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The Need
The Answer
The Cycle
The Legend
The Promise

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The Need

hey were dark days for the race of men; darker still for the Dúnedain. They had been split into three separate kingdoms, a mere flicker of the might the Númenóreans had when they established the nation of Arnor. Rhudaur was controlled by the evil Witch-King of Angmar, whose forces traveled northern Eriador with wanton destruction in their wake. Arthedain's defensive position in the Weather Hills was tenuous at best, and the kingdom of Cardolan had troubles of its own fending off Angmar’s attacks. The soldiers stationed in and around Amon Sûl saw very little hope of success. To pass the time, they would recount tales of bygone days of glory; glory for the Edain, and even tales of the glory of the Noldor. While they either would or could not help in the defense of Eriador against the Witch-King, stories of the Elves’ successes against the minions of evil were enough to calm all but the most disheartened souls.

One small band of Dúnedain in particular loved to build up stories of the sanctuaries of the Elves: Rivendell, Lorien, the Grey Havens. Before each night was over in the war torn Weather Hills, they would imagine fantastic new wonders for these cities they had never seen: flying horses, floating towers, half-clad nymphets longing for a mortal man. The visions they conjured for one another would help erase the horrors they had seen in that day's battle; the imagined songs floating through the elven bowers would help to stifle the moans at night.

The Answer

s the days and months wore on, this small band decided they would create their own elvish sanctuary to pass the time. A skipped patrol duty here, a smuggled arm here or there, they found the time...and stole the time...to search the hills for an area remote enough to expand their dreams, and try to find a way to make them a bit more tangible. The soldiers realized it was a foolish notion, more of a boyhood dream than anything else. But as they looked about them, Arda was plunging into an ever-deepening darkness, and what could a few enlisted men do against such overwhelming darkness?

They were able to convince, through bribery and pleading, a few of the tradesmen that came bearing supplies to help them in their endeavor, and having selected a cave, (which was more of an unfortunate-looking indention in a hillside), they began building their imagined retreat. Pooling their meager military pay, they were able to gather bits and pieces of rotten lumber, dilapidated stone, and pay a few craftsmen enough to construct a shoddy structure that looked more like a pile of discarded refuse than a “Sanctuary.” But to those soldiers, it became the solace that they needed to get through the most taxing days.

The Cycle

he war against Angmar outlived each of the dreamers, but as new recruits arrived, they would find common souls to share their Sanctuary with. While not exactly a “secret,” the soldiers did not go out of their way to announce their hobby to their superiors, (or in some cases, subordinates). But with each arrival of fresh troops and reinforcements, they were able to find like-minded individuals with whom they could share the diversion it provided. And with each new member that joined them, they were able to build it up a bit more. The rotten wood was eventually replaced by solid beams. The cracked stone was replaced by near-respectable masonry. The meager small arms that had been smuggled in as decoration were gradually replaced by heirlooms, souvenirs from battle, and keepsakes of fallen comrades.

For almost 500 years, the cycle continued, each iteration bringing new blood, new life, and new vision for this Sanctuary of men. Even after the forces of the Arthedain were forced to fall-back and lost the Weather Hills to the might Angmar, the soldiers still fought on, with a handful using the fantasies of far-off elvish lands as their escape from the drudgery and pain of the wars. But in 1974 of the Third Age, no Elvish dream or stronghold of men would rescue these Dúnedain from the Witch-King’s cruelty, and the last of the kingdoms of Arnor fell, all but wiping the Northern Dúnedain from the face of the Arda.

The Legend

  year later, 12 months too late, forces arrived from Gondor to help in the conflict. Discovering the fall of Arthedain, Gondor viciously and successfully, attacked Angmar, forcing the Witch-King to flee to Mordor. Returning home with bittersweet pride, the men of Gondor encountered few remaining peasant farmers in Eriador, or perhaps a surviving soldier of the armies of Arthedain, who told them tales of the Dúnedain’s original “Sanctuary,” the make-believe refuge of so many soldiers. Its ruins lay somewhere in the hills, once again reduced to charred, rotting beams and broken slate.

As the men of Gondor returned home, tales spread of the men whose sole consolation was a dream of the elves and their homes. Whispers of it even reached the ears of the elves themselves, and while in the halls of Elrond and Galadriel it seemed more of a bedtime story to still the hearts of frightened mortal children, a few of the Silvan took it upon themselves to see if the rumors true.

The Promise

he wood-elves of Eriador began asking discreetly of a place established by humans, but inspired by their elvish capitals. Most of the peasants, still uneasy from the centuries of war that had dominated their lands, considered it elvish arrogance to suppose the brave soldiers that the elves themselves disdained to help would erect any type of tribute to the Firstborn. But those whose families had helped to build the structure, whose households held generations of ties to the soldiers, who had kept the secret of the Sanctuary for centuries, knew that even if the elves’ presence had not aided in the fight against the Witch-King, the legends of the elves helped countless soldiers find their heart through the war.

These peasants relayed the tales spun over 500 years about the mystical cities that the soldiers would never see except in their evening dreams, and the Silvan were so touched that they pledged to aid the farmers in rebuilding the dilapidated structure, a silent testament to the power of even a potential bond between the races of free people. But more than just a statue or monument, which kings and lord love to build in their own honor, these elves and men knew in their hearts that the darkness had not been destroyed, only defeated, and that there would undoubtedly come a time where once again a refuge was needed. Once the Sanctuary was rebuilt, the elves carved over the doorway to the entrance, “Enter here those who hope for a Sanctuary from the darkness and you will find your peace.”

And so, while the races of free-people became more and more suspicious of outsiders, there exists an indispensable few who go out of their way to help the hurting, the sick of spirit or the faint of heart, and help them find their strength. Whether it is a lone dwarf, making the arduous trip between the Blue Mountains and the Iron Hills, a hobbit who has lost his way hunting, a band of elves making the trek to the Grey Havens and then the Lands of the West, or a human simply needed a rest of the road, a Sanctuary exists for them all. It is not the floating sky-scapes imagined by the original Dúnedain, or even the reality of the Halls of Rivendell. But through the work and commitment of the individual members of the individual races of the free-peoples of Middle-Earth, it stands ready and willing to help all those who seek it.

Special thanks to MAWorking and futsie of the House of Moriquendi for their consideration in clarifying and editing.