Assassin's Creed: Thoron, by Inarus. Chapter XXIX: The Ending of the Rift
Author's Note: Although I consider this a sequel to Erion's tale, this does not require knowledge of that tale to read, you may start afresh here.
Map of Beleriand
Beleriand was the original western coastline of Middle-earth, later lost to the sea. The shire lies beyond the mountain range to the east of the map. Angband, Melkor's stronghold in Beleriand, is north of Anfauglith. Beleriand was in this time connected to the Undying Lands (Aman) by a plain of ice, the Helcaraxë.
Prologue
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:Prologue
In the First Age of Middle-earth, a land wholly different from the one which saw the Hobbits of the Shire rise to great deeds, the Lord of Darkness, the malicious being breeding orcs in his Iron Fortress was not Sauron but Melkor.
In this time, the Valar, godlike beings seen as myths in the period of the Rings of Power, were more active against the evil of Melkor and they ever aimed to protect the elves dwelling in the Undying Lands, as yet un-separated from the shores of Middle-earth.
It was in the 4696th year of the First Age, six years after the birth of the mighty elven warrior Fingolfin and twenty-seven years after the birth of the magnificent craftsman Fëanor, that, without mention in the annals of history, the Valar gathered by command of their King, Manwë, Lord of Winds, Guardian of Birds; each Vala came, even the Lord of the Waters who seldom answered summons.
What they spoke of though was never recorded but the same evening, whilst she slept, an elf woman named Iriel immaculately conceived a child, but being married she put the child’s father down to be her husband for no-one could know better. And it came to be that in spring of the following year, the child was born, male and so not some fluke of nature. And as the woman screamed from the pains of labours, an eagle watched, a large and majestic bird of the skies concealing beneath its magical guise the godlike being who had truely fathered the boy. And when Iriel was asked the name of her son, invisibly the bird swept down and whispered in her pointy-ear, ‘Thoron Glerenyonnen.’
Book I: The Tale of the Rift
The Eagle Rises
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:Chapter I: Squire
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:Squire
Guided by fortune, family connections, good parents or perhaps just divine intervention, Thoron became, at a young age, a close friend to Fingolfin, second son of Finwë and half brother of Fëanor. Certainly at first glance, it was merely that Thoron’s parents were friends with Finwë that brought the two young elves together but it is safe to assume that Manwë’s birds had whispered in many ears to make the two children come together.
It in the twenty-fifth year of his second son’s life that Finwë invited Thoron and his parents to a private dinner and set about discussing his two eldest sons, ‘I take it you know that my eldest – Fëanor – is estranged from Fingolfin?’ He paused but did not ask for affirmation, continuing in a quieter, sadder tone of voice, ‘Yes, it was because of his mother. She died shortly after giving birth to him. Fëanor always resented the fact that I remarried, and he continues to show his resentment to both my second wife and to my children by her: Fingolfin and his sister.’
Taking a sip of wine, Finwë leaned forward and focused on Thoron’s parents, ‘Now I invited you round to ask young Thoron if he would like to be squire to Fingolfin? He would also take lessons in crafting from Fëanor’s own tutor. He would be close to each of my sons, and I hope, draw them closer together. So what do you say, Thoron?’
*
As squire to Fingolfin their friendship deepened, together they trained with swords and daggers, learning the graceful arts of elven combat. On other days Thoron would be with Fëanor, learning the arts of the gem-smiths under the tutelage of Mahtan, who had been himself a student of Aüle the Vala.
Days, weeks, months passed, and each day Thoron strived to heal the rift between the two sons of Finwë. Nonetheless, Fëanor was hard to befriend, he kept himself to himself and to his work. A year after he had become the student of Mahtan, 4716, the tutor dispatched his pupils on a period of private study and, delving deep into the Gift of Far-sight – people with the power to see things elsewhere, to even communicate with people far away – Thoron’s curiosity was aroused by a few lines in some tedious tome.
That night ideas came to him instead of dreams, thoughts concerning spheres and seeing afar. Dawn came and he proposed his ideas to Fëanor, who realised their quality immediately. Together they set about planning and sketching, but crucially, they were doing it together. Through that simple idea, the two became close enough for Thoron to consider bringing about a meeting between Fëanor and Fingolfin in which the rift could be resolved.
Yet before this meeting could occur, Fëanor – who had had long been in love with Nerdanel, daughter of the smith and tutor Mahtan – married this elf maiden and the two departed for a long honeymoon.
Thus Thoron returned to his project, and as the year waned and another began he fashioned, one night in a darkened room, a mixture of so much material and magic into something so much more, something described to be – by Mithrandir himself – beyond the power of Sauron and Saruman: a palantír.
How an elf, of apparent little importance, produced such an incredible tool one can only speculate at, surely he must have been guided by Gods!
Chapter II: Across the Seas
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:Across the Seas
‘Thoron, how fares my sons?’ Finwë asked, offering a glass of wine.
‘How fares the rift between them, you mean?’ Thoron took a sip, then answered, ‘Repairing ever so slowly, when next we meet I shall invite them both together, I think I can do it now, ever since I created that orb – what?’ Finwë’s face betrayed a disappointment in something and it wasn’t until Thoron echoed the question once more that the Elf revealed what troubled him.
‘There was a request for a company of elves to embark on a . . . kind of mission; your name was on a list.’
‘A list? Who’s requesting this? Why me?’
‘I cannot tell you the specifics, all I can say is that they are all young elven warriors, save for the one who acts as guide, and leader. He’s older, perhaps one of the first, yet I do not know him. Maegwin he is called.’
*
The seas roared about them, icy spray splashed young Thoron’s face, refreshing yet he shivered nonetheless.
About them a storm raged, on the horizon lightning flashed yet it never came any closer. Footsteps sounded behind the young elf, yet they were muffled by the crash of the waves on the hull of the ship and Thoron never heard them. Maegwin joined him at the prow, looking out over the grey waters, for a while he said nothing until a calm settled over the oceans and he said, ‘You should remain below decks, the seas are treacherous.’
‘I can swim,’ Thoron joked, staring into the murky depths.
‘Get to know the others, learn their strengths and their weaknesses, know who to send to wipe out an army, and who to send to make peace with one.’
‘Why would I need to know such things of them? That is for you to know, sir.’
‘You have a leader's mind, Thoron.’
‘Speaks one who has known me for a few days.’
‘I know you,’ Maegwin replied and he descended below deck leaving Thoron alone.
The young elf looked out ahead, his perfect eyesight making out a bold line on the horizon, a line of cliffs and beaches – the shores of Beleriand.
Chapter III: Journey to Ard-Galen
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:Journey to Ard-Galen
Their ship landing at last at the foot of Mount Taras, at the westernmost point of the Ered Wethrin.
From there they ventured east, following these Mountains of Shadow as they curved northeast; they crossed the rivers Narog, Teiglin, Glithui, Malduin and then finally reached the Great River, Sirion. Wide and rapid, its roar could be heard long before they first laid eyes on it. Weeks after disembarking from their ship, they reached the fair and far-stretching Green Region, Ard-Galen in Sindarin.
It was a great moor, stretching for countless leagues as yet untouched by the evil of Melkor. Flocks of wild, untamed beasts grazed peacefully, birds spiralled above the party of elves and Thoron’s eyesight picked out the shapes of great golden eagles.
It was a few days before the elves first saw them.
They were the height of elves but their backs were crooked and so they slouched, appearing shorter. Their skin was deathly pale, some scarred or burnt. Their ears were pointy – those who still had ears left over from the torture. They wore thick armour, forged without skill, ugly in appearance, much like their faces. They hunted now, never further south of Ard-Galen, it would be half a century before they would be first sighted in Beleriand. The elves asked their leader and guide what they were and, with a grim expression, Maegwin answered, ‘They are us, captive for centuries, tortured till driven insane, mutilated beyond recognition. And now they serve their captor and torturer, Melkor accursed. We have known Melkor has been breeding them for centuries, now at last we see them. Orcs.’
At the word a shiver ran down the young elves’ spines. ‘Yet Melkor is in chains, the Valar broke his stronghold of Utumno and sentenced him to Ages of imprisonment.’
Maegwin nodded, ‘Correct Thoron, but here a fallen Maia commands as lieutenant in his place.’
‘What do we do?’ one asked, he was Terëon, a tall dark-haired elf skilled with two short blades. He paused a moment, then echoed the question that had been uttered every day of the past few weeks, ‘Why are we here?’
Maegwin hesitated, clearly choosing his words purposefully, then replied, ‘To watch and to learn, but when the time is right, to strike a hard blow to Melkor’s slaves.’
That night they made camp to the west, on the lower slopes of the Iron Mountains, Ered Engrin. Their sleep was uneasy, with so much evil so near, yet soon their minds slipped into oblivion and they awoke to a crimson dawn.
‘Valar I’m tired!’ Terëon exclaimed, rubbing his eyes.
‘Same,’ Calwë, a silvery-haired elf with the appearance of a teenager admitted.
‘We’ve barely slept I daresay, woken by the glow of firesto north, what is feeding them though I cannot say,’ Thoron observed, his voicedistant, ‘I can make out the flicker of the tongues of flame, the tendrils ofsmoke spiralling up to the skies.’
‘I can’t make out a thing!’ Calwë muttered, squinting into the distance.
‘Our friend has the eyes of his namesake,’ Terëon whispered – though loud enough for Thoron to hear. He smiled then turned to Maegwin who was getting ready to depart. ‘Sir, where are we going?’
‘Angband.’
Calwë laughed, Feonos – an elf only a year older than Thoron – paled in fear, Ëawis – an elf of one hundred years – saw the expression on Maegwin’s face and said in surprise, ‘You’re entirely serious!’
Maegwin nodded.
Angband – the Iron Prison – Melkor’s second stronghold built into the three volcanic peaks of Thangorodrim yet destroyed when the Valar defeated and imprisoned Melkor. It was situated a few miles from where they had made camp and the name had been increasingly terrorising their minds every day that they drew closer to the terrible fortress.
‘You’re mad!’ exclaimed Erist, younger than Thoron but with the skills of an elf thrice his age when he picked up a long-sword.
‘No not mad, there are windows on the upper levels and a part of Thangorodrim which is a gentle climb. Silent as the wind we shall breach their defences and infiltrate the stronghold of Melkor’s servant.’
‘To what end?’ demanded Thoron.
Maegwin smiled, ‘Why, to kill him. To kill the lieutenant of the Dark Lord himself: Sauron.’
Chapter IV: Fortress of Iron
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:Fortress of Iron
They followed with reluctance for the scheme, even when fully explained, seemed as insane as orcs.
Thangorodrim was terrible to behold, three cones towering taller than any mountain in Middle-earth, spewing out jet black smoke and ash channelled upwards from the armouries and pits of the Iron Prison far below ground level. The party of elves and their mysterious and perhaps mad leader Maegwin stopped at the foot of the westernmost of the three spires of stone, where the unnatural peak met the Iron Mountains. There a gully was clear, steeper than Maegwin had described and littered with tiny pebbles that would prove deadly to one of unsure footing. Yet these elves, purposefully chosen for their agility and skills, took to the steep ascent like mountain goats, moving carefully but swiftly upwards and clad in their grey elven robes they blended into the backdrop of stone. A hundred feet up, the slope eased out until reaching the gully between the western and central peak; there it dropped down steeply until reaching the facade of Thangorodrim and the iron battlements that guarded the Great Gate far below.
‘Down,’ Maegwin instructed, ‘ready blades the battlements will be heavily armed yet strike swift and they shall not have time to raise alarm. Calwë, climb up and around, strike down on them from above.’
The young elf nodded, taking to the sheer rock face of the western spire of Thangorodrim as if he had lived on sheer slopes all his life. In less than a minute he was ten feet above his companions and then he started edging sideways around the peak. Maegwin lead the other elves down the next gully slowly, he bore an unsheathed short-sword and clasped a dagger in his other hand. The battlements were ahead, built onto the sides of the west and east peaks, funnelling armies between them and towards the Great Gate built into the centre spire. Yet from where they approached, the elves were poised to strike the battlements from above.
From Thoron’s first glance of the iron ramparts he counted twenty orcs and something much larger. ‘Troll,’ Maegwin named the ugly brutish beast. ‘Thoron, Terëon, Ëawis, go left and deal with the troll. Erist, Feonos, follow me around to the right. On the count of three, three, two, one . . .’
They sprang from the gully, Thoron leaping down on an orc and slitting its throat before it could sound a scream. As he rose to his feet a throwing dagger flashed past him, landing in the breast of the next orc along the wall. As Terëon swapped throwing knives for his two short blades, Thoron dashed along the wall, an orc was bracing itself for the attack but as Thoron came close his sword swung up fast as light, it took the orc in its abdomen and ripped up as far as its chin. With a horrible gurgling sound it collapsed backwards in a mess of insides. Ëawis darted past Thoron, cleaving the final orc’s head from its shoulders before it could blow the horn pressed to its lips and the three elves drew to a halt as the troll lumbered towards them. Slow, clumsy and making grunting noises, it was clear it lacked the intelligence to run and sound the alarm. Thoron darted towards its left side, dagger in his right hand, sword in his left. Two feet from the beast he jumped, the dagger plunged into the troll’s arm and the elf used it to swing himself around and onto the trolls back. His sword, clasped clumsily in his left hand, went up and curved around in front of the troll’s throat, then the dagger came free, the elf fell back, and the sword cut backwards with him, deep into the neck, stifling any roar. Thoron hit the ground and rolled aside, a second later the troll slammed into the spot where Thoron had lain a moment ago.
Weapons retrieved, the elves regrouped, their attention focused on the walls on the other side of the Great Gate. The dark outlines of orcs and trolls, apparently stationary, suggested that they had not realised what had befallen their fellow mutants. Maegwin took a moment to gloat at their short-sightedness before directing the small company to a door at the end of the parapet, leading into the mountain itself.
It was dark within, every so often a torch illuminated the passage but often the elves found themselves walking blindly through the darkness. After a while though, the passage joined a larger one and the elves made faster progress.
‘So how do you propose we find this “Sauron”,’ Thoron asked.
‘More importantly, how do we kill him?’ Calwë asked.
‘I find decapitation tends to do the trick,’ Terëon remarked.
‘Quiet, else they find us too soon,’ Maegwin warned.
Yet ahead lights flickered, shadows moved, orcs screeched some foul tongue. Around a corner the orcs came, coming face to face with the elves and their cold steel. Shock stunned the creatures and steel flashed in the dimly lit passage. Thoron’s blade slashed open an orcs breast, a scimitar thrust towards him and he seized it in his empty hand, holding it as he ran its owner through. He spun, sword arcing down, catching a foe’s ankle and swiping it off balance. The orc fell, trampled by friends and foes. Maegwin fought with a spear as tall as his shoulder, the last foot of which was a fine steel blade, its other end a short spike. The weapon he wielded with the speed of a Vala, it swished towards an orc, opening it from belly to breast, an orc to his flank took the spear butt in its beating heart, perfectly stabbing between two ribs, thence it sliced through the air in an upwards arc, severing a creature’s gullet before spinning around such that the spiked end slammed into its stomach and pushed it gently backwards, such that it fell to the ground.
The mêlée over, the elves regrouped and made ready to continue. They delved deeper into Angband, wandering aimlessly for none knew the paths of the Iron Prison, nor where their target could be found. And the deeper they went, the more they feared they were being ensnared, for not again did they encounter any foes, at least, not until they entered a great hall so dark its other end could not be seen.
But in the darkness something moved, something immense, with terrible glowing eyes, wreathed in shadow and wielding a long mace. They had found Sauron, and He awaited them.
Chapter V: The Duel with Doom
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:The Duel with Doom
The elves drew to a sudden halt and, as one, unsheathed steel; Sauron merely laughed at their defiance.
The Lieutenant of Angband advanced towards them with the menace of an Olog-hai, yet the aura of terror could not touch the stout hearts of the elves. Sauron was a pale thing, his flesh like that of a corpse, his black hair long and unkempt and his glowing eyes cold and piercing. When he opened his mouth his teeth were visible, mostly straight and regular save for two fangs protruding downwards from his upper jaw. ‘Hail elves, what madness brings thee into my domain?’
‘Your death,’ Maegwin said, darting forward suddenly, sword high.
‘Madness,’ Ëawis echoed in disbelief, following his commander nonetheless.
The other elves joined the charge, voices screaming some wordless war-cry.
Maegwin met with Sauron in a clash of steel, sending sparks flying. His spear blocked Sauron’s mace without showing signs of shattering, and then the two broke apart. The swirl of mists wrapped around the Lieutenant stretched out to try and surround the other elves too yet they fled from the naked steel. Maegwin came forth again, ducking under the swipe of Sauron’s sceptre and swinging his spear around in an attempt to strike the foe from his feet. Yet the fallen Maia evaded the weapon and brought the mace around, almost catching the elf’s spine. Maegwin rolled from the assault though, landing on his back and thrusting his spear upwards, missing the Maia by inches.
Meanwhile the other elves came at Sauron, Thoron leaping high and aiming for his neck, Terëon going low, striking upwards towards his torso. None hit, for when they drew close Sauron span, mace swinging around and striking Terëon in the back, hurling him aside. Thoron turned in time, blocking the blow but nonetheless was thrown from the demon’s back. The other elves aimed to distract Sauron as Maegwin tried to assault him from behind yet the mists about Sauron suddenly came to life and like physical hands pushed each elf away save for Maegwin.
Thus again only Maegwin and Sauron stayed afoot, and the two set about striking and blocking but never succeeding to land a blow. Maegwin’s spear flashed silver against the grey of the mists about his foe and Maegwin realised suddenly to use this to his advantage. When next his and Sauron’s steel clashed he angled the blade of his spear such that it flashed in Sauron’s eye and briefly stunned, Maegwin struck, driving the spike of his spear-butt into Sauron’s neck. The Lieutenant recoiled with a piercing shriek and the mists wrapped around him, concealing him from view. Far above in the ceiling of the hall a light suddenly blossomed, a raging fire that was alive.
Then like a bomb it dropped and the impact of it on the ground hurled all aside.
Sauron’s voice sounded, a high pitched cackle, and then the dust of cracked stone and the thick smoke from the fires cleared and all came into sight. The balrog rose from the ground, its lord and lieutenant riding its fiery back. The young elves recoiled, fearful at the sight they had never before beheld, then awe fell upon them as Maegwin met with the balrog, defiant until the end.
As the balrog glowed golden-red from its cloak of fire, so Maegwin glowed like a star. Down came the balrog’s flaming blade and up came the silver spear and still it did not shatter. ‘Back thou beast of darkness, look upon this day as thy last,’ came Maegwin’s voice yet it was somehow louder, more dominant. The beast roared in defiance and tried once more to strike again yet Maegwin stepped nimbly aside and the blade smote the floor instead. ‘Fly, friends, this is not a battle ye can win!’ The elves hesitated, reluctant to leave Maegwin there alone, yet something in that voice commanded obedience, and thus they obeyed and ran.
They sprinted through all the passages they had traversed before yet still they became lost, great halls opened up to them and they retreated, fearing more great beasts in the dark, at every staircase they climbed like they had previously always descended and soon they found themselves in the longest and largest of all the passages, the Great Tunnel, straight as a long-sword and leading miles into the Iron Mountains in one direction, and to the Great Gate in the other direction. But which direction led the way they desired?
None amongst them could tell and none amongst them dared guess. Yet Thoron chose for them, saying that he was not guessing, only that “he knew”. They broke into a sprint once more, darting down the straight passage, swords in hands, ready for an attack that might come at any moment. It never did.
Finally, as if guided by divine grace, the mouth of the tunnel loomed up ahead, the Great Gate was wide open and the sentries were there guarding it. Two of Terëon’s throwing daggers alerted the orcs to the enemy in the darkness of the tunnel, and then the elves fell upon them. Swords rang, orcs died, but none heard their screams, or if they did, they did not come to aid. The last beast dead, the elves raced out of the mouth of Angband, and drew to a halt in the courtyard before the Great Gate, in the shadow of the three peaks of Thangorodrim. Orcs innumerable manned the walls, yet like the elves their attention was fixed on something else.
He staggered out of Angband having somehow navigated the tunnels below without error and seeing the group of elves waiting for him, Maegwin laughed. One bloody hand clasped the broken blade that once sat atop the wooden spear shaft; the other hand clasped the shaft itself. He was pale from blood-loss and was five feet from the group of elves when his legs buckled under him and he fell to the ground. Thoron ran up to him and tried to raise the elf to his feet, but it was in vain. ‘What happened?’ he asked Maegwin.
The older elf smiled, ‘This moment had to come, yet I wished it had come later. The Balrog is dead, I its slayer, yet no body which can die – even an elf’s – can survive the exertion required to slay such a demon.’ He coughed and something red ran from his mouth. ‘You must lead them now, young Eagle, go south and follow the River Sirion until it flows into the Forest of Doriath, there you shall meet the King of those woods and he shall guide you further.’
‘No! You can survive this,’ Thoron said defiantly.
‘Yes, I can, and I will, but not in this body, not as Maegwin. Thoron, before I go, I must tell you this,’ and he leant swiftly forwards, such that his cold lips almost touch Thoron’s ear, he whispered: ‘Thalion was not your father; you were conceived by a Vala, by me.’ Suddenly his body – his vessel –spasmed and from it spread a thick mist of silver sparks. Thoron retreated as the mist shrouded the body, as the mist spread . . . and then as it receded. Then from the heart of the cloud of light the Eagle rose up, flapping its great wings as the last of the mist formed the last few feathers of its tail. There was no body, no vessel for the God, only a few specs of faked blood remained. The Eagle sounded a cry, cold and piercing to the orcs on the battlements, warm and beautiful to the ears of the Elves. It soared up to the heavens and was lost in the cloudy sky.
‘Manwë, he was a Vala all along,’ Terëon said in awe.
‘O! Why could he not have stayed a few moments more, now how do we fare against so many?’ came Calwë’s faltering voice, and each of them turned to see what troubled him so:
The Great Gate of Angband had been left open to welcome an oncoming orc army, and as the Eagle swooped through the skies, the orcs came to the brink of a nearby hill and looked down upon the party of Elves. Dinner come early, they thought.
Yet far above the Eagle that was Manwë swooped through the skies andfrom his heart glowed a light and warmth of such intensity that the orcscowered in fear.
And the elves ran, so much running, only just begun.
Chapter VI: An Audience with the King
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:An Audience with the King
Smaller than Greenwood or Lórien yet far more majestic and beautiful to the eye, such was the forest of Doriath.
They were met by scouts where the River Sirion met the first trees of Doriath, three elves armed with hunting bows came upon them from out of the trees, demanding names and purposes.
‘Hail friends!’ Thoron greeted warily. ‘We are Noldor – from across the seas, sent here to talk with your leader, whoever he may be.’
Silence as the elves of Doriath regarded those of Aman with suspicion, then knowing no better they agreed to escort them to their sovereign.
They were guided to a small path through the trees, unnoticeable to an untrained eye. It snaked through the trees, shaded by the leaves and as they walked deeper the trees grew taller. Then at last the density of the foliage diminished for the trees here stood further apart yet were mightier by far. Thick trunks supported an immense height and clasping to their sides were elegant staircases winding upwards to great houses built amongst the branches far above.
Elves huddled in groups, conversing and singing and though they drew closer to the group of foreigners from across the ocean, the scouts leading Thoron’s party ignored them and hastened towards the greatest of these towering trees. The stairs spiralled up and up until at last Thoron emerged on a wide platform, an atrium of sorts with a throne ahead. From a room adjoining the atrium came the King, taller than any elf Thoron had ever seen and with long silver hair.
One of the scouts announced the party, naming them and describing their ambiguous purpose.
The King of Doriath heard the names and his eyes widened in surprise. He glanced at the scouts, thanked them, bade them depart and then once they had, he focused his attention on the Noldor from across the sea. ‘So it is as I was warned, from across the seas and through fire and darkness ye have endured and come to my domain. Come you must be tired and hungry, let me arrange a meal and lodgings, then I shall explain how I know so much about your quest.’
*
They sat around a long table, at its head the King of Doriath and beside him the dazzling queen Melian. A second seat remained empty for their daughter. The King was once named Elwë, one of the first elves who went as ambassador to the Valar. Yet when he returned he encountered the Maia Melian and fell in love, yet the two fell into an enchantment that they fashioned themselves and it was not until many years later that they awoke from it. Some of their people, the Teleri, had stayed to await this awakening and these now bowed down to Elwë, they named him King Thingol and in Doriath he ruled.
When the feast was near over, Thingol now spoke to them, ‘Two days past,’ he began, pausing until he had their attention, ‘I was visited in my sleep by Manwë – He I recognised from long ago when I went to Aman – He spoke to me of the evil in the north that was Sauron’s doing, and he told me of his plan to counter it. You were his plan.’
‘Us?’ Calwë asked bewildered.
‘Six elves of no apparent significance, yet each with his own particular skill crucial to the schemes the Valar plan for ye.’
‘What plan?’ Erist demanded impetuously.
Thingol sighed exasperatedly, ‘That shall wait till dawn.’
They resumed eating and, shortly after, a door creaked open and they turned around to see . . . perfection in female form.
Tall, slender, and all the curves of the river Sirion; long, sleek, dark brown hair; eyes to lose one’s soul in, a face to define beauty, a voice as smooth as satin – she was Lúthien, daughter of Thingol and Melian.
Chapter VII: The Plan
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:The Plan
Dawn came yet under the thick foliage of the trees of Doriath, it was still night and, in this shade, they gathered.
Erist again demanded to know more of “the plan” and King Thingol complied, he spoke first of their situation, of the war long ago between the Valar and Melkor and how, with the elves awakening in Aman, the Valar sought all the harder to bring peace. He spoke briefly of how that war ended with Melkor’s imprisonment and how the Valar believed that they had succeeded in their task; yet Manwë now feared otherwise – particularly with Melkor’s release from his cage looming on the horizon like a storm-cloud. He had examined Utumno, Melkor’s first and greatest stronghold, yet found no sign of life, yet in a single sweep of Angband he had found that a certain fallen Maiar had been all too busy.
Thingol went on, ‘Manwë knew not if the evil lay in the new Lieutenant, Sauron, or if he merely obeyed orders from the caged Vala. Thus he decided to investigate deeper and to train a group of . . . well to train you, at the same time. To kill two orcs with one stone, so to speak.’
‘Train us how? Not just to be soldiers, clearly,’ Thoron said, urging Thingol to the point.
‘Manwë’s plan began with your birth, young Thoron; you are your father’s son in many ways as you are only just discovering. You were born to be a weapon of the gods, cruel to you maybe, but inescapable nonetheless. You were bred to be a leader of others, but to treat those who follow you as equals. You were trained to fight with the typical elven grace, yet learnt also the stealth of a being that can walk through a field of fallen leaves unheard. You were born, bred and taught the arts of not just any warrior, but that of a unique Order. An Order of similar individuals who shall, in time, learn selflessness, caution and camouflage. You all are destined to be Assassins, silent slayers of the servants of the Enemy, spies in night and daylight, elves who can wreak havoc with only a thrust of a blade – not by commanding an army to do so on their behest.
‘I have told you this much, and there I must stop, as Manwë commanded me. He now bid me tell you to go forth into the wide world and learn together, alone, the arts of such an Order and to thus develop your doctrine, your . . . Assassin’s Creed.’
Chapter VIII: Into the Wild
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:Into the Wild
Dawn came and the elves gathered on the northern border of Doriath, Thingol accompanying them.
‘Where now do we go?’ Thoron asked, for he had not a clue.
‘It was Manwë’s request that I give you no further advice,’ Thingol said hesitantly, ‘yet I shall say this: If you seek to oppose the evil in the north, look to base yourselves where you can observe the comings and goings into Angband and oppose them, yet be unseen. Many caves lie in the mountains beyond the Pass of Sirion; in time I shall be able to lend you builders to construct a more worthy hideout. That is all I will say, go my friends and may the Valar protect you.’
*
In silence they ventured north, following Thoron simply because he walked that much faster than the others.
The last few weeks had been a blur of unbelievable tales and it was in a state of utter bemusement that they found themselves treading the untouched lands north of Doriath with no particular destination in mind. Nightfall came and they settled down around a campfire in the shadow of the Crissaegrim, silence broke, Calwë asking what they were doing in the wild, leagues from family and hospitality. Ëawis laughed, ‘We were given a mission, we all agreed.’
‘This “mission” seems rather permanent.’
‘Then go home,’ Ëawis replied.
‘As if that’s an option, there’s no ferry across the ocean.’
‘You could cross the Helcaraxë,’ Terëon joked, referring to the treacherous and impassable plateau of ice joining Aman to Middle-earth.
Calwë simply sulked and Thoron spoke up, quietly stating, ‘The Valar organised this, they must know what they’re doing, so trust in them. When all is established, go if you wish, but until then, I aim to do as the Gods commanded.’
For a few minutes silence resumed, then Ëawis asked, ‘Where do we go then? This pass would hold strategic value as a chokepoint defending the lands to the south, yet we are certainly too few to hold it.’
‘Indeed, we are too few and the pass is too wide, perhaps further to the north,’ Thoron observed.
‘But then we shall be on this Sauron’s doorstep!’ Calwë explained.
‘The last place he would look for us!’ Terëon said, laughing. ‘Thoron do you have that map?’
Rummaging around in his bag, Thoron pulled out a piece of parchment and stretched it out. It was from Thingol and badly drawn, contained no words at all for the alphabet of Rúmil had not yet reached the shores of Middle-earth. Nonetheless it portrayed a rough outline of the mountains, forests and rivers of Beleriand, a star marked the Forest of Doriath as the cartographer’s home. The north was almost entirely blank, for no elf – save for those with Thoron at that campsite – had ventured further north than the source of the River Sirion.
Each elf stared silently at the parchment as if willing the mountains to suddenly double in detail and reveal huge caverns. ‘There!’ Terëon exclaimed suddenly, yet instantly he saw the disadvantage of that spot and discounted it aloud: ‘No, no good.’
Yet Thoron, his eyes focused on a spot near to where Terëon had just indicated, suddenly realised that the map was portraying a pass over the mountains and into Hithlum, close to where Sirion was sourced. ‘Here,’ he announced, ‘where Sirion is birthed, that’s a pass drawn there, not some irregularity in the cartography. You said it yourself, Ëawis, holding a pass would have strategic advantage, and this one is narrow enough for us to defend.’ He paused and then looked up, ‘So what do you think?’
Chapter IX: Thoughts alongside Sirion
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:Thoughts alongside Sirion
All in accord, they turned northwards and, days later, closer to journey’s end, Thoron’s thought on Thingol’s other words.
A Creed, a set of rules to follow, a mission, a goal. How would assassins help in this situation, an army yes, but a small group? “Assassins”, it was a word he had never heard of before yet somehow he knew what it meant – one who slays a figure of importance for gain.
So who was to die? Not Sauron, there was a figure who not even a Valar could slay (though in fairness Manwë had been in a lesser disguise), but others in his service? If he was breeding an army, then he had commanders, advisors and who knew what else. It was a start, perhaps overly-ambitious, but a start nonetheless.
Thoron stopped and turned around. The River Sirion, as wide as a garden pond, cut straight down the small valley and spread out at the Fen of Serech before snaking southwards, as wide as a country villa. It was a spectacular panorama, at his back stood the Ered Wethrin, tall dark mountains, impenetrable save for the single pass at Sirion’s source; and ahead of him the green fertile plains of Ard-galen were spread out as far as the eye could see. His companions were following not far behind and took advantage of his pause to halt themselves.
‘Come,’ Thoron said, ‘it will be night soon,’ and so they continued the climb up the grassy slope beside the trickle of Sirion.
As they climbed higher the ground became more rugged, the river – only a stream here – fell in brief waterfalls. Nonetheless Thoron easily found smoother routes upwards, coming at last to a small tarn at the foot of another cascade which was sourced from a cave high up in the mountain. Here too a gentle route was visible, continuing westward and over the apex of the mountain, a pass into the land beyond.
‘Where now?’ asked Terëon, now at Thoron’s side.
‘There,’ he replied, his finger pointing out the source of the waterfall, ‘the cave.’
‘I can barely make that out, but lead the way. It shall not be an easy climb.’
They navigated their way around the pool of water and Calwë, their finest climber, sought the way ahead; finding hand and footholds in the rock, he pointed these out to his companions and soon after they found themselves resting in the cave. It was dark but went deep and there was sufficient floor-space that wasn’t flooded with water.
‘This seems excellent, water and dry ground,’ Thoron said.
‘If you say so,’ Calwë grunted, settling down with discomfort.
Terëon laughed, ‘So what do we call this hidey-hole of ours?’
‘Eithel Sirion,’ Ëawis answered, translating as, Sirion’s Well.
Chapter X: Forging a Creed
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:Forging a Creed
‘That’s ridiculous!’ exclaimed Calwë upon seeing the plan laid out upon the roughly drawn map of Angband.
They stood in the cave, using torches to illuminate the map. Thoron’s plan was not entirely thought through, relying on the positioning of guards which he could not determine until he saw the fortifications themselves. Nonetheless he was determined it would work, the group would split in two, four would create a distraction, the other two would ensure the kill was carried out. Deaths would be kept to a minimum, if they could fulfil the task without an orc dying then it would appear all the more that they had slipped in and out like shadows.
However the single objector was outvoted and encouraged to be part of the distracting group and, by midday, they found themselves within sight of the Iron Prison where Thoron and Terëon bade the others an uneasy farewell.
It was with even more trepidation than before that the two elves approached Angband’s south-western side where the gully ascended steep but traversable. They climbed slower too, fearful that they could be heard by the orcs on the battlements. Yet they reached the top without raising alarm and looked down on the same place where, not long ago, they had dealt Sauron’s guards the first blow. This time however they sought not to kill those on duty, and thus they waited for their distant companions to carry out their mission.
The wait was like an age and when it was over the distraction was not as impressive as intended. Distant but clear, the fire raged on the green fields of Ard-galen and the beasts manning the walls all momentarily had their eyes fixed upon the bright light far away in the dark of night. They skidded down the next slope towards the battlements and landed gracefully and silently; then they darted northwards, light-footed so that they could not be heard. As shadows in the dark, they slipped past the guards and through the same tunnel as before that led deep into Angband.
It was with relief that Thoron recognised the correct passageways from their last incursion and he strode so fast and purposefully that Terëon could hardly keep up let alone ask if they were going the correct way. Deeper and deeper until at last they found the route sloping steeply down to a doorway to a brightly-lit chamber. They moved cautiously to the side of the doorway and peered in – and instantly drew back their heads.
‘I thought you said this would be easy?’ Terëon whispered.
‘Not exactly, but I didn’t predict a whole army between use and the target,’ Thoron retorted, and then glanced back into the huge chamber which was wholly occupied by an army of orcs. ‘He’s in the centre, making a speech, rallying the troops.’ He glanced up at the ceiling, ‘there, there’s my route to him. Wait here!’
Suddenly Thoron darted through the doorway, the orc warriors showed him their backs as they focused on the figure in the centre of the room and so he turned and began to ascend the rugged cavern wall behind the army. Over twelve feet was the climb, and each handhold seemed harder to find, sharper on the hand, and each movement of his limbs sounded louder than the last. The cavern was near silent save for the voice of the target, he was one of the many fallen Maiar who had flocked to Melkor’s command, but far lesser to Sauron, far less potent… or so he hoped.
He moved to the left, to where one of many wooden beams stretched out from the rock wall. He pulled himself onto it and slowly moved across it to where it met a towering rock pillar supporting the ceiling, here he moved on to the next beam, and then onto the next after that, moving with growing confidence across the ceiling scaffolding until at last he was positioned above the target below.
The target’s loud voice boomed out some inspiring words to the orcs present, something along the lines of feasting on elven flesh, the finest flesh in Arda. Thoron paid little attention, though, to his words; as he moved along the beams he thought up instead his own order’s Creed, something to distract him from the possible fall. Three tenants he had in mind, the first, naturally, was never to betray a fellow; the second, naturally, was to never slay an innocent. The third, that he had more trouble with, but the answer lay in the art of what he was doing. Hide in plain sight. He felt reassured that the beams were high enough to be out of the casual gaze of an orc.
Now he glanced down, his target was motionless, still booming out some words of encouragement. Thoron readied his blade, a straight edged dagger which he had strapped to his wrist. He had some ideas for a more efficient design, but that could come later, first he needed to eliminate and escape.
It was with the grace of his namesake that he jumped from the beam, plummeting down and slamming into the target, blade first. The dagger plunged into the Maiar’s body with such speed and accuracy as to ensure the fallen being would not rise again. Thoron carefully closed the being’s eyes, murmuring, ‘Estë e’seere,’ rest in peace, before rising to his feet and turning to face his intended exit – and the wall of orcs.
There was stunned silence until… ‘Now!’ Thoron shouted suddenly and there was an almost silent whoosh as two small fragile phials were hurled through the air, swiftly followed by them both smashing to the ground. Two flashes blinded the orcs but keen-eyed Thoron was undeterred, shoving his way through the ranks, elbowing them all aside. He met with Terëon at the door and together they darted back up the tunnels, twisting left and right, until, finally, losing their way. They came to a dead end and the sound of pursuers close at hand, but Thoron spied the light creeping through a crack in the rock wall, ‘Here,’ he murmured, ‘a hidden door.’
His hand fumbled across the rugged wall, finding at last a crack with a lever within, he pulled it down and moonlight flooded the passage. They were out.
Chapter XI: Clawed
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:Clawed
Thoron was bleeding.
The sleeve covering his left arm was in shreds as was much of the flesh beneath. His right hand clasped a crimson patch of cloth to his abdomen, hiding a wound beneath. Beside him, Terëon was near unscathed but weary from having to carry his companion from the mouth of hell that was Angband’s hidden postern gate. Only now had he let Thoron walk for himself, when the elf insisted he had the strength to do so.
‘Where now?’ Terëon asked, looking around for any sign of life. Ahead animals grazed, wild horses and cattle indifferent to the world about them; they alone were a reassuring sight, for few of nature’s beasts dared go closer to the evil of Angband. Yet still there was no sign of the other elves.
‘If we cannot find them,’ Thoron paused, breathing deeply and applying greater pressure to his wound, ‘then we go back to the cave and hope to find them there.’
‘As if you’re in any state to climb up there.’
‘No need, we shall make for Aman, for home.’
Hiding his satisfaction with the news, Terëon pondered, ‘Proving to be a bit much on you, this kind of life?’
‘We were unprepared, next time we will be better.’ Thoron gasped and fell to one knee, his good arm preventing him falling further. Blood was running down his leg he suddenly saw, and he ran his good hand up the leg to check for a wound. A small cut, nothing more, nonetheless he cursed, ‘damn that beast!’
‘What even was it?’ Terëon asked, helping Thoron to his feet.
‘Some corruption of nature’s wolf, no doubt,’ came Thoron’s uncertain reply as they resumed walking. ‘Wolves alone are dangerous, but that thing was twice the size and with double the ferocity.’ He massaged the wound to his abdomen with the bloody cloth and in his head flashed the image of the lengthy claws flashing in the moonlight, bloody claws raking at his arm, Terëon’s sword rising high, coming down. A final howl cut short. Then he remembered nothing, unconscious until now. He brought himself out of those dark reflections and looked ahead. ‘There,’ he said, pointing to a figure standing on the horizon, ‘we’ve found them.’
Behind them sounded a howl, a long, bloodcurdling call of the wild, terrifying to hear. They may have slain one beast escaping from Angband, but the pack remained, thirsty for revenge, and they had found them too.
Chapter XII: Wild Steeds
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:Wild Steeds
They approached the elves with tameness Man would consider unnatural, their eyes observing those they had come to rescue with nothing short of curiosity. They were pitch black horses, strong from enduring the hardships of the wild and none of the comforts of a stable. Terëon helped Thoron onto a stallion and the injured elf gripped tight the wild steed’s mane. They used short strands of rope, gifted to them by Thingol to aid in climbing, as reins and then they were ready, and the wolves of Angband not far from their heels.
There was something calming about the presence of the elves to the horses, the steeds did not bolt or rear up in terror as the howls sounded, instead waiting for the spurring of two elven heels into their black flanks before they took off, galloping at a speed to match the wolves.
Looking back for the first time since the wolves were but dots on the horizon, Terëon saw at last that there was more than just shaggy dog thirsting for their blood. Orcs rode the beasts of Angband, dull rusting scimitars clasped in their gnarled hands. Better equipped with saddles, spurs and suitable reins, the orc riders were able to close the gap between hunter and prey. Feonos, Ëawis and Erist dropped behind, letting the others escort their wounded leader as they made to slow the wild wargs.
An arrow flew from the rearmost orc rider, missing Erist by an inch. The elf guided his steed to the left, evading a lone tree then circling around to come up beside the handful of mounted archers. Erist’s long sword sang in the wind, swiping towards the first archer and meeting, to the archer’s fortune, its hastily-drawn dagger. The elf guided his steed away from the reach of the dagger, then cut his lengthy blade down low. The sword slammed into the spine of the rider, arcing down then curving up and coming free at the belly of the orc. Rider-less though, the warg suddenly revealed its fury. Like an ill-treated dog strikes its master, the warg turned and pounced; jaws seizing Erist’s leg and some of the horse’s flank it forced rider and steed to the grassy ground. The sudden, violent impact shattered the elf’s leg, crushed beneath the weight of the steed. The horse itself panicked, whinnying it tried to escape the tangle of teeth and limbs … with far more success than its stranded rider.
Erist fumbled for his fallen blade, pain shooting up what little he could feel of his legs. The wolf pressed a paw to his breast, claws pressing deep as it rose above him. Two eyes of jet bore into the broken elf’s soul, a wet rubbery nose sniffed the succulent scent of ripe elf, and then it opened its mouth, revealing such remarkable fangs that, in any other situation, one would feel pressured to stop and admire them.
But the elf had found his sword; his fingers scrabbled at the hilt, drawing it closer to his reach inch by inch. The wolf raised its head in a triumphant howl, Erist clasped his sword at last in his pained hand, and a shadow passed over him. There was a flash of silver, the wolf’s head fell in a fountain of scarlet and a hand dragged his other hand from the ground at such rapid speed that he cried out as he was wrenched into motion. Someone, the one who had felled the warg, was dragging him in the wake of their steed, slowly and awkwardly trying pulling him up onto the horse. Suddenly the rider tugged Erist with such force that the elf was painfully catapulted onto the rump of the stallion, and there, unable to move, he remained.
At the head of the group, the elves found themselves joined by the fastest wolves. Seeing one orc charge to meet Thoron, Terëon kicked his heels into his horse and spurred it towards the beast. Duel blades drawn, Terëon struck the rider from behind with such force as to knock the orc from its saddle, then as the warg turned in retaliation he brought his second blade to meet it, thrusting it into its flank. With a howl it fell back and Thoron spurred his steed again to ride beside Thoron.
A bowstring sang as an orcish arrow was let fly and a moment later it whistled past Terëon, slicing through the skin of his arm as it passed. Terëon gasped in shock and leaned down over the mane of his steed, to make himself a smaller target. Beside him Calwë slowed his steed, allowing the orc rider to gallop to meet him. The warg saw the slow moving prey and pounced hungrily but at the last moment Calwë spurred his steed to one side, evading the wolf and bringing his sword down upon both orc and rider as it passed. Blood blossomed from the tangle of beasts, and Calwë accelerated into a gallop to rejoin the foremost elves.
The River Sirion roared its greeting as they reached its bank. They crossed it where they found it, where it was narrow and shallow, and then continued down its western side. The wolves followed too, yapping and howling, determined to give their prey neither rest nor relief. As one came up beside Ëawis, he elbowed its rider into the water then brought his blade down into the wolf’s spine, paralysing it. As it fell limp another took its place, already rider-less for Erist had severed the rider’s head from its body shortly before. As the warg made to lunge at his horse’s head, Ëawis pulled suddenly on the reins, and the warg’s lunge fell short. Ëawis thrust his weapon into the flank of the warg, pulling back his bloody blade only to strike again.
Wounded, the wolf retreated with an ear-splitting howl; the other wargs stopped despite their riders furious attempts to spur them onwards and hurled the orcs from their saddle before fleeing, tails between their legs. The elves, meanwhile, rode on; not stopping until reaching the southernmost point of the Pass of Sirion where they permitted their faithful steeds some rest and refreshment on Sirion’s banks. Soon though, they were off again, riding in the shadow of the peaks of Ered Wethrin, destined for the western shores of Beleriand and a lone ship waiting to return them home.
Chapter XIII: Return to Aman
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:Return to Aman
‘Land!’ came the captain’s cry from the top deck and down below Thoron awoke, pale from blood loss.
He rose, almost falling as he found his footing, and it was as if drunk that he weakly stumbled his way to the stairs. The sea was gentle, yet the boat rocked with sufficient motion to make Thoron queasy, but nonetheless he climbed his way to the deck above where he found Erist lying inbed, conscious and pained, and by his side sat Ëawis.
‘You should be resting,’ the older elf said with concern but Thoron merely shook his head and sat down.
‘Could you ask the others to join us?’
Ëawis nodded and climbed up to the top deck, reappearing a moment later with the others behind.
It was with a curt nod that Thoron greeted them, whilst this mind turned over the words he had to say to them. Today they would dock in Aman and their group would be splintered, but only until he called them together again, or so he hoped. ‘Friends,’ he said at last, ‘it is now the hour for us to go our separate ways, and I suspect our time apart will be long and peaceful. It will be hard to return to this, but I hope you do. I will not ask for your decision now, but when the time is come I shall call upon you. Thank you, my friends, and farewell.’
That said he rose, turned and walked up to the top deck. He found himself steadier on his feet and as he emerged from the depths of theship the captain of the ship remarked that he was looking far healthier than whenlast he saw him. Thoron moved to the prow of the swan ship and leant on the rail,looking out over the unfolding panorama ahead of them.
They had passed the Enchanted Isles which lay to the east of the Blessed Realm and the ship was drawing close to the small island of Tol Eressëa. On its coast sat the city of Avallónë, composed of innumerable houses of chalk white stone. Two great arms of sturdy, weathered bricks reached out into the ocean, forming a man-made harbour protected from storms, and, in the embrace of the long piers, a fleet of majestic swan ships rested, as pearly white as the buildings of the city.
But all this paledin comparison to the light that the boat was now bathed in. For this was aworld without Sun and Moon, there was only the starlight and the light of theTwo Trees: Laurelin and Telperion. Crafted by the Valar, they emitted a spectacular light, gold and silver respectively; however the light which flooded Aman only touched Tol Eressëa, and left Middle-earth to be lit solely by the stars. Thus it was the first time since they abandoned Aman upon their expedition east that the elves gazed upon the light of the Trees, and it outmatched anything they had ever seen.
It was in Laurelin’s golden glow that their ship drew into the dock. Another pearly white port, Aqualondë, like Avallónë, had been founded by the Teleri when they desired to move closer to the Two Trees. As the ship drew up against the dock,the Captain lowered the sail and prepared the mooring rope whilst the elves gathered to leave. With Thoron leaning upon a staff and Erist carried upon a stretcher, they returned to the land they had missed for so long and there Thoron, Ëawis and Calwë bade farewell to the Teleri Terëon and Erist who resided there in Aqualondë, though not before promising to meet again regularly.
Chapter XIV: Upon the Road
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:Upon the Road
It was in Telperion’s silver light that Thoron, Ëawis and Calwë set their eyes upon the City of the Noldor for the first time in what felt like years. Situated in the rugged pass of Calacirya that cut through the Pelori Mountains, the city of Tirion was a dazzling contrast to the rough hewn grey rock of the mountains which loomed above it. Pearly marble made up the many towers and houses which reached up for the skies, majestic trees rose up from the gardens and water ran in carefully crafted channels beside the streets.
The three elves, each upon a hired horse, stopped when they beheld the city, almost as if they had never seen it before. A convoy of wagons was winding its way along the wide road, the foremost cart disappearing into the mouth of the city’s gateway, farmers toiled in the vineyards on the lower slopes of the mountains on either side of the city and birds chattered in the many trees that lined the road. The three elves looked on in silent admiration, oblivious to the world about them.
‘Thoron?’ came a familiar voice and the young eagle tore his gaze from the fair city, looking instead at the rider approaching him from the west. At first he could make out little of the tall figure’s features, for the light of Telperion was in his eyes. Yet when his keen vision had swiftly adjusted, Thoron recognised the raven hair and fine features, the pale skin and those eyes, bright as if a flame burned within them. So bright.
‘Fëanor!’ he exclaimed, spurring his horse closer. The two embraced, as best they could when sat in saddles, then broke apart, looking at each other like long lost brothers.
‘Home at last, my friend? Who are your companions?’
‘Ye,’ Thoron replied and, turning to his fellow riders, he added, ‘Allow me to introduce Erist and Calwë, who travelled with me.’
‘Well met,’ Fëanor said with a curt bow, ‘how fared your journey?’
‘It was…’ Thoron paused, his hand resting upon his wounded abdomen, ‘eventful.’
Fëanor did not miss his young friend’s movement, noting also how he leant to one side in his saddle, ‘You’re hurt?’
‘A big… wolf,’ Thoron explained vaguely, ‘so, where to do you ride?’
‘Aqualondë, for supplies.’
‘Ah!’ Thoron smiled, ‘how fares your craft?’
‘Good, good… would you ride with me? We have much to catch up on.’
‘Sure,’ Thoron replied, before turning to his companions, ‘farewell my friends, though I shall see you soon.’
‘Farewell Thoron,’ they said.
With some reluctance, Thoron turned his steed away from the city of Tirion and began to ride back down towards the sea. ‘I’ve taken up lettering,’ Fëanor said as they rode.
‘Lettering?’ Thoron echoed.
‘I’m improving the Sarati, developing a finer, simpler yet more elegant form of calligraphy.’
His companion laughed, ‘I did not realise it needed improving. What else has drawn the mighty mind of Fëanor?’
‘Your orb.’ He reigned in abruptly, glanced about in all directions, and as the young Eagle also came to a halt, he announced, ‘I put some thought into it, and into your notes… Gods! How did you conceive such a thing? It took me a week at least to wrap my head about it.’
‘I ask myself the same thing, I swear I sat down after a night of heavy drinking with your brother.’
‘Half-brother,’ Fëanor corrected grimly.
‘You two still at odds?’
‘So yes, I was thinking about your orb…’ They rode on, Fëanor explaining his ideas, Thoron nodding and agreeing every so often. They entered Aqualondë as the light of Telperion was fading and there guided their steeds through the streets towards the marketplace. It was a lot quieter than when Thoron had docked there, the shops had closed and stalls no longer littered the streets, lights shone in the windows of the houses and coils of smoke spiralled up from the chimneys as people prepared their evening meal. In the marketplace few stalls remained and those that did were mostly packing up, but about the many taverns there were crowds of elves, rejoicing and singing, drunk on life and liquor.
The elves dismounted there, Fëanor going towards the last of the market stalls with the knowledge that Thoron would be resting in one of the taverns. As he dismounted, the pain in Thoron’s abdomen boiled up again, causing the elf to hobble over to the drinking house; inside a fire roared and, having bought a drink, he settled at an empty table for two beside the blazing heat. He took a sip, leaned back in his chair and exhaustion took him.
He was not aware of how long he slept, nor was he aware that someone seemed to have made off with his drink, he was instead conscious of only one thing. The woman’s screams. They took a moment to register and, having registered, Thoron remained bemused; yet, when the sleepiness that weighed down his brain had passed he leapt to his feet and acted as everyone else was by making for the back door, the source of the woman’s cries.
And there, on the cold grassy ground of the alley, lay a body and standing over it was the woman who had found it, now succumbed to sobbing. The elf was still warm, his eyes closed as if asleep; but it was the mark that was the worst of it, branded upon his naked chest like a farmer marks his cattle. A burn mark of some elaborate emblem, a sigil scolded onto his skin, a message, a warning.
It seemed familiar.
It came to him in a flash of recollections, the orc’s overseer and his bold words about feasting on elven flesh, the shock his face had shown as Thoron plunged the dagger in deeper and deeper, the way he had coughed and coughed, sending more and more blood running down his chin, onto his fine black tunic. And there on that tunic, stark crimson in a field of black had been the sigil, the same sigil that was now burnt into this innocent’s flesh:
A cross.
Chapter XV: The Roofs of Aqualondë
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:The Roofs of Aqualondë
‘Who could do such a thing?’ one onlooker cried.
‘Who is it?’ asked another.
‘The tavern owner,’ one elf answered.
‘Look!’ cried one man, ‘he’s alive!’
‘He’s breathing!’ cried another and true enough the poor elf was not harmed, his breath rising slowly and irregularly, white in the cold night air.
And then someone shouted, ‘There he goes!’
Thoron’s eyes flashed up, following the announcer’s outstretched arm, pointing at a shadow at the far end of the alley and suddenly the mob was after him. Like a pack of hounds that has sighted the lone fox, the younger elves were after the distant figure in a flash. In a second, Thoron outpaced them all; the rush of events had seemingly deprived him of all his pain. The figure paused for a moment, staring at those who pursued him, then turned tail and bolted, acting all the more the guilty.
Reaching the alley’s end, Thoron turned right in time to see the figure ascending a stack of crates with curious dexterity before leaping across onto the canvas roof of a market stall. Thoron pursued eagerly, adrenaline surging coursing through his body, spurring him forwards; like a creature of the jungles of the south he ascended the crates before leaping to the stall’s canvas. The material flexed beneath his feet and for a moment Thoron feared it would not bear his weight. He did not give it a chance to tear, leaping free a second later and landing as his prey had done on an adjacent house roof. The terracotta tiles clinked beneath his feet as he hurtled across them, darting around a chimney then leaping the gap between one house and the next. Ahead his quarry dropped down off the roof but Thoron was going too fast to halt in time, jumping instead towards the next structure in his path: a towering mansion of whitewashed stone. He slammed against the building’s wall, hands gripping the windowsill above him, eyes searching for his prey. Having sighted his pursuer’s situation, the stranger had doubled back. Thoron cursed, took a breath, leaned back, and released the windowsill.
He surrendered himself to the elements, air rushing past him, cold and invigorating. The ground rushed up to meet him, and he landed, perfectly, in a thick garden bush. If only he had seen the thorns.
He rolled out of the shrubbery feeling like he had slept in a pincushion, and it was with some awkwardness that he resumed his pace. The streets he rushed through were growing dark, lit only by lights from within the houses and the occasional streetlamp, but still his quarry was visible in the distance: a black shape in the grey street.
As the prey darted down a side alley ahead, Thoron turned sharply, climbed an abandoned cart and then made to ascend the wall of a house. He reached the roof and proceeded in the rough direction that his quarry had been going in, sprinting again over the rattling tiles until he caught sight of the figure stopping for breath in the distance.
Calmly, Thoron slowed his pace, reaching for the dagger clasped to his belt; but as he drew closer his prey resumed its flight, sprinting towards the marketplace. Again, Thoron broke into a run, leaping onto a chimney before propelling himself over a street, onto the next roof. It was the last building before the open plaza of stalls and, three stories up at least, there was no easy way down. Almost despairing, Thoron’s eagle eyes fell upon a dark line of rope stretching between the chimney of the building he stood on and on the opposing side of the plaza, in a second a crazy idea formed.
He removed his leather belt, letting his sword and dagger-sheath fall at his feet before wrapping the strap around the rope and running off the edge of the roof. The looped belt struck taut and to his own surprise he found himself propelled forwards, rushing along the rope at a ridiculous speed. Without a moment’s thought put into its chances of success, there he was whooshing across the plaza, the wind raging at his victory!
Behind him, the chimney supporting the rope surrendered to his weight.
Suddenly the rope was no longer taut and Thoron was falling, faster and faster. He heard the chimney explode into fragments and the sound of someone sprinting and suddenly he crashed into something solid but soft, something which buckled beneath his weight and struck the ground. Thoron caught a glimpse of black fabric, a flash of a silver dagger, this one stained with blood, and he acted instinctively, punching his fist hard and fast into the figure’s back, just below the ribcage.
The stranger cried out and Thoron wrestled him onto his back, pressing his dagger to the person’s throat. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, ‘why did you do that to that innocent elf?’
He laughed in reply and it was chilling to hear, ‘to get your attention!’
Suddenly the figure’s fist slammed into Thoron’s abdomen and the elf rolled aside with a loud cry of pain. The stranger raised himself from the ground, slipping a small square of parchment into a pocket on Thoron’s robe before he dusted himself down, as calm as a tame garden bird, and strolled away.
Thoron made no effort to pursue, nor even to move; he lay there paralysed with pain as, for the first time since he tore his stitches sprinting down that initial alley, he felt the warm blood escaping his wound, running all the more faster since the assassin had aggravated it.
When Fëanor found him lying there, he was unconscious, lying in a pool of crimson.
Chapter XVI: The Scent of Home
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:The Scent of Home
Thoron knew that smell. An indescribable scent, the scent of home.
His eyes opened to a blaze of white, a room bathing in golden treelight to which his eyes struggled to adjust. But when they did, the familiar features of his own room swam into sight. ‘He’s awake,’ came a voice, and shortly after he lost consciousness again.
When he next awoke it was night and his mother sat beside his bed, her head lolling in sleep. He made to sit up and felt sparks of pain ignite throughout his stiff limbs and aching abdomen, and so he lay back, hoping for sleep to wash over him, but he had slept enough. After a while he forced himself to sit, then to move his legs out of his bed, lastly to rise to a standing position. He did not notice the parchment envelope on his bedside table, slightly stained by his blood; instead, cold, he pulled on a tunic and walked out of his room, across the hallway and into the lounge. He pulled open the door to the balcony and stepped out, shutting it behind him and there, leaning on the balcony wall, he stayed till the golden treelight returned again to Tirion, the city standing tall and proud upon the hill of Túna.
*
Dawn came and with it the finest breakfast he had tasted in ages, followed by a visit from a physician commending his good fortune and forbidding him exercise. He cared not, vanishing to his workshop where he forgot about his finest design, the far-seeing stone, instead searching his imagination for fresh ideas, ideas about weapons.
At first he expanded on his blade-on-the-wrist idea, but then decided he wanted something… more. He thought of his experiences in Beleriand, the leaping from beam to beam, the scaling of walls, then last his thoughts turned to events in Aqualondë and his encounter with the rope over the marketplace, even though that had failed, a better means of navigating such a wire could come in useful in the future. Ideas forming, he set to designing what he had in mind, drawing upon a scrap of parchment a dagger sized weapon similar to a fisherman’s harpoon – a sharp tip with a hook lower down the shaft. His initial idea of hiding such a weapon in a wrist guard posed the issue of the blade being too long and the hook too obstructive and so he set about designing a retractable mechanism.
He finished his design by midday at which time he leant back in his chair and dozed. Hunger awoke him, as well as a desire to venture out into Tirion and find a metalworker’s shop. These were few in number in Aman and those that were there sold only farming tools and the like; yet upon request the blacksmiths would venture into the realm of weapon forging, an art they excelled at but, in such a peaceful world as this, seldom needed.
Leaning upon a staff to avoid putting pressure upon his wounds, Thoron made his way slowly to a familiar metalworker’s shop where he was glad to find it open for business. An old friend, the blacksmith was glad to aid him and a few hours and a packet of lembas bread later, Thoron departed the shop with a rudimentary design. He picked up a ball of strong thick thread on his way home where he finished the weapon, tying one end of the cord to the release switch, the other into a loop which he placed around his ring finger.
Finally, after perfecting the length of the string, Thoron flexed his palm back, stretching the thread taut and releasing the switch; the blade flashed out, sharp and shimmering in the dying treelight.
Chapter XVII: Night Messages
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:Night Messages
The knock on Calwë’s door was loud and fast, waking the young elf from his slumber.
In frustration he wrenched open his door, thinking little of who in Aman would wake him at this hour. The figure waiting for him was silhouetted against a streetlamp and it was not until his eyes adjusted that he made out Thoron’s features.
‘Don’t you sleep?’ Calwë mumbled through sleep.
‘Sorry, can I come in?’
They sat down at the kitchen table with a steaming drink, Thoron took a sip and then slowly unstrapped his deadly wrist guard, placing it in the centre of the table.
‘A vambrace?’ he asked.
Thoron nodded and then leant over it, holding it steady with one hand whilst carefully stretching out the trigger cord. The hookblade shot out, flashing golden in the light of the candle, and Calwë jumped slightly in his seat.
‘What in the name of the Valar is that?’ he exclaimed.
Thoron explained everything. ‘Would you try it out?’ he asked in the end, adding as he patted his stitches, ‘no exercise for me, doctor’s orders.’
*
The night air was cold and bracing, as he stood upon the roof of his house he almost forgot being half-asleep.
‘This better work, because this is quite a drop.’
Thoron smiled, ‘If anyone can pull this off, you can.’
Calwë took a breath and dashed forwards, at the edge of the roof he launched himself into the air and for a short moment he was lost in that breathtaking freedom. Then reality hit him, he drew back his palm and the hookblade flashed out, he swung his arm overhead, the hook aiming for the roof tiles of the next building. The hook clashed against the tile and as Calwë fell down it scratched along the tile, catching at last upon the ridge of the next tile. Calwë’s arm was yanked painfully but there he hung before quickly ascending as not to risk the tile giving way.
Light-footed he dashed across the roof, hopping onto a chimney then leaping onto the next, a drop loomed up ahead and he threw himself forwards without consideration of whether or not he could make it. It was mercifully narrow and he landed easily on the neighbouring roof. He turned and dropped down off the roof, landing on a beam between two houses and leaping from that one onto the next, swinging on the following beam with his hookblade and landing gracefully in the street below. He paused, breathless but exhilarated, before jogging down the street towards home.
*
Satisfied with all that Calwë had to report, Thoron returned home. At dawn, he decided, he would set to work on it again for certainly there issues with the design: the hook was visible resting on the wrist guard, the mechanism had jarred once so he had to ensure that never happened again, and crucially he needed to find a stronger metal, one which would allow a finer, sharper blade and a stronger hook. What he had would do for the time being though.
Upon reaching home he lit a candle and rested it on the table beside his bed and it was not until he made to blow out the small flickering flame that he saw the letter that had been slipped into his pocket in Aqualondë. He examined the envelope carefully, noting the bloodstains and concluding that it had to have been in his robes when he was lying unconscious, his stitches ruptured, but that was about as much as he could discern from it. He remembered receiving no letter and could think up no reason as to why he possessed it and it was with this curiosity that he slipped his nail under the seal and gently opened the envelope. The handwriting was elegant, the parchment fine quality and upon reading it he felt a surge of optimism as he realised who had given it to him: the figure he had pursued.
A place and a time, midday in a garden on the southern side of Tirion, but why did he want to meet him?The Grove of Maidens, as the light of Laurelin embraces that of Telperion, in a week’s time.
Chapter XVIII: The Grove of Maidens
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:The Grove of Maidens
Thoron turned off the busy street, abandoning the throng of elves and cries of vendors, passing under a stone archway encased in ivy to enter the Grove of Maidens.
Tall hedges and patches of flowers encircled a small field of grass and at the far end a tall tree stood, in the shade of which a figure was shrouded as he looked out over a wall, into the valley beyond. Thoron approached him carefully, flexing his middle finger around which the cord of his hookblade was wrapped. He reached the tree and stopped.
Clad in black, he was one with the shade, but his hooded head, leaning over the wall to look upon the houses below, was caught in the treelight, spoiling his concealment. As soon as Thoron stopped, the figure spoke; he did not turn to look upon the elf behind him, instead blindly declaring: ‘Well met, Thoron, for a moment I feared you would not come.’
That voice… Thoron said nothing for a moment before stating coldly, ‘Skip the pleasantries and tell me who you are.’
Another laugh, though not as chilling as Thoron remembered for before he had been weakened from blood-loss, his mind in a state where the fairest voice could sound toneless and unsettling.
‘Is there something you find amusing? Perhaps what you did to that innocent in Aqualondë?’
‘Innocent. Did you not look into a single detail of that “innocent’s” life?’ With that the figure turned suddenly, looking Thoron in the eye, revealing for the first time his face: fair elven features, a long lock of unruly black hair resting on his cheek and piercing eyes within which a fire burnt. ‘He was a courier for them. I marked him a traitor to his race with a brand that will last him an eternity, sure he may not have been deep in the Enemy’s council, but aiding and abetting Melkor’s servants for pure greed is as great a crime as any. The brand was a warning, not to you, to them. They’re here, they’ve come to Aman. In some dark place in Tirion or Aqualondë or maybe somewhere else, they scheme to release Melkor the Black.’
Thoron said nothing, his mind twirling as he accepted this surge of information, and all the while his eyes were locked with those of the other elf’s, those eyes of fire. ‘Fëanor,’ he said at last, ‘this was all you?’
The other elf nodded solemnly, ‘Sorry, it was all rather spontaneous, I never expected you to follow me, and when you did… I could not let you unveil me there and then, what would you have thought! Your journey beyond the Sea must have changed you quite a bit…’ His eyes suddenly swept the scene behind Thoron and he added in almost a whisper, ‘don’t look now, but I think we have been followed.’
It was Thoron’s turn to laugh, turning and whistling loudly. Suddenly two elves came into the garden, Calwë dropping down from the roof, Erist emerging from behind a hedge.
‘A strange letter invites me to a private rendezvous; did you think I would turn up alone, my friend?’
Chapter XIX: The Chaining of Melkor
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:The Chaining of Melkor
As they made their way from the garden to home, Thoron related at last the tale of their deeds in Beleriand, and when that was concluded, he asked simply, ‘So tell me, do you have any thought on how to find these servants of Melkor?’
Fëanor nodded curtly and pointed upwards to the great square at the peak of Tirion where the nobles gathered in council. ‘If they seek to release Melkor, they need to hold sway in the courts.’
‘Only Manwë will see Melkor freed and no elf could force him to that position,’ Calwë stated.
‘And what if all of Tirion wants to see Melkor freed? Who knows what tricks they have at their disposal; they could wash our minds of our senses and see us protesting before the halls of the Valar!’ Fëanor paused and said calmer and slower: ‘You tell me Manwë showed no love of Melkor; that Manwë had no trust for him and had knowledge of his lieutenant’s deeds in Angband? No, no my friends. In two centuries, Melkor will be free of his sentence and before the Valar he shall repent and apologise and grovel like the coward he is. Then once they pat him on the back and say how they shall all be good friends now, Melkor shall turn away and laugh at their naïvety. The Valar are all one family, and they shall look past Melkor’s faults and embrace him as their brother. The servants of Melkor need make no plot, but we shall stop them nonetheless.’
*
Two Centuries… once, it had been three Ages, but now most of that time had passed. As Thoron slept that night he visualised in his mind’s eye events that long ago had come and gone. He saw a naked people waking beside a quiet lake, their ears pointed and their minds without knowledge of the world about them. They were a happy folk, these newborn elves, loud with the joys of laughter and friendship.
And it was then that they were found. He came from out of the mists – be it Him himself or a merely a servant of His majesty – and the newborn elves felt a shadow fall upon their happy hearts. But He told them of His might and offered to them the hand of friendship, speaking of the dangerous world into which they had awoken, and this Black Rider warned them of the White Rider, who would come with false promises of a distant world of beauty. This he warned was a lie, and thus departed.
And then the White Rider came, Oromë the Vala, and he invited the elves to Aman, to a better world and many followed. But some did not, some turned to the Black Rider, and they never saw the light of the Trees, nor did they ever see light again. Melkor took them, Melkor tortured them, Melkor made them orcs.
Thoron saw all this and more, he saw the War of the Powers, he saw the might of the Valar and their fury before the gates of Utumno, he saw them cast down the walls of Melkor’s fortress and storm the many dungeons deep, until at last the Vala known as Tulkas met with the downfallen Vala that was Melkor, hiding in his throne room. The fight was brief, a clash of steel and a blaze of light and fire, and in the end Melkor was hurled to the ground, his face sullied in the grime of the floor, and his body wrapped in the great chain known as Angainor. And thus he was sentenced to three Ages in the Halls of Mandos, a place not even a Vala could escape.
And the Valar abandoned the ruins of Utumno, knowing not of the deeper dungeons where Sauron and the other servants of darkness hid.
It was then that Thoron awoke, not lying in bed as he had been, but slumped in his workshop chair, the palantír before him, its light fading.
Chapter XX: A Fresh Trail
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:A Fresh Trail
They watched incessantly, but nothing came. If the foe schemed, they never brought them into clear act, if they spread discontent, the people never voiced it, if they even existed, they did not show it. Yet the watch went on, be it a daily visit to the courts to hear tale of matters arisen or be it a nightly drink in a corner tavern, but over fine wine no rumours arose, no secrets told. Thoron buried himself in his designs, the others in training or studies, Fëanor though busied himself more with his work of letters, his script nearing perfection. Years passed, such were little to the people of Valinor, the never dying, what is a day to people facing eternity?
And then something changed: a chance conversation in the docks of Aqualondë told of a captain and his ship hired for a short journey – yet neither had been sighted since. Those who had paid for their voyage had long since vanished over the horizon, but the property which they had abandoned had not and when the light of the Trees was at its lowest, Thoron and Fëanor found themselves on the wrong side of a forcefully opened door, using as little candlelight as they dared to survey the rooms within the house. Dust and grime only added to the gloom inside, the whole house had never felt the touch of a cloth nor of a wet mop on the floor but despite its state the two elves searched thoroughly, yet found nothing.
‘What now,’ Fëanor pondered when they emerged, brushing dirty hands on their robes.
‘I shall look into the palantír,’ Thoron replied absentmindedly, ‘no, no I will not. I shall rally the others, we’ll hunt them across the sea, and hope for tracks to follow on the other shore.’
Fëanor nodded but said, ‘Then I wish you luck my friend, but I cannot come with you, yet if there is anything you would ask of me beforehand then I hope I can help you so.’
‘I understand and yes, there is one thing I would ask, namely this.’ Thus said, Thoron took from somewhere in his robes the black orb, the mysterious palantír. ‘Take this, unfinished as it is, but you did talk of many great ideas whilst my mind can think of none. All my notes are at my workshop, feel free take them as well, there your skill exceeds my own by far. A word of caution though, do not gaze to often into it, it has some addictive quality I swear!
‘Now I must be gone, else I lose their trail forever,’ Thoron turned to walk down the street but stopped, adding to Fëanor, ‘Should you ever choose to make the palantír known to everyone, swear to never reveal my name as their creator, no, do not even mention me at all, you can take that honour should you choose. It never really was mine to begin with, the gods gave me the idea I swear! Namárië, Fëanor.’
*
The sea roared about him, coughing up an icy spray of salty water into his face as he looked out over the prow. It was just over thirty years since last he had taken this voyage, guided by a god that time, instead of naught but the hope of tracks on the other shore. They had infiltrated the Iron Prison itself, once slaying one of Melkor’s foul demons, the second time slaying a fallen Maiar as he rallied the armies of Angband. In Beleriand Thoron had met with the King of Doriath, Thingol; he had glimpsed also the astounding beauty of Lúthien, his daughter. Lastly they had founded a base of sorts, where Sirion began in the mountains, it was merely a cave yet, as with many things, Thoron had grand designs for the place. He required only a fine architect and others to help build the place.
The shores of Beleriand stretched across the horizon, the rugged mountains in the north were but a blur of grey and the beaches a smudge of tree-lit gold. Thoron looked back, the Undying Lands had long since vanished over the horizon but the treelight remained, fading though, soon it would be gone, leaving only the stars in the sky. The other elves were gathered on the deck, Terëon looking out with Thoron towards Beleriand, Calwë, Feonos and Erist looking back as if their eyes still searched for their homeland. Ëawis leant against the mast, eyes closed as if asleep, let Thoron recognised him to be deep in thought.
‘What if they are merely returning like dogs to their master?’ Terëon asked.
Returning his gaze to the east, Thoron replied, ‘we’ll hunt after them, and do our best to stop them. There’s a fair chance, but I do hope and think that they aren’t returning to Angband. It must be something important to return them to Beleriand and I doubt it to be just because their master desires them to report in.’
Terëon nodded and leaned forwards, eyes transfixed on something ahead. ‘Is that…?’
‘A ship,’ Thoron finished for him, his words loud and stirring all from their thoughts. ‘Captain, make for it, at once!’
The sighted ship was moored offshore, large and cumbersome the vessel had been forced to anchor quite far from the beach, a small rowing boat became visible as they drew closer, abandoned on the sands.
‘Its sail is down, I would have said we are but half a week behind them, yet why does this ship wait?’
‘I don’t think we’ll like the answer,’ Erist said, his demeanour pessimistic, as it had been ever s
ince he recovered from the wound to his leg, given to him by a warg of Angband.
Eventually the two ships came alongside and the sight laid out before them was much as Erist had feared. The corpses of crew and captain were laid out on deck, the rough wood floor crimson with blood. The captain had fared the worst, hung from the mast, throat slit – but that was the last of many wounds received. Thoron and his companions scoured the ship briefly, finding little, and it was with eagerness that they disembarked. Yet Thoron refused to leave it as it was, commanding his captain to move his own ship away from the vessel of the dead, then Thoron took a flaming torch and cast it onto the deck of that other vessel, marred by blood and murder. The flame was slow to spread, yet when it did the pyre was dazzling, flames lapping at the blood like hungry dogs, devouring the flesh like a ravenous orc, engulfing the ship like a mighty wave.
Thoron bade farewell to the captain, and bade him return in a month for the second half of his fee and, should he find not the elves waiting, return again every month until he did. The captain promised he would, and that was that.
Chapter XXI: Blood Before the Trees
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:Blood Before the Trees
‘Footsteps,’ Feonos announced, his finger indicating the shoe-shaped patch of flattened grass and rain-drenched soil.
‘If they’re without steeds we’ll swiftly catch them,’ Terëon stated, pulling himself up onto his horse. They had each bought a steed back in Valinor, and the captain had charged them even more heavily than the horse dealer to have the steeds stored below deck to bring to Beleriand. The frightened animals had raised an outstanding racket of whinnying when the seas grew rough, and were hardly quieter when Ulmo calmed the waves. When brought ashore they made to bolt from the thunder of waves rolling ashore, yet elves seldom fail in calming animals and they swiftly permitted them to mount up.
Thus, the company of six abandoned the seas, riding swiftly after the trail of muddy footsteps. It was no easy feat, the light of the trees did not stretch this far east and thus under starlight alone their eyes struggled to make out the trail. It ran as straight as the terrain permitted, vanishing in the water of the rivers Narog and Teiglin, yet not turning north towards Ard-galen as was expected. Their quarry sought not a return to Angband, but to someplace else, someplace to the east. The tracks cut straight towards the Forest of Brethil – westernmost of the woods which made up Doriath. Yet where the trees rose up, under shadow of thick green leaves, the tracks turned away, as if some force kept them back. Ultimately though, when they reached the roar of the River Sirion, just north of the tree-line, the tracks vanished into the water and did not reappear on the other bank. The days of rainfall before their arrival in Beleriand had long since ended and the tracks had long since been fading. They made camp that “night” – night being decided in a starlit world only by how weary those travellers were – on Sirion’s eastern bank, and they awoke to find themselves surrounded by figures aiming arrows at the spot between their eyes.
*
There comes a time when curiosity overwhelms, when the knowledge of a world beyond one’s own becomes too much to ignore, and the desire to escape, to venture forth, to explore, becomes ever so present in one’s mind.
There comes a time to take up one’s tools, to ready weapons for whatever could lie beyond one’s rugged walls, to break down the barriers and escape.
That time was coming…
…and ever so soon.
*
King Thingol was agitated. Beyond his wall of trees the world was stirring, something stirred in the ground, and he feared for the worst. So much blood, was more to be shed?
It was in that state of mind that the trespassers were presented to him. They were weary in appearance, haggard from long rides, little sleep and the ropes which bound their wrists, but their faces familiar nonetheless.
‘The guards of Doriath seem to find you too often wandering as if lost near our trees, can you not bear to abandon the sights of my Kingdom that you return here so frequently?’
With a curt laugh, Thoron answered, ‘I’m afraid not, sire, this time I sought not your council – much appreciated as it was – nor your cities beauty; rather I set my eyes on a different prize, which unless you hindered them as you hindered us, now wanders somewhere in Beleriand in some place which I cannot describe.’
Thingol’s face darkened suddenly and there was bitterness in his tone when he said, ‘Oh we hindered them, and they us in return. Blood shed before the trees of Doriath, each elf of that patrol butchered like cattle save for one who survived his wounds for long enough to tell the tale.’ Thingol turned away from the others, looking out of the great window in his hall. ‘You know then, I presume, of who they were, of their motives and what drove them to such evil?’
‘Servants of the Enemy, Melkor accused. The Valar may not like me to name him so, brother that he is to them, but Enemy he appears to be despite his ties to them. Their purpose I cannot say, we’ve followed them from Valinor and found the ship they hired to bring them here a pyre of the dead. They know no mercy and if you have any knowledge of their whereabouts I beseech you to let us go after them and finish this bloody business.’
‘Guards!’ Thingol shouted when Thoron had fell silent and in a flash a group of elves appeared, heavily armed, weapons unsheathed. ‘Put away your swords unless they be drawn to unbind these elves.’
One elf spoke, ‘Sire?’ his manner was doubtful, suspicious, his eyes wary. Thoron saw it in all their eyes: an apprehension inspired no doubt by recent events.
‘No need to worry, captain, these can be trusted. Does Eöl still follow the trail of those who attacked our patrol?’
‘Yes, sire.’
Thingol turned to Thoron, ‘When we heard of the attack, we ensured those responsible did not escape. Yet rather than slaying them, we chose to follow and uncover their purpose.’
‘A wise move, can we be guided to this Eöl?’
‘I shall send with you one who can easily find the route of Eöl, a kinsman of mine who at this moment pursues the foe. May your journey bear the fruit of vengeance and may the Valar ride with you.’
Continued in post 2
The Codex of the Eagle
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:The Elves
- Maegwin (May-gwin)
- Thoron
- Terëon (Teh-ray-on)
- Calwë (Kal-way)
- Feonos (Fee-on-nos)
- Erist
- Ëawis (Eee-ay-wis)
A Brief Timeline
First Age
4669 - Birth of Fëanor. Rúmil invents writing.
4690 - Fingolfin born.
4696 - Meeting of the Valar, conception of Thoron.
4697 - Birth of Thoron to Iriel.
4715 - Thoron becomes Fingolfin's Squire.
4717 - Thoron "invents" palantír and, late in the year, departs with Maegwin for Beleriand.
4750 - (circa) Thoron departs again to Beleriand.
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Now off to write essays ... 
Lots of writing stockpiled up though 
). I am reaching the point where the Silmarillion gets truly interesting and dramatic and my Assassins may be unleashed.
Originally Posted by Koslab
