A/N: Sorry for so long waiting for this chapter! A bit of filler-y stuff, whereupon Nat Brosca dreams of the Fade yet again, spends a lot of time recovering and learning about Middle-Earth, and meets a foxy lady. I'm still having trouble with this character - I want to send her off to live with dwarves, already, but she rather likes the elves she's met so far. She is not cooperating.
Next chapter should be up in a week or so. If it's not, please bombard me. I won't respond to everything but I do see it all.
From Codex entry: Aodh
"This simple axe is very hot to the touch, as if it's been left near a fire. But holding it seems to make the air around you grow bitterly cold."
"Although the elves of the Dales fought bravely against the Exalted March, defeat became obvious. The great elven general Rajmael hurled this axe at the enemy before leaping to his death over Forlorn Falls." (The Veshialle)
The Fade:
Drifting, voiceless, she looked out over what remained of Orzammar. The Stone was silent, her voice no longer sounding sweetly through her bones. She had never before visited Orzammar in the Fade, but the Stone would not be silent except for the direst of circumstances. There were no remnants of life, no memories play-acted by spirits who longed for reality. Great chunks of masonry and stoneworks lay scattered, crumbled, as though the giants that supposedly roamed the remote parts of Orlais had come rampaging through, tossing buildings like a child would his toys in a tantrum. The ground itself creaked and groaned, rent into dozens of pieces jutting out over each other like waves in a lake, shuddering with every slip of stone against stone. The light came only from the once-mighty river of lava, split into rivulets that joined again far in the distance. The Aedros Atuna, the great underground river which had never seen the sun, filtered sluggishly around the remnants of the Diamond Quarter, collapsed into what had been the Merchants' District.
Except it wasn't Orzammar. It couldn't be. Orzammar would last forever; the dwarvish empire could never fall, not even to the ever-raging war with the darkspawn. The Fifth Blight had not destroyed it; the discovery of Kal Sharok had only strengthened it; with the inclusion of a permanent Warden base, they had even pushed the darkspawn back, further than they had in generations. A great fear filled her as she looked out over the remnants of her home; overcome, she dropped to her knees and cried her anguish, an ancient lament: "Mathas gar na fornen pa salroka atrast!"[1] The Stone roused beneath her as if it had only been silent for lack of Dwarva; its voice joined hers in a wordless cry,
"Who disturbs this realm?" came a voice like thunder and steel, a voice meant to be heard above a battlefield, a roar that caused another minor quake, a voice far too similar to that of the Necromancer for her own liking. Falling silent, she got to her feet, readying her weapons — her war-axes, which surprisingly enough had escaped the notice of the orcs and so were still with her in the waking world — and looked around, searching the darkness with eyes that saw only shadow. "Who disturbs the realm of —"
The name he spoke was too terrible to hear. She fell to her knees again, dropping her axes, clapping hands to ears and screaming until her throat was raw and bloody. Her vision went dark again, and she did not remember visiting the Fade upon awakening.
29 April, TA 2850, the House of Elrond:
In her childhood in Dust Town, food had always been scarce; her mother had preferred to drink her meals, and her father—well, the less said about the sun-touched duster who'd abandoned his wife and children to try for life on the surface, the better. From that experience came the knowledge of how to eat and not get sick: carefully, chewing the food thoroughly, and drinking as often as possible. Even with care, her long period of near starvation meant that she still got sick very easily.
It took three days for the convulsions to stop. Gandalf, Elrohir, and Glorfindel visited often; after the first day, Elrohir's brother also came to see her several times, though he always seemed distracted. Elrohir confided that his brother was rather taken by an elleth—a female elf—visiting from the Golden Wood of Lothlórien with his sister, and he wanted to spend as much time as he could with her before she left once more. He did not forsake his duty as one of Brosca's healers, however, and spent at least an hour each day with her.
"Her name is Celephinnel," Elladan said when Brosca asked, eager to expound upon her many virtues. "Her hair is moonlight, and her eyes shine like the very stars. She is compassionate and wise, and most importantly she laughs at all my jokes...She is the most beautiful elleth I have ever seen. Excepting my own sister, of course, and my mother, who has passed into the West."
Passing into the West, as Brosca understood it, was an expression that the elves used for death. They believed that across the western sea were the Undying Lands, where all the elves went upon death to be reunited with their loved ones until the world was unmade. Apparently, some elves had come back from that paradise, Glorfindel among them; she wasn't exactly sure how that worked. They certainly weren't practitioners of blood magic, nor did they consort with demons. The elves in this land were, as far as she could tell, similar to the ancient elves of Arlathan: they didn't die from old age, though deep sorrow could cause them to fade. Ariane had told her of Uthen'era, the endless dream, in which their elders slept when tired of their unending life. Could this be similar?
She wasn't enough of a scholar for it to matter to her. She instead focused on healing.
By the end of her first week, she had become determined to get back to Thedas. In the dungeons of Dol Guldur, she hadn't had the inclination to think more on Morrigan's dire warning, but now it plagued her: what change was coming to Thedas? What did Flemeth have to do with it (if she was really still alive, which seemed unlikely given that they had killed her)? If she had somehow survived...what could she be? Was she truly an abomination, as Morrigan had first told them, or was she something more?
As she grew well enough to eat decent meals without seizing or vomiting, she also grew bored. Snatches of song often floated to her through the oft-open door, and elves drifted by in ones or twos, as bright and wonderful as anything—but the sight of so many incredible beings could only keep her fascinated for so long, and the songs were not ones that she could follow.
Gandalf noticed her boredom and decided that she must step up her lessons in Elvish. He recruited Glorfindel, whose valiant tales of times long past absorbed her for hours, even though she could no longer understand more than one word in ten; Elrond, who spoke to her of her healing in terms she couldn't understand even when he spoke in the common tongue; Elrohir, who she was sure made jokes at her expense; and Elladan, who related to her his conversations with Celephinnel, word for word in Sindarin.
She had never been called slow in mind by anyone other than her mother, and Beraht when she skirted his directions and pretended she hadn't understood. By the time she was deemed recovered enough to start exercising, three weeks after her arrival, she could hold a decent conversation in the elvish tongue and knew well many of Glorfindel's stories. Her dwarvish came along more slowly; Glorfindel didn't know the secretive language, and Gandalf didn't visit often with the intent to teach.
It was during one of those tales that Gandalf came in to visit. He stood in the open door listening to the elf tell once more of the fall of Númenor for several minutes before Brosca finally noticed him.
"Ai! Mithrandir, tolo, govano ven!"[2] she exclaimed, sitting up from where she had been lying near the fire. "Glorfindel was just telling me of the deception of Ar-Pharazôn. This Sauron sounds like a piece of bronto shhh...ugar biscuits..."
Gandalf lifted one bushy eyebrow, eyes sparkling, when she changed her mind mid-word. "That is one way to describe him. Glorfindel—" he paused, then spoke in a language that wasn't Sindarin, but sounded similar. Quenya, she supposed, the older Elvish language which wasn't spoken often these days and which she had not pursued. Ancient languages were not her purview; she was interested enough in these elves to learn Sindarin, and of course she wanted to learn the language of the dwarva, but she was no Neria.
Glorfindel's golden head dipped and he spoke a few words in reply, then turned back to Brosca. "Abarad, Brosca. Nae![3] The trouble those two get into." The last was muttered mostly to himself as he stood, bowed to them both, and left.
"I have come to speak with you regarding your future," said Gandalf, and sat in the chair Glorfindel had vacated. "I have spoken with Lord Elrond; he tells me that you are healing rapidly, and should be good as new within a month."
Brosca nodded. "Yes, he's told me much the same. He's also said that he's learned quite a lot about dwarven physiology from me. My future?"
"Yes, indeed. You have a few options, my dear." He paused to pull out his long pipe and a bit of the hobbit-grown pipeweed he had the habit of smoking. "Elrond has become quite fond of you, as have his sons; he would be quite pleased if you decided to stay here, his House is always open to those who wish to spend their days peacefully. And his sons often leave Rivendell for years at a time on orc-hunting expeditions: I am sure they would welcome your company."
Gandalf paused again to take a long breath of smoke, blowing it out again in three concentric rings that went through each other several times. Brosca, used to his tricks by now, blew the nearest ring out of the way and raised an eyebrow.
He chuckled. "Yes, yes, I'll get on with it. If you don't wish to stay here, you can, of course, go any way you please; in a fortnight's time, I will be departing for Hobbiton and on the way stopping in the town of Bree. There are sometimes dwarven caravans that come through, and I'm sure they would be very happy to take you in. There is a dwarven settlement in Ered Luin—the Blue Mountains, much closer to the Great Sea."
"I've never spent so much time away from my own kind," she said a bit wistfully, remembering the heat and endless light of Orzammar, the mix of Dwarvish and Common, the satisfaction of killing darkspawn— "But these dwarves do not share my history, they would not understand, not really. We are a proud people, Gandalf, us children of the Stone. And anyway that wouldn't help me get back home."
"You're quite correct in that aspect," the wizard agreed. He puffed on his pipe thoughtfully for a moment before expelling a wiggly worm of smoke that unfurled wispy wings and took flight as a butterfly. "I have convened a Council to speak of Dol Guldur and the Necromancer I found there. However, the leader of our wise council, Saruman the White Wizard, will not arrive for some months. There have been numerous sightings of orc-bands in the lands under his protection, and he must deal with them. In the meantime, I intend to go and see my good friend Fortinbras Took in Hobbiton—do you have Hobbits, where you come from?"
"Don't think so, least I haven't heard of 'em," said Brosca. "What are they?"
"Some call them Halflings, for they are half the size of Men," said Gandalf. "They are a curious people: they care only for good food and good company. They have no interest in the goings-on outside their Shire, and are always full of cheer."
She frowned and laughed a little. Something like that might have appealed to her before becoming a Warden, but even then, she would have lost interest rapidly. "Sounds boring to me! No, I don't think I'd enjoy a life like that."
"No, my dear, you were made for something a little more exciting," said Gandalf with a twinkling eye. "And that is why I am going to suggest that you go with Elrond's sons to help clear out a few troublesome orcs."
Brosca had never had any compunction about being called a coward. She knew her limits and knew when to back off; fear had saved her life many times, both as a duster in the dark of Orzammar and as a Warden on the surface. The orcs of Dol Guldur had treated her—not well. She still woke up gasping for breath at the memory of greedy grabbing hands and leering yellow eyes and the Necromancer's foul darkness and that terrible, terrible cold. She would not like to go back there on her own. But hunting orcs with Elladan and Elrohir?
"When do we begin?"
The wizard chuckled. "Somehow, Brosca, I did not doubt that would be your reply. So! the sons of Elrond will no longer ride alone. Only, my dear, if you are well enough when next they depart."
The twins had left only three days before on a hunting expedition. There was plenty of food available in the valley of Imladris, but not much meat; occasionally, they went up in the Misty Mountains to clear out mountain orcs (also called goblins) and bring down large game. They probably would not return for another two weeks, and after that, they might not leave again for a few months. Occasionally they stayed out on orc-hunting expeditions for years at a time, just the two of them, travelling either alone or with the Men of the Dunedain.
Brosca took a minute to think it over. Nightmares did chase her still, it was true, but then she had lived most of her life in unpleasant circumstances. She could handle recounting the trials of Dol Goldur. "Yes, Tharkun," she said in Khuzdul, meeting his eyes squarely. "I am quite recovered. I shall begin recovering my strength and skill today. When do you expect the Council might take place? I do not wish to miss it, after all. I won't need as much strength to tell my tale as I will to swing my blades."
"You would be surprised," the wizard said enigmatically, and puffed on his pipe. At length he said, "Very well: we shall have a Council. Upon your return with Lords Elladan and Elrohir, if that suits you. Do you wish anyone else to sit in with you? You have grown close to Glorfindel, it seems."
She hadn't even thought of that, though a tightness in the deep of her eased thinking of the noble Glorfindel standing with her as she recounted the harrowing tale of the Necromancer. "Thank you, Gandalf; you anticipate my every unspoken wish. Yes, I would like Glorfindel present. I would like Elladan and Elrohir to be there as well; it does seem strange, three elf-lords of such lineage and repute befriending a duster like me, but I am the richer for it and shall not complain."
"Truly, you surprise me, Brosca," Gandalf observed. "For a dwarf to cherish the companionship of elves: why, it has not been so for hundreds of years."
"More fool my distant kin!" Brosca laughed. "I should like to meet them one day—my fellow dwarva. If only to see what they make of an Elf-friend such as me. Will they scorn me for breaking bread with their staunch rivals? Will they think me indoctrinated, and seek to free me from the spell you have surely put upon me?"
She would have gone on, thinking up more and more ridiculous ways the dwarves of Arda might react, but at that moment Lindir appeared in the doorway. She had to suppress a chuckle; something had left him distinctly ruffled.
"My apologies, Miss Brosca, Mithrandir," he said with a brief bow, endlessly polite. Brosca indicated it was no trouble and he turned to the wizard. "Mithrandir—there is—a matter...most urgent..."
He trailed off meaningfully. Gandalf stood, his pipe disappearing somewhere in his perpetually grey robes, and expressed his regrets. "Do not tarry overlong in regaining your skill at arms, Brosca. The orc-chase may come sooner than you would think."
"Of course not, Gandalf," she said, wiggling her eyebrows comically, and the two left, discussing something in quiet, murmuring Sindarin. She didn't try to listen in, knowing that if it involved her in any way, Gandalf would tell her. She already trusted him as much as any of the Wardens she had travelled with for so long. And these elves: she didn't know many of them, but the ones she did, she trusted just as much. Lindir himself, though not overly friendly, had always been quite cordial to her, even offering to show her Lord Elrond's extensive library. She had not yet taken him up on that offer; she had never been able to read well in Thedas, and Sindarin had a completely different system of writing.
Glorfindel, now her closest friend amongst the elves of Imladris, had yet to return from whatever errand Gandalf had set him. She wondered for a moment how Elladan or Elrohir's mischief had not been discovered until three days past their departure, laughing to herself, imagining what it could be; she would have to ask them what, exactly, they did to make Lindir look so uncomfortable. She would most definitely ask Glorfindel to recount absolutely everything when next she saw him.
Until then, she would not sit around waiting any longer. If she wanted to hunt orcs, she would have to be up to standards within a few short months, if not sooner, and she had a lot of work to do to get there. She was not yet fully healed, nor would she be for a few weeks; but she could at least re-familiarize herself with Aodh and the Veshialle, which she had been informed were with the master smith Fingaer, and start to regain her old strength. Anything would be better than just sitting around. Lord Elrond had mentioned physical therapy, but she knew her own limits. She did not need the help of some Surfacer who admitted outright that he didn't know much about dwarven physiology.
As she recovered and started getting out of bed, her wardrobe had increased; she now kept a simple white night-shirt for sleeping, and a variety of more tailored clothes during the day. Today she wore a simple brown tunic and matching leggings; she was still unused to wearing such close-fitting pants, but they were soft and comfortable, nothing like the rough clothes she had worn all her life and perfect for exercising in. Her Warden armor, cleaned and every minute tear repaired, waited on a stand in one corner for the day she could wear it comfortably once more.
She pulled on the pair of boots that had been found for her. They didn't fit quite perfectly, but they were well-made and she hadn't had to break them in. After securing the laces, she stood and wiggled her toes, luxuriating in the feel of the rich leather. In Thedas she had only ever owned one pair of boots that had fit this well, and they had been destroyed in the battle of Denerim. In Orzammar, and even chasing after Morrigan, she hadn't bothered to look beyond the Wardens' stores, which — while well-provisioned — were not full of comfortable, quiet leather boots.
A few minutes of stretching loosened her muscles, and then she slipped out into the halls, arching and ornate. Several times had she ventured out before, but never without the companionship of either the merry sons of Elrond or the golden lord Glorfindel. Now she dared to step out alone, walking without particular care for direction, following the sound of sunshine and laughter. Through the windows of her room she had looked out over the valley of Imladris, and what she saw of it filled her with longing. As a daughter of the Stone she had always known life below ground, and cold, rainy Ferelden had not endeared her to the Surface; Rivendell, though, had to be equal to Arlathan itself, and Natia Brosca wished to see all of the hidden valley.
She came upon a side corridor and, upon hearing the faint ring of steel, turned into it. It was a fairly short hallway, with wide windows looking out into an enclosed garden filled with pale blossoms of pink and white. Several slender elf-maids drifted through the garden, bright garlands atop their long, dark hair. Brosca stood watching them for a long moment, utterly absorbed in their beauty, her task forgotten. One of them, with a garland of pale blue flowers on her dark red hair, knelt and cupped a fading plant in one hand with tender sorrow, her other hand reaching to stroke the frail stem. She turned her head to call out to the others, and eyes like a storm at sea met Brosca's through the window.
Not one for shame, Brosca met her gaze. The elf tilted her head, perhaps puzzled at the sight of a dwarf in the elven halls, then continued her work, calling out in a mellifluous voice to her nearest fellow gardener. Together they tended to the wilting plant, singing in voices that would surely put Andraste herself to shame. When their voices faded, they stood, moving away separately without conversing. The one with the blue flowers looked to Brosca again, then headed for an archway across the garden with measured, purposeful strides. She passed through and vanished around a corner. Brosca watched the other elf tending to a vine that trailed across a delicately wrought trellis, not quite as entranced, before a louder ring of steel against steel caught her ears. She turned again to follow her ears and stopped abruptly. The elf had reappeared further down the corridor, walking towards her with her hands folded into her sleeves.
"Gi nathlam hí, Perchalanith,"[4] she said, a smile on her lips, eyes bright with curiosity. "I do not believe we have met. I am Ryswen."
Brosca bowed. "Mae g'ovannen, Ryswen. I am Brosca of the Grey Wardens."
"Are you seeking something in the gardens, Brosca of the Grey Wardens?"
"No, actually," she said, shrugging. "I got caught up in the moment — wonderful voice, by the way. I was on my way outside, to find the smith Fingaer."
"Aphado nin, Brosca." Ryswen tucked a loose strand of hair behind one long ear and turned. They started walking together down the hall. "Am man theled? [5] Fingaer can often be found in the Hall of Fire when he is not working on refining some warrior's blade or smoothing dents out of armor."
It took her a moment to parse the elf's words, captivated as she was by the fluid movement. This elf is really beautiful. The thought was a revelation; she had not thought to ever find another attractive again, let alone a woman from a different species. "He has possession of my weapons, which were in need of repair. Le athae,[6] Ryswen, but if he is not there?"
"Ah, I see. Strange, to find a dwarf willing to give up her weapons among an elven settlement," Ryswen said, laughter behind her voice. "Stranger still to find that dwarf is a woman...I had once thought you all sprang out of the mountain-side, fully formed, great bristling beard and all."
Brosca snorted. "You are teasing me! For shame, Ryswen. Taking advantage of a poor Dwarva who is in your tender care."
The elf-maid's hair fell forward in front of her face when she bowed a little in concession, a glint in her eye. "I shall indeed show you the way, Perchalanith. Come, walk with me."
The pathway led out onto a terrace and wound through the gardens, widening around a stone seat and narrowing again. It crossed a wide, east-facing porch and went around the side of the House, which was rather larger than Brosca had imagined upon learning it was called a 'House,' passing through a wooded area and ending in a soft-grassed field. On the other side of the field was a stable that was elegant in its simplicity and another open-sided building half again as large, from which billowed smoke and, occasionally, flashes of flame. The ringing of steel-on-steel grew louder as they approached.
As they walked, Ryswen sang more, delighting Brosca with another song, her voice light and fluting:
A Elbereth Gilthoniel,
silivren penna mirielo
menel aglar elenath,
na-chaered palan diriel
o galadhremmin ennorath
nef aear, sí aearon,
Fanuilos, le linnathon
Nef aear, sí aearon![7]
Upon arrival at the forges, they came to a halt. Ryswen bent and left a kiss on her forehead, as though she were a child — well, and perhaps she was, at that. None of these elves looked very old, but they all had to have hundreds of years on her. The fox-haired elf smiled at her, eyes bright with merriness, and turned to go, tossing a melodious "Novaer!" [8] over her shoulder as she went.
Several elves were hard at work in the forge; two had dark brown hair, kept long but tied back so as to not get in their way, and did not look up upon Brosca's approach; the third had raven-dark hair, in one long braid, and straightened from where he had been observing the red-hot metal of a blade in the forge-fire. He looked at her with solemn eyes and dipped his head in greeting.
"You must be the dwarf Brosca," he said in Sindarin, voice quiet and deep in timbre, both strength and gentleness in his bearing. "I have kept watch over your weapons for you, fair dwarf. They await your touch."
He was very formal, but Brosca liked him at once; there was kindness in his voice. She replied in the same tongue. "I am the Warden, Brosca. I thank you, Fingaer, for watching over my weapons."
He led her over to one side of the forge, where racks of gleaming weapons made far too big for her stood waiting to be used. Staves, unstrung bows, swords, daggers, long knives — there were not many of the weapons preferred by Dwarva, such as axes either two-handed or one-handed, though there were several Mannish spiked maces. At the back, her two war-axes hung on their own rack, clean in a way she hadn't been able to manage since she had last been in Orzammar. The runes that lent them their enchantment glowed softly with lyrium, and the worn runes had been re-etched.
"Aodh," she said softly, lifting it with two hands, turning it over to examine every corner. The blade had been honed to a keen edge that she did not test. She put it back and turned to the next: "Veshialle." It had been equally refined.
"Ah," he sighed. "I do not know the meanings of those names, but they fit well."
"I did not name them," she replied, picking up Aodh again and hefting them both with limbs that already trembled, "but you are right. Aodh is enchanted to burn those it is used against - and freeze its owner, for everything must have balance."
Lifting them both for very long was too much for her atrophied arms. She lowered them quickly before she managed to drop them, hanging them back up on the rack one at a time. It was going to be a long road back to her full strength.
[1]Mathas gar na fornen pa salroka atrast. Dwarvish. Meaning is unknown canonically, so I am taking further liberties and making it a lament for lost history - the dwarves ever long for their past glory days, but in this situation, the fall of Orzammar, it is especially poignant.
[2]Ai! Mithrandir, tolo, govano ven. Sindarin. Hail! Gandalf, come, join us.
[3]Abarad...Nae. Sindarin. Until tomorrow...Alas.
[4]Gi nathlam hí, Perchalanith. Sindarin. You are welcome here, half-tall-sister (a friendly nickname).
[5]Aphado nin...Am man theled? Sindarin. Come with me. Why/For what purpose?
[6]Le athae. Sindarin. You [reverential] are/were helpful/kind.
[7]This is a song from the fansite Arwen Undomiel, from one of the movies (I think FotR). Translation is there if you want it.
[8]Novaer. Sindarin. Farewell.