Disclaimer: As before, it all belongs to Tolkien, and not to me.
Various references to Silm. characters and historical figures will be explained at the bottom of the chapter. Thanks to those few who have reviewed so far. You are all lovely.
It burned. Back through memory Celeborn spiralled, helpless, unshielded. Remembered last kisses by the seaside, and the look in Galadriel's eyes – she'd known, known that he was bound here, bound to the children of Kementarí, to the world of his youth. Known that he would never come to the shores of Valinor to meet with her, Artanis, beloved forever and nevermore…
"Grandfather?"
And that memory lead to thoughts of another farewell, of angry words bitten back as he saw the tears in the eyes of Elrond, a reflection of his own despair, and beheld for the last time his daughter, Celebrían, the scars on her body fading, but the scars on her soul still vivid, a reminder of his failure…
"Elrohir, come quickly!" Elladan frowned as he looked down at the prone figure of his Grandfather, eyes blank as if in Reverie – but his skin as cold as ice.
Failure… Eluréd and Elurín, who had once declared him their 'favourite cousin', lost in the darkness. Friends and comrades, falling all around him, and was he not kin slayer too? For many of the hosts of the sons of Fëanor had fallen at his hands, and even in Lórien, where the Mallyrn wrapped him round, protecting his dreams, he would, on occasion, wake with a start – thinking to see blood on his hands…
Elrohir knelt beside Celeborn, barely managing not to panic. No herbs or potions would bring his grandfather back – he knew enough of healing to know this was no illness, no wound of the body. He raised his eyes to meet those of his brother, and an agreement passed between them.
Back, back, back through the mists into memories that were not his own – darkness in the east, always in the east – falling, falling, the purpose that had brought them to these shores long forgotten, and before, before – before, when the dark one had offered, and many kin had gone, gone to burn in flame, in power, and they had resisted, yet in the heart of he who Alatar had named friend there was yet a dark kernel remaining…
The twins each took one of Celeborn's cold, still hands in their own, raising their other palms to each other to complete the circuit. Seldom had they tried this – their father had trained them only a little in these arts, though as twins they had an unique gift for the ways of the mind. Elladan had long wondered if it had something to do with Elros – but there was no time to wonder now. Taking a deep breath in tandem with his brother, they closed their eyes, preparing themselves.
Back, through the song, through the pain, through a path laid out long before, until there was nothing more but darkness, an emptiness. Within it was a creature chained, yet not chained, waiting, and Celeborn was driven ever nearer, helpless. It was more than darkness, more than the mere emptiness of light – it knew the light, and hated it, and would twist it for it's own wicked purpose. It reached out, the barriers between its world and Celeborn's own thinning, and it laughed, and he knew that it would kill, it would maim, it would devour all the worlds in fire for nothing more than it's own amusement.
Yet before he reached the brink, two flames identical reached out from Imladris, and pulled him back from the edge of the Void.
Grandfather! Grandfather!
"Grandfather! Wake, for Elbereth's sake!"
He came back into his body in a rush; suddenly nerves were awoken, senses on fire. A shadow in the East… Celeborn pushed the helping hands away from him, stood up, brushing his clothes down.
His left hand was still shaking, and he gripped the edge of the table in an attempt to make it stop.
"Grandfather?"
It took him a moment to focus, to figure out which twin had spoken – Elrohir, it was, with more blue in his grey eyes – and another long moment to find the words he searched for.
"Elrohir," he said, with calm he did not feel. "Double the patrols on the Eastern borders. I ride to Gondor. And send messengers to Rohan, Ithilien, Aglarond, and Eryn Lasgalen."
"Bearing what message?"
That Manwë-damned hand of his would not stop shaking; he wished for the calming presence of his wife. "Beware the East." he said, and was away to the stables before either of his grandsons could respond.
-----
It felt wrong, somehow, to have given up the Key. Morglin paced as Pallando fiddled with some Melkor-damned box. It reminded him all too well of Saruman's toys – metal made to live. Unnatural, even when placed among unnatural things.
Morglin preferred blood-magic, or even the straight-forwardness of a knife-kill, blade against flesh. What could be more simple that that? What could be more pure than blood-lust, uncomplicated, unmitigated, undisguised?
The wizard grunted as the Key slid into it's place, finally, with a resounding click.
"Ah."
"That is it? That is the grand door I've been waiting for?"
Pallando laughed. "The door? Oh, no, my dear friend." He twisted something, pushed, and the mechanism began to spin, sending out shattered fragments of light that danced around the room, ever at the edge of sight, yet demanding attention. His head hurting, he tried to close his eyes but could not, and found he could not look away.
"Oh, no, Morglin. This is just the map."
-----
Dairuin hummed as he hauled up the fishing nets. A good haul, a good haul. It seemed the weather had been milder since the end of the Great War; the fishing was better, certainly. And since Lord Imrahil's son in law had turned up with a horde of great thumping Rohirrim, there would probably be double orders coming down from the chef at Dol Amroth.
Not that Dairuin had anything against Rohirrim, especially when he was profiting from their presence, although why anyone would prefer a horse to a boat, he had no idea. His partner, a grizzled old fellow named Dagnir, paused in his work suddenly, his eyes fixed on the horizon.
"Get back to work, you lazy… dear Bema!"
Cutting through the water was a great black ship. Hundreds of lesser vessels could be seen around the bay on a fine day – fishing ships, the leisure ships, taking Gondorian noblemen and fine ladies out for their amusements, and traders, making the run between Dol Amroth and the southern bays up to the Grey Havens, bringing supplies to all the little settlements that dotted the coastline.
Sometimes there would be seen larger ships also, ships as large as these, even. But those were all of Elven-make, coming from the north, bearing Elves and their wares. This was too crude, too dark, to be an Elf-ship. And behind it was another, and another – many more soon appeared, smaller than the first, but no less deadly in appearance.
"Corsairs!" called Dagnir, rushing to up anchor, while Dairuin just stared. Surely the Corsairs of had long been defeated? Not hide nor hair of them had been heard since the end of the war. Nor did these ships bear the emblem of Umbar; instead, they flew flags that showed seven silver stars, gleaming bright on a field of blue.
Even as he watched, as they came close enough for him to make out an armoured figure standing proud at the prow of the lead ship, the air began to shimmer, and without a sound, without a warning, without a trace, the ships vanished.
"Do I dream?" asked Dagnir, unbelieving.
"If you do, then it is a dream we share." replied Dairuin. "But perhaps we shall something more to discuss Imrahil's gatekeeper than the weather and the price of fish."
Dagnir shivered. "Let us go; I have no liking for these Corsairs that are not Corsairs, and for ships that vanish like ghosts into a mist."
"Agreed. The fish will wait for us, I'd wager." Dairuin turned his attention to the tiller, for once happy to be returning to shore. Whether or not they would be believed when they got there was another matter entirely.
A/N: Various names/places explained as follows:
Kementarí: 'Queen of the Earth', a name of the Vala Yavanna.
Artanis: Another name of Galadriel, given to her by her father, it means 'Noble Woman'
Eluréd and Elurín: Sons of Dior and Nimloth of Doriath, who would have been Elrond's uncles if they had lived; they were left to starve in the woods by the sons of Fëanor.
Fëanor, and sons of Fëanor: Fëanor was Galadriel's cousin, and he and his sons were the culprits of the Kinslayings, the killings of Elf by Elf. Doriath was the place of the second Kinslaying.
The Void: The emptiness beyond the world in which Morgoth, the first Dark Lord, was imprisoned at the end of the First Age.
Corsairs of Umbar: Umbar was a port, South of Gondor, on the edge of Harad, and the Corsairs, many of whom were originally from Númenor, the lost island of the Kings of Men, were pirates, who were constantly at war with Gondor. Umbar was overrun by various armies throughout the years, and took heavy losses during the Ring War. It was likely that very few Corsairs remained in the fourth age.