Smoke billowed across the sky, turning the rising sun blood red. The trees creaked and groaned, as if their very heartwood was ablaze. From the village came screams of fear and pain. Running figures were silhouetted against the great funeral pyre that had once been the Marde-Linde - Hall of Song. The lithe shapes of Elves fled from the squat, heavy shapes of Dwarves.
The Dourhands had come at midnight, while the Elves told songs and tales to celebrate Turuhalmë, the Log Drawing. All day, the Elves of Oromarde, in Lindon, west of the Ered Luin, had participated in the activities of the winter festival - a day of mirth and cheer, where games were played amongst the ice and snow. That evening, they had gathered great logs and kindled the Tale-Fire from the embers that had been carefully tended since the previous year, and then it had been time for feasting, and to tell tales and sing songs of the Old Days.
It was in this time of celebration that the Dwarves had crept down from the mountains. From the north they had come, to scout the land and pillage what they could. They dared not reveal themselves to their Longbeard cousins yet, but they were more than ready to slaughter Elves - their agelong enemies. With a terrible cry they had burst in upon the revellers, and death was upon them. "Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!"
Laughing, the Dwarves ran among the buildings, tossing firebrands through windows and hacking down pillars with their axes. The flames consuming the hall now reached the stores of wine beneath, and with a concussive boom, they ignited. The short figures danced with glee.
The corpses of Elves lay strewn across the snow, which shone crimson in the light of the flames and the dawn, and with blood. The few who still lived fled into the trees, crying out in their anguish, and calling for their loved ones. Few received an answer. Yet one Elf - a woman, ran back towards the ruins of her home. "Lathron!" she called.
A faint cry answered hers: "Nana!" - 'Mummy!'
From under a fallen beam, a small hand stretched; a pale face, twisted in terror. Already, flames licked along the twisting wood, drawing closer and closer. The mother wrapped her arms around the end of the beam and strained, but the carved spruce was too heavy. The boy cried out in panic as the flames crept closer. Suddenly, squat shapes appeared through the flames and closed in around the woman. Slowly, she backed against the log, shielding her son. The Dwarves talked amongst themselves in Khuzdul, grinning cruelly and hefting their axes. In reply, the Elf drew a long, curved knife. "Leave us now, or die, traitors."
One Dwarf stepped forward, with broad shoulders and a long, two-handed greataxe. Golden birds - hendrevail - were woven into his hair and beard. "You mistake your situation, she-Elf," he spat. "You are outnumbered, caught between us and the fire, and your son is trapped. Surrender to us and we may spare your life, although your whelp is as good as dead." The boy whimpered and flinched as flames licked the wood by his face.
The Elf hissed in anger. "I would rather die than bow to faithless oath-breakers like you. Tell Skorgrím that he can burn all the villages he wants; the Longbeards will not stand for it, nor for him, and you will bring the wrath of Thrain and Elrond upon yourselves."
The Dwarf smirked. "I was rather hoping you might say that." He gestured to the other two, and they stepped forward.
In a blur, the Elf slashed at her attackers, and they clutched in vain at the blood pouring from their throats. The leader lunged for her, catching her in the side with a heavy, dual-handed blow, and she collapsed, but as she fell, she threw the knife. It sailed through the air and buried itself in the Dwarf's left eye. With a howl, he clapped a hand to his face, dropping his axe. "Your kind will rue this day!" He cursed. "The Dourhands will rule the Ered Luin. Your people's time is drawing to a close, Elf, and they will fear the name of Fírndall before the end!" He staggered off into the coils of smoke and was gone.
The Elf pushed herself to her feet, clutching her bleeding side and staring after him, but a cry of pain brought her back to her senses. The flames were now licking greedily at her son's face, and in vain he tried to shield himself from their heat. With her last effort, the woman raised Fírndall's axe high and brought it crashing down on the beam, before falling to the ground. The wood was cloven in two with barely a splinter, and the boy dragged himself free. His right cheek was raw and blistered from the fire, but he raced to his mother's side. Dimly, she gazed up at him. "Promise me this, Lathron," she whispered, "Run, and don't look back. You're not safe here, none of us are. Find the Refuge of Edhelion, and Talagan Silvertongue. Tell him Skorgrím means to... overthrow the Longbeards. He seeks eternal life. Can you... do that... for me?"
Lathron nodded, tears running down his cheeks. "But you'll follow me, won't you?" He asked. "We'll see each other again, won't we?"
His mother smiled weakly. "Boe... 'i waen. I'll wait for you... on the white shores, and in Valinor we shall... meet again. Guren níniatha... n'i lû n'i a-govenitham." She reached up to touch her son's hair one last time, and then her eyes darkened. Lathron knelt there, tears pouring down his face, and then he fled into the trees as the sun rose into a red sky.
For days, Lathron fled through the forest, heading far up into the icy peaks of the Ered Luin. Hunger and cold were his constant companions, but he had learnt to find food in the wilderness during his life at Oromarde. He searched for nuts and berries to eat, and snared squirrels and mountain hares. Over the coming weeks he grew stronger, but his dreams were haunted by roaring flames, the silhouettes of Dwarves, and his mother's dying face. One day, he caught sight of his face in a mountain spring as he stooped to drink, and recoiled in shock. The right side of his face was raw, red and hideously scarred. From then on, he shied from his own reflection, and made a scarf for himself from the skins of the animals he ate to cover his burns, as well as ward off the bitter cold. Luckily, he was already well equipped for the winter weather, but quickly his furs became matted and torn. Eventually, he made himself a crude bow from yew wood and the gutstrings of hares, fashioned arrows from deadwood, and taught himself to hunt with them.
After a month alone, he stumbled across a party of Dwarves - Durin's folk, heading to their strongholds in the south. He hid from them, remembering the terror of the night of Turuhalmë, but overheard them talking of their destination. They were heading to the building of a magnificent hall, in honour of the newborn grandson of King Thrain of Erebor: Thorin. Such names were strange to the young Elf, but among them was one he recognised; Edhelion. It seemed that the new stronghold was to be built by the ancient elven refuge, for much lore was stored there, and the mountains nearby were rich in precious ores. He knew now where he had to go.
Lathron headed south, a few days behind the Dwarves, for he had to hunt, and was still afraid of them. One night, while he camped beneath a steep overhang, a wild howling echoed through the forest around him. Before long, he heard snuffling and snarling in the undergrowth around him, and the dying embers of his campfire shone from the eyes of a pack of great, white wolves. He picked a branch from the fire and blew it into life, startling the leader, who was stalking towards him, and sending it leaping back. Before long, however, the wolves began to close in again, scenting his fear, and the remains of a grouse he had eaten. He swept the brand back and forth, sending sparks flying to scorch at the wolves' muzzles, but then he remembered the terror of the night the Dourhands had come, and suddenly his head was filled with the screams of his fleeing friends and relatives, and the fire in his hand became the burning Hall of Song. His jaw felt as if it was aflame again. He dropped the brand, screaming and flailing wildly at invisible enemies. Then a sharp pain in his leg dragged him back to reality; a wolf had grabbed him in its jaws. He drummed his fists on its skull and it backed off, dazed, leaving him time to draw his bow and fire. The arrow sprouted from its temple and it fell, twitching. The other wolves backed away, and he fired arrow after arrow into the darkness until they fled. He spent the rest of the night in a shivering heap, sobbing until the sunrise.
When Lathron tried to walk, his leg shook and collapsed under him. He bandaged it crudely, using strips torn from his jerkin, and broke a branch to use as a crutch. With his leg in such a poor condition, he was unable to hunt, and once again relied on snares, and nuts and roots, but at that altitude, both prey and plants were scarce.
It was another week before Lathron reached the Vale of Thrain. By that time, his wound had begun to fester, and he was unable to place any weight on his injured leg. To the north of the valley, great caverns were being hewn from the rock by Thrain's builders, and the cliffs had been transformed into a magnificent façade, but none of this mattered to Lathron. His sole interest was the elegant spires of Edhelion, perched atop the west side of the valley. Exhausted, he limped down into the valley, barely aware of the Dwarf builders who stared as he passed and muttered in shock. Indeed, to them, he looked like a wild thing, with long, matted hair, torn clothes and a pale, drawn face. His ears and the fingers of his left hand were beginning to succumb to frostbite, and the rags binding his injured leg were caked in dried blood and pus. It was when one of the Dwarves approached Lathron that he first noticed his surroundings, and he lashed out in blind panic at his perceived attackers. "Get away from me!" he tried to scream, but his voice was hoarse from disuse. His legs collapsed under him and he lost consciousness.
Hi, I hope you liked the first chapter, and the appropriate feels were awakened (how melodramatic).
This is my first fanfic, so please be nice :), but (constructive) criticism would be greatly appreciated too. Unfortunately, I cannot promise regular updates, for the night is dark and full of procrastinators. The story will be loosely based on the Lord of the Rings and LOtrO Epic Questline. Although, obviously, original characters will take part, I do not plan on making this yet another '10th Walker' story (I can hear your sigh of relief I'm sure). If you do happen to have written a 10th Walker story, please don't be offended - I'm sure it's very well written - it's just for me, the concept has been done to death.
More will follow, I promise. I have the first 6 chapters on the go, and a couple more from later on. I have not finished the LOTRO epic questline by a long way, so I may either have to wait for ages if/when I catch up with myself/run out of Turbine Points (Should be a while, luckily. Writing is slower than questing.) or I may digress from it at a later point. I will follow neither that or the original story to a T, so there should be at least some originality. Yay.
Most of the Elvish I will use will be Sindarin. It may be translated or untranslated, depending on how important it is to the story. Quenya will be used more rarely, as Lathron is an uncultured swine, so will generally be marked as such. I am also an uncultured swine, so expect me to butcher the grammar. Luckily, almost everyone except Tolkien is also a porcine ungulate with no concept of civil etiquette, and so you probably, hopefully, won't notice.
Expect sporadic references to various other fandoms. Gold stars (Or blood ones. Spoilers...) to whoever can spot them.
Lathron Aleniel, Elf Hunter, Firefoot Server.
Disclaimer: almost all of the names of people, places and general things are owned by Tolkien Enterprises, New Line Cinema or Warner Brothers, and are fictitious, or if real are used fictitiously and solely for the purposes of entertainment within boring disclaimers. The others are owned by me. Any similarities to any real life person, alive or dead, is probably almost but not quite certain to be entirely uncoincidental.