Disclaimer: Tolkien owns pretty much everything.
A/N: I have /finally/ figured out what to do when I want to show italics- I put them inside slash marks.
Hiding The Mind.
Why?
He didn't know. Why did they have to change the entire sense of self and peace that the tranquillity of Valinor had wrought in their minds? Because...he wasn't sure. All he /could/ be certain about was the fact that they had to lower themselves to the level of these people.
Without knowing why.
Gil-Galed hated having to drop the standards of his views on certain subjects. He also hated having to do something without knowing why, although he had had to on occasion.
/Now/ did /not/ seem to be one of those times.
But it was quite obvious that he was not going to get an explanation.
That did not go well with the last High King of the Noldor.
Nobody had really been able to handle the events of the day before. The twins had come out shaking, Elrond had been white-faced, Celeborn had meandered around rather unsteadily, Glorfindel had been heard muttering some /extremely/ interesting words in Quenya, Haldir and his brothers attempted to kill the guards, everyone's nerves had been rather on edge, and it was best not to say anything about Gil-Galed's state of mind, except that Elrond had been forced to knock him out before he did severe damage to either himself or the people around him.
All in all, it had not been a happy group of Eldar that had arrived at the main barracks of the tunnels, to be shoved into separate cells.
Not a happy group at all.
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
"/Duck! Swing! Parry! Lunge! /"
This continual stream of orders was completely unnecessary, as none of the Elves had forgotten much about bladework. In fact, they were probably better dualists than anyone else on the field, but, as they were all rather unwilling to show the true scope of their abilities, they were currently getting an irritating blast of instruction.
A /very/ irritating blast of instruction.
Celeborn was wondering if it would be easier to simply cut off the instructor's head and have done with it. It would certainly be easier for him to concentrate if that annoying babble in the background were to be removed.
No, he decided, it would raise too many complications- one of which would most likely involve his execution, and Celeborn was not remotely eager to see /that/ happen. Best to just bear it calmly, and then maybe the parasitic little man would actually...shut...up...
The fight would, if it had been real, been extraordinarily unfair. Rumil, wearing nothing but a short pair of breeches (Celeborn wondered what had happened to the rest of their clothing- their original garb had been taken), was bearing a short, thin sword, even slimmer than the whippy dirk that Tholinsul occasionally used when tired of practising with his usual one. His Lord- currently in badly fitting armour- had a bladed quarterstaff.
A very /heavy/ bladed quarterstaff.
With one very sharp blade on each end.
If this had been a real fight, Rumil would have been dead in seconds. As it was, Celeborn had disarmed him five times already, and was still trying not to cut his former subject's head off.
Or slice him in half.
Or damage him in any other way.
The problem with bladed quarterstaffs is that once you start spinning them down, up, or sideways, it's very hard to stop. The former Lord of Lothlorien had his work cut out in dodging about so that he didn't harm Rumil.
Rumil was finding it difficult to not get whacked on the head with the pole while jabbing the sword he held rather half-heartedly in his Lord's direction.
Of course, he would never have truly attacked Celeborn, but he had to look as if he were trying to.
Both were finding this a complete and utter nightmare.
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"Niltona! Bring me that jar on the table!"
Elenlome glared at the wall as if it were responsible for her predicament.
"My-name-is-/Elenlome /," she ground out. Not that she expected him to hear- in fact, she would have been highly surprised- not to mention displeased- if he had. He probably wouldn't have cared, though. And she'd spoken in Silvian, to be on the safe side.
But her name /was/ Elenlome. Not Niltona. Elenlome. Night Star. Though Niltona was quite pretty, it was not her true identity.
Could be useful though, she mused as she walked over to the table and picked up the delicate amphora pot. If she ever, through some miracle, managed to escape, she'd have a Latin alias. Yes, it'd be useful.
It had been two weeks now. Two weeks since she'd been sold to a metal- merchant who had three ships, which brought him silver, gold, platinum, copper, nickel, and lead from all over Africa, France –although he called it Gaul- and Britain.
She was already pitying the man who'd taken Galadriel on.
Still, she felt more sympathetic towards the slaves.
Any slaves.
It had always shocked and disgusted her that humans would trade in the flesh of people like them. When she had become an Elf, those feelings had intensified tenfold. She had regarded any who would take the sentinant mind and turn it to their will with the utmost loathing.
And now she had become what she had always feared being.
If there was one thing she loved- no. There were many things she loved, but if she narrowed them down to a few...
Elrohir. She loved Elrohir. She loved the way he smiled, the way he spoke, the way he laughed. She loved the twinkle in his eyes and the warmth in his heart. She loved the way he sang gently to her when they were sitting in the mountains at sunset, just the two of them, looking out over the island to the sea. She loved the way he touched her, the way he cared for almost everyone, and she loved all his flaws and faults.
Her family. She loved her human mother and father. She loved her sisters, with their little quirks that made life interesting. She loved her daughters and her son, and the way they were all so different, yet complemented each other in the very motions and gestures that held them apart. She even loved her husband's side of the family, and the little differences that held them all together, no matter what they went through.
Life- except that that went hand in hand with freedom, because her life almost depended on being able to run and leap and shout because she was so, so happy. Life was only good if /something/ in it was your own, if you could state your opinion and speak freely to the people around you. If you could love who you loved and say so, if you could see things and be unbound at the same time, if you could taste fresh air, and choose your own path, then she loved life.
Right now, the only things keeping her going were thoughts of her family and hope for escape.
That hope was a vague hope, but it was there, and she nurtured it.
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Celebrian was considering whether it would be better to hold on in hopes of rescue, or simply cut her wrists and have done with it.
Right now, her mind was in favour of 'get it over with'.
In the end, she simply cast a longing look at the sharpened knife beside the window, before turning and making her way into the villa.
The man who had 'purchased' the silver-haired beauty counted himself lucky. Celebrian might be spirited- translation: as stubborn as a mule and vicious to go with it- but she could be subdued.
That didn't stop her trying to break all the furniture, though.
The Eldar who had been 'sold' had had one major problem: none of them spoke Latin. Their new 'masters' had got around that by indicting objects and saying the words, or by actions and gestures, or by simply talking and letting the Elves get the feel of the language.
Elrond's wife had been subjected to the 'beat it into her' approach. Every time she made a mistake, her 'buyer' either slapped or kicked her.
Celebrian stopped making mistakes rather quickly.
She was tired now, tired of life, tired of eating little and working long hours. She was tired in body and tired in spirit, and all that she wanted was to sleep.
Unfortunately, that luxury was currently denied her.
"ALAMA!"
What /now/?
With an exhausted sigh, Celebrian trailed across the floor and wavered up the stairs towards the angry voice. Another problem was that Quanamus seemed to think she was half deaf, and shouted at her instead of speaking quietly. With her Elven hearing, the lady did not need someone bellowing in her direction all day long, or she strongly suspected she /would/ go deaf.
Slightly fearfully, 'Alama' pushed open the door.
The sight that greeted her sent her reeling back in revulsion. Quanamus was sprawled on the floor, his jowls stained red with wine, obviously inebriated. He was surrounded by dirty plates and empty cups, and was waving a chicken leg in one fat hand. He was naked to the waist, and when he saw her, he laughed and gestured for her to enter the room. Trembling somewhat, Celebrian did so.
"'Lama," he slurred, shoving himself up on to one elbow and looking her up and down. Leering at her, he reached out...
...and Celebrian's nerve broke. Whirling, she fled the chamber.
The lady did not stop running until she had left the house and was safely secreted in a bush. The sun had set, and the moon was hiding behind wispy clouds.
'Alama' could not stop shivering. What he had just tried to do...! But no, he had not even come close to it, she had been perfectly safe. Perfectly safe...
He had expected her to accept it. He had thought he could just take her body at will. Well, he was wrong. Eventually she would have to go back in and 'face the music', as Nenya would have said, but for now, she could stay out here.
Better cold than used.
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Cold. So cold.
Legolas floated on a roaring sea. Nothing could be seen for miles around but the icy waves and the harsh blue sky.
Nothing.
He was alarmed, but not panicking. There was a slight tinge of the unrealistic to the area, which told him that it was a vision, that was all. Still, it was more realistic than any vision he had ever had.
Legolas did not have foresight- far from it. But one cannot live in Mirkwood for three thousand years without gaining some rather- /unusual/ abilities. Such as utilising almost any weapon to a reasonable degree, knowing where orcs and spiders were without any firm indication, and being able to receive 'images' and 'words' from the surrounding foliage.
The crown Prince of Greenwood had no doubts that someone was trying to tell him something. The question was- who? And what?
"/Young one.../"
He twisted, attempting to see who had spoken.
And then he gasped.
A delicate golden-tan wisp on the air spiralled tightly before almost- solidifying. It whipped about wildly and then fountained outwards in a wondrous implosion of soft, glowing green and reddish, woodlike brown.
Legolas raised a hand to shield his eyes.
When he dared look again, he saw a gentle combination of leaves in bud and new grown wood, like a young sapling with its first crop of leaves.
The way it had 'grown', however, made it look anything but.
It had the face of a lady, merry and bright, yet undeniably noble. As if spring had chosen that moment to become a solid, tangible being, Yvanna stood before him.
He sank to his knees, as well as he could do so considering the fact that he was entrapped in water.
"My Lady."
"Little Leaf."
She regarded him quietly for a moment, while he looked down.
The sky shuddered.
"Valinor shakes and Aule rages," she murmured. "The Lords of two Elven realms and their captains fight with the High King of the Noldor while the Lady of Lothlorien looks to the East to watch the Sun. Stars change in the skies and friends leave, becoming something unknown. The /world/ changes, as the Evenstar said, and who now can say she was wrong? Life has become something that none can understand, and the Eldar hide from enslavement. Who can say what Iluvatar wills? They must be found, little Greenleaf, none must lose what Elvenkind has become..."
/Why?/ he wanted to shout, but then the world was snatched away...
He returned to reality with a bump.
The stars were out, which surprised him. He had not thought that he had been 'seeing' that long. Swiftly collecting the limpets that he had dropped all over the sand, he straightened up and headed off to the Sindarin area of the camp.
'Camp' actually referred to the scatter of half-made lean-tos and shallow holes in the walls of sand dunes that the Eldar had erected, rather than any proper camp. Elves also had shown a preference for staying in racial groups, probably due to the fact that they had close family in those groups.
That hadn't stopped a certain trio of Noldor from setting up base in Thranduil's 'house'.
Nobody had any real objection to Elrohir's children sleeping in the cave/awning that Lothmiren had helped her husband to erect. The three had no other friends to go to- most of the Elves they knew had been taken by the Romans. Now, they just hung around wherever they were needed.
Ninquedil glanced up as Legolas slipped under the crude shelter, giving him a small smile before going back to the tiny pile of hemp beside her.
"Tell me," she commented, not taking her eyes from her work, "is there any point in me attempting to make cloth from this plant? I see no way such a small amount of fabric can help us, and it therefore seems a useless undertaking."
"You said you could make linen," Legolas pointed out, putting four of his limpets on the floor and tipping the rest into a bag, the contents of which would later be distributed to the entire community.
"I know the procedure. I do not know the reason." She flicked a strand of white-gold hair from her face. "Varda in Valinor, it's hot out here."
"In here. We are indoors- as much as is possible."
"And I think that the wood has trapped the heat of the day." She glared at him. "I hate you, do you know that?"
He hid a smile. "I know."
She heaved a sigh. "Sorry. It's just...I like to know /why/, you know? I like to...see the reason for everything. Well, not /everything/, per se, but why I have to do something. I hate just being pointless, I suppose."
He knelt opposite her. "I know that, Nin. And there /is/ a reason- if you can make cloth, and others can do the same, we can make better shelters, make blankets to keep us warm at night- have you noticed how swiftly the temperatures change?"
"Better shelters? With cloth?" She looked down at her hands. "Besides, the wood and sand we use now hold the heat of the sun after sundown."
"True, but we /can/ use fabric for shelter. How many times has your father hung a blanket over a branch when you were walking in the mountains, and had you sleep beneath it? Besides, our current building materials quickly lose their heat."
There was a movement outside, and Haruial followed Thranduil into the shelter.
The leader of those Eldar lucky enough to be in the camps strode over to the bag (formerly a cloak), and examined the contents. Picking it up, he walked out, on his way to the other gatherers and the handing out of food.
Not all those who searched for food- a good majority- found a lot, if any. Those that did would give most of their findings to the rest of the community. It was a relatively equal way of feeding the entire establishment.
Just after her husband had left, Lothmiren entered the cawning, as her daughter had christened it. Tindome and Tholinsul pursued her, and all three had somehow obtained a large quantity of hemp.
Looking rather evilly happy, Tholinsul deposited his heap of the flower/stem/leaf (it being excessively hard to distinguish between them) in front of his sister.
"Here you are, Nin," he said in a far too innocent voice.
"Oh, /lovely/," Ninquedil replied sarcastically. "Just what I wanted. More plants to prick myself with. Thank you oh-so-very-much, Thol."
"Is it not my duty to drive my sibling insane?"
"Why, you little-."
"Oh, stop it, the pair of you," Tindome interrupted, draping herself over the floor.
Lothmire nodded in agreement, gathering the tiny portion of food that had left for them into a kind of big shell that had been found in abundance.
Unfortunately, most of the creatures inside said shells had now been eaten.
Rations were hard to find now. Most things had been consumed, and they needed to find a more economical way of feeding themselves. Unless they did so soon, they would starve.
Thranduil re-entered the hovel and sat down beside his son. The little knot of Firstborn remained silent for a while, staring into the small fire that Haruial had built.
Eventually, fingers dipped into the 'bowl' that was being passed around, coming out dripping with limpet stew. At last, the Elves lay down to sleep.
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Elrond was feeling extremely annoyed.
The same could be said of all those Elves currently in the training arena.
After ten hours of motion, which consisted of mock duels, running, and other fight 'preparations', all under a blazing sun, this was probably not surprising. Actually, the Eldar had more than enough excuses to be very angry, but had settled for feeling vaguely irritated- due to the fact that they were concerned about their kin. This was the only real thing stopping them from going completely homicidal on their new 'owners'.
They had finally been allowed out of the area when Orophin had shattered the shaft of his spear against the wall...not really unexpected, his balance had been off all day due to the whipping he and his brothers had received the day before after trying to strangle a guard...again.
The trio had shown an inordinate fondness for injuring their jailors. So far, they had been beaten five times, twice for attempted throttling, once for stealing food (which was later given to the twins, who hadn't been fed for two days- punishment for cursing at/trying to strike the instructor), once for impudence- i.e.: making rude gestures to lure someone into a pitfall- and once for smuggling a sword into the corridor leading to the cells and trying to dissect the man on guard.
The buzzing of needless instruction rang in the Elf Lord's ears as he wiped the blade of the broadsword and hefted it into the rack. Elrond briefly thought of slicing the rack in half, but then rationalised that it would be a pointless outlet of frustration, and no doubt he would end up with a rather sore back.
The flash came far too suddenly. Beside Elladan, he seemed to see his wife. Celebrian was crying quietly, gazing at him in hopeless despair. She reached out to touch her son, her silver hair stuck to her face with tears...
...and, as she moved, she flickered and vanished. Elrond was left staring at a bare stone wall.
Someone shoved him roughly in the direction of the food hall, and he stumbled off, still almost incapable of believing what he had seen.
Why had she been crying? Why had she been looking at him with a face so empty, it seemed that she was almost a void? As though she would never feel again? Because he had seen that expression before, when she had been carried back to Imladris after the orcs had taken her, and he had been forced to send her over the sea. It was the look of the utterly broken, or too near utterly broken. It was a look he hated to see, a look he absolutely despised, especially when it appeared on the face of his beloved.
"Ada?"
Elrohir gently took his arm, guiding him to the table.
"Higher than the sun, faster than the moon," he muttered, so softly that none but his father could catch the words.
/Did he just say what I think he said? /
Elrond turned his head and stared at his son. How could he know- because his father could speak to him, in some way, and Olorin had once told him that Earendil was /higher than the sun /...
Too tired to work on that mystery. Far too tired. All he wanted to do was sleep, and think of his wife.
But when he did get to sleep, later that night, it was not Celebrian he dreamed of, but Arwen.
He remembered her face, laughing and beautiful, as she sang in the Hall of Fire, or walked the gardens of Rivendell. He saw again the way she joked with her brothers, and how she had sat curled against her mother and grandmother in Lorien. He dreamed of her voice, and how she had been an indomitable spirit, unable to simply wait while Sauron reached out over Middle-Earth.
And then he thought of his mother. He beheld Elwing's face as it had been when she leaped from the cliff, clutching the Simaril, before the eyes of himself and his brother. He saw her laughing with her twin sons, and her glare when he and Elros had done something incredibly stupid- usually aboard their father's boat. He remembered the way she had kept them safe, always there, even when the sons of Feanor had approached their home- always there.
She should have been called Elwing the Protector.
Because she had defended them until she had no other choice.
And then Elwing's face melted into Arwen's, and he saw how akin to one another they truly were.
Evening Star and Star Spray.
Unconquerable to the end.
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
/Elwing the Protector,
And Earendil the Mariner,
Star Spray and Star Dome,
The children they bore.
Mortal and immortal,
Defender of the Simaril,
Sailor of the Morning Star,
A loving family.
Undomiel the Evenstar,
Estel the King of Gondor,
Mortal life from immortal, The fate Arwen chose.
Daughter of Celebrian,
Child of Vilya's bearer,
Bound herself to hope of Men,
And passed from Elven mind. /
Thranduil paused in his work, listening intently. He had almost heard something then, like a whisper on the breeze...no. He could not have. There was no-one here who would have cause to sing of the daughter of Dios and Queen of Gondor. Elenlome's offspring, perhaps, but they were not singing, they were sewing. Or rather, Ninquedil was weaving, Tindome was mending a misshapen fishing net, and Tholinsul was up to his waist in the stream, trying to catch a trout.
The trout had been a spot of good luck. Cirlith and Celebrimbor had come in laden with the creatures, and announced that quite a few were swimming downstream.
In reality, there was a glut. Huge numbers of trout were swimming upriver to spawn. They had missed the shoals going up, but caught the beginning of those who were returning to the sea. What with all the salt they had found in a certain small bay two miles downriver, they would definitely be able to preserve some of the fish for at least four more months.
And then there was the 'lake' where the trout had originally been heading. Splashing some way against the current had revealed a place where the river slowed until it was barely moving, and broadened out considerably. Trees of many different kinds grew here, and rabbits, hares, even deer frequented the area. The trout had actually swum past it, but this was where the eggs would hatch, having been carried down by the water flow.
Thranduil had had to order the people not to eat too much fruit/nuts/edible leaves, in case they accidentally wiped the trees out.
A quick examination of the land revealed that the part of the river the Eldar were camping by, along with the lake, were invisible from beyond the dunes that surrounded them.
And now Thranduil was sure that, in a few weeks, he and Legolas would be able to start the search for their companions.
Others would want to come with them, but he was confidant in his abilities to hide what he was planning until he had done it and gone. The problem would be explaining it to his family- and the three Noldor children. Haruial, Tholinsul, and Ninquedil would want to accompany him, his wife might tie him to her wrist, and Tindome was the only one he could trust to just let him get on with it. Any of the others could very well tell a dozen fighters about it, and then their cover would be blown.
Thranduil stopped dead. Across the track of the rabbit he had been hunting, there was a scrap of leather.
With trembling hands, he bent to pick it up, both hoping and dreading that it was what he thought.
As he held it to the light, he knew that there could be no mistake.
It was a piece of Glorfindel's sword sheath.
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Erestor was in a very bad mood.
There was a reason for this.
Erestor was in a bad mood because the man who had 'bought' him thought he was a scribe.
Erestor /was/ a scribe. Or at least a recorder. But he couldn't write in Latin.
So now he was sitting at a desk with a large scroll, scanning its contents for information. He'd been doing this for the last five hours, and, although he admittedly no longer needed someone to 'translate' every other word through broken Latin and actions, he was not making very good progress. For one thing, he had to learn a new alphabet.
He was also having to work out what the words he was reading sounded like, in order to correctly write them down when he heard them.
So far, his parchment (the one he was translating on to) looked something like this.
/Dash over letter =long sound. Pecunia=money (present tense). Servi=slaves (plural). Grammar structure=somewhat incomprehendable. /
(There is a lot of random Latin here.)
/Translation of last line: Alama Niltona beauty work money much. Literally, Alama and Niltona are beautiful workers and bring much money. /
Erestor stared at the scroll for a moment, then pulled out another parchment. This one was a record of the Eldar's other names. Using the first scroll (a record of who had been sold the day they arrive in Rome), and what he had heard since that first hellish day, he had quite an accurate knowledge of who was where.
Running a finger down it, he frowned at two of the names.
/Celeborn=Hartus (amphitheatre).
Celebrian=?
Elenlome=?
Elrond=Eragus (amphitheatre). /
He now altered it slightly, using the list in front of him.
/Celebrian=Alama (Quanamus Etholit Lire).
Elenlome=Niltona (Gaulius Rention Qunerius). /
There. Done.
Carefully, he slid the writing about aliases and locations back into its hiding place. After all, he had a pretty good 'master', compared to some. And he was better off than most slaves. He did /not/ want to be found out. Much better all round that he collected information in secret.
Yes, he thought, much better all round. If what he had gathered remained undiscovered, then maybe someone could use it.
Use it to stage an escape.
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A/N: Right! Bit of a long chapter- and I wrote it in two days. After spending three days in a /barn/. /Glares. I don't know where my parents get their vacation ideas, I really don't. Though it was kind of fun.../sighs wistfully. Anyhow, here's chapter...six, I think. Yes, six. And I'm glad that you lot are enjoying the story. No, really. You reviewers make my day. You have no idea how nice it is to come home to a good, positive review.
And Haruial actually means Southern Twilight.