Chapter 3
Imladris
2933 TA. March 7th.
Eastern Eriador.
The Elven Kingdom of Imladris
﴾Rivendell﴿
A fortnight succeeding the attack upon the Eldrithèm Kingdom
Scarcely had he left her side, the suffering she endured due to the poison was great. Nevertheless, he felt the haunting remanence of his past unbridled fear course through his veins. Never had he driven himself or Felaróf so vigorously. He did not stop, not for bread or breath, nor rain or respite. He could not stop. He would not stop. He rode to the very near end of himself.
Alabẙran sat with his back bent, his posture spoiled as he rested his elbows upon his knees and his hands clasped beneath his chin. His gaze remained transfixed and unwavering upon the sleeping girl lying before him in the large bed. She lay motionless. The steady rise and fall of her chest provided a comforting reminder that her fëa remained within her hröa.
She had been tended by Lord Elrond himself, as there was none more capable than he to cure her of her deathly ailment. The green elf was permitted, from a distance, to remain hereabouts as Elrond's experienced hands worked carefully yet swiftly. Removal proved scarcely an easy task, for the arrowhead was barbed and lodged deep within her breast. He drew what poison he could from the site, staunch the bleeding, then spilled Linquë Súrisse over the wound. The tincture was potent and known for its enduring effectiveness to stave off Hellebore.
It was a difficult endeavor for Alabẙran, having to render Lord Elrond assistance. Both emotionally and mentally. The girl convulsed violently beneath their hands. They fought to retain a hold upon her form without bringing her further injury. Elrond was swift to give the command, "Lie her head upon your shoulder and grasp it there!" He was seated upon the bed, the girl inclined against him as he followed his instruction. Lord Elrond's nimble fingers grasped firmly around her jaw, moving her mouth to open. Forthwith he drew from his pocket a curious thing. A wide wooden crescent wrought of oak and swathed in leather. Protruding from the high-point of the arch was a handle, polished and smooth, akin to that of a teardrop.
The iatrical object procured elicited a blatant and unmistakable reaction from Alabẙran, one that did not go unnoticed. The green elf's head cocked to the side, his brow furrowed, and his eyes narrowed. The look splayed across his face was one of pure confusion and curiosity. 'What in Ilúvatar's name...?'
"An aegis." Elrond explained, "Heretofore she has endured much. I would see that she retains her tongue henceforth!"
Ere long the girls form quitted, allowing for the prolific elven healer to administer Fuiyáru. A task that proved to be nearly impossible amidst the onset of the girl's writhings. It was a consumable, potent tincture known for a different aspect, to aid in the suspension of convulsions. It took multiple attempts, yet they managed to get enough of it into her to satisfy Lord Elrond. In the end, despite their little need for sleep, both elves found themselves unusually weary and in need of respite.
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"Fourteen days has it been since you came upon my doorstep, Alabẙran Adwarin. Nay do I command you, only give to you the instruction to take food and rest... yet here I find you, heeding none of my words!"
His gaze and reverie were both broken and fell upon Elrond, for it was he who spoke to him from the entry of the healing house. Alabẙran's head fell in defeat, knowing his absent-mindedness had been discovered. He released a heavy withheld sigh and said, "Indeed I have not heeded your advice and for that, I am truly remorseful... yet... I can nary bring myself away from her. I fear for her wellbeing!"
"'Tis understandable what you feel, for your feelings are akin to my own. Be that as it may, look upon her. She does not writhe and is nay longer tormented by the poison that befell her. The antidote quiets her hröa."
"Will she recover completely?"
Lord Elrond approached her bedside, gazing down upon her with a thoughtful guise splayed upon his face. He sighed, thinking on the elf's inquiry before answering. "If she were an Elleth, it would incline me to confirm your suspicions. Albeit I do not fully understand her physiology, the Enkarēin form is foreign to me. I have, however, noted her rather extraordinary resilience. She seems to retain a remarkable healing ability akin to our own people!"
"What of her writhing?"
"Sares, the falling sickness. Alas, I know not if it shall plague her henceforth. Among the Atani and Edhel, subjection to Hellebore has proven to harbor unforeseen writhings for the remainder of their days."
"What of the Fuiyáru, would that staunch the writhings?"
"It has proven to do so, yes, though it must be consumed once each morrow." Elrond paused, looking to Alabẙran now instead of the girl. The elf's brow furrowed and his lips pursed. He was thinking deeply upon what he had said. "You are thinking of taking her under your care?!"
"It had crossed my mind. Yet... I have not the means to care for her."
A soft smile graced Lord Elrond's lips. He empathized with the elf while simultaneously feeling a deep sense of pride. "Your desires are honorable and possess a noble quality, yet I believe it best to return her from whence she came."
"Perchance her home lies in ruin, and her people fallen, hewn through by the blackened blades of fell beasts!"
Elrond's brow furrowed. The guise upon his face was one of confusion and shock at Alabẙran's words. "Why do you say this?"
"On account of her naneth's death."
﴾mother's﴿
A hush fell over the room. Neither Alabẙran nor Lord Elrond spoke for several long moments, the impact of the elf's words striking a cord within them both. "Am I correct to presume that you in fact played witness to this?" Elrond inquired empathetically.
Alabẙran replied, his voice laced with sorrow. "I came upon an encampment. There were bedrolls splayed across the dirt for three, yet only two remained; the very girl whom you see before you and her naneth... hewn through, affixed with a blackened blade to a large tree. She adorned a diadem and fine garb, the merit of a Queen. The Enkarēin Queen."
"A company of Yrch then?"
"Indeed. The girl's fëa began to fade. Time was fleeting and none of it did I have to spare. Alas, the hröa of her naneth remained behind as carrion amidst the fell beasts. Had her iell nary been in such a dire state, my hands would have gathered large stones and buried her in a way our kin see befitting a woman of her merit." ﴾daughter﴿
"Alabẙran," Elrond began. "Take respite, for your mind is weary with regret and sorrow. I find nay fault in your doings, albeit you surely find some within yourself. You acted in a way you deemed best. You saved her life!"
He thought on his words, reiterating them again and again in his mind. Eventually, he decided that Lord Elrond was right, and he should cease his endless and needless self chiding. Rather, he brought himself from his seated position to stand and come beside the Elven Healer. He brought his hands up to cover his face, kneading the flesh about his temples and eyes. He was weary. "I will heed your advice... my thanks to you Lord Elrond for reminding me of my need!"
A faint smile graced Elrond's lips, whilst he gave a mild chuckle in amusement. He watched as the elf slowly meandered out and away from the healing house and in the direction of the living quarters. Once Alabẙran no longer remained in his sight, Lord Elrond brought his gaze back to the still unawakened girl. Despite his face splaying not a single sign of concern in his heart, he felt it. He worried for her, as Alabẙran did. Simultaneously, he was most grateful that his keen elven abilities allowed him to conceal these arbored feelings. The green elf scarcely needed any further burden placed upon his shoulders.
'She is but a mere child, with much of her life yet to be lived.' He thought to himself. 'Her resilience is indeed extraordinary... yet what horrors, what torment shall she face upon her waking? Surely one as young as she cannot escape such violence unscathed! Moreover, what of her home, her kin... her naneth has departed these shores and her adar-' Elrond's reverie came to a halt. Her father. Alabẙran's words suddenly came flooding back to the king... "there were bedrolls splayed across the dirt for three, only two remained..."
The elf resumed his internal dialogue. 'Alabẙran nary spoke of the finding of a third Enkarēin form amidst the encampment. Where is this lost connection? Her gwanur perchance?
﴾brother﴿ Her adar? The king? A guard? Surely whoever this being was would not leave her to death and torment!'
With that, he spoke aloud. "So be it. To the River Lhûn I shall go, in the hope that I shall find your home and kin Nettë!" ﴾little one﴿
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March 7th, 2933 TA.
The Eldrithèm Kingdom
He had to stop. The sight before him left in its wake a maddening raw pain, a pain he knew would bequeath an eternal darkness from which he might nevermore wake. His eyes became glassen as tears welled within them, spilling over to race freely down his face. A searing swell had long since formed at the base of his throat. His chest was tight as the vise of his emotions constricted his airways. His heart pounded in a likening to war drums. His form quaked, as the very earth beneath Mount Doom from whence fires erupted in a violent vigor. An overpowering weakness took him, and his legs gave way beneath him. He felt naked, albeit he still retained his garb. His despair was blatant yet he cared little to disguise it. Who would hear? Who would see? None.
His eyes swept across the land, from the northern hemisphere to the most southern corner. His soul could scarcely give credence to what his eyes regarded. Perhaps he had seen too much of war, and at last, it had taken its toll on him. Perhaps his mind had withdrawn into itself, protecting him in the way it knew best. A waking dream. A state of reverie as he had heard tell of the elves partaking in. Yes. Yes, surely this was the reality of it. For this truth, he could bring himself too much more easily welcome. This truth would set him free. For the latter would utterly mean his own demise... his heart could not bear it... it would mean the death of him!
The smell amidst the air could be described as nothing less than centuries of death and woe. Beneath his hands and knees, for his grief had brought him there, like a wild beast on all fours, he felt wetness. Not a pool of clear water, but a garnet tarn of blood. He brought his hand before his face, regarding it in horror as streams of red ran free from his painted fingers. 'What viscous death tarnishes these hands, Enkarēin or Orc?' He could scarcely tell where one began and the other ended.
Moisture and diverse aromas of vegetation commonly enveloped his senses in parts of the earth where he found cheer in living. His mind would forget them... until they were no more. Alas, they had been stolen away, and in their place a scent that brought the stomach to heave and lurch. Nauseatingly sweet and putrid. A coppery, metallic, sulfurous smell. 'What sort of god was gracious enough to bestow upon the wicked well fairing, and those that are good such lurching horrors? Have the gods no mercy?' He thought to himself. Where once his eyes beheld a wondrous kingdom of heaven, now a wretched graveyard of carnage lay in its wake. The lives of his people... they were all of them spent!
He had come to the center of the realm, in the place where The King's Tree remained. Littered about the forest floor where both enkarēin warriors and orc. All of them hewn through from the vestiges of battle. As he regarded those who were dead, a strange awareness accompanied the raw agony that afflicted his tortured soul. 'Something is amiss... an army of Orc is nary a formidable incursion for the Enkarēin . Albeit our numbers were few, nay should all of them be subdued!'
Solan came beside one of his fallen kin. He fought to clear his vision, for his eyes were glassen with tears. He proceeded to more closely scrutinize the wounds splayed about the warrior's form. The injuries sustained were commonplace for battle... save for one. From each orifice spilled forth copious amounts of blood, yet his ears, eyes, mouth, and nose all remained undamaged. His gaze hastily came away from the warrior before him and then upon the others, each of them appeared similarly.
Solan let his eyes fall shut and brought his mind's eye to focus heavily upon the realm in which he resided. Beyond his kin and beyond the darkened souls of the orc, he sensed something far fowler, far greater... an evil the like of which his spirit had never felt. He delved deeper, fighting to distinguish who or what lay beneath the shroud of malevolence. His quieted form once more quaked, a crown of perspiration contoured his temple, and his jaw clenched. When the last vestiges of his mental strength were expelled, Solan released a great, exhaustive cry he had previously withheld. He came to fall forward, stretching out his hands to catch himself as he greedily gasped for the air his lungs so desperately desired.
"A great evil is at work here... moreover these fell beasts we know to be Orcs!" He said to none other than himself. Once more another realization pricked the forefront of his mind, 'Where were the women and children?' Without ceasing, he brought himself to stand and began meticulously searching the kingdom for the remaining residents. He left no stone unturned. If need be he would tear his kingdom apart piece by piece!
Night faded as the coming rays of dawn spilled forth in a brilliant display of golden light, the sun cresting above the horizon. Solan did not stop. He dispensed with his mental and physical desires to yield to his utter exhaustion and starvation. He did not eat. He did not sleep. His will to find someone... Anyone alive outweighed any reason for madness.
He knew yet of one place more. North of the Realm of Eldrithèm, just beyond the borders, lay a cavern amidst the Blue Mountains. There his people were to flee, if ever under duress or incursion. It was there he came to be, and it was in this place that what little hope remained within the heart of the Enkarēin Prince diminished.
He stood at the mouth of the cavern. The picture was one of tragedy, the most horrific of nightmares that had materialized into a waking reality. Solan's cries of pain were more beastly, more hair-raising, and more soul-shattering than the deepest war drums. There was no comfort for him, no warm embrace to ease his quaking, no quiet for his disquieted mind. The pain he felt within his heart was nothing less than a blinding agony.
The cavern was large and orbicular; the ceiling was high, measuring thirty feet in height and one hundred times that in length and width. A timeworn staircase erected from the wood of the enquoia trees provided further access within. His descent upon the staircase was non-balletic, his grief brought him to slide ungracefully upon his backside until he came to rest upon the cavern floor. Scarcely could he bring himself to look upon them, alas neither could he look away. The tortured remains of his people; infants they were, children, women, and matriarchs.
It was in such a way that it could be described as nothing less than time standing still. Some victims collapsed, their contorted bodies severely burned, forming a massive pile. Others huddled together against the back wall of the cavern, some clamoring atop the bodies of others to escape. The looks splayed across their faces bequeathed an account of the unknown horror that befell them seconds before their demise. Their eyes glimmered from within their sockets, and their mouths fell open in a silent scream he swore he could still hear. Before him knelt a young mother, her outstretched hand desperately attempting to ward off whatever evil threatened the life of herself, and the infant she clutched against her breast. Her hair was singed and stood only a few centimeters from her small head, her newborn skin was scaled from her body, hanging in grotesque ribbons.
He could not be in that place a second more. Hastily he flew from the bowels of hell, for that was an accurate description. Once more he came to be upon his hands and knees, suddenly feeling his stomach heave. There was nothing for him to regurgitate, for he had not eaten. All that erupted was acidic burning bile. After several moments had passed, his stomach quieted, and he felt he could come to rest in a seated position. He brought his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms about them until he buried away his face and bitterly wept. "Oh Eru... oh Eru prithee... please Eru nay!"
If indeed his sister yet remained, there would be an unspoken, irrevocable truth... henceforth, they would never return home. He could not allow it. He would not allow it. He was a son without a father. A resident without a home. A prince without a kingdom. A ruler without a people. He would go from this place... never to return!
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March 8th, 2933 TA.
West. Eriador.
The White Towers. Emyn Beraid.
West of The Shire. South-East of the Grey Havens.
Ever so he came to. His vision was blurred and his head severely swam. He dared not lift it for the wave of nausea that threatened to force his stomach to lurch. Any slight movement solicited sharp, burning pain from his side and further down his leg. He wasn't going anywhere.
"Wh-Where..." He muttered, unable to formulate a coherent thought.
"'Twould do you well to remain still, you have received deathly injury!"
"Who are-?"
"Nay do you recall my face?"
"Yo-your face?"
His head tossed about as he burned with fever. Above his temple contoured a fine sheen of perspiration, and his form began to quake. He fought to clear his vision. That voice was familiar. Alas, his sight refused to reveal more than a blurred figure. As well, albeit he had regained consciousness, he could scarcely summon the strength to remain in this state. He was utterly spent.
The man, or woman... whomever spoke sounded miles away, their voice like that of a resounding gong. Forthwith he heard what appeared to be the dribbling of water. Proceeding from the sound came the feeling of a cool dampness upon his temple. A cloth perhaps? The sensation was comforting and brought him to once more fall into an unconscious state.
He paid careful mind to the man before him, prior to his repeated loss of consciousness. Once he was reassured of his lack of cognizance, he allowed a depraved, vile grin to splay across his face. Like the wisp of a serpent's hiss came the sound of his voice as he uttered these poisonous words, "In the end we are all wrought of flesh that can be cut and bones that can be broken... verily shall I delight in the dulcet sounds of her screams as I cut and break the thing she loves most afore her very eyes!"
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