Disclaimer: Rivendell and Gondolin belong to Tolkien. Polarans and enslavement devices belong to Ambrosia Software and ATMOS.
All characters speak in their respective languages unless specifically stated otherwise. Ie, Elves speak Sindarin, Nil'Tanar speaks Polaran, and Ryllaen speaks Federation Basic.
He kept watch over them. At the bidding of his lord he shadowed the steps of the grey-cloaked Man, rarely venturing beyond sight unless he knew with certainty the Man's location, never speaking to him. It was not a part of Erestor's duty to converse with the Man, though Gildor Inglorion had taught him the language well. He understood every word the Man spoke, few that they were.
The task was not onerous, for Nil'Tanar seemed interested only in Elrond's comatose patient and spent most of the days in the healing rooms. Erestor found much to interest him merely by studying the Man who was unlike any other he had known. He was so very young, this warrior, whom Elrohir said fought with skill matching that of the more accomplished Elves. It did not surprise Erestor to learn, during one afternoon while Gildor coaxed conversation out of the Man, that he had trained all his life only for battle. Nil'Tanar was devoted to his cause to the exclusion of all else, and Erestor thought that a sad thing indeed. Few were the Elves or Men who desired only to fight, though many gave much of themselves to protect those they loved. To fight was duty, to take joy in the world a homage to life. Eighty years was a long time for a mortal to see only the knife's edge.
The days passed, and Erestor watched the Man's emotions change slowly. There was resignation, and anger born of despair. Nil'Tanar feared that he would never return home, and Erestor knew nothing to gainsay that without knowing where these Men had come from. Guilt laced heavily through his anger; that was easily explained. Nil'Tanar had yet to make the cause of Ryllaen's decline clear to the Elves, though he had tried over and over. But he used words that Gildor could not translate, with thought-images so esoteric that the scion of Finrod could not even begin to make sense of them. His frustration at the communication block was plain; it did not take long before he refused to repeat himself.
Despair changed slowly to puzzlement as Ryllaen hovered near death without crossing the border. Hope crept in, tentative and doubtful, when Ryllaen's condition did not worsen. He began to show signs of healing. Erestor was surprised at the strength of Nil'Tanar's astonishment at this; he knew that the Polaran had not expected Ryllaen to survive, but he had not realised just how certain Nil'Tanar had been that death was inevitable. Nil'Tanar stayed by the bedside, as if by sheer force of presence he could will the other to health.
At last, Ryllaen opened his eyes. He made no other movement, but Erestor could feel his fëa, a curious shade of blue that fairly hummed with power, stretch out. The ugly black bands that had chained the fëa were gone, though the scars and open wounds left by the enslavement device remained clear to those with the ability to see. The tendrils that touched Nil'Tanar were nothing like the sharp-tipped spears of power used before, and so Erestor did not interfere. He watched, cautious, his own strength lightly leashed. Erestor harboured no illusions: the Vell-os' power was akin to that of a Maia, and it would take the strength of more than one Elf-lord such as Erestor to keep him at bay. He remained ready nonetheless, though he thought it would not be necessary.
Ryllaen turned his head and glared at Nil'Tanar. "Do that again and I'll kill you," he said roughly. Then he began to weep.
Nil'Tanar shifted uncomfortably. He said nothing, watching the silent tears track down a face that was unguarded for the first time in Erestor's sight, regardless that it was also the first time Erestor had seen him aware. There was a gathering of power around Ryllaen; Erestor tensed. The Polaran jumped when the enslavement device exploded with a blinding flash. The reek of something foul filled the air.
Quieted, Ryllaen relaxed his hold on his power. "You nearly killed me," he said mildly.
Nil'Tanar flinched. Guilt-laden dark eyes rose to meet the Vell-os' gaze. "I tried to tell them. They did not understand. But … how did you survive the destruction of your nanites?"
"I was not born Vell-os." Ryllaen had not moved; now his hands clenched into fists against the crumpled sheets. The words were slow in coming, drawn out in a dreamy calmness lent by shock. "I was a trader, a citizen of the Federation. A passing Vell-os saw that I was a latent telepath and reported me to the Bureau." Bitter memory played across his features, and the stream of thought-images clamped down on them before Erestor caught more than a glimpse of the remembered past. "I do not have the same reliance on nanites as my kin. If I were truly Vell-os, I would be dead now."
He sat up with difficulty, his limbs weak and far too thin for his lanky frame. Silent, he stared at his hands pooled in his lap until the shaking had passed. "Give me your knife."
"I don't have them." Nil'Tanar pulled aside a fold of his tattered cloak, displaying the empty sheaths. He looked a little uneasy, as he had upon waking the first morning in Imladris and discovering his weapons gone. "They won't give them back."
Ryllaen nodded, as if unsurprised, and turned to the Elf who stood unobtrusively just inside the entrance. "Your knife," he requested, "please."
Erestor approached on silent feet. He knew his wariness was plain on his face, and he spoke not a word. Deciding swiftly, he left his sword in its sheath and drew the shorter knife, offering it to Ryllaen hilt first. The Vell-os took it gingerly in one shaking hand. With the other he caught the tangled length of his hair in a fist and pulled it to the front. He stared at it a moment, then with one quick swipe sheared it short. The knife fell from his nerveless grip; Erestor caught it deftly before it pierced the mattress, and retreated to his post.
The long strands hung limply in Ryllaen's fist, thick and tangled. He stared at them with wide stunned eyes. An incoherent shout left his lips as he flung the hair away; the strands shrivelled and burnt to dust in a twist of his power before they hit the floor. Nil'Tanar wrinkled his nose as the stink of burnt hair was added to the already fouled air.
"If you wish to cast fires, do me the courtesy of taking them outside."
Having heard Elrond and Glorfindel approach long before they stepped into the room, Erestor watched with amusement as Nil'Tanar jumped at the sound of Elrond's voice. Their expressions were identically set in mild disapproval.
Ryllaen looked at them. "You freed me."
The Lord of Imladris' gaze flickered to the shapeless remains of the enslavement device. A sliver of thick black smoke rose from it. "Yes."
Ryllaen bowed his head; the ends of his hair swung forward to conceal his face like a ragged veil. A welter of emotions flooded through Erestor, almost overwhelming in their intensity. His brow furrowed; Erestor was certain the Vell-os had not intended the unguarded sending. Out of courtesy, he raised tight shields around his own fëa, allowing Ryllaen what privacy he was able as the Man wept in a torrent of shattered nerves.
It had been days.
Nil'Tanar haunted the halls of Rivendell. He walked for hours at a controlled, even pace without the intention of going anywhere. It was the only release he would allow himself, and his frustration showed in the relentless pacing.
The Vell-os was free. It was not something Nil'Tanar had ever dreamed would happen, but he accepted it with a pragmatism that allowed him to look to the future and the renewed hope of returning home. The Vell-os was having a much harder time coping with his release from slavery. To be fair, Nil'Tanar understood why. The Vell-os had lived for so long with the enslavement device; it had stunted and scarred him, mind and spirit. Its removal had opened old psychological wounds that the Vell-os was ill equipped to deal with.
He understood, but he did not know how to deal with it. Nil'Tanar had seen firsthand the healing these Elves offered, and determined that he would leave well enough alone and let them attend to the stricken Vell-os. And so he had not approached Ryllaen since the moment he had woken. The Vell-os needed time to deal with his situation. He did not need an impatient Polaran demanding his return home at every opportunity.
Nil'Tanar had determined thus, and held himself to his decision. But it was hard. Patience did not come to him easily now that their escape from this planet was possible. Still, he waited, knowing that he may well do more harm than good if he approached Ryllaen now. He paced.
"You are not like other Men I have seen."
Nil'Tanar turned around and smiled at the young stranger standing a courteous distance away. He held himself as tall as his youth allowed; the open friendliness in his expression and the inquisitive light in his eyes made Nil'Tanar's smile widen. Gildor had spent idle hours in the infirmary teaching him the language of the Elves. His understanding was not perfect, but he utilised what he knew now.
"You are not like other Elves I have seen," Nil'Tanar returned, noting with some surprise that the boy was human. He observed the tension that entered and left the boy's shoulders. The boy was not dressed in the manner of the Elves he had become accustomed to seeing, though the style was far finer than that worn by the human farmers. Yet, apart from all of youth's charm, he held a hint of the nobility of the Elves.
"I am not an Elf," the boy said after a moment. He studied Nil'Tanar's face, and seemed to relax. "I am of the race of Men, like yourself."
Nil'Tanar raised a brow. "I do not think so." The boy's face clouded over, and he quickly added, "I am Polaran. You are not."
"No," the boy agreed easily. "I have not heard of your people. Are they far from Imladris?" Nil'Tanar nodded wordlessly. "Farther even than Gondor?"
"Yes," he replied, grave. He did not know of Gondor, but any place the boy named could not be other than planetbound. "Farther even than Gondor."
Something in his tone must have alerted the boy, for his expression quickly shifted into sympathy. "You must miss them. I miss my family also, though Father comes to visit sometimes."
He brightened, then, and began to describe the last visit from his father and uncle. In his excitement he spoke faster, and Nil'Tanar could not understand the quick foreign words. Struggling to hide his laughter, the Polaran warrior interrupted the boy's chatter.
"I am Nil'Tanar," he said.
The boy blinked, flushing slowly. "Forgive me," he begged, his contrition written over his expressive face. "I did not mean to be so rude. I am Arahad son of Aravorn." He stood stiffly, as if anxious of Nil'Tanar's disapproval. But the Polaran's open grin soon reassured him, and he relaxed.
Nil'Tanar listened to the boy talk, studying him with a slight smile on his face. The boy was self-assured, like many youths, yet possessed of a maturity that was greater than his apparent age. When he reached the end of another tale Nil'Tanar interjected before the next could start, "Arahad, well met. You… remind me of one I know. She was Kel'ariy."
"Kel'ariy?" the boy questioned.
Nil'Tanar searched for a word that translated the entire meaning. He could not think of it, and settled for the easiest alternative. "Leader," he replied at last. "You will be a leader of your people, Arahad." He bowed.
Arahad returned the bow, puzzled yet pleased. They talked a little more before the boy took his leave and Nil'Tanar continued his interrupted pacing. An Elf stepped up beside him on silent feet; Nil'Tanar suppressed the urge to jump. "Glorfindel," he greeted.
The golden-haired Elf-lord returned a nod. "You see far," he observed, speaking Polaran with only a slight accent.
Switching to his native language with considerable relief, Nil'Tanar shook his head and laughed softly. He realised that speaking with the boy had lightened his mood. "I see what is before me. Arahad is very much like Kel'Mari was."
"Does that grieve you?"
A little surprised at the Elf's piercing glance, Nil'Tanar let his mind drift back to the woman who had been both teacher and friend. "A little. She was Kel'ariy, but she was Nil'kemorya first and last. She was on a routine inspection mission to our outposts, and fell defending Nil'a Ya against an Auroran raid."
Glorfindel gazed at him with eyes that lacked their usual mirth, and Nil'Tanar became aware of the full weight of the Elf-lord's age bearing down on him. "You hate them, these Aurorans. You speak of them often in war."
"No! I–" Nil'Tanar stopped. He had hated them, he realised with a shock. It was wrong, dangerous. A warrior could not afford to be swayed by such emotions in the heat of battle; he was trained against it, had been warned to respect his opponent always and never underestimate them. And yet he had allowed himself this hate and sneaking contempt. It was easy to dislike the Aurorans and the Federation. Both empires, primitive and dictatorial, both with an unhealthy lust for Polaris territory. Were it not for them, the Nil'kemorya would not lose so many of their number in the border skirmishes. But–
"Once I bore shield and arms for Gondolin," Glorfindel said. The change of topic startled Nil'Tanar, and he raised his eyes to find the Elf gazing into an unseen distance, and the ancient grandeur in that face took his breath away. "Fair and mighty was my city, Gondolin the great, city of seven names. Our kingdom was hidden, the ways secret, and we desired not to mingle in the woes of Elves and Men without. None were suffered to enter, nor went we forth, and we heeded not tidings of the lands beyond. Of all dwellings in the Hither Lands, Gondolin's fame and glory was greatest."
"What happened?" The question was drawn out of Nil'Tanar, who spoke it almost unwillingly. He did not think he would like the answer.
"Darkness came," Glorfindel replied. The grief upon his face was terrible. "We rejected counsel of our doom, and treachery revealed us to our enemies. The Hidden Kingdom fell and is no more."
There was something here that Nil'Tanar had no wish to contemplate. His thoughts floundered, until he caught the trailing edge of Glorfindel's original question and followed it with relief. "Sometimes I hate Aurorans. But they are not like your orcs. They are barbarians, a primitive race that values warriors and battle over all else. But they have their own brand of honour."
"As primitive as we?"
"Not quite this primitive," Nil'Tanar muttered, his thoughts elsewhere. Then his eyes widened. "Forgive me!" he said. "I did not mean–"
Glorfindel's mirthful laughter rang clear in the hall. "Think not of it. I have been called many things, and primitive is not the worst."
The Elf paused; Nil'Tanar looked ahead and glimpsed a balcony at the end of the hall. He did not recognise the person sitting slumped against one pillar with his back to them, until he remembered that the Vell-os had cropped his hair.
"I will leave you now," Glorfindel said.
He was gone before Nil'Tanar could reply, and the Polaran warrior was left facing the back of the Vell-os.
Notes
Arahad: great-grandfather of the Aragorn we know and love. All the sons of the chieftains since Arahael were fostered in Rivendell.
'Of Tuor and the Fall of Gondolin', The Silmarillion, is paraphrased and greatly simplified by Glorfindel.