Lord of the Rings 1. Prologue

_Disclaimer: I don't own Baraddur, Mordor, elves or orcs, or Sauron. There, that covers it. _

**The Courageous Stars of Night**

_**Prologue**_

The darkness of Baraddur was drowning them. Cries in a fell language polluted their ears. Taunts and whips showered down upon them day and night, though it was impossible to determine the difference within the prison. Their bonds sliced sharply into their flesh, but that was the least of their pain. Their clothes were now mere shreds, the last stray leaves, brown and fragile, that clung to a tree, denying that winter has arrived. Did they still have bodies, or were they mere phantoms of their former selves? They must still be in their bodies, they could feel everything, the fowl breath of their captors, the chains around their shrunken necks, arms, and legs, the blood that left their worm-like bodies, everything. They certainly existed, the two of them, although their existence was by no means worthy of being called life. It was an existence of extreme agony, without freedom, and just enough disgusting food to keep them alive. They rarely spoke, lest one of the guards that constantly attended them should find something of importance in their words. That would be an even worse fate than this; to suffer so and yet aid the enemy. It would have been unbearable.

It was incredibly difficult for either of them to remember the time before they had been captured, the time before the darkness, when they had been free. In the memory of that freedom, though, there was hope. Perhaps they had not truly lost that hope and that was the reason they remained alive while so many others had previously succumbed. Also, each had the other to remind them of what had been. These reminders weren't conveyed by words, which were too easily struck down, nor by significant eye contact, for even their keen eyes could only perceive the outline of the other. Hope was conveyed by the quiet sound and the soft brush of the other's breath, not far away. It could be heard in the rare sound of sleep or, more commonly, in the shrieks of the other as each was brutally and horribly tortured, almost to the point of death. At those times, it seemed their ears became even keener and the disguised message in the howls of pain was conveyed: I haven't given up yet, so you cannot surrender either.

Neither being knew how long they had been there. It was impossible to track time by any means in the fell dungeons, not even by the comings and goings of the enemy's servants. They were erratic and unpredictable. There was no hint of sun, moon, or stars; the dismal room was kept black as death at all times, for the sake of the fell creatures who swarmed the land. They could not stand even the tiniest shred of light and ventured out into the world of the sun under the only the strict orders of their dark lord.

When sleep did come to the captives, it was usually for brief spans of time and laden with terrified shrieks. Only in their deepest dreams did they receive glimpses of light and happiness. Sometimes they saw people of the past, and others that they had never met. On other occasions, visions of lands they had nearly forgotten passed before their eyes. Sometimes these were images of Middle Earthen lands, but occasionally, the lands beyond the sea came into view. Recently, the younger of the two captives had beheld the Grey Havens and a ship sailing into the west almost every time he had shut his eyes, which had never happened with any other object, place, or person. Even now, his eyes open and staring at the darkness, he could almost picture the scene in his mind.

A strong fowl scent and the crashing of armor heralded the approaching multitude of Orcs. Both beings braced themselves for the torture they knew was at hand. Each gazed meaningfully at the spot in which they knew the other lay. Each could feel the other's gaze, although they could not see it. (They barely remembered what they looked like.) Neither was the least bit scared. The routine had happened countless times, so they knew exactly what would surely happen. One of them, however, had a white elven ship sailing through his mind.

They were seized roughly and their chains were undone. The first times they had experienced this ritual, both of them had fought vigorously to escape the clutches of their captors, but it had been to no avail. Now they were shoved into different chambers, parts of their bodies crashing up against the stone walls and doorways, as the orcs did not care at all for the well being of their captives. The older's right leg slammed violently into the doorframe and a slight crack was heard over the noise of the orcs. The leg had broken, but it was of little worry at the moment. Both were placed on tables and the multitude began to torment the elder. The captives were always tortured one at a time because the orcs believed hearing the screams of pain from the other room would demoralize the other victim enough to answer the questions their nauseating voices asked. This strategy had never been effective with these two, however, as each encouraged the other through their own agony. The younger one, who was directly next door, heard every shout and smiled, proud of his comrade. After what seemed like the longest time he had ever had to endure those screams, they stopped and he heard the comforting sound of his companion's breathing. They would keep her on the table in the room next door until they were finished with him. Almost instantly, a burning sensation drilled into his neck.

It seemed as if the orcs would never stop. Time slowly ticked on as they burned him, sliced him, and crushed him. This was the worst they had ever done to him and he could feel himself weakening badly. In the darkness, he seemed to see a large white object, which had disappeared for a while, and was sure he heard something besides his own breathing, his screams, and his heart pounding in his ears. The white vision moved closer, closer. It was a ship. The elf desired passionately to board it and leave this place forever to go to the elven lands. He could feel his heartbeat slowing, his breath growing shallower, his screams fading into the distance. He was traveling away from it all, sailing smoothly away. Then his thoughts rested on his companion, separated only by a stone wall from the room in which the dwindling body lay. For the first time in ages, he could almost see her. She was aware of an unusual occurrence in the room beside her. She could hear the screams quieting, yet the howls and vile laughter of the beasts did not cease. Her head turned toward the fading screams. Then, the shrieks halted, never to resume. In the last instants before he boarded the ship, the younger elf focused on his companion with all his might. The elder elf felt an odd sensation of peace. What seemed like a fresh breeze blew over her face and she felt her limbs released from her bonds, and a soft, damp sensation overtook her body and filled the smell of the world around her. Then she knew no more.


	2. Berethlond

_Disclaimer: Obviously I do not claim to be Tolkien, therefore, I do not own this. __MornieGalad_

_**Chapter I**_

_**Berethlond**_

Damp. Cool. The elf cared not where she was as she came again into consciousness. She dared not open here eyes, lest this be a dream, yet deep in her heart, she knew this was real. Somehow, she knew not how, she was no longer a captive of Barad-dur. Freed by a miracle, the bonds had been sundered. She struggled to move, but found that intense pain accompanied every movement. Squinting her closed eyes in a determined focus, she strained to her fullest capacity, but agony overwhelmed her. Defeated, but not dispirited, she concluded that the Vala would send her aid, for they would not have granted her the grace of freedom only to curse her with agony just before retrieving her to the halls of Mandos.

She wondered about her companion, Andune. She had not felt the warmth of his body nearby, nor had she heard his breath. Had the Vala been so unkind as to send him elsewhere without her? Much as she desired to keep her eyes comfortably closed, for her own curiosity, she had to open them, for there were few questions that she was able to answer without their aid. Stars, glorious stars, met her gaze, shimmering welcomingly in the dark blue sky. The moon was rising, a pale, full face as she'd not seen in ages. These were not the friends she had sought, but they were well met, nonetheless. Comfort and peace swept her spirit as they had in days of old. It had been the longest night of the year, but it was now over. Life had returned as warmth after the wintry-season of death.

Seeking her comrade, the warrior forced her eyes from her long forgotten friends. Down, past the treetops, they followed her command. Then, not three meters away, recognition came. Sprawled in the dew he was. So different was this sight from the blackness of captivity, she was surprised. His face was turned from her. She could not move toward him, yet she had to attain his attention. The parched lips moved and with that movement another miracle was procured. From the silence of her tortured body came his name.

"Andune." The blessed tongue floated on the still air, hovering about them like an echo. There came no reassuring response, no break from the night noises. Silence fell again and all who heard mourned. The wind whispered his name, louder, louder. Somewhere in a far off forest, a wolf began her mournful song. Another joined her, crying his name, then another, another, until their lament resonated into the sky. The stars and moon bowed their heads in shame, lower, lower, until they vanished from sight. The sky let its tears fall, gently, softly, not to disturb his body. Behind the clouds shone the moon, palely, mournfully, so all could still see the testimony to the cold circles of the world. The wind blew his hair gingerly, making him resemble the kings of old. His companion could see his image engraved in the sky, his eyes in every tear, sailing in te wind was his voice. Had the elven realm ever known such a loss, such devastation? Surely, never before had it been such. Tears slid down her face, or was it the rain? Tears and blood, there was little difference. Both had been shed in abundance this night. Both had stained ennorath, a stain that no amount of absolution could cleanse. The whole world had been stabbed through the heart with the loss of one life, one life unjustly deprived of redeeming spring.

Above the lament, the elf perceived that voices were rejoicing not far away. Immediately she suspected orcs, yet it could not be so. These sounds were beautiful, innocent, even as Andune had once been. Was such a thing possible? In the same world pierced through its blessed heart, could there still be a shred of innocence? Long ago, she would have readily answered in affirmation, but the presence of death in which she had so long lived made her doubtful, almost reputable. How she desired desperately to believe it to be true, that evil had not conquered and consumed the entirety of everything. Struggling to grasp that shred of hope, perhaps baseless hope, she listened. Songs collided, the lament and the carefree jig, the knowing and the naive worlds. Voices of despair and hope wrestled to find a balance, but the elf wondered if one could be found, even if they strove for all eternity. The shadow of despair was not yet overpowering, but it was biding its time. Mordor would come, and with it would follow the shadow of war and destruction, which seemed not to have yet embraced this place, this haven, this Berethlond. She knew not its proper name, so thus she now christened it in th e mourning rain: Berethlond, a safe haven . . . Berethlond.

The voices dispersed as the night drew on. Footsteps made for the comfort of home. Would any pass near to the elf? Too weak was she, else she would have cried out into the night to let her voice be heard. Now, she could do nothing, save lie, waiting, amidst the rain and songs of night. Footsteps. Nearer they came. Soft they were, barely audible, even for the elven ears, accustomed to the silence. Still they approached and with them came a pair of voices.

"Ah, this blasted rain. I'm going to be soaked before I get home."

"You'll dry." There was a pause, but the two of them were not yet near enough to have seen the elf. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Wolves and . . . and something else."

"I hear the wolves all right. Give me the creeps they do."

"Shhh!"

"What?"

"Elf song." Indeed, the elf lying on the sopped ground heart it too. No doubt the wind had carried the sound, but from where? Behold, it was not one song, but two: one a hymn of Elbereth, the other a lament, a duet.

"Ar sindan . . . Oriello . . . oriello caita . . . mornie . . . ar ilye tier undulave lumbule" (Lord of the Rings Fellowship of the Ring Book II 424 or The Two Towers Lament for Haldir)

"Amazing," breathed one. They said their farewells and parted ways. One kept going closer, closer. Suddenly, he stopped abruptly. Footsteps rushed closer and stopped just beside the closer elf, Andune. In the dark, of course, it would be impossible to tell he was dead.

"Sam, come here. Quick!" He rummaged in the dark and his hand came to rest on the elf maiden.

"Are there more of you?" He asked, his voice scared, but generous.

"No," she managed to whisper. She heard Sam's footsteps racing toward them. Not far away, the pair joined together and lifted Andune away. The elf presumed they were headed for shelter. After a short while, they returned for her.

"Gently," the one who had first seen her urged. He took her upper body, while Sam took her legs. Slowly, they made their way toward lights. Welcoming were they and the brightness grew closer. Then they were inside. It was a small dwelling as far as height was concerned, but quite spacious. In the hearth blazed a fire and beside it, in a chair sat Andune's figure. Sam, who was certainly drenched, pulled a chair opposite him and helped the other place her in it. A blanket was placed over her.

"They're Elves, Mr. Frodo," Sam said in wonder.

"Yes, Sam," the other agreed, "But I fear the worst for him." He gestured at Andune.

"He's dead," the elf maiden whispered, getting her first glimpse of her companion's mutilated body. The blanket that covered it was soaked with blood and his pale face had crusty gashes from the orcs plaguing it. Even his neck had holes, viciously carved by the orcs, the veins were visible. Tears flooded her eyes once more as she beheld him. Andune, her poor companion. Her friend, Andune.

Frodo had set to work healing her wounds as best he could

"If only Gandalf were here," he muttered under his breath. He was tending her broken leg, unskillfully, but he didn't seem to be worsening the situation. Sam stood back, uncomfortably, every now and again glancing nervously at the corpse.

"What do you want me to do with him, Mr. Frodo?" he finally asked. Frodo turned from the elf maiden as if he had forgotten Andune. Remorse filled his eyes at the reminder.

"Just leave him be for now, Sam." He returned his attention to the maiden's leg, trying not to let her see his tears, which, unbeknownst to him were mirrored in her immortal eyes.

"You must be exhausted. Sam, et this lady some water and prepare her a bed." Indeed, the elf maiden was beginning to nod off. Frodo continued to doctor her until, at last, he could do n more. He helped her up, intending to escort her to a bedroom. She leaned heavily upon him, due to her broken leg. Sometime during the journey, her hand rested on Frodo's chest and she immediately drew back as if she had been burned. Once in her bed, her eyes closed, but in her dreams she saw Andune still, young Andune. Oh, Andune. Andune.


End file.

Lord of the Rings, Adventure, Drama