Because somebody had to do it. Exactly what it says on the tin: Middle-Earth is ravaged by a continent-wide storm, which leaves the living dead in its wake. Mirkwood and the Wood-Elves' fortress become destination number one for all who survive, whether the Elves like it or not. But Galadriel and Elrond know that it will be far from over even when they reach safety: whatever caused the storm, and the rise of the dead, was strong enough to topple Sauron himself.
In other words, Middle-Earth is screwed.
Where it came from, even the Lady Galadriel did not know. With all their foresight, none of the Elves saw the doom of Middle-Earth until it was upon them.
It began as a storm, but a storm the like of which none living had ever seen. Lightning that blinded many who dared look to the sky, thunder so deep it shook the foundations of the Misty Mountains, and torrential rains that flooded entire valleys. It spread from Forodwaith to Harad, from the western shores to Rhûn, leaving not an inch of land untouched. Those who survived counted themselves fortunate, wholly unaware that that was only the beginning.
Elrond might not have foreseen it, but he was no fool. As soon as the waterfalls along edges of Imladris began to swell, he ordered his people to pack all they could carry, and load the horses with all they could not. Though the rains had not yet reached the valley, all could hear their approach, nearly as loud as the thunder itself. The very air crackled with a power entirely unknown to him, but while he might not know what caused it, he did know what would happen if they did not evacuate the valley: an inversion of the end of Númenor. Instead of a wave bearing down upon the mountains, a sea's worth of water would pour into Imladris and drown all within it.
They had a little time, and they used it well. Elves were not prone to panic, but the unease was palpable, and his people hurried in a way they would have done for nothing else short of a dragon.
He glanced at the sky. Though it was only midmorning, it was nearly dark as nightfall; the clouds that were massed above were a deep bruise-purple, veined every other moment with silver lightning. The wind was oddly hot and even more oddly dry, metallic in a way that stung his nose and left a bitter taste at the back of his throat. Distant though the rain was, it pounded the earth so fiercely he could feel it beneath his feet like a heartbeat. It stirred in him something he had not felt so starkly in three thousand years: fear. Yes, he was afraid, and he felt no shame in admitting it to himself. Only a madman could look upon this without fear, for it was so huge, so unnatural, that even Sauron could not have summoned it. Whatever - whoever - brought this about, was like nothing Middle-Earth had ever before known.
The power of Nenya ought to have kept Lothlórien safe even from a direct attack by a dragon. Sauron himself should have had difficulty against it, yet this storm rent apart the forest's wards like cobweb.
It had come upon them with such swiftness that many were caught far from shelter. The wind tore apart the edges of the forest before most could flee, a tearing, cracking gale stronger than any hurricane the Bay of Belfalas could produce, great boughs snapping like twigs and hurled up into an aerial dance of golden leaves. The earth groaned as the roots resisted, clinging to the stone beneath until the force of the storm shattered them.
The heart of the forest still stood, shielded by all the magic Galadriel could muster. Even here the tempest raged, the rushing wind sighing through the trees, far too hot to be anything nature-made. Those of her people she could find she bade take shelter at the base of the central Tree, but Galadriel herself stood in the open, watching the purple-yellow clouds spiral above. No matter how much force of will she bent upon it, she could discern nothing of what it really was, of what had caused or created it. The sick bitterness of death wove through it, but there was something else, something so alien she had no reference for it at all. If it was evil, it was of a sort she had never even heard tell of. There was only one thing of which she was certain: this was only the beginning. And she dared not yet imagine what would follow.
Rohan was no stranger to high winds. Aragorn noted that none seemed wary even when the walls of Meduseld began to groan, though the howling in the eaves made it difficult to hear any speak. Perhaps it was simply joy, the relief of Wormtongue's banishment too great to allow for anything else, but not until the roof shuddered did any of them even glance upward.
Gimli had been doing more than glance - had, in fact, moved to stand with his back against a pillar, his feet and axe planted firmly on the stone floor. Only his eyes betrayed his nervousness, but nervous he was, though he would die before he would admit it. Especially in front of an Elf.
Legolas would not have chided him if he had. He too had gravitated toward a pillar, his eyes darting along the high windows. The strange, coppery scent of the air raised the hair on the back of his neck, heightening has already keen awareness.
"We should find shelter underground," he said quietly, mostly to Aragorn.
"A thing I never thought to hear from an Elf," Gimli grunted, though he wholeheartedly agreed.
"It is only wind, Master Elf," Éomer said. "This hall has withstood worse."
"I doubt that," Gimli muttered, bracing himself against the pillar.
Éomer had no time to take offense. With a bone-shaking groan, the roof shuddered and slipped sideways, dust raining down from the rafters. Somewhere a man cried out, but it was nothing to the screams that rose outside.
Aragorn sprinted to the door, and found himself confronted by chaos. That sudden, violent gust had collapsed two houses, sent another four into a drunken tilt, and ripped the roof off the far stable. Much of the screaming came from those who tried and failed to corral the terrified horses, who bolted in every direction.
Lightning jagged across the sky, so bright he was momentarily blinded, and Legolas had to drag him back from the doorway. No sooner had he done so than the clouds opened up and poured, the rain so dense and heavy they might have stood below a waterfall.
Others came stumbling in after him - men, women carrying children, children carrying food and animals, all while the wind roared ever louder, shaking the very foundations of the hall.
Aragorn plunged out into the maelstrom, with several of Théoden's men behind him. He was soaked to the skin within moments, but the rain abruptly ceased as he grabbed a small boy who had fallen into the mud. The swirling clouds had taken on a greenish tinge, sickly and almost incandescent. In all his travels in all his long life, he had seen nothing like it. Though the rain had been icy, the wind was hot and dry as the deserts of Harad.
A strange, eerie moaning reached his ears, growing louder by the second, and when he turned he found himself faced with something he had only heard tell of.
The whirling clouds were reaching toward the earth like a monstrous finger, purple-black. When it touched the ground, the very stone beneath his feet shuddered, and the child in his arms screamed.
He raced for the stairs again, but was intercepted by Théoden. The old king was milk-pale, and in his eyes there was naked terror.
"Come," he said, shouting to be heard over the storm's roar. "Come! This hall will not protect us."
Gimli came up behind him, and cursed. Legolas and the Lady Éowyn followed, and from there all turned into mayhem. All who had taken refuge now came pouring out into the wind again, staggering under its force and staring in bewildered horror.
Cut into the hall were large cellars, used for storing food in the long cold winters. They were barely large enough to contain the village's population; with the doors shut, there was no room for anyone to sit. They were packed together in total darkness until Gandalf lit his staff, their terror so solid a force that Legolas' head began to ache. The growl of the cyclone was muted by the heavy earth, but the ground still trembled.
"What in Durin's name is this?" Gimli demanded.
"I have only heard tell of it," Théoden said, and his voice did not tremble. "In the time of my grandfather's grandfather, such a thing crossed much of Rohan, and left nothing but ruin in its wake."
Aragorn thought of the other villages, those without cellars in which the people could take refuge. There was no hope for anyone in the path of that thing. Should it pass over Meduseld, there might not be hope for any of them, either.
Within the forest of Fangorn, things were not yet so dire. The massive, ancient trees creaked and groaned, but their roots accorded Merry and Pippin some shelter.
"Come, little hobbits." Treebeard was a difficult creature to read, but even Pippin could sense his unease. He lifted them both, tucking them close to his sides as he strode toward his home. "Such small folk should not be outside."
Neither was about to protest, for neither relished the thought of being picked up and carried away by the rising wind. Such static filled the air that their hair stood on end, by they didn't feel like laughing at the sight.
"This should not be," Treebeard muttered, mostly to himself. That much was obvious even to the hobbits, who knew nothing of the weather in this part of the world.
"Are we safe here?" Merry asked, fighting an urge to hide beneath the huge table.
"Safe?" Treebeard said. "From the storm, yes. From what comes after, I do not know." He did not elaborate, nor did they ask him to.
Merry and Pippin glanced at each other. Neither liked the sound of that, but there was nothing to be done for it save wait. They wondered about the others, but especially about Frodo and Sam. If they had not found shelter, the entire quest might have been in vain.
By sheer luck, Frodo and Sam had found shelter, of a sort. They had hidden themselves in a shallow, barren cave, huddled as far back as they could get and hoping the entire hill would not collapse on them.
Frodo was still and silent, his face ashen as he clutched the Ring beneath his shirt. Sam, jittery, spoke enough for both of them.
"He'll have a hard time doing anything in this," he said, his voice cracking. Even now he was too frightened to speak Sauron's name. The stifling heat sent sweat trickling down the back of his neck, but he wasn't going to take a drink until he absolutely had to. "Doubt anybody's moving about much." Terrified though he as, a morbid part of him wanted to scale the slope above and see just what was happening to Mordor.
"Unless he's causing it," Frodo said quietly.
"I was hoping you wouldn't say that," Sam groaned. And yet, baseless though it was, he thought this was none of Sauron's doing. Bone-deep instinct told him that this was bigger than the Dark Lord, bigger than anything in all of Middle-Earth.
He was about to say so when Frodo screamed, a cry of shock as much as pain. His fingers clawed at his shirt, tearing the chain that held the Ring over his head and flinging it away. His neck burned as though a red-hot brand had been set to it, and when his blurred vision found the Ring, he knew why.
It was…melting, losing shape as the gold turned to liquid in the space of a few blinks. It might well have been an ordinary ring dropped in a dwarf's forge, sizzling on the stone like bacon fat. Before his incredulous eyes, the metal began to evaporate, rising in a shimmering steam he would have thought beautiful had he not known its source.
"Mr. Frodo," Sam breathed, his eyes lit with almost childlike hope. "It's a miracle, Mr. Frodo."
Frodo himself was not so sure. The thing had, after all, been crafted by the most powerful, evil being the world had known since Morgoth. All the other might of Middle-Earth together had not been able to unmake it, to so much as dent it. Of one thing only was he certain: anything that could destroy the Ring so easily had to be much, much worse than Sauron.
"We turn back as soon as the storm abates," he said, more firmly than he felt. "This is far beyond us." Terrified though he was -for he was certain this was only the start of something worse - he felt a small, selfish measure of relief at the thought that it was his problem no longer. While trying to find a way to safety was a daunting prospect, it was infinitely preferable to finding a way into Mordor. Let the very powerful and the very wise deal with this: all he wanted was to go home, if he still had a home to go to.
While the rest of Middle-Earth fought destruction, the kingdoms of Erebor and Mirkwood held little chaos. The halls of King Thranduil could have held the entire population of Mirkwood twice over, and Dale was near enough Erebor to be evacuated easily enough. Only Esgaroth faced true peril. Its hapless folk could do nothing but take what refuge they could find on the shore, as their town was torn apart like a child's toy. Both Erebor and the Wood-Elves' caves were too long a journey to attempt in the storm, especially with the rapid rise of the rivers. They would weather it, or they would die.
All who thought the storm would soon cease were destined to be disappointed - all who survived until the end of it. Four days and three nights it raged over all of Middle-Earth, taking what life it could and leaving unprecedented wreckage in its wake.
What little of Imladris had not flooded was leveled. Buildings and houses that had sat a thousand years were no more, for the rains had brought with them great landslides, and lakes now stood where once there had been streams.
Elrond's people had hidden away in the valley's few caves, watching centuries' worth of their lives drown. There they spent their hot, sticky, miserable days, until even Elrond began to wonder if this was the end of Middle-Earth.
But on the fourth night the wind and rain ceased, the sky clearing in a matter of minutes, leaving the moon and stars to mirror bright in the still waters of the valley. The air was quite suddenly motionless, without so much as a hint of breeze, though still oven-hot and humid.
They emerged from their caverns blinking, and only then did they full realize how complete the devastation had been. The valley of Imladris was no more - there would be no repairs, no rebuilding, for there was nowhere to build, and nothing to do it with.
None spoke as they looked out over the dark water. There was nothing to say, because for many their grief ran too deeply for words.
Misery of a sort Arwen had never known clutched her heart. She had been born in Imladris, and had lived her entire life in it and in Lothlórien, which she hoped had managed to escape this nightmare - hoped, but did not believe it. For she had felt the wrath of the storm, and knew that it would have spread as far as it could.
Would her father turn to Lothlórien, and brave the pass of Caradhras? Or would he lead them to King Thranduil, over the Misty Mountains? They could not linger here. In time their supplies would run out - they were dangerously low already - and there were not enough whole trees to even build shelter for the winter. Though they would starve long before winter came.
"When do we go, Ada?" she asked quietly. Never in her life had she felt so lost.
Elrond laid a hand on her shoulder. He looked old, the light of his eyes dim. "Mirkwood," he said, just as quietly. "If Lothlorien has suffered our fate, Lady Galadriel will make for it as well. Even King Thranduil will not dare refuse her."
Arwen knew little of Thranduil - knew little of the Wood-Elves at all. They held themselves apart from the rest of their kindred, and seldom sent messages save in times of great need. Prince Legolas had certainly seemed quicker to anger than any other Elf she knew, but beyond that he did not appear overly different.
But even if King Thranduil was, her father was right - he could not turn away her grandmother. No matter how unsociable the Elves of Mirkwood might be, they remained Elves, and were bound by ancient custom to aid their kindred.
It would be a long journey, and a perilous one, for if any people could well have survived this disaster, it was the goblins. The passes, treacherous enough to begin with, might well be destroyed, leaving them with no option but to find their own way. They could only hope their supplies would see them through.
After four days trapped beneath the hill of Meduseld, even Aragorn was beginning to feel weak from thirst and hunger. Night though it was, when he dared open the door he had to shield his eyes. Even the starlight was half-blinding.
What he found when he stepped outside was complete and utter ruin. Not a trace of the village remained: even the foundations of the houses had been ripped from the earth. Parts of the Hall itself still stood, but he hesitated at the thought of entering what was left. It looked as though it might collapse at any moment.
It was as he had feared: absolutely nothing above-ground could have survived. This ragged, half-starved group might well be all that remained of Rohan's entire population.
The air was still hot, and very dry, the acrid scent of dust stinging in his nose. What were they to feed these people? Wells could likely be found, but water was little use to one who was starving.
He turned to Gandalf - Gandalf, who had been completely silent these last days, refusing even to give them light for more than a short while at a time. The wizard looked ancient and haggard, his eyes haunted by what Aragorn suspected was knowledge he had not yet shared. If anyone would know what might have caused this, it was Gandalf, but he remained silent.
The people wept as they emerged into the night, as they realized that all they had ever had was now gone. King Théoden's gave was bleak, and Éomer's disbelieving, but there was something akin to fury in Éowyn's grey eyes. It softened a moment when she looked at her uncle and brother, but hardened again when she turned away.
"Come with me," she said to Aragorn and Legolas, low. Such was the command in her voice that they followed her without question.
"If we are very fortunate, the farther cellars will have survived," she explained quietly. Her gait was somewhat unsteady, but she pressed on nonetheless. "The men of Rohan rarely trouble themselves with our supplies, but the women have already begun preparing for winter. If nothing else, we need not starve right away."
They approached a heavy wooden door, set low in the hill, that looked mostly intact. It took all three of them to budge it open, but when they had, Éowyn gave a sigh of relief. Though it took her a moment to light a candle, she knew already what she would find.
There were shelves of smoked meat, mostly venison and rabbit, alongside rows of wrapped cheeses. Strings of dried fruit, jars of vegetables pickled in salt and brine, and several giant barrels of ale. She was right: they would not starve right away, but neither could they linger.
They brought out several bundles of the meat, enough to dull the survivors' hunger, if not sate it. They found Théoden and Éomer organizing a party to scout for anything that might be found to shore up the remains of the Hall. Théoden did not want his people to sleep in the dirt, not after all they had already endured.
The people accepted the meat with an almost pathetic gratitude, savoring it. A little of their gloom lifted, and some of the weight seemed to left from Théoden's shoulders.
"We cannot stay here," Legolas said. "We should make for my father's realm. He can grant us shelter and safety."
Gimli scowled, glowering at the Elf through his eyebrows. His father had never forgotten his imprisonment at the hands of Thranduil, and had never hesitated to tell Gimli of it, either. But Mirkwood was near enough Erebor that he need not tarry there long.
"He is right," Gandalf said. He had driven his staff deep into the ground, but he looked up as he spoke. "The Woodland Realm might well be the only sanctuary we have left."
"Gondor is nearer," Éomer countered. The people of Rohan distrusted the Elves, and he knew he was not the only one who did not want to go anywhere near a whole realm of them. "We should make for Minas Tirith."
"Minas Tirith may no longer stand," Legolas pointed out. "And if it does, they may not have anything to spare for us. My father will give us aid."
The thought of Minas Tirith destroyed weighed heavily on Aragorn's heart, but Legolas was right. He could not yet go to the White City, not until he had seen these people to safety.
"And what of the rest of my people?" Théoden asked, though Aragorn could see in his eyes he already knew the answer.
"The rest of your people must wait," Gandalf said gently. "We cannot search for them now. We have nowhere near enough supplies." He drew his staff from the ground. "If you will bring buckets, we do, however, have water. Your wells at least have not failed you."
The water they drew up was muddy, but Gandalf easily rendered it pure. The people drank until they could drink no more, and then, as none had properly slept before the storm, didn't bother waiting for the Hall to be secured. The earth had been so disturbed that it was quite soft enough to sleep on.
At length, only Gandalf and Legolas remained awake, keeping watch under the stars.
"Your father will not be happy about this," Gandalf said, puffing on his pipe - said it in Elvish, in came someone should stir enough to listen.
"He does not have to like it," Legolas returned. "He will not turn them away. He has grown insular, perhaps, but he is not so bitter toward other races as he once was. Not even Dwarves." The Battle of Five Armies had done much to soften the King's views - on many things. "What I fear is that not all these people will reach my father's halls. The very old, and the very young." Men were a hardier race than he had previously credited, but only in their prime. It was a very long journey to the Woodland Realm, and there were surely no horses to be found in this wasteland.
"We must do all we can, and hope for the best. We can do nothing more."
The destruction of Lothlórien was not so thorough as that of Imladris, but it was bad enough. By the end of the storm's first day, Galadriel had realized there would be no surviving the winter. Like Elrond, she knew they must make for Thranduil's realm. And, like Elrond and Mithrandir, she knew Thranduil would not be pleased to see them.
Her people were hushed as they salvaged what they could. Such was the waning power of Nenya, that the woods of Lórien would never re cover, and her people knew it. Their millennia-old home was no more, and would never be again.
What none of them knew - what perhaps no one else in all of Middle-Earth knew - was that the storm was indeed only the beginning, a harbinger of horrors yet to come. As yet Galadriel had spoken of it to no one, not even Celeborn, for she wished them to treasure their ignorance while they could. Their grief was more than enough to deal with already. They need not be told what perils lay ahead of them, what would take so many before they reached their journey's end.
The dead were about to rise. And when they did, none in their path would be safe.
Tauriel was not surprised to find King Thranduil brooding. She could not blame him - his only son was, after all, somewhere out in that storm-blasted world - but it did make her life more difficult.
The Battle of Five Armies had risen her to General, and there were often times she wished it hadn't. She had been happy as a Captain, but now she rarely saw active patrol. To Thranduil, 'general' seemed synonymous with 'advisor', and while she felt honored to be taken so into his confidence, she could not often say her tasks were pleasant.
Like now. She did not need to be told that their realm would, sooner or later, receive refugees from whatever other Elvish lands might have survived. At present they already housed the survivors of Esgaroth, though they were sadly few in number. It was Tauriel who had found them quarters, who had made sure they were taken to what healers they needed. All the while Thranduil brooded, but she was very much afraid he plotted as well.
It was no great secret that their King was not the most stable of beings. He ruled justly and fairly, and always saw to the safety of his people, but he could be so mercurial - and often so sinister - that even many of his advisors were unnerved. Even when his rage ran cold, it was a terrifying force to reckon with.
It wasn't terrifying to Tauriel, though. Whatever the reason, he did not become enraged with her as he did with the others, which unfortunately meant she was often dispatched to give him any ill news. She had learned decades ago to take a full jug of wine with her when she did so, and not reveal the purpose of her errand until he had drunk at least a glassful. She was quite certain he knew what she was doing, but he let her do it nonetheless.
She found him seated in the antechamber of his quarters, pouring over scrolls that looked ancient. On most days he at least had his butler with him, but now he was alone - not a good sign.
"A full bottle, Tauriel?" he asked, not looking up. "You must have ill news indeed."
Tauriel allowed herself a wry, humorless smile as she fetched two goblets. She drank little herself, but kept up the pretense of matching him.
"I do," she said bluntly, filling one goblet and placing it beside the scrolls. The haze of the alcohol stung her sinuses even from a distance. "Though it is not all ill."
"Sit," he commanded, and took a long draw off his wine before looking at her. "And drink."
She did, as always taking only a small sip. "The floodwaters are already receding," she said, "and the scouts report an entire nest of spiders dead, likely by lightning." The spiders had only recently appeared in the forest again, to the unease of everyone.
He drew another large draught of wine, and once again she sipped. Over the long years, the had honed this into almost a ritual. "We also received our first tidings from Ere bor. Few in Dale perished, and they saved many supplies. When the shore is passable, they will take in the survivors of Esgaroth."
Thranduil drained his glass. "And?"
Tauriel braced herself, though she was certain her news would be of little surprise. "The first of King Dain's ravens have returned. Though they flew a hundred leagues in each direction, they have found not a single stretch of land untouched by the storm."
The King was silent. His eyes were weary, but they were also haunted, and Tauriel could not fathom why. At length, however, he smiled, grim and twisted.
"Galadriel and Elrond have long thought me mad," he said softly, "for dwelling in caves as we do. Now they have no choice but to come to me, to this last bastion of Elvendom in Middle-Earth. If this storm was everywhere as it was here, Imladris and Lothlórien will be no more. You must prepare to receive permanent guests."
It was his tone more than his words that filled Tauriel with dread. She feared their kin would find him no gracious host, and it would fall to her to soothe all offense that might be taken. She prayed Prince Legolas would return before Lady Galadriel or Lord Elrond arrived, or her life would swiftly become unendurable.
She found Thranduil looking at her. He must have read her thoughts on her face, for his smile grew less bitter. "I know that I ask much of you, Tauriel," he said, almost gently, "but it is only because I trust you."
"I am honored by that, my lord," she said, quite truthfully, "but I would ask that you grant me aid, before the others arrive." By which she meant, I am no diplomat. She had no idea how the hierarchy of Lórien and Imladris fell, who to house where and what honors were to be accorded to whom. She knew next to nothing about either realm at all.
Once again, Thranduil seemed almost to read her mind, but as always seemed to happen of late, twisted her request. "I will answer what questions you may have," he said. "Tulusdir will take on what of your normal duties you cannot perform."
Tauriel fought an urge to grind her teeth. Before this disaster, Thranduil had occasionally (and mystifyingly) set her to odd tasks for which she was entirely unsuited. Whether it was a test, or simply the King's warped sense of humor, she did not know, but it certainly tried her patience. Which, she suspected, was entirely the point.
She drained her goblet rather than retort, the Dorwinion soothing her hackles. "As you wish, my lord. May I take my leave of you?"
"You may." He did not need to ask her to leave the wine.
Once out of earshot, Tauriel sighed. She automatically stepped aside to allow the King's butler to pass, but he paused, and gave her a questioning look.
"Did your report go ill?" he asked, and though he looked harried, there was sympathy in his eyes.
She sighed again. "Not ill, no. But the King has assigned me yet another task best suited to anyone but myself. At times I long for the simplicity of being Captain. The King is ever hard to read, but I wonder if he assigns these duties in hope that I will fail. I knew little of the nobility of our people, and I do not care to learn."
Now Galion eyed her very strangely. "You truly do not know?" he asked. "He does not wish you to fail, Tauriel. I may say no more now, but he will tell you himself, in time."
With that cryptic comment, he left her. Tauriel could only shake her head, and wonder where to start.
Five days into their journey, the people of Imladris had yet to see any sign of life.
Elrond had hoped to supplement their meager rations by hunting, but not an animal was to be seen. What tree still stood were green with life, but not even mice stirred among them.
As he had feared, the road into the mountains had entirely washed away. They were forced to break their own trail, creeping onward each day under the strong, hot sun. As a consequence, it took them that long even to reach the old pass.
They had spoken little since the storm ceased, too mazed by shock and grief to bother with words. So it gave them all a start when Lindir cried out.
Elrond paused, and looked where Lindir pointed. The track they beat ran along what had once been a narrow crevasse, now filled with water and a tangle of dying fir trees. On the other side, out in full daylight, stood a goblin.
A single goblin ought not to have alarmed any of them, but there was about this one an air of wrongness that grated on Elrond's every sense. It stood still and loose-limbed, staring dumbly, its unblinking eyes clouded milky-white. One of its arms was broken, a shard of yellowish bone sticking straight from its elbow, yet the creature betrayed no sign of pain.
That flat, vacant stare found Elrond, and it froze his very marrow. What he beheld might have a goblin's shape, but it was a goblin no longer. He looked upon a dead thing, but it was no wight. Never in all the ages of his life had he seen such a thing, and it struck him with such horror that he was arrested where he stood, unable for a moment to move.
Lindir nocked an arrow and let fly, the singing of the bowstring loud in the silence. His aim was true: he hit the goblin square in the chest, yet it did not fall. It did not so much as flinch - if the arrow caused it any pain, it gave no sign. Nor did it take its eyes off Elrond.
Another crept up beside it, and another still, lumbering like drunken beasts, until a small herd of goblin-things stood massed on the opposite bank. All were like the first, vacant and dead and wrong, and yet behind that vacancy there was something else - a formless malice, a mindless and unholy hunger.
His mind raced. There was nowhere behind them the things could cross, not without swimming - a thing he doubted them capable of. He knew not what lay ahead, however, and if his party were to run afoul of the creatures on this side, there would be little opportunity to flee.
"Save your arrows," he ordered, mastering his dread with difficulty. "But keep your swords ready."
Beside him, Arwen was tense. Her face was composed, but Elrond knew his daughter - she shared his strange, inexplicable terror.
"What are they, Ada?" she whispered, her knuckles white where she gripped the hilt of her sword.
"I do not know," he murmured back, "but I fear we will find out."
Their going was slow, and made ever more unnerving by the growing mass of goblin-things across the water. It was all they could do to keep the horses from bolting. The poor beasts' eyes were wild, sweat foaming at their sides. The silent, formless horror of the Elves grew, until it was almost a relief when they came face-to-face with one of the creatures.
Almost. As Lord of Imladris and head of the line, it fell to Elrond to kill the thing that came lumbering out of the wreck of the forest, and while he cleaved its head off with ease, even the feel of his blade passing through that dead flesh sent a shudder up his arms. Goblin blood was always black, but what came out of the hewn stump of its neck was not blood - it was a thick, foul, noxious ooze, that smelled as though it had begun rotting long before it was spilled.
But even that was not the worst of it. The head, which had rolled and fetched up against a rock near his boot, still watched him, and its jaws clacked, as though it wished to bite something.
And here Elrond - Elrond, who had faced Sauron and come out unscathed, who had led his people in the charge of the Last Alliance - recoiled. Pure instinct led him to drive his blade into one of the head's eyes, whereupon it went still, truly dead at last.
No more yet followed, but the creatures on the opposite bank let out a sound that would stay with him until the end of his days. It was a moan - a mournful, unnatural davening, low and horrible and hungry. They reached out, with no change in expression on their slack faces, as though beckoning the living to come to them.
"Move on," Elrond ordered, turning away. To his deep unease, the moaning grew and spread, echoing through what remained of the silent forest, and he knew now why they had seen no other living thing - nothing that could move would stay in such a place. And he also knew, with unfounded but unshakeable certainty, that all which had not fled had been devoured.
He had to make certain such a fate would not also befall his people. It was a thing that seemed easily accomplished in daylight, but what the night would bring he dared not imagine.
The refugees from Lothlórien had fared rather better. The lands around their woodland realm were uninhabited for many leagues: out here there were no dead to rise. They had only to contend with the sweltering sun, with air so harsh and arid it burned the lungs and made every breath a torment.
They too moved in silence. A few of the younger Elves had tried singing to pass the time, but their voices fell flat and heavy against the crushing stillness around them. Though the sky was clear, the air was as oppressive as that of a coming storm - something they all prayed would not come to pass.
They followed the line of the Anduin northward. The river was swollen and muddy, and even the sigh of the rushing water was muted. Dol Guldur was now safely behind them: mercifully it had been deserted, and even its ruins were now destroyed. It would be another day yet ere they reached the start of the Elven road into Mirkwood, and it was that which worried Galadriel.
She had no way of knowing what lurked in there still, what might have survived the storm - and what might not have. In the days since Dol Guldur was abandoned, hardy Men and their families had made their home in the forest's outer marches with King Thranduil's blessing. Any that perished in the storm would have risen by then, and her people would have to fight their way through.
Galadriel knew little of the dead: what she had seen in her mirror had been vague. She knew that they would kill and eat any living thing they caught, and that their bite would be the death of those who received it, but she feared there was more to it than that.
And there was Nenya. She had spoken of the ring's change to no one, not even Celeborn, but it was unmistakable: the ring's power was failing. There could be but one cause - the destruction of the One, the fulfillment of the Fellowship's quest. The Ruling Ring could be no more, yet it brought her no comfort.
It was too soon for the Ringbearer to have reached Mordor, let alone Orodruin. Whatever outside source had created the storm had also destroyed the Ring - and possibly taken all of Mordor with it. There was no power in Middle-Earth that would be capable of such a feat, and none that she knew outside of it.
No, she was not comforted at all.