Chapter 3 - Ravage of Rhudaur
"Fall Back! Fall Back!" The frantic call to retreat was drowned out by the roaring rush of heat and destruction pouring from the fire-drake's grinning maw.
Terrified screams rose above the clash and clamour of swords and spears, a crescendo of panic and dread as the townsfolk's efforts to repel the demon and its heartless allies failed. Advancing behind the fearsome spectacle, the enemy easily cut down those doughty fighters not incinerated. Ruthlessly the interlopers hacked and slashed through the sketchy defence of stout souls brave enough to engage them.
These foemen were not numerous; without the fire breather they would have been no match for the townsfolk. Hearty remnants of the old Kingdom of Rhudaur, the blood of the Dunedain still trickled through the villagers' veins, though diluted and diminished by time and miscegenation. The region's governor bore oblique kinship to the kings of old. Staunch and steadfast were these folk and much of the ancient lore was preserved in this easternmost province of the deprecated realm of Arnor. These were still a free people and not willingly would they relinquish that status. Yet detrital pride is a poor shield against dragon-fire; the line wavered and broke. Men scattered like sheep before wolves.
The beast's incandescent flames licked along the ground and ignited everything in their path: trees, farmsteads, cottages, and humans alike. Children, orphaned as parents sacrificed themselves to protect them, were set alight, gruesome torches to illuminate the pre-dawn night. A horrendous stench of seared and combusting flesh mingled with the biting tang of burning pine and oak. More quickly than anyone could calculate a thick black fume of smoke and ashes and orange tongues rolled across the village, obscuring sight, robbing lungs of air, and distorting reason. Hope fled and with it went the people, racing in precipitous panic everywhere through the decimated town.
Horror sheared away rational faculties as the futility of the struggle became obvious; all of them would die. Then many reverted to the raw instinct of the animal, each seeking in mindless fear to escape, to survive. Mothers made vile choices, gathering up babes small enough to carry and letting go the hands of older offspring, a shrieking ululation arising in which were mingled children's names, cries for mama, and exhortations to run. Spouse abandoned spouse, brothers forgot they had siblings, toddlers sought for hiding holes. Through it all the foul dragon laughed and roared and issued taunts in a strange speech none could decifer.
Into this scene of massacre and mayhem came unexpected salvation. A silent assault of deadly precision engulfed the attackers as elvish arrows streaked through the unholy glare of the dancing plumes, striking down the merciless foes. A great shout of courage and determination arose as the people beheld their saviours rushing into the melee, long hair streaming and bows singing, materialising in their midst as if born of the smoke. The elves fell upon the minions of the Dark Lord in soundless ferocity. Emboldened, every able Man turned to re-form the line and renew the struggle.
Still the fire-drake exhaled its blasting breath of Udûn, feeding the rising conflagration with living kindling. The elves shouted in rage to see it and all bent their bows upon the hideous monster. It gave a lumbering leap and sought to unfurl its leathery wings, unfazed by the barrage of missiles flung upon it, for all the arrows were thwarted. Not one found means to pierce the dragon's armoured skin. Undaunted, the elves and Men doggedly harried it, desperate to prevent its escape, for once in flight the creature would quickly attain a height beyond even the range of the sylvan archers.
This was in fact Legolas' small troop which had come upon the battle. None would have the thing free to return and complete its assault or travel on and unleash its fury on another village.
"The eyes!" shouted one of the Men, frantic to be heard above the commotion. "Aim for its eyes, good Nimîr nardu!" (Elf soldiers)
The dreadful beast bellowed out some profane curse in its arcane language for the hearing of dragons is as keen as that of the First-born. It shot forth a long ribbon of flame to chase after the clever man but only the fellow's hair was singed as he dove into the dirt and rolled away. The dragon's desire to punish him for such insolence proved its ending, for one of the archers quickly took the advice. With a startled grunt and a last puff of blue smoke, the formidable monster went down in a heap, the elf's arrow so deeply embedded in its brain that only a few fronds of the feathered fletching were visible poking up from the center of the left orb.
Before anyone could utter a sound two amazing things happened. The dragon's form wavered and shook like the slimy surface of a mud-mired pond and then seemed to melt. Through the steam that arose around it a new body coalesced and the elves cried out as one in amazement, for in death the creature assumed the form of a Man. The townsfolk were not surprised at all and many muttered curses and spat upon the corpse. Next, a great flash of lightning heralded a mighty boom of thunder and a veritable torrent of rain pelted down over the area, cleaning the air of the foul vapours and reducing the flaming debris of the village to smouldering black-charred lumps.
Then a loud cheer did arise from the surviving fighters as they saw not only the death of their tormentor but the quenching of its ravaging fires. Yet it was a sombre enough cry, for the lamentations of mothers and children had never ceased, and with their doom lifted the people remembered their insanity and wept. Everywhere their eyes turned, the seared remains of friends and family littered the ground, formless shadows in the sunless dawn.
"It is a good victory but a bitter one," said the Man who had exhorted the archers. "We are grateful to you for surely all would have perished this day without your skill and bravery. I am Aglahad, Chief of the City. Which among you is Lord?"
This seemed to take the elves aback, for they shifted about and gazed upon one another uncertainly, wondering if they must speak lies to the people they had just defended. The village leader mistook the problem for one of language comprehension and repeated his words, switching from Westron to Sindarin. The restatement gave the Wood Elves time to compose themselves and Filigod stepped forward. He bowed his head just the correct amount to be cordial without relinquishing his innate dignity and pressed the open palm of his right hand over his heart.
"I am Condir o Gladgalen, bound on a diplomatic mission to Imladris. We sighted the smog of the fiend from afar and hastened to enjoin the battle. It pleases us to rid the world of Melkor's misshapen creations, yet this is a thing none of us have ever seen. How is it we look upon a fallen Man and not a worm?"
"Ah! It is not something we are accustomed to either, worthy Condir," answered Aglahad gravely. "This is a creature out of myth: a were-worm from the Last Desert. Never did I believe the fables of my childhood yet there it lies in the pooling rain!"
"Do you mean to say this is some kind of shape-shifter, Sir?" asked Legolas, quite astounded, as he moved forward and nudged the despicable thing with the toe of his boot.
"I do mean it," said the Man. "Thus these felons sneaked among us, all of them arriving as Men fleeing hardship and slavery in Far Harad. We welcomed them for many tales are told of the cruelty of those distant realms. They each pledged their swords to our defence and we were fooled."
"What treachery!" exclaimed the youngest prince of Greenwood in disgust and kicked the derelict demon in the head. "No less can one expect from a servant of Shadow." His fellows added their own subdued agreement as all stood staring at the wreck of the creature through the leaden veil of the worsening tempest.
"Aye and we are not the first to be so deceived. Two days ago we saw a haze of smoke on the horizon but did not know the source. Then these Men came bringing rumour of a dragon away south. We thought these villains to be running from that as much as from their tyrant Lords. We had planned to set forth this day and make for our neighbours near the Angle, fearing the worst. Now, I don't believe anyone could make away safely from such cruelty as this. Alas! Little did we understand that we sheltered the murderers of our kinfolk!" mourned Aglahad.
"How then did you learn its nature?" asked Filigod, for it was plain to all that the Men had not been shocked to behold the transformation.
"A child saw it turn from Dragon to Man," he answered, his face twisting in anguish. "A wee lass, just upon the age of reading, and so none of us believed her tale until the were-worm turned and unleashed its flames. She stumbled upon it as it returned from raiding the flocks away in the leas, a mangled sheep in its ugly claws. Shocked she was in fear and frozen to the spot where she hid beside the barn on her father's lands." Aglahad began openly sobbing as he tried to complete his answer. "No sooner had the thing regained solid ground than it changed before her eyes and began to dress the meat.
"Seeing this she ran and told her mother, who apprised her husband, but neither one gave credit to the veracity of such a story. Indeed, she was scolded and sent to her bed without supper. If only we had listened to her! Ah! Azraphel (Sea-daughter) my little girl! She is dead and her mother with her! Forgive me!" The distraught man cast himself down into the slurry of mud and bloody ashes, rending his garments and wailing in agony. All bowed their heads low in sorrow for the loss of the girl and her father's tormented guilt.
Then Legolas moved forward and knelt beside him, a hand upon the heaving shoulders. "You could not have known. It is the way of children to invent and imagine and to share such dreams with their parents. You could not have known she beheld this thing in truth and she would not have you overcome in your grief. Arise and let us prepare such funeral rites as your people ordain, that Azraphel and all the fallen may go forth in peace to the place Iluvatar has made for the Second-born."
Aglahad turned his dolorous countenance to meet the eyes of his consoler and raised himself to his knees, gripping the elf firmly by the shoulders and spreading a stain of brown and red upon the saturated tunic of forest green. "My thanks to you, fair warrior, for your comfort and your aid. It was you who brought the were-worm down, wasn't it? Speak your name that it may be entered in the annals of our history for all the days of Men until the Utter End," he said earnestly.
"He is Legolas, our Prince and Lord, the son of King Thranduil of the Woodland folk," announced Faron proudly, forgetting his cousin wished to remain anonymous. "There is no better shot in all the land of Rhovanian, and maybe here in the west he is also matchless."
"Ai! Dîn, Faron!" (Ah! Silence, Faron!) admonished Legolas as he scrambled to his feet, pulling the Man up with him.
Around them all the townsfolk drew back and fell upon their knees in wonder, lowering their eyes and murmuring words of astonished gratitude. So great was their amazement that even the wounded were neglected for a moment or two. None of these folk had ever seen the Elven King but most had heard tales of him and the Elves of Greenwood. To have in their midst the son of this mighty Lord was a marvel; to hear and see his generosity was beyond astounding.
An Elven Prince had delivered them! The son of King Thranduil gave respect for their dead and offered to join in the mourning of humble mortals! Hesitantly they peered from beneath lowered lashes to ingrain forever in their hearts the sight of the First-born redeemer, rain-soaked and mud-spattered but nonetheless regal and magnificent to their eyes.
"Hail, Prince Legolas!" shouted Aglahad and his people repeated the acclaim as they jumped to their feet anew. Impulsively the throng surged forward and laid hold of Legolas, bodily lifting him upon their shoulders as the remaining elves looked on, gaping in surprise. Thus he was borne away into the town to its central square, Filigod hastening after as the rest of the warriors quickly tailed behind. The people set their hero down upon the remains of a dais which served as the town-crier's forum, the hangman's platform, and everything in between. Then they led another rousing cheer, sending it above the din of the downpour three times in succession, each chorus more hearty than the last.
"Please, no such applause is required, good folk," said Legolas, embarrassed while at the same time gratified to receive such heartfelt accord. "Now, let us see what must be done to set your lands and lives to rights. The dead cannot be made to breathe again but they are avenged. The Shadow has gained no victory in their loss nor has the strength of Men been defeated. Let us honour the fallen in Songs of sorrow and work of rebuilding." So saying, Legolas began one of the ancient hymns, a lament pleading the Valar to grant peace and quick rebirth to the deceased. The rest of the sylvans joined him, raising their melodious voices to mingle with the steady rhythm of the deluge, none of them caring that there would be no reincarnation for the Second-born.
Neither did the mortals mind as they stood in respectful silence, permitting the soulful music to loosen their locked hearts so that all were soon freely shedding tears for loved ones lost. Yet as the dirge went on they found the sounds soothed their sorrow and their spirits were unburdened. When the song ended at last the people stood quietly, their gazes inward, fear and guilt conquered, recalling their kin and comrades with pride and love shining from tear-brightened eyes. After a time, Aglahad issued orders for the digging of graves that burial might be achieved and the dead laid to rest with dignity. Though he had not meant it, the Wood Elves each procured a shovel as well and sang as they joined this task of bereavement.
Thus it was that Elladan and Elrohir discovered the Mirkwood contingent standing solemnly by the newly turned gravesides in the driving rain, underscoring the humans' ritual prayers with the subdued sound of elvish laments. It was they who sent word back to the borders that the sylvan envoys would arrive ere nightfall.
The twin Lords of Imladris had spied the signs of fire as they patrolled the hilly region of Eriador between the Trollshaws and the Misty Mountains, for it was as Erestor had predicted and they were travelling toward Fornost. Eagerly had the brothers hurried to the site, for they had knowledge of the dragon's destructive actions in the Angle. Elrond had sent out Glorfindel to track down and dispose of the demon and he in turn had dispatched patrols across the lands. One of these had come upon the twins and relayed the news. Elladan and Elrohir had hoped to be the ones to slay the beast.
"Mae Govannen, Tuiw" (Well met, Sprout) Elladan bowed to Legolas upon Aglahad's unnecessary introduction. "We are pleased to meet you and laud your timely intervention here. Not for nothing are the talents of the woodland archers renowned." Twice now this mere stripling of an elf had stolen victory from him, eldest son of Imladris' noble Lord. Elladan was anything but pleased to find Thranduil's lesser prince in the seat of glory once again, and this time on ground under his Adar's protection. He barely covered a savage scowl with a forced smile as he searched the crowd for Celon'lîr. "Where is Mirkwood's heir?"
Now Legolas was unhappy to have to hear both hated nick-names: his and his homeland's, but to have his plot so quickly discovered seemed most unfair and not at all the sort of reward deserved for the day's valour. Silently he cursed his brother as he tried to come up with a plausible answer. Mallavorn beat him to it.
"So good to see you again, Guanunig!" The false prince smiled and bowed with exaggerated grace in the pouring rain. He couldn't have chosen a more degrading greeting, for Elladan despised being called by this collective term, preferring to be referred to as 'Hîren' when someone couldn't determine which twin he was. "Aran Thranduil's heir left ahead of us, intending to stop in Lothlorien before rejoining our patrol." Not only was this the absolute truth, it was stated such that it could be interpreted in a variety of ways without revealing the actual circumstances of the woodland princes' plans. Mallavorn immediately gained in Legolas' esteem.
There was a brief and intense silence as Elladan shared his enraged disgust, consisting of mostly expletives, with Elrohir, who endured the mental barrage with amusement. The younger twin thought his brother overly sensitive regarding their names, birth-order, and individual identities and told him so. The brothers did agree on one thing, however, and that was the certainty that trouble would converge upon Rivendell with the Wood Elves' arrival. None of this communication was divulged to the waiting sylvans, of course.
"Well, it is a shame, that, for I would have liked a rematch in order to win back my dagger," Elrohir said with an amiable smile.
"No doubt, Hîren," answered Filigod before Legolas could reply to that challenge. "Will you be our escort into the Hidden Vale?"
"Nay, we have made promise to join Aragorn and the Rangers on the North Downs, but we will remain here a time and aid these folk," Elladan stated. "Go now and seek the haven of the Last Homely House, for you are expected. Eru le anna galu ar oer fael anlû mín aderthad." (Eru give you good fortune and fair days until our reunion.)
"Lín pith vilui, Hîren." (Your words are gracious, my Lord.) Legolas also bowed, glad to hear this news but needing confirmation. "Are you not to return to Imladris soon? I, too, would enjoy another contest of arms."
"Oh, we may not be back in the valley for many days," said Elladan evasively. "How long are you to stay?"
"Aran Thranduil left the matter open. The visit's duration is to be determined by lords Elrond, Erestor, and Glorfindel. When they deem the princes of the woodland realm have learned enough of Noldorin culture, warcraft, and state-craft, we shall go home," Filigod again interrupted.
"In that case you may remain a very long time indeed," the elder twin's words were barely within courteous bounds, skimming the edge of sneering contempt. "I am sure you will be there still when our promise to the Rangers is fulfilled."
"We will be gone before Solstice," growled Legolas.
"How unfortunate," smiled Elladan. "Our Solstice festival is by far the most enjoyable among the elven realms."
"Perhaps so, yet it must depend on one's definition of enjoyment," countered Legolas.
"Too true, Tuiw; it requires a certain refinement of manner and mind to appreciate Noldorin culture," quipped the elder twin.
"And Aran Thranduil is determined that his sons acquire just that quality of which you speak," interjected Filigod. "We expect to remain for the duration of laer but no longer, despite the pleasing prospect of Lord Elrond's fabled hospitality, for the snows come early to the High Pass."
"The House of Eärendil is honoured to have earned such a trust," Elrohir gave a slight bow and sent his brother a silent command to stop baiting the sylvan princeling. "I hope we will be able to do our part in exposing you to all the delights of the Hidden Vale. I beg that you will stay for Solstice, Legolas; I am certain Adar would be disturbed by your plan to leave us so soon and I am eager to test your sparring skills once more."
It was a direct challenge and Legolas could not decline without losing the respect of his warriors, nor did he wish to turn from it. He smiled back at the younger of Elrond's sons.
"How could I refuse such an invitation? We will stay at least through Solstice, then, and see what may be learned of Noldorin ways," Legolas answered. "Yet it seems wrong to leave you here with so much destruction to repair; I would wish to help the good folk of Rhudaur restore their homes and lands."
"Nay, your heart is worthy to so desire," advised Elrohir with a kindly smile, one hand upon the younger elf's dripping shoulder, "yet these people are our responsibility. It would go badly for us should Adar learn we kept you here in this deluge, valiant warriors and princes, our esteemed guests, working like commoner labourers. You would not want to doom us to Lord Elrond's Wrath, would you?" The younger twin's grey eyes sparkled with mischief.
"Nay, we shall do nothing to place you in Lord Elrond's bad graces," replied Legolas seriously and his expression was one of such overweening innocence that Elladan at once became suspicious and Elrohir's smile grew large indeed. Thranduil's youngest permitted a grin to upend his lips then, looking very like his father at that moment though most Wood Elves would say he favoured his Naneth in face and form. He bowed once more to Aglahad and the twins and spoke his good-bye. "Eru le anna galu ar oer fael anlû mín aderthad. Namarië, mellyn." (Eru give you good fortune and fair days until our reunion. Farewell, friends.) With that, Legolas signalled his troop to depart and the group filed out of the ruined town on the edge of the west at the feet of the Misty Mountains.
Though their adventure had been harrowing and the rain was almost painful in its intensity, they journeyed on with lighter hearts, pleased to have freed the world of one more dreadful product of Melkor's pride. And truly, no Wood Elf minded going abroad in wet weather and numerous were the sylvan songs composed in praise of precipitation. Such was their mood that Faron began singing one and of course the rest joined in, bathing the heath and heather with such joyful notes that the land exulted.
No such high spirited delight filtered into the ashes spread across the once lush landscape of the Angle. There in the crux of the Bruinen and the Mitheithel, the rich fields and farms had been transformed into barren wastelands, the inhabitants, both man and beast, departed or destroyed by the devastation of the were-worm some days before. We must spare a moment here to learn something more of the aftermath of that tragedy before continuing in the Wood Elves' wake. Thus, we retreat in time to gather this insight:
While Legolas and his royal guard had still been high in the mountains, the Angles were deceived by the lies and treachery described by the Chief of Rhudaur. Those humans that had survived the onslaught were in exodus, the healthy heading south toward the cities of the kings in the land of Gondor: Minas Tirith, Osgilith, Linhir, and Ethring. Those with kin suffering the languishing, slow demise wrought by severe burns sought the haven of Rivendell, for the elven Lord was known in all the lore of the people as a great and compassionate healer. Many were so badly consumed by the dragon's flames that their cause was without hope, yet none could bear to put an end to the life of a loved one, no matter how horrendous the agony was for these victims. A steady stream of refugees straggled into the hidden vale, the fortunate ones bringing their injured in wagons, others struggling to carry them in litters. The House of Healing was soon filled and many elves worked to salvage what life they could.
On the brink of the morn that heralded the foul dragon's death, Elrond laboured tirelessly to aid those that could be saved and instructed his assistants to drug those doomed to die of their hurts. From pallet to pallet he moved, offering comfort and hope, food and rest to the distraught families, healing or painless sleep for the patients. Few of the mortals realised who tended them so gently, for the noble scion of Eärendil wore plain, utilitarian garments spare in volume and durable in design, constructed to make easier the grisly tasks of bathing and packing and stitching and wrapping the battered bodies of the injured.
Elrond's ebony hair was pulled back severely from his brow, bound tightly in a single plait, and secured behind him under the ties of his apron. That item, once crisp and white, was stained and bloodied with the residue of the humans' blackened, seeping lesions. This was the fifth such cover he had used and the night was only just retreating. Hastily he pulled it off and tossed it into a bin overflowing with others of its kind, accepted with a nod of thanks the new one held out by an assistant, and proceeded to the next cot.
Worried grey eyes examined the unconscious woman there, the depths beneath the arched brows revealing the wisdom his years had bought him and the compassion inherent to his nature. His forehead was drawn in lines of distress for great was the need for his help yet despite all the knowledge he had gained Elrond could only treat them one at a time. Some slipped beyond even his ability and the strength of Vilya in the ensuing moments, and these were the hardest cases to face, knowing that with but a speedier intervention one more person might have lived rather than perishing in agony. He heaved a heavy sigh; the woman was failing quickly, too quickly for him to recall her fleeting and slender soul from its final rest. He murmured a swift prayer and gave a minute shake of his head to the attendant at his elbow.
The grief stricken husband saw and bowed his head in acceptance; too many hours he had been forced to sit by helplessly, watching her grow weaker and weaker, begging him with her silent stare to make the pain end. He held her hand as the healer rose, felt a strong grip upon his shoulder and a whisper of a spell and then a tremor passed through the fragile fingers in his grasp. A sigh left his mate's lips and she turned her eyes upon him one last time, joy and peace shining in them just for a second before she fled the ruined husk of her scorched body forever.
Elrond moved on to the next bed.
It had been two days since the dragon's attack and Glorfindel's scouts had been on the prowl for the beast unceasingly, yet nothing notable was reported. It seemed the creature had fled for other lands and just when the noble Lord was about to breathe a grateful prayer of thanks, news was carried on the wings of the wind that the monster was once more devouring the lands, this time north and east of Imladris in the area about the Trollshaws. Elrond scowled as the acrid scent reached him, straightening up and stretching his aching back, stiff from hours of bending over the ill and wounded. A few steps took him out onto the broad veranda running the length of the airy building and he leaned upon the porch rail, gazing with sharp eyes at the smoking horizon under the dawning sky.
Several elves followed him out and a low murmur of frustration and anger arose among them. There was no way to know if Glorfindel's warriors had engaged the dragon or if the haze was the result of another village burning. They could but wait for word to reach them via messenger. The sense of being helpless and ineffectual did not sit well within the hearts of the First-born.
"Is there nothing we can do, Lord?" asked one healer, her voice low for none of the humans could perceive the smoke from this distance nor taste its scent. These people had endured enough; no need to alert them to further catastrophe overtaking their kinfolk in Rhudaur.
Elrond gazed at her specutively, for it went against his instincts also to stand idly by whilst disaster spread just beyond his borders. Not only did he feel responsible for the humans surrounding the valley, this attack was too close to his secluded realm for his comfort. For more centuries than Men could count Imladris had remained obscured from the eyes of foes and the spies of the Enemy. Mayhap this dragon was sent here for a reason, a tool to draw out the remnant of the Noldor and reveal at last their guarded sanctuary. The noble Lord's frown deepened and his right hand moved to worry at the hem of the sleeve draped upon the left. Though none but he could perceive it, a gem blinked and sparked with living fire there upon his index finger. A breath of determination left his lips as Elrond pressed them resolutely into a firm, grim impression of reassuring authority.
"We must trust to Glorfindel's troops. What we have noted here so must they have done. Beyond that, pray for the peoples' deliverance," he said gravely and turned to leave.
"Nothing more, Lord? Could we not send more troops or "
"Or what, Barahin? Allow ourselves to be goaded into foolish decisions and rash actions?"
Elrond's glare was daunting and the elleth dropped her sight to the floorboards as he halted and fixed it upon her.
"Nay, Lord, I did not mean "
"Dîn! Iston man anirach. Ucerin den." (Silence! I know what you wish. I cannot do it.)
Elrond swept past her even as she bowed her apology, stalking away down the stairs to the gardens separating his private home from the infirmary. He cast his harrowed gaze upon the heavens but refrained from expressing the turmoil twisting his soul. Not for the first time, Elrond wished he had not taken on Vilya.
Nor will it be the last time I look upon it with loathing and regret.
It was a constant worry and a temptation that gnawed upon his spirit, its power wearing upon his heart as water upon rock, seeking to erode his convictions and wash away his resolve.
What good is it, for never can I use it for more than a shield to hide behind. 'Twould be far better had it never been made.
Yet it had been made and he had agreed to be its Keeper, not realising all those centuries ago what a burden that would become. Removing Vilya to Imladris had seemed fortuitous at first, a last boon from Gil-Galad to his faithful Herald, a token of the esteem between them and the respect Elrond had earned through his dedication and unending efforts against the forces of the Dark Lord. With Sauron defeated and peace spreading throughout Middle-earth, there was little need to fear the elven ring's discovery.
Elrond had used it then, securing his realm's prosperity and protection, obscuring its location from all save those directed by the Valar themselves. He had harnessed its subtle influence over the atmosphere and mastered the ways of governing the seasons, evening the climate and tempering the elements of nature. Imladris shifted from mild spring to gentle autumn with never a day spent in winter's icy grip or summer's burning anvil. It had not seemed like much then, this small implementation of the ring's puissance.
The world had not remained bright and lovely very long. A few short centuries of calm and then the light of freedom dimmed again, darkness growing and overtaking the hearts and minds of the lesser peoples of Arda. The foul and evil creatures became bolder, preying upon the weakness of pride and feeding the insatiable craving for power that ever marked the race of Men, even those of noble blood. Elrond's thoughts turned to wondering if he should extend the influence of Vilya, use it to seek out the source of the cancerous menace spreading to every corner of earth. The desire to do so was strong and grew so omnipresent that finally Elrond recognised it for what it was: the One Ring seeking a means to be discovered and placed in the hands of a being who could wield its might.
Or rather, someone foolish enough to believe he could do so. Yet Elrond's soul had become filled with disgust to see how nearly he had succumbed, how easily he could have become the newly chosen Master of Sauron's vile trinket. He had put away Vilya for a time and sent a warning to Galadriel, her admissions of similar temptations no surprise.
As Elrond traversed the half-lit grounds of his estate, his mind raced along the timeline of the numerous battles he had engaged with the enemies of Eru and while his gait was brisk and purposeful yet it remained controlled and composed. Though his expression was stern and serious, still his face did not betray the anguish these memories visited upon him as he relived the deaths of so many that remained dear to his heart. He reached the centre of his favourite spot in the gardens, a clever labyrinth of high yew grown in the convoluted shape of his departed wife's name. Quickly he navigated the silent avenues to its interior where a solitary bench of bent willow waited beneath a very ancient apple tree.
With a wan smile the renowned healer gazed up into its branches, noting an abundance of apples ready to fall and several empty nests from the many birds that had returned to the valley for uncountable generations to raise their young. This was the original tree planted when the labyrinth was planned; one of the many examples of the simple way he had used Vilya to shape his world. The yews were unchanged also, and while growth had ceased long ago the plants were still vital and would remain thus until the ring left with him for Aman.
When will that day come? How am I to know if it is the right time? Have I delayed too long already? He sighed and sat heavily on the bench, leaning his head into his hands and his elbows upon his knees. Safely hidden from the notice of any in his household, Elrond groaned and ground his teeth in bitter disillusionment. He could imagine the terror, torment, and agony of the humans under siege so vividly that he would almost believe he was there in the thick of it watching them burn. He felt his stomach clench and his throat constrict as the smell of charred flesh and bone invaded his presence.
Up he jumped to pace the small enclosure, fighting off the urge to retch, the need to cry out in fierce defiance against the Powers so far removed from the suffering their cohort had unleashed upon Iluvatar's children. It was unjust, unfair, and plain and simply wrong for the Second-born to undergo such strife. Were these not the people destined to rule Middle-earth in the Ages yet to come? Could one renegade Vala so easily topple the plans of Eru the All-Father? How could Manwë permit this travesty to continue?
I can stop it; just a thought and the creature will cease to exist, destroyed by a flash of lightning or suffocated by an abrupt change in the composition of the air in its vicinity. There are innocents there; do they not deserve a chance to live? Why am I still here if not to stymie this evil?
The vision of the destruction was so real he felt his foresight was engaged and he truly was witnessing the drama unfold. He conjured an eleventh hour rescue as a troop of elven archers entered the fray, one daring warrior leaping under the beast's very jaws to train a bolt upon its eye. Then Elrond shook his head harshly to drive out the scene, scoffing aloud at this vainglorious fantasy, eager to end the day-dream before he imagined himself leading the charge. Yet mayhap Glorfindel was there and the fate of Rhudaur was being decided even now. Would it be so wrong to give them some assistance?
With effort he forced his eyes upward into the cold grey vestige of night, there to seek the glittering beacon of the Morning Star. He was not disappointed; Eärendil was there, faithful as ever, a single note of hope sounding through the dreadful dirge of violence and remorse. The Song, he remembered, the Song was unending and ever changing. Even the Powers held neither its harmony nor its discord within their hands. Like the First-born, they were bound to it, dancers or musicians or both, swept up in its mesmerising rhythms, entranced by the complexity of its swiftly shifting themes.
Elrond sighed. Perhaps Manwë has similar moments of conflict, wishing to intervene but forced to employ indirect methods at best. The crisis passed and he was himself again, Elrond Peredhel, healer and lore-master of Imladris.
He straightened up, stretching once more, this time to ease the tension wrought from his internalised rage, and breathed deeply to steady his pulse and order his thoughts. The rank odour of fire and smoke assaulted his nostrils anew as a gusty breeze billowed his robes about his ankles.
Then he decided and just like that a great wind out of the west tossed the trees' branches vigorously and sent an armload of fruit cascading down around him. The yew hedge quivered and the sky darkened; a storm was rising and ere many minutes had passed a distant boom of thunder rolled into the valley, still mighty enough to rattle the glass in the windows of the Last Homely House.
Elrond smiled as he headed out of the maze and back to the House of Healing, pleased that there would be no more burn victims added to his wards.
TBC
© 29/12/2006 Ellen Robey
Disclaimer: Main characters and settings originally created by JRR Tolkien. Just for fun, no money earned. OC's and story are erobey's.
Elvish names and such:
Guanunig (One of a pair of twins)
Celon'lîr (River Song - Thranduil's eldest)
Ûrrusc (Fire Fox - Thranduil's nephew)
Tuiw. (Sprout - a pet name for Legolas)
Faron (Hunter - also Thranduil's nephew)
Mallavorn (Black and Gold - one of the warriors)
Filigod (Little Bird - Thranduil's councillor)
Condir O Gladgalen (Mayor of Greenwood - Filgod's Official Title)
Giliach (Star Crossing - Cel's false identity while in Lorien)
Tôradar (brother-father: uncle)
Hîren Adar (My Lord Father)
Hîr Adar mín (our Lord Father)
Ernil (Prince)
Ernil Vain, (Pre-eminent Prince)
Ernil Daid (Secondary Prince)
ion-an'weath (son-by-bond - son-in-law)
aurlinn (day-bird, a wood thrush)
Minya'mmë (grandmother)
thêl dithen. (little sister)
muindor laes, (baby brother)
nâr (rat)