Stopping at the edge of the wood, he looked down at Laketown, lying friendly and wooden below him. Alright, it was in a bit of a state right now, but it was still his home! He'd lived here for a hundred and fifty eight years! Not long for most Elves, but Dûrfîn rarely stayed anywhere long. There might be problems at the moment, but he didn't want to leave. Not one bit.
The itch returned full force to his calves, so hard that it was an actual pain. Dûrfîn gritted his teeth and snarled "Dûrfîn will go!"
Then he started down towards Esgaroth.
He didn't want to be noticed. He exerted a feeling of normallity, and people ignored hime. Just like that. Someone even tipped a hat to him.
Once in his house, he let go the bubble with a sigh, and leant against the wall. It took a little more out of him, every time he did something like that. He knew that something had been done to his fëa in Angband. Something that made it hard for him to think in words. Something that drained his power. He had been stronger in the Second Age than he was now, and he would be weaker still if he lived to see the Fourth. It was something else that was normal to him, that he dealt with without even thinking about it.
There. He felt better now. He stood up and went to the cabinet where he kept his sword, well wrapped and oiled. He took it out and strapped it to his belt, in its elaborately tooled scabbord. He had made that himself, and he was pleased with it. It displayed the level of perfection he always wished for. When he looked at it, he didn't always see all the things that he had done wrong.
Reaching beneath his bed, he found the hole he had cut in the floor and then resealed, and unbolted it. Then he lifted out his bag of coin. It was not large, but it was not small, either. It was adquate. He hung it from his belt too, and then shrugged on his warmest cloak, and looked at what food he had in the house. There was some bread, a few fruits and flask of Laketown wine. He put all of it into a sack he normally kept scarp metal in, and held tight to it. Then he took a deep breath, and once more drew down his bubble of normality. Then he started to walk due South.
Dûrfîn had been traveling for several weeks now, and had learned how to circumvent and twist this driving force somewhat. It wanted him to take the straightest possible path to the Black Land, or wherever in that general direction it was taking him He was certainly heading in a disturbingly straight line towards it. That meant wading through seas of brambles, marching straight through rapids, and dashing his brains out by leaping off cliffs. But Dûrfîn found that if he explained why he wanted to take a better route to it, reasonably and logically, it would allow him to take such a route. It didn't seem to understand any of the basic laws of physics, unless they were explained to it.
As for Dûrfîn himself, he wasn't happy to be making this trip, and was certain it would end in doom. However he had no choice in the matter, and took to cursing the person he had been before, who must have had something to do with this. He just tried to avoid thinking about who he had been before. After all, how many elves were there, alive in the First Age, with some sort of compulsion triggered by glowing white jewels? And Dûrfîn didn't want to be a Fëanorian, didn't even want to consider the idea, although it nagged uncomfortably in the back of his mind.
An arrow whipped past his ear, and Dûrfîn threw himself flat, cursing himself for not looking at what he was walking into. Fronds of bracken waved over his head, hiding him from view unless his assailant was close. Dûrfîn slid his shortsword out from its sheath and held it in his right hand, ready to fight for his life. He took slow, deep breaths. Stay calm, don't get too excited.
He heard the sound of heavy feet on the greenery, the rasp of weapons leaving sheaths, and harsh voices speaking what could only be the Black Tongue. Orcs. He tightened his grip on his blade, ready to spring up when they came near.
A voice, now speaking the Common Tongue with an atrocious accent, called out "Come out little Elf! We know you're there!"
Dûrfîn's heart boiled with hatred for these creatures. He remembered all too clearly their prevalence in Angband, he remembered later encounters with them, their most unpleasant habits and the things he had seen them do. The things he had felt them do. He shuffled a little way into the bracken, moving silently as only an Elf can. He heard them crash past him, and discover the crushed stalks where he had first dived into the shielding plants. One gave out orders, and the others answered in a whining voice. Dûrfîn picked up that much, although they once again spoke their own foul language. He risked a glimpse above the plants. Six of them, more than a lone Elf could handle at once, with only with one shortsword. He would have to pick them off one by one. And sure enough, they were splitting up to search for him. He felt the itch beginning in his legs, tugging at him, trying to make him go South. But for the moment he ignored it. He had to deal with these Orcs or he would be dead.
The one who ordered waited by the crushed stalks, muttering to himself. He was a typical Orc, bowlegged, ape armed and hairy, with the red eye of Sauron painted on his shield. But Dûrfîn could still see with a faint feeling of revulsion where the Orc's ancestors had been Elves. His ears were pointed, like Dûrfîn's, as was his face. His lips and teeth, however, diverged sharply. Where an Elf's face could easily break into a mischievous grin, the Orc's mouth contained sharp canines. The only grin he could give was one of malice. Dûrfîn tensed and readied himself. Now! The Orc was no longer looking in his direction. The Elf emerged from his cover and walked towards the Orc. It was very easy to slide his blade into the creature's back and slay him almost silently. All the Orc managed was a gurgle.
Dûrfîn let the dead Orc slide off his sword and wiped it on the bracken to clean it of the thing's blood. Good. Now he had to find the five others. He couldn't risk their being on his trail.
He left the dead Orc on the ground, and, after a minute's thought, vanished once more beneath the undergrowth.
It wasn't long before he heard heavy boots, coming this way. Another Orc. Dûrfîn didn't dare allow him to see the body of the other Orc, for then he would shout. The Elf had only one course of action, or so he thought. He slid out of the bracken and found himself staring into the face of a new Orc, one who had not been in the original party. This Orc was taller than the others, more thickset, and less apish. His build, in fact, looked almost human. And there, daubed upon the shield that he carried, was a new device. A white hand.
This Orc stood on the other side of the clearing, his shield half lifted, his crooked sword in his hand. His eyes met Dûrfîn's and his lips curved into a smile. He began to run across the clearing towards the Elf, sword lifted high.
Dûrfîn lifted his own sword to meet the Orc's charge, and braced his legs for the collision. Even though he was not weak, the huge blow shook him slightly.
He gave a blow of his own, which the Orc parried with his shield, then twisted aside, when the Orc counterattacked.
But he still hadn't wiped the smile of the Orc's face. His teeth set in anger, Dûrfîn lunged forward and tried to plunge his blade into the Orc's chest, twisting at the last minute so that in fact he aimed for the right arm.
He struck the Orc's shoulder, and blood welled from the wound. But the Orc still smiled, and swung at him with, if anything, renewed vigour, feinting with his sword, while in fact ramming his shield's sharp rim into Dûrfîn's right ankle, almost toppling the Elf to the ground.
This was no ordinary Orc. He was bigger, faster, and stronger. To begin with, Dûrfîn had underestimated him, and that started him off on the wrong foot. He was a pretty good fighter, most Elves are, as they have had thousands of years in which to hone their skills. He didn't consider the possibility that any mere Orc could be this good.
The Orc was stronger and bigger than he was, but Dûrfîn was faster and lighter than the Orc. He swept his blade in and slashed the Orc's hip deep, making the creature bellow with pain. He retaliated, long hooked blade digging into Dûrfîn's left arm.
The Elf hissed in answer, and with a lithe twist, ducked under the Orc's guard and stabbed him, deep in the abdomen. The Orc died.
Dûrfîn stepped back, panting. He had a bleeding wound in his arm, and something was wrong with his ankle where the shield had struck it. His boot seemed unpleasantly wet and sticky.
He shook his head to clear it. Right now he needed to get out of here. The other Orcs would surely have heard the now dead Orc's bellow, they would be coming back. And Dûrfîn knew that he would leave a wonderful trail for them, smelling strongly of blood.
The Anduin. That was the place he needed to go. The water would hide his scent, and his tracks. Dûrfîn sucked in his breath and began to run. No point in trying to be quiet now. He sped through the bracken, leaving a trail clearly visible through the broken stems.
Pain lanced through his wounded ankle with every step. Dûrfîn was very sure that it wasn't wise to run on a wound like that, but he had very little choice. He clenched his hand tightly around the blade he still held, and thought for a moment of the early days in Angband. He had endured more then than he had ever had to do in all the rest of his life. A mere ankle wound couldn't stop him!
He felt the force bring him up short with a crack. He could almost hear it screaming "South!" at him.
"Not now!" Dûrfîn screamed, and struck forward with his blade in sheer rage. "Dûrfîn is chased by Orcs!"
The force gave way, rippling aside, and Dûrfîn ran on. He glanced back behind him as he crested a little hill. Yes, there were the Orcs. Five of them. And one was drawing a bow, a horribly large one.
He ran down the other side of the hill, panting. They couldn't fire as long as he kept hills between him and them. And the Brown Lands were full of hills, if luck was on his side, as it hadn't been recently, then maybe he'd come out of this alive.
And now he heard the sound of water, blessed, wonderful water! The Great River. Yes, he could hide in the Anduin. And they would loose his scent. Maybe he was going to live after all.
A burst of speed took him over the next hill. His ankle was really hurting now, and threatening to give way. He felt it wobble with each step.
"Alahaiya sí." He murmured to his foot, willing it to hold him until the river.
And there it was! The river, glistening sliver below him. Dûrfîn almost sobbed with relief, but it wasn't over yet. A short run took him to the bank, and then he waded out into the water, sheathing his sword.
As soon as it was deep enough he ducked into the water and swam. There were some reeds a little way upriver. If he got one of them, he could make a breathing tube and swim across the river . . .
He swam above water until he spotted the Orcs cresting the hill. Then he took a deep breath and ducked his head under. He could hardly see anything in the murk down here! Mud and weed filled his vision. His eyes stung from the particles that drifted into them. As he swam, Dûrfîn sincerely hoped that there weren't large predatory fish out in the deeper areas.
There! The stalks of reeds, reaching up through the water like thin brown fingers. He snapped one, and his lungs bursting, transferred one end to his mouth, keeping the other above the surface.
Air! Sweet, beautiful, clean air rushed into his lungs. Breathing easily now, Dûrfîn turned to swim away from the bank. Behind him he heard splashes as the Orcs searched the water for him.
Behind him, too, red blood oozed from his wounded foot and dissipated into the muddy water.
The current tugged at him. The ever present Southern compulsion itched at him. The sounds of the Orcs faded as he got out into the deeper areas of the great river, and began to seriously wonder, as his foot and arm began to fail him, if he really could swim all the way across the Anduin with a wounded arm and foot.
I hope you enjoyed it. As ever, not mine.
