Alfýkin: The Last of the Elves

Past Star-Lit Seas

He was being dragged across a jagged path covered in sharp stones that scraped and bloodied his legs. Filthy hands covered in dirt and oily with blood; his blood, grabbed his hair and arms and legs. The stone halls lightened from black to deal scarlet as if a thousand fires burned in the depths.

Zaharias feebly lifted his head as they entered a domed room deep inside the mountain. A massive figure of fire and shadow dominated the space, seeming to draw as much light as he emitted. Shadows warred on the walls, casting weird lifelike figures writhing in pain.

The heat coming from the figure dried the blood on Zaharias almost instantly and he felt older wounds crack open further with each shallow breath he took. It took strength he did not posses just to keep himself from slipping back into the black, cold void.

The Balrog, hot and terrible to behold, turned slowly to face Zaharias as he was dragged painfully into the cavern. Terror gripped the battered Elf, giving some strength to his limbs. Enough to push himself off the cold stone and sit up, but no more. His head was suddenly pulled painfully back and a thick, fiery liquid poured down his throat like so many times before.

Almost immediately his head cleared and the cold left his body. Zaharias sighed in relief. It felt good to be warm. He no longer minded the uncomfortable, itching desire to strangle every living thing in his reach. As long as he was surrounded by beasts of the underworld, he would gladly give in to that desire.

"Where are they?" the Balrog demanded, voice was deeper than the horns of Gondor, though less pure. Its words were clumsy, tumbling over each other like rocks cascading down a mountainside.

"I don't know," Zaharias defied. His own voice was weak and frail. This was their game. Ever since the Balrog had taken Zaharias captive on the borders of Rivendell many long years ago they played it. The Balrog was all Zaharias knew him by; the fire and shadow demon never gave what name Morgoth conjured for him the depths of Angband. Thoigh Zaharias did not know his name he knew Zaharias by name. He had tortured it out of him in less than a month, then disappeared for a decade. The Balrog would return after ten or twenty years, always with more questions, and always getting the answer.

And as always, Zaharias defied him for as long as he could. Always, though, he gave in, weeping for his weak will. If he was truly strong he would have never said a word, dying in silence, but imstead he still clung to the thinnest, fraying thread of life, hoping for all it was worth that one day he would be free.

Flames danced before his eyes and he flinched. The Balrog roared with laughter.

"Give them tame fire and they flock to it. Give them a wild flame and they will flee before it like the dogs they are. Your kind is weak and pathetic. You fail so readily."

The Balrog's words would once have sparked anger in Zaharias, but his ears had long since numbed to the insults. The fire of pride died many years ago.

"I do not know where they are," Zaharias said, "I only know they are gone."

"Lies!" the Balrog screamed. His voice echoed faintly throughout the goblin tunnels. "Tell me where the Elves are." He picked Zaharias up by the Elf's tattered shirt. The heat of his breath forced Zaharias to screw his eyes shut.

"I don't know."

Zaharias was tossed into the nearest goblin, landing with a meaty thud. The goblin squalled like a stuck pig and pushed Zaharias off.

"Give him none of that drink for three days and bring him back to me," the Balrog demanded. "Perhaps then he will speak."

"I have told you all I know!" Zaharias cried, rising shakily to his feet. "I don't know any more!" He tripped and landed heavily on his shoulder. "Please," Zaharias begged. Cold began to creep into his limbs. The Balrog turned away and left, taking the heat with him. All that was left was the dying fire the drink left inside Zaharias.

"Please," Zaharias whispered. "I can't."
***********************

Whew! That took forever.

Coming back from the brink of death two days after the second day of band camp. The first two days are the woRST! I finally started to feel alive again just a few hours ago. Now I just have to suffer through eight more days of nine hours and then it's only four hours until school starts. Then we practice only for two hours in the morning every other day and one hour the days we are practicing for two hours.

I don't feel bad for not updating this almost all summer because I could not figure out how to write this part and had no idea how I was going to accomplish what happens next chapter. I'll give you a hint; everything goes horribly wrong for like the fifth time now.

Also! The end of book one is nearing. We are well over three quarters of the way through. I'm planning on less than seven chapters, unless something goes wrong for Illeandir again, and then I shall begin planning book two, already have ideas for it as well as a title.

Hasta la vista!

(Is that how you spell it? I think it's wrong. I don't know. I think it's right, but I could be wrong... you got the general idea. Right?)