Along Came an Elf by dalliansss

It was the rudest of treatments, in Turkafinwë’s opinion. He had ventured far enough from heritúra’s lair that he could rest under what pale daylight could be had in the cold, rough lands of Avathar, far south of the Blessed Realm of Aman. It had been some months since the disastrous Hunt led by Maia Wenyawë, a captain of the Vala Oromë. The furthest frontier settlements of the south had begged Oromë for aid regarding the ever-encroaching fell spiders, and so the Hunters were dispatched under the leadership of Wenyawë. Turko had been part of the team, and it just had to be the Hunt where Huan was not with him – his faithful Hound had been injured in their last foray far north and had to recover under the care of the others who got injured in Lórien. 

Which wasn’t to say Turko was incapable of hunting without Huan; he was skilled enough to adapt, but still, if Huan had been around, the hound might have met his demise with the onslaught of the Great Dark Spider that had sprung upon them from one of the dark cliffs in the far ends of the foothills of the Hyarmentir that fringed the furthest south of Aman. 

Captain Wenya had the idea to investigate the heart of the trouble, get a measure of the threat, so the Hunters could report to Oromë and the Vala could accordingly muster enough of a host to drive the Dark Spider out. 

Well, that went exceedingly well-in Turko’s opinion.

They had underestimated the threat, and nobody paid mind to him once he started muttering about how fell and thick the Darkness was amongst the foothills, until it was too late. Many of Oromë’s hunters were devoured that day by the greatest horror Turko had ever seen – and even one of their lieutenant Maiar had not been spared.

They had tried to flee – at least, until Turko’s stallion was caught by a web and it got pulled right under him, and he fell into one of the worst horseback accidents he had ever experienced.

He’d broken his right leg, and it was only by some miracle of Oromë that the limb had not shattered beyond any hope and catapulted him straight to Mandos.

But he had a problem then, for there he lay in the gray grass, hissing in pain, leg broken, and the Great Spider advanced on him, its chelicerae clicking menacingly. Turko wasn’t sure what made him attempt it, but with adrenaline high he spoke the language of the bees and other insects that made their abode upon Vána’s plants, riffling through all the dialects he knew, until he found spider-speak and begged for his life, saying that he wasn’t much of a meal, hurt as he was, and that it was their fault for encroaching in the Great Spider’s territory.

Against Turko’s wildest imagination, the Great Spider stopped advancing, its chelicerae clicking five times as it appeared to think.

And then she introduced herself.

I am Ungweliantë, it– she– said. What is your name, tiny thing?

Turko, deathly pale from pain and terror, could only stare dumbly up at the great form of the Spider and do a double–no, a triple take as his brain processed the following onslaught of facts: 1) the Great Void Spider was real; 2) the Great Void Spider consumed a Maia of Oromë; 3) the Great Void Spider could understand language, and therefore sentient; 4) the Great Void Spider was female; 5) the Great Void Spider called herself Ungweliantë; 6) he was probably royally fucked, and he was going to die soon; 7) he would find himself in Mandos and when Námo would ask him how he died, he would say, ‘I got eaten by the biggest and evilest spider there is’; 8) he would find out if Námo’s game about the strangest deaths in all Arda was real; 9) he would probably win the jackpot prize – come on, how many elves were dumb enough to break their leg and try to negotiate with a creature that could only come from the Void? None, damn it.

But fast forward to the present.

It was still the rudest of treatments, Turko protested angrily in his mind, as he tried to claw himself free from the bag of Unlight that heritúra had unceremoniously stuffed him into. Where was he? Oh yes, that was right – he ventured far enough from her caverns so he could try to rest under the pale daylight and stretch out his leg, which had been doing well mending, with the help of his Hunter’s kit of many wondrous potions, poultices and salves. 

Turko was minding his own business laying on the gray grass, sleepy and belly full of fruits and nuts – he was halfway between consciousness and true sleep when he heard heritúra’s clicking, and before he knew it she’d scooped him up, up, up– and stuffed him in the bag.

The bag, like the webs of Unlight that heritúra spun about her caves – smothered light and sound, and being inside it was akin to being inside a vacuum – not that Turko had the experience before. 

“Let me out!” He screamed, thrashing against the oddly soft and stretchable darkness pressing against him from all sides. But his voice seemed to die the moment he uttered them, and so Turko could yell and protest as loudly as he could, yet he heard not himself, and the bag simply melded against his form, wobbling, from the outside, probably, as he struggled and thrashed. “Heritúra! This is unacceptable! Let me out!”

But Ungweliantë didn’t respond and kept his bag firmly shut. Turko got the definite sensation that they were moving very fast, and he couldn’t tell where they were going. Thrashing lost its appeal, and he lay there in his encroaching, protective darkness, waiting. Hours seemed to pass – he could not tell; they paused, wherever this was, and it was a long pause and Turko tried to find which way was upright and try to open the bag from the inside, to no avail. 

And then they were moving again, hurrying, hurrying, and he could tell this because he was being jostled about, though the bag remained intact around him. After a long time of the sensation of hurrying they stopped again, and from the bag Turko strained his ears but he heard nothing. 

He could, however, catch the faintest rusty tang of blood, and he struggled anew in his encasing darkness, trying to sniff as hard as he could, again, to no avail.

They were on the move once more.

Wherever this was, the temperature dropped, and in the bag Turko felt cold, cold, cold. He shivered in his bag of Unlight, hugging himself, and though he could not see it, he was certain his breaths would be coming out of his nose and mouth as puffs of white smoke. 

Belatedly, his mind latched onto one particular thought: were they moving across the Helcaraxë?

It could only be the most plausible explanation for the sudden drop in temperature, the way heritúra hurried. But that would mean that she emerged from her lair, forsook the security of her caves and her webs, traversed north and ever northward still, and now– somehow, they were crossing the Grinding Ice! Turko had so many thoughts and questions they pressed from the inside of his skull, giving him an instant migraine.

What could prompt heritúra to forsake her lair? It didn’t fucking make sense.

(And, well, if she emerged from her caves and crossed north, he could only imagine the faces the Valar, the Maiar and the Eldar made as this massive Void Creature made its way across Aman!)

He was shivering in the bag for a good while, and the temperature gradually increased again. Turko, tired from thrashing and remembering he might re-injure his leg if he kept the idiocy up – remained still in his cocoon of Unlight, straining to listen. One thing he had learned the first time heritúra had taken him into her lair was that he could do nothing against the darkness of her Unlight; only she could control it, keep it at bay from affecting him, but vision once inside Unlight was impossible. Absolute darkness. It was terrifying.

A sudden jolt made Turko curse, and he had the definite feeling that heritúra was rearing up, up – he could almost picture her in his mind’s eye, advancing, standing on her two hind legs, rearing up, clicking menacingly– then the bag around him rippled, like the surface of water when a rock was thrown into a still pond, or a lake. Pressure built inside his ears, and Turko instinctively cupped his hands over his ears as he opened and closed his mouth to try to stave off the building pressure against his eardrums.

What was she fighting?

What was happening outside this damn Oromë-forsaken bag?

And then the rippling of his bag stopped. 

“Let me out!” Turko yelled. “Let me out! Let me at them – it – whatever they are! Lady!”

Smell again came to Turko’s nose – and he caught the definite but likewise faint scent of char. What the– is something burning now? What under Manwë’s nose hairs is going on?!

Then they were moving again; again there was this urgent jostling of his bag – did they flee to escape, or were they feeling because she won? He couldn’t tell. He knew though that if whatever Ungoliant was fighting had used fire, they were going to need a lot of fire to terrify her off.

Finally, finally, the world settled in stillness. Turko panted in his enveloping darkness, and then he gave a start as the bag was lowered – and he felt solid ground beneath him. He tried to scramble to his feet just as the bag was finally ripped open, and light assaulted his eyes – and he felt cool, crisp air around him, invading his nose – his lungs – and he took great hungry gulps of it. 

He kept his eyes shut. He had learned quickly, after Ungoliant had nursed him in the darkness of her cave for weeks, to let his eyes adjust as he went from darkness to light. He had not had the prudence the first time Ungoliant let him out of her lair when he’d convinced her he needed to test out the leg, and nearly blinded himself with recklessness. He knew better now.

He only slowly opened his eyes, and even then they stung, and watered. Turko grunted as he blinked several teardrops from his eyes. Now that he was standing, his right leg was hurting, but it wasn’t something bad, something that wouldn’t fade. He eased more weight down his left leg.

“Heritúra, that was incredibly rude of you, I’d have you know,” he complained as he shifted carefully on his feet. “You cannot just grab elves like that and stuff them inside a damn bag! I am not a treat, I am not coin – well, not that you know what coin is, but that is beside the point – I’m not a–”

Finally, Turko turned around. The words died in his throat as he realized just how enormous Ungoliant had gotten. She had not been small by any means, when she first emerged from her lair when their hunting party closed in on her borders. She was the size of a small foothill, but now – now the Great Spider before him was no small foothill. She was a small mountain! Turko let his wide-eyed gaze roam on her larger legs, her larger body – her eyes, one of which was probably already as big as half of him! Yet as he looked at her, really looked, he saw the criss-crossing marks of burns against her body – angry red lines on her flesh. 

So they fled, because she could not overpower…whatever that was.

“.....Oi,” was all Turko could manage to say. His eyes finally rested on her face. “What happened, heritúra?”

Ungoliant clicked her chelicerae in distaste. I helped Traitorous Thing with the Trees, and he promised me Light to eat. So also he promised to give me more Light if I helped him escape, and this I did, but he betrayed me in the end. Fire-Things came, many of them, though I managed to eat two, but I was worried for you, Tittandil. So I fled. She paused. I meant to drop you somewhere safe, but there was no time. I did not think Traitorous Thing would take it well if he saw you.

Turko clutched his head with both hands. “Wait. Wait up, heritúra. I’m mightily confused. I’m very confused. Let’s…let’s do a double take, back from the beginning. Help me understand this step by step, alright? So– who is this Traitorous Thing?”

She clicked several times. I think you Eldar call him Melkor.

Nessa’s teacup tits! Melkor?! What the hell was she doing dealing with Melkor?! 

“Right. So the Dark Vala is in the equation. Heritúra, what do you mean you helped Melkor with the Trees?” Turko asked, still clutching his head.

Ungoliant clicked twice. He said I could eat the Shiny Trees. So I did. They were delicious. He also said I could help myself to the Shiny Drinks. I drank those dry, too.

A whimper – a whine– escaped Turko then. His legs jellied under him, and he found himself sitting down on the grass. Another whine, and he started rocking back and forth where he sat.

Turko, what is wrong, Tittandil? Ungoliant asked in concern, clicking at him.

Turko passed both his hands down his face. He stopped rocking, at least. “Heritúra, let me get this right. Melkor asked for your help, which you gave, and you devoured the Two Trees of Valinor–” Here, he gave a small hysterical chuckle. “And you also drank Varda’s Wells dry– and he betrayed you, of course he did, and now we’re…here, wherever this is.”

Ungoliant clicked once. Usually, Turko found, that meant yes. 

Turko clutched handfuls of his pale blond hair again. He started rocking back and forth once more. “Oh my stars. Oh my stars, can you even imagine the utter ch–. Oh, Ulmo’s merciful waters! Ossë’s unfixable leaks, you devoured the Two Trees of Valinor! Ohhhh, we’re in big trouble. Ohhh, no…..” He moaned. He hugged his knees now and plastered his face onto them.

Ungoliant, great hulking creature of darkness, focused on the lone elf that had dared talk to her, dared befriend her, and dared address her as lady. She could not understand why Turko was upset. She would make Traitorous Thing – Melkor– pay for his deceit, but for now, there was something more important to her now. Turko, her only friend, was upset. And she didn’t understand why.

Turkafinwë Tyelkormo, in his full Hunter’s regalia, was always a sight to behold. He was already tall for an Elda, more Vanya than Noldo with his blond hair that was often styled in thick swathes of braids and pinned up at the back of his head in a crown, so as not to inconvenience him. He wore the fur and pelt of a great lion that day, the lion’s head and mane acting like a hood for him, sitting atop his head. War paint in deep metallic indigo and greens dotted his skin in the swirls and dots and spirals of the hunt, from his neck all the way down to the backs of his hands, signifying his rank among Oromë’s Hunters. After all, he had served the Vala of the Hunt since he was twenty. Another impressive sight beside him was the presence of his silver-furred wolfhound, named Huan, who had been gifted to him as a puppy by Oromë himself. No other Elda could boast of having been held in such high regard by the Vala, enough that he was gifted by a creature created by the Song of the Hunt. 

Elves dotting the streets of Tirion-upon-Túna paused in their tasks and conversation as Turko made his way among them, on his feet, Huan trotting ever by his side, the eyes of the Hound alight, tail wagging eagerly. Turko ignored the scrutiny, though for every nod and greeting sent his way he returned with a nod. He didn’t make his way to his father’s house, but instead took to the street that would take him to the university circle of the elven city, intent on the house of his eldest brother, Maitimo. 

Maitimo’s house was a small, three-floor townhouse with a bright blue roof, all of the windows opened during Laurelin’s hours to let in the light. Curtains, usually of soft, subdued hues, hung from them, fluttering in breezy days. That day, Maitimo’s curtains were of a pale peach hue. 

Turko found that Maitimo’s doors were already open. His brother often had guests and visitors: fellow loremasters and politicians from the three royal courts of the Eldar residing in Valinor. But that day, Maitimo’s house was devoid of the usual crowd, and even their cousin Findarato (who had been a frequent houseguest in Maitimo’s place, for some reason, for several years now) was not present.

“Nelyo!” Turko called. He entered the living area, Huan following after him. Turko looked at his dog and gave him pats and scratches. “Ready for another adventure, huh? Another? Another? Who is a good hound? Who is? Yes, you! That’s you!” Huan licked at his face and Turko laughed, further messing with his friend by playfully (but gently) tugging on Huan’s ears.

He heard a clatter from the second floor of the house, and soon Maitimo was descending the staircase, clad in a worn tunic converted into loungewear. He had fresh dots of ink on his fingers. “Turko! Is it that season already?”

The third son of Fëanáro straightened up, and, grinning widely, held his arms open as if asking for a hug from his eldest brother. Maitimo chuckled, stepped forward, and indeed embraced his brother. 

“As your eldest brother, I send you off to your Hunt with the blessings of our House, and pray to Iluvatar of your safe and prosperous return,” Maitimo says, invoking the words of the Hunt’s traditional send-off. 

“I promise to return safely and prosperously – else return with my weapons in honorable repose,” Turko echoed the traditional, age-old reply as he squeezed his brother in the hug, and, feeling playful, he even lifted Maitimo off his feet. His eldest brother laughed.

“Turko,” Maitimo began, awkwardly clinging to him. “I do not understand why you keep asking me for your Hunt blessings, when Atar is perfectly alive. As is Amil.”

Turko fell silent, smile tempering. He indulged himself for some more minutes, hefting his brother up and hugging Maitimo this way. Eventually, he set his brother back onto his feet – not that Maitimo was a small elf by any means; he was still the tallest out of all the seven sons of Fëanáro. 

“If Atar would have his way, I would cease being part of the Great Hunt,” Turko replied eventually, pulling back from his brother. He looked at Huan, who had now curled up by Maitimo’s tea table. “Long have I ascribed to our family’s beliefs, and the Hunt have never begrudged me for it, nor does Oromë. Yet Atar would have me betray my old friend, for the simple reason he is Ainu. I am a grown Elf, Nelyo. I can decide many things on my own, else the Release Atar granted me when I attained majority is naught but empty words.”

Maitimo watched his brother. Turko had now started pacing, his hands slack by his sides. 

“There is nothing wrong in befriending the Ainur,” Turko continued. “I agree– I have always agreed, that they are supposed to be our mentors, our guides – to teach us much if we are willing to learn – yet they also look upon us as their own mentors. Oromë has long told me he can sit for Ages to learn everything about Incarnates, yet in the end, little of it makes sense to him. And he does not seek to be worshiped by me! No, never. He has never asked me that. You know this.”

There were things Maitimo could say to counter his brother’s words, but he had long promised he would not be like their father, blinded by paranoia and pride. So he stayed his tongue. 

“Come. I shall at least feed you before you go to the northern reaches of Aman.”

==

Two teams of Hunters were dispatched by Oromë under the lead of two Maiar captains, Wenyawë and Fairë. They pushed to the extreme north, where the Light of the Two Trees reached but faintly and the terrible cold of the Helcaraxë could be heard as shrill winds. There had been an anomalous number of Ice Giants traversing the borders, and though the power of the Valar kept them at bay, Ice Giants gathering and hammering against a spot of the barriers could prove to be disastrous if left unchecked. 

The Ice Giants were creatures of great stature, akin to Yavanna’s Ents, but instead of leaf and bark they were shards of ice and freezing cold. Beneath the plates of ice that made their skin and armor both was blue, primordial flesh, which could be pierced by hot arrows and blades. Still, getting that close to land a killing blow was the challenge, and when the two groups of Hunters arrived, they found a dozen Ice Giants battering at an ancient barrier stone set by Aulë upon the ground. The barrier hummed with unseen Song, and Wenyawë and Fairë enchanted the weapons of all the hunters and wove protection and warmth around them with their Singing, and the fighting began.

Turko wasn’t sure if they were there for days – time took on an odd shape while in the midst of a ritual-induced battle frenzy, amped up by the power of hunter Maiar in enchantment. Time slowed when Huan got injured, however – the hound’s left rear leg getting caught in an Ice Giant’s sweeping blow, the limb freezing. His friend’s pained whine was the only thing that pulled Turko back, back from his battle frenzy, and he ran to Huan’s side, rescuing his hound, lifting him onto his shoulders and racing back to safety just as Captain Wenyawë sounded the notes of victory on their trumpet, the last Ice Giant having just been felled.

Huan and three other hounds of the hunting party were injured, and two perished. Wenyawë and Fairë used their power to take the group back to the Woods of Oromë, bending time and space around everybody. Vána was able to thaw the frozen limbs and keep at bay the toxins from the freezing nicks and scratches on the hunters and their hounds, but she could not do more for them, and those with injuries, elves and animals, were thereafter quickly transported to Lórien to be under Estë’s care.

While he was injured with nicks and cuts, Turko could never stay still in Lórien, and after one of Estë’s Maiar had reluctantly given him the green, he packed up his belongings and went to see Huan. His hound had not recovered yet and had to heal fully, and Turko gave his dog a great many pets and scratches, telling him to just follow him home to Eldamar when he got well. Huan let out a last reluctant whine, eyes on his friend and master.

Turko, in turn, gave his friend a last wink before he left Lórien to turn back to Tirion.

==

Carnistir, who had just come from business with the Weavers’ Guild of which he was the master, had just returned to the townhouse he owned in Tirion and was not surprised to find his older brother Turko’s boots outside his door. He had a feeling this particular sibling would show up one of these days, and he pushed into his own home and was brought to a stop by the hallway, the scent of simmering stew on a pot over fire greeting his nose.

He’d inhaled – deeply, and could enumerate the ingredients of the dish: deer meat, about six herbs, pepper… Carnistir then closed the door behind him, and shrugged off his cloak. Turko’s own cloak was already hung, and his brother’s bow and quiver of arrows were propped by the wall just beside the hearth, as was his hunting spear and sheathed sword. 

“I heard your last Hunt almost went badly,” Carnistir called into his house.

Turko’s blond head peeked at him from the kitchen. “Almost. Huan is still in Lórien.”

“Why did you leave him?” Carnistir asked. He got out of his own boots and padded into the kitchen in his socks. True to his thoughts, Turko had a large pot of deer meat stew simmering over the fire.

“I got work here, and anyway it’s not like I leave him often,” Turko countered.

Carnistir hummed and moved about the kitchen, taking up the heavy plates Curufin had made for everybody, and began setting the table.

“Turko,” said Carnistir as he looked for cutlery next. “How much did you earn from this latest hunt?”

“Don’t know,” the other elf replied. “I told the household manager to just send the money directly to you or Curufin. The maia made me sign papers.”

Carnistir paused. “Why directly to us? It should first go through you, it is your compensation, and you must at least be aware of how much you earn after every hunt.”

Turko waved his brother’s concerns away. “You and Curufin handle all my money. Bother with it.”

Carnistir rolled his eyes in consternated exasperation and dropped the topic.

==

Turko rarely lingered in Tirion. After resting for a few days at Carnistir’s townhome, he visited his parents Fëanáro and Nerdanel at their manse, where aside from themselves the only other residents were his youngest brothers Telufinwë and Pityafinwë. For his Amil he brought home sanitized and enchanted ice shards, materials for her sculpting projects. For his Atar he brought some ores which could only be found by the borders of Aman with the Helcaraxe. For the twins he brought pelts and small trophies from his hunts, for Telvo and Pityo were fond of the outdoors as much as he was. 

“Are you avoiding me, Turkafinwë?” Fëanáro asked him that evening after supper, and he lingered in the kitchen washing the pots and pans, elbow-deep as he was in soap suds that smelled of lemon peel.

“I’m not avoiding you, Atar,” Turko replied easily, though inside, his gut clenched momentarily, as it always did when he was about to have an unpleasant conversation. “Who can avoid you these days? None I think.”

He was aware of Fëanáro trying to burn a hole into his back by the intensity of his stare. Turko shifted subtly from foot to foot. It had been a while since he had been an elfling, yet even as a grown man his father was capable of making him uneasy.

“Do you not think, Turko, that your place should be here in Tirion, with your family, your proper status, and not…putting your life needlessly at risk because of the Valar?” 

He stopped scrubbing the gravy pot. Turko held his breath and shut his eyes, and in his head began to count very slowly from one to one thousand. It worked, and his temper, just crackling beneath the surface, ebbed down. He resumed scrubbing the gravy pot, scowling as he felt some rough, oily spots still. 

“Atar, you know that Oromë has ever been one of my oldest friends,” He says instead, reiterating the explanation he has given over the years. “He may not ask me anything I do not consent to. I do it because I love the outdoors, and the thrill of the hunt, and I adore going around Aman with Huan and my other dogs by my side.” There was a bit of quiet. “What do you need from me when you have sons like Nelyo and Carnistir and Curvo? I care not for politics. I do not want a wife and children who will just entrap me here in this city. I love mine own company, Atar. Leave me be, and let me keep my peace.”

The heavy scouring pad he set aside back onto the holder, then Turko opened the faucet to begin rinsing the gravy pot free of soap. He heard Fëanáro leave, and only when he was certain that he was truly alone did he let out the frustrated exhale from his chest.

==

Turkafinwë had taken on another Great Hunt after that conversation, this time venturing to the wild, far south of Aman to evaluate the growing threat to the frontier settlements of the Eldar past Mount Hyarmentir. At around this time, the drawing of the sword between Fëanáro and Nolofinwë took place, and the incident reached all the way to Taniquetil, to glittering Ilmarin which was Manwë’s abode. Before the Valar announced Fëanáro’s exile, Oromë the great hunter had already received word of the disastrous failure of his errand in the far south. The Vala then promptly sent his wife Vána to stall for time before the exile was announced, as he exerted all efforts to assemble a rescue party in the hopes of finding at least Turko’s hröa, if indeed his best elven hunter had perished in the encounter with the creature Ungoliant.

The two parties sent by Oromë recovered nobody, and this time, the Great Hunter himself went to Taniquetil, to beseech Manwë to delay the decree of Feanaro’s exile, since the House of Finwë was facing another tragedy. Manwë, of course, inquired what tragedy the Hunter-Vala was speaking of, and thus Oromë was constrained to tell the Lord of the Air the truth. 

“The evil in the far south of Aman has festered too long,” Oromë continued, dismayed. “If my Hunters cannot rid those wildlands of the primordial void creatures, then it shall be up to me and Tulkas to do the errand – we cannot risk any more lives. I pray to you, Manwë, to stall the sentence of Fëanáro – let him have time to process this blow, this is his son, born of his flesh and blood.”

Manwë, of course, was moved to pity. He considered long Oromë’s plea in silence. Eventually, he assented with a grave nod. “Then the announcement of Fëanáro’s sentence we shall hold in abeyance. The House of Finwë may grieve together in the aftermath of this incident. A year, or two, we shall give – before the decision of the Valar sitting in Máhanaxar be made known to all.”

==

But Melkor, who ever listened in the dark, heard tell of this news – the demise of one of Fëanáro’s precious sons. Realizing this was too great an opportunity to pass, he then took on the shape and form of one of Oromë’s lesser hunters, weary with toil, and appeared at the doorstep of Fëanáro’s manse in Tirion. There he left a note informing Fëanáro and Nerdanel of their son’s demise. 

On the same day, before Telperion’s light waxed full, chaos erupted at the household. Before the Mingling, Fëanáro was already on the road toward Finwë’s palace, maddened with grief, clutching the note. He informed his father then of the death, and then before Laurelin’s light could begin to bloom, he was already out of Tirion, on his fastest horse and with a spare steed, intent on charging right into Oromë’s Woods to confirm the news from the Vala himself. 

So great was Fëanáro’s grief that he rode the horses to their deaths. At the borders of Oromë’s woods he screamed for the Vala to come out, and the Maiar emerged first and attempted to pacify the greatest of the elves. Then Oromë emerged with Vána his wife, and Oromë was filled with dread – how could Fëanáro had come upon the news, when he had yet been planning to tell him of the news with utmost care?

But Fëanáro was mad with grief, and demanded if the news was true.

Oromë knew he could not lie. He confirmed the news, and tried to explain that he had sent his Maiar and a fresh group of his hunters to try to find Turko’s body, but Fëanáro would not listen.

The accusation rang in the air.

“YOU KILLED MY SON! THE VALAR KILLED MY SON! THE VALAR SENT MY SON TO HIS DEATH! AI! AI, AI! YOU KILLED MY BOY!”

Melkor, who had been at that moment nearby and unclad of any fana, listened to the fell words and curses that escaped Fëanáro’s lips. He fled as shadow, and in his mind his plans had just gained further impetus. Perhaps now this matter should erase the doubt of the Noldor who still lingered in uncertainty – that Aman was definitely a prison, and that the Valar shall sacrifice them all when needed, just like how Orome tossed away Turkafinwë Tyelkormo’s life, and did not even exert any true effort to secure his hröa back for a proper burial. 

~0~

Turko twitched awake. A groan escaped his lips, and he rolled onto his back, and opened his eyes. His vision was met with pitch darkness, and his memory came as a slow rush, reminding him about the events just a couple of hours ago. He and Ungoliant had crossed back to Beleriand, and that this crossing had happened after Melkor coaxed Ungoliant to consume the Two Trees of Valinor. He had taken a while to regain his bearings and wrap his mind around the fact that he was the first of the Noldor to return to the eastern lands. 

And I had always wanted to have an adventure like grandfather Finwë did, Turko thought as he lay motionless in the darkness of Ungoliant’s new lair. They had traveled further east, and she had found some nice mountains and there spun her webs of Unlight. Mine own adventure turned out to be very, drastically different.

He sat up. He wondered if he could hunt – he had no food. Blindly, Turko fumbled around and he felt his hunter pack. He took out the wrapped lembas, and consumed a whole cracker before he stowed away the rest back to his satchel. He felt around – and found about ten more bundles at the ready. He could stretch it if he started rationing, and he needed to get some sense of direction here in the east, know where fertile hunting grounds were, or at least some fruit trees and root crops for starters. 

“Heritúra,” he called to the dark.

Somewhere by his left he heard Ungoliant clicking her chelicerae in answer.

You are awake, tittandil, she replied. You were making pained sounds in your sleep, and I was worried.

Turko gingerly pushed himself onto his feet. “Lady, I need to venture out of this place. I cannot rely on lembas alone to feed me. I need to find fruiting trees, or edible plants. And then when my leg is convinced it has had enough healing, I need to hunt.”

There is a great forest a few steps away from where we are, Ungoliant clicked. Perhaps tittandil can find fruit trees there.

A few steps…Turko frowned in the dark. What could very well be a few steps for Ungoliant could be a journey for him for days. 

Turko, can I help? Ungoliant asked through a series of clicks.

“Well, uh, if you could take me to the borders of your new lair, I’d appreciate it,” Turko replied as he slung his hunter’s pack over his shoulder, then fumbled around for his spear, bow and arrows.. “And then I’d ask you to wait for me here. I’d like to take a look around. If there are any settlements, if they’re welcoming.” Turko had a wry guess that, wherever this way, a giant walking darkness wouldn’t be welcomed anywhere.

He felt himself being lifted. Turko relaxed into the hold and closed his eyes, and soon Ungoliant was placing him carefully down onto his feet. 

Be careful, tittandil. I will await you, she tells him, clicking, and Turko could tell she was retreating. Return to me?

He stood there for a moment, eyes shut. Slowly, slowly, he opened his eyes to let them adjust to the presence of starlight. Ungoliant had dropped in the midst of what looked like a valley: he looked about, and saw shadowy mountains behind him, and up ahead the faint outlines of a great forest. He could hear the rush of a river by his right, and smell the water as well. 

This way, then, I believe, Turko thought to himself as he made his way toward what was the River Mindeb. 

==

Melian, Maia and Queen of Doriath, joined her husband’s council that day with ill news. Bauglir, Great Enemy, had returned from the Uttermost West. Not only this, but the return of Bauglir had also brought with it a thick darkness that had settled by the mountains south of Dorthonion, and the gloom there had gotten so thick and impenetrable that the Marchwardens started to refer to the area as Ered Gorgoroth. 

“There is something else,” Cúthalion, Chief of the Marchwardens, reported after the discussion concerning Bauglir’s return had dwindled down. “My scouts and patrols have reported that the new darkness surrounding the mountains of Dorthonion is so thick and choking that no light could penetrate it. It is ill-advised to send anymore scouting parties, my King and Queen. Only Amarthor and Hwiniriel survived of the last group, and until now the healers are still working with them. Their terror was very great.”

“I shall visit them in the healing houses myself,” said Melian. “Lúthien shall be with me. Fear nor, Captain Beleg. We shall aid your surviving scouts.”

“Thank you, my Queen.”

Thingol brushed his right hand over his face. “The return of Bauglir upon these lands is very concerning. Word must be sent to Círdan. There could be something else chasing after the Enemy on his return here. We need to be prepared.”

Mablung nodded to his king’s words. He and Beleg exchanged some urgent whispers.

“Captain Beleg says they have captured an elf by the banks of the River Mindeb,” said Mablung. “This elf, who speaks not a word of our tongue, has Treelight in his eyes.”

Thingol looked up so fast. “What?”

“Tis true, my King,” said Beleg. “He wore the raiment of a hunter, and had the weapons beside. He was limping upon his right leg and had been grilling some fish by the riverside when we came upon him.”

“Injured? I hope you treated them with the care they need,” said Melian.

“He is under heavy guard but is presently with our healers, my Queen,” Beleg supplied. 

Melian and Thingol exchanged a look. Thingol gave a short nod. Then Melian arose and the lords and marchwardens arose with her. 

“I shall go to the healing houses,” said the queen. She turned to one of her handmaidens. “Talathiel, tell Daeron and Lúthien to join me.”

“Yes, my Queen.” The elleth curtsied and departed to obey the instructions.

Nórimion made his way through the city of Alqualondë just as Telperion’s silver light blazed its zenith. Upon his cloak he sported the Fëanorian star in gold-thread embroidery. He had journeyed tirelessly from Tirion-upon-Túna, ordered by Prince Maitimo to inform his brothers Princes Makalaurë and Carnistir about their brother Tyelkormo’s demise, and to relay upon them the message that they were needed in Tirion at the soonest possible time. 

He reached the humble, seaside villa of Prince Makalaurë first. Standing just outside the front door, Nórimion allowed himself to take a deep breath before he reached for the heavy brass knocker installed there, finely-crafted with the detailing of seahorses – and used it to knock thrice upon the door, the banging sound echoing louder than it should have in the silence of that street. Nórimion gave it a full minute when nobody answered the door before he took up the knocker again, this time making sure his blows carried urgency. He stepped back just as he saw light flicker to life from one of the windows on the second floor, and he could soon hear muffled footsteps from the depths of the house.

Half a second later, the door creaked open and Prince Makalaurë, dark hair hastily smoothed down and a thick brown robe over his person, peeked out at him, squinting. Nórimion raised his lighted lamp higher.

“Are you mad, man?” Makalaurë demanded of him. “Why are you making such a racket at this hour?”

“Apologies, Highness,” said Nórimion. “Your father Prince Fëanáro sent an urgent message for you to leave this instance for Tirion.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Your Highness, this concerns your brother, Prince Tyelkormo.”

Makalaurë seemed to wake a bit more at that. “What? Why? What happened to Turko?” He demanded warily, stepping out completely and closing the door behind him. He studied Nórimion with wariness.

“Your Highness, your father and mother received word that your brother was killed in his latest Hunt, and therefore Prince Fëanáro requires all of you his sons to attend to him and Princess Nerdanel in Tirion. In all haste, my lord.”

Makalaurë stared in baffled incomprehension at Nórimion. But the messenger bowed and was already turning heel, intent now on to Prince Carnistir’s home, which was about five streets away.

Behind Makalaurë, the door creaked open once more and his Vanya wife, Princess Silrièn, stepped out to stand beside him. “Melda? What is it, what did they need? Káno?”

It was as if she doused him with cold water. Makalaurë turned to his wife, his face as white as paper. “Silrièn…wake the girls. Wake–wake them. Pack only what you need, I…we…we leave for Tirion.”

“What happened?” Silrièn asked, her hands finding her husband’s right arm. “Káno?”

“Turko…” Makalaurë turned to her, still confused, still stunned. Mind refusing to wrap around the news he had just received. “Turko…perished.”

Silrièn could only clap her hands over her mouth. Then she was already turning, flinging the door open, already calling for their eldest daughters.

==

Nórimion had just rounded the street, and he already found Carnistir standing by his own doorway, a navy-blue robe over his person. The ellon reached his liege-lord’s son, and bowed. 

“Prince Carnistir, your father and mother need you in Tirion in all haste,” was all Nórimion needed to say, for Carnistir’s abilities with ósanwe were famed in Aman alongside that of his cousin Princess Artanis. 

“Did they find a body?” was Carnistir’s query. Behind him, his household was already moving around in all haste – the windows were lit from the inside, and Nórimion could hear Carnistir’s wife Princess Tirnelwen giving quick orders to their son and daughter. 

“No, my lord,” Nórimion replied.

“Come, Nórimion,” said Carnistir after a long, thoughtful silence, stepping back and gesturing to his house. “Come inside. Eat, rest and have a drink. My family and I will need two hours before we can be ready, and you better take that chance to rest.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Nórmion followed the fourth son of Fëanáro inside his own house. Princess Tirnelwen made him sit, plying him with a hot meal and a drink. Around them, Carnistir and his two children were moving around with purpose, readying small satchels of belongings to take with them to Tirion. 

“Would you risk a nap?” Tirnelwen asked him, her words made lively by her Telerin accent.

“No, Highness, it will just give me a headache. I shall be alright. Please,” Nórimion replied. 

Vorindo, Carnistir’s son, exited the house to ready the wagon. 

==

Laurelin had barely begun to brighten and the two princes and their families were already on the road from Alqualondë to Tirion. Their wives and children were in the wagons, and the princes on their horses alongside Nórimion. Nórimion told them what he knew so far – that a hunter of Oromë left a note; that Fëanáro had ridden all the way to Oromë’s Woods when he received news and there confirmed the terrible affair. The entire royal family had converged around the House of Fëanáro with this new tragedy, the princes setting aside their grievances and difficulties with one another. Tirion-upon-Túna had been in a somber state of things since then. 

Carnistir did not join the discussion much. As they journeyed toward Tirion he unfurled his mind, trying to reach Turko, simply because for someone with his skill and ability, he needed to be able to confirm the fact of death first. 

Death felt strange to those gifted with ósanwe. It was the definite sensation of an abandoned place; coupled with the knowledge that that place had been previously occupied. He visualized it as a drawer or a small room: if someone was alive then that drawer or room was filled with their life and presence – sensations that the person was around. With Nelyo it was the sensation of books and scrolls, a library well-organized and mildly cluttered. With Káno it was a room always with the aftertaste of music in the air, a chamber with recently-abandoned musical instruments. Turko’s presence was the familiar clutter of a kitchen after he had cooked his best dish, his crockpot hunter’s stew – with hunting knives left on the table, and a bow and a quiver of arrows left on an empty bench. The dead did not have such a presence; there was only empty space, free of any individuality and presence, just the gaping void where there was once a life. Time did not dull the edges of that void, nor fill it – it existed always, palpable pockets of shadow that nothing could fill. Carnistir knew it. He was familiar with it, because in Fëanáro’s mind, one such gap existed, as raw as the first day Míriel’s presence left it vacant.

While death to the Eldar was temporary, it did not blunt the pain or shock of the loss. Carnistir knew this so well; he was among the few who had to shield their minds every day against the emotions and thoughts of those around them. 

So he reached.
Reached for Turko, straining himself. 

What he found was the same empty void akin to the one Fëanáro had been nursing for a long while now, Turko’s presence gone, with only the lingering sensation there of the fact that he had been there. Carnistir strained some more – determined to find something wrong with this newfound vacancy in his perception, determined to–

His concentration was broken by Makalaurë’s hand closing in on his left arm. 

“Carnistir!”

He gave a start. He had been tipping dangerously forward on his horse, almost fallen. Ai! A grown elf tipping off his own horse!

“I’m alright, Káno,” Carnistir muttered, straightening up on his saddle.
“Will you get a grip!” Makalaurë scolded him. “The last thing we all need is another unfortunate–!” He let the sentence trail into an embittered silence.

==

When they reached Tirion, they found the city gates opened, and a great procession of people flying the standard of Fëanáro’s house – their house – milling out of the city. Makalaurë and Carnistir urged their horses forward, and Nórimion too, pushing past the great number of Noldor now leaving the city – many on horseback, many with wagons. 

“What is going on?!” Makalaurë shouted to his brother. “Why–?!”

Carnistir unfurled his mental barriers a little. He plucked invisibly at the thoughts of the elves milling past them – and he was able to stitch the beginnings of a picture that spurred on this massive exodus from Tirion: Fëanáro had spoken at the court of Mindon Eldaliéva, about how his son Tyelkormo, long a friend of the Valar, had been forsaken by them when he had been out and about on an errand at the behest of Oromë. He had spoken too of the Great Hunt, where the Maiar of Oromë and very few Eldar were deemed valiant and skilled enough to join, and how this group was used to hunt down the fell beasts that lurked in the shadows of Aman, where the Light of the Two Trees could not reach. How Tyelkormo fell under such an errand, and Oromë did not even bother to bring back Tyelkormo’s hröa, or made an effort to. 

More thoughts surfaced for Carnistir to read, and read he did.

A week earlier, Finwë had already removed himself to the northern fortress city of Formenos, a protest against the actions of the Valar. Somehow Námo was also mixed in, though very few knew the details of why that should be so, and therefore Carnistir could not follow on those thoughts, and thus the knowledge they offered was incomplete and left hanging. Whatever it was, it was not just Oromë; Námo was certainly involved now was well, as well as Manwë, and something else transpired that was probably known only to the Royal Family, and this enraged Fëanáro enough to speak impassioned words by the court of Mindon. And, whatever else was said there, many Noldor now rallied under Fëanáro’s cause – bannermen and houses under Ñolofinwë and Arafinwë’s lead, even. 

Carnistir, Makalaurë, Nórimion and the two wagons struggled against the milling crowd, but then they managed to reach Finwë’s palace anyway, where messengers and minor lords were harrying to and fro in great haste. As Makalaurë grabbed the nearest messenger to inquire from him, Carnistir had dismounted his horse and went into the palace, mind unfurling a little more.

His uncles and aunts were in the great councilroom, as well as their spouses. He could sense Findekáno and Findaráto as well as Aikanáro and Angaráto, and Turukáno. His brothers Maitimo and Atarinkë were there as well. 

The double doors of the council room gave way when Carnistir pushed against it with both hands. His father was the first person he saw, seated at the chair closest to the double doors. His siblings surrounded him: Aunts Findis and Írimë, Uncles Ñolofinwë and Arafinwë. Fëanáro was holding his head with both hands. 

The haze of grief and irrational rage hit Carnistir like walking right against an invisible wall. His father’s thoughts battered against his mental barriers, thus: receiving the note from Oromë’s hunter, riding through the night toward Oromë’s Woods – the horses dying, Oromë emerging to confirm the news. Fëanáro shouting the accusations; a blur of days afterward, then Námo Mandos summoned from his Halls by Manwë the Elder King. Námo saying Tyelkormo’s fëa had not entered the Halls. Yet Nerwen confirmed what Carnistir had just confirmed a few days ago: that Turko was definitely dead, and nowhere. Horror as Fëanáro dared to say that whatever killed Turko in the shadows of Aman, it had consumed his fëa as well. Anger, a wave of terrible  grief flowed from Fëanáro then, as accusations flew from him anew – that the Valar dared use the Eldar for such a task, and concealed such a consequence from them. That Aman was not the paradise the Valar had misrepresented it to be, if fell beasts from the Primal Void lurked ever in its shadows, and these beasts could inflict a final death that not even the fëa escaped. 

Carnistir staggered at the onslaught of emotion from his father. He felt sick, and his gut twisted inside him. Nausea attacked him from all sides, and he would have fallen, if not for his eldest brother Maitimo catching him. They looked at each other, and he saw grief too, and horror in Maitimo’s perfect silver-gray eyes. Carnistir reached for him, and they embraced. 

The Noldor had then decided to leave Tirion, and unbeknownst to them, by his house in Valmar, Melkor knew exactly what was going on, and the dark Vala thought that this had gone better than what he had originally planned.

~0~

Turko slowly found his way back to consciousness with a groan. He cracked open his blue eyes and the first thing he saw was the fair and beautiful face of an elleth so lovely for one wild moment he stared dumbfounded and confused, wondering what had merited him being brought to Ilmarin to be tended by Varda herself. But then his mind was quick to remind him about the past few days (or weeks? Months?) – that he was no longer in Aman, but in Endorë, having crossed the Helcaraxë in Ungoliant’s bag of Unlight, and that he had temporarily taken leave of his companion so he could learn the land, or at least the lands nearest to them at that time, and look for some food supplies of fruit or grain considering he was in no shape yet to hunt game, with his half-healed leg. 

But the elleth. 

Truly she was the most beautiful woman Turko had ever seen, and he stared at her stunned. She stared back – she had soft waves of black hair which seemed littered with miniature diamonds, and her face was small, her lips rosebud, her eyes fixed on him, a clear gray they were, and appeared to him to be lit from the inside by the light of the stars. He saw himself mirrored in her eyes. 

“Erm….could you move your face back?” Turko muttered, and he sank deep into the soft pillows beneath his head. He had spoken in Quenya, and his initial amazement at seeing the beautiful elleth had faded for discomfiture. He did not know her, and she was so close. 

Incomprehension dawned on her lovely face. She opened those pink lips and spoke words – and Turko couldn’t understand a thing. His frown deepened, although his Eldarin mind attuned to languages had started latching onto the syllables and sounds. Again the elleth inched closer, and Turko jumped back with alarm – and he toppled right off the bed with a stunned shout. He crashed onto the floor.

There were several voices that exclaimed in alarm. One, the beautiful elleth with miniature diamonds in her hair – then three others clad in the whites and golds of the robes of healers. An ellon with dark hair and clad in a tunic of deep greens also appeared, eyeing him warily – and behind him – was a Maia, clad in an elven feminine fana, with long waves of black hair that reached the floor. Turko’s eyes were drawn to the Maia – what was a Maia doing here, in Endorë, clad like a queen? – and at that moment he felt the Ainu lady gently brush against his mind.

Hail and well met, Turkafinwë Tyelkormo, her voice, akin to the singing of nightingales, echoed in his thoughts gently. I am Melian, Maia of Vána and Estë, and Queen of Doriath. You are in my husband’s realm in Menegroth, at the healing houses here, and you are safe here, if only you should calm down and heed my counsel, and answer some of my queries.

Turko inclined his head, his gaze never leaving Melian’s radiant face. I thank you, Lady Melian. Though I can say less for your scouts, though I understand their wariness, for who shall not be startled when a strange elf ends up by their borders? 

He relaxed. The elleth – who he now realizes resembles Melian, is by his side and helping him get up. Turko gently brushed aside her hands, and he stood up on his own. Another soft startlement hit him then; his leg was no longer smarting, and felt as it did before he had broken it. Gingerly, he put his weight upon it. There was no pain, indeed, and he felt now that he was truly well, and with renewed vigor. 

Again he turned to Melian. “Thank you, my lady, for aiding me.” He spoke thus in Quenya, and he was certain Melian would understand.

“You are most welcome, Tyelkormo,” she replied. “These are my healers,” she gestured to the Sindar. “And this is Daeron, the great minstrel of Doriath.” She indicated the dark-haired ellon, who was now making no  move to hide his displeasure of Turko. “And my daughter, Lúthien, Princess of Doriath.”

His gray eyes turned to the beautiful elleth with diamonds in her hair. She smiled at him, and indeed she was the fairest elf – probably even fairer than his cousin Findaráto, who was the fairest elf in Aman, even more than his brother Maitimo. 

Turko bowed awkwardly to the princess, then to Melian and her surly minstrel and her healers.

“If it pleases you, my lady,” he continued in Quenya. “How long have I been unconscious?” His thoughts strayed to Ungoliant. If it had been days, or weeks – or, Ilúvatar forbid, months, then he couldn't stay here in Menegroth any longer.

Melian regarded him, and Turko knew she was aware of his thoughts. “You have been under our care for a week. You have been malnourished for a time, and it is only because of your skill as a Great Hunter of Oromë that your leg didn’t suffer any further damage. Why, Tyelkormo, why such haste?”

He closed his mind, protected his thoughts as discreetly as he was able. He could not afford to be rude, not when the Sindar had aided him with his leg. “My…my companion will be looking for me. You would not want her to come knocking on the doors of Menegroth, my lady. If you could give me some provisions – and a map, a good horse or two, then I will best be out of Doriath and will trouble you and yours any longer.”

Melian parted her lips to answer, but at that moment, her husband Thingol arrived then, accompanied by Mablung and Cúthalion. Melian, Daeron, Lúthien and the healers turned to the king and bowed. Turko did no such thing, though he squared his shoulders and greeted the king of the Sindar as his host – a hand over his heart, then extended forth toward Thingol. Thingol regarded him with dark eyes, the irises of which glowed with Treelight. 

“I greet you, Turkafinwë Tyelkormo,” Thingol spoke in Quenya. “And welcome you to Menegroth in Doriath. My wife and queen informed me about your circumstances, and how my Marchwardens have found you. But a question remains to be asked – how is it that a Ñoldo has found his way onto the shores of Endorë?”

It was a good thing Turko managed to keep his mental barriers intact. But how was he supposed to answer? My friend put me in a bag and took me along while she and Melkor fled back onto these lands. How fast would that warrant Thingol’s wrath? Ten seconds? Probably.

“My friend and I were fleeing,” he says, a half-truth. Ungoliant, however terrifying she was, was his friend. “And…we had nowhere else to go but east. Back to these lands.”

An imperceptible thing passed through Thingol’s Treelit eyes. “And how did you flee here onto these shores, Tyelkormo?”

“I know not,” he says. “I was unconscious. When I regained mine consciousness, we were already here.”

Thingol started to pace, eyes on him. 

“Bauglir has also recently returned to these lands,” says the Doriathrim King. “And a fell darkness has settled beyond our northern borders, claiming the southern slopes of Dorthonion. Would you happen to know anything about these?”

A frown slowly surfaced on Turko’s features. It was an accusation, no matter how subtle. Rules of hospitality be damned, why the fuck was this pompous Teler accusing him of bringing Melkor back onto these–?

Melian subtly stepped between them, resting a fair hand onto her husband’s chest. The pair exchanged a look, and Thingol allowed himself to subside. Lúthien looked between her mother and father. Daeron, however, continued to frown darkly at Turko.

“There will be a time for further queries, o king,” said Melian. “Our guest has just regained consciousness. He will need to regain further bearings.”

“I need to leave,” Turko said. “Please just give me a horse, and provisions, and a map, and I had best be out of Menegroth, out of your kingdom. I need not stay here to inconvenience you all. I am a Hunter of Oromë, and I can fend for myself.”

Thingol gently brushed Melian aside. He looked at Turko now with a renewed perspective. “A Hunter of Oromë? Ah yes. I have seen your effects, and my wife indeed confirmed that your supplies were made in Valinor, and only the Maiar of Oromë would be capable of formulating many of your concoctions. This, at least, is the truth.”

A fresh surge of annoyance reared up inside Turko. How dare this pompous fish-elf go through my effects? But then– he told himself quickly. It made sense. There was no need to add to his own building temper to exacerbate the situation. He ducked in his head in answer. “Then this means, King, that I am not an enemy of Doriath. Ever have I ridden alongside my friend Oromë in Valinor.”

Thingol and Melian looked at each other, and Turko knew they were conversing in ósanwe, in the privacy of their marital bond. Then Thingol subsided completely, nodded at him, and swept out of the healing house, Mablung and Cúthalion at his heels. 

“I am afraid you will have to stay with us some more in Menegroth, Tyelkormo,” said Melian, returning to him. “It is only fair for us to ask you our questions, in exchange for the care of our healers and your shelter here. Lúthien will guide you toward your guest suites – the healing houses are a poor accommodation for a visitor.” That said, she left as well, no doubt trailing after her husband.

Shit, Turko thought. Heritúra will be looking for me if I take too long to come back. These Sindar won’t like it when she comes knocking. Damn it. Hope she can be patient for a bit more.

“Tyelkormo?” came a soft voice beside him.

He gave a small start and turned to Lúthien, who was now looking at him with her big, gray eyes. She made a gesture. Follow. Follow me. She seemed to say. Ah, damn it, language barrier. He gave a wary nod. She smiled beautifully at him and started leading the way, Daeron taking up his place behind Turko as the three of them left. 

==

Ungoliant, nestled in the ever-growing darkness by Ered Gorgoroth, clicked her chelicerae in thought. It had been some time since tittandil left. While she recognized that he was a hunter and very well capable of looking after himself, still, compared to her nature as a creature of the Primal Void, he was too fragile in her opinion. He didn’t have a satisfactory exoskeleton; could not weave webs of Unlight, and his weapons were flimsy and easily broke, and he had to continuously make new sticks to use them with. He did say she had to wait for him– that he was looking for food; food that didn’t need hunting, because of his damaged leg. 

She felt impatience gnawing at her. She wasn’t yet hungry because of her consumption of Laurelin and Telperion, but once the satiation faded, she would have to hunt again. She kept all her eight eyes turned toward the northern borders of Doriath, just across where she had established her new lair. From her vantage point she could see the glimmers of the Girdle of Melian, and Ungoliant knew that if tittandil did not emerge soon, she would cross the tiny patch of land that lay between her lair toward the forest, eat the light barrier and look for him there. 

It was only because Turko asked her to stay put that she did. In truth, she didn’t much trust this new land; she wouldn’t trust anywhere that Traitorous Thing lived, though right now he was very far away. But there was another one like him, living in those enchanted woods across from her, hiding behind the light barrier. A smaller one, but essentially the same in that it too was made of light…light that forever stoked Ungoliant’s unending hunger. 

What if this light thing has tittandil? Ungoliant wondered to herself. Nobody would withhold tittandil from her. She had claimed him as her own when he succeeded in winning her friendship. She would aid him in whatever need, and woe to those who would harm him, or withhold him from her care. If this Light Thing did restrain tittandil…well, the tiny things living in those enchanted woods better be ready for her. 

The gigantic Void Spider seemed to sigh. She could wait. She promised Turko she would wait, and she would be patient. A true hunter could wait however long it took for prey to come. Still, once her satiation started to ebb and he had not yet returned to her, then she would come looking for him.

Melkor, Vala of Change and Duality, fled south of Aman just as the Valar were turned the other way, anxiously watching the departure of the Noldor from Tirion-upon-Túna. He unclad himself, shedding his fana, and so proved to be undetected as he flew formless, south, far south, even beyond Mount Hyarmentir, there toward the shadowed peaks where the Lights of Laurelin and Telperion cannot reach, and where creatures from the Primal Void lurked, beings of darkness older than the Ainur themselves, even older than himself, the First of Eru’s Thoughts Incarnate. Nobody, not even the Ainur, knew where these creatures came from. Even Eru Ilúvatar did not answer queries about them. What Melkor knew was this: for as long as Eru existed, the Void existed also, as did the creatures that lurked inside it.

Creatures of the Primal Void were extremely dangerous: they devoured radiance, light, forever attracted to it and forever hungering for it – and once they devoured light, nothing escaped, not even fëar wrought from the Imperishable Flame. Yet they cannot consume the Flame itself, and so Eru can not be harmed by the Primal Void. Where there is Darkness, there is Light: this is the First Balance of Duality, and from where Melkor sourced his Purpose. 

He reached his destination and he withdrew as much as he could of himself, keeping his own radiance well-concealed, so as not to provoke the eternal hunger of the creature he came to negotiate with. He wore his elven fana, his fair form of jet-black hair and amber-gold eyes, as he walked barefoot upon the grass that led toward the dark crags and crevasses where Ungoliant made her home. Yet he did not fully approach; upon reaching an ample distance, Melkor halted there. 

I summon the mistress of these shadowed cliffs, Ungweliantë, he called, his voice coming from all directions, echoing upon the gloomy gray cliffs. I come to thee with a proposition.

There was silence, at first, and then the clicks sounded – echoed by the surrounding crags and cliffs, making it appear like there were a thousand other fell beings hiding in those clefts and secret passages. And there could very well be – the dark places of Aman, Endorë and the depths of Ekkaia housed terrors and horrors that even the Ainur would be hard-put to battle against. 

Melkor braced himself; Unlight crept from a rather deep gorge just to his right, and he turned toward it. The darkness moved as if it had a life of its own, and he let his amber-gold eyes linger on the creeping darkness that no Light, save Eru’s, could escape nor penetrate. It would serve him well to have a bit of Unlight. While he can unclad himself, in the future, a cape made out of this primal dark will suit him very well. 

But to the task at hand.

The Spider emerged. She was akin to the size of a small, sizable hill – six eyes of utter darkness, darker than the deepest, starless night. Her chelicerae clicked rhythmically, one, two, three; one, two, three– and she easily towered over him while he wore his current fana. 

Brave of you, light thing, to come close to my lair. I have devoured two of your fellows, but their lights were meager. I know you are hiding your radiance, said Ungoliant, staring down Melkor.

“I find myself in need of the aid of a mighty creature such as you, for a deed of great purpose,” Melkor stated. “In return for your aid I promise you a feast, out of that which sustains your existence.”

Why do I not devour you now where you stand? Ungoliant advanced menacingly, rearing up, her chelicerae clicking. 

“Because I will make for only a short-term satiation,” said Melkor, standing his ground, even as the first pair of her many legs reach for him. “And you know this to be true. Whatever radiance I possess will only satiate you for…one, two, five years at most? And for eternal beings, what is five years to us? Mere seconds. No, I offer you a greater feast that will satiate you for a longer time. If you listen to my proposal.”

Ungoliant paused. If she were alone, it was easy to shut up this light thing and eat him where he stood, like what she did to Oromë’s hunters. But in the past few weeks she had gone to befriend Turko, and had learned a lot talking to him as he kept himself awake and chatty to distract from the pain of his broken leg. 

A hunter can’t just hunt everything, heritúra, Turko had told her. If predators consume everything without giving chance for prey to replenish numbers, what will there be to eat in the future, eh? If you consume Arda, where will you be? Eh? Eh? You will float around, in the great nothing, I suppose – s-sweet Námo, it hurts – and you’ll be hungry forever, because there’ll be no food left, and then you’ll have to eat yourself in the end. Doesn’t make much sense, h-huh? I suppose you could float yourself to the nearest star in reach, I don’t know how you’ll do that, but uh, suppose let’s say it’s p-possible. Rrrrrrgh, Ilúvatar in Eä, it hurts, I’ll die, I’ll die– and…and…where was I? Yes. Stars. Float….how even… ha ha…ha…

Keeping Turko’s words in mind, she stared down Melkor, lowering herself back onto her legs. What do you offer, light thing? She queried.

Melkor tilted his head forward – a miniscule bow. “If you follow me to the peak of Mount Hyarmentir, I shall show you.”

Silence settled between Spider and Ainu, Ungoliant clicking her chelicerae. She processed this. If she left her lair, she would leave Turko, whose leg was still broken. He would not be able to defend himself…but she had to see light thing’s offer. Always her hunger dictated much of her decisions, and though it delighted her to befriend Turko and promised herself she would not eat him, she could not truly pass up this chance. Ever since the Bright One existed in the Void, all that light called to them, her brethren, things of the dark and shadow, and since time immemorial they pursued the Bright One, but ultimately could not harm It. They could only devour what Bright One created. And when Eä was created, she and her kin were drawn to it, descending to it as the Ainur did, hiding in the dark and secret places for the unwary to pass, consuming them, if only to assuage their hunger, which has existed since Bright One first sparked into Existence.

“Well, mighty one?” Melkor prompted.

A click. Very well. Lead the way. If you trick me, I shall devour you.

Melkor turned heel, and once more unclad himself. He took to the air unseen, but Ungoliant could follow him, and she crept from her lair, keeping to the crags and hills, crossing the plains as a great darkness that momentarily blinded anything she passed. Together they ascend Mount Hyarmentir, the second highest peak in all of the world, next only to Taniquetil on the summit of which nestled glittering Ilmarin, Manwë and Varda’s abode. 

Distance did not matter to ones such as Melkor and Ungoliant, and there by the peak, beyond the clouds, Melkor once more assumed his elven fana, and pointed toward the direction of Ezellohar, where Laurelin and Telperion arose, fair and mighty in form and brilliance.

“Behold the Two Trees of Valinor,” Melkor pointed toward the Trees with his great lance. “Yonder those two are the source of light in all of Aman, save from the inherent light the Ainur bear within themselves. And by the Trees you shall also find the Wells of Varda, which contain further light with which you may help yourself.”

Which task are you trying to accomplish that you shall offer me all this? Ungoliant asked, turning six eyes to Melkor. She clicked her chelicerae warily. Creature of the Primal Void she might be older than the Ainur, still, if it came to battle and all the Ainur in Aman put their strength together, she would be hard-put to win such a conflict, even if she could devour many of them. And what Ainu or fëa she devours, there shall be no returning for them.  They cease to exist from all planes completely. There was no rebirth, no resurrection – nothing. 

“We shall head north toward a city called Formenos,” Melkor replied after a pause. “Where I shall get more gems to reward you with. Precious stones filled with radiance and brilliance, wrought by the Noldor, the craftspeople of the Eldalië. Then, you shall aid me to cross the Helcaraxë so I might return to my fortress, Angband. In exchange for your aid, I shall give you what gems we shall get from Formenos, and for this final task, you shall also grant me a piece of your Unlight. There on Endorë, we shall part ways, and you can go along to do whatever pleases you most.”

And why are you trying to accomplish all this? Ungoliant asked next with a series of clicks.

Melkor half-turned to the Void Spider. “Because, mighty one, if the Eldar stay here in Aman, everything shall rot into entropy and I will not have that happen.”

…Whatever that meant. Ungoliant could care less about light thing’s purpose. The sight of the Two Trees stirred her ancient hunger, and the promise of more…the decision was easy to make, but then she remembered tittandil, Turko, and she could not leave him alone in her lair. No matter. She would take him along, hide him from light thing in a small bag of her Unlight, and then she would drop him off somewhere safe before they crossed this Helcaraxë.

Very well, she said. I shall aid you. But you shall not deceive me, light thing, else I shall devour you too if you try. You in turn shall reward me with both hands, sparing nothing, for the risk I shall take here is very great, and I will only be appeased by a reward of equal greatness.

“In three days we shall meet here again on this peak,” said Melkor, ignoring her threat. “Then we shall set out to do what we must do.”

==

Three days.

Three days for Tirion-upon-Túna to have been mostly emptied, save for the Noldor who would not be sundered from their homes and what meager livelihood have remained after much of the populace. It was supposed to be the time of the High Feast, but Tirion had become a ghost town, and there was nobody to celebrate. Manwë had sent his maiar, after the Noldor to get them to return to the city, and at that moment, the Noldor were encamped at a great location halfway between Formenos and Tirion, near the foothills of the Pelóri. 

It was then that Melkor and Ungoliant struck; both clad in Unlight (and Turko with them, concealed in a bag of Unlight) and so they escaped the eye of even Manwë – going right for the Two Trees. Melkor struck Laurelin and Telperion with his lance, and Ungoliant tore into their roots, injecting her poison into them as she devoured their sap in insatiable hunger. 

Darkness came, and it came fast – thick, insidious murk. Ungoliant moved swiftly; after the Trees, she drained Varda’s wells dry, not leaving a single drop of radiance in them. Then, cloaking herself and Melkor once more in Unlight, they traversed the thick dark to Formenos, and there lay waste the city, Ungoliant devouring all unfortunate creatures that stood in her path. 

Finwë and a handful of retainers defended the main keep in vain, for Melkor himself struck them all down with his lance. Finwë he pinned with his lance against the wall of Fëanáro’s treasury, and there he broke the safe which held the Silmarils. 

They burned his hands, but the Vala would not be deterred by pain. 

It was then that Maitimo and Findaráto, who had gone to Formenos ahead of the main Noldorin host, tried to engage the Vala in combat, both princes maddened by grief at their grandfather’s murder. 

Melkor did not even need to truly fight them. Ungoliant’s Unlight had a mind of its own, and it seeped inside unless she kept it at bay, and it got to Maitimo and Findaráto both, quickly incapacitating them and sending them both falling unconscious on the floor. Melkor and Ungoliant then fled northward, toward the bitter cold of the Helcaraxë. 

(And Turko, hidden, screamed inside his bag of Unlight, unaware of what had happened.)

~0~

Lúthien knew her nanneth instructed her to give rooms with no windows to Tyelkormo, but if what they knew about him was correct, he was a Great Hunter of Oromë and would go mad within the week if he were put in a chamber with not even a small window. So, instead of the room originally prepared for him, Lúthien led him to one of the guest suites that had a small window that looked out toward one of the barracks of the Marchwardens of Doriath under Lord Mablung’s command. Like this, Tyelkormo could have a view of the surrounding tunnels and mine shafts of Doriath, and also he would not attempt to escape what with the barracks close and where he could easily be seen.

Or at least that is what Lúthien thought.

Here we are, Lúthien said as she opened the door and led the way into the room. She spoke to Tyelkormo through ósanwë, for now. If they kept conversing like this, his mind would be aided and guided to comprehend Sindarin in no time, and he would be fluent in her language. She estimated a month. 

Tyelkormo stepped into the room: it was a sizable, round room – a twin-sized bed surrounded by two ornately-carved pillars with the motif of leaves. There was a writing desk, some books. A hearth, though presently unlit. A plush-looking couch. Tyelkormo approached the balcony, and gave a start at the sight. Instead of trees–

Wait, he whirled around to face Lúthien and Daeron. Why are there– are we– are we underground?!

We are, said Daeron. And so you can put out of your mind any plans of escape. You will be caught even before you make it to the first gate of Menegroth.

But Tyelko was out by the balcony again, looking around, eyes so wide that Lúthien worried they might pop out of his own head.

How is this– how could any Eldar live underground? Manwë’s hairy nostrils, how do you all survive without light!? How!?

You should address the Valar with more respect, Daeron glared. 

Tyelkormo raised blond eyebrows at the great minstrel of Doriath. And someone needs to pull the stick out of his arse.

Lúthien clapped a slender hand over her mouth. She quickly stepped between the two. Peace, Daeron. Peace! She turned to Tyelkormo, her heart fluttering as she let her gray eyes roam over his strong, chiseled features. We Sindar have lived in Menegroth long. The dwarves of Ered Luin delved these caves for us, and we can enjoy starlight here as you would outside of Menegroth. Tis possible, I assure you.

But underground!? Tyelkormo exclaimed again. He returned to the balcony, craning his neck up to look at the gloom above them. 

Daeron tugged on Lúthien by the arm, and they momentarily left Tyelkormo to gape at what he could see of that part of Menegroth. They stood outside the room, Daeron shutting the door for now. 

“What are you doing? Why did you lead him to these chambers?” Daeron asked his childhood friend (and beloved). “The Queen clearly instructed you to lead him to the chamber specially prepared for his use–.”

“And where will he go?” Lúthien countered, folding her arms. “He knows not Menegroth; he will be lost if he so much as attempts an escape. And Lord Mablung stays in those barracks often, and he will not be escaping the eye of the Marchwardens from these chambers.”

“Lúthien. Princess– I know this ellon is strange and new to you, and ever have you yearned to explore the world outside of Doriath – but this Tyelkormo, this one, he is Amanyar and we do not know how he ended up on our lands. His arrival is too much a coincidence with the return of the Enemy, and we are no strangers to thralls–!” Daeron urged, giving Lúthien a pleading look. “I beg you–!”

The door suddenly opened, and Tyelkormo stood there, looking at Daeron from head to toe.

How dare you insinuate I am even with the Enemy, he spat. The thought was so venomous and forceful that Lúthien flinched. I, who have ridden with the maiar and Great Hunters of Oromë, keeping Aman itself safe from the fell creatures of the Primal Void and the Ice Giants of the Helcaraxë. How dare you. I don’t see you doing anything – did you help your Marchwardens regain territory when the Enemy was imprisoned in Aman, or did you stay in these marble halls and sing some useless ditty while others did that job for you? Huh?

Daeron flushed red quickly. Then his right hand curled into a fist, streaked the distance – and Lúthien yelled – but Tyelkormo caught Daeron’s fist squarely with his left hand, without a flinch.

Then Tyelkormo flashed a feral smirk, all teeth, and crushed Daeron’s hand, breaking bones with a sick crunch. Then it was Daeron’s turn to scream.

==

And Turko found himself in a Sindar dungeon.

Yavanna’s tits, are you all so easy to insult? Turko muttered as the bars slid into place behind him. He turned – but the Sindar guard who led him here had been quick to leave. So much for a guest’s welcome; the Sindar were easy to insult, and for an offense that they began, they threw so-called guests into cells. Gotcha. At least the dungeons were clean. Turko sat down on the floor and peered about at the other cells there in that tunnel delved in solid rock. By the looks of it, he was the only prisoner there at this point in time. Great. No snitch for when he attempted to escape. 

He made himself comfortable in his cell, stretching out his long legs. Let’s see. Caves. There will be spiders, snakes, bats…more than enough friends to help me get out of here. 

Song would be catchy, and the guards will be alerted that he’s up to something. So first, Turko attempted the language of snakes; soft hisses rolling from his lips where he sat in his cell, taken on a meditative stance. The language of the creatures of Yavanna and Oromë’s creatures were known only to very few of the Eldar; it was a rare ability among the Amanyar, but common to the Avari. The Sindar have begun forgetting it as they progressed through the Great Journey; only a few among their ranks now knew of the secret languages of the earth’s living things. 

This could take days, he knew. Still, Turko sat there, uttering the language of the snakes, his soft hisses carried along by the very air. 

==

To say Lúthien was upset was an understatement. One – it had been very rude and wrong of Daeron to speak as such, and at some point he may have deserved the broken hand. May have. Two – it had also been incredibly rude on Tyelkormo’s part, when Menegroth sheltered him, where their healers had fixed his leg good as new, and he repaid them by breaking Daeron’s right hand. The damage done of course was nothing the healers could not fix, and she herself Sang his bones back into place, but still, Daeron would not be able to play any instrument for a while to ensure his hand recovered properly. 

Needless to say, her Ada had been very wroth, though her nanneth said nothing. 

She wanted to take food down to the dungeons to Tyelkormo, but her father forbade her, and so she went above-ground instead, restless and annoyed at everything and nothing. She was annoyed enough she was distracted from singing and dancing, her usual past times, and so she sat down and turned to embroidery instead with her handmaidens, and she usually loathed the task. 

Meanwhile, the Marchwardens under Captain Cúthalion’s command reported that the darkness by the northern borders of Doriath had gotten so thick and choking that starlight could no longer penetrate the region. That and fell spiders had been sighted going into the dark, and Captain Cúthalion even surmised some of those foul creatures came all the way from Ossiriand or even Taur-im-Duinath. Something was gathering those spiders there. 

Thingol contemplated the report. He turned his thoughts to Turkafinwë Tyelkormo, still in one of his dungeons in the tunnels of Menegroth. He had questions that needed answering. He turned to Mablung then, and ordered that the Amanyar be brought before him in the great hall. 

The instruction was barely out of Thingol’s lips when Melian shifted upon her throne. 

“He has escaped,” the Maia-queen said. “Bar all the tunnels feeding into the River Aros.”

==

It had been a beautiful snake with a black, forked tongue and the most vibrant orange scales that answered Turko’s subtle calls first. The snake introduced itself as Orange, and asked what it could do for a Hunter of Oromë. Turko then instructed the reptile to get him the keys to the dungeon, which would be with the Sindar warden. Orange thought about it, and then said that it would recruit some more of its friends to help with the task, for the dungeons of Menegroth were vast and there were more than one warden in the place. 

Turko waited in his cell for two more days, in addition to the first three which had passed him by as he sat there patiently. Then Orange returned, with two fellows – Green and Purple, and they had the ring of keys that belonged to the warden of Doriath.

It was the sixth key that Turko tried that finally unlocked his cell doors. The snakes told him that there had been a bit of revelry among the patrols and guards last eve, and they were all drunk as a consequence, and so he could escape. He could use the barrel route, Purple hissed, as Menegroth dispatched empty wine barrels into the Aros, to have the currents take it all the way to Sirion, where some Laiquendi wine-makers resided. The barrels were also enchanted and very, very tough. 

So Turko, thanking his new friends, scooped them all up with him, and they went to where the barrels for dispatch awaited. It was as Orange and Green and Purple had said – the guards were drunk, and nobody seemed to be patrolling at that hour. What day was it, even? Turko didn’t know. But before he went into the barrels, Turko stole food from the larder – wrapping up dried meats, bread, cheese – anything he could carry and fit into a small burlap sack, which he also stole from the shelves.

That done, he crept into one barrel while Green dealt with the lever (Green was a massive boa constrictor, and had the heft and weight to be pushing levers down, unlike Orange and Purple, which were slender, sleek and small things). 

The floorboards gave, and Turko went, bouncing down into the half-dark, with fourteen more barrels falling with him. 

The current was strong, and swift, and the barrels were indeed tough. Still, it was a nauseating journey. By sheer luck, his barrel made it out of the egress tunnel just as the bars descended from above, shutting the tunnel close. 

Woah! What the! Turko barely had time to think as his barrel bounced down the river Aros.

Have to reach the ssssshore, Purple hissed by his left ear. Elsssseeee you will be taken all the way to Sssssssirion.

Turko opened his mouth to answer – but water slammed into his face with such a force that he hit his head against the barrel wall. “Nienna’s bloody tears!” He exclaimed in outrage. “This has– got to be the wildest– mode of transp–” Another mouthful of water, and Turko gave up on attempting to talk. 

He struggled to poke his upper body out of the barrel – everything was whizzing past very quickly – and then Orange was hissing in his ear: left left left left, rock! Pussssssh left hard! NOW!

Turko barely had time to obey. However possible it was to throw all his heft and weight left– his barrel bounced out of the water, arched high – and then crashed against the shore, splintering all around him with a great, loud crash. 

Coughing and spluttering, Turko rolled onto his back, and pushed the wet hair out of his eyes. He winced as he sensed his satchel of food squashed underneath him. Damn. There goes his cheese…

“Some damn adventure this is,” he says as he sat up. Purple and Orange were still twined around his upper arms apiece. He snatched his satchel, and, looking wildly about, sprinted away from the river.

Terror gripped the hearts of the children of Finwë when the two, battered messengers from Formenos reached the great encampment of the Noldor in the dark. These elves were pale with terror, and they were sickened, black tendrils of shadow creeping out of their eyes and ears, and the healers of the Noldor were dumbfounded as to what could have afflicted them. A cold fever had come upon the two neri, and they were delirious, and babbled about a darkness so thick that came for Formenos. Fëanáro felt his horror increase tenfold, and he suffered no restraints as he came into the healers’ tents where the messengers lay in the care of Helwion and Eliril. He had allowed Maitimo and Findaráto to ride ahead to Formenos with a handful of retainers each to accompany Finwë there, for long had Fëanáro been ill-at-ease since the Noldor had departed Tirion – an intuition deep in him that screamed that whatever this was, it was far from over.

“Away, my Prince,” Helwion said, flinging an arm out to prevent his liege-lord from coming closer to the cold elf laying on the sickbed. “They are touched by darkness, and we know not if this will dissipate and be contagious amongst us here.

“I have to know – Atar, Nelyo, Findaráto–” Fëanáro snarled. He pushed aside Helwion’s arm and knelt by the sickbed, and the patient that lay there was shivering in great cold. “You know me? Answer, ellon. Tis I, Fëanáro. I need to know about Formenos–my Atar, your king– and my son, Maitimo, and my brother-son–”

“Dark…dark….a great s-s-spider…my King F-Finwë…”

“Speak!”

“Th-the…the–V-Vala M-M-Melkor–he k-k-killed K-King Finwë…princes…princes–Maitimo…Findaráto–lost–all is lost, all is lost–”

The tent flaps opened, and Nolofinwë, Arafinwë, Findekáno, Makalaurë and Angaráto entered the space. Nolofinwë stepped forward just as Fëanáro wavered and collapsed, and with a shout he caught his half-brother. 

“No….no…..we have to get to Formenos,” Fëanáro was babbling. He turned wide, crazed eyes to Nolofinwë, gripped fistfuls of his half-brother’s tunic. “What are we still doing here, Nolo? We have to go– we have to go– we have to ride out, now, not a moment lost, not–”

“Fëanáro! Listen to me– have you forgotten the thick murk that has engulfed Valinor? The roads are lost, we cannot see, we know not–” Nolofinwë tried to reason with him.

“ATAR IS DEAD!” Fëanáro screamed in a great howl. “Atar is dead, and Nelyo too, and Findaráto! And you’re telling me we wait for the Valar to act to give us light!? Wake up, Nolofinwë! The Valar have abandoned us! The Valar have led us into this hellpit in the first place, why can’t you see that?!”

Arafinwë, meanwhile, had collapsed onto a chair. “My…my son?” He looked to his two brothers in pitiful confusion. Bright, golden Arafinwë, who had only ever known cheer and happiness, his family intact, having weathered the deterioration of the bonds of their family. “My…heir? My Artafindë…?”

Angaráto had now grabbed one of the sickened messengers and was determined to shake answers out of him. Findekáno gave a great shout and attempted to pacify his cousin, lest Angaráto kill the incapacitated messenger in his clumsy terror. 

~0~

Beleg Cúthalion was alerted of the situation via ósanwe – that their Amanyar captive, Turkafinwë Tyelkormo had managed to escape the dungeons of Menegroth by using the egress tunnels that fed into the River Aros, and that the rogue elf would likely be escaping eastward to Arthórien or Nan Elmoth. Responding to the information relayed by Mablung, Beleg quickly sent a dozen of his Marchwardens stationed in the eastern borders of the Girdle to intercept Tyelkormo, and bring him back to Menegroth. 

That done, the entire incident now necessitated that Beleg leave his northern watch, and this he did, traversing the forests of Doriath steadily eastward, without pause for rest nor sleep – to reach the eastern borders of the enchanted wood on time. 

But, it seemed to him, the forest of Doriath was turning against him.

The trees, without command of the Sindar or even the Ents, shifted in their path – great trees shifting here and there, turning up where they weren’t supposed to be. An oak which was supposed to be several leagues far south was suddenly in the route Beleg took, and worse were the vines and creeping roots – vines that had a life of their own, trying to snatch him, and waylay him, and the roots forever attempting to trip him up. It was no illusion, and though the Queen could certainly command nature to do her bidding, the Lady of the Hidden Wood had not used such power for a long, long time.

When Beleg narrowly avoided a tree root that had suddenly popped up in his path for the umpteenth time, he cursed. And this was saying something, because as far as he could help it – Beleg Cúthalion never cursed. The ancient Quendi expression rolled from his lips in a frustrated exclamation, and he jumped to avoid the tree root, landing nimbly onto his red-booted feet. 

He instantly nocked an arrow and raised his bow, turning here and there – and as if on cue, the forest quieted itself around him. Faraway, he could hear the songbirds chirping unseen from the canopy of the forest. A squeak sounded, somewhere to his left, and Beleg quickly turned and released the shot – the arrow flying past, disappearing into the gloom and hitting a tree trunk. Surprised, he squinted – and some distance away from him, a group of squirrels were hastily making their retreat. But apart from that, laying face-first on the forest floor and unconscious, was one of his Marchwardens, Bronwe. 

Beleg broke into a run. He reached Bronwe in no time, and he quickly turned her over onto her back, already intent on looking for injuries he might give first aid to. Miraculously, the elleth was unharmed except for a fist-sized bump on her head, already receding. Beleg tried to recall how he’d found her: a group of squirrels, running from her, and she was already face-down on the earth.

Did the squirrels have something to do with it?

The captain of the Marchwardens cleared his throat. Then he began to Sing, soft notes of healing– nothing like what the Queen, the Princess and Lord Daeron could accomplish, but enough to help Bronwe along. Beleg sang, and some of his power he channeled into his subordinate, pulling her back to consciousness as gently as he could. 

Bronwe eventually opened her eyes. She winced, and then stared at him in confusion.

“Mellon, what happened?” Beleg asked her as he helped her sit up. “I found you unconscious–?”

Bronwe’s green eyes widened as she remembered exactly what happened to her. She cursed – Beleg winced at the vehemence – and she leapt to her feet, looking frantically around them. 

“The squirrels! The squirrels did it!” the elleth screeched in dismay.

“The….squirrels?” Beleg repeated.

She whirled around to face him, and grabbed him by the collar. “Captain! I am not making it up! I was chasing the fugitive ellon with Nengel – we spotted him aiming to cross the Aros toward Arthórien! And then Nengel got walloped by this great vine, and I got waylaid by those squirrels–!”

“And how exactly did the squirrels…?” Beleg asked, his voice very faint.

“They harassed me!” Bronwe screeched. “There were twenty of them, captain! Twenty! They split into two groups, then leapt upon my foot, then down my boots, up my breeches, into my tunic! Ai! They were everywhere! They nipped and crawled all over me, and I fell from the canopy of the forest, hit my head, and–” Her eyes widened some more. “Captain, the others! We have to find the others! Nengel might have been thrown into the river!”

And Bronwe was already running, taking out her daggers. Beleg had no choice but to run after her, getting more confused by the second. 

==

There was no trail.

Beleg and Bronwe searched and searched, but Tyelkormo had covered up his trail with such skill that he might as well have been a ghost. As they headed steadily eastward, they found the other members of the Marchwardens as the only indication that Tyelkormo had passed that way. They were in varying states of confusion and unconsciousness: Nengel had not in fact gotten thrown into the Aros, but they found him dangling upside down, bound by four thick vines. He too, was unconscious. They found two more stuck waist-deep in a quagmire, having followed some very mischievous frogs and a wild duck, effectively getting lured there to be incapacitated. Three more they found with faces swollen to epic proportions due to bee stings, their eyesight hampered by swollen, puffy eyelids. One of the last of them they found paralyzed but alive, having been bitten by an iridescent purple snake whose venom was known to paralyze elves for about four hours. 

When Beleg was sure that he had all of his Marchwardens rounded up, he instructed them to return to the nearest outpost and submit themselves – particularly the ones stung by bees and bitten by the snake – to the healer-on-duty. He returned to Menegroth alone, and there he reported to the king and queen that they lost Tyelkormo– such was his skill in covering his trail that he even surpassed Beleg himself, who had been born in Cuiviénen. 

Thingol of course, was less than pleased, but he knew the futility of it– no long-term harm was done to Daeron, and the Amanyar elf had honored the rules of hospitality as much as he could – none of the guards of Menegroth or even Beleg’s Marchwardens were truly harmed by him. Reluctantly, the king ordered the search called off. Let Tyelkormo get lost as he wished – chasing one elf was not worth it, in the long run of things.

Thingol turned to Melian at that moment. “He is no thrall of Bauglir, then?”

The queen contemplated her spouse. “No.”

And indeed the search was called off, and Beleg bowed to his king and queen before going to relay the new instructions. Down the hallway leading from the throne room, however, Beleg came across Lúthien, who had been skulking outside the double doors, listening in on the conversation. 

“Princess,” Beleg greeted her, giving her a bow.

“Captain Cúthalion,” she returned. “So it is true you never found Tyelkormo.”

“No. He is truly worthy of his title as a Great Hunter of Oromë. I know these woods very well,” says Beleg. “But for someone who had never been here before, I am impressed with him, Highness.”

“Where do you think he would have gone?”

“If his abilities are to be judged by, he would have inquired from the various creatures and animals which way he should go. If they know it, they would help him.”

“And where do you think he might go?” Lúthien asked, keeping her tone innocent.

“He might resupply in Arthórien, or Nan Elmoth.”

“I see…thank you, captain.” Lúthien bowed to Beleg, and he returned the gesture. 

The princess then moved on to join her parents in the throne room.

==

Turko surveyed his grilling fish, over which he had carefully dumped a thin slice of cheese over. The cheese had melted all over the thing now, and it smelled really nice– his stomach rumbled. Still, he can control himself – it needed a few more minutes to finish cooking, anyway. 

A merry day this had been – the Sindarin Marchwardens thought they could chase him, a Great Hunter of Oromë, and have him return to the underground kingdom. It had been an easy thing to get the creatures and trees of Doriath to help him around. All he needed was to speak the right language, else sing to the trees, tell them of his plight, and very courteously ask for aid. It turned out that some of them (particularly the family of squirrels) had very strong opinions about Daeron the great minstrel. 

(Mablung sings better than he does! The squirrel matriarch had complained to Turko. All that Daeron sings about is Lúthien, Lúthien, Lúthien – there are fairer things than her, like the stars and the snow!)

Great, his fish is done. He removed it from the fire then, and Turko devoured the fishhead first, crunching away as he contemplated the woods of Arthórien that arose around and behind him. Near him, fattened by devouring some rodents, Orange lay curled into a pile of beautiful scales, the snake lethargic.

Say, Orange, my friend, Turko spoke, utilizing the hissing language of snakes. Do you happen to know a place here where impenetrable shadows have gathered recently? Tis a darkness that no light may penetrate. There might be an abundance of spiderwebs around the area as well.

Orange lifted its head. Darknesssss? There are woodsssss beyond Arthórien, where darknesssss thrivessss. Nan Elmoth issss the name.

Woods? Hm. That can’t be right. Turko continued eating his fish, until nothing was left of it except the fishbones. He licked the cheese strings off his fingers with relish. 

Not woods, my friend. It should be by the foot of some great mountains. Do you know of it? Turko asked the snake once more.

But Orange had never been beyond Doriath. Arthórien was, in fact, the furthest the snake had gone in the world. 

I’ve never ssssseeen mountainsssss before. What are mountainsssss? Orange asked.

Oh. Figures. 

Well my friend, I suppose you can understand mountains as big pieces of rock that sit stationary upon the land. They are so big they almost touch the sky, Turko muses in snakespeak. 

Orange’s forked tongue flits in and out of its mouth. Big rockssssss?

Turko nods. He stands, and cranes his neck skyward. The stars shone bright, and though the orientation has changed from what he had been used to, he still locates the Valacirca quite easily. The Valacirca was the seven bright stars that ever signified true north for the elves, and thus a crucial tool for navigation, may they be on land or sea. So. That way was north–. But the problem was to orient himself as to where the mountains Ungoliant had hidden herself to. Heritúra’s Unlight choked any glimmer of radiance, so getting a good sense of direction toward it was quite a feat. Damn it, if only he’d managed to pilfer a Sindarin map…

Yes. Thank you for your help, Orange. I hope Green and Purple are alright.

He could camp here. He could venture upon the morrow and try to catch the attention of some eagles or hawks. The birds had a wider view of the world and could tell him where Ungoliant would be nesting. Then he could travel back to his friend, tell her he was alright and assure her that there was no need to invade Doriath to feast on the Sindar. He shuddered at the thought. The things he’s doing for these rude elves! And they had no idea what kind of horror he was trying to spare them from!

==

Talathiel led the trio of handmaidens that were assigned to awaken Princess Lúthien for that hour. She bore a bowl of rosewater complete with rose petals and lavender blossoms, and another elleth carried a towel, and the third of them bore the princess’s neatly folded chemise and stockings. They reached her chambers and Talathiel opened the double doors with her free hand. However the room was empty, the princess’s bed was already made. She nodded to her companions and they immediately set down the things they bore and made a beeline for the adjoining suite bathroom. But instead of finding Lúthien already in her bathtub and soaking there, the bathroom was likewise empty. 

Strange. Breakfast was not yet to be served, at least not until an hour later? Talathiel blinked in confusion. Ah. Perhaps their lady ventured out for an early day, rode out with Lord Daeron or Commander Mablung? For sometimes the princess did that, on such days as these past, when her restlessness peaked. Talathiel and her companions left their things upon Lúthien’s dresser, and Talathiel parted from them to inform the Queen that her daughter decided to take a very early day out for herself.

But as it turned out, it was not an early day out.

Lúthien had blocked her mother and father from her mind; escaped in the night, and had ventured out of the Girdle’s protective range. She knew enough tricks to cover her own trail, and knew enough enchantment such that she could poke a hole through the Girdle, small enough for herself to crawl through, without Melian noticing. 

In two hours, Thingol, in great wrath, issued forth instructions to all Marchwardens to look for Lúthien and bring her home.

==

“Unhand me! Unhand me, Tyelkormo!”

The said fugitive princess had caught up with Turko during the night. For Lúthien was half-maia, and through Song she could also converse with the trees and animals and birds, and had asked them where Turko had gone. From there it had been quite easy to follow him, and she found his encampment in the evening. Though she had been stupid enough to walk right into one of the traps Turko had set around the perimeter, and the trap triggered, caught one of her ankles, and the rope yanked her right off her feet, to dangle her upside-down in mid-air. 

The outrage!

Turko then sprang awake when he heard Lúthien’s shout, and now he stood there, hands on his hips as he craned his neck to look at the upside-down princess. She had discarded her elegant dress for an ellon’s hunting outfit, and the breeches hugged her legs perfectly. She was radiant. Very nice to look at, really. Even Turko could admit that.

What are you doing, trying to sneak on a hunter? Eh? Turko asked her through ósanwe, mightily amused at her antics. 

Let me go! Lúthien whined. She had gone red in the face; she had been hanging there for some time now. I meant no harm! I only wanted– I only wanted to follow you! Please!

And why are you following me, princess? Turko felt his eyebrows rise.

I wanted– I wanted– Lúthien then spun around slowly then. Um–wait a moment, I’ll be facing you in about some seconds– I wanted— then she started spinning again. Oh Varda’s kirtle! Just untie me already! She whined again.

Turko moved about camp, and started rummaging about for fruits for breakfast. He dug out some oranges and berries from his satchel. He was chuckling.

We can converse just fine like this, you and I. You’ll be fine. Haven’t you dangled upside-down before? Turko teased through ósanwe. 

Lúthien flushed a deeper shade of crimson. I am a princess! I do not dangle!

Yes, well, continue dangling there a bit more, lady. I’m out to hunt. Turko straightened up and picked up several wooden spears he had improvised in the night. You stay put.

So saying, he sprinted into the forest. Lúthien’s eyes widened.

“Tyelkormo!” she shouted. “Tyelkormo, you great rude monkey! UNTIE ME!”

But Turko was already gone. Lúthien cursed herself. She should have pilfered a knife– anything–many times she tried to reach her ankles, curling up, up, in what had got to be the most difficult sit-and-reach stunt she had ever enacted in her entire life. Her fingernails scraped the rope – improvised out of vines, and enchanted with Hunters’ Song – but she couldn’t keep the bend long enough to–to—

An hour passed. Two. Lúthien screamed.

“TYELKORMO! TYELKORMO! TYELKORMOOOO!”

As if she had summoned him, he emerged from the undergrowth, holding three of his wooden spears. He bore a dead tapir over his shoulders. 

Quite the pair of lungs on you, huh? He smirked up at her. Her screaming and struggling had ensured that she spun around, faster this time. You keep that up, diamond-hair, and you’ll dizzy yourself. I’d stay still if I were you.

D-diamond-hair?! Lúthien gasped in another fresh surge of outrage.

Instead of cutting her down, Turko worked on skinning and quartering the tapir he had hunted. Despite herself, Lúthien watched in great curiosity – she had never been raised to do the more worldly chores. Always, she had been attended hand and foot in Doriath. Food was already cooked and prepared when it got to her. She never saw the messy parts before cooking and dining – and here was Turko, whistling even, as blood coated him to his elbows as he nonchalantly gutted the dead animal. He moved with precision, not a gesture wasted over trivialities. Great chunks of meat he sliced thinly, then held over an improvised rack of wood where a small cookfire burned underneath. The other chunks of meat he started cooking over another, bigger fire. Lúthien felt her stomach rumble and her mouth water. 

Tyelkormo…untie me, she murmured. I’m hungry.

Turko sat by his cookfire and inspected the meats. He turned them over and looked up at her. Lúthien then schooled her lovely face into the most convincing, pleading expression that even her father Elu Thingol could not resist. Turko only laughed at her.

What, you think I am an idiot? Turko cackled through ósanwe. You’ll bring me far more trouble than you’re worth. Doriath will have been roused to search for you by now, and what will happen if you’re found with me? I will get blamed again for some wrong I did not even do! I have no wish to meet your father again, not when he gets offended for the most trivial things. Ulmo’s waters, I have no desire to go back to your underground kingdom either!

We sheltered you! Lúthien protested. Our healers fixed your leg! The least you could do is untie me and feed me!

More laughter through their mental conversation. Diamond-hair, let me get one thing straight. You imposed yourself on me after I escaped Menegroth. I have returned the favor enough by not killing your father’s Marchwardens when they tried to chase me down. That squared the ledger enough.

Then he began to eat. He began to eat, tearing into the fragrant, perfectly-grilled chunks of tapir meat while Lúthien dangled above him, being enticed and provoked by the delicious smell of oily food. Lúthien whined and protested, and when that didn’t work, she started cursing him in Sindarin. Turko only laughed away her insults.

When his meal was done, Turko then moved about again in great purpose, now clearing the campsite of his presence and traps. Lúthien's eyes widened when she realized he meant to leave her there, strung up and dangling upside-down. 

Tyelkormo! Tyelkormo, I apologize–take me with you! Please! Don't leave me here! She cried. Please! I don't want to be found yet! 

And be accused of stealing you away? He shot her a sly look and shook his head. More trouble than you're worth, Diamond-hair.

Please, Tyelkormo–this is my chance to get out of Doriath–please!

That earned her a pause. A slight frown creased Turko's brow then. Aren't you the entitled little thing, then? Let me guess. You were born in Doriath, sheltered, as all royal children are, and have never gone out of your caves and woods. Now his tone turns disdainful. So you lightly forsake your peaceful realm on some romanticized notion of adventure and freedom, thinking running off into the horizon is the perfect romantic springboard to whatever life you want for yourself. That and you have never prepared yourself for a life on the run, thinking it will be easy, never mind those whom you shall burden!

His own sudden vehemence silenced Lúthien. She could feel his sneer through ósanwe, and just like that, he slid a block between their minds, shutting her out with the force of ten doors slamming all at once.

He shouldered his satchel and picked up his spears. The campsite had melted away into inexistence, as if Turko had never stopped there at all. He took up a second satchel full of provisions. He turned, ready to leave, when they both heard, quite clearly, the shrill shrieks of orcs carried in the still, starlit air.

Turko narrowed his eyes. He looked this way and that, peering into the shadowy woods around them. 

"Orcs," Lúthien whispered fearfully. Orcs, in Arthórien? They are grown brave–this close to my Nanneth's Girdle!

Turko then quickly dropped his satchels. He climbed up the great tree from where Lúthien dangled from, and in a burst of strength he pulls her up into the safety of the branches and cuts her loose. Then he nimbly climbed back down the trunk, retrieved his satchels, and rejoined her. Both of them were dead silent. Again they hear the orcs shrieking. Lúthien's gray eyes were wide with worry.

How many orcs? Turko asked her.

I have not seen…but Commander Mablung and Captain Cúthalion say they raid by groups. They roam with great impunity beyond my mother's barriers, she replies. They have groups of ten to twelve, they say.

He stood. She looked up at him, his blond hair polished silver under the starlight. Then he turned his blue eyes to her. Keep up, princess.

That said, he started heading north, journeying by the canopy, his steps light and nimble as they walked, dashed and leapt from branch to branch, vine to vine. Lúthien, despite his judgment, kept up with him, her dark hair whipping behind her as she chased after his steps.

==

Ungoliant clicked her chelicerae in utter laziness. There in her lair, her webs had caught many prey– spiders like herself, who had come here to mate with her, or else oust her from these shadowy cliffs where she lay in wait for Turko's return. In another time she would have entertained both ideas– of mating and spawning and feeding, but her satiation from her feast out of the Two Trees of Valinor and Varda's Wells had not yet quite left her. And anyway, her mind was on Turko, counting the time of his return, so she did not want to mate just yet. All of the fell spiders that ventured near she instead caught in her webs. Snacks, for the future.

Tittandil sure is taking his time, she thinks to herself. Maybe he found others like him and decided to keep them company, or as he said– stay with them a while to better learn these lands. Hmm. I'll go look for him once I start feeling hungry.

She barely finished her train of thought when vibrations thrummed across the massive network of her webs. This rouses her. Ungoliant drew herself out of her corner, navigating her webs with impossible ease and fluidity of movement for someone so big. Soon she emerged. 

A raiding group of orcs had gotten caught in her webs, some ten small, smelly things. Another group, which had been trying to free their fellows, shrilled in terror at the sight of her and tried to flee. Tried. Ungoliant spewed out webs at them, trapping them. Their screams of terror were muffled. 

She approached and considered the orcs, peering at them with her eight eyes. They smelled horribly. And they appeared to speak in a rough, guttural tongue that she comprehended, for all creatures of the Void shall understand every tongue that was spoken, is being spoken, and shall be spoken on Arda. The tiny ugly things were either cursing her, or cursing each other, or screaming for help.

Hm. Silly ugly tiny things. She wondered what they tasted like. Approaching, she plucked up the biggest one of the lot. It shouted and cursed at her in that rough language of theirs. Ungoliant swallowed the ugly tiny thing in one bite. 

Disgusting, Ungoliant clicked her chelicerae in distaste. She eyed the noisy creatures and squashed them all, crushing them to pulp with her enormous forelegs by stepping on them. I have never eaten anything more foul! 

Miffed, she turned away to return to her lair.