Under Cloud and Under Star by StarSpray

Maglor had grown used to the darkness deep in the forests that clustered thick and ancient on the northeastern edge of the Sea of Rhûn. Even at high noon on a cloudless day the world beneath the forest canopy was dim, green-tinged and tangled with mossy roots and low hanging branches. It was a forest of a kin with Fangorn in the west, and the ancient woods that had once covered Eriador before Númenor had come seeking wood for ships, and before war came to raze the rest.

But the darkness of this starless and moonless night was something else entirely, as the Elves who dwelt in the wood fled and fought all in confusion against the Men who marched into the trees bearing biting iron and hungry fire. The smoke was thick and choking and the air was filled with the creaking and groaning of trees furious at such an invasion. Perhaps the trees aided the other Elves of the wood in their escape or in their battle, but Maglor had not lived among them long enough to be called a friend; he was still a stranger, and so he was left to his own devices as he tripped his way through the darkness that was deeper than night, fighting the dread that rose in his heart at the coming of Men with a power that they should not have had, with its coppery tang and foul phantom smell and the echo of faraway and long ago wolves in other darker woods now drowned beneath the Sea.

Somehow, Maglor managed to find his way out of the heart of the forest and into open grassland. Beneath a sky heavy with dark clouds the hills stretched rolling away, the grass like a sea rippling over them in the wind, as thunder rumbled in the distance like war drums, and lightning flickered at the edge of sight. The air smelled, beneath the power of Mordor, like rain. Rain, fresh and clean water to wash away the stink of Sauron and to quench the fires of his servants—that was what they needed. Maglor had lost his harp, but he raised his hands to the clouds and began to sing. He sang of falling rain and flowing water, of quenched flames and hissing steam, and thirsty earth soaking up the flood, and of a world washed clean and bright beneath a golden sunrise.

As his song reached its crescendo it was met with a loud clap of thunder from directly over his head, and the skies opened. Rain fell in torrents, soaking Maglor in minutes. He turned to find his pursuers only just emerging from the trees, stumbling in the sudden rainfall. He turned to flee again, too spent to fight, but had hardly taken two steps before a voice behind him rang out in command and he felt that horrible power coil about him like a snake. With great effort he threw it off, turning back to face the figure wielding it. It was a Man, tall and dark-haired with eyes black and flat as a snake's, and on his finger was a ring of dark metal set with symbols and runes that made Maglor's skin crawl, and with a gemstone that gleamed in the darkness, red as blood.

Even if he were not drained by the storm summoning, Maglor would have struggled hard against the ring-wielder. Their words clashed like thunder and the air filled with steam and a reek of hot metal as they strove against one another, one singing of freedom and escape on swift feet beneath wide open skies, the other chanting ugly words of chains and darkness, of breaking and of binding.

In the end Maglor, feeling as though he were drowning, choked, and fell.

TA 2966

Dear Cousin Bilbo,

I must thank you again for your letters of introduction. Master Elrond was of course wonderfully welcoming regardless, and we had a very nice chat about your stays in Rivendell, and he did ask to be remembered to you when I found time to write. That was some months ago now, I'm afraid, but you know better than anyone how little travel allows for letter writing.

I also met Gandalf while in Rivendell, and he was kind enough—or perhaps just amused?—to accompany me over the Mountains (oh, the Mountains! I shall wax poetic as an elf about them when I get home for a proper visit with you!), though we ran into no trouble: no goblins or foul weather, and only one stone giant standing thoughtfully on a cliff a good three miles away. Evidently the main forest road is still in disrepair, and no one particularly likes to go into that part of the forest even though the Necromancer is gone, so we went along north and passed by the Carrock on our way to the Elven path. The land was very different from your descriptions. The woodmen are positively thriving along the river. They call themselves the Beornings, now, and Beorn himself is not nearly so solitary as he was when you met him. In fact he is married, did you know? His lady wife was very kind and open-hearted, quite different from her husband—not that Beorn isn't kind, in his way, but you know what I mean. He knew Gandalf and remembered you fondly, though Gandalf had to read him the letter you wrote because he has no use for reading and writing himself.

Gandalf left me at Beorn's, saying he had business with Radagast at Rhosgobel. I would have liked to go with him and meet another wizard, but it was no business of mine, as Gandalf rather briskly informed me, and so off he rode, and I continued on from Beorn's house with a party of Beornings on their way to Laketown, which is mostly on solid ground now, rather than built out onto the lake—although some have rebuilt that bit, well away from the ruins that Smaug destroyed. You can still see scorched posts sticking up out of the water, and for all the boats that go skimming over the Long Lake, none go anywhere near.

Your Dwarven friends have certainly been busy, Cousin Bilbo! There is a beautiful road built now between Laketown and Dale, always filled with traffic from all parts. I met merchants from Gondor down in the south, come to trade rosewater and perfumes from a place called Imloth Melui, which is evidently known for its roses. Perhaps I shall come home by way of Gondor? Or perhaps not. From what I have heard there isn't much traveling between there and the north, not even to Bree, and those merchants were considered quite brave and maybe a little foolhardy. Still, I should very much like to see Minas Tirith with its great white towers, and the roses in Lossarnach.

Anyway, I am writing this from a very splendid room in the Lonely Mountain. King Dáin is a splendid fellow, and all of your friends were delighted to receive your letters and packages, and alongside this letter you should be receiving their replies, and a truly beautiful tea set and a new kettle that really sings a song when it boils! That is Bofur's work, and I have already commissioned another to send to Mama. I really don't know if she'll be horrified or delighted, but I think it's marvelous. I also purchased some perfume from the Gondorian merchants for my sisters, and some silver cuff links for Dad. Gimli—that's Glóin's son, did you ever meet him?—has promised to send them home for me when Mama's kettle is done. I have heard a great deal here about the Sea of Rhûn, and I am very eager to see it. A caravan of horse and pony traders from Rhûn has agreed to let me travel with them. I shall help with the cooking and with the ponies to earn my keep. I hope to come away with some new recipes. We are leaving bright and early tomorrow morning, and it's nearly time for supper, so I had best end this letter. I will write you again when I come back to Dale!

Much love,
Peony

The road to the shores of the great inland Sea of Rhûn was long and at times winding. From Dale the caravan that Peony joined followed the River Running as it made its way south and then curved eastward, until it met the Redwater that flowed down from the Iron Hills. They stayed a few days for their turn to cross at the rivers' joining, where there was a wide and shallow ford much used by travelers and traders going east and west. The road continued to follow the river on either side, but before they came to the Sea, Peony's party split away and headed north into the hills and plains, where there were very few permanent towns, for the people were nomads, guiding their herds of cattle and sheep and horses to follow the greener grasses and better weather. Sometimes they came to the shores of the Sea, but most often they were content with the sea of grass that rippled like water in the wind beneath the wide and open skies. Peony had never seen such open space before; it was beautiful, but so vast it was hard sometimes to really believe that it was real.

The family who had agreed to let Peony travel with them was led by a stern-faced man named Ravil. He had made the journey to Dale only a handful of times since it had been rebuilt, and this last time was the first journey that his youngest daughter Amina had accompanied him on. She was sharp-eyed and smiling and quick to learn new languages. Peony's descriptions of the Shire and of her journey east intrigued Amina, and they spent much of the journey to Rhûn talking of Wilderland and of the lands west of the Misty Mountains. "I have never seen mountains, except for the Dwarves' kingdom," Amina said. "There are only rolling hills in my land."

"Mine are much the same," replied Peony. "The Barrow Downs are the highest hills near the Shire, but no one goes there at all. But we have woods and streams and farms, nothing at all like this." She waved her hand at the wide grasslands around them. "I've never been to a place where I could see so far before!"

"Do your people often travel to the Long Lake?" Amina asked.

"Oh heavens no. Only my cousin Bilbo has been there. He was with Thorin Oakenshield and his company, you know, when they came to retake the mountain. Hobbits as a rule don't approve of such journeys or adventures."

Amina laughed. "And yet here you are, and you a young woman by herself!"

"Well I'm a Took, you see. So is Bilbo—on his mother's side, I mean. A different branch of the family, of course. Mine is descended from the Bullroarer, who was my great-great-great-grandfather, and he was tall enough to ride a horse instead of a pony…" Amina listened with gratifying fascination as Peony told her all about the battle with the goblins that had been won when Bandobras managed to behead the goblin king Golfimbul, which sent the rest of the foul creatures scrambling back north and east. Eventually they had left Eriador altogether, though the hobbits had had little to do with that.

For her part, Peony had no desire to meet any goblins, let alone kill any. The dwarves had given her a knife similar in size to Bilbo's Sting, but it felt strange hanging from her belt, and she hoped she wouldn't have to use it—she wanted adventure, but not that sort. But as they traveled farther into Rhûn it seemed that she might find herself in that sort of adventure whether she wanted it or not. There were bands of soldiers riding about in strange armor and bearing the sigil of a red eye upon their shields and tabards. There were other signs and sigils, too, but they only served the Eye. Ravil argued with one such party who seemed to want all of the horses and ponies that he had acquired in Dale. Only after a very long debate did they relent and depart. Amina told Peony that her father had promised them more horses and better, if they came back in a few years. "They were especially interested in the black ones," Amina said. "I do not know why. It is that brown stallion who is the most promising stud. But you had better stay close to me, Peony. I do not know what the soldiers will think of a hobbit from the faraway Shire, but it would be better not to find out."

"Where do the soldiers come from?" Peony asked as they fell into step beside Ravil.

"The Dark Tower," he said shortly.

"From the Black Land, that some call Mordor," Amina said, almost in a whisper. "But do not say the name aloud."

Peony shuddered. Mordor was a name on the very edges of the most frightening tales in the Shire. Cousin Bilbo knew a bit more about it, but Peony had never asked. Perhaps that had been a mistake, since it was rather suddenly not so far away at all. She looked over her shoulder to watch the soldiers ride away; one also glanced back, but only briefly before he vanished over a hill.

When they finally caught up to the rest of Ravil and Amina's clan, they were greeted with delight and not a little relief. Peony was regarded with friendly astonishment. But though the homes were all really just large tents, made to be put up and taken down quickly and easily, the place was very homey, and Peony settled in very quickly. Amina was often busy with the horses and other livestock, and so Peony got to know her mother Zifa and her elder sister Dinara, though at first speaking was a bit of a challenge, as Peony was still learning their language, and neither Zifa nor Dinara knew the Common Speech of the West. But Peony kept at it, and eventually she got along well enough that she was able to go with Dinara and Amina to the nearest permanent settlement for the market. It was a bustling place, full of colors and noises and smells—of animals and people and various cooking meats and breads and fish. Everyone was talking and shouting at each other as they bartered, though in nearly every instance both parties came away smiling.

There was something strange about the whole scene, however, but it took most of the morning for Peony to put her finger on what it was. She never would have, if soldiers of the Eye had not ridden through. The leaders rode black horses, and the man in front had a ring on his finger that drew one's gaze, set with a stone redder than any ruby Peony had seen in the Lonely Mountain. She shrank back behind Dinara's skirts as he passed by. She did not at all like the look in his eyes. He put her in mind of a wolf—one of the fell wolves that hunted with the goblins in the mountains.

But then the company passed and behind it came a wagon holding a cage made of heavy iron. It was drawn by four very large, very weary looking horses, and the wheels creaked ominously as it trundled along down the path. The village was very quiet; somewhere a baby cried but was immediately hushed. In the cage was a bruised and battered figure, bound with iron manacles at his wrists and ankles. His hair was long and dark and matted with blood and dirt, and he slumped against the side of the cage unmoving. For a moment as the wagon passed before her, Peony thought he was dead, and the soldiers had not yet noticed. But then his eyes opened, their gazes met. She gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out. His eyes were very bright, glinting like silvery stars beneath the dark tangle of his hair. There was no mistaking such eyes—that was an elf in that cage.

Then the wagon was past and the soldiers were leaving the village. "Poor soul," Amina whispered as voices started to murmur and then to speak normally about them. With a determined air the market returned to normal. And it was then that Peony realized what was so strange. There wasn't a single man of fighting age to be seen—only a few very old men, or very young boys. The rest of the bustle was made up of women, old and young and in the middle, with babies on their hips or with their long white hair coiled up about their heads in braids and ribbons. Peony wondered if the men were staying out of sight, or if they had already all been taken away—to be soldiers, or to serve them somehow. But she did not ask—it seemed like the sort of thing best left unspoken of. Like Mordor.

But she could not get the elf in the cart out of her mind. "Where will they take him?" she asked Dinara as they made their way back home.

Dinara only shook her head. It was Amina who answered, "There is an old temple to the Dark Lord near the Sea. It was empty and crumbling for a long time, until the priests came back and repaired it. Now smoke rises from it more often than not. I think they will take him there. Or perhaps they have other plans. Sometimes it is said that such prisoners are taken all the way to the Black Land."

"But is there nothing to be done for him?" Peony asked.

Both Dinara and Amina looked at her in astonishment. "Done for him?" Dinara repeated. "No! Did you not see all of the soldiers? There are more where they came from."

"But surely it won't do to just—do nothing."

Dinara looked over her shoulder, but they were alone on the path. The only living thing to be seen was a hawk circling very high above and very far away over the hills, looking for its dinner. "There is nothing to be done for him," Dinara said finally, keeping her voice very low. "Do not think we are all only standing aside or falling into line. But we cannot risk everything only for a single stranger. That prisoner was not one of our people. I do not know who he was or where he came from, but we are hard pressed as it is."

"I will light incense for him this evening," said Amina. "It is all that we can do."

Peony tried to forget about the elf in the cart, but by the next evening he was all that she could think about. It seemed terribly wrong to leave anyone to such a horrible fate as—as whatever it was that was going to happen to him. But especially it seemed wrong to leave an elf to it. So when night fell and everyone was asleep, she wrote a quick note to apologize for leaving without warning and to thank her hosts for their hospitality, and then gathered up her things and slipped away out of the village. It was easy to fetch her pony Apple from the paddock. She led him creeping down the path until they were well away, and then she mounted and urged him into a brisk trot. The moon was high and bright, and she made good time, slowing only to pass unseen and unheard by the market village. It was not hard to find the road taken by the soldiers, and she followed it as quickly as she dared, fearing at any moment soldiers would appear before or behind her and catch her up the same way they'd caught the elf.

In the end, no one caught her, and after another day of travel she found the temple. Dusk was falling like a purple curtain over the grass when she spotted it in the distance. Dark smoke curled up from its roof, and even from a distance Peony could catch a whiff of its foul stench. She wrinkled her nose, and slid out of her saddle. "Well, Apple," she said, patting his neck, "we've found the place. Now I must find out if the elf is still there, and if he is, how to get him out! I wish Cousin Bilbo were here. I'm no burglar."

Of course, neither was Bilbo, really. But he knew more about sneaking into dark and dangerous places than Peony did. She left the path and led Apple to a thicket a good distance away from the temple. There were more trees and bushes in this region, fortunately, as it was growing very close indeed to the Sea of Rhûn. When the wind shifted Peony thought she could hear the sound of waves, faint and far. She found a short but sturdy tree and hoisted herself up into its branches, from which she had a good view of the temple without fear of being seen herself. There were people moving about, going in and out. The cart she had seen before stood in front of the entrance, though it was empty. Peony squinted through the growing darkness, and saw a figure dragged out of the temple and down to the cart. It was hard to tell if it was the elf, but Peony thought that it was. He seemed taller than the soldiers, though the way he was hunched over made it hard to tell. He moved in stiff, jerking movements, as though he were in a great deal of pain. Peony gripped the tree branches hard and gritted her teeth as the soldiers forced him up into the cart. A few minutes later the cart trundled off. It had a much smaller escort this time, however. Only a handful of soldiers on foot went with it.

Peony followed at a distance, keeping away from the road, and going on foot and slowly, so that Apple did not make so much noise. More than once she halted, hardly daring to breathe, when one of the soldiers turned his head in her direction. But always he turned back and kept on. If the elf knew that she was following them, he made no sign.
They stopped near midnight and made their camp. Peony watched for a while, but it seemed they were sure enough that no one would bother them, or that there were no wild animals to fear, that they set no watch. So when she was certain that the soldiers were all asleep, she left Apple hidden in the brush and crept forward, silent as only a hobbit could be. She even reached the cart before the elf noticed her approach. He started, as though he had been dozing, and looked at her with eyes that seemed to shimmer faintly in the gloom, though one was swollen and bruised and could not open all the way. For several long seconds they stared at each other in silence. Then the elf looked toward the guards; one of them sighed and turned his head, but did not wake. "What are you doing?" the elf whispered finally, in the tongue of the people of Rhûn.

"I'm here to rescue you," said Peony. She did not know the word for rescue in that language, so she spoke in the Common Tongue of the West, which seemed to surprise the elf even more than her sudden appearance.

"Rescue—you are a child!" he hissed.

"I beg your pardon," Peony replied, as she rifled through her pockets for her lock picks, "I am certainly not a child." She retrieved her tools, and with one more glance at the soldiers she set to work. Locks, and opening them, were something of a puzzle game among the dwarves. They delighted in trying to make more and more complicated locks that could not be broken. Peony, compared to someone like Gimli or his uncle Óin, was only a novice, but she had spent many hours learning how to use the tools, and she always liked a challenge. Fortunately for her and for the elf, the sort of locks set in prisoners' chains were not nearly as complicated as the padlocks the dwarves made for their games. Getting the cage unlocked was the work of a moment; only she was wary of actually opening the door. It creaked just a little as she pulled on it, and both she and the elf froze, looking toward the soldiers. When they did not stir she opened it further, pausing with every noise, all of them seeming much louder to her ears than they really were.

Once the door was open just enough for a hobbit to slip through, she hoisted herself up into the cart, and reached for the chains. The elf jerked back and then both of them froze as the jostling of iron sounded horribly loud and discordant in the still night air. Peony looked over at the guards. One stirred but did not get up. She glared at the elf, who glared back. "Let me see!" she whispered, holding out her hands and making grabbing motions. Slowly, he held out his wrists. The locks were smaller and not quite like the lock on the cage, but Peony had mastered stranger contraptions under Gimli's watchful eyes at the Lonely Mountain. She fumbled a bit, but managed to get first one wrist free, and then the other. And then she tackled the ankles.

As she freed his second ankle, however, the manacle fell to the wooden floor of the cart with a heavy clank-thud. They both froze. This time one of the guards did sit up. "Oops," Peony whispered.

Maglor saw the soldier stirring as the girl finished unlocking the final manacle. These were no lazy soldiers; they had let their guard down, it was true, but once he was awake he was alert, and the man immediately saw the open cage door and called to his companions. Maglor lunged for the door as soon as his ankle was free, and tumbled onto the ground, creating new bruises on top of the ones he already had, as he rolled over hard stones and scrambled for a weapon. He had no idea what the girl was doing, and could not spare a glance. He found a knife someone had carelessly tossed aside, or that had fallen, and unsheathed it just in time to parry a blow from a sword.

Under other circumstances it would have been almost too easy to dispatch the five guards that had been sent along with him, but Maglor had not recovered from his encounter with their master, nor the beatings that had come afterward, and the pain made him slow. Still, he gave a better fight than he thought they had expected, and killed two before one of their blades found its mark. He managed to dodge enough to avoid a killing blow but it still sliced across his shoulder, opening a line of fiery pain; blood dripped down onto the stones so his bare feet slid over them as he struggled to back away. He slipped and fell hard on his back. Someone shouted not to kill him, that he was wanted alive, but the soldier standing over him was beyond such orders. The moon passed from behind a ragged bit of cloud, and glinted on the sword in his hand.

Then he dropped to the ground, crumbling without a sound. Maglor scrambled back out of the way as the last two cried out, only to be silenced one after the other in the same abrupt fashion. When Maglor looked up, he saw the girl standing beside the cart, hefting a stone in her hand, her eyes glinting in the moonlight for only a brief moment before it passed behind another cloud and the shadows descended again. "Come on!" she said, and turned to disappear like a rabbit into the tall grass beside the road.

Maglor stared after her, stumbling into motion only when someone groaned behind him. He staggered across the road and into the grass, but found no traces of the girl.

"Where—"

"This way!" She reappeared again, grabbing his hand and pulling him along, as though he were an over-large and unruly child she had been given charge of. Maglor stumbled again and nearly fell, but let himself be pulled along, since it saved him the trouble of deciding where to go himself, at least for the moment. Everything hurt, especially his shoulder. They came to a pony hidden away in the brush, who fell into step beside the girl at her half-whispered call. And they did not stop until Maglor stumbled and finally fell, and could not make his legs pick him up again.

"Oh dear," said the girl with a sigh, as she stood peering at him through the darkness. They had reached a little wood, and the tree-shadows were deep. "You're worse off than I thought. I'm terribly sorry. But at least now we should be out of sight, at least for a while." She went to the edge of the trees and looked out. "No one's followed us." She turned back and fished out a water skin from a saddle bag, which she handed to Maglor.

He took a deep draught and, when he could catch his breath, asked, "Who are you?"

"Peony Took, at your service." This was accompanied by a quick dip of a curtsy. She did not wait for him to introduce himself, however, and went on, "I have some bandages, but it's very dark and I'm afraid I'll do a very clumsy job, but your shoulder needs binding before we go any further." She went digging again in another saddle bag, and pulled out a roll of clean bandages. True to her word, it was clumsy work as she fumbled in the dark, but it was better than no bindings at all. Maglor drained the water skin while she worked. "Can you walk a bit more?" she asked. "I think there is a stream not far from here, if I haven't completely turned myself around."

"There is a stream," Maglor said. "That way." He pointed with the water skin. He could hear it flowing over stones close by. The land was changing, too. They were passing into a cluster of low hills; he had seen them from the road, but had not realized what kind of shelter they might offer. Peony led the way, picking her way carefully over tree roots, her hand on her pony's reins. Maglor trailed behind. He could see better, but still felt unsteady and pained.

The water was indeed a stream, and they happened to come upon it at its source, where it bubbled up from a frigid spring at the base of one of the hills. There was a hollow in the side of the hill hidden by a screen of young trees growing thickly together, offering shelter from wind and from searching eyes. Maglor collapsed by the spring and closed his eyes. After a few minutes he felt a blanket settle over his lower back. It was much too small—suitable for someone of Peony's size, rather than for his—but it was soft and clean and that in itself was a comfort.

The next thing he knew, it was morning. The light was still dim and pale, and when he looked up the sky that he could see through the trees was shadowed by clouds. Peony was nowhere to be seen. Her pony dozed on the other side of the spring. One of its ears twitched idly as Maglor watched. He pushed himself up, muttering a few choice words as his whole body protested. It felt as though every inch of his skin was bruised or scraped or sliced open. In defiance of this he plunged his hands into the spring, shuddering at the cold, and washed his face and drank deeply. The water, though icy, was sweet and clear, and he felt refreshed and less stiff once he had drunk his fill.

Once he felt able to move, he explored the hollow. Someone had gathered up a large pile of mushrooms on a cloth set near the spring; he supposed that had been Peony's work. The pony was picketed securely and there was a great deal of grass and other low-growing plants for him to eat. Maglor looked for signs of where Peony had gone, but found none. Whoever she was, she moved through the world as lightly as an elf. He went back the way they had come, but not far. The trees thinned out quickly, and he slipped back into the shelter of their shadows when he saw horsemen moving up and down the road. The haze of smoke and flicker of red flame caught his eye, and he frowned. Someone had set the cart on fire.

As he watched the horsemen fan out on the other side of the road, evidently believing that Maglor had escaped in that direction, he noticed movement closer at hand, and after a moment Peony reappeared. He knew that it was her by her size, for only her tight dark curls were visible above the pile of things she bore in her arms. As she stepped into the trees she halted and adjusted her burdens so that she could look up at Maglor, beaming. "Good morning!" she said brightly. "I've done some proper burgling this morning—I daresay my cousin Bilbo would be proud—and I think I've found a few of your things, plus some extra clothes and a blanket or two that's more your size."

Maglor looked back at the road. "Did you also set a fire or two?"

"Hm? Oh, yes. It was a horrid thing; I thought it better to just get rid of it. And the horses were much happier being able to run off on their own as well."

"You have been busy," said Maglor as he followed her back to their little camp. "You even went mushroom gathering."

"Oh, those were growing just over there! A lovely bit of luck, that." Peony set her burdens down and began sorting through them. Maglor accepted proper clothes gladly, and was very happy to see again his knife, which he had thought lost forever, though the pair of boots that Peony had brought back, though the biggest she could find, were still too small. "Ah well," she said, sitting back on her heels. "Can you do anything with them at all? I don't know the first thing about shoes."

"What do you mean?" Maglor asked as he set the boots aside. In response Peony stood up and showed him her feet. She was barefoot, and the tops of her feet were covered in dark curly hair, like what grew on her head.

"We hobbits don't use shoes," she said. "Well, the Brandybucks do sometimes, when they go wading in the river muck. But the Brandybucks are a stranger lot even than us Tooks."

"I beg your pardon," said Maglor, as he dipped his hand into the spring for another drink. He could not remember ever being so thirsty before. "But what are hobbits?"

"I am a hobbit!" said Peony with a grin. "It's all right—hardly anyone has heard of us outside of the Shire and the Breelands. Well, they know my cousin Bilbo Baggins off in Laketown and Dale and the Lonely Mountain, because he was part of Thorin Oakenshield's Company. Have you heard of that business? With the dragon, and the battle afterward?"

"I heard rumors," said Maglor, "long after it happened. Do many of your people go wandering in strange lands?"

Peony laughed. "Good gracious, no! Gandalf has taken some of my relations—the Tooks—off on adventures, but very few of us, and I don't think anyone ever went so far away as Bilbo did. Though there was one cousin who it is said went off to sea, but I'm not sure I believe it. Anyway, Bilbo is rather singular. Not least because his father was a Baggins, and Bagginses are far too respectable for adventures."

"You seem rather singular yourself," said Maglor. "Your cousin only went so far as Erebor, and he was not alone."

"That's true! Though I didn't come here by myself, exactly. I made friends among some horse traders, and I wanted to see the Sea of Rhûn. It wasn't until I arrived that I learned that—well, that soldiers from the Black Land were crawling about like ants. I don't think any ever noticed me, which is good for my friends. I would hate to get them in trouble. Oh, I found more bandages and things. Let me have another look at your shoulder, now that we're not fumbling about in the dark." She did not wait for Maglor to reply before she was up and bustling, taking water from the spring, though they still did not dare light a fire. This had the unexpected benefit of numbing his entire shoulder as she poured more and more over it, because the wound needed stitching. Peony was cheerful in her admittance that she had never had to stitch skin before, but she had plenty of experience in mending clothes, and how different could it be, really?

As she worked she chattered about her journeys and the things she had seen and people she had met. She spoke of Mirkwood and of the Lonely Mountain, and Dale rebuilt, and of Beorn the skin-changer and his people who dwelt in the Vales of Anduin between Mirkwood and the Misty Mountains, taking him step by step backwards through her journey from her little land in the west of Eriador. When she spoke of Elrond in Rivendell, Maglor stiffened in spite of himself, and she jabbed the needle into his skin a bit too hard. "Oops! I am sorry," she said, as she readjusted. "I'm nearly done. Do you know Master Elrond?"

"I did not think he yet remained in Middle-earth," said Maglor. "I thought he had sailed away long ago."

"Really? I can't imagine him leaving Rivendell. It's sort of—well, I mean, he seems to belong there as much as the waterfalls do, if you know what I mean. He belongs to the valley as much as it belongs to him."

"His lady wife sailed West, after she was sorely wounded by orcs," he said. "Or so I heard. It was very long ago, now, and I have never been to Rivendell—and I left that part of the world around that time."

"Oh. I had no idea he was married. Poor Master Elrond. But why did you leave? All right, I'm done with the stitching. I'm not really sure how we'll tell when it's time to take them out."

"I'll know," said Maglor, as Peony wound clean bandaging around his shoulder. "And I came East I imagine for the same reason you did."

"Adventure?"

"To see new places and peoples. Perhaps to find what became of Cuiviénen, if I made it so far." He never had. It was often said among the Eldar that to Cuiviénen there was no returning, and so it had proved. But the mere mention of an unfamiliar name had Peony bursting with questions, which Maglor answered as briefly as he could as she went around packing up their little camp. She took the most care with the mushrooms, bundling them up and tucking them safely into one of her pony's saddle bags. "Well, Mistress Peony, where are we going from here?"

Her grin made her dark eyes scrunch up. "I don't know! I hadn't really thought farther than getting you out of that cart. Don't you want to go back to wherever you where before they caught you?"

"Yes, I do," said Maglor, "but I would not want to take you with me into danger."

Peony planted her hands on her hips. "I've already taken myself into danger, thank you very much!" she said primly. "I don't know what sort of adventure I've stumbled into, but I would like to see it through. Or rather—I sort of feel that I must see it through, if you understand me. And anyway, you're in no state to be wandering about by yourself."

Maglor looked at her, in her sensible dress stained with grass and dirt, with her pack on her shoulders and her pony beside her, looking for all the world as though she should be going to market rather than into lands controlled by the Enemy. But there was a glint in her eyes and her jaw was set in a way that reminded him oddly of his aunt. Peony laughed often, as Lalwen did, but she certainly did not flinch away from danger—or adventure, as she called it. That made it all sound exciting, something to relish in the telling later. "I go from peril into peril," he told her. "It would be wiser for you to go back to your own lands, if you can find your way."

Peony scoffed. "Of course I can find my way. I only have to follow the river—it leads all the way back to the Long Lake. But I'm not sure the safest thing is the wisest thing. Anyway, what if you get caught again? You'll need someone to pick the locks."

In spite of himself, Maglor smiled. "I do not plan to be caught again. But I may indeed need your skill with locks! Very well. It seems we are to travel together for a time."

"In which case you should tell me your name," said Peony, as she took up her pony's reins. "I've told you mine already."

"I beg your pardon." Maglor got to his feet and bowed; it was clumsy and stiff, for he was both sore and out of practice in such courtly gestures, but Peony either did not notice or did not care. "My name is Maglor, and I am both at your service and in your debt, Peony Took."

Once it was settled that Peony was going to accompany Maglor, wherever it was that he went, they set off, keeping close to the woods and hills where they could not be seen from the road. Maglor said he wanted to return to the temple, in case other prisoners had been taken there. "If they took other Elves there," Peony said as she carefully stepped over a large root jutting out into the game trail they were following, "why didn't they get taken off with you?"

"I am rather singular, especially among the eastern Elves," said Maglor without turning around. "The Men here do not know who I am, but the Enemy would be able to guess easily enough, and he would be delighted to keep me in captivity and torment in Barad-dûr." He spoke almost lightly, but Peony shuddered at the thought. "The others—he hates all Elves, but he would not be particularly interested in any one of them, I don't think."

"That's good," said Peony.

"Mm."

"What?" Peony frowned at his back, wishing it were possible to tell what he was thinking from the set of his shoulders, or the way his hair swung with each step. But all that she could learn from that was that he needed a proper bath and a sturdy hairbrush. "Isn't it good, that the Enemy doesn't want to take them all to—the Black Land?"

"Yes," said Maglor, as he paused to peer out of the wood. "But it also means they may meet whatever fate his servants have in store for them that much sooner. We must make haste. Even if there are no prisoners in that temple, I would see it destroyed."

"It is rather an ugly building," said Peony. "All pointy bits and ragged edges. And it's probably terribly drafty and uncomfortable inside, too. Not very sensible at all." Maglor snorted.

"Give me a proper hobbit hole any day. With nice round doors and windows, and a neat garden, and flowers all over the roof. My mother grows all her herbs atop our hole at home."

"Your people live in holes?" Maglor sounded as though he did not know whether to laugh or not. "That sounds neither sensible nor comfortable."

"Some of your people live in caves!" Peony retorted. "And Cousin Bilbo says the Elvenking in Mirkwood and his folk live quite comfortably in their halls, though he also says most of them live out in the wood—in the trees, which is the least comfortable place I can imagine."

"I have been in far more uncomfortable places than a good and sturdy tree," said Maglor. "I do beg your pardon. Tell me more—" He stopped suddenly, and pulled Peony and Apple behind a thick stand of trees. Peony peered through a small gap in the branches to see a party of Men on horses going past; they were quite close to the edge of the hills, where the trees and bushes ended and the wide grasslands began. The Men rode slowly, often pausing to stand up in their stirrups and look around. Maglor stood very still with his hand on Apple's head, and Apple did not so much as snort or stamp or even flick his tail until the riders passed on. Only when they were long out of sight did Maglor breath a sigh, and Apple bent his head to nose at some grass.

"We'll need to leave the trees soon," said Peony. "The temple is on the other side of the road."

"The brush land extends to the road by the temple," said Maglor. "There, see?" He pointed, and Peony could see the dark shapes of trees and tangled bushes jutting out into the grassland. It lay in the same direction that the riders had gone, but they had little choice but to continue on. Maglor remained in front, seemingly unbothered by his lack of shoes, though he was very careful with his hurt shoulder as he ducked beneath low branches and pushed through stiff-growing bushes.

The sun was sinking westward when they glimpsed the temple in the distance. Dark smoke rose from its roof in a thin dark curl. The setting sun was red, and the light reflected in the window above the doors was very red, like blood. Peony shivered. "You can stay here with the pony, if you wish," Maglor said softly.

"Certainly not!"

They left Apple in the shelter of a few thick bushes, and crept through the growing shadows toward the temple. The sun sank beneath the horizon, and twilight fell like a grey blanket over the world. They crossed the road in a quick dash as the first stars came out, far away on the horizon. The temple loomed up before them, and Maglor led the way around the side, away from the main doors that stood ajar. In spite of the smoke that still curled lazily up from the roof the place was silent as a barrow. What Maglor was looking for, Peony could not guess, until they found it. There was a back door, small and wooden and locked tightly. "This leads down underneath the building," said Maglor. "Where they keep their prisoners."

"What does a temple need to keep prisoners for?" Peony asked.

Maglor shook his head. "Better not to speak of it. Can you open the door?"

"Can I open the door, he asks!" Peony reached into her pocket for her lock picks. "I'll have to tell you about the locks they make for fun at the Lonely Mountain, sometime." She had the door lock picked in just a moment, and the door swung inward on silent hinges. It was very dark inside, though somewhere down the steep set of stairs a red light flickered. The two of them stood for a while, listening hard. Peony thought that she heard a voice, but it was faint and the sound very brief.

"Come," Maglor whispered, and started down the stairs. His bare feet made no sound on the stone. Peony followed, pausing only to push the door almost closed. A small breath of fresh air flowed through the crack, and she took a deep gulp of it before following Maglor down into the darkness.

The passage down was not nearly as long nor quite as frightening as Bilbo had described his own first descent into the dragon's lair, but by the time they reached the bottom of the stairs Peony's heart thudded in her chest like a drum, and she had to keep wiping her clammy hands on her skirt. At the bottom of the stairs the passage opened up a little, and they could see doors on either side of it; a few torches hung on brackets on the walls, red and smoky and foul smelling. There was no sign of any guards, or priests, or soldiers—or whoever was supposed to be in a place such as this. There was a sudden brief swell of chanting somewhere above them, the noise muffled by the stone, and Maglor and Peony both froze. Then there was a cry, swiftly cut off, and the chanting subsided. Peony swallowed hard; Maglor's lips were pressed very thin, and his face beneath the bruises was nearly white.

The doors were all made of sturdy wood and were tightly locked, but there were windows near the top, barred with dark steel, and Maglor peered into them, moving swiftly down the corridor. Peony stayed at his heels. At the end the corridor branched off in two directions, and Maglor strode down the right hand side without pausing to think about it. He kept looking into each room until at last he stopped, so suddenly that Peony ran into the back of his legs. "This one," he said, "hurry." Peony fumbled with her lock picks; the tumblers in these doors were quite heavy. But she had the door open after a second try, and Maglor ducked inside. The air that spilled out of the cell was stale and smelled of unwashed bodies and of blood. Peony stepped back, and looked around, half-expecting someone to appear and demand to know what they thought they were doing there. It would not end well for anyone if that happened, she thought.

Maglor reappeared, helping to support a thin, lanky figure in dirty rags. They blinked a few times in the torch light, which must have been very bright indeed after the utter darkness of the cell, and looked at Peony in surprise. "Stay here," Maglor said, speaking to both of them, and leaned the figure against the wall before checking the rest of the cells in that corridor. Then he went to look down the left-hand side, and after a moment called Peony over to him. "These two," he said, pointing to a pair of doors opposite each other. While Peony worked at the locks he fetched the first rescued prisoner.

There were two people in one of the cells, and a single person in the other. They all came out without needing help, though they were a bit unsteady and all of them as bruised and battered-looking as Maglor had been when Peony first saw him. "Quickly," Maglor whispered, "before someone comes." They shut all of the cell doors and made their way to the back door. The steps were difficult for the first rescued prisoner to manage, but they got there in the end.

It was full night when they emerged, and after Peony shut the door behind them they stood for a time in silence. No alarm was sounded, and no voices could be heard, or footsteps. Peony leaned around the corner and saw no one, only the dark shapes of the bushes across the road. "Go," Maglor whispered. "Wait for me across the road."

"What are you doing?" Peony asked.

"You'll see. Hurry!"

Peony led the way, keeping close to the wall of the temple, which felt cold even though it should have held lingering warmth from the evening sun. She and her new companions paused for a long, tense moment before deeming it safe to cross the road. They could not dash, but they shuffled and stumbled as best they could, and when Peony looked back the doors remained closed, the building silent. "Apple is this way," she whispered, and plunged into the brush.

Apple was where he had been left, dozing contentedly. He roused when they returned, and nuzzled Peony's shoulder. She stroked his nose and peered back through the brush at the dark, silent temple.

The prisoners all sank to the ground to catch their breath. The worst off leaned heavily on one of their companions. In the dark and beneath the shapeless rags they wore it was hard to tell whether they were men or women. "I have food," she said, "and water. Just give me half a moment." She dug through her saddle bags until she found some flat bread and the water skin and the bag of dried fruit. They took it with smiles and thanked her in a strange language. Only then did Peony realize that they didn't know the Common Speech. Of course, why should they? In Rhûn the only folk who knew it were the ones who had dealings with the western lands. But they understood the offer of food and drink well enough, and Peony could only hope that Maglor would join them soon to avoid any future awkwardness.

A loud crack! suddenly split the night. Peony jumped, and the others started, and one rose to peer back at the temple. Peony turned to see a figure dash across the road just as the temple began to crumble, like bread crumbs. The figure made straight for them, and to Peony's relief it turned out to be Maglor. "Come," he said, gasping for breath. "We must go. Back to the hills, I think." He roused the others, speaking to them in their own language. It had taken all day to get from the hollow with the spring back to the temple, and that was moving steadily—now they had to find another place to hide for the rest of the night, and perhaps the next day. Maglor went ahead of them once everyone was on their feet, returning every now and then with encouraging words or to give directions or warnings. He was as weary as anyone, stumbling as the moved, but he did not stop.

At last they reached the hills, and passed between the feet of two of them to find a cave. It was deep enough to make Peony nervous, but Maglor had done a more thorough search of it than Cousin Bilbo's Dwarf friends. It was clean and empty and big enough for the six of them as well as Apple. The extra things Peony had stolen earlier that day were distributed as everyone sat down to huddle together as the night's chill grew.

Maglor crouched at the mouth of the cave, rubbing his wounded shoulder. Peony wrapped herself up in her blanket and leaned against the wall; beside her, Apple had returned to dozing. Someone started to hum a soft tune, like a lullaby. Before Peony could rouse herself to see who it was, her eyes had slipped shut, and she fell asleep.

The raid of the temple had gone better than expected. All of the guards had been sent out to look for Maglor; he would have wagered much that none had thought anyone would dare try to break into a temple of Melkor. They had not reckoned against hobbits. He looked back at Peony, curled up in her blankets by her pony, both of them sound asleep, and only Peony's dark curls were visible sticking out of the blankets.

Limwë came to crouch beside Maglor. Their hair was usually bright red, even brighter than Maedhros' had been beneath Laurelin long ago, but the dirt and grime and blood had darkened it to brown, and in the gloom it seemed black. There were no stars; the air smelled of coming rain. "How did you manage to escape them?" Limwë asked softly. "We thought you'd be well on your way to the Black Land now."

"I would be were it not for Peony." Maglor tilted his head toward her. She shifted and sighed in her sleep.

"Who is she?" Limwë asked. "We thought her a child at first, perhaps one of our own, but she does not carry herself like one."

"No, she is no child. She is a hobbit—I have never met one of her kind before, but she hails from the lands west of the Misty Mountains."

"And she rescued you?" Limwë sounded doubtful.

"She walks as quietly as any elf," said Maglor, "and is handy with locks. But I can say little more, as we only met yesterday."

"Then you do not know what has become of the rest of our people?" Limwë said, wary and weary but still with a glimmer of hope. They sighed when Maglor shook his head. "I fear they were slain rather than taken."

"Some may have escaped," said Maglor. "I called up the rainstorm—"

"Was that you?"

"Yes. It may have been a mistake."

"It washed away the filth of their enchantments, if nothing else," said Limwë.

When morning came the clouds still hung low and threatening, and the land was swarming with soldiers. Maglor retreated farther into the cave and sung a song of hiding and of safety so that the searchers would pass by without even realizing there was a cave there.

But it would be days, perhaps, before they were all recovered enough and it was safe to leave, and they needed food and water. Peony volunteered immediately to go foraging. "All hobbits become very good at foraging for roots and berries and such things in our tweens," she said, as though Maglor had any idea of what that meant. "And of cooking over an open fire, though of course we can't do that until we're well away and safe. But I'll bring back any mushrooms I find anyway—waste not, want not, as my grandmother loves to say! Only do make sure I don't fall for your magic, Maglor, and can't find the cave again."

"I will come out and fetch you if you need it," Maglor promised, amused and somehow deeply reassured by her chatter. "But be careful! The servants of the Eye are not blind."

"Neither are you," said Peony with a bright grin, "and you didn't notice me at all until I was right before you." And with that she pulled her hood up over her curls and disappeared into the undergrowth as quickly and quietly as a rabbit might with hardly a rustle of a single leaf.

"She is a brave little thing," remarked Gêl from where he lay in the back of the cave. He had been the worst treated of the four Maglor had found in the temple, though no one really knew why, as he had not been particularly defiant, nor was he anyone of particular importance in the clan. Limwë was older and more powerful, and they had been more or less left alone. "What was she saying?"

"The…youth…of her people are accustomed to foraging and cooking in the wild, it seems," Maglor said. "And she told me yesterday that they live in holes in the ground, and plant gardens atop them."

"What a strange little people," remarked Silivren, where she sat beside Gêl. They fell silent as voices and heavy boots drew close to the cave. Maglor stood near the entrance, but the soldiers, all bearing the red sigil of Mordor, passed by without so much as a glance at it. They passed through the same bushes that Peony had, but though he strained to hear, there was no triumphant shout or sound of a struggle or scuffle.

Peony returned after several hours with a bulging satchel and several full water skins—these she had not had when she left, nor the pair of feed bags for Apple. "Well the soldiers don't need them, do they?" she said when Maglor raised his eyebrows. "They can just go home and get more. Anyway, now everyone has their own water, and I can go back to the stream easily enough, it's just past those brambles there. And while I was getting them, I thought I'd get some of their food, too. They're all Men, so it's good to eat, at least, and it's all stuff meant to be eaten on the road. I found a good deal of berries, too, but anything else would need to be cooked, unless you Elves like chewing on tough roots."

"They will know that someone is in these hills when they discover all of this missing," Silivren said as Peony unpacked her satchel.

Maglor repeated this for Peony. "Oh," she said, and frowned. "I hadn't thought of that."

"Too late now," said Maglor as he took one of the water skins. His throat was very dry. "Maybe they won't notice until too late."

The rain began that afternoon. It was another three days before the search ended and the soldiers ceased crawling over the hills like ants, and a fourth before the rain passed on, south and east toward the great inland Sea of Rhûn. More than once they were nearly caught, when Maglor's enchantments faltered with his weariness or when they had to slip out of the cave to take Apple to drink, or for other necessities. But at last Maglor slipped out and found the hills quiet, and nothing rustling through the brush but the wind and a few small beasts. They left the cave as the sun vanished over the horizon and Gil-Estel rose glimmering in the east. Maglor stepped outside and gazed at it for a moment, as was his custom on evenings when it appeared, and then gestured for the others to follow. Using the stars and keeping well away from the road, he led them back to the north and east.

There was no question of whether they would remain in the wood after they came back. They could not. They could only see what remained of their homes and belongings and people. The question before the soldiers had come had been who would go east and who would go west. Those with Maglor and Peony now had been in the camp desiring to pass westward and out of Middle-earth.

Peony sometimes walked and sometimes rode her pony, depending upon the terrain. She was as quiet as the elves, and even Apple seemed unusually stealthy for a pony. Once they were well away from the temple site and the road used by the soldiers, it was deemed safe to make small fires at night for cooking and for warmth, for though the days were warm the nights were chilled. Peony immediately took charge of all of their meals, and though her methods and the results were strange to Maglor and stranger to his companions, they were quite good. She also took it upon herself to start learning the Elvish tongue that Limwë and the others used, and to teach them a bit of the Common Speech that she spoke. They learned faster than she did, much to her surprise and to Maglor's amusement.

They came to a small river and stayed an extra day so that they could all wash the grime and old blood off their skin and out of their hair. Limwë and Gêl were particularly transformed, with Limwë's bright red hair and Gêl's pale silver. They cleaned what remained of their clothes, too, as best they could, and lay them out to dry in the sun. While the Elves bathed, Apple grazed on the bank and Peony went upstream a little ways to try her luck at fishing while a pan full of mushrooms she had discovered the day before stewed gently over the fire. Her delight in such finds never diminished. As for Maglor, he was grateful for the food but also was not sure why Peony loved the things so much.

As he sat by the fire and allowed Hethwes to braid his hair, Peony returned in triumph, with three large fishes in her hand. Silivren and Limwë immediately took them from her to prepare them for cooking. "Let us have a turn at meal making," Silivren laughed when Peony protested. "You are very skilled, but we are not so helpless. Have a rest and wash yourself."

"And when you return, Maglor will give us a song," Limwë added.

"Will I?" Maglor asked as Peony skipped off to the river bank.

"As though you've ever turned down a willing audience!"

Maglor smiled, but remained quiet until Peony returned, hair dripping, to sit beside him on the grass. "What would you like me to sing, then?" he asked them all.

"One of the old songs," said Hethwes immediately. "The stars will come out soon."

Maglor nodded. The old songs, the ones that had the strongest ties still to those sung by the dark waters of Cuiviénen, were not meant to be accompanied by harps or flutes or even drums, which was just as well, for Maglor had no instruments. As the sky darkened and the fish began to sizzle on the hot stones set in the fire, Maglor tilted his head back and began to sing. It was a song of greeting and praise to the stars, so old that Varda Elentári had been unknown to the first singers. Such songs had still been sung by the Vanyar in the mountains when Maglor had been young, and he had been strangely comforted to find them again here in the east.

He sang other songs that night, too, tales from the eastern clans, of elven heroes and great deeds that had never been heard in the lands west of Rhûn. Peony listened attentively before she drifted off to sleep.

Maglor took first watch that night, retreating from the warmth and light of the fire to gaze into the darkness. They were far from roads and from villages, but he no longer trusted the night shadows, and he had not forgotten the ring. Maglor knew almost nothing of Ring-lore, only the rhyme that named the Three, Seven, Nine, and One. Whether these new rings were comparable to those made in Eregion, he could not tell. But the fact that Sauron had returned to ring-making troubled him deeply. As he gazed into the night and listened for anything that was not the flow of water or the normal sounds of the woodlands, he thought of the man wearing the ring and of the tales he'd heard of the Nine, and wondered if that man knew what fate awaited him.

Maglor let the others rest through the night, and shrugged off Silivren's scolding when he roused them at dawn. The sky was muted with haze that day, and it promised to be hot. The wind had changed, bringing the smell of wood smoke with it. Maglor did not like it, and exchanged a worried frown with Limwë.

"Is it much farther?" Peony asked as she hoisted herself into her saddle.

"Not far," said Hethwes. She pointed to the horizon, where the dark line of trees of the great wood where the elves dwelled could be seen. "Just there. Perhaps another day or two of walking."

Peony squinted, shading her eyes with one hand. "It's too hazy," she said. "I suppose there's a bit of a dark smudge there…but you elves can see marvelous far."

Hethwes' reckoning had been correct, and it took another day and a half to reach the forest. They had to cross open grasslands, and once they saw a small group of horsemen in the distance. But either the horsemen did not see them, or they were not scouts of the Enemy, for nothing came of it. Still Maglor felt uneasy, and the feeling only grew as they approached the wood and saw that the darkness did not come from the thick greenery. The rain that Maglor had called had saved a portion of the forest, but the dry weather afterward had wicked away the water and much of it had burned, or been hacked down—and that was orc-work, not Mannish. Trees lay hacked to piece or burnt or both, or still stood as blackened and grey husks of themselves. The air was thick with the smell of burning, and the smoke stung Maglor's throat and nose, but beneath it there was also the smell of death. It seemed wrong to stand before the place beneath a clear blue sky. All was silent; not even the wind passed through the dead wood, and there was no sign of either bird or animal. "Ai!" cried Gêl, stumbling as they approached. "What have they done?"

"Worse than I feared," Limwë whispered. They stood beside Maglor as Silivren and Hethwes rushed forward, crying out for the trees that they had known and loved, and also for friends and family who they had hoped to find there—but now hoped not to find. "Do you think any survived this?"

"If they fled," said Maglor. "Perhaps it was foolish to return."

"Someone must find and care for the dead," Limwë replied. They went to help Gêl to his feet so that they could go together into the wood.

Maglor looked at Peony, who stared at the ruined forest solemnly. "You do not need to come into this place with us," he said.

"I'm not staying out here," she said. "You have your work cut out for you, it seems to me, and I want to help." Her chin had that stubborn set to it again, and she met Maglor's gaze unflinchingly. So he only nodded, and led her through the now-broken path into the wood.

The Elves, after they learned enough of the Common Speech to have a proper conversation—and they learned far quicker than Peony could have learned their tongue—had loved to tell her about their woodland home. They had lived there for a very long time. Limwë, maybe, had once lived somewhere else, but the others had all been born in the woods north of the Sea of Rhûn. Long ago they had traveled down to the sea to fish and swim and trade with other Elves and with the Men who lived all around it. But then the Enemy had come and they'd retreated into the woods, and even after he'd been defeated they had not really come out again.

And now they were here, and the wood was gone. In Peony's imagination it had been rather like the Old Forest on the borders of Buckland. She wondered now, passing in through the dead and burned trunks, whether the trees had tried to fight back, like they were rumored to do sometimes in the Old Forest. She hoped they had, and that they'd killed a few of the orcs that had come with axes and torches.

She stayed on Apple, and kept close to Maglor. As they passed deeper into the wood they began to find bodies. Some were orcs—easily recognizable though Peony had never seen one before—and a few looked like Men, but most were Elven. Peony pulled out her handkerchief and pressed it over her nose and mouth. Maglor looked very grim, and his eyes were very bright, like a fire had been stoked behind them.

The worst sight was the place where the village had been. Once it had been a sprawling settlement with houses on the ground and in the trees, but now it was all destroyed, burned and torn apart and looted. Their companions were already at work digging out the bodies and lining them up in what had once been the center square. There was space there for a large fire pit, and Peony could imagine the parties that had been held there, and the lovely elvish voices all singing merry songs together.

"There may be survivors hiding in the surviving forest," Maglor said to Peony. "Let us go search for them."

"Shouldn't we help here?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Not yet. I want to be sure there are no wounded who need us first. Come. There is a patch of grass there for your pony."

Once Apple was picketed, Peony hurried after Maglor, who moved with long, quick strides toward the patches of wood that had survived the fires. It was a relief to step beneath green leaves and breath the smell of living things. Peony slipped away from Maglor so they could cover more ground, and passed quick and silent over the carpet of leaves and pine needles. She stopped often and squinted up into the tree branches. Elves were strange folk, and she thought it was as likely that they would hide high in the trees like squirrels as it was they would find shelter on the ground. The thought of climbing so high made her shiver. But she did not see anyone. Not even real squirrels.

When she met with Maglor again he shook his head, and they passed on to the next bit of living wood, though they kept their eyes peeled even in the dead bits. But though they searched all afternoon, they found no other Elves, living or dead. Peony saw a single squirrel once at a distance, and and heard the distant cawing of crows, but that was all.

On their way back, however, Maglor halted suddenly, listening intently. "What…?" Peony began, but he shushed her, holding out a hand and closing his eyes. Then he crouched to the ground and pressed his ear to the dirt, as Peony stared in amazement.

When he straightened he said, "Come." And took off at a run, leaping like a deer over a large fallen tree. Peony scrambled after him, promptly getting herself caught up in a tangle of branches and nearly tearing her skirt to shreds. Fortunately he did not go far, or else she would have lost him, but he stopped at what had once been a merry brook but was now choked with dirt and ash and fallen branches. There a small figure huddled in the shelter, if it could be called shelter, of the crown of a once tall and proud oak tree. The branches around the figure almost looked, to Peony, like the bars of a cage, and she shuddered. Maglor crouched before them and spoke quietly in the Elven tongue.

When they looked up Peony saw a brown tear-streaked face, and pale green eyes beneath a fall of dark tangled hair. It was a child. Hard to tell the age, of course, but of a size and stature with Peony, who forgot herself for a moment and stared open-mouthed. Even in Rivendell there had been no Elven children. The child did not look at Peony, but once they recognized Maglor they scrambled out of their hiding place and threw themselves into his arms. He picked them up, holding them firmly. Peony winced at the strain it must be putting on his shoulder, but if it bothered Maglor he didn't show it.

When they returned to the others, Silivren leaped up from where she was sorting through some bits and bobs that survived the destruction. "Lagreth!" she cried. The others turned and came running to take little Lagreth from Maglor's arms, embracing her and kissing her face, all of them weeping and full of questions. But Lagreth did not say a word, only clung to them and wept. Peony looked away, feeling very much a stranger. This meant looking at all of the bodies laid out in preparation for burial. They were covered with what cloth could be found, but the sheer number made Peony want to weep.

How could anyone want to do something like this, even the Dark Lord out of the old scary stories? She turned away and went to wrap her arms around Apple, who nuzzled at her pockets in search of his namesake. "I'm sorry, Apple, I don't have any treats for you," she said. "I don't even know if apples grow here."

Once she'd recovered herself Peony took a deep breath, inhaling more of Apple's horsey smell than of the smoke still hovering around, and turned back to help in whatever way she could. These Elves did not build cairns. Instead they dug deep into the ground, in several long trenches, where they carefully and gently laid the bodies, singing songs of mourning and chanting the names of the dead. Peony and Maglor helped to dig, but Hethwes shook her head and would not let them help lay the bodies in the graves. That was for closer kin, she said. So Maglor sat and sang a song of his own, in a language that was not like the Elven tongue of Hethwes and Limwë and the others. Peony had heard it before in Rivendell, mostly in the Hall of Fire when they sang very old songs indeed, though none had been so sad and low as this one. Little Lagreth, who still had not made a peep, sat beside him with tears running silently down her face. Her hands were bandaged where they had been cut on branches and stones in her flight from the attack, and she had been close to starving when they found her, but she would eat very little of the food they'd tried to offer her.

Peony went off to the green parts of the forest to try to find something edible, but came back empty-handed, except for clean water that she'd found by sheer luck in a tiny little stream bubbling along as though it had no idea that anything was wrong. She'd sat down beside it and had a good cry before filling up the water skins. Through nearly all of her journey Peony had not felt particularly homesick, though of course she missed being able to talk to her sisters or to write to her friends and various relations—her last letter had been to Cousin Bilbo, and that all the way back at the Lonely Mountain. But she'd not particularly missed home, the Shire, until now, with its clean little rivers and rolling hills and not an orc or Red Eye in sight—and only one dragon, made of wood and painted green to hang over the door of Hobbiton's best inn.

When the burials were done—well into the night—Maglor took them back to the green bit of wood where the stream was so they could make a proper camp, and not sleep in beds of ash. Peony curled up beside Lagreth; they were of a size and could share blankets. The last thing Peony saw before drifting off to sleep was Maglor, a dark shape against the bit of starry sky that peered through the trees, as he stood gazing into the woods.

Peony's dreams were troubled; a figure with a great red eye blinking on its chest kept appearing as she ran through a dark wood, until she stumbled through the door into her own family's hole in Long Cleeve, but it was dark and empty and everything covered in dust, and when she stepped back outside someone she could not see asked where she had been, for didn't she know it had been one hundred years since she'd run off into the wilds?

She woke with a start when someone touched her shoulder. It was Maglor; Lagreth was just stirring as well, but the others were already gone. The light was pale and dim with the coming dawn. "We are leaving," Maglor said.

"Where are we going?" Peony asked, sitting up with a yawn. Her back hurt, and when she looked she discovered a gnarled old root had been jabbing into her all night.

"West," said Maglor. "There is nothing and no one left here. I have promised to guide them to the Havens."

"The Elf Havens off past the Tower Hills?" Peony said. "I know where that is."

"Do you indeed?"

"Certainly! You'll have to cross through the Shire to get there, you know."

Maglor smiled; it very nearly reached his eyes. "Then our roads will lie together for quite a while."

After washing and eating a few bites for breakfast from their dwindling stores, they set out. Limwë and Silivren had led the others in a thorough search for goods and things that had survived the looting, and while they did not find much they found enough for everyone to put on a new set of clothes. Once they were all ready they set out, with Lagreth perched atop Apple, and Peony walking beside Maglor at his request. She had been on the western roads far more recently than he had, and he wanted to know what her plans had been for going back home.

"Well," she said as she stepped over a fallen tree branch, "I hadn't quite decided, actually. It would be easiest of course to go back the way I came, to stop at the Lonely Mountain again, and pass through Mirkwood and through the lands of the Beornings, and then up through the High Pass in the Misty Mountains to come back down to Rivendell. And from Rivendell it's but a hop skip and a jump back to the Breelands and the Shire. And in your case, an extra hop on to the Elf Havens."

"Mm. But you were thinking of going another way?"

"Well, yes. The year's going to be turning soon, and that means poor weather for travelers in the mountains, and I was curious about the lands to the south—Gondor, you know. I met some merchants from there selling perfume and rosewater from a place called Imloth Melui."

"If you come to Imloth Melui this year, you will be too late for roses, I'm afraid," said Maglor.

Peony sighed. "I suppose so. But it would be easier going, to pass down that way around the Gap of Rohan. But I don't know anything about Gondor except that there is a place with beautiful roses, and also there is a city called Minas Tirith. And I don't know anything about Rohan at all."

"They are horsemen in Rohan," said Maglor. "But that is all I know of them. I do know the Gap, though, and it would be an easier road to take in the waning of the year, though it is north of Gondor, and far from the roses of Lossarnach." He glanced behind him at the other elves, who walked together clustered around Apple, speaking quietly in their own tongue. Maglor's face was pinched with concern, but Peony was unable to tell why. No one was hurt, and if they all had to tighten their belts a bit—well, that would be soon fixed. Maglor said finally, "The sooner we make the river crossings, the better I will feel. We must make for the fords at the joining of the Carnen and Celduin, though it may be busier than we wish."

"A good place to stop and trade a bit," said Peony. "Some extra food in exchange for a song, maybe. Travelers always love to hear new songs." Maglor smiled, but it was fleeting, and he did not answer.

It was a relief to have a road in mind, and something like a plan. Putting it in motion would be more difficult, but Elves had had many long years of practice at passing through the world unseen by Men. Maglor looked over his shoulder again. Gêl, already weakened by his imprisonment, had taken the blow of the destruction of the village and the deaths of all who lived there very hard, and Maglor feared he would lie down and fade away before they even reached the Gap of Rohan. Maglor met Silivren's gaze and saw the same concern there.

Maglor did not think he would feel safe until they crossed the Anduin—or better yet, crossed into Eriador on the other side of the Misty Mountains. But that was thinking too far ahead. First they had to make the crossing over the Celduin into Wilderland, and the only good crossing place was where the Carnen joined it. Then they would make for Anduin, and follow its course south to Rohan. He tried not to think of how close that would take them to Lothlórien.

They passed like shadows through the grasslands, passing by herds of horses at a distance, and sometimes seeing the horsemen of Rhûn standing atop hills in the distance. Once they saw soldiers from Mordor, also at a distance, and they hid in a hollow between two grassy hills for three days before everyone felt safe enough to move on.

Always Maglor kept watch for the man with the ring. He felt that the man was close, and he feared another confrontation. If he were alone, or if he were at his full strength, it would be different. He would fear no mortal, no matter what jewelry he was wearing. But Maglor was weary and heartsick and his shoulder still ached. Silivren had removed the stitches, but he had not been able to give it the rest that it needed.

Were it not for Peony, Maglor thought as they stopped to make camp, most of them might have just lain down and died of their terrible grief in the forest, or not far from it. She kept up a steady stream of chatter, talking of the road ahead and of the things she had seen and the people she had met on her own journeys—or of her Cousin Bilbo, who was nearly as well traveled as Peony. She insisted that he had played a significant part in the defeat of Smaug some years before, though Maglor was not sure whether he really believed that or not. He was even less sure that he believed her tales of her several-times-great-grandfather who had, according to the lore of her people, defeated a goblin chieftain by hitting him so hard with a wooden club that his head came clean off and flew into a rabbit hole. But whether or not the stories were true, they made them all laugh, even Lagreth who otherwise made no sound at all.

As they passed by one of the more permanent settlements, however, slipping through in the dead of night when only the stars lit the world, Maglor felt a creeping dread climb up his spine. He halted and turned, peering into the darkness as his hands reached for weapons that he no longer carried. He did not even have a wooden flute.

"What is it?" Peony asked, appearing at his side on soundless feet.

"We are being watched," he whispered, and turned back to the others, who had slowed, looking back uncertainly. "Go," he said. "Hurry."

"Who's watching?" Peony asked as she quickened her pace to keep up with Maglor's longer strides.

"I do not know his name. He is a servant of the Enemy."

And he kept pace with them, always out of sight but drawing ever nearer. Maglor feared to stop anywhere, but he also feared to push the others too hard. The pony, at least, needed rest and food and water. Maglor did not sleep, and he let Peony and Limwë take the lead, as they took it in turns to scout the way ahead while he remained in the rear, wishing for a sword. He had not longed for his blade since he'd thrown it in the ocean after the Silmaril. The miles passed beneath their feet and still their pursuer remained just out of sight, with nowhere to hide and no way to mask their trail. He could feel the questing will at his back, like searching eyes, and as the days passed he began to wish for a confrontation, just to get it over with.

One grey dawn Peony slipped away to look for food or to scout the path ahead—or both. The others slept; Maglor stood watch. They had been granted a reprieve from their pursuer, he felt, but it could not last long. He gazed south and east, almost fancying he could see the dark smudge of the Ered Lithui, or smoke rising from Orodruin. Of course he could not. Mordor was too far away even for the keenest of elven eyes to see. But it was still too close for comfort.

Peony returned without warning, as she usually did. "The river is just over the next hill!" she announced. "And we're right at the fording place, where the Redwater meets the River Running!"

"Is it busy?" Maglor asked.

"I could see a few wagons on either side," Peony said, "but no one's stirring yet except the sentries. And they're just guarding against bandits or what-have-you, not fellow travelers. There are no soldiers," she added, "of any description."

"Then we should cross before daylight comes," said Maglor. He crouched beside Limwë and should their shoulder. "Time to go," he said as they stirred. "Get everyone up."

As the others roused, Maglor retreated to the last hill they had crossed, taking a risk in going to the top to take a look around. He saw figures moving a scant mile away—on foot, but moving swiftly. The feeling of watchful malice returned in full force. Maglor scrambled back down the hill. "Hurry!" he hissed. "We must cross now." No one argued. Silivren scooped up Lagreth, and Peony scrambled onto Apple to better keep up as they raced down to the fording place. The sentries on their side of the river stirred and called out questions, but did not move to stop them. Maglor halted at the edge of the river as the others splashed into the shallows, and he turned.

Sauron's ring-bearing servant had crested the last hill, and with a small band of soldiers he was striding down it, unhurried. "I would cross back west, if I were you," said Maglor to one of the sentries who had come to see what the fuss was about. The man followed his gaze, and immediately ran to rouse his companions. Maglor backed up so that he stood ankle deep in the water. It was very cold, a shock to wake all his senses, so that suddenly everything around him seemed very clear and very sharp, from the grass to the water to the stones beneath his feet.

Before he could say or do anything more than take a deep breath, however, a stone went flying from behind him, just as it had the night Peony had rescued him from the cart, striking one of the soldiers hurrying down the hill. He dropped, and another stone struck the ring-wielder square in the chest, making him stagger. Maglor whirled to find Peony up to her knees in the river, another smooth stone hefted in her hand. "Come on!" she said, before she took aim. The stone flew true, and another soldier went down without so much as a cry. The wagons were already trundling across the river, abandoning the rest of the camp—better to lose a cooking pot than one's life or freedom. Maglor followed after them, stopping only once to grab Peony before she lost her balance entirely in the middle of the river.

"You should not be on foot, Peony," he said as he turned, walking backwards through the water.

"You shouldn't be standing there like—like a stupid person!" she retorted, spluttering a little. Her skirts were still full of stones.

"You must give me a little more credit than that," he said, trying to speak lightly, but he did not take his eyes off of the eastern shore. The stones had only slightly delayed the ring-wielder, though the other men who had gone down did not rise. The man's eyes remained fixed on Maglor as he stood on the rocky river bank. Why did he not cross? The soldiers behind him had bows, and were setting arrows to the strings. "Go, go!" Maglor lifted Peony up entirely and finally turned away, racing the last few yards to the western bank, where Limwë and Silivren were waiting to haul them out of the water, for the bank was slightly steeper there. Arrows bounced off of stones, one striking very near to Maglor's feet.

"Go, get back!" he cried, as he set Peony on the ground. She and the others obeyed; the other caravan that had been camped on this beach was also in motion. He did not follow, instead turning and reaching out to the water, calling upon as much power as he had the night he had first encountered the ring-wielder, who was just preparing to step into the river to follow him. He cried out to the rivers words of rising waters and torrential currents. He'd called up a flood like this only once before, in Ossiriand, when the world was breaking anyway, and the waters had been fresh snow melt from the mountains and eager to race down to the encroaching sea. Now he was far from mountains or from the shore, but both the Celduin and the Carnen answered, and the waters rose before him, and drove the ring-wielder and his soldiers back from the shore as the ford grew impassible, water rushing down from the north to bar the way, bringing foam and bits of branch and earth and other debris with it. Maglor lowered his hands and stumbled back, breathless. He met the ring-wielder's gaze and knew that the pursuit was not over. He had only gotten them a head start—and not even that, perhaps. He could feel that malicious will reaching out toward him like grasping fingers, seeking to dominate his will and stop him from running away.

"Who are you?" someone asked him, in strangely-accented Sindarin. He turned to find one of the traders standing a careful distance away, just close enough to speak without raising his voice. He had the keen grey eyes of the Dúnedain, and the ruddy, weathered face of one who had spent his life on the road.

"An enemy of the Dark Tower," Maglor replied. "Forgive me, I fear your crossing will be delayed some days."

The man shook his head. "If there are servants of the Enemy lurking about, we may as well turn back," he said. "Better to lose the trade than our lives." He bowed to Maglor.

"Thank you." Maglor inclined his head in return, afraid that if he tried to bow he would merely pitch forward onto his face.

Silivren appeared at his side. "You need rest," she informed him.

"Not yet," he said. "We cannot stop now."

"You cannot go much farther, Maglor," she said.

"I can go as far as I need to." He took a step forward, and then another. It felt as though he were trying to wade through mud. "Don't let me stop," he said through gritted teeth, and at last Silivren understood. She cast a glance over her shoulder and then hauled Maglor forward. Peony was quickly stuffing her gathered river stones into a saddle bag as Apple plodded along, looking as though he would like to break into a trot—or something faster. It was the first time Maglor had seen the pony at all rattled. Limwë held the reins, and Lagreth sat staring over her shoulder at the river, her eyes almost hidden beneath the tangled fall of her hair.

The farther they went from the river the easier it grew, though Maglor was not the only one struggling. Several times Gêl stumbled, and once he fell and couldn't get up until Silivren and Hethwes both went back to help him. It was not until they were out of sight of the river that Maglor felt a weight lift.

"Well," said Peony after another twenty minutes or so of silence as they walked through tall grass, "that was rather unpleasant. Who was that fellow with the black eyes, Maglor?"

"A servant of the Dark Tower," said Maglor. "A powerful one. I know no more than that." He did wonder, suddenly, where the man had been while the hunt had been on for Maglor after Peony's rescue.

"He burned our village," Lagreth whispered, startling everyone. "I saw him. He wears a ring. Red, like blood." She shivered, and fell silent, huddling in her cloak.

Finally, as the sun rode high in the sky at noon, they stopped. The river was a distant haze behind them, and they could go no further without a rest. Hethwes found a small hollow where they were out of sight and out of the wind, though there was no escaping the sun. "Where do we go from here?" Limwë asked Maglor, standing over him, a dark shape against the pale sky.

Maglor had lain himself down the moment it was deemed suitable. "To find a good crossing of Anduin," he said, as he closed his eyes. He was so tired. Limwë said something else, but Maglor did not hear it.

He woke at dusk, with something small and warm curled up against his side. He raised his head to find Peony there, wrapped up in her cloak and deeply asleep. Carefully, Maglor stood, and went to the edge of the hollow. It was quiet except for the wind in the grass, and the distant call of an evening bird on the hunt. They were safe—for the moment.

Maglor took a few deep breaths of the cool evening air, and then turned to rouse the others. There was little grumbling, though he had some trouble getting Gêl to wake. He had been caught in a dream-memory far more pleasant than the waking world, and was loath to leave it. He squinted up at Maglor as the twilight deepened to true night. The stars were out, though it would be some hours before the moon rose. "Your eyes are bright," he said, voice hoarse. Then, "Will they be there, when we arrive?"

"No," said Maglor, "but they will return to you someday. Very few choose to remain in Mandos for ever." He hauled Gêl to his feet. "Let them find you waiting for them on the green grass at the gates."

As they set off, still weary, Maglor took the lead and he began to sing, softly, a song that he had heard often on the wind from Mithlond, a hymn to Elbereth, written long ago by some exiled singer, looking up with longing at the stars through the trees, and remembering their light on the waters of Eldamar, and perhaps the starlit eyes of Elbereth herself.

They left all roads and trails, cutting through mostly barren country, straight from the River Running toward Mirkwood, which Maglor intended to skirt around past its southern borders. He pushed the others hard, resting as little as they could, to get as large a lead as possible. Only after many days of no sign of pursuit, when the dark edge of Mirkwood came into view on the horizon, did Maglor relent, and they rested for a full day and night beside a small stream, around which grew some sturdy and tough little bushes. When they continued on the next morning, Maglor looked behind, and thought that he saw a dark shape moving on the open land still very far away. "Limwë," he said, "do you see that?"

"A beast of some kind, perhaps?" Limwë said after gazing at the shape for a moment. "But we have seen no beasts in many days…"

"We are still pursued," Maglor muttered. "I thought perhaps…" He shook his head. "Come."

"If we are pursued on horseback there will be no outrunning them," said Limwë as he hurried after Maglor to where the others had paused, looking back at them curiously.
"Then let us hope he is on foot."

They came to the edge of Mirkwood after several more days, and turned south. This was the part of the forest that had been until too recently under the domain of the Necromancer, and Maglor had no desire to try to pass through it. They kept well away from the edge of the trees, moving quickly almost directly south. Behind them he could feel the malice building again, drawing ever closer.

At last they came to the southern edge of Mirkwood, where the trees ended in a solid dark wall of thick trunks and tangled branches. Farther south lay the Brown Lands, desolate and barren plains where once there had been lush gardens, green and fruitful and tended by the cheerful and patient Entwives, with their apple-red cheeks and deep green eyes. But neither Ent nor Entwife was to be seen.

But they did meet a small band of other travelers, a group of sturdy Men who called themselves Beornings, who were tracking wolves from the upper vales of Anduin. Peony greeted them with joy, and when they learned that she had been a guest of Beorn himself, and was kin to the famous Bilbo Baggins, they treated her and the rest of them with great honor, and when they saw that they were traveling almost entirely unarmed, they insisted upon giving over a few of their own bows, and even a sword, along with some waybread and dried meats. Maglor protested, but the Men would not be refused. "These are dangerous lands to be wandering about unarmed," said their leader, a tall man with broad shoulders and black hair that curled around his ears. "We're turning around home anyway," he added, gesturing to the pile of wolf skins they had on a sledge. "Our work is done. Farewell! May your roads be straight and clear."

"May the stars guide your steps," Maglor replied.

"Good bye!" Peony added. "Please give Beorn my hello, when you see him next."

Peony had lost count of the days by the time they finally saw the grey ribbon of the Anduin in the distance. She had crossed it before far to the north, near the Carrock on her way to Beorn's house. It had been a pleasant place, full of flowering meads and the growing homesteads of the Beornings. The land was much different this far south, past Mirkwood and nearing what Maglor called the Brown Lands. He said they had once been beautiful gardens, but that Sauron had burned and destroyed them long ago. More than that he would not say, and looked so sad that Peony did not ask again. Maybe elves had lived there once, she thought.

After they met the small party of Beornings they picked up the pace, turning more sharply southward toward the river. Maglor seemed to have an idea of where he wanted to cross, but he continued to keep to the rear, looking back often. Peony, when she changed places with Lagreth to ride Apple, looked back often too, but all she saw were wide rolling lands with nothing moving or growing on them.

But she kept feeling like icy fingers were creeping up her spine, and like something was pressing down on her, making it difficult to keep moving forward, or to even think about moving forward. Even though the river drew closer each day it felt as though they would never reach its banks, let alone find a way across. It would be too wide, the current too strong. Perhaps the Elves could find a way to cross, but Peony was only a hobbit, and she would be left behind or swept away downstream to drown, and no one at home would ever know what had become of her—

Maglor's hand came to rest on Peony's shoulder, jolting her out of her thoughts. "Look," he said softly, "the river is just ahead." And so it was, clearly visible now only a few miles distant, a silver ribbon gleaming in the sun. "If all goes well we'll be across by sunset."

"What about him?" Peony asked, jerking her head back toward wherever the strange man chasing them was.

Maglor's small smile faded. His eyes shone very bright, like stars. "Leave him to me," he said, his hand going to the pommel of the sword the Beornings had given him. It was not quite long enough for him, Peony thought, but it was well made, and he seemed confident enough in it. Peony was less confident. She could remember far too clearly the feeling coming off of the man at the River Running—and he had not even spoken, then. And Maglor was even more weary now than he had been then.

They came down to the river bank late in the afternoon, when the sun's light was beautiful and golden, well past its noon height but still with plenty of time for them to cross the water before twilight fell. A little ways to the north Peony saw another glimmer to the west, that Maglor said was another river, the Silverlode flowing down from Dimrill Dale. "You'll have heard that name, I have no doubt," he said, "if you have spent enough time listening to the Dwarvish tales and songs."

"Yes," said Peony. "They have the carvings of the three mountains over Moria all over the place, but I can never manage to wrap my tongue around the Dwarf names."

"Few can," said Maglor. "I know only a few words of their tongue, though my brothers knew more. The Elves often cross over the Redhorn, from Eriador down into Lothlórien."

"We have heard tales of the Dreamflower, and the gold and silver trees that grow there," said Hethwes, where she stood up to her ankles in the clear river water. The water was not deep here, and with a pebbled bed it seemed as good a fording place as they were likely to find. "Are you leading us there, Maglor?"

"No," said Maglor. "Not if you do not wish to linger for many seasons on this side of the Misty Mountains. There is great power at work in that land—not evil, but strange to me, and I think it would be easy to lose all track of time passing by outside of the woodland borders."

"Then how are we crossing the mountains?" asked Limwë. "You've spoken before of a Gap…"

"The Gap of Calenardhon," said Maglor. "Now known as the Gap of Rohan. It lies between the end of the Misty Mountains and the White Mountains farther south that mark the land of Gondor—we won't have to cross mountains at all, only go around them." He paused, as though in thought. "We could follow Anduin to its mouth in the Bay of Belfalas. There were elf havens there once."

"But not any longer," said Limwë. "I would rather pass through the west lands to the Havens of the Shipwright."

"None of us know how to build boats, you see," added Silivren with a smile.

"Redhorn is not fond of Elves or Men, anyway," said Maglor. "He is often stormy and temperamental. I crossed over only once, long before the mallorn trees were brought to Lórinand, when it was still a wood of beech and ash and trembling aspen." He gazed to the north at the glitter of the Silverlode, before looking back over his shoulder. "We should cross now. Limwë, take the pony's reins. Someone must carry Lagreth, and Peony."

"I can wade across, I think," said Peony, trying to measure the depth in the middle of the river with her eyes.

"Nay," said Silivren, coming to scoop her up unceremoniously. "There is an islet or two that I can see, but before that the current is swifter than you guess."

"Hurry!" Maglor cried suddenly, drawing his sword. As it flashed in the sunlight another party appeared over the crest of a low hill behind them. It was the same man with the strange ring from before, and he had several other men with him, all armed with bows. Lagreth screamed as arrows arced down toward them. "Go!" Maglor pushed at Gêl's shoulder to make him start to run. Limwë pulled Apple into the water, and Apple did not need to be told twice, splashing in without hesitation. Peony flinched as an arrow passed near Silivren's head to hit the water nearby. Silivren ran, but stumbled, crying out when an arrow struck her in the shoulder just before they reached the first pebbled islet. Both she and Peony plunged into the water, and it was all Peony could do to keep her head and squirm her way to the surface. Silivren dragged herself onto the islet, coughing up water, the black-fletched arrow sticking out of the back of her shoulder. Another skipped off of a stone near Peony's foot. She scrambled to her feet and grabbed the first stone that she found, cursing as she realized she'd left all her other river stones in Apple's saddle bag—but the archers were too far away, still well back from the bank. Maglor had not yet left the shallows where they swelled around his ankles. Gêl and Hethwes stood just behind him, firing their own arrows. Peony watched as first one archer and then another fell, and did not get back up. But they did not hit the man with the ring, all of their shots somehow going wide, disappearing into the dirt or the grass. Peony hefted her stone as he drew closer, glancing at Silivren. Limwë was already halfway across the river with Lagreth and Apple.

"Are you all right, Silivren?" Peony asked.

"I will be," Silivren croaked, before coughing some more. "Where is Lagreth?"

"Nearly across," said Peony, watching as Lagreth, somehow no longer on Apple's back, stumbled and floundered a little in the current before righting herself and half-wading, half-swimming in Apple's wake. She turned back to the eastern bank just in time to see Hethwes and Gêl give up and flee into the water, leaving Maglor all alone to face the man with the ring as he strode down the hillside. And as he came he started to chant, in a loud voice that was harsh as metal scraping over stone, in an ugly, jagged language that brought to mind images of barren stony lands running with rivers of fire, and heavy clouds of poison fumes sinking low overhead. Peony dropped her rock and quailed, clapping her hands over her ears. Beside her Silivren wretched again, and cursed in her own tongue.

It felt like a heavy weight fell over her suddenly. Peony had to lock her knees just to stay on her feet, as a powerful will ground down on her, so that she could hardly think of anything at all, let alone trying to flee, or fight.

Then another voice cut through the chanting, clear and bright as the sunlight on the river, singing of clear skies and starlight to guide lost wanderers trying to find their way home. Where the harsh voice chanted of chains and whips the clear voice sang of doors opening and chains crumbling, of clear water washing away all things unclean. Peony looked up and had to shield her eyes; it seemed to her as though two bright flames were standing on the river bank, one golden-white and the other red with black shadows licking at the edges. They strove against each other, one flaring as the other dimmed each in turn, and for a terrifying few moments Peony thought the dark fire was going to overwhelm the golden.

She fumbled with her skirts and tore a strip long enough to make a slingshot, and grabbed the first stone big as her palm that she found. It took a few tries as the striving powers threatened to overwhelm her, but at last, squinting through teary eyes, she took aim and let the stone fly. It struck the dark fire-pillar, and the fell chanting faltered.

And then Maglor's voice rose into a great crescendo as though a hundred other singers had joined him, and Peony felt the ground tremble beneath her. The wind whipped her hair around her face, and the river water swelled up around her ankles, threatening to drown the little islet. There was a terrible scream, and then all of a sudden it was quiet, and Peony looked up to find the shadows lengthening and the sun nearly gone behind the horizon in the west. Maglor stood alone on the bank, swaying.

Peony splashed back across, ignoring Silivren and Gêl who called after her, and reached Maglor's side as he dropped the sword he'd been holding. It was blackened along the edges, and notched. "Could you do that all along?" Peony asked, stepping carefully around the ring-wielder's body to peer at his face. It was frozen in a terrible grimace, his lips drawn back from his teeth, and his eyes still wild and staring.

"No." Maglor sat down, apparently uncaring that he'd just sat in the water. It swirled around his waist, tugging at his clothes. His face was damp with sweat, and he wiped at his brow with a shaking hand. "I very nearly did not do it at all. It was a near thing. Once I could have…" He shook his head. It was growing dark now, twilight settling in cool shades of purple and blue. The stars were starting to peep out. After a long stretch of silence he staggered to his feet, water pouring off of him. He joined Peony by the body, and after considering it for a moment he knelt and worked the ugly ring with its blood red stone off of the man's finger. Though its wearer was dead, the stone seemed still to glow, and it made Peony uneasy.

"What are you doing with that?" Peony asked. "Isn't that what made him…?"

"I do not know how he came to wear it," said Maglor. "Most likely he chose it, and chose it with open eyes, knowing to whom he was pledging himself. But anyone else might stumble upon it and take it up without knowing, and still be ensnared. Better to take it away and find a way to destroy it, or to cast it into the sea perhaps, than to risk that."

"Couldn't you just pop it in a forge fire somewhere?" Peony asked. She pulled a sodden handkerchief from her skirts. "Here, wrap it up in this."

"It isn't painful to hold, Peony," said Maglor with a small smile, though he accepted the handkerchief anyway, wrapping up the ring and knotting it tightly. "And I doubt a regular forge fire would be hot enough to melt this. Objects of power are made to withstand a great deal."

"Oh. I suppose you should take it to Elrond, then," said Peony. "There are lots of elvish craftsmen in Rivendell."

"Perhaps," said Maglor, with a sigh. Then he smiled down at her. "Once again I must thank you, Peony. That stone was well-timed."

"Oh, well. I'm sure you had it all well in hand—" said Peony.

"I didn't."

"—but I'm glad I could help, all the same."

"I remain deeply in your debt," said Maglor. "And I name you Elf-friend, and a marvel among hobbits, surely the bravest of your people."

Peony smiled up at him. "Thank you!" she said. "I don't know about debts, but if you really feel you must repay me you can start by giving me a hand across the river. I don't think I can manage it in the dark."

TA 3021

It was a lovely summer day in Long Cleeve—all the better for the efforts of young Sam Gamgee, who had been traipsing around the Shire with his box of elven soil almost since the moment that Sharkey had been killed and his ruffians chased off, planting and weeding and trimming, and directing others in the best ways to do all of the same. They had been luckier in Long Cleeve than elsewhere, it being mostly Took land and nearly all of the Tooks having followed the Thain's lead when it came to dealing with Sharkey's Big Men.

Not that Peony had done much dealing with anything. She was too old for that sort of thing. But she'd been quite happy to hide valuables for her friends and family in her little hobbit hole, hidden away behind false panels and dug into the cellar, and to provide a hiding place for the younger hobbits whose joints did allow them to run about with bows and slings and harry the ruffians when they came calling.

Now all the valuables had been dug up and returned to their owners, or to their owners' heirs, and the holes in her floors and walls had been patched, and her garden put in order by Master Gamgee himself, and Peony was quite happy to sit in a padded rocking chair in the sunshine beside her blooming roses, enjoying the warmth and the green and the birdsong.

A shadow fell over her as she half-dozed, and Peony opened one eye to find a surprisingly tall visitor looming over her. He crouched down, and she opened her other eye with a smile. "Why, Maglor!" she exclaimed. "Fancy seeing you, here! I wondered when you would next turn up."

"Well met, Miss Peony," said Maglor with a smile. He looked almost exactly the same as he had when Peony had first met him, though his clothes were in better repair, and he had no bruises nor dark circles under his eyes. His hair was neatly combed and braided in a long rope that lay across one shoulder, and he had little golden rings twinkling up the edges of his ears. "I am very glad to find you safe and well."

"Thank you! I am glad to see you, too," said Peony. "I hope the rest of the world fared rather better than the Shire. You should have seen the mess in Hobbiton after Sharkey was finally got rid of."

"I have seen it now," said Maglor, "and the mallorn tree growing in the field. Your young cousins have the favor of Lady Galadriel." He sat down cross-legged on the grass, and leaned over to smell the roses.

"Your young cousin, you mean," Peony said, and laughed when Maglor looked up. "Yes, I know who you really are, Maglor son of Fëanor! Bilbo sat me down and explained it all, once he realized I didn't have any idea that I'd been traveling for months with the most famous singer of all the Noldor!"

Maglor grinned, and then laughed. "You do not sound so very impressed! And you never mentioned it before."

"I'd nearly forgotten by the time I saw you again," said Peony. Maglor had been an unpredictable but fairly frequent visitor over the years, popping up every now and then in Long Cleeve to startle all of Peony's relations and then to charm them with his music and stories. "And I was very impressed at the time, with all that business at the river, you know." She peered at him as she adjusted her shawl about her shoulders. "This is to be your last visit, isn't it? I've seen that look before, the one the elves all get when their thoughts aren't quite here in Middle-earth anymore."

His smile turned a little wry. "Yes, it is," he said. "Elrond and Galadriel are taking ship this autumn, and I am leaving with them, at Elrond's insistence."

"Good!" said Peony, which seemed to startle him. "I always thought it wasn't good for you, wandering about all by yourself, singing in pain and regret or whatever it is the stories say you do. And what are you doing in the meantime? I hope you aren't visiting me just for the afternoon."

"Of course not! I thought I would stay here until it is time to meet the rest of my party."

It was a very pleasant visit, and a long one. Once word got out that Peony's elven friend was visiting her again, even her young cousins the Travelers, along with Sam Gamgee, came one afternoon for tea and stories. That was near the end of August, and it was a very pleasant afternoon, although Frodo was much quieter than Peony remembered him being before he'd gone off. Then September came on, and one starlit evening Maglor bent down and kissed Peony's cheek. "Farewell, Peony Took," he said.

"Goodbye, Maglor," she said, patting his hand. "Be safe. And if you meet Limwë and Lagreth and the others, do give them my greetings."

He smiled, and bowed, and disappeared down the garden path. As he passed onto the tree-lined lane he began to sing, and it seemed to Peony that the stars grew a little brighter as his voice lifted up over the trees, singing of starlight on western seas.