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b2mem2018-03-11 11:35 pm
kayleearafinwiel) wrote in b2mem2018-03-11 11:35 pm
Entry tags:
Preparations for the Journey, by Kaylee Arafinwiel
B2MeM Prompt and Category: The song of Fingon Elves yet sing,
captain of armies, Gnomish king,
who fell at last in flame of swords
with his white banners and his lords.
(The Lay of Leithian)
The sound of running and falling water was loud, and the evening was filled with a faint scent of trees and flowers, as if summer still lingered in Elrond's gardens. (Fellowship of the Ring, “Many Meetings”)
Format: short story (follows “Into Darkness Falls A Star”)
Genre: drama
Rating: PG-13 still, probably
Warnings:
Characters: Harthalin (LOTRO OC), Penthronnil (OC), Elrond,
Pairings:
Creator’s Notes (optional): And the saga of Penthronnil continues…
Summary: The tale of Penthronnil was not ended…
“Man sad…man sad Thelaron?”
A nearby voice shrieked. “My lord! Penthronnil awakens!”
Harthalin? Penthronnil tried to move, but she felt a cool hand stroking her brow.
“Rest easy, dear one. You are safe from harm in Imladris.” Penthronnil thought she recognised Lord Elrond’s warm, reassuring voice. But was it true, or just another trick of the Enemy? Imladris! But…the war…Thelaron!
“Thelaron…” Harthalin’s voice sounded pained.
“We will not speak of that just yet.” Elrond’s words, though gentle, were clearly a command, and Harthalin murmured an apology. “Penthronnil’s wound is healed, but she is sorely in need of rest. Sleep, child, and when you wake next we will speak.”
When Penthronnil opened her eyes again, she was unsure just how much time had passed. Her mind was clear, she felt unafraid, and she sat up slowly, acclimating herself to her surroundings. The small room in which her bed lay looked out into a larger chamber. It was large enough to be called a hall, round, and airy – the scent of clean air, trees, flowers, and waterfalls blew in through the open windows. Other beds lay in rooms beyond hers, screened off by gauzy curtains. In between the beds were shelves of books, stores of herbs, and alcoves with cushioned seats.
Filled with the desire to explore, rather than just watch, Penthronnil slowly raised herself from the bed. Her legs felt strange underneath her, but they held, and she drew a robe around her before going out into the middle of the hall. Slowly, she made her way around until she found Lord Elrond.
“It brings me great joy to see you on your feet once more, Penthronnil,” he greeted her.
“I too am glad, lord. But please, tell me what happened,” Penthronnil replied, her voice hoarse from disuse. He handed her a goblet of water, in which he had mixed a few healing herbs, and she sipped obediently. Leading her to a cushioned bench, he began the tale.
“After you fell, we attempted to heal you upon the battle plain, but the Witch-king of Angmar had dealt you a grievous injury -- one unlike any dealt to our peoples before by the hands of the Dark Lord. The decision was made to return you to Imladris, far from the lands of the Enemy. You suffered for years in restless agony as my healers worked to free you of the evils that lingered in your wound. When the war was ended, I returned to aid them and learned much of healing the foul wounds of Morgul-steel. When at last you could rest, you did so for many long years. Despite my efforts, your strength has diminished greatly. It may take a great time, but I believe you shall again know the power that lies within you.”
“I was merely a student, lord, no great scholar,” Penthronnil countered.
Elrond shook his head and smiled sadly. “As for the task given you by Gil-galad, do not consider it a failure, Penthronnil. None could have foreseen the Enemy's malice in sending his Nazgûl to seize Thelaron. Tragically, he was never found -- even after Barad-dûr itself was brought to ruin. It wounded Gil-galad greatly to lose both of you in the War, and it is said that his light was dimmed through all the battles that followed. Even so, he did not falter before the Enemy! No, you did not fail in vain, my friend. Our victory on the battle plain that day bore fruit, indeed. Sauron resisted our assaults for seven years in the Dark Tower, but in the end, he was cast down by Gil-galad and Elendil. Elendil's son, Isildur, cut the Ring from Sauron's finger, destroying the Dark Lord and banishing him from this realm.”
“Destroyed?” Penthronnil breathed. “How…wait, banished? Is he not dead, my lord?”
“Alas, there is more to be said on these matters,” Elrond said softly. “Walk with me, Penthronnil.” He gave her his arm, and she leaned on the Peredhel only a little as they circled round Tham Send, the Hall of Rest. “You remember the War as if it were yesterday, do you not?”
“Yes, lord, I do,” Penthronnil replied, looking warily at Elrond. What was he not telling her?
“You are one of the few that remain in this realm that can recall it as I do. I come to Tham Send often, reflecting on the sacrifices which were made,” Elrond replied.
“Sacrifices,” Penthronnil echoed.
“Indeed, Gil-galad and Elendil defeated the Dark Lord, but at the cost of their own lives.” Elrond looked gravely at Penthronnil and forestalled her from going to her knees. “Nay, I am not your king, child. Think not so of me. The realms of Elves and Men have been forever changed since the world passed into the Third Age.”
“The…Third Age,” Penthronnil breathed, wishing she could do something more intelligent than parrot the words of her High King – will he or nill he – back to him. Elrond regarded her for a long moment, as though reading her thoughts. Perhaps that was precisely what he was doing.
“So it has been for many years. I do not wish to alarm you,” Elrond said, as they resumed their place on the bench, “but the year is now the three thousand and eighteenth of the Third Age.” Penthronnil stifled a shocked cry. “Still,” Elrond continued, “even though much time has passed, Imladris remains as you remember it. You have borne many burdens in your time, dear one, and I give you leave to depart for the Havens if you wish it.”
The Havens? Sail West to Valinor, from whence her lord Glorfindel had returned? She pushed the thought aside. “I shall have to consider it, lord. Were…were any others…” She looked around the Hall.
“Hithgol lies also in Tham Send, healing of grievous wounds,” Elrond said quietly. “He was an herbalist and warrior in King Amroth’s company.”
Penthronnil remembered Amroth as a Prince, and grief stirred her again. War changed many things. “I believe I remember him,” she said quietly.
“Perhaps he, too, will wake today. If you wish, you may see him,” Elrond said, pointing out the alcove where Hithgol lay in restless slumber. Penthronnil made her way to Hithgol’s side, stroking his brow gently, and began to sing softly to him, the words appearing in her mind.
“The song of Fingon Elves yet sing,
captain of armies, Gnomish king,
who fell at last in flame of swords
with his white banners and his lords…”
Though the song was not exactly conducive to healing, or so Penthronnil might have thought, Hithgol’s slumber seemed to ease.
“He is not ready to wake just yet,” Elrond said, and Penthronnil jumped a little, turning. “Perhaps another month, or so.”
“Yes, my lord,” Penthronnil replied. She looked at Hithgol, leaned forward and pressed a kiss of benediction to the ellon’s brow. “Heal swiftly,” she whispered. “I am sure Amroth has missed you.”
At Elrond’s urging, she returned to her alcove. There were a pair of trunks beside the bed, the nearer of which was battered and travel-worn; she opened it first. It contained her clothing from the War; a pair of quilted leggings, cloth shoes with leather soles, and her loremaster’s robe, all tattered and stained with ash; a wooden staff, its bejewelled tip cracked, and mingled with the ashes, tufts of bear fur. Penthronnil picked up a tuft of brown fur and clasped it in her hand, weeping.
Melui…
“I will leave you to your grief, child,” Elrond said compassionately, “but my sons will come to you, and when you are ready, you may open the other trunk.”
Penthronnil nodded mutely, tears still coursing down her cheeks. When she had finished crying for the moment, she looked up to find twin ellyn – no, Peredhil – watching her with compassion. They could only be Elrond’s sons, she thought, for the resemblance was obvious.
“Greetings, Lady Penthronnil,” the nearer said, stepping forward and giving her a bow. “I am Elrohir, and this is my brother Elladan. Our father has given his leave for you to depart in our company, for we have an errand to Edhelion, near the Havens.”
Elladan bowed in his turn. “I must say, I am excited to learn more of the battles of Ages past from you. Father told us not to bother you with so many questions, but this is likely our last chance. Is it not? I am certain Father has told you all about your journey ahead, but do not worry -- the matter of his dream need not trouble you! Besides, the journey to Mithlond shall give us enough time to speak on other matters. I would think the events of the past three thousand years would be of some interest to you. My brother and I stand ready to set out for the Ered Luin. If you are prepared, we shall depart at once!”
“If I am prepared,” Penthronnil murmured. Pushing aside the old trunk, full of death, horror, and memories, she drew the new one near. The sons of Elrond helped her to open it.
Within, she found a tunic and waistcoat, bracers, trousers, boots, two cloaks – one with a hood, and one without, as well as leather shoulder guards and a helmet. A new loremaster’s staff resided within as well, made of polished wood that gleamed in the light. It was much finer than her previous one, and as the sons of Elrond turned their backs graciously, she made haste to dress. The hooded cloak she tucked into a pack she discovered at the bottom of the trunk. Along with it she found a sapphire ring, marking her as under the protection of Lord Elrond, and –
“Nirya?” she breathed, holding up the mithril ring with its turquoise stone. “But – my Master left it to me, and when I departed to find Gil-galad – “
“You left Nirya here, in the keeping of Imladris,” Elladan finished. “It is time it was returned to you. Nirya is but a lesser ring, a crafting of Celebrimbor’s before ever the Gwaith-i-Mirdain had heard of Annatar, but it may yet bring you hope.”
Penthronnil slipped Nirya on her finger and felt relief as the ring’s power warmed her. Other items were in the pack she lifted onto her back – food stores, medicines, dyes, and a gift Elrond had left for her that she did not yet feel ready to open. When all was prepared, she nodded to the twins, who led her from the Hall of Rest, out through Imladris, and down to the stables. The twins’ horses had been made ready, and she was settled on a horse tethered between theirs, much to her chagrin.
“You have not ridden in an Age of the world, child,” Elrond said as he came to bid her a final farewell. “Do not take it as a slight. My sons and their companions will see you safely to the Ered Luin. Many have departed this realm for the Uttermost West by the ships of Círdan, our friend of old. He is now called the Shipwright by those who know his works, and he dwells in Mithlond with the few that still remain in his service as skilled crafters. Much of the wood used by Círdan is ferried to Mithlond by way of the port of Celondim along the Ered Luin, and it is there you must journey to reach the Havens, if such is your choice.”
“And if it is not, lord?” Penthronnil replied.
“I wish you to be fully informed before you choose. Concerning such matters, I have prepared for you a tome of writings on the history of the Third Age thus far. You are free to read them at your leisure, for it will be a long journey,” Elrond replied. He handed the book up to her, and Penthronnil accepted it gratefully. She would not read on horseback, of course, but it would occupy her when they needed to stop.
“One more thing, Penthronnil,” Elrond added. “You have the staff you were given?”
It rested across her back, as though it were a sword. She drew it out of its harness.
“Speak the incantation, Tolo brôg,” Elrond requested. Penthronnil paled, but did so. There was a wash of blue light from the tip of her staff – and a young bear came trotting out of the nearby trees. It – no, she – looked so like Melui. Penthronnil looked at Elrond, her eyes wet with tears. “My lord…”
“I know,” Elrond murmured. “But you will need her.”
“Thank you,” Penthronnil said softly.
Elrond nodded. “In time your strength will return, my dear, and the power of your ring shall rise with it. I hope my writings prove to be of use to you as well. I recount much of the time that passed while your wound healed, but even I cannot be aware of all that has transpired since the end of the Second Age. As for your journey, my sons shall see you to Celondim in the course of their own travels. Elladan and Elrohir are to follow an expedition to the ruins of Edhelion led by the Elf Dorollas on my behalf. Speak not of this to any outside their company, but I had a strange premonition... amidst a field of blurred visions, a voice arose saying:
'Blood-red footsteps
Upon snow-coloured black.
Where the Dour King walks
To take back his throne
and finish what was begun.'
'It is a troubling riddle, and one that I do not think soon solved. Have you any thoughts on its meaning?”
Penthronnil squirmed slightly on the back of her horse, uncomfortable with the questioning, but then Dorollas and the others came to join them.
“Ah! it is just as well; such troubles are best left to Dorollas and his expedition. Now my sons shall guide you to Celondim, along the Ered Luin.
May your journey be swift and free of hardship!”
“May it be so, lord,” Penthronnil murmured, head bowed, and with that, they were off.
captain of armies, Gnomish king,
who fell at last in flame of swords
with his white banners and his lords.
(The Lay of Leithian)
The sound of running and falling water was loud, and the evening was filled with a faint scent of trees and flowers, as if summer still lingered in Elrond's gardens. (Fellowship of the Ring, “Many Meetings”)
Format: short story (follows “Into Darkness Falls A Star”)
Genre: drama
Rating: PG-13 still, probably
Warnings:
Characters: Harthalin (LOTRO OC), Penthronnil (OC), Elrond,
Pairings:
Creator’s Notes (optional): And the saga of Penthronnil continues…
Summary: The tale of Penthronnil was not ended…
“Man sad…man sad Thelaron?”
A nearby voice shrieked. “My lord! Penthronnil awakens!”
Harthalin? Penthronnil tried to move, but she felt a cool hand stroking her brow.
“Rest easy, dear one. You are safe from harm in Imladris.” Penthronnil thought she recognised Lord Elrond’s warm, reassuring voice. But was it true, or just another trick of the Enemy? Imladris! But…the war…Thelaron!
“Thelaron…” Harthalin’s voice sounded pained.
“We will not speak of that just yet.” Elrond’s words, though gentle, were clearly a command, and Harthalin murmured an apology. “Penthronnil’s wound is healed, but she is sorely in need of rest. Sleep, child, and when you wake next we will speak.”
When Penthronnil opened her eyes again, she was unsure just how much time had passed. Her mind was clear, she felt unafraid, and she sat up slowly, acclimating herself to her surroundings. The small room in which her bed lay looked out into a larger chamber. It was large enough to be called a hall, round, and airy – the scent of clean air, trees, flowers, and waterfalls blew in through the open windows. Other beds lay in rooms beyond hers, screened off by gauzy curtains. In between the beds were shelves of books, stores of herbs, and alcoves with cushioned seats.
Filled with the desire to explore, rather than just watch, Penthronnil slowly raised herself from the bed. Her legs felt strange underneath her, but they held, and she drew a robe around her before going out into the middle of the hall. Slowly, she made her way around until she found Lord Elrond.
“It brings me great joy to see you on your feet once more, Penthronnil,” he greeted her.
“I too am glad, lord. But please, tell me what happened,” Penthronnil replied, her voice hoarse from disuse. He handed her a goblet of water, in which he had mixed a few healing herbs, and she sipped obediently. Leading her to a cushioned bench, he began the tale.
“After you fell, we attempted to heal you upon the battle plain, but the Witch-king of Angmar had dealt you a grievous injury -- one unlike any dealt to our peoples before by the hands of the Dark Lord. The decision was made to return you to Imladris, far from the lands of the Enemy. You suffered for years in restless agony as my healers worked to free you of the evils that lingered in your wound. When the war was ended, I returned to aid them and learned much of healing the foul wounds of Morgul-steel. When at last you could rest, you did so for many long years. Despite my efforts, your strength has diminished greatly. It may take a great time, but I believe you shall again know the power that lies within you.”
“I was merely a student, lord, no great scholar,” Penthronnil countered.
Elrond shook his head and smiled sadly. “As for the task given you by Gil-galad, do not consider it a failure, Penthronnil. None could have foreseen the Enemy's malice in sending his Nazgûl to seize Thelaron. Tragically, he was never found -- even after Barad-dûr itself was brought to ruin. It wounded Gil-galad greatly to lose both of you in the War, and it is said that his light was dimmed through all the battles that followed. Even so, he did not falter before the Enemy! No, you did not fail in vain, my friend. Our victory on the battle plain that day bore fruit, indeed. Sauron resisted our assaults for seven years in the Dark Tower, but in the end, he was cast down by Gil-galad and Elendil. Elendil's son, Isildur, cut the Ring from Sauron's finger, destroying the Dark Lord and banishing him from this realm.”
“Destroyed?” Penthronnil breathed. “How…wait, banished? Is he not dead, my lord?”
“Alas, there is more to be said on these matters,” Elrond said softly. “Walk with me, Penthronnil.” He gave her his arm, and she leaned on the Peredhel only a little as they circled round Tham Send, the Hall of Rest. “You remember the War as if it were yesterday, do you not?”
“Yes, lord, I do,” Penthronnil replied, looking warily at Elrond. What was he not telling her?
“You are one of the few that remain in this realm that can recall it as I do. I come to Tham Send often, reflecting on the sacrifices which were made,” Elrond replied.
“Sacrifices,” Penthronnil echoed.
“Indeed, Gil-galad and Elendil defeated the Dark Lord, but at the cost of their own lives.” Elrond looked gravely at Penthronnil and forestalled her from going to her knees. “Nay, I am not your king, child. Think not so of me. The realms of Elves and Men have been forever changed since the world passed into the Third Age.”
“The…Third Age,” Penthronnil breathed, wishing she could do something more intelligent than parrot the words of her High King – will he or nill he – back to him. Elrond regarded her for a long moment, as though reading her thoughts. Perhaps that was precisely what he was doing.
“So it has been for many years. I do not wish to alarm you,” Elrond said, as they resumed their place on the bench, “but the year is now the three thousand and eighteenth of the Third Age.” Penthronnil stifled a shocked cry. “Still,” Elrond continued, “even though much time has passed, Imladris remains as you remember it. You have borne many burdens in your time, dear one, and I give you leave to depart for the Havens if you wish it.”
The Havens? Sail West to Valinor, from whence her lord Glorfindel had returned? She pushed the thought aside. “I shall have to consider it, lord. Were…were any others…” She looked around the Hall.
“Hithgol lies also in Tham Send, healing of grievous wounds,” Elrond said quietly. “He was an herbalist and warrior in King Amroth’s company.”
Penthronnil remembered Amroth as a Prince, and grief stirred her again. War changed many things. “I believe I remember him,” she said quietly.
“Perhaps he, too, will wake today. If you wish, you may see him,” Elrond said, pointing out the alcove where Hithgol lay in restless slumber. Penthronnil made her way to Hithgol’s side, stroking his brow gently, and began to sing softly to him, the words appearing in her mind.
“The song of Fingon Elves yet sing,
captain of armies, Gnomish king,
who fell at last in flame of swords
with his white banners and his lords…”
Though the song was not exactly conducive to healing, or so Penthronnil might have thought, Hithgol’s slumber seemed to ease.
“He is not ready to wake just yet,” Elrond said, and Penthronnil jumped a little, turning. “Perhaps another month, or so.”
“Yes, my lord,” Penthronnil replied. She looked at Hithgol, leaned forward and pressed a kiss of benediction to the ellon’s brow. “Heal swiftly,” she whispered. “I am sure Amroth has missed you.”
At Elrond’s urging, she returned to her alcove. There were a pair of trunks beside the bed, the nearer of which was battered and travel-worn; she opened it first. It contained her clothing from the War; a pair of quilted leggings, cloth shoes with leather soles, and her loremaster’s robe, all tattered and stained with ash; a wooden staff, its bejewelled tip cracked, and mingled with the ashes, tufts of bear fur. Penthronnil picked up a tuft of brown fur and clasped it in her hand, weeping.
Melui…
“I will leave you to your grief, child,” Elrond said compassionately, “but my sons will come to you, and when you are ready, you may open the other trunk.”
Penthronnil nodded mutely, tears still coursing down her cheeks. When she had finished crying for the moment, she looked up to find twin ellyn – no, Peredhil – watching her with compassion. They could only be Elrond’s sons, she thought, for the resemblance was obvious.
“Greetings, Lady Penthronnil,” the nearer said, stepping forward and giving her a bow. “I am Elrohir, and this is my brother Elladan. Our father has given his leave for you to depart in our company, for we have an errand to Edhelion, near the Havens.”
Elladan bowed in his turn. “I must say, I am excited to learn more of the battles of Ages past from you. Father told us not to bother you with so many questions, but this is likely our last chance. Is it not? I am certain Father has told you all about your journey ahead, but do not worry -- the matter of his dream need not trouble you! Besides, the journey to Mithlond shall give us enough time to speak on other matters. I would think the events of the past three thousand years would be of some interest to you. My brother and I stand ready to set out for the Ered Luin. If you are prepared, we shall depart at once!”
“If I am prepared,” Penthronnil murmured. Pushing aside the old trunk, full of death, horror, and memories, she drew the new one near. The sons of Elrond helped her to open it.
Within, she found a tunic and waistcoat, bracers, trousers, boots, two cloaks – one with a hood, and one without, as well as leather shoulder guards and a helmet. A new loremaster’s staff resided within as well, made of polished wood that gleamed in the light. It was much finer than her previous one, and as the sons of Elrond turned their backs graciously, she made haste to dress. The hooded cloak she tucked into a pack she discovered at the bottom of the trunk. Along with it she found a sapphire ring, marking her as under the protection of Lord Elrond, and –
“Nirya?” she breathed, holding up the mithril ring with its turquoise stone. “But – my Master left it to me, and when I departed to find Gil-galad – “
“You left Nirya here, in the keeping of Imladris,” Elladan finished. “It is time it was returned to you. Nirya is but a lesser ring, a crafting of Celebrimbor’s before ever the Gwaith-i-Mirdain had heard of Annatar, but it may yet bring you hope.”
Penthronnil slipped Nirya on her finger and felt relief as the ring’s power warmed her. Other items were in the pack she lifted onto her back – food stores, medicines, dyes, and a gift Elrond had left for her that she did not yet feel ready to open. When all was prepared, she nodded to the twins, who led her from the Hall of Rest, out through Imladris, and down to the stables. The twins’ horses had been made ready, and she was settled on a horse tethered between theirs, much to her chagrin.
“You have not ridden in an Age of the world, child,” Elrond said as he came to bid her a final farewell. “Do not take it as a slight. My sons and their companions will see you safely to the Ered Luin. Many have departed this realm for the Uttermost West by the ships of Círdan, our friend of old. He is now called the Shipwright by those who know his works, and he dwells in Mithlond with the few that still remain in his service as skilled crafters. Much of the wood used by Círdan is ferried to Mithlond by way of the port of Celondim along the Ered Luin, and it is there you must journey to reach the Havens, if such is your choice.”
“And if it is not, lord?” Penthronnil replied.
“I wish you to be fully informed before you choose. Concerning such matters, I have prepared for you a tome of writings on the history of the Third Age thus far. You are free to read them at your leisure, for it will be a long journey,” Elrond replied. He handed the book up to her, and Penthronnil accepted it gratefully. She would not read on horseback, of course, but it would occupy her when they needed to stop.
“One more thing, Penthronnil,” Elrond added. “You have the staff you were given?”
It rested across her back, as though it were a sword. She drew it out of its harness.
“Speak the incantation, Tolo brôg,” Elrond requested. Penthronnil paled, but did so. There was a wash of blue light from the tip of her staff – and a young bear came trotting out of the nearby trees. It – no, she – looked so like Melui. Penthronnil looked at Elrond, her eyes wet with tears. “My lord…”
“I know,” Elrond murmured. “But you will need her.”
“Thank you,” Penthronnil said softly.
Elrond nodded. “In time your strength will return, my dear, and the power of your ring shall rise with it. I hope my writings prove to be of use to you as well. I recount much of the time that passed while your wound healed, but even I cannot be aware of all that has transpired since the end of the Second Age. As for your journey, my sons shall see you to Celondim in the course of their own travels. Elladan and Elrohir are to follow an expedition to the ruins of Edhelion led by the Elf Dorollas on my behalf. Speak not of this to any outside their company, but I had a strange premonition... amidst a field of blurred visions, a voice arose saying:
'Blood-red footsteps
Upon snow-coloured black.
Where the Dour King walks
To take back his throne
and finish what was begun.'
'It is a troubling riddle, and one that I do not think soon solved. Have you any thoughts on its meaning?”
Penthronnil squirmed slightly on the back of her horse, uncomfortable with the questioning, but then Dorollas and the others came to join them.
“Ah! it is just as well; such troubles are best left to Dorollas and his expedition. Now my sons shall guide you to Celondim, along the Ered Luin.
May your journey be swift and free of hardship!”
“May it be so, lord,” Penthronnil murmured, head bowed, and with that, they were off.