Chapter Sixty-Nine: Into the Dark
Elwing couldn't hold a deep shiver in check as she stepped forward. Mandos slid his arm around her, drawing her to his side. She frowned at him, rather surprised (not for the first time) to find herself staring directly into his eyes, instead of up into them. The Vala spoke seriously into her mind: You must not let Morgoth know who you truly are. I am assured that the consequences would be severe.
"I understand," Elwing replied in an undertone; and she suddenly wished desperately that she had the ability to speak through her thoughts, as the Valar had. Somehow, voicing her words aloud seemed to make them that much more real to her, that much more terrible.
Mandos spared a moment to squeeze her shoulder, in an action that was both sympathetic and almost fond. Elwing smiled, accepting the gesture, and turned to face the front just as Nienna and Estë crossed the threshold of the Void in a grave pair. The elven woman gave another shiver, but was swift to compose herself. Vairë, she thought, would certainly not reveal her true fears to the Enemy.
Mandos nodded in unspoken approval. Good. You are learning swiftly. You must appear calm in the face of your fears.
Elwing glanced to her left as Lórien came beside her, laying a kind hand on her shoulder. He sent a tender vision gently into her mind, an image of optimism and reassurance: her husband's star, gleaming above them, pouring light and hope down to the world. Elwing allowed a single brief smile to grace her lips. She did not need to give voice to her thanks, for the Lord of Dreams understood completely.
No further communication passed between the three comrades as they, too, advanced into the very mouth of darkness. And the Gates of Night closed behind them with a deafening, final boom.
In the infinite black, Varda's light blazed forth like a thousand suns, illuminating all there was to see – which, admittedly, was not much at all. In truth, other than the Valar and the two elves, it was nothing. But soon… soon, there was something. It was below them and before them, and just behind them as well. Huge, strange squares of stone, at least ten feet on each side, alternating between white and black, in rows and columns, eight by eight. A vast square composed of sixty-four smaller ones, both light and dark.
A chessboard.
Only one person out of the entire group of kinsfolk knew what was happening, what was at stake. But he stayed silent; he had to. The others would figure it out in time. And they did, and whispered fretfully among themselves. Chess… it is a chessboard, a game…
Indeed, you are correct. It IS a game. And you are all mere pieces.
By Varda's radiance, the newcomers to the Void suddenly beheld a disheartening sight. Two rows of figures clad in black, with each a blood red symbol on his chest: pieces from a game of chess. There were three Pawns in the foremost row, and behind them stood two Rooks at either end, two Knights, more toward the middle, two Bishops beside them, and, in the very center, the Queen and King.
The three Pawns, the Rooks, Knights and Bishops were all immediately recognized as the nine Nazgûl, whose bloodthirsty reign had ended along with that of the one who had first corrupted them. That "one" stood now in the space of the Queen, or, more appropriately, the right-hand servant of the King. Sauron appeared to have regained at least some of his previous fairness; his face was once again sallow and his hair golden, but the eyes of pale blue were now like the foulest rubies; their only true worth lay in the evil that festered in the brain behind them.
The King figure was the tallest of all: greater, darker and more vast than the brain could grasp. Two pupil-less scarlet eyes leered down at them from on high, in a black-skinned, horribly scarred face; an ugly grin stretched back the purplish lips and bared great yellow teeth, not at all unlike a wolf's fangs. The company of the Valar were staring into the true face of Morgoth himself.
The Dark Lord's voice grated upon their ears as he spoke again, this time to Manwë only. Are you prepared to play?
The Wind-lord was unfazed. "First we must don the proper attire."
He snapped his fingers, and his kindred's garments were altered at once. Fabrics of every hue were bleached to a blinding white, and on the front of each person's robe, dress, tunic or breastplate was emblazoned a single large symbol in gold. But unknown to all but one of the others, Manwë applied a secondary layer to Elwing's camouflage; Vairë's likeness, from head to toe, was doubly enforced upon her.
The white-clad warriors gazed wordlessly down at their emblems; there were six different types, some more common than others. The figures were all similar to those that Morgoth and his minions wore, and each Vala and elf bore the symbol of whatever player's space that they occupied on the miniature chessboard which was currently locked in Elrond I's bedside table. Without a word they took up their places, waiting for further instruction.
"Now," said Manwë solemnly, "I am sure we all are aware of the rules of chess, correct?"
There were murmurs of assent from the Valar, Elrond and Elwing; growls and hisses rose from their opponents. Both leaders locked eyes and nodded, and Manwë spoke out again. "Shall we abide by the option which allows Pawns to rise in rank upon reaching the other end of the board?"
Morgoth nodded his great, ugly head and replied, As you see fit. It could be beneficial to him as well, the ex-Vala thought with a crafty smile. Very beneficial.
"You appear to be missing five Pawns, Melkor," Varda spoke up coolly, her gaze on the empty spaces in front of Morgoth and his servants. "As loath as I am to say this, our force must not outnumber yours. Both sides of the board must be equal in order for us to begin the 'game'."
Indeed, nodded Morgoth. He snarled something in a strange language to someone behind him, and the wraiths to the Dark Lord's left parted in a whisper of fabric, to let a group of figures pass between them. Four of them stood upright, and the fifth stood on four paws.
Flanking three others were two figures that Elrond and Lórien had seen before in dreams: the black-furred wolf, and the ebony-skinned, winged demon. And between them walked a trio that Elrond had never imagined seeing in that horrible place; indeed, a threesome he had never imagined seeing together again. Clad in black, with Pawn symbols emblazoned in garish crimson upon their chests…
Galadriel, Maglor and Halanor.
The Lord of Mithlond and Lady of Lothlórien were both terribly ashen-faced, with tears pouring silently down their already heavily-stained cheeks. Both wore great, long swords in black sheaths at their hips, and helmets of dark iron. Upon seeing the Valar and Elrond opposite them, it seemed that it was all they could do to keep from falling to their knees and pleading earnestly to be forgiven of the crimes they had never executed. But Halanor, the demon and the wolf ignored them, and came into contact with them only to push the unwilling players to their places on the massive chessboard.
Out of the three elves, Halanor was the only one who wore a smile; it was the ugliest that Elrond had ever before seen. The scar on his chin flexed and contorted bizarrely, and his shadowy eyes gleamed with the greatest self-satisfaction. He seemed only too proud to be where he was. Standing in the very centre of the quintuplet, with Galadriel and the demon at his left side and Maglor and the wolf at his right, Halanor smirked sideways at Mandos as if to say contemptuously, "You got me once before, but not this time."
The Doomsman's eyes flashed in rage as he replied straight into the elf's mind: Do not presume that I do not remember you. When last we met, you were nothing but a snivelling wretch, crouching in a pool of your own urine like an ill-behaved dog. Let me make this perfectly clear: I shall have only the greatest pleasure in watching your defeat.
Morgoth's great nostrils flared as he sniffed unexpectedly at the air, and spoke to Manwë in a voice full of nothing but contempt. I smell deception. One of your number should not be here.
There was the very briefest of silences, before Mandos answered him in a voice that had raw cynicism ladled copiously into it. "Well now, you are the perceptive one. None of us truly belong here, of all places. Were you expecting us to make ourselves at home?"
Morgoth had no vocal retort to this; but his eyes narrowed in rage, and he fixed them on the forcibly-expressionless figure of Elwing, who was secretly struggling to maintain her cool composure. She kept her golden eyes impassive; no glimmer of any sentiment would flit across her features. She couldn't afford it to, not when the moment was so crucial.
But the Dark Lord sensed something that no-one else had. Without warning he flung out a hand, sending a great burst of evil energy straight toward Elwing. She had no time even to draw a breath before she was blasted off her feet, actually lifting into the air and flying backwards for fifteen feet at least before landing in a crumpled heap at Aulë's feet, where she lay silent and shuddering.
The Smith immediately knelt to help her, and the woman leaned gratefully on him as she rose unsteadily. Elwing gave herself a very swift and anxious once-over as she climbed to her feet and returned to her place between Lórien and Estë; to her complete surprise, the guise that the Dream-lord had placed upon her was still nearly intact. She still resembled Mandos' wife, but the once-concealed sword was now in plain sight of everyone else.
Most of the black-clad fighters began to mutter and hiss to each other, pointing openly at the now-visible Andúril. Morgoth silenced them all with a raised hand, and snarled out in a voice like a roar of deadly thunder, Who are you, woman? Speak!
Elwing fought to keep her voice from breaking. "I am Elwing, daughter of Dior Eluchil."
You dare to flaunt the false likeness of a Valië! Where, then, is the true Vairë?
"She is elsewhere," said Mandos expressionlessly, before Elwing could reply. "My Halls will need a record of this, will they not?" His indifferent grey eyes glinted like cold steel.
Morgoth seemed to accept the excuse, however reluctantly, and nodded rather resentfully as he growled in acquiescence. Truly enough. Now let us play, if we are ready.
"Very well," said Manwë, his eyes draining of sentiment as his jaw set resolutely and his right hand clenched into a tight fist of defiance. He gave his first instruction in a resonant, but weirdly emotionless tone: "Fui, move to the square directly ahead of Yavanna."
The Weeper obeyed him with neither question nor comment, and the game of war began.
Morgoth impassively sent out the wolf in response to Manwë's directive. Back and forth, the two leaders passed out orders without pause, as the empty squares in the middle of the board slowly filled out. The Pawns were strewn about the board, and a few of the higher-ranking 'pieces' had advanced as well. No-one yet had been set upon or defeated in one-on-one combat. But everyone who cared about it knew all too well that that point in time would arrive soon enough.
A wraith Knight was the first player/fighter to be dismissed from the battleground, after being beaten down by Ulmo. The Lord of Waters trod carelessly on the Nazgûl's unfilled robe as the creature's spirit fled from the board. The other warriors of the Void continued with the game, as though nothing of significance had happened.
Two more Nazgûl were adeptly dispatched before the first cruel blow fell upon the White fighters: Nessa was accosted by a wraith Bishop. The Valië and the former human swiftly engaged in a silent and solemn clash. Round and round they moved, circling in a deadly dance, as all of the other players watched them and them alone.
This was not chess as it was widely known; triumph did not fall to the attacking piece by default. This was undeniably the very strangest war… There were rules. A conflict was a fair one. This was the only reason that the Dancer refrained from merely bombarding her enemy with a mighty blaze of energy, and why the Nazgûl's blade remained safely inside its sheath. A most unusual code of conduct had been forged there in the deepest darkness.
Nessa had learned a great deal from Tulkas in the many thousands of years they had spent together as husband and wife. The Wrestler had taught her a lot about fighting – not quite her area of expertise, yet she was willing to attempt the new practice. And she had indeed profited from it. Nessa was not quite as skilled with her hands as with her feet, but well enough. There was no need for her to use her Valarin powers now, and there was no need for the Nazgûl to use its own sword. Strength and agility were what they would contest.
The rivals clasped and locked hands tightly, flesh and bone gripping metal gauntlets, and vice-versa. Green-gold eyes met with the depths of a dark cowl, where unseen eyes stared back. Each gave a slight nod; one was more obvious than the other. Then the two separate figures fused into one; they became a single thrashing, tumbling, writhing thing, made all of white skirts and a black robe, shot through with Nessa's light brown hair as it flew out unbound around her head. First the Nazgûl was winning, then the Dancer; then the tables turned again…
Nessa's body seemed to bend and unbend like a ribbon caught up in the wind. Serpentine, she swayed this way and that, limbs coiling and then relaxing. For one breathless moment it seemed as though fortune was truly on her side… but…
…one wrong move was all it took. Nessa felt her legs slide backward out from under her, and she fell forward, as Time slowed to a crawl. Seconds passed in inches. The cold and merciless white marble came up to greet her, and the welcome was harsh. Blood trickled from a cut in the Valië's lower lip, and a throbbing bruise purpled her fair cheek. She felt what must have been the Nazgûl's foot pressing down hard in the small of her back, and a hissing voice grazed her ears, rough as sandpaper. Do you yield?
Nessa's answer was a single hopeless word, whispered as a frosty tear slipped down her face. "Yes."
The foot was removed from her, and the Dancer shed her body in silence, drifting weakly to a place beyond the board, behind where many of her kinsfolk still stood in their initial places. As she passed beside her husband, she saw that the Wrestler's eyes were full of a helpless anger. His body was tensed, like a viper readying to strike. He moved forward a single square, clearly cursing the rules of chess, which prevented him from rushing forth as he so longed to. The game went on.
Players from each side fought, won and lost. There was neither truce nor stalemate in the individual fights. Gradually each army dwindled: all four of the wolf's legs were snapped by Tulkas; Lórien emerged defeated from a vicious struggle against Sauron; Nienna wept deep in her heart as she routed Maglor in battle; Elrond I swiftly succeeded in setting a wraith ablaze with fire. No-one yet had placed either King in check. Neither Manwë nor Morgoth had yet moved; they stood still, staring each other down as they issued orders to their companions.
Elwing strode forward one square, to find herself at a diagonal to Galadriel. The Lady of Lothlórien was at the advantage; it was her turn to move, but she obviously hesitated. She gazed deeply into her kinswoman's face, her hand halfway to her sword, hovering still in midair. She cringed helplessly as Morgoth's insensitive voice thundered in her ears.
What are you waiting for? he roared. Take her down! NOW!