Chapter 7: The Choice

Several hours passed. During that time he was lost in thoughts, or rather scenes, events from the past and from possible futures, as if he were looking into Galadriel's mirror.

He knew that once again he was faced with a choice. He could despair and fade, or he could live. It was not the first time he had made such a choice, and he did not know if it would be the last. Never before had he been so far from all he knew; never before had he been imprisoned like this. The darkness forced him to face his choice with an urgency he had not known until now. Even if he never escaped these tombs, he could at least choose to hope.

In the last few weeks he had wandered far, and he realised now how close he had come to fading completely. And with this came the knowledge that he could not yet give up. He would keep on fighting the endless fight, watching over Middle-earth and protecting the Free Peoples.

He saw again the priestess's face watching him through the grille, the night he had woken to find himself in chains. She had known only scorn and mistrust towards strangers all her life, and yet had been strong enough to defy the customs of her order and give him life, and his choice. She retained an instinctive goodness that all the darkness of the Tombs could never take from her. Her resilience to the jewel was the strongest proof he knew of this. When she spoke of it, there was no jealousy or cunning in her eyes, only awe and wariness. Very few, even among his kind, were capable of resisting its lure. As long as people like her remained to guard the jewel, there would be no more wars for its sake.

That night Amtar slept little, and though she tried to absorb herself in her duties during the day, she could not stop thinking about the elf. Though her vows had not included a specific promise never to visit those who attempted to steal the jewel, there could be little doubt that if Ikara were to find out about the time she had spent with the prisoner, she would be furious.

As she bent her back over her loom, untangling knots from a skein of wool, she saw again his pointed ears and the unfathomable depth of memory in his eyes. He was so strange, so unlike anyone she had ever met before.

An hour ago, Ikara had reminded her it was time to start digging a grave for their prisoner, who must now be close to death. Keeping her face as neutral as possible, Amtar agreed, emphasising that she wanted to complete this task alone. It was her duty, as the one who had captured the thief. Impressed by her dedication, Ikara permitted her request.

Sometime before sundown, she went down to the Hall of the Dead, and in complete darkness, dug a man-sized grave. The soil was surprisingly soft down here, but it was still back-breaking work, and her limbs ached when she was finished. She felt watched; and wondered if the ghosts of the previous priestesses could see through her deceit. Pushing the thought away, she hurried back up to the light.

At dinner she took her meal alone – but did not eat it. The priestesses often fasted for four days at a time; she thought little of the missed meal. Stealing food again from the kitchens would have been too risky. When night came she descended once more into the tombs, taking the food, a full water-skin and a lantern.

The stranger showed no surprise when she unbolted his door and stepped inside. Yet neither did he seem to have expected her with certainty. His impassiveness partly soothed her wounded pride. She had hoped to scare him yesterday with her abrupt departure.

When she gave him the food and water he thanked her gravely despite the poorness of the fare, as though he were her guest rather than her prisoner, and she his hostess. His courtesy would not have been ill-placed at a great feast. He was very strange.

'Tell me of the place you come from.' She was sitting with her back to the door, her arms wrapped around her drawn-up legs. On the other side of the cell he sat with his hands folded in his lap.

He did not answer at once. 'A place called Rivendell. Some have called it the Last Homely House East of the Sea.'

'Tell me of this place,' she demanded, trying to hide her curiosity behind rudeness.

'I have travelled far and seen many beautiful places, but no other has touched my heart so keenly. It is set in a high valley, surrounded by rock and water, with the sky immense overhead. There is ever music in that place, for the people there love best of all to sing and ply sweet melodies from their instruments.'

She was silent for a while, half-closing her eyes, almost feeling the spray of waterfalls on her face, hearing the harps of elf-maids.

'Have you never wished to go north, my lady?' he asked softly.

She flinched; such a question was much too close to her heart, and dangerous. 'Of course not! All northerners are greedy barbarians – men who covet what is worst. Even elves have fallen to gold-sickness, or lust for power. Not even your famed magic has been enough to stop such selfishness.'

He bowed his head. 'There is much truth in what you say. But not all northerners, whether Man or Elf, covet only gold or power. And if you saw them, I do not think you would call the white towers of Gondor barbarous. And what of the stairways of Lothloríen, gleaming silver around the great trunks of the mallorn trees, whose branches let fall not a single one of their golden leaves?'

A fierce pain grew in her breast – and with a start she recognised it as longing. Images rose before her eyes of white citadels and silver walkways curving between immense trees. Abruptly she stood. 'Enough! Do not speak to me of places I shall never know.'

He did not speak for some time. 'I am sorry,' he said at last, 'I did not mean to cause you pain.'

'You didn't,' she snapped. 'How could you?' She sat down abruptly, furious with herself. Somehow she never seemed to say quite what she intended with the prisoner.

The silence stretched out as she searched for something safe to say. 'Why do you no longer sleep?'

'Elves do not need sleep as mortals do.' He was quiet for a moment. 'Why do you keep me alive?'

She started, unable to answer.

'Is it not against your vows?'

'What do you know of our vows?' she demanded.

'I have heard of your people and know that when a stranger enters their secret places, they never leave. I did not think the priestesses would permit their prisoners to be kept alive if they are never to be released.'

She turned very cold. 'You know nothing. You will not speak of this again.'

He hesitated, then nodded.

She reached for the lantern and turned its shutter back and forth, watching the way the shadows danced. When she tired of this, she pushed it aside and looked at him again.

His voice was mild. 'Have you yet managed to work the phial you took from me?'

She flushed, horribly aware of the phial hanging around her neck, hidden beneath her shapeless dress. She had a sneaking feeling he knew it was there. For a moment she yearned to give it to him, and plead for him to show her how it worked, that she might see the jewel in all its glory again. But she did not; she never could. At last she found her tongue, speaking coldly. 'That is not your place to know.'

He did not smile, or at least his lips did not, but his eyes gleamed in a way she did not like.

Her expression turned stony. 'Yesterday you said that the jewel was made, not given. You are wrong of course, but it would amuse me to hear of your people's belief. Are they arrogant enough to claim that it was they who made it, and not the gods?'

For a moment she feared she had gone too far. His eyes were graver than she had yet seen, and something about his look made her face uncomfortably warm – with a shock she recognised her feeling as shame. At last his eyes cleared, his eyebrows rising very slightly, and he answered her question seriously, telling her of the elf Fëanor, who had crafted the Silmarils out of the purest of all lights, doing so with such skill that some spoke of him as if he were one of the Maiar, spirits she could only comprehend of by thinking of them as gods.

She was quiet for a long time. It was all lies, of course, but it was a good story. It was difficult for her to think of things being made and unmade, when nothing ever changed in the temple, or in the pitch-black Tombs, or outside in the landscape around the oasis, where there was only dust and sand.

But something had changed. The prisoner had come – and she was here with him yet again, though she knew it was forbidden. Grave-dirt was still caught under her fingernails from digging the hole in which he was supposed to be buried – and still he lived, because of her disobedience.

She saw herself peeking at the ring she had stolen from him and hidden under her mattress, saw herself creeping in the dark, spying on him through the grilles, while he looked back at her with that clear look, so apart from her, and yet seeming to know her.

A rush of hatred swelled up inside her, catching in her throat. What was he doing to her? What was this spell he cast over her?

She imagined going into the next cell, where she had hidden his armour and weapon. She would take his sword in her hand, march back into his cell, and hold the point of his own sword to his throat. His eyes would flicker from the blade to her face. When he swallowed, she would feel the movement through the sword, through her hand around the hilt. But there would be no fear in his eyes. He would never fear her.

He sat motionless, his gaze not leaving hers for an instant.

As she sat in her corner, more alone than she had ever been in her life, a shadow moved overhead, passing across the grille. She froze, a cold thrill running from the base of her spine up to her skull. Someone was there – but how could they be? No one ever came to the tombs but her. It must have been an illusion, must have been the flickering of her lantern.

She stood and drew herself upright. She was hard and cold, looking down at him. Only once he had lowered his gaze did she pick up the lantern and go, bolting the door, leaving him in darkness.

All that night she could not sleep. She could sense something slipping through her fingers like water – and could not tell what it was.

Before she left to join the other priestesses in their duties, she lifted her mattress to check for the prisoner's ring. Her heart stopped. It was still there, but it had been moved ever so slightly, just enough that she knew someone had found it. She thought back to the brief moment in the cell when she had felt they were being watched.

Her hands trembling, she slipped the ring onto the chain around her neck, with the phial. What was she to do now? Did they know he was still alive? That she had kept his possessions did not mean he was not dead. She felt sick with dread. Had they killed him already?

Speculation was useless, and she could not check on him now without prompting suspicion. She forced herself to go about to her duties as usual. An hour or so later, she was hurrying across the courtyard when Ikara appeared, standing in front of her so that she had to stop abruptly.

'The prisoner. Is he dead?'

She froze, confessions catching in her throat. If she owned up to everything now, perhaps she would be forgiven. She would be one of them again.

But if Ikara had asked the question, she could not know the answer.

She looked at Ikara – and fought back the urge to recoil, for an instant feeling real fear. There was a hungry look in the older woman's eyes, at once frightened, jealous and rageful, hesitating on the edge of hope.

Amtar set her face. 'It is done.'

An obscene triumph lit Ikara's eyes. 'Good.'

She watched the older woman walk away. That look had taught her that as long as he remained here, the prisoner was not safe, even if Ikara now believed he was dead.

That night she walked the path to his cell for what she knew was the final time. When she held up her lantern and looked down at him, she found she was shaking.

'What has happened?' His voice was concerned, gentler than she deserved.

She shook her head, her emotions slipping. He was watching her as always. She could not do it – not yet.

She sat down wearily, gazing at him across the cell. 'Your people – they must be preparing now for the coming of the autumn and the harvests. What are they doing now, in Rivendell? Are they singing beneath the stars?'

He was looking at her strangely, as though he sensed her hesitation, and its cause. When he spoke it was not in her language, yet she understood the words instinctively, and the rise and fall of his words was more like song than speech. He spoke of the spread of stars, endless and eternal, and the joy they gave to the Eldar, who remembered ever that first glimpse of them on their first awakening.

She felt lost in his words, caught in a dream. When he finished speaking, she gazed at him, her voice brimming with wonder. 'Thank you.' She would carry those words with her forever.

He spoke seriously. 'It is the only gift that I can give you.'

'What have I done to deserve any gift of yours?'

'You have given me food and water, given me life. Such gifts are more valuable than you know.'

She lowered her eyes, unable to meet his for a moment.

The time had come for her choice. She could not stay here with him forever, listening to his words. She must either leave him here, for the last time, or set him free.

She felt so alone; an empty vessel, close to breaking. But she could see clearly at last. She knew what she must do.

She left the cell once more, soon returning with the rest of his few possessions. She drew the keys from her belt and knelt at his side, unlocking the chains which bound him. Then she stood back and watched as he rose to his feet slowly.

'You are free to go. It is not safe for you to remain here any longer. If you value your life, you must leave, now, and never return. I will show you a secret exit, where they will not see you go.'

He came forwards slowly. 'Are you sure?'

'Yes.'

He hesitated, and she spoke before he could, guessing what was on his mind.

'I cannot give you the jewel – do not ask me to. But it will never cause a war again.' He nodded and did not protest.

It took him less than a minute to gather his few belongings and fasten Hadhafang to his waist. She watched him in silence. When he was done, she held open the door. 'Come with me.'

She took him through a passage that led to a concealed exit. The door was stiff with disuse, but together they managed to force it open. The night sky was breathtakingly clear, stars spreading in every direction. She thought of the elves far away, feasting and dancing beneath this sky in another land. Soon he would join them again, and the days he had passed here would be but a memory.

He turned his eyes from the stars to hers, his expression grave.

She removed the chain from around her neck. 'Here is your ring, and your phial. Forgive me for taking them from you.'

He took the chain from her gently, hanging it around his neck and slipping it under his tunic. 'I still do not know your name.'

'It is no true name,' she said, with a bitterness that surprised her. 'I would rather you never knew it.' She did not ask his name in return. It belonged to the place he came from, the people he lived among. Her only claim on him would slip if he gave it to her.

Still he made no move to leave. The ache in her chest was getting stronger, paining her.

'You must go – there is no time to linger.'

He hesitated. 'What will you do when I am gone?'

'I don't know.'

'Come with me.' His eyes looked directly into hers. 'Leave this place behind and start your life afresh. You are still young; there is nothing to keep you here, nothing but pain and memories.'

Words echoed inside her mind, the words she wanted to say. Take me with you. To the forests with trees like nets for starlight. To a place of greenness and light. But she stayed silent.

Her chest constricted. 'I cannot.'

'Let me help you.' He took her hand in his, gentle yet firm, like his voice. 'You are stronger than you know.'

She felt helpless, caught in his grey gaze. She saw so much time and experience in his face – it bewildered her. She pulled her hand away abruptly. 'There is no time – you must go.'

He bowed his head. 'Farewell, then.'

'Go safely.' Her voice was little more than a whisper as she watched him, motionless.

'I wish you joy.' Briefly his fingers touched her cheek, before he let his hand fall.

She watched him until he was out of sight, before she fled in the opposite direction, back into the tombs, noticing for the first time that her eyes were wet.