Desolation
Chapter Four
Thanks once again for all the reviews. My muse is currently coating them in chocolate, but won't promise to share them with me. Greedy muse *grins*
Nemis: thanks for betaing this.
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*This is the prison of the will: that what we fear to do and what we know we must become one and the same and we entrap ourselves. We are prisoners of duty; thralls of a fate which we serve willingly. We go into the eternal night, knowing that we can do naught else… But with what sorrow do we go…*
Elrond's melancholy reflections were broken by a noise so faint that it would be inaudible to all other ears, but his senses were still true while his body failed, as if he was being burnt down to the essentials of being. He was no longer in the high passes of the Misty Mountains, but their eastern foothills. He had considered himself lucky to escape confrontations with the bands of orcs which usually infested the range, until he realised what other battles now occupied these foul creatures.
But now there was something moving in the short grass, creeping among the rocks like a plague…
Drawing his sword, abandoning his laden pony which had wandered away, he began to run, keeping himself low among the tumbled boulders. He was silent as a shadow under the moonlight, using every skill to keep himself undetected, but fortune did not favour him, and the beam of a single star caught on the mirrored edge of his sword, as brilliant as the light of the sun.
A curse was uttered in a strange tongue, and he soon found himself pursued relentlessly through the broken country. He ducked into a riverbed, overhung with bowed trees, but the Men were too knowledgeable in the ways of the land. Normally he would be able to outrun them with ease, but each breath he drew was more laboured than the last, rattling in his pounding ears. His weakened limbs nearly collapsed under him as he stumbled down the narrow ravine, thorns scraping his flesh through his battered clothing.
His ankle turned in a pot-hole, and he crashed to the ground, nearly blacking out as his whole frame was jolted by the impact.
Then they were upon him, pinning him to the ground, more of them than he had ever imagined. His head was dragged up by a rough hand buried in the tangled hair at the nape of his neck, his chin rasping against the gravel until it bled.
"What is stupid man doing in our land?" a voice demanded in the Common Speech, heavily accented and broken.
"I shall not tell you."
"We see."
Elrond's hands were caught roughly and bound behind his back. He whimpered in unendurable pain as cold fire lanced up his injured arm, but he was given no respite, harsh hands gripping his elbows and propelling him forward.
It was a long march, and hard, through the grim depths of the night. Elrond did not find much comfort when he realised that the Men were speaking a dialect of the Easterling tongue which he understood.
//Curse him for a foul spy.//
//Aye, but just think what our … master will say. Think that he is of the Fey Ones?//
A shout of mirthless laughter.
//Nay, he is no elf. Just look at him … the foul scrap.//
Elrond was, however, glad that they did not recognise him for an Elf.
At length, a camp drew into sight, and his eyes widened in horror. This was no mere wandering band. Rank upon rank of rents huddled in the shelter of the mountain, armed Men going to and fro among them. This was an army preparing for war, ready to march out at any moment. He was brought to the centre of the encampment and flung before the feet of a tall Man with a proud face and the skin of a great bear wrapped round his shoulders.
//What is this?//
//A prisoner, my liege. We found him skulking on the pass which leads into the mountains.//
"What have you to say for yourself?" The Easterling chief switched to the Common Speech with more fluency than his underlings.
"I was not skulking." Elrond raised his chin defiantly. "I would know by what right the minions of Sauron claim this land for their own."
"Why, by the right of conquest," the Man laughed, but there was something strange in his demeanour. "What other right is there at this time?"
He turned to the waiting soldiers.
//You may depart. I shall interrogate him myself.//
From the corner of his eye, he saw the Elf stiffen.
"Oh ho, so you understand our speech, stranger?"
"A little," Elrond admitted grudgingly.
"Well then, you will know that I shall have no mercy upon you if you lie to me." He pulled his prisoner to his feet and pushed him towards the tent.
He removed his great shaggy cloak with its overhanging hood, and the Elf saw that he was strangely fair, with piercing eyes, the eyes of a man who could be ruthless to his enemies yet unfailingly loyal to his friends. The kneeling figure shuddered at the thought of where that terrible loyalty might be bestowed.
"I am Ulrang, and these…" He waved his hand to indicate the busy folk beyond the walls of canvas. "…are my people. Now speak truly: who are you, and what is your business here?"
"I am Bëor." The lie slipped easily from his lips.
"I said you should not lie to me." A dagger was laid against his cheek. "I am not so lacking in wits as you might think me, Master Elf." He chuckled at the expression of surprise on the other's face. "Aye, I know you for what you are. Your ears may be hidden, but your bearing betrays you, even in defeat, so tell me your name."
"I am Elurin."
The Man's eyes narrowed, and Elrond wondered if he had just forfeited his life.
"That is not the truth, but 'tis near enough, I reckon." The menacing blade was withdrawn. "What brings you here?"
"I go seeking my kinsfolk in the east," came the cautious reply.
"Always so chary. Do you seek them merely so you can flee to your masters in the West?"
"I go to war against the Great Deceiver. You would be wise to take me to your fell lord."
Elrond decided that if he had to fall, he should not do so at the hand of a servant: that he should make one last stand against the heart of darkness.
"Why should I do that, little princeling?"
"I am sure that he would repay you well in spoils for me," the Elf's clear voice rang with determination.
"I would take nothing he gave. You have called him the Deceiver. Are you so arrogant as to believe that you are the only ones to name him so?"
The Peredhel regarded him with surprise.
"Aye, I see you are. Do you think that all the peoples of the East look to this new age with delight?" He chuckled bitterly. "What use do you think he will have for us once he is the master of these lands? We will be as grain before fire, as dust before the wind. We are proud, yea, and we do not like the Elves, nor the Betrayers who came from over the sea with cruel swords to rape us of our lands, but we will fight for ourselves against he who has held us in bondage for long years."
"And so you prove your disloyalty to him by holding me in chains like a bond-slave?" Elrond gulped in fear, although his face remained calm, as the man approached with his dagger held out. However, he soon found the ropes binding his hands sliced through with one quick motion.
"This I do as a token of my good faith. Do not make me regret it."
Elrond stood slowly, rubbing his chafed wrists.
"Then what do you want from me?"
"Your help."
"I have no forces; I am alone. I have no help to give."
"You are, I think, a great lord. Surely there are many who would follow you."
"Are there many left who could?" The Elf shook his head. "Nay, I go not to victory but to defeat."
"Then why do you go at all?" Ulrang inquired.
"Honour," his unwilling guest snapped. "'Tis better that I do this and fail than to let Sauron win by default."
The Man threw back his head and laughed deeply. "Then we go for the same purpose, stranger. Now, come, drink with me."
He reached for a wineskin which lay on the makeshift table and poured the ruby liquid into two cups.
Elrond sniffed the proffered goblet dubiously.
"You fear poison, I see. But think you not that it would be far easier to call the men who await my orders and kill you with a clean blow?" The Easterling took a deep swig of the goblet before pressing it into Elrond's hand. "You trust me no more than I do you, but these are dread times, and we must find allies where we may."
The Elf sipped at the wine, finding it heavy and sweet, without taint. For the first time, he began to scrutinize his surroundings. The tent was almost bare of decoration, its canvas walls worn with many years' use. The bed was little more than a pile of furs, across which was thrown a sword, its blade fine and well wrought, but notched and dulled. It suited Ulrang well, this soldier's abode, and made Elrond trust him all the more: here was someone with little taste for pomp and grandeur, who lived as his men did.
"Well, Elurin." There was a slightly sarcastic emphasis on his name. "What are we to do?"
Although Elrond was unwilling to disclose his plans, he decided he had not much choice.
"I go to Mirkwood and the Lonely Mountain seeking allies. After that, I shall march to Mordor with as much haste as I can."
"And we are to go with you?"
"I do not think that those I seek would much appreciate your presence." Elrond watched in amusement as his host bridled at the implied insult.
"So you deny us the right to play a part in this battle?"
"Nay," he laughed. "Fear not, you shall find glory before the end. What say you that we meet four weeks hence at the Long Lake?"
Ulrang considered the proposition.
"Very well."
They sat thus in conference until the first glimmers of dawn crept in through the slit in the tent, neither yet sure what to make of his ally, but both knowing that they had little choice.
As they stepped outside, shivering in the chill air, a man approached, leading a familiar pony, and spoke with his lord in a low voice.
"Is this yours, Elurin?" Ulrang asked. "It was found grazing nearby."
"Yes." Elrond swung himself up into the saddle. "Farewell, then, Ulrang of the East. I hope we will meet again, and you will be as true to your promises as I shall be to mine."
The Man growled.
"Do not doubt me, little one, for I have more to lose in this venture than you. No home in the Far West awaits me."
And so the reluctant allies parted, each to their own role in the coming war.
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