Every morning at dawn it was the same. I would be roughly grabbed by four dark-faced men and hood of black cloth put over my face and eyes. My hands still tightly bound and my feet narrowly hobbled, I would be pushed and prodded to wash bucket or river's edge and allowed to make myself comfortable before the day's journey.
The troop of Easterlings was traveling north. I would be lifted onto a horse's back , my hands and feet lashed once again to the saddle and stirrups, and one of the dark horsemen would place the hood over my head once again. But always I felt the sunlight warming my right shoulder at the beginning of the day and touching my left by the end of it. I could often hear the sound of the river, and more often now, the cry of hawks as they searched for prey...the Brown Lands.
Every evening I felt rough hands untie me from the saddle and pull me to the ground. My feet would be hobbled once more and I would be pushed into a small pavilion where I would be lashed to an iron ring driven into the ground. The hood would be removed and there would be a small loaf of bread and a bucket of water beside me. Outside I could hear two...four...six pairs of feet shuffling and moving about. My guards were vigilant and tireless, and in the early watches they would be relieved by six others so as not to delay the day's progress northward.
After many days of this, I began to feel a change in the air around me. We still traveled by the river, but somehow everything had become colder and there was a faint scent of decay in the air. This was Mirkwood! I had spent too long a time here not to feel the rhythms of the place in my bones. I hoped the elven folk would take note of our passing, but there was nothing to hinder our progress. Either the Elves did not care enough to act upon this strange incursion, or perhaps there was a dark magic cloaking our progress that was given strength through the evil that dwells here.
We journeyed on, and the air began to lighten. There was the scent of grass around me and the fragrance of living trees nearby. I heard birdsong, too, and strained to try and recognize the melodies. It was here that our journey paused. We did not move from this place for several days and in the distance I could hear the sound of trees being felled and lumber hewn. On the second evening of our stay in this place, one of the dark soldiers entered my pavilion bearing a brightly lit torch. My eyes were blinded by the sudden light, and at first I did not see the figure that strode in after him.
In Lorien I had seen many statues. It was as though the Elves wished to preserve their memories in living stone, and I had seen many a face of extreme beauty gazing from these creations of white marble. The face I now saw might also have been so carven, but from deepest amber. The light danced over his finely formed features with its closely trimmed beard, and played along the rich silk robes he wore, making them glow with a jewel-like sheen. I drew a breath and looked up into his eyes....and shuddered. His eyes were large and dark, and rimmed with opulent, long lashes yet there was no light in them. It was like looking into the darkest pits of the Abyss. I shut my eyes against their gaze and turned my head away.
It was silent, save for the occasional crackle of the torch. Gathering my courage, I opened my eyes and regarded the man once again. I saw that he held my brooch in his right hand. Following my gaze, he lifted up the golden circlet and let it glint in the light as he showed it to me. He studied my face for a few moments, then abruptly let his arm fall. Turning, he strode out of the pavilion closely followed by his soldier. And I sat once more in darkness.
