She did not see him.
Not as the person he truly was, not as her brother.
She did not know him, he knew this for a fact when after the man, the person that had broken the stone had been seen too and fussed over she had looked up. Up into the faces of the three strangers standing on the hill. Her blue eyes, as deeply set as his own, stared at each of their faces seeing everything and nothing all at once.
She saw the way Legolas and Gimli clung to one another's hands, she saw the way Rogh stood in front of them, his shoulders and, indeed, his whole body squared as if to block as much of his friends from her sight as possible.
She saw their hard faces, and their ragged, trail-stained coverings. She knew from all this, that they were on a journey, no, more than that, they were on a quest. A quest that they would not be persuaded to leave, not for a long time now. She knew that they cared for each other, and would probably do anything to keep one another safe, and happy, and whole. All this the priestess, the mother, the witch saw.
But Rogh knew without asking, without even looking into her eyes, that there was even more that she did not see. For instance, from this position there was no way that she saw the scar behind his right knee. The scar that he got from falling down into the gap between their Family's cave, and the next rock ledge over. How he would have died right there and then if she hadn't caught him, if she hadn't pulled him up.
She would not see the small feather he kept on a leather cord around his neck, hidden underneath his traveling furs. The feather from the owl that its namesake had slain in her first hunt. The meat had been shared with the rest of the Family, as was the way with all first hunts. The bones and the claws had been dried out and made into a special necklace that even now, he could see that she always wore. But that feather, that, she had plucked from the bird's body and given just to him. Because she had explained, out of all the brothers she had, he was by far her favourite.
She did not see this.
She did not see him, as he really was.
She did not see Rogh, the child she had loved and called Brother.
She only saw the man he was now, and that was a man who she did not know.
He was nothing now, nothing but a faded memory, and a stranger come to her home at the first sign of winter
Still, it didn't stop her from inviting him, along with Legolas and Gimli, into her tent, to break their fast and tell their tale at her hearth.
And as the three of them followed the great priestess his sister had become, Rogh could not help but wonder how much of that brother, of that child she had known, would she see in the Stranger he was now, before this meal's end.
The meat was good, though Rogh could hardly focus on it long enough to taste for sure.
As she performed the traditional rituals the Family had for greeting and welcoming Strangers into their home, Rogh watched her. Watched her, as with each careful word she pulled out another piece of the puzzle from the chattering Legolas and Gimli.
She knew who they were (or at least two thirds of them) she knew they searched for a stone – though she could not know it's power or significance – and the thief that had taken it.
And then she turned her eyes to him at last, and smiled what was surely her most beguiling smile as she said.
"And what of you, Cousin? Surely your journey must be no lesser than our friends here. Tell me what brings a man of the Family into such grand, and peculiar company?"
Rogh, said nothing to that. Instead, he reached under the neck of his furs and pulled out the feather on the leather cord.
Her eyes latched onto the old, wrinkled feather, still mostly white even after all these years. For a second, she looked entirely confused. And then her eyes widened and she looked beyond the feather, down into his own blue eyes. And the only thing she could say was…
"Rogh?"
And this, this was the place, and the moment when Rogh… brave hunter and adventurer…burst into tears. Which only served to prove to the wise woman that this strange, fierce looking man before her was her baby brother so long thought lost.
She wrapped her arms around him, and together they both cried. They cried for all the time they had lost, they cried for the joy at reuniting, and most of all they cried just for the sake of it. In a way that neither of them had cried since they were very small children. All because they finally could now.
Which was all well and good for the siblings, but damn confusing for the poor Elf and Dwarf who sat silently watching the whole spectacle.
And thus began the small, the very small, moment of complete happiness within the life of Rogh of the Family. His sister had been found again, his two friends were safe and whole, and he quickly came to love this strange community they'd all found themselves in.
True, the mission, the quest was still not completed – but after all these years the trail of the Wanderer and his stolen stone, no matter what the stars may say, must have gone cold. It was unlikely, even if they did leave the people of the Stones, that they would ever again see the Arkenstone.
It was something he'd long grown to suspect but until now, until the morning of that terrible day he had never been able to bring himself to voice it out loud.
But it hardly mattered, it seemed Legolas was able to tell anyway.
"Your faith has wavered."
He said, like it was no longer even a question anymore. Rogh, who had been sitting carving an arrow head out of a piece of flint, jumped in fright. Legolas was as light footed as any of the rest of his race, so being caught unaware by him should not have been a surprise to Rogh anymore. And yet it always was.
"What? What faith? What are you talking about?"
"In our adventure, my friend." Said Legolas in a firm, almost commanding way. "In our quest for the Arkenstone. You no longer believe we shall ever see it again."
And really, what could Rogh say to that, it was true, he didn't believe they'd find the stone anymore. Really it was a wonder that Legolas still did, after all they'd been walking for three years. Wasn't it time for even the hardiest adventurer to sit down and break his fast for once?
He'd tried to say as much to the pretty one, but that just made Legolas sigh and shake his head as he said.
"So, you forget the vow you made in my father's home so readily then? To search out and find the stone, to bring the Wanderer to justice."
Perhaps in another life, a life where there was time for such arguments, such causes of strife between close compatriots – Rogh would have hit Legolas then. Would have wound back his arm, balled his fist and struck that pretty face right in the centre. Breaking that stupid nose.
But this was not that life, and they were not left alone long enough for Rogh to even curl his fingers into a fist. Not before another voice, the high sweet bird song of his sister's voice, was saying.
"The Wanderer? The Wandering Father? What on Over Land does he have to do with anything?"
It was a terrible thing, to realise that not only had he not told his sister about the danger of the Wandering Father. For a time, he had entirely forgotten it himself.
Spluttered apologies began to leave his lips, but Owa raised her hand and silenced him with nary a word. She turned then, and focused the blue of her gaze fully on Legolas at last.
"So, it was the Wandering Father who stole your jewel, then? How strange, you think he needn't have bothered. He makes enough trade on us to keep him in furs, terrible and wine most of the year."
It was both a terrible, and a wonderful thing to hear. Wonderful because well… the quest's end would soon be in sight, and all that pain the three travellers had suffered on the road would be over. Terrible because, just even the thought that such a villain could have been so close to his sister and her people was sickening.
Legolas, only saw the joy of it of course.
"The Wanderer? Is he here now?"
And in reply his sister only smiled and turned, beckoning them with a slight wave of her hand.
She beckoned them to follow, thus what else could they do but to obey? This was her place, her land, her people after all. And what were they, but just the guests of her hearth.
The sight that Owa led them to then was one that was all too familiar to Rogh. A gathering, a gathering of the people of the Stones, of men of the Family and Strong Ones alike.
A large group of people, of men and women and children, all clustered round a central figure. A figure Rogh could not help but recognise now…it was the Wanderer. The same sloping skull, the same ridged forehead and wide broken nose. The same eyes, small and rodent like – slightly faded now after so many years, though still as noticeably blue as either Rogh or Owa's. And yet he had changed, the face had lines on it that it hadn't before. The back was far more bent. The hair changed from grey to white.
The Wanderer was an old man.
A small, broken, old man. And it occurred to Rogh then, to wonder if he had been so before. Back before he had stolen the Arkenstone from the people of Mahal. He didn't think so, but then again, he hadn't exactly been focused on the details of the Wanderer's aged and greying face. People did age quickly in this new high world of theirs. Or at least, so said Gimli and Legolas who were old enough to remember the times before the sky had become the ground.
And yet, three years was not usually long enough to make this kind of change. Rogh may already feel the ache in his bones at the first sign of the winter chill, but it would be many a winter yet before he actually began to show it.
If Legolas noticed the state of the Wanderer, he hid it well, his stride not even faltering for a moment as he marched up to that crooked man and struck him right across his old, withered face.
The Wanderer cried out in shock and alarm, and then crumpled to the ground seemingly unable to stand at all now. It was a shocking sight, to see the usually so calm and peaceful pretty one's face red and contorted in anger. To see him standing over that tiny, old man his fist raised to strike him again.
And Rogh suddenly knew deep within his own chest that he could not let this happen. He could not let Legolas kill the Wanderer. Not here. Not now, with the stone still lost to them, and before the eyes of so many. So many who would not understand the stranger's wrath. Rogh found it a struggle to understand it himself, and he had been there for every terrible step of their journey.
Thus, with that thought at the forefront of his mind – Rogh threw himself between the two enemies and caught Legolas' wrist just as it was about to land what could have been the killing blow.
"No," the man of the Family hissed, through strained and gritted teeth. "Not now, not here. You are not…a murderer."
The words were enough, enough to still if not quite sate the elf's wrath. Enough at least to still him, long enough for Rogh to turn then and address the Wanderer himself.
"Wanderer, we do not intend to cause violence, or bring ugly strife to your days. There is no need for it now. Return to us that which you have stolen, and we shall leave you to your business. Return the Arkenstone."
And at that the Wanderer laughed.
"The Arkenstone? What is an Arkenstone?"
It was the height of absurdity. The idea, even the vague notion that the Wanderer not only did not seem to know where the Arkenstone was, but even what it was. The three travellers were united for once in their belief that the old man was lying. There was something in his eyes, a spark hidden deep under the milky depths of his near blindness, and told Rogh that what the Wanderer said then was if not exactly a lie, it wasn't the whole truth.
However there seemed no way, no way at all to make the Wanderer tell the truth. They had tried harsh words, spoken in all three tongues the wanderer spoke. None of them had any effect besides making the old man wince, and flinch at the melodious sound of the tongue of the pretty ones.
It might have been a sign of guilt, Rogh had argued, but then again it might have equally been a sign of discomfort at how loud the elf's voice had become during the interrogation. Whatever the case, none of the Wanderer's secrets had passed his lips through that method of persuasion. Only Gimli had the kind of pride that was not wounded by trying to persuade a man such as the Wanderer to reveal his secrets through acts of supplication. That is, begging.
That had not worked either.
Nothing had, and eventually their questions, their accusations, and it would seem their mere presence distressed the old man to such a degree that he no longer seemed capable of speech at all. It was at that point in which Owa had ordered them to leave the tent, and as she was both the High Priestess and the defacto leader of the People of the Stones they had no choice but to comply with her wishes.
They had stood there, the three of them, just outside the boundaries of the priestess's shelter, straining their ears to hear what was going on inside. But if they had had any hope of that working, they certainly didn't have the chance to hear anything of substance. For soon enough a group of women – of both Family and Strong Ones alike –, in long blue robes similar to Owa's, had ushered the three male visitors away from their leader's tent. And the shame of that, they did with no stronger stick than the disapproval in their own scowling stares.
Legolas kicked his heals high into the air as he stormed away, throwing a curse so ancient at the clustered women, that they had no hope at all at understanding it. Which, thought Rogh with a secret bite of mirth, made it completely useless as an insult.
Gimli and Rogh, having no other way to occupy their time now that questioning the Wanderer had been forbidden to them, followed in the wake of the loudly muttering elf. They followed him up the short path that led from the clustered shelters of the settlement, up to the overhanging hill that even now, the broken stone still lay on.
The air was cold, and the wind had begun to whip round them, it was as if the very earth itself knew that something was about to happen. Something that would change the course of everything that would come to follow after.
Legolas stood in the middle of that hill, strong and tall, his arms crossed over his thin chest and his mouth pressed, into a hard line of sour disappointment. Around him, stones that had been intended to stand, to be pressed and pulled and wedged into an upright position lay on their sides. After the near accident, and presumably the excitement of the stranger's arrival, work on the circle had apparently slackened. They would eventually return to it, but stone was eternal and there was no rush to complete anything in days like this. At least, not a structure like the circle. Not something that was not shelter from the elements, and warmth from the cold. Something that was both more substantia,l and yet less to this world of the flesh and the rock.
The whole sight made Rogh shiver, but Legolas so lost in his own anger, did not notice it at all. He did not notice the yellow of the rising moon over their heads, or the dark blue of the night's sky. So bright and vibrant that it almost seemed like a colour not truly of this world anymore. He did not notice the black clouds either, hardly visible against that dark otherworldly blue. He did not hear the thunder, or see the bright flash of lightning . He did not feel the wind as it pulled at his furs, and ripped at his hair. No all-Legolas saw was the red of his own anger.
"He is lying." Said the elf in utter conviction. "He has the stone; I know he does." He said with such a passion, as to confuse his two companions on the hill. Because while Legolas had never before been unfeeling towards their quest, nor had he been this. This creature of wrath and vengeance, that the man and the dwarf saw before them now. Rogh could not even begin to explain the change, or the cause of it – it was as if the Pretty One had been possessed by a force greater than all of them. But no matter how it disconcerted him, nothing that Rogh felt about it, could ever compare to the terror of Gimli son of Gloin.
For Gimli loved Legolas more than any person, any being living or dead had ever loved the elf. The only person that could have even come close to the dwarf's feelings on the matter was Legolas' father, and that is perhaps a very different kind of love. Besides which the Great Pretty One was not here, could not see his son as he stood in the middle of the half-finished sacred circle of stones. Stood, and practically screamed into the wind that howled around the three hunters now.
"Do you hear me?!" Legolas asked/bellowed, though exactly to who he was asking this question was unclear. "He is lying, the stone is here! The stone is here, now, beneath me, in front of me and I can see it, I can see it before my eyes. I can almost feel it in my hand, feel my fingers wrapping around it as they never have in life. But I feel it now, and I know, I know that somewhere – mayhap on the Wanderer himself, perhaps somewhere nearby the stone is hidden. The stone is hidden from me and I will have it! Do you hear me oh great ones, oh Valar of the terrible wind, and the turbulent sky – I will have it!"
A crack of lightning against the shattered stones, and Legolas was thrown from his feet. Gimli made to catch him, but all that caused, was for them both to land in a scattered and tangled pile on the ground before the mighty standing stones. Standing? When had the stones become upright? And why were there so many of them now? There certainly hadn't been before, there had been maybe four, and not a one of them had bene standing?
It was all a blur to Rogh, as he knelt there before those rising stones. It seemed, at that precise moment in time, he could remember none of his life. Gone was the past, the future, and the majority of the present. Now all that was left was this moment. All that he was, was the stones and the ground under his knees, and the cool feel of the rain against his face. And of course, there was the thrum. The thrum in his ears, the thrum that called to him, now called to him to crawl over the dirt, past those that he should have still called friends and to the middle of those standing stones. It was the thrum that made him plunge his fingers down into that earth, and begin to dig.
And so that was what the boy known as Rogh did.
He dug.
He dug until his fingernails cracked, and splintered.
He dug until, his hands ran slick with his own blood.
He dug till, he was certain that he could feel no other feeling but the pain in his hand, and up his arms, and all over his aching bones.
He dug until…until…there was no where else to dig anymore.
He dug until, his ruined fingertips scratched against something hard. Something bright and polished, and seeming oh too familiar to his desperate, rain sodden mind.
He knew then as surely as he would never know or be sure of anything else ever again that this stone, this stone he held now in his bloody hold, was the Arkenstone.
It was not solely one colour, but a wave of many, and they were all shining through his fingertips. They had no right to be, there was no light from the sky above to provoke it anymore and yet Rogh knew that it still shone all the brighter in the darkness.
He knew not how it had come here, whether the Wanderer had buried it, or like the evil rings of old it had slipped from his grip through some power of its own. It hardly mattered now, now that it was back in Rogh's hands now.
Nothing mattered now that the stone was back in Rogh's hands now, not even…and then he heard her voice and it was fair and high like the call of the bird that was her namesake.
Rogh stood up then, his legs shaking so hard that his knees knocked together loud enough for even the two idiots on the ground to hear.
"What are you doing with that stone?"
It was Owa.
Of course, it was Owa.
This is how the memory goes from there, though it is so wavering and faint that Rogh hardly feels apart of it anymore. Instead, it is like he is standing on the side watching someone else. Watching another man of the Family hold that stone with his blood-stained hands and gaze uncomprehending as the woman, as his sister marches up to him and slaps him right across the face.
This is the moment when Rogh tries to reach out to her, to tell her that he understands why she does what she does – though at the time, it had been a complete mystery to him. But back then the stone had been in his hand, and he could feel its power all around him and…and he couldn't have stopped it. The stone was too strong back then, in that newly emerged world of theirs. Too new to the air around them, and no one – not the Strong Ones who lifted up the stone circle around them, the Pretty Ones with all their own power, even Mahal's Folk who had found and first claimed the bloody thing.
Bloody.
Bloody.
It was a strange word, not one he would have used like that, not when he still yet drew breath. He knew blood of course, all men of the Family, all people had known it back then. Whether it came from the rush of a newborn life into the world – which were not hidden away and shamed as they were in the later days; or from the rush of the hunt and the throw of the spear. But blood was not a bad word. Blood, Bloody, these were not…not swear names.
That's the word the Others use for them…isn't it?
He can't think of it right now he has to try and focus on the picture before him, on the man and woman tussling for the stone. He has to see…see what happens next.
They have the stone held between them now, they have it, they both do and they're pulling. He sees that now, they're both pulling. Both demanding that the stone is theirs, that it has always been theirs. They scream, both of them, strange he had thought it had just been him. But then he supposed back then all he had really been able to do was think of the stone, the stone and its power and its joy and…and here it came.
They were both of the Family, Man and Woman both, and thus unlike other men that would come later, their strength would always be equal. And thus, when they pulled at that stone, that stone, that mighty stone, why it just snapped in half. And both Man and Woman were sent flying to opposite ends of the circle that surrounded them.
And that, that is where the pictures for him stop.
The memories don't exactly stop, but they are simply facts now. Facts that he knows because he has memorised them.
The spell of the Stone had broken then, and Owa and Rogh, the brother and sister that had so recently found one another decided that for the good of all, the two halves should be kept away from each other. Far away, where they would never again see one another. It was a terrible thought, and yet the world was too new to hold the power of a reunited Arkenstone within it – The Wanderer his frail, wrinkled face a testament to the stone's true affect over a mortal. And clearly the immortals didn't fare all that well either under its spell. If Legolas' strange mood was any indication.
Rogh had offered to leave, and take his half of the stone with him. Owa had forbidden it, and for one glorious moment Rogh had hoped that the inevitable would not now come to pass. But she struck that thought right out of his head, with her next words.
"Brother, no, it is I who must leave."
Rogh had tried to argue then, this was her home after all, and he was the interloper. But Owa would not hear of it. It had always been the plan that when the stones were finished – as they were now, the Arkenstone had seen to that – that half of their tribe would set off to new lands.
She did not explain why they had been planning this, just that this was the way it had always been. She had always known that her path lay with the travellers of the world. And then terribly she made him promise that he would stay. Stay with her people and their stones, and guard them. Help them rebuild. Do not leave them.
And what more could Rogh do, but say yes – after all, he would have promised her the world if she had only asked it of him. This was nothing next to that.
The memory fades then, until he can no longer see his sister's forced contented face even in his mind's eye anymore. Everything has faded then, even his true name, and when that is gone, all that is left is…
"Robin?"
The ghost raises his head, and looks into the pale blue eyes of Julian. Uncharacteristic concern in those twin pools of ice.
"You alright? Not that it wasn't funny being thrown across the room by you, but you know it did worry us…a little. You know, that funny turn you took at that film."
And Robin taking the offered hand of the politician says.
"Me Fine. Me always fine. How film end?"
"Oh, you know, one bloke got handsy with the doo-dad of power, and the fellowship had to split."
Robin nods as he leads the way out of the basement, and away from the shivering plague ghosts.
"That not surprise me. That not surprise me at all."
And that was the last the caveman would say on the matter. No matter how much Julian bugged him.
