A Rather Chaotic Revision of The Fellowship

~Two~

Deep in the lifeless Halls, there took place what one might call a disturbance. Spirits shivered and recoiled dimly as someone new made an entrance. Not a departed soul, that was all too obvious; though his robe and face were in shadow, the flaring eyes blazed with the splendor and glory of Aman. All whom he passed by bowed their heads in respect; even the ancient, haughty souls of the elder days paid their heed.

Passing by like a thundercloud, the figure swept away, until he stopped at last before the lord of the Halls, who stood stiffly from his throne and frowned.

"Lord Tulkas. It is a . . . pleasure to meet you in my Halls," rumbled Námo.

The champion of the Valar snorted, sending his braided gold hair swinging. "You forget nothing, Mandos. Do not pretend otherwise."

Námo, clasping his clever hands together, was unperturbed. "Tulkas, you, like me, are slow to forget. And let me remind how in turn you are--or were, in this instance--slow to wrath. I have in my mind several reasons why you seem so flustered. So tell me, which is the correct one?"

"I would like answers," he stormed. "That elf you released was cursed. Not worthy, in any way." He swung his fists, as if intending to poke holes through the swirling mist.

"I decide who is worthy and who is not. It is not your job, or anyone else's, to interfere. And I never said he was 'worthy.'"

Tulkas scoffed. "So if you agree he was unworthy, why did you let him out? It was not the way of fate!"

Námo waved a stern yet dismissive hand. "Do not speak to me of fate, Tulkas. I alone am the Master of Doom, I alone decide when and why to release a soul. If this is your only objection, then I suggest you get yourself out of my Halls, or I will make you." The resolve in his eyes was adamant.

Tulkas made to turn, but paused. His massive hands trailed wearily by his side, like great meaty boulders. "There is something else," he murmured. Námo raised an eyebrow. "Nessa is missing."

~

A vengeful hiss fled from the Fëanorian's mouth. "You idiot," he snarled. "That is the Enemy's servant."

The blade at his neck pressed harder; Caranthir jerked as it began to penetrate flesh. "Now then, what would you know of the Enemy?"

Caranthir's mouth tilted in a wry smirk, and he chose to take a risk. A small one, of course, inconsequential in his rather long life. With little more than a grunt, he twisted away from the dagger, wrenching it to himself and pinning his attacker against the wall. The ranger struggled and thrashed, springing forth to land a fist in Caranthir's temple. Caranthir leapt back and hissed, slapping his own knuckles at the ranger in a blazing fury.

Surprisingly, the mortal was quite good, a worthy competitor for an elf such as he. Caranthir swerved to avoid a throwing knife, then two more. Hissing, he swung his foot into the man's chest. For a moment, his foe toppled back, and Caranthir seized the opening.

"You could say I know plenty about these things," he hissed, slamming the man to the wall. "Enough to recognize evil when it crawls into my inn."

The man slacked when he saw him, and donned--for a tiny second--a face if relief. Correcting himself, he writhed again in his grip. There was an uproar from the watching crowd. "What are you doing here?" He hissed. "Who sent you? What business does an elf have here?"

"I'll be the one asking questions here." Caranthir let the man go. "You were not whom I believed you to be. What are you doing here, with the Enemy's presence? Do you not sense the evil right before you?"