Desolation

Chapter Fourteen

Thanks to Isis for beta-ing this, and to everyone who reviewed.

So here it is: the last chapter. Only the epilogue to go now.

He knew her name before he remembered his own, knew it as he knew the hard ground beneath him, and the restless pain in his side. He could almost hear her voice, feel the silken texture of her skin beneath his fingertips, count every last freckle and flaw. He inhaled deeply, ignoring the raw spears stabbing his chest and throat, trying desperately to recall her inimitable scent, honey and soap, and sweet spices. But there was nothing, only the acrid tang of scorched rock, and the rankness of death.

Awake, meleth-nín. You cannot sleep; you must not.

He smiled drowsily at her words, feeling the dried blood cracking with the movement, not entirely sure as to why he bled.

I… shall … stay with you … I think…

Nay. She was frantic; he could hear it in her voice and wondered at it, but the sinuous coils of reason slipped from him before he could grasp them. Go; you must not stay. She took a step backwards, fading into the formless grey shadows, lost to him, and he could hear the Sea, the chuckling of the gulls, the rush and hiss of the tide.

The stars whirled about him, the pallid hue of silver, and bright vermilion fire, a dance his eyes could not trace, his failing mind could not hope to encompass. One flickered before his vision, brighter by far than the others, a searing beacon of saffron flame, and he reached for it…

The air seared his lungs, thick and heavy and noxious, and he could taste the blood in his mouth, feel the shreds of his tunic clinging to him, sticky with gore. There was a warmth against his chest, even through his armour, and with dawning consciousness, he remembered the Silmaril, its sharp planes and brilliant light. But his hand burnt with pain, and he could smell the charred flesh of the palm, feel the dull pressure of the Ring against the seeping blisters it had raised there.

He retched heavily, his wits tumbling over themselves. Already, he could feel the chill, gold promise growing in the back of his mind. Everything he had ever desired, everything he had ever wished for, worked for, dreamed of, made truth, here, in Endor, beneath the skies he loved. Mightier than any king, wiser than any lord…

Elrond groaned, forcing his eyes open with an effort of will. Nails dug grooves in his abused shoulders, sharp with urgent emotion, and a flask was held to his lips, the brackish water trickling down his chin in a steady stream. He spluttered weakly, and the hands pinioning him gentled somewhat, holding the lank fall of hair back from his face.

He opened his eyes to a cool, grey mist, featureless and formless save for drifting shadow-shapes. Somewhere close at hand, he could hear someone weeping, and wondered what new sorrow this was. He reached out blindly through the swirling mists, seeking more through instinct than through thought for the source of the terrible, soughing noise, no louder than a heartbeat. His fingers found a face bent near to his own, wet with tears, and slick with new scars. He traced the familiar contours of his son's face, the tilt of the chin inherited from his mother, the features so alike and yet so unlike his own.

"El…" he began, and stopped abruptly, surprised to hear his voice reduced to such a croaking monstrosity. Elrohir hushed him, and, as if in counterpoint, the voices around him rose in a cacophonous babble. One, he heard above all else; sibilant, and yet oddly sweet, as the hurrying tide on shingle. All that is done may be undone; no scars last forever, no wounds are so deep they cannot be healed. The voice entranced him, as liquid gold as that of his foster father, for all that he had been accounted the greatest minstrel of the Noldor in times gone by. It seemed to soothe him, to curl round him in shining tendrils.

But something deep within him recoiled from its insidious beauty; he realised that this voice he did not hear with the ears of his body, but only with those of his mind. He shuddered, and his sight grew more lucid. Now, he could see a dark shape looming over him, and, with difficulty, squinting against the shadows, he could make out his son's face. The hands that had held him relented, and another face came into view, distorted by its odd angle.

"Thank all the gods." Ulrang wiped a trickle of blood from his cheek with the trailing corner of his cloak. "I am glad to see you awake, my friend." But, all unwitting, his gaze wandered to the elf-lord's withered right hand which was so tightly clenched about the Ring, and a flicker of something old and merciless showed in his eyes. Elrond felt a surge of sullen, protective rage course through him. He let it take him, its strength fuelling his own. With a gasp at the agony of movement, he forced himself upright. His head spun, and the chanting of that sweet, sinuous voice came closer in the darkness of his mind.

He clutched at the Silmaril, but it slithered to the ground, falling into the dust. Panic, unreasoning and unknowing, rose within him, and he reached for it, for the only comfort that would keep the voice from him.

A warm hand closed over his as Elrohir placed the holy jewel in his seeking palm.

"Thank you." He struggled to prop himself upright with his left arm, and turned to examine his right hand. The Ring glinted up at him, such a simple thing, a single band of bright yellow gold. And for all the crimson malice of the flowing script, he could not help wondering that such a thing could indeed be evil. He tucked the Silmaril into the crook of his elbow, and reached out with one forefinger to stroke the delicate, elegant lines of this thing, this wonder of power. Even in the darkness, it seemed to glow with a warm golden light that spoke of summer, and the springtime in distant lands.

There are no wounds so deep they cannot be healed, even here, on these forsaken shores.

Gondolin of ancient memory … Menegroth and Nargothrond, the havens at the mouths of Sirion, and the fair towers of Lindon … Minas Anor and Minas Ithil… These are the wonders and the glories of times gone by, it whispered. And yet there are more wonders yet to come in this world, and only you, the child of Kings, and no king yourself, can truly forge them from this earth, for yours is the heart which would bring them forth without greed or malice. Your forefathers aided in the wounding of this land, in the battles that made desert from forest. But you can heal all those hearts, dear child. You were born for this, Elrond Peredhil, to be the shadows' bane, and return green life unto the ruined lands. Do you dare to take up this burden, this destiny? Will you be that which you are? Will you take up this crown?

A hand grasped his arm, and without thinking, he lashed out.

There was a cry of dismay in the back of his mind, this voice imbued with true sweetness, and that note of pain was all too familiar from that terrible year so long ago.

He blinked, startled back to awareness, shocked to find that he stood upright on the uneven ground. And at his feet lay his son, his hand clutched to his cheek in the reflexive horror of a wounded youngling. His eyes were fixed on his father, wide with astonishment, and an ugly red blotch was blooming across his cheek.

"Aiii… Elbereth … what have I done? What have I done?" Elrond went down on his knees beside his son.

"It matters not." Elrohir struggled upright, but Elrond could still see the unconscious look of betrayal in the wide grey eyes, almost as much of a condemnation as the mark on his cheek.

"Nay … It matters all the world." He bowed his head. "I had not thought it would be so easy to fall."

"'Twas not you who struck the blow, although 'twas your hand which delivered it." The younger Elf smiled wryly.

Elrond shuddered. "I am too weak for this loathsome thing, and I fear it all the more for that."

"Then let us be rid of it, for once and for all." Elrohir tucked his sole remaining arm around his father's shoulders, and hauled them both to their feet.

"Can you forgive me, ion-nín?" He touched his fingers to his son's cheek.

"Nay, I cannot, for I never blamed you, nor ever will."

Elrond nodded, and smiled wearily. "Let us be rid of this curse." He cradled the Ring in a scrap of fabric torn from his cloak, wrapping it securely, and together they began to limp towards the mountain that loomed against the grim sky.

Their journey to the great chamber carved within the very bulk of Mount Orodruin was to be long and hard. The harsh, stony ground beneath their feet grew gradually warmer and warmer, until they could smell the soles of their boots singing beneath the heat. Their progress was laggard, crippled by the pain of every step, every in-drawn breath. And yet, stumbling, halting, they went onwards, defying each agonised eternity, and slowly, so slowly, they mounted the broad slopes of the mountain, following the ancient staircase cut into the rock by the hands of the dark servants and the slaves of Mordor. Gradually, the din of battle faded behind, and, were it not, for the fiery mountain, the air might have grown somewhat clearer.

Elrohir was startled from his reverie by a sudden snort of laughter from his father. "What?" He turned a quizzical eye upon the Elf who appeared to be convulsed with laughter. Amusement had given his face some semblance of its lively mobility of old, and a spark danced in the shrouded grey of his eyes.

"'Tis naught… merely that I had remembered Maglor remarking that I was too cautious ever to be caught by death. 'Tis amusing to see the wisdom of one's elders fail, for it seems that I have cast all caution to the winds."

"And here you are, in the very lands of the Enemy, with his most deadly weapon by your side, and still you laugh," the younger Elf said sourly. "Yes, indeed, you have set aside all caution." He grinned broadly, but there were tears in his eyes.

Elrond stiffened, his lips pressed together as he listened intently. "Someone comes."

There it was again; the skitter of falling pebbles, the soft, rhythmic tread of three sets of shod feet on the uneven, mired ground. Elrohir drew his sword, and thrust his father behind him. "Go, Adar."

But, before he could take a score of steps, the intruders were upon them.

"What did you think, leaving like that, young one?" Ulrang scowled. "To wander off like that…"

"There is no telling what will happen once the Ring is gone. I would not then put more lives in danger than I must." Elrond sighed, bracing himself against a rock to remain upright.

"And thus you put yours at risk now, haring off into Mordor with none but a one-armed Elf by your side?" The voice was caustic, but unmistakable; the White Lady of Rohan had survived the battle that had taken the lives of so many others. Her chased mail was in tatters, hanging limply from her shoulders; her shield and helm were gone, and yet she seemed almost without wound, her golden hair flowing free down her back. And on one of her shoulders leant the Steward of Gondor, breathing heavily, bloodied in a dozen places, but utterly and undeniably alive.

Elrond shook himself, aware that he was staring. Elrohir was not as restrained. "I thought you were dead."

The Man chuckled weakly. "So did I, in truth." His expression sobered. "My cousin saved my life, and gave his own in its place, all unknown amidst the hue and cry. The line of the swan-princes of Dol Amroth has ended this day."

Éowyn's hand tightened on his arm, and he glanced at her with gratitude in his eyes. "There is naught you could have done."

He shook his head as if to deny it, and said no more. And so, together, the strange party began to move forward again, climbing the path step by step. As they reached a turn in the track, Elrond chanced to look out upon the plains of Gorgoroth. What he saw there brought a ghost of a smile to his lips. The forces of Mordor were in full flight, retreating by the hundred score deep into the wilds of the Black Land, crowding every path, trampling every bramble patch in their haste. And behind them, the ragged army of Elves and Men and Dwarves stood in victory but for a moment, before they, too began to fall back, making in steady order for the Black Gate.

"Aye." Ulrang had come up behind him with but the faintest of footsteps. "We shall not have to fear for their lives in this task."

Elrond nodded his thanks, and took the proffered arm. "Where will you go once this is done?"

The Easterling gave him a crooked smile. "I know not, for my heart tells me that I can never return to the lands of my birth. We are too far sundered now, they and I, and my son can rule in my stead." He shook his head. "Nay, you have been the breaking of me, Master Elf, with your accursed friendship."

Elrond smiled, and made as if to speak, but Ulrang waved him back. "Mayhap I shall go to die beneath the wide skies of the lands of my fathers, but in the times soon to come I believe I shall be as content as I am able beneath this westering sun. Yon Steward is a most interesting Man, and many lands lie shall lie beneath his rule ere your grandson takes up his rightful crown. They will need a protector, and I count myself as quick with a sword as the Steward is with words."

"I can think of none better, my friend…" he broke off suddenly. It had come upon them all unawares, the massive door of stone wrought into the mountainside. Great was the dread that hung about it, and they drew back even as they purposed to go onwards. For a long moment, they were silent, and then Elrond laughed as of old, as of the days before the passes of the Misty Mountains grew cruel once more. Sweet it seemed, an odd noise here in this foul place, a gilded sorrow beyond all reckoning. "We have come through death, and through darkness, and we shall not be here confounded by mere stone, when the long years run full circle within the beating of our hearts." And, so saying, he went onwards, a tall, stooping figure against the glare from the mountain.

Rank, sulphurous fumes filled the air, and the heat was nigh on unbearable. Billowing smoke clouded their sight and stung their eyes, and still they did not falter, until at last they came out upon the ledge that looked down upon the Crack of Doom. With halting strides, Elrond fumbled his way to the very brink of that echoing chasm. Thick pain seemed to clog his thoughts; he could scarce breathe for its talons sunk deep within him. All was chaos and confusion, within as without… He wished simply to lay his head upon the earth and dream no more.

A beam of light, as clear and silver as the starlight upon the shores of the ancient West, stung him with glorious sight and purpose, and he could see once more.

I thank thee, meleth-nín, he whispered in the silence of his mind.

Gingerly, he unwrapped the scrap of cloth which enfolded the Ring of Power. In this place, it seemed to shine more brightly yet, as if the fires of its forging were calling to it. His hand ached to take it up, to wield the power which had been the cause of so much harm, to wield it at the behest of all that was good, to heal the world which was no cruelly wounded. It called out to him in the voices of blood unjustly spilt, with the names of those who had died in vain, and knew no grave nor resting place. It sang to the skills he had honed over such long years, to mend what was broken, to balm what was raw in the Marred World.

Arda Sahta: imperfect, flawed; and yet could that flaw not be mended, if one had the power to bend to that deed, the heart to carry it to its fulfillment?

There need be neither suffering nor death upon the face of the world, dear one…

And he saw visions of what might be, of great cities, and greens lands beneath a broad sky, of the stars undimmed by night, and the sun by day. Of Rivendell as it once had been, but made stronger and fairer yet. His heart swelled with the thought, little born of pride, but of glory in the World that Is…

He turned slowly, and saw those who had accompanied him: Elrohir and Ulrang, Éowyn and Faramir, their faces grim, their eyes burning in the fetid darkness. Their hair hung in sweat-soaked strands about their brows; their frames were tense with waiting. Of a sudden, he was the true foulness of this place, this putrid warren dug into the bowels of the earth, so far from the sky and sea. He hated it, in that instant, and all the memories of darkness that lingered here from so long ago.

"This I will have as weregild for my father, and my brother."

It seemed to him that it would be a thing doubly unfair to consign the beauty of the Ring to a fiery end here in this cavern where such darkness lingered, when it might be an instrument of such light in the world without.

It spoke to him again, in that same gilded voice, as wonderful and high to the ear, as the gold itself was to look upon. All that is done may be undone; no scars last forever, no wounds are so deep they cannot be healed.

And in that moment, he knew its true nature, even as he had never known it before, and his heart was turned from it in the utmost depths of hatred.

There are no wounds so deep they cannot be healed, it urged him again. This you know.

Then, he remembered the torments of his beloved Celebrían, those pains which had so stolen her joy in Middle-earth, remembered her fair face creased with pain, and her slender frame wracked with sorrow. He remembered how he had put forth all his strength, and sought with all his might for a cure, and found none that could save her from the fading he saw in her eyes. He remembered the white flicker of the sails in the Gulf of Lune, the swirl of her cloak, and the glint of the ring upon her finger. Without pride, he knew the fortitude of his powers, and still there were some wounds he could not heal.

"You lie." He did not realise he had spoken aloud, until he saw the fear and puzzlement on his companions' faces. "You lie, as ever was your wont. There is no healing within you, and even were that not so, there are some wounds too deep to heal. I have suffered, and been wounded to the heart, and this I declare with all my will."

Save me, protect me; I can show you…

"No."

And he stretched his arm out over the abyss, the right arm where all the ills of Sauron's reign were writ so clearly. He opened his palm, finger after finger uncurling, and let the Ring fall. It plummeted into the Crack of Doom as if unnaturally heavy, and three drops of blood fell with it from the elf-lord's wounded palm; one for each Age of the Sun in Middle-earth, one for each of the Elven Rings which would now fail and fade. Blood and gold mingled as they fell, and then, far, far, below, beyond the realms of sight, a great rumbling began. The mountain itself shook; the great lintel-stone of Sammath Naur trembled in its place. Billowing sheets of flame arose from the depths of the earth, and the chamber was in a single instant riven by great cracks from floor to ceiling.

Elrond fell to his knees, retching and shaking with the relief of the task accomplished. He gave himself up to the brightness growing in the back of his mind…

And someone grabbed him roughly under the arms, hauling him back from the brink. His legs dragged along the floor; the laces of one boot caught on an outcrop of rock, and it was wrenched rudely off.

They were outside, beneath a sky seething with fire, and alive with fragments of flying stone. The rumbling grew to a roar, and the roar to a wall of sound without beginning or end. The peak of the mountain above them belched forth molten rock. Volcanic bombs hurtled through the air, smashing into the plain below. Great tongues of lava licked the land. The ground heaved beneath them.

His vision failed him, as they staggered upon the fickle earth. In brief, fading glimpses, he saw Barad-dûr topple and crumble in upon itself.

Trembling hands held him upright, even as the fires withered him.

They collapsed to the bare rock; he could feel the lava flowing around their desperate sanctuary. A hand sought his, and he grasped it tightly, bereft of all words. Elrohir tucked his head into his father's shoulder, as he had done, so long ago, an elfling baffled by the terrors of the night. They lay where they were, their task done, awaiting the end.

A cool wind washed over them; somewhere, beyond the seething noise of Mount Doom, Elrond thought he heard the gusts of beating wings. And then thick, wickedly curved talons grasped him in a tender hold. Elrohir cried out in wonder as they were drawn apart, and then he could hear nothing above the soughing sounds of the air.

Elrohir blinked in awe as the great eagle which had borne him settled noiselessly to the ground, its brethren beside it. Gwaihir and Landroval, they were, mighty descendants of mightiest Thorondor of old, and two others besides. Their golden raptors' eyes gleamed with great wisdom. They shuffled their wings, laying the four companions down upon the scoured earth of what had once been a great, green field bordered by noble trees.

"This place is called the Field of Cormallen," Gwaihir the Windlord said in his strange voice. "Here it may be that you shall rest a while, and heal your ills."

"Alas," said Elrond, "for one among us shall know no cure beneath these skies, and I shall be glad to go to my long rest."

But the eagle merely bowed his great head, and with a sweep of his thunderous wings, he took to the airs once more.

"Look!" Faramir cried out. He was standing tall, and his face was turned towards the East. "It is dawn, and the sun arises!"

And indeed they saw that it was so, and even Elrond felt the heat of the dawning rays upon his face, warming his death-bound limbs. Those among them that still had sight looked upon the Field of Cormallen, and saw that what they had once thought was desolate, sported bunches of pale green grass, sprouting through cracks in the ruined earth. They would have laughed then, with the gladness of life, but a racking cough broke the sweet silence. Elrond had not moved from where he lay, curled on one side on the ground, and now a paroxysm had taken him. He choked feebly, and a thin spray of blood coated the dried mud beside his head.

"Ada!" Elrohir knelt beside him, and took his hand in his own. "Please…"

"Nay… Please do not weep…" But he knew that tears streamed down his son's cheeks, for they fell onto his own face like the soft rains of spring. "Can you forgive me?"

"There is nothing to forgive, Adar, nothing in all these long years."

"Then I … am … glad…" He gasped for breath. "I shall not … live … long … now…"

Please, meleth-nín, please. Do not die; do not leave me, Celebrían's voice was bitter with tears. I cannot live if you leave me, El-nn; even here, I cannot live…He could feel her despair as if it were his own.

Nay, he implored her. You must live; you must…

His eyes widened, as a beam of brilliant golden sunlight fell upon him, rich with the hues of dawn. "Ah…I see it now … Day has come again!"

And, so saying, he died, and the light went out of his eyes. Even as his spirit fled, he heard Celebrían's voice, overburdened with sorrow. May the stars sing you to sleep, beloved…

And then the silence took him, and the darkness of the Halls.

Elrohir reached out a tremulous hand, and closed the grey eyes that stared blankly at the eddying clouds. Silently and steadily he wept, as if he would never be done with tears. He bowed his head over the fragile corpse that had once been his father, mighty among Elves and Men.

"Lad." Ulrang touched his shoulder gently. He knew not how much time had passed while he sat in mourning, nor cared, but the sky was bright, and the clouds were clearing. In the distance, he could hear the clamorous sound of water falling upon rocks. Slowly, he got to his feet, his gaze never leaving the pallid shape that lay there.

"The Silmaril must be cast back into the depths of the earth," he said without inflection, indicating the gem with a wave of one hand. "It shall not be found again ere the ending of the world." He paused. "And for now, we have tasks that command us. I shall go to my sister in the Havens, bearing news of all that has passed here, and bring her unto the South Kingdom, and with her the babe that she has borne."

"There is one deed that must be done ere all else," Éowyn reminded them softly.

"Aye, and so we shall do it."

And so it was that they brought the body of Elrond Peredhil to the vale of Henneth Annun, still green even in those days, for the orcs had not found it, and the falls had not run dry. They brought him to the ledge high above the Window on the West, and there raised above him a burial mound, whereupon, in later days, grew elanor and niphredil, a thing strange indeed. Haudh-en-Edhel it was called, the elf-barrow, even when the long years had waned, and the great tales were forgotten.

The Ring of Fire lay lost in the wastes of Mordor, and no man knew where it might be found, but there, upon the heights of Henneth Annun, they buried with him Nenya, the Ring of Adamant. And yet they took from him two rings, Vilya which had been his charge of old, and the golden band which had adorned his finger for years beyond count. These, Elrohir, son of Elrond, took with him a score of years hence, when he made his last voyaging into the utmost West, and there gave them into the trust of his mother, the Lady Celebrían who took them in her grief, and kept them ever by her.

But the Silmaril the companions bore hence, even unto the rain-softened foothills of the Hithaeglir, where a valley lay nestled amid the peaks, cradled by the rushing of the mountain waters. And there, beneath the foundations of the Last Homely House, they consigned the jewel of Fëanor once more unto the earth, far beneath the deepest cellars, that it might there lie hidden until the story of Arda was told in full, and all the songs sung

None came to that valley thereafter, save one: a young Man, tall and fair, his face graven with sorrow, and a crown upon his head, the heir of Men and Elves in this new world, a world wrought with his kinsman's blood.

TBC

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