Along Came an Elf by dalliansss

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The Hunter

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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.