Disclaimer(s): I don't own LotR. If I did, one of these things would be true: a) my writing would be WAY better than it is, or b) The Lord of the Rings would be the most hated book in the history of mankind. So, me no ownies anything or anyone here except Terreniol and its inhabitants. Also, I borrowed a few general ideas and concepts from Star-Stallion's writing, but she gave me permission to do that, so no worries. Much thankfulness, Star!
Notes and warnings: 1. I didn't yet finish reading LotR (and due to circumstances I need not burden you with, I might not finish it for quite a while). I only watched the movies, so there might be inconsistencies in my stories. Feel free to point out any mistakes in a review, and I'll either try my best to correct them or take the easy way out and say this is in an AU :) 2. I only started writing LotR fanfiction recently, so I'm not too familiar with the original characters, and they might (and will) be a bit OOC here. 3. I know that none of the original characters are in this chapter, and they probably won't be in the next one either, but bear with me for a while – I have to start the plot, don't I? Oh, and a lot of this fanfic (maybe even as much as half) will be written from a made-up's point of view. 4. I'm trying out a new style of writing, so please please please tell me if I'm any good at it. 5. This is set after the trilogy.
With that in mind, happy reading!
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Chapter 1: The Visitor
A single candle gleamed on the table, giving off more smoke than light. The corners of the large room were lost in shadow, making it seem as though they didn't exist at all, or as though night itself had taken residence there, banishing all brightness from its domain. Darkness seeped inside freely through the sole window. Shelves lined the walls, shelves containing objects that looked frightening and unreal in the dim light – books, boxes, jugs, stones, glass flasks, more boxes, a small cage with an emerald-green lizard inside, more books, and more boxes... Each object, it seemed, yearned for light, and tried to catch as much of it on its surface as possible, like trees fighting for sunlight in a dense forest.
A huge wooden table dominated the room, taking up more than half of it, and leaving only a narrow passage in which one could walk around without touching the shelves. How the table ended up in the room was a mystery – it was too big to fit through the door, and it was cut from a single piece of wood, ruling out the thought that it was brought in in pieces and assembled later. It fit the room so perfectly that one could almost imagine that it stood there long before the house was built, and that the constructors built the room around it, carefully placing each stone in such a position so as not to disturb the wooden giant.
Two doors led out of this room, both nearly invisible in the shadows cast by the shelves around them. One led into the bedroom, a strikingly small room compared to its neighbor. The other led outside.
Sitting before the enormous table, its owner seemed even smaller than he actually was. He sat silently in a tall wooden chair, hunched over a book that lay so close to the candle that it seemed as though it would catch fire at any moment. His old hands ran across the table surface as if they were looking for a comfortable position to rest in, but found none. He cast a shadow that covered the entire wall behind him, the whimsical light of the candle making it sway and tremble. His name was Senerath.
A quiet tapping shattered the silence of the room, making the old man jump and look up from his book. Disturbed at the sudden movement, the flame of the candle flickered and finally went out, the smell of smoke becoming stronger for a few seconds before dissipating into the vastness of the hall.
Senerath cursed quietly and lit another candle before looking around the room. It was silent for a few seconds, then the tapping sound came again, a bit louder this time. Few people came to visit him these days, so it took a while for Senerath to realize that the tapping was actually gentle knocking on the door. Whoever this visitor was, he must have been afraid to make too much noise.
The tapping came again, even louder now. "Impatient, are we," Senerath muttered under his breath. "Come in," he called quietly. "It's not locked."
The door opened, and a man emerged from the shadows, his face distorted by the tricky lighting. Tattered brown clothes shrouded his body, and his grey skin looked golden in the candlelight. At first glance his head, hands and feet seemed disproportionately small, but it was his baggy clothing that gave them that impression. His hair seemed to mock his costume, being a darker shade of brown and looking even dirtier and messier, falling about the sides of his face in tangled uneven curls. His eyes were hidden in shadow, but a faint reflection of the candle burned in either eye, making them look like the empty sockets of a skull with a lantern inside it. His bare feet made no sound as he walked in, bending slightly to avoid the low doorframe.
"Well, if it isn't Weidon," Senerath smirked.
The one called Weidon made a quiet hissing noise that managed to express both his annoyance at the old man's words and his wish that Senerath should talk more softly, but the old man paid him no heed and continued talking. "Yes, indeed, it IS you! Or are my tired eyes deceiving me? Tell me, I seem to have forgotten – was it a week ago that you swore never to set foot in my house again?"
Weidon glared at the old man and silently closed the door behind himself, barely able to resist the urge to slam it shut. He hissed again, his fists clenched at his sides. After a few more moments of silence he spoke for the first time, his voice little more than a whisper. "I have a favor to ask." His tone was unpleasant and emotionless, the pitch a bit too high, the words spoken so quickly and indistinctly that it was difficult to make out what he was saying.
"You have not answered my question," Senerath persisted, chuckling softly. "And why the long face? Have I done something to offend you, my friend?" He put on the most innocent expression he could master, but his glassy grey eyes were so full of venom it was a wonder they didn't burst.
No longer able to contain himself, Weidon leaped forward, crossing the table that separated him from Senerath in two cat-like jumps. He landed on his haunches in front of the old man's book, as if about to dig his fingers into Senerath's bony neck, but murder wasn't his intention. No matter how badly he wanted to kill the old man, Weidon still needed something from him. The point right now was to scare him into listening, and to have some fun in the process.
Snatching up the book Senerath was reading, Weidon got up and strolled along the table casually, relishing the look of pure terror on the grey-haired man's face. He looked completely calm now that he had some sort of revenge. As he jumped down to the floor next to Senerath, his gaze fell on the book he now held in his hands. A satisfied smirk appeared on his face, and the same blank and hasty voice sounded again. "'Secrets of longevity'? Still planning to live forever, are you? Funny how that's the very reason I came here."
Senerath tried to keep some of his dignity by pretending that he hadn't really been scared half to death a few moments ago. He sighed, shaking his head exasperatedly. "Still as hot-headed as ever, I see. What's on your mind?"
Weidon shrugged slightly and sat on the edge of the table. "You are a healer, that's true enough. But that's not the only kind of magic you know, is it? You have bits and pieces of information about many things. Perhaps even the Forbidden Magic." He didn't draw breath once throughout that monologue, and even the small pauses between his sentences seemed rushed, as though he was forcing himself to pause for the benefit of the ears listening to him.
The Forbidden Magic was a special kind of sorcery, one that could bring great destruction if not used wisely. For fear of that kind of power falling into the wrong hands, this magic was forbidden in the land of Terreniol, and everyone found practicing it was executed. Most of the knowledge was lost, but a few books still survived, hidden. In his younger years Senerath got hold of some of them. But now, as he stared at Weidon with his wrinkled hands trembling and his face pale as a ghost's, he wished he hadn't.
Seeing the impact his words had, Weidon smirked again. "Don't worry, I have no intention of giving you away, as long as you help me with something in return." He took one last glance at the book, then put it on the table and leaned close to Senerath's ear, whispering, "I heard about a spell... the transfer of fate..." Standing upright again, he added a bit more loudly, "They say it is possible. And you are the only one I know who might know of such a thing."
Senerath leaned forward in his chair in disbelief. "W-well, it IS possible," he stuttered, "I mean, I could probably do it, but wherever will you get an elf?!"
The younger man shrugged. "I heard there was one in Minas Tirith. The king of Gondor, in fact. These are just rumors, but I'm willing to try my luck. I'll arrange everything as best I can."
He almost winced at his own words. "As best I can," his mind echoed. "Poor fool, how will you ever get to the king of any land?" But he managed to keep his doubts to himself, his face still as a mask. "I know you wouldn't do anything for free," he added aloud, "and you know I don't have anything of value. But you wouldn't want anyone to find out you know the Forbidden Magic, do you? And besides, if all goes well..." He half-sighed, half-laughed. "I'll work for you for the rest of your life."
Senerath's eyes narrowed. "You, working for me again? Begging your pardon, I already had enough trouble with you." But just as Weidon opened his mouth to make another threat, the old man smiled and continued speaking. "But I would very much like it if you kept quiet. Bring the elf here, I'll see what I can do. And don't attract too much attention. If anyone finds out and looks for someone to execute, I'll make sure it's you."
Relieved at Senerath's sudden change of heart, Weidon nodded and walked out the door into the cold night air. Now all he had to do was get to Minas Tirith, fool its inhabitants, kidnap its king, get him to Terreniol, and not get killed in the process. How hard could that be?
He smacked himself on the forehead. "How ridiculous..."
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Well? Love it? Hate it? Anything in-between? Please leave a review and tell me! If I get many reviews, chances are, I'll update sooner :) (Unless they are bad reviews, of course...) Oh, just in case: I know that the king of Gondor isn't an elf. That's a mistake on my characters' part, not my own :)