The Final Battle. 9/? : The Lost Road
Title: The Final Battle, part 9 : The Lost Road
Fandom: Silmarillion
Characters: Finrod, Gimli, Legolas, Thorin and Durin, two new faces.
Prompt: 059. Food
Word Count: 1368
Rating: General
Summary: Finrod and friends are lost on their way to the meeting point. They receive direction from the Crazy Old Lady.
Author's Notes: Part of a Work in Progress based on the Dagor Dagorath prophecy. I own nothing.
On the tenth day, or was it the twentieth, a soft and quiet snow spun down onto the camp's watchmen. Finrod was not sleeping when the cold little specks fell in his hair. He reached to touch it, silently, frowning at the cooling air. The supposition died in his throat - to him, winter was a thing of the Dark Lord, and a bad sign. Regardless, if snow could cover the lands, perhaps there would be hope to be had. In the growing whiteness, foes would be easier to distinguish in the distance.
He'd not seen Celebrimbor's alleged friend since that dreadful attack, but the mysterious foes had also not returned. They are at a standstill, it seemed, and he walked thoughtfully to the place where Gimli snored unabashedly. He was hard to wake, but a tug on his whiskers made him twitch and groan. “Damn elves,” he said, sleepily. “Next thing I know, you'll be tossing me about, Felagund.”
Finrod chuckled, low, affectionately. “Would it be a first, Master Dwarf?” The dwarf did not honor him with an answer, grumbled something in his beard about stupid kings and scrambled to his feet. Then, he saw the snow and eructed an oath to break asunder the skies.
“Curse them all,” he said. “Now we get Caradhras all over again.” He wandered over to Legolas who was lying with his eyes open. Legolas only made an amused noise, and stood. With a nod, Finrod went on his way to Durin's tent. There were plans to be made and words to be exchanged about the next course of action to be followed. Above his head, the sky was unchanged and dark, as it had been since that dreadful day. He missed the light of the sun, the pale gentleness of the moon, he mused. He found himself wondering if, on the shores of Valinor, his cousin Celebrimbor had reforged the Elessar, of if his efforts were directed elsewhere.
Soon enough, the remainder of the host set forth once more in the perpetual night. Orientation was more difficult. Every night, the stars grew dimmer. Torches were lit and scouts sent ahead. There was a silent dreadful enough to chill the sturdiest Naugrim, and for a moment, Finrod Felagund thought to himself that perhaps this was a purposeful action. For all he knew, it could well be. Within a week, they had lost their way and found their own tracks again in the low patches of snow.
The mountain's slopes were gentle, though, and the woods clear of critters as the riders led the walkers to the sea. A scout came forward, then. “Smoke,” he said, fearfully. “What is it?” Thorin Oakenshield asked, dubiously. “A small hall of wood and stone,” the scout replied. “It is unguarded.”
There were suggestions for looting and sacking, but Finrod raised his hand, and Durin the Reborn bade his men be silent. “Let me go and see,” Legolas ventured. “If it is a place of allies or foes.”
So Legolas went, and the riders and walkers remained still as the elf went, quiet and silent like a shadow. He was fast as an eel, Finrod observed, and soon even he could not tell of the Sindarin's whereabouts.
They waited, then, playing cards in silence, until the elf returned.
“An Edain dwelling,” Legolas told them. “A lone lady, unguarded, save by a hound, and helpless.” He hesitated, and whispered, “I smelled bread, baking.” At this, there were groans and noises of envy, and Finrod again begged for silence.
“Let me go with Legolas, and see what this is about,” he told them, firmly. “The sons of Men are close to my heart.”
As he walked with Legolas back towards the human home, he mused on his past allegiances, on his friendship with Beren Erchamion and Luthien Tinuviel, and his heart grew heavy with nostalgia. He had heard it told that they would never die, never go hungry or thirsty. He had heard it said that they lived quietly in a secret dwelling, and he found himself wishing to see them again, and saying goodbye to those dreams.
They neared the house, unhidden, save by the surrounding darkness. In the seemingly permanent twilight, Finrod could make out the gray of the cedar crops on the walls, the white bars around the porch, the darker blue of the porch's floor. As they walked on the freshly cut lawn that smelled of summer, still, despite the sudden snow, as they passed by the frozen lillies and the already dying moss bridge that hopped over a stream, a scream came from outside. The dog barked, only once, almost a greeting.
An old wench's voice yelled something, and Finrod and Legolas looked at each other, frowning. They could not make out the words or the tongue, but the tone was that of a warning. Finrod lifted his hands up in an offering of peace, as did his companion, and replied in the Common Tongue of Beleriand that they came in peace. Legolas did the same in the newer language of Middle-Earth, but there was no coherent response to be had.
After a long silence, a black tube of metal was pointed out a window, nudged them to the right. They did as they were told. A moment later, an old woman, dressed in strange breeches that covered the front of her bosom stepped into view. She was still pointing the metal thing, threateningly. She looked at them both, up and down, and seemed to decide that they were no threat, for the weapon, whatever it was, was lowered.
She barked a question that they did not answer. Finrod lifted his hand to his mouth, indicating a request for food. She frowned, sighed, and went back inside. Both elves looked at each other, bewildered. A moment later, she came back with a loaf of bread and a plate of meat that smelled terrible. She put both on her patio and stepped back inside.
Gingerly, they walked to the food. Gingerly, they tasted it - it was better than it smelled, and they made a show of making sounds of appreciation. Timidly, the lady's black hound came closer, as if assessing them, and Legolas knelt, politely. The beast wandered closer, closer, until it was receiving scratches from them both. Inside, the witch was lurking, observing.
It took longer for the old Edain woman to come out, bearing, this time, metal things that she thrust the elves' way. They examined them, curiously, and she eventually grunted, grumbled something and reached to tug on a small metal hook in the one she had in her hand. A hold popped in the object she was holding, and his eyes widened as the scent of ale filled his nostrils. She drank from hers, and both elves imitated her, took then a swig of cold ale, much to their bewilderment.
Then, communication became possible, if very slow. They drew figures in a small mount of sand on her land, asking her about a road. They did the same to ask where the other Edain were, and her answer was always the same, to go south, more south, but she did not seem to agree with their plans. She pointed at the earth, insistently, as if to tell them to stay, but they knew they could do no such thing. Finrod wondered to himself how he could convey to her that she must go where her folk were, that she should not remain alone, and found that there were no figures he could draw in the sand to explain it to her.
In their own tongue, the elves conferred as to what to do with the old lady, who was both gruff but helpful and endearing. They considered taking her against her will, but who was to say she would be safer with the Naugrim army? In the end, Finrod was sad that things could not be any different, but they had to leave her to her fate, he realized.
They bowed to her, then, and took their leave. For a couple leagues, the dog followed, walloping almost happily, friendly in every way, but as they passed a marker in the ground, it turned around and returned to his surly mistress.
When they returned to Durin, they had at least an idea of where to walk in the night. In the dog's growing disquiet, the dwarfs' crossed the lawn, passed the lilies, by the blue house where an old Edain woman kept watch on what seemed to be a deceased peace. Then, they found a road to follow, and they were no longer lost. It wined down around the hills. There were crossroads and occasional remains of human occupation, but as the road wore on, the seeds of destruction became more and more visible.
There had been fires. There had been war. Blood had flowed beneath the snow, Finrod could smell it, and the growing stench of death, and he found himself wondering what had become of Arda since the dawn of the world. Something made him uneasy as they neared the plains, as though the air itself had been made foul.
There were those who started to scratch themselves. There were those who were ill without reason. There was no grass, trees were dead and no bird song could be heard.
Then there was water, an island, the traces of what might have once been a large city... but no bridge.
Fandom: Silmarillion
Characters: Finrod, Gimli, Legolas, Thorin and Durin, two new faces.
Prompt: 059. Food
Word Count: 1368
Rating: General
Summary: Finrod and friends are lost on their way to the meeting point. They receive direction from the Crazy Old Lady.
Author's Notes: Part of a Work in Progress based on the Dagor Dagorath prophecy. I own nothing.
On the tenth day, or was it the twentieth, a soft and quiet snow spun down onto the camp's watchmen. Finrod was not sleeping when the cold little specks fell in his hair. He reached to touch it, silently, frowning at the cooling air. The supposition died in his throat - to him, winter was a thing of the Dark Lord, and a bad sign. Regardless, if snow could cover the lands, perhaps there would be hope to be had. In the growing whiteness, foes would be easier to distinguish in the distance.
He'd not seen Celebrimbor's alleged friend since that dreadful attack, but the mysterious foes had also not returned. They are at a standstill, it seemed, and he walked thoughtfully to the place where Gimli snored unabashedly. He was hard to wake, but a tug on his whiskers made him twitch and groan. “Damn elves,” he said, sleepily. “Next thing I know, you'll be tossing me about, Felagund.”
Finrod chuckled, low, affectionately. “Would it be a first, Master Dwarf?” The dwarf did not honor him with an answer, grumbled something in his beard about stupid kings and scrambled to his feet. Then, he saw the snow and eructed an oath to break asunder the skies.
“Curse them all,” he said. “Now we get Caradhras all over again.” He wandered over to Legolas who was lying with his eyes open. Legolas only made an amused noise, and stood. With a nod, Finrod went on his way to Durin's tent. There were plans to be made and words to be exchanged about the next course of action to be followed. Above his head, the sky was unchanged and dark, as it had been since that dreadful day. He missed the light of the sun, the pale gentleness of the moon, he mused. He found himself wondering if, on the shores of Valinor, his cousin Celebrimbor had reforged the Elessar, of if his efforts were directed elsewhere.
Soon enough, the remainder of the host set forth once more in the perpetual night. Orientation was more difficult. Every night, the stars grew dimmer. Torches were lit and scouts sent ahead. There was a silent dreadful enough to chill the sturdiest Naugrim, and for a moment, Finrod Felagund thought to himself that perhaps this was a purposeful action. For all he knew, it could well be. Within a week, they had lost their way and found their own tracks again in the low patches of snow.
The mountain's slopes were gentle, though, and the woods clear of critters as the riders led the walkers to the sea. A scout came forward, then. “Smoke,” he said, fearfully. “What is it?” Thorin Oakenshield asked, dubiously. “A small hall of wood and stone,” the scout replied. “It is unguarded.”
There were suggestions for looting and sacking, but Finrod raised his hand, and Durin the Reborn bade his men be silent. “Let me go and see,” Legolas ventured. “If it is a place of allies or foes.”
So Legolas went, and the riders and walkers remained still as the elf went, quiet and silent like a shadow. He was fast as an eel, Finrod observed, and soon even he could not tell of the Sindarin's whereabouts.
They waited, then, playing cards in silence, until the elf returned.
“An Edain dwelling,” Legolas told them. “A lone lady, unguarded, save by a hound, and helpless.” He hesitated, and whispered, “I smelled bread, baking.” At this, there were groans and noises of envy, and Finrod again begged for silence.
“Let me go with Legolas, and see what this is about,” he told them, firmly. “The sons of Men are close to my heart.”
As he walked with Legolas back towards the human home, he mused on his past allegiances, on his friendship with Beren Erchamion and Luthien Tinuviel, and his heart grew heavy with nostalgia. He had heard it told that they would never die, never go hungry or thirsty. He had heard it said that they lived quietly in a secret dwelling, and he found himself wishing to see them again, and saying goodbye to those dreams.
They neared the house, unhidden, save by the surrounding darkness. In the seemingly permanent twilight, Finrod could make out the gray of the cedar crops on the walls, the white bars around the porch, the darker blue of the porch's floor. As they walked on the freshly cut lawn that smelled of summer, still, despite the sudden snow, as they passed by the frozen lillies and the already dying moss bridge that hopped over a stream, a scream came from outside. The dog barked, only once, almost a greeting.
An old wench's voice yelled something, and Finrod and Legolas looked at each other, frowning. They could not make out the words or the tongue, but the tone was that of a warning. Finrod lifted his hands up in an offering of peace, as did his companion, and replied in the Common Tongue of Beleriand that they came in peace. Legolas did the same in the newer language of Middle-Earth, but there was no coherent response to be had.
After a long silence, a black tube of metal was pointed out a window, nudged them to the right. They did as they were told. A moment later, an old woman, dressed in strange breeches that covered the front of her bosom stepped into view. She was still pointing the metal thing, threateningly. She looked at them both, up and down, and seemed to decide that they were no threat, for the weapon, whatever it was, was lowered.
She barked a question that they did not answer. Finrod lifted his hand to his mouth, indicating a request for food. She frowned, sighed, and went back inside. Both elves looked at each other, bewildered. A moment later, she came back with a loaf of bread and a plate of meat that smelled terrible. She put both on her patio and stepped back inside.
Gingerly, they walked to the food. Gingerly, they tasted it - it was better than it smelled, and they made a show of making sounds of appreciation. Timidly, the lady's black hound came closer, as if assessing them, and Legolas knelt, politely. The beast wandered closer, closer, until it was receiving scratches from them both. Inside, the witch was lurking, observing.
It took longer for the old Edain woman to come out, bearing, this time, metal things that she thrust the elves' way. They examined them, curiously, and she eventually grunted, grumbled something and reached to tug on a small metal hook in the one she had in her hand. A hold popped in the object she was holding, and his eyes widened as the scent of ale filled his nostrils. She drank from hers, and both elves imitated her, took then a swig of cold ale, much to their bewilderment.
Then, communication became possible, if very slow. They drew figures in a small mount of sand on her land, asking her about a road. They did the same to ask where the other Edain were, and her answer was always the same, to go south, more south, but she did not seem to agree with their plans. She pointed at the earth, insistently, as if to tell them to stay, but they knew they could do no such thing. Finrod wondered to himself how he could convey to her that she must go where her folk were, that she should not remain alone, and found that there were no figures he could draw in the sand to explain it to her.
In their own tongue, the elves conferred as to what to do with the old lady, who was both gruff but helpful and endearing. They considered taking her against her will, but who was to say she would be safer with the Naugrim army? In the end, Finrod was sad that things could not be any different, but they had to leave her to her fate, he realized.
They bowed to her, then, and took their leave. For a couple leagues, the dog followed, walloping almost happily, friendly in every way, but as they passed a marker in the ground, it turned around and returned to his surly mistress.
When they returned to Durin, they had at least an idea of where to walk in the night. In the dog's growing disquiet, the dwarfs' crossed the lawn, passed the lilies, by the blue house where an old Edain woman kept watch on what seemed to be a deceased peace. Then, they found a road to follow, and they were no longer lost. It wined down around the hills. There were crossroads and occasional remains of human occupation, but as the road wore on, the seeds of destruction became more and more visible.
There had been fires. There had been war. Blood had flowed beneath the snow, Finrod could smell it, and the growing stench of death, and he found himself wondering what had become of Arda since the dawn of the world. Something made him uneasy as they neared the plains, as though the air itself had been made foul.
There were those who started to scratch themselves. There were those who were ill without reason. There was no grass, trees were dead and no bird song could be heard.
Then there was water, an island, the traces of what might have once been a large city... but no bridge.