Into The Shadows

Three weeks later

"Here," Gandalf said, throwing a heap of filthy fabric at Elen, who caught it with confused hands.

"What is this?" she said, bewildered, shaking it out, only to reveal a gown, its dark billowing swathes reminding Elen of a shroud.

"It is the beginning of the next chapter of your pitiful existence, child."

"You stole this from a washing line, didn't you?" Elen said dully, crumpling the gown back into a ball.

"The last town we passed through to be precise," Gandalf said, looking awkward for an aeon or two, Elen glancing curiously at him, wondering exactly how old he was, something in his stare searing the edges of her soul during the rare times when he looked at her properly, instead of his usual carefully careless glances.

"Where are we now?" Elen asked, not caring, each vista verging into one, indistinguishable from the other. They had been travelling for three weeks now, still disguised as a destitute grandfather and grand-daughter, changing their name from town to town, not that there was anybody who cared enough to ask who they were.

"Bree," Gandalf said, glancing around him, always on the alert. "I have friends here. You will be safe."

"You are leaving me?" Elen said, panic paralysing her, finally grasping what the gown signified.

"For the time being," Gandalf said, bowing his head, avoiding her eyes, "I have other tasks that require my attention." As in finding the Ring before they did, he silently added to himself, dryly wondering if he could bear the weight of such a burden, knowing he had no other option but to do so.

Elen just stood there, staring at him, her eyes wild and wide. "You cannot leave me," she said wildly, grabbing his arm. "You must not."

"I must, child."

~*~

Elen pressed her palms against the mullioned glass, Gandalf fading like a ghost from her sight, his cloak swirling around his ankles. He had brought her to The Prancing Pony, an inn in Bree, Gandalf on friendly terms with its proprietor, Barliman Butterbur, or Barley he was universally known as, an unkempt individual with a wild beard and a vague expression in his eyes.

It was over a tankard of ale that Gandalf had talked Barley into hiring Elen as a serving maid, passing her off as the offspring of an old friend who'd died in his cups, leaving her in his charge, an unfortunate responsibility he would like to be rid of, Elen as equally eager to make her own way in the world. As he'd talked, Barley nodding almost absentmindedly at appropriate intervals, Elen had just sat there, clad in the voluminous gown Gandalf had given her, her face clean for once, black hair braided back.

"Ann," Barley boomed, gesturing for her to come forth.

"My name is Nan," Elen flared up, turning around, her new name sitting ill on her lips.

"Come here, child," Barley said, her words passing right over his head, "and sup with us." He patted the bench beside him, Bob and Nob nodding at her, their faces open and friendly, as befitted a hobbit Elen bitterly acknowledged. They worked for Barley as well, Bob in the stables, Nob as some sort of servant, doing whatever Barley bossed him into.

"You need fattenin' up, wench," Bob said brutally as she reluctantly came over, "especially when those tankards weigh a ton."

"Ever worked in an inn before, Nan?" Nob asked, elbowing Bob in the side.

"Here and there," Elen said honestly enough, having not been above serving beer and other beverages in the past to earn a crust. She had also toiled in the fields and taken in laundry, but her mother had hated earning an honest coin, not when she could earn more on her back.

"Well, this is a decent establishment," Barley said pompously, losing his vague look for once. "I shall not tolerate lewdness or looseness here."

Elen nodded, Nob handing her a large bowl of stew, its delicious smell making the tears suddenly spring to her eyes, having been forced to exist off slops and leftovers that would have been flung to pigs.

"You shall not starve here," Bob said, pouring her some wine, "so stop your snifflin'."

~*~

Elen paced the floor of her tiny room high up in the eaves, feeling like a princess in her turret, locked away from the world, the thought making a bitter smile burn across her lips. Her mother had died for such desires, Elen exiling herself from them. She was a nobody and she would be a nobody. She would wipe down tables and turn a deaf ear to the crude compliments Barley's customers paid her whenever he was out of earshot. She would be content with three hot meals a day and a roof over her head, with a clean pallet to sleep on and money in her hand to buy warm clothes and shoes that didn't let in.

She wandered over to the window, staring out at the cobbled street below, the night air oddly azure. Elen stood there, thinking of Gandalf, wondering where he was now, whether he was dining with kings or sleeping under a hedgerow. As if from another life, she remembered the wooden sword he had brought her so long ago, reminding her of the dagger she had left behind at the shack, the thought of her mother's body burning to ash amongst its ruins making a tear roll down her cheek.

Elen abruptly sat down on the sill, fists clenching into balls by her sides, hating her mother for dying and leaving her on her own, hating herself for feeling so. Naevys had been the only family she had ever known, her father an unknown quantity, Naevys crushing down any curiosity Elen had expressed in him, Elen only knowing he was human.

A sudden flash of movement on the street below caught her attention, making Elen's head snap up. Down in the street below stood a cloaked figure, a hood drawn over his head. The sight reminded her of the Nazgûl, turning the blood in her veins to ice. Elen rose to her feet, pressing her palms against the glass just as she had when watching Gandalf leave her. She stood there, watching the stranger then stride down the street, his shadow drowning in darkness.

As though sensing her stare, the stranger suddenly stopped and turned around, raising his head as he moved, his own unseen stare locking with Elen's, making her freeze, her heart thudding strangely in her chest. She saw he was of the race of Men, not a Nazgûl after all, the comparison striking her as ridiculous now. He was tall and leanly built, holding himself as though he were a king, and as Elen looked down upon him, he inclined his head to her as though she were a queen, and then he was gone, fading into the night.

I've been watching
I've been waiting
In the shadows for my time...