Chapter XXXIIX: Prayers of the Children
Forty leagues from the Dead Marshes, halfway between Minas Tirith and the Marsh itself, Dacil reined his horse to a halt. A gray and white serpent snaked its way toward him, rippling with spears and flags. Thousands of Fellowship soldiers marched endlessly toward him, all in full battle array. The Venyarohirrim set his jaw, then led his horse in a trot toward the horde.
"Who comes?" Eldarion muttered to Aragost, gesturing toward the distant rider that approached them.
"Dacil?" Eorlmer offered tentatively, dreading that he was correct.
The Belgorian king nodded. "So I thought. So, the traitor believes he can trick us again?" Eldarion narrowed his eyes, "I have a surprise for you, horseman." He whipped his head around to Eorlmer. "Captain, you know what you must do."
"Yes, sir."
A moment later, Dacil rode up alongside the three soldiers. "Sirs, the Dunedain lie open in the Dead Marshes!"
"We have been told, General," Eldarion growled in a bored tone.
"By whom, sir?"
"That is not important for you to know," the King muttered, subtly signaling to Eorlmer, who drew a dagger from behind his back. "What is important, however," Eldarion continued, as Eorlmer began to ride slowly behind Dacil, "Is that we have been told what you are up to."
"What?" Dacil cried incredulously, feigning innocence.
Eorlmer frantically made eye contact with his commander. He saw that Dacil's eyes betrayed the fear he felt, but just barely. Eorlmer pointed the blade of the knife at Eldarion's back and raised one eyebrow slightly, but Dacil sighed and shook his head slightly.
Eorlmer was shocked that his General actually wanted him to commit what he had been ordered. Then, the dark reality set in. Even if Eorlmer killed Eldarion right now, the plan would be utterly ruined. It would accomplish nothing.
And so, screaming with rage, frustration, and anguish, Eorlmer thrust upward with his blade.
Dacil's eyes widened, then, mercifully, closed. Without a sound, he slowly slid from his hitting the ground almost gently.
Eldarion whirled to face his army.
"That," he cried, gesturing to the body, "Is the penalty for treason in Belgor! Let it be known that the Fellowship is no place for liars and scum like him!"
He spat with contempt on Dacil's body. "Ride on, Fellowship!"
As the army surged forward, none noticed the look of pain that crossed Eorlmer's face as he saluted his former general.
The sun had risen several hours ago above Rivendell, forcing the vampires in the Council Room to make their way as carefully as possible out of the enclosed area, one of the few vampire renovations to the old fortress. They were forced to take an alternate, covered hallway that led to the main section of Rivendell, where they faded into the murky half-light.
Celebdraug gestured to Draylen to join her and Mordae, which he more than obligingly did. The three made their way into the training room, which was filled with mock-weapons, weights, and other fitness apparatus.
"Nice place you got set up here," Mordae commented to Draylen.
"Yeah, it's a good place to mess around in when you're bored," the vampire concurred.
Celebdraug strode to the training weapons and hefted a padded wooden broadsword. She gave it a twirl, then nodded in approval.
"Pretty realistic."
"It should be," Draylen said with a small smile of pride as he trotted to her side, pulling a staff from the arsenal, "I made these myself."
"Impressive," Celebdraug said, whipping the blade around at the vampire's head.
Draylen tossed his weapon to the other hand and braced it against his leg. The sword smashed into the staff, rocking it back a bit, but not striking its wielder.
"Nice block," Mordae complimented as he pulled the longest staff from its place. He gave it a few twirls, then dropped into a fighting stance, holding the weapon evenly in both hands, the point aimed at Celebdraug.
"Excellently made, I might add."
Draylen gave a slight bow, "I have no life."
The elves laughed, and then suddenly, Celebdraug whirled her blade up and over Draylen, straight down at Mordae's head.
Her cousin danced back and counter-swung, knocking the sword back toward Draylen, then leaped forward and whipped the back end of the staff at Celebdraug. The other elf let her sword continue in the arc Mordae had pushed it into and brought it smashing down onto the tip of his staff, driving it into the ground.
With two dull thuds, Draylen struck first Celebdraug, then Mordae, in the back of the head with his own staff.
"I win," the vampire said with a fanged grin.
"Cheater!" Celebdraug cried.
Draylen shrugged and swung at her again.
Celebdraug blocked the attack, reached behind her, and hurled a training knife from its case into the vampire's stomach.
"Now I win," Celebdraug growled playfully.
Mordae dropped to the ground, kicked out Celebdraug's legs, swept Draylen's weapon and legs out from under him with his staff, executed a graceful front flip, then bowed low.
"I win."
"Showoff," Draylen hissed.
"That's what I always say," Celebdraug agreed.
"You guys are just jealous," Mordae countered, idly brushing the tip of his staff with his palm.
Draylen and Celebdraug made eye contact, and the two grinned mischievously. With a battle cry, they launched themselves at Mordae, quickly knocking away his weapon, then tackling him, and finally sitting on top of him and beating him lightly with their fists.
"Have mercy!" Mordae cried, squirming in a futile attempt to liberate himself from the captivity Draylen and Celebdraug held him in.
"Come on, Mr. Fancy pants," Celebdraug mocked, poking Mordae repeatedly in the forehead with her finger, "You can take us both."
Mordae let out a cry of phony rage as Draylen began to scrawl runes on the elf's head with a nearby quill.
Finally, after the vampire had completed his job, Celebdraug rolled off of her cousin, and the two admired their handiwork.
Scribbled across Mordae's forehead were ancient runes, similar to the Tengwar, the writing of the elves, that stated, simply, 'Mordae is a hobbit kisser.'
The elf rubbed vigorously at the writing, but to no avail.
Draylen grinned evilly. "Elven ink. Stays on for about three days."
"I'm going to kill you both," Mordae growled, not quite sure if he meant it or not.
Celebdraug tossed Draylen his staff and picked up her broadsword.
"Bring it."
Glorfindel awoke as he was thrown roughly to the ground, sending a sharp pain through his arm where he landed. The elf opened his eyes, but saw nothing. He could feel canvas on his face, and figured that they had him blindfolded. Ropes, elven, if he was correct, bit into his wrists and ankles as several pairs of hands drug him harshly over rugged stones. He could hear voices speaking in hushed tones, Common Speech, but with traces of accents he had never heard before.
What disturbed him beyond all the confusion, however, was the unmistakable sound of screaming. And not just in the Common Tongue. In elvish. Voices betraying unimaginable pain and anguish. And they grew louder as Glorfindel was drug further, now pounding down sharp steps that cut into him with each fall.
Finally, after several agonizing minutes of this travel, Glorfindel felt himself falling. After a good three-meter fall – sending more pain up the same arm, which he was quite sure was broken by now – he felt that he was alone. The elf slid across his cell with his feet, finding it only large enough for him to sit against any of the round walls.
Now he sat in silence, listening to the sound of water dripping from cracks, vermin scurrying past, and the muffled cries of other prisoners. Glorfindel rubbed his good shoulder against the wall, feeling the stones through a tear in his cloak.
He could not recognize the rock, other than that it came from a mountain, if he was correct. Glorfindel racked his brain, seeing Middle Earth in his mind. He could not be in the Misty Mountains; it was not nearly cold enough. The temperature, at least, what little he could feel in the air around him, as well as the distance that he would have been taken, ruled out Rhun as well.
The opposite climate, as well as the distance, ruled out Mordor. It was not nearly hot enough, and Mordor was halfway across the continent from where he was captured. To the northwest was Arnor – Ramgost, Glorfindel corrected himself – but that seemed almost out of the question. As far as any of his sources knew, the vampires tended to avoid the mountains to the north. Too much residual Numenorian blood-force, he supposed.
This left him with the southern Riddermark, or whatever in Udun they were calling it these days. This final decision made sense to Glorfindel. The climate was cool, but not freezing, and dry, which designated the absence of any large bodies of water. It would also place him close to the area where he was captured, as well as near to Mordor and Drownore, two places he definitely did not want to be.
Nearly two thousand leagues from his trial-beleaguered best friend, Mordae made his way out of the dark halls of the vampires and into the glow of the forest.
The massive elf leaned against the railing of a balcony in Rivendell, gazing out into light, dimmed greatly by the forest around the fortress.
He was sweaty and somewhat short of breath, thanks to his nearly two hour long duel with Draylen and Celebdraug, who now sat together in some dim area of Rivendell, doing Illúvatar knows what, Mordae thought to himself.
The elf shook his head and smiled slightly, he should not be filling his head with such accusations, as fun as they were. He exhaled deeply, clearing his mind, and began to pray.
Hail Illúvatar, Creator and Sustainer, Father and Friend. I praise You for guiding us to this place, and though I have not yet deemed Your exact purpose for doing so, I know that You have everything planned exactly according to how it should be.
I ask that you continue to guard us against Your enemies, and keep our swords and minds sharp against their evil.
I ask also that You be with our friends, wherever they may be, and give them comfort...
Because there was nothing better for him to do, Glorfindel attempted to use his limited mage powers to sense the other prisoners, but found his mind repressed by an overwhelming darkness.
The elf attempted to stand, but his bound legs would not support his weight. He wondered if Niphredil had escaped, and the thought of her facing this same torture brought him nearly to tears.
What would she do in a situation such as this? Glorfindel asked himself. She would not survive.
Pray.
The thought hit him so suddenly and with such ringing clarity that he attempted to stand again, but once more collapsed, falling to his knees, which, he realized with an ironic smile, was exactly where he needed to be.
Illúvatar, I cry out to You in my time of need...
