Lost Youth
Chapter Six
Sorry for the very, very long wait, and thanks for the reviews.
Thanks and lots of chocolate to Isis for betaing this.
They came in the darkest night, when Eärendil's star was veiled. The moon had gone down in the sea behind a roiling bank of cloud. It was the deepest part of winter; the ice crackled far to the North, and the biting wind slapped and gusted through the streets of Balar. They came in the long, slow hours before midnight, the black ships fleeting across the swelling seas from the North. The year was turning, fading towards the dawn of spring, but it seemed dark indeed, for all was silent amid the waves, and no star shone to illumine the night.
Never before had the Enemy waged war by sea upon the free peoples, but here Balar stood among the waves, an affront to his burgeoning power, the last beacon in the night. And so they came, the cruel Men who had forsaken their kin, and the orcs, and with them a great host of the fire-drakes of Angband, their eyes sparking with malice in the night. Their wings were darker than the grief, the sound a leathery creaking amidst the silence, and their breath was a foul stench above the seas.
Long had the master of deceits plotted this in the dark caverns of his pernicious greed, perceiving, or so he thought, that the time was ripe. For such was the folly of his pride that he deemed that the power of Ulmo and all his people was withdrawn from the waters. And he remembered the fair singing of Lúthien, and the bravery of Beren, and his hatred for the peredhil consumed him.
So, seeking to end the challenge to his dominion in the lands of Middle-earth, and desiring to bring to its final fruition his overweening hatred, he had dispatched his fleet. Now, they drew near to Balar, bleak prows scything the gelid waves, sails creaking and soughing before the wind.
Hope was dim indeed.
Elrond stretched, wincing as the movement tensed weary muscles. The nib of his pen hovered with a dull, insectile laziness, weaving backwards and forwards above the parchment. The candlelight glinted briefly in his eyes, before he bowed his head once more. But all his determination counted for as little as the frenetic sword work of the morning; he could not banish the restlessness which dwelt behind his eyes. All this day and the last he had suffered thus, neither eating, nor allowing himself the sleep his Edain heritage demanded. He knew without asking that his brother, too, suffered something of the sort, although not of the same order. As the hours had toiled slowly by, he had plumbed the depths of grief, never knowing why. His gaze was restless, even now, in the darting candlelight of the deeps of the night, and not all the will of his mind could force it to settle. Fear-tipped lances of pain impaled him, transfixing his stumbling heart.
He could not think; he could not feel…
The sweet agony of the Eldar in all things passing assailed him, and he thought on the leaden grey skies of Balar, the warmth of its fires, the solemn song of the seas.
A cold hand clenched about him, and he sprang upright, his hands white-knuckled fists against the edge of the desk. The crown, unheeded, spun across the floor, skittered under the edge of a tapestry, and came to rest in the darkest corner.
The chink as it hit the plastered wall startled him from his reverie. He blinked, startled to find himself as he was, one hand raised to his throat in a gesture of warning. Slowly, he uncurled the grasping fingers and let the hand fall to his side. There was nothing to be won by these megrims, nothing of gain to be found in their dread passage.
The chill wind from the sea, smelling of seaweed and stale, salt-stained sand, curled round him, lifting strands of dark hair in its phantom grasp. He inhaled deeply, drawing the familiar scents into himself, letting himself float upon them as a gull upon the rising airs. With shaking hand he poured himself a goblet of wine, grimacing at the honeyed sweetness, and stared into the distance, willing his heart to calm. But the dull dread persisted, as a night-fear which far outlives the dreams which spawn it. His hand trembled as a spasm of fear shot through him, and a single drop of wine spilt and fell to rest against the pallid skin of his hand. Blood-red, it shivered in the candlelight.
He stared at it for a long moment, watching the play of the light in its darkness. Clearly now, he could hear the beating of his own heart, even above the gusting of the winds. It seemed to race, and then still, quieter and quieter until there was naught but the hissing of the seas and the rhythmic flap of the curtains at the open window.
The shout, when it came, almost felled him.
He blinked, startled, dashing the wine from his hand.
"Elrond!" Elros stood at the open window, clutching a handful of velvet curtain in each hand. "Come quickly!"
Some shadow of agitation fluttered in his face, darkening his eyes.
"What?" Elrond straightened slowly, swallowing against the nausea which threatened to overwhelm him.
"I do not know." Elros sighed, shaking his head. "There is something in the air, and..."
"And?"
"Lights; lights out at sea."
The twisted skein of his thoughts, a tapestry woven of mist, hooked but by the finest threads to all that was real and true, suddenly solidified, crystallised. His thoughts were no longer tangled, no longer composed of mist and thread, but a thing dread and high, hard and cold as the peak of Oiolossë.
He moved forward at a run, and Elros recoiled to see his eyes. He scarcely noticed as he covered the balcony in one leaping stride, and set one foot upon the balustrade. With a whisper of sound, he reached the sloping roof of the palace. No consciousness attended him, as the sharp, iced edges of the slates ripped at the palms of his hands. The pungent scent of the moss stung his nostrils, and he paid it little need. Eyes wide with fear, he stopped, one hand braced against the ridge, his feet set lightly on the slick tiles. He turned into the seeking wind, and gazed out to sea.
And he saw them, the burning brands speckling the sea like pox marks, limning the shore with the delicate strokes of an artist's pen. He could smell the burning pitch, the reek of blood and darkness about them.
And then the dragon called aloud, ripping the sky asunder. The heart that had frozen in his chest thawed again and beat with a sudden fury. His gaze seemed to pierce the lowering skies, and for a moment, he caught the eyes of the beast in his thrall. Backwards and forwards they struggled, the circling, screaming beast, and the slender prince of the Eldar swaying on the roof. His hands clutched frantically at the air, long fingers flexing with pain, but his gaze was sharp and steady.
The wind tugged at the great beast's pinions, tugging it away to the West, spiralling out over the sea, but it fought the wind, the leathern skin stretched taut with the effort. For a moment, the force of its anger, its hatred was elsewhere, and Elrond sagged, his tall frame slumping towards the roof, caught precariously over a crushing drop, even while his mind reeled with gladness. But again it came at him again, and the sound of its wings was deafening, even above the storm, its talons rending the bitter air. Its eyes glittered, multifaceted in the dim light, glowing with a sullen scarlet fire, and its cry was terrible indeed. But for all that, he did not falter, and the Music was louder yet in his ears, a song he could not deny.
Breath was an impossibility, thought but a far imagining. All that he was, all that he could be, all the might of Men and the wisdom of the Eldar was bent on this one task, this one cause, this one flame amidst the darkness. He felt as if his eyes themselves might shatter, such was the force of his will behind them. And he sang into the wind, not hearing the melody, not knowing the words, only that he sang, and that the song was worth itself. The wind seemed to caress him, curling round his fingertips, billowing through his hair like myriad needles piercing silk.
He could not remember anything but the touch of the wind, and the darkness, and the dragon's gaze upon him. The thick stench of its breath blanketed him, and still he struggled against it, vying spirit to spirit with the creature wheeling and soaring above him.
Tense agony crackled through him, and still he held its gaze, glazing silver to vermilion darkness. His mind ached with weariness, his heart with the pain of solitary strife, as he sought to hold the dragon's will in bond. Nearly it overcame him, nearly it seared him with fire visible and invisible, clamping his chest with bands of agony.
He trembled, his mind quailing back from the abyss which yawned before him, the darkness without name or reason which yearned for him. The song on his lips stuttered to a halt, ripped away by the ravening greed of the monster's maw.
He stretched out when hand in supplication, palm upraised.
The heavens opened, and it began to rain.
The dragon screeched in rage and anguish. Its serpentine neck writhed to and fro, and its flight faltered, its wings beating frantically at the sodden air. The creaking rhythm of its wings buffeted Elrond where he stood. He felt tears of agony and sorrow and anger mingle with the rain coursing down his cheeks, as he turned his face towards the lumbering monstrosity struggling in the air above him. Every fibre of his being ached, everything that he was stretched to its very utmost. A blast of hot air rocked him, and despair swelled within him, blacker and crueller than the night itself. With one last effort, he put forth all his will. The beast recoiled, losing its grip on the very air itself. For a long moment, it hung where it was, and then, with a thundering crash, it tumbled from the skies. The cobbles of the docks smouldered and cracked where it had fallen, but the dragon lay still and lifeless.
Exhausted, Elrond reeled, and nearly fell. A hand on his elbow stayed him; he had not even known his brother was with him. They shared a glance: the battle had not even begun.
They stumbled together to the edge of the roof, and looked down. The city was ablaze. Even as they watched, flame streaked through the skies. Fire arrows.
Ever after, the night would be a blur in memory, a dim shadow hovering on the edges of sight. Fragments of recollection torn asunder. The stench of burning cloth and seared stone. A child's cries, wild and high. The clash of blade on blade. A hound keening in the distance.
The weary ache of his muscles as his sword rose and fell, rose and fell. His brow was slick with blood and sweat. Somewhere, he had lost his heavy outer robes, and his tunic hung in tatters from his shoulders. Someone called to him in a clarion-clear voice, and he turned, half-blinded by the blood dripping in his eyes. A helm was crammed onto his head by ungentle hands, the nasal scraping his forehead. He grunted in thanks, but the Elf was already dead, split from navel to shoulder by a single stroke. Just in time, Elrond ducked, blocking the blow which threatened to decapitate him. His head rang with the force of the impact, but he braced himself against the wall, and pushed up, slowly, inexorably. The Man, as tall as he, bearded and muscled, more like an orc in face and figure than one of the Eruhíni, snarled at him through bared, crooked teeth.
With a wrench, he tore the broadsword free, and raised it in a flat-sided blow which would crush the elf-lord's skull.
And screamed silently, blood burbling from his open mouth. The dagger of the Gondolindrim had found its mark in his belly. He fell, and Elrond pulled his blade from the convulsing body. Sweat and blood and rain and tears streaked his face under the helm; his dark hair clung to his skull.
Dimly, he was aware of Elros by his side, of his twin screaming something, gesturing wildly with the crossbow he held. Startled, he looked up. Flames had engulfed the palace, tainted the night sky with a hideous crimson light. Even the rain, falling in driving sheets now, could not extinguish such flames; he could smell pitch on the wind. And at their backs, the city was in ruins, thick grey smoke billowing from the collapsing buildings. The dead littered the streets, blank eyes staring at the sky, at the night that had so betrayed them.
And of those who lived, many wandered unseeing amidst the fighting, their eyes as dead as those of the fallen. Those who yet fought, fought valiantly, but even as the guard of Turgon at the fall of Gondolin, without hope, without fear, for death was certain.
Panic, as yet more Men and orcs surged up from the harbour, clambering over the dead and dying, iron-heeled boots ringing on the cobblestones: the panic of those who have nowhere left to run. Even as he watched, one of the wanderers, a pale, thin-faced elleth, knelt, and prised a great, barbed scimitar from the clutching hands of a dying orc. She stood unsteadily, her eyes still vacant, and weighed the weapon in her hands for a heartbeat. Then, without warning, she lashed out, and neatly decapitated the Man who had crept closer in the flickering shadows of the burning buildings. For a moment, her face blazed with life, and then it was gone.
As if that had been some signal, and with a howl like unto that of a cornered beast, the bewildered populace turned as one on those who smote at them.
"To the king, to the king!" someone called, their voice hoarse and shrill with battle fever. A silken banner waved above the fray.
Elrond paused for breath as he fought on the waterfront, his feet sliding on the sea-slicked cobbles. Half the ships were foundering, holed beneath the waterline. Bodies bobbed on the tide, snarled in tangled ropes, entrapped in burning canvas.
The Elf cried out again, nearer now. "To the king!"
He evaded a lance at his throat, and his restless gaze found her at last: Araliel. At her back, a youngling of scarce thirty summers, his eyes bright with rage, held the banner high, the drenched scrap of fabric flapping forlornly. The healer held a bone saw in one hand, laying about her with ruthless abandon. The implement's wicked edge caught a thundering orc across the neck, neatly slitting it's throat from ear to ear. Hot blood sprayed forth, spattering the ground.
"My liege." She nodded curtly. Her skirts were hitched up to the knee, her legs criss-crossed with dozens of tiny wounds. Blood flowed freely from a scalp wound, darkening the pale gold of her hair. Her eyes burnt with an implacable hatred. "You must leave…"
"Nay." He shook his head vigorously. But whatever else he might have said was abruptly curtailed as a volley of arrows flew over head. For a moment, they both cringed: but these were not the black-fletched arrows of the Enemy, but the light, fine barbs of the Doriathrim, and, amongst them, the heavier crossbow bolts of Gondolin. They exchanged a brief, humourless smile for such mad bravery, and then plunged into the gathering storm of the battle.
Backwards and forwards it raged in a night which seemed without end. But not for one moment was the victory in doubt: it belonged, as it ever did, to those who followed the banner of Morgoth.
The banner wavered and fell, as the young Elf who bore it took an arrow through his heart. Elrond scrabbled for the heavy pole in the blood and the dirt, and raised it again with aching heart.
"Elros!" His twin was by his side. "Take them to the ships. The far haven is not yet under fire."
Elros looked as if he was about to protest, but their eyes locked, and his defiance fell away.
"Aye." And so he led the grim retreat, while the young king fought on, ever nigh unto the heart of the battle. His wits were dulled; he could not remember if he had fought for one hour, or for ten, only that fight he must.
There was a heavy rumbling, as if the very earth itself were protesting this night, and then the dwarven kindred of Ralin filed past, looking grim and strange in the uncertain light. Leaf mail coats, and broad-bladed axes they bore, and their anger was a terrible thing to behold. In their midst they carried a litter upon which their lord lay, Ralin, near to death now with the passing of mortal years, his beard grey and his face creased and ancient. Through the hue and cry of battle, he smiled at the elf-king. "You fight well, Gil-estel, but I fear this day's dawning shall see both our ends," he said, and spoke no more.
The sick knot of dread in the pit of his stomach threatened to overwhelm him, but he shook it away, and pressed on, the still centre of a whirling circle of steel. Fewer and fewer of his kindred now stood in the press of battle; it only fuelled his anger to know their deaths. He began to sing again, the beauty of his voice lost, but its power unfailing, and his enemies fell back before him.
The blow to his head caught him by surprise. He had not known that he had lost his helm until that moment, and, in the space between heartbeats, rued his carelessness, waiting for the next blow to fall.
"Accursed fool!"
He could not even muster the vestiges of surprise to find that his assailant's voice was feminine, soft-pitched beneath the pain and frustration. She took his collar in one hand, and began to drag him forcibly backwards, muttering under her breath. Rather distantly, he noticed that there was a lull in the battle, as if they awaited the wave which would break over them with terrible fury. Something hard clanked against his leg: a bone saw.
"Araliel!"
"Indeed," she croaked. "Must I march you to the ships?"
"I must…"
"You must nothing," she retorted sharply, twisting his collar in her hand. "The battle is lost, Gil-estel; Balar is no more, and soon they will come at us again."
"Then let me be there to face them!" He wrenched himself free.
"There is no one left alive there to protect. You cannot afford to die for naught, my king." She looked at him with eyes that seemed suddenly depthless with age. Abashed, he looked away.
"Aye, you have the right of it."
Somehow, they made it to the shore, where a dinghy, a fisherman's vessel, lay in the shadow of the cliffs. Stumbling and falling, they dragged it to the water's edge, and hauled at the oars, propelling the tiny craft through the swollen seas. All around them, the people of Balar struggled in the freezing water, piled into whatever would float and hold them. Again and again, Elrond and Araliel paused in their efforts to haul a straggler from the sea until their boat was laden down, and the gunwales dipped perilously closer to the waters. Briny winds lashed at them, and the sea howled around them.
They did not see the ship until it was almost on top of them. It sported no lights to declare its presence, and it rode the tide low in the water. But its proud stem bore the image of a swan in flight, and the ship smelt of fine timber, and the clean sea.
A cry went up from the deck, and a rope ladder was lowered. Hand over hand, they scaled the ladder, and Elrond went last of all, casting reluctant glances back at the boat which bobbed in the waves below him. When he made the deck, he almost turned back, but a pair of sea-roughened hands restrained him.
"You are no seaman, Elrond." Círdan grimaced through his beard. "Enough will drown here tonight, and I would not add you to the count." And so saying, he swung lightly over the rail, and dropped in one fluid movement to the boat far below.
Again and again, as the king peered into the dense night, shivering in his sodden and filthy clothes, the dinghy returned to disgorge its living cargo; again and again, he saw the sorrow etched deeper on Círdan's face. He set himself to tend the injured, moving amongst them together with Araliel, sewing and bandaging, doing all that could be done in such pitiable circumstances, nigh to weeping from his own helplessness.
But at last, there were no more to be found whom a healer's gift could save, and the peril of being discovered by the host of Morgoth grew too great to ignore. Only then did they raise their anchor, unfurling the sails just enough to run before the calming wind.
Other ships emerged from the darkness, ghosts fleeing before the might of Angband – perhaps six great ships in all, and a host of smaller vessels, scarcely seaworthy.
"Where do we have to go?" Círdan asked. Only now, as the lanterns were lit, could Elrond see that the elder Elf's silver hair was scorched nearly to his scalp, brittle and blackened.
A bitter smile curved the king's lips. "We have nowhere to go, my friend." He turned his face into the stinking wind. "We shall sail West."
A wordless quirk of the Shipwright's lips was all that betrayed his astonishment.
"Aye, I am a fool." Elrond laughed aloud. "But what other course should we set this morn? I would rather lie in sleep amidst the Enchanted Isles until the ending of the world, than bow as vassal and slave before the throne of Morgoth Bauglir."
And so they set sail into the utmost West, borne before the winds of Angband, perhaps two score of ships, all told.
Behind them, the sky began to lighten. But Elrond Gil-estel, his hair billowing around him like a ragged curtain, could not tell whether 'twas dawn or fire which brightened the sky of Middle-earth.
TBC
Eruhíni – children of Ilúvatar.