Hypocrisy is probably the most butchered word in the English language.
Pretentious the adjective most readily bandied,
and per se the most misused.
Hippocracy, hypocracy, hippocrisy, hipocrasy. And it has nothing to do with Hippocrates or the practice of medicine! A "hippocrate" is probably a follower of Hippocrates, no more.
People.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Monday, September 17, 2007
Chapter I
Please read the Prologue and the other post before coming to this.
The White Council was assembling in a talan atop the Cerin Amroth. It was not Amroth’s talan of old – the highest in the realm, for that was never used, this was a larger and lower one. It seemed an apt place, for all assembled in the flet could see the foul stronghold of Dol Guldur, unless they turned their backs to it. The morning was a nice one even for Lothlorien; sunny with a cool breeze blowing from the south. It was a sight which was a feast for even immortal eyes, if only they never looked east. For in the east the dark tower rose above the forest, with plumes of ever-present foul smoke above it.
Cirdan had not come to attend the council. He had, however, sent word, pledging support should an offensive be mounted, assuring that he would send out as many elves as he could out into Eriador, to help Rivendell and the rangers keep safe the borders. The leagues were long in Eriador, and the offer of help was no meager gesture on the part of the Lord of the Grey Havens.
Radagast the Brown had failed to come to the Council for the second time in succession. Rhosgobel was in Southern Mirkwood and close enough to feel the glooms of Dol Guldur, and Gandalf had been hopeful of his coming. This was far from the first time he had failed.
As Gandalf climbed up the numerous small steps to the flet, he mused about how much preparation had begun, hidden from Saruman. There had been preparations even the last time the council had met; when he had not been able to move Saruman, but not on this scale. This time, he felt, he had to succeed.
When he reached the top, he saw that the lord and lady of the Golden Wood were present before him, seated next to each other in the circle of chairs. Gandalf bowed and allowed himself a smile before taking a seat near them.
He was very glad that Celeborn had agreed to attend the council this year, for the elf had refused a seat on the council when it was formed, many centuries earlier. He had merely said that his lady wife was on the council to speak for the two of them, and that he was not overly fond of week-long discussions and debates.
Gandalf himself had not thought much of the silver-haired lord when they had met for the first time, but soon he had altered his opinion. He remembered the first time he had come to Lothlorien, Laurelindorenan as it was called then. He had come with an escort from Rivendell, and had found only the lady Galadriel in Caras Galadhon. There he had spoken long with her, and had told her as much as he had to Cirdan and Elrond, his true nature and purpose, and what he hoped to do in Middle Earth. He had given her the Elessar that day, the stone that Idril had borne to the Undying lands, as a final token of proof.
Celeborn had been visiting the northern marches then, and had returned late. He had greeted Gandalf warmly then, thinking him some lord of men. The next day however, he had been confronted by the elf. “So,” the silver-haired lord had remarked, icy in his tone and his look. “The mighty Valar wish to look beyond their mountains once more. First they burn Beleriand, and then they drown the land. After that they raise up Numenor, only to push it back down, breaking the world in the course of it. What doom do you bring for us now, my lord?”
Celeborn’s opinion of the Valar was a rather bleak one, and spending three ages of the sun (and much of the age of stars) in Middle Earth had but helped strengthen it. While the Noldo begrudged the Valar in the first age, most had realized their follies and had fallen back to their reverence for the lords of the west. The Sindar never had much love for the Valar, save for Varda Star-kindler and Orome, lord of the forests.
Gandalf had learnt much about the Noldor and the Sindar in Middle Earth, but Galadriel had not seen fit to warn him then of the intensity of Celeborn’s disposition, and Gandalf had found that he could scarce defend himself.
Many summers had passed, in which time Gandalf had picked up the name Mithrandir from the elves. During a brief visit of his to the woodland realm, Celeborn had sought him out and surprised him. He had said, “I might have been hasty in saying some words to you, Lord Mithrandir. I think that the Valar could have done much worse than sending you to Middle Earth. You have certainly done more yourself these past few years than what entire elvish races have been able to do in this age. You have my respect, and my gratitude.”
“Do I have your friendship, my lord?”
“If I could have yours.”
Gandalf woke from his reverie as others in the council started arriving. Seven chairs there were in the flet, the seventh had been added for Celeborn. They were all positioned around a great table of oak, which was piled with maps and scrolls. The chairs of those who had not come were left empty, as always. Elrond Halfelven was the one who entered, and Saruman soon followed.
The first day was spent in discussing minor matters, and tidings from scouts. They talked of uprisings in Harad and raids by the Corsairs; of wild Easterlings and gatherings in Rhun; of Dunlendings in Rohan and woodmen in Anorien. It was late in the afternoon that the council ventured into matters more immediate.
“So yet again you start your private attack on prudence, Gandalf,” Saruman commented, scorn thinly veiled in his voice. He expected Gandalf to take offense; in fact he wanted him to. Gandalf however, did not take anything of the sort. He just wanly smiled. “It is not prudence that I am prejudiced against, Saruman, but inaction. Year after year, this noble council has done but nothing, justifying inaction with prudence. After a while, nothing is justified, old friend.”
Gandalf made to reach for his pipe, but stopped, knowing that it would not help his cause. Saruman had only disdain for the Leaf, and testing Lord Curunir’s temper was the last thing Gandalf wished to do.
Elrond said, “Sauron is amassing his forces - he is filling the Hithaelgir with orcs. Yea, the dwarves had nearly halved their numbers, but now there are at least four times the number there once were.”
Gandalf continued, “He plans to attack either Lorien or Rivendell. How can we be sure that either can with stand such an attack? You may feel secure in Orthanc, Saruman, but the rest of us sleep less soundly, knowing that Sauron is back. The south has many friendly realms but the north is too open, orcs can easily pass north of the Misty Mountains and can enter Eriador through Angmar. Rivendell and what is left of the Dunedain cannot hold back this black tide. His power nearly reaches the Old Ford. All who tread east of the Anduin are besieged by an unnamed fear. Soon the shadow of the dark wood will stretch even west of the Anduin.”
A short silence followed. Celeborn sighed, “There is no place in Ennor which is perfectly safe. When Doriath could fall, when Gondolin could fall, what sureties can we claim, what strength can we rest on, to say that we can weather all evil?”
Saruman was not someone who gave up so easily, “All that you speak of may be true. But whom are we fighting? We know but naught of the enemy. It is folly to rashly attack someone about whom we know nothing of.”
“We know enough,” said Gandalf gruffly, his patience wearing thin. “I have seen him, though I believe that he did not realize who I was when he caught a glimpse of me. It is but Sauron returned, albeit a weaker and a ring less one. Had we acted ten years back, the matter might have been a trifle. He must have never been allowed to return to the lesser of his dwellings.”
Saruman made as if to stand up, but thought better of it. He was the head of the White Council and he had to maintain some decorum himself. When he spoke he spoke with a false restraint, “It is all fine for the White Council to assemble, to give thought to great and important matters, to move judgments against the greatest of evils and in spite of my being the head of this most fine council, I have to accept that ere long, words without action fade into oblivion.”
“So we want to destroy, or at least drive out the enemy – Very well, who will do it?”
Gandalf had a hint of a smile on his face, hearing Saruman speaking of action and inaction. He gently replied, “It would take all our strength Saruman, for our mission is still very difficult.”
Scorn crept into Saruman’s voice, “Typical of your Gandalf, to call on our unity in action, and hoping that the concerned matter is settled. My question remains unanswered – Who?”
“The Istari? Only two of us are left in an order originally consisting of just five, a suspicious three if you are so willing as to consider even Radagast the Brown.”
“The Eldar? Only Rivendell was bold enough to send help to Earnur against Angmar. Lorien and the people of the good Lady and the Lord have only the power to contain, to resist, but not to attack. The might of the likes of Glorfindel are of no help here, if not for a valiant and wasted death.”
“The Heirs of Isildur? Their pride and dignity forgotten, roaming the wild like dark men of twilight bereft of property or lordship.”
“The Houses of Men? Men are weak; their strength is all but imaginary. If the enemy attacks on both the western and the eastern flanks of men, Rohan and Gondor will get cornered and ere it is long they will fall. Whom else can you name who can fight a battle none of us here can even conceive?”
“Saruman, Saruman.” Said Gandalf with a laugh, “No one has ever accused you of being hasty, but I think that this time you did get quite carried away. Even if we are going to make war on Dol Guldur, we would hardly go with banners flying and armour gleaming! I have some ideas as to how we can attack the enemy.”
“What do you propose, a foolish prank, perhaps?” Saruman was really caught off guard by the good humour of Gandalf, so he asked a rather unwise question, when he should have just kept quiet and waited.
“Well, No one has ever accused you of having patience either. Listen to what I have to say.”
----------
PS. Every single time I read this, I find some new error to correct. When will it end? When?
The White Council was assembling in a talan atop the Cerin Amroth. It was not Amroth’s talan of old – the highest in the realm, for that was never used, this was a larger and lower one. It seemed an apt place, for all assembled in the flet could see the foul stronghold of Dol Guldur, unless they turned their backs to it. The morning was a nice one even for Lothlorien; sunny with a cool breeze blowing from the south. It was a sight which was a feast for even immortal eyes, if only they never looked east. For in the east the dark tower rose above the forest, with plumes of ever-present foul smoke above it.
Cirdan had not come to attend the council. He had, however, sent word, pledging support should an offensive be mounted, assuring that he would send out as many elves as he could out into Eriador, to help Rivendell and the rangers keep safe the borders. The leagues were long in Eriador, and the offer of help was no meager gesture on the part of the Lord of the Grey Havens.
Radagast the Brown had failed to come to the Council for the second time in succession. Rhosgobel was in Southern Mirkwood and close enough to feel the glooms of Dol Guldur, and Gandalf had been hopeful of his coming. This was far from the first time he had failed.
As Gandalf climbed up the numerous small steps to the flet, he mused about how much preparation had begun, hidden from Saruman. There had been preparations even the last time the council had met; when he had not been able to move Saruman, but not on this scale. This time, he felt, he had to succeed.
When he reached the top, he saw that the lord and lady of the Golden Wood were present before him, seated next to each other in the circle of chairs. Gandalf bowed and allowed himself a smile before taking a seat near them.
He was very glad that Celeborn had agreed to attend the council this year, for the elf had refused a seat on the council when it was formed, many centuries earlier. He had merely said that his lady wife was on the council to speak for the two of them, and that he was not overly fond of week-long discussions and debates.
Gandalf himself had not thought much of the silver-haired lord when they had met for the first time, but soon he had altered his opinion. He remembered the first time he had come to Lothlorien, Laurelindorenan as it was called then. He had come with an escort from Rivendell, and had found only the lady Galadriel in Caras Galadhon. There he had spoken long with her, and had told her as much as he had to Cirdan and Elrond, his true nature and purpose, and what he hoped to do in Middle Earth. He had given her the Elessar that day, the stone that Idril had borne to the Undying lands, as a final token of proof.
Celeborn had been visiting the northern marches then, and had returned late. He had greeted Gandalf warmly then, thinking him some lord of men. The next day however, he had been confronted by the elf. “So,” the silver-haired lord had remarked, icy in his tone and his look. “The mighty Valar wish to look beyond their mountains once more. First they burn Beleriand, and then they drown the land. After that they raise up Numenor, only to push it back down, breaking the world in the course of it. What doom do you bring for us now, my lord?”
Celeborn’s opinion of the Valar was a rather bleak one, and spending three ages of the sun (and much of the age of stars) in Middle Earth had but helped strengthen it. While the Noldo begrudged the Valar in the first age, most had realized their follies and had fallen back to their reverence for the lords of the west. The Sindar never had much love for the Valar, save for Varda Star-kindler and Orome, lord of the forests.
Gandalf had learnt much about the Noldor and the Sindar in Middle Earth, but Galadriel had not seen fit to warn him then of the intensity of Celeborn’s disposition, and Gandalf had found that he could scarce defend himself.
Many summers had passed, in which time Gandalf had picked up the name Mithrandir from the elves. During a brief visit of his to the woodland realm, Celeborn had sought him out and surprised him. He had said, “I might have been hasty in saying some words to you, Lord Mithrandir. I think that the Valar could have done much worse than sending you to Middle Earth. You have certainly done more yourself these past few years than what entire elvish races have been able to do in this age. You have my respect, and my gratitude.”
“Do I have your friendship, my lord?”
“If I could have yours.”
Gandalf woke from his reverie as others in the council started arriving. Seven chairs there were in the flet, the seventh had been added for Celeborn. They were all positioned around a great table of oak, which was piled with maps and scrolls. The chairs of those who had not come were left empty, as always. Elrond Halfelven was the one who entered, and Saruman soon followed.
The first day was spent in discussing minor matters, and tidings from scouts. They talked of uprisings in Harad and raids by the Corsairs; of wild Easterlings and gatherings in Rhun; of Dunlendings in Rohan and woodmen in Anorien. It was late in the afternoon that the council ventured into matters more immediate.
“So yet again you start your private attack on prudence, Gandalf,” Saruman commented, scorn thinly veiled in his voice. He expected Gandalf to take offense; in fact he wanted him to. Gandalf however, did not take anything of the sort. He just wanly smiled. “It is not prudence that I am prejudiced against, Saruman, but inaction. Year after year, this noble council has done but nothing, justifying inaction with prudence. After a while, nothing is justified, old friend.”
Gandalf made to reach for his pipe, but stopped, knowing that it would not help his cause. Saruman had only disdain for the Leaf, and testing Lord Curunir’s temper was the last thing Gandalf wished to do.
Elrond said, “Sauron is amassing his forces - he is filling the Hithaelgir with orcs. Yea, the dwarves had nearly halved their numbers, but now there are at least four times the number there once were.”
Gandalf continued, “He plans to attack either Lorien or Rivendell. How can we be sure that either can with stand such an attack? You may feel secure in Orthanc, Saruman, but the rest of us sleep less soundly, knowing that Sauron is back. The south has many friendly realms but the north is too open, orcs can easily pass north of the Misty Mountains and can enter Eriador through Angmar. Rivendell and what is left of the Dunedain cannot hold back this black tide. His power nearly reaches the Old Ford. All who tread east of the Anduin are besieged by an unnamed fear. Soon the shadow of the dark wood will stretch even west of the Anduin.”
A short silence followed. Celeborn sighed, “There is no place in Ennor which is perfectly safe. When Doriath could fall, when Gondolin could fall, what sureties can we claim, what strength can we rest on, to say that we can weather all evil?”
Saruman was not someone who gave up so easily, “All that you speak of may be true. But whom are we fighting? We know but naught of the enemy. It is folly to rashly attack someone about whom we know nothing of.”
“We know enough,” said Gandalf gruffly, his patience wearing thin. “I have seen him, though I believe that he did not realize who I was when he caught a glimpse of me. It is but Sauron returned, albeit a weaker and a ring less one. Had we acted ten years back, the matter might have been a trifle. He must have never been allowed to return to the lesser of his dwellings.”
Saruman made as if to stand up, but thought better of it. He was the head of the White Council and he had to maintain some decorum himself. When he spoke he spoke with a false restraint, “It is all fine for the White Council to assemble, to give thought to great and important matters, to move judgments against the greatest of evils and in spite of my being the head of this most fine council, I have to accept that ere long, words without action fade into oblivion.”
“So we want to destroy, or at least drive out the enemy – Very well, who will do it?”
Gandalf had a hint of a smile on his face, hearing Saruman speaking of action and inaction. He gently replied, “It would take all our strength Saruman, for our mission is still very difficult.”
Scorn crept into Saruman’s voice, “Typical of your Gandalf, to call on our unity in action, and hoping that the concerned matter is settled. My question remains unanswered – Who?”
“The Istari? Only two of us are left in an order originally consisting of just five, a suspicious three if you are so willing as to consider even Radagast the Brown.”
“The Eldar? Only Rivendell was bold enough to send help to Earnur against Angmar. Lorien and the people of the good Lady and the Lord have only the power to contain, to resist, but not to attack. The might of the likes of Glorfindel are of no help here, if not for a valiant and wasted death.”
“The Heirs of Isildur? Their pride and dignity forgotten, roaming the wild like dark men of twilight bereft of property or lordship.”
“The Houses of Men? Men are weak; their strength is all but imaginary. If the enemy attacks on both the western and the eastern flanks of men, Rohan and Gondor will get cornered and ere it is long they will fall. Whom else can you name who can fight a battle none of us here can even conceive?”
“Saruman, Saruman.” Said Gandalf with a laugh, “No one has ever accused you of being hasty, but I think that this time you did get quite carried away. Even if we are going to make war on Dol Guldur, we would hardly go with banners flying and armour gleaming! I have some ideas as to how we can attack the enemy.”
“What do you propose, a foolish prank, perhaps?” Saruman was really caught off guard by the good humour of Gandalf, so he asked a rather unwise question, when he should have just kept quiet and waited.
“Well, No one has ever accused you of having patience either. Listen to what I have to say.”
----------
PS. Every single time I read this, I find some new error to correct. When will it end? When?
Sunday, September 16, 2007
The fan fic.
For those who care.
The prologue is from a Tolkien fan fiction story that I started writing... *thinks* more than three years ago. It's not yet complete, I'm afraid. I finally decided to release it in public. (Har Har, as public as my blog can be.) It is tentatively titled 'Flight of the Shadow'.
The story is a companion piece to The Hobbit, in fact the first paragraph in the prologue is from it. It is an attempt to explain the whereabouts and the activities of Gandalf, between when he separates himself from the Fourteen, and when he meets up with Bilbo again among the Silvan folk.
From what I was able to piece together from the Unfinished Tales, the appendices to the Lord of the Rings and whatever else I could lay my hands on, Gandalf took leave of the dwarves and their treasure-hunter and went to a meeting of the White Council. Once there, he was finally able to move the rest, including Saruman, into action and drove out the elusive figure of the Necromancer from Dol Guldur. The knowledge of how this was done has gone undocumented.
Until now. :)
My portrayal of the characters of this story, the Elven lords and the Istari, is heavily influenced by fan fics. For those who might feel that the way the Elven lords speak to each other is unreal - note that there are no true sources for it. The Silmarillion is more of a history book rather than a story, the others even more so, and in the LoTR apart from the formal setting of the Council of Elrond (which my vision of the White Council is heavily influenced by,) few are the insights that can be gained into elven conversations. The LoTR is filled with samples of elvish interactions with hobbits and men, who look on the immortals with a great deal of reverence or at least wariness, which can really change the manner of conversations.
This is still a work in progress, and I don't really know how everything is going to end. I haven't figured it all out yet. Patience, my good reader, is a virtue when someone else needs to possess it. In this case, that someone else is you.
To all who think that I'm definitely off my rocker, obsessed with Tolkien and everything - I have no comeback. You may all be right.
Recommended prerequisites - The LoTR, The Hobbit.
The prologue is from a Tolkien fan fiction story that I started writing... *thinks* more than three years ago. It's not yet complete, I'm afraid. I finally decided to release it in public. (Har Har, as public as my blog can be.) It is tentatively titled 'Flight of the Shadow'.
The story is a companion piece to The Hobbit, in fact the first paragraph in the prologue is from it. It is an attempt to explain the whereabouts and the activities of Gandalf, between when he separates himself from the Fourteen, and when he meets up with Bilbo again among the Silvan folk.
From what I was able to piece together from the Unfinished Tales, the appendices to the Lord of the Rings and whatever else I could lay my hands on, Gandalf took leave of the dwarves and their treasure-hunter and went to a meeting of the White Council. Once there, he was finally able to move the rest, including Saruman, into action and drove out the elusive figure of the Necromancer from Dol Guldur. The knowledge of how this was done has gone undocumented.
Until now. :)
My portrayal of the characters of this story, the Elven lords and the Istari, is heavily influenced by fan fics. For those who might feel that the way the Elven lords speak to each other is unreal - note that there are no true sources for it. The Silmarillion is more of a history book rather than a story, the others even more so, and in the LoTR apart from the formal setting of the Council of Elrond (which my vision of the White Council is heavily influenced by,) few are the insights that can be gained into elven conversations. The LoTR is filled with samples of elvish interactions with hobbits and men, who look on the immortals with a great deal of reverence or at least wariness, which can really change the manner of conversations.
This is still a work in progress, and I don't really know how everything is going to end. I haven't figured it all out yet. Patience, my good reader, is a virtue when someone else needs to possess it. In this case, that someone else is you.
To all who think that I'm definitely off my rocker, obsessed with Tolkien and everything - I have no comeback. You may all be right.
Recommended prerequisites - The LoTR, The Hobbit.
Prologue
“Good-bye then, and really good-bye!” he said, and turned his horse and rode down into the west. But he could not resist the temptation of having the last word. Before he had passed quite out of hearing he turned and put his hands to his mouth and called to them: “Good-bye! Be good; take care of yourselves – and DON’T LEAVE THE PATH!”
He could almost hear them grunting miserably, getting angry because he was leaving them when their journey was getting really dangerous. Little did they know that it was he who would be in peril now. But not right away, for it was a safe three-day journey to his destination, and he was glad that it was still morning. His horse – well, not really his horse but the one he had borrowed, was young and strong, and being well trained was able to bear him across till the river at half-gallop. There both the rider and the horse rested, to help the horse regain her strength and for the rider to think of what lay ahead of him.
He knew that his objective now was different, and by far the deadlier compared to the one he was previously assisting, and he knew that it was up to him to give thought to everything. He would have to convince others, and quickly too – for in his heart he knew that it was already too late.
An hour later, he got up, mounted his horse and continued riding like the wind. He passed the Carrock early in the evening and continued till dusk.
The first half of the next day was quite uneventful; he crossed the Old Ford with ease. As the evening drew closer, he turned west. South, far ahead of him lay the gladden river. There was a small ford, the only passage across the river in these troubled days, just ere the river came out of the Misty Mountains, and that was what he was making for.
Before long he realized that he should have turned from the banks of the Anduin quite some time before, for all paths that lay before him were serpentine, and he was able to just manage to find a way through the marsh and briar. He knew that he wouldn’t make it to the ford before nightfall. He took shelter in a small grove for the night.
The sun dawned for the third time since he had left the company of those who were going eastward, and he knew that the journey would end today. Such was the life of our rider, very precise was he in his time-keeping, and so he was all the more furious for being late. For late he was, at least by five days, his only hope was that the others would have been delayed too.
With an hour's ride, he approached the ford. The descent was quite tricky, but our rider being who he was, coaxed the beast down with ease. Only after he had reached the water did he realize that something there was not altogether right.
For the past quarter of an hour, he had been fully and justly occupied with the matter at hand – guiding the horse down. Now that his thoughts were not so burdened with something so laborious, he felt that peculiar prickly feeling at the back of his head. He was being watched. Where from? The very air seemed to be spying on him, oh why hadn’t he noticed this before, but he could not see a single face, not a single eye gleaming in the shadows. Orcs? He did not think so, for it was after dawn now, the sun was in the sky, even if still quite low. He felt something else, something more powerful, and something more…evil.
To assume that fear clouded his judgment would be a very foolish thing to do, for he did not fear easily. Yes, caution and prudence did creep into his action, for he knew that he had to move on quickly, flee rather than fight. He knew that he would be strong enough to defeat whatever evil that lurked here, if it did show itself, but in doing so he would first give himself away. More importantly, he would be delayed – and our wanderer had wandered enough.
He crossed the river, looking straight ahead and with the air of someone who did not know that anything was amiss. He did not risk a look back till he reached the southern bank. He felt contempt for doing things this way, for no coward was he, but he accepted the situation the way it was. The ascent here was by far the easier. His spurred the beast on and the horse sprang out of the gully and started racing past the Gladden Fields. The evil he lost behind him.
The day grew older, and finally he could see the first trees of the realm he was seeking. A low mist loomed in front of him – the enchanted veil over the realm of Dwimordene drew closer to him by the minute. He did not fear it, for fear of this he thought, was absurd.
The horse was apprehensive of it, there was some sorcery there that it did not comprehend, and hence could not like. The rider patted its neck and spoke a few soft words in a strange, sonorous tongue and the beast relaxed. The rider changed the pace to a quick trot, and the distance to the woods was covered in no time. As they reached the wood, they could see a pale figure climbing down one of the boughs, cloaked in white and grey.
“Mithrandir! Welcome. You are long expected. Her ladyship was not worried but the lord was quite so,” said the figure, who could now be discerned as an elf, with a bow slung on his shoulder.
“Greetings, Emeldil! And well met. A wizard is never late, though I confess that I had the care of many other matters in my hand. I have come as fast as I possibly could in haste, and will tarry no more. Come! Let us be off to the city.”
And so the wizard and the elf set out on foot, the horse led by the elf on the path heading for Caras Galadhon, the City of Trees.
----------
Disclaimer: Tolkien is Eru, Iluvatar, owner-of-all. I am not doing this to make any money. Like anyone will pay me for this. All characters belong to him except for the ones I have taken the liberty of creating.
He could almost hear them grunting miserably, getting angry because he was leaving them when their journey was getting really dangerous. Little did they know that it was he who would be in peril now. But not right away, for it was a safe three-day journey to his destination, and he was glad that it was still morning. His horse – well, not really his horse but the one he had borrowed, was young and strong, and being well trained was able to bear him across till the river at half-gallop. There both the rider and the horse rested, to help the horse regain her strength and for the rider to think of what lay ahead of him.
He knew that his objective now was different, and by far the deadlier compared to the one he was previously assisting, and he knew that it was up to him to give thought to everything. He would have to convince others, and quickly too – for in his heart he knew that it was already too late.
An hour later, he got up, mounted his horse and continued riding like the wind. He passed the Carrock early in the evening and continued till dusk.
The first half of the next day was quite uneventful; he crossed the Old Ford with ease. As the evening drew closer, he turned west. South, far ahead of him lay the gladden river. There was a small ford, the only passage across the river in these troubled days, just ere the river came out of the Misty Mountains, and that was what he was making for.
Before long he realized that he should have turned from the banks of the Anduin quite some time before, for all paths that lay before him were serpentine, and he was able to just manage to find a way through the marsh and briar. He knew that he wouldn’t make it to the ford before nightfall. He took shelter in a small grove for the night.
The sun dawned for the third time since he had left the company of those who were going eastward, and he knew that the journey would end today. Such was the life of our rider, very precise was he in his time-keeping, and so he was all the more furious for being late. For late he was, at least by five days, his only hope was that the others would have been delayed too.
With an hour's ride, he approached the ford. The descent was quite tricky, but our rider being who he was, coaxed the beast down with ease. Only after he had reached the water did he realize that something there was not altogether right.
For the past quarter of an hour, he had been fully and justly occupied with the matter at hand – guiding the horse down. Now that his thoughts were not so burdened with something so laborious, he felt that peculiar prickly feeling at the back of his head. He was being watched. Where from? The very air seemed to be spying on him, oh why hadn’t he noticed this before, but he could not see a single face, not a single eye gleaming in the shadows. Orcs? He did not think so, for it was after dawn now, the sun was in the sky, even if still quite low. He felt something else, something more powerful, and something more…evil.
To assume that fear clouded his judgment would be a very foolish thing to do, for he did not fear easily. Yes, caution and prudence did creep into his action, for he knew that he had to move on quickly, flee rather than fight. He knew that he would be strong enough to defeat whatever evil that lurked here, if it did show itself, but in doing so he would first give himself away. More importantly, he would be delayed – and our wanderer had wandered enough.
He crossed the river, looking straight ahead and with the air of someone who did not know that anything was amiss. He did not risk a look back till he reached the southern bank. He felt contempt for doing things this way, for no coward was he, but he accepted the situation the way it was. The ascent here was by far the easier. His spurred the beast on and the horse sprang out of the gully and started racing past the Gladden Fields. The evil he lost behind him.
The day grew older, and finally he could see the first trees of the realm he was seeking. A low mist loomed in front of him – the enchanted veil over the realm of Dwimordene drew closer to him by the minute. He did not fear it, for fear of this he thought, was absurd.
The horse was apprehensive of it, there was some sorcery there that it did not comprehend, and hence could not like. The rider patted its neck and spoke a few soft words in a strange, sonorous tongue and the beast relaxed. The rider changed the pace to a quick trot, and the distance to the woods was covered in no time. As they reached the wood, they could see a pale figure climbing down one of the boughs, cloaked in white and grey.
“Mithrandir! Welcome. You are long expected. Her ladyship was not worried but the lord was quite so,” said the figure, who could now be discerned as an elf, with a bow slung on his shoulder.
“Greetings, Emeldil! And well met. A wizard is never late, though I confess that I had the care of many other matters in my hand. I have come as fast as I possibly could in haste, and will tarry no more. Come! Let us be off to the city.”
And so the wizard and the elf set out on foot, the horse led by the elf on the path heading for Caras Galadhon, the City of Trees.
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Disclaimer: Tolkien is Eru, Iluvatar, owner-of-all. I am not doing this to make any money. Like anyone will pay me for this. All characters belong to him except for the ones I have taken the liberty of creating.
Friday, September 7, 2007
A month, a year, a moment in time.
A new post is in order, I think. At least so as to push down that ghastly poem of mine.
Another month, gone. September seems to have crept in, catching most of us napping. Big plans I had. For August. And for life in general. I almost never make resolutions, but I had so many aims that were nearly those.
To start the laborious process of applying to graduate schools. To start off with my thesis project. To do some justice to the ones I have left incomplete. To try and do some of the extra work I had the gall to take on. To go cycling to Mahabs. To go out into the city, and not just to the railway station when I'm heading home. To blog at least once a week. To read more, to write more and to sleep a little less. To be happy. To be content. (Hah!) To dream more. Literally, at that. (I don't get dreams everyday, and I feel well rested and content with sleep only when I do.) To write poetry again. Preferably in class. To at least finish a novel when I am there. To learn to draw again. To eat healthy food. Even when I'm not at Subway. And eat a little less. To exercise everyday. To be more aware of what goes on around me. To go home more often. To do more when I am there. To live life in every breath. To complain a little less. To not worry as much. To be nicer to people. To sing, to dance, to run amok. To be carefree, even if only for a while.
Grand plans I seem to have. And ambitious dreams. But I end up doing not all that much.
Another month, gone. September seems to have crept in, catching most of us napping. Big plans I had. For August. And for life in general. I almost never make resolutions, but I had so many aims that were nearly those.
To start the laborious process of applying to graduate schools. To start off with my thesis project. To do some justice to the ones I have left incomplete. To try and do some of the extra work I had the gall to take on. To go cycling to Mahabs. To go out into the city, and not just to the railway station when I'm heading home. To blog at least once a week. To read more, to write more and to sleep a little less. To be happy. To be content. (Hah!) To dream more. Literally, at that. (I don't get dreams everyday, and I feel well rested and content with sleep only when I do.) To write poetry again. Preferably in class. To at least finish a novel when I am there. To learn to draw again. To eat healthy food. Even when I'm not at Subway. And eat a little less. To exercise everyday. To be more aware of what goes on around me. To go home more often. To do more when I am there. To live life in every breath. To complain a little less. To not worry as much. To be nicer to people. To sing, to dance, to run amok. To be carefree, even if only for a while.
Grand plans I seem to have. And ambitious dreams. But I end up doing not all that much.
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