Tadui Peth: Dôr Minai at
Brand
(Unique and Lofty Place)
By the time the cavalry rode into the grounds of the Last Homely House,
Anor was already an hour above the horizon and a chipper chorus of
songbirds, finches, wrens, and sparrows filled the atmosphere with
welcoming warbles and trilling calls of merry timbre. Above the open
stretch of the Bruinen's ample flood-plain, the sky was positively
vibrant with the stunning gleam of the newly arrived day and promised a
high and cloudless dome of gentian blue. The woods and copses of
hardwoods, orchards and groves of fruit trees, and indeed every shrub
and blade of grass looked lush, cultivated, and well tended. The entire
place seemed to be a garden. Cuthenin could not decide where to keep
his gaze, for every way he turned presented a new vista of such
pristine perfection that he was astounded.
He had ridden hard across the broad shallow valley of the Anduin and
noted with amazement the strength of the sun's light, so potent that it
made his back warm and the skin beneath his collar perspire. The novel
experience of travelling openly without the cover of leaves and limbs
had at first been daunting and then exhilarating. Yet even there the
land had been wild; grasses so high they tickled his mare's belly as
she ran; trees bent and gnarled from grappling with wind and weather,
brambles and thickets of thorny vines encroaching over the little-used
path. He had glimpsed the humble abode of Aiwendil from afar, spying no
more than a wispy grey plume adrift over the thatched cottage. Of
Beorn's fabled home amid the cove of pencil pines he had discerned
naught, though he had strained to spot the shape-shifter at large
within its grounds. Nay, there was nothing in his limited experience to
prepare him for the utter majesty of the gracious realm of Elrond
Half-elven.
Even the humblest of out-buildings presented a pleasing and graceful
facade. The stables were elegant and ornately fashioned with a high
peaked roof tiled in red clay, white-washed wooden walls, and many open
windows. To know that the horses in Imladris had better quarters than
most of the people in his homeland was an uncomfortable comparison to
make. Indeed, Cuthenin had almost mistaken the stately building for the
Lord's abode, until he rounded a curve by a fine high wind-brake of
cedar trees. The Wood Elf could only stare in speechless awe. He had
seen pictures in books of the glory of Aman and the dwellings of the
Calaquendi in Tirion, and this residence might easily be one of those.
It had four tiers of rooms and so many balconies and porches, turrets
and cupolas that it was just possible for every chamber to have a
spectacular view of the sweeping expanse of the Hidden Vale. Everything
was dazzling, white and spotless like polished alabaster, trimmed out
in sculpted friezes and carved knot-work ornaments. There were
fountains by the courtyard and statuary in the gardens, and the air was
filled with the sweet music of fair voices and the delectable scents of
rare flowers.
Cuthenin realised that all the warriors had dismounted and led away
their chargers and his mare stamped an impatient foot. No doubt she had
been equally impressed and desirous of inspecting the uncommon domicile
and sampling the fresh oats she could smell from the open barn. The
archer slid off her back and gave her a quick and affectionate tug of
the ears before letting her trot off to find an empty stall with a full
manger.
And then he hesitated a bit, having no idea where he was to go or to
whom he should report. The Noldorin soldiers all seemed to have tasks
to do and places to be and were hurrying to get them done and be gone.
Some glanced his way curiously, a few nodded and smiled, but none of
them seemed to feel it necessary to instruct him, probably assuming he
knew the way. The legendary First Age warrior was no where to be seen
and Cuthenin frowned. He would just have to find someone and ask, for
surely there was a place in all this huge castle where visiting
messengers were expected to await audience with the Lord of Imladris.
He set off toward the mansion determinedly and had gone no more than
four paces when he was hailed from a small side porch near the back of
the building. It was Glorfindel.
"Cuthenin, this way, if you please," he smiled and motioned with his
arm as he descended from the banistered veranda. Glorfindel met the
Wood Elf in the yard and took careful hold of an elbow, guiding him
away from the huge house as he did so. He gave the archer another
cursory examination and tried to keep his tone light when next he
spoke. "I have arranged a private abode for you, free of the agitation
and clamour of the Last Homely House proper. The place is fairly
crawling with folk from every part of the world, and one can scarcely
take a step without tripping over a hobbit, bumping into a pair of
dwarves, or nearly being trampled a throng of humans, either rowdy
rangers or noble Lords from Gondor."
"Dwarves and humans! What are they all doing here? And what is a
hobbit? Never have I heard of such a people."
"Hobbits are rather like miniature elvish humans, if humans were very
small and much more elf-like. They are very cheerful and full of
mischief and I think it is these people humans are referring to when
talk of brownies starts up."
"Ah," nodded Cuthenin, trying to picture this in his thoughts and
failing. He sighed. "Your hospitality is most beneficent, yet there is
no need to make special arrangements for me. No doubt there is a
regular area set aside for messengers from other realms?"
"True, but you see there is already a messenger here from Lorien and,
expecting no others, we turned the rest of that space over to the
rangers, for they do not get on well with their noble cousins from the
White City. And the dwarves are quartered in the east wing while the
humans from Gondor are in the north this time. Elrond's family occupies
the apartments facing west, the hobbits are in the guest chambers of
the southern portion, and the Healing wing comprises the remainder of
the house not used for formal functions. I could not in good conscience
put you up in a sick bed or the library!" Actually, Glorfindel was
rather abashed to be directing the silvan away from the splendour of
Elrond's house and had feared the warrior would be offended to be so
excluded. He almost laughed in relief to hear that the messenger
thought he was being afforded extra courtesy.
Cuthenin was troubled, for while it was beyond overwhelming for the
valourous Vanya to be personally escorting him to his quarters, he
really had no need of rooms, per se, for he would be ready to leave
after only a short respite for himself and his horse. Long enough for
him to get himself clean and presentable, tell his news, and receive a
reply from the Elf Lord. No more, surely, than a few hours would be
required for that.
"Forgive me, Lord Glorfindel…"
"Glorfindel will suffice; I do not have any holdings or people of my
own here," the legend corrected kindly and with a friendly smile.
"As you wish. I was only going to suggest that this is all unnecessary.
I have no plans to remain, for I am urgently needed back home. Please
forgive me for being forward, but…"
"It is I who should ask pardon, Cuthenin. Elrond cannot meet with you
today, for he, Mithrandir, and one of the rangers are currently in
conference and unlikely to be free any time soon. And there is a
patient in the Healing wards, one of the hobbits, in urgent need of
close attendance. Elrond will allow no other to oversee the halfling's
care. If you can but abide a few turns or Anor, there will be time for
your report."
Cuthenin came to a halt and glanced first at the Balrog Slayer, then
the ground under his feet, and finally turned to the north and gazed
long into the impenetrable barricade of fair green leaves and brown
bark that obscured all but the mist-wreathed peaks of the grim grey
mountains. His whole being radiated a deep and malignant grief that
threatened to overtake the staunch control he held over his
countenance. The colour of his sky-hued eyes darkened to the cast of
storm-laden thunderclouds and gleamed with a sheen only unshed tears
could create.
He blinked twice and turned back to his companion, struggling to
maintain a dignified posture when he felt ready to scream. He must
return and do honour to his fallen colleagues; it was unconscionable to
leave them there exposed upon the broken path to the frigid elements
and the merciless teeth of scavengers.
Or worse.
The grotesque image of Orcs feasting on his comrades' flesh,
dismembering their bodies and desecrating their remains, forced itself
within his weary mind and Cuthenin had to fight to keep from retching
on the grass.
"I must go. I left my friends in the pass, and it cannot remain thus.
It is not the way of my people to abandon the dead." He managed to get
these sentences out without faltering and then clamped his jaws tight,
swallowing back the rising swell of aching acidity working up through
his oesophagus.
"Aye, it is not our way either, to leave the deceased, unless the
circumstances are dire. Yours were, and I deem you escaped with your
life and that just barely. I have seen many years and, though you
conceal it well, the wounds you took in the struggle are not beyond my
notice."
"Lord Glorfindel, I am already healed and…"
"Just Glorfindel, maethor eryndôr (woodland warrior). Peace, have
I not already said I would not place you in the Healing Ward? I trust
that if you needed a physician's help you would seek it. I but wish to
emphasise that the option taken was the only one available to you, and
your successful arrival here was a victory purchased with the bloody
currency of misery and death.
"You cannot help your friends now and it has been at least three days
since the battle, has it not? Whatever remnant of them is left will not
be recognisable should you return." Glorfindel spoke those words as
gently as he could, but that did not prevent the stricken pallor that
rendered the Wood Elf's face into a mask of raw pain and shocked
despair.
"Nae! (Alas!)" Cuthenin shook his head and took a step back breaking
from the warrior's hold. "There must be something…I need to see to
them. There are customs, prayers to make, laments to sing and…"
"Cuthenin, come with me now. You and I will discuss this further once
you have refreshed yourself and taken some nourishment," Glorfindel
spoke softly but allowed his voice to assume an undertone of command,
playing up the role of legendary elder no youth so green would dare
defy. He took hold of the Wood Elf's arm and started forward again,
relieved when the archer fell into step without opposition.
Now Glorfindel had intended to lead the silvan to his own house, for he
dwelt alone and therein was ample space. He hoped it was not too much
discourtesy to be shunted out of the Lord's mansion if that meant
sharing lodging with the valley's most esteemed warrior. Yet he was
uneasy, for the archer was young indeed and had undergone a harrowing
initiation into the cruel realities of the darkening world beyond the
safety of his own trees.
Not that Mirkwood is a peaceful haven, yet it is home for him
and all that he knows. His people must have rites or customs to help
him cope with this sort of shock while I cannot fathom what those might
encompass. At the very least, familiar faces and the kinship of shared
loss would provide comfort and an acceptable outlet for expressing the
sorrow inundating his spirit. Imladris has none of these things;
everything here is but a foreign oddity.
The people of the Woodland Realm could not be more different, though
they were elf-kind, from those of Imladris. The silvan folk dwelt amid
the treetops, even as the Galadhrim of Lothlorien, but lacked the
refinement and grandeur of Galadriel's folk. The Sindarin elves mixed
in with the elusive Wood Elves were purported to occupy a large
underground fortress of sorts. Nothing even vaguely resembling the
ornate structures and carefully planned organisation of the Hidden
Vale's abodes would be found in Mirkwood.
He has probably never been inside a proper house
before.
Glorfindel did not like the silence between them, for it was weighted
with the corpses of three dead warriors. He glanced at Cuthenin,
concerned that he had said nothing for some time and walked as one
removed, pacing along in numb acquiescence. He did not like the idea of
the messenger withdrawing into the depths of gloom and guilt, beset by
waking nightmares and recurring visions of the gruesome battle. As they
paced closer to his home, Glorfindel became more convinced with every
step that shutting the Wood Elf up inside a building of wood and stone,
no matter how elegant and comfortable it might be, would be the wrong
thing to do.
Thus, as he entered through the gate in the low-walled courtyard, he
veered off into the grounds and slowed his pace. An idea came to
him and he seized upon it, almost smiling for the sheer brilliance of
the notion and changing course again. He guided the unresponsive silvan
right out the rear postern into a cool and shaded dell guarded by a
small stand of oak trees. These hardwoods had graced this spot for
certainly more years than the Wood Elf had yet lived.
In the heart of the little weald was a giant of a tree unlike any other
in Imladris that he knew of, for it had been in the place untold
numbers of centuries. Indeed, these were not like ordinary oaks and
Celeborn had once come to see them, pronouncing them entirely unique to
the Hidden Vale, for no other species of oak could live so long as
these must have done to reach such amazing height and girth. In the
largest, most ancient of the nearly immortal trees, Elrohir and Elladan
had played as children and later Estel had spent many happy years
climbing on its mighty limbs. Far up in the branches, but not too far
for the safety of youngsters, was a sturdy wooden talan.
Glorfindel decided that it would be ideal for Cuthenin. The Wood Elf
would be in the shelter of trees, something he would appreciate, and
still be close enough for the Balrog Slayer to keep an eye on him. He
halted beneath the oak and let go of the warrior's arm. Still no
response revealed that the archer was even aware of his surroundings
and the Balrog Slayer's brow furrowed in worry.
"Cuthenin. This is the place where you will stay."
At the speaking of his name, the silvan's head snapped sharply in
Glorfindel's direction and a blankly bewildered stare traversed the
Vanya's features. He gazed around him then at the trees and took a
hesitant step on his own toward them.
"You will stay here and you will not be alone," Glorfindel repeated
firmly and motioned upwards into the branches. The Wood Elf followed
his hand and his eyes found the talan. He returned his sight to his
host and gave a short nod. The next instant instinct took over and he
dashed for the old oak, hoisting himself up high in the branches until
he was nearly hidden from view. Glorfindel exhaled a small disconcerted
breath of both surprise and bemusement. He peered into the sun-sparkled
leaves, but all he could make out was one booted foot dangling beneath
the foliage.
"I will gather some things from my house, there within the walled
garden," he called into the limbs and then turned away, neither
expecting nor receiving a response.
This minor task did not take very long and Glorfindel returned laden
with a pack and a large basket of necessities: bedding and water and
toiletries. Yet when he climbed up to the talan he discovered the
woodland warrior curled up on the floor, sound asleep amid the thick
mulch of dried leaves and twigs that had collected on the old flet over
the long years of neglect. Glorfindel had expected something of the
kind would occur and was prepared to wait, feeling it was best to let
the elf recover from the strain and exhaustion in his own time. He
reached into the pack and pulled out a leather-bound book, settled
against the trunk, and started to read.
Nearly half the volume was perused before the silvan stirred and then
it was just as Glorfindel had feared. One second the archer was lying
still and limp as a wet rag and the next gave a hoarse shout and
scrambled to his feet, bow at the ready in his left hand while his
right reached in vain for an arrow from his empty quiver. The Vanya was
by his side immediately, reaching carefully for the rigidly trembling,
disoriented elf as he spoke.
"Peace, it was a dream. The danger is past and you are in Imladris. Do
you hear me? Cuthenin, answer."
"I hear you," he croaked out and sank back to the floor, dropping the
bow, heart pounding and chest heaving as the adrenalin coursed through
him. "I left them!" he cried in disgust and buried his face in his
hands.
"You left them, that is true, but they were dead, were they not?"
"Aye, they were dead." He sighed and lowered his hands, lifting his
desolate countenance to the ancient warrior's. "But I should not have
left them all the same."
"Why, so that you could die also? Would that change their fate or make
their sacrifice more worthy?"
"What?"
"What are you doing here?"
"I am a messenger; I am charged to…"
"Nay, I did not ask what a messenger's duty is, Cuthenin. I wish to
know why you were chosen to see it done."
The result of this question was not what Glorfindel had anticipated,
for Cuthenin's whole body sagged and he dropped his head in shame. He
was shaking visibly and the elder soldier quickly knelt beside him and
laid a steadying hand on his shoulder. He waited, not wishing to press
too hard, for he could see now there was more to the Wood Elf's burden
than the gruesome deaths of his comrades in the mountain pass.
"I am here because I am responsible for the creature's escape. Two
elves died because of my misjudgement. I was the one entrusted to
oversee the cringing creeper and I am the one who allowed it to be
taken from the cell. I was not even there when the attack occurred; I
had left with the change of the watch."
"That is grave indeed." Glorfindel squeezed the archer's shoulder and
sighed heavily, crossing his legs beneath his so he could sit next to
the silvan. He scrutinised the dejected figure beside him closely and
found nothing to alter his initial impression of the warrior: Cuthenin
was young and inexperienced but not cowardly or lax in performance of
his duty. Given his lack of years, it was likely this incident had
taken place during the warrior's first assignment in command. It was no
wonder the youth felt guilty for the lives forfeited. The loss of
confidence such an unfortunate event had caused now threatened to
thwart the Wood Elf's career and rob Greenwood of a skilled archer.
"Grave indeed," the Vanya repeated and shook his head sadly. Yet he
wished to salvage the warrior if possible. "Tell me, how long is a
standard watch in the heart of Mirkwood?"
"Three tours of Ithil and two of Anor. Why do you ask?"
"Just respond for now, archer. What is the reason for that period of
time instead of another?"
"It is a delicate balance between vigilance and readiness. Shorter
watches are not feasible given the small numbers in one company. Any
longer without rest and warriors begin to grow fatigued. None would be
able to endure the rigours of a lengthy patrol with lesser respite. The
possibility of errors increases; we cannot afford such hazardous
inattention."
"And did you leave your post before the appointed time? Did you fail to
stand the full watch?"
"Nay!"
"Was it forbidden to remove the prisoner from the cell?"
"No, but it was a risk I should not have taken."
"Why did you decide to do this?"
"It was something Mithrandir said. He spoke of healing the creature of
the ills the long enslavement by the Shadow had inflicted, of exposing
the prisoner to wholesome air, clean water, and the company of
elf-kind."
"From your responses, I judge the failure was unavoidable and your
behaviour fitting to the standards of your King. You did not let others
take the burden of your watch. Had you done so, then mayhap the lack of
rest might have dulled the keen senses of those guarding the Gollum in
your place. Nor did you ignore the words of a wise and learned wizard,
thus demonstrating compassion to a being under your doom."
"I cannot see it that way. Had I refused the creature's request to
leave the cell, no one would have died."
"You cannot know that for certainty, for the attack may have come all
the same. Then maybe the prisoner would still be in the cell but more
lives would have been lost."
"I cannot understand how the Orcs got so close without arousing the
guards' notice. Had I been there…"
"But you were not there. Perhaps you believe your abilities are so
superior to your fellows' that your mere presence could have
forestalled the ambush."
"What did you say?" Cuthenin turned incredulous and angry eyes upon his
host. "That is not true! I only meant…"
"Good!" Glorfindel cut him off. "Now then, this was your first taste of
command and it is unfortunate you had to be taught so harsh a lesson on
your initiation into leadership. Yet it is a cruel and inescapable
fact: when those under your authority are placed in dangerous arenas,
not all of them will survive. No matter how able you are, how brave you
are, how noble and true of heart you remain, still some that you
oversee will perish. You must face this, Cuthenin, and either come to
accept it or be destroyed by it."
The Wood Elf stared in afflicted quandary at the noble elf, unable to
formulate any sort of reply to such an unexpected lecture. Glorfindel's
words lifted the burden of guilty shame and in its place laid upon
Cuthenin's shoulders the heavy mantle of responsible authority. The
messenger suddenly saw that his concept of being in charge was terribly
skewed. He had believed his captaincy would enable him to protect his
people from harm, preventing loss of life and aiding in driving the
pestilence of Dol Guldur from his homeland. Now it was clear this was
not the case and the archer realised how very small his role actually
was in and of itself. Only in conjunction with the compliant and
unified actions of all the elves under his command could any change
hope to be accomplished. And this bewildered him.
"But then to what purpose do we choose some to lead and others to
follow? Is it not better if all work together on the same goal equally,
since we are none more able than the other to prevent these tragedies?"
he asked quietly, assuming the twice-born warrior would know the
thoughts preceding it. He was not mistaken.
"Not all have the strength to accept the responsibility of leadership.
It is a weighty burden and one that will work upon your heart and mind,
assailing you with self-doubts, grief, and remorse. Few can bear a
strain so great, realising they must send friends and kinsmen into the
teeth of death when they truly wish to shield these loved ones from any
hardship. Yet I see this strength within you, Cuthenin, and judge that
the trust emplaced upon you by the elders of your folk was not
misguided."
Once more Cuthenin found himself unable to string together enough
coherent thoughts to produce a fitting answer. Glorfindel spoke with
wisdom bestowed by thousands of years of fighting the darkness, both as
a leader and a warrior for his people and those of Eärendil. His
endorsement of the messenger's worthiness was as rain upon seeds and
within the younger elf's spirit the kernel of maturity germinated. The
archer found his perspective altered, transformed from a sense of
helpless futility into a grim and tenacious determination. He was
overwhelmed with gratitude and at that moment desired nothing so much
as to retain the ancient warrior's approbation. He smiled slightly and
bowed his head in respectful appreciation.
"Hannaden," (my thanks) he said soberly and lifted a gleaming
expression bursting with renewed pride and hope to the Vanya's serious
countenance.
"Pedon pith thenid", (I speak true words) answered Glorfindel with
equal gravity. They were silent for the passage of a few seconds and
then he squeezed the Wood Elf's shoulder lightly and rose. "It is
almost mid-day and you have yet to take any sustenance or cleanse
yourself. I will show you to the baths and, if it is not against your
customs, join you in sluicing the dust of a long series of night
patrols from my person."
"It is not contrary to my peoples' ways to share bathing," replied
Cuthenin evenly and stood also. In truth he was not so calm in his
mind, for while communal baths were not uncommon among kin, close
friends, or comrades in arms it was another thing altogether to wash
one's body openly before strangers. Still he did not wish to appear
timid and attempted a smile. "Lead the way, Glorfindel."
TBC
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