Desolation
Chapter Six
Everyone who reviewed has been absolutely wonderful. Please keep going, before my muse …. Aaaaaaaaaagh :)
And to all you wonderful people on LJ … I can't even say how much support you've been.
And all the cookies in the world to Nemis for betaing this.
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Dizzy spots danced before his eyes, flashing so brilliantly that he wished he could turn away, yet even when he tried, there they were, taunting him. Beyond them, he glimpsed a lazy golden blur, dancing to and fro. As he watched it, swamped with a lethargy which made it impossible to move, it seemed to coalesce, to become brighter, and brighter, more and more dangerous, until there it was, a jewel beyond all the reckoning of Elves and Men. Its radiant brightness almost blinded him as he gazed upon it, the Silmaril glinting on a dark headland, overlooking the tumbled waves of the Sundering Seas, red fires raging against the night, held tight against the breast of a woman in whose eyes lurked a fearful sorrow. Suddenly, it was imperative that he reach out – that he must grasp that light in which so much hope would be contained … he had to … he would. His fingertips brushed it, seeking, seeking, so near, so very near…
"Hold, mellon, hold." Slender fingers clamped around his wrist, drawing his hand back. He tried to break free, angry tears starting in his eyes at that loss of grace, but he could not, his wearied muscles would not obey him…
Elrond dropped back to the pillows, breathing hard, and only then, gradually, did he begin to see with truly lucid sight, and realised that the golden blur for which he had reached was not the jewel of Fëanor, but Thranduil's long hair, falling, with unusual carelessness, around his mantled shoulders. Yet that vision, that abrupt certainty of knowledge would haunt him for many a night…
"I am in Mirkwood?" he guessed, aware of the rustiness of his voice, so unused to speech with another creature beside the pony he had set free.
"Aye, you are. Welcome, son of Eärendil, in the hour of need which is not ours alone."
The desperation of his mission flooded back to him, and Elrond attempted to rise, forcing his abused body to resist its own exhaustion.
"I must go … I must…"
"You must go nowhere," Thranduil answered. "Mellon, there is no hope to be found in your death. The burden that you bear is yours alone, and in your strength lies the strength of the Elves."
"Why this unwonted solicitude?" Elrond barked, swinging his legs with painful slowness over the edge of the bed, despite the nausea which rose within him. "When all is lost, what matters it to you that one more of the accursed Noldor should meet his fate in these dark days? One more of the peredhil?"
"You are not the only one to have lost those dearest to your heart, Lord of Imladris." The golden-haired elf turned his head away, blinking back his own tears. "Should not we put aside old hatreds, yea, even the slayings of kin by kin, and remember only our righteous fury, our shared grief?"
The half-elf stared, recalling only now, so lost had he been in his own sorrow, that he had sent the Prince of Mirkwood to his doom.
"I … I am sorry. I thought not of it … forgive me…"
The king stood, and Elrond noticed for the first time that he was not dressed in the finery which had been his accustomed garb for so many long years, but as a soldier, a scout under his own command, in raiment of dull green and grey, a sword strapped to his side.
"There is nothing to forgive, for Morgoth's music is loud in these times, and in all things there is much discord." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "I grieve with thee, Elrond, for that which is lost and can never be regained."
"And I with thee, Thranduil." For a scant heartbeat, the two old rivals simply looked upon one another. "Now, help me out of this damned bed before I perish from exasperation. I perceive that I am not as filthy as I was…" he trailed off. "Your men found me? Greenwood the Great stands yet against the darkness?"
"Aye, that we do, though I think not for long. But as yet, we are safe here. For a full sennight we have nursed you, and my entire realm has prayed to Elbereth for your help." As he spoke, he reached out and touched the ring which still dangled on its chain around its owner's neck, burning with a grim fire. The Master of Rivendell recoiled instinctively, raising one hand to ward off the threat. "Nay, nay, Elrond. I covet this not, although I shall not deny that once it was in my mind and in my heart that it should have been mine to have and to hold. Cannot we forget the things of old, for they are sped away, their light extinguished by the darkness which falls upon us as the pall of death?"
"I do. But it is hard in these days not to protect even the accursed flame which burns me to cinders. Long have I borne this trust, but never has it seemed so heavy nor so cruel as now." Elrond flexed his shoulders, finding them free of the ache which had suffused them in the days he had wandered in the wilderness. His head, too, felt clearer, the paths of thought and deed more certainly laid out before him.
"I thank you for the skill and care of those who have watched over me, mellon-iaur," he said with a small smile. "I feel now that I … aaaa…"
He had attempted to uncurl his shield-arm, only to be overwhelmed by a wave of pain. The peredhel pulled the sleeve of his nightshirt up to reveal the bandaged wound to his aching limb, the wrappings already permeated by thick, scarlet blood.
"This should have healed. It should not be thus."
"I fear … I fear…" Thranduil stammered, and Elrond recalled that he had never seen the other Elf so daunted by mere words. "I fear that this wound will not heal. There is no poison that I can tell, nor any shard embedded therein. I am afraid that some vestige of the blood of Men has come to the fore in you, and that it is infected."
Elrond staggered upright, clutching at the furniture, and made his way to the large mirror which adorned one wall. Gazing upon his own reflection, he reached out to touch the wan vision he beheld. Dark hair, once again free of the filth of the trail, accentuated preternaturally pale skin stretched taut over his cheekbones. Eyes, darker and more foreboding than the wings of the storm, stared out of hollow sockets. But what frightened him most was the translucency of his whole being.
"Mayhap you are right my friend," he sighed, turning back to the other. "My human blood may mean that my healing has been delayed. Yet there is more than that…"
But whatever he might have been about to say was drowned out as a young Elf rushed into the room, his face ashen.
"Fire, my
liege, fire! The woods are alight and the creatures come
upon us out of the dark places…"
In an instant, both elder Elves were taut with command.
"Is there a way out?"
"Marshall all our folk and lead them through the tunnels, north-east to the edge of the wood. Do it now!"
"Will you…?"
"I shall be there to lead them, but if I am not, lead them yourself!"
As the messenger of doom departed, leaving in his wake only the tang of burning trees, Elrond began to search desperately for clothes to wear, something, anything rather than a nightshirt.
"Here." Thranduil shoved a tunic in a shade of muddy brown and a pair of breeches at him. Tugging them on, the peredhel shoved his feet into boots and ran towards the door, his heart hammering at this unlooked-for assault.
"Do not forget this." The king was by his side, thrusting the sword into his hand, its belt dangling on the ground. There was no time to stop, no time to make sure he had a cloak, but he buckled his weapon to his side as he ran, shifting it until it rested easily at hand.
The halls of the palace were filled with Elves darting hither and thither, snatching up prized possessions, their faces filled with panic, trying to salvage what they might of their lives even as they fell into ruin.
"Curse it, curse it by the name of all the Valar. We should have moved sooner. I should have…"
"Things are as they are," Elrond reminded him, despite the sharp pain as a scurrying figure slammed against him. "It falls to us only to make of them what we can."
"Nay, Angilliath, nay, you cannot return for that." Thranduil bodily dissuaded a maiden who was attempting to search for her marriage gifts. "There is no time to waste on such trifles."
Despite the urgency of the situation, Elrond almost smiled at the king who had once prided himself on his collection of gemstones. But then, in the midst of such darkness, all other things were to be forgotten.
Together, side by side as they had never been before, the Sindar king and he who might have been king of the Noldor raced to the head of the milling crowd. Together they led them through the twisting, turning passageways, carved deep into the bones of the earth.
As they rounded the last corner, glad of the moonlight shimmering dimly ahead of them, a hulking figure blocked the light, then another, and another, their terrible weapons raised.
"A trap! Back, back, fall back, I tell you," Thranduil yelled, his voice harsh with fury.
"No." Elrond grasped his shoulder tightly. "No. The flames are behind us. Better sword than fire."
After a moment's hesitation, the king nodded.
"Onwards. Do not falter, do not fail."
With one fluid movement, they unsheathed their swords. The battle was brief yet bloody, and in those narrow confines, many fell to the wrath of the orcs, women and children both. But there was no retreat, for the vicious fire encroached further and further with each heartbeat, licking at the wooden shoring of the tunnel.
Brilliant steel flashed, cleaving heads from bodies, thudding into hideously deformed limbs, the molten metal of Gondolin, forged for the king's heir, searing black flesh. Scarlet and raven merged in one tumultuous wave of anger, from which there could be no escape.
Raising his sword high, Elrond cried aloud, his voice re-echoing, frantic in the defence of the girl beside him even as she fell. The knife of an elf crazed by battle nicked his shoulder, tearing through the soft fabric, but he paid it no attention, moving swiftly and surely to attack the orc which now crouched over her.
In the end, such was the desperation of Thranduil's folk that they won through, caught though they were between two deadly foes, the darkness before and the red light behind.
Turning at the end of the passage, blood flowing freely down his arm from the wound which had been cleaved even deeper, Elrond saw with horror the glint of hair, the shine of steel which could only be Thranduil's.
With a howl, he flung himself back into the tunnel, reaching the king just as the joist above him collapsed, riven with flame.
Thranduil jumped forwards, but such was the force of the beam that it caught him in the side of the head, knocking him out.
All thoughts of his own safety, of the Ring he bore round his neck forgotten in that instant of sheer desperation, Elrond grabbed a double handful of golden hair and pulled. Slightly reassured by the groan of pain, he slung the prone form over his shoulder and stumbled for the light.
It only took a moment for Thranduil to regain consciousness, and to begin cursing his headache.
"Be calm, my friend. At least your injuries are slight."
He glanced down at the charred fabric of his breeches and grumbled, "That remains to be seen. But … I must go back."
"There is no going back. The passage is barred. You did your best. Look." Elrond gestured with the arm not cradled against his chest. "Many of your people are safe. You could have done no better."
He fought down the queasiness rising within him, but he could not restrain the shivers which convulsed him, and Thranduil's sharp eyes did not miss it.
"Aelingalen." He hailed a passing elf. "Give me your cloak."
"But, my liege…"
"What is this? Give me your cloak, I say. Will you disobey me? Can you not see that Lord Elrond has more need of it than you?"
With an acutely embarrassed expression, the elf shrugged off his cloak and handed it to his king, who slipped it round the shoulders of the huddled peredhel.
"Thank you. We must move soon. We are too exposed here."
"In a moment," Thranduil reassured him. "Earlier, what did you want to say?"
"About what?"
"About your arm?"
"Ah, yes." Elrond looked discomforted. "It matters not."
"It does. Tell me." The tone of command was unmistakable.
"I believe … I believe that I am fading."
TBC
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