ERNIL

Chapter 8 ~ Over the Mountains V

Sleep eluded Thranduil that night, though he made no great effort to find it.  His bed beside the great bay window was bathed in starlight, for he had deliberately neglected to draw the curtain.  He lay awake in that opulent sea of linen and furs, his mind grimly at work, though it was difficult now to divorce fact from the shadow of his own conjecture.  He would not dismiss that shadow; the conviction it carried was too strong.  He was obsessed by the thought that something was festering within the heart of Eregion, something unseen or unacknowledged, and most certainly concealed from him.  He shared the confidence of none save Celeborn and his children—and perhaps Gildor—and Annatar himself seemed determined to make an enemy of him.

A chill touched his heart at the thought, a chill that had nothing to do with the snow outside, though the glass was heavily traced with frost.  Who was Annatar, and what was his purpose?  What drove him to act as he did? 

Thranduil ran a handful of fur pensively through his fingers as he considered the events of the day, staring vacantly out at the stars.  That Annatar was sinister he had no doubt, regardless of what others would say of him.  How sinister he really was remained to be seen, though Thranduil could not shake the sense of genuine evil after his own experience of that brooding lord of the forges.  Annatar obviously had not the slightest intention of earning the friendship of Eryn Galen, or even of seducing them to his designs, so it may be surmised that the woodland Elves were useless to him.  More than disinterested, he had seemed actually hostile.

Thranduil reflected darkly that nothing Annatar had said was untrue.  Realms did come and go, hierarchies were broken and remade, dynasties rose and fell as a matter of course.  Worse, the Iathrim had indeed made a sorry show of their own defense in the last Age, much though it galled him to admit it.  To any outside observer, his reaction to such comments would have seemed entirely out of proportion.  Yet the offense had been deliberately intended.  He was certain of it.

Why, then, his interest in the Galennath?  Brief though his own interview had been, Thranduil had felt uncomfortably on display while Annatar circled around him, questioning and observing.  The liberties he had taken with Gwaelas unnerved as much as angered him.  Annatar had intruded into the deepest recesses of the silvan heart, and afterward had fixated on their military incompetence.   Comments of that sort could not be merely idle chatter, yet Thranduil was almost afraid to consider the possible implications.

Could war be brewing again, another dreadful and hopeless war with the spawn of Morgoth?

He felt more than knew it to be true.  He had no evidence beyond his own suspicion.  He was haunted by those gleaming eyes, the mocking laughter.  The memory of that laughter would not subside, and rather grew stronger, echoing maddeningly through his mind until Thranduil was almost convinced he was actually hearing it.  Though he grit his teeth and clawed at a great handful of bedding, he seemed powerless to silence it.

Then he was aware of another sound in the dark, and the mockery of Annatar vanished like the mists of a dream.  He lay still and listened for a moment in the sudden hush.  The new sounds remained, thin and irregular.  “Gwaelas?”

The night air was cold, and the floor colder.  Pulling on a robe, Thranduil left his bed and strode through the dark to the next room.

Gwaelas was asleep, but apparently in the throes of a nightmare.  His eyes were screwed shut and he writhed fitfully.  His breath came in hissing gasps with a broken string of words in his native silvan.  More fluent in that dialect than even his father, Thranduil heard enough to gather the provocation was a dark one.

“Gwaelas,” he called as he leaned over him.  “Gwaelas!”  He caught his hand, but that merely fed the illusion, and Gwaelas struggled blindly against him.  Thranduil managed to grasp both hands and force them down to the bed.  “Gwaelas!  It is a dream.  Let it go!”

Still the struggle went on.  Thranduil paused for a moment, realizing an awful suspicion.  He was reluctant to impose himself as Annatar had done, yet the situation seemed to warrant it.  Putting forth his own will, he touched Gwaelas’ tormented mind, and indeed discovered a familiar dark presence lurking there.

His own anger surging up anew, Thranduil intensified his opposition.  “Release him, you fiend!” he snarled, recognizing the intruder for who he was.  There was no answer, save an increased force intended to drive back his influence as well as physically throw him off the bed.  New and horrible pain expressed itself plainly on his friend’s sleeping face, as though deliberately tortured for his master’s efforts.

The mocking rumble of laughter would not be silenced.

Thranduil threw himself against that darkness in a raw fury, heedless of all else, flooding Gwaelas’ mind with his own anger.  A brilliant flash like lightning lit the room.  The force of it both burned and blinded him for an instant, but then the winter twilight fell again and all was quiet.

The stillness was strange after the intensity of it all.  The sudden and startling expense of his own strength left Thranduil momentarily weak and tingling from head to foot.  But Annatar had been thrust out, and Gwaelas now looked up at him with terrified but waking eyes.

They said nothing, the reality of the incident written on their faces.  Then Gwaelas shuddered and fell limp with a groan.  Still concerned, Thranduil climbed off him and moved to help him up.

“No, my lord,” Gwaelas insisted with uncharacteristic force, raising a hand.  “Do not coddle me.”  He sat up on his own, gingerly, as though still pained by dream wounds.  He would not look up, but instead passed a hand over his eyes and shuddered again.

Thranduil sat down beside him on the bed.  He felt a keen remorse for him, victimized by a power greater than either of them.  Yet behind the weakness, he recognized a grim determination struggling to the fore, a determination to stand beneath the weight of his trial even if it should crush him.  The silvan Galennath might appear weak to unfamiliar eyes but they were resilient, a quality Thranduil suspected Annatar had either overlooked or discounted. 

Despite his valiant effort, it was plain that Gwaelas was still in no condition to bear the lingering effects of his ordeal alone.  Regardless of the earlier protestations, Thranduil put his arm around his shoulders in a protective and fraternal embrace.

None of his concern was feigned.  Gwaelas was as much a personal ward as a servant, his faithful friend and nigh constant companion since the first days of the woodland monarchy, just as his brother Erelas had gladly been attached to Oropher.  After so many years, Thranduil’s affection for him was very real, and it smarted now in sympathetic outrage.  Somehow Annatar had managed to take full and shameless advantage of him in his lord’s presence.

“Come,” he said at last, standing and beckoning Gwaelas to follow.  “You will doubtless sleep easier by the window where the stone walls are not so suffocating.”

“But, my lord—” Gwaelas objected again as Thranduil pointed him into his own bed.

“I will hear no objection,” Thranduil said firmly.  “You may have it tonight, and welcome.  You need it more than I.”

As Gwaelas obediently put himself to bed again, Thranduil glanced discontentedly about the room.  All thought of sleep had left him.  He was loath to leave Gwaelas alone, but there was nothing else to be done.

He shed his robe and began donning his clothes again.

“What are you doing?” Gwaelas demanded.

“I go to discover for myself what others will not tell me,” Thranduil said; “whatever I can.”

“No!”  Gwaelas sat up in alarm.  “He threatened me, my lord.  He means to threaten us all.  Do not seek him out!”

“I do not intend to,” Thranduil assured him grimly.  “If fortune smiles upon me, I shall never see him again.  Yet I will not sit idly by while he has his way with me and my people.  Nor will I be content to be held in ignorance of what goes on beneath Celebrimbor’s nose.  Do not fear for me, my friend,” he said, cinching his belt and stamping into his boots.  “I shall exercise utmost caution.”

And with that, he slipped out into the corridor.

 

---

Gwaelas reluctantly silenced his protests as Thranduil closed the door behind him, gone without a sound.

Without further question, he lay down in the great bed.  His first instinct was to hide there, to escape the roving mind of Annatar amid the lingering warmth of Thranduil.  Thranduil, his master, a mighty Sindarin warrior-prince of the west, was better able to face such a darkness than he.  He was only of the Wood; he was not meant to face such terrible lords.  He was powerless against them.

For a moment he convinced himself of that, but in the next he felt the undeniable stab of shame.  Had he not willingly pledged to serve and assist his lord even unto the expense of his own life?  He would never prove worthy of him like this, put to bed like a child while his lord went sleepless.  The wounds Annatar had inflicted upon him still ached, wringing an angry tear from his eye, yet he owned the grim lord’s scorn of him to be well-founded.  What good would he be to anyone if he could not find the courage to follow where his master trod?

Unable to bear his own idleness any longer, Gwaelas threw aside the heavy bedding and sought out his own clothes.  He would not fail his lord again.

 

---

The corridor was darkened to a dim twilight, the lamps burning low.  Fortunately, it was still that odd hour of the night when most everything was briefly deserted by those who had retired late before being attended by the early risers, and so Thranduil was able to pass virtually unnoticed.  He strode silently through shadow to light, shadow to light, over the sleeping stones.

He had only entered them once, yet the path to the forges was burned into his memory.  He feared they might not prove so deserted as he would like, wondering if a place of such importance would ever be unattended.  Perhaps not, but he would be unable to sleep until he had taken the risk.

He ventured upon a shortcut through a garden courtyard, slipping out of the corridor and into the blue starlight.  Light as a cat, he slowly ventured his way out over the gleaming snow between the dark holly hedges.  Convinced that no one else was about, he crossed that sparkling expanse at a silent run, leaving only shallow evidence in the frosted crust to mark his passing before bounding atop the low stairs and entering beneath the carven portico.

Yes, he was closer now.  Closing the gilded doors behind him, Thranduil found himself in the golden half-light of another corridor, the subtle shift in the decor confirming his suspicions.  The recurrent pillars of red marble were unmistakable.  He knew he was attempting the impossible, eluding the Golodhrim in their own halls, but he was determined to try.

The emptiness was almost unnerving now as he carefully paced over the polished red floors.  The gleam of gold was all around him in the gloom, minutely detailed and curled into many unfamiliar shapes.  The only sound was the soft fluttering of the flames lining the walls in ranks on either side. 

Two massive twin doors barred him from the deeper recesses of the place, grim and silent in their shimmering grandeur.  Their great handles together formed a large golden tongue of flame fashioned to resemble the Fëanorian star.  Thranduil reached, but then recoiled, suddenly reluctant to touch it.  The handle itself was larger than twice the breadth of his hand, somehow intimidating in its disdainful opulence.  A brooding power waited behind those doors.  They may permit him entry, but would they deny him escape?

Determined not to allow his own fears to win the better of him, Thranduil lay hold of the golden flame and hefted open the right-hand door.  His every nerve was strained to the breaking point as he stepped inside.  The corridor within was even darker, the silence thicker and more complete.  He was extremely loath to close the door behind him, but it would betray him if it stood conspicuously open.  Laboriously he pulled it back, bracing all his weight against it at the end lest it strike an echo.  Miraculously it did not, and he allowed himself a sigh of momentary relief.

The floors here, far from the forge fires, were richly carpeted, and seemed to swallow all sound.  He supposed it to be a collection of studies and private apartments where the master wrights could conceive and perfect their works in peace.  He was also certain now that he was not alone, for he was aware of the presence of a handful of waking Noldor ensconced in their respective quarters, yet he hoped they would be too absorbed in their craft to note his arrival.  He would studiously avoid them, regardless.

A choice of three paths lay before him, straight ahead toward the heart of the place, or to either the left or right.  The forward corridor was wider, yet he could sense Dwarf in it, a feeling that chilled his blood in the dark.  The way to the left was still inhabited.  Therefore, with little real choice in the end, he slid into the shadows on the right.

He had no right idea of what he was looking for, hoping that some sort of significant answer would be obvious when he saw it.  He passed several ornate doors along the way, but had not quite the courage to open them.  He stopped for a moment when he discovered the long trail of Elvish script in the woodwork, but he was disappointingly at a loss to understand it, assuming the letters to be in a foreign mode and in Quenya, which he had never learned to read.  His spoken knowledge of the Noldorin tongue would be little use to him here.

Thranduil continued through the corridor, slowly, cautiously, always very conscious in some part of his mind of his plan of escape.  The deeper he wandered, the more uneasy he became, as though he were walking willingly into an obvious trap.  He did not like to dwell upon what the consequences of discovery might entail.

At last, a familiar scent caught his attention, of leather and parchment and dust.  He faced another pair of twin doors, not half so daunting as the first, but imposing in their own right.  Gingerly, he pulled them open, and there discovered a vast archive deep in shadow, shelves upon shelves laden with thick volumes.  Sensing no one, he ventured to enter, satisfied to begin his preliminary investigation there.

The darkness was almost complete in most areas of that large room.  Some starlight entered through a row of windows on the far side, but hardly enough by which to begin any secretive research.  The smell of new ashes led Thranduil to a magnificent hearth on which a few hot coals still glowed, slowly dying.  From these, he was able to kindle a new flame on a half-spent candle which he then carried with him through the vast rows of shelves.

He soon discovered to his keen disappointment that the majority of the records were written solely in Quenya script, and those that were actually in the Sindarin vernacular contained nothing that was not common knowledge.  He might have suspected as much.  He continued his dogged search, unwilling yet to leave empty-handed.

Toward the farther side, toward the windows, the shelves smelled of newer binding and less dust.  Perhaps they contained the most recent doings and discoveries by Celebrimbor’s Mírdain.  Eager but apprehensive, he took up the last volume, presumably the latest.

Study carrels were positioned beneath the windows, and he took advantage of one now, letting both moon and starlight spill over the large pages of the book.  The binding was indeed new, the handwritten text still stark and unfaded.  As he had expected, he understood none of it.  Yet he did find several pages of interest, diagrams and illustrations of what appeared to be jeweled rings.  Whether or not the text surrounding them revealed anything of any great import he had no way of knowing, yet it looked significant, and that potent trinket of Celebrían’s had aroused his suspicions.  Locating paper and quill conveniently near the desk, he began to painstakingly copy the page in all its unintelligible detail.  He would have Anárion translate for him upon his return.

The task absorbed him.  With careful strokes of the quill, he reproduced every line, every direction, every drawing.  He could afford no mistakes.  Even if the passage was eventually declared useless, it would at least be accurate.

He was near the end of that first page when suddenly a dread prickle on the back of his neck made him stop for a moment.  He froze, a chill fear clutching his heart.

“You provoke me, Oropherion,” Annatar rumbled, standing tall and pale in the shadows.

Already caught off his guard, Thranduil did not see them until it was too late, the two frothing hounds that leapt for his throat with a ferocious roar.  Throwing his fist wildly, he managed to strike the first solidly in the jaw even as the other knocked him to the floor in a painful tangle with the chair.  Thranduil sacrificed his arm to the gaping maw, biting back a howl of agony as teeth lodged themselves in his flesh.  There the beast seemed content to hold him, heaving its hot and foul breath onto his face.

Annatar moved to tower over him.  Thranduil tried to crawl backward, but the hound cruelly wrenched his arm.  He could not conceal the fact that he was genuinely terrified, a fear Annatar seemed to feed upon.

“Why do you court death by coming here?” Annatar asked icily, looming like a specter.  “You have no need to chase that siren within these walls.  She will find you soon enough.”

What was he saying?

“Do you truly imagine all thought of kinslaying is past?” Annatar went on, a cruel smile on his colorless face.  “I know many here who would not hesitate to rid themselves of an unwelcome guest and an old foe should the opportunity present itself.  You will be fortunate indeed if you escape this city with your life.”

Thranduil’s eyes widened in disbelief despite his pain.  He could not believe him.  The Mírdain had no great regard for him, yet he could not imagine any of them murdering him in his bed.  The dark words carried an awful ring of truth, yet he rejected it.

“You lie!” he spat through his teeth.  The dog tore his arm further for his defiance, wringing a cry from him.  Blood had already saturated his sleeve, and now dripped in warm trails around his neck.  The other brute stood behind its master, its broken jaw sagging grotesquely.

Annatar ignored the accusation and the ensuing violence.  Instead, he calmly took up the page Thranduil had filled with writing.  He studied it a moment with an air of disdainful superiority before turning his cold eyes to his victim.

“You are quite perceptive,” he observed, “but it will avail you nothing.”  The paper roared into flame in his hand, throwing firelight about the room for a moment before it was gone.

“Devil!” Thranduil hissed at last, knowing his adversary without further doubt, another foul remnant of the previous Age.  “In what black hole of hell did you return to life?”

“Look to your own life, Oropherion,” Annatar said, his voice deepening ominously.  “Consider well its fragility ere you presume to challenge the powers that saw the first foundation of the earth.”  He turned with a billowing swirl of his mantle . . . and vanished.

Even then, Thranduil could not suppress a startled gasp.  The hound, suddenly freed from its master’s demonic influence, released his mangled arm and slunk away growling into the shadows with its companion.  Left alone in the dark, Thranduil could only lie limp on the floor, sapped by terror, anger, and pain.

Yet he was not entirely alone.

He was dimly aware of feather-light footsteps hurrying over the floor toward him before a lithe figure knelt at his side, and a hand gently took his shoulder.  “My lord?” he called, his voice trembling with fear.

“Gwaelas!” Thranduil protested in a sharp whisper, sitting up then and bracing himself on his good arm.

“Please, my lord, do not be wroth with me,” Gwaelas begged him, not daring to lift his eyes as he gingerly wrapped Thranduil’s lacerated arm in his own short mantle.  “I could not let you go alone.  I have been nothing but a cowering burden to you here, but I resolved to be otherwise tonight.  Yet that sorcerer steals my very breath away!  I saw everything, and yet I had not the courage to leave the shadows.”

Thranduil’s annoyance faded in the face of Gwaelas’ own self-reproach.  It must have been an enormous trial of courage to venture so far after him.  “There is nothing you could have done had you been here,” Thranduil assured him.

“I could have been beside you.” Gwaelas insisted.  “That is my place!”

Thranduil would not argue with him.  The night had already been trying enough.  “Help me up,” he said instead, giving Gwaelas his left hand and climbing to his feet.  “Let us be gone before we are discovered again.”