Brief summary (sorry- it's such a long time ago that I posted- just so very very busy at work):

In MDLW Legolas and Rhawion were attacked by one of the Nazgul in Phellanthir and Rhawion was killed. Legolas was injured by a poisoned blade during an attack. Hallucinating, Legolas claimed that Rhawion was trapped in the Tower. Erestor and Glorfindel go to investigate. They find that Rhawion was indeed trapped and his fëa kept by the Nazgul which was feeding off it. Rhawion's fëa sacrifices itself to save Glorfindel.

When Erestor and Glorfindel go into the High Hall of Phellanthir they find an artefact made by Celebrimbor thousands of years earlier, but being Fëanorian, it is strange, powerful and functioning. This of course is why the Nazgul was here- guarding it for Sauron's purposes. It is a Mirror which opens other dimensions. Because of who they are, the Mirror reflects the Dark wherein Glorfindel's nemesis - the Balrog, Ruinatóro - and Erestor's lord - Maedhros – are banished, unable to leave. .

Angmar and Khamûl have arrived to punish the Nazgul who devoured Rhawion- it has been forbidden by Sauron. Elladan and Elrohir arrive in the nick of time to help but it is the arrival of the Balrog that drives the Nazgul off. During the skirmish, Elladan throws himself between Erestor and a knife thrown by Khamûl- it is a morgul knife and so Elrohir takes Elladan to get him back to Rivendell, for only their father has the power to bring him back. Meanwhile the Balrog is determined to reach Glorfindel and tries to break free of the Mirror, but Maedhros vanquishes it with Erestor's help; he eases the morgul blade through the Mirror and that is what disrupts* the particles of the Balrog and disperses it. Maedhros is also dispersed in the battle. (*I have used the idea of the notes of each Song as something like the particles of a person, that are disrupted by Morgoth's biological weapons. But I'm interested in working out how the DNA might have been disrupted or unravelled by morgul blades so that Morgoth had been able to 'empty' the body of Elves from that which is their consciousness and twist it into Orcs- that must also have altered their DNA. Anyone interested in a discussion would be really welcome! )

In Rivendell, they felt the seismic shock of Rhawion's elven spirit being destroyed- Elves are bound to Arda as you know, and Gandalf is despatched to help. He arrives spot on time to drive Angmar off from Elrohir and Elladan- although too late to prevent Angmar slipping into Elrohir's guilty thoughts and corrupting him. Gandalf drives the Nazgul off and sends Elrohir on his way with a few of the Elves he has brought with him. The rest enter Phellanthir to find Glorfindel and Erestor.

Note: Sauron was once called Mairon before he became Morgoth's creature.

Chapter 12: The Óromardë

Gandalf was not listening to the Elves as they talked of what had happened, nor did he much care that Erestor's grumpy beast had fled after Elrohir. Gandalf leaned on his staff and listened…

There was not that trumpeting bellow that heralded a Balrog. The Song here was discordant. He savoured, tasted each note, felt each one, to ascertain what had happened here; there were metallic scrapes in the music, jangling. They pulled at his own place in the Song, jarred him too out of sequence, dragged the chords of him, stretched him until he too was out of kilter, out of tune. He had expected as much in a place where Sauron had committed such violent acts, where Sauron's own hands had spilt so much blood, as much if not more than he had shed in Ost-in-Edhel.

Not for the first time, Gandalf bowed his head and remembered when Sauron had not been, and it was Mairon's* bright curiosity that had burned: his eager desire for knowledge and Power had stretched the bounds of what they were allowed to know, pushed until breaking the Order of Eru. It had brought him into discord with others of their brotherhood, straining against the rules of the Valar.

Mairon had wanted to understand the Universe. This is a prison where so much knowledge is forbidden, where you are not allowed to pursue the Science of the thing. How do we know how they work? he had said.

He spoke of the First-Born children of Eru, and it was curiosity about how they were alive, and what life was, that prompted the discussion.

Sauron had been able to pursue his knowledge, science as he called it, once he had fled with his Master to Angband. There he had certainly learned what made the Elves work…and put that knowledge to use when he captured Ost-in-Edhel, and imprisoned its Lord.

Of course Celebrimbor had been Fëanorian to his core; dazzling brilliance combined with the bloody-minded determination of his House, Gandalf thought grimly. Celebrimbor would have given not one iota of knowledge willing or unwilling once he knew with whom he dealt, the bitter betrayal. Gandalf lowered his eyes; the torture would have been long and bloody. He would have been alive when they hoisted him upon the lance and it would have been done scientifically, calculated to give the most agony. Sauron would have tortured those he found here too, seeking knowledge, wanting their secrets.

Gandalf closed his eyes and sighed softly. He had never wanted this. He wished Celebrimbor had listened to those who knew, to Galadriel, to Gil-Galad, to Erestor who had been a confidante and friend ever to the House of Fëanor. But Annatar had completely beguiled Celebrimbor and together they created wonders.

'My lord,' Faelion said, coming up and standing beside Gandalf. He glanced sideways at Gandalf and said softly so that none other could hear, 'Elrohir told me what is within.' He gazed up at the Tower, broken and sharp in the dim light. 'We should go now.'

'Yes. We should.' Gandalf pressed his hat onto his head and hurrumphed. There was nothing in the air that suggested a Balrog within, no bellowing battle, and the air did not sizzle and crack. But Glorfindel was there and he would know if it was a Balrog or not, Gandalf thought. 'Yes. We should go right now.'

Without waiting for Faelion to give orders or collect himself, Gandalf strode off along the broken road, picking his way between the cracked slabs of stone. Behind him he could hear Faelion giving orders to two Elves to stand guard over the horses and without looking back, the Wizard cast a quick glamour over the small group remaining so they would be hidden from enemies, from the Nazgûl should they return, for he did not think they would so easily give up the prize that Phellanthir seemed to be.

Faelion jogged up behind him and matched his stride easily. He seemed unsurprised at the quick spell Gandalf had cast, nodding his thanks and Gandalf quirked an eyebrow. But, he thought, Faelion had ridden much with the Sons of Elrond and perhaps such a glamour was commonplace amongst them. At the thought of Elrohir, Gandalf was again troubled. When he had arrived to drive off Angmar, there had been the oily slick in the air that was Power, of what Men called magic, and Elrohir had been wild-eyed and guilty enough for him to think that Angmar had done something…or perhaps it was only that he had realised, known something?

But that will have to wait, Gandalf thought as he climbed the narrow trail that wound up the rocky cliffside to the ruined tower. For now, Balrog or not, there was something up there of great interest and he was needed.

As he climbed the smooth limestone steps that led upwards and into the dimness of the ruined Tower, Gandalf slowed his steps. Here was an intense pressure, like a storm was gathering. In his mouth was the taste of copper, steel. Like blood. He had felt this before.

Inside, thin daylight seeped through the fractures in the roof and he looked up to see that ivy had prised itself between the cracks and widened them. Eventually, Gandalf thought, this would all be open once more to the sky and there would be no trace of Elves: it would be as if they had never been.

Their hurried footsteps echoed in the vast silence that was Phellanthir. Ahead of them a wide polished staircase disappeared upwards into the gloomy darkness above. Something moved in the darkness ahead of them. He paused, aware of Faelion and his Elves following lightly behind him but he threw out his hand to stop them. They were silent.

Then a voice cried out 'Who goes there?'

And Faelion took a step forwards. 'My lord Glorfindel!'

Glorfindel emerged from the darkness, shining sword in hand and his tunic and cloak singed black and the edges burnt. 'Faelion! Gandalf!' The names were uttered with intense relief. Glorfindel did not sheath his sword but strode towards them and clasped Faelion by the arm and nodded briefly, appreciatively at the elves gathered behind Faelion. 'It is well that you are here,' he said looking most at Gandalf, 'though I think the danger is past. Tell me you passed Elrohir and that he is well? And Elladan?'

'They have already left for Rivendell my lord. Elladan is gravely injured. Five warriors are with them though and the Nazgûl fled. My lord Gandalf drove them away.'

Glorfindel nodded as if he had expected that and then looked back over his shoulder towards the darkness that gaped. 'Come then. I am glad you are here,' he repeated to Gandalf. 'There is something you should see. Faelion, come too but leave your guards here on the steps for I do not think the Nazgûl will abandon this place lightly.'

Faelion signaled to his men and they spread out, their faces alert and wary. Glorfindel was already turning to lead them but Gandalf caught his arm. 'Elrohir said a Balrog is come,' he murmured.

Glorfindel closed his eyes briefly, concern on his face. 'It has gone,' he said. 'Did the men hear?'

Gandalf suddenly realised how very very fearful he had been at Elrohir's news, for relief rushed through him. 'No. Only Faelion and I heard. How is it a Balrog was here and is not gone? Do you mean killed or simply fled?'

'Come,' Glorfindel said grimly. 'There is something you need to see. There is more going on here that just a Balrog. It was not I who vanquished the Balrog, but another from an ancient time.'

Astonished, Gandalf stared. Who could he mean? Balrogs were demons of the First Age. Surely Glorfindel could not mean a warrior from that time? There were none left….All had been slain or sailed but a handful who dwelled in Imladris, such as Erestor and Tindómion. Surely he would say if it were Erestor of whom he spoke. There was only one unaccounted for and surely it could not be he?* But Glorfindel had already turned and lead the way, leaping up the steps swiftly and Gandalf hurried after him, holding his robe in one hand. Faelion overtook him on the stairs and Gandalf cursed this heavy flesh and old bones.

At the top of the stairs was a long passage and the daylight faded into dimness but Gandalf could see great bronze doors thrown wide open and buckled as if an intense heat had melted them. He paused at the top of the stairs for he could feel that Power rippled across the entrance of the doors, almost tangible. Stepping towards the doors, he narrowed his eyes, letting himself slip from his flesh, muscle and bone, and though his bodily presence kept its shape and form to all who looked, Ólorin slipped from his corporeal case and slowly approached the doors. Like water, the darkness parted before and around him, and lights glimmered like rainbows and then split into the vertical lines of the helyanwë . He felt the resonance of Power, deep Power such as he had never felt this side of the Sea…

He peered into the dark and listened…

There was silence at first, and then a strange, deep note chimed far off in the darkness. It was a rare, rich chord of indescribable loveliness and Ólorin felt his own spirit tremble in response. It drifted in the empty silence like a ship's bell. Lost. And the loneliness was overwhelming.

It sounded once more, the chord of silver-blue and fire that repeated itself despairingly, as if it called to the other far-flung parts of itself. So sad was that lonely sound that Ólorin found himself moved, for the silences between were like black holes of absence: empty spaces where there had once been great chords in a symphony that was deep, rich with suffering and burned to purity. The pain of their absence was indescribable.

This is not Rhawion, he thought. Who is it that haunts the Darkness of Phellanthir? He perceived it was not simple darkness within but something more. He wondered if this was Celebrimbor for it was his city, his curvë. But there was nothing to suggest that Celebrimbor was banished to the Dark…And that led him down another road; Fëanáro?

His thoughts were interrupted then; another sound, more strident and angry, a hollow roar that was disembodied, its parts flung as far and as wide as the strange, lost chord

There has been a battle, Ólorin thought. This distant, enraged bellow he knew was the Balrog, its rage resonated through the emptiness, as if it remembered how it had been vanquished. This was Ruinátoró, Glorfindel's nemesis. Shadow and flame. Its bellow drifted further and quieter, dimming in the emptiness of the Void.

There all was quiet. The lost note of silver-blue and fire faded and the Balrog's furious bellow was silent.

Ólorin stilled himself, let Narya open and sift the particles and resonances that were deep below the sounds of the world…There was a stillness beneath, somewhere in the Dark. Distant and far. Something that waited. A crushing strength and heavy malice.

There was a subtle shift in the Dark, as if Something's attention gradually came to rest upon a thin patch of grey light in the Dark here where there was no light, like a pool in the shadowed woods, …It slid its attention towards that patch of thin grey light. Grinding metal and steel and old, old, Power. Strong. Not diminished. Not truly vanquished or chained. But waiting…

Slowly, with immense care that he did not disturb the air in this place, nor alert the Presence that he, Ólorin, was here, he stepped back and slid into the old Man's flesh and bone, felt the sinews stretch and the muscle bunch. Silently, leaving barely a ripple, he drew back and closed Narya, pulled her red Power towards him and shielded her from the subtle, shifting attention. It seemed to slip over him and did not catch on his dimmed and flesh-clad spirit, seeking instead perhaps that lost chord of silver-blue and fire. He felt the misery of its dispersal, and the Presence slipped its attention ravenously towards the drifting loveliness of the lost chord.

Glorfindel watched Gandalf, and he alone on these shores perhaps knew what had happened.

'There is some sort of Mirror, like Galadriel's,' said Glorfindel in a low voice. 'But it is more dangerous than anything I have ever come across.' He paused and in the bright blue of his eyes, Gandalf saw something and wondered if it were fear.

This has worried even Glorfindel of the Golden Flower, of Gondolin. Of all the First-born, he alone but for Finrod, has been brought back and Finrod dares not return. Gandalf met Glorfindel's gaze. Can it be that what is in there is worse than a Balrog?

'I dare not go back in.' Glorfindel's hand clasped the hilt of his sword as if it were an old friend. His voice did not tremble but that did not mean he was not afraid. 'On the other side of the Glass is the Absolute Dark,' he said quietly and Faelion stared in horror but Gandalf leaned in to listen for this was what he had feared. 'I brought the Balrog,' Glorfindel continued. 'Somehow it knew I was here on this side and it assailed the Glass trying to break free, to reach me.' He shook his head uncomprehending but Gandalf looked past him and into the gloom within where this Glass was.

'How did you know it?' he asked softly, knowing already that this Balrog knew Glorfindel, had his identity imprinted now in its own making and unmaking. He assumed Glorfindel knew for the same reason. "How do you know it came for you and did not simply survive the War and flee Eastwards. Perhaps it has just awoken.'

'You think I would not know my own slayer?' Glorfindel snapped. But immediately he lowered his eyes. 'Forgive me, old friend,' he said ruefully. 'It has…shaken me.'

Gandalf reached out and briefly clasped the elf's shoulder, let warmth seep into his muscle, into his heart but it was fleeting for he had work to attend. He swept his robes over one arm and out of his way, rapped his staff briskly on the ground to brace it and charge the Power in it. 'Well. It has gone now at least. So you drove it off.'

'No,' Glorfindel said quickly and a strange expression crossed his face that Gandalf could not read. 'Maedhros was there too. He fought the Balrog and it was he who defeated it though I do not truly understand how.'

'Maedhros?'

It was Faelion's voice but Gandalf felt his heart sink into his belly. Surely that could not be? Surely Námo did not truly heed that terrible curse? That was the mournful and lonely note of silver-blue and fire that echoed through the dark…his Song dispersed and the chords and notes of it sought each other; the pain of their separation unbearable. And in the Dark also was Morgoth, for he knew now without doubt, that Morgoth was the Presence he had felt.

It seemed Faelion too was dismayed. 'I do not understand! He has been dead for these long, long ages. Surely he cannot have been hiding or …' Faelion cast a strange and excited look around the dim emptiness as if he expected a seven foot tall flaming redheaded warrior of the First Age to walk out of the darkness, gleaming sword in hand. 'Where has he been?' Faelion's voice sounded breathless and Gandalf guessed that his family had followed Elrond, having once followed Fëanor.

Glorfindel sheathed his sword finally and then looked up. He breathed in slowly. His beautiful noble face was filled with sadness and he confirmed Gandalf's fear. 'Maedhros is in the Everlasting Dark…. as Námo foretold, as their Oath swore them.'

Faelion gasped and quickly he turned his face, covering his eyes with his hand. Gandalf sighed; it was as he thought.

In his memory of long ago and far away Tirion was a youth, more fair of face than any other and with flaming hair, red as fire, throwing back his head and laughing carelessly, looking about with his bright silver-grey eyes and lovely sculpted lips curving into a smile. But Nelyafinwë Maitimo Fëanorian had gone; he had faded at the first blood spilt upon the glittering sands of Alqualondë, and slowly Maedhros emerged from the ashes of those white ships that caused such heartache and bitterness.

'My lord, was it only Maedhros who was there?' Faelion asked. 'There were no others?'

'We saw only Maedhros,' Glorfindel replied gently and with compassion and Faelion bowed his head in relief, though Gandalf. 'His….spirit appeared and battled with that of the Balrog… but each was destroyed by the other. They are both gone.' Glorfindel said quietly and with regret. 'I do not know if there are others… Maedhros asked if there were others…' He paused and looked away from Gandalf for a moment. 'He seemed alone in there.'

Even to Gandalf that seemed a cruel fate, to be alone in the Dark even for one so steeped in blood. To be alone battling against the Black Foe, against Morgoth and all his legions forever? It seemed to Ólorin for a moment that Maedhros was destined to be Morgoth's most persistent enemy and he wondered if Maedhros served some greater purpose that was beyond even the Valar. There was deep Power within the Hall, Men would call it magic. He had rarely felt such intensity and he wondered if it had indeed been built by Celebrimbor alone or if this too had Sauron's hand in it.

Glorfindel seemed to shake himself slightly and glanced back over his shoulder. 'Erestor is still in there,' he said softly. 'I will bring him out and then we must protect this place and prevent Sauron from seizing it. I know not if the Balrog could have escaped the Mirror but the Nazgûl want the device and Sauron will use it to his advantage. I do not want that.'

'No indeed my lord. I will set a guard outside the city if you will it.' Faelion looked around and his fair face was troubled. 'Though I would not wish for any of our men to be left here in the Tower. This place has an unwholesome feel to it altogether.' He nodded towards the buckled and twisted doors. 'And clearly there is danger within these doors that I do not yet understand. If the Balrog was in there then what else might be?'

What else indeed, thought Gandalf and he peered through the gloom into the darkness within and thought he knew now.

Faelion shifted slightly and then said, 'Rhawion died here.' His voice was full of sorrow.

At Rhawion's name, Glorfindel's mouth twisted and he turned away quickly to hide his face.

'That is why I am here,' said Gandalf patiently. He stepped between the two Elves and let peace wash over their troubled souls. 'I will put warding and keeping spells upon this place so none may enter that I and Elrond do not know it. It will close these doors until I say open and not even the Witch King himself may do otherwise.' He nodded confidently at the two elves and then swept up his grey robe again and threw it over one arm. 'Come now, Faelion,' he said gruffly. 'We cannot linger here all day. Send your elves to the outside of the city. Do not set up camp for we will depart in haste.'

Faelion nodded once and sketched a bow. He left them and they could hear his footsteps tread lightly pattering down the staircase and calling his men together with no small amount of relief.

Gandalf turned to Glorfindel. 'I am sorry to speak of this, old friend, but we must.' He held Glorfindel's troubled gaze and then said relentlessly, 'Elrond and I felt Rhawion's fëa leave the bounds of Arda. There is nothing left. Did he somehow pass into the Dark?'

Glorfindel smoothed a hand over his braids in agitation. 'One of the Nazgûl,' he replied. 'A lesser of them. It had Rhawion's fëa and was feeding off it. Slowly draining it of…life.' He shrugged helplessly as if he did not know the right words.

Gandalf nodded. He knew the immense power of the Nazgûl, had seen them do the same to Men. They were like the spiders which kept their prey alive while they turned the internal organs to liquid and sucked them dry until there was but a husk left; the Nazgûl did something similar, he thought, to Men's spirits, the energy that gave them life.

'Erestor and I…' The warrior bowed his head in shame and misery. 'We tried to stop it, we could not. Rhawion's fëa threw itself at the Nazgûl to save my life.' His shoulders hunched miserably. 'I am forever in his debt and can do nothing to repay it.'

'Ah,' Gandalf sighed heavily. This was terrible indeed. The Nazgûl had never before taken an elf's fëa; it seemed that even Sauron had understood how that would offend Eru beyond what even he would do. And he had done so very very much. He pondered what it meant that one of the Nine had broken his prohibition. Did it mean that Sauron's power was waning and the Nazgûl waxed?

'Nor can I bring him back,' he told Glorfindel. 'Not even if Sauron is defeated do I think he can return. I do not know where he has gone. But,' he lifted his head, 'after Sauron is defeated, you and I will return with Elrond and Galadriel and do all we can to find whatever is left. We will not give him up without a fight.' He smiled kindly and patted Glorfindel on the shoulder. 'So the best way to make amends is for us to fight Sauron and bring the Wraiths to their own end.'

'And will you do the same for my lord?' came a voice full of bitter loss.

'Erestor!' Glorfindel took a step towards his companion and grasped him by the shoulder in concern.

Gandalf scrutinised the elf closely; he looked terrible. Haggard. Worn thin almost. He wore his loss like a badge and his amber eyes gleamed dangerously. Erestor was fey and mercurial at the best of times, now he looked wild, mad almost. Gandalf stepped back slightly and allowed Glorfindel to bring Erestor into the dim light.

Erestor shrugged off Glorfindel and stood defiantly before Gandalf. 'You will fight for Rhawion and right glad I am that you do! But you will leave my lord to languish, nay! to suffer torment in there!' He threw out his hand towards the gaping darkness of the Hall

and took an angry step forwards.

Glorfindel put a hand on his chest to stop him. 'It is not like Mithrandir can wave his staff and just magic him out of there, Narmó,' Glorfindel explained patiently. 'You saw for yourself that even the Valarauki could not escape though it strained and pressed against the Glass.' He sighed and leaned in towards Erestor, his head tilted downwards so that he spoke very softly. 'Do you think Mithrandir can alone release Maedhros? And do you really think that is possible? He is but a spirit, his body was burned to nothing.'

Gandalf could not see Erestor's face for Glorfindel stood between them and dropped his voice to an even lower murmur and then there was a low inarticulate cry that came from Erestor.

Gandalf had to listen hard to hear Erestor's anguished words. 'I know, Laurëfindë, but it wrenches me in two,' Erestor said. 'If I leave here, I abandon he who took me in and raised me.'

'And if you abandon the other who saved you, can you live with that. Knowing that you…' Glorfindel's voice dropped again so Gandalf could not hear his words. Erestor was silent.

Glorfindel turned back to Gandalf, his face serious and concerned. 'Gandalf, I do not know how this has come to be. I do not know how Ruinátoró came to be here. I do not know how Maedhros is here either but it is true that both were here and did battle. Maedhros fought Ruinátoró to stop him from escaping from… wherever they are… into… here.' He waved his hand to indicate the emptiness of the hall before them. 'Ruinátoró knew me, knew I was here.' He paused for a moment and then caught Gandalf in his clear blue gaze that was ancient and wise and had seen so much more than even Gandalf. But his sudden question caught the Wizard by surprise even though the thought had lingered on the edge of his consciousness too.

'Gandalf, if Ruinátoró came for me, what would come for you?'

Gandalf looked past the elves and into the gloomy emptiness within and said nothing. There was still a sense of that Something in the hall, beyond the Óromardë… Not diminished. Not truly vanquished or chained. But waiting…He knew what, who was in there, the Everlasting Dark. Who waited for the Ending of the World.

Gandalf nodded. 'Yes.' He looked past them both towards the open, empty mouth of the hall. 'I fear to go in there for what might come.'

'We should go.' Glorfindel lay a hand upon Erestor's arm 'We have all seen Morgoth. He is in there.' He nodded towards the buckled and twisted doors. 'Unless you, Gandalf, have the Power to keep him leashed, we should go.'

Gandalf stroked his beard. He understood now why Sauron had not destroyed it, perhaps even feared to. But why leave it and not take it to Barad-dur? He sighed. Perhaps he would never know. But he stored that little piece away to ponder later. After the war, he thought, when all was done, he would return with the Three and seek to either destroy it or take it over the Sea. He knew that would be what was expected.

For now, he had to cast a spell that would protect this place, put a ring about it that would not draw the attention of any Presence within...a girdle of protection almost.

He drew away from the elves and their quiet talk washed around, over him so he no longer heard the words but the sounds, and drew into himself so even the voices became indistinct, just notes, just sounds...He breathed in the air, the particles, the shades of light that were so dim that mortals thought of it as darkness, the absence of light, but it was not; it was the same particles but he must change the substance of them so that they thickened, became stronger, heavier, denser...it would be too thick for the dense flesh of men to penetrate...but wraiths? He needed to do more to prevent wraiths….

He felt the Power take hold of him. It was often disorientating, and felt out of control like he was swept up by the wind, but he had learned to let Narya take him. He felt the heat of the metal skim his awareness and perceived how Celebrimbor had woven the fabric of metal like it was silk, so much more easily, skillfully that Gandalf could possibly do himself and he wondered that a mere elf had had such knowledge and power that he could bend the Song to his will...Narya surged white light as if recognising the touch of her maker and a bolt of light reached out, stretched like fingers, hands that almost cradled the great doors, wove something impenetrable about them and Gandalf knew that Narya had already done this, knew the pattern of the work, had done it before and so knew how to do it again...but something was missing, some extra knowledge she did not have and he knew he needed Vilya, Nenya. But he and Narya alone would have to suffice for this.

Even so, Narya knew intrinsically how this needed to be done... some of the particles she wove together into an invisible veil, and he suffused them with something different, borrowed from his own staff. Narya wove the notes into a shimmering fabric, changing the song of this place and creating a new one, so there was light shimmering across the entrance. Because there was already great magic in the stuff that had made the great doors that were more than simple bronze, Narya showed him how to stretch out his hand and set forth a great force, wrapping fingers of Power about the doors. With effort he brought the energy and particles together once more. He was barely aware of the grinding, clanging that heralded the closing of the doors to the Óromardë, but he strained his thoughts, his power to meld them shut…A clang like a great bell resonated and the air seemed to vibrate. The doors were shut.

Ólorin shuddered and let himself slip back again into the old Man's body that was Gandalf, let the senses become physical once again, let his awareness slip into flesh and he felt his fingers, the small bones of his hands, the beat of his heart...Gradually Narya cooled and withdrew back into herself, and the air buzzed and sizzled around him. He shuddered again and blinked, aware that the voices had ceased and attention was focused upon him.

'What did you do?'

He blinked and came back into his flesh and blood.

'Gandalf?'

He recognised what he was seeing was a face, an elf, concern... He blinked and thoughts settled, came back into his flesh and blood. Was Gandalf once more.

'I have done as I said.' He was always irascible when he had slipped out of this earthly shell, the drain of magic was exhausting and he needed time to sink back into the world so he had developed this...persona to give him time to let himself settle. But the elf who watched him was knowing and Gandalf knew that he saw beyond the flesh, for Glorfindel too had spent time in the Gardens of Lorien, with Nienna the beloved lady, his queen.

'Steady old friend,' said Glorfindel softly and his hand was warm on Gandalf's flesh, anchored him in the present.

Gandalf grunted and after a moment, he jammed his hat down on his head. 'We must depart, and in haste,' he said. 'Let us leave this place, accursed and forlorn it is and should remain empty, a grave for those who died here I fear.' He chanced a look at Erestor who sill gazed at the closed doors with a strange yearning.

But Gandalf remembered that when he first stepped onto these strange shores, Erestor had a notorious reputation, as master intelligencer, cut-throat, kinslayer, Fëanorian...lore-master, scholar, poet...warrior. There was always rumour and a little fearful respect. It was said that he scorned the Laws of the Valar, was a heretic. But such was to be expected of one who flaunted his Fëanorian past so blatantly. But his real past he kept close, even to those who knew him well. Except perhaps Glorfindel knew more and of course Elrond for it was Erestor, Glorfindel had told Gandalf, who had brought Elrond and his brother into the care of Cirdan and Gil-Galad, charged it was said, by Maglor and Maedhros to keep them safe. There was more, he knew, for there was a ragged edge of hurt and suffering that surrounded Erestor, a yearning and loss, but he repelled any sympathy with his biting wit and fearsome reputation.

He watched from the corner of his eye as Glorfindel gently took charge and steered Erestor away, touched him lightly and guided him down the wide stairs and back into the dim light, for although it was only afternoon, the winter light was already falling and the anxious waiting horses whickered softly.

'We will ride a little way,' said Glorfindel. 'It is yet light and we can make some way for a few hours yet.' He glanced at Erestor's tight, pale face and though he did not speak it, all knew that Elladan was in danger of his life and now that the terror of Phellanthir was dealt with for now at least, all felt the driving urgency to reach the Valley.

They made good way in the two hours before dusk but the night was very clear and the stars pricked out sharply even before the moon rose and when it did, it was bright and cast shadows in the night, so the grass seemed silver and the trees black. They had enough light to continue riding, albeit slowly, but stopped after some hours to rest before starting upon their way again. They did not expect to catch up with Elrohir though they saw easily the signs of their passing for Elrohir had torn like the wind across the wilds, left the muddy riverbank churned and torn by their horses hoofs where they had dashed across the ford without stopping, had galloped across the scrubby wilderness.

In the following daylight, they found tracks where Elrohir and his company had stopped briefly and Glorfindel deduced that Elrohir had changed horses for Baraghur's hoof prints were deeper now than Barakhir. And then later on again, Glorfindel saw traces where they had stopped once more and there had been some churned up mud beneath the hooves of a different horse.

He smiled wryly for he knew the tracks of every horse in Imladris and clearly Elrohir had tired out both Barakhir and Baraghur with carrying both him and Elladan and tried to swap onto Niphredil, who seemed would at least at first have none of it. He tried to imagine Elrohir with the tall grumpy horse, even mounting it on his own with no further burden would have proved trying but to then have Elladan to hold! He hoped Elrohir had not pursued this idea.

Later on in the day the tracks showed he had indeed persevered and there were skittish skids in the mud showing where Niphredil had shied in one place and then cantered back in the wrong direction towards Phellanthir. The tracks changed then and clearly Elrohir had admitted defeat for Barakhir's hoofs sank more deeply after that.

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Indeed Elrohir had given up on the bad tempered beast as notorious as its master. It had thrown him before he had even taken Elladan into his arms, for it saw a shadow in the bushes ahead and decided it was a warg and taken off with Elrohir until he had wrestled it to a standstill by dragging its head around so it had to stop or fall over. In fact at first he had indeed thought it would fall over.

He had given up then and mounted his own dear Barakhir and told one of the elves to lead Niphredil but as soon as they cantered, Niphredil had jammed his hoofs into the mud and braked so hard he had pulled the elf from his own horse. At that point, in fact, he had taken off both saddle and bridle and even driven it off hoping it would be devoured by wargs. But at that moment it seemed the damned beast had suddenly realised it had gone too far and been a lamb, even softly butting Elrohir when they stopped briefly to drink and rest the horses. But Elrohir had not let them stop for long for Elladan's skin was almost luminous and pale, his eyes fluttering open were white and had rolled back in his head so there was no iris and his breath was a rasping painful gasp like he was drowning. Elrohir could not bear it.

'Up,' he shouted and barely waited for the company. He alternated between Barakhir and Baraghur and wished he had made Asfaloth come with them for he could feel how tired were the black horses, their own breath pounding and their hooves faltering at times.

At last they crossed the Bruinen and he felt, as he always did, the change in the air, the soft implosion as they crossed the river as if breaking some invisible barrier. Even as they pounded heavily up the road and Imladris came into view, he knew tears were scalding his eyes, Please save him. This time save him, he pleaded silently with his not yet present father. He could not save Celebrián, how could he be trusted to save Elladan when this was so much worse!

He barely had time to breathe for suddenly they were clattering into the courtyard and already Elrond was there, reaching up, his face white with fear, pulling Elladan from his other son's arms, and then shouting, ordering, so elves ran, flurries of activity, the sweating, heavily breathing horses were taken off and the company of elves who had ridden with him had gone to seek orders and give the messages that Faelion had given.

He did not pause but followed Elrond swiftly into the house. Arwen caught at his arm as he passed but he could not speak and simply looked at her pale, frightened face and followed his father into the light-filled room where they had laid Elladan.

Elrond stood with his back to Elrohir.

'What happened?'

'He was struck, at first I thought it but a knife but Erestor knew it was a morgul blade. It was the slightest of cuts but it has done terrible damage.'

'What have you done to repair it?' The voice of the clinical healer, cool, objectively searching the patient for signs of infection, of discord. But even Elrond could not hide the tremble in his hands as he lifted his son's eyelids and peered into his blank eyes.

Elrohir swallowed. 'Not enough,' he said coming round to the other side of the bed where Elladan lay so still, so pale and cold. 'I tried to staunch it but I do not know how. Gandalf came. He did something but he said only you can stop it...Let me help. Tell me what to do.'

'No. You cannot. Please. Let me work...I...I am sorry. I need you to go and let me do this.'

Elrohir swallowed but his throat was dry: what could he expect? He had spurned his father over and over, had never been that close anyway and it had been Elladan who had bridged the distance between them.

And perhaps in some way he bridged it now, for suddenly, as if he sensed his other sons' tumultuous thoughts, Elrond glanced up briefly and said, 'Yes. Help me. Your healing has always been strong. You fight for a soul like you would wrest them from the jaws of Námo.' He laughed softly, once but without humour. A tribute nonetheless. Elrohir grasped it ungrudgingly.

'Tell me what to do.' He leaned forwards and took his place at his father's side and did not not see the flash of pain that glanced over Elrond's face.

0o0o

• The unaccounted for warrior is of course Maglor.

Helyanwë- light bridge/ rainbow – in this case it s what Olorin calls the spectrum although he perceives it as it really is and not the illusion we see.

tbc