Helaliath’s breath came sharp and fast as he scrambled through the grassy hills west of Bree. He imagined he heard the pounding of feet in pursuit, of a low, rough voice sharpened with rage, but when he looked behind, he found no trace of imagined fear. Sobbing for breath, he collapsed against a large stone, one hand braced against his aching chest, the other holding him tremblingly upright. Athleb, his mind cried, Here! How trite it was that the ghouls of his history reared their heads just as he found some measure of happiness!
He staggered blindly on, the night hot and damp about him. Fractured images crashed soundlessly through his mind--Helmwod’s face, tight with worry; Athleb’s broad shoulders, tensed in coiled anger; firelight leaping from the hearth; quavering shadows upon the wall. Further and further back in his memory plumbed the wild arm of fear: Helchonn, handsome face twisted in rage; Lhindor, head thrown back in ecstasy; Lornal, gesturing to the door.
Frantically, he clambered across the rain-swollen Baranduin, knowing not whether he was grateful for the lack of presence or longed for its faceless protection. His boots pounded through the damp earth, each step juddering through grinding bones, but fear bayed like hounds upon his heels, and he staggered on.
How many such flights had he made? The novelty of this night might only be that his trouser ties were not undone, and he clutched not cold coin in his hand. Through the darkness, far from the cheery lamps along the Greenway, he fled until he could flee no more, and he stumbled to a halt, falling to his hands and knees, gasping. He coughed wretchedly, a deep, hacking sound in the still night, and felt his breath crackle through his chest.
“You are a fool,” Helchonn had said, “A fool, and fey.”
It had been no true condemnation from his brother, ascended to head of house upon their father’s death, for ever had he been naught but cold to the youngest of his brothers. More hurtful had been the silence of his mother, and the anger of his sister.
“This was thoughtless of you,” she had hissed, jerking him aside after Helchonn’s pronouncement, “Lhindor is of the Prince’s house! Did you spare us the slightest thought ere you dove beneath the covers? We are ruined, and it is on your head!”
Helaliath lurched back on his heels, hands braced upon his knees, head bowed.
Lhindor, ai, fair Lhindor, lost to the grey Sea, and cold Helchonn not long after, both driven by desperation to their ignoble ends.
Pounding footsteps approached, and a resurgence of fear saw him to his feet, only to be yanked about by a rough, familiar hand.
“You seek to flee?” Athleb snarled, the sharp point of a tarnished blade pressed to Helaliath’s back, his large, coarse hand around his throat.
“Athleb,” Helaliath said, freezing, self-loathing coursing through him at the high fear in his voice.
“A merry chase have you led me, little bird,” Athleb growled, his breath hot and heavy upon the back of Helaliath’s neck, “But this is the end of your flight.”
Helaliath struggled weakly, but he stilled, breath coming short and fast as Athleb’s blade dug into his flesh, and a hot trickle of blood wound its way down his back.
“Athleb, I beg you,” he gasped, “I have the coin. You may take what you would--”
Athleb’s hand tightened around his throat, and Helaliath choked, scrabbling futilely against his hold.
“You have taken what can never be returned,” Athleb said lowly, “I am defiled in the eyes of my people, and for that, I will have your life.”
Helmwod, Helaliath thought blindly, recalling their tender words and the aching fear of loss revealed within, This will be his undoing. The thought tore fresh grief through him, and tremblingly, he closed his eyes, surrendering his fate. Eru above, he begged, Light his path.
“Oi!” cried a voice from the darkness, “Who’s skulkin’ about there? These are my woods, you lot!”
Fear became strength, and at Athleb’s momentary distraction, he lashed out, kicking his heel into Athleb’s groin and slipping from his grasp. Athleb swore violently, doubled over, and lashed out with his blade, catching him across his flank with a glancing blow. Helaliath cried out, feeling the ragged tearing of flesh, and staggered away, desperation driving him now back to the Greenway, to the dim lights of the city, to the arms of one he could not bear to see alone.
A great hue and cry was raised behind him, and Athleb cried out in rage as some unseen, faceless night-watchers fell upon him. Helaliath scrambled through the darkness, hand pressed to his bleeding side, and retraced his steps to the Baranduin.
“You are beautiful,” Athleb had said, rough hand pressed to his face under the shadowed eaves of Hytbold’s ruined mead hall, “I shall have you.”
Helaliath sobbed for breath, stumbling to safety within the West Gate. The elderly gate-watcher, dozing upon his footstool, snorted but did not wake. Helaliath looked to the stables, struggling to master his breathing, reflexive tears stinging his eyes.
“This is Bronwen,” Lhindor had said, handing him the reins, warm touch lingering against his, “She is my gift to you.”
He could saddle Bronwen now and ride north, fleeing once more from this lurking spectre of his folly. There were rumors of a sanctuary in the North Downs, near Kingsfell, that took those who had nowhere else to flee. He could brush the dust of Bree-land from his boots and leave its green hills and small people behind, as he had Dunland, as he had Rohan, as he had Gondor, as he had the grey harbors of Dol Amroth.
“You are craven,” Helchonn had said, standing over him in the dust of the Court of the Fount, “Never have you stood your ground. Ever do you flee from the path of righteousness.”
Helaliath stumbled toward the stable, heart pounding. Aye, he would go, and he would take this leering presence with him far from this bustling town, far from these simple folk, far from--
“I would not mind growing old with you,” Helmwod says, blue eyes soft in the light of unfamiliar stars.
Helaliath choked, the recollection driving him to his knees in the middle of the deserted lane. He huddled there, rough flagstones cutting into his palms, the full moon bright with promise over his shoulder. Lifting his head, he saw the lights of the Pony glimmer in the distance, and he thought of the warmth of presence and the quiet ease of one well-met and beloved.
“I have never seen the sea,” Helmwod says.
Helaliath sobbed, cursing himself, and Helmwod, and Athleb, and Lhindor, and Eru above. He staggered to his feet, the hot pulse of lifesblood seeping from between his fingers.
“Aye, brother,” he whispered, “I am a fool.”
With fading strength, he lurched up the lane towards unspoken promise, each step the muffled beat of a funeral march spelling doom and hope, and doom, and hope.
