There was a light mist covering slightly over the river that crossed through the Trollshaws in the early light of a new day. Turmagor pulled his cloak, which was red as blood, tightly about him against the early morning chill. Sullaer, his trusted steed, shifted under him as he stirred. They had sat beside the banks for an hour just observing the activity; bird and beast, tree and leaf, wind and water. Looking upon the glittering mist, Turmagor realized how much beauty there was and that he had truly missed this all.
Yesterday had been the first time in several years that he had ventured forth from the refuge of Imladris. Only two days ago he sat alone in dark thought, as he had since soon after his imprisonment and torture by the Black Maw. Turmagor was rescued from that torment by the valor and skill of his kin, but the fell voice of his captor ever echoed in his ears and blurred his vision so that he could not clearly see anything in the light. He saw the dark things this monster spoke of and all hope left him, just as it had in years past with his father, the mighty Oromman. The elf fought it with all the strength he had then, denying that he would be beaten by a mere memory of pain. And he did regain the mastery of his mind and body for a time, up until the Hammer tournament where he defeated all who stood against him, save the mighty Kalluin. And in conclusion to the grand event, a promotion was even bestowed upon him within the Order of the Hammer. All believed Turmagor was well on the path to recovery and he beamed with pride that he had not fallen to his enemy.
Soon after this honor was bestowed upon him, the terrible voice descended upon Turmagor with renewed potency, and threatened to break him utterly unto a bitter end. And so there he dwelt, in the corners of Imladris, having all joy blotted out of his heart. The blank stare on his face had echoed every dark time that he had ever experienced in the long ages, and his strength diminished steadily. At first, his kin asked about his progress, for there was no ailment that they could perceive. And when he did not recover after months, they asked no more. And it remained so for years. And then, two days ago he wandered in a waking dream through Imladris as he had been since the darkness fell, when something caught his attention. His eyes cleared for a brief moment and say a single ray of light pierced the cloud, illuminating a small grey hawk sitting upon a branch. The hawk sat before an Elf Maid, tilting its head slightly as she read a letter. Under the bright beam of sunlight, the Hawk looked majestic, as if it brought word from the Elder King himself. Cocking its head to a new angle where it focused intently on Turmagor, it called out in a shrill cry. The combination of the new found light and the bird’s call startled him as if awoken by a familiar sound from a terrible dream. And with that, the dream passed and his mind became clear again. For he knew this bird, and held dear the master to which the hawk served.
Where have they gone? Why would he send back his most trusted messenger? Was he in danger? Turmagor’s mind raced…as worried as he was by these unanswered questions, a shudder of excitement went through him for he had not thought so clearly in far too long.
Listening intently to those that spoke of the letter who was addressed to one elf he knew and then also the folk of Imladris, he understood the peril that was at hand. Though in memory, he could vaguely recollect an echo of discussion about this same matter from days past, the fell voice of the Maw drowned it out until it was nothing more than a whisper, far and faint. And now, with his mind clear and knowing that he must aid those who risked so much to rescue him, he decided it was time to renounce the shadow utterly. And as he did so, the sunshine fell on him and for the first time in years, he felt warmth. His limbs began to feel strong again and it felt as if the flames of Anor bit him deeply, lighting a flame in his chest, which began to swell with the pride he had of old. Turmagor felt whole as he had not done in this age of the world, and he was sure the dark shadow in his mind had been pushed back, unable to withstand that flame. He would go to their aid, and even if he were slain, he would do so in honor and glory – not as the shadow he had become, broken and mist haunting. He would not go West in defeat, as his father had been made to do.
Remembering clearly his days of torment and the darkness that followed, Turmagor shuddered now upon his swift steed, and Sullaer looked over his shoulder to the rider. Smiling, Turmagor whispered comforting words in the tongue of his people and Sullaer looked forward once again, understanding what the elf said. He thought back to what gave him the strength he now felt throughout his body, and was grateful. Taking a deep breath, he said, “So friend, are we ready to go at last? Hwesta went south. We have no wings, so our path will not be as clear as his. But any who attempt to hinder us will not stand long…”
Turmagor looked down to his mighty hammer that he named Métiquetta – The Final Word in the ancient speech of the West. He thought about how light it had seemed when he packed gear and provisions for the his journey. Not in many years had it seemed so, but that gave him confidence that his strength was now returned, beyond even what he had known in the long years of this age. His swords too he checked and though he loved them dearly, Métiquetta seemed the right weapon for this day. He then checked his pack for the clothes he was told all the company he now followed were commanded to bring – things to remain hidden from unwelcome eyes.
Everything was in order, and he took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. Raising his bowed head with the road before him, Turmagor said a single word and Sullaer began their long trek south.
