The Epic of Merrisil & the Scourge of the Scarlet Maiden

Since the elvish tongues where fictitious there are no official full black speech or quenya I have used what I could find. As far as the Sindarin is concerned it is from a Tara’s Sindarin Phrasebook http://members.cox.net/taramiluiel/sindarin_phrases.htm. Check out Tara’s web site, she is a total sweetheart and quite talented.

The Scourge of the Scarlet Maiden

Prologue

Of Hrorobas
Ara-peng’daug uin Herth tin Thranduil (High Archer of the House of Thranduil), Master Archer of Mirkwood, “Captain of the White Bow”, “Ihingril Dagnir” (Spider’s Bane)

Parents Marielia of Lothlorien (mother) and Celerond of Mirkwood (father). Hrorobas’ was born at the beginning of the 3rd Age and spent most of his lifetime in or near Mirkwood. A Captain in Green-legion and the High Archer of Thranduil. He was on hand during Thorin Oakenshield’s imprisonment and fought in the Battle of the Five Armies. His parents dwelt in Mirkwood for many a yen* where, in his youth, Hrorobas’ took delight in hunting spiders, and spent many an afternoon on the dark paths of the forest. This is how he became a master archer, and wielded a fine bow of ancient origin. It was given to him by Thranduil himself for his service, through out the years. He wore a suit of armour with leaf shaped metal work through out the design. His sword was a gift from Merrisil’s father who was a smith in service of the King. The blade is not magical as such, but is of fine quality and does not rust or oft to require sharpening. He traveled to Rivendell with Legolas and Threndodale for the Council of Elrond where he met a beautiful elven lass from Lorien named Celairiel. He sent word to her often after that, and made plans to wed. Tragically, her life was taken, when Lothlorien was attacked by Char a great black dragon. Hrorobas’ life was a happy tail as any elf could want, but once his fiancé had been killed he wore a heavy weight upon his heart. He became reckless, and would always jump into battle headfirst as if daring death to take him.

Of Quinga’sorno (Bow of the Eagle) , “The White Bow of Mirkwood”
Made of a light coloured wood, this bow has a lacquer grip in the crafted shape of an eagle’s head. A legendary bow that was granted to Hrorobas by the King Thranduil. The bow, legend has it, was shaped from a branch of Nimloth**, that was gift from Isildur to Oropher’s house.

Of Merrisil (meaning “festive jewel”)
“Erui Magor uin Calen’dirnaith” (1st Swordsman of the Green-legion) “Red-breast”, “Robin-bearer”

Son of Threndodale of Mirkwood (father), and Elainia of Rivendell (mother), and one sister Quynillia. Merrisil can trace his roots all the way back to the Aman. He is actually a distant cousin of Feanor his great-grandfather (1st cousin of Miriel Serinde) had left Tirion with Feanor to recover the Silmarils. After the Sons of Feanor perished, his family dwelt in middle earth ever since. He is relatively young by elven terms, but Merrisil is gifted with the sword and became a 3rd swordsman (apprentice) at fairly young age. He was first recognized for his skill with the blade during the Battle of the Five Armies. He was inducted as a 2nd swordsman and left for Rivendell to begin his training with the Swordmasters of his mother’s realm. Not long before The Slaughter of Eryn Lasgalen he was called back in to the service of Thranduil. He wears the standard armour of the Mirkwood Legion but underneath he sports a fine woven shirt of mithril, which was made by his father. The first gift from his father is bore by Merrisil upon his left breast… this broach he wears at all times. Carneaiwe’alta (Redbird of Bright Light), is a ward given to Merrisil for his 1st yen* birthday. His swordsmanship aside Merrisil is also quite a good tactician and has quite a bit of experience for one so young. His near fatal, mishap at the Thranduil’s cavern has tempered him with some much needed patience, and he always try to find a tactical advantage before committing to a plan or action.

Of Wilwarin’russe (Butterfly-blade)
An elven Katana made by Threndodale the blade was constructed primarily from a special type of Dwarven steel that is extremely hard yet does not rust. However there is a layer of Mithril that lines the edge of the blade so that it cuts like a Mithril sword. The blade get it name from the guard which is shaped like a pair of butterfly wings. It has the phrase “Sometimes the beating of a butterfly’s wings unleashes a hurricane of Osse” etched in to the side of the sword in Tengwar script.

Of Carneaiwe’alta (Redbird-of-Bright-Light)
A broach crafted in the shape of a robin with a spider in it’s mouth; the spider is actually a spider-shaped jewel. The jewel glows as warning when spiders are about furthermore, the ward acts as a repellent, spiders will not attack the bearer unless cornered or in great numbers.

Of Threndodale
“Arna-mirdan uin Herth tin Thranduil” (High Smith of the House of Thranduil), “The Heir of Feanor”, “The Ward-Master”

A renowned smith in the service of King Thranduil, Threndodale was one of the last great elven smiths of middle-earth. He was of the line of Feanor, and for his skill he was sometimes referred to as “the heir of Feanor” by the smith’s of Rivendell. He apprenticed with the master-smiths of his realm and surpassed their skills. They quickly came to realize he was a prodigy of sorts and he was sent to Rivendell where he learned many secrets from Elrond himself. And for many a yen* did he dwell in that land. He became a master of ward-craft, and it was said among the elves of the 3rd age that none could match his skill in this discipline. For Merrisil’s first yen birthday he manufactured Carneaiwe’alta (Redbird of Bright Light), a broach in the likeness of a robin clutching a red spider shaped jewel in it’s mouth. At the Battle of the Five Armies, Threndodale fought at his King’s side. After the siege was over he met a Dwarven smith by the name of Durick and confessed to him that he long admired the art of the Dwarves. And with this a great friendship began amongst Threndodale and the Dwarven metal-masters. He travelled many times to Erebor during the years between the Death of Smaug and the War of the Ring. During these visit’s he exchanged many secrets with the Dwarves, furthermore each race advanced their craft. Dain I was so pleased that he gave Threndodale a small amount of mithril from his own personal store. From this he fashioned a wonderful mithril mesh shirt, using the techniques*** he had learned from the smith’s of Dain. He had some mithril left over and with this (and some Dwarven steel) he wrought Wilwarin’russe, a fine blade for his son who was return to Mirkwood after training under the tutelage of the Rivendell Sword-masters. Upon Merrisil’s returned from House of Elrond, his father insisted that he wear the mithril shirt in to battle.

* The long years of the elves (1 yen = 144 years).

**Nimloth, also known as the White Tree of Numenor, was burned in front of the temple of Sauron at the end of the Second Age of the Sun. Before this could be done Isildur cut a branch from the tree in order to retrieve the fruit for it’s seed. He kept the branch and presented it to the Oropher’s house upon his return. (I’ve taken a slight liberty with this because there is only a record of Isildur taking the fruit and not any branches.)

*** “Dain had come. He had hurried through the night, and so had come upon them sooner than they had expected. Each one of his folk was clad in a hauberk of steel mail that hung to his knees, and his legs were covered with hose of a fine and flexible metal mesh the secret of who’s make was possessed by Dain’s people.”
-The Hobbit

The Burning of Lothlorien

Goj-ob’sauron (Mouth of Sauron) was he known the those who his short reign had now overseen. Overborne was he with the burden of these foul creatures, but where else was he to go back to the world of men? It was he who lead the last remains of forces of Mordor to this hill of black magic. For the Scarlet Maiden called to him in dreams and he answered. And long had she hidden in secret for it was her nature was it not? Sauron had saved this one from the void and for many an age did she become a sentinel, because it was she who covered his great crypt in shadow from those who sought his tomb.

And now did Goj-ob’sauron do her bidding; she had planned to unleash the Dol Guldur upon middle-earth for there were many resources in this vast region. As Goj-ob’sauron was mounted on a great creature, it walked like a horse but it was impossibly large and flaming eyes it had. He was alone and he cried “skaat-Char! (come Char)” in the ‘Black Speech’. For Char was raised in Mordor and he was young; it was the only language he had ever known. But Char was only young for one of his kind and already had he worn out the years of a dozen life-times of men. He had been well kept behind the walls of the Black Gate and grown strong and large, and full of spite was he. His great master gone to the nether, why should he follow these feeble and inferior beings? Many a time did think about taking his leave but like the unfortunate Goj-ob’sauron, where was he to go? And he took rest under the lee of the naked hill.
A sound of steam hissed up the slope as the dragon stirred. “Kaulat voshu-lab za-izub (open your ears hear my voice)” said the dark mage.

“I would sooner go deaf that have to listen to more mewling from your kind mage” came the a great and deep voice rumbling as it spoke. It was the voice of one who knows not fear or maybe has not yet learned it.

Goj-ob’sauron’s face faltered yet he never missed a beat “my great one forgive my intrusion, the Scarlet Maiden bids your service”. Only the sound of serpents breath came now. Goj-ob’sauron, had begun to believe this maybe the last he would see of the wily serpent or anything else for that matter; since dragons are known for temperamental outbursts, one must speak them with great care. Still no rejoinder… “and for this favour you will be granted a home in Erebor and the horde of Dain shall be yours” the Mouth of Sauron continued.

A deep sigh and soft laughter emanated forth from the dragons throat, and there was no comfort in it. “Answer me this manling; how does one grant that which he does hold for his own?” countered the sly serpent. And now he rose and came up the gradient looking into Goj-ob’sauron’s eyes, because he wanted to see how much this manling really believed his own delusions.

Goj-ob’sauron held his gaze for only but a moment “all this can be given if you answer her plea, for you are to be a poisoned dart hurled into very heart of the enemy before we smite them into ash and dust”.

“Ah the Great Cavern to the north, this what you speak of is it not?” queried Char.

And Goj-ob’sauron smiled on the inside for he knew that peaked the interest of the wicked worm. “No my fiery one, a cavern of stone that sits above a river could withstand even fury of your flames. It is the forest of Lorien she wishes you send your vehemence. My Lady has sent a great armed force to the west and they are but a three day trek from the heart of wretched Galadhrim. In the forests of Lorien the elves will hold them at bay… but what if forest were no more?” coerced the dark mage.

Char snorted, stamped and spoke “and if I was to take this task upon my brow…” his eyes narrowed and Goj-ob’sauron could see he nostrils smoulder “you will be in my debt. Cross me whelp, and you will suffer like you have never imagined”.

“Of course ‘Goth-ob Kulkodar’ (Lord of Dragons), I wish only to serve your greatness for you will be known as Char ‘Samund-ob Galadhrim’ (Scourge of the Galadhrim)… through out all the realms of these lands. How could I betray your power when you return triumphant?” grovelled Goj-ob’sauron.

The dragon’s curled and stretched his serpentine form, his jagged and magnificent scales shone a jet black sheen in the dying light of the early summer’s eve. “So be it, Lorien will be wrought with fire and smoke and in three days you will crush our foes to the west.” And with this did he rise in to the air his gargantuan wings beat swiftly as Char made his was west. His spiky silhouette grew small as he sailed over the forest and disappeared into the night sky.

Dawn came to land; Char’s black shape was a shadow that clung to the trees and the ground as he sailed in secret. And now allusions of grandeur he had come to him during his flight, and he was ripe with rancour. He had veered south and came towards Lorien from the Field of Celebrant. And when he spied the forest he flew low over the river Anduin to avoid being seen. He caught site of movement just within the wood where the Great River converged with the Nimrodel.

In the early morning the forest was filled with the song of bird and breeze, as silky winds caressed the trees of Lorien. Celairiel, Eirien, and Dî, giggled and sang as they filled the their baskets with wild strawberries for they grew biggest and best on the south side of the Nimrodel. A small cart laden with many empty baskets sat in the middle of the clearing and the pony who pulled it stood off to the side grazing peacefully. “Your eating more than you’ve put in the basket!” teased Celairiel.

Dî joyfully countered “I’ll have you know I don’t eat enough to keep a bird alive.” “Why don’t you have some?” said Dî and she threw over-ripe berry that splattered on Celairiel’s cheek. Eirien guffawed at this and Celairiel fell over and laughed so hard she though her sides would split. Silent did they become as the saw a strange look had come over Dî. The pony bolted for the trees, whinnying frighteningly as it ran. Their eyes followed Dî’s gaze and beheld a shocking site. A cone of flame flew over their heads igniting the trees behind them and they fell, clutching the earth.

And Char was upon them, he swept down and torn the small horse from it’s path crushing the poor thing in it’s great claws as it expended more fiery breath. Moments later flame encircled the glade, and the great black dragon flew down and dropped his prey. He stood but forty paces away, devouring the pony in but a few moments. The three elven maidens huddled together and sobbed in each others arms. Dî was shaking violently, but Celairiel began to sing and her voice came forth, beautiful and fierce despite her tears. She clutched her two friends hands a faced the black dragon singing a great prayer in the ancient tongue. And in the face of this menace did the other two join her in a triad of defiance.

Átaremma i ëa han ëa
na aire esselya ·
aranielya na tuluva ·
na care indómelya cemende tambe Erumande :

The sweet sound of the sacred words stung Char’s ear and he writhed and twisted backing away from the melody that assaulted his dark soul. And his heart was wrought with fury, he bellowed flame at the three and with that he sealed their doom for they would sing not another note in this world. Enraged and startled by this strange display of power, and loss of his breakfast Char’s wrath burned through his blood. He would scorch these foul things from this realm, and with that the dragon resumed his task setting the forest alight with renewed zeal.

Gweran, Treandol, and Freandol sat atop a rocky peak high above Dimrill Dale. They had been studing the smoke that was rising from the forests of Lothlorien. Moreover, with their marvellous vision they spied a figure moving above the trees, on the edge of the blaze. Treandol reached down with his enormous beak, and plucked a loose feather from his wing. Gweran screamed a loud cry, and looked towards his fellows. He stretched his great wings, and leapt up into the air soaring gracefully towards the grey smoke rising in the expanse. Treandol and Freandol (who were brother and sister) followed immediately and the great eagles flew in a vanguard of three. The green of the tree line was becoming engulfed in flame. They now could make out a great flying creature, and as it breathed out an inferno. It was with this that Gweran knew what they faced, and the noble creature was wrought full of anger.

He called to his kin, in the shrill tongue of eagles, and warned them of their chore, for he intended to bring the dragon down. The Eagle Nobel knew the region precisely, since it had been his hunting ground even before his feathers had moulted. Thus, he had fashioned a plan, in his cunning animal mind. The tremendous birds made their way around the serpentine beast and approached from the sun.

Treandol dove first shooting out of the suns rays, and attacking the wicked worm in the right shoulder! His talons digging in between the hard scales, ripping a few lose, and slashing it’s skin. Char twisted in the air and roared a huge cone of flame at his adversary, but Treandol was far too quick. Freandol came next hitting the left wing, and cutting it with her sharp claws. The dragon was forced to barrel roll, and when it did so it exposed it’s tender underbelly. In came Gweran, slicing a long deep wound into his foe with his enormous talons. Fire nearly engulfed him as he sped past the dragon’s mouth. A huge roar, so power full it shook the air and was heard for miles around, bellowed from the injured beast.

The infuriated Char had apparently forgotten about the elves of Lorien for the time being, and gave chase. The Great Eagles climbed above the dragon as he approached. They circled the enraged worm from above, and dove at him again and again, luring him west along the River Celebrant. They came to a point were the river grew deep and up ahead was a waterfall with a large rock jutting from it’s peak. The eagles rose in the air, and dove once again, a great vanguard of three. Char struck like a snake and caught Treandol by the leg when tried he to dart past. The great bird shrieked in agony, as the dragon’s jaws crushed the bone. But Freandol had latched on to Char’s neck, and dug in to his slender throat pecking at his eyes. The infuriated beast flicked his head; letting go of his prey he belched flames. Treandol screamed, as he was enveloped in a fiery burst! He plummeted, into the water and went under. Freandol was singed, yet she held tight to her opponent forcing him down towards the river, and then Gweran was upon him. With his great talons he grasped each wing where they sprang from the shoulder, and they flew straight towards the rocky falls at a terrific speed. The air whooshed through the trees on both banks, as if a whirlwind drew up the river. Char struggled, and spat flame as suddenly he realized their intent.

Gweran and Freandol let go! For unbeknownst to Char there were sharp rocks hidden by the curtain of water. The fiery serpent smashed through the watery veil and was impaled on the sharp rocks within. It’s body literally exploded from the impact, strewing steam and fleshy debris into the air. The large rock that extended over the peak was knocked loose from the blast and tremendous splash ensued. And so ended the terror of Char, and the Burning of Lothlorien.

The two remaining eagles turned back from the falls, and drifted east down the river. Because of their excellent vision, both had already caught sight of Treandol’s charred figure as it floated down the Celebrant. They coasted down; landing on a bank about twenty paces ahead of him. Gweran reached forth with his beak and gently dragged his friend ashore. The badly injured animal breathed in chirping gasps. Freandol put her head down next to his, and emitted a soft cooing, in an effort to comfort her brother. Gweran chirped, as he looked in the eyes his childhood friend, telling him that all was safe. With this Treandol closed his eyes and breathed his last.

The Burning of Lothlorien

As Goj-ob’sauron was mounted on a great creature, it walked like a horse but it was impossibly large and flaming eyes it had. He was alone and he cried “skaat-Char! (come Char)” in the ‘Black Speech’. For Char was raised in Mordor and he was young; it was the only language he had ever known. But Char was only young for one of his kind and already had he worn out the years of a dozen life-times of men. He had been well kept behind the walls of the Black Gate and grown strong and large, and full of spite was he. His great master gone to the nether, why should he follow these feeble and inferior beings? Many a time did think about taking his leave but like the unfortunate Goj-ob’sauron, where was he to go? And he took rest under the lee of the naked hill.
A sound of steam hissed up the slope as the dragon stirred. “Kaulat voshu-lab za-izub (open your ears hear my voice)” said the dark mage.

“Ah the Great Cavern to the north, this what you speak of is it not?” queried Char.

Átaremma i ëa han ëa
na aire esselya ·
aranielya na tuluva ·
na care indómelya cemende tambe Erumande :

Chapter 1

Lady of Secret Shadow

The sun shone brightly on the shoulders of the Silvan warriors, Hrorobas shuddered as his eyes settled on Dol Guldur. It was a dark place, full of old hate towards his people. Thranduil had sent him and a host of elves to investigate the stronghold of the Necromancer. The top of hill was walled with stone and great logs however in the bright of day no orcs appeared to be on the ramparts.

They company had travelled to Amon Lanc by paths along the eastern side of the Anduin. Elandras had spied the henge of rock surrounding the opening that stood on the far northern side of Amon Lanc. ‘A backdoor perhaps’ thought Hrorobas. And he turned toward his host “T’is a way in mayhap, this maybe a great stoke of luck… if this entrance leads in to the fortress we may be able to turn the tide. For even now a host of Lothlorien elves moves from the west and many dark things have marched in that direction.”

“Aye, Hrorobas but what of the fortress if we enter this tomb and are trapped on both sides we will be like lamb awaiting the slaughter” said Merrisil.

“It is a dark task that lies ahead of us but it must be done. Merrisil, make camp by the creek I shall investigate this before we enter” remarked Hrorobas.

Merrisil exclaimed “Hrorobas, it is folly to do such a thing on your own, King Thranduil has sent us in force, and thus shall we find strength in numbers.”

“I shall not linger,” said Hrorobas “I only go to as a scout and will not stay long.”

“Then let me go in your stead, you are our Captain and I am one of many” replied Merrisil.

“T”is a brave offer sardon but what kind of Captain puts his men in danger to spite himself. No, Merrisil the task is mine you stay, and look after the men.”

Hrorobas proceeded to climb Amon Lanc, making his way to the henge he noticed a drop in the temperature, but the sun remained uncovered by clouds. He turned and looked down with affection on his host. ” Navaer, Hrorobas, farad vaer” (Farewell, Hrorobas, good hunting.) cried Merrisil.

The elven Captain responded with a fond informality “Nîn velui a lalaith veren nalú en-agovaded vín, gornon.” (Sweet waters and light laughter until next we meet, valiant one.)

The great hill of Amon Lanc was marked with dark patches of earth, where no grass would sprout. Towards the centre of the hill top there was a large opening from which vapour rose silently and disappeared into the air, like spectres fading into the light. A slightly bitter order came forth. Hrorobas swallowed, held his breath and entered the dismal oubliette, as he exhaled his form was consumed by the darkness.

Being of the line of Silvan, Hrorobas’ eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, and grey shapes began to materialize from blackness. As Hrorobas descended, he realized he was in an oval shaped chamber and, the staircase he was on appeared, to be carved from the living rock. Once in the chamber he saw the walls were crude, and rough-hewn. At the far end of the chamber was a doorway, the door was thrown aside, and appeared to be carved from black obsidian. A mist slowly expelled from the passage… it drifted upwards toward the opening from which he had entered.

Hrorobas thought of returning to the surface and gathering his men but, he had not gone far, so he made the decision to carry onward if only for a short distance. Once in the passage, it was obvious that the craftsmen who carved this passage were far more meticulous than those who built the first chamber, for the walls were smooth and ornate. There appeared to be symbols and images, carved in to the upper part of the passage, spanning the entire length of the corridor, as far as the eye could see.

Hrorobas’ nose crinkled as the vapour passed by him, the odour was akin to spoiled mead. Continuing down the corridor, he walked for a while, and saw nothing but the passage that lay before him. Just as he was about to turn back he could make out a four-way intersection within his line of sight.

Entering the intersection, he looked up and gasped above each passage there was a carving of a figure that was feminine in form except for to large ‘bat-like’ wings that sprang forth from the back. Carved in to the rock, above and below each of these statues was an inscription, although it was to dark to read Hrorobas was certain it was ‘black speech’, the tongue of Mordor.

Hrorobas spun on his heals as he heard a skittering, and notched his bow in a single motion. He loosed his arrow at the sound and prepared another. Silence, like a thick cloak seemed to descend all around him, and the sound of his own breath managed to disturb him. “Show yourself fiend for I am Silvan, a child of Illuvatar, and the light shall be your downfall,” threatened Hrorobas.

For a moment that seemed to last an age… nothing, but Hrorobas was certain that he heard laughter. He began to lower his bow and was preparing to make his way to the entrance when he realized he wasn’t sure which a way was out. A hissing sound startled him, and then came a hollow voice emanating from all directions. “There is no light here elf-son, for I am a child of darkness.”

“Then show yourself foul one, so that my arrows may find their mark… my blade too, thirsts for blood of the damned” was Hrorobas’ reply.

The mist had become thicker, and Hrorobas reeled at the fumes. “I am all around you… soon to be within you” was the voices gruesome counter.

Gathering his strength, Hrorobas dashed for the nearest passage but it was too late. He faltered and began to stumble, losing consciousness he saw only blackness.

He awoke to find himself on a wooded path, “Merrisil” he thought “bless his loyalty, but where is he and the rest of my company.”

He arose and realized he was naked save for a loincloth of scarlet linen. Hrorobas started up the path, and was startled to see the figure of an elf maiden appear further up the trail. Lovely was she, even by elven standards with her dark red hair and wondrous violet eyes; and she wore a dress of white lace with red fringes. Looking into his eyes she smiled and raised a hand in greeting. Hrorobas waved back and went to greet her. “I am Hrorobas of Mirkwood, I do not recognize you lady, and I would not forget one of your beauty.”

“You are kind to say so I am Jeneste of Lorien, you have sustained a great injury. Come… for there is a glade just down aways, there we can take rest and have a meal together,” said Jeneste.

“But how did I come to be here… where are my men” Hrorobas inquired?

Jeneste’s reply was “do not be afraid brave one your companions are safe in Mirkwood, and have come to no harm.”

“Then where are we… Lothlorien” asked the Silvan Captain

“We are in a sacred place and you were brought here, you have been asleep ever since” said the elf maiden. “I have been trying to revive you.”

Hrorobas and Jeneste entered glade. He saw that there was cloth spread on the ground, with a fine lunch laid out before them; white mead, bread and fruits of many varieties. Hrorobas felt apprehensive and didn’t fully accept his plight but hunger to a hold of him, he realized he was famished and began to sample the cuisine at his feet. Jeneste sat across from him and filled his bowl with mead. He ate much of the bread, which was fresh and still warm. The fruit tasted wonderful and, seemed to fill him with a warm feeling. The Silvan Captain stretched out lying on his back and looked up to the bright blue horizon. As time passed, he finally repeated his earlier question “Where is this place… how shall I return”?

Jeneste returned his gaze and raised one eyebrow “As I have told you we are in a sacred place, but you can not return for you have never left!”

Horrified… Hrorobas gagged as his mouth began to taste foulness and blood. Once again he reeled and the world began to darken, however he did not lose consciousness this time. He tried to rise and found that he could not for he was bound in cords. The glade was replaced by a dark chamber… he realized that he was on an alter of sorts and he looked upon the floor. He wailed when he saw the figures of his companion’s bodies strewn all over the floor some of their limbs had been severed. Jeneste approached but she did not appear as she had she was taller and her elven face had faded into decidedly more ghoulish features. Her teeth were long and sharp, great fangs did she display, and a large pair of wings unfolded from behind her. The creature picked up a chunk of flesh dripping with blood, and thrust it forth. There were teeth marks in it. “Did you enjoy you last meal elf son?” remarked Thuringwethil. And Hrorobas wept… for he realized he had supped on the very flesh of the ones he set out to protect. “You Hrorobas will be my vessel,” stated The Scarlet Maiden. The creature known to Hrorobas as Jeneste began to fade and turned into a vapour before his very eyes. Then like a cloud, the mist floated across the room and went into Hrorobas. His limbs tightened as if electricity was being passed through him then he went limp.

Merrisil put a hand over his eyes to shade them from the sun as he scanned the top of Amon Lanc for signs of Hrorobas’ return, he was becoming apprehensive for the sun had reached it’s zenith and was beginning to wane. There was still no sign of Hrorobas. He sensed movement behind him and to his left; he immediately recognized the footsteps of Elandral.

Elandral remarked “you are concerned for Hrorobas, shall we go forth?”

“Indeed, there is something foul afoot, we must investigate before it gets to late” was Merrisil’s reply. He turned, walked past the tents of the elves, and picked up a quiver of arrows. The Silvan Warriors were already gathering about him in a circle. “Well lads, do not let your hearts despair Hrorobas is skilled and may just be lost” stated Merrisil. “Glamfeld… and Norathon you must stay and guard the camp… the rest of the company with come me,” commanded Merrisil.

The group of elves (about fifty in all) were silent as they made their way to the up the naked hill, they shivered and exchange concerned glances as they approached the top and felt the unnatural cold that Hrorobas had noted. The top of hill was desolate, as the warriors surveyed the land they noticed that the foundations for many of the structures still were in tact, but the buildings had be destroyed or dismantled. The opening was circular, and lined with great stones, that were fit together like teeth in some huge open mouth. Merrisil peered in to the opening a saw a stair case descending into the pit fading into black.

Merrisil’s grip tightened on his sword, “Alaine, Cutheren, Shanellea, and Lembalas, Circle of Thorns* if you please!”

The four elves replied in unison “as you please” and with this they unsheathed their blades, and surrounded the opening.

“The rest of you to me” exclaimed Merrisil, as he climbed down the steps into the darkness, the rest of the company-followed suit and proceeded down the steps. Like Hrorobas their eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, and they peered about the crudely made chamber. Merrisil had already noted that there was only one way to go and was standing in the doorway listening and checking for signs of his Captain. He turned and looked towards the company “lads some of you shall come with me, the rest shall stay here and watch our backs.” “1st Patch**, Phalanx of the Blossoming Rose*** if you please” was his command. And with this some of the Elves arranged the selves the swordsmen in front weapons drawn (Merrisil at the lead) and the archers behind, arrows notched and at the ready.

As Merrisil crossed over the threshold on to the dark floor of the peculiarly decorated passage, he looked down and noticed his broach had started glowing under his breastplate. Merrisil thought to him self ‘black as midnight, black as pitch, blacker than, the foulest witch’ it was from a child’s poem about the spiders of his land. Elidian, the swordsman next to him glanced towards him and raised an eyebrow. Merrisil shrugged, looked back toward the column, and spoke softly “mayhap there are spiders, archers watch the ceilings.” They continued down the corridor towards the intersection and, Merrisil raised one hand for them to stop. “Swordsmen on the outside by two, archers inside by two, Circle of Thorns and Quills*, proceed and secure, if you please.” The column arranged the selves quickly like medieval dancers, the swordsmen lined the outside of the passage, and the archer formed a double row in the centre of the passage.

They entered the intersection, swordsmen kneeling in front of each passage, and archers behind shoulder to shoulder. “Merrisil, come here” one of the warriors cried. He stooped forward and picked up an object… it appeared to be a bow. The young elf held it aloft and Merrisil was fraught with grief, for he instantly recognised the bow of Hrorobas. He fastened the bow to his back; stood and inspected the intersection; above each passage was an alcove. The alcove he faced had a large red eye that looked like it was carved from a jewel set in crystal. It was set inside a large gold ring, and sat in the palm of a carving of hand, that was missing the index finger, it held the eye in it’s grip. There was writing around the gold ring. He could not read the script so he loosened his breastplate and exposed his broach. In the soft glow he could make out the script, “Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatulûk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul”. Above the Icon was the phase “Thrak-obu Goth” (The Lord of Gifts) below was simply written “Sauron”. Above the opening to the right there were nine figures, they all wore crowns, one stood in front of the other eight it’s hand raised in a parody of the statues of Argonath. The statue’s index finger bore a miniature ring with a small jewel set in the centre. Above the carvings was the phrase “Sauron-ob Shapturu” (Servants of Sauron) and under was the inscription “Nazgul”. Above the left passage was a terrible form to behold, a winged creature, a dark lady of sorts. The inscription read “Vajazkuku Thuringwethil ” (The Scarlet Maiden, Lady of Secret Shadow.) on the bottom was a name… “Jeneste”.

Merrisil took a deep breath and called several of the warriors by name, they left their posts and gathered around him. He reattached the breastplate and glanced at their faces, “come with me.” “We must cleanse these halls, this way” and he motioned towards the passageway under the icon of the eye. They moved down the tunnel silently as only elves can, after several minutes they came to a doorway. The large black door had been thrown aside, and a great chamber lay before them. Merrisil took the lead, two archers flanked him, and the rest of the elves filed into the dreary crypt. The air in the chamber was so cold they could see their breath. Looking around the room, they observed the walls were smooth and black. The symbols and characters continued around the walls. In the top of each corner was a carving of the twisted face of some creature. An altar was at the centre, the base of it was carved as still scene, in which skeletal creatures held the lid of the up atop their shoulders. In the centre of the top was a single red eye. In the middle of the far wall rested a giant sarcophagus. A huge fist was carved on the front, it was missing a finger, moreover in the centre, a large red eye. Merrisil called to Elidian to come help him as he approached the sarcophagus. The warriors tensed and readied their weapons. Merrisil and Elidian gripped the edge of the huge coffin and pulled with all their might, the lid stirred and the came off with surprising ease. It crashed to ground with a deafening bang; some of the elves had to move, or be crushed. From the coffin came a smell reminiscent of skunk spray and they shrank from the bitter order. Merrisil saw that there was some soil on the bottom of the sarcophagus. He opened his satchel, and brought from it a crystal vial. It lit up the chamber with a warm glow and the coldness retreated into corners of the room. The others gasped and murmured approvingly, and then the Silvan Swordsman poured a small amount of liquid into the dust. “Anor valthen, togo laugas lín nestad enin gûr hen… Andune-calim!” (Golden Sun, may your warmth bring healing to this heart… Western-light!) chanted Merrisil. The colour of the eye on the altar faded to black and the dank odour began to dissipate. The six of them returned to the passage and came back to the intersection. There were swords, bows and arrows strewn about the floor in a hap-hazardless fashion, yet no sign of the ones who carried them.

Then they heard the last thing they expected to hear, it was laughter coming from the passage to the North. Merrisil gestured to the rest, and they moved down the corridor silently, in a tight formation. The sound grew louder and the group could make out words. Merrisil raised his hand to signify they should stop; he could just make out an entrance. The rest of the group halted as Merrisil went ahead, the figures of the elves came forth from the shadows. They seemed to be gathered around a figure in the corner of the room as they laughed and carried on gaily. Once, Merrisil finally entered the chamber, he saw a sight that would haunt him for the rest of his days. The elven soldiers were standing about the chamber, and seemed to be enjoying a fine celebration amongst themselves. In one corner of the room, stood a tall creature, like the one carved from the statue in the junction. It held one of the elves in it long claw like fingers, the elf seemed to be in a trance of sorts, and he stared off in to the distance with a look of ecstasy on his face. From his neck, a deluge of blood flowed into Thuringwethil’s mouth. An archer named Finorfen, approached him, his smile was surreal, “Merrisil my merry lad” he exclaimed, “have you met Jeneste, she is a wonderful hostess… her mead is superb”. “Look! Those lads have fallen down from her brew” and he laughed at the bodies of his companions that littered the floor of the unholy chamber. Merrisil was bereft, he looked down to his broach, which was glowing with a fiery brightness underneath his armour. He tore open his breastplate, and Finorfen stared at the jewel as if mesmerized. The elven archer seemed to recover, “Merrisil what is going on?”.

“Make for the passage and tell the others to stay put,” ordered Merrisil. Finorfen turned to look about the chamber but Merrisil grabbed him by the neck and held his stare. “Don’t look my friend… just go.”

Abruptly, a thud sounded behind Merrisil, he turned, and saw the elven warrior that Thuringwethil had gorged upon, tumble to the floor! With that the vampire’s gaze fell upon him, her eyes squinted and seemed to regress from the glowing jewel he wore. Suddenly, with astonishing speed she crossed the room, Merrisil sprang back and slashed downward grazing the things arm. The vampire halted, hissed, and moved around to the right of Merrisil with same blinding swiftness. Merrisil side stepped, and spun his blade in a downward motion turning on one leg in an attempt keep the creature from circumventing his defence. He nicked the fiend again, this time in the leg, however by now the creature had gotten his back. An instant later, he felt it’s iron grip on his sword arm, and around his neck. The grip tightened on his arm… forcing him to drop his sword. He swayed as his nostrils filled with the scent of blood; her hot breath flowed over his neck like some unholy garment. Her voice came forth both in his head and his ears, “do not fear my valiant one, you are a marvellous specimen, I have a great gift for one such as you”… it was eerily soothing and he felt paralysed. A twang sounded… Merrisil recovered himself; it was the other five who has been waiting in the passage! The three archers had found their mark five times and four arrows were impaled in the vampires back and one in the right shoulder. It howled a deafening wail and retreated to a corner of the chamber. Merrisil rolled forward and picked up his sword, he saw that most of the elves still standing were beginning to awake. He began to move past them to the corner of the chamber that Thuringwethil hid. The vampire rushed forth and pickup and elf as if he were a doll and sent him flying across the room. The elf knocked over the archers, and his body made an audible crunch as it struck the wall behind them. Merrisil struck the creature and his blade went deep into the things torso leaving a huge gash on it’s left side. Black blood and a horrid scent came forth from the wound. The Vampire went mad, and for moment no one could see it for it moved with such fury. It tore some of the elves that were close to pieces. Merrisil again rushed forth and so did some of the others, yet Thuringwethil had picked up a weapon. The elf to the left was decapitated and Merrisil was barely able to block the creature’s quick blows. Merrisil began to realize that he was going to lose this battle if he did not do something to change the tide and he reached for his satchel, and in it… the crystal vial. Thuringwethil saw that Merrisil had moved away and threw her sword at the Silvan warrior. It struck with such force that he was lifted off his feet and flew against the wall, he fell and lay still next to the doorway.

Merrisil looked up from the floor, he grasped his sword and leaned on it coming to his feet. The pain was excruciating, but the shirt of Threndodale had once again kept him from death. He witnessed a gruesome site as the vampire was feasting on a helpless warrior. The others were either gone or incapacitated. Thuringwethil faced and moved before him. The Silvan warrior observed that her wounds had all but disappeared. He stood fast, as she stooped and picked up a blade from the ground. Stretching her leathery wings out the Thuringwethil drew her self up, appearing to grow large in the glow of his ward. His steely grey eyes were wrought with fortitude as they met her hypnotic gaze. It seemed to enrage her, and she flew at him with terrible might, but he blocked well, and was sent flying back into the passage. He spun in mid air and tried to regain his balance. Tumbling as he landed, his head struck the floor, making a loud crack. He heard footsteps, as his vision began to blur, and then knew nothing.

Merrisil’s head pounded with pain, as he came to once again. For a moment his surroundings haunted the edge of his memory. The world then, came into focus… he heard the singsong voice of Bellaraphonre, a Lieutenant who was known as a talented bard among his people. He sang out “Archers yield! Swordsmen to your feet.” He held Merrisil by the arm along with another elf and they were dragging him up the corridor back towards the intersection. Merrisil heard a clash, followed by a growl-like sound, and knew the Scarlet Maiden was upon them. “If we do not get to the light all will be lost” he choked as clutched Bellaraphonre’s shoulder “my sachet… the vial.” Bellaraphorne stopped and rummaged through Merrisil’s bag ignoring sounds of the ensuing melee behind him. He produced the small crystal container from the sachet, and held it forth the light radiated and went into hearts of the elves who beheld it’s shine. The creature at the end of the passage withdrew covering it’s eyes, it hissed and spat. Bellaraphorne’s beautiful voice came forth “Swordsmen retreat and yield… blossom my archers”! And above Merrisil’s head a chorus of arrows made a whistling tune. The vile thing retreated further from the light, and the flurry of missiles that came at it. Many of the arrows had found their target. And the vampire began to fade as if the light of the vial had begun to penetrate it’s very being.

A shade, swift as a shadow drew across the floor in the form of a black mist, it moved past their feet, and quickly floated up the passage towards the archers in the rear. Some of the archers in the far back of the column turned and faced the intersection, to avoid surprise. A blackness rose amidst them and gained form. They were caught unawares, and it lay in to them with such strength, that several were hurled to and fro against the sides of the passage. Some the archers had drawn knives and went up against her with vengeance in their hearts. To their misfortune Thuringwethil’s wrath was too great, and she slaughtered two more. In a desperate display of elven agility a swordsman known as Franduil sprinted down the corridor and ran up the side of the wall above the heads of the trapped archers. He swung his blade at the wicked creature’s neck, in an attempt to cleave it’s head from it’s shoulders. Yet she saw the attack from the corner of her eye, and ducked just in time. The tip cut into her temple and scored along her forehead. The vampire snarled and leapt up at him, as he came off the wall. It snatched him out of the air and shot off through the intersection and down the gloomy passage.

The Swordsmen took the lead, and Bellaraphorne held the holy light aloft to try and find the fiend… and her prey. As they made their way back to the junction they heard a wet cracking sound from the darkness beyond. A whistle, followed by an object travelling at a fantastic speed came up the passage. It smashed the vial from the hand of Bellaraphorne and a blinding flash emanated from it. The object hit Bellaraphorne squarely in the face and crushed his skull killing him instantaneously. It tumbled to the ground; it was Franduil’s helm… his head was still inside! A screech had filled the tomb, when the crystal had been shattered, and even now it still reverberated in the air.

Merrisil was still feeble, and could not stand. “Make for the exit lads! Now may be our only chance!” he cried aloud. They moved with haste, through the intersection and towards the outer-chamber. Merrisil had finally gained his feet and was at the back. He insisted on being the last one out. As he crossed back over into the grey chamber, the ward immediately stopped radiating it’s crimson light. What was left of the company made their way up the steps and back into the sun. Just as Merrisil was about to emerge a familiar voice rose up from, down in the dark tomb, unbelievably it sounded to be Hrorobas. “And you would leave your Captain in the dark my good lad?” he exclaimed jokingly as he came to edge of the dark stone floor of the Crypt.

Merrisil’s face brightened for the first time since he last saw the Silvan Captain. He went down several steps and joyfully called to him “what took you so long, hiding in a corner no doubt.” “Let us leave this pit Hrorobas you are not safe,” he said gravely. Hrorobas seemed strangely undecided, and finally went forth towards the staircase. A few of the elves had come down in to the shade and to see what was going on. As Hrorobas traversed the dark doorway Carneaiwe’alta began to glow and he unsheathed Butterfly-blade from it’s scabbard that was strapped across his back. Hrorobas’ expression became twisted and that strange feminine voice came from his throat… it was obscene! “Your blood calls to me my children”. They backed into the sunlight, and from the dimness, came a hand that latched one to one the elves adjacent to Merrisil. He was dragged back down the steps, but Merrisil grabbed him just in time and held him against that incredible grip. Several more elves bounded down to assist him, and the poor elf cried out in pain, “the cruel thing has bit into me.” The five of them pulled with all the might they could muster, and finally he started to come back up the steps… the hand was still fastened to the leg and it began to smoulder in the light. With a hiss and growl it disappeared. A few of the archers shot arrows after it.

Merrisil crawled to the top of the entrance and rested on his knees. He removed his armour and pulled off his shirt revealing a shiny mithril garment, that once belonged to his father. In his lower midsection a red stain spread out, and he pulled out the broken tip of the blade that had be thrown at him. It had been lodged in the garment and broke the skin with it’s force. Cutheren, who had been left to guard the entrance now tended to Merrisil wounds, he had an adeptness for healing and knew much of herb-lore. The fourteen warriors that were left hurried down the hill and back to the camp. Once at the camp Merrisil quickly informed all the warriors of what he had witnessed in the tombs of the haunted hill. Cutheren came up to him and handed him a fragrant steaming beverage. Merrisil grimaced as he abruptly found out that the concoction smelled far better than it tasted. Cutheren smiled “it’s not nectar, but it will keep you for going into a coma.” He grinned back and toasted the herb-master in mockery… they chuckled between themselves.

The Silvan Lieutenant sat and watched his host, time was growing short and they had broken down most of the camp. Their expressions were stern… not one of them mentioned Hrorobas, but they were all thinking about him. “Alright my soldiers” he exclaimed with fondness, “I know things seem grave, but that makes our quest all the more crucial.” “I ask five of you to come with me.” And thus all fifteen stepped forward, even Shanellea who’s leg was injured badly, when he had been nearly dragged into the crypt by Thuringwethil. Merrisil threw back his head, and laughed contagiously “you are not the brightest stars in the sky, but your loyalty knows no bounds”. They all joined in and for the moment their peril was forgotten.

*Circle of Thorns: An elven military term I made up it refers to a defensive posture taken from the fact the opening (or any exit for that matter) is to be guarded from all sides with bladed weapons unsheathed. (I figure that the elves would probably have more sophisticated military tactics because the way their culture evolved and that these tactics would be taken from nature, more about this later). Variations: Circle of Pins (Spears) Circle of Quills (Bows)

**Patch: roughly 25 men one half on a Silvan company, equivalent to a Platoon of men by modern standards.

***Phalanx of the Blossoming Rose: A type of formation where a line of swordsmen (or spearmen) is a positioned ahead of a line of archers. The archers are to take down forces attacking the swordsmen and the swordsmen cover the archers from melee attack.

Chapter 2

Of Black Bears & Brown Wizards

Merrisil rose and strode over to Shanellea to examine him, his skin looked clammy and gaunt. “And how are you faring?” he inquired as he crouched next to the wiry youth.

“Don’t worry about me Mer, I’ll be as right as the daisies soon enough” he shivered. He put the back of his hand against maligned youth’s forehead, and noted how cold it felt. Merrisil fussed over his charge a few more moments, like an over bearing parent. Then he told him to wrap an extra blanket around himself and go wait by the creek.

He approached Cutheren, who was busy cooking up an elixir over the fire. “Can we save him?” asked Merrisil in steadfast tone.

Cutheren blinked as he stared into the blaze “I did not want to burden you with so much woe… not all at once” he replied with a downtrodden voice.

“Don’t mention it… surely there must be something we can do,” he urged.

“His only chance it to make it to Lorien, and even then it still may too late” he replied.

“Would it help if you accompanied him”? He asked.

“Maybe for an extra day or so… perhaps” shrugged the herbalist.

“What if he rode there” it was more of a statement than a question.
Cutheren looked at him and nodded, “he probably would need to be carried, for much of the journey back, in any case. Even so…” Then the healer took the potion and went to look for Shanellea.

Merrisil turned and surveyed the horizon; measuring the distance which lay betwixt the sun and the Misty Mountains. Elandral came up beside him, and looked up in the same direction. The Silvan Swordsman looked over his shoulder at him and said, “What do you think”?
“Six and half hours, maybe a little bit less” Elandral responded.

Merrisil nodded in agreement, he regarded the satchel Elandral carried, it had belonged to Bellaraphorne whose body had been brought with them. (As did several others who were thought only to be injured. Two had recovered and now they were seventeen.) Merrisil stared at it for a moment and thought of what had happened, a look of grief struck him for a second. Hastily, he resumed his usual composure and Elandral extended his arm, offering the pouch. But Merrisil declined “it shall be your charge from now on”. Elandral managed a faint smile, then opened the sachet and delved through it. He pulled out a long and elegant harp, which was far too large to have fit in the bag. Several of the younger elves looked on with awe at the site… they had only heard of this type of enchantment. He strummed it, and a wonderful melody arose to their ears. Merrisil went and picked up Hrorobas’ knapsack. He walked over to the campfire and removed several items, including a ring and put them into his satchel. Merrisil threw the pack on the fire, the other elves stared mournfully. He met their disparaged looks with a hard stare and stated, “His spirit still brightens our hearts”! A tear flowed down one of his cheeks, and he raised his voice in a song of morning, Elandras accompanying him on the harp, and the others joined in their voices in perfect unison.

Inside the sun I found a city
a burning jewel bright.
I found a burning city
a paragon of light.

Its buildings shone like sapphires
and diamonds in the night.
They stood erect within the fires
like gems reflecting light.

And so begins the tale,
about a King of old.
Alone he ruled his realm,
in great palaces of gold.

Alone he walked his gleaming halls,
their radiance on his mind.
But alone he could not waltz,
nor joy in life ever find.

Something was wrong he did find,
but what he could not say.
Thoughts floating in his mind,
but none of them would stay.

And then one emerald morrow,
he raised his voice in screams.
His heart was filled with sorrow,
for a life of shattered dreams.

His agony consumed him,
obscuring any light.
He left his city on a whim,
into the darkness of the night.

And from the dark and shadow,
into the world he passed.
Until he came to the sea and lo’,
he found an end at last.

Their heads were lowered, silent and sombre, for a little while longer, as they said they’re own private farewells to their Captain and unfortunate companions. Merrisil broke the silence and commanded them to hide the bodies and anything they couldn’t carry in the forest. He instructed them to speak a plea to the trees, to take the remains of their fallen brothers back into the earth. Shanellea was had not been there, the Silvan Swordsman observed. “Cutheren, go and check on Shane he must be still down by the creek,” he ordered. The healer hastened off to the find his ill comrade.

A short time later Cutheren returned, and hurried over to Merrisil. “I can not find Shanellea!” he cried. Merrisil stared at him for but a second and called to the warriors that were present.
“I wish you all to listen carefully, and heed my words, Shanellea has wandered off, you must stay here and search for him on Amon Lanc. If I do not return in not less than half an hour, then Elandral shall take my stead.” He heard a few murmurs. He handed his pouch to Elandral, and said unto them with great conviction “he has my confidence, and I have instructed him on what to do in my leave.” Merrisil turned and dashed up the side of the hill heading for dark crypt. He ran to the side as he climbed and about three quarters of the way up he saw what he sought. Shanellea was walking merrily up to the entrance to that unholy crypt. Carneaiwe’alta was once again radiating it’s crimson glow and gleamed lustrously in the sun. He grasped the young warrior’s shoulder, and Shanellea whipped around and glared at him with glazed eyes. He was cold to the touch even through his shirt. Yet, as had happened in the crypt, the spellbound elf’s eye, found the warm light of the ward. The glazed look in his eyes melted, like layer of ice in cool blue pond on warm afternoon. Merrisil sighed “and where are you off to my good lad”. (Even though to him the answer was obvious.)

Shanellea blinked and stared up at his friend for a few moments “… can’t rightly remember, I was struck a powerful thirst… I sought a drink of mead.”

And this worried Merrisil greatly, for Finorfin had talked of mead, in that dark chamber, before the light of the spider-jewel revived him. They walked down the hill together, and Merrisil put his hand on the youths shoulder. “Shane, I wish a favour of you?” he asked politely. With this he extended his hand to the Shanellea in it was his broach “Wear this for good luck”.

“I can not take it from you” Shanellea responded firmly.

“It is not to keep, I only wish you to hold it for me… for now” he smiled.

And, Shanellea fixed the broach above his left breast and the jewel ceased to glow (It turned scarlet and no light would pass through it.) ‘I hope that’s not permanent’ Merrisil thought to himself. His ill friend’s colour however returned to healthy hue and he shivered as warmth returned to his veins. As they enter the encampment, all were overjoyed, and they sang light song of Greenwood as they made their way down Amon Lanc and towards the Anduin.

Safe and sound at last again,
let the forest grow tall.
And the leaves that fall and wane,
too the ground with them all.

Green leaves of wood.
Red leaves of blood.
Gold leaves of sun,
in the morning.

Long leaves reaching to the light,
now were home for sure lads.
Protected from the dark blight,
our hearts can only be glad.
…was the chorus.

They had three packhorses but now they carried the three of the wounded, Shanellea was among these. Elandras lead the way. Merrisil produced from his sachet a cuttlefish-shaped inkwell he removed the beak, which also served as a stopper. Reaching back in to the ornate leather pouch, he brought a quill, and some blank paper forth. He proceeded to write several letters. Then he folded them carefully and took a red candle and flint. He lit the candle after a couple of tries, and sealed the letters with a signet ring that looked like the one from Hrorobas’ knapsack. The Silvan Swordsman moved towards the head of the loose column and began to tell the men of his strategy. The tattered company would split up in to three groups, each taking a horse, when they left the forest. One of the parties would travel to Lothlorien with correspondents for Galaderial and Celeborne. The next would be sent to Imladris, a letter to Quynillia (his sister) and Elladan. Merrisil did not divulge the destination of his group; he only would say that they would head north in attempt to seek aid. He added, that he thought that they other would be safe once the crossed the Anduin, and to stay together until the came to Nanduhirion. His final bit of advice was on how he thought to bring one of these “fiends” down should more come during the cover of night.

Swiftly, the Silvan warriors moved through the trees of their former homeland. Elandras had come across a wide path that may have been an ancient road, once upon a time. They had not seen any orcs at all these past two days. Though in the course of their journey in, they had a couple of minor skirmishes with some uruks (until then the worst Silvan company had suffered, was a few scratches).

The sun was sinking ever closer to the peaks of Misty Mountains. And the light shone through the trees, casting long shadows behind them. After several more hours they had come to edge of the forest, and sun reddened as it cast it’s last rays over the frosty peaks of the ancient mountain range. Great shards of ruby crystal that pierced the mists, and faded into a purple haze. One by one, the stars brightened in the sky. Merrisil and his company gathered together and he said “hortho le huil vaer” (may useful winds speed you on). Then he open his mouth and hesitated “bear in mind, if you have to fight… if you have to fight blind them first, and then take their heads” he finally added. They said their individual farewells and hence their fellowship parted ways.

Merrisil’s small band, hastily made their way north along the east side of the river Anduin, for about four hours. The troop stayed close the tree line. The stars blinked in the clear night sky, and the moon began to rise above the trees of Eryn Lasgalen. It’s silvery light danced on the river many leagues away but, was clearly visible to their elven eyes.

The group the Merrisil had assembled to accompany him, consisted of Elandras, Fingolfel, Lembalas, Glamfeld, Cutheren, and in tow rode Shanellea. Elandras was a fantastic archer, as was Fingolfel. Lembalas, and Glamfeld were like lighting with the blade, for they had both trained with Merrisil. Cutheren could hold his own, but he was mostly needed to take care of Shanellea. Cutheren whispered to Merrisil that Shanellea looked like he may have been having a relapse. And the Silvan officer went to him. He immediately noticed his pail complexion, and that trance-like gaze. The gem in the broach had seemed to have grown darker still. A cool wind blew from the west, and a mist which the mountains were named for came down of the over the Great River. A fog drifted toward them and intensified.

For the better part of an hour did the band of six continue, and they came upon a series of downs. The six elves came to one of the small hills and went up to it’s relatively flat crown. Surveying the downs Merrisil was relieved that they were above the mist. The area between the grassy knolls was pitch black and consumed by the fog. They heard movement from the shallow ravines. Merrisil spoke quietly, “Beornings or I’m stunned a as spider, ordinary bears do not travel in numbers.” This maybe the part of the help we seek, ‘nan Belan’ (by the Valar)!” “But, beware” he cautioned “they can be dangerous if startled, so we shall not seek a parley as of yet.”

The group moved from one hill to the next, the bears were tracking them. However, they never got very close. Elandras, who had the best vision out of all of them called softly back to his commander “There is movement far to the north.” Merrisil ordered them to halt and scanned the river bank (they were just to the south of Gladden Fields).

Cutheren, who had come up to have a look gasped “Shanellea” as he glanced back. The sick elf had ripped the ward from his shirt and was sprinting south down the hill back in the direction of Amon Lanc. The others turned, looked and then they all took chase. Merrisil stopped for a moment to recover his broach, and saw a figure come over the horizon. A frighten whinny came from the packhorse… it bolted into the trees. He ordered the band to halt and take up defensive positions. It looked like it appeared out of nowhere and it hopped deftly from hilltop to hilltop. Moreover, five others joined it. Now it was but ten yards away from, Shanellea. Cutheren wavered, and kept going, but Merrisil said aloud in an angry tone “get back here now you fool, or you shall not see the light of another day!” Cutheren stopped and reconsidered, then he quickly made his way back up the hill and drew his bow.

Shanellea’s smile was ecstatic, and he ran to the Scarlet Maiden with open arms. “They tried to keep me from you my mistress, but I would not have it my love!” he exclaimed.

And with the tender embrace of a gentle lover she took him into her arms. “I know my darling one”, she said a she caressed him “I will always come for my children such as you.”
With an intense lust, he regarded her sinister eyes “I am so thirsty, my love”.

“Here is the milk you crave” and with this she exposed her bare breast to him. As he was about to take a draught of her dark gift, an arrow pierced his neck, then another through left side of his chest. She let the corpse fall to the ground, and stared across at Merrisil, in his hand was Quinga’sorno.

“You shall take no more of my kin down your dark path, witch” he sang with contempt.
She stared at him; with a sly, yet soft face, “why do you resist and kill our brothers?” said Hrorobas’ voice. “Now I ask you what is folly is this, you can once again sit at my right hand” the familiar tone tempted. He did not speak, but the Silvan Swordsman answered, in the form of a well-aimed arrow, at Thuringwethil’s head. Her preternatural reflexes went to work, and she snatched the missile from the air. Snapping it in two, she let it fall to the ground, as she advanced across the hilltop. The vampiress crouched, and smelled the air. Unexpectedly, a huge black form exploded from the mist. A giant black bear had struck her with its massive claw, pinning her to the ground. With same ferocious speed, two more large bears emerged directly afterwards. They flew in to the vampires that were attempting to flank their leader. The Beorning on the right tackled a vampire (who was once an elf called Finorfen) and trapped him underneath her left paw. And using her free foreleg, she tore the blood-drinkers head off, with a powerful swipe. Two vampires were attacking the bear on the left at once. They swarmed over the Beorning, biting at it and tearing in to it’s thick hide with their bare hands. One of the vampires coming from the right managed to grab the Beorning leader’s huge paw as it came down to crush Thuringwethil’s skull. It backhanded the assailant, he was sent sprawling through the air, from the sheer force, and was impaled on a fallen tree. The Scarlet Maiden had managed to get her legs under the massive beast, on top of her. She kicked using both legs, with supernatural strength, and sent it soaring off into the fog. A huge crashing came from a small collection of trees that were crushed by it’s fall.

Merrisil told his troop not to attack, for fear they might hit one the Beornings. All they could do was watch, as Thuringwethil spun as she stood, ripping out the throat, of the bear that had come from her right flank, with her long thin fingers. She turned, and sped towards the surviving Beorning, it was still wrestling with it’s attackers. She hit the fierce beast head on, and they dragged it down into the mist. It roared and screamed, subsequently all lay silent.
Out of the grey, a ghastly figure leapt up and rushed at Lembalas! It was elven in form, but it’s eyes were glazed and glassy… it’s skin smooth and white as marble. Elandras and Fingolfel loosed their arrows, hitting the fiend’s eyes. The blinded thing screamed, it’s hands clawed wildly at the air. Merrisil struck and chopped both it’s hands off in one deft motion. He spun around and Wilwaren’russe bit in to the unholy elf’s neck, cleaving it’s head off. As the head rolled to the ground, dark fluid spurt upward from the wound, a dreadful fountain of blood. The remains then turned black, and began to change they blew off in a cloud of black smoke and ash. The small troop faced outward, as they stood in the centre of the top of that small hill.
Not one of them had noticed the small brown sparrow that had landed on a tree at the edge of the forest, a few moments before the vampires attacked. It had flown into the trees, fifty yards away. However, now they noticed the sound of some large, and powerful beast moving furiously towards the hilly region. The air had begun to warm, and the vapour started to clear. And from the Greenwood the Great, an impossibly large grizzly bear lumbered forth. It stood on two legs roaring; as it’s rich brown fur gleamed in the light of the moon. The immense beast’s growl shook the trees, and echoed from the mountains across the Great River. It was startling, yet brought courage to the hearts of the elves, and strengthened their resolve. As it came down it drove it forepaws into the earth, and the ground trembled. It galloped past them glancing over for but an instant. The great brown bear was sniffing the dissipating vapours… searching. Three forms emerged not forty paces from him. And the Mother of Vampires looked at the Brown Wizard. The two Maia locked eyes, they seemed to be having a contest of wills; judging each other’s strengths.

Elandras, eye caught sight of shimmer atop the hill were the Beornings made their stand. A huge lynx appeared it seemed to pass from the very air into the moonlight. It must have been as tall as a full-grown elf at the shoulder. It’s silver fur caught the moonlight in a beautiful glimmering sheen. The great feline was poised and making ready to pounce. Thuringwethil leapt backward up into the air flapping her wings as she did so. Just as this happened the lynx moved like blur, and tore into one of the elven vampires with its sharp claws. The grizzly swiped up the other with ferocious speed, rending it limb from limb with its forepaws. The Scarlet Maiden had retreated to a nearby mound. “It is my time old friend, you shall see! My kind shall last well beyond this age, I have foreseen it!” she spat with scorn. The brown protector roared and charged, but she had vanished into shadow.

The lynx sauntered up to the brown bear, and purred, rubbing up against its leg like some oversized house cat. The brown bear was sniffing at the remains of the beorning as it lay before him. He lifted his head, then went down to the beorning who’s fall had crushed the trees. The grizzly grasped the injured Beorning and bore him upon his back. He looked over to them once more and bellowed something bearish sounding. Merrisil nodded and with that the brown bear disappeared into the wood.

“It is as I hoped, we have been invited to Rhosgobel, the house of Radagast the Brown” said Merrisil. “We are safe for Prishada will protect us” and he beckoned the great lynx which was still on the hillside. It was sitting on is haunches and blinked contentedly staring at the group with its golden eyes. As children they had all heard tales of “The Grey Ghost Cat” that was the fabled familiar of Radagast. Seldom seen outside of Rhosgobel, she could only be seen in the light of the moon during night it was said, and so they had witnessed with their own eyes. She came to Merrisil and he stroked the soft fur of her head.

Prishada whipped her head around and growled. Merrisil drew his blade and motioned for the others to hold. He followed the cat towards the forest. He beheld what the lynx had sensed; one of the vampires remained a broken tree trunk protruded from its stomach. It was tearing at the side of its mid-section in attempt to free itself. That now familiar stench came forth from its contaminated blood. It’s eyes widened, as it spotted Merrisil. It stopped struggling and looked up at him. “Merrisil, I beseech of you, let me drink… just a little is all one needs” the ghastly creature that had been known as Glorfelen pleaded. His eyes we laden with sadness, but Merrisil strode towards it and raised his blade.

“If ever should it come that I shall not see the shores of Aman; would that I be allowed to stay in Rhosgobel, until the world moves on and I become a memory of old”.

-The Diary of Threndodale

Chapter 3

The Splendour of Rhosgobel

Hortho le huil vaer
Merrisil

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Council of Elrond - Fanfiction

The Epic of Merrisil & the Scourge of the Scarlet Maiden by Merrisil