Previous: The Way Set Before Her
For a while, things had not been so bad. The Bruinen that rushed its way south from Imladris had not been so different from the swift-flowing Celduin to which Saelindril had oft wandered back home. And the trees of the Trollshaws had not been so different than the ones in her homeland. Though she had never been one to take the roads made by others, the one that wound westward beneath the wooded canopy had been pleasant enough and not over-used. When she did encounter another traveler, it was without fail a scout from Lord Elrond’s safe haven; and though their ways were different from those of the Silvan, and their accents not those of the Greenwood, Saelindril did have business with them, and did not shun their company.
The word from all, at least, had been consistent. An elf of her brother’s description had indeed been spotted traveling the same way as her a moon before, and he had not been seen in the forest since. He had continued westward, it seemed, and so too, therefore, did she. But before she reached the Last Bridge at the edge of the wood, she turned off the road and traveled north a little, and there she made camp… For if she was to wait for Súldil for any length of time, she preferred that it be in the forest’s depths rather than its eaves.
When an owl has her mind set on speed, her flight is far faster than the swift step even of an elf accustomed to urgent travel, so Saelindril had only a few nights’ waiting before she heard the call.
“Kewick!” cried the tawny owl, approaching on strong, silent wings.
“Huh-hoo!” replied the elf, leaping to her feet with well-worn glove already in hand.
Súldil landed on the elf’s outstretched arm, just like she always did. Saelindril smiled her greeting, as she always did. Then, she saw the letter fastened about the owl’s leg.
For a while, things had not been so bad, but that tiny slip of parchment, marked with the elegant script of Saelindril’s husband, reminded her all at once of just how far she was from home. Saelindril was no stranger to long absences, but she had always remained within hours of the Greenwood’s eaves. Never before had so many steps stood between her and her family.
The smile faded from her lips, and her eyes sought Súldil’s familiar midnight-black gaze.
“At least you are here,” Saelindril said, her voice barely a breath in the night air whose stillness had moments ago seemed comforting, but now seemed stifling. Her village would, at this hour, be aglow with the light from a flickering fire or two, scattered voices colouring the air and tendrils of acrid woodsmoke writhing from chimneys as the Tawarwaith began to prepare for the dawn.
For a long moment, Súldil solemnly returned her gaze. Then she fluffed her feathers and held out a leg. The leg. The one with the letter.
A hasty hand undid the bit of leather and swiftly unrolled the parchment. Hungry eyes devoured the message once, then twice. Fingers released the letter, letting it flutter into her lap. It eagerly returned to its curled, closed state.
The elf paid it no mind, her eyes turning instead to gaze into the dead embers of the campfire she’d let burn out during the night.
She had hoped for simple news. Comforting news. We are doing well, the letter had begun, and preparations are being made to celebrate Echuir, the stirrings of the end of winter. And the letter had continued in that vein for a while, discussing little, everyday things.
But it was the hastily scrawled addendum, cramped onto the parchment after her husband’s signature, that had caught and kept her mind’s eye.
The woodmen require aid in handling a threat in human lands west of the icy Hithaeglir. We do not know more than this, and I know not why the woodmen range so far as Bree-land, but the request came from Aiwendil himself. Ortheliel has volunteered to go.
And that was it. No further news, and no further explanation.
A mere moon ago, none in her family had ever left the Greenwood, save on short trips to conduct trade with the Dalish. Now, three of them were abroad. Saelindril, in search of her brother, who she would never have expected to leave their homeland in the first place. Her brother, her twin, with whom she had been so close since birth, to do… Well, even she did not know what. Now Ortheliel, her daughter, to “handle” some kind of “threat.”
Saelindril plucked the rolled letter from her lap and secured it within her satchel. She reached forward with a sigh to stir the remains of the fire with a stick. What kind of threat inspired Aiwendil the Brown to call upon the Silvan for aid? It could hardly be anything safe, and the thought of her child in danger gripped her heart with icy fear.
As she leaned closer to the fire to let her breath flow gently across its embers, she realized that Súldil was no longer on her arm, but rather watching thoughtfully from a bough of a nearby tree. Saelindril did now know if the owl knew of the news she had brought, but the elf could not find the will to speak of it now. She set herself instead to the rekindling of the fire, though the light was hardly needed in the rosy foredawn.
Rest would not come easy this morn.
Next: Dúrandis
