The Vault of the Dead

by Soledad

Disclaimer: Middle-earth and its inhabitants belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. The concept of the Moriquendi living in the White Mountains belongs to me, as well as the individual charcters.

Genre: Hororr/Mystery

Rating: Teens.

Summary: Aragorn finally gets the sign he had waited for so long. But there are other powers in Middle-earth who want justice to be done to someone else first.

Part 01 – Death is a Powerful Experience

“But in (g)Ondor was long recorded in song that the elven-boat rode the falls and the foaming pit, and bore him down through Osgiliath, and past the many mouths of Anduin, and out into the Great Sea; and the voices of a thousand seabirds lamented him upon the beaches of Belfalas.” (HoME 7: The Treason of Isengard – Boromir’s Departure, P. 382)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Author’s notes:

“Death is a powerful experience” is a statement Glorfindel often makes in my various stories. So I guess it is my trademark, too.

Erikwê is a somewhat contorted – and most likely grammatically incorrect – version of the Primitive Elvish word erikwa, which means lonely or single. Arâmê is the oldest version of the name that became Oromë in Quenya and Araw in Sindarin.

He woke up to the loud wailing of sea-birds, the low, insistent murmur of the waves rolling out onto the shore and the salty scent of sea-water and tang. Opening his eyes, he looked around him in confusion. He was lying at the feet of some rocky hills, on the westernmost tongue of a long peninsula. On the West and the North, he could see naught but the endless, foam-crowned waves of the Great Sea. On the East and the South, he recognized the familiar coastline of the Bay of Belfalas. The hilly landscape behind him seemed abandoned and void of life, save from some far-away buildings among the hills… perchance the ruins of a long gone fortress.

Andrast, he realized, I must be on the long cape of Andrast. ‘Tis the peak of Ras Morthil as it thrusts into the Sea, separating it from the Bay of Belfalas.

Yet he had no memories how or why he had got there… and where that diffuse, ghostly pain in his chest had come.

He struggled onto his feet and walked to the shore, to look into the water, in the vague hope that he could discover any singn on himself that might have caused the pain. He did not remember having been injured… in truth, he did not remember much at all, not even his own name. The water on the side of the Bay was usually calm and smooth enough for one to see his uncertain mirror image in it, like in a distorting mirror.

He knelt down and looked into the water. What he saw instead of his mirror image, however, was a boat floating the water, glimmering in a pale light; a small grey boat with a high prow. There was no-one to row it. It waded deep, as I it were heavily burdened, for it was filled with clear water to the rim, and from the water the shimmering light came; and lapped in the water a warrior lay asleep.

Seeing the warrior’s face was a shocking revelation; for the face was his own, and his motionless body bore many wounds. A broken sword lay across his knee, yet his horn was missing – indeed, it seemed to him as if he could hear the blowing of it from afar. From northward it seemed, but dim, as if it were but an echo in his mind. And there was something on his body that seemed unfamiliar: a fair belt of linked golden leaves.

As he was watching in confusion, the boat turned into the underwater stream, floated around the long tongue of Ras Morthil and out into the Great Sea. When he looked into the water again, he could see naught but the lapping water. He had no mirror image at all.

How could it be? hewondered. Am I dead?

“Yea, I fear you are,” answered a fair voice with strange, sing-song overtones. “’I know ‘tis confusing at first, but worry not – after a while, you shall get used to it.”

He whirled around and, to his astonishment, he saw a slim, shadowy shape sitting atop of one of the nearby hills. He was fairly certain that a moment earlier it had not been there.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “How did you come here?”

The other one shrugged and rose gracefully, walking down from the hill. He could see now that she – for some reason he was certain that she was female – was small and slender and most likely very lightweight. On the rocky floor not even a heavily-built man like himself would have left any footprints, but it seemed as if not even the short winter grass would bend under her feet.

“My name is Erikwê,” she replied casually, “though I do not believe that would tell you much. And I have been there, waiting for you to awake, for quite some time. ‘Tis just so that you could not see me before. It takes time to get used to being dead, and you have just died a few days ago.”

As she was coming closer, he saw that she had a pale, oval face, finely drawn, thin eyebrows, long, elegant eyes, dark as the night, and raven hair, worn in a tight topknot. Finely pointed, leaf-shaped ears peeked through a few loose tresses of her hair. She was very fair, in a slightly ominous way, and that called back forgotten memories in him.

“I know you!” he cried out, recognition drawing on him. “I have met your kind before – your people saved my life, many years ago, when the trolls nearly killed me. You… you are one of the Dark Elves of the White Mountains, are you not?”

She nodded. “We are the ones called Mori-kwendî or the Dark Folk, yea. The one who healed you was our chieftain, First Huntress Morwêndi.”

“And do you always talk to dead people?” he asked sarcastically.

She laughed. “As a matter of fact, we do. But in my case it is rather natural, if you take a closer look at me.”

He did so… and realized with a shock that he could see the rocky hills through her half-transparent body. He felt vaguely ill… which was strange, considering that he was supposedly dead.

“So you are…” he trailed off.

“Dead, too?” she asked, clearly amused. “Yea, I am… have been for more than six thousand years, give or take a few, in truth.”

She seemed to… solidify her body somehow again, for he could no longer see through her. Of course, having been dead for so long she had had ample time to learn how to handle her… condition.

He frowned, remembering something he had been taught in his youth. “Hold on, are you not supposed to go to the Halls of Mandos in case you get killed?”

She shook her head. “We are the Avari – the Refuser, as our Kala-kwendî cousins like to call us. We prefer the name Faithful. For as we once rejected to leave the land of our birth to follow Arâmê to the Undying Lands, we have ever since refused to leave the lands that have long become our home after our death. I am certain that you, as the Heir of the Steward of Gondor, have had a thorough education in Elven lore; more so with your father being the scholar that he is.”

“How can you know so much about my family?” he asked in suspicion. She gave him a shrug and a smile.

“When you are dead, you have a great deal of time to spend,” she replied. “We do not meddle with the affairs of mortal Men as a rule, but we keep a close eye on you. We do not wish Men to find our hidden dwellings; in truth, we do not wish them to know about us at all.”

“If that is so,” he said slowly, “why would your people save my life then?”

“You are from the line of Mithrellas,” she answered, “and she was one of our northern cousins. We have kept out of the struggle of Middle-earth, but we do not wish for Mbelekôro or his servants to remain victorious in the end. We are few, but we do what we can to prevail.”

“But I am dead now,” he pointed out. “I cannot be helped. All I can hope for is that I have died a good death, although I still cannot remember.”

“You have,” she said. “Worry not; the memories will return, eventually. Death is a powerful experience, and you are still under shock. Things will become more clear, given enough time… what?” she asked, seeing his grin.

“’Tis what you said,” he explained. “About death. Glorfindel used to say that when the halflings nagged him about his lives in Rivendell.”

She grinned back at him. “Well, he ought to know it – he was the first to return to tell the tale, so far.”

He looked at her… then another piece of forgotten memory resurfaced. “I remember your name. Glorfindel mentioned it. You are the Herald of the Dead, are you?”

She nodded. “I am. When one of us dies, I am sent to lead those who do not wish to follow the Call of Mandos to a place where they can rest.”

“So the tales about Elven wraiths looking for a body to take over are true?” he asked. “Had it the Rohirrim right all the time?”

She gave him a chilly look. “Those are foolish tales of foolish, superstitious Men,” she said. “Why should the Unhoused wish to have a mortal body, just to go through the same torment every few years? Nay, we prefer to remain with our own people, thank you.”

But what could this have to do with me?” he asked. “I am… well, I was but a Man I cannot go to the Halls of Mandos, can I?”

“I know not,” she admitted. “No-one knows where mortal Men go when they die, and if you had died in the fullness of your time, we would never have met.”

That shocked him a bit again. “What do you mean?”

“Your time in Middle-earth has been cut short prematurely,” she explained. “The Dream was sent to your brother. He was supposed to make the journey to Rivendell. You were meant to remain in Gondor and protect your realm from the armies of the Darkness.”

“Was it a mistake, then, that I have insisted to go myself?” he asked, shaken to the bone. “All I wanted was to protect my brother. Faramir is strong, but a journey like that… he could have died.”

“He might have died, even though he was better suited for a journey through the wilderness,” she agreed. “Yet you most certainly have. That was a mistake, yea. You were meant for Gondor; you should have stayed there.”

“I do not regret having gone,” he said quietly. She nodded.

“And I know and understand your reasons. Yet your death has changed the balance of power greatly… and that can still have terrible consequences. Gondor will feel your loss keenly.”

“They will have their King Returned,” he riposted bitterly. “What could they possibly need me for?”

“For a moment, they may be blinded by the glory of the resurrected kingdom, assuming that it will manage to prevail against the Dark Lord,” she admitted. “But the King will only be their ruler. You, on the other hand, are Gondor. You always have been. This simple truth has motivated all your deeds… even your mistakes. After the first euphoria, they will understand that.”

“’Tis cold comfort that you offer me,” he sighed.

“’Tis the only one the dead have to offer,” she replied. “But we have tarried here long enough. Follow me.”

“Follow you… where?” he asked in bewilderment.

“You cannot go to the Halls of Waiting before your time, wherever that might be for mortal Men,” she explained. “But there is a place where you can wait for your time to come… and watch the great events of this Age unfold before your eyes.”

“And where would that be?” he asked.

“High up in the White Mountains,” she said. “In our hidden city is the Vault of the Dead, where all the Unhoused dwell ‘til the end of Arda.”

“Elven wraiths?” he asked.

She nodded. “You will be the first Man among us – ‘til your time comes.”

“And what if I choose not to go with you?” he challenged her.

She shrugged. “’Tis up to you. But believe me, roaming the world of the living as a houseless spirit is not a pleasant thing. You have already had an encounter with the Ringwraiths as Man alive, and I deem it was bad enough. Imagine what it would be like to meet them now, that you are part of the spirit world yourself.”

Boromir shivered with remembered terror. Nay, he did not wish to meet the Ringwraith again, even less so as a ghost in a ghost world. He would follow the Herald to the Vault of the Dead, whatever that might be, stay there ‘til he would be allowed to move on – and watch.

“Lead on, then,” he said, and the Herald grinned.

“Come,” he called cheerfully. “You shall see that being an unhoused spirit does have its advantage. For starters, it makes travelling easy – and really fast.”

She became transparent again and soared into the air. After a moment of hesitation, Boromir tried to follow her… and was surprised by the ease he managed it. ‘Twas all deeply confusing. He was dead, yet he was still in Middle-earth, following the ghost of some long-dead Elf to some ghost gathering or whatnot.

And who would have thought that a six-thousand-year-old Elven ghost could be so… cheerful.

Truly, all this was beyond strange. But he had not many other choices than to follow.

~TBC~

The Vault of the Dead

by Soledad

Author’s notes:

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Introduction.

Lathron is the Sindarin name of the month roughly equivalent to our Mai. Tolkien remarked that the Dúnedain – unlike the Elves of Rivendell – generally used the Sindarin names instead of the Quenya ones, and as this story takes place in Gondor, I followed suit.

A few lines of dialogue are quoted from ROTK – The Steward and the King. It was inevitable for this particular chapter to work. I am sure you will all recognize them.

Mbelekôro is Primitive Elvish for Melkor.

When the One Ring was finally destroyed, the battle of the Age won, Sauron defeated and the darkness of the world lifted, for a while the heroes of that battle rested in Minas Tirith, trying to rearrange their lives now that the greatest threat for all life was gone. On the eighth of Lathron, however, the Riders of Rohan left to return home and to prepare everything for the proper burial of their fallen King and for the proper crowning of their new King. With them rode the sons of Elrond, with a secret mission known only to them and the King of Gondor himself.

The longer they were gone, the more impatient and short-tempered the great King Elessar Telcontar had grown, and even his closest friends, the companions of the Ring, began to wonder whatever might ail him and what was going on that they knew not about. With the exception of Gandalf, of course, who was privy to all counsels of the King, and that of Legolas who had known certain secrets for almost as long as Aragorn himself, albeit from a different source.

The poor Steward had a hard time, balancing things between the easily insulted courtiers, the understandably bewildered nobles and the King himself who was just as secretive towards him as towards everyone else. Nonetheless, he was grateful for the distraction. As long as he had his hands full – and then some – he needed not to think of his losses. Aye, the King had returned and the Kingdom had been reunited and resurrected, but the price the House of Mardil had to pay for it had been a gruesome one.

For his part, Faramir was content with being but the Steward instead of having the responsibility of the whole realm bearing down on his shoulders. He also owned the King his life and that of his lady, thus he had no true resentments stepping back into the shadow and working from there on the well-being of his beloved land. And yet there were days when he wished that the deeds of his father, mislead as he had been around the end of his long life, would have been more duly appreciated… and that people had mourned Boromir properly.

One could have said much about Denethor’s harsh methods ruling the Realm in the name of a King he never truly wanted to return, but one could not deny that he had protected Gondor ‘til the very end, regardless of his personal losses. A life of his own and the warmth of his family being the first casualties on that long, twilight struggle. Faramir had understood at a very young age that he could never compete with his brother for the love of their father – not that he wanted to; where Boromir was considered, he and Denethor were in complete agreement – yet that did not mean that he would fail to understand the late Steward’s greatness, despite his flaws. One might have a hard time to like Denethor, albeit love not always requires that, yet one could not help but respect him.

And still it seemed that one desperate act at a truly desperate time had been enough to make people forget all the good he had forged during an entire life to protect them and their city. It seemed that Faramir was the only one who truly mourned him. And mourn him he did, despite the fact that in his despair Denethor had tried to take his only remaining son with him to the death.

He wanted to kill him, people said. Faramir knew that was not true. In his madness, his father had tried to save him, the only way his tormented mind could find. That did not keep the nightmares of lying on a pyre, surrounded by flames, away from Faramir, but he saw the sad truth behind that seemingly horrible deed: the twisted love of a desperate father who had not wanted to leave his son behind in a world that was about to fall into everlasting darkness.

And so, despite the nightmares, despite the painful memories of the recent weeks, Faramir truly missed his father, albeit he had the sad feeling that he was perchance the only one. Gondor would not have been there to welcome the King Returned without the wisdom and strength of the Ruling Stewards, of whom Denethor had been the last and mayhap most sorely tested. And Minas Tirith would not have been there to greet the new King with the sound of silver trumpets had not Boromir, who had been meant to be the next, spilled his blood many times on the battlefield to protect it.

Yet people seemed to have forgotten their once beloved Captain-General who, just like his father, had given up everything and lived married to his sword to keep his city and its people safe. Boromir had died on some bizarre quest, following a dream that had been meant for Faramir, not for him, and there was not even a resting place for him on the Rath Dínen, so that people could have honoured him in his death. ‘Twas deeply unjust.

But what pained Faramir most was the fact that he could not speak his farewells properly. True, he had seen the strange boat floating down the Great River, but he could not tell to the present whether that was true sight or merely a vision. The absence of his brother was like a dull pain somewhere deep within his heart, ever-present and beyond healing. And though he was glad to be alive and to have found a lady who would fill his life, he sometimes pondered if coming back had truly been such a good thing.

Gondor would prevail under the rule of its new King, he had no doubts about that. He just did not know whether he could ever get used to a White City without its Captain. Boromir, albeit he spent most of the recent years in Osgiliath, had belonged to Minas Tirith like few had before him. With him dead and forgotten, the city was but an empty shell – or so it deemed to a grieving Faramir.

Sometimes he feared that his strange mood would be somehow related to the madness that had taken his father from them in such a horrible manner. The two of them were more alike than people would have known, and that frightened him sometimes. So aye, burying himself in the mundane daily tasks of the realm was a helpful distraction.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

In the meantime, the King of the Reunited Kingdom had his own worries, and he shared them with no-one but Gandalf. After having listened to him patiently for quite a while, the wizard finally took him out from the City – during nighttime, no less – and brought him to the southern feet of Mount Mindolluin, showing him a narrow path that had been made in Ages past, by the look of it.

“What is this?” asked Aragorn. “It seems old, ancient even, and I deem that few have treaded it in all this time.”

“Right you are in that, my friend,” answered the wizard. “This is the Path of the Kings that leads up on to Mindolluin to a high hallow where only the kings had been wont to go. ‘Twas forgotten by the peril of death for anyone else to tread it, and thus it was forgotten by most, save the Stewards of Gondor. Come; if anywhere, there you might find the answers you seek.”

And thus up they went, climbing the steep path, ‘til they came to a high field just below the border of everlasting snow that crowned the lofty peaks. Standing there, they looked down over the precipice that stood behind the city, surveying the lands laid out below, bathing in the pale light of the rising sun. ‘Twas a clear morning, clear enough for them to see as far as the Rauros on the North, twinkling like a star far off, and as far as Pelargir in the South, and beyond that the glimmering light on the southern horizon that was the Sea.

“Look at your realm,” said Gandalf quietly, “for now that the Age of Men has come, ‘tis your task to order its beginning and preserve what may be preserved. You might find that it will be less than we have hoped for. For without the power of the Three Rings, much that was fair and wondrous will now wither and die, and you shall have to find new ways to shape a new world. The labours of the Elder Kindred have ended; they no longer have duties in Middle-earth, and though some of them will remain on those shores, many of them, the most powerful ones, shall fade or depart.”

 “That I know all too well,” sighed Aragorn, “but can you not stay with us for a while yet? I would still have your counsel.”

“Not for long, I fear,” answered Gandalf. “The Third Age was my age; I was the Enemy of Sauron, and my work is finished. I shall go soon, and rest – and, to be honest with you, I look forward to it. My labours have been long and hard;’ tis time for me to go home and become once again whom I used to be. The burden must lie now upon you and your kindred. That is the order of things.”

“But I shall die,” reminded him Aragorn. “For I am a mortal Man, and even though the blood of Westernesse is unmingled in my veins, I shall only live longer than other Men, not forever. Who then shall govern Gondor when I am gone if my desire be not granted? The Tree in the Court of the Fountain is still withered and barren. When shall I see a sign that it will ever be otherwise?”

“You must learn where to seek,” replied Gandalf. “Turn your face from the green world, and look where all seems barren and cold!”

Aragorn turned around obediently, looking at the stony slope running behind them down from the skirts of the snow. And indeed, among all that barren rock, he spotted something rusting above their heads… something living. He climbed up hurriedly to see what that was, and as he reached the very edge of the snow, he found a sapling tree, barely three foot high. Yet small though it might be, it had already put forth slender young leaves that were dark green above and silver beneath; and upon its delicate crown it bore one small cluster of flowers with fragile petals that shone like the sunlit snow.

For a moment, he stood as if rooted in the rock himself, then he waved to Gandalf to follow him and cried out in joy. “I have found it – a scion of the Eldest Tree! But how comes it here? For it is not itself yet seven years old.”

Gandalf, too, climbed up to join him, looked at the sapling, nodded and smiled. “Verily this is a sapling of the line of Nimloth the fair. Who shall say how it comes here in the appointed hour? But this is an ancient hallow, and ere the kings failed or the Tree withered in the court, a fruit must have been set here. Here it has lain, hidden on the mountain, even as the race of Elendil lay hidden in the wastes of the North. Yet the line of Nimloth is older far than your line, King Elessar. Is this the sign you have been waiting for?”

And Aragorn smiled, too, hope now renewed in his heart, and said. “Yea, it is.”

Yet as he wanted to lay his hand to the sapling, a clear, ringing voice called out to him from somewhere among the rock walls. It spoke Sindarin, but with an accent he had never heard before. “Hold your hand, King of Gondor, for you have not yet paid your debt to the one who had to die to make the way to the throne for you free!”

Aragorn whirled around, looking for the source of that voice. Gandalf followed suit, and it was he who, in the end, found it. ‘Twas and Elf – yet one the likes of it neither of them had seen before. The Elf – obviously a male, despite the fact that he wore his long, raven hair in a topknot, of which the feathers of some very short arrows were peeking out – wore shadow-grey clothes that blended with the rock around them. He had a pale, fine-boned face, with angular features and coal-black eyes, had a blowing pipe in one hand and throwing knives on his back, those of Legolas not unlike.

“We have protected the sapling for the last seven years,” said the Elf, “waiting for the one who would take it to its rightful place. For though the fruit of the Tree comes seldom to ripeness, yet the life within may then lie sleeping through many long years, and none can foretell the time in which it will awake. If ever a fruit ripens, it should be planted, lest the line die out of the world. We were here when the last fruit was planted and guarded the place ever since. But you cannot take it away, King Elessar, not yet. Not ere you have sent us the Dreamer.”

“And just who would be you to tell me what I may or may not do?” asked Aragorn, mildly annoyed.

“I am Spanturo, head of the mountain scouts,” replied the Elf.

Needless to say that the name had no meaning for Aragorn. In truth, despite having grown speaking Sindarin and being fairly fluent in Quenya as well as in various Silvan dialects, he even had difficulties understanding it.

The Elf gave him a grim smile. “I am certain that Olórin will be able to tell you the meaning,” he said.

Gandalf froze. His true identity was not widely known, no even among Elves, and he was reasonably certain that he had not met any Elves in this part of Middle-earth – even less ones with black eyes. However, the name sounded vaguely familiar.

“Spanturo,” he murmured. “I believe it means Lord of the Clouds… but it must be an old dialect…”

“A very old one,” agreed the Elf with a sardonic smile. “The same one that we spoke at the waters of Koiviê-néni, under the newborn stars of Barathî.”

The ancient names finally pointed Gandalf into the right direction.

“Ilúvatar!” he whispered. “The rumours were true, after all! You are Morwê’s people!”

The Elf inclined his head. “That we are, indeed. We are from the same stock as those who later became the Ngolodô… the ones you call the Noldor. Unlike our brethren, though, we have chosen to remain in the lands of our birth.”

“And you have been here all the time?” asked Gandalf in awe.

“We have been here all the time,” replied the Elf, “ever since the first sundering of our people. We have wandered from Koiviê-néni to the West, along the northern shores of the Inland Sea of Helkar, together with our cousins, Nurwê’s people. They went to the North, to the Greenwood, we came to the South and settled in the White Mountains.”

“How is it possible that no-one has ever found you?” asked Aragorn.

“We have done our best to prevent that,” replied the Elf with a shrug. “I must admit, though that we did have some help with the hiding.”

“What kind of help,” asked Gandalf, truly intrigued now, for unlike that of their northern cousins’, the fate of Morwê’s people had remained unknown, even for the Lords and Ladies of the West – and it was no small task to keep anything hidden from them.

But the Elf shook his head. “’Tis not my tale to tell,” he said. “I am but the messenger. I was sent to wait here for the King of Gondor and to deliver him the message.”

“And a riddled message it is, hard to unfold,” said Aragorn.

“Then you are not allowed to remove the sapling,” replied the Elf.

Gandalf gave him a piercing glare from under his enormous eyebrows. “Do you truly believe you can hinder him in taking what is rightfully his?” he asked, the hidden power concealed under his modest fana coming to the surface all of a sudden.

The Elf did not even flinch. “I can try,” he answered simply. “Waste not your time with trying to intimidate me, Olórin. Greater powers than yours have been dwelling in our city since the Dark Years – I am well used to them. As for you, King of Gondor,” he turned to Aragorn, “I have no personal quarrel with you. But I have been ordered to keep you from taking the sapling, unless you send us the Dreamer, and that is what I shall do.”

“Ordered by whom?” asked Gandalf sharply.

“By Ómar, who sent the dream to him,” answered the Elf. “By Akairis, who has guarded the fruit of the Eldest Tree ‘til the time of ripening has come; or how, do you think, could it have remained unharmed for this long? And by Salmar who watches over the rivers of Gondor.”

Aragorn, whom those names said nothing, looked at Gandalf in askance and saw the wizard turn deathly pale all of a sudden. Apparently, the names did sound familiar for him.

“We never knew,” whispered the Maia, visibly shaken. “So that is how your people managed to survive, against all odds.”

“As I said: we had help,” replied the Elf simply.

Despite being knowledgeable in Elven lore, Aragorn was still completely in the dark.

“Would you mind to explain me the meaning of such riddled speech, Gandalf?” he asked, but the Elf cut off the wizard, not giving him the chance to answer.

“Nay, he cannot; not now, not here. Some secrets are too… delicate to be spoken of without due precaution. And some of them are not yours to know. They are for the Dreamer alone. The Dreamer is the key.”

“The key to what?” asked Aragorn, now completely bewildered.

“To everything,” replied the Elf. “Or do you believe we could have sent the Dream to someone who had no kinship with us at all? Nay; only the children of Mithrellas were within our reach.”

That name finally awoke the wizard’s comprehension.

“Faramir!” he said in awe. “They want Faramir!”

The Elf inclined his head. “You are wise indeed, Olórin, in spite of the restrictions of the fana you are wearing.”

“But why is Faramir the key?” asked Gandalf. “Why not the King, Isildur’s Heir, who descends from Eärendil himself?”

“So does the Dreamer, from his father’s side,” answered the Elf. “But you will learn, Olórin, that while we respect Eärendil greatly for getting those in the West finally make their move against Mbelekôro, his wife is held I great contempt among our people.”

“Elwing?” said Aragorn in surprise. “Why that? After all, was she not the one to save the Silmaril from the Kinslayers?”

“For the price of leaving her own children behind in their hands, yea,” riposted the Elf in obvious disgust. “Should, by some miracle, Makalaure not have found one last spark of pity in his darkened heart, you would not be here to argue with me now, King Elessar, for both Elrond and Elros would have been slain with the rest of Tol Sirion.”

That was unquestionably true, albeit Aragorn had never thought of it from that particular angle. Nor did he feel particularly inclined to discuss the topic right now.

“What do you want from Faramir?” he asked instead.

“That is between him and us,” said the Elf.

“You want me to send my Steward to you without telling me what you want from him?” asked Aragorn.

“Nay,” said the Elf. “’Tis not I who wants him to come to our hidden city and see what no mortal Man has seen before. Yet come he must, o else the dreams cannot come to full circle.”

“More riddles,” said Aragorn with a scowl.

“Indeed,” agreed the Elf readily. “And I fear you shall not be allowed to learn their meaning, for they are fort he Dreamer alone,” he turned to Gandalf. “Olórin, you know the ones who have sent me. You know they mean no harm.”

“’Twould convince me if I had the chance to speak to them,” said the wizard warily.

The Elf nodded. “That can be arranged. Ómar had foreseen your request, and they are willing to allow you into our city. Come with the Dreamer to the Stone of Erech, and you shall be escorted to our gates.”

“When are we supposed to be there?” asked Gandalf.

The Elf shrugged. “’Tis up to you. The Stone of Erech is watched all the time. Whenever you come, somebody will be there to escort you to our city. You should not tarry too long, though. The Dreamer must come, as soon as he can.”

“Why?” demanded Aragorn.

“He has still much healing to do,” replied the Elf simply. “You have called him back from the Grey Lands, and that was no small feat; yet his heart is not hale, not yet. The healing he needs can only be found in our city.”

“What kind of healing is that?” asked Aragorn.

“’Tis not mine to tell,” replied the Elf.

“Aragorn,” said Gandalf quietly, “you should listen. Or, at the very least, allow Faramir to make his own choice. I am fairly certain that there will be no peril for him.”

“Fairly certain?” repeated Aragorn incredulously.

‘Twas Gandalf’s turn now to shrug. “There are no absolute guarantees, and you know that. Faramir must make the decision for himself – you have no right to take that from him.”

The Elf nodded in agreement. “So it is.”

“Besides,” added Gandalf, “I shall accompany him. If you cannot bring over your heart to trust them, you surely can trust me, can you not?”

“Of course I can trust you, Gandalf,” replied Aragorn impatiently, “that is not what I mean. All I wish is…”

“… a chance to come with us,” finished Gandalf for him with twinkling eyes. Aragorn shrugged with a helpless smile. But the Elf shook his head.

“I fear that is not possible, King Elessar,” he said. “We do not allow entrance to anyone who has no kinship with us – and you have none. Speaking of which,” he turned to Gandalf again, “could you bring our northern cousin with you when you come?”

“Your… cousin?” frowned Aragorn.

“I believe he means Legolas,” said Gandalf quietly. “His mother was a descendant of Nurwê, as you know yourself. ‘Tis reasonable that the people of Morwê would consider him as kin.”

Aragorn had to admit that the consideration had its merits. He was still wary about the true intentions of these Dark Elves, though – and did not like the fact that they would refuse him the entry to their city at all.

“Lord Elrond of Imladris and the Lady of the Golden Wood had no doubts about allowing me to enter their realm,” he said pointedly.

The Dark Elf shrugged. “Their choices are their own and concern us not,” he said. “We have been here longer, and secrecy has always been the way how we endured. We would not have broken it, were it not for the children of Mithrellas, to whom we still have our obligation. See it this way, King Elessar: you have got everything else. ‘Tis only fair that there should be a little something reserved for them.”

“I have not got everything,” said Aragorn. “Indeed, the ultimate goal of all my struggles seems still out of my reach.”

“But only for a short time yet,” replied the Elf. “And you may even take home your long-sought-after sign with you, if you give me your word that you shall send us the Dreamer.”

“I can promise to deliver the invitation,” said Aragorn, “yet I cannot make him accept it.”

“He will, if you tell him that this is important for his House,” said the Elf.

“Is it?” asked Aragorn doubtfully. “Important for his House?”

“It is,” said the Elf. “More important, perchance, than aught else that has happened for quite some time.”

Aragorn thought about that for a moment, but it seemed that he was not going to learn what those words meant, unless Faramir told him their meaning – after his visit in the city of the Dark Elves.

“Very well,” he said. “I shall tell him what you said. By my word as the King of Arnor and Gondor.”

“And I accept,” the Elf stepped away from the sapling. “You may have your price.”

And thus Aragorn laid his hand gently to the sapling, and to his surprise, it seemed to hold only lightly to the earth, for it was removed without hurt. He carefully wrapped it into his cloak to bear it into the city, but when he looked up to thank the Dark Elf, there was no-one else but Gandalf and himself.

“Do you understand what just happened?” he asked the wizard.

“Part of it I do understand,” answered Gandalf, “and I shall tell you what I know, once we are back in the City. Spanturo was right; some things should not be discussed openly without precautions. Besides, I believe Faramir and Legolas would be interested, too.”

That was certainly right, and so Aragorn decided to hold back his curiosity ‘til they were safely back in the Citadel.

~TBC~

The Vault of the Dead

by Soledad

Author’s notes:

A yén, as you probably all know, is the Elven equivalent of a century (=144 of our years). I was forced to add some footnotes this time, to make some background stuff understandable.

Part 03 – And What, Brother Do You Make of This?

The manner in which the people of Minas Tirith greeted the return of the White Tree to their midst was nothing short euphoric… which was understandable, thought Legolas. After all, the Tree had been the very symbol of their realm since its foundation, and having seen it dead and withered in the Court of the Fountain must have been hard on them. Now they could have hope again, after the long yéni in Mordor’s shadow.

Legolas had been present when Aragorn bore the sapling back to the Citadel and his own heart soared with joy upon the beauty of it – and the hope that it represented. Then the withered tree was uprooted, but with reverence; and they did not burn it, but laid it to rest in the silence of Rath Dínen. Legolas appreciated the sentiment: the respect that it expressed, even though the method by which it was shown alienated him. A tree, even a dead tree, did not belong into a stone tomb, among other dead things. It should have been brought back to the mountains and be allowed to slowly fall apart; to return to the soil from which it sprang. It was his opinion anyway, but he understood that the Men of Gondor saw things differently; and out of respect towards their custom, he remained silent.

Aragorn planted the new Tree in the Court of the Fountain, and swiftly and gladly it began to grow; and when the month of June entered in it was laden with blossom.

“The sign has been given,” said Aragorn, “and the day is not far off.”

And he set watchmen upon the walls.

Aside from Gandalf, Legolas was the only one who knew what the return of the Tree truly meant for Aragorn, due to his long friendship with Elrond’s family. And while he was glad to see hope and happiness return to the King’s heart, who, after all, was also his friend, he could not help wondering whether the Evenstar would be truly happy, surrounded by so much stone. True, Lady Arwen was no Wood-Elf, but she was the granddaughter of Celeborn of Doriath, and had spent a considerable part of her life in the Golden Wood. Legolas feared that she would have a hard time to get used to a life in this stone city of Men.

“You must help her,” he told the sapling in his mother tongue, for that was how he always talked to trees. “You must help each other, or else you will both wither, enclosed within these stone walls.”

And the little tree swayed its blossom-laden branches in agreement.

He was a little surprised when the call to join a private council with the King came to the Citadel… to put it mildly. The only upcoming great event that he knew of was the arrival of the Lady Arwen and then the following wedding he knew that would take place. That had been agreed between Elrond and Aragorn a long time ago. But Legolas could not imagine what kind of role he might be playing in those events. Related though he might be to Elrond’s children through Celeborn⁽¹⁾, the relation was not close enough to put him in any position of importance.

Well, the only way to find out what Aragorn wanted from him was to follow the invitation, and thus Legolas walked up to the Citadel, wondering silently why Gimli had not been invited, nor any of the hobbits. He was welcomed by a young esquire and escorted to the private conference chamber of the King at once, which showed that whatever occasion had made Aragorn call or him, it must have been a pressing matter.

He was mildly surprised to find Gandalf and Faramir already there – and no-one else. So it could not be an affair of state Aragorn might want his advice with. In that case Lord Húrin or other important members of the court would also have been present. It had to be a private matter, then.

But if it was a private matter, why was Faramir there? He was the Steward of Gondor, true, and might one day become a friend of the King – they were on the best way to that – but not yet close enough to share deeply personal issues. Assumed that those issues concerned the King, added Legolas as an afterthought. But if not, what was he doing here? Valued as he might the Steward, they barely knew each other. He hoped that one day they would, but that was still in the future.

Legolas gave the Steward a querying look.  Faramir had fascinated him from the very moment on when he had first set his eyes on the gravely wounded Man in the Houses of Healing, right after the Battle on the Pelennor. And now, fully healed, the Steward of Gondor was a truly impressive sight. Easily as tall as his valiant brother had been, yet more slenderly built, almost like an Elf, with unruly, raven locks shorn above his shoulders, and a fine, even-featured face, famed by a short-cropped beard. He had some definite likeness to his late brother, but not overly so. The most profound difference were his wide, dark eyes⁽²⁾, inherited from his maternal grandmother, the Lady Olwen of the Eredrim, the old folk of Dor-en-Ernil. ‘Twas strange, truly, for he displayed definite Dúnadan, nay, almost Elvish traits otherwise, and those dark eyes added a definitely exotic touch to his appearance.

It wondered Legolas not the slightest that – after getting to know him better – the Lady Éowyn had taken to him rather quickly. He was strong and brave and noble and wise, and he had the additional gift of a compassionate heart and good looks… what was there not to like for a woman of Éowyn’s format. Besides, he had fallen in love with her at first sight – and what is more, he was free to love her, and he did so with all his heart. Legolas, who had come to admire the Lady Éowyn back in Meduseld already, hoped fervently that they would have a long and happy life together, at least as Men counted time.

For the moment, however, Faramir looked every bit as clueless as Legolas felt. Apparently, he had no more inkling about the reason for this impromptu get-together than the Elf.

“Ah, Legolas, good,” Gandalf looked up from the scroll he was holding in his hand – it seemed to be a very old one. “Do sit down, my good Elf; we have strange things to discuss.”

The word strange, coming from Gandalf’s mouth, of all people, was mildly disturbing, found Legolas. He took the proffered seat, accepted a cup of wine with a grateful nod and looked at the wizard in askance.

“What is this all about, Mithrandir?” he asked. “You seem concerned; and so does Aragorn. Is something amiss? I thought that finding the sapling of the Eldest Tree was what you have hoped for – both of you.”

“That we have,” agreed the King. “However, the circumstances under which we found it were… less than usual, to put it mildly.”

Gandalf raised a hand. “Wait, Aragorn. Ere we begin to tell our tale, let me ask Legolas something.”

“Me?” said Legolas in surprise. “I assure you, Mithrandir, that I have known naught of the whereabouts of the sapling – or, indeed, of its very existence. Had I known of it, I would have pointed Aragorn into the right direction long ago.”

“I know that, Legolas,” replied the wizard placatingly. “What I wanted to ask: have your people ever had any contact to the Avari of the Ered Nimrais?”

The question surprised Legolas even more. He knew that the Moriquendi of the South still existed, of course, although not all Mirkwood Elves did. Only the Faithful among them, and those to whom they were related.

“Not much,” he replied thoughtfully, “and I have certainly never seen any of them face to face. From time to time, a friendly bird has brought a message when returning from the South, but that, too, was a rare thing. It has happened a dozen or so times in my lifetime… and never again after my mother’s death.”

“But you knew that they were still hiding in the White Mountains, did you?” asked Aragorn.

Legolas nodded. “Why, certainly. Not only am I the son of the King and privy to all his counsels as his only heir, I have also descended from Nurwê, on my mother’s side.”

“Yet you never told us about them,” said Aragorn; it sounded more sad than accusing. Legolas shrugged.

“You are my friend, Aragorn, and I love you like a brother, but you are not my kin. They are; and they wish not to reveal themselves to any strangers. I had to respect their wishes.”

“Well, it seems that they had a change of heart,” said Aragorn. “We met one where we found the sapling.”

“Truly?” asked Legolas in honest surprise. “Now, that is strange indeed. What did they want?”

“Faramir, apparently,” replied Aragorn wryly.

The Steward of Gondor raised an eyebrow. “Me? Curious. Did they tell you why, my lord?”

Aragorn shook his head. “Nay, they said ‘twas not for me to know; only for Mithrellas’ children.”

“Mithrellas?” repeated Faramir in confusion. “What does she have to do with all this… with them?”

But Legolas began to understand now. “She was a handmaiden of Nimrodel the Fair – one of the Wise Women of the Faithful,” he said. “In their eyes, she is kin… and so are you.”

“Me,” said Faramir, now completely bewildered. “Kin to the Dark Elves of the Ered Nimrais. Now I have heard it all.”

“Kinship, like so many other things, is in the eye of the beholder,” answered Legolas with as shrug. “Nonetheless, this might come handy in the future yet.”

“This still cannot explain what they might want from me,” said Faramir.

“You do have a way to find out, though,” pointed out Legolas.

“And that is exactly what concerns me,” replied Aragorn. “I am still doubtful that they could be trusted.”

“They are not evil,” said Legolas, a bit insulted on his southern cousins’ behalf. “No more than my own people are. Just secretive. ‘Tis their right. You cannot blame them for being wary.”

“Why are they willing to lift the veil from their secrets right now then?” asked Aragorn. “And what are those greater powers that dwell under them. You know who they are, do you not, Gandalf? I could see how shocked you were when that Elf spoke their names. Who are they?”

“They are but legends,” answered the wizard slowly. “Or so I have always believed, ‘til that very day when their names were spoken again… perchance for the first time in Ages.”

“Legends from where?” insisted Aragorn.

“Form Valinor,” said Gandalf quietly. “I have not heard their names since the Spring of Arda. They were considered… lost.”

“But what are they?” pressed Aragorn. “The only one I have heard of before is Salmar. That ancient scroll in your very hands tells that he was a companion of Ulmo, Lord of Waters, also known under the names of Noldorin or Lirillo. A Maia who was very fond of Elves and left Valinor to dwell among the Elves of Tol Eressëa.”

“The scroll is mistaken,” replied Gandalf, “though it is no fault of the sage who penned it a long time ago. Not even the oldest of Elves know that Salmar is not a Maia but the youngest of the Valar⁽³⁾. He came as the last of the great Valar, together with his twin brother, Ómar, who was also known as Amillo. Amillo was the minstrel of the Valar; his voice was the best of all voices, and he knew all songs in all speeches, ere they were even born, or so it is said. When he sang joyously, Salmar and their sister, Akairis, played on harps or lyres, sitting under the Golden Tree, and the hearts of the Valar trembled with joy.”

“If they were so mighty and well-loved, how could they get… lost?” asked Faramir in confusion.

Gandalf sighed. “During the Dark Years, there was a… disagreement among the Valar about what should be done with Middle-earth. Oromë and Yavanna often came over to work against Melkor’s darkness, and so did Ulmo and Melian the Maia, as you all know. I cannot tell how it has come to the break between Amillo and Akairis and the rest of the Valar, and how and why – or when – they actually left Valinor. The Aratári, the greatest of the Valar, do not always share their counsel with us, lesser ones. All I know is that one day they were one and never spoken of again.”

“But Salmar stayed, has he not?” asked Aragorn.

Gandalf nodded. “You said yourself: he was Ulmo’s companion, which may be why the Elves thought him to be one of Ulmo’s Maiar. After all, Ulmo has always had the mightiest vassals of all – for who could measure themselves to Ossë, the angry, or to the powerful Lady Uinen?”

“Eönwë, for one,” said Legolas. “Or the fiery Arien, the Mistress of the Sun. Not to speak of the ones who turned evil.”

“You are right, of course,” admitted Gandalf. “Though I doubt that even Eönwë would risk to raise the wrath of Ossë and Uinen, at least not while wearing a corporeal form. What I wanted to say was that Ulmo’s companions are powerful enough, even if they are only Maiar, so that Salmar could have been easily mistaken for one of them.”

“Has Salmar also left?” asked Legolas.

Gandalf nodded. “He has, although much later than his siblings. He has, indeed, lived among the Teleri of Tol Eressëa for a while. But after the first Kinslaying, when Ossë, in his grief and fury, shattered the great stone ring of Alqualondë⁽⁴⁾, Salmar, too vanished without a trace. No-one has seen him ever since.”

“No-one that we know of, apparently,” corrected Faramir, “just like the Dark Elves. Unless…” he trailed off, eyes widening in realization.

“Unless what?” prompted Gandalf.

Faramir turned to him. “You may still remember the time, Mithrandir, when Boromir and Prince Théodred of Rohan went to hunt for Wargs in the White Mountains and got attacked by cave trolls. They managed to slay the huge beasts, but Boromir was grievously injured – slashed across his belly with some sort of Troll-knife⁽⁵⁾.”

The wizard nodded. “I do remember. Your father was stricken with grief and worry, and the healers could not explain by what miracle Boromir had survived at all.”

“He never spoke about it to any-one but me,” said Faramir, “yet in those days, separated from Théodred and the others, he was found by a strange group of wanderers, clad in shadow-grey garb, cloaked and hooded. They brought him into a dry cave and their leader, a grim-faced yet beautiful female, tended to his wounds. They spoke a language he had never heard before, my brother told me, but he recognized them as Elves. For their faces were pale and fair, and they had raven hair and leaf-shaped ears, and their voices were soft and beautiful, or so it seemed to him. Later he dismissed the whole thing as a vision, given him by the wound fever, but now I wonder…”

He trailed off again, but Legolas understood what he meant.

“I assume that is possible,” he said slowly. “Boromir, too, was a descendant of Mithrellas… if they found him in grave danger, they would have acted.”

“Why were his memories so blurred, then?” asked Faramir. “Could those Elves have confused his mind with magic?”

Legolas laughed. “No more than I could confuse yours, my lord Steward. They are Elves – no more and no less.”

“That may be so, yet I have heard that Elves could be quite dangerous,” replied Faramir mildly. “Especially the Wood-Elves are said to be a strange lot.”

“Only if we choose to,” riposted Legolas with a wicked smile. “But you need not to worry, my lord Steward. After all, you are under the protection of the greatest wizard of Middle-earth.”

“I might be now,” said Faramir solemnly, but Legolas could see that he was more amused than truly concerned. “But what will happen to me when I accept the invitation and go to these Dark Elves on my own?”

“You will not be on your own,” said Gandalf. “I have an invitation, to… and so does Legolas.”

“I do?” asked Legolas, pleasantly surprised. He could not deny that he was curious about his elusive southern cousins.

“If you are willing to go,” said Aragorn.

“Why, certainly,” declared Legolas in delight. “As you do not seem to be invited, Aragorn, my friend, someone has to protect your Steward from the fearsome Dark Elves.”

Faramir shot him a baleful look. “’Tis very generous of you, Prince Legolas.”

Legolas grinned unrepentantly. “It will be my pleasure, my lord Steward.”

“Slow down, you two,” said Gandalf sternly. “We still have not decided whether we should accept the invitation or not.”

“I shall go,” said Legolas without hesitation. “This might be my only chance to meet my southern kin; and I must admit that I am very curious.”

“I shall go as well,” said Faramir after a moment, “if for no other reason than to thank them for having saved my brother’s life all those years ago. I owe them for that… Gondor owes them for that. For without Boromir defending Osgiliath, Minas Tirith might have fallen years ago.”

“That is well possible, though by no means certain,” said Gandalf. “Still, I understand your reasoning, Faramir. And I shall accompany the two of you. Amillo sent word that he would talk to me, and that is not a chance I would willingly miss, either.”

“And where, exactly, are we supposed to go?” asked Faramir.

“To the Stone of Erech,” answered the wizard. “Apparently, someone will be waiting for us there.”

Legolas burst out in laughter. “The Stone of Erech indeed! Somehow, it surprises me not that my secretive cousins had taken up residence in the neighbourhood of the Dead. That would most certainly prevent people from finding their dwellings by accident.”

“I know not whether they truly dwell there or not,” said Gandalf. “If they do, then their messenger had made a very long journey among the Mountains, just to meet us outside the City. It may well be that the Stone of Erech is merely the place where they want to meet us.”

“Whatever the case is, I shall go,” said Faramir. “When are we expected?”

“They said ‘tis up to you,” replied Aragorn. “They will keep watch for you indefinitely.”

“In that case,” said Faramir thoughtfully, “I would suggest a short sojourn while the body of Théoden-King will be brought home. The caravan will have to progress very slowly. That will give us the time to visit the Dark Elves – and catch up with you on shorter, faster ways in time.”

“That could be done,” agreed Aragorn, after a moment of consideration. “But are you sure that you wish to wait ‘til then? I would gladly give you leave, should you want to go right away.”

But Faramir shook his head determinedly.

“I have duties to attend to in the City,” he said. “The Dark Elves have waited all this time – they can wait a little longer.”

~TBC~

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

End notes:

(1) In my little corner of the Ardaverse, Thranduil and Celeborn are first-grade cousins, with Oropher being the son of Elmö, the youngest brother of Elu Thingol, and the brother of Celeborn’s father, Galathil.

(2) Yes, I know that I am slightly violating canon here. But I have established in my earlier stories that Imrahil’s mother came from the Eredrim and that Finduilas inherited her dark eyes. And since I have come to see Faramir more or less as Orlando Bloom looked in the movie  “Kingdom of Heaven”, I took some poetic licence and gave him dark eyes. Feel free to shoot me, but I am very happy to finally have proper visuals for Faramir, after the movies ruining him for me completely.

(3) In the “Book of Lost Tales” this – and Gandalf’s following explanation – was supposed to be canon. Unfortunately, Ómar/Amillo and Akairis/Erinti were later dropped completely, and Salmar/Noldorin/Lirillo was reduced to a Maia.

(4) A hypothetical event described in my vignette “The Dying Stone”.

(5) Another hypothetical event, established years ago in my Boromir-series.

The Vault of the Dead

by Soledad

Author’s notes:

I must admit that I have wondered myself what the original purpose of the Stone of Erech might have been and why it was brought from Númenor to Middle-earth. So far, I could not come up with any working theory.

Râmalê is Primitive Elvish and means “Great Wing”. Cerveth is the Sindarin name of the month roughly equivalent to our July. The Appendices state that Éomer came back to Minas Tirith for Théoden’s body on July 18, 3019. It took them fifteen days to reach Rohan – I assumed that three riders, not slowed down by the wains, would manage it a lot faster.

Laikwâlassê is, of course, the Primitive Elvish form for Legolas, meaning exactly the same: green leaf. Ngwalaraukô = Primitive Elvish for Balrog.

Part 03 – A Sacred Place Between Wood and Stone

On the 18^th of Cerveth, Éomer Éadig, the new King of Rohan rode into Minas Tirith, escorted by his personal éored, a selected company of the fairest knights of the Mark, to bring home the body of his uncle to be buried as it was a King’s right. In spite of the sad occasion, the reunion between him and King Elessar and the remaining companions of the Ring was a joyous one, as it always is among friends, and the royal court of Gondor began to make preparations for the long journey to Rohan – for it had been decided right after the coronation that they would honour Théoden with joining his funeral procession.

Éomer and his knights rested a day in the White City, enjoying the company of their friends and regaining their strength after a hard and fast ride. On the next day, the golden bier of Théoden-King was borne out of the Rath Dínen, where it had rested, laid upon a great wain, with Riders of Rohan all about it and his banner borne before. Another wain, with the arms of the King, followed it, and on that second wain rode Meriadoc Brandybuck, the smallest knight of Rohan – smallest in size but mayhap greatest in courage and heart.

In the long procession that followed the wain rode Queen Arwen, and Celeborn and Galadriel with their folk, and Elrond and his sons; and the princes of Dol Amroth and of Ithilien, and many captains and knights. Never had any king of the Mark such company upon the road as went with Théoden Thengel's son to the land of his home.

They rode into Anórien along the Great West Road, without haste and at peace. Yet Gandalf, Faramir and Legolas galloped forth at a much faster pace from there on, reaching the green fields of Rohan some ten days earlier than the rest. At the place where the Mering-stream crossed the Road, however, they turned to the West, following the Wall of Rohan through the Eastfold to the northwest, up to the dark and forbidding Dwimorberg.

They passed the eastern outskirts of that mountain, still haunted by the memories of the Dead who were now resting in peace, and descended from the uprising of the river Morthond. There they finally came to the Hill of Erech.

Although the terror of the Dead still lingered upon that hill and upon the empty fields about it, the only emotion filling Faramir’s breast was reverence. For this very place was where Gondor had once begun: with the huge, globular black stone, now half-buried in the ground, that, according to legend, had been brought out of the ruin of Númenor and set there by Isildur at his landing. No records could be found about its true purpose, and Faramir had often wondered why Isildur would bother to drag it with him all the way from the sunk island of Westernesse, instead of filling his ship with survivors – or with more useful things. Despite all his research, he never found an answer, not even in the Hidden Archives.

This was the first time he could set his eyes on the Stone, thus he went closer to take a thorough look at it. Even half-buried, its size was impressive: it must have been at least ten foot in diameter, perfectly smooth and cool to the touch like marble, and deep black in hue. Faramir laid his hands upon the surface and tried to look into the depth of the Stone, almost expecting to see images of far-away places or of events long gone within it.

“You are wasting your time, child of Mithrellas,” said a melodic voice from somewhere on the other side. “This Stone is shrouded. It will show you nothing.”

All three turned to see the source of that voice, expecting to see another grey-clad scout of the Dark Elves, cloaked and hooded and armed to the teeth. Instead, they saw a tall and willowy Elf-woman, clad entirely in black, although her tunic was adorned with colourful little gems and embroidered with silver. Her raven hair was artfully braided away from her pale face, the thin braids woven to an intricate coronet with strings of silver beads, resting on her back like a great sheaf of crop. She was unarmed, save from the throwing knives on her back, and very obviously served as the emissary of her people, at least for the time being.

“Welcome,” she said with an elegant bow. “I am Râmalê, the huntress. I have been sent to be your guide.”

“Where are we going?” asked Legolas. He understood her name, albeit the tongue of the northern Avari had changed much in the Ages that the two kindreds spent apart. ‘Twas a beautiful name, he found; it meant ‘great wing’.

“High up into the Mountains, to a sacred place between wood and stone,” she answered. “But worry not, Laikwâlassê; we shall lead you down the other side, so that you will reach the Golden Hall of the horsemen in time.”

“You know me?” Legolas could not hide his surprise.

“I knew your mother, long ago, when we were both young,” she replied. “You have her eyes.”

Legolas quirked an amused eyebrow. “My mother had brown eyes. Mine are green,” he pointed out.

“And yet they see the same things,” replied the Elf.

Faramir gave her an amazed look. He already knew that Legolas had been born in the late Second Age, at a time when all his older siblings had been grown Elves. That would make him more than three thousand years old, and this Elf-woman… his mind boggled by the imagination. Knowing that Elves could live for unlimited times without aging was one thing. Seeing such a youthful creature who was, in fact, older than Ages, an entirely different one.

She must have guessed what was on his mind, for she grinned at him in amusement.

“Follow me,” she then said. “If your horses are sure-footed, they will be able to tread the mountain paths.”

“Shadowfax will manage,” said Gandalf. “and so will Legolas’ steed, Arod, I deem. I am not certain about Faramir’s, though.”

Faramir stroked the mane of his horse. “No need to worry, Mithrandir. She has been bred and trained in Dol Amroth, in my uncle’s stables. She will go wherever I ask her to go.”

“Let us go, then,” said the Elf. “For your time is limited, and I wish not to make you be later for the old King’s burial ceremony.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And thus she led them up to the northwest of the White Mountains, near to the place where, at the head of Harrowdale, the ragged peak of the mighty Starkhorn loomed up above its vast buttresses swathed in cloud. Its peak, however, clothed in everlasting snow, gleamed far above the blanket of clouds, blue-shadowed upon the East, red-stained by the sunset in the West.

Instead of turning in to Harrowdale, though, they turned onto a steep mountain path further to the West, where the rocky fringes of the Mountains ere indented by the river Lefnui that rose among those sheer cliffs, having carved out a deep, narrow valley during the past Ages. ‘Twas an impressive canyon with a gorge of some three hundred feet deep. The side of the valley stretched for about a mile from the northeast to the southwest and indented with several entrances to grottos or caverns.

At first sight, it seemed a completely natural arrangement of cliffs and carved rock aces. But when they took a last turn, it seemed to Faramir as if a shimmering curtain of grey rain had been suddenly pulled aside, and before their stunned eyes lay the most amazing settlement any of them had ever seen. That included Legolas, who had truly seen a lot in his long life.

The dwellings of the settlement had been carved into the sheer rock walls, with narrow walkways and steep stairways between the various levels, and terraced gardens between the dwellings. Right before them, on the left side, stood a separate cluster of small stone buildings, encircled by a high wall. The top of a slender tower peeked out above the wall.

“The Houses of Healing,” explained the Elf. “’Tis outside the city, so that any sick or injured can be taken in, without the need to drag them up any narrow stairways. Come. We shall enter the city through the Fig Tree Gate.”

She led them along a winding path to a narrow stone gate featured in the likeness of two trees entwining their branches in a high arch. On the left side of the gate a small, square stone tower stood, only two storeys high, and behind it tilled fields and orchards could be seen.

“That is the watchpost of the Outer Guard,” said Râmalê. “The Guard protects our fields and orchards… although they have more trouble with the game than any other intruders.”

“What other intruders?” asked Faramir.

The Elf shrugged. “Cave trolls, mostly; and Wargs that have come too far up the Mountains on the track of their prey. We had not have Men bothering us for hundreds of years. They say the Mountains are haunted here; and they fear the Dead.”

“That might change in the future,” said Faramir, “now that the Dead are gone.”

“Not all of them are,” she replied with a cryptic smile and ushered them through the gate.

The settlement seemed to have only one street on the bottom of the valley, framed by the rock walls in which the dwellings had been carved. It meandered this way and that in some places, following the natural layout of the narrow canyon, and leading, ultimately, to a small fortress on the other end of the valley, also carved into a living rock peak. The whole place seemed abandoned. There were no lights in the empty windows, no sound, and they saw no living soul anywhere. Not even Legolas could feel the presence of other Elves.

Roughly in the middle of the canyon, they came to a great, walled stairway. Unlike the others in the rock walls, this one was long and wide, winding its way up to what seemed naught but a cluster of naked rocks. Yet it had to be a place of great importance, if the Dark Elves had made the effort to build such a grand entranceway to it.

As they held on their horses, another Dark Elf appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. ‘Twas a male, clad in similar fashion as Râmalê. He bowed and gave the visitors an earnest smile, but he did not ask their names or intentions, just held out a hand for the bridle of Faramir’s horse, which happened to be the closest.

“You can leave your horses in Galadhiondo’s care,” said Râmalê. “He is a hunter like myself and has his way with all good beasts.”

“With a name like that, I am not surprised,” grinned Legolas, dismounting and patting Arod on the flank. “Though I would rather expect to find that name among my own kind.”

Faramir recalled what he knew about Elven languages. The name, though unfamiliar, did remind him of Elven words that he had heard before. “It means son-of-a-tree, does it not?” he asked.

The Elf nodded. “It does. We are not that different from our northern kindred,” he added with a sideway glance at Legolas.

Faramir looked from one Elf to another and found that statement a wrong one. Legolas was half a head taller than the other two – no doubt due to his Sindarin heritage – lightly tanned, and he had that peculiar, thick auburn mane so characteristic for the Wood-Elves and the northern Avari that changed its colour with the change of the seasons. Right now, at the height of summer, it had a lot of gold in it, but Faramir remembered that in early spring it had still been a rich, dark brown, almost black, like the frozen soil. It had been changing slowly into a lighter brown during the recent months, and would turn almost red in the autumn – at least according to Gimli, the Dwarf.

Nay, Faramir could find very likeness between the high-spirited woodland prince and the pale, reserved, raven-haired and black-eyed Dark Elves of the Mountains. He said so. Fortunately, they took no offence.

“’Tis a common weakness of mortal Men that they only see that which is on the surface,” said Râmalê, after Galadhiondo had led away their horses. “Perchance your stay in our city will change your perception. Come now. We have a long climb before us. If you want to be there ere the sun sets, we must hurry.”

“To be where?” asked Faramir.

“The Stone Flower of Ramandur; the inner sanctum of our city,” she answered. “That is where you are expected.”

“Expected by whom?” pressed Faramir.

“’Tis not mine to tell,” said the Elf. “I am only your guide.”

Faramir wanted to keep asking, but Gandalf laid a restraining hand upon his forearm.

“Leave it, Faramir,” he said. “She will say no more – she is not allowed to. Let us master this last hindrance, and we shall get our answers, I deem.”

The Elf nodded. “That you will.”

Gandalf looked dup at the seemingly endless stairs with a sigh. “How many steps are there?” he asked resignedly.

“Two hundred and forty-three,” said the Elf matter-of-factly. “Not nearly as many as you had to fight your way up in Moria, chasing the Ngwalaraukô.”

“Somehow I do not feel greatly comforted,” grumbled the wizard, shuddering with unpleasant memories. Then he adjusted his heavy white robe and began to climb.

After a moment of hesitation, Faramir and Legolas followed him.

~TBC~

The Vault of the Dead

by Soledad

Author’s notes:

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Introduction.

To see more of the Avari’s feelings towards the Sun see “The End of Starlight”, a drabble in my “Flickers on the Water” collection.

Ramandur has been inspired by the medieval French town Rocamadour. And yes, the name is genuinely Tolkien; it used to be a version for Thorondor, the Great Eagle. The other strange-sounding names are from the “Lost Tales” or the Ardalambion website, respectively.

Part 05 – The Length that the Dead Have to Go

Climbing the steep stairway that led to the heart of the Dark Elves’ city was not unfamiliar for Faramir; nor was it a particularly tiring task. He had grown up in Minas Tirith, after all, where getting from one place to another always included a great deal of climbing, unless one chose to use the tunnels. In fact, these surroundings – a city carved out of the living white stone of the Mountains – seemed almost absurdly familiar to him. As if it were a much smaller version of Minas Tirith, only populated by Elves. In theory at least, as they had so far failed to see another one since entering it.

Legolas, on the other hand, looked rather uncomfortable, like a trapped bird. He had already disliked to be enclosed in too much stone while in Minas Tirith, and now he seemed to have difficulties to breathe.

“We are almost there,” said Râmalê encouragingly. “Look, we have already passed Barathî’s Tower from where our sages watch the stars. And here, on the right side, is the War Room, where we keep track on the struggles of Middle-earth; and beyond that is the House of the Songs, the dwelling place of Ómar.”

“You followed the events of the War?” asked Legolas, grateful for the distraction.

“We followed the events of all wars in Middle-earth,” she replied. “We might not want to get involved, but we prefer to know what is happening.”

“But why have you kept apart from the rest of us in all these Ages?” asked Legolas a little indignantly. “You have watched our struggles from afar and yet the thought to come to our aid never occurred to you?”

“Those were not our wars,” she answered simply. “What possible interest could we have in some cursed jewels, made by a maddened smith in the West, that had already caused the deaths of many of our own kind? We have no obligations towards those who had chosen to leave the land of their birth behind, unprotected, to the mercy of Mbelekôro, as long as they had their warm and cozy lives in Valinor?”

“The Noldor were not the only ones to suffer from the evil of Melkor and Sauron,” pointed out Legolas. “Our people have gone through terrible trials as well.”

Râmalê nodded. “I know that, Laikwâlassê, and I grieve with you over your losses. But the sad truth is, our numbers have always been low. Only a few hundred of us have made it to this place… and we had to keep our numbers low, so that the settlements could keep feeding and housing us.”

“Nonetheless,” said Legolas a little grimly, “I believe I will have the one or other thing to say to your lord.”

“We have no lords,” she replied with a shrug. “You certainly can speak to Morwêndî if you wish – she has been our chieftain for uncounted yéni – but important decisions are always made by the full Gathering. We have chosen to stay out of the wars of Middle-earth… we all together. Every single one of us.”

To that Legolas had no answer. Nor had Râmalê anything else to add. They kept climbing the stairs in a stony silence.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was almost sunset when Morwêndî, the chieftain of the Dark Elves of Ramandur, stepped through the arched doorway of the House of Hunters – the largest building of the inner city that served both as the gathering place and weapons depot of the hunters and as the sanctum of Arâmê, the Lord of Forests – and descended one of the many narrow stairways to the parvis of the Stone Flower. ‘Twas a small, rectangular courtyard, paved with white stone and surrounded by a hundred and fifty foot high sheer cliffs, into which seven sacred places were cut… the very heart not only of Ramandur but also of the existence of the Mori-kwendî in the whole.

Morwêndî looked up at the cliff above the House of Corn, Kémi’ sanctum. It looked resplendent in the fading red light of the setting sun. The sky appeared to be both the roof and the horizon. Soon, the Sun-ship would sink behind the rock walls and the stars of Barathî would fill the parvis with their pure silver light. Soon, the Children of the Stars would leave their houses to gather in the parvis and sing their hymns to the stars, as they had done at the times of the beginning – ere the gods would flood the world with harsh sunlight.

She shook her head with a rueful smile. She knew that those in the West were no gods, just the servants and stewards of the One, but old habits were hard to break. And besides, ‘twas easier to blame them for many things that had gone wrong with Middle-earth when she thought of them as gods. Unlike their fellow Elves in the outside world, the Mori-kwendî found it well within their abilities (and within their right) to call the gods – the Valar, she corrected herself – on their faulty stewardship. They had a few living in their midst, after all; and as they had no wish to go to the Halls in case of their death, they had no reason to fear judgement ‘til  the end of Arda. What after that might come was no concern of theirs either. It would be… different, in any case.

The future will take care of itself, thought Morwêndî with a mental shrug and turned to the archway that led to the upper end of the Great Stairway. Right now, she had an unusual task to perform: she had to welcome outsiders to the Stone Flower, for the first time since Ramandur had been built. And even though two of them were kin in an extended sense and the third one was a lesser god in disguise, she could not shake off the feeling that with this gesture an era would end for the Mori-kwendî.

She was not happy about it. She feared the unknown perils that such a profound change might bring to their lives; that their safety would be over, once the shroud covering their existence was ripped away. But there was naught that she could do about it. Both dead and live kin had spoken, and the Gathering chose to grant their request. She was only the voice of the Dark Elves, not their ruler.

She squared her shoulders, smoothed down the fabric of her black velvet gown and schooled her features into an expression of polite remoteness. She would welcome the outsiders, for that was the wish of the Gathering. No-one had demanded from her to be happy about it.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Great Stairway might have had “only” two hundred and forty-three steps – neither of them bothered to count – but those were high and steep ones. Thus, not surprisingly, even Faramir was out of breath when they finally reached the archway crowning its upper end. But even if he were not, his breath would have caught from the sight that unfolded before his eyes.

Through the archway, they had stepped into a small courtyard, of which several winding little stairways led to graceful buildings of various sizes, all of them only half-carved out of the sheer rock walls, all interconnected with other short stairways and narrow little cliff paths. The whole thing had the shape of a flower with different-sized petals, and Faramir now understood where the place had got its name from.

The elegantly curved lines of widows and archways and the graceful little towers seemed almost like natural extensions of the rock. ‘Twas a unique architecture the likes of which Faramir had never seen before, not even in the oldest books of his father. The buildings reflected the great skills of the Elven masons, but at the same time they almost seemed to have grown naturally. Some of the stairs led under the buildings, where most likely large underground caverns  were hidden.

In the middle of the courtyard a slender woman was waiting for them. She wore a simple gown of black velvet, adorned with small, sparkling white jewels on the seam and on its high collar and narrow wrist partie. Her heavy sheaf of raven-black hair was braided in a similar fashion as that of Râmalê’s, although some of the braids were twisted differently. She was eerily beautiful and looked young, but her jewel-like black eyes mirrored a wisdom more ancient than even Elrond’s. Faramir caught himself guessing just how old she might possibly be.

“Welcome to the Stone Flower of Ramandur,” she said; her voice, too, was Elven-fair, but with a hard edge in it. “I am Morwêndî, First Huntress of the Dark Elves.”

“So you are the Lady who rules this city and your tribe?” asked Faramir, greatly impressed by her proud and queenly manners. Had he heard Legolas’ earlier conversation with Râmalê, he might have refrained from that question; but the two Elves had talked in a voice too low for mortal ears to hear.

“Nay,” replied Morwêndî, with the ghost of a smile upon her pale face; mortal Men’s obsession with kings and queens and rulers and other nobility had always amused her. As if there had been any true differences, when it came to the secrets of each heart. “I only speak for my people. That is why the task to welcome to you has fallen to me, even though I was one of those who strongly opposed the request to allow you entrance to our city.”

Faramir felt rather taken aback by her bluntness. “Why did you not prevent us from coming, then?” he asked a little indignantly.

“’Twas not within my rights,” she answered simply. “The Dead seldom ask us for aught, but if they do, the Great Gathering grants their request; for if dead or alive, they are still kin… and we owe them much.”

“The Dead?” repeated Faramir, more than a little bewildered.

She touched his arm lightly – and, despite his expectations, her hand was warm – turning him to the northwest, where one of the smaller buildings half-emerged from the white rock wall. ‘Twas a well-protected area, facing South, under the overhang of the cliff. Below it, the arched entrance of a natural cave could be seen, carved artfully into the living stone, with an ancient coat-of-arms left and right of it.

Higher up, at the same level as Barathî’s Tower in the South, rose a strange, cone-shaped tower on top of the small building, with no other access but the narrow slits under its helmet. A pale light was shining from behind those slits; for some reason, Faramir felt a cold shiver run down along his spine.

“Behold the Vault of the Dead,” announced Morwêndî, “the sanctum of Fui, who is also known as Vê among our people.”

Faramir and Legolas shot Gandalf identical blank looks, mutely demanding an explanation.

“Those are ancient names for Nienna, sister of Mandos, the Lady of pity and mourning,” said the Maia, remembering his peaceful time of learning in that great Lady’s house.

Legolas nodded. “Right. I remember now. In ancient times, ere the Faithful were sundered from the rest of the Elvenfolk, she was feared and respected as a death-goddess by them. Ere we learned what the Valar truly were,”

“She is still greatly respected here,” said Morwêndî.

“What is this place… this Vault truly?” asked Faramir. “Just the mere sight of it gives me cold shivers.”

“’Tis often so with mortal Men if they brush death,” she answered, “more so with those who are as perceptive as you. The Vault, though, is simply a gathering place for the unhoused spirits of our slain kin. We do not leave the lands of our birth, not even in death. We have no wish to go to the Halls and share them with those who have abandoned us.”

“And thus your Dead stay with you, here?” asked Faramir, steadfastly refusing to let the absurdity of his own question get to him. Morwêndî, though, seemed to find the question a natural one – perhaps it was natural for the Dark Elves to share place with the Dead, who could tell?

“They do indeed,” she said, “and we benefit from their presence greatly. They keep our city safe by frightening unwanted visitors away. They help us watch the Mountains around us for any possible perils. And they give us good counsel if we ask for it.”

“You… you talk to your Dead?” stuttered Faramir, more than a little shocked.

“Why should we not?” she replied with a shrug. “They are dead, not foolish. They have seen a lot, things no living thing would be able to see. They know more than we can hope for ourselves. Why not use that knowledge to our protection?”

Faramir shook his head in utter bewilderment. “But… but how would one talk with the Dead?”

“’Tis quite possible,” said Legolas. “Aragorn, too, has spoken to the Dead Men of Dunharrow. They even followed him to the battle, as you know.”

“That was a little different,” said Faramir. “The Dead Men were oath-bound to follow Isildur’s Heir. They had no other choice if they ever wanted to rest.”

“Well, our Dead did have the choice,” said Morwêndî, “and they have chosen to stay with us, out of their own free will. But that is something they will explain to you themselves, I deem.”

“Explain to me?” repeated Faramir in disbelief.

She nodded. “Certainly. You are the one whose presence had been requested in the first place.”

“Requested by whom?” asked Faramir, but she shook her head.

“’Tis not mine to tell,” she replied in typical Dark Elf fashion. “Go on, you are expected. And so are you, elfling,” she added, turning to Legolas. “Go with the Man; Neiniel, the caretaker of the Vault will show you your respective ways. I, on the other hand, shall take Olórin to his own kin.”

~TBC~

The Vault of the Dead

by Soledad

Author’s notes:

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Introduction.

Neiniel is an ancient version of Níniel and means “the tearful one”. I thought it would be matching for someone who works as the housekeeper of the Dead.

This is a bookverse fic, so the teary little scene from the movie where Boromir accepts Aragorn as his king is not valid here.

Part 06 – Brother, ‘Tis Good to See You Again!

“I can take you to the Vault,” a low male voice offered after Morwêndî had led Gandalf away.

Turning, Faramir and Legolas saw another black-clad Dark Elf, wearing his hair in a fashion that was surprisingly close to the warrior’s braids of the Wood-Elves. Although, considering that the Silvan folk had it from the northern Avari, it mayhap was not entirely surprising, after all, Legolas realized.

“I am Spanturo,” said the Dark Elf. “I was the one who challenged Olórin and the King of Gondor over the sapling of the Eldest Tree.”

“Your fashion sense seems to have developed since then, if they described you correctly,” said Legolas, eyeing the grim elegance of his looks with curiosity.

The other Elf shrugged. “I am home now. No need for disguise.”

Which was certainly true; and yet, like with everything concerning the Dark Elves, even that simple statement seemed to have a slightly… ominous overtone. That, or Faramir’s mind was about to refuse to take in any more strangeness.

“So,” he said to the Elf, painfully aware of his own clumsy attempt to change the topic, “do you talk to the Dead, too?”

“Sometimes,” admitted the Dark Elf. “Not very often, too. They value their peace, and we respect that. But if some truly grave matter comes up, we do not hesitate to seek out their advice.”

“Why is it, then, that you are the one to take us to them?” Faramir was still not fully convinced that this was not some kind of trap.

“’Tis not I who will take you to them, ‘tis my bondmate, Neiniel,” replied the Dark Elf. “She is the caretaker of the Vault, and thus the only one to enter it without being called first. Besides, only you will be taken to the Death; the elfling here has a different invitation.”

“I would thank you if you ceased to call me an elfling,” said Legolas in mild annoyance. “I might be younger than you, but I am by no means a child anymore.”

“You are a child, compared with me,” said Spanturo with a tolerant grin. “I am older than your grandsire was, elfling; although the one who has asked to see you is even older than I am.”

“And that would be…?” Legolas trailed off. But Spanturo, in true Dark Elf fashion, gave no straight answer.

“Come with me and see,” was all he said, and Wood-Elf and Man followed him reluctantly.

He crossed the courtyard with them and stood before the Vault. Its entrance was high above their head, at the upper end of a steep little staircase of twenty-eight steps.

“You must climb the stairs, Man of Gondor, and Neiniel will guide you further,” he said to Faramir, “while you, elfling, will come with me,” he gestured to the arched entrance of the cave next to the staircase’s lower end.

Legolas pulled a face. “Under the earth again?”

Spanturo nodded. “Does that make you uncomfortable?”

“Not as a rule, it does not,” replied Legolas. “After all, we live inside a rocky hill back home. I just… I just had too many caves to cross lately. It gets tiresome after a while.”

“You shall not regret visiting this one,” promised Spanturo.

The Prince of Mirkwood sighed. “Very well, then. Lead the way.”

And Spanturo did just that, leaving Faramir to his own devices. The Steward of Gondor shook his head ruefully, beginning to doubt that a visit like this was truly such a good idea.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He climbed the twenty-eight steps and took a moment to catch his breath again before passing under the arched entrance, to admire the somewhat faded wall paintings above and around it. As far as he could tell in the fading twilight, they showed a long gone place, near some flowing and falling waters, under a starlit sky. Tall, dark trees were standing near the waters, and among the trees, pale shapes were lying on the grass, some asleep, some already awake.

“Koiviê-néni,” said a soft female voice. “The Waters of Awakening. The place of our birth that is now lost to us, forever.”

He looked up into the grey eyes of a silver-haired Elf-woman wearing an unadorned soft grey gown. To be honest, the sight was something of a shock after all those black-clad, black-haired, black-eyed Dark Elves.

“I am from the tribe of the Teleri,” she said, as if she had read his mind; perchance she had seen the same reaction before. “I chose to come with Morwê’s people when we left Koiviê-néni after the first sundering.”

“For Spanturo?” he asked knowingly. She nodded and smiled.

“I never regretted my choice for a moment. Please, enter the Vault now. The Dead are waiting.”

She stepped aside to allow him into a small room. ‘Twas nearly empty, save from a tiny apse opposite the entrance and the low stone benches on both sides. In the apse, there was another wall painting, clearly depicting the Lady Nienna. Though there were neither lamps nor candles in the stone chamber, a pale gleam from far above cast some vague light at the interior.

Faramir looked up and saw that the chamber had no ceiling – perchance it continued without a barrier in the strange, cone-shaped tower that he had seen from the courtyard.

“What is up there?” he asked.

“You mean who?” corrected Neiniel. “That is where the Dead have taken residence. The light that you see are, in truth, the Unhoused themselves.”

“Ghosts?” asked Faramir, feeling a little uncomfortable. After the appearance of the Dead Men of Dunharrow in the Battle on the Pelennor Fields, ghosts had become something less of a myth – and that did not make him particularly happy.

“Spirits,” she answered, “though mayhap you mortal Men would call them ghosts. There is no great difference.”

“And what shall I do here?” Faramir glanced up with a frown. So far, the Dead had held back, but he knew that would change, soon. After all, they had asked for him to come.

“You sit down here and wait,” answered Neiniel. “The Dead will come to you.”

“I would not call that encouraging,” he murmured, but did as he was told; then, seeing that she was about to leave, he called after her. “Are you leaving me here alone?”

“Of course,” she said. “My presence was not requested – only yours.”

She left, leaving Faramir alone in the darkened room. Faramir tried to take a deep breath to calm himself down but failed – he felt as if his chest had tightened painfully, cutting out his air. He could only make short, shallow pants while he watched anxiously the pale lights move around high above his head.

After a while – he could not tell how long it had taken, for time seemed to stand still in this strange place – a swirl of that light separated from the rest and began to spiral downward, spinning slowly around itself as it descended, gaining solidity with each passing moment. ‘Twas a slow process, yet Faramir now stared at it with awe, for the foggy image had taken on the shape of a Man. A tall, heavily-built, dark-haired Man in a simple, black leather jerkin, under which he seemed to wear a long-sleeved mail shirt and dark britches with high boots. His body was still half-transparent, Faramir could see the small apse through its contours, but his features were already fully formed and easy to recognize.

“Boromir…” whispered the shaken Steward.

His brother flashed at him one of those wide, white grins. “’Tis good to see you again, Brother.”

“But… but you are…” Faramir could not finish the sentence. The mere thought still pained him too much.

“Dead?” asked Boromir, solidifying a little more. “Yea, I fear I am. Has Aragorn told you what happened?”

Faramir shook his head. “Nay; Frodo has… and later Pippin and Legolas. I… I did not wish to speak with the King about it… about you.”

Boromir nodded his understanding. “So, now you know.”

“I had known ere they told me,” replied Faramir. “I saw you in that Elven boat, near Cair Andros.”

“Truly?” said Boromir in surprise. He had now lost the transparency of his body completely and shook himself like a hound after having been caught in rain. “Was it true sight or a mere dream?”

Faramir shrugged. “To be honest, I have been asked myself just that ever since. I hoped you would be able to tell me.”

“I fear I cannot,” said Boromir. “When I came by… well, kind of… that boat was already at the Cape of Andrast, on its way to the Great Sea. Let me tell you – ‘twas a strange thing to glare down at my own dead body.”

“’Twas you who asked that I be brought here, then?” asked Faramir.

Boromir nodded. “This is the only place where you can see me… where I could speak my farewell properly – or so I hope.”

“You hope?” frowned Faramir.

Boromir shrugged. “’Tis not easy; not even here, though there is something deeply strange about this place, some kind of magic that makes thing possible that there could not be done elsewhere. Still… try not to be too disappointed, should it not work.”

“What should not…” Faramir never got the chance to finish the question, for his brother stepped closer and embraced him tightly.

Shockingly enough, he felt… solid. Just like in life. And warm, with that familiar scent of leather and oil, the sort with which he had used to tend to his weapons. After a moment of uncertainty, Faramir’s arms, too, came up, clinging to his brother almost desperately. They held each other for what seemed forever; then they let go and stepped back to see at each other.

“Better than what I have hoped for,” declared Boromir with a wide smile. “I was a but uncertain… sure, I have tried again and again, and being here helps, but it was by no means certain that I would be able to do it, in the end.”

“To hug me?” asked Faramir, smiling faintly.

“To become solid enough to do so,” explained Boromir. “It needs some experience. Of course, the other… residents here all can do it at a whim, but they had hundreds, some of them thousands of years to learn the trick. I have only been dead for four months.”

“You are remarkably light-hearted about it,” said Faramir.

“About being dead?” Boromir clarified. Faramir nodded. “Well, I cannot truly change the fact, can I? ‘Twas best to get used to it.”

“And you have been here all the time?” asked Faramir.

Boromir nodded. “I could not truly wander around with the Nazgûl abroad… with me being a ghost and thus within their realm.”

“A wise decision,” Faramir shuddered in remembered terror. “I wish I had the chance to avoid them and their realm, too.”

“I know,” said Boromir. “We all were aware of what was going on outside this little valley. I deeply regret that you had to face them on your own.”

“’Twas not your fault,” answered Faramir.

“Mayhap not,” murmured Boromir thoughtfully, “although I am not so certain about that anymore. My… fellow residents here tell me that you were meant to seek out Imladris. I should have stayed behind and defend Gondor as it has been my calling from birth on.”

“You meant well,” said Faramir. “And there is no doubt that you have always been the hardier one from us. Mayhap I could never have reached Imladris in the first place.”

Boromir shook his head. “I think not, Brother. A Ranger would have been better suited for a journey through the wilderness; and a scholar would have been better suited to deal with all the strange things I had to face. If you had been in my place, you would not have succumbed to the Ring. And had I stayed at home, mayhap Father would be still alive.”

“Who says I would have withstood the lure of the Ring any better?” asked Faramir. “I was exposed to it for less than two days. You have travelled in its company through dark places for months, chased by the Nazgûl and other evil things. Nay, Brother, what I have heard about it, had Frodo not left the others at Sarn Gebir, every single one of them would have broken, sooner or later. Do not sell yourself too cheaply. Given enough time, even our new King would have cracked.”

“Aragorn?” said Boromir doubtfully. “I do not think so. If any-one, he knew it better. He was well taught about the Ring and its power.”

“As I see it, no-one could withstand the Ring in the long run,” said Faramir slowly. “It broke the will of Isildur, a long time ago, and he was the strongest of our kind. Elrond Halfelven refused to take it, in fear what it could have done to him, and he is used to deal with Rings of power. You were perchance more vulnerable than the others, for you were concerned about the fate of Gondor. But not even Mithrandir dared to touch it, they say; for the mightier someone was, the more they were tempted by it.”

Boromir gave him a sad little smile. “I thank you for your trust, Brother, but I believe not that we will ever know the truth. ‘Tis no use to ponder over ‘what if’s… even if the Dark Elves are right and I should left you go to Imladris.”

“Had you welcomed Aragorn as the King Returned, were you the one to lead Gondor’s armies and Father still alive upon his arrival?” asked Faramir quietly.

Boromir thought about it for a moment, his clear grey eyes darkening in sorrow.

“I would not have stepped down without a fight,” he finally said. “Not ere he had proved his worthiness in battle, that is. And even then, I would have asked for his claim to be tested by the Council, in the light of Pelendur’s Law. For his claim is no more justified than Arvedui’s has been… in truth, even less so.”

“Are you saying that I have made a mistake when I accepted the King’s claim?” asked Faramir.

Boromir shook his head. “Nay, Brother, I understand why you did what you did. With Father dead and you at death’s door, without a strong leader, our people could not have held out ‘til the Ringbearer fulfilled his obligation. Gondor needed a banner that our soldiers could follow into that last, desperate battle before the Black Gate. You could not go with them, and Uncle Imrahil, beloved though he might be, had no sufficient authority. You did the only thing that could be done to save Gondor.”

“But you are still not happy with the outcome,” said Faramir.

“Nay,” admitted Boromir. “Unlike you, I never wished for the return of the King; I would still prefer the time-proved leadership of our House to that of a stranger whose heart is in the North and who has not been prepared all his life to rule the realm. What has happened cannot be changed, though, and whether I like it or not, this is the only way for Gondor to prevail now.”

“Why are you still here, then?” asked Faramir. “I have never heard of Men tarrying behind after their death… save from the Dead Men of Dunharrow, that is, but they are a different matter.”

Boromir shrugged. “The lady Elf – the Herald of the Dead who has brought me here – said that my time to die has not yet come. That I have to wait ‘til the time is right… and this is a place where I can wait undisturbed.”

“But can you not leave here now?” Faramir asked. “Now that the Nazgûl are gone, can you not travel freely?”

“Mayhap I could,” answered Boromir, “but what good would it do to haunt my beloved White City as a ghost? Besides, ‘tis not my city anymore. It belongs to Aragorn now. Seeing it under the rule of a stranger would hurt me too much.”

“I can understand that,” said Faramir thoughtfully. “I never loved Minas Tirith as much as you did, but I, too, am glad that I shall be living in Emyn Arnen. Inevitable though the changes may be, and, I hope, for the better of Gondor, that makes our losses no less true. And even if Gondor has now a King again, they will feel the loss of you keenly, once all is settled and life returns to normal. For although we might have overthrown the Dark Lord, against all hope, there are still evil forces at our borders – or just hostile ones – and your strength and skills as the Captain-General will be sorely missed.”

“You will have to fill my place,” said Boromir.

“I will,” promised Faramir, “but we shall still miss you terribly.” He paused for a moment. “I assume I am not to return to this place, am I?”

“Nay,” replied Boromir. “They will not allow you again. You would never find the way a second time, in truth. Nor is it needful. We got the unhoped-for chance to see each other one last time, and to speak our farewells… that is more than other people get, and it should be enough. You must go on with your life, and I… I am at peace. We shall meet again, in the fullness of time, of that I am certain, wherever it is where mortal Men go when they die.”

 “I see,” Faramir sighed. “Well, “Ti farewell then, I deem, at least for this life?”

“It is,” said

 Boromir, hugging him tightly again. “You should go now, Brother – and look not back. I cannot keep up this shape much longer, and I would prefer you to remember me the way you can see me now… not as a wisp of nothing. Go and walk in the Sun for many years to come yet.”

“I will,” Faramir hugged him back and then stepped away. “Be at peace, Brother. ‘Twas good to see you again, indeed.”

“I am at peace,” replied Boromir. “Go now. Go and have a long and happy life. You deserve it.”

And Faramir bowed to the spirit of his dead brother in deep respect and left, without looking back, as Boromir had asked him to do, his heart filled with a strange mix of joy and sorrow and, above all else, love. The courtyard was darkened when he left the Vault, yet painted silver by starlight, and it slowly filled with black-clad Dark Elves, the jewels on their clothes and in their hair glimmering and their pale faces shining in the near-darkness. They gathered in the courtyard and were standing on the winding stairways and narrow rock paths, waiting for a sign – Faramir could not guess what.

Suddenly, the clear, sweet  sound of a silver bell could be heard from somewhere, filling the place with its echoes, And as an answer, the Dark Elves rose their voices in a song older than the Sun and the Moon: an old hymn, greeting the newborn stars of Barathî. ‘Twas a song of fierce joy and bone-deep sorrow, of power and plea at the same time, and Faramir listened to it, enchanted, forgetting everything else around him.

~TBC~

The Vault of the Dead

by Soledad

Author’s notes:

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Introduction.

Alagos is a recurring OC in my Mirkwood stories. Nówê is the original name of Círdan the Shipwright. No, really. I kid you not. Gajar (= the Terrifier) is also a Primitive Elvish term and was, according to the Ardalambion site, the first name given to the vast Sea. “The Hunter” is how the first Quendi called Melkor when he was capturing and abducting them to turn them into Orcs. Ayan is Primitive Elvish for Ainur.

Part 07 – The Ties of Kinship Go Back a Long Way

Spanturo led Legolas down the steep stairway – he counted thirty steps – and then through a semi-circular opening into what once must have been a spacious cavern but had long ago turned into a comfortable dwelling by the skilled hands of Elven masons. The main chamber was surprisingly large, with a strong central double arch, and another semi-circular doorway that led into the other room. Two diagonal arches, without capstones, held up the two differently sized bays. Only the front room had an arched window that looked out to the courtyard, and it was sparsely furnished, with a low stone table near said window and stone benches running along the walls.

The back room had to be a sleeping chamber, for it held a four-post bed, hung with heavy curtains, and a niche carved into the wall, with shelves holding small personal belongings, from a lamp through several scrolls to drinking cups and the likes. Whoever lived in these chambers, most likely did not leave them all too often.

In the front room, sitting in a large armchair softened by pillows, a fragile figure was waiting. It was an Elf, and obviously an ancient one. That in itself would not have been truly surprising – after all, Legolas had met his fair share of ancient Elves, from Old Galion, his father’s seneschal, to the golden Glorfindel, the twice-born, and, most importantly, Alagos the Tracker, the eldest of the Faithful still alive in Mirkwood.

What shocked him was the fact that this Elf actually looked old. His pale skin was dry and tightly stretched like old parchment, his dark eyes enormous in his thin face, his long white hair seemed brittle like straw. He wore black, like the others, which made him look even more fragile, though he still possessed some otherworldly, skeletal beauty – the faint echo of what he once had been. Alive he might be, but just barely, as if he would have fended off death by sheer willpower for a very long time.

“Atar,” spoke Spanturo softly, as if afraid to disturb the rest of the ancient one, “I have brought him.”

The old Elf looked up and the ghost of a smile seemed to warm his sunken cheeks for a moment.

“Good,” he said in a voice low and husky from extreme age. He extended a bony hand, like the claw of a bird, bringing its initial trembling under control after a moment. “Come closer, elfling. My eyes are slowly failing me… I wish to see you.”

This time, the thought to protest against being called an elfling did not even occur to Legolas. This elder clearly had the right to call anyone a child. He dropped to his knees gracefully before the big chair, and the old one laid a cool hand upon his warm cheek.

“So you are Nurwê’s grandchild, are you?” said the soft old voice. “I have not hoped to see any-one from his blood again… he has been lost to us for so long. It warms my old heart to have you with us – even if only for a short time.”

In truth, Legolas was the great-grandson of Nurwê, leader of the northern Avari, but he did not correct the ancient one. ‘Twould have been rude… and it did not truly matter.

“Laikwâlassê,” the old Elf mused. “They gave you a good name… a tree-name, full of fresh youth. ‘Tis proper, for I can see that you are one of the Tree-Children, with all your heart. You have their colours and their spirits,” he paused and seemed to listen for a moment, then his eyes clouded over. “Alas that Gajar, the Terrifier, has caught you in its web. A shame, it truly is. No child of the Faithful should be forced to leave the land of his birth.”

“The thought saddens my heart greatly,” admitted Legolas, “for I never wanted aught but to live out my life under the trees of our forest. And now that the darkness has been lifted from it, I wish to leave even less. There is so much to rebuild, so much to heal – I would be needed for a long time to come.”

“And yet the day shall come when you must leave, and soon enough it will same to you,” said the old one. “Or else you would end up as I: not dead yet, but not truly alive either, struggling to go on and fighting myself through every new day.”

“Has the web of the vast Sea caught you, too, Elder?” asked Legolas gently.

“Nay,” replied the ancient Elf with a rueful smile, “the Hunter had, long ago, ere we came to this place. My people came after me and freed me ere the Hunter could have laid hand on me in earnest, but the bond between my flesh and my spirit was nearly broken already. Not even the Ayan who dwell in our midst could make me hale again.”

At this, half-forgotten old legends echoed in Legolas’ mind, and with sudden clarity, he understood who the old one truly was.

“Lord Morwê,” he whispered respectfully. “We had no idea…”

“Nay,” said Morwê, patting his face in a fatherly manner, “nought of that, elfling! I never was the lord of my people – I was their leader and their father, and now I am something of a counsellor at times, yet still just one of them.”

Legolas bowed his head. “My apologies, ancient one.”

“No need for that,” replied Morwê, smiling at him again. “Your people had to adapt to the custom of others to survive; there is nothing wrong with that, and at least you have survived, have you not? But do not kneel on the cold stone like that – ‘tis uncomfortable, even for the young. My little bird will bring you a stool and some mead to refresh your strength after a long journey made for the sake of this old Elf.”

To that moment, Legolas had not realized that someone else had been with them in the cavern. So he was a little startled when a slender woman came forth from the shadows, offering him a low stool and a drinking cup made of delicately wrought silver. Even more startled was he when she came close enough for him to see her more clearly in the starlight falling into the room through the lone window.

She was not one of the Dark Elves; of that there could be no doubt. In fact, she was clearly a Wood-Elf, or rather one of the northern Avari. Legolas could easily see that on her rich auburn hair and slightly slanted eyes. She was wearing the usual green and brown garb of the woodland folk, as far as he could see it in the near-darkness: a long gown, and above it a sideless surcoat, in the fashion as it had been worn among the Faithful of Lothlórien.

“I thought you had little to no contact with other Elves,” said Legolas, accepting both stool and cup with a nod of gratitude.

“’Tis rare,” admitted Morwê, “and it only happens in times of dire need. Mithrellas was the last to come to us, a long time ago.”

“Mithrellas?” repeated Legolas, thunderstruck. “The handmaid of Nimrodel? The foremother of the Princes of Dol Amroth?”

She nodded with a faint smile. “The very same.”

“But how did you got here?” asked Legolas. “’Twas thought that you have gone to the West, after the death of your mortal husband.”

“Nay,” she said, “for Middle-earth is my home and has become even more that after I had bound myself to a mortal Man who could not hope to follow me to the West. But I did not want to stay in Dol Amroth and watch generation after generation of my children grow old and die – my heart could not have borne the grief. Thus I came here… well, I went to a small settlement on the Cape of Andrast first, near the Sea, of which I had known; the ones who dwell there have shown me the way to Ramandur.”

“Why did you not return to Lothlórien?” asked Legolas. “Do you not miss the ancient trees that have known you since birth?”

“Of course I do,” she said. “But Lothlórien is no longer my home. Nimrodel is lost and Amroth is gone, and I who have lived freely in the trees do not wish to become the servant of a stranger.”

“The Lord Celeborn is kin to the woodland folk,” said Legolas mildly.

“True,” replied Mithrellas, “but the Faithful count no kinship with his wife.”

Legolas made an amused snort. “You sound like my father.”

“Your father knows what he speaks of,” she said, “even if he sometimes phrases his opinions a little… forcefully.”

Legolas grinned. “That is one way to put it. I see you have met Father.”

“Once, during a short visit to the Greenwood,” she said. “’Twas your mother whom I knew better. She used to visit us in Lothlórien from time to time. I was grieved to hear about her fate. You must miss her very much.”

“She has not left us,” said Legolas, “at least not entirely. I spoke to her a few times since her passing myself.”

“How can that be?” asked Morwê in awe. “You have no place like our Vault where the Dead could dwell.”

“Nay, we have not,” agreed Legolas, “but we have the Great Ash.”

Mithrellas nodded. “She is said to be a tree of strange powers if the tales I have heard of her are true.”

“They are, every single one of them,” told her Legolas.

“Most astounding,” commented Mithrellas. “Will your mother be able to stay there, bound to the Ash, for infinite times?”

“We know not what kind of agreement she might have made with Mandos,” said Legolas with a sigh. “All we know is that she chose to stay in Middle-earth as long as any-one of our family still dwells here. It shall not be for ever, I deem, as there are only two of us left, Father and me. Once we leave, she will follow us, I believe, and hope that Mandos will accept her, at last.” He looked at Mithrellas. “If the longing for the great forests becomes too strong, you will always be welcome among us, lady. I want you to know that.”

“I know, and I thank you,” she sad, “but my place is here now I have no close kin left in the North… and I am needed. The dwellers of Ramandur are not half as good with healing herbs as our people. I do for them what I can.”

“She makes the pain of my existence easier to bear,” explained Morwê tiredly. “’Tis a hard task for me to keep myself alive. Yet as long as there is a way to go on, I shall not give up.”

“Why not?” asked Legolas. “Forgive me, but what good could come from your prolonged suffering? Even dead, you could remain with your people, so what is the difference? You are trapped in your broken shell as it is.”

“True,” said Morwê, not the least offended, “but the very moment in which I succumb to death would mean that the Hunter has won. I am not willing to give him that satisfaction as long as I can hold on.”

“Does it matter?” asked Legolas bluntly. “Melkor is cast out to the Void and will not be able to return ere Arda ends and the world will be re-made. He does not even know of your resistance.”

“He may not, but my people do,” replied Morwê simply, “and it gives them hope. As long as I am here, they will struggle on. I hope they will do so after I am gone, too, but they do need me as a symbol of their hope still.”

“You pay a high price for that,” said Legolas.

The ancient Elf shrugged his thin shoulders. “’Tis not so bad, truly. I do still enjoy a few things of my existence that an unhoused spirit cannot: a bite of good food, a drop of fine mead, the fire warming my ancient bones… small things, yet delightful ones. Despite everything that happened to me, I am well content. And as for the aging… ‘tis inevitable. The ones who awakened at Koivê-néni with me are all gone, all but a few like Nówê of the Havens and your own Galion – and even those still around show the signs of their age, I am told.”

“All but Glorfindel,” said Legolas.

“He does not count,” replied Morwê, “for he has already been dead and was rehoused. But for us, first ones, the world has changed too much… and we are too old to keep changing with it.”

“That is not what Old Galion says,” grinned Legolas. “He seems to enjoy his life among us younglings a great deal.”

“He has a purpose,” said Morwê. “He has sworn himself to Elmö’s House from the beginning, and I have no doubt that he finds fulfilment in his service. Just as Nówê does in ferrying our kin to the West. Still our generation has outstayed its welcome on Arda, it seems – at least in the shape we are wearing now.”

“And still you keep going on,” said Legolas.

Morwê nodded. “As long as my people need me and my waning strength lasts, yea, I will. Even if I am but a symbol, they still need me. I cannot abandon them.”

To that, Legolas had no answer, and he was relieved when answering became unnecessary, fort he courtyard before the window was suddenly filled with song, wondrous and hauntingly beautiful. Morwê looked up, his tired old eyes filling with light again.

“Oh,” he said longingly, “the ancient hymn of the stars. I would like to have part of it tonight. Would you help me to climb the stairs one more time, elfling?”

“Of course, Elder,” murmured Legolas.

Carefully, ever so carefully, he helped the ancient Elf out of the large armchair and supported him to the doorway and then up the stairs. It took them a long time, for Morwê’s strength was nearly depleted, and they had to pause several times, but in the end, they made it up to the courtyard. There they remained near the entrance, listening to the singing of the Dark Elves swell up like a huge wave of the vast Sea; and after a while, Morwê, too, raised his tremulous voice to join it.

The hymn was so immensely old that Legolas barely understood a few words here and there. But he opened his heart to it and listened intently, letting it root deep in his memory, so that he would be able to bring it back to his own people where it had long been forgotten in the tumults of war and struggle. Once he got home, he would go to the Great Ash and sing it for the spirit of his mother, he vowed.

As the beauty and power of that ancient music washed over him, he spotted two shimmering shapes descend a stairway on the opposite side of the courtyard. One of them was Gandalf, he could see that, but the other…

“Is that one of them?” he asked in a low whisper, meaning the Valar who were supposed to dwell among the Dark Elves.

Mithrellas, who was standing on Morwê’s other side, nodded.

“It is,” she whispered back. “Ómar has come forth. Now the singing would soar in earnest.”

~TBC~

The Vault of the Dead

by Soledad

Author’s notes:

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Introduction.

I apologize for the abundant use of Valarin names in this chapter. They are partially borrowed from the Ardalambion website, partially created for my other stories by Finch and erunyauve – consequently, they should be correct, as those two ladies are very scholarly people. You will find a list with the necessary explanations on the end of this chapter.

Makar and Meássë are counted among the Valar in the “Lost Tales”. They were war-like deities, later ejected from the entire concept. Fangli, Fankil and Fúkil were three different names for a not closely described servant of Melkor, who, too, got deleted completely.

Also, it is said somewhere in canon that after the arrival of the Elves to Valinor, the Valar took over their language (= Quenya), because they found it more beautiful than their own.

The building where Morwêndî took Gandalf was like all the others, at least from the outside: half awesome masonry, half natural cave. When they entered, however, it turned out to be one of the most awesome dwellings the wizard had ever seen, on either side of the Sea. It consisted of a large central cave, like a huge cistern with a high, arched ceiling, and from the middle of it a spring rose from the rock wall, blubbering along a shallow bed in the middle and vanishing under the opposite wall, some ten foot below the main entrance.

Arched doorways led out from the rock chamber on all sides save the one looking to the courtyard. Perchance they led to other houses, or to further room deep within the rock. A soft, silver light filled the entire hall, like a glimmering veil of rain. It seemed to come from a beautifully wrought crystal lamp that was placed on a low pedestal above the spring. There was no oil or visible flame within that lamp, no apparent source of the radiance that filled it, spilled over and flooded the cave.

And there was music in that large chamber, beyond the merry blubbering of the water: faint echoes that reminded Gandalf – Olórin – of his youth, half-buried now by millennia spent in a permanent incarnation and with ceaseless labour. He could recognize stray harmonies of the First Music of Creation; lesser ones, yet still powerful enough. The ones who dwelt here had once been among the mightiest of the Valar, young though they might have been; and even now, separated from the Circle for three full Ages or more, they could doubtlessly perform great tasks when they united their strength.

“Not even a shard of what we used to be capable of,” said a clear, ringing voice, “for the bodies taken from the marred flesh of Aþâraphelûn limit us greatly; but still enough to keep this enclave safe.”

‘Twas the voice of a woman, full of power of authority despite of its gentleness. And she did not spoke in the dialect of the Dark Elves; not even in Quenya that had been the language of the Blessed Realm ever since the arrival of the first Elves, but in a language that sounded like the ringing of swords. She spoke Valarin, the tongue that Olórin had not heard since the Spring of Arda.

She stepped forth from one of the shadowed doorways: a tall and slender woman, clad in silver and green like a young willow-tree, her thick hair earth-brown and her starlit eyes dark blue like the night sky. The form she was wearing now seemed unfamiliar, and yet Olórin recognized her at once.

“Akairis,” he said with a bow, for once she had been the trusted companion of Pathânezel, the Lady of the Pastures, whom the Elves called Yavanna, and thus she deserved respect, even in her exile.

“Olórin,” she replied with a queenly nod of her head. “’Tis good to see one of our own kind once again. It has been a long time.”

“Too long,” agreed Olórin. “not that we would have known about your fate… or your whereabouts. It seems as if you had been lost… forgotten even.”

“’Tis more than just that,” she replied. “When we raised our voices against he abandonment of Aþâraphelûn, the Mâchanumâz cast us out for our belligerence. We were offered two choices: to accept their decision or to leave our home in Phelûn Amanaišal.  We chose to leave; and our names, not the ones you know but our true names, have been deleted.”

“You mean wiped from memory?” asked Olórin.

“Nay,” she said. “truly deleted. Removed from the Music. In a sense, we do not even exist anymore. Not for our brethren in the West, that is.”

Olórin shook his head. “I cannot imagine Mânawenûz doing that,” he said. “You have not turned against us, have done naught to harm any-one, unlike Dušamanûðaz or Rušuranaškad or any of the others who had turned evil had done. Why should he punish you like that?”

“’Twas not entirely his doing,” she admitted. “We removed ourselves from the Circle; broke our connection to the others. He only made it final when it became clear that we would not go back.”

“And yet he removed your names but not theirs?” said Olórin with a frown. “It seems a little… unjust, if I think about it.”

“He could not remove their names, for they were the Enemy,” said another voice, a male one this time, and a silver-haired, green-eyed figure, clad in a flowing turquoise robe, came forth to join them. “You can only hope to gain power over your enemy if you know his true name. We were not the enemy; merely the voice of discord that disturbed their Music… or, at least, tried to lead it in a direction the Mâchanumâz did not want to go.”

This one Olórin did remember: Salmar, or Lirillo, or Noldorin as he was also called, had been the companion of Ullubôz, sharing the power of the Lord of Waters, long after his rebellious siblings had left.

“And when, exactly, did you become the voice of discord?” asked the Maia, eager to find out what had truly happened all those Ages earlier.

“For Akairis and myself, it happened early on,” answered a third voice; this, too, was a male one, yet more lyrical and beautiful than any other voice Olórin had ever heard, including that of Lindir, the minstrel of Rivendell, and that was saying a lot. “Ere the Firstborn awakened at the waters of Koivê-néni, we warned that abandoning Aþâraphelûn would be a mistake and that the dwellers of these lands would need our protection against Dušamanûðaz’ evil. But the others were too concerned with their own safety to listen; the destruction of the Lamps had shaken them badly. Only Arômêz and Pathânezel would care to cross the Sea from time to time and look after the lands under the blanket of darkness; and from your own kind Ibrîniðil the fair. Although we did win Ullubôz for our case later.”

He, too, came out of the shadows and sat down with them on the wide stone bench. He wore the form resembling that of an Elf, but with hair pale gold, almost white, like the moonlight. His eyes were wide and dark, his clothes shimmering like mother-of-pearl, and he seemed to softly glow from within. He reminded Olórin a little of the lady Este, she who lay in slumber in daytime and sent out her dreams to all children of Ilúvatar during nighttime as omens and warnings.

And all of a sudden, Olórin understood where the dreams that had set off Boromir on a long and arduous journey to seek out Imladris had come from.

“You are right,” said Ómar, also known as Amillo in the oldest of tales. “I was the one who sent the dreams to the children of Mithrellas, for I feared that without forewarning, Gondor would have fallen. Even so, our plans have gone awry, and the outcome was not exactly what we have hoped for.”

“What do you mean?” asked Olórin. “You did not want the Kingdom to be reunited and the King to return?”

“Oh, we did not oppose that,” replied Ómar with a shrug, “but we would have preferred the King to set up his seat in the North, where he belongs, and leave the South well alone in the time-proved care of the Stewards. Had Boromir allowed his brother to go on the quest as it was supposed to happen, all would have gone according to our plans, and perchance Gondor would have suffered less grievous losses.”

“But Men are stubborn creatures,” said Olórin in understanding.

“Or Fate is,” said Ómar gravely. “’Twould be mistaken to blame one Man for that which has happened, for he only acted out of love for his brother and his lands, and can we blame any action that was borne out of selfless love, even if the outcome is not what it could have been otherwise?”

“Besides,” added Akairis, “who can tell whether this is what was meant to happen or not? Ilúvatar’s plans are hidden from us all; not even Mânawenûz understands them as well as he would like to believe.”

“Perchance not,” allowed Olórin, albeit shocked a little by her attitude towards the Blessed One. “But what do you intend to do now that Rušuranaškad has been ultimately defeated? Are you going back to the West and ask the Mâchanumâz for forgiveness?”

“Why should we do such thing?” asked Ómar, with a cold glint in his dark eyes. “We have done nothing wrong. On the contrary: we have righted the wrongs they had committed when they abandoned Aþâraphelûn to the mercy of Dušamanûðaz. They could think of nothing better than tear the Quendi away from their roots and turn their backs on those who did not want to leave. We have protected the Moriquendi as well as we could all this time. We are not going to abandon them now.”

“What we are doing here is what our kind was always supposed to do,” added Salmar, the peculiar echoes of falling waters and flowing waters softening his voice. “To teach and protect the children of Ilúvatar ‘til they have grown enough to stand on their own feet.”

“Mayhap so,” said Olórin thoughtfully, “but is your very presence not holding back their growth? Is it not time to let them go?”

“Is dragging the Quendi to the West – or encouraging them to flee there – not stunting their potential?” retorted Akairis, her eyes flaming with anger. “This was meant to be their home; here were they meant to dwell and grow. And that is the very chance we have offered to the Moriquendi – a chance they gladly accepted.”

“We have not pressed them to do things our way, Olórin,” said Salmar softly. “We gave them no particular gifts. The corn for lembas had been a gift of Pathânezel, brought here during the Dark Years. Ibrîniðil took it to Doriath when she became its Queen. From there it came to Lothlórien and the Greenwood. And Akairis took it here. As for the spring,” he gestured towards the clear, cold water bubbling away at this feet, “it has been there since this part of the world had taken shape. All I did was to free it from the rock… or rather, I showed the Elven masons where to open its way.”

“And all I brought them were the songs,” said Ómar.

“What about the Light?” asked Olórin, glancing at the lamp.

Salmar shook his head. “That is not our doing. Or do you believe that the Elven smiths who chose to stay true to the land of their birth are less skilled than their cousins in the West? They are of the same stock Fëanáro came from; they have the same gift. A lamp like this was once placed on top of the highest tower in Kortirion, the First City of Elves, where Elmö was King, ere the Valarauki destroyed it. Mayhap Achûlêz could tell you how the crystal catches the starlight and keeps it trapped within – I certainly cannot.”

“The Moriquendi are very well able to make their own choices and to fend for themselves,” said Akairis. “We only help them to hide their abode from spying eyes.”

“Yea, but without the veil you draw over their existence, they would be forced to leave their hiding place and face the world as it is,” pointed out Olórin.

“You mean any other way than fighting cave trolls and Wargs and having the occasional trade with other Elves and even some Men?” asked Ómar, raising an ironic eyebrow. “They do go out all the time, you know, even though the ones they met have no inkling who they truly are. They just do not want strangers in their city – which is their rightful choice to make.”

“And what difference does it make to shut themselves away with their Dead, instead of sailing to the West?” asked Olórin. “So or so, they are isolated from the rest of the world.”

“The difference is that the Moriquendi can leave if they feel trapped within these cliffs,” replied Salmar. “They have other, smaller settlements outside of Ramandur; or they can go to Edhellond or to Mirkwood, if they want. I have never heard of any-one to return from the West, though.”

“Save from Glorfindel,” added Akairis, “but he does not count. He has been changed so much that he is closer to your kind than to his own by now.”

“How can you know that?” demanded Olórin. “No-one of you has ever meet him!”

“Nor was there ever need for a meeting in person, as long as we can look at events far away in the past or going on in distant lands,” said Akairis with a shrug. It seemed that she was the feistiest one of the three, with the most anger bottled up inside of her.

The phrasing of that statement made Olórin understand the hint. “You have got a palantír,” he whispered.

Salmar nodded. “One of those lost with Avedui’s ship, I deem,” he said. “’Twas washed ashore at the Cape of Andrast, near Ras Morthil, years later. The Moriquendi have a small fortress within the rocky hills. They found it and brought it to Ramandur, where it is kept in Barathî’s Tower. Ngolwinder the Sage has become quite apt at using it.”

“Using for what?” snapped Olórin. “’Tis not so as if your wards would come out of the hiding and take part in the struggles of Middle-earth.”

“At least not often and not at large,” answered Ómar unperturbed. “But they keep track of everything that goes on; for even though Rušuranaškad has fallen, there still might be great perils abroad, and as long as we have no hard proof of the fates of Makar and Meássë, no-one can be perfectly safe.”

“Tis thought that Makar and Meássë have turned into Valarauki,” said Olórin. “Some even said that Kosomot, their lord, had, in fact, been Makar himself.”

“And some say that Meássë was, in fact, Ungoliant, though we know that to be false,” Salmar nodded. “And there had been the three, Fangli, Fankil and Fúkil, who had once served the Marred One, and whose fate, too, remains unclear. The Moriquendi have been tracking them, and other evils of the same kind, for three Ages – first with the help of the Dead and lately with the help of the palantír, but to no avail. For all they can track is the spreading of evil deeds… the pattern, yet not the patterner.”

“Which is still enough for them to keep out of harm’s way,” added Ómar, “and that is all they want. They are not a numerous people, and they do not wish to fight the wars of others.”

“Thus, regret as we might it, we do not truly have any answers for you, Olórin,” said Akairis. “We do what we see to be our duty towards the children of Ilúvatar, for that is what we have been made for. Just as you have done yours. We are aware of your labours and great deeds, and we grieve with you over the loss of Phanaišata. A shame it is, for someone so great to fall so deeply. You, on the other hand, have done more than any-one of your kind and deserve to rest.”

“You will have to return to the West, soon,” Salmar laid a curiously light hand upon his chest. “This fana you are wearing… it will not last much longer. You would not wish to be on mortal shores when it breaks apart. The consequences could be… devastating for those you have sworn to guide and protect.”

“What about your fana?” asked Olórin. “Would it hold as long as you need it?”

“I do not have one; nor have the others,” replied Salmar. “When we came here, we have bonded with the flesh of Aþâraphelûn and became true incarnates, as vulnerable to the living flesh as Elves are. Thus we shall stay ‘til Time comes to full circle and the world is re-made. After that – we do not know.”

“Do you know aught about my lost brethren, the Blue Istari?” asked Olórin. “We have lost them from sight, very much like we have lost you.”

“They have gone to the East as they had been told,” said Ómar, and as far as we can tell, they are still alive. Alatariel has gone to Rhûn, and she worked tirelessly on forging peace between the battling Easterling chieftains, in the hope that united they could tear them away from Mordor. We have lost track on Pallando somewhere in Far-Harad. But we would know if he had perished; he was one of Mânadhušthâz and Fui’s people, while I used to be a companion of Šebethšathâz… I would have felt the connection break.”

That surprised Olórin. “Even here?”

Ómar nodded. “Even here. Dreams and visions travel great distances on the wings of music, and I was made for music… I was made of music.”

“Valinor is certainly a less joyous place without you,” said Olórin.

“Perhaps; but this place needs me more,” Ómar rose. “We should go down to the parvis. The singing has already begun, and tonight all hearts will be united in joy: the Dead and the living, Elves and Men, and even us, the children of the Music in exile.”

His brother and sister rose, too, following him as he took Olórin by the hand and led him out into the courtyard. And in that night, the Stone Flower of Ramandur was filled with songs no mortal Man had ever heard… and even Elves other than the Moriquendi only once or twice in an Age. If they were very lucky.

~TBC~

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Valarin names (and explanations) in order of appearance:

Aþâraphelûn = "appointed dwelling" = Arda (Valarin)

Pathânezel = tentative attempt to give Yavanna a Valarin name. Supposed meaning: “Leaf-green”

Phelûn Amanaišal = Literal meaning: “dwelling unmarred”. Dwelling of the Valar.

Mâchanumâz = the Aratari, the greatest of the Valar

Mânawenûz = Manwë (Valarin name)

Dušamanûðaz = a name for Melkor in Valarin. Supposed meaning: “the Marred One”

Rušuranaškad = supposed meaning: “Ring of Fire” – yes, it is Sauron, though I have serious doubts that the name was created correctly, as this is one of the very few names made up by me.

Ullubôz = Ulmo (Valarin)

Arômêz = the Vala Oromë (Valarin)

Ibrîniðil = Silver-flower in Valarin – an original name I chose for Melian. Not a genuine Tolkien invention.

Achûlêz = Aulë (Valarin. According to the Ardalambion the “ch” in this particular name corresponds to the German ach-Laut and was by Tolkien spelt by a special letter similar to the number 3. I decided against using it, simply because it would look a little too weird, even for my taste.

Phanaišata = Supposed meaning: “White Hair” – yeah, Saruman, indeed. (well, “bright hair”, to be correct.)

Šebethšathâz = Irmo. Literal meaning: Air-cloudy (borrowed from Olofántur, Dream-cloud, one of the names of Lórien).

Mânadhušthâz = Námo. Doom-cloudy (in the Etymologies, Námo and Irmo are paired with the names 'Death-cloud' –  Nurufántur and 'Dream-cloud' – Olofántur).

The Vault of the Dead

by Soledad

Author’s notes:

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Introduction.

Some elements of Théoden’s funeral are from theMiercinga Théod website, an excellent source if one is interested in pre-Christian Anglo-Saxon beliefs and their modern practices. Ierfe Húsel is a great feast in general, and Líchtenung is, of course, a funeral.

Epilogue

In the next morn, the Stone Flower of Ramandur was like an empty shell again. Spanturo came at dawn to the chambers assigned to the visitors in the House of the Hunters, and after given some breakfast, they were escorted out of the city. No Dark Elves showed themselves anywhere. Only Mithrellas had come to speak her farewells.

She had been talking to Faramir half the night, grateful to hear about her descendants but swearing him to secrecy, saying that it would do no good to anyone to know that she was still there, as she would be beyond their reach anyway. However, she did give Legolas messages to deliver to her northern kin, of whom a few old friends were still lingering in Middle-earth, as she knew that her fellow Elves would keep her secret.

Spanturo then led them down on the other side of the Mountain, so that they would be there for Théoden-King’s burial ceremony in time. When they arrived, the wain of Théoden had already come to Edoras, where all its escort was resting. The Golden Hall had been arrayed with fair hangings and it was filled with light, and there was held the highest Ierfe Húsel that it had known since the days of its building.

After three days, the Men of the Mark prepared the Líchtenung of Théoden, which began with a Minni, a counting of the fallen King’s deeds, followed by the placement of grave goods and a dirge, traditionally sung by a female relative, who in this case was the Lady Éowyn. After that, the body of Théoden was laid in a house of stone with his arms and many other fair things that he had possessed, and over him was raised a great mound, covered with green turves of grass and of white evermind. And now there were eight mounds on the east-side of the Barrowfield.

Then twelve Riders of the King’s House upon white horses rode round about the barrow and sang together a song of Théoden Thengel's son that Gléowine his minstrel made, and he made no other song after. This was followed by another Húsel, this time a funeral feast, during which the first and second closest heirs of the late King, interspersed by boasts and bragafulls, and the new King was greeted and the betrothal of Faramir and the Lady Éowyn announced, which proved to be the round of much more singing and drinking, celebrating Théoden’s life rather than grieving his death.

When the feast was over, those who were to go took leave of King Éomer. Aragorn and his knights, and the people of Lórien and of Rivendell, made ready to ride; but Faramir and Imrahil remained at Edoras for a while. Neither Faramir, nor Gandalf or Legolas did speak of that which they had seen and learned in the hidden city of the Dark Elves again, not even among each other.

In the following year, Faramir married Éowyn of Rohan, and another year later, Gandalf finally sailed to the West, in the company of Elrond and Galadriel and many fair Elves, and with them went Bilbo and Frodo, for all the Ring-bearers were meant to pass into the Blessed Land, where they could find rest and healing from their labours and burdens. In the light of those events, the short visit by the Dark Elves seemed not truly important, and in the end, it was nearly forgotten.

Only on his deathbed did Faramir entrust his secret to the King, telling Aragorn whom he had met in the Vault of the Dead. And the King spoke of it to no-one, for he knew that some secrets better remain forgotten. And thus the Moriquendi of the White Mountains were allowed to continue their life in secrecy, unbothered by mortal Men.

~The End~

This is an edited version of the story. Certain parts of Chapters 6 and 9 - in fact,the greater part of Chapter 9 - have been removed for the story to match the requirements of this site. If you are interested in the unedited version (it is PG-rated, too), which ties it in with my Boromir-series, you can read it in the Tolkien FanFiction archive now or in the edhellondawards LJ community in the near future.