Fall in the Light

by caradhwen

It is the Fourth Age, and Elrond has returned, and the fate of the Three lesser rings is finally known...

FALL IN THE LIGHT

1.

It came to pass in Arda's Fourth Age that a Council was called for in Imladris at the behest of Elrond, Lord of Rivendell, who had returned from the far shores of Valinor, his unspoken emptiness assuaged only by his presence in that most beloved of places. He would leave Imladris not again, for his spirit dwelt there, delved as deeply as the roots of the Hithaeglir, and there he would wait out time until even it passed into shadow.

So it was with Elrond, and though peace lay like a warm mantle over the lands after the destruction of the Ruling Ring, and the very air was alive with possibility, Elrond felt none of this. The time of his kind had passed, like childhood long gone but in every detail vividly recalled, or so it seemed to him. The weight of time he carried heavily in his heart, and only Rivendell gave ease to his burden. But spring comes again even to those least expecting it, even to those who have toiled long and felt their own reason for being erode.

There came to the Council in this age the finest of warriors, representing each their own lands and races, and great lords from noble families who had prospered from the sacrifices made by those who had attended the last such gathering here, from whence the fates of all had been decided. Many things had come to pass since that day, some truly foretold, and others not. Rivendell was far quieter now than then, the sons of Elrond gone into the West, his daughter gone also, down the path of death, seeking her mortal beloved, Aragorn Elessar. Celebrían, long ago lost. At times Elrond felt he could not yield up the memories, or perhaps he wished not to; perhaps all that had gone before was best left undisturbed as the deep places of earth where dwell things unseen and unknown save for time and those who carry it in full measure.

So Elrond put aside all he bore in secret, and welcomed emissaries from the length and breadth of middle-earth: Lochlann, advisor to Eldarion the King, son of Arwen and Aragorn; The Dwarf Lord, Bain, son of Bror, now King Under the Mountain, and his sons and others who were leaders among the Naugrim. Lothlórien was once again filled with life and song, though still scarred from its abandonment by its lady and lord, who had like mist receded into the West. Much of Lórien's brightness and splendour had gone with them, and never would it return. Instead, as life will, Lothlórien had become something new from the old, and flowered again under the care of its new inheritors. It heartened Elrond greatly to hear of this from Angharod, son of Haldir, who spoke to him privately before the Council convened. The unabashed happiness with which Angharod spoke of Lórien's rebirth filled Elrond with a strange sense of youth and of nameless longing.

And so those sent to speak for their own were brought forward one by one to be introduced to him. Some gave great tithes in hopes of blessing Imladris; others did so in order to curry favour in case the might of the Elves should ever be needed, for evil sleeps not long enough, and other troubles may come, and other enemies, for all who kept peace secure in their lands knew that vigilance and the constant preparation for war were the only tools to maintain what had been so hard-won. To keep the darkness at bay required a sword, and love that did not fail, and blood.

Yet for all his wisdom and experience, Elrond found himself quite taken aback when a shieldmaiden from Arnor was brought forward to him. Arnor had been restored, finer and far stronger than in its gloried days of legend, and there stood before him now the epitome of this work: young, fair, unhindered by pride, simple and unadorned and safe in the surety of her own skill.

Fair, she was, though she knew it not at all. Not the ethereal, immortal beauty of an Elf, though it was there, somewhere far beneath like a river running deep in the heart of the earth upon which no gaze ever passes. Elven blood, however faint, is easily seen by the eyes of one who knows it well.

Her eyes held him, and in them he saw himself in a way he had never done, and something he had not known lay dormant stirred from deep within and the din of voices around him died away until only the distant call of a meadowlark seeking its mate came to his ears, until she spoke.

"I am Emer, of Arnor," she stated simply and at his feet sank to one knee, her arms crossed before her, and briefly she covered her eyes with her hands to show her respect, a custom of Arnor of old, reborn. It seemed a cloud covered the sun when she hid her eyes, and he did not breathe again until she had taken her hands away and risen. Her eyes were the colour of both earth and leaf, green and brown, changing.

"It seems Arnor has fallen on hard times indeed," snorted one of the lords of Gondor who was watching nearby, "to send a woman to represent them, a woman hardly old enough to leave her father's house."

The shieldmaiden was nonplussed, though there was flint in her gaze. "The elders of Arnor were asked to send their best hither. They have done so."

The lord of Gondor squared his shoulders but spoke nothing more, though many seemed bemused by the girl's claim. She was armed in a way any of the Guard of Minas Tirith would envy; a silver-shod quiver of spears at her back, a small bow on her wrist, a dagger gleaming in her boot, and the hilt of a sword on her hip that few had seen equalled. Other weapons she carried which were known only to her and to those who were born to the training and the harsh rigours that were life as a child in Arnor now. For in Arnor dwelt the strong arm of the Realm, its military heart, and all were trained to that end. Gondor may rule, and its standard fly over all, but it was Arnor's to defend now, and in the future. And it was the spoilt lords of Gondor who would flee to that protection should it ever be called upon to act.

The lord of Rivendell spoke, welcoming her, and the scorn of those around her was driven from Emer's mind, as though it had never been, as though she stood here alone with him. She could not say how long she stood so, gazing up at him with shining eyes. Perhaps those watching laughed in amusement, though she would not have heard or cared. Let them think her a fool for being so held in the presence of another, for she had not seen another like him and despite her youth knew deeply and well that never she would again.

Elves she had met before, come to Arnor to instruct in the more advanced skills of the longbow. Men she had known, and with them shared the training and the road and the campsite, and the warmth of the fire in winter's frozen dells, but no other fire would she share with them, nor any other but the one before her now. What was she to him? What could she bring him but death? Her heart was unmoved by reasoning, for the world had changed utterly from the last moment to this, and she was forever altered.

And so the Council convened, and in her turn Emer reported all that was of Arnor without faltering, and no sign was given to any of all that was in her heart now, and no eye sought or saw what she struggled to keep hidden except for Elrond's. When his gaze met hers she held back nothing, and smiled imperceptibly at him, unhearing as another spoke before the Council. She could hear only the steady drumming of her heart and knew only that his eyes smiled back..

2.

Many accounts were given that bright afternoon, tales of rebuilding and of new leadership and of lands flourishing under the full scope of peace and the real hope for the future that it wrought. Emer barely heard all that was said. The path of her life had always been clear before her, laid out by Arnor and all it expected of her. What would become of her now she knew not, only that the road ahead must somehow end here, in this place. Her sword would ever be for Arnor. More than this she could not guess at, and did not try, content to watch Elrond quietly.

Rivendell was filled with voices great and soft, some strangely accented, others dark and guttural as the company dispersed and took freely of the hospitality of the House of Elrond. Emer, having no hunger for food, stole away then to explore, though she took great care not to tread where her presence would not be welcomed. At length she was emboldened and found herself near the great library, and she was allowed to enter. She gave her word that she would leave all as she had found it and was left alone.

She allowed herself to sigh at the enormity of knowledge stored here. She had never had access to so much of history before; books were prized in Arnor both for their scarcity and their value, and many tales were still passed from memory or song. She lit several candles and began to search.

Elrond was restless at the head of the table, where a great feast had been laid. The company was in high spirits and there was good cheer as they broke bread together. Beside Elrond sat one who was kin to Samwise Gamgee, come from the Shire with tales of life in that pastoral corner. Never were any in middle-earth more grateful for peace than those in the Shire, for they knew best what to do with it, savouring it in the midmorning sunshine with a cup of tea and a second breakfast. Elrond had oftened thought the Halflings wisest of all, for they knew instinctively that life's simplest gifts were the most profound of all.

Yet his eyes sought the girl from Arnor, and he wondered where she had gone. He could not leave the table now and go seeking her, though it was in his heart to do so. He sent one he trusted to find her, and to be sure she did not depart too soon. He would speak to her alone as soon as he could make a decorous exit.

Emer sensed someone passing in the hall outside, but her eyes were not quick enough to see who it was. She wrested her mind from the book before her, glancing at the candles now guttering, the tapers nearly spent. They and the song of the Elves now softly diminished and barely heard told her that more time had passed than she realised. Perhaps she was keeping someone from their rest by tarrying here, yet she was unwilling to leave. Finally she scooped up the heavy book and began dousing the candles. When only one gave light, and shadows danced in the hollows and high corners did she see Elrond standing before her.

"What are you reading?" he asked softly.

"The history of your family," she replied with equal softness, for it seemed a violation to speak in anything over a whisper here.

He reached out to touch the heavy binding of the book, and Emer felt her heart leap within her at the nearness of his fingers, but she did not look away.

"The Book of Days," he said. "Many lives are spoken of here, and the fates of many told, and some which are untold, and unknown. I am honoured you wish to know of them. I have been writing within those pages lo these many years, yet such a book can never be completed; I suppose that is as it should be, for a family should endure and go on."

"Until the end of days," she said after, and wondered why she had spoken such words. He agreed, reluctantly withdrawing his fingertips from the spine of the book.

"I should not have tried to take it from the library," stammered Emer. "I only wished to continue reading it without disturbing the night."

"You must have found it enchanting, to have missed the feast for its sake. Come, I have prepared something for you. We do not let our guests here dwell in hunger."

Emer nodded mutely and followed him. He was kind, and seeing to the comfort of his invited guests, and nothing more, yet there was a lightness in her step. He had noticed her absence at the feast.

"It is quite different here by night, but no less beautiful," he told her, and led her to a quiet veranda where a small meal was waiting. "Here you may eat, and listen to the songs of the nightbirds and the falls, as I often do." His eyes were warm. "And I will have candles brought to you, if you wish to read." Emer was aghast when he turned to leave.

She would not defer to courtesy, or protocol, and stated simply what was in her heart. "Must you take your leave so soon? For I wish you would stay here with me, if only for a time." He did not turn around.

Though she had only seventeen years, Emer knew already that many chances come only once, and are gone forever once they pass, as are days. The road ahead would likely take her far, but it would not bring her back to this moment in time. She would act, and what would be, would be. Carefully she set the book aside where it would not be disturbed, and went to him, and touched him, curling her fingers around his arm.

"I was taught to speak only honest words, and so I will do now," she declared, and her voice was strangely quiet, a calm that she did not feel, for her blood had heated upon touching him. "I know that I am young, and untried, and you have seen the ages and much of history unfold, and I know that I can offer you nothing you have not tasted or heard or had before, yet I say because I must that you have my heart, and it makes no difference whether you spurn it or embrace it because it is surely yours, and I would rather have this night with you than a hundred years with another who thought the sun rose where I walked..."

Emer's voice betrayed her, but she did not let go of his arm. Instead she let her hand move to his shoulder, and there it rested, feeling the strength beneath, while he took into himself all she had just told him. He did not move for long moments, and when he did she was in his arms and he could answer her without words.

3.

Emer woke trembling, both with fear and with an unspeakable joy that she could not repress. There were no words in any language to tell of what she had experienced, and words would not have availed her anyhow. Fearful she was because Elrond had gone, and she wondered what regret was his at what they had shared. Fear she also felt at how fundamentally changed she was. It was a glad, fierce emotion that was so utterly foreign to her she wept for a time, until at length she grew still. Whatever became of her now, she would carry the memory of the night now gone with unwavering happiness, forgetting not one detail of the journey.

The book was near, and she reached for it. It seemed heavier now, as if something new had been added to it since last it had rested in her hands. The morning sun slanted lazily in, reaching to where she was perched on the edge of the bed, her fingers trailing absently over the cover of the book. The Elves were singing, and she felt herself a word in that song, one single utterance spoken by the sunlight, and she closed her eyes and listened.

Elrond, too, was forever changed, and moved through the proceedings of the morning as one lost, his heart aching with the fullness of emotion it had so long desired, pierced by the memory of how Emer had so easily given her innocence to him. He felt no regret, no sense of betrayal, no sadness at the way she had driven all that had gone before from his mind until she was all he cared to know. How easy it had been to accept what she had wished to give him, as easy as the act of breathing.

He saw to his guests, answered every question asked of him, listened attentively as informally the company gathered again, the droning of their voices harsh and loud to his ears, in stark contrast to the singing of his people from the boughs overhead and the singing of his own blood in his veins. His eyes strayed time and again to the alcove above where he had last night taken her into his arms for the first time.

What was eternity to this? What was the gleaning of knowledge, the slow harvesting of wisdom, to be such a light in the eyes of another? He would rather fall in that light than endure forever seeking it.

When at last the long shadows of late afternoon fell, the singing of his people resumed in full, and the melody changed, for the great host had departed, bound now for a celebration to mark the years of peace, a jubilee in the walled city of Minas Tirith. The song of Imladris was of a deeper and older celebration, for their song was the unending story of life here, and its rise and fall marked daily events both great and small, from the fall of a leaf to the birth of a child.

Elrond returned then to the one who waited for him, and in quiet gladness voices as one rang out across the vale and were echoed in the silver language of the waterfalls, who speak in secret ways and in words known to few.

4.

Elrond studied Emer as she slept, taking in all the details of her; the dark and heavy fringe of lashes against the curve of her cheek; the sharp upward sweep of her brow; the soft, steady cadence of her breathing; the untroubled posture of her hand against the pillow, open and laid bare as her heart.

He touched her hair, a deep brown and bound up in a thick plait that was itself made up of hundreds of long and much smaller braids, some decorated with silver clasps. Her hair was held back from her face by a gold coil. She had told him that such plaiting and the manner in which it was done indicated clan affiliation and rank among the women warriors of Arnor.

Slowly he began loosening the thick bundle of braids, and his fingers moved deftly from one to the next, undoing each as she slept on unaware, until he could run his hands through all her hair, lustrous and thick as a balm of silk between his fingers, and dancing now with a life of its own.

Under that soft touch he roused her, and though she still walked in the country of dreams she reached for him, drawing him close. His body ached release from hers again, yet there was none, and he was content with the whisper of his lips against her ear as he spoke softly many things to her in Sindarin, the tongue of his people, until she sighed in such a way that he was gripped with a satisfaction so complete it was like pain.

Vilya, the Ring of Air which he had so long borne, was caught up in her hair as his hand moved through it, and he worked it loose without waking her and slipped it from his finger. He could not say why he was so moved to place it then on her finger, except from the desire to share more with her, more than she would have asked, and once it was done he drew her ever closer, watching intently as all the ring was entered her consciousness and began to act. He held her face between his hands, fighting the sense of loss, of separation from the ring that had so long been part of him, until he saw the effect upon her, sharp and immediate as she gasped, a long exhalation like that of a lover who has been taken to heights never dreamt of before. He held her more tightly then, cradling her head against him. His eyes closed, and his spirit forward flew to enjoin hers.

Soaring, she was soaring, a wingless, flightless creature who was all at once the flight and the sky itself. Plummeting, falling, aloft once more, and all that was this element she was, both its source and its captive. Rushing, diving, never at rest, at once temporal and in flux, sustenance in its most basic form. Elrond was near, the very air she breathed and danced in giving life to him, and returning to her, tenfold, a thousandfold, and one by one all secrets were unfrozen, details minuscule no longer out of reach, and she would touch everything that was, until she screamed for it to stop, to cease, lest it cease from the source and the darkness fall.

Elrond took the ring from her then, placing it back upon his own hand, rocking her like a child, and she shook like a leaf in the wind, beyond words. Outside the singing of the Elves slowed, and spoke of the end of summer coming, and the thickening of the sap in the trees who prepared for the white rest, their arms reaching bare toward winter's meager light.

He stroked her hair, her arms wound tightly about his neck. "You bore the ring," he said, when he knew she had ears to hear him. She did not speak an answer, and could only hold on to him and wait for reason to return. He revelled in that embrace, in her need for him. How honest she was within her own heart, to have with such courage told him only hours after their first meeting all that she felt for him. So very, very young.

What had he done? Had he been wrong to want to give her all that the ring was, even for a moment? Was it love that bound her arms around him now, or fear?

"I love thee," she whispered hoarsely to him in his own language, knowing these were the words he most longed to here, for they were the ones she longed most to say. All doubt and self-reproach were in an instant banished, and there was only her in his arms and their fates bound together.

"Now we are truly one," he answered. "I am sorry if you were overwhelmed by the power of the ring. I would do nothing to hurt you, nothing-"

"I know," she replied, bringing her fingers to his lips to stop any further apologies. "There is no need for sorrow, for you gave me something of yourself, and all I wish is to know you truly, more than I have ever wanted anything. It was wonderful. I am too small a being to bear it, and for such a one as me it was never meant. I have not the strength. I was overwhelmed, for I felt as if I touched and became the very fount of life, its wellspring, when I am only a minor note in the song."

"You are far more than that to me."

She kissed him in reply. It was long before she spoke again, and when she did, her voice was far older to his hearing. "New enemies threaten."

"I know." He had not wished to speak of it yet. The ring had shown her, though only little. Many details he himself still lacked. Darkness crept around them then, seeping in at the edges of joy like a cold draft entering the room unseen.

They rose then, and dressed, and shared a meal as if they were companions of old, and in a sense they were, for Elrond knew that all which was destined came with the unmistakable mark of familiarity, as all good things are meant to.

For the rest of the day they spoke of other things, and Elrond showed her Imladris as it was known only to those who called it home, delighting in her childlike sense of wonder, her curiosity, and the feel of her hand in his, like an anchor that would hold him in this world until the end of his days.

5.

Day quickly melted into evening. Elrond left Emer for a few hours to her own devices, knowing she needed time to absorb all that had occured between them, as he did. When his longing to be near her grew too great, he sought her, finding her where he had hoped, in his own chambers, bent over the Book of Days. He made no sound, and only watched her eyes travel line by line across the page. His family would now be hers, and he wondered what look would come into her eyes when she first realised this. Yet her family in Arnor would wonder what had become of her. Many at the Council had thought Emer had departed early, and others speculated that the girl lacked courage after all and had ridden home. When she was not seen as expected in Minas Tirith, word would quickly go back to Arnor. Emer's training and skill must be all she had described to him thus far, for she had travelled here alone and arrived unharmed though bandits stalked the way and many unwary travellers were not seen again. Even though this was an era of peace, many of the old evils still thrived. Some such as should never, he thought darkly, envisioning what the ring had so recently imparted to him.

He touched Emer's shoulder upon reaching her, and her eyes were so bright in greeting that he thought his spirit must enlarge to receive such a glance, and he smiled.

"Your smile is so rare," she noted, a heaviness in her voice. "If I have given you cause to smile, I am glad." There seemed to be more she wanted to say, but she rose to embrace him instead. He breathed in the scent of her hair. She had bathed, and the marks of the many braids were gone, and her hair was smooth now as a still lake, straight as an arrow, and smelled of sage and clear water. Desire rose in him, but now was the time for talk.

She declined his offer for food, and he led her out onto his porch. All of Imladris seemed visible from here, even in the twilight. Emer's eyes grew dark. "Will your people not despise me? For I bring the touch of mortality to their master, and I number your days if I remain." He saw the gleam of tears she held at bay.

"Remain you shall, for we are joined now, as surely as if we had spoken ceremonial vows. They will not despise you, but love you, because I love you. Listen, now, and you will hear my words confirmed, and there you will find your answer."

Her tears fell anyhow, at the song she listened for and heard, for it was indeed one of welcome and of gladness, from the trees sighing in the wind and the singing of their inhabitants.

"Do you understand now? What makes me happy also brings them joy. Be welcome, Emer. You are home."

She smiled through her tears, and again desire rose in him. His wealth of experience to her lack was like wind to the flame, but he would not give in to it until later. Waiting would only heighten what would come.

"Of whom were you reading?"

"Of Melian."

"My foremother. Tell me, when you were a child, whom among the tales of old touched you most?"

"Eärendil, the Mariner," she answered without hesitation. "For I long to see the ocean, and sail upon it boldly, and feel its restless heart beneath and the spray of its breath upon my face."

"Eärendil. My father."

She nodded. "I would beg you now of details of your voyage to Elvenhome and back again. How was the ship called? What was in your heart when the sea was heaving beneath your feet as you returned to middle-earth? And what of Eärendil? More there is to know of him that what is written, I wish you would tell me."

He laughed heartily at her desire to know these things and the childlike manner in which she asked. So very young.

"One day you will see the ocean, for I will take you there. And we will sail upon it, perhaps on the ship I was borne here on, called the Aníron, moored now at the Havens. Beautiful, she is, graceful as the seabird who rests on the wavetops before taking flight again. I was joyful to return, Emer, yet heavy in my heart also. Emptiness, I felt, and great longing. But no longer, because of you." He hesitated. "We must send word to your family in Arnor, lest they think you have fallen by the way."

"I know. I will see to it on the morrow." She had no wish to think of anything outside this place. "About Eärendil," she prodded, and he gave in to her, and settled with on a couch of stone, and their backs against the wall launched into the tale of Eärendil's longing for the sea, and his love for Elwing, his friendship with Círdan the Shipwright, and all that came of Eärendil's divided heart, torn between the affairs of earth and sea.

Emer was enthralled, his words easily painting vivid pictures of Eärendil's existence. It grew colder, and he drew her back inside and out of the night. She paused to touch the cover of his book.

"Our family," he whispered. She wept in earnest then, and he held her against him. The look in her eyes had been more than he had earlier imagined, and he was glad he had spoken the words. The book would be heavier in seeming now, because of what he would give to her this night, the most precious gift of all, and a new chapter would begin.

"Undómiel," he cried out in his spirit. "At last I understand the choice you made." Not too late his understanding, for he knew she smiled from where she was now.

He took great time and care with Emer, until she could wait no longer, her lips so ardently caressing his neck, her words so sweet that he could bear no more waiting either. When they were entwined, he took the ring from his hand and slipped it once more onto her finger, and like Eärendil of old they were of two worlds but one life, and he gave to her all the desire of his heart, filling her with it as they fell together as eagles will who mount the wind and spread their wings without fear, trusting the sky to catch them.

In the morning he woke to see her eyes fixed on the ring, still on her hand. "I cannot bear it," she said, her voice cracking. "I have not the strength."

"You have strength enough. More than you yet realise. I have entrusted no other with it since it came to me, since I accepted it from Gil-galad's own hands."

"For me it was not meant. It is thought that the rings passed from all knowledge."

"Not so. Hidden away they have been, by those wise enough to conceal them. For what they are is to valuable to all."

The question in her eyes was clear. "I am weary of it, Emer. I ask only that you bear it with me for a time, until what is meant to be carried by you becomes clear."

How could she deny him this? She would question not his reasoning, even if she did not understand it. "I will."

"I would not ask it of you-"

"I know. I would do anything for you. You will not need to ask again. I will bear it as you wish me to, until such time as you tell me."

"In time you will come to see that what it has crafted is worth the weight you will carry." He smiled inwardly. She would understand all he told her soon enough. She made no move to take the ring from her hand and return it to him, and he was pleased.

"You will learn to control it. I will teach you. The ring itself will teach you. It will not break you, Emer. Trust me."

"I trust you with my life." Her eyes were hollow.

"You have lain long awake. Come, and sleep for a time. Such dreams it will bring you. Let them come."

He was surprised at her strength of will when she slept soon in his arms. The ring was becoming part of all she was already, yet he kept vigil as her breathing deepened and her eyes moved behind their lids in dreams. He closed his eyes eventually, as her warmth enveloped him, and was comforted by the watchful silence.

Another watched over her also, and tread near her in the land of dreams. Too long his will had been thwarted, and now one of the three was soon to be within his grasp, if Elrond would but let her bear Vilya long enough to take it from her. Narya was within his control now. Nenya the girl would by the power of her own horror bring into his waiting hands. And then all he had toiled long for would come to fruition.

Elrond woke Emer when she cried out, and he knew someone had ill touched her, reached out to her in the vulnerability of sleep. Wisdom gave name to this faceless voyeur, but little else. His interference here in Imladris, Elrond would never allow. Emer woke with a start, her eyes blazing. He waited for her to tell him.

"I dreamt there was fire in Imladris, and the House of Elrond was burning. It was not the ring that showed me this, was it?" She was quaking, and he sought to calm her. "No. It was of the will of another, and he does not will me well. Yet you must not fear, for this place has protection far stronger than the Hithaeglir, Emer. It will not burn."

"Yet I feel it, a grave danger to this place." The anguish in her eyes tore at him. He said nothing more, and let his closeness heal what had in dream wounded them both.

"I must leave you for a time," she said when long moments had drawn shadows under her eyes. "I must return to Arnor, for my mother should hear from in my own voice who her daughter is now, yet how can I leave with such threats in my mind against you, and against your dwelling. Who would dare to move against you, and why?"

"I cannot say, I can only say that he will not accomplish his ends. His skill is great, but his season has passed. I will come with you, to Arnor, for your mother and father should also hear from me, and should know why I have taken their daughter from their midst."

"No, you must stay here. Perhaps whoever seeks to bring an ill wind here can only do so in dreams, yet the danger to this place would be greivous if you were gone, for you are its heart. I could not bear it if all were lost here because you accompanied me, when I can make the journey myself and carry not the guilt of knowing I placed you somehow in danger. You should not have trusted me with the ring, for he sees my weakness, and easy prey I could be for him."

"Not so, for he does not see what lies within, nor who you truly are." He was thoughtful for a moment. "Your name means 'faithful' in the Westron tongue, does it not?"

"Aye, it does." She looked questioningly up at him.

"I give you a new name this day. Aman, you shall be called. Aman, which means blessed, free from evil. No matter the fell desires of any who seek to manipulate you, yet you will remain untouched, this I pledge. Aman was called the land in the West, beyond the Great Sea, where dwelt the Valar after they had left the isle of Almaren. So you are to me, a great blessing in a sea of apathy, and untouched by the evils of Men you shall remain, and so I name you, and Aman Elendil you shall be known and called henceforth. Do not fear the will of others against you, for there will ever be one who seeks to gain what it is not meant for him to have. It was so with Sauron, and so it will be again, though the aim and the goal may differ, the corruption of those who wish contol will not."

Emer was overcome, the new name he had given her reverberating through her thoughts, the cold fingers of dream loosening their grip on her heart. Still she pleaded with him to remain here, and at last he relented, though she knew he wished to do otherwise. Her throat constricted painfully. "I am loathe to leave you, even for a few weeks." He kissed her, but they lingered not long enough for love.

Preparations for her journey were swiftly made, so that her return would be ever more swift. Beautiful clothing was brought to her, the like of which she had never before seen, a dress of silver brocade which shone like mail but was light and moved whenever she did. Elrond came to her after a time, bearing other gifts.

"Bear the ring to Arnor, and they will know that you are mine, and this will tell them also," he said, and placed on her hair a shining silver circlet worked in designs of winding laurel. An elven sword she was given also, and she marvelled at its weight, for it fit perfectly in her hand. Her own sword she would return to the armoury of Forndagor, for it belonged to Arnor and to another life.

A fine cloak she was given, and a new pack fully provisioned, overflowing with all she would need and more. It was heavy on her back, heavy as her heart as she set off. Elrond would not leave her until they reached the last bridge.

"Fare thee well, Aman Elendil. Come back to me, swiftly and soon. If you have need, the ring will show you. I will be nearer than you think, Lady of Rivendell. She smiled so gravely at this title, and her pride in it was so easy to see that he nearly would not let her depart.

It took all her courage to turn away from him, and the roaring of the river Bruinen beneath them concealed the sounds of grief that come from her when she did. Elrond dispatched two of his most trusted to follow her in stealth, two who would die to protect her if need arose. The ring would be safe with her. She would pass the test.

Within the hour he departed to ride in her wake, though she would know it not.

6.

Emer followed a path near the Great East Road, the Bruinen behind her now and the Mitheithel ahead as she began to cross Rhudaur. At the Weather Hills, she would veer north to trek across Eriador, and many lonely, empty miles would lay ahead there. It seemed long years had passed since she had come this way bound for the Council. Her path had been clear before her then. Now it seemed to lay in shadow.

Strange it felt to ride with her hair unbound, and the silver circlet atop it did not stop it flying in the wind. The fine raiment Elrond had given her caught the light at every turn, with the slightest movement. Soon Imladris would be far behind. She could no longer even hear the Bruinen's whisper. How was she to get through the days ahead, the weeks that already seemed like years unending? She yearned for Elrond already.

She must let her training take over now, the arduous education so deeply ingrained despite the wonders of the past few days. All her senses must be brought to bear, so the journey would be swift and without incident. He had trusted her with something precious, valuable beyond all imagining. She must not fail him, and though she belonged to another now, she had no wish to lose her skills as a warrior. She had fought hard for her rank, endured in silence the petty jealousies and malicious underminings of others. Though she would leave Arnor, these victories were hers alone.

She resisted the temptation to sift through the memories of her experiences in the House of Elrond, knowing they would distract and lull her from the present. For a time, she sang a glad song of thanksgiving to her creator for all she had been blessed with; for Elrond, in whose eyes the stars shone. Then she steadfastly concentrated only on the road, and the sounds and scents around her, scrutinising each bent branch and broken blade for signs of others and the times and directions of their passing.

Inish whickered softly, though not with alarm. Someone was following. She drew up the reins and halted, watching the horse taste the air. Not an enemy. Emer smiled and closed her eyes briefly, her head bowed. Elrond had sent someone to protect her, to guard her life. She flet a rush of blood to her heart so great she could not breathe, and did not spur Inish on again until the feeling had subsided somewhat. How much more she cared for him every moment.

In the shadows of evening she found a sturdy copse of birch where she could camp for the night. Inish was still fresh, but she wished not to wear him too soon, for many miles still lay ahead. Tomorrow they would ford the Mitheithel.

She lit no fire, though its warmth would have cheered her, and let Inish graze at his own desire while she delved into her pack. Lembas she found, and ate sparingly of it, though she placed some nearby for Elrond's warrior to find, to thank him for sharing the road with her, albeit unseen. Clear water she drank from a stream, where she also washed and refilled her waterskin. A grand hoard for the trail, a vein of the Bruinen.

She lifted the silver circlet from her head, her hair clinging to it, and studied it long in the dying light, thinking of Celebrían of Lórien, Elrond's first wife, and the suffering she had endured at the hands of the Orcs. For a moment Emer could see Celebrían in her mind's eye with painful clarity; bright-eyed, her hair around her shoulders like a mantle, her stance proud and noble and beautiful, yet yielding. Emer twisted the ring on her finger.

She could not even wonder at how Elrond must have loved Celebrían, nor the depths of anguish he had plumbed when she was gone. Emer could hardly bear to hold the silver coronet then, and bent to stow the lovely thing away. It could not have belonged to Celebrían, of that Emer was certain. Her eyes were misty as she tried not to draw comparisons between herself and Celebrían. There was no need to, for Emer knew she could never be what Celebrían had been to him. She could be only as he had named her, Aman; she could only love him and let time tell if it was enough. She resolved to think no more on it, until she found the book at the very bottom of her pack, and two candles. She lifted it reverently free, her face aching from the smile that played across it.

She lit one of the candles, and ran her hand across the book's cover, thinking of going back to Eärendil's tale. There was something new, somewhere. She found it paging through the last section, which held long tables of genealogies. On the last page, still empty when last she had looked, Elrond had begun a new tree of names. At the top of the parchment was written his name and hers, joined together by a connecting line. From their names spread out beneath finely drawn branches, detailed with leaves and vines. Emer gasped softly, tears springing into her eyes. Branches to bear the names of their children...

She had not even dared to allow herself to think of so joyous a possibility, yet he had. She held the book to herself so tightly that it moved with every beating of her heart. Children, they would have children of their own. The words he had spoken found his way into the tumult of these thoughts: "In time you will come to see that what it has crafted is worth the weight you will carry." She touched the ring, the feel of it electric beneath her fingertip.

How was she to sleep now, with such wondrous hopes to tantalise away every rational thought? Yet she spread her old cloak on the soft ground beneath the trees so the fine dress would not be soiled, and wrapped the new one around herself, and listened to the trees breathing around her, the whispers and sighs and imperceptible groanings that are the speech of the silver-skinned birch, and knew not when sleep claimed her, her hand beneath her head, the ring pressed against her cheek.

Elrond came to her when she slept deeply, and knelt beside her. Inish watched him, silver-maned in the moonlight, his ears erect, listening. He bent his head again to graze and paid his rider's lover no more heed, though he still listened.

Elrond longed to touch Aman, but only watched her as the horse had watched him, with quiet intensity. When the wind stilled, he settled near her, her hair just beyond his reach, spread like a dark shawl around her. He began to sing with infinite softness:

"Eärendil was a Mariner

That tarried in Arvernien;

He built a boat of timber felled

In Nimbrethil to journey in..."

Emer sank into dreams, and the eternal, restless sea was beneath her feet and all around her, and it bore her toward the shore, where Elrond waited. A vast ship carried her in haste, cutting through the walls of waves until he was near, until she could touch him. The crashing of the waves as they beat upon the drums of the shore became the steadier cadence of the Bruinen, and in the Hall of Fire, in the House of Elrond, Elven minstrels made music in a merry welcome to their master. There was great singing, and Emer listened, safe at his side, watching the pictures in the fire until her eyes grew heavy, drawn closed by the song.

At the shrill of her own voice crying out her eyes flew open again. The fire was too hot, too hot, the flames too high. Someone stood before her, his face in shadow, hooded. She could tell only by his outstretched hand that he was a man at all. She did not reach for that hand, and he closed his fist for her to see what was upon his hand; a ring, red as the heart of flame.

She staggered back, until sound drew her eyes away from that jewel of blood. At first it seemed the roaring of the Bruinen. Tongues of flame leapt from the rooves, from the eaves. Burning, it was all burning, and she could not find Elrond, they were separated by flame. Someone touched her shoulder, a cool hand, a source of life, and her screams ceased though the roaring of the flames deafened her.

An Elf, a woman, her golden hair like sunlit water spilling over her shoulders, her eyes deathly calm, a ring on her hand. Her voice was like still water, and her words heard over the din. "The Ring of the Adamant." Emer felt comfort issue from the ring, salvation.

"Galadriel!" Emer cried. "Save him." She pleaded, begging, clutching at the hem of Galadriel's garment as she was driven to her knees in despair. From behind, the man with the hooded face siezed Emer by the wrist.

"I will have what you bear, or Imladris will burn," he hissed, and a black emptiness like smoke filled Emer until she choked on her own screams. "Galadriel," she called, her voice failing.

Brethil bent over the girl when Elrond and his guard had moved away, behind the boles of the trees. They were near, but out of sight. Brethil had heard such anguished screaming only from the dying, not the dreaming. Vilya watched, murky sapphire in the wee hours before dawn, winking up at Brethil.

Brethil stiffened, startled as the girl cried out in bereavement. "Galadriel, Galadriel, come back". Elrond had easily heard this, Brethil knew. She placed a hand on the girl's forehead. A fine sheen of perspiration like fever covered the girl like morning dew.

"Galadriel, eh?" mumbled Brethil. "Here, she is not. Awake now! Emer! Aman Elendil!" Brethil shook the girl until her eyes flew open. Dazed, Emer tore the ring from her hand. Her mouth dropped open in utter amazement as she regarded the strangest creature she had ever seen, standing right before her eyes!

A little woman made of wood! Her skin was like that of the stand of birch under which Emer rested, yet of a brown hue mixed with the silver-white. Her eyes were wizened and brown, and the skin around them wrinkled like bark gnarled around a burl. She was ageless, neither young nor old. Her hair was the teardrop leaves of birch, full as a headress, alive unto itself. With twiglike fingers she held Emer's arm, and Emer did not recoil, for there was great patience in those eyes and in that touch. On the creature's head was a crown of tiny branches that looked as if they had been carved from the antlers of a deer.

Emer found her voice. "Are...are you an Ent?" The little woman laughed. "Kin we are to them, Ents we are not. Know you nothing of the Dryads?" Emer was about to shake her head when the creature spoke for her. "Good! That is good! Our ways are secret. Only to Elrond do we speak, and to Thranduil the Elvenking, and to those only of our choosing. Ours are the silent ways, and a Dryad who does not wish to be seen or heard will not be! Even the footfalls of an Elf are the crashing of falling timbers to a Dryad!"

She seemed quite pleased with herself at this, and hopped about in a sort of circular jig as Emer watched, dumbfounded. "Older than the Firstborn are we." The Dryad's laughter was like two dry sticks being rubbed together furiously. When the drumming of the Dryad's feet on the earth stopped, she peered at Emer.

"Come to protect what is Elrond's, I have. For Elrond. For Celebdhel!"

"Who is that?" Emer asked. Her voice squeaking. "Who is Celebdhel?"

"The silver star who will rise in your sky! Ere summer's end, his presence you will know. He is near."

The Elven guard, the one following her? Someone she was to meet on the road, perhaps? Summer was nearly at an end already.

"Celebdhel who will grow tall and straight as pine in the mountain's cleft!"

"How are you called?" Emer asked more boldly than she felt. The Dryad hobbled over, and whispered into Emer's ear, her dry lips scratching against Emer's skin. "Brethil. Silver birch, I am! I do not give my name lightly. For Elrond, I say it. For Celebdhel." Brethil backed away, peering shrewdly at Emer again.

"I will tell it to no one," said Emer solemnly. Brethil danced another jig, and now her laughter was the rasping of autumn leaves brushing against each other in the wind. Just as suddenly as it was begun the dancing of the Dryad ended again. "Galadriel, ye called for. Galadriel, I know. On the far shores she stands, for she heard thee. Return, she may, for one who begrudges her of old. The red death will not come to Imladris, for we will protect. Elrond will protect. The four together will defeat the man of skill. Bruinen answers tohim, we answer to him. Great power has Elrond, greater only is his love; for the trees, for the rivers, for you. We are the trees, Emer. The spirits of trees! Their lives, their memories. We forget nothing, and we have seen more! We have seen from the moment Yavanna sowed our beginnings. It is in us to remember, it is in Anya to remember..."

Emer was silent, recalling what Elrond had said about the protection of Imladris, both seen and unseen. Emer shivered. "Twice I have dreamt Imladris was burning, yet only this time did I see one with a red ring, and Galadriel. She had the ring to save him, to save Elrond."

"Nenya, she had," Brethil corrected. "The Ring of Water, is Nenya. And Narya, the Ring of Fire. Mithrandir bore Narya, and Círdan before him. The man of skill sent the worm to take it from Mithrandir's branch. That branch has fallen." Brethil's eyes narrowed. "Vilya you bear now with Elrond, Gil-galad before him. Another you will find in Arnor, to defeat Narya's captor, and restore the balance. His season is past! Hearken to my words. Anya, the Ring of Earth. It is there among the ruined hafts of old and the bright arms of the new! When you find it, claim it. Earth, air, fire, water. The seasons all in their turn. A new peace will come then, lasting and true, and the betrayer of old will fall in the last.

Emer stared at Brethil in utter confusion. Brethil's eyes cleared, as though she had been ill, or tranced, and was now hale again. Emer glanced at the book, wondering if the name of Celebdhel were written within. Brethil regarded the girl wisely. She would not find that name, yet. Emer raised her head slowly.

"I do not understand any of this. The Great Ring was destroyed. What of the others? No one can control them all."

"Yet to wield them is to control many things. The seasons, which bring in their time both growth and decay, as it is meant. To reap when it is too early, or make the fields fecund when it is time for them to lie fallow, to bring the flood in summer and the drought in winter, to bring life where death has come calling, and death is a season for all in their time. Such control would bring ruin to all. Not the darkness Sauron sought to bring, but a slow lapsing of life. Such would be mastery of a different sort. To bring the fire, the storm, the wind that shatters bone. This would destroy hope slowly, from within all. And mastery over the land and all living creatures." Brethil's tongue clacked against her teeth in deep thought.

"And he seeks them all. All four rings. And in order to find them all, and take them-"

"He must slay those who bear them."

Emer's eyes widened. Had Gandalf the Gray been slain? Small wonder Elrond was weary of the ring, of bearing it. "Let it be me," she thought, and knew not she spoke the thoughts of her heart aloud. "If one must die for the ring's sake, let it be me." She felt Brethil's gentle touch.

Her thoughts moved to Galadriel, mother of Celebrían. "Galadriel. You said she heard me. How can I stop her from returning? What have I done? I have sentenced her to death." Brethil raised an eyebrow woodenly. "Fearsome, is Galadriel. Formidable, untouchable. No victory against the Keeper of the Mallorn! Galadriel thwarted his will once, and made it known her desire was that Mithrandir lead the Council of the Wise. He has long hated her for it. He has thwarted long the will of death upon him! Studied long, he has, the lore of the Rings of Power. Ever vigilant was Mithrandir, and Elrond with him, and Galadriel. The betrayer spoke against them all, and let his will be bent to Sauron's. When the One Ring was gone, he waited, still living, yet such an existence as none would ever wish. He cannot accept what is meant, he cannot let himself see that his time is long past."

Emer felt herself both young and ignorant. "It cannot possibly be Saruman you speak of, for he died long ago. In the Shire, I think it was."

"Nay, child, he did not. It was only seeming, illusion. The Halflings are innocent of heart, and were willing to believe his demise, and that was as he wished. What they saw was the shadow of his death, and the will of death itself thwarted as his own had so many times been. He lives, and the worm lives to aid him, kept alive by his skill, for it is great and terrible. The rings he seeks, and vengeance against Elrond, and Galadriel. No victory against the Master of Rivendell! And no ill end for Mithrandir, who defended long and sacrificed, he who defeated even the Demon of Might! To him a crown with four stars. Do not despair, Aman Elendil, for despair is hope's enemy. It's mortal enemy. You are mortal. This battle is yours, warrior of Arnor. Yours, and Elrond's. For Elrond, for Galadriel. Blessed be, blessed and without evil in your heart. When it is time ye will understand, Elf-friend. All things must come in their own season. And the seasons all have their endings. The man of skill will know his."

Emer cradled her head in her hands. Free from evil. "Elrond should not have given me Vilya to bear. He needs it now, to protect. Far too easy it would be to rob me of it."

"Foolish child! Have ye heard me not? It is yours to bear until you find Anya, and without it you will find Anya not! Bear it for a time, times, and half a time, chosen of Elrond. Be still and think on what ye are told in the company of elders!" Brethil scuttled away, grumbling to herself in her own tongue.

"I will, Emer promised, calling out. "Come back!" She was careful not to call out the Dryad's name. From within the grove, Elrond smiled. Beautiful she was beneath the tree, with brethil chastising her further so that her cheeks were flushed. "As the flame of Arnor," he whispered. From the limbs above Elrond's archer watched.

Emer would not die in his place. That Elrond would never allow. Nor would any creep upon her seeking the ring. They would die together. With Celebrían, he had shared the bright days of youth, the morning. With Aman he would share the twilight. All things in their season

6.

Saruman cast his eye over this touching scene. "Elrond, you old fool, you have lost your wits, letting a woman beguile the ring from you, a mortal woman no less. You have played right into my hands." Saruman smiled darkly, though he still smouldered at the ease with which Elrond had closed off all access to what Saruman sought in Imladris. No matter, the girl had Vilya now, and the Palantír was far-reaching, and Saruman would gaze at his will, no matter the will of Elrond against it. Elrond had indeed chosen well, for Galadriel would play into his hands now because of her. Elrond was a crafty old buzzard, but in the end would be no match for him. Saruman found Elrond's obvious love for the girl distasteful, and annoying, yet it would serve him well. He was struck by the ease with which Elrond had embraced his own doom when Saruman himself had long toiled to avert this end. Such weariness Elrond would know, even more than what Saruman had put upon him thus far, that he would welcome death when it came, welcome it like an old friend long in coming.

Saruman had Wormtongue brought to him. "I have a task for you, little Worm. There are two men waiting to do my will and lighten the load of Elrond's plaything. Call it a test, assurance of trust. If you wish to continue breathing you will see it done. Let the men do as they wish with her but only after they have taken the ring from her. You are not to tarry and toil there with her yourself, for I know your weaknesses, Worm. I will reward you greatly if you know success. If not..."

Wormtongue gibbered in compliance. "This girl has managed to summon Galadriel. She will soon be within our reach." Saruman was amused at the flame of fear in Wormtongue's eyes, knowing well what effect that name had on him. "A host is waiting. If Elrond interferes, kill him. The sooner he is slain, the easier what lies ahead will be. Do not fail me again, Worm, or you will suffer a fate far worse than what awaits the girl, and where I will leave you to it not even the spirits of the dead will hear you scream."

Saruman laughed wickedly as Wormtongue scurried off to do his bidding in much the same way the girl had jumped to Elrond's whims. Glad he was that Emer had seen his reasoning as wisdom, and decided to trek to Arnor alone to inform them that she was now bound to Elrond's service. She was but the first warrior to fall; at the last the best of them would welcome what was coming. He watched Elrond who watched over the girl, but only briefly, for Elrond still had the strength to turn away his gaze, even witless as he was, powerless under the madness that was love. Elrond should have known better, for all in the Realm to surrender in such a way Saruman would never have guessed it to be Elrond who would yield. And now Imladris was wide open, though taking it would be no easy task, and Saruman was well aware that Elrond was wilier than he seemed, craftier than the night even with the girl to distract him, and the protections around his ancient dwelling were indeed mightier than they seemed. A grudging respect Saruman had for Elrond, though it was coloured by old animosity. For Galadriel he felt not this, but hatred that had long festered, honed within him like a weapon hidden away, waiting to be called into action. Mithrandir had in the end done Saruman's bidding, and so would the Lady Galadriel, ancient as days or no.

At midmorning Emer was hungry, and finding berries and roots set about a hasty meal. Brethil was still with her, appearing one moment and gone the next, playing upon a strange flute. Emer heard the haunting strains of it from the distance as she ate, and curried Inish, whom she entreated with some of the sweet berries.

Emer had said little to Brethil, and was giving much thought to all Brethil had told her, so much so that her head ached from it. She was in the world of high and noble company now, a child just learning to crawl, it seemed to her. The ways of the warrior were simpler, more base. Kill or be killed, and to the victors goes the authorship of history. Perhaps it was not simpler, just colder. The appreciation of life and its complexities were the antithesis of all that was learnt in Arnor, where the swiftest and most efficient methods of making the kill were rewarded above all else, and power was meted out according to that skill. Emer remembered how they had used to imagine falling in battle as children, dying in the same moment as their enemies were slain by them, martyrs for Gondor, for Arnor, for Númenor.

Arnor. It was not so very long ago that named had conjured images of a lost kingdom, evoked the ghosts of the kings of men fallen, myth upon legend heaped upon that name, and some still abounded. Arnor as it was now, rebuilt, was vastly different; rigidly ordered, bent only on the call to defend at a moment's notice. Anyone approaching Forndagor who was not immediately recognised risked swift and sudden death from a hundred different angles and by a dozen different weapons. Elrond had been astounded at the amount of weapons she carried on her person, and she recalled the sadness in his eyes as he looked upon them all. This was Sauron's legacy, and Saruman's. She carried each of them now, and a sword far finer than the one she had carried out of Arnor. She sighed, bittersweet.

How was it that Elrond had seen? How had he known what was so deep within her, so deeply buried even she had not known it herself? When she had set out on the road to Rivendell, her sole aim had been to show the men of Gondor that she was their better in the game of war. Now on that same road back, all she wanted was her life with him, his nearness, his happiness. Men had strayed too far from Elves, for what Elves held dearest was in the end all their was. Emer wondered what reaction she would be met with in Arnor, but did not wonder long, for she knew they would not wish her well. She would have to find a way to make them understand what was at stake. Arnor would be called upon, for conflict was soon to come.

Brethil was near again, reading Emer's heart and thoughts. It was disarming. "They will not understand at first, Emer Elendil. It is not their season to understand, yet. When the Four are borne in Arda again, then they will know what you have toiled for, and what Elrond has wrought in their behalf. Chosen of Elrond, ye are. What matters most of all, is that."

Emer's heart swelled with pride to carry such a title. She was hardly worthy.

"Blessed, ye are," Brethil went on. "Accept the blessing. Do the stars choose wrongly? Do they give light only as they wish? Nay, they do what they must, as you will do, as Elrond has done." Brethil left her for a long while, and by the time Emer reached the river Mitheithel, and stood at is swollen banks she thought the Dryad gone for good.

"The Man of Skill knows not of Anya, Emer Elendil. Guard your heart. Bear Vilya on your hand, and Elrond within. Anya keep secret, secret as a child only ye know ye carry, and Narya's captor will never find it. I will be near, and far away! Look for me over the hills! Heard me not, the Man of Skill, for Elrond stood between!"

Emer's shoulders hunched at Brethil's departure, and even more so at the sight of the Mitheithel, cresting its banks. Late summer rains must have fed it, for it was brimming over, and quite unlike it had been on her previous journey. She picked her way back by memory to the place where she had crossed over from the far side on the way to Imladris. There was little left to mark her passage and what little remained, her eye saw now.

She watched the flow, gauging the current, swift indeed, and it would be colder now than last time. They would likely be swept away and dashed onto the sharp outcropping of rock downriver before the cold could take them.

Inish champed nervously. 'Easy, easy," soothed. "I will have to find another way. Perhaps upriver there will be a place. A pity we do not speak the language of the river creatures, for they could dam the flow for a time if we could but coax them." She laughed half-heartedly, knowing such creatures would likely not answer her call even if she knew how to summon them. She gripped the reins and led Inish upriver on foot now. She thought of Elrond's warrior, the Elven guard somewhere behind. Perhaps he would know of a place where they could more easily risk fording the river.

"Celebdhel?" she called, chancing that this was his name. There was no answer. From very near, Elrond smiled. Celebdhel would answer soon enough. Caranthorn was the name of his archer.

Emer frowned. Perhaps Celebdhel was a star after all, and stars had little time for the fording of rivers. She called out the name again lest she was wrong. Elrond moved closer, yet Emer still would not see or hear him. She was clever and well-trained to have pciked up Caranthorn's presence so early on.

The Mitheithel he would see to now, before she grew bold and tried to cross it, or added needless time to her journey by seeking another way. From his hiding place he closed his eyes, and spoke to the river coaxingly. It was not the Bruinen, which danced at his whisper and parted at his word, but the mother of Bruinen. Mitheithel, like all women, required a slow and tender touch and words of equal tenderness, and in sibilant whispers he bewitched the river, the words he repeated until the Mitheithel yielded and the flow was stemmed.

The suddenness of the silence falling after was stunning, and the birds from their high perches heeded it, ending their songs and chatter. Emer stood stock still, staring in disbelief, eyes fixed upriver. Inish stamped, chomping impatiently at the bit. Emer let out a whoop and sped across the riverbed, her gaze still firmly upriver, watching for the great silver flow to resume. On the far bank she stopped, and turned, looking directly at where Elrond was hiding. He knew she did not see him, for she would run to him if she did, and fly into his arms. He wished then to show himself so she would do exactly that, but he could not. She must not know that he had not heeded her wish that he remain in Imladris.

"Thank you," she called, the wind lifting her hair behind her as she turned away again. Elrond was across before the heavy song of Mitheithel was heard once again in its fullness. He bent to touch her silver flow once. As headstrong as the girl on the horse on the road ahead.

7.

The Weather Hills were twenty miles to the North by midday. Emer was jubilant from the wondrous crossing of the Mitheithel, for only Elrond could have done it. Even from Imladris he had come to her aid. He was as near as his word. Such knowledge was like a living, breathing companion beside her.

Vilya was on her hand again, for it connected her to him, and she strove now to heed all the wisdom Brethil had imparted, whether she understood it fully or not. A small village lay near, to the East. In these long years of peace many such settlements had sprung up, even in lonely country such as this. Man's testament to the deep-rooted need he had to spread over the lands, to own them. Emer halted, looking back. The Elven warrior would find it harder and harder to remain unseen on the next leg of the journey. The trees were giving way to scrub, and squat hardy briar that could hold on to life in the ceaseless winds here.

Emer gave Inish his head, and the horse chose a direction to bypass the village. The briar grew more dense, and rattled deceptively in the dry and endless wind; phantom sounds that caused Inish to canter nervously, low sounds of alarm coming from deep within him.

"Easy, Inish," Emer coaxed, though she too felt the need to put the miles behind them quickly. Two men watched from the maze of bramble as Emer passed.

"Look what's caught in our net, Faibir," mumbled the larger of the two to his companion.

"Just as Saruman's crony told us. Long way from Minas Tirith, in't she?"

"Oi. Mebbe an Elf, though, Dellin. An Elf-queen. Lookie that crown she's wearin'. Saruman said nuthin' of a queen."

"And a fat sapphire on her hand. S'what he wants us to give the wee fellow he sent. He c'nhave it. There'll be drink enough for us when we take the rest."

"Good sport with her, first."

Faibir licked his lips. "Aye, twill be. Young, in't she? Send her back to her husband in a grainsack, time we're done with her."

"Don' like the looks 'o that sword none."

"Faibir spat. "Tink she can wield it? Haw! Elf-women're lazy, all they got tae do of a day is sing to their menfolk, lad."

"She might be of Gondor, of the Court."

"Hard to tell from 'ere. Reckon we'll know by the screamin'," Faibir snickered. They followed Emer closely, just to be sure no squire accompanied their prey. Dellin grew apprehensive. "Dunno about this, Faibir. She puts me in mind of my own wee daughter."

"Yer own wee daughter with three secreamin' brats of her own and ugly as a boar's backside? This 'ere Elf-girlie has sumpin' to offer a man, she does. Don' go soft on me now, mate. All that money'll ease yer mind some. Down the road apiece now, so all them gossipin' hens back yonder t'village don' hear the screamin'."

The woman was getting away too fast. Faibir ran ahead, crouching to spring. "Go fer the horse, Dellin, so's he'll throw her off for us," barked Faibir.

"Dellin!" Faibir's head snapped sharply around. Where had that flaming pile of dung gone? "Dellin, ya coward,-"

Faibir tripped over Dellin hard and sprawled in the dirt, cursing, his face torn by the bramble. He froze, silent when he saw the arrow jutting from the back of Dellin's neck. Faibir had just enough time to look up before another arrow came screaming at him.

Caranthorn stooped to retrieve his arrows when he was certain the two thieves breathed no more. He would need his quiver full in the days to come. Elrond stood beside him. Caranthorn regarded Elrond questioningly, but said nothing. Elrond glowered at the dead men.

"Let the crows take them," he uttered with menace. It was obvious who had sent them, whose bidding they had sought to do. Elrond touched Caranthorn's shoulder in thanks, and Caranthorn nodded and swept away to follow Emer.

From a quarter mile off now Emer stopped again, and turned, the hairs on the back of her neck bristling. She looked at the ring, and the emptiness behind, then spurred Inish to a gallop and tore away from whatever evil she had sensed behind her. Inish had smelled blood on the wind.

Emer's mount was worn and the hour very late when she reached the Weather Hills. Whatever lay behind could not touch her now. "I am sorry, old friend," she clucked to Inish tiredly. He shook his head, wanting to graze and to be left alone. "Go ahead, then," Emer answered, tugging once on the horse's mane affectionately.

Emer was too tired to eat, and it was good to save the waybread. She drank some water, and washed the dust of the road from her face and hands, and fell asleep sitting with her back against a stunted tree which was shielded from the wind by a wall of holly.

Elrond like the wind was near her in the deep of night, and he brushed her lips once with his own, the softest touch, no more than the slightest press of the air. He touched the ring, and took between his forefinger and thumb an errant lock of Aman's hair from her face, laying it back over her shoulder. A gibbous moon watched over them both. Saruman did not.

He bent to kiss her again, and her lips parted slightly, welcomingly. His fingertips traced the graceful line of her brow, and she sighed, slowly, deeply, her back arching imperceptibly, wanting his touch. The effect was erotic, yet he only watched her but would not touch her then. He sang again to her and his desire for her did not wane. The moonlight touched her, and he envied the moon.

Her cloak slipped from her shoulders as she shifted in dreams, and he could not help himself and took her in his arms and rested beside her, her breath soft and warm against his neck. He stroked her back, and smiled at the feel of the fabric of her dress beneath his hand, for it was a form of Mithril rarely found anymore, and had once belonged to Arwen. The silver rings from which it was made were so tiny and malleable that intricate designs could be worked into them. There were few who possessed the craft to make such Mithril now. Aman was more well-protected than she knew. The murderous thieves who had stalked her in hopes of taking Vilya would have been quite surprised, both by the Mithril and by her skill.

His will was weak from the long miles in pursuit of her, and no unwanted gaze was upon them now, as he took her lower lip between both of his and softly savoured it, his hands moving through her hair. He groaned softly with pleasure when her tongue sought his, and he tasted her more deeply, his breath quickening at her response. Her full form pressed against him invitingly, he urged her on until her hands fluttered, blindly seeking him, gripping his long, dark hair, and soft were the sounds that came from her as she returned his kiss wantonly.

He would wake her if he did not cease. Her lips resting against his now were irresistible, and she tasted of the Bruinen, whose water she still carried in her waterskin. The taste of haven, of home. He closed his eyes and slept with her, but could not allow her to find him there at dawn. She thought him safe in Imladris, as she wished him to think. He smoothed the earth where he had lain beside her and faded back into the world when morning came.

The wind smelled of ice that morning, winter's herald. Summer seemed to have ended overnight and autumn, winter's handmaiden had claimed the throne. There would still be warm days ahead, though they would be few now. Emer felt far warmer than the bitter wind's promise. She missed Elrond then, a feeling so desolate that she gritted her teeth, her eyes squeezed so tightly shut it brought pain. She thought maybe she had dreamt of him; that wonderful, vivid sort of dreaming that one longs to remember upon waking but cannot, because the details slip through the mind's fingers like quicksilver and are forever out of reach.

Caranthorn saw easily all the emotions that played across Emer's face. Lord Elrond had chosen well, and was well loved. Such a treasure it troubled him not to protect, nor the risk to him personally. It gladdened him to offer what he could, for he owed Elrond much, and his family had served Elrond's from the first days he had dwelt in Imladris and before. And now another family would dwell in the House of Elrond, a new family.

Inish was tired all that day, and Emer restless, her mind ever turning to thoughts of Elrond, and then of Saruman, and then to Elrond once again; the deep, rich timbre of his voice, the sunlight caught in his hair, fragmented by the limbs of the trees above like a net of jewels, and in his eyes, the stars.

And so went the night, and the day after, and she was filled with a sick dread that made her stomach roil, and she was weary and without want of food or drink. The book and the candle's flame were all that cheered her, and she read of the forging of the rings of the Elves by Celebrimbor, those that Sauron had never touched. It had been the desire of Celebrimbor to halt the onward march of decay and slow the erosion of the winds of time.

Sauron had wanted the Elves in his service. Emer fought the urge to retch at this. What of the Ring of Earth? She was forced to set the book aside until the feeling of sickness loosened its grip on her heart.

"Something for ye I have!" Brethil said to the girl, laughter deep in her eyes. Emer gasped in delight at the Dryad's sudden appearance. Brethil poured what looked like the withered stems of weeds into Emer's hand. Emer regarded them with distaste.

"Eat them! Feel better, ye will." Brethil's eyes mocked her. Emer hesitated but obeyed. They were sweet, and she nodded her approval between mouthfuls. She washed them down with the last water in her waterskin, the last of the Bruinen. After a few deep breaths, she was hale again, and beamed at Brethil.

"You are wise," she said. Brethil smiled, for Elrond was near, and wise in the ways of lore was he, and he knew what ailed the girl and how to ease her. Brethil's eyes and fingertips strayed to the flowing Elven runes on the open page.

"Sauron found men easiest to ensnare. Hearken to this, Emer Elflover. Sauron knew the weaknesses of men, and Elrond knew the weakness of Sauron when the Dark Lord fancied himself Annatar, lord of gifts."

Emer breathed. Even then, Elrond was. Perhaps her mind was too small to comprehend such a wealth of time. Brethil patted Emer's hand, seeing the whelming of true understanding dawning in the girl's eyes.

"Fear ye not, for thy youth he loves, along with thy strength. The first morning of spring, are ye to him!" Emer's eyes veiled, and she turned them back to the open book.

"The Elves forged many rings, Emer. Sauron could perceive much of the works and crafts of these lesser rings, and the thoughts and hearts of their bearers, which he hoped to pervert. But the Elves were not fooled, and hid the rings away, betraying him. The three most powerful he could not discover then, for the wise concealed them and they were borne not again while Sauron had the One Ring. Kept, they were, and born in the heart of their wearers, in secret. The Ring of Earth was kept from all knowledge, for none has ever borne it, not even he who forged it."

"Who?" Emer asked hoarsely.

"Can ye think of no one? Ah, but ye know already. Your destiny it is to find the ring, as surely as your fate it was to love the one who crafted it."

"To bear Vilya is to learn to bear Anya."

"Aye, Emer. The Four in the world again, and there will be peace. The peace only the seasons in their order can bring, for that is all that holds chaos at bay. This Saruman would unleash. The Four must be borne, in the open, so that he and Sauron's heirs can never come to power."

Emer toyed with the ring on her hand. Elrond had forged the Ring of Earth. She looked up to see Brethil's eyes burning. "Wield the ring, Emer. To learn, ye must. Elrond is near, is he not? Look there, on your hand, a star, is that not what shines also from his eyes? Call the Eagle, Emer. Summon her, and get thee swiftly to Arnor, for Elrond awaits you! Let not your errand be long when Vilya can shorten it by the length of days. To Arnor, and then to Imladris."

Emer rose slowly, the strange fabric of the dress billowing around her as if impatient to be gone, restless for her to act. The call of her heart was stronger than fear. She must not fear, for fear slayed hope. She looked once to Inish, who was still in rest.

Caranthorn spoke then, from the open. "I will ride him home."

Brethil danced a jig, reeling happily. Emer looked from the Dryad to the Elf, who smiled brightly. Emer went to him, and thanked him, her eyes equally bright. "Celebdhel?"

"Celebdhel is within!" Brethil cried. "Caranthorn, this is. Loyal friend to Elrond." Brethil chattered something at the Elf so swiftly said that Emer could find not one reconisable word in it. Caranthorn nodded, his eyes twinkling as if he heard such speech daily. To Emer it sounded like the language of rivers, and Caranthorn regarded Emer knowingly, as if he knew she had guessed correctly. Emer shook her head and laughed softly.

"The world is indeed a wondrous place, to be home to two such as yourselves. After seventeen years, I think I have only just learnt to live. How can Men survive without this? Never knowing, never seeing how grand and great the possibilities here, how many meetings to come, and new songs to learn, for it is all written anew with every sunrise." Emer could not go on, and felt quite speechless.

"And now ye have learnt what is most needful to bear Anya, Emer, and that is how to live. Wield Vilya, and find the Ring of Earth, and bring it home to Imladris. For it was I who hid it in Arnor at Elrond's request, and you who must bring it back. You will come home on the air! Then a way can be found to stop the betrayer. Beware, Emer Elendil, for even the Eagle he can follow."

It was only Elrond's presence that had kept Saruman at bay thus far. Yet it was necessary for Emer to bear Vilya, or Anya would slip from her grasp when she most needed it. Brethil and Caranthorn conversed with their eyes as Emer moved away from them.

The land was flat here, mired with bogs that stretched on as far as she could see. In the muted light it was a strange quilt, black and deep azure, gold and russet. She faced the sky, and raised her arm, eyes closed. If she had opened them then and turned, she would have seen Elrond standing near, so near she could have stretched out her arm and touched his face with the very tips of her fingers.

Light like life bloomed within the ring, for there was life within in; the life of Celebrimbor who had forged it, the life of the great King Gil-galad who had borne it, and of Elrond to whom Gil-galad bequeathed it, and for a shining moment Emer knew what it was to be Elrond, and saw the world as he did, and herself as he did, and an exhalation of joy so great came from her that Elrond was moved beyond words.

Deep blue was the cold night sky, the sky which did not rule all that was within it but held it in reverence, for all that was within it was dependent on all that was without. The moon's pull, and the ocean's teeming heart, the clouds on their high paths, who drew from the earth the great storms that fed the sky, and the stars watching over. Air sustained the life of all, and through it came the sun's touch to sustain also, and the darkness to bring rest that all not decay too soon, to hold back time's march before the season of it's coming was nigh.

Emer called the wind from its great storehouse, and it rose, running its unseen fingers through her hair, caressing her everywhere like a lover who has lain too long alone. The Eagle she would call now. She sought its name, knowing it was near, just outside the sphere of her understanding. Could anything be, outside the knowledge of the ring? She must learn to separate the truth from illusion, she must learn to lead and not be led astray. The ring must not control her, or others would control her through it.

Elrond called the name out, yet his voice was within her, and no other heard him. "Thorontári, Aman. She is Queen of the Eagles. Call her name, and she will come." Elrond longed to summon the Eagle to Aman himself, but knew it was a small step in all she must learn, one of many.

Caranthorn had replaced the book in Emer's pack, and snuffed the candles. He brought the pack to Emer, setting it near her feet, and sealing it. The ring was a star on Emer's hand, and the wind whined and bellowed, and Emer opened her arms in invocation, welcoming it, and pleading the aid of Thorontári.

It was not difficult to see how easily seduced men had been by the One Ring, for man's lust for power was not deeply hidden, and floated ever at the surface so that he must war against it, much as he grappled with carnal desires. Emer's resolve must not weaken, or that lust could easily ensnare her as well, and she could be fatally mired. She let Elrond guide her, and let the words he had spoken and named her with fill her mind. Free from evil.

In a great rush came the Eagle screaming on the wind, like an arrow, like thought, the beating of her great wings fearless, for she like the ring was mistress of her element. It seemed to Emer that the Eagle bowed her head in homage, and Emer knew this gesture was not meant for her, but for Elrond, and she was glad to the depths of her heart. She mounted then, and they were aloft, sailing through the ocean of the sky, bound for Arnor.

8.

Emer could ill endure the sight of Forndagor, Arnor's great keep, after the fairness of Imaldris, and the harsh outline of it against the sky did nothing to lighten her heart, weighted now after the utter exhilaration of the Eagle's flight. It was only at the sight of her old sword raised that kept her from being shot from the sky, and the fierce cry of warning from Thorontári, the threat in it freezing the blood of the guards in their veins.

"We'd scare have known you but for that blade," one of the guards chided, eyeing the ring on her hand. Emer smiled wanly, making no reply, and quickly she began her descent from the battlements in search of her mother. Thorontári had takn to the air again, and was eyeing the sheepfolds with no small measure of interest. On long barred wings she wheeled North, where she could hunt unseen.

Emer was hailed only twice in the stone corridors; most only passed her gruffly, regarding her unbound hair and fine garb with a wary, distrustful eye, turning quickly away from her. She was taken aback at how visibly she had changed, for she had spent all her life among these folk, had given the same disdainful look to the ladies of Gondor come hither on some errand with their lords, the same smug look of superiority that was now being cast upon her.

So she was downcast, until she chanced upon her younger brother Kellian, returning from a drill in the fields, laughing with a squadron of other youths, their faces dirty and their eyes bright from playing at the game of war. Emer felt no rush of homesickness at this, only a sort of melancholy, but quickly it faded when her brother recognised her, smiling crookedly.

He ran to embrace her, but held himself back, seeing the fine dress and the strange but beautiful crown of silver leaves shining in her hair. He had never seen her so, and was struck by her beauty, and wondered that he had not noticed it before. Emer had been only another of the ranks, and someone to argue with in their family quarters, but never a woman. Now she seemed a fair queen from another land, until she spoke and was Emer again.

"I am glad to see you, Kellian," she spoke with great warmth, and embraced him, minding not his dirty clothes and his collar stained with sweat. Kellian admired the dress, for it seemed like fine mail to him, and he fingered the sleeve curiously.

"Have you been off to do battle across the sea? Carried off to grace the hoard of some foreign king? What of the Council?"

Emer laughed good-naturedly. "Nay, if carried off I was, it was only by love. Come, take me to our mother, and you will hear the tale, for that is why I have returned, and I must depart soon after the telling of it."

"That is well, then I can have your bed, for it has far less lumps than mine," Kellian joked, but he was troubled by her words and found he did not wish to know that she was so soon to leave again, and for good.

He took her to their mother where she worked in one of the lower halls, carding wool for spinning and later to be woven into cloth for winter clothing, for one season is ever spent preparing for the next, and the duties here were communally shared, rank having no bearing when it came to matters of survival.

Sylvain dropped her carding comb upon seeing her daughter. "We did not expect you from Gondor until tomorrow eve," she stated bluntly, and with cold welcome. "And now you return early, looking as if you have raided the wardrobe of the King's wife. What of it, Emer? You were given orders. By the blood of Númenor, what are you playing at?"

Emer blanced. "I will tell you all that has befallen me, for it is wonderful to hear, mother."

"Right you will. Kellian, fetch your father and tell him his errant daughter has returned," Sylvain snapped. "And be quick about it."

When they had gathered before their small hearth, the tale came spilling out; of the Council, and Rivendell, and of how little she recalled of what had been reported by the other emissaries, and why. She left out any detail of the intimacy she had shared with Elrond, for it was not theirs to know or hear of, though her eyes betrayed her and her love for him she made no attempt to disguise.

The silence was palpable when she spoke no more, and hung between Emer and her parents and brother like a living thing, as though another had entered the room unseen.

"So," her mother said icily, chasing away that silence. "We sent to Rivendell the best of us, only to have her fall under the spell of the one who called for the Council. You utter fool, you have shamed us all, and Arnor."

"I am under no spell! He has done me no wrong!" Emer cried.

"Oh, yes? How long until he grows weary of toying with you, Emer? What then? Will he not then cast you aside for some other diversion? The Elven ways are not ours, Emer. How long until he decides to return to the West again? What will you do then? We mean little to them, Emer. Our estrangement from them is not without its reasons. They are immortal, and we are not. You cannot possibly believe he would forget that for your sake? We are expendable to the Elves, of little use, save for the shedding of our blood in battle."

"Our own King's mother was an Elf, and Elrond's daughter. You have always hated them, for what they are you can never be, never, and I will not stay here and listen while you speak of Elrond so. You know nothing of him, nothing."

"Your tongue has grown sharp, Emer. A pity the same cannot be said for your sword." Her mother siezed her chin cruelly between her hands, twisting Emer's head around to better see her face in the firelight. There was the slightest blush beneath the girl's eyes, nearly translucent in the glow of the fire, yet Sylvain could easily discern it for she knew it all too well.

"I can see how Lord Elrond values you. All I need to know of him is what I see now, you returning here from the road alone and with child, and where is he? Safe elsewhere before a merrily crackling fire-"

Emer wrenched herself free, tears stinging her eyes. She would not weep or show any emotion before this woman ever again. When her vision cleared and tears no longer threatened, Emer noticed her father had gone; so enraged he had been at her that he had not spoken one word. And perhaps he would never do so again in her hearing.

"Emer, I named you. 'Faithful.' And now I wish I had not," her mother snarled derisively.

"And that is well, for it is no longer my name," Emer hissed. "I will go now and return my sword to the Armoury."

Emer spoke no farewell and stalked from the room before she broke down. Some part of her that was still a child had vainly wished her mother would be happy for her, yet she had known such hope was folly, and let it go in the tears she shed freely now, caring not who saw or whether they thought her faint of heart. Let them test that assumption against her sword arm if they wished. The halls she had once hallowed seemed cold now, and the stairs too steep as she stumbled blindly upon them.

She did not even notice that Kellian was beside her until she reached the Armoury doors. "A child you will have," said Kellian, not with reproach but real gladness, and the light in his eyes was genuine. "I am happy for you, sister."

Emer threw her arms around him, shaking. "I do not care if she is right, Kellian, for if he put me aside tomorrow I would love him no less. He has done me no wrong, nor ever will. I can find no way to tell you how I care for him."

"You have just done so," Kellian answered. He pulled her further down the hall so the Quartermaster at the door would not hear them. "I will come to Rivendell one day to see you. Is it all that the paintings and the legends say?"

"All that, and more. It is wonderful, Kellian. I have never known such peace, such contentment. And all the light of the stars is in Elrond's eyes. The tales did not boast enough of him. He is all I can think of now, and evermore." Kellian glanced at the Quartermaster, who watched them stonily.

"Wait, do not leave yet," said Emer, her voice dropping. "Hearken to this. Saruman of old has risen, Kellian, and he seeks the rings of the Elves. One, he has already. Three are still out of his reach." She lifted her hand so that Vilya was fully visible to him. His face whitened. "It is ill tidings I bring, Kellian. War is coming. If Saruman gains what he seeks it will be the ruin of us all."

Kellian's mouth was a thin line. "Then we must be sure he does not, though it seems not possible that he could live, for all have known him to be dead these many years."

"Yet it is true, and the threat is for all, and his will is set. Elrond trusted me with the Ring of Air, and I will not fail him. My errand is grave here, Kellian, and I must know success, for much depends on it. Make them understand, and beware, and let Arnor be ready for what is coming."

"You have grown mighty, sister, that such a one as Elrond would take you into his heart so, and bestow such a trust," Kellian remarked with offhanded respect.

"Nay, I have not. What strength he sees within me I have yet to find. It is only by the might of love that I stand here now. Please, Kellian, linger here, and speak to the Quartermaster, for I must seek within the Armoury that which I was sent to find."

"I will distract him as best I can, Emer."

"And brook no discord from our parents for my sake, Kellian, for their wrath is for me, and not for you. Come to Rivendell when you can, and sit before the fire in the House of Elrond. You will be more welcome there than you know."

"I shall." Kellian drew his sword, and held it blade down, bringing the hilt to his chest, the salute of one of Arnor to another of higher status. Emer was touched by this. "We shall all be equal in the end, and of one sword," she said. She gathered her frayed emotions and stowed them away well within, for the knowledge that she was with child was too great to fathom now, and if she troubled to do so she would likely sing and dance with happiness, and the Quartermaster would think her mad and wish to detain her. Sadness also she knew, and thankfulness to her brother for his understanding. She would miss him sorely, though she knew he was as good as his word and would come to Imladris.

She made of her face an emotionless mask, drained of all but the last of her duty here, and entered the Armoury while Kellian bantered with the Quartermaster, regarding Emer with feigned disgust, and embellishing the tale to the Quartermaster of Emer's fall from grace and her errand here.

The Quartermaster's deputy within the Armoury paid her little heed as she explained her presence in a clipped tone and chose a posture that said she demurred to his authority. When he turned away from her, she brought the hilt of the sword in her hand hurtling down onto the back of his neck, and he crumpled. She caught him before he could hit the floor and draw the Quartermaster's attention from outside, and brought him succssfully to the floor without sound. She left the sword at his side by way of apology, and sped off. She would not have much time before he regained consciousness.

The Armoury of Forndagor was a splendid sight, a warrior's trove a treasure and a storehouse of history, all the ages of the wars of middle-earth contained within. There were hauberks, pikes, swords of all manner of lengths and weights, shields of all designs, and armour of every sort and size. Longbows on great racks stretched out along one wall and on beyond the range of her vision.

There was another room, an antechamber that she had never seen, for few were allowed to enter it. What she sought she knew would lay within, and she moved in haste. "It is there among the ruined hafts of the old and the bright arms of the new," she breathed, echoing the words of Brethil. Emer could easily see why few were allowed entry here, for this was a monument to history, and the blades of the ancients lay within, each heavy with time and its own destiny. It was in her heart to linger but she could not, and panic threatened as her eyes darted everywhere at once.

The hafts of the old were indeed here, and anger flared in her, for many of these swords and shields were Elven. Had those in Arnor so quickly forgotten how Men and Elves had so long struggled side by side against the darkness? Was the Last Alliance nothing to them? The Battle of the Five Armies? The blood of Númenor was in need of reminding, and soon that time would come.

There! A pedestal, hidden in shadow. She scrambled over to it. The base was an ornate sculpture of two strong arms bearing gauntlets which held up the pedestal above, the arms of a warrior. Yet there was more, for beneath the arms in bas-relief the entire base of the sculpture was a map, and carved there were all the lands of middle-earth, accurate in scale, precise in detail.

She knelt, her fingers seeking desperately, moving more quickly than her thoughts, and she crawled on her knees around the base of the sculpture. East, and South now...

"In the valley of the cleft," she whispered, her throat tightening. "Where Celebdhel will grow tall and straight as pine." Celebdhel, her son, Elrond's son. Brethil was wiser than wisdom itself. In the carved representation of the Hithaeglir something was embedded, and Emer dug at it, the stone tearing at her fingers, and her fingernails were ragged and bleeding until at once it came loose from the stone and easily fell into her waiting palm, and she marvelled at it.

Emer let only seconds pass, allowing herself to wonder at what Elrond had created, both what lay in her hand and what dwelt within, and unbearable, unspeakable bliss was hers. Amber was the stone of the ring, amber which is made from sap, the blood of trees, and this stone was wrought of such blood and time in its most still and long passage, the most patient craftsman of them all.

She knew time was short now, and fled then from the Armoury. The Quartermaster's deputy stirred only seconds after she had gone, and thought of summoning his superior so that the girl could be quickly arrested, but instead went deeper into the Armoury to find her himself, to make her pay for what she had done to him.

But when he entered the anteroom, a strange feeling like cool waves washing over him came upon him like a thief, and he was felled by it, and when he rose again he remembered not the girl who had come dressed like a Queen and bearing a sword of Arnor.

Emer departed Forndagor through the stables, for it was the quickest way now to the outside. Her father, Janor, was master there, his life's work the raising and care of the great warhorses of Arnor, who were of the bloodline of the steeds of Rohan. Emer saw him not, and thought perhaps never she would again.

Once out in the afternoon, she resolved not to look back, for the road home lay ahead now, and not behind. She began to run, her pack bouncing against her back. She had not gone far when her father called her back.

"Hold!" he cried, and Emer brightened as she rushed back to hear him. Perhaps his heart had softened and he had seen her happiness and accepted it. Though Emer was trained here, and her skill by the standards of Arnor surpassing most of her age, Janor was seasoned and his skill the greater, and his hand like lightning snapped back and he struck her across the face with such force she spun completely around before landing flat on the ground. A sharp cry came from her, akin to a sob, and she had no breath.

"Never return here. All that we are was invested in you, and now the lords of Gondor will share tales of how the shieldmaiden of Arnor yielded, and of how the lord of Rivendell took her to wife, and took her sword from her, the piteous wretch who sought not honour but only to grace his bed." Janor advanced on Emer.

"Do not touch her again," said another voice. Breath came back into her then, and she pushed herself from the dirt and rose shakily, blood streaming from her nose. Caranthorn stood before her father, his bowstring drawn taut, an arrow nocked and waiting.

"Move away from her, now," said the Elf, his gaze unerring and withering.

"I would slay you-"

"If you did not fear the wrath of Master Elrond, for it is grave indeed," Caranthorn interrupted. Janor's face flamed with rage.

"If she were not my daughter, I would have had her put to death already." Janor's voice was gravelly with anger. "Take her back to your master. We have no use for her. Perhaps he will."

Caranthorn made no reply, and his level gaze was unchanged. Emer's father gestured angrily at Inish, waiting nearby. "That horse belongs here, Elf. Make no attempt to mount him."

Caranthorn's eyes had not moved, only his bow, which tracked every move Janor made. Emer retrieved her pack from the dirt. "Let us depart, Caranthorn."

"Home awaits us," Caranthorn added to this for the benefit of Janor, and spoke with such amusement that Emer nearly smiled. Caranthorn would not move until Janor had turned away from Emer. Emer knew what it was to her father to turn his back on a drawn arrow, and this was not lost on Caranthorn, and he lowered his bow when the man had retreated. The archers on the battlements were ready to fire if Caranthorn made any move against their own. Caranthorn drew his eyes cooly up at them, undaunted. At length he let go.

Placing a kindly hand on Emer's shoulder, he urged her before him, so that he was between her and the archers on the heights. Yet his bearing showed no discomfort at this, for he was one certain in his purpose and knew his skill to be the greater. Emer dug into her pack and tore a piece from her old cloak to hold to her nose.

"I thought you were to ride Inish home," Emer chided, her eyes filled with thanks.

"I thought it best not to leave you. And now you will be seen safely home by one loyal to Elrond." Caranthorn seemed thoughtful and troubled for a long while after, and Emer was quiet until Forndagor had fallen away behind them and only the sparse trees and towering escarpments of rock listened.

Caranthorn spoke first. "I am sorry for you, Aman. It is a greivous thing to see a man strike his own daughter."

"I care not. Let my father think what he will."

"He does not understand."

"No. Perhaps he never will. I nearly cast my lot with them, Caranthorn. And had I not seen what it is to truly live, I would have. How is it the people of Arnor have grown so far apart from your kind? Are they so quick to forget all that we have been to each other? Do they not recall Lúthien and Beren? Arwen and Aragorn?"

"Nay, they have not forgotten. They have forgotten peace, Aman. Your generation has not known war, and they long for the glory they perceive it will bring. They long to act, to do, and fear what they do not understand. They trouble themselves not to gain such understanding, and into the void rushes the need for war. They do not realise what it is simply to be, nor how many were forced into action before them so that they could be in peace."

"Perhaps what I have brought from the Armoury will help them remember," Emer commented bitterly. She glanced sidelong at Caranthorn, his hair a deep auburn in the lengthening of the day. "You were there, weren't you? At Elrond's side, in that last great battle?"

"Yes, I was. And there I will be again if history calls upon me so." Caranthorn smiled mischievously at something just over Emer's shoulder. "I think lord Elrond would much rather have you at his side than me just now," Caranthorn said, and he laughed, an altogether pleasant sound, and Emer turned to see what it was the Elf had found so amusing.

Emer dissolved into laughter then too, and leapt into Elrond's arms, and all that lay behind no longer seemed to matter.

9.

Caranthorn made a discreet exit, his departure unseen by either of them though each felt his presence nearby. Elrond held her long, and great was his sorrow at the livid bruise on her face; greater only was his anger at the one who had so injured her. He kissed her with softness, a tender and abiding softness that spoke of his need to protect her, and he drew her into himself until he felt her pain dissipate like fog in the noonday sun.

"How swiftly you came to me," she murmured, her lips against his hair. Elrond chuckled, though it was dark laughter. "I have been near you since you left Imladris. I would not have sent you off alone, Aman. I could not. It is mine to protect you now, and I would did not do so when your father struck you because I knew I would kill him for it."

"You knew not he would do such a thing."

"Even so, he would have died for it. Caranthorn and Brethil have been vigilant, and I owe them much. It was yours to tell your mother of your life now, and mine to watch over you, though I wish now that I had moved against him, lest he think I idle elsewhere while you are mistreated."

"He knows better. Caranthorn sorted him out quite nicely, as you saw. Killing him would have served no end. He can never hurt me again. There will be time enough for such things all too soon, I fear."

In spite of such grim knowledge she sighed happily, and her contentment became his. "All is well in Imladris," he whispered reassuringly, before she could ask, and because he was not willing to let her escape his embrace just yet. He claimed her lips once more with his, so that she could not speak at all and had no wish to.

Slowly he let go, and was about to release her, for he knew she longed to speak and felt her shoulders tense and the small of her back tighten beneath his touch. She drew away, almost, but could not, and her hands moved in his hair, his eyes before her, and the stars were within reach now. Something welled up from her depths, so exquisite that she clutched at him fiercely and exhaled so sharply that he startled in alarm, and she sought some way to explain what it was that had so overtaken her.

There was completion; she had left Arnor behind, and could finally open herself to the presence of the new life within her. And with a happiness she could not contain over what they had created together she kissed him with such ferocity that he felt the flame of it to the marrow of his bones. She would not let him go, and held him until she could anoint him with all this, and so they celebrated with no words the child that would come to them.

In the evening they slowed their pace for a time, the three of them walking side by side. Elrond bade Emer eat some of the wild apples he had found, and brought her water, and wine he offered her from his own wineskin. Though she did not hunger for anything other than his company she did as she was asked for the sake of the child, and felt greatly bolstered afterward.

Elrond was quiet, reeling still from the passion she had bestowed upon him, for never in his long memory had any kissed him so, and he felt reborn. Emer chattered happily about the child that would come, and he indulged her, though it was in his heart to make love to her as he had done in Imladris, until she cried out his name. But this he could not do, for they had resolved to travel through the night, and the farther from Arnor, the better. He must secure horses for them soon, for the will of another bearing down Elrond easily felt, though that gaze he kept from them.

Emer delighted in sharing the road with Elrond, and with Caranthorn and Brethil, who appeared to them when the moon rode overhead. Their way ahead so lit, and her hand in his, Emer felt no evil could come near. On a deadfall they sat after midnight for a moment's rest, and Elrond lit the Elf-fire and set it to dance in the wind, which came in great gusts, in fits and starts, as though summer still did battle with autumn. The air was chill but Emer felt it not, and listened to Elrond and Caranthorn converse, the lyrical sounds of their speech liquid in fluency, so in contrast to the Westron tongue. They spoke of the changing of the leaves in Imladris, which Emer longed to see, and her eyes danced happily, watching the Elf-fire. Elrond bent to kiss Emer's cheek, seeing all her delight, sharing it, and Brethil danced her jig around the log upon which they sat until all three of them were breathless from laughter.

Brethil stiffened suddenly, so like a tree that Emer shot from the log to touch the Dryad. Caranthorn grabbed her arm, his eyes bright and searching. "Be silent," he whispered. She felt Elrond move behind her. Caranthorn's hand flashed to the hilt of his sword. Elrond drew steel, the vaguest whisper heard as the blade was drawn from its scabbard. Emer tensed, her mind already geared for battle, and all that the evening had been was no longer.

"Orcs, and Men," said Caranthorn in a low utterance very near a growl. Orcs, so near to Arnor? That was hardly possible, yet Emer knew it to be true by the look on Caranthorn's face. They spread out then, to defend their position as the Orcs came crashing. An arrow whined, slicing straight at Elrond, and Emer was close enough to slash it from the air, and the battle was enjoined.

Emer cried the battle cry of the warriors of Arnor, a sound that gave pause to the nearest of the Orcs, and those precious few seconds she took great advantage of, hacking and slicing, parrying with ease. She could feel neither Elrond nor Caranthorn near, and Brethil had gone altogether, and the cacophony of the clashing of swords and the music of arrows singing in flight were a deafening symphony. The bloodlust was glorious, and Emer fed upon it, letting it steer her arm, her teeth bared, her jaw clenched till it grew numb, and she killed until she must clamour over the dead for more. "Let them come," she thought. "Let there be more."

Wormtongue was pleased. The two thieves he had recruited had failed him, felled too easily by the Elven arrows, and Saruman's ire he would not risk now. The girl still had the ring from Elrond, and his chance to regain his master's goodwill, not to mention his own life. Yet all was not as he had foreseen, nor as Saruman had foreseen; the woman fought with a berserk skill that neither of them had anticipated, and the Elves fought as they ever had, with grace and great mastery that dismayed Wormtongue. So great a host he had brought they should have been taken even so. If the Elf-lord were slain it would bring the woman to her knees rather quickly. This was easier said than done, however.

He watched with grudging admiration as she felled two of the largest of the Orcs with small blades like stars which she gripped in a practiced manner and launched from the outside edge of her forefinger, using the arc of her arm to create the inertia of their flight. With deadly ease she dealt them into the eyes of the Orcs to be skewered directly afterward.

She would have to be drawn away from the other two before he could capture her. If he allowed any more time to passed his host would be too greatly diminished to pose any mortal threat to them, and all would be lost. The Men fought like rabid animals yet they were falling under the skill of the woman and her companions.

The connection between the Elf-lord and the woman was his best avenue, and his voice ever his best weapon. In her voice he called out to Elrond, despair oozing from his words seductively, and he called out again, and in the frenzy of the fight the Elf was led astray for the half-second that it took for the great warhammer of the Orcs to come hurtling down onto the back of his head. The Elf had surprising strength, for he lifted his head in anguish, seeking the woman, whose voice Wormtongue still cried out with, and Wormtongue felt delicious satisfaction at the sight, for the Elf knew he had erred fatally, seeing the woman still on her feet, her sword flashing in the night.

It was too late for Elrond then to take any action, for the next blow came, swifter and harder, meant to crush his skull, and he was driven to the ground, and the darkness swept him away. Wormtongue watched closely, to be sure the Elf breathed his last, then turned his attentions to the other Elf, now surrounded, his doom upon him. It was only a matter of time until the woman was brought into his custody. Saruman would be pleased.

Dry, her mouth was dry. There was the taste of dust in her mouth. Dust, and the rusty taste of blood. Movement, unsteady and jarring. She was being carried. She called out Elrond's name, yet her mouth would not form the word nor make the sounds. The blackness was so perfect, so inviting, and she sank back into it gratefully.

"Bring water."

Someone spoke with quiet authority, far outside where Elrond was, in some plane of existence other than his own. He heard his name from afar. Light penetrated the edges, the periphery of his pain. He knew that voice, though it was long since he had heard it, knew it would lead him back. Then he would discover if thought was still possible.

"Follow me, Elrond. Follow." Her words were a balm to him, and when she spoke again Elrond let her voice carry him to wherever he was to be borne.

North and East they went, travelling by night, and the Orcs though graceless were swift afoot. A journey of a hundred miles and more it was from Arnor to their destination. The woman was a burden, her strength a bane to them all, bound though she was and weaponless, in agony over the unknown fate of her lover, the Elf-lord now left as carrion far behind, somewhere between the North Downs and the Hills of Evendim.

At first, Wormtongue had allowed the Orcs to handle the woman, but not for long, though he did not know what pity stayed him, for he could easily take the ring from her now and leave her to the Orcs. Saruman had not wished this. Wormtongue did not either, but not for the same reasons. He found the woman beautiful, and the Orcs would foul her beyond all reason though she was doomed to die anyhow. Still he wished to see what would come into her eyes when he took the ring from her, before he killed her. Saruman wished this done discreetly and the woman left where none would find her, though Wormtongue did not understand this line of reasoning, for Elrond had been left in the open. Perhaps Saruman wished Elrond to be found, dead on the road, as a sign to all that a new order was soon to come. A dead woman would not relay such a message nearly as well as one of Elrond's stature would. This woman was as most in Arnor, no different save her skill than any maid in any of the villages they had raided in the weeks past. Yet something about her he prized, and he would take an old vengeance from this woman, though she had committed no crime against him.

One very like her had gravely underestimated him in the past. Now he would even that score, vicariously. It would be revenge of a different sort, but still sweet. Wormtongue was only a minor note in history, but that would soon change. The woman struggled again in the saddle before him, and he slid his fingers around her throat, tightening his grip until she slumped against him again.

Elrond felt the return of strength, though very gradual it was, small moments like the stirring of sap within the tree when winter begins to loose its icy grip. His vision was dim, as though the world had been remade in muted phantoms of colour. Sound came to him in much the same shadowed way, as though shrouded by distance and time. Yet under the ministrations of the one who had brought him home, Elrond slowly returned, and there were few and maybe none who could have wrought the healing she did. For long ages healing he had brought to many in this house, and now it was given to him in his season of need, and he began the slow work of mending.

In the moment when the world's brightness returned in full measure his heart leapt, and cried out, and Galadriel heard that cry and was near. The Ring of the Adamant on her finger shone, breathless as the moment of calm before the storm rends the sky and the clouds in dire gathering loose their wrath upon the world. Her hand was slim and cool as ivory upon his. She steeled herself for what would come, for the naked need in his eyes was horrible to see, and his pain like a sharp blade she felt stab at her heart. So much had Elrond already lost, her own Celebrían, gem of her heart, and the the Evenstar, his daughter. And now Elrond had chosen death for the sake of love as Arwen Undómiel before him, and Galadriel had only to look and see in his eyes how great was that love. She questioned it not, knowing well and truly how Elrond had loved her own daughter, and Celebrían with him had known only fulfillment until she had been so brutally taken from them all.

And now Elrond was once again stripped of all he held dearest, and nearly had lost his dwelling to Saruman, for Galadriel like the storm had driven off the will of Saruman from this place, for heavy had it lain upon the vale when she had brought Elrond hither, and many of Saruman's legions had been near to creeping within its borders. Such a loss along with all that had already been taken from Elrond, Galadriel feared he would succumb to, far more than his wounds, which were grievous, so that all her skill had been brought to bear in the tending of them, and more.

"Does she live?" Elrond beseeched her. Galadriel answered, though her lips moved not and no other would hear what she spoke. "There is strength in her even you did not see. She lives."

"He will take the ring from her."

"And I will know, when he does. His resentment of me he has fostered lo these many, many years, and it has eaten at him like the worm in the apple. It is time to free the worm. If he takes Vilya from her, so be it, for is there not another, which you have crafted? Yea, I thought it so, yet such thoughts I have troubled to conceal from all. When she wields the ring come from the skill of your hands, then you will know all that has befallen her, and beside you she shall be, even if the mountains and the seas of time lay between. She feared the fire here, and was right to wish that here you remain, for that is why I have come. The rings should reside ever in Arda, Elrond, for Arda's sake they were crafted. Only they can stem the tide. Be of good heart, for your chosen bears a silver star within, and out of her the rings will find at last those who can bear them in all their fullness, and in their time, as Celebrimbor meant. They are for the mortal, crafted by immortal hands, as Eru created us and all those who came after. For the song of creation will not cease until the last note has been sung. The season of decay is quick in coming to the mortal, and swiftly they lose hope when it should be in them to endure. To this end, the rings will avail them."

Elrond pondered long on this, though his wisdom was great, crowned as he was with many winters. The power of the rings had not been shorn, as he knew well, though history told otherwise. Nay, that power had only lay dormant, hidden with those wise enough to shield it from even history's gaze.

"Mithrandir?" he asked Galadriel when long she sat silent and still beside him. Though she knew he nearly held the truth, she gave the details anyhow. "An apprentice had Mithrandir, of the Istari; dear to the gray pilgrim's heart. Edric the Golden, he was called, for his hair flowed like the down of summer even when the years touched him. For all Mithrandir had given to Arda, he wished to leave behind ever more, and to Edric bequeathed much of his skill, and regaled him with the tales of his journeys here, and all that befell him was known well to Edric.

There was great trust between them, and not lightly given, for Mithrandir had seen and touched and battled against treachery's very heart, had he not? Yea, Edric was worthy of that trust, for he came to Valinor at Mithrandir's longing, before the gray one lapsed and death took him. Narya he passed to Edric, for he would trust no other with it, and Edric guarded it well.

It came to pass that Edric was overfond of the road, and the wanderlust great in him to see the places Mithrandir had spoken of, and in the desolation of the Withered Heath he was beset by Orcs, a fell host and too many even for Edric's skill, and he was slain and the ring taken from him at the will of Saruman, into the hand of one who once whispered lies to the King of the Mark it was given, from him to be taken to his master."

"Greater craft had Saruman than any accorded him, to have kept Wormtongue alive, as well as himself," Elrond brooded darkly.

"And greater craft has Wormtongue as well, in his bargain with Saruman, for it was he who called out to you in your chosen's voice, in order to betray you to your death. Yet I wonder if Wormtongue will surrender Vilya so easily to his master. Wormtongue fears me greatly, and that fear will stay his hand from taking Aman's life too soon. Such fear I will refine within him, and within Saruman. Aman has strength; and what will come is needful for her, Elrond, in order to bear the ring you have crafted, for it is hers to bear. Let it be so, for now, and I will forge within our enemy the fear with which he beholds me, and in the end it will undo him, along with the rings. I was not near enough to aid you when Wormtongue worked his deception, yet I can aid you now, and assure you that your beloved will return to you, because of the rings.

In gratitude Elrond clasped her hand. A silent and deep exchange passed between them, for he knew what it had taken for her to return here, though it was different from what had driven him back to these shores from Valinor. Galadriel had diminished not in that fair land, and there was no fire that could touch her now.

Galadriel remained at his side, silent, and he saw in her eyes the answer to the question he would next ask. She said nothing, for he must be given to his grief, and mourn the loss of Caranthorn, slain by Saruman's forces, lost in the defence of his oldest and dearest friend.

Wormtongue was greatly relieved when Angband rose up before them, for he had run out of ways to keep the woman from consciousness, and he would sully her beauty if he continued to beat her into submission. She was already close to death, yet not given to her doom, and the longing to know the fate of her fallen lover gave her strength that Wormtongue both reviled and coveted.

His forces had grown again, the depleted ranks lost in the battle filled by new and willing servants, courtesy of Saruman. Wormtongue felt grand as a King returning from war with the woman like a trophy before him in the saddle and an army all about him.

Yet it dismayed him the way he had come to value the woman, and her battered countenance filled him with a vile need, and to this end her youth also inflamed him, though he was above such carnal instincts, and knew it was the ring as well as the woman that seduced him and tempted him to stray. No, to toy with her would be too great a risk, though he enjoyed imagining it greatly. Perhaps opportunity would arise, and he could indulge himself without Saruman's knowing.

Into the Iron Hells they took her, the ancient lair of Morgoth. The residue of the evil done here still resonated within, and Wormtongue's breath came in short and sharp inhalations. Built of slag and molded by the furnaces of the earth was Angband, delved in mountains of iron with smoking tops. Even discounting the legacy of Morgoth here, the place was fearsome, and Wormtongue felt panic rise to choke him, but would not lose face in front of the Men and Orcs who now beheld him in some small measure of respect at last.

They descended into the labyrinth, and Wormtongue's peace of mind was tested as the torchs threatened, sputtering, for the darkness here would be like death, and all that he feared most would come seeking him. This long and twisting journey the woman made bound, blindfolded and gagged, and Wormtongue played tricks with his voice to confound her, so she would have no memory of the passages and their turnings. Not that it would matter, for she would not leave here alive.

At last she was brought to the Nethermost Hall, and to the throne of Morgoth he chained her, breathing in relief at the sight, for he had feared the bindings of rope that had held her would be broken if she were to regain any more strength. He cursed at himself for such idiocy; she was wounded badly, and her skull like Elrond's had been cracked. If she could form a coherent sentence he would be most surprised. And so he felt a flush of bravado and sent the others from the chamber to rejoin their fellows. They snickered gleefully, thinking he intended to violate the woman before killing her, and he was greater in their eyes for this.

When they had gone he removed the mail-like dress the woman wore, and she writhed as he bathed her wounds. Very young she looked in the simple clothing she had worn beneath the striking outergarment, though her strength was not less in appearance. He did not take the gag from her mouth until she was still, and he was long waiting, for she drifted in and out of the present, and he was well aware that she barely knew even who she was. Her head wounds would likely claim her before he could.

At length he offered her water, which she drank hungrily, reflexively, though it was stale and warm. "Where is Elrond?" she rasped, as soon as she had swallowed the water. Her throat worked angrily and she had little use of her voice, damaged as it was by Wormtongue's repeated chokings and by the blows she had received on her neck. Dark blood ran from her forehead still, and down her face. Her hair was stiffly matted with it.

"Elrond is dead," he answered lazily, and stepped back so that he had her in full view, and held the torch so that her face was lit, so he could watch her crack. She did not disappoint him, and he knelt before her, so that her face was level with his, to drink it all in. Her head went slowly back in disbelief, and came to rest on her arms, which were chained above her at an angle so cruel he nearly winced. Her eyes closed, and she arched her back in an agony of emotion, the white mounds of her breasts visible. A great exhortation of grief came from her, so explosive that Wormtongue dropped the torch.

The woman began to shake then, and Wormtongue struggled to recover both the torch and himself. She was wracked by sobs that were very like the sounds made by many in the moments before a torturous death that has been long in coming.

"Éowyn, fair Éowyn, how I wish it were you before me now," Wormtongue thought dismally, grasping the torch with more firmness than was required. The woman was lovely to look at, her head thrown back, her teeth bared in anguish, her chest heaving, and it seemed she shed tears of blood, for they mingled on her face with the bleeding of her head wounds.

The torch flared greatly as he watched. When she was spent, she grew still, and ever more so, until Wormtongue thought her dead at last, and there he left her for many hours, though knew not why he did not take the ring from her yet, except from his own desire to lengthen the experience, or so these were the lies he told himself, and believed. He could easily come back later and take what he wanted from her.

10.

Misery was ever near Elrond, touching him with cold fingers that gripped his heart and left behind a dull dread. Though Galadriel had risked much bearing him hither to Imladris so swiftly, all his thoughts were bent on leaving it once again. Though Galadriel had said nothing, Elrond was certain that Saruman's eye and will had touched this place, intent on taking it. The deception of Wormtongue rankled, and the death of Caranthorn gnawed at him like a wound that would not close. Imladris was in mourning over the fallen warrior, and sang of its loss and the heartache of its master in a way so wrenching that any unwary traveller who happened near would weep upon hearing it.

Red sumac was planted in Caranthorn's honour, and his family gathered with Elrond as this was done, and Elrond thought there would be no end to the singing of their grief nor to his guilt, so precisely did their melody reflect all that was in his heart. Off into the deeps of the trees he went when it was done, and climbed to a place where he could find the solitude he sought, where perhaps the waterfalls in their nearness could drown out his inner turmoil and bring forgetfulness of the ever-present pain of his wounds. But such was not to be, and Galadriel found him easily, and he did not so much as lift an eyebrow in surprise when she did.

"Such thoughts will nto avail you," she told him. "Nor will they bring healing." He inclined his wounded head in agreement, though none knew this better than he. Yet he must give voice to all he felt or he would go mad.

"I should have summoned the Eagle, or stolen a horse; we should not have been afoot on the road, like merry travellers on the way to the Gates of Summer."

"There has been long peace, and you knew not Saruman would choose such a time to move against you. Do you think she would have chosen to be anywhere but at your side even if she had known? Nay, Elrond, even if you had not chosen to share the bearing of Vilya with her, she would not have departed from you, for your company was all she wished. It was she who called me hither, for your sake, not her own. Heal yourself, Elrond, and worry not."

"I fear she thinks me dead, and wonders, and such fear will take any strength which remains in her."

Galadriel's eyes flashed angrily at this. "I know not whether Celebrían herself could have summoned me as Aman did. Yet am I not here? Trust her now, as she has trusted you. She will know in time that you still live. Our blood is in her, and it will aid her. Is the towering oak not born of the acorn? So small a treasure can rest in the palm of your hands, yet a mighty sentinel it becomes in the end, keeper of time, its life both in earth and sky."

Elrond's understanding of what Galadriel sought to convey was deep, and he was momentarily eased, though his heart still ached and his head throbbed dully from its wounds. "I wonder who her Elven forebears were."

"Of Doriath, they were," Galadriel answered. "And of Celeborn's line." The barest of smiles touched her face at the mention of her husband. Elrond did not ask how she knew this, for Galadriel knew many things that others strove a lifetime to gain knowledge of.

"I am bound for Lórien, Elrond; I go thither to hear its not to hear the new song being sung there, but because I must know more of that which we face. I cannot allow Saruman time to gain more allies, for he has many already, some of lofty position in Arnor, and in Rohan, and even within the walled city. Eldarion son of Elessar must be swiftly informed."

Elrond said nothing, knowing what errand took her first to Lothlórien, and what errand would next be his. He touched her hand in friendship and deep thanks. Two of her handmaidens waited nearby, wraithlike in the shadows of the fragrant citadels of pine. The handmaidens moved as though extensions of the lady's thoughts. One came to Elrond and in an instant he knew why Galadriel had sent her to him, for she was very like Aman, though fair-haired. It was not the look of her as much as what was behind her eyes, a grim determination and a thirst for life, and these made him for a moment feel as if Aman walked beside him as the handmaiden beside him walked to aid his return to his dwelling.

He nearly smiled, for Galadriel sought to remind him that Aman would want him to remain here, in Imladris, and to reassure him of her certainty that Aman would come safely back to this place again, back to him. Though he did not question Galadriel's foresight, which was formidable, nor Aman's wishes, he could not remain, and after day was done and Galadriel and her small company departed, he sought hastily what he would need and rode off as his sons had long done in errantry, his quest as grave as ever theirs had been.

Wormtongue with great relish removed the woman's shackles, for she was powerless against him now, and his awe of her had softened, dulled at the edges by the way she had wept earlier. He knew any of Arnor who wept before an enemy to be defeated. On the dank stone she fell, and there slowly curled up into herself in a miasma of pain. Wormtongue let her lay so, and doubted she even knew he was there. He rifled the contents of her pack. Elven waybread, candles, flints. A handsome dagger with a dragon haft. This, he pocketed as a memento. A heavy book he found, and the pages of it fluttered past his fingertips as he scanned the flowing Elven script within it. In the back was some sort of family history with descending names, parents and children and whom they had married and so on. Elrond's kith and kin. Wormtongue chuckled and tossed the book aside. A beautifully crafted map he found, and tallow, and more weapons, and some sort of crown. This he scrutinised, for it was made with some skill, and the silver leaves so lifelike that he could see and feel their tiny veins. A gift from the dead Elf-lord, he surmised. Master of Rivendell no longer.

Wormtongue speculated on which of Elrond's loyal cronies would move to take their slain lord's place. Elves were likely as greedy for power and status as everyone else, they were just more practised at disguising it. And why not, if it could bring women such as this one to grovel for their attentions? Elves had always had the finest share of everything, but not for long. Saruman would be sure they were the first to fall.

Wormtongue covered the woman with the torn cloak he found, the last of the provisions in her pack, and placed the waybread near her. Vilya glimmered lifeless on her hand. He stroked her hair, and spoke to her in the Sindarin tongue which he had long ago mastered. Deep was his voice then, and he spoke as he remembered the Elf-lord had when he had tried to call out to the woman, though Wormtongue's version spoke not of injury or danger.

Words of love he teased her with, promises of bright days to come, and her eyes moved weakly behind their bruised lids; she moaned, so softly he could barely hear her, yet her pain was plain to see. Wormtongue ground his teeth at the sound as she moaned again, though she did so from pain, there was a raw sensuality to it that was not lost on him. Such a sound would be reserved only for the Elf-lord, only for him to hear was he pressed her into the soft pillows in his own private sanctuary. Such nights she would never experience again, yet she would, one last time, if only by the power of his voice.

The woman croaked something that Wormtongue took to be Elrond's name, though it was so garbled he could not say. "I am here, my love," he responded. The torch burned out and the darkness was complete. He doubted she could have seen anything even if it had remained lit. He heard her trying to raise herself up from the floor, knowing her arms were still numb and twisted from the chains.

"Come to me, my love. Come to me." His voice was so like Elrond's even he found it enchanting. He thought of Theóden King then; blank-eyed, willing to listen. So very easy it was. He touched her face, tantalising her, letting her believe it was her dead lover's touch, and that all was well.

"Awaken, and eat." She murmured something feverishly against the stone floor, for she had fallen once more. "What is it, beloved? What do you require?" Wormtongue was solicitous, fighting a snicker that would soon become bales of laughter if he was not careful. He should just take the ring and be done with her, yet the game amused him.

"Celebdhel," she rasped. Wormtongue puzzled. The dead guard of Elrond, perhaps? "Celebdhel is here," he lied. Wormtongue helped her sit up then, hearing her struggle once more. "All is well," he said softly, his impersonation faultless. Her unseeing eyes sought his, she was a thrall to his voice, to Elrond's voice, and swayed drunkenly into his embrace. He caught her with ease.

"Celebdhel," she muttered again, and the scratchy way she spoke grated at him. "Celebdhel is safe. You are safe." He fed her some of the waybread, fumbling to reach it in the darkness, and after he had softened it in water. She took it from his fingertips, her lips so warm and wet that he tightened his grip on her. She babbled something nonsensical and he rocked her, knowing this would increase her dizziness and incoherence.

"I love you," she said wearily. These words shrivelled him, and such impotence enraged him, and the game was over. Still he must not falter until he had what he sought.

"The ring, my love. Have you kept it safe for me?" He smiled, she was obedient, her hand weakly seeking his. He took the ring from her then, and felt many things emanating from it, nameless things. He jammed it into his pocket quickly, unwilling to feel more.

He stuck the flints he had stolen from her bag and re-lit the torch, sneering at her. Her head and neck were black with bruises and smudged with the soot of Angband, her hair coated with the fine black dust and stiff with blood. Her beauty was a savage thing now, and he wanted to see her suffer. Still he let her languish, and fished the ring from his pocket to gloat over it.

For an ill moment, Wormtongue felt as if Elrond looked straight back at him from the sapphire eye of the ring, and he dropped it as though it burned him. He cackled nervously then. Elrond could see nothing now, or ever again. Other images even more dire were forced upon him, and fear hobbled him as he stooped to retrieve the ring from the dust, and almost he could not, for it was Galadriel he saw, a glory around her both bright and fearsome, so terrible to behold that he squealed in dismay when he must touch the ring in order to hide it away again.

Galadriel. Wormtongue shrank in terror. Saruman had spoke nothing of her. All he had hoped would come of this day began to unravel. How was he to hold onto the ring when he could scarcely bear to touch it? It would not avail him against Saruman, if he could not master it in some way.

The woman rolled over then, groaning in deep pain, and Wormtongue saw something on the floor near her. Another ring. Gingerly he plucked it from the stone floor, then breathed with relief. Only a trinket, another gift from the Elf-lord. The amber stone was rather ugly, he thought; baleful as a lizard's eye. The setting was pleasing to look at, though it seemed to tarnish before his eyes. A worthless notion, though the woman had probably shrieked in delight when Elrond had given it to her, like a spoilt daughter expected to please him in return, which she had no doubt done.

He let the amber ring fall from his long, thin fingers and roll away until in the shadows it found rest, tinkling away into the darkness. Let her take it into the land of death as a token. He had what he had come for.

Fifty or more miles were behind when Elrond felt it. He leapt from his horse, and still holding its mane stood as still as stone, his eyes staring fixedly at a point on the horizon only he could see. A silver star was rising just beneath the line of his vision, but he saw it not. The ring had just been taken from Aman, yet she lived, of this he was certain; she lived, and Celebdhel with her. Like a storm brewing from within, he looked back at the one now holding Vilya, and dire was that gaze, and Elrond knew that Wormtongue felt the ominous warning in it.

Let him take it, and believe Elrond dead, for this would serve him well now, though Saruman would not be so easily led. No matter. All he cared about at the moment was finding Aman before it was too late, yet he hoped Wormtongue would attempt to wield the ring, even for a moment. If he did so, Elrond could easily gain all the details he sought. Wormtongue would then assure his own destruction, if not from Saruman, then from Galadriel and Elrond bearing down on him like arrows from either side. Where then would he run, and to whom would be go to wheedle aid?

Twenty of Elrond's best were to depart Imladris at midnight, which would be soon. In Minas Tirith, Elrond would secure the aid of his grandson the King, and the skills of the Minas Tirith Guard he would have at his command. A rider had also been sent forth by him to Rohan. Though his love for Aman was his own private matter, Saruman and his quest for the rings should be known to all. Saruman had outfoxed him once, ambushed him. Elrond would allow no more.

Grim was his countenance when he took to his horse again, his hair silver in the moonlight and flying behind him, and so swift was his passage that an owl screamed defiantly from its perch far above and swooped off into the night, racing against the Elf on the horse below, but the Elf's flight was the swifter.

11.

Near Lórien, Galadriel paused. "So," she thought. "You heed me not, and take to the wilds anyhow, Elrond Peredhel." She did not smile, but there was great mirth in her eyes. Elrond had never been what any would deem predictable; he was steadfast and driven by love, and this made him far more dangerous than either Saruman or Wormtongue could fathom.

The fire in Elrond's eyes had not been dampened, but only for a time that starlight less bright. On the road, that fire would burn out of the wind for a while, and it would be well. He would not have remained in Imladris even if she had kept vigil at his side. To keep Imladris and all such places like it from destructionn was hers along with Elrond, until it was done. Hope flourished within her that Elrond would yet have many glad days with Aman. Galadriel puzzled not over the swift mannter in which Elrond and Aman had been joined together, for such work was not of any in Arda, or in Valinor, but the craft of their creator. Nay, that they had known their hearts so soon was a boon and gladness to her.

Her thoughts meandered as the mallorn grew thick about and Lórien deepened around her, and no leaf or limb or shoot did she pass that she had not done before, for each were friends of old, from time upon time.

No bow was drawn against her, and she was greatly welcomed, though solemnly, for they saw the heaviness that had settled around her heart and knew her wish was not for a merry hail but a quiet leave to do what she must. And so she was left in peace, and not even her handmaidens were near as the mirror she filled, and thoughtfully sought what would be revealed within its depths. The opaque surface of the water was like a closed eye opening, and her breathing slowed as it yielded to the Lady of the Wood and the bearer of Nenya all that she wished to see.

All those in league with Saruman were one by one revealed, as though they submitted themselves before Galadriel to confess and receive absolution for their crimes. Crimes against the King as well as Elrond, for many of Saruman's spies were close enough to both influence Eldarion or slay him. Galadriel felt no surprise at this, for easily skewed were the hearts of men, and the promise of power had never failed to seduce them. Was not the buildup in Arnor Man's clear testament of his will to annihilate himself?

Even still, Elrond's chosen had come from that fortress of the North, and despite that legacy had seen what could be, and reached for it. The blood of Doriath was clever, even in its faintest trace, as it was with Aman.

So, treason against Eldarion there was, and a desire to overthrow him was being cultivated in Gondor, and in Ithilien and far Rhovanion many were submitting themselves to Saruman's service. Intensely Galadriel longed for the far shores, even while in this most beloved of places. The mallorn sighed their understanding, for oft they knew her heart even as her own people did not. In silent commune she spoke to them in their way for a time; the noble dress of autumn just coming upon them. From this resplendent canopy a nightingale sang, in mournful farewell.

Wormtongue like a spider returned to play with the prey caught in his web one last time. The woman lay on her side, and he sensed a cold peace around her, the pain having receded somewhat and the bleeding of her head wounds slowed. Perhaps death had come creeping and she accepted and welcomed its coming. Yet some strength seemed to have seeped in, from the Elven food, or from the sweet words of Elrond she had perceived to hear and believed without question. He plied her again in the darkness now with dulcet tones, sniggering when he heard her groan and struggle to right herself. She was far quicker returning to the world of the conscious this time. He would have to kill her.

"My love," he purred. "I am here. You are safe, though the darkness covers us."

A beat passed. She did not reply. Her breathing was faint. He had not heard her topple over. No, she had not moved. Wormtongue felt the first stirring of trepidation. The silence grated at him.

Emer crept closer. "I want to touch you. Elrond, will you not reach out to me?"

Wormtongue, using her voice as his compass, stretched his arm out to her. Her fingers met his, scrambling to grasp them. Closer, he moved, until her hands rested easily in his. Blindly his eyes strained against the darkness, and his fingers sought her face, her lips.

"Will you not call me by the name you gave me?" she asked coyly. His hands went cold, and he knew she felt it. In that instant Wormtongue's fate mirrored the fate he himself had wished on Elrond, and Emer with all her weight behind her smashed her forehead into his with such force he was pinned beneath her when she leapt like a cat onto his chest, her fingers viselike around his neck. Light bloomed within his head, falling away again as she bashed at him, for some weapon she had found, and the blows rained down, sharp and hard until his nose was a ruinous mass and his lips numb as it cut from his face. The ring, the amber ring he had in a moment of banal sentimentality tossed aside for her to bear in death. Somehow she had found it, and now used it against him.

The pain threatened to overwhelm him. She was injured badly and could not last for long. "Give me the ring, you liar," she spat, yet he could hear with a skilled ear that the effort to fell him had weakened her greatly. If not for the waybread he had fed her with his own hands she would still be curled on the floor.

"You are more clever than I deemed," he wheedled, blood and spittle bubbling on his lips. "However, you have outlived your usefulness, much as Elrond had just before he was killed. It might comfort you to know that he died quickly, though we had no time to give him a burial befitting one of his station." He felt her stiffen at this in spite of her current advantage. She was tall, and limber and exceedingly well trained, but the weapon of her weakness was sharper than these. He shrieked when she sank her teeth into his hand, and again when she tore at the ring, taking great flaps of his skin off in the attempt.

Once more he spoke in Elrond's voice. Do not let me perish twice, beloved..."

He was so amused at this and at her reaction even in the dark that he laughed hideously, and drew the dagger he had taken from her. Now her position atop him would serve him well, and as she bent to rain down another volley of blows he lifted his arm and in one sweep sank the dagger into her back, throwing her off. She came after him again, stabbing her fingers into his eyes, though her strength waned and even in the dark he could feel the threat less. The injury to his eyes angered him most, and in a delightfully deadly dance he grappled at her, until his seeking fingers found the haft of the dagger and he wrenched it from her back.

She let out a howl that pleased him far more than raping her ever could have. And was this not the ultimate form of violation? He swung again, and this time landed the wickedly sharp blade into her chest, and felt the jar to his arm as it connected with a rib, and she sank then, past screaming.

"It is too much a kindness to simply finish this. I will have the pleasure of knowing you are being slowly consumed by the Hells of Iron. You have some strength in you. I hope it will keep you alive long enough for you to feel the rats picking your bones clean. But take heart! Elrond awaits you!" He kicked her in the chest for good measure. Why not hasten the inevitable?

Wormtongue slammed from the hall, knowing the silence would be keener to her. She had the book, and the worthless ring. Let her drink dust and eat darkness. Perhaps from the ether, the Master of Rivendell would see her, and weep.

They hailed Elrond from the walls, and the tower guard took up the call, and Elrond bristled at what would quickly become a grand and royal welcome at the court of the King in Minas Tirith. All that was in his eyes kept any who drew near at arm's length, his stride so swift and his gaze so perilous that citizens in the circles of the avenues stumbled to move out of his path, though he was surrounded by the uniformed Guard.

They ascended and Elrond was brought at last to the King's house, and led to a private piazza from which the White Tower of Echtelion was in full view. Servants scurried to Elrond's side, offering him wine and other comforts, and so abrasive he found their rapt attentions that he waved them away, fixing them with a look so old they shrank from him and fled.

Tiredly he took in the view, the jewel of Gondor before him. The banner at the tower's peak curled lazily in the morning breeze. How oft had Arwen stood here, with this terraced city beneath her feet and any whim hers to command, and longed for the sanctuary of the pines and the falls and the walls never carved by the hands of men?

He exhaled, only a portion of his tension abating. Arwen had loved Aragorn without reserve, this he had never doubted. Never was she dissuaded from that love, not even when Elrond had told Aragorn that he had set his ambitions too high in prizing the Evenstar of her people. Arwen had been as much a captive of her own fate as he was now, a willing captive.

He drew a cleansing breath. From the Ring of Earth he knew she lived. In darkness somewhere bound, yet Aman had not yielded, was not taken from him yet, but her spirit was faint in this world and bound for the next if she did not muster what strength remained. Injured, as he was, and even more gravely. He closed his eyes and sent from the deep recesses of his heart all he felt for her out onto the wind.

"Grandfather," Eldarion greeted him, his tone deeply welcoming and eerily reminiscent of Aragorn. "It has been too long. I am very glad to see you." They embraced with great affection. "Yet I can see you have not come for any leisure." Eldarion straightened. "What troubles have come to you, grandfather?"

"I will not say where any other ear can idly listen, Eldarion."

Eldarion nodded tersely, worry gnawing at him. He had never seen his grandfather like this; he was wounded, and his bearing told of recent and great injuries, and his eyes were dull with fatigue and deep pain. Swiftly the King brought Elrond to his private apartments, a Guard left at the barred door. Elrond winced at this, imagining life behind barred doors. Eldarion saw this, and took Elrond by the arm into his inner rooms.

"Grandfather, you are wounded. What manner of fool would dare attack you? What devilry is this that any could accomplish it?"

"The devilry of Saruman."

Eldarion grimaced. "His ghost, you mean? For he is long dead, and a thousand of him could not stand against you."

Elrond gave him the tale then, up to a point, and watched Eldarion pace as the details settled in his mind like silt swiftly sinking into clear water. Eldarion was a man in his prime now, as Aragorn when he had plighted his troth to Arwen. A sharp ache like a dagger pierced Elrond at how much of Arwen was in Eldarion; straight and strong and true he was, his hair in the firelight as dark as a raven's wing. Yet as much as the Undómiel lived in Eldarion, so much the more was of Aragorn Elessar; proud-shouldered, longing ever for what lay beyond the immediate, and a heart and spirit that were ever in motion.

Eldarion brought Elrond wine and cheese, and the fine, soft, sour bread made here, and Elrond at last felt free to enjoy it and partook of his grandson's hospitality, surprised at his own hunger for it.

Eldarion voiced his thoughts. "So, you have taken a wife, and she is to bear you a son, if she survives. By your side she should be, not languishing in some hell. By Elbereth, she should not be, for I know what it must have been for you, to be caught by surprise in love, and then to have her taken by Saruman's puppet." Eldarion paced a few angry steps.

"And now she is captured, and Vilya taken from her. Yet this other ring he did not know for what it was."

"Only Galadriel knows, and Aman, and now you. There is more, Eldarion. Saruman gathers an army. And several of his best allies are within the walls of this city. From Galadriel I have their names. The mirror does not lie. They will try to sabotage all you have wrought here, Eldarion. They have poisoned many against you already."

"I will brook no overthrow."

"Whom can you trust?"

Eldarion did not immediately answer, and Elrond's words filled the void. "Word will have already gone out of my coming. I would bring no danger here, but it has come nonetheless, following me through at the gates like a shadow at my heels. Saruman's legions will know full well why I have come."

"Insolent fools. Tell me their names. Tell me who would strip me of what is rightfully mine, that which my mother and father gave their lives to preserve?"

Elrond rattled off the names that Galadriel from the distance had made known. Eldarion was pale with absolute rage. "Garet of Rohan has been courting Eithne. He dares to sweeten his position with words of love to my sister. He will beg for death, whimper like a dog. All the while he has been traipsing off to Ithilien, and now I know such sojourns were meant to gather the hapless against me, and meanwhile Eithne waits for him. The filthy coward."

"He has then dishonoured her utterly, said Elrond malevolently. Eithne was soft-spoken, and without malice, a priceless gem. "Worry not over Garet, for one is already on the way to even that score."

"The betrayal of Ragnar is worse. He is long in service in the Guard. He could have struck me down many times. No loyalty stayed his hand, it seems. Perhaps the orders from his master had not yet come."

Elrond knew the bitter taste of betrayal that now choked his grandson. A very strange light came into Eldarion's eyes, and it was a flame that spoke of many things, nameless and long borne.

"You do not know, grandfather, how I have yearned to leave this place, leave it and never return," said Eldarion with quiet vehemence. "It was in my father to find his manhood and himself in the deep places, and then to settle into his life here. Yet I know myself well, and would find what I seek in the wilds, which is greater understanding. I am sick of the petty bickering here, the machinations for power, the endless disputes over rights to which creek and what stream, and the worship of the style of court. For what lies out there, in the places where few have gone? There are lakes, grandfather, lakes so high and old none have ever seen them." Eldarion stopped so abruptly Elrond's brows drew together in alarm.

"How it must pain you to hear such words, after all my parents long reign here."

Elrond smiled brightly. "Nay, it does not, for such words I have longed to hear you speak, and knew they were within, waiting to be given voice. Come with me, Eldarion, and leave the usurpers to their subterfuge. You are heir to the throne of Gondor, and have ruled fairly and well. Perhaps they will see what you truly are to them if you are gone from here for a time. For the threat Saruman poses is yours as much as mine, and the ring an heirloom to which he has no right. The right to bear the sword you carry is alone yours, Eldarion. Is there another who can act as steward in your stead? Any you can trust at your side to accompany us? For I know the conflict is soon to come, and the search for Aman will be arduous. The places that call to your heart are the very ones he is bent on bringing to ruin."

"Aye, Lochlann I can trust here, the one who spoke for me at the Council in Imladris. But first I must avenge the treason against me here, against our family. It is not for naught I call you grandfather with such honour, and glad I am that you are here, and not in Valinor. All I have done here belongs as much to you as to my mother and father. I shall come with you, and gladly."

Eldarion rose, and smoothed the rich jacket he wore, the need to appear undaunted an ingrained habit. "I must ask you to remain here and wait for me, grandfather. I will send the best from the Houses of Healing to you, though it seems someone of skill has already tended you." Eldarion bent over Elrond, eyeing the fine stitching of his head wounds. They were grievous; long and jagged wounds that crisscrossed his grandfather's scalp, great gashes they had been, and the injuries to his skull beneath must bring him immeasurable pain and illness.

"The lady of Lórien herself attended me. If not for her-"

"Do not speak it! It could not be allowed."

"Send Eithne to me as well, Eldarion. Here I will wait."

Eldarion gave the orders brusquely to the Guard outside, and stood guard himself as his grandfather rested silently in the inner room. The healer came, and adeptly applied a poultice that gave Elrond great ease, and she gave him also a draught that washed the greater part of his pain away, and settled his illness, though the dull ache in his heart for Aman was not diminished. How long ago was it that she had kissed him in the moonlight? That kiss he would not forget, and the memory was so bright that he closed his eyes until Eithne came to him.

Elrond consoled the girl with solemn empathy after Eldarion imparted to her the knowledge of her betrothed's true aims, and he spoke words of grandfatherly wisdom, and reassured her that love walked in its own way and would surely find itself at her hearth soon, for Eithne was very young in her heart, and all her desire was a husband and children of her own. Elrond spoke nothing of his own love, and Eithne knew naught of it from Eldarion. She stayed near as Elrond relented to the effects of the draught he had drunk, and sleep took him. In that barred chamber he slept long hours, and though the medicines restored him bodily, he dreamt of Aman calling out to him, a babe squalling in her arms, and even in rest his heart was leaden. When he rose, the Elves who had ridden out from Imladris behind him were there to greet him, and he knew himself among both friends and family.

Eldarion had Ragnar of the Guard brought down Rath Celerdain in chains, and out the Great Gates so that the full weight of his shame Ragnar would bear. Outside the gates and onto the heath beyond they brought him, and when many had gathered at the walls Eldarion executed Ragnar with his own sword.

"Hear me!" he called, and heralds waited to bear his pronouncement word for word back to even the most private corners of Minas Tirith. "This shall be the fate of any who commit treason against the banner of the King. Let it be known that though I am to be gone for a time, yet here will my eyes and ears reach, and woe to any I see who gainsay my authority here! Many gave their lives for the peace of Gondor, and of all middle-earth, and so shall I. Any who seek to do otherwise shall go to their own deaths with the blood of heroes on their hands. Choose well your fates, and seek the path of peace, or see yourself brought here as Ragnar was, and watch for my return, for I am ever your King, and as such must seek the path that ensures that our hard-won freedom here will endure."

Eldarion concluded warily, for an archer could be gleefully aiming at him now. How it lightened his heart to know he was soon to be gone from here. Though to return he was bound to do, as his father before him.

12.

With great patience Cúthalion stalked his prey, for greater only than his patience was his skill, the finest of all the archers of Imladris, save his brother Caranthorn, now dead. Only Caranthorn's aim was truer. The lonely foothills surrounding Edoras the early autumn winds moaned unceasingly challenged Cúthalion, and he welcomed such a challenge.

The riders of Rohan and the man he sought, Garet, were near, just on the opposite side of the Snowbourn, and their voices rose loudly in companionable banter, old friends they seemed, and many of their words were lost on the wind and came not to Cúthalion's hearing. Those that did spoke not of treachery, yet Cúthalion knew the truth.

He waited and watched as they men shared some bawdy sentiment and guffawed loudly. When the riders took to their horses again to depart, Garet was left alone, and Cúthalion would see victory. His patience was rewarded as Garet lingered, waiting for someone. Cúthalion stayed low, until he was sure the men of Rohan had gone.

"Hail!" he called to Garet from across the river. Garet's head shot up in surprise. "I bring you a message from the House of Elrond, and from Eldarion the King!" The arrow was already whistling before Garet could bolt, and the next bore down on him with even greater speed, the shaft driven home into Garet's skull. A startled grunt was Garet's final testimony, and he thudded to the ground, dead before he hit the earth.

Cúthalion's expression was inscrutable as he forded the river and mounted the dead man's horse, which seemed pleased with its new rider and merrily pranced, snorting in defiance at the wind. Cúthalion was gone like an arrow, then, to retrieve his own horse at Dunharrow. His mount was a steadfast roan, and would be waiting. Bound for Gondor he shot away, for he wished to depart that city in Master Elrond's company.

Minas Tirith was sealed by the Guard at Eldarion's order, given the very moment he was within the Great Gates once again. The rats would try to abandon their sinking ship now, and all those fomenting rebellion against him. Quick, decisive action was his best course, though he knew some would still slip through the net. As sure as rain, ten were caught trying to escape, but the noose had closed around them too swiftly, and they were brought to Eldarion, and given only one moment to speak before they were all summarily executed.

It injured Eldarion to the core to look at them, both in life and in death, a shameless waste it seemed to him, and he could make no sense of it. Saruman had promised them much, and they would see none of it now. No one here was held by anything other than the desire to call the White City home, save those awaiting trial in the dungeons far below Rath Dinen, and no access there was in or out of the Silent Street except that which Eldarion allowed, for the Closed Door was for him alone to open.

Eldarion cast a weather eye over the city from the balcony of his house far above it. Lochlann would steward well the people of Gondor in his absence.

"Eldarion." He knew the hand on his shoulder to be Trista's. He also knew by her deeply soft voice that she was near tears. "You will have your wish after all, and see the places you long for. And I fear I will see you not again in this life."

"I would not go, yet I must. Much depends on it, Trista. I will come back to you. I give you my word, and not lightly." He let her weep, and his heart hardened strangely. He was not eager to be gone from her, and he loved her no less, yet Trista's grief was long drawn out, for she was childless, and this gnawed at her like illness, and over the years had taken from her vigour and strength until only a dependent neediness remained, and Eldarion felt strangled by it. He would never leave her, or put her aside for another, for such actions were for the vain, who thought the nobility of their own bloodlines irreplaceable. No, he would not leave her, for some part of who she had been when he had first loved here was still there, under the scars of all the imagined pregnancies and all the dashed hopes.

And yet his grandfather, whose age surpassed his own by time out of mind, was to hold a new son of his own again. Perhaps the fault was Eldarion's and lay not with Trista. "We will try again," he promised her. She did not answer, and composed herself quickly when his grandfather appeared. Trista regarded Elrond with a cold haughtiness that Eldarion had never seen in her. Perhaps Eithne knew of Elrond's newfound love and the child that was to be born of it from Elrond himself, and had told Trista of it, for Eldarion would not have wounded Trista by mentioning it.

Elrond did not miss the Queen's look of rigid disdain, her eyes like daggers as she swept away.

"Grandfather-"

Elrond held up one hand. "I am taking you away from her for a time. She is angry at me. I understand this. My host has come from Imladris, and they gather the best of Gondor's army and the Minas Tirith Guard. I would not wish your wife anguish, nor your city's defences weakend for my sake."

"It is for all our sakes, grandfather. Trista is the wife of the King. She must understand. I have always done what is expected of me." Eldarion noted the muted pain in his grandfather's eyes, still so deep.

"I would that you rest more, and take another poultice."

"Am I a gray-haired old man in my dotage, Eldarion?"

Eldarion chuckled heartily at Elrond. "You are anything but that. Such wounds would crush even the elite of the Guard." Elrond smiled with approval. "Healing for me will come when my wife and child are with me again, when they are safe in Imladris. No rest will there be for me until then." Elrond strode imperiously to the wall and smashed his fist against the stone, his eyes dark as twilight. Eldarion knew all conversation to be for the moment over, and left his grandfather to his own thoughts. There were still many matters to be attended to before he could depart, and Eldarion felt he dragged each detail like a weight at his ankles.

He never saw Trista watching Elrond from the window of their bedroom above, a recessed window shaded by dormers and the leaves of elm on the still heavy tree that grew beside the house. Yet Elrond felt Trista's gaze burning upon him, and slowly lifted his eyes, fixing the woman in his own gaze. He saw all that she was then easily, and wondered what words he would find to tell Eldarion that his own wife was also a conspirator against him, and that she had sent messengers to Saruman only moments after his arrival here.

All this he drew from her eyes, and so withering was the gaze he returned that Trista was rooted in place. Elrond called out, and rapid-fire told the soldier before him what he knew to be true. Elrond's knowledge was not questioned, and Trista still stared down at him from above, her shrewdness gone and her head no longer nobly held high as they came to arrest her and took her away.

Emer slept, and knew not whether she slept to wake or slept forever. All at once she returned from the darkness to the deeper darkness around, her mind flitting from one memory to the next, one thought piled atop another, until it was too much and she sank and let go and slipped away again, only to return and repeat this cycle once again.

Perhaps this was death, this sifting of memories, and the fragments of her life, good and ill, dancing unbidden from her subconscious, plying her with what might have been if she had not failed. The last memory was the best and brightest of all, so clear she could feel Elrond's fingers warm around hers, and the damp earth springing beneath her feet in the high and slanted meadow where they walked. It was their first whole day together, the Council ended, and the company had departed and Imladris was theirs alone now. The memory rendered her heart, and the mist from the waterfall was on her lips, and she was thirsty, so thirsty. She gripped her head, pain hammering at her, so all-consuming it seemed to bring a dull gray light even here.

Yet it was not so. The darkness when she lifted her head again lay over her eyes like wet felt, so complete unto itself she thought she could hear it breathe and feel its indomitable will, and it did not will her well.

Where was her tormentor? Inches away, waiting to strike again, to finish what he had begun? Emer recalled vividly how he had spoken with Elrond's voice, and how she had trusted that voice. She recalled also his odious breath and his cold touch. It was only Vilya that had stayed his hand, only Elrond's influence that had saved her. Elrond lived, she had been deceived, yet she was not defeated utterly, for as long as she was alive Celebdhel also lived. He would not do so if she did not find water, and some way to treat her wounds.

With these thoughts pressing down on her fractured skull and the pain as an axe fighting its way out from within, Emer vomited, great gouts of bile that burned her throat and gagged her, and the dizziness like a rushing river pounded at her, tears of pain coursing down her cheeks, though they were few and the last of water left to her.

The air was sulfurous and rank, hot and humid and so oppressive that she retched again until only air was brought up. She could not kneel here, could not remain like this even if the sickness continued. Somewhere in this hell there must be water, for Celebdhel. She would lose him if she did not find it. He still lived, even though she nearly had not, and he was trusting her to carry on. She had failed Elrond, the ring had been taken from her. She had wept, her heart had poured from her before an enemy, an enemy she had not defeated. Yet the Ring of Earth was still on her hand, and she had wounded him with it. He had not known what gift he passed by in his anger.

She was upright. The pain shot through her chest, her back, where he had stabbed her deeply with her own dagger. Yet there was another chance to defeat him, was there not? He had left her here to be consumed in this place, by this place. She must strive as she had never done before, strive to live. She had the ring Elrond had crafted with his own hands, and she still breathed. What more did she need? She rose, lurching in a sickening jig, her feet threatening to betray her, yet she held firm.

So be it. It was fitting, it was good. She would master the ring here, in the heart of the earth, in the dark. Even if she had her flints she would strike no flame now. The light would only dance in a way that would bring deeper illness, and it would stab at her wounded eyes. She would face the dark, and embrace it, and know victory, and the child within was light in abundance, all she would need. The next light she would see would be the light in Elrond's eyes.

Hope bloomed in her, and she lowered herself to her knees again and began to crawl, one arm outstretched as she inch by inch felt her way. She sought the wall, any wall, so that she could gauge the perimeter of her prison. There could be an abyss before her, deep pits waiting to swallow what hope remained. She must learn every inch of this place, and she moved with aching slowness.

It was painstaking work. Push forward, feel the grit and slag before her and all around. Breathe, take what nourishment she could from the foul air and move forward gain, and each detail must be taken in to be recalled later, and her battered head ached fiercely. One inch, then another, and the inched ahead seemed to stack up before her like black coins waiting to be counted.

She snapped her hand back with a shriek when she finally touched something other than the vaporous filth of the floor. It was something cool, and smooth, and from it came comfort that entered her consciousness and spread like good health through her entire being. Her fingertips sought more. She would have smiled, but her face was to broken to attempt it. Elrond's book, the Book of Days. She opened it, and felt the pages. It was not ruined, or torn. He had not taken it from her. She could not help but hope she would find her pack, and her waterskin, and the lembas.

It was not to be, but she persevered until she had gone over the entire circumference of the room, and knew not whether days had passed while she had done so, and she was weary, though the movement began to slowly clear her head.

She had touched the chains that had bound her, the shackles. Elrond's book was tenderly cradled under one arm, and it hobbled her, so that she must crawl in a sort of staggering hop and drag. She was unwilling to part with it, and kept on, her breathing slow, and she asked of those many names within the pages of the book to guide her, calling to Elwing and Eärendil, Elwë and Nimloth, Dior and Melian.

Dizziness came in a constant ebb and flow, and at times she must halt and wait it out. The dour, acrid air sickened her, but she pressed on, collecting spider webs. She had ample bandages for her wounds now, and once the bleeding was stanched and the wounds packed she could move on. She managed not to vomit while doing this, and examined herself with her hands.

Her body was relatively uninjured, except for the stab wounds and the broken ribs where he had kicked her. Mithril, the garment had been, and not brocade after all. Elrond had protected her even here, and the knowledge of his caring were as if he spoke words to her now in the darkness, and she felt him strongly. This emboldened her, and she rose and crossed the chamber on foot, once, twice, and then again. She could not smile at her victory, but let out a defiant ululating cry instead. For she was not bound the the fate her tormentor had willed upon her.

She struggled then in the direction he had last gone, searching for the way out, and found it. There she paused, listening. Instinct told her that a vast maze lay out there, waiting to be mastered. She entered this labyrinth, her fingers against the wall as she departed the Nethermost Hall. Left, right, left again. A short way, and another right turn. Sweat rolled down her back, her filthy, bloodied hair plastered to her neck.

Great vaults, probably for slaves or prisoners were all along the main way. She counted the turns, letting them burn into her memory. A smithy she found next. A forge required water. She strained long, ears bent for any sign of the precious treasure she sought. Inch by inch she moved, and cried out in triumph when the most wonderful of voices she heard, the slightest burbling. An underground flow fed a stagnant pool, and its burbling drew her forward until she stumbled. The water was malodourous, metallic and heavy on her tongue, yet she drank of it with relish. With some excavation the water could be made to run more clearly into the well.

There were tools about, tools of the smith's trade, left behind, and brittle with age. Still they would serve her well, and she would have weapons aplenty. A noisome chorus of bats she had disturbed in the tunnels, come from some secret chimney far above to dwell in the heart of darkness, and rats she had heard scurrying to flee her path. There would be insects as well. She would have food. She would not die, Celebdhel would not die. Grateful she was for the training of Arnor now, for it would be put to the test here. Survival, until she could avenge.

Wormtongue fed upon the looks they gave him now, the Orcs and Men, for in their eyes his battered face and ruint lips were badges of honour, and indicated that he had raped the woman before killing her, violated an untouchable warrior of Arnor and one who had belonged to the Master of Rivendell. He had violated her most insidiously indeed, in a way far worse than rape, though the followers of Saruman knew it not.

For a time he wore the silver laurels of the woman's crown on his head, until he secretly feared they would lead one of Elrond's loyal servants to find him somehow. Greater pleasure he found when he tossed the circlet to the Orcs, watching them tear it apart, shards of the silver leaves like bits of the woman's heart glinting in the dark earth and trampled underfoot like warnings from afar.

Wormtongue in inner mortification railed at himself, for such mindless superstition was not worthy of the ringbearer.

The moon was a pewter crescent, and they made for the Ered Mithrin, yet indecision tore at him, and the desire to keep what he had gained by such foul measures grew in him until it became something akin to deep sexual desire, and he wished then that he had raped the woman left behind. With all this churning within his attention faltered, and he howled in dismay when Saruman appeared unbidden, surrounded by Orcs and Men of the North, heartless men who would tear him apart at the snap of their master's fingers.

And so he felt like a King of old, on horseback with the troops afoot around, until Saruman appeared before him and with a wave of his hand Wormtongue was prostrate in the dirt. "You tarried far too long with the woman. Did you bring me what I asked for?" Wormtongue was near to grovelling as he handed over Vilya.

"Well done. However your punishment will be severe, for in your ignorance you allowed the woman to survive. Why did you not strike her down? That is twice you have failed me, Worm, for Elrond still lives. Do you think the gaze of the Palantíri so shortsighted? No matter. The woman will not be long in this world, trapped in Angband, and she was little threat to me. Elrond is another matter. He must be dealt with immediately. Fail me again and see your end, Worm. And do not give counsel to your fears, for Galadriel is among us again. I will seek her while you finish what you began with Elrond. Keep in mind that I will tolerate no disloyalty from you. You played with the idea, did you not, of trying to wield the ring? You live only at my word, Worm. Break your trust with me and you will find what it is to disobey."

Saruman departed with the force that had surrounded Wormtongue, and left him sprawled like a chastened child there in the dirt, alone, and unable to move. When more than an hour had passed he was released again. Now he must seek the accursed Elf-lord on his own. Saruman would pay dearly for this, but not before Elrond did. Galadriel! Saruman was doomed. They were all doomed. Still he would do what damage he could before the end came.

Saruman brooded as he travelled on. The news of Galadriel's return was both grim and welcome, for he must gain the Ring of Water in order to know success. A pity she had not passed it on to some lesser being, for in all the Realm it was she he was least likely to vanquish. Yet the challenge may prove worthy of him now, for he had gained much over the years, and would stay one step ahead of her. It was Saruman who had brought her back, through the nightmares of the girl Elrond had chosen as his latest amusement. They had all performed according to his wishes, though the real work was yet to come.

His forces would meet at the Ered Mithrin, there to disperse; one army to Rivendell, and one to Mirkwood, and both would fall easily. Mirkwood would not remain when he had finished, a testament to all that would come if any chose to stand in his way now. Rivendell he would hold for a time, as additional warning, and he could decide its fate later. After that would come Lórien, and as the hapless fell under his yoke, so even more would be gained. It pained him that Gondor had slipped momentarily from his reach; he intended to rectify that mistake soon. Elrond would suffer greatly for thwarting his will in Minas Tirith. Elrond had taken Eldarion out of the equation, which would only help Saruman's quest now. Once Gondor had falled the rest would topple in time. The strongholds of the Elves were crucial in undermining the hearts of all the rest. One day even history would forget and speak no more of them, though much remained to be done before that time came.

Elves. How he despised them; for their beauty, for their soft speech, for the ease in which they lived, in immortal truth, denied nothing. They had ever known victory; in love, in war, fearless they were in their knowledge, wise in the ways of what would come. Their children were fair, and their music could bewitch a soul from its dwelling. It was the light in their eyes that plagued him most, that made him want to crush them and put out that light forever. A sort of madness threatened Saruman whenever he pursued this line of thought, for such malicious envy had long festered like an untended wound in him, especially where Galadriel was concerned. When the Elf-witch was slain, there would be none who could stand against him. The Cirantothir was no more, because of him. Her death would be the jewel in his crown, ensuring his reign to come. Sauron had been a fool, and set his sights too high, for true dominion was worked from within, slowly and patiently as a sliver burrowing into flesh, unfelt at first, but causing deeper pain as time passed until one tore at the flesh. So small a thing, in the beginning. The smaller victories would lead to the final triumph. Saruman had nothing but time, thanks to his own skill. There was more than one way to gain immortality, though the cost was heavy to him indeed. He would not fail and see all he had accomplished lapse before his eyes now.

Galadriel had said nothing when Angharod, Lórien's new lord sent from the Golden Wood fifty of his best warriors to accompany her. She merely gazed at them with quiet trust which they returned, and an unspoken agreement that they would defend her until she had completed her task was sealed between herself and them.

Far different was her bearing when they drew up to Forndagor, and her face was unreadable as her eyes scanned the battlements. The squadron that rushed toward her from the keep with their hands on the hilts of their swords were drawn up short at the cold indifference she radiated.

Swords were swiftly sheathed and humble apologies offered when they recognised her, and the battalion Commander of Forndagor was summoned. Warily he offered Galadriel sanctuary within, and the hospitality of Arnor, but a slow hand she raised in refusal. Her eyes were cerulean, and fearless, and the Commander of the finest fighting force in all Arda was quailed by those eyes, for they seemed to him the wells of time itself, though his apprehension he kept hidden remarkably well.

Galadriel with a solemn arch of her fair brow relayed her purpose here, and the Commander knew if he refused her request she would be undaunted, and many hundreds of others would gladly accept the call to honour, and she would achieve her aims irregardless of who offered to aid her. Proudly he dispatched a detachment of two hundred of his finest and most seasoned men and women, and gave the Lady of Lórien his blessing to command them at her will, and asked her to send word if more was required of Arnor. She in turn blessed him with the slightest inclining of her head, and he swayed at the sight of the sun trapped within the streaming gold of her hair, and the flash of the ring on her hand, and her eyes regarding him from across the seas of time, hooded with wisdom and unfathomable mystery, the depths of which could not be plumbed by any man.

Galadriel with ease melded the two forces, Lórien and Arnor, for they would be the instrument of her will, and fifty she sent to scout the lands for the signs she instructed them to seek, choosing those most skilled in the art of tracking, and telling them that though the sparrows travelled in flocks, the eagles flew alone, to lift their hearts to the quest.

She was certain of Saruman's hidden stronghold, and also certain he did not go that road. A hundred she sent then to Imladris, and fifty to Lórien, intent on second-guessing Saruman and thwarting him before he could act. With this done the remaining host onward went, bound for Mirkwood, and many thought they glimpsed an illusion to see the Lady Galadriel and her army pass, and they hid themselves in places they hoped her glance would not penetrate. Children who dared to watch in the open would remember, and would tell their grandchildren before winter's hearth of the autumn afternoon when the Lady of Lórien had ridden past, resplendent as the living embodiment of the sun, surrounded by handmaidens quicksilver young, and brave soldiers following in her wake, ready to shed their blood that she might like time endure forever.

In those first few days of her this new life, Emer fell into a torpor in which the struggle to exist took precedence over all else. As the days passed, the beginning of healing came, and her mind began to slowly work again. Activity took her mind from the pain, though Elrond was never far from her thoughts, yet she would not dwell on the memory of him, though it was in her heart to do so every moment.

She was deeply shamed by her defeat, and at the loss of the ring; Elrond had seen in her the strength to bear ir, and it had fled from her when the time to bear it in need had come. Perhaps such strength had never been hers. Seventeen years gave little armour against despair. It served her not to torment herself now. The darkness had not consumed her, nor would self-doubt, no matter how well-deserved.

So the days passed, though for Emer it was ever and always night. She hunted, and bathed in the pool, clearer and cleaner as it was now by her efforts, though the water was still very warm. Her clothes and hair never fully dried in the humid air, yet she was never cold, here in the forge of the earth.

She had made a haven of the throne room, and strangely the air had more movement there, and felt lighter. She had found her torn cloak, and wrapped Elrond's book tightly in it so that the moist aire would not defile it. It was her only treasure, and she hoarded it like a dragon.

The chambers of the thralls she would not enter, for fear she would become trapped in them, and not even the rats would come seeking what was left. Her knowledge of the place grew with each venturing forth until she raced along all but one of the tunnels, her fingertips skipping along over the openings, counting the turnings, which she was vigilant in doing although they were engraved in her memory now.

There was no fear in her of the darkness, for what was it to her now? Even if all the darkness of the world were to gather in one place, it could not by its own power extinguish even the light of one candle, for it had no power of its own save what was lended to it by fear; and the light growing within her was far greater than this. The darkness was witness instead, and bent its ear to Emer's conversations with Celebdhel, which at first were short, and scant, as though she had lost the art of speech. Soon she grew bolder, and spoke to him during all her waking hours, and at length found it within her to sing to him, though she knew few of the Elven songs, and wished Celebdhel to hear them sung in the clear, rich voice of an Elf, and not her voice, which sounded hoarse and strangely deep to her ears.

She wondered at her appearance, wondered if Elrond would flee from her now, and whether her broken face would mend and bear any semblance to its former shape. She could not tell by touch whether it was forever changed. Perhaps it did not matter, for what was within was irrevocably changed, and would be reflected on her face whether it was scarred, or disfigured, or whole once again.

She held the ring, Anya, for long hours as she moved through the tunnels and passed the turnings, doggedly seeking prey or the solace movement brought. She thought not of real food now, cooked food, though many of her dreams were filled with the aromas and tastes of thick broths and warm bread from the hearth bricks and sour cheese. She could barely recall such tastes now. She worried at the effect of what she was forced to dine upon on Celebdhel, but there was no other way, and she lent him all her strength, which grew more considerable daily, as he did.

Emer worked at the memory of sight often, and when she lay down for sleep, pressed her fingertips against her closed eyes, and thought she saw light flare. In dreams she still walked in it, though it was washed in hues of deep gray and muted as though it slanted in from afar through dark glass.

What was left to fear after more than a month had passed? Only the physical changes in her marked the passage of time, and she was insanely proud of the small protrusion of her midsection, and laid her hands across it as she bathed in her dank basin. In another two months, or perhaps less if all was well, the quickening would come, and she would feel Celebdhel move. She clambered from the pool, and knelt, and covered her eyes in fervent prayer, in such deep succor to her creator for Elrond's safety, and Celebdhel's.

That night she gave in, missing Elrond in a way so desolate that she was prostrate on the floor as though an invisible hand held her there, and her hair was damp from her tears. Yet she knew she had not been alone, he had been with her all the time, every moment beside her, with every beating of her heart and every ragged breath. In her desperate longing for him she slid the ring back onto her finger and bent her will to it at last.

Her breath was staccato when it came back to her. Anya brought neither the weightless lift nor the flight of Vilya, yet as her mind opened to the ring what she felt was far more than these. She gasped at the amber light, so small at first, yet when it began to bloom the enormity of what the ring was began to work in her, and she felt herself forged to the spot, to the earth, and an extension of its very foundations.

She embraced that light in a symphony of emotion, and let down all her guard, and the ring opened to her like a great portal all that it held within, and she gasped, her shoulders shaking with amazement. Rooted as she was to the earth, held by it, yet many scenes one by one were revealed to her, unfolding both before her and within her, and more rapidly they came with each new turn, pieces of the past she held in her hand. Melkor warred against his own, and fell from grace, and the beginning of the days of all came to pass and Valinor was full wrought, and the time of the coming of the Elves was nigh...

Thingol and Melian Emer saw, and the hosts of the Vanyar and the Noldor come to the Western shores; Fëanor, and Melkor unchained. Fëanor, greatest of the Noldor, the silmarils in his hand, and all the inner fire of his heart and the heart of the earth was in them, and the darkness of the treasury in which the silmarils could not be hidden was driven forth by that light until it was so marvellous she knew it would wring her heart unto death, and she grappled at the ring, shrieking until she wielded it not and it lay inert in her clenched fist.

The Three had been forged by Celebrimbor to abate decay, to stem the ill tide of such rot that the coming of evil would bring, to put into all living creatures one spark of that inextinguishable fire that all may live in renewal, and in bliss, as Ilúvatar meant. The Three rings were unto this end whole and complete, and lacking nothing.

And to serve this end Anya was never meant. For the Ring of Earth was Arda's historian, keeper of all days. For this Elrond had created it, for if the world were overrun in the end, and all hope failed the world of Men and Elves, the Ring would tell all that had come to pass, and so hope it would bear on, never to be lost fully.

The last flowering of the Elves had come, and by the end of the Third Age they were in vast numbers leaving the shores of Arda, and the days of their like would not come again. And Elrond by his own hands had encapsulated all the days of Men and Elves from the first breath, for Men to keep, and to know, and to hold sacred.

Elrond had meant never to return here, this she knew now, and knew also what it had cost him to come back. He had bestowed on her the most priceless treasure of the ages, all the ages themselves. And the Ring of Earth must be carried into the days ahead, guarded, sanctified, for it had much yet to record and bear testament to.

Emer wept at all this, and could not console herself, moved as she was beyond emotion and beyond reason, wept for what Elrond had accomplished and at the knowledge that he had entrusted her with such work, and she in a thousand lifetimes could not possibly be worthy of it, yet he had deemed her so.

Drained utterly, yet exalted, Emer lay on the gritty stone, and it was as the finest down beneath her now, and with all her might she reached out from the darkness to touch Elrond.

Eldarion scowled at the sky, threatening and heavy it was, and the scent of more early snow was on the air, for autumn was quickly giving way to winter. The icy breath of the wind caught his own breath, and pulled it away as steam on the air. The chill of Lake Evendim sliced straight through him. He smiled in spite of these, at Anarien, Galadriel's handmaiden, with whom he spent many hours of his days now. She spoke softly in concern for his grandfather.

Eldarion went to Elrond immediately. His grandfather was too pale, and had not even his cloak about his shoulders. Elrond was so still that Eldarion feared the cold harried him, or pain had taken his mind temporarily, for his wounds he still carried, though he slowly healed. The Havens were two hundred miles distant; perhaps Elrond thought long on them. No, this could not be, it was something else that had captured him. Saruman, perhaps, seeking a way into his grandfather's thoughts. Elrond's eyes were open, yet Eldarion felt his grandfather was not there except in the physical sense, and travelled to where even thought could not reach.

Eldarion stood vigil until Elrond spoke. "By the Valar, she has done it," Elrond whispered. He felt the touch of Aman's heart, so filled with love he smiled absently, and joyful laughter leapt within him was heard by Eldarion and Anarien at his side. Eldarion was about to ask if Elrond had taken ill, but one direct look from his grandfather quieted any such words, for Elrond's eyes were aflame as Eldarion had always remembered them to be, with all the starlight of the midnight sky as it was in summer, when the sun had fled and the stars held the sky alone. It gladdened Eldarion to see such light again at last, and he was greatly warmed by it.

"She has wielded the Ring of Earth," Elrond told his grandson, though no other heard him speak, and Eldarion was startled, for this form of communication he had never experienced. "Yet she must master it," Elrond went on, "and she will, I am sure of it, Eldarion. And then we will know all that we must to defeat Saruman."

"Have you some way to tell her of our need?" Eldarion asked, the cold seeping into him again. Elrond nodded slightly. "It may be some time ere she understands, yet she will. Not long, not long, after all she has already endured. I fear to think what she has had to do in order to survive, Eldarion, entombed in the darkness. Yet there is a way out, and she will find it." Elrond's words faded from Eldarion, and one glance at Elrond told him why. Elrond had feared Eldarion would hear the love in Elrond's heart, feared that it would open the wound Eldarion carried, for his own wife had betrayed him and was now gone, taken by the executioner's blade by Eldarion's order before they had left Minas Tirith. Yet there was one at Eldarion's side now who was worthy of him, though he knew it not yet, and did not see what it was Galadriel's handmaiden offered him. Eldarion had grown far beyond what he had been when they had departed the White City, and the wanderlust in him would never be sated now, and Elrond surmised that Anarien prepared herself already for life on the road if it chanced that she and Eldarion were to face life together now, for all the days of his life he would seek the far corners of the Realm. The betrayal of Trista would in time be easier to bear, and Eldarion would see not only the hidden places of earth but all that was right in front of him.

The frozen voice of the wind did not abate, and was joined by the beating of many hooves, distant but drawing toward the encampment. In the trees the archers of Imladris signalled down the line that it was not an enemy which approached.

Elrond greeted Galadriel when she arrived, his eyes bright in admiration of the army she had mustered, for nearly a thousand Men and hundreds of Elves there were in her wake. A great league of swordsmen and archers, of Lórien and Arnor, and even a host of the Naugrim came forth from their midst, Bain son of Bror leading them.

The fires were stoked, and great warmth was to be found, and barrels of ale brought by the Dwarves were shared, though glumly at first. Galadriel held herself apart, meeting Elrond's eyes, and he sidled unseen from the fireside to engage her in private conversation.

"Mirkwood has fallen," she said wordlessly, her eyes like a premonition and the colour of a frozen lake. "Imladris we could barely wrest from Saruman's grip, yet his will there we drove off. Not for long I fear will he leave the Hithaeglir in peace, for I could not remain there. Of his stronghold in the Ered Mithrin there is little to tell, for he had abandoned it, and is ever on the move. We tracked him until the snow hampered our efforts, and we feared we could not clear the pass, and almost we did not, for he brought the wind against us, and by Narya he brought the warm breath that should not be in early winter, and there was great softening of the ice and snow then, and one of my handmaidens fell to her death. When we came down the Anduin, it was known to me that the Elvenking sought my presence, yet he was not within the Greenwood, for it had already been taken by Saruman's legions. The forces of Mirkwood are soon to arrive here, Elrond. Some mastery of the rings he has already gained."

"And so has Aman, for she wields Anya now. Saruman is soon to move on Minas Tirith, and from within already there is great weakness; in Eldarion's absence he has seen advantage, and acted upon it, and one by one his emissaries steal within, and Lochlann the steward of Gondor is powerless against the subterfuge building there. By Anya Aman has seen this, and more, for Saruman's intent is to destroy Mirkwood by fire, and then Imladris, and by so taking the dwellings of our people one by one, he will bring great fear to all and seek to force his will into the consciousness of all. One of his hosts we felled, three days hence, and were led astray here by his trickery, tracking him, as you were."

"His spies are ever watchful, and our ways seem known to him before we can move, he is ever ahead and behind, and the birds and beasts answer his call now. It is not the darkness over all that we fight this time, but the darkness that slowly grows from within. He will achieve dominion such as Sauron wished if we are not soon to slay him."

"We are connected to the rings in ways even he does not realise, Galadriel. It is this that will fell him, for our life force he cannot master, and it is the best weapon left to us. We must regain control of what was taken from us, and regain the rings themselves. I know a way this may be done; for we can twist the treacherous heart of the one following me to our own ends. It is all his wish to betray Saruman as he was once betrayed.

"Then we will avail ourselves of such treachery. Where is Wormtongue to be found?"

"He is near, for he was ordered to slay me, having failed in his last attempt."

"And me, to sever our connections to the rings. He will find it even more difficult to draw near to you this time. And his fear of me will to beckon to him as much as repel him. Aman you named well, Elrond. She has prevailed. May she continue to draw from Anya what is needful. Soon she will know freedom because of the ring, and because of you. She has not dared the way out, yet, for the ancient malice there has prevented her from seeing it. The ring will show her, and the Eagle we will send, that she may be borne swiftly back to your side. Narya's bane I will offer to Wormtongue, and he will not be able to resist. His will is not in line with that of the rings."

Elrond smiled gravely, both at Galadriel's foreknowledge and Aman's courage. What ordeal had been hers, he could not guess, though he felt it deeply in all that she was now, even from afar. Even his connection to Vilya could not match what he shared with Aman now.

Emer was single-mindedly possessed with the mastery of Anya now, her entire being bent upon it. She was a witness to history now, in such a way as even those who had lived it could never have foreseen. And from her tomb she could warn, and advise, for the ring showed all of history, even up to the last moment. In this way she was able to discern the movements and whereabouts of the enemy, and this was the sword she wielded from hell, wielded with Elrond, and with Galadriel. The taking of Mirkwood she could not stop, or the invasion of Imladris. She could only warn. This was an endless source of grief to her, but she must not let it allay her purpose.

A stunted figure hobbled near to the encampment, though not near enough for the sentries to descry him; downwind he was, and he could smell the merry scents of fires and meat roasting over them, and hear the soft, beguiling songs of the Elves. The army of Mirkwood en masse approached the encampment, and Wormtongue heard the great welcome they received, in word and song, and such sounds were interwoven with the desires of his heart, for Galadriel was within the protective circle of this great company, and Elrond, and he must draw them out somehow, must keep his inner balance and struggle against what would draw him too soon to them.

The cold bit at his flesh, yet with impish delight he moved closer, wishing to look upon her in secret, to hear her speak unseen, though he knew the sound of her voice would cripple him. He was paralised with fear already, knowing the Elf-witch was so near, knowing his task to be impossible, for Elrond would be surrounded by loyal companions, their aim unerring as their fealty to him. His head swiveled, and he sought all directions at once, hearing what was not there. Paranoia was only reality on a finer scale. Many he had counselled against Galadriel in the past, warning all of the treachery of those in league with the sorceress of the Golden Wood, speaking oily stanzas of the webs of deceit ever woven by her, and of the secrets kept in Lothlórien by that fairest of conspirators, whom no mortal man could ever approach with hope of knowing. Saruman could not possibly stand against her. They were all doomed.

Such were his thoughts until his reverie was shattered at the sound of her voice behind him. He stifled a scream welling from deep within, for she was there before him, the glory of the Elf-fire about her, and his eyes felt like cinders and he could gaze not long enough, and his hand flew up to shield his eyes from the light, and it drove forth the darkness from the most shadowed places of his soul, laying it bare, and he could hide nothing from her now, and was helplessly on his knees before her. The Ring of the Adamant flashed on her hand with the same quiet seduction that filled her eyes. Either madness had finally descended, or she was offering it to him.

"This I will give you, and more, if you regain what was taken by Saruman." She held it in her palm then. For Wormtongue to bear Nenya to Saruman would be as if Galadriel herself entered into his presence, though Wormtongue never realised this. Elrond had yet to regain this knowledge, wounded as he had been, yet he would soon do so. And Saruman would be surrounded in the most covert of ways by those he wished most to eliminate. If Wormtongue had at that moment thought to turn around, he would have seen Elrond behind him, archers on either side with arrows waiting to be given flight, trained on Wormtongue's head.

Saruman knew not of Anya, though all his will was bent on discovering how his enemies continued to outmanuver him. All Galadriel's will and Elrond's now must go to protecting what Aman now wielded, on keeping all knowledge of it from Saruman, for by Anya the other three rings would be brought back to their rightful bearers. In the meantime, the will of those bearers could be wrought upon Saruman in ways he never dreamt, and it was this that would save them all. Though the forces of Arda must now choose what they would commit to the conflict, it was the unseen war that would be waged for all, and victory when it came would be understood by few.

All this she shared in silent consort with Elrond, and agreement was in his eyes. Wormtongue cowered before her, gibbering, spewing forth words filled with fear and great longing. "Take it to your master. Present him with the Ring of the Adamant, Wormtongue. Tell him Galadriel accepts defeat." Though she looked at Wormtongue, all that was in Elrond's eyes and heart she did not miss, and knew how he longed to avenge what Wormtongue had done to his chosen. Yet he would avenge, through the ring he had entrusted Aman with.

Wormtongue called upon the last of his failing courage, which was scant to begin with, and still he would not look directly at Galadriel, yet his fear of her though not lessened was somehow assuaged by the power of the ring, and desperately he accepted it, moaning in fear and anguish and longing when he took it from her hand, for even more than its presence was the feel of her flesh against his, so brief a touch it was yet it threatened to unravel what little sanity remained, and he fled from her presence with more swiftness than he had ever mustered, and when morning came and she was far behind he still trembled, exalted and defiled by her touch and by the ring.

Emer ran like fire through the labyrinth of tunnels, for mastery had brought renewal, and the ring had leeched darkness from her until only skill remained. It flooded her with purpose. With the ring she travelled the labyrinth of time, and the prison which held her bodily no longer threatened. Elrond and Galadriel were part of each journey she embarked upon, and with each wielding came greater knowledge, deeper empathy, and stronger grew that which bound the ring to her. With Elrond she could speak whenever she wished, and feel his presence, and all that he felt was returned to her in greater and greater measure, and she rejoiced in this. No distance could separate them now.

From his presence, and Galadriel's steady will, and from the ring, she could now dare to travel the path she had not set foot upon yet, for the will of this place had bent hers from it, wishing to entomb her for all time. The will of Saruman had been kept from her by Elrond and Galadriel, yet not the will of this place. The black pits of Morgoth had known song, sung in darkness, and despair had fallen. Yet she had feared the tunnel she traversed now, and its knowledge had been kept from her, until in dreams and sojourns of the ring she had seen it at last. Yet deep within she knew this prison had brought to her all that was required to bear the ring, and without it mastery would never have come. More had been forged here than what Morgoth willed so long ago, and corruption had been transformed, immutably changed, and wielded anew as creation.

Emer swayed in deep mental consort with Elrond and with the ring, and with fierce gladness he led her, and the fetters of this life like the entrapments of this place bound them no more. The gates of Angband behind, the embattled cliffs above, and she was free, and her piercing scream of defiance rang out like the shriek of the hawk who tastes prey sure within his grasp.

Elrond and Galadriel surprised Emer then, for Thorontári in a rush of wings soared above, unhindered by the precipices, unscalable they seemed, yet the Hells of Iron had not known victory and the Thangorodrim would not. And so she was borne away, and the darkness left behind, and Thorontári wondered at the one she rode the wind with now, for this woman bore little resemblance to the one who had shakily summoned her at Elrond's insistence in an earlier season. The Ring of Earth upon the woman's hand an amber fire unto itself, and it seemed to Thorontári that upon the woman's brow a star of silver shone, of knowledge.

Galadriel and Elrond shared the fireside, lingering there, for they must soon decide what was to be done to free the Greenwood. Elrond knew well the sense of loss, the absence of Nenya that tore at Galadriel's heart, though he also knew it would only be temporary. Yet for all this, there was great mirth in Galadriel, and with good humour she spoke. "I have lost Anarien utterly."

Elrond followed Galadriel's gaze, and watched too her errant handmaiden, who had daily strayed to Eldarion's side.

"He is ever disconcerted by her beauty," Elrond quipped. "He can speak not two words together when she comes near."

"She is ever near him; small wonder he is all the day silent," said Galadriel stonily, though her eyes laughed. "Must she plight him her troth from the mountaintop?"

Elrond laughed loudly at this. "And was not Celeborn of Doriath weary with toil and on his knees long years before the Lady Galadriel, before she would relent?"

Galadriel straightened as if Elrond was in great error, but smirked. "Celeborn is wise," was all her comment, and Elrond was properly chastened yet laughed smugly anyhow.

"I shall miss thee, lady," he whispered to her in passing, and went to rescue Eldarion from Anarien's gaze, for the troops were making ready to depart, finishing the noon meal and gathering up the clutter and putting out the fires.

"Let us make haste upon the road, Eldarion, for I would have her beside me as soon as may be." Eldarion nodded gruffly, flustered at Anarien's presence, yet drawn to it. He busied himself with the horses, though Anarien floated nearby.

"There is a time for action, Eldarion, but also a season to accept what is given you. Do not close your eyes to that season when it comes to pass." Elrond's expression was neutral as Eldarion could see, but his eyes sparkled withe encouragement at the Elf, who smiled brightly at him and ducked her head almost shyly. Eldarion's shoulders rose as if his ambiguity towards Anarien had somehow dishonoured him in his grandfather's sight.

"Be patient with him," Elrond said to Anarien. "The blood of the Dunedain is stubborn, and headstrong, and sometimes deaf-"

"Enough, grandfather," Eldarion chided, his colour high.

"Yet there is hope in the blood of the Noldor, so all is not lost." Elrond was about to go on with great humour until Eldarion stopped him with a rueful glance, and Anarien took all reason from him, bringing his hand to her lips.

"May you bring each other great joy, and may you be joined in Imladris," Elrond wished aloud, though he knew Eldarion was too deeply bound to Gondor to allow this even if he wished it. Anarien would bring great beauty and the wisdom of the court of Galadriel to Minas Tirith, and Gondor could ask for no better to stand beside their King. The sooner their King realised this, the better. Elrond smiled affectionately at both of them.

Elrond felt invulnerable at the knowledge that Aman was free, and great happiness at what would be between his grandson and Galadriel's handmaiden, yet his heart was eaten by fear for Imladris, and he could dwell not long upon what may come there, and wished with all he was to return there, and guard his beloved valley as only he could; yet his desire for Aman was the greater, and no joy would there be in homecoming without her now. In companionable silence they set forth, a smaller company now, but ready.

Emer passed fields long fallow, and the sun sank too early for her liking, for she saw it in a way she had never done, perhaps no one had ever done. Yet the night she also welcomed, as an old friend. Thorontári had left here in Eregion, yet Emer was not dismayed or deterred by this, for the ways of the Eagles are their own and none are privy to their paths or inner destinations. Far too close to the world of men for Thorontári, Emer had surmised, and on she went. The Nimrodel was behind and the Hithaeglir ahead, though far. When at last she came to that fairest of all places, she would leave it not again until death took her. She wished not for a horse, and took pleasure in the simple act of walking, and pleasure in the strength within.

She passed through villages, cheered by the sights of families beside their hearths through the softly-lit windows, and the smoke of their chimneys brought the delicious aromas of hearty meals that did not taste of the dark places nor of evil long dead. She slowed, and in the wold on the village's outskirts saw a bay mare watching her. Anya was safely hidden on her person, for she would bear it not where another could see, not even in her heart which she guarded, and she looked back at the horse with innocent nonchalance, for its master was not within the village. One of Saruman's spies. It would have nothing to report of her.

Some within the village who caught sight of Emer looked twice at her, and she knew herself to be a strange sight to them; a woman in tattered clothing, filthy and worn, a smith's hammer slung over her shoulder, a handmade quiver of spears hacked from willow-wands at her back and a great book under her arm. A rusted dagger she also had in her boot, brought from Angband, dropped their long ago by some rebellious servant who had feared his master far too much to make use of it.

As evening deepened, Emer's longing for the company of others, which had been many weeks denied her, along with her hunger overpowered her, and she found herself at the door of a large and cheerful-looking inn. The banner of Gondor hung from the eaves, and this comforted her as entered. Eldarion, son of Aragorn, grandson of Elrond. Strange and wonderful, it was. The place was called the Falcon's Nest, and this made Emer smile.

The patrons of the inn regarded her warily, the tension trebling as they took in the sight of her over their frothing pints, for she seemed to some a beggar-woman come to peddle an Elven book for a few coins and a half-pint or plate of bacon; others could see the warrior in her, and gave her a wide berth, fearing she had come to deal out justice to whoever had fathered a child on her. The spears she carried were crude, though well-balanced and deadly sharp, and they spoke of skill.

The innkeeper's mother took pity on Emer, thinking her a witch from some distant place, and brought Emer to her own house in the back of the inn. The woman was disappointed when Emer could not cure her dog of mange or coax the cabbage patch in the frozen yard to yield once more, and she soon lost all awe of Emer.

Emer countered quickly by offering to work, and did so all that night and the following afternoon; churning butter, turning over the frozen soil in the gardern, working at the loom. The old woman, who was called Lyda, was pleased, and asked Emer to stay on. Emer spoke not Elrond's name, but only said she must find her husband from whom she had been separated after they had been attacked by marauders. The old woman was scandalised, and lauded Emer's courage, and vowed to send word to the King of the brazen way a pregnant girl and her husband had been brutalised while under Gondor's banner. Emer was touched by Lyda's concern, and by the way Lyda had accepted and welcomed her, and wished for some way to repay the old woman's kindness.

Lyda's granddaughter had died of fever the previous winter, and Emer wept when Lyda brought her the dead girl's cloak; it was fine homespun and lined with wool. Winter boots she was also given, and a new tunic and skirt and underclothing, and Emer was overwhelmed by such gifts.

Emer in turn made the only gift she could offer, and with the help of the local smith, restored the dagger she had carried from the darkness. It was lovely then, as if new, and looked as one that would be carried by someone of a noble house, a gift passed from the old to the young.

"May it protect your life," Emer pledged when she offered it to Lyda, who embraced her as Emer knew she had many times done her lost granddaughter. Emer stayed till noon of the next day, and did what chores she could for the old woman, and took a cup of tea with her beside her fire one last time before setting off again. Much strength had Emer regained when the road was beneath her feet again, from rich hot stews and thick beer and the warm comfort of another. Lyda would never know what great gifts she had given and what hope she had restored.

The eyes of Saruman were ominous, filled with many things as he took from Wormtongue what he had sent him to retrieve. Buoyant he was at finally acquiring Nenya, yet it had been all too easy, for Wormtongue was without courage and could accomplish nothing without a horde of Orcs to back him up.

Saruman examined the Ring of the Adamant, and it lay as though slumbering in his palm, awaiting the Lady Galadriel's word. "Elrond still lives. You fool, you were close enough to kill him with your bare hands."

"They would have killed me, Lord Wizard-"

"You are as dead as I, Worm. Do you think yourself immortal? Have you forgotten your existence depends solely on my skill? You should have slain him, and Galadriel as well. What good are the rings to me when they still live? I must do it myself, for you cannot be relied upon. You held her life in your hands in the form of this ring, yet you let yourself be ensnared by her. Am I alone the one who can stand against her? So be it."

Saruman contemplated long before speaking again, and the silence was torture to Wormtongue.

"I will give you one last chance. Go, and see it done, or meet your doom at last."

Wormtongue snivelled in despair, yet could brook no argument to save himself, nor muster any reason, and his voice would not avail him against Saruman's black wisdom.

"Kill them, or find a place to hide where even the Palantír cannot see, nor the birds and beasts, for most answer my call now, and now the winds and rains and rivers will do my bidding in ways even the Elves never purposed. Go!"

Wormtongue knew when to run, and he did now.

The leaders of the free races gathered, Mirkwood looming in the near distance; they drew themselves away from the horde and from the fireside, for they must decide now what action to take next. They did not fear the host within Mirkwood, but for Mirkwood itself. Dully they spoke of these things in the cold mist that beckoned of rain to come, and maybe snow. A momentary lull in their speech came, and they listened to the night. The silence was too heavy, too great, and the night birds had gone, seeking shelter away from the stench of Saruman's minions.

Galadriel was deeply troubled by this silence, for it bode ill, and Anarien moved in encouragement to her Lady's side. Eldarion had just stolen away Anarien's gaze when she cocked her head quizzically. One line of a song Anarien heard sung. A pause came, and Anarien sang the next line, though she feared some trickery of Saruman was afoot.

"Clear is the water of your well!"

There was no more hesitation from the other who sang, and the words were easily heard by all as the stranger drew ever closer, and though the melody proved to be the same as they all knew it, a new chorus had been added, and Galadriel smiled enigmatically upon hearing it.

"And there within lies vision's dell.

For time to bear, and as in dreams,

All days are known that slept unseen

All that was and is to be

In Lórien, from evil free.

Fair is the Keeper of that Wood!

Who all the wrath of men withstood

A star she bears to Valinor,

In Dwimordene to dwell no more.

And clear the water ever stays,

In Elvenhome till the end of days,

Where nevermore tread the feet of Men,

In Valinor, in Almaren..."

The space between them diminished, and Elrond saw her at last, for he did not know her by her voice lifted in song, which was as changed as her appearance. She was more beautiful than he could bear, though gaunt and treacherously thin, and the deep shadows beneath her eyes were like bruises. Yet she stood tall, and stately, and was robed in a fine warm cloak which did not conceal the child she carried.

"What you have crafted is indeed worth the weight I carry, and gladly I would bear far more," Emer whispered against his hair.

"You will never be taken from me again," he proclaimed, "not even by death."

No need to speak arose between them for long moments, and neither was willing to let go of the other. A leaden rain began to fall, and they were laden by it but felt it not, and would not have cared if they did.

13.

Elrond and Emer rejoined those who waited. Emer bowed and covered her eyes in salute to the Elvenking, and she scanned the forces now displaced from their home, the people of Mirkwood who had been driven out by Saruman's threat and by his fell army which now dwelt within. The pain in Thranduil's eyes was deep and old and wrenching to look upon.

"We must free Greenwood the Great," she said, opening the conversation. "It can be done. Our force is the greater, and more are on the way, for this I have seen. Saruman has taken Minas Tirith, for he has not the strength to recreate such a stronghold as he knew in Isengard. He fancies himself ruling from the centre of the Realm, and knows that he strikes at its heart by choosing the White Tower as his dwelling."

Eldarion looked away at this. Emer glanced apologetically at him for having been the bearer of such ill tidings. "If there had been any way to tell you of these things sooner, I would have; I feared to wield what it was that told me, for Saruman has many spies, and I was watched all the way hither from Angband." The soldier representing the forces of Arnor watched her carefully as she spoke, and with no small measure of pride.

"Someone should steal within, and see what awaits us," suggested one of the warriors of Arnor.

"There is no need," Emer countered. "At least two hundred Orcs there are or more within, and as many of the Northmen."

"Saruman did well to enlist them, for they fight like bull oxen," replied the warrior, whose name Emer did not know, though he seemed to know her and gazed at her in frank wonder, for she was nothing like the girl he had seen many times in Forndagor; it seemed as if her old life had been leeched from her and replaced with something new, and it was fearsome to behold. He had hoped to approach Emer's parents to ask for her in marriage, though she would never know this now. Emer's desertion for the love of Elrond was well known in Arnor, and he was strangely glad at seeing Emer's devotion to Elrond, glad that he had not taken her to wife after all, for he was equally devoted to her, and the Man of Arnor could summon no disrespect within for the path Emer had chosen, though many in Forndagor held little empathy and much bitterness for the shame they perceived Emer to have brought them.

"Why have they not moved against us yet?" asked one of the Dwarves sullenly. His beard was still wet from the rain, and his spirit dampened by the indecision plaguing them all.

"Perhaps they have orders to defend, but not to advance," said Emer.

"Then let us take back what is not theirs to defile!" roared the Dwarf.

"Agreed," answered Galadriel with steel in her voice. Words were swiftly exchanged then, as they laid plans of dispersal around the Greenwood and imparted them to the waiting troops. Galadriel was cheered, for when Mirkwood was freed, she and Elrond would in turn be freed to move against Saruman at last. Even more was she cheered when good fortune favoured them and Bain son of Bror joined them with another host of the Naugrim, and from Lórien Angharod with a ready band of archers came riding forth.

And so they spread their might around the great forest, laden with axes and bows, swords and spears and lances and daggers, and advanced upon Mirkwood. Return fire they were quickly met with from the eaves of the trees. Bain moved grimly beside Elrond and his woman, who seemed a strange-looking sort to him now, and he regarded her as she chattered something in rapid Sindarin to Lord Elrond. This woman was nothing like the girl who had come clad as a warrior to the Council in Rivendell, save for her eyes, which still shone in the same way when Lord Elrond was near. It seemed great age and great fire had come to her, something indomitable, and Bain found her fierce and though he thought her beautiful he was unwilling to look at her for long, and the sight of her frayed his nerves so he must turn away. The Lady Galadriel Bain could look upon happily for long hours; yet this girl Emer unsettled him so he was tempted to move away from her, and he could see she had this effect on others as well, though she was vulnerable with the weight of a child. Still there was some armour unseen about her, as if she had been pierced by the foulest sword and lived, and she seemed far more a warrior now, though she carried a borrowed sword and handmade spears and her fine armour was gone.

The men of Arnor followed her with all their eyes, Bain noticed wryly, and the women warriors studiously ignored her, and though she was of that people they seemed not to know her. The closer they came to that ancient forest the less Bain liked it, for he had no wish to find himself within that fortress of trees, preferring vaults of rock above him and a roaring fire and a roasting haunch before him. Such things he would welcome after this dreary trek.

They halted, and Elrond and Galadriel were drawn into a circle of protection by those around them as the front line began the first assault against the enemy archers. Bain noted how quickly Lord Elrond's woman moved into a position to defend him, and could not help but grumble in appreciation at this. The ringing cries of their axes called out to him, and the next line moved forward.

Brethil joined them, for she had been watching from within the Wood, and Emer was for a second distracted, and did not hear the rustle as someone sprang from cover and she cried out in surprise as a dagger bit into her arm. They were breaking through the advance.

The onslaught came quickly then, and they boiled forth, spilling from Mirkwood like maggots. Galadriel was in the open, those around drawn away by the many boring down on their Lady, and Emer ran as she had never done but knew she would not reach Galadriel in time. She cried out, and hefted a spear at the nearest attacker. One of Galadriel's handmaidens was between the Lady and the oncoming horde, her bow in her hands, and many of the Minas Tirith Guard closed the gap and surrounded Galadriel.

She was cut off from Elrond now, separated from him once again, and she could do no more than swing and lift her sword and swing again for a time. He called out to her, and she was nearly felled trying to gain the ground between them. He was hemmed in by Northmen, and Emer was aghast at their size and strength; their backs rippled with corded muscle beneath their leather armour, and savage and tireless they seemed as they sought Elrond's end. Emer felled two with spears easily, for she had honed them and stropped their heads, and they were sharp as razors. Even still, she could not seem to get close enough to Elrond to give him any respite as they besieged him. In despair she cried out to Eldarion, whose horse still lived, for many had been slain and others abandoned in an effort to make their riders less easy targets for the archers.

Her fear for Elrond would cripple her and she let blind instinct take over, and fought as he when they had been attacked on that moonlit night, she and Elrond and Caranthorn. Caranthorn must be avenged, and she wished for all the weapons she had once had at her command, and soon had many such from the dead, reaping an arsenal.

One of the Northmen harried her, laughing morosely. He swung his sword down at Emer, who turned aside and drove an Orc through before whirling back. The rush of the Northman's swing carried him past Emer, and with one of the short stabbing blades she had seized from one of his comrades Emer swung and buried the knife in his kidney. The earth was fouled with the black blood of the Orcs, and many were slain in the stampede of horses attempting to escape the fighting. They began to gain then, for their host was greater and more skilled.

The incessant clamour of the fight eclipsed thought, and Emer could call not on the ring for any answers now. Her connection to Elrond was a steady undercurrent, and all that mattered to her save for survival. She turned the sword over in her hand when she heard an almost silent tread on the damp and bloodied dirt behind her. Another of the Northern giants was looming over her. He laughed voraciously at Emer, so unworthy an opponent, until he saw how she wielded the Elven sword, and he ordered those who would soon aid him to stay away, for this was to be his kill alone.

The Orcs in great numbers then were slain, and the numbers of the Northmen depleted until few remained, and many seeing their doom fled, and were sought after and slain. Yet even after this two warriors were still locked in a deadly dance, surrounded, and none could draw near enough to overpower the dark giant and the woman locked in combat, for this was not only the wish of the Northman and the way of his people but also the way of Arnor, when one had set themselves to the task, and they let none interfere with the two combatants. The Dwarves were outraged by this, though they gave their discontent no voice; the woman was with child, and it was unheard of by them to allow such a thing, yet the giant and the woman were evenly matched, brute strength against skill, and it was mesmerising to watch.

Surely the Northman knew his time was done, surrounded as he was by many hundreds of an opposing force, yet he would not yield and was determined to fall only after he had made the kill. There was grudging respect in some for this, though they feared for the woman, and it seemed she was alone in the world now, for they saw not Lord Elrond, and wondered if he was slain.

The giant towered over Emer. No man in his tribe had ever bested him with quickness, yet this woman was quicker than most animals. She was also beautiful, and moved in a sensual way, and her bared teeth he found quite erotic though this drew not his strength away.

The giant threw down his sword, drew his dagger from his boot and plunged it at the woman's heart. Emer grabbed the giant by the wrist, but not before the razor sharp blade penetrated the cloak she wore, and drew blood. His strength would overwhelm her, but she pushed back, her own dagger poised to sink into the crucial artery of his left leg.

Pregnant women fought like rutting beasts, thought the Northman. He pushed his dagger deeper into her, and her leg shot out, foot locked against his to knock him off balance. He had the muscle, but she was young and agile, and he guarded against her, rolling himself back onto the balls of his feet to regain his balance and the upper hand.

He did so only for a second, for she dropped to one knee and drove the dagger home, and danced under him to reappear behind him. He roared in anger, for now he must kill her before he bled out. The men and women of Arnor watched, calling out to her, yet they knew she heard them not. She had not lost her skill, and it availed her now, and they reclaimed her as their own in spite of who she belonged to now. She took up the Elven sword again, and in the arc of her arm they saw the training she had undertaken, and the skill that was their own.

The giant took the blow, and was aghast, for he knew this method well. Only a small cut she had made on his belly, yet it was deep and precise, and he even if he were allowed to walk away now, his life would soon be a glistening mound before him as his intestines spilled out. She had struck him a far more mortal blow than the slashing of his femoral artery.

He drew his great bulk in one last dive, and hurtled himself at her, slamming her head into the ground. The jarring blow he noted with satisfaction weakened her, and stole her breath. He raised one arm and brought one meaty fist down onto her head, knowing it would blind her, and he growled and spat upon her.

Emer knew it would end then, for the training of Arnor would not save her now, but the forging in Angband would. Wormtongue in his wish to see the darkness consume her had given her what she needed most now. Though her sight was gone, and her head once again split and her mind cracked, had she not been here before?

From beneath the giant, her hand shot out and with trained precision grappled for the handle of the stabbing knife she had seen sheathed at his back when his cloak had whirled up. She drew it and he was only a second late in realising it, and she buried it to the hilt in his neck and rolled his limp form, now heavier in death, from her own.

She struggled to her knees, her vision dim but returning, and she feared to think what damage had been done to Celebdhel when the giant had landed full upon her. Someone moved to help her to her feet but she pushed their hands away, wheezing for breath. They let her alone as she knelt, holding onto herself, her head down as her heart wrenched over the fate of the child whose light even the deeps of the earth and the lair of ancient malice had not extinguished.

She felt him then, as a light flaring within, stunned but alive. All breath went from her again at what came next. She did not move for a long time, for it was too wonderful to risk. Celebdhel was moving within her, the faintest flutter beneath her heart; telling her that he lived.

When she rose, someone held her sword out to her. She took it, and turned it over in her hand, and let it fall back to the earth. She would never wield it again, except to protect those she loved. She dragged off, unaware of her destination, only hoping that her feet would somehow take her to where the stench of death and battle could not reach, where there was only life around her that would match the life within.

When she raised her head, she knew what would be before her, knew it would never take her to what lay behind her now. All the light of the stars was there in Elrond's eyes, and she fell into that light and would abide in it until the stars themselves fell.

Eldarion felt not sense of homecoming when the White Tower of Echtelion rose into view in the distance, for he knew it symbolised a life within walls once again, once Minas Tirith had been regained. Until all those loyal to Saruman were rooted out, no one would sleep within those walls, he vowed. How many of his own people would he have to slay? How many innocents had falled under Saruman's control? Too many had already needlessly died before Eldarion had even departed, and their blood was on Saruman's hands.

Yet if this had not been, Anarien would not be beside him now, and he would never have known her or the taste of freedom he had so longed for, and neither would he have wished to live without now. He was shocked still at how little guilt he felt over this, for he mourned Trista little, and though he would forget not her treachery, neither would he forget all they had shared. Trista had cast him aside in obeisance to Saruman; he owed her nothing. To Anarien he would give everything, and where they dwelt here or far from here mattered not, as long as he could reach for her as he did now, and find her waiting for his touch.

Elrond watched the walls, and even distant they spoke of Saruman's smouldering wrath, and archers perched in wait, lined up against their King and against those who would threaten the one in control there now. Emer took his hand, and his ire abated greatly, for nothing could steal his joy or touch the steady flow between them now. How had he survived without her?

Yet his eyes grew dark, for Aman was wounded, and though she struggled mightily to conceal it, he felt her pain deeply, and it was the same as all he had felt when Galadriel had spirited him home and brought him back through the doorway of life.

"We must end this, and quickly, that I may take you to the Healers within the city, for you are weary, and ill-nourished, and such you would never suffer under my care, and never will again," he promised her, though only she heard this.

Elrond's horse, Tindómë, whinnied in alarm when from the still distant tower a black blot of shadow emerged, darker than darkness it seemed, and it took the shape of a raven many times larger than its natural counterparts, and there was nothing of the natural in this one; it stained the horizon in flight and the sun was momentarily darkened when it passed over the host, croaking drily, cawing and laughing until it wheeled and flew once more toward and over them and the rush of its wings brought the stench of carrion and of decay to all.

Tindómë reared, bellowing, and Elrond was hard-pressed to calm him, and he dug and tore great holes in the earth with the thrashing and stamping of his hooves, and he struggled against the silver reins, flailing his great gray head.

The raven was nonplussed, and regarded the stallion hungrily with one glittering eye of jet. "The Lord Saruman bids you welcome to his domain," it croaked, and hopped forward. Many gasped, incredulous as the raven bent one leg in a parody of the act of bowing.

"He also wishes to extend a most gracious welcome to the Lady Galadriel and to Lord Elrond, for he has been expecting you. He is most appreciative of what you have both gifted him with, and by them his Kingdom is complete." The whisper of many bowstrings being drawn was heard, and the great raven watched in silence as many tridents turning in its direction.

Galadriel lifted a white hand, and Elrond knew the raven flinched though it cocked its black head imperiously to hide its inborn fear.

"Hold," Galadriel called softly, and turned her gaze to the black servant of Saruman. Very still she was, watching it with more care than it watched her, so that its unease was seen to all. Her eyes like the sky seemed everywhere at once yet unmoving. Many startled when the raven spoke before she did.

"The Great Gates will open only for the Lady Galadriel and Lord Elrond, and no other."

"Take then this message to your master," came Galadriel's reply like a cold wind in a closed room. "The ringbearers will indeed see him, with an escort of their choosing, and all within this company shall enter the gates and depart through them as they here now stand, hale and unharmed, and if even one knows threat or promise of threat the consequences will be most dire, and Saruman will wish the world had known its end at this day's dawn, for another he will not see unless Lord Elrond and I bear the rings again by nightfall."

And not even then, thought Elrond, his eyes alight with defiance. Neither his gaze nor Galadriel's moved until the raven had flown back to the keep of its master, the White Tower, now defiled.

Emer saw what was about to occur, and signalled, and a wall of living protection quickly formed around Elrond and Galadriel, and Emer placed herself between this wall and those of the city, and watched. Her head ached wickedly, and the need to commune with Anya seemed to beat at her alongside the pain within her skull, but she held herself straight and stark-eyed, undaunted by the dark shapes of archers and others who bore them ill will poised on all the levels of the Walled City.

Saruman also watched as Elrond and Galadriel between them gathered the Elf-fire, the sacred flame that was their life force combined, for its glory was not hidden by distance or those who would secret their efforts. In vain, it was all in vain. Let them deplete what remained, this would only serve him. He briefly turned his attention to the woman Wormtongue should have crushed with ease. A more fitting consort she would be for Saruman himself, for she had embraced the darkness of Angband and come away unscathed; such an equal he would welcome if he had any such desire for such distractions, which he did not. How pleased Lord Elrond had seemed at regaining her. Saruman doubted the woman could replace what Elrond had already lost; the Ring of Air, and his own mortality. What an utter fool. Elrond would gain only death for the woman's sake, no matter if Saruman stayed his own hand against Elrond, which he would certainly not.

Once that light was forever obliterated he could wield the rings as he was meant to, as destiny willed.

Saruman's sphere of influence began to collapse just then, though he was unaware; even as he moved to allow the great enemy host entry into Minas Tirith, Galadriel and Elrond by the rings on Saruman's own hands loosed the unseen bonds on all within the city's walls, and dazed they withdrew from the walls, laying down their weapons, and they knew not what madness had placed such weapons in their hands at all. They cheered when the King was to be seen, voices raised even more exuberantly when they recognised the company he kept.

Such cheering disturbed Saruman, and the first shadows of doubt niggled within. No matter. The welcome would only bring his prey more swiftly to him, and another would have one last chance to rectify a mistake.

Lochlann, the Steward of Gondor appointed by the son of Aragorn hung by his neck in the Place of the Fountain, and had done so for many days now, and despite the cold exuded an odor that befouled all the Court, and this was precisely what Saruman wished the two former ringbearers and the displaced King to be met with first, and he knew no disappointment at their reactions as he watched in the form of a guileless sparrow come hoping to bathe, perched on the lip of the fountain's great basin.

What Elrond said then to his consort could not have been phrased better if Saruman himself had willed it, nor could the absolute rage that shook Eldarion. He sent forth a seeming then to instruct them all.

"Saruman awaits you in the Tower Hall. Go now, and bow before him!" said Eldarion's sister. Galadriel waved her hand at this apparition, as though it were only a minor annoyance. The sparrow watching her made ready to fly, for something was quite amiss and he must know what it was before they came to his throne and bowed down. The veil was lifting.

Elrond drew Emer into his arms. "No mortal must dare this course, Aman. It is for Galadriel and myself to face him. I beg of you, find safety, and let our allies protect you, for Celebdhel's sake, and mine." Emer kissed his face, and Elrond heard her prayer, whispered against his neck, a tender supplication to Ilúvatar , for him, only for him. "I love thee," she softly said, and did as he asked, and soon only he and Galadriel occupied the Place of the Fountain, yet it was seen immediately by Elrond when he wrested his gaze from Aman's retreating form that they were not alone.

Galadriel held by her eyes and one raised hand a sparrow about to take wing, and instantly he suffused his will with hers and she brought as an unseen storm from her fingertips and forced the seeming into true form. Yet it was untrue, for Saruman should not be.

"Now you will hear the words I have spoken to you before," said Galadriel, regarding him from under her golden brow. "You cannot bear the rings, for they act against your very essence, which is decay. Do you wonder at your will thwarted in Mirkwood? For it burns not, and the rain falls still there at my command, at Nenya's bidding. No dominion will you gain by the rings, for your time has gone; it was ended that day in the Shire, on an afternoon long past. You seek to undo what time has written, and that craft belongs alone to the one who created you, and me. The rings have undone you, Saruman. Relinquish them."

"And you will allow me safe passage to a destination of my choosing?" Saruman chortled indignantly, raising his hands.

Outside the walls of the Place of the Fountain, a great crowd gathered, and there was no room to move, for all the host of Galadriel and Elrond there was, and the entire population of Minas Tirith it seemed milled there, determined to press closer to their King as they awaited whatever would occur on the other side of the wall.

Emer in dismay was caught up in this mass of humanity, and stifled by them, and her fear for Elrond, and she sought escape though she longed to be near where he was. She wished she could wield Anya, and seek some way to aid Elrond and Galadriel if she could, but would not do so here where she could barely breathe and the air was close and made her nauseous.

There was some respite in the surge of people on the next level down, and she drew up to an open door, a dwelling abandoned temporarily by someone in the crowded streets, and blithely she stepped in to seek shelter and some semblance of quiet in order to seek Anya's wisdom.

She had just settled on a small divan and closed her eyes when she heard the door of the home she had illicitly entered snick closed, as if whoever entered it now sought stealth. Emer rose slowly, and two steps brought the room through which she had just passed into full view. Before her stood Wormtongue, and with him came vengeance and absolution. She ducked reflexively as a dagger screamed over her head.

"Now you will die," she growled, and advanced on him with furious speed, and he bolted from the dwelling, too late to slam the door on her, though he tried. Emer had no weapon on her person. Her bare hands would suffice.

Down the avenue she pursued him, and though he hobbled grunting as he went he did so with surprising quickness. People leapt from their path, unwilling to touch Saruman's agent and fearing the madness in the woman's eyes. At the avenue's end she cornered him near a closed door which was guarded by a soldier. Emer called out to him, heaving for breath, asking for his dagger, dancing back and forth, for Wormtongue was about to try and sprint past her.

The guard opened his mouth to respond, and Emer heard only the song of an arrow flying over her left shoulder, and it pinned Wormtongue to the wall like an insect, and he wailed and thrashed but with each movement the arrow tore more deeply into his chest, until he could only babble, and even that began soon to die away, though his eyes were still bright.

Emer turned to see who had fired. "Caranthorn!" She cried happily. He came closer, smiling. "Nay. I am his brother, Cúthalion. We have not met yet, though I was ever in Elrond's company since he first departed Imladris, save for a brief time."

"You are so like Caranthorn." Emer's throat closed with great pain. "I am sorry, Cúthalion, for the manner of your brother's death."

"As am I. No guilt should you bear for it, however. I think the one who should is before us now." Emer smiled as Cúthalion passed her his bow, and one arrow.

"I am honoured," she said, accepting both. A more beautiful bow she had never laid eyes on; the wood was inlaid with silver runes that formed the lines of a song. Emer read quickly several lines starting in the middle:

...Your streams too deep to say

Whose waters shine with green as though

Their heart is on display

Riches of pine that ever reach

As never ending spires

Their heavy-laden boughs so full

That never hide the stars

Taking my heart in your place again

Between your falls and streams

A vale of treasures hidden high

In mountains wrought from dreams

Imladris I will ever seek

Where only eagles dare

The morning sun on golden peaks

That never shone so fair...

On the inner trident also in silver were all the details of the Hithaeglir, a silver leaf where Imladris lay. It's balance when she drew was perfect. She laid the feathered end of the shaft against her cheek, and a barking scream was heard from Wormtongue before she fired, and it was done, and vengeance was known.

It was over, really over, the last vestiges of Angband were no more, only memories now. All that mattered was Elrond and Galadriel and their victory. She lingered, not to gloat over the kill, but to look again at Cúthalion's bow, and she touched the silver leaf in the center of the design with such longing in her eyes that Cúthalion upon taking the bow back embraced her.

"We will be home soon, Lady of Rivendell. Come, let us be near Master Elrond now, and give him all that we can bo matter what wall keeps us from his side."

"Gladly," Emer replied, and as old friends they started back up the avenue, though Cúthalion cast one baleful look back over his shoulder at the small crowd gathering at what could not even be deemed a corpse now.

Saruman held his hands at shoulder height, palms facing one another. Lightning leapt back and forth between them until it formed a racing, crackling hoop. "You have committed a grave error in underestimating me, Galadriel. And you, Elrond; I will punish your consort every day for your trickery, and for hers, and one day I shall slay you, bit by bit, and your flesh I will sprinkle over the Hithaeglir while she weeps. What day that is I shall not say. Dread the very thought of me until then."

"I fear you not now, nor will I then," Elrond retorted. "For it is as Galadriel has said. You are decay; putrid and rotting, and all the stench of a thousand open graves is yours."

Saruman raised the wind then, and the death-laden gale tore weapons from even the strongest hands on the other side of the wall, and three levels down, and all who were nearest were laid flat against the streets, and not gently. Elrond and Galadriel held firm in the face of the wind. Elrond wielded Vilya then, from Saruman's hand, and obligingly the wind parted and not a breeze ruffled either them or Saruman, and into Elrond's hand was returned the Ring of Air, and into Galadriel's the Ring of the Adamant, and at their feet, the Ring of Fire.

"Split before my hand, spawn of Sauron, wrest your curse on no other, for no breath of such ill wind shall touch the soul of any, nor any ill wish borne upon it enter the spirits of the free races of Arda," Galadriel cried.

Saruman fell to his kness, and crawling reached out to grasp at Galadriel, and was about to lay his hand on her ankle. "Lady of Lórien, have mercy on me," Saruman said in a singsong voice, and drew himself upright, gathering all power into himself, and seeking theirs most of all, and he spat on Galadriel.

Enraged, Elrond drew his sword and swung. Saruman, too stunned by this effrontery to move, took the blow where his neck joined his shoulders, and the ghastly crunch drew his head from his neck and sent it flying, and it bounced on the stone floor and rolled into a large crack. Elrond stood appalled until Galadriel spoke, and it seemed the whole earth stood waiting for her words.

"It is done. No force of darkness shall ever hold sway over us." Galadriel with a sigh placed Nenya back on her hand, and Elrond with no hesitation did the same, and easily Vilya slid back onto his hand. Narya still lay unclaimed on the floor.

"Take it, Elrond; you will know later why I ask it of you." Elrond did so, placing it on his other hand.

"The darkness will fall anyhow, and the world with it. I am beyond your will now, Lady, you who will soon flee to the sanctuary of the fairest shore. Yet you, Elrond, will still be within easy reach," spoke the head of Saruman.

Elrond laughed. "My head shall prove more cunning than your own, which is already parted from its lonely shoulders. Begone! You are under our spell now, and it is binding, and this we command. Depart from us!" Together the ringbearers lifted what Celebrimbor had wrought against all that Saruman epitomised, and helpless now, his spirit fled, though whether for all time it cannot be said, for time, like decay, marches ever onward.

Dawn never came the next day, only a dense fog descending flat and gray, and though it was thick the breeze was fresh, and the song of the company bound for Imladris brought to mind in all who heard it an endless summer day that held no toil, but only rest and warmth.

Elrond had not persuaded Aman to visit the Healers in Minas Tirith, for the only healing she required was beside her now, and ahead, high in the Misty Mountains, and she like Elrond wished to reach that vale swiftly and never to leave it again.

Epilogue

So ends the tale of Elrond and Emer, who was called Aman Elendil, duly entered into the Book of Days by Celebdhel their son. Yet all that I have written within these pages is but little of all there is to know of them.

Eight score and seven years they shared here in Imladris, and in the fullness of time and of love other children were born to them; my brother after me, who was named Almaranel by my father because of my mother's great love for the history of that first abode of the Valar; an isle in a great lake, as my mother and father were ever to each other. Our sister Morduilas came after, and my mother named her in honour of the darkness in which she had learnt to bear the Ring of Earth and the true meaning of light itself. The youngest of us came much later, and there was great mirth in Imladris at this, for our mother had feathers of silver in her hair then, and felt the years upon her, and laughed, calling the child the surprise of her old age, and so our sister was named Gil-anna, bright gift.

We bear the rings now; Anya was passed to me, and to Morduilas went Nenya, to Almaranel Vilya, and Gil-anna, Narya. It was the wish of the Lady Galadriel that this be so, and she impressed upon my father before departing for Valinor that the rings should ever be borne in Arda, and he knew this wisdom from old, and agreed. We are their guardians now, so the peace wrought by so many for so long may continue; both the peace between the races and the abiding peace in all the earth.

Eldarion the King reigns still in Gondor, and to him and Queen Anarien was born a daughter, Isildae. Of Eldarion's tale I will write no more, for it is not ended, and is best left for another to tell, though Anya will in the end tell it best.

When great age was upon my mother, and death close behind her, my father with her journeyed deep into the vale, and for three days stayed there alone with her, and only the trees were witness to all they discussed as they made their last decision together.

After their return a celebration of farewell in the House of Elrond ensued, and there were many days of song. They departed Imladris while it was still sung, bound for the Gray Havens, my brother and sisters and myself in accompaniment. Our mother kissed us, one by one, and great and long was our father's embrace. Our mother was thrilled to see the ocean at last, and her tears became ours as we stood together on the quays one last time.

Mother and father took passage on the Aníron, the same ship that had borne my father hither from Elvenhome across the sea. There was no desire in him to tread upon that fair shore then, for they were bound for the farthest shore, together.

At Valinor the shipwrights and mariners abandoned the Aníron, at my father's wish. Like a great seabird she was, graceful as a swan even on that most restless of all lands. The Aníron was set adrift, and upon its deck my father and mother laid down all their cares, and let their lives pass from them. The end came as they wished, for they were hand in hand, as they ever were in life, and the light of the stars as bright as love upon them when they closed their eyes.

Many claim to have seen the Aníron from a far distant shore, and perhaps they have, for it sails the seas still, past the shores of Valinor, and all Arda, and out onto the wider seas of time.