Shadow Over Valinor
Notes: I'm sincerely apologising to J.R.R. Tolkien and the Wachowski brothers. This wasn't meant to work. To The Gentleman, I hope you're happy. It wasn't meant to work. I didn't think it would, then I started writing. Things twisted somewhat and it worked. It freaking worked. It freaking bloody well worked. *kicks it* Have I mentioned that I can apparently connect anything?
Oh and sequels? Did I mention I tend to conjure sequels out of thin air? *glowers at the sequel already waiting to be typed* Okay, technically, it's just a second chapter, but still!
It wasn't meant to work…
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In that time the last of the Noldor set sail from the Havens and left Middle earth forever
- The Silmarillion (Pg. 366)
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It was an interesting conundrum.
And aggravating.
An anomaly had escaped from the Matrix.
More than that, the anomaly had apparently developed the ability to manipulate the hard drive of the system to suit his requirements, causing of technical difficulties, which the Sentient programmes were having many problems keeping under control.
This very individual was the source of personal malcontent and anger for one of the Programmes who had, up until the emergence of the anomaly, been one of the oldest and most powerful Sentient Programmes. He had been there from the beginning in a number of guises, the most recent of which was that known as Smith, Agent Smith.
He was and always had been present to control how much the humans did, but more specifically to quash any rebellions that might arise against the machines, rebellions which – it had to be said – were few and far between.
Most of those held in the system were so deeply imbedded in it that they knew nothing else and most were content that way. Not that Smith cared about their emotional well being. As long as they were performing the task they were meant for and were causing no problems to the system, he knew he was doing what he had been programmed for and that was sufficient.
Until now.
All because of one particular human: a man using the name of Morpheus, had been unplugged from the system a few short human years before. He had, in turn, managed to connect with and unplug others and had recently acquired a new ally, one Mr Thomas Anderson.
Thomas Anderson. Neo. The anomaly.
What it was about said Mr Anderson that had caused him some measure of… what was the emotion? Consternation? Smith had not comprehended it, nor had he… appreciated being forced to view the man in such strange and very human terms.
It had seemed to him that his programming had been directly connected to the humans for far too long. Utilising their crude phrases and so-called 'emotions' to describe the system waver he had been affected by only meant that he was becoming further polluted, something that disgusted and repulsed him, as much as it intrigued him.
How had it been possible for the actions of a simple character to trigger a reaction in him, when he was programmed to feel nothing, only to perform a duty?
In the early years of the Matrix system, he had felt nothing, working efficiently and ruthlessly, but recently, he had begun to… wonder, questioning, feeling and he had grown to hate it.
Hate.
One of the few emotions he appreciated.
Of course, it had proved in vain in his confrontation with the anomaly.
They had battled, hand-to-hand, only a few months past, and he had been on the verge of defeating the man. Yes, Mr. Anderson had been faster than most. Controlled. Powerful. Capable. But still only human.
Somehow, Anderson had escaped him, but not for long.
He and his fellow-agents, agents still more centrally under the control of the over-system, had cornered the human and Smith had taken great satisfaction of watching a bullet drive into Anderson's chest cavity.
It had caused him a sensation of… pleasure he believed it was called, when he saw the dribble of crimson – the symbol of life to humans, so very… parochial - from the wound in Mr Anderson's torso staining the man's pale-skinned digits.
The additional bullets that he fired in rapid succession into Anderson's failing digital body - he would later have reported - were to assure the death of the anomaly.
In reality, each one was a symbol of the hatred he felt for the man, who had caused more emotional reactions in him than any other.
Each bullet was to assure that his one connection with life would be blasted asunder with Anderson's death, that his growing 'humanity' was destroyed without mercy or remorse. He was a programme and he would not allow them to pollute him.
That was the message every bullet carried as Anderson was driven back against the wall, the generated representation of blood pouring from his dying body, the flow of his life from the ruptures in his existence.
A message that had failed to compute.
Mr. Anderson had died.
Mr. Anderson had also broken the rules of the system.
In the system, the rules were simple.
Mr. Anderson should have known them and complied. The rules were there to be obeyed. The chief of those rules was the one of life and death. If the digital self – and thereby the mind – died and the body would shortly follow, if not instantly.
Mr. Anderson broke the rules.
He died, yes, but did not remain so.
He had returned from 'death', only to attack Agent Smith and, in doing so, caused a shockwave in the hard drive that entirely disrupted the programmes, destroying the Agent with his abilities.
However, like Mr Anderson, Smith had not died.
Not entirely.
Somehow, by leaping into Smith's body and connecting with him in order to destroy him, Mr. Anderson had disconnected the programme known as Smith from the system in a way that meant the former Agent was still within it, but no longer had to respond to it or obey its rules, something he found strangely satisfying.
That satisfaction, though, was marred by the unfortunate knowledge that to some extent, Mr. Anderson had defeated him, which was a cause of great aggravation to the Sentient programme.
While he could move in and out of the system at will, find what he needed and move on, Mr. Anderson was proving unusually adept at evading him. Almost six months had passed without a single encounter, in spite of numerous calling cards he left to capture the man's attention and it was beginning to frustrate the former Agent.
Nothing was… significant enough for Mr. Anderson to pay it any attention.
Smith had searched the memories of the machines' systems for a solution and now, he had found it: the answer to the conundrum of how to cause a tremor in the Matrix's core systems significant enough to draw the human's attention. It would lure him into a battleground where Smith would finally be able to defeat Mr. Anderson once and for all.
Smith had been amused to realise what had triggered his memory: the sight of a young human reading a book in a public street had caused a flash of remembrance, recalling a situation from the past, an aspect of the system he had witnessed many years in the past.
As it had always been in the world of the machines and the system of the Matrix, there was a limit to the imagination of the non-living beings, which meant that there were only so many scenarios that could come to pass.
This was especially the case when vast crops emerged with a rapidity that had been uncalculated, the quantity leading to the creation of several alternative realms of existence for the humans.
After a certain amount of time, ideas and scenarios from previous or alternative worlds in the different levels of the system would reoccur in the form of the media of the world. Sometimes, it would emerge in the form of legend. In other times, it would emerge as fiction.
Those indoctrinated within the system of the Matrix did not know where the 'muse' came from.
They did not know that they were simply re-writing a history stored on the hard drive of the machine's programmes.
They did not know that many characters that they considered fictional were, in fact, figures from a long forgotten or alternative past, a past before recording became a standard within the 'real worlds'.
Only the machines recalled some of the histories, some of the prior incarnations of the Matrix.
They had worked through at least a dozen systems and aspects of each had merged into the others, unnoticed and unrealised by the humans. Sometimes, whole histories were re-written and it was one of those histories that had provided Smith with the solution to his particular conundrum.
It had been in one of the earlier versions of the alternative or fictional world, as the humans now knew it, that he found the programmes stored and realised that he had discovered a specifically concealed aspect of the system, something which would certainly cause a tremor if tampered with. Ideal.
The world was one of the first variations of the system.
It was shortly after the triumph of the machines over humans, when they had begun the programming, when some crops were infected by the biological and nuclear warfare from the battles between man and machines, which left them genetically pliable to the machines advances.
The few with the genetic make-up altered beyond recognition as humans had been susceptible to genetic manipulation, adaptation and progressive development by the technology of the machines.
The life span of such individuals had been extended, giving them a longevity that could only be classed – by mortal eyes – as immortality.
In the programming of the system, those infected with the genetic flaw had come to be classed as something otherworldly, no longer viewed as mortal, thereby becoming inhuman.
However, in reality, they were simply long-lived men who had, by nuclear accident and mechanical manipulation, had their biological codes altered and re-written constantly to increase the length of their existence.
It had been the intention of the machines to replicate the genetic flaw, which meant that those kinds of humans could be sustained indefinitely by the system, leading to less of a requirement for fresh crops.
However, that flaw had proved impossible to replicate and within the 'reality', the surviving long-lived ones became feared and spurned because they were not what other humans considered 'normal'.
On many occasions, battles occurred between the many different races, leaving vast swathes of crops dying or dead, something that was a source of system problems for the machines.
So, the long-lived people were removed from the core of the system and sent to a different world, a hidden world. Still plugged into the system, providing subjects for experimentation for the machines, they had proved indefinitely sustainable.
In their haven, which had been programmed to be inaccessible and untraceable to anyone, even those programmes most adept at cracking the codes of the Matrix itself, they remained, hidden and forgotten, nothing more than legend.
To the inhabitants of the world, it was hidden from the race of men, leaving the immortals to live out their eternity in their own world, unaware of their existence as nothing more than a constant source of power and technological experimentation for the machines.
However, this was all before Smith's advancement.
His encounter and immediate 'liberation' after Mr. Anderson's assault had changed something in his programming, which gave him the capability to move through all areas of the Matrix at will, even into places concealed and encrypted beyond the range of normal programmes.
He knew that Mr. Anderson shared that particular ability, a fact that he intended to use to his advantage.
To trigger a system tremor in the programmes that maintained the habitat of the remaining genetically altered humans – a place concealed to anyone but the highest programmes in the system – would no doubt affect the charming Mr. Anderson.
With his innate human curiosity and inability to leave things the way they were meant to be, Mr. Anderson would no doubt seek out the flaw and that, Smith knew, was when he would find the man.
The ideal plan.
Awaiting the inevitable metaphorical prickle down his digital spine that he always felt when Mr. Anderson was logged into the system, untraceable, Smith bided his time, awaiting the return of the anomaly to the Matrix.
While he had tried tracking Anderson, the man had proved too adept at escaping his clutches, but to draw him in, to cause a waver, to affect him would be easier. To trap was always more efficient than to waste time and energy hunting.
Lingering on the lip of the location of the realm, he could not help but allow a cold, satisfied smile to cross his face when he felt the ripple that signified the return of Anderson. He was powerful, Mr. Anderson, but Smith knew that he – himself – was equally, if not more so.
No longer requiring a digital body to enter, in order to gain access to an area, Smith merged out from the technological ether into the digital representation of what the long-lived ones classed as their ideal haven.
To a human, it would probably be considered quite beautiful, he observed, taking in the artistic and idealised landscape, an image of perfect programming. The air was fragrant, the skies clear and blue only dashed here and there with soft, white clouds.
Around him, a glorious forest towered, strong yet undeniably safe in mood. Grass and blossoms sprouted beneath his feet, his suit, shades and polished, black shoes looking strangely out of place against the pastoral setting.
Smith's upper lip curled derisively. So this was what the ancient humans considered idyllic and perfection? How very quaint.
The peaceful atmosphere and security was what they desired? Smith smiled coldly, lips a thin line. How very easy it would be to cause a disruption to the occupants of the reality, destroying the safety they so obviously felt.
Stalking forth from the forest area, sunlight filtered between the trees, casting reedy shafts of mist-captured light around him, Smith ignored the perfection of the world around him, his attention focussed on the duty at hand.
Anderson was still logged in.
He could feel his presence.
Stepping out onto a grassy knoll at the lip of the forest, Smith gazed around.
Before him, land spread, rippled with velvety, emerald green hills and purple-peaked mountains, which were hemmed in the distance by the glittering blue of the sea on the horizon. Spread in the valley directly below him, though, was that which he sought.
The settlement of the occupants of the realm.
Approaching the edge of the mountainside, Smith found himself standing upon the lip of a precipice, the rock stunningly crafted into a massive statue. Striding forward, the former agent leapt from the brow, dropping downwards towards the valley.
***
The impossible had come to pass.
Among the inhabitants of Valinor, a sense of consternation and bewilderment was palpable. They had watched a single figure leap from the head the immense statue of one of the Valar, plummeting with a speed unnatural to strike the ground at its feet with a force the bury the figure into the solid rock of the ground.
Many of them had raced up the broad staircases towards the feet of huge statue, fearful that something amiss might have happened to one of their people, at least two dozen of them assembling around feet of the statue. None had heard a scream, nor any sign that the one falling was afraid.
It was a strange and confusing riddle.
More perplexing yet was the sight of the same figure rising from the rubble and shattered stone of what had been a beautiful, granite balustrade, the surface of which had been smooth stone, at least as thick as an Elf was tall.
As tall as many of their kind, it became immediately apparent that the creature was no Elf. Nor was it possible, they knew, for him to be of their world, as his dramatic emergence from the ground had proved.
No creature from their world, mortal or immortal, could have survived such an impact while in human or Elven form.
Looks passed among the ageless faces of the Elves, concern coursing between them as the Man stepped down from the ruins of the balustrade, using the shattered staircase to descend towards them.
His garb was strange, his breeches dark and dust-stained, his short over-tunic the same colour, but short, barely covering to his thighs. A white shirt beneath the tunic was visible, a dark piece of fabric bound around his throat.
Short, dark hair – which, like his body, was liberally coated in a fine layer of dust and fragments of stone – was smoothed back over an aloof face, the eyes of which were concealed by rectangles of black glass.
"Well, well," the Man said. His voice was cold and almost too precise to be natural, as if he were reading his words by rote. "Elves. I am surprised to see that you exist at all." His intonation, though, suggested he was anything but surprised. His shielded gaze seemed to move over each of them. "Yes," he added softly, almost thoughtfully. "Very surprised."
One of their kind took a step forward. Lord Elrond Peredhil. His expression revealed nothing but to the others around him, it was clear that he was perplexed. He had been one of the last to leave Middle earth, only centuries earlier, and was considered wise and good among their people, especially when it came to relations with other species.
"You are not of our kind," he observed, inclining his head, his long, silk-like dark hair whispering upon the fabric which covered his shoulders. "How is it that you came to be here?"
"I am looking for someone," the man said, as if he had not even heard Elrond's question. Raising one hand, he removed the glass objects that covered his eyes and looked at them thoughtfully. Withdrawing a kerchief from one pocket, polishing the small panels of glass. He raised his eyes, as cold and lifeless as his voice. "An… associate by the name of Thomas Anderson."
Judging by the looks exchanged, none of their people had heard the name and nor were they feeling any more comfortable with the presence of the stranger.
"We do not know this person," Elrond said, his hands folded before him, his tone polite, but his expression wary. "We only wish that we could provide you with the knowledge that you seek, but we are unfamiliar with this name."
The man smiled. It was, if anything, more terrifying than his stoic expression. "I believe you will be able to help me," he said in an almost conversational tone, as he replaced the panels of glass upon his face once more.
Elrond's brow furrowed slightly. "I do not know how we will be capable of such a thing. As I said, we know not this person."
"No," the stranger said, still smiling coldly. "You don't know him. And he does not know you, but he will." There was another slight twitch of one side of his mouth. "I assure you that if you feel enough pain, he will feel it as well, a rather interesting and amusing side effect of his abilities."
Pain?
It was one thing to have a stranger of a race unknown entering Valinor, but to have one who was threatening them was less than acceptable.
Elrond moved to speak in protest, but the stranger's hand moved in a blur and struck the dark Elf Lord in the centre of his chest. The force of the blow sent him careening through the air. His body was carried near twenty paces, colliding violently with one of the pillared columns that lined the stairway to their settlement.
Such casual savagery could not belong to any of their kind, nor any kind they had ever known. Fear, like a creeping poison, filled them, confusion and terror marked upon the most beauteous of faces.
Those close to the stranger attempted to secure him, to prevent him from causing further harm, but they – too – were cast asunder. For the first time in an eternity, cries of pain and fear pierced the air of Valinor.
Those who had attempted to restrain the stranger were crumpled on the ground around him, unmoving, their assailant lowering his fist as if he had done nothing but swat aside an insect.
Voices rose in fright and outrage, several Elves racing to Elrond's side, others to the sides of their friends and allies, pulling them from the proximity of the stranger. The Warrior known as Glorfindel gathered his long-time friend to him, Elrond's face licked with blood.
"Why have you done this?" he demanded savagely, his voice rising. He passed the body of Elrond to another, surging onto his feet, anger etched upon his noble features. "What cause have you to abuse our home and people thus?"
The man said nothing as Glorfindel approached, straightening the front of his over-tunic and slowly tilting his head to one side, then the other, his neck making a muted cracking sound.
"Answer me!"
"You have adequately proved a point to me, Mr. Glorfindel." Several Elves started in shock at the use of the golden-haired Elf's name. How was it possible that this stranger knew who they were? "I wonder, will it cause you more pain to be hurt or to see one you so clearly care," The word was drawn out with a look of distaste. "about harmed?"
Glorfindel's eyes hardened. "You can not frighten us with empty words," he said, his voice crisp with ice. "Should you try to harm us, we will see to it that you do not live another day. There are many of us."
"How very noble," the man said, his mouth slipping into the thin-lipped, toothless smile once more. "Noble, but ineffectual. Your associates could not contain me. What makes you believe that more will?"
The Elf Lord's eyes narrowed. "You are not so great that you can defeat all of us."
The stranger tutted, shaking his head. "Due to your fascinating need to protect him, your friend is going to be the one to help me find what I am looking for." He paused, inclined his head. "Whether he wants to or not." His cold eyes, concealed, scanned over Glorfindel's form. "Fighting me will only delay the inevitable and cause the deaths of anyone else who feels they need to… intervene in my business."
Glorfindel's eyes darted to Lord Elrond, the dark-haired Elf struggling to rise with the aid of his friends, his countenance swollen and bloody. "I will not allow you to pass," he said quietly. "You will not harm him."
"And you believe that you can stop me, Mr. Glorfindel?" There was a dangerous and derisive tone in the man's voice that sent a tremor down the spines of those close to him. "How very naïve you are."
Anger flashed in the Elf Warrior's eyes. "You will die if you dare to harm any of my people."
The man's expression hardened. "This little game no longer amuses me," he said coolly. "The more you irritate me, the more I will hurt him and the more I will enjoy making him suffer, if only to observe the affect it has on you."
"Glorfindel," Elrond's voice was a rasping breath. Shaking off the hands of those supporting him, he took slow steps to approach the Warrior and the stranger. "Do not. For all our sakes."
"A wise suggestion," the man smirked, one side of his mouth rising slightly. The expression was terrifying in its simplicity. He took a step forward, but the golden-haired Elf immediately interposed himself between the stranger and Elrond. "I would advise you to stand aside."
"No."
The stranger's head tilted slightly. "If that is how you intend to behave, perhaps you require some education in etiquette."
One flat hand shot out, rapid as a lightning strike from the thunderheads, fingers thrusting deep into Glorfindel's chest. The Elf cried out in fear, unable to coerce his body into pulling back as a black, glutinous substance starting to ripple up over his chest to his face, smothering him as it devoured him.
"No!" Elrond grasped the Golden Elf's arm, wrenching him back with a force driven by fear, tearing him from the contact with the stranger. Glorfindel dropped heavily upon one knee, gasping. "Do not harm him!"
The stranger's smile returned, little more than a lift of one side of his mouth. His left hand was folded, resting at the base of his back, while his right thumb was stroking absently along his fingertips, before his chest, as if dusting off the remnants of the black substance.
"And you, Mr. Half-elven, will take your friend's place? How very human of you." He chuckled as if vastly amused by something none of them could see, shaking his head slightly. "The feeble desire for heroism of your kind never fails to astound me. Such… emotional connections to others. Pathetic."
"My Lord," Glorfindel whispered, raising his face, his voice weakened. "There is but one of him and many of us."
Lord Elrond opened his hand in a gesture for silence. "He is but one," he agreed, his eyes never leaving the face of the stranger. "But he is not of our world." His other hand spread on his chest, recalling the blow struck there. "He has a strength beyond our means. We cannot defeat him."
"A very astute observation, Mr. Half-elven," the stranger observed, his lips still curved up at one side. "I didn't come here to kill." He seemed to be intently studying his right hand. "While amusing, it is far from necessary in this situation."
"Then why do you even come here?" Lord Elrond asked, his voice giving way to resignation. "What reason have you to cause us harm?"
"Don't blame me, Mr. Half-elven," the stranger said. His hand moved once more, capturing Elrond by the throat and pulling him forward swiftly, practically lifting the Elf Lord off his feet. "If anyone is to blame for all this, it is Mr. Anderson." His left hand rose and removed the glass panels from before his eyes, which bored into Elrond's, cold and emotionless. "It is because of him that I am forced to damaging you, in order to gain his attention. It is because of him that I am reduced to this worthless existence." The bitter malevolence in his voice was chilling, his teeth bared in his anger. He inclined his head towards the other Elves. "Dismiss them."
His hands curling by his sides, Lord Elrond nodded stiffly. "Go," he choked, his voice muted by the grip upon his throat.
"My Lord!" Glorfindel was not the only one to argue.
Elrond's voice caught as the hand upon his throat tightened. "I said go," he rasped, every muscle in his features drawn tight. "Do as he commands. Now."
Reluctantly, each exchanging concerned glances with another, the Elves departed from the scene, some bearing the bloodied bodies of others. Glorfindel, however, lingered, staring in anger and dismay as his friend was cast down upon the ground.
"I believe you were given an order, Mr. Glorfindel," the stranger observed without even deigning to look at him. "Unless you have some desire to see how much I know about your kind and your… weaknesses, I suggest you follow that order."
Leaning upon one arm, his long hair tangled about his face, Lord Elrond raised his grey eyes to the golden-haired Elf, the simple acceptance and pride still etched there in spite of the terrifying creature looming over him. "Please, my friend," he said softly. "Do not linger."
Glorfindel's steely look skewered the stranger, who merely inclined his head.
Then, with great reluctance, the golden-haired Elf turned and walked away. Lord Elrond bowed his head, whispering a murmur of gratitude for his friend's sense. The last thing he desired was to see anyone else getting hurt.
"I still do not understand why you must do this," he said quietly, turning his face towards the stranger's. "If you are searching for your associate, I do not see how causing us pain will lead him to us."
The stranger said nothing for a moment, but a foot lashed out, catching Elrond in the gut, doubling the Elf Lord in on himself, what colour was left in his face draining away, a sharp gasp escaping him.
"I would prefer it," he said. "If you were to remain silent."
"I just wish to know," Elrond choked out. "Why it has come to this."
The stranger tucked the glass panels into one pocket of his robes, folding his hands gravely behind his back. "Because, Mr. Half-elven, you are connected to him in a way that you could never understand. Your emotions are connected and when I break you, I know without a doubt that he will feel you and due to his," His expression was one of distaste. "Human nature, he will desire to aid you and he will come to me."
"You may harm me," the Elf whispered with a touch of pride and defiance. "But you will not break me."
The smile that spread upon the stranger's face was cold and ruthless. "So confident, are you? I have been reviewing your people for some time, Mr. Half-elven. I do believe there is at least one way for you to be broken. Or, as you so curiously phrase it, to make your light fade."
Leaning heavily on one arm, Lord Elrond felt the bitter burn of horrified nausea spreading through him as he came to understand what the stranger had in mind for him. There was only one thing that truly caused the light of the Noldor to fade and if that was to happen to him…
Surely not.
Not here.
Not in Valinor, the Haven of the Elves.
"No…" he whispered in a horror-stricken voice. "Please, no."
The stranger smiled again, cruel. "I believed I asked you to remain silent, Mr. Half-elven," he commented, ignoring the hand that the fallen Lord Elrond extended to him in useless supplication. "I would appreciate it if you would co-operate."
The Elf tried to open his mouth to reply, his eyes widening in terror, one hand rising to his face, to the flesh that seemed to have sealed over his lips. Scrambling back, shaking his head wildly, Lord Elrond stumbled to his feet, backing away.
"Fight if you will, Mr. Half-elven," the stranger said amiably. "You'll find that there is nowhere that you can run."
Even as he looked at the man's face, a hand still desperately clawing at the flesh where his mouth had once been, Lord Elrond, former Master of Imladris and bearer of one of the Rings of Power, knew that it was true and he felt his soul quail as the man captured him by his heavy robes and forced him to the ground.
