Chapter 13:
Legolas stood feet from her, an arrow on the string of his bow, murder in his eyes. Behind him, more of his kin stood with bows drawn, all marking her as their target.
Icy horror flooded her veins as she realized what had just happened, what she had done. All Legolas had seen was her murdering his niece. He didn't know that it was not really her; all he knew—thought he knew—was that a dragon had killed someone he loved.
Telumë's green eyes glowed as brightly as her flames as she surveyed him. He stood completely still, but she could see the slightest quiver in his fingers as they held the fletching of the arrow straight. She heard the pounding of his heart, and she understood: he was about to kill her. Without bothering to consider the consequences, she acted. As his fingers loosened from the fletching of his arrow, she whirled around and, with her tail, whipped his legs out from under him. She managed to duck beneath his arrow as she crouched down and spread her wings, and as he fell, she took flight, moving faster than she ever had before.
She felt several arrows bounce off her scales, but more than one pierced her wings, flying straight through the thin membrane. She let out shrieks of pain but flew faster, beating her wings harder to escape. Somehow, she made it into the sky and soared high above the heads of the elves, staring down at them as she panted, searching the nearby mountains for a place to rest. The pierced membrane of her wings tugged and tore with every flap of her wings, and finally she began speeding north, flying over mountains and swamps. Night fell completely, and still she pressed on.
How could this happen? A number of weeks ago, Legolas had welcomed her into his little group with open arms. The two had made a special connection; he could understand her language just as she could understand his. He had trusted her. Hadn't she proven herself to him?
A growl rumbled within her chest. She was angry, yes, but also hurt. Her heart throbbed, though not as badly as her wings did. She whimpered and pressed on. Hopefully she could make it to somewhere safe before her strength gave out. The Dead Marshes stared up at her, and little lights flickered up from the murky darkness.
She shuddered and flew on, thinking. Who had the girl been, really? Not Kiyera, that much was certain. Not an elf, either, they were too pure to be going around putting spells on each other. Besides, the magic the girl had used was much stronger than that of the elves.
A mountain peak rose up out from beneath a bank of cloud, and Telumë banked to the left, avoiding the outcropping easily. She managed to fly up, higher than the clouds, and when she broke through them, the moon awaited her, hanging in the sky with thousands of stars, all twinkling merrily down at her.
A realization struck her as she gazed out across the earth, watching as the moonlight coated everything, living or not, in a silver glow. The girl's eyes—they weren't green. Telumë was almost positive that Legolas had told her that his niece had green eyes, and yet the girl's irises had flickered between red and grey. Another memory flickered to the forefront of her mind. Her dream. The figure from her dream had the same eyes the girl did—and he most definitely was not an elf. Were they the same kind of creature? The girl most definitely had magic, seeing as how she blinded all the elves and vanished, not to mention was able to avoid Telumë's flames.
She blinked slowly, and then jerked her eyes open as she dropped several feet. She was exhausted. Her muscles burned, and her wounds screamed for attention. She remembered with a thrill of fear that she was cold-blooded, and although someday it would not matter, today it meant that she was small enough to freeze. Indeed, her muscles and wings grew stiff even as she realized this, and her mind and movements grew sluggish.
It was near midnight when the dragoness's strength gave out. She dropped from the sky, slowly at first, and then faster and faster. The wind whipped around her, spinning her body around, but she was too weak to do anything about it. She had just enough wits about her to spread her wings to slow her descent, but still she plowed into the ground when she hit, and a furrow was left in her wake. She remained where she fell, unable to move, her wings crumpled beneath her. She breathed heavily, her mouth slightly open, sided heaving. Her wounds, which had begun to scab while she flew, had reopened during her crash-landing, and hot blood trickled down her back and mingled with the blood from her wings. The light from her eyes dimmed, and without realizing it, she passed into unconsciousness.
When she woke, the sun had risen. She was lying in a valley, the sky was overcast, and an old man in grey robes knelt beside her on the grass, smoking a pipe. She blinked slowly, her mind still moving too sluggishly for her to realize what exactly was happening. The old man said nothing. His grey eyes twinkled at her from under the rim of his blue hat. Grey eyes. She lifted up her neck and head, watching him suspiciously. The rest of her was in too much pain to move. He didn't seem dangerous, but she could sense a deep magic about him, older than that of the elves and the girl from the previous night. She debated asking him who he was, but before she could speak, he addressed her.
"You are quite a long way from home, aren't you?" he asked, puffing along on his pipe. She blinked in surprise. She didn't threaten him at all, it seemed. The old man was armed, yes; she could see the twisted wooden staff that rested beside him as well as the sword that was belted to his waist, but all the same, she didn't feel that he was about to draw either of them upon her. She was grateful for this, especially considering the night before. When she didn't answer, being caught up in her thoughts and all, he spoke again. "Come now, little one. Tell me: what are you doing here? You should be in Ered Mithrim with the rest of your kin, and yet you are here, in the middle of the Wold. Why?"
"Where is the Wold?" she asked, brow furrowing.
The old man smiled broadly and removed his hat. "A lady, I see. Well, my dear, the Wold is directly east of Fangorn forest, north of Rohan."
"Where is this in relation to Anorien?" she asked him. He was kind, she gave him that, and that was why she was not flying away or demanding answers. However, she was very afraid that if she was too close to Anorien, Legolas would somehow find her and kill her.
"Why, Anorien lies nearly two hundred leagues from here." He gave her a searching look.
"And…" she shifted, wincing as little barbs of pain shot up and down her spine. "And how long would it take for an elven mount to reach this place from there?"
"It depends on the route they take," he replied lightly. "But most likely, between three days and a fortnight." She nodded. "Now, my dear, if you would not mind answering some of my questions?"
She nodded consentingly. "Alright."
"Who are you?" His first question was straightforward, but she sensed that his others would not be so easy for her to answer. He moved close to her and began whispering under his breath, resting his hand over the injuries on her wing. She was too stiff and tired to pull away, although she did twist her head around to keep him in her sight.
"I am Telumë."
The old man nodded. "And how did you receive this name?" At her look of confusion, he explained, moving on to the next puncture wound. "Names are strange things, especially with your kin; oftentimes it is those who are terrorized by the dragons that name them, and yet name is an elvish one, and a kind one at that. Who gave you your name, and why?"
Telumë blinked. She hadn't realized the significance of her name. "An elf," she answered vaguely. The old man gave her an annoyed look. "He named me because I saved his life," she answered the final half of the question. "And because I didn't have a name before."
"Curious," the man muttered, staring down at the ground. His bushy grey eyebrows quivered. "From what did you save him?"
"A group of men," she replied. He voice lowered, and she stared down at the ground. "A group of murderers."
The man looked up at her. "Murderers?"
The dragoness nodded, grief from the memory weighing heavily on her shoulders. She remembered the dying boy from her visions, as well as the slaughtered children at the village. "Yes."
"And how did this elf happen upon you?"
"Who are you?" Telumë asked instead. She would not answer any more questions until hers were answered to her liking. She didn't know this man, who apparently had found her in the middle of nowhere some two hundred leagues from where she had started, and she wasn't going to tell him about Legolas or Aragorn until she knew she could trust him.
The old man sighed, scratching his bearded chin, and removed his hand from her wing. She noticed with surprise that nearly all the tears in her wing were gone. The dragon looked up and stared back at him determinedly.
The Istar knew who she was, of course, having received an urgent message from the lady Galadriel only the day before to go and meet her. Apparently, according to Galadriel, something had happened in Erebor. She hadn't specified what was wrong, preferring for him to go and figure it out himself, but he guessed it had something to do with strife between the elves and the dwarves.
Mithrandir decided to answer her and see if he might persuade her gently to comply with his questioning. "I am Gandalf the Grey," he answered gravely. The dragoness blinked, something about the name ringing a bell in some dark recess of her mind.
"You are a wizard?" she asked him. He nodded, but she began speaking again before he could get a word in. "Are there many magical beings in Middle Earth besides yourself and the elves?"
Telumë's question was so unexpected, it took him a moment to garner an answer. "There are a few," he replied haltingly. "There are four other wizards besides myself and, of course, the dragons have their own magic."
"No, I mean…" she thought about what exactly to say. Gandalf watched her with no small degree of interest as she struggled to gather her thoughts to formulate an adequate question. "Are there creatures with magic more powerful than that of the elves?"
"Only my kin," he replied carefully.
"The wizards?"
"And others."
Telumë frowned, thinking hard. She was mentally going down the list of creatures she knew of. She knew the girl was no dragon as none of her kin could change their forms, especially to that of a small elven-dwarf girl, not that they would want to in the first place. The girl was not a wizard; she did not think they could change their physical forms either. And the girl was most definitely no elf. The closest creature she could connect it to was the one in her dreams, the man with the changing eyes who resided on the borders of Imladris. "What color eyes do you all have?"
The wizard sighed in exasperation. The young dragoness was clearly troubled about something, as her questions were growing increasingly sporadic and random. Her thoughts seemed to be whirring around at untold speeds, and the wizard, for all his wisdom, had no idea what was going on. "What is it that troubles you?" he finally asked, tired of waiting.
After a moment's pause, during which she paused her current train of thoughts and began a new one, she explained everything. Legolas and Strider, as she remembered he must be called, finding her. Stumbling upon the slaughtered human village. Fighting and slaying the Grey Fell; finding and travelling with the Dúnedain; Legolas's change in behavior. She told him of her dreams, not leaving out a detail. Finally, she told him of what happened the night before, how the girl used magic against her before vanishing, and how Legolas assumed that she had killed his niece and had tried to kill her in response. When she finished, the pair sat in silence for a while, the dragon waiting on the wizard to speak. At some point during her story, the wizard had gone back to healing her wings, and by the time she had finished, her wings were mended and her shoulder healing.
"I happen to know Legolas Greenleaf quite well," the wizard said slowly, frowning. He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he hadn't noticed that his pipe had gone out. "And you are right; he is not the kind of elf to attack someone without reason, or lose sight of the overall objective when much is at stake. That is more of his sister's forte."
"You know his sister?" The Princess Aeyera, whom Telumë had heard of multiple times, seemed to be connected to everything Telumë had stumbled upon since awakening in Ered Mithrim.
"Indeed," he replied with a tight-lipped smile. "I knew her when she was only a young elfling, well over two hundred years ago. I also know her brothers Legolas and Maladernil, as well as her husband, Kili, and son, Kirin."
"And what of her daughter?" Telumë asked hesitantly.
"I knew Kiyera as well," he answered. "Though I have not seen her in some time. Do you know what happened to her? You spoke of the search for her, but not how she disappeared."
Telumë shook her head. The wizard's face grew grave, and he stared at the dragoness with bright eyes. She shifted nervously, glancing around. She didn't understand why the wizard was so angry, unless… he hadn't known. "You didn't know, did you?" she asked softly.
"I did not."
"How did you know to find me?" she questioned, craning her neck to stare at him. He was a wizard, and she was quite certain that wizards had better things to do that to wander around in the wilderness waiting for friendly dragons to fall from the sky in the dead of night.
"I was sent," he replied shortly, "by the Lady Galadriel. She told me that something was amiss in Erebor and that you were involved some way or another. I assumed it was some petty argument amongst the dwarves and the elves, not the disappearing of a princess."
Telumë, although interested by this… Galadriel, nevertheless had more pressing matters to tend to. "Sir, where must I go?"
The wizard, who had been muttering to himself under his breath, glanced up at her. She stared at him, green eyes wide, waiting for an answer. His healing hands burned against her scales. He remained silent for a few moments. "I don't know."
Telumë blinked. He was a wizard, how could he not know?! "What would you recommend, then?" she asked, forcing down the panic that rose within her at the thought of Legolas catching up to her and killing her.
"Considering what you are, I do not know that there is anyplace short of Ered Mithrim that you could return to that you would not immediately be shot out of the sky." Telumë's eyes went wide. She couldn't just leave. Not now, not after everything she had learned—and what about the missing girl? She had to find her. And, perhaps even more than that, she had to find out what manner of creature had been posing as Kiyera.
"May I ask you something?" she asked.
"You just did," the wizard smiled, "but you may ask me something else, yes."
"Why am I experiencing these dreams?" she asked. "I don't understand why I can see these visions, these… memories. Unless they are part of the life I cannot remember, they do not belong to me, and yet I experience them as if they were my own. Could I have been traveling with this girl? No, I see them as if I were her…" she thought. "Could I have a connection with her like I do with Legolas? I can understand him no matter the language he speaks as well as sense his mind, as he can mine. Perhaps the girl and I have the same connection? But who is she?"
The wizard, who had remained silent during her verbal tirade, held up a hand to slow her rant. "Those are multiple questions, not only one," he said first, "but I will answer what I can. I am afraid I do not know why you are experiencing these dreams. Perhaps you were travelling with this girl; although, as you said, it would not make sense that you see through the young woman's eyes. Perhaps you do have a connection with her as you do Legolas, it might make sense that you share your memories, although you do not seem to share any with the elven prince."
Telumë frowned; she had not thought of that. "But who is she?" she asked again, her voice small.
"Do you remember where the girl was last headed?" Gandalf asked. He had a very good idea of who the girl was, although he wasn't sure if it was prudent to tell the young dragoness just yet.
Telumë huffed, and Gandalf noticed with a hint of amusement the sparks that flew from her nostrils as she did so. "I do not know an exact location, no."
"But who was she going to see?" the old man pressed.
The answer was absurd. Surely the girl hadn't attempted to see him? "Mandos?"
"That is what I fear."
"But who is she, Gandalf?" Telumë asked, dragging the conversation back to the girl's identity. "I know you have figured it out. And I have a thought, although I do not know if it is right or not. Please, tell me yours."
"I think," Gandalf said after a short pause, "that you may be the key to finding the lost princess. What that means, I do not know."
Telumë thought she was beginning to understand. "Gandalf, is Kiyera the girl?" she asked, her voice a whisper. "Is she the one I see in my visions?"
"I believe so," he answered heavily.
A toothy grin stretched across her face, and she laughed. She leapt to her feet and bounded around the wizard, tumbling around in the tall grass. Her wings and shoulder were healed, thankfully, and she moved with a spring in her step. "So you know where she is, then?" she asked happily, coming to a halt in front of the wizard. He had climbed to his feet and now leaned against his staff. He was quite tall, for an old man, and she only was a bit higher than he.
"I have a guess as to where she may have gone," he replied. "But it is a very long journey away."
"Where?" she asked. She would go anywhere to find her, to bring her back. If she was the key to finding Kiyera, then perhaps Kiyera was the key to her memory. She knew that the girl was at least the key to convincing Legolas of her innocence regarding the girl's apparent murder.
"It is a very long journey," the wizard stated bluntly, shifting his weight. "One that you may not be able to make."
"Where is she?" Telumë repeated, growing impatient. She would leave at once, if need be, as soon as she found out the location and the way to reach it.
"It is not where I know her to be, but rather where I suspect her to be," Gandalf warned her. "And it is a journey filled with much danger and peril."
"Where is she?" Telumë repeated. Her voice was somber now; no longer was she filled with the childlike excitement that had coursed through her just moments before.
"The Halls of Mandos."