The Lingering Darkness Fan-fiction

[Elora]

Naiore

Eyes glittered with cold hatred as they tracked the doings at the stable. Kaldir departed with three horses. Naiore supressed a growl and considered further. He had glanced into the woods also. The damned Ranger had companions to be sure, the two extra mounts told him that.

Her attention swivelled back to the Rangers in time to see the older one point. Her teeth bared in barely contained frustration. She would have to be swift if she was to snatch Vanwe in time and already the Rangers were sniffing about like querrulous terriors. Sniff too close and they'd lose more than their noses. Her patience was rapidly coming to an end.

Naiore's gloved hand tightened around an inky hilt as the Stablemaster shot off towards the inn as though someone had set his breeches alight. She watched him disappear through the door and her grip relaxed. Mayhap he would bring her quarry out with him. When he appeared unaccompanied by Vanwe, Naiore summonsed what little tolerance she had left and remained still and silent.

Time was thin. The skirmishes would be advanced by now and she needed to be at Bree. Skaikrish had been more than eager to set out when she had struck this bargain, and here she sat in a tangled wood squandering the diversion the fool orc had thrown at her feet. As Amandur and Rauthain studied the tree line, Naiore came to a swift conclusion.

She had to be on her way to Bree by mid morning at the latest. with utmost stealth, Naiore stood and began ghosting on silent feet between the trees. The forest was dark, the sun not yet sufficiently high enough to cast all the shadows back. Naiore had long selected this vantage out. She moved to it now should the Rangers decide to venture in rather than simply stand, point and stare.

It was slow and deliberate work that she executed painstakingly. The reward for such diligence would be great... the north at her feet when all was said and done, and perhaps an answer to the question that had started it all Ages now past. With the defining riddle of fear held in the forefront of her mind, Naiore was in position and poised to act in an instant.

All she needed was for Vanwe to venture out from the inn and it would begin to draw together, this finely woven net.


Menecin

A soft tap sounded at the door shortly after dawn. They knew now that if he slept during the night, he would be awake by now. If he slept... Menecin made no reply, wrapped in his own night of sorrow, pain and betrayed rage. The door cracked open to admit one of the many who watched him.

"Menecin," came the soft question. The one who was to answer did not here it. The Elf who had asked it made out the shape of the bard by a window that overlooked the swaying fir trees. He was rocking slightly, absorbed in something he saw out that window within his mind.

"Menecin," the Elf said a little more certainly. Again no respose. With care, for the bard was unpredictably dangerous, the Elf stepped through the door and left it open judiciously should he need to make a swift escape. Elrohir's tidings had sat heavily upon his shoulders all through the night watch. He had been wrestling with this for hours now and there was no easy way to tell Menecin. Only, that he had to be told.

"Menecin, word has reached me of something that may interest you," the Elf began. There was no interruption to Menecin's rocking. Back and forth he swayed as though he were suspended from the roof. Once he had been suspended from a roof, and he had looked not upon fir trees but the beautiful face of the woman he loved - loves - loved.

"Menecin, you have kin within these lands." Again there was no response. The concept of kin had lost meaning long ago, but the Elf was not to know this for he could not look into the shattered, jagged mind of Maglor's once pupil.

"You... have a child." The rocking stopped and the halting statement seemed to resound. Menecin did not look away from the window, but he was so still as to seem to soak up all around him.

"A daughter... you have a daughter," the Elf finished, warily watching the bard with one hand on the door. Slowly Menecin's shoulders began to shake. The Elf stared, shocked at the presence of a reaction. Did he understand? He took a step forward, towards Menecin and then another.

Yes, his shoulders were shaking, but why. After a third step his watcher soon discovered why. Menecin was laughing, silently and without mirth or sanity. Black anger was stamped on his features and he laughed like he was possessed, mad. Then, with blinding speed, he twisted around and whipped his face towards the other.

His watcher instinctively recoiled away as Menecin crowed, "A daughter! A daughter! She took even that!" His laughter had dissolved now into howls of rage. The Elf scrabbled back for the door as the depth of the abyss in Menecin's soul opened before him. He slammed shut the door and locked it for good measure, breathing hard. The sound of furniture splintering leaked through it.

"A daughter!" Menecin could be heard cackling and sobbing in turns as he savaged his room. His turmoil was too great to keep locked within. The Elf stood by the door, tears bright in his eyes. Slowly, the bard subsided in his attack, as did his ruined laughter. But the sobs continued longer still. Menecin sank to the floor amid the debris of his sanctuary/cell, unfeeling beyond this latest outrage. She had taken from him even his child. A daughter...

Outside his door, his watcher looked up in profound sadness at the appearance of another drawn by the disturbance. "He knows," Elrohir said, more statement than question. With a sigh of sorrow and lament, the other nodded. Elrohir withdrew, and made his way back to his father's library.

Her own family, her kindred, all of Middle-earth and the one who had loved her resolutely through all that had passed... and now her own child. Would Vanwe, lost, prove to be as fell as her mother or ruined as her father? The echoes of this seemed to stretch into forever, through generations of Elf and Man. Or would Vanwe prove to be something else entirely and work her way free of this web of sorrow?

No sooner had Elrohir gained the library did an Elf appear with urgent tidings. Skaikrish was on the move once more. Elrohir found himself turned once more to the stuff of battle and struggle and away from matters of healing, the same conundrum of his father before him.

"Marshal a sortie of 20 warriors and set out to reinforce the Dunedain. We can spare no more." Elrohir watched the Elf depart. No more if we are to hold back something far worse than rabid orcs... but would all the warriors of the once proud Elven kingdoms be of avail when this evil comes from within our own? It was another question of late, the answer to which Elrohir had little liking for.

Collapsed on the floor of his room, Menecin drifted in living memory... a daughter! Would she look like her mother? An Elf maiden swayed and danced upon the golden sands of Belfalas. A daughter!