Lathron stood on the cliff and breathed in the salty sea air. Far below, at the bottom of a wide, steep valley, the river Lhûn glittered in the midday sun on its slow journey to the sea. Perched on the cliff to the south was a vision of marble towers and red-golden spires - Duillond. Below the overhanging town, a sturdy stone bridge, clearly of Dwarven make, spanned the river.
It had taken him a week to travel from Thorin's Hall to Duillond, but fortune had smiled on him, and he had met with no trouble, apart from one curious bear that had to be driven off. The raven had remained with him throughout his journey, distant but comforting nonetheless, and he missed it now that it had flown back north.
He started towards Duillond. The landscape around him could not have been more different than that of Thorin's Hall - instead of dense forests of pine and spruce, and sheer, rocky cliffs, the southern Ered Luin was characterised by sunlit woods of cherry, aspen, birch and rhododendron, with grassy meadows in between. He came to a road of smooth, rounded stones that forked around a high, steep hill on the edge of the cliff. Atop it, and on its eastern side, sat Duillond.
He took the left fork into town, entering via a series of curving staircases hanging out over the cliff. The settlement had clearly been built with beauty rather than defensibility in mind - there were no gates, or walls and the entire place was open-plan, with many terraces, platforms and twisting staircases. The houses and other buildings were set into the hill and cliff, and in towers rising from the top of it.
He didn't notice how empty Duillond was until he emerged onto a large, semicircular platform and realised that he was in the centre of town. Apart from one or two guards, some merchants and a handful of citizens, the terrace was almost deserted, so everyone noticed him approaching and turned to face him warily. His dark, cloaked and masked appearance startled them for a moment before they realised he was an Elf like them and broke into smiles. "Mae govannen, gwador," a silver haired woman approached and bowed to him with her right hand across her chest as was the custom in those parts. "To whom do I have the honour of addressing?"
"Mae govannen, gwathel," Lathron replied, bowing in kind. I am Lathron of Imladris. I have just arrived from Thorin's Hall, where I had business with your master, Dorongúr Whitethorn. I arranged to visit him here after our work was concluded. As I understand it, he should have arrived shortly before I did."
"Yes, he arrived yesterday morning," the woman confirmed. "He's currently in his chambers. I shall take you to him."
"Thank you." Lathron followed her towards a set of switchback stairs that led up the hill. "May I know your name?"
"I am Brethilwen," the woman replied. "I am a vintner here in Duillond, and I own a vineyard in the hills to the west. At least, I did..." Her face darkened.
"What happened to it?" Lathron asked.
"Goblins," Brethilwen sighed sadly. "The creatures have been growing restless lately in Rath Teraig - that's a valley to the north-west, where they camp. In just the last week or so, their numbers have increased dramatically. Three days ago they invaded the vineyard and started burning and trampling the vines. It was promising to be an excellent crop this year, too."
"I'm very sorry to hear that," Lathron sympathised. "It seems our business with the Dwarves has kept Dorongúr from his people for too long."
"Oh, don't be sorry," Brethilwen said. "Dorongúr's only been back a day, and already everyone's noticed the change in him. He's been mournful and distant ever since..." she lowered her voice. "Since his friend died. Talagan Silvertongue. He used to run the library up where they've built Thorin's Hall. It's a shame about what happened to it. They say that the Dwarves..."
"I know. I was there," Lathron said curtly. Brethilwen must have picked up on his tone for she quickly changed tack.
"Anyway, whatever your business was, it's brightened him considerably. I've not seen him this cheerful in hundreds of years. Besides, if he hadn't turned up, I don't know what we'd be doing about the Goblins now. He's been talking with councillors and scouts from here and Celondim ever since he arrived. I'm sure he'll be glad to take a break and see you." She looked sideways at Lathron. "Forgive me, but I have an eye for faces, even hidden ones like yours." She smiled. "You say you're from Imladris, but you don't look like one of Elrond's folk. If I were to guess, I'd say you were one of us - a Sindarin Elf from the Ered Luin. Have I hit near the mark?"
"Partly. I'm half-Noldorin." It was as much as his mother had told him of his father.
"Noldorin?" Her eyes widened in surprise. "Not many of you around these days. Ah, forgive me, I am just curious. Of course, if you removed your mask I'd be able to tell better."
"I'd rather not, thanks," Lathron replied, unsure what to make of Brethilwen.
"Of course, the dark brooding stranger," she laughed. "I understand."
Lathron looked at Brethilwen sidelong in return as they walked up the hill. She was slender but not tall, with large, blue eyes that sparkled mischievously and a rosy complexion. She reminded Lathron a little of women he remembered from Oromarde.
If Brethilwen noticed his scrutiny, she didn't show it, although her amused, sideways smile never left her lips. Finally, she announced "ah, here we are." She stopped outside a pair of red and gold arched doors and knocked.
"Enter," came Dorongúr's voice from inside.
"Lathron of Imladris to see you, my Lord," Brethilwen announced, opening the doors. Dorongúr broke into a grin and rose. His white hair had been cut slightly and tied back into a short ponytail that made him seem younger, and he was wearing new red robes. "Lathron! So you've arrived! Good; I was just beginning to wonder if I could cope with reading another scout's report. Come, let me show you the town. Thank you for bringing him to me, Brethilwen."
"The pleasure was mine, my Lord." Brethilwen winked at Lathron. "Come and find me if you tire of our esteemed Lord's company. I still have a few bottles I managed to rescue, and after a few, I'm sure I can get even you to spill some of your secrets." She swept out of the room.
"Is she always like that?" Lathron asked Dorongúr.
"If by 'that' you mean talkative and ruthlessly forward, then yes."
"I'd have thought she'd be more reserved, considering her livelihood's been destroyed."
"Oh, Brethilwen always finds something to laugh about. Besides, the Elves here aren't really attached to anything much any more. Mithlond isn't far, and most of us have left already."
"Left? For where?"
"You mean you haven't heard? Elves from all over Middle Earth are passing this way to cross the Sundering Seas, Lathron. They say our time is ending, and the Lords of the West call us home."
Lathron struggled to process this new information. "Ending? Elrond made no mention of this."
"He will have known, I can assure you. One as tied to Middle Earth as he... well, he can't be unaware. Whether or not he has informed you is up to him, although why you haven't felt it I don't know. The Elves here have known for years. I would guess it's because we're closer to the Undying Lands, so the Valar's call is stronger to us. I must say, before Thorin's Hall I'd considered leaving myself, but since, I've reconsidered. There are too many things happening in Middle Earth to leave just yet - too many stories unfinished, too many puzzles unsolved. No, I won't leave this land just yet."
"I know how you feel," Lathron agreed. "I suppose if I ever feel the call I might think differently, but for now, there's still too much for me to see and do here to leave Middle Earth behind." 'Vengeance to be fulfilled,' he thought to himself. 'Prey to be hunted.'
"Come, if we go now, we'll finish just as the sun is setting," Dorongúr led the way out of his chambers and down another flight of stairs. Duillond, it turned out, was quite a beautiful town, full of fountains and falling streams. The few people they encountered seemed friendly enough, and bowed their heads at the sight of Dorongúr, but Lathron couldn't help but notice their subdued expressions, and the empty shops and dwellings; clearly, Duillond had fallen on hard times.
They emerged onto a wide lawn to the south of the town. A small stables was situated on the western edge, and to the east, a tall tower stood alone on a promontory over the water. Beside it, a steep path ran down the cliff to the riverbank. Dorongúr led Lathron up the tower into the topmost chamber, which was open to the elements, and contained a pile of dry wood - an unlit beacon. They turned to the west, where the sun was setting over the foothills of the Ered Luin, bathing the already rosy town and trees in a crimson glow.
"So, this is home," Dorongúr said after a while. "What do you think."
"I can see why you like it," Lathron admitted. "You must be very proud."
"Yes," Dorongúr sighed. "It saddens me to see it falling into disuse like this. There was a time when this beacon was lit all year round, and could be seen even from Mithlond. Now, however, we are too few to tend to the fire all the time. We still light it at festivals, of course, but even that has been forgotten of late." He headed to the southern rail and looked down the valley. Lathron followed his gaze. The water was golden, and below, just to the south, it lapped at the docks of a small harbour - Celondim. Beyond, the air was so clear he could see far downriver, to where it became an estuary, and bent round to the west. There, nestled in the crook of the eastern bank, were the spires and terraces of a great city, barely visible.
"Yes, there is Mithlond, the Grey Havens," Dorongúr explained. "Once, the seat of Gil-Galad, the last of the Noldorin kings. Now, it is a place of sorrow, from which our people leave Middle Earth, never to return. Thither have many of my folk gone, and it saddens me. Maybe they are right, and our time is ending, but I have found new hope, and I cannot give it up just yet."
A cluster of white specks drew closer and revealed themselves to be gulls, wheeling low over the water. Their cries drifted up to the watchers' ears, at once both mournful, harsh and strangely enthralling. Lathron expected them to fly westward, but instead they flew inland - east. 'There my path leads,' Lathron thought, 'and I am taking my first steps on it, it seems.'
"Come," Dorongúr commanded finally, as the last rays of sun disappeared behind the peaks. "It is time for supper. I imagine you are hungry after your journey."
"Starving," agreed Lathron, and his stomach gave a growl as if to emphasise the point. They both laughed.
Lanterns had been lit throughout the town when they emerged from the tower, casting a pale, rosy glow over everything. Dorongúr led Lathron to the central platform, where a series of long tables had been set out. The residents were already gathered, men and women alike, crafters, guards and scholars, talking and laughing as one.
Dorongúr stood behind his seat at the head of the table, and gestured for Lathron to take an empty seat on his right. As he sat, Lathron noticed Limael a few seats down on the other side of the table, and she winked conspiratorially at him.
Dorungúr cleared his throat, and the chatter silenced, all eyes on him. In that instant, Lathron recognised him as the charismatic commander that had come to Talagan's aid all those years ago. He smiled to himself - it was good to have the real Dorongúr back.
"Our thanks goes to the Valar for the food laid before us today," Dorongúr announced, arms spread wide, "and for bringing Lathron of Imladris to our table." He gestured to Lathron. "Le nathlam hí, Lathron."
"Le nathlam hí," the assembled Elves chorused, raising their glasses, and Lathron nodded appreciatively. He saw Brethilwen smiling as she sipped from her glass of wine.
Dorongúr continued. "Tego ven i Valar am mand."
"Tego ven i Valar am mand," echoed the Elves, drinking from their goblets again. Lathron joined them this time, the drink rich and sweet on his tongue. Then, the chatter started again as everyone reached for food from the centre of the table.
Lathron was disappointed to discover an absence of meat, replaced by an abundance of fruits and berries, and what he assumed were seafood dishes. He happily loaded grilled fish onto his plate, but was dubious about a pile of shellfish in a creamy sauce. The other Elves nearby appeared to relish the shellfish, however, picking them up one by one and sucking them out of their shells in a way that was quite un-Elven, and rather encouraging. At least he wouldn't have to worry about offending anyone.
Lathron raised a forkful of fish to his mouth, realised his scarf still covered his face, and froze; he hadn't considered that he might have to eat in front of others. He tried to catch Dorongúr's eye, but the other Elf was busy with a plate of lobster and didn't notice. For a moment, he considered leaving, but he knew that in doing so he would seriously offend Dorongúr and everyone else present. He thought of simply not eating, but the same problem applied, and besides, his stomach ached with hunger. His head began to ache, and he felt sweaty.
Brethilwen seemed to notice his discomfort and looked at him in concern. 'Are you alright?' she mouthed, smiling kindly.
Her expression calmed him slightly. He took a deep breath, fixed his eyes firmly on his plate, and lowered his mask.
He didn't know what he'd been expecting. Gasps of horror, perhaps, or whispers of disgust and pity. When none were forthcoming, he raised his eyes, and was surprised to see that nothing had changed. The Elves were still eating and talking amongst themselves. His neighbours opposite and on his right weren't even looking at him. Brethilwen was, but not with disgust or horror, or even pity. She merely raised her eyebrows and nodded slightly, as if she had suspicions which had just been confirmed, then returned to her food.
"Lathron, try a mussel," Dorongúr ordered, as if nothing had changed. He handed him the plate of shellfish. "They were caught this morning out in the estuary. I see you're enjoying the seabass."
"Yes, thank you," Lathron replied, although in truth he'd been too busy worrying about his face to eat anything yet. For politeness' sake, he picked up a mussel and slipped it gingerly into his mouth. To his surprise, it was tasty, particularly as the sauce was garlic, and he quickly helped himself to more. The seabass, once he'd had a chance to taste it, was delicious too. Enthused, he reached for a bowl of stew containing chunks of what he assumed was more fish.
Dorongúr gingerly pushed the bowl back onto the table. "I, ah... I wouldn't try that."
"Why, what's in it?" Lathron asked, slightly alarmed.
Dorongúr stirred it with his spoon, and one of the white chunks revealed itself to have a webbed foot attached to the end. "Frog stew," he chuckled at Lathron's appalled face. "Tastes like chicken, I'm told. For once, its something I'm prepared to simply take people's word on."
Lathron agreed wholeheartily - some things just weren't meant to be eaten.
The rest of the meal was enjoyable. Lathron found his nearby companions cheerful and talkative, particularly after a few rounds of the sweet wine had been quaffed, and they asked him lots of questions concerning news from Imladris. He was happy to oblige, and in return they told him about the goings on in Falathlorn, which, he learnt, was the region of the Ered Luin he was in at present. They, like Brethilwen and Dorongúr, talked of Elves departing Middle Earth from Mithlond, and Goblins crawling out of their holes to haunt the old ruins.
"It's troubling that they feel brave enough to start attacking homes," mused the man sat opposite Lathron, who was solidly built for an Elf, younger than Dorongúr, with shoulder-length brown hair. He wore robes of green and gold, and had introduced himself as Cardavor, lord of Celondim. "The business at the vineyard, it's terrible."
"Don't worry, Cardavor," Brethilwen called from down the table. "I saved a few bottles of the best just for you to drink yourself silly."
"This is yours?" Lathron exclaimed, "it's delicious!"
"My mother's," Brethilwen explained, "but thank you anyway. Limael's last vintage; I couldn't leave it behind for those vermin to drink."
"I've told you many times now, Dorongúr," Cardavor said, turning to his fellow lord, "we must take military action against these beasts. First the ruins, now the vineyard, who knows where they'll take next? It could be Celondim. It could be here!"
"And I've told you, Cardavor," Dorongúr sighed wearily, "that to risk open warfare now would be folly. These are raiders, testing our defences. If we attack, some will escape, it's inevitable, and they'll go straight back to their masters and tell them of our full strength, which we both know is weak. Keep them blind, and they won't send a full force for risk of finding themselves outmatched." Lathron got the distinct impression that it was a discussion they'd had before.
"Or they'll send everything they've got at us because they don't know how many they'll need, or more likely, because they're savage half-wits that don't know anything better. These are Goblins, Dorongúr. They're beasts; common sense doesn't apply."
"There's clearly something at work here besides Goblins," Dorongúr insisted. "These aren't just random raids, these are strategic invasions. They're finding easily fortifiable locations and working their way further and further south. This is not the work of dumb beasts."
"And here we are again, where you insist that there's someone behind these attacks, but you won't tell us who," Cardavor snapped. "I for one see know reason to believe that there is anything out of the ordinary."
'He hasn't told them,' Lathron realised. 'He hasn't told them about Ivar and Skorgrím.' He looked quizzically at Dorongúr, but the older Elf shook his head almost imperceptibly. His meaning was clear - 'not yet.'
"Would that my son were here," Cardavor grumbled. "He would know that I was right."
"I daresay Avorthal would know exactly the right course of action," Dorongúr said carefully. Lathron noticed he didn't say what that course might be, and wondered if Avorthal would be as military minded as his father seemed to think. "Unfortunately," Dorongúr continued, "he is not here; he is at Gondamon, treating with the Dwarves."
"A singularly useless task," Cardavor growled, and privately Lathron agreed. "They have no interest in us, and we have no interest in them. We've left each other alone for long enough and we've managed perfectly well."
"Until I travelled to Thorin's Hall, I might have agreed," Dorongúr admitted, "but my eyes have been opened. Times are changing, Cardavor. We need all the allies we can get. We can't let petty grudges leave us at risk."
"Risk or not, the fact remains that my son should have been back yesterday," Cardavor snapped. "If he's not back by tomorrow, I shall be forced to go to Gomdamon myself, and then we'll see about treaties."
It was then that a horse galloped into the meadow, its dark flanks sweaty and heaving, and its rider little better. He was dressed in simple greens and browns, with a bow and quiver strapped to his back - a scout. Heads turned to look in surprise as he ran towards Cardavor and whispered in his ear.
Whatever he said, it turned Cardavor's face the colour of Dorongúr's hair. Abruptly, he stood. "Show me," he commanded, his voice catching slightly in his throat.
"What is it?" Dorongúr asked, but Cardavor ignored him, following the scout to his horse. Dorongúr went after him and gestured for Lathron to follow. Concerned whispers began to echo round the table.
"What is wrong, Cardavor?" Dorongúr asked again, but it seemed the Lord of Celondim wasn't in the mood for discussion. All three watched as the scout reached into his saddlebags and pulled out a leather satchel, with a glyph in Tengwar on its fastening.
At the sight of it, Cardavor gave a strangled cry and clutched it to his chest. "Where did you find this?" he insisted.
The scout hung his head sadly. "In the vale of Nen Hilith. There were signs of a struggle, and there was also this..." He reached into the other saddle bag and brought out a large, cloth-wrapped bundle. Cardavor tore at the wrappings feverishly.
"I wouldn't..." warned the scout, but it was too late. In his haste to unwrap the cloth, Cardavor unbalanced its contents, and the severed head that it had contained thudded to the floor at his feet, spattering all their boots with blood.
They jumped back instinctively, but then Dorongúr gave a sigh of relief. "Goblin."
He was right. The Goblin head glared at them with blank, yellow eyes, blood leaking from its mouth and neck. The scout looked at it with distaste. "I thought it might be easier to bring you this rather than the whole body," he said. "There were tracks, too. At least one other Goblin had been carried off injured. It looked like quite a struggle."
"Are you sure it was a Goblin and not... someone else?" asked Cardavor, not taking his eyes off the head.
"Yes. There were Elf tracks with the Goblins'. Whatever they want with your son, my Lord, they need him alive, and he was well enough to walk."
Suddenly Lathron understood. No wonder Cardavor looked so distraught. He turned to Dorongúr and whispered in his ear, "is there anything I can do?"
"For the moment, no. We need to ascertain where the Goblins have taken Avorthal, why they want him, and how many there are before we attempt a rescue. Whatever happens, though, I fear Cardavor has got his war. This cannot go unpunished."
"No, it cannot," Cardavor snapped suddenly, striding off in the direction of the stables.
Dorungúr grabbed his arm. "Where are you going?" he asked.
"To find my son," Cardavor snapped, shaking his hand away and storming off.
Dorongúr ran after him. "This is madness, Cardavor! Think on what you are doing!"
"The time for thinking is over, Dorongúr," Cardavor snapped, turning on him. "The Goblins have committed an act of war. They have kidnapped my son. I refuse to sit and wait."
"But to go after them alone plays into their hands! We would not wait, we would plan, and strategise. That is our advantage and we must use it. You are the Lord of Celondim; your duty is to your people."
"And what of my son?" Cardavor spat bitterly. "Must I abandon my own flesh and blood in favour of my people? I would have thought you of all people, Dorongúr, would understand."
It was a stinging blow, and Dorongúr looked as if he had been slapped. Cardavor noticed, and his mask of anger fell away, to be replaced by grief and fear. "I'm sorry, Dorongúr," he wept, placing a hand on his shoulder, "but I can't... I... He's my son. I can't just leave him."
He looked so helpless, Lathron felt a need to do something, anything. "I'll go," he said, almost without thinking.
The two Elves standing before him simultaneously looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. "You... would do this?" Cardavor stammered. "You would do this for us?"
"Of course," Lathron answered. "I know firsthand how hard it can be to loose someone. I will find your son, I promise you."
Dorongúr seemed to wake up then. "Lathron no! You can't do this! On your own? It's too dangerous! You've only just arrived, and you don't know the land. There are many others better suited to the task."
"With respect, Dorongúr, no there aren't. This is what I do, and I'm good at it. You know I am."
"Yes," Dorongúr sighed. "I suppose you are." He ran a hand over his face. "I just... It's enough that Avorthal is missing. The last thing we need is for you to disappear too. You saved my life, Lathron. What sort of a friend would I be if I let you get hurt?"
"If anything happens to me - and it won't - it will not be your fault," Lathron reassured him. "Besides," he added, leaning close and whispering in Dorongúr's ear, "we both know that they're still out there - Fírndall, Skorgrím, Ivar. This is exactly the sort of thing they'd plan. There were Goblins at Thorin's Hall, remember? They could have been planning this for months, and it has been planned, Dorongúr, you know it has. Why kidnap Avorthal? The son of the Lord of Celondim, and the ambassador between the Elves and the Dwarves? This has the potential to develop into a volatile situation very quickly. It's better for everyone if I, as a neutral party, try and sort this out."
"The day I'll consider you are a neutral party towards Dwarves is the day I'll forge myself a silmaril," Dorongúr snorted, "but very well." His expression became serious again, almost fatherly. "Just promise me you'll stay safe. Don't do anything rash."
"I promise," Lathron smiled, "and since when have I ever been rash?"
Dorongúr laughed weakly. "Is that supposed to encourage me? Go, before I change my mind."
"First, how do I get to Nen Hilith?"
"It is south west of here. Head down the road to Celondim, cross the bridge and turn right through the meadows and up into the forest. The entrance to the vale is between high banks, and clear of trees."
"Right. Over the bridge. Got it." Quickly Lathron embraced Dorongúr. "I'll be back soon, and with news of your son," he added to Cardavor.
He ran to the stables. The stable hands were nowhere to be seen - at the feast, he assumed - but there were a number of fine horses to choose from. They were split into two groups - those belonging to the residents of and visitors to Duillond were housed in large pens on one side of the courtyard, and on the other were smaller pens containing horses for hire. Lathron approached them slowly and walked along the row. They could scent his determination and nickered excitedly, tossing their heads in anticipation of the ride ahead.
He chose a fine bloodbay mare, lithe and strong, with a white blaze down her muzzle, and saddled her quickly. She tossed her head excitedly as he mounted and turned to look at him with as he pulled his scarf back up over his face. He patted her neck, excitement building inside him, and kicked his heels into her sides. She whinnied gleefully and trotted out of the stables, breaking into a canter once on the lawn outside, and finally, once they reached the road, Lathron spurred her into a gallop.
The night air was chill as it rushed into his face. His hair whipped about him, and his cloak rose up behind him like a raven's wings. He grinned, and punched the air; the hunt was on!
Glossary:
Gwador: Brother.
Gwathel: Sister.
Le nathlam hí: We welcome you.
Tego ven i Valar am mand: May the Valar lead us to safety.
A/N
Cue Sherlock theme: Duh da, da duddu duuh, duh doo daah... The chase is on, John!
'He drew a deep breath. "Well, I'm back," he said.'
Yes, I am back! Woohoo! Hello everyone! I hope you had a lovely holiday and New Year, and aren't finding the return to work/school/whatever too stressful.
I guess there's not much else for me to say really. For once, I am out of randomness. Shocking, I know. Did you like the idea of Elvish seafood? It just seemed to make sense for me to make the Duillond culture kinda French - the fine wines of Limael's vineyard and the temperate, seaside climate for a start - hence the many creamy, garlicky sauces and 'les jambes de grenouilles'. Yes, I have tried frogs' legs. No, I did not like them. No, I do not have a problem if you do, it's just I find them a bit bland (certainly not chickeny) and feel kinda guilty about eating them 'cause I have a pond with frogs.
I thought I said I wasn't going to be random?
Big thank-yous to everyone who's currently followed, favourited and reviewed. I'm pretty sure I've missed some of you, so I'm gonna do a big communal shoutout now! Here's to Lukas0908, Mirokufangirl229, Rab Darrah, Telekinesis Fae Flamingsword, blackunicorne, Geththelithen27, HLeigh and AnironEndor.
Love you all! In the most non-awkward way possible!
Simon
Disclaimer: almost all of the names of people, places and general things are owned by Tolkien Enterprises, New Line Cinema or Warner Brothers or any other affiliate I may have missed, and are fictitious, or if real are used fictitiously and solely for the purposes of entertainment within boring disclaimers. The others are owned by me. Any similarity to any real life person, alive or dead, is probably almost but not quite certain to be entirely uncoincidental.
Seriously though, don't sue me.