(Click on it to make it larger.)

“All ye Elves deem that we die swiftly by our true kind. That we are brittle and brief, and ye are strong and lasting. We may be ‘Children of Eru,’ as ye say in your lore; but we are children to you also: to be loved a little maybe, and yet creatures of less worth, upon whom ye may look down from the height of your power and your knowledge, with a smile, or with pity, or with a shaking of heads.” - Andreth, Morgoth’s Ring

Cerederthan bowed before the monk. “I return with much news.”

“And you are welcomed,” the monk in green said calmly, dark eyes scanning over the group. “But you bring a host with you!”

“Indeed. Some have given us safe passage and seek reward.”

The monk nodded. “It will be given. The return of our brother is worth much. But who are the others you have brought?”

Cerederthan squinted against the sun. “All in good time, my friend.”

The monk inclined his head, then turned and led them up several flights of stairs, carved deep into the mountain face, to the monastery. The walls were thick, but once they were inside, it was very warm – enough to flush Gwen’s cheeks. Her heart was beating quickly and her stomach was doing flip-flops. They were so close to her mother! But she was sure there would be a way to meet her soon, so she said nothing. They were shown to a small room filled with heavy yellow woolen robes and their stale smell, where they unloaded all their cumbersome trappings. The monk in green called another monk and spoke with him briefly in quick Quenya.

Their group was led into a large hall, quite obviously a banquet hall, with short tables and cushions for sitting on the floor. The walls were covered with great tapestries, hung from ceiling to floor and with lavish colors. They were instructed to wait, and the monk in green disappeared down the hallway. They stood there awkwardly. The faint smell of incense hung in the air, as well as a light touch of smoke from the fire crackling in the center of the room.

Gwen wandered around, beginning to look more closely at the tapestries. They were not covered in large pictures, but rather sequences of smaller ones, woven tightly. While some of the pictures seemed connected, others did not. Then she saw one picture of a star falling, and looked to examine it more closely. Cerederthan came up behind her.

“These are tapestries that the monks weave, depicting the dreams they have had of the future,” he said to her softly. “Some of these have already happened, some never will. The future is always changing.” He glanced at the star. “That one has certainly happened. More and more of them are coming true – like this one” – he pointed at a woman, carrying wings in her hands and fleeing a tower.

“Does Lorien help you to see the future?” she asked.

“Yes and no. Both Men and Elves sometimes have – to a degree – the ability to see the future, or the present. We call it foresight. But before Lorien retired to his deep dreaming, he taught us ways to see the future far more clearly, so that we might be able to guide the world far better than it has fared in the past. The monks weave them here so that we might all perceive them. There are even more written down in scrolls and placed in the libraries. It takes time to weave these, and there are always more visions to be had.”

“Do you receive these visions naturally, then?”

“Foresight comes naturally, yes. We try to induce this through meditation. But deeper dreaming, and sight of the future, comes from the herbs we use – like the ones I used when you were in your cell.”

“Ah,” she said, but was interrupted when the monk re-entered, bearing a sack filled to the brim with gold.

“Will this do?” he asked. Herion made a show of hemming and hawing over it, but accepted it nonetheless. He bowed to Cerederthan. “You’re an honorable fellow,” he said, “and I wish you all the best luck can offer.” His gaze flicked briefly to Gwen, then he turned and left, along with the others from his band.

The monk indicated for them to sit around the fire, and pulled a teapot off the flames. He spooned some powder to cups, filling them with hot water and dishing them out, one by one. Gwen gratefully accepted it, wrinkling her nose at the pungent smell. She wasn’t much of a tea drinker, but it was hot.

Cerederthan spoke with the monk in indiscernible Quenya. Frodo and Touchstone exchanged glances. “Do you know what he’s saying?” Touchstone murmured to Frodo.

“Very little,” said the hobbit. “I know some Elvish, but only words and phrases.”

“They’re talking about you,” whispered Eleyond. “See? They keep glancing your way.”

“Can you make it out?” she asked.

He concentrated hard and shook his head. “It’s too archaic. Those aren’t the forms I know.”

She sipped her tea until the two of them rose. “Forgive my rudeness,” said Cerederthan. “This is one of the head monks in our order – Daeron. He’ll be showing you to the rooms you’ll be staying in.”

They were escorted to another section of the monastery, busy with the comings and goings of monks. Gwen’s room was windowless, lit by the same crystals as had been in prison cell. Carpets covered the floors, and a single feather bed was heaped with blankets. The others were staying just down the hall.

Fairly quickly a maid came in to draw up water for a bath from a spigot. “Hello,” ventured Gwen. She showed the maid her hand, and the woman’s eyes widened.

“How does a slave come to a place like this,” the woman asked, “and not be housed in the slave quarters?”

“It’s a long story,” Gwen said dismissively. “What’s more important is that I believe my mother works here. Her name is Shannon?”

The woman considered this for a moment. “I’ve heard of her – she works in the kitchens. But I don’t know much more than that.”

Gwen leapt off the bed. “That’s good enough for me! Can you tell me where the kitchens are?”

The woman answered with a string of complex directions, but Gwen wasn’t really listening. In her mind, she was safe in her mother’s arms. She took off without a moment’s notice.

She went down the hall and up two sets of stairs before becoming completely lost. Gwen decided to keep heading upward, and ended up on the roof – which was covered in a greenhouse, steaming and full of plants. Deciding on a floor-by-floor search, she went back and forth downwards. On her way through one of the hallways, she came across a set of three large red-painted doors. Cautiously, she opened one and slipped through.

The smell of incense grew stronger; her eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness. She was standing on a balcony within a larger hall. It was faintly lit by small windows near the ceiling, but a large pair of statues was illuminated by candles. These statues, carefully carved out of stone, were clearly of Lorien and Este, both reclined, sleeping. The room was carpeted in red, with monks sitting and chanting softly before the figures. Before she was discovered in a place she shouldn’t be, she immediately left.

By the time her nose found its way to the kitchen, it was running on night staff – four sturdy women baking bread and pounding rice for the next day. “Is Shannon here?” she queried, but the women shook their heads. Her mother, it turned out, would be in the slave quarters, as it was the end of her shift. Gwen made sure she understood the directions before following them.

She wound up having to go outside in order to get to the complex. There were coats available, but she was from Maine – she could handle a short bit of cold. She took a deep breath of warm air, and burst out into the mountain air. She ran the distance, her fingers in her armpits, and entered the building, grateful for the warmth. Going down the hall, she asked the first person she saw what room her mother might be in. The girl told her, and she ran to it, knocking on the door.

It opened to her mother’s face, puzzled and then joyfully relieved when Gwen hugged her tightly. There were tears on both their parts – Gwen’s suppressed grief surfacing from deep within.

She found out that what she had suspected was true – that the monks treated their slaves well. Her mother needed nothing, aside from being united with her family once more, and, of course, freedom. Gwen poured out everything that had happened – all the strange things. Her mother sucked in her breath when she heard about the death of Tulkas.

“You killed someone?” she breathed. “Your reasoning is sound, but still – I’d never thought you would be able to do such a thing.”

“There’s more,” Gwen said, and told her the rest of the story.

“You’re a fugitive? Here?” her mother burst out, her grip on Gwen tightening. “Gwen, you’ve put yourself in extreme danger!”

“Mom!” she protested, breaking free. “There’s nothing I can do about it! Besides, can’t you see? There’s something bigger going on here!”

“Like what?”

Gwen faltered. “I don’t really know. This is all leading somewhere. No one’s ever been able to kill one of the Valar before, and my doing so proves something. That they aren’t gods? I don’t know. But certainly the society here is ripe for change.”

“I’ve never known much about the ways outside of this monastery, Gwen, and from what you’re telling me, I agree.”

“Cerederthan’s brought me here for a reason, that’s for sure. It’s not just for asylum.”

Her mother nodded.

*

Gwen went along with her mother for the morning shift. She was given a bowl of fruit-laden oatmeal for breakfast as the kitchen busied in preparation for the monks’ morning meal. The dining commons was extensive, with long wooden tables that had to be set. Gwen was pushing a cart of bowls for another servant when Cerederthan found her.

“I have been looking everywhere for you! Where have you been?” he scolded.

“With my mother.”

His face relaxed. “Oh – I’m sorry, it’s just – you had me worried, since you’re wanted across the continent.”

“Yes, well, I should’ve told you, but I was eager and didn’t know where you were.”

“Fair enough. But we have much to do, and there is little time. Locals are bringing in reports of the police asking questions in outlying villages. They may be here soon. This monastery may be forgotten, but they’re searching hard for you. They may be here before we know it. Come with me.”

Gwen apologized to the servant and followed Cerederthan’s billowing robes. He had gotten new ones – blue this time, made of rough wool edged with faint embroidery.

“Leave you alone for a night, and instead of enjoying luxury, you return to the slave’s life,” he said wryly. “Your mother is doing well, I hope.”

“Well enough, for her situation.”

He nodded disinterestedly. “You are going to meet with the heads of the monastery – a group of very old and powerful individuals. Your arrival is very important to us all. Just be respectful, something I’m sure you’ll have no trouble doing. But first we need to get you out of those clothes.”

Gwen looked down at her dress – the one Feanor had bought her what seemed like ages ago. The hem was ragged from abuse and where she had torn it to staunch her wounds. It was bloody and stained from mud and food.

Cerederthan stopped in front of his room. “Come, there isn’t much time before the meeting. I’ve laid out some clothes I could find on the bed.”

She went in, and he closed the door behind her. She was in a hurry, and didn’t take time to look around. She grabbed the clothes and put them on – a maroon linen wrap-around shirt with faint embroidery at the hems, and brown pants. Then she burst out of the room and followed Cerederthan’s long strides.

*

Early that morning, Tegalad, a newly elected junior member of the Elder Council, woke up to attend one of the meditation sessions he enjoyed. It was not nearly as relaxing as he’d hoped – more visions of war.

He went to one of the kitchens to quickly have a biscuit, passing through the laundry room bustling with slaves tending large cauldrons of steaming water to get there.  He couldn’t focus when he was hungry. Then he went to the special session called for an important visitor – he had no idea who the visitor was, though.  The novices were huddled in groups talking, not yet settled down, their bright colored robes in sharp contrast to the red tapestries that hung ceiling to floor behind them in the great space. Tegalad  stepped up onto the slightly elevated dais reserved for the elders, glancing at his cushion, not wanting to kneel just yet. Glancing around, he saw his mentor, Arandur, talking to the head of their order and went up to them.

“…that’s why the entire thing is so exciting,” Arandur was saying, then noticed Tegalad. “Ah, you’re here!”

“Yes, I wouldn’t miss something like this. But I haven’t heard anything about the meeting itself. Who is our visitor?”

They looked at him, bemused. “You really don’t know, do you?” said the head monk with a short laugh.

Tegalad’s cheeks flushed. He felt like an idiot.

“It seems that Brother Cerederthan has brought the girl to us whom he believes is the one we’re looking for,” said Arandur quietly.

Tegalad frowned. “Is that so?”

The warning bell sounded, and there was a rush as novices bustled to their places, the late ones hurrying through the doors. Tegalad calmly strode and knelt on his assigned cushion, as did the other council members, arranging their crimson robes around them. Calamaethor, a noted fierce monk, sat next to Tegalad. He was highly honored by all as a master of melcinitan, a form of defense now taught to all monks that were being sent out into Valinor. Tegalad himself had to learn from Calamaethor before going, and had come to respect the elf. Beneath the gruff exterior was a passionate person who enjoyed meditation as much as he did fighting. Glancing at the statues of Lorien and Este behind the head monk, Tegalad wished he had that kind of dedication.

His attention snapped back to the present as the heavy wooden doors opened to reveal Cerederthan along with a girl who was far younger than he expected. She looked worried, gazing about the room, and spoke with Cerederthan briefly before the two came forward to sit on the cushions provided.

The bell sounded once more to begin the meeting, and the head monk stirred. “This meeting will come to order,” he said. “Since our guest understands only Breech, we ought to use it for this meeting.”

They all nodded. The head monk turned his attention to the girl. “Would you please tell us more about yourself?”

She wet her lips. “My name is Gwendolyn, and I’m a slave of Numenorean descent. My family, along with many others, was brought here from another world, where a Numenorean population was residing.”

Tegalad had heard of this – one of the monks had brought the news of the events surrounding the fall of the Star of Earendil, a significant prophecy in the monastery’s lore.

“Feanor was my master,” she added, unsure of what more she could say.

“Are you quite sure of your Numenorean heritage?” asked Veryamorcon, one of the monks across from Tegalad.

She looked at Cerederthan, who gave no reaction. “I’m fairly certain,” she said. “I was chosen for breeding stock, and my master says I have strong bloodlines – he had to pay a lot for me.”

“It is also our understanding that you killed the Vala Tulkas,” said Arandur. Tegalad’s heart stopped. Had he heard right? A Vala, killed? How was that possible? The novices stirred and whispered with one another as they processed the same information.

“Would you please describe the incident for us?” asked the head monk. “Every detail is important.”

Tegalad half-listened to the story as thoughts roiled around in his head. He had suspected for a long time that the Valar were not gods, and here was the proof. He had always kept his doubts secret, having come to the monastery as a young elf. His parents were part of the roving northern tribes that hunted and trapped for a living, where belief in the Valar was a daily part of life, perpetuated by Maiar living among them. When Cerederthan, then as he was now a roving monk, saw something in him, he was sent to the monastery to begin a different kind of life, despite his doubts. So he had kept quiet and advanced.

Gwen had finished her tale, and the elders were nodding.

“This is an event we have long foreseen,” Calamaethor said firmly. “We just never knew that the fall of Earendil would herald it.”

The head monk looked troubled. “If our visions are true, then this event will lead to war – a very long one.”

“Why would such a person have that power in the first place?” asked Veryamorcon. “The girl is only of the race of men.”

Cerederthan opened his mouth to speak, but Gwendolyn cut in before him. “Actually,” she said, “I do have Elven and Maiar ancestry.”

“Of course,” Calamaethor said with a smile. “That would be the influence of Melian and Luthien, would it not?”

“In fact, I was told by Finrod that my ancestry is far closer than that,” Gwendolyn pointed out. “Maiar and Elves have married into the Numenorean bloodline ever since they were stranded on my planet.”

The elders whispered amongst one another. “That’s a span of about fifteen-hundred years, yes?” asked Arandur.

Gwen shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“A very short amount of time. Do you know how many of your ancestors were of other races?” asked the head monk slowly.

Gwen shook her head. “Maybe Finrod would know.”

Tegalad took a shaky breath. This was impressive. The effect of a single union between elf and human had lasted for thousands of years – the tight timeline for Gwen’s description had never occurred before, not even in Valinor. The unions between races remained very few, particularly because of the way they viewed one another – elves feeling superior to men, and men angry against their aggressors. Maiar were usually kept too busy by the Valar to form any attachments. 

“This may be the determining factor for Gwen’s ability – the strong union of races within her blood,” said Cerederthan. “I believe this has been hypothesized in the past.”

The elders nodded. “We and the Numenoreans both have long awaited for your coming,” said Calamaethor.

Tegalad couldn’t keep quiet. “What is the extent of your abilities?” he asked, forgetting to speak in Breech. “Do you know what power you have?”

The girl looked blankly at him, uncomprehending. Arandur jumped in. “Forgive him. He asked about what abilities you’ve observed as having. Have you noticed anything else of importance, aside from being able to kill a Vala?”

She thought for a long while. Tegalad looked at his hands, unable to meet Arandur’s solemn look. Finally she spoke.

“I guess I hadn’t realized it, but as soon as I stepped on the planet, Earendil’s star fell. I don’t know if that was just a coincidence, or what it was. Then I later rescued Elwing from her tower, by opening the doors barring her in.”

“We were as of yet unaware of the fact you rescued Elwing personally! She did not mention that,” exclaimed Cerederthan.

“So if this was not coincidence, you may be able to break the bonds of the Valar,” the head monk concluded.

“There’s something else I think is related – I think I can touch the Valar as well, which explains why I could kill one,” she said.

Veryamorcon frowned. “How would you know that?”

The girl looked uncomfortable. “A visit with Ulmo, I believe.”

Silence filled the room, the weight of many minds thinking pressing all around.

“And so begins the end of the world,” murmured the head monk.

Tegalad recognized what this meant with clenching of his gut. Dagor Dagorath.

*

Soon afterwards, the end of the meeting was called, much to the relief of Gwen. She had felt quite uncomfortable under the scrutinizing gazes of so many people.  The room began to empty, and she stood as the council got up and began to cluster around her, some waiting austerely while others clasped her hand and spoke in rapid Breech.

Eventually, all had left but one, the big-nosed one that had spoken in Elvish. “I’m sorry about earlier,” he said sheepishly.

“Oh, it wasn’t your fault,” she told him. “I’m sure you’re just not used to speaking Breech here.”

“Gwen, may I present Tegalad, a promising young monk here.” Cerederthan’s voice was warm. “I brought him here a couple hundred years ago, and he’s done exceptionally well for himself.”

The elf gave an awkward smile.

“Won’t you join us for breakfast?” asked Gwen.

Tegalad hesitated. “Sure.”

Upon sitting down at the table, Gwen helped herself to the delicious-looking oatmeal she had seen cooking earlier. Tegalad wasn’t as enthusiastic about the food.

“I heard that you came with several other people,” he said.

“Yes – including Frodo Baggins, the Halfling,” said Cerederthan. Tegalad’s eyes widened in surprise.

“What?” Gwen had noticed his reaction. “He’s a Halfling from the Green Lands, that’s all.”

“His story has been told far and wide.” Tegalad was impressed.

Cerederthan looked at her solemnly. “And he deserves far more respect from you, young one.”

She bit her lip. “What did he do?”

“He was an instrumental part of the War of the Ring in the Green Lands,” Tegalad played with a piece of bread, his mind somewhere else. “He was a Ringbearer, and because of that was able to destroy Sauron.”

“Wait – who was Sauron? The name sounds vaguely familiar.”

Cerederthan got up to get a pitcher of water from another table. “Sauron was a Maia in league with Morgoth. He played an instrumental part in the history of your people, Gwen.”

“How so?”

Before Cerederthan could answer, Tegalad spoke. “He submitted himself as a prisoner to the Numenoreans, when they marched upon him. His voice was still heard and listened to, and the lies he spoke took root. As with many lies, there was a kernel of truth – he said that the Valar created the idea of a God to claim authority, and that the Valar themselves did not have authority. This struck directly at the heart of the Numenorean monotheistic religion – but few actually listened. However, it was the latter idea that is actually true – the Valar are not gods, but Eru is – “

“You’d better keep that idea to yourself,” Cerederthan said in a dangerously low voice. “More than your career would be in danger. You must not speak so freely about such things.”

Tegalad looked down at his plate. “I’m sorry – I’m just so excited after what I’ve heard, and being with someone so important…”

“What happened?” Gwen asked, garnering a confused look from Tegalad.

“Oh! Right. Numenor,” he recalled. “Sauron began an underground cult worshipping Morgoth. Even some of the rulers of Numenor joined in – part of its allure lay in its promises of immortality.” He lowered his voice, leaning over to her. “The situation was complex; some believe that Sauron was sent to do this by the Valar to give them a reason for destroying Numenor. The Valar never gave the Numenoreans the island of Numenor – it was found by them. The Valar fear the Numenoreans, Gwen. They feared their monotheistic beliefs and the strength of their heritage. They never thought an elf-human marriage was possible – they never expected a lot of things. But nevertheless, there were some who still believed in the monotheistic ways, and they listened to the pleas of visiting Elves from Valinor. When they set out to help them, the Valar realized it was a prudent time and sunk the island, bringing all of their kind to become slaves as punishment for their disobedience. Thus the Valar strengthened their positions and gained a large labor force.”

“There was a group of Numenoreans who split off to found their own country,” added Cerederthan. “Led by Elendil. They didn’t believe in either religion prominent in Numenor – they followed the beliefs promoted by the Valar. They were heralded as heroes and endorsed by the Valar.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” Gwen asked. “They chose what they wanted to believe.”

“They deserted us when we needed them,” said Tegalad. “Think of a strong host of Numenoreans, coming to help us demand freedom from the Valar.”

“But the entire host was destroyed by the Valar,” said Gwen. “How could more have helped?”

Tegalad paused midway through taking a drink. “I don’t know.”

“At least in that way a group of free Numenoreans survived,” said Cerederthan, digging into a bowl of rice. “But I think that before, the Valar were working together, and were capable of far greater actions. Now their numbers are fewer, and they are set against one another. I don’t think they could sink a host of ships along with an island nowadays.”

“There is still a steady number of Numenoreans in Valinor who follow Sauron’s cult,” said Tegalad, taking a swig of wine.

“There are?” Cerederthan and Gwen blurted out simultaneously. They looked at one another. “How could you possibly know that?” asked Cerederthan.

“They keep themselves very quiet,” said Tegalad. “When I was a roving monk, I disguised myself as a slave and walked among them. Part of the reason why they’re so unnoticed is that they no longer practice human sacrifice.”

“They practiced human sacrifice?” Gwen asked incredulously. “That’s awful!”

“That would get them noticed rather quickly,” Cerederthan said. “The government tries to keep a detailed record of all slaves.”

“So Morgoth holds sway over a number of Numenoreans?”asked Gwen. Tegalad nodded.

Suddenly a hand was placed on Gwen’s shoulder, and she jumped. She looked up to see Eleyond’s brown eyes.

“Excuse me,” he said, “I hate to cut in on such an interesting conversation. But may I steal Gwen away for a bit?”

Cerederthan gave a small smile and a nod. Gwen got up, bumping into the table. Eleyond reached out a hand to help her, and as she took it, she had a funny feeling in her gut. I must’ve eaten something that didn’t agree with me, she thought, and walked beside Eleyond out of the room.

She looked at him, scrutinizing his features. He was quite fair for an elf, with a handsome profile. He looked at her suddenly, and she glanced away.

“I hope you’re enjoying your stay here,” he said.

“Yes, I am. But what’ve you been doing? Anything interesting?”

He shrugged. “This and that.”

She waited for a more accurate description, but none came. “Where are we headed to?” she finally ventured.

They started up a flight of steps. “One of the meditation rooms. It’s quite beautiful – I wanted you to see it.”

Gwen opened her mouth and shut it again. She’d been having a good conversation. She didn’t really want to see a pretty room. But she liked Eleyond, and was sure he had a good reason for this. When they had gone up perhaps six flights of stairs, he led her down the hall, not making any conversation. Then he opened one of the doors to a room with a glass ceiling. It was quite warm inside, and a tree grew next to a small fountain inside. The room was decently large, and Gwen gave a small smile. “Yes, it’s very nice. I hadn’t expected to find something like this here.” She was about to turn and go when Eleyond shut the door, with both of them inside.

The feeling in her gut increased. “Eleyond, what are you doing?”

He didn’t answer, but walked towards the fountain. Suddenly it felt like all humidity was sucked out of the room, and the fountain changed shape. Ulmo rose out of the water, stepping onto the tiled floor. Eleyond bowed before the Vala. “I have done as you’ve asked.” Eleyond’s form blurred, becoming taller, and the being that emerged was blue, humanoid, and had webbed hands and feet. The Maia, she supposed, disappeared into the water.

For a moment the Vala and human looked at one another.

“Things have changed since last we met,” said Ulmo, his aquamarine eyes mesmerizing. Water dripped from his salt-and-pepper goatee.

“When exactly was the last time we met? Did that visit underwater actually happen?”

He grinned. “You’ll find that the boundaries between dreams and reality are very thin. The monks here will teach you that.”

She crossed her arms. “How did you find me? Can any Vala locate me? Because if they can, I’m surprised I’m not dead yet.”

“No, even I couldn’t find you. It seems that you are invisible to us – perhaps one of the benefits of your inheritance. I knew you would be brought here, so I sent a Maia after you.”

Her eyes widened. “Has Eleyond been a Maia this entire time?”

He snorted. “No. Just now. Eleyond is safe and sound in his room.”

“Why are you here, then?”

He looked at her with an expectant expression. “You’ve discovered your talents – talents which I guessed you had a while ago. Now that you are in a temporarily safe spot, I think we ought to discern what you can and cannot do regarding the Valar. There are many people with questions, and many who will want you to fight for them. You must discover your limits so that you don’t make empty promises.”

She cocked her head. “And how do you expect to precisely determine what I can and cannot do?”

He grin returned. “How else? With experimentation, of course.”

“What is the first thing you propose?” she asked.

He scratched his ear. “Well, the Valar are unable to find you. This would lead to the conclusion that our powers are unable to work on you. To make sure of this, I ought to try and do something to you.”

“Like what?” she demanded. “You could just be looking for a way to kill me.”

“Have I ever given you doubt that I’m on your side? If the Valar were able to kill you, they would have by now. You are a great threat. Now,” he stepped closer to her, “I’m going to change you – make you a faun, I think – harmless.”

Now Gwen was very nervous. Her stomach churning, she glanced at Ulmo, who was squinting, obviously focusing. Then she looked down at her feet.

They were shrinking – growing smaller, changing into…hooves.

“Hey!” she cried. “Stop it! It’s working!”

He jerked back in surprise, and her feet returned back to their normal state.

“That shouldn’t have happened,” he said, frowning. “I don’t understand.”

She closed her eyes, still shocked by what had happened. She couldn’t imagine it happening to someone else, permanently. It was just wrong.

Ulmo was thinking, pacing back and forth. “What were you thinking at the time I was doing that?”

“I don’t know. I was nervous. I wasn’t really thinking about anything.”

“You were nervous. Why?”

“Because it might have worked.”

He stopped. “And it did.” Walking over to her, he laid a hand on her shoulder. “Look. I’ve had my first physical contact with another race for the first time in thousands of years, and it’s with you. I can touch you, Gwen. Now I want you to believe that I can’t hurt you in any way. That for all my trying, I am unable to influence you. I’m going to try again, but don’t be afraid, because it’s not going to work.”

He squinted again, and the knot in her gut tightened. But she took a deep breath, trying to relax. I feel nothing, she told herself. He can’t do anything to me. When I look down, nothing will have happened.

She looked down at her feet, and sure enough, there they were, her ten toes. Looking up into Ulmo’s face, she noticed it was creased in concentration. “It’s not working,” she said.

“I have to try my hardest. Any of the Valar would,” he answered, and his fingers tightened on her shoulder. He exhaled and relaxed, removing his hand. “You did well.”

She smiled a little. “Thanks.”

“You must be desiring so much not to be found that subliminally, you’re resisting the Valar’s attempts,” he said thoughtfully, then lunged at her.

She stumbled back, aghast, and ducked to one side to avoid him. He went past her and whirled around, grabbing her arm and knocking her off-balance. With a gasp she went down, landing flat on her back, then stretched and kicked at his knees with her feet. Grunting, he fell, but was immediately on top of her, arms reaching for her neck.  She struggled to kick his groin, but it was to this scene that Eleyond and Cerederthan burst in on, followed by a slew of monks.

“Hey! Get off her!” yelled Eleyond, going to snatch at the Vala, but his hands grasped nothing. Ulmo immediately got up, leaving Gwen on the floor, gasping for breath. Cerederthan knelt beside her, giving a hand to help her up. “Are you alright?”

“What were you doing?” demanded Eleyond, furious with Ulmo but powerless to do anything.

“Testing what Gwen could do with a Vala in a fight,” Ulmo said calmly, adjusting his robes.

They looked at Gwen, who stood slowly. “I assume you were just trying to surprise me to get a better reaction,” she said.

“Correct.”

“If that was a real scenario, you would’ve died,” Cerederthan was serious.

“I suggest that she be taught to fight as swiftly as possible. Every day your only hope of having freedom has the chance to be killed.” He glanced at Cerederthan, then at the monks. “Don’t expect all of the brethren to be accepting of what they’ve learned today.”

With a nod to Gwen, he was gone, dispelling into the air like mist.

Cerederthan sighed with relief. “I’m sorry, Gwen.  I had no idea that Eleyond wasn’t Eleyond until the real Eleyond came into the hall – “

She brushed some dirt off her tunic. “Don’t worry about it. The visit was educational, to say the least.”

The monks, seeing she was alright, left the room.

Eleyond crossed his arms. “He was clearly winning, and the Vala themselves as far as we know have no battle training to their benefit – they always use their powers. He’s right, you’re in for a lot of work.” He looked at her mischievously. “Besides, how could you have possibly thought a Maia was me? Didn’t you notice anything off?”

Gwen rubbed her neck. “No, nothing that wasn’t normal – the brooding eyes, the constant frown…”

“The slouching posture,” Cerederthan added, “the whining voice….”

Eleyond held his hands up with a smile. “I get it, I get it.”

Day is ended, dim my eyes,

but journey long before me lies.

Farewell, friends! I hear the call.

The ship’s beside the stony wall.

Foam is white and waves are grey;

beyond the sunset leads my way.

Foam is salt, the wind is free;

I hear the rising of the Sea.

Farewell, friends! The sails are set,

the wind is east, the moorings fret.

Shadows long before me lie,

beneath the ever-bending sky,

but islands lie behind the Sun

that I shall raise ere all is done;

lands there are to west of West,

where night is quiet and sleep is rest.

Guided by the Lonely Star,

beyond the utmost harbour-bar,

I’ll find the heavens fair and free,

and beaches of the Starlit Sea.

Ship, my ship! I seek the West,

and fields and mountains ever blest.

Farewell to Middle-Earth at last.

I see the Star above my mast!

               –’Bilbo’s Last Song’, by  J. R. R. Tolkien

The forests of Lorien could be seen from over a mile away, and Gwen had never been so glad to see trees in her life. It was a blazing hot day, bugs chirping in the grass, and they had run out of water an hour ago. It wasn’t just the shade she was longing for, either. It was just seeing a forest after the dust and closeness of the city – it reminded her of home. When they drew closer, she noted that it was not a thriving forest. There were no young trees at the edges, or inside. Just old ones that soared loftily above them. There were pines, so that the ground they walked on was soft with pine needles.

Bird song drifted through the interior , and Gwen, following Cerederthan around trees, felt herself feeling more and more at peace. Her thoughts, in turmoil still from the things that she had done, stilled. It was like a breath of fresh air. They came quickly to the lake ringed by trees. There wasn’t a breath of wind. The leaves didn’t rustle, and the lake was smooth. Gwen guessed that it might be due in part to Lorien’s wards.

Smooth worn stones led across the water to a tree-covered island, sticking perhaps two feet above the surface. Cerederthan strode across with assured steps from practice, but Frodo and the others were more careful. The hobbit seemed uncomfortable with the water, and even Gwen thought it odd to be standing on the surface of the water.

They made it without getting wet. The gardens there had long been untended, so flowers grew on shrubs wild and unpruned. But there was a path, which they followed to a clearing. There was a fountain made of stone, but it was unlike any other fountain Gwen had seen. Stone maidens with water dripping from cupped hands surrounded a tree, delicately carved so that she could barely tell whether or not it was real. Water plinked from its leaves into a pool at the center of the island, which was surrounded by stone steps leading into the water – built when pilgrims flocked to bathe in its clean waters.

Cerederthan took off his sandals, with Gwen following suit, unlacing her worn boots. She wiggled her toes, happy for them to be free. As the others stepped into the water, she hitched up her skirt to wade. The water was cool and soothing on her blistered feet. Evening crept near, and the sun’s last rays illumined the tops of the trees. None of them dared to break the silence with a word. As night approached, the lawn began to bloom with white flowers opening to the starlight. They lay in the grass, drying, and Gwen happily drifted off to sleep. It was not a sleep of dreaming, but merely a deep rest, so that she woke up feeling better than she had in many days.

Eleyond was awake before her, but the other two were still asleep. He gave a small smile. “I could stay here for ages,” he said. “But we cannot stay here long. Every day is another where the Police can find our whereabouts.”

Gwen’s heart sank, hating to be reminded of the outside world. She rubbed her arms, trying to ward off the morning chill. Eleyond had been generously allowing her to borrow his hole-ridden sweater, but it didn’t hold everything at bay.

“I couldn’t help but overhear,” said Frodo, startling the both of them, “that you are running from the Police.”

Gwen winced. “You heard correctly,” she said.

“Have no fear. I don’t know what you’ve done, but my lips are sealed. You seem like decent enough folk, and since you are with Finrod Felagund of renown, and a servant o fthe Valar, I’m sure it is a matter of little consequence.”

Eleyond glanced over to Cerederthan’s sleeping figure. “Do you suppose we ought to wake him?”

“He’s a monk of Lorien,” said Gwen. “He might sleep forever.”

They decided to give him a bit more time, and Gwen dunked herself in the water to clean off sweat and grime.

Without constant care while she was in Valinor, her long hair was difficult to manage. It would get knotted, matted, and greasy, so she had taken to wearing it in braids for as long as possible. Short hair on women was not common, but women cut it when they were in mourning, and some did so to make a statement.

While she was re-braiding her hair, Cerederthan awoke. He looked at the bright sky, and said, “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“We didn’t want a grumpy monk to keep us company,” said Frodo with a small smile. He looked up suddenly, as a stranger entered the clearing. Catching a glimpse of the person, Gwen looked away with a blush. He was stark naked. She heard Cerederthan talk to the stranger in hurried Sindarin, then a rip, which she assumed was the ripping of his robes – the only real clothing to spare between them. Eleyond laid a hand upon her shoulder. “It’s fine,” he said softly. “You needn’t worry.”

“Why did you come, pilgrim?” asked Cerederthan, whose robes now reached his knees.

The stranger answered haltingly, as though he were surprised at being able to speak. “I’m…broken,” he said. “I think…I need to be fixed.”

“Fixed?” asked Eleyond, frowning.

“The people on the road told me…that here I might be healed,” said the young elf.

“I’m sorry,” said Cerederthan, “ but I know these gardens well. They can provide rest and dissipate weariness, but they have never healed.”

Disappointment flooded the elf’s face. “Oh,” he said quietly, and turned to go.

“Pray tell us what your ailment is,” said Eleyond. “Perhaps the monk can direct you to a better place for healing.”

“I don’t know what it is,” said the man.

Gwen frowned. “What’s your name, then?”

He turned mournful eyes on her. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything, really.”

“You’ve lost your memory?” exclaimed Cerederthan. “I’ve never heard of that affecting an Elf. Elves have forgotten memories before, but not all of them.”

“What’s the first thing you remember?” asked Frodo curiously.

“Waking up in the grass next to the big road,” said the stranger. “Then asking people about myself.”

“Perhaps you were robbed and the thieves hit your head,” offered Cerederthan.

The elf rubbed his unmarked hands through his dark hair. “My head doesn’t hurt,” he said.

Cerederthan shook his head, puzzled. “Perhaps those in my order can help find your memories for you. Come, we travel to the Monastery of Lorien, and we will not leave you here alone.”

The elf considered this, then nodded.

“But what shall we call you?” asked Frodo. “We can’t call you ‘Mister’ or ‘No-Name’!”

They looked at one another. “Perhaps you ought to decide,” said Cerederthan, turning to the stranger.

“Let the lady name me,” he said. “I cannot think of any names.”

Gwen pursed her lips, thinking. “How does the name Touchstone sound?” she ventured. “It’s the name of a character in a book I once read, before it turned to dust. You remind me very much of him.”

“It’s a curious name,” said Cerederthan.

“A fool’s name,” said Eleyond under his breath, looking, disturbed, at Gwen.

“Nonetheless, I think it suits me,” said the elf. “Call me Touchstone.”

*

Frodo, as he was walking carefully across the lake, was lost in thought. Here it was peaceful, and for the night his unrest lifted and memories did not plague him. He would have liked to stay there – a remnant of Valinorean legend, in peace for the rest of his days.

It would have been rather lonely, though, and he came to the sudden realization that something greater was going on, something he needed to be a part of, rather than turn his face away and ignore it. So he reluctantly departed with the others.

Gwen too as sad to go, but as she was traveling towards her mother, the desire to meet with her family was encouraged. So she strode on with purpose.

Aside from her family, one of the things Gwen missed about Earth was sleeping in a good bed. One doesn’t really appreciate something until it is gone, and Gwen’s aching back was a testament to that fact.

The time it took to get to the road was skewed according to Touchstone’s reckoning, and it took them two days before they met the younger road, merging northward. Cerederthan assured them that it indeed did separate later, so that they wouldn’t be on it for long. The next night, lying under a cloudy sky, Cerederthan shook Gwen awake. She started, looking up at him. “I wanted to catch you when the others aren’t paying attention,” he said, reaching into his bag and bringing out a knife. Gwen tensed suddenly, ready to bolt if need be. But instead Cerederthan handed it to her. “You can never be too careful,” he whispered, then stood, going back to his watch. Gwen looked at the knife disgustedly, a bitter taste in her mouth from memories.

They continued as the next morning dawned, brooding thundershowers lurking on the horizon. Before evening came, they saw a place along the road built up with what could only be called a small village. There was an inn and stable, a farm and bar. They looked at one another, ragged and tired, and decided that, despite all risk, they ought to stay the night. However, there was a distinct problem – between the five of them, they had no money. “What a sorry bunch we make,” said Eleyond. It had begun to pour, which made them all sullen. “A monk, a no-name, a Halfling, an Only, and a servant of Lorien. Together.”

Cerederthan gave them a gentle smile.

“Can you see what the outcome of this might be?” asked Gwen.

“No. But I have seen us here. Whether it is the right path, I cannot tell. But we are going on the right one, I think.”

But instead of going into the inn, he gestured for them to go into the bar. Gwen followed them, puzzled. She had never been inside a bar – Ash Mills had two, but she’d never been inside them. She had some drunks in her family, to be sure, but had never been a person to go to parties. Nevertheless, if they were broke, it didn’t make sense to buy drinks.

When they entered the smoky interior, the bartender eyed them warily. Cerederthan sat down at the bar as the rest of them slid into seats around a table. The bartender leaned over to the monk. “We don’t serve unless you pay first,” he said. “We’ve had too many people run out without paying. Policy.”

“I tell stories,” said Cerederthan.

*

All in all, he made more than enough for them to stay the night. He became a different person when telling stories – lively, entertaining. Some of the stories had points, and Touchstone in particular had listened with a rapt expression.

Gwen found out that she was to share her bed with a complete stranger. Eleyond looked at her with a strange expression when she was confused. “It’s been done like that for a long time on Earth,” he said. “It conserves beds.”

“They’re women, don’t worry,” said Cerederthan. “It’s a room meant for Elves, but the only space for a woman left in the inn. We had to pay a lot to get you in there, being an Only.”

“Thanks,” she said sarcastically.

“Hey! We all have to share beds too,” said Touchstone.

“We’ll be rooming together,” explained Cerederthan.

Gwen walked heavily down the corridor, opening the room door. The bed took up most of the room, but no one else was there yet. She’d never been happier to see a bed. She threw herself on it, scooting over to the far side, and then pulled up the covers and immediately fell asleep.

She woke up sore but happy  – it was still dark out. She was instantly aware that there was someone beside her, smelling strongly of wine. Slowly she turned over so as not to wake them, but her heart stopped when she saw who it was.

She would’ve known that face from a mile away. It was Amarie, no doubt in the search for her. Very slowly she turned back over and got up, looking anxiously at Amarie’s sleeping form.

She could kill her right now, she realized. Amarie would never know who did it and the temporary loss of their commander would delay the Police, at least. Just a simple slit across the throat. She reached for her knife, but stopped. She couldn’t do it – what she had done before was defense. This would be murder, plain and simple – even if the Elf would still be alive. Taking the knife, she slit the pillowcase beside Amarie’s face.

Softly she sheathed the knife and quietly left the room. It wasn’t until she got to the end of the hall that she broke into a run, until she reached Eleyond’s room. Gasping for breath, she shook Eleyond. Sleepilty he opened his eyes.

“Police! The police are here!” she whispered hoarsely, and he was up in a flash. Gwen woke the others and they hurried together, out of the inn. Cerederthan looked to make sure there was no one outside, then led them away from both roads. A hundred feet out from the road, they began to run.

Of course, they had to slow down for the Halfling, but it was imperative that they go quickly. The country was hilly and thus difficult to navigate, but Cerederthan did so with skill, using the hills to mask their escape. At perhaps midday they slowed, but still kept a hard pace.

They also walked into the night. Gwen was exhausted and very nervous, often glancing back to see if they were being followed. When the new day dawned, they stopped to sleep, with a careful watch. As they ate a meal together, Eleyond said, “Do you mind, Gwendolyn, if I ask how you knew the Police were at the inn?”

“I woke up next to Amarie,” she said.

They stared at her, amazed, and Cerederthan laughed. “Really? That’s a story in the making, and no mistake!”

“It must have been quite a fright,” said Eleyond.

“What did you do?” asked Touchstone, his eyes wide.

Gwen hesitated, but couldn’t tell them the whole story. “I left, quiet as a mouse, and came to get you.”

Cerederthan was the only one who noticed her lie, but didn’t say anything. Whatever it was she had done, he would find out later. “This tells us how close we were to capture,” he said. “From now on we must take great haste in reaching the mountains.”

They strove onwards for many days. They had to skirt towns, fording rivers so as to avoid meeting mills. Although they often talked and sang to pass the time, Gwen found herself deep within her thoughts. She desperately hoped her mother was all right, but seeing a monk of Lorien and the way he treated people made her feel better about the affair. She was more worried about her father and brother. She had found that, during her time in Valinor, many slaves were strongly resentful of all Elves. Perhaps in part because of a master who clearly explained all sides of the issue, Gwen found herself sympathetic to both sides.

Gwen winced, remembering her master’s death. She couldn’t be sure it was true, but she felt it was. What would become of Feanor? Would he be kept once more in the Halls of Mandos?

Gwen examined her arms. The tears in her skin, six in all, had healed into thin white scars. Cerederthan sat beside her. “What happened in the inn?” he asked, his keen eyes fixed on hers.

She looked down. “I thought about killing her. I’ve never been more ashamed of thinking like that.”

“Why didn’t you?” he asked.

“I couldn’t commit murder. Other people can call me a murderer, but that wasn’t my intent. I was defending myself.”

“So you say. But many think that your defiance before the murder was proof of your intent.”

She shifted uncomfortably. “Please don’t call it that.”

“Killing, then. Your likeness, I’ve found, is being spread throughout the continent. You may not be able to stay in any public place.”

“What will we do?” she asked.

“I’m sure we’ll think of something,” he said, and disinterestedly watched Frodo and Touchstone talking.

“I did something else, though,” she said softly.

Cerederthan raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“I slit the pillow beside her. I wanted her to know how close to death she came.”

“If you are looking for me to approve of your action,” he said carefully, “you should know I cannot. It is not for me to choose what your story will tell. That is up to you. But that may make their search ever more ardent, so we ought to keep close watch.”

Steadily, day by day, great mountains loomed out of the distance. At first they looked like clouds obscured by smog, but they grew to great heights, white-capped and majestic, untouched by the industries below.

One night, the vague stars obscured by greasy clouds, Eleyond caught a pair of doves. Cerederthan prepared them, and after dishing them out, one by one, he noticed Gwen pause before eating, closing her eyes briefly before eating heartily. Afterward, when the others were readying for sleep, he sat down beside her. “Do you pray to a god?” he said softly, clear eyes searching.

She lowered her eyes. “Yes – but why on earth do you ask?”

He stared into the small fire. “Well, I was just wondering. To whom do you pray?”

She considered this. “The Christian God. We just call Him God, really.”

“Curious.” They sat there in silence for a while. Finally, he stirred a bit. “Why do you believe in your god?” he asked slowly. “You’ve made it clear you do not believe in ours, even though they stand before you.”

“I’ll ask you this first,” Gwen said. “Why don’t you believe in Ea?”

“Why should I?” he asked. “If the legends are true, he has abandoned us to the care of the Valar. Never has he made himself known to us, and the ancient hopes we once had we have long forsaken. What creator would take so little care of his created? The Valar shaped this world – we might have been one of their thoughts, and none have taken the credit. Aule brought forth life himself, and it has been rumored that Morgoth has, as well. Trust me – scholars have long debated upon these questions.”

“Why then do the Numenoreans still speak of him?” she asked.

“The Numenoreans have long held hope in Ea, even against all odds. I would call them foolish beliefs – believing in something one cannot see. The true gods walk among us.”

Gwen pursed her lips. Cerederthan was a firm, solid person, and she did not want to get into an argument with him. “I believe in my God for many reasons, many more difficult to explain than others.”

“Do you believe in Ea, then?” he interrupted abruptly.

“I hardly know what to believe anymore. Before my town was attacked, I had believed that there might be other worlds and such without question, because God is powerful and can do anything. He never needed to let us know. I think that perhaps Ea might be Him, but I’m hesitant to make that assumption. Perhaps He works with different worlds in different ways.”

Cerederthan’s eyebrows went up. “Are you saying that this god has spoken with your people in the past?”

“Well, yes. He’s shown Himself in many ways.”

“Then he could not be Ea.” Cerederthan’s voice was firm. They said nothing to one another for the remainder of the night.

Soon they came upon a clear river that rushed from the mountains, and they followed it northward. The river water was freezing cold. “I comes from the glacier Aeglironion, up north,” said Cerederthan. “There lies our road. The trade route we were following led to it, as well. But partly what led to the collapse of the trade route was the advance of the glacier, which destroyed the bridge that crossed the lake before it. Ever since then, those that follow that route must cross the glacier. We will go that way.”

“Cross a glacier?” asked Gwen dubiously. “That’s rather dangerous.”

“How so?” asked Touchstone.

“We could fall into a crevasse – big holes in the glacier. Sometimes the snow covers them and you step into unsafe ground,” she said.

Cerederthan nodded. “It’s claimed many lives.”

Frodo was frowning. “Couldn’t we cross the river earlier, before the lake?” he asked.

“There’s no other way to the path going through the mountains. We cannot reach it on another approach.”

“Have you not gone that way enough to know where they are?” asked Eleyond.

“Glaciers shift and move, melt and freeze over! No, indeed not” said Cerederthan with a smile.

Within a week the mountains loomed before them brightly and the river began to widen. The crystalline lake, a cold, clear blue, stretched towards the glacier, a white wall, streaked with grey, stretching between two broad mountains. Gwen shivered. None of them were ready for a cold journey, with thin clothes and no cloaks.

They heard deep thumping sounds, like the deep rumbles that come before a thunderstorm. For a moment, Gwen thought it was coming from the glacier, but the sound drew nearer. Eleyond clasped his sword, and the others readied their weapons, except for the monk. Rounding over a hill, Gwen saw first a tall dinosaur head, swaying on a long neck before others came into view as well – people riding dinosaurs or horses, with some carrying loads on their backs or in carts behind them. The fastest of the riders quickly surrounded them.

Their hands were bound and the rest of the convoy halted to make camp.

As preparations were made around them, they were hustled to the leader of the convoy, who stood proudly amongst the clamor. He was tall, swarthy, with white stubble on his chin and a weathered face, sizing them up with cold blue eyes.

“To where are you traveling?” he finally asked.

They all looked at Cerederthan, who answered calmly.  “We are traveling to the Monastery of the Vala Lorien.”

The man nodded the thugs standing beside them, who proceeded to roughly search the group. They took all their weapons, Eleyond’s amulets, as well as Cerederthan’s staff and bag, including the money they had left over from their night at the tavern. The leader looked over it all with an expression of disappointment. “I had hoped for more,” he said with a sigh.

One of the women came up and whispered in his ear; he then smiled and thanked her. Coming up to them, he seized Gwen’s hand and examined her mark. “We shall feast tonight!” he exclaimed. “The price on your head is no small sum.” The thugs took their arms, Eleyond and Touchstone struggling hard against their captors. But Cerederthan looked the bandit in the eye. “Whatever you’d get paid, there are others who would pay more.”

The leader sneered, baring white teeth. “All prisoners say that.”

“Do you know what she did?” ventured Eleyond.

The man shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

“She killed one of the Valar,” Cerederthan’s smooth voice cut over the noise. “Now imagine what she’d do to you.”

The leader squinted at Gwen, then looked at the woman who had informed him. She nodded. The thugs, worried, loosened their grips. Striding up to Gwen, the man scrutinized her. She held her chin up, gaze unwavering. The leader then motioned to let them go, handing Cerederthan his things. “My mistake,” he said.

“You chose wisely,” said Cerederthan. “However, you can still make a profit for your trouble.”

“Oh?” the smile returned to the thief’s face.

“If you help us make the glacier pass safely, with food and warmth, my monastery would make it worth your while.”

He considered this briefly while the others in his band watched him, awaiting his decision. “Very well,” he said.

A fire was built that snapped and crackled high, and the group was treated to a feast, at least in Gwen’s eyes. They all sat on the ground, eating with their fingers, and Gwen was beckoned by the leader to sit on his left. Cerederthan grabbed Gwen’s arm as she went to join the elf. “Be careful,” was all he said.

The leader was licking his fingers after finishing off a bit of wildfowl when Gwen came, and he gestured once more for her to sit. “My name is Herion,” he told her, then motioned to the young person sitting on his right – “and this is my eldest son, Suiauthon.”

“Greetings,” said Suiauthon, peeking around his father.

“It is truly an honor to have one more powerful than the gods dining with us,” said Herion, selecting an apple and biting into it.

Gwen paused. “Sometimes it’s not a matter of power, but of weakness.”

A smile twitched around his mouth. “Indeed.”

“Do you mind if I ask – why did you turn to thievery?”

“This civil war. And, well, profit. Both sides are willing to pay for technology and information. The war has long been a stalemate.”

“Why is there fighting, though? I’ve never been told why.”

“Over the Valar, of course – whether or not they have the right to be gods. Those who support the Valar, or are conscripted into their army, are fighting against the dissenters. When you’re immortal, these disputes can last for a long time. But you’ve brought something new to the equation, that’s for sure.”

They ate for a while in silence. Then Gwen thought of something Herion might know. “Who’s the ‘Prince’? I’ve heard some people talk about him, but I’ve never known what they were talking about.”

Herion gave a laugh and took a deep quaff of his wine. “The Prince is a title that refers to the leader of the Numenoreans – his ancestors long ago went underground. He is the descendent of the Numenorean kings, giving great hope to your people. The Valarian armies have looked for him long and hard – I myself have tried to gather information as to his whereabouts, but to no avail. He is considered great among men. I myself wondered if the young man with you might be him, but the Prince would not be so careless to wander around and allow himself to be captured so.”

Still, it was an option Gwen hadn’t thought of. Touchstone had no memory of what had happened to him, and the Prince, never a slave, would not have a mark on his hand. The line between Elves and Men was very thin, indeed.

*

The next day the convoy split in two – the thieves kissing their wives and children goodbye, and leaving all the cold-blooded dinosaurs behind. “They’d never survive the cold,” said Herion, taking what he needed from his mount. The group of them were given clothing to survive – warm boots for everyone besides the Halfling, woolen sweaters and mittens, as well as cloaks and scarves.

The thieves were geared with a wide variety of weapons – everything from knives to bows to guns – but offered none to Cerederthan or the others. Then they set off up the mountain.

The way was sharp and steep, but not grueling – the path was worn from many feet, and the way was smooth or stepped for easy passage. But soon their way became covered in snow, and Gwen began to feel the effects of the thinner air. Herion handed out crudely-made goggles of brown or green glass to protect their eyes against the wind and harsh glare. One of the bandits pulled out a rope and tied their waists together, then handed out knives to everyone. He showed them what to do if one of them fell into a crevasse – how to stick their knives in the snow, dig in their feet, and try to pull them up. And thus they set off across a breathtaking landscape pitted with canyons.

No matter how clear the view was, the task at hand required constant attention. Twice one of the band fell into a crevasse, jolting them down into the snow, stopping Gwen’s heart as they worked together to survive.

After two grueling days they reached the other side.

They trekked along the mountain range, using the well-worn trade route, moving past long-deserted villages, where the wind whistled around the crumbling houses. Wild sheep would obstruct their paths during the days, and the men kept wide-eyed watches at night for leopards.

Two weeks into their journey together, the wind was sending clouds scurrying around the mountains.  Cerederthan leaned over and whispered in Gwen’s ear, “We’re nearly there.”

Then, like a crane flying through a cloud, the Monastary of Lorien rose above the mists, gleaming white in the sunlight. It clung to the mountainside, and its details grew ever more apparent as they drew nearer. They had to cross a valley on a bridge of rope, then another under the shadow of the monastery. A monk, dressed in robes of dark green, came out to meet them, arms open wide. “Greetings,” he said.

I’ll be blogging about my study abroad experiences if you would like to read about it. My blog is here. Enjoy! Things will really start to get exciting when I get over there.

You’ll find that my last name is indeed Flewelling – a derivative of Llewellyn – *gasp* I know! I said my character wasn’t a Mary Sue! How could I? Well, give a girl some credit for trying. I wanted a Welsh last name and was too lazy to find a different one. In the new edit I’m finding another name and changing things to take stuff that would make a character seem like a Mary Sue out. So don’t hate me for it! I’m getting better, and my characters are too!

Whoo. It’s good to get that off my chest.

We live in a flicker of light/Swift as a swallow’s wings/A day of sunshine and pain./Then dusk falls./And the bird flies home in the evening./I have sailed the blue ship with the silver prow/Over the sea of eternal stars/I have crossed the guardian’s rim of fire/And passed into dreaming.  ~ OR Melling.

“‘The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater. Some there are among us who sing that the Shadow will draw back, and peace will come again. Yet I do not believe that the world about us will ever again be as it was of old…Alas for Lothlorien that I love! It would be a poor life in a land where no mallorn grew. But if there are mallorn-trees beyond the Great Sea, none have reported it.’” ~ Haldir, The Fellowship of the Ring, by J.R.R. Tolkien

The coming of the Vala Tulkas to the City of Dreams was in no way surprising to Feanor. In fact, he had almost expected it. So he had no second thoughts when he knelt before the pavilion. When Gwen did not kneel beside him, his heart nearly stopped. “Don’t do this!” he whispered to her urgently, then remembered her reluctance to show piety before the Valar. “It’s not worth it, not yet! You are still my property – do as I say!” He focused in order to cause punishment, but it had no effect before the guards came for her. He winced, concerned for her and, momentarily, for his damaged reputation. As the guard punched Gwen, he gasped, not knowing what would become of her.

He was horrified when, in defiance, Gwen pulled out the knife. “Don’t do it. You can’t do it,” he whispered. He’d seen it several times, in person and in the papers, attempts on lives of the Valar. Every one had failed, and with the expertise of Tulkas, she wouldn’t even touch him.

Feanor had a long history of hating the Valar, and he himself had tried to kill them through various means since he was released, but learned quickly that these efforts, even when done in secret, were futile. So he laid low in order to stay out of the Halls of Mandos. Feanor could hardly believe that Gwen’s dislike of the Valar would lead her to do something so stupid. She was such a meek, uncomplaining, inquisitive girl that he didn’t think she could do something like that anyway, even if there was no enchantment on the Valar.

So when she stabbed Tulkas, his jaw dropped in astonishment. For a second he thought his eyes deceived him. Then as the crowd roiled around him, he stood on his feet and punched  one of the people reaching for Gwen. It felt good.

He hadn’t fought for years.

Others rose by his side and pulled soldiers away, so he grabbed her arm and, looking around, seized the reins of a nearby horse. He helped her up onto the horse and looked up at her, emotions raging through him. Recalling his conversation with Elrond, he sighed. “It truly is the end of the world.” The unthinkable had happened, and it was going to change everything. “You must ride to the other side of the city, then flee north, as far as you can go. This mob will hold things up for a while, before they come looking for you.” There was a gunshot, and the horse shied. Feanor ducked, and when he looked after her, she was gone.

He thought of something, then fought his way towards where the Vala had fallen. But his body was gone – Feanor searched frantically around, then saw the palanquin being carried away by soldiers pushing through the crowd. It was too riotous for him to follow them directly, so he headed for one of the nearby shops, reaching for the ladder that led up to the roof. Clambering up and looking around, he could clearly see the direction of the palanquin, which was being swiftly borne towards the center of the city. He ran and jumped to the next roof, landing with a jolt that reminded him acutely that his body was not the same as it once was. But he scrambled over it and went on to the next one, following the body. The soldiers changed direction abruptly, and he had to climb down across streets to follow them. There was a faint boom that echoed across the city, then a crack. Feanor looked briefly over the rooftops to see smoke rising from several important buildings. Some of those aligned with the rebellion were trying to build on the chaos that had already occurred.

When he got to the wider venues he had to continue on foot, but there were no riots here, and he ran, trying to keep the pavilion in sight as it was hauled to the Court of the Valar. He knew then what he must do. He cut around the side, searching for a servant’s entrance. When he found it, he squeezed around a large dwarf to get inside, then ran across hallways and up stairs, to a gallery on the side of the Court. It was usually used by courtiers – people of very high rank to watch the proceedings in comfort. Crouching behind a pillar, he watched as the body of Tulkas was brought in.

The rest of the Valar materialized out of the corners and shadows of the large empty room. They ran to the still body of Tulkas, and a great keening wail came from Nienna. Feanor heard their hurried talk – “How could this have happened?” “He was stabbed!” “They’ll have to pay for this!”

Feanor hoped desperately that Gwen had made it out of the city. He was honestly surprised at how emotional he was – it had been a long time since he’d had someone to look out for. The Valar were now moving the body to another room, so he stood on his feet and followed quietly, hoping he wouldn’t be seen.

* 

Gwen woke up to cold water splashed over her face. Blinking rapidly to get the water out of her eyes, she slowly became aware of the pain arcing up and down her body. Her arms were strung up above her, lifting up her pained arms so that her toes barely touched the floor. She could feel the scratches the Police had given her acutely, and running her tongue over her lips to catch what water she could to quench her thirst, she looked around.

There wasn’t much to see.

The cell was barely lit by a cluster of glowing crystals from the ceiling in one corner, and the cell had been crudely carved out of solid rock. Perhaps the most prominent feature was the dwarf who had thrown water on her. He grunted, noting she was awake. She twisted her body painfully to watch him exit through the door, made of solid wood that scraped loudly across the floor as it was closed, then locked. She twisted to the left to note a small window, more of a slit, that let in a view of solid, rather grey sky. She closed her eyes, willing every straining muscle of her body to sleep, but it never came. She stared at the crystals, feeling time creep ever so slowly by. Every minute she shifted, trying to get into a more comfortable position so that her shoulders could get a break. To make things worse, now that she had woken up, her hunger was beginning to ravage her insides.

The problem with pain is that you can’t even hear yourself think. You feel every minute acutely but your mind can’t distract you from it.

The door finally opened, and the guard stood to the side to let someone through. She was a tall, imposing woman – the kind whose mere presence commanded respect and attention. She wore robes of heavy black, her hair of the same color flowed loose around her shoulders, and as she moved her hand to stroke the butt of her pistol, Gwen saw her hands were tattooed with a pattern she didn’t recognize.

She paced furiously around the room, then reached up and grabbed Gwen’s chin, forcing her to look up into amber eyes.

“It is unthinkable,” the woman purred, “that an act of such magnitude could be started by one so low.” She looked Gwen over judgmentally. “It is fortunate, however, that such accurate records are kept – that a slave can be identified by the mark of her master. Gwendolyn Llewellyn,” she said, rolling the name off her tongue. “You’ve made quite an impact after such a short stay on our lovely planet.”

Gwen couldn’t contain herself. “What about Braden?” she blurted. “Is he here too?”

The lady frowned, then smiled. “That Only who tried in vain to save you, I believe. An unfortunate incident, I must say. But his master was duly compensated for his death.”

Gwen bit her tongue hard, her throat closing as she thought about his still body – sacrificed to save her.

The woman in black studied Gwen’s reaction closely, then laughed lightly. “The murderer is sorry for her friend’s death. Ironic.” She paced around Gwen. “It is most unfortunate you are not mine to interrogate – that a servant of Mandos must defer to Manwe!” She gave a bitter smile, leaning close so she was inches from Gwen’s face, hot breath making Gwen shrink back. “How did you do it?” the woman hissed. “How did you kill a god whom so many have sought to destroy?” She brought out the pistol lovingly, then slammed the handle into Gwen’s face.

Gwen cried out, head throbbing, blood trickling from a split eyebrow. “Why did you succeed where others have failed? Tell me!” she shouted. The door scraped open, and the dwarf walked in. “Lady Amarie,” he said in a gravelly voice, cringing in expectation, “I am obligated to remind you that the interrogation must wait until Lord Caranthir arrives.”

“I know that very well!” Amarie snapped, then composed herself. “This is not our last conversation,” she told Gwen softly, then her form blurred, slinking forward, lengthening and solidifying into the form of a panther. The great cat exited, along with the dwarf, leaving Gwen to hang there.

She was quite unable to wipe away the blood now trickling from her head, so she closed her eyes and hoped the wound clot quickly. Time trudged its sullen pace. Eventually, she heard a small amount of noise outside – the changing of the guard, no doubt. She opened her eyes carefully, not wanting to be blinded. The light outside the slot had faded into darkness.

Her mouth was dry - her body pleading for water. Looking around, she saw none - no water dripping from the ceiling for leaking down the walls. Hours passed, and she began to tremble as any strength she had faded. She could acutely feel every wound made by the cruel claws down her back. In order to get her mind off the pain, she had angrily started to rant at the wall, imagining herself before her captors, bravely withstanding whatever they might dish out. Of course she knew what the end result of her imprisonment would be – a very public trial leading to her death. This filled Gwen with foreboding, and to dispel it, she shouted.

“Why, why did this happen to me? I was happy at home, and then it was ruined! It’s all gone – all of it…” A sob wracked her body. “I just want to go home,” she whispered. “I hate it here. I don’t want to die…”

The light through the slot had long since lightened when Amarie returned, sweeping into the room followed by the dwarf and another person who Gwen brightened to see in such a dark place – Finrod. But when she could more clearly see his face, her heart dropped. For surely his hair was a similar shade of brilliant auburn, but his brown eyes and profile were not the same He was wearing a black velvet surcoat emblazoned with the emblem of Mandos and a seasoned sward at his side. Amarie nodded to the dwarf, who gave the key to Gwen’s manacles to the newcomer. He silently strode up to her, reaching up to unlock the manacles, unscrewing. As soon as she could, she put her arms down, but cried out at the pain it took, lifting them up to relieve it. She didn’t look at her captors, embarrassed at her blatant weakness. Slowly she lowered her arms, but the muscles still protested.

Amarie stepped towards her, and involuntarily, Gwen drew back. Even though they had met only briefly, she didn’t think Amarie had any good intentions. She disliked unpredictable people – Elves more than anyone were not easy to understand, which made them very dangerous in her book. Amarie casually plucked off her gloves, revealing the black tattoos that writhed over her hands. Tossing the gloves to the dwarf, she walked towards Gwen, who hastily backed up until she was trapped in a corner.

Amarie gave a curt smile. “Did you know, Gwendolyn, that this here,” she gestured at the stranger, “is my son? I’m sure you didn’t. He’s very secluded in his work.” She clasped her hands. “You see, I get very annoyed when I can’t get information from my prisoners. So I asked my patron Vala, Mandos, if he couldn’t do something about it. Well, there is always a price to be paid for such things, so I gave up my son to his service. In return, I’ve been given many powers. Shall I demonstrate?” She suddenly moved, quite quickly, and Gwen in vain tried to slap those tattooed hands away. But Amarie grabbed her wrists with a strong grip. Gwen struggled, but Amarie wouldn’t let go.

Then every nerve ending in Gwen’s body spasmed in agony, stopping as Amarie hissed. “How did you kill the Vala Tulkas? How did you kill a god?” The pain began again, and Gwen screamed, “I don’t know! Please – I don’t know!” Her vision clouded under the pain as Amarie grilled her. “Was the knife enchanted? Did Feanor give you a magical knife?” she snarled. It went on for ages as Gwen begged, screamed, pleaded, and cursed under the unrelenting watch of Amarie’s son.

Eventually, Amarie tired of the charade. She let go of the girl’s wrists, watching in distaste as Gwen fell to her knees, weeping. She turned on her heel, annoyed that id hadn’t worked, and left, her son and the dwarf following. As the door was locked again, Gwen heard Amarie’s voice dripping with disdain. “I’ve never seen such a pathetic display with no results.” Then the footsteps faded away and the cell became quiet once more.

Over time, Gwen as able to stop sobbing. Her body was still in great pain, though it was less than before, and it hurt to move. She examined her arms and was surprised to see three bloody lines on both of them, as though the skin had cracked open, extending from the wrist to the elbow. She tore off cloth from her skirt to staunch the bleeding. Perhaps, she thought sullenly, she might die of thirst or infection before her execution. It would be less humiliating, she concluded, and would not give the Valar what they wanted.

Exhausted, she hoped that sleep would com, and it did – her exhausted body drifting into a thin, dreamless sleep.

She awoke only a little refreshed. The pain had reduced somewhat, but her tongue was swollen for want of water and she had lost all track of time. Quickly she got up and reached for the window slot, hoping to catch a little bit of dew or rain, but the slot was far out of reach.

Tired already from the effort, she slid against the wall to sit on the ground. She closed her eyes, remembering the incident that landed her here. Then she prayed more ardently than when she was drowning, more desperately than when she lay in the bowels of the ship bearing her away from her home. “Lord – ” she whispered, and opened her eyes, feeling it was a futile effort, then stiffened her resolve. Lord, she prayed, help me please. Anything you can do, I’d really appreciate. I’m lost and alone, confused and I’m frightened, Lord. I very well might die.

This made her feel a bit better. To occupy her mind and keep it off her raging thirst, she mentally recited the Quenya, Sindarin, Numenorean, and Breech names for the months and days. When she ran out of these, she recited as much of the history of Arda as she could remember, but she soon lost interest and she sat in mournful thought of her bitter end. She knew full well the human body could really only go about three days without water. She started trying to count how long it had been since she had last taken a drink.

Halfway through her count, there was a commotion outside and the door was unlocked and opened, with Amarie once again coming into the room with her son. Gwen did not rise – she didn’t want to expend energy she didn’t have. A slew of attendants brought in platters of food and set them on the ground before her – meats with steam still rising from them, fresh fruit and bread. But Amarie took from her side a skin of water, holding it before Gwen’s eyes – a prize worth dying for.

“You have done well in your purposes,” Amarie said. “For that, we think you can be trusted. The ability to kill a Vala is one that is not just dangerous, but even more so in the wrong hands.” She paced back and forth, black robes swirling across the floor. “I serve Mandos, the mighty judge, and it is he, not the lofty Manwe, who holds the power in this world. He deserves the complete rule of Arda, with me by his side, and he’s giving you, Gwendolyn, a chance. If you will serve him and kill the other Valar, he will let you live.” She held out the water, and all Gwen could think about was its wetness running down her throat. “I do not think,” said Amarie, “that it is a hard choice. But you will be given all you desire, when your task is finished. And if you thought my methods were terrifying, think of the trial you will face later under Lord Caranthir.”

This was a good offer, Gwen thought. Whatever principles she had once held were deeply diminished in a time of great need. God, it seemed, had deserted her. But as she shifted forwards to grab the flask, and its promise of life, she looked to the figure that stood shadowed behind Amarie. The son of Amarie had been watching her impassively, and now caught her gaze. But instead of the cold she had expected of him, there was something else in his look – not sympathy, but something akin to it. Slowly he shook his head, and though he said nothing, she understood his intent – Don’t give up, it said. Don’t give in.

All temptation fled then, and she stood, supporting herself against the wall. As she looked once more at the water, she instinctively thought of grabbing it from Amarie’s hand, but she tore her eyes away and managed to speak her mind. “No.”

Amarie raised her eyebrows, genuinely surprised. When she saw Gwen was serious, she chuckled quietly. “You know I would have you perish before Lord Caranthir arrives. The soldiers of Manwe cannot earn such a prize as you.” She opened the skin and drank from it, drops running down her chin, smiled, and left once more, the servants taking the food. At the doorway she stopped. “If,” she said, “You happen to change your mind, call for the guard.” Then she was gone, and the others with her.

Gwen didn’t doubt her words. Trembling, she slumped to the floor. Why had she done that? Taken the silent message of someone she didn’t even know? Now she would die for sure. Briefly she considered going to the door, pleading, but she knew in her heart she had done the right thing.

Hours crept by, and she heard once more the changing of the guard. Suddenly, the door was unlocked and opened. Gwen closed her eyes, not wanting another confrontation with Amarie. When she opened them, however, it was not the cruel woman who stood in the cell, but rather the small elf that was Amarie’s son. He was no longer dressed in the raiment of Mandos, instead he was wearing several worn shirts beneath a light sweater with many holes in it, as well as amulets on leather cords around his neck.

What drew her eye, however, was not his presence, but rather the fact that he was carrying a flask of water. “Is this a new tactic of your mothers’?” she asked. “A sort of good cop/bad cop routine?”

He looked annoyed, and swiftly strode over to her, uncorking the water and handing it to her. She picked it up and, with her hands shaking, drank greedily. “Slowly,” he said. “I can’t go out for more, and I don’t know the next time I can come – my mother isn’t often distracted.”

Gwen wiped her mouth on her dirty sleeve, examining him more closely. He was a bit shorter than the average Elf, with a tightly wound body. He was looking disinterestedly around the cell when she finished drinking. “Thank you,” she said, a little out of breath from drinking so heavily. “You just saved my life.”

He shrugged. “It’s nothing, really.” He reached for the flask, but Gwen withheld it. “First I must know our name.”

He pursed his lips. “Eleyond.”

She wrinkled her nose, trying to figure out the Elvish. “What does it mean?”

“I believe the correct translation is ‘Behold! A son!’”

“All that in a name?”

“Elvish can at times be succinct.”

Gwen looked at him thoughtfully, really wanting more information. “Why did your mother give you to the service of Mandos?”

Eleyond glared at her, then wrested away the flask. He left quickly.

The next night, Eleyond visited again with water and by then food – a handful of grapes and cheese. He spoke nothing, answering none of her questions. Amarie visited once more, clearly annoyed that Gwen was not dead.

The next time Eleyond visited, he spoke as she was eating. “My mother would prefer you to die quietly, I’m afraid. She can just say you refused to eat or something like that. Any evidence of murder would look bad for her. But she will kill you to avoid handing you over to Manwe. Even those who last the longest are those of high Numenorean blood, and they only last at most seven or eight days without water. Lord Caranthir is delayed at present, but he will arrive before long.”

“Why then keep me alive?” Gwen asked, licking her fingers.

“Because I’m sure a rescue will present itself,” he said carefully. “Though I don’t want to raise your hopes. News of you capture has spread rapidly and there are others who want to question you.”

“I’m afraid I have no answers.”

He shrugged. “But they don’t know that, do they? Their hands will be much kinder, I’m sure.” Hesitating, he continued. “My story is a long one, but you’ve asked to hear it.”

“If you have time,” she said dryly.

He ignored the sarcasm. “I do. My mother is out for a while.” Sitting down across from her, he began. “I’ve read in your paperwork that you’ve recently come from Earth. This may come as a surprise to you, but there were Elves on Earth – “

Gwen interrupted impatiently. “I know – Finrod told me all about it.”

Eleyond looked at her, astonished. “Then you know much of my story already!” He stopped, considering this new information. “Finrod and Amarie knew one another before embarking on the ship that accidentally brought them to Earth.”

“Really!?”

“Yes,” he said, exasperated. “Let me finish without interruptions! They were married, in fact. But after beginning to settle in Britain, they had strongly different opinions – Amarie thought they ought to try and return home, but Finrod was less inclined to do so. Amarie had a far lesser view of Men than Finrod, so they grew apart. Eventually, my mother joined the Unseelie court, and they became estranged. Yet once in a while, in loneliness and love one would find the other, and spend brief amounts of time together. Amarie earned quite a reputation among the Unseelie Folk.” He hesitated. “She was even called by a name later considered Morgan le Fey.

“Their brief trysts grew briefer, then stopped altogether for many years. But after the fall of Arthur, they were troubled and met under the grey twilight. Afterwards they agreed to finally go their own ways, with Finrod leaving Britain for a time.

“It was soon afterward that she found she was pregnant.” His eyes drifted. “I am a child of two worlds, born from the crossroads of darkness and light. Love and anger, mingled.” Remembering, he gave a small smile. “That is why my Elvish name is ‘Behold! A son!’” he said. “My mother was quite surprised at my arrival! But my name was not always Elvish.”

He looked down at his hands. “My mother abandoned me soon after I was born. I’ve asked her several times why, but the only answer she will give is that life at that time was difficult. Nevertheless, a knight stumbled upon me when I was crying alone in the depths of a forest, and took me home, raising me as his own son.

“You probably think I was raised in a castle, but at the time it wasn’t so. Knights were subject to their lords, and so our house was nicer than many and we had vassals, but we were not great folk. Few at that time were literate, so I did not learn my letters. Fairly early on, I became aware that I was not the same as other children, though I might look like them. The stories of Elves by that time had long been lost or frittered down into paltry tales, so I never thought myself associated with them. Before long the Crusades began, and I embarked, more than a little afraid on a journey to the edge of the known world, serving my father.” He was lost in memory now. The Crusades hadn’t been pretty. “I grew up quickly on that journey,” he said. “My father was killed in battle, but I stayed to help my lord. When I returned home, I found many I had known, including my mother.

“From here my tale perhaps grows long. I won’t bore you with the people I met or places I visited. But I learned much – but as time wore on people began to notice that I hadn’t changed. That time hadn’t touched me – even I was disturbed when I thought about it. When rumors reached their worst, I left for Italy.

“There I learned many things, including how to paint and to navigate by masters of the craft, and sailed to far-off lands. Over the centuries I moved to Spain, then the Americas – I can admit, I fought in many wars. As puzzled as I was by my about my own immortality, I did at times think of ending my life by my own hand, but never had the heart, even in the darkest of times. I’ve certainly had brushes with death.

“Things got more difficult as time progressed, especially to give myself new identities, and I needed more contact with the criminal underworld than I would have liked. Nevertheless, I was able to sign up for a few wars.” He pursed his lips. “I was killed during World War II, by a stray bullet on a Pacific island. Then I wound up here, to my surprise, and the administrators had no clue what to do with me. So they asked around, and my mother showed up. It was a bit of an awkward meeting, I must confess. But she told me the rest of my story, of who I was, and I grew closer to her for it. But I had no idea she was using me to her own ends. When she brought me before Mandos for the first time, she pledged me to his service. And thus I was sent into his Halls, to torment those who were being punished.” Then he closed his eyes, pain flashing across his face. “I’ve seen much of death – living among Men only reminds me of it more often. I’ve been in bloody wars, and even now I feel though at times I take pleasure in other people’s pain. Call me a monster if you will, but not heartless – it sometimes helps the pain I feel inside to abate a bit. Then I feel awful for it. I haven’t slept for days.”

“Have you never met your father?” Gwen asked.

“I tried, but it turned out he was still on Earth until recently.”

Gwen winced. “Right.”

“But what you’ve done – it’s incredible.”

“Incredible? It landed me in jail.”

He leaned in towards her, excited. “Don’t you see? You’re a light from the shadows – hope when there is none. You’ve shown we can’t be restricted under the Valar’s rule any longer - that they’re not all-powerful! Rumors are already flying around the countryside.. The rebellion has renewed fighting because of it!” Suddenly worried, he plucked out a pocket watch, then snapped it shut and leapt to his feet. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll come back when I can.” With that, he left.

It began to get cold, and Gwen huddled in a corner to preserve warmth. Then she saw something strange – a sort of smoke was drifting through the slot. Her first instinct was that it was meant to kill her – to make her die of smoke inhalation. It was an inventive method, to say the least. But when she got a whiff of the smoke, but it was not wood smoke. Living in Maine, she had gotten to know that smell well. Rather than the earthy smell of wood, it was a sweet smell. Not cloying and heavy like incense, but light.

Spots began to swim across her vision and a heavy weight lay upon her. She drifted into sleep, but her dreams were vivid, so that she remembered them clearly after she awoke.

It was as though she was transported, through time and space, the stars whirling past her and the entirety of Valinor before her. A great gravitational thrust brought her into the Court of the Valar, stopping so that she was squeezed into a closet – very claustrophobic. Beside her was the huddled form of Feanor, but as she nudged him, he did not answer. It was as though she wasn’t there.

He was hunched beside a grate leading into another room, and as she looked through, she saw eleven Valar standing in a ring around the shrouded body of Tulkas. It was the first time she had seen all of them – it was very rare for Manwe and Varda to come down from Taniquetil, but when they did they did not stray far beyond the reaches of the City of Broken Dreams. But a twelfth figure stepped up to the circle, and Gwen heard Feanor’s sharp intake of breath. The figure was clad in armor and shrouded in darkness – none less than Morgoth. Nessa and Vana moved to make room for him, and all were clearly uncomfortable with his presence, but he was not rejected.

Manwe broke the silence, speaking slowly. “We have long been caretakers of this world – it was our charge, but now this world has taken one of our number from us. There have always been those ungrateful for our sacrifices, but now their numbers are strengthened. They’ve forgotten what we’ve done for them.” There were murmurs of agreement from around the circle. “Long has our conflict been insignificant, but now I submit that, in memory of our fallen companion, vengeance must be wrought upon those who would sanction such an act. They must pay for what they’ve taken from us. A disagreement will become war, but it will be easily handled.” Most of the Valar nodded their approval.

Suddenly, there was a noise behind Gwen and Feanor looked back. Light shone on his face as the closet door was thrust open. He leapt to his feet, but it was too late – one of the soldiers pulled a pistol and shot him. Gwen screamed, but no one could hear. The soldiers dragged Feanor’s body out, and the vision suddenly shifted.

She was no longer in the bloody closet, but rather on a grassy hilltop. Before her were two trees.

She recognized them instantly from stories and prevalent artwork. Laurelin and Telperion reached up into the starlit sky, casting off their glow. They were far more beautiful than she had imagined. As she reached up to touch one of the shining branches, she awoke suddenly.

The sweet scent still hung vaguely in the air, but nothing else was in the cell that could have woken her. Then the door clicked open, the person behind it trying successfully to push it without scraping. Eleyond came in, trying to close the door just as silently. He was carrying a flask of water.

“I had the strangest dreams – ” Gwen said, but Eleyond interrupted her.

“The guard is asleep,” he said. “They’ve been trained not to – it’s very odd, but lucky. Here, I brought – ” But before he could finish his sentence, there was a mighty crack.

They looked frantically around to find the source of the noise, and there were more cracks - of something splitting. Gwen looked at the far wall, the one with the slot to the outside, and there were cracks spiderwebbing across its surface. The wall disintegrated with a boom, pebbles flying in all directions. When the dust cleared, Eleyond stared in shock at the figure who stood outside.

The stranger was leaning on a staff with a top tapering into a leafy, flowering twig. His face was serene, head shaved, and half-naked except for white cloth wrapped around  his waist, falling to his ankles. He had tossed the remainder of the cloth over his shoulder. Gwen guessed he was some sort of monk.

“Greetings,” he said. “You’d best come out before the guards wake up.”

The thrill of release rushed through Gwen, and she carefully stepped through the rubble onto the grass outside. She looked back to see Eleyond still standing in the cell.

“Come on,” she said. “Why are you waiting?”

“I’ll just make you easier to find,” he replied. “I’m in service to the Valar, recall.”

“I’m already wanted, and you won’t make more of a difference. Come on, it’s your freedom too.”

“Well, three is company,” the monk said. “Shall we depart in all haste?”

“Yes, let’s!” Gwen said enthusiastically.

“Where are we going?” Eleyond demanded.

“Away,” the monk replied vaguely. “Specifically, North, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

The police fortress had been built into the solid rock of a hill. It had been built to be as secretive as the Police themselves were, and so it was surrounded by tall scrubs and grasses – the three of them were quickly under cover.

They had walked a solid eight or nine hours before Gwen needed to rest. They didn’t build a fire, for they were now in flatlands, but they were able to sit and drink.

“What is your name?” Eleyond asked the monk.

He smiled. “My name doesn’t really matter,” he said. “You may call me Cerederthan, if you would like. I’m sure you both have many questions. I am a servant of Irmo, otherwise known to us as Lorien.”

“Did you send me those dreams?” Gwen asked.

“That you dreamed, I am sure. But what you dreamed, I cannot tell. The guards I sent into Dreaming, as well.”

“Are you taking us to your monastery?” she said, worried.

The monk blinked, clearly surprised. “I was not aware you knew of it. But yes, that is where we are going.”

“My mother is a slave there,” Gwen said. “It’s in the records, that’s how I knew about it.”

He looked nonplussed. “I have not been back to the monastery for nigh on twenty years, so I cannot say whether she is working there. But I am glad it gives you hope.”

“How did you know that Gwendolyn was captured?” Eleyond asked, still eyeing the monk with caution.

“Let’s say I was at hand. I had a dream of my own and came to help you.”

“But how did you get us out? I’ve never seen anything like that before,” Gwen said.

“Everything,” the monk answered serenely, “has something that will make it break, physically or not. With a single blow, I could destroy your friend, or with a single sentence disturb his heart. So too stone walls can with a single touch be felled. One must only understand the shatterpoints of the world, and understand much.” His gaze was penetrating. “We have found the shatterpoint of the Valar, for example.”

She shifted, suddenly uncomfortable.

“Nevertheless, we have a problem – Gwendolyn does not have traveling papers.”

But Eleyond was thinking. “Gwendolyn, if you had never seen Finrod, would you have thought I was him?” Gwen nodded. “From what I understand, a slave and master may travel freely together.”

“But we are traveling into the Northern Realms, where folk are familiar with Finrod’s ways. He never kept slaves before he left.”

“Things can change temporarily, I think,” Eleyond pointed out, “for our purposes.”

As soon as the sky began to lighten with dawn, they set out. The scrubland petered out into wetlands, so the ground squelched beneath her feet. They followed the broken remains of an aqueduct, then continued when it veered away. Mills churned out smoke in the distance. By mid-afternoon Gwen was exhausted, but refused to say anything, wanting to get as far away from the fortress as possible. Presently, they came to a stone-paved overgrown road.

“This was once a commonly-traveled trade route to the North,” said Cerederthan. “But other roads have since taken precedence. This road will take us to the monastery, if you would like to traverse it, or we can go by another way. This road intersects with larger ones at various points.”

“I’m not worried,” Eleyond said, “especially if we are vouched for by a monk of Lorien. Will you do that?”

The monk shrugged. “Perhaps. My order takes a vow to never interfere in affairs.”

“Why then did you free Gwendolyn?” Eleyond asked.

“We are allowed to push things towards a course.”

This was enough for Eleyond, and they started down the road. Its deep wheel ruts testified to its past usage. I rained for two days as they trudged along the path – for the most part silent, as Cerederthan seemed to have little to say.

Finally on the third day the sun broke through the clouds, illumining the wide grasslands. “This was all once forest,” said the monk. “but they have long since been cut down. A tragedy in its own right.”

“Was this not once the forest of Lorien, your master?” asked Eleyond.

“I thought they weren’t cut down – a clerk asked if they should cut down the forests of Lorien to make paper,” Gwen added, surprised.

“That must have been a statement of irony,” said Cerederthan. “For this was indeed the home of Lorien and Este, his wife. But when others had need, they cut down the trees, so that the forest grew ever smaller. Este has always slept peacefully on an island in Lake Lorellin, in the center of the wood. When the axes grew ever closer to the lake, he gave up resisting. He placed powerful wards around what remained of the lake and forest, so that no one might disturb the gardens there. Greatly wearied by the hurts his forest had suffered, he took Este and journeyed to the mountains, where he laid to sleep beside her. Our monastery guards them. But a small bit of that forest remains, and by my reckoning we will be there in a week’s time. There is a major road nearby, but it forgoes the forest for a straighter path. The path we are on leads to it. The lake is a site of pilgrimage, and when this road was in use there were many pilgrims who visited the forest. Some still do, but their numbers have lessened.”

They stopped for the night at a set of statues that lined both sides of the road, seven on each side – statues of the Valar. The Valar strictly regulated what their images could portray – what positions, colors, clothing, and animals they could be shown with. Nevertheless, Gwen felt uncomfortable under their stony stares. Noticeably, the statues of Este and Lorien were missing. The wind whistled bleakly over the land.

It have been fortunately warm at night, so their lack of blankets was not noticeable. But their clothing was getting quite worn. Eleyond, it turned out, was quite good at catching small game and fish, things he said he learned “when I was quite young.”

They soon happened upon small farms that quickly turned into a town – albeit a fairly empty one. As the trade route became less and less traveled, many residents had left, leaving abandoned buildings. The three of them decided not to stay there, but to push on through the night. It seemed to them a place that might be crime-ridden or worse.

About two more days out, they came across another traveler, the first they had seen while on the road. He was a halfling, but what Gwen noticed immediately about him was that his hand was not marked. The others noticed this as well, and, their interest piqued, asked who he was.

He didn’t understand Breech. The monk gently tried Westron, which the hobbit seemed to understand a bit better. Gwen knew a little, but as the conversation grew more rapid, Eleyond had to translate for her.

“My name is Frodo,” said the halfling in answer to Cerederthan’s question. “And who are you?”

They answered with their names, although Eleyond gave his as Finrod. If the hobbit knew anything about them, he gave no indication. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“Where the road leads us,” said Cerederthan.

“That is my purpose, too,” said Frodo. “I am very troubled, and I feel that a journey will help set me to rights, even if I don’t know where I am going. I would be glad of company along the way.”

“Why are you not marked? Are you not a slave?” asked Eleyond, voicing the question they all wanted to ask.

A dark look passed over the hobbit’s face. “No, indeed, I am not,” he said. “Although I almost wish I was, for all the trouble it’s given me. The Valar gave me the gift of freedom.”

This caused general exclamation of surprise.

“How is that so?” asked Cerederthan. “I have never heard of such an occurrence in my life!”

“I came over on a ship from Middle-Earth, with the Lady Galadriel and Lord Elrond Half-Elven – “

Here Gwen came in. “My master told me about that ship  – that it brought two halflings. But apart from him talking about it, I never heard anyone else mention it.”

Frodo continued his story. “I also came with my Uncle Bilbo.”

But he was interrupted again by Eleyond. “But I’ve never heard of anyone else besides Elves coming through the Iron Curtain. Why did you come through without fear?”

“We were both ringbearers – we bore a Ring of Power  in our lifetimes.” And with that he seemed to look off in the distance, as if lost in a memory.

That answer seemed to satisfy Cerederthan, but Eleyond and Gwen looked at one another, confirming that both of them didn’t know what the halfling was talking about.

Then Frodo spoke suddenly. “So for our service, the Valar gave us our freedom. But when they left the Blessed District and blinked the haze of joy from our eyes, e realized we had been cast aside, forgotten. I think this bothered me more than my uncle. He was having a wonderful time, talking over great matters with the Elves. But I felt I was missing something. I had hoped for peace, perhaps. One day Bilbo went to the libraries and never came back. Lord Elrond and I searched for him, but he must have gotten lost in the lower levels.”

“I nearly got lost there myself,” said Gwen. “I narrowly escaped.”

“But since then I’ve observed things, and decided to go looking for something I’m missing. So here I am. I started walking, and now I’m here.”

Silence fell between them as fog crept up from a river before them. They crossed the great stone bridge, and when they stopped for the night, Eleyond broke one of the questions pressing to him.”What was it like in the Green Lands – or, sorry – no factories, with forests and Elvenhomes of old.”

“That is for the most part true,” said Frodo. But like many tales it leaves out the bad parts. It has its share of wondrous things, perhaps. But it also has many dark places, full of evil and peril.”

Cerederthan sighed longingly. “Here evil and good have faded and mixed, so that nothing is clear or certain.”

“Do you miss it?” asked Gwen.

Frodo frowned. “Miss what?”

“Home. Your home,” she said.

“Yes,” he said softly, after a pause. “I do. I had hoped for adventure here, perhaps, or rest, but have found neither. It’s the people that I knew, I think, that I miss the most.”

Gwen had to look away, her eyes full of sudden tears.

Fortunately, the others did not notice.

I swear, I’m going to get carpal tunnel from writing so much on my book.

Writing a book is much harder than it sounds. It requires focus and details. I’ve been formulating the idea for this book for well over six years, and have the outline completely filled out, but it’s the details that trip you up.

How is the character going to go about doing such and such? Where are they doing it, with whom?

The strange thing is that I am working closely with Tolkien’s Silmarillion, which means I have to understand the different characters, make up how they would act, and understand their intricate family trees, which is harder than it sounds. I’ve kept my little paperback copy handy while writing, but I’ve had to leave spots blank so that I could fill in information later.

My paperback is pretty worn right now.

But I can only hope that in some way what I write will touch someone, somewhere. I know it’ll never get published because it’s based on Tolkien’s stuff, which is cheating. But it’s difficult for me to tell this story without it, because the very context of the world I’ve imagined cannot move from its roots.

Nevertheless, I hope in some way more people can read it. The first part of the manuscript is in the hands of a good friend, and I hope she enjoys it as much as I have writing it.

It’s a rewarding experience.

When Earendil left the Green Lands/and cleaved to the salty sea/around his brow a golden band/and as worried as could be./When first his shadow darkened here/and thought his hope was won/seeing diamond dust glittering/and gently sparkling shone./Puzzling alone he stood/and thought that it was odd/until onto the wharf he stepped/and found his feet unshod./Diamond dust/pretty as can be!/Diamonds are sharp/and cut your feet, you see!/Call the Valar/Call us lost/but the prettiest thing/has a cost.~ Field Song, Numenorean

Tulkas looked at her, shocked, then down at the knife sticking out of his chest. With a sick feeling, Gwen let go of the dagger, her fingers covered with blood. Everything with silent with shock, except for her rapid heartbeat, as Tulkas fell to the ground, dead.

Immediately there was chaos – some in the crowd lept to their feet, shouting, some stood where they were, transfixed in shock. The guards started after her, and she turned to run as hands reached out to grab her. Some of the fanatics managed to grab hold of her, wrestling her to the ground, and as she looked into their horrified and malicious faces, Feanor knocked one of them back, then the others, with the help of some in the mob. He grabbed her arm, and, running through the rush of riotous people, he found a horse, helping her up. She looked down at his worried face.

“It truly is the end of the world,” he said. “You must ride to the other side of the city, then flee north, as far as you can go. This mob will hold up things for a while, before they come looking for you.” There was a gunshot, and the horse shied, then took off down a side street. As she rode hard underneath overpasses of train tracks leading to the other side of the city, the clouds seemed to roil and coalesce overhead, and coming to the northernmost walls, lightning cracked and thunder boomed, echoing against the Lesser Wall. She took one of the bridges over the rice fields, which eventually petered out into marshland. When the bridge reached its end, running into a hill and coming down to the ground to form a road, the land around turned to wheat fields. The horse slowed, needing a rest, but began to gallop once more when lightning flashed across the sky. The wind began to howl, and rain lashed her face. The horse beneath her jolted when lightning struck not fifty feet from where they were, and it reared, throwing her from the saddle, – she landed hard. It bolted away, and she was left standing in the pouring rain. A nearby oak was standing alone by the road, spared by the farmer whose fields surrounded it. She ran to it, leaning against the trunk and finding some respite from the elements.

A ditch was in front of her, and, with shaking hands, she reached down to wash off the blood. She sat down, exhausted and dripping. How was this possible?

She had seen the futile assassination attempt before, and it was her understanding that no one, absolutely no one, could touch one of the Valar. A defensive measure they had adopted long ago, Feanor told her, for fear of death. Because they were so powerful, not even the Maiar could stand up to them. Why then could she do so? Numenorean blood undoes many things, Feanor had told her, and perhaps this was so.

She closed her eyes, the seconds of the fight playing mercilessly over and over again in her mind. She had done murder, and her stomach roiled at the thought. It was in defense, her mind attempted to justify. The orc in the library had been no different. Nevertheless, the Vala had been unaware of what she could do. She closed her eyes, feeling more sick, then dizzy, and placed her head in her hands and wept.

Worried that the army would be searching the city, she decided to keep moving, even though it was still pouring. Worried that someone would point out the road she had taken, she decided to cut through the fields to one of the more western roads, then continue north. She set out across the wheat, feet prickling from being wet for such a long period of time. She was going to need to find a better means of shelter if the rain wasn’t going to let up – she had heard of some horrific foot disease that might come from extensive damp  – especially if she was going to be walking to the northern reaches. The wheat fields petered out into rice, and she slogged through the mud, trying not to trample the young plants. It was fortunate that the sudden onburst of rain had broken the heat wave, but she was beginning to shiver. Before coming upon a northern road of any sort, she came upon a set of railroad tracks that were headed the same direction.

Over the sound of the rain and thunder, she could hear the reverberation of a coming train, and she crouched down, glad that she would be blending in with the surroundings. She waited, the cargo train lumbering by, then carefully grabbed on, getting in to the shelter of one of the cars. Curling up in the shrieking dark amongst pieces of furniture, exhausted, she fell asleep as water puddled around her.

She woke up briefly, her heart stopping as she thought she was in the ship that had destroyed her home. Then she drifted back into restless dreams.

*

When she woke up, the train was still heaving and swaying beneath her, the furniture rattling, and Gwen had no idea of how long it had been, except for the fact that she was quite hungry. The thrum of the train increased as it accelerated, and she climbed up the furniture to look out the top of the boxcar.

Wide plantations spread out from the tracks, going up to meet a mountain range that soared into the clouds. The air was much cooler here, tempered by the ocean and the snows. The range extended across to the sea, and before she knew it, she had to duck as they entered a tunnel. When they came out once more, the train track curving into a glacial valley, where it began to slow.  Wanting to avoid being seen, she quickly got out, climbing down the side and waiting for a clear angle to jump.

Gwen landed hard, going down on her knees and hitting her shin on a rock. She lay on the ground a while, clutching her leg in pain, but tore off a bit of cloth to help staunch the bleeding. She stood up hesitantly, aware of her need to keep going. She was standing next to a field being tended to by Onlies. They barely took notice of her, intent on their work – hoeing and seeding. One of them looked up, eyebrows rising as he looked her state. He beckoned her over, giving her a hoe. “Use this – you don’t want the foreman to notice,” he said, then bent over to continue his work. “Why are you here?” he asked quietly, wiping the sweat from his tanned brow as she whacked at the hard earth.

She thought quickly, then lied. While they might be descended from the same people, it didn’t mean she could tell the truth. “My master…he sent me to deliver money to a buyer of his, up north.”

He squinted against the sunlight. “Didn’t trust the mail system, eh?” She shrugged.

He snorted, giving the earth a derisive blow. “Deliverers don’t tend to hop trains, though.”

“I just wanted a ride.” She looked at him. “I wasn’t going to walk the entire way. Look, are you going to help me or not?”

“Why would I help you?” He stood up, looking her in the eye. ”What’s in it for me?”

“The gratitude of my master.”

He rolled his eyes. “Because that’s worth a lot around here. For all I know, you could be a runaway slave.”

“I’m hoeing for you. That’s worth something, right?”

He shifted his hoe over his shoulder. “Come on, kid. I don’t know what sort of trouble you’re up to, but you need that cut taken care of, and a bath.” He extended his hand. “My name’s Stoddard, by the way.”

She shook it. “Gwendolyn.”

He nodded. “Follow me.”

As she walked, wincing at the pain from her leg, she couldn’t help but stare at the mountains. She had never before seen mountains that high, with sharp angles rising towards the sky. In Maine there were mountains, but where weathered down.

They passed pastures where horses were being kept, and soon came upon a large house of grey stone and large windows to let in the view. However, Stoddard passed it and crossed the main road, where old wooden houses had been built to house the plantation laborers. The houses were heavily used, though large to hold a great number of Onlies, patched with wood and blackened from water damage and smoke. It was for the most part empty, but Stoddard went into one of them, walking down hallway of doors that led to one-room quarters, opening the door to find a heavily pregnant woman getting up out of a chair. She kissed Stoddard before looking squarely at Gwen. “This is my wife, Amain. Amain, this is Gwen. She’s traveling to the North – do you think you could give her a bath, something to eat?”

Amain nodded, and he left them to go back to work. She glanced over Gwen, sizing her up. “We’ll need to take care of your leg first,” she said. As she cleaned the cut, Gwen asked, “Why are you here when the others are at work?”

Amain touched her belly. “I’m very close to my time,” she said. “No owner would risk losing a baby – not even for the work.”

Gwen frowned, not understanding. Amain pursed her lips. “A baby is an investment for my master, Gwen.”

Her eyes widened. “That’s…” She couldn’t think of a noun to describe it. “…deplorable.”

 ”I -” Amain closed her eyes. “I’m coming to terms with it. He’ll probably sell my child once it’s weaned. I don’t know if I can find the strength to do such a thing.” She began to clean up the cloth she had used to clean the wound.

She then took her outside to the kitchen, the setting sun giving a hot light to the packed earth. The workers were singing in the fields, far enough away that she could hear the melody, but not the words. The cook gave her a sullen look before slopping some soup in a bowl and giving it to her, the silver mark on her hand dark in the twilight. Gwen took the bowl, careful not to spill it before sitting at a long wooden table. The mess hall was less a hall and more a set of tables sheltered by a roof, open to the surroundings. A kitchen boy went around lighting the lanterns hanging from the posts above, standing on the tables as he did so.

One by one, the Onlies returned from their work, filling the mess hall with talk. Stoddard, wiping the dirt from his hands, sat down next to his wife and took a swig of something Gwen was sure was not water. Young men filled in the spaces around them, chattering about the latest gossip. One of them slapped Stoddard on the back, shoving the others aside to sit next to him. “Who’s the new girl?”

Stoddard gestured towards Gwen. “She’s sitting right here. You could ask her.”

The Only stretched his greasy hand across the table. “Who are you?” Amain thrust a napkin at him. “You could at least wipe your hand before you shake hers, let alone eat!” He shrugged, wiping his hands, then thrust his hand out once more.

She shook it, smiling. “My name’s Gwendolyn.”

“Gwendolyn,” he said, satisfied, and sat back. “I’m Braden – I work on the machinery here.” He dug heartily into his food. “Whereabouts are you from?”

“The city,” she said loudly, trying to be heard over the ruckus.

One of the other men snorted, looking around at the other Onlies. “Which one?”

“The City of Broken Dreams,” Gwen answered, annoyed that she didn’t actually know the name of the city.

“Broken dreams…” came a weak voice, from an elderly man who sat not far from them. The general merriment of the table died, and he looked at her with eyes milky from cataracts. “Let me tell you about broken dreams.”

“Oh, come on, Jaroslav! We’re trying to eat here!” one of the men protested. Braden grabbed his shirt. “Show some respect, will you?” He turned to the old man, who was shakily holding his soup spoon. “Go on, tell us a tale.” But he stayed silent, dipping his spoon back into the weak broth. Stoddard shook his head. “Pity.” The noise about them began to grow once more as they looked at one another. Braden took a drink from his mug, wiping his mouth on his sleeve before turning to Stoddard. “Have you heard? The prince is on the move.”

Amain leaned in to see him better. “From whom did you hear it?”

He pursed his lips. “From Eder.”

Stoddard nodded in acknowledgment. “North, I take it? From the front down south?”

“Aye.” Braden eyed Gwen. “You don’t know who we’re talking about, do you?”

She shook her head. Annoyed, Stoddard turned to Braden. “Perhaps that’s something best kept quiet – ” But he was interrupted by a shout. A farmhand, panting, came into the light, gesturing frantically behind him. “The Police! They’re coming!”

Gwen froze in panic as people quickly stood, acting unusually quiet, solemnly gathering their children and disappearing into the dark. Braden, Amain, and Stoddard stood up with the rest, and, her heart skipping beats, Gwen did the same, stumbling after them. Living in the capitol city of Valinor, she was vaguely aware of the presence of the Police, a far more subtle force than the highly visual soldiers. She had heard references to them, that they skulked around the seedy parts of the city, mostly at night. She had heard horrific stories of the measures taken to enforce the law. The thought of what they might do her to if she were caught made her break out into a sweat even in the chilly night air, lit by the full moon.

She saw something move out of the corner of her eye, and she stopped, but saw nothing in the shadows. Amain grabbed her arm. “Come on, quickly!” Their pace quickened towards the buildings, but somewhere nearby a woman screamed. Braden turned on her, stopping her so quickly she nearly ran into him. “I know they’re looking for you,” he said hoarsely, trying to keep his voice down. “It’s probably best if you leave – don’t go in the buildings. The Police will most certainly search them.”

Braden looked at them all, taking in this new information. “Stoddard, look after your wife,” he said, nodding towards Gwen. “I’ll take her to the fields.”

Stoddard shook his head. “It’s too dangerous. You don’t owe her anything.”

Looking around, her heart pounding, Gwen hissed at him. “If you’re going to come, then come on!”

He shoved Stoddard towards the buildings, then strode towards the fields with Gwen hurrying behind. The new wheat barely stood up to their knees, but it was enough to make noise. Another scream pierced the night, and they quickened their pace. Gwen looked back, and in the ill light of the moon she saw the grass part and shake, but there was no wind, and she saw no one there. “Braden,” she choked out before she tripped over something, falling hard on the ground. Braden rushed to her, trying to help her up, his eyes widening as he looked behind her. She struggled up.

“Gwen!” The fear was evident in Braden’s voice. “Run!”

They bolted. Beside them the grass moved – the Police were flanking them. Gwen, breathing raggedly, finally saw the Police – menacing panthers moving lithely across the ground, barely making a sound, their coats so black they absorbed the sunlight, and yellow eyes she could have sworn were faintly glowing. Braden cut to the right, trying to lead them back to the houses, but a black shape lept from the grass, white teeth  and claws sinking into his body.

Gwen gasped, stopping short, her abdomen feeling as though a hole had opened there. Braden’s body was still under unyielding paws. Desperately, she looked around for a route of escape, but the dark bodies surrounded her on all sides. Suddenly one of them leapt at her – she screamed as she felt the claws sink into her back, and she hit the ground. She could smell the wheat better than she could feel the pain – then the claws dug in deeper and the pain hit her like a wave, sending her flying into darkness.

Even I didn’t know how much Tolkien drew, but he was actually quite good. So, the linguist and author, as part of his world, decided to create a system of heraldry for the elves. It’s kind of complicated, but really cool. For more in-depth stuff, check out J.R.R. Tolkien: Artist and Illustrator, by Wayne G. Hammond and Christina Scull. I love that book.

There’s also some made-up heraldry in the Art of the Fellowship of the Ring book, because the Weta folks needed some to put on banners. Notably, a device for Galadriel is there, where there wasn’t one made for her by Tolkien.

Anyway, here goes. For female elves, their heraldry would be within a circle, while men would be in a diamond. A device that’s created for an entire line would be in a square. Most devices are symmetrical, with Finrod’s being one of the exceptions. According to Tolkien’s notes, an elven prince would have four points reaching the outer rim of the device, kings would have six or eight, and really important folks could have 16.

Idril: “…the twelve flowers or points reaching the edge of the circle may reflect Idril’s position as a king’s daughter.”

Earendil: (shown here in living 3D, since I couldn’t find the original) Notably, Earendil’s device shows a Silmaril (jewel) that reflects the way he sails the sky as a star. Elrond’s device in the Art of FOTR is based on this device.

Gil-Galad: The elven king (note: eight points touching edge) who brought up Elrond. Gil-Galad’s costume for the opening of FOTR was based on his heraldry. See below.

Finwe: With sixteen points, Finwe has one of the highest statures among the heraldry – he was High King of the Noldor in Aman. This is the device for his house, however. Note the fact that such a fiery emblem is for the father of Feanor, a fiery figure.

Elwe: He has merely eight points, denoting his position as a king. It is interesting that, since he stayed in Middle-Earth instead of returning to Aman, that his device has stars, also mirroring one of the devices of his daughter, Luthien.

Finarphin: The father of Finrod Felagund. Tolkien expressed that most likely this was very close to the one he had in mind for Finrod. The later one for Finrod was made by Men.

Fingolfin. I don’t know much about him.

Woot! Melian, a Maia, mother of Luthien Tinuviel. Tolkien created this absolutely gorgeous device for her – it’s really complex because she’s a Maia – she’s really important. There are stars present, which is reflective of her nature. The complexity is similar to Luthien’s below.

For the sake of precision, we’ll call the top device Luthien 1 and the bottom Luthien 2. Since Tolkien considered the story of Luthien and Beren similar to that of his love story with his wife, he probably considered drawing these an act of love (I know I would, but that’s just me.) My personal favorite is the lower. The top one has twelve points touching the outside (she’s a really important character), and I can’t count the number on the second. There are twelve petals in the center, however. Luthien 1 reflects her father’s device.

Interestingly enough, there’s an elven device for Beor, the father of Beren. He spent a fair amount of time among the elves, but still, it’s a bit weird.

Finrod Felagund. Tada! A tad boring, no? Nonetheless, it’s important because he was so compassionate towards the human race. Here’s a picture of him meeting them for the first time:

“[Frodo] offers [the Ring] outright to Galadriel, who says to him, ‘Gently are you revenged for my testing of your heart at our first meeting;’ and then, in one of the most memorable scenes in the book, proceeds to scare the snot out of him, before concluding, ‘I pass the test. I will diminish, and go into the west, and remain Galadriel.’”

I laughed out loud, quite to the surprise of my mother, when reading the essay of Esther M. Friesner, whose experiences reading the Lord of the Rings was very similar to mine, even if they were over thirty years apart:

“The book did sound kind of….interesting. I went to the library and checked it out. Shortly thereafter I was back at the library, clawing at the card catalog like a refugee from a Romero movie, only instead of “Braaaaiiins….Braiiins…”, I was moaning, “Tolkiiiiiieeeeeen…..Tolkiiiieeeenn….”…I turned on the television. There he was. Him. My him: Legolas the hottie elf. I could tell it was Legolas because he had pointy ears and, as everyone knows, all elves have pointy ears. Previous to beholding him, I had not realized that all elves likewise had pointy sideburns, puddingbowl hairstyles, upswept slanty eybrows, and blue velour shirts, but I was willing to learn. By the time I finally came to comprehend that what I was watching/drooling over was not a televised version of the trilogy (William Shatner would not make a good hobbit in this or any universe) it was too late – I’d become hooked on Star Trek. I was doomed.”

In my personal experience, I actually bought library-cover versions of the books from the early seventies for fifty cents each at the library book sale after I read them. I still use them and haven’t gotten any other copies. The movies came out shortly afterward, and I was truly doomed.

I’m still hooked, and not just on the Lord of the Rings.

I’m still in love with Star Trek.

For clarification – CARANTHIR is the bad guy. I didn’t even want to mention Curufin yet. *sigh*

I am working on this. I’m just stuck.