To Travel With Wings

*Yes this story will have a happy ending*

*Thank you for my reviews. I am glad you all enjoy this story*


Yavanna Kementári watched Glorfindel from her seat on the branch of a tree. Beside her sat Vána, her sister, wife of Oromë. Together they gazed at the saddened visage of their favorite Elda, whispering to each other of the unfairness of the situation. Manwë had forbidden any interference in the lives of the Firstborn, especially those of his daughter. He had proclaimed they, being Yavanna and Vána, did not see as far as he or Námo, therefore they had no right to meddle.

His words of warning, however, said nothing about watching. So, watch they did. Of all the Valar, Ulmd Yad Yavanna were tied most tightly to the world of Arda, especially Middle Earth. Vána would sometimes accompany her sister on her sojourns to keep the Kementári company.

“Hast thou spoken recently with Ulmo? Have the rivers and streams brought to him news of Manwë’s daughter?”

Kementári shook her graceful head. “Nay, or if they have, he hast spoken none of it to me. Even mine birds of the air are silent, and the trees do not whisper. Manwë’s power is great if it yet reaches these lands.”

“Thou soundest bitter, mine sister,” Vána reproached.

“I am. Too much pain has been inflicted upon Mallelóte. I wish only for his happiness.”

Sadly, Vána shook her head. “It is not in thy power to give. Only Illúvatar, in his great wisdom, knows what makes us truly happy.”

“Dost thou believe mine interference caused them to be late? Perhaps they would have reached the nissi in time had I but kept silent?”

Vána was quiet and did not answer.

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The wretched heat of the desert beat down upon the neck of Silnar with relentless fury. She winced as the metal collar rubbed against the sensitive skin that was cracked and peeling from burns. Any part of her body that was not covered by rags was red from the wretched sun.

Falling to her scabbed knees, Silnar rested on the burning sands. Her entire body seemed numb and she cared not that she was literally baking upon the ground. Closing her eyes, memories of the past days rushed her, taking her away from the brutal day to the coolness of night………….

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“Move, slave, before ye feel the crack o’ my whip!”

Silnar attempted to move faster and keep up with the traveling band of Orcs. Gruz had decided that his cave in the mountains was to small a domain for the King of Orcs and so they would conquer unseen lands until his army was greater then all the grass of Middle Earth.

His grand plans, however, were not being achieved in any way that Gruz deemed good. For the past weeks, his band had been stalked by a rival clan. The clan that Gruz led was accustomed to thick forests and high fields of grass. Out here, in the desert of South Gondor, Gruz found his band slowly succumbing to the elements and his stalkers.

This rival band had lived in the deserts of Gondor for generations and was skilled in their type of guerilla warfare. Silnar knew it was only a matter of time before Gruz was decimated. She was uncertain, herself, how she wanted these new events to unfold. While Silnar knew that Gruz and his band could not touch her and would not kill the favored slave, she had no idea how this rival band would act.

Earlier in the evening, Gruz and Ungrak had been arguing heatedly about their next course of action. Ungrak wanted to abandon this foolhardy mission and return to lands they knew. Gruz, however, was reluctant to admit defeat and believed that once they launched a full assault this rival clan would fall as had all the others.

It was almost morning when the rivlan lan finally attacked. Gruz and his clan had been settling down for the day in a mass of caves they had happened upon when the rival clan launched themselves from the cliffs into the mass of Orcs. Silnar had been flung to the ground and forgotten as her captors attempted to defend themselves. Crawling as swiftly as her chains would allow, Silnar hid inside the entrance of one of the caves to watch the battle.

The rival clan was difficult to pick out in the darkness. They wore skins of dead animals that blended with the desert background. Where their rival cousins were large and heavy, these desert Orcs were small, wiry, and twice as fast. Gruz, however, was cunning and wise. Once he was able to regroup, the battle almost became one sided. Silnar truly thought that Gruz was going to win, when reinforcements attacked from behind. Caught in a pincher movement, Gruz and his band were forced to fight until they were overcome. Silnar watched as Gruz, the last standing disappeared underneath a pile of the pallid Orcs of the desert. Exhausted and uncaring of her fate, Silnar felt her body shut down as she finally received her first sleep in years.

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Silnar awoke to a bright sun, blinding her eyes. Squinting against the light, Silnar waited patiently for her eyes to adjust. She could not remember the last time she had been out in the sun. Covering her body with her rags as best she could, Silnar stepped out into the desert.

Her first sensation was that she was on fire. Steeling her resolve, Silnar resisted the urge to jump back into the beckoning darkness of the cave. Slowly, her body began to acclimate itself to its new environment. Scanning the area, Silnar stared at the slaughter from the night before. None were left alive. Although Gruz had led his clan to extinction, he had also led the desert band as well.

Not wanting to linger in case some of the desert Orcs had survived, Silnar began to travel in the same direction that Gruz had been heading. Perhaps she would come upon some form of civilization that would help her find her way home. If Silnar had not tripped over the lump of sand, she would never have found the body.

Standing awkwardly and brushing away some grime, Silnar looked down into the gaping face of Ungrak. Her eyes were wide with fear and her mouth twisted in death’s snarl. Despite the many beatings she’d endured, Silnar could not help but feel a twinge of pity for Ungrak. The Orc had not wanted to journey on this forsaken mission for world domination. She had been content to rule in their caves, but her love for Gruz had forced her to follow.

Yes, Silnar had decided some time ago that Ungrak loved Gruz. It had been odd and difficult to comprehend that a creature as twisted as an Orc was capable of such an emotion. Silnar, however, had watched one night as Ungrak bathed some wounds that Gruz had sustained in battle with tenderness reminiscent of her own experience with Maedhros.

In her moment of weakness, Silnar used a rock to dig a shallow grave and bury her captor to save her body from carrion. It was the least that she could do for the lost child of Illúvatar.

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And now she was here, stranded on this wasteland, far from home and love. Weakly, Silnar tried to rise and walk again, but her limbs refused to obey. Collapsing, Silnar curled into a ball, her eyes shut tightly. Salty tears seeped from the corners, leaving trails on her mud caked cheeks. Silnar dreamed.

She dreamed of the grasslands of Lothlann. She dreamed of Maedhros, his crimson hair flinging into the wind as he led them in the battle against Morgoth. She dreamed of Maglor, as he spoke his last, prophetic words. She dreamed of Gil-galad, his face shining in battle. She dreamed of Elendil and his sons, greeting her in Gil-galad’s tent as they counseled war. She dreamed of Celebrían, Galadriel, and Celeborn, their faces glad as they met for her wedding. She dreamed of Glorfindel and his golden visage as he led her to love. She dreamed of a white face surrounded by dark hair, stars in her eyes and the face of a man, wind in his hair. She dreamed finally of darkness and a deep warmth that suffused her body.

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Slowly, Silnar awoke to darkness. She was very still as she listened carefully to her surroundings. There was no sound save the silence. Beneath her was a soft bed and a warm blanket was tucked firmly around her body. Her eyes adjusted to the dark and she saw she was in a tent. Light peeped in from the bottom and the opening that was mostly fastened. The tent was facing the wind because every so often it would blow and the tent would fill with the salty air of the sea.

Carefully, Silnar sat up, testing her body. It was sore from disuse, but all of her wounds had been healed and her skin was a fresh, healthy white. Her hand ran through her hair which had begun to grow and was strong and healthy. Where was she? How long had she been sleeping?

Breathing deeply, Silnar slid her feet to the floor which was covered with thick carpets. Standing gradually, she exhaled her pent up breath and stretched her muscles, enjoying the use of her arms and legs. Bit by bit, she hobbled to the entrance, her legs groaning with each step. Yet each step lent more strength and joy immersed her heart. Wherever she was, she had been well taken care of.

Opening the tent, Silnar squinted at the bright sun. Shading her eyes with her hand, Silnar scanned the strange place. It was a tiny village of tents. Some were larger then others but they were all the same sandy color. Outside the tents, children ran their voices cheerful and loud. Women and men bustled through the village, carrying on with their lives as if living in tents was a normal occurrence.

A voice besSilnSilnar startled her and she looked up into the dark eyes of an Elda.

“You should not be up and about just yet, hinya*, you are still very weak.”

Although he spoke an ancient form of Quenya, Silnar had little difficulty understanding him. Maglor had loved language and had instructed her in many different forms of Qa. Ia. It had been his passion and he had passed it on to her.

“Who are you? Where am I?”

“Before I answer questions, come inside and sit down to rest.”

“No, please,” Silnar begged, “Let me bear the sun a bit longer. It has been so very long since I have.”

The Elda paused, but then conceded. He led her to chairs which were situated outside the tent. They had been placed in the shade, but Silnar could still feel the heat of the sun and she soaked it in like water.

“I am called Minyatúr and this is my village. My warriors found you crumpled in the sand. You were but a days walk from our home. It was lucky we found you, though; for I am sure Námo was calling your name.”

“It would not be the first time I have denied Námo,” Silnar murmured, her eyes trained on the activity of the village.

“You know who I am, hinya, but you are yet a mystery.”

Silnar turned to him, slightly startled. “Forgive me, Lord Minyatúr. I am called Silnar in this age and am from Imladris.”

Minyatúr nodded. “We have heard of such a sanctuary. Many of my people believe it to be a myth.”

“Who are your people?” Silnar asked. “I have never heard of Eldar living in this part of the world.”

“In your language, we are called the Avari, a part of the Moriquendi. We have journeyed to this land for we wish to go home.”

“Home? To Aman?”

Minyatúr nodded solemnly. “We were unwise to turn away from Ingwë and his tales of Aman. I was most vocal about not deserting Cuiviénen. It was our birthplace. I led a remnant of our people away from those who journeyed for Aman. We dwelt the longest of the Moriquendi in Cuiviénen, until finally the Orcs drove us out and we fled for the mountains.”

“And now you wish to finally journey to Aman,” Silnar added, when Minyatúr grew silent.

“By this sea we have lived for many years. We pray to the Valar for deliverance, but none has come.”

“Why not seek Círdan, in the Havens? He will surely give you ships to sail to Aman.”

“We are not sailors,” Minyatúr answered. “And our pride, I fear, is too great. I could never convince the entire village to depart, and if oone one will go, none will go.”

The two were quiet as they watched the village. Silnar had never seen so many children in one place and she commented on it.

“They are the last,” Minyatúr said sadly. “There have been no babes for a long time. That was our final sign that it was time to leave this world and seek the new one.”

As the sun dipped, and the moon began to rise, Minyatúr rose also. “You are welcome to stay with us for as long as you like. Once you feel recuped, yd, you may return to Imladris or you may stay here.”

Minyatúr left, heading across the main street to a tent. The flaps opened as he approached and a beautiful nis hugged him and led him inside. Silnar did not go into her tent that night. Instead she sat in her chair and gazed at the stars. For the first time in years, she was free to do whatever she willed. It was a wonderful feeling.