3The great Elven Lord was bored out of his mind. All around him was an expanse of water that rippled and shone in the fading light of day like hammered silver. The Bay of Lune was calm, gentle waves blending in with the darkening horizon. And it was so quiet. So quiet, that the Elven Lord was able to hear his heart beating and the blood rushing through his body. Everything was so monotone that it made him want to scream.
"Rhaich!" he spat, relieved in his own voice. When his words faded out over the water, he groaned softly. Oh, how he hated this silence."Gya she le!" the Elven Lord muttered hatefully. At the moment, he was not all that certain who he cursed and damned, but it felt good. He was surrounded by water on a boat—it did not deserve to be called a ship—along with a small crew of his kin having come from the northern shores of Forlindon. They had been sent to observe the old Elf-haven and its trade conditions as it was the most western tip of Middle Earth itself by their own consent. Very few Elves remained in Middle Earth, as most had set sail to Valinor. But not the last Lord of Imladris, which is known in common Westron as Rivendell.
"My Lord?" inquired a voice coming from the Elven Lord's left. The approaching Elf, Alandon, was a dear friend. Perhaps that would be the reason why his words were tinged with teasing mirth. "You seem troubled."
Groaning softly, the Elven Lord spun around to face him. The long, dark cloak he wore was clasped firmly at the throat, and the hood was drawn up to cover his hair and shield his back from the wind. Oncoming winter had set a frigid mist atop the surface of the water that settled when the sun went down and soaked the boat deck and the sails at night. A raw salted wind had come over the Bay of Lune that tangled clothes, tackle rope, lines, and hair. Everything in its path was crusted in a fine sheen of the salt.
Alandon's hair was short for an Elf, the burnt umber tangled locks coming just to his shoulders, although his Lord's was even shorter, though the Elven Lord kept it that way more in a gesture of defiance of the past than anything else. To sever old fears from his reborn mind. He was currently fighting a losing battle in a fruitless attempt to keep it out of his eyes.
"The same seems to be going for you, my friend," the Elven Lord retorted, dipping his head in greeting.
"It is not wise for My Lord to snap so," Alandon replied in kind. "And if anyone's hair has given them trouble, they are pale in comparison to you."
"There lies the reasoning in why I have cut it; it draws very little attention now and allows me to move easily across the land between villages inconspicuously. I may pass for a tall Man if I so desire without catching unwanted eyes. My kin saw it as a blessing when I was born. I see it as a curse." His voice grew bitterer in his last statement than he had anticipated.
"Are you all right?" Alandon asked, not unkindly. He did not fully understand his friend any longer, not after he Fell and passed into the darkness. The mannerisms of the once open and joyful ellon [Elf, m.] had shifted, and he had become bipolar in nature.
The Elven Lord sighed quietly. "Yes." He paused before speaking again. "You need not worry for me so, Alandon. I think that the one thing that truly haunts me about this world I have returned to is that there remains no more darkness to be fought."
"There is nothing wrong in longing for the elder days of glory and battle, my friend. You always did have a keen thirst for adventure. But the days of war are in the past. You might look forward to a life of peace and plenty now." Alandon rested his hand on his tall friend's shoulder. The Elven Lord sighed again.
"That remains the problem," he whispered. "The great Wars of the past...they have not allowed me peace. I cannot rid myself of the visions of battles. It is almost as though something deep in my soul yearns for blood to run once more. And it terrifies me."
"Continue," Alandon pleaded. He had not had his friend be open in this way for quite a while.
"After...after returning from the Halls of Mandos after I fell, I entered a world that was not my own. The only reprieve from knowing that the time of my people was coming to an end and that nearly all would set sail for the Undying Lands was the brief War of the Ring. Although there was much danger and death all around and evil swept through the lands, it felt good to be of some use again. I bore the Ringbearer to Imladris and watched from those white stone walls the sun, rising as though bathed in fire and blood. There was always an urgency to strap on my armour again and take up my sword."
"The feelings will come to pass, my friend," Alandon promised soothingly.
"No, no they will not."
"Please, My Lord, those days are behind us. The world is for Men now, not for the likes of Elves such that we are."
"I returned a soldier ready to fight in a world that was ready for peace. I admit that I have long felt rather displaced. Even among my kin."
"My Lord, you must not despair." Alandon's face looked desperate enough that his wide eyes and expression bordered on comical, had not the topic that he spoke of been so heavily weighted. "You cannot Fade! You mustn't lose hope."
At this, the Elven Lord laughed. He actually laughed, and Alandon looked on confusedly. Still chuckling softly, the Elven Lord said,
"Fade? After all that I want in this entire world is to truly live once more? My dear Alandon, you have me rightfully mistaken indeed."
"You...you do not wish to depart from Middle Earth?" Alandon breathed in relief. The Elven Lord gave another low laugh.
"Alandon, I have managed to survive a few centuries around you. If anything has proved my endurance, that feat alone more than proves it." A gust of wind tore again at his cloak, and he clutched it tightly at the base of the cowl. "And this accursed wind. But no, I've already died once. No need to go about it again, if you ask me."
"Come now, your grave was a pleasant enough place. The gardeners kept it nice, and there were flowers and everything. You did them a disservice by coming back."
"Aye, and the poor maggots that no longer have the honor of eating away my magnificent flesh." He let out a stream of curses under his breath.
Alandon looked shocked. "My Lord!" The gasp came close in pitch to that of a young girl.
The Elven Lord raised an eyebrow. "Yes, my trusty second-in-command?"
The ridges of Alandon's cheekbones flushed. "I believe that My Lord forgets himself and has the capacity to make oaths that either equal Dwarves or sailors. But, despite that, it is simply nice to know that My Lord's dry humor has not waned in the slightest."
"You're turning red, Alandon."
"Apologies."
Silence came over the two Elves, and in their silence, they listened to the waves slowly lapping against the side of the boat. The remaining crew had shut themselves in belowdecks where their numbers would supply sufficient heat out of the arms of the elements outside.
Darkness pooled into the clouds, a warning of snow. It was easy enough to make way for the shore if needed, as it was perhaps a little over four leagues to solid ground. The rocks should have been visible at such a distance, but the low-rolling mists prevented even Elven eyes from penetrating the shifting grey.
Slowly, ever so slowly, a lone snowflake drifted down and alighted on the boat's rail. It would appear that the company of Elves would have to bring the boat to shore, lest they risk overturning the pathetic thing in a violent burst of frigid air or causing the sails and lines, minimal as they were, to become fragile from growing ice.
"Call the rest up here," the Elven Lord commanded Alandon. "We spend the night here."
With a nod, Alandon clasped his Lord's shoulder and went to fulfil his duties.
The smooth shores gladly welcomed the vessel and its weary passengers, all of whom had donned thick woolen cloaks. The boat made it about fifteen yards to where the large slickened rocks met gravel. Within a short half hour, the Elves had tied the boat down and prepared themselves for the oncoming snow. Their speech was a mingling assortment of flowing Sindarin and Westron, both of which were spoken tiredly, as though tongues were as weary as limbs. Long days spent on smooth seas in an amateurishly crafted boat was enough to tire even the most steadfast of Middle Earth's Elves.
Thickly clustered pines skirted the rocky rim of the bowl the waves had carved away at limestone boulders over the years. The stones were worn smooth with erosion, almost like naturally polished gems, although the dull earthen tones did not glitter like diamonds did. The forestry would be dense enough to block out much of the snow and wind, and salted waters would not freeze over. For once, the Elven Lord supposed, This accursed Bay of Lune has brought us some good in the end.
Leading his people up the steep slope, the Elven Lord felt something inside of him that he had not felt in a long time. It was as though his inner fëa [Spirit, Q.] could sense a return of darkness in the land. A light returned inside, as though he had rejuvenated purpose. The foreign feeling caught him off guard, and he missed his footing on the next step. One of the Elves trekking the closest in his wake, Verdular, caught his arm and helped to steady himself before he fell backwards down the way he came.
"Thank you," he muttered, brushing off Verdular's sideways glance of concern.
"My Lord, are you quite sure—?"
"I am perfectly fine," the Elven Lord snapped. Then in a mischievous tone he added, "I'm not old enough yet that I've developed a bad hip, Verdular, if that's what you are wondering." Verdular was a younger Elf with a large heart, and a kind bantering wit that he often exercised around his superior, although this greatly pleased the Elven Lord and made him feel more a part of the world he lived in once more.
"Nay, My Lord," the younger Elf laughed lightly, "But after that mighty fall you took a while ago, I would not be overly shocked if you'd developed a bad back. Hobbling around like an old mortal grandmother you are at times. Face it, My Lord, you've gotten old."
"I am not old," the Elven Lord grumbled disdainfully.
"Aye, you're right." Verdular nodded with mock seriousness. "Certainly not old. You're ancient. Positively a relic." He smiled brightly, laughter in his dark green eyes.
Rolling his eyes, the Elven Lord once again took the lead of the company, careful not to slip up his footing again. It sounded cowardly to him, but following his Fall, the Elven Lord had become much more wary of heights.
What a familiar sensation, falling, the Elven Lord mused. That split second before you are sent into free-fall, that odd place where your stomach nearly comes up and out your throat, and there is that brief flash of fear.
Of course, the Elven Lord would know all about falling. Oh yes indeed, the Lord Glorfindel of Imladris knew an awful lot about the descent.
A quick thank-you to anyone who has read or reviewed this! Mwah, big kisses for the lot of you!
-F.E.
P.S. I apologize for slow updating. I am currently waging war against the greatest opponent any man has ever come across before. They cal him...LIFE. (Ehehee, nah, that's finals, which are next week. Oh joy. Whee!)