Legacy of the Dispossessed {DISCONTINUED}

Alone with Myself

I barely made it out of Lorien before nightfall. No doubt that if I hadn't, Galadriel would've zapped me with lightning or something. "Damned elleth," I muttered under my breath for the umpteenth time.

By the time darkness fell, I realized that I had no food in my pack, and neither did I have a bow that would enable me to hunt. Great. Maybe there will be some edible plants near the river or something?

The River Celebrant was about half a mile away from where I was. I immediately started hiking towards the river, Ringil held in front of me for light. And, of course, I started worrying. How would I meet up with the Fellowship? Was this the end? What did I do now, go back to Rivendell? Rhûn?

I shook my head and firmly told myself to start thinking rationally. The Fellowship would leave Lorien soon. Which way would they go? They couldn't go north, they'd end up back where they started and Moria is still potentially dangerous. No, Galadriel would tell them to leave via the river. The River Celebrant, then Anduin.

I nodded to myself. The River was, then. Who knew how much time they would spend in Lorien, but at least I could go ahead and wait for them. If they took boats, the fastest course, they would have to stop at the Falls of Rauros.

By now it was completely dark, and I had reached the river. I set my pack down with a sigh. I was hungry. Very hungry. Do you know what they said about Elves not getting hungry and not having to sleep? Lies. All lies. We have to eat and sleep just as much as mortals. In my opinion, we need to eat more. Seriously, we get hungry, okay?

I crouched over some firewood I'd gathered before the last light of day faded. I fumbled as I took flint out of a pouch on my belt and struck it against my knife, sending a shower of sparks onto the kindling. It lit on the first try- I always managed that. I blew on the small fire to make it grow to a regular blaze. I sat back and rubbed my hands together, facing the fire. If I had had some bread, I could've at least toasted it for dinner. Maybe I'd fish in the river tomorrow.

I rubbed the pendant around my neck as it started glowing. It was made of the same material as Ringil, fashioned into an eight-pointed star: the Star of the House of Fëanor. It had been given to me after my father died. Ringil was unbuckled from my belt, lying close enough to me that I could easily reach it in case of an attack.

I looked into the heart of the fire, seeing not a small campfire but the blaze of ships on fire, liquid fire running through the plain from an iron fortress, the inferno of Amon Amarth. Slowly, I began to sing:

Gil-Galad was an Elven-king,
Of him, the harpers sadly sing,
The last whose realm was fair and free,
Between the mountains and the sea.

An image formed in the smoke above the fire. A proud, raven-haired ellon, sitting on a throne carved from tree branches. He was laughing, speaking to a blond ellon sitting at his side. Oropher. A group of harpers had evidently stricken up a merry tune, as pairs whirled around in the dance floor.

His sword was long, his lance was keen,
His shining helm afar was seen,
The countless stars of heaven's field,
Were mirrored in his silver shield.

The same ellon sat astride a snowy-white gelding, looking afar to the red glow of the Dark Land in the distance. He wore a full set of armor, gleaming silver even in the darkness. A sword in a bejeweled scabbard was at his waist, and he held a gleaming lance. A Noldorin shield was mounted on his other arm. I sighed, looking at my nephew. My poor nephew.

I hated the next verse. Hated it. Finish the song. Long ago, Maglor had taught me this art, of singing words into images. I wasn't a singer the likes of Luthien or Finrod, but I could make a decent image. One of the first rules was to finish the song, or else the bond that was open between the singer and the song would sap the singer's energy. I sighed and started again.