Chapter Fifty: In and Out

Still concealed behind their ridge, Maglor and Elrond I and II shivered as the force of the eerie wave passed them. It had changed the very air; they could all sense that something momentous had just taken place. Aside from the next-to-imperceptible whisper of settling dust, the stillness was so thick they could all but taste it.

"What in Arda was that?" Maglor gasped, putting a hand up to his thumping heart.

Elrond II glanced sideways at his godfather, questioning him with his eyes. Elrond I drew a slow breath before answering, "I think it's over. Sauron is gone."

"Dead?" Maglor frowned.

"I'm not sure. I'll go out and take a look. Will you come with me?"

----

Gil-galad struggled to keep breathing, torture though it was. He could feel his own thick, hot blood pouring from the terrible wound in his torso, pooling between his armor and the clothing he was wearing underneath, making the cloth stick to his body and to the injury.

The thing that had stabbed him, whatever it was, had gone through his stomach at an odd angle and pierced his left lung. His whole body was a mass of pain, his mind a labyrinth of mixed-up thoughts. It was all he could do to stay conscious, to focus on breathing. In, out. In, out. One breath at a time. In, out.

The elf felt blood rising in his mouth, and turned his head to one side, trying to summon the dregs of his fading strength to spit it out. He coughed for air, and the ground beneath him was speckled liberally with crimson. Still he breathed. In, out.

Faint footsteps drummed ever-so-softly in his ears (in, out), and he looked up as much as he could. In, out. The sky above him was partially obscured by three faces he thought he knew… he fought to gather his now-listless wits (in, out), to remember the names.

"Gil-galad!" sobbed one, as they all dropped to their knees next to the seriously wounded monarch – one on his right, two on the left.

The elven-king opened his mouth, trying to call up the energy to speak, and more blood dripped down his chin. In, out. The figure to his right wiped it gently away with his hand, speaking now in a soothing murmur as he grasped the king's right hand in his own.

"Gil-galad, it's Elrond… Elrond the Second. Can you hear me? Don't try to say anything – just nod or shake your head."

Slowly Gil-galad nodded, his breaths gurgling slightly around the liquid in his mouth. In, out.

"Can you see me?"

Another nod. In, out.

Elrond II gulped down a breath. "Do you think you can move?"

In, out. The king's head lolled from side to side as he shook it.

The lord of Imladris looked desperately to his companions; Elrond I reached out and took Gil-galad's left hand, addressing him quietly. But the words he spoke weren't entirely his own; he paraphrased them aloud as someone else spoke them into his mind.

"I think I know a way that I can hear you," he murmured to the king. "You can just try to think of what you want to tell us. I can read your mind and find out what you're trying to say. Is that all right?"

Gil-galad nodded (in, out) to show he was ready. Elrond I breathed deep and focused his energy, letting something in his mind knock warily on the door to the elven-king's own. In, out.

Entrance was granted to him, but it didn't happen at all like he'd expected it to. The half-elf took a careful pace forth, and as Gil-galad waited (in, out), Elrond I stepped right out of his own body and into his friend's very consciousness.

----

He found himself in a huge chamber, boundlessly long and wide, but dim and vacant. The room of Gil-galad's mind was shrouded in a shivering veil of black and scarlet, moving in time to the rushing of the king's breaths (in, out) and the frighteningly slow throbbing of his heart. Elrond I stepped warily forward, calling out as he advanced.

"Gil-galad?"

The reply came from the figure who took shape before him, a semi-transparent image of Gil-galad. "Yes, I hear you." In, out, went the king's slow breathing.

"What is it you wish to tell me?" the half-elf asked.

"Too many things," the king sighed. In, out. "I never knew dying would be such a bother. I have so many things left undone, ideas left unsaid…"

"Don't even think things like that!" cried Elrond I, his urgent voice echoing around the empty hall. "You aren't going to die!"

Gil-galad laughed sadly (in, out). "I know the voice of Mandos when I hear it, Elrond."

"Stop it, please!" the half-elf pleaded. "I can save you!"

In, out. "You must understand, mellon nin. Even as we speak, I'm losing too much blood; there is nothing anyone can do for me now, save for Mandos. (In, out.) Will you carry out my final requests?"

Elrond I nodded, feeling tears cascade down his face. "Yes."

"Very well. There are a few of my possessions I must pass on to others. (In, out.) One is Aiglos, my spear; I would like you to give it to your other half, if you can find it."

"You don't have it?"

"Not since Sauron vanished." In, out.

Elrond I nodded. "Then I'll do my best to seek it out."

"Good. (In, out.) Another thing is the lordship of the Grey Havens. If anything ill should happen to my wife, Mithlond will need someone to carry on ruling it in my stead. I would have passed this honor to Cirdan (in, out) if he were alive."

Elrond I shivered at the recollection of a long-gone dream, full of promises of a legacy to be fulfilled – Cirdan's legacy. Perhaps the dream was beginning to come true.

"So," Gil-galad went on, "I have decided to pass on the lordship of my haven to Maglor. (In, out.) He is a good and just friend, and I'm sure he will keep the city well."

Maglor – another key factor of the dream, the half-elf mused. He was to accomplish what Elrond I could not; then Gil-galad's last statement certainly made a great deal of sense. Even with his two bodies, Elrond couldn't possibly be the lord of two cities.

"Maglor will make a great lord," the half-elf agreed. "You're right to place your trust in him."

Then a horrible thought slowly occurred to him, and he spoke in dread-filled hesitation. "Where is Lord Mandos' cloak?"

"Ah," the elven-king murmured, "yes. You noticed. (In, out.) I lost it some time before I moved to help Elendil and Isildur fight Sauron."

Elrond I gasped. "Where are they?"

"Elendil was slain by Sauron's own hand," Gil-galad answered him. In, out. "That much is certain. I don't know what became of Isildur, at least not after he destroyed the Dark Lord."

"Isildur destroyed him?"

"Yes – he cut the Ring from Sauron's finger. But as I said before (in, out), I don't know precisely what Isildur did next. I thought I saw him knocked unconscious."

Elrond I's heart was pounding. This was happening almost exactly as it had before. But the Ring hadn't been immediately destroyed in his previous life; it had passed out of all knowledge for thousands of years before it was finally taken back to Mordor by a valiant pair of halflings.

Those years were still to come, and Elrond couldn't say how they would change. But he still had a chance to alter his present. A solemn promise buzzed in his mind; he would do anything and everything in his power to prevent history from repeating itself in this way.

But… perhaps things had righted themselves already. Maybe – just maybe – Isildur had taken the Ring and thrown it into the lava of Mount Doom. Could it be possible that there was no need for his vow? It was almost too good a situation to be plausible.

The half-elf started to speak again, but jumped in alarm as the already shadowy chamber began to darken completely. Gil-galad backed away from his friend; his next words were hurried and fragmented, pieces of them lost in the gathering shadow.

"I cannot stay… need to tell Maglor…Vilya is kept… he can guard…"

"No!" Elrond I screamed desperately. "Wait! What must I tell Maglor?"

The answer just barely grazed his ears as the darkness became absolute. Elrond was now lost to an endless void, in which a single tiny speck of light had formed, and was steadily growing. It took shape, in the form of a great gateway of dazzling, pure white light. And a darkly shimmering figure appeared before the closed doors, wearing a sad smile upon his pale face.

"Ereinion Gil-galad?" Mandos called softly.

Gil-galad appeared again in the radiance of the white gate, and the Doomsman placed a kindly hand on his shoulder before looking up and spotting Elrond I.

"You should not be here," the Vala told him, disapproval seeping slowly into his eyes.

"I know," Elrond I replied, beginning to cry without knowing the reason. "I only wanted to hear Gil-galad's last wishes – I didn't mean to follow him out here." The half-elf felt horrible for saying it.

Mandos nodded sorrowfully. "I know. But you were not meant to come even this far. You must return to your own consciousness."

"How?" Elrond I asked despairingly.

"Follow me," said a voice in his ear.

The half-elf looked up to see Manwë smiling gently upon him, and holding his right hand out for Elrond to take. As soon as he obeyed, the Wind-lord led him back the way he had come, and up again from Gil-galad's mind into the half-elf's own.

----

Elrond I gasped for breath as his spirit returned to his body. He could still feel a hand in his own. When he opened his eyes, he saw that Manwë was kneeling beside him, and that Elrond II and Maglor were both trembling, lying facedown on the ground with only their eyes lifted. But Gil-galad wasn't moving at all; he lay utterly lifeless, a calm smile fixed forever on his blood-stained lips.

Manwë addressed Elrond I and his companions urgently. "Evil is even now afoot; Sauron lives still. His life-force is bound to the Ring, which has not yet been cast back into the fires from whence it came."

The Vala turned his gaze toward the still-smoking volcano in the distance, and then down to its stony foot, where his keen eyes perceived a lone, limp figure just beginning to come awake.

"Elendil's son will require every ounce of guidance that you possess," he told the elves. "You know your task – now hurry!"

Elrond I leapt upright, and Elrond II and Maglor scrambled to get to their feet. Together they ran in the direction Manwë indicated, toward the twitching, moaning form of Isildur.

----

Isildur blinked groggily, grimacing in pain as he slowly came to. He was lying on his side at the foot of Mount Doom, with something small, circular and golden glimmering mere inches from his nose. It was a ring, a large ring at that, yet it somehow seemed to shrink before his eyes.

Gradually the memories returned: the battle, his father, Gil-galad, Sauron, and that Ring. The One Ring to rule them all. It was right in front of him, shimmering so seductively in the light of Mount Doom… he tried to reach for it, but someone snatched it away before he could fully regain the use of his arm.

Isildur stared uneasily up at the three figures standing above him; there were three elves, and one of them, who looked exactly the same as another, was examining the Ring in his palm.

"Give it to me," the human whispered, struggling to rise as pain shot through his limbs. "I earned it."

"You can't earn something like this, Isildur," said the elf who resembled the one holding the ring. "It isn't a prize to be won. Come with us. We need to show you something."

The elves pulled the human to his feet, and he limped after them, up and ever up the steep slope of the Mountain of Fire, toward the Crack of Doom.