3:22 AM. This was the fiftieth night in a row that Niamh had awoken to the echoes, the whispers in the dark. Always at the same time, always the same voice. Of course, the sound disappeared as soon as her eyes opened. The hiss of her name had sounded so real, so close. Maybe it was all in her head, just a remnant of a dream, yet she felt like the voice was trying to wake her from her slumber. The voice was familiar, but she could not recall ever having heard it before, nor could she picture to whom it belonged. Tired and frustrated, Niamh lay back on her pillows and tried to return to the sleep that now evaded her, of all the nights to lie awake, this was certainly not the best, and she had to be up at six for God's sake. It is safe to say that she was not in the best of moods when the time to get up and ready came around.
That morning the walls gazed blankly at one another, empty of posters or personality. The street outside peeked in through the window, clear of knick-knacks and photo frames, never again would it flaunt its bright tresses. Boxes sat upon the floor, groaning with the weight of their own insides, waiting patiently for their perilous journey up to the loft, jealously eyeing the suitcase standing by the door, a sentinel protecting the only possessions that would get the honour of leaving this house.
At eighteen, Niamh, blonde haired and grey eyed, was preparing to leave her small town for university, which meant she would finally escape the foster home in which she had spent all her life. And she could not wait. No more curfews, no more shared bathrooms, no more people stealing her food. Just a nice flat to herself, paid for by her parents – whoever they were. When she had been left on the doorstep, she had been accompanied by a big fat bank account. Niamh guessed it was a guilt thing; they were giving her up and felt bad leaving her with nothing. As much as she hated using the money, it had made preparing for university easier.
Niamh exited her old bedroom, suitcase in hand, closing the door behind her. No one even stopped her to say goodbye as she crossed the living area into the hall and out the door into the waiting taxi. The ride to the train station was short and awkward, is there seriously nothing more important for taxi drivers to talk about than their shift pattern?
The train station was surprisingly crowded for seven in the morning; people hurried and scurried around her, pushing past with flustered expressions. Niamh fought her way to her platform and fished her ticket from the front pocket of her suitcase wishing to be away from her small town as possible.
When the train arrived, Niamh climbed aboard, an old man even helped her haul her suitcase up onto the train, and she thanked him and went to an empty seat by a window. She had a table to herself as none of the other boarding passengers sat anywhere near her so she hooked up her iPod and blasted her eardrums carelessly.
Her mind drowning with expectations and fantasies of university life, Niamh failed to notice the arrival of the ticket master until his gentle tap of her shoulder dragged her to the surface, scaring the life out of the poor girl.
"Ticket please," He requested in a bored monotone, this clearly was the beginning of a very dull day for him. Niamh handed over her ticket, which had been waiting in front of her. The dark-haired man glanced at the ticket in his hand, looked back to Niamh, and smiled as though something had surprised him; he opened his mouth to say something, but hurriedly closed it having thought better of it. His gaze returned to the ticket and he clicked a hole in the card. The man gave back the ticket, his green eyes fixed upon her grey ones. "You'll need to get off at the fourth stop." He instructed and turned to the next passenger.
"Thanks." She muttered, thoroughly confused by the odd way he had looked at her. The fourth stop. She was travelling the length of England and onward to Glasgow, there surely had to be far more stops before they arrived there!
The first two stops came and went, the train emptying and replenishing itself of passengers as it went along. Stop number three arrived after two and a half hours of a mixture of cityscape and countryside, out of her window bloomed a village of around twenty houses. The train came to a halt and the tannoy announced they had arrived at some place that Niamh had never heard of, passengers got off, but only one man came aboard. He had long, shaggy black hair and was in need of a shave; despite this, he carried himself with an air of nobility and grandeur. The stranger seated himself across the aisle from the blonde girl, opposite the elderly man whom had helped Niamh with her suitcase. Gradually, the train pulled away from the village platform, gathering speed as it went, plunging them into a mass of countryside.
Another hour later the train shuddered to a halt alongside a dilapidated station, if the worn-down shack could be called a station, there was a small sign, its paint peeling, which read 'Darthol'. This was the fourth stop, yet it was definitely not the bustling city she had expected to arrive at. There was no announcement and none of her fellow passengers seemed to have noticed they had stopped, well, none except the two across the aisle from her; they were collecting their possessions and preparing to disembark. Niamh checked her ticket; confused as her ticket no longer read Glasgow, but Darthol - where the hell was Darthol?
"Your stop?" The elderly man asked as he rose from his seat, eyeing her carefully. He had the aurora of a grandfather, kind yet fierce. His beard hung down to his chest and his hair ever lower, both were grey, as were his clothes. Funny - she had not registered his… alternative dress; he wore robes such as the girl had never seen before, they seemed both humble and grand at the same time. Niamh nodded to him, it was on her ticket after all, she could always get the next train to Glasgow once she got on the platform.
She stood up, still unnoticed by the oblivious commuters, scooped up her iPod, stowing it in the pocket of her leather jacket, and reached for her suitcase. Before her hand got very far, another had grasped the handle and was swinging it away. "Allow me," She heard a voice insist, looking up she met the steel eyes of the shabby-haired man. He flashed her a small smile, which she returned.
"Thank you."
Niamh followed the two gentlemen through the carriage doors and off the train, who closed its doors quickly and raced off, leaving Niamh alone in a strange place with two, even stranger, strangers.
With the train gone, all was silent. The two men waited patiently for Niamh to say something. She stood stock-still; trying to make sense of her surroundings, but apart from the small station/shack there was nothing to be seen for leagues around, other than the most breath-taking countryside Niamh had ever witnessed. There were rolling hills of greens, deep and luscious; outcrops of rock, glittering and glinting; a forest watched from the distance, wary of the new arrivals. The shack was but a mark on velvet, a small flaw in the otherwise perfect landscape.
Evidently, the silence had gone on long enough for one of the trio, "Do you know yet where you are, young one?" The elderly man asked, pulling out a pipe from the depths of his robes, she recognised his voice somehow, but where from? Niamh shook her head, unable to gather enough coherent thought to construct words. The old man chuckled, proceeding to produce a long grey walking stick, with a gnarled top, from a fold in his robes - where had he been hiding that?
"I think introductions are in order here, Niamh." The girl's eyes bulged. He knew her name, what else did he know about her? "My name is Gandalf, member of the Istari and this is Aragorn, son of Arathorn." The shaggy-haired man gazed down upon her, smiling, and inclined his head in a small bow. "We come to escort you, my lady." Finished the grey one.
The poor girl struggled a moment, scrambling around in her head to find the most important questions: "Where are we? How do you know my name? How do I get back?" The words fled her mouth as a tangled rush, confiding just how unnerved this place had caused her to become.
"Darthol," began Aragorn, "We are in Darthol, the last outpost between your realm and Rivendell, to which we go." He glanced nervously to Gandalf, unsure of how to answer the next questions, how much to reveal, and seeing a thousand new enquiries bloom in the girl's eyes. Gandalf shook his head with a warning glare. "You shall be informed more so upon our arrival," He said, after some thought. Catching the flicker of doubt and worry upon her face, he spoke once more. "Fret not; no danger shall befall you whilst in our charge. The walk is but a few leagues, it will not take long."
Niamh opened her mouth to ask yet more, but was cut-off: "It would, perhaps, be best if you saved your interrogation for our destination, young one; it is not wise to discuss such things out in the open." The old man climbed down from the platform with surprising ease, followed by Aragorn, who had taken her luggage and was waiting to help her down.
Numbly she stumbled to the edge of the platform and allowed herself to be hoisted from the platform. "Come now, my lady, we must away if we are to make your meeting on time." Niamh simply nodded thanks and began to follow her two companions eastward, having given up any hope of an explanation.
"Hurry, child, we cannot delay like this." Gandalf scolded, this was the second time Niamh had stopped; she was so unused to walking great distances, they must have traversed at least four miles, she thought and was in need of a breather. "We are to deliver you home swiftly, young one."
Niamh's ears pricked up, "Home, you can get me back?" Her face split into an enormous smile, hope had been rekindled.
"Whatever do you mean 'back'? You think that dismal world we freed you from to be home?" Gandalf questioned.
Niamh's smile faltered, where was home? It was not the foster home certainly, she never had any friends there, but how could it not be, when it was all she had ever known? Maybe Glasgow could have been her home, but she had not even made it that far. A feeling of homelessness and homesickness hit her all at once, how could she miss a home she had never had?
They continued to walk on in silence, Niamh trapped in a sphere of thought, unsure of herself, uncomfortable with how much these men seemed to know of her life. These men with their outlandish dress sense and their archaic ways of speech, they did not exactly fill her with confidence, especially when they kept casting cautious looks in every direction, it made her feel they could be ambushed at any moment.
Then it hit her. She knew where she had heard the old man's voice before; she had heard him on the edge of sleep for so many nights now, always whispering her name, the way you whisper to a loved one when trying to wake them gently. She did not know what she preferred: not knowing the voice and wondering forever more, or knowing it is the voice of a stranger who has seemingly been sent to collect you for some unknown purpose. Both thoughts were equally dissatisfying and unnerving.
Many more miles they had walked when something began to appear in the distance; the most beautiful sight ever seen by Niamh and yet it was ever so familiar. A valley stretched out before them, yawning with sparkling lights, shimmering statues, shinning houses, and halls. Every space in this spectacular valley shone magnificently; from the shallow streams, the glorious gardens, to majestic mansions. Each inch of this exquisite city appeared to sing with perfection.
Grand gates loomed over them, guarded by two unusual people; extremely tall (especially compared to her five feet) with pointed ears and perfect, long ebony hair. The guards stood a little straighter, hands reaching for the weapons hung in holsters upon their hips; prepared for any threat posed by the approaching travellers. "What business have you in this land? With haste, answer now." Called the tallest, his emerald eyes seeming to see more than what was visible upon the three arrivals.
"We come at the request of Lord Elrond, we bring that which was once lost," Answered Gandalf. The guards started, they looked upon Niamh with renewed wonder, and their faces flooded with curiosity before a stern look from Gandalf smoothed their features into indifference. Niamh was once again left puzzled; she was definitely getting sick of riddles.
"Go forth to the Lord's council immediately." Ordered the second guard, who was much quicker than his partner in regaining his composure. The two dumbstruck guards swung open the gates, admitting the companions into the gorgeous city.
Aragorn clearly knew this place better than the old man did and so he took the lead, navigating his followers along twisting vines of pavement. They moved past many more of those strange, pointy-eared people, going about their everyday business, for the most part ignoring the newcomers. However, every now and then, Niamh would catch some stranger eyeing her with great wonder, akin to that of the guards, it was as though they recognised her and yet at the same time they had never seen her before. The sooner she found out what was going on, the better.
The three paused briefly at the great doors to a magnificent marble building, as Aragorn conversed briefly with the attendant in a tongue unlike any Niamh had come across in her own lands. They were allowed to pass, winding their way down lengths of twirling corridors to another set of doors. This time there were no attendants and Aragorn stepped back to allow Gandalf forward. He raised his staff and knocked three times, paused, knocked again, paused, then knocked three more times. They all stood back, waiting for a response.
Footsteps crept forth, towards to doors, gracefully, with a measured pace, they sounded no heavier than a child's gliding across a flagstone floor. The door opened.
"She is returned."
The door revealed a young woman, another of those pointy-eared people, with dark, waving hair and skin that shone like the moon. Her chocolate eyes were weighted with fatigue; clearly, Niamh's arrival had been expected to be a little earlier. Her eyes swept the companions, but unlike those outside, her gaze only glided over her until they found Aragorn. "My Lord awaits you, Child," She breathed to Niamh, eyes unmoving. "Gandalf, you may join her." Niamh nodded and thanked the woman as Gandalf ushered her into the room, sealing the door behind them.
The room was a cross between a grand hall and a gentleman's study; bookshelves filled three of the four walls and there was an open fire place filled with dazzling light like no fire Niamh had seen before, golden ornaments glinted and winked upon the mantelpiece; there lay a vast space in the centre of the hall with huge leather wing-back chairs scattered around, each with their own little side-table to accompany them. At the far end of the room sat a great desk of such smooth, dark wood that it resembled jet marble; before it perched two purple velvet armchairs, looking warm and comfortable; behind it, a great throne-like armchair of crimson was positioned so it had a view of the entire hall, this was the only chair occupied.
Said occupant, Niamh thought, had to be none other than Lord Elrond; the mysterious gentleman at whose request she had been brought to Rivendell. The Lord appeared unnaturally tall, even when seated. He seemed to project the air of one to be treated with respect and admiration, holding himself in such a way that she would surely spot him easily in a crowded room. There was something majestic about him and he had yet to say a word. His coal black hair hung, without a single wave down to his elbows and the front was neatly tied back, away from his face. His eyes spoke of a million stories to tell, in their liquid depths, secrets and mysteries seen by no other, they framed an elegant nose atop perfectly shaped lips, which were currently pursed.
"My Lord, I present unto you that which was lost, but I must ask before we proceed," Gandalf began, for the first time appearing uncertain, "Has the Queen been informed?" Elrond held the elderly man's gaze, deciding how best to answer.
"Indeed, she is aware of our… situation," Elrond started with a small sigh. "However, she has decided that she wants no part in the matter, she views it a lost cause." He finished gravely.
Gandalf looked to Niamh as though this news disappointed him, but was not wholly unexpected. "Very well then, we shall continue nonetheless." He said, looking down at the bewildered girl with immense sympathy. He gestured to one of the armchairs before Elrond's desk and gestured for her to sit, as he did the same.
Elrond took a calming breath, Niamh guessed this would not be the quick meeting she had hoped for, and she was already trying desperately to ignore his ears, as they were so pointed she wondered if they hindered his hearing at all. "How much was told to you of your parents, Child?"
This caught her off guard, Niamh had expected to have to listen, not to speak herself, and she did not trust her voice not to portray her fear. "Only that they left me," She began timidly, pausing to decide how much she should reveal of how it had affected her. A sudden anger filled her thoughts, eighteen years of feeling unwanted and forgotten bubbled to the surface, spilling into her voice. "They left me on a doorstep in pouring rain; they didn't even bother to check if the porch was open or ring the doorbell." She took a deep breath to reign in her emotion. "I wasn't found until the next afternoon." She ended quietly.
Gandalf seemed most moved by this; Niamh could feel him becoming more protective over her just by his expression of pity and vengefulness. Elrond, on the other hand, wore an expression of tranquillity and merely nodded in acknowledgement. "Yes well, that shall be the starting point of our explanations, but before we begin I must ask that you do not interrupt and to bear in mind this has all been for your own good." Niamh must have looked about to argue as Gandalf put a reassuring hand to her shoulder, "Please listen," He urged. Niamh bobbed her head once in defeat.
Elrond began to recount the tale of how and why Niamh was sent away. "It was in the days before relationships between our kind-"
"Our kind?" Niamh muttered without thinking.
After her outburst, she expected to be reprimanded, but was surprised by his apologetic smile. "Forgive me, young one. Our kind - and indeed your kind - are Elves." Shock settled upon her before giving way to disbelief. This simply was not true, there was no such thing as an Elf… Although, it would explain the ears… No. These people were tall, proper Elves were tiny and worked in Santa's Grotto making toys, did they not?
Elrond, to his credit, gave the young girl a moment to digest this new information and waited until he was sure she would not speak again, before resuming. "It was prior to any kind of relationship between Elves and others being tolerated; your mother became obsessed with creatures known in the Common Tongue as Hobbits. These Halflings were then but a legend to our kind, no one had seen one and yet there were sung many a song of them." The Lord paused. "Your mother prided herself of knowing all of them," He said conspiratorially, if he had thought to entice a grin from the girl, he was mistaken, Niamh held his gaze steadily, exuding almost as little emotion as Elrond himself.
"Your mother claimed to have found an entire population of them in an area now known as the Shire. She resided with them until she received a call to home, she could not refuse." Elrond and Gandalf shared a knowing look, before both glancing at Niamh. "She returned and returned to us heavily with child, proclaiming that a humble Hobbit was the father." Great, Niamh reflected, not only was she of Elven blood, but also part Hobbit, whatever that was.
"The father, your father, could not enter Rivendell; Hobbits were mistrusted for their ways of remaining unnoticed." Elrond caught her eye, "Not to worry that is changed since. At that time there was discontent amongst the people and when your birth came, she was forced to give you up." Another pause. "You see, there was a faction whom wanted you purged, the thought of a half-breed becoming-" He stopped himself.
Niamh's eyes flashed, being called a half-breed did not sit well with her, as Gandalf could tell. He thought of preventing her from any offensive action, but decided not to, Elrond had insulted her after all. "Half-breed? Half-breed!" She spat, now standing. "I thought you said things had changed!"
Elrond gaped, grasping for words, only to be rescued by Gandalf, who once again placed a hand on her shoulder to calm her. "My dear child, I'm sure he meant no offence." He gave the Lord a severe glare.
"Of course not." The Elf stuttered. He had not thought the phrase to be negative; it was how he would describe anyone of two Races.
Gandalf intercepted before the Elf could accidentally offend the girl any further. "Indeed. As it was, your mother had no choice, in her position it was improper for her to have a half-elven child. It would have been very dangerous. For both of you."
Niamh thought this over. "Why would it have been dangerous, Gandalf?" It sounded an odd name coming from her mouth.
"Because, Child. At the time, a group of your people thought to destroy you, it would not do to have a Halfling like yourself on the throne, and therefore you could not succeed her." He brushed his knee as though he were ridding it of some invisible dust.
Niamh was thoroughly dumbfounded. "But I would never succeed her, you mentioned it yourself, you have a Queen."
Gandalf nodded, smiling empathetically. "We do," Niamh sighed in relief. "It's your mother." Gandalf informed her, clearly anticipating her reaction. Niamh was no longer relieved.
"So you're telling me that my mother was called-"
"To the throne, yes." He nodded as he finished her sentence knowingly.
Gears turned in her confused mind, cogs almost refusing to slot together coherently. "But that would make me…"
"You are The Lost Princess of Rivendell."
It was about then that Niamh passed out.