Chapter 8: Old Dog
Her eyes are open.
The scene is different.
Great hewn pillars of jagged stone and steel loom high along the outmost limits of the space. Above her head, even higher than high, stars twinkle bright and cold in unsettlingly foreign formations - clearer than ever she had seen their like before - stretching in all directions. A long walk from the grand entrance to the dais that overlooks the sky… A throne, whereon sits death, lies abandoned in the midst of multitudinous corpses. In the distance, a drifting carcass tumbles lethargically, weightless in the otherwise empty black beyond.
The king is dead.
The coifed might-beyond-might, nonpareil, that was innate afforded him much in the face of his nemeses, but ultimately faltered. His primacy denied. His wroth for naught. His soldiers and children slaughtered.
She knows this, though she does not know how.
The ground is slick with blood from countless foes; they are strange shapes that reek of malice and unnatural hunger, even in death. Her feet feel a chill of ice when they splash in the foul reek.
Yet, through that blackened mire of entrails and fluids walk, undaunted, six figures.
They are murderers. Usurpers. Dissidents. They are enemies of the king who sat on the throne. Now, they are victors.
They gaze upon the shrinking form of the king's lifeless body, tumbling as if weightless in the noctilucent gloom. Their quest complete; their travails come to fruition. From the grand atrium they gather the spoils of war, stones of value and weapons of war, materials to craft yet greater armaments for wars yet unended.
But to the throne they pay no heed as they collect the spoils of their war and leave the room as empty of life as the void between the stars beyond.
Except for one.
Of the six, one fains looks back at the seat of power… His eyes are filled with ambition; tempered by obligation. And yet his gaze lingers all the same.
With a shuddering struggle, he turns away and follows his fellows away.
But it is in that moment when he looked back at the throne that she recognized his face. The sharp angles of those eyes that peer through broken helm...
She'd seen them once before.
The door of the great hall closed with a grinding boom.
And Galadriel awoke.
In the time before Guardians were called Guardians, before they divided themselves up between so-called classes, Risen were simply Risen. Warlock, Hunter, Titan… didn't matter. Light was Light.
Only after the Pilgrim Guard became more commonly known and Risen became 'Guardians' in the minds of the Lightless did the concept of orders come to be. And as Guardians congregated under the shadow of the Traveler, forming groups and friendships with those of similar ideas and personalities, the formation of classes became an inevitability.
Strictly speaking, there was no law that predetermined a Guardian's style. That is to say, though I am a Warlock, there is nothing keeping me from learning a Titan's discipline or a Hunter's unorthodoxy except my own disposition.
In like fashion, our learned martial disciplines are also chosen and developed at our discretion. Firearms – or tools belike – are common enough to be learned by most of what remained of humanity before I even came into being. Or… re-being, rather... Suffice it to say, finding veterans to teach me how to shoot was not difficult, though I've met few Guardians who are not innately akin to firearms from the outset.
Swordsmanship however, I learned from the Hive, and so it is very crude in comparison to… pretty much any other form of combat. That said, it is certainly effective in its own right. But against the finesse of a Hunter, or the indomitability of a Titan, its limitations become more pronounced.
After all, the Hive worship death. Why should they care about skill when they can hack their way to victory with little to no regard for their own safety?
Though, it is that very mindset that makes them weak to Guardians. Hunter's are too elusive and slippery, while deathless Titans meet them with greater might undaunted. If it weren't for their dark magics, the Hive would have been conquered in the territory of martial strength eons ago.
And Warlocks? Most of us avoid the study of swordsmanship since, simply put, why bother getting up close and personal when we can rain fire from on high? Close combat is the Achilles heel of Warlocks, and most are content to let it be so.
I, on the other hand, have rarely been content with anything in my life.
"Again."
I rise from where my stance has been broken by a swift kick to my knee. Glorfindel readies himself and comes at me again.
I am fortunate that the Elves (or at least this Elf in particular) seems to have such boundless stamina; hour after hour every day, Glorfindel and I spend our time in the sun sweating and striking at one anything with our blunt weapons.
I opt not to practice using my own sword, especially after the reactions garnered from others merely being in its presence. The curved Elven sword in my hand suits me well enough regardless; Glorfindel explained to me that because Orcs commonly only wear leather armor, if they wear armor at all, the thin, curved blade is better for dispatching them efficiently than a straight blade meant for piercing iron; a quick slice to their throats, arms, or knees is generally enough to incapacitate them, giving one a chance to finish them off safely.
I don't doubt his words, though it leaves me curious as to why he wields a straight blade… Perhaps it's simply a matter of preference. Can't fault him for that.
Elvish swordsmanship is as much a matter of art as it is functional, and I have come to the conclusion that this is less a matter of intention than it is a part of their nature. Everything an Elf does is beautiful and elegant by that nature. It amuses me that this curious racial trait extends even to the art of swordplay and warfare.
It is certainly an aspect that I think Humanity could adopt to its own advantage.
I make a mental note to bring it up to Zavala the next time I see his blue-skinned mug.
…I do hope getting home doesn't take me too long; though I know it's pointless to do so, I worry about the City in my absence, though not overly so; many heroes remain in its defense, not the least of which being that foolhardy Guardian who did Ghaul in; the very same one who brought Saint-14 back from the dead through temporal amendment and general Vex bull-shittery.
Worrying will do me no good. I just need to focus on myself right now.
Our blades clash briefly, a staccato refrain of steel that rings in the open field.
I abstain from using my Light, since I want to learn the true Elven swordsmanship pure and unfettered. Only after I've reached what I might called the "intermediate" level would I feel confident enough to throw a Guardian's talents into the mix.
Evidently, Glorfindel thinks that day will come sooner rather than late. Many lifetimes of experience have left me with a disposition for swift and seamless education.
Go figure.
I bite back a "duh, Warlock" knowing that even in the elder Elf's company I should mind my P's and Q's.
Though affable, Glorfindel seems like the kind of Elf to take training very seriously. So, I do likewise in turn.
"Your years do you credit," the Elf says, pirouetting away from a swipe that nearly caught his golden hair. "Even my own people do not pick up on the old ways so quickly."
The sun is golden and descending when at last he lowers his sword arm and approaches me, gesturing for me to follow him to the shaded gazebo where a pitcher of cool water awaited us.
"Just looking at it, your swordsmanship is elegant, perhaps excessively so," I say. "But in practice, it's quite precise."
"Only in our hands," Glorfindel replies as we enter the cool dark under the hut's roof. "Men possess an elegance of their own kind, of course, but it is largely gone from their lineage. Only in the blood of Nȗmenor can it be recalled. So take pride when I say that even Elves do no learn as swift as thee."
I smile a proud smile despite myself. "Well… I trust your judgement in any case."
Glorfindel almost rolls his eyes as he fixes me with a look. "You are very difficult to compliment, Lazarus. You don't have a complex, do you?"
I laugh at his words and shrug my shoulders. "Others might call it a complex… I call it keeping myself grounded. A big head will unbalance the body, no?"
"Tis true," he replies. "But it is also important to acknowledge one's own achievements with an objective gaze."
"An objective comparison requires something to compare it too. In that regard, comparing myself to you… I look like a child swinging a stick."
Glorfindel laughs heartily. "Truthfully, when we began, that's exactly how you looked. But you have come very far in so short a time. And on that subject, how goes your training under Finwé?"
I shake my head in exasperation. "Worse. I didn't expect to learn all the secrets of Elven metalwork in a fortnight, but I expected to do better than I currently am. I've forged countless weapons both common and exotic in my homeland. Mined steel, forged iron, even carved bone… I've made armaments of them all. And yet I've not struggled so much since when I forged Bolt Caster."
The Elf nods slowly at the mention of my sword, and he looks pensive for a long moment. Finally, he speaks.
"Lazarus… may I ask a question expecting a transparent answer?"
I raise an eyebrow at him and fix him with a look filled with skepticism. Considering the accommodations that have been given me since I arrived in Rivendell… I suppose a bit of honesty wouldn't be overly painful… even if the answer is beyond his capacity to understand.
It also behooves me to maintain this strangely affable relationship I've somehow developed with the Elf Lord.
I answer behind a drink of water. "You may."
"Where is your home?"
Silence grows between us as our eyes pierce each other. Elven sight, or rather, insight seems to be a racial characteristic. But I think he knows I have quickly grown to read Elves just as easily as they read others.
I sigh, feeling a weight evaporate from my shoulders as I honor his wish. "I don't know," I answer honestly. "Up there, somewhere."
Glorfindel's eyes follow mine as I stare into the sky. A brow of his rises, prompting me to explain my words.
With a thought, a folded parchment materializes in my hand. I hold it out to him, and he takes it warily, unfolding it.
It is a map of the world. Not the world as he knows it; not Middle-Earth, but Earth. My home, not his.
Land masses, oceans… the names of cities, kingdoms, and nations long since collapsed printed in prominent bold letters across its colored surface. For minutes, his eyes pan across its creases, his fingers touching names and locations with purpose beyond my comprehension.
"This is your home?" he asks without looking up at me.
"It is. Most of the cities and nations are gone now. But it is home all the same."
When Glorfindel's eyes finally rise to meet mine, a deep understanding is beheld in them. "And… where is your home?"
The question is the same as he asked before, but the meaning is different. I read it accurately.
I breathe a sigh and consider how best to describe it. "I have spoken the truth every time I say I do not know. I only know that Middle-Earth is not my home. Just as this world basks in the light of the Sun, so my world does as well. But it is the light of another sun; another star."
The season's early dusk has given way to the twinkling lights, and my eyes search them in vain.
"The constellations are foreign to me. One of them might be my home… but I cannot say for certain. It may be a star so far away that its light does not even reach this sky."
Contrary to my expectations, he takes my answer in stride, though I am left wondering if perhaps he is simply holding back a flood of subsequent questions. I can only imagine he must be, if only for my sake.
After a while… "Suddenly, your marathon forays into the bowels of the library make much more sense," he says with a sullen understanding. "You knew nothing at all."
"And even after these many weeks of study I still feel like a babbling babe, grasping at the meaning of this world and the things in it," I admit quietly. "But my creed is to protect others, and to propagate strength in opposition to evil. If in the process of education, I can also protect Frodo and the Ring until he can toss it into Mount Doom and neutralize Sauron… Well, two birds, one stone, and all that."
"So, succinctly, your objectives are to fight Sauron and his influence, and someway return to your home… Do you intend to travel the stars?"
"Eventually," I answer. "Even if it takes me a thousand years, I can do it."
It isn't a lie. I have all the schematics I need to build a jumpship with a working engine and life support. If I can form a glimmer forge, mine, and workshop to build it all, then returning home isn't a question, it an inevitability.
…Or if I can find a Vex gate connected to the network, as unlikely as that may be… Though so doing would in all likelihood leave the door open to Middle-Earth behind me, and that leaves a sour taste in my mouth; I don't have any strong connections to this world, but I can't pretend that by the time this ordeal is over, I won't have formed precious bonds with those I will soon be traveling with. It's impossible not to like someone in one form or another after sharing hardships with them.
That is what I believe. And I wouldn't leave them to the apathetic machinations of the Vex.
...Though I dearly hope it doesn't take me a literal thousand years to do so… I imagine I'll need to develop some new hobbies if that's the case.
"To that end," I continue, "I'm hoping that the methods of Elven craftsmanship will be of great aid to me."
It takes a moment for Glorfindel to emerge from his thoughts, and it seems as if he is suppressing more invasive questions to maintain the conversation. "And how goes the learning of such?"
Strangely, a part of me almost wishes he'd pry more…
"In regard to metalwork, the ways of Elves are as strange to me as the ways of my own people must be to you. But I'm nothing if not determined."
"If you're as quick a study in forging as you are in swordsmanship, I expect it will take you no time at all," he encourages me with a genuine smile.
Not one to underestimate myself, I do have to be careful of ye old greatest and deadliest sins.
Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.
Wise words of ancient days.
"Well, I have plenty of time. I'm in no rush." I take another refreshing drink of cold water.
Assuming everything goes well, that is.
No plan survives contact with the enemy.
I swallow both the water and the trepidation in my throat.
When not working diligently with the sword, I am – as one might expect – working diligently with the sword.
Forging them, that is.
Smithing in the authentic Elven way is, dare I say, a therapeutic experience. Almost like a sort of meditation. Ignoring the pains in my body, the aches and cracks of joints overstrained, the burn of muscles pushed past their limits… My mind is devoid of all extraneous thought, focused ever and only on the hammer, the anvil, the billows, and the blade.
But for the many lives of me I hate how slow my progress has been… Finwé's instructions notwithstanding, the swords I forge are of middling quality, and scarce remind me of the days when I forged Bolt Caster; at least in those days I felt a sense of accomplishment with every step I completed. Now I feel as though for every step forward I take another three steps back.
Shaping the blade is easy enough. It's metal. If I can bend the myriad paracausal forces of the universe to my will, then I can bend a piece of carbon alloyed iron.
But, as it is more often than not, the nature of Elvish artisanry is deeper than the surface; although the swords I make might appear visually similar to those made by Aithlin and Myriil, and even to an extent those made by Finwé, it's clear that my blades lack a certain quality that I cannot identify.
That none of the three have told me what it is seems to be intentional, for I can see their scrupulous eyes focus here and there on things I do not see, and though they guide me as they may, they do not hand me the answer.
It's clear they intend to make me work for it. Which is all well and good mind you, but it leads to no end of frustration on my part.
For a while I had been incorporating a touch of Awoken architecture to the steel, but I put that aside when I realized the inherent lack of that elusive something. Best to do it the way the Elves do if I'm to have any hope at all of figuring out what it is.
Sweat beads on my brow and drenches my back as I bring my hammer down upon this unrelenting steel. Fire licks from the nearly molten metal on my anvil, and I feel its tension with every hammer fall. Yet in the forging of Elven steel, this much resistance is to be expected.
Over the course of many hours the weapon takes proper form, surrendering to my violent ministrations until at last its gleaming skin shines brightly in the forgelight.
The glow of the furnace's flame casts streaks of contending light over the blade's moonlit shaft. Warm golden and cool, azure-white. In such light, it looks as full and final as any blade I've crafted before. My mind wanders at the hypnotizing dance of light… I breathe, and the weight of many days of sleepless effort settles on my shoulders.
Gabriel manifests over my shoulder and inspects the blade.
"You're getting pretty good at this," he says, though I suspect that behind his encouraging words he knows I'm less than thrilled at the results.
Leave it to a Ghost to be the undaunted optimist of our duo... I can always count on him.
"The more I practice, the less progress I see," I say quietly, sinking to the ground with my back to the black anvil. "Surely I cannot be reaching the upper echelons of elvish techniques already…? No, surely not; it's a wall. I must be missing something crucial…"
With a piercing blue beam of light, Gabriel picks the metal up and turns it over in the air, reflections of its surface shining about the little outdoor forge, even into the boughs of the tree in which it has been constructed.
"You know, if I didn't know better, I'd say the metal the Elves actually absorbs spectral radiation from celestial entities," he comments idly as if he didn't hear me. "In the old days, humans would wax romantic about lassoing the moon for their paramours. Maybe you just need to beat the moon into the sword. It'd probably glow then."
I fix my Ghost with a flat look that he pretends to not see.
"We've been to the moon, Gabriel, and last I checked, moon dust is still just moon dust. Besides, moonlight is just a reflection of sunlight; everything special about the moon comes from the sun."
Gabriel pauses for a moment before shrugging as Ghosts do. "Different moon. Different sun. Different stars... Different everything."
I let out a deep sigh and pluck the floating sword from his luminous grasp, fingering the steel and angling it back and forth. The distorted view of the night sky reflected hazily in the unpolished surface.
"Not everything," I retort quietly.
After all, according to Elven lore, the moon and the sun are supposedly just constructs that hold the last fruit and flower of the two Trees of Valinor. Even here in this place, legends of the creation of the world persist through the years, just as they did on Earth before the Collapse.
I'd be a fool to take every tale they tell at face value.
For all the differences in the astral alignment of stars above, this moon looks no different than ours. I can even see the so-called "man on the moon," various lunar maria of smooth basalt rock wherein idle minds find familiar shapes, like animals in fluffy-white cumulous clouds.
I find it highly unlikely that someone crafted the exact same ancient, blackened lava flows into their moon.
Though… stranger things have happened, I suppose… That I of all people should presume with such ignorance speaks to how dull I've become. How droll…
The Elves say the last living flower of the silver tree became the moon and the last fruit of the golden tree became the sun… True enough, that is what was written in Elvish lore. It being a tale of creation, specifically of the world and how it came to be as we see it today, I expect some degree of subjective interpretation (and no small number of liberties taken) has cloven fact from the fable and created what amounts only to a fireside tale; the last whimsical remnants of an era long gone by and deeds no longer properly remembered.
I shrug my shoulders. "Maybe when all of this is over, we'll take a ship up and see what's what."
Gabriel is silent for a moment, lost in thought. His single eye seems to narrow in consternation. "Yeah… Maybe."
We share a short silence, we two sitting in the cool night air together. I'll return to work soon, for indeed there is much work to be done, but the brief respite is appreciated for as long as we can stand to abide it.
We are both drawn out of our reverie by the steady steps of an Elf – Finwé – making his presence known purposely. Gabriel fades out of sight; though the Elves seem to have taken his existence in admirable stride, Gabriel is by nature a shy fellow, magnified by the increasing number of stories of Ghosts being targeted while out and about with their Guardian. After what happened with Cayde-6…
The Hunter Vanguard wasn't the first Guardian to be undone via the careless revelation of his Ghost, but he is arguably the most infamous – and recent – and a potent object lesson for all Guardians green and veteran alike.
Finwé is silent as he examines the forge where I have been hard at work. He offers me a nod of acknowledgement, and I do the same out of courtesy.
His eyes focus instead upon my newly crafted steel. With a silent questioning gesture – which I wordlessly consent to – Finwé gently plucks the weapon from my hands, turning it over in his to examine its length.
For a while, he offers neither approval nor critique, running his fingers across the surface, inspecting its straightness with keen, experienced eyes, and swinging it experimentally. He spends several minutes doing this, all of it in silence, save for the whispering song of sliced air as the sword whistles through it.
After a time, he nods to me and returns it to my hands, breaking the silence with praise.
"Your efforts deserve applause, Lazarus. Your technique improves day by day," he says with a bright expression that I don't expect. "This sword is worthy to be considered of Elvish make."
"Thank you," I say at last, accepting the weapon back into my hands. I sit this newest sibling of my thirteen previous efforts on a rack to the farthest right. Side by side, it's easy to see how far I've come in so little time. Even so…
"I'm still far beneath yourself. Its only by your guidance that I've been able to come so far."
Finwé's face twists comically at my words for a moment before his eyes light up with laughter that nearly doubles him over. It's a new sight to me, who has only ever seen the reserved side of this Elf.
"Forgive me my mirth, friend Lazarus! Your words catch me off guard; to say something like that… have you been aiming to match my skill all this time? Even in ancient days when we taught our techniques to Men, they in their prime were not so quick to craft as well as we. In only a few short weeks you've come this far." He gestures to the weapon now set aside.
"Though the experiences of your hands in the field of forgework are apparent to me, the practices you have displayed in the learning of our ways indicate a difference that cannot be surmounted by sheer force of will alone. It will take time, and patience, certainly more time than these few short months. Can you not be satisfied with your own progress, even for just a moment, friend?"
You feel that gnawin' at your guts? Like teeth chewin' on your soul? That's instinct, brother. Ain't no good come from denying it. Best take heed. Trust.
His words are… regrettably true. And admittedly wise. Would anyone else make as much progress as I in this past month? I don't think so. No, in fact I highly doubt it. Then why am I so hung up on matching this Elf's talents?
Grow fat from strength.
I can see my progress in my swords' forms, each one an improvement over the one who came before.
Yet, I can't help but feel unsatisfied.
Still hungry.
"No," I say simply, a smile of my own tracing across my face. "A Warlock is never satisfied until he has absorbed all he wishes to know."
Finwé's expression is invisible to me as I set about cleaning up my workstation, the effulgent dance of forge-flames slowing to quiescence behind a sealed shutter. However, based on his voice, his expression is decidedly dower.
"I fear yours is a restless existence, Lazarus."
I chuckle aloud as I replace my borrowed tools and wipe my brow. He doesn't know how right he is. "An understatement if ever one existed, master Finwé. Which reminds me… About that thing I mentioned…"
At my words, Finwé's expression hardens slightly and I feel a minute gust of breath from an unheard huff of irritation. I wonder if I shouldn't have said anything...
The Elf withdraws a rectangular slab of pale gray metal the size of his palm and shows it to me. "As you can see," he begins, "it's no use. No matter how high I raised the temperature, I couldn't make it hot enough to smelt. I cannot imagine the caliber of forge required to heat such a material."
I take the flake of hadium and thumb its surface experimentally.
As I expected, smelting space-age metals was beyond the current level of even the Elves.
Damn shame.
I sigh and nod to his words.
Hadium is a particularly reactive metal that stores whatever energy it is exposed to, even extending to paracasual forces like the Light and the Darkness. It is an incredibly versatile material for making weapons. But that also extends to a forge's heat; to exceed its heat threshold and reach its melting point… It would take more than simple flame.
I had hoped that hidden somewhere in the Elves' techniques was a method to exceeding the limits of the metal acausally. Sadly, that does not appear to be the case.
"I understand. I appreciate the attempt."
I tuck the slab away in my pocket and straighten my back with a stretch. It pops several times. Slaving over a forge is murder on one's spine if you don't have the proper form.
"Perhaps a proper night's rest will do you good, Lazarus. You've been in here every day slaving away, and when you're not, you are training with lord Glorfindel. A period of rest is due unto you. Go and trouble me not today."
He smiles and gives a reassuring grip on my shoulder, nudging me away. I take his hint and bow, exiting the forge unceremoniously.
Of course, I do not leave without purpose. If I am to follow Finwé's advice and rest (though I'm so often loth to do so), then I know just the place that will ease my mind.
"The gardens again?" Gabriel chirps questioningly in my ear, to which I nod sagely.
"The gardens again."
Having spent so much time in the bowels of Elrond's knowledge-cellars, I wonder if I haven't grown a bit drunk on the stuff… Certainly, I think my tongue has lost its ability to taste the many flavors of information within, and any Warlock worth their robes will tell you that's a one-way ticket to Forgetsville.
When you end up reading the same line five times over because you've already forgotten it four times before, you know you've hit your limit.
For me, the finest cerebral decompressor is to appreciate nature in whatever forms it presents itself.
Not that I'm any sort of expert on the subject, and I certainly don't want to be. I think there are some things in the universe that are far more wonderful to experience without knowing their intricate inner workings.
A Warlock says what?!
Aye, blasphemy. I know.
"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone," Gabriel says reading my thoughts and nuzzling against my temple as he materializes beside me to walk the pathways back to the city proper.
I lean my head into his weight affectionately, his words teasing a warm chuckle from my throat. "I can always count on you, Gabriel."
"Of course," he replies with mirth. "I've been eyeing a new shell for Dawning this year, and I'll be damned if I make the Naughty List and miss out!"
I laugh at him, knowing that he's not entirely joking.
...This is also a sort of galvanic repose...
One thought that tends to elude those who spend so much time with the Elves is but a simple query; how often do Elves procreate?
It's a crude question, and certainly not one I'd ask in any good sense unless it were pertinent. However, it strikes me that in my time in Rivendell, I haven't once seen Elf children – Elflings? – about the city. Part of me wonders if perhaps it is simply a symptom of the decline of the Elves. Glorfindel has made mention of it before; that the 'weariness of the world' that Elves feel contributes to a lacking desire to rear children. It makes sense. Why bother having kids when you aren't long for the world?
I'd even go so far as to call it a kind of depression.
Hard to get it up when you're feelin' down. Am I right?
I smile at the memory of those tactless words… How long ago has it been since those old days?
Too long, maybe, for my nostalgia. Not long enough for my sensibilities.
But the reason I'm sitting here in the cool sun of earliest morning, wondering how often Elves' participate in certain nocturnal activities is because for the first time since coming to Rivendell, I see a small cluster of short creatures. They're knife-eared, like Hobbits, but their feet bear shoes of Elven make, and their clothes reflect the same. They are thinner and taller than Hobbits, and do not possess a mien of experience that comes with age as I so often see in the halflings' kind.
Their hair, too, is long and ranges in colors between gold, silver, and a ruddy auburn like autumn leaves.
Their voices are melodious and joyful as they play in the garden, running around playing games one might expect normal children to play. Hide and seek, tag, who can run fastest over a narrow beam… while balancing a ball on their nose.
…Elf children are apparently more coordinated than humans…
I don't know why I'm surprised.
I watch them from a distance, fascinated and content to simply observe. There's something therapeutic about watching someone else have fun. Its why sports are so popular among those who lack the skills to participate. Children even more so, I think.
Adults can only really have fun in ways they already know; and introducing them to new ways to have fun can be like pulling teeth. Adults are stuck in their ways.
But children make their own fun, and frequently flit from one game to another, sometimes even making new games up on the spot, establishing rules for each other to play by, then break them at their earliest convenience to the chagrin of their fellows.
Their laughter is pure, devoid of pain or sorrow. Only happiness. Only joy.
A thick lump swells suddenly in my throat at their melody.
Have I ever heard the children of the Last City sing so purely in joy? I have.
I'm reminded of home.
Not home as in the City itself, but home as in the people of the City.
I'm reminded of the sight of many banners and colorful cloths strung across narrow streets burnished by gold sunlight, the emblems of myriad Guardian orders emblazoned upon them. I'm reminded of the cacophonous racket of venders hawking their wares for a handful of glimmer. I'm reminded of cries of joy and despair as the local restaurants' vidscreens broadcast the latest Crucible bout or SRL race.
Nostalgic memories trigger scents I do not actually smell, sounds I cannot hear, and flavors I cannot taste.
For a moment… an infinitesimal moment… I feel at home for the first time since waking in this Middle-Earth.
And for that tragically short breath of time, I am at peace.
Into this quiescence a pleasant voice makes itself known to me.
"Pardon the intrusion, master Lazarus," said the voice. "I seem to have stumbled upon you in the midst of a moment of reflection. I do hope I haven't given offense."
I look over – and down – to the speaker and feel myself smile. For his diminutive stature, the mien of his presence is as grand as a giant's.
"Master Bilbo Baggins," I greet with a turning nod. "I fear I have not spoken with thee for some weeks, to my great regret."
"The regret is more mine than thine, I think," he says, waving off my words with the neck of his long, smoking pipe. "Had you the opportunity to speak with a Hobbit, be it myself or any of my kinsmen, you would soon come to understand a certain degree of tedium that comes with smallfolk conversation. We can spend hours talking about things like family lineage and get all gossipy at the prospect of 'current events'. Not many of the tall folk can bear the burden. Aye, Hobbits are an acquired taste, we are." His gaze drifted away in thought for but a small moment before he snapped back to me, gesturing to an empty place on the bench beside me. "May I join you?"
"Of course," I nod and invite him to sit. "I've heard much the same from the horse's mouth, so to speak; I can heard them laughing and reveling together from across the city on days when the wind is light. The subject of their mirth is much as you describe."
Bilbo chuckles and nods. "Seventeen years it has been since I left the Shire – our homeland lest you wonder – and much needs be caught up on. And I must say we're making a valiant go of it."
I nod in understanding. "That's quite some time to be away from family."
"Oh too true," he agrees. "But I don't regret it. I left the Shire for wont of wanderlust, and I dare say I've scratched only the smallest bit of the itch. Sadly, the Elves won't let let me leave; 'too dangerous' they say. Bah!"
He fidgets for a moment with his pipe, patting down the pockets of his coat and breeches on search of something grumbling under his breath over some forgetfulness.
Divining the purpose of his search, I reach over to him in offering. "Allow me."
He pauses, looking at him empty hand skeptically, but nevertheless brings the lip of his pipe to his lips, curiosity winning out.
I snap my fingers and a golden flame ignites at the tip of my finger. The Hobbit nearly drops the pipe in astonishment, but it is followed by a twinkling of the eyes and a smile born of amazement. Remembering suddenly that the flame was for his benefit, he fumbles for a moment as he draws the fire into the pipe's chamber. He takes a good breath in before exhaling a good puff of smoke.
"Stars above! I'd nigh forgot you were a wizard!"
I take no offense. I'm not some wrinkly old man, nor do I bear a mien of wisdom and knowledge. It would be more apt to call me a gun-toting bookworm.
"I'm sure its easy to forget," I assuage dismissively. "Though I doubt Gandalf would use his powers so flippantly."
"Oh, yes." Some of the wonder left the Hobbits eyes as he took another puff. "When I've had occasion to speak with him, he seems to gain a new wrinkle anytime your name comes up. Right here, between the eyes."
"My name comes up, does it?" I ask with an arched brow.
He waves off my feigned concern. "Just the younger ones being curious kittens. For certain we all have questions, but Gandalf is tight lipped on the subject, only deigning to say enough to keep little Pippin from turning the city upside down with all his questions."
"Popularity is as much a curse as a blessing," I huff sardonically, Bilbo mirroring me with a knowing tilt of his head.
"Oh, indeed. I'm quite popular myself back in Hobbiton. Not that I mind well-meaning neighbors and various friendly folk, but on occasion there comes a-knocking those whose company I'd much rather forego the pleasure of having."
I raise a brow at him again. "And? How do you deal with them?"
"How does anyone avoid pesky petitioners?" The Hobbit pursed his lips around his pipe and looked about him with feigned subtlety. "Pretend I'm not home!"
A fit of laughter took him, infecting me with his mirth. Ah! Simple troubles, and simple solutions to solve them. Would that home be so blessedly trivial. "Would that I could do the same. But I'm a soldier as much as I am a thinker. Thus do my duties compel me to act regardless of my desires."
"Mores the pity then," Bilbo chided, nodding in agreement with own words. "A man ought to have time to himself to think, and to eat, and to smoke in peace."
I hum in consensus, and a silence settles around us. The laughing of children, the singing of songs, and the sighing of wind about the boughs of trees fill our ears in place of conversation. It strikes me that for as much as Bilbo claims that his kin are overly-talkative, he is remarkably less so. I risk breaking the silence and point this out.
"I suppose I'm quite different from other Hobbits. Most don't go more than a few dozen miles from the hole they were born in. Me? I was born for adventure! Ha! Well, perhaps not born for it... It did take Gandalf inviting thirteen Dwarves over for dinner to conscript me as a burglar of sorts – all unbeknownst to me mind you! – to give me the taste of adventure I'd not known I'd been craving. And still crave, if I'm being perfectly honest."
"You should come with us then," I proffer. Far from being under house arrest, Bilbo seemed to be treated with a certain degree of reverence from the Elves. Certainly they would respect his wishes...
"Alas, I am too old, and the danger too great. Else there would be naught in this world that would stop me from setting out with Frodo. Elrond wound never allow it. And to his credit, I fear he would be in the right; age has caught up with me asudden, and I feel the vigor of my spirit outpace the integrity of my bones. Oh I've had many adventures since last I saw Frodo in the Shire, but that my body should betray me on the precluding days of his first great adventure... Yea, perhaps the greatest adventure of our Age! Its unconscionable, I tell you!"
Bilbo's arms crossed stiffly over his chest and he puffed at his pipe indignantly. "But you'll be watching him, wont you? With Gandalf and the Dúnadan, yes? I'm afraid I must ask you to carry my burden and do as much for him on my account. Would you accept this plea from a humble Hobbit?"
His old eyes were soft as he stared out over the nigh mystical city, but they are all the more so when he turns to me. The ardor of his words are piercing beyond my abilities to resist, even had I the spirit to do so. But I am honor-bound to go on this quest with Frodo and company, and as the bearer of the One Ring, I couldn't very well allow the Enemy to reclaim so potent a weapon from beneath my nose. Naturally, I intend to protect Frodo as well as I can.
But I'm not one to waste a thousand words when ten will do the job.
I reach over and place a comforting hand on the elder Hobbit's shoulder. I smile fainly. "You have my word, Bilbo Baggins. You have my word. And when we return, I will regale you with all manner of accounts and adventures that you could desire; if your rickety quarron can't bear thee hence, then thy soul at least may be satisfied with the telling."
And so the days slipped away, as each morning dawned bright and fair, and each evening followed cool and clear. But autumn was waning fast; slowly the golden light faded to pale silver, and the lingering leaves fell from the naked trees. A wind began to blow chill from the Misty Mountains to the east. The Hunter's Moon waxed round in the night sky and put to flight all the lesser stars. But low in the South, one star shone red. Every night, as the Moon waned again, it shone brighter and brighter, deep in the heavens, burning like a watchful eye that glared above the trees on the brink of the valley…
I have been nearly three months in the House of Elrond, and November has gone by with the last shreds of autumn, and December is now passing when scouts begin to return. Some had gone north beyond the springs of the Hoarwell into the Ettenmoors; and others had gone west, and with the help of Aragorn and the Rangers had searched the lands far down the greyflood, as far as Tharbad, where the old North Road crossed the river by a ruined town. Many had gone east and south; and some of these had crossed the Misty Mountains and entered Mirkwood, while others had climbed the pass at the source of the Gladden River and had come down into Wilderland and over the Galdden Fields, and so at length had reached the old home of Radagast at Rhosgobel.
Like Gandalf, Radagast is a wizard, and of no relation to the Radegast I know. Radagast the Brown, as he is called, is a master of beasts: creatures of hoof, paw, fin, feather, and fang. He was not home, and the runner returned with that ill news over the high pass that was called the Dimrill Stair. The sons of Elrond, Elladan and Elrohir, were the last to return; they had made a great journey, passing down the Silverlode into a strange country, but of their errand they wouldn't speak to any except Elrond.
In no regions had the messengers discovered any signs or tidings of the Enemy's agents. Even from the Eagles of the Misty Mountains they had learned no fresh news.
When I asked about that, I envisioned trained birds with limited communicable abilities. Not great winged creatures capable of thought and speech. I should like to see one for myself one day…
Those Black Riders who I have only heard of, those who pursued after Frodo and company on their flight to Rivendell have been accounted for, save one, after their scattering at the crossing of the Bruinen. Elrond presents them to me as the greatest of threats to our journey, and with their absence any other servants of Sauron would need to pick up our trail from the borders of Rivendell, which would be a trying (and not to mention lethal) ordeal for them.
Gandalf announces that we must delay no longer.
It's time to leave.
A/N: Well its been a hot minute since last I uploaded. This chapter left me a little troubled towards the end: as some of you may be aware, there are two months between the Council of Elrond in October and the setting off of the Fellowship in December which are more or less skipped over in the novels. During those two months, I wanted to fill in some opportunities to flesh Lazarus out a bit, and give him a chance to do what he would do naturally.
I could just as easily say, "During those two months Lazarus learned smithing from the Elves... albeit not exceptionally well", and then used that as a springboard for later development, but that just feels lazy and cheats the audience out of an opportunity to observe the depth of Lazarus' character. But likewise I did not want to give Lazarus too much progression since, realistically, two months really isn't that long a time to learn a delicate art like blacksmithing, much less the kind practiced by Elves.
I think I balanced it well enough, considering the limited content I could add this early in the story. With the story moveing forward in proper, the next chapter shouldn't take long, and I expect I will enjoy writing it!
Questions or comments will be responded to in kind, so inquire away!