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'A Place of Future Dreams'

Part One

Elrohir struggled to his feet and stood swaying in the gloom, his mind curiously light and empty. He had no idea where he was or why, and neither question seemed relevant. Something had hurt him, attacked him with a blow to the head, and he needed to escape before it came back.

He gave the large metal box in the middle of the floor a puzzled look as he passed it. He had an idea it had fallen from one of the nearby shelves but the details were strangely unclear. Behind him, the lantern he had dropped at the time of the accident lay forgotten; the line of fire that sputtered towards the recently stacked boxes went unnoticed. He was almost at the door when flame met powder and a wall of sound swallowed the world. A blast of searing air lifted him off his feet and hurled him violently against the wall.

In the moments that he lay dazed on the floor, shock and the earlier blow to his head combined to roll back the years of maturity, and his mind slid to childhood with all its attendant tales and terrors. Struggling to his knees, Elrohir looked around wildly. He was under attack - a being of fire… whirling whips of light… flames leaping amidst a roar akin to thunder.

A Balrog, he thought in dawning horror. It must surely be a Balrog

The fire roared, flames licking along the cliffside above the storerooms, spreading rapidly towards the living quarters near the kitchen. Accompanying it was a display of fireworks the like of which Imladris had never before seen, a confusion of colours and shapes that exploded in a noisy, continuous stream high above the House.

Erestor’s office was on the other side of the Last Homely House, and by the time he arrived on the scene Caedion had already taken charge. The former warrior had stationed himself near the storeroom’s entrance, and was busy shouting orders and assigning duties. Amidst screams and cries and the crackle of flames, a bucket line was in the process of being set up, while beaters with wet sacks were already hard at work on the outskirts of the fire.

Erestor came to a halt, briefly mesmerized by the raw, elemental power that roared and spat like a sentient being. Shaking off fascination, he began to fasten his hair up on top of his head and roll back his sleeves, his mind racing as he tried to think what else, if anything, needed to be done. He was about to arm himself with a sack when an idea wrapped in memory struck him.

“Go and find Níngabel and Cyllon,” he instructed a young Elf hovering nearby, naming two Sindarin with a strong affinity for fire. “Ask them if there is some way they can halt the flames.”

‘No use in Elves having so-called ‘magic’ if they aren’t prepared to use it.’ Isildur’s words, the sneer intact a thousand years on, returned to him. Hot-headed, long dead Isildur, who would have made a weapon of anything he could get his hand around. Erestor had never liked Elendil’s sons but this about ‘magic’ was a point he had been willing to concede.

Spotting the seneschal about to join the beaters, Caedion yelled, “Not there, we have enough hands for this. Inside. Join Berianir’s group. Make sure no one is trapped.”

Waving acknowledgement, Erestor wet a rag and, wrapping it about his head, did as bidden. Making his way inside through clouds of smoke and ash, he looked around, taking a moment to orient himself. The air was searing hot, his eyes stung and teared. In minutes the loose ends of his hair began to crackle and disintegrate. The area to the left of the entrance was for storage and was currently engulfed in flames, whilst the rooms to the right were residential. Stunned at the damage that had occurred in such a short time, he turned right.

Dodging falling masonry and explosions of sparks, he soon caught sight of a small party of Elves up ahead, but an instinct drew him off instead to explore one of the many side passages. Half blinded by smoke, he quickly realised it was both safer and wiser to operate in a group. He was about to turn back and look for Berianir when, beneath the fire’s fury, he heard faint sounds similar to the mewling of a kitten followed by very un-catlike coughing.

Moving carefully, he tracked the cries to a doorway on the far side of a barrier of flames. His mouth quirked in an ironic smile as he realised that, typical of his luck, there was no one else close enough to lend a hand - he would have to deal with this alone. He studied the line of fire for a moment, estimating its speed, then took a deep breath and leapt through a gap in the flames, hastening to push open the door.

At first he thought he had been mistaken, the room empty and the risk unnecessary. Then through the billowing smoke he saw the figure of an elleth lying curled in terror on the floor against the far wall, apparently in denial of the horror beyond her door. The inner rooms were carved out of the cliffside, the lack of windows making them the least desirable of the House’s accommodation. It also meant that, for her, there was no escape except through the flames.

Erestor hurried to her, bending to grasp her arm and shake her hard. He was a naturally kind person, but there was a time and a place for everything, and no room for gentleness when flames were almost literally licking at the door.

“Get up!” he snapped. “Come on, girl. I’ll help you, but I’m not carrying you.”

The girl moaned softly and, putting her hands over her face, began to cry. Erestor sighed. Wars were easier, he thought. Warriors knew what they were meant to be doing and did it. Usually. He knelt and pulled her into a seated position, trying to ignore the increased crackling just beyond the doorway. Placing an arm around her back and the other under her knees he lifted her, staggering slightly under her weight before finding his balance.

“Hold onto me. Close your eyes. And try to keep still.”

The flames had grown higher in the short time he had been in the room, and the heat was intense. For a minute, half deafened by the noise, he leaned against the wall and contemplated the fiery barrier between them and open air. Then, taking a deep breath and holding it, he bent his head and ran. The flames caught at his sleeve and at the trailing ends of the girl’s dress. She began screaming, but by then they were already clear.

Her cries had attracted attention, and they were joined almost immediately by rescuers. Willing hands helped extinguish the tongues of fire flickering along his sleeve and her dress, then they were led outside to safety.

Elrohir had no memory of accidents and storerooms, no explanation for the inferno behind him other than the one that had first sprang to mind - a Balrog. Defenseless against an enemy before which most Elves would have quailed and fled, and intent on naught beyond the need to escape, he stumbled unseen down the path behind the stables and into the trees. Hide. He had to find some place to hide.

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Part 2

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