Chapter Forty-Eight: Dawn of War
"Elrond?"
The Doomsman's voice shook ever-so-slightly as it passed his lips. Elrond I did not turn; he stood in silence with his back to the Vala, gazing unseeingly out his bedroom window. Mandos sighed for the second time in as many minutes, and turned away in abandonment of his cause. But it was that moment the half-elf chose to speak.
"I don't blame you for what happened last night," he said quietly. "It was a responsibility you couldn't possibly disobey. There's no shame in following Eru's will."
The Vala looked back; Elrond I had turned from the window, and now faced his friend, a strange smile upon his lips: it was perceptibly sympathetic, yet it held sadness at the same time. Mandos hesitated for a moment, but relaxed when the elf extended his hand, palm upward, in a peaceable gesture.
They shook hands, both smiling. But the Doomsman's countenance soon reverted back to one of deep regret.
"I thank you for being so understanding," he murmured. "Nonetheless, I cannot help but feel the same way every time I comply with Eru in gathering the souls of those who die, especially the souls of people who were dear to you in life. I feel as if I am betraying you with every spirit I claim."
Tears glimmered in Mandos' eyes as he went on, "We both know by now of each other's affection. I know and understand why you have been struggling to accept my love. With each kinsman I separate from you, the rift between us widens. I only wish that there was another way…"
He faltered and looked away, not wanting the elf to see him weeping. But Elrond I moved to his side, and reached tenderly up to brush away the Vala's tears. Mandos stared at him, a tiny smile hovering at the corner of his mouth. "Thank you."
"Anytime, sire," the half-elf replied graciously.
----
Time seemed to whirl past at great speed. Days turned to weeks, which bled into months and years, and eventually decades and centuries. Morgoth assailed Elrond twice more, to be beaten back by – most surprisingly, he had to confess – Vána and Nessa. The attack count rose to eight – the halfway point. And as far as Elrond I remembered, in this life, he hadn't yet lived even half of the years he had before.
"But the attacks are half over," said Elrond II to his godfather one afternoon; the younger elf's voice was just about desperately hopeful. "Things will be better from now on, won't they?"
"No," Elrond I replied grimly. "It won't get better. It can only get worse – and worse."
But exactly how much worse it would get, they had yet to find out.
----
The downhill spiral began over a thousand years after the Nazgûl's invasion of Imladris. Nearly all of the Valar grew anxious for some inexplicable reason – one that Mandos was swift to reveal to his kindred. Valinor was soon to be under assault by the Númenóreans, who had been seduced into evil by Sauron.
This news was the cause of extreme distress among the Valar. A covert council was held in Elrond I's bedroom; it was similar to the one that had taken place in the First Age, but with some differences. The chamber was set with fourteen thrones for the Valar, and two seats for Elrond I and II.
All communication was through telepathy, as attention was the last thing anyone wanted. For many long hours, fifteen minds buzzed with the arguments and objections of all the others. Everyone was under threat of being driven to contradicting themselves. The room was in utterly silent chaos.
What can be done? cried Vairë. We made a pledge to guard Elrond, yet our home is in danger!
The choice is only too clear, replied Aulë, shaking his head. We must abandon one or the other.
Mingled yells of protest gave birth to an uproarious mental cacophony. Order was utterly out of the question.
Oromë reached for his horn, intending to sound it and perhaps frighten the assembly into even a temporary hush, but Manwë acted first. He shouted for silence in a mental voice louder than the greatest roaring winds, sending the rest of the council reeling in physical pain and clutching their skulls.
As Estë tended to her friends' mightily aching heads (as well as her own), the Wind-lord apologized sincerely for employing such radical action to regain calm. The others waived his contrition aside without a second thought. It was in this newly-established tranquility that Elrond II voiced his startling opinion.
If it means that much to you, he said carefully, I see no reason why you shouldn't go to the aid of your homeland. The well-being of Valinor is certainly more substantial than that of one elf.
The Valar immediately began muttering among themselves, repeating the elf's statement over and over again to one another. Elrond was willing to be subject to Morgoth's wrath, in complete vulnerability! That must have taken vast amounts of willpower to determine. The choice was precarious. But at long last Mandos clinched the decision.
Morgoth and his minions will not besiege Elrond again for a number of years, as their latest attack was so recent, he explained with confidence. The point stands to reason: Valinor will surely fall to the Númenóreans if we do not retaliate swiftly. And to do this, we must leave Elrond devoid of our protection. With such a great decline in the potential of danger to Elrond, it would make little sense not to go forth and fight for Valinor.
This assessment was met with another bout of mental murmuring. As his kinsmen passed words back and forth, the Doomsman gave Elrond a reassuring smile. The half-elf smiled back, just as Manwë passed the unanimous verdict.
Very well, he said, with no trace of hesitation. We, the Valar, shall defend Valinor for as long as we are needed there.
Mandos nodded in satisfaction, and sat back a bit in his chair. Things were working out… so far.
----
As the weeks ticked past him one by one, Elrond gradually adjusted to his new lifestyle – a lifestyle not including the Valar in any physical form. He still felt their powers around him, in the wind and water, trees and flowers, and he was sent habitual dreams by Lórien, but it just wasn't the same as seeing them in person.
Elrond missed the specific presence of each Vala and Valië: the brotherliness of Mandos and Lórien, the compassion of Nienna, the endless optimism of Tulkas. The half-elf was starting to hate being so alone, so susceptible. Mandos' words managed to lift his spirits, if only a slight amount; Morgoth wouldn't try to attack him anytime soon.
But if he wasn't after the elf, he was endeavoring to conquer Valinor through the people of Númenor. Either way, the outlook was threateningly dark. And if Elrond I was right, it wasn't about to get any brighter.
----
Nine very long years later, Elrond was overjoyed to see all fourteen of the Valar return to Imladris unscathed. He didn't need anyone to tell him what had occurred, as he recalled it all from his previous life: Ulmo had cast the island of Númenor down to the depths of the Sea, and all but a scant few of its people had drowned alongside it.
Sauron was defeated; he had retreated back to Mordor, and – according to Tulkas – was now licking his wounds and waiting for his master's reprimand. And two new realms had been founded by Men: Arnor and Gondor. Both of these were ruled over by Elendil, the chief of those who had remained faithful to the Valar rather than allowing themselves to be overcome by Sauron.
For the next hundred years Imladris had peace from Morgoth and his minions. But Elrond I knew that the darkness was growing. He had seen Vairë weaving it in her tapestries: the kingdoms of Arnor and Gondor were under attack.
The half-elf recalled everything he had seen in his past life at this time period. Unless Eru had some twist of fate awaiting him, Elrond I knew that a long and terrible war was soon to be set in motion between the Light and Dark: an Alliance of two races, and the devious monsters created by Sauron and Morgoth.
Mandos soon confirmed Elrond's fears with a few succinct words. Now all they had to do was wait for it all to begin.
----
"Elrond! Elrond!"
Elrond I jolted to consciousness as the voice, accompanied by loud, insistent pounding on his bedroom door, effectively shredded his sleep. The half-elf leapt to his feet and pulled open the door to admit an almost frantic-looking Maglor.
"I've had a dream," the son of Fëanor gasped. "I think it's about to come true… or maybe it is already."
"What did you see?" Elrond I asked.
"An army of Elves and Men," Maglor answered, "marching toward Rivendell. Gil-galad was at the head of the host, alongside a man who was called Elendil. They were talking; they meant to come here and join our warriors with theirs, and rally against the forces of Mordor."
Elrond could only nod – this, at least, was how it should be. "It is coming true. They'll be here soon."
"How soon?"
"I'm not entirely sure, but I know we'll have time to get organized. We must prepare our fighters immediately."
----
It was only a few days later when Rivendell received a visitor. He was an unarmed elf in armor and chainmail, holding a letter directed to both Master Elrond the First and Lord Elrond the Second. The message was from King Gil-galad of Mithlond, and King Elendil of Arnor and Gondor; it contained news of the coming of an Alliance of Elves and Men.
"Just like in my dream!" Maglor breathed, reading the letter over the shoulders of Elrond I and II.
"Indeed," Elrond I replied solemnly, his eyes darting back and forth as he read. "They'll be here within the week."
"How do you know?" Elrond II asked, looking up.
As though it was painfully obvious, Elrond I indicated some very similar words near the bottom of the parchment. Elrond II felt his ears redden somewhat; he hadn't reached that part just yet. Elrond I clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder.
"When you get to be my age, lad, you'll learn to read quickly and memorize what you see."
Elrond II bristled slightly at being addressed as if he were a young boy, but he knew his godfather was very likely right. But there was no time to dwell upon that; there was some serious preparation still to be completed. War was brewing with alarming speed.
----
A mere five days after that, the gates of Rivendell were flung wide to admit a huge throng of armed, armor-clad elves and men. All of them carried long swords and shields, but the immortal warriors also sported great bows and full quivers of arrows. Marching before all the others were two kings: one elven, one human.
Well-armed and clothed in full battle regalia, Elrond I and II and Maglor led the army of Rivendell forth to greet the militia, and the three leaders met the newly-arrived monarchs with bows and brotherly embraces.
"Our races may differ, but we both have a common Creator and a common Enemy," said Elendil sagely. "I am proud to join forces with you, Elrond the First and Second."
Elrond's two halves nodded somberly. "As are we, King Elendil."
Gil-galad then addressed Elrond I alone, murmuring so that no-one else could hear as he held out a small, wrapped bundle. The half-elf opened it cautiously, and was surprised as a length of dark, shimmering fabric unrolled from his hands – Mandos' cloak. He had all but forgotten it.
"I took the liberty of bringing this from Mithlond for you," the elven-king explained in a low voice. "Something told me it would be needed."
Elrond I met his friend's eyes, suppressing a shiver as a voice whispered into his head… a voice he knew he should obey. The half-elf handed the cloak back, saying, "Keep it for the battle."
Gil-galad frowned, for he knew all about the garment's hidden power. But he complied, exchanging the Doomsman's cloak for his own. Elrond I put on his comrade's discarded cloak over his armor, nodding in satisfaction.
"Very well," he said gravely. "Let us march now to Mordor."