Desolation
Chapter Three
Thanks for all the reviews. My muse lives on them.
Virtual chocolate and a big club to hit Swift with to Nemis for betaing this chapter.
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Elrond bound the wound on his arm, hissing in pain. He had hoped that the Shire at least would stand a little longer against the forces of darkness, and so had attempted to cross the fertile land. But he had found it desolate and the Little Folk in chains. Such had been his righteous anger at the latter that he had attacked one convoy of slavers, his bright blade slicing through muscle and bone alike. He had been successful, but although the Hobbits had escaped into the wilderness, the price of victory had been high for him. His arrows were spent and an orc scimitar had bitten into his sword arm, cutting nearly to the bone. He prayed that there would be no infection, but there seemed little hope as he gazed at the red blood soaking the sleeve of his tunic. He felt insidious weakness creeping through him, sapping his Elven resistance.
"Well, meleth-nîn," he murmured to his departed wife. "Perhaps we shall meet again sooner than I thought, if Mandos takes pity on me."
Struggling, biting his lip to stifle a cry of pain, he scaled an oak which stood in the midst of the scorched landscape, a hollow reminder of better times. Curling into the nook where the branches met, the Elf wrapped his cloak round his shivering form and dropped into an uneasy doze, too tired to seek the paths of elven dreams.
His slumber was filled with fearful visions in which featureless faces and nameless horrors leered at him, and he was driven into back and back into the abyss of darkness. But this was to be nothing to the fear which awakened him. Huddled into his musty shelter, soaked to the skin with foul rain, he wondered what could have roused him. Just as he was reassuring himself that it was nothing but a nightmarish vision, the touch on his mind came again, and red light exploded before his eyes. Vilya seemed to burn with a terrible fire against the skin of his chest, as if its power was seeking to consume him, body and soul, and fell voices whispered in his ears. When the moment passed, he was left with hideous knowledge which seemed more deadly than anything which he had ever known before.
He has the Ring of Fire, and Mithrandir is dead … or worse. Indeed then there is no hope for us.
For an instant, the treacherous suggestion that he might still take ship across the Sundering Seas spoke to him in a coaxing voice, and he was sorely tempted.
Nay, I cannot. I shall go to the Halls of Awaiting soon enough, but I must go knowing I have done all I could. I shall not desert my kin or my lands in the hour of their greatest need, no matter how fruitless my quest may be.
Lowering himself from the tree, ignoring the spasms of pain which wracked him, he bound his injured arm closer to his chest, and, re-sheathing his sword, resumed his progress with faltering steps.
Although he knew that the Ring of Adamant still rested in the care of Galadriel, he could not rely upon the waning strength of the Golden Wood alone.
I must seek Thranduil in Mirkwood, and the Men of Dale, for surely Gondor the proud no longer stands. For the sake of Isildur who cut the One from his finger, the Dark Lord will have reserved special vengeance for the Kingdoms of the Men of the West.
~*~
The first light of Anar crept over the eastern horizon, illuminating a scene of absolute destruction. Not a green thing grew as far as the eye could see; the East Road was crawling with companies of orcs; the corpses of men, women and children littered the ground like leaves in autumn. Elrond realised that he had to choose the only route which still lay open to him … that which he had deemed least safe. Squaring his shoulders, he passed under the menacing eaves of the Old Forest.
Immediately, all the screams and hoarse shouts of jubilation which echoed around the hills were cut off, but the silence of the trees seemed no friendlier, and he shuddered as a chill coursed down his spine.
How much easier would this be if Vilya was still on my finger.
"But then I there would be no need for this journey," he laughed mirthlessly. "In the absence of the prop which has borne me for so many years, I must turn again to the skills I once knew."
Determinedly, he directed his thoughts to a far off year in which he had wandered the wilds with his brother, young even in the reckoning of mortal Men, making his way to Sirion with nothing but his own mind and that of his twin.
The Elf chose a stout stick of oak from the ground for a staff, and, leaning on it, began to trudge through the forest, ignoring the deceitful path which he realised would only lead him to peril.
After walking for what seemed like an eternity, he espied a patch of greenery which did not seem as inimical as that which surrounded it. Hunkering down beside it, he saw that it was a thick growth of athelas, and sighed in relief, cutting as much of it as he could with his short knife.
Unwinding the crude bandages on his arm, he found his wound rawer than ever, its ragged sides gaping. Gritting his teeth, he placed a few of the leaves on the gash, noticing the white of the bone showing through the flesh. Redoing the knot, which secured the strips of fabric encompassing the injury, he drew a wafer of lembas from his pack. Ignoring his nausea, he began to nibble on it, determined to retain his strength for the battles ahead.
~*~
Elrond had been attempting to cross the hostile expanse of woodland for days, although it was hard to tell how much time had passed, for here there was neither night nor day, but only a shadow-land which reigned eternal.
He had tried to sing the jaunty sailors melodies which he had learnt in the Balar of his youth, but their unthinking jollity had only made him throw his impromptu staff far into the undergrowth with despairing contempt. He had begun to sing the Lay of Leithian in its entirety, but it had brought tears to his eyes for his daughter and slain foster-son. Now, he settled upon the Noldolantë, his powerful voice rising above the sinister sighing of the trees.
"Very beautiful, Master Elf," a voice whispered in his ear.
Spinning round, Elrond reached for the hilt of his sword, and then exhaled in relief at the sight which met his eyes.
"Iarwain Ben-Adar." It could be no other.
"Aye, I am Tom Bombadil indeed." The merry face crinkled up at him. "What is an Elf doing in my woods?"
"I go to war."
"To war? Then 'tis a sorry quest which brings you to old Tom."
Sudden fury rose within the elf-lord's mind, not so much directed at the strange spirit before him as at himself for the failure he feared in his future.
"There are foul deeds afoot," he growled. "I say to you, Eldest and Fatherless, that they should concern all Middle-earth. Is it not foolishness to name this day merely 'sorry'?"
To his surprise, Tom reached out and lifted Vilya on its chain until the ring sparkled in a beam of sunlight.
"That is not for Tom to say," he laughed. "Tom cares for his woods and his hills, but the weight of the world rests on the shoulders of he who bears the Ring of Air. Now come, you need a good night's rest and a hearty supper."
Unwilling yet unable to resist, questions whirling through his mind, Elrond followed him until they reached the house standing on its own beyond the trees.
"Now, I am afraid that Goldberry is abroad this night, but I can offer you tea and good food." He pressed the Elf down into a chair, singing merry nonsense to himself as he dolled out rich sweet buttermilk and honey into bowls, accompanied by warm slices of bread.
Elrond, having eaten very little despite his scarce rations for the past days, sat back and looked at his host.
"You do not have the appetite of a Hobbit, I see," Tom chuckled.
A closed expression came over the face of his guest, but a single tear trickled from one starlit eye.
"They are gone," the Elf whispered. "They were taken by Gorthaur and have left this world."
"Is that so? I shall miss their good-humour." Tom Bombadil seemed only mildly perturbed, despite his sorrow.
Elrond leant forward, his elbows resting on his knees.
"For their sake, will you tell me what you meant when you said that weight of the world rests on me?"
"I said that? Oh, yes I did. Well, I meant nothing but what I said. The son of the Evening Star must do many things before the end."
"The end? What end?" The Elf was perplexed.
"The end? Well, that would be telling would it not?" He sat back, apparently satisfied, and Elrond was suddenly overcome with helpless laughter. However, he soon felt his strength wane and collapsed against the back of the chair, his sight darkened and his breath coming in hoarse gasps. He sensed strong arms lifting him up and guiding him to the bed.
~*~
When he awoke in the morning, the Lord of Imladris felt much refreshed. With a start he found himself clad in a simple woollen nightshift, his now clean clothes folded by the side of his bed.
Rising slowly, so as not to strain his arm, he dressed himself, and emerged into the main room, blinking in the sunlight flooding through the open windows.
"So you are awake?" Tom said, stirring the porridge briskly.
"Yes, and I shall be away in under an hour."
"That would not be wise." The mysterious creature's face was, for once, serious. "I saw how you were last night. You need to rest."
"My strength may not be as of old, but my resolve remains. If this task is appointed to me, I shall not tarry."
With a shrug, Tom acquiesced, and soon the Elf was walking through the thick green grass, carefully avoiding the barrows where unquiet spirits awaited reckless travellers.
~*~
The days had been long since Elrond last slept in a bed, but he pressed on, climbing the steep path to Imladris. He recognised his folly in leaving his last surviving child in a place of such danger, and meant to send her to Círdan in the Havens, even if she would not depart Middle-earth.
As he rounded a bend, he found a knife pressed against the nape of his neck and cursed his inattentiveness.
"Who would come to the valley of the cleft in such times?" a familiar voice asked.
"'Tis I, mellon-iaur."
Glorfindel did not recognise the bedraggled wanderer, whose tangled dark locks fell around a gaunt face. He could not imagine who among those he knew who would climb the path, his clothes ragged and torn, fresh blood staining the cloth of his sleeve. Cautiously, he circled his prisoner, clamping that thin chin between his long fingers. Grey eyes stared at him hopelessly. His blade dropped from nerveless fingers.
"My lord."
From somewhere in the depths of his being, the dishevelled Peredhel dredged up a chuckle.
"Indeed, 'tis I, my friend."
The golden-haired elf threw his arms round his friend's neck.
"We thought you dead."
"Not yet, Glorfindel; not yet."
Together, they arrived at the house, where Arwen stood awaiting the return of her protector. Her eyes flickered to his companion and widened in recognition.
"Ada," she yelled joyously, embracing him impulsively before pulling back. "You must sleep and heal."
"Not yet, iell-nîn. First I must speak with you." He guided her towards the study. The buildings seemed somehow tarnished, decayed, although they were as beautiful as ever. The empty corridors echoed with the voices of those who had departed over the sea.
Elrond settled in his old chair, regarding his daughter with wearied eyes. Something was different about her, but he knew not what it was.
He decided that the best approach was the most direct.
"You must go to the Havens, with all who remain in Imladris. I shall ask Glorfindel to accompany you."
"I told you: I shall not cross the sea." She raised her chin stubbornly.
"Nay, I do not ask this of you," he responded, "although I would if I thought you would heed my pleas. I merely ask that you go to a place of more safety."
"Then I shall do as you bid, Ada."
Elrond was surprised at her acquiescence, until she uttered her next words.
"I have something to tell you, but I … I fear your wrath."
The elf-lord went to kneel by her chair.
"I have no wrath for you, iell-nîn. I reserve all that for Gorthaur," he swore.
She raised her sorrowing eyes to his.
"I am with child. Before he left, Estel and I … we … we decided that we needed a memory against the darkness."
Despite his fatherly protectiveness, Elrond was carried back nearly three thousand years to a night on which he and Celebrían, although not yet married, had pledged their love, body and mind. Quashing his instinct to rage against such liberties taken with his daughter, he smiled faintly.
"Then you have something to remember him by."
"I do. I believe that it is a boy: I shall name him Eldarion, child of the Elves, in memorial of my people, but he shall also be Telcontar, for that foolish name which the Men of the north gave to Aragorn."
"Then I must give him such things as will remind him of both." Despite his protesting muscles, the lord rose and, clutching his daughter's hand, made his way from the room, leading her to the place where the most secret treasures of Imladris were kept.
With shaking hands, he gave her the sceptre of Annuminas.
"This I refused Aragorn, bidding him to earn it." His voice broke, and silent tears began to roll down his cheeks. "If I could take back those words, I would, for he was truly the son of my heart, and I would that he were by your side."
Wordless, consumed by her own grief, Arwen smoothed away his tears.
"And now I give you this." Elrond reached up to grasp the mithril band which had been his for long Ages, feeling it come free from his knotted hair. "May he wear it as a crown alongside the helm of Gondor."
"You should not give this. It is yours to bear."
"My time here is not long. I shall perish in this quest." He suddenly felt it deeply, this sense of impending death which had crept up upon him. "Therefore I give this as a gift for those who come after me, in the hope that all that was shall not be forgotten."
"Do not speak such words," she sobbed.
He caressed her dark head with a trembling hand.
"Despite the pain they cause, they must be spoken, for they ring true. We will not meet again until the ending of Arda."
And together they wept for the cruel fate which had crept upon them, stealing the world they knew.
~*~
But again, in the morning, Elrond felt the tug of duty upon him, and, although his wounds had not yet healed, prepared to depart. He knew that deathly night was approaching, and felt his heartbeat grow rapid and shallow, but refused to show any weakness.
If this be my fate, so be it.
Levering himself up on to the sturdy pony with his free arm, he looked down at his daughter, whose cheeks were blotchy with tears.
"Namarie, Undómiel. May you be a light in the darkness," he whispered, before pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
With a last wave to all who remained of his folk, he rode off, sternly quelling his cry of despair until they could no longer hear him.
Arwen pressed her fingers to her lips.
"Namarie, Ada, until the ending of the world."
TBC
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meleth-nîn – my love.
Namarie – farewell.
Ada – father, daddy (shortening of Sindarin 'Adar' – father).
iell-nîn – my daughter.
mellon-iaur – old friend.
Noldolantë – the tale of the fall of the Noldor, composed by Maglor.