The Truth Must Be Told…CONT.

by Oct 22, 2003Stories

“That is no concern of yours, and I will not answer to one so cold and heartless as you.” Was the reply the dark shape nearly got spit in its face.
“All right, have it your way imp,” the creature sighed and leaned back in its chair. “Search him.” At this, three great shapes, consisting of the same bleak darkness towered over Frodo within seconds. One grabbed him with cold hands and stood him up, the other unbound his hands, but held them firmly and the third one took away all his possession: the Phial of Galadriel, the Evenstar’s Gem, and Sting and carried them to their master. Frodo struggled to get away, but the others’ stony and icy hands held him tightly in place, and all he could do was watch on as these vile creatures stripped him of his dear treasures. Finally, the other two deserted Frodo also and slunk back into the shadows, leaving Frodo lying helpless on the cold floor with tears of loss in his eyes.
“If you need to know, I am the Dark Elf,” said the shape, as his minion handed him Frodo’s belongings.
“And I think that name suits you perfectly.” Retorted the hobbit sarcastically. The Elf just laughed again. Frodo had a sudden fit of anger, and realized that his hands were left unbound. He turned his head from side to side, hoping to find some sort of rock or blade. Blindly, for in the faint light he could barely see, he searched his surrounding area with his hand, using all the hobbit stealth that was in him so as not arise any alarm or wariness in his captors, and to his luck, found something small and pointy. Apparently, it was a small elvish knife, presumably dropped by one of the minions. He picked it up and looked at it; it seemed big enough to do some damage, but not enough. He strained his eyes to see in the gloom and spot where the Elf sat, but couldn’t. Great; just when he thought he could avenge himself, he couldn’t see the target he wanted to hit, but if he estimated, he might fling it somewhere else, and then he would lose his small weapon. Well, in his point of view, he was quite desperate, and anything was worth a try.
With all the strength he had, Frodo threw the blade at the Elf (he was hoping it was the Elf). Success! There was a sudden roar of pain, as Frodo’s thrown knife buried itself in the Elf’s leg. Frodo smiled to himself, but then his smile faded; what would be done to him, once the Elf revived himself? And he, out of fright, crawled back somewhat, until his back touched the far wall, and stayed there, still as stone.
Eventually, the Elf calmed down and got the blade out. He examined it for a while and than shot a cold glare at Frodo.
“For this, you will pay.” He said and stood up, throwing the blade aside with a faint clank. Frodo’s heart nearly stopped at his pronounced punishment: “Find the girl and bring her to me!” cried the Elf and grinned at Frodo. His minions were already leaving, but the hobbit stepped forward.
“You can do whatever you want to me, but please, I beg you, don’t touch her!” his voice grew small and frightened. He didn’t think he’d have a chance at convincing the tall, cruel Elf, but he could not bear to watch the beautiful Anarie in the hands of this monster, but the Elf did call a `halt’, and came forward.
“I see she is dear to you, imp; I understand. Fine, have it your way; I don’t usually listen to my prisoners’ pleas, but I will listen this time, because, like you, I once loved a beautiful maiden, but that does not mean you will go unpunished.” With that, the Elf raised the whip he held and it coiled itself around the hobbit’s arm like a burbing snake, bringing him to his knees with a cry of anguish. Whips were something Frodo wanted to stay away from, since his unfortunate imprisonment in the Tower of Cirith Ungol. “Now, I hope you learned your lesson,” said the Elf calmly, and came back to his chair; Frodo kept silent for the time being, while that monster continued to look through his treasures. He thanked the Valar, that there was one jewel he’d never get to—and one he most deeply cared for.
The Elf showed great interest in everything he saw, but when it came to Sting, he recoiled in horror. His eyes grew wide and his face morphed from an Elf to a beast. There was a snarl that sent shivers through the hobbit’s spine. What had he done this time?
“You do come from Middle-earth!” cried the Elf in wrath. “For this blade was made there—in Gondolin, a kingdom of long ago! How did you come by it?” he kept on shouting in wrath. Frodo winced, but nevertheless kept silent. It seemed that Frodo’s small, little dagger angered the Elf; it surprised him that it didn’t glow blue. “Answer me!”
“No,” said Frodo bitterly, but knowing what would come of such an answer; then once again he felt the whip burn his arms more savagely and hungrily.
“This cursed dagger of yours came from that cursed kingdom, and its dead king Turgon, nearly sealed my fate, because I simply wanted to take back what was rightly mine. But what really angers me,” his voice now was practically a hiss. “Is that you brought it here, and still won’t tell me how you came across this—this thing. But that doesn’t matter now; you are to die for this.” His shadow came up to Frodo and hit him hard across the face, sending the small hobbit flying across the hall and thudding onto the ground. Frodo didn’t move from then on, and all that could be heard were his stifled sob. He didn’t deserve this. What had he done? He was in trouble once again, but this time, no one knew and there was no one to find and rescue him.
Eol was about to do some more damage, but his hand was stilled and he squinted his dark, sharp eyes; he caught the glimmer of the Hobbit’s mithril shirt. He came up to Frodo and stood him up, marveling at this gift of kings. He quickly disposed Frodo of it, pushed him back to the ground with a savage blow and stared at the shirt with wide, awed eyes.
“This is the silver of the Naugrim,” he pronounced. ” A kingly gift; hard as dragon scales, and resistant to all blades and weapons, save one.” He cast an evil glare at Frodo. “And to think that you shall posses such a gift is foolish. I know not how you came by it, or who was in their right mind to award you with a gift this precious, but I do know that it is in your care no longer!”
Frodo’s anger, which was stilled for three years and half now, began to fuse again. The hatred and the undeserved pain came back to him and he no longer had any control over himself. Without even thinking about the consequences, he yelled “You—you ORC! ” And those cruel words echoed in the hall and seemed to linger. The three captains of the Elf whispered amongst themselves in fear, but their master just stood aghast and staring at this little, pathetic creature, which just named him the worst name an elf could be named!
That was it; the last straw for any mercy. Nearly leaping upon the Hobbit in his wrath, the Elf caught Frodo by the neck and pinned him to the cold, stony cave wall with his strong left hand; the other was suspended in the air, ready to strike.
“I should rip your throat out for this, imp, but no; you called me an orc, and that is how I will treat you—like an orc would, and this time, you have nothing to stop me!” His hand came down and his claws dug like ice through Frodo’s chest, creating four, deep, bloody gashes. Frodo never cried so painfully and agonizingly in his life, except for when the Witch King stabbed him; back all the way down on Weathertop. Now he felt like he was stabbed by ten of those blades; he arched his back in pain.
The cruel, beastly Elf finally let Frodo fall back down to the ground. Then he just stood and laughed at the hobbit’s pain, cracking his whip and on the stone floor, not minding that its tongues lashed out at Frodo’s face and arms. The poor hobbit didn’t know whether to endure this never-ending pain, or just close his eyes and die. He didn’t know whether to weep or to cry out, hoping that maybe someone would hear him and help him, but then again, who was there that would hear him? He just kept silent, praying that this torture would end soon, even as rivers of unstoppable tears poured from his eyes.
With a final crack, the Elf kneeled down to Frodo.
“You are so pathetic! But you earned it.” He hissed, grinning. Frodo kept silent and closed his eyes. He couldn’t hold out any longer like this; every part of his body either bled or ached.
“You truly are no Elf! What have I done to you to deserve such a punishment?” He never imagined someone of the fair folk to be so merciless and evil-hearted, but with that thought, he fell unconscious to the floor, half-alive. Finally, the Elf commanded his captains to take Frodo to his prison, which was a small room, cold and filthy. The Hobbit was roughly flung into the chamber and chained to the wall by his hands. The three Elves looked at Frodo with some pity, and one actually shed a tear. He couldn’t bear to see his own kind hurt someone so badly, but he couldn’t really do anything about it, or else he would turn out like Frodo. They left the Hobbit in the cold dark—where even the torches gave no comfort—to slowly freeze, or die of blood loss.

* * *

There was no wind and yet the air was bitter cold. Celebrian and Anarie were extremely tired, but continued to trudge through the steep mountain ranges of the Pelori.
They left Asfaloth at the feet of the mountains, because even Elven horses could not climb such dangerous paths—unless they had the hooves of mountain goats; plus, the duo needed to go as quiet as it could, if they didn’t want to be noticed.
They were climbing for nearly three hours non-stop now, and there was not a moment where their path was not perilous: small rockslides, unseen crevices, slippery, frozen paths and icy cold winds. It was not once that Anarie, who was flying a little bit ahead, nearly got blown off the mountain, by a sudden gust of fierce wind. She could not see the party of strange Elves, nor could she see how Celebrian was tracking then—they didn’t even leave a footprint in the soft snow, but nonetheless, she trusted the Elf maiden.
Just when they thought, they could no longer go on, a great cave yawned in front of them. It was rimmed with meter-long icicles, hanging down in jagged formations like the teeth of some humongous beast.
“We—we have to go in there?” asked Anarie, pointing a long, shaking finger into the darkness of the cave.
“That is where our path leads. You do want to rescue Frodo, don’t you?” queried Celebrian in her serenely eerie voice. Anarie cast her eyes down and nodded. “Well, he’s in there…somewhere.” The Elf concluded a little unconvinced herself and stepped forward, only to be swallowed up by the darkness, but Anarie was reluctant. She walked in front of the cave looking at it up and down and wondering whether some unknown, giant monster will come out of some hole in the wall and swallow her up alive. She shouldn’t have listened to all of Frodo’s stories, but she did, and her paranoia was now her fault.
“You either come inside and face what we have to face, or you stay out there and freeze to death.” Celebrian called quietly from within the cavern. Both those choices didn’t sound very encouraging, but Frodo needed her help and she was not going to back out on that. Sighing, she flittered in to the darkness.
They crept through the cave. There was many turns to follow and stairs to descend and it was hard in the dark, but then after some five minutes of blind traveling, they were given their sight back by torches that were bound to the walls, but they offered little comfort; they were like red eyes of evil, watching them in silence (which was uncanny and creepy). All the time the passage was getting wider and wider, when finally, the Elf and Fairy stepped into a wide hall. Looking around, they noticed three other passages that led into the ominous gloom.
“Wait, let me go into this one. I have a feeling it’s not where we must go.” Said Anarie, grabbing Celebrian by the arm, as she was about to enter the blackness of the first passage. Celebrian acknowledged the Fairy and stepped back, letting Anarie go ahead.
The Fairy went inside and was glad to have wings, since there was a chasm that led to who knows where, and as she stepped down and felt herself falling, Anarie lifted herself quickly up and hurried out, trembling with fear; although she was a mischievous, curious being, she did not want to know what was down there.
“All right…not in there, for sure; there is nothing except for a great bottomless drop.” Said Anarie breathing hard and trembling all over after her unexpected fall.
“What happened?” asked Celebrian quietly. Anarie looked at her.
“Trust me, you don’t want to know; lets just leave it at that…” replied Anarie.
The two maidens walked into the second chamber, but were stopped by a wooden door through which red light streamed out. The air that came out of the opening was stifling and hot and was nearly suffocating. More than that, there voices laughing and jeering.
“I think it would be best if you go on, and I stay here and see whom they are and what they are up to,” whispered Anarie in a breath of a whisper that was barely heard, even by the Elf who stood close by.
“All right, but do you have a weapon?” inquired Celebrian in the same manner. Anarie produced a small dagger and showed to the Elf. “Take this too,” said Celebrian, handing the fairy a long, white elvish knife. “An extra weapon never did anyone harm.” She joked and crept out of the hall, leaving the fairy huddled by the door, straining her ears to decipher useful words between the constant laughing.
The third passage was the worst: bones and skeletons were lying on the bare ground that hurt the Elf’s feet even though she wore elven boots, and all around was a foul smell. Celebrian walked on with visible fear and disgust in her face, but finally, she stepped into a torch lit chamber with several barred doors. She looked into each one with horror; for there were the remains of other poor victims that were locked up without food or water for many years, by the horrid folk that dwelt here. The last chamber was in a dark room and no torches were lit there. Celebrian peered inside through the bars, but could see nothing. She ran out of the room and grabbed a nearby torch, though with some difficulty; it was jammed hard into the brackets.
The scene she saw was the saddest in her life: there was a figure chained to the wall by steel bonds. The Lady came up to the figure and noticed that it was still breathing, but it was cruelly bound: for it’s once white tunic was torn to shreds and was now black with blood; its arms and legs seemed to be in whip wheals and gashes. She slowly and gently lifted the head and gasped in horror. It was Frodo. She backed off as her face paled and she trembled in disgust and fright; she felt sick. Celebrian came nearer and examined him as tears formed in her wide eyes, for there was nothing she could do to get him out of here. The halls were quiet with the silence of death. There was really nothing she could do to get the steel bonds off. Suddenly, Frodo stirred.
“No! Keep away!” he whimpered in a cracked voice.
“No! It’s Celebrian! Oh, Frodo! If you could forgive me for letting you come to this.” She sobbed silently. “But now I have returned and you shall soon be free!” she reached out her hand and touched Frodo’s face and it seemed cold. Celebrian stepped back and took a knife that she always carried; it was more of a sword than a knife: its blade being quite long and curved and the hilt with space enough for two hands. Then, she started hewing at the chains, but to no avail; for the Dark Elf’s craft was stronger. Finally, in despair and frustration, she rested her back against wall beside Frodo, staring at the nothingness in front of her. She was clearly out of ideas, but she could not leave Frodo in this state.
She turned towards the hobbit once again, holding her blade in front of her. She chanted words of power in the ancient tongue of the Eldar, in a slow, serenely beautiful voice, hardly to be heard even as a murmur to any one standing close. Snapping her eyes open, the blade perfectly symmetrical in front of her face, Celebrian, with a shrill cry hewed doubled handed at the chains, finally able to cut them loose.
Frodo was free! Celebrian dropped the blade as Frodo fell into her arms, as one dead. She gently lifted him and kissed him on the forehead. She cradled the hobbit’s limp body like a mother would her wounded child. And as she tried to wipe some of the blood of his fair face, she was astounded to find how much it resembled that of an Elven boy. She was about to leave when she saw before her, two tall monstrous figures, wrapped in black. They held raised sword ready to strike her. Uh no. She was cornered, and if she were to carefully put Frodo on the ground without hurting him, she would be dead before she rose again. Her eyesight in the pitch dark was not as sharp as that of the dark Elves, but Celebrian could vaguely make out the features of two, grim-faced Elves, whose once white complexions were grimed and darkened by the blackness and cold of this cave.
“Betrayers of the Light!” the Elf snapped bitterly, looking from one foe to the other.
She began to nibble on her lower lip, thinking what to do, but suddenly, her two assailers dropped silently to the ground, not making more noise, but a grunt and a thud. Celebrian was surprised to see Anarie standing now in front of her, holding her two knives, each hilt-deep in blood, with a frightened expression on her face.
“Did I come in time?” she asked, smirking.
“Let’s just say that if you didn’t come…I’d be dead.” Answered Celebrian with the same expression and elvish humor. “Come on, we must get poor Frodo out of here. Are there more coming?” she asked frantically.
“No, the main group doesn’t expect them for another hour; they’re on patrol. I think we should be able to get away fairly quickly, but there is another one near the cave mouth. I’ll take care of him. Now run!” with that, Anarie flew ahead at full speed and Celebrian followed closely behind.
Up the passage they ran, but it seemed hours or longer and Celebrian was getting weary from all the ascends up the uneven, slippery stairs. Their whole attention was fixed on getting Frodo out of harm’s way. Finally the cave mouth appeared in front of them, but then, a dark shape blotted it. Anarie held her two knives in front of her and drove it into the enemy. There was a shriek of pain as the figure fell to the ground with a loud thud. The light grew brighter and finally they were out. Anarie stopped and turned abruptly watching as Celebrian darted out of the gloom.
The Elf ran up to the fairy and handed her Frodo.
“Fly down the path and wait for me beside Asfaloth. Don’t look back! I want to seal the entrance of the cave so we wont be followed.” Said Celebrian rapidly, as she got out her bow, and was now fixing three arrows at once on its string of fair Elven hair; even now, there were a group of Dark Elves running towards them. Anarie could only nod, and swallowing hard, she flew down the way, from which they had just come, hoping that Celebrian knew what she was doing, trying to take on who knows how many enemies; but she couldn’t bear the wait and worry.
She stopped her flight and whirled around, squinting her eyes against the setting Sun. She made out the image of Celebrian, poised still and elegant, holding her Elven bow, ready to let loose its deadly arrows at any sign of the enemy. Anarie closed her eyes and gulped in fear, but her eyes opened only to see the arrows dart straight at the coming forces, killing three at once and the string of the bow singing as it vibrated from the force of the strain. Again Celebrian got three arrows into her bow and they whistled fatally into the next assailers. But as she got to the third batch, the servants of the Dark Elf retreated, which was what the Lady expected; most of her challengers feared her skill with the bow.
The Fairy gave a big sign of relief and watched with less tension as Celebrian ran up to the mouth of the cave and with her sword slashed at the huge icicles, and finally, with a last effort, she jabbed the jeweled into the ceiling of the cave, where she let loose the insecure rocks, snow and ice, creating a great barricade which blocked the entrance; and then she turned and jogged down the path.
Anarie flew down the mountain at full speed, which only took her about thirty minutes (the wind was no longer blowing against her) and settled Frodo carefully on the ground, so that when Celebrian climbed down, it would seem that Anarie obeyed her and came down the path without stopping.

As the Elf’s slender, queenly form came nearer, she saw Anarie cradling the hobbit protectively and smiled to herself. Then she shook her head and proceeded with her rapid walk.
“We must get him away from here!” she said and called for Asfaloth with a shrill whistle. The horse ran up and Celebrian lightly hopped upon its glistening back; she motioned to Anarie to lift Frodo up to her, so she could set him in front of her and ride away from this forsaken place. Very gently, Anarie lifted Frodo’s limp body from the ground and sprang lightly off the ground and hovered by Celebrian. Anarie did not take her gaze off Frodo’s face, fancying that he would open his eyes and be well again at any minute.
“Anarie…Anarie? Are you ready to go?” asked Celebrian, lightly waving her hand in front of the Fairy’s staring eyes. She blinked, as if woken from a dream and looking at the Elf’s inquiringly furrowed brows, turned her blushing face away and nodded briskly. They were off at full speed, trying to get away from danger, although for the meanwhile, it was being delayed by the cave-in.

They finally came to the place where Aindule and Luinil rested. Celebrian took Frodo and laid him on the grass. It was already dark. Anarie settled down and positioned herself comfortably against a tree. She pulled Frodo closer to her and looked at him with eyes full of sorrow and pity. She finally couldn’t take it and with a quick movement, Frodo was in her arms, as she caressed his face tenderly with her slim fingers. Celebrian stood by her horse for a while with hands on her hips, and her head bowed with thought as the Fairy told her about the Dark Elves that dwelt in the cold, horrid place.
“This is not well,” said Celebrian concerned. “That Elves should live in such places and mistreat beings so cruelly; even the Morquendi. We cannot do much about his wounds other than bind them in the leaves of athelas and then with cloths.” said the Elf, kneeling over Frodo’s face, full of concern. “He was in the hands of these Dark Elves far too long, even if it was for a few hours and I do not have the skill to heal him like…someone I knew…” she hesitated at these last words, unwilling to remember the people of times long ago; it always pained her to do so.
“Like someone you knew…from…from the past?” questioned a clear voice at her side. The elegant Elf looked to the bearer of the voice and nodded slowly. She changed the subject with surprising abruptness.
“He is too hurt to be taken to Tirion, for the distance is rather long. I do not know how these fell folk came here, but they must leave…or die. You take care of him and I will go to Tirion and get some help! I shall be back the day after tomorrow!” And she left, racing across the wood and fields of Aman like the wind in the grass. The young fairy lady watched as Celebrian hopped upon her horse and wheeling it round to the left, opposite the way they came, raced off into the gathering gloom.
Anarie sat for a while deep in thought. Then she went in search of athelas leaves. She did not have to go far, for they grew in plenty, and had greater virtue than the sort in Middle-Earth. She cut them with a short knife she carried around and collected them into a pouch she carried. She came back and flopped onto the soft lush grass. Luinil sat nearby Aindule, where he watched over his mate and his fairy mistress, who gestured for the blue wolf to come and sit by her.
“Keep me company, dear friend. I do not wish to sit alone with danger lurking about.” She said in a soft tone. The giant wolf came up and sat on his haunches by his rider, looking around with narrowed eyes for any sight of danger.
Aindule limped forward a bit and found a comfortable place by Frodo’s side, hoping to keep him warm with her thick, soft fur. She laid her head on her crossed paws and watched as Anarie hopelessly took care of the hobbit, that she came to know and love so fast.

Anarie looked at the strange plant that gave out a refreshing fragrance. She gulped hard as she bit her bottom lip and rubbed her knuckle with her other hand, as she knew what she had to do next. The blood soaked ragged tunic stuck to the severed skin of Frodo’s chest. She had to slowly and gently tear it off hoping that Frodo didn’t feel any pain; she constantly looked upon his face through the corner of her eye, fancying that he would grimace or worse, cry out. But nothing of the dreadful sort happened.
She gasped disgustedly, as she slapped her hand on her mouth, shut her eyes in denial and turned away with a lump in her throat, coaxing her to spill her tears. Her hands shook, as she looked on the four, ugly, bloody, deep gashes that crossed the hobbit’s pale skin. She has never seen anyone hurt so badly and all hope left her. Still, she would not let him die like this. Suddenly, she realized what she said.
“Die?!” She cried to herself, getting teary eyes. She had never thought of death before this. This couldn’t happen. She couldn’t let Frodo die, when she was desperately trying to cure him. “Hold on, love,” she whispered in a voice almost inaudible to all else, except to herself. She looked at the white wolf, but her eyes were closed her ears cocked to one side and then to another in watchfulness. Anarie then turned to Luinil, who was still awake.
“Could you go and fetch some over from a pond or river of some sort? Gather it in to this flask.” She said, as she held a leathern flask that Celebrian had left her. The wolf took it into its blue hued muzzle and trotted off. A short while later though, he returned and placed the filled flask into Anarie’s hands. She then gathered a few pinecones and broken sticks that lay near by and arranged them in a small pyramid. She took a tinderbox from the bottom of her small, fawn coloured pouch that was swung over her shoulder and lit up the pile in a blazing red flame. The Fairy held the fluid filled flask over the licking tongues of the fire and waited until it was heated.
Once the water was hot, she bathed Frodo’s wounds in it and rid the skin of the dark blood that made it look like Frodo was cruelly and mercilessly killed. The athelas she placed over on the gashes and, tearing a long strip of her own white dress, she carefully bound them together. She was finally done; she looked towards the sun, but it could not be seen, as the night took over. Anarie wiped the sweat from her brow and being exhausted, fell into uneasy sleep. She didn’t want to desert Frodo like that, but her heart yearned for rest.

Startled by a dream she vaguely remembered, Anarie jumped a little and rubbed her eyes; the sky was lit with daylight and she flinched at the burn of the sun. Had she slept that long? She wondered. She looked at Frodo and noticed that he stirred uncomfortably in his sleep. His face carried a sickly hue and he was hot with fever. Anarie grew deeply concerned. What was happening to him? His condition was worsening. The fairy placed a trembling hand on Frodo’s hot brow and suddenly his eyes were latched on her sapphire ones, but his were bloodshot and pale blue, which was unusual. His chest heaved up and down unevenly as he laboured for breath. Then he spoke, but his voice was no longer soft and gentle; it was hoarse as if he were suffocating:
“It hurts…its tearing me up…I can’t breathe.” Anarie did not understand.
“Wha—Frodo what are you talking about?” she asked, quizzically furrowing her slender brows.
“The wound…” came the reply. “I…it’s all going black…I feel I’m on fire…” Still Anarie did not understand what he was saying, or hinting at.
“Frodo, what’s wrong? Tell me, maybe I can help.” Frodo shook his head slowly, grimacing at the pain in his chest.
“I’m dying…I feel it in my heart…I can’t hold on for long…” he wheezed, breathing heavily, as he gasped for air. A lump formed in Anarie’s throat at those words and she could no longer conceal he tears. They burned her rosy cheeks as the rolled from her eyes, like falling crystals in the day. Frodo’s image became smeared and far away. Her heart rate increased. “I am so sorry I have to leave you like this…” the hobbit tried smiling meekly, but that turned into a grimace.
“No you can’t! You mustn’t give in! Celebrian will be here soon. You’ll get better and we will live together and forever be inseparable friends…Please…not now…not ever!” She pleaded softly, trying to hide her sorrow with a shaky smile. Aindule and Luinil fixed their gaze on the Fairy’s weeping form. Frodo spoke again, more haltingly, for he found breathing difficult—not to mention speaking—he strained for words.
“Anarie I am afraid that I could not hold on…I will always remember you for what you were and are: I had never met a person as loving and fair as you are…you said you care for me, so let me go now! I will never, ever forget you…don’t forget me, dearest one…” Anarie felt as if a dagger went right through her. He winced and her sobs became louder. She had feared that he might utter these words; they totally destroyed her. Anarie tried sniffling back her tears, then wiping them away with a shaking hand, but to no avail: Frodo’s dying words planted themselves in her heart, slowly breaking it with grief. “Frodo, save your strength! Do not speak of such things! You will not leave me! Understand? Don’t. Please?” the last word came out like a soft plea. There was really nothing she could do, to save him, but what she could do, was try and keep him clinging to his life until Celebrian came; grief isn’t that painful, if shared with another.
“Forgive me, angel…I wish I could stay and see what the future holds for us, but…” suddenly, Frodo’s eyes went wide and he gasped for air, suffocating as spasms of pain covered him like the dark. It went black before his eyes and the vision of the fairy; his loved one, become blurry and unclear.
“Don’t you say that, Frodo Baggins!” shouted Anarie, amid endless streams of bitter sobs. She looked down and found Frodo’s hand searching for her own. She slowly placed her palm into his cold one and he gripped it tight.
“Now let me go and do not be sad! It is not your fault that this has happened…it is mine. I love you…goodbye, Anarie…my memory of you will be my Light in the Darkness!” were the only words his small, hoarse whisper could utter. She watched in silent horror as Frodo’s breast heaved up for the last breath and then it was still. His hand loosened the grip about Anarie’s. He was dead, but she couldn’t believe it.
“No, no, no! Come back you silly Halfling! You can’t do this to me you fool! Come back!” Anarie cried hopelessly. Her trembling hand lovingly stroked Frodo’s cold face. Her vision was blurred with tears, and all she could do was weep. She cradled Frodo’s limp body into her arms and held it close, but there was no embrace in reply.
This wasn’t happening! This wasn’t supposed to happen! This was not his time! She thought miserably. She gently lowered her lips to kiss Frodo on the cheek for a last goodbye, but she could not utter those painful words. She tried, but all that came was sobs. The word formed in her mind, though that too, came hesitantly.
The Fairy’s white form lost most of its radiance and became a dull grey colour as her shoulders shook with never-ending grief, and the star that she bore on her brow, became almost like a boulder; heavy and dull; its heavenly, eerie light was extinguished like a fire by a sudden curtain of driving rain. Why did this have to happen now? She no longer cared that she was experiencing a new kind of emotion; this was unlike the sadness she felt about the Trees. This was something deeper and stronger.
The fairy held Frodo tightly in her arms, protecting him from—she did not know from what. It was too late for anything now; her life was utterly destroyed, for in Frodo, Anarie saw a light; a light that brought happiness and love into her life and now it was gone.
“CURSE YOU, DARK ELF!” Anarie roared into the brightness of the day that seemed to be mocking her with its life-light. Her voice—full of hatred and bitterness—echoed in the woods and traveled with the winds to the mountains.
Aindule had crawled up to Luinil’s side and cuddled her mate. When she saw what had become of Frodo, she buried her white face into Luinil’s deep blue, long fur. Anarie the Fairy knew that the great white wolf loved her rider and was grieved to see him leave like that. Then Luinil lifted his voice high into the night air, and the vapour of his breath was seen as whips of white smoke. His voice was supposed to be proud and melodious, but no, it was not so now; the wolf howled balefully into the still day, for not even a bird twittered in the trees, which silenced their ancient chanting; all the forest was watching in deep despair, frowning at them with pity.


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Found in Home 5 Reading Room 5 Stories 5 The Truth Must Be Told…CONT.

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