Cognates of Heaven
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age, LOTR, the Silmarillions, the Unfinished Tales, and other published and unpublished works of Tolkien. Also, many thanks to the essays of the Silmarillion Writers Guild and the essay Warm Beds Are Good for giving me a better understanding of Tolkien's works.
Chapter 6: In which a nation falls
Codex Entry:
Blood Magic - The Forbidden School
Never was a school of magic so feared and so little understood. The ancient Tevinters did not originally consider blood magic a school of its own. Rather, they saw it as a means to achieve greater power in any school of magic.
Over time, however, the Imperium discovered types of spells that could only be worked by blood. Although lyrium will allow a mage to send his conscious mind into the Fade, blood would allow him to find the sleeping minds of others, view their dreams, and even influence or dominate their thoughts. Just as treacherous, blood magic allows the Veil to be opened completely so that demons may physically pass through it into our world.
- Dragon Age Origins - Transfigurations 18:10 -
He can feel her presence growing stronger each time they made contact.
It was nothing solid of course, nothing physical… or as physical as was possible in this realm made entirely of her dreaming mind and gated by the blood of Elrond's Maia ascendants. They did not encounter one another face to face, nor did their minds connect and their thoughts merged and gave birth to conversations without words as the eldest and mightiest of elves sometimes did.
But there was never an instance did Elrond forget whose memories he treaded upon, or that this place was not just a reservoir of memories woven into a plea for help. No. It was more than that. Something creeped beneath the veneer. Something powered them. This was no mere dead memories of a past long since unreachable. The images, the sounds… the story… were the same as the first time he was pulled into this world of past visions, but behind, Elrond sensed a conscious mind. Hers. And even though he cannot see her, he knew he was being watched nonetheless.
With each bloodletting and each entrance into this memory world, he can feel her growing stronger, her consciousness slowly but surely returning to her. The weight of her gaze upon him grew heavier and heavier. This was a museum of her mind. The pictures were from her choosing. The sculptures her creation. The tapestries her visions. Eyes in the walls and the ever barely there whispers in the shadows, and things that lurk beneath his footsteps.
He lay on the grassy ground of a slanting hillside, bathing in the dreamscape sun as children screeched joyously in the distance. He watched them frolic in the mud, watched as firelight suddenly came alive in the tiny fist of a dark-haired girl child. The innocent wonder that followed. The panic that followed. The fearful parents leaped forward, darting gazes back and forth for any witnesses to that first spark of danger.
The bud of happiness filled this specific memory. She was happy then, a child just only discovering the wonderful magics at her fingertips. What followed, however, would be a life in constant exile.
He did not move from his post. He had seen this before, seen it many… many times, to the point where he had memorized every little detail by heart, until he had no need to relive them anymore except for when he needed to 'show' them to someone else not of Maia line.
Elrond had a hand around a figure floating, thrashing beside him, the second passenger whom he had brought along into this dream world. Thranduil and the magi memories did not get along well it seemed. Whereas he should have taken corporeal form in this world, the king of Mirkwood Elves was a pale, vaguely elven-shaped cloud constantly tossed around in the stream of violent recalls.
As Mithrandir himself testified, the dreamscape created by the Magi Champion was designed specifically for those of Maia blood and those alone, for fear of the message falling into the wrong hands. Elrond himself had a much more difficult time navigating its depth than Mithrandir (and probably others of his peers) ever did. The streams of memories, of images and emotions recalled from the depth of another's dreaming mind sometimes proved too much for those who were bound tight to the mortal realm and a physical body. And to take in passengers alongside him? He had tried as hard as he could. This was the best that he could do. The discomfort - and pain sometimes - must simply be endured for the passengers to gain a foothold in the dreamscape.
The grassy green hills and the sun disappeared as the memory ended and the next one began. The streams moved, taking them along.
Thranduil thrashed, screamed, fighting against the pull of bloody memories as they took him into a whirlpool of tumultuous terror, violence - light and magic and miracles and the simple innocent happiness only a child could possess - bloodshed and the grief of parting.
There was nothing Elrond could do except to keep a hold on him and prevent him from getting lost in the vortex of memories. Nothing he could do except to let things unfold on themselves, until the memories are through and they were back to the real world.
For now, he could only wait and watch.
They awoke in Thranduil's throne room, bleeding and trembling.
As his Mirkwood counterpart slowly got up on quivering hands and feet, Elrond, having grown used to the toil of entering the realm of the shard, calmly wiped the blood off his hand. The shard lay on the table between their reclining chairs, glistening in the firelight.
"Those…" Thranduil said at last, voice heavy with labour. He was bent over, his brocaded shirts and coat wet with sweat. Spatters of blood on his brows "... are monsters. I see no difference between them and those borne from the shadow of Mordor."
He righted himself then as the last of the shock and horror fled his face to make place for anger. "... the only place they deserve to live is in the bowels of Vefantur's dungeon. The only fate befitting of them is death."
"That may be so, but the power they wield cannot be dismissed out of hand." Replied Elrond. He too had had much similar reaction upon is first time in the realm of the dreaming magi. "Regardless of what you think their fate should be, there is no denying that their addition will greatly change the fate of Middle Earth. Will you move… or will you stay your soldiers?"
Quiet descended upon them. In the flickering firelight and the dancing shadows in the halls under the mountain, he watched tiny motions shifted about on Thranduil's face.
Disgust. Revulsion… then an ice cold sharpness came over his expression.
"Years ago…" Said the elven king, soft, silky voice betrayed by the burning ember of his gaze.. "... I sent out a plea for help."
...Here it came. He could not say he did not foresee this. The same reason he could not send either of his sons in his place. This eons old grudge the folks of the once Greenwood the Great still held. Immortal elves had long memories.
"In the shade of the once beautiful Greenwood we alone knew of the festering dark. We sent for help, but none would answer in return. Not even our own kin. Too absorbed were they in the certainty that the Dark Lord was gone. The very one that eventually proved false. We cried out warnings but none would hear us until the festering dark drove us from our beautiful home in the heart of Greenwood and down in the depths of these caves."
He made a gesture with his hand, swift and cutting and in his face lay deep-seated bitterness.
"And still it festers until Greenwood wilted and died and in its place only Taur-nu-Fuin, the Wood of Murky Depths, remains. Once our home, now it is a wretched place where foul things crawl and my people have to hide in the stones." His voice turned low and reedy as his eyes bore into Elrond's face. "Where were you then when we cried for help, my dear kin?"
He paused, watching, his eyes roaming. When he finally spoke again, his voice was cold and brittle as ice. "If you would not move for us, your own kin, tell me then Elrond Half-Elven, why should we move for creatures not even of our own land? If we ride to the help of these… magi..." He spit out the word in disgust. "... and pay for their freedom with the blood of our people, what then shall we gain?"
"The risk…" He started.
"The risk has always been there." Thranduil cut him before he could continue. "The Dark Lord is of the immortal kind, even more than us. He has fought our fathers and grandfathers and exists alongside those who first walk this land... long before either of us came into this world. He will always be there, as death exists alongside life. A troupe of monkeys with a few new tricks will not change the eons of history behind us."
Then he drew back, having made his point.
"Go on Elrond Half-Elven. Take your shard with you and go. Bring this plea to those short lived enough to be threatened by it. Your place is not here."
He spent his first… and only night… in the halls of Mirkwood caves alone and in contemplative silence. There were no feast to welcome him nor music to soothe the arduousness of weeks spent on the roads. Uncharacteristic for the elves who loved nothing more than an occasion for music and a good feast, Thranduil's people most of all.
It was an understatement to say the folks of Mirkwood took the news of the Magi's appearance in Arda badly. They, under the influence of their king no doubt, made it no secret that they would like his presence out of their home by the morrow. Being elves, they weren't entirely too obvious about it, but Elrond wasn't born in the last century. He knew when he was no longer welcomed.
In hindsight, he had expected this. The powers these mages wielded, fire and brimstone, the ability to call the dead to take up arms and manipulate the blood in another being's veins, were without a doubt … dark… twisted… too dangerous perhaps and should have been kept locked away forever if it weren't for the very real possibility that they would have use for them soon… in the coming war against Sauron.
The fact that, if the message were to be believe, these mages came from another dimension, essentially aliens in this world reserved exclusively for the children of Iluvatar, was just one more thing for the elves, the single race left on Middle Earth who had seen the the light of the Father of All, to take up arms about.
He sat quiet and still in the dark, thinking about how other lords and ladies of the elves would react to the bloody memories contained within this shard. He had thought they wouldn't responded favorably… at first… but had hoped that they would decide on their next course of action rationally and without the influence of fear and revulsion for a race that was at once cursed and absolutely alien to this land. Thranduil's response and his deep seated grudge… worried him in its intensity. Quietly he wondered to himself if he should readjusted his prediction in regards to the Magi's fate.
If this was how one of the great reacted to the mere memories, how would others take to the idea of saving and fostering this race to prepare for the coming days of war? The elves, despite their age old wisdom, tended not to react favorably to the new and bold.
He stirred in the night, thinking through his next move. The next destination in his very short list. Lothlorien.
He was on the road when the messenger bird came, on the outer edge of Rhovanion and inching ever closer to the empty fields that separated the forests of Mirkwood and Lothlorien, weaving through the trees and the forest road. The elves of Mirkwood sent two of their best as escort. A gesture of politeness more than anything.
He handed them the message once he was done. It was short, simple, written in the shorthanded, graceful cursive Glorfindel favored. But the message it bore weighted as heavy as stones.
Rohan has fallen to a corrupted mage. A single corrupted mage. Theoden is dead. His nephew and niece flee for Gondor. We are mobilizing.
Looking the startled Mirkwood sentries in the eye, he said. "Take that back to your king." And gestured at the message. "Tell him… tell him… that he cannot close his eyes to what he had seen and that what might have been in our past, we still have a future to think about."
Not that he thought the proud Thranduil Oropherion, a descendant of the Avari elves, those who 'Refused', would concede his point so easily, but he could hope.
His arrival to the fairest forest realm of the elves was a lot less dramatic than his entrance to Thranduil's cavernous halls. Lothlorien stood shining in the trees, immaculate and gloriously magnificent, a symbol of the elves ancient glory when they once commanded the skies and the earth and humans were but primitive savages left in awe in their wake. He felt the barest of touch on his mind as he passed the threshold of the Lady's territory. An invisible hand reached out from the heart of the golden city to lay its ghostly fingers upon his thoughts before swiftly recoiling.
The elves around him were quiet. There was a wary and contemplative air about them as they accompanied him to the Lord and Lady of the forest's court. Before he could so much as removed his travelling cloak he was standing before the full court of Lothlorien.
"One elf stands before me." Said the Lady, quietly, her gaze upon him as unknowable as the Eastern sea. Never before had Elrond felt the years between them weighed so heavily. "But why is it that I sense two minds? So different are they and only one I could even begin to fathom. As for the other… what is it? What is this mind that is so alien to even I who have born witness to years in thousands? Whose mind is it? Is it sleeping? dreaming? What manner of being can exert such power of will upon the waking even while dreaming?"
He gazed shifted, moved to rest upon his chest where he kept the Shard in a hidden pocket.
"It hides you. It has been hiding you ever since you entered this forest... even now it is hiding you still." She said, the slightest knife-edge timbre to her voice that might have been wariness. It was the only thing that betrayed the ever serene expression she wore. "I can barely see you. Who is the other one, Elrond? Who is it that casts its shadow upon you? Who is the one that does not have a fleshly vessel yet still is here?"
Ah… well. That confirmed his theory of the Shard having something to do with his abnormally unevent journey then. As for Galadriel's pointed questions. In the back of his mind was the niggling anxiety of a repeat of Thranduil's less than pleased reaction to the magi, but there was no sense in delaying the inevitable. He was here to deliver a news and deliver it he would.
"You speak of this." He said simply, withdrawing the Shard from its hidden place and presented it upon the gazing court.
A hush descended upon the crowd as they beheld the tiny, insignificant piece of marble in his hand. Black and dirty and smelling of old blood, it looked the furthest from something that could cause the Lady such anxiety.
Only then did Celeborn, normally a quiet elf in the presence of his radiant lady, spoke up for the first time, his hand around his wife's shoulder as if steadying her.
"Speak." He commanded. Elrond gladly obeyed.
The sight of his blood on the black stone had since grown in familiarity to him, but in the presence of the oldest of his kind still yet on Middle Earth, it seemed an incredibly dirty thing. He staunch the flow of blood from his hand with a kerchief, binding it tightly and rolling his palm so as to hide the wound of sight. The Shard he swiftly pocketed.
The Lady was pale. She more than anyone felt keenly the magi champion's dreaming mind. The exact details of what she had sensed and seen in the dreamscape she would not share, at least not yet. As to her husband.
"We thank you for bringing this to us." Said Celeborn, voice ever calm and said in that quiet yet unyielding way that belied his age. "We have sensed, even in the safety of our haven, something approaching from the East, but never in our wildest dream could we guess the details of such… otherworldly presence. As to our answer…"
He went quiet for a heartbeat as he shared a look with Galadriel. Something transpiring within their gaze that transcended mere languages.
"... as to our answer. This development is undoubtedly one that will forever mark our world. We certainly share that opinion. However, neither matters of killing…" Behind Celeborn's ageless facade, sharpness lay. "... nor saving an entire race is something to be decided within moments. We require time before we can commit to either path."
He had expected that. At the very least, they had listened. But Celeborn was yet to finish.
"We understand you must be weary from your travel." The Lord of Lothlorien continued. "... however, recent development in our neighbour realm in the grass plain has ensured that time… is of the essence. We believe you wish to hear the details of the fall of Rohan."
He sat up straighter in his seat. "Please tell me." And listened to the gory details of a tale of triumph snubbed at first bloom.
The men and women of Rohan fought a valiant battle. At Helm's Deep they repelled the force of Saruman the Fallen and emerged at the end of the night victorious and alive. As the light of dawn filled the valley and the people poured out through the Dike in their jubilation however, came their doom.
A single corrupted mage carried atop and escorted by flying wyverns came from the East and laid waste to the entire valley with fireballs from the skies and tearing the earth asunder with nonstop quakes. It ended quickly and decisively for the weary army of Helm's Deep, without space to maneuver, weapons that can reach the wyverns, and only fleeting remnants of strength from the previous battle. The Snowbourne river ran red with blood and the remains of the dead. The stench of scorched earth filled the air. The once impenetrable fortress became the tomb of an entire people. A scatter few fled, hidden in the field of tall grass and among the corpses.
And of the Fellowship of the Ring…
"Split…" Said Galadriel. "... as they were wont to." What they had not foreseen however was the survival of the Gondorian Steward's son. He was so sure of the shadow of death hanging over Boromir, in the slow corruption once his eyes set upon the One Ring.
"Luck was with him. He survived by a hair's width the assault of the Uruk-Hais on the hills of East Emnet. Survived and repented for his corruption by the One Ring. It was him who led the survivors of Helm's Deep Fall through the forests of Anorien to his home of Minas Tirith. If it were not for him, many more would have perished in the aftermath of the Scourge, Theoden's niece and nephew among them."
"Was it really luck?" Said Elrond. He squeezed his hands together. A coldness seeped through him. "It may be that it was truly lady luck with Boromir son of Denethor that day of the Fellowship's breaking, but I cannot help but think luck has very little to do with it. The Uruk Hais who pursued their company was lacking in number and ended up exterminated with ease by the men of Rohan. These same Uruk Hais that came from Minas Morgul to lend aid to Saruman. There should have been more of them. There weren't. Why?"
He brought his hand to his chest where the Shard lay concealed. A constant reminder of her presence. The eyes of the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien followed the path his hand made.
"The Champion of the Magi is powerful that much we have seen. If she were weak, she would not have survived for so long in the pits of Mordor. So powerful that the Dark Lord as he is now cannot subdue her with only the shade of his original strength. He has to lock her into deep slumber and post his own generals, five of his Ring Wraiths, as her chains and shackles."
A conversation flew to the forefront of his mind, the meeting in which he revealed the existence of the magi to the Council of the Ring.
"He sent the five, and kept the four." He repeated the words of Galdor of Grey Haven, spoken on that fateful day. "Five ringwraiths to pursue the ring and four to subjugate the Champion. But… her power grows…"
After all hadn't he felt that ever watchful presence deep in the dreamscape grew heavier with time? Whatever the cause, she was waking up, slowly surfacing from the depth of her dream.
"If the four is preoccupied to the point where they cannot serve as his swords, is it not reasonable to think that he keeps more of his force within his realm as guarantee? I cannot otherwise think of a different reason why he would not send more… and why a single son of Edain could have escaped a death foretold. Then, can we surmise that her mere presence in this world thus far has already caused such changes? A dead man yet lives whereas a living people died."
Among a handful of the greatest elves lay the power to glimpse into the future. Rare beings coming from either extraordinary upbringing or bloodlines such as the Lady and himself who could reach out with their mind and peer into time yet transpired. Elves were long lived so such visions while happening frequently enough tended to pertain more to the grand scale of things rather than any specific trivital details in the footprints of history, of which, the supposed death of Boromir son of Denethor, while regretful, was one such. But they had all seen the shadow of death upon him. Regretful, but fated to be.
He gripped the shard through layers of cloth, sharing a look with the other eldars. A sense of wrongness permeated him. This should not be. The magi should never have come here. They did not belong here, but now that they existed within this world, things had changed. Events, people, history. They appeared as only darkness in the elves vision, being too alien to comprehend and foretell the future of. What else had changed that the elves could not foretell?
In the morning he set out once again on his horse. It was usual for elves to stay at any one elven city for weeks before continuing their journey but with the fall of Rohan, he hardly had the time to enjoy the hospitality of Lothlorien . The crowd that came to see him off was plentiful but subdued. The Lady led the retinue and at the reign of his horse, she took hold of his hand.
"Son…" The expression on her face was unreadable. "... my premonition cannot see things pertaining to the magi, but something awaits us all in the White City. I know that at least."
He narrowed his eyes in contemplation. A lot of things might happen in Gondor, the next destination on his list and incidentally, the closest outpost to the gate of Mordor and the harbor of the remnants of Rohan. He was suddenly hit by a sense of urgency, a dark premonition. Sauron had not a limitless supply of corrupted mages. In fact, as far as he knew, only a few managed to survive his corruption to become the blades at his side. Ithryun Luin, The Blue Wizard's letter specifically stated the frequent raids by the mages in Sauron's hold but the East was already under heavy sway of the Dark Lord. To bring one of them here, a precious pawn not easily replaced, deep into the territory of Men to strike down a single city. Too brazen for his liking. For the Dark Lord to treat such important tool so callously meant that he had more in reserve. Combined that with the fact that just now did he decide to advance into the West and not earlier meant that his reserve… was a recent development.
Immediately his thought flew to the captive mages, men and women forced to breed an army at the Dark Lord's proposal. A chill came over him at his mind conjured twisted possibilities.
"You must ride with haste." Said the Lady. "The fall of Rohan shook the entire realm. Never before had we born witness to such tragedy and for a human settlement with such history behind them. Even now survivors are trickling into other territories under the rule of humans and dwarves, bringing with them this terrible tiding. There will be panic for surely the Dark Lord does not intend for this attack to be the only nor the last one."
That was true. If a single mage born on top wyverns can so easily fell a wounded Rohan, what else can they burn to the ground?
"Your warning is not in vain." She continued. "We will prepare ourselves. This is not a conflict the elves can refuse to partake. The dwarves too, if they know what's good for them. Living in the stones does not disengage them from our shared doom. As to the plight of the mages…"
She paused, looking him in the eye. Something stirred in her ageless feature. "You ride for them, to ask for help, but, tell me my son, as much as you sing of their plight, how much do you actually know about them?"
The question stopped him cold. Thranduil hadn't cared for what he had to say in defense of the mages. The members of the Council of the Rings trusted in his authority too much to question. And Gandalf… who knew what must be in his head. The Istari had never failed to baffle him at times.
"What do you know of the magi champion? What kind of person is she? For so long she shared her memories with you and you shared the territory of your mind with her, but how much do you know of her aside from the visions shown to you?"
She held up her hand where Nenya perched.
"This be the last day I wear this ring. Already I can feel his influence creeping. The Dark Lord's power to corrupt and inflict pain upon others is fearsome we all know that… you and I more than anyone else…"
Celebrian…
"To be kept in his hold for mere days is torture to even us the greatest of elves. So much so that my daughter, your wife, chose to pass on rather than stay and bear the scars left upon her." A great sorrow washed over her face for a split second. "The Magi Champion however… has survived for years… and not only survive but schemes for freedom. I cannot help but admire her for such tenacity… yet…"
With a swift move, Galadriel removed Nenya from her finger and stood there looking down at it, a strange gleam in her eyes. "... in a corner of my mind, I cannot help but wonder… for her to stay sane, stay strong for so long…is it truly only the sheer strength of her will that brought her through… or is it…." She looked back at him, a deep quiet settled into her voice. "... or is it… something else?"
End Chapter 6