For Earthdragon who gets it

Notes: If you have not read anything of the Sons of Thunder arc before, you don't need to know anything to enjoy this but these notes might just give you a bit of background. These are very glancing references.

* The Mirror is a reference to Where the Shadows Lie, the previous fic to this one. Just know that there was a Mirror made by Celebrimbor and that it was stolen from him by the Nazgul when they razed Hollin. It was intended to provide the Nazgul with a doorway out of the Void and back into the world. Gandalf found it in Minas Morgul and brought it to Minas Tirith, where it caused much trouble!

*The reference to Maglor's arrival on Amon Sul: this happens at the end of Through a Glass Darkly. You don't have to know anything about this, just that Maglor was there and saved Glorfindel's life.

*Lastly, in Where the Shadows Lie, Elrohir ends up being buried under a collapsed house. Legolas pulls him out.

Tyr Gorthad- the Barrow Downs

Beta: the very lovely Anarithilen.

Chapter 9 The Lost Stone of Amon Sul

In the silent chamber, beneath the ruined tower of Amon Sul, Elrohir stood in the utter silence. Only the thin light from the tinderbox splint penetrated the complete darkness, flickered over the still and silent Palantir. Its obsidian darkness did not reflect the light but seemed to absorb it completely and that unnerved Elrohir. It reminded him a little of the Mirror.*

He stood and stared at the sphere for a long moment. It was smaller than he expected, easily held in the palm of one hand, smaller than the legend claimed and smaller indeed than either the Orthanc stone, or the cursed stone of Minas Tirith. Both shared a sentience, and both had been corrupted, Elrohir thought.

When Aragorn had brought the Orthanc Stone to Helm's Deep, Elrohir had felt its beguiling call. There was something too aware about it. But, he thought, the Orthanc stone had lured Saruman to his doom, and the Minas Tirith stone too had driven Denethor mad. Had Aragorn not asked him, he would not have come. Had Arwen not added her voice, reminding him of the third prophesy of Malbeth, that the kingdoms would only reunite when the lost stone was restored to its rightful owner, he would not have left Legolas' side.

They had said bitter words when they parted. Now he wished he had insisted to Aragorn that he tell Legolas what he was doing. They could have had this adventure together. No, he admitted to himself; it was not only that Aragorn had wanted secrecy, Elrohir had wanted to protect Legolas, and he could hardly have told his beloved that.

He rubbed his thumb over the stump where his ring finger should be. It throbbed. At least, he told himself, Legolas was safe and far away in warm and sunny Ithilien.

With a sigh, he glanced around the painted chamber as if it might assuage the guilt he felt for his deception. The thin splinter of light showed him the painted figures, the history of Amon Sul. It occurred to him that here might be an answer at least to how the stone came to be in this place and not drowned in Forochel as the stories told.

Lifting the steady flame of the splint, he moved around the chamber, noting the different scenes. It seemed that the story of the coming of Elendil started nearest the door and so, he reasoned, his answer lay on the furthest side from the door. Sure enough, there was the coming of Angmar painted as a dark shadow over the hills, and the figures of the Kings of Arnor standing against him. Elrohir drew closer and frowning, peered at the nearest scene; here was the King, he thought. A gold crown was clear upon his head, a tiny ring of Barahir glinted on his finger, but so distinctly that there was no confusion in Elrohir's mind that this was Arnor's king. But which? Arveleg? Or the Last King, Arvedui?

Beside the king was another man. Lesser that the king perhaps, shorter, slighter built, but greater than those others around him. One hand was upon the bridle of a distinctive Cardolan horse, with the typical flaxen coat and distinctive black mane and tail. Was this a Prince of Cardolan clasping the hand of the King of Arnor and Aragorn's ancestor? Pledging his allegiance?

He could not be sure which King of Arthedain it was, but Elrohir thought it looked like a meeting after battle. He frowned. Some of the Kings of Arthedain had indeed won battles against Angmar, but they had lost the war that had lasted 500 years. He leaned closer and changed his mind: it was before the battle maybe? A promise made? There was something cupped in the King of Arthedain's hands, and he was proffering it to Cardolan as if it were a gift. He leaned closer to peer at the gift when he saw that another figure stood behind the king, taller, raven black hair and a helm with a long plume that reached his waist. The helm clasped his face like cupped hands.

Elrohir stared in shock. It could not be! He recognised that helm. He had seen it once before, about two years ago in this very place. The same helm, armour that moved sinuously like fish scales, a sword that had not been seen since the First Age…

Maglor.

Surely Maglor had not been here at this meeting between Arthedain and Cardolan?

Elrohir shook himself. If he had been there, what had been his purpose? Had he been influential in brokering the peace between the Men? Fascinated, he leaned forwards, holding the splint close to the walls. He wanted to see if Maglor appeared again and moved his hand so the small circle of flame illuminated the next panel.

Here, the King's men were far away, his people on horses seemed to be running for a distant hill. Fornost? In the forefront of the scene there was a range of low hills, dotted about with strange stones. Tyrn Gorthad, thought Elrohir. It was here that Cardolan had made his last stand and almost every one of his people slaughtered. The scene showed the slaughter. The prince was shown as if he were the last standing and beset by many enemies, then the next scene showed Cardolan falling under the crushing blow of Angmar himself.

Elrohir sighed heavily and stood for a moment. Then he saw something strange; a single rider stood upon a distant hill as if watching the last stand of Cardolan. Elrohir wondered if this were Maglor again but he could not be sure for the man had no helm or armour. A mere bystander? A messenger perhaps? The man's horse beneath him looked as if it strained to run but he restrained it, watching the horror. A satchel was at the man's side, it bulged slightly and his hand rested protectively upon it. His cloak was a burgundy colour and his tunic grey with a black device upon his chest that Elrohir did not recognise. Elrohir had an impression that the rider was appalled, helpless as he watched.

Elrohir shifted to look at the next scene, and realised it was the last one. This showed the same man, he could tell from the burgundy cloak. Elrohir frowned and peered more closely. There was something…. The man was standing in a dark place, and the satchel at his side was flat for his hands reached towards a stand, a plinth and in his hands was a tiny black sphere.

With a shock, Elrohir realized what he was seeing; this was the very last scene and it had been painted by the mysterious messenger. For it was he who had placed the Palantir upon the very plinth behind him.

Elrohir turned his head to stare at the Palantir. No one had touched it since that day the unknown man had replaced it here. It had not gone to Fornost as the stories told. It had rested here, unknown and in secret for all the centuries past. There was a faint thrill in his veins for this was a lost treasure, hidden for an Age of Men. Rumoured to be made by Feanor himself.

Slowly he reached for the black sphere, feeling the air crackle under his fingertips. An intense impulse seized him, to look. Just once. To see…all there was.

He found himself leaning forward, and at first he saw his own face reflected in the strange surface. It was glass, he thought. Strangely different, but glass nevertheless. His own face seemed detached from his body, moved through the darkness like he was caught somehow within the sphere itself. He frowned but his reflection did not change and he was puzzled. Lifting his hand, he intended to touch it but sudden heat shot through the sphere. He felt it under his hands, physical heat, not just warmth but like a fire too close. Ribbons of crimson streaked across the surface.

No, he realised. Not on the surface, but within the stone itself. As if the sphere itself were hollow and contained something he could not quite make out. He could not help himself then and peered again into the sphere.

The ribbons of crimson faded now and his own face was reflected again in the obsidian surface, the bones of his face, his straight nose and mouth, lips parted in wonder. But it was not his face, he realised with a shock. There were subtle differences in the eyes, the shape of the mouth. There were lines of grief and yearning that should never appear on an elvish face. It touched his heart and he reached out once again and just lightly brushed his fingertips against the dark skin of the sphere … and he could swear that his hand sank slightly in the surface.

Abruptly he pulled back, cold horror creeping down his spine. For the second time he was reminded of the Mirror of Minas Morgul. He stared for a moment and then there was nothing. The face was gone.

Suddenly the fingers of his other hand burned and he was plunged into darkness. For a moment he thought it was some power of the stone but it was only because the splint had burned out. He groped for the tinderbox and fumbled inside it for another splint. But that had been the last one. Cursing, he struck the flint and a brief flare of light was thrown around the chamber. He saw the brightly coloured walls, the plinth, the sphere. And then the light died. He struck it again for a horror had started to creep up from his belly to this chest, then to his throat and he heard his own breath rasping.

I need to get out, he thought, panicked with the fear of being buried alive, a fall of rock. He had treated Baranor too ill for loyalty, he would not search for Elrohir should the tunnel and chamber collapse. No one would know he was here. He would perish alone and unlooked for, like Baldor the Hapless. Legolas would never know what had happened…

No. He pulled himself up like he would a bolting horse. He was being hysterical. The light had gone out, that was all. A dim crimson glow came from the stone as if his touch had ignited something within it and he hesitated. But it was light and he had no other. He was aware of the similarity between what he was about to do and the depiction of the king cupping his hands about the Palantir as if it were a gift. He did that now, lifting it from its plinth and suppressing the shudder of revulsion at the way his hands sank slightly into the skin of the sphere like it was a skin filled with water rather than glass.

Barely breathing with fear that some unseen spirit, perhaps the burgundy cloaked man, would suddenly appear to bring vengeance and hell down upon Elrohir's head, he moved with the Palantir, slowly towards the doorway. But nothing happened. The sphere simply gave a slight glow, enough to find the doorway for him to scramble through, enough to show him the low roofed tunnel, the stony floor. He held it before himself as if it were a gift, but it threw a long shadow as well and he remembered some of the lines from Malbeth's third prophesy:

Over the Sea there lies a long shadow,

Ancient ghosts enslaved by the Dark.

The ruined Tower trembles,

For what is beneath the earth, devours bones;

That which was lost must be found

For the hour will have come for the Faithful

What is it that is beneath the earth that devours bones, he thought with a growing horror? He thought how stale was the air, how it smelt of stone and old tombs. Suddenly he remembered the chittering ghouls that had clung to the shadow of the Nazgul, to Angmar. This place was Angmar's. This was where he had killed Arveleg, and routed the Dúnedain so they had never returned here. This was where he had chosen to attack Glorfindel, to stab Frodo with a morgul blade. He almost felt the sharp little teeth of the ghouls and chittering things that clung to the Witchking's train.

His heart pounded in his chest, not from exertion, but from panic, and fear. His feet stumbled and stubbed against stones in the tunnel, ones they had dropped, or that had fallen from the baskets they had used to lug the rocks cleared from the tunnel. He flung out a hand to steady himself, and found his shirt thrown over the stone he had moved in order to enter the painted chamber. Snagging it, he tugged it over his head and groped his way with his free hand along the rough stone of the tunnel wall.

Did he imagine that the Palantír glowed a little more brightly? Was it feeding off his fear? A smell seemed to envelop him, old stone. Stale air. Like an old tomb.

Behind him, there was a rumble, as if something had stirred deep in the heart of the ruined fortress. As if something were angry that its great treasure had been taken. Small stones clattered around him. In panic, he shoved the stone into his shirt, as if it might hide his theft, as he hurried through the tunnel, groping his way along the rough stone walls.

Another rumble and the floor under his feet shuddered. Dust clouded the stale air and he covered his nose and mouth with his arm, gripping the Palantir under his arm.

There was pale dim light somewhere ahead.

Daylight. He cried out in spite of himself and scrambled hastily towards it.

Suddenly there was a figure ahead of him, reaching towards him, pulling him towards a square of bright light that was the doorway. Baranor gripped his shoulder and Elrohir let himself be bundled towards the daylight and shoved up out of the pit and into the daylight.

Elrohir's throat was coated in dust and he could only cough. When Baranor handed him a water bottle, he took it gratefully and drank it all greedily, but he carefully concealed the sphere in his shirt and at the first opportunity, hid it beneath his tunic.

The earth shuddered again and Baranor stared at him, startled. Then he ran over to the entrance. 'No! It's collapsing!' He leapt into the pit as if he might return underground.

'No! Stop! Baranor!' Elrohir shouted.

But Baranor had disappeared and Elrohir threw himself after him. He grabbed Baranor's arm and shoved him back against the wall of the pit just as the stones of the tunnel shuddered again and the tunnel began to collapse.

'Come away!' Elrohir cried and dragged the Man out of the pit but Baranor struggled against him, his handsome face anguished.

'But the Palantir! Let me go, Elrohir! I can get there before it collapses completely.'

But Elrohir was stronger by far than Baranor and he held him tightly. 'No. You will not go back in there. It is too dangerous. We are done here.' He shook Baranor, forced him to look at him. 'We are done.'

Baranor stared at him in shock. 'You cannot mean to leave it? We can fetch more men. Horses. We can dig it out.'

'No.' Elrohir gave the Man a long look. 'There is no point in any more endeavour.' He resisted the urge to brush his hand over the sphere. 'We leave tomorrow.'

Baranor's face was bereft. 'Was it there? Did you see it?'

'It is not there. It is gone.' Elrohir turned his deep grey eyes toward the horizon where the sun was sinking over in the West, above the Tower Hills. His face was marble, betraying nothing for though he spoke the truth, he had not answered Baranor's question.

'All that, all those long years of searching, wasted.' Baranor covered his eyes with his hand. 'For nothing. The dream of uniting the kingdom will never be fulfilled.'

Elrohir turned his head to look at him and parted his lips as if to speak, but something stopped him.

'Do you think then it is drowned in the Bay of Forochel as they tell it?' Baranor lifted his head and looked at Elrohir. For a moment he looked so young, forlorn and Elrohir traced the likeness to Halbarad, his father, in the fine bones of his face, the full mouth. Something wrenched in his heart for he and Halbarad had ridden together often on their errantry and Halbarad was a steadfast comrade, unflinching, unyielding. As pitiless as Elrohir himself.

He shrugged. 'We will never know exactly what happened, nor how the story came to the Dúnedain that it was still here. Malbeth's Prophesies are merely a collection of fragments. We do not know whether we read them correctly…Come, 'he said almost gently. 'We should leave it now. Let the ivy and brambles and deer have it. We are done here.'

Far away, the long rays reached from the West, over the Shire and the Barrow Downs where Cardolan lay restlessly and with no peace. The fading sun cast long shadows over the ruined hill and a bat whisked over their heads, flitted between the trees. Elrohir brushed the dust and grit from his hair and wiped his hand over his face. It came away streaked with dust and dirt. Like his soul, he thought. What's one more lie? But he wondered why he had not told Baranor the truth. The Palantír lay nestled against his skin and it was warm. He turned and pulling his cloak over his shoulders, strode off towards the old ruined and overgrown road that led back down from the hill.

Ooo