Author's Note: Hey all! I was in a very depressed mood when this was inspired. I'd just read something very, very sad, and a sad song was on my CD player, and... well, you know how ideas are.
This isn't mine. Well, some of it is (the plot included, of course). You'll be able to tell the difference between mine and Tolkien's. Hopefully. But if you still insist on suing or anything like that, heh heh, you aren't getting much. Poor person-who-sues-me. Anyway, Carlee shall shut up now. Have fun!!
*
The Dark Star
Part One:
Lothlórien
She could hardly breathe, but she knew it would have been better if she weren't breathing at all. The quiver on her back was empty, the bow strapped uselessly on her back; the string had been sliced by the same rusted blade that had caused her biggest wound. Her wounds were healing, but her sister's... Nurardion had done his best. Her brother could only do so much. It wasn't his fault that the Orcs had been unexpected. It also wasn't his fault that her twin, Aradalien, had been forced to leave her weapons behind. Not that she would have been able to use them, but all the same.
Of course, she didn't know what happened to Aradalien, but that mattered not. What mattered was that she had probably been trampled by the feet of scores of Uruk-hai if she hadn't been killed before then. It mattered that her sister - her twin - had abandoned her, and that her dead brother was at the base of a lone dead tree, waiting for his deserting sister to return with help to bear him back to Rivendell for burial.
Snow in Lothlórien was rare, but snow at its borders was not. The sleet pelted at her, slapping her face like accusing hands as she fought through the blizzard. The hood to her black cloak rested at her hairline, but no further. Her soggy dark hair was nearly frozen beneath the hood, and her breath came out in white puffs of steam, the breath of her black gelding the same. Her once dove gray hued gown was nearly black from the wet, and the skirt, particularly the hem, was mud splattered. Blood splattered her torso, skirt, and draped sleeves.
She was no longer cold, but numb, and not just from the weather. Her once blue-violet eyes were lifeless and dull in grief, giving them a gray hint to their once vibrant color. They were red-rimmed from crying, and tears were hidden by the damp sleet on her cheeks.
"I'm sorry, Gil-luin," she choked through tears to her black horse. "We should never have left Imladris."
*
Haldir of Lórien squinted through the mix of sleet and snow, which was swiftly turning to the latter, his eyes never leaving the borders. 'Outright ugly weather,' he thought. 'We've had two weeks of this, and no sign of relent. How long will it be before our enemies use this to their advantage?'
"Two weeks of this accursed weather, one week out in it, and no let up," a voice from his left muttered bitterly. "How much more can we handle of this?"
"We must handle it, Orophin," he murmured, refusing to let his frustration enter his voice. "Or would you like to have Orcs at your door?"
"I said nothing about Orcs at my door," his younger brother protested. "But one would think that this weather would break within a week, but no-"
"Would you hush?" Haldir demanded impatiently. "You'll be heard."
"Stop it, both of you," Rúmil muttered, knowing that Orophin was fully capable yet not entirely willing to perform the duties of marchwarden, while Haldir threw his entire being into guarding Lórien from anything that came near.
Haldir refused to reply, and instead narrowed his eyes further. "You see that as well, don't you?" he demanded of his brothers, but he knew the answer. He agilely jumped from his place in the tree and onto the ground, then reached back and pulled a white arrow from the quiver on his back. He crept forward as the wind died down and the last bit of harsh sleet fell and crouched at the forest's edge, waiting.
*
Gil-luin slowed from a walk to barely that as the wind began to die. The sleet stopped slapping her face, and the biggest snowflakes she'd ever seen began to fall. Soon the ground was decently covered, but through the snow and her blurred vision she saw a tree line. Great trees stood there, the beginning of a grand forest. She felt eyes from the tree line; someone was watching her. But she didn't bother to stop her horse. He seemed to know what he was doing. And at that moment she trusted her horse's judgment more than her own.
Her head bowed, she hardly moved at all as the gelding plodded through the snow. Normally she would have rejoiced in the tiny ice-crystals, but she found it hard to rejoice in anything, anything at all. Nurardion and Aradalien were dead. And she had left them both back at the gate...
*
The lage dark spot, Haldir realized as it came close, was actually a rider on a horse. His vision of the figure was slightly deterred by the heavily falling snow. A rather pathetic looking pair they made, he decided. Both bent over in weariness and defeat. It looked as if neither cared what happened to them. He readied his arrow, notching it to the string as he watched the dark figure inch its way closer. In all actuality, though he either refused to acknowledge it or didn't realize it, he would have drawn the string by now, but something - something he didn't recognize if he even thought of it - held him back.
Once again he narrowed his eyes at the figure, and he realized that the shape of it was feminine. Not only feminine, but Elven. Elves can nearly always identify other Elves. He stared for a moment. If this rider was Elven, they had every right to pass through Lórien. The fact that they may have been a woman was particularly daunting; he didn't want to kill a she-Elf who was merely seeking passage.
Unconsciously his bow loosened, until the figured started coughing. The cough racked the frame of rider, and somehow brought him back to his senses. Haldir tightened his bow string.
*
She fought to haul in a sobbing breath, but the cold air made her lungs burn. She coughed violently. She looked up, and somehow felt that an arrow was trained on her. She didn't care. They could have shot her. They should have shot her. She deserved it. But the arrow never came.
*
The rider looked up, and Haldir knew that they knew he was there. But it was obvious that they didn't know where he was specifically. As the posture of the figure straightened, it also became obvious that the rider was female; her frame was too delicate to be anything but. And she was a clearly upset female; her eyes were red rimmed. She could very well have been attractive under her normal circumstances.
Then again, he countered, she was Elven. The Elven race was naturally attractive. But she was different, another part of his mind protested. She was more than attractive, and he knew it.
Haldir gritted his teeth and refused to acknowledge his inner battle. He watched as she wavered as she scanned the tree line.
"I beg of you, whoever you are, shoot me," she said. Her voice was hardly above a whisper - Haldir could barely hear it and he was sure that his brothers didn't hear it at all - and hoarse. From crying? He couldn't tell. "My life is undeserved."
She wavered again as Haldir lowered his weapon. The horse moaned for her as her eyes closed and she tumbled down into the snow.
Haldir slid his arrow back into the quiver and stood. "Be quick, Haldir," he heard Rúmil caution. He nodded to show that he'd heard and made his way toward the she-Elf and her horse.
Closer to her, he could see that she was too pale, too thin to be completely healthy. Her gown was wet, and nearly frozen. The thing crunched as he gathered her up in his arms; and he noticed that she was far too light. Darker stains on her gown could only be blood. A larger concentration of the dark substances was on her right shoulder where she must have been wounded.
Elves didn't always need sustenance, nor were they as affected by the cold as Men. But this she-Elf had been neglected of food and warmth for too long for her blood to keep her from becoming too cold and too malnourished. The blood loss had most certainly not helped, either.
He gripped the wet and freezing maiden tighter and whistled softly for the horse to follow. The gelding stared at him with a navy blue, silver-flecked gaze - which was highly odd for horses - then glanced at his mistress, back at him, then began to follow.
Haldir made his way to the wood with the maiden hurriedly, wondering exactly how they would get her to Caras Galadhon. They would have to find another group to replace them on the western border, or at least one person to replace one of them.
"What is it?" Orophin demanded as he entered the forest. Haldir looked up at him.
"It is a she, and she is an Elf," he told him. Rúmil appeared beside his brother, looking down at them.
"Do you know who she is?"
"No, I do not," was Haldir's reply. "But I do know that she is severely malnourished, is nearly frozen, and wounded. I suggest we take her to the flet."
"There is no one there to look after her. How do we know she isn't a servant of the Enemy?"
That was a good point. And normally Haldir would have agreed in full, but some sort of strange protective sense fought his normalcy. "She is still an Elf," he countered irritatedly. "She deserves treatment."
"Then you may watch over her," Rúmil snapped. "Take her to the flet, and send whoever may be there out to replace you."
The idea of giving up his post was downright loathsome, but to all appearances Rúmil was in a bad mood, and clearly not wanting to have the maiden burden him. And while he could have fallen upon rank and ordered Rúmil to take her, it didn't seem right. He was his brother, after all. Therefore, Haldir was the only one left for the job; for all his good intentions, and Orophin really tried, somehow he didn't trust his younger brother with her. It didn't occur to him that he would have been uncomfortable with anyone but Haldir himself looking after her.
"All right. I'll do my best with the replacement."
"Oh, and is that her horse?"
"Yes."
"Then take it with you."
*
As she slowly sifted through darkness into wakefulness, she realized that she wasn't numb anymore. In fact, she was almost completely warm. She forced herself that last bit, and her eyes fluttered open. It was dark, and she was cacooned in several blankets. She ached all over, more than she had in hundreds of years, but it wasn't so bad as before.
She sat up and realized that instead of her gray gown, she was wearing a far too large tunic. It, too, was gray. More of a natural gray that would blend into certain backgrounds, but still gray. She looked to her right, and saw her gown lain over a chair. It was clean; the blood was hardly even red anymore, and now more pink, and the mud was nonexistent. Even the right shoulder had been cleaned almost thoroughly of blood. She touched her own shoulder; her fingers met a thick bandage.
She frowned. This tunic was most certainly not hers, nor did it belong to anyone she knew. Who had dressed her in it? She fidgeted uncomfortably at the thought of a stranger... No. Her mind would cause a chain reaction in her thoughts, and she would become unnecessarily anxious. Caution was one thing, trusting no one for anything was something else.
She pushed aside the covers and stood, shivering when the cold air hit her. After glancing around for anyone else in presence, she changed back into her gown as quickly as she could manage with sore muscles and a bandaged shoulder.
That done, she hung the tunic on the chair and sat on the bed. Obviously she was still weak. She searched for her cloak, but didn't see it. In its place on the seat of the chair, however, was a green-gray cloak with a green leaf brooch as a clasp. It was pretty, she decided, yet practical. She froze suddenly.
Aradalien had loved pretty things. Nurardion had been more practical.
Pain seared through her chest and heart, but she knew it wasn't truly physical. Her brother and sister were back near Khazad-dûm, dead. She, on the other hand, was nearly warm and nearly comfortable. She should have been dead. They should have been alive, and she should have been dead.
Fighting tears, she forced herself to stand and don the cloak to fight against the only partially physical cold and grabbed the tunic, then set out to find the owner. The flet was empty, other than herself. Was she alone? Had her rescuer left her with their tunic and a new cloak and disappeared?
Perhaps her rescuer had disappeared, but she felt that she wasn't alone. Someone was there. Whether they were friend or foe she had no notion, but she wasn't sure she cared. Finding the ladder, she climbed down, then jumped the last few feet, which was a mistake; she held herself upright only by clutching at the ladder when her knees nearly gave way.
She stood and stared at her surroundings. This forest had to be the most beautiful... It was absolutely glorious. She had never been to Lothlórien, but this place had to be more beautiful. She looked down; her siblings would have loved it.
A soft horse nicker drew her from her thoughts. She frowned and turned, leaning around the gigantic tree. "Gil-luin?" she asked softly. The black gelding jerked his head around and began fighting his tether as soon as he realized who it was.
She moved forward and patted his long dark mane. For the past three days, Gil-luin had been her only companion. He still loved her despite that fact that she was a deserter, and served her for all she had nearly driven him to exhaustion. He was all she had left.
"He has strange eyes."
She jumped but disguised it as she whirled, pressing her back against Gil-luin. An Elf in a loose black shirt, gray trousers, and black boots with a gray-green cloak over his arm stood about ten feet from her. She stared at him, and he met her gaze levelly, looking her over. She did the same. He was tall, a good six inches taller than her, she would say, and broad shouldered. He was rather intimidating, with piercing blue eyes, long golden hair, and a muscular frame. She couldn't read his emotions from his eyes, as she could with most, but he was a bit cold, and arrogant. However faintly pleasing to the eye he was, he was not a 'people person.'
"Th- that he does," she replied, pressing herself closer to her gelding. "Where am I?"
"You are in Lothlórien." He was cold, but something in his tone was reassuring. Something told her that it wasn't put there intentionally. "Who are you, and from where do you hail?"
He was blunt, too. But that didn't mean anything. "What about your name?" she demanded (somewhat nervously). "I never asked to be brought here."
'I had asked to die. I don't deserve to live. I left them. They could have lived but for me.'
"Humor me," he snapped.
"Adariel Morelen," she said quickly. "Of Rivendell." It was then that she noticed that he wasn't wearing a tunic. She swallowed, forcing down slight panic.
'Get a grip on yourself, Adariel!' she snapped. 'You were never like this before. You're acting like a frightened horse! Gil-luin is better than you!'
'That was before they were killed,' she thought, but she lifted her chin and forced herself away from the comforting bulk of her gelding. She held out the tunic. "This is yours, is it not?"
He stepped forward and took the garment from her. He nodded and pulled it over his shirt with no sign of being uncomfortable with the thought that she'd just worn it. Adariel cleared her throat and looked away.
"Have you eaten anything?"
She looked back at him. "No." She tilted her head to the right. "Why?"
"I am to restore you to health," he answered shortly. Her brow furrowed slightly as he turned and started up the rope ladder. Her frown deepened and she started to follow. She whirled, her face relaxing, patted Gil-luin good-bye, then hurried to the ladder, her frown returning. She went up the rope contraption as fast as her hurts and weakness would let her, following this enigmatic, rather grumpy male Elf back to the flet.
Adariel stumbled onto the wooden platform, looking around for him wildly. She turned and saw him on the western edge, looking off in that direction. He was searching for something, it was clear, but Adariel couldn't tell what. All she could see was trees. The most beautiful trees she'd ever seen, but trees nonetheless.
She approached him, part of her timidity fading away. "I told you who I am," she accused. "Now who are you?"
"Haldir of Lórien."
"Oh."
"Now that you know who I am, there is a bit of lembas near where you slept, if you would."
Adariel nodded and began to slowly back away. Finally she turned and headed for where the waybread was supposed to be lying. She flung the blankets on the bed into some semblance of order, then moved over and picked up some of the leaf-wrapped lembas. She broke off a small piece and placed it in her mouth as she made her way to the hole in the middle of the flet. She began to climb down, but not after one fleeting glance at Haldir of Lórien.
This isn't mine. Well, some of it is (the plot included, of course). You'll be able to tell the difference between mine and Tolkien's. Hopefully. But if you still insist on suing or anything like that, heh heh, you aren't getting much. Poor person-who-sues-me. Anyway, Carlee shall shut up now. Have fun!!
*
The Dark Star
Part One:
Lothlórien
She could hardly breathe, but she knew it would have been better if she weren't breathing at all. The quiver on her back was empty, the bow strapped uselessly on her back; the string had been sliced by the same rusted blade that had caused her biggest wound. Her wounds were healing, but her sister's... Nurardion had done his best. Her brother could only do so much. It wasn't his fault that the Orcs had been unexpected. It also wasn't his fault that her twin, Aradalien, had been forced to leave her weapons behind. Not that she would have been able to use them, but all the same.
Of course, she didn't know what happened to Aradalien, but that mattered not. What mattered was that she had probably been trampled by the feet of scores of Uruk-hai if she hadn't been killed before then. It mattered that her sister - her twin - had abandoned her, and that her dead brother was at the base of a lone dead tree, waiting for his deserting sister to return with help to bear him back to Rivendell for burial.
Snow in Lothlórien was rare, but snow at its borders was not. The sleet pelted at her, slapping her face like accusing hands as she fought through the blizzard. The hood to her black cloak rested at her hairline, but no further. Her soggy dark hair was nearly frozen beneath the hood, and her breath came out in white puffs of steam, the breath of her black gelding the same. Her once dove gray hued gown was nearly black from the wet, and the skirt, particularly the hem, was mud splattered. Blood splattered her torso, skirt, and draped sleeves.
She was no longer cold, but numb, and not just from the weather. Her once blue-violet eyes were lifeless and dull in grief, giving them a gray hint to their once vibrant color. They were red-rimmed from crying, and tears were hidden by the damp sleet on her cheeks.
"I'm sorry, Gil-luin," she choked through tears to her black horse. "We should never have left Imladris."
*
Haldir of Lórien squinted through the mix of sleet and snow, which was swiftly turning to the latter, his eyes never leaving the borders. 'Outright ugly weather,' he thought. 'We've had two weeks of this, and no sign of relent. How long will it be before our enemies use this to their advantage?'
"Two weeks of this accursed weather, one week out in it, and no let up," a voice from his left muttered bitterly. "How much more can we handle of this?"
"We must handle it, Orophin," he murmured, refusing to let his frustration enter his voice. "Or would you like to have Orcs at your door?"
"I said nothing about Orcs at my door," his younger brother protested. "But one would think that this weather would break within a week, but no-"
"Would you hush?" Haldir demanded impatiently. "You'll be heard."
"Stop it, both of you," Rúmil muttered, knowing that Orophin was fully capable yet not entirely willing to perform the duties of marchwarden, while Haldir threw his entire being into guarding Lórien from anything that came near.
Haldir refused to reply, and instead narrowed his eyes further. "You see that as well, don't you?" he demanded of his brothers, but he knew the answer. He agilely jumped from his place in the tree and onto the ground, then reached back and pulled a white arrow from the quiver on his back. He crept forward as the wind died down and the last bit of harsh sleet fell and crouched at the forest's edge, waiting.
*
Gil-luin slowed from a walk to barely that as the wind began to die. The sleet stopped slapping her face, and the biggest snowflakes she'd ever seen began to fall. Soon the ground was decently covered, but through the snow and her blurred vision she saw a tree line. Great trees stood there, the beginning of a grand forest. She felt eyes from the tree line; someone was watching her. But she didn't bother to stop her horse. He seemed to know what he was doing. And at that moment she trusted her horse's judgment more than her own.
Her head bowed, she hardly moved at all as the gelding plodded through the snow. Normally she would have rejoiced in the tiny ice-crystals, but she found it hard to rejoice in anything, anything at all. Nurardion and Aradalien were dead. And she had left them both back at the gate...
*
The lage dark spot, Haldir realized as it came close, was actually a rider on a horse. His vision of the figure was slightly deterred by the heavily falling snow. A rather pathetic looking pair they made, he decided. Both bent over in weariness and defeat. It looked as if neither cared what happened to them. He readied his arrow, notching it to the string as he watched the dark figure inch its way closer. In all actuality, though he either refused to acknowledge it or didn't realize it, he would have drawn the string by now, but something - something he didn't recognize if he even thought of it - held him back.
Once again he narrowed his eyes at the figure, and he realized that the shape of it was feminine. Not only feminine, but Elven. Elves can nearly always identify other Elves. He stared for a moment. If this rider was Elven, they had every right to pass through Lórien. The fact that they may have been a woman was particularly daunting; he didn't want to kill a she-Elf who was merely seeking passage.
Unconsciously his bow loosened, until the figured started coughing. The cough racked the frame of rider, and somehow brought him back to his senses. Haldir tightened his bow string.
*
She fought to haul in a sobbing breath, but the cold air made her lungs burn. She coughed violently. She looked up, and somehow felt that an arrow was trained on her. She didn't care. They could have shot her. They should have shot her. She deserved it. But the arrow never came.
*
The rider looked up, and Haldir knew that they knew he was there. But it was obvious that they didn't know where he was specifically. As the posture of the figure straightened, it also became obvious that the rider was female; her frame was too delicate to be anything but. And she was a clearly upset female; her eyes were red rimmed. She could very well have been attractive under her normal circumstances.
Then again, he countered, she was Elven. The Elven race was naturally attractive. But she was different, another part of his mind protested. She was more than attractive, and he knew it.
Haldir gritted his teeth and refused to acknowledge his inner battle. He watched as she wavered as she scanned the tree line.
"I beg of you, whoever you are, shoot me," she said. Her voice was hardly above a whisper - Haldir could barely hear it and he was sure that his brothers didn't hear it at all - and hoarse. From crying? He couldn't tell. "My life is undeserved."
She wavered again as Haldir lowered his weapon. The horse moaned for her as her eyes closed and she tumbled down into the snow.
Haldir slid his arrow back into the quiver and stood. "Be quick, Haldir," he heard Rúmil caution. He nodded to show that he'd heard and made his way toward the she-Elf and her horse.
Closer to her, he could see that she was too pale, too thin to be completely healthy. Her gown was wet, and nearly frozen. The thing crunched as he gathered her up in his arms; and he noticed that she was far too light. Darker stains on her gown could only be blood. A larger concentration of the dark substances was on her right shoulder where she must have been wounded.
Elves didn't always need sustenance, nor were they as affected by the cold as Men. But this she-Elf had been neglected of food and warmth for too long for her blood to keep her from becoming too cold and too malnourished. The blood loss had most certainly not helped, either.
He gripped the wet and freezing maiden tighter and whistled softly for the horse to follow. The gelding stared at him with a navy blue, silver-flecked gaze - which was highly odd for horses - then glanced at his mistress, back at him, then began to follow.
Haldir made his way to the wood with the maiden hurriedly, wondering exactly how they would get her to Caras Galadhon. They would have to find another group to replace them on the western border, or at least one person to replace one of them.
"What is it?" Orophin demanded as he entered the forest. Haldir looked up at him.
"It is a she, and she is an Elf," he told him. Rúmil appeared beside his brother, looking down at them.
"Do you know who she is?"
"No, I do not," was Haldir's reply. "But I do know that she is severely malnourished, is nearly frozen, and wounded. I suggest we take her to the flet."
"There is no one there to look after her. How do we know she isn't a servant of the Enemy?"
That was a good point. And normally Haldir would have agreed in full, but some sort of strange protective sense fought his normalcy. "She is still an Elf," he countered irritatedly. "She deserves treatment."
"Then you may watch over her," Rúmil snapped. "Take her to the flet, and send whoever may be there out to replace you."
The idea of giving up his post was downright loathsome, but to all appearances Rúmil was in a bad mood, and clearly not wanting to have the maiden burden him. And while he could have fallen upon rank and ordered Rúmil to take her, it didn't seem right. He was his brother, after all. Therefore, Haldir was the only one left for the job; for all his good intentions, and Orophin really tried, somehow he didn't trust his younger brother with her. It didn't occur to him that he would have been uncomfortable with anyone but Haldir himself looking after her.
"All right. I'll do my best with the replacement."
"Oh, and is that her horse?"
"Yes."
"Then take it with you."
*
As she slowly sifted through darkness into wakefulness, she realized that she wasn't numb anymore. In fact, she was almost completely warm. She forced herself that last bit, and her eyes fluttered open. It was dark, and she was cacooned in several blankets. She ached all over, more than she had in hundreds of years, but it wasn't so bad as before.
She sat up and realized that instead of her gray gown, she was wearing a far too large tunic. It, too, was gray. More of a natural gray that would blend into certain backgrounds, but still gray. She looked to her right, and saw her gown lain over a chair. It was clean; the blood was hardly even red anymore, and now more pink, and the mud was nonexistent. Even the right shoulder had been cleaned almost thoroughly of blood. She touched her own shoulder; her fingers met a thick bandage.
She frowned. This tunic was most certainly not hers, nor did it belong to anyone she knew. Who had dressed her in it? She fidgeted uncomfortably at the thought of a stranger... No. Her mind would cause a chain reaction in her thoughts, and she would become unnecessarily anxious. Caution was one thing, trusting no one for anything was something else.
She pushed aside the covers and stood, shivering when the cold air hit her. After glancing around for anyone else in presence, she changed back into her gown as quickly as she could manage with sore muscles and a bandaged shoulder.
That done, she hung the tunic on the chair and sat on the bed. Obviously she was still weak. She searched for her cloak, but didn't see it. In its place on the seat of the chair, however, was a green-gray cloak with a green leaf brooch as a clasp. It was pretty, she decided, yet practical. She froze suddenly.
Aradalien had loved pretty things. Nurardion had been more practical.
Pain seared through her chest and heart, but she knew it wasn't truly physical. Her brother and sister were back near Khazad-dûm, dead. She, on the other hand, was nearly warm and nearly comfortable. She should have been dead. They should have been alive, and she should have been dead.
Fighting tears, she forced herself to stand and don the cloak to fight against the only partially physical cold and grabbed the tunic, then set out to find the owner. The flet was empty, other than herself. Was she alone? Had her rescuer left her with their tunic and a new cloak and disappeared?
Perhaps her rescuer had disappeared, but she felt that she wasn't alone. Someone was there. Whether they were friend or foe she had no notion, but she wasn't sure she cared. Finding the ladder, she climbed down, then jumped the last few feet, which was a mistake; she held herself upright only by clutching at the ladder when her knees nearly gave way.
She stood and stared at her surroundings. This forest had to be the most beautiful... It was absolutely glorious. She had never been to Lothlórien, but this place had to be more beautiful. She looked down; her siblings would have loved it.
A soft horse nicker drew her from her thoughts. She frowned and turned, leaning around the gigantic tree. "Gil-luin?" she asked softly. The black gelding jerked his head around and began fighting his tether as soon as he realized who it was.
She moved forward and patted his long dark mane. For the past three days, Gil-luin had been her only companion. He still loved her despite that fact that she was a deserter, and served her for all she had nearly driven him to exhaustion. He was all she had left.
"He has strange eyes."
She jumped but disguised it as she whirled, pressing her back against Gil-luin. An Elf in a loose black shirt, gray trousers, and black boots with a gray-green cloak over his arm stood about ten feet from her. She stared at him, and he met her gaze levelly, looking her over. She did the same. He was tall, a good six inches taller than her, she would say, and broad shouldered. He was rather intimidating, with piercing blue eyes, long golden hair, and a muscular frame. She couldn't read his emotions from his eyes, as she could with most, but he was a bit cold, and arrogant. However faintly pleasing to the eye he was, he was not a 'people person.'
"Th- that he does," she replied, pressing herself closer to her gelding. "Where am I?"
"You are in Lothlórien." He was cold, but something in his tone was reassuring. Something told her that it wasn't put there intentionally. "Who are you, and from where do you hail?"
He was blunt, too. But that didn't mean anything. "What about your name?" she demanded (somewhat nervously). "I never asked to be brought here."
'I had asked to die. I don't deserve to live. I left them. They could have lived but for me.'
"Humor me," he snapped.
"Adariel Morelen," she said quickly. "Of Rivendell." It was then that she noticed that he wasn't wearing a tunic. She swallowed, forcing down slight panic.
'Get a grip on yourself, Adariel!' she snapped. 'You were never like this before. You're acting like a frightened horse! Gil-luin is better than you!'
'That was before they were killed,' she thought, but she lifted her chin and forced herself away from the comforting bulk of her gelding. She held out the tunic. "This is yours, is it not?"
He stepped forward and took the garment from her. He nodded and pulled it over his shirt with no sign of being uncomfortable with the thought that she'd just worn it. Adariel cleared her throat and looked away.
"Have you eaten anything?"
She looked back at him. "No." She tilted her head to the right. "Why?"
"I am to restore you to health," he answered shortly. Her brow furrowed slightly as he turned and started up the rope ladder. Her frown deepened and she started to follow. She whirled, her face relaxing, patted Gil-luin good-bye, then hurried to the ladder, her frown returning. She went up the rope contraption as fast as her hurts and weakness would let her, following this enigmatic, rather grumpy male Elf back to the flet.
Adariel stumbled onto the wooden platform, looking around for him wildly. She turned and saw him on the western edge, looking off in that direction. He was searching for something, it was clear, but Adariel couldn't tell what. All she could see was trees. The most beautiful trees she'd ever seen, but trees nonetheless.
She approached him, part of her timidity fading away. "I told you who I am," she accused. "Now who are you?"
"Haldir of Lórien."
"Oh."
"Now that you know who I am, there is a bit of lembas near where you slept, if you would."
Adariel nodded and began to slowly back away. Finally she turned and headed for where the waybread was supposed to be lying. She flung the blankets on the bed into some semblance of order, then moved over and picked up some of the leaf-wrapped lembas. She broke off a small piece and placed it in her mouth as she made her way to the hole in the middle of the flet. She began to climb down, but not after one fleeting glance at Haldir of Lórien.