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“Lord Elrond?” Erestor’s quiet voice echoed through the empty library. “I believe I may have found something.”
He handed Elrond a stack of paper, loosely bound and quite old by appearance. Parts of it seemed burned, the pages charred and blackened.
Elrond took it, hoping that Erestor was right, that this might hold the answers he sought. His time in Middle Earth was moving toward its end, and he knew that, with Sauron defeated, he could not linger for long, but there was one last task he hoped to complete.
Carefully, so as to not damage the paper any further, he opened the first page. First encounter had been scribbled on top, above the writing in classical tengwar.
Scouting Report – Tyelkormo Fëanorion
“A report from Celegorm?” Elrond asked, puzzled, looking up at Erestor who silently motioned for him to read on.
Came across strange creatures in the forest near shore of Losgar. Call themselves Uruk. Serve Morgoth. Negotiation attempt failed, were attacked and forced to defend ourselves. Lost two scouts.
Reports from other scouts followed, apparently from the same… day? Could it be called a day, when there had been neither treelight nor sun to mark the passing of time?
Elrond shoved the question aside and returned to the reports. They were written in the same short, bare fashion, though in a different hand. None of them mentioned Orc – Uruk.
The next page was what seemed a diary entry, written in the same hand as the first report.
Lost Mistaiwe and Quildóma to those Uruk. We buried them under starlight as best as we could, for our resources are limited. Father was silent, seeming lost in his grief, the old and the new, but Nelyo apologized for his words in the healing tent. We are all on edge.
Let me write down everything I recall of the creatures who called themselves Uruk. I am convinced they were Elves, once. Their words seem to confirm that, as does their appearance – pale, corpse-like, with fangs as a wolf’s and eyes filled with unlight, and yet, undeniably Elven. They even speak our tongue, or something similar. They are sentient, intelligent beings.
They serve Morgoth, and claim that he is the one who changed them, turned them into what they are now – “elevated” they called it. I offered them help, I offered them to come with us and we would find a way to undo what the Enemy has done.
They ate Mistaiwe alive. We did not have even a corpse to bury.
I cannot help but wonder if there is anything in them left to save.
Elrond remembered where he had seen this writing before – in a children’s book, filled with colourful drawings, showing common animals of Valinor. How strange a thought, that a book he and his brother had loved as children had been written by Celegorm. Had he made it for his twin brothers? Had he read it to them, shown them the drawings, as Elrond’s foster-fathers had done for him?
Distantly Elrond wondered where that book might be now. It had likely drowned with the rest of Beleriand.
Erestor must have seen the look in his eyes, for he sat down next to him at the desk and placed a comforting arm around Elrond’s shoulder.
Elrond gave him a grateful smile and read on.
The following pages were filled with more impersonal reports of Orc encounters, descriptions of their appearance and detailed anatomical drawings. These were clearly done with some skill and expertise, both in anatomy as in dissection of bodies, and Elrond remembered that Celegorm had been a hunter.
“Shall I get the anatomical sketches we have for comparison?” Erestor asked quietly, looking over his shoulder.
“Yes, please.”
Erestor left, and Elrond continued flipping through the pages until he came upon another diary entry.
– without success. I do not understand why each and every one of them refuses any offer of help. They balk at compassion, scoff at mercy, and will accept no aid. Yet they are clearly in pain. Their fëar – what is left of it – screams with it, and still…
I need to find out how Morgoth changed them. The process must be terrible, if it can break an Elven fëa so thoroughly. I had hoped that reports from those who survived captivity in Angband might offer a glimpse of his methods, but all I found have refused to speak of it. Even Nelyo will not tell me anything, and I dare not press him on the matter for fear of reopening those old wounds.
Curvo tells me to leave it be, to cease my search for a way to heal them and focus on killing them instead. I know he is right, but I cannot give up. I cannot believe they are irrevocably lost. I must believe that they can still be saved, so I may believe that we can still be saved.
Here the entry stopped. Next were lists of healing herbs, tinctures and other medicines, with notes scrawled in the margins.
no effect
adverse reaction
alleviates the scarring, no mental changes
Elrond studied the lists carefully. Many things on it he knew, though some by different names. Celegorm had been thorough in his experimentation, though Elrond wished he had taken more extensive notes on dosage and application.
Missing from the list were many medications for ailments of the fëa – Elrond wondered if those had not been known to Celegorm, or if he had simply not considered them, and made a note that this warranted further study.
He turned another page and forgot to breathe. It seemed to be a letter, and the writing was undeniably Maglor’s.
Dear Tyelko,
I have made a terrible discovery. Do you remember Vanwalótie, my second-in-command who was lost many years ago? A few days ago, some of my scouts and I were ambushed by a small group of Uruk near the mountains. We disposed of them easily enough, but one of them – you will think me mad, brother, but it is Vanwalótie. I am absolutely certain of that.
We took her captive. If she recognizes any of us, she gives no sign of it – she would have killed me as readily as the others.
Tyelko, I know you are searching for a way to heal them. Is there anything you can do for her? Anything at all?
I cannot bear to see her in this state, but neither can I bring myself to kill her. My only comfort is that her mate died long ago, and so does not have to see her like this.
Let me know if there is anything you can do.
Makalaurë
Elrond searched the following pages, but there was no further mention of Vanwalótie. He read the letter again, this time noting the date – only weeks before the Dagor Bragollach, when Maglor’s Gap had fallen to dragon-fire.
He tried not to think of what might have happened, but read on. The next entry was dated several years after the Nírnaeth.
There is a change in the Uruk. It has been so gradual that I have not truly noticed it until now, but it is there. In the early days their loyalty to the Enemy seemed born from gratefulness and a deep dislike of the Valar, who they felt abandoned them (and who can blame them?)
Now, though, fear seems to motivate them more than anything – fear and hate, of Morgoth and all else. There seems to be nothing they do not hate.
Still there is a tentative hope in this change, for if they hate Morgoth, they may be convinced to turn against him if nothing else. I shall attempt to speak with them and record my findings.
The notes of that conversation were hopelessly charred, but another diary entry was dated to just a few days later.
I do not understand! It is evident that some of the Uruk hate Morgoth as much as we do, and yet they will not turn against him! It cannot be only from fear, for I offered them every protection in my power, and yet…
He must have done something to bind their fëar to him, to compel them to obey his every order, though their minds rage against him in their blind, all-consuming hatred.
If I could only break the chain around their fëar – but I have nothing that could combat the power of Morgoth.
Oromë could free them, I am sure of it, but he has abandoned me. My blessings have run out.
Elrond bit his lip. He had no doubt that the Valar could heal the Orc, but he did not know them to be particularly inclined to heal what was marred when they could simply destroy it and pretend it never had been – it was not without bitterness that he remembered Beleriand, remembered Númenor.
He read on. The remaining pages were passages seemingly copied from books, anything concerning fëar and the chaining of them. Elrond skimmed over them until he came to the last page, a diary entry dated to the year 506 of the First Age.
Elrond realised that Celegorm must have been truly devoted to this endeavour, to continue it even as the Oath already consumed him.
The Doom is drawing ever closer around us. I do not expect I shall be able to continue this work I have taken upon myself, so I compiled all the information I gathered over the centuries here in hopes that they may help someone else to do what I could not and see this task to its end.
Perhaps the Uruk do not deserve mercy. But then neither do we, and still I dare hope for it. Perhaps someone will pity us in Ages to come. Pity them as well.
“Do you truly think there is hope yet?”
Elrond turned. Erestor stood behind him, a bundle of scrolls and books in his arms. “I brought the anatomical drawings, as well as all reports from escaped thralls we have.”
“Thank you,” Elrond said quietly.
“Do you believe it is possible to save them?”
“I do not know,” Elrond admitted. “But I have hope. Perhaps, with Sauron defeated for good and the Ring destroyed, Morgoth’s power over them will fail.”
“It has not failed in the two Ages since he was cast to the void.”
“Still I must try, for who else will? The time of Elves is moving to its end, but there is power in our kind yet, and I shall not call it the end until this last task is completed and our lost kin may find peace at last."
Erestor placed down the books and clasped his shoulder. “I will be with you, my friend.”