Harry Potter and the Elder Race
Chapter Three
It was a land no mortal eyes had ever laid eyes upon for tens of thousands of years, ever since the last ascendancy of the Dunedain upon the earth, at the time of King Elessar Telcontar's rule. But with the marching of time, the lands had changed: Mountains towered and then crumbled only to rise up again, seas rose and disappeared, until even in the eyes of the Eldar, the lands were no longer recognizable. And as time marched further on, so too the numbers of Mortal men multiplied. And with their spread they had driven the last of the Elven into a few, isolated areas in the world.
But what lands remained of the Eldar, they had fiercely guarded. Thus had Imraudden remained inaccessible even to the most intrepid of human beings. The land was protected on all sides by steep high mountains, which seldom few had been able to penetrate. What few did were soon lost in the thick forest surrounding it, never to be heard from again. Only through a small sliver of flat land could Imraudden be reached to and from the outside, a sliver of land cut through by the misty and frothing waters of the Edhelmere.
And yet, forever unseen to Muggle eyes was the land on the other side of the river. For anyone who tried to cross the Edhelmere's frigid waters soon met with unexplainable accidents: Some merely developed short-term memory loss, but others were found lying, stricken with an icy sleep, cold as death. Still there were others who were never seen or heard from again. Not even the Muggles' modern telescopic eyes from far beyond the atmosphere could pierce through the misty shrouds covering the lands.
Had any human been able to cross the river, he would get the uneasy feeling of being observed by eyes unseen, just hidden behind the tall trees that stood some way from the riverbank; and soon after be assailed with an overwhelming sense that his life was in immediate peril. This was not a land for Mortal men.
On this particular night that seemed no different than a thousand nights that went before it, the swift flowing waters of the Edhelmere flowed steady and silent. At first glance, no living thing could be espied from the banks on the other side of the river, save for the brooding tall trees that stood like sentinels at the mouth of the forest. But upon closer inspection, a small canoe tied near the river bank could be seen being buffeted by the gentle motions of the waters towards the bank. And now we could see something – or someone – walking to and fro along the edge of the bank, its eyes shifting from the skiff to the bank on the other side of the river, which surprisingly could be seen clearly this side of the Edhelmere. It was a tiny thing, a human really, but not necessarily a human child. It had brown curly hair, round, rosy cheeks, and was unshod, its hairy, leathery feet never shy of walking.
The little man (for he was almost a man, as he kept insisting to anyone who would listen) kept muttering under his breath as he continued to glance from the canoe to the other side of the river, marching up and down, up and down the riverbank, furrowing a pattern into the grass that grew beneath him. It was as if he was conducting an ongoing debate with himself, bracing himself up to do something. "Yes I'm going to do it. I'm going to do it now," he repeatedly mumbled.
He was all packed and ready to leave. The tiny canoe that would take him across the river to the lands of Men was ready. He had been planning this trip for years. Years! Ever since he was little, he had heard the stories of the once great hobbits Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee – before he was known as Samwise Gardner – of how they saved Middle Earth from the Dark Lord Sauron. And he grew up dreaming and wishing that he could set forth on his own adventure, be written down in the history books. This was his only chance for such an adventure. He still wasn't sure how to survive just the river crossing. But if he didn't chance it, how then could he start on this, his greatest voyage?
He'd heard that there were still Hobbits in other parts of the country and now was the time to go out into the lands of the Big Folk, to leave Imraudden where some of his people had taken shelter under the watchful protection of the Elves. But there was also another reason why he wanted to leave this place.
They said Old King Aeldred lost his marbles after the attack of the Dark Shadow on Imraudden some years back, driven mad because it was he who sent the pregnant Queen away. And then the Dark Shadow ambushed the Queen and her retinue, and they were all killed. Except, for the Unborn Prince. Well, at least that was what King Aeldred kept insisting before he died, that the Unborn Prince somehow survived the attack. Many of his kin – and the hobbit was sure some of the Fair Folks as well (though you would never catch them admitting to it) – believed the late King's assertions were nothing more than a dying man's mad rantings.
But the late King never once wavered. Up until the very end, to the last of his breath, he insisted that the Unborn Prince was still alive. That somehow the Prince was living in the Mortal world.
Well, if that were true, he, Fosco Buntinghill, was going to find out. And by gum, he was going to do it, too! He was small. The big folk won't notice him, for they do not usually take notice of the little things that scurry under their feet. He would be the one to find the Unborn Prince.
A flash of light and Fosco fell flat on his stomach. Coughing, he spat the grass in his mouth and wiped it with the back of his hand. He braced his two arms against the ground and pushed hard as he struggled underneath the piece of the sky that just landed on top of him – at least that was what it felt like to him. Then he scurried away on his hands and knees like a many-legged insect.
When he had reached a safe distance away, Fosco turned around to see what it was that almost killed him. He found himself staring at a human, a young one by the look of it. The hobbit looked around and scratched his head, wondering how the boy could have gotten there. He knew that the Elves had wards so no Mortal could cross the river. He decided that the boy indeed dropped from the sky.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
The human must have tried to cross the Edhelmere river. But the Fair Folk had long ago made it impossible to make that journey. No one had crossed the river in thousands of years and lived to tell the tale.
And then he saw it, the wand in the boy's hand. And he knew why the boy tried to enter Imraudden. For although the wards of the glade had never been breached before, there was a time when three wizard brothers managed to build a bridge to try and cross the Edhelmere. But that was more than a thousand years ago. The Elven King then chose to take pity on the wizards, who were the Eldars' half-kindreds after all. But it was also said that the Elven King's motives were far from altruistic, for a prophecy was once made:
"….three gifts shall be given to the Elven's half-kinds,
three shall return on the Day of Doom
Three lives redeemed the redeemer's redemption
Seven against seven, the seventh of seven
Love bears a gift, true love's deception…"
What the prophecy fully meant, no one had any idea. And if the keenest minds of the Fair Folk could not decipher its full meaning, Fosco did not fool himself into thinking that he could. But three of the witching folk did indeed try to cross the river Edhelmere, and the Elf-King then thought that they were the three wizards spoken of in the prophecy.
And now here he was, staring at another wizard. He waited and studied the young boy before him. He noticed its torn and blood-spattered clothes. He scratched his chin this time. Could it have died? What if it did? Would he be accused of murdering the child? Blimey! The hobbit frantically looked about him, searching for who knew what. Something! He then saw a twig not far away from him. He crawled to pick it up then started to approach the unconscious boy warily. He prodded it with a stick, trying to see if it made any movement, but he got no reaction from it. He came closer, and knelt down beside the body. He carefully leaned down, the side of his face tilted towards the body. He leaned his head closer to the young boy's chest, stopping at the slightest movement. When he couldn't detect any heartbeat, he placed his small hands under the young boy's nose and a whisper of breath warmed his fingers. He's still alive!
"What to do! What to do!" The hobbit fretted, wringing his hands. He couldn't carry the young boy, it was too heavy for him. The Hobbit village was in a clearing further inland. But even if he ran for help, chances were that when he returned the boy would be dead. Maybe he ought to shout for help. But such a thing was simply not done, not this close to the Big Folk's lands.
"Move aside!" A tall Elf, one of the border guards, suddenly was standing beside him. Fosco didn't even feel them come near. But the hobbit quickly got out of the way.
"Forgive me, I didn't mean to. He just appeared."
"Silence, Hobbitt! We have been watching you for months now trying to make up your mind whether to leave Imraudden or not," said another elf. "We saw what happened."
"Oh."
One of the elves knelt down on one knee and felt the boy's heart. "He's still alive," he said. "But barely. This young human has been hurt, but not by Imraudden's wards." He stood up and looked at the other elf. "He needs a healer."
"But where?" said the other elf. "If we bring him to the castle, his life is forfeit. In fact, it already is. If he had not been unconscious, then we have no choice."
"You're not thinking of murdering him!" the hobbit cried, horrified.
"Foolish hobbit! We are not murderers, especially of a young boy. But he cannot stay."
To argue with the Fair Folk was an unheard of thing. But the hobbit couldn't let it go. He felt somehow responsible for the young human, as he was the one who found him. There was something about the young boy that tugged at his mind, causing him unease.
"Wait!" he shouted as the Elves moved to pick the young man up. The hobbit almost withered as the two very tall elves looked down on him. But he was a hobbit, made of stouter heart. "But we don't know who he is," he reasoned. "We don't know how he came to be here. What if he's in danger? There must be a reason why he suddenly appeared here."
"This is not the first time that Mortals have tried to enter Imraudden. You know this hobbit. And the law is clear. No man can enter Imraudden and come out alive. We either send him to Princess Caladhiel or we leave him in the nearest Mortal village. His kind will take care of him."
The hobbit could no longer argue this although his interest continued to burn inside him. He watched as one of the Elves picked the boy up. The elf did it gently, still, the human moaned in pain, opening his eyes slightly.
"Green eyes!" the hobbit shouted.
The Elves paused and looked down at him as if the hobbit had suddenly gone mad.
"Green eyes! He has green eyes!" the hobbit cried, jumping on the balls of his leathery feet. "Remember the King's words before he died? The Prince! He'll have dark hair and slightly ruined eyes and green eyes! As green as the forests of Imraudden, his rightful birthplace! Look! He's wearing reading stones!" the Hobbit said, pointing to the eyeglasses Harry was wearing. "Can't you see? He's the unborn prince! He's come home!" The hobbit shouted excitedly.
The elves looked doubtfully at him.
"I'm telling you, he's the Prince! How else could he have crossed the Edhelmere river? Not even the magical folk could break through easily. Your arrows would be upon them if they did."
The Elves looked at each other. Hobbits are unlike Elves – they are foolish and child-like. But every word the hobbit had uttered somehow made sense.
The elf carrying the young human said, "We must bring him to the palace. I'm taking him to the Lady Caladhiel."
"But Haeldor, no mortals are allowed in Imraudden," said the other elf. "That is the law of our land."
"Look at him. Do you see his wand?" Haeldor said, for Harry still held his wand tightly in his hand. "He's a wizard. Our half-kind."
"Still, Haeldor. We cannot allow it. His life will be forfeit if we allow him passage."
"Then I will take responsibility."
The matter was thus settled. With relative ease, Haeldor carried Harry in his arms as if he were no more than a leaf. Then with the grace and speed of their kind, the Elves hurried through the open ground and through the forest that ringed the outer borders of Imraudden, running swiftly with the wind upon their feet, Fosco doing his best to try and catch up to them. Finally, they reached the glade of Imraudden where the King's Palace stood. As they approached the castle, they passed by the roundabout in the center of the glade where the ancient White Tree of Gondor stood. Their people had taken pains to preserve whatever they could of the Lost Kingdom of Gondor, whose history was closely bound to them. When King Aeldred died, the leaves of the Tree had begun to fall until only one leaf remained. But now on every branch, a leaf had magically grown: the White Tree of Gondor had began to flourish once more.
~o~
Lady Caladhiel stood on the balcony on the second floor of the palace. Although she wasn't aware of it, it was the same balcony on which the late King – her sister's husband – stood the night before her sister disappeared in the North Sea those many years ago.
As always, her mind was consumed with thoughts of her missing nephew. Before he died, Aeldred had insisted his son was still alive and living in the Mortal world but she could not see how that was possible. And yet at the same moment she had felt the terrible loss the time her sister died, she had also felt something more powerful, a feeling so overwhelming she didn't recognize it for what it was. Only some time later did she realize what she had felt alongside her grief – the sense of abiding hope and freedom –as if a great weight had been lifted not just from her heart but from the world they had called their new home. If it was true, if her nephew was still alive, if there was a small chance of possibility, then it could only have been through the power of Eärendil.
At that time she was in her home Kingdom in Noregr. But she hurried to Imraudden at once, intent on finding what had happened and came upon a Kingdom that had lost its heart. Aeldred was not only grief-stricken, but dying. For he had made the terrible mistake of uttering a sacred promise to his wife: to be with her soon as ever he can. For the words of the Numenorean kings was law. And Aeldred, being directly descended from King Elessar, had the same power over words as the Kings of the Dunedain had before him.
Aeldred struggled to find his young son in the Mortal world, sending the Kingdom's best Elven–warriors to search for the boy, but they never found him. How could they? It had been a long time since their kind had travelled to the lands of Men, a long time since they had dealings with any of them. The reports that came back had been daunting. The Elven-scouts found the lands much changed, their movements limited by the paucity of wooded lands and green fields where her people could move freely. And they simply had no idea where exactly to look for her nephew. When the last of the scouts came back, Aeldred had already died, completely heartbroken. But she had continued the search. She continued to believe, believed in her brother-in-law's dying words.
Her lips started to move, a sound issued forth – a whispering at first, soft under her breath, like a lullaby. It was a song, his song, a call to her only sister's son. For years, she sang to him, hoping against all hope that somehow he was out there, that her voice would reach him – hope undergirded by neither fact nor fancy. And as before, she pleaded for the wind to carry her words, for the creatures in the air and on land to hear and bring her voice to her missing nephew, the life of her blood. The only one left of her family.
Tears rolled down the Lady Caladhiel's face. Let them fall. Let the wind kiss her cheeks and know only pain and gnawing worry. "Aranhil!" she whispered into the night. It was the name her sister had always wanted to give her firstborn son and that was what she called him.
A ray of iridescent light rippled on the marble floor not far from her feet. Her heart hammering, Lady Caladhiel turned slowly and followed the light to the dais where sat the throne of the King of Imraudden. On one side of the throne was a large crystal vase placed on top of a pedestal. The Goblet containing the Light of the Star of Eärendil was aglow, not a scintilla but the entire pithos*of the Star's light was ablaze with a blinding, shimmering light. Her breath caught and she clutched at her throat, trying to still the rapid beating of her pulse, like that of a bird.
Only the Elven King could call that Light to luminesce. And now that the King was gone, then the Heir, the sole heir, her nephew the Prince of Imraudden.
~o~
May it be an evening star
Shines down upon you
May it be when darkness falls
Your heart will be true
You walk a lonely road
Oh! How far you are from home
Morning/Mourning yeah? You too a ?
Believe and you will find your way
~ ? A lan- ?
A promise lives within you now
May it be the shadows call
Will fly away
May it be you journey on
To light the day
When the night is overcome
You may rise to find the sun
~ ?
Believe and you will find your way
~ ?
A promise lives within you now
A promise lives within you now
For years Harry had been hearing that song in his head, ever since he was little. Especially at night, alone as he lay down in his small camp bed in Aunt Petunia's cupboard under the stairs. He would hear the song as if the leaves in the trees, the flapping of the wings of some unseen bird, the tiniest breath of a breeze were whispering the words to him.
At first, he thought he was just imagining it. But over the years he heard and understood more and more the words of the song until he almost completely knew the lyrics. Not all of it, some parts he still could not understand.
He supposed his mother must have sung it to him when he was still a baby and it somehow stayed in his memory. As a child, it felt like a lullaby, as if his mum was still around singing to him. And in the deep of the night, when his stomach was twisting with hunger, he would listen to the words and somehow feel comforted. And he would sleep, feeling loved, though his tears remained on his face until they dried.
And in the morning when he woke up, he found that food came to him. He would be sitting on the bench in the small playground at Little Whinging and a dog would walk up to him, a package of food in its mouth, offering it to him. Or he would be sitting on the same bench, and a package of food would drop from the sky. He would look up and the only thing he would see was a bird flying off into the distance. No matter how much Aunt Petunia tried to starve him, Harry knew that once he stepped out of the house, food would come to him.
Once, Dudley found him seated on the same park bench, eating a sandwich. Dudley knew that Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon never gave him pocket money, that Aunt Petunia rationed his food, and that he wasn't allowed to take food from the house, either. Dudley made a half-scowl, half-smirk (it was hard to tell because Dudley's face was all fat) and Harry knew he was in trouble. True enough, when he finally got home later that afternoon, Aunt Petunia accused him of stealing – from the neighbors, from the ref, from the pin money she kept hidden in a small tin can in the kitchen cupboard. She had no proof that Harry did any of these things that she was accusing him of, the money in the tin was untouched and there were no neighbors who came knocking at their door to complain, and yet she stuck to her belief that Harry had been stealing. She refused to believe Harry's story when he told her the truth. And ever since, before Harry left the house, she always made sure that Harry wasn't hiding any food or stolen money in his pockets or bag.
Harry had wondered about it, the same way he wondered about the other strange things that were happening around him. And when Hagrid told him what he truly was, he naturally assumed that it was part of being a wizard. But later on both Ron and Hermione assured him that it was not, that animals bringing you food was not usual behavior for them (and this Ron had attested to quite vigorously). Later when he met Dobby, he asked the house-elf about it as well. And though Dobby expressed profusely his extreme desire to serve Harry anyway he possibly could, sadly it wasn't him either. And then still later on, he had asked his godfather Sirius about it, but Sirius, too, was as equally mystified as he was. Dumbledore? Somehow, Harry felt embarrassed to ask the old wizard. In the end, he could only think that it was Dumbledore. Though something told Harry that it wasn't the old Headmaster, either.
The memories of his childhood returned to him now. But they were like clouds scudding in the sky that changed shaped as soon as it formed. Harry felt as if he were floating in a cloud, too. But the clouds here were different, they all seemed to shine with an inner glow, as if there hid a light inside.
Harry lifted a hand, trying to hold the cloud in his hand.
"What are you doing?" someone whispered beside him.
Harry turned his head towards the voice but his eyes still felt heavy and he could not open them. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make his eye muscles function.
"Will you be waking now?" the voice asked, a bit tinny, like that of a child, except it was annoyingly close to his ear.
And then slowly, Harry opened his eyes.
A/N: im lazy so I will not paraphrase the Wikipedia entry for a pithos. There's also a reason why I used this particular word to describe the goblet containing the Star of Earendil:
A pithos (storage jar) could be turned to the advantage of an enemy, who had only to knock over a pithos full of oil and touch a torch to it to produce a major conflagration. Most of the palaces of the Bronze Age Aegean were burned at one time or another in this way.