Can You Not Hear It Calling?

They travelled the road for three days, sleeping under hedgerows and cruel skies, leaving behind everything Elen had ever known with every step. She barely registered her new reality, the world now an illusion edged with crimson, making her want to claw out the memory of her mother's scream from the inside of her skull. Gandalf let her be, only concentrating on staying ahead of the Nazgûl, a task easier said than done, their deadly desperation to discover the Ring greatly alarming him, their fervency in following mere threads only emphasizing it.

It was on the third night that Elen finally spoke for the first time, making Gandalf glance up sharply from the fire he'd been warming his wrinkled hands at, the two of them camping out in a clearing after spending the day begging in a nearby town, disguising themselves as a destitute grandfather and grand-daughter on their way to the West.

"You are Istar," she said, almost hissing the syllables like a snake, her face unearthly in the flickering firelight.

"You remember me, then?" Gandalf said hesitatingly.

"You brought me a wooden sword once," Elen said, raising her grey gaze to his, "and swung me round in circles to make me laugh. Are you my father?"

"No," Gandalf said bluntly, "nor am I one of your mother's... benefactors."

"Then who are you?"

Gandalf studied her for a long moment, knowing she wasn't asking for another name to add to the ones she already knew, but what his intentions were. "I am a friend," he said slowly, reaching for her hand, only to drop it to his side when she turned away from him.

Several long moments of silence passed, only broken by the harsh crackle of the fire, its embers burning low. Gandalf leaned back, studying Elen's imperfect profile, seeing only echoes of her elvish lineage in her features, the sweeping ebony arch of her eyebrows and her wide-set eyes that changed like the sky, stormy grey one moment, then bitterly blue the next. There was too much of her harsh human heritage present, coarsening the curve of her lips, the bones of her face pinched, lending her a half-starved look, being tall and leanly built, moving with a broken grace that caught at Gandalf's old heart, reminding him of Naevys when he first knew her. But for all these flaws, her skin was as pale as moonlight, with hair dark as midnight, tumbling to her waist in a tangled mane, and he suddenly realised with some surprise she wasn't the young girl he supposed her to be, having lost track of time during his long wanderings.

She was tall and leanly built, moving with a broken grace that caught at Gandalf's old heart, reminding him of Naevys when he first knew her. Her skin was as pale as moonlight, hair dark as midnight, tumbling to her waist in a tangled mane, and he realised with some surprise she wasn't the young girl he supposed her to be, having lost track of time during his long wanderings.

"How many winters have you endured?" he asked abruptly, his bushy eyebrows drawing together in almost consternation.

"Almost twenty," she said bitterly, startling him.

"But I thought you were a whelp!?" he exclaimed. "Your mother made out as much!"

Elen flinched at the mention of her mother, her heart further fracturing in her chest. "It was to protect me," she choked out, "she – she was getting old and ill - the men she brought back, they would have preferred me instead of her, willing or not. They had the money to pay" -

- "So she lied," Gandalf said, cutting across her, revulsion rising in him, "I understand."

"You may understand, but I do not," Elen flared up, face suddenly feral in the firelight. "What happened back there? Who were they who murdered my mother?"

Gandalf stared into the flames, remembering that night against his will, how he'd secretly followed Naevys home but too late, the Nazgûl, attacking out of nowhere, catching him uncharacteristically off-guard. He had fought fiercely for Naevys, only to have his own existence almost ended, being beaten back, only to see Elen escaping the burning house, following her into the woods instead, the Nazgûl nearly on top of them as they fled.

"You will speak, damn you!" Elen exploded, stamping her bare foot. "Tell me!"

"You know what you are, don't you?" Gandalf said uneasily, drawing out his pipe. "Who... you are."

Elen nodded, lips curling downwards with disgust. "It is of no matter to me," she said, half turning away from him, "it does not fill my belly nor put a roof over my head. But it mattered to my mother; it... it was all she spoke of."

"She wanted to win it back for you," Gandalf said, exhaling sharply, "to restore you to your birthright. But it is and was an impossible feat, one she refused to accept was so, and she told even more impossible lies to secure support from even greater fools than she. She said she had the Ring in her possession so... they came."

Elen stared at him, remembering whispered stories of the Ring and those who sought it, giving her nightmares of black cloaks flapping like crow's wings and the deadly drumbeat of horse's hooves in the darkness.

"They are growing ever more desperate to discover the whereabouts of the Ring," Gandalf said agitatedly, passing his pipe between his worn hands, "enough to hunt down those who make empty boasts of owning it, even as they know it to be untrue."

Elen turned away from him again, not wanting to hear anymore, that her mother had died on the premise of a petty lie, of drunken cunning that had held no conviction.

"That is why I have been away for so long," Gandalf said, bowing his head, "I too have been searching for the Ring. Sauron..." He gazed at the ground, jaw tightening. "War is coming, child," he said slowly, raising his head, blue eyes becoming distant, "can you not hear it calling?"

I hear hurricanes a'blowing
I know the end is coming soon
I fear rivers overflowing
I hear the voice of rage and ruin...