Note: excerpt from "The Lay of Leithian", The Lays of Beleriand, The History of Middle-Earth Volume 3, J.R.R. Tolkien, edited by Christopher Tolkien. Different canto this time, though; I promise.

Chapter XXXIV: The Flight of the Necromancer

The first wave of orcs poured from the gates so swiftly that they seemed to be swarming out of the very stones of the tower. Against every instinct that screamed at him to charge, to smite the foul things before they could gain any more ground, Elrohir held back, brandishing his sword above his head and shouting once more the order to stand fast. Far down the crescent of their forces, Glorfindel was doing the same. Elrohir bristled momentarily at this inaction. Timidity served one poorly in war, and his father's order rankled in his heart, but only for a moment. For as the orcs surged forward, charging down upon their stationary enemy, he understood the wisdom at work. By remaining where they stood, the host of the White Council was drawing the enemy out onto level ground, and depriving them of the advantage of the slope. In the sort of combat in which Elrohir usually engaged, it was a small thing to correct the allotment of the high ground, particularly when the opponents were not equally matched. A lithe Elven warrior could easily outmanoeuvre three or four orcs, or a troll, or a brace of clumsy mortal brigands, but an entire army was another matter.

For all his years of battling for the freedom of Eriador, Elrohir had little experience assailing fortified strongholds such as this. His father, on the other hand, had spent seven long years as one of the prime instigators of a siege against a tower of which Dol Guldur was but a pale shadow. It was easy to forget that Elrond Peredhil had many skills that he did not ply in his daily life. Artful stratagem, it seemed, could be counted among them.

The time for pondering his sire's many talents was past: the orcs had reached the front lines at last. Celeborn gave the order for his archers to fire, and a rain of arrows peppered the advancing horde. In the same moment, the swords of the Elves met orcish steel. Without thought or pause Elrohir swung into action, moving with the grace and strength of the Firstborn. His blade sang in harmony with the Noldorin steel around him, parrying the blows of black scimatars and smiting off limbs and heads. His dark hair flew, lashing from cheek to cheek with each swift twist of his torso. In combat he scorned a helm, for he found such gear to be heavy and unwieldy, quick to impair one's vision if it shifted even slightly. The silver filet that bound his long tresses back from his face reflected the glow of the nearest bonfire, and glittered in the spray of sparks that went up as he drove the goblin before him backwards into the flames.

Around him, others were fighting for their lives. Amid the swath of fallen orcs there was a golden head here, a slender white arm there; a cloak of Lórien grey, bright ringmail stained carmine with its wearer's blood. Elrohir had to leap over the body of one of Saruman's mercenaries to cut down the next wretch in his path. He could taste the desperate wish for self-preservation to his right and his left, but he felt none of it himself. His movements were instinct honed over the centuries into effortless ability. Whatever fear or remorse had once visited his mind at such times had long ago been obliterated by relentless plying of the art of slaying, and the dark seed of hatred that he still nourished deep in his heart. He was not a soldier, valiantly doing his best to serve his lord. He was something more; a soul lost in the glory of battle, a fey and dauntless extension of his blade. He was elemental wrath, the living embodiment of violence.

He did not know whether he fought for one hour or ten. Time had little meaning. Once he saw Galadriel, the fire of her spirit unmasked in her wrath and the light of Valinor shining from her eyes. Her proud face was set in lines of stone, but a faint trace of triumph caught the corner of her mouth as she brought down one great Uruk and spun to slay his kinsman. Then the tides of battle swiftly swept his grandmother from his sight, and Elrohir had no further thought than the next thrust of his blade. From neck to nave he rent the next goblin to assail him. The light had faded now, and the bloody glow of the great bonfires, belching black smoke and the stink of singed flesh, stained the battlefield with a crimson light that showed black the blood of Elves and orcs alike.

Above the clamour of blade and staff, above the whistling of gleaned arrows and the clattering of chains there came a sound; a high-pitched ululation of hatred and malevolence. It rang across the battlefield, and the Men of Isengard quailed. Some of the Galadhrim threw down their arms, clapping their hands over their ears, but the older folk of Imladris knew that sound, and egged on by Glorfindel's cries they redoubled their efforts against the orcs. For his part, Elrohir scarcely heard it, for he was flying forward like one possessed, pressing his advantage upon orcs that hesitated as another shriek sounded after the first.

Galadriel was mustering her people, her words and the brightness of her spirit strengthening those who shrank in fear. Somewhere, in a distant world far from the sweat and strain of his deadly swordplay, Elrohir could hear Saruman shouting at his forces, but whether his honeyed voice availed him aught now the son of Elrond could not say. Celeborn and Gandalf were marshalling any who hesitated, directing them as best they could. Though at first the orcs had seemed startled or dismayed by the cries in the darkness, they seemed to draw new vigour from them – or from the fear that filled so many of their enemies at the terrible sounds. Those that remained struck out with greater force, and around him Elrohir sensed the mounting of the second wave of battle.

There was no moon, and the stars had no light to pierce the gloom of Mirkwood. Another cry, this one louder than the others, shivered through the night air. The ecstasy of battle ebbed at once away, and though his arms continued to swing and his legs did not cease their motion, Elrohir found his strength and courage failing. Another orc fell beneath his blade, but he took no exaltation from its feeling. His blood-lust was gone, and in its place there was a nameless fear.

The orcs it seemed fled before him despite his flagging valour, for in a moment he was left alone, unassailed in a sea of the slain. Bewildered he turned, thinking perhaps it was ended and victory was theirs; but a few yards away he saw Radagast and Andras and many knights of Rivendell still locked in deadly combat. Away in the distance, behind the bank of fog that was clouding his vision, the bright figures of Galadriel and Glorfindel moved like spirits of white smoke amid the hordes of goblins, meting out death with their arms. There was a blue light dancing like lightning in the night, and that was Gandalf with Glamdring... the battle raged on, but it had moved towards the trees and left him behind, here at the very base of the Hill of Sorcery, alone in the night.

Perplexed and angered, Elrohir raised his sword above his head. Then his hand trembled and the blade fell to earth. He stared at it, startled. Despair flooded his heart. It was over. They could not triumph. The darkness was all around them and the bonfires were failing. Suddenly it seemed as if the armies that had stood so proudly hours ago were now utterly surrounded by blackness, cut off from the world and abandoned here to falter and fall. This was the end. They would die forgotten, and the spiders would creep forth out of the trees to pick their bones.

To his sister in Lothlórien no news would ever come of her grandfather and the proud Galadhrim, or the last valiant moments of Queen Galadriel, to the last fair and bright as the morning. Those who had remained behind would take Arwen Undómiel in her grandmother's place, to be queen of their realm in its last desperate days, for without the protection of the mightiest lady ever born to the Noldor the Golden Wood would fade and fall into darkness. The Warden of Isengard would never stand again on the stairs of Orthanc, and Turgon of Gondor would never learn what had befallen his proud tenant. And to Rivendell no ragged army would return; no Lord of the Valley with bright mail and eyes as gentle as a summer evening, as wise as the hills themselves. No master would cross the Bruinen as the river sang its welcome. No father would come home to the little boy left alone with his terrors. There would be nothing left of their host, and soon, when the Shadow spread to devour the Wilderland, Eriador, Gondor, all – nothing left of goodness in the world.

He was dimly aware of dark shapes circling, of black armour and sable cloaks, and the hissings of evil upon his tainted ears. Yet the doubt and the terror overwhelmed him, and he found himself sinking, sinking, sinking into cold and empty waters, far from air, far from light, far from love or bravery or faithfulness. Despair was devouring him, and as he struggled for one more breath, for one more moment upon his feet, there was a clatter of mail and a high, chilling laugh, and a black blade swam before his eyes. But his body knew what to do even if his mind was failing, and he lurched to one side, catching up his sword again.

Elven steel met the Morgul blade. Elrohir felt the impact in his arms and shoulders, like the distant concussion of a rockslide that shakes the earth many miles away. He tried to recall himself, he tried to remember. He had faced these creatures before, in the days of the Last King. The Úlairí, the Ringwraiths, the Nazgûl of Sauron. He tried to resist, but they had come upon him unawares, when his mind was laid bare by the rapture of battle, with no protection from their machinations. They had hold of his heart now, and they would not release him. Unspeakable despair drained the warmth from his limbs. He parried again, but it was the memory ingrained in muscle and bone that directed the motion, and no rational process of his besieged mind.

Again the Nazgûl struck, and this time Elrohir's knees buckled. He fell slowly, so slowly, to the bloodstained earth, staring up at the sword raised high above him as a child stares at a dangled bauble, transfixed with mute wonder. The blade descended, but in the last moment his body asserted itself once more over the haze in his thoughts. Instinct, more powerful even than fear, dragged him to the right, arching his back and foiling the intent of his attacker. The blow intended for his heart struck something more soft, rending his mail, ripping into flesh and muscle, glancing off of bone...

Elrohir scarcely felt the pain. The darkness swallowed him.

lar

In spite of his most valiant efforts, Estel submitted to sleep in the end, his overtaxed young body lacking the stamina to remain conscious any longer. Neither Gilraen nor Elladan dared to wander far from him, but they had sore need of talk, and so they slipped into the anteroom, leaving the bedchamber door ajar.

Elladan sank quickly onto a hassock by the wall. His face was grey and he looked more weary than one of the Firstborn had any right. His eyes searched Gilraen's face, flooded with devastation and sorrow. 'Dear lady, forgive me,' he breathed. There were tears in his eyes.

'For what shall I forgive you?' she asked. 'You did not send the dark dreams to my son. You did not slay my husband. Nor did you in the moment of panic betray our secret.' Her voice faltered a little, but she mastered it desperately. The desolate figure before her had almost as much need of care as the forlorn little body lying in the next room, and there was no one to offer it but she. His father and his brother and his friends were far away, making war upon some distant enemy. He had no lady love to soothe the hurts of his spirit, and his mother was gone from the world. If Gilraen, Dírhael's daughter, did not give him consolation, who would?

'I thank you for your sorrow, and for the love you bear for Estel and for his father, but you cannot hold yourself responsible for this,' she said softly, standing next to him and stroking his hair as if he were her child.

'He woke from a vision of unspeakable terror to find himself lying next to one of its chief players,' moaned Elladan. 'I should have calmed him, I should have been strong and yet I...' He stared down at his hands. They were quivering. 'I know what he saw, lady. I know how horribly—' He stopped, consternation upon his face as he realized what he had been about to divulge.

'Tell me,' Gilraen said softly. 'Tell me of my husband's death.'

'Elrohir told you of the arrow.'

'And your father explained that his death was not swift,' Gilraen added. Her heart was palpitating in her breast, but she kept her voice level and her hands gentle.

Elladan looked up at her, and his eyes were dark. 'He should not have done that,' he growled.

'He had no choice,' Gilraen said. 'It was soon after Estel and I arrived in the Valley. I was half-mad with grief, and I went to him, demanding answers. I beat upon his breast and I shouted so loudly that I must have roused half the household. He tried to calm me, but I would not be placated. In the end, to spare me from injuring myself in my frenzy, he explained what such a death means. It was not quick.'

Elladan slumped low, hiding his head in his hands. 'No. It was not quick. In the heat of battle we took him to be slain, but when the last of the orcs were dead and we turned to prepare his body for burial, we realized our error. We did what we could, but it was little enough. It had been a long campaign – surely you remember that ghastly winter – and our supplies were spent. We had nothing even to ease his pain. We sheltered from the wind in a hollow of the mountainside, and I held him against me, hoping to warm him. Elrohir tended to the others who had survived the skirmish, and then he, too, came to sit vigil with Arathorn.'

At the sound of her husband's name, Gilraen moved swiftly to the door, peering into the bedroom. Estel was curled upon his side, his hair spread across the pillow in dark disarray. One hand had crept up onto the cushion and his knuckles made pale indents on his cheeks. His shadowed eyes were closed and he looked peaceful enough in the flickering lamplight. Her heart filled with dread as she realized that darkness had fallen. It would not be long now before he awoke again, once more in the grip of some evil spectre of the past.

She hurried once more to Elladan's side. 'Did he speak to you?' she asked in a hushed voice. 'Did he say anything at all?'

Elladan nodded. 'He said many things in his final hours that I could not understand, but near the end he regained some measure of consciousness. He charged us to help his people, and to aid them in their struggles as best we could. He expressed his wish that your father lead the Dúnedain until such a time as...' His voice trailed away and his eyes flitted to the door behind which Estel lay sleeping.

'Is that all?' Gilraen asked softly. She tried not to let her pain show, but she had hoped, selfishly perhaps, that Arathorn's last thoughts might have been for her and for their child, not for the welfare of his people. She repented instantly of such an unworthy thought. Arathorn had been a consummate leader, as devoted to his people as any great lord or mighty king. First and foremost he had been the Chieftain of the Dúnedain, and so had he died. That had to be comfort enough, for she would receive nothing more.

But Elladan shook his head. 'He begged us to protect his son. He made us swear to keep him from harm.' His voice cracked a little, and from the desolation in his eyes Gilraen could see that he felt he had failed in that charge. She moved to speak, but Elladan continued. 'Then he spoke your name and he told us... he said...' He closed his eyes and rocked a little. '"I have been a poor husband. I have plucked the rose and yet I cannot give it water, nor yet restore it to its stem. She gave me joy and I have given her..." Then he could not speak, but Elrohir gave him water. And he whispered "nothing", and after that he sank into deep delirium. Before the dawn he breathed his last.'

There was silence, but for Gilraen it was the silence that came with the release of pain long pent within her. Tears tracked twin rivulets down her face, but she cared nothing for that. In his moment of death, Arathorn had thought last and most lovingly of her.

'He gave me much,' she whispered. 'All that I have he gave to me. My memories of love and joy. My son. And the friendship of two noble knights whom he loved as dearly as brothers.' She bent to kiss Elladan's brow, and then knelt beside him, looking up into his careworn face. 'You have always laboured to uphold your promise to my husband. Let me lay upon you another charge: give to my son the love you gave to his father, and let him, too, know what it is to be your dear friend.'

Elladan smiled sadly. 'My lady, after these last days he should have had that love even if you forbade it. But what shall we tell him when he wakes? Erestor reports that he and my father have spoken at length about each of the visions: surely he will ask who it was he saw fall.'

For a moment Gilraen was tempted by the truth. Here was a chance, perhaps, to lay bare her son's heritage. Elrond was not here to prevent it. From the look in Elladan's eyes she knew that he, in his grief and his guilt, would take his cue from her. At last, maybe, she could tell Estel the truth.

But she could not, she realized. She could not lay that burden upon him. The horror of the scene he had beheld was dreadful enough. If he knew that it was his father, her husband... how could a little child cope with such a revelation? And there was the ever-present need for secrecy, too. Was the truth so important that it was worth Estel's life? She knew the answer to that without any pause for thought.

'Explain to him that he saw a battle in which you fought beside the Rangers. Tell him it happened long ago and far away: the last is true, and the first is not entirely false, for to one of his brief years such a time seems like an Age.'

'And if he asks the identity of the fallen man?' Elladan queried wearily. 'This is not some tragedy from the annals of history: he saw me there. He will know that I remember. He will recognize the honorific, and it will seem strange to him that he has never read of such a death among the Chieftains of the Dúnedain.'

Gilraen sought desperately for some solution to this difficulty, but her wiles failed her. 'I do not know,' she said softly. 'It seems there is no way to protect him without resorting to falsehood, and that I cannot do.'

The eyes of the Peredhil had for a moment gone vacant. A faint smile touched his lips. 'Fear not, my lady,' he said. 'I know what I shall tell him.' With an almost inaudible sigh he hauled his weary body up off of the tuffet. Gilraen hastened to take his arm as he swayed upon his feet.

'You are exhausted,' she said. 'You must rest.'

'Alas, I cannot,' Elladan told her. 'My mind is filled with the lust of war, and I ache to wield blade. My waning strength will not allow it, I promise,' he added with a small smile of amusement to answer her look of dismay. 'Yet the desire is strong. I am unused to sitting idle while my twin plies our trade far away. I believe the hosts of Imladris and Lórien have engaged their enemy at last.'

'How can you know this?' Gilraen asked, perplexed. Mirkwood was hundreds of miles away: even the swiftest of messengers would take weeks to bring news.

'I cannot with absolute certainty,' Elladan informed her; 'yet it seems to me that Elrohir is in battle, and has been for some hours. Though I know not how our forces fare I can tell you that he, at least, is finding great success.'

He smiled more earnestly now as he moved toward the bedroom. 'Thank you, lady, but I assure you that I can stand unassisted,' he said wryly, looking down at his arm.

'Oh, your pardon!' Gilraen whispered. She had half forgotten her grip upon him.

Elladan looked at Estel, still sleeping peacefully, and then turned to regard the mortal lady. 'Why do you not go to your rest?' he suggested. 'You, too, are weary, and we have many weeks yet to endure before Elrond returns once more to the Last Homely House. We shall all have need of strength.'

Gilraen nodded, her heart sinking at the thought of such a state of affairs continuing for weeks. She moved to the bed, petting Estel's hair as she bent low to kiss him. He stirred under her touch and made a soft cooing sound of drowsy contentment. That noise did more to heal her heart than many tears could.

When she turned to bid Elladan good-night she found him staring with unseeing eyes. His face was drained of all colour again, and he was trembling. Gilraen froze in horror. 'What is it?' she hissed, only just remembering to modulate her voice so as not to wake the sleeping child. 'What is amiss?'

Elladan blinked slowly, his eyes labouring to fix themselves upon her face. 'All is not well...' he whispered. Then his face contorted into a mask of anguish and he staggered back against the wall. Gilraen ran to him, helping him as he staggered to the chair she had occupied earlier in the day. He brought his head down to his knees, long hands clutching at his legs as he quaked convulsively. 'Pain...' he exhaled, and he sounded suddenly like a lost child crying for help in the darkness. 'Elrohir is in pain...'

lar

Elrond had little opportunity to gauge the battle around him. He and a battalion of his folk had been swiftly surrounded as the orcs swarmed over the plain, and for an indeterminate length of time survival had taken precedence over any other concern. At times he was aware of Celeborn's strong voice, rousing to action those who faltered and striving ever to gain an advantage on the sea of foes around them, but for the most part he was overwhelmed by the task at hand.

It had been many years since he had done more than spar, and though his technique was flawless and his arm was true he found himself ill-prepared for the mind's response to battle. The thrill of panicked elation that coursed through his chest each time his blade found its home in another thick hide; the moment of terror when he did not know whether old reflexes were up to the task of diverting a swiftly descending scimitar; the cold horror as a severed artery sprayed face and mail with foul black blood – all these sensations he had forgotten over the long years, and he rediscovered each with fresh dismay. Most horrifying of all was the realization that he was deriving some manner of gratification from this frenzied task. The spending of strength seemed to release some of the anxiety and anger and frustration that he had kept under such a tight reign these last months. Though there was no joy in this labour of necessity, Elrond could not help feeling a certain purgative catharsis, as if his pains could flow away as easily as his perspiration.

When night fell he looked about with dread. The orcs would draw strength from the darkness, but that was not his chief concern. Sauron had other servants more deadly than these expendable soldiers, and by night their power was such that even the Wise feared them.

He had faced the Úlairí before this, in darker places and less puissant company, but years away from such evil had dulled his memory. With the first dreadful cry the flood-gates opened and the terror of old came surging forward. He had no time to master himself, for the orcs were still around him and his sword needed all of his focus, but all the same he tried beneath the rapid racing of his battle-mind to beat back the fear. The power of the Ringwraiths was terrible enough without his imagination to augment it.

With the second cry even the orcs quailed, and the forces of the Council pressed the advantage. Elrond cut down six in rapid succession, before the seventh mustered enough energy to put up something of a struggle. He felt rather than witnessed the descent of the Nazgûl; the encroaching despair that oozed through the night. He braced himself against it. Great was their power, but greater was his – though he could not unmask it all. Setting his teeth he focused upon the task at hand.

Suddenly Glorfindel cried out, and Elrond turned to seek out his seneschal. The golden warrior had pulled away from the fray in which he had been embroiled, and was attempting to cut through to the thinning horde towards the place where Elrohir was fighting. Elrond had caught glimpses of his son throughout the battle, his wrath terrible to behold and his skill equal even to that of Glorfindel. Now he was faltering, his sword-work erratic. There was a look of shock and puzzlement in his eyes as the goblins fell away and fled.

He did not see them until they were upon him: four figures in cloaks of nebulous sable, circling him and pressing upon him. Elrond saw him blench, saw the sword fall from his hand. Now the Lord of Rivendell, too, forsook the battle, no longer fighting the orcs but weaving around them. He cast away his blade and ran as swiftly as he might to the nearest bonfire. Caring nothing for burnt fingers or a singed sleeve he caught up a brand that had fallen loose as the tent of fuel collapsed, and thrust it into the embers.

He closed the distance between himself and his beleaguered son, who was trying despite his obvious terror and disorientation to defend himself from the greatest of the four, but he was too late. Elrohir's blade fell away, and as Elrond cried out in consternation and rage the Nazgûl brought its blade to bear. At the last moment Elrohir swayed to the side, and the thrust that should have plunged into his heart struck lower, sundering mail and flesh, but glancing off in the end. The wraith cried out in rage, raising his sword to finish his opponent, but Elrond flung the fire at its dark form. All three drew back, and abruptly unarmed and at a loss as to what more he could do, the Elf-lord submitted to instinct and cast himself over the body of his fallen son.

He waited for death, but it did not come. Glorfindel was near now, and others had seen their lord's wild flight and were gathering flames.

'Be gone, vile servant of darkness!' the golden voice so often raised in laughter rang out now in an imperious demand. 'Be gone, or I shall destroy you utterly!'

Laughter sounded, cold and proud. 'The mongrel's chattel challenges me?' the Nazûl mocked. 'You could not slay my captain: why should I think you can destroy me? I am little less in might than he. If I wished I could smite you down as I have smote the half-breed brat!'

'I think not, foul shadow; else why do you stand and bait me thus? Why not smite me, if you can?'

Again the laughter. Crouching low over Elrohir's bleeding form, Elrond reached for his son's abandoned sword. If it came to it, he would spring up to attack, joining Glorfindel in a last, desperate foray. But the Nazgûl spoke again. 'We are not here to strike you down,' it said, derision in the sibilant voice. 'We come only to divert you.'

There was a wailing of wind and the bonfires faltered, scattering ash and sparks into the air. A sound as of horses charging was heard and the broken gates of Dol Guldur flew from their hinges. A vanguard of orcs issued forth, and then came a presence, fell and vile and filled with wrath. It was greater in power and malice than any wraith, and more terrible than any horror of the mind. Only once before had Elrond felt such fear and revulsion, and among those assembled only Gandalf could make like claim. He knew at once who had ventured forth. In what form the Enemy came he could not say, for his vision was blinded and his reason suspended in terror and loathing and dread, but the air itself was poisoned by his presence, and it seemed that he could feel the Eye of Sauron upon him. The Eye, the Eye, those eyes profound, in which their senses choked and drowned...

For a moment he felt naked before Sauron's hate, stripped bare of his secrets and revealed in all his pitiful arrogance... but then there was a sound of swift hooves over stone, and the Nazgûl were gone, and the orcs were left alone, aghast. So passed the Necromancer from the shadows of Mirkwood, and though in after years his servants crept forth to reclaim Dol Guldur, never again did the hand of Sauron besmirch that land with its hated presence.

'An end! An end!' a faltering voice cried. It grew stronger as it spoke, and Elrond knew in some distant recess of his sundered mind that Galadriel was calling out to the scattered hosts. 'Free folk of the West, let us make an end of this dark deed! To arms! To arms!'

Then the sounds of war resumed as the remnant of the army of the Necromancer was swept away, but Elrond did not rise, nor lift a blade, nor marshal his troops. He knelt amid the ruin that his son had wrought, and with his hands strove to stem the tide of blood that flowed from Elrohir's side. Overcome with exhaustion and desperation and the bitter knowledge that all this would in the end prove to be for naught, he wept.