Author's notes and disclaimer: I do not own The Lord of the Ring, or Middle Earth, and its associated characters. The Tolkien Estate does, for which, for the most part, they have my utmost respect. No copyright infringement is intended in writing this story.
If I might actually quote the 'Ada' of Middle Earth himself in my defence, and in defence of all fan fiction - though he was speaking of the creation of a body of legend he had in mind to write at the time - "The cycles should be linked to a majestic whole, and yet leave scope for other minds and hands, wielding pain and music and drama." (Letter to Milton Waldman, 1951, as quoted in The Silmarillion [emphasis mine].) Let's face it - what are the many epic tales set in Middle Earth if they are not a 'collected body of legend'?
In addition, this work draws heavily upon the dramatization of The Lord of the Rings as presented in the epic trilogy, brought to life by Peter Jackson and co. at New Line Cinema. I do not own any of their reference material either. My deepest respect also goes to the talented actors that brought to life the characters we saw in Fellowship of the Ring, The Two Towers, and Return of the King. My portrayal of the characters here is based quite heavily on my perception of the work of Viggo Mortensen, Liv Tyler, Marton Csokas, Hugo Weaving, Cate Blanchett, Sir Ian McKellen and Orlando Bloom. Without these people and those that appeared alongside them, there would have been no LOTR Trilogy as we know it today.
With the exception of personal interpretation and expansions, extracts from existing portions of the text, (be that written or visual), remain the copyright of the story and screenplay writers: J. R. R. Tolkien, Fran Walsh, Phillipa Boyens, Peter Jackson, and David Salo and his team.
Other assorted original characters (i.e. those that don't really appear in the book and film) are my own creation, and they, along with the original material presented here are © Eirian Phillips 2013.
Story is rated for mature readers, according to whatever rating system is adopted these days for Fan Fiction. It changes on a site by site basis and was so much easier before the MPAA got precious about their own ratings system. Let's just say there's likely to be SLV and leave it at that.
A brief word on the use of the Elvish languages in the text: I have no doubt massacred it. I am not a scholar, and I'm no David Salo.I do, and have done, the best with what resources, my brain included, are available online and printed.
A brief word on adherence to canon in the text: forget it. If you are looking for a story that sticks to accepted canon, please look elsewhere.
Characters and events are purely fictitious, and any similarity to anyone living, fading into Shadow, faded into Shadow, dead, insane or in any alternate universe or timeline is entirely coincidental.
Duath i-Achas Eriol
Chapter One
Three Long Years
It began with a skirmish.
After seven bright years of peace and joy, as the united kingdoms of Arnor in the north and Gondor in the south were made right under the benevolent rule of the High King Elessar of the House Telcontar, the first hint of trouble came and passed with all the notice of a brief summer squall.
Three years have passed since then. Three years since Tussaluin fell and the first of the refugees reached Edoras and the Rohirim messenger arrived at Imladris. Three long and bitter years since skirmish became battle; became war as the growing host of an unnamed hoard out of the east swept westward across the hills and plains, the woodlands and mountains of Middle Earth to be met by the Men of the West, and those of the Eldar, my people, returning in aid of those of us that had never left.
Three hard, cold years of grief since my beloved heart's light had disappeared; lost to me in the dark of a night long past, when Rivendell was all but under siege, and the lands around Hithaeglir had run to darkness.
"It is utter madness!" Elrohir challenged, frustration turning his usually calm, quiet voice brittle with discord. "If we take our forces east toward the Great Greenwood, we will have the enemy both to the northeast and to the south, and we cannot hope for support from the Galadhrim, for they fight in their own defence along the eastern bank of the Anduin."
Elladan nodded conceding the point, though he continued to press his position. "But it yet serves no purpose for us to head to the west in defence of the Great East Road. The Rangers of Eriador are massing in the Lone Lands and will hold the road against incursion from those very enemy forces in the north should their path turn toward the Shire."
"They will hold them here, yes," Elrohir said and leaning on the table that stood between he and his twin, pointed to spot where the River Mitheithil intersected the road. "But should the hoard sweep south and west, what then of the settlements within the Rhudauar - what of them?"
His brother leaned upon the map from the other side, his voice urgent, earnest; serious. "All the more reason for us to ride out, draw them to the east and into the Great Greenwood to trap them between our forces and those of our woodland cousins."
"We cannot count upon Thranduil to have sent his people westward if there comes danger on his eastern flank from-"
"We can count upon Legolas," Elladan interrupted him, reaching out to grip his hand where it still rested on the map. "He knows us, Elrohir; knows how we would think."
Elrohir hung his head, breathing out a long slow sigh. Of all the arguments that Elladan could have made, this was one he could not counter. Yet frustrated, almost fearful tears that he could not explain gathered behind his eyes. "Damn it, Elladan-!"
A soft sound, the clearing of a deep voice from the one who sat at the head of the table cut off the remaining protest, and lifting his head, Elrohir turned, almost in unison with his brother, to face their father, as Elrond lowered his hand from where it curled pensively against his lower lip, and uncrossed his arms.
"The merits, or otherwise of each of your points," he said slowly, "bear neither question nor relevance, for they will not bring us within sight of what we seek."
"Father?" Elladan said.
"Ride east," Elrond said, and Elrohir's heart dipped low to burn in his gut. "Take the Old Forest Road to the heart of the Greenwood, then north to Emyn-nu-Fuil. There are answers within those mountains that have been buried for far too long, and if your journey should draw the enemy forces to ruin against the sharp wedge of Thranduil's steel, then so be it."
He rose to his feet, a sure sign to Elrohir that the decision was made for them - that they had been dismissed and set upon their course, a thought reflected as his brother dipped his head into a bow of acquiescence.
"My Lord," Elladan said.
"Father." Elrohir also dipped his head, turning to follow his brother from the chamber. As he approached the door, his father's voice reached him.
"Elrohir," the tone in Elrond's voice halted both his steps, and his breath, one hand tightening slowly upon the handle of the door. He did not turn, but by his very stillness showed his attention as his father continued, "How much longer will you hold to what is lost; reach for what cannot be held; listen for that which cannot be heard?"
The soft spoken words gathered all the long years of anguish; every unshed tear, each lonely night and empty day; all his fear and loss and longing as if through a lens to a single point of anger that burned as bright as any star, that his father - who knew keenly the weight of such desolate separation - could even dare to think such a question, let alone to ask it aloud.
Whirling he strode back across the room, tugging at the pin fastened at his breast until it came free of his tunic, feeling the shape of the radiating stones in the jewel against his palm as he all but slammed his fist against the table and released the token that was both the symbol of his marriage, and held the magic of that sacred rite within the perfect cut of the gems that were set within the gold filigree of whorl and leaf.
As he lifted his hand away, the fae light flashed within the jewels - faint, but with a life that was not a mere reflection of the candlelight.
"Until the day that I can neither feel nor can see one flicker of her soul within our binding jewel, then and only then will my hope fade," he growled, his earnest tone matching the agony that welled inside of him to think that such a day might yet come. "And I with it."
I do not often find myself at odds with my father, even as a much younger elf than my near on three millennia he and I rarely exchanged words of strife. On that occasion though, his question seemed cruel; a terrible thing to ask: when would I give up on my love?
A part of me understood, perhaps, that he was only trying to protect me; to keep me from carrying in my heart the same melancholy he had lived under for almost the whole of my adult life. Perhaps he feared that I too would be left to feel as impotent as he had once - and only once - expressed to me that he had felt after what had happened to my mother. Though he healed her physical hurts with ease, he was unable to return the joy of life to her heart, and ultimately, she had left Middle Earth - and him - to return to the Undying Lands of our people.
His own sorrow could only have strengthened now that he had once again shared those few short years of peace in Mother's arms, only to be faced with the choice to return and help to turn a tide of war that swept across the lands of Middle Earth, which also held his love. Was he then trying to save me such a choice?
It was impossible of course and he knew it as well as I, for my concept of love - my people's belief of it - is as undying as the lands of Valinor, and besides... would I not have been less worthy as his son had I been able to give him any other answer than the one I gave?
Faddha's steps faltered as she heard the lord's voice echo through the great hall and the burst of laughter that followed his words. She had not heard what he said, but was sure it wasn't complementary… about anything. Hethuc rarely was; a typical warrior-turned-lord in these times, he was coarse, vulgar and demanding - sometimes altogether disgusting - yet she served him. She had so lost herself to the demands he made that she barely knew who she was any more, what had brought her there in the first place, or why she remained.
"Here she is, almost as if summoned," he mocked as she came to stand before him, fearful in spite of the anger that had driven her steps. "My little hostage!"
She ignored the words, though they bit hard at the already gaping wound in her heart. It was a lie. A hostage could only be a hostage if some agreement or demand had been made and to her knowledge, aside from her own acquiescence, none had.
"You turned aside the wounded today," she accused, her voice still softly accented in spite of many years away from her home.
"A lord can only do so much," he countered, but she leaned forward, slammed her soft hand against the table top.
"Lau!" she said, in her aggravation slipping from the Common tongue. "You promised there would always be a place beneath your roof for those in need. No matter what; no matter the co-"
She did not see the back of his hand coming until it connected with her face, and would have fallen from the force of the blow had he not caught the front of her dress in his fist and all but dragged her across the table top.
"You'll excuse me, I hope, my lords," he said to the others, "but it seems my young friend here has forgotten her manners and needs to be reminded."
The moment the words left his mouth, and his steps turned toward the short stair that led up to the second storey of the building around the great hall, Faddha began to fight; a desperate struggle of arms and fists and nails - in vain. He simply ignored her assay for freedom and virtually tucked her under his arm, carried her up the staircase, and only threw her down once he had slammed the door to the nearest chamber shut behind them.
The blunt force of the fall went through her bones like a hammer blow, and she tried to shake off the stunning pain and drag herself further from him as he turned from bolting the door, but in spite of his bulk he was on her again too soon for her to find her feet, or a place of safety. First he pinned her with a boot against the flare of her skirt, and then he straddled her, driving what breath she had from her lungs.
"I decide the use of what resources we have left in this homestead," he growled as she fought for breath. "And I've indulged you long enough. I have a different use for you now."
His words only focussed her fear and hate, and with it the clarity of her sight, if not her reason. She made a frantic grab for the hilt of the knife at his belt. She had it clear of its sheath before his fist closed around her wrist and new percussive pain numbed her fingers as he slammed her hand into the floor. The knife clattered away, and with it all hope, as he grabbed the cloth of her bodice and lifted her from beneath him, barely to her feet, pushing her backward toward the bed.
"Don't." She clawed at his wrist, but he still wore his bracers - had barely come in from the road after all - and her nails left little mark against the leather there. "Hethuc stop! I forgot myself. Forgi-"
"Twice," he spat, "in one day!"
Her balance failed as the back of her knees connected with the bed, and he leaned down only enough to add to the momentum, lifting her feet from under her. She fell backwards, and tried to scramble away, or to roll to the side, but he was on her… pinning her… pushing up her skirts and her thighs. Her breath came thick and fast in panic. She couldn't move; her arms were trapped between them and she couldn't free herself, his bulk was too great.
"Avo," she gasped. "Don't… don't!"
She snatched breath after breath, after breath to no effect, faster and faster, voiced in fear and everything she was tensed until the moment came. Like a fist driven deep into her belly; a radiating pain that stole all but the will to weep in loss. Like a candle snuffed out; a heart descending into darkness, ignorant of the pain, though she cried out from it; deaf to her own cries.
"My lord… lau… don't…ai!"
She broke down, sobbing, incoherent sounds against the grunting, snorting, panting heat that poured greater poison yet into her ears.
"They never told me where you came from." The murder of her soul came faster, harder, the agony too great as he finished, and moments later, still sucking breath against her neck he said, "But I'm not so ignorant of the lands around these mountains, or your words, to know the truth of you, like as not."
Another cry left her as he did.
"Get yourself cleaned up, and back downstairs," he ordered, moving away. "My warband won't serve themselves."
