The Exile's Daughter

Dark Tidings

It seemed to me that a long time had passed before I regained consciousness, but I didn't immediately open my eyes. The ground I lay on was damp and cool, and the cold air bit at my exposed hands and face as a chill wind blew in from the east. I could hear a mix of unfamiliar voices surrounding me and I tensed, wondering if they would hurt me.  

"Elf maids are usually taller aren't they, my lord?" commented an unfamiliar, juvenile voice from somewhere above me.

"Yes, I was pondering that". An older, deeper, voice had joined the conversation. "She is underfed too."

"That's an understatement." The other voice gave a sad little chuckle. "My da said all he wants to do is feed the poor thing".

"He is not the only one. Still, Aragorn and Legolas have done all they can."

"Aye, they've kept her alive anyway. Hard enough out here at this time of year." The deep sigh of the youth made me shiver, somehow. I wrenched my eyes open and sat up, scrambling away from the people sitting beside me without even looking to see who they were.

"Find Legolas or your Chieftain. I think she needs to see a familiar face", said the lighter voice calmly next to me. 

"I will, my lord." A pair of footsteps stumped away.

I looked around me. We sat on the lower edge of a small encampment. Fires had been lit all around the camp, around which elves and men sat, speaking in low voices. The occasional light laugh floated over the winter winds, often accompanied by a lower chuckle from the mortals around us. I guessed the men must be Dúnedain rangers. Their skills in battle were precise and their weathered faces looked almost carven from stone. Compared to these steely-faced men, the ones who had attacked my family looked barely more than boys. They were all tall, bearded and seemed, like Aragorn, to be grim company. However, one caught my eye and gave me a small but kind smile. He looked barely old enough to fight alongside these doughty men, with red hair falling in waves to his shoulders and only a faint smattering of stubble on his pale face. Assuming he was the youth I had heard talking before I opened my eyes, I returned his gesture uncertainly.

After a few seconds I looked up shyly, meeting the eyes of an elf, tall, slender and fair in golden armour and a cloak of the same colour. His face was neither young nor old, and his dark hair was braided away from it. On his head was a simple circlet like entwined branches in an ancient tree. He had a proud, clever look about him. Reason told me that I was not in danger here, but my body did not seem to catch up with my mind. My breathing was unsteady and my hands shaking.

"It's alright", the elf said calmly, "you are safe among our company. None here with me will lay a hand on you save by your leave only".

"Who are you?" I asked quietly, gazing at the elf.

"My name is Elrond. I am the Lord of Imladris, which is where your rescuers were heading when you were assailed by the orcs not long ago". 

"I am sorry for my fear, my Lord" I muttered, looking down at my shaking hands ashamedly.

"Do not apologise. Your friends tell me that you have been through unimaginable horrors. These things can affect our bodies and minds in ways over which we have no control." 

Turning my attention then to the elves, who far outnumbered the Dúnedain, I saw a mix of many different kindreds. Many were clearly of Noldorin descent; I felt in my heart as I looked upon them that they were kin. I recalled the tales of my father concerning Imladris. Elrond had created the stronghold in the Second Age, during the elves' war with the Enemy. When Eregion had been overrun, many elves of different kindreds sought refuge there. Any who fled from the Enemy, or resisted him, would always find welcome in Imladris.