Disclaimer: I do not own LOTR characters, whose births are credited to J.R.R. Tolkien. I should also mention that I'm only writing from LOTR, not Tolkien's other works, I'm sorry to disappoint. I also apologize for any future offense taken at my inconsistent timekeeping in the story.
Pain. The pain. The fiery, burning, hellish pain. Sometimes it sweeps through me as cold and harsh as a winter storm, other times it simmers just below my skin, trudging through my body like molten rock. In my moments of consciousness, I can feel Elrond watching over me, Arwen staying at my bedside, and an ever-changing cycle of elves monitoring my condition. I should have expected this to happen: it was first time in millenia for me to come in direct contact with even a sliver of Sauron's power, and I was suffering for my carelessness. I should not have approached it, should have fled as soon as I felt it. I have been incapacitated, neutralized, and weakened almost to the point of death. Time blurs together: years pass in days, eons in weeks. And when the pain finally slows to a dull throbbing, I fall into a deep, calming sleep.
When I wake, I know something is wrong. Through various exclamations of relief and concern, I hear a false note in their tones. A secret? "Wah," I croak. Someone hands me water. I reach for Arwen, who hovers near the foot of my bed. I sit up against the pillows, feeling the soreness in my body.
Something is wrong, I state without preamble. What has happened?
Arwen, true to her people's nature, is unfazed. "You have been in a deep sleep, my lady. You have been very, very ill. Rest, now." She evades my question with ease.
Where is your father?
"My father is making preparations."
For what?
"The Grey Havens."
I push down my drowsiness. Where is he now?
"In the workshops, commissioning ships."
I fall backwards and bite back a curse. I remember discussing the Grey Havens with Elrond as a last escape from Sauron. He promised not to make any plans without first notifying me or exhausting all other possibilities. Does the Fellowship mean nothing but orc fodder to him? He should be called "The Spouter of Noble Lies", sending nine brave souls to journey to their deaths in the fires of Mordor. Are they meant to distract the orcs as the Fair Folk depart? Words need to be had. I move to get up, and Arwen stops me.
"You're too weak! Please, you must rest!"
How long have I slept?
"Sleep, please. Milady, you know you've been growing weaker. You may not wish to admit your weakness, but I - your companion for many decades - I noticed. The rate of decay is increasing, evil is rising. Your appearance in the Council room drained you more than ever before. If those euphemisms you tell everyone are true, would you have been bedridden for these two months -" and she pauses.
I've heard something I wasn't meant to know. Fresh fury and energy rush through me and I sweep back the bedcovers. My bare feet slap onto the cold marble, barely feeling the chilled surface and twinging pain in my limbs. As the weight of my upper body shifts forward, my bones crack and my muscles unfold.
I march through the door and into the hall, fully intent on hunting down the resident Elf Lord. My progress is hampered by my bedridden and groggy body, giving Arwen enough time to pursue me and stop me from walking more than five paces.
"Lyraniel, you need rest."
Your father has much to answer for, I sign. The more we wait, the stronger the Dark Lord grows and the faster his agents approach. Before long, they may even breach Rivendell!
"They've tried and failed, our power is not weak," Arwen says.
The Nine will come back, they will do anything for their master. They will be reborn and remade as many times as the Dark Lord commands. You surprised them, that's how you were able to defeat them. They were unprepared, but when they come again, they will come fully armed.
Arwen is silent, thinking. Suddenly my gut wrenches me forward. I manage to wrench my body sideways and Arwen catches my dry heaves in a strategically placed bowl.
I'm sorry, I mindspeak. My clammy hands grab hers tightly. Arwen doesn't let go, twisting and reaching to place the bowl on a table.
"I told you, you have been weakened."
I release her hand and decide to lay back in the pillows. What on Middle Earth is that elf thinking? I thought to myself.
Arwen gives me water, which I drink slowly and cautiously. I take her hand again. What of the Fellowship? I ask. I trust they've departed on good time?
"There is some trouble with that," says Arwen. She's excellent at hiding the tremor for her voice, but she can't hide her emotions. Just as she knows me, I know her as well.
I know you lie, I say tiredly, not bothering with politic. The hand I'm holding acquires a fresh sheen of sweat. Arwen says nothing. I shall take care of this myself, soon.
Hi guys, so sorry for the late posting! Springtime is crazy time, please bear with me. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I'll try updating on a regular basis, but more often than not it'll be sporadically or monthly. I also apologize for the awkwardness of this chapter, but I feel the story really needs this transition.
