notes: Hello all! Sorry for the delay - though it's been less of one than in past chapters... Whew. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!
Chapter 38
Elrond's body was broken.
The Witch-king had been furious with him for his near-escape. He had been dragged back to the tree on which he had been nailed, and placed once more upon it. Then the Witch-king's wrath had been exacted upon him.
Still, he had held out for some days. He had resisted the Witch-king's promises of healing, of painlessness, of forgiveness. He had resisted the visions, and the agony, and the torture. He had resisted for so long.
Until he hadn't.
"Come now, Star-child," the Witch-king said, brushing his cheek with one gloved hand. "Give in to me and accept my healing."
"And if I do?" Elrond wheezed through broken ribs pressing on his lungs, sinking bloody into them.
"If you do, I will forgive you for all your wrongs," said the Witch-king. "And with my forgiveness comes healing of your body and of your soul."
Elrond blinked against the blood in his eyes and shivered beneath the fist of pain clutching his body. "And how do I give in?" he asked.
"Just say the word," said the Witch-king. "Stop fighting me. And swear your allegiance to me."
Elrond felt coldness touch his heart-cold iron, cold ice. It had not quite sunk in yet, but it was there, pressing into his chest, reaching for his heart.
How could he continue to fight? It was a lost cause. Even if he did not give in now, he would soon lose himself to the Morgul wound. And then what healing would be there for him?
Seeming to sense his thoughts, the Witch-king said, "If you fight me until the end, until my blade pierces your heart, I will not afford you the healing I am offering. You will be bound to me in eternal agony, eternal wounding. You will be my thrall, in mind and soul, but you will never find healing or peace."
"Very well," Elrond whispered.
He could not do it any longer. He could not fight, could not contest, could not resist. The pain was too great, in body and spirit and mind. He could not bear to watch as his family was slain once more—could not bear to see his wife be tortured and raped by Orcs, his sons go mad and vengeful with grief, his daughter fade away to nothing beneath the trees of Lothlórien. He could not watch them be slain, murdered and tormented and destroyed, even once more.
He could not bear the pain in his body: the overwhelming, crushing, excruciating agony racking his bones and muscles and veins. He could not bear the shattered legs, the flail chest, the dislocated arms and shoulders and hips and knees, the carved flesh and splintered bones. He could not, could not, could not…
"Very well," he said again, softer. "Very well, I...I give in to you."
"Do you mean that, Star-child?" the Witch-king asked. "Or do you intend to go back to contesting my will once you have been healed?"
Elrond bowed his head. "I mean it," he whispered.
And he did. He could not go back to the torture and torment. He had survived so much pain already in his life, so much darkness, so much despair—and yet this was nothing like what he had faced before. It was so much worse. The despair and darkness and pain were a part of him—a part of his body, a part of his mind, a part of his very soul—in a way they had never been before. Always it had been an external force affecting him; now it was an internal one.
Such, though, was the curse of a Nazgûl. They brought and injected their despair and their pain and their darkness into their victims—into those who fought against them, into those who contested their will. Into those they tortured.
How could Elrond continue to fight that? It had been how long that he had fought? And his body had broken how far?
He was a mess: he could not breathe without agony; he could not move without excruciating pain; he could not even lift his head without screaming. So how was he to do anything but capitulate?
He had seen such horrors—such bleak futures, such terrible pasts. He had seen his worst memories countless times—been forced to relive them, time and time again—and had been forced to watch a hundred thousand permutations of horrifying futures where his family was slaughtered and slain, where he was tortured, where Rivendell burned, where Sauron won.
How could he go on seeing and living those things? How could he continue to fight, to resist, to contest the darkness growing inside of him?
"Swear to me," the Witch-king said.
"I swear to you," Elrond said, gasping through the pain, "I mean what I say."
The Witch-king, seeming satisfied, reached up and touched Elrond's forehead. The nails in his wrists and feet vanished, and Elrond fell to the ground with an agonized scream. He struck, hard, and collapsed onto the barren earth, whimpering and weeping as his shattered legs were trapped beneath him.
"Remain here," the Witch-king ordered. "This, here, is your first test of loyalty and obedience. I will return shortly—and if you are not here, I will know you to have been lying. Forsake me now, and know this, Elrond Peredhel: your spirit will be destroyed, utterly and entirely, until you are nothing but a houseless wraith trapped forever in excruciating agony."
Elrond looked up with a cry—and the Witch-king was gone.
He collapsed, still trembling and weeping in agony from the pain. There was no position he could lay in that was not excruciating, so Elrond remained where he was, crumpled into a fractured pile at the foot of the tree streaked with his blood.
Then: darkness. Not in his mind, or over his eyes, but in his head. It was a great, overwhelming, overpowering blackness that consumed all of the light in his head and in his heart, that demanded his obeisance, that commanded his attention.
Elrond lifted his head, a fresh cry burbling from his throat, and looked upon the dark figure standing before him. It was clad all in black armor: black breastplate, black pauldrons, black gauntlets, black greaves, black helm. The face within the open-fronted helmet was pale and ghastly, with onyx hair and flaming eyes.
"Bow to me," the figure said in a tongue Elrond had not heard since the end of the Second Age—a tongue Elrond knew, had learned in desperate years and more desperate times, had learned in spite of the pain it had caused him to do so. It was Black Speech.
Blood seeped from between the figure's lips at his words, dripping down his chin and to the ground. Where the blood struck the earth, it crumbled and withered, turning to ash and dust. The figure saw Elrond's eyes on it, and he laughed.
"Come, Star-child," he said, kneeling. He cupped Elrond's cheek with one hand, turning his face up to meet his eyes. Elrond shuddered and tried to draw back, away from the piercing gaze that made his blood thrum and boil, hot and heady and thick. "Bow to me, just as your brother did."
Behind the figure, flickering into existence, was a second figure. It was male—tall, broad-shouldered, bearded—with slate-silver eyes and dark hair, clad in loose shirt and breeches, and an empty sword belt.
"What…?" Elrond asked, through the pain and blood and fear choking him. "How… This is not possible…"
Elros Tar-Minyatur, Elrond's twin brother, smiled sadly. "Alas, brother," he said, and his voice echoed as if from underwater, "the Necromancer has bound me to his spirit by a fragment of my own blade. I am as real as you are."
Elrond's eyes snapped back to the Necromancer's. "Release him," he commanded, sounding stronger than he had in weeks. "What use can you have for the houseless spirit of a Man? He—it—"
The Necromancer laughed. "Oh, Star-child," he said, voice slick and smooth. "As if I would give up one of my favorite toys. Not my favorite," and here he grinned, revealing bloodied teeth behind bloodied lips, "for that honor shall fall to you—it has been long and long again since I desired your bondage—but one of my favorites."
"No," Elrond groaned.
"Now," the Necromancer said, "bow to me."
"No," Elrond groaned again. "No, I will not— I cannot—"
"Bow to me, or I shall torment you again, even worse than you have ever yet experienced. Bow to me, or I shall wait until my Morgul blade pierces your heart, and you are bound in eternity as my thrall—and then I shall torture you further, for daring to resist me. Bow to me, and I will be a kind and merciful lord. Bow to me, and you shall be reunited with your brother, as you never thought you would be again. Bow to me, Elrond Peredhel."
If you can hear me, Elrond, a voice suddenly said, echoing around the tree, around the figure before him, around Elros, then hear me.
Elrond's head snapped up, accompanied by another cry of pain. He looked around—but neither the Necromancer nor Elros seemed to have heard the voice.
You are more powerful than the darkness holding you at bay, the voice said. You have the blood of the Maiar in your veins. His blood, already hot and woken, screamed. So wake up and use it.
The Necromancer shifted his hand from Elrond's cheek to his chin, gripping tight. "Well, Star-child?" he asked.
Elrond's breath came in short, sharp gasps. His heart pounded. His chest hurt.
"Bow to me!"
"I will not," Elrond gasped—and wrapping himself in the power of his blood, Elrond shifted form as he had not done since the aftermath of his twin's death. He stretched wings suddenly unbroken and took to the sky in the form of a great, white bird, just as his mother once had long, long, long ago.
end notes: Okay, so I have the next few chapters written - so we can go back to our deal. 8 reviews and I'll post immediately, otherwise it'll be Tuesday. I hope to hear from you!