A Rather Chaotic Revision of The Fellowship

~Sixteen~

The trees in Endórë are strange, sad, thought Nessa as she staggered about. They weep and cry, mostly for their peers, whom have been cut down and slain thoughtlessly. They had changed little since she last came here.

Dead, brown, sorrowful leaves crumbled with each step of the Vala as she let her feet dance across the forest floor. Dead. That might as well describe her, now. She was as good as that.

Nessa could not finish this thought. At once and with little warning, she shrieked as her body seized and contorted with pain, burning pain. It was like a hundred white-hot, rusty spears biting through her heart, it was the blackness planted inside her by them. Her feet, trembling, scratched, bare, buckled and then broke, rendering her collapsed upon the fallen leaves. She couldn't breath, couldn't think --

Then, what little she could see became darkness.

~

Caranthir and Olórin kept their pace slow, eyes flashing after every moment to the sword Glamdring. They had it half out of its sheath constantly, watching that blue glow. It had been like that for a day, faint and dim, but all the more present.

"It could just be from ones from elsewhere, possibly underground. I've seen some cases like this," Caranthir muttered. This, of course, was hardly a better possibility. "You said something happened that was . . . like that with the dwarves sixty years ago."

"Not Caradhras," said Olórin. "The only 'tunnel' here is . . ." He stopped in his trail, sighing.

Moria. Caranthir's grip on his blade tightened. "Yes." Some sarcastic part of his mind pressed to point out how Moria was an entire subterranean kingdom, not a 'tunnel,' and he bit the inside of his cheeks, which were probably flushed bright red from this infernal cold. At least the surrounding company hated him too much to bother teasing.

The Noldo huffed and kept going. He stood, in fact, a good several inches higher than the rest of the company, feet falling smoothly over the tops of the snow. Of course, there was Legolas, but the Sinda was short either way. Caranthir nearly snorted when he saw his shoes: merely two flimsy, weak leather slippers one could have easily bought off a street vendor. Anyone would think he was a villager or peasant. (What place did he have, anyway, giddily joining this mission on a moment's notice? Even Glorfindel would have been better.)

Flecks of snow, blown into a whirling haze by the wind, glanced and stung at Caranthir's face. He brushed some away with a hand, not paying much thought towards the action. In truth, he didn't mind the freeze. Summer and the unceasing warmth it brought was, to him, uninteresting; the same, dull, mesh of greens and browns put a haze over his eyes. And only fools were afraid of staying inside on winter days -- a change from the warmth was what made it all worthwhile. Anything better than that giddy green. That, along with other things, seemed to once (once, he repeated in his head) have been the start of multiple clashes with his brothers -- namely the Ambarussa. Pityo had loved the spring, and its warmth; watching nature reemerge after a harrowing freeze, and even more rejoicing over the return of whatever wildlife that dwelled there. Caranthir had pointed this out as being quite hypocritical, seeing that Pityo enjoyed a hobby of hunting.

Pityo. It should have been him. Out of all of them, Pityo tried to repent, tried to turn back, steal a boat and return. But what did that earn him?

Caranthir shook himself and tried not to falter. It was pathetic to think his thoughts had gone so wrong, over some sad falling snowflakes.

The snow was growing harsh, vastly different from the light swirl from but an hour ago. In time, Caranthir and Gandalf were the only ones keeping pace; especially in comparison to the hobbits, lagging behind fretfully.