At the bottom of this page:
Author's Note
The Meaning of the Titles
Customs Touched On Here
Sources and Inspiration
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LORNARION
Lithuin Tindu
or
Out of the Ashes at Twilight
Prologue
Annuinant
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I
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He really didn't want to admit it, but he felt strangely naked without the Ranger at his back now. Anarmacil gritted his teeth against the sensation, but it persisted. Somehow, in the week since he and Elluine had been picked up by the Ranger and his men, the Liemuina youth had become used to the presence of the Numenorean at his back, watching out for the two Hidden Ones despite Anarmacil's surliness. And now... now they were alone in the middle of Hobbiton. Furious at the Ranger, Anar cursed him silently. He hated it here.
He led Ambarone on foot, Elluine slumping in the saddle. She was exhausted, that he could see easily. Her injuries were still not even half-healed, and had been worse than his own to start with. That, and her unfamiliarity with sleeping in the wilderness, had turned her into a practically lifeless zombie. He was a little better off. He could still trudge.
He had asked directions to Bag End off of a Hobbit maiden, who had stuttered them out while staring at the black bruise where his cheek used to be. Doltish girl. He hated being stared at. He knew what the Halflings were thinking when they stared at him that way. Their round, fearful eyes told him that no matter what he had done, no matter why he had done it, to them he would always be a butcher, a murderer. He had helped save the forests during the Fell Winter, helped to save the Hobbits. But he was from the Village, and he was a soldier, a warrior -
his sword wet with the blood of a thousand enemies
sweat and blood dripping into his eyes
the burning sting of a thousand cuts blazing across every inch of exposed skin
the right side of his face throbbing hotly across his cracked cheekbone
the crimson cloth across his mouth the only thing preventing the thick, choking smoke from fouling his lungs...
His clenched fists were what snapped him back from the past, back into the grips of reality. His nails, short and ragged, were slowly gouging painful crescents into his palms. The pain - and the lack of a sword hilt in his hand - reminded him that nothing here was as it had been. He was not one of the despised heroes, and the Hobbit girl was only staring at him because he was a frightful sight, barely healed bruises and black-scabbed cuts, one arm in a sling to appease Aragorn's nagging, his clothes disheveled and travel-stained. The girl wasn't looking at him for him. She was looking because he was a Village lad in a sorry state. After her stumbling curtsy and mumbled directions, he immediately started moving away from her. Once out of sight, he knew she'd immediately go back to her chores. He was grateful for that.
"You're anxious," Elluine said softly. She didn't seem to notice the people staring at them. He couldn't stop himself from flinching under their seemingly accusing eyes. Around and around in his head, he whispered, I'm not a murderer, I'm not a murderer, I'm not, I'm not...
"Anar?" His friend's voice was softer than mist. "What's wrong?"
The youth didn't answer her. He couldn't. Too many memories threatened to slash him to ribbons. He saw the Hobbit holes, saw the Little People scurrying about their lives, and wondered if they knew how close it had come to their extinction all those years ago. He looked at the white road, the dirt a strange color like dusty bone, and shuddered as bloody slush superimposed itself in his eyes over what was really there. The world darkened to night for a long moment, a night lit up by burning thatch and flaming trees, and he instinctively closed his eyes against the sight of a long ago battle field. He tried to force himself back to the present.
Not the past, he thought forcibly to himself. Not Buckland. Not the Smials. Not the Old Forest. This is Hobbiton. It's daytime. It's summer, still. You're with Elluine, not Naira. Everything is fine. Open your eyes and see it's all fine.
As he thought these things to himself, he opened his eyes. He had to focus on something real, something in the here and now. The only thing in front of him was the Hobbit town, and just the thought threatened to plunge him back into half-real memories of too real horrors. He jerked his head around, the bones in his neck popping in protest, seeking for something to lock his eyes onto, and he found Elluine's crystal blue eyes, her silver-gold hair, her pale, too thin face. For a moment, that was all he needed. He was in Hobbiton, with Elluine, in the summer. Not in the forest, with Naira and the others, in the depths of the Fell Winter. Not in the battles his father had commanded him to forget...
And that was his undoing. Thoughts of his father were his downfall. Elluine's pale eyes shifted by only a shade, darkening only a minute bit, her hair lightening to shock whiteness, and he was wrenched out of the relative safety of the mind that Ellie's face had granted him. It was only a single moment in time, but it shredded his self-control and thrust him back into memories -
battle cries and curses from familiar throats
the clash of metal, blade against blade
blistering heat as the sun beats down upon them at noontide
Anar swearing under his breath at his own idiocy, to have attacked a Fainmando in broad daylight
the stench of smoke and blood choking him
fire blazing in his chest, a burning pain, scorching and searing his heart
someone screaming, screaming and calling his name, screaming...
"Anar!" She screams, and he turns to her
blue eyes, darker than water crystals, electrified by fright
arrow whistling through the air toward an unprotected back
piercing flesh with a wet, clotted sound
and she screams
"Anar!"
"Anar!"
He jerked back to himself at the sound of Elluine calling his name. He blinked rapidly, his eyes stinging, and fought back what might have been called tears if seen swimming in the eyes of someone else. But he refused to allow himself to consider the possibility that this wretched Halfling township had the ability to reduce him nearly to tears – not after everything he had done to strengthen his hold on his self-control. He blinked back the stinging wetness and looked around, for the first time realizing that he'd been walking the whole time. They were nearly through the town already. Bag End was close. They were near the drive. A little ways past the Hill of Bag End was the woods. They called to him, whispered of peace from the town that raked up so many cruel memories.
"Anar," the water-fated Liemuina girl called tentatively from Ambarone's back. "Anar, are you all right? What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he said mechanically, lying through his teeth, breaking yet another of the Hidden People's laws. But he couldn't tell her. He wasn't even sure what he could have said. He wondered briefly if he was going mad. He'd had the same thought, years ago, when he and Naira and Linde had been separated at first. He'd thought he'd been going mad because wherever he turned around, he saw familiar violet or sunrise colored eyes, the lovely raven black or copper fire hair that made his heart thump painfully in his chest. He would blink, and the images would disappear, rendering unto his questing, hungry gaze the familiar outlines of the forest, the Village, or its people. He hated that. He despised it.
And now the memories of war were threatening to swamp him, drown him, butcher him. He bit his lip until he tasted blood, hoping the pain would drown out the voices of the trees, and it did, but the taste of coppery blood dragged him down into the memories of battle-
steel clanging against vilyekemen
sweat and blood pouring down his face
shoulder burning where an Orc blade strikes armor, cracking the bone
muscles ache as he blocks sword thrust after sword thrust
salt stings in a thousand cuts, makes his eyes burn
he's lost his helmet somehow, but it doesn't matter, he must fight, must keep on
arms and shoulders and legs burning with fatigue
a silver horn bugling in the distance, calling them back to the Smials, to protect the Thain
must run to protect the Thain
dodge the enemy's blades
slash, thrust
a sword comes hurtling towards his face...
He came to himself in the woods, curled up on his knees, sagging against the trunk of an aged pine, his arms curling around his chest. He sucked in air, gasping for breath in the aftermath of the flashback. His heart felt as if it would shatter his ribs. All he could do was cry, great breathless sobs, and rock himself back and forth as twilight - when had it fallen - continued to deepen. He hugged himself as the tremors threatened to tear him apart, ripping at him from the gaping hole in his chest and thrusting outwards. He gasped for breath, shuddering. Laughter, soft and feminine, filled his ears, wrenching at him. He clapped his hands against his head. He didn't see that his knuckles were suddenly scraped and bleeding, his palms bruised from beating the rough trunk of the pine tree and the stony soil. He tried to block out the laughter, tried to forget the images blasting through his mind. Elusive as poison breath, they flickered in and out of his consciousness, dragging at him, slashing at him. Agony, gripping his chest in a vise, spasmed through his body, and he passed out into merciful unconsciousness.
Elluine was not by his side.
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II
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Anarmacil came to himself with a shudder and blinked his eyes open, just staring up at the sky and getting his bearings. He was in the woods, he knew. He smelled leaf mold and resinous bark, felt the prick of pine needles and the sharp contours of stones beneath his back, pressing into his skin despite the red wool shirt and leather vest he wore. His clothes were so worn after the last week, he was surprised his vest didn't have gapped stitching at the seams. He saw dark sky overhead, the pinpricks of silver white and ice blue stars wheeling over his head. He sighed, and inhaled the warm, summer night air. Wood smoke touched his nose, and his ears picked up the crackling of flames and a song sung low and soft, in fluent Elvish. The Liemuina youth's blood ran cold for a moment at finding himself in the company of another before he realized that he recognized the owner of the singing voice.
Aragorn.
Anarmacil found himself transfixed by the soft singing, a song he had never heard before, but somehow, he recognized the pain, the grief, the longing infused with the Ranger's voice as he sang.
"Aran eänë yáressë
nó Atani vantaner cemenessë
túrerya né ortaina hróto lumbulë,
márya né or tumbo ar taurë.
Lassiva rierya, laiqua collarya
telpië ehtaryar andë ar aicë,
i silmë turmaryassë né mapaina..."
The boy sat up gingerly, feeling his aches in places he didn't even think existed in a normal person. He looked around now, and saw that he'd been wrapped in his own cloak, as well as a leather coat and a second, mottled gray and green cloak made of thick cloth. It was pinned with a reddish gold leaf from a tree he didn't recognize. For a moment, he found himself transfixed by the sight of that reddish gold, and though it was a broach, not an earring, he was suddenly swamped by a memory-
"Take it, please..."
Yellow gold and red gold
Flash of the sun off of metal, the sparks of beginning
Heart pounding in his chest as he blushes hot
Amber tear drop glinting in the light
Ruby burning in the shadows
"For me?"
As proof, he thinks to himself, but cannot say
Proof that he loves her, proof that he will one day ask to wed her
"Do you like it?" He can't help but ask
Her eyes are her answer, smoldering liquid gold -
With a barely smothered cry, he pulled himself back together, clutching his body with a tight embrace to keep himself from falling apart. He was rocking hard back and forth, but he didn't realize it. He could only bite his lip until teeth drew blood and try to shove the memories away. Against his will, he reached up to touch the ragged, scabbed ear with the missing silver hoop. Finding it gone, and remembering why he'd been wearing silver in the first place, he groaned softly. For what seemed an eternity, he could only hold himself tight, trying not to shatter. His chest ached, and his eyes burned.
After a long while, he felt calm enough to get out of the cloak cocoon he'd been wrapped in and face the Man waiting for him. Pushing the cloaks aside, he found himself pinned by the keen, dark gray eyes of the Ranger. He didn't stop stirring the pot beside which he knelt, but his eyes never left Anar's face. There was a wealth of concern in those eyes. Anar felt heat, the fires of his anger, rush into his face, and found himself forced to look away.
"Are you hurt?" Aragorn asked.
Incredulously, the golden-haired youth jerked around to stare at him, wondering if he'd suddenly lost his mind. Of course Anarmacil was hurt. Aragorn himself had seen to those injuries, including setting his broken arm, which currently throbbed like a rotten tooth from wrist to shoulder. Why would he ask if the boy were hurt? Then it dawned on him. He meant emotionally. The Ranger was trying to be kind to him, trying to offer him help. Well, he had Anar's thanks, but there would be no asking for help from this mortal, who looked so much like the King of Darkness.
"What are you singing about?" He asked instead of answering the Ranger's question.
Aragorn stopped stirring a pot of woodland stew long enough to murmur, "The Lay of Leithian."
At once, Anarmacil knew why he'd felt such a keen ache in his chest when hearing the melody, if not the words. He could recognize a love song a league away. Theirs were the melodies that ripped him to shreds, theirs the lyrics that burned within the inside of his skull. He hated that, but this was... interesting. He'd always wanted to hear the Lay of Leithian, the full tale of Beren the mortal man and Luthian Tinuviel, the Elf maiden descended from one of the Maia, but the song was considered taboo in the Mirea Ronde because of the love between Races.
"You need to come with me," the mortal man said, his voice stern, commanding, breaking Anar's reverie.
It reminded Anar suddenly of another man with dark hair, whose eyes, instead of that keen, steely gray, were the black of midnight, the black of pitch, so black that you could sink into them and drown in darkness. It wasn't the face, the dark beard across the cleft chin, the commanding eyes, or the regal posture. It was the tone. Anarmacil was suddenly reminded of the one man he hated more than anyone else, a man with dark hair nearly to his shoulders, a dark beard across a cleft chin, and commanding eyes you could lose your soul in because he was a void of nothingness. Anar felt tears sting his eyes, but he thrust them back, bit his lip until he tasted blood, clenched his fists at his sides. He would not cry just because this mere Ranger had the gall to look so much like Morquanar, Anarmacil's father.
"Did you hear me, Anarmacil? You must come with me. You are in desperate need of help, and as no one has offered it to you yet, it seems I must, whatever reservations you may have about me. You need my help, and you must take it." There was a strange earnestness in the Ranger's voice, but the boy didn't care. His hate was a physical thing, black and stinging as it oozed through his veins, welled up behind his eyes, twisted his mouth, curled his hands into bloody fists.
"Why?" He demanded around a mouthful of blood, but it came out somewhat garbled. Irritated, he spat a gob of scarlet onto the grass and repeated the question. "Why? What reason do I have to trust you? And what help can you give me?" The youth demanded angrily, his belly twisting into what seemed a thousand knots. Even as he tried to block out the Ranger's words, they repeated in his mind: you are in desperate need of help... Yes, he knew that. The nightmares, the flashbacks, the hallucinations, the paranoia... he knew he needed help. But what kind of help could he get from this Man of Westernesse? "Why does everyone want to help me? Everyone I know - my father, my mother, my brothers - they all say they wish to 'help' me. Yet on the receiving end of that help, I can honestly say I would rather be dead than accept their sweetly poisoned lies or be a part of their schemes. No offense, Master Longshanks, but I am afraid I must tender my regrets."
He said this last through clenched teeth, barely able to keep the leash on his temper from snapping. He wanted to lunge at the older man, tackle him to the ground, beat him until he simply shut up and stopped trying to torment Anar. But he knew in a fight between himself and Aragorn, he would lose.
Badly.
"I swear on the sword I bear and the honor of the Dunedain that I would never do you harm," Aragorn told him firmly, but Anarmacil simply snorted in derision. How many oaths had been sworn to him? How many oaths had he himself sworn? All of them, he thought bitterly, had been broken long ago. But the Ranger was still speaking. He continued, "I have come to a decision."
The youth with eyes like a summer night sky felt his blood chill in his veins. He began to tremble. Aragorn had come to a decision. Aragorn had come to a decision. What decision? What was he going to do to Anarmacil? Hurt him? Beat him? Rape him, perhaps? Kill him? There were countless Men who would do that and probably worse – if worse there was. And of course, the Liemuina youth could not overlook the simple fact that the stern, gray-eyed Ranger had come to some kind of decision. How many times had he heard that phrase? "I have come to a decision." That had been the phrase to ruin his life, to exile him, to imprison Naira because he hadn't known what it meant that she refused to tell him who her blasted father was. All of the hell and heartache had come from that simple sentence.
I have come to a decision.
Rage boiled in his veins, and he could see his pulse throbbing, a black star in the top right corner of his vision as his heart crashed against his ribs with fury.
A decision. Really.
"And what decision is that?" Anar hissed through clenched teeth, voice dripping like acid. He felt his face twist with hate, felt his stomach knot and churn. He didn't care. He could be sick later. Right now, he had to stand tall, show this bastard that he, Anarmacil Carlothel of the Glittering City, was not afraid of a mere Ranger. He would never be afraid of this Man, he decided, chewing the inside of his cheek. He would never be afraid of any Man. Or any Liemuina, for that matter. He was so sick of being afraid. He was sick of everything. There was nothing this Ranger could say that would make him feel any different. "Well?" He demanded after the silence had stretched overlong. "What decision is that?"
"I want you to be my apprentice."
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Author's Note
This is Anar's story. It takes place at the same time as Elluine's, and at times they'll meet up, but this story is mostly for Anarmacil. Yes, I know, we don't know much about how the Rangers work, exactly, but they have to learn their Ranger ways from somewhere. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the prologue.
Meaning of the Titles
Lornarion = son of golden fire; literally "golden" + "fire" + "son of." I figured it was a good description for Anarmacil's character. Lornarion is the name of his series, NOT this fanfic.
Lithuin, as stated in the title, means "out of the ashes." Literally "ash" + "out of." I figured it was a good first title. This is going to be, I think, a quartet - Lithuin Tindu (Out of the Ashes at Twilight), Tinwer Moremi (Embers in the Night), Uriel Mornie (Burning Darkness), and Enair Amaurea (Fires of Dawn).
Annuinant is a contraction of two words - annuin + ant; west + gift. Literally, west-gift, or Gift of the West.
Customs Touched On Here
The flashback Anarmacil has is a custom employed by the Liemuina. In Luineyende it is mentioned that the Hidden People wear earrings to denote allegiance, rank, elemental affinity, etc. An early courtship ritual (such as the modern giving of chocolate or flowers) is to exchange one of your earrings with the person you wish to court. Having that earring returned is a sign that the other person wishes to break off the relationship.
Sources and Inspiration
The Dark Jewels Trilogy by Anne Bishop (the line sweetly poisoned lies)
http : / www . elvish . org / gwaith / leithian . htm (translation of the Lay of Leithian into Quenya)
The Mage Winds Trilogy by Mercedes Lackey (inspiration for the ring-exchange)
New Moon by Stephanie Meyer (reactions to teen trauma)
Ranger's Apprentice Series (apprentice/master dynamic)
Skulduggery Pleasant (apprentice/master dynamic)
Terrier by Tamora Pierce (apprentice/master dynamic)
www . nevrast . net (Elvish dictionary)