Chapter Two – A Time to Build

As the years passed, they had grown too numerous for the little village to hold them, and many had moved from Fangorn to settle in other, more isolated places. They had sent word back to this first of Elven homes of the new cities that were growing, hidden deep within forests that were much loved by their kind. They told of Greenwood, Doriath, and Lindon, and the realm of the Galadhrim, a group of the first Elves who had moved on and left their kin far behind them. There came news of Eregion, a new Elven stronghold, where the Elves lived alongside the Dwarves of Khazad-dum, crafting metals with great skill. There had been traffic between these new settlements and the first home of the Elves for the first few years, which quickly slipped away, each separate clan becoming a separate race within a race, with language and customs of their own that were almost too different to share.

The passage of time had not gone unmarked by many of them, and they were acutely aware that while they lived on, seeming never to change from each sunrise to sunset, others of their world were dying. It had been more than eight thousand years since they had fled the world of Men to take refuge within these forest walls, and in that time, everyone they had known or loved before had died, either of old age or disease. They had begun to venture out into the world, to seek news of their families, and to let those who lived on know that Elves were no fairytale, but true living creatures.

These travellers had returned with stories of how there was no sea between what had once been an island and the mainland now, and how the land had changed. They learned that they spoke a different language, their speech so different to that of Men and Dwarves that they were unrecognisable, and were forced to learn what was known as Westron, or Common. They also learned of the awful wars that had raged, and the darkness spreading from the east, a darkness that had not touched their peaceful home as it forced changes upon the rest of the world beyond their forest borders. The race of Man had spread across Arda, the Earth, making war and peace seemingly with equal enjoyment. The Dwarves had taken to the caves that littered the world, and were known as great smiths and armourers, selling and bartering their wares at markets and halls. Only one thing seemed to dampen the mood. There was no trace of the other race, the race of Hobbits; they seemed to have disappeared completely from the face of Arda. But there were kings and queens, lords and ladies, peasants and serfs. The world seemed to have returned to how it had been centuries before her birth.

Excited by the news they were hearing, Laurèneial and Ríel had decided to seek out the final resting places of their families, taking separate paths for the first time in over eight thousand years. She herself had travelled for a thousand years, living among the races of Man and Dwarf, learning their ways and customs, becoming known to them; following names she recognised from some distant part of her youth, trying hard to understand how she could possibly know these names, until, at last, she realised that she was hiding herself away from an awful truth she would have to face at some point in her long life. Laurè's eyes filled with unshed tears once more as her memory uncovered the years she had spent wandering Arda, searching for anyone who shared her blood, before finally returning to the town she had left long ago; the pain that was still there, like a wound that would never heal, from the moment she looked on the graves of her family …

The gateman looked startled when she asked entrance to the little town, unable to stop staring at her ears, and the quiet confidence with which she held herself. She glanced away, awkward under his curious gaze, and looked back, raising an eyebrow in enquiry. The Common speech still felt awkward on her tongue, despite hundreds of years of speaking it, but she hardly hesitated to put the words she wished to say into a language that was at once alien and familiar to her.

'May I enter?' she asked softly, a lilt in her voice from the years of speaking what was now known as Sindarin, the more common form of Elvish.

The gateman seemed to shake himself, jumping back to reality as she spoke.

'Oh, of course, lady, please,' he hastened to say, pulling open the gate for her to urge her horse through. 'Forgive me, lady, but … are you an Elf?'

She smiled gently back at him, seeing the eager surprise on his face that told her how make-believe these people thought her race was, and wondered if any of her people had ventured this way in the two thousand years since they had begun to spread.

'Yes, I am Elven,' she told him. 'My people dwell in the great forest many miles from here.'

The man's jaw dropped.

'Fangorn Forest?' he gasped. 'But that's a haunted place, filled with spirits, they say.'

She laughed, a light sound that fell like music on his ears.

'I think you will find that those spirits are as real as me, and indeed, are my kin,' she reassured him. 'Those woods are not haunted, but they do live and breathe alongside us. The trees are our friends; they shelter and protect us, as we protect them.'

The man nodded slowly, as though trying to weigh this up against the myths he had heard. Then he seemed to dismiss it altogether.

'Might I ask your business in our town, my lady?' he inquired politely.

The smile fell from her face and she looked away, down the muddy streets that she remembered only vaguely.

'I have some unfinished business with those I once knew,' she murmured, the pain of heartache sounding clear in her voice.

The gateman's face twisted in sympathy, though he could not know of what she spoke. And indeed, his surprise showed when she asked a question of her own.

'Tell me, where is the graveyard?'

'My lady, why should you want to go there?' he asked, curiosity getting in the way of manners. 'You will find nothing there but memories of a world long since gone.'

She sighed softly.

'I know,' she breathed, 'but I must go. It has been a long time since I entered these walls. I had friends here that I need to let go.'

The man's eyes widened.

'Might I ask how long since you were last here?' he asked timidly, as if finally aware of the rudeness of his question.

'Close to ten thousand years, sir,' she told him, smiling ruefully at the look of horror on his face.

'So it is true,' he said in a harsh whisper. 'The lives of Elves are everlasting, and their youthful looks never change. Lady, you look not a day over twenty! I can scarcely believe that you have lived for so long.'

Her smile returned, her cheeks flushing a little under his admiring gaze.

'Thank you, sir, but it is quite true,' she assured him. 'Now, please … where is the town's graveyard?'

In quietly awed tones, he gave her directions, and she urged her horse onwards, through the muddy streets, ignoring the curious stares of the Men who walked around her. But it was not just Men in these streets, she noticed, seeing Dwarves mingle with them as they went about their daily business. Careful not to encroach upon anyone, she made her slow way through what had once been her home, trying hard not to let the memories overwhelm her. It seemed an age before she reached the graveyard, and longer again to find what she was looking for.

She stared for a long time at the familiar names, remembering the faces she had committed to memory on that hated day long ago. She wondered if they had ever managed to forget her as she had so longed for them to do, but knew in her heart that they could no more have forgotten her than she could forget them. The gravestones were old, pitted and weathered by rain and sun and cold snows, but not overgrown, as she had expected. Even now, so long since the death of those that lay beneath, they were tended with care, lovingly kept with fresh flowers.

Here they were, gathered together in death as they had been in life, her father, brother and sisters, and the families they had made for themselves. Her blood, lying cold beneath the earth, where nothing could hurt them ever again. And close by, still watching over them as he had promised, the friend she had left behind her on that day, his grave, and the graves of his descendants, as close to theirs as was conceivably possible. He had certainly never forgotten her. His letters still lay in her saddlebags, the last crumpled and stained with tears, the telling of his death by the daughters he left behind him.

Footsteps in the grass behind her made her turn to look upon a girl who was so familiar it hurt. Red curls fell down her back, and grey eyes looked up at her. It was like looking in a mirror that could see past all the changes to what she had always been. This young girl-child looked as she had done, before she had left, before The Change. The little girl smiled shyly up at her.

'Hello,' she said cheerfully. 'Why are you here?'

Laurèneial forced a smile for the cheery soul before her.

'Saying goodbye,' she told her. 'Might I ask what you are doing here?'

The little girl gestured with the little posy she was holding.

'Putting flowers on my great-great-great grandmother's grave,' she said solemnly, and moved to do just that, placing the posy on one of the later gravestones that bore an unfamiliar name that was still family. 'It's her birthday today. I'm Rosie. You're that Elf everyone's talking about, aren't you? Are you really millions of years old?'

Infected by the child's curiosity, Laurèneial couldn't help but laugh.

'Not yet,' she smiled. 'Yes, I am that Elf, and yes, I am a little under ten thousand years old. My name is Laurèneial.'

Rosie grinned up at her cheerfully.

'Why are you saying goodbye?' she asked innocently.

Laurèneial's smiled turned sad.

'You see these graves?' she said, pointing to the ones she had come to find. 'I knew them once, long ago. When I left here, I thought I would never come back, but now I have, I can finally say goodbye to them.'

Rosie looked amazed, staring first at her, then at the graves, and finally back at her again.

'Cor,' she remarked, 'you're really old, aren't you?'

Again, Laurèneial couldn't help but laugh.

'To one so young, yes, I suppose I am,' she sighed, the smile lingering on her youthful features. 'But I have never felt my age until now, when I look upon the graves of those who shared my childhood.'

Rosie was silent for a moment. Then her hand slipped up and gently into Laurèneial's.

'Come and stay with us,' she offered. 'My mother won't mind, I'm sure.'

Laurèneial held the child's sincere gaze for a long moment.

'I will visit you and your family,' she agreed, 'but I will not stay unless I am invited by those who run your little household, Rosie. You should not be asking complete strangers to your house anyway.'

Rosie scowled at her.

'You sound like my father,' she complained. 'Come on.'

Letting the little girl lead the way, Laurèneial led her horse through the streets once more, this time even more aware of the curious stares aimed at her as she slipped past Men and Dwarves, following the good-hearted child who skipped ahead of her. Several other children greeted her as she entered Rosie's home, each full of questions about her, but did not answer, waiting instead to be addressed by the master of the house.

'I am Ostoher, master of this house,' he greeted her sternly. 'And you are?'

'Laurèneial, of Fangorn,' she answered, trying hard not to stare at the similarities he owed to her brother, long since dead.

'Why are you here, Laurèneial of Fangorn?' he asked, silencing his daughter when she tried to answer for her newfound friend.

'I cam in search of resolution and found only pain,' Laurèneial told him. 'Your daughter pulled me from my grief and invited me here, to meet you and your family, sir.'

Ostoher's eyes narrowed as he looked at her, as though trying to see through any lies she might be telling. He drew in a deep breath.

'Rosie tells me you were at my family's grave-plot,' he said accusingly. 'What business do you have with men long since dead?'

Laurèneial looked into his eyes, and knew she could not tell him the whole truth. The pain was still too near for her to accept family that she had never known.

'They were … my friends,' she told him, her voice soft with grief, her eyes dimmed with tears. 'They sheltered me when I was young, and sent me away for my own safety. I swore I would come back, and though it has taken me ten thousand years, I have. I came to wish them a final farewell, and heartfelt thanks, and if this offends you, sir, I will go, and never again darken your door with my memories of what once was.'

Ostoher's gaze was piercing as he weighed her up.

'There is a story among my family,' he said slowly, 'a story of a young she-elf who once lived among us as one of our own. It is legend to us, of how she was a part of our family. But her name was not the name you have given me here, her name was …'

He trailed off, apparently changing his mind. Laurèneial watched him for a long, silent moment, and spoke again.

'Her name was Niamh.'

He turned back to her with a look of astonishment.

'How can you know that?' he demanded.

She held his gaze steadily, unafraid of his anger any longer.

'Because I was once called Niamh, and I once lived among Men,' she said softly. 'I called them brother and sister, and father. They were all I had, and I had to leave to keep them safe.'

Ostoher stared at her, his eyes a whirlpool of conflicting emotions.

'The legend always said you would come back,' he murmured, 'that you would come back and visit the graves, and that we should welcome you as one of us.'

He moved forward suddenly and embraced her roughly.

'You are most welcome, Laurèneial of Fangorn, who was once Niamh of Bree,' he said harshly, his voice thick with emotion as she allowed herself to return the embrace. 'And welcome to stay for as long as you wish.'

And stay she had, for many years, watching each generation of her family grow and die, and always wishing for some way to prevent the passage of time, to bring back those she had loved so dearly. Laurè stared up at the rising moon, remembering countless faces that had in some way been similar to her own, and each countless story they had told, each in their own lifetime of joy and grief. She had become known throughout the little town, which had been renamed Bree – yet another name that struck a chord that she had not been able to track. Men had twisted her chosen name over the years, shortening it to Laurè. And because it had been those of her blood who had given her this, shorter, name, she had held true to it, keeping it her own throughout the many years of her life.

The years she had spent in Bree had been a surprising mix of happiness and sorrow, and she knew she would not exchange those memories for anything in the world, nor would she do anything different if she could do it all again. She lived in that town of Men for almost nine hundred years, learning the healing arts and perfecting her own personal way of dealing with people of every race; a skill that had stood her in good stead in the years after. But in every good time there was always a darkness growing on the edge of vision, and this was no different.

Rumours began of a race of dark creatures, twisted and blackened, stalking merchantmen, and attacking outlying villages, creating havoc across the land. Bodies of those who had been attacked were found with limbs missing, sometimes ripped off, sometimes cut, and sometimes found elsewhere, gnawed through to the bone. Sightings of these foul creatures became more and more frequent, and the Men of Bree began to arm themselves against what they thought was an impending attack.

And then, with the swiftness of an arrow, Laurè had known that it was not Men who were in danger, but Elves. She could not explain how she had known, but she had left Bree, making once more for her home in Fangorn Forest, a home she had not seen for over two thousand years. She had travelled by night, lying up by day, ignoring the ache of her muscles and the fear in her heart until she reached the edge of the Forest. She remembered so clearly how it had felt to stand there, alone, unprotected …

It felt wrong, somehow. She couldn't explain it, this oppressive feeling gathering in her mind that something was not right with this place. Her sharp eyes could see the signs of a great multitude passing between the trees, a clear sign that it had not been Elves, for they left very little trace, even in great numbers. Yet she could smell animals, too, and knew them for what they were; Wargs and Werewolves, and some foul creature that rode them.

She ventured into the Forest, careful to keep to the shadows, away from places of ambush. Everywhere she looked she could see the signs of battle, here and there, the mutilated bodies of Elves she had known, and Elves she had not. Sounds in the darkness filtered out to her, and without thinking, she drew her bow, holding it taut as she walked her lonely way through the ravaged places of her home. Blood stained the trees, flesh hung from the boughs, and everywhere the stench of death filled her nostrils.

What could have happened here? How was it that the Elves seemed fled, from an army of what? Who could have sanctioned such barbarity? And why hadn't the Ents seen fit to protect their friends? She could see the glaring marks of blades on the trees around her, could hear them moaning to one another as she passed them by. Any other time, she would have stopped to soothe their pain, but for now she was too concerned with the fate of her people to worry about those that had sheltered them for thousands of years.

Slowly, she approached the site of the village she had called home for so long, and stopped, disgusted by what she saw. The charred and blackened bodies of her people hung from the houses and trees, covered with the obvious signs of feasting on their flesh. Even children hung there, small limbs covered with teeth marks and knife wounds. Not a single building was left standing; all had been razed to the ground. And everywhere, all around her were the signs of battle. The indents in the earth of a great many people pushing hard to defend their home; a mark on a doorframe where a blood-stained hand had rested for a few moments; inside the houses, signs of hasty packing; in the stables, the horses turned loose to roam Fangorn, unprotected.

And there, behind her, hidden in the shadows, the ones who had done this to her home, watching her, waiting for her to lower her guard. She could hear them, growling in their own language, a language that sounded frighteningly similar to her own, and shuffling about under the cover of the trees. The smell was horrific, even hidden beneath the stench of Elvish blood. Whatever it was that was watching her, it would pay for this attack on her own.

With a roar, four of the creatures leapt from the trees, clearly thinking they had taken her by surprise, but she was ready for them. She had felt a slight twinge of doubt that she may not be able to take a life, but one look at them was enough to cure her of it. They were horrific, mad things that would kill her and defile her body if she did not end their lives first. Her drawn bow sang, twice, and two of them fell, arrows buried in their eyes. She had no time to make sure of them before the other two were on her, hacking and slashing with slow heavy strokes that she easily avoided, throwing her bow to one side as she skipped backwards across the rough terrain to a distance where she could draw her sword.

In the moonlight, Laurè drew that same sword, holding him so the light shone from his highly polished steel. A sword of elven making, a named sword, Angùrei had stood her in good stead through the years since his forging. He had been made for her, a gift from the Elven smiths of Eregion for a service she could not recall now, so long ago had it been. But she remembered, even now, the first time Angùrei had tasted blood, the first time she had drawn him in battle, and how lucky she had been that her sword was of good manufacture. She was certain that without Angùrei she would have died that day …

They came at her together, two snarling, growling, roaring things with black skin and twisted limbs, their lips drawn back to reveal sharp ragged teeth. There was no determination in their eyes, no purpose in their minds but that of killing this defiant she-elf that had ventured across the battle scene. Yet it was plain they had no clear thoughts in their heads, for they did not come at her at once, nor did they attack together, as she had expected. Instead they circled together, letting her weigh them up before making an attack of her own.

She feinted to the left, surprised when they fell for it, and leapt to the right as the smaller of them lunged at her, bringing her sword around in a full blow to its back. Angùrei sang through the air, a song of beauty and death, biting into the creature swiftly and ruthlessly. It roared in pain, falling heavily to the ground as she wrenched him from its muscle and sinew, turning to face its companion. But she knew in an instant that she had been too long in the movement, for the creature was upon her swiftly, hacking at her wildly as she struggled to find her ground in a fight she had not been prepared for. Its cruel weapon caught her shoulder, biting deep, and sending her own red blood pouring from the wound.

She stumbled backwards, each blow becoming harder to stop as her arms tired under the assault. The coarse weapon of the evil creature swung close to her head, the clang as it met Angùrei almost deafening to ears that had not heard the sounds of war. Her feet caught on something behind her, and she fell backwards, sprawled over the body that bore one of her own arrows through its eye. The fall saved her, for the creature had swung again as she fell, a blow of such power that it would have cleaved her head from her shoulders if it had fallen. She had no time to watch it stagger, to try and maintain its balance, as some unknown instinct took her over. Her out flung hand grasped Angùrei's hilt and brought him around in a low arc that severed the creature's legs at the knee. As it fell, she scrambled to her feet, backing away as the thing screamed its pain and anger at her, snarling out words she almost recognised but for the foul twisting of its speech. In fear and anger, and confusion, she brought her sword down upon its neck, killing it with one final blow.

As the silence of the forest flowed back into her consciousness, Laurè fell to her knees, sobbing in pain and sudden terror. The gash in her arm oozed bright blood over her tunic, staining the cloth, and dripping from the hand that still held Angùrei, to mingle with the black blood that dripped from his blade. The enormity of those past few minutes hit her, of the fact that she had taken life. It didn't matter that they had been trying to kill her, only that she had killed them, quickly and with frightening efficiency. She had never thought, seriously, that the skills learnt in a thousand years of play fighting so very long ago would ever become necessary to exercise in this world that she had come to love. Or that she would grow to be so good, that the attack of four others would be so easily fought off.

For she did not doubt that it had been an easy fight. Had they been better prepared, or even just able to work together, she knew it would be she lying on the blackened ground, and they standing over her, and they would not be feeling the grief she felt now for the innocence of life that she had just lost. She limped to her feet, aching from the strain of the fight, and kicked at one of the bodies, knocking it onto it's back, and stared in horrified fascination at the foul visage. Black eyes stared, unseeing, up at her from a face that was awful to look upon. The skin was hardened and rough, almost scaly in appearance, and mottled black and darkened green. It was tall, taller than Laurè easily, and the muscles stood out all over its body with the strength that she had felt levelled against her. It was twisted and evil looking, and she found herself growing to hate it for the undisciplined violence it had shown her.

And as she stared at it, all the pieces fell into place in her mind with a single thought; this was an Orc. Memories of a book read when she was human came flooding into her mind, a book filled with Elves and Dwarves and Men, a book that told of the coming of these terrible creatures and the ones who led them. A book that, when it was written, had been set by the author in a future only he could see. Shock rolled over her in a blast, rocking her on her feet. How could she have been so blind? The clues were everywhere she looked; everywhere she had already looked in the years she had spent travelling the land. If this much was true, how much else of what she had thought fiction would become a reality?

A distant roar jolted her from her petrified contemplation, reminding her of the clear and present danger that surrounded her. She had to find her people, to make sure they still lived. There was no safety in Fangorn for them any longer, she knew; they must have made their way to one of the other settlements. As she bent to retrieve her bow, remembering the wound when it flashed white-hot pain through her, she searched her memory to try and find the location of the closest Elven sanctuary. The name of the Galadhrim kept turning through her mind as she ripped a strip of linen from her shirt to bind the gash, tying it clumsily with one hand. And again, she felt a flash of understanding. She must go to the stronghold of the Galadhrim, and it would be there she would find what was left of the Elves of Fangorn, and perhaps, the friend she had parted with two thousand years before.

A soft smile touched her lips as she thought of Ríel, and the closeness of the friendship they shared. It would be good to see her again, to know how she had spent the years they had been apart. And, of course, the quickest way was to cut through the kingdom of Khazad-dûm, where, if the Dwarves did not remember her, the Elves of Eregion would remind them of her friendship with them. Her journey would not be so fraught with danger, or so long as the miles seemed to suggest. Quietly, she crept from the first settlement of Elves, the last of her kind to set foot in Fangorn, and leave the best and the worst of times behind her.

Absently, her eyes focused on centuries ago, Laurè touched the scar that remained to this day on her shoulder, a single line of white that had never quite faded, and the first of many such scars that each told their own story. The journey had indeed been less dangerous than it could have been, she recalled, but those days spent in the travelling to Khazad-dûm had been no less terrifying for the lack of such danger. Every sound had been Orcs creeping up on her, each flash of shadow another attacker come to finish what those first few had begun. None of those skirmishes had been difficult to win, and she had quickly learnt the value of retrieving her arrows from the bodies of her foes. By the time she had reached the enormous gates of Khazad-dûm, she had given up trying to feel anything for her enemy but hate and pity, and had found herself a better fighter for it.

The Dwarves had quickly let her in, given no choice when she had read the ithildin inscription above the gates and had spoken the word that would allow her entry. She had been very lucky, as she recalled, to have survived that inauspicious entrance to the underground kingdom, stumbling through the gates, weak and weary, into a ring of suspicious faces and weapons held high. It had been a lucky happenstance for her that an old friend, one of the second generation Elves named Celebrimbor, had been staying with the Dwarven king and was alerted to the presence of one of his own kind before they had carted her off to be hanged for a dark spy. It had been a blessed relief to see one of her own in the darkness of the underground kingdom, and even more of a relief to then be untied and her wounds dressed. She had told her friend of the events that had brought her here, and he, in turn, told her of what she had missed in her wanderings.

For she had missed a great deal, it seemed. Celebrimbor had told her of the messenger from the West, the Elf who shone with the light of a thousand stars, and of the news he had brought with him; how there was a land over the Western Sea where the Elves dwelled, rich in splendour and light, never tiring of the immortality that had wearied so many of their fellows here in Middle-earth. He had spoken of the many Elves who had left these shores to enter the Undying Lands, leaving them to live on among mortals as was their choice, and warned her that many of those she had known from youth had gone, tired of a life where war and death seemed so great a part of living. She had listened in horror as he told her of Melkor, whom the Elves called Morgoth, and how he had introduced foul creatures and evil beings into their world. She was told of the war Morgoth had waged on Elves and Men, and how he and his minions had destroyed the greatest things of beauty in the Undying Lands before being cast from this world by beings he could only describe as gods. And he had told her of the foul army of Orcs and Wargs that had attacked the Elves, forcing many from their homes in terror and panic, and of the Elven army that was growing slowly, day by day. She learned of the origins of the foul Orcs, how Morgoth had taken Elves and tortured them, in spirit as well as in body, and had bred from them a race that were as foul as Elves were fair, and hated those they had come from. He told her of many things, each stranger than before.

And as he spoke, Laurè had realised that she knew all of this, not from news she had heard or some Elven understanding she had gained, but from the elusive book she had remembered only recently, the history given within it's pages, and she knew that there would be a great many other atrocities committed before peace would return in full to Middle-earth. She recalled how wonderful the Undying Lands had seemed at that point, where she could have hidden herself away, and had nothing at all to do with the fate of this land. But she had known, even then, that her role in what was to come would be important, and that, through this knowledge her newly remembered memories had given her, she had a duty to these peoples to see it through to it's proper conclusion, even if the making of it killed her.