entire mountain range to keep him oriented - but two weeks of wandering had made it abundantly clear that he had vastly underestimated the distance and the confusing, craggy lay of this land. 

One time he came upon a ruined carcass that must have been a watchtower. Once it must have been tall and fair, with arches of white stone soaring to the sky. The tower somehow reminded him of Glorfindel, but the thought held little comfort. Its pinnacle lay tumbled now, its white walls fire-blackened, and the north wind whined forlornly through gaping window holes. Elrohir did not enter - he had no desire to find out if anything lived there still. 

Autumn was fast fading into winter. The nights grew icy and his pack grew light, and still there was no sign of Rivendell. Each morning snow crept lower down the mountain slopes, and each morning fear clawed at Elrohir’s throat at the hoarfrost caking the holly leaves. The clothes he brought from Gondor were unfit for a northern winter. 

Elrohir was no fool - he knew well enough that he was in deep trouble.

He nonetheless killed the first person he met. 

Elrohir heard the man approaching in the night, just from the way he sniffed - like an Umbarian bloodhound searching its quarry. He silently slipped from the circle of light around his small fire, loaded crossbow in hand. 

When the sniffing man reached the fire he looked almost pitiable - a hunchbacked, sallow-skinned fellow not much taller than a child. He was armed but clad in rags, perhaps a beggar or vagrant of some kind. 

Elrohir pitied the wretch, and he had been alone for long enough that he would have offered any chance met traveller a seat by his fire. Even a man whose yellowed teeth jutted from his mouth like fangs.  

He rose from his crouch. “Hail and well met …”

He got no further. The man snarled and leapt for Elrohir’s throat, leaving no doubt of his intentions.  

Elrohir had been ready. His crossbow sang, and his guest thudded against the frozen ground like a dropped puppet, a bolt sprouting from his eye. 

Elrohir’s heart thundered in his chest but he remained stock-still, hidden in the darkness beyond the fire. Only when the twitching had stopped completely, did he step forward to prod the slackened body with his toe. 

Dead. Good.

He bent down to retrieve his bolt, and froze in horror. 

The dead man’s blood was black. Not the dark, saturated red of a slow bleed, but that deep, unnatural colour of pitch. 

Panic fluttered in his chest. 

Orcs are real. 

They were real, those horrors from the Northerners’ tall tales, the ones Elrohir used to laugh at. Monsters, defilers, man-eaters. Thank Eru above that his first one had been a loner instead of a pack. 

Elrohir’s desert instincts took over. He had to disappear, and fast. In a frenetic rush he drained his waterskin over the fire, plunging the campsite in darkness. There was no hiding the smells of woodsmoke and spilled blood. Others would come.  

He did take a moment to pick the corpse bare. The Orc’s clothes were too small for him, but he yanked them off all the same. The underwear was too filthy to contemplate, but the tunic and breeches seemed relatively clean. He stuffed them into his own shirt for warmth, and donned the orc’s short cloak beneath his own. Winter was upon him, and he could no longer afford to worry about lice. 

The Orc carried a longknife, ugly but sharp, and a crossbow. Elrohir had handled many ill-made crossbows in his time, but this was the lousiest he had ever seen. Even so, he would not leave it for another Orc to find. He smashed it to pieces against the frozen ground and added the bolts to his own quiver as spares. 

The Orc carried a small purse of greenish copper coins, which he pocketed. Only its food he did not touch. He dared not wonder what - or who - those strips of dried meat might be. Let the wolves squabble over them. With some luck it would keep them off Elrohir’s trail. 

He ran into the night without a second look at the unburied corpse.  

He did not rest all night to put miles between him and the camp, the mountains growing closer and more menacing as he approached. When day broke he kept going, chewing a small ration as he walked - quickly, before something might pick up the smell of food. 

Dusk came, and with it the scything north wind. It howled about the mountains’ tumbled foothills, long ridges of red stone cutting up the barren country, driving a sharp, numbing hail of powder snow into every exposed bit of skin. 

It was cold, so absurdly cold! A dull, deep ache throbbed in every muscle down to the bone. His fingertips were going white and numb. He could not risk another fire, so he wrapped his tattered cloak from Gondor tighter about himself, pulled the hood, then topped it with his blanket.

The moon was new, and a low roof of chasing, lead-grey clouds covered the stars. Without light he could not navigate these foreign lands with their ravines and crags where water had gnawed apart the very stone, and he was not fool enough to try. Tharbad lay far behind, and Rivendell further away still. There would be no help if he broke a leg scaling some treacherous gully in the dark. He did not dare sleep, but neither could he press on.

Strange sounds seemed to carry on the wind, and suddenly Elrohir knew, with terrifying certainty, that he was being pursued. He had to get out of the open. 

He ran towards a ridge of stone, a looming black bulk against the sky. As he approached he noticed a deeper darkness, a small hollow opening up where the rock had been scooped by an ancient stream. The hollow was not a true cave. It was too shallow for bears or worse things to make their lair, but it was dry, out of the wind and protected from enemy eyes. He would find no better place to sit and suffer until morning. When he crawled inside the cutting wind’s absence was sweet relief. 

Then he startled, and leapt back. On the gravel floor lay a flat, square object. 

A package, wrapped in what appeared to be dry leaves. It was tied with a piece of perfectly ordinary hemp string.  Elrohir merely stood there at first, staring, convinced that the desolation of the northern wastes had him hallucinating. 

Hunger could drive a man stark raving mad, but he had never heard of scented illusions. 

The package smelled of bread. Not ordinary bread, but that sweet, wholesome scent that rises when a fine loaf is torn open straight from the oven, the white crumb steaming and soft. Elrohir swallowed the spit that leapt into his mouth. His stomach roared, but he did not touch the bundle.  

He stood amidst a vast, monster-infested wilderness a fortnight’s march from the nearest human habitation. This bread - if bread it was - could only have come here through some foul trick or sorcery. 

In a way it was a relief: an end to this string of lightless days, setting one foot before the other under a cloud of despair. He felt numb, so numb that he could barely recall what purpose kept him moving north instead of laying down beneath a holly bush to freeze to death. Even if Rivendell did exist, he would not reach it in time. 

And he was so hungry.

He prodded the bundle with the tip of his sword, then picked it up with a gloved hand, arm outstretched as were it a poisonous snake. 

The package should dissolve into thin air like the witchery it doubtlessly was, but no harm manifested when he hefted the solid weight of it. Then his curiosity got the better of him. He untied the string and folded back the leaves. 

Bread indeed - two flat loaves, some kind of cram . Elrohir breathed deep of the scent, then made himself close the leaf wrapping tight about the bread once more. He should toss it out into the night. Only a fool would eat something so dubious.   

But he was so hungry.

He unwrapped the flatbreads again, turned them over in his hands, searching for some clue or mark. 

There! The baker had pressed a stamp into the dough so the baking bread would rise around it. 

A six-pointed star. 

Elrohir knew little of Orcs, but they did not seem capable of baking, nor likely to decorate the result with stars. That thought and the torturous scent proved more than his empty stomach could bear. 

The golden crust broke to reveal a creamy white inside, and Elrohir cautiously sampled a single crumb. It melted on his tongue, soft and sweet as honey. He tasted no trace of poison.

He might as well hang for a sheep as a lamb. One delicious bite led to another, and then he gave in and wolfed down the entire loaf. 

The bread seemed to put heart into him. His despair lightened, and the night no longer felt as cold. He sat up straight, sword in hand and his eyes on the hollow’s entrance. If any Orcs wished to make a meal of him, they would pay dearly.

Morning found him still in human shape and in command of all his faculties. He broke his fast with part of the second loaf, stashing the rest for later. 

The North was a strange place indeed. Elrohir wondered if Glorfindel would laugh that silver laugh of his at the tale of the mysterious bread. Perhaps Elrohir would live to tell him, one day. He caught himself smiling at the thought. 

The joy was short-lived. When he stepped from the hollow he found a white world. Hollin lay dusted in a fine layer of powder snow, and the air cut cold as ice against his throat. Elrohir winced. Winter’s grip was tightening. He was running out of time. 

Even so, he stood still for a time and looked about himself, carefully searching the silent foothills for movement. There was a watchful air to the place, but the land was empty and the snow undisturbed. The dark shapes of holly trees stood like alien calligraphy against the white landscape. Only the wind howled across the barren slopes. 

He saw no sign of people, be they Orcs, Elves or Sorcerers. He could almost believe that some unlucky traveller had simply lost the package as they sheltered in the hollow. Almost. Even so, he dared not linger.

Elrohir turned his face north, to where he could hear the Loudwater’s rushing song, and followed the river in search of Rivendell. 

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Chapter End Notes

Why was this road not taken? 

I outlined this chapter while trying to decide whether Elrohir should meet Glorfindel in Tharbad, or make it to Rivendell under his own power. The former scenario won out, mostly because it seemed unlikely that the Elves would fail to catch up with Elrohir until he was on their doorstep. 

I'm still working on a second chapter for this AU, and I'd love to hear readers' ideas and expectations: what happens next? And who left that packet of lembas? A comment would make me a very happy scribe!

Seen you soon,
Idrils Scribe