Desolation

Chapter Five

Thanks to Nemis for betaing *offers chocolate fudge*

As always, reviews are wonderful things *bows to all who have taken the time to review*

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Elrond swayed in the saddle, his mind wandering feverishly along the paths of delirium.  The images which danced before his eyes were more vivid to him than the scrubby bushes which dotted the wayside and the distant blur of Mirkwood.  He saw all those he had known and lost … his sons, their bodies contorted in death … Maglor, screaming in agony as the Silmaril burnt his hands … Gil-galad struck down on the field of battle … Celebrían, her face little more than a patch of white as the grey ship slipped out into the Gulf of Lune…

His arm was on fire, deadly pain shooting through it, impaling him, and he swayed in the saddle, twisting one hand into the pony's mane to prevent himself from falling.

He had lost track of the days now, for they seemed to mean little in this time…

Few things did … only the burning ring, and the rough horsehair beneath him, and the fire before him…

"Why am I doing this anyway?" he whispered.  "Tell me, O Eärendil, for what purpose do I go to my doom?  For 'tis sure that I shall save none by my death…  Mayhap, would be simpler if I just lay down here and let myself pass to Mandos, forsaking this folly."

Exhausted, he slipped from the horse's back and curled up by the track, pulling his knees up to his chest, surrendering to the pain coursing through him, to the numbness which was creeping up from his feet, to the quiet death which enfolded him…

As if in answer to his despairing inquiry, thunder rumbled in the east, and the lowering sky darkened still further, seeming both to threaten and cajole him to pursue his quest.

"Yet perhaps through my death, others still will find the will to resist evil.  Even if they do not succeed, their efforts may buy them freedom in spirit," Elrond answered himself, raising his head, grit coating his wearied face.  "For this, I must fight, even to the end.  So, you see, Sauron, you old fool, neither fear nor the weakness of the flesh will cow me while I still remember how much I hate you."

The strength of his fury momentarily dulled the nausea pulsing through him and clouding his vision.  With a burst of desperate energy, he clambered back up onto the pony and spurred her into a gallop, eating up the distance between him and Mirkwood.  Almost uncanny exhilaration thrilled through him, burning itself into his muscles and setting his limbs ablaze. 

He cried out in forlorn jubilation, "Behold, behold, the light does not yet die, and the sun has not gone down in the West upon the endless seas.  Arise, arise, O peoples of Middle-earth, arise and ride to victory."

It was almost as if some other presence had taken over his languid limbs and parched throat, uttering some rallying cry from beyond the Sun and the Moon to the empty lands.  For an instant, as he crouched low over the animal's neck, urging her on, his wild hair flapping in the wind, he felt the touch of another's mind against his own, and his hands tightened convulsively.

"Celebrían."  The single word escaped his lips without volition, for it was her he had felt, fragile as leaf, sword-strong as she had ever been.  Amid all the turmoil of war, the grief of loss and the weakness of his own flesh, he had lost that fragile, elusive thread, snapped by the winds of chance and fate, and to sense it again was a great joy which penetrated even his dazed mind.  He had not even realised that it was gone until he felt it once more.

"Celebrían," he called out to her, his mind yearning for the most fleeting of contacts, the subtle hint of her perfume drifting in the breeze.  But there was no response, not even the barest flicker of consciousness.  "Celebrían!"

His mind remained as empty as ever, bereft of the sole crutch on which he dared to lean.

"Where are you, meleth-nîn?  Does looming death rob me even of this?"

With barely comprehending relief, he saw the blur of Mirkwood ahead of him, its grim eves darkening the land.  Urging his sturdy mount into a final sprint, Elrond came at last to the borders of the great wood.  He slid from the pony, clutching at her coat as he swayed with exhaustion and emotion.  Fumbling for the catches, he managed to remove the packs, and rubbed her nose.

"Farewell, little one, for we shall not meet again."  He reached into his pocket and brought out the apple which he had been unable to eat for lunch.  "Run far and wide, and do not return to this place.  Mirkwood is not for any of your kind.  Run to the grasslands of the east.  There may you find respite for some time and repayment for your services."

With a last scrub at her scraggy forelock, he turned away resolutely, facing the gloom before him.  Elrond had been to Mirkwood countless times before, but never had it seemed so foreboding.  Branches bowed over the path like the scrawny arms of cadavers, clutching at his torn cloak.  Thorns snarled in his breeches, ripping long scarlet stripes down the pale flesh of his legs.  But, most of all, a cloying silence clung around him, making every inch of air fetid with its stench of impending death.

Despite his watchfulness, as the days wore on fever dulled Elrond's wits.  As he tramped along early one morning, a grotesquely hairy leg grasped him round the torso and, before he knew it, tugged him from the path as if he was no more than a blade of grass bending before the winds of autumn.

Looking up, he gazed into eight hideous faceted eyes and a foul fanged mouth from which saliva trailed in noxious strands.  With lethargic arms Elrond dragged his sword from its scabbard and swung it at the beast.  It recoiled from the flailing steel, hurt even by the presence of the blade forged in Gondolin for the son of Idril Celebrindal, and the Elf smiled wryly at this small victory, but soon triumph turned to disaster.

There was a shift in the shadows, and then a monstrous shape emerged, followed by another and yet another, flanked by terrible minions.  Legions of malicious eyes peered from the shadows; legions of foul limbs marched forward, intent on their prey.

Deadly fear penetrated the cocoon of dizziness which surrounded Elrond and he lashed out with his sword, bringing it round in a clean arc to cleave one creeping limb from its lumbering body.  As the hideous black leg soared into the air he ducked and began to run as fast as he could, ignoring the protesting pain of his body in his desperation.

Unfortunately he was blinded by the sweat dripping into his eyes and he stumbled directly into the clutches of another of the vile creatures.  Before he could even raise his blade he found himself entangled in sticky strands which clung to him, binding his arms to his sides ruthlessly.  A gaping maw filled with razor-sharp teeth loomed over him, emitting a foul stench, and he was dragged along the forest floor, his head colliding ceaselessly with tree roots and half-exposed boulders.

Bruised and bloodied, clinging to consciousness with the last fragments of his once-formidable strength, Elrond did not notice the silent shadows until they fired upon the macabre hunting party.  Keen arrows embedded themselves in the evil scarlet eyes, drawing torrents of reeking black blood from the ruptured sockets.

As the giant spiders milled in confusion, forgetting their trussed prey, a trio of Sindar warriors leapt from the trees, howling with rage at their age-old enemies, swiping at flailing legs and massive lumbering bodies with the precision of hatred.

Once the spiders had retreated, the leader surveyed the body lying crumpled among the leaves.

"Why has some foolish Man attempted to cross Mirkwood at this time?  Now we have one more corpse to bury."  Despite his brusque manner, he knelt down, brushing the tangled hair back from the face which was a mass of fresh bruises. 

"An Elf!" he breathed as he caught a glimpse of the leaf-shaped ear.  Swiftly, he sought a pulse and found it, weak and failing.  "He lives.  Quick, we must return to the palace as soon as possible, or he will pass to Mandos.  And the king will certainly wish to know why a stranger from west of the Misty Mountains comes to Mirkwood in these dark days."

Hefting the injured Noldo over his shoulder, he started off into the gathering gloom.

TBC

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