~ Middle Earth Reclaimed ~
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This part took much more time to type than to write, due to unforeseen problems with fanfiction.net :) The mystery of the old man is revealed here, while Glorfindel and Faramir set off on their own quest. I hope to bring in Thranduil (and his relevance to the story) in the next part. Thank you all once again for your kind comments on this fic - all I can say is that I am very very grateful.
Also, a small correction to the notes in Part 4 - Tolkien intended for Imladris and Hobbiton to be at the latitude of Oxford; it was Minas Tirith that he placed at the latitude of Florence.
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Chapter 5:
I remember.
I remember a minute spark, the remnants of my Will as my towers crumbled and crushed me. Formless, powerless, defeated. The vessel that contained my spirit had been shattered. Voiceless, mindless... until I could find another vessel that would bear me.
"What's your name, sir?" asked the policeman, and shook his head when the old man remained unresponsive. "I won't be able to help him if he doesn't say anything."
The woman bit her lip in thought. "He was better when I found him on the bench. I think he's from the hospital. The one which burned down? That's why he's in shock." She glanced at her watch and gave a little gasp. "I have to go, I'm late."
The policeman thanked her unenthusiastically as she left, and then turned back to the old man, who was smiling in an unnerving way.
I remember the making of the Ring, how the gold - stripped from the vein - turned to liquid light within the crucible. Tongues of flame leapt up around me, licking up the my hands and about my wrists; yet they were but servants to my own greater flame and could not harm me.
For I am a spirit of Fire, and I scorch those who approach me; I am an all-seeing Eye, and my sight rips through those that would hide from me. I am Maker, for it was I who forged the Ring and its companions, I who instructed the smiths of Eregion. I am Destroyer, for it was I who broke Elendil like a rotted branch, while Gil-galad withered in my hands as a leaf in a furnace. I cast down Finrod Felagund, Lord of Nargothrond; I slew Celebrimbor who made the Three Elven Rings; I ground to dust Earnur and a thousand mortal kings before him.
"What's your name, sir?" he repeated slowly. Then he frowned and sighed. "Okay, sir, you just sit there, and we'll see if any calls come in about you." He picked up a few papers and flipped through them idly.
To the Numenorean fools I was Annatar, to the Sindarin cowards I was Gorthaur.
"Wait - did you say something?" The policeman leant over to give the old man a long searching look, while a sheen of perspiration appeared on his forehead. "Man, it's getting warm in here." What he saw in the old man's eyes made him step backward in sudden panic, upsetting the pewter ashtray on the corner of the desk.
Much later, firemen would find this twisted ashtray, and say that a cigarette, falling onto the papers on the desk, had probably started the blaze. They would find only one body in this office. By then, of course, the old man was long gone from the scene.
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After an interminable number of rings, someone picked up. "Hello?" He was surprised to hear a woman speaking, someone that he did not recognise. Several half-formed theories sprang up in his mind, mostly involving cocktails parties.
"Hello. I'd like to speak to Brian Stewart?"
"Alright. Hold on." Another long wait. Faramir spent the time looking anxiously around the hotel lobby; Glorfindel still had not returned from the archaeological site.
"Hello?" The voice on the end of the line was deep, confident, and perhaps a little annoyed.
"Brian, it's me."
The tone changed at once to delight. "Faramir. How are you? How's the dig?"
"It ended a few days ago. But I'm still onsite - I have some things to do."
"A bit unfair of them to make you stay behind, isn't it? I'd better have a word with them."
"No, I'm staying out of choice, Brian. Listen, could you do me a favour? I'm supposed to return to London by the 27th of this month, but I don't think that's going to be possible. The Professor won't be happy about it, so could you... er...?"
"Plead leniency for your absence?" guessed Brian, doubtfully. "What are you doing out there, Frim?"
Before calling his brother, Faramir had prepared a less-than-truthful answer, but all at once he couldn't bring himself to use an outright lie. "I can't really say. But it's important. Even more important than finishing the academic year."
"You're not in trouble, are you?" A hint of anger crept into Brian's voice, directed at the unknown enemy. "You know how smugglers always target archaeologists. I told you to always check your bags in case those drug - "
"No, no, nothing like that. I'm on a personal mission. Though I'd appreciate it if you didn't let Dad know."
There was a snort. "Mmmm. If it's so important, I'll keep your secret. But you'd better tell me everything when you get back."
"I'll try."
"Go do what you have to then. I'm on important business myself, but don't worry, I'll speak to your department. Stay in one piece and give me another call whenever you're able. Goodbye."
Faramir hung up the payphone to find Glorfindel unexpectedly sitting in the large cane chair nearby. "I checked out half an hour ago. I almost thought you weren't coming back."
Glorfindel shook his head. In his arms, like a quiet baby, was a small bundle he had brought back from the ruins, wrapped in layers of soil-stained cloth. "Early this morning I went far out to the river, where fishing boats are moored. There is a boat which will take us down to the river mouth, and from there we must find an ocean-going ship."
To go over sea? thought Faramir, with an ironic smile. Aloud, "Where are we going?"
"To a chain of islands," Glorfindel replied. "Come, Faramir, the vessel awaits us."
The vessel turned out to be a narrow-bodied boat made from wooden and white-painted aluminium sheets, about ten times as long as it was wide, and the fisherman who owned it was a tanned little man with yellow teeth and expressive eyes. He grinned as the two passengers came aboard, and his grin widened when Glorfindel spoke again to him in his native tongue. He motioned them to sit in the bow, threw Faramir's suitcase under the aluminium hood before Faramir could stop him, and then went to the back of the boat to prime up a very noisy outboard motor. Soon they were chugging away down the river.
It was a meltingly hot day, but sitting at the front of the boat meant that there was a constant breeze in their faces. Maybe because of this, the boat did not smell quite as much of fish as one expected. About half an hour into the journey the fisherman rummaged under the aluminium hood and produced two cans of mango juice, offering it to his guests. Glorfindel obligingly took one and said a few words; Faramir recognised the phrase for "Thank you, I like this very much" and repeated it, much to the fisherman's delight.
Just when Faramir thought there would be no surprises, the man began singing. It was a pleasant, chirruping tune, and the fisherman had a strangely high but melodious voice.
"What's he singing about?" asked Faramir, almost moved by the man's enthusiasm.
"Fish in the river," laughed Glorfindel. Then he sobered a little. "Simple joys, Faramir, simple joys."
The student archaeologist raised an eyebrow, then looked back towards the fisherman again, who was launching into yet another song. For a moment he wondered if the elf was hinting something.
At last they reached the open sea. The boat veered off to the right towards the docks, where they would find transport for the next leg of the journey. At the concrete unloading bays they said their goodbyes. The fisherman added a few words which made Glorfindel nod gravely, then hopped back into his boat and cheerfully made his way back upriver.
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The only ships heading in the right direction were cargo carriers. Faramir and Glorfindel boarded a smallish specimen bound for Sumatra; its Captain was a man whose attitude towards passengers and passports was unusually relaxed. They were offered a crew cabin, with bunks that Faramir found comfortable enough; Glorfindel preferred to walk along the deck each night and observe the heavens. Faramir's sleep was interrupted by peculiar dreams of underwater gardens and stone fountains which issued bubbles of air.
On the first day they travelled slowly, passing some old sand bars offshore, and by the second day they were well under way and at cruising speed out on the open water. Now it was the third day, and they had covered hundreds of miles of the Indian Ocean without a break in the scenery. As they stood on deck waiting to catch the first glimpse of the islands, the first mate unexpectedly left the bridge and came to talk to them. He was a short man with eyes like coals and a roughness about him, but he spoke English well, with a pleasant hybrid accent.
"The Captain is willing to make a brief stop just off the islands, but not to approach them too closely. The waters are too shallow for our ship. One of the boys will take you in on a small craft." He glanced towards the south, where the islands had become dimly visible through banks of low cloud. From this distance they looked flat, like cardboard cutouts. "No passenger ship would take you there. The Captain thinks you are eccentric tourists."
But I don't, was the implicit statement.
"Anyway," he continued. "Take a sailor's advice and watch out when you're on Apihitam. They tried to build a fuel depot on it once and things went badly wrong."
"So are there going to be live wires still around? Spilt fuel?" asked Faramir.
"Maybe. But I meant watch out for the things which made the plans go wrong."
"We shall be wary," said Glorfindel. "Thank you for your help."
The first mate went back to the bridge, leaving them to stand on the port deck watching the islands as they grew larger and darker. The northernmost island, Apihitam, had a distinct profile, with a central mountain which was much higher than any on its companion isles. For some reason, there was something about its shape which Faramir disliked. But it was not until they were within a mile of it, and preparing to stop, that he saw the mountain clearly. It rose starkly out of the mist, steep-sided, streaked black and grey.
"It's a volcanic island," said Faramir, feeling chilled even under the hot tropical sun.
"Yes. But it has lain dormant for some time, or so I was told." Glorfindel was still holding his bundle, and Faramir saw his slim pale fingers tighten on it.
Twenty minutes later they were in the 'tender' - a motor-powered dinghy with rubber sides but a fibreglass bottom - speeding towards the shores of Apihitam. Apart from Faramir's battered case, the tender also carried a wooden crate. This contained a survival kit meant to be kept on one of the ship's lifeboats; the captain had thrown it in with the passenger fare as a kind of joke. Faramir wondered how Glorfindel had found money to pay for everything so far, and decided to leave the question for later.
With the mountain looming over them, the tender approached what looked like broken-up tarmac, but was in fact a beach of dark grey sand. As they alighted, Faramir bent down to check the straps on his case, and saw that there were millions of shards of black volcanic glass mixed in with the sand grains. Anyone trying to build sand castles here would most likely shred their own hands in the process.
"See you here in three days." The crew member who had driven them across was already pushing off the little boat, not overly keen to linger. Soon its engine was only a far-off stutter on the wind.
"This isn't a very popular place, I see." Faramir faced the mountain, unwilling to have his back to it.
"For good reason," said Glorfindel grimly. "It is inhospitable and remote, and that is enough for the superstitious to keep away." He knelt to study the ground. "There is also discontent here, deep and pervasive; I do not know its origin. For the moment I sense nothing more, no greater malicious forces, and that is a relief in itself. Still, in these three days we must search as thoroughly as we can."
"You still haven't told me why we've come here. I can only think that it was by Gandalf's instruction."
Glorfindel's face looked very pale against the dark beach. "Mithrandir gave us a warning, and I have heeded it. If Imladris has resurfaced, why not other lands of Middle Earth? We have travelled further south than we would have done in my time, but we shall see if my guess has struck the truth."
Faramir's own suspicions could no longer be quelled, and a leaden weight seemed to form in his chest. "Other lands such as - or should I not speak its name?"
Mordor.
"You should not," replied Glorfindel. "Not when we may be standing on its buried husk."
As they spoke, Faramir thought he saw a streamer of smoke at the top of the mountain. He gave the elf a wry smile. "Maybe a volcanologist is what you need."
"No," said Glorfindel. He began unwrapping the bundle, the dirty outer layers dropping away to reveal magnificently preserved embroidered fabrics. There was a flash of silver, a glint of blue. "I need you, my friend."
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End of Chapter 5
To be continued...
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AlexeCinz
July 2001
http://www.btinternet.com/~reitaira/izumi.htm