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1: The Dream Denethor son of Mablung sighed as he watched the sun set over the rim of the mountains that circled the land where he and others of his kind dwelt. The forests here were not very lush, not as Eryn Lasgalen and Ithilien had been, but they were all they had at this time. He shifted slightly on the limb of the one he considered ‘his tree’ and smiled at that thought. Yet, it was true that whenever he felt the need to be alone, to think without others to distract him, he would come here and climb this particular tree, a cedar. It welcomed him and he drew comfort from it. They were old friends. He glanced at the sky, banners of gold and scarlet deepening to violet as the sun disappeared in a sudden rush, as it always did in these southern climes. He missed the lingering twilight of the far north, especially during the summer months. Here, the twilight never stayed and night descended upon them like a sword, swift and sure. The stars suddenly blazed forth instead of peeping out here or there like shy children uncertain of their welcome. He heard their distant, cold song and welcomed it, but he still longed for the north and the long twilight. He sighed again and leaned back against the tree trunk, making himself more comfortable. He had been feeling restless of late and not even the antics of the Mortals whom he watched in secret as they struggled to survive in this unforgiving land had kept him amused for long. And so, he had come here, to his tree, to think, to wonder why he was still alive, to wonder how much longer he would continue living before he succumbed to fading as so many others had. He should have Sailed long ago, but that option was no longer viable. No. For better or for worse, he was here, waiting, as they all were, his fellow Elves, for the ice to recede so they could finally return to reclaim their ancient land. He doubted the woods had survived, but once the ice was gone and the climate warmed he had no doubt that the woods would live again and he would help them along. He smiled again at that thought. It would be good to have his forest back after all this time. He settled himself more securely on the limb, feeling suddenly tired. It was true he had not slept for some time now so he was not overly surprised at that and the song the stars sang seemed almost like a lullaby. As he allowed his breathing to slow and his mind to drift, he slipped softly onto the Path of Dreams…. He was unsure where he was. There was a drifting fog all around and it was difficult for him to see any details but he thought perhaps he was in a circular clearing and there were odd shapes surrounding him. They were not trees, of that he was sure, but what they were exactly, he could not have said. He felt no fear, only a mild curiosity, but when the Voice spoke, he found himself on his knees. “Denethor son of Mablung, go north into the barren wastelands where once fair Imladris stood. There you will find one whom we wish to save. Bring the Exiled One home. It is time.” “My lord,” Denethor said, shaking where he knelt. “Whom do I seek? Who is the Exiled One?” “You will know him when you see him,” came the unhelpful answer. “Will you go?” “What the Belain have asked, I will do, but must I go alone?” The very thought of that made him shiver in dread. “Nay, you do not go alone. Seek others of your kind and bring them with you. Bring all who will come, for we call not only the Exiled One home, but you as well.” “Me?” “Yes, my son, you and those whom you convince to follow you. It is time and past time for all to return home.” And then, before Denethor could speak, the fog shifted for just a brief second and he saw thrones circling him and on those thrones…. He gasped as he found himself waking into the real world. It was still night but from the position of the stars he could see that many hours had passed. He sat for the longest time contemplating his dream, which he knew was more than just a dream. “The Exiled One,” he whispered. “Who can that be?” Well, there was only one way to find out. He grinned at that thought even as he leaped softly to the ground. It would take him some time to find the others and he had the feeling that time was of the essence. Well, he could only do what he could do and leave the rest to the Belain to worry about. As he headed toward the mountains where he and the other Elves hid away from the Mortals living in the plains he found himself humming a spritely tune and his step was light and carefree. He could not remember the last time he had felt this way and it was some time before he could give it a name. Hope. Yes, that was it. For the first time in too long a time, he felt hope once again. It was a good feeling. **** “You want to do what?” Eirien exclaimed in disbelief as she stood there staring at him from the cave entrance that marked her and Damrod’s home. “And all for a dream?” “No dream,” Denethor insisted. “Or rather, it was a true dream, sent to me by the Belain.” “Why and why you?” she demanded, narrowing her eyes, her hands on her hips. Denethor shrugged. “Why not me? Why any of us? Dare we question the Belain as to their reasons? I am not so foolish. No. It was a true dream, a summons. The Belain wish for me, for us to seek out this Exiled One and rescue him and then convince him to join us in our search for Dor Rodyn. The Belain have called us home, Eirien. I for one would like to go.” “But to the far north where naught is there but the glaciers?” Denethor turned to see Damrod approaching with a few other ellyn. They had been hunting and were back carrying what game they had been able to scare up. “I was told to seek where Imladris once stood. There I would find the one whom the Belain seek to save,” Denethor answered. “I know the journey will be long and wearisome and fraught with much danger, for none of us know what lies beyond these mountains anymore.” Damrod gave him a searching look, then glanced at Eirien, his wife, before returning his attention to Denethor. “You are determined to go.” It was a statement more than a question. “Yes,” Denethor answered with a nod. “If I must go alone, then I will, but the Belain urged me to speak to all whom I could find and encourage them to come with me, to seek the Blessed Realm.” “But the way is shut,” Ragnor protested. “The Straight Path froze a long time ago.” “I was assured that the way would be opened to us if we simply have the courage to go look for it,” Denethor retorted. “So, who will come with me? Who will dare the uncertainties of the journey and the chance to come to Dor Rodyn rather than remain here to fade to nothingness, not even a memory of a memory among the Mortals?” By now close to fifty Elves were gathered around, listening to all that was being said. “We could well die on the ice,” someone objected. Denethor nodded, well aware of that risk, a risk he, at least, was willing to take. “We may all die,” he said bluntly, “even the one whom we are sent to save. Yet, what does it matter? Are we not all dying little by little even now? How many fled Eryn Lasgalen and Ithilien when the ice came? How many of us are left? Most have faded or have simply wandered away. Look at us! We cling to these mountains, barely sustaining ourselves, idling our time watching the Mortals on the plains going about their business. When was the last time any of us sang or danced? When was the last time any of us even smiled or laughed at a jest? When was the last time any of us had any hope in us? I cannot remember myself. I only know that I weary of this existence. It isn’t even living, for to live is to assume one has a future to look forward to, but I have not seen a future for any of us. I wish to live, if only for a short while, rather than continue existing as we have been doing for far too long. So who will dare the venture? Who will come with me?” He paused, to gauge the temper of those listening to his impassioned speech. He noticed that the eyes of several were lit with an inner fire of excitement and he was glad, but others merely shook their heads and walked away and he sorrowed for them. “I will go,” Damrod said. “My love, wilt thou join me?” He held out his hand to Eirien, who hesitated for a moment, her gaze shifting from Damrod to Denethor and back again. Then she put her hand in Damrod’s and stepped to his side. “Yea. I will go with thee, my love,” she said quietly. One by one, others declared either for or against Denethor until in the end there were about thirty of them who gathered around him. So few, he thought with sorrow, so few of us. But he shook off the melancholy, for he had feared that no one would join him on this mad hunt for one they didn’t even know. He turned to Damrod. “We must gather supplies and leave quickly. I fear time is not our friend.” Damrod nodded. “We can trade for what we need with the Mortals,” he suggested, “though I would not trade with those on the plains. Let us go to the other side of these mountains where there are others. They will not know of us. Also, we must think of appropriate clothing. We can withstand the cold better than Mortals, but I think I want more than just this flimsy cloak around me when we travel across the tundra.” “Agreed,” Denethor said. “I will leave it to you to organize these things.” Damrod nodded and started to leave, then stopped, giving Denethor a strange look. “I can hardly believe we are doing this,” he said. “It’s insane, but then, perhaps we are all insane and do not realize it.” He flashed him a grin and Denethor grinned back. “I do not think it insanity,” he replied. “I think it is something else, something we forgot.” “What is that?” Eirien asked. “Hope,” Denethor answered. “I think we forgot to hope, but now….” Damrod and Eirien both nodded as did others who stood around them. “You are correct, Denethor," Damrod said fervently. "We did lose hope, but now, thanks to you, we have found it again, or perhaps it is more correct to say that we are beginning to find it for ourselves. We are no longer lost to ourselves, clinging to the shadows of memory. We have found the day again and with it hope.” “The Harthadrim,” Denethor exclaimed with sudden insight. “That is who we are: the Harthadrim, the People of Hope.” And to that, they all agreed. **** It took longer than Denethor anticipated before they were ready to embark on the journey and he chafed at the delay, but realized that setting out without proper preparation was foolish. They needed to hunt and fish and dry the food for the journey while the ellith made lembas. Denethor and three others traveled over the mountains to another Mortal settlement where they were able to trade for things they would need, including knowledge of what lay further north, for these Mortals often times ventured away from the warmer climes to hunt and brought back many tales of their adventures. Denethor listened carefully, sifting fact from obvious fiction until he had a slim understanding of what lay ahead. It wasn’t much but it was all they had. Others pooled their memories of the land as it had been before the ice came, creating a map of Middle-earth, marking it with possible landmarks. “If the ice has not destroyed all,” Ragnor said, “then we will be able to gauge where Imladris once stood and hopefully find this mysterious Exiled One whom the Belain seem so intent on saving.” And many of them wondered just who the Exiled One might be. There were some heated discussions among them with everyone putting forth his or her own theory. Denethor had his own ideas about who it might be but kept them to himself. Many wondered what was so special about this Exiled One that the Belain would wish to save him, or have them do it. “They don’t seem to have cared much about us,” Finduilas said to Eirien as the two ellith were making lembas. She was the wife of Ragnor and their three children, Haldir, Duilinn and Aerin, had elected to join them. None were married, for the number of eligible Elves was few among them. “Our only value to them is saving this other one.” “Or perhaps it is the other way around,” Eirien offered quietly, stopping her task for a moment. At Finduilas’ questioning look, she shrugged. “Perhaps we all have value in their eyes because we are here to help rescue this other one where there are no others to do so. Perhaps they had to wait until there was a need for rescue before they could summon us as they wished, to join them in Dor Rodyn, to be reunited with our kith and kin who have Sailed or otherwise returned through Bannoth’s Halls.” “Which we may do as well,” Finduilas said with a snort of faint amusement. Eirien shrugged again. “It will be as the Belain and the One decree,” she replied philosophically and they continued with their baking. At last, though, a day came some four weeks later when they were ready. They set out once the sun had set, deciding to walk under the cold gaze of Elbereth’s stars. Those who had refused to join them did not watch them leave, so there were no calls of farewell, no songs to send them on their way; there was only silence and Denethor felt a small qualm of fear and sorrow as he took the lead. The sorrow, he understood, for he grieved for those whom he could not convince to join them, but the fear surprised him. Damrod, who as his unofficial lieutenant was walking beside him, gave him a shrewd look as they left the mountain ridge with its many caves that they had called home for many long years. “You are afraid.” Denethor gave him a startled look and then blushed with chagrin. “Is it that obvious?” Damrod shook his head. “No. I just know you better than others. What do you fear?” “I do not know, or rather, I do know but do not wish to acknowledge it,” Denethor replied. “I fear the journey and what lies before us. So much is uncertain, so much is hidden from us.” “And I think we all feel that same kind of fear,” Damrod said. “We are leaving behind certainty for uncertainty and that can be frightening even for us. Yet, I welcome that fear.” “You do?” Denethor exclaimed. “Why?” Damrod shrugged. “Because it tells me that I am still truly alive and that is a good feeling to have.” Denethor thought for a moment and nodded. “Yes. It is a good feeling to have. And with the Belain on our side, what do we truly have to fear? We’re going home, Damrod. Home.” Damrod smiled. “Home. Yes. We’re going home.” And with that he began singing an ancient tune about being welcomed to the hearthside by one’s kin and soon they were all joining in. **** Words are Sindarin throughout this story unless otherwise indicated: Belain: Plural of Balan: a Vala. Dor Rodyn: Valinor. Ellyn: Plural of ellon: Male Elf. Ellith: Plural of elleth: Female Elf. Bannoth: Námo. Technically speaking, Mandos, but used to refer to its lord. |
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