The Silmarillion ll: Of Wolves And Men

Prologue

Valar, the ground was hard. Beruthiel turned over uncomfortably on her bedroll. There was nowhere to sleep without getting poked by roots and those infernal stones which she swore shifted position with her. Heaving a sigh of annoyance, she closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep. But she couldn't.

Her horse whickered softly nearby, tethered to graze. Grumbling, she sat up and pulled out her knives, examining the blades more out of habit than actual interest. A cricket chirped somewhere beside her, and she yawned. As long as the small insects were singing, she was fine. When they fell quiet, however—she knew she needed to hide. 

The air was warm and dry, and the forest was lit by brief flashes of blue light. It had been storming all night, but fortunately there was no thunder or rain. It was odd weather, to be sure, but nothing abnormal. It had happened before. 

The sudden blinding flare of light directly overhead made her blink, and for a split second she thought she heard a voice ringing in her ears. 

What the...?

She stared at the three round globes sitting on her lap, their smooth surfaces glimmering faintly.

They had certainly not been there before. She jumped up, her heart pounding, and they tumbled to the ground, clicking like glass as they struck each other. Crouching in the shadows, Beruthiel watched them with a strange fascination that she did not understand. She knew that they were not placed there by a person, creeping up and setting them in her lap as she sat, oblivious. If one asked the ranger how she knew, she would have shrugged and said that she did not know. She felt that they were placed there by something different. 

Reaching out cautiously, she touched one, and was immediately assaulted with fire and flashing images. She saw the face of an elf—or was he an elf? He seemed different, stronger, darker. A fey light shone in his eyes and she saw him raising aloft the three jewels. Fire engulfed him, and she saw ships kindling in the writhing flames. Then everything moved fast, and she could barely distinguish what passed before her eyes, only discerning faces, swords, and corpses. A chill fear suddenly gripped her, despite the blaze, and she saw a black shadow, twisted and gigantic. The figure clouded into murky black smoke, sending grasping tendrils everywhere. She saw the jewels mounted on his head. Then all went hazy once more, and she saw two figures, heard a snatch of song like cool rain on a hot day, then a monstrous wolf's jaws opened and closed upon her. She could dimly feel the warm globe in her hand, and let go. Immediately the fire was gone, and she opened her eyes. 

She was lying on her back, panting. What she had seen, she knew all too well. The son of Finwë and Míriel, High King of the Ñoldor—Fëanor himself. And the Kinslaying at Alqualondë. Melkor. Beren and Luthien. Carcharoth. 

The Silmarils have been brought to you, Beruthiel, a soft voice murmured. You are pure of heart and worthy to bear them. Find a place for them, where they will never corrupt the peoples of Middle Earth. Guard them well, Beruthiel, but heed well our words of warning. Do not harbor greed toward them, and keep them out of your sight. Heed our words well, Beruthiel...

The ranger looked down at the gems, so innocent in the flickering lightning. She had guessed, but now she was sure. They were—

The Silmarils.