Chapter Forty-One: Out of the Ashes
"You," Elrond snarled.
Sauron gave a familiar bland sneer. "Nice to see you again."
"I can't honestly say I return the sentiment," the half-elf replied tightly.
"Oh, come now," Sauron cajoled, stepping deliberately toward him. "Surely we can make things up between us? You're not still bitter about that teensy little incident in Mithlond, are you?"
"Bitter doesn't come close to how I am," Elrond I told him frostily. "And that 'incident', as you call it, was miles away from teensy."
"Sour grapes, Elrond, sour grapes," the Maia smirked, still advancing. "Why not sweeten them just a bit? Hmm?" He extended his right hand slowly as he spoke. "A truce, maybe? Some semblance of equality?"
"Equality?" the elf repeated disbelievingly. "Truce? Do you even know what those words mean?"
Sauron chose not to answer that directly. "Are we going to make peace, or aren't we?"
Elrond I's eyes narrowed. It was a trick, a ruse. Sauron was trying to make him drop his guard. Well then, he resolved, he would cling to it for dear life.
His enemy seemed to sense his judgment, and curled his lip in rage. Raising the hand that he had proffered, he struck like a viper and closed his fingers around the half-elf's throat. Elrond I gasped in anguish, because not only was he being choked, but the Maia's once-cold hand was now literally burning him, blistering his skin.
Sauron cackled in triumph at his captive's agony, grinning cruelly as the elf squeezed his eyes shut. He must have been struggling to live, the Maia thought with malice.
Elrond I was suddenly overtaken by a rush of icy power from somewhere that he couldn't detect. Was it from himself? His temperature plunged; his skin sparkled with frost, which started to melt, but soon froze again. Fire and ice battled on, winning and losing by turns. The half-elf found that he could breathe just a little easier if he relaxed his body, but that didn't lessen Sauron's hold. He needed something more.
His mind flew back to the night of Sauron's attempt to overthrow Gil-galad through sheer trickery. Varda had been the one to save Mithlond and banish the Maia. Maybe she could again.
Elrond I sent a thought charging forth into his adversary's mind: a shout he hoped would pierce like an icy spear. It was desperate, but it was his only chance.
In the name of Elbereth, Queen of Light, you shall conquer neither me nor this city!
Sauron hissed in rage, releasing him swiftly and stumbling backward. The name of Varda had been like a blow to his body, just as the elf had prayed. He lay gasping on the floor as the Maia let out a snarl.
"You have not won. The fire still burns!"
Elrond I looked up at him, coughing from both the smoke and the force of his attempted strangulation, and sent out another thought as blood rose into his mouth and dripped from his lips.
The ice will quench it, he replied coldly. Ai Elbereth Gilthoniel!
Sauron hissed furiously again, and vanished in a whirl of flame. The elf slumped weakly to the floor again, fighting to stay awake. Part of the roof collapsed above, some distance away from him. The cold wind that came gusting down through the sizeable hole carried a torrent of freezing rain and hailstones. Elrond let the droplets and icy chunks spray over him, hearing the fire hissing all around him as it was slowly extinguished.
He sighed as the ice smothered him, and the smoky air gradually cleared. But he couldn't quite gather the strength to get up. He thought he could hear voices calling his name, but they sounded far-off and faint. His heart throbbed against his ribs, and his breaths rasped through his scorched and bloody throat. A thousand thoughts careened drunkenly through his muddled mind.
Did Maglor ever find Celebrimbor? What happened to them? And where am I? Where is my other half? And Cirdan... what happened to Cirdan?
"Elrond!" This voice sounded quite near. "Where are you?"
The elf lifted his head, summoning barely enough energy to answer. "Hello?" he tried to say. But only a hoarse sound escaped him, and more blood dribbled down his chin.
A figure came gradually into view above him, indistinct through the gloom and smoke. A strong pair of hands grasped him under the arms and gently lifted him to his feet.
Elrond I gazed blearily up into the blurred features of Maglor. Fëanor's son was pale with fear, and his voice shook audibly as he spoke again, sobbing quietly.
"I'm sorry, mellon nin… I didn't know what to do when I couldn't follow you… forgive me, please…"
Elrond tried to reply, but again could manage only a feeble, croaky noise. Maglor glanced down at the crimson drops trickling down his friend's chin, and caringly wiped the blood off with his own sleeve. The half-elf managed a smile of gratitude, and sent a thought to his friend's mind. Where is Celebrimbor?
"He's all right," Maglor replied soothingly. "He's seeing to everyone else. I came back to get you myself."
And Cirdan? the half-elf thought frantically. Did you see Cirdan anywhere?
A sob snagged in Maglor's throat. How could he say this?
"I did see him," he replied shakily. "But by the time I reached him, it was too late. There was nothing anyone could do."
What do you mean?
Tears flowed soundlessly down the other elf's soot-smudged face as he whispered, "He's dead, Elrond. It looked as though he had been trampled. He lived just long enough to tell me to give you this, before Mandos finally came for him."
Maglor buried a hand in his pocket, and pulled out his closed fist. When he opened it, Elrond I caught a bright flash of gold and scarlet. An ornate ring lay in his friend's palm, wrought of gold, with a blood-red ruby in its band.
The half-elf caught his breath; it was Narya, one of the three Elven Rings of Power. The Ring of Fire.
Elrond I began to weep quietly, his sobs rough and hoarse in his throat. Maglor wrapped his arms gently about him, and together they shared a time of grief for their lost kinsman.
But at length they had to break apart, and the two friends made their way through the dim labyrinth of smoking rubble, to where the others were awaiting them.
----
Cirdan's battered body lay in a small boat shaped like a swan with folded wings. A crowd of elves, all standing in silence, was assembled on the grassy bank of a mighty river for the shipwright's funeral. Once all that could be said had been said, Cirdan would embark on his first, and last, journey to the Sea.
Elrond I had initially been asked to give the shipwright's eulogy, but because he couldn't speak, the obligation passed along to Maglor. The son of Fëanor spoke out in a constantly breaking voice, summarizing the many long years he had spent with his friend to the best of his ability. When he had spoken the last faltering words, Elrond II knelt and loosed the rope that had held the vessel in place for the ceremony.
As the little boat drifted silently down the river, Elrond I gave a rasping sigh and closed his eyes. He wished fervently that the sun would come out. The rain and hail had slacked off to a fine drizzle, and the bruised-looking grey sky above was a perfect match for the shades of his emotions: desolate and lightless.
Namarië, mellon nin, (Farewell, my friend) he whispered to no-one. I swear that you will not be forgotten.
----
Elrond I sighed silently as he stood alone in the brightness of noon. The fine drizzle had finally stopped, and the sun poured her light generously over the ruins of Eregion. But it was nowhere near enough to lift the spirits of the city's former inhabitants, however.
Celebrimbor's people wept bitterly at the sight of the mound of rubble that had been their home for hundreds of years. The half-elf caught snatches of their conversations borne on the wind. They were all anxious, wondering what to do next. The dead had been seen to, and the healers had their hands full tending to the wounded. But they were homeless now, a throng of the destitute.
"Elrond?"
He turned, meeting his own eyes. Elrond II was standing just behind him; he gave a slight cough and spoke hesitantly.
"I, ah, I imagine you're wondering about what happened when you were fighting Sauron earlier. I can explain that. I wasn't sure it would really work, but I was trying to give you some of my power, because I couldn't possibly have reached you in time."
Elrond I frowned. If you were nowhere near me, how could you possibly know that I was in danger?
"Some things you just know," Elrond II answered softly. "You're me, after all. I know all of what you feel. I could sense your pain, your fear, your anger."
Elrond I glanced at himself in surprise. I didn't know we were connected that way. I can feel what you feel, of course, but I didn't know it ran the opposite way.
"I knew," said Elrond II. He paused for a moment, then glanced at his godfather's seared throat. "You should really get that taken care of."
Elrond I nodded, cringing slightly at the blossoming spread of pain through the blistered skin of his neck. Mere seconds later, he caught the perfume of lavender on the breeze, and felt a gentle sensation on his neck, almost like soft fingers. He could feel the blisters disappearing; they didn't burst or peel away, but seemed simply to dissolve into nothing along with the pain.
"Ahh," he sighed gratefully, as the sensation left him. "Thank you, my lady."
Estë materialized in a swirl of grey, nodding her head as Elrond I and II both bowed. Her lavender eyes glimmered with a mixture of sympathy and sorrow, and her voice was soft and kind.
"I am deeply sorry for your loss, Elrond," she told the elf, looking from one pair of eyes to the other. "Please accept my condolences."
"Gladly, my lady," replied Elrond II. "Thank you."
She nodded, her gaze moving to the stricken elves being tended by overwhelmed healers. Vanishing from sight, they felt a slight breeze in her wake as she swept away to see to the wounded.
Elrond II looked up as Maglor approached on silent feet. The elf's face was streaked with tears, and still smeared with cinders. Elrond I addressed him quietly and tenderly.
"That was a beautiful eulogy," he told his comrade. "Cirdan would have been pleased to hear it."
"Thank you," Maglor sighed. "I hoped it was good enough."
"It was much more than that," Elrond II smiled. "It was perfect."
Fëanor's son nodded, gazing out down the river, where Cirdan's funeral boat had sailed. Another sigh escaped him.
"Cirdan once told me he always wanted to see Valinor," he murmured. "He was granted a vision of the shores once, and the Sea sang in his heart ever since. He told me it was both a blessing and a curse." He sighed, and a single tear traced a clean path down his cheek. "No matter which it was, he'll never see Valinor now."
"Lord Mandos' halls are a part of Valinor," Elrond I reminded him. "And no-one can say what they hold. They may seem different to different people. Maybe they hold a paradise that is a mingling of every soul's desires. I don't know."
Maglor nodded. "Do you think Cirdan might see all of Valinor there?"
"We can hope so," replied Elrond I.
There was a heavy pause, and Elrond II spoke up. "We should find a way to contact Gil-galad. He needs to know what's happened here."
Maglor glanced sideways at him, but Elrond II merely nodded as a voice slipped into his mind. It has already been done. I have told everything to Ereinion.
Elrond I nodded also, having heard the thought as well. What should we do now, Lord Mandos?
Your new home awaits you. Go to Imladris.