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Chapter Five
At first when they stepped into the clearing surrounding the hill on which sat the fortress, Emerald couldn’t understand what all the fuss had been about. It just looked like any other abandoned fortress to her. The stone walls stood strong, but nothing moved, nothing breathed, and vegetation was conquering the paths and creeping up towards the windows. Radghast led her past the iron gate barring the entrance and instead to a series of low windows on the opposite side, rectangular and open for the all the world to step through to the courtyard.
“Sauron was of course not worried about invaders,” Radaghast explained, making the large step necessary and then holding Emerald’s arms to pull her up. “The gate is a symbol of strength, but even he knew that if a fight were to ensue, Dol Guldur would not serve him.”
“Why not?” Emerald asked, remaining perched on the windowsill as she gazed around the courtyard. Weeds thrust themselves up through the cracks between the stones on the ground, and the sun seemed especially harsh in this break in the trees. The courtyard wasn’t very big, but it felt like a cold desert.
“Pride, first. Sauron wanted a grand palace to claim victory in, not this small stone abode. But furthermore, it does not provide the proper space and resources he would need to outfit an army the size necessary to defeat a full-on assault. But come, I’ll explain more.” He offered her his hand and she hopped down, her boots making a muted click on the uneven stone.
Then she felt it, felt what kept the elves of Mirkwood away from this place. That’s all it was – a feeling – because there was certainly nothing present that could offer any sort of threat. Nothing breathed, and even the wild weeds were struggling to survive. But stepping into the fortress was like jumping into the depths of the ocean where heavy water bore down on your shoulders and chest, and distance hid the sun, and the darkness and lack of air made your entire body scream to get out, go, flee far from this helpless state.
“You feel the shadow,” he observed, watching the play of emotions on her face. Fear, confusion, anxiety, concern. But always curiosity. “The feeling of the shadow is one of Sauron’s greatest tools. Battle-hardened warriors falter when they feel what you are feeling—“
“It feels as though all the sunlight is being sucked out of my skin,” she mused, staring down at her arms as though to see if this were true. Her fair skin blanched in the bright sun; she looked almost transparent.
“Yes well you of course are not feeling the full effect since you are clearly convinced of your safety with me.”
“Is that foolish of me?” she asked, her wide eyes suddenly turning to him. She had never questioned trusting Radaghast; it had only seemed the natural thing to do. But of course, in hindsight, she had never heard any good reason to. In fact, Saruman’s nod of approval in her visiting him should have been a warning sign.
“I am one of the wise, am I not? And also a friend of multiple friends.”
“The fact that you are a friend of Mithrandir’s and Legolas’ means more to me than that you’re one of the maiar,” Emerald shrugged, relaxing. “After all, Saruman is one of the Maiar as well.”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t call that old crow ‘wise,’” Radaghast mumble to himself, and it made Emerald smile. He mumbled to himself a lot, she had noticed. Perhaps that was a result of spending most of his time alone, but it also made him appear endearingly muddled. Yes, he was right, she felt quite safe with him.
Radaghast was leading her through the rooms, all of which stood empty –disturbingly empty. Not a single piece of furniture, scrap of cloth, or instrument of war or daily life remained. The fortress had been effectively gutted, and that the remaining shell on its own could remain so intimidating was actually rather impressive.
“After Sauron departed this final time, we claimed what we wanted. The rest, the forest has claimed.”
“The forest?”
“Spiders, birds, squirrels, what have you.”
“Oh. Who’s we?”
“We,” he explained, opening doors to show her their empty cells. “We would be myself, Mithrandir, Saruman. Also your Lord Elrond, a few other of the Eldar.” Rooms surrounded the courtyard on two levels, but that was all; it was all together not very large nor elaborate.
“All the greats of the time, huh? What years was this?”
“Sauron built this fortress somewhere around Third Age Ten-Fifty,” Radghast told instead of answering her question. “Mirkwood fell deeper and deeper into darkness as his shadow spread through the wood. Mithrandir eventually took it upon himself to confront the dark stranger residing here—“
“Brave Mithrandir,” Emerald mumbled sadly and Radaghast debated whether to pat her arm.
It might not be appropriate, though, so he continued, “However the stranger fled before Mithrandir even knocked on the door. At the time, we assumed it to be one of the Nazgûl, and nothing further took place here for almost four centuries. The shadow remained in Mirkwood, but Dol Guldur remained uninhabited.”
“Were you already living so close when that took place?”
“I built my home here shortly after Dol Guldur was abandoned. Before that I lived nomadically.”
“Did you spend much time with the Dunedain then? Is that how you met Ivorwen or did you know her before Gilraen married Arathorn?”
Radaghast paused in his step and turned a surprised stare to the little princess before him. His ability to read expressions to the point of reading minds had not prepared him for such precise questions or astute conclusions drawn from clearly limited information.
With a crooked grin peeking out through his thick beard, he ignored her questions and continued, “For whatever reason, Sauron returned. Nothing is known about where he was or what he was doing. Pallandro and Alatar had been watching for signs of him in the East but heard only rumors and ambiguous references. When he returned, Mithrandir approached Dol Guldur in a disguise and discovered the dark stranger out for who he was.”
“Mithrandir sure took an awful lot of responsibility onto his own shoulders.”
“If you want something done right, you must do it yourself,” Radaghast offered sagely, and Emerald’s shoulders sagged at all the ways in which this was relevant to her life. “He convinced the White Council to attack Dol Guldur, but we had hardly arrived before Sauron fled again.”
“And that was what year? You have yet to answer a question of mine.”
Radaghast chuckled at her impatience, “That was the year Third Age twenty-thirty-one.”
“So that . . . oh! Everything just clicked!” she beamed, clapping her hands together once in front of her body. The relief of finally making the pieces fit together, at least in this small corner of the greater puzzle, sent a wave of warmth through her body.
“What clicked, little one?”
“Before you met with the entire White Council, you met with the other Maiar in Dunharrow. You said Pallandro and Alatar were listening for news of Sauron in the East – but it’s only because they live there, correct? They went East with Saruman long before and stayed there.”
“My, but you do know more than I had expected. How have you heard of our meeting in Dunharrow?”
“I’m rather nosy.”
“So I am perceiving. Yes, Pallandro and Alatar live there. They agreed to keep their ears open, not out of the goodness of their own hearts, but so as to ask a favor of a friend in return.”
“Is that why Ivorwen was with you? Was she the friend?”
“Little one, you surprise even myself, and I had determined not to be surprised.”
Emerald giggled, “I’m just jumping to conclusions and they happen to be the right ones. So it was Ivorwen?”
“Yes. Ivorwen, as you concluded, was an old friend of mine. I had known her since she was born, for I knew her mother before her, and her mother before her.”
“How did you meet?” It was such an innocent question, carrying with it all the compassion and sweetness of a child asking their parents how they had met. It saddened Radaghast to remember his late friend, one of the few he could claim as his own, but he beamed to see her work carrying on before his very eyes.
Once again, Radaghast avoided her question, motioning for her to sit on the windowsill they had returned to for the light; he perched beside her and asked instead, “What do you know of your family line?” The question made Emerald sigh; she had been forced to memorize her family tree as a small child.
“Well Papa is the son of—“
“No, matrilineal, Emerald.”
“Oh.” It was odd to trace matrilineal lines, though of course she had been taught that as well. “Mama’s father was Eluréd, eldest son of Dior and Nimloth. Dior was the only child of Beren and Luthien.”
“And who was Luthien the daughter of?”
“King Thingol and his queen Melian, who was also the only woman maiar, right? My nurse told me that but my tutors said they didn’t know for sure.”
“Yes, your nurse was correct. Now what do you know of Eluréd’s siblings?”
“Well Elurin died along with Eluréd when the sons of Feanor tried to steal the Silmarils. His sister Elwing married Eärendil and bore Elrond and Elros.”
“Yes, and the children of Elrond and Elros?”
“Lord Elrond has my cousins, Elladan and Elrohil and Arwen. Elros . . . oh, it gets tricky. I don’t know all the names; they all sound the same to me.”
“You know that Elros chose be counted among the mortal men, and he became the first King of Númenor.”
“Yes.”
“Elros had four children. Vardamir, Manwendil, Atanalcar, all sons, and a daughter Tindómiel. Vardamir had four children: three sons and a daughter named Vardilmë. He inherited the throne from his father but immediately abdicated to his eldest son Tar-Amandil. Tar-Amandil had three children, two sons and a daughter named Mairen.”
“So many names . . .” Emerald sighed, but she nodded when Radaghast pressed her to listen carefully.
“His eldest son took the throne: Tar-Elendil, who had three children, two daughters and a son. His son became King Tar-Meneldur, who continued to rule Númenor. His eldest child, a daughter Silmariën, became the mother of the line of the Lords of Andúnië. Can you name the line?”
“No,” Emerald groaned. For the first time in her life, she was regretting not having paid better attention in her history lessons. She hated the disapproving look in Radaghast’s eyes.
“Well, I suppose they aren’t all important. Silmariën’s son was Valandil. For practical purposes, we can skip ahead to the sixteenth name, Númendil, who sought to return Númenor to the golden age by renewing old ties with the Valar and the Eldar. It was a revival, I suppose, of old beliefs that the Valar were worthy of respect and praise, that they might play an active role in our world.”
“Yes, I believe a similar revival is supposed to be taking place now.” Emerald wasn’t sure why she said it, but what he was talking about was exactly what she had been told needed to strike up in their current age in order to hopefully appease Iluvator.
“I have heard the same,” Radaghast nodded vaguely. “Unfortuantely, it failed then. Amandil, next in line, sailed into the West to ask the Valar’s forgiveness but did not return. His son was Elendil.”
“Whose son was Isildur who, after a few generations, eventually leads to Aragorn!” she beamed. “See, I remember some of it.”
“Very good. Now can you trace Aragorn’s matrilineal heritage?”
“No. His mother was Gilraen, her mother was Ivorwen, and that’s all I know. I take it I should know it?”
“I told you that Tar-Elendil had two daughters and a son, a first since if you noticed, the trend had been to have only one daughter in a house full of boys.”
“Yes, because it’s so much fun for the daughter,” Emerald rolled her eyes.
Radaghast chuckled; it had been so long since he had spent time around a young girl. They really were quite silly, and she was much sillier than the women of Aragorn’s heritage had ever been.
“Yes, well born betwixt Silmariën and Meneldur was Isilmë.”
“I don’t recognize the name.”
“Of course you don’t. Because while her siblings were founding known lines, Isilmë was founding a . . . a secret line, I suppose you could call it. It’s not written in any history books you would have found.”
“Well what’s this secret line?”
“She was born second age five-thirty-two. She had a daughter, who had a daughter, who had a daughter. Always a daughter, never a son.”
“Can’t you ever just answer a straight question?” Emerald huffed.
For once, he did. “No. Though now I will retreat a bit and answer your previous question. Now, despite how diluted it is, you must remember that these are descendents of Melian, the Maiar.”
“Yes.”
“And just as Saruman can sway with his words, and I can occasionally read what it is you’re thinking, she too had a talent that set her apart. She possessed the gift of foresight. This meant nothing for Luthien or Luthien’s children. In fact, none of the descendents of Melian showed any inkling of the gift she had possessed, until Isilmë.”
“Did she have the gift of foresight? She – wait, you mean that Ivorwen is the descendent of Isilmë don’t you? Because the rumor was that Ivorwen had foresight. Is that the conclusion I’m supposed to draw?”
“Correct.”
“What about all the generations between them? Is there anything important about any of them?”
Radaghast shrugged, “Only in a limited sense of the word. As I said, the line was secret. The gift of foresight is not recognized or embraced by the majority of our world.”
“No. It’s best to keep things like that a secret,” Emerald mused, tapping her lips and staring thoughtfully at the ground. She knew Radaghast would realize significance in her words, but she didn’t really care. She was trying to find a way to connect herself to Isilmë but she couldn’t. Isilmë’s line only ever had daughters, and she knew her own mother’s short line.
“Things have been done by these women, of course, and it is anyone’s guess as to how that will influence, or maybe already has influenced our world. For instance, Ivorwen’s husband was against Gilraen’s marriage, but Ivorwen convinced him because of her visions. Gilraen then bore Aragorn.”
“Which is pretty significant.”
“And Ivorwen’s mother too, it seems, chased a vision that is arguably significant.”
“Oh? What did she do?”
“She left her husband to take up the position of nurse for the princess of a faraway kingdom.” Emerald froze. Slowly her eyes turned to Radghast’s, which glistened with the excitement of her putting together more of the puzzle.
“Svea,” she answered the unasked question. “My nurse was the mother of Ivorwen? And she had the power of foresight?”
“Yes.”
“But—“
“Gilraen bore a son, Emerald.” The observation at first seemed unrelated, but suddenly Emerald wondered how she hadn’t latched onto that instantly. The line of Isilmë’s had only ever borne daughters, until the birth of Aragorn.
“But why—“
“Because she did not have the ability. Gilraen did not have foresight.”
“I don’t understand. Inherited abilities don’t just—“
“Jump to another family? No, it’s quite curious, isn’t it? Yet the facts cannot be ignored that Ivorwen did not pass on the ability to her daughter, while instead her own mother traveled to a distant kingdom to care for a child who was not even conceived yet.”
“Me?” Emerald gaped, but of course it was her. She had been told the story before. Svea had arrived at the kingdom and pledged her services as a nurse to Queen Lilwen, who had laughed that she had no children young enough to need a nurse and no plans for more. A week later, it became known that she was again with child, her only daughter. Queen Lilwen had been convinced Svea had brought the blessing to her family and kept her as the nurse, just as she’d asked.
And suddenly it all made sense. She’d had horrible nightmares as a little girl, and every morning Svea had been there to ask exactly what she had seen, and it had been written down in the thick journals that her father had burned when Svea had been locked away. Witchcraft. Black magic, they’d accused her of, insisting she had used her dark skills to enchant their daughter. Because sometimes Emerald would yelp in pain before she hit her head on the doorframe. Sometimes she would cry before a beloved family pet died. Sometimes she would fake sick on days that she just knew her tutors were going to try and wring her dry with boring long tests on geneology and history, even though they had meant to spring the exams on her. And once, Emerald had told her mother what her father was getting her for Christmas, even though he hadn’t decided on it yet.
Overwhelming sorrow suddenly gripped at Emerald’s chest, squeezing the breath from her lungs and slowing her racing heart to an almost standstill. They had accused Svea of black magic and tossed her away. Why hadn’t Svea explained to them about the premonitions? The dreams? The line of foresight? Her presence itself was proof of her own abilities, and the journals should have been evidence of Emerald’s natural implication.
They sat in silence for a long time. Long enough that the shadows changed directions on the ground while Emerald tried to settle the burning in her throat. Perhaps she cried, perhaps she just stared in silence. She really didn’t know, because it was just all so horrible. Her father had put to death an innocent women who had never done anything but love and care for Emerald.
“Why didn’t she say anything?” Emerald finally croaked. Her throat felt raw. Her face was wet.
Radaghast paused before asking, “Who knows of your gift?”
“Beven. Others maybe know pieces: my mother; Lord Elrond and Mithrandir both know—knew pieces. You, I take it.”
“Anyone else?”
“I suppose Tegryn, Hergest, and Alagedh are figuring things out slowly, but I haven’t told them.”
“And why have you not told everyone? Surely most little princesses would be delighted to share such an extraordinary gift with the world.”
“I . . . I just always knew I needed to be careful, I suppose. Even before . . . I guess I didn’t think people would believe me. I assumed they’d want to lock me up like they had with Svea.”
“That, child, is why she did not say anything. Because even the princess of a great king would be considered insane, a danger. Her time ended but you needed to be free to live on with your gift. Perhaps she knew more, but at the most basic level, you needed to live.”
“But people knew of Ivorwen’s gift,” Emerald argued, suddenly sitting up straighter. “And no one locked her up.”
“No one knew of her gift until she was beyond their grasp.”
“With you?”
“For a long time. Rumors began while she was traveling with me, so she did not return to her husband, instead remainig with me until Pallandro and Alatar asked her to go with them to the East. She went with them and passed away among their community.”
“That answers a question I’d always had,” Emerald considered. “Why Gilraen sought aid from Lord Elrond instead of Ivorwen when Arathorn died.”
“Yes. Ivorwen had no aid to offer.”
Emerald was silent for another lengthy time before pressing, “But why me? Why did the gift skip lines? How?”
“I am afraid those are questions I am incapable of answering,” he admitted. “They are mine, as well. Perhaps there is some reason; perhaps there is no reason at all. Perhaps we will learn in our lifetime; perhaps we will never know. But the facts remain. Are you working on any projects in particular?”
“Projects?”
“You came to me of your own accord. What was your reason for it? Only to seek information of Ivorwen?”
“Oh. Mostly. Projects . . . I mean, I suppose I played a hand in condemning the Fellowship to death and in sending Mithrandir there already,” she pouted, staring at her hands clasped in her lap. “So far I’m two for two.”
Radaghast shook his head, “You are very hard on yourself for a girl so unaware of even her own abilities. But come, you must have some greater aims.”
“Well . . . I suppose I’ve considered trying to find the two remaining Silmarils. And I’ve thought about trying to find the Entwives. And somehow, I’m supposed to instigate one of those revivals you were mentioning.”
“How came you by that purpose?”
Emerald shrugged, “How do we ever know? Dreams, feelings, voices. It’s old hat to you, isn’t it?” Part of her considered telling him about Váromë and about her book . . . but those things felt so personal. A larger, louder part of her warned to keep them close. If there was one thing all of his stories today had assured her of, it was that at best, she was alone. Her brothers could only remain by her side for so long. Hadn’t Svea died alone? Hadn’t Ivorwen been exiled and, likewise, died without any of her loved ones near? It seemed her fate, and yet the least depressing thing of all the sorrows of the day. Her heart ached for Svea and Mithrandir and really, it was a miracle it still beat in her chest.
“Yes, well . . . of course, though I can offer you what services I have, Emerald, they are limited. Instead of telling you the story of the destruction of the Silmarils, I will instead confess that Ivorwen, too, dedicated some thought to them. Though I cannot tell you the particulars, for too much was always running through her head for me to keep up with, perhaps following in her steps might help.” Emerald couldn’t imagine that Radaghast wouldn’t be able to keep up with Ivorwen, however it comforted her some small bit. So Ivorwen didn’t tell Radaghast every thought either.
“She thought they might still exist?”
“I cannot say. It was my aim to keep her safe and help her when I could, as it was with all the line before. I can only say what was, and sometimes read on a mind what is, but what is to come is beyond my grasp.”
“Mine too, really,” Emerald sighed, leaning against the stone. How long had they been here? The sun was beginning to sink behind the tree line, stealing the warmth that had permeated the clearing.
“It is always possible that Ivorwen left more information with Pallandro and Alatar, as she spent the end of her days with them.”
“I suppose that’s where I should go then,” Emerald nodded, accepting as he rose and pulled her to her feet before carefully lowering her to the ground outside Dol Guldur. She felt the shadow tangibly against her back as they retreated into the forest, and for a moment wondered if she should mention to Legolas that she had survived Dol Guldur without so much as a hiccup. There was nothing threatening left, just an empty shell reminder of the dark shadow that now threatened them all.
“East,” Radaghast was explaining. “They are in the far East.”
“Why did you bring me to Dol Guldur, Radaghast?” Emerald asked, glancing back once more before it disappeared. She again had to rely on Radaghast’s steadying arm to keep herself from tripping.
He seemed to weigh his words carefully before explaining, “Are you afraid of being alone, Emerald?”
“Sometimes,” she answered honestly.
“You must overcome that fear.”
“I know.”
“But that is not why I brought you here. When you see the little princeling again, I would very much like for you to tell him that I brought you here.”
Emerald gaped, “Why?”
“Why, because he will be furious with me. There are not many things I may still find pleasure in, little one, so I must seek it where I can.” This didn’t totally make sense to her, but the certainty with which he said when she saw Legolas again gave her a glimmer of warmth in the dark forest. But then she recalled Radaghast’s own words: he couldn’t see what was to come. Just like that the glimmer was gone.
Instead she tried to focus as Radaghast asked, “Will you be taking your brothers to the East with you?”
“I haven’t much choice. They’ve all but sworn to go to the ends of the earth with me.”
“It will feel as though you have done that. Tomorrow I will decide your best route with Beven. It seems he is better at that sort of thing than you.”
“He is,” Emerald agreed, but already her brain was jumping onto the new realization. She was going East. As in East. She, the little trouble-making daughter of King Orwig and Queen Lilwen, was going to do what no one in her family, what no one she had ever met save the Maiar, had ever done before. She was leaving Middle Earth.
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