1. The Mother
Seven to the dwarf lords, nine to the kings of men... you know how it goes. It was around 1700 in the 2nd Age when Sauron overran Eriador. Our story begins in Lindon, when two orcs capture a beautiful prize for their raids in the northwest, a blood relative of Galadriel, Lady of Light. Gwendyll was her name.
Through selfishness and strife amongst their own kin, the two orcs found themselves being chased into the mountains of Ered Luin, not too eager to share their prize among the rest of the horde of Sauron's minions. Hanging over the shoulder of one orc, Gwendyll spent days, barely able to sleep, the grip of fear tight. Never had she been this deep in a cave. Even now her eyes and ears were better than any mortals, but the elves rely on the living things around them to augment their senses, here she felt deaf and blind.
The orcs finally lost the others some twenty days in, finding a hidden path that maintain a steep descent into the foundations of Arda. For some strange reason, the orcs hardly stopped moving, only stopping for brief rest and food before moving on down the lifeless path. But the path was not lifeless after another week.
It was around now that Gwendyll was rescued by a creature she did not believe to have existed. A drow. So strange they were, yet familiar at the same time. With the exception of red eyes, white hair and dark skin, drow looked very much like their surface counterparts. But Gwendyll was soon to understand that drow represented the very opposite of what elves stood for, in every way.
Treacherous. That word would sum it up nicely. Society ran on station and class. There was ranking among the many subterranean settlements, and ranking among the houses in each city, rank based on economic, political and military influence. This led to house-on-house assassinations and civil wars. Even the drow in each house are ranked among themselves, based on very much a similar criteria. The very foundation of drow life is built on stabbing another in the back to gain station.
As luck would have it, this particular drow was very different from the rest. Sorul was his name. Sorul Khazzur-kammim. Sorul was the exception to the rule. It was in fact his kind manner that was made Gwendyll think all drow were so, but she quickly realized that this was not the case. Upon their arrival to his home, Naggaroth, he had claimed she was not his prisoner and therefore she would not have to go through the motions. She stayed with him and he treated her like a queen. Every night, they talked about life above and below the surface, and the two got ever closer. But still, Gwendyll knew her place was not here. She had barely left his house, and rightly so, the looks and comments she recieved particularly from the males.
For his part, Sorul had forgotten himself, and how she had come to be here. He was happy, for the first time in his long life. Here had found someone he could speak to freely, without any care for what may slip off the tongue. Who he could watch do the simplest of things, and find it beautiful. He loved her.
But it was not to be, and harsh society outisde Sorul's four walls managed to flood in and destroy everything. Sorul was out at the time, when Akgar and Imbros broke into the house. As he walked down the torch lit streets of Naggaroth, Sorul felt his gut wrench. Something terrible was about to happen. Bursting through the doorm, sword in hand, his face was a picture of fury as he lunged forward and decaptiated Akgar. Imbros jumped up and looked in time to see a blade plunge into his face. On the floor lay Gwendyll crying silently.
"My eyes decieve me, what a sight," Sorul gasped as he looked up at the sky and stars for the first time ever.
Gwendyll smiled, standing next to the drow and sharing in the admiration. Countless times she had watched the stars yet she never grew tired of it. Finally they both looked at eachother, sharing an expression of sorrow and regret.
"I wish you could stay up here."
"Me too, but the suns light will burn my eyes. I..." Sorul sighed and placed a hand over his heart. "I am sorry, Gwendyll."
Gwendyll gave him a hug. "It was not your fault."
Gwendyll struck north to Mithlond, luckily her journey was without event, though she strangly held no more fear for orcs. Her fear had been replaced with a sorrow, one that could never die. It was Cirdan who arranged the the escort to Imladris, and there Elrond half-elven, a lord of the surviving Noldor, heard her story. So many moons later, Gwendyll gave birth to a son. His hair was thick and white like snow. His eyes, blood red, and his skin was a dark brown. Gwendyll looked in the blood red eyes of her son, and relived the painful memory of her attack. With all her will, she managed to force a little happiness and took a moment to compose herself before saying:
"His name will be Sorul... like his father."
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.