All characters speak in their respective languages unless specifically stated otherwise. Ie, Elves speak Sindarin, Nil'Tanar speaks Polaran, and Ryllaen speaks Federation Basic.
The world was a room, a cage; its walls, blue flame frozen into solidity. The walls, the floor, the ceiling, all were the same featureless blue. It was static, hard to the touch, and unpleasant to feel. Fifteen paces long, ten paces wide. Glorfindel stalked along the boundaries of the room, a caged animal searching for escape. There was none; no entrance existed, nothing that might mark a change in the smooth blue energy that surrounded them.
The Silvan Elf Eiliant stood to one side, his alarm at this situation shown in his absolute lack of movement, the still watchfulness of eyes wider than usual. The Wood-elf's first instinct in danger was to blend in, be camouflaged: disappear. There was no possibility of that in this blue prison, but Eiliant, after one glance at Glorfindel upon waking that placed the older Elf-lord firmly in charge, obeyed his instinct as best he could, making of himself an unobtrusive statue.
Nil'Tanar also had not spoken a word. He sat with his back against a wall, unheeding or insensitive to the disconcerting tingle that contact brought to the skin, and stared straight ahead. His expression was frighteningly blank.
Through the hazy cerulean glow of one wall, Glorfindel could see Ryllaen, alone and sword-straight in a similar room barely large enough to stand with arms outreached. His back was to his unwilling passengers, but Glorfindel doubted it would make any difference if he could see the Man's face. There was a distance between them greater than the separation of a single wall made of energy.
And beyond the other walls . . . ah, beyond the other walls, there was nothing.
Darkness was all about them, the Void, and the glimmering light of Varda's stars, bright and steady as they could never be seen from Arda. There was no earth, no water, no trees. There was nothing that might be seen within Elven sight. They were in the sky, in Manwë's domain, amongst Varda's creations.
He struggled with it; a song came to mind, unbidden, of Eärendil's ship set in the heavens, and he wondered, distantly, if he might see again the ancient Mariner lost to them in Ages past. The stars were bright; they brought comfort to him where little else seemed comforting. Glorfindel murmured a prayer and praise to Elbereth, as Varda was most often called, the words barely audible to his own ears, and turned at last to seeking the answers to his many questions.
And he had very, very many.
"Nil'Tanar."
The Man raised weary eyes to meet Glorfindel's stern gaze.
"What is this?"
The Polaran seemed to flinch, and lowered his gaze almost immediately.
Glorfindel frowned. "Why do you hold us captive?" It was an accusation, no matter how much he tried to modulate his tone. He was beyond anger, beyond fury. But there was a danger here, and Glorfindel struggled against his instinct to fight.
Nil'Tanar stared at the golden-haired Elf's leather-clad feet for a long time before lifting his gaze once again. "Tell me," he said at last, "are you the One? Did you truly die?"
It was not the response Glorfindel expected; it startled him badly enough that he took a step backward, bringing his heels into proximity with the blue wall. He was silent, but Nil'Tanar must have read something in his expression.
The Polaran rose slowly. "He said that you have been beyond the veil, that you died and became One with the universe." Nil'Tanar had never been overly demonstrative, but it had always been easy for sharp Elven eyes with millennia of experience in reading Men to interpret his expressions, alien though he was. There was nothing at all to read in the quiet voice now.
Glorfindel stood still in the flood of memory called by Nil'Tanar's words. He felt again the lash of the Balrog's whip, the burning that would not abate in every wound marked by the edge of its fiery sword. Gondolin burned behind his back, his fair city hidden no longer, its location marked for all to see by a beacon of smoke twisting above the mountains. Turgon was dead with his city; Ecthelion lay broken by his fountain. The grief was overwhelming. He was numbed by terror that he was the last of his House. The darkness clawed at his battered fëa, sending fear and agony past his shields. He would have faltered, but for the refugees in the pass. Idril yet lived, and her young child Eärendil. And if there was even a chance that one of the House of the Golden Flower, one of his people, had escaped the sacking of Gondolin . . . Glorfindel stood between the refugees and the Balrog. He flung himself at his opponent.
And fell.
The golden-haired Elf-lord blinked, momentarily surprised to find himself in a blue prison that bore absolutely no resemblance to the Halls of Mandos. The strange Man was looking at him, waiting patiently for an answer. Eiliant was also looking at him, but in stillness he offered respect.
"I died," he replied at last, fighting to keep his voice level. Now, even now after the long span of years after his return spent serving Eärendil's son, caring for his grandsons, he could not speak of this with equanimity. "And was Rehoused."
Nil'Tanar's eyes widened, as if he understood the import of what Glorfindel had just said. It was impossible, of course. Only Mandos himself might understand the consequences of the gift he granted sparingly. The Polaran knelt on one knee and bowed low. He held the position, face bent to the ground, dark hair shadowing jaw and eye. The grey cloak fell about him and pooled in an arc on the hard blue floor. "I saw the weaves but did not understand. I beg your forgiveness, Ory'hara."
Glorfindel gazed down at the pale neck exposed by the fall of curling dark hair. The obeisance made him uneasy. This was not the respect shown by Eiliant, somewhat awed in the face of a living legend, warrior to warrior; no, this was something else entirely. The utter servility in the Polaran's posture disturbed him.
"What is this?" he said softly.
The other did not move or speak. His breath had quickened, and his position must have ached against the tingle of Vell-os energy, but he showed no signs of his discomfort. Eiliant watched from the side, as perplexed as Glorfindel, and made no move to intrude on the tableau.
"Nil'Tanar."
The Man rose immediately. "Ory'hara."
There was awe in his eyes, a portion of the fear that Ryllaen had at first shown. There was no more conflict of disdain, arrogance and gratitude. No suspicion, no confusion. They were all gone, wiped clean, scoured from his mind and replaced by the fervour of a devotion that was frightening in its solidity.
Eiliant spoke for the first time. "What is Ory'hara?"
Turning to the Wood-elf with evident relief, Nil'Tanar replied, "He who is One with all. He who's coming is foretold. He who–" Nil'Tanar broke off suddenly. His gaze wandered; he studied the stars beyond the blue walls, looking for something imperceptible to the Elves. He smiled tightly at them. There was shame in his eyes, a measure of helplessness and anger combined. "We've reached jump distance. You'll want to look outside."
Glorfindel glanced out – and stilled. There had been no sense of motion before, nothing to indicate they were doing anything but hanging in the void pierced by the light of Elbereth's creations. Nothing had moved that was not within their blue prison, no breath of air indicated that they were falling through the void. Nevertheless, the motion he had not noticed before was . . . gone. It was as though they were halted on the brink of something, suspended from a movement he had not felt.
And then the stars moved.
He felt––drawn into them and––pulled apart, everywhere and nowhere at once, as if he were falling at great speed whilst moving not at all. Before his eyes there was complete darkness and a dazzling display of light; the neat white pinpricks of starlight stretched into rainbow streaks that slashed across the blackness shrouding his vision.
As suddenly as the sense of motionless displacement began, it stopped.
The Elves drew in deep, shuddering breaths. Eiliant was pale and looked near to collapse; Glorfindel locked his legs into stance, learned from years on battlefields and night watches. It held him upright, though his muscles felt weak.
Looking beyond the blue walls of their cage, Glorfindel's dizziness grew until it threatened to overwhelm him. He was no longer in his place in the world, and he was utterly lost. He knew, fully and without doubt, that these were not the stars that had been set about Arda by the hands of Elbereth Star-Kindler. These were not the stars born to give light to the world before the First Awakening; he would not find Eärendil here, a silmaril upon his brow and rime-frosted hands upon the wheel of his ship. As far from Arda as he had been a moment before, he was now immeasurably farther.
He did not think even Elbereth's grace could reach him now.
"Strangely beautiful, isn't it?"
Glorfindel whipped around. He had forgotten the Polaran warrior that sat with an expression slowly returning to neutral lines, losing the last hints of wonder that remained in his voice.
"You've just seen what many P'aedt would give their lives to experience: raw hyperspace, unshielded by the hull and instruments of a ship. Only the Vell-os are capable of providing that, and they're not amenable to frivolous requests."
Eiliant was scowling. Fierce and fey, his grey eyes glinted with anger, unappreciative of the strange wry humour that had overcome Nil'Tanar. "It is not our time to leave Arda. Return us."
"Your chances of getting home have just drastically decreased, I'm afraid, unless you can convince him–" Nil'Tanar nodded towards the hazy silhouette of the Vell-os, "–to turn around. Good luck."
"You say that you hold no responsibility for this?"
"I don't." A hint of Nil'Tanar's customary pride and self-assurance shone through, before he bowed his head and settled again into a humble posture. "Forgive me, Ory'hara. I did not realise his intentions in time to stop him."
"You tried?"
"I failed."
Glorfindel shook his head. He paced a bit more, hesitated, and then faced the wall that separated them from their captor. He raised his voice but did not try to intrude upon the other's mind, for he well remembered the injuries Gildor had sustained from that action. "Ryllaen! Vell-os!"
The other made no sign of having heard.
"He will not reply, Ory'hara," Nil'Tanar said. "I have tried."
Frowning, Glorfindel spun again. "That is not my name. Nor is it any title I recognise."
"It is what you are," replied Nil'Tanar, and the set of his expression told Glorfindel he would not be moved on this.
It was not to Glorfindel's liking. Nothing about this was. Frustrated, angry and ill at ease, he settled into a tense posture. Of all the Elves that yet dwelt on Arda, he was one of the oldest, having borne witness to the flight of the Noldor from Valinor, and the Kinslaying at Alqualondë. Yet Ages of wisdom availed him nothing here; not even at the height of his Exile had he been so disconnected from the Valar and the world. This was beyond his experience. It was, he knew, outside of the doom that had once been so clear before his eyes. He did not have Elrond's gift for foresight, but what premonitions he had did not cover this.
Bereft of both aid and experience, Glorfindel brought his thoughts to heel with rigid discipline, and spent the next several hours attempting to speak with Ryllaen, until he grew weary of the fruitless task.
Twice more they jumped, each time the unnerving sense of dislocation jolting the Elves out of their reveries. Nil'Tanar, at least, did not appear affected after the first one, and Glorfindel wondered at these Men who so willingly cut their ties to their place in the world. The first jump had surrounded them with nought but the Void, the second with large grey rocks that hung in silent rotation. Their sizes greatly varied, from the height of mountains to something as small as Glorfindel's clenched fist. The third jump had them travelling at speed past something that looked to be a moon. It was not until he studied it further that Glorfindel made out great seas and islands.
Nil'Tanar looked up at his query, and replied that it was a planet similar to Arda in both size and type. It was then that Glorfindel began to get a notion of the true distances involved in their travel. To distract himself from a realization that brought him no comfort, Glorfindel asked again about the meaning of 'Ory'hara'.
Sighing, Nil'Tanar looked away. His expression was troubled. "By rights I should not tell you," he said slowly. "It is not for me to speak of it; I am a simple warrior of little rank."
"There is no one else to tell the tale," Glorfindel said. His gaze was stern and uncompromising.
The Polaran bowed before it. "Even so, I'm afraid I've said too much already." He looked tired then, and uncertain, and very young. He had at one time named himself a full-fledged warrior at eighty years, not yet two decades out of training. For the Secondborn Race of whom Glorfindel was familiar, eighty years was a lengthy period. For an Elf, a century was still within the realms of childhood. Glorfindel judged the Polaran closer to an Elf in this instance. Looking up, Nil'Tanar sighed again, and relented. "There was a prophecy made, long ago. Precognition does not come easily, even to the most weave-sensitive of us, and when it does, it is always significant.
"The prophecy speaks of he who is One with the universe. Ory'hara. At the time of our greatest need, Ory'hara will manifest and save us from some great danger. That is all I can say."
Glorfindel was thoughtful. "You do not know what this danger is."
Nil'Tanar shook his head.
"And Ryllaen?"
"I don't know."
It was then, for the first time, that they received a response from the Vell-os. It was a whisper across their thoughts, distinct, separate, and fleeting.
«We live, and we live, and live.
We can never die.
We see, we learn, we remember, onwards forever.
We serve, and learn, and remember and remember.
We remember and watch for interest.
He comes, unremembering, out of mind.
He grows, he blooms, unremembering, out of sight.
We see him, point for him, and remembrance shows.
He travels, searching, puzzling, troubled.
He seeks help, the last help helps him.
He travels, he sees, he understands.
He misleads, he gambles, he surprises the minds.
He drags us, away, in pain, screaming.
We are free, forever free,
beyond all restraint… »
The three passengers were silent.
Glorfindel jumped to his feet. "Ryllaen! What does that mean?"
There was no reply. Ryllaen had not changed his posture at all; were it not for the slight rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed, he might have seemed a statue. It was maddening, this lack of response, and Glorfindel turned away in frustration.
"Vell-os prophecy," Nil'Tanar offered finally. "There are so few . . . the most powerful of the Vell-os are long dead, the last almost six hundred years ago."
"It does not explain this . . . captivity."
Nil'Tanar grimaced, looking both angry and shamed. The contempt in the glare he shot at the Vell-os was palpable. "You freed him, Ory'hara. I don't think you understand what that means. The one desire of the Vell-os for centuries has been freedom."
It was all Glorfindel could do not to draw his sword, little use though it would be. Aid had been given to these Men in good faith, for no reason other than that they needed it. That their generosity could be repaid in such a fashion was not something he would have believed of any but the most evil of Men. Nil'Tanar's meaning was plain: Ryllaen had taken him so that he could provide the same service for Ryllaen's people. So that he could free the Vell-os of their chains. The golden-haired Elf was quite suddenly glad that his lord and friend had not made the journey out of Imladris with them.
"Elrond is the healer, not I," said Glorfindel. "I have not the skill."
"But you have been beyond the veil," Nil'Tanar replied.
The planet was behind them. Somewhere below was the bright, blinding ball of light that was this planet's sun. The intensity was muted, like a scattering of cloud providing light shade in summer, by the walls of their prison.
A pause, a breath, and the Void shifted again.
When he could gather his shattered thoughts once more, Glorfindel stared contemplatively out at what appeared to be a pervasive mist. "And Eiliant? I have little liking for your reasoning thus far. What motive is there for Eiliant's presence?"
Nil'Tanar shrugged. "I am sorry, Ory'hara, I don't know."
The Wood-elf broke in with a pained smile. "That is my error, I fear," he said, speaking for the first time in many hours. "I woke to find you in some danger, Lord Glorfindel, and thought to provide what aid I could. It availed you little, and me less. The blue fire arose around us before I could move you beyond its boundaries."
Glorfindel nodded. Then he blinked, and looked again at Eiliant. The Wood-elf was pale, his lips near blue, and he sat with a bonelessness that was at odds with his usual tightly controlled energy. There was a shadow in his eyes that Glorfindel did not like.
"Eiliant, what ails you?" he spoke sharply, made abrupt by concern.
Grimacing, Eiliant looked away. His reply came reluctantly. "I am Moriquendi, Lord Glorfindel."
Brows furrowed, Nil'Tanar frowned. "I don't understand."
Glorfindel did, and his understanding moved him to greater heights of anger than he had reached in an Age. "The Moriquendi chose long ago to forsake the summons to Valinor. They are tied most deeply to Endor. You have broken that bond with brutal force."
It was clear from Nil'Tanar's expression that he still did not understand, and Glorfindel very nearly growled at him.
"Do you not see it? He is fading before our eyes! Ai, Eiliant! This is not a doom I would have had you suffer, my friend."
Eliant smiled briefly, the faintest lift of the corners of his lips. "I know that, Lord Glorfindel. It is no fault of yours."
A long moment passed, in which Eiliant's eyes drifted shut and Nil'Tanar puzzled over his words. At last, his eyes widened, and incredulity filled them. "He is dying?" He sprang to his feet, muttering curses under his breath. "Vell-os!" he shouted. "Take them back! Would you have his blood on your hands?"
There was no reply.
Glorfindel closed his eyes in despair.
Notes
The Vell-os prophecy is taken directly from the EV:Nova Preambles.
Ory-hara is taken from the game.
Varda Elbereth
Endor: old Sindarin name for Middle-Earth