Delioron sat on the hillside above the Court of Anglind, staring down at the ships sailing at the Bay of Belfalas. His gaze followed the ships until their sails disappeared beyond the horizon. It amused him to try and guess their destinations. A ship heading towards Ethir Anduin could make him mutter ”Dol Amroth” or ”Linhir”. If the ship was sailing in another direction, the correct answer would be ”Pelargir” or ”Osgiliath” or perhaps even ”Cair Andros”.
”Things have changed”, said the man standing by the tree Delioron was leaning his back against. The man was in his late middle-age and had long, iron-gray hair. ”I thought you might not come.”
”I was curious to see what has brought you this far from Minas Tirith.”
”You must understand that I had nothing to do with Denethor’s… plans. I would not have treated you that way.”
”No, Parthadan. You would have been completely fine with using me as your tool for as long as I remained useful to you. I’m sure it was really inconvenient for you, to lose a perfectly useful tool. My heart aches for you.”
”What have you been doing since you quit? It has been almost half a year now.”
”Writing chronicles”, Delioron replied.
Parthadan blanched and snapped his head around to stare at Delioron. He opened his mouth to protest, but was stopped by the trace of ironic smile on Delioron’s winter-hard features.
”Do not make jokes about it”, Parthadan warned. ”Denethor would not take kindly to jokes like that.”
”He does not like history?”
”You know what I mean”, Parthadan said. ”This is about Gwathrandir. You remember that name, don’t you? I know you’ve met before.”
”I knew him a long time ago. Back in Rhûn. You know it as well as I do.” Delioron’s voice was cold and bleak like the wind in the mountain passes of Ephel Dúath. He closed his gray, frozen eyes to see Gwathrandir again with his mind’s eye. He remembered a tall, thin, pale elf with dark, haunted eyes, dressed in dark, threadbare robes. He had met Gwathrandir almost fifteen years ago in the mountains of Kravod in Narimanush, during the short-lived rebellion to overthrow Hûz III, Sauron’s puppet-ruler in Kravod, and restore the independence of Narimanush to the Jhangovars. Delioron had spent three years in the mountains with the rebels, and during that time a mysterious elf who called himself Gwathrandir had also frequented the camps, helping the rebels in their fight against Sauron.
Rhûn. Delioron had never felt like home anywhere but during those three years in the mountains of Kravod and the previous year he had spent in the Jhangovar capital in King Seddîd’s court as an emissary of Gondor. But Sauron’s forces had finally crushed the rebellion and Delioron had been forced to flee back to Gondor, the land he had been born in but where he had never really belonged. Since then his life had been but an endless, aimless drifting throughout the Middle-Earth, carrying death and lies and secrets to wherever Parthadan, the Warden of the Green and Denethor’s unofficial spymaster, commanded him to go. All for the glory of Gondor.
He remembered Radawen, the scholar from Minas Tirith, with whom he had had a brief romance at the turn of the year. Radawen had gotten in trouble with the Rangers of Ithilien and the henchmen of Lord Falaben, the corrupt Lord of Ethir Anduin, during the curious case of the Blue Wizard late last year. Delioron had travelled to Imloth Melui to seduce and use Radawen to get to Romenstar’s secret diary, but had fallen in love with the red-headed scholar himself.
In the end Radawen had forgiven him all his lies and deceits. After the case had been solved Radawen had travelled to Belfalas to come look for him in his home, and they had had a romance, bittersweet in it’s shortness. They had fallen in love with each other, but in the end Delioron could not allow Radawen to become part of his life. He knew that he could never walk away from the life he was forced to lead, and sooner or later it would result in Radawen’s death in the hands of his enemies. No, it was better to let her go lead a normal and secure life as a scholar, marry someone worthy of her love, not a soulless killer like Delioron.
So one night in mid-winter he had left Radawen alone in his home. He had sneaked out of his house in the middle of the night, taken his horse and ridden out of Belfalas, leaving behind no note of explanation. He had traveled to Minas Tirith, only to find out that Steward Denethor wanted him to move to the capital to become a King’s Writer, a royal scribe of Gondor. The position was offered because of Denethor’s uneasy feelings with Parthadan’s secret network of informants and cutthroats breaking laws of Gondor in the name of protecting the realm. Denethor was especially concerned with Delioron, who had served under Parthadan for so long and been involved in so many nefarious activities over the years. Delioron knew too much of Gondor’s dirty secrets, so Denethor wanted him out of Parthadan’s service but kept in a tight leash, so he would not cause problems for the throne.
Delioron had retired instead and traveled back to Belfalas. As far as he was concerned, he was done with serving the realm. He would never move to Minas Tirith. He had no interest whatsoever in joining Denethor’s army of clerks and bureaucrats in the capital. If they had no use for him anymore, then so be it – he was finally free to rest and spend the rest of his days in quiet contemplation.
When he returned home, he had found the house cold, empty and abandoned. Radawen had left weeks ago, hurt and confused by his sudden disappearance – his betrayal. Yet another betrayal. It was better that way. She deserved someone better.
The spring and the summer in Belfalas had been quiet and uneventful for Delioron, until one morning when a messenger arrived with an encrypted letter from Parthadan, requesting a secret meeting in the woods up the hill above the Court of Anglind.
”What about Gwathrandir?” he now asked.
”He’s dead”, Parthadan said in a soft voice. ”His body was found in Trollshaws, washed up on the bank of the Bruinen river. I had sent him to Imladris to probe about something that had caused concern to Denethor. I wasn’t sure if he would find out anything, but I asked if he would go there for me, and he agreed. He had served me for many years as a courier between Gondor and Lothlórien, but he had never been to Imladris before, as far as I know.”
Delioron closed his eyes again. He remembered that one night in Narimanush fifteen years ago when he had stumbled upon Gwathrandir by a mountain river. The elf was staring at a necklace with three large white jewels. The elf had a horrible burn scar on his right palm. Delioron had seen it before, but he had never asked about it. But that night something had compelled Gwathrandir to tell Delioron about the things that had been burning inside his soul for thousands of years. Delioron did not know why Gwathrandir had chosen him to confide with. Perhaps he had just needed to tell someone, anyone, and perhaps the petrified silence and secrets he had seen in Delioron’s face had convinced Gwathrandir to trust him with his own. So the old elf had revealed Delioron his secret name – his real name. He had told Delioron about the Sons of Fëanor, about his oath to recover his father’s Silmarils and the sad tale of his wife Laureanis, whom he had so cruelly abandoned after her imprisonment in Angband. He had told Delioron about the Kinslayings, the Nírnaeth Arnoediad, the War of Wrath and the final attempt to steal the two remaining Silmarils. The jewels he now carried in his pocket were not the real Silmarils but replicas he had crafted for himself, to remind him of the many oaths he had not been able to keep and the many regrets he now carried within his hollowed heart.
As far as Delioron was concerned, Maglor’s secrets would remain secrets even after his death. Parthadan had no need to know of them.
”Parthadan, I don’t work for you anymore”, Delioron said.
”But I need someone to investigate this matter”, Parthadan said. ”Someone who is not connected to me or anyone in Minas Tirith. I don’t want anyone to know that I’m sending someone up to Eriador.”
”Not even Denethor?”
”Especially not Denethor.”
Delioron waited.
”As you know, Denethor has been using the Anor-stone in the White Tower to spy upon the citizens of Gondor and other people in far-off places. But during the last six months he has been seeing some really strange visions in the palantír, and it has aged him terribly. He claims that Sauron has stationed a huge army of orcs and trolls in Dol Guldur. There are closer to one hundred orcs there, according to Denethor, and thousands of trolls. It is possible that if Sauron has concluded his invasion to Khand, he could have called back his troops from there, but why station them in Dol Guldur? I can only think of one reason, and that would be an invasion to one of the elven realms, Lórien or Imladris.
”But that is not all. The Anor-stone has also showed Denethor visions of places he has not been looking to see – places he didn’t even know what they were. One of those visions was of three white towers built atop a range of rolling hills. I suggested it might be Emyn Beraid, the Tower Hills east of Mithlond. He saw this vision twice, once in late winter and once in early spring. And in connection to this vision the palantír showed him two hooded and cloaked men dumping a corpse into a river. Based on Denethor’s description the hooded men could have been Dúnedain – they had star-shaped silver brooches – and the river could have been the Lhûn, I think. And the Steward said he also heard a voice, a malicious entity whispering in his head. He heard but one word: Reed, or perhaps Rîdh.”
”I thought we were talking about Gwathrandir”, Delioron said.
”It’s not that simple. Please, pay attention! I’m trying to make some sense of it all.”
Delioron was silent.
”I also had a man stationed up in the ruins of old Tharbad, a pigeon-handler. An old, reclusive hunter called Faragadir. His mission there was to keep an eye on the ruins and the surrounding areas and send me messages via his pigeons of all suspicious activities and movements, like unusually large numbers of orcs and anything else he considered strange or unusual. I haven’t received anything particularly interesting from Faragadir in years, but early spring this year he sent me a peculiar message. A man of Bree called Felonwort had arrived in Tharbad, claiming that he was being chased by the Dúnedain, that he had important information about Sauron’s secret plot in Eriador concerning the palantír in Emyn Beraid, and demanding a sanctuary from Gondor in exchange for his information. To prove his claims this Felonwort had given Faragadir a letter he claimed included encrypted mission orders for Sauron’s spy in Eriador. And guess what the name of the spy was? Reed.
”Faragadir sent the letter to me with a pigeon, and I gave it to someone to decipher. The letter was written in Black Speech and encrypted in a simple code, very easy to crack and read for anyone who can read the Dark Tongue of Mordor. The spy had been given orders to infiltrate a Dúnedain encampment by the Lake Evendim and find someone willing to help him find the site of Emyn Beraid, get into the tower of Elostirion, find the palantír and turn it to face east, then contact Sauron using the stone. That’s it. There were no instructions on how the spy was supposed to get past the elven guards in Elostirion, and surely Sauron must know the stone is not left there unguarded. Even more peculiar was the inclusion of the Dúnedain. Wouldn’t it have been easier for Sauron to just give the spy a map of the region and tell him to avoid all people on his way to Emyn Beraid? It’s almost as if the whole point of the mission was to draw the Dúnedain to Emyn Beraid for some reason, and getting to the palantír itself was perhaps not the goal at all. But it gets even stranger. In the end of the letter the spy was specifically instructed to save the letter and carry it with him at all times. It sounds almost like the letter was meant to be found and read by someone.”
”I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with Gwathrandir and Imladris”, Delioron said.
”I will get to it soon. This Felonwort had been some kind of criminal from Bree, and he was serving the Dúnedain by the Lake Evendim as a kind of prisoner when he met Reed. Two Rangers named Beriador and Lhaindir suspected Reed of being a spy from Mordor and tasked Felonwort to befriend Reed and find out about his intentions. The spy had told Felonwort about the plan concerning Emyn Beraid and the Elostirion-stone, and promised Felonwort freedom and riches if he could help him get to the site of the towers. Felonwort told this to Lhaindir and Beriador, and unbeknownst to the rest of the Dúnedain – and Reed – the two Rangers devised a plan: Felonwort was to ’escape’ the Dúnedain encampment and escort the spy to the towers. At the same time one of the Rangers, Beriador, would follow Reed and Felonwort from a safe distance and intervene and capture Reed in the last moment. Why the Rangers decided on this course of action instead of just capturing and interrogating the spy remains unclear to me, and so does their reason for hiding this operation from the other Dúnedain.”
”The whole story is as clear as mud and full of holes”, Delioron said. ”And you still haven’t explained how any of it links with Gwathrandir or Imladris.”
”Everything went according to the plan for a while, but before Reed and Felonwort had reached Emyn Beraid, Felonwort had an idea – he stole the letter Reed was carrying in his bag while Reed was sleeping and fled. Felonwort had gotten fed up with the hospitality of the Dúnedain and figured that somebody in Gondor would pay good money and give him a sanctuary in exchange for a genuine letter from Mordor, a letter revealing Sauron’s secret plot in Eriador. Eventually he found his way to Tharbad, where he met Faragadir.”
”And then what?”
”I sent a letter back to Faragadir, telling him that I was interested in meeting this Felonwort.” Parthadan stared at the clouds drifting over the Bay of Belfalas. ”I never received an answer. I sent a team of searchers to Tharbad, but they found neither Faragadir nor Felonwort. Not alive anyway. They found some fairly fresh human bones that had been crushed and gnawed clean, and some tracks near the bones. Orc and warg tracks.”
Delioron said nothing.
”But let’s get back to last winter and Denethor’s visions in the Anor-stone”, Parthadan said. ”At the same time when the seeing-stone showed the Steward the vision about the towers for the first time, he was also shown a vision of a place that sounded like Imladris to my ears. And the incorporeal voice, the same malicious entity, whispered another word in Denethor’s mind: Laureanis. So I contacted Gwathrandir and asked him if he would be willing to travel to Imladris and find out if the word Laureanis meant anything to the elves there. It’s a Quenyan word, meaning a ’golden woman’. But that is all I can make out of it. Gwathrandir was the only elf I know of in Gondor, so I didn’t know who else to ask.”
”And?”
”Gwathrandir agreed”, Parthadan said. ”He gave me no explanation, he asked me no further questions… he just said yes, he would go to Imladris and find out about Laureanis for me. I have a correspondent in Imladris, an elf called Cugusaelon. He has been sending me letters about the happenings in Imladris for many years now. A messenger carries Cugusaelon’s letters, addressed to Gwathrandir, into Lothlórien, and Gwathrandir goes to Lórien to pick them up. He also brings there my letters, ’from Gwathrandir to Cugusaelon’, and a messenger in Lórien delivers them to Cugusaelon in Imladris. I don’t know why the elf wants to exchange letters with Gondor, but I’m happy to get news and updates from that part of Eriador as well.”
”I just bet you are. And what happened to Gwathrandir?”
”I received no letters from Cugusaelon until early this summer. A messenger came from Lothlórien and left a letter to the Pel Chardún farm, where I had always met with Gwathrandir before. The letter was from Cugusaelon. He notified me that he had found Gwathrandir’s body washed up to the shores of the Bruinen river, downriver from the Ford of Bruinen. Somebody had run a sword through him. Cugusaelon offered no idea of who might have killed him or why.”
”And what do you want from me?”
”I… I need your help.”
”Because you’re afraid of who might have sent those visions to Denethor via the palantír”, Delioron said coldly. ”And what that somebody might have done to him. You are afraid that the old man might not be quite himself anymore.”
”Yes. Something is wrong with him. He seems to have aged a decade in the past few months. He seems… distracted. And strange things are happening up in Eriador, yet I can’t make any sense of them.”
”I can give you an answer to one of your questions right away. Laureanis was Gwathrandir’s wife. A long time ago, during the First Age. But I don’t know if she’s alive or not, why Gwathrandir wouldn’t mention it to you or why Denethor would hear her name while looking into the palantír.”
Parthadan looked startled. ”He told you about his past? Back when you knew him in Rhûn? Why?”
”Because he needed to tell someone after such a long silence.” Delioron paused, staring at the sails in the Bay of Belfalas. His eyes saw beyond the sails, beyond the sea and the horizon, into a place far away in space and time. ”It was summer when Gwathrandir came to the mountains around Kravod. It was after the coup, the first year after Seddîd had been killed, when the rebellion was still going strong. Gwathrandir hated Rhûn, he hated Narimanush and Kravod. He hated everything about the east – the heat, the smells and the corruption. He was lonely. He had been lonely for a long time, but he had an urge to tell somebody about a woman he had once loved, married and ultimately betrayed. I don’t know why he chose me to tell about those things. It was probably because he had nobody else.”
”I said that name to him”, Parthadan said. ”I asked if he would travel to Imladris to find out what ’Laureanis’ means. He didn’t even flinch, he just said yes. Why wouldn’t he tell me that he knew the answer already?”
”He wanted to see her again”, Delioron said. ”Perhaps he thought she was in some kind of danger. Perhaps he thought he could protect her. Perhaps he didn’t trust you; who would?”
Delioron’s face was cold, pale and cross-hatched with sharp, cruel lines of age. His eyes were as gray as his hair. His voice was bleak and chilling, remorseless and dead.
”I want you to travel to Eriador and find out what’s going on”, Parthadan said. ”Do whatever it takes. Only this time you will not have any position or relationship with me whatsoever, unofficial or otherwise. I cannot help you, and if something goes wrong, you will be on your own. This time there are no rules.”
”There never were”, Delioron said.
