Chapter Twenty-Nine: Dangerous Game
Elrond struggled to maintain his composure as he watched his friend disappear. Lórien, his comrade and caregiver, who had always been near in times of need, would now never be able to contact him again. The tears that had been welling in the elf's eyes now spilled out in a bitter flood.
"I am sorry," Manwë murmured gently, placing a kind hand on his shoulder. "But this is how it must be."
Elrond nodded, trying to swallow the huge lump in his throat as he raised a hand to wipe his face. "I understand."
The Wind-lord nodded, turning toward Mandos. The Doomsman was staring down at his brother's now-vacant seat, his eyes glimmering a sorrowful blue.
Námo, sorrowful? Manwë frowned. Certainly not! In his memory, the one time the Doomsman had ever shown pity or mercy was when Lúthien Tinúviel had sung before him, stirring him to feel for her and grant her new life.
Oh, yes, and there was Elwing… lifted from the depths of Belegaer, given swans' wings to soar in search of her beloved Eärendil. Well, that made the count two. Still a trivial amount, surely…
Manwë stood in silence, lost to deep reflection. Mandos would not meet his gaze; Elrond stared mutely up at him, his thoughts slipping softly into the Vala's mind.
What now, Lord Manwë? he wondered. What of Lord Mandos? Will you place upon one brother the burden of two?
The Wind-lord turned toward him, fixing him with his deep blue eyes. No, indeed, he replied. We shall all share that duty, the thirteen of us who remain.
Elrond nodded. Very well… thank you. But how can you expect to vanquish an unseen foe? We need to find out what Morgoth is planning, and precisely how and when he will act.
You appear to be forgetting, said a second voice, that one who has this information is sitting before you.
Elf and Wind-lord turned to Mandos, nodding in confirmation. Then by all means, share it, Manwë bade him.
The Doomsman consented, speaking aloud so all could hear.
"Needless to say, Morgoth will strike again," he announced. "He has a definite plot in his mind, and he will not make decisions lightly. Irmo's interaction with Elrond proved no more than a slight hindrance. There can be no doubt that Morgoth will eliminate anyone and everyone who comes between he and his chosen target, Elrond."
The assembly was rippled by a second shiver. Elrond stared at Mandos in silent disbelief. Was Morgoth merely going to pick them all off, one at a time? They were being used like pawns in a sick, twisted game of chess… That was it!
Elrond's lips curved into a sly smile. Chess, eh? Two were needed to play that game. The diagram of a strategy began to crystallize in his mind.
Mandos noted the elf's triumphant expression and nodded once, sending out a thought to Manwë: It appears that Elrond has a plan.
The Wind-lord turned to the elf, still speaking to the Doomsman, Indeed. Let us assist him.
At a silent nod from both Valar, a sheet of parchment, an inkwell and a pen appeared on Elrond's lap. The half-elf smiled gratefully. "Thank you, my lords. This is exactly what I need."
Mandos smiled calmly. We know.
Elrond I smoothed the parchment upon his knee, picking up the pen and reaching for the inkwell, which Elrond II was fiddling with. "It's not opening!"
Elwing carefully tried to take it from him, saying, "Be careful, dear, you'll spill it…"
The cork popped off, but contrary to all expectations, there was no shower of dark liquid. The inkwell at first seemed totally empty. Elwing frowned, poking a forefinger into it to make sure it was really unfilled.
To her surprise, her fingertip met with something smooth and hard, and slightly wet. She pulled her finger away, staring at a cool, colorless drop of liquid clinging to it.
"What in the world…?" she muttered.
"What is it?" Elrond I asked.
"Look," Elwing told him, holding out the small bottle. "There's no ink in it… it's ice."
"Ice?"
His mother nodded. "Improbable, but true."
The Valar were whispering among themselves again, mystification evident everywhere. Everywhere, that is, but with Mandos. The Doomsman was staring at Elrond II in total satisfaction.
"How is this possible?" Elrond I wondered aloud, now examining the inkwell himself.
"I have a theory," Elwing replied. "If we are to assume that there was ink in the bottle at first, then the change must have happened sometime between when it appeared, and when I took it. Which means…"
The blood drained from her face as she and everyone else turned to look at Elrond II, who was staring around in utter bewilderment.
"What?" he cried, perplexed. "What did I do?"
"You have transformed ink into ice with nothing but your own hands," Varda informed him. "It appears that you possess a power derived directly from Eru Himself. That is a rare and considerable gift, Elrond. You must use it extremely wisely, and also learn to control it. Some would choose to use this power for evil, but in the right hands it may have a vital role in what is to come… In other words, this will alter your life for ever."
The child was silent, staring wide-eyed at his hands, as though he expected them to freeze over. At last he looked up at her, saying sincerely, "I don't want this to be bad. I'll keep it for good, however I can. "
The Star-queen smiled. "Good. But to keep this in your control, it must be entirely secret. Not a single living creature outside of this room must know about your power. Do you understand me?" Her voice was clear and insistent.
Elrond II stared straight into Varda's glittering silver eyes, speaking one word. "Yes."
She nodded, sighing silently. "Very well."
Manwë turned to Elrond I, asking, "What is it you are planning?"
"I will gladly show you," the elf replied, "but I'll need some ink first."
"Of course." The Vala passed his hand over the inkwell and nodded. "There you are."
"Thank you," the elf-lord smiled, loading the pen with ink and beginning to draw in long, smooth strokes.
"Imagine us," he said as he drew, "your kin and myself, standing on the squares along one side of a chessboard. Opposite us are Morgoth and his servants. A game is set to start."
He showed the Wind-lord his diagram, which did indeed resemble a chessboard. But in lieu of chessmen, sets of letters took up the squares on either end.
"I see," Manwë nodded, scanning the letters on the side nearest Elrond. Two letters were in most of the squares; he realized they were abbreviations of all fourteen Valar's names.
The letters Mw., which stood for Manwë, were in the King's square; Vd., for Varda, was in the Queen's place. Ul. (Ulmo) and Ya. (Yavanna) replaced the Bishops on either side of the King and Queen; Au. (Aulë) and Ni. (Nienna) were in the Knights' places. Or. (Oromë) and Md. (Mandos) stood in place of the Rooks. These eight were the Aratar, the mightiest of the Valar.
The eight squares which would have held Pawns read as follows: Es. (Estë), Vr. (Vairë), Ló. (Lórien), Vá. (Vána), Tu. (Tulkas), Ne. (Nessa) and El. I and II. These last two were obviously Elrond's two bodies.
Manwë studied these for a short while before shifting his gaze down toward the other end of the "board". Around the initials Mo., for Morgoth, the squares were each filled by a single X, representing the Dark Lord's nameless rabble of minions.
Manwë slowly passed a hand over the parchment, which changed in a heartbeat. Small replicas of the Valar and Elrond rose up in their respective places, opposite the figures of Morgoth and fifteen faceless shadows. A finger's flick set them in motion: the Morgoth figure sent a long tongue of flame toward the figure of Lórien, who disappeared from the board and rematerialized just outside of it, a crestfallen look on his small face.
Manwë nodded sadly. "Yes. But the game is only beginning; there are many more moves to make."
Elrond sighed and nodded in agreement, his eyes never leaving the parchment. The figure of Morgoth was wearing an ugly grin of triumph, while the replica of Lórien appeared to be sobbing silently with his face in his hands. Elrond was in no doubt that the Dream-lord himself was doing just that, somewhere far away.
There was silence, filled with steady clicking and the song of the wind. Some of the Valar exchanged mute glances, while others stared straight ahead of them. Vairë gazed down at her loom, concentrating on her duty. Her newest tapestry was nearly whole.
She reached down into the basket of threads she always carried with her, choosing a skein in the deep burgundy hue of her own dress. Finding the end of the strand, she drew out a length of thread and prepared to weave it into the tapestry. But something was wrong.
The Weaver stared at her selected skein in annoyance. The burgundy thread had become tangled with many others in a large multicolored knot. Sighing soundlessly, she pulled at several of the strands with her slender, nimble fingers, but they blatantly refused to come loose.
A thought suddenly came to her: this had never happened before. Why would it occur at a critical time such as this, unless there was something important behind it? Something that Eru had willed?
Vairë's golden eyes narrowed as she studied the threads that were involved. There were at least sixteen different colors, some more abundant than others. Much more, she noted, seeing that several black threads were concerned, compared to only a few varying shades of many other colors.
There was one strand each of silver, blue-green, copper, scarlet, pale grey, dark violet, burgundy, lavender, pale rose and beige; blue and green appeared twice, in dark and light hues, and there were two white strands as well. The black threads counted sixteen overall. As she watched them, the grey thread slowly slipped away from the tangle, falling to the floor without a sound.
Vairë shivered, knowing what it all meant in an instant. It confirmed what had just taken place, and also gave her valuable information. Each colored thread represented a Vala or Valië; she gazed down at each as she recited their names and colors to herself. Manwë: pale blue. Varda: silver. Ulmo: blue-green. Yavanna: pale green. Aulë: copper. Nienna: dark blue. Oromë: red. Estë: lavender. Námo: dark violet. Myself: burgundy. Irmo: pale grey. Vána: pale rose. Tulkas: beige. Nessa: dark green.
Then she frowned at the other threads. Two white, sixteen black. No… only one white, she corrected herself, seeing that what had at first looked like two strands was a single one, cleverly knotted. Just like Elrond's two bodies; they were seemingly separate, but in truth, deeply connected. And the sixteen black strands…
Another shudder coursed through her, and she shut her eyes for a moment. It couldn't be.
Slowly she lifted her gaze to look into her husband's eyes. Mandos merely nodded once, confirming her fears.
But which of us shall tell him? she asked.
I will, the Doomsman replied. It is my bitter duty.
Vairë noticed the use of the word "bitter", but did not comment. Very well.
Mandos sent out to Manwë again: There is something you must know about Morgoth's plans.
Doubtless there is much I must know. Go on.
Mandos softly explained the situation to him. When he was finished, the Wind-lord shut his eyes, bowing his head. Is there nothing we can do?
Nothing, the Doomsman replied, but allow Eru's will to unfold.