Lotr Destiny

by Dextrode

Posted for tts. Updated over ever 6ish months. https:/forums.spacebattles

1. 1-10

I am not a man. Neither am I a weapon. I am an idea given flesh. That idea is death. In my hands I wield tools of terrestrial obliteration. In my heart, the eclipsing power of a dead god. My bullets are tributary rivers emptying into an ocean of possibilities. My blade is sharp and honed with secrets.

I am a Warlock - a Guardian.

And Guardians make their own fate.

Last edited: Feb 1, 2022

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Chapter 1: -Why is What is Where is Why-

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Nov 19, 2018

Chapter 2: A Traveler's Plight

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Chapter 13.5: Pardon

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Black Lister

Nov 19, 2018

#1

A/N: So this has been bouncing around in my head for quite some time. I started reading the Silmarillion about a month ago, and though I haven't finished the book yet, my muse is joyously feeding from it! For those of you familiar with Destiny, you'll know what I mean when I say that Destiny: The Dark Below heavily reminded me of Lord of the Rings, and I've considered making a story combining them both for some time. However, much to my dismay, I've seen only two, EXACTLY TWO crossovers involving the Lord of the Rings and Destiny. And I'm going to be perfectly honest... they're not written that well. But sadly, I know far less about Tolkein's universe than I'd like to admit, so I never felt adequately equipped to make such a story myself. I still don't, but I have spent that last several weeks reading up on pertinent lore. I've spent whole days just surfing the LOTR wikia and reading related passages in the books. I think I can, at the very least, begin now. So here it is, chapter one of my long desired story, Anthem Anatheme. Enjoy!

P.S. Though this first chapter is done in the First-Person Present persepective, subsequent chapters may and probably will differ. Just FYI.

--

I take my time relishing the cool water as it runs down my face. My fingers, gloved. My arms, gauntleted. But they feel natural all the same. I enjoy the cold that seeps into my hands. It calms me, sates me. The taste is pleasant and refreshing. My naked eyes open to examine my surroundings, though with no difference in sight since last I repeated the action.

It has been… Three weeks since I first arrived here. I know not where nor when I am. The confluxes of the Vex are by no means simple, and I am certain their labyrinthine mazes are the cause of my plight. But I worry not. I've seen the end of the universe as the Vex wish it. Wherever I am is some place they have no interest in, which makes it intrinsically interesting to me, simulation or not. So, I study.

I'm not a Hunter; taking stock of the land and my surroundings only garners me so much knowledge. My passion is in understanding, not of the world around me, but of the world around the world; of the universe and its clock-like intricacies.

Even so, I can learn nothing from the forest birds chirping and squirrels chittering. I have long since felt eyes upon me from afar, yet never once have their possessor come forth to challenge or greet me. I've begun to wonder if my senses have grown dull. Have I become to complacent in this strange, plain world? Am I the only sapient creature to walk its muddied stream banks and touch its aging barked trees?

Of course not. What a silly thought to think! But still, it romances my fantasies like a curious morsel. It whets my appetite but satiates nothing. So, I consume more of the world. I watch, wander, and wonder. I linger and loiter. I walk and I run. I breath in sights and exhale intrigue.

I rise from my knees and do not replace my helm. I enjoy viewing this world for what it is with mine own eyes, not through a digital or dimmed visor.

I continue to follow the river north with great white peaks of unknown mountains to the east rising to hedge my path. Through its rushing waters I could see no purchase to cross, and its strength was too great to swim against and breadth too far to leap. So, I walk on seeking northerly paths.

It was upon this path that I finally came across unfriendly company. I will not deign to call them "life" for such creatures, though living, did not deserve the name. Their foul disposition belied the darkness within them, and familiar hackles raised along my neck. They were few in number and small in stature. Their hobbled gates slowed them down and their gnashing teeth implied their hunger for freshly mauled meats.

I would instead bequeath the gift of steel. And I, with peals of thunder and flashes of lightning, damned the ground where they fell, black blood oozing and soiling the green undergrowth. It was over before it began. And so I took my time examining them and their effects. Roughly hewn animal pelts, crudely shaped curved blades both rusted and unclean, malformed physiques, and a singularly sinister aura. They were unnervingly similar, yet different from what I was already familiar with. My peace of mind gave way to suspicion, and my steps were thenceforth measured and eyes keen in their gaze.

I continue onward along the river's side, for at the very least I knew, where fresh water flowed, life congregated, and this land did not hold the corrupted taint that I would expect if it's only inhabitants where more of those pitiful wretches. Not that I mind my solitude. I was never one to taste its enjoyment in the past, I so rarely even had a moment to do so. Now I all I could ask for, and yet for all I appreciate it I feel... alone. Not alone in my individuality, but alone as if... as if every light in the galaxy was so very far removed from myself. I feel like a wanderer in a vast desert of night.

Speaking of, the nights here are beautiful. The stars are vibrant and blazing in the tapestry above, though foreign in every conceivable way. I trace their forms for a glimpse of familiar constellations, yet none seemed obvious, and even my spectral companion could find no link between their shapes. Nevertheless, they were fantastically luminous. Whenever I stop to rest, I watch them for hours.

--

The warm weather of late summer had wakened me to it's gentle caress, and from there the day devolved into a menacing game of hide and seek. The filthy little stunted gremlins were nowhere to be seen, but I felt, more so than saw, the observation of more keen eyes. I know not from where, only that they were fixated on myself. That I had not yet been attacked was only a sign of impending danger. Perhaps they meant no harm, but that is not a risk I am willing to take. So, I carry on my way with open eyes and ears.

And yet I cannot feel their peeping attentions as keenly as I had before. The hackles of my neck do not rise near as often. My instincts do not scream to me as loudly as before. Has their watch lessened? Or has their intent become neutral, or perhaps hidden? Instinct would only carry me so far. My feet on the other hand would carry me much further. The foliage of the forests beside the river is foreign, with large trees untouched by naught but time reaching hive above to shadow the leafy earth. My hunger is sated by the berries that grow at the edge of the riverbanks, and those leaves which do not appear poisonous. Certainly not my first choice for sustenance, but I see so little fauna to hunt for meat. I believe the growlers (what I have taken to calling the impish little fiends) have either hunted them to scarcity, or they have scared them from the area. But I suppose the lack of life is a benefit to myself as well; if my hypothesis is correct, then the more life I don't see, the more likely I am to come across more growlers. Eradicating them was... refreshing. I can sense the faint traces of darkness in them. Not like the Eliksni who harried the City's walls and outskirts in olden days, but like the Hive, who embodied within themselves living catalysts of paracausal shadow.

I did not care for killing Eliksni. But Hive? I could kill Hive. A lot of Hive.

Yet unlike the Hive, I do not see the typical corruption of the environment, so it is unlikely that they have established camp nearby. Perhaps I shouldn't compare too much. Misinterpreted comparison leads to fallacious presumption, and I prefer being right to being wrong.

The daylight burned bright, then burned vibrantly. Now it is setting beneath the canopy, it's final rays filtering through in beams no larger than my hand. I would ordinarily find a nice tree to climb and sleep in, but tonight I feel whimsically compelled to keep moving. So I do, my eyesight adjusting steadily to the darkness as I pick my way among the tees. My ever-present partner remains out of sight, obliging my enjoyment of the faint night air without the garish stark white light he could produce to aid me. In hindsight, I am glad to have set this precedent so early on in my arrival here.

In time, I see the faint pinpricks of light dancing between the silhouetted trees beyond. I feel my breath still as I realize it is no firefly's light. It is a torch. Torches mean other travelers. Only, I see many such lights. I creep as close as I dare to see who it was.

The terrible gnashing of teeth, hissing, and barking calls tell me what they were before I actually see them. More growlers. Some twenty-odd beasts. This time, they're layering some sort of... tar, or pitch... (it's a thick, oily substance) onto the trees. One or two direct the others with harsh, unknown words, yet ever do their eyes the trees. Not the base where predators like myself reside, but rather the high-born branches above.

I'd heard tales of a species of animal that lived in certain parts of Earth that would descend on unsuspecting passers-by. "Drop Bears" I think they were called. Though there is some debate on the nomenclature as there is also supposedly an identical species called "Koala." The texts aren't exceedingly clear on the subject.

All creatures learn to fear that which heralds the appearance of danger, even malformed mongrels like these. So what danger lay in the treetops that they feared more than on the ground? I watch as they smear more oil on the trees around them, spreading it on the forest floor between each trunk. I frown as I see their intent; I know a fuse when I see one. They planned on starting a forest fire. I look around me. The leaves that littered the forest floor are dry, and the bark on the trees are as well. They will burn well. But whatever these miscreants meaning was for the fire they were about to light, I know no good will be born of it. I could kill them, but how to do so without alerting the pack? They are spread out in throughout the hundred meters in front of me... No ballistics would end all of them fast enough before they tendered their ill-intended flame... Their spacing was just too far.

Ah! I must pick them off one by one, starting with the outliers and work my way in. Actually, the only real danger were those who bore the flames. That eased my task; kill the torch bearers, douse the flames, kill the rest as they stumble in the dark. And the weapon best suited for swift, silent death is a bow.

I duck behind a tree and command such a weapon to me. I extend my left hand and into it, it's slender curve fit into my grip. A bow hard fought for and earned by trial. I wonder how much death it had brought in the hands of its previous owner before it came into my possession. Its graceful form belied its lethality which I was about to demonstrate.

I withdraw an arrow and nock it. Carefully I creep about the darkness and spy my first target. I pause, step out of the shadow of the tree. It doesn't see me. I draw the bowstring back and let it loose. Death is almost instant. It falls tot eh ground dead. The torch falls with it. I check to see if my assassination caught any attention, but I hear to call of alarm. That is good. I dash past the corpse, waving a hand over the torch as I did, withdrawing the heat from it and lowering its ignition temperature to within a non-combustible level. The flame sputtered out like the life I just took.

I see another growler out of place. It dies as swiftly as the last. Rinse. Repeat. After my sixth strike, I hear their guttural utterances become more frenzied. No doubt they've noticed the distinct lack of light where their outer patrols should be. Now I was against the clock.

The two or three that spoke loudest and most often, if that is what they were doing, are my first targets. Without a commander to instruct them, they seemed about as harmless as Thrall. Such fragile little fiends. I line up my shots carefully, utilizing the bow's innate strengths to remain undetected. For this bow is strong. Stronger than any I'd ever seen. And its arrows were capable of piercing even the thickest of hides... flesh far more dense than the trees I hid behind. Its reticle revealed their positions, and I fire through the trunks with pinpoint accuracy. I imagine their confusion at the impossible vectors the arrows were killing them from and heard as much from their surprised barks. Now their torch-bearers are down to a single, solitary member. But my advantage has turned against me; though I can see the enemy through the trees, I could not see their details; I knew not which bore the final torch. I peek out in time to see it ignite the pitch on the first tree and the fire begins to creep up the trunk almost instantly.

I step out of my cover and loose another arrow, catching two through their skulls with a single shot. All eyes turn to me with panic and rage. They brandish their weapons high as they come at me. I quick-nock another arrow and loose it into one's chest. It pierces through the armor and into the leg of another some twenty paces behind. The first to reach me receives a scorching palm to the face as he is sent flying back into its fellows, tumbling them to the ground.

Stealth broken, subtlety unnecessary now, I hold the bow in my left hand as I reach behind my back and withdrew my iron. Death cocooned in iron blazes from its barrel in cacophonous reports, dropping three with such force as to knock them off their feet. The sudden flashes of light and peals of canistered thunder strike them into a stupor, their confusion palpable as they either foolishly rush head on for the attack or backpedaled in panic. I kill the foolish first, then train in on the more intelligent, though no less damned. I reload with honed precision, ejecting the spent cartridge, sliding another into place, and with practiced familiarity issue a single flick of my wrist that snaps the break-action back into place.

They are scattering like the dried leaves beneath their feet. Five more rounds and I've killed everything in within reason. In the distance I see two or three stragglers making a break for the depths of the forest, though each in different directions. I won't catch them all. Still, twenty... two... out of twenty-five was still eighty-eight percent success. One more kill would have put me into the nineties, a realm I would feel considerably more satisfied in...

I holster my second weapon and make swift pursuit after one of the escapees. I idly rip an arrow out of the eye-socket of a dead growler as I pass by its corpse and load it into my bow. But my mind brings my body to a halt, my escaping quarry forgotten as a strange sense of concern fills my mind, though I can't imagine why so.

I stroke the base of the arrow between my fingers idly. That when I realized the origin of my trepidation. I look down, lifting the arrow to my eyes. This arrow wasn't mine. It is finely crafted, that I can tell even in the veritable darkness of the under-tree. Simple in design but the elegant curve of the flattened arrowhead was in stark contrast to my arrows, whose tips were a trinity of wide, razor sharp blades.

But if this was not my arrow, then where had it come from?

I recalled how the growlers had been peering up the forest's skirt at some unseen danger. Now I wonder if perhaps that danger had actually been real. No, I don't wander. I know. Whatever had fired this arrow had killed the creature I pulled it from. Which meant they were an excellent shot, even in this darkness. A master of the hunt, then?

The arrow was more visible now, light from the growing flames illuminating the killing ground with an ominous golden haze. I turned to regard it, placing the foreign arrow into my quiver before I move to the tree that had been set alight. With careful brushes, I once again pull the heat from the air, lowering the surface temperature of the tree and the pitch to below the ignition point. Working in sweeping motions, I slowly bring the blaze under control. Fortunately it had not spread too far above my reach. What was left was a black, charred stain on the side of the tree. Hopefully the tree would recover, but thankfully the fire hadn't spread to its leaves or to any neighboring living pillars.

I turn from my examination to the bodies around me. My night vision ruined from the fire, I decided not to bother collecting the bodies or burying them. Let them rot, and their bodies feed the organisms they had tried to destroy. Poetic justice, so to speak.

I close my eyes, forcing what little additional darkness my eyelids could provide to accelerate my night vision's return. When I open them again, it takes a moment to refocus. I realize I am not alone. There before me stands a creature of... curiously magnificent beauty. Even in the cover of shaded night and hood I can see the fascinating graceful shape of the face, the piercing eyes... and the strength of hands which hold bow and arrow to my cranium. They were so still, it takes a moment to realize there is indeed someone actually standing there.

I am aware of more surrounding me. I turn and see four others lining up nocked arrows in my precise direction, their intent clear even to me, a stranger in a strange land; do not move.

I don't. They're the first human looking creature I've encountered since I arrived and I have little intention of provoking violence. They do not speak, and instead regard me warily, as I do them.

I don't hear the steps of another as he... or she... walks up and with one hand on my wrist and the other on the weapon, not so subtly encourages me to release my weapon. I do so, if only to indicate my compliance. Another presence from behind me and to my right withdraws my pistol from my belt.

I turn my head in alarm as I see the pilferer step away with long strides. My eyes follow the hand that clutches the weapon and notes the manner in which he does so. So long as he holds it the way he is, he shouldn't set it off accidentally. As far as I have seen, firearms are a touch advanced from the knives and clubs wielded by the growlers. I am, of course, only assuming though.

Hands now emptied, I raise them in a gesture of peace. I do not know if I should speak first or wait.

I opt to wait and am rewarded after a time with a silky masculine voice. "What business does a man have in these woods? All alone and hunting goblins no less." The man steps around and into my vision and I see that perhaps he isn't a man at all. In many ways I liken him to an Awoken; he certainly possesses their particular grace of features and movement, but he also lacks their distinct pigment. Instead, his skin is as pale as my own, and unlike me his ears are elongated and pointed at the ends. He also stands several inches taller than myself, and I'm by no means short in stature. Something about him discourages me from calling him human.

I feel surprise show on my face as I hear the familiar language. I had not expected that at all. I hide it as best I can and smile as disarmingly as I can manage. "Arsonist..." I correct before considering his words. "...goblins. A man must have his hobbies, I think." Goblins? I liked growlers better.

"Indeed?" The skepticism in his voice is palpable, not that I can blame him. He regards me, his eyes looking me up and down discerningly. "Tell me, hobby-hunter, why would a sorcerer expend the effort to slay a pack of goblins, save a tree or two," his eyes flickered over pointedly at the weapon in his compatriot's hands, "and with a bow of all things?" He takes a step towards me as he named off each article. He was a pace away and I could see him much better now. His features are smoothly curved and lean, and his feet make no sound even as they step atop dried leaves. I know of very few individuals with that sort of stealth, and this one did it (from appearances anyway) thoughtlessly. His hazel eyes were sharp and his hair a pale gold. He looks every bit as regal as certain fictional races were thought to be in the olden tales taught to children before bed. Perhaps there was more to those tales than most thought.

I raise an eyebrow curiously. He called me a sorcerer, and with a casual manner that indicated some measure of familiarity. I felt a thought prickle the back of my mind, but the urgency of a response forced the thought to drift away. "I'm familiar with many weapons," I answer nebulously. I know I should answer honestly, but I also have no idea who this is, and he seemed the type to indulge in a little banter. At the very least, he didn't appear rushed in how he moved, slowly and with purpose from in front of me, around, and off to inspect the rapidly cooling corpses strewn about the copse. I turn my body and head to keep him in my vision, though I was consciously aware of the no less than three arrows (that I could see) pointed at me. If they took umbrage with my movement, they didn't make it known.

The stranger looks down and inspects one of the bodies with a distant gaze. His voice is dry with pragmatism as he speaks. "A point made sufficiently apparent," he says, using the toe of his boot to turn the side-facing head of a dead goblin toward the sky. This goblin in particular had a perfectly round hole directly in the middle of its forehead. He turned and held out a hand to a fellow, the one who is holding my piece. The other steps over and lays the weapon in his outstretched hand. He accepts it without a glance. Instead his eyes are on me. "I have never seen a weapon like this before. It resounds like a sledge upon stone, and many times strikes dead those you point to with..." He eyes the corpse again. "...bolts smaller than a finger."

He holds the weapon out as if presenting some sort of damning evidence. But for his unspoken question, he reveals he has never heard it's like before. Though I realize something quite interesting. "Bolts," I repeat as a question. "You could see them?"

He gives a small, disdainful grin. "I see it appears that you know very little of we Elves," he says, punctuating all the right words to sound proud and irritated. He steps forward and looks me in the eyes. For the first time, I feel the weight of his presence. There is something there... I cannot place it, but it screams of a depth of knowledge that I did not expect. "There is very little we do not see."

He steps away and I follow him with my eyes.

"My name is Caranorion," He says with a look that indicates he feels obligated to tell me, though for what reason I cannot precisely divine. "And we would be poor captors indeed if we did not give you a chance to explain yourself fully," he says, turning with a sort of satisfied smile. "Which you may do at length with one of ranking much higher than myself." He waits for a moment, likely to let the words sink in before he turns and walks away uttering a short, foreign word to those under his command. I look between those poised to shoot and see the one closest to me, the first one I saw when I opened my eyes, tilt his head in the direction of his superior.

I understand the motion. Walk.

I glance between the face of this one and Caranorion's back before lowering my arms experimentally and stepping forward. They didn't say anything about keeping my hands raised.

Caranorion took the lead and the rest of his men follow after him, keeping me close to the front, but always too far to strike out at the man if I so wished. As we moved I noticed that the six Elves that had made themselves known, including Caranorion, were not the only ones. Six more yet join our party from... elsewhere. I know not. I had felt more eyes on me for some time but I had not thought so many. No wonder I felt so uneasy.

We walk for some time until we come before a clearing of sorts. Without the canopy to occlude it, the bright rays of the moon now shown down upon all. But it was ultimately unnecessary, for in the middle of the clearing, talking with his fellows stands an man of such curious luminescence that it almost appears as if the light of the moon radiated from his body. Yet for its light, it does not seem to erase the shadows cast by night on his fellows. I catch myself tilting my head at the sight of it.

The bright one turned before Caranorion had a chance to call out and the look on the bright one's face was joyful. "Ah, Caranorion! Na-i faroth eithel?"

I blink as Caranorion responds mutely, clasping the other man's arm. The bright one's words lower as he realizes, I suppose, that I am not here of my own free will. He gives me a glance with his eyes before returning them to Caranorion. Their voices remain low, the words passed between them too incoherent for me to discern, if indeed they were even speaking the common tongue I was familiar with. Presently Caranorion steps aside and allows the other to approach. Unlike Caranorion, this one's gaze is inquisitive and gentle, the smile on his face genuine and honest. "Greetings good fellow!" he says with a warmth I almost feel. "I am Glorfindel. My captain says you are to thank for eliminating a pack of rather pesky goblins. And he says you're some manner of sorcerer." The smile on his face has me split between his fearing for his captain's sanity and already knowing the answer. "And before any lies are considered, know that I trust Caranorion with my life. He has no reason to deceive me and, as you might have already noticed," he lout a short laugh, "he doesn't joke."

I couldn't resist giving an assenting noise of agreement and nodding. If Caranorion took offense at the jab, he didn't show it.

"So," he continues, "I would have you tell me who and, if not a sorcerer, what you are. And what your business in these woods is." The friendliness of his voice falters as he speaks and his grim intonation leaves little to interpretation.

I give my surroundings a glance and note that many a bow was nocked with an arrow. None were drawn or pointed at me, but any one of them could be fired at a moments notice. And if the fantastical tales told to children in the City were anything to go by, Elves were apex bowmen.

I return his hard stare. At the very least, the truth never hurt anyone... Usually.

"You may call me Lazarus," I say. "And yes, I am 'some manner of sorcerer.' And additionally," I take a breath, "to clarify, I have no idea where I am."

I can't say I expected them to laugh at me, but their laughter doesn't surprise me either.

Glorfindel's laughter though, is almost infectious. He collects himself unashamedly. "Ah forgive my humor, friend Lazarus," he apologizes, pronouncing my name slowly to make sure he did so correctly. "But I find it difficult to believe such a thing." His smile dims as he continues. "We have been tracked your trek north along the Bruinen for many days now. Anyone who travels as such seeks the Ford's crossing into Eriador."

Well... "I was looking for a ford of some description, if indeed this river had one."

Glorfindel narrows his eyes. "Indeed. What for?"

I open my mouth to speak but find the answer as silly in my mind as I imagine it would sound should I speak it. But, ah, I've already opened my mouth. "Truly, I don't know," I say with an anxious chuckle. "It just struck my fancy." That was the truth. North was as good a direction as any.

Glorfindel's eyes narrow scrutinizingly. I doubted he believed me. It was a terrible excuse, even if it was true. And for their abrasiveness they did seem like pleasant creatures, these Elves. If I have to flee, I shan't want harm to come to them. Finally, after a short time Glorfindel speaks again, and when he does it is with a quiet self-assuredness. "I can tell as truly as I stand before you no lie has passed your lips."

I raise a brow at him. Eerie. Good news. But eerie. Perhaps he was simply just so capable of reading people, even complete strangers. Glorfindel turned to look Northward. "I should like to escort you, if I may, to the house of Elrond, son of Eärendil of Rivendell."

I was half tempted to bless him for sneezing, but I stow my sarcasm and simply nod. I know not of who either those people are nor of such a place, and I have a sneaking suspicion that that was what Glorfindel is looking for; that... spark of recognition in my eyes or a lack thereof. "I... should be grateful for your hospitality," I say with some wariness.

If it was a test, evidently I passed. Glorfindel nods, mostly to himself I think, and turns and speaks to his men. "Mín úlime an Imladris!"

Silently, like the wind, they turn and make their way northwards. The luminescent Elf turns back to me and gestures me on.

"Come, friend Lazarus. We're some ways from Rivendell. We should become familiar with one another and share stories to pass the hours away. What say you?"

I let out a breath, feeling the weight of my stress as a physical strain. Despite his rather pleasant manner, Glorfindel was essentially holding me hostage. And despite his luminous disposition, it was not Light that spilled from him. Rather, perhaps, Light of a different kind... If nothing else it warrants study, as most everything I've seen since my arrival does; I will acquiesce to his request.

But I knew better than most that the Light, by itself was no assurance of righteousness. Call me a skeptic if you must.

Being a Dredgen will do that to you.

Last edited: Nov 29, 2018

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Black Lister

Nov 19, 2018

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Threadmarks Chapter 2: A Traveler's Plight

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Black Lister

Dec 11, 2018

#19

October 19th, 3018.

The city of Rivendell was abuzz with energy that had not been seen in many years. Many had already, and many were yet to come from many miles and lands of Middle-Earth. The Dwarvish accompaniment who had arrived some weeks earlier was comprised of Glóin of the Lonely Mountain - representative of the King under the Mountain, Dain Ironfoot of the Dwarves and his son Gimli, along with a small contingent of guards who for their part minded their own business and remained out of sight of the Elves with whom they now shared proximity. Galdor, a messenger from Círdan of the Grey Havens had arrived last week. Legolas, son of Thranduil the Elvenking of the Woodland Realm. And Gandalf the grey, old wizard and member of the White Council that he was, arrived with grim tidings the morning before.

Elrond drew up a pitcher and poured a glass, filling the vessel half full with fresh wine, though his action was mostly by memory of muscle alone. His mind was elsewhere, beset as it was with the visions of what he had seen the night before. Born in the early years of the First Age, it was not inappropriate to say that Elrond had seen most everything there was to see of Middle Earth, and of the struggles that had shaped it into its current form. He was well versed in the powers that existed on Arda, and of those who were capable of using them to effect their will. His own not inconsiderable powers combined with the ring of power Vilya on his finger kept the city of Rivendell shrouded from the Enemy's sight, and imbued into it the energy and restfulness of magical proportions.

And yet for all his prowess he had not the cunning to foresee this turn of events. The Elf stepped out to his balcony. Beneath was a waterfall, the sound of which soothed his mind away from pain and irritation. It overlooked a great swath of the city, and he could, from that spot, see the winding mountainside path that was the main gateway into Imladris.

The old halls of Imladris were adrift with the sound of song, as those who dwelt within them did ever sing about the tales of old and of things to come. Elrond, son of Eärendil, oft called "Half-elven" for his lineage of both Edain and Eldarin (that is, Human and Elven) ancestors had walked these halls many times. He knew them by heart, for even if he were to spend a thousand years beneath the shadow of Barad-dûr, he could never forget the stone walkways and gentle falls of the city he had built from nothing.

Indeed, Elrond could feel the weight of the world bear down upon him with the news Gandalf had brought; the Enemy's movements were cunning indeed to have drawn Saruman the White into his foul company.

"Ne'er have I seen such an expression on your face but that you are most troubled, Lord Elrond."

The Elf turned and regarded his speaking guest. For all his tribulation at the Tower of Orthanc, the wizened old spirit was recuperating well in his care. "You'll forgive me, friend Gandalf if I don't consume a mighty feast of information without first pausing to allow it to digest." Truthfully, the turning of Saruman was a blow nearly too difficult to process. That one of the Istari would abandon his purpose on Middle Earth and join hands with Sauron was unthinkable. It was certainly unprecedented. And it put the Elves of Rivendell in a dangerous predicament. For while the Elvish port city was hidden to the prying eye of the Dark Lord, it was not so hidden to their former ally Saruman.

"Of course. Saruman's betrayal is a terrible blow. But we are safe for the time being. He has not yet perfected his breeding methods, and the pits beneath Isengard are not yet fully dug. It will be some time before he can raise a force strong enough to pose a threat to the West. The Dunelendings however would hear Saruman's call and flock to it, especially if his first move is to crush the vulnerable nation of Rohan before focusing his attention north."

"Thus Rivendell is safe because Rohan is not. That is not a comforting thought in either direction," Elrond mused dismally. More importantly, Glorfindel was carefully guiding the party of Hobbits in their quest to the city. The One called the black riders to it, and so to Frodo as the Ringbearer. There were few in Rivendell who could contend with the dark spirits of the Nine, but those who could had ridden out with Glorfindel, searching high and low for the Halflings across the countryside. It was fortunate that Glorfindel, of all of them, had been the one to find them first; he would get them to their destination safe and sound.

He could see the Ringwraiths closing in with his Elven eyes, yet they were some some distance off and could not precisely detect the presence of the One... yet. Gandalf was also keeping a weather-eye open, monitoring their journey intensely. "It will be a close thing. If both parties' pace remains steady, they will both meet at the Bruinen sometime tomorrow."

"Then we must hope the wind favors our side most," Elrond remarked. They lapsed into a sullen silence for some time, nothing but the sounds of the lapping sea against the harbor's stones, the rustling tree leaves and the singing of Elrond's people to soothe their hearts.

Presently Gandalf cleared his through and spoke. "Speaking of favors," he began. "About that which we touched upon last night..."

Elrond didn't have to think too hard about what the wizard was alluding to. "The Man, you mean?"

Gandalf nodded. "You say he is a sorcerer?"

Elrond was quick to hold up a hand. "I have only the word of Glorfindel, who himself has the word of his soldiers. They claim they saw him quell fires set by goblins with only his hands."

Gandalf's face hardened somewhat. "A sorcerer who slays goblins and undoes their destructive work... And a Man? Men do not possess the strength of spirit as the Elves do. It does not seem likely. All sorcery ultimately stems from the Enemy."

"Agreed," Elrond nodded. "His thoughts are his own; his mind closed from my sight. But it is not in darkness that his defenses lie, but in light that blossoms and blinds."

Gandalf groaned in surprise. "Even your prowess in sanwe-latya could not perceive his true nature? Not even a glimpse of it?"

Elrond frowned, an occurrence more and more common on his face in recent years. He shook his head bewilderingly. "I confess I defer to lord Glorfindel's judgement. There is no lingering stink of the Enemy's power upon him. More than that I cannot say."

They lapsed into silence for some time before Gandalf spoke again. "I do not think it would trouble a guest of your lordship's be arranged to speak with me?" Gandalf asked, albeit a bit coyly.

"Of course." Elrond nodded with an equally coy smile though it vanished as soon as it appeared. "I have had careful watch kept over him during his stay, which I fear has not gone unnoticed; he has kept to himself within the high towers, consuming historical books of lore. He never leaves his room save to stargaze into the morning hours."

Gandalf frowned. "That certainly doesn't sound like a servant of the Enemy," to which Elrond gestured with his wineglass in assent.

"Indeed. And he speaks with no one save those sent to call him to meals."

The wizard hrrm-ed to himself and stroked his long, grey beard. He stood and stepped over to the balcony, withdrawing a pipe and tucking it into the corner of his mouth as he peered into the blue skies. "The stars have not yet shown themselves, but perhaps he will not take too great an offense at a social call."

--

I don't know what it is, but the smell of aged parchment, of old, dried ink is incredibly addictive, to say nothing of the sounds the crinkling and sliding material make when shuffling them about. For me it is therapeutic. While others of my peers might enjoy engram decryption, the study of Vex datalaces, and the manipulation of glimmer, I enjoy a more archaic, medieval pastime... Reading old tomes.

Truth be told, when I had asked whether I would be permitted to read these Elves' historical records, I had expected to be denied; I had earned no such right, and I suspect Elrond - lord Elrond - was trying to make up for the sudden seizure of my person and hijacking of my travel plans.

Not that I actually had any.

I don't think he believed me when I said all was well enough in my book, but I won't look a gift horse in the mouth. I also feared that asking to read their tomes, might make my suspicious presence-slash-origins a mite obvious, but so far Elrond hadn't pressed any questions. In fact, the Elf lord seemed to be content to leave me alone in my little corner of the city. During the day I study the written histories of Middle Earth. Once the first of many candles burns down to the base of the wick, I climb atop my small house's roof and lay there, tracing unfamiliar constellations for a familiar pattern to reveal itself.

This was the daily ritual that had gone undisturbed for almost two weeks; eleven days to be exact. I've honestly begun to wonder if they've forgotten I'm here...

But the knock at my door causes me to reconsider that notion. I look at the sundial on the railing of my balcony. It's not half-past three in the afternoon... and I've already eaten my breakfast, and they know I don't eat lunch... I lay the pamphlets in my hands back down on the desk and turn to eye the door. As if on cue, a silky voice called from the other side.

"Master Lazarus?"

Asking by name? Then it certainly wasn't for a meal. That wasn't their pattern. And if there is one thing I noticed about these Elves, it is that they always followed the pattern. This is unexpected.

I regard the door for a moment, slowly standing up with enough noise to indicate my movements from this side. I step over to the door and reach behind my back with my left hand as I open it with my right. As I do, I see the graceful image of the young Elf page. Well, they all look relatively young anyhow. Those who looked to be getting on in years were actually at the end of their maturity; like Elrond, or his chief adviser Erestor, whom I have only met once in passing. This one is significantly younger to appear so youthful.

"Yes?" I ask as politely as I can manage. I can see there is something on the Elf's mind, but he is disciplined enough to leave it unsaid. "My Lord Elrond has requested your presence." He takes two steps back and gestures for me to follow with that familiar grace I've come to accustom with his race.

I take my time nodding and stepping out to follow him.

Grace...

If there was ever one word that so perfectly encapsulated the Elves, it is grace; their otherworldly motions. Like the quiet, distant ripples of a dark pond. Like the silent flight of an owl chasing down unwary prey. It set me on edge. In fact, the only familiar comparison I could make of them is to the regal beauty of a certain secret-keeper. It's eerie... The similarities that is.

We walked through the gently curving halls at a moderate pace, the fluttering of his robes and mine the only sounds to be hear beside the sound of our footsteps. Eventually he stops in front of a certain door-less frame and steps in. I follow obediently.

He takes three paces and stops, bowing his head with a gesture. "Master Lazarus, my lord Elrond."

I look past my guide and take note of the room and its occupants. The first thing I notice is Elrond, standing out as he tends to do in the middle of the room. The second thing I notice is the other character. Unlike the Elves, this one is an aged man of advanced years. He wore ashen grey robes with a matching coarse beard. But what drew my attention is his eyes. For his age, his eyes were very keen. Sharp, like a razor's edge. But his smile is alarmingly disarming.

Elrond spake first. "Ah, forgive me if I disturbed your seclusion."

I shake my head dismissively. "I am but a guest. So long as I take shelter beneath your roof, I am at your beck and call Master Elrond." Not for the first time am I thankful that among my peers I had the tact and tolerance to learn proper manners in the face of nobility.

Elrond gestured to his companion. "A notion I appreciate. Master Lazarus, this is Gandalf the Grey. I have no doubt you have heard of him."

Truth be told, I hadn't. But thanks to my laborious efforts studying Elvish lore, I knew that the man he called Gandalf was more commonly referred to by the Elves as Mithrandir, an alias for the wandering pilgrim in the Elves' language, Sindarin, which I have yet to fully translate or memorize. Nevertheless I nod my head. I at least recognize the name if not the man himself.

"In passing only I'm afraid." I give a short bow which he returns.

"I trust your stay in Rivendell has thus far brought rest and comfort." It is a statement, but it is posed as a question.

I nod. "For the most part yes. Though any discomfort or unrest I have experienced is of my own making." Both Gandalf and Elrond seemed to smile humorously at this.

"Yes. The archivists have told me of your late night requests for records. I trust they too have been satisfactory," the elf posits.

"Very," I reply honestly. "I value knowledge above all else, and I must say, there was much I had not known before now."

"Good. That is very good to hear." Elrond said, though I'm not sure if he's speaking about my satisfactions or some other hidden meaning of which I am unaware. If Elves are anything like my true-Awoken acquaintances, then I'd be a fool not to wager on the latter.

"Now, to the reason I summoned you..."

Ah, here we go.

"There is a certain matter which has been brought to my attention that bids investigation," the Elf began, gesturing a seat at the table in the room, upon which were a few morsels of food and many books and scrolls. I look between him and the table before moving to claim a seat.

"I suspect I already know the question, but I'll answer as honestly as I can." And on that note, I am sincere. If the Elf, or the old man, who is purportedly a "wizard" of some esteem, are as keen as they appear, then lies or half truths would make me instantly suspicious to them. I would much rather retain access to their stores of knowledge while I'm still getting my bearings in this place. But of course, how much I tell them is dependent on... other factors.

I take a seat and Elrond takes his at the head of the table. Gandalf sits across from me, the image of a wizened old man at a table of old parchments and maps simply picturesque. I have to stop myself from smiling at the sight.

"Have you had anything to eat today, master Lazarus?" Elrond asked, playing the part of a host perfectly as I might expect.

"Breakfast, yes. I do not eat a noon-time meal often, though if you were to put some before me, I would not refuse," I say. I'm careful not to say anything that might offend. Ironically, most of my meals were in fact large dinners at night with light breakfasts in the morning. Lunch just never called to me.

"That is good to hear. I took the liberty of requesting a meal for we three before you arrived."

I nod my head thankfully. "I appreciate your forethought on my behalf, lord Elrond."

"When Glorfindel brought you here to Imladris, and before I sent him away on an urgent task, he described to me how his men suspected you were a practitioner of magic," Elrond began. "I would like to hear your account for his report."

So I was right. I had begun to suspect that there was some sort of stigma associated what these Elves called "sorcerers." For Caranorion had always uttered the word with an audible measure of contempt. Yet Gandalf, for all my research told me, is a wizard. Perhaps there is a categorical difference between the two... or perhaps there isn't.

"Well, I won't deny I have a limited knowledge of magic. But I suspect that your soldiers were most interested in my weapons," I explain. I had only seen any of them using swords and bows, and besides Glorfindel who seemed to literally radiate light, none displayed any propensity for magic (the legends of Elves from the Golden Age were apparently incorrect), so my gun must no doubt have seemed as magic to them.

Elrond nods and reaches over the table to brush aside a aged map parchment. Beneath lay my weapon. Elrond picked it up and I curse myself as I fail to stop my eyes from narrowing. I have no doubt Elrond noticed it, and even if he didn't, Gandalf certainly did.

"I presume you mean this?" he asks with a gesture to the device.

I slowly nod. "Yes, but please do be careful with it," I say rapidly. "It requires very little effort on the wielders part to hurt others or themselves with it." I say this not because I fear Elrond might turn the weapon on me, but because I do not want to see what color Elves bleed so soon into my time here. Elrond, for his part, holds the weapon across the palms of both hands gingerly, even before I say my warning.

"So I have been told. I have never seen such a weapon as this. Tell me, how does it work?"

I hesitate to answer, but decide I can at least explain the basics. I reach out with an open hand. "May I...?"And to my surprise, Elrond offers it like a gift without hesitation. "This is a gun." I unload the weapon and show them a single round. "This is a bullet. Inside this cartridge is a... an ingredient which creates a loud and violent burst of fire." I load the single bullet into the weapon. "This," I prime it while pointing with my finger, "is the hammer. When I pull the trigger, here, the hammer will slam forward, striking the rear of the bullet. This initiates a pyrotechnic reaction which is contained within the barrel of the weapon, here. With no where else to go, the energy pushes the bullet out of the barrel at speeds too fast for the human eye to see."

I let the hammer rest carefully and remove the bullet. "As you can imagine, an object traveling at such a speed would be able to pierce flesh as well as any arrow."

Elrond, despite my reservations, nods his head in understanding. "A fantastic weapon indeed," he says, though I can sense the wariness in his voice. "I had suspected it was of Dwarvish make, but..." He thinks for a moment. "What is the nature of the ingredient inside the bullet that creates fire?"

I consider for a moment... "I don't suppose you've heard of gun-, or rather, black powder?"

Elrond and Galdalf share a look, but there is no spark of recognition in either of their eyes.

"I see," I murmur. "Then even if I told you, I suspect you would not understand." I replace the weapon on the table in front of me, within reach, but still unloaded.

After some time Elrond nodded and reached over to ring a small bell. An aide entered a few seconds later carrying another familiar item. My bow.

"While it is true that your weapon... gun you say... may beyond the scope of my understanding at this time," Elrond admits, though it does not escape me the way his words indicate his desire to eventually learn such a thing, "I am however quite familiar with bows."

He stands and takes the proffered bow from the aide who then leaves. Turning the thing over in his hands, I recognize the masterful eyes of a person who knew exactly what he was looking at and what it could do. Watching him, I feel as though if he were to decide to, he might be able to nock and fire an arrow through my skull with pinpoint accuracy before I could even think of dodging. Call it a sixth sense, but I could feel the trepidation of danger flood my body as I watched him handle the bowstring in a way that I hadn't felt even when he was handling my gun. To him, the gun was unfamiliar, but the bow is like an old friend.

Finally he turned his eyes to me. "Did you make this bow?"

To this question I can honestly answer, "No." I now note that on another table off to the side is my quiver with its arrows arrayed in neat lines across the table's mahogany surface. "Truth be told, I was gifted this weapon from the... Well, you wouldn't know her." From offering a priceless totem to a statue in honor of the former Wrath of the Queen of the Awoken in her stolen Throneworld? Yeah. I am not opening that can of worms. "But no, I did not make it."

Elrond returns his eyes to the bow. There they remain for some time, a pregnant silence gestating for longer than I am comfortable with. Though, it seems I am not the only one who feels that way.

"My lord Elrond?" Gandalf prompted, causing the Elf to tear his eyes away. "Are you unwell?"

"No, no," the Elf assures. "I am well." He turns to me and gestures with the bow. "May I?"

I blink in surprise, but nod absently. Now my hackles rise in full. "Be my guest."

The Elf walked over to the table and picked up two arrows. One he held by the nock between the ring and little finger of his right hand while the other arrow is loaded onto the string. He aimed out of the balcony, over the harbor. He stared for many seconds through the scope of the bow before he pulled the string back. It is impressive that he could even do that. I don't know what the bow is made out of, but it's impossibly hard to draw, even for one such as myself. A normal human couldn't do it. So at the very least, the strength of Elves, or at least this particular Elf is at least on par with my own...

In a blur of motion, he turned and loosed the arrow. I felt the cold of panic flood my veins as the deadly metal brushed against the hairs of my throat as it sailed past. In the beat of a heart and pulse of instinct, the gun is in my hand, bullet chambered, hammer primed and barrel to the Elf's brow. Our eyes are hard and our jaws set. The only sound to be heard is our steady breaths, the world around us continuing as it was, as if we weren't about to spill each others blood across the finely crafts floor, furniture, and walls. I feel as if a contest of wills is raging; if he drew again, I could kill him with the twitch of a single finger. yet I don't doubt his superhuman strength could draw the bowstring back far enough to kill me with his second stolen arrow before his brain turned to a scrambled mush. The second arrow is already nocked. All he needs to do is flex his muscles.

And yet...

He is looking for something; if he wanted to kill me with the first arrow, he very well could have done it. A master archer missing his mark? It's possible. An unfamiliar bow, and unfamiliar arrow, a sudden movement... He could have missed.

But something in my gut told me it was for another reason. An intentional reason.

I peer hard into his eyes, as he does to mine. Does he wish to see if I will kill him? Does he wish to know my temperament? My nature? My capacity for restraint perhaps? If so, he is a fool.

With a snarl I pill the trigger.

To his credit, Elrond barely flinches from the cacophanic bellow that erupted from the shot past his elongated ear.

It barely took a second for the door to burst open and armed guard with bows drawn to train them on me. Instinctively I reach out with my left hand towards them, a golden fire leashed upon the surface of my palm, licks of flame dancing between splayed fingers ready to billow forth at my command.

But they do not fire.

Elrond stands silent, his eyes never having left mine own. For several silent seconds, nobody moves.

...

The silence is broken by one of the enforcers. "My lord Elrond?" It is a querying address, for though danger is nigh, his master had yet to react in either body or voice.

Finally, Elrond moves. It is a slow wave of his hand to his guards with a definitive meaning. Stand down. Their distrust in me is wholly evident, but to their credit they do as instructed without a single second glance to the Elf lord. They quietly file out of the room. I have no doubt they will standby for any implication their master is in danger again.

Elrond lowers the bow and with careful measured steps walks over to a table closest to the door and places the bow upon a stand.

"Forgive me, master Lazarus," the Elf said with what I assume to be genuine apology in his voice. Yet his stance held no real regret. he turned to face me, or rather, face Gandalf who from his position is now behind me. "Satisfied?"

I turn and look at the old man who hadn't moved once since sitting down. He nodded. "Indeed I am, my lord Elrond," he said though his expression held no true satisfaction in it. "Sorcerer or not, a servant of the enemy would not have hesitated to kill you, of all people, given the chance."

I raise a brow and turn back to Elrond as he crosses the room and returns to his seat. "I believe I am now more aptly aware of the situation." He gestures once again to my vacant seat. I look between him and the wizard hard, but I do not sit. Idly realizing my arm is still on fire, I clench my fingers into a fist and extinguish the flames thereon. The gun is useless. I only had enough time to load a single bullet when I realized the Elf lord was attacking. And if what Glorfindel and Caranorion said about Elven eyesight is true, then I doubted Elrond hadn't seen the reloading action and be on the look out for it in the future.

I find myself emphatically irritated with all of this. "If I had known we were going to play games, I might have warned you that I possess a reciprocal disposition."

"The Enemy moves in cunning ways; ways, by nature, invisible to those of whom his will is set against."

I roll my shoulders and narrow my eyes. "What enemy?"

Elrond's head tilts curiously at me and I feel his eyes discerning me with every twitch. "A week and more of reading history and yet you ask, 'what enemy?' " The Elf lord's tone shifts, and his welcoming tone decays into a cold tone of disdain. He let the question hang in the air and gives me time to think. The only enemy of the Elves is some ancient being called Morgoth, but he was cast off of the Earth and imprisoned. The only other "enemy" was Sauron, a lieutenant of Morgoth's who was defeated at the end of the so-called "Second Age." Now, their only enemy is roving packs of goblins, orcs, trolls and the like. I can think of no obvious answer.

But to my rescue came Gandalf who reached a hand out to placate his companion. "I believe, my lord Elrond, that our guest is not as knowledgeable about goings on of Middle-Earth, the happenings of ancient days, or the subtleties of history that therein lie." Elrond looks to the man and I can see the emotion within him reduce to invisibility. But Gandalf gazes right at me with a knowing gaze that I don't think I like. I narrow my eyes but say nothing, intent on letting them continue.

Gandalf slowly brings his hands in front of him and folds them into each other. His shoulders hunch forward and his wizened features betray nothing. When he speaks it is with both knowing and unknowing... and a damn twinkle in his eye.

"In fact I suspect he is not from Middle-Earth at all."

Last edited: Dec 27, 2018

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Black Lister

Dec 11, 2018

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Threadmarks Chapter 3: Speech is Silver, Silence is Golden

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Black Lister

Sep 26, 2019

#34

When one deals with the Vex as much as we Guardians do, it behooves the Vanguard to encourage temporal displacement contingency seminars led by knowledgeable Warlocks and experienced Hunters.

My expression is empty as I hear those words that I dreaded, for it was the truth. I had read enough psuedo-fiction literature from authors (both ancient and modern) regarding time travel... or in this case, the culture shock of modern society intersecting with a primitive one.

Generally, the displaced individual had one of two choices. They could either hide their origin and cocoon themselves in full lies or half-truths which would inevitably come back to bite them in the backside later on, or provide full disclosure at the risk of confusing and distorting the world around them with undue knowledge and information.

From a narrative standpoint, neither of these options appealed to me then, and neither appeal to me now.

Thus, I choose option three; that route was thus; wrap myself in secrets. Be honest where necessary but be evasive where not. Maintain a strict level of ambiguity and mystery, and - if need be - dole out the truth little by little as necessary.

One might argue such a stance is arbitrary for my own amusement, and from a certain perspective I don't disagree. But the truth is, it's entirely practical; no good would come from overwhelming primitive minds with events they will never understand. They would be confounded beyond recovery.

I was not expecting the old man to just… blurt it out like that though.

Elrond, for his part, seemed surprised to hear this. He rips his gaze from Gandalf and trains it on me, but I do not shy away. When he speaks again, it is with an astonished, yet surprisingly measured tone. "You mean to suggest he is from the West? From the shores of Valinor?"

Valinor... I have heard that word before. It is the name of the land, far west from here, over the sea. It is a land inaccessible save to those who possess the ships capable of crossing the waters betwixt them; boats only the Elves can create. In common mythology it would be akin to "Heaven." Yet unlike Heaven, which I suspect is a real place, but located somewhere in the spiritual plane, Valinor was a physical location. It is simply... locked away in a metaphysical way. The texts I've read weren't explicitly clear on the subject.

"Nay, not so," Gandalf counters. "For those who walk those distant shores forever more are imbued in the light of the Valar and of the Trees. Those precious few who from thence return emit such light from their bodies, as is the case with Glorfindel."

I blink in surprise. Are they implying that Glorfindel had touched Heaven and returned? Honestly, that made sense considering...

I hold up my hand to stall their speculations. "I'm under no authority to deny any suspicions you may have of me, so I will only speak to what I know. A foreword though: whatever I say, however strange or unbelievable it may seem to thee is the truth as near as I can account."

Both creatures return their eyes to me and wait expectantly. Gandalf folds his hands into a bridge in front of him while Elrond leans on his knuckles against the surface of the table.

"I am from elsewhere; a land far away than cannot be reached by ordinary means. In that land, I am a Guardian. A soldier tasked with pushing back the encroaching forces of the Darkness that threaten the Last City and Mankind. How I have come to be in this Middle-Earth I know not, though I endeavor to decipher this mystery first and foremost."

I add no more as I allow my words to hang in the air. When Elrond speaks it was with a surprisingly even tone. He leans back in his seat and rests his chin in the crux of the first three fingers of his hand.

"…If what you say is true, then there is much we must discuss. Let us start simply: tell us of your homeland. You speak of a 'Last City of Mankind.'"

I tentatively nod my head. "Mankind, both much like and very much unlike Men, has been pushed to the brink of destruction, with what is left of us is huddled beneath the carcass of the Traveler."

Elrond inclines his head in such a way as to prompt me to elaborate, so I do. "Long ago the Traveler arrived and bestowed on us many gifts: sciences, medicine, longevity... Blessings that propelled our people into a golden age of discovery and exploration. But soon after, like a hound at its heels, the Darkness followed in force and drove Mankind into a dark age. The Traveler made a final stand to resist the Darkness… and perished in its victory."

As the next words flow into my mind, I feel a pulse of nostalgia of as I quote what I'd heard so very long ago.

"In its dying breath, the Traveler dispatched... emissaries who would seek out its chosen soldiers," I gesture to my person. "Guardians to protect humanity. And to do what the Traveler itself no longer can. And we have done exactly that since that fateful day, staving off those who followed in the Darkness' wake; those who seek to serve it, those who seek to exploit it, those who seek to flee it…"

And yet so little progress had been made, hadn't it? For a nigh a thousand years the most the Guardians could offer humanity was a safe prison to live in; a narrow grave to die in. The fight was less with blade and bullet than it was with tooth and nail, humanity's indomitable spirit passing as a torch from one generation to the next, and the Guardians, raised from the dead as blank slates willing to fuel that same burning hope. It must surely be vexing to those who served the Darkness how an upstart species on a single world who had enjoyed only the briefest exposure of the Traveler's touch had managed to stave off certain doom amidst conquerors, scavengers, exploiters and nihilists, all while caged under the looming shadow of a dead god.

I bring myself back from my thoughts as I note that I have lapsed into silence. My hosts are exceedingly generous in their patience, and their attention returns anew as I stir.

"In the past several years, we have made… remarkable progress in knocking over key pillars of the Darkness in our former territories. Its stranglehold has finally loosened. As to how I came to be lost in these lands, I can only guess. There are those amongst my adversaries," I say with an insuppressible sigh, "who have the capability to move that which will not be moved wherever they wish it to be. I hypothesize my current predicament is their doing."

Elrond asks after a moment, "Should I take that to mean that those who brought you to these shores are not here also?"

I nod thoughtfully. "That is my suspicion, yes. Though... it is suspicion only."

A deliberately audible shuffle of shoes draws our attention to the doorway where an elf stood. "Refreshments are prepared, lord Elrond."

Elrond nodded and beckoned to the attendant. "Excellent, we are in need of just such."

The Elf bows and gestures aside to one outside the door, bringing in an assortment of foods and drinks. Truth be told, it all looks quite delicious, and judging by the level of technology, this is probably prepared by hand - start to finish - without a single microwave piercing the steaming succulent flesh of the cooked meats set before us. Additionally, there is a collection of silver leaves garnishing baked bread that looked good enough to eat on their own. And between the platters were placed ornate pitchers of what I can only assume is wine, if the familiar faint whiffs are anything to go by, and three ornate silver goblets are placed apiece.

As the attendants leave, Elrond and Gandalf both go about picking food for themselves from the table. I do the same.

We eat and talk, and eat, and talk some more. Most of the questions from Elrond who seems more interested in the events that culminated in Mankind's relegation to a single city. Gandalf, being a wizard, does not surprise me when he queries me about who the Traveler is, or was, which I answer honestly as best I can. I describe it as a white moon that hangs over the city, though I doubt they picture it the same way I know it to be. Perhaps they think me a fool, or a liar, or a madman. It's the truth regardless.

The subject turns to culture, and to specific events I do not explain and explicitly evade. I find myself answering briefly and vapidly more often than I care to admit. While honesty is a virtue, I rationalize that if I am as ignorant of this world's state of affairs and the laws it turns by, they must conversely be much more so. So I avoid details.

There is a music in the air that rises from the city beyond, the now setting sun filtering through golden leaves that rustle out of sight. The still warm October air drifted refreshingly through the window arches of the veranda, and I felt for a moment almost like I was home, back in the Tower at the close of day, the bright artificial lights that lit up the southern pole of the Traveler from the City below replaced with warm lantern light upon the hillside villa.

We return to eating for a time, and at length I raise a question of my own. "Before we became woefully sidetracked on myself and homeland, you were speaking of an 'enemy' of sorts. I have spoken of the Darkness of my home. Tell me of the darkness here."

Instead if is Gandalf that speaks. "Nay, it is ill to speak of evil things so late in the day, and especially, as a Hobbit might tell you, after so delicious a meal. I think, lord Elrond," he addresses our host, "we should retire for the evening. Much has been said. And much eaten! And we should digest both in evening's peace."

I sense the wizard's words are as much a signal as they are a suggestion. "I confess I only feel at peace in the pursuit of knowledge," I say, though I do not push the subject too far. "But if I must suffer a restless night of unknowing for the promise of a fruitful day tomorrow, then I will abide." I and Elrond stand. The day's talk done.

"Oh, one other matter," Elrond said suddenly, plucking my gun from the table's mess and presenting it to me. "I return your weapon to you. I expect I would learn nothing from its study without your instruction."

I glance between him and the offered item. Smiling, I nod in thanks and accept it, returning it to it's holster at my back. "You are too humble, lord Elrond. I think it not too presumptuous of me to say that I expect that if you tried, you would learn all you wished to know."

This response seems to please Elrond who smiles. "Then, in the spirit of presumption, may I request to retain your bow for the time being? It is a fascinating work of craftsmanship and I wish to ponder it further."

I think for a moment and nod in agreement, myself curious whether the Elf might in fact divine some of the weapon's secrets; not even I know the bow's origin, nor even its composition. Only that it could never be drawn by a normal person. I suppose that belied the strength of this elegant and graceful Elf before me who could fire and re-draw the weapon faster than any Guardian I've ever seen. Were all Elves like him? If so, then the fairy tales of the old City were in dire need of correction. "Of course, my lord. If it pleases you." Even for the briefest moment that he held the haft, I saw... or rather detected... a kinship with the weapon I've not seen in any of my peers.

I suppose bows are to Elves as guns are to Guardians. Well... in the most crude manner of speaking anyway.

When the old Elf smiles, it seems strange that I find it so beautiful. Not in a manner of attraction, but of… something that speaks on a deeper level… Spiritual perhaps? I do not dwell on it, for such sensations seem commonplace in the house of Elrond.

"Let it be a favor then, master Lazarus. I promise I shall return it to you at your earliest insistence. For tonight, as Gandalf suggests, may we rest ourselves 'till morrow comes."

Gandalf rises

"Until tomorrow then."

We tip our heads low to each other and I walk out, led by an attendant back to my room.

Truthfully, I am thankful for it, for as we walked the winding halls of Rivendell, I feel a weight of history and wonder tug at my legs and stay feet; to stop and appreciate the sights, smells, and sounds… even the texture of the city. The way even stray leaves that scraped across the stone floor did nothing to mire the beauty of the Elvish city. Had I not someone to guide me… to usher me onward, I would lose myself amidst this wonderful labyrinth.

And yet, to a point it all seemed to very familiar.

I smile. A certain queen would probably like this place.

--

Gandalf waited until the sounds of footsteps faded away before turning to the aged Elf. "As queer a exchange as ever one could have. But be those words truth or lies? The question remains. Many questions…"

"A strange creature to match such strange talk too," Elrond agreed. "Though regarding truth or falsehoods, I will withhold my judgement until I hear more from him in the morrow."

"If my lord Elrond indeed wishes to speak again with our peculiar guest, then surely there must be a sliver of truth that has caught your ear."

"A cin, Mithrandir," The Elf stated with knowing eyes. "You listened as intently as I. What are your thoughts on the matter?"

Gandalf breathed heavily and withdrew from his grey robes a curved wooden pipe. Elrond had a lit match in hand before the old pilgrim could even ask. Gandalf grunted his thanks and took a deep draw, the packed pipeweed burning a golden orange. Short clouds of smoke puffed from the corner of ancient spirit's mouth idly.

"It's a quite puzzling tale, isn't it? Too fantastic to be either believable or a deception. And the Enemy is above all else a deceiver, cunning and experienced in that way. Should we dismiss our concerns and accept his words as truth? Or is that the snare for us to bite at?"

Elrond nodded sagely. "And as for deception, I sense a vast fortress of knowledge in his mind, hinted both in the words he speaks and those he does not. I do not think him evil, nor employed in the Enemy's service."

Gandalf puffed quietly and settled in his chair. "Let us then assume he is forthright. What truths does that imply? If sorcerous powers be his by gift of this... Traveler, then is he guided by one from the farthest West? He professes no knowledge of the Valar, the Ainur, or of anything else in Arda. What then do we make of him?"

Elrond breathed deep the sweet smell wafting from his companion's pipe and closed his eyes thoughtfully. He spun the wine in his cup idly.

"There are many forces that exist both in this world and without," he spoke after a time. "And we know not the course set for this world. Is this a stroke of the author's pen, or a jealous alteration made by him who would subvert all good things?"

"And we can know neither save by the providence of the Valar and he whom they serve," Gandalf resignedly agreed. "Our own council we must keep."

Elrond heard the serious tone in Gandalf's voice and knew what he meant. That this event should come looked for so near to Saruman's betrayal could be doubtful coincidence.

The appearance of this stranger must serve a larger purpose, but for good or ill? That was ever the question. They spoke more into the night, until all reason left them and naught but sleep could they think of. Thus, did they part ways 'till the morning come.

--

She drifted in her sleep, dreams cloudy and black.

Sun sets and shadows lengthen.

She was carried northward over the murky skies and mountain peaks.

The power of the enemy grows. He seeks the One with tireless strength.

She saw a vast city, bathed in light and ringed in great walls. Above it hung a sphere of pure white.

She saw the fear of those inside and the cause of that fear; the shadows that lingered just beyond. Ships that sailed, not on water, but air postured in the sky as multitudes assembled beyond the walls, full of gnashing teeth and stomping feet.

And she saw those who marched against them, standing stalwart in defense of those who huddled frightfully within its walls. At once the battle was joined, and she saw in understanding she knew she shouldn't have, and much that she knew she would never see again.

Peels of thunder and pillars of light, fire and torment lashed out like fury and madness from one side to the other. She saw the world around her fall away to dust and destruction. But ever did the city stand, ever did its defenders repel evils at its gates.

Time moved on and she saw one who stood silent amidst his fellows, one among many in whom dwelt a piercing light like the sun. And she saw shadows of many hues seek the destruction of the city, and each one was felled by the one. And with every victory the light grew stronger in him.

And then the city was gone, and in its place was a familiar land of ice and mountains.

Evil is ever leashed to a master. Mordor stands renewed in strength.

This she already knew, for the movements of the Enemy had grown continually bold. Yet Sauron had not yet regained his full strength, not without the One.

And she saw shadows seep from the north, consuming all in its path to meet the darkness of Mordor. Yet the darkness did not mix, and instead shadow faced shadow in unwinnable war. Conflict spilled out and away and consumed all life on Middle Earth, stretching even into the west. She cried as she saw the shadows move across the Sundering Sea consume even the land uninhabited by Edain, Eldar or any other… and Arda was plunged into the void.

And then the shadows crept away to find hidden paths unknown to the minds of the living and Valinor was besieged.

She cried as she saw the beauty of the trees consumed and the powers of the Valar fail. The whole of Eä suffered, and she felt a sorrow no living creature could know.

Shadows must always flee before the Sun.

But as she watched, the shadows receded, or rather, time ran backwards, and she saw instead of opaque shadows passing down from the north unhindered, they were checked by a powerful light… light that burned and singed, consumed and erased. Light unlike any she'd seen before.

And the earth grew larger beneath her and her feet touched the ground. Around her were monsters, familiar and not, suffering under the powers of the one who stood amidst them, the nick of time plucked and held in incredible clarity.

She saw his face. She saw the light that burned in his eyes. From one hand he cast out light, and from the other, darkness, yet in his mind and heart she saw the will to preserve life. She saw purity of belief.

She saw a hope in the dark. She saw a guardian of light.

And Galadriel awoke.

Last edited: Apr 14, 2024

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Black Lister

Sep 26, 2019

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Threadmarks Chapter 4: A Different Star's Light.

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Black Lister

Oct 26, 2020

#48

When morning comes, I feel the warmth of the sunshine upon my face as my eyes open to slivery boughs and beams above my head. It is with reluctance that I lift myself from the sheets and bring my feet to the floor. My night clothes, given me by my host, do not cling to me, and I feel no damp of sweat on my person at all. So satisfying was my sleep that I even did not crave more of it. I feel collected and refreshed in a way I have not since before coming to Rivendell. I look across the room at my robes, hung up upon a stand awaiting my collection. I take a breath, ease flowing through my body.

No sooner do I move to don them again then a knock on my door startles me. It is soft, yet loud enough to be heard.

"Master Lazarus, are you awake?" The voice that comes through is beautiful.

I reply affirmatively. "I am. Come in."

The door opens and an Elf girl steps in. I would say she is young, but that all seems confusingly ubiquitous among her kind. Though she does not look so mature in face or form to be too aged.

I smooth my shirt and clasp my hands behind my back. "I assume the lord Elrond calls on me again today?"

To my surprise, she shakes her head humbly. "Not to my knowledge, my lord. He has, however, issued you be given these." A second Elf enters holding a neatly folded parcel of clothing. He steps forward and presents them to me, and I take them with some reluctance. I'm by no means a tailor of any make or manner, but I can tell the cloth is made of fine elvish skill. A deep leafy green laid with brown trim and sliver stitching, and it is both light and soft.

I look to the she-Elf. "I presume I'm to wear these then?"

She bowed her head respectfully. If it pleases you to, my lord. Lord Elrond also wishes to offer our services in washing your equipment."

My eyes turn to my armor for a moment. "If it pleases me?"

"Yes, my lord. It is no less than any guest is offered in the house of Elrond," she replies with dutiful pride.

I set my jaw, rubbing the tips of my right fangs idly in thought. It has been some time since my effects had been thoroughly cleaned… And I'd worn nothing else these past twelve days… Longer than that even, since I began my travels in this Middle-Earth. And it would perhaps appear too rude to deny such an offer after having been given such fine clothes to wear as the ones in my hands.

"Very well. I pray you take no offense in my warning you to take care of it. The armor was hard-won and forged. It is quite precious to me."

For her part, she bowed her head with a graceful smile. "Then we shall consider it equally precious to us in its tending."

Her words satisfy me and I step aside as yet another Elf enters helps to collect my garbs with care I would expect of one bearing a wedding ring or a passed friend. It was a marvel to see in its own way.

As they carry out my effects, she bows again and closes the door behind her leaving me along with my new ensemble. I spend a few moments longer admiring the threadwork before I set to dressing. It was a rather simple attire. Pants, shirt, belt, and a pair of fine leather boots to match.

It was unlike the flowing raiment of the elves that I have seen about the halls of the manner. I wonder if perhaps this was the style of the Gondorians to the south, or the garb of guests to mark them as such.

When at last I am put together, I examine myself in a mirror and deem myself fit for viewing. It feels… queer. A Guardian without their armor was a rare sight indeed. I do not necessarily enjoy the feeling, though I do my best to enjoy the pleasant texture of my new garb on my skin.

So, I pass out into the causeways that spread this way and that throughout the city, and I'm drawn to the nature of the place. So long have I hidden away in the towers of knowledge and dungeons of wisdom that I have paid little mind to the other things Rivendell is host to. Trees of many shapes and birds of many kinds sing silver songs in the golden morning sunlight. Perhaps the absence of my thick armor leaves me feeling thin and unprotected, vulnerable to such worldly things that I feel the rich nature of Imladris all the more keenly.

Even in the City, where seldom I went down to mingle with the people save on precious occasions, and out in the system where often I had to wait for my quarry or ally, I never paid much attention to the living (or dying, depending on who you were talking to) world. Now I wonder if perhaps I've missed something very important… Maybe many somethings.

Knowing that if the Elf lord Elrond wanted me, it would take him no time at all to find me wherever I go in this place, I put the inevitable encore of the previous night's meeting out of my mind and allow my feet to take me where they will. I lose myself in the ambiance, and I know, more than feel, the hours pass by as I wander unhindered beneath the boughs of beautifully colored trees. My new clothes warm me in the cool early autumn air, the effects of the thin rays of run amplified in contact with the elvish cloth. I drink deeply of the clean air, and feel my body invigorated for it.

A familiar voice speaks, yet it does not startle me. "This is what I hope the Last City will look like one day."

"More than looks; the feel of it is… magical," I agree quietly, knowing only I can hear him.. "The City has its wonders, but it does not have this."

The City is an oasis in the middle of a desert, a safe place amidst an ocean of darkness, but it never felt as anything as comforting as this last homely house east of the sea.

"If only we could bottle up a bit of this place and take it home with us," my companion says after a pregnant pause. I agree with him. Though I find myself wondering how long it will take to return home… or where home might even be on this world bent beneath strange stars. Such a thing may not even be possible now. I am a mariner without a ship, without compass, without map or any means to navigate. I am, in fact, marooned.

Being reborn in Light, so long as Light persists, I have all the time in the world to utilize what sciences I know and learn those I do not and rebuild a method to return home. Who knows? Perhaps I'll find another manner in the meantime.

And so I walk aimlessly, though thoughtfully through the gardens, until I at last leave them and enter into the house of Elrond. In this particular house was all manner of diagrams and friezes upon the walls and it seems to me they tell a tale, or rather, many tales the further along I go, though I take my time to study them. And so it is that I come to a certain room wherein stood a stone effigy, a woman shrouded by a veil holding an elven shield between her hands, and as I step closer I can see that upon that shield is a sword. Or perhaps its more accurate to say a blade… and many blades at that, for the single sword they once composed had shattered and now lay in ruin. I wonder at the thing. For it to be displayed so, it must be a weapon of great renown and I see no inscription naming it.

I consider the rest of the room and a certain mural catches my eyes. Upon it are two men, one armored in darkened iron, mace or perhaps hammer in hand, readying to strike the other. That other was clearly a man, for unlike the imposing dark armored form, this one's face was exposed, and I can see an ordinary man in simpler, but still resplendent armor. His outstretched hand held a sword, blade broken in the same way as the haft upon the display behind me. I gaze between the two figures and I note that of the colors used in the pieces composition, a pale gold light, the only such color in the frieze glowed eclipsing from the raised fist of the black warrior.

I realize that this must represent the doom of Sauron, the Dark Lord at the end of the Second Age. Then the man must be Elendil, High King of Gondor. No, that isn't right… Sauron killed him. Ah, yes! His son took up the sword and stuck down Sauron. What was his name…? I think to myself for some time, but the name does not come to me. I will refresh my memory later; it is on the very tip of my tongue!

I return to the sword display and consider the blade. I do not know if touching is allowed, but I see no signs in elvish, English, or otherwise to tell me. With care I grasp the sword hilt. It is long enough to accommodate two hands, and the black leather of the wrap looked untarnished and the blade mirrors the light from the skylight brilliantly.

I am no master sword smith, but I can see there is more to the significance of this weapon than just its reputation. The edge is still sharp and neither it nor its smaller shards show any sign of weathering or oxidization. Yet for being a… what? Three-thousand-and-some-odd-year-old weapon, it and its pieces have been meticulously maintained. I wonder why they have not re-forged it. Or perhaps it is that there was some paracausal technique in its making that couldn't be imitated? Maybe they cannot. At the very least, despite its well-crafted form, it does not appear to possess any special nature. I replace the weapon as I first saw it.

"Well, I'd memorialize any weapon that took out that big-bad too," my friend speaks to me again, and I smile.

"I'm sure you would. But what's the point in sharpening your sword with an enemy's death if you're not going to use it after?" I circle the pedestal, examining the other walls that seem to picture other moments from the final battle with Sauron.

"You'd be just as likely to try and build a weapon out of him," he says with no small amount of snark speaking of the armored villain on the wall. I laugh knowing he's right.

"True enough. I wonder if his grave holds any lingering remnants of power I could use…"

Surely he must have a grave. The records I've read only read that Sauron was smote down and defeated. They do not detail where he was buried or of any artifacts taken as spoils of war. Perhaps lord Elrond might know. On the other hand, such a request might not be received very well…

I'm shaken from my thoughts by a sudden cry and I turn to look at what gave it.

"Oh, dear me! I hadn't expected anyone to be in here at this time of day. Pardon me if I startled you, tall master."

It was the strangest… little thing. It was the size of a child, yet it's voice and face were that of an aged man. It wore appropriately sized dress clothes as I expected to see in a world of this level of culture, colored all in a burgundy vest, myrtle green jacket with brown pants akin to capris. Curiously, he wore no shoes, and his wide feet were quite hairy.

I have no idea what it is.

"No pardon needed… short master," I assuage, hesitating slightly as I debate how to politely address the thing. I feel my head tilt unbidden. "Forgive me, but," I begin, "I confess I know not what manner of creature you are. I might think dwarf if not for the peculiarity of your attire, the lack of chainmail and abundance of hair… save for your feet."

The creature makes a pained face and clutches his chest. "Oh! An arrow you loose, master Elf! Though unknowingly barbed and much expected. Peculiar dress, you say! I'll have you know this is the proper ensemble of any Hobbit of the Shire, and I do not boast to say so, sir! Ah, but I see that despite your ensemble you are not Elf-kind at all. A man of the west you must be: your arrow is forgiven then! Very few of the Big Folk have heard of my kind, so it is no surprise that you know us not."

He straightened his buttons and smoothed the ruffles of his coat. "I am a Hobbit of the Shire, and by name you may call me Bilbo Baggins." He bowed with a one-armed flourish and his smile livens the dim room.

For a moment, my concern that I might have inadvertently offended this little Hobbit overtakes me, but I see that it is in fact a jovial creature much used to being mistook. And his words put me well at ease. I return his greeting with a Warlock's genuflection which I note pleases him.

"My! You are like no Man I've met. How comes you to this city of elves, dressed in their manner?"

I tug at my elvish tunic and gesture to it. "My effects are being managed at the behest of Lord Elrond. I have spent many weeks in the wilderness, and it seems my host noted their need for tending. These are a gift from him."

"Indeed. Simple though they seem, a keen eye may perceive they are by no means shabby," he assures.

"And are Hobbits known for their keen eyes?" I ask with total curiosity, though I realize that with my own smile it must come across quite skeptical. Nevertheless, this Baggins Hobbit replied without so much as a beat missed.

"Keen enough in many matters in any case. Matters of field and food and drink and pipe-weed. Things that grow and ripen, you see. Though I daresay I've spent enough time among the elves to recognize their quality when I see it."

I reign in my curiosity. "I shall take your word for it, Mr. Baggins," I say with a nod.

"Ah, but dip me in butter and toast me crisp! Where are my manners? I've not asked your name, friend!"

The sheer politeness of this Hobbit astounds me. What a fascinating creature! "Nay, but where are mine that I did not offer it before you asked? You may call me Lazarus."

He seems to ponder it for a short time before speaking. "Lazarus, you say. I've not heard a name of its like before, though I will admit I'm not terribly familiar with the nomenclature of the Men of the West. Whence comest thou?"

"Far and away, friend," I say. "Far and away, and no map bears its name. A great city and a nation; it is a gentle place, ringed with spears."

"Indeed? A cleverly confusing image you paint, master Lazarus. I should like to hear more about it if you have the time. Though I must warn you; we Hobbits can be quite the talkative sort when it comes to subjects that strike our fancy. I'm quite interested in matters of history and ancient lore, though I understand very little of it and learn most that I do from lord Elrond. In fact, I was just on my way to see him when I found myself here. It's as I always say: if you don't mind your feet, you never know where you'll be swept off to."

"Well said!" I reply. "Though I would add it is the memory of hearth and home that gives us direction, for we may feel it keenly in our being when we grow close or distant," I remark with no small amount of melancholy. "Perhaps our mutual wanderings are no coincidence. Tell me, I have been studying the history of Middle Earth as known by the Elves, and I have consumed much knowledge. But many details elude me. Knowest thou the story of these murals?"

At that, the Hobbit's face dims slightly before brightening anew, eager to tell such a story. "Far and away your home must be if you do not know the story of the War of the Last Alliance. Ah, a grim time it was in the last days of the Second Age when Elves and Men joined together to fight Sauron the Deceiver. Following the Battle of Dagorlad, the Last Alliance assaulted the dark battlements of Barad-dûr."

"Sauron's tower?"

"Tower and fortress, indeed, from which after seven years of siege the Dark Lord himself came out to do battle with Elves and Men. There Gil-galad, High King of the Ñoldor and Elendil, High King of Gondor, Arnor, and all the Dúnedain were slain. Eldest son of Elendil, Isildur-"

Ah! That was his name!

"-took up his father's sword, broken in the battle with Sauron, and as you see, cut from the Dark Lord's hand the Ring."

Bilbo gestures to the final picture which had drawn my attention. I regard it anew with curiosity. "Ring, you say?" I ask. "I've read a little of the rings Sauron made for Men, Dwarves and Elves, though precious little is written of them."

Bilbo's eyes glinted. "Indeed. Into those rings were given powers to govern and rule their peoples. But that ring… the Ring…" He points toward the mural. "Was wrought in secret, and into it the Dark Lord poured his cruelty, malice, and will to dominate all life. Its authority was over all other rings, and despite the great powers they afforded their wearers, the dominion of the One was absolute, for it was the master ring. And Sauron's life force was inextricably tied to the Ring, so that without it he could not live, and likewise with it he could not die."

I turn to Bilbo with shock clear in my face, which I do not bother to hide. This was familiar to me. An idea, a process with which I have contended in the past. "You mean to say Sauron hid his death within this pinnacle ring?"

I had read that Isildur had struck down Sauron, but the texts gave no specification as to how it had been done, nor did it reference this One Ring Bilbo spoke of. If such a thing was excluded from even the records of these most meticulous of chroniclers, how did this little Hobbit come to know it? Unless there were records that I had not yet discovered… or been given permission to see…

The second notion was far more likely.

"Hid his death…?" Bilo echoes. "Why yes I quite like that way of putting it. But not only his death, but life as well. For when Isildur cut the Ring from his finger, Sauron was defeated."

I point between the sword on the frieze and the bits of steel laid so reverently on the plinth shield. "And I take it this is that sword."

"Yes," Bilbo draws out almost solemnly. "The Shards of Narsil, Elendil's sword before Isildur claimed it. Remarkable thing. Did you know it was made by a great Dwarven smith in the First Age? Steel such as that does not easily break or decay."

"Sauron managed it," I point out.

"I'd wager my left foot that only he could have done so. The power of the Dark Lord in those days is not to be understated, though it all be second-hand knowledge in my case."

I eye the Hobbit, asking what I already know the answer to. "And whose hand first offered it?"

"Why the lord Elrond of course," he said with a winning smile. "He knows more about the history of Middle-Earth than any other creature I've met."

I huff with mirth and nod. "I've certainly seen nothing to persuade me otherwise." I stare at the mural of Sauron and Isildur thoughtfully, my eyes drawn to the golden light blazing from the armored giant's right hand.

"Whatever happened to Sauron's ring?" I ask. "If Sauron couldn't die so long as it existed, I can only assume it was destroyed."

Bilbo's face takes on a rather scrunched up appearance and waves it off. "That's something Elrond would have to tell you. The intricacies of ancient goings on are trying tales to tell, and certainly not to be tried on an empty stomach. Why, it's early evening and a mighty hunger stirs me." He turns and gestures down the hall as he takes short steps in that direction. "Come master Lazarus, even Men must be hungry now and again. We shall eat together, talk, and pass the time!"

For a moment I stay where I am and appraise the Baggins. He is a friendly sort, quite talkative, and easily the most personable individuals I've yet met in my time here on Middle-Earth. Even Glorfindel, for his gentle voice and glorious appearance was not so friendly. I wonder if perhaps my day will be filled with naught but talk with this creature. I'd prefer a moment's reprieve to escape into a book more than any meal, but I have no justification to part with this Hobbit. Where have I to go? What have I to do? Truthfully, I have none. Though I expect the summons of Elrond, I wonder if something has come up to distract him, for he has not called on me though the day is most passed.

I am compelled to accept his invitation.

I smile and follow after him. "I should like that," I say, though I wonder if I'm being honest or not. Part of me wishes to extricate myself, but another genuinely enjoys this Hobbits company. Perhaps I am just that starved for some good inane talk.

…I think that says something about me, actually…

We walk together, and he speaks to me of food, though his diction is so spectacularly chosen that it seems to me he could make even me long for a morsel of peanut butter and ground worm sandwich. He certainly was honest when he said Hobbits had keen minds for food and drink. If he is any exemplar of his species, I hope I can bring a small troupe of his kind back home with me… whenever that may be…

His words stop suddenly, and I see as his pointed ears wiggle at some sound. He pauses and holds a finger up to hush me. "Do you hear that?" he asked.

I raise my head and listen. "I hear noth-" and then a blaring sound, a signaling horn blast echoed through the halls. "…I hear that," I amend.

A second horn blast echoes in the valley, and Bilbo grows anxious. "A pressing matter must be taking place at the bridge!" he said excitedly. "Perhaps dinner may wait a moment until we see what's what, yes?" His elderly face beams with excited glee and I find myself unable to disagree with him.

I laugh. "Very well, master Baggins. Lead the way!"

And so the soft pitter-patter of the Hobbit's feet were echoed off-beat by my own heavier footfalls as we weaved through the halls and back out into the sunlight, not much more vibrant and minutely cooler as the day has worn on. Bilbo must have resided in Rivendell for some time, as he seems heedless as he knowingly rounds this corner and that on our way to the thin bridge that acted as the entrance to the city.

The two horn blasts resound again, and I note that they do not come from within the city. A second pair of horns respond, this time from somewhere close by towards the entrance. I also see we are not the only ones to take interest in it. Many Elves are gathering, including long-lanced spearmen as they rush to the bridge. A far-off whiny catches my ears as a figure comes riding down the winding path to the foot of the bridge.

Bilbo cries with delight. "Why its Glorfindel! He's returned! But I wonder what manner of urgency his horn belies. Come, let us close the distance!"

And so, I follow as we begin to weave our way through the gathering throngs of curious onlookers and soldiers alike until we come to a stop some distance from Glorfindel's pale steed, and the Elf himself. Already, some soldiers were speaking to him and he to them, and I could hear him call for Elrond. He dismounted and steadied his horse as he reached up and removed a small bundle of robes from the saddle, and I saw that it seemed like a small child was in his arms.

But it seemed his call for Elrond was unneeded, as the Elf in question came quickly over the causeway to greet him. They spared few words and Elrond led them away in a hurry.

"Oh dear… Oh dear! My dear Frodo, what has happened to you?"

I turn and see Bilbo, expression now sorrowful and dismayed. "Frodo? You mean the child?"

He seemed started to hear me speak, though quickly overcame it. "Child yes, but not of Men. He's my nephew! Oh, what fell evil has come upon him?"

I glance between the Hobbit and the retreating forms of the two Elves with a start. Nephew? Then the child was actually a Hobbit. Poor Bilbo though, I can imagine his concern. I open my mouth to offer him well-wishes and hope, though I quickly shut it. I know not what has befallen his family member nor if it can be remedied. Instead, after a moment's consideration, I grasp him by the shoulder. "Do not dawdle then, master Baggins. Let us waste no time in following!"

My words shake him from his stupor and a grim countenance firms his face. He nods fiercely and marches forth, many Elves making way for him as he approached, they seemingly familiar with his presence. I follow next to him as we trace the two Elves' steps.

"If he's hurt or ill, they would take him to the house of healing. This way!" he explained without looking back. Its clear he knows the city better than I do. And presently, and with more speed than I would have expected from someone of Bilbo's stature, we come to an open door wherein many elves encircled a bed upon which they were quickly stripping the Hobbit of his travel gear. Glorfindel spoke as he worked, Elrond watching on with close inspection.

"Frodo!" Bilbo cried as he rushed to his nephew's bedside. Some of the elves made room for him as he began petting the boy's forehead and examining a nasty wound in his shoulder. But the wound itself is less astonishing to me than the way the Hobbit's body seemed… thin. Transparent in a minute way, like someone had gently lowered his opacity. In fact, I can almost see his condition worsen, starting from his wounded arm and spreading to the rest of him.

"It's been fourteen days since then," Glorfindel continues, though Elrond does not look away from the Hobbit. "Though the blade itself has crumbled, Aragorn bears its handle thither."

"I'll examine it by and by, but now he needs Elvish medicine."

"What happened to him?" Bilbo asked, all mustered confidence drained at the sight of the boy.

Glorfindel placed a hand on the elder Hobbit's shoulder as he spoke. "His shoulder has been pierced by a weapon of evil. Shards of the weapon remain in his wound, and I suspect have been working their way towards his heart since the attack."

"You suspect correctly," Elrond confirmed as his eyes bored into the gash. "First we must remove the slivers left within and cleanse it. Only then can the magic of the Elves restore him." And so, the Elf-lord began his business gathering those things of which would provide relief and aid in reclaiming the shards.

I watch quietly, and eye Glorfindel who after a moment of unrecognition nodded to me a silent greeting. I step over to the radiant creature at the younger Hobbit's head.

"You can heal him then, yes? You must heal him!" Bilbo pleaded.

Elrond spared a glance to Bilbo and managed to give a reassuring smile, though only briefly. "If it is within my power to heal this wound, then it will be so. But wounds from Morgul-knives are not so easily cured, much less those left to fester for a fortnight."

And so, Elrond's hands moved deftly and surely with tool and flesh. Many things were brought and prepared and used as the Elf-lord tended to his small charge. It's fascinating to watch, and I find myself lost in trance.

Presently, thudding boots foretell another arrival as Gandalf joins the room alongside another. This other is dark-haired, his garb weathered and utilitarian. He bears a dark beard and possesses none of the traits I would normally associate with the Elven race. And though his long hair hides his ears, I determine this one is most definitely of the race of Men.

After them came an assortment of three additional Hobbits, short and barefooted as Bilbo and his nephew. One of them, pudgier than the others, was at Frodo's side in a moment asking after him alongside Bilbo who spoke to each other over things already discussed.

Gandalf did not ask after the wounded Hobbit though, either the how or the why, and I assume he either already knows or can see as much for himself. Elrond straightens as they enter, and the Man presents a token to the Elf without a word spoken between them.

It is the hilt of a weapon, a large knife perhaps, and I expect it is the same one they spoke of before. Elrond examines it for a long few seconds before setting it aside. "It's as I feared. We must work quickly."

As one, Gandalf, the man, Elrond, and many of the Elves worked diligently. Curiously, many begin to sing soft songs in an Elvish tongue I do not know, though more than understand, I feel their meaning in my heart. They are songs of healing and comfort, of petitions for skill and fortune in this endeavor. I cannot help but feel stirred to action at their tune.

I watch as small slivers of steel are removed from the Hobbit's shoulder and placed into a small bowl. The glint of their steel belies a foul malice that I can see even from this short distance; the hilt of the blade as well radiates darkness. And I find myself taking the hilt in my hands and examining it. It seems familiar to me, but yet also foreign. Unlike so many dark objects I have fingered before of alien design, this one looks eerily man-made. And it compels me to wonder what human could make such a foul weapon.

A numbness creeps up my arm as I hold it. I accept the cold as I turn it over in my palm. In fact, it felt familiar… Too familiar. My brow furrows as I consider where the feeling came from, and it doesn't take me long to realize.

Thorn.

Though nowhere near as deadly as the original weapon wielded by Dredgen Yor, those Thorn replicas that so frequently found their ways into the arsenals of Guardians were no less deadly to either the forces of the Darkness or to fellow Guardians in the arena. I have been on the receiving end of such weapons before and have in turn wielded the same weapons against my fellows.

If one were to imagine Thorn as a blade, then this would be it. I look toward the Hobbit upon the bed, and my heart pains for him. A single thorn is agonizing, even to a Guardian. I can't imagine what he must be feeling now. I now understand Elrond's doubt and conviction when he spoke of healing, more than anyone else.

Oh, how I wish I had a shard of Lumina! If I could implant such a thing into this Hobbit's shoulder, whatever evils linger within his flesh might be effectively expunged. But Lumina is not here. The Guardian to whom Lumina belongs is not here.

I am.

Lazarus, Warlock and Guardian of the Last City of Mankind.

So I will make do.

I center myself and gather the Light into my hands. Whisps of cloud drift from my fingers like ocean currents. Eyes turn to me and I do not wonder at their expressions. I can feel the light burn in my eyes and flow through my skin. I keep my gaze on Elrond alone. If this little creature's life hangs in the balance, then how can I stand back and do nothing? If I can clasp hands with Awoken and called them brother or sister, if I can embrace an Exo and call them human, how much less must I reason that Elves and Hobbits are human as well?

In the words of a dear friend back home… Close enough.

My words are simple and full of conviction. "I will help you."

Elrond looks at me for a long moment before his firm brow curves determinedly. "I accept your aid."

Thus, I take my hands and rest them on the Hobbit's chest and allow the Light to wash over him like the descending morning mist. To their credit, the singing of the elves doesn't waver a single note and the white light of my rift pours over and spreads across the floor. I feel the eyes of all in attendance turn to me, but I keep my eyes locked on the Hobbit below me, and my ears open to Elrond's careful instruction.

I can feel Frodo's body, like a leaking vessel, drink up my Light greedily and I pour out more to keep up. Connected in this way, I can clearly feel the darkness in the wounded arm; how it writhes and twists at the touch of the Traveler's energy. As I extend my reach, I feel my rift stretch out to encompass the room, and I can feel the Light in all in attendance, that bright beacon of existence that exists in all those creatures what can hope and dream and struggle to survive. Sparks of life burn brightly in these Elves, and the diminutive bodies of the Hobbits belie their firm spirits.

And Glorfindel, oh Glorfindel…! When Elrond and Gandalf insinuated that the noble Elf had returned from the Western Lands, the Elven 'Heaven,' I almost didn't believe them. Now, I can safely say their words must surely be true. Glorfindel was a blinding sun, and I can feel my Light surge as if in joy, like two friends embracing. Like a reunion unlooked for.

It sets me at ease… and unnerves me. For the moment I do not dwell on it.

Seconds turned to minutes, and the minutes to hours. In time, the two Hobbits I have not yet heard named are ushered out of the room by the Man, placing their trust in Elrond and his Elves to mend their kinsman. And, I suppose, me as well. It is enough knowing there is nothing they can do to help our progress, and that they may rest for the night, if rest may be had.

Several times Frodo seized, his wound quivering as if wishing to vomit its contents, though it refused to close. Late into the night we work, Elf song, magic, experience and wisdom working in tandem with raw restorative Light.

I have never seen a condition like this, where, according to Elrond, the spirit was slowly succumbing to the evil in the wound, transforming into what the Elf called a wraith. In time, if not treated, Frodo's body would have disappeared completely, and he would have existed as some sort of specter, his will enslaved to the one who felled him.

I have no reason to doubt his words. If becoming a wraith meant slowly losing any semblance of life, then it makes sense that in his advanced condition Frodo's body would drink so deeply of my Light as his body and spirit seeks rejuvenation. My hypothesis proves at least anecdotally correct, and in the course of time his body slowly recovers and he appears more solid.

The hour is late, or rather, quite early when Elrond, assiduous as any Elf in attendance yet peerless in focus, fishes from Frodo's wound a final sliver of dark iron. Immediately, the gash closes of its own accord, as if it had refused to be sealed while befouled by evil until that very moment.

Elrond signals to me to stop and I acquiesce, lifting my hands and allowing my rift to fade away, leaving the room in total darkness. One by one, candles are lit, replacing the swirling whiteness with a warm golden glow that cast calm shadows across the Hobbit's face. In the dark I can see the mend is not perfect. A thick scar remains in place of the wound, and it does not heal any more than that.

"I believe now that the worst is behind us." Elrond breathes as if fatigued, though he appears as tireless as any Titan.

Samwise, who had remained, looks exhausted. It seems my rift did little to calm his nerves. But as soon as the words left the Elf's mouth, a second wind took him and he leapt to his feet. "You mean Mr. Frodo is going to be alright? He's not about to fade away like Mr. Strider said?"

Gandalf nods. The old wizard leans against his staff with earned satisfaction, for his whispered words of magic certainly eased our work in ways I can't full describe, though I know it is so. "Yes, I believe so. Frodo is no longer in danger."

Samwise lets out an audible… visible breath as his shoulder sagged. Bilbo too claps his hands together and closes his eyes in relief. "Ne'er have my ears heard sweeter words than those even in these hallowed halls of Elven enchantment. Bless you all!"

Elrond smiles and places a firm grip on Bilbo's shoulder. "All are blessed who set foot in Imladris. Blessed with help, and with rest for weary bones. Go now, both of you," he says with a look to both Hobbits. "We will keep careful watch over Frodo tonight, and you may rest well knowing that."

Bilbo nods, though at first reluctantly. Then, a determination like that which I saw on the way to this house reclaims his face. "If true be the words of Elrond Half-Elven, then I shall rest well tonight. Come on Sam Gamgee, we both must away until the morrow. May the rising sun bring with it bring many miracles and may the light of Elbereth forever shine bright upon the works of Elvish hands! Good night!" For his part, Samwise seems far less inclined to leave Frodo's side, though with some pulling by Bilbo, and enough prodding by Gandalf, the Hobbit is at last persuaded to leave, following his older kin who would lead him to lodging for the night.

And I am left alone with both Elrond and Gandalf, save an assortment of Elves now murmuring amongst each other, or singing softer tunes of blissful rest. Glorfindel had disappeared at some point during the ordeal, and I wonder what drew him away.

"Your aid is received with grateful hearts this night, master Lazarus," Elrond said at last, after some moments of quiet observation of Frodo's still, but breathing form.

He bows his head, as does Gandalf, and I humbly return the gesture. "For a time I was content to watch only, but… A moment's inspiration roused me to action." I look back at the sleeping Hobbit. "His spirit was so weak… I don't know how much longer he would have survived."

Gandalf leaned over to stroke the Hobbit's forehead. "Hours only, and perhaps that even may be too hopeful. He stood on death's doorstep, and the door was opened to him."

I follow his gaze. I believe it. "Now he's back from the brink, yes?" I ask. I cannot imagine a relapse drastic enough to reverse our work.

"So it seems to my eyes," Elrond agrees. "but I will remain with him tonight and tend to him. Go in peace and comfort; no further ill will befall him."

I take that as my cue to leave. I bow my head and turn to go.

"Lazarus."

I stop and turn, and I feel Elrond's gaze pierce me. "A guest you remain in this house, but venture not too far from the city. Many questions will I have for you come the morrow."

I feel a prickle on the back of my neck, and see Gandalf likewise fixing me with a pointed stare. "Yes," the wizard murmurs. "Questions indeed."

As much as it sounds like a warning, I expect it is also some sort of command to those Elves invisible to my eyes who might hear him. I feel a rush of nervous heat in my breast. I bow again, slower this time. I do not answer as I leave the building.

However, I can't help but smile to myself, a nuanced irony striking my fancy; many records I have read detail an Elvish fondness for music, and the magic within that can heal and restore. Always music is good and wonderful. And though I have done something good tonight, now I must face the music.

Proverbially of course.

Probably.

264

Black Lister

Oct 26, 2020

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Threadmarks Chapter 5: Cut Away The Lie

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Black Lister

Mar 5, 2021

#60

Elrond sat quietly in his hall, the silence an uncanny and unusual guest in the city of Rivendell. His eyes were narrowed, unblinking, unfocused, his mind deep in thought. Gandalf sat to his right, his back to the railing over which the moonlit falls of the city washed. Glorfindel paced the veranda slowly and silently, his eyes unwavering from his mind's thoughts. So too did Aragorn, fresh from his quest to ferry Frodo Baggins and company to Rivendell, sit upon the same railing and against a supporting arch.

Such was the counsel with which Elrond encircled himself.

The day had been spent quietly tending to the aforementioned Hobbit and ensuring he was well cared for, and now the cool of the night of the 21st of October went unobserved.

Despite his efforts, Aragorn's exhaustion played no small part on the man's face, even as he idly tapped a long pipe between his teeth.

After some time pondering, Glorfindel spoke up. "Surely he must be some manner of Maia. There can be no other explanation."

"Five it was who were sent to Middle-Earth," Elrond recounted in rebuttal. "Five Istari. Saruman and Radagast. Pallando and Alatar. Gandalf... Whose purpose it was and remains to act as guides and wisemen, taking forms both aged and unassuming. If one of the Ainur walks among us both fair and bright, then it is not by the will of Manwë that he is here."

Aragorn narrowed his eyes. "Do you suspect him of being like Sauron of old? Assuming a fair form to deceive us?"

Elrond shook his head. "I know not… except that his mind is closed to me and his thoughts are well-guarded. But we must not allow that to be the basis of our suspicions."

"And yet it is strange that I cannot bring myself to suspect him in the first place," said Gandalf. "For certainly he must seem suspicious to any of those suitably informed. I would not so soon forget the familiarity of a fellow Maia if he were standing next me in full glory and splendor. Yet I know him not."

"He gave aid to Frodo, and freely so," Aragorn pointed out. "If we have suspicions, should not we grant him a chance to say his piece?"

The room lulled to silence.

"My suspicions are of his being, not his intent," Glorfindel said at last. "I side with Aragorn. Let us hear him out. If he is a Maia, it may be his mission is secret, even from us."

"And yet he claims to have arrived in Middle-Earth before Gandalf's escape from the tower of Orthanc." Elrond paused and amended himself. "If true, then it seems unlikely to me that his arrival is in response to Saruman's betrayal. The Valar are powerful and their sight is long, but they are not prescient."

"You forget the Doomsayer," Aragorn provided.

"True, Mandos has been given authority to articulate judgment in matters of fate, but while his knowledge of things yet to come is perhaps clearer than his kin's, it is by no means complete, and of all the Valar he is the least likely to act upon that knowledge." Gandalf sighed. "No message has come from any in the Uttermost West to forewarn us of this one's coming. Alas, if wise Círdan were here, he might divine what answers we cannot."

Glorfindel paced steadily. "And suppose his tale is true... Would we even believe it? What sign or token would we accept as proof of his honesty? I can think of none, save what I have already seen."

All eyes fell on the golden-haired Elf. They knew he was referring to the power Lazarus had displayed in the mending of Frodo Baggins. Rejuvenation poured from him like a moonlit fog, like an eddy in the water. It was a power none in their company had seen before in Arda. That in and of itself was concerning, for while one walked upon the face of Middle-Earth, their powers were limited only to those found within Middle-Earth. So it was for the quintet of Istari who were sent to Arda's shores. So should it be for any who might follow after them. And yet among them walked one who excepted...

For some time silence endured between them.

Finally Elrond spoke. "If no messages have come from Aman, then we must judge him for ourselves; if his tale is true indeed, then it is likely the Valar do not know of him, though that raises questions of its own… And if his claims are false-"

"They cannot be," Glorfindel spoke quickly, his feet stilling and his piercing eyes betraying no uncertainties. "Dark is the day when past betrayals weary one's welcome of help unlooked for. The guidance of Sauron guised as Annatar brought with it knowledge and skill the likes of which the Ñoldor had not seen for ages. Heedless we were in those days of the wisdom of Círdan and Galadriel, for which the peoples of Middle-Earth have paid manyfold."

"Yet Lazarus offers no gifts of lore or skill or magic, though much I suspect he must possess," Aragorn observed, catching Glorfindel's line of thought.

The lord of the ancient House of the Golden Flower nodded. "He is greedy, like we were in those days; he seeks to know this and that, and to learn what he does not. Yet for my misgivings of his subterfuge and our naïveté, no evil spirit could offer a healing hand against its nature. The light of his hands…" Glorfindel fell silent, searching for the right words. "Not since my days in Valinor have I felt so akin to another, much less one who proclaims to be a Man. I am become certain beyond my doubts. Suspicious he may be, and may yet remain… But I do not believe him evil. And that alone assuages my fears."

Aragorn puffed on his pipe and hummed from his throat, a fine smoke billowing from his nose like a dragon. "If his account as thou hast retold it is true, then he is neither friend nor foe. And by our action he may be turned to one or the other. Should we not walk a path of friendship with open minds and open eyes?"

As if a passing pall at last drew away its cover to reveal golden light, the weight of the subject seemed to lift from their shoulders, and a glinting smile grew upon Gandalf's face. "Mark well the words of Aragorn, son of Arathorn, for they are wise counsel indeed. An enemy of him we might yet make if in our scrutiny we forget our better nature."

Elrond was still for a moment. Then his face softened, and a dim smile pricked at the corner of his mouth. "What then would you suggest be our next steps then, Gandalf?"

For a moment, it was the wizard's turn to be silent. Then a cheeky grin, barely suppressed joined a shrugging of his shoulders. "I suppose the only proper thing to do is ask him."

Elrond looked unconvinced, but his face did not harden. Instead, he turned to the other two in attendance. "Directness, then? I'd question your judgment, but it has served you well in the past. Very well. Those in favor?" He turned his eyes to Aragorn and Glorfindel who both nodded their agreements.

The Elf let out a breath and took a long sip from his cup. "So be it."

--

When at last the second morning after Frodo Baggins' healing came with the turning of the world, Elrond and Gandalf and Elrond sat talking idly while they waited upon Glorfindel. This time however, they did not sit in Elrond's house, but rather, some distance from the city itself, far and away from prying eyes. It was a tall tower that sat perched confidently over the peak of the hills that framed Rivendell. It had but one path to its pinnacle which by nature of the stony cliffs, could not be seen by travelers on their approach to the city, though any Elf might clearly see them. The top of the tower was wide base, and appeared more like a comfortable gazebo than a sentry post. It made for a good view, whether looking for danger or looking for pleasure.

In seats which sat around a brazier, lightless and dark in the advent of the midday Sun, sat Elrond and Gandalf with three empty seats left over. Aragorn stood looking out over the panorama of bronzing treetops. The cloudless sky was blue as ice and fresh air filled their lungs. A silver vase of golden wine sat between the two, with cups already poured and in their places beside each seat, though none had yet been touched.

And so, in time the crunching of leaves and the treading of boots could be heard up the tower's lone staircase.

First came Glorfindel, dressed in silver armor. Then came Lazarus, quiet and thoughtful, dressed in the clothes given him. He smiled as he stepped across the threshold and into the round space, his eyes first noting the view, and then focusing on those in attendance. He bowed in greeting. "Lord Elrond, master Gandalf," he said in turn before his eyes settled on Aragorn. "I do not believe I've had the pleasure."

The Man had turned away from the vista and moved to sit next to Gandalf, who sat to Elrond's left. The Elf gestured to the Man. "May I introduce Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and Sixteenth Chieftain of the Dúnedain."

Aragorn gave a short bow as well. "And you must be Lazarus. I've heard a bit about you from lord Elrond. Well met, sir."

Lazarus nodded his head in return. "Dúnedain, you say? I've read sorrowful things of the Dúnedain from Elves' records, if they're to be believed."

"You may rest assured, they are accurate." said Aragorn. "Too many followed Ar-Pharazôn in his foolish campaign against Aman. Too few escaped the sinking of Númenor. And of those far fewer remained untainted by the Enemy's treachery, and from their number are we descended."

"You have my condolences, Aragorn, son of Arathorn," Lazarus politely inclined. "I also know what it's like to come from a legacy of greater days long past."

Aragorn accepted the gesture and waved to a seat catty-cornered to the semi-circle of four others, into which both Glorfindel and Aragorn sat. "Of the words shared between you and lord Elrond, some I have heard in turn. Enough to wonder many things about you."

"But before such talk, proper thanks are in order," Elrond interjected. "Your aid in restoring young Frodo Baggins is much welcomed."

"So he is restored then?" Lazarus asked with what sounded like genuine concern. "After your parting words, I had anticipated a swift and verbose confrontation come yesterday, yet I did not hear from you, and I worried that perhaps my efforts were not enough. The only explanation with which I could reckon your absence was that the Hobbit had relapsed, or some other grave phenomenon had drawn your full attention."

Elrond smiled with as much disarm as he could muster. "Nay, no ill befell him afterwards, though I remained with him for much of the day to ensure his recovery. I expect no further danger to come to him. And that I and Gandalf are not at his side at this moment is testament to his condition. But we are here now due to the advent of more pressing matters."

Lazarus' face indicated he wasn't fooled by soft-spoken words. "Me, you mean."

Elrond nodded, and all were silent for many moments. The sharp singing of birds in the distance and the gentle fluttering of banners in the breeze betrayed the tenseness of the atmosphere, at least as Elrond saw it around the foreigner. Nevertheless, he wanted to put the man at ease. But it was Gandalf who spoke next.

"May I recommend the wine?" he said, bringing a puzzled look to Lazarus' face. "Considering the way your shoulders are tightened, I think a swill of the grape would do you some good," he said with a laugh, to which it seemed Glorfindel shared humor.

But Lazarus' eyes narrowed, softly, invisibly to anyone else, but to all keen-eyed folk arrayed before him, it was as visible as the noonday sun.

Elrond held out a placating hand to his fellows. "I fear our friend suspects some treachery afoot. Peace, Lazarus. We have set our suspicions of you aside and we seek an honest dialogue between us."

Lazarus did not look any more at ease, and his lips were thinly pressed in anxiousness, which Elrond suspected was intentionally so. He made no move to respond…

That is until Glorfindel spoke. "Won't you consider it? Friend to friend? Light to light?"

Lazarus' eyes snapped to the Elf so quick, Elrond almost missed it.

Almost.

--

Glorfindel is playing a dangerous game and he knows it. Legends involving Elves say nothing of their intuition or cunning yet this one seems to think he's stumbled onto something. And damn him, he has. I should have known that the brief resonance I felt between myself and the Elf didn't flow only one way. He must have felt something too that night. And why should I think he wouldn't? Because I'm underestimating him. I'm underestimating all of them, damn me.

I take a slow breath and fold my hands over a crossed leg and calm myself. I have faced greater dangers than these. But after my careful considerations, it seems my piecemeal course in Earthen history was only enough to whet their appetites, as theirs did mine. The only difference is that I have been given free access to learn more about them at my own (admittedly blistering) pace, while they have been left to wonder and speculate about myself.

It seems the toll comes due.

The look on Glorfindel's face as I school my features tells me he worries he may have made a misstep. He has, in that he has set me on guard where he meant (I think) to find common ground. For their generosity, they have not gained my trust.

…And I suppose it's fair to say I have not gained theirs either.

"Light to light," I echo scoffingly. I allow my frown to show, and I suppose if I were to be honest for just a moment, my first words to these kinds, strange, creatures would be-

I take a steadying breath. It is one thing to imagine such a scenario, or to read of it in a fictional book, or to watch it in old Golden Age movies, but to actually live it is something else entirely. Unease sets your whole body on edge and you feel compelled not to share any more than you absolutely must because you know – you know – that they will look at you and distrust you from that point on.

And I cannot afford their complete distrust. Not yet. I have not learned enough. Only when I've learned my fill… when I've drained every iota of knowledge and lore of this Middle-Earth like water from a squeezed wrap, wrung as tight as can be... Then will I feel comfortable enough to share with them the whole truth. Only because then there will be nothing left to lose if I am rejected. No more knowledge to miss out on.

But it seems that is no longer possible. The fact that these four are sitting across from me, privately, away from prying eyes and ears (though I suppose there could be others nearby) indicates their desire to keep any account of mine quiet. Gandalf being a wizard, Elrond a lore-master, and Glorfindel being one returned from Elf-Heaven, points me to believing they want to ascertain my truth before they share it with anyone else. If they share it with anyone else... For that matter, the Dúnedain are a ranging people, having lost their kingdom of Arnor to civil war roughly one-thousand years ago; to what end mister Aragorn serves in his attendance, I cannot yet figure.

It is a queer feeling; going against my instincts. Presented with the chance to speak the truth, I wonder where I should begin. I hadn't given the prospect any serious thought yet, and now I am caught flat-footed. They even sit with me in silence for several minutes, their cups of wine gone untouched as they wait for me to continue.

It seems it is not as easy as I thought.

"Where do I begin?" My eyes fall on Glorfindel.

Yes, perhaps there.

Words are one thing. Proof is something else entirely. And if he brazen enough to invoke the Light, then I shall give him Light...

I stand. With a centering stance, I touch my fingertips together, gather the Light into my body, and pull them apart. Forks of azure lightning jump between each digit and over my shoulders. Coursing Arc intensifies around me, flaring up, quieting, seeking ever to join its oppositely charged surroundings. But it never leaps to them; I do not let it. A bright flame burns in my eyes, like sunlit sapphires blazing white hot. Power, raw and unrefined storms within, threatening to burst free and unleash devastation. But I am the eye of the storm. Where I go, the storm abides. And where I do not go, the storm abstains. Such is my will.

I pull it all into my left arm, coursing with bright power and cast it out with a flick, a bolt of lightning cracking through ionized air into the valley beyond. Five-hundred-million Joules of energy disappears in a flash, the deafening crash of thunder booming across the city in waves of rolling sound.

"Light is power," I answer in demonstration as I draw their attention back to me from the distance once the thunderclap has sufficiently diminished. "It does as directed, to heal or harm. Guardians master it in different ways; some understand the Light as a force to hone through practice and strict discipline. And those like myself study the Light and its inner mechanisms, confronting unfathomable mysteries in the search for transcendent might. With it, we project vast power into the world in opposition to the Darkness."

Glorfindel pulls his gaze back to me. "Then I should liken thee to the Istari, in whom dwells power and wisdom to be wielded for the good of all free peoples."

I find myself curiously honored by those words. From what I understand, the Istari are some manner of creature or spirit purported to come from beyond the great western sear, sent to Middle Earth as guides and advisors to kings and lords to help them in their defense against the evils of the world. On the surface, our roles are indeed similar, but ontologically speaking they are very different. Whatever the Istari were in truth, in nature, in being… it was not the same as Guardian.

You are a dead thing made by a dead god in the image of the dead.

"If you think it fitting, then I will not begrudge you the comparison." I huff an ironic breath. I wonder what they would say if they knew me four hundred years ago... But more concerning to me is not so much that I am being compared to one as venerable as an Istari, but rather that conversely they are being compared to me. It makes me wonder just what they are, and where they might be now.

Elrond steeples his fingers in thought for a time, his narrow eyes chiseled with purpose. A conspiratorial look is shared between the four of them, and they are none too subtle about it. I leave them be as they retreat to speak amongst themselves. It seems that my demonstration is enough to satisfy their curiosity for the moment, and now they must decide what to do with me. I do not doubt that they do not wish to fight; they don't strike me as particularly brash, and though I know not the extent of their capabilities, they likewise are ignorant of my own. And the fruit of their benevolence has taken root in me, and is enough to stay my suspicion of them for now. Besides, if as Glorfindel says I am not unlike one of their venerable Istari, then I should think I am at an advantage in this situation.

They speak in hushed tones, though they are not fervent. Their whispers are calm and measured, and they only occasionally turn to glance back at me. I let them be and move to the opposite side of the gazebo and stand at its precipice. If they must talk for a time, at least I may enjoy the view. The blue skies and golden sun shine across the green valley below, glinting on stone and ice-capped mountains in the distance. I find myself wondering whether or not, if indeed I am left to find my own way home the long way around, including the development of technology necessary to construct my own jumpship, then I will have to find a place to live in the interim. Would Rivendell suit me?

The answer is obvious; it most certainly would, though I grimace at the thought of bringing industry here. No, perhaps if I am allowed, I may summer here... but I would need to find another place to set up shop... Perhaps the Dwarves of this world would suit my needs more. I'm actually quite excited to meet them if ever I am given the opportunity. The legends of their craftsmanship extends even into the fairy tails of the City... if indeed they are at all similar, that is.

I have seen the elegance of Elven metalwork in their armor and weapons and jewelry, and they are exceedingly skilled blade-smiths. For that matter, the precision that I have seen put into their gems and jewelry are beyond the means of humanity at this technological level. I suppose when you live as long as Elves do, you are able to hone your craft much more effectively. I don't know why I'm surprised; Guardians are the same, only our art is destruction and the creation of its deadly instruments. Not for the first time do I wonder if there is a method of melding the powers and mysteries of this world into a weapon as well...?

I distantly note that the murmuring has stopped, and I turn to see the four of them breaking from their huddle and approaching.

"I take it you have come to a decision, then?"

Elrond nods. "We have indeed."

I raise an eyebrow. "And? Am I friend or foe to you?"

A moment of silence betwixt us is broken by a burst of humor that ripples through the four of them. Gandalf leans on his staff with a smile. "Foe? Foe, he says! You were never a foe in our minds, Master Lazarus. A peculiarity, most certainly, but never a foe."

That... surprises me. They do not, and in fact have not, thought of me as some sort of enemy to kept under watch? After all this time? Are they so naïve to think that one such as I may pose no threat to them? My confusion plays across my face in a very visible manner. "Surely you must have suspected me, a stranger with dubious origin and foreign power. You can't expect me to believe you did not wonder if I was some agent of evil."

"Oh indeed, we held much of you to be suspicious, but never once did we think of raising a hand against you, save only after our fears were made manifest," Elrond explains with a face that tells me he is being honest, and that he now seems to understand a degree of my turmoil regarding the subject. "I will freely admit that you are secretive, and perhaps rightly so, for your reasoning is your own, and we are not owed any morsel of truth more than you are willing to share. And secrets of their own accord are not an evil thing. Therefore we cannot judge based on your secrecy alone."

"To be certain, the power you wield raises many questions, but that you wielded that power with pity and kindness for Frodo Baggin's sake speaks more to your character than your own testimony ever could," Gandalf says, tapping the tip of his staff against my breast. "For goodness is measured in deeds, not just words."

Thus also faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead.

I shake my head at them. This is ridiculous. "What I am saying is that though you give it freely, I have done nothing of worth to earn that trust. I wonder if perhaps you aren't being a bit naïve."

Glorfindel places a hand on my shoulder. "You say that you are a Guardian among your people, charged with the defense of your city and the sundering of evil. Is it not enough that we take you at your word?"

I open my mouth to retort, but find myself silent... I am at a loss. Taking someone at their word? Didn't that require an immense amount of trust in the first place? Maybe in the ancient days we had enough faith in each other to take each other at our words when we spoke them... but that was in ages past, before even the pre-Golden Age. I want to say - yell - at them, tell them no! It isn't! That's a one-way ticket to betrayal!

And yet...

And yet I see the honesty in their eyes. I know their beliefs and their words are one and the same. Their trust is simple, and I think it's silly. But should I? At least three of these fools are older than even I am. Have they not experiences enough to last many lifetimes? Have they not known their own fair share of betrayals? Surely they have; they must have. Do they defy their own wisdom in their decision? Or do they obey their better natures in giving me the benefit of the doubt? And why do I begrudge them their good will so? None of this makes any sense.

Maybe I'm just jaded... Scratch that, I am definitely jaded.

The chirping of birds is unbearably loud, and their song is a pure melody of nature. When one bird speaks to another, do they doubt each other's song? Do the clouds doubt the sky? Do electrons doubt the protons and neutrons they are bound to? Of course they can't, or else the very fabric of this universe would unravel into unpaired subatomic particles; a haze of everything that is and nothing at all.

I heave a resigned breath. "Goodness... You all are fools." But there is no bite to my words. I accept their decision, and though it behooves me to do so, I still can't help but believe they are unbearably naïve; if I were anyone else, wouldn't they be in incredible danger right now?

"That may be," Aragorn said with a smile as if he read my thoughts. "But we can be sure of this; a spy in the Enemy's service would most assuredly have come up with a more believable story."

I blink at the Dúnedain. He... isn't wrong, I suppose. I feel laughter in my throat as the absurdity of his truth tickles me. Though I arrest it, I cannot prevent the faintest flicker of smile from creeping through. "Fine. Whatever. But if I betray you all, don't say I didn't warn you."

They laugh lightly at my jest. I begrudgingly join them.

Simple trust. How quaint.

It feels nice.

--

The days pass, or so I am led to believe between the meals and the rising and setting of the Sun and Moon in the sky. Time in Rivendell seems to be a relative matter, and often seems not to pass at all, and yet it does. And in that strange time-diluted span I've put myself to work, redoubling my efforts to learn all that I may of the Elves, of Men, of Middle Earth and the like that I can, while I can. But, though I have delved deep into these many tomes of knowledge, I'm still left wanting more. Where should I begin and end? Where must I linger and where should I pass over?

Absent a guide, I am left with only my thoughts and the cool blue-white light of my Ghost's eye, blinking this way and that as he scans flipped pages and rolls of scrolls alongside me. Freed from abject secrecy, I can tell it pleases him to be out and about, instead of hidden beneath my armor as he usually is. At least in this place I feel I needn't fear betrayal and death, or else I'd never let him see the light of day. He calls it being a "helicopter mom." I call it prudence. I've seen too many Guardians lose their Ghosts to stupidity or surprise...

Hey, Warlock! You're used to sitting around doing nothing. Mind taking over bit while I go for a jog? No? Pretty please? Oh, come on! What do you have to do that's more important, hm? Go head, hit me... Uhuh, that's what I thought.

Nevertheless, given the opportunity to stretch his proverbial legs, he's taken to it with abandon. And though seldom it may be, he is quick to hide himself when company arrives. Better to avoid the hassle of explanation in any case.

And wise of him to do so, indeed, for this particular tale I am reading is far more interesting than the tedium of culture-shock; it details an ancient Elf named Finwë, High King of the Ñoldor in ancient days. Though, much of the story seems to be conveyed through song and can only be understood in full when sung. Moreover, the song itself is written in Quenya, which is a completely different dialect from Sindarin.

Although the need for a translator is obvious, and I otherwise would have little hesitation to ask for one, the fact that the tale must be sung gives me pause. Perhaps it is due to my own predilections, but asking for someone to sing for me, even if for historical study, seems a tad uncomfortable.

My Ghost vanishes.

I blink out of my own thoughts as the darkness around me retreats from the light of a freshly lit candle placed at my side, and Elrond huffs with humor as his hand retreats from the lit flame. "Ordinarily I'd wager that one's efforts to absorb the knowledge of these many pages is a war of attrition. But I dare say you seem to be winning."

I allow a small smile as I turn to my stealthy host, setting down the parchment in my hands. "I'm never quite myself if I'm not putting my mind to work. And there is much I must still learn."

Elrond inclines his head. "If you were but to ask, I'm certain there is much I could tell you in more succinctly a manner than any book."

I let out an honest laugh at that. "And if I were to take you up on such an offer, I think we would both find out exactly how far the generosity of Elrond Half-elven, Lord of Rivendell extends."

He shares my humor for a moment, leaning against a table bedecked with many pages and parchments.

"Nevertheless," I continue, "no puzzle can be solved with missing pieces, and there is still much that still eludes me."

"I have lived since the most ancient of days," he begins quietly. "Very little has transpired in this world that I have not born witness to, much of it personally. Perhaps, there are even things I have seen that would leave you in disbelief."

I consider his words and know he isn't wrong; the more I read, the more rabbit holes yawn open in my wake, and I can only dive into one at a time. "That's true enough," I finally admit, though I commit to nothing. I'm not about to ask the Elf to sing for me...

I sigh and allow my eyes a moment's rest from their strain. "So, how may I serve you, Lord Elrond?"

Elrond gives me a funny look and smiles knowingly. "I should not be surprised if news of young Frodo Baggins' recovery has not somehow reached you in this dungeon of knowledge you've constructed, but such is the case I wager."

I blink and rub both eyes with thumb and index finger. "How could I not? Even in my solitude I hear happy songs singing of it... And I'm pleased to hear them. His wound was great, though it must have been even greater than my reckoning if he wakes so many days after treatment." But then, I should expect that from someone who had been poisoned by something akin to a Thorn petal.

Elrond nods. "Treatment has continued since your aid, and he has come far enough walk about the gardens."

"The elder Baggins should be very happy I imagine," I say. "He was quite distraught over his nephew's condition."

"Yea, he has not given more than an hour's time away from his side before he returns to check on young Frodo, despite my assurances that such measures are unnecessary."

I smile at the image. Certainly, Bilbo strikes me as the dotting sort of uncle. "One cannot fault another for caring overmuch," I say. I wait a moment in the subsequent silence. Elrond doesn't speak, and I see his face now grimmer in the flickering shadows cast by the candle's light.

"Lord Elrond?"

As if startled from his thoughts, he gathers himself and pulls out a stool to sit, resting his hands in his lap. He brightens and extends a hand to me. "Tonight will be merrymaking, feasting and singing to celebrate Frodo's health. The event is open to you as well, of course, as it should be to one whose help was chief in his recovery."

The mention of food triggers a hunger within me, and in an act of supreme betrayal, my stomach growls like a threatened mongrel, to which I feign a smile and strike my gut in reprimand. Though he does not laugh, Elrond is quite amused by the display.

"Singing and merrymaking are perhaps beyond me at the moment." I say through gritted teeth. "But if the subject is food, then I will gladly accept your invitation."

And so the Elf lord rises and bids me follow, which I do. The many racks of scrolls and papers and books smell divine as he leads me into ever-lightening rows of stacked knowledge until at last we are out. Immediately I hear music and singing in the air of Rivendell, and the hustling and bustling and laughing of Elves as they ghost about, toing and froing as they may.

It is such a change in scenery and ambience that I am struck by the beauty of the city all at once again. I imagine the Dreaming City must have once looked like this, back before the Curse… But those are dark thoughts again; It is difficult to evade them in this city so like, and unlike that one which has fallen to terrible ruin.

"There is also another matter I wished to discuss with you."

I raise an eyebrow and mirror the Elf's pace as possibilities run like rivers through my mind. "Say on."

"Five days ago, an item of immense value was brought into this city, and a life almost lost in so doing," he says, the melancholy in his voice leaving no doubt he is referring to Bilbo's nephew. "A council will be held tomorrow to decide the fate of this item."

I feel my eyes narrow, though I quickly school my features. "What kind of item?"

The ancient creature displays a cunning yet dark expression. "An item upon which the fates of all good things on this earth rest."

I feel the weight of his declaration in my soul, and an immense curiosity settles in my bones. I'll give him this, though we have known each other just over two weeks, he has already divined how to play to my whimsy. City folk often joke that Guardians are hilariously one dimensional, each in their own ways. Show a Hunter a place they can't go, and they'll go there and shove its dirt in your face. Show a Titan an enemy they can't punch to death, and they'll bring you its battered skull on a platter. Taunt a Warlock with something they don't know, and you won't see them again until they've prepared a three-hundred page thesis on the subject.

Frustratingly, many of the stereotypes exist for a reason.

"Ominous," I comment dryly, though I make no effort to hide my interest.

"Indeed." The Elf lord continues, "By fortuitous circumstance, many persons of note from many peoples have come by one purpose or another to this city seeking counsel. Many will be in attendance. Much will be shared, and much I believe will interest you. Thus do I formally extend an invitation to you with hope that you will accept."

I raise a brow. A convergence of peoples from across Middle-Earth? That alone might have been enough to incline me to accept, except that it is obvious that Elrond is looking for something from me. Perhaps he hopes that by opening the doors of this secret caucus to me that I will lay myself vulnerable to appeal. I know, or rather, I suspect this. But what kind of Warlock would I be if I refused this chance? He may have caught me hook, line, and sinker, but I'm a bigger fish than he realizes.

I turn back to him with a glint in my eyes that I cannot hide.

"Very well. I accept your invitation, Lord Elrond."

--

The hall of Elrond's house is filled with folk: Elves for the most part, though there are a few guests of other sorts. Elrond sits in a great chair at the end of a long table upon a dais, and next to him on the one side sat Glorfindel, on the other side sat Gandalf.

It is beside Glorfindel that I am seated, and it suits me that it is so. Though his previous scrutinization was shared by both Gandalf and Elrond, I have always felt his were less so inspired by suspicion and more by a genuine curiosity. Perhaps it is the nature of his being that he is more trusting of strangers. In any case, if I were given a choice of who to sit by, I would have chosen Glorfindel anyway.

In the moment, it strikes me that Elrond went out of his way to fetch me out of the darkened crevice I'd lodged myself in just to bring me to dinner. And yet there were all these other individuals whom I know not, and yet can tell are of particular note and nobility; these are important party guests that Elrond should have been rightfully entertaining instead of fetching me. And Elrond does not strike me as the sort of Elf who would extricate himself from his duties as host.

Rather than with distrust, do they in fact regard me as some sort of equal? They would be correct to do so, I suppose, but as a guest I do not feel worthy of such a position at this table... I try not to dwell on it lest my own misgivings make their way to my tongue and spoil the deliciously prepared food.

"Welcome, Lazarus!" Glorfindel greets with an arm extended to receive me to my seat. In fact, all three rise to greet me, and I am left with only my muscles to move in absence of my will; I bow respectfully and manage to smile as I take my offered seat.

They sit with me in turn and I notice the display has garnered many an eye turning my way, and I am not surprised by it. No doubt the myriad peoples in attendance are wondering who I am that the host would rise to receive me, let alone fetch me to dinner. I see many in the crowd. Elves of course, but also Men, as well as Hobbits such as Frodo, who among the many tables sat at Elrond's left, just opposite him and slightly further down the line. Beside him sat what I can only presume to be a Dwarf. He is richly dressed, with a very long, forked beard as white as the snow-white cloth of his garments.

Call me racist, but I had expected more gold…

My ears pick out that Frodo and the Dwarf speak in excitable tones and their smiles reach their ears quite easily. I wouldn't be surprised if they knew one another.

We eat and talk of idle things. No one speaks of business or dark tidings, though I imagine there must be quite bit of that to talk about, considering all those who have gathered to this Last Homely House east of the Sea seeking Elrond's counsel. Perhaps all such things dark and dismal will be shared on the morrow's gathering.

Soon our bellies fill and our eating slows, though our drinking continues and conversation takes over where chewing leaves off.

"So tell us Master Lazarus, if it is not too grim a task, what has become of your city?" Glorfindel beams at me, drawing me out of myself and into the conversation.

I raise an eyebrow at him. "Any tale I tell would mean little to any of you."

"True enough," he agrees, "for news from distant lands are all the same to those who know them not. But we will learn nothing otherwise."

I suppose it's a reasonable request. Just as I have heard many snippets of conversations detailing places I have never been, never seen, and in many cases never even heard about, speaking of home would much the same to them.

I acquiesce with an eventual nod. "Prior to my coming here, I was out on… errantry, far beyond the City's borders, so I do not know details myself, but what I do know, I will relay." And so, I explain what I can as simply as I can. The damage of Ghaul's Red Legion had mostly been cleared and repaired, and many of the affected districts had repopulated with new buildings and infrastructure. However, the Red War had upset much of the balance across the land, and refugees were flooding in from all directions to seek safety and prosperity within the City's walls.

"So, these Fallen you speak of, are they Men like you?"

I'd intentionally avoided discussing any of the non-human races in the Sol system up until now, but knowing that there are also many strange creatures in this world which I can hardly imagine, I feel a little less apprehensive about describing the enemies of the Light.

I shake my head. "Not in the least. They are four armed, with fangs and claws and sharpened swords. And they are smart; quick to learn from their enemies. And though they are often pitted against my people, they do have some honor in their society. The Traveler was their patron god in ancient days, but then the Darkness came and the Traveler fled before it, abandoning them. They have chased its shadow ever since and hold a deep envy of my people who now enjoy the Traveler's blessings."

Glorfindel inclines his head. "Yet you say there is honor in them?"

"Honor born of ancient rites and ways long forgotten. Before what they call, 'The Whirlwind.' It is rare, but occasionally a glimpse of it may be seen in those belonging to elder Houses. The Fallen have taken great blows these past ten years, and as their leadership is summarily eliminated and replaced, more and more Fallen find the conflict between our peoples unnecessary. Many of those have sworn oaths to the House of Light, which has offered terms of non-aggression with my people. In their example lies the hope of peace between our kinds."

"And what of the Cabal you describe. You have thrown them back from the ramparts. Can there be peace with them?"

A good question, and one I wish I had the answer to. "That depends on who commands them. Unlike the Fallen whose grudge is ancient and subjectively justified, the Cabal see the Traveler as a weapon that may be taken and wielded against their foes. Ghaul was one such thinker. Their emperor-in-exile on the other hand is ambivalent enough, often offering rewards for services provided to him, though he demands no fealty. But that was some time ago. Circumstance may have changed since then, so who knows?"

"Then there may be hope for peace in the interim since last you visited your home," Gandalf offers with a logical simplicity. But I shake my head.

"Even if the Fallen and the Cabal were to lay down arms against us, there is still the Vex and the Hive to manage, and the less said about them the better." I have no intention of going into the details of those adversaries during a dinner party… or ever if I can get away with it.

As if reading my intentions to censor myself and thus speak no more on the subject, Elrond rises and guides the company of diners through a wide passage down the hall. He is joined by a young Elf woman of striking beauty who I can only assume is either his wife or his daughter. Gandalf joins young Frodo, who seems in my eyes to be doing quite well since last I saw him. His arm certainly appears mended, but I know the real damage may not linger on the skin, but closer to the bones and spirit. Which judging by his mien remains significantly hale.

We pass through many such doors until we come into a further hall where there is a large room, empty of all but great hearth in which a roaring fire is contained centered between two stone pillars.

The Hall of Fire, I believe it is called, for a fire is kept in it all year long, though few gather here expect on special occasion and I have never seen it used.

Elrond enters in and minstrels begin their plucking and blowing and tapping so as to fill the hall with Elvish music. However, instead of going to the chair prepared for him, the half-Elf singles out a short, cloaked figure who sleeping on a stool in the corner of the room. Upon arousal, the figure is revealed to be none other than Bilbo Baggins, who greets, or rather is greeted, by a fleet-footed Frodo who runs to his uncle in joy. It seems that since Frodo woke up this morning, he has not yet seen the elder Hobbit. Their reunion is a merry thing to watch, for having myself been a guide to pilgrims in days long past, there is nothing quite so satisfying as seeing a child or a mother or a father or a grandparent reunited with lost loved ones. This scene reminds me of those days…

For the first time since coming to Rivendell I find myself beset with music. Though the Elves sing most nights and days, it has always been at a distance from me, and much of the tenor and soprano of their voices are lost in the distance, the bass and contralto reach me easiest, as they must. Now as I listen I think to myself that I must have missed out on quite a bit of their tunes. There is much… more… here. More voices, more notes, more melding of music and song that I've seldom heard the likes of back in the City. Concerts were more about performance and loud music… but this music is soft. Loud also, yes, but soft.

Gentle.

Graceful.

Songs with meaning beyond mere words.

I find a seat and listen, resisting the urge to dissecting just how and why the music is so moving; I know very little about music, and what I do is not the kind of music that should be sung at all. So, with nothing to add, I sit and close my eyes, listening and learning.

My Ghost trills approvingly in my ear, bobbing invisibly to the rhythm.

Through the course of the evening and dim conversation, I find myself looking for Glorfindel. I find him stealthily hiding by a pillar off to the side of the room, observing with a smile and laughter in his face.

It's a wonder the man can hide at all considering his luminescence…

His eyes catch mine and he wanders over, politely requesting the seat next to me which I offer in turn. He sits and we listen to the music together. Between refrains, he leans in to speak.

"I hope the festivities are to your liking. I judge you are not overly fond of revelry."

I smile at him in such a way as to confirm his suspicions. I've been to my fair share of feasts before, and each time I've come away wondering how the host could justify expending so many resources just to brighten the mood. I'm aware of the importance of morale, but how will the morale improve when the people go without food because they ate it all the night before? Feasting went out of fashion with the Dark Ages. And good riddance, I say.

But to Glorfindel I simply say, "No, not overly."

Truth be told, between Gandalf, Elrond, and Glorfindel, I much prefer the company of the golden-haired Elf. Though it may be contrary to the truth, I at least don't feel like I'm being seen through when I speak with him. His eyes may perhaps be as keen or more then the wizard and half-Elf, but if they are, it seems his concerns are more regarding my nature than whether or not I'm fibbing or omitting my way through an explanation.

"Rest easy then," says he, "for tonight is a night of enjoyment. Or perhaps Elvish music does not agree with you?"

"No," I quickly counter. "No, the music is… soothing. I enjoy it very much. It is the crowds I do not enjoy."

Glorfindel nods, smiling in understanding and allows the musical silence to settle between us, the chatter of the hall remaining at a respectful decibel to not overpower the minstrels.

"I know that the depth our insights concern you," he says suddenly, drawing my gaze. "You know we are aware of things others would not be. And it unnerves you that even in our knowing we still choose to trust you."

I find a cup of wine on a tray beside me suddenly interesting. I take it and nurse it gently. "Something like that, yes."

Again Elf-Lord nods. "I suspected as much. But you may rest assured – or you may not – it is despite that we see through your carefully woven words that we keep you in our welcome. Whatever secrets you keep are a concern, but it is not our place to demand their revelation."

I quirk an eyebrow at him with skeptical humor. "Even if you know I'm hiding something? What if its nefarious?"

Far from trying to hide it, Glorfindel laughs. "Some progress you may make towards that ambition, but against the combined might of Elves and wizards, you would not succeed."

I return his laugh and sip from my cup. "At least you're confident."

He smiles at me. "As are you. Or would be, I deem, if you had but allies with which to set your back against."

I pause mid sip and turn to the gold-haired Elf. A sincerity is in his expression, as it always seemed to since I met him in the forest by the Bruinen.

"You said as much did you not?" says he. "'I am a stranger in a strange land.' No doubt you have myriad companions in your homeland; but here you are alone and without friend or familiar company. And so you have set your edge against the world, even to those who for a little while would offer you companionship, though you may know it not. Are we truly so disquieting that we cannot put you at ease, even in these enchanted halls of Imladris?"

I huff at him. He is correct, to a degree. I am out of my element. Throw me against the servants of Darkness and I'll be happier than a ghost in a graveyard. At least I will know who my enemy is, who they are not, where to go and what to do; context to frame my choices, directions to chart my course. I have none of that here.

If I were to indulge a bit of introspection, all of this concern is my own fault; the projection of my own unease onto another. And as the saying goes, mistrust begets mistrust begets mistrust begets mistrust. And from that mistrust must come the revelation of Truth; that existence is the struggle to exist. Trust itself is a lie of peace, to keep two persons or peoples or ideologies or nations from killing each other. Trust is the gravitational dead-zone wherein planets may orbit stars in fearless perpetuity. Trust is the idea that the universe will go on forever.

And that is a lie –

Cut away the lie. Assume your true shape.

"Lazarus...?" Glorfindel asks, his head tilting in concern.

I blink at him. His eyes are concerned, and I wonder why. Then look to myself. My body is tense, face hard, jaw set, and eyes cold. My muscles are coiled like a Jack ready to spring from his box, and the light of Solar fire flickers between my clenched knuckles.

Ahh… It seems I have still not gotten over that incident…

I can see your potential too. You'll rend the Sky hollow one day. I'm betting on it.

I take a steadying breath. In – out – in – out – in... The music has uncentered me, my thoughts have strayed from the path. My defenses are lowered and the enemy approaches, prepared to enter the city of my mind. No, it is already inside. Now I must excise it.

I extinguish the flames in my hand. "Forgive me, my thoughts drifted to a bad memory," I apologize, to which Glorfindel nods tentatively, though frowning. I do not wonder why.

"Would it pain you terribly to talk about it?" he asks, as if playing therapist. I laugh at the thought, but then remember that he is a many millennia old creature; doubtless he's seen some serious shit in his time.

I'm not used to being the younger in a conversation...

I shake my head. "Thank you for the offer, but this is something I must deal with myself."

"Very well. I pray your efforts bear fruit. But if you change your mind..." He nods to me, a symbol of respect and affirmation, perhaps even encouragement, though I might be reading too much into it.

I return his nod appreciatively. I have no intention of actually accepting his offer, but it is appreciated nonetheless. We fall into silence, just listening. The music is like wave of dreamlike enchantment, each tone a strange undulation that tips me one direction, only for another tone to right me before I dip under the surface. It is a soothing sensation akin to the rocking of a mother's babe. The fire is bright, but fades to golden beams of misty sunlight hemmed in silver clouds. I feel afloat on currents of air, like a balloon bobbing in the current's wake. Far off lands I have never seen of golden cities I have never visited appear like visions to a thirsty traveler. Vivid, yet just out of reach. I see heroes of ancient times in gleaming armor fight magnificent foes both beautiful and terrible. Viridian glades of grass and field pass like halcyon Earth, and I, a satellite, lie in orbit above, watching the turning of the world. And I see the world, not as I know it, nor as I have seen it in maps, but as it once was in days before counting, where lands now beneath the waves stood proud in the light of the sun and the moon and the stars above, and the lamps the lit the world. Magnificence I could not imagine on my own plays out before me in flickering glimpses that tease me with tragedy and heroism. It is all strange to me, but I accept it, drown myself in it. If this is a dream, then I must be asleep. And if I am asleep, I do not care. I drift through the shining weight of the deep.

Then, as if piercing the veil of clouds above, a silver voice incises to my ears, and I am drawn back to the waking world. Bilbo is singing, and all have quieted to attend to him, even Elrond and Glorfindel both watch with smiles and eager faces.

Eärendil was a mariner that tarried in Arvernien;

He built a boat of timber felled

In Nimbrethil to journey in;

Her sails he wove of silver fair,

Of silver were her lanterns made,

Her prow was fashioned like a swan,

And light upon her banners laid.

In panoply of ancient kings,

in chainéd rings he armoured him;

his shining shield was scored with runes

to ward all wounds and harm from him;

his bow was made of dragon-horn,

his arrows shorn of ebony,

of silver was his habergeon,

his scabbard of chalcedony;

his sword of steel was valiant,

of adamant his helmet tall,

an eagle-plume upon his crest,

upon his breast an emerald.

Beneath the Moon and under star

he wandered far from northern strands,

bewildered on enchanted ways

beyond the days of mortal lands.

From gnashing of the Narrow Ice

where shadow lies on frozen hills,

from nether heats and burning waste

he turned in haste, and roving still

on starless waters far astray

at last he came to Night of Naught,

and passed, and never sight he saw

of shining shore nor light he sought.

The winds of wrath came driving him,

and blindly in the foam he fled

from west to east and errandless,

unheralded he homeward sped.

There flying Elwing came to him,

and flame was in the darkness lit;

more bright than light of diamond the fire upon her carcanet.

The Silmaril she bound on him

and crowned him with the living light

and dauntless then with burning brow

he turned his prow; and in the night

from Otherworld beyond the Sea

there strong and free a storm arose,

a wind of power in Tarmenel;

by paths that seldom mortal goes

his boat it bore with biting breath

as might of death across the grey

and long-forsaken seas distressed:

from east to west he passed away.

Through Evernight he back was borne

on black and roaring waves that ran

o'er leagues unlit and foundered shores

that drowned before the Days began,

until he heard on strands of pearl

where ends the world the music long,

where ever-foaming billows roll

the yellow gold and jewels wan.

He saw the Mountain silent rise

where twilight lies upon the knees

of Valinor, and Eldamar

beheld afar beyond the seas.

A wanderer escaped from night

to haven white he came at last,

to Elvenhome the green and fair

where keen the air, where pale as glass

beneath the Hill of Ilmarin

a-glimmer in a valley sheer

the lamplit towers of Tirion

are mirrored on the Shadowmere.

He tarried there from errantry,

and melodies they taught to him,

and sages old him marvels told,

and harps of gold they brought to him.

They clothed him then in elven-white,

and seven lights before him sent,

as through the Calacirian

to hidden land forlorn he went.

He came unto the timeless halls

where shining fall the countless year,

and endless reigns the Elder King

in Ilmarin on Mountain sheer;

and words unheard were spoken then

of folk of Men and Elven-kin,

beyond the world were visions showed

forbid to those that dwell therein.

A ship then new they built for him

of mithril and of elven-glass

with shining prow; no shaven oar

nor sail she bore on silver mas:

the Silmaril as lantern light

and banner bright with living flame

to gleam thereon by Elbereth

herself was set, who thither came

and wings immortal made for him,

and laid on him undying doom,

to sail the shoreless skies and come

behind the Sun and light of Moon.

From Evereven's lofty hills

where softly silver fountains fall

his wings him bore, a wandering light,

beyond the mighty Mountain Wall.

From World's End then he turned away,

and yearned again to find afar

his home through shadow journeying,

and burning as an island star

on high above the mists he came,

a distant flame before the Sun,

a wonder ere the waking dawn

where grey the Norland waters run.

And over Middle-earth he passed

and heard at last the weeping sore

of women and of elven-maids

in Elder Days, in years of yore.

But on him mighty doom was laid,

till Moon should fade, an orbéd star

to pass, and tarry never more

on Hither Shores where mortals are;

for ever still a herald on

an errand that should never rest

to bear his shining lamp afar,

the Flammifer of Westernesse.

A rush of applause accompanied its ending, and Bilbo gave a flourishing bow to his onlookers. I join them with clapping hands. It is a fascinating bit of poetry, like the Elves, but spoken not quite as elegantly. Granted, being spoken in the common tongue certainly degraded its beauty, at least when compared to the Elven tongue. Nevertheless, the nature of the song itself compounds the beauty of tone and voice, for Bilbo is a surprisingly good singer.

I do not recognize the name of Eärendil, though I file it away to study later. Another rabbit hole, no doubt.

"Now we have better have it again," says an Elf, to the agreement of many.

"I am flattered Lindir," Bilbo says, rising from his bow. "But it would be too tiring to repeat it all."

"Not too tiring for you," the Elves answer laughing. "You know you are never tired of reciting your own verses. But really we cannot answer your question at one hearing!"

"What‽" cries Bilbo. "You can't tell which parts were mine, and which were the Dúnadan's?"

"It is not easy for us to tell the difference between two mortals," the Elf complains, and is met with many agreements from the crowd.

"Nonsense, Lindir," snorts Bilbo. "If you can't distinguish between a Man and Hobbit, your judgement is poorer than I imagined. They're as different as peas and apples."

"Maybe. To sheep other sheep no doubt appear different," Lindir laughs. "Or to shepherds. But Mortals have not been our study. We have other business."

Bilbo waves a hand at the Elf dismissively, though his offense is mostly feigned I think. "I won't argue with you. I am sleepy after so much music and singing. I'll leave you to guess, if you want to." And with that, the Hobbit retreats to his nephew's side and they speak for a moment before trotting off elsewhere.

Roused from my trance I lean over to Glorfindel and ask, "What was the wager?"

Probably aware of the way his peoples music affected me, he smiles and recounts, "Master Baggins challenged us to determine which of the lines were his, and which were Aragorn's."

I raise an eyebrow, smiling. "And? Can you tell?"

Glorfindel smiles and shrugs his shoulders with a humorous flippancy. "As Lindir said, Mortals aren't our study."

I echo Bilbo's snort. "Cop out."

He laughs at my accusation but does not deny it. "And you?"

I raise my brow at him again and heave a breath of laughter. "I'm pretty sure this cup knows more about music than I do. Your guess is better than mine."

I can tell my words strike a curious tone in Glorfindel, but he refrains from delving further. I'm thankful for that.

The truth is, in my studies it seems to me that music is hard coded into this world. From the very moment I first awoke in this place, I cannot help but hear music in all things, either in nature or in the people who live in it. And The more I learn, the more I come to understand that music is a form of power unto itself in Middle-Earth. Sadly, I have zero musical talent, either in composing or understanding. I can appreciate a lovely song, but not in its entirety. I am merely a casual listener. I barely know the basics of musical theory!

Glorfindel gives me a long look. Maybe he understands more than I reveal. It does seem that the Elves eyes are quite keen, beyond simple sight; they provide quite a bit of insight if they peer hard enough. Maybe that's just great Elves like Glorfindel and Elrond. But then I feel the same kind of insight in Gandalf's gaze as well... Perhaps it is some sort of technique that can be learned... I make a mental note to ask later.

Not wishing to disgrace myself by falling asleep a second time (if indeed I slept the first), I rise and excuse myself with a bow and a word of thanks, heading outside into the night air. Once outside, the music picks up again, and its dim melodies seem more mysterious now. The stars are bright tonight, and the harvest moon shines nearly full in the sky. I stare at them while I walk, tracing unfamiliar constellations and wondering what the name of each star was, if perhaps it was host to life. As I do, I find myself once again retreading the paths of the gardens, many creatures of the night singing and buzzing in a natural din. I come to a stop in an isolated portion that both overlooks the valley below and revealed the flickering light of the Hall of Fire beyond. I am partitioned from the rest of the garden by an archway full of green and gold plant-life that smells like honey and lilacs. Instead of music, the smell is far more calming. I take a deep breath and hold it, letting the many scents linger in my lungs until spots appear in my vision.

I release the breath and sigh as the carbon dioxide leaves my lungs.

Glancing this way and that, I hold out my hand. "Gabriel," I call, and my Ghost appears at my side in a puff of light.

He shakes as if driving away sleep and looks between me and the surroundings. "Oh, the gardens again," he comments idly, leaving my palm to examine the foliage. "I suppose you like this place, huh?"

I shrug. "I suppose I do. It reminds me of the City. The people like botany."

"It lifts their spirits," Gabriel clarifies, his single white eye shining on a golden flower. "It helps them remember that the City is a place of growth."

I nod my head in understanding. I pluck a flower and twist it around by the stem, staring into its core idly. "I miss Sol." It sounds juvenile even in my own ears. "It's just not the same here."

"I know," he says quietly, at my side in a moment and perching on my head like a preening parrot. "We'll get there. I believe in us."

I laugh at my Ghost's hopeless hopefulness. But that's just it, isn't it? It's not us that I don't believe in.

We can be nothing except what we are. You have a choice.

It's me.

I'll come over and hear your answer myself.

I shake my head, driving creeping, vestigial memories from my mind and nearly flinging Gabriel off in the process. "I appreciate the vote of confidence."

"Hey," he says, floating down to look me eye-to-eyes. "If there's anyone, anyone at all who has the wherewithal to get us back home, its you."

It is good to know that in 480-some-odd years, he has remained as chipper and positive as he always was. I wish I could say the same for me.

"Showing off with some big words are we?"

He huffs indignantly and turns away, pouting.

With a knowing smile, I take him into my hands and hold his shell gently, and we stare at the moon for many hours, the songs of Elves and Middle-Earth our music for the evening. I do not think about the meeting that will come in the morning; tomorrow will worry about itself. For now, I will sit and enjoy the peace while it lasts.

My gut tells me it will soon be in short supply.

Last edited: Jan 28, 2022

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Black Lister

Mar 5, 2021

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Threadmarks Chapter 6: Tip The Scales

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Black Lister

Apr 14, 2021

#75

The morning comes sooner than I would like, and with its advent the stars twinkle out and the Moon hides its face in the early blushing sky. In its place a bright golden Sun rises in the East, casting more colorful rays than shadows. The day is the 25th of October in year 3,018 of the Third Age of Middle-Earth, and it is quite the momentous day indeed for in this restful valley called Rivendell by Men and Dwarves and many others besides, a committee has been called to attendance by Elrond Halfelven, wisest of loremasters and lord of the city itself. It is in his care that the whole of the valley has been come by many to be known as the Last Homely House East of the Sea.

Although not strictly true, on account of the many other peoples both large and small who have made the region of Eriador, its ambiance of peace and restfulness is unchallenged… this side of the Misty Mountains anyway. I've heard tales of an Elven land to the East that retains the beauty and majesty of their people as it was in ancient days. I should like to visit such a place someday.

But that is there. And there is not here. Here in the halls of Imladris – as it is known by those Elves who reside here – a great congregation begins, to which I have been invited to attend. And far be it from me, a Warlock, to turn down such an auspicious request. Representatives of all the free peoples of Middle-Earth with be present. So I am led to believe. Men, Elves, Dwarves, Wizards… even little Hobbits. Each one a representative of their own realm and each arriving unsuspectingly at quite a fortuitous moment, for though their requests be urgent and their news dire, it is their counsel which will decide the fate of Middle-Earth.

At least, so I am led to believe. I've not known lord Elrond to be particularly exaggerative, so I believe him when he says so. And having been proffered only an ambiguous taste of what is to be addressed at this meeting, I am left to fill in the blanks. I try to avoid doing so. It is better that I do not let my imagination wander, and instead focus on what news is set before me.

As the pinkish hues of the yawning Sun finally bleed to gold, I leave the gardens and return to my room to freshen up and prepare for the day.

As I open my door, I am delighted to find my armor carefully cleaned and polished, set upon a mannequin display in the corner of the room. I dare say it hasn't looked so fine since I first forged it. I run my bare fingers over the many square-based pyramidal studs on its breastplate. Its matte black finish somehow still able to gleam ebony in the early morning sun drizzling in from the window. I worried that perhaps whatever Elf might take charge of its maintenance would have difficulty working with its otherworldly metal, but it seems that any inexperience seems not to show on the final product. Scratches and scrapes that have accrued over the course of my many campaigns have been largely erased, and though dents are perhaps beyond the local smith's skill to repair, it is to their credit that I hardly notice them.

I wonder when it was that the work was finished… Surely it must have been sometime yesterday, as I've not returned to my room since I first awoke the day before.

But first, before clothes, I must wash. Not for the first time am I impressed that the Elves have managed to bond porcelain enamel to cast iron bathtubs. It almost looks like something I would see back home.

Contrastingly, the water must be drawn by hand via a pump beside the tub and heated by a bricks underneath that were warmed by a fire. It is convenient that I can skip the preparatory phase of premodern bathing.

Once the water is drawn to a suitable level, I strip off my fine Elvish clothing and submerge myself in the cold water. Fortunately, it doesn't stay cold for long; I wreath my body in Light-heat, enjoying the rapidly warming bath until its all but boiling. Once it is hot enough for my liking, I linger a while and enjoy the steaming water as it soothes my back and shoulders.

When I get out I dry myself, and set aside my Elven garb and return to my Warlock's cloak and wrap. It feels almost too good, like I am being welcomed home by a sun-warmed embrace of synthweave and space-age polymers. But as I look at myself in the mirror, I begin to doubt it today is the day to wear such an ensemble. Indeed, if it is a congregation of wisdom, then armor is not needed, and indeed, I will stand out when I do not desire to.

"Perhaps next time, friend," I say with a forlorn sigh and step away from my armor to redress in a clean set of elven clothes. As I do, a clear tone of a bell rings across the city, and I know that it is the signal for the beginning of the council.

I travel a winding path back to the house of Elrond and come upon a wide porch where many seats were situated in an oblong ring. In the midst of them is a small, decorated stone plinth that is far too small to hold a meal around. In the many seats were people whom I have seen in passing or not at all, and I behold many Dwarves and Men and Elves, including Glorfindel, and Elrond of course, but also those of nobility like Erestor who is chief of Elrond's advisors, though he has not been present for any of my meetings with the half-Elf lord.

Elrond, perhaps sensing my presence or accurately expecting me to arrive just now, turns at my approach and smiles. Taking me by the shoulder, he leads me to a seat just to the side of him. Though between his and mine, two smaller seats are situated, and I note their occupants are both of the Hobbit variety. I immediately recognize Bilbo and his nephew Frodo.

"Why master Lazarus! Joyous am I to see you again since we last spoke five days past!" Bilbo starts with a cry, leaping out of his seat to take my hand in his. "Up Frodo! Here stands one who is to thank for that scar on your arm, for if it were not a scar it would be much worse indeed!"

Frodo stands, his brown locks waving and his eyes wide in surprise. "Is that so? I was told it was thanks to the efforts of lord Elrond and Gandalf that I was healed. Yet if Bilbo says it is so, then I must believe it. I haven't the words to thank you, sir."

Of course he was told that, since I was the one who indicated that I needn't be credited with his recovery. "Whatever your uncle or Elrond or Gandalf may say, I was a participant only. Even if I were not present, I'm sure that with their combined skill, you would have made a full recovery regardless."

"Likely or not, we can never know what might have been," Elrond says with a placating smile. "Only what has been. Therefor let credit be given where it is due. I apologize for my lie Frodo, for while it was indeed myself and Gandalf who tended to you through the perilous hours after you escaped across the Ford of Bruinen, it was not only us. So, though the hour of this introduction is late, may I introduce Lazarus?"

"It's a pleasure to meet you Frodo," I say, taking the younger Hobbit's hand in both of mine in a sincere greeting. "I pray you wear your scar with pride, for few I gather survive wounds made by weapons the likes of which you were struck with. Congratulations on your recovery."

"Thank you very much, sir. I owe you my life, for if even a portion of my life was held in your hands, it is still a portion owed. I would like to say I will one day repay you for your generosity, but I fear I do not know how."

I wave off his concern. "You own me nothing, Frodo, nephew of Bilbo, for your uncle is a guest of some renown in this city. As I am a guest of Elrond's as well, and of lesser standing, it is fitting that I should help where my skills allow. If you must, think of it as a gift, for gifts need not be repaid. I expect however, based on hints from our host, that the reason behind your wound and the reason behind this council are one and the same," I say with a glance toward Elrond.

"We shall get to that in time, for as I said when I introduced Frodo just a moment before you arrived, few have ever come hither through greater peril or on an errant more urgent. Though I fear you are too humble, master Lazarus. But I will not press the issue of credit, if indeed you desire so little."

Elrond gestures for the Hobbits to retake their seats, and then turns and indicates to those gathered, pointing out to me many of those whom I do not know: Glóin son of Gróin, and his son Gimli. Beside Glorfindel are several other counsellors of his household. Galdor, an Elf of the Grey Havens – which as I recall from my inspections of Middle-Earth's map are somewhere far west of here near the sea – on errand from Círdan the Shipwright.

Also another Elf in whom I detect a distinction from those Elves commonly found in Rivendell; he is Legolas, son of King Thranduil of Northern Mirkwood. I find myself examining him more than the others, for I have not yet met a Wood-Elf… though I understand a more appropriate name would be Silvan. If I recall correctly, they are a subgroup of the Nandor Elves which… admittedly confuses me if I delve too deeply; Elven lineage is a tricky history to study.

A man also sat nearby who was not Aragorn; he was dressed in a rich, fur-line cloak stained with grime of long travel. A great horn rested on his knees, and it was tipped with silver. Elrond introduced him as Boromir from the South, which could mean either Rohan or Gondor, though he does not specify.

So, I am bidden to sit, and I do.

It is here that the Council of Elrond begins in proper.

--

Over the course of many hours tale after tale is told detailing in abridged fashion the happenings in the wide world beyond this little valley. Much of the things I hear are new to me, and much more is lost in my unknowing. Yet it comes to the Dwarf Glóin and his account, and I begin to sit up in my seat a bit. For he recounts a tale of the trials of the Dwarves in retaking an ancient land of Moria somewhere in the Misty Mountains which has not gone so well as first hoped. Contact with the colony has ceased, and now Glóin speaks of a messenger who comes from Mordor, from Sauron himself purportedly, offering friendship in exchange for a small trinket taken from the Lord by a Hobbit larcenist. Or so he says.

My interest is now piqued, as though Sauron has in the past had dealings with the peoples of Middle-Earth, none were so recent, at least according to what records I have uncovered. Apparently Bilbo is an old friend of the Dwarves, or perhaps King Dáin only, it is for that reason (among many) that Glóin was sent by him to search for Bilbo to warn him that the enemy seeks him.

But it is the why that interests me so. For the messenger of Morder spoke to Dáin of a trifle that his Dark Lord desires, "the least of rings, that once he stole" he called it. I am reminded keenly of Elrond's words on the eve of yesterday.

"…An item of immense value was brought into this city, and a life almost lost in the doing… A council will be held tomorrow to decide its fate."

That the nephew of Bilbo should be connected to an item of value, and that Sauron should ask after a so-called thief who also happens to be Bilbo… it dawns on me that the item stolen from him may very well be the item that Frodo brought hither five days ago.

Though I say nothing, I eye the younger Hobbit. His face is pensive and features schooled, and I find nothing to glean from looks alone.

It is also relayed that messengers have come with similar requests to one "King Brand," who evidently would be placed in quite the precarious position should he refuse the messenger's offer as the Dwarves did.

"If we make no answer, the Enemy may move Men of his rule to assail King Brand, and Dáin also," Glóin ends, his voice heavy with trepidation.

Elrond nods in understanding. "You have done well to come. You will hear today all that you need in order to understand the purposes of the Enemy. There is naught that you can do, other than to resist, with hope or without it. But you do not stand alone. You will learn that your trouble is but part of the trouble of all the western world. The ring! What shall we do with the ring, the least of rings, the trifle that Sauron fancies? That is the doom that we must deem. For that is the purpose for which you are called hither."

Our eyes meet and in them I see something… something… But I cannot tell what.

"Called, I say, though I have not called you to me, strangers from distant lands. You have come and are here met, in this very nick of time, by chance it may seem. Yet it is not so. Believe rather that it is so ordered that we, who sit here, and none others, must now find counsel for the peril of the world."

I expect Elrond is flourishing of fate. Perhaps he thinks my presence is just as fateful at everyone else's. I cannot yet say whether it is or isn't, so I listen on.

"Now, therefore, things shall be openly spoken that have been hidden from all but a few until this day. And first, so that all may understand what is the peril, the Tale of the Ring shall be told from the beginning even to this present. And I will begin that tale, though others shall end it."

And so Elrond speaks to all in a resounding voice of Sauron and the Rings of Power, and their forging in the Second Age of the world long ago. A part of his take appears to be known to some including myself, but the full tale to none, and may eyes are turned to him in fear and wonder as he tells of the Elven-smiths of Eregion, and their eagerness for knowledge, by which Sauron ensnared them. For in that time, he was not yet evil to behold, and they received his aid and grew mighty in craft, whereas he learned all their secrets, betrayed them, and forged secretly in the Mountain of Fire the One Ring to be their master. But Celebrimbor, by whose hands the Three were made, was aware of him, and hid them; and there was war, and the land was laid waste.

Elrond recounts many details that I have read, and many more I have not, and so I am given a fuller picture of the tale of the Rings of Power, and of their importance in Sauron's ancient deceptions.

And in the course of his testimony he reveals that his father, Eärendil was born in Gondolin before its fall, and that he has seen three ages in the West of the world. Based on some rough head-arithmetic, that would the half-Elf roughly... six or seven-thousand years old!

I do not hide my amazement. For though Oryx and His sisters, and even His children were many millions of years old, it is one thing to look upon an inhuman thing and reconcile such an unbelievable number to their age, but for Elrond who is yet more human in looks alone than even any Awoken I have met, I find it difficult to believe. Though, I know that Elves do not age as Men or even Dwarves do, so I cannot dispute the possibility that he is being truthful, just as I cannot simply assume he is being dishonest.

Seven-thousand years… I no longer wonder how he has come to be such a renowned lore-master, sought after for wisdom and guidance. I can at least say with certainty (according to Elf counting) that it has been eighteen and three-thousand years since the end of the Second Age which culminated in the Sauron's fall.

Of that, Elrond spoke as well, and of how Isildur cut the great Ring that Sauron had forged from the Dark Lord's hand, and so cast him down. It was then that Isildur took the Ring as a weregild for his father and brother who had been slain. But, according to Elrond, the Ring betrayed Isildur to his death, and was lost.

Had I not the experience I do, I might be confused as to how that might be, but I know well items with minds of their own. And did not Bilbo by way of Elrond say that Sauron poured himself into the Ring? Then the Ring possesses Sauron's will. If Isildur had known that, then he was a fool for thinking he might tame its power. Even in the records of the Elder days, no man I have read of has been excessively strong of spirit.

Though it does make me wonder…

No.

I push the thought away, but all to late. The question has been asked; the answer eludes me now, and its absence will doubtless plague me. Like an itch the stabs at you between the shoulder blades and in unreachable places. The kind that irks you beyond measure.

But, maybe…

Elrond speaks of how the Ring should have been cast into the Orodruin, commonly known as Mount Doom in the heart of Mordor where the Ring was first formed. But that is not how history unfolded.

"Sauron was diminished, but not destroyed. His Ring was lost, but not unmade. The Dark Tower was broken, but its foundations were not removed; for they were made with the power of the Ring, and while it remains, they will endure. Many Elves and many might Men, and many of their fiends has perished in the war. Anárion was slain, and Isildur was slain; and Gil-galad and Elindil were no more. Never again shall there be any such league of Elves and Men; for men multiply and the Firstborn decrease, and the two kindreds are estranged. And ever since that day the race of Númenor has decayed, and the span of their years has lessened.

And he spoke of the decline of Arnor, the northern kingdom of Men, and of the southern kingdom, Gondor, which still holds strong, though it has seen great setbacks.

"Then the watch upon the walls of Mordor slept, and Dark things crept back into Gorgoroth. And on a time evil things came forth, and they took Minas Ithil and abode in it, and they made it into a place of dread; and it is called Minas Morgul, the Tower of Sorcery. Then Minas Anor was named anew Minas Tirith, the Tower of Guard; and these two cities were ever at war. But Osgiliath which lay between was deserted and in its ruins shadows walked.

"So it has been for many lives of men. But the Lords of Minas Tirith still fight on, defying our enemies, keeping the passage of the River from Argonath to the Sea. And now that part of the tale that I shall tell is dawn to its close. For in the days of Isildur the Ruling Ring passed out of all knowledge, and the Three were released from its dominion. But now in this latter day they are in peril once more, for to our sorrow the One has been found. Others shall speak of its finding, for in that I played small part."

And briefly though Elrond speaks, the sun rides up the sky, and the morning is passing ere he ends.

I take a the brief respite of silence as a chance to organize my thoughts. Much of what Elrond spoke of was written down in his libraries, but much wasn't. Neither were they organized in such an easily understood, linear fashion.

The Elf has confirmed, as I had suspected, that the Ring Bilbo spoke of indeed was not destroyed, and so though Sauron was weakened for a time, now he is recuperating his strength. He truly did hide his death within the Ring. It's not just an idle assumption now; I'm sure of it.

When one considered the tale of the ring-seeking messenger to the Dwarves (which might otherwise be misconstrued as some other particular ring of lesser nature) with the the revelation that the One Ring was now found… it didn't take a genius to put two and two together.

The item Frodo nearly died for. The item a chieftain of noble Northmen escorted. The Item Glorfindel road out with all speed and urgency to secure. The Item Elrond teased to me upon my invitation to this very council.

It was here in Rivendell. The one Ring was here.

No sooner does the thought cross my mind than Boromir stands, tall and proud. His voice is firm and strong, and it breaks my thoughts with its intensity.

"Give me leave, Master Elrond," says he, "first to say more of Gondor, for verily from the land of Gondor I am come. And it would be well for all to know what passes there. For few, I deem know of our deeds, and therefor guess little of their peril if we should fail at last.

"Believe not that in the land of Gondor the blood of Númenor is spent, nor all its pride and dignity forgotten. By our valor the wild folk of the East are still restrained, and the terror of Morgul kept at bay; and thus alone are peace and freedom maintained in the lands behind us, bulwark of the West. But if the passages of the River should be won, what then?

"Yet that hour, maybe, is not now far away. The Nameless Enemy has arisen again. Smoke rises once more from Orodruin that we called Mount Doom. The power of the Black Land grows and we are hard beset. When the Enemy returned our folk were driven from Ithilien, our fair domain east of the River, though we kept a foothold there and strength of arms. But this very year, in the days of June, sudden war came upon us out of Mordor, and we were swept away. We were outnumbered, for Mordor has allied itself with the Easterlings and the cruel Haradrim; but it was not by number that we were defeated. A power was there that we have not felt before.

"Some said that it could be seen, like a great black horseman, a dark shadow under the moon. Wherever he came, a madness filled our foes, but fear fell on our boldest, so that horse and man gave way and fled. Only a remnant of our eastern force came back, destroying the last bridge that still stood amid the ruins of Osgiliath."

I listen with the same respect and quiet as the rest, and I come to understand better the pride (and what I initially thought to be arrogance) with which Boromir spoke of the efforts of his people; its easy to think the world is at relative peace when the worst you have to deal with is a few mischievous goblins and the odd lone troll. But that Mordor wages war on Gondor certainly paints the world in a much more chaotic light.

"But still we fight on, holding all the west shores of Anduin; and those who shelter behind us give us praise, if ever they hear our name: much praise but little help. Only from Rohan now will any men ride to us when we call."

And yet Rohan is nearly three-hundred miles from Gondor. Even by horse, it would take days for word to reach them of trouble, and then many more days to muster a response force and return. If they knew an attack were coming, or were under siege, then Rohan might have the privilege of time, but if it was urgent, how reliable would Rohan's aid be? For that matter, I don't even know the militaristic capacity of either nation, save that Rohan is known for its horsemen, and Gondor must by now be quite well drilled against Mordor's advances.

"In this evil hour I have come on an errand over many dangerous leagues to Elrond: a hundred and ten days I have journeyed all alone. But I do not seek allies in war. The might of Elrond is in wisdom not in weapons, it is said. I come to ask for counsel and the unravelling of hard words. For on the eve of the sudden assault a dream came to my brother in a troubled sleep; and afterwards like a dream came oft to him again, and once to me. In that dream I thought the eastern sky grow dark, and there was a growing thunder, but in the West a pale light lingered, and out of it I heard a voice, remote but clear, crying:

Seek for the Sword that was broken:

In Imladris it dwells;

There shall be counsels taken

Stronger than Morgul-spells.

There shall be shown a token

That Doom is near at hand,

For Isildur's Bane shall waken,

And the Halfling forth shall stand.

Of these words we could understand little, and we spoke to our father, Denethor, Lord of Minas Tirith, wise in the lore of Gondor. This only would he say, that Imladris was of old the name among the Elves of a far northern dale, where Elrond the Halfelven dwelt, greatest of lore-masters. Therefore my brother, seeing how desperate was our need, was eager to heed the dream and seek for Imladris; but since the way was full of doubt and danger, I took the journey upon myself. Loth was my father to give me leave, and long have I wandered by roads forgotten, seeking the house of Elrond, of which many have heard, but few knew where it lay."

"And here in the house of Elrond more shall be made clear to you," says Aragorn, standing up and revealing a familiar looking bundle of Elven cloth. He places it upon the plinth in our midst and unwraps it, baring the shattered remains of the sword Narsil.

In that moment I recognize that though the Dúnedain and the men of Gondor are of different regions, they are actually one people separated by time and misfortune, and that the shards of Narsil must be to Boromir a relic of an age long past (which it was) that he likely heard oft spoke of in legends and songs and bedtime stories.

Seeing the actual steel for the first time must be like something from a dream. Indeed, Boromir stares at it for many moments before he manages to gather himself and look to the Northman.

"And who are you, and what have you to do with Minas Tirith?" he asks, looking in wonder at the lean face of the Ranger and his weather stained cloak.

"He is Aragorn son of Arathorn," says Elrond with gravitas, "and he is descended through many fathers from Isildur Elendil's son of Minas Ithil. He is the Chief of the Dúnedain in the North, and few are now left of that folk."

"Then it belongs to you, and not to me at all!" Frodo cries suddenly, springing from his chair as if to rush to the Ranger's side.

My eyes narrow. I am almost certain now.

Indeed the Ring, if indeed it was the One Ring that Frodo brought with him to Rivendell, would belong to Aragorn. For if Aragorn as Elrond says (and I have no reason to doubt him) is a decendant of Isildur, and in fact rightful heir to the throne of…

My eyes widen.

This man is a prince. No, a king. Uncrowned, perhaps, but a king by blood.

I take the surprised murmuring of many to show I'm not the only one in attendance to come to the same conclusion.

"It does not belong to either of us," says Aragorn, tearing me from my epiphany. "But it has been ordained that you should hold it for a while."

"Bring out the Ring, Frodo!" Gandalf orders solemnly and suddenly. "The time has come. Hold it up, and Boromir will understand the remainder of his riddle."

A hush all around accompanies Gandalf's command, and Frodo did as he was bid with a trembling hand. In it lay an unremarkable little gold ring. It was small, and unassuming; it bore no jewels or embroidery, and in fact looked not unlike so many wedding bands back in the City.

"Behold Isildur's Bane!" cries Elrond.

Boromir's eyes glint as he gazes at the golden thing, muttering. "The Halfling! Is then the doom of Minas Tirith come at last? But why then should we seek a broken sword?"

"The words of your dream were not 'the doom of Minas Tirith,'" Aragorn reassures. "But doom and great deeds are indeed at hand. For the Sword that was Broken is the Sword of Elendil that broke in the battle with the Enemy. It has been treasured by his heirs when all other heirlooms were lost; for it was spoken of old among us that it should be made again when the Ring, Isildur's Bane, was found.

Aragorn faces Boromir fully. "Now you have seen the sword that you have sought, what would you ask? Do you wish for the House of Elendil to return to the land of Gondor?"

Boromir stiffened at the question.

"I was not sent to beg any boon, but to seek only the meaning of a riddle," he answers proudly, though he deflates slightly as he continues. "Yet we are hard pressed, and the Sword of Elendil would be a help beyond our hope – if such a thing could indeed return out of the shadows of the past."

Whatever response might have been given is interrupted by (of all people) the elder Baggins who stands suddenly in recital:

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken:

The crownless again shall be king.

He lets the words hang in the air a moment before sniffing. "Not very good perhaps, but to the point – if you need more beyond the word of Elrond. If that was worth a journey of a hundred and ten days to hear, you had best listen to it."

Bilbo returns to his seat with a snort. It seems to me his annoyance is on behalf of Aragorn. I didn't know they were such good friends…

Aragorn addresses Boromir, but not before he gives his miniature friend an appreciative smile. "For my part I forgive your doubt," he says to the Gondorian. "Little do I resemble the figures of Elendil and Isildur as they stand carven in their majesty in the halls of Denethor. I am but the heir of Isildur, not Isildur himself. I have had a hard life and a long one; and the leagues that lie between here and Gondor are a small part in the count of my journeys. I have crossed many mountains and many rivers, and trodden many plains, even into the far countries of Rhȗn and Harad where the stars are strange.

"But my home, such as I have, is in the North. For here the heirs of Valandil have ever dwelt in long line unbroken from father unto son for many generations. Our days have darkened, and we have dwindled; but ever the Sword has passed to a new keeper. And this I will say to you, Boromir, ere I end. Lonely men are we, Rangers of the wild, hunters – but hunters ever of the servants of the Enemy; for they are found in many places not in Mordor only.

"If Gondor, Boromir, has been a stalwart tower, we have played another part. Many evil things there are that your strong walls and bright swords do not stay. You know little of the lands beyond your bounds. The North would have little of peace and freedom but for us. Fear would have destroyed them. But when dark things come from the houseless hills, or creep from sunless woods, they fly from us. What roads would any dare to tread, what safety would there be in quiet lands, or in the homes of simple men at night, if the Dúnedain were asleep or were all gone into the grave."

To the less educated, it might appear that Aragorn was bragging. But if wha the says is true, then to Boromir, who as the Ranger says knows little of what transpires beyond the borders of his homeland, it bears proper declaration. The Northmen were not unlike those Guardians who shunned the comforts of home and works diligently in the dark to thin the Darkness' herd, quietly and thanklessly removing those enemies that other's would shrink from in fear.

…I think Cayde would have liked them.

'Rest in Peace, space cowboy.'

"And yet less thanks have we than you. Travelers scowl at us, and countrymen give us scornful names. 'Strider' I am to one fat man who lives within a day's march of foes that would freeze his heart or lay his little town in ruin if he were not guarded ceaselessly. Yet we would not have it otherwise. If simple folk are free from care and fear, simple they will be, and we must be secret to keep them so. That has been the task of my kindred, while the years have lengthened and the grass has grown."

"But now," Aragorn turns from Boromir to address the gathered. "Now the world is changing once again. A new hour comes. Isildur's Bane is found. Battle is at hand. The Sword shall be reforged."

He turns and nods to his fellow Man. His next words are spoken with conviction of spirit and intent, beneath which lies a deeper meaning that I do not overlook.

"I will come to Minas Tirith."

I will claim my rightful throne.

Boromir tenses at his words but does not immediately respond. Instead, he takes a moment to think before gesturing to Frodo.

"Isildur's bane is found, you say," he says at last. "I have seen a bright ring in the Halfling's hand; but Isildur perished ere this age of the world began., they say. How do the Wise know that this ring is his? And how has it passed down the years, until it is brought hither by so strange a messenger?"

Although it sounds suspiciously like he is casting doubt on the account of Elrond and Aragorn, it is not an unreasonable question. If indeed Gondor has gone without a king since the waning days of the Second Age, then I too would be skeptical of some nobody springing from the shadows and claiming rightful succession to the throne of my homeland, sword of legend in hand or no. As well, his question of the Ring is sound. I could find its like on any street corner in the City, and on the hands of many men therein.

And I too want to hear the answer.

"That shall be told," Elrond assured Boromir with a placating hand.

"But not yet, I beg, Master!" Bilbo almost whines to the laughter of most. "Already the Sun is climbing to noon, and I feel the need of something to strengthen me."

Elrond smiles at his guest, suppressing a laugh himself. "I had not named you, but I do so now. Come! Tell us your tale. And if you have not yet cast your story into verse, you may tell it in plain words. The briefer, the sooner you shall be refreshed."

"Very well," the Hobbit grumbled, standing up again to speak. He very well could have sat and spoken, but it seems the little creature has quite the flare for the dramatic.

Makes sense considering.

And so the Bilbo recounts the events that led to him finding the Ring, and not a detail did he leave out in the telling. Though he fussed at the notion, it seems he is quite at home as the center of attention, either in singing or in storytelling.

I listen to every word, but my focus gently drifts away. Instead, of Bilbo, it is on Frodo that my gaze rests. Frodo and the little golden ring…

Frodo too recounts the course of events regarding the Ring that eventually led him to Rivendell.

"The Wise may have good reason to believe that the halfling's trove is indeed the great Ring of long debate," says one Galdor of the Havens which is far to the westernmost edge of Middle-Earth, "unlikely though that may seem to those who know less. But may we not hear the proofs? And I would ask this also; what of Saruman? He is learned in the lore of the Rings, yet he is not among us. What is his counsel – if he knows the things that we have heard?"

I have heard of Saruman, both in passing conversations and in many books. Like Gandalf, he is a Wizard, and a very wise one at that. Among the Wise, that is those high figures who like Gandalf and Elrond attempt to steer the world right, Saruman is considered the most astute. I asked if he was in Imladris, but alas I was told his dwelling was in Isengard to the south, and he had not visited Rivendell in many years.

"The questions you ask, Galdor, are bound together," says Elrond, and I detect a shadow of regret pass over his schooled features. "I had not overlooked them, and they shall be answered. But these things it is the part to Gandalf to make clear; and I call upon him last, for it is the place of honor, and in all this matter he has been chief."

Now Gandalf stands, his form Elf-tall and noble despite his age.

"Some, Galdor, would thing the tidings of Glóin and the pursuit of Frodo proof enough that the halfling's trove is a thing of great worth to the Enemy," he says with simple cutting logic. "Yet it is a ring. What then? The Nine the Nazgȗl keep. The Seven are taken or destroyed. And the Three we know of. What then is this one that he desires so much."

Though I have very little skin in this game, I nod my head. At the very least his reason is quite sound to my sensibilities. That, and-

"There is indeed a wide waste of time between the River and the Mountain, between the losing and the finding. But the gap in the knowledge of the Wise has been filled at last. Yet too slowly. For the Enemy has been close behind, closer even than I feared. And well is it that not until this year – yea! – this very summer as it seems, did he learn the full truth."

So Gandalf spoke of his search for truth, his betrayal by Saruman and his incarceration at Isengard. He also spoke of his search for the creature called Gollum which as Bilbo spoke had possessed the Ring before the Hobbit had taken it. Into that tale Aragorn injected his own account of his aid to Gandalf in the same regard.

Of that account less is interesting to me until Gandalf dovetails back to the Ring and the proper manner to verify its authenticity. As Isildur wrote:

'Already the writing on it, which at first was as clear as red flame, fadeth and is now only barely to be read. It is fashion in an elven-script of Eregion, for they have no letters in Mordor for such subtle work; but the language is unknown to me. I deem it to be a tongue of the Black Land, since it is foul and uncouth. What evil it saith I do not know; but I here trace here a copy of it, lest it fade beyond recall. The Ring misseth, maybe, the heat of Sauron's hand, which was black and yet burned like fire, and so Gil-galad was destroyed; and maybe were the gold made hot again, the writing would be refreshed. But for my part I will risk no hurt to this thing: of all the works of Sauron the only fair. It is precious to me, though I buy it with great pain.'

"When I read those words, my quest was ended. For the traced writing was indeed as Isildur guessed, in the tongue of Mordor and the servants of the Tower. And what was said therein was already known. For in the day that Sauron first put on the One, Celebrimbor, maker of the Three, was aware of him, and from afar he heard him speak these words, and so his evil purposes were revealed.

"And if that Gollum's years of possession of the Ring were lengthened beyond their span, which is a power only the Great Rings could grant is not proof enough, Galdor, there is the other test that I spoke of. Upon this very ring which you have here seen held aloft, round and unadorned, the letters that Isildur reported may still be read, if one has the strength of will to set the golden thing in the fire a while. That I have done, and this I have read – "

And as Gandalf opens his mouth to speak, a change comes upon him. Nay, not just him, but upon everything! His voice is menacing, powerful, harsh as stone. A shadow passes over the high sun, and the porch for a moment grows dark. Everyone is shaking in fear and trepidation, and the Elves all have covered their ears as if in pain.

I was not prepared for this. My heart unsettles. The words pierce like needles in my ears and a grating like steel tears at my chest. The world is plunged into darkness and I see evil un-things in the corners of my vision.

And the words Gandalf spoke – the words Isildur marked – the words Sauron chanted were thus:

Ash nazg durbatulȗk,

ash nazg gimabtul,

ash nazg thrakatulȗk

agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.

At its conclusion, the shadows fade and the light returns, all sensation of unease swiftly wiped away by whatever magics existed in the city of Rivendell that had been suddenly and viciously shorn away returned.

It is in this moment that I realize my folly; as always, academic research just doesn't compete with field experience.

To read of Sauron and his power, of his wars and his evil was one thing. To experience only the language of his land and feel so disturbed…

I have felt this power before.

These are the song's powers – its gifts.

Anti-life and oblivion.

A bout of foul memories cross my mind in a panic, and my Light reflexively surges preparedly, like a trained muscle to a performance, or a practiced evasion to incoming danger.

Reflex.

…My tier list has just been updated.

But as soon as the darkness appears, it is gone. The notes of tone and staccato of speech die with intent, and evil flees.

A moment's silence passes as everyone comes to grips with what just happened, what was just spoken. Back in the light, they all breathed easy.

Elrond looked categorically pissed.

"Never before has any voice dared to utter words of that tongue in Imladris, Gandalf the Grey," he says, addressing the Wizard by his full title pointedly.

"And let us hope that none will ever speak it here again," Gandalf says without remorse. "Nonetheless I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond. For if that tongue is not soon to be heard in every corner of the West, then let all put doubt aside that this thing is indeed what the Wise have declared: the treasure of the Enemy, fraught with all his malice; and in it lies a great part of his strength of old. Out of the Black Years come the words that the Smiths of Eregion heard, and knew that they had been betrayed:

One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all

and in the Darkness bind them."

--

Much talk is had after that, and of those things precious little interests me. My ears are shut to such things, but my mind is open like a yawning gravitic fissure, consuming all those things I wished to know without prejudice.

And yet while I intake and categorize that knowledge in the palace of my mind, other thoughts consume me.

Something is wrong. Very wrong.

Since coming to this world, I have thought it exceedingly quaint in such a demeaning manner. I've been locked away in my tower for too long. The world is going to hell in a handbasket around me, and I'm liable to be whipped up in the coming whirlwind. Rather, I already am. The storm has arrived and it looms over my head. Only here in Rivendell do I not notice it. Rivendell sits in the storm's eye, and yet I look up and see clear skies and think to myself all is well?

What a fool I've let myself become. The peace of this Elven refuge had lulled me to sleep. Now the dangers of the wider world come home to roost, crowing and squawking at me, announcing their imminent dooms.

'Awaken, me. Awaken! Shake the dust off your head and open your eyes. Stretch your limbs and summon your vigor. The Darkness comes, and you've been sitting idle. Awake!'

A cold stream flows up my spine like electricity; the familiar peril that haunts me, drives me, focuses me.

I have taken Sauron lightly; he is no charlatan nor petty schemer. He is something far different. Far more. I have seen what that more can become; any creature who can wield language as a weapon attains the right to sit within the highest stratum of foes. I can't afford to flippantly dismiss his machinations, and yet I have done so...

Damn me. Here I've been strutting around like the evil everyone else is concerned about is somehow less than the evil's I have faced. I've looked at the technological disparity between us and thought, surely this Dark Lord cannot be as great a threat as those I have faced.

That was my folly… Assumption.

Now truth comes home to roost.

My blood pumps hot and anxious.

Menace looms.

The Dredgen in me stirs.

"Long yet will that march be delayed," I hear Boromir say defensively as I return to the conversation, sound fading back into my consciousness as my mind is once again set right, my priorities once again in their proper places. "Gondor wanes, you say. But Gondor stands, and even the end of its strength is still very strong."

"And yet its vigilance can no longer keep back the Nine," Galdor counters rightly. "And other roads he may find that Gondor does not guard."

"Then, there are but two choices, as Glorfindel already has declared: to hide the Ring forever or to unmake it. But both are beyond our power. Who will read this riddle for us?"

"None here can do so," Elrond says. "At least none can foretell what will come to pass, if we take this road or that. But it seems to me now clear which is the road that we must take. The westward road seems easiest. Therefore it must be shunned. It will be watched. Too often the Elves have fled that way. Now at this last we must take a hard road, a road unforeseen. There lies our hope, if hope it be. To walk into peril – to Mordor."

Hie eyes are sharp and dark, the peril of his imagination alive in his words.

"We must send the Ring to the Fire."

--

Not long after those words, the meeting came to a swift end, though nothing was decided at last nor any future set in stone. All retired to their own corners of the city and dwelled on their own thoughts alone.

Except for me, who had nothing to add during the meeting; I and my thoughts were denied our solitude by Elrond, who invited me to speak with him privately. He bothers with no pretense as our noon meal, which by dint of the sun's arc and the hunger in our bellies is long overdue, is put before us.

Contrary to my initial expectations of the Elves, stereotypes and presuppositions being what they are, they are not vegetarians. I am doubly thankful for that now, as I my mended state of mind seems to have invigorated my appetite, and doubly so.

Elrond didn't fail to notice it.

"You seem excited," he observes with a wry grin. "You say that had nothing to add at the council, and indeed I expected you to say nothing, for I deem that to align with your nature. But I cannot say that in so doing I was not disappointed."

I wash down moist bird-meat with a swig of wine. "My opinion is irrelevant," I say knowing that it is true either way. "My place isn't to dictate what I think should or should not be done with the Ring. Sauron is your enemy, not mine."

Of course, in that final regard I am lying. Sauron is an agent of the Darkness, or rather, he is a Lord of the Darkness in the same way others have been before. The technological disparity between those foes I know to and those who roam the face of this Middle-Earth does not diminish their ontological threat. In many ways, I might consider that disparity to be a sort of deception.

Nevertheless, I want to see what Elrond's reaction will be if he thinks his ploy to invest me into their dichotomic struggle has failed.

I'd be disappointed if he showed any outward displeasure at all.

Surprise, surprise… He does not disappoint. On the contrary, he sees through me and tells me as much with a laugh. "Come Lazarus. Surely you do not think I do not see the conviction on your face. Your heart is closed and your thoughts are well guarded, but more than just those things reveal your intentions."

I smile in return, glad that at least he does not prove or act the fool now that my aggression is returned. I've been playing catch since I have arrived in Rivendell. But catch is for children. As they used to say… it was time to play some real ball.

"I cannot be anything but what I am," I say, echoing a truth that was told me long ago. "Nor can you."

"Indeed," Elrond says with a nod and a straightened back. "I admit, I am hopeful that you may yet aid us in this dilemma, but nothing can be gained from forcing you."

I huff with an ironic laugh. "Then you've learned nothing since Isildur. It might have been worth tossing the Ring into the fire when you had the chance, whether Isildur was attached to it or not. You wouldn't have made many Man-friends, but the world would have been free of Sauron."

"And yet another strife would have killed as many in its advent. Enmity between Edain and Eldar would have most assuredly destroyed our peoples with more surety than Sauron ever could hope for." Elrond counters as if he expected such an answer. Of course, theirs is a storied history to the world and to the people who inhabit it, and the life of even a single hero seems much larger than back home…

Even to me, killing someone as noble as the son of Elendil, even in thought, brings a pang of sorrow to me heart, like destroying some ancient, irreplaceable relic.

And, to Isildur's credit, he can't really be blamed; he couldn't have known what the Ring would do to him, nor what his decisions would cost the world. The Ring was a Trojan horse – no – a Sicilian bull. And Isildur climbed right in, unaware of the danger…

I hum into my drink and chew a fatty bite between my molars. "If I may make bold with my thoughts, Sauron doesn't strike me as a destroyer."

Now Elrond raises an eyebrow, and I know I've caught him off guard. "Oh? You have heard the accounts of those at the counsel. You have read of the death and ruin he wrought in days long past up to now. And yet you say he is not a destroyer. What then is he?"

I nod my head. "If he's bringing other men from the South and the East into his armies, then it's not an issue with 'Man' at all, but rather an issue with 'Man not serving.' If Gondor surrendered and opened its gates him, I doubt Sauron would be as harsh as long as they followed his orders."

"I beg your pardon Master Lazarus if I say that sounds like the defeatist argument of one already broken in spirit."

I feel a grin tug at my lips. "But am I wrong?"

"No." Elrond also smiles, though only after a poignant pause. I think he is pleased that I have divined this truth.

Maybe I'm just patting myself on the back.

"Sauron seeks to bring all of Middle-Earth under his dominion. In this way you are right, but he is not afraid to destroy anything or anyone who stands against him if it is within his power to do so."

"And the fact that he's offering deals and sending out agents is because he… can't destroy you?" I frown as the words come out of my mouth. "No, that doesn't sound right… Rivendell is not a fortress. It wouldn't stand against an invasion. Why then act the friend when the world already learned long ago of his treachery?"

At this, Elrond also frowns, and his dining slows. "It is because of the price in blood that we have paid for even this moderate peace in the world. Gondor feels Sauron's malice keenest, but others to whom Sauron hides his dark ambitions and evil acts do not. And the value of the gifts Sauron offers is not to be underestimated. Three of the Seven Rings of power and the return of Moria. To the Dwarves, those are treasures beyond measure."

"But Sauron would eventually betray them, even if he did intend to follow through on his promises," I said with furrowed brow. "Shouldn't that be obvious? And for that matter, why would they want any of the Seven rings back after seeing what happened to the Nine?"

"Dwarves are made of tougher stock than Men and would not succumb to the rings the way Men did. Though a maddening lust for gold might take them, they would not be directly brought under Sauron's dominion save that he wielded the One," Elrond explains. "And in its absence, the rings would give them power and authority to govern their own."

I nod my head in understanding. "But they would think his offer genuine because most believe the One to be gone forever, and no one would suspect the treachery if they accepted."

Elrond nods. "Even as they would hand over the very device that would enslave them."

I shake my head and resist the urge to let out an appreciative whistle. Even if he's a evil monster, being unable to respect the talents of one's enemy is a disaster waiting to happen. But for Elrond's sake, who doesn't know me well enough to know my meaning, I refrain. "He's a dominator. And a cunning one at that."

"Few know this better than Elvenkind, Lazarus."

Though his methods are certainly less direct, I can't help but be reminded of a certain someone else who had a penchant for dominating his enemies.

The parallels are mounting in stupendous fashion...

"Have Hobbits ever treated with Sauron?" I ask, turning the conversation away from past failings.

"Never," Elrond says with certainty. "For he knows nothing of them, either their name or where they come from. Thus why the Nine ride alone and inconspicuous, seeking to find the way to the Shire."

I nod again and sigh.

"It's no wonder then that Frodo volunteered for such a mission," I say. "It's easy to be brave when you don't know the danger."

When the conversation at the council eventually wormed its way back around to what to do with the Ring, it was generally agreed that it should be destroyed. But to do so, one would have to traverse nigh the whole of Arda's landmass just to toss a ring into a volcano. But that the distance is so great, and through vast wastelands full of danger and adversaries, none could think of who to send on such a fatal errand.

And yet in their midst, it was the Hobbit, Frodo Baggins, who volunteered to take the Ring. It certainly surprised me, actually it would more truthful to say It had caught me entirely off guard. I had expected… well, anyone other than the Hobbit to speak up.

"He knows more than you think he does I wager," says Elrond, "though perhaps not what form that danger will take. Hobbits are resilient creatures, despite their stature, and they are stealthy in ways Men and Dwarves are not."

"Even so, you cannot mean to send him on alone, the other Hobbit notwithstanding," I say, struggling to remember the name of the fat Hobbit whose name I'd heard for the first time today.

"Of course not," Elrond assures with a look. "Already I have sent outriders ahead to scout the realms through which Frodo will be traveling. They will contact the Rangers in the north and the Elves of Mirkwood as well. To that end, Aragorn has gone ahead to scour the land."

"That's all well and good in the local region, but the danger lies thickest outside the borders of your influence. What then? Surely you do not mean to leave those two defenseless on so great an errand."

"Nay, but on the contrary, a company shall be gathered together who will escort them along to Mordor. Had I a host of Elves in armor of the Elder Days, it would avail little, save to arouse the power of Mordor. Stealth is our chiefest ally in this mission, and so the number must be small."

I chew thoughtfully. "How many do you think?"

"Nine at least," he said immediately. "Nine to contend with the Nazgȗl."

I nod my head. That is good. I know better than most what a small team of Guardians can accomplish where an army of Light may fail.

In these things there is always symmetry.

There is a question I ask in my head, and I turn it over like a smith does a sword mid-forge. The question is not for Elrond, but rather for myself. The sword is for me, and though I smith it I am also its judge.

I tap my fingers on the table contemplatively. Elrond pretends he does not notice.

"Who then will be chosen?" I ask at last.

"Gandalf, assuredly, though he will feign hesitance among his beloved Hobbit friends," he says with a grin, "for this shall be his great task, and maybe the end of his labors."

If the old Wizard is what he's cracked up to be, then he will be an invaluable ally to Frodo. If he was sent to Middle-Earth for nothing else than to stem Sauron's tide of evil, then I can think of no better charge than escorting the device of his doom safely thither. Indeed, as Elrond says, if he succeeds then his mission will be complete.

"Who else? Glorfindel surely."

"Nay, not Glorfindel," Elrond says with a shake of his raven locks. "He is a mighty foe of the enemy, and well known to him and his servants. He would give us away. For the rest, they shall represent the other Free Peoples of the Word: Elves, Dwarves, and Men. I shall decide upon them in the course of time."

Symmetry indeed. Elrond certainly has a taste for symbolism. It's too bad about Glorfindel, but the Elf's logic is sound. And it is only right that such a company is gathered for the task.

And yet…

I look at Elrond with hard eyes. His face is stern, his expression schooled. His sharp features are harsh and lined with wisdom. Knowledge is on his forehead.

I take a breath and look out upon the bright valley beyond. "And where do you think I fit in to all this?" I ask.

Elrond gives me a look that tells me he knows my question seeks more his opinion than reveals my unsurety. He collects himself and leans forward. When he speaks, his words are measured and careful. Not in the way that one might tiptoe around a violent creature, but rather, as one might sneak past a sleeping baby.

"Forgive me if I incorrectly divine the truth of your request," he begs with measured asperity. "I can think of no better place to apply your talents."

Silence settles in the room as we stare at each other.

There it is; the reason and the hope of Elrond and ploy. He has given me leave of his archives, every scroll and book I may want. He has fed me knowledge and teased me wisdom. He has granted me courtesies and privileges that I doubt he would grant to any common guest. He has taken me into his counsel and spoken with me amongst many a trusted ally of his; Gandalf, Glorfindel, Aragorn, and others. He extends to me an invitation to such a debriefing where the peril of the world is laid bare, and the course of their next steps decided.

I know what he wants from me. I know what he hopes from me.

In my opinion, he is far too trusting… but I have said as much already. It is a simple trust these people hold to me. But this world is perhaps less obscure than mine own. Allies are allies, and they are good. Enemies are enemies, and they are evil. I am envious of that simplicity…

But if I am to accept their generosities, then I must also accept their trust, however much I may rightly criticize it.

I feel a sardonic grin twerk the corner of my mouth upwards. "You want me to help them."

It is a statement, not a question.

Elrond nods his head. "I do."

"At the risk of retreading old ground," I start, narrowing my eyes at him, "why?"

"A path is only suitable because it has been retread over again," he counsels with a smile, though he schools himself as he continues. "I believe that it would be a grave mistake to ignore you. You have shown me you are wise, and wield power few can match. If not here, then when and where else might you ply your strength? For surely if you do not join our enemies, then you cannot sit as a neutral party. War is coming, and it will consume the world ere it's end."

A side should always be taken… Even if it's the wrong side.

I grimace at the echoing whisper in my ear. In the face of annihilation, the indolent are either consumed first, or spared for last. In either case, their struggle is made futile by their indecision. First or last… the order doesn't matter. Death and devastation comes all the same.

I'm sure Elrond would disagree with my reasoning, though not, I dare say, with my resolution.

"What say you, Lazarus?" He asks at last, his hard eye betraying a wavering confidence in me. He is mostly sure I will accept, but there is always a kernel of doubt that comes with every certainty…

I put his doubts to rest.

"Very well."

I rise from my seat and fold my hands behind my back, standing tall and proud as a Guardian should.

"I will join this fellowship."

Last edited: Aug 22, 2023

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Black Lister

Apr 14, 2021

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Threadmarks Chapter 7: Nock-Nock

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Black Lister

May 4, 2021

#104

I won't say that I'm not disappointed. After all, deciding to become a member of what would become the "Fellowship of the Ring" as Elrond dubbed it, I expected to be kitted up and ready to go in a few days… But that was not the case.

I should have expected it of course; the delay. Without sparrows or aerial vehicles, traveling was done exclusively by foot, be it human or horse. So when Elrond said that he sent out runners to scout the land, what he meant, and what I didn't understand at the time, was that the process was going to be thorough. And for an Elf, thorough meant time consuming.

Not that I could complain too much. Additional time to enjoy Rivendell wasn't exactly a punishment. But having come to the conclusion that my efforts in escorting Frodo through the hellish wastelands of Mordor would be better served with a side of prudence, I decided that it was best that I work with a more direct hand in the preparations.

Study all I want, falling into Asher's Trap was an easy and enticing snare, especially for a Warlock. Asher Mir was a supremely intelligent Warlock, but he was more of a thinker than a doer, and often when put into application, the results of his theories differed from those projected by the Gensym Scribe.

In that regard, Titans and Hunters are wiser than Warlocks; they know that sometimes the best way to test a theory was to actually test it, often at the cost of their lives.

But what's a little death to a Guardian?

Huh? Death? What's that? Can I eat it?

So I make myself busy throughout the first week of waiting, speaking with Gandalf and Elrond when they're available, and making do with Erestor and Bilbo when they aren't. But Bilbo has been much more interested in spending time his nephew Frodo and the other Hobbits, as well he should. All day they might be seen together talking, eating, laughing, and singing. It's become quite a common sight, if one is out and about, to see them in the gardens or in the Hall of Fire or sitting at one of the many verandas that overlook the valley beyond.

I try my best to avoid disturbing them. After all, aren't they all going to be separated for quite a while come the fateful day?

Elrond tells me that if all goes well, the trip from Rivendell to Mount Doom might take upwards of two years. And that's if things go well. If things go poorly? I can't imagine the agonizing pace…

The blinding speed at which Guardians have become accustomed to responding to threats is suddenly very apparent to me.

But Elrond also has other duties, and he and Gandalf often talk alone in the former's study, long and deep into the night. They do not beg my pardon and I do not ask for it. I'm not some child or puppy that needs tending to when his owners not around.

But it does surprise me however, when I learn that Glorfindel has not gone out to search with his people. Instead he took counsel with the elders in the city and did this and that. I didn't bother marking his movements, which is why I was surprised this morning when I awoke, and low and behold, a knock on my door revealed its giver to be the same golden-haired Glorfindel.

I wondered for what reason he was calling on me so early, for the sun was golden, but only just a few hours into the sky. But he was unguarded and seemingly unconcerned. He bade me meet him at the same lookout upon which I had spoken with him and the others before.

His smile belied something not quite so jovial as he warned me to come at noon, and be ready to travel for the day.

I didn't know why, but he had purpose in his eyes… so I obliged.

Now here I am, trudging along behind him as he takes me from the lookout deeper into the forest until the trees begin to thin. He says nothing particular, save to point out certain berries and roots which are good for eating if cured a certain way. Many of them I'm unfamiliar with, so I don't mind his idle observations and commit them to memory.

But eventually the forest gives way to an emptiness. A field full of bright green grass yawns ahead of us. Its radius is roughly four-hundred meters, and almost perfectly circular, at least from my perspective. Around it are many trees, much younger than those we have already passed in the forest. Enough distance exists between one side of the field to the other that wind freely blew in gentle, cool currents unimpeded by those trees that ringed it. In the distance, above the trees, the snowy white peaks of the Misty Mountains loom stoically.

An ornate gazebo constructed with typical Elven architecture stood out against the plain looking field. Beneath its shade stood three other Elves who were maintaining an array of equipment stored in racks. In the distance, some fifty feet from the gazebo was a building of more complete structure from which a black smoke belched from its chimney. I smell the familiar scent of molten steel and determine this to be a forge.

The three Elves note our approach and bow as Glorfindel approaches. They lower their heads politely and greet him.

The first one to speak was the tallest of the three. He, like his fellows, wore more utilitarian clothes than those generally seen in the city. His hair is long, and black as midnight and his eyes are a piercing grey. His tunic is blue, covered by a silver plate of Elven metal over his breast. On his wrists are bands of similar silver, embroidered with sharp angles and gold inlays upon which a singular pearl was set.

As with all Elves, I can't tell which is older or younger. "Suilad, hir Glorfindel! I aur na-eithel! Whui gar-cin tul?"

"Suilad, Thinwé." The Golden Elf bows in turn and greets them, clasping the speaker's hand warmly. He turns and identifies me. "Hi na-nin mellon, Lazarus."

I bow as well, placing a hand over my chest to show a touch more respect than necessary. For all I know, this Elf, Thinwé, might be some manner of ancient lord or some such. Can't be too careful.

"Im suilann-cin, ar Thinwé."

Thinwé's smile brightens as I greet him in his own tongue, though I imagine my accent is very poor and obviously an imitation. He doesn't seem to take notice.

"Ah, speak no secrets friends! Here we have one who knows the language of the Elves!" he says with a laugh. "I know of you Lazarus. Few who dwell in the House of Elrond do not. Though I've been told you are more at home in the darkness of a study than in open air. What then brings you to this place?"

Instead of answering, I turn and look expectantly at my host. "I'm afraid the answer to that question resides in the mind of this one," I say with an indicating finger.

"Forgive my secrecy, Lazarus, but I confess I was afraid that if I asked you directly you would decline me." Glorfindel smiles, perhaps a bit sheepish at his own ambiguity. "Thinwé is the master of arms in Rivendell and is one of the greatest smiths in the city."

He turns to the fellow and gestures to the many weapons stored on the racks. "May we have the liberty of your armory, master Thinwé?"

The Elf glances between the two of us and nods with a smile that says he knows more than I do. I don't like it, but I have an idea what the Glorfindel is going for here.

"A sparring match, Glorfindel?" I ask with wry smile of my own. "I didn't take you for the type."

He smiles with a hint of bashfulness and picks out a sword from the lineup. "I admit I'm surprised at myself as well. Ever since I heard Caranorion's account of your thwarting the goblins by the Bruinen, I have been overcome by a curiosity to see your martial skills firsthand. It serves me also in that it will bring me comfort knowing the Ring Bearer is in capable hands."

I eye him carefully. I don't think he's lying… but I can't help but asking, "And this is your curiosity only, yes? No one else's?"

He laughs at my suspicion and nods. "Verily, it is mine indeed. But I imagine anyone else might be too polite to ask it of you; I beg you please forgive my rudeness and indulge my curiosity."

I see his interest is honest and benign. I do not fault him for it; I'd feel the same if our situations were reversed. "Discourtesy is forgiven," I say with a flippant wave, indicating my indifference. "But you might be in for more than you bargained. You know what they say about curiosity and cats, yes?"

However, Glorfindel cocks his head at me. "I'm afraid the idioms of Men aren't my study."

I sigh with a smile and wave it off. "It's nothing important."

Truth be told, this whole situation is not entirely unfortunate. After hearing and reading stories of Glorfindel's exploits, I'm quite interested in seeing how strong he is as well. According to his account, while Aragorn was guiding Frodo to Rivendell, Glorfindel chased off many of the Nazgȗl during his search for their party. And if the Nazgȗl are the chiefest officers of Sauron's forces, the nine fallen kings of Men who were consumed by Sauron's will via his tainted rings of power, then testing myself against Glorfindel would give me a relative gauge with which to measure myself.

If I can compete against Glorfindel, then I should do well against a Nazgȗl. That's my thinking anyway…

"Swords then?" I ask, gesturing to the weapon in the Elf's hand.

"Whatever might suit you best," he says after a moment of consideration. "If it is not too much to ask, would you indulge me to show me more than swordwork as well? I have seen the bow you left with Lord Elrond, and I must say I am intrigued to know your skill."

I agree; of course I do. I've been sitting on my ass for the better part of a month. This is the perfect opportunity to shake off the rust.

Glorfindel beams at me, and I can almost see the radiant light emanating from his body brighten accordingly. "Excellent! Then before swords, perhaps archery first. It will afterwards set our minds in proper focus."

So, the two other Elves (who introduce themselves as Aithlin and Myriil) gather various equipment and lead us both to a separate part of the field where, in the distance, I can see targets set against the backdrop of the tree line. Small white flags were set at intervals on the lawn to mark every fifty meters. The targets were very interesting; some were stationary, while others were attached along the arms of small windmills that turned in the breeze. Still others swung on pendulums, and I could even see targets that could be raised on command via a series of ropes and switches at the firing line. If I didn't know better, I'd say this was a modern-day firing range!

I suppose I really shouldn't be surprised. If Elves valued marksmanship, it seems obvious that they'd put a great amount of effort into making sure their archers are properly trained.

"Guests shall go first," Glorfindel says with a bit of cheek as he gestures to the range.

"So I shall," I agree, taking a bow and an arrow in my hands. I give it a series of experimental tugs, testing the stiffness of the bowstave and the strength of the string… I nock an arrow and draw.

There are many targets downrange, but I aim for a simple one first. A stationary target two hundred yards ahead. I take a deep breath. In… Out…

Loose.

The arrow flies through the air with a flitter of sound and strikes the target. It was by no means a bullseye, but it was at least on the target.

At least the Elves don't patronize me with applause or praise for doing that much; they remain silent, watching.

I nock another arrow and draw.

An average hunting bow has a draw weight of fifty to sixty pounds and is enough for most big game hunters to get the job done. However, for war (although I don't know a single non-Guardian who would use a bow for war back home), a bow could run up to 180 pounds at the high end; any further than that, and it would be too hard to just draw the thing, let alone shoot with any accuracy.

But Elves were stronger than humans. This bow didn't look any different than an ordinary bow, save that it has been crafted with obvious Elvish aesthetics. Yet its draw weight is beyond an ordinary human's ability to draw.

'These bastards…'

This particular bow has a rough draw weight of nearly 230 pounds, which to draw would be a feat for record-chasers across the City. Thus, their game is revealed. They were expecting me to struggle as any common Man might.

But Guardians are not common Men; take for instance the bow Wish Ender, with which I am quite familiar. While the size of a longbow, the Wish Ender has the unnatural draw weight of a ballista, a weapon many times its meager size. If I can draw that bow, then this bow is nothing at all.

Thinking back on it, the fact that Elrond was able to handle Wish Ender as easily as he did is impressive, even for an Elf… But I suppose that makes sense; from what I've read, Elves born in the First Age are pretty remarkable both physically and spiritually.

Loose.

This time my shot is cleaner. This bow is new to me, and like guns, each one is different in their own minute ways. But this one isn't anything special. At two hundred yards, I can master this bow in three arrows.

Nock.

Draw.

Breathe.

Loose.

Bullseye.

Now the praise comes… if you can call it praise.

"Look at this brother, a Man can get a perfect strike in three shots with one of our bows. Is that not impressive?" Aithlin asked Myriil, his tone revealing that I've spoiled their fun.

Between the two who both had black hair, Aithlin's eyes were a faded jade, while Myriil's eyes were a more vibrant emerald. Though brothers, they weren't twins, though you might only know that if they stand next to each other; Aithlin's face was a bit thinner, and he was an inch taller than his sibling. Myriil on the other hand was that much shorter, but his arms were longer by half an inch, giving him a bit of a gangly appearance. On their own, you might be able to distinguish them by these features, but if you weren't aware of those differences, you'd doubtless get the both of them confused.

"Perhaps one of the Dunedáin could draw our bows, but no ordinary man can. Certainly none that I've met," Myriil confirmed.

I raise an eyebrow at them with a smirk. "Oh? Met many Men have you?"

The answer, I gamble, is none. They might have seen Men come and go to and from the house of Elrond from afar, but I doubted they ever interacted with them.

"Aragorn, son of Arathorn is well known to us. He was raised here in Imladris when his father was killed," Myriil says to my surpriuse, dispelling my assumptions with two sentences. "But he has been raised in both the ways of Man and Elf, so I do not include him in the Men I speak of."

I frown skeptically. "Hm, sounds like sophistry to me."

But though their faces sour, but I don't want to start an argument, so grab another arrow. "In any case you're right, I'm not an ordinary Man. I'm considerably stronger."

"Indeed?" asked Myriil. "Then perhaps a farther target this time. Any Elf child can strike a pinpoint at two hundred yards. What about four hundred?"

Although antagonistic, I don't dislike the competitive look in their eyes. I smile at them with reciprocation. "There's a saying in my homeland; 'put your money where your mouth is.' A gambling term, you see."

"Ah, a wager he offers brother!" Myriil cries with glee. "I shall certainly accept!"

But Aithlin is clearly the more level-headed of the two, as he places a staying hand on his brother's shoulder. "Patience brother. Terms have not been set. What shall be wagered?"

I smirk, knowing exactly what I will wager. I reach into my tunic and draw out a small, shining cube; a unit of glimmer sparkling like a gem in the sunlight. Their eyes light up at the sight of it, their confidant expressions fading in marvel of the thing.

"Will this suffice?" I ask, holding the cuboid out to them.

Aithlin takes it in his hand and turns it this way and that. His eyes (Elf-eyes, stronger and sharper than a Man's) pierce it and turn it about in his hands, holding it up to the sunlight and noting the way it shines.

"It shines as if with its own light," he says in wonder, cupping it in the darkness of his palm as if to confirm, showing it to his brother. "What manner of gem is this? I have never seen its like in my life!"

Myriil takes it from his brother to do his own examination, making his own observations as he tested its between his fingers. "It is weightless, yet it does not float," he says, dropping it from one hand to the other and noting the peculiar nature of the material.

Suddenly Glorfindel is at my side, his face showing he too has taken interest in my offering. He plucks it from his fellows and likewise peers at it, his eyes keener and more experienced than his brethren's in such things, I think. He stares at it for a long moment before speaking.

"It is unique," he says at last. "Unique in that I have never seen it's like, even in the most glorious days of Gondolin and Nogrond ere their ruin."

He looks at me with such an expression as I have never seen on his face, and I imagine few have. The longer one lives, the less one is likely to be surprised by anything, simply as a matter of experience. So for Glorfindel who lived in the elder days before the so-called War of Wrath, died, and was returned to Middle-Earth sometime in the Second Age, to find something new he'd never seen before is probably quite the experience.

"It's called glimmer. And strictly speaking it's not a gem," I elaborate, correcting the two siblings as I take the cube back into my hand. "And it's actually quite common in my country. It's a form of programable matter. And what does that mean?" I ask rhetorically, not expecting them to have even the foggiest clue. They look between themselves, none of them having an answer for me, but suspecting that I will explain.

I grip the cube in my hand and Arc courses through it. "It means it can become anything you want."

If the two siblings are shocked by my use of Arc Light, even if just a bit, it is overshadowed by the arrow that manifests in my fist as the glimmer is reshaped into the form I desire.

In the City, it requires one to take their glimmer to a glimmersmith who would pop the material into a forge and shape it into the desired form, not unlike the early days of 3D printing. Naturally the ability to accurately program the matter required blueprints and such, and assembly afterwards, so skilled glimmersmiths were always in high demand. But unlike ordinary folk who can only shape glimmer with machines and computers, most Guardians are at least middling glimmersmiths themselves, capable of using Arc and their Ghosts to forge battlefield repairs and restock munitions. Me on the other hand? I'd venture to say my skill rises above the level of competent. That, and I'm a touch more creative than my peers.

So for me, forming a single glimmer cube into an arrow is no trouble at all.

I twirl the freshly made arrow between my fingers and give it back for them to examine. They do so carefully and with only silence and whispered murmurs. They each take turns handling it, testing its strength and durability in their hands. The head was simple titanium with a hard carbon fiber arrow shaft and artificially formed hane-style feather fletching.

If they hadn't seen me produce the arrow out of thin air, they might easily be deceived into believing it is a product of laborious hand crafting.

But it isn't. I made it, just now. In front of their very eyes.

"I heard you were some manner of sorcerer, but I…" Aithlin trails off briefly. "I didn't believe the rumors."

I'd hardly call the act of forming programmable matter a form of sorcery, but you know… Clarke's law and all that.

I twist my wrist and a second, third, and fourth cube appear between my fingers with a bit of sleight of hand. "A cube for each of you then, if you can best me."

Their wonder at the minor miracle I just performed dissolved into eager anticipation. Glimmer was like magic stones to them, or so I guess. Who would waste a chance to win a magic stone? "But," I say before their imaginations get too far ahead of themselves, "what shall be my reward I win?"

Aithlin and Myriil fall silent and look between each other and the cubes in my fingers. Then Myriil pulls his brother aside and they whisper quietly in council.

They speak together for several minutes before returning. "It is known that there is still a great deal of time before the Ring Bearer's company sets out for Mordor. You will be among them, I hear," Myriil explains, though he asks no question directly.

"The rumors speak truth," I confirm.

The brothers look to each other and nod. "Then if you match us shot for shot, we will forge you a weapon suitable to you. The best work our hands can produce."

I raise an eyebrow at them. They were willing to spend days, maybe weeks on a weapon just to satisfy their end of the bargain? Do they have no possessions of their own to wager? It would probably be incredibly rude to ask… so I bite back my questions and agree.

"Very well, our wager is set."

The firmness of their faces softens to delight as they each grab a bow and join me at the line.

"A moment then, Lazarus," Glorfindel says, pausing us before we begin and jogging over to the forge. He enters and after a minute or two he reemerges with a familiar weapon in his hand. He approaches and offers it to me.

"I was instructed to return this to you at your earliest convenience. Had you declined my invitation I intended to use it as a pretext to lure you here." He smiles with a confident, if slightly guilty look. His honesty is refreshing, and it makes me smile also, knowing that was willing to go so far just to see me in action.

It seems he is a very curious soul.

I take Wish Ender from his hands, the familiar ivory-colored bow feeling at home in my hands once again. Also returned to me is the quiver of arrows that Caranorion confiscated when we first met in the forest.

A fleeting curiosity compels me to wonder if perhaps he's one of those sent out to scout the land…

Aithlin and Myriil look at the weapon in my hand with saucer-eyed expressions, and its clear that they can see the special nature of the bow… or at least, they can see the bow is no ordinary weapon. Not that I'm particularly surprised Elves familiar with weapon crafting (and with bows especially by dint of being elves, though that might be racist of me to say) would be able to see as much with their uncannily keen eyesight, let alone two smiths.

For his part, Glorfindel seems amused by their reactions and informs them that the bow is in fact mine in the first place, and that they would be competing against both it and me. They glance between the Lord of the Golden Flower and myself, perhaps realizing the reality of their position for the first time. Still, they grit their teeth and bear it; they would honor the challenge.

They would go first and I would match them shot for shot.

But this challenge was already in their favor from the start. They were a pair and I was alone, so essentially, they had two chances to place their shots on target while I only had one.

I am not alone in my concerns.

"It seems to me unfair that Lazarus is alone in this challenge," Glorfindel announces suddenly, as if he read my thoughts. "So, I will compete with him against you both."

Both Elves stiffen at his words, and I can see in their eyes that they just saw the ghost of their victory pass away.

"I don't need your help you know," I murmur with a cocky grin that spreads to him.

"Perhaps not," he whispers. "But I believe any competition should be made as fair as can be accommodated."

I eye the Elf Lord and give him an acceding shrug. "Suit yourself."

We line up in turn, several feet apart from each other with plenty of breathing room. The brothers go first, striking a target four hundred and fifty yards out right on the money; both of their arrows hit nearly the same place, with scarcely millimeters between them.

If their only opponent was myself, then they might have felt they had more room to play… unless they were the kind of Elves who took great pride in their skills. In which case, this would have been the result anyway. But considering they are weaponsmiths, it makes sense that they would be the latter. Doubly so if their opponent was the legendary Elf Lord who slew a demon before they were even born.

I'm only assuming of course… though it seems to me they may be on the young side as far as Elves go; the weight of wisdom and experience doesn't hang so heavily on them as it does on others, and the ease with which I am able to entice them into a challenge reveals a touch of immaturity on their part. Nothing discrediting to their kind or to themselves, but present nevertheless.

Glorfindel takes his shot.

It lands right between Aithlin and Myriil's arrows, and I can see the haft of their arrows shake as they are pushed aside.

He hums to himself in satisfaction and looks to me. It is my turn.

He expects me to impress him.

I take a steadying breath and nock an arrow.

This time is different than when I fired before. I didn't know the weapon I was given, nor the weight of the arrows, nor could I calculate all the havoc the conditions of the air pressure and win resistance would play on the arrows until I could zero in my aim with the unfamiliar bow.

But this bow is not unfamiliar. These arrows are not unfamiliar.

I draw the string back half-shaft.

I sight the target through the reticle… something the other bow didn't have.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Loose.

The string snaps with a twang! and sends the arrow flying like a silent predator through the air, its broad, three-sided arrowhead carrying it directly to the target.

The board shakes on impact, and I can see my arrow pierces through down to the fletching, just a finger south of Glorfindel's arrow.

I let out a tsk and roll my shoulders irritably.

The two brothers share a look, but rightly do not celebrate. They may have beaten me, but they were also outmatched by their senior, so their next shots would have to be more ambitious.

Aithlin nocks an arrow and draws, aiming further afield.

He shoots the arrow long into the air, sinking it into a target five hundred and seventy-five yards away.

It's an impressive distance. Any ordinary bow in the City could reach that far on a good day, though not with any particular degree of accuracy.

Myriil however, chooses another target on the windmill, selecting the circle on the furthest end of the mill's arm, which was the fastest moving and would be the trickiest to hit at six hundred and fifty yards.

Ambitious indeed.

He looses.

It hits, but it is nigh to landing in the second ring of the target, just barely in the center by a centimeter.

However, Myriil seems satisfied with himself, and even Aithlin places a congratulatory hand on his brother's arm at good shot taken.

Glorfindel looks between the two targets for a moment and gives me a questioning expression.

Since both Aithlin and Myriil had chosen separate targets, we also would need to choose who would match whose mark. His look told me he was deferring to my preference.

I narrow my eyes downrange, eyeing both targets. It would be easier to let Glorfindel, who I'm confident could do so, take the target on the windmill.

But where's the fun in that?

I jut my chin and point him to the target on the ground at five hundred and seventy-five yards. He raises a brow but smiles pleasantly, though he says nothing.

He nocks.

He draws.

He looses.

The arc of the arrow is high, and any number of minutiae could affect the arrow's flight… but it sinks home next to Aithlin's, barely (but certainly) closer to center. So close are their arrows that at this distance, it is difficult for my eyes to see where their silhouettes differ.

And yet the time it took Glorfindel to aim and fire was only a third of the time that Aithlin afforded himself. It speaks volumes of the golden-haired lord's comfort in the field of archery. I should expect no less. No, I shouldn't even be surprised.

Indeed, I'm not surprised. But I am thoroughly impressed.

Next is me.

I nock another arrow and sight the target.

It's a fair distance, but that isn't the issue.

I draw full-shaft.

Under ordinary circumstance, the weight of an arrow fired by a bow like Wish Ender would have been eclipsed by the sling-force of the bow, and any common arrow would have the fletching sheared straight off by the force of the string's propulsion. Add to that, the impact wouldn't be much more significant than any ordinary bow because of wind resistance and projectile weight, unless the target was at close range. At longer ranges, the energy in the arrow would dissipate in the troposphere.

Add to that, the target is swinging around at a deceptively swift clip… Leading it properly at this distance will take a veteran's experience.

But Wish Ender is no ordinary bow. And I am no ordinary archer.

It was barely Light anymore. But you took it. And when you took it, you did not keep it. You set it free.

I breathe in air.

I breathe out Void.

Loose.

My arrow is a streak of heliotropic light that pierces the target head on, punching through it completely and ripping it from the arm of the windmill with a woody snap!, sending it tumbling through the air and to the ground behind the building.

I lower my bow, quite pleased with myself.

Glorfindel's eyes are wide, but he applauds me with a smile all the same. "Well done, Lazarus!" he says clasping a hand on my shoulder firmly. "I saw the arrow strike the kineseye* true-center!"

Aithlin and Myriil groan miserably, but even they admit as much with polite, yielding genuflections.

There must be a strongest one. It is the architecture of these spaces.

"It was an excellent display of skill, Aithlin, Myriil," I offer. "If it is not too much to presume, but I say that you have shown your kind's skill with the bow today."

"You praise us unduly," Myriil humbly grumbles. "For Glorfindel is many times our senior in both age and skill. Targets such as these are no challenge to him at all. Nor for you it seems, master Lazarus."

I chuckle at his words, knowing that the facts don't necessarily reflect the truth.

I hold out a pair of glimmer cubes to the both of them.

The look at them in confusion, their eyes flickering between me, the cubes and each other. "Why do you offer your reward? Did we not lose?" Aithlin asks, his brow furrowed.

I grin and point to the windmill, now missing one of its four outermost targets. "I altered the arrow to ignore the both the resistance of the air as well as the earth's gravity; I did not use my skill alone to win as you did. Therefore it's my loss."

Both brothers look at each other for a moment in silent debate... But they shake their heads. "Magic is a skill you possess that we do not. And do we not possess eyesight beyond yours? We see the way you squint into distance, so do not deny it. Therefor in a contest combining our skills and gifts, we are proven the lesser. The victory is yours."

I frown at them, not exactly convinced of their logic, but I can tell by their tones that they are sure they are in the right. I will not be able to convince them otherwise. "I do not necessarily agree with you… but you are both gracious for saying so."

I bow at the hip respectfully, a hand across my chest. However, though they might deny their supremacy, at the very least, I know who my better is…

I hand a unit of glimmer to Glorfindel. "We won as a team, but on the first target your arrow was keener than mine. So you beat me as well."

His face shows a great deal of surprise and reticence, and he hesitates to take the cube, but though they seem to value it highly, it is a trifle to me. I shove it into his sternum insistently.

"Take it, my arm is getting tired," I complain smirkingly.

When I retract my arm, the cube is in his cupped hands, and he holds it tenderly, as if it were a baby chick. His hesitancy drains and he thanks me for it. "You say it is common, but I have never seen it's like, so I will treasure it."

"You earned it," I confirm. "Maybe one day after this is all over, I'll teach you how to shape it too."

His smile is warm and full of radiating joy. "I should like that very much."

I hang Wish Ender on my shoulder and turn to head back, but am stopped by the Lord Elf's voice again.

"Leaving already? I am yet left unsatisfied!" he cried with mock indignation. "You have proven yourself to these two, certainly, but I have another, surer examination I would like to give you."

Lazarus! There you are! C'mon, I need your help with an examination.

…If it involved anything with doctors or rubber gloves, I'm going to shoot you.

"Honestly Glorfindel, you are incorrigible..."

I sigh. Of course I wasn't going to be let off that easy. I'm more confident in my sword skills than my archery regardless, but that doesn't mean much against Glorfindel, who despite my being nearly five-hundred years old is still many times my age and experience…

The only area I'm confident in beating him is in the aspect of magic… or rather, Light. Judging by his form and countenance, he is a master of martial skill, while I specialize more in the use of Light to overwhelm my enemies.

Its too bad I'm not a Hunter; their bladework is matchless when applied properly.

Did you use my knives to peel your oranges again?!

…Yes, when applied properly.

Nevertheless, this seems the perfect opportunity to gauge myself against a peerless opponent.

I twirl my finger in a circle, telling the three elves to turn around. "A moment of privacy if you please."

They look amongst each other curiously, but Glorfindel is the first to acquiesce, which compels the other too to do the same.

I had an inkling today might turn out like this, so I fortuitously stored my armor in my inventory before I left.

Considering Glorfindel is kitted out in his golden armor, it seems only fair that do the same.

…It was hard won during the SIVA Crisis, back when rampant SIVA still ate at the Plaguelands near the Cosmodrome. It was during that same crisis that the infamous young Guardian was knighted as the first Iron lord of the modern age by Saladin and given the title "the Young Wolf." Many others followed their footsteps seeking to chase the coattails of greater predecessors and renown long bereft of worth.

It was quite the campaign.

I was not the first to make the so-named Red Miasma ensemble, but I was one of the few that took it beyond mere armor; the crafty little Devils… I don't think they knew just how good they almost had it. Once I gathered enough SIVA cores and data keys, I was able to program a small amount of it to suit my needs.

As the saying once went, when in Rome, do as the Romans do.

In my case it was more like, when handling SIVA, do as the Fallen do.

While others formed their armor out of SIVA and then left well enough alone (which was helped by the Vanguard requiring all SIVA-formed equipment to be dormant), some of us few pioneers took things a little further.

My armor was crafted with specially coded SIVA strains; my own special batch. Once they formed a proper, predetermined shape, they would remain inert… unless a breach were formed. In which case, they would awaken, and seal said breach before sleeping once again. Like how a living organism's cells mend a wound.

Let the other greedy Guardians have their guns. As far as I was concerned, SIVA only has so many offensive applications. But defensively the possibilities are nearly endless.

I sigh in relief as I am garbed again, my blackened robes, studded with pyramidal plates up and down my torso and angular armor on my legs and arms feeling more like home than any hovel in the City. My helmet appears in my hands in a flash, and I tuck it under my arm as I call out to Glorfindel.

"Alright."

As they turn back around to face me, I'm sure the last thing they're expecting is quick-change stage performance, yet here I am.

Glorfindel looks notably less surprised than I expected, unlike the two brothers whose confusing plays across their faces in mute ignorance, though his wide eyes betray him. I commend them for it. I think its mostly because they have no idea how I just changed so quickly into equipment I didn't carry with me.

But they call me a sorcerer, so shouldn't this much be within my capabilities?

I smile and gesture to the elder Elf. "What's with that look? You wanted to play with swords, yes? Come then; I'm ready when you are, friend."

--

The scene is not so different from what Gabriel had seen before.

Though Lazarus was ever loth to step foot in the Crucible, every once in a blue moon the inkling would strike him.

The Crucible is a young Guardian's game, he would always mutter dismissively.

But on those preciously intermittent occasions when he graced Shaxx's arena with his presence, his allies and opponents alike were reminded why it was better that he keep his distance.

Lazarus would frequently call it, a refreshing return to the roots.

Is it strange that killing other Guardians would trigger a pleasant nostalgia in such a person? Gabriel used to believe so. But that was a long time ago…

Any Guardian who was raised in the days before the formation of the City knew that the word Guardian was a leftover term from the days when the Iron Lord Radegast founded the Pilgrim Guard to act as escort for those who dared to undertake the brutal pilgrimage from whatever wretched spit of land they called home to the safety of the burgeoning City in the Traveler's shadow.

Guardians who predate those days were commonly called Risen, though very few Lightless have ever heard of the antiquated term.

It is not an affectionate word, nor is it a term of renown; it is a bloody word. A word of strife.

In those days, Ghosts did their best to instill a sense of altruism in their chosen… but often their better natures took them down a divergent path to a toxic sort of sympathy. Every Ghost wants what's best for their chosen, and some will even go so far as to overlook their Guardian's moral shortcomings in favor of preserving their relationship. Some Ghosts in turn became just as twisted as their partners.

Because their Guardian needed them to.

This was especially the case in the Dark Age after the Collapse, when good will and moral absolutism met its match against the greedy subjectivity of suffering and the struggle to survive in such a dreadful post-apocalyptic environment.

In other words, it's easy to talk the talk when you haven't walked the walk.

In those days, many Risen turned to barbarity and despotism, maintaining peace and stability in their own selfish ways, and ruling over the weak by the law of the gun.

Lazarus was no exception, though he did his best to rule his protectorate honorably, and in that fact Gabriel remained exceedingly proud.

However, while the Dark Age may be left behind buried in the sands of time, the monuments of its black legacy still linger to this day in the hearts and minds of those who survived it. Like a disease, the symptoms of which manifest differently from person to person.

Ironically, for Lazarus, the trauma imbued in his heart actually ended up being his salvation…

'That's right, it was Waterview wasn't it? The day when Lazarus' soul found its footing again…'

It was a bloody day, like most days were back then, more common than smiles or joy.

For those who knew Lazarus as he currently was, it might be hard to imagine a day when he was a cold, merciless killer who abided in comfortable and convenient ignorance.

Side by side, they were two very different people.

Lazarus the Guardian was an exemplar of Warlock-kind.

Lazarus the Risen was a modern-day monster.

The remnants of those dim years lingered still in the depths of the man's heart and in the instincts honed from centuries of strife. Every now and again, Gabriel could still see glimpses of the old him in the eyes, and in certain infinitesimal moments of rage. And on only the rarest of occasions, Lazarus retreated deep into himself, finding that cage where the monster slept, and broke its lock.

Gabriel hated every moment of it. Lazarus the Risen didn't know the meaning of the word restraint.

The scene in front of him reminded him of those grim days, back when Lightbearers fought for their lives with every tooth, nail, trick, and weapon in their arsenal.

'If Glorfindel hasn't already figured as much about Lazarus by now, then he might end up regretting this little shindig...'

…Is what he wanted to believe. But where Gabriel had expected Lazarus to overpower the Elf from the get-go, he was instead treated to the astonishing sight of Glorfindel almost dancing around his Guardian with foot and bladework. An obvious gulf was revealed between Elf and Lightbearer in that regard. But that was only a matter of skill.

Power was another aspect altogether.

Glorfindel was a blinding ray of sunshine, his golden aura burning ever brighter the more he fought with Lazarus. Gabriel could feel a kinship between his light and the Elf's… estranged and unfamiliar, yes, but kinship nonetheless. What that meant, he didn't know.

Lazarus was the thinker, the ponderer, the inquisitive monk. Gabriel was just whatever else he needed to be.

Yet where Lazarus was hard pressed by Glorfindel's prowess with the blade, the Elf in turn was repeatedly thrown back by the Guardian's deftness with the Light.

Little taser-touches and solar concussion blasts, stunning Stormcaller bolts and Sunsinger flames… And sword-for-sword, Glorfindel was outmatched in equipment; as brilliant as the Elf's straight sword was, gleaming silver and gold in the burning sun, it was no match for the singular might of a weapon forged from a shard of Oryx's own Willbreaker, sharped by the deaths of ten thousand worlds and sanctified in Light.

Yet for that difference, Glorfindel was not without recourse, as he withstood Lazarus' paracausal volleys like a stalwart stone against which the ocean breaks. In time perhaps, he might be worn down, but not without considerable effort and focus.

And he was fast. Supreme speed, legendary finesse, unrelenting power, and an indomitable spirit… if one were mad enough to combine the strength of a Titan and the agility of a Hunter together, along with a Warlock's overwhelmingly abundant font of Light, the chimeric Guardian might look something quite akin to the golden-haired Elf-lord.

And it was against that imposing character that Lazarus found himself matched… indeed, outmatched it seemed.

But Warlocks were more than mere spigots through which Light could lash out at the Darkness. They were also cunning thinkers.

Emerald green light coalesced in Lazarus' outstretched hand, and a sudden choking smog fell upon the field like the close of day, strangling the throat, blinding the eyes, and filling the nostrils with acrid poison.

Into this darkness Glorfindel dove undaunted, his blade a gleaming silver flicker in its shadow, a match in image for his Guardian's less resplendent but far more deadly arc-charged edge.

There was a sickening sound. Familiar and cause for trepidation to any Ghost. It was the swift squelch of flesh being pierced, sliced, and cleaved in twain; the sound of bones breaking and breathy gasp of stunned lungs.

Then silence.

--

…

…

"What have I done?"

Glorfindel looked down at the work of his hands, his sword buried to the hilt in Lazarus' chest.

The Warlock let out a bloody cough that splattered against the inside of his helm. He staggered back a pace an managed to pull the thing off its his head, looking down at his mortal wound with clear eyes.

With uncannily steady hands, the Guardian gripped the hilt of the blade and pulled, ripping it free with a ringing metallic whine and drawing with it a spit of blood that dribbled from underneath his robes.

"You got me good." Lazarus cursed, a hand coming up to test his wound.

In an instant, their company was joined by the three spectators. Aithlin, Myriil, and even Finwé rushed across the field. But only Finwé seemed capable of rational thought as he called for bandages… for all the good it would do.

But Lazarus was dismissive. He waved off their concern with a hand, and even had the bravery to laugh. A coughing laugh, full of phlegm and blood, but an honest laugh nonetheless.

Glorfindel couldn't find the words to speak. Had he been caught up in the moment? Even in the midst of the most grueling of spars he'd never allowed himself to slip so fatally… He could blame it the sudden smog Lazarus summoned to the field, or he could blame it on… any number of things. But the fault lay with him, and now this Man's – not-Man's – blood was on his hands. Literally.

The Guardian stumbled, his strength leaving him. Glorfindel caught him firmly and set him on his knees.

"Forgive me Lazarus… I didn't mean to-"

Again, Lazarus waved him off with a smile. A blessed smile full of knowing and devoid of malice. "Yes you did," he said between coughs, leaving no room for argument in his weakening tone. "The darkness I cast wasn't Light. It was an evil spell. You felt it, right? Instinct took over and you struck true. It's my own fault, really."

The dying Guardian gave the Elf a playful fist to the chest, as a brother might. "There's nothing to forgive, you fool."

Glorfindel was dumbstruck as he looked at the stranger in his arms. Was he making excuses for him? How can a person be so flippant with their own life?

He snapped out of his stupor and looked to Finwé who stood over them. "Call the healers! There's still a chance-"

"Stop fussing you old woman!" Lazarus growled, devolving into a fit of hacking, spitting coughs. Instead of receiving treatment, he held out a hand and a flicker of light appeared in his palm.

It was a small symmetrical shape, like a craftsman's crude attempt at a flower or the head of a flail. But it was no simple hunk of metal. It floated, wingless and quiet, a single white light flickering in its center. It turned this way and that, looking at everyone in turn before spinning to look its summoner.

Its body rotated in strange directions as it circled like a bird of prey. The tetrahedrons that made up its body suddenly separated, and a bluish light formed a small circle around it. Then, like a bubble bursting, it pulsed.

A sudden warmth washed over Glorfindel, and his spirit resonated with a strange, foreign longing for something he didn't understand… But he didn't have time to dwell on the sensation.

Of a sudden, Lazarus' breathing eased, and his paling complexion returned to its proper color. The Guardian stretched his back painlessly, leaning over to hack up a mouthful of spit and blood. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

"Much better," he said rising back to his feet, much to the Elves' disbelief.

Finwé looked between the bloody blade on the ground and the still-wet trail of staunched blood that coated Lazarus' cloak and armor. "You… you are restored?"

"Fit as a fiddle," Lazarus replied, a small frown dimming his smile. "Though I had hoped to avoid this exact situation if I could help it."

He reached down and plucked Glorfindel's sword from the ground and held it up, examining the metal, now stained with his own blood.

"It's quite something. Not many blades are strong enough to pierce my armor," Lazarus commented, tapping his breastplate with a solid thud.

He spoke as if the sword that had just been buried to the hilt in his chest was like a dog that bit its master by mistake. Already he moved the conversation away from his astounding recovery… But not everyone was ready to move on.

"How is this possible?" Myriil asked, his eyes roaming up and down Lazarus' body in wonderment.

The Guardian frowned, perhaps realizing that they would not be satisfied by anything less than a proper explanation. "Didn't I already tell you? The Light can both heal and harm." Though he spoke in answer to Myriil's question, his eyes were on Glorfindel, his words recalling the very same words he spoke not long before.

"I haven't forgotten, but… I did not expect even such a wound might be…" The Elf trailed off quietly.

Lazarus watched him for a moment in silence. But, presently, his face softened and he gestured to the little flying thing that hovered quietly over his shoulder. "It seems introductions are in order; this is Gabriel. He is what we Guardians call a 'Ghost.' They are both tools and companions and are very precious to us."

Lazarus held out a finger upon which Gabriel precariously perched.

Not one to turn down praise, Gabriel bobbed up and down, tilting forward as if to bow. "Hello," he said, his voice clear and bright.

None of the Elves were expecting speech to come from such a thing, yet when it did, they took it in heavy stride. Glorfindel was the first to acknowledge him.

"Greetings Gabriel," he said, not a little unsure how to address the bizarre floating creature. "Is it your work that healed Lazarus?"

"It is indeed," Gabriel replied in a chipper tone that soured immediately. "It seems to be all I do, frankly."

Lazarus fixed his companion with a sidelong look that spoke more of their comradery than of any real sort of annoyance. Indeed, even with only so many words exchanged between them, Glorfindel could already see an intense bond between the Guardian and Ghost. He'd seen such things in others, including himself long ago in the days of Gondolin's glory.

These two were as thick as thieves.

"But so quickly," Finwé exclaimed. "I heard you worked through the night to aid Elrond in healing the Hobbit Frodo Baggins. Why and how then is such a mortal wound so quick in the mending?"

"Stitching a wound in my own flesh is no trouble at all, given a moment's rest." Lazarus replied, holding the sword in his hands out for the gold-hair to take. "But Mr. Baggins condition was a result of cursed poison, and quite advanced at that. Thus, it took quite a while to remedy."

Glorfindel took the proffered sword and looked at it, as if pondering the blood that stained it. Perhaps it was only his imagination… Seeing how its victim was as lively as he'd ever seen him, it certainly beggared belief.

Noticing the sword's condition, Aithlin pulled from within his tunic a burgundy cloth for Glorfindel to wipe his weapon with. Meanwhile, Finwé's attention diverted from the miracle of the Warlock's restoration to the weapon that lay forgotten upon the ground, dropped from Lazarus' hand in the final exchange.

A sudden compulsion struck him, and he reached down to retrieve it.

The moment he picked it up, he examined its make, its shape, and its heft, as any blacksmith of proper repute would. The instant he touched it, the Elf's eyes hardened, partly in confusion, mostly in concern.

Glorfindel was no craftsman, but he had spent enough time around craftsmen to know their trade well, as well as identify the same concerns that now plagued Finwé.

First of all, the blade wasn't actually connected to the hilt; it possessed no tang at all. Instead, it was attached by two thin rods to a great gem that was fixed to the hilt.

Any fool would take one look at it and see how insecure its structure was.

Secondly, the blade itself was made of a clean, sturdy metal, but was weakened by a hollowed portion in the center, likely in an attempt to make the blade lighter; that empty space was made up of fourteen empty segments divided by thirteen struts that provided additional support. It was a clever solution, but it was a decision no Elf would have made.

Thirdly, even a fool could see that the construction of the handle was simple, almost amateurish. There was no flair or style to it, though its thick diamond-shaped guard looked quite sturdy.

Unlike Elves who possessed a great sense of skill and fluency in bladework, Men weren't so skilled, and tended to rely instead on the weight of the blade and crushing power instead of finesse. For this reason, their swords were larger, heavier, and commonly sported wide cross-guards that could catch any errant strike.

Contrarily, the cross-guard of this weapon was too small to catch the stroke of an enemy's sword, and instead seemed only to serve as a structural clamp to secure the gem in the center of the weapon.

And fourthly, the stone itself…

It was too large to call it a gem, or a diamond, or anything similar. It was more like a large geode. It sparkled with azure light when the sun shone through it, and even in the shadows Glorfindel could see sparking flickers crackle deep within. It clearly was no ordinary rock. In fact, the way the whole sword was designed seemed to emphasize an importance of the stone; rather, it as if the sword was built around the stone itself.

Finwé, who was much more experienced in the nuances of metalwork, seemed to grasp these truths in an instant. His keen eyes examined the weapon with a methodical slowness.

But what Finwé might divine from sight alone, Glorfindel knew from experience; Lazarus had demonstrated a command of lightning before, and so it was not surprising to seem him cast it during their fight. But where before the power had come from within the Lazarus himself, during their scuffle just now, Glorfindel felt more than saw the sparking energy come from the sword.

It was as if the sword held a power unto itself. How many weapons existed in Middle-Earth that could boast such a unique quality?

Glorfindel could think of none.

The sword fell to the soft earth with sound.

Finwé stumbled back.

His fellow Elves looked at him with concern and confusion.

His wide eyes saw nothing else besides the weapon on the ground. "What ghastly malevolence is this…?"

"Master Finwé?" prodded Myriil, a hand reaching out to his master's shoulder to steady him. The smith didn't seem to feel the presence of his students.

"Wide… No, deep. Oceans everlasting…" He babbled beyond Glorfindel's comprehension.

"Master Finwé, what is wrong?" Glorfindel asked, putting authority into his respectful tone to break the Elf from his strange, concerning trance.

It worked… moderately. Finwé's gaze went form the sword to Glorfindel, his eyes suddenly sharpening in alarm. He took a moment to collect himself and pointed. "Take the sword and know for yourself what I see! It is a weapon of death! Evil and wickedness abound within it. And dare not to hold it overlong!"

Brows furrowing, the Elf-lord looked between the smith and the consternating weapon, sparing a glace to Lazarus, who seemed suspiciously unsurprised by his kin's reaction. Indeed, the Guardian's eyes were narrowed, but they were laid upon Glorfindel, as if giving tacit permission to do just as the smith instructed.

Glorfindel reached down and grasped the weapon by the hilt.

It was comfortable in the hand, as far as swords went, despite some of the more aesthetically crude aspects of the design. He held it a moment, flexing his fingers and adjusting his grip. Nothing felt particularly untoward…

Then he shivered.

It wasn't a shiver of fear, or of cold, nor even excitement. It was something deeper, it pressed like a weight upon the back of his skull, snaking from the base of his spine and leeching into his limbs like a plague.

He felt small. Not small as a man is to a tree or to a troll, or to a great city. It was grander than that. Grander and terrible.

He was on the mark with his assumption; the blade and hilt were merely additions to the stone.

Now he understood why.

The stone was something old. Incomprehensibly old and weathered, though it shone as brilliantly as a polished sapphire. It bore the weight of years uncountable, and the bulk of its existence overwhelmed him. Though he held it in his hands, it felt as if it might slip from his fingers and sink to the very depths of the Arda, dragging the very landmass of Middle-Earth beneath the waters with it.

The weight was not of magic, nor of raw density, but rather, it was weighted down with something else…

Glorfindel peered into the stone with all his strength, searching for its source.

He found death.

Death.

Death and more death.

The lives of countless slain and slaughtered were held in this little, unassuming stone. Could any one count so many? Could ten thousand scribes with ten thousand years count as high? It was more than all the lives of thinking creatures upon the face of Middle-Earth… No, it was even more; more than was living, or had lived, or ever would live. Since its conception to its destruction, the world's cumulative mass of life was but a single drop in an ocean that spanned from one side of existence to the other.

This thing… this stone… weighed more than him. More than his life. More than any life. Could Morgoth himself conceive of such an existence as this? Could the brilliance of the Silmarils compare with the spiteful majesty of this crystal? The answer was clear in Glorfindel's mind, and it froze him in the midst a cold sweat.

His heart hammered with an unnatural steadiness and volume in his ears. He heard nothing else. He saw nothing else. There was only this blade. It spoke no words, and he felt no consciousness from the thing; but he couldn't help but feel small in the presence of its cold, dismissive regard.

Vaster powers than those he knew bore down on him, and he felt as if he might sink into the earth like quicksand. In that moment, he wondered; a stray thought so strange and foreign that had never entered even into his wildest imaginations.

…Didn't the Valar seem quite… small?

Then, like a passing fever dream, it was gone.

A gloved hand gently took the weapon from his hands. He blinked and looked up, the world still as normal as it had ever been.

Lazarus now stood, weapon in hand, his gaze locked on Glorfindel with no small amount of concern and… understanding.

Glorfindel remembered to breathe. The sense of smallness and anxiousness that he had felt seemed to linger, like an aching in the bones.

The eyes of Aithlin and Myriil flickered between their three companions with concern and confusion, and many questions on their lips were forcibly silenced.

Presently, Glorfindel found his voice again.

"What is that?"

It was all he could ask. He wasn't exceptionally eloquent, and no words in any tongue he knew could convey the true desire of what he wanted to know.

"A weregild." Lazarus said with inappropriate simplicity. "Some years ago, a great king came to wage war upon my people. We met him with fire, fury, and understanding. And though the consequences of his defeat have caused us no end of suffering since, many fine things were won in his demise. This stone," he ran his fingers over the surface of the device, "was the core of his sword; taken and purified in Light. What you feel is the weight of its existence, shored in the taking of countless lives."

"And you would take it as a weapon for yourself? How can you stand to touch such evil?! You should have destroyed it and given rest to those whose bite it slew!"

Finwé's eyes were fiery for the first time in a long time; Glorfindel couldn't even tell when the last time was that he'd seen the Elf righteously animated.

Lazarus fixed the smith with a leveled look, unoffended, but correcting. "Can the dead feel the satisfaction of vengeance? Death is its own peace. Instead, I would make their deaths mean something; if the strength of the sword lies in the killing, then I will take its power and turn it upon evil itself. I wield it to honor the dead as a memorial, not spite their sacrifice."

"Their sacrifice…?!" Finwé parroted incredulously, preparing to rail against Lazarus' logic. Can the lives of those unjustly slain really be called a sacrifice? A sacrifice implies a willingness to offer oneself, not be offered.

"I am of the same mind as you, Finwé, son of Finiel," Glorfindel said suddenly with an outstretched hand, forestalling the Elf's argument before he could begin. "But the minds of the Eldar are not like those of the Edain, much less like Lazarus' folk whom we know not. We must not judge too harshly their sense of justice."

Finwé opened his mouth to retort but presently shut it.

"However, I cannot disagree with him on this count; that my spirit cannot abide its existence. It feels… unnatural."

"Unnatural? Is there anything more natural than death?" Lazarus countered with a smile that smacked too heavily of nihilism. "Perhaps to Elves who would otherwise live forever, death must seem a terrible evil. But I and my kind are more akin to Men, and so we have come to know death as both a thief and a friend. He comes in the night, unhindered and inevitable. So we fear him not… or try not to. Our people's relationship with death is quite different; I do not wonder then that out perspectives of justice may seem quite foreign."

"That may be so," Glorfindel humbly admitted. "Few among Elves study Men to know them so well, so I cannot refute your viewpoint… If you say you are honoring the murdered, then it is your claim to make. I will not disparage it."

Glorfindel could see it now. The stone was a source of power. Its strength flowed into the steel, channeling the weight of its existence into the edge of the weapon.

Such a fearsome armament as Glorfindel had never dreamed of…

"Thank you," Lazarus said with a thankful nod. Finwé looked like he still had something to say, but he could not go against Glorfindel's words, for they were sensible, even if they felt wrong.

"However, it's clear to me that the swordsmanship that I have known is not suitable to fighting Elves," Lazarus continued. "Both my sword and swordsmanship are taken from my enemies. I have modeled their methods and put myself into them. The result is as you've seen."

He rapped his knuckles against the pierced breastplate of his robes for emphasis. "Your finesse is much greater than mine."

Glorfindel was silent for a moment. Lazarus was changing topics, and rather obviously at that. Though he couldn't claim to know the Guardian particularly well, he could at least say that he did not underestimate the man; Lazarus was trying to say something without saying it-

Ah.

Glorfindel, managed to find a smile somewhere inside and drew it out to his face. "I see. I apologize for damaging your armor. I'm sure Master Finwé will have it fixed in short order."

His eyes drifted to the other Elf pointedly, more as a question than a statement.

Finwé seemed to bristle at his words, but eventually he found himself nodding. "Of course. Any grievances I may have with your… weapon," he almost spat the word, "does not extend to your armor. You will not be able to tell it was damaged at all."

"I appreciate your commitment," Lazarus thanked, bowing his head again. The respectful gesture placated the master smith enough for his stance to loosen somewhat.

Glorfindel continued "In the meantime, I wish to make it my responsibility to teach your proper swordsmanship… if you have an appetite for Elven flair, that is."

Lazarus was asking for lessons. That's what Glorfindel interpreted.

The smile that crossed the Guardian's face indicated he was right on the mark.

"I'm a Guardian. Our appetites are insatiable. If you offer a meal, I'll eat every last bite."

Glorfindel felt the smile infect him as well, a competitive energy rising from his core, replacing the foreign dread that was fading from his soul. "Is that so? I hope you're ready then. We have but a few months until you will depart. In that time, I'll feed you so much you'll want to vomit."

Lazarus' grin stretched from ear to ear. "Now that's what I like to hear."

The Ghost – Gabriel – blinked, its little cyclopean eye flickering as it leaned into whisper something unheard in Lazarus' ear.

A few seconds after… "Ah, that's right. If I'm going to be learning Elven swordsmanship, then I think I will need an Elvish sword. This sword is less suited to your style, I think."

"Hm," Glorfindel scratched his chin thoughtfully. "You're right. We have many swords which should suit you-"

"Actually…" Gabriel interrupted, speaking up loud enough to be heard. "Guardians are fond of designing their own weapons. If we were allowed to forge our own sword…" The Ghost trailed off, his little eye turning to regard Finwé.

The Smith regarded Lazarus, looking him up and down for a long time before speaking. "You know how to handle a forge?" he asked somewhat suspiciously.

"I do. But our forges are quite different from yours. And I imagine Elves have a different process for metalwork. Moreover," he gestured to the two younger Elves, "These fine fellows wagered a weapon made by their own hands."

Finwe's expression hardened. "Oh, did they?" he asked, turning to them with danger in his voice. "Have you forgotten where you two would work to make such a weapon? Is it not my forge? And am I not still its master? You have forgotten yourselves in your imprudence."

Both Elves heard it clearly as their heads bowed reflexively, mumbling apologies without excuse.

Finwé didn't go on, seeing in their eyes the honesty of their spirits. Instead he turned his eyes to Lazarus. "Only a fool challenges an Elf at a sport of archery, and yet you have done so, and matched them."

Finwé's eyes narrowed and returned to silence. Then…

"Very well. In between training with Glorfindel, I will show you how we Elves forge our weapons. I cannot stomach that you would use… that. So I will indulge you this privilege."

Lazarus bowed in gratitude. "I will do your forge proud, Master Finwé," he declared. To Glorfindel, his smile seemed quite genuine.

Of course, the Elf didn't know that a – one might even say the – defining trait of Guardian culture was weapon-crafting.

It wouldn't take long for him to find out.

Last edited: May 4, 2021

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Threadmarks Chapter 8: Old Dog

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Black Lister

Oct 26, 2021

#153

Her eyes are open.

The scene is different.

Great hewn pillars of jagged stone and steel loom high along the outmost limits of the space. Above her head, even higher than high, stars twinkle bright and cold in unsettlingly foreign formations - clearer than ever she had seen their like before - stretching in all directions. A long walk from the grand entrance to the dais that overlooks the sky… A throne, whereon sits death, lies abandoned in the midst of multitudinous corpses. In the distance, a drifting carcass tumbles lethargically, weightless in the otherwise empty black beyond.

The king is dead.

The coifed might-beyond-might, nonpareil, that was innate afforded him much in the face of his nemeses, but ultimately faltered. His primacy denied. His wroth for naught. His soldiers and children slaughtered.

She knows this, though she does not know how.

The ground is slick with blood from countless foes; they are strange shapes that reek of malice and unnatural hunger, even in death. Her feet feel a chill of ice when they splash in the foul reek.

Yet, through that blackened mire of entrails and fluids walk, undaunted, six figures.

They are murderers. Usurpers. Dissidents. They are enemies of the king who sat on the throne. Now, they are victors.

They gaze upon the shrinking form of the king's lifeless body, tumbling as if weightless in the noctilucent gloom. Their quest complete; their travails come to fruition. From the grand atrium they gather the spoils of war, stones of value and weapons of war, materials to craft yet greater armaments for wars yet unended.

But to the throne they pay no heed as they collect the spoils of their war and leave the room as empty of life as the void between the stars beyond.

Except for one.

Of the six, one fains looks back at the seat of power… His eyes are filled with ambition; tempered by obligation. And yet his gaze lingers all the same.

With a shuddering struggle, he turns away and follows his fellows away.

But it is in that moment when he looked back at the throne that she recognized his face. The sharp angles of those eyes that peer through broken helm...

She'd seen them once before.

The door of the great hall closed with a grinding boom.

And Galadriel awoke.

--

In the time before Guardians were called Guardians, before they divided themselves up between so-called classes, Risen were simply Risen. Warlock, Hunter, Titan… didn't matter. Light was Light.

Only after the Pilgrim Guard became more commonly known and Risen became 'Guardians' in the minds of the Lightless did the concept of orders come to be. And as Guardians congregated under the shadow of the Traveler, forming groups and friendships with those of similar ideas and personalities, the formation of classes became an inevitability.

Strictly speaking, there was no law that predetermined a Guardian's style. That is to say, though I am a Warlock, there is nothing keeping me from learning a Titan's discipline or a Hunter's unorthodoxy except my own disposition.

In like fashion, our learned martial disciplines are also chosen and developed at our discretion. Firearms – or tools belike – are common enough to be learned by most of what remained of humanity before I even came into being. Or… re-being, rather... Suffice it to say, finding veterans to teach me how to shoot was not difficult, though I've met few Guardians who are not innately akin to firearms from the outset.

Swordsmanship however, I learned from the Hive, and so it is very crude in comparison to… pretty much any other form of combat. That said, it is certainly effective in its own right. But against the finesse of a Hunter, or the indomitability of a Titan, its limitations become more pronounced.

After all, the Hive worship death. Why should they care about skill when they can hack their way to victory with little to no regard for their own safety?

Though, it is that very mindset that makes them weak to Guardians. Hunter's are too elusive and slippery, while deathless Titans meet them with greater might undaunted. If it weren't for their dark magics, the Hive would have been conquered in the territory of martial strength eons ago.

And Warlocks? Most of us avoid the study of swordsmanship since, simply put, why bother getting up close and personal when we can rain fire from on high? Close combat is the Achilles heel of Warlocks, and most are content to let it be so.

I, on the other hand, have rarely been content with anything in my life.

"Again."

I rise from where my stance has been broken by a swift kick to my knee. Glorfindel readies himself and comes at me again.

I am fortunate that the Elves (or at least this Elf in particular) seems to have such boundless stamina; hour after hour every day, Glorfindel and I spend our time in the sun sweating and striking at one anything with our blunt weapons.

I opt not to practice using my own sword, especially after the reactions garnered from others merely being in its presence. The curved Elven sword in my hand suits me well enough regardless; Glorfindel explained to me that because Orcs commonly only wear leather armor, if they wear armor at all, the thin, curved blade is better for dispatching them efficiently than a straight blade meant for piercing iron; a quick slice to their throats, arms, or knees is generally enough to incapacitate them, giving one a chance to finish them off safely.

I don't doubt his words, though it leaves me curious as to why he wields a straight blade… Perhaps it's simply a matter of preference. Can't fault him for that.

Elvish swordsmanship is as much a matter of art as it is functional, and I have come to the conclusion that this is less a matter of intention than it is a part of their nature. Everything an Elf does is beautiful and elegant by that nature. It amuses me that this curious racial trait extends even to the art of swordplay and warfare.

It is certainly an aspect that I think Humanity could adopt to its own advantage.

I make a mental note to bring it up to Zavala the next time I see his blue-skinned mug.

…I do hope getting home doesn't take me too long; though I know it's pointless to do so, I worry about the City in my absence, though not overly so; many heroes remain in its defense, not the least of which being that foolhardy Guardian who did Ghaul in; the very same one who brought Saint-14 back from the dead through temporal amendment and general Vex bull-shittery.

Worrying will do me no good. I just need to focus on myself right now.

Our blades clash briefly, a staccato refrain of steel that rings in the open field.

I abstain from using my Light, since I want to learn the true Elven swordsmanship pure and unfettered. Only after I've reached what I might called the "intermediate" level would I feel confident enough to throw a Guardian's talents into the mix.

Evidently, Glorfindel thinks that day will come sooner rather than late. Many lifetimes of experience have left me with a disposition for swift and seamless education.

Go figure.

I bite back a "duh, Warlock" knowing that even in the elder Elf's company I should mind my P's and Q's.

Though affable, Glorfindel seems like the kind of Elf to take training very seriously. So, I do likewise in turn.

"Your years do you credit," the Elf says, pirouetting away from a swipe that nearly caught his golden hair. "Even my own people do not pick up on the old ways so quickly."

The sun is golden and descending when at last he lowers his sword arm and approaches me, gesturing for me to follow him to the shaded gazebo where a pitcher of cool water awaited us.

"Just looking at it, your swordsmanship is elegant, perhaps excessively so," I say. "But in practice, it's quite precise."

"Only in our hands," Glorfindel replies as we enter the cool dark under the hut's roof. "Men possess an elegance of their own kind, of course, but it is largely gone from their lineage. Only in the blood of Nȗmenor can it be recalled. So take pride when I say that even Elves do no learn as swift as thee."

I smile a proud smile despite myself. "Well… I trust your judgement in any case."

Glorfindel almost rolls his eyes as he fixes me with a look. "You are very difficult to compliment, Lazarus. You don't have a complex, do you?"

I laugh at his words and shrug my shoulders. "Others might call it a complex… I call it keeping myself grounded. A big head will unbalance the body, no?"

"Tis true," he replies. "But it is also important to acknowledge one's own achievements with an objective gaze."

"An objective comparison requires something to compare it too. In that regard, comparing myself to you… I look like a child swinging a stick."

Glorfindel laughs heartily. "Truthfully, when we began, that's exactly how you looked. But you have come very far in so short a time. And on that subject, how goes your training under Finwé?"

I shake my head in exasperation. "Worse. I didn't expect to learn all the secrets of Elven metalwork in a fortnight, but I expected to do better than I currently am. I've forged countless weapons both common and exotic in my homeland. Mined steel, forged iron, even carved bone… I've made armaments of them all. And yet I've not struggled so much since when I forged Bolt Caster."

The Elf nods slowly at the mention of my sword, and he looks pensive for a long moment. Finally, he speaks.

"Lazarus… may I ask a question expecting a transparent answer?"

I raise an eyebrow at him and fix him with a look filled with skepticism. Considering the accommodations that have been given me since I arrived in Rivendell… I suppose a bit of honesty wouldn't be overly painful… even if the answer is beyond his capacity to understand.

It also behooves me to maintain this strangely affable relationship I've somehow developed with the Elf Lord.

I answer behind a drink of water. "You may."

"Where is your home?"

Silence grows between us as our eyes pierce each other. Elven sight, or rather, insight seems to be a racial characteristic. But I think he knows I have quickly grown to read Elves just as easily as they read others.

I sigh, feeling a weight evaporate from my shoulders as I honor his wish. "I don't know," I answer honestly. "Up there, somewhere."

Glorfindel's eyes follow mine as I stare into the sky. A brow of his rises, prompting me to explain my words.

With a thought, a folded parchment materializes in my hand. I hold it out to him, and he takes it warily, unfolding it.

It is a map of the world. Not the world as he knows it; not Middle-Earth, but Earth. My home, not his.

Land masses, oceans… the names of cities, kingdoms, and nations long since collapsed printed in prominent bold letters across its colored surface. For minutes, his eyes pan across its creases, his fingers touching names and locations with purpose beyond my comprehension.

"This is your home?" he asks without looking up at me.

"It is. Most of the cities and nations are gone now. But it is home all the same."

When Glorfindel's eyes finally rise to meet mine, a deep understanding is beheld in them. "And… where is your home?"

The question is the same as he asked before, but the meaning is different. I read it accurately.

I breathe a sigh and consider how best to describe it. "I have spoken the truth every time I say I do not know. I only know that Middle-Earth is not my home. Just as this world basks in the light of the Sun, so my world does as well. But it is the light of another sun; another star."

The season's early dusk has given way to the twinkling lights, and my eyes search them in vain.

"The constellations are foreign to me. One of them might be my home… but I cannot say for certain. It may be a star so far away that its light does not even reach this sky."

Contrary to my expectations, he takes my answer in stride, though I am left wondering if perhaps he is simply holding back a flood of subsequent questions. I can only imagine he must be, if only for my sake.

After a while… "Suddenly, your marathon forays into the bowels of the library make much more sense," he says with a sullen understanding. "You knew nothing at all."

"And even after these many weeks of study I still feel like a babbling babe, grasping at the meaning of this world and the things in it," I admit quietly. "But my creed is to protect others, and to propagate strength in opposition to evil. If in the process of education, I can also protect Frodo and the Ring until he can toss it into Mount Doom and neutralize Sauron… Well, two birds, one stone, and all that."

"So, succinctly, your objectives are to fight Sauron and his influence, and someway return to your home… Do you intend to travel the stars?"

"Eventually," I answer. "Even if it takes me a thousand years, I can do it."

It isn't a lie. I have all the schematics I need to build a jumpship with a working engine and life support. If I can form a glimmer forge, mine, and workshop to build it all, then returning home isn't a question, it an inevitability.

…Or if I can find a Vex gate connected to the network, as unlikely as that may be… Though so doing would in all likelihood leave the door open to Middle-Earth behind me, and that leaves a sour taste in my mouth; I don't have any strong connections to this world, but I can't pretend that by the time this ordeal is over, I won't have formed precious bonds with those I will soon be traveling with. It's impossible not to like someone in one form or another after sharing hardships with them.

That is what I believe. And I wouldn't leave them to the apathetic machinations of the Vex.

...Though I dearly hope it doesn't take me a literal thousand years to do so… I imagine I'll need to develop some new hobbies if that's the case.

"To that end," I continue, "I'm hoping that the methods of Elven craftsmanship will be of great aid to me."

It takes a moment for Glorfindel to emerge from his thoughts, and it seems as if he is suppressing more invasive questions to maintain the conversation. "And how goes the learning of such?"

Strangely, a part of me almost wishes he'd pry more…

"In regard to metalwork, the ways of Elves are as strange to me as the ways of my own people must be to you. But I'm nothing if not determined."

"If you're as quick a study in forging as you are in swordsmanship, I expect it will take you no time at all," he encourages me with a genuine smile.

Not one to underestimate myself, I do have to be careful of ye old greatest and deadliest sins.

Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.

Wise words of ancient days.

"Well, I have plenty of time. I'm in no rush." I take another refreshing drink of cold water.

Assuming everything goes well, that is.

No plan survives contact with the enemy.

I swallow both the water and the trepidation in my throat.

--

When not working diligently with the sword, I am – as one might expect – working diligently with the sword.

Forging them, that is.

Smithing in the authentic Elven way is, dare I say, a therapeutic experience. Almost like a sort of meditation. Ignoring the pains in my body, the aches and cracks of joints overstrained, the burn of muscles pushed past their limits… My mind is devoid of all extraneous thought, focused ever and only on the hammer, the anvil, the billows, and the blade.

But for the many lives of me I hate how slow my progress has been… Finwé's instructions notwithstanding, the swords I forge are of middling quality, and scarce remind me of the days when I forged Bolt Caster; at least in those days I felt a sense of accomplishment with every step I completed. Now I feel as though for every step forward I take another three steps back.

Shaping the blade is easy enough. It's metal. If I can bend the myriad paracausal forces of the universe to my will, then I can bend a piece of carbon alloyed iron.

But, as it is more often than not, the nature of Elvish artisanry is deeper than the surface; although the swords I make might appear visually similar to those made by Aithlin and Myriil, and even to an extent those made by Finwé, it's clear that my blades lack a certain quality that I cannot identify.

That none of the three have told me what it is seems to be intentional, for I can see their scrupulous eyes focus here and there on things I do not see, and though they guide me as they may, they do not hand me the answer.

It's clear they intend to make me work for it. Which is all well and good mind you, but it leads to no end of frustration on my part.

For a while I had been incorporating a touch of Awoken architecture to the steel, but I put that aside when I realized the inherent lack of that elusive something. Best to do it the way the Elves do if I'm to have any hope at all of figuring out what it is.

Sweat beads on my brow and drenches my back as I bring my hammer down upon this unrelenting steel. Fire licks from the nearly molten metal on my anvil, and I feel its tension with every hammer fall. Yet in the forging of Elven steel, this much resistance is to be expected.

Smithing in the authentic Elven way is, dare I say, a therapeutic experience. Almost like a sort of meditation. Ignoring the pains in my body, the aches and cracks of joints overstrained, the burn of muscles pushed past their limits… My mind is devoid of all extraneous thought, focused ever and only on the hammer, the anvil, the billows, and the blade.

Over the course of many hours the weapon takes proper form, surrendering to my violent ministrations until at last its gleaming skin shines brightly in the forgelight.

The glow of the furnace's flame casts streaks of contending light over the blade's moonlit shaft. Warm golden and cool, azure-white. In such light, it looks as full and final as any blade I've crafted before. My mind wanders at the hypnotizing dance of light… I breathe, and the weight of many days of sleepless effort settles on my shoulders.

Gabriel manifests over my shoulder and inspects the blade.

"You're getting pretty good at this," he says, though I suspect that behind his encouraging words he knows I'm less than thrilled at the results.

Leave it to a Ghost to be the undaunted optimist of our duo... I can always count on him.

"The more I practice, the less progress I see," I say quietly, sinking to the ground with my back to the black anvil. "Surely I cannot be reaching the upper echelons of elvish techniques already…? No, surely not; it's a wall. I must be missing something crucial…"

With a piercing blue beam of light, Gabriel picks the metal up and turns it over in the air, reflections of its surface shining about the little outdoor forge, even into the boughs of the tree in which it has been constructed.

"You know, if I didn't know better, I'd say the metal the Elves actually absorbs spectral radiation from celestial entities," he comments idly as if he didn't hear me. "In the old days, humans would wax romantic about lassoing the moon for their paramours. Maybe you just need to beat the moon into the sword. It'd probably glow then."

I fix my Ghost with a flat look that he pretends to not see.

"We've been to the moon, Gabriel, and last I checked, moon dust is still just moon dust. Besides, moonlight is just a reflection of sunlight; everything special about the moon comes from the sun."

Gabriel pauses for a moment before shrugging as Ghosts do. "Different moon. Different sun. Different stars... Different everything."

I let out a deep sigh and pluck the floating sword from his luminous grasp, fingering the steel and angling it back and forth. The distorted view of the night sky reflected hazily in the unpolished surface.

"Not everything," I retort quietly.

After all, according to Elven lore, the moon and the sun are supposedly just constructs that hold the last fruit and flower of the two Trees of Valinor. Even here in this place, legends of the creation of the world persist through the years, just as they did on Earth before the Collapse.

I'd be a fool to take every tale they tell at face value.

For all the differences in the astral alignment of stars above, this moon looks no different than ours. I can even see the so-called "man on the moon," various lunar maria of smooth basalt rock wherein idle minds find familiar shapes, like animals in fluffy-white cumulous clouds.

I find it highly unlikely that someone crafted the exact same ancient, blackened lava flows into their moon.

Though… stranger things have happened, I suppose… That I of all people should presume with such ignorance speaks to how dull I've become. How droll…

The Elves say the last living flower of the silver tree became the moon and the last fruit of the golden tree became the sun… True enough, that is what was written in Elvish lore. It being a tale of creation, specifically of the world and how it came to be as we see it today, I expect some degree of subjective interpretation (and no small number of liberties taken) has cloven fact from the fable and created what amounts only to a fireside tale; the last whimsical remnants of an era long gone by and deeds no longer properly remembered.

I shrug my shoulders. "Maybe when all of this is over, we'll take a ship up and see what's what."

Gabriel is silent for a moment, lost in thought. His single eye seems to narrow in consternation. "Yeah… Maybe."

We share a short silence, we two sitting in the cool night air together. I'll return to work soon, for indeed there is much work to be done, but the brief respite is appreciated for as long as we can stand to abide it.

We are both drawn out of our reverie by the steady steps of an Elf – Finwé – making his presence known purposely. Gabriel fades out of sight; though the Elves seem to have taken his existence in admirable stride, Gabriel is by nature a shy fellow, magnified by the increasing number of stories of Ghosts being targeted while out and about with their Guardian. After what happened with Cayde-6…

The Hunter Vanguard wasn't the first Guardian to be undone via the careless revelation of his Ghost, but he is arguably the most infamous – and recent – and a potent object lesson for all Guardians green and veteran alike.

Finwé is silent as he examines the forge where I have been hard at work. He offers me a nod of acknowledgement, and I do the same out of courtesy.

His eyes focus instead upon my newly crafted steel. With a silent questioning gesture – which I wordlessly consent to – Finwé gently plucks the weapon from my hands, turning it over in his to examine its length.

For a while, he offers neither approval nor critique, running his fingers across the surface, inspecting its straightness with keen, experienced eyes, and swinging it experimentally. He spends several minutes doing this, all of it in silence, save for the whispering song of sliced air as the sword whistles through it.

After a time, he nods to me and returns it to my hands, breaking the silence with praise.

"Your efforts deserve applause, Lazarus. Your technique improves day by day," he says with a bright expression that I don't expect. "This sword is worthy to be considered of Elvish make."

"Thank you," I say at last, accepting the weapon back into my hands. I sit this newest sibling of my thirteen previous efforts on a rack to the farthest right. Side by side, it's easy to see how far I've come in so little time. Even so…

"I'm still far beneath yourself. Its only by your guidance that I've been able to come so far."

Finwé's face twists comically at my words for a moment before his eyes light up with laughter that nearly doubles him over. It's a new sight to me, who has only ever seen the reserved side of this Elf.

"Forgive me my mirth, friend Lazarus! Your words catch me off guard; to say something like that… have you been aiming to match my skill all this time? Even in ancient days when we taught our techniques to Men, they in their prime were not so quick to craft as well as we. In only a few short weeks you've come this far." He gestures to the weapon now set aside.

"Though the experiences of your hands in the field of forgework are apparent to me, the practices you have displayed in the learning of our ways indicate a difference that cannot be surmounted by sheer force of will alone. It will take time, and patience, certainly more time than these few short months. Can you not be satisfied with your own progress, even for just a moment, friend?"

You feel that gnawin' at your guts? Like teeth chewin' on your soul? That's instinct, brother. Ain't no good come from denying it. Best take heed. Trust.

His words are… regrettably true. And admittedly wise. Would anyone else make as much progress as I in this past month? I don't think so. No, in fact I highly doubt it. Then why am I so hung up on matching this Elf's talents?

Grow fat from strength.

I can see my progress in my swords' forms, each one an improvement over the one who came before.

Yet, I can't help but feel unsatisfied.

Still hungry.

"No," I say simply, a smile of my own tracing across my face. "A Warlock is never satisfied until he has absorbed all he wishes to know."

Finwé's expression is invisible to me as I set about cleaning up my workstation, the effulgent dance of forge-flames slowing to quiescence behind a sealed shutter. However, based on his voice, his expression is decidedly dower.

"I fear yours is a restless existence, Lazarus."

I chuckle aloud as I replace my borrowed tools and wipe my brow. He doesn't know how right he is. "An understatement if ever one existed, master Finwé. Which reminds me… About that thing I mentioned…"

At my words, Finwé's expression hardens slightly and I feel a minute gust of breath from an unheard huff of irritation. I wonder if I shouldn't have said anything...

The Elf withdraws a rectangular slab of pale gray metal the size of his palm and shows it to me. "As you can see," he begins, "it's no use. No matter how high I raised the temperature, I couldn't make it hot enough to smelt. I cannot imagine the caliber of forge required to heat such a material."

I take the flake of hadium and thumb its surface experimentally.

As I expected, smelting space-age metals was beyond the current level of even the Elves.

Damn shame.

I sigh and nod to his words.

Hadium is a particularly reactive metal that stores whatever energy it is exposed to, even extending to paracasual forces like the Light and the Darkness. It is an incredibly versatile material for making weapons. But that also extends to a forge's heat; to exceed its heat threshold and reach its melting point… It would take more than simple flame.

I had hoped that hidden somewhere in the Elves' techniques was a method to exceeding the limits of the metal acausally. Sadly, that does not appear to be the case.

"I understand. I appreciate the attempt."

I tuck the slab away in my pocket and straighten my back with a stretch. It pops several times. Slaving over a forge is murder on one's spine if you don't have the proper form.

"Perhaps a proper night's rest will do you good, Lazarus. You've been in here every day slaving away, and when you're not, you are training with lord Glorfindel. A period of rest is due unto you. Go and trouble me not today."

He smiles and gives a reassuring grip on my shoulder, nudging me away. I take his hint and bow, exiting the forge unceremoniously.

Of course, I do not leave without purpose. If I am to follow Finwé's advice and rest (though I'm so often loth to do so), then I know just the place that will ease my mind.

"The gardens again?" Gabriel chirps questioningly in my ear, to which I nod sagely.

"The gardens again."

Having spent so much time in the bowels of Elrond's knowledge-cellars, I wonder if I haven't grown a bit drunk on the stuff… Certainly, I think my tongue has lost its ability to taste the many flavors of information within, and any Warlock worth their robes will tell you that's a one-way ticket to Forgetsville.

When you end up reading the same line five times over because you've already forgotten it four times before, you know you've hit your limit.

For me, the finest cerebral decompressor is to appreciate nature in whatever forms it presents itself.

Not that I'm any sort of expert on the subject, and I certainly don't want to be. I think there are some things in the universe that are far more wonderful to experience without knowing their intricate inner workings.

A Warlock says what?!

Aye, blasphemy. I know.

"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone," Gabriel says reading my thoughts and nuzzling against my temple as he materializes beside me to walk the pathways back to the city proper.

I lean my head into his weight affectionately, his words teasing a warm chuckle from my throat. "I can always count on you, Gabriel."

"Of course," he replies with mirth. "I've been eyeing a new shell for Dawning this year, and I'll be damned if I make the Naughty List and miss out!"

I laugh at him, knowing that he's not entirely joking.

...This is also a sort of galvanic repose...

--

One thought that tends to elude those who spend so much time with the Elves is but a simple query; how often do Elves procreate?

It's a crude question, and certainly not one I'd ask in any good sense unless it were pertinent. However, it strikes me that in my time in Rivendell, I haven't once seen Elf children – Elflings? – about the city. Part of me wonders if perhaps it is simply a symptom of the decline of the Elves. Glorfindel has made mention of it before; that the 'weariness of the world' that Elves feel contributes to a lacking desire to rear children. It makes sense. Why bother having kids when you aren't long for the world?

I'd even go so far as to call it a kind of depression.

Hard to get it up when you're feelin' down. Am I right?

I smile at the memory of those tactless words… How long ago has it been since those old days?

Too long, maybe, for my nostalgia. Not long enough for my sensibilities.

But the reason I'm sitting here in the cool sun of earliest morning, wondering how often Elves' participate in certain nocturnal activities is because for the first time since coming to Rivendell, I see a small cluster of short creatures. They're knife-eared, like Hobbits, but their feet bear shoes of Elven make, and their clothes reflect the same. They are thinner and taller than Hobbits, and do not possess a mien of experience that comes with age as I so often see in the halflings' kind.

Their hair, too, is long and ranges in colors between gold, silver, and a ruddy auburn like autumn leaves.

Their voices are melodious and joyful as they play in the garden, running around playing games one might expect normal children to play. Hide and seek, tag, who can run fastest over a narrow beam… while balancing a ball on their nose.

…Elf children are apparently more coordinated than humans…

I don't know why I'm surprised.

I watch them from a distance, fascinated and content to simply observe. There's something therapeutic about watching someone else have fun. Its why sports are so popular among those who lack the skills to participate. Children even more so, I think.

Adults can only really have fun in ways they already know; and introducing them to new ways to have fun can be like pulling teeth. Adults are stuck in their ways.

But children make their own fun, and frequently flit from one game to another, sometimes even making new games up on the spot, establishing rules for each other to play by, then break them at their earliest convenience to the chagrin of their fellows.

Their laughter is pure, devoid of pain or sorrow. Only happiness. Only joy.

A thick lump swells suddenly in my throat at their melody.

Have I ever heard the children of the Last City sing so purely in joy? I have.

I'm reminded of home.

Not home as in the City itself, but home as in the people of the City.

I'm reminded of the sight of many banners and colorful cloths strung across narrow streets burnished by gold sunlight, the emblems of myriad Guardian orders emblazoned upon them. I'm reminded of the cacophonous racket of venders hawking their wares for a handful of glimmer. I'm reminded of cries of joy and despair as the local restaurants' vidscreens broadcast the latest Crucible bout or SRL race.

Nostalgic memories trigger scents I do not actually smell, sounds I cannot hear, and flavors I cannot taste.

For a moment… an infinitesimal moment… I feel at home for the first time since waking in this Middle-Earth.

And for that tragically short breath of time, I am at peace.

Into this quiescence a pleasant voice makes itself known to me.

"Pardon the intrusion, master Lazarus," said the voice. "I seem to have stumbled upon you in the midst of a moment of reflection. I do hope I haven't given offense."

I look over – and down – to the speaker and feel myself smile. For his diminutive stature, the mien of his presence is as grand as a giant's.

"Master Bilbo Baggins," I greet with a turning nod. "I fear I have not spoken with thee for some weeks, to my great regret."

"The regret is more mine than thine, I think," he says, waving off my words with the neck of his long, smoking pipe. "Had you the opportunity to speak with a Hobbit, be it myself or any of my kinsmen, you would soon come to understand a certain degree of tedium that comes with smallfolk conversation. We can spend hours talking about things like family lineage and get all gossipy at the prospect of 'current events'. Not many of the tall folk can bear the burden. Aye, Hobbits are an acquired taste, we are." His gaze drifted away in thought for but a small moment before he snapped back to me, gesturing to an empty place on the bench beside me. "May I join you?"

"Of course," I nod and invite him to sit. "I've heard much the same from the horse's mouth, so to speak; I can heard them laughing and reveling together from across the city on days when the wind is light. The subject of their mirth is much as you describe."

Bilbo chuckles and nods. "Seventeen years it has been since I left the Shire – our homeland lest you wonder – and much needs be caught up on. And I must say we're making a valiant go of it."

I nod in understanding. "That's quite some time to be away from family."

"Oh too true," he agrees. "But I don't regret it. I left the Shire for wont of wanderlust, and I dare say I've scratched only the smallest bit of the itch. Sadly, the Elves won't let let me leave; 'too dangerous' they say. Bah!"

He fidgets for a moment with his pipe, patting down the pockets of his coat and breeches on search of something grumbling under his breath over some forgetfulness.

Divining the purpose of his search, I reach over to him in offering. "Allow me."

He pauses, looking at him empty hand skeptically, but nevertheless brings the lip of his pipe to his lips, curiosity winning out.

I snap my fingers and a golden flame ignites at the tip of my finger. The Hobbit nearly drops the pipe in astonishment, but it is followed by a twinkling of the eyes and a smile born of amazement. Remembering suddenly that the flame was for his benefit, he fumbles for a moment as he draws the fire into the pipe's chamber. He takes a good breath in before exhaling a good puff of smoke.

"Stars above! I'd nigh forgot you were a wizard!"

I take no offense. I'm not some wrinkly old man, nor do I bear a mien of wisdom and knowledge. It would be more apt to call me a gun-toting bookworm.

"I'm sure its easy to forget," I assuage dismissively. "Though I doubt Gandalf would use his powers so flippantly."

"Oh, yes." Some of the wonder left the Hobbits eyes as he took another puff. "When I've had occasion to speak with him, he seems to gain a new wrinkle anytime your name comes up. Right here, between the eyes."

"My name comes up, does it?" I ask with an arched brow.

He waves off my feigned concern. "Just the younger ones being curious kittens. For certain we all have questions, but Gandalf is tight lipped on the subject, only deigning to say enough to keep little Pippin from turning the city upside down with all his questions."

"Popularity is as much a curse as a blessing," I huff sardonically, Bilbo mirroring me with a knowing tilt of his head.

"Oh, indeed. I'm quite popular myself back in Hobbiton. Not that I mind well-meaning neighbors and various friendly folk, but on occasion there comes a-knocking those whose company I'd much rather forego the pleasure of having."

I raise a brow at him again. "And? How do you deal with them?"

"How does anyone avoid pesky petitioners?" The Hobbit pursed his lips around his pipe and looked about him with feigned subtlety. "Pretend I'm not home!"

A fit of laughter took him, infecting me with his mirth. Ah! Simple troubles, and simple solutions to solve them. Would that home be so blessedly trivial. "Would that I could do the same. But I'm a soldier as much as I am a thinker. Thus do my duties compel me to act regardless of my desires."

"Mores the pity then," Bilbo chided, nodding in agreement with own words. "A man ought to have time to himself to think, and to eat, and to smoke in peace."

I hum in consensus, and a silence settles around us. The laughing of children, the singing of songs, and the sighing of wind about the boughs of trees fill our ears in place of conversation. It strikes me that for as much as Bilbo claims that his kin are overly-talkative, he is remarkably less so. I risk breaking the silence and point this out.

"I suppose I'm quite different from other Hobbits. Most don't go more than a few dozen miles from the hole they were born in. Me? I was born for adventure! Ha! Well, perhaps not born for it... It did take Gandalf inviting thirteen Dwarves over for dinner to conscript me as a burglar of sorts – all unbeknownst to me mind you! – to give me the taste of adventure I'd not known I'd been craving. And still crave, if I'm being perfectly honest."

"You should come with us then," I proffer. Far from being under house arrest, Bilbo seemed to be treated with a certain degree of reverence from the Elves. Certainly they would respect his wishes...

"Alas, I am too old, and the danger too great. Else there would be naught in this world that would stop me from setting out with Frodo. Elrond wound never allow it. And to his credit, I fear he would be in the right; age has caught up with me asudden, and I feel the vigor of my spirit outpace the integrity of my bones. Oh I've had many adventures since last I saw Frodo in the Shire, but that my body should betray me on the precluding days of his first great adventure... Yea, perhaps the greatest adventure of our Age! Its unconscionable, I tell you!"

Bilbo's arms crossed stiffly over his chest and he puffed at his pipe indignantly. "But you'll be watching him, wont you? With Gandalf and the Dúnadan, yes? I'm afraid I must ask you to carry my burden and do as much for him on my account. Would you accept this plea from a humble Hobbit?"

His old eyes were soft as he stared out over the nigh mystical city, but they are all the more so when he turns to me. The ardor of his words are piercing beyond my abilities to resist, even had I the spirit to do so. But I am honor-bound to go on this quest with Frodo and company, and as the bearer of the One Ring, I couldn't very well allow the Enemy to reclaim so potent a weapon from beneath my nose. Naturally, I intend to protect Frodo as well as I can.

But I'm not one to waste a thousand words when ten will do the job.

I reach over and place a comforting hand on the elder Hobbit's shoulder. I smile fainly. "You have my word, Bilbo Baggins. You have my word. And when we return, I will regale you with all manner of accounts and adventures that you could desire; if your rickety quarron can't bear thee hence, then thy soul at least may be satisfied with the telling."

--

And so the days slipped away, as each morning dawned bright and fair, and each evening followed cool and clear. But autumn was waning fast; slowly the golden light faded to pale silver, and the lingering leaves fell from the naked trees. A wind began to blow chill from the Misty Mountains to the east. The Hunter's Moon waxed round in the night sky and put to flight all the lesser stars. But low in the South, one star shone red. Every night, as the Moon waned again, it shone brighter and brighter, deep in the heavens, burning like a watchful eye that glared above the trees on the brink of the valley…

I have been nearly three months in the House of Elrond, and November has gone by with the last shreds of autumn, and December is now passing when scouts begin to return. Some had gone north beyond the springs of the Hoarwell into the Ettenmoors; and others had gone west, and with the help of Aragorn and the Rangers had searched the lands far down the greyflood, as far as Tharbad, where the old North Road crossed the river by a ruined town. Many had gone east and south; and some of these had crossed the Misty Mountains and entered Mirkwood, while others had climbed the pass at the source of the Gladden River and had come down into Wilderland and over the Galdden Fields, and so at length had reached the old home of Radagast at Rhosgobel.

Like Gandalf, Radagast is a wizard, and of no relation to the Radegast I know. Radagast the Brown, as he is called, is a master of beasts: creatures of hoof, paw, fin, feather, and fang. He was not home, and the runner returned with that ill news over the high pass that was called the Dimrill Stair. The sons of Elrond, Elladan and Elrohir, were the last to return; they had made a great journey, passing down the Silverlode into a strange country, but of their errand they wouldn't speak to any except Elrond.

In no regions had the messengers discovered any signs or tidings of the Enemy's agents. Even from the Eagles of the Misty Mountains they had learned no fresh news.

When I asked about that, I envisioned trained birds with limited communicable abilities. Not great winged creatures capable of thought and speech. I should like to see one for myself one day…

Those Black Riders who I have only heard of, those who pursued after Frodo and company on their flight to Rivendell have been accounted for, save one, after their scattering at the crossing of the Bruinen. Elrond presents them to me as the greatest of threats to our journey, and with their absence any other servants of Sauron would need to pick up our trail from the borders of Rivendell, which would be a trying (and not to mention lethal) ordeal for them.

Gandalf announces that we must delay no longer.

It's time to leave.

Last edited: Oct 26, 2021

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Black Lister

Oct 26, 2021

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Threadmarks Chapter 9: The Onset of Doom

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Black Lister

Dec 3, 2021

#173

Life as a Guardian can easily be described quite accurately as "hectic." Whether it's killing hive gods, Fallen Kells, Cabal Primuses, or Vex Minds, the leisure time for capable Guardians is slim to none. Once the Vanguard becomes aware of a threat, fireteams are immediately deployed to dispatch the threat. Those Guardians who claim the life has a lot of down time, only have a lot of downtime because they aren't very good at their jobs.

I can personally attest to the impromptu mission call in the dead of night, and the barely controlled chaotic scramble to arm and supply yourself with limited information to guide you. We are fortunate our Ghosts can carry so many dematerialized supplies. Rarely have I had the refreshing pleasure to have time to prepare for a mission.

This is one of those uncommon occasions.

With months to exploit, the Elves and the Northmen have not been idle, frequently sending reports of enemy movements and topographical conditions of possible paths. In response Elrond surrounds himself daily with much counsel, charting a course for the Fellowship that will, hopefully, keep us out of the ever-watchful eyes of orcs and trolls… The nine dark Riders need not be mentioned.

With no tight schedule to keep, packing for the trip is a refreshingly calm affair and patient minds take careful stock of supplies as they are gathered and distributed to the members of the Fellowship. Weapons are polished and sharpened, and clothes checked for wear and tear, bags packed to the brim with nonperishables, preservatives, blankets, and what little medicines are available.

I say "what little" since proper medicine seems to be the use of spagyrics to facilitate what modern medicine might otherwise resolve. Truth be told, I'm rather interested in diving into the world of Middle-Earth medical care and measuring its efficacy against my own. I want to kick myself for not thinking of it sooner while I still had the time.

Elrond has provided us with thick warm clothes, and we have stuffed our jackets and cloaks with fur lining. Contrarily, my armor is designed with thermal insulation in mind for those cold lunar nights or Martian morns, and the cold December air compels me to pat myself on my back for my forethought.

I do however feel a little out of place amongst my Fellowship… fellows. For though Gimli, son of Gloin, our party's Dwarf wears a shirt of steel chainmail all others are armored lightly, or not at all, with the most imposing of us (discounting myself) being Boromir, who's tall, rugged form bore a stout round shield upon his back. Mariadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took (called Merry and Pippin affectionately) join Frodo and his… servant? Gardner? Companion Samwise Gamgee in carrying knives, which to their stature were as akin to swords as they could manage.

Of what little I know regarding Hobbits, I expect they will be more useful as scouts to sneak into tiny places rather than fighters. But who knows? Mayhap they will prove themselves capable killers yet. I should hope they at least have the qualifications to be so, especially if we are waylaid overmuch on our journey; we'll need all hands on deck if it comes down to a brawl.

Personally, I'm against bringing them, childlike in appearance as they are. But the choice is Elrond's, and their own. My opinion is entirely irrelevant.

The sun has long since set, and the gloomy clouds of the night sky were filled with a depressing fading gray; this was the time Elrond believed was wisest to set out.

"You should fear the many eyes of the Servants of Sauron. I do not doubt that news of the discomfiture of the Riders has already reached him, and he will be filled with wrath. Soon now his spies on foot and wing will be abroad in the northern lands. Even of the sky above you must beware as you go on your way," he said as soon as we had all gathered in the great hall.

Stealth is the name of the game, which filters out the majority of my contemporary arsenal… Nevertheless, a Warlock is never without his myriad options.

In attendance to see us off are seldom few, but two faces I recognize who I did not expect to see.

Aithlin and Myriil both approach, their faces stern to match the mood. I greet them by name and they by mine, giving short bows in so doing.

"I had not thought to look for you," I say simply.

"We had not thought to come, save that this is the last that we will see of thee for a time," Aithlin explains grimly. "Perhaps, never again if the worst comes."

"But that does not mean that we are not dutiful to our obligations," Myriil continues, holding out a sword in both hands for me to take.

I look at the weapon in his hands and cock my head at him. "What's this for?"

"Upon our first meeting, a wager was struck was it not?" Aithlin reminds me, recalling to me the day we first met. "Here! A sword suitable to you, made by our own hands."

I blink in surprise. Truthfully, in the course of all of my training and learning, I'd quite forgot about our little bargain… I reach out and take the proffered device. The sheath is a deep green, deep enough to be almost black, made of fine wood and metal fashioning that formed oblong diamond depressions in the pattern.

The hilt of the sword appears to be made of an ivory material, smooth enough to be ceramic, but notably organic in its heft. Drawing it from its scabbard, the blade gleams like a sliver of thin light in the cloud-covered dusk. Nearly 80 centimeters in length, it isn't much different from the type I trained with, though instead of a natural, gentle curving of the blade as was common in elven blades, it is instead a single-edged, straight blade. Its metal is of greater quality than any made by my own hands, and I see at the base of the blade, just above the minimalist guard, a collection of Elvish runes that I cannot discern lay lightly engraved. The brothers must see my puzzled expression and offer to explain.

"It is an enchantment; in the dark, the minions of Mordor will not easily perceive either the blade's shape or its path, while in the daylight, its gleam is magnified many times over to baffle and blind the servants of Evil."

Following his brother, Myriil points to the sheath. "As well, if one places their hand upon the scabbard, he shall know the ill intents of those in your presence; an assassin's knife shall be known to thee ere it is drawn."

I stare at the siblings for many seconds, looking between them and the weapon they have gifted me.

I am… entirely flabbergasted.

When they had offered to forge a sword suitable to me, "the best work our hands can produce" as they'd said, I wasn't expecting such exceptional functionality. Indeed, as I hold the scabbard in my hand, I can perceive its effect; I sense nothing untoward. That is not to say that I sense nothing itself, but more that I can detect that there is no hostile intent around me.

It is a knowing born outside the typical senses.

True Elf magic.

"I thought only that you would make for me a bit of sharp steel," I admit with unabashed astonishment. "I did not presume to expect such a fine – rather, precious – treasure as this."

Aithlin planted his hands on his hips proudly. "And fine, sharp stick you might have gotten had it not been for master Finwé who took it upon himself to lend us his expertise, and to lord Glorfindel whose enchanting contributions were summoned from the annals of the golden years of Gondolin! With their combined knowledge of lore and skill was this blade forged."

Glorfindel did? That such a weapon was formed under the ministrations of Finwé, forgemaster of the House of Elrond, I could believe, and perhaps I suspected such even before they told me. But that Glorfindel had a hand in it's creation as well! A spirit of thankfulness wells in my breast, and I think to myself that I have so far considered the Elf lord to be exceedingly sunny and friendly, but now at this revelation, the sword seems much less the obligation of a bet, and more the long labored gift of a friend.

The word comes to mind.

An exotic weapon worthy of a warrior… Worthy of a Guardian.

Certainly, A Guardian could ask for no greater gift than a good weapon.

Had Glorfindel divined this intrinsic quality, shared as it is across all those reborn in the Light?

I must thank him.

Turning this way and that, I look for my luminous friend, yet... I spy him not. Would he not come to see the Fellowship off?

My thoughts must be show on my face as Aithlin explain. "The lord Glorfindel is away; gone yesternight to shore your path against the Enemy, I have no doubt."

Ah, that is sensible; his strategic worth certainly is greater than my meager sentiment. If the case, then that's that; nothing to be done. Though... I would be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed... Perhaps I will meet him out there on the road?

I hope so. I will be sure to give him a proper thank you then.

"I will keep an eye out for him, if an eye he will let me spy of him. Thank you, both of you. And as I see he too is absent, please pass along my sincerest gratitude to master Finwé. I will wield this gift well."

"We expect no less of you," Myriil says, "for an unused blade is better served as solder for greater crafts. That, and master Finwé hopes that such a blade will suit you better than your other sword."

Ah, so that was his reason. Well, certainly, this sword's utility is arguably greater than Bolt Caster's, not to mention far less flashy than summoning an arcing current of lightning.

"Its value is clear to me," I answer at last. "I expect it will serve me – us – well."

Myrill nodded satisfactorily. And no sooner had he done so then the opening of a door, from which emerged Elrond and Gandalf, the former of which called to attention our meager company.

"This is my last word," the Elf lord begins in a low, stern voice, establishing the tone of our gathering. "The Ring-bearer is setting out on the Quest of Mount Doom. On him alone is any charge laid: neither to cast away the Ring, nor to deliver it to any servant of the Enemy nor indeed to let any handle it, save members of the Company and the Council, and only then in gravest need. The others go with him as free companions, to help him on his way. You may tarry, or come back, or turn aside into other paths as chance allows. The further you go, the less easy it will be to withdraw; yet no oath or bond is laid on you to go further than you will. For you do not yet know the strength of your hearts, and you cannot foresee what each may meet upon the road."

"Faithless is he," Gimli grunts, resting his hands on the head of his axe, "that says farewell when the road darkens."

"Maybe," says Elrond, "but let not he who has not seen the nightfall vow to walk in the dark."

"Yet sworn word may strengthen quaking heart," Gimli rejoins.

"Or break it," Elrond counters with a steady calm in his voice. He is not considered one of the Wise for no reason. "Look not too far ahead. But go now with good hearts! Farewell, and may the blessing of the Elves and Men and all Free Folk go with you. May the stars shine upon your faces!"

"Good… Good luck!" Bilbo half shouts from beneath the cowl of his robe, his voice betraying his shivering from the cold. "I don't suppose you will be able to keep a diary, Frodo my lad, but I shall expect a full account when you get back. And don't be too long! Farewell!"

With a mighty blast, Boromir brought the horn at his hip to his lips and blew, and its echoes reverberated across the whole of Rivendell long after he set it back at his side.

"Always have I let my horn cry at setting forth," he explains, seemingly heedless of how he has set the whole of the city alert. "And though thereafter we may walk in shadows, I will not go forth as a thief in the night. Loud and clear it sounds in the valleys and hills, and then let all of the foes of Gondor flee!"

And so we set off.

--

The first few days of travel were issued in relative silence as we traveled off-road, turning southwards by narrow paths among the folded lands, and ever by night if it could be managed. The Enemy's watch over the lands of the Elves would be most vigilant at the boarders, and as Gandalf and Elrond explained, Sauron would expect the Ring to be kept safe there. The rough, barren country terrain slowed our progress some, but none in our company is unused to the strain, not even Gandalf who despite his age seemed to take the longest of strides… though never too fast for Frodo who walked behind.

Our burdens were eased some by Bill, a pony that the Hobbits had picked up prior to their arrival in Rivendell. Bill was tended to by Samwise Gamgee, who seemed to take quite a shine to the creature, talking to it as if it could understand him, and sometimes I admit it seems like he very well could; it's certainly no stupid animal.

Once we hit open country, our way was made a bit lighter, and talk and laughter has frequently rejoined our company; Sauron's spies have been seldom seen on these paths known only to the people of Rivendell. Even so we do not light fires, either for warmth or for food, and sleep when the sun is highest in whatever shelter we can find, be it some empty hollow or thorny thicket. Icy wind often strikes us, gusting down from the mountains in the east.

The Hobbits, being the smallest and physically weakest among us, struggle the greatest with the journey. Even if they walk until they can walk no more, our party is moving at a snail's pace. What I wouldn't give for the convenience of a jumpship right now…

Altogether, it's not that much different from what I'm used to; in fact I might venture to say I feel like I'm back in Old Russia on Earth. It brings to me a comfortable familiarity that sets me at ease, even in these otherwise uncomfortable conditions.

Today, our time of sleep has now nearly passed, and those on guard rouse the resting. We sit together and prepare our chief meal, which by necessity is depressingly cold. The Hobbits shiver as they wrap their clothes tighter about themselves. Boromir breathes warmth back into his hands, but otherwise is as stoic as Aragorn.

Miraculously, no one complains, save of course Pippin, who despite being told many times before, continues to insist a small fire might go unnoticed in the bright of day.

"It is a pity the thickness of your Hobbit feet doesn't extend to the rest of you," Gandalf said, clapping the Hobbit on the shoulder encouragingly. "But come, no more complaining. For if a bit of cold be enough to cause lamentations, we should turn back to Rivendell ere we encounter the real trials on our path. And the less you bellyache, the better all our spirits shall be."

Silenced, but no less miserable, Pippin is joined by Merry as they huddle together for warmth while eating their meal.

It's a pity they cannot do as Guardians do. Though for fear of appearing on thermal scopes, Guardians avoid cycling Solar heat through their bodies for warmth, the lack of technological advancement in Middle-Earth is a boon to me now; I need not fear any errant sniper shot.

Feeling a bout of pity, I move to sit beside the Hobbits, and gathering heat into myself, expel it like a vent.

Legolas was the first to notice.

"Lo! What is this warmth upon my skin?" cried the Elf in surprise. "It comes not from the sun, nor has any fire been lit. Be of cheer master Pippin, for it seems the mountain's cold has graced us with a brief respite."

The eyes of the party dart around them, as if they might perceive the source of the heat with their eyes rather than their numbed hands. Indeed, it is Gimli who is beside me who first realizes from whence the warmth comes.

"Why, master Lazarus, your flesh is a furnace!" he exclaims, holding out a hand to feel the heat even through his thick gloves.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that a Dwarf would notice; I suspect their innate talents with stone and metals must include a sensitivity to heat; a trained biological mechanism to better craft the works of their forges.

All eyes look to me in surprise, to which I explain. "I was born in cold lands, and this much is tolerable to me. But I should not begrudge the uninitiated traveling companion a bit of warmth if I can provide it."

"Can he provide it!" exclaimed Samwise, rubbing his hands together and holding them out to catch the radiating heat. "It's like my old Gaffer's fireplace back home! I shan't wonder if I could cook a bit of proper food on you, if you don't mind my saying, sir. Come Mr. Frodo, warm yourself while you can!"

Ever the Ringbearer's caretaker, Sam pulls his companion over to me and sits him down excitedly and the rest of the Hobbits gather around me. Frodo's eyes close as soon as he enters the warming field's boundary, his rosy cheeks basking refreshingly.

Aragorn and Gandalf share an inexplicable look that they think I do not see. But they say nothing as they too move to sit closer, Legolas kneeling with his hands outstretched.

Only Boromir seems hesitant to join his fellows.

"What sort of sorcery is this? That Mithrandir might conjure such a spell I would not be surprised to witness, as even in Minas Tirith do we know the tales of the wandering wizard and of his many works. But who are you that this is possible?"

It strikes me as unusual that this man of Gondor doesn't already know. My presence in Rivendell hasn't exactly been a secret, especially after the night of Frodo's arrival. Not that Elves have comported themselves as gossipers, but it does seem as if every Elf I've interacted with has heard of me as "the sorcerer". Perhaps it is only among the Elves that the story is shared… But that would hardly explain why Gimli seems so unfazed. I didn't tell him who, or rather what I was, after all, and most of the Fellowship already knew about me from personal experience.

"He is an associate of mine," Gandalf says after a moment of silence, during which Boromir's left hand has strayed thoughtlessly to the hilt of his sword. "An estranged associate in any case. Liken him to those of my order in thy mind if it sets you any more at ease."

"Come Boromir," Aragorn beckons, taking my little trick in remarkable stride. "Warm yourself as you can."

The Gondorian looks between the ranger and the wizard with an expression that bespeaks of his unsurety. As Captain of the Guard, I expect he thinks me to be a sorcerer of Sauron's ilk, just as the Elves had initially done before him.

He strikes me as the type to have a limited field of view and focus only on that which is closest to him, often at the expense of sensibility. Saint-14 was the same way, back when we were trying to make inroads with the House of Light; too obsessed with past traumas to see the forest for the trees. My inroads with Boromir will need to be tread softly.

"Of your order, you claim, wise Mithrandir, but has not Saruman, who is also of your kin, betrayed us? I do not doubt that you place your trust in him, but I wonder if that is truly wise."

I raise an eyebrow at the man. Though his words are sensible, Boromir's tone taken in argument seems to tend toward the abrasive, though his genuflections are always genuinely expressed; he can't help but speak his heart and mind whenever it suits him. A not ignoble trait, but certainly grating if the conversation drags on too long.

"He has no ties to Saruman or the Enemy," Aragorn assured with a firm voice. "Men older and wiser than we think his joining our company a boon. And for what it's worth, the skepticism of the Elves after their deception at Sauron's hands in ancient days leaves little room for the benefit of the doubt; if they believe him trustworthy to safeguard the Ringbearer, then it is not for us to scrutinize his character."

The taller of the two looked as if he might still argue, but to my surprise nodded after a moment's silence and stepped forward to receive my heat. I give him an assuring nod, as indeed my confirmation would give in any ease of mind. I don't think it does, and I receive no gesture in return.

But that is fine. If what Boromir spoke of at the Council is true (and I have no reason to believe it's not) then his skepticism is well founded and unavoidable. Gondor must maintain its vigilance by necessity of survival, not just for themselves, but for the whole of the Free World.

Friendship with the man will not blossom overnight. And so long as he's a capable member of the Fellowship who can put bias aside to work toward a common goal, I'll have no trouble at all working with him. What is needed on this expedition is not necessarily friendship, but comradery.

I've lived too long to bother trying to befriend every comrade of mine.

--

As the sun sets, the air cools even more, and I lower my output of heat to allow my fellows to reacclimate to its chill. When at last I cut off the flow, Gandalf takes the cue to urge us forth into the darkening night.

The Company is quiet as we trail after the wizard at our fore, close behind which follows Aragorn and Gimli, then the Hobbits, myself, Boromir, and last but not least, Legolas, whose eyes are kept peeled for any unwelcome pursuit.

We continue this formation and pace for the duration of the night, breaking only now and again to rest our weary soles.

Only once the sun has begun to peek its noticeably warmer golden-red rays over the mountains that rise higher in the East does Gandalf at last bring the party to a halt with a tapping of his staff. He turns and addresses all with a smile.

"We have done well and have reached the borders of the country that Men call Hollin; many Elves lived here in happier days, when Eregion was its name. Five-and-forty leagues as the crow flies have we come, though many long miles further our feet have walked. The land and the weather will be milder now, but perhaps all the more dangerous."

"Dangerous or not, a real sunrise is mighty welcome," says Frodo, tossing the hood of his cloak back to reveal his curly locks gleaming in the light.

"But the mountains are ahead of us," Pippin points out with a modicum of concern. "We must have turned eastwards in the night."

"No," Gandalf assures. "But you see further ahead in the clear light. Beyond those peaks the rang bends 'round south-west. There are many maps in Elrond's house, but I suppose you never thought to look at them."

"Yes, I did!" the youngest Hobbit defends indignantly with a posture to match, only to deflate slightly as he continues. "Sometimes… But I don't remember them. Frodo has a better head for that sort of thing."

"I need no map," says Gimli with a proud surety, marching up to the fore of the column to stand beside Gandalf, a strange light gleaming in his deep eyes. "There is the land where our fathers worked of old, and we have wrought the image of those mountains into many works of metal and of stone, and into many songs and tales. They stand tall in our dreams: Baraz, Zirak, Shathûr."

"Only once before have I seen them from afar in waking life, but I know them and their names," he continues, gesturing widely and pointing out each peak for the company as if in recital, "for under them lies Khazad-dûm, the Dwarrowdelf, that is now called the Black Pit, Moria in the Elvish tongue. Yonder stands Barazinbar, the Redhorn, cruel Caradhras; and beyond him are Silvertine and Cloudyhead: Celebdil the White, and Fanuidhol the Grey, that we call Zirakzigil and Bundushathûr. It's there that the Misty Mountains divide, and between their arms lies the deep-shadowed valley which we cannot forget: Azanulbizar, the Dimrill Dale, which the Elves call Nanduhirion."

"It is for the Dimrill Dale that we are making," Gandalf concludes while I struggle to digest the veritable word-salad the dwarf just presented us with. "If we climb the pass that is called the "Redhorn gate" under the far side of Caradhras, we shall come down by the Dimrill Stair into the deep vale of the Dwarves. There lies the Mirrormere, and there the River Silverlode rises in its icy springs."

At that news Gimli mumbles under his breath anxiously. "Dark is the water of Kheled-zâram. And cold are the springs of Kibil-nâla. My heart trembles at the thought that I may see them soon."

"May you have joy at the sight, my good dwarf," the wizard cheered with a brighter tone than I expected, given Gimli's trepidation. "But whatever you may do we at least cannot stay in that valley. We must go down the Silverlode into the secret woods, and so to the great River, and then…"

He trails off in thought, and the expression on his face is contemplative, though none of us move to break him from his thoughts.

Except Merry, that is.

"Yes? And where then?"

Shaking himself from his stupor, he resumes as if he hadn't paused at all. "To the end of the journey – in the end," he recovered, though I cannot shake my own trepidation at those things the wizard may hold in his own council; those things he opts not to share with everyone.

What dangers must he be imagining? What dangers might I imagine if our positions were reversed?

"We cannot look too far ahead. Let us be glad that the first stage is safely over."

That at least is good news.

"I think we will rest here," Gandalf announces suddenly, his tone notably brighter and seeming more natural to me than before. "Not only today, but tonight as well. There is a wholesome air about Hollin. Much evil must befall a country before it wholly forgets the Elves, if once they dwelt there."

"That is true," Legolas approves, his sharp eyes sweeping across the region before us. "But the Elves of this land were of a race strange to us of the silvan folk, and the trees and the grass do not now remember them. Only the stones lament them: deep they delved us, fair they wrought us, high they builded us; but the are gone."

"They are gone," he repeated, as if confirming it to himself, his tone betraying a sadness not his own, but keenly felt all the same.

"They sought the Havens long ago."

--

We light a fire in a deep hollow shrouded by great bushes of holly, and our supper-breakfast is merrier than it's been since we first set out. Whether or not the food is merely placebo or actually tasty, having lived off of cold foods for the better part of a fortnight, I think it is delicious; certainly, it called to mind the taste of the foods of Elrond's table, and that by any measurement a high mark.

Samwise worked diligently with his kinfolk to prepare the food, and it seemed all who weren't resting were commenting on what foods they wished they could have; not in discontent, but rather in fond remembrance. Even Legolas and Gimli, a diametrically opposed elf and a dwarf, spoke to each other in pleasant tones of happy meals once et.

Had I the materials, I would have long since suggested a gas stove in place of a fire, but gas isn't exactly easy to come by in the wild. All the better for my tastebuds, perhaps... I always have been a sucker for the woody flavor of properly smoked meats.

Aragorn is about and resting in the shadow of a tree upon a ridge above us. It seems his eyes are restless, looking this way and that in search of… something. Whatever it is, he doesn't seem to find it.

I might feel contagiously anxious as well, save that Gandalf shows none of the same symptoms, so I chalk it up to the ranger's personal unease. Surely if aught were amiss, Gandalf, the Elf with the hundred-mile-stare, or myself would surely catch wind of it.

Then again, this wasn't exactly a picnic. If Sauron's black hounds were on our heels, then Aragorn is right to be paranoid; in fact, it's probably for the better. Justified or no, a paranoid's senses are always on high alert for the smallest trigger that might confirm their fears.

…There can be great utility in that.

--

"Food is ready!" Sam announced proudly, clapping his hands and rubbing them together excitedly. "Come and get it while it remains to be got."

Merry and Pippin nearly knocked each other to the ground in their fervor to be first in line, while the rest were far more composed though no less expectant at the prospect of a hot meal.

While his kinsmen were, perhaps, overeager, Frodo was content to approach the line leisurely, knowing that Sam was sure to have prepared enough food for everyone who wanted it. Nevertheless, Boromir and Gimli, who arrived before him, delighting in the inseparable two's antics, were quick to instead begin handing out portions to the others while Sam berated his halfling kinfolk for almost knocking over the cookware.

Frodo gave thanks as his portion was placed in his hands and he plopped himself in the grass to eat.

One by one the Fellowship were fed, save for Aragorn who remained above them on the ridge, and that only until Legolas climbed up to hand him a small plate of food and a flask of water. Gandalf took brief puffs from his freshly lit pipe between bites, filling the air with a pleasant aroma of burnt firewood, cooked meat, and pipe weed.

If it weren't for the weight around his neck, Frodo might have thought it all to be a trivial excursion.

He suppressed a shiver born from the eastward wind that passed over the hills and valleys of the land. The sun was now much warmer than it had been the past several days, and the cold was quick in passing, save for the occasional strong breeze.

It was not enough to put a damper on his spirits. The same could not be said, though, for one particular Hobbit…

"It will get warmer as we go, right Gandalf? I'm not sure how much longer I can bear this constant chill! And cold food even, as terrible it is that we've gone without a single warm meal until now."

Among the Hobbits, Pippin was the youngest, and it often showed in his behavior. But for all the annoyances he might present, Gandalf was always there to dutifully suffer him, dutifully chastise him when necessary.

"There may be many unexpected feasts ahead for you, Peregrine Took. And as for warmer weather, the days will not get any colder the further south we go, at least until we approach the Redhorn gate; it is the most southerly of the passes over the Misty Mountains, and is as warm as it ought to be until we pass over to the other side."

Frodo expected that at the very least, it was likely to be the coldest trek of their journey. Though he was never so studious as his uncle when it came to maps, he knew that between here and Mordor, there would be few hills of sufficient height to be cold, and those that were would certainly thaw as the coldest months of the year passed on by.

He remembered what Bilbo had often told him when he was young: 'Frodo, my lad, the worst obstacle of any journey isn't the skulking thief, brigade of bandits or fouler creatures like trolls or orcs, but inclement weather. The former are imminent threats, always setting your heart a-racing in fear and worry. You don't have time to concern yourself with how tired your feet are or empty your belly is when you're afraid for your life. But weather is always present, and you can't outrun it or escape it once it's got you. The most you can do is soldier on, whistle a tune, and dream of greener pastures just over the next rise.'

If Bilbo were there, Frodo was certain he would be giving the same speech to young Pippin at that very moment.

"At least Lazarus can convenience us with his magic. We needn't fear the cold if he can warm us up."

Lazarus was lying in the grass, head leaned against a stone and looking up at the stars. His eyes angled toward the youngest Hobbit pointedly. "On occasions when it is needed most. This journey will be long, I gather, and it won't do you any good if I coddle you. Even I must sleep from time to time, and what will you do then, master Took?"

"Coddle me? I ask for no coddling, sir! Though I am more familiar with the comforts of hearth and home, and I expect I'll learn to accept these harsh climes in time. But it seems to me we're starting out with the roughest patch of weather from the off."

"Its winter, master Took. Be thankful it isn't snowing," he coolly replied, hands snaking beneath his head comfortably.

"There will be snow enough on Caradhras, I fear," Legolas admitted. "It is better that we prepare ourselves for its coming, lest our spirits be beset."

Gimli growled as he sucked a stiff puff of smoke from his own pipe. "That mountain has no love of any dwarf or elf, or anything else that lives, except perhaps orcs which it tolerates, and only because they torment those who would seek to pass over it."

"Elrond's wife, Celebrían was captured crossing over that pass," Aragorn added from above them, his voice quiet and somber. "Whether it be the elements themselves or servants of evil, we must steel ourselves for the worst."

"I was told she sailed into the West," Lazarus proffered. "Which tale is true?"

"Both are true, and only half the story," Gandalf corrected. "After she was taken by orcs, she suffered much mistreatment from which she never fully recovered, even after her sons rescued her from evil's hands. But her wounds were not only of the flesh; her mind was scarred, and she could not bear to live in Middle-Earth any longer. Thus did she sail to the Undying Lands."

Lazarus nodded slowly, seeming to understand, but it was a single sniffle from Sam that grabbed his attention. "A sad story if ever one was heard, I say. To be set upon by who-knows-what nasty folk, be rescued from them, and yet be unable to recover enough to live a happy life… That and she had to leave her family behind; I've heard of the two sons of lord Elrond's from Mr. Bilbo… It must take a truly broken spirit to go so far, in my mind anyway."

"You speak the truth, Samwise Gamgee, though you know not half the depth of that truth, I shouldn't wonder," Gandalf said. "For it was also a sacrifice of Elrond and his children that they bade her go with all love and speed. They would not wish her to suffer for the sake of her company."

"The wisest of the two choices... and harsh besides. I blame not those who would abstain from love for their own sake," Lazarus admitted. "I wonder often if love isn't more trouble than its worth."

Though spoken with humor weaved in his words, Frodo couldn't deny a certain honesty in them that revealed genuineness. But none could respond before Boromir, who it seemed shared Frodo's insight.

"Those are callous words, master wizard, and I would have you consider that without the love of our fellow man, in its place despair and desperation thrives. And thus, from our love springs forth the light of hope, and the fury of driving passion unlooked for in the face of fearsome foes!"

Lazarus eyed the Gondorian for a moment before sitting up, turning to face the captain directly. "I fear you misunderstand me, sir. For those who choose lovelessness do so not because their hearts are ruled by hate. Rather, it is because they cannot bear to love – and lose – again. It is my experience that it is behind the brightest of smiles that hides the saddest of hearts. And though hope they have, and love they abstain from, it is for the love that others may enjoy – not their own – that they face their enemies."

Boromir quieted at Lazarus' response, pondering the weight of the wizard's words in the silent sunlight for a time. Presently, he stirred from his thoughts and nodded, a quiet understanding in his eyes. "Perhaps I was mistaken regarding you, and in that respect, I offer an apology. I do not know you, and little is known of you from any in our company, I gather. Though Mithrandir says to consider you 'as one of his order', he does not say you are one of his order. Thus, doubt was cast from the first, for many dealings have we had with those who wield ruinous power against the hearts of the hopeful and the flesh of the stalwart; sorcerers we call them. I have let that experience cloud my judgement and wonder after your purpose unduly. But your words clearly speak of a soldier's wisdom! For that is certainly the view of a soldier who has fought for too long against indomitable foes, and so lost much and many."

He then gave a deep nod to the robed man, one that Frodo perceived was meant to convey a full – or at least partial – measure of comradery. From one soldier to another, perhaps. The gesture was returned in kind, Lazarus' expression softening toward Boromir.

"So you do love then," confirmed Gimli after the moment had passed, a sarcastic humor in his bite. "That is good. I was beginning to wonder if perhaps you were like the Elves or Gandalf, who are more eager to love trees, or stars, or knowledge, than people."

"If I didn't know better Gloin-son," began a mildly indignant Gandalf, "I'd almost be insulted on behalf of both parties, as I have spent more time being both myself and amongst elves, and I can assuredly say that though the worthy pursuit knowledge may be as a blade, honed and sharpened with time and effort, we are certainly not without love."

"I mean no offense of course, master Gandalf," Gimli replied quickly, but coolly. "I meant only to say that when one thinks of creatures like elves or wizards, one does not immediately consider the breadth of their affections, but rather their depth of knowledge and wisdom; for I deem it is no great insult to consider either as both knowledgeable and wise, at least as elves go."

The little verbal afterthought-of-a-jab felt more 'by rote' than premeditated, and it dawned on Frodo just how much respect the Dwarf must have had for Elrond Half-elven that he would so easily admit it. That Legolas, though cool by nature, didn't so much as flinch at his words, showed it likely wasn't just him who thought so.

"Then I hope it does not surprise you that I do love, master Dwarf," the Lazarus replied circling back to Gimli's initial joke. "Though I crave knowledge of things old and lost, as well as the preservation of things soon to pass away, I also know love well. In fact, there is one whom I love most of all." Lazarus paused for a moment, and when he continued, his tone was downcast and forlorn. "Though, I fear I shall never know her fate while I breathe the air of Middle-Earth."

"Ho? What's this? A proper romance from one such as master Lazarus, farer from the stars?" Merry asked, eyes wide and smile bright. "Well, I shan't be one to miss the opportunity to hear such a tale as that. Go on then sir, tell us a little of this love if you will. I dare say we're not so poor a company as to begrudge your sentiments, and it will help us pass the time."

The sudden, sharp flickering of Lazarus' eyes as they focused on Merry before the words had even left his mouth was like the movement of a startled predator. Frodo knew why immediately.

Though it had come to them third-hand (second by Glorfindel and third by Bilbo), the tale was told that Lazarus had come to Middle-Earth not from the utter-most West, nor South, nor East, nor North, nor any point on the compass, but rather had come from the stars, and was to account for his general lack of some common knowledges during his conversations with the elder Baggins.

Frodo doubted Glorfindel ever expected that the Hobbits would have reason to share that information, but Bilbo had thoughtlessly let it slip during a particularly delightful chinwag one evening by a roaring fire. He must have realized his error as soon as he made it, as he quickly tried to dismiss his own words' implications. But there was no dismissing the piqued curiosity of his Hobbit audience.

And so, he reluctantly told all that he knew, which he admitted was only so much, and he made sure to remind his younger listeners to mind their manners when it came to those things they weren't supposed to know, and to bear in mind the sensitivity of the reticent.

But it seemed old Bilbo's vague description of Lazarus being 'from the stars' had struck a fanciful chord in the Brandybuck, as he let slip the not-so-secret secret with a single wag of his tongue.

Judging by the man's expression, Bilbo was right to caution them against saying anything.

It seemed, too, the words had caught the attention of Gandalf, who paused his puffing to subtly glance between the members of the Fellowship, gauging who caught the little slip and who didn't.

Gimli, Legolas, and Boromir, if they noticed at all, must have passed his words off as embellishment. Even Frodo admitted it all sounded a bit strange to imagine being real, though real it must have been for noble, honorable Glorfindel to confide in Bilbo so.

They likely passed it off as idle flattery.

Personally, Frodo found the whole idea too large for him. Just like how the ancient tales of Eärendil conclude with him sailing his enchanted Vingilot into the sky, Silmaril upon his brow, where the jewel shines forever as a star of the morning.

It was difficult to wrap his head around.

After a few moments of silence passed, it appeared all present were apparently interested enough to await Lazarus' response.

He hummed to himself softly, chin idly cupped between the fingers of his right hand in consideration.

Eventually, he agreed.

"Very well. If it's a tale you want, then a tale you shall have. You'll forgive me if I omit those details which without foreknowledge would only confuse you, yes?"

A round of nodding heads seemed to be his answer, which upon receiving, he breathed deeply of the sunny air and began.

"In the land I come from – a land you have never heard of, full of creatures you have never seen, and evils I hope you never meet – I was raised as a warrior. I was not the only one, of course; just one of many. But we were divided, scattered, and leaderless, and the people we were supposed to protect often suffered for our greed and foolishness. There were five of us, though, who in the course of time came to oversee and protect bits of land adjacent (and unknown) to one another. Rather than squabble and suspect each other as many of our kind were wont to do, we forged a pact: to join our individual strengths and to unite in trade and purpose, to better stave off those who would do us and our harm."

Lazarus looked up to the moon, all but a tenth of it shining brightly even this late into the morning. It reflected silver in his eyes.

"It was in those days that I met her."

Last edited: Aug 3, 2022

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Black Lister

Dec 3, 2021

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Threadmarks Chapter 10: Halcyon Daze Gone By

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Black Lister

Dec 9, 2021

#190

"They're moving again," Eskal noted as he tossed the report in his hands across the table.

Kamil lifted his hand sarcastically. "By show of hands, who's surprised? No? No one? Shocking."

"Doesn't matter. If the Fallen are making moves into Waterview we need to be ready to check 'em," came the surly voice of Rigel as he picked grime from the guts of his weapon.

I picked up datapad on the table and flipped through it. Even if I'd just heard it in full a moment before, it always helped me to digest the whole thing if I could see it with my own eyes. "We'll have to put together a repulsion team," I say dismally, though it was nothing anyone present didn't already know.

"We got a new shipment of guns last week from Burnsfield," Eskal said with a grin, holding out a hand and ribbing his fingers together. "If y'all're hurtin' for some merch, I'll sell 'em to ya, at a special discounted price of course."

Kamil raised an eyebrow incredulously at his companion. "How the hell'd you get a trader all the way from Burnsfield? The Fallen are all over those routes."

Eskal simply shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. "I've got my ways. Fact is, y'all need guns, I got 'em, and I know y'all got the scratch to pay."

"What's your wares?" Rigel asked without so much as looking up from his work.

Eskal signaled his Ghost with a wave, and the little thing hovered over and displayed a holographic catalog of weapons and equipment Eskal was willing to sell.

I glanced up from the report to glance at the list, only a few items of interest catching my eye. Nothing I needed anyway.

"I'll take twenty rifles."

The clear and crisp tone of Lyra's voice drew all our eyes, the normally reticent woman pushing off the wall she was leaning against, her wide, swaying hips ornamented with an array of bullets and knives.

With a flick of her finger, she selected the weapons she wanted from the holographic display. "A dozen steers sound fair?"

Eskal inclined his head in the affirmative and the deal was struck. "I'll have the shipment at your place in a day 'r two."

An item drew my attention. "That one," I pointed. "I'll take that one."

Eskal raised an eyebrow and followed my finger. Instantly he frowned. "Kai, what the hell? I told you not to list that!"

His Ghost, Kai, shrugged as Ghosts do quite unapologetically. "It's broken and we don't have the parts to fix it," It offered. "It's literally been collecting dust for weeks. Might as well trade it for something worthwhile."

Eskal sighed and held his head in a hand. "Fine, whatever," he relented. "I'll trade it for some of that copper you mined last season."

I nodded my head. "How's 200 kilos sound?"

Again, he assented and the deal was struck. "Give it to 'im, Kai."

The menu flickers away and in its place a large weapon transmats to the table.

"Kolar Arms G21 'Perforator' LMG. You've got an eye for taste, but it's missing a few parts. Nabbed it off a Fallen raiding party in May. Bastards were packin' up after scavenging an old supply depot out past Emerald Cove. Didn't know what hit 'em."

I pulled the weapon closer and inspect it. Sure enough, it wasn't even close to combat readiness. But with a bit of tinkering, I could make it work. The firepower – and safety – that it would provide would be well worth its price.

I snapped my fingers and Gabriel takes it in. "Better in our hands than theirs," I said approvingly. A round of agreements echoes around the table.

"So, we forming a raiding party?" Kamil asks, twirling his revolver around his finger idly. "Hit the scavs at Waterview? Or do we leave 'em be? There ain't much left at Waterview to be honest. Not worth the blood."

"We're downstream of Waterview," I reminded the gunslinger. "If the Fallen know our territories, they could poison the water supply to weaken us as a prelude to an attack. Waterview does have a water filtration system set up, not that its worked for the better part of a century, but I'll bet the Fallen could find a way to use it against us. And we've got our townsfolk to worry about."

"I say we hit them first," Rigel proposes, reassembling his weapon with meticulous precision. "Broad daylight. They won't expect it."

I regard Rigel for a moment. "Those in favor?"

A moment of silence and consideration preceded a round of grunts and nods that decides the call.

"Alright, let's talk logistics then. Broad daylight's fine by me, but the Waterview approach doesn't offer much cover. Gabriel." My Ghost brought up a topographical map of the city-now-turned-ghost-town. "Even if we go in force, we're likely to get picked off on the way."

Eskel nodded. "It's the House of Claws, so they won't have much personnel left after that disaster they traipsed into in Senegal. Picked a fight with the wrong Warlords down there. Since then, they've been raiding their way north, killin' and getting killed along the way. Now they're on our doorstep. Whatever's left is going to be exhausted and wary of an attack."

I furrowed my brows. "House Claws… What's their disposition?"

"They're more mercantile than the other Houses. They're nasty, but they're willing to trade if you've both got something to gain from it. Otherwise, they'll shank you first. They also practice slave trading."

"Really?" I raised an eyebrow. "Who buys slaves these days?"

"Other Fallen mostly," Kamil explained. "Heard Houses like Rain and Glade will trade for slaves as menial workers, and when they've outlived their usefulness, they eat 'em."

"Waste not, want not," Rigel recited callously.

"Don't they also enslave their own kind too? I've heard stories that they fill their ranks by takin' in undesirables from other Houses and use 'em to fill their ranks as less-than-Dregs. Laborers and cannon fodder, mostly." Lyra fingered a bullet between her fingers.

"So… What I'm hearing is that this isn't a preemptive attack, it's actually a rescue mission," Kamil said with a wink and a grin to no one and everyone.

"As if we need an excuse to attack the Fallen," I countered with a smile. "But it if motivates you more..."

"Then we'll need to be careful we don't shoot the one's we're tryin' to rescue." Rigel leaned forward, racking the slide of his pistol thrice to his own satisfaction, ejecting three rounds onto the table. He pointed to an area of the map and placed a bullet at the town entrance. "I see three primary routes. First, from the main road. We can storm the town on Sparrows and wreak havoc from within while our forces move in behind us."

He placed a second bullet in the river. "We can try to sneak in from the river in the night. We can rig up a submersible troop carrier and get as close as we can before attacking from the inside. Or we can siege them from all sides and starve them out… if we're not worried about a rescue." He placed a third bullet on the other side of the city. "These are options I see."

Eskel leaned forward as well to look over the map, pursing his lips in considering before pointing to the second bullet. "I like the submersible idea. As far as I've heard, the Fallen aren't the best swimmers." He spread his fingers out in demonstration. "No webbing."

I'm not so convinced. "Yeah, but they have four hands to make up for it. Anyway, do we know for sure they haven't mined the river? That's putting a little too much faith in our own assumption. Too dangerous." I point to the third bullet. "The siege is also a bad idea, if only because of the season. Harvest is coming up and we'll need every body we can get to bring it in. We can't diverge our manpower to a siege." I rolled the bullet back to Rigel.

"I think the only reasonable choice is shock and awe. If they're as undermanned as the rumors from Senegal say, then they'll be spread thin trying to hold the town. We'll head out first, draw all their attentions inward, and then our forces will follow up behind."

Kamil nods, sufficiently convinced. "Sounds good to me."

Eskel does likewise.

Rigel though, frowned. "I'm still concerned about the main road. A depreciated force would set up traps and sharpshooters along the primary routes to prevent an obvious approach. Even if we get through into the town, our supporting forces will be bogged down, maybe even halted. That too is risky."

"You came up with it," Eskel exclaimed with an ironic huff.

"Yeah, I did. Doesn't mean I like it."

"Then instead of shock and awe, how about sneak and awe?" Kamil suggests, pointing to the river. "If it's just the five of us, we could sneak in through the river."

Eskel laughed. "Swimming against the current? Good luck."

"I don't see you coming up with any bright ideas," Kamil growled, a hand over his piece in mock threat.

Eskel raised both hands wearily. "I just take credit for others' ideas. I don't come up with them myself."

"Not helping, Eskel," I mutter loud enough to be heard.

"You men are always so brazen; unsubtle. This is why you need a woman's touch," Lyra's voice cut through the discussion as she held a hand out over the table. Her Ghost drifted into view and with a flash, dumped various equipment onto the table. Each one of us had seen their like many times before, but we also noticed the obvious modifications that didn't belong.

Rigel raised an eyebrow. "Fallen stealth tech?" His silence lasted for a long moment before a wry grin cracked his lips. "That'll work."

Lyra let out a satisfied breath as both Kamil and Eskel acquiesced to her plan. I did too, but…

"There's still one other unresolved problem," I said, plucking the larger rifle round from Lyra's fingers and placing it in the center of the town. "How do we deal with the Spider tank?"

Silence surrounded the table as our smiles dimmed in contemplation.

Finally, Kamil raised a finger.

"I think… I have a solution."

--

When we'd come up with the plan a week before, we went over every detail that might bring our plans to a grinding halt and made contingencies for them. What we hadn't planned on was the grey cloud-cover that kept the sun's golden rays from glinting on our gear, even as we moved under cover of stealth toward the town. How fortuitous.

With our superhuman endurance, we hoofed it to Waterview from twenty miles out with all speed. For our plan to work, we needed to coordinate our surprise with the arrival of our troops. Get in, raise enough Cain to compel them to withdraw their outlying scouts to support the defense, clearing the way for our reinforcements.

It was a simple plan, but we needed to be fast.

And fast we were.

Separated by a mile or more on the approach, the hope was that even if one of us was spotted, it wouldn't reveal the whole group. Alone, one Risen was an enormous danger, but beatable with a little effort and numbers. Five Risen at once was grounds for an immediate GTFO.

And we didn't want them leaving quite yet…

It also didn't help that Lyra's scavenged Fallen cloaking tech had a suboptimal battery life and wouldn't last us too much longer by the time we got to the city.

I managed to spot numerous Fallen scouts in quite advantageous positions on my way in, some cloaked, others hidden more conventionally. Our shared tacnet pinged these threats on an area map that was transmitted back to our lagging forces. At least they'd be prepared for ambushes, if the Fallen were stupid enough to remain in their positions after we started stirring up shit in the town.

After an hour, we managed to sneak our way into the city proper. As far as towns went, it wasn't excessively small, but it wasn't big either. It had a few large buildings several dozen stories tall, but most were only between two or five. It also had no walls surrounding it, which was to be expected and exceedingly fortunate, as we were able to creep in between the mostly dilapidated. Waterview was one of those out-of-the-way towns even during the Golden Age, and as such it hadn't benefited as much from the many technological advancements that came after. But the town was positioned in such a way that it was a popular layover between Kinkaid city and Atar. Which meant it had plenty of fuel stored underground from the olden days.

It was likely why the Fallen were stopping by, but we couldn't take the chance they might also take the opportunity to sabotage our water supply in preparation for an attack.

By the time we got into the central town area, I realized there were a lot more Fallen than I'd anticipated. Whatever rumors had come out of Senegal appeared to have been slightly exaggerated.

They were crawling all over the place barking and screeching at each other as they carried supplies to and fro.

Avoiding the main roads, I snuck into one of the larger buildings and ascended to the rooftop. The stairwells were empty, as were most of the floors. Those floors that were occupied had been turned into temporary sleeping quarters with the windows providing a decent view the work going on outside. I assumed those asleep were the night shift. I left them be.

On the roof, a duo of Dregs were leaning over the wall, staring at the hustle and bustle below. They had no idea I was here.

Carefully creeping up on them, I wreathed one hand in flame as I grabbed them both from behind over their mouths, my one hand searing over that which it held shut. The other, once it realized what was happening, decided to use my hand as a chew toy, biting deep into my flesh.

It hurt. A lot. But as long as it gnawed quietly, that was fine. I didn't let go.

I flung the first away, its hands going to its face in panic. I withdrew my pistol and sunk a silenced round right between its eyes.

Flipping the weapon around, I whipped the grip across the temple of the other, loosening its clench on my hand. The dark skinned Fallen stumbled back in a daze, and I drove home my advantage as I launched forward with an uppercut that caught it in both of its jaw. Its head hit the ground with a solid thud.

Keeping crouched, I examined the wounded Dreg. The cloths it wore bore a distinct pattern of purple-on-orange denoting the House of Claws. A single, short, shock-blade and pistol hung at its belt, or rather, did. Now they lay sprawled across the ground next to their owner. A pair of grenades were stuffed into a small satchel strung over its shoulder, which I was quick to relieve it of.

Properly disarmed, I grabbed the dazed Claw Dreg by its fragile neck and pressed the barrel of my gun into the soft flesh of its underjaw. Unlike a Vandal or a Captain, Dregs were generally malnourished, as befitting their station. And a Dreg from a house on the run after a failed operation was apparently even more so. As far as Fallen went, there was hardly any meat, or chitin for that matter, on it. Its claws were chipped with use, and its eyes weren't nearly as bright as those I'd seen from its fellows.

Gotta love trickle-down economics.

"Answer questions or die," I said in broken Fallen. Its four eyes widened simultaneously as it heard its own bastardized language coming from my mouth.

"You are… Light Thief!"

"Light Thief," I emphatically confirmed, "with gun. Now speak. Why are Claw-Fallen here?" I loosened my grip enough for it to utter whispered words, but never enough for it to scream in alarm. It hissed in opposition, but the iron barrel at its throat compelled a modicum of cooperation.

"I follow Baron Kilriks. He leads our party. I do not know his mind, and he does not share his thoughts."

I gave a quick *tsk* from my teeth disappointedly and pressed the barrel of my weapon deep into the creature's throat. "Then you are no useful me." A gurgle came from within and it held its two un-docked hands out pleadingly.

"Wait!" It begged. "Baron Kilriks shares no words or plans, but idle-speech spreads of human settlements to the south, rich with meat and plant-things. Many think we move against them soon, after gathering here!"

My eyes narrowed. "Gathered says you... How many?"

The Dreg shifted uncomfortably beneath me. "I do not know! But rumors say Baron Kilriks meets with fellow Baron Raylaks soon to speak of plans."

Raylaks and Kilriks… That wasn't good. A single Baron with its lone raiding group wouldn't be enough to successfully assault the Eye… They'd do some damage, sure, and lives would undoubtedly be lost, but they would be repelled without too much trouble overall. But two Barons and their entourages joining forces would make an assault on the Eye much more plausible... and devastating.

"When is meeting?" I asked, lacing my voice with feigned impatience.

"I do not know! Others might!" Its eyes light up and its struggling diminishes. "If… If the Light-Thief wishes, I can point it in the direction of those who do, yes? Let this one go in return. Spare Dreg-life?"

I raised an eyebrow beneath my helm. I wasn't exactly in the business of dealing with Fallen, duplicitous and unreliable as they commonly were; some could be traded with true, but few rarely ever kept things civil. It got to the point where "trade deals with the Fallen" became code for "hunting Fallen down like the animals they were."

This sniveling Dreg just wanted to save its own skin.

I narrowed my eyes at it warily and inclined my head. "Then lead ahead."

Carefully releasing the creature, it hesitated, as if wondering if I was actually letting it go. Presently, it stood up again and bowed its head, gesturing for me to follow it back inside the building. "This one thanks the Light-Thief, favored by the Great Machine," it said with a hunched bow, turning to lead the way. "Then please follow, and I will prove myself and show-"

A spray of purple gore splashed across the ground, followed closely by its limp, lifeless body. Airy ether drifted from the hole in its punctured cranium, and dark blood drained freely over the rooftop. The light in its eyes drained to dull nothingness.

Short wisps of gun-smoke trailed from the barrel of my weapon and vanished in the wind.

I lowered it, reloading the two bullets I spent, whose value was arguably greater than the lives which they were used to end; I didn't have patience for the antics of some uppity alien this or any other day.

I put a hand to my helm and spoke. "This is Lazarus. Be advised, the Fallen might be joining up with another raiding party soon."

"Confirmed," came the voice of Kamil. "Jack chewed into their systems and got a few interesting messages stuck in his teeth. Apparently they plan to hit the Eye from here once they've coalesced their forces."

"I've identified the Baron in a makeshift encampment at the corners of Akatar and Leman avenues," Lyra announced, her Ghost, Eve, sending the telemetry to my HUD, along with a highlight of the aforementioned intersection. "Looks like they've set their dropships around the spider tank for protection."

Rigel's deep timbre brakes through the line. "And where's the Baron in all that mess?"

There was a moment of silence before-

"…Inside the tank."

I frowned. That threw a wrench into things. The plan was to hit the Fallen hard and stir them up like a hornet's nest, and if possible get them to take to the air. If we could isolate the tank, without excessive ground forces, our work would be made easier. But if the Baron was in the tank, then there was no way he would order his forces to retreat without first securing his own safety.

I sighed. "Looks like we're going with plan B then…"

No sooner had I spoken then a familiar voice crackled over the comms... almost too eagerly...

"Did somebody say, 'plan B?'" Eskel's voice was nearly drowned out by the distant explosion that rocked the city before he'd even finished speaking. Then numerous, smaller explosions echoed after it. The fight was on.

Stuffing my pistol into its holster, I whipped out my rifle and set up on the roof, picking off the confused and scurrying Fallen on the street below. By the time they realized the danger of being out in the open, most of those wielding long-rifles were already dead. Those with shrapnel launchers begin spraying the nearby buildings with fire, unable to identify my position from the not-so-distant echoing rumbles and booms masking my shots.

"Ah, I'd advise we move to a new location."

I blink and turn to see Gabriel beside me, insistent and… suspiciously fidgety for a Ghost. I narrowed my eyes at him, which I know he can feel beneath my helm.

"What'd you do?" I ask warily.

His answer was drowned out by the howling of Fallen coming up the stairs behind us.

"Jump now and I'll explain in eight-point-two-six seconds!"

I growled and leapt from the roof as the first heads of Fallen begin to step onto the rooftop. I hang in the air on currents of Light as the near misses of arc rounds sing around me.

Then the building erupted. First from the bottom, then in sequence all the way to the top. The primary supports buckled and the whole thing collapsed under its own weight. The Fallen on the roof disappeared like stones in quicksand. A cloud of noxious fumes and debris also swallowed the Fallen on the streets, spreading out along the streets like channels of water in a loch.

Too bad for any Fallen who were unfortunate enough to be resting inside. They'd never wake up again.

I drifted through the air for many seconds, my eyes on Gabriel as he danced a little victorious jig beside me.

"C4 on the support columns? Clever little Ghost," I say with a smirk, giving him a playful flick that sent him cartwheeling away.

"Aren't I?" he asked with pride and rhetoric, reorienting himself and transmatting beneath my amor.

The thought of the chaos the Fallen forces must be in crossed my mind, and it brought a smile to my face. "Well then, let's get things started."

With a breath, I plummeted to the ground, landing on a cushion of Light while swapping to my handgun.

A wounded Fallen covered in dust and blood stumbled by me in a daze, half blind and hurt.

I put a round through its cranial ridge.

The Claws were in a panic, scrambling to and fro with barking orders flying in the air. I took advantage of the chaos to sneak deeper into the city, eliminating those insects what strayed too far from their little packs. The further I invaded, the more explosions I could hear in the distance, and I could hear the telltale cacophony of Light bursting and flailing, frying and eradicating, each one louder than the last.

It doesn't take me too long to enter the perimeter of what was likely the command center of their little operation.

The corner of Akatar and Leman avenues was actually only one intersection that sat adjacent to what was once the city hall. In front of the building was a large browning lawn that currently acted as a landing zone for several dropships.

Equipment was strewn everywhere and Fallen ran every which way on whatever limbs they had, carrying heavy ordinance and supplies to the panicked combat zones. In the middle of it all, a Spider tank idled with a rumble. Several tables and cots were arranged, though the cots were now empty, and the tables featured hologram readouts of the city and of the battle beyond. Around one such table stood an array of Fallen Captains, one of which was undeniably taller than the others, and wore a more vibrant cloak stained in Claws colors… and no small amount of what looked like dried blood.

Dried human blood. Though considering the way Fallen society tended to internally disintegrate during times of crisis, I wouldn't have been surprise if some of the gore was from would-be usurpers.

Kilriks, Baron of the House of Claws was loudest in his barking, and every Fallen around him were cowed by his tone, nodding their heads and bowing in submission to his orders.

"Looks like he popped out of his tank to direct them personally," Gabriel muttered in my ear.

A Servitor floated nearby with several Splicers tending to it and the walker. It warbled in a deep baritone that reverberated through my chest.

I scanned the scene, looking for an advantageous position and found it on the other side of the square Kilriks had claimed as his headquarters. The Fallen were on the lookout for humans, not Risen hiding with their own tech… For that matter, the thought that we might recalibrate their stealth mods to suit ourselves probably hadn't even entered their minds.

With deft movements, steps cushioned by practice and Light, I made my way to a low-rise building only two stories tall. Only one Fallen stood guard on top, and I carefully took him down, one Void-encompassed hand obliterating his throat as I kicked out his legs from beneath him and tossed his corpse to the ground.

I feel a pang of heat from my back where Lyra's stealth emitter was fixed. I hiss reflexively as I feel its heat and lower myself to the ground to avoid being seen as I turn the thing off. Even for Fallen, they weren't meant to be kept on forever, and frequently needed time to cool down. It also didn't help that the device had just tried to calculate the dimensions of the Void singularity in my hand. Not surprising it suddenly decided to overheat.

Fortunately, the building's roof wasn't without a short wall around its front edge, at least three feet tall. From behind it I was able to see pretty much the entire courtyard.

The sounds of the battle beyond were intensifying, and I could tell Kilriks, for all his Fallen savagery, was getting antsy.

As well he should.

He didn't know how near the danger actually was…

"That you over there, Laz?" I hear Lyra's voice over the coms.

"Probably," I whisper looking for where she might be posted on overwatch. "Where you at?"

"Two blocks down on the Burger King sign. I got a bead on you and Kilriks."

I peeked my head over the edge of the partition and spotted the very same sign in the distance. It was precariously positioned at an angle against an adjacent building and didn't look very stable. A portion of the sign was missing from the front.

Nevertheless, I saw the telltale shape of a rifle peeking out from the hollow insides. Lyra must have climbed inside the thing from behind.

"I see you."

"Good. Eve's marked the dropships. We're ready to go. How do you want to handle this?"

I purse my lips as I scan the scene below. To inflict maximum damage, both physical and psychological, it would require we time our attacks perfectly. To that end, I have a solution.

"Gimme a sec," I say, pulling away from the edge in a low crouch.

"Birds?" Gabriel asked with an excited trill his experience with me allowing an almost preternatural ability to read my mind.

I nodded in confirmation. "Birds."

He appeared in a flicker, low enough to the ground to scrape his shell as he transmatted several small tripods out of storage. Two legs were shorter than the third, and a short ramp was affixed on top. Onto these ramps Gabriel placed small, sleek, oblong shapes.

The shapes were Nordic Arms Peregrine AAD explosives. I had the good fortune of finding a small collection of them in a military base in Ouagadougou down in Burkina Faso.

They were clever little things. The North American Empire was one of the most powerful forces of the Golden Age, and the remnants of its military influence could be found everywhere across the globe. Cunningly, the little things were very simple to operate, lightweight, and could fulfil a number of functions. Depending on the type of payload, the catapults could launch small bird-drones for the purposes of surveillance or target elimination.

The Peregrine model was one of the latter bunch, but what set it apart from its brother and sister models was its flight path.

"Ready to launch, captain!" Gabriel announced. I'm certain that if he had the limbs to do so, he would have saluted.

"Lyra you good to go?"

"Set and settled. Just waiting on you," came her response.

"Copy, standby." I turn to Gabriel and give him a thumbs up.

"Let 'er rip."

A single tendril of light connected Gabriel to each of the catapults in sequence, the little birds launching into the air without so much as a whistle.

A keen-eyed observer might noticing something about them was different then normal birds, but with this particular model, it wouldn't matter even if you did.

You wouldn't have time to call it in.

The Peregrines climbed into the air, wings unfolding from their sides and guiding their path up, up, up.

The Peregrine falcon was renowned throughout the world as the fastest hunting bird in existence. During ordinary flight they could reach speeds up to eighty kilometers per hour. But that was only during normal flight.

When they dove, they could accelerate to speeds exceeding four-hundred kilometers per hour when diving.

And that was a living animal, with organic wings and only the power of evolved aerodynamics and wing power. Imagine if you strapped a rocket on it.

Seven birds plummeted from the sky like silent arrows, each one carrying four times the payload of a single 120mm mortar round.

The camp erupted into fire, light, sound, and death.

Returning the launch catapults to my inventory, I held out a hand to Gabriel who likewise vanished and braced my rifle over the edge of the barrier. Already gunshots rang across the courtyard from Lyra in the distance, her uncanny aim bursting Fallen skulls like party-poppers.

The Captains who had been gathered together were now strewn everywhere, most of them in pieces, though a few were whole enough to seek cover from their unseen assailant. But they were quickly caught in the crossfire; Lyra on one side, me on the other.

They fell like leaves before a storm.

A roar tore through the city. The hulking Kilriks stumbled out from the flames of his former war-table with a look of pure rage in all four eyes.

The sound of his voice sent the scrawnier Fallen reeling, but the braver insects stood their ground, heeding their Baron's authority.

"He's telling them to take off," Gabriel translated over the coms as Kilriks vanished back into the smoke of his ruined camp.

"Shit, I've lost him," Lyra swore, turning her aim to those targets could see. I followed suit, but my position was much less concealed than hers is, and it didn't take long for the panicking victims of our assault to find me.

I ducked out of the way as shrapnel launchers and shock rifle rounds peel my cover to bits. I grit my teeth, though really, I couldn't be happier. I wasn't one to complain about the occasional turkey-shoot, but I was someone who liked to get up-close and personal.

I put away my rifle and pull out my hand cannon, making sure it was loaded before I dove into the fray.

A sudden clanging drew my attention as I see the swirling black smoke give way to the burning crimson eyes of a spider tank. It groaned menacingly as its turret rotated towards Lyra's position.

I didn't have time to yell before a high-powered round punched through the building next to Lyra's nest.

I breathed a sigh of relief that the round hadn't hit true, but perhaps Kilriks had a better understanding of the structural integrity of the buildings in town than I did. The building the sign had been leaning against shuddered for moment, windows shattering en mass as its weight shifted.

I frowned, noticing all too late that the shot wasn't intended to hit Lyra's position at all, but rather to destroy a specific support column somewhere deep inside.

"Lyra, bail!" I called, unable to turn away as the whole building, which was nearly twenty stories tall, buckle under its own weight in just such a way as to crush the entire street.

I saw a flicker of motion from within the sign but for a moment before the building came down.

I knife called worry pierced my heart, but I didn't have time to tend to it as the Spider turned its Arc repeaters on my position, suppressing me beneath a hail of deadly fire.

I growled and steadied my mind. Lyra would be ok. She had to be; she was Risen. For the moment, I had to take care of myself first before I could worry about her.

The dropships whined as their engines roared to life, kicking up a dust storm of battlefield debris.

I trigger my radio. "Epsilon, this is Bravo, I've got dropship attempting to take off from the town center."

A burst of static assaulted my ears as a modulated voice drawled across the tac net, perforated by arc rounds that dug deep gouges into the ancient asphalt. "Confirmed Bravo, I'll have eyes on them in a moment."

Seconds ticked by as I dove for cover in the smoke and wreckage, turning my piece to blast any Fallen who stumbled through the thick black smoke.

Finally- "Bravo, Epsilon has eyes on the targets. Ready to engage."

"Do it!" I yelled, barely able to hear my own voice over the roar of engines and gunfire.

A different roar echoed across the city as white lances of light soared and spiraled into the ascending Fallen transports, the seeking missiles swatting them from the sky with aplomb.

I felt the pressure of bursts in my head and chest as the afflicted vessels turned over and twisted, hanging in the air for just a brief moment before gravity pulled harder than their failing engines, dragging them back down to earth. Buildings, streets, and intersections buckled and burned as they were subjected to the terminal velocity of the dropships' decent. More fire burned bright and blinding, and impossibly hot at fuel and ammunition burst into multicolored flames.

The panicked cries of aliens in pain and panic echo in the din, punctuated by the plodding steps of the spider tank. Kilriks' voice cried to his troops through a loudspeaker, but it seemed to do little to form order from the chaos. The image of the Baron's enraged face in my mind eye brought a particular smile to my face.

The black smoke was too thick to see hardly anything, and the gunfire seemed to lessen in volume as the Fallen, probably, elected to evacuate rather than stand and die to an enemy they couldn't even see and were entirely unprepared to fight.

A foreboding clanking drew my attention. Every fiber of my body screamed at me to move, compelling an instinctive Blink away, and not a moment too soon.

A cacophony of Arc mine bursts like firecrackers as they were ejected from the walker in every direction. And in the din the sound of the tank's main gun punching holes into the surrounding buildings, while secondaries weaved indiscriminate fire into the battle's melody.

And above all of that, Kilriks' voice shouted profanities even I could understand.

But for all his flailing, he was doing a remarkable job of keeping me at bay, especially since, either by chance or estimation, he was pouring all that firepower in my general direction, keeping me at bay and pounding my eardrums with the staccato impacts of Arc rounds on wreckage and booming thunder of the tank's cannon.

"We can't get close to him like this," Gabriel commentated in my ears.

The rumbling in my chest might have been a confirming growl, dared to peek around my cover and nearly got my head blown off in the process. I certainly didn't have any heavy weaponry to deal with the tank's armor…

A fiery snap pierced the din, along with the unmistakable blasts of concentrated Solar energy.

With a shockwave of a gun many times its caliber, piercing bolts of sunlight knocked away the smog and slammed into the armor of the walker's legs. While the forged space-age plating for the walker's armor might prove indomitable in the face of conventional weaponry, it afforded naught against the paracausal power of the Light.

I followed the streaks of light back to their source to see Lyra with Golden Gun in hand, putting shot after shot into the Spider's flank until at last the rapidly decreasing integrity of the armor gave way, and the plating just… burst from within, as critical systems were perforated completely.

The resulting chain of explosion sent the machine staggering away with limping legs. And above the noise, Lyra's hard voice echoed in my ears.

"Now Lazarus! While's he's wounded!"

I let out a breath and exit my cover, holstering my cannon as I channel my Light as well.

While Lyra, an excellent marksman, had a strong affinity for naught else but Solar Light and its resulting applications toward firearms, my talents were more well-rounded, though my preference lay in the particularly rawer aspects of the Traveler's energy.

As if drawn from the superheated sky, a bolt of white light strikes my outstretched hand and surges into my body like a lightning rod.

I sight the struggling war machine and cast out the Arc energy in snapping bolts of disintegrating death. I hold the steam of energy steady for many seconds, errant sparks of Light arcing off in into any suitably charged surroundings, and I can see the poignant silhouettes of unfortunate Fallen who become the receptacles for my power.

The now unprotected and compromised systems of the tank were unable to withstand the assault, allowing a chain reaction that kicked off inside, the whole thing collapsing in an spectacular heap of exploding shrapnel and molten steel.

It does not escape my attention when a hatch blows on top of the vehicle, and Kilriks clambers out as quick as his bulk can manage. He stumbled as he hit the ground, and his eyes met mine.

Our hatred for each other left no need for words. As quick as a flash, he drew a shock rifle and pulled the trigger.

Pity for him, Lyra was faster.

A single, perfect shot slammed into his weapon holding hand, melting it at the wrist and all the way up to his elbow.

Considering the speed and precision of the attack, as well as the searing heat of the attack that likely seared his nerves numb, he stood there frozen, like a statue, unable to comprehend what had just happened.

I didn't give him a chance to recover.

I hold out my hands, weaving minute tendrils of power, exciting multitudinous electrons well beyond the point of atomic containment, magnifying their energy by many magnitudes until my body is all but wreathed in unrestrained Arc Light. Then, with purpose and satisfaction, I turn that remorseless force upon the wretched Baron.

His cries echoed through the courtyard as his knees gave way, buckling beneath him. Every second he suffered, I took a methodical step toward him, the intensity of my Light intensifying with the narrowing distance.

I wanted to see it. The pain, the suffering, the hopelessness. I wanted this alien know its doom, not just in the moment of its death, but in all those before it; I wanted to dilute the instants of his agony into a tapestry of suffering until the moment his brain turned into charred mush.

I stood over him, his eyes alight with death and ether.

Then they too burst in a spray of gore, and a fresh wave of pain.

Only when his body was too broken to even twitch and all sounds from his throat ceased did I deign to end his suffering.

The absence of my Light left my eyes in darkness, as they adjusted to the gloom of the battlefield once again. In my momentary blindness, the first thing that hit me was the smell. Kilriks corpse was little more than overcooked meat, a mere sack of flesh that no longer possessed of the fluidity of molecular vibration; he was more akin to obsidian charcoal than anything else, his armor rapidly cooling after having been melted into his leathery skin and cloak bearing the colors of House Claws burning beneath him.

I appraised my handiwork with satisfaction.

"Mmm, nice work, Laz."

In the time it took to regain my senses, Lyra had joined me at my side, humming in satisfaction.

"Am I the only one who's suddenly in the mood for barbeque?" she quipped with that particular dry tone of hers that was meant to be both humorous and serious.

…A nice ribeye sounded pretty good, actually.

"Nice shot," I praised idly. It was a nice shot; that much was to be expected from the Lyra Brasskin. But considering the timing and the setting, it was a shot of particular significance what would doubtless be talked about through the territories as one of those many legends the normal folk use to fuel their imaginations and wonder.

But glories may be got in time. For now, they had a job to do.

I eye the wreckage of the makeshift camp that was Kilriks' command center point to a ruined communication module.

"With Kilriks dead, the Fallen will be operating on standing orders. Who knows how long it will take for them to realize the one who gave them those orders is pushing daisies. We need to demoralize them; spread word of Kilriks' death, then jam all communications in the network."

Lyra eyed the object of my indication and nodded, shouldering her rifle and summoning her Ghost. "Gotcha. But what about the other Fallen party? Won't they be tipped off that we're preoccupied and open us up to an advantageous strike?"

"I don't think so. Kilriks was inviting another Baron, Raylaks to join him here and bolster their forces. It's likely after their losses at Senegal and now here, they're too off balance to try any sort of sortie. If they have any sense, they'll let things cool a bit before acting out. Gather their forces, and maybe wits too if they're smart."

Lyra nodded along understandingly. "Makes sense. I like it."

The crackling roar of the many fires around us give way to the thrum of engines as half a dozen vehicles rolled up Leman Avenue and behand unloading their passengers.

"And there's the reinforcements."

Ours, this time. Armed with rifles and ballistic weave, orders rang out as they began taking up positions around the square, some ducking into buildings with quick care, moving to the roofs to provide overwatch and keep eyes out for arriving or departing Fallen vessels, if any are left.

Having lost their Ketch, we didn't need to fear losing air superiority, especially with Kamil's trio of jumpships that he'd scrimshawed ground-to-air missile launchers onto. Calling them combat ready was a far stretch from the truth by any old military standard, but it did us well enough tonight.

The roar of aircraft engines whined overhead as Epsilon, the jumpship designated to provide close air support for this strike soared over the square.

"Search for any stragglers," Lyra ordered with a sdhout. "No prisoners, gents! We ain't showing Claws no mercy tonight!"

I raise my hand to my helm and keyed the tacnet. "Kamil, Eskal, Rigel, status."

Several clicks of static overlapped as the three audio channels mixed into mono.

"Eskal: scavs are losing it. They can't decide whether to run or to stand and fight. The smart ones are running, but the stupid ones are putting up a decent fight."

"This is Rigel. Fallen are trickling out of the city. My outriders picking them off as they come."

"Sounds like we caught 'em with their pants down," crackled Kamil's voice. "They're getting a good reaming, that's for sure."

Which was to be expected; with five Risen, the amount of casualties from the normal folk would be minimal, while casualties on the Fallen side would be maximized. With Kilriks out of play and the city center under our control, and Eskal and Kamil disrupting Fallen movement throughout the city, Rigel killing any alien what had the bad fortune to jump out of the frying pan and into the fire, and now the deployment of our deputy rangers to secure key locations throughout the city, the operation was all but complete.

"Standby Eskal, just a second and we'll break their spirit. Wait for your moment and push 'em over the edge," Lyra advised as her Ghost fiddled with the barely recoverable machine, eventually managing to transmit the message of Human victory over all local channels.

That done, and the repercussions of their demoralization left to my compatriots elsewhere in the city, there was one last matter to manage.

"Where're you going?" Lyra asked as I walked past her.

"Square's secure," I say simply, nodding my head toward my target. "I want to see what they left in there."

The city hall building itself stood as a stoic backdrop the scorched scrap that was once a Fallen encampment.

A long banner of the Claws hung down over the building's front, currently burning from stray embers rising from the chaos beneath it.

With a signal to a team of rangers to follow, I ascended the many steps to the half-barricaded entrance and blew it open.

If any Fallen remained inside, they wouldn't be long for this world.

--

The exploration of the building took a lot longer than initially expected. As most city halls, it was built with very particular Hellenic inspiration, with vast pillars at its front and a great domed ceiling. Because of this, it lacked the space to add more than four floors above the ground. To compensate, the architects had decided to build down. With another five levels to explore, the few squads of rangers were insufficient to search every nook and cranny in a sensible timeframe.

Opting to split up and widen our net, I took the upper floors with one squad while two more went into the sublevels.

What few traps we ran into were hastily made and obvious to the attentive eye, and so we avoided any unfortunate accidents. That said, any Fallen we might have encountered had booked it out the windows and down the back side of the building as quick as they could, opting to take their chances in the streets rather than the close quarters of the building's many hallways and meeting rooms.

Discretion is the better part of valor, after all.

We found very little of interest beyond supply stores and technology, which in and of itself was quite the boon. Its obvious the Claws never expected to be attacked so quickly or ferociously, or else they would have never unpacked so much material, and certainly not without ensuring that it would be destroyed if we stumbled upon it unawares.

Fallen were spiteful like that. Not that I blamed them; we had that in common.

"Squads two and three are pinging us," came Gabriel's voice of a sudden in my ear.

"What do they have?" I ask, giving a signal to first squad to continue their work and to secure the remainder of the last of the final, fifth floor while I made my way to the nearest stairwell.

"They say they've found a locked door hidden behind a camouflage unit, and its sealed up tight."

A locked door? A hidden locked door? Color me interested.

I look over the edge of the winding stairway to the bottom of the chasm. I vault over the side. "Tell them I'm on my way."

The flights of stairs rushed past me with rhythmic whooshes of air until I nearly hit terminal velocity. But with cushions of Light, I halt my decent in a physics-defying display that left me only inches above the bottommost floor.

A single guard stood on duty there, and his eyes were wide with surprise at my entrance, though he quickly composed himself with a salute.

"Marshal Lazarus, sir."

The young man's face was familiar, but I couldn't put a name to it.

"Ranger," I nodded in greeting. "What's the situation?"

The man turned and rounded the corner with a jut of his head, bidding me to follow. "Team One found a hidden door locked down and impervious to our weapons. Literally bumped into it, sir."

I couldn't help but laugh. "Isn't that how the best secrets are found?"

"I suppose so, sir," he replied uncertainly. "I'm not much one for treasure hunting."

"Whose territory you with?"

"Marshal Rigel, sir. Name's Percival."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Percival," I greeted with a smile and an outstretched hand without slowing our pace. He accepted with an initial hesitance, shaking my hand in proper greeting.

I could tell he had a number of questions on his mind, as the young are wont to do, but he wisely bit them back, considering the nature of the situation. We passed several other Rangers along the way, some alone going through abandoned equipment, while others hauled booty together, presumably to a service elevator that could take it all up to the surface.

Eventually we arrived at a single door that looked… disappointingly unimpressive. It was a drab grey with no knob or handle to open it with. Additionally, it was flush with the wall itself, and the seal between it and the frame was so tight I could bare see the space between.

Beside the door was a single console at which a pair of rangers fiddled, their attempts at overriding it clearly unsuccessful.

Besides them, six other Rangers loitered about, their bodies stiffening as caught sight my approach.

"Marshal," they greeted with salutes. "We've checked every room on this floor, and this is the last one we've been unable to get through." The man who spoke was a grizzled old man with a scruffy brown beard and a single scar the ran over his cheek. He indicates with the tip of his rifle. "We were hoping we could take advantage of your… particular talents."

"Rangers. Baffled by a door." I eye him and his fellows with a wry smile. "Now I've seen everything. Should I roll up my sleeves?"

Confident in their inability to overcome the offending obstacle, they gesture me forth with smiles of their own, inviting me to try my hand.

"Alright, move, move," I say, shooing away the two at the door's console and gathering Light into my fingers.

Dual singularities of concentrated Solar energy pooled in my palms. I slap them at specific intervals up and down both sides of the door at points where I expect the hinges are hidden. The team of fusion grenades burned bright and hot in place, the air warming noticeably as they worked.

--

The door withstood the power of my Light for nearly a minute before the hinges melted to slag and came off with a kick. It fell backwards with a clang and a clatter.

Inside was almost total darkness, save for a single fluorescent white light that hung from the ceiling, now swinging gently from my entrance. I walked in, wary of an ambush, solar light clenched in my left hand, gun primed in my right.

The darkness retreated as quickly as I entered, and the meager light of the lamp is left eclipsed by myself; I raised my hand and let my power brighten, and the room lit up like the midday sun.

Many wretched little figures flinched and cowered from my presence. Humans of varying skin colors murmured in quiet whispers, shielding their eyes from my luminosity. They were huddled in small heaps, both of which were separated into two corners. The center of the open room was occupied by mats and makeshift beds of garbage and stripped clothing. Men, women, and children of varying ages, all half or completely naked, gaunt and starving dared to look at me form behind their raised arms, and they saw that I was their deliverance.

Though I'd braced for it, the smell of waste and sweat was still overpowering.

My eyes scanned the lightened room, eyes of many colors staring back at me with doubting hope. Brown, black, green, grey, hazel… Even luminous blue.

My eye narrowed as I noticed that huddled in among the humans on my left, a single Fallen knelt. I immediately aimed my cannon at it, and everyone scattered from my sightline.

As the people cleared away, I noticed this wasn't any sort of ambush. This Fallen wasn't armed, armored, or even clothed for that matter. Its eyes were dull in the light of my power, and its carapace was scratched with deep furrows, grime, and cracks. The plates that formed its tough exterior were not quite symmetrical, pressing against each other in an odd way that I supposed must either be a molt defect, or a severe level of emaciation.

Most of all though, I noticed that this Fallen was completely white.

Not white as in Caucasian-white, but snow-covered mountain peak white. White as limestone. White as salt. My gaze lingered for a moment longer than I expected it to; I'd never seen Fallen of this particular color before. Was bleaching one's carapace a fad amongst Fallen, like dying hair was for humans back in the day? Or maybe was it a result of natural causes, like albinism? Strictly speaking the word didn't exactly fit scientifically, but colloquially the attribution fit.

My mind caught up to my eyes when a naked child ran up to me and reached up to my gun arm to try and pull it away.

"Don't hurt her!" she cried, heedless of the danger of my body being wreathed in light. If anything, the warmth was probably a nice change of pace for being down in this dark, dank basement. I raise my eye at the girl (though she couldn't see it under my helm) then looked back to the Fallen.

'Her?'

As if snapped from their reverie, those around the Fallen likewise gathered back around the alien with their hands outstretched placatingly.

"Please, sir! This one is kind! She's shared food with us and given us help. She's as much a prisoner as we are. Please spare her, sir!"

Murmured pleas echoed in similar fashion from those around her, though the alien itself simply bowed its head and remained kneeled. It did not meet my gaze.

The children, emboldened by their friend, also ran up to me, tugging at my cloak, begging me not to hurt her and to take them out of here. Begging for food and clothes and water.

I didn't lower my gun. I couldn't be sure that this Fallen wasn't hiding a knife or a grenade; something to threaten the people here to beg me on its behalf. But I would find out.

"First thing's first," I said, and the children stilled at the sound of my voice. "Let's get you all out of here." I jerked my head toward the entrance behind me.

One group, not huddled around the Fallen, quickly gathered what clothes or makeshift blankets that were strewn about and practically fell over each other to leave the room. The Rangers outside would take care of them.

The group defending the Fallen made to follow likewise, though more hesitantly, as the fate of their "friend" was still undecided.

"What about her?" one man asked, looking between my gun and the kneeling Fallen. "Is she also free to go?"

I looked between him and the alien and shrugged my shoulders. "We'll see," I said, and left it at that. There was no room to argue or plead on her behalf. Her fate was in my hands now, and the man knew it.

He hesitated. With an uncertain jerky movement, he turned and walked over to the alien, took one of her claws in his hand, whispered a few words of something unheard, though likely heartfelt, got up, and left.

When the room was clear of every human except myself, I stepped closer to the Fallen and got a better look at it.

The general convention for punishment, what the Fallen called "docking," was to sever and/or rip off the smaller, secondary arms as a symbol of disgrace, leaving the more functional and capable primary arms intact. That way, the new Dreg would at least be able to hold a gun and fight as a soldier.

But this Dreg's primary arms were docked, leaving only her meager secondary arms. I wondered if this was the Fallen's way of denoting slavery amongst their own kind…

I took a particular look at the doorway, checking to see if any refugees were lingering to watch. There weren't.

Good. That would make this easier.

I holstered my cannon with one hand and withdrew my silenced sidearm with the other, the Light sliding across my chest to my other arm as I switched my stance.

At the very least, they didn't need to hear this Fallen's death knell.

I pitied the alien for whatever pains it may have suffered at the hands of its own kind and was thankful at least that it seemed to be sympathetic to the humans in its company.

But a Fallen was a Fallen was a Fallen… And the only good Fallen was a dead Fallen.

Whatever life it had lived, it would be good to know its meager acts of kindness would be appreciated after its death. As thanks, I would at least make her death painless. A courtesy not given to her kind lightly.

She stared at the dark barrel pointed at her.

She didn't move. Didn't even flinch.

There was no fight left in her.

Instead, her dim eyes closed, and she leaned forward prostrating herself before me on chitin knees.

She opened her mouth to speak, but only a dry, raspy voice came out, broken by starved, thirsty coughs. It was at that moment I realized; she wasn't talking. She was singing.

It was a strange little tune, but not unpleasant, I thought. The words were barely audible, but I could make out their meaning well enough.

'The Riis winds howl a somber tone

The night quiets all hatchlings' moans

Its time to sleep in the light of the moons

Machine-grace grant all little ones rest

Four eyes close, and four arms still

Until the morning comes

And we play again in the blessed sun.'

At some point during the tune, I realized it was some sort of Fallen song… a lullaby. If there were any other verses, I didn't know, and she couldn't continue as she descended into a dry coughing fit that settled into silence.

I was keenly aware that I still hadn't pulled the trigger.

What was I waiting for? Ceremony?

My brow furrowed. Maybe I was. "As thanks for your kindness, I'll hear your last words, if you have any."

Her eyes opened and she looked at me for a moment. Then looked down at her knees. She looked at her claws, chipped and cracked and broken. I wondered if perhaps she didn't understand English…

Then she looked up at me. "A kwessstonn, pleeese," she hissed, sounding words not made for her mouth.

I gave her a tentative nod.

"Waaat doooees theee…" She searched for a word. "Tuuraaavelloor looook liiike?"

I blinked in surprise. Did she not know? Wasn't the Traveler the whole reason the Fallen were on Earth to begin with? How could she not even know what the Traveler, their so-called Great Machine, looked like?

It dawned on me that this Fallen might have been born after coming to Earth, or at the very least, born during their great journey between wherever they came from and here. But surely they must have had pictures; holograms, or something.

"You don't know?" I asked. She remained silent.

The seconds ticked by, and I realized that she wasn't going to answer… or maybe she was searching for an answer that would satisfy me.

Letting out a breath, I hold out my hand, and my Ghost materializes.

She jerked back in shock at the sight of him. And she bowed her head suddenly. "Fragment of the Great Machine," she whispered in her own tongue reverently. Was this the first time she'd seen a Ghost?

"Raise you head," I told her in Fallen-speech, and she did so reluctantly. If she was surprised to hear me speak her language, she didn't show it. But once her eyes were lifted, she was graced with spanning holographic image of the Traveler, its vast, white shell glowing blue in the three-dimensional light Gabriel cast.

She stared at it for several seconds… many minutes, actually. She reached out as if to touch it, but her finger slipped through the projection. It seemed to shake her from her reverie. She looked at me with excitement in her voice. "What is it like?" she asked.

I had to shake my head at her. "I not seen self. I told city-big."

Her countenance dimmed and her hand returned to the grimy floor. The silence returned and I allowed it to linger.

As my patience began to run out, I prompted her one last time. "Satisfied?"

Breaking from her short trance, she looked down at herself, at her arms and body. "Yes… Thank you for answering my prayers to the Great Machine."

My barrel dipped slightly in surprise at her words. I hadn't expected her to say something like that. And though the cue was given, and it seemed fitting to shoot her then and there, I felt compelled to inquire further…

"Prayers?" I asked. "What prayers?"

She looked up at me and her eyes… For a moment I was lost in them. Even with a deadly weapon primed and pointed at her head, ready to end her miserable life in an instant of sound and savagery, she looked so incredibly content. Her expression was peaceful… if indeed such a face could express something like peace in the first place.

"Us, together," she began, gesturing to the now empty room. "We asked the Great Machine for rescue, and here you have given it."

I almost huff. Coincidence at best. But I restrain myself.

"We have been together for many weeks and months, and have shared food and pains together." She inclined her head gently, exposing the ridges of her cranium. "If I have been worthy, then I will live on in their memories. If not, then I will be forgotten. In that way, I am satisfied."

Her words were spoken with a soft conviction that told me she actually believed them. For a moment, I was tempted to just stay quiet; let her continue believing them as I buried a bullet in her brain… But I'm not someone who can stand idly by and let someone else be wrong.

I just couldn't help myself…

"You're wrong," say, quieter than I intended.

I want to launch into a diatribe about how death is just an inevitable end. You don't live on in anyone's memories. Life is living. Death is dying. It's the binary dynamism that drives the universe. What exists does so because it is alive, not because it's dead. If it were ever otherwise, there would be no need for the likes of Risen whose very existence defies death. I want to chastise this Fallen. I want to tell her that death should never be embraced, but rather fought with every tooth and nail one can bring to bear. With every weapon wielded, with every plot prepared, with every meal consumed… everything.

Rage. Rage, you fool! Rage against death! Rage against complacency. Rage against your morbid acceptance.

But I didn't possess the vocabulary to articulate it. I couldn't explain that it was wrong to simply be happy that only the memory of you will exist after you die. I couldn't explain why that memory would only be a monument to her own weakness.

But then again, she was a Fallen… Why should I do her the favor?

I ground down my frustration with willpower and grit my teeth. She wasn't worth the time. She wasn't worth the effort.

She wasn't human. She was Fallen. That was all the motivation I needed.

I thumbed the hammer.

I pulled the trigger.

--

"Come on, get those trucks moving! We need to hit Noral Valley by midnight!" Lyra's voice thundered over the din as she directed the undulating mass of fighters and refugees this way and that. "Don't worry about scrap-salvage. Kamil and Eskel's groups will take care of that. Safety first, you fools! Let's go!"

The battle was over and won. What few Fallen were left were high-tailing it out of Waterview. The second raiding party from the Claws hadn't shown up yet, and with the gouts of smoke and fire spewing into the ever-darkening sky, it was unlikely they'd be interested in diving headfirst into unfavorable terrain to rescue their kin. No, they would steer clear for the moment. But that didn't mean they wouldn't launch an attack from outside the city. That would take time, but the odds would favor them, especially if they had armor or air support.

Lyra's group was responsible for rounding up and ferrying all refugees out of the city and to safety.

That didn't mean she wasn't picking her kills clean, though.

She kicked a Vandal's corpse over and reached down to his belt where its cloaking device was latched.

Familiar, distinct steps pricked her eardrums as her hands worked with the device she had become increasingly familiar with. She looked up to see Lazarus walking towards her, his eyes on the chaos of mobilization around them.

"And what have you been up to?" she asked, wrenching the tech free from its former, now very dead owner.

"Busy," he answered without explanation. "How goes the evacuation?"

"Apace," she returned with a one-shouldered shrug. "One of the jumpships got hit by a scorch cannon and went down outside the city, but Rigel managed to secure the crew and the salvage. Kamil thinks he can fix it with the scrap left over from the spider tank."

"With enough spare parts to account for any additional maintenance," he speculated, nodding to himself. "Good. It'll be useful in the future."

"Speaking of useful, how'd my stealth tech perform? You got into the city alright, so I guess I'm asking an answered question."

"Yeah..." Lazarus looked down at himself and nodded distantly. "Lost mine in the commotion. Sorry."

Lyra fixed him with a glare and huffed. "Whatever. It served its purpose. And I'll have plenty of spares to make more after this. Don't worry about it." She looked him over and noticed it wasn't just the stealth tech that was missing from his ensemble. "You know, I think this is the first time I've seen you without that jacket of yours. What happened?"

His eyes never met hers as he spoke, his gaze fixed firmly, pointedly on anything else. "Oil-burn. Had to chuck it."

Lyra regarded him for several seconds before nodding. "Damn shame. It looked good on you."

He laughed. "I'll find another. Or I'll have one made for me. Mrs. Boone's needlework is slow, but the quality is superb."

"Oh, I know. I've got a few things on backorder from her."

Lazarus fixed her with a curious eye. "That so? First I've heard of it."

It was Lyra's turn to laugh. "I didn't realize I had come to you to conduct my business. It was a personal request. And I've already paid her in advance."

Lazarus huffed. "It's not so much that you did it, but that I didn't know about it." Even if it was something as simple as clothing order, it was being conducted in his territory.

She fixed him with a knowing gaze. "No one can know everything, Laz. Even if it's you. Even if it's your turf."

Lazarus frowned, but gave her the last word anyway. She was right, and he knew it. He didn't have to like it, but he did have to acknowledge it.

"Marshal Brasskin!" A call came from the throng, claiming their attention as a man strode forward, rifle in hand.

"Emmett," Lyra miraculously identified beneath the soot and filth on his cheeks and unkempt beard. "What do you got for me?"

The man gave a loose salute to the both of them, noting Lazarus' presence as well. "Ma'am. Marshal Lazarus. A Morse transmission just got relayed in from Marshal Rigel and his outriders. The second Fallen party has been spotted eighty miles north of our position, put down at Ugyr Mount."

Lyra frowned at that. It wasn't particularly bad news, or unsurprising for that matter. Ugyr Mount was a series of large rock formations that would be the perfect rendezvous location for any fleeing Fallen. Tall, flat on top for landers, and easily defensible. But it wasn't particularly hospitable, even to the dogged four-arms. They'd figure that out soon enough.

"Understood. Anything else?"

Emmett shook his head. "No, ma'am. Should I have a message sent back?"

Lyra turned toward her fellow Risen. "How much time d'you think we've got?"

Lazarus sniffed the air as he looked around at the wrought carnage. "More than I thought we might. With the scope of the damage, the casualties, the limited survivors… I'd say after getting reamed in Senegal by the Ende group, they were looking for a win at the Eye."

His mention of the Ende aller Anderen sparrow gangs that roamed the marshlands outside the sunken port ruins of old Dakar brought a twitching grin to her lips. Even if she wasn't particularly fond of their brand of living, knowing that they'd given the Fallen hell was enough for her to appreciate them... for the moment at least.

"Taking back-t'-back losses like this is beyond their ability to retaliate for now," Lazarus continued. "They'll soak up any survivors, regroup, recoup, and saddle up for greener pastures."

Lyra nodded along. It was sensible logic, and Lazarus had particularly keen insight into Fallen goings-on.

"You sure?" she asked, more to put her own mind at ease than questioning his judgement.

"No," the Risen replied flatly, meeting her eyes. "Which is why I don't recommend sticking around for much longer."

She spent a minute in consideration before giving an assenting nod.

Caution was the word of the day.

She turned back to Emmett with command in her voice. "Signal Rigel's group to assist in the cleanup. With their help, we'll scour all the useful bits 'n bobs and skedaddle in two hours."

The man saluted and jogged off to do her bidding.

"That reminds me," she started with a snap of her fingers. Into her hands dropped a familiar looking weapon; a Fallen shock rifle. It was slightly scuffed, with black scoring visible around the metal of the barrel. Around its brace was wrapped the scorched remains of the dead Baron's banner-cloak, the sigil of the House of Claws identifiable, though – in her opinion – appropriately blackened.

Suffice to say, it was in relatively good condition considering. Lazarus looked the weapon over with a raised brow.

"Kilriks'?" he asked, taking the weapon in his hands.

She nodded. "Mhm. Yours by rights, I reckon."

He took a moment looking over the weapon before nodding in approval. "I appreciate it." Of course, he'd need to keep a store of ammunition for the weapon handy, but there was plenty to be looted in this mess…

She watched him for a minute, examining his cadence. It didn't go unnoticed.

"What?"

She pursed her lips dismissively and shook her head. "Nothing."

He cocked his head at her, unconvinced. "Something," he countered.

She waved off his suspicion with a grin. "Just heard from some of the refugees we found that there's a Fallen they were fond of imprisoned with 'em. Said they were worried for it. Said it was you who let them go."

"Yeah. And?"

She shrugged. "What'd you do with it?"

He hesitated a moment before shaping his hand into a gun, thumb-hammer twitching forward as he gave a click-click between his teeth.

She nodded knowingly. "Cold. You ain't never been the kindest when it comes to Fallen, but I didn't want to assume."

"It's a useful reputation to have around these parts," he admitted with a grin. For some reason, to Lyra, it seemed a little forced…

She reached out and gave him a slap on the shoulder. "You look tired. Once we get all this hauled off, what say we share the night together, eh?"

Her offer tore a laugh from his throat, and the weight on his shoulders seemed to lighten just a bit. "Only you would feel frisky after all of this, Ly."

She felt a laugh escape her chest as well. "Nothing gets the blood pumping like a good gunfight, I say."

She didn't press him for an answer; the offer, half serious, was a joke between them. At one point or another, Eskel, Rigel, and Kamil had all propositioned her for a tumble or two, and she'd turned each of them down. She found an especially humorous irony in extending the much-sought-after offer to Lazarus, the only one of the four men who always declined.

It pissed Eskel off to no end.

"Maybe," he answered, startling her from her laugh. "A little company wouldn't be so bad tonight…" He looked at her askance, as if suspecting that for all the times they'd laughed at her offers, it was some unspoken agreement between them that he was never actually supposed to accept them.

But it was for that very reason that Lyra felt a sudden concern wash over her. "If that's all you want," she agreed in more stern a tone than she'd intended, her eyes roaming his form from top to bottom. "You sure you're okay, Laz?"

"Yeah… Yeah I'm fine." He let out a deep, breathy sigh and nodded. "Just been a long day. That's all."

She nodded, knowing what that really meant. "We'll talk tonight. All night if you want. Promise."

A comfortable silence settled between them, and the cacophonous riot of work around them was dim in their ears.