The border between Ryswell and Dustin lands, Southern Barrowlands, The North, Westeros
Night, 297 AC
Aerindir had been riding north along the riverbank for two hours already, allowing himself no halt. Patches was tired. He could feel it in the tremor of her muscles beneath his thighs, in her heavy, rasping breath. The mare walked on stubbornly, but slower than before. Ahead, the forest began to thin. The trunks parted, and between them appeared a bridge.
The very same old bridge over the sea inlet that Vilar had spoken of. The only thread connecting the Ryswell lands with the Dustin holdings in this remote wilderness.
Aerindir drew the reins. Patches stopped and gratefully lowered her head to the withered grass. The elf slipped from the saddle without a sound. His boots touched the ground almost silently.
"Hora - wait" he said softly in Quenya, tying the reins to the gnarled branch of a crooked pine.
The mare flicked an ear but stood still.
He could not simply ride onto the bridge. The same mercenaries who had attacked him in the forest might be waiting here as well. Bridges always draw ambushes. Narrow places. Bottlenecks of the road, where a single archer can halt a column and a single sentry can raise an alarm that carries for leagues.
Aerindir moved forward, dissolving into the shadows of the riverside trees. His elven hearing picked apart every sound from the nocturnal symphony: the rustle of dry leaves in the wind, the thin squeak of a bat somewhere overhead, the rhythmic splash of water against stone, the distant, mournful howl of a wolf. But the crucial sounds - the clank of metal, the creak of leather, a human cough, the heavy tread of boots - were absent.
The bridge proved to be an old and crude structure. Grey boulders covered in lichen were bound with lime mortar that had crumbled away in places over the years. The parapets were low, collapsed into the water in spots. A single tall arch spanned the rushing river current. The water beneath it roared and foamed, slamming against the stone piers.
Aerindir stood motionless behind the trunk of the last tree, thirty paces from the beginning of the stonework. He narrowed his eyes, peering at the far end of the bridge.
Guards? A checkpoint?
The logic of war told him there should be a post here. The bridge controlled the crossing, ensured the collection of tolls from merchants, and served as a first line of defense. In his world, every ford, every crossing was held under unceasing watch. But here there was no one. The bridge lay empty, dark, and silent. Only the wind wandered across the stones, whistling softly through the cracks in the masonry.
Either I am incredibly fortunate, or these lands are so poor and remote that no one cares who walks their roads. Or perhaps the local lords are simply occupied with other concerns and have forgotten their borderlands.
Aerindir circled the bridge in a wide arc, keeping to the deep shadow of the trees and checking the approaches. Nothing. No traces of a fire. No horses. No fresh boot prints in the damp earth.
Then he climbed soundlessly to a low hilltop overlooking the crossing to survey the far bank. There, away from the river, dim lights flickered.
A small village. Dark silhouettes of houses with thatched roofs were barely discernible against the night sky. Thin wisps of smoke rose from a few chimneys. Life was there, but quiet and drowsy. No torches on the road. No patrols.
Strange carelessness. Perhaps they simply do not expect war here. Or perhaps war in this world looks different.
At last, having waited a while longer and satisfied himself that the road remained empty, the elf rose. He descended the hill, returned to Patches, and untied the reins. The mare snorted softly when he took her by the bridle, but he did not mount.
* * *
Iron horseshoes struck stone with a sharp, dry clatter. In the dense silence of the night, the sound rang almost deafening. Aerindir winced. Too loud. But there was no choice.
The bridge proved longer than it had appeared from the bank - seventy paces at least. The stone beneath them was slick with moisture; spray from the river reached even here, at the height of the span, coating the masonry in a thin film.
The water roared below. Gazing at it, Aerindir found himself remembering the Sirion. The great river of Beleriand that had carried its waters to the sea, dividing the lands of elves and men. There too had stood bridges. Tall arches of white stone, adorned with carving so fine that the stone seemed to sing in the wind. Into their vaults had been cut runes of warding and blessing. Here there was only rough masonry. Heavy and sullen. Without the faintest hint of beauty - but strong.
At last the hooves stepped onto the earth of the opposite bank. Stone gave way to thick, wet mud. Beyond the bridge the road branched in several directions.
Aerindir halted Patches and glanced back. The bridge darkened behind him in a black stripe. Below, the river roared, and moonlight silvered the wet parapet and the jets of water flying through the air.
The border had been crossed. The Ryswell lands lay behind, beyond the river. Now Dustin territory stretched beneath his feet.
In his memory rose the merchant's voice, spoken with that false cheer Aerindir had now deciphered too late.
After the bridge, head northeast. Four days to Barrowton by the direct road, if you don't tarry.
Aerindir did a quick mental calculation. From the Broken Branch to the ambush site they had ridden one full day. If Vilar's estimate of the "shortcut" had been accurate, roughly three days of travel remained to the city.
Three days alone on an unfamiliar road. Three days to a city with a port. Three days to the faint hope of ships.
"If nothing happens" he said aloud, with a bitter half-smile.
The elf ran his palm along Patches' neck. The mare snorted softly. In one light, fluid motion he swung into the saddle. He adjusted the bow on his back, then out of habit touched the sword hilt, checking that the blade moved freely in its scabbard.
Aerindir touched his heels lightly to Patches' sides. She obediently moved forward and soon broke into a broad, sweeping trot, carrying her rider away from the river. Deeper into the Dustin lands.
* * *
Three hours passed. The moon stood at its zenith, flooding the world in pale light. The road stretched before them as an empty grey ribbon. Aerindir felt the weariness of spirit beginning to overpower the body. The day's events pressed down like a heavy burden: betrayal, battle, dead bodies on cold grass.
Before his eyes rose once more the fear-twisted face of Vilar. The elf frowned and forced the image away by sheer will. The merchant had made his own choice: gold over honor. He had received what he deserved. Pity for a traitor was a luxury Aerindir could not afford.
At one of the forks he turned right, beneath the cover of dense forest. Shadow felt safer than the open hills. Soon he found a suitable shelter - a small clearing hidden behind a thick wall of brush.
Aerindir led Patches to a narrow stream and let her drink. The water murmured softly between the stones. Then he returned to the sheltered spot. He did not build a fire. A flame in this wilderness would be a beacon for any traveler - or for those who might be following his trail.
Wrapping himself in his cloak, he lay down on the cold ground, turned his gaze to the alien, starlit sky, and closed his eyes.
But sleep would not come.
In the darkness before him drifted faces. First those he had met here: honest Hobb, his wife Marda, the fishermen Will and Olden, little Torr with the wooden fish in his hands. And dead Vilar again.
But behind the merchant, from a deeper and more painful darkness of memory, other shadows emerged. Tall, beautiful, with eyes full of starlight.
Kirael, who could find a jest even in the battle line. Aranfil, whose poems by the campfire made you forget your weariness. Faelas, whose spear seldom missed its mark. Mallas had been the youngest of them, admitted to the Guard by Aerindir's own hand. Too young. Too alive for what awaited them in the southern waters. Tirmon, whose hands at the helm were as steady as Aerindir's hands on a sword.
His company. He had witnessed some of their deaths in that battle. Of the fate of the others, he knew nothing.
And behind them rose the dearest images of all. Those he had lost at different times and in different worlds.
His father. Tall and stern, in shining plate. He had fallen in the fire and chaos of the Dagor Bragollach at the slopes of Ered Wethrin, when the enemy breached the defense. Those hills became his grave. Now even the hills were gone - the sea had swallowed them along with Beleriand.
His mother. She had stayed there, in Blessed Aman. Alive. Standing among the white flowers of their garden. Her sorrowful eyes gazing toward the distant horizon, and the wind playing with the long golden strands - the very ones he had inherited from her. She waited and believed. But now between them lay not merely leagues of water, but worlds.
And his sister. The one who had sailed to Aman after the last war. When the ship raised its sails and slowly set off westward, Aerindir had remained on the quays of Forlond. He remembered that day. The warm wind from the sea. The creak of ropes. The white wings of sails above the waters of Belegaer. Her slender fingers clasping his palm. She had pressed into it something heavy and warm. A golden braided bracelet.
"Take it" she had whispered then. "Let a part of me stay with you here."
Aerindir exhaled slowly.
"Namárië... Farewell" he whispered into the cold darkness - to all of them. The living and the dead.
Gradually the tension began to ease. His thoughts dimmed like embers beneath ash. And at last a heavy, dreamless sleep took pity on him and drew its dark shadow over his mind.
* * *
Dawn seeped through the tree canopy as grey haze. The sun rose reluctantly here.
Aerindir's eyes opened in an instant, but he remained beneath the cloak, perfectly still, listening. The forest was slowly waking; nearby a branch snapped, and a magpie at the very top of a tree began chattering, heralding the start of the day. With a muffled, drowsy rustle the wind passed through the fir crowns - but there was no danger. The surrounding forest remained indifferent.
The elf rose, shaking off the remnants of sleep and the night's damp. His body ached from the hard ground, but a few slow, languid stretches drove the blood through his limbs and chased away the stiffness. Breakfast was brief and devoid of any pleasure: a piece of dried meat, a hardtack biscuit that had to be soaked in water, and a bit of cheese.
Later he led Patches to the stream, where the mare drank long and greedily, noisily drawing the damp morning air through her nostrils. Clear water slid lazily between smooth stones, and when Aerindir scooped a handful and splashed it over his face, the sharp cold struck his skin, clearing his mind completely.
While Patches drank at the stream, Aerindir surveyed the area. At the very edge of the clearing grew thorny bushes laden with dark berries. He stepped closer and carefully picked several ripe clusters. Tart, but nourishing. He ate a few berries and stowed the rest in the provision sack.
Piucca. Blackberry. Even in an alien world, the earth bears familiar fruit.
The elf straightened and walked on, pushing deeper into the forest. Patches remained behind at the water. The trail was barely visible - only flattened grass and the occasional mark of hooves and boots. Light filtered through the canopy in thin grey bands. The forest here was old, but not ancient. Young firs and birches, dense undergrowth, damp soil.
After several dozen paces he noticed low, prickly bushes bearing blue-grey berries.
Juniper. Aerindir carefully plucked a few sprigs. The berries smelled pungent and bitter.
Bitter, but useful. They purify water and drive rot from wounds.
He tucked the find into his sack and was about to turn back when, in a bright patch of sunlight at the roots of an old birch, he spotted slender stems bearing small yellow flowers. Aerindir stopped slowly, dropped to one knee, and carefully picked several stems, admiring their fragility against the rough bark. When he crushed one blossom between his calloused fingers, a dark, almost reddish sap appeared on his skin.
Anar-mírë... St. John's wort. The flower of the sun. Even here it grows.
The elf rose, tucking the herb into his sack.
Enough.
He surveyed the forest. Morning was fully taking hold: birds cried in the canopy, the wind stirred the treetops, the stream murmured quietly among the stones. It was time to go. Aerindir turned and headed back to the stream, where Patches had finished drinking and was patiently waiting for her rider.
Breaking camp took only a few minutes. He tightened the girth, checked the gear with a practiced motion, and swung lightly into the saddle. Patches pricked her ears, ready for the road. Aerindir turned her and guided her away from the stream, back onto the trail leading northeast.
* * *
A day and a half melted into one long, grey ribbon of road.
Aerindir rode almost without stopping. The landscape shifted slowly, as if reluctantly. The road wound lazily between gentle hills: climbing stony ridges, then dipping again into damp hollows. There had been no forest since his last night beneath its shade. Only scattered, solitary trees jutted up amid the vast moors, overgrown with brown, wind-scorched grass.
The world of men made itself known rarely, but insistently. The first time was near midday. A creaking cart piled with hay came slowly toward him. The old man on the seat, hunched beneath the weight of his years and a threadbare cloak, dozed as he swayed in time with the horse's steps. Aerindir merely pulled his hood lower over his eyes and rode past in silence. The old man did not even lift his head - either he truly slept, or he was too lost in his own thoughts.
By evening of that same day, he encountered two riders. Local merchants or well-to-do farmers, by their look and speech. They rode side by side, loudly arguing about the price of grain, but at the sight of the tall, solitary traveler their voices gradually fell silent. Aerindir passed within a few paces of them - straight-backed in the saddle, silent, his face hidden in the shadow of the hood. The riders watched him go with wary eyes. When he had ridden on, a hushed whisper rose behind him. Snatches of words reached his ears: about his height, fair hair... and lords.
By the following evening the wild moor began yielding to order. The hills grew lower and gentler. Chaotic scrub gave way to cultivated fields. Here and there stood sturdy houses with leaning but solid fences. The harvest had already been taken in. Only yellow stubble remained, rustling dryly in the wind. Low walls of field stone divided the plots. In the distance, the sails of a lone windmill turned lazily.
The sun, heavy and crimson, was sinking slowly toward the horizon when the road brought him to yet another field. In a hollow sheltered by spreading willows, water glinted. A small stream wound lazily among smooth stones.
Aerindir drew the reins. Patches immediately stretched her muzzle toward the water and snorted softly. The horse wanted to drink, and he himself felt the ache in his shoulders from the long ride.
He held his gaze on the stream for a moment, then nodded to himself. His decision made, Aerindir guided the mare down the slope.
* * *
The stream proved wider than it had looked from the hilltop - three paces from bank to bank. The bed was strewn with smooth pebbles, and the water ran over the stones in a clear, cold current, sparkling in the last slanting rays of the setting sun. The branches of old willows stooped low to the water, intertwining to form a dense green canopy.
Aerindir dismounted and looped Patches' reins over a thick bough. The mare immediately stretched toward the water and began drinking greedily, drawing it noisily through her nostrils. The elf crouched beside her and scooped a handful of cold water.
He was drinking when his keen ears caught a sound foreign to this quiet hollow.
Voices. Children's voices.
Aerindir froze, his hand halfway to his mouth. Slowly, taking care not to shift his posture, he raised his gaze. A little farther downstream, about thirty paces away on the opposite low bank, stood two figures.
A boy and a girl.
The boy was no more than ten winters old. Thin, wiry, with a mop of dark, long-uncut hair. An oversized shirt hung from his shoulders, and fresh patches darkened the knees of his trousers. He moved with that sharp, angular haste found in children forced to grow up too soon.
The girl was tiny - six at most - slender as a willow switch. A fair braid had come undone, and dry grass blades poked from it. Her face was grubby, smeared with dust and water, but the eyes in it shone bright and anxious.
They were busy at the very edge of the water. Beside them stood a pot-bellied clay jug, far too large and heavy for such small hands. The boy was methodically scooping water with a wooden ladle, carefully pouring it inside. The girl was holding the jug with both hands, straining with her whole thin body to keep the heavy vessel from toppling sideways.
Aerindir remained in the willow's shadow. His stillness was total, almost unnatural - the ancient elven skill of blending with the surrounding world. The children did not notice him.
"...empty" came the girl's clear, aggrieved little voice. "I checked three times, Elrik. Not a single egg. Not even in that corner where Speckle likes to hide them."
"It's getting cold, Lisa" her brother answered flatly, not pausing in his work. "Hens always lay worse toward winter."
"Mama said that come autumn they actually put on fat..." she began.
"Mama said a lot of things" the boy cut her off sharply. "But Mama isn't here right now. There's us. Hold it straighter, or you'll spill it."
The girl frowned but obediently shifted her grip on the jug. Her fingers went white with the effort.
Aerindir listened. Through this simple exchange ran trouble - quiet, almost mundane, but no less heavy for it.
"But Bessie gave milk" Lisa spoke again, unable to stay silent for long. Silence frightened her more than her brother's harshness. "Almost a full pail. She's kind."
Elrik nodded, pouring in another ladleful.
"Yes. Bessie feeds us. If it weren't for her..."
He did not finish. He only sighed heavily and straightened, rubbing his aching lower back.
"Elrik..." The girl's voice wavered and dropped to barely a whisper, almost lost beneath the gurgle of the stream. "Will she get up? You promised yesterday it would be soon. But today she didn't even open her eyes when I went in. She's hot as the hearth."
The boy froze. He stood with his back to his sister, staring at the darkening water. His thin shoulders beneath the loose shirt went taut.
"She'll get up" he said, but the words came out dry, brittle. "The fever will break, and she'll get up. She just needs to sweat it out."
"You're lying" Lisa whispered. There was no accusation in her voice - only the horror of understanding.
Elrik spun to face her. Angry tears flashed in his eyes, and he wiped them away at once.
"I'm not lying!" he shouted, his voice cracking into a shriek. "She'll get better! I said she'll get better! We're doing everything right!"
He grabbed the jug's handle.
"That's enough talking. Help me lift."
They stood by the water, two small, lonely silhouettes in the long shadows of sunset. Frightened, hungry, but desperately clinging to each other in the face of the coming night.
"I'm scared, Elrik" the girl mouthed, barely a breath.
Her brother was silent for a second. Then he exhaled, and all his pretense of adulthood crumbled away.
"Me too, Lisa" he whispered. "Me too."
Aerindir, hidden in the shadow of the branches, slowly closed his eyes.
The picture was clear. The mother was dying. There was no father. The children were holding the household together by their last reserves of strength, and those reserves were nearly spent. How long did they have? A week? Two? Then hunger would come, or the illness would take them as well. Or "good folk" would arrive - the kind who are quick to find orphaned property.
Not your battle. You cannot save every mortal child in this world. Their lives are brief as a candle flame in the wind. Interfere, and you lose time. Draw attention. You do not even know if you can save yourself.
He began to rise slowly, intending to lead the horse back in silence and slip away into the twilight.
And froze.
Before his mind's eye, brighter than the surrounding reality, a face surfaced. Torr. The boy from Windton, holding out a roughly carved little fish. His honest smile. His faith that the world was good.
"Grow strong. Look after your family" the elf had said then.
And now before him were children just the same. Cornered, but not yet broken. Elrik, trying with all his might to be a man when by rights he should have been playing with wooden swords. Lisa, searching for hope in an empty henhouse and a warm pail of milk.
Aerindir opened his eyes. In the grey of his gaze, two natures warred.
The wandering warrior, who had learned that trust was dangerous in this world and that honor among its people had grown rare. And the Eldar, who remembered the precepts of the great.
Mercy is not weakness. It is the only force that the Dark cannot comprehend and cannot withstand.
To walk past would mean killing something vital within himself. The thing that made him an elf, and not merely an immortal killer.
He looked at the children. The decision was made. Soundless, like a falling leaf.
* * *
Aerindir took Patches by the reins and stepped from beneath the shadow of the trees into the open. The ground here was soft, and his footsteps were nearly silent. But the mare, sensing something, snorted loudly and jerked her head.
The sound tore the silence like a crack of a whip.
The children flinched. The boy whipped around. The ladle slipped from his hands and landed with a hollow wooden clatter inside the jug. The girl gasped softly, pressing her grimy palms to her mouth.
They stood frozen, watching as the stranger emerged from the dusk as though from another world. Tall, towering over them like a tower. The folds of his cloak parted as he walked, and steel glinted in the thickening shadows. Golden hair, escaping from beneath the hood, blazed in the last rays of the sun. His face was beautiful. And frighteningly calm.
Aerindir stopped ten paces away - far enough not to seem a threat, but close enough to speak. He raised an open palm slowly.
"Peace to you" he said. His voice was low and melodic, nothing like the barking speech of northerners. "Do not be afraid. I mean no harm."
The boy's reaction was instant. He seized his sister by the shoulder and shoved her behind him. His hand darted to the ground; his fingers closed around a sharp stone the size of a fist.
"Who are you?!" he shouted, his voice betraying him with a crack. "Go away! Don't come near us!"
Aerindir remained motionless, his hand still raised.
"My name is Aerindir" he said calmly. "I am a traveler, riding to Barrowton. I came down to the water only to let my horse drink and catch my breath. I was not seeking company, but neither do I wish you ill."
From behind her brother, Lisa peered out timidly. Her fear struggled with a child's curiosity. She stared at the shining mail, at the hair the color of sunlight, at the white hilt of the sword.
"Are you... a warrior?" she whispered, barely audible.
The corners of the elf's lips stirred in the ghost of a smile.
"Yes, little lady. I am a warrior."
Elrik did not lower the stone. His face remained tense, pale with fear, but resolute.
"What do you want?" he hissed. "There's nothing here to take."
Aerindir looked at the darkening sky, where the first cold stars were kindling, then turned his gaze back to the children.
"Why are you here alone at this hour?" he asked gently, but with quiet insistence. "Dusk is dangerous. Where is your father? Shouldn't a man be carrying the heavy loads, not children?"
The question was aimed precisely.
"None of your business!" Elrik snapped, trying to look bigger and more fearsome. "Lisa, grab the handle! We're leaving. Now!"
The girl obediently bent to the jug, gripping the rim with both hands. She pulled with all her might, her face reddening with the strain, but the heavy vessel of water barely tilted.
"Papa's gone..." she breathed, letting go of the jug. "He died... A year ago."
Silence fell, broken only by the murmur of the stream. Elrik squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his fists until the knuckles went white. He wanted to hit his sister, wanted to scream at her for her foolishness - but he could not. The secret was out.
Aerindir lowered himself slowly and smoothly to one knee. Now his eyes were level with the children's. He no longer loomed over them, becoming less frightening.
"Forgive me" he said, and his voice carried genuine regret. "I did not mean to reopen old wounds. I overheard your conversation while I stood in the shadow of the trees. You were speaking of your mother."
Silence. Elrik breathed hard, staring at the toes of his worn-out boots.
"You said she is ill" the elf continued. "That she burns with fever."
"We'll manage on our own" the boy muttered, not raising his eyes.
"Will you?" Aerindir tilted his head slightly. "I have seen many wars and many illnesses. I have treated wounds that killed the strongest of men, and brewed draughts that drove out fever. I know herbs better than many of your healers."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"I can examine her. Perhaps I can help."
Elrik looked up sharply. In his gaze, distrust warred with desperate, wild hope.
"Why would you?" he asked hoarsely. "We can't pay. We've no silver."
"I did not ask for silver."
"Elrik!" Lisa suddenly cried, pulling free of his grip. She ran to her brother and seized his hands. "Mama... she's not well! You can see that! She's burning! And you don't know anything! You can't even cook porridge without burning it!"
"Shut up, Lisa!" the brother snapped, but there was no strength left in his voice.
"You shut up!" She stamped her foot.
The girl turned to Aerindir. Tracks of tears ran down her grubby cheeks.
"Ser warrior..." she sobbed. "Please... help Mama. She's so hot... And she sleeps all the time... And says strange things... We don't know what to do..."
Her weeping broke through the boy's last wall of defense. Aerindir shifted his gaze to Elrik. The boy stood biting his lip, wrestling with a pride too heavy for his narrow shoulders. He looked at his crying sister, at the jug he could not carry, at the strange warrior offering help.
The stone fell from his hand and struck the ground with a dull thud.
"...Fine" he forced out. His voice shook. "Fine. Follow us."
But at once he raised his chin again, trying to reclaim the last shreds of dignity.
"But if you try anything bad... if you hurt her..." He clenched his fists. "I'll kill you. I swear by the Old Gods."
Aerindir looked at him gravely, without the faintest trace of mockery.
"I hear your oath, Elrik. And I respect your courage. You are a good brother and a defender of your home."
The boy blinked, thrown off balance. He had expected laughter or a threat - not respect.
Aerindir rose to his full height. He walked to the jug of water over which the children had been straining. He bent down and with one hand, without visible effort, lifted the heavy clay vessel by the handle. Then he nodded to Elrik, gesturing toward Patches.
"Take her by the reins, Elrik" he said calmly. "She is gentle."
The elf straightened, holding the jug as lightly as if it were empty.
"Lead the way. I will follow."
* * *
They walked toward the house. Elrik led the way, holding Patches by the rein. He hunched his shoulders, scowled, and kept throwing wary glances back, as though checking whether the guest had reached for his sword. Lisa trotted alongside Aerindir, barely keeping pace with his long stride. She gazed up at the elf with wide eyes, and in that gaze fear had given way entirely to reverent wonder.
"Are you really a warrior?" she whispered, tugging at the edge of his cloak.
"I am" he answered, looking ahead.
"And have you fought?" she pressed. "For real?"
"I have" Aerindir nodded.
"Against who?" Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Against bandits?"
Aerindir paused for a moment. How does one explain to a child that he had faced creatures beside which the local bogeymen seem mere shadows on a wall? Balrogs, dragons, trolls...
"I fought enemies" he answered evasively. "Those who bring ruin."
"And did you win?"
He was silent, remembering the fall of Gondolin and the Havens of Sirion.
"I survived" he said quietly. "Sometimes that is victory enough."
Lisa considered the answer, then asked the question that mattered most to her.
"And will you protect us? If someone bad comes?"
Aerindir looked down at her.
"While I am here - yes" he promised firmly. "No one will touch you."
The girl nodded with satisfaction, as though sealing a contract, and fell quiet - but continued to stay close to his leg, as though beside a sure and steady rock.
They reached the house. Aerindir's practiced eye took in the holding.
It breathed poverty, but not neglect. A small field had been partly worked; in the twilight he could make out even rows of cabbage and turnip, cleared of weeds. The kitchen garden behind a woven wattle fence was tended: beds of onion and carrot had been watered. The chicken coop, rickety though it was - cobbled together from poles and straw - had been mended in several places with fresh planks. Inside, a few hens clucked drowsily.
In the pen stood a single cow - Bessie herself. She chewed something slowly, watching the arrivals with an indifferent gaze.
The house itself looked better than Hobb's shack. It was a solid log cabin of timbers darkened by age but still strong. The roof was thatched, patched in places, but whole. Windows covered with ox bladder or oiled paper glowed faintly from within. The door hung on heavy, forged hinges.
This was not the destitution of people who had given up, but the harsh poverty of those clinging to life by their teeth. A family standing on the edge of the abyss, but not yet fallen in.
Elrik went to the door and leaned into it with his shoulder. The heavy wood groaned.
"Come in" he muttered, letting his sister through but remaining in place himself, watching the elf.
Aerindir ducked his head to clear the lintel and stepped inside.
The heavy, stale air struck his nostrils. After the freshness of the evening, the contrast was sharp. It smelled of cold ash, old timber, unwashed linen, and that unmistakable sour odor - the smell of a long, grinding illness.
The hearth at the center of the room had nearly died; only a few embers glowed beneath a layer of grey ash, giving meager light and almost no warmth.
Setting the heavy jug carefully by the entrance, he looked around.
The main room was cramped but lived-in. A rough table, two long benches. A shelf of simple clay dishes. To one side he could see another doorway, covered by a piece of burlap; behind it, apparently, lay the bedroom. The house was quiet - only the sound of heavy, wheezing breaths came from behind that curtain.
Elrik crossed to the hearth, tossed in a few splinters to try to revive the fire, then turned to the elf. His face in the dancing shadows looked altogether adult and weary.
"In there" he nodded toward the curtain. "Only quietly. If she's sleeping... don't frighten her."
* * *
They stepped behind the rough curtain.
Here, in the tiny bedroom, the air was so thick and stale it could almost be cut with a knife. It reeked of rancid tallow from guttering candle stubs, sour sweat, and that sickly-sweet, nauseating odor that always accompanies illness.
On a narrow bed, beneath a heap of tangled hides and old blankets, lay a woman. She was no more than thirty, but the illness had mercilessly erased the youth from her face, leaving only sharpened features stretched over sickly-pale skin. Dark hair, soaked with sweat, clung to her forehead in matted strands. She breathed heavily, with a rasping whistle, as though each inhalation cost her enormous effort.
Hearing the creak of the floorboards, she pried her eyelids open with difficulty. Her eyes - cloudy, filmed with fever - wandered aimlessly around the room until they focused on those who had entered.
"Children..." her voice rustled like dry leaves. "Who... who have you brought?"
Lisa rushed to the bed, dropped to her knees, and grabbed her mother's hot, limp hand.
"Mama! Mama, don't be afraid! He's a warrior!" she babbled, choking on tears. "He's kind! He said he'd help! He knows herbs!"
Elrik took his place at the head of the bed. In his lowered hand gleamed the blade of a small kitchen knife - a pitiful weapon against an armored fighter, but the boy gripped it with a resolve worthy of a finer blade. He trembled, but did not retreat.
The woman turned her head with effort. Her gaze met Aerindir's, and in the dim depths of her pupils fear mingled with awed dread. In the half-light of the room, the elf's tall figure seemed woven of shadow and golden light.
"Who... are you?" she breathed, barely audible. "Death?"
Aerindir slowly drew the armored gauntlet from his right hand, baring the palm beneath. He moved fluidly, without haste, so as not to frighten her with a sudden gesture. He sank to one knee beside the bed, bringing himself closer and more comprehensible.
"No. Not death" he said, his voice quiet and soothing, like the sound of the sea. "My name is Aerindir. I am merely a traveler who met your children at the stream. Forgive me for disturbing your rest, but I could not pass by another's suffering."
He reached carefully toward her face, giving her time to pull away or call for help. But she only stared at him, transfixed, unable to move.
"Allow me."
His cool, dry palm touched her burning forehead.
The fever was fierce. Life was draining from her, consumed in this inner conflagration.
"How long?" he asked, not removing his hand, as though trying to draw some of the heat into himself.
"Five... days..." she rasped, closing her eyes in relief at the coolness of his touch. "Maybe... more. Time... blurs."
"What have you taken? Is there medicine in the house?"
She shook her head weakly.
"Nothing... Elrik... my boy... he brewed willow bark... Bitter... but it didn't help..."
Aerindir nodded to himself. Willow bark was well enough to ease pain or a mild chill, but against a fever like this it was as useless as a wooden shield against dragonfire. What was needed here was a remedy capable of cleansing the blood and driving the illness out.
He withdrew his hand and rose. In the cramped room there was suddenly less space.
"Elrik" he addressed the boy, ignoring the knife pointed at him. "I need a great deal of water. And it must be boiling."
The boy hesitated, shifting his distrustful gaze from the elf to his mother.
"Go..." the woman whispered, mustering the last of her strength. "Do... what he says, son... Please."
Elrik drew a shuddering breath, slipped the knife into his sleeve, and nodded.
"I'll be quick" he muttered, and darted into the main room toward the hearth.
Lisa stayed behind, pressing her cheek to her mother's hand, gazing at Aerindir with a hope that made his heart ache.
Anar-mírë.
The melodious name surfaced in his memory like the echo of a distant song. The herb that had drunk in the power of the sun. Able to drive darkness from body and spirit. It was not athelas - the noble leaf whose breath could heal even wounds dealt by a dark blade - but in this world stripped of magic, Anar-mírë was the best the earth could give.
Aerindir looked at the woman.
"I have herbs" he said quietly. "Hold on. All will be well."
She did not answer. Only closed her eyelids faintly - the barest sign of consent. The elf went outside, to Patches, and retrieved the provision sack from the saddlebag.
When he returned to the house, the fire in the hearth was already catching. Elrik knelt at the stones, blowing on the flames. Within minutes, hungry tongues of fire were licking the blackened bottom of a small cauldron, and the water inside was beginning to boil, raising the first cloudy bubbles.
The children sat on the bench, pressed together. When the elf drew a bundle of wild herbs from his sack, a strange mixture of hope and superstitious fear flared in their eyes.
Aerindir worked quickly and precisely. Into the boiling water he cast a pinch of Vilar's costly tea leaves, to strengthen the heart. Then he crushed between his fingers several dried juniper berries, gathered two days earlier in the forest. And finally - the heart of it. Anar-mírë. St. John's wort. Aerindir lowered the golden blossoms and dark leaves, steeped in the sun's own strength, into the cauldron.
The room began to fill with fragrance. Sharp, spiced, and wild. It drove out the stale smell of sickness, soiled linen, and hopelessness. It smelled of resin, summer heat, and life.
Aerindir stirred the brew with a wooden spoon, watching the water darken, filling with a rich amber hue.
"Cloth" he said shortly.
Lisa produced a clean scrap of linen at once.
The elf strained the decoction into a clay mug. Steam rose from it in a fragrant cloud.
"Ready" he said, taking the mug in hand.
* * *
They returned to the stifling half-darkness of the bedroom. The woman lay motionless; only her chest heaved in fitful spasms. The fever had parched her lips, turning them to a cracked rind.
Lisa darted to the head of the bed, seizing her mother's hand in her small palms.
"Mama..." she whispered urgently, with a child's faith in miracles. "Mama, wake up. The warrior brought medicine. He brewed it himself. Please drink it, Mama."
The woman's eyelids trembled. Aerindir set the mug on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed. He carefully slid his hand beneath the sick woman's head, supporting the back of her neck. His palm, compared to her fragile neck, looked enormous - but the touch was light as down.
"You need to drink this" he said softly, yet his voice carried a will that could not be disobeyed. "Drink. Slowly. There is bitterness of the earth in it, but there is life as well."
He brought the rim of the clay mug to her lips. The woman took the first hesitant sip. Her face contorted in a grimace - the St. John's wort and juniper had given the brew a tart, astringent bite. She tried to turn away, but Aerindir gently held her.
"More" he said firmly. "To the last drop."
She obeyed. Sip by sip, gagging but trusting that quiet strength, she drained the mug.
When the final swallow was done, she sank back against the elf's arm, spent. Her clouded gaze focused on the face of her savior. In the candlelight his features seemed carved from marble, and his eyes shone with an inner light that even the dimness of the room could not hide.
"Where are you... from?" she whispered, and in her voice there was not fear but reverence. "You are no northerner... What have you lost in our godforsaken lands?"
"I am from far away" he answered evasively, settling her head back onto the pillow. "Very far away. From a place that is on no map."
"And you are searching for a way home?" Her voice was growing ever fainter, her eyelids heavy - the remedy was taking hold.
"I am."
She smiled faintly, with the corners of her lips.
"May the gods keep you... stranger..."
The last words dissolved in a breath. Her breathing steadied, growing deeper and calmer. The restless sleep of illness gave way to a deep, healing oblivion.
Aerindir straightened. He turned to the children, who had frozen against the wall.
"Lisa" he called softly. "Bring a bowl of clean, cold water and a piece of soft cloth."
The girl nodded and flew off to do his bidding, glad to be useful. She returned within a minute, taking care not to spill.
Aerindir dampened the cloth, wrung it out, and began gently wiping the sleeping woman's forehead, temples, and neck. He washed away the sticky sweat of illness, cooling the burning skin. His movements were precise, rhythmic, and unexpectedly tender for one accustomed to holding a sword.
Gradually the woman's face relaxed. The flush began to recede, giving way to the healthy pallor of sleep.
"The danger has passed" Aerindir said without turning, knowing the children were following his every movement. "The remedy is working. The fever will break by morning. She sleeps now, and that sleep is the best medicine. Do not wake her."
He rose, drying his hands on the rag. In the cramped room he seemed too large and too bright.
"I will go."
Aerindir made for the exit, ducking through the doorway.
"You... you're leaving?" Elrik asked, bewildered, stepping forward. Guilt sounded in his voice for his earlier threats. "But it's night outside... And cold..."
Aerindir stopped at the outer door, his hand on the bar.
"There is little room in this house, and you need rest" he answered. "I am accustomed to the night sky. I will lie by the doorstep."
"But..." Lisa began.
Aerindir turned and looked at them. In his gaze was the calm assurance of an ancient guardian.
"Sleep well, children. Neither man, nor beast, nor evil spirit will cross this threshold while I am here."
He opened the door, letting a stream of fresh night air into the stuffy house, and stepped into the darkness, pulling the door firmly shut behind him.
* * *
Morning burst into the house not as timid light, but as a triumphant flood of sunbeams breaking through the cracks of the shutters. Dust motes danced in golden pillars of light, and the air in the room seemed cleansed: the heavy, clinging pall of illness was gone, driven out by the scent of herbs and freshness.
The children woke to a sound they had begun to forget.
"Elrik... Lisa..."
The voice was weak, fragile as thin ice, but the frightening rasp and whistle were gone from it. It was their mother's voice. The children tumbled from their beds and raced into the bedroom.
The woman was half-sitting on the bed, leaning her back against the wall. She was pale, drawn, with shadows beneath her eyes, but her gaze was clear and aware. Lisa flung herself headlong into her mother's shoulder, then caught herself and pressed a small palm to her forehead. The girl's eyes went round with joy.
"Mama!" she breathed. "You're not hot! You're... you're cool!"
The woman smiled weakly and embraced them both, drawing them to her chest, breathing in the smell of their hair.
"I feel better, darlings" she whispered, and a tear of relief traced down her cheek. "So much better."
She stroked her son's head, then raised her eyes and scanned the empty room, as though searching for someone in the shadows.
"And where..." she frowned, trying to remember whether she had imagined it in her delirium. "Where is that tall man? The stranger with the golden hair?"
Elrik stepped away and walked to the rough wooden table.
In a beam of sunlight falling through the window lay treasures. Neatly tied bundles of St. John's wort. A leather pouch of costly tea, giving off a marvelous fragrance unknown to these parts. A large piece of dried meat wrapped in clean cloth. And beside them, a small heap of coins. Dully gleaming silver stags. Money enough for this family to eat without want for a couple of months.
"He left at dawn" the boy said quietly. He stood straight, his shoulders squared, and something new had appeared in his bearing - an adult, steady confidence. "I heard him saddling his horse, and I went out to him."
"He's gone?" his mother asked.
"Yes. He said to give you this." Elrik nodded at the table. "The herbs are for brewing, if the fever returns. And this..." he touched the coins, "he said was so we wouldn't go hungry. And so you'd get well and not leave your bed too soon."
The woman stared at the silver and gold, unable to believe her eyes.
"And he asked for nothing in return? No shelter, no food?"
"No." Elrik shook his head. In his eyes shone admiration, mingled with sorrow. "I asked him how we could repay him. He only smiled, mounted his horse, and said: 'Look after them, warrior.'"
The boy clenched his fist, as though he could still feel the weight of those words.
"And he rode away. Just vanished into the mist, like a ghost."
The woman raised a trembling hand and whispered a blessing toward the empty window, beyond which a road wound into the distance.
"May the Old Gods keep him" she whispered with deep gratitude. "Whoever he was. Man or spirit, sent to us in our hour of need. May his road be easy."
* * *
Aerindir rode in silence for most of the day.
The sun, having passed its zenith, was sinking slowly toward the horizon, chasing away the last of the morning damp. The day had turned out clear but windy. Somewhere high above, a lark sang, invisible against the blue, and that simple song was strangely calming.
He felt a peculiar warmth inside - not from the sun and not from exertion, but from something deeper, something that warms more fiercely than any hearth. He thought of those he had met on the road. Here, amid the mud and cold, there was love: the pure, selfless love of children for their mother. There was honor in the trembling hand of a boy ready to fight a giant for the sake of his family. There was honest gratitude, asking nothing in return.
Perhaps this world is not so hopeless after all. So long as there are those for whom it is worth drawing a sword, it is not doomed.
The hills parted at last, revealing the view he had been waiting for. Ahead spread a wide plain, swept by every wind. It sloped gently down to water that glinted on the horizon like molten silver.
And there, rising above the plain, stood a city.
It was large by the standards of these lands. Wooden walls, a palisade, the smoke of a hundred hearths climbing into the sky. The city was built around great hills, lending it a strange, imposing, and somewhat somber aspect.
But the elf's eye sought something else. And found it.
Beyond the city walls, where a broad river flowed, tall masts were visible. Ships. Sails, furled but ready to unfurl. Countless paths converged on the city gates, and along them moved tiny figures of people, wagons, riders.
Civilization. A port. The road west.
Aerindir brought Patches to a halt on the crest of a hill. The wind tossed his hair and the mare's mane. He gazed at the city, and the weariness of the past days began slowly to recede before the reality of a goal achieved.
"At last" he breathed, and the wind carried the word out across the plain. "Barrowton."