The past is already written.
The ink is dry.
But the future remains unset and the Valar have begun to sing a song anew.
Gondor is a kingless state falling into ruin against the Shadow of Mordor. Doomed to fail and forsaken by Men and...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
THE ten travelers stopped in what men now called Hollin, near Khazad-dûm, to make camp and rest from the long days that had passed. Gimli had been entertaining them all as of late with tales from Moria and of Balin, his cousin who sought to take back the great dwarven kingdom after the reclamation of Erebor. It was his hope that the Fellowship would go to Dwarrowdelf to receive a warm welcome and a good bit of rest before setting out again, and while the premise sounded lovely, Gandalf urged against taking that path.
Sam nursed a small fire, above which a pot of water boiled for stew. Aragorn and Aeardis sat next to one another watching with attentive gaze and broadening smiles as Boromir instructed both Merry and Pippin in the art of sword fighting. It was Pippin's turn again, the small hobbit stood steadfast with his Barrow-blade, parrying each of Boromir's attacks, sometimes more successfully than others. "Get away from the blade, Pippin," the Steward-Prince instructed between blows, "...on your toes...good, very good...I want you to react, not think," he admonished.
"Should not be too hard," Sam quipped, just loud enough that Aeardis and perhaps Frodo could hear. She chuckled and looked over her shoulder at the stout hobbit with a bright and cheery smile. "Move your feet," Aragorn reprimanded, and that drew her attention back to the lesson at hand.
"Quite good, Pippin," Merry complimented, lifting up his own small sword in preparation for his next turn. "Thanks," Pippin replied slightly out of breath and so the clacking and ringing of steel swords filled the air once more.
Either Boromir's sword slipped or he momentarily had forgotten the inexperience of his sparring partners because Pippin threw his sword down, holding his hand that now bore a small cut, nothing worth fretting over. Aeardis furrowed her brows and stood but the Steward-Prince stepped closer to the injured hobbit, apologizing. The young hobbit suddenly kicked Boromir in the shin and Merry raced forward, "Get him!" Both hobbits lunged toward the Gondorian and wrestled him to the ground, but the esteemed warrior was grinning and returning the churlish antics in full. Aragorn and Aeardis both exchanged amused looks, laughing at their gleeful display. "For the Shire! Hold him down! Hold him down, Merry!"
Aragorn sighed and stood, "Gentlemen, that's enough." But Merry and Pippin took hold of the Rangers legs and threw him backward onto the ground. The laughter died when Sam stood, his eyes trained on the sky where a dark cloud was just visible. "What is that?" he asked and both Aragorn and Boromir stood from their scuffling.
"It's moving fast," Boromir stated, it took but another moment before Aeardis realized that it was moving against the wind too. "Crebain! From Dunland! Legolas announced and then the Fellowship was scrambling to put out the fire and take cover beneath the shrubs and rocks. Aeardis raced to slide beneath the low shrubs and bushes, but her foot caught on an upturned root. She landed on top of Boromir with a dull thud and buried her face in the crook of his neck when the black birds began crowing. An awful, shrieking sound that was so unlike the songbirds of Minas Tirith.
