ALONE: Out of Options

SUMMARY: Sometime after the end of the Fourth Age there was an Ice Age, destroying the great civilizations of Middle-earth. Unfaded and with nowhere else to go, an Elf walks out onto the ice seeking death. He finds something else instead.

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The landscape was, to put it mildly, bleak, a barren white desert of scrub grass and lichen clinging precariously to the frozen ground. He had finally reached the tundra, ignoring the desolate beauty that surrounded him. All he wanted was to die and put an end to his miserable existence. He glanced around, looking for any familiar landmarks, but the glaciers had done their work too well and much of the geography was... wrong.

Still, if he had not completely misjudged, where he stood should be Imladris. Of course, he could be wrong. It was easy enough to lose oneself in the trackless snowfields, but he had decided that where he was had to be where Imladris had once flourished. The glaciers had not totally destroyed all landmarks. There were still the mountains to the east and their distance appeared to be about right. He had never actually resided in Imladris, but he knew of it and had kept a watch over its lord and those who dwelt therein. He did not think anyone suspected, though he would not have been surprised if Elrond or Glorfindel knew the truth.

He sighed, wrapping the bear cloak closer around his thin frame. Even he was beginning to feel the cold, a cold that he equated with the Helcaraxë. Not that he ever crossed that land bridge to Ennorath. He had come by ship, and that crossing had been frigid enough for his taste. He scowled at the memory and felt his hands clench in remembered shame and anger for his treachery and all those who had followed Fëanor, leaving Fingolfin and the others to fend for themselves. He had never been able to look Finrod or anyone else who had crossed the Helcaraxë in the eye after that without feeling regret for what was lost between them.

Looking about for some kind of shelter against the coming night and its brutal winds, he espied a clump of rocks in the middle distance. They weren’t much but they would have to do. He intended to die here, but not immediately. He gave a snort of wry amusement at that thought. He had not faded as so many of those who had lingered past their time here had done, and sailing was out of the question, especially now with the seas frozen. There wasn’t enough timber anywhere to build even a decent sized ship. Círdan and the Falathrim had long sailed to Valinor. He had stood on a seacliff overlooking Mithlond and watched the last of the grey ships slip over the horizon, never to return.

Well, if he wasn’t going to die tonight, he had best see to setting up a camp. The rocks were a tumble of boulders offering shelter of a sort. There was an overhang that would do well enough, he decided and settled down to tend to a small fire made from dung that he had collected along the course of his trek. It amazed him that any animal life could flourish in this white hell, yet it did and he was grateful, for it gave him a means to eat and stay warm. He wasn’t sure why he bothered, though.

"I came out here to die," he muttered to himself even as he scooped some snow into an iron pot to melt over the fire for his stew. Then he shrugged. By his estimation he still had provisions to last him for a few more days before he needed to hunt again. Perhaps he would just let them run out. "No sense letting this bear meat go to waste," he said out loud with a chuckle. He had gotten into the habit of speaking aloud just to hear something other than the moaning of the wind.

Night descended in a rush of brilliant flame as Anor sank into the West. The tundra was awash with crimson, indigo and deepening purple shadows that faded slowly with the coming of the stars. He gazed heavenward and felt a tightening of his throat. Their beauty always affected him this way and he struggled not to weep as he watched Eärendil’s Star glitter coldly just above the western horizon, brighter than any of the other stars now shining. It would be a dark night, for Ithil would not rise before dawn. He felt a need to sing but the tightness around his chest would not loosen and he had long ago broken his harp into kindling for a fire. Instead, he huddled closer into his cloak and refused to look up for the rest of the night. And so he never saw Menelvagor rising above the mountains nor did he notice the curtains of light — red mostly with some green — shimmering silently above him.

Dawn roused him from his troubled sleep and he stood, stretching for a moment before crouching over the dung fire that had burned out several hours earlier. It took him some time to rekindle the flame and then he set about half-heartedly fixing something to eat. All the while, he replayed in his mind memories of warmer climes and the warmth of family and friends that he had known in his long years. As he sipped on some hot water — he had long ago run out of any tea — he brought to his mind’s eye images of people — family, friends and foes alike — one after another, asking them for forgiveness. Most of the people he remembered were already dead or had sailed. The fates of some of them he did not know. He had begun this ritual of calling to mind the people who had crossed his path over the long ages of his life and asking them for forgiveness for any wrongs he might have done to them, real or imagined, since beginning this journey, readying himself for the end. He wasn’t sure why he bothered, but something within his fae eased with every apology. Sometimes he found himself weeping uncontrollably and it was as if his tears were washing away the filth of ages from his soul. He was glad no one was there to see him weep, yet he always felt better for it afterwards.

He had just begun his daily ritual when some sound that was more sensed than heard, brought him to his feet, his sword out before he had straightened completely. He glanced around him at the desolate landscape, trying to determine what had alerted him. At first he could see nothing and was ready to dismiss his feelings as a product of imagination but then from the corner of his eye he saw movement. Turning to the southeast, he shaded his eyes against the glare of Anor on the snowfield and after a moment he was able to see what approached. What he saw caused him to drop his sword in shock.

People!

He stood there, wondering if he was seeing things, if perhaps the loneliness and despair that had gripped him for longer than he could remember had finally taken their toll and he was now imagining things, slipping into delusions as a precursor to his death. He bent his knees and slowly reached for his sword, never taking his eyes off the approaching group numbering about thirty, all dressed in furs that, like his own bear cloak, blended well into the bleak landscape, making for good camouflage. He did not sheathe the sword, but held it point down. The group made its way unerringly towards him, almost as if the people knew he was there, though his fire was smokeless and he was still hidden among the boulders. When they had come within ten feet of his camp they stopped. One of those who was in the lead swept back his hood, his silver tresses glinting in the sunlight, his ears slightly leaf-shaped.

"Mae govannen," the Elf said, giving a slight bow in his direction though he was sure the ellon could not see him. "May we join you?"

He stood there still in shock. The last thing he had expected to see in this desolate wasteland was others of his kind. He stepped out from his hiding place, purposely waiting to sheathe his sword until he was in full sight of them. He gave them his own bow. "Mae govannen. What little I have is yours." He swept a hand back to indicate his campsite, welcoming them to join him.

The silver-tressed ellon smiled as he and the other Elves came forward. "We thank you, lord, for your hospitality. I am Denethor, once of Eryn Lasgalen and Ithilien, and leader of this ragtag group of sorry Elves." He gave him a lop-sided grin and some of the others chuckled, as if at an old jest.

"I am... Glîrhir," he said, barely hesitating over the lie.

Denethor raised a delicate eyebrow but said nothing. Instead, he turned to his followers, issuing orders and soon, to Glîrhir’s surprise, his dismal camp was transformed into a lively gathering as the others set about building their own fires and setting up tents made of fur. The group appeared to be equally divided between ellyn and ellith and most were obviously Sindar, though Glîrhir could see some whose darker tresses suggested Noldorin ancestry. All of them were cheerful and seemed unbothered by his presence or the cold. Someone even began singing and soon others joined in.

Glîrhir stood feeling uncertain, not sure how to react to the presence of these others. He had long ago abandoned any pretense of needing contact with other people, be they Elves or Mortals. When he had decided to walk out onto the ice and die he had put all that behind him. Now, however, the numbing cold that he had allowed to nearly smother his heart was fading under the relentless warmth of these Elves.

Denethor gave him a knowing smile. "We are all that are left, or who were willing to leave." Glîrhir gave him a quizzical look as he resumed his seat before his own small fire, indicating that Denethor should join him, which he did. "We have named ourselves the Harthadrim," he said.

"Of what do you hope?" Glîrhir asked. He himself had lost all hope, except the hope to die soon and bring his sorry tale to an end.

One of the ellith had taken Glîrhir’s tin cup of hot water and added a few dried leaves, the scent of apples rising in the steam, bringing with it a wealth of memories of long summer nights when there had once been summer. He gave her a heartfelt smile of thanks and she smiled back before moving away.

Denethor nodded to the other Elves bustling around them. "We hope to find Valinor," he said simply. "We have not faded as you can see and are unlikely to do so, or so it seems." He took an appreciative sip of his own tea. "We have lingered overlong in these Mortal lands and we few who are left or who could be found have decided to head West."

Glîrhir gave him a skeptical look. "The seas are frozen," he said. "You will find no grey ships waiting for you in which to sail."

Denethor nodded. "True, but we are undeterred. It is our hope that the Belain will show mercy upon us and open the Straight Road for us. All we need do is continue West."

In spite of himself, Glîrhir was intrigued. "Do you truly believe you will find Valinor? I think you will most likely die first."

The other ellon shook his head. "Even if that is true, we will have come to Valinor regardless. We will not fade. We have no other options."

"You could just wait here and die, thus saving yourselves the bother of a hopeless journey," Glîrhir said harshly, his own desire for death sitting less comfortably upon him in the presence of these others who exuded life and hope.

"Is that why you are here?" Denethor asked shrewdly.

Glîrhir cast his eyes down, feeling shamed for some reason. "I have no reason to live, and Valinor is closed to me."

"It cannot be completely closed to you," Denethor said with a slight smile, "if your fae ends up in Lord Bannoth’s Halls, unless you intend to refuse his call and join the Houseless Ones." His eyes darkened with disapproval.

Glîrhir blinked and then sighed, giving Denethor a wry look. "Truth to tell, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I only wanted to get the dying part over with."

For a moment, Denethor gazed at him, deep in thought. Then, he nodded, as if coming to a decision. "Join us," he said.

Glîrhir stared at him in surprise. "Why would I do that? Your journey is hopeless. Si mîn phain raeg!" he spat in contempt. "You will all die."

If his manner upset the leader of the Harthadrim, Denethor gave no indication. Instead, he shrugged. "What you say may be true, but we will not be swayed from our quest. Before we decided on our course we were a spiritless people, lost to ourselves, to our memories and our regrets. But look at us now. Hear you not the singing and the laughter? See you not the spring in our steps and the smiles on our faces? For the first time in long years we have hope again. We may indeed die somewhere out on the ice further West, but we will die with hope."

Glîrhir stared about him, seeing the truth in Denethor’s words. He saw people full of purpose. They knew that the odds were against them. It was unlikely that they would ever find the Mên Dîr, but he sensed that that would not deter them.

"I once heard Lord Glorfindel say that Lord Bannoth does not care for quitters," Denethor said. He shrugged when Glîrhir gave him a measuring look. "I suppose if anyone should know, it would be he."

Glîrhir snorted in wry agreement. Still, he hesitated. He had accepted his fate, knowing there was no other way. Death seemed the only viable option, but now.... He glanced about him again and there must have been something in his expression, a hunger for what he knew could never be his, for Denethor leaned over and gently placed a hand on his knee to get his attention.

"All else being equal, Lord Maglor, what do you have left to lose?" he asked quietly.

The sound of his true name on the ellon’s lips startled him. "You knew who I was all the time," he whispered.

Denethor nodded. "And we knew where to find you."

Maglor felt his heart lurch in his throat. "I don’t understand," he said faintly.

Denethor smiled. "A dream came to me," he said, "in which I heard a voice bidding me to seek for you in the barren wastelands where once fair Imladris stood. ‘Bring the Exiled One home’ the voice said to me. ‘It is time’. I spoke to these whom you see here and we resolved to find you and take you with us. So you see, mellon nîn, your welcome is assured if you will turn away from death and join us in hope."

Maglor could feel tears in his eyes at the look of calm acceptance and assurance in Denethor’s eyes. "We may still die," he stated half-heartedly, already counting himself among Denethor’s people.

Denethor nodded. "But you will not be alone if you do."

Alone. He had come out here alone to die alone. Now, however, he was being offered another way. He might still die, they all might. There was no real guarantee that the Straight Road would open for them, and yet.... For a long moment he sat in contemplation, staring at the fire, weighing Denethor’s words against his own thoughts. Finally, coming to a decision, he looked up to see Denethor smiling at him.

When the Harthadrim broke camp the next morning to continue their journey westward, their numbers were increased by one, and they were glad.

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All words are Sindarin.

Ennorath: Middle-earth.

Falathrim: People of the Falas, the western seaboard of Beleriand, who later relocated to Mithlond after Beleriand’s destruction. Their lord was Círdan the Shipwright.

Menelvagor: Orion.

Fae: Spirit, soul.

Mae govannen: Well met. 

Ellon: Male Elf. The plural is ellyn.

Ellith: Plural of elleth: Female Elf.

Glîrhir: ‘Master of Song’. Cf. Gonhir: Master of Stone = Dwarf.

Harthadrim: People of Hope.

Belain: Plural of Balan: Vala.

Bannoth: Námo. The name is the Sindarin form of Mandos by which the Vala was more popularly known to the Elves of Middle-earth.

Si mîn phain raeg!: ‘Now all roads are bent!’.

Mên Dîr: Straight Road.

Mellon nîn: My friend.