Look, a summer update! Don't faint, I just spent a lot of time on airplanes this summer, and even without the computer along that meant there was time for some writing (finding the time later to transcribe it all into the computer later, a bit harder, but still...thank goodness for fast typing skills!) so enjoy this "back to school" surprise!

Chapter Thirty-Six: Cold Steel

The Pass of Caradhras was clear. Snow lay frozen on the path, but the Imladris horses easily scaled the hard-packed trail. The sky was bright and clear and empty, and one might almost have expected birds to sing. It was too cold for birds, of course, and Caradhras was not a place they frequented, anyway. Few things braved this angry peak, but the riders from Rivendell showed no hesitation.

Of the Elves that traveled this cold road today, less than a handful of them knew that it was the great ring Vilya on the rigid fist of Elrond that kept the mountain quiet, but they trusted their Lord and knew that somehow, he had made a peace of sorts with the cold, cruel peak to ensure their safe passage.

One of those few with this secret knowledge was Glorfindel of Gondolin, but he was not dwelling on the mystical nature of their calm weather. Rather, Glorfindel was sternly lecturing himself. He looked at the ungloved hands that were resolutely shaping a handful of snow into a smooth, round shape and told himself, quite firmly, to put the snowball down. Now was simply not the time to engage in such fancies.

The Gondolin Elf grimaced. While a smattering of icy whiteness on the back of his dark, un-hooded head might well have improved Elrond's looks, Glorfindel knew it would do nothing for his disposition. Well, that wasn't strictly true; Glorfindel was quite certain it would have an effect upon the peredhel's disposition all right…he was just equally certain that it would not be to the better. That wasn't the argument. He had entertained no thoughts of throwing his surreptitiously gathered projectile at Lord Elrond (well, not for longer than a moment, anyway); the debate was about his urge to locate another target.

Unfortunately, the rest of the company seemed to be thoroughly infected with Elrond's miasma. While Glorfindel could readily admit that coming as far as the pass of Caradhras without finding the youngsters was rather troublesome, he'd endured far more annoying things in this life—not to mention the last one!—and he was, by and large, unbothered by the travel. Of course, the Balrog-slayer knew that it wasn't the travel in its own sake that was bothering the other Elves. It was the fact that they were now quite precariously balanced on the Redhorn Pass, and this meant that they had either passed their quarry by…

Or they hadn't.

And that was by far the more worrying prospect, for it meant that somewhere up above them four young Elves were daring this treacherous crossing in the dead of winter. That there was as of yet no more than a few casually swirling flakes, more blown up from the ground by the winds of the pass than descending from the sky, meant nothing. The weather of Cruel Redhorn did not depend upon many natural laws. They could easily turn the corner of the winding mountain trail and come face-to-face with the worst blizzard that any of them (save, perhaps, for Glorfindel) had ever seen.

And, they all privately feared but refused to say aloud, as if by keeping the thought silent they could keep it from Caradhras, within such a storm they might find the little ones. It was a dark gloom hanging over them, a shadow upon all their hearts. That was what made this such a miserable company, not the difficult climb up the steep mountain, not the threat of bad weather hanging imminently just out of reach.

And that was both why Glorfindel thought they needed a few snowballs slung about in the first place as well as why he knew he could never actually toss this perfectly shaped projectile at any of them. Glorfindel sighed, exasperated with his kinsmen. Brooding about the future changed nothing, but they all insisted upon it nonetheless. Glorfindel would far rather see that the day was brightened as much as it could be right now, and any bad news or ill fate that was approaching could just do as it pleased until it arrived. Moping certainly never helped anyone.

Abruptly, the Balrog-slayer started whistling. It was a cheery, if unusual, tune; one that hearkened back to the time of Gondolin's glory, and while he remembered it well it had never been one of his favorites. Still, it was a happy enough ditty, and Glorfindel was expertly on key, for all that he had heard no one but himself play at it for many long years. Perhaps a lifetime, although as a twice-born, he could not always be quite sure about that. It was entirely possible that he had heard it this life, but it was as equally possible that he hadn't heard it since he'd heard that dratted Balrog roar.

Without looking up, Glorfindel casually released the snowball with enough force to knock an orc backwards…

And that was exactly what it did. Shocked, the foul creature tumbled from its precarious perch, too surprised to scream on its way off Caradhras's snowy cliffs.

When the rest of the horde rose up in supposed ambush, leaping out of the snow along the edges of the trail to drop down upon their unsuspecting prey, they instead found themselves surprised at a very prepared and entirely unsurprised band of Elven warriors.

Those who had ridden in Glorfindel's company before could recognize that hideously cheery tune he'd been whistling. It was the Balrog-slayer's signal that they were riding into an ambush and, maddeningly, he wanted them to continue riding that way without showing whatever enemies were waiting so much as a tensed jaw to give away that they were aware of the trap. Those that had not patrolled or fought with Glorfindel before had been efficiently but subtly informed of the situation by their brethren, and all the Elves had reacted accordingly. Daggers had been palmed, bows had been freed, swords had been loosened; whatever preparations the Elves had needed to make that would not be seen as preparations had been made, and when the orcs attacked they were nearly driven back in shock as their supposedly hapless targets abruptly turned the ambush on its head.

The only one who hadn't been prepared was Lord Elrond. Fully occupied in a combination of dark thoughts and a stern inner battle between Vilya and Caradhras to ensure safe passage—and to gather any information the Elf Lord could about who else had passed this way recently—the peredhel had been too absorbed within to take note of just what happy tune the irrepressible Glorfindel was so annoyingly whistling.

So, when the battle was joined, Glorfindel had waited only the scant necessary seconds to see one orc over the cliff with a snowball up its ugly nose, one orc stabbed in the gut with a quick up-jab as Glorfindel freed his sword with an extravagant flourish that aimed it perfectly between the scavenged plates of armor said orc was wearing, and one orc hauled bodily out of the air as it thought to leap upon Kelwioor's back and was, instead, tossed gently aside where its own momentum, ever-so-slightly redirected by the Gondolin Elf, carried it over the cliff to join Snowball Nose. Then, vaulting with a delicate grace from his mount's back—Kelwioor could take care of herself in a fight, and any orcs unlucky enough to be nearby, too—the Balrog-slayer not-so-delicately tackled Elrond right off his horse just as the peredhel wrenched his concentration away from the back of his eyelids to look up at the hideous creatures lunging forward.

Dark hair and golden flew with a flurry of cloaks into the snow but Elrond's horse—trained no doubt largely by his sons—knew better than to rear and, instead, turned a snorting glare at the orcs that had dared to come near. The warning taken care of, she promptly turned her hooves to them as well, as battle cries and the clash of steel on steel—and flesh—echoed distortedly through the Pass of Caradhras.

...

The part of the camp of the Last Alliance where Greenwood's warriors resided was alien and cold and broken. The few Elves that remained were for the most part huddled together in small groups of sorrow, although a few had secluded themselves with their grief. Wails of lamentation wove like ghosts on the wind through the pale tents, but it still seemed unnaturally silent.

No one else had dared set foot within their camp. The only member of the Alliance that might have dared brave such grief was Glorfindel, and he was still on the field of death and carnage. He knew when it was best to leave sorrow be and when comfort delayed would mean more than intrusive sympathy. Círdan had clasped Thranduil's arm and spoken to him, but when he sensed his words fell on deaf ears he, too, had withdrawn and left Greenwood to lick its wounds in peace.

And those were grievous wounds indeed, and none more so than those suffered within the tent of Thranduil Oropherion.

The prince sat on the gray earthen floor in silence, his shoulders shaking slightly, his eyes wide and empty but filled with shadows. The rage that had dragged him off the field by strong Noldorian arms had shattered and left him drained. His cheeks were wet with tears but his eyes were now dry crystal, blue and hard and blank. Long, thin fingers pressed against his pale face like shards of bone.

Tiraran crouched next to his lord, not daring to touch Thranduil but wanting to be near should the prince need him. His own face was white and blank and hard. The gon's eyes were gray shattered shards hard enough to cut whoever gazed at him unprepared. The knuckles of his hands shone like bone, although he was unaware that they were clenched into heavy fists. His sword gleamed at his waist, slim and bright and dangerously unbloodied.

The sisters Angmeril and Merilgais were folded in each other's arms. Tears coated their faces, and Merilgais continued to weep waterfalls of sorrow. Angmeril's grey gaze had gone cold and small and shriveled. The younger of the two sisters hiccoughed; it was the only sound in the small, crowded tent. Angmeril was trembling at least as hard as Thranduil, and her fingers twisted in her sister's long hair as if the brown strands were all that restrained her from reaching for her sword. Merilgais's hands shook as hard as her sister's shoulders; she couldn't have held the glaive that lay discarded on the floor now even if she'd been able to dash the tears from her eyes enough to see the Enemy to strike.

Engwalyg paced mindlessly, his eyes narrowed to shiny slits of burning storm-clouds. Lightning seemed to flash on the dull hilt of the blade he kept fingering. His face was strained, and his lips kept moving jerkily although no sound emerged. His black hair flowed behind his pacing like a tattered banner. His eyes kept darting from Thranduil to the flap of the tent, as if he expected yrch to come streaming in at any moment—yrch, or something worse.

Eregmegil stood near the entrance to the tent, his face a twisted mask of overwhelming grief, but his shoulders squared and strong. One hand rested protectively on the hilt of his wide sword. The other, clenched tightly in a fist at his side, trembled slightly. There were tears on his face and his eyes were fierce. He looked like an Elf that wanted to tear yrch apart with his bare hands, but was afraid that if he moved he might shatter.

The last occupant of the tightly-packed tent was heavily bandaged. Aglarmegil sat hunched against the brace of Thranduil's bedroll in the corner. One could not see the thick cloth wrapped around his middle beneath his tunic, but his unnatural pallor was deeper even than the prince's, and stemmed from more than grief alone. He was cleaner than his companions, having come from the Healing Tents rather than the outskirts of a battle, and the scratches and scrapes on his face and hands had long ago healed while he was convalescing. Nonetheless, he looked near death, hurting even more from the wounds to his spirit than the half-healed injury his body still bore. His hands were clasped together tightly, and he kept rubbing them absently while he stared through the sisters at nothing.

Only Engwalyg started when there came a voice outside the tent; the others were too fully sunk within their own sad eyes. He turned on his heel towards the entrance and threw the flap open violently. Only when the High King Gil-galad stooped to step within the tent did the other Elves shake themselves free of grief enough to stare.

"What do you want here?" Engwalyg snapped. Tiraran shot to his feet and threw his chin back haughtily, and his eyes flashed sharp and ominous. Eregmegil's fingers closed over the hilt of his heavy sword, his face was a stony mask. He stared at the Elf Lord through slits of watery grey. The sisters rose slowly, Merilgais pale as snow and trembling with anger. Angmeril stepped between Gil-galad and Thranduil and placed a hand on the long knife still in her belt. The Prince of Greenwood had not moved, save to raise his eyes and fasten them like icy knives on Gil-galad's drawn face.

The High King ignored Engwalyg. His sad grey eyes saw only Thranduil, pale and gold and brittle. Ereinion Gil-galad bowed his head. In his hands was a long, curved sword that gleamed through the Shadow and the faint streaks of black blood that still clung to the pale metal.

"My heart weeps for the grievous loss felt today," the High King said. His face was grey and streaks in the ash and dirt on his cheeks made it look lined with mortal age. "Most keenly do I regret the loss that you bear, Prince Thranduil." He nodded to the sisters, but his heavy eyes were still fastened on Thranduil. "And that of all Greenwood."

Thranduil did not move. Gil-galad did not seem to expect him to.

"The dark deeds of this day," the Noldor Lord continued, "will long live as a wound to the heart of our people and to this Alliance most especially. I cannot properly express to you the sorrow that I feel personally at the loss of your father and so many of his brave warriors."

Merilgais took a step forward but her sister, face hard and white, caught the younger maiden's arm with a grip of iron and held her to a stop.

"Oropher was a valiant warrior, a king worthy of legend, and he shall be sorely missed by all of us here. Our Alliance is diminished without his presence." The High King raised his head and took a step forward, seemingly unaware of the Greenwood warriors bunching together and ready to step between him and their lord. Their glares formed a wall that lesser beings would have shattered upon, but the Noldor Lord paid the barrier no mind. "I offer you my deepest condolences, Prince Thranduil."

Still Greenwood's golden lord did not move.

Gil-galad frowned, ever so slightly. "When you have collected yourself and feel ready, Prince Thranduil, we should take council together. Not only must we discuss how to redress this loss, but also how best to make use of Greenwood's remaining strength without putting too great a strain on your tragically diminished numbers. The Alliance—"

"The Alliance?" Thranduil spoke at last, his voice icy-calm. One heavy eyebrow arched steeply beneath a crown of frozen gold. "There can be no alliance where there is also betrayal, Ereinion Gil-galad." The High King made as if to speak but Thranduil's gaze was so cold that even the Noldor Lord hesitated beneath it. "Greenwood will still stand against Shadow," Thranduil continued, his voice dripping with scorn. "We will ever stand against the Shadow," he said quietly. "But do not think of us as your allies any longer. We are warriors on the same field, and we shall fight together to destroy the Evil of the Enemy, but we do not ally with kinslayers."

Gil-galad's eyes flashed but neither his face nor his voice wavered. He took another step forward. "You must not let your rage drive us apart, young prince," he said calmly. "Dissension is the Enemy's strongest weapon against us; we cannot give in to private grudges or irrational angers, or we all are lost. You must remember that there is only one Enemy here, and it is he that is responsible for the death of your father." Finally raising the unsheathed blade he carried, Gil-galad held it out delicately balanced on open palms towards Thranduil. "I bring your father's sword from the battlefield, Prince Thranduil. Fight with this at the side of all that stands for Good and Light in this world, and do not dishonor the Alliance for which he fought so fiercely."

Thranduil stood up and threw the blade aside. It clattered hollowly into a corner of the tent. "I am no Noldorian kinslayer," Thranduil cried, "to have my grief assuaged by some metal trinket! This is only a sword, and it means nothing!"

Ereinion Gil-galad's face was pale and his eyes were fierce stardust. "Calm yourself, prince," he said quietly, his voice heavy. "Think on what you say, and what you do, and what you may regret." Thranduil's eyes flashed just as sharply as the High King's as Gil-galad continued, gesturing to the fallen weapon. "The Blade of Oropher should wet itself again on the black blood of orcs, and in your hands—"

A small, sharp fist connected hard with Gil-galad's jaw and the High King's majesty crumpled abruptly to the ground. A silence so loud it hurt the ears rang in the crowded tent as every eye turned to stare at Angmeril standing over the stupefied form of Ereinion Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor, sprawled on the floor of Thranduil's tent.

He blinked and opened his mouth and could find nothing to say. Star-grey eyes shot from Angmeril to Thranduil and back again and still Gil-galad was too startled to speak. He touched his jaw, gently, as if he were uncertain that he had not just hallucinated the young elleth's blow. Blood trickled slowly from his split lip. His brows drew into a sharp, dark frown as the High King drew himself back to his feet with as much dignity as a Noldor Lord could muster when rising from the dust.

Angmeril threw back her head defiantly and braced herself. Merilgais stepped to her side. The other Greenwood Elves could only stare in blank astonishment. Thranduil's eyebrow quirked, and then his lips. "I believe Greenwood has spoken, my lord," he told the glowering king. Then ice-blue eyes turned dark and stormy and clouded over with shadow. "You should leave," he hissed. "Now."

Gil-galad stared a moment longer, his gaze a fierce gleam of angry starlight and ancient wrath. He did not speak again, but swirled his cloak about him in a tattered banner of blue and red and black, black blood. He brushed past the treelike form of stout Eregmegil and out through the flap and disappeared into the night of Mordor's shroud.

...

Elrond wrenched his sword roughly through a handful of cloak, tearing away the black blood that coagulated on the bright blade. His face was dark wrath of ancient days and the snow itself trembled before his rage. He glanced around the narrow pass and saw the rest of his company dispatching their final foes and cleaning their own weaponry and persons of the thick black liquid that was scattered about the pristine landscape of Caradhras like ink on fresh paper, or shadow on hope.

Gleaming like a personal beacon of hope, Glorfindel of Gondolin idly shoved a last orc that was feebly crawling for a sword, and the pitiful creature shrieked hollowly as it tumbled into the cold embrace of cruel Redhorn. The twice-born Elf's face was cheerful as he wiped a smear of blood from his pale cheek. Elrond ignored the grinning warrior, his own heart as cold as the mountain he fought with Ring and mind.

"Injuries?" Elrond barked, his tone sharp with distraction. It had been hard to fight with blade and thoughts at once, and the peredhel knew that if it had not been for the skills of his forces—including the irrepressibly, infuriatingly bright Glorfindel—he would have taken injury from one of their foul foes or, worse, lost concentration and allowed Caradhras to overwhelm them all with snow and fury.

"Only minor, my lord," one of the warriors replied, cleaning his own blade with distaste. "All are fit to ride."

Elrond nodded, ignoring the low tension between his brows that was slowly creeping towards pain, and bent his will more fiercely upon the mountain. Where the hidden ring bit into his hand, the skin was pale and white and frozen to the touch. "Do any of the Enemy live?" he asked.

That question took longer to answer. "Nay," Gildor Inglorion at last answered, shamefaced. "I fear in our wrath, my lord, we took no thought towards questioning survivors."

Imladris's Lord nodded again. His spirits were unmoved by the news; they could sink no lower than they already were. Besides, questioning orcs was a distasteful and time-consuming business that rarely proved worthwhile. Even an uruk commander would have had the potential for better information extraction, but Elrond saw here nothing but the scattered remnants of those foul creatures called goblins in lesser tongues. And beneath the inscrutable stone of his face, part of the Elven Lord feared to hear the answers the orcs might have offered. Ignorance brought them no closer to victory, but it also meant there was still a chance of hope.

"We must send word back to Imladris and the Dúnedain," Elrond said, his cold eyes scanning the warriors before him. "They must know that orcs in truth lurk in large numbers this close to our home. Even supposing that we have slaughtered all of them…" He shook his head. "A chance I dare not take. Glorfindel, you are swiftest, you shall—"

"No."

Elrond turned to stare at the gold-haired Elf, less surprised than he would have been at such a refusal from any other member of his company, but still startled enough for the shock to crack an expression across his frozen visage.

" No, my lord," Glorfindel added respectfully, but unabashed. For once, the Balrog-slayer's gaze was cold and dark. "We are riding to greater darkness than any of us could have guessed when we set out to retrieve our lost elflings, and you shall need me before the end." Glorfindel's fingers brushed lightly along the hilt of his blade. "And we must ride now swifter than before, for if the mountain has not caught our wayward younglings, then chances are great that the orcs have them in hand."

Frozen Caradhras chilled still more and the Elves shuddered. For a moment, Elrond's eyes blazed and there seemed to be a star shining from his fingers, but then he blinked and shadow descended once more. "Then fast we shall be," he said coldly. "Gildor, you—"

"Shall ride with all haste, my lord," Inglorion bowed. Disappointment mingled with fear on his pale face, but Gildor would not argue as had his cousin. He would rather trade swords with the orcs than abandon his companions now to ride back to the haven of Imladris, but he rode swiftly and he knew that word must be carried to those who waited behind. Gildor leapt lightly to the back of his horse.

"Ride fast," Glorfindel counseled, the cheer back in his eyes although it seemed more strained now than before, "and do not let unfriendly eyes mark your passage."

Gildor nodded. "Good luck to all of you," he said simply, eyes anguished as he led his horse swiftly past the rest of the Elves gathered along the narrow pass. They ignored the bodies of the orcs, leaving them for scavengers or avalanche to claim, and gathered around their lord.

Gildor glanced back, heart heavy, and took a last look at his comrades, then turned and flew over the clear snow of the pass, back down the mountain and toward Imladris and the plains between—plains that would hopefully be empty of all save the cold snow, but which might even now be crawling with orcs.

Elrond sheathed his sword and took a moment to spare the mountain a quelling gaze. Vilya was as angry as her lord at the audacity of Caradhras daring to challenge them, and the Ring felt like flowing ice on his finger. With an angry swirl of cloak, and snow, and sparkling blue, the Elven Lord swung onto his horse and gave the order to ride—ride fast.

In their wake they left glistening snow dust, and corpses, and cold black blood.

...

Thranduil stared after the High King for a long time, then turned towards the two sister-warriors in the center of the small tent. He raised his eyebrows in silent question.

Angmeril bowed, her eyes hooded and face pale as snowflowers. "My lord, I apologize for my rashness," she said haltingly, then turned and fled the tent before Greenwood's lord could speak. The others stepped back and let her go; Thranduil made no move to call out or stop her flight. Merilgais glanced at him briefly then she, too, hurried out after the flurry of her sister's departure.

"Ang!" Merilgais gasped, following the other Elf-maid out the tent's flap. "I cannot believe you!"

The Elvish gon rounded on her sister. "Meril, do not say it!" she snapped, her eyes still blazing. Around them, the camp was dark and shrouded in grief both silent and lamented to the uncaring air of Mordor's smog. There was no sign of the High King. Angmeril's eyes were bright and wet, and her fists trembled. She glowered fiercely at her sister and the apparent censure that she was in no mood to hear, for all that she knew it was well earned.

"But it is not fair," Merilgais said with a frown, "I wanted to hit him."

Angmeril blinked, her rage wilting. "Oh." She shrugged. "Then as your commander, I would have had to punish you for striking him. Better that I take the swing; I answer only to Ernil Thranduil and…" Her voice died, and she took a deep breath that was mostly sob. "I answer only to Aran Thranduil," she continued in a raw whisper. "And no other."

Merilgais wrapped an arm around her sister's shoulders and said nothing. Heads bowed, the two Elf-maidens stood alone in the cold darkness of the Elven camp.