Invisible Tales

Roleplay stories, fiction and character tidbits

[handprintsofblood]

Sheared Rock and Dancing Ember - Of Coruhuron and Hravanis

Over the last season, Coruhuron had submerged himself in the softness of Imladris. The most powerful thing about being in Imladris to him was to see his kindred again. He took a keen observation of those he admired, those he was indifferent to, and even those he disliked. Each quality of the individual seemed in itself a work of art, and here he was during these months, Coruhuron the admirer. The appreciator. The Still. Mornaewen’s sorrow, the shadow of her smile and the haunt of her songs. Faelial - her afflictions and follies, how shelter had harmed her spirit in more ways than one despite her youth. Illuvarion and his wry humour - so set into ancient ways, that even with the light and more pervasive darkness about the ellon, it seemed natural, belonging.  Aecthel and how fae-like she was, youthful whimsy and spry reactivity. There was ever a clumsiness about her that went hand in hand with grace, like a newborn fawn. Dulingurel and her pristine sophistication, hollow words woven into extraordinarily colourful tapestries while managing to mean nothing at all. Hravanis, then. Hravanis, a harsh texture to her spirit, and an ugliness about her. Not a slovenly or revolting thing, but much as a rock-slide is ugly. Ugly, heavy and devastating, deliberate. Inevitable - without wasting a shred of energy on lightness or artful grace. Yet there was a grace, also, to inevitability. Hravanis did possess a beauty, in his eyes. For all the wrath he might feel - dark embers spat from an inferno within him, biding their time for what she had done - Coruhuron felt drawn to Úveluie with a strange and poignant appreciation. Compelling was she. One of such ancient, shuddering change and wont should by all rights, be compelling; and if she were the ugly land-slide shifting the rock and re-shaping foundations beneath her feet in thunderous wrath, he was the wildfire. Even nigh burnt to embers, as he felt during those peaceful months, the flares were volatile, flame-ready and equally as ferocious, perhaps to greater writhing passion than Úveluie had left, her motion of spirit more a force like a boot slamming down in simplicity, when she should otherwise be still. The inferno was faster to change, faster to react and to change course - for he was “Huron” after all, swift to action - and Fire leapt ever to the same without leash or inhibition. Yet unlike the rock-slide which took the mere skip of a pebble cast the wrong way to cleave mountains, Fire was as still as breath from a corpse, without a great jarring spark to ignite it. And what a terrible grace it then became, anything but ugly, to one who had an eye for the light and the awe that preceded the wake of it. Writhing, dancing. Inevitable. It was far easier to consider himself, when in the context of considering Hravanis. Something he did more oft than would be considered usual or appropriate by most, if they knew, especially given his conflicting fascination and hatred for her. He was certainly no First Elf, and a rare - almost mythical, debatable and striking creature was Hravanis for being so. But he was ancient bred - of the Noldor, an extreme rare, eerie sight in Middle Earth, now. Over seven feet tall, pride and splendour of the Eldar of the First Age and formidable, with an air about him of lightning finesse and strength fitting to a master warrior of old. Corded musculature and signless movements befitted the silent dance of a honed predator.  Though this intimidating stature, he knew well enough to keep low-key, mitigated in Imladris. Shifts of body language, ways he would angle or hold himself to make that height less noticeable. A lineage he had no desire to draw attention to, his pride strong, like all the Noldor, but without place for making his heritage immediate known.    More noticeable about Coruhuron by others at first was a weighted gravity to him. An aura ever drawing in from the earth at his feet or the breeze on his skin. There was a stillness to his posture when idle, so very still that it shamed the foundations of land about him, most of it in its current form, younger than he. Changes and formations he had observed with his very own eyes in close, solitary proximity as the centuries had passed. The stillness of Coruhuron was so remarkable and familiar that it oft seemed he was no elf at all, but carven of ancient stone, lacking of breath entirely, though the steel-grey eyes were too full of a life long-lived. Reined wrath ever in him, passion. Loss. Love, murder, gentleness, patience, volatility, even play - and all that came between. This myriad formed that gravity about the ellon, in some forms invisibly subtle and others, crushing in extremity. All built within his massive stillness, impenetrable. Leaden with the weight of what this son of Gondolin was, had been, had felt.  For all his Fire, within him was not a youthful recklessness. “Huron”, a brand of his spirit as it had always been. Fire was in his heart and in his blood; but it was not the brash, unwise fire of a young ellon wishing to go forth to ill-spent bravery and great deeds; rather it was the long kindling, fierce burnt source suffering and relishing where flame was no longer a visitor but within its own element. An ancient entity, now, never controlled by anything but itself. The ‘Flame’ of him was ingrained and ever writhing in a long practiced dance where, too, there was unfaltering certainty; pride. - No, he was long past youthful follies and bare remembered many of them. Instead, now, the fire and swift-actions of Coruhuron were hemmed in by power and will - by the countless centuries where recklessness had tolled him and taught him, even when he had nothing left to give, and fewer reasons to learn. For he was ‘Coru’, also. Cunning among soldiers otherwise fit only for obedience without question or rebellion. And for all the deaths his heart had died, his mind ticked still - as sharp and far keener still than it once had within the ambitious young soldier six thousand years before, now long spent into a being far more ancient and painted with colours of solitude and death’s dealings. The rock-slide and the wildfire. Two faces of wrath and destruction. Some may have said also, ‘chaos’. Ill-omen, terrifying forces. Both ugly, in their way. The rock-slide in the harsh, tearing simplicity and magnitude of its wreaking, though the landing ever brought solidity and silence. The fire when its furious grace in bright wrath had ended to leave behind smoldering blackness and ruin, the stuff of nightmares when all was said and done, though of beauty the flames may have been. ... Yet he, and he knew she, also, would say that while both were of ‘ugliness’ to many, they were, too, qualities of the Eldar, now so oft forgotten: Inevitability. Unbridled passion. Splendour. Strength.

[handprintsofblood]

‘The Blackbird’ and Imladris

- Several months before present day -

The Blackbird

Celweal had ignited his memory. Society, people, sharing with others. Laughter. Drinking. Revelry. Times of ‘peace’, a peace he knew in his heart was unattainable to him, now. But some things were not.

While in Breeland, he heard the sound of harp strings and a song. Following the sound through the wilderness, eventually led him to a small campsite. There sat a fair elleth, her hair a deeper raven black than his own. Her eyes so deep and full of sorrow, the words and tones of her song held a stricken grief in the music.  But it was beautiful, and he was - as he oft was by music - kept, fixated. He drew nearer her camp and greeted her softly.

She called herself Mornaewen, “Blackbird” in the tongue of their kindred. When she smiled to him, it was frail - but like the melting of a snowflake is frail. Intricate, and with the crystal light of tiny joy glimmering through great leagues of gloom. It was one of the most captivating smiles he had ever seen.

She wished to travel into the Barrow Downs, she told him. A strange request for one so fair as she; the Barrow downs were a dark place, stricken by the enemy where the dead of men were servants of an unnatural malice.

He reasoned with her, a soft curiosity to him. But she was firm in her desire. He realised he could not allow the Blackbird to go thither alone. She had obviously taken care of herself, and he had no doubts as to the elleth’s independence. But she certainly did not appear as a warrior might, or any kind of well defended person at all for that matter. 

He offered himself as her guard, thus, and insisted that he would, without obstructing her purpose, show her the way to the Barrow Downs, as well as ensure her safety therein, until she was finished.

They traveled to the dark place, the barrow mounds gloomy and ominous beneath a starless sky. He watched her, then, as she brought her harp right atop one of the mounds, and seemingly for the spirits, she began to sing. Her music and the words ached through him - even as the wights came, and he stayed his hand, for they (while still wicked and indeed, bent on their malice to harm her) did not immediately act against her. Instead they seemed to heed her voice... The elleth hoped to save them. A fool’s errand, the far older ellon knew. Yet he could not help but enjoy the thought of her compassion - even as he pitied it for the futility.

She sang, until her voice ran raw and faded entirely. Then she looked to him with alarm. The wights attacked, right on cue - and he said shortly to her:

”Go.”

Ever standing between the woman and their enemies, he brought them down with elven arrows. One after another, after another.. after another. Until they were free of that wretched place. She stared upon him for some time, feeling foolish, though grateful - and still her eyes carried that deep sorrow they ever did. He built a fire to see them through until morning.

When that morning came, they shared words, soft and somehow more personal for what they had together seen and done the previous night. He told the Blackbird of the mortal girl and her quest. She took some pity for him at this; aware of the trials of walking alongside the Secondborn. But in return, she told him she was going to Imladris.

There was a pause. And she regarded him as the suggestion was exchanged and tested almost shyly between them.

Perhaps when his quest was done, he would meet her there.

To Imladris

It had been some days since his encounter with the Blackbird. He had seen fit to part ways with Celweal, now that it became clear her quest was futile in Bree - and it truly was not his place to remain in a place of men. Celweal seemed neutral on this. But she was not so neutral about his imminent departure - and pleaded with him not to go. He was uncomfortable. But the Blackbird’s suggestion had played on his mind, and he could not dismiss the thought of her sorrow-filled smile. He did wish to see her again. He would thus, travel to Imladris. Celweal now, would come with him. There were meetings of elves held in Imladris, Coruhuron learned of them by word in the Trollshaws by several passing elves one eve while Celweal slept. Taken by restlessness, he went on ahead, leaving Celweal to herself for some time. Not an unusual event.

He attended the meeting of elves in the Halls of Fire in Imladris. The first meeting sent a warmth through him, so potent, so breathtaking - a joy he had not known in a long time.

He needed no words, no friendships; merely to be standing in the presence of so many elves around him, in peace and with no other place pressing him to be, was poignantly beautiful. It filled him with gratitude for the first in a long time. He was glad to be here, he realised almost fiercely. He was glad to feel this. He was glad to hear laughter around him and see the fair faces of his kindred. Coruhuron had ever been an avid admirer of beauty, and this was no exception - it was now his favourite kind.  He would remember it well.

He did meet the Blackbird again, twice more, and he attended many more meetings, to follow. Each time he met elves he had not seen before, and some faces became familiar. Manadhlaer was one such face, fair to him - and she sparked a curiosity with the many subjects she would converse about. But moreso, at the revelation her husband had been killed. And while he saddened for her at the thought of her lost mate, he also felt the time must come when he would speak on it with Manadhlaer - for her husband was of Gondolin. The first reference to his fair city Coruhuron had heard spoken in a long time.It was not the last, however. The elf Silwe spoke of fair Gondolin, and Coruhuron found himself conversing with him for hours after the meeting had dissolved. A fine thing; up until Silwe displayed the symbol of Feanor he wore on his person. An image Coruhuron would not soon forget.

Into his company had come Aecthel - the dark elf. A ‘savage’ he wished to assimilate into the folds of the Eldar. She was young, not yet properly come of age but very close to it, at about her ninetieth year. As she came to find herself in Rivendell with he and Celweal, she, too, began attending these elven meetings. Another first, when one day Aecthel brought out a lute, and Coruhuron laid his hands on the strings in a duet with her, before their kindred.

The time in Imladris was beautiful and well spent, if fated to be short-lived. But among the most fateful moments was that which came, where he first laid eyes on the Blue Lady of Mithlond.

[handprintsofblood]

The Mortal Girl’s Lingering

- His present-day reflection of Celweal - He sat, watching the stars for a long time after Eithelin had left. He had spoken for the first time since the adaneth's departure of her, Celweal. A figure he never at first, expected he would miss, yet there it was. And for now, he allowed his thoughts to linger upon her as they would, with fondness, with confusion, with grief, and many things besides. His grey gaze strayed across the starlight above as he sat, still and silent while the hours passed.

........ Reflecting On What Has Been You came to me, one day, when your uncle could not be found in Bree. I told you I would leave you there, safe among your kindred. And you objected, in that soft but desperate way you sometimes had, the voice that seemed to bear your soul to me - strong, and yet so fragile. You asked me not to go, not to part ways with you. I heeded you. With reservation. But I could not deny your voice, the sorrow in you - the need. I took you to Imladris, where for a time you were like a ghost among my kindred. It was because of you, that I chose, indeed, to visit the meetings in the Hall of Fire. Your company had opened me to the company of others - and had re-awakened in me the yearning for the presence of my own people. I met many of my kindred, and brought more of myself to light because of that simple spur from knowing you. You and I ventured out, and eventually we found your uncle. Ever had we, since we met those months before, made ourselves comfortable fighting side by side, back to back. You trusted my bow, my blades, and I trusted yours. A strange trust I had only kept for few men - and long ago - but for you, it fit like a glove. An unfortunate end came of it, for your uncle Veremon. But closure, I would say, was worth it - and you, as well, learned more of yourself for it. A closer step to furthering your gratification in life. My tolerance for you also gave me the distraction needed to treat Aecthel with less scrutiny than I otherwise may have. A trio of misfits we surely were, and it only lended itself to closeness from myself to you, and myself to Aecthel - both friendships I have greatly valued. I began the journey to Lothlorien, when you had sparked and invigorated my longing for my home, after I had lingered as long as I could - with a desire to see Eluineth in Imladris. “One more time”, “one more time”. Until finally I decided to ask her to come with us. Though I had asked you first. And every day of this journey, I have missed you, and wished that you had claimed that invitation. Alas. For I have not seen you since the journey began. Yet it is all because of you, and your touch - your voice, the loneliness in your heart.. and the Stars during the night I now see was our final goodbye.

The Regret For Her

Home was not as important to you as it should have been, adaneth. I regret that I will not see you when you learn of this, and I am sure the realisation will come to you, before you part this world for wherever men go.

In loneliness you tread, and this too, saddens me. I have wondered many times why it should matter. You so oft mistook my wonderings for a lack of recognition that while short, the lives of menfolk are significant. They are. But still, I have wondered - for death is what dooms you, for certain, and is death not lonely? Why do men, who have such courage, fear to embrace it so? Why was loneliness such a curse to you? I longed to see you cured of it, despite these things. Men are indeed, sensitive creatures - as much so as the Eldar.

Your customs recognise the inevitability of your doom. A man taking his deceased brother's wife. "Life goes on", until it does not. And one would never wish to waste assets that will soon fade. Be that a house, a horse. A wife. Time wears you thin, and so it is important to use what you have thoroughly; even if that be your body, your spirit, your heart.

But home is important. Belonging, having a people. A place. It is likely I will never know, as I will never know many things now in the past, though I will ever keep hope that these are joys you will find, before your time in Middle Earth is done.

I am sorry I could not give you that which you longed for. But in truth, I think it was in favour to you as well as I, that my denial was given. Your heart ought to be more cherished than one such as I could offer, for time is something the Eldar take for granted; and how well could I love you, in small decades, when milennia still stretch before me? I would not do your fleeting star justice, bright one. Only one of your own people could give you that brand of appreciation.

.......

Her Effect On Him

For your impoliteness and shying, I thank you. It softened me to revisit your curiosities, your impertinence - which was not a harm to me, nor a true offense, but rather a great favour. Unlike others, your approach re-awakened me to opening when I have been only closed. You reminded me of curiosities held for others, that I had before meeting you, forgotten or buried too deeply to care about. A point of light - of myself, a trait that has come back to me because of you, and re-awakened other qualities of my nature that had been dormant for so long, buried in Fire, buried in a sorrow I have refused to feel and kept quaking behind bars with wrath and fury.

For your sorrow, I thank you. It has allowed me to look upon my own, and see that it was never an evil.

For your doom, I thank you - for my grief for you, even in moments you were by my side, has led me to appreciate every single moment that we shared. I will carry the memory of you profoundly, adaneth, long after you are gone and forgotten.

For your company, thank you. It is still in the stars, and they comfort me to look upon more than they have ever done. Missing your presence is bittersweet.

I will seek my home; because of my wish that someday you will do the same. My appreciation for things that I still have, before they are done and doom one day sets in - as it surely must for all things, and only one of the Secondborn cared for, as I cared for you, could have reminded me of this. Time is indeed of the essence.

Use it well, until your ending; or we meet again in joy, Fairest of Mortals - shortest lived of those within my heart, and doomed as I to dwell upon what could never have been.

Namarie, Celweal.

[handprintsofblood]

The Touch

Coruhuron led the mortal woman towards the Breeland, where she claimed she was from and he knew there were menfolk who could help her.

Each night, he would leave the tent for Celweal to use, and most nights despite this, she remained by the fire, sleeping in a seated posture, hugging her knees. She was accustomed to the road, and too wary for cover of tent canvas. He would patrol, rather than remain at the camp with the mortal for extended periods.

Sometimes they would talk. It was easy to speak with Celweal, it was easy to watch her eyes as she puzzled and furrowed her brow over the seemingly simple questions he would ask her.

Why did she not have a home? Who was her father? Who was her uncle? Where was her family?

She had no home, her father had raised her on the road - a rustic Breeland merchant. Her mother had died at her birth.

Still, they traveled on. Closer and closer to Breeland.

They met others along the way, an elfess seeking her lost love, a human brother and sister with whom they hunted bandits. The farther they traveled, the longer spent in one another's company, the more accustomed Coruhuron grew with having a companion on the road in the first place; let alone a mortal. Though, it was difficult for him to forget or put aside what she was; one of the Secondborn and doomed to die. The time for farewell would come. It was not a question but a guarantee.

The conversations began to grow more personal. Celweal began asking more pointed questions about the elf, about his life, his thoughts, and other things closely kept - unspoken of in a long time. One of the Quendi would know better than to ask, of course. Better to treat strangers with patience and err on the side of giving another individual space and time - for time was in abundance, but harm or offense was long-lived and seldom forgotten. Certainly not so easily glossed over as the menfolk might treat such things.

But here was a mortal woman, and he recognised from old memories of the menfolk that she was oblivious to these things. Time was dear and rare to these folk, and they were oft thoughtful of the moment and not of the long term repercussions. She asked. And oft, he would answer. Taken off-guard at first, but slowly he grew used to the young woman's curiosities. Even enjoying them; finding a spark of interest in her. The unexpected, the bold - and boldness had ever been something to which Coruhuron had an affinity.

They finally reached Bree, and enquiries were made about the whereabouts of Celweal's uncle, but to no avail.

One evening, they were on a high hilltop outside the gates of Coombe. The moon and stars were high, and Celweal and Coruhuron were both in good spirits. A fire was lit, and with more comfort than usual, they spoke. Coruhuron curious at a point in the conversation; Celweal had never danced before. An unthinkable thing to the elf, and so he took to his feet, and danced. Time passed with the mortal maiden watching him, a fascination but also blushing reluctance. A thing that saddened him, and he bade the girl with happy insistence to join him, which she did. Beneath sight of only the moon and stars, they danced.

Afterwards, they sat by the fire and were quiet for some time, Celweal beaming and Coruhuron with lifted heart. How long had it been since he had danced alongside another? Too long. As he was reflecting on this in gladness, however, Celweal leaned to rest her head against his shoulder. A gesture of affection, of closeness, and the elf grew very still, looking to her in silence.

So set was his stare that Celweal shied away, averting her gaze and stammering a soft apology.

The elf said nothing, looking away from her, all thoughts of the dance swum over and swept aside by the lingering feeling of the mortal woman's cheek rested against him.

[handprintsofblood]

Meeting Celweal

-The next evening, at dusk (one year ago)-

The girl named Celweal had wandered the roads, almost dancing in some places, free and full of wonder. She had come a long way in this joyful, carefree fashion. A long way. Though she had no home, and it seemed not to matter.

She found herself in the rugged Blue Mountains, and now she was more exposed than she had been prior. Danger seemed to be building, and she was on steep slopes in freezing, unforgiving terrain. Goblin camps seemed to be all about. Yet, she made her way curiously close to one of the fires, and found not goblins, but instead a tall bay mare, ears pricked, staring attentively at her from where it grazed on it's steep patch of ground.

The horse bore no bridle or saddle, but seemed friendly enough. Celweal smiled and approached the beast with an apple, which the mare promptly took for herself and devoured.

.....

Coruhuron watched from a closer distance than the mortal woman might have expected any living presence could be. Each movement of the adaneth studied closely. The horse did not show a sign of fear at the woman's approach, so he made no move to stop her. An apple was fed. The woman then seemed to intend to make herself comfortable in his carefully chosen camping place.

He spoke, then.

"A very fine camp you have here, adaneth.(Mortal woman)" He addressed her in Westron, the common tongue. The language was one he knew well, he had often speculated too well. Coruhuron rarely spoke with the menfolk, there was rarely a need. Though he had explored their settlements from time to time out of sheer whim and curiosity.

The woman started when he spoke, finally looking to see him as he revealed himself from his too-still position beside a rock crag.

"I was just--" She started to babble but then smiled as she made her excuse, and her attempted peace offering.

It was a cold night, and Coruhuron knew the temperatures would drop well below when night truly fell. Not to mention they were surrounded by a good nine or ten goblin camps nearby. If the girl strayed a step, the terrain would claim her life if the goblins did not do so first. Furthermore, she was certainly not garbed for the mountains.

He listened to her excuses, her peace offerings, then simply dipped his head, informing her she had permission to use his tent for that evening.

.....

The next day, they spoke. Coruhuron found himself curious. What was this mortal girl doing so far from home? She looked like a simple farmer's daughter with a bow thrust into her hands. Certainly not the rugged type of human that might be traipsing about in these mountains. Especially not with all the trouble lately.

It was the longest conversation the elf had held with any person in a number of years. Celweal was from the Breeland, she was searching for her uncle - a man she claimed was an elf-friend, which is why she was searching near the elven settlements in Ered Luin.

It did not fully make sense, and Coruhuron doubted many things as the girl spoke these words. But certain things were clear; she was lost. Regardless of what she said. She was alone, and if she did not recieve aid, the chances were she would perish.

After she had finished her story, and he had finished asking those questions that came to mind, he said;

"I will take you back to your homeland, and help you find your uncle."

With the mortal girl seeming relieved and glad for this news, they packed up their horses and set out.

[handprintsofblood]

The Mouse By Firelight

He rode to Gondamon. The black blood of goblins was swift being drawn out of his clothes by the deluge; the rain drops fat and heavy with each collision. Heavy, he felt. But the wind was dying down, now, and the famous mountain thunder and lightning had reduced to an occasional, distant lash. The storm was less fury and more weight, now, as though something about it was considering him closely. An old friend, scrutinising his step with a cold love that must come with being unable to assist. Water pressed down on him in the form of rain, in great amounts. It sheened silver and striking like starlight of the earth across the craggy rocks, the grassed slopes, off the leaves of trees and the bay elf horse's neck with each faint sheet that flashed from the sky. Eventually the same reflected light was seen, glossed along the walls of Gondamon, slightly lit from a few candles within windows or the dim light of a fire that somehow still burned even in this weather as a defiant sign of civilisation and refusal to die.

Through the gate strode the horse. Mare and rider both drenched, but the dwarves in these parts were kindly enough to take care of the beast, offering stable and food. Coruhuron felt some reservation in his gut, but ignored it, thanking them and allowing them to take over care for the animal.

He sought out the warmth of the fire to dry himself and his clothes. But he paused, noting the elf woman descending the stairs towards him. She wore a gown of bright green - though it was soaked through. He wondered how long she had stood atop the wall in the rain. Ninimmien had recognised him immediately, he knew as he saw her face.

"Mae govannen." He spoke to her softly, dipping his head. His cloak and leathers were tattered. Once finely made, now dutifully clinging to him, faithful garments that they were - but nigh shredded in places, many times patched over. Threadbare, re-stitched, and soaking wet.

She greeted him, and they stood by the fire to talk for some time in their own tongue.

He found himself too restless to remain, even to dry off as he'd initially intended. The talk was chafed, forced, he felt. Ninimmien's worry and her pity was difficult to bear, though he knew the good elleth meant him only well, and in truth he was glad to see her safe. But he could not stay long. Hardly unusual for these brief and seldom encounters.

As he strode back to the stables to collect his horse, he saw another figure approaching the fire. Uncertain, mouse-like. An unusual sight in these parts, for he knew that what he was looking at was in fact a mortal woman.

She seemed lost, and he saw her approach Ninimmien to hesitantly ask to share the fire with her.

He took note for the oddity, but took his horse from the dwarves, mounted and left.

[handprintsofblood]

To Ered Luin

- Approximately one year before present day - Ered Luin - the Blue Mountains. He had traveled this way from the heart of Angmar in the darkened north and east. A journey that should have taken a month had instead taken him two years for the way he tarried at each opportunity - that tarrying made much easier with the excuse of there being many more enemies on this path than there had been only a few years before.

But the messenger had come right to the edges of Angmar, waiting for him to deliver Ninimmien's letter. The elf was surprised they had stayed so near that accursed place long enough to wait. And lucky the messenger had stayed, for Coruhuron rarely strayed so far outside the bounds of the dark territory, these days, but he had glimpsed moonlight through the unnatural clouds overhead and on a whim, had yearned to see it from clearer skies. The messenger had delivered him the letter and fled, and so now Coruhuron had come to Ered Luin to see Ninimmien.

He was in no hurry, and he knew neither was she. The last time he had met her had been just outside of Mithlond as they had watched yet another of the ships depart without him. He had left her in silence, then - much as he often met with her, and never had Ninimmien demanded words of him outright, though he knew it had been a mistake to say no word of farewell. He had often dwelled on it since with regret.

It had been ten years. To ease the uncertainty he always felt upon this - the only - reunion he made with any regularity, he revisited the many sights of the mountains. The wilder sights he visited first, for these to him were easier - Coruhuron too accustomed to solitude to make an appearance in Celondim or Duillond, the elven settlements, just yet. However, as he was visiting the more secluded sights, he came upon the dwarven structures that had stood there for centuries - overrun with goblins, now.

His heart leapt. He realised too late that it was eagerness, not fury - it should have been fury, he silently admonished himself. This task, at least, would give him some diversion before meeting with Ninimmien and visiting the settlements of his kindred.

His footfalls were ever silent, even in the rugged terrain. Coruhuron had a stillness about him as he moved, that even seemed to defy the act of breathing. One of the menfolk might look upon him and wonder if he breathed at all for how he hid the movement and sound of it. The elf as silent and undetectable as death. A spirit, a ghost, a breeze. He scouted the goblin infestation; ninety two there were. Mostly lesser sorts, but goblins were never to be underestimated when they swarmed. The large number should have struck him as more odd than it did for the Vale of Thrain - this, a thought he would revisit later. But for now, the elf was too fresh from his hunting in Angmar to pay it mind.

Ninety two. And a storm was forming overhead. He took his position, and waited for the fury - the airs of Manwe and the rushing waters of Ulmo to be unleashed.

....

By the time the storm was over, not a single goblin was left alive.

[handprintsofblood]

Prologue: Flown in from the storm

"There was a storm last night. The rain galed in from the Vale of Thrain; but it was not just the wind that met my ears. The thunder was laden with violent cries, clashes of metal and fell voices of goblins in the throes of battle.

For an hour it went on. The thunder, the wind, the sounds of distant death from the mountains as I looked out from the high walls of Gondamon. The rain grew heavier until eventually the lightning calmed and the battle cries with it. The wind fell still and there was only the weight and vigour of water falling. An inky, dark calm drew itself over Gondamon like a cape as the smell of water and stone permeated the air, encompassing me where I stood.

There came a rider of my kind to the gates, and through to the main court. I knew who it was before I had seen his horse or garb, for I had been awaiting his arrival. I hastened down the stairs to meet him by the fire, kept burning beneath one of the balconies above.

I had not seen him for a decade, but he had received my missive and come, as he had always done in the past. I was glad to see him well. Even gladder not to see him entirely unchanged. Each time we have met, his words come more easily to him and I believe that I see more of who he once was, little by little as the centuries continue.

We stood by the fire while the rain subsided and spoke into the evening of the current state of the Vale, and the goblins within it. We spoke of the task I had given him, this time, and his present completion, for which I thanked him.

Our meeting was fleeting, for my companion left soon after he had come, as he always does. Likely I will not see him again for another ten years. But as I watched him turn and go, I felt - as distinctly as the scent of storm-washed Gondamon, refreshing, invigorating, intrusive to the senses - that this decade will be different for him."

- An extract from the personal diary of the elf-woman, Ninimmien, one year ago.