Chapter III: Long Journey
The heavy carriage rolled on a stone in the path. A deep sigh escaped Earina's dried lips as the carriage suddenly oscillated; threatening to overthrow some of its contents. Stretching her arm beyond what she had thought possible, she grasped in her hand one of the few bars she could reach, not willing to fall from her place. With her other hand, she pushed back the damp strand of red hair that hampered her sight behind her ear and then caressed her abdomen lightly before stilling her long fingers on the growing bulge of her belly.
She licked her lips instinctively, barely moistening them, and tried to straighten herself on the precarious surface. Glancing around her, she took in the sight of the many Elves walking silently on the sides of the cart where she was sitting and rising clouds of dust beneath their light feet. Behind her was an unending line of carts and she knew that if she had the courage to look forward, she would have seen that her carriage was following many other carts. Her thoughtful eyes fell back on the walking Elves; her heart tightening in pity for them as she noticed their exhausted features.
Horses had been requisitioned for pulling the carriages therefore all of them had to walk: male, female, and children alike. Being pregnant, she had had the chance to be placed in one of the carts carrying the priceless treasures of the great library of Nevrast. But she had not been allowed to have her son at her side. She was alone in that uncomfortable cart; her only company the heavy cases protecting the books. But even if she had barely the room to sit and the threat of falling was present every time the road became a little bit rough, she did not complain. She could feel the edges of a wooden trunk in her back, biting her flesh whenever she forgot to hold herself straight. But it did not really matter. At least, she didn't have to walk.
She let out a sigh as she retreated in her mind to escape the harshness of this unending journey. Once upon a time, she would have travelled in luxurious comfort; her carriage filled with velvet pillows and silky draper, herself surrounded by considerate maids. But those times were long past and she had learnt not to dwell on memories. Yet this journey recalled so many others spent in laughter and in good company. Once upon a time she had belonged to royalty. In her veins flowed the blood of Finwe. Many years ago she had been called Minuial for it was said her beauty challenged even the splendour of dawn. She had been the pride of her parents and the joy of her people. Many had predicted that one day an Elven Lord would come and ask for her hand. Events had proved them right. His name had been Analto, a distant relative from the North. But what no one expected was that she would refuse; defying the wish of her family and facing the wrath of her father. In place of the road of duty, she had chosen to tread the path of her heart. In the secret depths of the dark night with Ithil's silver light as the only witness, she had bound herself to the one she had chosen, uncaring of his rank as a simple soldier. They had fled together and their life had been joyous and happy.
But even if she didn't regret her choices, sometimes she was filled with melancholy at the thoughts of her previous life; of her parents whom she had loved dearly; of people she would never seen again.
Earina shook her head. Such contemplation was fruitless and she tried to straighten herself before renouncing to do so. The air was so heavy... She had to force deep and long inspirations of thick air. Yet it seemed to her she could not breathe and was going to choke. She would have liked to drink some cold and refreshing water. But she knew she could not ask for the convoy to halt. So she raised her eyes to the sky; her gaze scanning the trail of heavy dark clouds that had followed them for more than three days. Rain was yet to come and it was as if the air grew more suffocating with each passing hour. If only it would rain... She leaned against the trunk, grimacing as a sudden cramp pulled at the small of her back and she wiped the perspiration that was collecting at the edge of her delicate brow with a trembling hand. Afterwards, she rested her head on a box covered with a thick fabric and tried to relax and take some rest.
It seemed to her this journey would never end. How much time before they saw the white city of Gondolin; this hidden refuge built by Turgon and where they had to go to? She recalled silently that they had set camp yesterday in the path of Ered Wethrin, in the small pass where the Eithel Sirion was flowing through; a small stream that would grow, take strength from the mountains and become the furious gush they had precariously crossed some hours ago. She reckoned the days in her tired mind and tried to determine if they could hope to reach the Fen of Serech before the night. If they did, they might be at the doors of Ondolindė in the morrow.
But Earina was not sure. It was so difficult simply to breathe, so thinking appeared nearly as impossible. She knew that journey would not be an easy one; yet she had never thought it would be so challenging. She would have liked to wait for the baby to be born before leaving Nevrast but she was well aware she would not have been able to manage on her own in the vast deserted city; even with her son with her.
Perhaps if Alcarnarmo had been there...
A deep pain reawakened in her heart as she thought of her departed husband and she willed herself to push the memory aside; instinctively resuming the tender caress on her stomach; feeling her daughter moving within her as if trying to give her the so needed comfort. Her daughter, who would never know her father. Earina shook her head, not caring of her hair falling in wild locks in her face; trying to get rid of those dark thoughts. She had to be strong for her children and not to cede to the vivid call of memories. Her son needed her and the child that would come soon would require her whole attention.
Interrupting her train of thoughts, a thunderbolt stripped the sky; catching her attention. She once more raised her gaze hopefully. Would it rain? She could only hope so as she didn't think she could bear more of the invading heat. As an answer to her wordless prayer a drop of water fell on her fevered skin; followed by another then another. Earina closed her eyes in a fervent thank you. She could hear in the murmurs running through the walking Elves that they were as thankful as she was for the respite. Leaning a little bit more against the trunk; she let herself be carried; her eyes closed, her body bathed in the relieving freshness.
"Naneth?" The well-known voice pushed her to open her eyes. A tender loving smile spread on her features as she gazed lovingly at the face of her beloved son who had just jumped from the ground to her side. She whispered softly; her voice carried away by the breeze that had just arisen, "Ion-nin..."
A brief flicker of worry seemed to pass in her son's emerald eyes. Those eyes...The only thing he had taken from her. Bottomless shining green orbs that seemed to pierce through whomever they were looking at. Magnificent eyes that mesmerized many, seeming too huge for the youth's narrow face. He was openly staring at her with so much love she suddenly felt like crying. Save for those piercing eyes, her son was the living portrait of his father: Dark strands on pale skin. His body still held the roundness of youth, yet hinted the he would be as tall and slender as Alcarnarmo had been. "Naneth, I have brought you another cloak..."
She stared blindly at the piece of cloth he stretched toward her; not fully realizing she was offered his own cloak. When she took notice of it, she vehemently protested; refusing to deprive her son from the only thing that could protect him from the rain. But a soft and melodious laugh was the only answer to her worries, "Nay, Naneth... I assure you I am well."
And it was true. His eyes were shining in the semi darkness hovering over them. With his hair plastered to his face, his clothes clinging to his lithe body; he reminded her of a very wet dog. But he had never seemed more alive since Alcarnarmo's death.
With a smile, she silently took the garment; relishing in the satisfaction gleaming in her son's eyes. She closed her eyes in pleasure as he kissed her brow softly before preparing himself to jump from the cart. Urgently, she called him, "Erestor?"
Emerald eyes locked with emerald eyes as he stopped his move. Her words were barely more than a whisper carried by the wind, almost covered by the sound of the rain, "I love you..."
A bright smile was her only answer. Then he was gone, absorbed by the dense crowd around the cart. Earina sighed, gathering the cloak around her frail body, and breathing in her son's scent deeply. She closed her eyes once more. There was nothing to do but wait for the procession to halt.
Glorfindel laughed heartily at Ecthelion's remark, his head thrown backwards; his long braided hair falling down his back. Still snickering, he affectionately patted the strong neck of his stallion, passing a steady hand through the luxurious mane that flew wildly on the strong neck of the horse. Glancing towards the Warden of the Great Gate, the blond rider raised a sceptical eyebrow and, sounding more amused than really offended, said, "You are ill-willed, meleth..."
The only answer he received was a mocking imitation of his stance as the other rider raised a dark eyebrow and asked innocently, "Do you think so?"
A smile lingering on his full lips; Glorfindel brought his horse close to his lover's and, anchoring his blue gaze in Ecthelion's grey one, he answered, "I am quite sure of my theory..."
Both shared a smile that lightened their features, then as if remembering something, Ecthelion glanced back; his intelligent gaze falling on the riders that accompanied them. He slowed his own steed, allowing a respectable distance to grow between them and the other riders. Turning his attention back to his lover and straightening himself in his saddle, he asked more seriously, "Do you think they will reach the Fen of Serech before the night?"
Glorfindel's demeanour tensed immediately; his smooth features betraying his worry as his jaw tightened. He seemed to ponder his answer for some seconds before finally letting out, "I do not know..." He paused briefly then added: "I can only hope so, or pray for them to change their path."
They remained wordless for some time; the silence only disturbed by the light pounding of hooves on the dusty ground. Ecthelion spoke again; his eyes fixed on the road in front of him, "They have many warriors with them, Glorfindel. They are well protected..."
But Glorfindel had no need to see his lover's eyes to know he was not convinced by his own words. Snorting; he wondered sarcastically, "Who are you trying to convince there, Ecthelion? Tell me please. You know as well as I do that there might be two warriors for each Elfling, for each Ellith there would be still danger for them if they come to cross the paths of Orcs."
His lips contorted and his nostrils dilated in displeasure, the dark-haired Elf admitted wryly, "I know..."
Of course he knew. As much as he hated it, he was well aware of that fact. The previous convoy transporting civilians from Nevrast to Gondolin had been discovered and attacked by a large band of wandering Orcs. And even if there had been many warriors, an Ellith had been killed as she tried to bring her children far from the battle. He clenched his teeth. Two children... two small Elflings that would never know how tender and boundless a mother's love could be. Cursed be Melkor's creations. The Orcs were the worst sore of Arda. Killing, raping, and plundering, they were the sworn enemies of Elves.
But they were there to prevent another incident. A scout had located a band of those perverted beasts close to the Fen of Sereith. According to him, they were heading west... in the exact direction of the coming procession. Turgon had sent them to intercept the Orcs before they met the path of the Firstborn.
And Ecthelion of the Fountain intended to do so.
Supporting himself on his stapes, he straightened himself fully and, barely turning toward his lover, he asked, "Is Tarar well rested?"
Glorfindel seemed to ponder the question; concentrating on the regular breathing and steady pace of his mount; then he nodded, "Aye, he is."
A whisper escaped Ecthelion's lips as he turned himself toward the other riders. "Well..." Bringing two long fingers to his mouth, he whistled; the piercing sound shattering the silence of the place. Then sitting down, he gathered his reins and urged his own mount to catch up with Glorfindel's.
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