Disclaimer:

Shall I compare this to a Tolkien?

It is more modern and less wordy,

Rough sentences do trouble the pages so sweet

And characters in his are not found,

I guess not then, oh well, it's his world, enjoy.

Notes: This may eventually be a bit of a spoiler, this chapters pretty clean, R rated so it could all get a bit bloody, depending on my mood.

Set in Gondor towards the end of the second book, just as things near Mordor get a bit heated, and well, you'll see the rest.

Chapter 4

The cloaked man led Raynin and the hapless Fullmore out of earshot of the pomp and regal display of the high table, there; he softly bade Fullmore wait a while as he mounted his horse, a fine grey mare. The horse, its powerful haunches reminiscent to Fullmore of so many of the cart-mares who he had helped his father to shoe, and as the pair continued their travel, through the ruins of the old city, past the houses of the crumbling tenement blocks, a million miles away from the green fields of Fullmore's home, he remembered.

Across his mind, shot images of cornfields, of sunlight glades, in enchanting copses. Of playing, hours on end with his twin sister. Fuilyiadel, he remembered how the other children had laughed at her name, but to Fullmore the peculiarity of the name was unnoticed, he had entered into his first brawl in defence of his sister, after one particularly cruel girl had pulled at her ears. But with these memories of happiness and youth, he remembered the day that she had left the farm, left behind the barn, the cattle, the butterflies and the magical glades. An image of his mother, crying into his fathers chest flashed across his vision, and he saw himself, running alongside the horse of the green-clad and hooded man who had come to collect her, waving and wishing her a good holiday, and even, in jest cursing her for having been picked to visit Minas Tirith. It didn't take him long to realise, he wouldn't ever see his sister again. His parents did their best to erase her from memory, but Fullmore would never forget his closest friend, the sister who's feelings and thoughts he still felt to that day, he knew she was alive.

He woke with a jolt, they had reached the inner enclave of the most rich, still relatively untouched by the ravages of war, but long deserted by its occupants, anything that could be taken, was gone, removed either by its owners or the hands of men of slightly, though only slightly, less repute. They continued, until, ducking under an elegant archway, the cloaked man, entered what had once been a secluded private garden, where one of the great and good of Osgiliath would have entertained his guests with fine wine and music. The air was still laden with the heady scent of affluence, the perfume of a thousand beautiful socialites, and a few not so beautiful. Fullmore dismounted carefully, gripping hold of a trelace upon which a ragged, un-pruned honeysuckle grew. Slithering to the ground, he noticed the man who had accosted him standing in a darkly shadowed corner of the garden room, gently holding a shrivelled rose which he had chosen from amongst a carpet of the mournfully scented blooms, their colour long darkened, till the remnants of their former grace was shown only in the sharp vicious thorns which sprouted from the stems. Fulmore approached the man, and stood, watching him as he gently ran his fingers against the crumbling petals, He wasn't sure whether the feeling of sadness which was filling his mind was coming from the thoughts of the earlier meeting, the sadness of the place, or from some higher presence, but as he drew closer to the shadowed man, the feeling grew stronger, 'Could this man be the source of such strong emotion?' Fullmore thought to himself, how could one man make him feel like this?

Fullmore stood in silence for a few more moments, and as the feeling became unbearable, and the tears began to well up in his eyes, the man spoke, just as calmly and softly as before, with a hint of sadness,

"We were once like this rose," he said, "We were once perfection, bright, radiant and graceful, but now we are none but a faded, blackened effigy of our former perfection! We have crumbled and fallen, and why? Because, at our hearts we care little for this world, our honour is meaningless, and shallow, we are a lost race!"

There were a few more seconds of silence, before Fullmore felt it was appropriate to ask his question.

"Err... who exactly is we...I mean, if you don't mind me asking err..Sir?"

The man, holding the rose carefully between first-finger and thumb, raised his left hand to his hood, and in one graceful motion he swept it backwards off his head, and as he did so the light of this platinum blonde hair seemed to light up the dingy corner, highlighting, in gold each of the raggedly hewn shale blocks that made up the fashionably rustic wall. As Fullmore looked on, his jaw dropping until it seemed his knees were supporting it, he gaped for breath and said,

"An Elf, my god, your an Elf!"

He hadn't noticed, but he was on his knees in automatic reverence of the being who, was, to him, as close to godlike as Fullmore was ever likely to meet.

The Elf looked thoughrilly bemused by this display of respect, but clearly deciding to make the most of it he spoke of everything of which he had once been proud, of the history of the Elves. He spoke with a reverence which Fullmore had not heard ever before, and with a sorrow deep enough that Fullmore felt more tears well up in his eyes than had reason to be there, but the Elf cut short his tale.

"And, you are about to ask, why I say we are fallen."

He looked down at the bloom he held in his hand, and turned it slowly between his long slender fingers, as he did so, it grew, the stalk greened and its shrivelled surface was pulled taut by some unseen force, and, as he watched, the petals, lightened, the grim darkness of death receded and the flower was once again the deep red colour of its long lost youth.

Fullmore was amazed and incredulously, he asked, "How... how did you do that?"

He handed the now beautiful rose to Fullmore and turned away. When looked at the rose, Fullmore saw it was dead once again, the petals crumbled to dust in his hand and he dropped the stalk in shock.

Laughing quietly, the Elf turned back, saying, "The method is of no importance! What is important is that, we, the Eldar have a chance once more to be great!"

"You see, once we made a promise, that we would stand side by side with the race of men, and so, at Numenor, where Sauron betrayed the trust of men, the Last Alliance was formed, Elves and men vowed to defeat Sauron as one. So, following each other, from victory at Dagorlad, and to the very foot of Saurons dark tower, and through the siege of seven years that followed, where man and Elf fell together, side by side. Gil-Galad, Elendil, his son Anarion, all gave their lives to save the world of men!"

Fullmore, was still silent, mute at the passion, and pride emanating from the being in front of him, he thought of the stories he had been told, of the final battles against Sauron, of Isuldur, of Elrond, and the great kings of old, of the passing of the One Ring, to Anarion and from there into legend.

The Elf continued, "But that isn't the tales end, for the ring was not lost forever, it was not passed into legend, it still exists, it still threatens, broods, plans our destruction, I have seen it, felt its presence, I know fear. So that is why I, Elrohir, son of Elrond of Beleriand and of the lineage of Earendil, come, seeking a man, of great lineage, of great destiny, one who will be of great consequence in the coming end of the One Ring."

"Just who is it you are looking for?" Fullmore inquired.

"The man, news of whom I seek is of the line of Nimrodel, betrothed of Amroth who entered the Erad Nimrais and was lost to this world for many millennia hence, through the maternal side, he will be of the third line of the Eotheod of old, and a man of the Westfold. He will be a man, of birth foretold, twenty years prior to this day. And I am foretold to meet with him this day!"

Fullmore, his mind overwhelmed by the barrage of countless aeons of history, and by thoughts of who exactly this man could be, stuttered,

"And you came looking for, me?"

Mr V