Thanks to LayneWolf for the prompt about the Three knowing that Khamûl is destroyed - good way to punctuate the timings.
For Nelya- my orthopedic friend! Thank you:). Your advice has really helped.
Thanks as always to my very generous beta, Anarithilien
There are probably about 2 or 3 chapters left in this story.
Translations
Alarca: like code, the Rings are most like micro-computers packed with a technology that we don't have.
Astra: atoms
Dagor Dagoreth: The last battle between Morgoth and the 'forces of Good'
Hyellë: Glass, but the Glass that the Mirror is made of.
Hyellë-Vírin: the Three's name for themselves
Raitafintë: making, almost like programming.
Yôzâira: Gift of Longing, the name the Nazgûl have used to Elrohir for Legolas. Here the Three are also using it.
Chapter 54: A decision made
Elrond did not hurry to the Tower though he felt the summons, imperious and commanding. Galadriel was there. Waiting. She had sworn to release Maedhros in return for Elrond's help, and to turn back Time to before all this… though they had not yet agreed to which point they would return.
He sat on the edge of his bed staring at the red leather-bound book, the Sarmë Teúcaremmar Telperinquar, which lay on a table, firmly closed. He had not dared to open it though he felt his gaze dragged back to it over and over. It contained such knowledge, such power. It was more dangerous than any weapon, he thought to himself. No wonder it had been stolen long ago and hidden in the archives, but he wondered who had taken it and why they had left it there, still open, as if someone had been reading it and just got up for a moment - never to return.
Or perhaps they had become afraid and simply run away from the huge impossibilities that the book proposed, he thought, for his own heart misgave more and more and he was full of doubt. Could this be the start of the Dagor Dagoreth, he asked himself. For Erestor and Glorfindel had encountered the Balrog, Ruinátoró, in the Glass at Phellanthir. There was no question that the Mirror was indeed a door into the vaults of the Dark. And a Balrog was not the worst thing in there.
He rubbed a hand over his eyes. For the first time, Elrond wondered if Sauron's hand were not in this somewhere, and that perhaps it was not true that he had never touched or sullied the Three. Perhaps this was his true goal after all?
Pushing himself to his feet, Elrond sighed and stood beside the table. The book, the Mirrors, posed more questions than they solved. He let his finger drift over the familiar signs of Celebrimbor etched into the leather in gold leaf.
Perhaps Sauron could not open the way into the Dark? Perhaps the Nazgûl could not either? Perhaps they were waiting to find this book? His finger flipped open the front cover, and he smiled at the signs on the frontispiece, the emblems of the House of Feanor, inscribed with such defiance and pride. All Celebrimbor.
Erestor had said that the Nazgûl had wanted Aícanaro, which had the reputation of being able to cut through anything. Its astra was the densest material Elrond had ever seen and he had wondered at its making. The forge alone was not enough to temper such stuff that Aícanaro was made of. And there was too the legend that one day Aícanaro that would defeat Morgoth.
He pursed his lips, thinking. Then he poured a cup of thin white wine, acid and fresh. It cleared his thoughts a little.
So Aícanaro was important in this. And so is the book.
He gazed out of the window across the pink tiled roofs of the city below, and thought about the men and women who lived here, about all those who had fought in this War of the Ring, who had triumphed. The Hobbits who had sacrificed so much. Gimli. And Legolas, who had brought light into the bitter guilt-ridden heart of his son. He remembered all the sons he had fostered over the generations of Men. Aragorn. Elessar. The King Returned.
To roll back Time would be to undo everything he had worked for. For Age after Age.
He leaned his hands on the smooth stone of the window sill and bowed his head.
Given the knowledge he had now, if they went back, would he deny Arwen her Choice? Would he lock her up then in a tower of elegance and beauty but a prison? Would he deny her heart, her womb of the children who would play in these gardens? He could see still the joy in her as she pledged herself forever to the mortal life.
No. I would not change that, he said. I would not deny her for my own selfish heart.
So resolved and heavy of heart, Elrond turned and picked up the Sarmë Teúcaremmar Telperinquar and looked about the room. He was resolved now; he would not give this to Galadriel, and he would persuade her of the wrongness of what she proposed. He felt Vilya tremble. Her sudden rapid casting about to catalogue his action, to slot it easily into the pattern of their plan. When it did not, she shrilled a warning to her sisters and he felt Galadriel's attention shift to him. Nenya's quiet command to him to bring the book was oppressive, heavy on his mind and he paused…
Bring it, Galadriel said. And then more comforting, we will look together.
Under the window of the small antechamber was an oak chest. It contained all the linen the maids used for his room. Carefully he slid the book into the bottom of the chest, beneath the crisp linen sheets. His rebellion was momentous, he knew.
He pulled his long leather boots on and tugged a tunic over his shirt and breeches, aware of the displeasure of the Hyellë-Vírin, their belief in his betrayal.
Nevertheless, he strode quickly through the Palace gardens towards the Tower. Above, Aragorn's black banner with the White Tree fluttered in a warm breeze from the west. The Tree glimmered as if it were sewn with crystals instead of thread.
Two Men in rich and courtly robes walking past, bowed their heads to him respectfully and paused as if they would speak but he simply inclined his head at them and strode past.
He hurried beneath the windows where his sons were lodged, glancing upwards as he passed. These past days he had not seen Elrohir and had wanted desperately to reach out, to search for his son and make sure he was well. But he knew better; it would anger Elrohir, and Elrond's newly forged trust with his son was still too tender to press.
The Tower loomed over Elrond, a finger of shadow falling over the Palace, its gardens and over the Citadel beyond the Palace walls. It seemed portentous.
A short fat counsellor was walking quickly along the same path as Elrond, his face familiar. He saw Elrond and bowed. 'My lord Elrond.'
Elrond returned his greeting and the Man looked as if he were about to pause and Elrond prepared to ignore him and continue in his purpose, but at that very moment, Vilya surged excitedly. Electrical charges prickled his fingers and he reeled under their sudden excitement, throwing out a hand to steady himself. He was held in a strong grip quite suddenly.
Who had they found? Who, or what was the Yôzâira? The Gift of Longing? he thought dazed.
He blinked slowly.
'My lord?' said the counsellor, his bright brown eyes were thoughtful and concerned. His hand clasped Elrond's and his grip was stronger than expected. 'Are you well? You reeled for a moment.'
'Yes.' Elrond blinked slowly letting the world come into focus once more.
He remembered the Man's name. Arwen thought highly of him. 'Thank you, Aradhel.'
The Man smiled, a kindly smile that spoke of a generous heart. 'Do you need anything my lord. I can fetch you some water, or the Queen if that will help. She is in the Council chamber but I know she will come immediately.'
'No,' Elrond said, with a tight smile. 'But thank you. It was a moment only and I am recovered.' Aradhel bowed and gave him a curious, thoughtful glance and watched as Elrond walked slowly on.
A little further on, Elrond spread his hand and stared down at the mithril ring. Its blue stone glimmered, shot with radiance and hard brilliance. She radiated with anticipation, excitement. 'What is this Yôzâira?' he asked urgently. 'Who are you looking for?'
But she was angrily silent, keeping her secrets. He felt the prickling in his fingertips as Vilya and her sisters were charging, the alarca whirring and clicking, buzzing, feeding off each other. But they would not speak to him. They had locked him out, angry at his treachery, he supposed.
He glanced back over his shoulder; Aradhel was still standing there, watching Elrond. He lifted his hand in thanks and the little Man smiled and nodded, but he remained watching.
If Galadriel succeeded, this Man and all he loved would cease, Elrond thought. And he turned with renewed purpose and threw open the door of the Tower of Ecthelion.
0o0o
The Hyellë-Vírin swirl and entwine and interface. Alarca buzz and pop. Calculations, numbers whizz through the long tendrils they wind about each other. Equations, long, complex. Unravel.
They are confused by Elrond. His rebellion is unexpected. Without the Sarmë Teúcaremmar Telperinquar they are a little lost. But not completely. And anyway, there is one smooth wave of astra; it surges inexorably, seeking all possibilities at the same time. The Three understand that all possibilities exist at this moment.
This time it might be different, they tell themselves. This time, Khamûl might not escape. The Yôzâira has tracked him down. He may stop Khamûl, before he can destroy everything, before he can release the storm, the violence and destruction that lurks within Aícanaro. This time Yôzaîra's coming is in time. This time he may not be too early, too late. Maybe this time, he will survive. Maybe this time… This time… This time…
Nenya moves first. She is inexorable. When impediments move to intercept her, she simply blasts them with light and leaves them trembling and stunned, standing numbly as her bearer passes like a dream. She could do this to Elrond but Vilya, in spite of his treachery, will not allow it.
The Hyellë-Vírin swirl about each other, calculating, evaluating, assessing, quantifying the risk…Nenya is with the Hyellë. Artanis is safe. We have her secure. We have filled the heart of Artanis with longing for her lost child. Her only child. We have made her dream of her child's torment so she can no longer think of anything else. They have shown her the power she could have, to roll back Time, to unravel the threads… to give her back Findaráto.
Ólorin. Will he oppose us? Yes. He always has, but this is not the only possibility.
Ikeime, Elrond, is the Key. He opposes us.
But only this way.
There is still another way.
But we have lost the Sarmë Teúcaremmar Telperinquar.
Ikeime has it.
Vilya listens. She is quiet at the moment, the air very still. She is a storm waiting to rush over the Sea, the wind gathering up water to throw onto the land in apparent carelessness.
But the Hyellë-Vírin are anything but careless. They search, scan the city, throwing out long tendrils of alarca, netting upon other sources of power. Not for the Sarmë Teúcaremmar Telperinquar. They know where that is and it is a little thing to retrieve it. No. Their power and alertness is entirely focused on tracking Khamûl.
Their enemy. He is the greatest threat and they must stop him.
Then they find him, the crouching darkness in the White City. A dark blot that scuttles in the shadows. It is moving fast towards the Citadel.
No. It has stopped.
They scramble around the data they have stored in their memory; locating the darkness in the city. They find two warm, pulsing bodies moving inexorably towards each other. Hey know the signatures of both. One is Elrohir Elrondion, Ravéyön. Then the other is Legolas Thranduillion… the Yôzâira.
He is already there, confronting Khamûl, they hum excitedly. It is their excitement that overwhelms Elrond and makes him stagger so that he is caught by Aradhel.
Perhaps he will defeat Khamûl this time? Perhaps he will survive. Their calculations build and build upon each other's alarca so that the long equations of perfect balance, perfect numbers, wind about each other. Perfect structures. Perfect logic. Calculating the endless possibilities.
They watch Khamûl creeping towards their bright Yôzâira, they can hear Yôzaîra's heart beats, and the alarca of his body and fëa interfaces softly with theirs, exchanging data, information.
All possibilities exist, they whisper to each other.
And then, Aícanaro is in the hand of the Yôzâira. Aícanaro, a single force of astra that alone can break the Hyellë. In this, Aícanaro is their enemy and their ally. They need him and they are threatened by him. They dare not destroy Aícanaro for it has been foretold that Aícanaro will destroy Morgoth.
Aícanaro despises them. Hates the way they seek to wrest control, to override his own Raitafintë.
Yôzâira….strikes! They feel the immensity of the moment; Khamûl is unravelling. Alarcana is disintegrating, being thrown across the distance, far into Space and deep into Time. There is a soft boom across the city.
Khamûl is gone from this possibility.
0o0o0o0o
In the city below, a spire of grey dust was thrown up into the darkening sky. The citizens of the city froze, their heads turned like nervous horses. They braced themselves, asking if Sauron had returned? Was it another siege? The Tower guard spilled out of the barracks and ran towards the explosion. Gimli Gloinssion lead the charge.
In the Tower of Ecthelion, Galadriel narrowed her eyes and turned towards the stairway, waiting for the Ring Bearers. Nenya flashed on her finger.
Elrond stopped and turned, and then he ran swiftly up the stone staircase towards Galadriel. He wondered in that moment if he should have brought the book after all.
0o0o
Ólorin was already on his way when he felt Khamûl's demise. Galadriel's call had already summoned him, commanded him. It was, he supposed, what he had been waiting for. The moment had been shimmering on the edge of his consciousness, a suspicion, like so much else in this world; he half felt things, premonitions, the weight of a moment that suddenly seemed portentous. Like meeting Bilbo Baggins for the first time and knowing that it was important that he went on the Quest.
But he also understood why he knew these things were important, or that he had to be somewhere at a particular time; he understood about the resonance of things that had already happened, or that were yet to happen but that WOULD resonate through Time and Space, and so he knew that THIS moment was what he had been waiting for, ever since the destruction of the One Ring.
The Wizard hurried toward the Tower of Ecthelion, striding swiftly, his staff banging on the paved road as he went. He did not pause at the gates for the guards knew him well and nodded him through with a bow. But when he strode though the open door of the Tower of Ecthelion, he saw the slackness of the guards' faces as if they were asleep though they stood on their feet, and he was angry that this was Nenya's work; preparing the way, clearing all obstacles.
Taking two, three steps at a time with a speed that belied his appearance, Gandalf found himself facing the door of the same cell in which Bearos had been imprisoned. The door was tightly shut and his spell was still upon it he was relieved to see. The evening light fell into the space before it, gleamed upon Galadriel.
She had half turned to gaze upon him as he arrived, the white silk of her gown twisted around her, accentuating the womanliness of her shape, her long hair was a sheet of spun gold down her back. Her smile was so joyful that for a moment he was as dazzled as she intended.
'Mithrandir, welcome. My dear friend.' She held out her hand to him, Nenya gleamed with delight equal to her mistress. He could not resist and clasped her pale, elegant hand in his gnarled, weathered hands, pressed his lips to her skin.
Ah, she was beautiful - he could not help it.
'My lady,' he said and felt like kneeling before her.
'We are all here,' she said triumphantly, sweeping her dress back and stepping slightly to one side so that he could see Elrond already there.
There was a flicker of annoyance in her eyes as she looked at Elrond and his face was stony, defiant.
Galadriel's voice took on a triumphant tone. 'It is done! Khamûl is gone. We are free!'
0o0o
In the city, below the Citadel square in an almost deserted part of the merchants' quarter, the dust was settling and the world had fallen quiet. Dust settled over Legolas' eyelashes, his lips, in his ears and nostrils. He felt the dreadful weight of stone upon him. He felt like he was drowning, for the dust filled his nostrils when he breathed he sucked in a mouthful of dust. Under his hand he felt rubble. Panicked, he moved, finding he could only move his fingers, then his hand. He spat out the dust in his mouth and blew hard out of his nose first and then breathed in hard, sucking in air like he was suffocating. Rubble and small pebbles moved suddenly and he froze, fearful that he might cause yet more collapse.
He remembered tumbling down the stairs, shoving Elrohir in front of him, trying to reach the door before the Ring was utterly destroyed and brought the whole house crashing around them.
There was a sliver of light above him. He moved his head slightly.
'Legolas!"
Legolas almost wept with relief. He moaned weakly and dug his fingers into the gravel and stones and rubble. He could breathe a little more easily now.
Suddenly the stones above him moved and the small pebbles fell around him. He pushed his face down into to earth beneath him and braced himself. But the heavy stones above him kept shifting and suddenly there was light and the heaviness lifted.
A desperate groan came from above and a Song brushed over him: Elrohir! His own Song reached out to Elrohir like a drowning man and his mouth tried to form the beloved name but all he heard was a rasping moan. He realised it was his own voice.
'Legolas!' His name was followed by a heavy grunt and the stones moved again and now he could move his head. Something warm dripped on his cheek. He blinked the dust from his eyes and squinted against the light.
'I am here, I am here. Hold on!' It was his beautiful, noble, heroic Elrohir. His voice desperate and full of love. Elrohir. His beloved Elrohir. No shadow upon him, no Ghoul hunkered down in his belly. Legolas tried to speak, but again only a low moan came from his lips.
Light seeped into the darkness where Legolas lay, and the rubble shifted. He heard Elrohir's grunts and the strain of lifting great chunks of stone. How can he lift this when I have cut his hand so badly? he thought.
Suddenly the weight was lifted from him. Gentle hands lifted him up from between the stones, a hand brushed his eyes, his lips. He was aware of sensations but was too sore, too bruised to do anything more. He felt himself dragged, stones falling as he scraped jerkily along the rough ground. He bit down on the groans but as he was pulled over the sharp and rough ground. He could not help but cry out. He heard a muttered curse as Elrohir shifted and tried to lift him.
'Oh my Legolas, my dearest Legolas. How can you ever forgive me?'
A warmth and crimson presence enveloped him in love. His Song soared up to meet Elrohir's, and then there he was; Elrohir leaned over him, looking down. His beautiful, noble face was clear, and his grey eyes gazed at Legolas with adoration. He reached down with one hand and clasped Legolas' hand and then sank to his knees before him.
'I love you,' Legolas murmured back hoarsely and felt Elrohir clasp him close. He lifted his face up towards Elrohir and pressed his lips against Elrohir's, more chastely than they had ever done before. He felt a wave of devotion that was pure and unambiguous, with not a trace of lust. Just love. They clung to each other amidst the wreckage of the house and waited for someone to come.
And then Legolas saw Elrohir's mutilated hand, bloodier than it had been before, the remaining fingers clawed in pain.
'Forgive me,' he whispered, clutching at Elrohir's tunic. 'What have I done to you?' Weakly he tried to clasp his own hand over Elrohir's. 'You will bleed to death. You must staunch the bleeding.'
Elrohir shook his head and pulled Legolas close. Burying his face in his beloved Elrohir's shoulder, Legolas felt his consciousness drift in and out. 'You must go, get help,' he said quietly. 'I cannot bear to lose you for this.' He smelled of dust and damp, of blood.
'Khamûl is gone,' Elrohir murmured softly. 'I cannot feel him. He has gone. Forever.'
They held onto each other tightly, and Elrohir gently pressed his lips to Legolas' head.
'Please,' Legolas tried to push Elrohir away but his arms were so sore and bruised. 'You must go and get help for your hand. Send someone for me.'
But Elrohir did not stir. His arms were around Legolas.
They sat amongst the rubble, leaning against each other, both too tired and sore to move. Both bruised and cut and bloody. Elrohir kept his mutilated hand up and against his chest but Legolas knew it was not enough.
Legolas felt himself begin to drift into unconsciousness and Elrohir stroked his head. 'Sleep,' he said. 'I will keep watch.'
Legolas smiled and tried to turn his head towards the citadel, for he heard a Song like a bronze bell, but accompanied by a martial determination. 'Gimli is coming,' he said.
Elrohir nodded. 'Of course he is,' he said weakly, and smiled through bruised lips.
Legolas let his head fall back upon the broad chest of Elrohir, heard the strong heartbeat. He closed his eyes, smiling as they waited for Gimli.
0o0oo
