In the warm glow of the afternoon light, the Lord of Rivendell walked the quiet halls, the words of the Council left moments before still echoing through his head. Words spoken in anger, in fear and hope and sorrow all crushed together and made legion; the weight of empires, the fate of the Free Folk left resting upon his shoulders, upon his actions, strung together with naught but words; promises struck in the glimmering sunset before the dread of night sets in.
Silently he passed through the empty corridors; tapestries of wars fought in a distant and glorious past hung upon the walls, frescoes of long-dead heroes staring down at him with their blank eyes, lips frozen in screams of battle, tender embraces locked in the stroke of a brush, the curl of thread. The wind shifted through banisters of fluted marble, its warm breeze gently stirring the ends of his braided hair, brushing across his sleeves in playful motion, but to him it felt uneasy; like little tendrils of doubt trailing over his skin. Snatches of the Council's discussions flitted through his mind, arguments thrust and parried sharp as sword blades, ideas enervated then extinguished, all their options narrowed until but one course remained, one choice that they had to make.
I have to tell him.
His steps quickened in unconscious urgency, leading him further through his peaceful, meandering halls, winding down stairs and across narrow bridges until he reached the very rear of Rivendell's dwellings; a place untouched by visitors, its pathways seldom walked even by his own people, known only by fragments of rumour, whispers of a legend caught on curious lips. The air seemed still and glass-like, the faint touch of a summer's last warmth tingling against his skin, the only sounds were of distant streams rushing over the rim of the valley, crashing down in great sprays of water to join the Bruinen below, shimmering like a swathe of spun silver as it flowed away to the south.
He rounded the final corner, passing under a sculpted archway inlaid with a great star of wrought mithril, the sunlight glimmering like beads of iridescent flame against its eight silvery points, almost blinding against the dark wood of its setting. A small wing of rooms curved around on a path to his left, but he did not pass that way. In those airy, silent chambers lay memories best left undisturbed.
Beyond the arch, down a short flight of marble stairs stood a small grove of trees, strong oaks and old rowan trees twisting up to greet the sunlight washed softly across their leaves, in a warm yet sombre beauty. The wind sighed through their great branches, sending leaves fluttering to the ground in languid spirals of auburn and crimson, their sweet, earthy scent filling the air. To his right the edge of the valley sloped sharply away, the precipice sheer beyond the railing of the walkway, the bare rocks there mottled with velvet mosses, and crossed by tiny rivulets of water trickling down their faces like tears. The grove curved around the cliff face until it rejoined the valley walls, the roots of the outermost trees spilling over the precipice, snaking in and out of rock and soil, gleaming from the fine spray of a waterfall nearby, set ablaze in the golden light.
From where he stood under the archway, he looked about, but he could see no sign of his quarry, just the rushing waters and the tall, silent trees. With a weary sigh he descended the stairs, fallen leaves crunching under his boots as he walked beneath the heavy boughs. The quiet stillness of the air seemed to shatter with each crackling footfall, the steps of the present punched through melancholy echoes of the past with a sharpness that made him wince, sending tiny shivers crawling up his spine. His hand trailed absently across the thick trunks of the trees as he walked, feeling the knots and whorls of their ancient bark under his fingertips as he wound through their maze of living wood; ever searching, patiently peering around their curves, in silent reverence seeking, for though it would be quicker he dared not call out; not here, not in this place. It would not be right.
A few more turns, ducking beneath the weeping leaves of a willow, stepping over the smooth roots of a proud oak tree, he found that which he sought.
Leaning against the great trunk of an ancient mallorn, in the cleft of two huge roots, an elf sat gazing at a nearby waterfall, its white froth cascading down in gentle ribbons with a distant roar, to crash upon the rocks far below. Under the dappled light, the silver filigree decor of his tunic sparked like flashes of lightning, and his black hair shone where it pressed back against the golden bark of the tree. Hanging unbound, it fell past his shoulders, framing a face that while young and fair was full of sadness as he stared outwards across the valley. A small harp lay by his side, its wood pale against the dark mallorn root where it rested, enamelled with small curves of ivory, trails of gold metalwork wrapping around its arches, matching its strings of silvery horsehair that shone like lines of molten steel; an instrument of legend, all the sorrows and hopes of his people bound in the musical notes formed under his dancing fingers, songs of joy and anguish, of pain and healing twined in the thrum and pluck of those delicate strings.
Unobtrusively, the lord approached his kinsman, pausing a short distance from the tree where he sat, the elf giving no inclination that he had heard him approach, still gazing absently into the distance. And in that moment a wave of uncertainty washed over him, a certain loathness to disturb the elf's peace, to smash the tranquil air with the hammer of his words and all the force with which they swung, all the anger and suffering and death that they would bleed here in this sacred place. So for a moment he stood, silent like a graven statue, listening to the rush of the water, the wind whispering through the grove, the leaves rustling as they fluttered across his boots.
Suddenly his mood twisted, the moment passed, and he remembered why he had come, to this place of quiet reverence and memory.
I have to tell him.
Turning to the elf, he started forward one step, then stopped awkwardly, one arm lingering half-outstretched, a familiar gesture crushed by the weight of his purpose.
"It is done", he said softly, yet his words rang unnaturally loud through the murmurs of the wind. "They have chosen. The Ring will go with Frodo, and his chosen companions. But to what end we cannot know."
The elf did not reply, still staring into the falling waters, his hair shifting about his face, shimmering as a fine spray of water tousled it across his brows. Visibly he exhaled, a soundless breath escaping his lips. Suddenly he leaned forward, his head bowed, raven hair spilling across his face, and for a second a shadow passed over the grove, the sunlight flickered and failed, filling the trees with writhing shadows; shreds of grey cloud like grasping, clawing hands; ghostly faces twisted in snarls of anger, greed and lust flared in hollow eye sockets, grim phantoms with smoking swords in their fists. The air tightened, throbbing with some unseen pressure, memories of blood and fire and slaughter stirred from their slumber; twisted spectres of the past, little ghosts of the future. Abruptly the elf jerked backwards, a grimace twisting across his handsome face, and shifting a little as if in pain he settled once more against the bole of the tree, the light once more streaming through the leaves, all trace of the shadow vanished in an instant, fleeing as the mist driven before the sun.
The lord paused, the weird pressure slowly fading inside his head, the jagged tangle of memories all smashed together and warped still faintly pulsing, gradually smoothed over, to be swallowed back up into their graves, buried under serene skies and whispering leaves. The elf gazed once more towards the waterfall, but his brow was wrinkled as if in thought, his hands gripped tight about his knees, his knuckles jumping stark beneath his skin.
"I… I am sorry," the lord said, "I should not have come."
And for an instant he lingered, half-expecting and dreading a reply, but the elf held his silence. Quickly the lord turned on his heel, striding through the leaves lying fallen upon the grass, crunching like tiny little bones beneath his boots.
"Did they swear on it? Did they speak an oath?"
The elf's voice filled the grove, deep and lyrical, commanding yet sorrowful, as if spoken from a great distance, but with a power and majesty undeniable. And the lord froze; the auburn leaves raining down around him in solemn spirals, fluttering like broken wings to fall at his feet.
"Tell me."
And through the cool command there was a hint of desperation, the tiniest shake in the elf's voice that slid cold knives through the lord's innards, shards of knowledge and guilt and regret dug in deep and beginning to bleed. He turned once more, facing the elf still sitting beneath the branches of the mallorn, but now the elf stared at him, stared with eyes like fathomless voids of pain and regret and bitter, crushing agony; horror and hope waging brutal war through irises of stormy grey, as silently he begged, he pleaded with the lord to tell him, to tell him if they swore, if they said those unbreakable words; the words that shook the world, the words that tore him apart.
"Tell me."
"No. They did not swear. They took no oaths but for the Ringbearer alone. I…I would not allow it. Many things may come to pass, for good or ill, but not that, I promise you. It will not happen again."
And suddenly the lord broke away, unable to endure the elf's terrible gaze, striding quickly through the trees, back to the stairs and through the archway curving above, his footsteps echoing through the empty corridors as he paced back to his own chambers.
Silently still the elf sat, under the fading sun of the drowsy afternoon, limned in a golden light that failed to warm him, the rushing waters falling before him he could not see; treading instead the chill rivers of memory; the ghosts that came unbidden to him in the aching moments between each heartbeat, each shuddering inhalation of breath haunted with the ruin that he had helped to wreak. Every brother lost, every kingdom laid waste, every family torn apart, they danced behind his eyes in bright plumes of flame, sickening gouts of blood dripping from his sword, what was once vivid and exciting now only twisted harder his shame, his revulsion. And at the end of it all, he had begged his brother to stop, to set aside this reckless path of hate and destruction, but he couldn't, and he wouldn't; bound up too tightly in the strangling knots of their words, an oath spoken in anger and careless arrogance in another land, another time. But piece by piece the words flayed him, left him raw and bleeding as he struggled against their pull, each futile tug that only dragged the knives deeper; they slid through his muscles, they burned in his veins. And though everything was lost; his purpose, his oath made void he still lingered, forever tied to the land of his disgrace, haunting the halls of kin like some half-forgotten ghost as the centuries ebbed past him in their melancholy flow.
Now the fates of Eä once more were at play, the weapon of the cursed Maia in the hands of this little hobbit and his companions. But they were not bound; they had a choice, a choice that he never had, and for that a part of him was glad, the faint echoes of a smile touching the edges of his lips. They may falter; they may set aside their task and rest or wander free, and be held blameless for their choosing. Except for the hobbit, locked to this task by his word, but he did not swear eternal, he did not name the One, and may he be blessed because of it.
And beneath that hallowed tree the elf squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers clenching tight around the grip of his harp now clutched to his chest, its engravings pressing hard into his palms, his knuckles flexing white and bloodless to still the shaking of his hands. He had nothing in this world left to give, but the words sprang to him unbidden, and with a sudden certainty he knew; no matter who he was, or what he had done, he knew them to be right, and he clung to them, cradling them within him until they seemed to overflow, and he lifted his head, the sunlight streaming in golden ribbons upon his face, and he whispered them to the winds like a prayer:
"Let the hobbit do what we could not.
Let him succeed where we failed, where I failed.
And when all this is done, to whatever end it may fall,
Bitter or joyful, in happiness or despair,
When all this is done,
Let him know peace."
Reviews always treasured.
Yours faithfully,
theeventualwinner.