(Archive) The Fellowship of the Sword 38 - Thorondur's Wound

Middle-earth time is:
Before Dawn on Sunday, Day 23 of March.

Real time is: 19:58:13 MST on Thu Jan 04 2001.

Faenwen (played by Dineriel)

Dark and light as the full moon on a clear winters night, is this elvish maid. A tangle of black hair, forever escaping its restraints, frames a small inqusitive face. Eyes of a startling blue peer from a backdrop of alabaster with a brush of color upon cheeks and lips pale as a wild forest rose. Her small frame is clad in flowing white, girded with a grey belt of leather from which hangs a pouch or two. A grey cloak, worn but thick, protects her from the cold.

Thorondur

Wrapped against winter in a tattered black orc-cloak -- little more than a rag -- is a tall man, slender, bent from some awful ordeal. Battered and weary, his skin -- where it shows, on hands and face and feet -- is pallid, paler than death itself. Yet once, he might have seemed lordly. For indeed, in his haunted eyes there dwells still a gleam of wisdom, a hint at some noble spirit in his face beneath the cowl is the comeliness of the Dunedain, and Men with the blood of the Firstborn. A Man of some import, then... yet a Man who has bodily been dragged back from Hell.

The weather around Amon Thranduil
The moon shows from time to time in this spring night and the wind blows off the surface of the Long Lake to the east.it is warm tonight under the overcast sky.

Forest river - west bank

East of you the Forest river merrily chuckles and gallops along, hurring further to the southeast. The damp and cool path is well worn and is guarded by tall Rose trees to the south and by the river to the north and east. Along the riverbank bushes and lower undergrowth seem to be predominant. The road bends slightly from the river to the southeast here, the path eastwards blocked by the stream.

A lone star sparkles for a moment between the clouds, but dissapears again as the boughs block the sight to the sky.

You notice a well hidden trail leading down to the river.

The rich darkness of the night sky fades, a greyness slowly creeping from the east, dimming the stars and moon hanging low and brillant over the forest. Austere branches with tiny buds poised upon the point of unfurling stand silhouetted against the moon and the sweet smells of a forest awakening perfume the spring air. The river chatters and sings, no doubt glad to be free of its frozen slumber. Though part of the dread Mirkwood, the shadows hold less sway here and the forest almost seems to retain its ancient wholesomeness.

From along the river comes a ghostly shape, pale features and light cloak shine within the silvery rays of the moon. Gowned and slender, the maiden walks in silence, the rivers song masking even the rustle of her skirts. A woven basket hangs from her arm and sways slightly with her graceful rocking movements. A cloud of unruly black hair veils her downturned face as she scans the ground upon the either side of the faint path.

The forest is waking, slowly from its slumber. Here in the time between times, in the lonely hours between darkest night and the dawn's bright breaking, a river runs guarded through the enchanted wood. North, beyond the long arm of the Shadow that lurks in Dol Guldur.

Yet from beneath that shadow, at times things come, stumbling through the veils of elven power to safety. But the thing that comes now, wrapped in a ragged cloak of black, torn and bloodied, staggered --

Surely this must be a puppet of that shadow, and not its foe, that crashes unheeding through the forest.

Sensitive ears hear long before its arrival, the clamorous approach and before she has finished a thought the maiden has made for the cover of the trees. A flash of white upon the river path, disappearing quickly into the covering shadows. She peers from around a thick bole, watching with curiosity, the direction from which comes the sounds of someone or something crashing through the forest.

And now closer comes the figure, on a shambling uncomfortable gait. Stooped of shoulder, he falls, crawling the final few steps to the riverside. White hands, pale as the moon, pull him toward the bank of the frigid flow.

Reaching that goal of refreshment, a voice -- cracked, yet lifted in an ancient and beautiful tongue -- sighs aloud, " O water, O flowing streams of Ulmo! How I had despaired to ever drink again!"

Then he stoops his hooded head, and there upon his knees before the river, this black and broken figure drinks.

The maiden shrinks back behind the saftey of her tree when the dark shape passes near, not daring to peek 'round the trunk again until his back is to her. She watches the wretched figure with wide eyes which grow all the wider when he speaks aloud in the tongue of the grey elves. And yet she does not move though he has perhaps made his case as friend with his speech and invocation of Ulmo. Instead she peers through the darkness all around, looking for sign of the guards who keep her folk safe and bites her lip in uncertainty.

Unaware of the elfmaid or any guard that keeps her, the battered stranger is caught in the bliss of success, success against long odds. Sweet water! He drinks long and deeply, then sways back on his haunches --

And collapses, spent. The black wood and eternal darkness behind him at last, he can stagger no further.

The shadows keep thier secrets, no aid is forthcoming though she searches in vain for many long moments and for even longer does the elvish maid watch the spent figure of the man, now a crumpled heap of tattered black cloth. Some decision she must reach for she takes a tentative step from behind her tree and then another, cautiously approaching the man, ever watchful for some sudden movement that might send her, skittish as a doe into the cover of the forest.

She reaches his side at last, silent as ever and crouches beside him, white skirts escaping her cloak and pooling about her. She reaches out a hand to touch him, thinks better of it and withdraws. Choosing to announce her presence instead with a voice clear and pure as the river running beside them. " What has befallen you, adan? Do you need aid?"

The Mortal Man's eyes flutter open, crystalline and blue at their core, if bloodshot now and haggard beyond knowing -- from his back he stares upward unseeing, looks upon the elfmaid and yet beyond her, distant, too distant.

" Lothiriel?" He calls this aloud, and blinking he shakes his head groggily. " No... but you are not... them. Either." To his cracked lips then comes a wan and weary smile.

A slight frown mars her brow and she shakes her head slightly, " Nay, I am not she. Do you know where you are? Do you have a name?" And again she reaches out her hand, letting it hover near his shoulder but this elvish maid is not so used to the folk beyond her borders and she again hesitates, not daring the touch the stranger.

Now comes at last several tall shapes, lithe and strong. They come along the way just taken by the man, spears and bows gripped within thier hands, stern looks and frowns upon thier countnences. Having missed the man himself as he wandered so near thier realm, his trail at least was unmistakable and they have come upon thier prey.

Painfully, the black-cloaked man lifts himself up upon his elbows: not far, but enough to nearly sit. Though the guardians come, he betrays no fear, looking only to the elfmaid.

" I know but this: I have escaped the gates of Hell," he tells her, his hood falling back to reveal a pale, noble countenance -- the face of a Dunadan, and the keen gaze of an Elf-Friend. " I should say that I passed the Girdle of Melian as Beren before me... I am..."

" I am in Doriath," the Man decides, his smile still distant and hazy.

Words of delusion or play, the elf maid laughs, light and sweet, her fancy well satisfied though those same words cause the captain of the guard to deepen his frown. For he has not forgotten the mans first assertion, that he has escaped the gates of hell...

But the merry heart of the elvish maid orients more strongly to the whimsical and something about the man or perhaps the arrival of the elven patrol softens her guard and she places a light hand upon his shoulder. " And I am no more Luthian than I am your Lothiriel. Nay, you are not in Doriath. But in the land of Thranduil who was once a Lord of that fallen realm."

" But, the wood..." begins the Man. And yet her words are enough to stir Memory within him, and he shudders at something across his eyes a shadow tries to pass --

But it is forced back. Keen and clear are those eyes of a sudden, and though battered and bruised and bloodied, this Man of the West is clothed now in more than tatters. For an unassailable dignity has descended upon him, and he tells her,

" Then I greet thee in the name of Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth. For I am Thorondur Edrahil, his Herald, befriended of Elrond Half-Elven and Elladan his son -- and I have passed through the fire to find thee."

Parted lips and wide eyes betray the elvish maids suprise and she stares at him in wonder for a moment, withdrawing her hand shyly, an act that now seems too familar for a tattered and bruised man now transformed to a Lord of a distant land and elf-friend of the wise. " Many of these names I know, even that of your Lord, for...."

" Men of your land have come but recently, seeking an audience with the King," comes the swift interruption of the patrol captain. He comes beside the man, standing tall above him and staring down with some disapproval. " How came you to be seperated from your folk? What gates of hell did you escape?"

Yet though the maid removes her hand, she is graced with a warm smile from the lips of the Man high and lordly, maybe, but also serene and kindly, this one. To the guard-captain, though, is directed another look entire:

Hard, and sombre, and grave.

" I come, free by the grace of the Valar, from the dungeons of Amon Lanc that is called in these days the Hill of Sorcery. I assaulted the gates of that place, and was taken."

And though the words are spoken calmly, and his eyes do not waver, the Dunadan's teeth clench, as if against some darkened memory, when he is done.

If possible, the elvish maids face grows paler, not the cool whiteness of the moon but the iceyness of great fear and her glance is first directed to the elven captain. She shifts slightly, unconciously drawing away from the man.

The captain grows sterner in countenence and carriage, and anger and supcision edge his voice. " None escape that dark tower and only fools or the enemy approach it. You will be brought to the King and his wisdom will perhaps determine which you are."

The maiden looks again to the man and though fear still drains her face she looks instead, deeply into the Dunadan's eyes to see what she may. Young and not counted among the wise, this maiden has vision at least and can see what is not always upon the surface. " Foolishness and bravery are much akin and it may be that the latter is what is at play here. It is the law that he must be brought before the King but bring him instead to the healing lodges and not the deeply delved cells beneath the hill. He can be guarded as he is cared for there as well as in any cell and I doubt him strong enough to escape us."

Silently the Man listens, and watches as some unsaid thing does pass between the Elves: this valiant Captain, and the demure maid. And he speaks not until they are done, and then at first, only to breathe a quiet word of thanks, and cast back a fold of his cloak.

Baring his chest, the Dunadan reveals a long, pale scar -- whiter even than the alabaster smoothness of his skin. "This wound," says he, "drove me to madness. Have you ridden against the Lord of Morgul in the open field? He is terrible! I beg what mercy you have -- or I shall die of its lack as surely as I will of that darkling sword."

And a second time, he swoons -- but it is not exhaustion that fells him, but the shadow of the Morgul-wound sweeping over him at last. Again to the ground he falls back -- and this time he does not rise.

Fear of the man changes swiftly to fear for the man and the elvish maid touches him again, laying a gentle hand upon his chest, examining his dread wound and warming his skin, cold with the sorceries of the ulairi captain. "Know Hir Thorondur, that I am Faenwen, a healer. I have not the skill to heal an injury such as this but many do in the healing lodges and you will be well cared for by my hand and my teachers."

Even the stern Captain softens at such a sight for few of the forests defenders have not heard or seen the dead captains that haunt the wood and bring war to the good men and elves that dwell there. He gestures to his men to make a stretcher and even when he must blindfold the dunadan it is with some mercy and gentleness.

The arrangements swiftly completed, the captain gestures for his men to place the mannish Lord of the south upon the stretcher and lift him. And so they carry the battered man of the west into the city of the elvenking, the healer Faenwen walking beside him. <>