THE TIME THAT IS GIVEN TO US
"I wish it need not have happened in my time," said Frodo.
"So do I," said Gandalf, "and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us."
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring
Chapter 1: The End
Silence.
It reigned, sovereign and inmmutable, did silence, on the silver-grey shores of the havens of Mithlond.
The elves who yet remained, they had sung by their fires, raising melodic voices in sorrowful harmony- lips forming words of music composed purely of the design to draw forth tears from the eye of the most unknowing of listeners- and yet they had, perhaps by the need for rest or by the force of their own lament, been compelled to cease.
Blanketed by Night they stood, under the light of their beloved stars of Elbereth- for to only one was known the symbolism and the true meaning of the moment, the meaning that it was at the point in time of the completion of a circular cycle at which they now stood.
Círdan the Shipwright, the ancient Elven Mariner of great legend and myth, knew alone of the circular nature of the path the Eldar had been doomed to take- circuitous though it had been for most by choice- for he was but the only among them to have awoken under the very same elenath, under the caress of the same blanket of night at Cuiviénen nearly eleven thousand years in the shadowed past.
And so did the Shipwright allow the silence its reign unchallenged, for he would not this day utter his hymn to the Elentári.
This curious deviation from what he had turned akin to a duty found its root in a suspicion the ancient mariner carried and worried- not a suspicion, nay- nigh a feeling. A prickling on the nape.
For one who had, by virtue of his actions in the First Age, saved perhaps the entirety of Elvendom upon Middle-earth, the world was wont to feel heavy upon his shoulder, and he in his infinite years was wont to shoulder the world's weight all the more firmly- and yet he found aught to be in contrast with the weight of doom he would bear on every other day.
A feeling of unrest had coiled itself as would a snake around his heart, and in his dreams of late, he would fear the night as no elf did; for it would turn to him with tendrils of shadow with which to choke and extinguish.
'This night… shall an end come to it? Or will it on evermore, denying Anar's light its purpose?' he found himself mutter, and perplexed, he silenced himself, 'inspired', as it could be called, unto a reverie of deep thought. For yet again there struck this feeling, this palpable suspicion that the days ahead would lose their light and Long Night would come.
The Shipwright had always claimed to a certain latent foresight- perhaps it was why he could incontestably claim to be an excellent judge of character. Yet it was to his hope that the nightmares that plagued him of late would remain only that- phantoms of shadow- and it was not his innate foresight that told him of the 'dark days' to come. He hoped, at any rate, that he was wrong, and that they would not.
Doom would speak against his hope, and Doom never heralded any lie.
"My lord Elrond, a fervour of unrest seems to have gripped Master Baggins. He would have words with you, if you please- or if you do not; for it was conveyed to me that he would remain adamant in his stance notwithstanding your disposition."
The words were the vessels of a silent yet unwavering voice- a tone of clinical practicality that would ever bring to the fore the current state of the matter. There was an air of coolness to it that would imply the speaker had said his part and would say no more; that what he had said was final and would stand, and he would not pry further into the matter but see it done nonetheless. It was, then, that Elrond of Rivendell associated the voice immediately with Erestor, his trusted scholar, librarian and friend of elder days.
He would have risen quickly at that- only that he did not. With deliberation, he pressed his palms against the oaken desk at which he had seated himself with manuscript after manuscript of ancient tale and deep lore, and rose slowly, majestically, rousing himself eventually to a brisk gait.
Bilbo Baggins was admirable company, and yet had never asked to see him in especial before. The twin threads of suspicion and malaise, however, had entwined themselves first in Elrond's mind when it had received the mental missive from Thranduil of Mirkwood in that fateful afternoon.
Thranduil, he knew, was not given to the use of ósanwë- an unwillingness common among the Sindar- and he had yet chosen to warn Elrond immediately of one thing: to take from his finger Vilya, the ring of air, and set it aside in a place secret and safe.
A grave tale matter he warned of, one that he could apparently not be told of in light of 'those who would listen'. The full tale, the Elvenking assured him, would come from the mouth of Legolas his son, who resided as Elrond's guest currently, the following day and not before. As a father, he had said, he could not rob his son of a last night's sleep ere such opportunities of rest were… lost, apparently.
Such thought would prowl in his mind as he would nigh-subconsciously navigate the endless corridors and passages of the Last Homely House, the destination known to his fëa, taking turns and stairs with a certain ease of clairvoyance. It was, then, that Elrond had found his way to the Old Hobbit's door before long, before indeed he thought he would, for he had lost the thread of time.
Clearly, such thoughts of the future could not be entertained now, could they? Master Baggins had asked to see him, and he was nothing if not a kind host. Banishing the thoughts from his mind, therefore, he strode within with the same grace and elegance that accompanied his every step.
'Ah, Lord Elrond! Welcome, welcome! Tea? I thought you would enjoy a cup- only my humble brew, mind you, yet I cannot claim to be a gentlehobbit if I do not have the audacity to offer, can I?"
For now Elrond did indeed see a yet untouched, hot cup of tea on the table at Bilbo's bedside, next to one from which the hobbit had taken the liberty of a single sip.
What struck him as odd was that the Hobbit was propped up on pillows, choosing to cover himself nearly to the shoulders in the warm, comfortable blanket he had been offered. He must have called in someone to aid him with the tea, for he clearly could not have made it himself, if one observed his condition.
How odd that a few days ago, Bilbo had appeared perfectly hale- and even if age had caught up to him, he would not consign himself to his bed thus. His face was ever uplifted in silent joy or luminous memory- and his wrinkles did not appear nearly as numerous or his forehead as drooping.
It was then that his foresight struck, and he reeled.
Bilbo's ring.
The Ring.
The shadowed night would come, stifling the stars themselves.
There would be no escape- not for what elves remained, not for the men.
…Treachery.
"L-Lord Elrond! I trust that all goes as it ought? Would… is it that there be anything of which I must know?"
What choice was afforded to him? There was none but the path of the deceiver.
And so Elrond told the old hobbit perhaps one of the greatest lies that ever would leave his maw, and after its passing he hated himself with all his mind for committing such a treachery to one he considered a good friend.
"Nay, 'tis naught, Master Bilbo- naught that must concern you."
The regal elegance had returned to once again grace his voice, though not his step, for the observant eye of Bilbo noticed a wary caution as the Peredhel sat and accepted his cup of tea.
"If you really are quite sure…" began the Hobbit slowly, and here Elrond would nod his head, "There is… a matter… of which I thought you would wish to be informed."
"Pray tell, then, old friend, and in the realm of possibility, I shall see what I must and can do."
A slight nod to the Hobbit, who seemed at once both relieved and oddly warier. The Halfelven could not quite perceive his thoughts, for they were rather jumbled and twisting… and some were admirably hidden. After a rather long silence, the Hobbit would speak.
"The… the matter concerns Frodo, my dear, good lad. I… grow worried for him, unable as I am to send a letter as he is expected to be on his way. Perhaps I worry as any good father must when his… son… takes upon himself a perilous journey, for that is what he is to me and what I hope I have been to him- but I have this… uneasy… feeling that I cannot quite put. A fear of betrayal, if you understand me, from one within. I do not fear the East or the abilities of Sauron of Mordor, but… in my dreams, there is yet another. Another, faceless and crowned with shadow and lightning, who would see to our end."
"I see." said Elrond. The Hobbit would have to be told, sooner or later, the full tale, but Elrond knew that the fellowship he had been seeking to form- nine walkers to oppose nine riders- would now be superfluous.
The son of Eärendil had always possessed an ability to feel the dooms of others and the doom of the world itself, and when he had summoned envoys of all the free peoples to Imladris, he had felt a certain symmetrical geometry.
That geometry was broken, he could now clearly feel, and he would only know in what way once Thranduil would deign to tell him the following day.
Seeing, then, that the Elf-lord would say no more, Bilbo continued.
"I… I fear as well for your council, and for the… ah, fellowship you spoke of your intent to form. I worry for my Shire- never has it faced threat; never since Mount Gram and the Green fields- for dear Master Hamfast and that fine son of his… Such niceties may, it seems, be… taken from the world."
"Of that we can do little but hope, Master Bilbo. Little but hope."
Bilbo Baggins, however, had a reputation for shrewdness. He would get an answer from even the inimitable Elrond, if he set his mind to it, and therefore adopted a more unusual line of questioning.
"Tell me, then, of my friend the Dúnadân. What became of him? The last I heard, he persisted in the Prancing Pony at Bree- charming place, that- has he departed old Butterbur's company? Have you heard from him?"
The once-burglar's keen eyes were quick to notice the slight, inconspicuous fidget that Elrond's hands gave as they held his cup.
"Nay, I have not heard from him since. I have… not."
Ai Estel, wherefore must you find yourself of late? In what peril endangered, by what shadows caught?
To Elrond, Aragorn was as good as a son, and he thought of him often, although he never did show it. His face, therefore, resumed the same steeled expression it ever wore in such times.
"Well, my dear friend, as there is clearly little I can do for you save waste your time…" and here Elrond turned to leave, before a faint 'Wait!' was heard from the hobbit, at which he turned around. In truth, Elrond had been expecting such a response, and knew of the question that would come from it, and he had already prepared the answer.
"Any… any chance I might see that old ring of mine again?"
"One never knows, Bilbo… we shall see."
"It will be alright, Mr. Frodo- no matter what we find ourselves in, by my old Gaffer it will be alright in the end."
One among numerous sighs escaped yet again from the Hobbit, lying dejected and despondent in the cell.
From the tiny window they were afforded, high enough that they could strain upon the tips of their toes to reach it, the hobbits had the choice to behold a terrible scene.
Time and again, Samwise would peer, see the dark clouds that shadowed the night yet further, observing faintly the dark armies of Sauron beyond.
Frodo Baggins, however, was well-aware that the window existed for the purpose of torture than to afford them any sight, and he would not, therefore, deign to look from it.
The only company that had been forced upon them was that of a mangy orc who would deliver their sad excuses for meals- for the wizard had not yet come for them, nor sent any torturer, for he had naught to gain from their suffering apart from perhaps a certain personal satisfaction.
The absence of company, welcomed though it was, never ceased to remind either hobbit of their time in the Shire, and of how rudely it was cut short.
Frodo was half-sure that even if Saruman deigned to send forth a servant whose way was with the whip, for physical pain would pass nigh-unnoticed in the face of this curious void that seemed to devour his very soul.
He had explained, softly and silently, how Gandalf would not be coming to save them to Sam, and yet the other refused to believe it. He knew he ought to be thankful that his companion yet shared hope, and yet part of him wished that the poor fool would understand, for goodness' sake, that there was to be no respite for them.
For only now did he see hope for what it was- it was yet another form of torture, a truly terrible form, chiefest among the perils Saruman could inflict upon him.
'There is but one lord of the rings, and he does not share power' he had heard Gandalf utter ere he was taken away, and Saruman had laughed then- answering with lofty voice and fey manner-
"Aye, Olórin… aye indeed. For it is he that stands before you."
Frodo knew well the origin of the emptiness that had set awash his heart- for he could not bear to be apart from the ring. It was said that one knew only of the value of something when it was taken by another, beyond one's reach- and it was precious, he found, so very precious.
It was not that his mind did not entertain the prospect of Saruman employing the powers of his voice and his mind to further his feelings of loss and regret- cruel devilry it was indeed, and he knew it- but he cared not. There remained naught that would be served should he care for it.
"Oh, Sam…" he found himself whispering, unable, unwilling to tell his gardener and best friend of the terror of the time, and he there he sat, limbs as set in stone.
The night came, and the long hours passed, but he could not sleep- and yet the armies of Sauron were drawing closer, closer by the second; until at the crack of dawn, his ears were roused by the clearest and most resonant of voices raised in chant.
"Nai herucormo taltuvë,
nai morgûl quelmë fanyarë,
Ai nárraumo nancarindo
nahta-cotto nu fuinë!"
A deathly screech followed, and dark clouds blanketed the sky- for the night had come again.
The Hobbit could do little but slip yet further against the wall, awaiting in futility the sweet release of sleep- blissful sleep that he knew would not come for him.
"Lord Steward, the forces of Mordor pay us no heed! They march ever on, for west is their way, and Osgiliath, blessed be the stars, is left empty!"
The young herald, nigh-choking upon his breath in the fury of his haste, found but a sliver of time to right the sigil of the White Tree that adorned his chest ere he fell to a bow in front of Lord Denethor.
Such was the position of the steward that it was not of the essence for captains of the army to prostrate themselves before one, yet Gondor had for years seen no king, and it had become customary to defer to the ruling lord thus- and Denethor was nothing if not an advocate of maintaining tradition.
A slight twitch could be, perhaps, observed by the sharpest of observers in Denethor's black eye, for that accompanied the natural desire of the 'steward' that the captain should kneel, not merely bow.
The thought was, however, dismissed in favour of the news he was given, and no thought had passed in his mind ere he rose at once and roared the four words:
"Retake it at once!"
Morthondion, for that was the young herald's name, cursed himself silently for his neglect in the anticipation of such a proclamation and his lack of preparation at how best to respond. An uncomfortable fidget, noticed at once by the keen eye of Gondor's lord; and he chose to respond quietly:
"The… generals would say that is not wise, my lord. It is seldom that the Dark Lord's forces neglect and opportunity of offense against our lines- for surely there must be some treachery, must there not? Some deception, some thievery- some plan they would follow?"
"You would grant to orcs and mindless servants of evil the consideration that they may hold an intricate strategy of war? The Dark Will behind them is ever bent upon the ring, and the ring it is that they pursue. The ring is west, and I gather it has been found- it should be here, curse the gods. It should be here!"
He had risen now, and in his sudden wrath he had lost the trail of his order. The very flecks of spit that clung to his chin as he spewed them spoke of his zeal to protect Gondor, but also of an unspoken desire- a desire that he should see the fabled Isildur's bane.
There Morthondion stooped, bowing lower than ever, when Denethor was compelled to resume his seat upon his steward's unadorned throne.
"We are, for good or ill, to take Osgiliath. If you see evil or foul deception, if any quarter of the city reeks of poison, plague or aught of the dark arts- I am to be told, but pray, do not withdraw troops. The people's morale will rise- but a cause for fear this is indeed if no heed is paid to us by our dark foe."
That would be, in convention, the dismissal, but Morthondion would not go, for he had yet another matter of which address would need to be made.
It was out of the ancient rule that one must speak when spoken to that he tarried, and irascibly, Denethor's hand motioned in a curt wave for the last of his messages.
"Lord Steward, Faramir your son sends word from Cair Andros. The Rangers of Ithilien espy orcs, easterlings, southrons- by the hundreds if not thousands- it is to their harrying that the question must be put. How many do you command be slain, my lord?"
And it was here that Denethor would be brought to do that which he seldom had cause to- for he smiled.
"If my son is indeed possessed of any quality, he will slay them by the thousands that comprise their number! Every archer we command is to shoot every arrow that may be shot. Why, that is most excellent news, for we shall now open the gates! My riders shall scorch their rear-guard, and we shall meet them on the battlefield, cutting them down as they pass with the furious haste of the lords of eld!"
Faramir's young herald was brought again to falter, for indeed this response he was warned of, and yet again, he had no answer.
"My Lord, Lord Faramir would have you know that such a course may be… unwise. If we are to meet them in battle, would it not be simple for them to turn around and flood our lines in their overwhelming numbers? If the rangers are to shoot at will- if our cover is gone- Cair Andros will fall. And even if their way is west and west alone…"
"Confound it all, coward of my son's tutelage! Their purpose is the ring- I know it for I have seen it. Have I not sat the highest tower and fought battle after battle with my mortal will against the might of Sauron himself? If only he were here- aye, if only I… had not sent him away… the-the orcs go west, for my poor Boromir, while Faramir would skulk in the shadows… h-how must I…"
Gasping, Denethor collapsed upon his chair for the second time, cursing himself in his mind with all the fervour of a Dwarven thespian and rhetorician. Morthondion, blessed be he, had the discretion to maintain his silence.
"Herald. What I say to you now is what will come to pass, and naught else is possible. They will not turn. We will rout their forces. And even if a few soldiers are to fall, their sacrifices will set the people's hearts ablaze with the glory of a true victory. We are desperate- something must be done. Sauron has given us the opportunity to show our strength to our people- I daresay we take it while his error persists. That will be all."
"As you wish, my lord. For Gondor!"
"For Gondor."
NOTE- I shall, for the purpose of this story, attempt to adopt quite firmly the method of narrative employed by Tolkien in 'The Lord of the Rings', hence the somewhat archaic sentence structure and vocabulary. However, I wish it readable for all, even those who have only watched the movies.
Any terms, incidents or otherwise elements present exclusively in The Lord of the Rings books or The Silmarillion shall be explained appropriately in the following glossary, in the same format for each subsequent chapter.
The premise of this story is established in my short story 'The Coming of the Night' to which this is a direct sequel.
GLOSSARY
Sindarin and Quenya are the two major elvish languages, the former employed by the Sindar (Grey Elves- for example, Celeborn and Thranduil) and the Noldor (Deep Elves- for example, Elrond and Galadriel)
Mithlond (Sindarin): The Grey Havens
Círdan: The Shipwright, one of the first elves to awake and the oldest elf on Middle-earth. His actions in the first age helped save Elvendom in Middle-earth. The ships that sail to Aman (the Undying Lands) are crafted and sailed by his mariners.
Elbereth: The Elves' name for Varda, who is also known as 'Gilthoniel' (Star-Kindler) and 'Elentári'- Star-Queen.
Varda is a Valië, one of the queens of the Valar. The Valar are Tolkien's demiurges, although higher in authority and power than the term allows. There are seven kings of the Valar, and seven queens. The fifteenth, Morgoth, the mightiest in the beginning, turned to evil and became the first Dark Lord of Arda. Sauron was his foremost lieutenant.
Out of all the Valar, Varda is the most beloved of the elves.
Serving the Valar are the Maiar, of the same order but of lesser might. Each Vala has many maiar serving them. Gandalf and Sauron are examples of Maiar.
Elenath (Quenya): Stars
Anar- The Sun
Cuiviénen-The 'bay of awakening', the place where the elves first woke under the light of the stars in the First Age. It is now lost to time, as the land upon which it lay has most likely been destroyed.
Erestor-Most learned among the Elven scholars of Rivendell
Ósanwë (Quenya): The method of telepathic communication employed by powerful elves wherein their minds and 'fëar' (souls) are extended to meet with another's.
Peredhel (Sindarin):Half-elven
Estel (Sindarin):Hope, Elrond's name for Aragorn.
Olórin:Gandalf's original name as a Maia.
Vilya: Elven Ring of Air, greatest of the three Elven Rings.
"Nai herucormo taltuvë, nai morgûl quelmë fanyarë, Ai nárraumo nancarindo, nahta-cotto nu fuinë!":
This chant of Saruman's in Quenya translates to 'May the Lord of the Rings fall; may dark sorcery blacken the clouds. O hell-storm of devouring flame, burn my enemies in deep shadow!"
Morthondion: Son of the Blackroot Vale