Chapter XI: What Plans Doth Span the Elvish Minds for Man?

Ossian had the sinking feeling that something was amiss. As he replenished the supplies in his horse's saddlebags and adjusted his worn saddle (a standard issue Gondorion Army lump of leather so uncomfortable, that it was quite obvious why Gondor preferred its infantry to cavalry), the bard could not shake a shade of misapprehension, a presentiment of foreboding, a lack of clarity regarding motive and mission. The Elves certainly seemed sincere, but the Elven race was always so bloody serious and gracefully tactful it was nearly impossible to divine their true intentions.

The Elves wore masks of somber sobriety and pious propriety that gave Ossian ample anxiety whenever he had discourse with them. Adurant the Sinda appeared to be lightening up a bit after their journey together, and so he was less a cipher than these haughtier Elves of Noldorin stock; even so, it still seemed he was riding alongside a placard in place of a person - a divinely-endowed porcelain prop of virtuosity.

In retrospect, Ossian probably seemed grossly plebian to these immortals, a drunken lout characteristic of the mob of sickly Aftercomers who usurped Elvish authority with the importunate and grasping callousness of poor, illiterate country cousins newly endowed with a rich inheritance. Nevertheless, the bard felt ill at ease with this mission. He would respect the directives of Master Elrond and follow them without question (outwardly, in any case), just as he would obey the orders of the Lords Faramir or Boromir, but that did not dispel the lingering doubt regarding the vagaries of this quest. Why, the quest itself was a vagary - a deception within a deception. But who, then, were the deceivers and who was the deceived? Ah, there was the rub!

Glorfindel, aside from his Eldarin foppery, seemed the most genuine of the Elves of the White Council, but this guilelessness was perhaps merely naivety. Erestor, whom Ossian didn't trust at all, and Master Elrond to a lesser degree, gave the distinct impression that the Fellowship's quest was a pretext for some hidden agenda. Ossian cursed under his breath and then glanced over at the Noldorin maid Arien, who was also in the midst of readying her steed for the journey. What is her part in all this? he thought with a great deal of perplexity. Granted, he had heard she was a fine marksman with the bow (or would that be markselleth?), and she was steeped in the healer's arts for which Elrond himself was renowned. But why a woman? This, of course, all passed through Ossian's thoughts in the manner of a pre-Woman's Lib chauvinist raised in a patriarchal society. It was not that he was a misogynist; on the contrary, he loved every graceful curve of a woman's glorious figure, every dimple and mound and musky hollow. He reveled in the company of women; particularly high-spirited vixens who could give as well as they got. And Arien was, if anything, high-spirited.

Arien, feeling Ossian's leering reverie climb the nape of her neck, turned and scowled at the bard. Yes, definitely high-spirited, Ossian winced and looked askance. They had obviously gotten off on the wrong foot during the previous evening's feast, although the bard could not rightly recollect what it was that he said or did that caused offense - which wasn't surprising, as Elven cordials were particularly potent for mortals. But Arien had barely said a word to him all morning, which led him to believe that he had been perhaps a bit too charming the night before.

The bard shrugged and looked about at the rest of the intrepid band of stragglers, hangers-on, half-breeds, half-wits and oddities. The Halfling Hob looked less like he was going on a dangerous journey and more like a chef preparing for a seven-course feast, ladening his panting pony with all sorts of skillets, utensils, crockery and provender. If anything, the travelers would not be going hungry anytime soon. The three Dwarves – check that, two and one-half Dwarves – sulked in silence, hissing occasionally in grim whispers and looking altogether too conspiratorial for Ossian's liking. Malvegil and Adurant talked quietly about their steeds, both sharing a reverence and an almost mystical bond with the equine race. And then there was Halfviss. Ossian was not quite sure if the lumbering Beorning was even aware that they were preparing for a lengthy, perhaps lethal, trek. At present, he seemed more interested in Hob's foodstuffs, gazing longingly as each parcel of precious cargo was stored neatly away.

Ossian heaved the heaviest sigh ever recorded in the annals of Middle-earth - perhaps in all of modern literature. This task would not be easy; as a matter of fact, Ossian suspected that the chances of survival were scant at best. But the bard was never a morning person, and his rude awakening earlier merely compounded his discomfiture.

Bleary-eyed and cantankerous, it had taken a gentle kick from an amused Adurant to wake the snoring bard, rapt as he was in a drunkard's slumbered repose. Ossian had almost made it to his bed, but Adurant found him only a few feet away, curled up on the floor with a rug bundled haphazardly over his sprawled form.

Cursing, the bard dipped his hands and face in the frigid waters of an icy ewer atop a rather ornate washstand by the window, and shook himself vigorously. This was not a good idea, for he lost his balance and sent the basin careening to the floor with a splash while he tried to steady himself. He cursed again as he made the ill-fated decision of attempting to put his boots on while standing. The bard glared malevolently at Adurant as the elf stood smirking at the doorway.

"Damnable Elves!" Ossian spat, "don't you ever sleep?"

Adurant winked and replied, "Damnable bards! Can't they hold their liquor?"

Ossian cracked a pained smile as he slumped to the floor in an effort to get his boot on. "'Tis not the holding of the liquor, my dear Sinda," the bard grumbled, "but rather that we hold it in such vast quantities!"

And Ossian thought wistfully back to the night before. Clouded as his recollection was, he recalled playing and singing for hours - which must have amused the stuffy Elves to no end, given the inordinate pride they had for their own perceived musical excellence. And the bedazzling Arien was ever close-by, silent and solitary – or so it seemed to Ossian – a caged raptor in a mews, tied to her perch by the cordial restraints of political necessity. That she wanted to be elsewhere was patently evident. Yet, even now, he could nearly catch the fragrances of hyacinth and honeysuckle wafting in beguiling snatches from her raven hair. He had wished the night would never end. Unfortunately, it hadn't ended. For even though it was still dark outside, Elrond had caused the bright bells of morn to toll e're the drowsing sun breached the craggy mountain battlements that stolidly fortified the hidden vale. Even with a hangover, Ossian thought in poetics.

The bothered bard limped to his feet, still trying to adjust the recalcitrant boot that mocked at his heel. "Lead on, Elf," Ossian groused, "for certainly we should meet Master Elrond whilst I look and feel my best!"

The meeting was a very private affair. Ossian muttered something about, "Damned Elvish secretiveness," but Adurant could not catch the entire comment. Waiting in an antechamber were four Elves: Elrond, of course, Erestor, Glorfindel and, once again, the Lady Arien, sitting in icy splendor at the far end of the table. Ossian's head was hammering, but he made every effort to make a suitable impression, while trying his best not to seem daunted by these Noldorin Lords. Bowing low (and becoming rather squeamish as the blood rushed to his pounding temples), Ossian said, with just a hint of discomfort, "Greetings my lords. Master Elrond, you mentioned some trifling errand yesterday?"

Elrond raised an eyebrow at the Ossian's impertinence. "Trifling? I don't recall using that term, bard. But as mortals view much that is dangerous with a rash frivolity, I shall take your statement with that sentiment."

Ossian stiffened at the mild rebuke. This was no place to bandy words about. Evidently, Elrond could read much about the bard's cynical attitude towards the world. He nodded to Elrond at the realization and the Master of Imladris continued, "Know you any of the tongues of Rhunnish men?"

Again, Ossian nodded. "Yes, milord, two dialects: one variant spoken by the Woodsmen of Southern Mirkwood, and another I learned on a trade embassy to Far Rhun." But Ossian faltered a moment and continued, "Yet the latter I cannot speak with any certainty. Long ago and in less dangerous times did I use that ungainly speech."

Elrond frowned. "It shall have to do, I suppose," he replied finally. Elrond glanced toward Glorfindel, and Ossian noticed the imperceptible passing of knowledge from one Eldali to the next, unspoken yet plain.

"Ossian, this is where you and your comrades come into this tale," Glorfindel at last spoke. "Grave news has come to us from Gloin of the Dwarves, who has delivered a message from his King, Dain of Erebor. Emissaries of the Dark Lord have visited the Dwarves for a third and final time, but Dain has refused to divulge any information to them. War between Erebor and Mordor is now imminent. The Great Enemy's armies are massing in Rhun with the express purpose of attacking Dain of Erebor and King Brand of Dale."

Ossian put his hand over his mouth and shook his head slowly. The Orcs had already invested Ithilien and were inching towards Osgiliath even before the bard had left Gondor. Couple that with the investiture of the northern lands, and Ossian could see at last the vast web of Sauron's intent in total, and his shoulders sagged at the enormity of the situation.

"What would you have us do?" Ossian replied in quiet resignation.

"There is one more piece of information," Elrond interrupted. "The Dwarves also spoke of an unnamed and deathly shadow stirring in the Withered Heath. Scouts they have sent to put a name to this evil, but none have returned. We feel that it is in our best interests to aid the Dwarves as best we may; therefore, we need you to seek out this new threat and see if it is somehow tied to the Dark Lord's invasion."

"So you see," Glorfindel added, "your mission is two-fold: to act as a diversion for the true Fellowship, drawing the enemy's greedy eye northward, while even now the Fellowship travels south; and to judge what, if any, dangers may be present in the vicinity of the Withering Heath."

"You shall be our spy," hoary Erestor said matter-of-factly, continuing where Glorfindel had left off. "Once you have done with your northern journey, you shall leave forthwith to the Rhunnish lands of the East and ascertain the size and movements of the Dark Lord's forces, and then to return as you may, via Erebor, to divulge what secrets you have uncovered."

Ossian, now quite irritated, was about to say, "Is that all?" but fortunately, Adurant cut him off. "This thing you would have us do," the Elf said hesitantly, "how could a small band of nine warriors ever hope to complete such a task?"

Master Elrond gazed sadly at his Sinda counterpart. "Imladris is but an island of calm in a raging sea," he replied somberly. "We no longer have the force to resist Mordor, nor aid the Free Peoples outside our borders. It may be cold comfort to you, perhaps, but all of Mirkwood, and Erebor and Dale as well, may burn in the conflagration if our plans fail. Even Imladris itself may hear the harsh croak of Orkish war cries at the last."

Ossian, more annoyed than ever, was inclined to ask sarcastically, "And?" But Erestor noticed the anger welling in the Gondorion bard and added, "We feel that speed, stealth and your uncanny knack for deception will avail you more than a force of any size."

Ossian caught the backhanded compliment regarding his deceptiveness, and accepted it as a badge of honor. He prided himself in his guile - it had saved him on many occasions.

Ossian and Adurant bowed and left the Elf Lords to their high-minded ruminations (and the Lady Arien to her impenetrable silence). As they walked down the hall, Ossian rolled his eyes at Adurant and fumed in fawning mockery, "Most assuredly, Master Elrond, after we crawl over the bones of all those fallen Dwarves to find some unspeakable evil haunting the Withered Heath, we shall certainly eke out a few harried moments to chase about Sauron's entire northern army. Will that be all? Or shall we then ride off to Mordor and help the hapless Hobbits lose that cursed Ring?"

Adurant bit his lip. This was indeed going to be an interesting journey.