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Chapter 21: Tormented Singer

In a dark place in his mind, Linnwlme cringed. Pain flashed across his skin like lightning, and there was never a ceasing of agony; he bled without loss, wept without tears. His bones were twisted and broken slowly, to be broken again with no memory of healing. He was falling, dashed upon stones sharp as blades. He drowned, his lungs crushed and filled with water, his cries unheeded, his breath bubbling away.

Immortality; when the spirit never dies. Men have viewed it as a great blessing, coveted the gift given to the Elder Children and fearing their own gift of escape from the world to a possibly better place. To one Eldar at least, immortality was no blessing. It was to die over and over, and never to escape the pain and fear.

Linnwalme walked the earth, whole and unwounded at the moment, though inside his head he was mutilated. All he hoped for was to end this abominable existence, by finding someone powerful enough to destroy his tormentor.

The dark water of his birthplace he barely recalled, layered under ages of thralldom and periods of almost blissful blackness. He had been captured by the Dark Rider, and as he had laboured in the mines of Bauglir, his hope of escape or death burned from him by careful cruelty. When Thangrodrim fell, he was buried deep and he had thought then that perhaps he would be ended at last and fly toward that soft, beautiful voice that called to him, inviting him to come Westward and dwell in halls where his folk gathered. But he was anchored by this life, caught like a fox in a trap by one foot, unable to gnaw his way free.

He had been found then by Gorthaur, or rather by his orcs, who nearly made a feast of him until their master blasted them. He desired more a plaything and a slave in Linnwalme. He was chained and forced to sing, a robin in a cage, until his throat closed and no music could be wrung from him. Then Sauron grew bored and had him imprisoned in an oubliette, where he was to be forgotten.

But often a scrap of food was dropped, foul but sustaining, and water dripped down steadily to quench his thirst and soothe his throat torn bloody with use. And so he lived, against his wishes, for countless years in the womb of the earth, until things were changed and the water dried up and no food came again. Why he did not die, when others of his folk could not endure such, he did not know. His soul stubbornly remained with his withered flesh.

Linnwalme escaped that prison then, for the earth shuddered in a natural spasm, rending his tomb with a crack just wide enough for a starved elf to slither out, a snake or a worm. He emerging from the earth like a seed planted in winter, to face the sun against all hope. And he was unfettered and free but in his mind, chains rattled.

His own folk avoided him and turned him away at the borders of their lands. The mark of thralldom was on him, a hundred scars and a haunted glance; they trusted not that he was free indeed. He did not fight or curse them, but learned to circumvent their territory, keeping to himself but for the few Men he encountered who knew nothing of the signs. These he would dwell with for a time, singing for his supper or hunting to keep a place beside the hearth, until he grew weary of the Men or he strayed too far and lost his way back.

Linnwalme’s broken mind could not hold long a memory against the noise of his agony. Sometimes he could recall easily the days of his youth, or a face he had known, but then the name that went with the face swam away, and the days blurred into cruel scenes that he turned his thoughts away from. He tried to focus on his feet, to walk and walk and find a place beyond the knives in his head, where they could not hurt him anymore. Slowly, very slowly as he drifted through the lands of Middle-earth, fashioning no permanent home for himself, he made a place within his mind that was not defiled.

And so in his wanderings the Master found him, and he seemed to be able to make the pain fade with his touch. When those hands had gently caressed his face, Linnwalme enjoyed a moment free of pain for the first time in 10,000 years.

But only for a moment. With that act of seeming kindness, a black monster had snared the abused Elf again.

"I hold your soul in a cage, dark elf," spoke the Master, and his voice hissed. Once gentle hands closed about his throat with claws of iron. "If you would own it, then you must serve me."

Linnwalme knew that he would never be freed by him; no more than he would have been set free by Bauglir or Gorthaur. He laid therefore a plan, in the corner of his mind that he had managed to keep private; an armoured, callused place inside the Elf that had begun to heal in the years of his free wandering. This was the place he had retreated to when death was near to him with wound or starvation or exposure. His spirit was visible there, and the spirits of many things he saw also. He learned to go to that place at will, even with his eyes open and sunlight on his face. There he formed a quest for himself, and ending to his torment. He must find someone to destroy his Master. Then his soul would be free, and he could end at last.

So Linnwalme obeyed the Master, showing respect to the great serpent, for he was in truth a dragon, mutated by the arts of Saurman the Wise in his darkest experiments in the heart of Orthanc. The Elf went forth into the lands, locating elves in their private groves and kingdoms, now a scattered people since the Calaquendi had departed with most of the Sindar to the West. No longer was he turned away, but welcomed as a kinsman and given kindness and trust. He used that trust to the Master’s benefit, spying their secrets and luring their weakminded away to become the Master’s tools. Linnwalme did not balk at these deeds. When the Master was destroyed, all his treachery would be absolved when he bent to beg for forgiveness at Mandos’s feet. Even were he expelled to the Void for his sins, still the Lords of the West would be more merciful than his life had been. He trusted in the compassion of the Valar.

He journeyed far on the Master’s errand, and finding a great gathering of dark elves dwelling in the distant east, upon an island beyond the vast continent, he carefully orchestrated the orphaning of many young elves, helping them escape while Hlokerim slaughtered their parents and elders. Leading them to the shores of Rhun, they crossed the great barren lands to reach Rhovannion. There he insinuated himself into Thranduil’s kingdom, the quiet and humble dark elf that spoke little and occasionally sang.

 

Now that dark elf lay on the ground and screamed without sound as his Master twisted his mind for his disobedience. The sun climbed but he heeded not the passing time. Not until the knives in his head withdrew, and he lay gasping in the dirt, did he realize how much the day had flown. Frodo would have been alone for hours.

He closed his mind against that thought, but it was too late. He was not alone in his head.

"Where is the halfling? You should have brought him north to the River. He would have been halfway here by now, had you kept to your word."

"My Lord," Linnwalme said, though the Master could read his thoughts, he spoke aloud. "I do not trust your snakemen. They are savages! They nearly killed all of them in their blundering! Do you want your guest to arrive or not? I can slay the halfling now if you do not need him alive! It would be the same as handing him over to those carrion-eaters." Linnwalme endured the searing heat of the Master’s wrath as he spoke boldly. He leaned long ago that the Master approved of his frankness, though he would chastise him for his disrespect. Linnwalme cared not; pain he could endure. As long as the Master believed he knew why Linnwalme disobeyed, he would not search his mind further; he would not find his private cache of thoughts.

After a time of penance, the pain eased and the voice said, "It is difficult to trust you, dark elf. Treachery comes so easily to you. I wonder if you do not contemplate betraying me."

"Lord, you know all my thoughts. I have only one desire, and you are the key to that. I do as you command. I have not failed you."

"Neither have you obeyed me completely. Very well, bring me the halfling in your own way. But be swift. Hlokerim are ordered to make sure the task is done. They will search and take your prize, if you fall behind or try to turn back. You understand; I require insurance of success."

Linnwalme felt himself released, and he immediately ran toward the place where he had left Frodo. He prayed that the sleep-draught had kept the halfling quiet in the hills. He could smell corruption nearby.