Cutch wiped his hands on his apron and appraised the large pile of fresh venison meat before him, trimmed of fat, cut into strips, and spiced with sugar, salt, and pepper. The worktable holding the pile sat a few yards from the River Lhûn, behind Teahesto’s craft house. The mid-morning sun had finally climbed high enough above the semi-circle of eastward cliffs to peek into the riverside enclave of Bar-en-Acharn, a lovely cluster of Elven structures and trees, graced with a pair of cascade-fed streams that joined before flowing into the river, and all overseen by Torech Besruth, Her Ladyship Seregrian’s manor.
Satisfied that his preparation work was done, he opened the low, rough-hewn door of the little cliff-stone smokehouse and began racking the stripped meat, leaving adequate spaces for the heat and smoke to circulate before finding a tiny opening at the dome’s peak. After a final inspection, he lit the kindling beneath the pair of split yew logs in the fire pit, and as the heat and smoke began to rise, he closed the door, making sure that there was a gap at its bottom to let in precisely enough air to keep the wood burning low.
Venison jerky was one of his favorite staples on the road, and was sure it would be for Seregrian, also his newlywed bride. Of all the different meats he had served at Her table from field or stream, venison satisfied her the most, and he savored Her delight in it.
A journey to Eregion was soon to take the members of Bar-en-Acharn on the road, and Cutch was determined, as Steward of the House, to assist in the preparations and to accompany Her, and in his work, he was reminded of the last time he travelled through that area, seven years ago, when he was twenty three….
“Although he has proved an adequate companion from Bree”, she freely admitted to Elrond, “are you sure the little fellow is up to the task of accompanying me to Mirobel”.
The Master of the Last Homely House nodded to Gwilwileth, then smiled at Cutch, who sat attentively on the guest house stoop. “Our scouts report that Eregion is relatively quiet these days, and as you have seen, your companion is skillful enough at keeping a campsite, as well as a polite tongue. That he is mortal does not diminish him as hunter or fisherman, and others in his past have shown him scouting skills. His business also takes him south, although further than Mirobel, it seems….?” He looked at Cutch with arched brow, and the young man nodded.
“Yes, my lord. I am travelling to Dunland to learn of my father’s forbears”, Cutch answered, standing respectfully. Gwilwileth glanced at the mortal askance, then back at Elrond with a hint of disapproval. “Tribal man-blood?” the Elf maid asked of Cutch, while observing the Elf lord.
While Cutch was trying to form his response, Elrond said, “Yes, and as he has shown, he has precisely the skills and respectful demeanor you would find useful on your journey.”
She looked between the two and found no hint of doubt, omission, or dismissal in the little fellow’s mien. “Very well, then, Master Cutch. Shall you be ready to depart at dawn two days hence?” Cutch paused to consider the preparations, then nodded. “Yes, my lady”
Sunrise found the two travelers once their horses carried them to the top of the last wooded switchback leading out of Imladris. As most everyone does, they paused to look back into the spectacular gorge. Thundering water tumbled from dizzying heights and then joined a confluence carving the steep cliffs and racing through the forested floor. Trees had been cleared only enough for the towered Elf structures to thrust through the canopy. Across the gorge from their vantage point, Gwilwileth and Cutch silently took in the grace and beauty of Elrond’s home, masterfully balanced along the cliffs. They offered no spoken words to describe the wondrous vista, as none would suffice.
The two proceeded mostly south, through the Giant Valley. The residents’ flat roofs stood like sentinels, barely visible east beyond a low, tree-covered ridge dividing the valley, but as the two travelers continued, they neither heard nor saw aught of those massive fellows beyond the huge footprints left by their foragers. So far, Elrond’s scouts had reported true; the valley was quiet, indeed serene. To the south, a pass would the lead Elf maid and her mortal companion from the valley and down into Eregion. Much farther to the south, the southern reaches of the snow-capped Misty Mountains stared back at them with foreboding.
Throughout the day, the two barely spoke, and when they did it was mostly to confirm they were on the right course. As the day wore on, Gwilwileth withdrew more into her own thoughts, and Cutch chose to respect her introspective manner, until they stopped for a midday meal.
The path leading from the Giant Valley into Eregion wandered along a ravine, mostly narrow with occasional trees to wind around, but the riding was easy enough across the gently downward sloping ground. They entered a widened spot, inviting, with grasses for the horses to graze, enough sunlight to warm the air, and conifers hugging the edges of the rounded-out ravine. Birds sang to each other and insects happily buzzed, unmindful that winter was only a few weeks away.
“Daergil”, Gwilwileth muttered the name of the spot, dismounting. She gazed south, where from a goodly distance a massive peak in the Misty Mountains frowned at them. “The Redhorn Pass is just beyond that”, her voice wistfully continued as if disconnecting to float away.
Rather then interrupt her, Cutch dismounted and set about making a fire and preparing a mid-day meal. When it was ready, he softly summoned her from her meditation, and she shook her head, chuckled, and sat across the fire from him. He offered her a mug of tea, a small round loaf of warmed waybread, and a sliced apple. He waited for her to speak first if she wanted conversation. She forced a polite smile and said, “You must think me quite strange.”
Cutch silently answered with a kind smile as he shook his head, then settled in to attentively listen as he nibbled and sipped.
“He and I came here from time to time when I lived here …. so long ago, it seems, and yet not, in the timekeeping of the heart. We were on the path to betrothal…” Her voice trailed off and she stared into the fire for long moments while Cutch quietly watched. “But how should I expect a mortal to understand the romance of Elves”, she continued with a condescending smile.
Cutch blinked and looked away briefly, for this was a time in his life when love was still confusing and elusive.
They silently finished their meal, broke camp, and rode on until the narrowing ravine fell into switchbacks leading into the broad valley of Pend Eregion. Stopping to get their bearings and confirm their course, they tersely agreed to continue. She took the lead, her pace quickened by an unspoken need, and he would occasionally lag, for he had never seen a holly tree before, nor some of the late-blooming flowers. He heard the unfamiliar songs of birds that hid from his view, and he began to wish he could tarry to explore, but he felt a duty to his travelling companion. The afternoon wore on until after sunset, when she reined up near an outcropping of large boulders squatting in the now wide and mostly clear valley. Next to the largest boulder Cutch saw the remains of a firepit, not used for at least a few seasons.
“It is getting dark”, she announced, her voiced tinged with irritation. “We should respect your mortal lack of vision during the night and camp here. The horses also could use the rest.”
Cutch muttered agreement and began to set up camp while she gathered wood. Soon, fire, smoke, and cooking aromas lifted from the firepit. He prepared their supper while she took a flute from a saddle bag and began to play a sweet and sorrowful tune. The unburdened horses browsed nearby, and a full harvest moon rose, casting an eerie glow that urged Cutch to huddle closer to the fire.
“You are easily spooked?”, she asked, a silken taunt.
“No”, he answered a bit defensively. “I am in an unfamiliar place, is all.”
“Ah, yes …. he and I used to camp here as well, on our little jaunts.”
“Who is he? And where?”
She looked sharply at him, anger and pain lining her face. “He was … is … dead, for some time, at least by mortal reckoning.” She once again drew the flute to her lips and continued to play. She suddenly stopped as she heard her first three notes repeated perfectly by … something in the trees nearby. Her eyes widened and she slowly stood, a white-knuckled fist wrapped around the flute. Once again, she played the three notes, and once again they were repeated by what now seemed to Cutch to be a bird, but the notes were farther off. “Our song...” she whispered, words shaking, and she played the notes again, and again they were repeated, faintly and at a greater distance. Suddenly, she ran to her horse and flung herself on bareback and heeled it into a gallop towards the echoed music.
“Hey! Wait! Stop!”, Cutch called as he scrambled up, looking after her as she disappeared through the moonlit trees. He quickly threw the saddle on his horse, gather up his bow and quiver, and sped after her, the ghostly moonlight guiding him. Her course led him off the old road they had been following and over the ridge to the south. Through the night he pursued, stopping to listen, then hearing her play the notes off in the distance. The ground flattened beyond the ridge, and rocky terrain spread before him. He continued the chase, but as the moon began to set, he could no longer hear her song. As he paused to consider his next course of action, he noticed firelight to the southwest warming the predawn. Surely, he thought, she would be there.
The Elf company rose, startled, from their breakfast around the campfire as the lone horseman, at a pounding gallop, approached, the ruined tower where they had camped. Even more were they surprised when they saw the rider was a young mortal, Cutch, who dismounted and searched the Elf faces, unsuccessfully, for his missing companion.
“Who are you, and what brings you here?” asked the obvious leader of the company. Cutch explained the events of the previous night and the Elves cast glances amongst themselves.
After being assured of her name, Gwilwileth, they bade Cutch sit, rest, and eat, as they told the tale and prepared to ride out with him to continue the search.
She had lived here during the height of Eregion’s glory, and she and her beau-to-be crafted fine metals. But when another appeared, in incomparable “Master of Gifts”, her heart was distracted by an allure she did not understand, and the newcomer seemed to simply play with her emotions. The competing suitors soon came to blows and this Master defeated and cursed her truer beau, who wandered away, broken-hearted, toward the Misty Mountains. The Elves would say no more, except to name the victor Antheron, and then refuse to speak any more of him, or Gwiliwileth, except that they believed she had long since headed west to sail away.
The company gathered up with Cutch and searched, until they picked up her trail, leading away to the Redhorn Pass, a snow drifted gap in the formidable mountains to the east. They climbed on horse following her trail until the snows became too deep for riding and they found her abandoned horse. Some of the Elves stayed with the horses as Cutch and the rest climbed, following her trail of struggling footsteps weaving back and forth though the drifts. Finally, her trail stopped, and in the snow, they found her flute.
She was nowhere to be found.
Cutch and the Elves, having no other reasonable choice, returned to the Elf campsite in the ruined tower. They allowed him to camp with them while they assisted him gather up his scattered belongings and continue his own journey south. The Elves promised to renew their search for Gwilwileth, but Cutch could sense their doubts echoing his own. He would continue his journey into Enedwaith and Dunland, but his further travels did not bring him back through the lands of Eregion, a sad place in his memory, so he never did hear more of her.
