It was a misty morning when the sun rose in the east, rising to her prominence in the sky as the moon took his leave of it to head down below the western horizons. Dawn's light brought with it a train of red and pink for the golden-orb as it peeked over the rim of distant lands far away to shine down upon the lone traveller who was stirring himself from sleep. Here on the edges of the marshes few were ever seen, even in this fourth age of the world, when much that was old was now fading away, and many things new were rising to take their place. In ages past battles had been fought where these very marshes now stood, and upon the plains beyond them; the Dead Marshes, Dagorlad, where the ancient alliance led by Elendil and Gil-galad had fought the legions of Sauron, last lieutenant of Morgoth Bauglir, now vanquished forever. His wicked sorceries had lost the fullness of their power decades ago, yet only now was their mark upon the world at last beginning to die. The Dead Marshes were simply known as the Marshes; the Dagorlad was becoming known as the Daelad, Plains of Shadow, for as yet the Ephel Duath cast their gloom down upon them, that great natural fence which encased Mordor, the land of shadow where even yet evil things lurked. None so great as had dwelt there in ages past, but echoes and remnants of that which was, and shades of bygone terrors hiding and skulking about in any place they could find.

No longer did the lingering images of long-dead soldiers and corpse-lights haunt the marshes; they had become, simply and succinctly, foul-smelling fens that few could abide. And such was the wanderer who now traversed their edges as he wound his way towards--the south, to the gaping hole where once sat the Morannon, that imposing black gate which had kept all but the most cunning of foes out of Udûn and Mordor beyond. Well might anyone even in this day and age question his destination, for though the land of shadow was only a shadow of its former self, it was still no easy land to make one's way through. King Eldarion of the Reunited Kingdom generally frowned upon anyone trying to head there; his father, Elessar Telcontar, and many other legendary figures had sacrificed much to overcome and destroy the evils that had been there. To his mind, there was no reason to go stirring the dying embers therein; and although he had not made a law forbidding such foolish ventures, neither did he sanction them. His father and his father's friends had spent many long years subduing enemies in far-off lands, and in these days all had acknowledged the might of the West, as once before they had acknowledged Númenor. The kingdoms of the east, the kingdoms of the south, the peoples of the west and north for uncounted leagues around; all paid homage to Gondor, victor of the War of the Ring, and to her allies. In that fourth age of the world, it could be said there was peace indeed.

This peace gave credence to the argument that it was in fact perfectly safe to enter what was left of Mordor. The peoples around the Núrnen, the lake in its more southern reaches, had little and nothing to do with it, and the aforementioned remnants were little threat to wily and prepared adventurers, such as the man who now made his way across the long leagues to what some now called the Victor's Pass, where decades ago Elessar himself had boldly strode in after that last battle in the south, when the One Ring was destroyed in the fires of Orodruin through the bravery of two Pheriannath from the far west. Of that legendary conflict much could be read in the libraries of Gondor, and there were many accounts from many different people, but none so widely examined as the Red Book, a copy of the Pheriannath's own memoirs and recollections of that time. Yet at the same time, while it had been a decades-long peace with no signal or sign that evil would ever again rise in power, there was also an equally strong argument that, as the king desired, it should all be left well enough alone.

But Caladan of Lossanarch was one who would dare the destination and its potential perils, to say nothing of the road and its travails. His father Galador had been one of King Eldarion's most trusted captains, and the son himself was no stranger to a blade; yet Caladan did not have the ambition of his father. The younger man had served but a scant few years in the legions of Gondor before resigning his commission, and then took his leave of home to wander north. At the age of twenty summers, he set out on what became a seven year journey, perhaps even a pilgrimage; he visited the fading realms of Lórien and Imladris, the latter all but abandoned by the Elves who had once dwelt there; he had gone into the west, even to the very Shire itself, exploring its bounds with the help of the local Halflings; and he had gone back east, through the yet-miry paths of Eryn Lasgalen and even to Erebor, the Lonely Mountain, one of the greatest Dwarven bastions in any age of the world. From there he had trekked south by way of Dale and Laketown, keeping to the eastern borders of the vast forests, until at last he turned southwest to head upon his current adventure. For many long years there had been rumor upon rumor of things left behind in Mordor; many had searched, but few had returned from the searching, and all of them came back empty-handed.

This, of course, was one of the great reasons why Eldarion of the Reunited Kingdom frowned greatly upon those who sought to enter Mordor. Yet despite this, Caladan was more than determined to venture there, and twice as determined to bring something of worth out from the shadows of that dark realm, if only for the prestige of doing so where all others had failed. Of course there was always the valid objection that there was in fact nothing of worth to be found in Mordor except that which would cast darkness onto all those who became involved with it. This, again, was one of the strongest reasons why seeking out treasures in that old realm of hate was looked on with solemn disapproval. But yet for all that, Caladan son of Galador would not be deterred or denied. If he perished he perished, and if he brought something out then he had accomplished his desire.

For many more days he tracked the edges of the Marshes, and then he came to those plains which yet held a despair, the Daelad, once the Dagorlad of old. Across its withered and seemingly haunted expanses he could see them: the blackened mountains, the Ephel Duath, uninterrupted save for that place which once held the Morannon, the dread portal to that realm of shadow. And yet if tales were true and Sauron had been only an echo and a shadow of the terror that once was, how much more terrifying had his master been?

"Would that I had lived in such days, to see the end of a master mightier in strength and in cunning than Sauron Gorthaur! Ah! How wondrous the lives of the Elder Kindred, but how few if any remain to tell the stories of those ancient days; yet I would give much to hear of them in full, and to strengthen my mind's eye when it goes to dream of such times. Yet now I shall content myself with this venture I have cast upon myself, and if I fail utterly then may I at least be counted among those mighty heroes of old, to say naught of those valiant ones who championed all in the last great war against that last great enemy!" he said aloud to himself.

His introspective musings ended for a time, he then began the task of crossing the Daelad. It was by far an easier task than crossing the marshes, even the edge of them. Ahead in the distance he could see the Tirithin, the twin towers which had been built by command of Eldarion's father Elessar to replace what had been the Towers of Teeth, Narchost and Carchost. They were each of them garrisoned by fifty men each, and every six months a relief garrison was sent to them from Gondor. Rohan would also send riders to aid them every six months; for many years the two kingdoms had kept an eye on Mordor in this way, as well as establishing watches on Mordor's side of what had been the Morgul Vale. The Princedom of Ithilien with Minas Ithil restored as its chief citadel was the strongest watch upon the Ephel Duath, yet this outpost in the north was no less valiant or secure.

Caladan knew he would likely be checked at the Tirithin before entering Mordor. And then word would pass back into Gondor, perhaps even to his father, that he was venturing that way indeed. No matter. If it got him in without disrespecting the king and the law, he would bear with it. And a few days later, when he neared the Tirithin indeed, he could see he was not the only one seeking entry into the land of shadows.

***

"For the last time, I am Grôfr son of Grîmfr, Dwarf of Erebor and kinsman to Durin the Seventh, King under the Mountain and more besides! I have submitted to you my weapons for your inspection and you have found naught of treachery upon mine person; now let me pass!" the stout figure with golden hair and long, forked beard grumbled angrily at the watch. Caladan gazed at him with a curious expression.

"I left the Dale-lands around Erebor some months ago; did I not speak with you there? How did you come here before me so swiftly, Master Dwarf?" he asked the other traveller, who turned at once when he heard the voice. A brief confusion took hold of his features, and then relaxed into recognition with a clap of his hands.

"Caladan! At your service, you green-eyed Gondorian gloom-breaker! Tell these thine kin that I am as good as my word! Pah! What are we coming to in these days already? Did not thine king's father and all his allies banish such suspicion where'er it was amongst our peoples?" Grôfr said, at once turning his complaints to one he might find common cause with -- at least in regards to the gate-keepers. The guard he was dealing with shook his head wearily, and the dark-haired Caladan strode forth with a merry grin.

"What is this, soldier?" Caladan asked him. "As far as I knew there was but a simple inspection for those daring to enter here, and then you let them wander on to their fate."

"As you have said, it is so." the man returned. "Yet you have also heard his words: he is a kinsman of Durin. We would be remiss letting him enter alone, for who knows what wrath the Dwarves would wreak upon us, if we let him go into these shadowlands and he should perish?"

"I never once said I was a claimant of succession or that I had any holdings for my kinship with him!" Grôfr returned at once.

"Come, let him pass. I am seeking entry as well; I will go with him, and be answerable to the Dwarves, if any answers need demanding! Caladan, son of Galador of Lossanarch. Here is my sword, and my bow with its arrows, and the hunting knife I have from the Wood Elves of Eryn Lasgalen." the other wanderer said, putting his weapons out upon the table for the guard's inspection.

"Not Captain Galador who fought with Eldarion himself?" another of the guards asked. "Well met, kinsman! I am Maldir; I once served with your father. I did not know that his son had wandered so far." the man continued.

"I recall your name from my father's stories," Caladan nodded, "He spoke highly of you, and often." he added, and Maldir then turned to the other guard.

"Come, Lachran, give the Dwarf his arms back; this young man's word is good, and we would be hard put if we denied this Son of Durin any longer!" he said to the man, who, grumbling, returned the twin axes and the stout bow of horn with its own quiver of arrows to Grôfr, along with a collection of knives that the Dwarf stashed in various places upon his person.

"Finally! Not the word of any but your own, is it? I'll remember that, you metal-headed meddlers!" Grôfr remarked as he geared up. Caladan's own weapons were returned to him swiftly, and the two of them set off at a nod from the captain. The two travellers clad in dark colors of green and black with fine but weathered leather boots then continued on their way into Mordor, light conversation starting up between them once out of earshot of the wall.

"I took the river-boat down to the Sea of Rhûn and then came directly southwest. Small wonder I arrived before you and your land-striding; what? Did you take the slowest route you could find? Had to go through every fen and tree before you came here, did you?" Grôfr said to him with a funny look upon his face.

"Had I known you were planning to go my way I would have come with you instead." Caladan shrugged. "At your service also, by the way." he added, and his friend nodded.

"I had business down that way. I only decided to head here after thinking about it again; and you were right. I want to see for myself what remains, if anything." Grôfr said in a lowered voice, as if the garrison might hear them.

"Then let us make a swift crossing of this wreckage before us, and see what lies in store for us upon the Gorgoroth. From there it is yet a straight path to -- that place, if tales be true." Caladan agreed in soft tones.

"That place", as he called it, was the wreckage of the Dark Tower, Barad-dûr, the fortress and fastness where Sauron had defied his enemies during the last two ages of the world. Now in the fourth age it was utterly abandoned, and it was said that it had been picked clean by friend and foe alike. Yet what was brought to light by either side amounted to scraps, cast-offs, and other shreds of things that had no lasting value save to be reused in some other fashion. Even so, rumors persisted; the last rings of power had never been found. The three rings stolen back from the Dwarf Lords, to say nothing of all the other, lesser rings that had once been made in Eregion by Elven smiths, were the subject of many tales and speculations that generally ended in idle dreams. It was these rings that were one of the unspoken subjects of interest of all who dared to enter the lands of shadow.

And so it was with Caladan and Grôfr.

They had met at an inn of Laketown, "The Dragon's Scales", named in reference to the hulking bones of Smaug which could yet be seen lying in the ruins of the old town from the days of Bard and Thorin Oakenshield. At once the two of them had struck up a merry conversation over fine ale, and they had eventually turned to the subject of the lost rings. What had become of them, Grôfr wondered despairingly; he himself did not hold out hope that they yet existed, and if they did they were surely bereft of power. But Caladan wondered if that was indeed the case for all of them, and purposed they enter Mordor together to find them, or traces of them. The topic was discussed with its merits and faults for a time, and then they turned to other things; but the conversation burned in the heart of Caladan, and smoldered in Grôfr. And, unbeknownst to them, a certain watcher of their words in Laketown was also affected by their tavern musings.

"Most assuredly, the Dwarf Rings will have lost their power, but not their significance." Grôfr said as they trudged along in the present. "They would be as the Ring of Barahir for the three Dwarf families involved, symbolic signets that would reinforce their rule and give their kings, our kings, a much needed sense of validity. The deeds of men are sure to outlast us, O Caladan, but let it not be said that we were any less of a presence upon this Middle Earth than thee."

"I would never say such a thing, Master Grôfr." Caladan said in answer. "If not for the Elder Kindreds, the Elves and the Dwarves, I doubt very much that men would have made any mark at all."

"Your words ease my mind on such matters." the Dwarf returned.

A silence then took hold over them. They crossed through Udûn in its soundless wake, eyeing cautiously all things around them. Had it been barracks or foundry in the time of the Dark Lord? There was signs that it had been both; disused forges open to the elements, the rotted remnants of camps, the fading signs of great hosts that had once housed here in the darker times. To their left they could see the ruins of Durthang, and ahead of them they could see the wreck of Carach Angren, the Jaws of the Gorgoroth.

"It will be two or three days at least 'ere we come to that." Grôfr said as they reached the summit of a lesser hill in the dark vale.

"The Isenmouthe, the true gate into the Black Land." Caladan mused.

"We've spent the better part of this day travelling in haste and in silence; let us take our rest in that cleft there for the night, and resume our journey when we wake." the Dwarf suggested as he pointed towards the cleft in question. It was sheltered, and was quite possibly the best spot to make camp insofar as they could see.

"Agreed." Caladan nodded, and they made for it at once.

They made a small fire, and roasted spits of meat over it for a light supper. When this was eaten Grôfr took upon himself the first watch, saying that there was no such thing as too much caution even now when it came to Mordor. Caladan agreed, exacting a promise to be woken just after midnight to take the second watch, and went to sleep shortly after.

And further away, another watched the odd pair in their cleft, eyeing them with an intent gaze, as if deciding what to do with them. The gleam of the eyes then dimmed, and were not seen again all that night.

***

In the morning, the two travellers were once more on their way towards the Isenmouthe. Through the dismal and dreary sights of Mordor in ruin they came to it after another two days, half digging their way at times to get through the wreckage of what had been. And when at last they got there in the late afternoon, a peculiar sight greeted them. An Elf-woman of dark hair and piercing blue eyes, clad in gear just as they were, with a fine bow and quiver across her back and twin short-swords buckled to her hips, stood there before them with the ghost of a smile upon her lips. Grôfr made to draw out his bow at once, but she responded in kind, faster than any Man or Dwarf could have done. Caladan remained calmer, holding out one hand to her in parley while placing his other on Grôfr's shoulder. He was, in fact, daunted by her beauty alone; but after a long silence he at last managed to speak.

"Lady Elf, what is this greeting?" he asked her, and as Grôfr retired with his battle-stance she also put away her weapons.

"Suilad, randir, and forgive my hastiness as I forgive that of your companion! My name is Mirilen, once of Imladris, now a wanderer until my oath is fulfilled." she said to them in a clear voice that dissipated the gloom of Mordor around them. At once they felt at ease, and the land of shadow seemed less dark indeed in the wake of her words.

"This is no ordinary Elf..." Grôfr remarked. "I must admit my hastiness got the better of me," he said aloud, "If you have common purpose with us in coming here, we would be grateful for your company."

"That is what I hope as well." Mirilen nodded to them. "Randir, what is your name?" she then asked, looking at the dark-haired Caladan.

"I am Caladan, Lady Mirilen; and this is Grôfr of the Lonely Mountain." Caladan replied.

"Grôfr, son of Grîmfr, at your service." the Dwarf said.

"And I at yours, Master Dwarf." Mirilen smiled. "I seek what may not be there to be found, in a place scavenged and ravaged by time and war." she said, her gaze turning towards the south and east across the Gorgoroth. The ruins of a road could yet be discerned to those with keen eyes, such as the three of them had.

"The ruins of the Dark Tower?" Caladan said as he and Grôfr drew closer to her. She gave a nod in answer. "Aye, that is our destination as well."

"And let me also apologize once more for... overhearing your words in a certain tavern." Mirilen said with a faint smile. Grôfr grunted, and Caladan smiled.

"Small wonder." the Dwarf said with a knowing tone. "I thought I noticed someone on my trail, once or twice. And I suppose you walked past the Tirithin like the night-breeze as well!" he added with a chuckle, and Mirilen smiled.

"It is no great feat to conceal myself even from those I might count as allies in this land of shadows. And besides, I have been here before." she said, her voice lowering as she spoke the last words.

"You were one of the Great Alliance." Caladan said in understanding.

"And now I may be the last of them walking the lands of Endorenna." she noted with a sigh. "A! I 'aladhremmin ennorath; my heart has long loved thee, but soon, very soon, must I fade. Yet I will not go until I know, one way or another, the answer to the question my heart has held for long ages." she said, and with that she turned and began heading for the road.

Caladan and Grôfr followed her at once down the wracked road, their small fellowship silently agreed upon. In the distance, they could see the infamous Orodruin, Amon Amarth, now slumbering. Caladan, raised on stories of the War of the Ring since his childhood, could almost see two Halflings darting in and out of the rocks and stones and crevices, winding their way to that one-time monolithic herald of doom, a heavy burden in their keeping.

"Further south they were, coming up out of the Morgul Vale, escaping the wicked terrors which haunt that place." Mirilen said to them in a soft voice.

"Did you also fight in that war?" Caladan asked her.

"I remained in Imladris at the behest of Master Elrond." she returned.

"I fought in those last battles of the north in my youth." Grôfr said. "I saw King Dain standing over the body of King Brand, and my battalion was the one that tried, in vain, to save him. His son Thorin called us back within the mountain; coward we thought him, but his wise course ended up saving us. The Ring was destroyed, as we now know, and the foul hosts went shrieking in terror. He rallied us then, and we drove them out for good." he recounted. "But you, Lady Elf, were here during--those battles. Ah, what a sight it must have been!" he said with a wistful tone.

"It was indeed an unforgettable sight, the likes of which I only ever saw one time before." Mirilen smiled.

"What time would that be?" Caladan wondered; she only smiled in reply, and a silence took hold as they continued along the road.

Yet it was not as fell a silence as it had been in ages past, nor as it might have been without their third companion joining them. Instead of malice, there was a mournful sensation; in place of terror there was regret; and where once there was death, now only a dearth of shadows and echoes remained. Skittering creatures crossed their paths at times, but these were afraid of all passersby, and gave them a wide berth. Off to their right, Grôfr thought he could see a patch of ground that had smoldered around some twisted creature, but his eyes may have been playing tricks on him. What he knew was not a trick was that he could see a rusted blade sticking up nearby this odd place, dropped or thrust into the ground and abandoned by its wielder.

By the time evening had come they had traversed several leagues of the Black Land, and were more or less north of the ancient fiery mountain. They set up camp off to the side of the road next to a large boulder fixed in the ground. A small meal was shared among them, and then Mirilen gazed once more towards the Mountain of Doom and Flame. She let out the faintest of sighs, and shook her head.

"As with all things in this land, even you are only an echo of that dread terror long ago." she said aloud, and Caladan suddenly understood the answer to his earlier question. She truly was one of the last of her people, the Eldar of Beleriand, one who had lived during that time known as the War of the Jewels.

"You saw the Breaking of Thangorodrim and the Fall of Angband." he said reverently. Mirilen smiled, and Grôfr gazed at her with a newfound respect.

"Why linger you here, Lady Elf?" the Dwarf asked her gently.

"I am also one of Celebrimbor's allies; I followed his grandfather at the first, and I remained despite the bidding of the Lords of the West to return." Mirilen told them.

Suddenly, Man and Dwarf had a vision of their new companion; it was still her, but she was even more beautiful than mortal man could ever dream or hope to see. An ethereal, heavenly radiance emanated from her, a light that no darkness could ever quench or hope to even counter. Stronger, fairer, wiser; these three words were all either of them could think of, and yet none of them seemed to encapsulate the fullness of the one before them. The vision faded, and they saw only Mirilen, weather-worn wanderer of long ages throughout the world. Even she was only a shadow of who she was, of who she could be.

"Fëanor..." Grôfr murmured softly.

"Fëanor indeed." Mirilen said just as softly. Once more, a silence took hold over the three of them, and it went unbroken for sometime.

"I was there when Sauron, in his guise as Annatar, came to us in pretense of friendship at the Ring-forges of Eregion. Never did I trust him, but to my folly I also used the craft passed on by him to us to craft rings of power. None of the twenty were made by my hand; I made only the merest of trifles. Yet those trifles, those essays of our craft, are by no means pathetic in their power." she said at last. "When Sauron ravaged those lands I was away, visiting friends in the north; I returned to find the works of my hands gone, stolen by the 'Gift-Lord', as he had styled himself, when most but the Nine and Seven were saved. I vowed to find them again no matter the cost; I failed to do so before. My injuries in that war which ended the Second Age of our world were grievous, and when I had at last recovered, Gondor would let no soul into the Black Land, not even an Elf such as I. Do you see now? I have waited thousands of years for this chance."

"Why did you not come earlier?" Caladan wondered. "Surely when Sauron was defeated, it would have been the best of times to seek that which you had lost."

"And risk the rebukes of Master Elrond, to say nothing of Lady Galadriel, or even he we once named Mithrandir?" Mirilen said with a wise and cunning look. "Nay, nor would I even have tried in the reign of Elessar and Arwen Undomiel; my love for the children of Beren and Lúthien goes that far. But in this age, when all is but shadows of what was, who is there to deny me the oath I took?" she said to them. "Fëanor and his oath of folly consumed him and his sons; yea, even the twain who survived the War of Wrath, only to lose the Silmarils along with their lives at its ending. But I seek no world-shaking treasures; the least of trifles I desire, the work of my own hands, as surely that greatest of smiths desired to reclaim his own treasures. With the last of the Elf-Lords departed and the Istari no more than a memory, I can at last make good on my oath. And when in my wanderings I chanced upon a certain inn, I saw my time had come."

So said Mirilen, and the words she spoke almost rekindled the vision from before. A third bout of silence then reigned, and Caladan mused on the words silently while Grôfr took out his pipe, lighting it to begin puffing away like a chimney, both of them realizing she too had been at the tavern, and followed them many long leagues indeed.

"No oath so dark as that do I deem yours to be," Caladan said at last. "Yet I trust it will not be offended if two were to aid you in seeking?"

"Nay, it will not." she said with a faint smile. "And who knows? Perhaps we may even find the last of the Seven, hidden away in some deep chamber of the ruins." she continued, and Grôfr nodded gently.

"Broken are their powers, no doubt; yet let no one deny a Dwarf that which was once given to them!" he remarked.

Their conversation turned to comparatively lighter subjects after that, and when the moon was high in the sky above them they set the watch and took their rest.

In the morning they set off with a will, whether from their own insatiable curiosity or from the power of their words the previous night they did not know. As they nearly raced along the road, Caladan cast a glance towards Mount Doom. He found himself wondering what a larger and more ominous peak could possibly look like. No great scholar was he, but he knew enough of history to be awed by what had once been--even that which was used in evil. He turned back to the road ahead; it held its course southeast for many leagues, and then turned more towards the south as it began to reach the foothills of the Ephel Duath once more, where it ran straight to Barad-dûr. Or at least what was left of it. Nearly two centuries ago it had been ripped to shreds by the victorious forces of Gondor at the command of the King, and now, as was well known, it was a lifeless husk in a dead land of fell shadows.

Of Mirilen, they found out more as they talked on the road for the next two days. She had ended up in Gondolin, that hidden refuge before the very borders of the lands claimed by a power darker than Sauron could ever hope to match. When Gondolin fell, she escaped to the havens, and was one of the fortunate who survived to see the Valar take action at long last against Morgoth. Yet she did not desire to return; keeping the words of the pardon in her heart, she turned east with many of her folk, and eventually came to Hollin, Eregion of old. Celebrimbor had welcomed her, and there in that land they wrought much, until at last they had made many rings--until at last Sauron revealed himself to seize what they had made. Then she had pledged herself to High King Gil-galad to fight in the war that first shattered Mordor, and after him she served Elrond Half-Elven, son of Eärendil.

"Many ages have I seen, many hopes shattered and promises broken; but also many hopes rewarded and promises upheld."

"And when you find these rings, or not?" Caladan asked her as they hastened along the broken road.

"If I find them, I will take them, and retreat to Elven-home in the West at long last. And if I do not, then I will remain, fading, ever fading, until the world is mended." she said.

"A long time will pass before that happening." Grôfr remarked.

"A very long time." she agreed.

It was much later in the evening when they stopped at last, settling themselves in near an outcropping of blackened stones. Caladan wondered if the Mountain of Fire had made them so; he then found himself wondering if anyone had ever set up a camp of some sort here in these very stones before them, whether orc or alliance or wanderer. This, of course, led him to wonder what Mordor itself had been like before the coming of Sauron, and what it might have been without that dark lord. And, inevitably, that question led him to the question of what would the world have been like without all the darkness that had crept in from the dawn of the ages to their very own present?

As these questions began asking themselves behind his solemn green eyes, Grôfr passed him a bowl of simple lamb's stew. Caladan received it mechanically, and ate it in the same fashion. The Dwarf merely smiled, a faint smile, meant only for himself. Caladan was young despite his travelled ways; small wonder if such travels gave him many questions to ponder. Mirilen, who was finishing a wafer of lembas, gazed at the young man for a moment, seeing in his eyes some of the same sorrowed questions she had asked herself throughout the long years. She then began to look around, as once perhaps she had long ago.

The Black Land; according to the histories of her people it had not been here when the world was new. By the waters of Cuiviénen the Eldar awoke under the stars, and from the stars were given their name. That nearly-mystic site of water had been on the eastern fringes of the ancient Inland Sea of Helcar; there was the Inland Sea to the west and a vast woodland before the foothills of the Orocarni to the east. In this age, only the Sea of Rhûn and the Núrnen to the south of them remained to tell of that ancient sea, and Cuiviénen was lost in mystery. It was ironic to Mirilen now; the War of Wrath had drowned her people's realms in Beleriand now under the wave, and raised up unwittingly the land that became Mordor, Sauron's fastness.

Mirilen closed her eyes; she saw the splendor of Imladris in its noontide, saw the welcoming lights and heard the heart-lifting songs of merriment and memory; she saw the glory of Gondolin even in its twilight, its proud spires defying the Great Enemy to the north; and she saw the now-dimmed majesty of Elven-home once filled with the undimmed light of the Two Trees. And then the trees had become dark and lifeless; the treachery of Melkor had ended them. The Noldor were not guiltless in that age, committing their own treachery against their brethren at Alqualondë. And then the wars of Beleriand, Morgoth wiping out kingdom after kingdom and hero after hero. Gondolin, Nargothrond, Menegroth; Húrin Thalion and Túrin Turambar, Beleg Cúthalion, Elu Thingol, Barahir, and Beren and Lúthien; the end for all of them came, but then the end came for the enemy as well. In that reshaping of the world Númenor was raised, only to fall by the end of the age as it grew into decadence and descended into ignominy, and then to literally descend into the waters of the sea. Then Sauron, the lieutenant of Morgoth, became an all-too terrible echo of his master, and the strifes of the second and third ages could, in one way or another, all find their root in him. Why, indeed, had all these things happened, and had there been no other way for the histories of the world to go?

And when the days are dark again, and the lines of kings are ended

Then at last the final dawn, then shall the world be mended.

In a time of bleak despair the Bauglir breaks his chains,

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

Yet the world shall again be fair, and the Bauglir fore'er constrained.

The world made new he shall not see when the Powers again are stirred,

And all shall join in harmony to sing of Arda restored.

Mirilen looked up to see Caladan chanting these words, and she gazed at him once more with great curiosity.

"I knew not you were so gifted with words," Grôfr said to him.

"I am not," he confessed readily. "My mind wandered with thoughts, and verses I had once read as a lad came to my mind once again. I scarcely knew I spoke them aloud at all!" he said with an awkward laugh.

"It is an old piece of Elven lore; I am surprised indeed you have seen them." Mirilen told him.

"Well I know nothing of Elven lore; but we Dwarves are taught that Aulë Mahal will ask for our aid at the world's mending, and we shall be ready for his call." Grôfr remarked.

"Perhaps indeed it may be so," Mirilen smiled, "For even the wise, nay, I deem that not even the Valar know the fullness of what is to come."

"But for now, let the only ending be to our weariness for the night. Let us set the watch and rest." the Dwarf then said.

"On that count, it is my turn to watch." Caladan told them. "Rest, friends."

"Very well!" Grôfr nodded, turning in at once. He was soon snoring, but Mirilen remained alert and awake. Caladan did not make comment on it until some time had passed.

"Is it difficult to sleep here for you, who can yet see it as once it was?" he then asked her. Startled out of her thoughts, she turned to him, and then gently nodded.

"It may be so," Mirilen agreed softly.

"What was it like?" he asked her. "Nay--what were they like, the Númenorean legions of Elendil, Isildur, and Anárion, and the High King Gil-galad with his armies?" he wondered, and she smiled at him.

"Forget not the House of Durin for the sake of our friend here, for I recall them at the battle as well; and in my memory also I recall that some of the Onodrim, the Ents, came with us as well." Mirilen told him. "But I have had enough of reminiscing over past glories and shattered hopes; perhaps later I shall tell such tales. For now... ah, now indeed you have eased my heart, unwittingly as it were, and I shall rest." she said, sitting herself into a restful position to visit the strange world of Elvish dreams.

Caladan smiled, and returned to his watch.

It was but a few days later that they arrived at the ruins of Barad Dûr. All throughout that time they had kept an increasingly watchful eye on their surroundings. The air was yet foul and fetid, and despite the presence of Mirilen some fell dread gnawed at the minds of the Man and the Dwarf. It would be a long time indeed before Mordor became something new at this rate, Caladan thought to himself, and he wondered if there was aught any could do to hasten the process.

"Not even so much as a starving rat," Grôfr muttered.

They had just reached the causeway of the Dark Tower; it was in shambles, but it was still passable. Even so, it took them the better part of the day to get to the keep itself. Rotted bones and ragged remnants of cloth armour could be seen, and miserably shredded pieces of barely recognizable banners littered the ground.

"None shall ever miss them." Caladan remarked as they came to the blasted and weathered foundations, the wracked hulk of the Dark Tower, or at least all that remained of that last infamous bastion of evil.

In some places, what Mordor had marred Gondor had restored; Minas Ithil, the Tirithin, Ithilien, and proud Osgiliath upon the Anduin; but in Mordor itself they had simply let things fade away into dust. Durthang, Carach Angren, Cirith Ungol, a countless number of foundries, barracks, fortresses, shanties, and stores, and of course the very Dark Tower itself.

"And we have simply walked in, not only into Mordor itself but into the ruins of Barad-dûr, Sauron's prized tower!" Grôfr exclaimed with wonder. "What an age we live in!"

"What an age indeed," Caladan agreed.

"Come, let us search for aught which may prove us right!" Mirilen said then, and so the three seekers began a lengthy tour of scouring and searching, hoping to find some tell-tale sign of what it was they sought, a tome or a scroll, or even a secret passage, a hidden alcove or door--anything that might tell them or indicate to them where rested the lost Rings of Power.

***

For the better part of three days they scoured the ruined base of the dark tower. All around them, the arid and blackened landscape ravaged by its former inhabitants seemed to mock their efforts. Nothing is here for you but the death that consumes us, it seemed to say; come, join us in decay, and let your quivering souls join ours in everlasting regret. Yet on the third evening, Grôfr stumbled across an ancient passage that was further to the east of the tower's ruined base. The Dwarf would have sworn it was most definitely not there before. He inspected it closely, and saw a faded symbol of a thin crescent moon upon the door-frame; Grôfr looked up at the sky, and saw that indeed the moon tonight was a thin crescent.

"So that's the way of it. Harrumph! Imitating Elves and Dwarves in their secrecy!" he said indignantly, trailing off to mutter in his own tongue as Mirilen and Caladan came over, having heard him speaking. They caught sight of the revealed passage and door at once, and hastened their steps.

"By the White Tree!" Caladan exclaimed softly as he approached.

"Haste, we may have only this night to examine it!" Mirilen said as she swiftly caught sight of the symbol upon the door.

She gently pushed, and the door opened inward. The three of them softly entered in, Caladan lighting a torch he quickly snatched from their gear, and found that it was a plain stone hallway leading downward at a soft angle of descent. It was no far distance to the end of it, where a darker chamber inscribed with Elven characters opened up before them. But yet though the script was of the Eldar, the three of them knew at once it was not the language of Elves.

"It was said that Sauron used the Tengwar to inscribe his Ring; it comes as no surprise to see the Black Speech plastered upon these walls in the same." Caladan mused aloud.

"This chamber was made by Dwarves, or I am a Halfling!" Grôfr remarked. "What poor souls were captured by the Dark Lord so long ago to make this fell place?"

"I fear we shall never know," Mirilen said, "But one thing I do see: caskets of lebethron; ah! I recognize them indeed, though it has been many long years. Yes, these are the very caskets we made in Eregion, in Tham Mírdain long ago, as repositories for the rings we made."

"Then, our quest...!" Caladan said with a rising delight.

"Let us open them and see," Grôfr said, "There is no point to simply taking them without ensuring victory in this matter."

"Agreed, Master Dwarf." Mirilen nodded.

They stepped up to the caskets, and opened them one by one. In the first, there were nine slots with nine rings; in the second, there were three; and in the third, there were three more. They knew at once that the first casket must be holding the Nine Great Rings once borne by the darkest servants of Sauron the Deceiver. A dark wave of trepidation washed over them, but quickly fell away as they recalled that their power was forever broken. They stand or fall by their master; Mirilen could remember hearing such words at the last Council of Elrond long ago. As to the other caskets, Grôfr knew from his long time of study that the second casket bore the last three of the Dwarven Rings. And Mirilen knew at once those in the third; they were, in fact, her own. How long had it been! Many she had made, but these three had been her own especial favorites; to be reunited with them after all this time, at long last!

"What a marvel that any should be left; but the Nine themselves!" Caladan whispered with awe and a sense of dread.

"They are nothing but rings now," Mirilen said, coming back from her brief introspective musings. "The Nine and the Seven are, like all else from the ages past, shadows of themselves. Yet these Nine I would not suffer to exist at all. Orodruin slumbers, and I would not dare its wrath even were it awake; the Ring-forges of Eregion, however, are yet intact. I will destroy them there." she then said, and her two companions agreed.

"No argument from me!" Grôfr said.

"I would be gratified to accompany you in such a journey, Lady Elf." Caladan told her.

"I can think of no others at this moment to hold my counsels so close." she smiled at the both of them. "Master Grôfr, this casket is yours by right," Mirilen said as she handed him the one with the Dwarven Rings, "And I will keep my own rings upon myself, along with the Nine."

"As you say." Grôfr said, bowing as he received the casket. "By Durin's Beard, what a day this is!" he said with a merry twinkle in his eyes.

"We shall never get past the Tirithin without them finding us out." Caladan then warned. "And if the survival of any of these rings is known, word will be sent to King Eldarion, and we will be held for questioning."

"Then either we take the long way around or we make for the Ithil Vale." Grôfr shrugged.

"I would not go the long way through Nurn and Lithlad." Mirilen said as she took up the other two caskets. They left the chamber, and hastened out of it to come back into the open air of Mordor.

"Then we shall cross the Ephel Duath by the old roads and slip out through the Vale." Caladan nodded.

They agreed to this at once, and began packing their things carefully, especially those treasures they had dared to claim from the wreckage of the Dark Tower. Deciding to get as much travelling done as they could by night and by day both, they ate a light meal and then set off at once across the land of Mordor once again, heading by another road to what had been the Morgul Vale.

In decades past Prince Faramir of Ithilien and the forces given him by Elessar, King of Gondor, had driven out the last remnants of the Morgul hosts and claimed the Tower of Black Sorcery for Gondor once more. It had taken a lifetime of men, but that dread city was once again Minas Ithil, Tower of the Moon, crown of Ithilien. Its vale was the only place near to the heart of Mordor that had regained a semblance of what it could have been or what indeed it truly was without the influence of the Dark Lord and his servants. Now it was ruled by Prince Barahir the Old, grandson of Faramir the Last Steward and friend to King Eldarion as once his grandfather had been a close friend of Elessar. Like the Tirithin before the northern passage into Mordor, the Ithil Vale was guarded; but crafty and clever wanderers could slip in and out without being noticed, as a certain pair of Halflings had discovered when it was yet Minas Morgul.

For eight days the three seekers made haste across the Gorgoroth to reach the passes of the Mountains of Shadow, resting sparsely and saying little to conserve their strength. They reached the Morgai, the foothills of the mountains, when the eighth day was passing into a ninth, and decided to settle in for the night in a small ravine. At dawn's first light they were up again, and they ascended the mountain pass towards the ruin of Cirith Ungol.

They passed the ruins of the twisted tower just before noon; off the main road they saw a passage leading into the mountains itself. None of them said anything about it. They all knew that, as yet, there could very well be some dark terror lurking there. Without a word they passed it by, leaving its mysteries and darkness for others to deal with. They had their own to deal with, and time seemed pressing.

As the sun began its western descent later that day, they came to a ridge where the road descended into the Ithil Vale. It spread out before them widely, ravines covered with evergreens and wild shrubs, the cleansed rivers and streams flowing freely throughout, and wildlife darting about upon the land, the treetops, or through the air. In the distance and off to their left they could discern the proud spires of Minas Ithil renewed. They then began a northwest descent into the vale below, hoping to keep out of sight just long enough to slip into Ithilien and then strike the road again, or perhaps some hidden path that they might use for their errand of secrecy. Though they all knew that Eldarion the King would agree with their self-appointed quest, he would likely order all the rings destroyed. Grôfr and Mirilen certainly did not want that outcome, and for their sake neither did Caladan.

For the better part of two days they traversed across the vale; Mirilen looked around in wonder, and her companions wondered how she remembered this place, if at all. When they voiced aloud their question, she told them that she indeed remembered Minas Ithil of old, before the Sundering that happened after the War of the Last Alliance, but that she had never ventured down this way again until now.

"Never I saw the Morgul Vale or the city as it was held by the Nine; but tales I heard, and I mourned for what I thought would never come again. Yet to see this, to see all of this, it is as if there never was a darkening upon this land. May what grace remains grant that it never darkens again, and the memory of evils done be thrust away from it forever!" she said as they mounted another ridge which overlooked a cascading waterfall.

Here they could see Minas Ithil better, its moon-white walls and towers gleaming even in the twilight, proud banners fluttering faintly in the night-breeze. Like a crown upon the head of a king sat the city upon its hill, giving all who saw it cause to pay silent homage as they would its sister-city of Minas Tirith at the base of Mount Mindolluin. At the top of its utmost castle they could see the banner of Ithilien, a sable field with a white tree and a crescent moon atop it, next to the banner of Gondor, the white tree with its seven stars upon another sable field. The moon shone upon it just right for an instant, making the city glimmer as if it were a living gemstone, and then the sight dimmed once more. Elf, Man, and Dwarf then slipped back into the night, continuing their journey.

By dawn of the next day they had left the Ithil Vale without incident. Not even so much as a hound had sniffed them out, and they passed into the flowering country of Ithilien proper as silently as they had entered the Vale. To the crossroads they came, and they paid a brief homage to the statue of the king that sat there before turning north. They had since agreed to stay on the road for a time to avoid suspicion where they could; when they had gotten sufficiently north, they would then disappear into the wilds again and find a way to cross the Anduin into Rohan.

"Preferably at the Mouths of the Entwash," Caladan remarked as they passed by a patch of bright wildflowers and herbs. "It is easier to find boats there now that the Rohirrim feel free to make settlements around that land."

"Anorien keeps its borders there as well; we may yet run into some mischief or delay from your own people." Mirilen said.

"I do not plan to stop in or near Anorien for the very sake of our quest." Caladan returned. "The Wetwang, the Nindalf, is sufficient enough to hide us from sight for a day or so when we reach it. From there the Mark's border with the Entwash is no hard place to reach."

"Near Rauros Falls?" Grôfr remarked. "And then once we cross into Rohan, we go up through the Eastemnet along the river to the Entwade." he continued, and Caladan nodded in reply.

"Aye, and then into the Westemnet, where the road winds through Kingstead and the Westfold, if we travel by the roads there." he said.

"And the Horse-lords will simply leave us alone?" Mirilen said, unconvinced, though she did agree with the general course of their travel plans.

"I spent a year in the Mark as part of my duties as a soldier of Gondor; I can get us past them without suspicion. Most here will assume I am simply making a long circle of things in the company of new companions. As long as you do not reveal that you are of the Noldor in some way, we shall not be disturbed." Caladan assured her.

"Elves are Elves to the younger kindreds," Mirilen said to him, "Yet your words are well spoken. I shall let the two of you do the talking as much as I can."

"Now let us cease from talking and resume marching," Grôfr then grumbled, and a loud sneeze escaped him. "I do not know what sort of flowers or fancy little herbs are here, but my nose does not like them so much as the two of you!" he said grumpily, and Mirilen laughed.

"Come, Son of Durin; come, Son of Gondor! Let us make haste on the road before us and so come to journey's end!" she cried out merrily, and the three of them picked up their pace as one, hastening along the northward road through Ithilien, the Moon Country flowering as once it had of old.

They saw to their left Osgiliath, the great river city and former capital of Gondor resplendent in the light of the sun. Further in the distance they could discern Minas Tirith, seat of the King, proud and unconquered bastion that it was. Like Minas Ithil, it had taken a lifetime of men to renew Osgiliath, and that was done only after the restoration of Minas Tirith. They heard a sound of trumpets, and many voices raised up in cheering. It was then the three of them recalled that today was the anniversary of the celebration upon Cormallen; would they pass by that place, where yet the culumalda trees grew in their red-gold flowering?

"Cormarë; I had forgotten how close the time was to this celebration!" Caladan remarked as they continued their lively pace.

"Ringday?" Grôfr said curiously. "Ah, yes. Do they still do the reenactments?" he then asked, and Caladan softly chuckled.

"Some cities do, yes. My own home of Tumladen only does so once every ten years; but here in Osgiliath and Minas Tirith, so near to where the event truly took place, it is marked with great pageantry." he said in answer.

"We of the Eldar merely sing of our great achievements and victories." Mirilen remarked casually, smiling nonetheless. "Anyone would be hard put to 'reenact' many of those, if any at all. If someone were to attempt a recreation of the battle between Eärendil and Ancalagon, I would surely be impressed!"

"Yes, yes, dazzle us with your legendary exploits and memories!" Grôfr said as he once again sneezed. "Pretend that the Dwarves have no feats of their own, even if they did end in tragedy! Mighty the heroes that fell before Durin's Bane to ensure their kin would make it out of the halls alive!" he continued, and again Mirilen laughed. It was a crystal clear sound, and it made one feel like laughing with her in spite of themselves.

"Dwerrowdelf, Khazâd-dûm, lives again, if tales be true! Celebrate your long awaited victory, and mourn the fallen no more, for they have triumphed in the end!" she declared in a clear voice, and Grôfr felt his heart moved by such words.

"Come, Master Dwarf; as you said, less talking and more walking!" Caladan teased, and Grôfr laughed this time.

"Keep up if you can, you sprites! We Dwarves are sons and daughters of the earth and stone, and do not so easily tire as those who tower above us!" he said in a teasing manner, and with that they again picked up their pace, giddy in the sunlight and with the memory of battles and struggles now won and overcome. Those that saw them, if any, gave thought to the legends of King Elessar in his wilder days, running around the lands with Gimli son of Glóin and Legolas of Mirkwood. Thus the three seekers passed through flowering Ithilien unmolested, believed by all who saw them to be a vision of the past.

Ten days passed in this manner. Twice they foraged for food supplies and herbs amongst the bounty of Ithilien, and once they brought down a great hart with majestic antlers. They roasted what they could and carefully packaged what they did not; that was on the fourth day of their travels. On the fifth day they passed near to Henneth Annûn, now a place of pilgrimage for those who sought to trace the steps of the Last Ringbearer. From there they turned northwest directly, and found themselves in the Wetwang on the evening of the tenth day.

More wholesome than the Marshes to the north of it, the Wetwang or the Nindalf lay before the meeting of the Anduin and the Entwash, where the borders of Rohan and Gondor also met. Across the marshy expanses as far as they could see were only a few scattered fishing huts, temporary or seasonal homes for the folk who made their living from that which marsh and rivers provided. Most of them were from the Folde, that part of the Eastemnet around Aldburg and other settlements in the southeast portions of Rohan. The little fellowship of three picked their way carefully through the fens and mires for two days, bartering supplies at one of the more lively steadings near the river before coming to the Anduin itself. And there, on a particularly out-of-the-way eyot near to their side, was a riverboat that was just ready to get going. Caladan hailed them, and the owners of the boat halted.

"Hail, friends! I would ask passage for three and their meager possessions, if it can be done." he said to them, and the two boatsmen exchanged a glance. A party such as this had not been seen in Rohan for nearly two-hundred years; what did it mean?

"It can be done," the one on the left finally replied. "We are heading for the town of Fléoward; is this acceptable to you and yours?" he asked, and Caladan nodded.

"That is most generous." he agreed.

"Then if you'll hand over nine silver coins, three for each of you and your gear, we will set off!" the other returned.

Caladan did so, and when they were all aboard the boatsmen set off, rowing upstream and then heading west into the Entwash towards the Rohirric town of Fléoward. For the better part of two days they rowed, passing through the lively greenery that grew around the Entwash and its delta expanses; other small fisheries and waterside retreats could be seen, and a few steadings and crofts, but nothing of note--at least, not to the minds of those deemed as great map-makers. It was late in the evening when they arrived, and the lanterns were lit at the piers of the river-town north of Aldburg. A thane's hall sat at the southmost portion, a stable on its west side and a smithy a few paces east of it. In the midst of the town was a well, and just east of this was a tavern and inn for travellers such as themselves. Here they decided to lodge for the night, thanking the two fishermen as they departed the boat and made their way towards the lighted inn.

Fléoward was one of the more recent towns in Rohan, founded some fifty years after the War of the Ring. Its first thane, Boúdica, was a woman who had lived in the spirit of Éowyn, sister-daughter of Théoden Ednew, King of Rohan. Legend held her father was one of the thanes lost in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, but if so she herself had never started such tales. What was true was that she had fought under King Éomer in his twilight years, securing her position as Thane of Fléoward and establishing her nephew as its next regent. It was a quiet town, and those here generally preferred it that way. Visitors and travellers were welcome, and in fact quite numerous at times; but even these did not strain the serenity of this far-eastern town of the Rohirrim.

They found the keeper of the inn a jovial fellow who led them to a room right away before they even asked, and when they had paid him they settled in for a night's rest. Caladan was the first asleep, followed by Grôfr. Mirilen did not sleep in so many words, but she did relax her guard if only a little in this more civilized place. There was no reason to be suspicious of anyone here, and no one had even the slightest inkling of what they carried upon their persons. With that in mind, she settled for gazing out the window at the innumerable stars. The window faced the north, and from its vantage point she could see the starry sky rising up over a vista of night-cloaked plains dotted with trees and hills and the hints of settlements in the far distance. It seemed only a blink ago to her that this land was Calenardhon; yet for men that was many long generations ago, and over seven centuries had passed since Eorl had first ridden down from the north. What stories they told of that day and age! What epic histories they had of themselves in so short a time compared to her own kin, yet no less valiant were they in the telling.

In the present age, according to what she had heard from Caladon in their travels, King Léofric, the fifth of Éomer Éadig's line, ruled in the Golden Hall of Meduseld. He was, as Caladon said, newly crowned king of the realm, and was scarcely much older than the man from Lossanarch himself. His father Léofwine had served in Gondor as a young man when Léofric's grandfather ruled, and had ridden with King Eldarion in far-off border skirmishes to the south. As to the son, he had not yet done much to distinguish himself for the bards of Rohan, but all in that land loved him for his kindness and generosity. Most said that it was all the deed he truly needed to rule wisely and well. Certainly Léofric himself seemed to think so, from all accounts. Better a kind king than a tormenting tyrant, after all. Mirilen could not think of who it was that had said such a thing, if indeed she had not just thought of it herself. Neither did she know when it was at last that she had closed her eyes; all she knew was that when they were open again, the starry sky was gone, and grey clouds heavy with rain were on the near horizon.

Grôfr was just to the door when she stirred, and the Dwarf turned as he noticed her getting up from the chair where she had slept, if indeed Elves truly sleep. Some even say that in the Blessed Realm, Aman far in the west where only Elves can go, that there is no sleep; yet there is rest, and as contradictory as it may have sounded to some the idea appealed to Grôfr. And if anyone were to deserve that rest, surely the one who had gotten to her feet just now was most deserving, not desiring to leave until she had fulfilled a task she had deemed most necessary.

"The lad's down in the commons," Grôfr said as she looked towards him. "I was just about to join him, if you've a mind for the company or the food?"

"I believe that is a sound course, Master Grôfr." Mirilen agreed, and they headed down together.

The inn and tavern they were staying at was not yet lively, as it often was in the evenings, but there were a few folk there who had gathered for polite and amiable socialization before heading out upon their tasks for the day. Caladan himself was at a corner table, talking with one of the thane's men. His two companions joined them, and soon there was a warm platter of hot loaves of bread, with cheese, apples, sausages, and a jug of water with them. They breakfasted eagerly upon it, talking all the while of old songs and stories.

"An Elf I see before me," the thane's man, Heregund remarked, "And we have heard many strange tales of that folk, and stranger ones still since the days of renewal."

"What tales have you heard, if I may ask?" Mirilen said with the ghost of a smile.

"The Tale of Annariel the Giver, a woodland sprite some say, but folk with wisdom say indeed she was an Elf. And she kept great stores of many things in many odd places of the world for folk in need; some say that she was a huntress, others a wandering minstrel, and still more say that she was a generous rogue. Perhaps all are true, but this man is not one to guess." Heregund told them

"Ah, I remember that tale as well!" Grôfr said with a nod as he raised a cup of water to drink. When he had set it down he chuckled. "And I remember that the 'generous rouge' of that age was not only her, but if you can believe it, a wandering Halfling!"

"One of the Holbytla?" Heregund wondered in astonishment.

"What was his name; ah, the Elves of Mirkwood named him Dînobel, that should help this old mind of mine to--ah! Simply Dinobel, of course, some Brandybuck relation from Bree-town up in the north of the world." Grôfr said as he recalled.

The Halfling or Hobbit in question, Dinobel of Bree-town, was known for his remarkable and almost magical ability to slip in and out of nearly any place he desired. By curious chance, his name had a most apt meaning in Elvish: Dînobel, "Power of Secrecy" or "Magic Burglar". He had a fancy for food and pipeweed in particular, and this led some who knew the legends to jokingly say the name as "Dinnerbell". And still more who knew both legends say that both Elf and Hobbit were very good friends, joining together at every opportunity to thwart the agents of the Dark Lord in their time. None knew their ultimate fate, but the legends were so strong that folk said neither of them had truly died, but remained as echoes of goodwill in Middle Earth.

"There were surely more we might name as heroes and emissaries of goodwill than has been told in grander tales," Heregund agreed. "Many valiant Éothéod went wandering and warring to victory in those days, and though few came back the bards sing their names one and all, each in their own home."

"Tell us of one," Caladan said, and Heregund, after eating some bread with cheese, gave a moment's thought.

"There was Thane Aldstor the Gallant of Folstead; a mighty archer was he, afoot or on horse. He fought in the Pelennor Fields, and later at the Black Gate itself. But 'ere he set foot towards either he was a hunter of the vicious orcs and wargs that dared cross our lands, and he slew them in secret, defying the ban of the King that treacherous Wormtongue tricked him into making. When all became known, Éomer offered him the position of First Marshal of the Mark, but he refused, and returned to Folstead to live a simple life with his family and his hounds." Heregund recounted for them. "I am no bard, or I might sing it better than I say it!"

"It is good to hear it, and good to hear of those who would have no honor but that of their own home." Caladan said in reply, and their companion nodded.

"You'll be off then after we devour this feast before us?" he then asked.

"We've a long road ahead, and every mile counts." Grôfr nodded.

"Then I say to you that Folstead still stands; it is near to the Entwade, and though that is a fair distance itself there are steeds there which would be given generously." Heregund told them.

"We shall keep your words in mind," Mirilen replied.

"Good." he nodded.

They talked indeed until all the food was gone, and then they parted company with Heregund, the three of them tracking the river while Heregund himself returned to his duty of patrolling the bounds of the town. It was not until much later that he recalled the name "Caladan" as being that same Caladan son of Galador; his father, it seemed, was looking for him, and had offered a great price for any who knew of his whereabouts and still a larger sum for those who might convince him to go home. By that time the three seekers were far away, a two day's journey from the place named to them as Folstead.

For the better part of that day itself, the three of them passed swiftly along the banks of the river. Here grew in abundance arrowhead flowers and willow trees, along with several varieties of berry bushes and cattails in the river itself, blowing in the breeze. They could also see water chestnuts and hyacinths, as well as a great many other kinds of flowering plants or grasses along the banks of the Entwash. Dragonflies darted about its banks, frogs and crickets such as they had heard in Ithilien were singing with lively rhythm, songbirds were chirping in the branches above them, and far above them in the sky was a hawk, circling in the air to catch a glimpse of some creature on the ground, whether witless mouse or scurrying rabbit.

It began to rain later that day, later than they had expected at least, and the hearty downpour that assailed them near to the noon hour thoroughly drenched them. Not even the thickest canopy of trees kept them sheltered from that rain. In vain Caladan wished for a wizard to banish it as they continued in spite of it, making sure to keep the river to their right as they progressed. As the rain grew stronger the river began to slowly rise, and they edged away from it to ensure they were not suddenly washed downstream. By the time evening came the riverbanks were quite marshy, and the three of them were as downcast as the weather itself.

"By Durin's Beard! Spectres and shades! A horde of them would not have stopped me in this quest, but a rain like this dampens not only my body but my soul as well!" Grôfr grumbled as he pulled himself out of a muddy patch.

"I doubt that even what clothes we had in our bags are still dry..." Caladan said wearily.

"Is there no shelter where we might set a fire going and shake off this wet? Ah, but the wood itself would be soaked through and useless for a fire..." the Dwarf mused aloud as he trudged behind them.

"If my eyes do not deceive me I see an abandoned steading ahead," Mirilen told them, "We might take up residence there while the rain has its way."

"Good enough!" Grôfr exclaimed, quickening his pace. The other two did so as well, and they reached the place Mirilen had seen just as the dark had gotten too strong for them to continue.

It was indeed abandoned; from the looks of things, no one had lived here for some years. They then let themselves into one of the larger buildings. Mirilen started to change out of her wet things immediately, but then she flushed crimson upon remembering her companions, and took one of the other rooms for herself. She shut the door behind her at once, feeling quite foolish. Man and Dwarf exchanged sheepish glances, and took their own separate rooms as well.

"See you in a moment, lad." Grôfr said to him.

"Aye." Caladan replied.

After a few minutes, the three of them were back in the main room of the house. Despite Caladan's worry they had indeed some clothes that were dry, and these they wore now as they sat at a table they had dusted off. Grôfr found some passable firewood next to the hearth, and in the next few moments they had a decent fire going to ward off the chill in their bones and to dry off that which was wet. Mirilen sighed with both weariness and contentedness.

"It is not easing up even now." she remarked as the rain was heard thudding upon the thatched roof above them. "I wonder if this steading was forsaken on account of flooding." she then said, and her two companions looked uneasy at those words.

"That would bode ill." Caladan said.

"I'll keep alert just in case, but we are far enough away from the river here. It would need to be a mighty rain indeed to flood its banks and so cause us grief." Grôfr told them.

"It seems a mighty rain right now, my friend." Caladan remarked.

"Perhaps so," the Dwarf allowed, "But let us not worry about it all the night or none of us will rest. We should not be too far from our destination, if we heed the advice of Heregund?"

"I know Folstead." Caladan nodded, "It is just south of the Entwade. We are, as I reckon it, two days from it, perhaps three. What coin have you, Friend Grôfr?" he asked.

"I'll warrant not enough to purchase horses," the Dwarf mused.

"Fair enough," the other returned. "It is not out of the question to try and strike a deal with them; to cross the Mark with the horses and then leave them to be returned with our goodwill."

"That is acceptable." Mirilen nodded. "Do you know anyone there? Since you are familiar with it, it seems." she then inquired, seizing upon his earlier words.

"I only passed through with the Éored, the battalion, that I rode with." Caladan said with an apologetic smile. "It is larger than Fléoward, and walled with palisades; their horses are amongst the finest in the Mark, bred and raised there with great care and great love. Reeve Walden is a stern man but wise; the king holds him in high regard." he said as he recalled the man in question.

"And this little steading we sit in now? Do you not know of it?" she asked him then, and he frowned thoughtfully.

"I seem to remember something of it, but it escapes my mind. We never came this way, that is for certain. The last time I was in Rohan I went by way of the Wold to Harwick, and then made my way north to what men here call the Dwimordene, Lothlórien of old." he told them.

"You have visited Laurelindórenan in its winter years, Caladan son of Galador." Mirilen smiled at him them.

"I doubt it not, Lady Mirilen." he smiled back. "The Land of the Valley of Singing Gold faded into the Dreamflower; and now indeed it is Dwimordene, or as the Elves might say, Lómnan, Valley of Echoes."

"Yes," Mirilen said, still smiling but in her features a hint of pain was revealed. "Now only the echoes remain, except in Elvenhome. Ah! But that must wait for yet a while longer." she remarked, half to them, half to herself. Caladan heard the longing in her voice, and it made his heart go out to her in silence as he gazed at her with reverence.

There was a silence after that, except for the sound of Grôfr readying their evening repast. When this was served they ate in silence, listening to the continuing rain beating upon the roof of the house. Grôfr eyed it warily, as if it might suddenly cave in and drench them all over again. Caladan, too weary to do much else after eating, simply laid down near to the fire and fell asleep. The Dwarf puffed away on his pipe for a few minutes after eating, and Mirilen gazed out of the window almost anxiously. Grôfr himself glanced very briefly towards it, and when he saw lightning flash on the horizon he let out a soft sigh and then put out his pipe.

"Rest; I will wake you if aught happens." he said to her, and she nodded faintly. Mirilen then set herself on the opposite side of the hearth, and went to sleep as well.