[Ealasaide]

Benia

Benia had not spoken a word since Kaldir's tall figure had walked silently out of the camp above Rivendell, his eyes strangely vacant and a trickle of blood dripping from his nose. He had not looked at her then, though she had willed him to do so, hoping desperately to catch a glimpse of the man she knew still lingering within the depths of those pale blue eyes, but he had passed without even a glance. She had known then that he was dead, at least in his soul. Now, Barrold Ferny’s confirmation of the bounty hunter’s physical death at the end of a sword pained her, but she knew that it must be so. She mourned Kaldir bitterly, knowing that she had been the cause of his death. She hoped that the end had come quickly for him and without pain. He had suffered so much in his lifetime, it was the least she could hope for him. Silently, in her heart, she sang a Haradrim death lay, forgiving him any ills he had done her and asking his forgiveness for her part in his demise. When the time came, when she was free to mourn him properly, she promised herself that she would sing out to all of the four directions, to the all of the Guardians of the Winds, that they might see him home to the halls of his forefathers and give him the hero’s welcome that he so truly deserved. In the meantime...

Benia cast a wary glance over her shoulder at Ferny. They had been climbing higher and higher into the mountains for hours. The air had grown bitterly cold. The full moon floated above them, a glowing orb that lit their way like a distant lantern. Naiore, sure-footed and fleet as a tigress, led the way along a pathway that twisted and turned like an insidious argument, sometimes so narrow that it was difficult for even one to walk abreast, bounded on one side by barren stone and on the other by a sheer drop off of hundreds of feet. Other places were so steep that they had to climb, pulling themselves upward from stone shelf to stone shelf with their hands. Benia’s own hands had been unbound that she might have an easier time of it, but Ferny was never far behind, driving her onward and frustrating any hope she might have of escape. In the last hour or so, however, he had begun to lag. Naiore Dannan flew along like a shadow some twenty paces ahead of Benia on the narrow path, while Ferny dragged an equal distance behind her. At one point, Benia found herself alone, the elf having vanished around a bend ahead of her and the man not yet appeared from around another one at her rear. Benia paused and leaned out over the empty darkness.

Thinking of Kaldir, of her father, and of both men’s early deaths, she stared down into the silent abyss. A single step could end it all... a moment of weightlessness perhaps and then the nothingness of death. She would bring no more harm to those who sought to protect her. Her foot inched forward.

Just then, the whistle that Dúlrain had given to Kaldir back in Bree, that she had stolen in the Lonelands and still wore on a thong of soft leather around her neck, slipped free of her bosom and swung loosely in the space between her and the beckoning darkness below. Instinctively, she reached out a tattooed hand and closed the beautifully carved wood in her fist. “Dúlrain,” she whispered. “What of you? Do you know the fate of your brother? How I pray you lie safe in your bed in the hall of healing, that you do not follow me on this desperate trek.” Raising the whistle to her lips, she kissed the smooth wood.

“Be safe, my love,” she sighed and slid the artifact back into the neckline of her dress. “I would sooner die than lead you to an early death, as I have led your brother and nearly led you once before when you sought to come to my aid. Be safe now. Heal thy wounds and forget about Benia Nightshade, though she loved you like life itself...”

“What are you natterin’ on about?” A rough grip closed around her arm and jerked her back from the abyss. Ferny. “Get movin’, lovey, afore I pitch ya over the edge m’self.”

A light shove forward along the treacherously narrow path and Benia began to walk again, grateful that she was used to walking for miles. She had no desire to find out what Ferny and the elf would do to her if she faltered, fearing that it might be something far worse than merely pitching her off the path into the unknown night. Lowering her head, she moved resolutely and silently forward. Naiore waited on a wide rock shelf just on the far side of the jutting bend in the cliff. She had been joined by a scouting party of twelve large orcs, all of them heavily armed with pikes and scimitars. Benia’s heart fluttered with fear.

“Barrold!” exclaimed Naiore, turning toward them with a serene, almost happy smile, her silvery gray eyes shining in the moonlight. “You join us at last. This is Ashnik the Masher. He and his party have been out on patrol for many days now and are looking for a bit of man flesh to fill their empty bellies. Do you know where they might find some?”

All twelve orcs turned toward him, eying him as a band of butchers might eye a fat cow. Barrold Ferny cleared his throat and fell back a step, his fingers tightening nervously around Benia’s upper arm.

Seeing that she had made her point that Ferny should not dawdle if he valued his life, Naiore turned back toward the orcs and addressed them in a harsh tongue that Benia did not recognize. There was a short discussion between Naiore and the one called Ashnik and some muffled quarreling amongst the orcs themselves, then the orcs abruptly moved forward as a group, pushing past Benia and Ferny, to take the path that the three had of them had arrived by. As soon as the orcs had vanished around the sharp bend, Naiore slid her pack from her shoulders.

“We will stop here,” she said calmly. “But only for a few hours. Ashnik and his group have gone in search of our pursuers, but we must not take their success for granted. We move on with the sunrise.”

Ferny nodded and slid his pack from his shoulders as well, taking a moment to bind Benia tightly around the wrists and ankles. Within moments, he lay on his side, snoring loudly, with Benia pinned strategically between himself and the stone face of the cliff.

“Wouldn’t want ya to be thinkin’ ya might try to fly now, would we, little bird?” he had muttered to her as he had pushed her to the ground. Now, as he lay snoring into her ear, one arm thrown heavily across her shoulders, Benia found herself, though exhausted, unable to find the soft refuge of sleep. Instead, she lay on the stony ground and stared upward into the cold face of the moon, grieving for Kaldir, and hoping that Dúlrain had remained in Rivendell where he would be safe and well cared for until his wounds were fully healed. And Gilly...

Benia sighed. “Gilly,” she murmured in a whisper that was barely more than a soft breath against the harsh breeze that lashed the shelf where they rested. “May you be with him in Rivendell and safe...”