Under Cloud and Under Star by StarSpray

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Seven

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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."