Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)
Title: Child of the Dawn (#1460)
Author: Amara
Chapters: 5
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Archive: Tolkien
Category: Alternate Universe (AU)
Description: She has traveled over four hundred leagues to ally her tribe with the Western Elves. But will they unite with a clan of the Avari, the Unwilling, even to save the Middle-Earth they love?
Published: 21 Dec 2004
Updated: 28 Dec 2004
Warnings: Some battle violence
Type: General
Characters: Haldir:OFC:Lorien Elves:Aragorn
Chapter 1 - Sands of the Desert
Disclaimer: I own nothing that is recognizable to the Lord of the Rings franchise. The languages used in this story are Quenya, Primitive Elvish, and Sindarin. These are all owned by J.R.R. Tolkien.
What ARE mine are the original characters and the Darkmen tongue
*NOTE: Some of the dialogue spoken by Sálindë I have changed or edited, especially when speaking later to another Elf. Why write in Elvish when both speak the same language? On with the story. *
Sands of the Desert
The sands of the desert were cool at night, soft and silver in the moon beams; they muffled the sounds of the horse's gait. There was a slight breeze that fanned the rider's hair and robes. The rider lifted a tired head once more to the east, and whispered:
“Look, meldenya: home. Praise the gods: home!”
They had come to a canyon, so vast that its chasm spanned twelve leagues across and sixty leagues deep. The sides were sharp and near vertical, impossible to scale by one's self, let alone with a horse, unless one knew the path. The rider leaned closer to the horse's head, and whispered softly to him in a tongue beautiful and savage.
“Soon, Hravan, soon we will greet our families once more. First the canyon path. Soon.”
The horse seemed to listen intently to the rider's low voice, roughened by exhaustion and exposure to the harsh sands. Giving over to Hravan's knowledge, the rider slumped forward in the saddle, clinging to the long, braided mane of the dark horse. The path was trying during daylight hours, and grueling with the moon's guiding rays. Sharp rocks and massive outcroppings littered the path, spiraling downward at near vertical angles almost the entire journey. More than once the horse stumbled from the familiar trail, snorting away the rising sand particles, and continuing downward.
The night was quiet; despite their descent into the canyon, there was no sign of life stirring. No sounds of insects, no scent of predators, no signs of reason as to why this traveler would choose to enter such a place. After seeming hours, the pair reached the base of the canyon, and began yet another long dark journey through its walls.
*
The hot sun beat down, merciless and pitiless of those caught unawares. None could travel through the desert without suffering the Sun's wrath.
A harsh wind had picked up earlier in the day, causing others to hide in their keeps for shelter, while she was determined to bring news of the threat back to her people. Áravelca would know what to do, who would fight the Abhorrent One once more. She rode for days and nights, stopping only for rest. She rode an Elvish horse, covered leagues each day, yet still time was fading; her people's chance was fading. Men in caravans passed her on her way to her keep. The foolish ones were they who tried to follow her.
/Stupid humans./ she thought, /Have they not heard the stories of those who would hunt one such as I?/
Over dunes and hills of sand she and her horse rode. Whenever she glanced back, there they were. /Men./ she thought furiously in her mind /I will teach them a lesson they will forever regret./ Topping ridge, she reigned in her horse just beneath the outcropping. She slipped from the saddle, her blades at the ready, and waited for the Men to catch up.
Hot sand spilled from above as the humans and their horses flew over above her. The leader pulled up when he saw their quarry was no longer in sight, speaking in a harsh tongue to his comrades. All three of them swung from their saddles to the ground, and began arguing.
With a grim smile, she cast a look to her horse, nodded her head, and strode out from beneath the ledge.
*
They jumped when they saw her standing there, so cold and grim, not at all like the easy capture their leader had convinced them they would have. Instead of a meek Elvish maiden for the taking, this demon had swords. The demon called out:
"Gea khon'vak, Moratan?" (What do you want, Darkman?)
Their leader answered with a fake smile:
"Sh'ishida vá khaiva opiri hanuj. Centisilm klo wenwir." (There is a bounty on all Elves. One hundred silvers for every catch.)
If possible, the demon's eyes began to glow silver fire as she answered in a voice cold as winter ice:
"Khonvila centipar gogor rhothi hassen." (It appears your lives aren't worth more.)
*
Raising her blades to the sun, she charged at the three Men. Crying aloud, she sliced an arc in the air as she aimed at the nearest head. Ignoring the sickening thud that accompanied her success, she flew at the next nearest human. This one was more prepared than his friend, and was at first successful in parrying her blows, but her skill soon outmatched his.
Executing a spin, she crouched to the ground and kicked out a leg, causing him to fall hard on the sand. Quickly, she cried aloud again and thrust her right sword into his heart. Pulling out her blade, she turned around to face the leader.
Sweat dripped from her brow as she fought with him under the hot sun. Blood from both warriors dripped onto the blistering sands as each wounded the other. She was quick and light around her enemy, dodging his attacks and lashing out with her own.
Finally, she slammed her left blade against his so violently they became locked together in a vicious battle of strength. He desperately tried to stop its descent, as its target was his neck. Screaming aloud, she buried her right blade into his belly, the force behind it so intense it broke through his armor.
He made a grunt, and with his grip on his sword loosening, she sliced through his neck with a powerful thrust, severing his head. Panting from both exertion and loss of blood, she stumbled back to her mount, searching for her pack. Ripping a set of clothes from the haversack, she tore strips from the shirt and tied her injuries tightly to staunch the flow of blood. Walking a bit unsteadily back out into the sun, she coldly padded through the men's clothing, searching for identification from their cities, or even lords.
Disgusted, she ripped their respective symbols from their clothes, and remounted her horse. Spitting on the ground where the bodies of the Men lay, she turned her mount to the east, and rode off.
Returning Home
All was quiet throughout the canyon as the pair continued through the darkness. The wind breathed lightly through the scattered grasses, its taste dry and warm on the rider’s lips. She breathed in the harsh air, inhaling the familiar scent of sweet grass and wild herbs. By the gods, she had been away from home for too long.
Hravan walked along the familiar path for hours, shying away from the shadows and keeping along the moonlit ground. Tossing his head tiredly, he rounded a bend, halting his weary gait, and waited for his rider to wake.
Jolted from her half-sleeping trance, his rider shook herself and raised her hand to the darkened canyon wall, waiting for the moon to strike the reflector strapped to her palm. As her hand rose, the moon light shining into the canyon was directed into a single beam passing through the shadowed wall. A rumbling began deep inside the canyon, becoming a dull roar that seemed to split the walls asunder as an opening appeared within the solid rock, large enough for her and Hravan to pass through.
Gently spurring the horse’s side, they entered the even darker gloom under the mountain. Down, down they went, deeper and farther into the darkness. Both knew these shadows: they had played in them as child and colt, had grown to maturity within the security found at the end of their road; neither had need for a light or guiding source, each knew the paths and turns of the cavern as old friends.
Each change of direction brought the pair closer to exhaustion. Wearily, the eyes of the rider closed in fatigue, unflinching even as a cold arrowhead edged its way into her neck.
*
“Those who trespass the land of the Áraquendi are fated to die a painful death if their desire be evil,” came a disembodied voice, “What is thy name, stranger?”
Eyes of silver flickered in the torchlight, their usual color dimmed in weary.
“You know all the names of our kin, Morilír, yet you recall not your sister?”
A dry, weak laugh sounded from the rider’s throat, as she held out a hand to the light he carried:
“Your eyes are weak if they deceive you now, / titta onóro /.”
“Sálindë!” cried the guard, lowering his bow and grasping her hand with one of his own, “I had not thought to look for you for three weeks more; have you urgent word for Áravelca?”
“Yes,” came the exhausted reply.
Gently, he eased his sister out of her saddle, carrying her up a darkened stair of stone, into the guard house. There, he passed into the bedchamber, laying her gently upon the light blanket.
“/ Sérë sin /, Sálindë; I will watch over Hravan, and send word to the Keep. Áravelca will know of your return.”
“Thank you, brother,” she whispered softly, turning her head into her pillow and falling into a deep slumber.
Leaving her to dream, Morilír took himself from the room, climbed down the stone ladder, and ran his hands along the sweaty horse’s flank.
Even with sweat dripping from him, the Elf had to admit that his sister’s horse was a sight to behold. Blacker than the gloom of under the mountains, the horse stood at sixteen hands, taller than most of Áravelca’s stallions. A mane and tail of sable hair, not coarse as most horses, but with fine and soft strands.
Carefully, he set about grooming the exhausted animal, currying him and brushing his face gently, taking great care with picking his diamond-hard hooves. When he was covered in stray horse hair and sweat, Morilír slapped the stallion on the rump in a friendly manner, knowing he could understand such an emotion. Placing water and sweet wild grass before him, Morilír left him to his grazing and once again climbed the stone ladder, this time to the highest point of the sentry-post.
There, at the top, was a beacon made from wood and oil, ready and set to be lit, to send messages to the Keep. Snatching a tinderbox from a convenient niche, he kindled the fire, the tendrils of smoke trailing above him into the crevices and fissures of the mountains. Within seconds, the piled kindling ignited, causing the wood to burn brightly, its brilliance shining out as a beacon among the darkness.
Miles away, the farthest outpost of the Keep lit its answering fire, and Morilír took a specially-made piece of timber from another niche; when forced to burn, it would cause the flames of the blaze to turn red, a signal that a spy had returned from their charge. Silently, he fed the wood to the flames, standing immobile as he watched the flames of / Haira Osto / turn silver in answer. It would not be long until an escort arrived to take his sister to the Keep, he reflected, but it will be enough for her strength to return to her.
*
A.N.:
Note: The language used in this chapter is a mixture of Quenya and Primitive Elvish I found online, courtesy of Ardalambion. The reasons for this language mix will become apparent later.
Hravan = meaning "Wild"
Sálindë = meaning “Firesong”
Morilír = meaning “Blacksong”
Translation:
/ Meldenya / = my friend
/ Titta onóro / = Little brother
/ Sérë sin / = Rest now
/ Haira Osto / = Far-City, name of an outpost
*Note: The tongue of the Men is my own made-up language (don't have ITS name yet)*
Chapter 2 - Choosing of the Council
Disclaimer: I own nothing that is recognizable to the Lord of the Rings franchise. The languages used in this story are Quenya, Primitive Elvish, and Sindarin. These are all owned by J.R.R. Tolkien.
What ARE mine are the original characters and the Darkmen tongue.
*NOTE: Some content of the story may include some fantastical elements. May lead readers to think of OC as Mary-Sue, but reasons for said fantasy will be included later on. And here we go!*
Choosing of the Council
“Are you certain, Sálindë; Thauron has returned?”
“Yes, Áravelca; his messengers and spies are as serpent-tongues in the Southlands, promising riches and lands for their loyalty.”
Keeping her place on bended knee, she spat her disgust on the hard-packed earth floor:
“Darkmen are gathering to His land, my queen. Men and fell beasts of all kinds, chanting His name. I have heard tales of the Dark One’s supreme power and his plan to rule all those who oppose Him. It is also whispered that His presence is ever watchful, yet not in physical form. The Bane of Men has not found Its way to Him, though His spirit has lost none of its…potency.”
She turned her silver eyes to her, worry evident in their depths.
“It is said that Anár will soon set on those of the West, Mother.”
The warrior before her stood, tall and regal, hard as the scales of the ancient dragons long slain from the Keep, and as beautiful as her namesake. Sálindë recalled how her mother had always stood tall and proud, even at the death of her consort, Sálindë’s father Helcarusco. Bronze and silver glinted in the lamplight as the ruler of Osto Áraquendi paced the floor. After long minutes, she looked up into her daughter’s eyes.
“He will destroy the worlds of Men and Eldômi.”
Her spy nodded affirmatively.
“It is so, my queen.”
“And after he enslaves them,” thought Áravelca out loud, “He will come for what we protect.”
“That is so as well, my queen.”
Again, silence reigned as the younger Elf remained on bended knee to her queen, and Áravelca, in turn, gazing at a tapestry hanging on the smooth rock wall.
“For the sake of our souls,” she said hoarsely, staring at the likeness of her other family, “We must send word of this to the Eldômi, to the one Tárion spoke of as ‘crowned with light’.”
“Alatáriel,” breathed the kneeling figure, overcome by the legend of this powerful Elven woman born on the shores of Valinór.
Áravelca sneered slightly at her daughter’s awe, but pressed on nevertheless, ever aware of the threat to her people, and those of their Kindred.
“You have heard of her spoken in reverence, my daughter, yet do not allow yourself to be taken in by her words of wisdom.”
Startled, the Elf stood, her tall height matching her mother’s equally, shock in her eyes:
“What is it you speak of, Mother?”
“I believe it is time to make our existence known to our distant kin once more, as well as our aid in this age of impending doom.”
She watched as her daughter’s eyes sparked with anger, and heard as her usually calm voice replied coated in ice:
“Respect I have for you, my queen, but I trust you have not forgotten the last time it was believed to have been wise to give aid to the Eldômi.”
Áravelca turned to Sálindë, her midnight cloak swirling in loose folds.
“Nay, I have not forgotten, daughter of mine,” she hissed in reply, “I remember very well how our actions were repaid, but now is not the time for vengeance. This is the same enemy whom our people distrusted and fought against three thousand years before. The same evil that threatened our lands and its mighty treasure, our sworn duty to the gods.”
Anger swept through Sálindë, its claws evident in her voice:
“Yet we are to forget the past and swear blood to those who betrayed us?”
“You forget, my daughter,” said the queen, turning away from her again, “They call us the betrayers, the enemies of the gods.”
Neither spoke for long moments, until came the question:
“Will you speak to the Council of this?”
“Yes,” the older elleth sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose, “As I will speak to your brothers, and our people.”
In silence, Sálindë bowed her head, gripping her fist to her chest in a clenched salute.
“Then it shall be done, my queen.”
Stiffly, she bowed and exited the chamber, her black cloak sweeping behind her.
*
As she stood before the assembled Elders, she gazed blankly at her surroundings. The limestone caverns beneath the mountains were numerous and vast in the domain of the Áraquendi, but few were as large and intimidating as the Council Chamber. There were representatives from all the surviving tribes of the Kinn-lai * , at least two from each. As she watched them, the younger envoy of the Russeledâ flushed an unnatural crimson at a particular argument.
The cavern was lit by a gentle pale blue glow, emitted by a massive stone chandelier. The light itself came from various plants stored and collected in pockets carved into the rock. Its branches extended far from its source, allowing for maximum visibility in the cave.
Voices droned through the entire space, arguing, explaining, wheedling, convincing, and accepting. At long last, Sálindë saw her mother stand at the head of the Council, flanked by Salinde’s eldest brother and heir to the throne, Máeran, and her advisor, Taurossë. The iron in her mother’s stance told her all she needed to know of her fate.
“It has been decided, Sálindë, child of Áravelca and Helcarusco, Princess of the Áraquendi, that news of the Abhorrent One’s return must not be kept secret from the Eldômi, no matter the penalty of such a message. You have been chosen as the most worthy to bring such a message to the one known as Alatáriel. This task will be perilous, both on the journey, and once you reach the lands of / Laurinataurë /; it is not certain whether you would survive to return to our land. It is not a command, but rather a choice. We have chosen you to be the champion of the Kinn-lai: it is your choice to fulfill this destiny, or walk another path.”
For long minutes, silence reigned as each member of the Council looked at the lone Elf before them. She stood tall and proud, yet her eyes held defeat; the part of Áravelca that was the mother of this warrior nearly broke as the Dawn-Elf replied:
“I will go to the Eldômi…I will find Alatáriel…and I will give her your message.”
Here she squared her shoulders, and the proud set of her shoulders rose as she inhaled deeply.
“If I am to die by the hand of the Abhorrent One, or by the blade of my Kindred, then I shall bring honor to my people by dying with valor.”
Áravelca-the-queen raised her staff and rapped it loudly on the floor as Áravelca-the-mother wept bitterly at the choice of her only daughter.
“So shall it be.”
*
Sweeping her leg over her saddle, she glanced back at the farewell party. Áravelca raised a hand in formal farewell, and her brothers crossed their left arm over their right chest in salute. As the other members of the company copied the gesture, she knew they were praying to the gods for her protection.
Unexpectedly, Áravelca urged her horse toward her, leaning close to murmur:
“Do not forget the past, my Fire Song. Keep it burning with you on your journey: look deep within yourself and discover if whether or not past misdeeds are worth the destruction of the world.”
Nodding her silver head in understanding Sálindë glanced once more at her brothers, then spurred Hravan’s sides swiftly, bracing herself as he broke out into a swift gallop.
“Ride, / meldenya /,” she whispered in his ear as the land rolled by her in a harsh blur, “Ride swift!”
Black Rider
“Something is coming, Celeborn.”
He placed a gentle hand on her arm, comfort in his eyes.
“What have you seen?”
“A rider…garbed in black.”
“Nazgûl?’
“No, I know their presence. This is something more different that anything I have seen.”
“Are there any emblems, markings?”
She closed her eyes, trying to recall the vision of the black rider, the sweeping cloak darker than night, the speed of the horse. Stunned, the blue orbs sprang open, her tone disbelieving:
“I saw no signature, Celeborn, yet there was something I recognized: an essence I knew, yet it was not Eldar.”
Celeborn reeled back, his expression thunderstruck and his mind staggering.
“Avari?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice unsteady, “and moving swiftly. Whomever rides pauses only to rest and feed their horse, a descendant of a mearas. I do not know how long they have traveled, but they will have reached our borders in three days’ time.”
Thunderstruck, the Lord of Lórien unceremoniously dropped to a nearby bench; so stupefied was he his seating did not have his usual grace and a soft thud! was heard.
Neither spoke, so unusually engrossed in their own thoughts. The turmoil of Celeborn’s mind lessened, at length; the spirit of the woods soothing him, allowing him to truly think on what this latest development would mean.
Time passed for them, sitting in the glade and thinking. At long last, Galadriel stood.
“It has often troubled my heart to remember the days of the war with Sauron.”
As she looked at him, he understood and felt her pain along with his own. At length, he remarked:
“Not all the darkness of those memories was caused by Sauron alone … some was of our own making, and now it has returned to cast its light to all.”
His wife bowed her golden head over her mirror, her eyes closed as she recalled those days after His defeat. At her voice, Celeborn looked up:
“Come, my husband,” she smiled sadly, holding out her hand to him, “Let us walk awhile beneath the lights of Elbereth.”
He took her hand and placed it on his arm; they both watched as the stars above them sparkled and cast shadows upon the ground.
Together, they walked along the moonlit talans, both in pensive thought; after a time, Celeborn spoke:
“What shall we do now, my wife?”
Galadriel sighed, resting her head upon his shoulder. Gently, he took her in his arms, causing her head to shift to his chest. Tucking her hair beneath his chin, he held her beneath the stars of their Golden Wood. In a quiet voice, he answered for her:
“I take it that you do not know, either, { melethen }.”
*
Grass of the lands she traveled whipped at her horse’s legs as they raced toward their goal. Her black cape flew behind her, trailing in the whistling wind.
The beat of her heart grew feverish, her blood pounding through her veins as her spirit melded with that of Hravan. /Faster, Hravan, faster/ she cried into the void /Faster we must fly!/
The horse screamed in response and she felt his muscles tightened between her thighs as he added another burst of speed to their haste. Joining her spirit with that of the horse, she poured all she could into his heart, giving strength and endurance. He neighed once more, charging his head forward as the wind screamed at their approach.
Faster than time they flew, riding for hours past nightfall and before the sun had risen; they thundered past the Mountains of Ash and the Dead Marshes, so fast was their pace the stinking marshland did not have a chance to force its stench upon them. Past the Sea of Rhûn, they had paused only refresh the horse’s strength.
Sálindë hurried the process by using the technique her father had taught her brother before his death, who had in turn instructed her. Thoughts of anxiety and despair were forced from her mind as she immersed herself in her surroundings, drawing the strength through her body in to Hravan.
That first time she had used this trick in the Western lands, the readiness of life had knocked her off her feet quite literally; she hadn’t had time to realize her home and this land were so very different. Yet with each taking of spirit, Sálindë knew she had to give it back: after each rest, she returned the life, as it had nurtured and strengthened their own enough.
The rise of each morn saw her riding hard and swift; the setting of the sun would find her unchanged. Ever quickening, ever hastening, she and her companion never strayed from their course.
*
A.N.:
Áravelca = Dawnflame
Sálindë = Firesong
Helcarusco = Icefox
/ words / = Quenya
{ words }= Sindarin
Kinn-lai: According to Tolkien, the Avari were split into six clans, one of which were the Kinn-lai. In this story, I have made it so the other clans died out, leaving the Kinn-lai as the surviving people, and ITS division into separate clans. More on this later.
Translation:
/ Thauron / = the Abhorrent One (You guess who…)
/ Anár / = the Sun
/ Eldômi / = “Twilight Elves” (Q and Avarin)
Alatáriel = meaning “maiden crowned with radiant garland”; Telerin name for Galadriel
/ Russeledâ / = Red-Elves (Avarin)
Máeran = meaning “Iron Hand”
Taurossë = meaning “Mighty Storm”
/ Laurinataurë / = Lothlórien, the Golden Wood
Meldenya = My friend
{ Melethen } = My love
Chapter 3 - The Long and Winding Road
Disclaimer: I own nothing that is recognizable to the Lord of the Rings franchise. The languages used in this story are Quenya, Primitive Elvish, and Sindarin. These are all owned by J.R.R. Tolkien.
What ARE mine are the original characters
*NOTE: NO ANIMALS WERE HARMED DURING THE PRODUCTION OF THIS CHAPTER!!!*
Credit is due to the Beatles, whose song "The Long and Winding Road" inspired the title of this particular chapter. On with the story!
The Long and Winding Road
The trees whispered to themselves as the watchful wardens patrolled their borders, disguising their steps and apparel. A crisp breeze rustled through the canopy, causing a slight flicker of silver to glint between the leaves. If one should choose to look long enough, it would seem to appear is if the moon had simply given light to a golden leaf. However, if one was patient, and was gifted with Elvish sight, they could, perhaps, distinguish the pattern of leaves from the grey hood of a cloak.
Again the breeze rippled through the woods, tousling the folds of the Elvish cloak and flipping long strands of blond hair into the air once more. Cold, piercing eyes gazed out into the night-filled lands, ever vigilant of their duty. Brows black as the sky arched above those eyes, as hair silver as the stars rested haphazardly beneath the hood. A strong arm lifted itself to brush back the errant strands, then halted as the sensitive ears caught a distant sound.
Tucking the strands into place, the figure ran along the tree branches to the nearest flet, desiring a look at what his ears perceived. Landing quietly, he halted behind the lone guard standing sentinel. Pulling back the bowstring, the guard swung around and took aim, lowering his bow as he recognized the Marchwarden.
“My apologies, Marchwarden; I did not realize it was you.”
“Peace, Radir, I approve your diligence,” he replied in a low voice, straining his eyes to the darkness beyond the flet. The warden noticed this, and asked quietly:
“What is it, Haldir? What do your eyes see?”
He didn’t respond, his cold eyes searching the distance for the sound he had heard. /There!/ His eyes riveted upon a speck in the distance. Narrowing them, he tried to make out the moving blur.
“Do you see that, Radir?” he asked, pointing an arm in the direction of the blur.
The guard followed his hand, looking for long minutes into the darkened gloom of night.
“No,” he said finally, shaking his head, “I cannot; but then I do not have the strength of your sight. Let us wait a few hours, and perhaps what you see will move closer.”
Haldir nodded absently as he made himself comfortable on the floor of the platform. The chill grew as the two Elves watched, eyes trained on the distant dark, yet neither shivered from the cold. Two hours passed without change in either warden; as the sun finally began to rise, the sky above them turned from black to grey, then purple, then pink, then streaked with orange, and at last the first hints of blue.
The land before them lightened, turning from black to green, and as he raised his eyes once more, Radir jumped in astonishment and shouted to his companion:
“Ah, look! There it is, I see it!”
Immediately, a piercing whistle was heard as Haldir called for support. Moments passed slowly until a tell-tale step sounded and six other wardens arrived, not a hair out of place and their bows at their sides.
{ Yrch, Haldir? } asked the closest Elf, his blond hair braided back and his eyes eager in their expression.
“I know not; there is a shadow riding fast in our direction,” Haldir replied.
As one the Elves turned to the place he pointed. In the light of day it was clear a dark shape was swiftly moving north along the Anduín.
*
Breathing hard, her aches and fatigue were forgotten as Anár rose from the black morning and flooded the land. Her wonder at the fertile landscape was ruthlessly pushed aside as she focused her mind on the wood before her. This was the Golden Wood: this was Laurinataurë, the end of her long road.
The adrenaline-driven gallop of Hravan caused for the scenery to fly past them, the hair of Hravan’s mane and tail streaming behind their furious run: her black hood was firmly tied around her head, securing her tresses.
“Soon, Hravan, there lies the end of our road.”
The horse’s breath became harsh as he hurtled to his goal; he was exhausted, and would have fallen long before if not for his rider’s strength. He pressed on up the river, gaining ground on the trees.
*
“It is a Black Rider!” whispered Menegal.
Haldir looked longer, searching for that presence of evil.
“No,” he said at last, “It is not Nazgûl; something else comes to the Lórien. Yet what would cause a horse to ride so hard, so long?”
For he could see the flecks of foam streaking the horse’s coat, slick with sweat; flanks glistening, the animal’s chest seemed to heave and its head to charge as if spurred by the Orcs of Mordor.
“I have never seen a beast move with such speed,” murmured a blond Elf to his right, placing a hand on the rail to lean in for a closer look.
Haldir swiftly moved his arm to block the warden’s action, never taking his eyes from the furious pair, saying:
“They ride to the Wood: they cannot pass without reason and permission of the wardens. Position yourselves and ready your bows: do not fire until I say.”
Silent were the Elves as they obeyed his order, their cloaks blending into the sun-filled trees perfectly: only to another of the Galadhrim could identify them for what the silent shadows truly were. Nearer and nearer the beast and its rider came to the borders of the wood, the foam-flecked body of the horse tireless and unrelenting in its course.
A frown appeared on the Marchwarden’s face as he realized that the horse and its rider were not going to slow down.
*
A wave of exultation hit her as they came closer and closer to the trees, a wave that made its way to Hravan’s heart, building another surge of speed as they raced to the boundaries of the wood. /I have done it!/ came the thought, heavy with relief and tearful joy.
*
As the black horse thundered into the wood, the Elves all looked to Haldir, waiting for his command. Grimly, he signaled the one nearest his side; the warden nodded, and pulled taut his bowstring, lining his sights with that of the horse. The arrow was loosed, a whistle sailing through the trees as it hit its mark in the flank of the horse.
The beast let out a terrible scream, rearing up on its hind legs and crashing backwards onto its trail. All watched as the rider fell from the saddle to the ground, as the horse fell violently onto the rider’s leg, and all heard the deafening Crack! that sounded through the trees.
A Long Awaited Meeting
He lightly dropped to the forest floor, signaling his wardens to remain with a single whistle. Pulling his bowstring taut, he cautiously made his way toward the beast and rider. Stepping around the foliage, the black horse came into view, chest heaving, its breath coming harshly through the teeth. Its legs splayed askew, he saw that its entire body was slick with sweat and its strange eyes were rolling around in its head. He also noticed it was most definitely a stallion as he knelt by the horse’s injured flank, releasing his grip on his bow to lay a hand on the wound.
“Stay, be quiet now, rest. You have journeyed far and have reached the trees of Lórien. Be gentle, mighty one.”
Surprisingly, the horse did not respond as normal horses did, neither quieting its struggles at his voice nor relaxing its muscles. Perturbed, he nevertheless laid his bow aside and reached for the blood-running arrow laming the horse’s flank. His voice soft and gentle, healing words passed through his lips as he slowly pulled the shaft from the wound. The stallion began to move its legs, soft whinnies and neighs marking his awareness of the pain.
As soon as the barbed tip of the arrow was pulled from the animal’s flesh, he felt its eyes on him and as he looked up, prepared to give more words of healing, he was caught in them. Transfixed, they were eerie and strange, filled with pain and fear; there was so much life in them, as if two spirits were looking out from each eye.
Just as suddenly ensnared he was released, and looked upon a normal horse’s eyes. A low groan sounded from the heretofore unconscious rider; immediately, Haldir heard the slight sound of bowstrings growing taut. Making his way around the horse, he knelt beside the black figure, pulling aside the midnight cloak from the rider’s head. Gasping aloud, the normally stoic Marchwarden stumbled to his feet, reaching for his bow and aiming at the head of silver hair spilling beneath the hood, ears pointed at the tips.
All at once, he was surrounded by his wardens, bows drawn and silent as they looked on at the figure. Another groan filled the wood as the rider stirred, hissing with pain at their left leg, still pinned by the horse’s body; as the silver head was thrown back in pain, Haldir noted the rider was female.
“Who are you that would trespass within the Golden Wood?” his voice, commanding and aloof, rang throughout the trees.
The eyes of the elleth sprang open, shocking the wardens even more: her eyes, startled and pain-filled, were as silver as the mithril strands of her hair. Maintaining his indifferent exterior, Haldir repeated his question, receiving silence and a baleful glare in response. Furrowing his brow, he suddenly realized she might not be inclined to be forthcoming with answers while trapped beneath her horse. As he moved toward her, however, her mount seemed to read his thoughts, and struggled to stand. After a few failed attempts, the silver-haired elleth placed a shaking hand upon the uninjured flank; at her touch, the beast seem to gain strength and finally stood, towering over her seated form. /What a magnificent animal!/ was his first thought. The second was /How does she control him?/
Indeed, it seemed as if the horse had obeyed a silent command: unspoken yet understood. As soon as the animal had regained its footing, he knelt down beside the elleth, waiting patiently as she grasped his long neck and rising, pulling her upright with him.
/She is tall/ Haldir noted, realizing she was a scarce finger’s width shorter than his own height. Yet another surprise was in store for the wardens as she swept back her midnight cloak, revealing a body clothed in black, skin the color of honey. Seemingly ignoring the Elves around her, she unfastened the cloak and laid it atop her saddle. As she took a step forward, she clutched at her leg in pain, her breath whistling through clenched teeth.
*
Looking up at the Sun-haired Elf, she grew angry at the others around her. /These are the Western Ones held in such esteem by Tárion?/ she fumed, clutching her leg and leaning against the stallion. As though sensing her ire, the black horse nudged her shoulder, shaking her eyes from those of the cold-eyed one before her. Turning her attention, she stroked his thick, sweaty neck, humming a soft song under her breath.
Giving him a slight push while using his strong neck as a crutch, she hobbled her way to one of the giant trees, awed by its size and pulsating life, yet stifling her feelings and lowering herself with a thud! to the base of the tree. Flicking his tail, Hravan knelt beside her once more, allowing her fingers to probe his wound, whinnying when she touched too raw a nerve.
Placing one hand on the wound and the other to her leg, she was surprised to feel that Hravan’s injury been already healed, at least partially; she wondered if one of the Sun-hairs had healed him. Closing her eyes and opening her mind, she stretched out to the land around her, cautious of its life-force and channeling its strength into Hravan and herself to heal them both.
*
When she had turned her back to him, his bow had followed her form, the bows of his wardens doing the same. He had never seen such an Elf as she before, and though he had his suspicions, he refrained from shooting her now lest he was wrong. All at once, he felt a strange pull, directed from the elleth; as if she was drawing the very life from her surroundings.
“What is it you take from this wood?” he asked, his voice demanding an answer.
At first it seemed she had not heard him, then her eyes opened and her hands moved from her leg and the horse’s flank to his neck, pulling her body upright as he rose. When she offered no response, he grew irritated at her silence; in his frustration, he lowered his bow, his wardens doing the same, intent on discovering her identity. He took a measured step toward her, using the strength in his body to intimidate her.
{ Man le? } he asked, his voice low, yet still heard by those around him, “Who are you?”
No answer.
*
“What do you suggest, Haldir?”
The Marchwarden looked at the elleth, his gaze direct and long; he took in the way her chin was lifted in pride, the way her horse protected her from the wardens and himself, and the way she seemed to walk, the stride of a warrior yet seeming resigned to some fate bound to her life. Holding her eyes for a few seconds, he answered:
“She will go to the Lady; perhaps she may shed some light on this mystery.”
She was a warrior; Haldir had no doubts about that. She wore swords similar to those used in ancient times strapped to her back, along with a bow and quiver not quite full of arrows. He pulled a length of rope from beneath his tunic, and proceeded to bind her hands in front of her; with a look, one of his wardens produced a blindfold. Taking it without a glance, he tied it around her eyes, even as they burned into his own.
Though he felt she was a warrior, she had made no resistance to being bound, except for that fierce glare she had given him before he blindfolded her eyes. Stepping back from her, he saw that some of his wardens were looking at her with wonder and some with distrust. /If they suspect what I do, they will wish her damage./ he thought, steeling his mind against his heart, /I cannot allow her to be harmed before she is brought before the Lady./
*
They marched for hours, time passing slowly in silence as the Sun-hairs walked in single file, Sálindë in the middle, her hands and eyes bound with Hravan at her side. She had not understood the tongue of the Sun-haired Elves, though some of it resembled a few words of her own. Refusing to appear weak and discredit her people, she marched along with them, though she was exhausted beyond measure. At times, resting her head on Hravan’s shoulder, she melded her mind with that of her horse and used his eyes to watch her footing.
Through his eyes she could see the path before her, memorizing the trees and plants around her; she could also see the way the Western Elves looked at her, fear and suspicion in their looks. In the eyes of one, however, there was more than doubt and fear: revulsion seemed to lash out at her supposedly oblivious form. Using Hravan’s eyes, she took a closer look and realized he greatly resembled the one who had startled her into consciousness.
*
“Haldir,” called the courier, resting his bow and bowing to the Marchwarden, a smile in his eyes, “How fare you, friend?”
“Well met, Cassemir; do you bring tidings from my Lady?”
“Indeed, I d-”
Haldir looked at him, then realized he was staring at his strange ward.
“What is your message, Cassemir?” asked the Marchwarden quietly, his voice low and commanding attention. At once, the courier snapped his attention back to his friend and closed his open mouth.
“She requests you leave your guest with one of your brothers before you report to her.”
Annoyed, yet unsure as to why he was annoyed, Haldir answered curtly:
“My thanks, my friend,” then, turning to his closest brother, he said, “I leave her with you, Orophin; take her to the practice yard: there should be no one to disturb you there. I will return.”
He clasped his brother’s hand and dismissed the other wardens, turning from the strange elleth, still blindfolded and bound, to the stairs, preparing to ascend them and report to the Lady Galadriel.
*
A.N.:
/words/ = thoughts
/ words / = Quenya
{ words } = Sindarin
Radir = meaning "Hunter who finds a way"
Menegal = meaning "Thousand Lights"
Translation (S):
Yrch = Orcs
Man le = Who are you
Chapter 4 - Understanding
Disclaimer: I own nothing that is recognizable to the Lord of the Rings franchise. The languages used in this story are Quenya, Primitive Elvish, and Sindarin. These are all owned by J.R.R. Tolkien.
What ARE mine are the original characters
*NOTE: Some parts may be Mary-Suish, but will be explained later on, hopefully to satisfaction. If not, I'm sorry.*
Understanding
Looking around, the warden suddenly turned his gaze to the courier, seeing his usefulness to a problem.
“Cassemir,” he called, bringing the Elf’s focus to him, “Would you take this one’s horse to the stable yard, until it is called for? I would obey my brother’s command, yet find that dealing with the beast will hinder me.”
“I agree, Orophin: I will do this for you.”
With a gentle hand, the Elf took the rope encircled about the stallion’s neck, pulling softly, amazed when the animal did not respond, and instead seemed to stand his ground beside the elleth. His eyes took in the horse’s protective stance and the strange Elf’s restraints and blindfold.
“Come, follow me, my friend, come to dry grass and sweet water,” he coaxed the horse, running a gentle hand along the thick neck, amazed at the corded muscles there.
The elleth moved her head, looking directly at Cassemir and the courier found himself wondering what her eyes would look like. She seemed to breathe heavier in his direction, as if drawing in his scent; she appeared satisfied, and nudged the stoic horse in his direction. Following her command, the animal allowed himself to be led to the promised dry grass and sweet water.
*
Orophin waited until the courier had disappeared from view then turned his eyes to the bound elleth. Disgust in them, he gripped her arm and pulled her to him. Looking down, he saw his fingers were marking her flesh and tightened their hold even more, eliciting no response from the Elf.
“Are you so weak you will not respond when another bruises you?” he hissed under his breath, yanking her along the trail to the practice yard.
The forest floor was scattered with plant life, ranging from soft sedge grass to barbed briar thickets; these he made sure she stepped through, the thorns scratching at her arms and pants as he half-dragged her beside him.
It was no great distance the practice yard; they reached it in mere minutes, whereupon he threw her to the ground at the base of a mallorn, looking on at her in revulsion. The instant she felt the ground beneath her, she immediately began struggling with her bonds, working her hands around so that they cupped a charm from the leather wristlet she wore. Under his gaze she slid the charm in between the ropes and severed them, flinging her arms up to tear away the blindfold. The covering gone, he could see her silver eyes staring at him again, their depths troubling his heart. She seemed to look him up and down as she rose, rubbing at her wrists, until she stood upright.
As he looked at her, he thought /She is Avari filth…why should she be allowed to live?/
*
Kneeling before the Lady of Caras Galadhon, Haldir bowed his head in reverence, having finished his account of the strange Elf’s appearance.
“You did as you ought to have done, Haldir, do not trouble yourself with doubts,” said Galadriel, placing a hand on her Marchwarden’s shoulder, her command for him to stand.
As he looked up at her, she seemed to search his eyes, yet he could not tell if she found what she was looking for. Once he stood, she studied him, then said:
“Walk with me in my garden, Haldir, for I sense you have questions, ones that I will answer.”
She took his arm and they went down the stairs of her palace onto the forest floor itself. Together they walked among the trees, into the garden of Galadriel, where flowers bloomed year-long and beautiful, flourishing under the Lady’s eye. Taking her hand from his arm, she seated herself on a stone bench, smiling at a rose leaning toward her hand. As she caressed its velvety petals, she looked at her Marchwarden, noting how he remained standing.
“Is she Avari, then, my Lady?” he asked, his gaze frank and direct.
“She is,” replied Galadriel, returning his look with her own, light from the trees making her hair seem all the more golden in its shine.
“Why is she colored so, my Lady?”
Haldir circled in front of her as he began to pace, pausing to stare into her eyes, questions storming his mind. He continued:
“It has been said the Dark Elves have not been gifted with the Light of the Two Trees, yet she appears graced with such Light. How is it possible?”
Galadriel sighed and rose from her seat; with eyes full of weariness and long years, she knelt gracefully in the midst of her flowers, looking again at Haldir.
“I have known many things, my Marchwarden, yet it remains hidden from my Sight how our Kindred have become what she appears,” she said, tracing her fingers along the soft petals, “Perhaps, Haldir, it is a question to be asked of our sister.”
He snorted elegantly, crossing his arms skeptically.
“And how, my Lady, shall it be asked of her? She does not know our language, nor do we know hers.”
Making a derisive sound within his throat, he continued, “Perhaps her kind are not developed enough to understand our tongue; they probably speak in grunts and live in caves with their beasts.”
“Silence, Marchwarden!”
Startled, Haldir turned to see the normally thoughtful Lord Celeborn entering the garden, his face an angry storm to match his pace:
“Do not speak such things against a guest; nay more, your kin.”
“She is no kin of mine.”
As Celeborn glared at him, Haldir shifted uncomfortably beneath the disturbingly hostile eyes:
“Is she less an Elf because she is different? She is to us as the Men of the East are to those of the West: different in looks and language, yet they are still the same, still Men. It does not matter how she looks, Haldir son of Hithaer and Laslin of Lórien. She is an Elf, distant kin to us all.”
“How did you know she was different, Lord?” asked Haldir suspiciously, his eyes narrowed.
Celeborn placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder.
“My wife,” he said, “shares many things with me, especially those that will change the fate of this world.”
Galadriel sighed softly and gracefully rose to stand tall beside her husband; when she turned her eyes to Haldir, he saw her sorrow and … regret?... in their depths.
“This time is ending, Haldir; you have felt it, as I have seen it. There are two dooms waiting in the mists to befall the future of Middle-Earth: a darkness spreading throughout the lands, a ruinous disease devastating the Peoples of this world.”
Haldir felt her eyes on him, and as he looked up at her, he was swept up into a whirlwind of haze and fire. He saw the desolation approaching the West, the thousands slain by a cruel and vicious hand, and cried out at the burning of his beloved mallyrn trees, the laying of waste to all things good and beautiful.
Pressure escalated in his mind, and tears fell as rain down his face as he sobbed his grief. Suddenly a gentle hand settled on his shoulder, anchoring him against the tide; he looked up to see his Lord standing above him, in his eyes a melancholy wisdom. The hand on his shoulder tightened gently as he spoke softly, sadness in his voice:
“This is only one fate, Marchwarden… one doom waiting for its opportunity to strike. The other is no less terrible.”
Once again the scene changed as he gripped his head: the land grew in shadow, yet the courage of those remaining rising strong and fierce. A great and terrible battle was fought outside a gleaming city, the faces of the warriors and their enemies blurred; a feast, a crown, a tree, and then he was flying over the earth, seeing the lands of all. As he soared, he felt the passage of time, the change in the land as the presence of the Elves diminished.
A great mourning cry rose from his lips as he realized the world he loved so much would pass to the hands of those remaining as the time of the Elves ended, and the ages of Men began.
*
For a while Galadriel allowed her Marchwarden to dwell on his thoughts, but after long minutes, she reached out to him as Celeborn had done, touching his cheek with her hand as she did so. Startled eyes flew to hers as she smiled sadly:
“Judgments of the heart are often built on the words of others; would you condemn her life, without giving her a chance to speak on her behalf?”
For a time he stood apart from them, pondering long between his own feelings and the words of his Lady. At last, he looked in Galadriel’s eyes, and nodded. Relief filled her, though she kept it hidden from her eyes as she smiled to him:
“Much wisdom is there in you, Haldir: it is a quality I would have you use more in the coming days, along with your well-known patience.”
He tilted his head toward her, his gaze curious and questioning. In response, she answered, “I would have her in your care, Marchwarden: I foresee that she will need a strong guardian, and you are one with an open mind.”
Her husband and she watched as Haldir stood silent, as his mind grasped this knowledge and accepted it.
“I will do as commanded, Lord and Lady,” he spoke, bowing to them.
Galadriel smiled again, and asked:
“Where did you leave her, Haldir?”
“At the practice yard, my Lady, with Orophin; there would have been no one there at the time, and I made it clear she was to stay there and not be taken elsewhere. After, I went to report to you.”
“Your service does you credit, my Marchwar-”
The Lady stopped mid-sentence, looking past him. Suddenly, she turned her piercing eyes to him, her voice urgent:
“Go, go now, Haldir! She is in danger….no harm must be allowed to befall her; there is a presence in her that I do not recognize, a powerful gift bestowed upon her. Go to her!”
Without a thought, Haldir obeyed her command, his senses even more aware of his surroundings as he raced along the talans and bridges to the practice yard. Adrenaline exhilarating his veins as he leaped over gaps and branches, he stretched his mind, looking for her presence; he quickly found it, the only one he did not know, but he also found another life-force intertwined with hers: one he knew as his brother’s.
Confrontation
Thunder roared in his ears at her tacit appraisal. /It isn’t right,/ he thought angrily, turning toward her, /She is Avari, a She-Elf traitor to the Valar, and all Eldar! How dare she lay her tainted eyes on the Galadhrim, ones who know obedience!/
Fury and revulsion coursed through him, making his limbs shake and his head to fill with bloodlust. /She will not live to betray our kind again!/ His hand grasped the hilt of his sword tightly, causing the blade to sing as it was pulled from its sheath. Gripping the tightly wrapped leather rigidly in one hand, he advanced on her, swinging its hilt into a two-handed grip.
He stalked her slowly, using his height and mass as intimidation. When her stance became a defensive half-crouch, righteous anger spilled over to his wrath. Even quicker than he, she grasped the twin swords strapped to her back, unsheathing two of the most beautiful blades he had ever seen. The handgrips were wrapped tightly with black leather, stars etched in silver from the pommel to guard.
The blades themselves were slightly similar to those carried by Mirkwood Elves, certain differences aside; their beauty only fueled his ire. As she twirled them in her hands, the righteous anger in him grew.
/She will learn the price of betrayal/ he swore.
*
She could feel the angry undercurrent of the Sun-haired Elf before her. Defiance in her narrowed eyes, she glared at him, chin raised, daring him to fight. If she was to die this day, she would die with honor.
Orophin let out a wild yell, attacking her with a speed and agility that stunned her. He fought so differently from her kin, she had no idea what to expect.
They led a deadly dance, Orophin determined to destroy the insolent She-Elf, the stranger refusing to yield. He slashed the air in an arc, aiming for her chest, only to be startled as she deflected his attack, turning it against him. For hours they fought tirelessly, locked together in fierce conflict; a crowd began to grow around them in the practice yard as their blows rang through the trees, cheering for Orophin and jeering at the stranger.
At last, Orophin’s strong muscles began to show signs of weariness, but he refused to stop his attack. Inch by hard-won inch, he pushed her back toward a mallorn tree, intent on pinning her to its trunk. Too late she realized his plan, and though she fought desperately to push him back, he succeeded in disarming her, causing her blades to fall to the ground. He watched in satisfaction as she slumped her head in defeat, collapsing against the tree.
“Wolf feast *,” he taunted, his eyes cruel and unforgiving as he pulled his sword back to drive it into her body, “You betrayed us.”
Quicker than thought, the She-Elf straightened, whipping out a dagger and swiftly pinned it to his throat. His stroke was halted mid-air as her knife pressed against him. She could feel his pulse racing against the tip of her blade, pressing slightly against the vein. Suddenly, the enraged Elf heard his brother calling his name through the crowd. Oh, that his older brother was to see him in such dishonorable defeat! His hatred of the stranger grew even more, if possible. He swore that she would pay doubly for this disgrace.
*
“Orophin!” shouted Haldir, thrusting himself through the gathered audience, “Orophin, stay! Stay this madness!”
She looked deep into her opponent’s eyes, saw the other Sun-haired one trying to get to him, and breathed deeply. Never moving her gaze from Orophin’s, she slowly lowered the knife to her side, stepping back to allow the other her place.
Though his brother had not moved his arm from its mid-air position, Haldir saw his arm muscles twitch and shake in repression. Worried for Orophin’s rashness, he gripped his brother’s arm tightly.
“Move out of the way, Haldir!” Orophin hissed, his eyes wild in his bloodlust, “She deserves to die for her treachery against our kind!”
/SILENCE!/
The command came deafening, the voice crashing as loud as thunder. So powerful, it forced Haldir and those around him to their knees, Orophin to drop his sword and press his hands to his ears. The echoes of the voice ricocheted through Haldir’s mind, causing his eyes to close tightly in an effort to lessen the voice’s power. As the echoes died away, the lids of his eyes opened to half-slits. /The stranger is speaking!/ he realized in awe, /How can she speak to us in our minds?/
Silver eyes glared aggressively at those around her; anger raged in those mithril depths, anger and defiance. Her presence seemed to tower above those before her, forcing them to cover their ears in an attempt to block out her voice. Righteous anger pulsated from her body. Her skin turned to molten gold, hair to pure moonlight, and her silver eyes seemed to deepen, pulling him into her, entrancing him, hypnotizing him.
The force in his mind suddenly intensified.
/You call my kind Unwilling; we are not. We are Áraquendi: Elves of the Dawn, ones who dwell in the land where Anár rises, past the settlements of Men and Darkness. Where the earth is still wild and untamed as fire, and we are the ones who protect it. Call me what you will, in whatever tongue! Avari, Abari, Avamanyar! Dark-Elf, Mori-kwendê, Moriquendë! These are your names for me! I refuse them; I refuse what you would brand me! I am Kinn-lai, Áraquendë…I am Sálindë, Child of the Dawn!/
Haldir cried out in pain at the strength of her wrath, pressing his ears even harder. All at once, her powerful presence left his mind, replaced by another, one he knew. He clung to the familiar light: the Lady had come.
*
The pain lessening, he tenderly opened his eyes: there, on the stair leading from the City, stood his Queen, and Lord Celeborn. Her arms were raised slightly, her gaze direct and intense on the stranger. Slowly, he rose to his feet, half-stumbling to his Lady’s side; he noticed the rest of the Elves around him, including his brother, had followed the same path as he. Together they stood, some in fear, some in anger, some in confusion, all staring at the stranger.
{ Alatáriel, } her lips breathed, wonder written plainly on her face as she lowered her knife to her side, and fell to a knee, bowing her head in reverence. The Lady herself seemed slightly surprised at being addressed in the High Tongue, ancient and forgotten by all but a few; the elleth spoke again, her voice ringing through the trees:
{ I have searched far and wide for you, my lady. I am come to warn you of a Darkness sickening the lands of the East; it will spread until it consumes this world. }
Her words were foreign to him, familiar yet scattered with unknown terms, the words harsh and different. Yet it was her voice that captured his attention, her voice that was so similar yet so different from the powerful presence in his mind. Low and rich, it was as though she spoke from deep within her throat; the words, familiar and otherwise, matched her voice.
{ The Abhorrent One has returned, my lady, and is gathering strength in the Darkmen of the East; I was chosen to come to you, and pledge the blood of my people. }
All watched, breathless, as she picked up her blades from where they lay, re-sheathed them, and once again drew the dagger strapped to her thigh. No longer entranced by the two opponents’ skill, the audience now saw that the knife itself wasn’t made of steel, or metal at all; instead, the blade was a pure, translucent green glass, smooth and straight, unlike any Elvish craft known to them.
Silver eyes never wavering from the Lady, she drew it sharply across her palm, unflinching from the pain. Raising her hand palm-up to Galadriel, she spoke:
{ Blood of the Firstborn, I pledge to thee. }
Slowly, she tightened her hand into a fist, squeezing until her blood ran between her fingers onto the ground.
Galadriel stood still beside her husband, both gazing at the stranger, the one called Sálindë, remembering the ancient language and the days of old.
{ Come, Sálindë, } said Galadriel at last, her eyes grave and face somber, { I accept your pledge. You have traveled far, and are weary with the toil of your charge. Come now and rest, as a guest of the Lord and Lady. }
*
A.N.:
/words/ = thought, Mind-Speech
{ words } = Quenya
Credit is due to Méran Anessi ar Quenteli for Haldir’s parents’ names
Hithaer = meaning “Mist Sea”
Laslin = meaning “Leaf Song”
* Wolf feast = insult
A.N. II:
I have read online that “She-Elf” is the lowest of names to call a female Elf, despicable and crude. That is how I am using it in this story.
Avari = Sindarin term (the Unwilling, Those who refused the summons to Valinor)
Avamanyar = Quenya term (meaning Avari)
Abari = Primitive Elvish (meaning Avari), PE henceforth titled ‘Avarin’
Dark-Elf = Avari, (S)
Moriquendë = Dark-Elf (Q)
Mori-kwendê = Dark-Elf (A)
Kinn-lai = one of the six tribes of the Avari
Áraquendi = Dawn Elves (Q)
Sálindë = translated as Firesong (Q)
Alatáriel = Telerin name for Galadriel
Chapter 5 - The Offer
Disclaimer: I own nothing that is recognizable to the Lord of the Rings franchise. The languages used in this story are Quenya, Primitive Elvish, and Sindarin. These are all owned by J.R.R. Tolkien.
What ARE mine are the original characters.
Again, originally I had translated Salinde’s words into Quenya, but chose to have them in English surrounded in brackets for structure purposes. If you want to read the Quenya version of Salinde’s speech, go to Fanfiction.net, and look up my story there.
*NOTE: I have created some images/banners concerning Child of the Dawn. If you want to see them, copy and paste this link into your browser *
http://photobucket.com/albums/v311/spiritdesigner522/Child of the Dawn/
The Offer
A low murmur passed through the throng, whispers spoken behind fair hands; apparently the Lady’s words had been understood by them, as well. She ignored their voices, rising to her feet and re-sheathing the green-glass knife. Her hand stung, irritated as drops of blood trickled onto the earth, spoiling the pure-white petals of flowers as she passed. Each step she took, the hostility of the crowd grew, but she kept her eyes only for the White Lady and the Lord at her side. Reaching them, she bowed her head, right hand to her heart in salute, saying:
{ The path given me is now finished; my death will not be without peace. I give you praise for your gift, and look to your judgment with steady heart. }
Surprised, Galadriel looked at the bowing figure, then to her husband. A look of confusion marred the blue of his eyes, then cleared as the elleth’s meaning dawned. Sharing his gaze with his wife, he stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder:
{ It may be your ears lie to you, quen-tára; you are our friend, not our prisoner. }
She raised her eyes to his, and he was caught in the depths of their confusion.
{ Is it not the way of the Eldômi to bear death to ones who would give them aid? } she hissed bitterly, anger and pain tearing at her throat.
Celeborn caught his breath and looked to his wife. Appearing serene and calm, the Lady of Light placed a hand on the elleth’s face, caressing, and reaching out to quiet the tumult within her. Slowly, she drew back her hand, offering it in front of her as a gesture of welcome.
{ Come, Sálindë } she whispered softly in the old tongue, { You shall stay with Celeborn and I. }
She looked at the offered hand, and back to the Lady. All at once, Galadriel felt a faint touching of her own mind, feather-light and probing. She smiled openly as the presence sensed her awareness and receded, saying to the warrior:
{ Come. }
The silver eyes stared long into hers, then looked away, disconcerted by the Lady’s gaze.
*
Sálindë felt the confusion within her threatening to take hold, and searched desperately for a way to ease the chaos. Tears pricking her eyes, she searched and searched, ignoring the offer in the Lady’s eyes…./There!/ she thought, relief flooding her as she caught the familiar spirit of Hravan. The clamor fading, she looked once more at the Lady, and at the Lord. /They would have me live,/ she thought, perplexed, /Though why is a mystery./ All at once she squared her shoulders, the resignation of her fate coming to mind, and thought /I chose this road knowing I would die at its end. If they wish to prolong its coming, it is their choice, not mine./
And with that, she took the Lady’s hand, and was led through the hostile crowd up a set of steps twining around the enormous trees she had seen.
Galadriel sensed her awareness, and tightened her hold on Sálindë’s hand slightly. The elleth tilted her head questioningly, her eyes as piercing as those of her Marchwarden.
{ I would not have you fear for your life, wandering one. As you are here, you will be under my protection, and will not be touched. }
The elleth seemed to understand her meaning, and turned her eyes once more to the stairs before them. The Lady of Light looked back at her husband, who nodded his head with a smile, as if to reassure her of their choice. She smiled back to him, and turned her eyes to study the warrior before her. /She is strong and brave/ thought the White Lady, then, sighing, /and justified in her anger against us/
She shook her head, clearing away the darkness of her thoughts, and led Sálindë up the last step, turning to the right, into the door of their House.
Sálindë looked on, her wonder carefully checked behind her eyes, as she took in the sight of the palace in the trees. /We must be so high/ she thought, excitement slightly stirring as she began to slowly believe she would not die, at least not this day.
*
Back on the forest floor, Orophin was standing shame-faced in front of his brother, his spine straight as iron and eyes downcast.
“I am full of sorrow that you had to witness my defeat, brother.”
Haldir looked at him, knowing the wound his brother’s pride had received, yet also realizing he deserved punishment for his weakness.
“I did not see a defeat, brother; my eyes perceived a draw, you both were ready to kill and be killed instantly.”
Orophin glanced up, his shock apparent, then his eyes suddenly hardened.
“You say that as my brother, yet I know you would not have an Elf bested by Avari filth guarding the borders.”
“Do you know me so well then, Orophin? That I would cast aside a seasoned archer for an inexperienced youth?” asked Haldir, annoyed at his brother’s presumption and refusal of his opinion.
“She bested me, that She-Elf!”
Orophin spat on the ground, his rage and hatred of the stranger beginning to break through his control. Haldir looked on, knowing that this was what his Lady had warned him of, the duty he would have as the elleth’s guardian.
“Enough, Orophin!” said Haldir, his voice stern and commanding, “It is not wise to speak ill of a guest of the Lady.”
He watched as his younger brother struggled to regain his composure, and relaxed when he saw the familiar light in his eyes.
“Come, Haldir, let us find Rúmil and sup awhile. Let us forget, for a time, the troubles of this day.”
Orophin slapped him on the back, and they strode tall through the forest floor, heading toward the talan of their brother.
A Place to Stay
He had followed the lady and the stranger, keeping a respectful distance between himself and the Lord behind them. As they ascended the stairs, his eyes were narrowed and focused on the strangers. He had understood his brother’s feelings, but as for himself, he did not know his own. As he followed the Lady and Lord up the stairs, questions in his mind, he looked up suddenly to see Galadriel smiling gently in his direction. All at once he felt her presence in his mind:
/Do not let your heart be troubled, warden of Lórien. It is far wiser to know confusion for a moment rather than believe an untruth for so long./
/An untruth, Lady?/ he asked, disturbed at her words.
She shook her head slightly, still smiling at him.
/Later, Rúmil; your questions will be answered by your brother./
He nodded and bowed to her and, on seeing Celeborn had turned to him, bowed to his Lord as well. With a slightly less-burdened mind, he turned and went in search of his older brothers.
*
When the Lady had stopped, Sálindë had been forced to as well. Turning her head, she saw the Lady’s gaze fixed on yet another Sun-hair, though this one had followed them up the dizzying stairs. He seemed disturbed, agitated. Mentally, she shrugged and shifted her attention to the Lord at her side.
/He must be Teleporno,/ she thought /His hair is silver, like mine, though his eyes and skin are different./
In her heart she wondered why he did not recoil from her as the others had done; it appeared she was not welcome and her people not well-thought of. A bitter, self-derisive sound came from her throat, and she realized the couple now turned to her, in the Lady’s eyes an expression not unlike concern.
/Of course we are not well-thought of,/ she thought, staring impassively at the couple /No one is willing to remember the past./
However, as she looked harder at the silver-haired Elf, she concluded that he did not recoil from her as the others because he was the husband of Alatáriel: he did not because she did not. /What was it Tárion spoke of to the Council?/ she thought desperately.
It had been many years in fact, since she had last spoken with Tárion; his words had been spoken in reverence of Alatáriel, but she could not remember much of what had been said of her husband, other than his name and features. He was tall, she saw, just a little taller than she, and seemed thoughtful, as if his words were measured. /Which, perhaps they are,/ she realized suddenly, /He may be distant kin, but I know not his motives, his feelings, only that he and Alatáriel seem to wish to prolong my life./ The reason for this also she did not know; still, shaking her head slightly to free her thoughts, she realized they were both looking at her, as if waiting for her to say something.
At last, the Lady spoke, her words soft and tone meant to soothe:
“These are our guest telain; will they do for you?”
Galadriel inwardly sighed at the stranger’s obvious surprise. /There is no doubt she came to us, believing it was to her death./
Despite her misgivings, Sálindë took a quick glance about the room, noting that nearly everything was made of wood instead of the stone she had always known. Turning to the Lady, she gave her a deep bow, her tone respectful yet aloof as she said:
“It is an honor to be thought of as your guest, Alatáriel.”
/Though it is a mystery to me as to your purpose./ she thought silently, careful to hide her suspicion behind her eyes. Still, some of her distrust must have escaped her control as the Lady sighed again and gestured to the chamber.
“These are yours for however long you choose to stay in the city; however, I would ask that you stay within their walls as much as possible. There are those who would feel unkindly towards yourself due to your…heritage.”
The Lady’s eyes were dimmed in sadness; they were magnificent, a startling blue that sent chills along Sálindë’s spine. It seemed as if she was waiting for something, a signal of some sort, a sign. Whatever she was looking for, she did not find it as she watched Sálindë for a little longer then shook her head slightly and gestured to the room once more.
“These are yours for as long as you choose to stay. I ask you not to leave them unless with my Marchwarden. He is the one who interrupted your exchange with Orophin in the practice yard.”
Sálindë stood still, uncaring of the room before her, her eyes fixed on the Lady as she spoke, her voice a low murmur:
“I will abide by your will, Alatáriel. Here I will remain until called to you, no matter the reason.”
She bowed, first to the Lady, second to the Lord who had remained silent throughout their exchange. Looking at him, she was drawn again to his vivid blue eyes, impossible as they were for her to read. His silver hair grew even more so in the lights of the…telain, they had called them; he reminded her of that she could remember of Helcarusco, and the memories resounded in her mind. Shaken, she hesitated in her bow, halting slightly before resuming her height. Eyes on the Lord for once, instead of the Lady, she spoke:
“I give you thanks again for your mercy, and will accept my fate no matter the outcome.”
Galadriel was puzzled at the Elf’s response to her husband, and, deciding to consult with him later, smiled slightly at her guest.
“May rest come swiftly to you, Sálindë of the Kinn-lai, and your dreams bring you peace.”
Sálindë bowed once more, hand to her heart, as the couple turned from her and walked gracefully from her sight. Pivoting slightly, she strode into the chamber, her thoughts unfocused and confused. Sighing, she sat down on the bed, uncaring of her surroundings, folding her legs beneath her with her arms resting on her knees. Willing back her tears, she tried to force the fear from her mind, but it proved stubborn. Breathing in deeply, she closed her eyes and sat very still, quieting her emotions and detaching from the fatigue she knew would come. /Hravan./ she thought, searching for his presence.
At last she was able to glimpse the familiar spirit, and was comforted slightly to know that despite these Sun-hairs’ hatred for her, they did not feel the same toward her horse. Chuckling slightly at her friend’s lazy thoughts and warm mind-sighs, she was relieved to find him well-fed and watered. At the moment, he was drying from a well-deserved bath someone had been thoughtful enough to give him, and was munching happily on some tasty sweet grass stalks. Smiling, she kept her eyes closed and sent a tiny thought toward him.
Across the city, Cassemir watched the horse’s head suddenly spring up, as if hearing a slight sound. He observed, fascinated, as the horse seemed to tuck its head close to its chest and blew its breath out between its teeth.
Sálindë was pleased he responded so quickly to her call, and sent him a feeling of warmth and pleasure along their bond. He replied with his own element of affection to her, and went back to grazing amongst his fodder. Choking on a laugh, Sálindë severed the link, and rolled her aching shoulders, the knots and sore places causing her to wince in pain as they screamed at her for months of tireless riding. Gingerly, she reached down and grasped the heel of her boot, pulling it free with an agonized groan, her muscles screaming as she allowed the leather to fall from her hands to the wooden floor, and reached down again to pull the other one. Uncurling her legs completely, she stood on shaky limbs and raised trembling fingers to unfasten her cloak; her eyes watched the heavy midnight folds hit the floor silently, and then she brought her fingers to unbuckle the leather traveling pack she wore that carried her quiver, bow and swords.
With a soft sigh, the leather straps slid from her body as she placed the harness by the bedside with exaggerated care. At last, the last vestiges of her strength gave out and she collapsed on the mattress. Too exhausted to curl over and cry, her thoughts instead returned to her friend as tears burned her tired eyes.
/Oh, four-legs! So far we have come, now is the time for your rest. But oh, how happy I would be to return home./ Silently, she admonished herself with a kind of bitter resentment: /But I will never return. I have given my people’s message to Alatáriel, and await my death. By Anár, oh gods, I miss my brothers; I will not die with them as we had promised when we were children, so long ago. I will not return; I can never return./
A.N.:
{ words } = Quenya
/words/ = thoughts, Mind-Speech
Teleporno = Telerin name for Celeborn
Tárion = meaning “descendant of kings”
Translation:
Quen-tára = high one, noble one; proud one
Anár = Sun
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