Hîr o Meril Thaifn [Lord of Rose Pillars]

Hîr o Meril Thaifn [Lord of Rose Pillars]

by erobey: erobey@gmail.com

http://www.tawarwaith.com

http://feud.shadowess.com

unbeta'd

Disclaimer: No claims to Tolkien's copywrites, just for fun!

Part One: The Naturalist Makes a Discovery

The morning was gloriously bright and cheerful, menel gleaming cerulean
and cloudless. The air, sweetly scented with the exotic aromas of orange
blossoms and sage, moved in a breeze just brisk enough to prevent undo
variation of the temperate climate, moist with the kiss of the fresh
water spray arising from the frothy pool at the base of a magnificent
waterfall careening from a drop of at least 200 metres. The cloudy mist
clinging to the base of the cliff side almost obscured the neatly
rounded entrance to a little cave while the roar of the robust water
plunging into the depths of the kettle shaped lake muted the ever
present song of the birds and the chatter and rustle of small woodland
creatures.

It was an absolutely magnificent location, highly reminiscent of the
numerous coves and falls located throughout Imladris, and appeared to
be completed untouched by civilisation, unaltered since the moment of
its creation by the loving hands of Aulë and his nature-loving
wife, Yavanna.

Thus thought Erestor, noble Noldo Lord and esteemed kinsman to the
likes of Elrond Half-elven, Eärendil the Mariner, and Turgon of
Gondolin.

Of course, beyond the large elven cities scattered across the immense
continent, every place one wandered in Valinor was pristine,
immaculate, virgin territory just awaiting discovery and exploration.
It was one of the things the elf most appreciated regarding his life in
Aman; Yavanna and Aulë were childless among the Valar and had
turned their causative instincts upon the lands around them. Being
craftsmen with limited resources and an infinity of time, the couple
became bored with creations unveiled only a few millennia or so gone
by, and thus reconfigured the terrain frequently.

Despite three Ages spent as a warrior statesman for the various Noldor
Realms of Middle-Earth, in his heart of hearts Erestor was a student of
the environment, a true naturalist, a meticulous cartographer, and a
gifted artist himself. He was at peace in this sheltered corner of the
world and frequently deserted his home for long rambles through the
wilds, searching for locations that whispered to his soul and awoke the
desire to capture every detail of the chosen site on canvas.


Not once
did he reminisce in longing nostalgia over his time beyond the
Sundering Sea or ponder what the world beyond the protective barrier of
the Valar was like. Even after enough time had passed such that the
lands of Arda under the stewardship of Men would be unrecognisable
should he ever chance to glimpse the place, he did not tire of his less
dangerous pastimes.

Peace was a blessing for which he thanked Eru continuously over the
course of his waking days.

Erestor took his pack from his shoulders and laid it aside, drawing in
the delicate scents of the flowering shrubs and pungent herbs lining
the flanks of the high, sheer ridge on the opposite side of the
seemingly bottomless pool. The very presence of the purifying wind in
his lungs uplifted his spirit and caused a comely smile to grace his
pleasingly symmetrical features. He stretched, raising his arms high
above his head and pushing up onto the tips of his toes, flexing every
muscle in his lithe body before falling back to a less dramatic stance.

With a contented sigh he set up his easel and canvas, began preparing
his palette, daubing the slender board with a variety of pigmented oily
pastes, rummaged through his case for the right brushes, placed a
bottle of strong spirits for cleaning and thinning the paints nearby on
the ground. With a practised eye he surveyed the scene, arranged the
desired composition in his mind, and had just begun the preliminary
strokes when a subtle noise distracted his attention.

Immediately his eyes were drawn to the barely visible cavern in the
rock wall behind the falling water. He waited, respiration suspended,
for the sound to repeat, for he was not certain what had generated it
other than having a definite feeling it had not arisen from the throat
of any animal native to the arboreal paradise. Nothing untoward met his
hearing and he exhaled, shaking his head a moment in self-mockery.


After all these many aeons I am still on guard, even in this
secluded haven.

He waited a second more but beyond the
rushing clamour of the falls only silence filled the air. He lifted his
brush again.

But hold a moment; the birds have ceased their calls and
whistles; the squirrels no longer scamper and scold.

Erestor's brow furrowed and his lips pursed together in suspicion as
his vision once more scanned the far side of the embankment. Nothing
stirred other than leaves and limbs swaying in the breeze and the
flowing water diving into the lake it had delved. Irritated, for he
knew he would not be able to concentrate on painting until his
inquisitive mind was satisfied of the cause for the disruption, he set
aside his brush and palette and advanced to the pool's edge. Hands on
hips, he glared at the black empty spot of the cave's entrance on the
other side, positive the sound had come from there.

The reservoir was not too broad and there was no stream or river
flowing from it to cut the lush verdure on his side of the cool liquid.
Erestor could only surmise that the flood's outlet was below ground. In
any case, he could not walk around nor ford across to the cavern; he
would have to swim. This gave the former warrior an uneasy feeling in
the centre of his gut and his frown deepened.


It was not that he was
uncomfortable in aquatic activities, but a lifetime of experience and
instinct was difficult to ignore, and all his senses were in an uproar.
To swim meant he must leave his long knife behind, a tool he carried
out of habit, more an accessory these days than a weapon, and this he
was loath to do. He would only be able to take the small dagger he kept
tucked in his boot, another trait he had never learned to alter. There
was no other choice, unless he would simply leave which he had no
intention of doing. Thus the Noldo Lord quickly stripped down to his
leggings, clamped the blade between his teeth, and dove into the brisk
water.

Unexpectedly the current of the hidden channel grabbed him in its
forceful torrent and yanked him under. His nerve held, however, and
Erestor opened his eyes as he was dragged deeper, paddling with the
current for he was sure he was being drawn toward the cave. His lungs
had not even begun to burn before the water became as black as the ink
he used in his precise map drawing and he was suddenly slammed hard
against a rough, cold surface. He realised he must be beneath the lip
of the cliff side. A couple more bangs bruised his shoulder before his
questing fingers found the rim of a tunnel through the rock and he
pulled himself into it.

In seconds he was flushed out into another deep
cistern, this one calm and silent and dimly illuminated from above.
Hurriedly he propelled his body to the surface and heaved in a mighty
lung-full as soon as his head broke into the free air. This meant he
dropped the knife and with a disgruntled roll of the eyes he inhaled
and ducked back under.

Finally Erestor retrieved it, tucking the dirk into the waist of his
leggings this time, and returned to the surface, pulling himself up
onto the powdery grit of the cave's floor. He had barely had time to
wring the excess water from his long black hair before he heard the
sound again, this time softly echoing behind him in the enclosed space.
He spun to pinpoint the origin.

It was a low moan of pain and its source was lying crumpled on the
ground less than a metre from his spot.

Erestor hastened to the prone figure and knelt down, gently resting a
hand on the injured elf's back, for surely it must be another elf,
cautiously inspecting the suffering being for signs of wounds. He could
see no indication of bleeding and so he rolled the limp body over. This
elicited a sharp cry and a brief flash of agony filled eyes before the
elf's lids slipped half-closed again and his ragged breathing
recommenced.

"Can you hear me? Who are you? Where are you hurt?" Erestor spoke
quietly, not wishing to startle the barely conscious elda. An
indistinct mumble issued from the strangely clad individual.

Bizarre was more like it. Erestor had never seen any elf from any realm
in any Age dressed in this manner. The entire body from head to heels
was encased in black: leggings, tunic, boots, and gloves all
constructed from buttery soft ebony dyed kidskin leather. But that was
not the half of it. The elf's head was shrouded. The hair was so
completely concealed the Noldo could not understand where the lengthy
tresses could be, and even the face was hidden behind a black silk mask
so that only a thin slit allowed for unobstructed vision.


He could tell
little except that the elf was male, for the leggings clung almost
indecently to the well toned thighs and the exquisitely proportioned
equipment housed between them, the black tunic having ridden up during
the elf's struggles with whatever had harmed him.

One of the ellon's hands was pressed against his side and now Erestor
could see that he was indeed bleeding freely; the darker colour of the
clothing there and the small puddle of ruddy ground beneath quietly
attesting to the seriousness of the situation. The Noldo wasted no more
time in small talk. Carefully he removed the cloth mask to ease the
laboured respiration and revealed a very youthful and fair countenance
beneath a glorious mane of tightly coiled, braided golden hair. Erestor
inhaled in shocked amazement. He had seen this elf more than once or
twice but was not personally well acquainted with him.

"Thranduilion!" he exclaimed and the glassy blue gaze tried to focus on
him. "Legolas, can you hear me?"

"Yes?" the woodland elf whispered, for it was indeed the youngest son
of Thranduil, famous throughout Arda for his minor part in the Ring
Quest and his enduring friendship with a Dwarf.

"By Eru, whatever has happened to you?" continued Erestor but only
another incoherent stammer followed the query.

The Noldo knew he needed to act quickly or Legolas would succumb to
shock and likely perish from blood loss. Erestor stifled his curiosity
for later and went to work. Using the dagger he cut away the tunic and
revealed a vicious stab wound. Luckily, the former warrior was trained
in field dressings and soon had the ugly gash tightly bound with the
silk material of the discarded head covering.


With care Erestor cut off
the remains of the ruined top and revealed a series of welts and lash
marks all over the silvan's torso and arms. He was certain the elf's
back must be likewise marked but dared not shift him again for fear of
aggravating the gouge.

Legolas had begun to tremble slightly with chills and Erestor uttered a
low curse. This would not do. Hastily he rose to explore the cavern
hoping to find something suitable to use as a covering, for his own
clothing was back on the far side of the waterfall and he had just
sliced the injured elf's garment to shreds.

The cave was surprisingly dry and clean and closer inspection divulged
that it was no ordinary natural cavern. This walls were sanded smooth
and in one area a series of absolutely perfect rectangular niches had
been carved into the stone, each one exactly 36 centimetres wide and 24
centimetres deep. There were two sets of these bookcases, each
containing 24 shelves, flanking a broad, low niche sufficiently long to
allow a full grown elf to stretch out. On this excavated platform was a
firmly stuffed feather mattress, for it was indeed a bed of sorts,
neatly made up with white cotton sheets, lots of pillows, and a thick
down comforter. As he pulled back the covers, Erestor could not resist
a quick inspection of the other shelves' contents.

There were many books, of course, meticulously catalogued in some sort
of numerically coded order, filling the top and bottom two strata of
either alcove. They were all written in various dialects of Westron and
had titles that did not make sense as he understood it.
"Wolfram: A New Kind of Science", "Dirac: Principles of
Quantum Mechanics", "Electricity and Magnetism", "Descartes: La
Géométrie", "The World Wide Web for Dummies," "Verlaine:
Album de Vers et de Pros," he read to himself and was glad
not to have to attempt pronouncing the peculiar words aloud.

Upon the middle slots were numerous and varied items; rolled up
parchments, undoubtedly maps, filled two more spaces, soft blankets and
extra clothing, all folded in exacting perfection to fit perfectly
within the allotted area, occupied three more. On one of the more
central shelves in the left bookcase was a multitude of strange objects
the Noldo could not identify; they seemed to be made of shaped pieces
of black obsidian and were decorated with weirdly yet punctiliously
drawn characters on raised rows of small oblong tabs or buttons. Most
of these mysterious things were small enough to fit in the palm of the
hand or a pocket. Erestor picked one up and examined it from all sides,
tested its feather-light weight, ran the edge of his index finger over
it.

To his astonishment, the material was not like any sort of glass,
stone, metal or wood he had ever encountered before. It was smoothly
slick and somehow as warm as his hand. It was scored around its
perimeter and looked as if pieced together. The little raised
squares were soft yet firm. Intrigued, he rubbed his thumb against one
of these minute panels and nearly wet himself when a high pitched tone
issued from the thing.

A four by two-and-a-half centimetre section on
the top surface suddenly became bright with opaque grey light and
flashed an indecipherable series of graphic symbols in black. Erestor
hastily replaced the object, his heart racing from the unexpected
animation of the lifeless item, and ran back to Legolas' side.

"What in Arda is all this about, Thranduilion?" he asked quietly, but
the Wood Elf only groaned in feverish discomfort. Erestor knelt,
gathered the stricken elf into his arms, and rose from the ground.

The jostling movement caused Legolas to cry out in pain and his body
became rigid a second or two as he grasped the Noldo's biceps with a
grip of iron. The next instant his head lolled back and his limbs
dropped and dangled as consciousness fled.

Erestor hurried to the bed and deposited his patient as carefully as he
could, removed the boots and gloves, and covered the elf in several
layers of blankets and quilts. The shuddering tremors did not abate. In
vain the Noldo searched for wood to make a fire, but nothing of that
sort was stored in the cave; a most grievous oversight in his opinion.
Thus, he did the only thing he knew to keep the injured elf's body
temperature from dropping lower; he stripped off his soaked leggings
and scooted underneath the blankets. Cautiously wrapping his long lanky
frame around the  more compact silvan, Erestor gently collected
the boneless body close, cradling Legolas against his chest.

Hours passed in worrisome monotony as the woodland elf's compromised
health sought to repair itself. Gradually the shaking diminished and
Legolas seemed to be settling into a healing sleep. Erestor feared to
do anything that might inhibit this process and thus continued to hold
his unconscious patient, determined to restore the younger elf to
wholeness.

And then I shall demand answers.

TBC