Chapter 8
Ára rode on her mare silently as she and Mithrandír passed the last borders of Imladris and onto the East-West road. She knew their route by heart already, and though it was not a short distance— nearly four hundred miles in total— it was should be relatively a simple journey to the Shire.
They would pass the southern border of the Trollshaws in Rhudaur to cross of the Last Bridge, about one hundred and forty-five miles in total, before continuing on the road just south past Amon Sûl, the southern-most part of the Weather Hills. She knew that was a favored place to make camp for a night of rest and allow their horses to graze as well, though she dearly hoped they did not camp in the Trollshaws at all before they made it to Amon Sûl.
The road continued westwards south of the Midgewater swamp—thankfully they did not plan to pass through the murky, bug-infested area itself— to the southern border of the Chetwood into Bree where they would stay at an inn for the night to rest, bathe, and enjoy a hot meal—probably the Prancing Pony, if Ára had to take a guess. Ára could make do with cleaning and freshening charms, though she was unsure if the wizard could too, but she would not deny herself the chance for a bath after days on the road if the opportunity arose.
From there they would take the northern route and skirt the top edges of the Barrow-Downs, which Ára was only slightly nervous about as she remembered those darkly cursed and strangely bound spirits which resided there, and could be dangerous if roused from their slumber.
They would stay on the road to pass the northern borders of the Old Forrest before crossing the Baranduin River and the eastern border of the Shire for they were bound for the central hub of Hobbit civilization which was aptly named Hobbiton. It was a lovely, peaceful countryside with richly green, rolling hills—encircled by the White Downs in the north, the Tower Hills to the east, and the Far Downs in the south.
That first night they made camp just off the road between the southern borders of the Trollshaws after riding only about forty miles. Their horses would be pushed hard the next two days so they could cross the ancient stone bridge over the Mitheithel, and Ára couldn’t say she was unhappy about that.
Rhudaur was a dreary, hilly country, and even after so long of standing empty the echo of a shadowy malice lingered still, no doubt infected by the long years Angmar had occupied the area. Ára had never felt quite at ease traveling through it, and she tended to stay on the East-West road as much as possible when traveling through alone. It seemed her fellow Maia held a similar opinion.
So, while Ára was sure they were quite safe— there was little she thought which could challenge two Maiar, even if one’s power was bound tightly—she raised wards of protection and concealment as much as from habit as anything before finally settling down next to the small fire Mithrandír had coaxed into burning.
“So,” she began as her companion removed a pipe from dark grey robes, “tell me now more of your purpose for gathering dwarves in Hobbiton, Mithrandír. I admit that I am dreadfully curious.”
The wizard sighed as he finished filling his pipe. “This tale begins with the sacking of Erebor by the dragon nearly two centuries past which eventually led to the great War of the Dwarves and Orcs.” He brought his pipe to his mouth, lit it with a murmured word, and inhaled a long breath before blowing out an unshaped ring of smoke.
“Yes, I remember that time quite well. Elrond’s sons have told me how they would have joined in the slaying of so many orcs, were it not for the great enmity between dwarves and elves.”
He chuckled, tendrils of smoke escaping from around the pipe held between his lips. “Yes, well, after that war, during his exile, Thráin was captured in 2845, his companions believed he’d just disappeared, and sometimes they blamed the elves of Mirkwood for this, as it was under the eaves of that forest from which King Thráin vanished.
“Five years later, I went to scout out Dol Guldur, for the darkness infesting the tower and surrounding wood was great, and there I found a captured dwarf. He was mad, could not even recall his own name, but by what little will he had left to him—for he knew he would soon die—he bade me take two items and hold them for safe-keeping. And those items I have kept in secret, not knowing to whom or when they should be made use of until recently.”
Ára thought over his tale. There was much happenstance here, too much in truth, for this to be anything less than Inspired. But she left that thought unsaid for now instead saying, “You did not know it was Thráin when you found him in that dark place. How did you come to put the pieces of the puzzle together?”
“Near Bree, recently, I met his son.” The wizard blew out a large plume of smoke then and it took again the shape of the same key it had whilst they were in Imladris. “Thorin Oakenshield.”
Ára had to close her eyes against her sudden revelation as she finally put the pieces together. The key in his smoke, the mountain she’d seen shaped within it which had caused her dread, there was only one conclusion she could come to—though she could not fathom the involvement of the wizard’s hobbit friend. “You mean to have them retake the mountain,” she said flatly as she opened her eyes and pinned the Istar with a hard stare.
He nodded. “Yes, something tells me this quest is necessary, a step in the direction towards the completion of my task, and deciding the fate of Middle-Earth in this Age.”
Ára’s eyes fell shut once more, and counted her breaths as her mind spun with the implications of his simple statement, heavy though it was. Though she was loathe to admit it, her intuition told her he was correct, and this was a path which must be taken, even if she still did not understand why. It was fraught with danger, much to do with the dragon sleeping in Erebor.
“While I cannot say I like this idea much, my senses tell me that your finding the map and key was an important turn of fate, and this quest you will no doubt fully convince the dwarves and your hobbit friend to take on shall trigger another.” She slowly exhaled whilst she eyed the wizard shrewdly. “Your workings, strange though they be to others, have a way of furthering events of fate. Your Doom seems to me the opposite of another, higher Power’s.” She paused, tilting her head as the shadow of a thought flickered in her mind, though she was unable to grasp it fully. “You do know there will be much opposition against to you and the dwarves, yes? For while this seems to me the hand of fate working towards a greater goal, there is much risk of failure. And the risk of waking the dragon within the mountain.”
“The dragon is partly why I am convinced of the need of Bilbo,” he admitted, forlorn as more smoke wafted from his lips. “For if he does not accompany them, I fear that far more important events will not come to pass. Though what those might be I know not.”
Ára brought her hands to her face and rubbed at her eyes, suddenly very tired. “I detest foresight and prophecy,” she muttered. “And though I am not foresighted, my intuition may be just as, if not stronger, only lacking visions. Prophecy…well, I suppose I was always doomed to be involved with prophecy, even if I have rarely uttered a genuine prophecy myself.” She groaned then, looking at the wizard through narrowed eyes. “Glad as I am to no longer be hiding my presence from you, I think our meeting now shall spell further trouble for me, Mithrandír.”
He chuckled, and in the firelight, his pale, blue eyes glinted with amusement as his lips quirked upward around the pipe hanging from his mouth. “I fear my doom in Middle-Earth is to always walk beside trouble and bring it to others.”
After that, they fell silent for a time before laying down to rest. Ára couldn’t help but shake the feeling that worse was coming, and she would no longer be on the sidelines when the shadows grew and fell upon the world. She could only have faith in the small light of hope she saw at the end of the great coming darkness.
Not quite ten days later, Ára and Mithrandír had nearly reached Bree when they’d decided to take a rest. Or, at least Ára had convinced her fellow Maia she wanted to relax before subjecting herself to the many minds of Men which would soon be pushing at the barriers to her own (They could be quite loud sometimes, and she had nearly forgotten in that in the past years she’d been in Imladris). She dearly needed to meditate before encountering others.
They’d had very little trouble throughout their journey so far. Only once had there been a situation which might have turned sour, and though due to her actions to avert trouble the Istar had been eyeing her strangely since, Ára was glad the incident had turned out as well as it did.
After they had broken camp at Amon Sûl and ridden most of that day, a company of men ten-strong had come upon them from the east and demanded their horses and goods. Instead of fighting, Ára had woven a strong spell of compulsion around them while Mithrandír attempted to talk them down. So strong had the compulsion ended up being in the end that the men left them cheerily, acting as drunk and befuddled as if they had spent the last several days deep in their cups.
Mithrandír hadn’t said anything, but the raised brow and mild question, “did it have to be quite so strong?” was telling enough. Ára might have minded, centuries ago or in another life, but she’d been accosted by less and did not have the patience for men who could not mind their own business any longer.
She’d only told the wizard that she could have happily done much worse and had left it at that. What she had seen in their minds had sent shivers down her spine, and it was only due to long centuries of practice that her control over her power hadn’t slipped at all. Maia she may have been for many lifetimes longer than not, but she still remembered being a young girl from a world far away and human once. Mithrandír might not understand, clad in the body of an old man as he was, but Ára looked like a young woman—even if she had dimmed her light and beauty some in preparation for walking amongst Men and meeting the dwarves—and she was well aware of what transpired all too often within the minds of some men.
She hadn’t tried to explain either, as she was unsure that Maia who’d never had a human mind could comprehend. Sure, he might share her revulsion to some of those men’s thoughts, but he probably would not understand the fear in her. To one with Power such as they could wield, the men had truly posed little threat, but not all fear is rational.
For how does one explain the differences of minds and instincts between a fox and a deer to one who is neither?
So it was that both Ára and Mithrandír both made camp in the late afternoon, the sun still shining in the sky, and allowed their horses to wander and graze. They’d pulled quite far off the road, near the South-Downs, and found a small freshwater pond. It was actually quite pleasantly scenic.
Ára took the afternoon to meditate as she hadn’t in days.
Communing with the Song was something she’d had a difficult time with in the beginning of her sojourn in Middle-Earth. She had never been a particularly patient individual—some inherited reckless drive she figured was intrinsic to Potters, and her grandfather Potter had been given a very large dose of it, which he’d passed down. In fact, Ára had only managed to learn occlumency so young, where her grandfather had failed, due to her incredible amount of stubborn determination to best her cousin’s vast talent with the art, and then the war of her generation had happened.
So, it had taken years of work through many toils, dangers, and quite a few frightening losses of control before she’d managed to begin to get the hang of proper Maiar meditation, and she had only managed that with assistance from the oldest—and decidedly strangest—being who dwelled in Middle-Earth. Ára figured that Iarwain-Ben-Adar was in fact so very strange due to his extremely strong connection with the Song.
He was jolly, yes that much was true, and Ára had heard Gildor’s complaints often enough about the Eldest’s eccentricities, but Ára had known a very different side to the being who often sang such bizarre songs. He could be quite serious when the situation called for it, and Ára had never once known someone more patient nor anyone better suited to teaching as Iarwain-Ben-Adar.
The Song-filled being had quickly grown to become something of a favored uncle or older cousin to Ára, and she despaired of anyone who commented about him negatively in ignorance.
He was also very fond of cryptic riddles, and possibly the only person Ára would or could tolerate such from. When Ára had first admitted to him her displeasure with the Judge of the Dead, Iarwain-Ben-Adar had eyed her with such a sharp, knowing gaze that she’d felt as a small child being chastised for doubting her father’s love. She’d never really had the chance to feel that way before, as her own father had died relatively young for wizard-kind when Ára had been a small child. Albus Severus Potter-Black’s death had been a huge blow to the family, but at six years old, it was difficult to understand anything more than the fact that her father wasn’t coming home from work.
So being told by the Eldest that a father may both love his child while also making choices which would cause pain for a short time had thrown her for a loop. It still did, whenever she thought about it—not that she did often anymore. She’d told Iarwain-Ben-Adar that she didn’t understand what he was trying to say at all and when he’d only laughed and told her she probably wouldn’t until she’d had her own children, well, she’d nearly stomped off just like a child throwing a tantrum. His louder laughter at her response only seemed funny now, though she still didn’t understand him.
But slowly he’d given her the tools she’d needed in order to properly commune with the Song, to sink into its embrace and Hear the Music. She’d had such a hard time before understanding it was best to simply let her thoughts roam while gradually closing out the distractions of the physical world which would allow her to gradually sink into the realm in which the Song sounded best, until at last she was in communion and could Hear the Song.
Often, she was allowed to see visions of places in the past, other times she simply existed within the Music and would have some insight of intuition fall upon her after rejoining the physical realm.
Such occurred when she finally opened her eyes and realized that several hours had passed since she and Mithrandír had halted their journey for the day. The sun had long since set, and the stars of Varda were shining brightly in the night sky. Mithrandír was seated on a log smoking his pipe by a fire, and their horses were within sight, sleeping.
When Mithrandír noticed her awaken from her deep reflection, he smiled kindly around the device which hung limply from his lips and his eyes were bright and knowing.
“You are not used to long stretches of time without deep reflection, even after all this time spent in Endor,” and it was a statement of fact and not a question.
Ára stretched her arms above her head and rolled her neck, but remained seated on the grass below. “No. I find the longer I spend on these shores, the more I value my meditations.” She paused, tilting her head for a moment in consideration. “Or, perhaps, the more I require such. But I always find value in doing so, and today has been no different.”
He raised a brow. “Oh?”
“Yes, I do not believe I will be making the entire journey with you, friend. I know I must go to this hobbit, Bilbo Baggins’ home with you, even if that means I must suffer the dwarves and endure whatever mischief occurs during their meeting, but ultimately this is your quest to lead. I think I am simply to be an…observer. Someone in the know, and yet I also feel I will see you again before this quest is complete.”
“Well, that is good then. I admit, I was surprised by your insistence in joining me on this endeavor. And I will thank you now for not attempting to stop me as I know others would and will. I only ask you not speak of my purpose in rousing the company for the quest until it becomes inevitable that it is known.”
Ára smiled gently. “I will hold to my word. Neither Elrond nor anyone else shall hear of this from me. Not, at least, until you see fit to inform him.” Her smile turned wry as she added, “I imagine he shall be quite cross with me when he discovers I knew what you set out to do and gave no warning.”
Both joined together in laughter at Ára’s prophetic statement, for both understood Elrond to a degree and knew it to be true. Ára allowed herself to feel the merriment for a bit before she took a breath and she sobered.
Eyes intent on the wizard’s wise visage, she spoke again with a slightly echoing voice, “The hand of Fate is heavily at work here, Olórin.” Her words sobered the Istar and he regarded her with wary intent. “I sense a victorious end, though marred with loss, and I feel as if a heavy darkness shall rise setting into motion the events of the doom of this Age.”
The grey-clad wizard’s eyes widened and his mouth went slack causing his pipe to nearly fall from his mouth, though it hung there as if suspended by some magic. He inhaled deeply before letting slowly letting out a long breath bereft of smoke.
“That is a heavy prophecy, my Lady,” he said gravely with lidded eyes. “I see now the truth of your appointment, oh Herald of the Doomsman.”
Ára closed her eyes and hung her head for a moment before she shrank in on herself, suddenly weary. “I have never cared for prophecy. And it has been rare that I have uttered so despite my long years here,” she breathed out shortly through her nose before her heavy gaze found his once more. “That said, I feel as if I shall soon become known for giving grave and heavy tidings.”
Looking to the stars above, Ára thought about prophecy and dreams. She thought about her life before Middle-Earth, and that of it within the world she now resided. She had never cared for prophecy, that was true, but it had been part of her life since before she was born. She was truly a legacy of prophecy, and the thought both terrified and comforted her.
…..Meanwhile, in the house of Elrond Peredhel…