Standard Disclaimer - Tolkien's World. Not mine. Wish it was.
The Flame Rises
Prologue:
When the fate of the Middle-Earth was yet undecided, when Sauron the Deceiver yet retained the One Ring, when the valiant forces of the Last Alliance made a final stand against him - this is where another history begins.
Every plan must have a contingency option - a final weapon to use as a last resort, the worst-case scenario alternative. Not necessarily does it need to ensure the survival of those who devise it. It is a wise option - the best commanders and strategists will always have at least one or two daggers up their sleeves.
Sauron was wise.
Perhaps not wise enough, though.
Chapter 2 Warfare on All Fronts
Imladris, 3441, Second Age
Background Music: (Track 18: Dream Worker: Xena Warrior Princess, Vol. I)
She walked through a dreamscape. Of that, she was aware.
That fact was more a nagging worry in the back of her mind, more instinct than conscious thought. Right now, her mind concentrated on the indescribable beauty she was surrounded by.
She was in Valinor, and though she had never lain eyes on the great Elven haven, though she had known only Middle-Earth all her long life, instinct again made this fact undeniable.
Beauty and light was the rule here, rather than the exception. Unable to see her feet, she knew that stood upon the bow of a great white ship. Unable to hear the people on the docks below her, she knew that they argued loudly.
One gathering of people, dressed in rough seafaring garb, had their backs to her, as they fanned out in front of the ships. Their posture was stiff, not exactly defensive, but wary, as they faced another group - the first Elven army - in a standoff.
The army was dressed in fine armor, the first swords every hewn resting idly on their hips. Red cloaks ruffled restlessly, buffeted by the suddenly chill wind that blustered through an otherwise warm day.
Her attention shifted to the leader of the army, a tall, black-haired benn*. His face, underneath a golden helmet with red plumes, might have been exceedingly handsome if it had not been twisted in anger. Seeing such undiluted fury on another's face might have caused her to step back in alarm, if she could have moved, rooted to the spot as is the case in so many dreams. His eyes, however, gray as slate and burning with deadly fire caused her to quail in fear.
Flame...grey eyes...it was Feanor! She cried out, voicelessly. Instinctively, her eyes sought out the seven benn arrayed behind Feanor, his seven sons. All red of hair and adorned with plumed helmets, she nonetheless was able to find her father's face, even standing next to his identical twin as he was. She stared with horrible fascination at the scene unfolding before her. But perhaps it would not be today...perhaps she was not looking at past history.
Perhaps she was not looking at one of the worst events ever to befall Elven-kind.
The army shifted restlessly, looking past the Elvish sailors to gaze desirously, hungrily at the white ships, the epitome of Telerin* craftmanship.
She used this distraction as a way to break her gaze from her father's stolid visage. Following the gaze of the army, she looked up in admiration at the white ships of the Teleri.
From bow to stern, the ships were slender and well-formed, swan-like and virginal in their appearance. Lightly sanded wood - had they painted it? was there a tree that bore white wood? - curved lithely in graceful arcs to complete the body of the ship. Sails of stout woven linen, pure and unstained by any weather or natural occurrence, shifted as restlessly as the army did, uncertain of their purpose.
As she moved her fascinated reverie of the ships down to look at the mooring ties, where white rope tethered the ships to shore, she knew instinctively, as one does in a dream, that something was about to happen, and yet she could not lift her head to watch.
The flash of red blood against the white wood of the ship was like lightning against a night sky. It splattered on the bow, staining it a sinister shade of red.
As if that had been the signal, she was finally able to jerk her head upwards to look at the Elves.
The blood had come from the corpse of an Elf, as he lay crumpled on the ground, head at an unnatural angle - she willed herself not to look at his cut throat. His blood, however, was spilling out and surrounding the boots of his slayer.
The first Elf to slay another Elf - the unpardonable crime - was first committed by Feanor, and this was him, the first Kinslayer, and this was his first killing. He was soaked in the blood of his victim, the thick blood making a mockery of his beautifully crafted armor. His face was grim, but determined, the fire in his eyes undimmed. Her eyes looked at the seven sons behind him - yes, they too had been splattered in blood, not one spared from the taint of their father's deed. Her father looked pale, but as determined as his own father. As the joined battle with the stunned Teleri, a touch at her arm sent a wave of panic and alarm through her.
"Cousin?" The word did not come out, but there was Celebrimbor, smiling at her, drawing her attention from the murderous fury below. It had been years since she had seen him, but he was as whole and mature as ever he had been - but wait, that couldn't be.
Celebrimbor had only been a child when this terrible day, the first Kinslaying, had occurred. How was it that he was here as an adult...a movement from Celebrimbor caught her attention.
He was pointing at the blood-spatter on his white tunic.
But you weren't a Kinslayer, cousin, and neither am I! The words refused to come out, but Celebrimbor seemed to understand. With the sad smile he sometimes wore when heartsick, he pointed at her heart.
With sick dread, she looked down.
Across her breast was splattered the lifeblood of the first Elf to be murdered by another Elf.
Caffrawen's dream exploded in a desperate, hopeless scream.
Her eyes flew fully open, and she heard the scream continue, but realized it to have come from her own throat, and halted it.
She drew deep breaths to calm the wild terror of her heart, trying desperately to block out the dream-images. She felt a sudden wetness through the cloth of her bed-sheets, and looking down, saw the flash of deep red against white in the starlight.
Unable to repress the start of terror, she groped madly for her bedside candle, and lit it with trembling fingers with an ember from the fireplace. Bringing the light close to her bed, she examined the sheets.
Juice. Nothing more than the glass of fruit juice that she'd set on her bedside table. Her arms, flailing as they could not in the dreamscape, must have overturned the glass onto her sheets.
Relief washed over Caffrawen like an icy kettle of water, and left in its wake a bit of consternation at her unruly behavior. Acting like a little Elfling, afraid of her dreams!
Well, she'd do penance for it through washing. She groaned, knowing that the first person to pick up a laundry basket was expected to fill it up with other's laundry, and wash that as well.
Caffrawen looked out her window at the pre-dawn sky, sunlight just beginning to warm the black sky with shades of grey and pink hues. Not altogether a bad morning to be spent outdoors, and perhaps, if she let it, the beauty of the day could dispell the fury of the night.
* * *
Caffrawen trudged up the rough-hewn rock stairs that formed a small path up to the communal house of Imladris, shifting her willow basket of water-heavy linen to rest on her other hip. Bright morning sunshine bathed the cloven valley in gentle warmth, and burned into Caffrawen's eyes as she overlooked the army settlement of Men who had joined the Elven armies. From the little alcove she stood in, above the Ford of Bruinen, she counted one hundred and fifty tents set up in rows of fifteen on the grassy pavilion.
How many men were in each tent? More to the point, what was the fighting strength of Elendil's army? Caffrawen ground her teeth and firmly suppressed the thought. Worrying would not provide a solution, or so she'd been told.
A few soldiers strode across the campground, carrying what looked like provisions. Caffrawen could hear the rest of the army further down the vale, a sound that registered the many complaints of metal striking metal, and the curses and grunts of men in training. Intrigued, she tipped her head forward a bit to listen more closely. What she heard was not a cacophony of war-noise and animal snorts, but something akin to a rough song;
"Good, good! Now, try blocking this..."
The clash of swords registered musically, and the ensuing parries kept a rhythm of steady clinks.
"D'you have ale-froth between your ears? You can't throw a spear under-handed! Not unless you want to..."
A horse whinnied in the distance.
The twang of bow-strings sounded like a one-note harp.
"A fine day we'll bring to them soon!"
"Aauugh! Idiot! That was my knee!"
The chime of swordplay was interspersed with the almost animal growling of the combatants involved. A number of unprintable curses and oaths punctuated any silence left behind in the wake of a noisy, productive army-camp.
Caffrawen found herself alternately marveling at Elendil's camp, and wondering about her own reaction to it. Elves generally shied away from the earthier aspects of mankind as a rule, but there was something so familiar about those sounds, that she stood there, rooted to the spot.
Another sound registered in her ears, the sound of soft footsteps from around the bend of the path. Turning, Caffrawen saw a black-tressed head stealthily peering around a rock cleft, looking with avaricious curiosity at the man-camp in the vale. Sensing the presence of another, the maid - Seskiel - stepped around the boulder and faced Caffrawen.
"Did you go down to the Ford to do the washing?" she asked Caffrawen in a cutting tone.
"Yes." Caffrawen said steadily, a hint of warning in her own voice. Seskiel was a notorious gossip, but generally could be put in her place with a few well-placed referrals to Risielwen, the headwoman.
"Do you not know the danger in going alone near the man-camp? There is no telling what they are capable of - just yesterday, I heard that one of the other maids was out walking and saw some of the men drunk! She was okay - but said they were loud and cursing and spitting and -".
"Seskiel, how far was she from the men?"
"Across the river and up the stairs. She saw them from the landing on the stair above this one." Seskiel's eyes were wide and bright - not with terror, but with a curious sense of joy and daring.
"Did the men see her?"
Seskiel shifted uncomfortably. "No."
"Then how was she in any danger?"
Seskiel's eyes gleamed. "You were much closer than she was. Did you see anything?"
"I saw tents. I saw battle-gear. I saw the river as I washed this linen. I can hear the men out on the practice field."
"You're not telling me everything! I'll bet you snuck down to the Ford to have a peek at the man-camp."
"I do not understand your continual fascination with the camp, Seskiel. It is a camp, like any other camp. Like the camp that Gil-galad has set up on the eastern vale. Why don't the other maidens work over that way if men frighten them?" Caffrawen hoped that with that parry, Seskiel would give up on trying to extract any information that she could twist to diabolical ends in her own mind. Fortunately, it did the trick.
"Yes, it is rather good that we have elves here to protect us, isn't it?"
Whether Seskiel meant that Gil-galad's army would protect them from Sauron's forces or from Elendil's, Caffrawen was not certain. Instead of pursuing the point, she made a noncommittal noise, nodded to Seskiel and continued up the stair. The terror of some maids at the arrival of the men had been a continual source of amusement to her in a time that brought little humor to anyone.
Caffrawen paused at the next landing and glanced toward Elrond's council rooms. He'd be closeted with Elendil and the generals most of the day. Idly, Caffrawen tried to view the happenings within the council chambers. Elrond, fearful of innocent-looking spies, had moved any war council indoors. Through the one opening, a doorway, Caffrawen could only see two bearded generals, arms crossed and listening to what was being said. One nodded vigorously at some point or another, the other was listening so intently, she could swear that his ears had extended from his head. A shadow passing over the doorway belonged to Gil-galad, his arms gesturing in graceful sweeps the advantage of one battle tactic over another.
Telling herself it was useless to spy on a council when she could hear no words, Caffrawen moved on up the rocky slope. Officially her home, since her own hands had helped to build it, Imladris brought her a scarce quantity of the comforts that homes were supposed to provide; love, acceptance, and warmth. The cold morning sun touched the pearly stone rock-work of the elven colony, lending it an ethereal white glow among the dark green of the summer foliage, and though this moment of refined beauty touched her heart, Caffrawen found it a poor substitute for her home of old.
Ost-in-Edhil, the Elven-city. Eregion, her dearest memory, redolent with the spicy aroma of holly-trees, the crisp hilltop winds that cooled a city overheated by the forges within. A city overheated by its own power. A city betrayed by a false friend. A city that betrayed itself. A city soon to become the first casualty in a long list...think on it no more!
Coming to the kitchen doors, Caffrawen found herself trembling, not from the strain of carrying a load of water-heavy material. Closing her eyes a moment, she composed herself, and opened the door with a firm kick to the lower half of the door.
"Ouch! Caffrawen! I'm on your side!"
A dark-haired Elven soldier, rubbing his forehead ruefully, came out from behind the kitchen door. Still dressed in his shining metal armor, Caffrawen thought him rather handsome, with a roguish grin curling his finely molded features. He carried his helm in one hand, and twisted his thin lips in an amused fashion.
"Really? And why would a proud Elf-soldier be walking through the kitchen instead of the halls? You've no business here, Elimani. Unless that business has to do with the helm so respectfully doffed at your side." Caffrawen replied equably.
Elimani's grin faded just a bit, and the sideways dart of his eyes toward the helmet proved her correct.
Unable to keep her lips from curling upward in a smirk at his reaction to her guess, she reached forward, tilting the helmet enough to allow her the sight of at least a pan's worth of sweetbread, hastily stuffed within. Elimani sighed, and his shoulders slumped, but the roguish grin didn't leave his face.
"What gave me away?"
"Next time, hold the face of the helmet to your side. Sweetbread crumbs are falling out the eyeslits of your poor, misused helmet."
Elimani sighed again and attempted to step past the elleth,* but found his retreat blocked by a laundry-basket.
He pursed his lips, but in annoyance or amusement, Caffrawen couldn't tell. Not that it mattered.
"What's it going to cost me?" he asked in a tone of mock-dismay, crossing his arms over his chest, and dislodging a shower of sweetbread crumbs from the helmet's eye-slits as he did so.
What would it cost him? Hmm. The thought of making him take the slim archer's braids behind his ears and fastening them with pink bows for a day had its appeal. So did the thought of making him haul in those heavy sacks of grain for her to grind in the stone mill.
She opened her mouth to request the hauling of the grain sacks, but found herself momentarily at a loss for words when the metal of his helmet chinked against his iron mail.
Clink. Clink.
Clink. Clink.
She suddenly found herself reminded of the noises she had heard on the training field.
Metal against metal.
Steel and sweat intermingled.
Curses and praises in the same breath.
"Caffrawen, I don't have all day to stand and watch you formulate a plan which involves me running naked through the man-camp and singing a hymn to the stars." Elimani's caustic tone interrupted her reverie. "Of course, if that is what you truly desire to see me do..." He cocked an eyebrow suggestively, his lips twisting yet again.
Caffrawen managed to thump him in the ribs with the laundry basket hard enough to make him pay for the suggestion.
"Actually, I had something more appealing in mind." She had to grin at the frown that marred his handsome features.
"More appealing than me? Goodness, Caffrawen, what could there be?" The skin around her eyes crinkled in merriment as he affected a ponderous gesture.
"The more you talk, the worse it gets. Tell you what, Elimani, I'll make you a deal."
The idea had sprung up of its own volition, indeed, when she reflected later on, she didn't understand the motives behind it.
"I'll bring you a pan of sweetbread, or whatever should come within your reasonable culinary fancies, if you teach me swordplay."
She was treated to a rare moment of Elimani's disconcertion. His mouth opened, his eyes widened, and every facial muscle seemed to retreat backwards, away from her.
"What? Don't tell me that you're as bad as Elrond when it comes to females touching so much as a butter knife."
Caffrawen spoke lightly, attempting to liven his features and get a response.
"No, no...I just, I mean, I thought that after...after what happened...that you wouldn't want to so much as pick up a sword, let alone learn how to wield it."
Caffrawen ground her teeth in an attempt to quell the pain that welled upwards from Elimani's words. Push it down, push it down...
"It is precisely for that reason that I want to wield a blade with something resembling proficiency."
Elimani sighed, his handsome features drooping dourly. "Caffrawen, you know I'm not much of a swordsman. And if my archery skills were tested in battle, I'd probably hit more allies than enemies."
Setting down the infernally awkward laundry basket, Caffrawen gripped his right bicep with her left hand. His eyes widened at her use of the secret greeting, but second nature and a desire to echo the sentiment behind the gesture led him to grip her bicep in turn with his right hand.
"You are Elimani of Ost-in-Edhil, defender of the Eldar and Middle-Earth, and honored member of the Gw...the Noldor. Whatever you do, I know that you do to the best of your ability." She gently let go of his arm before picking up the abandoned linen-basket, and turning to grin at him. "I expect you to have just as much faith in my baking!"
The remark had the desired effect. Elimani threw back his head and laughed.
"So we have a deal, my fine soldier?"
"We do. I'll meet you by the stables after the evening meal. Caffrawen?" He paused, then quickly leaned forward and kissed her cheek. "Anytime you need someone to run naked through the man-camp and sing ballads, I will serve, free of charge." The grin lit up his face again as she laughed in turn.
With their wry comments, each had convinced themselves that they had made the other forget what had nearly escaped Caffrawen's lips.
"You were an honored member of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain."
* * *
Caffrawen grinned oddly to herself as he continued on his path behind her. She in turn resumed her interrupted errand, and shifted the basket to a more comfortable position on her hip. The communal kitchens area had been improved vastly since her arrival, when Imladris was naught but a pile of marble and a dream. They had evolved from pleasantly smoking camp-fires to roaring cooking-ovens, able to bake twenty-five loaves of bread (or lembas) at a time. Given the sizes of the armies encamped outdoors, they now roared every hour of the day.
Inwardly, she groaned. How was she going to find room in the ovens for all the sweetbread Elimani was likely to demand? And how long before a steady filching of supplies was discovered?
Her active mind intently working on solutions to this problem, the instinctual part of her mind took over to guide her past the wooden shelves of the back storerooms. Unconsciously navigating this maze, she did not note the approaching elleth from behind a shelf overloaded with rye flour and wild rice. The inevitable collision with her was not violent, as neither elleth had been traveling with much haste. The repercussions, however, were not so gentle.
"It would seem that foresight and awareness are two traits missing from your family line, Caffrawen. It was evident in the past generations, and has now been confirmed in the present generation."
Caffrawen steeled herself. It wasn't her fault that Cugufain* hated her so - and in some ways, it was. And Caffrawen knew all too well the pain and fury of losing a loved one to murder... She believed, deep within her soul, that Cugufain knew Caffrawen was innocent, but Cugufain's soul demanded that there be someone responsible for her pain, someone within her ability to strike at. So Caffrawen would bear her insults, knowing that she was not the intended target.
Unintended target or not, the ammunition still stung.
"I am sorry, Cugufain. My mind was elsewhere - I did not intend to bump into you." Perhaps, if she sounded apologetic enough, Cugufain would end it here, and there need be no recriminations.
Cugufain's eyes narrowed, and her lips pursed in eager anticipation of an opportunity to strike a blow for her loss.
"So many things in this life are not intended, Seregwen,* so many things. My brother's death, was that intended? Certainly they would not have come at him with swords if that was not their intention."
With a swift movement of her hands, Cugufain scooped up a handful of rye flour from an open sack, and with eager alacrity, threw it onto Caffrawen's basket. The flour instantly turned dark brown, as it absorbed moisture from the linens, creating a sticky mess that would need to be scrubbed out.
Caffrawen's expression did not change, her eyes hard, her lips slightly parted, as she debated whether it would be worth an argument.
"What was that really about, Cugufain?"
"What was it really about? My dear gwenn,* it was all about misplaced intentions. You see, I was aiming for your face."
With the same calm righteousness that she nearly always displayed, Cugufain stepped past her, lifting her skirts away, to avoid brushing Caffrawen's tainted ones.
Caffrawen stood in place, her face stony, her teeth clenched. There was nothing to be done, nothing to be done...except go West...but she was denied even that...and would probably not receive a warm welcome even if she was allowed onto those shores.
The sound of something cracking broke her reverie. Glancing downwards, she was dismayed to find that the wicker handles on the basket were cracking, crushed by the weight of her restrained fury.
The part of her that was not angry bemoaned this small action as evidence to support Cugufain's claims. The inherited capacity within her to destroy and demolish the innocent while enraged by a third party was an inherited one, never dormant.
Wrapping her arms around the damaged basket, Caffrawen began to haul it back to the Ford of Bruinen, forcing her anger and hurt into an effort at making her steps heavy. In Ost-in-Edhil, they had been understanding, even admiring. The thought of eternity in this cloven valley surrounded by Elves who hated her for her bloodline...
It was not easy, thus, to be the granddaughter and sole heir of Feanor, the first Kin-slayer.
* * *
No rye flour was wasted in the writing of this chapter. The author would like to note that the taste of Cugufain's famous Rye Bedsheets can be improved with a Zesty Italian Vinaigrette.
* benn - elven male, elf-man
*Teleri - Sea-Elves, Elves that lived by or felt at home with the sea
*elleth - elven female, elf-woman
*gwenn - elf maiden, girl
*Seregwen - literally, "blood-maid", an insult, given Caffrawen's heritage
*Cugufain - "white dove"
A/N: As promised, I am listing all deviations from Master Tolkien's writings.
- No grandchildren other than Celebrimbor were accounted to Feanor.
- No names of any of the members of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain were listed besides Celebrimbor.
- Caffrawen, Seskiel, Riseilwen, Elimani, and Cugufain are all author-invented characters.
- The Battle of the Last Alliance of Men and Elves at the end of the Second Age lasted for seven years. For plot purposes, I am speeding it up to about a two-week battle, culminating with Isildur's slicing of the Ring from Sauron's hand.
