To the Waters and the Wilds

By Miss Jov and PEF

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot and original characters. Actually, I don’t even wholly own those, as they’re shared by Miss Jov. And it’s necessary to point out that I don’t own the title either. It’s from “The Stolen Child” by W. B. Yeats.

Summary: In an attempt to evade the imminent destruction of Tharbad Dúrvain and her family flee to Rohan, although the trip doesn’t exactly go as planned and Dúrvain finds herself among the elves in the House of Elrond.

Author’s Note: First off, I must point out this was co-written with Miss Jov. The entirety of the credit does not fall to me, and those reading should be wary of that.

And now, a brief history lesson: Tharbad was in fact a town in Middle Earth. It was destroyed by the flooding caused by the snow from the fell winter (which began in 2911 of the Third Age). There is a more detailed explanation of why we made some of the choices we did with this (particularly to do with her heritage) at the end of this chapter. As far as I know no one has even mentioned Tharbad in anything so I thought I’d give it some publicity.

That said, I also feel it necessary to point out that this is not a romance story.

Prologue: Leaving Home

“Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world’s more full of weeping than you

can understand.

-W. B. Yeats, “The Stolen Child”

Tharbad, Eriador. 2912 of the Third Age of Middle Earth.

Dúrvain sighed and looked once more around the room, hoping to take in every last detail for posterities sake. The room was still relatively full, as her family had to carry all their possessions and brought only what was absolutely necessary. Somehow all the things that she had grown up with and come to love dearly were deemed ‘unnecessary’. She’d packed as many trinkets as she could possibly get away with; hiding them in clothes, shoes, bags, pockets, basically anywhere she could possibly stuff them. Yet still, things were being left behind. Her father’s carving knife, with which he created the beautiful toys that had enchanted her as a young child. Or her grandfather’s pipe, long and elegantly carved, that sat alone on the windowsill.

He mother had taken most things of her family’s work value, those that weren’t already sold of course. Dúrvain knew that her mother was only hoping to sell them once they arrived, not keep them for what they were worth. Particularly things of her grandfather, of which there were few, as they often sold for more.

She turned as she felt a light tug on her sleeve, “Dúrvain, come on! Mama’s waiting for us!”

She sighed and turned back towards the small house, giving it a final once over before closing the door and leading her younger brother towards the east gate of the town. Her younger brother, only ten, awaited the long journey to Rohan with much more excitement then his sister. For him it was an adventure, instead of relocation and the leaving behind of everything they had known.

The winter had been unbelievably harsh that year, and the snow and ice buildup in itself was enough to worry those who lived along the shores of a river. It was unlikely, should the ice melt, that the town would survive the resultant flooding. So Dúrvain’s mother, in desperation and fear, along with several others of the town were making the long pilgrimage to Rohan. Harsh weather conditions aside the road would be difficult, as they could not take the road because it travelled along the path of the Greyflood river, and would likely suffer the same fate as Tharbad. Instead, they would be forced to hike through freezing countryside, heading towards an ominous looking mountain range, all the time hoping that the white wolves that had begun to prowl in the cold won’t attack them.

Her younger brother had absolutely no idea just how dangerous this adventure would be. Perhaps they would be safer just waiting out the flood.

But her mother had obviously thought differently, as she was standing rather impatiently with their belongings when they arrived.

“Have you got everything? Warm clothing? Fimondír, where are your gloves? Put them on!”

“Yes mama.”

Her mother turned her attention towards Dúrvain, “You went back again? I thought I told you not to. We’re leaving Dúrvain, please, you must accept that.”

She sighed, “Yes mama.”

Dínenwen nodded almost imperceptibly in acceptance of her daughter’s statement. “Good. We’re leaving very soon.”

Fimondír looked up and started hounding his mother with questions again, “What’s Rohan like? I mean, what’s it really like? Surely you must know mama! And what’s great-aunt Blídhe’s family like? Are they like us? Do they have different toys there?”

Dínenwen silenced her curious son with a frown as the company set off into the freezing cold. There were no horses, as the few people who owned horses had either lost them to the cold, or to the wolves. So those making the trip were carrying everything they owned, which Dúrvain soon decided was more work than it looked. She was not particularly unfit for a young lady her age, but she was certainly not used to walking great distances, particularly in the cold. She had never really been outside the boundaries of the town before, as her mother often preferred to keep her children close.

She shivered slightly and pulled her cloak tighter around her, she’d only been walking for about an hour and she was getting tired already. She and Fimondír were not the only children there, and the others looked equally as cold. It was most certainly to be a miserable trip.

Fimondír was surprisingly silent; she had expected him to complain about the cold, or the fact that they were simply walking, or asking endless questions. But he remained silent, for which Dúrvain was grateful. His silence allowed her to think about where they were going and what they were leaving. Having never set foot outside their village before the snow-covered landscape was exhilarating. She had, of course, wanted to travel beyond their borders before, though she had been encouraged in every possible way not to by her mother.

Her grandfather had been a ranger, and spent little time at home with his family, and Dúrvain’s mother had opted to cling to her children hoping they wouldn’t in turn leave her as well. But gossip of rangers and their doings had long since convinced Dúrvain that meeting one would be most extraordinary.

Rohan however, was both far and foreign to her. She knew very little of it, save that it was a new kingdom and it had a great love for horses. She suspected her mother knew little as well, as she was reluctant to speak of it at all. Though she could never really tell why her mother did what she did…

The day wore on rather sluggishly for her. There were few rest stops, and the cold weather was always a problem. But at last, as night approached it was decided that a camp should be set up before it became dark.

Dúrvain sighed and sat down on a nearby rock, grateful for the rest.

“Are you tired?”

She turned slightly to see her brother looking at her with a small half smile on his face.

“Yes. I am unbelievably tired. I am sick to death of walking, and I am so glad we have stopped. And you?”

He frowned, “Of course I am not tired! Do I look tired?” He did, but she didn’t comment, “Warriors do not get tired.” He added.

Ah, so that’s what this was all about. “They do not?”

He shook his head, “Of course not. They’re warriors.” He added the last sentence as if it explained everything.

“I see.”

“Do you know what else warriors do?”

“No, what else do warriors do?”

He grinned, “Help damsels in distress.”

She frowned, “Are you implying that I am in distress.”

“Of course!” He stood up and walked over to her, “You said yourself that you were weary. And that you were sick to death of walking, and that you were so glad we stopped. You are obviously in distress. And I am a warrior. That works out nicely, do you not think so?”

She laughed despite herself, “I am no damsel in distress Fimondír, simply a tired maiden.” And with that she stood up to help the other women begin cooking dinner.

As she stepped forward her foot slipped, causing her to crash dramatically down, and immediately drawing several people to her side asking questions all at the same time.

“Are you hurt?” Her mother asked, shoving aside several onlookers to gain access to her daughter.

“I’m fine.” Dúrvain however, chose that moment to attempt to stand up, and as soon as she put pressure on her knee realized that she wasn’t as fine as she thought.

“You are hurt.” One woman from the crowd observed, and Dúrvain was tempted to thank her for pointing it out. However the presence of her mother deterred her from entertaining such an idea.

“Ow.”

Her brother suddenly appeared at her side, “Silly damsel, you should have simply let the warrior help you. Now you are truly in distress sister.”

She scowled and limped over to the rock that she had earlier occupied.

“It is not that bad mother. I can see to it myself.”

However Díninwen was not deterred, she gathered the medical kit and began wrapping the knee tightly.

“If it is not properly dealt with it will slow you down tomorrow. Rest now, we cannot afford to linger.”

Dúrvain brushed her black hair out of her face in an attempt to mask the tears now forming in her eyes. She would have to walk all day tomorrow, just as she had that day. There would be no rest for her, despite her injured state, and it frightened her. She wished that she had looked where she was going and not made a fool of herself in front of the entire encampment, and in doing so possibly lessened her chances of reaching Rohan.

“Do not despair fair lady. All is not yet lost.” Fimondír commented noticing the tears despite her attempts to hide them.

She smiled briefly in his direction before turning her gaze back to the snow-covered ground before her. Perhaps if she stared at the snow long enough it would disappear and their road to Rohan would be easier.

Despite her vigilant staring the snow remained the same when her brother brought food to her. Dinner consisted of some sort of stew, which was mostly water (the only easily attainable thing for miles). But she was hungry after the long day, and ate it anyway pleased by its warmth.

After she had finished her meal she was promptly informed to get some rest by her mother. And she pulled her cloak around her like a blanket fully intending to oblige her. The last thing she was aware of before sleep overcame her was her young brother moving to stand protectively near her and giving her a small smile as he did so.

…

She awoke in the dark to the sound of petrifying howls in the distance. Her blood ran cold and she was instantly wide awake, as were most of the others in the camp. Howls could only mean one thing: white wolves. Fimondír was awake and pale as the snow on the ground clinging to her mother. The few men that there were in the group gathered their swords and prepared to fight to the death, most likely theirs. As the men began to move the women did as well, gathering their children and lightest belongings to them, then fleeing off into the distance away from the sounds of the wolves. Díninwen was soon among them, gathering Dúrvain and Fimondír to her and running.

…

A/N: Alright, I thought I’d explain our decision in having her grandfather be Dúnedain. First off, it meant that her family hadn’t been living in Tharbad for generations upon generations and thus were more likely to leave. The Dúnedain people live in Eriador, thus it’s significantly more likely that she would have Dúnedain blood then say Haradrim.

Please read and review. I know this is short, but there will be more. Feedback is my dearest friend.