Journey From Darkness

Title: Journey From Darkness 1/10

Author: Mayetra

Disclaimer: All things Tolkien belong to his estate; I only borrow them on occasion and always return them in good working order. I write fan fiction solely for my own enjoyment and do not claim any copyright or ownership of his works nor do I have intent to make financial gain. All original concepts and characters are from my own twisted plot bunnies and remain my property.

Special Warnings: Het; Violence; Character Death

Beta: Hedda

Cast: Tolkien’s Elves, Glorfindel and Original Elven Characters

Timeline: Pre-Lord of the Rings – The year 3320 of the Second Age.

Author’s Note: Please note that I am changing canon somewhat for the purposes of this story. There is much debate to whether Glorfindel of Gondolin and Glorfindel of Rivendell were one and the same. It seems that Tolkien left notes that they indeed were, so I will bow to the master’s wishes and write my tale with that belief firmly in place. The Elvish is a mix of Quenya (High or Court Elvish) and Sindarin (Common Elvish). They are marked with an asterisk (*) and their definitions can be found at the bottom of each chapter.

Spoilers: Some for ‘The Silmarillion’ and other Tolkien works.

*~*
Chapter One: Desperation

At the northernmost edge of Hithaeglir*, nestled in a valley under the shadow of Carn Dûm, lay Mar Mordollo*, one of the last strongholds of the Moriquendi*. A large stone wall jutted forth from the side of the mountain at the apex of the valley in a great arc. Twin towers rose above the battlements, flanking the large iron doors that covered the only entrance to the great courtyard beyond. The stone was dark gray streaked with inky jet that reflected the mood of the dark land beyond. The wind wailed its sorrowful song as it wound its way through the dark valley crowned in stone. Darkness reigned six months of the year with only occasional peaks of twilight at the noon hour. The rest of the year saw the land swathed in perpetual twilight so that the foliage that grew amid the bogs and moors of the valley were stunted and twisted.
It was a dark and forbidding place, and long ago its inhabitants had chosen the valley as a hiding spot from the evils that walked Arda*. They had sought a place of temporary refuge and respite. As the years had marched on, they forgot their intent to leave, forgot the beauty beyond the sws. ws. Now stubbornness kept them prisoners, bound to the shadowy realm they called home. Keen-eyed archers walked the battlements, keeping a constant vigil against the dark es tes that rose against them in a never-ending battle for Mar Mordollo. For the Moriquendi had the misfortune of chance to settle on a treasure the Saurihos* coveted, and they would stop at nothing to possess it.

A faint howl rose above the wind, reaching a crescendo before dipping once more. An archer on the battlements turned and shouted down to the courtyard below. “The hunting party returns, open the gates.”

The gate master yelled his acknowledgment and began to turn the great wheel that operated the iron gates. They creaked and groaned as they slid across the cobblestones over which they hung. Sparks twinkled in the darkness as iron ground over sparse patches of flint marbled in the stone. The doors had only cracked open a few feet when a pack of giant Wargs¹ raced into the courtyard, each carrying a lone rider dressed in leather armor stained black.

The gate master halted the wheel and reversed it, the gates grinding shut once again.

The riders dismounted and led their beasts to an opening carved into the mountain. It was covered with great doors constructed of rare wood reinforced with iron. The doors swung open easily on well-oiled hinges, revealing the great hall beyond. Torches made from moss burned from evenly spaced sconces placed about the room. A great fireplace of gray stone dominated the left wall, a fire of peat moss burned merrily, providing light and warmth against the cold dampness of the stone hall. A constant veil of smoke hung about the domed ceiling of the room and the air was thick with the pungent odor of ammonia and decayed earth. The walls were bare, having no tapestries or painted murals; leaving the room stark and dreary. Great columns rose from the floor, unadorned save for the swirls of jet and the occasional sparkle of silver. The wall opposite the outer door was broken by an archway that led to a second great hall. The only other occupants of the room were more Wargs. They lay in gr abo about the hall, their young bounding anestlestling among the packs, free to violate the sacred unseen boundaries established by their elders.

The riders did not linger in the great hall, but strode forth through the archway. The second hall mirrored the first except for the great long wooden tables that stretched across its length. The tables were dark with age and grime. Archways dotted the right and rear walls leading deeper into the great keep that had been long ago hollowed into the mountain. The riders dropped their burdens, then seated themselves at the nearest table. From an archway to the right, an elder male entered. He was dressed, as the riders, in black leather armor.

“How went the hunt, daughter?” he growled in way of greeting.

The lead rider rose in deference to her sire. founfound little along the Eastern marches. The Saurihos have scared away or slaughtered what little game there was. We managed to bring down a few ereg rysc* but we found no trace of aras.” She gestured towards two medium sacks stained black with blood piled amid their gear.

A curse slipped from her sire’s lips and he narrowed his eyes. “This is all you have to offer after a week at the hunt? You return with a few rysc carcasses and nothing else. There are two hundred mouths to feed in the guard guild alone.”

The girl started to speak but was cut off by a sharp wave of his hand. “I do not want your excuses, Faile. I want results.”

“There is no game, Father. I cannot hunt what does not exist. Perhaps it is time to reconsider leaving Mar Mordollo. We should seek out our kin before we perish from starvatio at at the hands of the dark horde.”

The blow to her face was not unexpected, but that did not lessen the pain. Faile’s head snapped to the side but pride kept any sound from escaping her lips. Slowly, she wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth where the blow had split her upper lip and then once again faced her sire.

“Enough of your foolish talk, we have been forsaken by the others. Would you lead us like aras to the slaughter? I will hear no more on the subject from your lips. I may be your sire, but I am your King first, and you will not question my decision again on this matter or I will see you locked in the Pit.” He turned on his heel and stalked angrily from the room.

Faile returned to her place at the table, anger lending stiffness to her movements. The others made no mention of the confrontation other than to discuss the possibility of looking farther east beyond the ridge of the valley wall. A young boy from the kitchens retrieved the game sacks, unable to hide his disappointment at the meager offerings of the hunters. The hall soon came alive with the buzz of activit it it began to fill for the noon meal. A great cauldron was wheeled into the room and the sideboard was loaded with baskets of solch* bread bowls. Pitchers of water were carried to the tables along with sturdy tankards; no wine or mead was brought forth, for the Moriquendi had lost the skill of brewing. The riders left their table and grabbing bowllledlled them with nâr* stew from the cauldron. They returned to the table and ate in grim silence, each lost in thought.

*~*

The Moon was beginning its descent in the west when a lone Warg rider approached the gates. No challenge was issued and the rider rode forth unhindered. The watchers on the battlements made an odd comment or two, as venturing abroad alone was dangerous.

Onct oft of sight of the great wall, Faile turned her Warg, Carch*, southeast. She rode with ease through the brambles that surrounded great bogs of fetid water. As Carch put miles between Mar Mordollo and themselves, she wondered how long it would take her kin to declare her dead. She had no doubts that her sire would not mourn her apparent death; it was not in his nature.

Faile had come to the decision at the noon meal that the only way her people had a chance at survival was to seek out the others. She was willing to risk death on the slim hope that the Calaquendi* could help them overcome the Saurihos.

So she ventured farther then any Moriquendë* had in recent memory. Over hill and dale, always in a southeasterly direction, for the old songs told of kin living south of Mar Mordollo. The Sea was said to lie to the West, so Faile guessed the Calaquendi would have fortresses to the East. Soon the darkness was broken by the rising of the Sun in the East each morning. At first, Faile had a difficult time seeing as her eyes were used to perpetual darkness, but as time wore on she adjusted to the brightness of daylight.

Months passed and the air warmed as spring approached. Faile had yet to find any sign of the Calaquendi, but with the tenacity of youth, she continued the search.

*~*

Faile led led next to the meager fire she had built and waited. Before long Carch returned, a large hare hanging limply in his jaws. He dropped the hare as he had been trained to do.

“Good boy, Carch. That fin fine looking meal you have found for us.” Faile stood as she praised the Warg.

In response to her praise, the great wolf leapt forward towards his young ma. Fa. Faile watched in horror as two arrows impacted Carch in mid-flight. One pierced his side while the other penetrated the soft flesh of his throat. He landed at her feet with a sickening thud and without so much as a whimper; the light of life left his eyes.

Faile stood in shocked silence. She silently willed Carch to rise, alive and unmarked. Perhaps this is why her normally keen hearing failed to detect the light footfalls that approached her from behind.

“Are you unharmed?”

Faile turned towards the strange voice not understanding the query for the Elf had spoken in Westron². A lone male Elf stood a few feet away. She took in his green and brown garb in a matter of seconds. Noting the fletching on the arrows protruding from the quiver at his back, she knew he had killed Carch. With a cry born of grief and rage, Faile drew her sword and attacked.

Thoron watched in shock as the young woman they had saved from the Warg attacked his brother, Cilmo. Thankfully, Cilmo was proved to be the quicker of the two and leapt clear of her sword swing. Notchingarroarrow, Thoron thought to end the threat but a yell from his brother stayed his hand.

Faile heard the Elf yell ‘no’ to someone over her shoulder, and this time she understood his words even though he spoke with a thick accent. She pressed her attack, mindful that a least one other was present.

“Fight me you, coward or do you only kill from the shadows?” sheled led in frustration at the Elf who continued to dance clear of her weapon.

“There has been a mistake, mistress, for we thought the beast meant to attack you.” Cilmo tried to reason with the girl. And girl she was, for she could not have long passed the threshold into adulthood.

Faile spun on her heel as she heard the soft footsteps approaching behind her. Seeing that she was distracted, Cilmo leapt frd and gnd grabbed her from behind. He wrapped one hand around her w and and, with the other, grabbed her sword arm. He twisted her wrist until with a cry of pain and frustration, the girl dropped her sword.

Faile, like every child born to the Moriquendi, had been taught hand-to-hand combat. Leaning forward in her captor’s arms, she brought her free arm back. She was rewarded with a cry of pain when her elbow connected with his unprotected face. He loosened his hold momentarily and Faile took complete advantage of the brief opportunity. Throwing heigheight forward, she planted her feet on his legs and pushed herself free of the arm restraining her at the waist. The move propelled her towards her second opponent, but he anticipated her move and caught her mid-flight. Twisting his body, he followed her to the ground, his weight knocking the wind out of Faile. Before she could recover, he had rolled her over and twisted her hands behind her back.

“Are you okay, Cilmo?” Thoron asked his brother. Below him, Faile had gotten herath ath back and was bucking under him in a desperate attempt to dislodge him.

“I am fine. Careful with her Thoron, she is but a child.” Cilmo reached into a pouch affixed to his belt and removed several strips of cloth that would have normally been used to bind wounds. Moving to his brother’s side, he quickly tied the struggling girl’s wrists together.

Thoron stood, pulling the girl to feetfeet as well.

Faile was seething. Refusing to admit defeat, she stomped her captor on the foot. Thoron cried out as her hard-heeled boot smashed the top of his foot. He was wearing light shoes, as his people normally needed little more for protection. Faile tried to make a run for it but was tackled by Cilmo. Sitting on Faile’s back, he quickly removed the struggling girl’s boots and tied her ankles together with a second length of cloth.

Before long, Faile found herself slung over the back of a horse, a firm hand on her back keeping her from adjusting her position. After gagging her, they had placed a sack over her head, so she had no idea which way they were heading, having lost her sense of direction during the fight.

After what seemed like an eternity, hearheard the distinct clatter of hooves on stone and knew that they had reached their destination. The horse stopped abruptly. Then she felt herself lifted from its back and thrown over someone’s shoulder. She squirmed in a vain attempt to free herself and was rewarded for her efforts by a firm smack to her backside.

*~*

Glorfindel finished reading the latest missive from Forlindon* and placed it on the table. He turned his attention to the only other occupant of the study, Erestor, who was the chief counselor of Imladris*.

“What news does our Lord Elrond send?”

“Ar-Pharazôn has failed in his assault against Valinor. The Númenor have fallen. There is no word on the whereabouts of Sauron, but his forces walk abroad. ar har has become a fountain that spews forth his foul minions. Lord Elrond bids us to tighten the guard that keeps Imladris hidden from prying eyes.”

“These are dark times, will we never be free of Morgoth’s foul work?”

“I carry the hope that one day we will. Though a small hope it is.”

The sound of hoof beats in the main courtyard drew their attention. Standing, Glorfindel strode to a window that overlooked the main gates. Erestor moved to his side.

“It is Thoron and Cilmo, they left only three days ago,” Erestor quickly identified the two riders who had halted their steeds just beyond the gates.

“It seems they have returned and are not alone.” Glorfindel eyed the struggling burden Thoron cast over his shoulder. “I think that we may have a guest to Imladris.”

Erestor’s only reaction was to raise an eyebrow in response to the golden-haired Elf’s calm remark. It never ceased to amaze him just how reserved Glorfindel was; nothing, it seemed, ever ruffled the older Elf. But then he had returned from the Halls of Mandos back to Arda after his fall at Gondolin, what could possibly surprise him now?

Erestor was not left long to his musings, for Thoron and Cilmo entered the study and deposited their burden before them.

Thoron cast Faile to the floor and removed the hood covering her face. “My Lords, we found this elleth* not far from the Western Fence. She attacked us, though in her defense we unintentionally instigated fighfight. She was in command of a Warg, which we slayed.”

Glorfindel looked their prisoner over with interest as Thoron retold the account of their meeting. The child was bound hand and foot with a gag in her mouth to prevent speech. Glorfindel’s nostrils flared as the odor of damp earth and musty leather assaulted his fine sense of smell. Her long black hair was tied back at the nape of her neck and hung down in a stringy, dirty mass about her back. Her complexion was gray and he had no doubts that it had been years since she had seen the inside of a bathhouse. His brow furrowed ever so slightly as he noted the thinness of her frame. For though Faile had spent months among the bounty of the Southern Lands, it could not undo years of living one step from starvation. She looked frail to Glorfindel’s eyes, but the disheveled appearance of Thoron and Cilmo were a testament to her hidden strength.

When Thoron had finished, Glorfindel motioned for him to remove the gag. “What is your name, child, and what has brought you forth over our borders?”

Had the circumstances of their meeting been different, Faile would have been hard pressed to find her tongue. She had never seen another hai hair the color of the sun, for all her people were as dark as she; but as it was anger and grief distracted her eye from the beauty of the Elf-Lord.

“I am called Faile, Alpha of the Cabor* Hunting Pack; Edhelech, King of Mar Mordollo, is my sire. It is my folly now that I did not heed his words, for I see that we are truly forsaken. I sought hope and allies where there are none. Be done with your questions and put me to the knife, for no more of my people or their whereabouts shall pass through my lips. Their burdens are great without your wrath falling upon them as well.” Faile turned her gaze to the floor, wishing to hide the fear that lurked there, much to her shame.

Glorfindel could not help but be moved by the loss of hope in her words. He had marked the fear in her eyes, for she had not learned to mask her feelings there. He could not dispute that her people were in dire straits if her raiment was the best they could offer one of noble birth. The leather armor she wore was scarred and had no trim or markings of beauty to soften its stark appearance. Her brow and fingers were unadorned with the trappings of jewelry in deference to her station. That aside, he had read no more than fear and hopelessness in the dark depths of her eyes. He saw no deceit mirrored there.

“I fear that a grave misunderstanding has occurred. Thoron, free her from her bounds.”

Thoron could not believe that her docile demeanor and sad words had taken in Glorfindel. He had been victim to her ferocity and did not mean to put either of his Lords in danger. “Do not be taken in by her sorrowful words, my Lord, for she traveled with one of the foul beasts of the Yrch* and may be in league with them.” As if to prove that she was not the weak pitiful creature she resembled, he grabbed her ponytail and pulled hard.

Faile’s head snapped back and she winced in pain. Sheoredored the burning of her scalp and jerked her head to the side. Thoron released his hold but was unprepared for her next move. Once free, she spun on her butt, lifted her bound legs and kicked him with all the force her awkward position would allow. She was rewarded for her efforts when her heel came into contact with his groin.

Thoron hissed in pain and doubled over as an electric bolt of pain raced up his spine. Without thought, his fist lashed forward and contacted with Faile’s chin. The force of the blow knocked her flat on her back, but she ignored the throbbing of her chin and rolled to her stomach in an effort to regain her seat.

Cilmo grabbed Faile’s arms and lifted them high behind her back to prevent any more attacks against his brother.

“Enough!”

Faile ceased her struggles at the sound of Glorfindel’s command.

“Again I, say release her. It is not your place, Thoron, to decide the manner in which the child will pass her time her with us. She is to be our guest, not a prisoner.”

Cilmo quickly freed Faile’s hands and then danced back out of striking distance.

Faile rubbed her wrists where the fabric had bitten deeply; leaving reddened skin that would no doubt bruise. Then she freed her ankles and slowly rose to her feet.

Both Glorfindel and Erestor were surprised at her stature. Malnutrition and hardship had stunted her growth and like many of her people, she was not as tall as was normal for the Eldar*. At 5’10”, she was dwarfed by the others in the room, her gaunt frame adding to the illusion of frailty.

“Is a guest not allowed their possessions in your home?” Faile gestured to her boots, hunting pack and weapons by the door where Cilmo had deposited them.

Erestor walked over and retrieved her things. The boots he offered to Faile, who swiftly pulled them on. The weapons and pack, he placed on a table beyond her reach. “You will have no need of your arms here. Imladris is well-guarded and no more harm shall befall you.” He sent a look of censure towards Thoron and Cilmo. “Your pack will be returned once we deem no weapons are present.”

“You must be weary from your journey. Erestor will show you to guest chambers where you can freshen up and take rest before the evening meal. I will send a maid to attend you. We will speak more of your plight later this eve,” Glorfindel said, gaining Faile’s attention. “Welcome to Imladris, My Lady. I assure you the rest of youay way will be more pleasant than your arrival.”

Erestor lightly took Faile’s arms and guided her from the room.

Glorfindel turned a stern eye towards Cilmo and Thoron. “You have shamed this house today with your actions before me.”

“My Lord – “ Thoron started to make amends but Glorfindel cut him off.

“These are dark times but we do not treat kin as you have treated this child.” He paused before continuing. “I think an extra four weeks upon the fences will serve as penance for your behavior.” He dismissed them with a wave of his hand and turned his attention to the girl’s pack and weapons.

The pack was leather and held little of value. There was a utility knife, some dried meat, a waterskin, and a wool blanket. Turning his attention to the weapons, he found that they were bare of ornamentation also. To his surprise, the sword was well crafted and forged of mithril. He frowned as he examined the bow and arrows. The arrows were also of mithril and fletched with corch* feathers. The bow was made of wood but the quality was poor. Good craftsmanship could only redeem so much and he could see where cracks had been repaired, further weakening the bow. He could not reconcile the wealth of mithril with the shabby child who stood before him only minutes earlier. It was a mystery that begged to be solved.

*~*
Faile could not believe her eyes. Never had she beheld such beauty or color. The walkways were made of light stone that reflected the sunlight. Everything was open and pristine. No wall or column was left untouched, either by murals or carvings or both. The open spaces between the buildings were filled with gardens that burst forth with color. Fountains sang merrily in the midst of paved walkways and green lawns. Everywhere she looked, Elves seemed occupied by some frivolous industry or another. The sweet sound of song filled the air, mixing with the rushing sounds of water from the many falls that surrounded Imladris. Faile observed with horror that they even dared to build around small pools and streams of water, heedless of the dangerous creatures that dwelled within them. The Elves were dressed in fabrics that she could give no name to, rich in texture and color and embellished with clever designs. Faile doubted that the material would withstand the sure strike of a sword and counted these Elves that much more the fools

*~*
Erestor paused momentarily to speak with a young Elven maid before leading her up a flight of stairs to an open, airy hallway. Curtained archways ran along its length. He stopped at the end of the hall and pushed aside a cream-colored curtain made of a heavy fabric.

Faile crossed the threshold and drank in the sight around her. The room was dominated by a large, wood framed bed on the right wall between two open windows. The mattress on the bed was thick and looked soft to the touch. The frame was carved with intertwining vines that continued up the headboard, which reached to the cream-colored ceiling. Thd wad was covered with a dark green coverlet that made Faile think of the valleys she had crossed during her journey south.

A large wardrobe, also made of wood, carved with flora and fauna the likes of which Faile had never seen, dominated the left wall. Next to the wardrobe was a small carved table and chair. On the table stood a small golden candelabra and writing supplies. Three curtained archways broke the far wall; the curtains were drawn aside and Faile could see that an open balcony lay beyond. The openness of the room made her nervous for she had spenlifelifetime in an environment where being out in the open meant danger.

“Does the chamber meet with your approval, My Lady?” Erestor inquired when she finally turned, wide-eyed, to face him.

“Exactly how many people are sharing this room?” Faile asked hesitantly. She had no wish to offend but was not looking forward to the prospect of sharing a room with strangers.

Erestor laughed lightly. “Only you, My Lady.”

Faile turned and eyed the bed again. “Surely you jest. That bed could hold my entire hunting pack easily.”

Before Erestor could respond, several Elven maids entered the room, a few carried baskets of supplies.

“Ah, this is Lantare.” He pointed to an older female. “She has been assigned to you as a handmaiden. If you have any concerns do not hesitate to ask her. I will leave you to freshen up.”

Faile frowned at the gaggle of fem but but nodded her understanding to Erestor, who turned and left the room.

“Well My Lady, let us see about getting you out of that armor and down to the bathhouse.” Lantare reached to loosen the laces at Faile’s side.

“Nay, do not touch me. You will not take my armor. I have no need to visit this bathhouse, whatever that may be.” Faile danced lithely away from Lantare’s hands.

There was a gasp and murmuring among the maids and they looked at Faile in wide-eyed wonder. “But My Lady, surely you wish to wash the stain of travel from your body and change your raiment?” Lantare asked in disbelief.

“There is nothing wrong with my armor; and as for bathing, if you mean washing with water, it is wasteful and not done by my people,” Faile answered stubbornly. “Just leave me be. I have no need for anything at this time except my pack and my weapons and I doubt you can return them to me.”

Lantare b her her head and motioned for the other girls to follow her from the room. She would seek Lord Erestor’s counsel, for he had sent a message to her that the girl was to be clean before the evening meal.

Faile parted the curtain not long after the maids had departed and was not surprised to see two guards stationed outside trchwrchway.

“Is there something you need, my Lady?” One of the guards asked her politely.

“No.” Faile ducked back into the room. So much for being a guest, she thought glumly. She did not need to venture forth onto the balcony to know that there were guards stationed discreetly beneath it. Having no other option, she dropped gracefully to the floor to await the promised summons.

*~*

Lantare found Erestor in the garden near Lord Elrond’s study. He was deep in conversation with Glorfindel, but upon hearing her approach both gave her their attention.

“Is all well with the Lady Faile?” Erestor asked the obviously upset handmaiden.

“Nay. She will not allow us to attend her. She says bathing is not done among her people. She ordered us from the room. What do you wish us to do?”

“I am not surprised by her lack of enthusiasm towards bathing, but she is filthy and I will not have her disrupting the evening meal,” Glorfindel sighed and ran strong, slender fingers through his golden locks. “Get the guards to help you if you must. Tell them to have a care, for I do not wish her harmed, but she will be presentable before she graces our table.”

Lantare nodded. Secretly she dreaded carrying out the Elf-Lord’s command, the girl had a feral look to her and would not submit meekly. She returned to the guest corridor and spoke quietly with the guards. Sighing, she entered the room and faced her young charge. “I have been commanded to make you presentable for the evening meal and presentable you will be.”

Faile did not like the tone of the handmaiden’s voice nor the look of determination in the guards’ eyes. Rising ly, ly, she balanced her weight on the balls of her feet and waited to see what they would do.

End Chapter One

¹Warg – Giant Wolves typically used by Orcs
²Westron – Common tongue used by most of the people of Middle Earth

Hithaeglir – Misty Mountains (Sindarin: mist-peak-line)
Mar Mordollo – Home out of Shadow (Quenya)
Moriquendi – Dark Elves: Name given to the Elves that never saw the Light of the Two Trees (Quenya)
Arda – Middle Earth (Quenya: region, realm)
Saurihos – Foul Folk (Quenya)
ereg rysc – Thorn Foxes (Sindarin)
aras – deer (Sindarin)
rusc – fox (Sindarin)
solch – edible root (Sindarin)
nâr – rat (Sindarin)
Carch – fang (Sindarin)
Calaquendi – Light Elves: Name given to the Elves that saw the Light of the Two Trees (Quenya)
Moriquendë – Dark Elf (Quenya)
Forlindon – City where Gil-galad lived during the Second Age (Sindarin: north Lindon)
Imladris – Rivendell (Sindarin: deep-dale-cleft)
elleth – Elf maid (Sindarin)
cabor – frog (Sindarin)
Yrch – Orcs (Sindarin)
Eldar – Elves (Quenya: people of the stars)
corch – crow (Sindarin)