The Road Not Taken by Tomour

The Road Not Taken

Read The Road Not Taken

The Road Not Taken

The First age of Middle Earth was a time of heroes, and war against the growing evil of Morgoth.  No magic rings had yet been forged.  Sauron was a mere lieutenant in Morgoth's army, and though elves had wandered over mountains and seas, through forests and across plains for uncounted years, humanity was still new on the face of the earth.  

 

One cold evening, while twilight moved in like a fog, two people came down a high wooded bank. The tall elf, Voronwë, his black hair pulled back and tied with a strip of deer hide, scanned the slope with sea-green eyes. He seemed to glide smoothly, step by step, between the trees.  Near him was a man, Tuor, wearing a metal helmet and  breastplate. Gold-blond hair rolled down from beneath the helm.  A tall shield, with the symbol of white wings, was strapped to his back. He walked with a steady, careful pace. They both looked worn and dirty from weeks in the wilderness, steeling themselves against cold and hunger. Next to the elf, the strong as an ox human looked much more haggard and weary to the core.

 

The trees on this eastern slope were thick but bare of low limbs, standing still as cool meditating monks. Their trunks turning gray in the dim light. A sheet of old snow clung to the ground. At the bottom of the descent was an ancient causeway: a flat, dry-grass avenue running right and left. The two men stopped not on the road, but stayed within the margin of the trees above it. 

 

Cutting through the gloom, raucous and loud, they heard laughter and yelling. Both tensed, uneasy at the sound.  Quietly, they moved to their left. The red-yellow light of a fire rose up below the trees. They inched cautiously closer. In the midst of the road, a wood fire blazed. Around it, rough orcs had gathered. Though they stood on two legs their patchy gray-brown fur and gnashing fangs marked them clearly as not human nor elf. This was a guard camp, a post to block highway travel, made of orcs hungry for violence.

 
"Gurth an Glamhoth!" Tuor cursed in the elvish language, meaning 'Death to the noisy-hoard'. Heat rose in his stomach. Years of war and slavery turned in him to hate these virulent creatures. With steely stealth, he drew his sword. 

 

"Now I know why I carried this through wilderness and ice. I will risk death to claim that fire, and even a foul orc-larder will seem a worthy prize." A slight smile came to his lips, "Hunger, they say, is the best sauce, and it puts an edge to my blade". 

Voronwë thrust his arm like a gate in front of Tuor, hissing, "No!"

 

Silent for a moment, sea-green and gray-blue eyes met, each demanding the other to yield.  Seeing no softening in Tuor's face, Voronwë pushed in with a voice as urgent as before, but much more quiet.

 

"Your errand is to reach Turgon. If you are to ever see him only the grey cloak, not the sword, will avail you." Tuor looked away to the orc camp, his face focused on the flickering light. 

 

Voronwë pressed on, "Can your human eyes not see," he looked about and swept his arms, pointing, "another fire to the north across the highway, and yet another to the south. Even a complete slaughter of this one group would gain nothing but more tumult and attack!" 

 

Something in Voronwë's words irritated Tuor and he glared at the elf briefly, then focused his hatred back on the orc gathered around the fire, set and unmoving. 

 

Voronwë's voice became deeper, "Listen to me Tuor!" and he placed his hand firmly on Tuor's arm, "Know this!  It is against the law of the Hidden Kingdom that any should approach the gates with foes at their heels. It is death to any who would try, Ulmo's will or not." He felt Tuor was listening, yielding. "We must go by stealth. If you rouse the orcs then I will leave you. You will find your way to death alone.  But, I would rather that you live, and that we walk together."

 
Tuor shifted then, but growled, "Then I leave them to their vile master!" Still, he held the sword still. Ten or twenty seconds passed before he hissed, "The day will come when I will not sneak aside from a handful of orc like a frightened dog."

"Come then!" Voronwë cut in, "Follow me quickly before those dogs catch our scent."  He crept away through the trees south. Tuor followed until they were mid-way between two orc fires. There they stood in the dark, listening, at the woods' edge for a sign that it was clear to cross. Tension remained between them, danger surrounded them and success seemed to both, nearly impossible.