A Rather Chaotic Revision of The Fellowship

~Twenty-five~

The Fellowship ran nonstop until sunrise, silent and wary. At around the time when the evening star sank out of view for morning, they returned to that old, peculiar road. Somehow, he could hear the rushing of the stream from far away, bubbling almost welcomingly. And, just as Caranthir had expected, Gandalf quickly assumed it had been damned and condemned anyone from drawing near it. They could walk by the rushing stream, listening to the teasing waters. After all, the road and the stream would meet sometime.

Olórin seemed almost desperately fixed on optimism. "This means we are on the proper road," he said, looking out where the path trailed on. "We have only to keep going swiftly. If we wish to make it, we must reach the doors by nightfall today."

Which would mean more walking. The Fellowship could manage, just as they always did. They trekked along the path as it wound over the hills, pausing briefly in the morning to eat.

Neither Caranthir, Frodo, or Sam had eaten anything of real substance since their initial capture in the mountains, and it was a true observation that they practically inhaled their food—Caranthir in a more civil manner, naturally. There was some bread and meat given by Gandalf to the three, which did come in rations larger than customary. But then again, eating nothing but crumbs for a week could hardly count as customary.

With that, they kept walking, and the day slowly waned. Their breaks were rushed and never effective, the food failing to fill the pits in their stomachs. Caranthir went on a bit steadier when it came to this, with his advantage as a Calaquen. Though half-starved and lacking vital amounts of sleep, he found he could keep a pace stronger than even Legolas. A little rest and food was enough to keep him ahead of the curve again, keep him strengthened. So, the Valar do give the smallest of damns for my dignity.

As the sun peeled away and started swerving westward, their own path changed in nature. They turned down into a long, dragging scoop of a valley, above which the mountains loomed like sentient, judging pillars. Only the mountains now—all else was blocked away, save for the clefts and trenches scattered along each snow-spattered slope. Caranthir wondered what secrets they held, what shadows of lost memories. The land would be so much different if the rocks could speak, if the grass and trees could whisper the history of the land they blanketed in such ease. Or perhaps, if people like Tyelperinquar could tell its story. That reminded him. . . What would Tyelpe say? What would he think if he could see the uncle he had denounced walking over the ruins of his land? What would Tyelpe think, the noblest of all of them? Noble—that was Tyelpe's trait. Tyelpe never took the Oath, no. . . Tyelpe never killed anyone for power, for useless jewels or the pride of his House—stupid, passing things. And now, Caranthir stood, treading in his footsteps. Truly ironic, for the elder to walk in the younger's shadow. Tyelpe had always been the youngest, always the fool. . . Yet it was Tyelpe that had remained. Tyelpe, that had seen as much as them. He'd lived longer in Middle-earth—and perhaps, lived better? Had he? Had he learned, sought better things in life because of Curufin and all the others? Their examples would have stained his life, their malice would have scarred his view of Arda. If Tyelpe, the last of them, had learned, perhaps their own examples might not have been in vain.

But then again, the rocks could not speak. The winds could not sing, and Tyelperinquar was lost beyond memory.

Caranthir wondered if he should have felt something other than hollowness, sucking hollowness. Such a rare thing of him—all he seemed to do was rage, and rage, but. . . It seemed the world had passed so swiftly behind his eyes, while he sat as a mere spirit in Mandos.

What use did anger play, in a game already lost? Much better to leave the fury to the younger souls. . . The ones who can afford to turn back after a couple words of rage. But had the Oath been a couple of words?