Amon Lanc, **NEEDS MEMBERS! SIGN UP AT OOC THREAD**

Just as Tîwele was pausing to savour the moment (the sight of Elrond's expression of surprise mixed with bitter annoyance could not but cause her to suppress a snort of laughter, switching it quickly to a well-disguised smile), it was over. Now that is a bit of mischief-making I would like to try more often, she thought cheekily to herself, grinning from ear to ear. The thought had come and passed so fast that she barely had time to process the fact that that had not been entirely 'Tîwele'. It was not until Erelith's somewhat abrupt departure did she begrudgingly donned her old sensible, rational self once more.

'She probably remembered some business she needed to attend to,' Tîwele suggested slowly, staring in the direction in which Erelith had gone. And is not ready to reveal its nature to us, she added to herself, a thought she chose not to voice to Varsis. 'I know it would probably be natural to worry about her, but perhaps what Erelith needs the most at the moment is some time alone... to sort through her problems...'

Tîwele sighed. 'At times, I almost wish that she might be more honest in her dealings with us; although it may simply be my presence that gives her doubt - you and Erelith may even have a closer relationship that I can imagine, having known each other for so long. I am not skilled to judge these matters... merely speculating.'

She paused as she turned the words which she had just spoken over in her mind... you and Erelith... 'The words were now ringing inside her mind as though they were the natural truth. Had she, Tîwele, even for a moment, tried to fool herself into thinking that it might be, or had ever been, otherwise? And what, if any, had been the nature of the thing that had recently arisen between herself and Varsis? Or had that been self-evident only to her? As much as she wished to admit that something magical had somehow occurred when she met Varsis, she could not, however, hide herself from one revelation: recognition of the thing for what it really was; the echo of the past, fighting to return, desperately hoping that someone might come who would somehow heal the dull ache of loss, who would somehow replace the emptiness and make her whole once more.

But that tendency, Tîwele knew now, had only been a vessel through which to channel the past, a way to disguise the aches and pains of longing that she knew might never truly fade. But as long as she still retained that connection, and paradoxically sought escape whilst clinging still tighter to that from which she sought escape, she would not truly be free. To truly escape, however, was a different matter entirely. Or had escape not been her direction at all? By allowing herself to be charmed by Varsis, had she not realised that she had in fact been irritating the wound inside her. Such was the nature of ambivalent longing, she realised - a cascade of mixed emotions that mounted almost to explosion point.

On the one hand, she dreaded, almost feared the idea of detaching herself entirely from her past, because the love that she had felt had been a tree whose roots ran deep - deep enough that if one tried to wrench the tree from its foothold in the earth, from which it sought nourishment, the roots might remain, to wither and decay as a reminder of the tree that once was, and which had now become... a broken tree. Roots of unsatisfied longing. On the other hand, there was the bitterness of betrayal, of what was left of her anger, and the knowledge that letting go was the right way, the only way, that she did not deserve to suffer because of him. She needed to let go. It was the only way forward.

She wrenched herself from her ruminations. Why do things always seem to turn out so complicated?

'Varsis, I want to take the chance to say this, while Erelith is not here and we are alone - whatever you may have perceived to have been between us while we were in the Shire and on the road to Imladris - is all very much mistaken. I sincerely hope that by saying this to you, I am not causing you any pain, for that would surely leave me somewhat remorseful. However, at present, I have not the energy to concern myself with anything further than the need to tell you that I am sorry. I have a broken past that threatens to haunt me daily, and I have not dealt with it in the way which I should. As for yourself, from what I have seen, you and Erelith can have a good future together, if you allow yourselves a chance. I can see that Erelith is troubled. Comfort her, Varsis, be with her. For I now see that it is she that needs you the most.'

***
As Almárean arrived at the stone doorway that blocked the dungeon entrance, he was surpised by his own sudden hesitation as he raised his fist to pound upon the stone. Somewhere within, he thought he heard voices, but they were soft, barely audible for Almárean to identify them. At length, the door was wrenched open from the inside, and Almárean founded himself staring at the somewhat paler yet instantly recognisable face of Meren.

'Father!' Almárean exclaimed. 'Of all the places on Middle-earth, I had never imagined that I would find you here, in these dungeons. They are holding you captive, are they not?'

'Son,' Meren said with a wry smile. 'It is a difficult situation to explain. But suffice to say that perhaps I am here on my own intentions... I have found that this is not such a negative situation to be in the midst of after all.'

'What do you mean?' Almárean asked.

'Come, come, Almárean. We can stay here with patience all day while you attempt to decipher my words, as is your tendency. But now is not the time, or place. It is probably not the reason why you have come, is it not? Now tell me, son, why have you strayed so far from the task that I have given you and come here to find me?'

'I will not lie to you, father,' Almárean answered slowly. 'I feel... troubled.'

'Is that so?' Meren raised an eyebrow. 'And why might that be? Have I not reminded you time and time again not to let anything... and I repeat - anything - keep you from loosing your focus on what is essential? Have I not taught you to stem those meddlesome worries of yours?'

'I know,' Almárean answered. 'Yet--'

But Meren did not wait for him to finish. 'Or do you need to be reminded yet again of who you are?'

He reached forcefully for Almárean's arm and flung aside the sleeve of the robe which covered it. Beneath, emblazoned in the dim light of the dungeon, was the symbol of the raven, the crest of the Môrelen house. Almárean remembered the day the crest had been burnt into his shoulder as though it were yesterday. He had sworn his loyalty to the Môrelen house, his known blood kin, a vow which, if broken, placed him under threat of death. An onlooker would not have understood the grievous circumstances that had prompted Almárean's initial return to his father - despite the fact that Meren had raised him during a large part of his youth, he had despised his father for the lies and deceit on which their relationship had been founded. It had seemed to Almárean, in his youth, that his father had been a stranger whose guise he could not penetrate, and whose disguise had purposefully been contrived for him alone; a motive that had only served to increase Almárean's loathing, not only of his father's true nature, but also because of his own naivete and inability to recognise the truth.

Or truth he thought it had been. But his greatest foolishness had simply been this: his inability to recognise his own folly. However much Meren's reality hurt him, it was not until he had loved and lost that he had been forced to acknowledge that Meren had his reasons, and they were reasons he could, however remorsefully, understand. In a world of self-serving beings, trust was a rare entity. He had learned not to trust, but to carry suspicion. He had learned to question motives. And most importantly, in a world of self-serving beings, there were not many that were deserving of his sympathy. He had lost his fight with love: the more he cared for another, the more he would be forced to loose. It was better not to give in to petty emotions such as love, caring, concern and compassion, which brought with them only pain. He had learned to work alone, to trust only in himself, and his father, to whom he occasionally looked to for guidance. Meren had been perfectly right all along. Almárean had been like a young sapling, unable to know what had been good for him... yet his father carried a wealth of experience - and his way had worked for him. His way, Almárean was now convinced, might after all be, the best way.

Unfortunately, Almárean's newfound devotion and conviction to follow his father kept him blind to all else that moved.

[Conversation yet to be continued... Yay! I posted ]

(Ahh! I posted. Had kind of a crap summer, maybe things will settle down though. You know how life can be sometimes. Hopefully you enjoy my little post. I have been adding a lot of lore since I last wrote on the forums. If you don't understand something, lemme know and I can pull up the history probably. I worked on editing and smoothing out our draft a bit. I'd need you to add some parts, but I put in others that I wanted to occur before...okay, I'll shut up now and you can read. I will forewarn that it gets kind of crazy...it borders a little over the PG13 thing, but I didn't get into details... >_>)

From all sides, Erelith could see the horrible hulking mass of warriors emerge from their respective hiding places. Uruk-hai. She raised her finely crafted swords in defense, but was stopped short by another crude blade to her backside.

‘It has been a long time, daughter of Meren, but surely you remember an old friend.’

Her feet froze with fear in their place, she remembered that voice. Varsis looked on with readied blades, but made no move. How he wanted to tear them from limb to limb! As he watched Erelith though, Varsis’ bewilderment was evident. Why did she not attack? Even with the odds against her, it was not her nature.

Even after nearly the span of a thousand years, his voice haunted her. Erelith tremored, heart lodging in her throat chokingly. The leader of this rogue band of Uruk-hai revealed himself in front of her, confirming her most horrible uncertainties. Bâlan.

His stocky form still towered proudly over her, made purely of boundless muscle. Memories of what had occurred between them so long ago flashed back, playing through her mind ceaselessly. Her dark gaze darted from her left to her right, watching as Bâlan and his Uruk-hai company closed in around her like a pack of hungry wolves. Outnumbered, there was little chance Erelith could resist the oncoming force. Before she could plan to give them the nine hells, he seized her by her white mane of hair and pinned her down against his weight so she could not escape. This time, she made no cry or whimper to satisfy his twisted pleasure. He leaned in close, until she could feel his salivating breath against her neck. She struggled against him, fighting fiercely to grab hold of even one weapon. Finally, when she realized it was a futile effort, Erelith spat in his face. Bâlan gave a roaring grunt, clearly amused, and readied to break the fire within her spirit. He pressed his heavy body against her own while the rest of his men simply watched his triumph. As much as the overgrown Orc was allied with her father, he too had his own motives. Varsis’ pale complexion grew red with fury, and he could not—no, would not withhold his rage any longer.

No. Not again, Erelith thought. Never again.

In his distraction, she managed to knee him between his legs several times. He howled with pain and shouted something in Orcish, or the Black Speech. Erelith wasn’t particularly paying close attention. His men tried to help Bâlan up, but he shoved them away with a growl.

‘Seize her!’ Bâlan commanded.

Her blades now danced tantalizingly in front of her, and before any of them could plan for a reaction she sliced through her first opponent and came down on a second. Varsis came from behind, his heated resentment guiding his every move. In the fray, even she could barely follow how rapidly his movements continued. Erelith managed to cut through two more of his men before her weapons were cast to the ground and they were overwhelmed. Still, even weaponless, she refused to let it stop her resistance. Her next opponents came in from the side, and she embraced them tightly and smashed their heads together. As they stumbled backward, she used them for leverage above the mass of enemies. A hand wrenched her back down from her momentary freedom. As the she-elf writhed forcefully against the numbers, Bâlan gave a choking laugh in the background.

Vars-Varsis! –Her voice called out in alarm, searching for his presence. Piercing screams echoed through the forest.

Varsis shouted for her. It took at least five Uruk-hai to hold the Moriquendë back. As they restrained her, a thick brown vial of liquid was forced down her throat. It gave off a deceivingly desirable aroma, but the chunks tasted worse than swallowing dirt. Erelith choked and gagged, attempting to regurgitate the vile flavor in her throat, but found her jaw was forced tightly shut. Her body seized and shook violently against her will, but after that, Erelith knew only darkness.

When Erelith awoke next, her muscles strained to move.

Something didn’t feel right…

‘Brother!’ Phaedrus shook Varsis by the shoulder. ‘Varsis! Awake!’

Varsis groaned, returning to the conscious world. He rubbed the back of his throbbing head.

‘What happened?’ Phaedrus demanded, more than concerned expression crossed his face.

‘Ugh..’ Varsis started, still trying to review the fuzzy events in his mind. ‘…an ambush, I believe. I didn’t catch all of it. They took Ere…’ he paused in thought. ‘I think, this time I got in a little over my head, but I couldn’t stand by and watch them violate her…’ Varsis’ anger over it was still clear. ‘I was knocked out before they—well, I’m not sure what they did exactly. They forced her to drink something—’

‘What color was it?’ Phaedrus cut off with a fearful and agitated tone.

‘I don’t kn—’

‘What color was it?’Phaedrus insisted, now grabbing his eldest brother by the collar.

‘Whoa! Settle down,’ Varsis shook his brother off, ‘I said I didn’t catch all of it. Brown, maybe? I’m not sure.’

‘Come with me,’ Phaedrus said, dragging his brother to a stand.

‘What in the nine hells is wrong? Phaedrus, what’s wrong?’ In all his years, he had never seen the second-born this worked up about anything.

‘You may soon find out, brother,’ came his only response.

Elves, men, and a crowded number of other guests plagued the room. Lord Elrond, along with Mithrandir tried to calm the numbers in the Great Hall.

‘Rest assured, we have doubled our guards along the borders. We suspect the band of Uruk-hai were only after Erelith, and not Meren. The details of what exactly happened are still being sorted out, but from the sound of it, our enemies have forced her transformation. Without the proper knowledge, she is unable to return to her true form…’

‘Psst,’ Varsis nudged his brother in the side, whispering below Elrond’s speech. ‘Before they took her, she called out to me mentally.’

‘I am glad then, in some sense. I suppose I am not surprised by this small fact, considering she did so before she would audibly speak to any of the Sedryn House during her time as a guest there. Can I rightly assume she has not done so any further in this case?’

‘No, she hasn’t,’ Varsis replied.

‘Odd,’ he noted. ‘Either she is too far from your mind’s reach, or unconscious. Most likely the first, for we even known on occasion her conscious mind does not stop her from reaching out to you. I would hope it is the first…unless…’ Phaedrus seemed to push the thought away.

‘…Unless?’ Varsis pushed.

‘Unless her abilities were suppressed,’ he finished.

‘Why is no one assembled to go after her?!’ Varsis raised his voice above the crowd in growing concern. Mithrandir and the others looked up, and for a moment the entire chaotic commotion halted to stare at the Moriquendë.

‘No,’ Lord Elrond commanded with a firm voice.

‘You mean to tell me you’re perfectly ready to leave her out there? Alone? At the hands of our enemies, and Valar knows what else?! I will not accept it,’ Varsis finished with resolve.

‘As a guest here, I forbid it. The risk is too great at the moment, and not even our most skilled riders could match their gain already. We know not who they were allied with: Meren, Saruman, or even Sauron himself. You must realize she is of great benefit to all sides.’

‘Who are you to hinder me?’ Varsis defied, staring the High Lord hard in the eye. ‘Whether the road leads me to Mordor itself, I will follow. Either until my death or until I find her, I will follow. I gave a promise I will not so lightly abandon. I will not, and I refuse! If that is your choice, consider me no longer a guest of the Homely House!’ His chest heaved, and the Moriquendë stalked out of the room toward the stables.

‘Varsis!’ Phaedrus shouted after his brother. He turned back to Elrond, Mithrandir, and the others. In his exile from his homeland, the second-born needed to answer to no man for his choices. He seemed to stand taller now, green gaze falling firmly on them. ‘He is in need of someone who can adequately track their path without fault. I would apologize for my decision Master Elrond, but I agree with Varsis, for once. Varinus is dead; do not think you can so easily replace his presence.’

‘Brother!’ Phaedrus said, catching up to him in the stables.

‘What do you want?’ Varsis retorted, agitated. ‘Have you come to convince me otherwise?’

‘Hardly,’ Phaedrus mused, slinging his quiver over one shoulder.

Varsis quirked a brow.

[I don't know the background to that post... so little bit confuzzled. But... I finally posted! YAY. Oh, and this post answers, in simple terms, what went wrong between Tîwele and Almárean =S, and probably answers some other questions too. You might have to read back on the other flashbacks to see how all the memories connect.]

Almárean nodded slowly. While a source of comfort, his father's words were at times enigmatic, but he did not suppose he needed to know and to question every reason behind them. Furthermore, Meren clearly disapproved of the fact that too often, Almárean would voice his concerns. Almárean chose to suppress his emotions this time.

'I am sorry for troubling you, father,' he let out a sigh. 'Thinking about it, I do not even know why I came. It seems...'

'You still seem very troubled, son,' Meren answered quickly. 'Let it all go.'

Let what go? Almárean wondered momentarily. Was he really saying, let my conscience go? He hesitated, and bit his lip, suppressing the urge to raise the question. He brushed the thought aside decidedly, angered at himself for that small strand of rebellion. He could not be more wrong. His father was a knowledgeable man, and all that he did, he did in the interest of betterment for his kin; and though he made mistakes, he was a righteous man. He himself had sometimes been the curious type, he supposed. He supposed that some day, he would learn to do better, to 'follow and ask less questions,' in Meren's simple terms.

'You are right, of course,' Almárean said. 'Sometimes I overcomplicate the situation, and I suppose my worries are not founded upon anything material. I will leave Imladris and go back the way I came. I take your leave, father.'

Meren's smile seemed to reach his eyes. 'Good, Almárean. I wish you the best of luck, son.'

He patted his son on the shoulder in a gesture of uncanny friendliness. 'May we meet again soon, father.'

It did not matter how often he assured himself that he longed to forget, to not live in the past, to not hold onto memories that were no longer meaningful, memories that contained so much pain... yet there was another portion of him that still longed for those blissful, bygone days. She had promised me that she would not change heart. I do not understand... His own ambivalence and hesitance troubled Almárean greatly. As he turned to close the door of the dungeon behind him, Almárean forced himself to discard that pitiful longing. Had he and his father not spoken of it countless times? There was no life in love, for those who had loved and lost. Enduring love existed only in fairytales, of those his fostered father Ulysses had told him as a child in the vales of Lossarnach, where princes and princesses sought after love, and were brought together after much toil, to live happily ever after. In reality, there was at times only passion, jealousy and betrayal in disguise.

***
Her tears stained her cheeks, like water pouring forth from a well of sorrow.

'T...Tîwele, what is wrong?' Almárean could not hide the sorrow that overwhelmed his own heart as he watched her. For her pain was also his.

She did not answer.

She had run outside during the bitter shadows of evening, fleeing from the city, to find his outstretched arms, waiting in silent solitude. As he held her, he could feel her shivering from the cold. He wrapped his arms about her, hoping that some of his warmth would pass to her.

'Is it your father?' Almárean said gently, hoping he was not far from the truth.

She smiled, a smile which lit the darkness of his own night and spread warmth throughout him. 'My father attending to housekeeping matters and unwarranted anger at several of the Órelindë guards who are my close friends,' she answered gently. 'His temper upsets me at times, and I wonder at it. It is nought you need worry about.'

Almárean sighed in relief. 'My own father is somewhat troublesome too,' he began slowly.

'Your father? You do not speak much of him. Sometimes I wonder at the distance that you have strayed, so far from home, in these Western parts of Arda. Where is he now?'

'I prefer not to speak of him,' answered Almárean, a shadow passing across his face. 'He is one who plants lies and deceit and malice in those around him. It has taken me years to discover his true nature; he speaks into the vulnerabilities of even his closest allies.'

A look of shock mixed with horror passed across Tîwele's expression. 'Yet he is still your father; a father cannot mean harm to his kin, least of all, his sons and daughters,' she decided. 'I do not know him, but it seems you have misunderstandings and conflicts between you.'

'I suppose we do,' Almárean admitted quietly. 'I suppose the lightens the situation to see it in that light. I have never done that before.'

'Sometimes, my father has methods of dealing with matters that I dislike,' Tîwele continued. 'That does not mean that they are any less righteous, simply because I do not share the same view.'

'I suppose you are right in some ways,' Almárean answered. 'But you do not know the horrors and evils that have befallen me.'

'I doubt not that you have seen some rough times,' Tîwele said quietly. 'So it seems, has much of the world of late. The war upon Órelindë still troubles many of us. Over the years, we have received no more messengers spawned out of professed allegiances, but my father, Lord Lólindír, is still troubled that one day, Môren may return.'

'Môren? I have heard the name before,' Almárean said sharply. 'It sounds vaguely familiar...'

'He was a messenger that came from afar, a moriquendë, one of the dark elves,' Tîwele explained. 'Have I mentioned his name to you before?'

'I do not think so,' Almárean answered. 'I...'

'Have you encountered him before?' Tîwele whispered.

'I...I think I know--' Almárean paused. 'I... is that what he calls himself?'

'You know him?' Tîwele's voice was laced with surprise and bewilderment.

'His true name is Meren Môrelen; I do not wish to lie to you, Tîwele,' Almárean said.

'What do you mean?' Dread entered her voice, laced with a tinge of sorrow. 'You have never lied to me before.'

'Meren is my father, Tîwele,' Almárean said sadly. 'I wish it were otherwise, for if you only knew of the darkness of the homeland that I have left...'

'Y...your father?' Tîwele glanced at Almárean questioningly. She turned away, a single tear appeared in her eye, this time leaving a dark trail upon her frosty cheeks. Almárean leant forward to hold her, knowing that once again, some matter or other was troubling her; he simply wished that with one gentle kiss, he could make those troubles disappear. But Tîwele stepped away from him. 'You are a moriquendë,' she said quietly, almost inaudibly.

'Y...yes,' he hesitated, unsure of what she meant. 'I wish it were not so...'

She did not seem to hear him. 'The Moriquendi, they waged a war on Órelindë, penetrated our defences, simply because we would not agree to an age-old blood alliance,' she whispered fiercely. 'T...they signed a treaty with my father, a treaty of peace. And the price of that treaty was the life of one individual. My mother, Orva, had always been a mentor to me, a loving figure in my life, selfless, beautiful. They were merciless and evil and they took her, Almárean... your kin took her,' she ended softly, her voice trailing away in sadness.

Almárean did not know what to say. 'I did not know that it was m... my father--'
'Your family wrenched mine apart,' Tîwele said, her voice cracking. 'And you kept it a secret from me; that you are one of them.'

'I am sorry,' Almárean was lost for words. He could think of nought to say, no words of comfort, nor of reassurance... nor words of self-comfort to tell himself that it was a mistake...

She turned back to him and gave him a solemn glance. 'I could never love a moriquendë.' ...

She had promised him that she would not change heart. The betrayal still stung to this day.