Part Five: The Flame of the West
Light shimmered along the length of the newly-reforged sword as Elrond held it up before him, checking for imperfections with keen eyes. But there were none. Elanna was certain of it, for her race of elves, though cursed and almost extinct, were the greatest of all at such crafts.
"It is beautifully made," he said as last, shoving it home into its scabbard. They stood in a gazebo at the end of a long stair where she had brought it to him fresh from the forge, wrapped in silk. Her hair was pulled back out of hazard's way in a single braid and the smear of smoke was on her forehead.
"I have been bold enough to name it Anduril, the flame of the West," she said. "It's the last I shall ever make; let it be the greatest." The muscles in her jaw tightened. "I confess, I give it over to you with effort; I would keep it for myself."
Elrond looked at her shrewdly. "The sword belongs to Isildur's heir."
"If Aragorn were not Isildur's heir, I would not give it to any Man until I had plunged it through Sauron's body myself. May he wield it to the Enemy's doom." The last came out heavy with the bitterness in her heart, the empty days since Mithrandir's fall growing the hatred in her heart.
Leaves fell around them and skittered at their feet, a sure sign that the power of the elves was failing. Elrond himself no longer bothered to dress in his finest robes, his hair unadorned, a Lord in retirement. He frowned and said, compassion in his voice, "I feel his loss too, Elanna. It's a loss for all the world."
"When you go into the West, it is to reunite with your love," she snapped. "Celebrian awaits you. What will I have when I get there?"
He started to answer, but she cut him off. "Don't say "Glorfindel", or any of those who've gone before, would any thousand of them replace one single person you love? Will they replace Arwen?"
He looked stricken and she regretted her words as he fixed composure on his face. Her pain had cut a gulf between them, one she didn't have the energy to span. Elanna bowed her head.
"I'll leave at dusk," he said. "I have word that the Rohirrim are massing at Dunharrow. Aragorn is likely to be among them. I'll go there first for I'm sure they will at least have word of him, and then I'll head wherever the trail leads. I'll have the sword to him at all speed."
Her head still bowed, Elanna said, "I want to go with you."
"A ship waits for you at the Grey Havens," he said.
"There will be others. I will make one last pilgrimage across this land, in the name of him whom I loved. Once I have seen the sword delivered, I'll go." She steeled herself to argue further. Though he was lord of Imladris and she abided in his home, she owed him allegiance out of respect only and was not bound to his command. Those she had pledged fealty to were long gone from the earth.
Elrond was silent a long while, weighing the tremendous length of the sword in his hands. "Very well," he said at last. "Arwen will be happier if I'm not alone, and I'll have better argument why she herself should not accompany me. Now that she--" his voice cracked. He paused and steadied himself. "Now that the grace of the Eldar has left her, I will not risk her life on this errand."
Waiting outside King Theoden's tent, Elanna wrapped her cloak more tightly around her armor-clad body. It was the same armor she had worn into battle with the Last Alliance of elves and men, at the end of the last age. Carefully repaired and preserved, a few precious strips of mithral lined the inside of the helmet, and an inlaid pattern of mithral stars protected her heart. Then she had led a company of archers, now she stood beside her horse, a solitary honor guard, counting the hosts of Rohirrim camped around and below her. Her sword hung at her side, a bow over her back, her elven ancestry matched her height to the Men of Rohan,: they regarded her with unease.
Their numbers were thin. Many of them already nursing injuries not quite healed. Grim faced, she tried to convince herself it was not her concern. They would stand against the forces of Mordor or they would fall, and she herself could not change that.
Aragorn approached, summoned by the king, and cocked his head at her as he passed to enter the tent. Though her features were hidden beneath her cloak and helmet, he had clearly recognized her. Aragorn, who had spent more time with Mithrandir than she. Aragorn who had burned his fingers at her forge, learning to mend a buckle. Aragorn, did the Riders of Rohan know their fate rested with him? In that moment she both resented him and gave praise he was who he was.
She was glad none approached her with welcome or fair words to ferret out her purpose. Her aloof dignity and danger was meant to keep them at bay, for her ears could hear what theirs could not: every word that passed inside the tent. She listened with great interest.
Aragorn received the sword as a son accepting the gift of his father. She was gratified by the awe in his voice and she closed her eyes against the fear she heard in both their voices for Arwen was dying. It pained her too, but she had enough of pain. The rustle of fabric brought the image of Elrond embracing Aragorn and she remembered the small boy so long ago that Elrond took into his house and his heart.
The vision grew before her eyes, pulling her backward in time to when she too had a full heart, when Mithrandir spent many a long afternoon with his head in her lap and night together under the stars. She drew in a shuddering breath and shook her head sharply. "Mithrandir." His names filled her mouth. "Mithrandir. Olorin. Incanus. Gandalf."
Suddenly she realized, she heard it in another voice. Aragorn, speaking barely above a whisper, had just said Gandalf had ridden to Minas Tirith and there awaited the arrival of the Rohirrim against a full-fledged attack from Mordor.
The sword sagged in her hand. Her face burned as if she had been unfaithful. And she had in giving up hope. She whipped around and stalked the few steps to the tent flap, shoving right between Theoden's guards as if they were mere wraiths. They tried to hold her back but inside Elrond and Aragorn were faster, putting hands to half-drawn swords as she barged in.
"Mithrandir, he's alive?" she demanded, flinging off her helmet. It bounced once and rolled across the furs laid down across the coarse grass.
Aragorn relaxed his grip on Anduril, understanding and compassion on his face. "He is. Though he passed from shadow into the light, he was returned to Middle Earth and is now Gandalf the White."
Tears started to Elanna's eyes. She felt as if the earth were tipping sideways below her feet. Aragorn came toward her, waving off the guards who had followed in her wake. He steadied her and said, low and calm, "Yes. I fought beside him at Helm's Deep, feasted with him in the halls of Edoras, and parted from him not three days since when he rode out to warn Minas Tirith of the Dark Lord's approach."
She pressed her fist against her mouth, to push down the sobs.
"I'm glad to give you this news, my lady. Know I rejoiced no less when we found him again," he said.
She turned from him, the weight of regret falling from her shoulders, like armor being shed. "Mithrandir lives!" She sought a chair and only dimly recognized that she helped herself to the throne of King Theoden. She realized she was breathing hard, as if her body were separate and distanced from her, observing but not quite feeling it. "Than if this can come to pass, there is still hope for the free people of this earth!"
Elrond met her eyes with tear-filled ones on his own. "I thought I brought hope; but instead I take it with me again."
Elanna laughed, relief tumbling over her. "Gandalf the White! Serves him right. He'll have to give up pipeweed now I expect."
Aragorn chuckled. "He is not changed as much as that."
Her laughter rang out, causing one of the guards to put a cautious head once more into the tent.
Elrond stooped to pick up her abandoned helmet. He caressed the dome of it thoughtfully. "Well, our task here is done. We return now to Imladris. I shall not see you again, my son, unless it be at the crowning of the King of Gondor returned."
Aragorn bowed deeply and long. Elrond gripped his shoulder and kissed the top of his head. "My love is with you," he whispered into Aragorn's ear. He straightened and held out the helmet towards Elanna. "We ride."
"No, my lord," she said, rising from the king's carven chair. "I'm staying with the Rohirrim. I go with them to Minas Tirith."
"Elanna, all hope aside, they ride to their death. You know this."
She shook her head, eyes glittering. "No, they ride to him I love. I will go and fight at Mithrandir's side. Together we shall travel either to Valinor or to the Halls of Waiting, if that be our fate. I ride to Minas Tirith."