Chapter Seventy: When Angels Fall

Deep within the single soul that bound Elrond's twin hearts, Vairë bent her head over her loom and concentrated upon her duty as she never had before. Always she had woven the happenings of the world as they came to pass, preserving countless strangers' lives in her webs of thread; and now she wove to save a single life, the life of one whom she viewed as a kinsman and friend. The very balance of the earth depended on Elrond's existence in it. She could not fail. She must not fail. The fate of the world was in her hands.

The Weaver of Time shivered as she drew out a skein of thread; the events that were now going on outside all came to her through Elrond's eyes and ears, painting pictures in her own mind's eye…

Galadriel neither spoke, nor did a thing, except weep. She stood in silence, her right hand still frozen, mere inches from the black leather-bound hilt of her weapon. Her eyes were now tightly shut, and a steady flow of silver tears slipped down in single file from behind the closed lids. Her ebony-clad shoulders quaked visibly with her muted sobs. But at last, when she looked up again, her eyes were suddenly, terribly cold; she spoke four words in the softest and cruelest of whispers as a purely pitiless smile twisted her lips.

"As you wish, Morgoth."

She moved forward, her fingers closing and tightening around the hilt of her sword. She drew it from its sheath at the same time as Elwing drew out Andúril. The two kinswomen crossed blades, meeting each other's eyes for a second – how Elwing forced herself to do so! – and nodded once. The fight began.

The Void sucked all sound from the clang of steel on steel. White and black merged yet again, skirts and hair billowing and whipping about. But it was not as terrible as everyone else certainly thought; for there was calm in the eye of the storm. Galadriel had hatched a plan to spare them both, and it was even now taking wing. What seemed to be a battle to the death was in fact a battle to the life.

In that instant when the warrior women's eyes had locked, Galadriel had sent a thought to Elwing to inform her of her strategy. The two of them would put up a charade of a violent struggle, but in truth none of them would dare to injure the other greatly. There had to be a few minor cuts and bruises, to keep the ploy convincing. But no swords were aimed for any vital organs.

Galadriel winced in unvoiced sympathy with her comrade as her blade scored a deep gash in Elwing's cheek. Elrond's mother staunchly ignored the throbbing ache and the blood oozing down her cheek, and gave a reassuring smile. Heartened and relieved, the Lady of Lothlórien did not bother to circumvent as Elwing retaliated with a harmless swing to the side of her kinswoman's head, neatly clipping off a stray tress of golden hair.

After minutes that had crept by like hours, Elwing saw her time was right. She purposely stumbled, allowing Galadriel to force her all the way to the ground. She lay prostrate, at her friend's mercy, with the razor-like tip of a sword at the base of her neck. Elwing went compliantly limp, the very image of the acceptance of loss. But, as he stood and watched them, Morgoth was nowhere near to being contented with only this. Leering and laughing in bloodlust, he let out a great bellow like an overexcited bull. Kill her now, then! Finish off what you started!

Galadriel was motionless, staring voicelessly down at her crushed "opponent". At length she spoke; and it was a single word, laden with all the calm and resolution that could ever be possible, as she moved her sword aside and slowly, tenderly lifted Elwing to her feet.

"No."

The effect could not have been any more drastic if she had yelled. Every other person on and beyond the board went deathly quiet; Elwing's eyes fell shut in apparent submission, and Morgoth's narrowed to two enraged crimson slits. His voice thundered out again, and this time it was a roar of pure wrath. WHAT did you say?

Galadriel's voice was like stone as she turned toward the towering figure and called up to him, at the same time as she removed her helmet and flung it aside; her gold hair tumbled out in bright liberty from its dark restraints, and her deep blue eyes blazed feverishly with every word she spoke. "I said 'no', Morgoth."

As I thought, the Dark Lord replied furiously. But you can NOT disobey me. You still bear my colors, and you began the game on my side of the board; so you will remain under my power until such time as I see fit to release you… which may not be at all.

The Lady of Lothlórien was adamant in her defiance. "No matter which side of the board I was on at first, I can most easily get rid of your colors now." As she said this, Galadriel sheathed her sword and unfastened the belt that held it, and discarded those both as well. There was a dull clunk of slightly-cushioned metal on marble as the sword landed on the board a few feet from her.

But I know that you will not, for the sake of your dignity, Morgoth growled. Beneath that rag, you are naked as a newborn child. Do you wish for them to see you exposed to the world? He gestured to the others all around him, creatures of the Darkness and the Light alike. The Dark Lord's minions hissed and sniggered vilely; Manwë's kindred were cool and taciturn.

Galadriel remained silent; so did everyone else. The black-clad woman clenched her pale hands into fists of fury, and did not relax even when Elwing approached her quietly from behind, and laid a gentle hand upon her shoulder. But she did turn, and she listened when Elrond's mother spoke in a voice scarcely more than a murmur. "If you madden him any more, Morgoth will slay you where you stand."

I know, Galadriel answered telepathically. But I couldn't bear to hurt you. The Lady of Lothlórien wept bitterly as she sent those words. But they both knew there was nothing that Galadriel or anyone could do now – what was past, was past. The game had to go on, for all of their sakes. For the sake of the world.

Elwing was spared the need to answer when Mandos brushed past her, making his move. He passed a thought to her as well: Get off of the board quickly, before Galadriel's plan is made vain.

The brown-haired woman nodded, unquestioningly hastening to the side of the board that was nearest to her. She skirted the battleground carefully, moving back toward where the white-clothed fighters had started the game from. She stood between Lórien and Nessa to observe the rest of the game, helpless to offer aid to anyone anymore.

Vairë was constantly torn between rejoicing and weeping as the battle-game continued in all its lethal, methodical chaos. Smiles and tears strove for dominion on her ashen face. Vivid images of the goings-on flashed frenziedly before her mind's eye: Varda won over Sauron in a ferocious collision of the Light and the Darkness; Elrond I defeated Halanor after a terrible attack from the scarred elf; a Nazgûl Rook claimed victory over Yavanna; Mandos completely overwhelmed a Nazgûl Bishop; the black, winged demon mercilessly took Vána down…

Her hands fervently worked the loom, her own heart beating in time with the clicks of the device's mechanism, while threads blurred to the vision as they hissed into place. Vairë's palms were damp with perspiration, and her hair was beginning to come loose from the wide, white ribbon that bound it back from her head. She didn't care about any of it; her duty was clear, and she could not be distracted. Her time was growing scarce.

Elrond II moved slowly forward one square, feeling every painful thump of his heart. The younger half-elf imagined vaguely that he could hear the subdued pulses as the throbbing organ pushed his ribs repeatedly up against his breastplate. Aiglos was clutched tightly in his right hand, the smooth wood and metal were cool against his bare fingers. He watched as the wraith Pawn twenty feet from his right side almost slithered forth, so that the two of them were a knight's-step apart.

The half-elf looked ahead and to his left, staring gravely up at the strangely white figure of the Doomsman. Mandos returned Elrond's gaze in silence; there was an uncanny cold in the Vala's eyes. The elf knew instinctively that his friend was foreseeing something he did not wish to see or to know, but that would come to pass in spite of the consequences. Mandos' pale hands curled into fists, and his thin eyebrows knitted tightly together as his teeth clenched in resolution and rage. It was his turn to move.

The Doomsman turned slightly, and then stared straight at the creature before him, a good few squares away; the second Nazgûl Knight. Mandos was just out of range of it. But in a smooth motion, he strode forward one square. The wraith was two spaces to his right, and one square behind; the Vala was now at a corner of the chessboard, where a wraith Rook had once stood. Mandos was unnaturally still as he waited for his moment.

The Nazgûl hissed menacingly as it made its move, approaching the Doomsman's square. For an instant they were motionless; then they leapt and clashed.

It was a spectacle Elrond II had watched unfold similarly a dozen times before; light and darkness merging, embracing, and each trying to conquer the other. The Lord of the Dead and an evil undead, forever so distant, came together now in war – not a war to the death, for neither of them could truly die – but a war to the submission of one or the other.

It was over with shocking speed. The wraith flung Mandos viciously to the ground, where he lay without moving, except to shudder uncontrollably. His ashen face was bruised and bloody; one eye was blackened, and his lower lip was swollen. The Vala struggled vainly to lift his head when the Nazgûl snarled and sneered harshly, basking in its achievement. Do you yield, Doomsman?

Mandos stared silently up through his remaining good eye, and met the horrified gaze of Elrond II. The half-elf was weeping openly, and his sobs redoubled when the Doomsman gave his passive answer, just before shedding his body. "I yield."

Elrond II didn't bother to hide or suppress his own shiver; the Rook's square, now taken by the wraith, was just ahead and to his left. It was his turn.

Vairë's pulse quickened, and her fingers began to fumble over the loom. She dragged in a deep, ragged breath to steel herself. She couldn't possibly afford for any slips to happen now… the moment was so close…

Elrond II stepped diagonally one square forward, striding resolutely out onto the wraith's space; he spared a brief glance for Nienna, who stood on the square beside it. The Nazgûl knew an attack when one faced it, and the undead creature hissed out a warning that the half-elf could not comprehend. Nevertheless, Elrond brandished Aiglos as a sword rasped out of the wraith's sheath.

The two adversaries crossed their weapons for a moment; then Elrond attacked, inwardly thanking Oromë over and over for those nights of training. His mind flashed back to one session in particular: the last one they had had. After a long struggle, Elrond II had at last found himself able to hold the Huntsman at his mercy. Oromë had insisted, after the fact, that he had not knowingly allowed the elf to overcome him. "You are ready," he had said. And that was all.

Yes, that was all… and it was everything. Elrond II had defeated a Vala; the wraith now in front of him was simply no contest. With a skillful flick of the elf's wrist, the poisoned sword was fifteen feet away; ten seconds later the hooded black robe was just a strangely-shaped chunk of ice, which soon shattered into a hundred melting fragments on the black marble as Elrond II cast it carelessly aside. He felt the pride of victory flood through him, along with something else… power.

He stared downward in awe as the symbol on his breastplate shimmered and changed. It grew larger and taller; three square protrusions jutted out from its flattened top. The Pawn had become a Rook. Not only that; Elrond felt as though he, too, had changed somehow. A strange new awareness spread like wildfire through his heart and mind…

…Vairë wove carefully onward, her newest tapestry nearing completion inch by inch. She smiled in pride as Elrond II rose to take her husband's place…

Elrond gripped Aiglos all the more tightly as he turned about, obeying Manwë's voice in his mind. He couldn't help but smile; this was too good to be true. He was two rows away from being four squares abreast from Morgoth, who was encircled by a handful of other players: Valar and others. A step to the left, to the right, diagonal-right or straight forward would bring him into Varda's way; a movement backward, diagonal or not, would leave him entirely vulnerable to Oromë. A diagonal-left move would bring him within range of Nienna. And once the half-elf made his own move…

Elrond savored the thought as he crossed the wide squares, black to white to black. At the third square, the elf turned to face his right, and smirked up into the livid face of Morgoth as he called out just one word.

"Checkmate."

There was a mental shiver in his mind as the other white-clothed warriors whispered their congratulations. Elrond II smiled and replied courteously, but he felt the back of his neck prickle. It couldn't be just as painless as that. There had to be some sort of catch, a trap. Morgoth would never give up without a fight, he knew that much. He waited, as the Dark Lord folded his arms across his massive chest and finally spoke.

A game well played, no doubt, he said haughtily. But it is not over yet. Take up your spear and come forth.

Elrond did so, and as he strode forward he became suddenly, entirely aware of every beat of his heart. If he listened hard enough, he imagined he could almost make out a strange staccato clicking mingled with the throbs of his pulse. He allowed himself a brief smile at the notion that Vairë was still working steadily away somewhere within him, and then he was standing before Morgoth.

Vairë shuddered as she carefully trimmed away the frayed threads on the bottom edge of her finished tapestry, and started anew on the next…

As Elrond II met those cold crimson eyes, glaring down from nearly a hundred feet above him, he didn't know just what to think at first. But two and two soon came together. Here was his enemy. Here was a weapon. Aiglos, say hello to Morgoth. Morgoth, meet Aiglos. A grin found its way onto his lips, and he let it sit there for a while, until the ex-Vala gave a vicious snarl.

You have nothing to smile about!

"Oh, I don't know about that," said the young half-elf airily, still wearing the same bland smirk. "I find this whole thing quite amusing, really. Every bit of it. I've spent my whole life fighting you to save my own skin. You shouldn't fret about me, though. Why in Arda should such a huge, dark, beaten-down evil wretch worry about little me? I'm only an elf. A little stone on the big, sandy beach of the universe. You should be saving your precious powers instead of frittering them away on me. Why not just leave me alone? Don't waste your energy. You're in enough pain."

What makes you think I am in pain? Morgoth growled. And I never go down without a fight.

"Good," Elrond II replied in a deadly cold whisper. "Neither do I."