Notes:

Dwarves have a secret language of gestures and patterns called iglishmêk. Gimli prays using iglishmêk.

*This refers to the last few chapters of Where the Shadows Lie when Legolas has to cut the Ring from Elrohir's hand (trying not to give any spoilers!)

Zirâmuzbad – Khuzdul slang for Badass. Like berserkers. A very secret Dwarvish warrior cult who were rumoured to have secret ritual involving strange substances before battle that made them more than a little insane. Dwalin was reputed to have been part of this cult. And I like the idea that Azaghâl might have shared some of this with Maedhros, hence the scary face that orcs ran from…

Gunud-Aglâb – Dwarves' tattoos that denote their guild, level, titles and cult.

Cûlanthûl – Legolas' bow. Given by Celeborn to Elrohir as wergild for Aícanaro in WTSL. It is a mighty weapon and has a legend to it amongst both Elves and Orcs for its part in the Wars of the Second and Third Age.

**Shaffron is a piece of armour covering the horse's face.

By the way, I SERIOUSLY apologise for Erestor's language. He uses words that no -one else does, and I do not approve of him for it. Obviously, he is speaking the Sindarin equivalent though and not the cruder English word- basically he is saying the worst word he can think of and this is its equivalent.

***This incident upon Amon Sul takes place in Chapter 22 of Through a Glass Darkly and that whole story deals with the events described in this passage. (You don't need to have read it though to understand what is happening in this)

For Rochiriel – thank you for the fascinating conversation? It starts here!

Also for nightspell and LillyLeggy in appreciation of the very nice reviews and making this so worthwhile. And for Nina and Tobiramamara on ffnet. Thank you for still reviewing.

Beta: as always, my rock! Anarithilien

Summary given by Messrs Merry and Pippin in the first section of this rather long chapter- but I couldn't see how to split it without being REALLY annoying.

Chapter 34: Ascatar-axo

Air pushed into his lungs and rushed out. He felt a mouth on his. Not a kiss. Again, breath pushing into his mouth, his lungs filled. Breath out. Again, breath in. Out. A thud in his chest. Another. Warmth flooded his chest as his heart began pushing blood through his veins once more. Sluggishly at first.

Slowly Legolas became aware: Elrohir was resuscitating him. Breathing for him until he could do so himself. Hands rubbed and chafed his limbs, his hands and legs, and a crippling pins and needles pain shot through him as blood began pumping more strongly through his veins. Voices above him were indistinct, anxious. His ears thrummed with the sound of his own pulse, and he sucked in a deep lungful of air with blessed relief.

I am alive. I am here.

He felt himself held, cradled against a strong chest, and he felt an indomitable heart beat a powerful rhythm against his back.

Elrohir. He knew Elrohir as well as he knew his own Song. He felt his fëa flutter slightly and then like a dove on her nest, it settled back into his body. His limbs twitched uncontrollably at first, sending blood rushing round his body, stimulating the nerves and muscles and as he came back to consciousness, he began to listen to his own Song, strengthening himself, smoothing out the knots and tangles in his fëa, the lumpiness that comes from such dissonance.

When he opened his eyes, there was Elrohir, his beautiful, noble face gazing down with tender concern and he held Legolas' hand as if he might tether him to the earth and stop him from flying from this world. Legolas licked his dry, parched lips. 'Elrohir,' he whispered hoarsely, like a prayer. 'I thought I would never see you again.' There were tears in Elrohir's grey eyes and Legolas held onto Elrohir for his heart could not bear the emotion that swept over him. The love.

'I told you I will always find you,' Elrohir declared with quiet intensity, meant only for Legolas. 'I could not live without you. I could not take another breath if you were not on this earth.'

Legolas did not need Elrohir's words to know the truth of both their hearts, but he thought of the last time he had seen Elrohir, the words they had both said; the cruelty of them had been like barbs in each other's flesh. He looked up into the grey eyes soft with love, knew that all was forgiven. All the bitter words, resentments between them dissipated in the warmth of their love.

A cold metal flask was held to his lips, and he tasted drops of miruvor. Like sunlight, like the rain. It quenched his raging thirst without drowning him and coated his throat that felt so sore and dry. He looked up weakly to see that Aragorn leaned over him and it was he who held the flask to Legolas' lips. The Man's eyes were anxious, a little guarded perhaps but Legolas barely registered so glad was he to see his friend safe.

Gratefully he lifted his hands to drink more but Aragorn gently tipped it away from him lest he drink too much. 'Only a little,' he said softly.

Legolas nodded slightly, knowing he was right. Nearby he could hear the quiet patter of Gimli's fingers telling a prayer and felt such gratitude to the Dwarf for finding him and bringing him back, that he reached out and clasped the clever, square hand in his own and squeezed it lightly.

'Well it's about time you woke up and stopped lazing about, leaving others to do the work as usual,' the Dwarf said gruffly.

Smiling, Legolas took a deep breath, and another, leaning back against Elrohir's broad chest, and he let his head drop back to rest upon Elrohir's broad, safe shoulder. Aragorn had Legolas' wrist now and was checking his pulse and Legolas watched him fondly, aware of Gimli hovering solicitously at the edge of his vision. Another face was there too, a ghostly wash of dim light. Eldarion. He hovered near Gimli as if he felt the warmth of the forge emanating from the Dwarf.

And then he heard more voices.

'He's awake!' a voice whispered delightedly, as if giving others information and there were other answering voices.

'Pippin? Legolas whispered in astonishment. Surely Pippin could not be here?

But there! Pippin bobbed into his line of sight and Aragorn shifted so Pippin could peer down at Legolas. A huge smile lit up the Hobbit's face, and over his shoulder another Hobbit peered delightedly.

Legolas gasped. 'Merry! You are here!' His voice sounded harsh. He tried to rise but he was still weak and immediately, dropped back against Elrohir, who murmured concerned. Aragorn lifted the flask of miruvor to his lips again and he was allowed to sip the clear, cold liquid. It cleared his mind and coated his throat, so it did not feel quite as sore and dry. He wondered why it was so, and if he had been screaming.

As if he knew, Elrohir stroked the hair back from Legolas' face. 'You have not eaten or drunk for days,' he said reassuringly. 'Take your time.'

'Frodo and Sam are here too!' Pippin burst out. 'Oh, it's so good to see you, Legolas, and to hear your voice!' His face smiled so widely that Legolas thought it must hurt and Merry peered over Pippin's shoulder, equally delighted.

'Here, that won't do at all,' Sam appeared now, and scolded Merry and Pippin. 'Stop crowding him like that. He doesn't know how we came to be here of course. Let Frodo see him too.' Frodo was standing behind Sam and smiled. But to Legolas, he looked wan and pale. 'Legolas,' Sam said loudly and slowly as if Legolas might have gone deaf or lost all comprehension. 'We are here with you because if you remember, I sent Aragorn a letter asking him for help in finding Merry.'

'Well, you can see they found me,' Merry interrupted brightly.

Legolas nodded. His relief mixed with guilt that he had barely thought of Merry since he had been taken by the Barrow Wights. 'But how did you get here?' he rasped, finding Aragorn again pressing the miruvor to his lips.

Pippin bounced excitedly on his toes with glee. 'Well, Frodo and I went looking for Merry and then Sam came to join us, and Sam found Merry and then we went on the Pony and bumped into Elrohir.' Pippin grinned and Legolas noticed Pippin had a bruise that covered one side of his lower jaw, as if someone had punched him. There were other wounds, bruises and cuts on the other Hobbits' faces and hands, little rents in the sleeves of their coats. 'And then we came up here to find out what was going on and the Orcs came alive and attacked us and…'

'Tell it properly, Pip.' Merry nudged his cousin. 'In the right order. You missed out the bit about Vanwë finding me and then the Barrow Wights attacking Sam in the fog and that Vanwë came to help him. Sam was very brave,' Merry added proudly. 'He was shouting at the Barrow Wight and had his sword out even before Vanwë arrived.'

Legolas stared for a moment and then said, 'Vanwë? He helped you too?'

'He did,' said Sam, his eyes serious and intent now. 'Even if I had my sword, I don't think I'd have been much use against the Barrow Wight. I wasn't last time,' he said with an apologetic look at Frodo who looked fondly at Sam and patted his arm. 'Did you see him down here?' he asked looking round seriously. 'I owe him my life I think and will repay it if I need to.'

No one smiled; this was Samwise Gamgee, who had carried Frodo up the slopes of Mount Doom. There was no doubting his earnestness. Or his courage.

'So, you met with Vanwë, and I too owe him my life,' answered Legolas with the same seriousness. 'I will tell you all,' he said, holding up one hand weakly to forestall their questions. 'Please, you were telling how you got here.' Legolas did not glance back at Elrohir, but he felt the tension in Elrohir's body. When they had parted, angrily on both sides, Elrohir had been going to Imladris, a quest for Aragorn that he would not share. But Legolas guessed now that he had been seeking the Palantír.

Pippin was speaking again now. 'Well, once we'd got Merry back, we couldn't just ignore the Barrow Wights wandering about The Shire snatching decent folk,' he chirped gleefully and could not help bouncing on his toes. 'And we went to the Pony and there was Elrohir!' He spoke as if he were still astonished at the coincidence. Legolas saw Aragorn shoot a quick look at Elrohir and knew he had guessed correctly. 'Oh, and Baranor and Dods and Iberic came with us. Dods is Merry's cousin.'

Merry picked up from Pippin now and said, 'So, we all came up here and at some point, we all got spilt up. Pippin and Elrohir met up Aragorn and Gimli, and Vanwë was with them.' He looked at Legolas matter-of-factly. 'So we all came looking for you.'

'Yes,' said Sam. 'And there were those skeletons.' The Hobbit shuddered and Legolas thought of the Orc bones he had encountered in the chamber before the Ship's cavern. 'They came alive, Legolas. An army. Horrible.'

'That was when Iberic got hurt,' interjected Pippin with a shudder. 'Dods is with him. They're outside waiting for us.' He waved an arm vaguely and Legolas thought of three Hobbits waiting amongst the grim, silent stones.

'I have seen them too,' Legolas murmured softly. 'Further in.' He gestured towards the dark and yawning mouth of the tunnel that led deeper into the tumulus. Aragorn gave him a quick, sharp look. 'They sleep for now,' he added tensely, knowing that the bones could easily be resurrected by the Barrow Wights. Aragorn nodded with understanding.

Pippin interrupted again. 'Then just as we thought we were really in trouble, up pops Erestor and Elladan to see off the skeletons. So I think they won't bother us again. He has the Palantír and that's some sort of weapon.'

'I know about the Palantír,' Legolas interrupted before Elrohir could say anything. 'Vanwë told me.' He held Aragorn's gaze until the Man looked away guiltily. Wishing that Aragorn had trusted him enough to tell him, Legolas reached out and touched his arm. Aragorn looked back at him and any hurt that Legolas had felt, dissolved and as always, he forgave the Man everything.

'I didn't want to…' Aragorn began but Gimli interrupted. 'You didn't want to get everyone's hopes up,' he said and nodded wisely.

Merry gabbled on unaware of the tensions. 'Vanwë went off with Elrohir to fight the Barrow Wights. You killed one of them, didn't you Elrohir,' he said almost conversationally, 'and then Erestor and Elladan went to find Elrohir and Vanwë, but Vanwë had already gone.'

All thoughts of the Palantír were driven from Legolas. He had not even considered that Elrohir might be injured and panicked, he shifted round anxiously to look at Elrohir.

'It was not I that defeated Grippsenar,' said Elrohir quickly, reassuringly. 'It was Vanwë. He risked himself to save me.' But Legolas saw that Elrohir was careful with his hand and that a bloody cloth was wrapped around it. 'This was from Grippsenar,' he said, seeing Legolas' appalled face. 'It is merely surface. Nothing. Tendons perhaps. Maybe fracture.' He flashed a smile that caught Legolas' heart, so it ached with love for Elrohir for he had done worse when releasing Elrohir from Khamûl in Minas Tirith*.

Merry was still speaking and Legolas pulled himself back and forced himself to attend. 'I'm with Sam. I am worried about him.' Merry looked anxiously at Sam, who nodded in agreement. 'As soon as you're up and ready, Legolas, we're off to find Maglor.'

'Yes,' Legolas said, nodding in agreement. 'I am ready.' He felt an urge to get up, to move about and regain his balance and strength, and to return to Vanwë, to fight alongside him. Nearby, Eldarion hovered as if also impatient to return. Legolas struggled to sit upright and felt Elrohir shift and support him.

But Gimli stood squarely before him as if he could read his mind. Looking up into the earth-brown eyes, Legolas recognised the determined look of the Dwarf at his most stubborn.

'Erestor is going to find Vanwë,' said the Dwarf very firmly. 'You will recall, Legolas, that he has our word that we will escort our company from the barrow so that he can do what he needs to.' There was a general protest from the Hobbits, but Gimli would not be moved. 'We will all have to trust Erestor as he demands,' he said, his eye fixed upon Legolas sternly. 'He has Aska-tar-axo. And I wouldn't cross that one striking an anvil. He has the look of the Zirâmuzbad if you ask me.'

'What's ziramuzz-buzz-bad?' asked Pippin wide-eyed as Legolas was helped to his feet by Aragorn and Elrohir.

'Zirâmuzbad,' Elrohir corrected in perfect Khuzdul, steadying Legolas as he stood swaying slightly. 'I think Erestor would be pleased to think you include him in such illustrious company, Gimli. I believe the Lord Dwalin of Erebor was ….'

'The Lord Dwalin was a Khazâd of the greatest honour!' Gimli cut him off indignantly.

Elrohir turned his head towards Gimli and bowed graciously. 'I meant no offence, simply that his Gunud-Aglâb suggested he was part of…'

'Enough!' Gimli spluttered. 'How do you know these things?' He looked at Elrohir in bewildered indignation. 'No! No, do not tell me. Do not speak it.'

Elrohir gave a slightly offended bow. 'I do not mean offence. I will say no more.'

Legolas braced himself against Aragorn, thinking he needed to find weapons, get his body moving and working on its own for he had every intention of returning to Vanwë's side as soon as he might, regardless of Gimli's promise to Erestor. In Legolas' view, it had not included Legolas himself for Erestor had very clearly told Gimli to get 'them' out. And since he was present, he did not think he was one of those inferred.

'Lean on me if you will,' said Elrohir.

Legolas clung to Elrohir for a moment, standing against him, letting his body press against Elrohir. He brushed his lips against Elrohir's, and leaned his head on his shoulder, breathed in his scent, the vetiver and slight cedar. It was like walking in the deep forest, amongst the trees. He felt his Song reach out to Elrohir's and curl about him, spiralling together, curling about each other, smoothing out the knots and kinks of dissonance. Only then did he notice that an unfamiliar gemstone hung around Elrohir's neck. Legolas had never seen it before and there was something strange about it; it seemed to resonate with Song, but in a way that was unfamiliar and strange to him. Not the natural and intuitive Song of the Wood, but the complex and manufactured way the Noldor sought to tame and manipulate the Song. Like a weapon. Or healing. He wanted to hold it in his hand, to stroke the smooth red surface. Invoke… something…but he did not know what.

Elrohir touched it lightly as if sensing Legolas' regard. 'This was given me by Ma…Vanwë.'

Around them, the company seemed to have accepted Gimli's direction because they were moving, gathering themselves to leave this dark and oppressive place where the Barrow Wights might come upon them at any time. Pippin had found Legolas' green suede tunic and white shirt thrown carelessly over a chest of gold and silently handed it to him.

Leaning against Elrohir as he began to pull on his shirt, Legolas glanced down at himself and noticed dried blood trailing from his chest to his navel. He rubbed at it and realised there was a knife wound in his own chest that had gone deep, indeed any further would have pierced vital organs.

'I do not remember this,' Legolas said vaguely, indicating the wound. Elrohir lips were pressed together as he pulled the shirt down and helped him with the green suede tunic. He said nothing and Legolas thought perhaps this had been the wound from the morgûl blade that had made him flee the Barrow Wights when they had him on the altar. His tunic was warm and once he was clothed again, Legolas felt stronger.

Then there was a triumphant cry from Merry, who had been rifling through the treasure. He lifted something up from the haphazardly piled treasure. 'Ah, here it is.' It was Legolas' bow, Cûlanthûl that had once been Celeborn's and bought by Elrohir as wergild for dark Aícanaro.

He was overjoyed to have the bow in his hands once more and ran his hands over the smooth wood, fingers tracing the intricate carvings. Now he felt like a warrior of the Wood again. As he touched it, he felt the bow thrum with eager anticipation; Our enemies are close, it seemed to murmur. Let us sing through the air and strike them down.

Pippin stood solicitously at Aragorn's side and said, 'How do you feel, Strider? Can you walk?'

'Are you hurt, Aragorn?' Legolas asked a little distractedly. He was cinching his belt and when no one answered, he looked around sharply, and only then realised that the Man's tunic was stained heavily with dried blood.

Raising his hand as if to ward off the concern Aragorn said quickly, 'It is nothing.' But beneath the heavy blood stains, Legolas saw that the tunic was torn, but by so fine a blade that the leather had been cut like silk. That was no great sword such as the Barrow Wights used, he thought. He flicked his gaze back up to Aragorn's face and was puzzled by the Man's expression.

At that moment, a wayward drift of wind flared the fiery torches and the light flickered over something that gleamed at Legolas' feet; the Ale-gezên-aozh. He reached down and scooped them up. Both were crusted with dried blood. Legolas stared at them in confusion and then looked up, holding them before him for others to see.

Immediately Pippin stumbled back in alarm and Legolas heard a slide of steel and a sword was at his throat. A Man had stepped between Legolas and Pippin, and now he stood in front of Aragorn as if the King needed protection. Legolas had not even noticed him standing in the shadows until now.

He stared in shock at the fine-boned, sternly handsome face. 'Eldarion?' he whispered. But then Legolas saw that the Man was younger, his shoulder length hair was bright flaxen. Even in this darkness, Legolas could see the intensity of the Man's blue eyes as he stared at Legolas along the length of the sword that he held at Legolas throat. Legolas was not afraid; he could easily have stepped back, pushed the sword away, but he did not.

It was Aragorn who pushed the sword away mildly. 'Put up your sword, Baranor. This is Legolas, my friend. He is back and he is no threat to me.' But it was a moment before the Man obeyed and even then, though he dropped the point, he did not sheathe the sword and the silence that fell over them all seemed uncomfortable.

'This is Baranor?' asked Legolas astonished for he had assumed that Baranor was a Hobbit and remained outside with Merry's cousins. He tilted his head to see Baranor more clearly now for he was clad in strange garment; an ancient mail shirt of gleaming gilded rings and about his waist was a golden sword belt, rich indeed and set with garnets and white gems. Over one shoulder was fastened a leather baldric from which a very ancient horn was hanging, chased with bronze boars running, their eyes were glittering garnets. The helm he carried under one arm was very like the horn in patterning, gilded and chased too with bronze and gold, very ornate. But the helm held his gaze, almost returned it. Its mask was enigmatic and strange, and Legolas felt it almost accusing. 'This does not look like Dunédain armour,' Legolas observed, watching him intently.

Baranor coloured slightly and glanced at Aragorn as if seeking permission to speak, or perhaps wanting the King to speak for him.

'Legolas, this is Baranor,' Aragorn said. 'A Dunédain of the Angle. His father was Halbarad.'

'Halbarad?' To Legolas, Baranor looked nothing like the dark haired, grey-eyed Ranger who had been Aragorn's long-time friend. It was Eldarion, the Last Prince of Cardolan whom he resembled. More than resembled. He could be his son.

Baranor did not fidget or move even under the intensity of Legolas' scrutiny. It was only when Aragorn gestured irritably to the sword that he sheathed it, and he did that reluctantly. 'Baranor was seized by the Barrow Wights, much like you, Legolas,' Aragorn explained. 'We found him upon the plinth as if for sacrifice.'

'Baranor has been our friend and helped us on our journey,' said Frodo quickly. '

'Yes, without Baranor, I don't think we would be here actually,' Sam said softly.

Slowly, Legolas lifted his hand to touch the thin leather baldric over Baranor's shoulder from which hung the horn, very old, the ivory yellowed with age but clearly the bronze boars running were the same as those on the helm. There was an imperceptible flinch as he touched it and Legolas stopped, looking curiously into the Man's eyes. He tilted his head to listen and caught the edge of the Man's Song, the lonely cry of curlews over the bleak moors, the whisper of wind in the long grass. Something of the resonance of these ancient stones themselves, rooted deeply in the long grass like trees, lingered in the Song too, and he wondered.

'You are from this land,' he said thoughtfully. 'From Cardolan itself.' He did not wait for Baranor's answer but indicated the horn at his side. 'It was you who sounded the horn.' From the corner of his eye, Legolas saw a wash of silvery light drifting towards Baranor.

Baranor answered a little defiantly, 'It is mine. Why would I not sound it? My mother gave it to me. She would have given it to her daughter if she had one, but I will hand it to mine if I have that good fortune.'

Legolas felt a strange excitement in his belly. 'Is this helm yours also? It is alike in design to the horn.'

Baranor glanced down at the enigmatic helm and shook his head. 'It was here already.'

'It belonged to Eldarion, the Last Prince of Cardolan,' said Legolas carefully. 'You are clad in his armour. You carry his horn. Or the horn of his people.' Beside him. Legolas felt the chill of air that was Eldarion and turned his head to see the silvery wash of the Ghost standing staring into Baranor's face as if it beheld a great treasure.

Legolas smiled wonderingly. 'It is you then,' he said softly. 'You are the one who sounds the horn in the hills, ringing.'

Baranor's lips moved as if he would speak but Legolas tilted his head, listening, and lay his own hand upon the Man's shoulder. This time, Baranor did not flinch. 'You have called them,' he said. 'Your ancestors have awoken. They believe that Haleth has come again. You may not be Haleth, but you are her descendant, are you not?' He held Baranor's astonished gaze and nodded at an unspoken question that Baranor did not know how to ask. 'It is time to reclaim your People, it is time to recover your lands.'

Legolas heard Baranor's Song even more clearly then and there was no longer any doubt in his mind at all. He heard the curlews crying high above the lonely moor echoed in Eldarion's fading Song. There was too the deep resonance of the Stones that thrummed like harp strings in the wind that whispered through the long grass, more ancient that the barrows themselves and far older than the Wights that haunted them. Legolas thought that Gimli must hear them too and he took a deep breath in. Around him the darkness curled but it felt womb-like now, not suffocating and threatening. Eldarion was here, the Last Prince and with him was Baranor. Perhaps a new Prince would arise from this, thought Legolas hopefully. He sensed Eldarion leaning close, felt the chill of the air against his arm and indeed, Baranor too shivered but not with fear.

'Well whoever is sounding whatever horn,' Gimli's voice crunched irritably through the moment with barbaric practicality, 'I promised Erestor that I would lead you all out of here so that he can use that Asskat-tar-axo.' He ground the word into pebbles, glaring at Legolas as if expecting a fight.

'You did,' agreed Legolas. He slid an oblique look towards Elrohir who was speaking quietly to Aragorn, but he was retying the bloody bandage about his hand as he spoke, and Aragorn was quietly remonstrating with him. Baranor was close by and listened without pretence that he was doing otherwise.

Legolas returned his attention to Gimli, who watched with narrowed eyes, and had planted himself with familiar firmness in front of Legolas. As if he too knew what Legolas was thinking. Legolas tilted his head slightly. 'You promised to lead 'them' out of here and you will.' He nodded confidently and smiled at the Dwarf, but Gimli was not fooled, and he crossed his arms in front of his chest and scowled up at Legolas. 'And you will,' Legolas continued. 'But I was not included in that promise. They, not we,' he said, knowing he was splitting a pebble for quartz, as Gimli would say. While his meaning sank in, Legolas turned apologetically to look down at Sam and Pippin. 'I fear that you do have to go with Gimli as Erestor asks.' Then, with a hand on each hobbit's shoulder, he leaned down to Sam and Pippin and whispered quietly to them. They stared at him, then at Baranor and then back at Legolas. They both nodded without speaking and moved to either side of Baranor, who did not seem to notice for he was watching Aragorn and Elrohir, who spoke quietly together.

Elrohir seemed suddenly impatient, and he spoke suddenly in a slightly louder tone, 'Aragorn, you are the King.' Then he turned towards Baranor and said, 'And Baranor, you must protect him.'

In that moment, it seemed Gimli fully understood, and he stared futilely at Legolas. 'I have just got you back here and you're determined to go back into danger again.'

Seeing what he knew was hurt in Gimli's face, Legolas dropped to one knee and put his hand on the Dwarf's shoulder, looking into his deep eyes. Sincerely he said, 'And I thank you, Elvellon. But I have sworn I would not leave Vanwë, that I would return. You would not be forsworn and nor would you have me so.' He held his friend's gaze carefully, knowing he would understand. 'And I have made a promise to this land,' he said very softly. 'To the people who once dwelt here, whose blood soaks the stones upon which we walk. I know you hear it. The rocks, the bones of the earth.' Then he grinned cheerfully. 'I will tell the big ghosties that you are out there waiting for them.'

Gimli tugged on his beard and shook his head. 'Tell them what you will, Legolas, for I cannot speak what is in my heart.'

Legolas closed his eyes briefly for he could not bear to see the hurt in Gimli's eyes. He put his own hand over Gimli's square hand. 'I have no choice. You see that?' But he wanted Gimli's blessing, his understanding.

At last, Gimli relented, and he sighed and still shaking his head, he said, 'Aye. I do. And Aulë keep you, Legolas, for my heart misgives. I have pulled you out of one rockfall and I am afraid that I shall not reach you this time.'

That made Legolas pause, and a little thread of fear tremored through his heart. Did Gimli have some foresight, he wondered? And then he shook himself; even if it were so, he would not be deterred in this, so what choice did he have? But he glanced over to Elrohir more concerned than he would admit.

'Well, if we are going, then we had best get on,' Sam said loudly. Pippin and Merry walked alongside him, almost imperceptibly ushering Baranor in front of them. Aragorn walked with Frodo and Gimli took up the rear, his great war axe over one shoulder.

Legolas glanced towards Eldarion who stood near the ivory-boned skeleton of the horse, his hand upon its long steel face of the shaffron** as if he could feel the warm breath huffing against his hand. But his face was filled with a trembling hope, and he lifted his eyes to Legolas.

'Come,' whispered Legolas to the Ghost, and turning towards Elrohir, said, 'Let us find Vanwë, and Erestor. Let us see what the Palantír can do.'

0o0o

The Úmaiar were huddled together, muttering and whispering, seemingly ignoring both Elves, their dreadful voices hissing and muttering together. There was a strange eerie half-light that dimly illuminated the cavern. It reflected gloomily on the dark helms of the Úmaiar, on their swords, on the glittering, hungry blade in Thorendaw's fist. Närmó had crawled close enough that Maglor could hear him muttering blasphemously under his breath, words that Maglor had never even heard before but in the dim bruise of his mind he thought they might be Khuzdul and that Maedhros and Curufin would have approved enormously. It was one of the things his two brothers had had in common, he remembered stupidly. He could not think very clearly after the beating he had taken.

Maglor did not move. He could not. In truth, he could not do anything more than slowly blink with his one good eye and he could barely speak through his swollen and cut lip. He watched Närmó out of the good eye. Närmó was glaring at him as he cursed and swore, but Maglor felt a coldness in his limbs and his eye closed heavily. He was so tired.

'Don't you fucking dare,' Närmó's voice hissed in his ear and Maglor opened his eye to see that Närmó now leaned back against the same bit of wall as he. In fact, Närmó seemed to be far less wounded than he had appeared to be when Hrungnîr had dropped him like an old rug at the feet of the other Úmaiar. Maglor did not know how Närmó had managed to crawl beside him, right under the pale eye of the Úmaiar but he had to give credit where it was due.

'Not after all that I have done to fucking get here. All I have gambled, the one I have hurt and risked for you.'

He sounded so angry, thought Maglor and wondered dully through the blood and pain, who it was that Närmó had risked for him. He hoped that it was not Legolas of the Woods, or Eldarion. He felt Närmó very gently cradle his hand in his, for it was mangled and the fingers too swollen now to hold a sword: Þráinn had ground the bones under his iron-shod heel into the stony floor. The touch, the tenderness was like a kick in the gut. Unexpected. Undeserved.

It would be so much easier, Maglor thought slowly, to just let himself slip into the cold…. To just sink into the depths and softly drown. Blessed relief. But by holding his hand, Närmó was insisting on hauling Maglor out of the depths and forcing him back to alertness.

'If you die,' Närmó hissed furiously in his ear in spite of how gently he held Maglor's hand, ' I swear I will come after you and haul you out of Mandos' fucking halls myself and drag you kicking and swearing and cursing all to the fucking abyss, you c***.'

Maglor blinked then. He tried to lick his dry lips, to touch the cut with the edge of his tongue but his jaw felt broken, and his tongue swollen and useless. He did not think he could speak let alone sing and weave the notes of the Song back into the harmony needed to escape. He closed his eyes again and felt the ease of rest beckon him. Cold stole over him and he felt his blood slowly ooze from the wounds he had from the beating. There was one particularly vicious wound in his side. It felt like a wolf's jaws had closed around him and he was dying….

But Närmó had always been intensely irritating and now his voice whispered in Maglor's ear. 'Stay. Stay.' His voice was pleading and insistent. 'I have searched everywhere for you. I have walked in stranger lands than this one following rumours of you, in the souks of Far Harad, in the water-fields of Khand, in every mountain range in Middle Earth I have trod in your footsteps and always you eluded me.'

Maglor made a noise, more a groan than objection. He wanted to say that it was not his fault that Närmófinion had always been a mad bastard, but only a groan came from his split and bruised lips.

Närmó spoke one word. 'Makaluarë.'

Maglor started like he had been shot, an arrow to his heart. How long since he had heard his own name? And Närmó knew the power of it. Maglor made a quiet noise, just to shut Närmó up as much as anything for he remembered how persistent Närmó was, how clever and sharp, his intellect like glittering swords and when he argued, he did not know to stop. But he was the most loyal, the most determined… the most sinned against. They had abandoned him with the boys. Tricked him, left him…

Touching his tongue very lightly against the split in his lip, he tried to speak, but all that came from his mouth was a low groan.

Närmó gently clasped his hand again, and against his thumb he felt a ring of metal about Närmó's finger. Instinctively, Maglor rubbed his thumb over it for it felt smooth and of heavy gold. Power thrummed. There was something engraved beneath it, but his brain could not fumble for the words….

'What about Nelyo? What about Maedhros?' Närmó whispered urgently.

Maglor wished he would stop so he could rest for a moment. Stirring himself slowly, painfully, Maglor flexed his broken fingers as best he could. He might never play a harp again, or hold a sword, but Närmó was relentless.

'I know that Laurëfindë told you,' he whispered persistently. 'He said he had when he saw you on Amon Sul.'

That was true. Maglor closed his eyes. He had come upon the troop from Imladris unexpectedly, seeing the swarming of the Nazgul over the old Watchtower*** and finding Laurëfindë wounded with a morgûl blade and drifting into Shadow. Maglor had not believed Laurëfindë when he spoke of Nelyo in the Abyss. Champion of Eru, Laurëfindë had called him, but Maglor had thought that unlikely indeed. Delirious surely and wandering in the poison of the morgûl blade, Laurëfindë had sunk into unconsciousness before Maglor could ask him more.

Nevertheless Maglor had not forgotten. Indeed he had not. It tormented him with the thought that perhaps Nelyo was indeed in the Dark, that the Oath was not fulfilled, and he was condemned as they had sworn. Maybe they all were? He sighed heavily, like a last breath.

All those years ago, he thought wearily, he should never have taken his eyes from his brother, never have let Nelyo gently prise his sleeping hand from the pouch filled with dangerous light. He should have heard Nelyo steal away, should have followed him, should have…All too late.

To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass.

'We're not leaving Nelyo in there,' Närmó hissed and Maglor started listening. 'You're going to fucking well help me get him out of there. We have to get him out, so stay. I swear I will drag your sorry bag of bones from here to Aman if I need to.'

Listening now, Maglor turned his head and cracked open the swollen slit of his eye. He had thought Laurëfindë delirious, but that had not stopped him from hoping, for seeking news wherever he could; but there was none. Until now. Could it be true? Närmó would not lie. 'Where?' he whispered, hardly able to move his lips.

'Phellanthir.' Närmó's eyes were excited. A little feral. 'Tyelpë made a hall of mirrors there. The Oromardë. Did you ever hear of it? It was destroyed of course, in the sack of Eregion. All but this one Mirror.' He did not wait for Maglor's answer but carried on in a low, excited whisper that the Umair seemed unconcerned by. 'I saw him. In the Mirror. He was in the Dark fighting Moringhotto. And then, I saw him again. In another Glass. Also made by Tyelpë. This time recovered from Minas Morgul. Again, fighting Moringhotto. He is the Champion of Eru.'

Maglor felt his heart break; his noble, kind, tortured brother. Nelyo.

A memory struck him hard: Formenos. Carnistir, not quite a baby, running, chubby hands held up. Nelyo, Nelyo! Look! He had a caterpillar in his cupped hands and Nelyo, beautiful, patient Nelyo leaning down to admire it, to take it gently from Carnistir before he crushed it in his excitement, while Tyelko clung jealously to one leg and Maglor himself stood hovering, waiting for the moment that smile would be bestowed upon him. They had all loved him. But he had loved them more.

Maglor wished he knew those Khuzdul words that came so easily to Närmó for he could not bear the thought of Nelyo in the hands of Moringhotto again. Broken again, hurt beyond all healing. Again.

'Then why do we linger here, Närmó,' he mumbled through swollen, cut lips. 'Time we finished this. I assume you have a plan since you are so clearly uninjured?'

Närmó's wicked smile slid over his handsome face, more like a wolf than ever with age and cunning. Amber eyes gleamed in the half-light. 'I do indeed.'

In that very moment however, a cold shadow fell over them, cold enough to leach all the warmth from Maglor's blood. Instinctively, he reached for his sword, but it was too far, and he was slow with pain. In the eerie half-light dark steel glittered, forged in the heart of Angband. A morgûl blade that thirsted for elven blood.

A long breath forced itself from Maglor's exhausted, pain-ridden body; he could not help it. The end then.

He felt the mailed fist dig into his hair, down to the scalp and haul him to his knees. He reached up one hand to try to stop it but he was already so weak. Clenching his one good hand over the Úmaiar's fist, he barely noticed the flash of dark metal. The bite of steel, a hungry, devouring steel, sliced through skin and membrane and drank the blood of his life.

'For blood ye shall render blood, Dispossessed. Dispossessed of everything. Had you forgotten?'

He registered Närmó's eyes wide with shock and sudden fear. The Úmaiar released him quite suddenly, dropping him back against the rock. He was aware of hands frantically pressing against the wound. Närmó, he thought dully. There was warm blood oozing slowly over his skin.

It grew very cold.

0o0o

Elladan stole carefully to the mouth of the chamber and peered around the rocky wall so that he could see into the chamber.

A sickly green luminosity glowed slightly over the high dome of the roof. Elladan had seen something like this once before in the Ered Luin, Erestor had called them Naur-mîw and shown him bioluminescent microscopic creatures that seemed scattered like stars over the rocks. But this was fungal, he thought, or algae, like a slime that shone a sickly light into the chamber where three towering figures stood gathered, leaning upon tall shields and staring downwards.

Elladan pulled back, breathlessly.

Úmaiar. Not simple Barrow Wights such as he and Erestor had driven from their tombs on the Downs with bonfires and Erestor's ring. These were akin to the Balrogs and as powerful. They were clad in dark metalled armour and upon their heads they wore black helms. One helm was winged, as the great crown of Gondor. Darkness clung to their shoulders like furled wings of shadow. A mere sword would be nothing against the three of them, gathered as they were. Elladan's hand rested on the Mergyll-Dagnir at his belt that his brother had given him. But there were three Úmaiar. One dagger could not vanquish them all, only the Palantír could do that. Elladan hitched the satchel up under his arm, he could not act. Not yet, for he could not see Erestor. Nor Maglor.

A helm was rolling on the ground. It was gilded and chased with bronze or copper. A long plume trailed in the dirt from its battered crest. He thought the long cheekpieces would be like hands cupping a beloved face. But Erestor had not worn a helm.

Elladan shifted slightly to ease further into the cave but as he did so, his foot scuffed the rock floor and small stones scattered beneath his foot. He froze at the sound. One of the Úmaiar lifted its head, sweeping its pale luminous gaze slowly over the dark cavern. Its eyes gleamed with cold bitterness, a hatred of all that breathed, or walked upon the earth in light. For a moment it paused, looking straight at Elladan and he threw himself out of sight, back against the cold rock, breathing hard. Quickly, he cast a glamour over himself, and barely breathed. Did not move.

But after a moment, nothing more had happened, and he edged warily back to the mouth of the cave once more. Silently and carefully he peered into the cavern. The Úmaiar was looking down at a sword that lay on the ground; it was finely made, white steel burning in the half-light as if in fury. The Úmaiar regarded the sword thoughtfully and then just touched its own great blade to the burning steel and pushed it a little further away.

Neither helm nor sword belonged to Erestor. So they must be Maglor's, Elladan thought. But he must be dead for they had taken his sword and helm. Erestor must be here too.

The Úmaiar had not moved, but in the mailed fist of one was a dagger. A drop of blood slid down the dark blade and splashed into the dirt.

'Do you yet lament, son of Fëanáro the Traitor? Kin-slayer they call you, and Murderer. Are you so keen to seek the Abyss?'

Elladan dug his nails into the palms of his hands for the sound of its cold voice was unbearable.

'Do not think that you will merely pass the Doors to dwell in the Halls of Waiting….We hunger.' The last word hissed in the wind, seemed to linger and drift through Elladan's hair, tugging his thoughts from his head, dulling his blood. Slowing it down.

In the greenish light he could see an Elf leaning back against the wall, his head tipped back as if exhausted or too wounded to move. One eye was swollen shut and his lip was cut so badly that Elladan thought he would not be able to speak without much pain. Blood soaked his chest but it was from a wound to the neck and it was that which would kill him. He had lifted one hand and was hopelessly pressing it to the wound but Elladan knew that he did not apply enough pressure to prevent the blood loss. It was a slow death but inevitable.

Maglor. It had to be, thought Elladan desperately. But where was Erestor?

There! Frantically scrabbling around in the dirt and trying to tear strips from his own shirt, was Erestor. With one hand, he dragged his cloak from his shoulders and threw it over Maglor. But his movement, his panicked attempt to save Maglor had attracted the attention of the Úmaiar for the one with the dagger now took a step towards the Elves and leaned over them.

Elladan pressed his fist over his mouth to stop from crying out furiously.

The Úmaiar spoke in the voice that was bitter and cold. 'Slain ye shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief; and your houseless spirits shall seek Mandos.' The voice went through Elladan like a spiteful wind rifling through a beggar's rags. 'But you will seek in vain. You will not go to the Doomsman who cursed you and all your House, Maglor Fëanorian. Do not mistake me.' It opened its hand like an invitation. 'Where I will take you is not death. There will you long for Mandos. You will wish for the empty halls of endless waiting. You will be long at prayer, begging for death for where I will take you, prayer will be all you have.'

There was a quiet mumble as Maglor's bruised and bloody mouth tried to form words with swollen lips, and he turned his bloodied face towards Erestor as if he wished to hold the sight of Erestor as he died.

Elladan stumbled back into the passageway and tugged at the satchels' buckles frantically until they flew open. He plunged his hand in towards the Palantír, feeling how his fingers sank into the cool glass and pulled the sphere from its darkness. Throwing the satchel from him, he stared furiously into the Palantír.

Awake, he commanded and pressed his fingers desperately against the glass in the pattern that Erestor had shown him. Awaken now, Ascatar-axo. I command you!

The black glass roiled with colour, black, crimson, gold. Like a storm.

It was suddenly bitterly cold, and he knew the Úmaiar were aware of him, of Ascatar-axo. But at least it had turned their cold regard from Erestor.

Awake! He cried again, more frantically. And then words burst from him, careless of the Úmaiar hearing him. 'Tell me what to do!'

Suddenly there was a crack like thunder, and a bolt of Power shot out of the glass, a piercing, blinding light. Briefly, he saw himself reflected in the black glass: his own eyes were shot through with silver, molten mercury. From his open mouth, silver light poured. His hair streamed upwards in the rush of hot, burning air that ignited the darkness. Power rippled under his skin, charged through his body and hands, too hot, burning.

A single note blasted into the darkness and silence of the tumulus, like a spear of ice, diamond- bright. Pure. Glittering. I am Ascatar-axo! Destroyer! Singer! Wield me!

The reverberation of that single note shook his very bones, pulled on his pulse like the Moon and tide. Silver and gold light poured into him, thrust through his flesh and blood so he was a mere vessel. The light shone through him, uncontained. Blazed like lightning. He could not catch his breath. He thought he was drowning.

It was a possession. Ascatar-axo was awake.

Another note joined the first, deeper and more resonant, like a bronze bell sounding, and the two spiralled around each other, the deep toll of the second note chimed harmoniously with the diamond- bright purity of the first. And then another note was conjured, a martial clarion, like trumpets heralding battle. Less harmonious. Brassy and aggressive. A note of War.

A furious wind whined and moaned, whirling savagely about Ascatar-axo, tearing with vicious fingers at the bright harmony. But Ascatar-axo merely looked upwards with eyes newly lit with wonder and saw how the wind was but a single and simple line of corrupted and deformed alarca, intervals that jarred discordantly, and archaic letters that were once pure sounds now twisted by the Úmaiar into dissonance.

I AM ASCATAR-AXO. DESTROYER. CREATOR, SINGER OF THE WORLD.

Ascatar-axo caught at the dissonant intervals and sounds, added small integer ratios so they became perfect, beautiful mathematical equations that related exactly to the consonant notes, created harmony, rhythm that pulsed like a heartbeat. A smile lit the radiant face but the vessel trembled with the force of Power, and shook with the reverberation of the huge rolling chords unleashed by Ascatar-axo.

Then the air grew bitter and ice-cold, a rime of ice formed on the green algae of the cave; it was cold enough now to freeze the blood of the living. The dark shadows of the Úmaiar flew frenetically beyond the domed shield of light that blazed about Ascatar-axo. Now their voices were no longer simply a whining dirge but a discordant shrieking. They conjured ugly unsymmetrical numbers and ratios that tried to pull the harmonies into dissonance.

Ascatar-axo threaded the remaining discordant notes of the Úmaiar into a new frequency, pulling them into the bronze drone, deepening and strengthening the frequency so it became a low rush like the storm, growing even lower in resonance, and simultaneously louder until it could no longer be heard by Man or even Elf. It rang, deep below the sounds of the world, unheard now and only felt as a tremor through the earth, through the fracturing rock. Ascatar-axo pulsed with light, radiant, intense, igniting a reaction in the dissonance that was almost chemical; the cold dark was infused now with purple and blue light, and then green and gold. It shimmered, a great curtain of rippling light.

I AM ASCATAR-AXO. DESTROYER. CREATOR, SINGER OF THE WORLD.

Ascatar-axo unravelled their dissonance like long skeins of silk and reordered them, spooling up the jarring threads of sound into spindles of consonance. Ascatar-axo exulted in the purity and resonance of the huge chords now that oscillated about each other, a helix of Power, interlocking, Great chords that curled about each other like lovers, rising into a crescendo, like huge ships launched on the waves, like seabirds taking flight.

Ascatar-axo barely noticed the Úmaiar now as they fled.

Somewhere, a beloved voice cried out, but it was not beloved to Ascatar-axo. Ascatar-axo did not know the voice; it was not the Ontanë. It was not Creator. The deep bronze drone pressed even more against the denser packed alarca of this stone, vibrating along the frequency that would open this place of darkness to the stars. Ascatar-axo unstrung the alarca of the rocks to join it to its own terrible energy and the stone itself began to shudder.

I AM ASCATAR-AXO. DESTROYER. CREATOR, SINGER OF THE WORLD.

Destroyer.

0o0o