Kenobi
Author's Notes:
My most sincere apology for the wait on this one. I've been working on my new web-site (look on my profile to check it out) and it has taken all of my free time. Anyway, here's chapter 10 and in the next few days I'll have the next chapter up to compensate for my tardiness.
**Okay, due to the late hour and me being so forgetful I let this thing be shown when I hadn't even decided on a name. So here is it again with it more complete and me feeling like a daft git. So thank you wonderful reviewers for pointing this out to me. **
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Disclaimer:
I do not have the priviledge of owning the majority of these characters.
Although one is mine.
And of course there are *spoilers* if you have never read the books.
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Arwen lifted her head where she had buried it in her arms after laying to rest the last of her departed companions. Her eyes looked around her, but her mind was busy surveying her options.
A small light interrupted her thoughts. He hovered before her for a second before landing gracefully on her raised knee. He smiled beautifully at her.
He really was an unusual creature. Aside from the fact that he was something absolutely new to the land, he himself was odd. They stayed and merely looked at each other for many minutes. She expected him to say something to her-anything- but he didn't. He just stared and smiled. Finally the awkwardness of it all broke with her voice.
"What is your name, stranger? I can't keep addressing you as 'stranger'."
"I was hoping that you would bestow a name on me, my lady."
"Me?" Arwen asked somewhat taken back. "Have you no name for yourself?"
"Some of us are not privileged with that gift."
Arwen was silent for a moment going through the proper requirements that come with naming someone.
"You shall be called Manëdur from now on"
"Thank-you, lady Arwen," he said as he appeared to grow brighter with satisfaction.
"Come, my new friend. Mourning time is over. We must work to avenge what has been done if the hope you declare be genuine."
Arwen rose and with her Manëdur flew up and started slowly (so she could keep up with him) through the dense woods. At first Manëdur appeared almost happy by the way he flew in lovely unseen patterns. Possibly from what she just did for him. Eventually, after he glanced back at her thoughtful face, he ceased.
They traveled in quiet for many hours. Arwens thoughts were always with Aragorn. She didn't doubt that he lived; nevertheless, she was worried. She longed to be reunited with him, and hear his strong, calm voice in this now quiet evil.
"What do you think about, my lady?"
The question came so abruptly and unexpectedly that Arwen stopped her stride for a moment to look at her guide.
"What do you mean?"
An unreadable look came over his face that she couldn't interpret.
"He whom you think about. Who is he?"
Arwen blinked once and then started on her way before answering him. "Lord Aragorn, Heir to the Throne of Gondor. A mighty man is he who is the reason for every step I take."
"A man, my Lady? One who does not share in your immortality."
This thought hadn't plagued her mind in years. Long ago she had overcome the fact that she would be giving up the gift of her people for the love of a man. No longer did it embitter her mind, nay did it ever? Though curious that Manëdur should bring this into light. She continued on, not bothering answering.
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Nafeatir hadn't left her main areas since Frodo had frightened her with the balcony incident. Though that day she had too. So she left him-seeing no danger with him always idle- and tended to a few tasks. She returned and panicked when she walked through her doors and heard a curious noise coming from his room. She rushed from the door, not bothering to close it, and entered his room.
She found him curled up in a corner hugging his knees tightly. His body shook curiously .
"Frodo? Are you well?"
He stiffened at her voice, obviously not noticing her presence till she spoke. He tried to stifle his sobbing, but failed. His weeping was what she had heard.
"Why do you cry? Why do you weep so often?" Many times she would see silent tears rush from his eyes. Though nothing quite this dramatic.
He did not answer. He didn't even look at her.
"You are not alone," she tried to guess what was troubling him. "I am here."
Again he didn't respond. His sobbing continued.
For a moment Nafeatir stared at him as he proceeded to ignore her. He should not be like this. He should be happy and content, for that was her intent when she brought him here. He should be joyful and telling her of his land and his life, while she in turn would tell him of the tales she had read and experienced also. Her master ruled now, making her one of the highest in all Middle-Earth. And he was her beloved. He himself was a prince in all the lands now. She could grant him anything he wanted if he but ask. So why did he continue with this frustrating behavior?
"Please, speak to me."
Nothing came from him, but his relentless shedding of tears.
"I only wish for one word. To taste one sweet word from your lips would satisfy me for an eternity. I beg you talk to me. Tell me why you weep."
She was growing tired of his refusal to do as she had envisioned. He never said anything to her. He never looked at her. He would recoil from her touch so quickly and at times violently that she hardly ventured to do so fearing that she would startle him or have him hurt himself.
Nafeatir showered him with gifts of fine elvish garments and finery. She gave him a room of empty notebooks, scrolls and loose paper. For an instant only he seemed impressed. Too quickly did this one second of happiness cease. She never saw him put a pen to the white sheets. She would set chests full of books in his room for his enjoyment. They only gathered dust. Three times a day if not more she would set before him a feast that he would only stare at, every so often he would take a meager nibble. Once she threatened to tie him down and force feed him if he did not feed himself. He was far to thin for anyone let alone a hobbit.
She had done everything for him, yet he never gave her any satisfaction. Frustrating, indeed.
"Speak!" she finally raised her voice at him. "Now!"
Her sudden shouts made him jump and then actually looked at her. His look was not very rewarding. His already tear filled eyes beheld her with fear, hurt. Remorse then filled her as she saw what she had done.
"Oh, Frodo," she approached him closer. "I am sorry."
She bent down to touch him in a way to say that she meant her apology. He moved quickly to avoid her hand and then bolted up and out of the room.
She sighed heavily in failure. Its no wonder that he hated her. She only succeeded in harming him. 'I am evil.'she thought bitterly. She recalled what her master had said about her. How she was dark and Frodo was light. Can there be fellowship between these two? Would she really end up hurting Frodo beyond healing?
Nafeatir didn't pursue him. It would only make matters worse. She listened as his footsteps descend somewhere into her many, many chambers.
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While Legolas sat speaking with Pippin, and as Aragorn interrogated the creature that had brought him out of the battle; when Nafeatir considered her own many faults and Arwen continued her trek through the dark woods, a great house of good was attacked and overtaken. Rivendell, home to many elves and to the great Lord Elrond, experienced a new wave of darkness, one consisting of blades and fire, of evil creatures of Mordor and corrupted men.
Imladris only light then were the flames that engulfed it.
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Frodo ran, though where precisely he didn't know. He just had to get away. He had to hold on to the one shred of sanity he still had. Death couldn't relieve him, not while he remained in the sorceress' towers. Not while she was always there. That look in her eye drove him mad so much that he wondered how he had lasted this long.
He stopped in front of her main door, the door that lead to the rest of Barad-dur. He recalled how massive and ominous the castle of the Dark Lord had looked merely from far away. The thought that he was in its midst was overwhelming. Even if he could get out of the labyrinth of her chambers, it was impossible to actually escape from Barad-dur, let alone Mordor.
Caution and sense were far from his mind then, so when he saw that the main doors were a crack open, he took his chances. Normally the doors would be shut tight and locked. She must've heard him and forgot to tend to the lock.
Frodo quickly looked behind him to see if she had followed him. He saw no one and continued on his way to freedom. Whether in actuality or in death -if he finds it in his attempt to be free.
He rushed as silently as any hobbit down the wide halls, trying so hard not to look at the statues that lined them. They stood on either side, unnaturally tall and intimidating. Men with fancy shields and thick swords, or women whose beautiful faces were more frightful then the weapon of their male companions. He could almost feel their hollow eyes upon him, their hands reaching out for him. He ran faster only to be welcomed with more stone people around every turn he took.
Finally he found himself in an intermediate chamber with colossal columns. He stopped and marveled at their size as he caught his breath. From the other side of the room came rushed footsteps. Frodo sucked in some air and scrambled around to the other side of the column. He hunkered down and pressed himself close to the cold surface of it. The footsteps came closer and then started to descend to where he had come from. All but one set. He heard it stop as the other went on. Quiet settled again; till a low sniffing sound could be heard. Frodo trembled momentarily. He bit his lower lip and forced his body to stop and stay still. The sniffing then stopped. He waited for the orc to continue with the others, but all that remained was silence.
"Come out little rat."
Frodo looked over to see him standing a little more than two feet away, fingering the blade at his hip. Frodo didn't fear death nor pain, just being brought back to the haunting cage. So he made a run for it. He ran as fast as his long idle legs could muster. He heard the thing curse behind him and follow him. He would eventually catch him, and hopefully he'd do Frodo a favor and be rid of him, or perhaps Frodo would be fortunate enough to lose him. Perhaps he would find freedom.
These thoughts were shattered as soon as he made it out of the huge room and was greeted with numerous other servants of the Sorceress. A moment only did they linger till they lunged for him. Frodo dodged some, moving in any direction to avoid capture. Before he knew it, they had him cornered. He felt like a trapped animal as he gazed into the faces of his hunters. A grimy hand seized him. Frodo wrestled with the one till he was absolutely overcome. He was roughly pressed on his face as they got a better hold of his arms and hands. He was pulled to his feet and ushered forward.
The huge orc who held Frodo's arms tightly behind him pushed him till he was again in the massive intermediate room before Nafeatir's main chambers. He was prodded forward into the middle of the area. The orc then harshly threw him down on his knees mere seconds before she came into the room.
"Elenti!" he heard the so familiar voice of the sorceress exclaim. It was quickly followed by hurried footsteps in his direction
"Are you all right?" she fell on her knees to get a better look at him.
Frodo tried to avoid her eyes as she lifted his face for inspection. He winced as she brushed her thumb across an area on his face. He caught the sight of blood on her finger and then the same color flashed brightly in her eyes. There was quite a struggle when he was cornered. The orcs weren't too cautious about harming him.
"Who did this?" her tone had dramatically changed. No longer was it concerned and almost panicky as it was when she addressed him. As she presented the question to those who had brought him back, her voice seeped from her lips like a slow, deadly poison. She stood and approached those behind the hobbit.
Frodo shivered at her gradual menacing presence. It was what truly frightened him about her. The underlying sense of dread that hung around her, even when her face and words were on the sweeter side. He closed his eyes, wishing he could cease his ability to hear as easily. The language of the orc came anyway. At first it sounded defiant and then pleading. He waited for the sorceress to reply, but it never came in the way Frodo assumed. Her blade spoke for her. The grotesque noise of metal severing flesh, followed by a throaty gurgle, and then the sickening thud of a lifeless body sinking to the ground resounded through the hall.
Since the start of his journey, Frodo had seen and heard many things that normally a hobbit wouldn't be exposed to. He knew that this woman was brutal, he knew she was evil, but he hadn't experienced any manifest of her real self till that moment. He recalled the way she looked at the orcs and the way she glared down on him earlier before he fled her presence. They were one in the same.
He heard her footsteps. The same sounds of death started over.
The sheltered hobbit couldn't take it, even if they were only orcs. He pressed his hands against his ears, and closed his eyes, trying to shut it all out.
After a few moments of depriving himself of sight and hearing he chanced a peek. He tried to convince himself to glance behind, but his body wouldn't comply with what his mind was considering. He only stared at the elaborate patterns on the huge slabs of tile. He occupied his minds with the origin of the designs rather than be forced to visualize the carnage behind him.
Just when he decided that the floor leaned more toward the dwarves then any other race, something flowed over the artwork. From the corner of his eye he watched as the black blood oozed into his line of vision.
Frodo's breathing increased. He tried to curl up inside himself more than he was already. He jammed his hands harder against his head and shut his eyes again.
He jumped as a hand touched his shoulder. His hand flew back to regain his balance. Unfortunately his fingers landed in the very puddle of black liquid he didn't even wish to look upon. Frodo drew his hand back and desperately tried to relieve it of the blood. He barely noticed the hot liquid that began to run down his cheeks.
"Elenti, my Elenti, I never meant for you to see that. Forgive me." Looking unusual in her face was a slight hint of remorse and failure.
Frodo looked long into her betraying eyes, perhaps the longest he had ever, and wanted so much to proclaim to her that she was a liar. How dare she even utter words of love and forgiveness when even she was aware of her own cruelty. What would happen when she lost her patience with him? Would she do something far worse then merely raise her voice to him? Would she kill him without another thought as she did with the orcs?
"Come, Frodo," she finally said while offering her hand to him.
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