Chapter Text
It was dark, and the winter air was sharp. It bit into the flesh of the being as he dragged himself slowly out from beneath the rotting flesh and bones of others of his kind. He stood, and looked about, blinking uncertainly, yellow-green eyes confused. The skies above Barad-Dur were clouded, and there was a stench to the place that had not been when he had entered it years ago. He glanced about, then quietly, slowly, walked away from the pile of death and began making his way towards the place he had once called home.
He was an Elf, though he looked little, if anything, like the fair beings of Mirkwood and Lothlórien. His hair was heavy and black, and his eyes were a haunting yellow-green. He was long in frame, and rangy; more like a great hunting wolf than an Elf. His movements were even wolf like, loping along easily across the dead plains. One unfamiliar with his kind could easily mistake him for one of Sauron’s fell minions.
The Elf continued his way across the plains, pausing occasionally to scent the air, then continue relentlessly onward. His long legs carried him quickly over the ground, taking him back to the village where he had lived much of his life. As he drew closer to where he knew it must be, he began criss-crossing the ground, head down, seeking signs of others. He sniffed the air and listened, then kept onwards, finally reaching the rotting ruins of the village.
There was little left of it, other than heaps of charred slag. Sauron had burned it down shortly after he lured the Elf and his kin into his tower. They were not meant to return. The Elf stared at the destruction, then glanced quickly up at the sky. It would be light soon, and he did not want to risk being seen. He dropped to his knees and pawed rapidly through the muck and waste, digging a shallow hole under a collapsed roof. He squeezed under the roof and huddled in the scant shelter, awaiting night.
The day passed, cold and comfortless, bringing no sign of others who may have survived Sauron’s cruelty. The Elf did not think any had, but did not dare believe it. To exist for all eternity in perfect aloneness was a thought he could not bear.
He scrabbled out from beneath his meager shelter, and once more began scenting the area. Briefly, like images lit by lightning, he smelled those he once knew. The was the Elder One, whom they had named their King on a forgotten spring day, and Earth Mother, who had borne many of the children his own had once played with. He sneezed out the scent of Grey Mane, whom he had disliked, then was sorry he had done so. Grey Mane had not been one he was fond of, but he was gone now, and deserved some respect. He had, after all, been one of the last to fall to Sauron’s evil.
Then he paused, sniffing thoroughly the scent of one who had been his lover. Hunter’s smell warmed him, blocking out the foulness and destruction. He closed his eyes and moved over the scent again and again, until its faint perfume was lost entirely. Frustrated, sad and angry, he rolled in the spot, hoping to catch any lingering trace of it upon himself, but it was gone, never more to be. He tried to find it elsewhere, but could not. Once he thought he caught a trace of his eldest child, but so vague was it that he could not find it again, no matter how he tried.
The scents of his brethren were old and long cold, and few creatures besides one like himself would ever find them. Still, he sought more reminders of those he had loved, even of those he had disliked. Then he stopped, breathing in the familiar odor of the hut where his children had been born. This scent was stronger than the others; the very earth imbued with the fragrance of life coming forth. Many of the village children had come into the world here, and the ground had not quickly forgotten it. The dark Elf rolled, shoulder first, into the mud, covering himself with the memories of those gone. Then he raised his head and howled. It was an eerie call, a hoarse, rising note that ended abruptly with a questioning sound. He listened for a long time, desperately hoping to hear a response, then made the call again. He called until he could make no more sounds and the dawn drew near. Then, slowly, painfully, he crept back to his shelter. He would look once again when it grew dark.
He sought them, night after night after night. He followed the vaguest of trails, desperately tried to catch the most fleeting of scents, until all disappeared. He haunted the plains that had once been the land they had called Hathil-Loth-Mahr, the Great Green Valley. Mordor, it was called now, though he did not know, and the pond he had lived beside for so long was naught but a stagnant mire, fit only for breeding biting insects. The air above him became foul and black, and he grew gaunt for want of anything to hunt. Seasons came and went, unmarked, and still he sought, another lean and tattered ghost haunting Sauron’s foul realm.
He returned time and again to the village, though all traces of his kin were now long gone with the passage of years. The remnants of the huts sank into the foul mire, until one day when he came, there was not a bit of it left. He stood, lost and alone, then cried out once more. Nothing answered, and he left the place, never to return.
***---***
The growing filth of the land pushed him further and further to the outskirts of Mordor, finally forcing him out entirely, and into the surrounding hills of slag. Mount Doom burst forth like a bleeding sore, but he paid it no heed other than to avoid it. The schemes of the Dark Lord meant nothing to him. At times he would climb to a rise and stare down at the foul and vicious Orcs, but the look in his yellow-green eyes as he did so was not one of loathing but of profound grief. Once he howled to them, but their response was to shoot arrows at his retreating form. He did not call to them again. Instead he moved further away from the dark and miserable land he had once called home.
***---***
He did not know when the years replaced searching with wandering. He stayed close to Mordor, still nursing a hope that he was not alone, though it was a faint hope. Then one night, as he explored a nameless hill he had searched a thousand times before, the clouds above him parted briefly, and he looked up. Above him, glittering faintly, he saw a trio of stars. And he knew it had been a long time indeed since he had seen another of his kind.
They had called the stars the Three Horses, though he had never known why they were so named. They appeared only once every thousand years, and his people had always greeted their arrival with a noisy joy. Now their arrival was unheralded save for one last lonely voice.
An arrow skipped past him, and the dark Elf turned and fled, vanishing into the fog and night, escaping the eyes of the young and frightened watchman. He did not see the tall Elven Lord who came to stand beside the young man.
“What is it, what did you see?” the Elf-Lord asked.
“I know not, my lord. You may think me foolish, but… I swear by the King’s Honour it was a werewolf!”
The Elf-Lord did not smile at the remark. “I would be surprised at nothing in this dark land. Sleep now, I shall take over your watch. I can find no rest in this foul place.”
The young man bowed low. “I thank you, Lord Elrond,” he said, and went to his bed.
***---***
Sauron fell, by Isildur’s hand. The shaggy, nameless Elf would have rejoiced, had he known. However at the time this happened, he was in Fangorn Forest, washing in a stream. The Ents paid no heed to his presence; each had seen the other before. They let each other be as they went about their business.
The Elf’s business would have puzzled any who came to watch. In his travels he had managed to scrounge a shard of mirror, a small pot, and a few scraps of copper. The copper he beat and reshaped into delicate thin instruments. He made ink in the pot, then sat before the bit of mirror, which he had propped in a notch in a tree. Slowly, and with great difficulty, he drew an image across his collarbone. He drew three horses, framed on either side by trees. Then beneath the tree, he drew a rabbit, sitting upright, one paw on a basket, one raised in greeting to the horses. Then, using the delicate fine needles he had made, he set the image into his skin, all the while chanting prayers and songs. In the light of a small open space, he made three promises to himself. He vowed to seek his kind until the Three Horses showed themselves three times, to enter no house, hut or hovel, and last, to speak to none who were not of his kind. At last, when all was done, he buried the pot and needles, then dug a shallow hole to spend the night. Curling beneath a tree, he watched the sun set. Then he fell asleep.
***---***
The centuries passed slowly. He lived in the forest for most of them, but as the time of the Horses drew near, he left it. He loped back to the open plains, paying little heed to the changes he saw. Men had moved to the plains, living in small villages. He could smell their cooking fires and horses from miles away. He could have avoided them easily, but curiosity made him search out a village one cool misty morning.
It did not look like much; a few scattered buildings, some horses, children running about playing noisy games. Were it not for the bored horses and the stench of the fires, it could have been his own village.
He stepped closer, watching the people who went about their business. The dark Elf had not seen Men for a long time, and certainly not at such close proximity. He watched for a time, then noticed he also was being observed.
The Man sat upon a large grey horse, his long golden hair blowing loose, and considered the wary being before him. It was not a Man, he was certain of that. The creature had long, heavy black hair, a lean, rangy frame, and strange illuminations across his collarbone. The fine features and alert, pointed ears seemed Elvish, but the body looked as though it would more rightly belong on an animal spirit. Still, it seemed more cautious than evil, no matter how odd it might be. The Man nudged his horse forward, meaning to speak with the wild creature, but as he did so, the dark being fled, vanishing into the mist of the early morning. For many years, the Man would tell any who would listen of the animal spirit he saw that day, that vanished before his eyes.
Despite his having been declared a nature spirit, the nameless Elf continued on his way to the outskirts of Mordor, seeking an ancient meeting place to greet the Three Horses. He arrived days before hand, and searched the cold earth for half-remembered scents and tracks before scratching out a shallow basin in which to curl up. He shivered in the dry cold evening, yellow-green eyes half-open as he lay, waiting.
Three days later, the Horses arrived, unheralded. He sat alone, still waiting for others. For several days, the stars were visible, but on the last night, he howled mournfully to them, begging news of his kind. Miles away, the men and women of Rohan heard the eerie, desperate calls and barred their doors against the fearful monster that lurked in darkness. Then as morning finally chased the Horses on their way, the weary, lean form of the lone Elf rose from his basin and once more loped back to Fangorn.
He did not stay long; the Ents were growing displeased with creatures that went on two legs. He was not a creature of the forest anyway – his kind had lived always on the rolling plains, and his brief visit had convinced him it was time to return. He gathered his only belongings, which were his fine copper needles and a long black knife, and once more returned to the plains.
He haunted the plains like a lone wolf. Occasionally he would approach a village to watch those who dwelled there, but he was seldom, if ever, seen. Rohan, the land was now called, though he remembered when it, like he, had been nameless. From his hiding place in the mists and tall grasses he watched as they lived and died, as Kings and great warriors came and went. Sometimes he would go to the place Men now called Gondor, and gazed long upon its fair towers, listening to the wind and grass for news of the Stewards who awaited the return of a King. He felt some empathy for them, but did not approach the city. Never again would he enter such a place, no matter how fair it seemed.
The great rolling grasslands suited him well. He found a shallow stream and dug himself a place to hide, and settled down to something like a normal life. There were small fishes and crayfish to catch, and eggs to be found in the spring. The water told him of the doings of the folk of Rohan and Gondor, as did the grass and wind. The location was excellent for hiding, though he seldom had cause to do so. Folk seemed convinced there was a werewolf haunting the stream. The nameless Elf kept an eye out for such a beast, but never did see one. Nor did it ever answer him when he howled out greetings to something that may be as alone as himself.
There were more Men about now; they did not seem greatly increased in number, but they were patrolling the plains. The dark Elf watched them, occasionally creeping close to their camps. They were odd, he thought. They spoke not with the silent tongue of beasts, but with mouth-noises. They sang also, and though he did not know what they sang of, he did enjoy listening to them. Once he howled out a song of his own to them, but they fell silent, drawing swords and staring nervously into the darkness where he sat. The Elf shrugged and loped away, while the men spoke to one another quietly of the wolf spirit that haunted their lands.
Gondor and Rohan were great nations when next the Horses came. Retracing ancient paths, he made his way to the edge of Mordor. The land did not smell as foul as it had in other times, but he did not trust it. Foul things still dwelled there, and he knew that never again would it be Hathil-Loth-Mahr. He dug a basin to sleep in and huddled in the cold, waiting. But other than the Three Horses, none came. And when at last they departed, so did he.
He began to wander far and wide. Men patrolled the plains often now, and more than once he had been greeted with arrows. It was time to seek a new haunt, and the grass and wind spoke to him of a fair land, far away. He set out, following his senses, loping over the plains, until one day his feet took him to a golden wood. There he stopped, and breathed in a scent he had not smelled in ages. Elves.
They were not his kind, but they were indeed Elves, and noisy Elves at that. They sang in the trees, they sang in the streams, they filled the air with a sound like all the birds of Middle Earth lived in that wood. Having found them was scarce reward for putting up with their clamor, but at least he was no longer completely alone. He made his way to a stream and hunted for crayfish, trying to ignore the racket.
They sang in the morning, they sang in the evening, they sang in the afternoon. They sang to the wind, the rain, and the snow. The dark Elf could scarce hear the voices of water and rock for their noise. Not surprisingly, they did not know of his presence until one night when he bayed like the wolf-spirit the men of Rohan believed him to be. The silence that fell was immediate and blissful, but alas, very brief. Thinking him to be nothing more than a wild creature, the Elves of the Golden Wood continued with their singing. The dark Elf scratched out a shallow depression and sank into it with a heavy sigh.
***---***
He knew the child was there the moment he awoke. Even had it not been splashing in the stream, he could smell it. Slowly, he emerged from his hiding place and stalked down to the water, approaching the chubby golden being. The baby was covered in mud and grass from splashing in the shallows, and had clutched under one arm a pet fox. The creature had a very resigned look on its face, but seemed otherwise unperturbed by its predicament.
Child and Elf saw each other at the same time. The dark Elf considered retreating, knowing babies were seldom far from their mothers. But instead he settled on the bank, watching the little one. The child picked up the world-weary fox and showed it to him.
“Isa!” he announced. The dark Elf once more considered retreating from the noisy little pixie.
Abruptly he looked in the direction of approaching footsteps, frozen in his tracks as the Elven woman came to the stream. She stopped as she saw him, eyes wide at his feral appearance. Then she smiled.
“So, here we have our elusive spirit!” she said softly. She sat down on the soft mossy bank of the stream. “Long have you dwelled in our wood, unseen. Have thee a name, spirit?”
He watched her with a fixed hunter’s gaze, and luminous yellow-green eyes that made her rather uncomfortable. Then he turned and bounded back into the woods with not a sound her Elven ears could hear. Disturbed by the encounter, she picked up baby and fox.
“Come Haldir,” she said to the infant, “let us speak of this matter to the Lady Galadriel.”
***---***
Galadriel found him by the stream, hunting crayfish. She knew he would be there, but did not know he was aware of her approach. She stepped out of the wood and into the soft golden light of early evening. Following her were four of her finest archers, but their bows were slung and their knives, sheathed. This being had harmed none, and they expected no trouble from him.
He watched her with suspicious eyes as she approached. When he deemed she was too close he retreated a few paces, but did not attempt to flee. He knew he would have no peace until the Lady of Light was assured that he was no threat to her people.
He was wet and muddy, his black hair hanging limp and dripping. He was clad only in a time-worn pair of breeches, and upon his back and sides were the much-faded marks of Sauron’s cruelty. He chewed a crayfish as she looked him over, her deep and wise eyes filled with sadness at the thought of the pain this wild thing had once suffered.
“You are alone,” she said softly, “so very alone. Long have your kind been gone from this land.”
He raised his head, his demeanor changing from a skulking wolf to that of a wary stag, ready to flee at the slightest breath. He scented the air, and was met by the feeling of great and ancient power. It bore the distant odor of one whose might he had tasted long ago, when it was but a fragment of what it may have become. Abruptly he fled down the stream. The archers pursued him briefly, but he was gone, vanishing into the wood.
After his encounter with Galadriel he grew much more cautious. The Elves of Lothlórien could not approach him unawares; too well did he know how to ask tidings of earth and wind. However, he began learning their ways and crafts, and it was not long before he could use a bow and fletch arrows. An archer left a bow for him near where he was known to lurk, and in return he began leaving gifts of arrows. He remained unseen, but was sometimes heard, when he would cry out to the winds for news.
More often however, he gathered his news from the water, and it was the water that brought him news of the eight travelers approaching. There was an Elf, and two Men, but they were accompanied by others whose kind he did not know. As always, he retreated down the stream and hid, attending their passing closely. When at last they were gone, he skulked back to his hiding place to rest. He lay in the darkness, listening to the Elves sing of the loss of one whom they had named friend, and the news disturbed him. Things were changing in the world, and not for the better. Then he caught wind of news that dismayed him greatly; the Golden Elves were beginning to leave Middle Earth forever.
His need to know why this was happening forced him out of seclusion, though the answer brought him no comfort. A great war was brewing, and despite who emerged victorious, the Elves would be forced to leave this land or wither away into a common and rustic folk. Then he heard the name of the one who was bringing this tragedy about: Sauron. The Dark Lord was back from the dead, rebuilding his great filthy armies, spreading death across the land, and again it was Elves who were suffering.
But unlike his kind, these Elves would stand beside Men to fight him. And the nameless dark Elf knew that, although he had no nation to stand beside, he had to go too. He had much to avenge. He feared Galadriel, but he loathed Sauron more. Thus, one quiet night as the archers of Lothlórien organized to march to Helm’s Deep, a lean and wild figure crept into the camp and quietly approached their Captain.
Haldir looked up at the feral, shaggy being, then smiled wryly. “I know not your tale, Creature of the Forgotten Wilds, though you are welcome to fight you battles with us. However…” he eyed the ragged garb of the nameless Elf, “I fear you must do it in a somewhat more acceptable uniform.”
The dark Elf snorted and tossed his hair. Unimpressed, Haldir clamped a helm down onto his head, and passed him a uniform.