The Lingering Darkness Fan-fiction - The Barrow-Downs Discussion Forum

Hilde Bracegirdle · 11-21-2003, 08:36 PM

Rauthain

After his turn at watch, Rauthain readied his horse in the darkness. As he had confided to Maethor and Dúlrain in the hours after dusk, he wished to start out before daybreak gaining a few leagues before the sun rose and he could be seen more readily. The trail had grown difficult the further they traveled from Bree and they had been forced to trust heavily on instinct, which thus far had not been proven wrong. But Rauthain had urged that they spread out, planning to meet from time to time and share what they had found on their paths, joining company again if they could in the evening, and as they drew nigh their prize. And so he prepared himself to go.

"Perhaps I will regain my whetstone today!" Rauthain called in jest to his two companions as he mounted his horse.

"If you do, give Master Longholes our regards." Maethor returned with a grin.

"That I shall," he said turning Juta's head away from camp and setting off. They had come across a long set of the hobbit's prints heading back toward the west only this last morning. Curiously the footprints had doubled back again near the ranger's stopping point. Their Toby had become spy, and Naiore must be close now to direct such incursions. Rauthain guided the horse in the direction that he had seen the prints leading before the evening had over taken the rangers.

He felt strangely free and unencumbered under the stars in the early hours this morning, as if he were further north again, deep in the Ettenmoors. Marking the stars he gauged his time and direction. And after roughly two leagues and the sun showed promise of its return in the east, he heard the sound of soft conversation among the breezes blown about the mountain's feet. A woman's voice, a few words and no more.

Sliding noiselessly down from Juta, Rauthain crested a misty hill and keeping close to the trees he crept slowly down the other side stopping midway at the sight before him. Dressed in a southern manner, a woman stood folding a blanket at the foot of the hill; speaking gently to the horse she fastened it on. Beyond the woman a hobbit milled about picking up pots and spoons in the gloom and trundled off into the mist toward the rivulet that Rauthain could hear in the near distance. He recognized the three animals strung together, but could not move from his place compelled to observe in silence as the familiar form of Kaldir appeared carrying full water skins over to were the horses were tethered. Gently resting one hand on the woman's back to draw her attention, he passed her the skin that she then tied upon her horse. “Thank you,” she said quietly and Kaldir turned his attention to the dappled stallion beside her.

Rauthain stood transfixed under the boughs of an alder tree, still and unblinking in the grey dawn. The woman, having finished attending to the horse, looked up and into the face of the timeworn ranger. He saw the surprise register swiftly on her fair features as she reached back to touch Kaldir’s sleeve.

Emerging in an instant from among the horses, Kaldir advanced menacingly toward the ranger, unsheathing his heavy sword with one fluid gesture. Rauthain felt an unbidden surge of pride and approval at the quick response. Kaldir had not lost his keen reflexes, nor it appeared his memory of Rauthain, for his face was dark and brooding in recognition as he drew closer.

Suddenly gone was the strong brow and high cheekbones of the proud well-formed ranger of Rauthain’s memory, and before him the visage of a man ill-used, his appearance as if made of mottled wax that had been let drip down his side of face unhindered by bone or beard. It was as if a well-crafted instrument had been crushed under foot, still bearing the prominent marks of perfection long spoiled. Rauthain’s hand moved instinctively to rest on the hilt of his sword. “Kaldir…” he uttered half to himself and half to the long years that separated them. “Long have I beheld your countenance in my mind’s eye and long have I thought you dead, your frame resting hidden in the dark passages under the Misty Mountains.”

“Many of late have wished me dead to be sure, and many a dark day I too have longed for such relief. But there are some few who would have helped me when life was yet precious and yet did not. Some few in whom I placed my trust and who failed me in great need. And one who knew of my peril and yet turned away.”

“I am that one, and own it utterly and more beside, but it was folly, a madness that overtook you that fateful day, and I misjudged sorely your circumstances.”

“Madness to catch Cidreth’s assassin?” Kaldir questioned, a fierce light flickering in his eyes. “For I slew the orc that dared bring him down and many more beside, before I thought my time had come, all the while expecting you to round the corner to help tip the scale in my favor. I would that you were mad enough to find me that day or even the next week or year. But I had been cut off, forgotten. I was dead, buried alive beyond remembrance in the pits of Mordor.”

Rauthain struggled to quell his raging mind. “But we had detailed reports of your demise…” he said as if to himself, and remembering Hanasian and Dúlrain he leveled his gaze at Kaldir and spoke firmly and distinctly so that Kaldir might not mistake his words. “I must bear all blame and no other, for I had great confidence in your abilities and counseled Elendir to move on, unaware of your ordeal. For this I am grievously troubled, though I can not presume to make amends.” Then lowering himself down on one knee, Rauthain touched Kaldir’s boot bringing his fingertips to his lips in a sign of respect and submission, while ever conscious Kaldir’s gleaming sword close by his shoulder.

This man does not speak as one held subject to the will of another, he thought as he rose again, but as one fully wronged. Still Rauthain would not allow that he be fooled through the weakness of his own conscience, and looked with a critical eye for some sure token of the man’s relationship to his tormentor.

“I too am seeking Naiore,” he said softly, “in the memory of the one I failed.”

[ November 24, 2003: Message edited by: Hilde Bracegirdle ]

11-21-2003, 08:36 PM	#11
Hilde Bracegirdle Relic of Wandering Days Join Date: Dec 2002 Location: You'll See Perpetual Change. Posts: 1,480	Rauthain After his turn at watch, Rauthain readied his horse in the darkness. As he had confided to Maethor and Dúlrain in the hours after dusk, he wished to start out before daybreak gaining a few leagues before the sun rose and he could be seen more readily. The trail had grown difficult the further they traveled from Bree and they had been forced to trust heavily on instinct, which thus far had not been proven wrong. But Rauthain had urged that they spread out, planning to meet from time to time and share what they had found on their paths, joining company again if they could in the evening, and as they drew nigh their prize. And so he prepared himself to go. "Perhaps I will regain my whetstone today!" Rauthain called in jest to his two companions as he mounted his horse. "If you do, give Master Longholes our regards." Maethor returned with a grin. "That I shall," he said turning Juta's head away from camp and setting off. They had come across a long set of the hobbit's prints heading back toward the west only this last morning. Curiously the footprints had doubled back again near the ranger's stopping point. Their Toby had become spy, and Naiore must be close now to direct such incursions. Rauthain guided the horse in the direction that he had seen the prints leading before the evening had over taken the rangers. He felt strangely free and unencumbered under the stars in the early hours this morning, as if he were further north again, deep in the Ettenmoors. Marking the stars he gauged his time and direction. And after roughly two leagues and the sun showed promise of its return in the east, he heard the sound of soft conversation among the breezes blown about the mountain's feet. A woman's voice, a few words and no more. Sliding noiselessly down from Juta, Rauthain crested a misty hill and keeping close to the trees he crept slowly down the other side stopping midway at the sight before him. Dressed in a southern manner, a woman stood folding a blanket at the foot of the hill; speaking gently to the horse she fastened it on. Beyond the woman a hobbit milled about picking up pots and spoons in the gloom and trundled off into the mist toward the rivulet that Rauthain could hear in the near distance. He recognized the three animals strung together, but could not move from his place compelled to observe in silence as the familiar form of Kaldir appeared carrying full water skins over to were the horses were tethered. Gently resting one hand on the woman's back to draw her attention, he passed her the skin that she then tied upon her horse. “Thank you,” she said quietly and Kaldir turned his attention to the dappled stallion beside her. Rauthain stood transfixed under the boughs of an alder tree, still and unblinking in the grey dawn. The woman, having finished attending to the horse, looked up and into the face of the timeworn ranger. He saw the surprise register swiftly on her fair features as she reached back to touch Kaldir’s sleeve. Emerging in an instant from among the horses, Kaldir advanced menacingly toward the ranger, unsheathing his heavy sword with one fluid gesture. Rauthain felt an unbidden surge of pride and approval at the quick response. Kaldir had not lost his keen reflexes, nor it appeared his memory of Rauthain, for his face was dark and brooding in recognition as he drew closer. Suddenly gone was the strong brow and high cheekbones of the proud well-formed ranger of Rauthain’s memory, and before him the visage of a man ill-used, his appearance as if made of mottled wax that had been let drip down his side of face unhindered by bone or beard. It was as if a well-crafted instrument had been crushed under foot, still bearing the prominent marks of perfection long spoiled. Rauthain’s hand moved instinctively to rest on the hilt of his sword. “Kaldir…” he uttered half to himself and half to the long years that separated them. “Long have I beheld your countenance in my mind’s eye and long have I thought you dead, your frame resting hidden in the dark passages under the Misty Mountains.” “Many of late have wished me dead to be sure, and many a dark day I too have longed for such relief. But there are some few who would have helped me when life was yet precious and yet did not. Some few in whom I placed my trust and who failed me in great need. And one who knew of my peril and yet turned away.” “I am that one, and own it utterly and more beside, but it was folly, a madness that overtook you that fateful day, and I misjudged sorely your circumstances.” “Madness to catch Cidreth’s assassin?” Kaldir questioned, a fierce light flickering in his eyes. “For I slew the orc that dared bring him down and many more beside, before I thought my time had come, all the while expecting you to round the corner to help tip the scale in my favor. I would that you were mad enough to find me that day or even the next week or year. But I had been cut off, forgotten. I was dead, buried alive beyond remembrance in the pits of Mordor.” Rauthain struggled to quell his raging mind. “But we had detailed reports of your demise…” he said as if to himself, and remembering Hanasian and Dúlrain he leveled his gaze at Kaldir and spoke firmly and distinctly so that Kaldir might not mistake his words. “I must bear all blame and no other, for I had great confidence in your abilities and counseled Elendir to move on, unaware of your ordeal. For this I am grievously troubled, though I can not presume to make amends.” Then lowering himself down on one knee, Rauthain touched Kaldir’s boot bringing his fingertips to his lips in a sign of respect and submission, while ever conscious Kaldir’s gleaming sword close by his shoulder. This man does not speak as one held subject to the will of another, he thought as he rose again, but as one fully wronged. Still Rauthain would not allow that he be fooled through the weakness of his own conscience, and looked with a critical eye for some sure token of the man’s relationship to his tormentor. “I too am seeking Naiore,” he said softly, “in the memory of the one I failed.” [ November 24, 2003: Message edited by: Hilde Bracegirdle ]