Chapter 8
The waves carried the dhow through the surf and onto the beach as if she were invited. Elrohir was moving and jumping off the front of the ship even before she settled into her final resting spot on the cold, dark sand.
"Stay with the ship! Watch the waves!" he commanded Egrahil as he dashed into the falling rain. He had no idea where he should go, or whether Elladan and Estel would have even reached the shore by now, all he had to go on was the reassuring thrum of his bond with Elladan, letting him know that if nothing else, at least his twin was alive and conscious. It was the only reassurance he found on the empty beach amid the cold, wrathful storm.
The wind tore at his hair and clothes, stronger here than even on the open sea, more violent, more visceral. The foul voices on the wind were stronger, too, piercing wails of dread and despair that seemed to bore into his very soul. And they were still increasing in violence.
He stumbled along, keeping close to the water's edge, looking for any sign of his brothers when he suddenly became keenly aware that he had been spotted himself - by less than friendly eyes. A shudder ran through him that had nothing to do with the icy winds.
He had to keep moving, had to evade the questing gaze of the unearthly eyes that were now on him. But it was to no avail. A terrible screech tore through the air and Elrohir winced, covering his ears against the hateful sound. He could feel the chill of fear take hold and recognition sparked inside him: this was the same voice that had hissed venom-filled questions through the palantir, the same Úlair that had invaded his mind and had cast the Black Shadow on him.
Strangely, the realization brought with it a newfound calm, a freeing sense of inevitability as destiny locked into place. A chance of redemption.
Too long had he been cowering from that voice, from the memories of his time in Minas Tirith's dungeons. Too long had he been blaming himself for his failure to protect Estel's secret when he should have unleashed his anger at the creature that was to blame, the monster that had sought to corrupt his very spirit.
He lowered his hands from his ears and reached for his sword hilt instead. Despite the falling rain his grip was tight and secure. He was not injured or drugged this time. Let the Nazgûl come. Let it try to take from him those that he held dear one more time. He would teach it humility before the scions of Ëarendil.
Focusing inward he channeled the strength of his fëa, extending the reach of his spirit. The soft natural glow around his hands increased, growing in brightness and extending like a radiant cloak around him. A shield formed of his spirit, a touch of the blessed realm to strike against the Nazgûl's essence within the shadow world. An Úlair existed not merely in the mortal plain, for too much of its being had been lost to the world of wraiths and shadows. It was the Nazgûls' biggest loss - and their most terrible weapon. Their touch and blades could tear a mortal soul asunder and drag it into the netherworld, forced to walk forever in the twilight, to roam eternity neither living nor dead - a pale reflection of them. But the loss of their bodies also made them untouchable, resilient to attacks with steel or mithril. Elrohir's only chance would be to trust in Glorfindel's teachings.
He glanced around, standing tall, aglow in the light of his own fëa, waiting for his hunter to come to him.
And it did.
The Nazgûl appeared out of the shrouding rain, a blackness coalescing as if out of thin air, forming a vaguely human shape. Its black coat was dry despite the torrential rain that was still falling.
The wind stopped.
The world held its breath.
"Orc slayer!" it screeched in a perverse greeting. "Yield!"
"Never!"
Raising his sword, Elrohir charged.
Speed and strength would be his ally against this incorporeal opponent. Time was against him. Already, he could feel the pressure of the Nazgûl's attack on his mind. It was probing the connection that had been wrought by the palantir, the connection that still held, but Elrohir pushed on. He fortified the walls around his mind, closed off his thoughts, his emotions, focusing only on the fight, on the reassuring weight of the blade in his hand.
He slashed out with his sword, distracting the monster, forcing it further into the mortal world.
Steel met mithril as the cloaked being parried his blow at the last second, its speed belied by the large cloak it wore. In the blink of an eye, it struck back and then struck again and Elrohir was forced to retreat, to widen the distance lest the Nazgûl's sword hit him. Elrohir barely parried a third attack in time, suddenly on the defensive. Strike followed strike in quick succession as the Nazgûl continued its relentless attack. The onslaught on his mind had blessedly lessened, but the creature's physical attack was no less ferocious.
Elrohir ducked out of the way of the next strike, bending low to evade the Nazgûl's falling blade and turning behind it. He called on his fëa once more. "Ah Elbereth Giltoniel!"
Yet before he could exploit the opening the wraith had turned already, parrying his blade with ease. "Elfling!" it hissed, "Child! You stand no chance against me."
Wind rose again, whirling around them, carrying the eerie laughter of the surreal wraith, taunting him. Elrohir attacked again. Encircled in his fëa, his mithril sword glowing, his strikes should have the strength to attack the wraith in its own realm. But already his strength was waning and as the Nazgûl continued to parry his moves with ease it became frighteningly clear that his silent fears had been right all along.
He was not Glorfindel. He had not seen the light of Aman, could not wield the power necessary to win this fight. This foe was beyond him.
He attacked again, but the wraith deflected his strike and in the blink of an eye, struck out with his second hand, wrapping it tightly about Elrohir's throat.
"Yield!, it commanded again, forcing Elrohir to his knees as the pressure on his throat increased. Its sword puffed away into mist as it released the weapon only to reach into its billowing cloak, drawing another blade. Smaller, jagged, with a wicked gleaming edge – a Morgul Blade.
Elrohir had seen its like before. He dropped his sword to grasp at the Nazgûl's hand with both of his, struggling desperately to free himself. It could not come to this!
The wraith's hand was immovable, its grip unyielding, and yet he fought. He had to break free, had to save himself from this fate worse than death, if not for himself then for Elladan. If the wraith were to succeed, their bond would be sundered in a way that even death could never accomplish. He could not allow that to happen.
And suddenly, as if conjured by his thoughts, Elladan was there. His sword was gleaming in the non-light of the magical storm that still raged around them, encircling the island of calm at its center. He struck the Nazgûl's arm, severing its hold on Elrohir in an instant. The creature screeched at the sudden pain, but even as the wraith recoiled, Elladan dropped his own sword as if burned, the wound he had inflicted on the wraith streaming a dark mist that traveled up his blade and into his arm.
And then the wraith retaliated.
It turned its full rage on Elladan. Its scream sharp like daggers, tearing through Elrohir's soul, threatening to rupture the drums in his ears. But much worse than the sound was the glimpse of the Morgul Blade moving. A flash of tarnished silver, one heart-stopping motion with which the Nazgûl drove the blade of the morgul dagger up to the hilt into his twin's side.
Elladan gasped.
Elrohir screamed.
The wraith tore the dagger free, poising for another strike, aiming for Elladan's heart. Elrohir did not give it that chance. Fueled by despair and rage he snatched his sword from the ground and charged the Nazgûl. The fire of his fëa exploded as his blade met the morgul dagger that the wraith raised to block his attack. He struck again, and again, his fury lending him strength and speed that he had thought long spent, as it burned with an irresistible flame. The Nazgûl stepped back, shielding its eyes from the fire of his spirit, the flame of his rage, as he pressed the attack. Then it took another step.
He was relentless, unforgiving.
He was desperate.
And the Nazgûl gave way.
It lost ground, step by hard-fought step, until at last the waves of the ocean were lapping behind it and with a final enraged scream that shook the waves and reverberated over the bay, it fled. It withdrew into the netherworld, forsaking its corporeal form. Its cloak dropped. Air rushed in and up, tugging at Elrohir's hair, carrying the creature away.
The storm died.
"Elladan!" Stopping only to grab the dagger that the wraith had dropped in its flight, Elrohir hurried to his brother's side, storm, ships and his own exhaustion forgotten. Only Elladan mattered.
The enchanted runes on the dagger only confirmed what he already knew - it was a morgul blade. Elladan had been struck by the dreadful weapon of the enemy that could shear a spirit from Illuvatar's hand and drag it into the gray world of the wraiths. It would chain its victim to whoever had wielded the blade, creating a paler copy of the ringwraiths themselves, a slave eternally bound to them.
But that would not be his brother's fate, Elrohir vowed.
He reached Elladan. His twin's face was as pale as the moon that had reappeared overhead, the clouds of the storm vanished with the wraith that had summoned them. In Ithil's van light, Elladan's skin looked almost translucent, as if he was already moving to the shadow world.
But he could not be. Not this fast, not when the dagger had not struck his heart! Elrohir's thoughts were racing, dread and fear choking him, paralyzing him. No! No it could not be this fast. Boromir* had been struck by a morgul blade and lived long enough to be healed by their father. There was still hope. There had to be!
"Elladan, listen to me!" he pleaded, "Hold on to my voice, stay with me. Lasto beth nin. Saes." He repeated the silent words, upholding a steady stream of whispers that he hoped would anchor his twin in this world, would force Elladan's spirit to remain by his side.
But Elladan remained unmoving, his half-lidded gaze unfocused, unaware, and Elrohir's heart restricted painfully at the lack of a response. Already, he could feel an unnatural coldness touching their bond, dampening it. Despair clawed at his spirit, threatening to drown him once more, to abandon him in the dark - alone. Truly alone for the first time in his life.
Elrohir drew a shuddering breath, his mumbled litany of pleading words broke off as he struggled against the morbid thought, angrily wiping at the tears that had started to fall. He had no time for this. Elladan had no time for his doubts and despair. He forced himself to remain calm, to cling to hope, to focus on what he could do. Letting his healer's training take over he examined the wound in his brother's side. It was a long, ugly gash, that still bled profusely and Elrohir had seen the blade, knew that just as morgul weapons were designed to do so this one, too, had cracked and broken, leaving a fragment of the poisonous steel embedded in his twin. It would have to come out, but right now stopping the bleeding took precedence. He could feel his brother weaken already, could feel him slipping ever further from him as time passed by. If Elladan's body gave out there would be nothing to tether his spirit to.
Resting one hand gently on top of Elladan's wound and his other on his twin's cheek he closed his eyes. Only to snap them open again when Elladan's hand was suddenly on his own, gripping his wrist with surprising strength.
"Don't," his brother pressed, his voice a mere pain-filled whisper, pleading.
Elrohir smiled back at Elladan wistfully. "Foolish brother," he whispered back, just as softly. "Three thousand years and you still think I would not defy you in this."
Ignoring Elladan's weak pull on his arm, he closed his eyes again, trying to calm his raging emotions, his racing heart, to find the calmness of a healing trance.
His powers responded.
And as always when healing Elladan they instantly became uncontrollable, a wild stream of energy, undirected, ineffective, draining. He used more energy than normal, much more, to heal Elladan, but it was working.
His reserves were depleting dangerously fast, but he could not pull himself out of the trance, not even had he wanted to, too closely was his fëa and his fate intertwined with that of his twin. A healer cannot heal himself, Elrond had warned, and he and Elladan had found out early on that the same held true for healing each other. They were two parts of the same whole, their fëa connected, their bond a blessing of the Valar - but this was its cost.**
Healing energy kept rushing through his spirit, sparking a tingle in his fingers where they connected to Elladan, and his brother's body did respond. Painstakingly slowly, but it did. The bleeding slowed, then stopped.
It was a short-lived blessing.
As his energy kept draining into their bond, Elrohir felt his own strength waning, heard the alluring call of unconsciousness. He struggled vainly to break the connection now that his twin was no longer in immediate danger, but just as he had expected, just as Elladan had feared, he lacked the strength and the control to do so.
The world withdrew from him. Darkness beckoned.
-o0o-
A/N: A new chapter, and on time no less! This one has to be one of my favourites (though I think I said the same last week? :D) - it is intense! And I do hope you liked it as much as I did. If you have the time, please leave a note to let me know. And let me just say a huge thank you to everyone who has reviewed and commented so far - it is wonderful and so inspiring to hear your reactions and thoughts. Thank you!
A few notes on historic ME events and personal head canons:
* Boromir I, Steward of Gondor; "He was noble and fair of face, a man strong in body and in will, but he received a Morgul-wound in that war [the Morgul War, TA 2475] which shortened his days, and he became shrunken with pain and died twelve years after his father."
- Elrond healing him is purely in my head, but it might have happened ;)
** another head canon of mine, but one that I consistently use (there have been brief mentions in other older stories of mine). Partly born from the need to somehow limit the benefits of healing abilities - because if you have strong healer in your stories, stakes very quickly lose their impact. And no one wants to miss out on a perfectly good opportunity for h/c, am I right? :D