It had been a long trek for Turukano Nolofinwion and his companions, to find the core of the Edain civilization. The horses of Valinor had drawn attention on every path, and Elrond Peredhel, like himself, had had to wrestle more than one of them away from his mount.
The poverty, the dirt, the smells haunted him. In the distance, there had been towers of glass whose majesty impressed him. Up close, the stench of death and decay had taken over the once glorious metropolis. Nature had reclaimed its rights, and the metal rusted, the glass shattered, the colors faded.
For days, the two emissaries and their honor guard had traveled undisturbed in the relinquished halls of humanity. Beasts of metal had left their carcasses to rot, and there were no flowers, and for a moment, Turgon wondered if this was what had become of his pride-inspiring Gondolin.
And then things crept in the shadows of dusk. Something exploded – a bust of flame and smoke reminded him of the Battle of Sudden Flame, and a screech warned him, too late, before he was knocked off his palfrey by a thing of metal and dirt. He'd twisted and spun, swept the ground with his leg and the little animal had crumpled to the ground with a small cry of pain. As he fell, blood revealed his nature, and Elrond's voice boomed in the Common tongue of Middle Earth. The little dark beings stopped, and Turgon removed what was the strangest helm he'd ever seen. The Edain boy was not even a man grown.
It took them time to find ways to communicate – Turgon could tell that what Elrond spoke to them was at best archaic, barely a memory of the tongue the Edain youths spoke. Around a fire camp, in an alley under the dark towers, they spoke for a long time, until a bookish sort of youth who had twisted metal rims on his face suddenly lit up and screamed Elrond's name in recognition. He knew little of Quenya, but enough Sindarin for halting things to be said, and enough for the elves to learn a little of the twilight of mankind.
There had been a war, of sorts, the youth they called Spectaz had told them. It was long before any of the boys were born, long before their forefathers were born. Now, there was little to no organization within their kind, they told them. They had not seen an adult in years, the last one had died of the cold before any of them had grown their first hairs on their chins. Spectaz was the shaman of the group, more or less. The only one who could still decipher the written word, the only one who had been raised in the legends of The Professor by his parents and their parents before them. It took very little for Turgon and Elrond to convince the boys to join them in a quest to find the remainder of man's force. Their force became a ragtag thing. Elven warriors filled with pride taught dirty Edain boys to ride pillion, and the small group set forth once more.
The boy Spectaz told Turgon, with whom he rode, that there were legends of underground cities, of houses of metal where men remained, fearful of the sun. He said, now that the sun is gone, maybe they will come out, and this broke Turgon's heart, though his face remained impassible. Spectaz knew where the siege of their world once had been, and so there he took them. It was long, once more, to go through large, empty, dead roads of a world that seemed like it wanted to be put out of its agony. It was dreadful to wander into another large town, hungry, barely fed, cold, where darkness beckoned more sadness.
Sometimes, they found others. Grown men, women, children, rarely, and when they did, the children were kept safe with growing reverence by the Eldar. When others were found, Spectaz spoke, and they listened with ears and eyes eager for any sort of hope. They thought that perhaps these glorious messiahs would save them and bring them back to fabled times of bounty, it was plain in their eyes, and Turgon's heart quavered with grief.
Their ever growing mass of folk pushed them towards the derelict Home of the Brave, as they called it, and when he entered below the broken white dome, Turgon felt a sense of misery – that such was all the greatness that the Edain had achieved, and yet.... it felt meager, when he compared it to his own folk. There were a few others in their following who could read the Edain script, and so they set to raiding everything that could be found in the ruins of man. There was little to be found, and so after weeks of hoping for a clue, for the hidden folk of the metal caves, they were on the way to giving up.
It must have been in the clear mists that would have announced the morning, but the night was ever dark.
They came, then.
Clean, shaven, clad of blue, of green, of black. Their boots were ugly but sturdy, but they had no helms. They had no swords, but items of metal and wood that hung to their shoulders with a pike at the end that Turgon judged feeble and ill-made. He stepped forth, then, and said things none of the elves could quite gather.
Elrond stepped forth as well, attempted to offer Sindarin words of greetings, but they seemed lost of the Leader of men.
A voice, then, came quietly from the rear guard of the newly arrived Edain. His accent was halting, as if he'd not spoken any Eldarin language in a long time.
"It has been long, since I heard the tongue of my fathers," the man said, quietly. The crowd of men parted. "What brings the Eldar here?"
Turgon looked at him, but could not place the elf. Elrond could not either, and so he bowed, only once.
"The Enemy has risen again. I am Elrond Peredhel, and this is Turukano Nolofinwion. Who speaks the tongue of my mother?"
"I am Ronnie," the elf said, haltingly, and if Elrond's name was familiar to him, it did not seem to alter his features. There was utter silence in the crowd and Elrond seemed troubled. Turgon knew they needed to confer with this unexpected godsend. He raised his voice then, for the first time in the meeting.
"We must speak, with you, and with the Edain leaders," he said, firmly. "Might we reconvene?"
"I have nothing to hide from the sons of men," Ronnie replied, firmly.
"Nor we. Can you translate, then?"
So Ronnie did, and the explanations were met with incredulity at first, but his word seemed to carry great weight within the community he had come with, and they rallied to the cause. The Edain captain informed them that they had other companies around Arda, with whom contact was possible, though what manner of magic, Ronnie was unable to explain to his satisfaction. When the time came to sup, Elrond pulled him aside, leaving the Edain to themselves.
"He lies," he told him, and Turgon knew that Elrond meant the Elda with the Edain name. "I could see it in his eyes, though his skill is certain."
"What manner of a lie has he brought forth, Peredhel?" He was unsurprised, though he was glad to be confirmed in his intuition by his companion.
"He knows me, or of me," Elrond said, carefully. "Though he will not say it. And Ronnie must be an Edain epessë."
Turgon sighed, but there was little to say. "Perhaps it will come forth later," he said, wisely. "Rest, son. We will talk more on the morrow."
But on the morrow, they did not talk. More would come, more came every day, and soon, the host was assembled.
Again, it was ragtag. Again, it was hungry and hopeful, though the first scavengers they had found seemed to be darkly determined, now. Someone had spoken to them.
The boy Spectaz and his group never quite left the Elven guard, though. First to know them, they were, and though they spoke only in gesture, there was a manner of loyalty that seemed to have grown between them, over the past weeks.
Their numbers grew, and as they crossed, over and over, Turgon grew worried about how he would bring the host back to the point of meeting. There were not enough ships. There were too many smallfolk following, hoping for protection. There was not enough time.
