Chapter Forty-Six: Fires of Midnight
Like a wildfire over dry grass, news of the Ring-wraiths spread rapidly through Imladris and to the realms far beyond. Letters were written and sent west to Mithlond, and south to Lothlòrien and Greenwood the Great. The messages were thick with caution and counsel, advice and warnings, and snippets of Elrond I's memory disguised as Foresight.
Gil-galad was the first to respond, telling Elrond of his immense gratitude that the half-elf had gotten word out so swiftly. The answering messages from the two forest realms held equal appreciation, and promises that Elrond's forewarnings would not be wasted.
The Nazgûl didn't make any exceptionally obvious appearances to the elves as time crept by, but signs of their ominous presence seemed to be everywhere. Many young children complained of nonstop nightmares. And many elves, both old and young claimed to have been roused in the dead of night by an unearthly screech resonating through the air – the voice of a wraith, beyond doubt.
Imladris' very atmosphere slowly tightened, like a bowstring being stretched out. Elrond I was the most anxious by far; he could often be seen pacing the halls of the haven, head bowed, mumbling under his breath as though to no-one. Many of Rivendell's inhabitants wondered whether their ruler's godfather was losing his wits, cracking under the tension.
Luckily, the half-elf's mind was whole. It was his heart that was spinning out of control: the undeniable burden of Morgoth's attacks, his deep affection for Lórien, the feelings for Mandos that he was struggling to come to terms with, and the new influence of Cirdan's destiny. All that, coupled with the knowledge of this new embryonic evil, planted a black seed of despair deep in his heart. The thing was beginning to germinate… and quickly.
Years passed in Imladris and everywhere else, but the Nazgûl still refrained from striking the elves openly. News of their attacks had been confirmed elsewhere, but not in the deep valley. Was it coincidence, or something more? Either way, the elves were thankful for it. Thankful, but even so, more than a little concerned. Was this just the deep breath before a deadly plunge? The words echoed more and more frequently on tongues and in hearts and minds. This peace couldn't last forever, could it? Nothing lasted forever.
----
Elrond II curled into a ball underneath his blankets, trying unsuccessfully to get back to sleep. He wasn't quite sure what had woken him. Had he been dreaming? His mind was a little fuzzy. He shut his eyes and shuddered as something nagged insistently at his mind; something in his brain almost physically hurt. Something somewhere was very wrong, he was in no doubt.
He rose silently from the bed, stepped into his slippers and picked up the glowing candle that stood on his bedside table. The cool night air embraced him like an old friend as he stepped out into its gloom. But he had taken only a few steps before a voice arrived in his ears – his own voice. The tones were laden with breathless fear… no, not fear. Horror.
"…it can't be… don't let it happen, not again… I've tried so hard…"
There was a brief span of almost complete silence, and then Elrond I spoke out distantly again, his voice now wavering with sobs.
"Please, is there not some other way? Can't I at least warn him of this?"
His mouth drying out in pure dread, Elrond II advanced in the direction of his godfather's voice. The short silence came again, and then Elrond I wept a third time, this time in clear relief.
"Thank you! Thank you so much! Yes, I'll do it immediately! Yes, sir!"
The half-elf's voice was emanating from behind a closed door. Unknown to Elrond I, his godson moved up to the threshold and paused there. His hand, ready to knock, hovered in midair as he faltered slightly. But at last he gathered his nerve and followed through. His knuckles rapped thrice on the wood as Elrond II's voice slipped through the crack under the door.
"Elrond?"
There was a moment of breathless quiet, and then the door burst outward with such force that Elrond II was nearly knocked off his feet. He found himself wrapped in his own arms before he'd even regained his footing, the snuffed-out candle lying forgotten on the floor beside him.
Elrond I was holding him, but clutching was probably a better word to describe the elder elf's desperate grip. Elrond II gasped urgently as the breath was slowly squeezed from his lungs, and pushed hard against his godfather's torso in a silent plea of get off!
Elrond I eventually caught the hint, and released his younger counterpart quickly. Only at that moment did the younger half-elf fully perceive the stark terror in the widened eyes of his other half.
"What is it?" cried Elrond II. "What's wrong? Who were you just talking to? Tell me!"
Elrond I gripped his godson painfully by the shoulders and stared into his shadowed face, their noses all but rubbing together as he sobbed out his message.
"You have to help me," he cried frantically. "I must warn… I have to find—"
"Warn who of what?" Elrond II asked. "What's wrong? Calm down a bit and answer me, please."
Elrond I took a moment to recover himself. When he did, he was obviously struggling to remain in a relatively composed state.
"The Nazgûl are coming out of the East," he said, very shakily, "all nine of them. They're on the way here, and they aren't stopping. They'll be here by midnight tomorrow night, and they will do anything to get into Imladris. But they're only after one person."
"Who?" Elrond II whispered, his worst fears scribbling themselves across his features.
"They aren't worried about us," said Elrond I, "yet. Right now they're after…"
He gulped, unable to finish the phrase aloud. He leaned deliberately toward his godson's ear, and whispered the victim's name.
Elrond II blanched, very slowly, and couldn't suppress a moan of horror and disbelief.
"Celebrimbor…"
----
"Are you sure this is necessary?" Celebrimbor called for the tenth time, raising his voice to be heard through the bedroom door as he gave the makeshift barricade a final push into position. "It's not as if they know I'm here."
"But their master does," Elrond I shouted back. "And he's the one who sent them on their merry way. Is the barricade in place? Do you have enough fire and weapons?"
"The barricade's firm. I have five torches and two swords here," Celebrimbor answered, "and a large fire burning in the hearth. If they do manage to get in, I'll be ready."
Elrond II glanced out of the nearest window at the thick darkness. The moon was steadily ascending the staircase of the starry heavens. Time for some last-minute preparations, and then it was all down to the waiting.
A tall elf with golden-brown hair rushed up to him, panting slightly as he bowed his head and spoke. "I've situated archers on every wall, sire: north, south, east and west. They all have fire with them, and other weapons in case there's need for hand-to-hand combat."
"Let's hope things don't come to that," said Elrond II, smiling gratefully and nodding to the elf. "Good work, Erestor."
"Thank you, sir."
----
The moon bathed the valley in a cool silver radiance, belying the fact of the approaching danger. Imladris was quiet, but it was the quietness of fearful expectancy. All entrances to the haven had been barricaded for safety's sake. Scores of elves, armed with bows and arrows, swords and torches, stood like so many sentient statues on the battlements. Those elves on the east wall, selected for the very keenest eyesight, held their gazes steady and vigilant.
"Do you see anything?" Elrond II whispered into the ear of an archer named Nemthen.
"Not yet, sire," Nemthen answered in a low voice, without moving his head. "But we've been hearing them for the past ten minutes… that has to mean something."
The young half-elf willingly joined the watchers, scouring the land and the horizon with his eyes. Was that a flicker of shadow coming nearer, etched darkly against the whiteness of the moonlight? Did it have four legs? Was a black cloak billowing out in its wake?
Yes.
At a mute nod from Elrond II, two of the archers loaded their bows with kindled arrows, and slowly pulled back on the strings. The air they breathed was completely still, as if the very world were holding its breath. The lord of Imladris was like a hunting hawk sighting its prey, ready at a word to strike.
He turned his eyes again to the approaching shadow, a lone black figure galloping toward Rivendell. An undead horseman, who would soon be all but invisible in the blackness of night as it slunk into the shadows again.
How can you vanquish an unseen foe?
Make it seen.
"Fire."
The word hissed from the half-elf's lips as he issued the command to shoot. Two arrows whizzed into the night, blazing like comets. One shaft was aimed at the rider, the other at the horse. Both met their marks with deadly accuracy; the black stallion crumpled to the ground and lay there lifelessly as the wraith's robe was set ablaze.
Nearly imperceptible smoke rose into the sky, carrying with it a stench of burning cloth. Screeching terribly in anger, the Nazgûl floundered uselessly as its clothing crumbled to ashes.
Elrond II smiled grimly. "That's one taken care of."
Nemthen turned to him, frowning in confusion. "I thought the wraiths couldn't be killed, sir?"
"They can't, you're right," the young elf nodded. "But without a way to take bodily form, and lacking a steed to carry it, that wraith will have to flee back to Mordor as a spirit, and it won't bother us again for a long time." He paused momentarily, then added, "I hope."
The archer glanced at him uneasily, and turned mutely to face the horizon again. But his eyes slowly grew wide, and he stammered to the elf-lord: "What were you saying about the wraiths not bothering us?"
Elrond II gasped in horror, for eight shadows now rode past where only one had faltered. The half-elf cursed his own stupidity; the wraiths must have come while his attention was upon Nemthen.
"Load your bows!" he roared to the elves. "Fire!"
----
Barricaded in his own bedroom, Celebrimbor could hear nothing more than the sounds of his own shaky breaths, his throbbing heartbeat and the constant crackling of the flames in the hearth. He had heard the wraith's screams even from back here, but the resonance had soon died away.
Perhaps that was it, the jewelsmith thought. Maybe the counter-attack had been so quick and abrupt that the wraiths had been forced to take flight.
This last notion cheered him significantly. Celebrimbor was finally able to relax. He sank down onto his bed, setting his sword aside for the moment and laying his head serenely down on the feather pillow.
Maybe, he thought to himself as his eyes glazed over, Elrond's warning was for nothing. It may be that he was wrong, that I'll be safe.
----
Arrows pierced the black midnight sky as they showered down in a steady hail upon the approaching Nazgûl. But the smoke that arose from the wraiths' smoldering robes, along with many horses' carcasses, placed a rather effective hamper upon the elves' efforts by stinging their eyes, noses and throats.
The stench was intolerable; many archers ceased fire to rummage for handkerchiefs with which to cover their faces. But even with that means of defense, the reprisal was grinding to a halt, and not slowly. Only two wraiths remained mobile out of the eight that had charged. These advanced on foot, their horses having been slain, but they had been lucky enough not to have had their robes cremated.
The Nazgûl slipped silently through the shadows, perfectly hidden. Arrows still peppered them, but the shafts were unlit; the elves had perceived the possible danger to their haven. Now that their enemies were so close, fire could mean death to the elves and destruction to the buildings. The people of Imladris were indeed between a rock and a hard place; danger lay before them with either option.
Step by soundless step the wraiths approached, each passing second bringing them closer and closer to their prey. They only wanted one elf out of the many, and they would stop at nothing get that one… the jewelsmith.