Along Came an Elf by dalliansss

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Prologue

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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.