The Writhen Pool by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 7: Ballain's Tale

Erestor, Elrond, Ereinion, and Círdan listen to Ballain recount his adventures in the South:  how he and Helevair disguised themselves and traveled to Umbar, their journey to Mordor, and the horror they encountered in the Nameless Pass.  Ballain tells of his brush with death, his rescue by an extraordinary people from Far Harad, and his healing by an even more extraordinary being.  Astute guesses are made, thanks to what Ballain's healer tells him, and Ballain gives a name, a single word that Elrond recognizes, causing him to make a dreadful connection. 

Warning for the arachnophobic:  here be spiders.  Big ones.  Evil ones.  But a good spider, too.

Thanks to my keen-eyed pals (see Chapter 6) for nitpicking.  Special thanks to to Surgical Steel for the use of "conjure-women" and her vision of Umbar (a Middle-earth nod to ancient Carthage), to Russandol for the name Brûn Hobas, and a big, huge, massive thanks to Elleth for her assistance with speculative Primitive Elvish. 

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Ballain had gulped down his wine to the last drop.  Erestor quickly rose from his chair to take the decanter from the sideboard and refilled his friend's glass.  He had a feeling that Ballain might be in need of fortification to tell his story.   Ballain thanked him, while Erestor took his seat again, and along with Elrond, the Shipwright, and the King, listened to Ballain as a remarkable tale unfolded.

 

"Our journey began without event. We booked passage on The Gull's Wing first to Lond Daer, where we gathered as much information as we could from the portreeve and from those who frequent the docks and taverns, as well. We followed the rumors of unrest South to Brûn Hobas, that town by the sea where mortals from the South and the Firstborn of Edhellond mingle. There we sought a conjure-woman…"

 

"A conjure-woman?" the King interrupted.

 

"A witch, by another name," Círdan said darkly. "They are known to me. They often call upon the Houseless as their familiars."

 

Erestor suppressed a shudder. He had encountered a houseless fëa once, and once was enough.

 

"Yes, a witch," Ballain confirmed. "A mortal woman, though of mixed blood, we thought, as she had an air of the Firstborn about her, however diminished. Her shop was tucked away in a filthy alley of the town. From her, we procured a potion that would dull our eyes, roughen our hair, and allow us to sprout whiskers, so that we might appear to be mortal Men and therefore pass as northern tradesmen when we arrived in the South. The stuff made us sick as dogs for a few days, but it worked."

 

"Once we recovered and had whiskers — I grew a full beard, in fact." Here Erestor noted that Círdan, who boasted a short, silver beard, grinned indulgently with what appeared to be approval. "We booked passage to Umbar. Fair winds brought us there in short order, and we beheld the City of the Sisters."

 

Ballain turned to gaze at the harbor where the rippling water splintered the light shining from the twin lighthouses that rose on either side of the harbor gates. "Ah, Umbar! So beautiful, its red towers and golden spires rising high on the hills above the turquoise sea, the climate so mild and warm! Lairelossë trees grow there, and they were in flower when we arrived, like drifts of snow under the hot sun. Little red birds, called kirinki, beloved by the Númenóreans, sing sweetly in the courtyards. Palm trees grow along the strand, their fronds waving in the wind.

 

"And the people! They come from so many places! There are highborn Númenóreans, as you might expect, but many swarthy folk of Harad and Far Harad dwell in the city, too. We saw folk from even farther East: from Bharat, Kitai, and the Lands of the Dawn.

 

"We lingered in Umbar where we rented a flat and came to know those who live in the city and those who come and go. There is a great library with scrolls and books beyond count, and anyone may use it. We often studied there to learn more of Umbar and the lands beyond. From the people we came to know, we learned yet more of the disturbances. We heard of the desert tribes who raided villages, and of provinces that turned away from Umbar, refusing to pay taxes, and we heard of the warlord who led the uprisings. That he rewards those loyal to him, providing for them, even making some rich, but those who spurn him? They are rewarded with torment and death. A man capable of terrible cruelty, it is said. The folk of Umbar call him 'The Zigûr.'"

 

"Zigûr?" Ereinion interrupted. "That has a distasteful sound. What does that mean?"

 

"Wizard," answered Elrond, "in the Mannish tongue."

 

"Yes," Ballain replied. "A mortal man, they said, with the ability to style himself as a sorcerer. That was what we thought at first. But then we heard rumors that whispered the Zigûr was no mortal, but something more. But you know how Men are, easily fooled by feints of mind and sleights of hand, and they are prone to exaggeration. And yet…" Ballain paused and took another gulp of wine. "And yet, we met a few who had narrowly escaped capture in the raids, and their fear spoke of horrors that are forever engraved in their minds.

 

"So it was that once we felt we had unearthed enough information (and I shall tell you those details later), we set aside our comfortable life in Umbar and made our way north toward the land where the inland sea lay, where this warlord forced his slaves taken in raids to work the fields, and beyond that, the barren plains and plateaus where a fire-mountain awoke one hundred sun-years ago. Umbar has named that land 'Mordor.'

 

"Mordor…" repeated Ereinion. "The Black Land."

 

Ballain rubbed his right shoulder. Erestor wondered how much pain he still suffered. Necrosis. What kind of malady would eat away at one's entire arm?

 

"Yes, the Black Land, named such because it has an evil reputation. It was with that caution that we came to the foothills of the Mountains of Shadow, where we fell silent, and our hearts became heavy, as if a dreadful will pushed against us. We met a ragged patrol of soldiers from Umbar in those hills, on their way back to the city, and told them we were agents of a northern chieftain, sent to spy on Mordor. They thought us fools, but they shared their food and drink with us, and told us there were no passes along its southern walls, and that the roads entering Mordor from the East were watched, day and night.

 

"Turn west then north, they told us. Follow the mountains on their western side. You shall come to a river. Turn East and follow it into the high vale. There is the pass that will take you into the Dark Land. But beware! It is said this nameless pass is guarded, and the mountains are full of horrors.

 

"We took their advice and followed the western walls of the mountains. We came upon a fair land where firs, cedars, and cypress grew, where the mingled fragrance of wild lavender, sage, thyme, and rosemary lifted our mood, and our pace quickened. Soon, we found the river the soldiers spoke of, and we turned East, following it up into the high pass.

 

"Each step toward Mordor became wearisome, yet still we continued, climbing higher. The sky was overcast from the reek of the fire mountain, and the air was filled with the stench of brimstone. Finally, we reached the height of the pass, exhausted. We thought it must be the conjure-woman's potion that had weakened us, making us tire like mortal Men. We stopped to camp for the evening in a small hollow where scrub pines and wild roses grew, their fragrance driving back the stench of the fire-mountain, and where a small, clear stream flowed, its music pleasant to the ear. It was as good as any garden. We were dreadfully thirsty and drank deep of the water, sweet and cold.

 

"Our habit was for one to take watch while the other slept, but the water of that stream must have been ensorcelled, for on that night, we both fell into a swoon."

 

Ballain was then silent. He looked at each of them in turn, and Erestor saw dreadful memory emerge in his agent's eyes. He took a long, shuddering breath and continued:

 

"I awoke to a horrible sound — a gurgling scream. There, in the moonlight, I saw a bulbous shape and many legs, struggling with Helevair, who tried to fight it off. It was he who screamed. Barely thinking, I reached for my sword, but felt sharp pain strike my hand. In the moonlight, I saw fangs embedded in my flesh, and then I knew what attacked us: spiders, a pack of them, maybe six, and all about the size of large dogs. The creature released me, poised to leap and strike a more deadly blow, but not before I sliced it open, spilling its slime onto the rocks, and then I slew the spider on Helevair. The rest of the spiders fled before my sword, for its blade was forged by Curufin himself to deal death to the spawn of Ungoliant in Nan Dungortheb.

 

"I went to Helevair's side, but it was too late. The spider had bitten him on the neck, and the poison rushed to his brain and heart. I cradled him as he struggled to breathe, until at last, Mandos called him.

 

"I am not sure how long I sat there, holding his body, which by morning had already begun sinking in on itself from the withering of death and perhaps from the spider's venom, too.  My own wound burned, and I felt the poison creeping up my arm. Using what little strength of will I still had, I fought back, pushing it away from its march toward my heart. When I tried to stand, thinking to gather stones for a crude cairn to protect Helevair's body from further defilement, the world spun, and I fell. Stars swam before my eyes, but through my muddled vision, I saw that my right hand was now swollen and inflamed red with purple splotches. The poison was relentless in its assault up my arm, but I kept driving it back. However, I was weakened. I knew I had to leave the pass, for the spiders might come back to finish me off, so I am sorry to say that I left Helevair's body to…to..."

 

Ballain, who had been recounting his tale calmly up to this point, choked on a sob. Pity swelled in Erestor, for the necrosis was now explained. He recalled the patrol with Maglor when they stumbled upon three bodies claimed by spider venom. It had been horrible.

 

"It is all right, Ballain." He leaned across the space between them and laid his hand on his agent's withered arm. "Helevair had already been summoned. What happened to his dead body does not matter. What matters is that you are here, and alive to tell your tale."

 

Ballain swallowed hard, and wrested his grief into place. He gave Erestor a look of gratitude.

 

"You are right. I know this. Still, it was hard to leave him there to be devoured. I stumbled down out of the pass. I am not even sure which direction I went, east or west, it did not matter. I thought no more clearly than a wounded beast as a fever swiftly took me. I walked and walked, lurching along, tripping over stones to fall again and again, until I felt blood run down my face. My entire arm was red and swollen with black patches where the venom attacked me, eating my flesh from within.

 

"At last, I fell and did not have the strength to rise. I lay there, straining to see the stars through my blurred sight, and I prayed to Nienna for mercy and that her dark brother would call me soon. Then I knew no more.

 

"Yet here you are," said Ereinion. "Obviously, you did not answer Námo's call."

 

"Yes, here I am, and if the Doomsman called, I did not hear him," said Ballain. "Instead, I awoke to hear the sound of voices, the babble of a stream, of wind sighing in the trees, and once more, I smelled the sweet scent of firs and herbs in the sun. They were balms to my fëa. Was this a lovely dream of death? That place between life and the Halls of Mandos? I opened my eyes to see a black face with hair like dark ropes hanging about it. I yelled, or more likely, croaked, and struggled, for I was sure I had been captured by an orc.

 

"The orc spoke to me in a tongue I did not recognize, but the voice was not that of those cruel folk.  Rather, the voice was melodious, fluid, and so very soothing. A woman's voice. My vision cleared, and I calmed when looked into a beautiful woman's eyes: amber-brown, shining with golden stars, and the most lovely, curved lashes I have ever seen.

 

"Gold-flecked eyes?" Erestor said, remembering a black man with light brown eyes, almost golden, who had been a first officer aboard a Númenórean explorer. "Unusual for a mortal, but not unheard of, I suppose, perhaps in these dark races…"

 

"You misunderstand me. The stars in her eyes were that of our people. She was — is — Firstborn."

 

"What?" blurted Ereinion. "You mean to say she is…a swarthy Elf?"

 

"Yes, she is swarthy. Very swarthy, in fact."

 

"One of the Lost Tribes," Círdan murmured.

 

They all jerked their heads to stare at him. "The Lost Tribes?" said Elrond. "I thought that was merely a myth. That only the Minyar, the Tatyar, and Nelyar awoke by the waters."

 

Círdan, one of the few remaining Unbegotten in Middle-earth, shook his head slowly, and his gaze retreated inward as he pulled forth memories from the deep past. "No, there were others. Six tribes all told.   There were words said, things done, so much we came to regret…" His voice trailed away, and he looked both pained and remote as he beheld the most ancient of his memories, but focus returned to his eyes and voice once more.  "While we turned West with Oromë and his scouts, the other three tribes — the Cantjâi, Lepenjâi, and Enekjâi — went South and East. We believed we had parted forever, and they had all perished. The Cantjâi were dark-skinned, so your rescuer must be one of them."

 

"Cantjâi, Lepenjâi, and Enekjâi," repeated Elrond. "The ancient tongue, the mother of all languages. So we might name them the Fourths, Fifths, and Sixths?"

 

Erestor listened with fascination. To him and most Firstborn, the shrouded rumors of the Lost Tribes were no more than faerie tales, some quite horrible, serving as lessons to the children of Aman that the Avari who remained behind in Middle-earth fell prey to Morgoth and became orcs.

 

"Yes. Yes!" Ballain said, sitting forward in his chair. "Those are the words they used. Except they call themselves the Minjâi – the Firsts."

 

"They?" said Ereinion. "So there are more?"

 

Ballain nodded. "Yes, along with my rescuer — Thema is her name — were three of her brothers: Road-builder, River-drinker, and Stone-thrower. All black as she is, but whom you would recognize them as kin if you could see them! They are tall, strong men who move and speak with the grace gifted to our people, and elven-starlight shines in their eyes."

 

"How remarkable!" said Ereinion. Moriquendi in every sense of the word."

 

"Not in every sense," protested Ballain. "Certainly no darkness touches their hearts. They had come to Mordor to free mortal slaves — their kin — who had been taken in raids. Road-builder, River-drinker, and Stone-thrower alone slew thirty orcs and freed their people. They were all returning to Far Harad when they found me.

 

"Thema and I could not understand one another well at first, until we touched our minds, and she then spoke the First Speech of the Quendi. I recognized many words, even if they were strange to the ear.

 

"'Who are you?' she asked.

 

"I gave her the Mannish name I had assumed in Umbar, but she smiled and shook her head.

 

"'You may have the beard of a Man, but you are not mortal. I see more than you might guess. It is not just the spider's venom that afflicts you.  You have taken another poison that has changed you. I believe we are kin from afar.'

 

"I looked into those amber eyes, felt her healing touch, and I trusted her. I told her my true name, that I had taken a potion to make me appear Mannish, and that I came from the North, but I did not tell her my full purpose.

 

"'I can see from your pale skin that you are of the North,' she said, stroking my fevered brow with a cool, damp cloth. 'Yes, from the North where the Sun never shines, where the Speakers dwell in darkness, feeding only on the foul slime and toadstools that grow in the lingering Shadow."

 

"Well!" exclaimed Ereinion, laughing. "Imagine that! A barbarian of the Moriquendi thinks we Northerners still live under the clouds of Morgoth and live on mushrooms!

 

Have a care, my king, thought Erestor, although he did not dare voice it aloud. For you are Moriquendi yourself. You never saw the light of the Trees.

 

Ballain shrugged. "I was in no condition to tell her of the bounty of our fields and orchards and the long summer sunlight on the sea. 'Your wound is beyond my skill to heal,' she explained. 'But I can keep you alive, long enough to find my father so that he can heal you.'

 

"She gave me bitter medicine that drove the conjure-woman's poison from my body, then drugged me into a stupor so that I would not be so pained when I was dragged on a litter as we journeyed to the South.

 

"I do not know how many days passed. They traveled in silence until they were well away from Mordor. When they came to the northern borders of their own lands, they sang, and that gave me comfort.

 

"At last, we stopped in a village of thatched huts, where I heard the lowing of kine, the bleating of goats and the voices of people, even the laughter of children.  Thema no longer gave me the medicine that dulled pain and brought sleep. 'You must be awake for this,' she told me.

 

"It was evening, and the sun was setting when they laid me down beside a fire.  The villagers, all mortal, but some with the hints of the stars in their eyes, formed a circle around us.  Thema sang — so beautiful and strange, so enchanting — while her brothers pounded drums. Then all was silent. Thema said, 'He comes.'

 

"I looked about for their shaman, for surely they had summoned him, but no one approached. Then I saw it crawling across the sand and pebbles, not more than three feet away: a brown spider. After my experience, even a tiny spider would have sent me into a frenzy, but this one was the size of my hand, and it approached me.

 

"I shrieked, and tried to stand, but Stone-thrower and River-drinker grabbed me and held me fast, pinning my arms to the ground. The pain in my injured arm was terrible, because River-drinker had to squeeze it tight. 'I am sorry,' he said. 'But you must remain still.'

 

"To my horror, the spider crawled onto my hand and stopped, precisely where the spider of Mordor had bitten me. Then it sank its fangs into my skin. I screamed when I felt the stab of pain, but then, a sweet warmth spread into my hand and fingers, and it gained strength, becoming a fire that blazed up my arm. It was not a foul fire, but one that cleanses, burning away the venom and the pain.  Tears of relief flowed down my cheeks. The brown spider tapped its legs on the wound, as if inspecting its work, and I could feel – I could see — my flesh healing. Then it crawled off my hand and scuttled a few feet away. River-drinker and Stone-thrower released me, and I sat up to stare at the spider.

 

"It changed before my eyes. The air around it wavered, and its legs joined and lengthened to become the arms and legs of a man, growing, growing.  It was sickening to watch, and yet I could not look away.

 

"Soon enough, a long-limbed black man crouched on his hands and knees before me. Silver nubs of hair covered his scalp, and his amber eyes were much like Thema's. He was naked, but Road-builder brought a cloth woven of many-colored threads that he wrapped around himself, and he sat down beside me. He ran his hands over my injured arm, where the warmth of the brown spider's bite — his bite — still lingered, healing my wound.

 

"'Very good,' he said. To my amazement, he spoke Quenya perfectly. 'The healing will take time, and your flesh will remain withered for many years to come, but you will have the use of your arm again.'

 

I stared at him, and knew what he must be. "You are a shape-shifter…a Maia!"

 

"'Yes, that I am. My sons and daughter did well bringing you to me, and just in time, too. The venom of my sister's spawn was making its way to your head and heart. You would have been dead in another week.'

 

"I shuddered at my near brush with death. 'You say, your sister. Do you mean to say you are a child of Ungoliantë?'

 

"'No! I do not mean sister-by-blood. Sister-by-form, rather. You saw the shape I take when I am not a man. No, I am not of Ungoliantë's get. I am of the House of Vairë the Weaver, and I came with the Shining Ones — the Valar — when they opened the Gates of Arda. Ungoliantë came from the Dark behind the stars.

 

"'But I am much more clever than Ungoliantë's daughter and her spawn who dwell in the Mountains of Shadow,' he said. 'I trick them at every turn with my webs!  I confound them with my stories!  No, they shall never catch me!' He laughed, pleased with himself, it seemed.

 

"'You call Thema 'daughter', I said, 'and River-drinker, Road-builder, and Stone-thrower your sons. Are they…'

 

"'Are they truly my children?' He smiled, his teeth flashing. 'Yes. They are of my blood, made by this form.' He patted his bare chest, and pride was in his deep voice. 'Six sons and two daughters. I married one of your people long ago, when the man who awoke beside her at Cuiviénen was taken by he who you name Morgoth. My wife dwells farther south where she rules over many tribes.'

 

"You mean you are not the king?"

 

He laughed. "Me? No!  I have too many other things to do, too many stories to tell, and besides, it is not fitting for one of my kind to rule over yours. We have too much power to do so.'

 

"I had to wonder at that," said Ballain. "Was it not appropriate that Melian was at Thingol's side?"

 

Elrond made a choking sound, which ended in a feigned cough. Erestor tore his eyes away from Ballain to look at him.

 

"You mean to say, Ballain, that this black Maia – this, this…spider-thing has fathered children? With an elf-woman?"

 

Ballain nodded. Elrond gripped with arms of his chair, his expression a mix of shock and wonder. "So the line of Lúthien is not the only one that carries the blood of the Fays!"

 

"It would appear not," said Círdan, who, Erestor thought, did not sound surprised. "There were Maiar among us at the beginning. Many of the Unbegotten were slain after we awoke, by wild beasts and by Morgoth's monsters. We were so innocent and unwary. The Valar sent the Maiar to protect and teach us. There were remarriages of a few Firstborn who lost their spouses, for the Valar had not yet taught us their Laws.  Some remarriages were to the Maiar who guided us. This must have been one of those unions. I wonder if I know his wife? But then, we didn't mix much with the other tribes."

 

"How amazing!" Elrond said. "How I should like to meet this spider-Maia, however strange he may be! And moreover, to meet his sons and daughter. They would understand how it is to be…how it is…Ah, never mind me. I shall never take such a journey. Go on then, Ballain!"

 

The agent shifted in his chair, looking uncomfortable now, and anxious. "He asked me next what I was doing, trying to get into Mordor.

 

"To gather information on behalf of my king, I said. I told him about you, your Excellency. I could not lie to him."

 

"Of course not. Go on, Ballain." Ereinion sat forward in his chair, attentive.

 

"He was quiet for a time, and asked, 'What have you learned?'

 

"I told him of the warlord who rallied the desert tribes, who took slaves, and was even rumored to command orcs.

 

"The Fay's face hardened. 'Yes, that warlord, as you call him is well known to us, unfortunately, but he cannot capture me, although he would like to! I am far too tricky for him. But when he enslaves my people? I fight back with my stories and my webs. My sons and daughters know how to fight back with my stories, too. I have taught them.'

 

"'You say you know this warlord?'

 

'"Yes, from long, long ago, before we passed through the Gates of Arda. He is of my kind. We came from the same place, although from different lands. You know him, too.'

 

"By the Valar!" Ereinion practically leapt from his chair. "So this warlord is a Fay!"

 

"And a sorcerer," added Elrond. He, too, rose, but more deliberately than the King had. He walked to the edge of the porch where he gazed toward the stars and the Sirë Elenion that arced across the heavens. Then he turned to Ballain. "And your spider-Fay said you know him. Then we should know him, too. But who could it be?"

 

"I will hazard a guess." Although Círdan's remark was dry, his voice was grim. "Did we not know all too well of a sorcerer who spread terror through Beleriand? Who sat at the right hand of Morgoth and rebuilt Angband while the Black Foe was imprisoned in Aman? Who wrested Tol Sirion from poor Orodreth and turned it into a fell place until Lúthien laid waste to it?"

 

A heavy silence fell among the men. All Erestor heard was the rhythmic rush of the waves against the distant shingle strand and the pounding of his heart.

 

Ereinion broke the silence first. "Do you think this sorcerer is Ñorthus?  Wasn't he taken to Aman to face the Valar after the War?"

 

"No," replied Elrond. "Eönwë said that although Ñorthus sued for pardon, he did not have the authority to give it to him. So Ñorthus turned away, and simply…disappeared."

 

"Only to turn up now in the South, and apparently in pursuit of his own empire," Erestor added.

 

"Gorthaur!  That would explain this feeling of dread I have felt for so long," said Ereinion. "The lieutenant of Morgoth! Ballain! What else did this Fay tell you? Please, go on with your tale." The King and Elrond both returned to their chairs and sat.

 

Ballain, hunched and brooding with the look of one sifting through dark memories, jerked his head to attention. "As you wish, your Excellency. I pleaded with the Fay to tell me the name of the warlord, but he would not. I think we have guessed it correctly though. I felt the same sense of fear pressing down on me any time our patrols passed near Tol-in-Gaurhoth.

 

"The Fay left me to be tended by Thema and the others of the village. The next morning, I found my strength had returned, and I was ravenous. The tribe fed me well, and Thema even cooked for me herself. Such a lovely woman! She spent the next few days with me, telling me many stories of her people, singing to me, never leaving my side, even when her brothers teased her.

 

"'Sister, why do you coddle this white wraith of the North? There are men of our own folk who would marry you!'

 

"Thema rounded on them. 'Who says I wish to marry anyone, let alone a man with skin pale as fungus? Now be away with you rascals!' They just laughed when she threw a gourd at them, but let her be after that.

 

"Soon she deemed me fit to travel. Her brothers would escort me as far as the eastern villages of Umbar province, and messages had been sent ahead to let those friendly to their tribe that I was coming. I had not seen her father since the night when he healed me, but at dawn, he was there to bid me farewell. He inspected my arm and was satisfied.

 

"'Here, I will tell you a little story so that you may remember me.' He leaned over and sang a song in a language unfamiliar to me, but even if I do not understand the words, I will never forget them. 'Travel swiftly," he said, "for I am sure your king will wish to see you soon. May the stars shine at the end of your road.'

 

"I thanked him for his gift of a story, but before I turned away, I said, 'Master, you have not told me your name. What are you called?'

 

"He smiled, the enigmatic smile of one who spins webs that ensnare secrets, and who tells stories to enchant and confound. He said, 'I have many names, and I have forgotten the one I was born with, but you may call me Anansi.' 

 

"Then he left me, walking into the bush, and this noble man changed back into a brown spider that disappeared among the rocks.  I shall always remember him, the Fay who saved my life.

 

"We did travel swiftly, for Anansi's sons have a brisk pace. We passed though other villages before we reached the realm of Umbar, and along the way, I did learn another name for the Zigûr. The folk of the desert name him 'Shai.'

 

"Shai." All eyes turned to Elrond, who was fond of studying obscure languages. "Curious. I believe I have heard that before. It's a word from one of the Haradric dialects, and…" He paused as he searched for the translation of word. "'Gift.' It means 'gift.'" Then the color drained from his face. "Gift…Annatar."

 

Erestor thought his heart surely stopped beating, but the King, ever a man who preferred action, leapt from his chair again.

 

"What? Do you mean to say you believe Annatar is Ñorthus? That is quite a leap, Elrond!"

 

"Am I certain?" Elrond said, lowering his voice. "Not completely, but it would explain much: his formidable knowledge, what I felt when I shook hands with him, his scent…"

 

"His scent? What in the blazing stars do you…" Ereinion said incredulously, but Cirdan interrupted any further explanation of that oddity.

 

"If your guess is correct, Elrond, and the Istyar is indeed Gorthaur the Abhorred, this is far worse than we ever could have imagined."

 

Much worse, thought Erestor. Aulendil had been so deeply enmeshed in the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. What did they learn from him? What had he learned from them?  And the mysterious project?   A terrible sense of cold dread took hold of him.  The full ramifications were too overwhelming to contemplate just now.

 

"I have little hope that I am wrong," Elrond said bleakly.

 

"We must send word to Celebrimbor at once!" Ereinion declared. "Blast it! Would that I could summon an Eagle like Father did!"

 

Erestor remained frozen where he sat, his muscles paralyzed, his blood cold, but his thoughts a storm. In the midst of the horrible realization that the Enemy had been in their midst this entire time, Elrond's words suddenly chimed within his increasingly panicked thoughts: The line of Luthien is not the only one who carries the blood of the Fays.

 

Nienna's tears! Mélamírë…that poor girl!

 

"Well?" snapped Ereinion. "What in stars' dung are you waiting for, Erestor? See to it!  And Elrond, Círdan, all of you. Keep this to yourselves for the time being. We might be at an advantage if we do not tip our hand to…"

 

"…Sauron." Elrond finished the king's sentence. Elrond looked as sick as Erestor felt.

 

"Yes, your Excellency, at once." Erestor rose and strode from the chamber, trying to get a grip on his growing fear and confusion, to regain that steady place of cool calculation, but failing. He returned to the keep and went straight to his apartments where he sat at his desk to compose a letter for Celebrimbor's eyes only.

 

The rider left that night for the first leg of the relay, driving his horse hard out of the city gates. As it turned out, the King needn't have bothered, for two days later, a rider arrived, his horse lathered and blown, to deliver the worst news possible from Eregion.

 

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Chapter End Notes

Cobas Haven is mentioned in The History of Middle-earth VII, The Treason of Isengard, "The First Map," page 312. From note 10: In the Etymologies (364 - 365) Quenya kopa 'harbour, bay' was given under the stem KOP, but this entry was replaced by a stem KHOP, whence Quenya hopa, Noldorin hobas, as in Alfobas = Alqualonde. Thus, in the Pandë!verse, Brûn Hobas = Enduring Harborage. Thanks to Russandol for nattering about this!

 

Círdan's recollection of the Six Tribes finds its roots in Saltation, my fic that addresses an alternative take on the Origin Tale of Cuiviénen and provides a foundation for the concept of "Elves of Color" (EOC), not to mention giving a nod to Darwinian evolution (and the Firstborn as a deviation from this natural process).  This also acknowledges the many pan-cultural myths and tales in our primary world of immortal or near-immortal humans.

 

The Primitive Elvish names of the tribes (and their Quenya equivalents) are as follows:

 

Minjâi = Minyar (Vanyar)

Tatjâi = Tatyar (Noldor)

Neljâi = Nelyar (Teleri)

Cantjâi = The Fourths (although they consider themselves "Firsts,"  and accurately, too)

Lepenjâi = The Fifths

Enekjâi = The Sixths

 

Again, many thanks to Elleth for linguistic assistance and for lively discussion!

 

Here is my crude, speculative map of the migrations of The Six Tribes from Cuiviénen, based on Sampsa Rydman's map of Third Age Middle-earth.  One must simply imagine the sunken land mass of Beleriand.

 

This is a desecration of Sampa Rydman's marvelous map, shown below.

 

And another.  I love his work.  Do check out his website: Lindëfirion.

 

 

The pack of spiders that attacked Ballain and Helevair (and apparently possess dual venoms with necrotic and neurotoxic properties) are no doubt spawn of Shelob, who dwells in the Mountains of Shadow in the tunnel that many years hence, Frodo and Sam will enter.  From The Lord of the Rings, The Two Towers, Chapter 9, Shelob's Lair:

There agelong she had dwelt, an evil thing in spider-form, even such as once of old had lived in the Land of the Elves in the West that is now under the Sea, such as Beren fought in the Mountains of Terror in Doriath, and so came to Lúthien upon the green sward amid the hemlocks in the moonlight long ago. How Shelob came there, flying from ruin, no tale tells, for out of the Dark Years few tales have come. But still she was there, who was there before Sauron, and before the first stone of Barad-dûr; and she served none but herself, drinking the blood of Elves and Men, bloated and grown fat with endless brooding on her feasts, weaving webs of shadow; for all living things were her food, and her vomit darkness. Far and wide her lesser broods, bastards of the miserable mates, her own offspring, that she slew, spread from glen to glen, from the Ephel Dúath to the eastern hills, to Dol Guldur and the fastnesses of Mirkwood. But none could rival her, Shelob the Great, last child of Ungoliant to trouble the unhappy world.

 

Many readers will recognize Anansi, a god of West Africa, and a stark counterpoint here to Shelob.   There are a tremendous number of wonderful folktales of Anansi, who is the god of all stories and a trickster.  I could not resist bringing him into the Pandë!verse.  His sons' names come from folklore, and I have used the Akan name (the language of the Ashanti people) 'Thema' (queen) for his daughter.

 

With regard to Elrond's remark about Annatar's scent, please see Driftwood for further elaboration.

 

Of course, thanks to Anansi, more pesky plot bunnies have winked into being. I think Anansi could give old Tom Bombadil a run for his money. ;^)