Desolation

Chapter Nine

Thanks to Lalaith and Isis for betaing this.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Elrond bowed deeply, avoiding the sharp-edged blade which gleamed balefully in the torchlight, scarlet and amber.

"I will it indeed, Lord Dáin, and I am grateful, and more than grateful." He drew out his sword and held it level at his waist. "I will fight by your side, and by the side of all the people of Erebor, the Lonely Mountain, until the ending of the world, be it your will or no."

The elderly Dwarf harrumphed, but there was no sign of displeasure upon his countenance. "Honeyed words have ever been your wont, Master Elrond, and never have they betrayed us yet. But what of those who march with you? What will they swear?"

Out of the corner of his eye Elrond could see Thranduil glowering, his hand his hand on the hilt of his sword. He stiffened infinitesimally, waiting for the storm to break. But it never came; Thranduil stepped to his shoulder, drawing his sword with a hiss of metal, and holding it before him, the reflection of his golden hair bright in the blade.

The wood-king gritted his teeth, and, for all the gravity of the situation, Elrond could not help but smile.

"For all that stands between us, Greenwood the Great will stand with you, now, at the end of all things." He turned his blade and drove the point deep into the earth at his feet, his fingers tapping the pommel-stone restlessly.

Dáin's eyes, beneath his wrinkled brow, were bright with suspicion, dark as the chasms of Khazad-dûm.

"I remember the bars you set about me, wood-king," he growled, and his gnarled fingers tightened about the axe haft that he still held parallel with the ground.

Elrond pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the familiar ominous headache starting behind his eyes. Now was not the time for the argument he had heard often enough for the past two Ages. He caught Ulrang's eye, and found the Easterling stern and grave, his angled eyes troubled. The Man moved closer, his footsteps almost Elven-quiet with the practised stealth of the warrior.

"We cannot afford this," he murmured, echoing the Elf's own thoughts. "If we are to be divided, then even what little purpose we have shall fail. Command him!"

"I have no power to command either. They are not my vassals to do as I bid," Elrond whispered back, passing one hand across his eyes as if to blot out the confrontation before him, the sturdy figure of the Dwarf scowling up at the tall, slender Sindarin Elf, whose face was a mask of barely concealed fury, his shoulders taught with anger.

Thranduil seemed about to speak, his lips white with the force of his emotions, when the Dwarven king dropped the blade of his axe to the scrubby grass, mirroring the Elf's posture. "Glad though I would be to hew your neck for the insult you did to us then, I would rather yet hew the necks of Orcs, for the memory of Khazad-dûm is bitter indeed to Mahal's folk."

He stared up at the wood-king with baleful dark eyes, his shoulders hunched, his beard bristling in challenge. "Well?"

All was still; all was silent, apart from the sound of Thranduil's ragged breathing, and the pulse of the vein in his neck. He raised one hand to his brow, as if to fend off a mortal blow, and his knuckles whitened against the hilt of his sword. At last, he gave a short bark of hollow laughter, and turned his eyes away to look upon the scuffed ground. "Aye, let it be this way. We have little enough time for the quarrels of the past, for if we dwell on them, we spend our last chance that they shall be remembered beyond these dying days."

The faintest of smiles crinkled the skin at the corners of Dáin's eyes. "I would like to be able to remember, Master Elf." He turned slowly, ponderously, his armour creaking against the plates of boiled leather beneath it, his shield clanking upon his back, and tilted his square head up to look at the Easterling.

"What folly is this, Master Elrond?"

Ulrang stepped forward, tugging his begrimed cloak aside to expose the hilt of his battered sword. He laid his hand upon it and inclined his head. "I speak for myself, dwarf-king, and none shall speak for me, be he Elf, or mortal Man, or the lord of lies himself. I am Ulrang of those you call the Easterlings, and I come now to the world's ending. Will you take my blood, and my sword, and my promise, or I must I prove it upon my body?" He touched his free hand to the yellowing bruises at his temples.

"Why should we trust those who learn from Sauron alone, who would have ensnared me with the treasure of my forefathers, if I had but helped him?"

Ulrang threw back his head and laughed, his thick black hair whipped hither and thither by the gathering wind, and it was not a kindly noise, but the mirth of one who has seen too much, and who knows too much to ever be at peace, the laughter of an outcast, a stranger in a strange land. "From Sauron alone, you say?" He shook his head, and his eyes glinted with dark humour. "Aye, long we followed him, dwarf-king, for those who have nothing must take what they can when they can, and what have we ever had from the folk of the West but lies and scorn and plunder? Greatness he promised us, and glory and wealth that even your people cannot imagine, and gladly we would have it from those who would not give us the honour we merited. But he was not our sole teacher, or ever could be. I know a little of your lore; did Tharkun come alone? Among his companions were there not two close in mood and in face to one another, who returned not from their voyagings in the East to your lands?"

"The Blue Wizards," Elrond breathed softly, feeling the burn of the Rings sharp against the tender skin of his chest, and the Eye, searching, ever searching for them, as if its malice too was bent upon the missing Istari.

"Blue Wizards?" Ulrang laughed, and this time there was genuine amusement in his voice. "Aye, I suppose they wear enough blue to warrant that name. They came to me six years past, and spoke with me. What they said then disturbed my heart, for ever had I thought that the Lord of Mordor's victory would be ours too. But they said that it was not so; that in the end, all Men would fall before him, for he desires dominion as much as he desires destruction, and the ways of Men are alien to him.

"Long I had known the wizards, for they had dandled me at my mother's hearth when my father was away at war, and taught me of lore and of knowledge. 'Twas from them I learnt to stilt my words in your tongue." He gestured ruefully at his throat. "Once, Sauron was my master, but never was he my keeper, dwarf-king."

Dáin stared hard at him, and behind him his war host grumbled and shuffled uneasily, stamping their heavy boots on the hard ground. He leaned heavily on the shaft of his axe, driving the keen blade deeper into the earth. Long it was before he responded, his tones gruff and grudging. "Aye, it will have to do, I suppose. If Master Elrond says it must be so, then it must be so."

"And I do," the Peredhel said gently, resheathing his own sword. "I trust Ulrang's men, as I trust you all, for we cannot fail, neither in our vigilance, nor in the strength of our will in this matter, and there are none now beside us who may stand before the Dark Lord in the strength of his fastness, and defy him."

"Very well." Dáin levered his axe from the ground, and swung it over his shoulder. "Then let it be done, for I shall be damned before I see the will of Sauron rule me."

Elrond smiled at the Dwarf's blunt words. "Be not so hasty to swear oaths, for you may yet find yourself bound to them."

Dáin grunted, and lifted his hand in signal. In response, eight Dwarves moved forward at a stately march. They were clad in leaf mail wrought of mithril; about their waists were belts inlaid with many gems, sombre and beautiful. Their gauntlets were laced with gold, their hair and beards combed and braided, and the helms upon their heads shone with a burnished light. Upon their shoulders, they bore the litter Elrond had noticed before. Now, he realised that it was a funeral bier of wondrous make, its sides decorated with obsidian plates showing the works of Mahal. It was covered in cloth of gold that shimmered even in this dim light, as fine as tissue, and as strong as woollen cloth, for veins of mithril ran through it, silver-white and pure. As one, the eight bearers lowered the litter to the ground, their plain faces expressionless beneath their beards and copious eyebrows. Each of them carried a sword in addition to a pair of war-axes, and these they drew, raising them in silent salute, first to the dead, and then to the living.

A feeling of sick dread settled in the pit of Elrond's stomach, for he knew what was to come, and wished to prevent it, but it would not be politic, and there was nothing he could do.

Reverently, Dáin stepped to the bier, and folded the golden cloth back until it lay across his aged hand like a strip of molten metal. Elrond forced himself to keep his eyes on the sight that was revealed, although the very idea nauseated him, and he wished to recoil.

Very carefully, the King of Erebor took the wizened hand in his, and turned so he could see both his own people, and their allies.

"No long sleep beneath the stone of the mountains for Durin's folk," he said slowly. "No dark fastness beneath the rock that we were hewn from for Mahal's children until the world is remade. Durin is dead, and Balin of Moria is dead, and the days of the heroes are gone, and we have naught but the steadfastness of our forefathers, and the stubbornness of our pride to guide us." His hand trembled, and his face grew pale and grey. "I do this not lightly, for my heart is a weight of stone within me to disturb the rest of one I admire most." He straightened, and seemed to grow strong and stern, as if the years had fallen away. "But we go to die, and we shall die with the greatest of the treasures which remain to us."

Elrond swallowed, conquering some part of his revulsion, and looked at the body lying upon the bier, a great sword clutched in the shrunken hand beneath Dáin's. The skin – what skin remained – was yellow and brittle as parchment over the fragile bones. The head of Thorin Oakenshield was twisted and pitiful now in death, the chest caved in and the exposed bones, beneath their covering of skin, cracking to dust. But his fingers remained tight about the hilt of the sword: Orcrist, forged in Gondolin of old, and even as Dáin peeled them from it, they seemed to crumble, and there were tears in the elderly Dwarf's eyes, and soaking his thick, grey beard.

"Behold," he whispered, and then raised his voice so all assembled could hear it. "Behold Orcrist, the Goblin-cleaver which Thorin Oakenshield bore upon the field of the Battle of Five Armies! Behold the strength of our arms!"

There was a roar of approval, but Elrond barely heard it, even as it deafened him, for the other treasure held all his thought, and suddenly he could feel the tension in the air, sharp and sour as crab apples. The thin wind rustled his hair, tugging at his braids and his cloak. The faint odour of the grave, musty and rotten mingled with the bitter tang of metal in his nostrils, and he could neither move nor cry out. Instinctively, he reached for Celebrían, but he found in her mind a voiceless, formless dread such as he had never known there. For a heartbeat, he saw through her eyes … an Elf standing over her as she hunched in a chair, his face terribly fair, his hair golden, and a circlet upon his brow. And upon his face… upon his face, such fear that neither Elrond nor Celebrían could bear to look upon it.

He found the name without knowing whither it had come. Finarfin, High King of the Noldor.

Elrond blinked, and the vision faded, but not his own terror, nor that of his wife, for they knew that they had seen something on the face of the king which had not been seen in two Ages of the Sun.

Slowly, the world as it was reformed before his eyes, but he found no comfort there, either, even as Dáin continued in his gruff tones, much to the acclaim of the Dwarves, tears falling openly from his eyes. For it was still there, upon the breast of Thorin Oakenshield, and Elrond could hear its music in his mind, muted and discordant, but audible nonetheless. He looked around, pain stabbing through his sword arm, and was surprised to see that no others seemed to be thus disconcerted. But his gaze could not leave it for long; it was simply not possible.

The Arkenstone. The Heart of the Mountain, beloved of the Dwarves of Erebor, glittering with light of many colours, even in the darkness, utterly beautiful, utterly deadly. His heart raced, and he could hear the sound of the sea, not as a longing, but as a dread, and a woman's voice, piercingly sweet, even though it was upraised in anger and in fright. The pounding of the waves against the cliffs, and the ring of sword against sword mingled with the furious crying of the gulls. And the bright light arcing downwards towards the razor-sharp rocks tangled at the foot of the fall…

Elrond found himself trembling uncontrollably, his wounded arm hanging limp by his side, his head on fire, and his left hand clenched around the Rings at his breast. Slowly, he released them, but his eyes did not leave the Arkenstone.

"Lord Elrond?" Ulrang was looking up at him with concern. "What is it?"

"Naught. 'Tis naught." He shook his head, and wrenched his eyes away as they made their way back to the camp.

~*~

"No!" He was cowering in a closet, hidden behind a musty old cloak which smelt of brine and tarred ropes, but still the hand reached for him, shapely and fair. "No!"

"Child, it shall go the worse for you if you do not surrender."

But the words were not spoken with the golden, lyrical voice of memory, musical even despite anger, and grief, and the smoke of battle. Now 'twas harsh, and bitter, and filled with callous laughter, and the knife fell from his grip, for he saw that the other's hand, clawing at him, bore the Ring upon its finger, the writing bright and clear with red flame.

He screamed, but he had no voice, and the other chuckled, now hoarse, now liquid-fair like mead in wintertime.

He tried to lift his hand, to grasp the dagger – or was it a sword? – once more, but his arm was withered by his side, red, and shrunken, and useless.

And suddenly Celebrían was beside him, bleeding from a poisoned wound, and beside her Elrohir, and Elladan, and Aragorn, torn asunder by bloody rents. And Arwen, pale and lifeless, with a babe in her arms.

And beyond them, in the fathomless, impossible depths of the cupboard in the house on the cliffs above Sirion, Eärendil and Elwing, Tuor and Idril, bloated by the sea, green-tainted and reeking of foul weeds. And Turgon, swordless, broken and burnt, and Elenwë frozen. And Dior and Nimloth, and their sons perished, and Finrod and Beren with their throats wolf-torn, and Lúthien cold as stone, and all the Houses of the Elves, and of the Elf-friends, dead around him as he sat useless, huddled in the body of the child he had once been. And Elros, cankered by mortal age.

And last, as at the first, Celebrían, bleeding, her blue eyes filling with the pain of betrayal.

And he could do naught.

But even as he despaired, light suddenly wreathed around him as smoke from a candle-flame, brighter than he had thought light could be, and he raised his hand, and he saw that he held a stone which glowed with a light of its own, impossible in this darkness which clung and stank. But true nonetheless.

His assailant screamed, once more with the golden voice of Makalaure Fëanorion, and the Ring fell from his finger, shattered and useless…

Elrond started awake, kicking out against the blankets which were tangled around him, gasping for the breath pain denied to him. His right arm was leaden by his side, and his sword was clenched again his body. But even as he tried to convince himself that it was but a dream born of the fever that was consuming him, he could not quell the panic, the relentless surge of the blood in his veins. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard Celebrían's sleepy inquiry, but he did not understand it.

Shivering convulsively, he staggered to his feet, tugging his cloak around him with hands that trembled, and fastening his sword about his waist. Ducking out of the tent Ulrang had lent him, he braced himself against the chill shock of the air of this unnatural night.

Turning South, he saw a great wall of cloud welling up on the horizon, thick and black and foul, darker by far than the clouds which already enveloped them, spitting rain which hissed and stung and smelt of rank death.

Elrond tried to gather his thoughts, to find some modicum of the reserve for which he was famed, but it was not there. He could not reach it, could not find it; it was lost to him in this new whirl of emotions.

Limping slightly and cradling his wounded arm to his chest, he made his way across the encampment, skirting the fires which glowed dimly, the huddled forms of the sleeping folk. His mouth tasted of bile, and ash, and he craved the sweet, cold waters of Imladris with a sudden pang.

He came to the tent where the litter of Thorin Oakenshield lay, and ducked under the tent-flap. His feet had guided him here, even while his mind protested.

He stopped, his hands clenched by his sides, and looked upon the Arkenstone once more, and his dream came back to him, stronger even than it had been in sleep, and the music and light called to him, and Celebrían's voice was soft with fear in the back of his mind. Painfully, as if his feet were encased in lead, he made his way forward until he stood over the body of the Dwarf. Shuddering with distaste, he brushed away the grave-dust, his hands fluttering over the protruding ribs as lightly as possible, and took the Arkenstone in his hands, which felt very cold, as if they too were made of stone.

His dread consumed him utterly now, as the music rose in volume, grating through his mind, and images came to him, of things he had never known, and he knew he was being warned – although by whom he knew not. For the power of this thing captured him entirely, and he was in awe of it, even as he knew that it was nothing akin to the Rings, and would not hold him against his will. Rather, its power was in its beauty, and in its majesty. In its sanctity.

He smelt strange flowers, and grass fresher and greener than any he had ever known. The salt-tang of the sea joined seamlessly with the rolling boom of the waves on a distant shore. And music and laughter without fear.

Then, he knew what he had to do, the task which was allotted to him in these days he had never hoped to see, the fate reserved for him from out of the deeps of time, from the Day before ever there were days beneath the Sun and the Moon of this broken world.

The past, the histories and legends which he knew so well, crowded close, filling the tent, and in the opalescent light of the stone, he seemed to see an Elf with bright, arrogant eyes and dark hair and the hands of a craftsman. And a mortal Man, his face graven with lines of pain, standing hand in hand with an elf-maiden robed in white. He knew it was only in his only mind – perhaps a trick of his fading wits, but he also knew it was time, and beyond time, if things were to come full circle and his fate wrought to its fullness, he, the scion of a line of dead kings, whose father bore the Silmaril in the heavens.

He raised his hands over his head, his arms shaking, his heart cold and still with fear. A draught shivered across his skin, and icy fingers paced down his spine. Time seemed to pause, and he could hear his pulse, loud in his ears, faltering, ever slowing, running in rills like bright mountain waters, and calming to the sluggish pace of lowland meanders. He raised it higher yet, and his fingers slipped against the stone, slicked by his own sweat. Only by a fraction of a heartbeat did he manage to catch it, and the murmur of the sea climbed to a dull roaring that contended with his heart. The Rings burnt and seethed against his skin, and he imagined he could feel them roiling like snakes in the back of his mind at this new power which was not of their kind. He hissed as his shoulder protested at the moment, but did not falter for a moment.

The Arkenstone's dim light flickered on his face, and he looked up into it, wonder shining in his grey eyes, that he should see this day. His stomach clenched nervously, and he prepared to make the fatal move…

"Elf! Accursed Elf!" At the infuriated shout, he whirled, his arms still held aloft.

Dáin emerged from where he had been sitting in the shadows, his old face livid with fury. In one hand, he gripped Orcrist; in the other, he held his war-axe. He advanced with surprising speed, cursing vigourously. "Why did I trust an Elf to see the Arkenstone of my fathers? Tell me what you would do with it, traitor!"

Elrond was dimly aware that he ought to feel some degree of alarm, but everything was so distance, imprisoned beyond the crystalline bubble which held him in its thrall.

"But you see," he said peacefully, his eyes like the stars on a cool winter night, a smile curving his fine lips, "'tis not the Arkenstone of your fathers alone."

And with that, he let it fall, tumbling end over end towards the canvas floor. Vaguely, on the edge of perception, he thought that perhaps something which had survived the depredations of Smaug should not be so easily broken, but he had no doubts as to his actions.

The Arkenstone fell, the Heart of the Mountain, beloved of the Dwarves, and hit a protrusion of rock hidden by the tent's floor. There was a great crack, surely louder than the impact warranted, and the air seemed alive, more alive than the Elf and Dwarf standing motionless, facing one another.

Fragments of stone, of fine crystal sprayed the tent, dusting the floor with the semblance of a hundred thousand diamonds, and there was a flash of light such as had not been seen in this Middle-earth for years beyond count.

Elrond wavered and fell to his knees, covering his ears as the music in his mind swelled to a crescendo of joy, and then faded away into a simple melody beyond the reckoning of the Children of Ilúvatar.

It was beautiful, and terrible, and strange, as the first sunrise so very long ago.

Dáin's axe fell from his hand with a clatter.

Elrond shut his eyes against the sudden brilliance, and drew a shuddering breath. Unable to clamber to his feet, he crawled forward on his hands and knees, gently brushing the fragmented stone away as he went until there was a clear circle surrounding the object he had freed. He bowed his head in reverence, and looked upon it, and heard again the voice of his mother, on the strand of Sirion.

The crystal casing which had held it imprisoned so long, forged in the heat of the earth, in the heart of the mountains, was shattered. Dull and discordant it had been before in comparison, now its light was unclouded and its song a song of beauty alone.

He stretched out his hand, and then recoiled, recalling to his mind the agony of the last sons of Fëanor. He turned his own hand over, looking at the unblemished palm, marked only by grime and sword calluses.

If I should… If I dared, what then?

But he knew that it was not a question of daring, that he had no choice in this if he was to have hope. And for that hope, which would be his grandson's, he would gladly bear this wound. Long he stared at his hands, and eventually, tentatively, he extended his right hand. His arm was already too weak, and his right hand would thus be a lesser loss than his left.

His fingertips touched it, and it did not burn them.

His fingers curled around it, and it did not burn them.

He held it in his palm, the radiance outlining the long bones in the back of his hand, and it was not burnt.

He clambered to his feet, holding the stone aloft, the brightness almost unbearable in the confined space. He held the Silmaril of Maedhros.

Oh dear my love… Celebrían wept, and he wept with her, and neither knew if it was for joy or sorrow.

He did not know what this meant, only that this was what Galadriel had foreseen when she sent Nenya to him in the hands of her marchwarden.

The Silmaril of Fëanor, whose like he had seen before in the hands of his mother, in the house on the cliffs of Sirion, before First Age of the Sun ended. The holy light spilled over him, soothing him, and he smiled, although it was not a smile without its darkness.

That the Silmaril should be found again now, in these days of war, and of woe…

Elrond could only imagine what he portended.

Someone yelled, hoarse with wonder. He looked away from the stone, blinking at the sudden darkness. Thranduil was standing in the doorway, his mouth open, and behind him stood Ulrang, his shrewd eyes wide and guileless as he gazed and gazed.

"Behold," Elrond murmured. "Behold a wonder which is not of these lands, nor of these days, yet it comes out of the deeps of time to our aid when least looked for."

"What is it?" Ulrang croaked, massaging his head with one hand.

"The Silmaril, the holy jewel," Thranduil answered, the blue of his eyes extinguished, and his face unreadable. "You see now the light of the Two Trees that were, long before even Lord Elrond was born, and are no more." He turned to Elrond, and his eyes were suddenly bleak. "Think you that this is truly the end of things, if the Silmaril is found?"

Elrond traced the facets of the gem with one fingers, his face pensive. "Nay," he said at last. "The world does not yet end, nor has the Silmaril which Maglor cast into the depths been found, and most assuredly Morgoth remains in the Void which is Beyond. Rather, we should say that this thing has been given unto us to use, and that when our task is done, we should return it to the earth from whence it came."

For indeed, a faint flame of hope had been kindled within him by the holy light, and for the first time, he saw an ending to this thing which was not entirely for ill. The world of Men might yet endure, if the Free Folk remained true, one to the other.

"What should we do with it?" Dáin asked in a low, harsh whisper.

"That I know not, for 'tis no weapon. 'Twas not made for battle and suffering, although enough has been wrought in its name. But perhaps there is a way, and what was begun in Elven Tirion beyond the Sundering Seas shall be made whole here, beneath the ruined and darkened skies of Endor." Almost tenderly, he wrapped the Silmaril in a scrap of cloth which lay at hand, and tucked it in his tunic, next to his skin.

The Rings were quiescent as he sat at the crude trestle table with pen and paper before him, and the others gathered around him, holding counsel on what might yet be done in this war in which nothing was certain. And Celebrían was with him, her mind touching his, awed and afraid for him, yet as determined as he.

The threads were drawing together. The story had begun, here at its ending, and this day they would march for the Brown Lands which lay before the Black Gate of Mordor, a host weak in number, but no longer without hope.

TBC

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~