The House of Galadriel
Galadriel=Celeborn
Celebrian=Elrond ~ their offspring were:
Elladan
Elrohir
Arwen=Aragorn
Fathilian (Faith)
The smoke of battle hung across the plains of Garadh-huin in Dagorlad, north of Mordor. Battle-weary warriors with blood-stained mail and horrific wounds staggered north-west towards the Brown Lands. Rangers who knew the dangers of straying too far to the west and into the Dead Marshes went on ahead, foot-sore and tired. But the battle had gone largely according to plan. The bodies of slain Orcs and Uruk-hai littered the ground, and already the stench of decay rose like a palling mist, clogging their nostrils and sickening their stomachs. Small groups of men stayed together, supporting each other, cleansing wounds, helping to feed hungry mouths, building shelters for those unable to move away from the battlefield. Paulir, a veritable giant veteran with short hair on top and a long, braided pig-tail, and sporting a week’s stubble, half-carried his comrade, Ullaridh, to the comparative safety of a stone-ring atop a small outcrop of rock. The sun was setting on the fourth day of the battle. Orcs and Uruk-hai were still abroad, re-grouping, but the land was secure.
Ullaridh groaned through clenched teeth. Glancing down, Paulir saw that an Orc blade was still embedded in his companion’s leg. More disturbing, though, was the fact that no blood flowed from the wound. He lowered the shivering man to the ground and peered over the edge. From this vantage point he could see in all directions. Away to his left were the Dunedain, four of them, distinctive, tall, clean-limbed men wearing the insignia of Gondor. A fifth, a Ranger, walked a few paces ahead of them, but they were all out of earshot. As the sun finally sank behind the White Mountains, he saw a pall of smoke where he judged the Gap of Rohan to be, though its distance was lost in the mists of distance. He looked out to the right and saw, to his horror, a band of Orcs, ragged and dishevelled, but still armed, having looted the considerable number of dead warriors that lay on what had once been green fields. He drew his sword and quickly sharpened it, using the stone he carried in a pouch around his waist, then tested the blade against his thumb.
He squatted on the ground next to Ullaridh and whispered to him. ‘Orcs are coming! I cannot remove the blade on my own. It is beyond my skills! Rest you now, I will deal with them, then we can make for the Brown Lands. There are Elves near there. Stay with me, Ullaridh. I will be back in a while.’
Paulir clambered down the rocks. By now the moon was up, turning the Orcs’ faces blue and eery. Many were cut and bleeding, and none dared chant, as Orcs were used to doing, for fear of rousing the armies of warriors that were even now regrouping. There were seven of them, and they were creeping towards the makeshift shelter built against the rocky outcrop, where four warriors lay, one mortally wounded, the others unable to defend themselves by virtue of the fact that they were weaponless. Paulir considered drawing the Orcs to him by shouting, but there were other Orc-bands abroad, and to draw attention to the four invalided warriors would not do. Instead, he waited until the Orcs came to within a few paces of his comrades, then bore down upon them with all the strength he could muster, scattering them like twigs as his keen blade buried itself in the hard, cold, evil flesh of Sauron’s hellish army.
For several minutes he waged his private war against the legion of damned creatures, severing arteries, lopping limbs, and then it was done, the warriors safe, and he could turn his attention to Ullaridh once more. One of the dying warriors extended a hand in salute. Paulir nodded and raced to the stone-ring, where he found Ullaridh’s face bathed in sweat, his pulse racing.
‘Brace yourself, comrade, the blade will have to be removed,’ Paulir said, grasping the Orc-blade by the hilt. At once a chill suffused his bones, the cold of evil ran through his limbs, and he shuddered uncontrollably, but he began to pull, and little by little, inch by inch, the ghastly jagged blade was withdrawn from the man’s flesh. At last the point was free, and Ullaridh sank into unconsciousness. Paulir gazed at the wound, thinking he could see the poison working there, black flecks of a hellish concoction brewed by Sauron’s henchmen. He was still wretchedly cold, and as he gazed down at his shaking hands, he saw the reason why. He still held the Orc-blade. Scowling angrily, he tossed it a few feet away from him, and where it came to land, the rocks fizzed and bubbled as though they, too, were suddenly imbued with the forces of evil.
But the feeling returned to his hands, warmth coursed again through his veins. It was clear to see, however, that Ullaridh’s pallour was even now fading. Somehow the flow of blood within his veins had been slowed by the poison from the Orc-blade. His breathing was shallow and ragged, his eyelids twitching, his mouth flecked with white saliva.
‘This is beyond my powers to heal,’ Paulir said. ‘I must carry you, comrade, for without Elven-magick you will not survive.’ And, stooping his great shoulders, he lifted the unconscious form and placed him carefully over his shoulder, then set off down the rocky slope. By moonlight he was able to find the path towards the Brown Lands, but within an hour or so, the fog had risen, and he was hopelessly lost. He could just make out the outlines of trees, but trees were everywhere in Dagorlad, and without the stars, which had taken refuge behind the dark clouds that had descended from the West, he had no idea if he was walking towards the Brown Lands, or the Dead Marshes.
An hour or so later he was utterly lost, and although his shoulders ached from carrying the dead weight of Ullaridh, he was not tired, but beginning to wish he had waited until daylight before entering the forest. Trudging on through the forest, he heard the sound of tramping feet away to his left, and knew intuitively, that there were Orcs or Uruk-hai tracking him. He stopped in a clearing, lit only by the faint grey light from the cloaked moon. Gently lowering Ullaridh to the ground, Paulir drew his sword and once again thumbed the blade, drawing his own blood, knowing that the scent of it would bring them to him.
‘Taste the blade of Utherien,’ he whispered, and knelt in the clearing, lowering his head, crossing his arms and closing his eyes. The concentration enabled him to focus on the direction the Orcs, or the Uruk-hai, were taking through the forest.
Soon the tramp of feet was louder, and from the sound of it, there were at least four of them. At last the fog lifted and the moonlight flooded the clearing. Paulir glanced down at his comrade. Side by side they had stood, then back to back, hacking, parrying, thrusting, never once giving quarter, and in time the pile of maimed and broken Orcs and Uruk-hai at their feet had grown so high they had had to stand atop them as wave after wave of the hideous, shrieking beasts had come at them. Then the rain had come, and the field of slain Orc and Uruk-hai had become deep with mud and blood. For three days it had rained without ceasing. Some of the torrential rain had flooded fields for many miles around, while still more had joined the mighty Anduin river as it coursed southwards towards Mordor. At last, the final wave of Orc warriors had been beaten, and men and Elves were left to count their dead and tend their wounded. On the morning of the fourth day they had built an enormous funeral pyre and put on it all the Orcs and Uruk-hai they could find, whilst another party had dug a long barrow in which they laid their own slain warriors. But as the day progressed, and weary limbs in desperate need of rest had toiled to clear the killing field and return it to its former state, small parties of Orcs had arrived from the northern lands to join in the battle they were unaware had already been lost. A further ninety men and Elves had been slain by Orc archers, darting from cover, killing and retreating again. Paulir and Ullaridh had picked off many of them, coming upon them from behind, until at dusk, only small pockets of resistance remained. Now, it seemed, yet more had crossed the river to join their fellow Orcs, and were even now tracking them through the forest, where Paulir had thought it safe.
He sniffed once, and the stench of Orc assailed his nostrils, approaching from the south-east. Paulir drew his sword, the sword that had belonged to his father, Utherien, and planted his feet firmly apart. They would not take him alive. Behind him, he heard the rustle of leaves. His head whipped round and he saw a flash of blonde hair in the moonlight.
‘Elf!’ he whispered, and saw one standing over Ullaridh, his arms crossed. Slung over his shoulder was a quiver of arrows and a bow. At his belt was a long sword, gleaming as though but recently wiped clean.
‘Your comrade is gone,’ the elf said. Paulir frowned.
‘Are you certain?’
‘As certain as I am of anything this day. You have paid a heavy price.’
‘You too, my friend. Will you stand with me and fight the Orcs that come this way?’
‘I am impressed to know that you are able to detect them this early. They are a league away.’
‘Then we have time to reach the Brown Lands?’
‘What is there for you?’
‘I had hoped that elf medicine might heal my comrade’s wounds.’
‘Alas, the wound is deep, the poison has already worked its evil. He died an hour ago, across your shoulders. I would have your name.’
‘Paulir. Son of Utherien. From south of Forodwaith. We came to fight Orc.’
‘I have heard of you. Your deeds of valour and courage precede you. You are a legend throughout Middle Earth. Many tales have been told of your death. Forodwaith is far away.’
Paulir laughed. ‘I am old. I have been killed many times, usually by Orcs. It took me and my company the best part of a year to get here. We were summoned by Elrond. We lingered for a while in Eriador.’
‘That is where the halfling came from. The one who defeated Smaug.’
Paulir nodded. ‘We stayed at Bag End for one day. Bilbo Baggins entertained us well. I do not know your name.’
‘I am called Erethras. I am from Lothlorien. Home of the lady Galadriel and Celeborn, her husband.’
‘The lady of light? I thought she was just a mythical being.’
Erethras smiled. ‘She is real enough. She it was who foretold the battle we have just won. She looked into the mirror, but regretted it instantly.’
‘Is my comrade really dead, then? It is too late? I thought he still lived.’
‘He is departing this world as we speak. Fathilian might have saved him, had she been here.’
‘Fathilian?’
‘Elrond’s youngest daughter. She spends her time in equal parts in Rivendell and Lothlorien. There was a falling out between her and her father. He has not yet forgiven her.’
‘Is she near?’
‘At the moment, she is in Lothlorien. But it is too late for your comrade. However, it may not be too late for you. You, too, are bleeding.’
Erethras pointed to Paulir’s arm. A trickle of blood showed through the pierced chainmail.
‘I did not know,’ Paulir admitted.
‘Do not touch it. If it came from an Orc blade, it will be imbued with the evil of Sauron.’
‘Sauron? Surely he died at the hands of Isildur?’
‘So it was told. But his spirit lived on. Some speak of him reforming in a physical shape more terrible than before, but it is only rumour. Galadriel speaks of him often, though Celeborn forbids it. She says the danger is not past, and that a great quest is almost upon us. Sometime within the next century, she believes. Sauron searches for something that was lost and is now found, though none will say what it is. Come, if we skirt around the northern perimeter of the forest, we will reach the Brown Lands. From there we can make for Lothlorien, and there you will be safe.’
Paulir winced. Instinctively, his hand went to his arm, only to be knocked away by Erethras’ hand.
‘You must leave it to bleed. Follow me.’
‘My comrade?’
‘If we take him with us, it will slow us down. The Orcs will easily overtake us.’
‘And if we leave him here, wargs and werewolves will devour him in the middle of the night,’ Paulir growled.
‘It is your choice. He is dead anyway. Fire him.’
Paulir nodded, and snatched up a piece of wood and fired it with a flint. An hour later they reached the edge of the wood. Paulir now felt the onset of pain in his arm, as though someone were sticking a sharp needle in and grinding it around, probing the flesh. Once more his hand went to the wound, and this time, Erethras, who was a few paces ahead, did not see and therefore failed to stop him. As they left the forest and turned eastwards the Misty Mountains loomed ahead of them.
‘I can go no further tonight, Erethras,’ Paulir said. ‘You go on. The Orcs still follow us. Make your way to safety.’
Erethras frowned. ‘There is something amiss. You have touched the wound.’
‘Not deliberately.’
‘Nevertheless, the damage is probably done. You must rest. I will look for athelas. I wish the Lady of Rivendell was here. She would know what to do.’
‘The Lady of Rivendell? Who might she be?’
‘I have spoken of her already. She is Fathilian.’
‘Elrond’s daughter?’
‘The same.’
‘I should like to meet her.’
‘You will, if I have my way.’
Suddenly, without warning, Erethras dropped to one knee and in one swift, fluid movement, an arrow was fitted to his bow and loosed into the foliage a hundred paces to their left. There came a strangled cry, and the body of an Orc tumbled forward, headfirst, onto the ground.
‘Your hearing is good,’ Paulir observed.
‘Yours is impaired by the poison in you. I must find my people. They will help me to carry you to Lothlorien.’
Paulir smiled weakly. He lay down with his head against the bole of a tree. ‘Go on, Erethras. My task is done. You can leave me. I still have strength in me to wield a sword one last time.’
‘I cannot leave you!’ Erethras cried. ‘It is against everything I stand for!’
‘I urge you, nevertheless, to go. Your people need to be warned that there are marauding groups of Orc still in the vicinity, and when they have taken me, they will march on Lothlorien. Your people must survive. The future of Middle Earth lies in the hands of the Elves.’
‘How can you know such a thing?’
‘During the long journey south I had talks with the wizard, Gandalf, and with a ranger, my friend and crown-lord, Elessar. There is something afoot. It will ultimately involve the halflings, and the Elves. That is their opinion. You must fly to Lothlorien, now!’ Paulir said, sinking still lower into the undergrowth.
Erethras shook his head. ‘I will stay. I will not leave you.’
‘There is nothing I can say to make you change your mind?’
‘Nothing.’ The elf took off his quiver and laid it on the ground, fitting one arrow to his bow in readiness. All was quiet in the forest, then the ground shook and into the clearing burst a company of Orcs, shrieking and growling as only Orcs could. The noise they made was deafening, yet there were but five of them. Two fell instantly, killed by the arrows loosed in quick succession from Erethras’ bow. Paulir staggered to his feet, and took off the head of a third with one single blow. He turned his head to see both of the remaining Orcs attacking Erethras, whose bow was broken in two, cleaved by a blow from an Orc sword. He had just time to plunge his sword to the hilt in the back of the nearest Orc, when a glancing blow to the head sent him sprawling headlong. The next thing he knew was the sharp point of another Orc sword as it cut easily through the soft flesh beneath his arm, through his ribs.....
The sunlight through the leaves was dazzling, blinding almost. Paulir had no idea how long he had lain thus in the clearing. At first his eyes saw nothing, only the light, and then there was a flash of red across them, and something tickled his cheek. Then he fainted clean away.
Leaves brushed across his face. He lifted his hand to brush them away and found it caught in someone else’s hand, a girl’s hand, soft, gentle. Slowly, painfully he opened his eyes and looked up. He was no longer in the clearing, but out in the open. He could hear the gentle ripple of water nearby. He had been stripped of his chainmail, and wore a clean white tunic. From the corner of his eye a flash of sunlight on metal told him his sword was an arm’s length away. As his eyes focused, he became aware that a young woman knelt beside him, bathing his head.
‘Paulir,’ her voice spake. ‘You are back with us. Thanks be to the Gods. He will be all right now, Erethras,’ she said, turning away. Paulir saw the tall elf standing at his feet, and he was smiling.
‘Fathilian,’ Erethras explained, though there was little need for explanation. Paulir had guessed already.
‘My Lady of Rivendell,’ he muttered, and the girl turned back to him. She was without doubt the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his entire life.
‘Call me not that,’ she said, and he could see that she was troubled.
‘I beg your forgiveness. Only Erethras told me about you. He described you thus.’
She darted an indignant look at the elf, who simply smiled. ‘He had no right. Things are not yet resolved between me and my father…..’
‘Elrond,’ Paulir finished for her.
‘You know a lot about me, warrior.’
‘I have been told a lot about you, My Lady. Again, forgive me. And my thanks to you for saving my life.’
‘It was Erethras did that,’ she said, but Erethras waved his hand carelessly. ‘No, I could not save you, my friend. It was Faith who cleansed your wounds, and withdrew the poison from your side. Three days and two nights she remained by your side while the poison was exorcised.’
‘Faith?’
‘She is my childhood friend. I have always shortened her name to Faith. She likes it!’
The Lady of Rivendell stood up. Paulir could see a smile beginning at her lips, and smiled himself.
‘We must take you to Lothlorien,’ she said. ‘Celeborn and Galadriel will care for you and nurse you back to full health.’
‘I can ask no more of you, my lady,’ Paulir said, raising himself up on one elbow. He felt a surprising amount of strength in his limbs. He reached for his sword. ‘There are orcs to hunt and kill.’
‘You are not fully healed. Your arm will forever be weaker than it perhaps once was. And in your thigh we found another sliver of Orc steel. You will forever walk with a limp, and it will be painful. Unless you allow us to heal you properly. You must come with us to Lothlorien.’
Paulir shook his head. ‘Lothlorien is for Elves. It is not a realm of Man. I do not belong there. You should go back, go quickly, for there are many dangers still to be faced.’
‘Lothlorien is well guarded, my friend,’ Erethras told him, and he recalled how quickly the young elf had drawn and shot two arrows in the twinkling of an eye.
‘Then its guards should not be out in the Brown Lands, but back within its borders, ready to defend it. Should Lothlorien fall, what next? Rivendell? Rohan itself? Go now, the both of you. I will be fine. My days of fighting are almost over.’
The old warrior got slowly to his feet and pulled himself to his full height. He was taller than Fathilian, but Erethras towered over him by several inches. The latter, however, was slightly built in comparison. Paulir knelt in front of Fathilian, drinking in her beauty, and raised her pale hand to his lips. Her red hair cascaded almost to her waist. In the sunlight it appeared almost as though it were on fire. Truly, she was the most beautiful of women.
‘My Lady, I am forever your servant.’
She raised her hand, and with it Paulir, until they stood, eye to eye. For what seemed like an eternity, she gazed into his eyes, and it seemed to him that the years fell from him, that she saw past the years of fighting and toil, past the wear and the tear, saw him as he had been, a tall stripling, strong and courageous. A tear formed at the corner of her eye. She reached out and touched him on the cheek, then leaned forward and kissed him there.
‘You are not my servant, Paulir. You serve a higher authority. In the grand scheme of things, I am insignificant. Your destiny lies elsewhere.’
Paulir shook his head, but he could not take his eyes from hers. It was as though invisible chains bound them. He was conscious no longer of the dirt and grime of battle, only of the beauty of the vision that stood before him.
‘I serve only you, My Lady.’
‘Your family….’
‘You are now a part of it. I will fight for you, protect you even to the ends of Middle Earth.’
It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she did not need his protection, but a look from Erethras reminded her that he owed his life to the warrior, to the old man who stood before her. She curtseyed beautifully, and another dazzling smile broke the spell of silence that had fallen between them. A moment later and he was donning his chainmail and retrieving his sword.
‘My Lady, there will always be a gulf of years between us. And perhaps thousands of miles. Nevertheless, should you need my service, you have only to call my name and I will come to your side.’
Fathilian reached for his hand, holding it in both of hers. Her touch was soft, like silk.
‘A gulf of years, Paulir.’ She blinked back the tears and let go his hand. ‘Erethras? Can you not persuade him to come with us to Lothlorien?’
Erethras smiled.
‘It is as he says, Faith. Lothlorien is a thousand miles from where Paulir will be. A thousand miles.’
‘It will not always be so,’ she whispered.
‘We should go. I still smell the stench of Orc nearby. If they are hell-bent on marching on Lothlorien, we should be there. And maybe you should be the one to go on to Rivendell, to warn your father, Elrond.’
They turned away from the old warrior, but Fathilian’s hand rose in a gesture that only he understood, and again she curtseyed. Then they were gone, melted away into the forest, leaving him alone. Tall, unbowed, and more fiercely proud than he had ever been in his entire, long life.
‘Your servant, My Lady,’ he whispered. ‘Always.’
