I Won't Bite by Agelast

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Chapter One

This chapter contains werewolf-related violence, and non-graphic description of wounds. 

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After the forests failed, mist rolled heavily across the plains. Silence dogged their steps. What conversation there had been before, faltered and died. Only the soft hoof-beats of the horses sounded on the dusty road, as they headed north.

Oropher stifled a sigh and darted a quick glance at his companion. It had been a very dull ride thus far. To fight against boredom, as best as he could, he took out a a small mirror from his pocket, and examined his reflection.

Oropher was handsome – undeniably so, even if he did say so himself. He had long fair hair (of a largely indeterminable color – fair was the best way to describe it) that he wore down as a single braid down his back. He did not think very much about it, after that. He had the large, clear gray eyes of his kindred, and long eyelashes that softened, but gave steady sly humor to his glaze. His chin and jaw were a little too decided and a little too square to be fashionable in court – where, indeed, a certain delicacy of form was preferred. But delicate was his mouth, pink and mobile, and shaped like a bow. Ready, always to smile.

(And to speak, and to bite. Which he occasionally did.)

Oropher was only a scant few year past his coming-of-age, but felt himself to be quite grown-up, thank you very much. And he did so want to talk about this mission (hush-hush though it was) which was the first important one he had been given.

He put the mirror back to its place, and looked hopefully at Mablung.

But, alas, Mablung was no more likely to talk now than he had been a few minutes before. He did nothing to encourage conversation. In fact, things had become very strained between the two after Oropher, in a fit of youthful thoughtlessness, had made a joke about the latter's after-name. “Of course you're never lonely,” he had said with an engaging grin. “Your heavy hand is surely company enough!”

Mablung had not taken this at all well.

Oropher kept  all further attempts at humor to himself. It was for the best.

The mist was really very thick. Even though Oropher peered closely into the swirling whiteness, he could make out only vague shapes of rocks and trees in the murk. Instinctively, he felt for the package of letters tucked into his breast-pocket. They were in his especial charge, though he was supposed to have only vaguest notion as to what they officially contained.

(He certainly had his own ideas.)

Saeros, who was wise to all such things and had many occasions to handle much of the court's official business, always had said that Oropher asked too many questions. And Oropher was very fond of asking questions.

He wondered aloud. “What do you think Himring will be like?”

Mablung did not answer. His back, which was the only part of him Oropher could see, was ramrod straight.

Undaunted, Oropher continued. “I heard its lord is horribly disfigured, is it true?” He paused, though he expected no reply. “Mablung, you've seen him! Is his hair really the color of blood? Is he truly hideous?”

More silence.

Oropher sighed, and slumped in his seat. “But you're welcome to ignore me, of course.”

How he wished Amdír could have been there! Instead of where he was (which was languishing on guard-duty in the marches.) He, at least, could be relied on for some good gossip. And there was such a lot of gossip to be had - what new song Daeron had come up with, what new rejection Lúthien had devised, so as to inspire Daeron's painful art... It was Lúthien who was the main subject of gossip now, since she had claimed to love a mortal, and had run away to look for him. The whole kingdom was buzzing with her adventures, following her trail as best as they could. But Lúthien's tale had ended after Nargothrond, as far as anyone knew.

And that was why Oropher was on the road, with his letters, and Mablung with his silence.

They rode on, in the mist, quiet dogging their steps.

* * *

Oropher was shaken awake from an unusually vivid dream in which a giant redheaded monster with a terrible white face, loomed up above him and he had nothing to defend himself with but a stick, that crumbled in his hands.

But it was Mablung's face, white and drawn, that was looming over him. “Quiet,” he said before Oropher had a chance to speak. “Do you hear anything?”

Oropher was about to snap that no, he didn't, when he stilled and truly listened. Beyond their little camp there was a solid bank of mist. And beyond that, there was a sound. It seemed like scream, of someone in mortal pain. It wavered in the dark, and died.  

“Could be a woman's voice,” said Oropher. Mablung nodded.

“Do you think it could it be...?” Oropher's mouth went dry, he was almost afraid to say it. The princess had been missing for so long, and reports of where she could be varied so wildly. If they could find her now...  

Mablung gestured to Oropher to follow, and he did so without another word.

The mist was thick as ever, and the dampness of the air settled on to their skin and into their hair. It was uncomfortably close; there was an evil feeling in the air that night. Oropher felt as if he could not truly breathe. The sounds came again, louder as they ventured deeper into the mist. They no longer seemed wholly human, nor truly that of an animal. Oropher wished he could speak, to say that they ought to go back, when a scream pierced the murk. They ran  in the direction of the scream, past large boulders, some the size of an elf or man, and others, taller.

Another scream rang out into the night.

“Do you see anything –“ said Oropher, when he was interrupted by a scream from behind, that of a dying horse. All was confusion, as they raced back to the camp. It was Oropher's horse that lay on the ground, panting, dying, its throat torn out.

“What manner of creature could have –”

Mablung's horse was nowhere to be seen.

And then came a thing that Oropher would never be able to forget in all of his days. A Wolf-shaped creature stalked towards them, though it was alone, and also far too large to be any such thing. Its eyes glowed lamp-yellow and large, alive with malice and hate. It was a werewolf, a creature of Morgoth, a spirit of darkness that was bound, for a time, to a corporal form. Its face and mouth streaked with blood and gore, and its pelt was spiked and pitted with bites and scratches.

And its red maw was red, bloody red, and it hung open, revealing rows of stained, razor-sharp teeth, From its mouth, came the cry they had heard before.

Then, it spoke.

It greeted them in their own tongue, though the sound it made was foul to hear.

It was Carcharoth, the great wolf of Angband that stalked towards them, though they did not know it, at the time. A Silmaril burned in the creature's belly, the pain of the holy jewel, too much to be ignored, driving the creature mad. Madder. But this they also did not know.

The holy jewel, burning and bright, too-bright to be endured, urged the wolf onward –

Oropher swallowed drily, and wished, rather hopelessly, that he could have done a little more with his life before dying. (Which he would surely now do.)

The thing stopped short, and began to cough. It coughed and coughed, and finally spat out some blood-soaked thing. It looked a bit like a boot.

“Elves are so pointy,” it said, with something like regret.

Twack! Twack!

Mablung's and Oropher's arrows struck the giant wolf, which shook them off like they were irritating gadflies. It lunged after them, spitting out bitter imprecations about the sorry state of the world, and its place in it, all the while.

(It would have been an interesting conversation, Oropher later claimed, if it had not been trying to take his head off.)

But at least, one recent mystery was cleared up. “I do believe,” Oropher said, in between dodging the bites of the furious wolf, “I know what happened to the other messengers.”

Then the wolf moved, faster than his eyes could follow and sudden pain tore through him, too much pain for him to say anything at all.

* * *

Mandos.

Well. He had expected Mandos to be a great many things. Perhaps, it would be a restful abode for wounded fëa of the dead to heal after their painful sojourn in the waking world. A quiet place. Perhaps there would be nothing at all, to begin with.

But. He had not expected it to be extremely wet. It felt like he was resting in a puddle, water soaking into his clothes and –

“You're not dead,” said Mablung.

The sky was graying and drear, but clear for miles around. Oropher looked around with a dull sort of interest at what was around him. Mablung had carried him -- or dragged him – away from the scrubby woods where the beast had attacked, and into a shallow cave that looked out over a landscape of bluffs.

“Have you killed it? How did you drive it off?” Oropher's voice wavered, uncertain. He blinked furiously and took especial care not to look too hard at his left leg, which all his numbing, throbbing pain seemed to center on.

Mablung shook his head. He looked south, towards Doriath. And Oropher followed his gaze. With difficulty, he said, “You must go, to warn the others.”

“No! We will go together, we can make good time –”

Oropher found himself being in the strange position of being the sensible one. He said, “Mablung, listen! That creature will tear a hole through the Girdle and come into our homes, take our families. You cannot risk it...”

Mablung said, with some difficulty: “The Girdle will stop --”

“No. It has not done so, once already. It could do it again.”

After a few painful moments, Mablung got up, having made his decision.

He nodded. “I will send help.”

Oropher said, wry, “And I will be waiting.”

* * *
And he did wait.

On the first day he waited, he thought how great of a hero he now was.  If Amdír could see him now! On the second day, and on the third, his enthusiasm had begun to flag. On the fourth day, if Amdír had seen him, he would have found Oropher in a pitiable state. The wound, which had been bound and treated with expert care by Mablung, had begun to fester.

It had been poisoned, with something he had no antidote for. His leg, went from a gnawing pain, to numbness as more days passed.

He did not wish for Amdír to see him now.

Oropher observed the progress of his wound with calm detachment, as if it was happening to someone else entirely. He could still drag himself about the rough camp that Mablung had set up before leaving for Doriath. He had left most of their supplies with Oropher, though that too dwindled fast.

A week after Mablung's departure, Oropher lapsed into a feverish state, half-dreaming and half-awake. Unbidden, the images of the king, the queen and Mablung came to him, admonishing him about his stupidity, his carelessness. He deserved to be forgotten. It had begun to rain again, and a little stream of rainwater ran down to where Oropher sat. So great was his misery, he did not bother to move. Instead, he sighed, and tucked his head into his arms. After all, he was only a small actor in the great events of the age.

Who would care whether he should live –  or die?

Despite the times when he was consumed by guilt or pain, he kept a wary eye out for orcs, stragglers in this Eru-forsaken spot on earth. None appeared, which in and of itself was not much of a comfort. After all, hadn't he seen for himself that there were more dangerous things abroad than an orc?

Another week passed. On lonely nights, over the steady pitter-patter of rainfall, he could hear the distant call of a wolf. He shuddered– perhaps it was not wolves he heard. Eventually, the rain stopped, leaving a sodden wood around him. It took all his effort to find enough dry kindling to start a fire. It smoked and sparked awfully, and he felt the better for having lit it.

“A long night ahead,” he said softly to himself. But surely he was made of sterner stuff than this! He was determined to face whatever fate was in store for him with as much courage and dignity as he could muster.

He soon fell asleep, and like a rock dropped into a deep well, into darkness.