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Elf, Interrupted: Book Two: Glorfindel's Quest  by Fiondil

85: On the Way to Angobel

Olwë asked Morcocáno to accompany them to Angobel. The Avallónean lord was not sanguine about it, but saw no way to refuse. “I will need to retrieve my horse and let others know of the change in plans,” he said. “I can meet you on the road to Kortirion.”

Olwë accepted the ellon’s suggestion and soon he and Thorongorn took their leave, the latter promising to speak to the captain of the Aearíen and arrange for passage for Laurendil and the others. As they were leaving, Brethorn appeared at the estate, asking for Finrod.

“I had to make a delivery to a farm to the south yesterday,” he stated to his friend when he found him checking his horse’s shoes, “and ended up staying the night as the farmer and his family are good friends of mine. I come back to find the whole city in an uproar. What has happened?”

Finrod quickly explained the events of the day before and Brethorn’s eyes widened with the telling. “So the rumors are true,” he said at the end.

“Rumors?”

The Sinda waved his hand dismissively. ‘Whispers in the dark, shadow words with no real substance... until now.”

Finrod gave him an enquiring look and the ellon sighed. “I never could verify them, you understand, so I ignored them, but there were rumors that after the war, several mólanoldor stole aboard one of the ships bringing refugees to the island.”

“Stole aboard?” Finrod asked in disbelief.

“So the rumors went,” Brethorn replied. “As I said, shadow words with no substance, for how could they have stolen aboard and not been detected? Were not the Maiar there?”

“So I’ve been told,” Finrod stated. “What else did these rumors say?”

Brethorn shrugged. “Only that these mólanoldor would someday turn against the rest of us, obeying the last command of their true master.....”

“Meaning Morgoth, of course,” Finrod interrupted with a grimace.

“Rumors without substance,” Brethorn reiterated with a disdainful sniff. “Morgoth’s hold on the hearts of our people is more subtle than most care to acknowledge, I deem. We who held the Leaguer were as much enslaved to him as those unfortunates who toiled in his mines and factories. At least they knew they were thralls, while the rest of us....” He shrugged.

Finrod gave his friend a considering look. “An interesting point of view,” he commented, “and I doubt too many will agree with it, but certainly, the people of Angobel are as much victims as the rest. Compassion seems to be in short supply in Aman lately.” He said this with a rueful sigh, shaking his head.

“You are going to Angobel,” Brethorn said, making it more a statement than a question.

Finrod nodded. “My atar and anatar are curious to see for themselves what these people are like.”

“May I join you?” Brethorn asked. “I am curious as well.”

Finrod smiled and clasped his shoulder. “I would like that. We’re leaving soon though and taking horses as we mean to ride back tonight.”

“No problem,” Brethorn said. “I left my horse just at the gates.”

“Then come join us,” Finrod said. “I’ll introduce you to Marthchall who once was called Ancalimon.”

****

They found Marthchall with Gurthalion, who had been wakened by Laurendil. Marthchall was quietly explaining to the younger ellon that they were returning to Angobel. Gurthalion gave Finrod, Laurendil and Brethorn a wary look.

“Are you going to punish us?” he asked.

Finrod shook his head. “No, child. No one is going to punish you.”

“Gurthalion,” Marthchall said, drawing the ellon’s attention back to him. “Lord Laurendil is a healer, as is his lady wife. They have invited us to visit them in Lórien. Would you like to go?”

Gurthalion frowned, trying to understand what wasn’t being said. Broken in spirit he might be and he knew he often acted in inappropriate elflingish ways, but he was not stupid. “Why?”

Laurendil gave him a warm smile. “You’re afraid all the time, aren’t you? You jump at shadows and you are afraid to go to sleep, afraid of the orcs who tormented you and who still haunt your dreams.”

Gurthalion gave him a wide-eyed stare. “H-how do you know?”

Laurendil shrugged. “I am a healer, Gurthalion. It’s my business to know these things. Would you like not to be afraid all the time? Would you like to be able to sleep without fear?”

The ellon nodded. “But I don’t think that will ever happen,” he said forlornly. “It’s been so long but I still have nightmares.”

“In Lórien we can help you,” Laurendil explained. “Perhaps the nightmares will never go completely away, but we can teach you how to face them so that they no longer have control over you. Would you like that?”

Gurthalion stared at the healer for the longest time, and then at Marthchall, his expression still doubtful. “I... I don’t want to go alone,” he whispered.

“Nor will you,” Marthchall said, “for I will go with you.”

Gurthalion’s eyes widened at that. “Then, who will lead everyone else if you’re not there?”

Marthchall turned an interesting shade of red. “Morfinnel has suggested that Meluiwen take over while you and I are away.”

Now Gurthalion’s expression turned crafty and they could see his eyes brightening with humor. For a second or two Finrod saw the ellon he once had been before the orcs destroyed him... or nearly destroyed him, he amended to himself. With Laurendil and Manwen’s help perhaps they could retrieve the ellon’s true self once again. “You know if you do that she’ll never give up the power,” the young miner said with a laugh. “You’ll have to marry her just to get it back.”

The others grinned as Marthchall muttered something none of them quite caught.

“We must be leaving soon,” Finrod reminded them. “You can continue this discussion on the way.”

“When will we have to leave for Lórien?” Gurthalion asked as they all headed for the main gate where everyone was congregating.

“We will return here tonight,” Marthchall said, “and leave on the morrow’s tide.”

“So soon?” Gurthalion enquired, looking somewhat nonplused at the speed at which decisions were being made.

Laurendil nodded. “Manwen and I are expected back in Lórien by a certain date. If we do not leave by tomorrow we will be late and our lord will not look kindly on us.”

Gurthalion nodded in understanding and then there was no more time to talk as the Amanians made ready to leave. Arafinwë and Olwë were already ahorse and soon the rest were as well. Marthchall was invited to walk beside the kings. Gurthalion and Morfinnel joined him. The other miners ranged themselves among the Amanians, shyly introducing themselves when asked for their names. The cavalcade made its way through the city, a city that watched with veiled hostility as citizens lined the streets leading towards the Kortirion road to watch them go by. The miners kept their eyes to the front, their expressions set, ignoring the onlookers; the Amanians did the same. A few even started singing, acting for all the world as if they were on their way to a picnic. The image was further enhanced by the fact that they were indeed loaded down with provender, for they meant to share their bounty with the people of Angobel, knowing the villagers would have little means to provide them all with food while they were visiting.

They had passed the harbor and were making their way across the main square when Ingwion, riding alongside Finrod, happened to look down at his hands and noticed that the ruby on the ring which Lord Námo had given him seemed darker in color than usual. At first, he thought it was because they were in the shadow of a building but when they passed out into sunlight, he saw that it was still dark and remembered what Lord Námo had told him. He looked about frantically, wondering where the danger lay.

Finrod noticed his expression. “What is it, Cousin?” he asked quietly.

Ingwion turned to him. “My ring,” he said, lifting his hand slightly, pretending to brush nonexistent dust from the cuff of his sleeve. “It’s turned dark, see? Lord Námo told me it will do that whenever danger is near.”

Finrod stared at the ring with interest, and then glanced about him. They were coming to the other side of the square, heading towards a narrow lane that would lead them out to the Kortirion road. He narrowed his eyes as he glanced at the shadows. Ingwion was still glancing about, looking frantically for the danger, not knowing what form it would take.

“Do not draw attention to yourself,” Finrod hissed at him and Ingwion blushed slightly at the reprimand, stilling himself as best he could. “Atto,” Finrod then called out, meaning to ask for a halt, pretending that his horse might have lost a shoe and he wanted to check it. Arafinwë turned to look at his son. It probably saved his life, for almost at the same instant, an arrow struck him in the back of his right shoulder.

“Atto!” Finrod now screamed as Arafinwë nearly fell off his horse. Only the fact that Marthchall and Gurthalion were walking beside him and were able to grab him in time prevented him from falling. Finrod urged his own horse forward, drawing his sword at the same time.

At once pandemonium reigned. People cried out. The miners formed a tight circle around the Amanians who were attempting to calm their horses while at the same time dismount so as to present less of a target to the attackers. Onlookers scurried away, not wishing to be caught in the middle of the fray. More arrows whizzed by from somewhere above them, though only one found a target.

“Alassiel!” Sador screamed as the elleth stumbled to the ground, nearly being trampled by one of the other horses. The ellon was close by and reached her, shielding her body with his own. Visions of a previous time when he had done the same for his little sister came to the fore of his thoughts, and anger swept through him, cold and deadly. He looked up when he felt someone approach and saw Manwen there, along with Amarië. Manwen was in tight control of her emotions as the healer persona took over; Amarië looked pale and frightened, but she did not flinch even when another arrow went by to land harmlessly on the pavement.

“We’ll take care of her,” Manwen said even as she competently checked the arrow which had struck Alassiel’s side. The wound was bleeding copiously. Manwen was already breaking off the shaft. She looked up to see Sador still there. “Go!” she ordered. “Protect your gwedyr.”

It was the right thing to say, for Sador nodded and looked about to ascertain what was happening. All was confusion as the Amanians attempted to cover themselves while still trying to learn the whereabouts of the attackers. He glanced upward and saw shadows flitting along the rooftops of a nearby building. By now, Beleg and Mithlas, the only ones in their own party with bows were returning fire, trying to provide the rest of them with some protection.

“An ambush,” Sador said to himself, and the anger that had taken him earlier swept through him again and before he could think things through, he gave a yell and leaped up, drawing the sword at his side. “Doriath!” he screamed in defiance and went leaping towards the building where he’d seen the attackers, rushing up the outside stairs that led to the upper floors.

“Sador! You idiot!” Glorfindel yelled as he saw the younger ellon leaping away and ran after him, dodging the arrows coming his way. He reached the Sinda at the first landing and pulled him back in time for an arrow to miss him completely. “Are you trying to get yourself killed, youngling?” he demanded with a snarl.

“Alassiel,” Sador gasped. “They shot Alassiel.”

“Getting yourself killed will not help her,” Glorfindel said more sympathetically. “Come. We are too exposed here.” With that he kicked in the door leading to the second story and they found themselves in a hallway, dimly lit. Glorfindel tried a door on the right and when it opened without protest he motioned Sador to follow him. They found themselves in a storeroom, probably for one of the shops on the ground floor. A window opposite the door looked out onto an alley. Glorfindel opened the window and stuck his head out, surveying the area and nodded. He sheathed his sword and began to climb out. “Follow me,” he whispered.

Sador sheathed his own sword and joined Glorfindel at the window. He looked out and saw the ellon reaching up to the next window sill and pulling himself up. Two more windows would bring them to the roofline. Understanding what Glorfindel intended, Sador ably climbed out of the window and quietly followed his gwador. When Glorfindel reached the final window he moved to one side and gestured for Sador to join him. It was a precarious position but they managed. Glorfindel gave the younger ellon an approving nod and then reached up to grab the lip of the wall that encircled the flat roof. Sador followed suit and together they pulled themselves up, hoping against hope that the ambushers would be too busy looking for targets below them to pay any heed to what was happening behind them.

Their luck held, for when they pulled themselves onto the roof, they found that they were hidden from the attackers by a chimney. Glorfindel silently pulled out his sword, nodding to Sador to go to the left while he went to the right. Sador nodded back as he drew his own sword and then they made their move.

There were three archers. One of them just happened to look back as he checked to see how many arrows he had left in his quiver and saw them. He gave a yell in warning but Glorfindel was already moving, slashing at the archer who never had time to bring his bow to bear. Even before the archer fell back with blood spurting from his chest, Glorfindel was attacking the second archer while Sador simply ran up to the third and pushed the tip of his sword under the ellon’s chin. The archer dropped his bow and stared in horror at the murderous gleam in Sador’s eyes. Glorfindel, meanwhile had disarmed the other archer and was pushing him to the ground, ripping part of the ellon’s tunic into strips with which to bind him and his fellows. The first archer was just standing there watching the blood drip from the gash on his chest, an expression of disbelief plastered on his face. Glorfindel finished tying up the other two archers before attending to the first, competently binding the ellon’s wound before binding his hands behind him. Then he grabbed the second archer and nodded to Sador.

“Let’s go,” he said and the two pushed the three ambushers before them towards the stairs.

****

Ingwion was silently cursing to himself as he surveyed the situation where he knelt beside Finrod, Laurendil and Olwë who were attending to Arafinwë. If only he had noticed his ring earlier perhaps none of this would be happening. He looked up when he heard Sador scream and then saw Glorfindel running after him. Glancing upward he realized that there was perhaps something he could do besides feeling helpless.

“Gilvagor, Haldir,” he called to the two ellyn who were closest to him. “Follow me.”

Such was the force of his words that the two did just that, the three of them crouching low as Ingwion led them to another building, crashing open the door of an herbalist’s shop without bothering to see if it was even locked. Someone screamed and he saw an ellon, probably the shopkeeper, huddled behind the counter with two ellith, all three of them with expressions of shock and fear on their faces.

“Man râd i-bennas nan dobas?” Ingwion shouted.

The three elves behind the counter just stared at him in confusion.

“iBennas, i-bennas,” Ingwion repeated in frustration. “Man râd i-bennas?”

“He means ‘i-bendrath’,” Gilvagor exclaimed, trying not to laugh, for the situation was far too serious for laughter. Haldir just grinned, shaking his head.

The shopkeeper silently pointed towards the back of the shop and, with a “le hannon” from Ingwion, the three ellyn rushed on

“What did I say?” Ingwion asked Gilvagor as they took the stairs three at a time.

“Later,” Gilvagor said. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the wrong building.”

“No, we’re not,” Ingwion retorted. “Trust me.”

He had watched Glorfindel shove Sador into the building and had no doubt that the former Balrog-slayer would find a way to the roof to deal with the shooters there, but they were not the only ones. He glanced at his ring and saw that it was still dark. He wasn’t sure if that meant that he himself was still in danger or that danger in general still existed. In the end, he decided, it didn’t really matter which.

They reached the top of the stairs and paused to listen for a second before Ingwion quietly opened the door and they stepped through to find themselves facing away from the front. Ingwion took them to the back corner of the roof where it faced the common alley connecting all the buildings on that side of the square, then slipped silently over the common wall separating their roof from the one where another set of ambushers were, with Gilvagor and Haldir following. Now they were directly behind the ambushers as they headed back towards the square. There were four shooters on this roof. Stopping behind a chimney Gilvagor silently signaled to Ingwion to take the one on the far left while Haldir would take the one on the far right. He would take the two in the middle. Ingwion was going to protest, but realized that Gilvagor was probably the better swordsman and simply nodded. He did put a finger to his lips and mimed tip-toeing, giving the other two a wicked smile. They both nodded, smiling as well.

Ingwion then moved to the left with Gilvagor while Haldir went to the right and as silent as cats they walked up to the shooters, too intent on their prey to notice the danger they were in until it was too late. Just as the three reached them, one of the turned and gave a yell, but Gilvagor was on him and in seconds all four were lying on the ground with Haldir tying them up while Gilvagor watched.

Ingwion, meanwhile, was leaning over the roof to see what was going on. Someone had managed to get all the horses belonging to the Amanians in a circle facing out, forming an outer perimeter of protection for those huddled in the center. During the attack he had noticed that, except for Arafinwë and Alassiel, none of the arrows were actually hitting anyone and suspected that the two that found actual targets might have been inadvertent. He could not believe that from this distance any of the shooters could have missed hitting someone if they so desired, for none of them had actual protection against the arrows. Looking down, he could see everyone huddled together and realized that the shooters must have been charged with simply pinning everyone down. Yet, why?

He glanced at his ring again and saw that it was still dark, the stone a menacing deep red, the color of dried blood, the sight of which sent shivers down his spine. He had to force himself to look away. He glanced back down to the square.

“Findaráto!” he shouted and saw his cousin look up. He held up the hand with his ring, pointing at it. “It’s still dark,” he called down and he saw Finrod nodding, his expression grim. Then movement further up the square caught Ingwion’s attention and looking up he gasped and heard Gilvagor and Haldir gasp as well. He looked down at Finrod and pointed back up the square. “We have company,” he called out. “We’re coming down.”

He turned to see Gilvagor and Haldir hauling up the shooters and pushing them towards the stairs that would bring them back to the square. Ingwion followed and in a short while they were back with the others. Ingwion saw Glorfindel and Sador herd their own prisoners, the former giving him an approving grin, which warmed him.

By now it was evident to everyone that the shooters had only meant to keep them where they were while reinforcements came. Down the square, from three of the roads that came into it, rode several scores of ellyn, all armed, their expressions grim.

“Morcocáno,” Finrod muttered in disgust, for they could see that at the head of the cavalcade rode the Noldorin lord.

“They’re after the miners,” Ingwion said. “We need to get them somewhere safe.”

“Too late for that, Cousin,” Finrod said with grim finality as he went to his horse and mounted it, drawing his sword. Ingwion, Glorfindel, Sador, Beleg, Mithlas, Gilvagor, and Haldir also mounted their horses while everyone else stayed where they were on Finrod’s orders. Then the eight faced the oncoming army.

Morcocáno raised a hand and his men came to a halt. He had a rather superior look on his face and obviously felt he had the upper hand. “We have no quarrel with you, Prince Findaráto,” he said. “We want the slaves.”

“The only slaves I see, Morcocáno, are the ones facing me,” Finrod said coldly and Morcocáno’s expression darkened towards rage while the ellyn with him muttered angrily.

“We’re not slaves!” someone yelled.

“Are you not?” Finrod retorted, speaking loudly so all in the square could hear. “Slaves to fear, slaves to insubstantial rumors that these people will someday betray you.” He shook his head. “The people of Angobel are under my protection,” he continued, “and under the protection of the High King.”

“Oh?” Morcocáno exclaimed. “And where is this High King?”

Finrod nodded towards Ingwion who was on his left. “You met his heir yesterday,” he said. “Ingwion speaks for his atar in all things.”

Ingwion nodded. “The High King would never countenance what you are doing, Morcocáno,” he said as coldly and as imperiously as he knew how. “You and your followers are treading on treacherous ground.”

“We want the slaves!” one of Morcocáno’s followers demanded angrily.

“And what will you do?” Glorfindel enquired coldly. “Will you drown this square in our blood when we refuse you?”

“We have no intention of killing anyone,” Morcocáno stated angrily. “We plan to round up all the slaves and put them on a ship and send them back to Ennorath where they will do us no harm.”

“All the slaves?” Finrod repeated. “Does that statement include your wife, Morcocáno?”

The ellon snarled, his eyes glittering dangerously. “She was never a slave!” he shouted in denial, his expression wrathful. He drew out his sword and his followers did the same. “One last time, prince. Give us the slaves and you and your people are free to go.”

“I don’t think so,” Finrod said calmly.

“You cannot win,” Morcocáno stated with a leer. “We outnumber you.”

“No, actually, you do not.”

All of a sudden there was a swirl of blinding lights and the smell of roses and lavender and orange and a myriad other sweet scents filled the air and then the square became too small as a contingent of warrior Maiar, their swords drawn, suddenly appeared, ringing the entire square. Eönwë stood just in front of Finrod’s horse, staring dispassionately at the elves facing him. The Avallóneans paled at the sight but stood their ground, for indeed, they had no choice as every exit was now blocked by a grim-faced Maia.

“Didst thou not understand my Lords Námo, Oromë and Tulkas when they told thee that the people of Angobel were under the protection of the Valar by the Elder King’s decree, Morcocáno?” the Herald of Manwë asked coldly. “What part of their message confused thee, child? I will gladly repeat it in words that even an elfling would understand, if thou dost need further instruction.”

The silence was absolute.

Morcocáno gritted his teeth, his expression livid, but he did not speak. Eönwë nodded. “Leave your swords here,” he ordered softly. It took a minute or two for the import of his words to take hold and then, first one and then another of the Avallóneans let go of their swords until all but Morcocáno were unarmed. The ellon sat as still as stone, his expression still livid as he stared at the Maia before him. They could see the knuckles of his hand that gripped his sword turning white with the rage and frustration that was in him.

“Morcocáno,” Eönwë said softly, stepping forward with a hand out, “give me your sword.”

The ellon shook his head as if in denial, glaring at Finrod. “She was never a slave,” he hissed and now tears began to run down his face as he released the sword; Eönwë deftly caught it before it clattered to the pavement. “She was never a slave,” he repeated, openly crying now, his shoulders slumped in defeat. “Never.”

The Maia’s expression was now more compassionate. “Yes, child, she was, if only for a brief time. There is no shame in that. Many were enslaved. Few ever had their wills suborned by Morgoth and those few, I assure you, are safely in Mandos, where they have been cleansed of his taint. The people of Angobel are not your enemies, Morcocáno. They are simply unfortunates who wish only to live their lives in peace, putting the past behind them as best they can, even as all of you must do.” He then ordered the Avallóneans to retreat to the center of the square while several Maiar gathered their swords, piling them in a heap between the two groups of elves. Then Eönwë pointed his own sword at the pile and there was a sudden burst of incandescent light that left the elves temporarily blinded. When their vision cleared, there were gasps from both groups as they stared at the slag heap that had once been bright swords.

Eönwë gave the Avallóneans a dispassionate look. “Go now, all of you,” he said quietly, though all could hear his words. “Reflect on this day and how close you came to incurring the wrath of the Valar who, I assure you, would have shown you no pity.”

It took a little time for them to disperse. On the Maia's orders the archers were let go as well and they slunk away with the others. Eventually the square emptied out under the watchful eyes of the Maiar. Meanwhile, Eönwë motioned for Finrod and the others to dismount as he made his way to where Arafinwë and Alassiel were lying. Arafinwë was conscious and gave the Maia a nod in greeting, though he did not speak. Alassiel, however, lay still and pale, her breathing barely perceptible and irregular. The Maia knelt and pressed his hands to the wounds of the two elves. At first nothing seemed to be happening, but then Arafinwë gave a gasp and had to be held down by Laurendil. Alassiel stirred slightly but did not waken. When the Maia removed his hands, though, all could see that the wounds were completely closed, the scars fading even as they looked.

Eönwë nodded in satisfaction as he stood up. Laurendil helped Arafinwë to stand, though Alassiel was still unconscious, her skin less pale, her breathing more normal. “She should be well by tomorrow,” the Maia said, nodding towards the elleth. “I think you should return to the estate,” he said, speaking to Olwë.

“We were escorting these ellyn back to their homes,” the Telerin king said. “We still wish to see them safely to Angobel.”

“My warriors will see to that,” Eönwë said.

But Finrod shook his head. “With all due respect, my lord, we would like to continue as we have. If you will see that Alassiel is sent back to the estate, Eärnur is there watching over Lasgalad. He will care for her, but the rest of us will go on.”

Eönwë glanced at the determined faces of the elves and nodded. “Very well. I will have some of my people join you as an escort and I will see to Lady Alassiel myself.”

“I will return to the estate with you, my lord,” Manwen said. “I do not think all this excitement has been good for me or the child I am bearing. I am feeling somewhat fatigued.”

Laurendil gave his wife a concerned look. “Should I stay with you, beloved, and give you my strength?”

Manwen smiled. “No, my love. Go with the others. I will be fine once I have rested for a while. I promise.” She gave him a loving kiss.

Amarië turned to Finrod. “If you do not mind, my love, I think I will go with Manwen as well.”

Finrod nodded, giving her a loving kiss on the cheek. “I do not mind at all, melda. It would be rather awkward for you to be the only elleth in our party. Go and keep Manwen company.”

Olwë turned to Arafinwë. “Are you up to traveling, yonya?” he asked. “Should you not go with Manwen and the other ellith?”

“No. I am fine,” Arafinwë assured him. “Come. The day is wasting and we have yet to leave the city.”

“Then, do as you have planned,” Eönwë said. “I will make sure that none disturb the people at the estate while you are gone.” With that, he gently lifted Alassiel into his arms while Laurendil and Finrod helped the other two ellith to their horses. They followed the Herald from the square, Manwen blowing a kiss to Laurendil, who made a grabbing motion, pretending to catch it in midair. Most of the Maiar disappeared, but three remained: Manveru, Erunáro and Fionwë.

“We will be your escort there and back,” Manveru said to the kings.

Olwë nodded even as he went to his horse and mounted it. “Then let us hence.”

Soon the square was empty, the slag of burnt metal the only reminder that anything had happened there.

****

Words are Sindarin.

Man râd i-bennas nan dobas?: ‘Which way is the history to the roof?’

iBendrath: The stairway.





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