No Road Home

The author would like to respectfully and gratefully acknowledge the members of the HugoWeavingMuse yahoogroup, for their invaluable assistance in the Sindarin used in this story, especially as regards the translations of the poetry and songs. In addition, I would like to thank the members of the Agents_At_Play yahoogroup for their reading, reviews, and editorial suggestions on No Road Home.


Disclaimer: The items contained herein have been created because the author enjoys writing and has a boundless admiration for the works of J R R Tolkien.
The book characters, settings, places, and languages used in this story should be considered the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and perhaps in some cases New Line Cinema. The writing, original characters, original artwork, and original poetry belong to the author herself. The author will not receive or accept any money or other remuneration for presenting her work on this site, it is for her own enjoyment and the enjoyment of those who read what is written here.


Part the First

A dreadfully weary Unole Aisvi, the Windwalker, made her slow, painful way along the beach early in the morning, clamdigging, and keeping her eye out for anything edible that the tide had washed in. She was hungry, and had had no success in the dumpsters of the town the previous night, so she had come down to the beach to camp.

The relatively young woman was clad in threadbare jeans and worn, patched shirt and jacket. Long black hair was drawn back in a neat braid, contrasting with pale skin, almost too pale, as if she suffered from some ill that blanched her face. Her dark eyes glowed with a very present light. Her body was shapely, but too thin, bespeaking too many missed meals. An air of loneliness pervaded her. As her clamdigging efforts were proving fruitless, she sighed softly, resigning herself to missing yet another meal. 'It doesn't matter anymore anyway,' she thought. 'I could walk right out into the ocean and drown, or clean off the edge of the world, and nobody'd know the difference. Be quicker, too.'

But instead, she hefted her pack and wandered along the shore, feeling her namesake wind cooling her face, while the waves crashed against the sand, and the seagulls called overhead.


Up the beach, along a small dock, she noticed something: a small ship, a sailing ship, and it piqued her interest. Wind loved the water almost as much as the air, and it occurred to her that the crew might have work she could do in exchange for food. Swallowing her innate shyness, she made her determined way toward the boat.

As she approached, she marveled at its workmanship and design. It was beautiful and intricate, made entirely of some silver-grey wood, in the manner of an old sailing-ship, swift, streamlined, and light. Wind admired it greatly, drawn to its sleek lines. Obviously, she considered, someone had recreated an old sailing vessel with love and care. Perhaps, a great perhaps, they would not turn her away.

But when she got to the dock, the ship was empty, moored unattended. Windwalker's shoulders drooped in disappointment. Then it occurred to her to simply wait until someone returned, and ask for work.

'And if the time comes, while I wait,' she thought, 'at least it's pretty here...even if I am all alone.'

She sat down on the dock to wait.


The longer she waited, the more intrigued with the little vessel she became. It seemed almost to call her. Finally she stood, scanning the beach as far as she could see. There was no one.

Hesitantly, she tiptoed up the gangplank. "Hello?" she called softly as her moccasined feet touched the deck. "Anybody aboard?"

There was no answer. Wind looked around the deck, not touching anything, then peeked into the above-deck cabin. It was empty, save for a few items that appeared to be part of a man's toiletry kit. Windwalker left them undisturbed, and continued her search for people below deck, finding the hatch and descending.

The little ship was as empty below deck as above. Crew quarters were there, small trinkets of possessions scattered about, but no crew. Finally, in the cargo hold aft, Unole found some bales of fine textiles, but no sign of life. Disappointed, she sat down on one of the bales.

"I guess I'll just have to wait," she muttered to herself. "Guess I should go back to the dock, too. They might get mad if they came back and found me on board." She sighed. "I'm just gonna sit here a minute, though, like it or not. I'm so tired..."

Windwalker leaned back into the soft fabrics, taking a moment's rest.

But between the gentle rocking of the ship, and her weariness, she gradually slid off the bale, between the stacked textiles, sound asleep.

In her dreams, she metamorphosed. Windwalker the Eagle took flight, soaring away from troubles, high over the realm of Men, far, far away, over a sea of glass.

As the sun set, the crew and passengers of the little sailing ship returned. A tall man with long, dark hair, dressed in robes of claret velvet, boarded and made his silent, thoughtful way to his cabin above deck.

As the stars emerged, the crew put off from the dock and headed out into the open sea.


Windwalker's eyes snapped open at the sound of distant voices, and she was immediately wide awake, silently berating herself for her foolishness. If they had already put to sea, they could have her arrested for a stowaway, when she had not meant to do such a thing at all.

Grabbing her small pack, she slipped out of the pile of textiles and eased quietly over to the ladder. Scurrying up it, she peeped out of the hatch, and let out a relieved sigh: no one was in sight. She edged cautiously out of the hatch, scuttling to the gangplank. Glancing around surreptitiously, she stopped in amazement.

"This...is NOT where I got on," she realized, staring at the large harbor, as the lights of a large city twinkled in the distance, elegant white marble buildings glowing a soft pink in the glory of a clear sunrise. "Oh, Unole, you are in SUCH trouble." There was no one on the dock, and she ran swiftly down the gangplank, up the dock and hid behind a building, crouching low as voices approached.

"...So it has changed greatly," one voice said, a deep, lilting, almost musical, male voice, with a slight accent that Wind did not recognize. "I suppose I should not be surprised."

"No, Elrond," came another voice. "Men, with their short lives, cause change quickly. They do not have our benefit of time to wait for it."

"Our people do well, however; those that are still there," the voice identified as Elrond remarked. "They are carefully hidden, of couse. They sent lovely textiles in honor of Elbereth. I shall send them on to Valimar once you have seen them."

"Excellent," the other voice said. "She is always pleased to be in the Golodhrim's thoughts. Did you find...your treasure?"

"No," Elrond answered softly. "No sign of their descendants could I find." Windwalker thought the voice sounded immeasurably sad.

"I am sorry, my friend. They ARE there; my wizardry tells me this. Perhaps next time, I can help."

"I do not think there will be a next time, Mithrandir." Elrond's voice paused, and Wind imagined him shaking his head. "It is...too difficult. The memories... Let us see to the cloth bales. They are in the hold."

"Very well, Elrond," Mithrandir sighed, accepting the change of topic. "It is painful to you. I understand. Now, let us see what the inhabitants of Ithilien have sent."

Footsteps moved closer. Windwalker eased quietly behind an empty crate.

"Still," Elrond began, then paused. "What is it, Mithrandir?"

A shadow fell over Windwalker, and she looked up into the face of a man with long flowing white hair and beard, bushy brows, and a tall pointed hat. Over his shoulder appeared another being, male, tall of stature, beautiful of face, with long dark hair and gracefully upswept ears. Windwalker stared, speechless.

"I believe we have a visitor," Gandalf observed.


"I...I didn't mean..." Wind stammered, and a furious Elrond exploded.

"What do you mean, 'you DIDN'T mean'? Of course you did," he exclaimed. "How dare you stow away on my vessel! You have no right here. You are fortunate we do not employ corporal punishment as the Edain do."

"Easy, Master Elrond," Gandalf soothed. "Let us ascertain the truth of the matter."

"I...I didn't m-mean to st-stow away," Wind tried again. "The sh-ship was so...p-pretty. I only w-wanted to l-look. But I..." she glanced imploringly at Gandalf, and was able to steady herself. "I've been traveling a long time, and I'm...tired. I sat down for a minute to rest, and...and I guess, the rocking of the boat...I fell asleep," she admitted shamefacedly.

"You mean to have us believe you slept the entire voyage?" Elrond scoffed.

"Y-yes. I only just woke up."

Elf and wizard studied the human closely, seeing the signs of her recent sleep in her eyes and face.

"Very well, young one," Gandalf said indulgently. "You must have traveled long."

"I...always travel."

"And never go home?"

"...No..."

At the subdued response, Gandalf shot the woman a sharp glance, reading much of her in it.

"Then you should try it sometime," Elrond retorted bitingly. "It may keep you from trespassing."

"Sir," Windwalker offered, in a quiet, placating tone, "I have no home to go to. That's...why I have to travel."

That gave Elrond pause. "What about your family?" he asked more quietly.

"What few I had...are long gone."

"You are alone?" Gandalf asked, saddened.

"Yes, sir." Wind looked up at them pleadingly. "Please, I didn't mean to stow away, really. I thought maybe there was something I could do, work I could do, in exchange for..."

"We do not need workers," Elrond interrupted, quiet but firm.

"Then...then I will...find a place, out of the way, and --"

"And do what?" Elrond snapped then.

"Um. I could camp, until I figure out where to go next..."

"You cannot stay here," Elrond informed her. "Have you no idea where you are?"

"N-no, sir."

"You are in the Undying Lands, child," Gandalf said. "Have you ever read the tales of a Professor John Ronald Reuel Tolkien?"

"Oh, yes," Windwalker smiled happily. "Many times. I love them."

"They are our history," Gandalf explained. "We talked, he and I, once upon a time in Middle Earth, and I invited him aboard a ship. He never came as far as Eressea, but instead, we went out to him, upon the Bent Sea, and conversed with him. He recorded our tales."

Windwalker gasped. "I'm dreaming. I'm still asleep, and I'm dreaming."

"You most certainly are not, though I could wish I were," Elrond remarked with lifted brow.

"Then...you really ARE THE Elrond."

"I am." Elrond drew himself up to his full, imposing height. Gandalf saw the woman flinch before him. "I am Elrond Peredhel."

"And I," the wizard added simply, "am Gandalf."

"The White," Wind murmured. "Um...should I bow?"

"No, young one," Gandalf chuckled before Elrond could answer. "There is no need to bow. But perhaps now you understand our little dilemma."

Windwalker paused in thought, confused by the fantastic turn of events. Suddenly it hit her. "Ooohh," she groaned, "Eressea. Valinor..."

"Yes," Elrond said succinctly, eyebrows raised.

Windwalker buried her face in her hands. "Oh, no," she said softly.


"Come along, Unole," Gandalf instructed gently, having ascertained Wind's name in her native tongue. "The White Council must see you."

"I do not see the necessity, Mithrandir," Elrond pointed out as the two strode swiftly through the streets of the village Mithbar, a suburb of Tirion the Great. "We will simply place her on another ship, and send her back whence she came."

Behind them, Windwalker struggled to keep up. Part of the problem was in her neck -- it kept turning to allow her to look at the marvelous scenery, the beautiful landscape, and the elegant inhabitants of the land, most of whom stared back in astonishment at seeing a strange human, and so poorly clad, walking freely about Valinor. The rest of the problem lay in her legs -- they were shorter than those she followed. Finally she slung her small pack onto her shoulders and dropped into the scout's trot. Her people, Native to the Americas, could go long hours at considerable speed in this gait, and Unole had mastered it years ago. Now that she could keep up, her attention returned to the dispute over her presence.

"We must not be too hasty, Elrond," Gandalf pointed out. "There is something at work here that we do not yet see."

"You sound like Fangorn," Wind murmured with a shy smile.

"Thank you, child," Gandalf grinned over his shoulder, "that was a great compliment."

Elrond scowled. Wind resolved to remain silent the rest of the way.


When Windwalker was brought to the tree under which the White Council sat, she sensed their power, and instinctively stepped back -- right into Elrond. She heard his grunt of surprise, saw his scowl as she glanced back and up into his face, and she sidestepped quickly. All noticed the slight trembling which took her, but only Gandalf reached out, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder. She moved closer to his calming presence as the Wise studied her in apparent silence for long moments. Gil-galad leaned forward as if to speak to Celeborn, but said nothing that Unole could discern. Nolofinwe, too, leaned forward silently, and Turgon raised an eyebrow. The blond head of Glorfindel bobbed, but in response to what, Windwalker had no clue.

"I would counsel caution, my friends," Gandalf advised quietly, as if continuing a conversation. "As with the Ring, not even the Wise can foresee all ends."

"I see no particular need for caution, Mithrandir," Cirdan remarked. "She stowed aboard one of my ships. She has broken the laws of the Valar. She must be returned."

"Agreed," Elu Thingol said succinctly. His wife Melian leaned sideways and touched Galadriel's hand, gazing at her meaningfully.

Galadriel nodded, and turned her attention to the human woman. "Does Windwalker have nothing to say on her own behalf?" Galadriel asked softly.

Gandalf felt the human shrink back against him timidly. "It is all right, Unole," he whispered. "If you cannot speak to them, you may speak to me."

Wind gazed up into Gandalf's kind eyes. "I...I didn't mean to come here," she began in a voice little more than a whisper. "I don't have..." she thought a moment, then offered, "like...Lord Elrond, I am...alone."

Elrond raised his chin at the presumption, as the rest of the Council murmured.

"Unlike him, I...have no place of my own." Her shoulders drooped in weary defeat. "Do whatever you want with me. It doesn't matter anymore, anyway."

The Council members glanced at one another, perturbed by this unexpected statement. Melian rose.

"For now, we will heed Mithrandir's advice," she decreed. "Windwalker may stay until we ascertain what is to be done with her. We will send word of events to Valimar, that the Valar may instruct us what to do."

The others nodded agreement, and Gandalf bowed his thanks. A mildly irritated Elrond adjusted his robes. Wind, half-hidden in Gandalf's cloak, watched the Elven-lord as the others stood and departed. Tentatively then, Wind stepped forward.

"Master Elrond?"

"Yes?"

"I...I want you to know that..." Wind's voice was very low, so low that Elrond had to stoop to hear, "I know what it feels like to be alone. If...if you ever want to talk..."

"I have friends to give me counsel," the Elf stated bluntly. He turned and walked away.

Windwalker stood beside Gandalf silently, wondering how Valinor was, in the end, that much different from the world of Men.