Legacy of the Dispossessed {DISCONTINUED}

In Rivendell, Where Elves Yet Dwell

I hate Rivendell. In truth, I hate any place where Elves dwell. By those two sentences alone, you might have presumed that I'm a dwarf. Unfortunately, you could not have been more wrong.

Rivendell, Lorien, Mirkwood, the Grey Havens, they're all the same to me. But out of them, Rivendell is the worst. The absolute worst. Because Noldorin Elves dwell in Rivendell, Noldorin Elves that remember. Elves that remember the Elder Days, elves that remember the War of Wrath, elves that remember the terror my father and brothers unleashed, and those that hold it against me.

I sighed. I was riding a chestnut mare over the desolate lands past the borders of what used to be Eregion, Hollin in the tongues of Men. Rivendell was near, nestled in its valley. I make it a point to carefully steer away from civilization, especially cities of Elves or the more noble Men, such as Gondor. However, I could not ignore the summons Elrond had sent me. I snorted. As if he had the authority to summon me. But still, I would listen to him no matter how young he was. Elrond was probably the only elf that was kind to me. His children, however, were a different story.

I looked up. The sun was high in the sky. I would reach Rivendell by nightfall, if not before. The sun beat down on me, and I was literally baking. Probably because I was wearing a mostly-full suit of armor: a breastplate, pauldrons, gauntlets, vambraces, greaves, and a tall helm with a plume of red: armor my father had made, ere the first Kinslaying. At my side hung a long sword that shone with a cold white light even under the sun. This was my uncle's sword; I had marched under his banner and when he fell, his sword was given to me. My father's sword, alas, had never been brought to Middle-earth, and even if it had, I had no desire to wield it: it was tainted by the blood of Kin.

I reached the gates of Imladris in the evening, as Arien was sinking to the horizon. My horse clip-clopped over the narrow stone bridge, and the elf guards glared at me in hatred: as I said, no elf or man that knows his history likes me. On the other side, I rode into a courtyard and dismounted. Aside from me, there was a man, with reddish-blonde hair, with a horn at his belt and a round shield slung over his shoulder. There was also a blond elf I knew, Legolas. Seeing me, he bowed in my direction, his face one of ignorance. If he had been alive in the Elder Days as I had, if he had dwelt in Bereliand, he would've understood who I was and why everyone was afraid of me or hated me. I nodded to him and led my mare to the stables.

Once my horse was stabled, I went back to the courtyard and climbed up the steps. Just as I made it to the next level, a dark-haired elf with a circlet on his head, Elrond, descended from the flight above mine.

"My lady Thanyewen," he said, extending a hand in greeting towards me.

"Lord Elrond," I said in return, doing the same. "You summoned me?"

"Yes. There is to be a Council tomorrow, concerning Isildur's Bane," he said in Quenya, the High Tongue.

"Isildur's Bane?" I raised my eyebrows. As we walked up the stairs and through the gardens, he told me how it had been found, how it came into the possession of a hobbit by the name of Frodo Baggins, and how the Ringwraiths had hunted him and hurt him. "If the Ulairi have risen again... that is ill news for Middle-earth." He nodded.

"I must look to the Halfling," Elrond excused himself. I nodded and wandered through the gardens to the room that is always given to me at Rivendell.

As I was walking through a garden that overlooked a cascading waterfall, I caught sight of two elves, dark-haired and identical. Elladan and Elrohir. Approaching me, they stood to both sides of me so I had no way to go, a building to my back and them in front of me. I rested my hand on the hilt of my sword, ready to draw it at any sign of trouble.

"What are you doing here, Dispossessed?" one of them, Elladan, snarled. I took a breath and fought against my hot temper. I took after my father, inheriting his dark looks and fiery spirit he had been named for.

"I am here, heru (lord), because your father has summoned me," I responded coolly.

"You have no place amongst Noldorin, Kinslayer," the other, Elrohir, said with equal anger. I took another breath.

"You both know that I swore no oath and slew no Kin. Why do you accuse me of doing deeds my father and brothers have done?"

"You are no Noldorin. Your line is cursed," Elladan said. For a moment, fire shone in my coal-black eyes. Then I pushed past them and hurried off to my room, all the time keeping a hand on my sword, though I told myself: I will not taint this sword of kings with the blood of my last surviving kin.

Making my way to the room, I locked the door and collapsed on my bed. I stripped off my armor, lay my sheathed sword against a stand on the wall, and took off my helmet. Looking in the long mirror, I saw that my royal blue tunic was stained with mud and there were leaves in my hair. Argh. Not again.

I took a long bath, then got dressed in time for dinner, another ordeal: I would have to meet him.

Glorfindel. For he is one who remembers.

A/A: Hi guys, I know I already have two stories going on but the plot dragons are raging in my head so I had to write this. I'll probably update this every week, between Silverhelm and Cure to the Coronavirus. (If you haven't read those, please do.) So those of you that have read the Silmarillion will probably have guessed who Thanyewen's father and brothers are. But PLEASE bear with me. Also, no, the way that she says Glorfindel does not suggest there will be any relationship between those two. BTW, Thanyewen means ruling woman. Any guesses to what the sword she carries is? Anyone? =)