It had been a month sence Juhryhu' had been left on the bank of the Great-River, and she had now wandered into the anduin', living off the land in the woods and forests outlining Lothlorien, the Golden-wood. She dare not step foot near it from fear of elves, or loosing her life, instead she slept day after day under a large willow on one of the banks. The willow was hollow on one side, damp inside it's stump and filled with worms, insects. Though she did not much mind them, having made herself a few blankets and furs, clothing from the local elk and boar. Every morrning she sat in the hollow side of that tree, of which she took to calling treorach ar láimh, meaning helping hand in her language. She starred out towards the foggy and gentle river, curled up under her furs and skins, breathes vapored as they rose. Every afternoon she would be found out on the river in a makeshift boat she had made from lumber, and the thick water reeds nearby. A spear made of reeds and stone was her extended hand that brought her fish and frog on ocassion, feeding her scared and torn stomach. Finally in evening she sat slumped near a fire infront of treorach ar láimh, eating frog legs or fish while fashioning two blades from bone and stone.
She repeated this process for many months, having no want or need to do anything else with her rattled, healing mind. But then again change came to her. Her one good eye darted open one foggy morrning when she heard the snap of twigs nearby, widening her eye as she realised she had not put out her fire the night before, the embers still crackling and bickering with eachother. Quickly she darted from her place, samping it out before grabbing her other ragged clothing and food stores, her blades. Without thought she started bolting down one of the banks, afraid of anything that could have lurked nearby, be it a rabbit or a bear she did not care, she felt she had overstayed her welcome, leaving treorach ar láimh behind to stay in her fond memory. Her feet carried her quickly, her strength slowly returning from her occasional working of her body, along with her mind. The still rather fresh scars she bore shimmered in the dim light, along with her one bad and white eye. She necver stopped untill into her view came golden trees, sending her even more feat and turning her path to the nearby roots of the Caradas, rushing to it. Before she could reach it an arrow struck her in her right shoulder, causing her to scream in pain and even fear, hastening her step even faster. She darted between trees to try and keep out of sight and keep out of arrows reach, finally reaching the start of the great mountain.
She clamered and stumbled up it's slope, as fast and as steady as she could, groaning in pain and frustration when she slid down the loose stones and light snow time after time, having trouble making her way up. After hours she was content that her attackers had decided to leave her be, slumping into a large stone on the slopes and snapping it arrow from her back, forcefully digging the hrad out after, with great difficulty. She curled into the rock tightly, treating it as her husband as she curled up and shivered into it, crying into it as if it was his chest. This became her new home for the next few weeks, eating off the goats and occasional elk that made it's way as high up as she was, fashioning warmer and nthicker clothing. Every bit of her furs and clothes were splattered in blood, guts, death. Just as her skin and her face, every night covering the stone in it, taking to calling it ghualainn. And so her life went on slowly, under the very little protection of ghualainn and her furs.
