Glorfindel silently watched the dawn spilling over Imladris; a city without a soul. There was very
little that could be done to restore the jovial mood that had permeated the area in days past. He
imagined the intricate balconies looked as dead as the charred remains of Gondolin. The evil here
was not so tangible as the traitor Maeglin, nor could it be truly fought, as it had been in the War.
Uneasy winds swept the valley and terrible storms raged throughout the winter. Vilya no longer weaved the patterns of nature, protecting the valley and keeping Imladris safe from prying enemy eyes. Already remains of the Shadow had filtered in, though promptly killed and removed through the Bruinen.
Mundane illness plagued the vegetation; bitter sadness tugged at the lingering inhabitants. There was absolutely nothing that could be done, for their Lord had already passed westward. Fighting often broke out. Even the stubborn Erestor had to admit that things were falling apart.
Glorfindel turned from the balcony, running a hand through his tangled hair. A thick knot in his stomach had kept him awake throughout the night, a sense of foreboding consuming his thoughts.
Erestor had silently fallen into step, sharing the uneasiness and needing not to voice it. After walking to the lower gardens in silence, he spoke up. "Elrohir has returned. Alone."
"Without his brother?"
The Noldor paused for a moment. "Perhaps you can find some coherence in him. He is still in the stables."
Glorfindel caught his shoulder and steered him bodily towards the barns. "Does this have something to do with the ill feelings I've had since last night?" he hissed. Erestor remained silent, closing his eyes briefly.
They found him slumped against his bay mare weeping bitterly. Stained and splashed with mud,
Elrohir stood out starkly against his steed that he had furiously groomed to a gleaming sheen in
his rage. He threw Glorfindel's hand from his shoulder and turned a viscous glare upon him.
"The Ring has been destroyed," he snarled. "Why does the Shadow still grow and spread like some sickly disease?"
Erestor sighed. "You make no sense, Lord."
Elrohir drew a shuddering breath. "I had to kill him myself. Myself! The Shadow still takes us one by one. Tell me why, O great Councillor! If you can deal judgement upon any you see fit without remorse, why have you not yet sentenced this evil city to death? How can you turn a blind eye to the killings beginning to multiply in number amongst us as though we were mere mortal men fighting for wealth? Is this some new manner of rule, or am I merely grasping charred straws?"
Erestor flinched but said nothing. Elrohir snorted bitterly, whispering his next words.
"Elladan now lies in Aragorn's city. He is dead because of our blindness; our foolish hope that the darkness would simply vanish. It grows still, and we do nothing. The Firstborn are nothing more than weak fools, weaker than Mortals these days. He went mad with the Shadow's hatred of living things and tried to murder me after slaughtering many of the Rohirrim. I clove his head from his shoulders, and his blood spray was black. Why are these things happening? I can sense the dissent amongst the humans, as Elessar grows old. The peace will not last. You'll do nothing more than watch, won't you?"
Glorfindel shook his head in frustration. "What do you expect the Elves to do? There are so few of us left and our numbers never recovered since the Last Alliance."
Elrohir drew his long knife and moved to attack the Vanya. "Excuses, my Lord. Excuses covering your own inability to understand the true danger we all are in!" He stepped after his viscous swipe; turning the blade over and bringing it back swiftly. Glorfindel caught his wrist and turned it painfully enough so that the hand dropped the weapon and hung useless. Elrohir struggled briefly, and then fell against him, sobbing for air weakly. Erestor ducked under one of his arms to hold him upright and lead him back to the sleeping chambers in the east of Rivendell.
"You are insane with grief, boy. You need rest."
He received a very weak attempt at argument; mainly encompassing the fact Elrohir had seen multiple millennia pass and was no longer a boy. Glorfindel's expression was troubled as they turned from his door. "He is right, you know."
"And does that change anything? You know the Galadhrim are retreating further into the heart of their forest, and you know why. Thranduil is beginning to panic over the condition of Mirkwood and the Men are growing restless. There is still nothing we can do to help them."
"Rivendell is no longer the sanctuary it once was, but we can still shelter anyone who needs it."
"Have you gone mad? They'll perish through infighting or disease!"
A cold silence followed the ringing slap. Erestor staggered slightly and put a hand to his bleeding cheek, staring at Glorfindel apprehensively.
"Do you think to harm me? Will it satiate some perverse need of yours to inflict pain? Even you have been touched by it, Golden Warrior." His voice was soft. Glorfindel struck him again, hard enough to send him falling into the balcony, bent uncomfortably over the rail and grasping at it for balance.
Timbers cracked and fell, sending showers of burning sparks flying. Distinguishing between the
blood that flowed through the corridors and the raging flame licking at his every step seemed
unimportant. An intricately carved beam, now blackened and bloated with fire crashed down
inches behind him but passed unnoticed.
The few that still lived were already out and prepared to leave their home forever. Something hard crashed into Thranduil, throwing him bodily against the wall and sending waves of agony through his form. He rolled away from it, staggering to the final gates and slipping into the water surrounding the edges of the compound. The bridge had been taken and burned.
He made it to the remains of his people without drowning himself alive and turned to watch the last of his kingdom blacken and burn, finally closing his eyes and letting the ground race up to impact with his body.
Legolas caught his falling father and grimly nodded at the mere two-score waiting anxiously around him. "We head to Lorien," he cried over the roar of the inferno.
"It will take us days to get there," Gimli objected, racing after Legolas. Within minutes they had reached the edges of the northern woods and turned to the footpath leading around the forest. Silence descended upon the area. The Elves trotted in silence, stunned by the night's activity.
Legolas stopped to shift his father's weight onto his back. "We will not go to Rivendell."
Gimli followed him down the path once Thranduil was in a position to be carried with relative ease, an expression of beleaguered consternation marring his Dwarven features. "And why not, Elf? It's much closer, if only we could get around the north part of this blasted forest."
He didn't get a reply for some time and was about to demand an answer when the Prince spoke. " Elrond no longer rules there and the power of Vilya no longer protects Rivendell against itself."
Gimli glared at Legolas. "Tying my brain around your riddles is a pastime I'd rather not partake in."
"It isn't safe there any longer."
The Dwarf snorted and stared out over the dark landscape. "You're batty, Elf. Rivendell was perfectly safe last time I set foot in the wretched place, unless you're smothered to death by those ghastly robes you lot insist on wearing."
"Things change."
"Pah. I don't believe you. You all think in centuries while the rest of us proper folk worry about day-to-day life. Any city of yours wouldn't change more than a pebble in a millennia!"
Legolas didn't reply. He listened to his father's shallow breathing and quickened his pace. Gimli cursed and started jogging to keep pace. "Why are we travelling this fast? Surely we must stop and do something about the wounded."
"I can smell the stench of blood strongly, I assure you. I cannot stop until we put several miles behind us."
"He's dying."
"I know that!" Legolas shouted. Heads turned to regard their Prince, wondering if he too had gone mad. He flushed and turned away angrily. "We cannot stop. There are fell things waiting for us to falter."
"Yer half cocked." Gimli ran ahead, murmuring amongst the Elves. They stopped immediately and turned to Legolas and his waterlogged burden.
"We rest here. Light a fire and get that stubborn fool to let go of his old man. I'll be back." With that, the helmeted form marched off to a small stream to retrieve water. Legolas sighed and gently laid his father in the soft grass, undressing his torso while a healer knelt beside him. A hideous burn marred most of Thranduil's side and the curve of his ribs was interrupted strangely by a dip in his torso. The bone fragment pushed up against his skin each time he exhaled.
The fire crackled sharply in the still of the night. Gimli sloshed back to the trio and put the small bucket down, fishing out a cloth and handing it to the healer, who took it with a nod of thanks. She began bathing the wound gently, allowing it to bleed. Legolas hovered around his father's head, watching anxiously but was dragged off by his Dwarven companion.
To his credit, Legolas managed to look appropriately annoyed. Gimli looked quite satisfied with himself. "There, now. Don't you feel better now that you know you're not going to be crushed under your da's dead weight?"
"That isn't funny."
He tugged on his beard thoughtfully. "I suppose that was a bit morbid. No matter. Look around you! There are no orcs hiding behind any rocks looking to eat you alive. The King is going to be able to walk around any minute now and the night is fine!"
Legolas gritted his teeth. "And most of my kingdom has been burned to the ground and it's inhabitants have been killed by their own families. Purely marvellous night."
"Elf, you're as block-headed as any human! If you go around like that, soon the rest of you will die too. And don't look at me like that. You could shrivel a prune. I know more than you give me credit for, and everyone knows how to kill an Elf these days."
"Not all of us are dead.."
"That's the spirit, lad!"
"But we'll soon be less one Dwarf if you keep it up."
Gimli swung his axe half-heartedly. "And I had such hopes for you!"
Legolas managed a brief chuckle, watching the healer work.
The black hair lay in tangled folds down his back as leant heavily against the engraved pillar,
staring anxiously at the failing gardens. A darkness lay heavy on his heart and his ring finger
began to pulse anxiously. Barely able to stand, Elrond drew a bloodstained hand across his face in
sorrow.
"Ai, Elladan. What does Eru plan for these lands?"
"What, indeed," Erestor murmured from behind him. The Lord turned slowly, swaying slightly. " Why have you returned?"
Elrond allowed his councillor to lead him through the deepening dusk to a quiet chamber, making the trip in silence. Settled uneasily and bathed in candlelight he looked gaunt and deathly. Erestor shook his head and wiped the fresh blood off his face. "You went to the West."
"I did not. The pass was closed to me."
Both sat in grim silence, wondering at the reasons for this. "Your curse has not been lifted, then, Lord?"
Half-Elven snorted bitterly.
"Do you know of the Darkness continuing to spread?"
"I learned much merely fighting my way here. One of my sons is dead, and Arwen grows old. I fear my line will die before the year is out."
"That isn't what you fear."
Elrond chose not to answer, realizing his silence would be reply enough. Erestor shuddered briefly before rising. "There is something you should see."
He stared wearily at Glorfindel's still form, lingering on the expression of hatred and the
demurely folded hands. Both clashed horribly with the wet stain pooled about his body. Erestor's
face held acute sadness.
Elrond looked at him. "His blood is -"
"Black. I know." Erestor sighed and slumped against the dresser. "I killed him, Lord."
