The Shadow Walker

66. And, I Thought You Were Dead?

We set out again the next day at first light. I was intensely sore from all the riding yesterday, and mounting Arod again today was torture.

Legolas didn't say anything. He didn't say anything last night, either. He was furious at me for some reason, and too gentleellonly to express it. His expression remained a perfect mask of neutrality, and I hated it.

I considered taking my complaints to Faèola, since she struck me as the motherly type. But that would involve getting Legolas to let me down off Arod, and besides, Faèola kept busy taking care of all the villagers. I got the feeling she was the unofficial village leader.

So between my stupid ribs throbbing with every step that stupid horse took, and the stupid saddle rubbing against my stupid legs with that stupidly hot elf sitting behind me...I lasted until about noon before I exploded with frustration.

"Why are you mad at me?"

"I'm not mad at you."

"Well I think you are," I quipped back. "Why else won't you talk to me?"

"Maybe I have nothing to say."

"I'll bet you have a lot to say."

"Perhaps, but not to you."

"To who then?" I yelled. "My mother?"

Legolas tensed and didn't respond. He didn't say anything else for the remainder of the ride.

So when Edoras came into view—just a bunch of wooden houses built onto a sharp, rocky hill with a fence surrounding it—I breathed a sigh of relief. Large mounds lined the path on either side, dotted with tiny white flowers. And standing before one of these mounds was a man wearing a crown...and a tall figure dressed in all white, carrying a white staff.

I tensed. "Saruman?" I whispered.

Legolas gave a sharp gasp. "Mithrandir!"

"What?" I cried. "Lemme down!"

Legolas dismounted and gently pulled me from the saddle. Holding my stinging ribs, I stumbled to Gandalf the Gray as quickly as I could. Only...he wasn't so gray anymore. I didn't care, and I threw my arms around him the moment I reached him.

"Gandalf! You stupid old wizard, you're supposed to be dead!" I wailed, too happy that he wasn't to be angry.

He chuckled, his deep voice ever soothing, and he placed a gentle hand on my head. "My dear Amariel." A pause. "I see you are well, Legolas." I scoffed. Well isn't the word I'd use to describe Legolas and his latest sulking session. Gandalf patted my head—somehow I interpreted the gesture as shut up—and he added, "I see Boromir is still with us, as well. Good."

"Gandalf," the other Man interjected.

I pulled back and eyed him. Comfortably middle-aged with shoulder-length blond hair, he held an air of authority despite his red eyes and moist cheeks.

He met my gaze for a moment, then continued to address Gandalf. "I would seek your council regarding this exodus. You, and your companions."

"Of course," Gandalf said. "Amariel, Legolas, Boromir—come."

"Mithrandir," Legolas cut in sharply. "Boromir has no place in such a council. He has lost all honor."

A frown deepened the lines in Gandalf's face as he shifted his gaze to Boromir. "Is this true?"

Boromir lowered his gaze. "It is true," he murmured meekly.

"Gandalf," The other Man said, frowning. "A Gondorian, I would accept in my halls; our alliance hangs by a thread, but I would not disregard it for an honorable man. But I do not wish any dishonorable being in my council."