Chapter Seventy-One: Last Stand
The half-elf waited calmly as Morgoth glared balefully down at him, lowering his hands to his sides. The huge right hand reached for something Elrond II couldn't see at first, but he could a brief moment later. It was an immense hammer, many times larger than Elrond himself. The elf summoned its name from a blurred, distant memory: Grond, the Hammer of the Underworld.
Elrond II felt Aiglos quiver slightly in his grip. The elf's heart skipped as he realized the true weight of his situation: he was standing in the Void Beyond the World, clad in armor crafted by Aulë; Vairë was within him, working to save his soul, and Elrond was gripping the spear of an elven King as he stared down the Dark Lord himself. But even the friends who surrounded him now could not aid him. With a seven-foot Icicle and the guidance of the Huntsman, Elrond II had to fight Morgoth… and he had to win, for his own sake, and the world's.
Vairë had to keep weaving, for Elrond's sake, and the world's. Her damp fingers slipped over the loom's mechanism, and she gasped in despair as some threads became tangled. Frantically she tore at them, even as something in her mind whispered at her to be calm.
The Valië dutifully moved her hands a bit, drew in a few slow breaths, and again started to try and untangle the threads. But this time, her movements were slow and careful. She sighed in fathomless relief as the fine strands unraveled, leaving her work unscathed and ready for her to continue. She wove on inch by inch…
"Let's get this over with," Elrond murmured half to himself.
My thoughts exactly, nodded the Dark Lord, as his fingers – every one of them as broad as Elrond's leg – clenched on Grond's handle. His crimson eyes burned with frenzy and self-confidence; Morgoth was in no doubt that he would be the one to prevail. How could it be any other way? His opponent was so small, his body would snap like a dry twig after just one blow. This would be only too easy.
Elrond II heard the hammer shriek through the air before he saw it. He leapt to the side as it smashed into the marble mere inches from his foot, leaving a large crater and raising a cloud of dust and rubble. Scrambling to get to his feet, the elf ducked between Morgoth's legs, which were not unlike the trunks of two great black trees. One of them bore a great gash on the shin, which had obviously not healed properly; and it must have been causing the former Vala a great amount of pain. Elrond allowed himself a single satisfied smile at the thought.
"Have you never heard of the phrase 'pick on someone your own size'?" he shouted up to his opponent.
I have, Morgoth replied, contempt oozing from his voice as he hefted his weapon again. Move away from my foot, and perhaps we can work something out.
Elrond complied, stepping out to stand before the Dark Lord again. He watched in silence as Morgoth's massive form began to shrink, dwindling from almost a hundred feet down to eighty… sixty… forty… twenty… and halting at just over six feet tall. The great war-hammer had shrunk as well, to fit neatly in the ex-Vala's hand. Morgoth now glared right into his adversary's eyes. Now, shall we carry on?
The half-elf nodded, his fingers tightening on Aiglos' smooth, cool shaft. The spear gave a second queer shiver, and Elrond stared impassively back into Morgoth's scarred face. A cold tremor ran through the elf's body, as though his insides were being filled up with ice water; this time the opponents were considerably better matched. But Morgoth glanced down at his hammer with an expression of slight disapproval; he shrugged one muscular shoulder and tossed the thing aside.
With a motion of the ex-Vala's wrist, a long, black spear appeared in his hand. Its eight-foot shaft gleamed like dark iron, its point like a shard of obsidian. It stood a foot taller than Aiglos, and a hundred times as dark and menacing. Morgoth and Elrond II both held out their spears, so that the two shafts formed a large X in-between them. Now they stood on (vaguely) more even ground.
Morgoth made the first move, and lunged right for Elrond's throat with his spear. The elf skillfully deflected the blow, holding Aiglos horizontally and using it as he would a staff. The two fighters ducked, darted and wove back and forth, spinning, sidestepping, striking and blocking by turns. Varda, Oromë and Nienna looked on in helpless silence. They had done all that they could. It was up to Elrond II and Vairë now.
Elrond utilized every method he could think of to try and lessen the horror of his state of affairs. He tried to imagine that this was only another practice session with Oromë, not a struggle to the death with the Lord of the Void… it didn't matter if he stumbled, he could just get right back up and keep on fighting…
But this approach was not nearly as effective as he had hoped. Deep in his heart he knew full well that this was not a practice round, nor was it a game. It was war, and to stumble was to fall and not to rise again. His life, and the fate of the world were at stake. The half-elf had everything to lose.
Red and black blood generously splattered the ebony and ivory squares of the chessboard. Both elf and ex-Vala were breathing heavily and bleeding freely. The scar on Morgoth's face had been reopened, and was flowing with dark liquid; Elrond's once-spotless clothes were ripped and spotted with crimson. The Dark Lord was half-blinded by his own blood, while his rival stood shakily on a sprained ankle.
You will never win, Morgoth growled, his good eye blazing with the rawest hatred. This is MY world. I have the power here. You are nothing but a thorn beneath my skin.
Elrond II spat blood as he snarled back in answer, "As long as the Valar breathe, you will never have mastery over me!"
We will see, the Dark Lord hissed in a voice like acid. Do you really think you can save yourself now? No-one can help you. You shall be MINE, as you were always doomed to be.
"Doomed?" Elrond repeated softly. "No, Morgoth. I happen to know a thing or two about doom. After living with Lord Mandos for six thousand years, well, who wouldn't? I may not know exactly where my fate will lead, but I know for a fact that it doesn't end here!"
Something along those lines was echoing through Vairë's mind as she continued with her duty of salvation, yet the message was slightly altered. Elrond's fate must not end here in the Void. It was her task to make sure that it didn't.
Elrond II was lying through his teeth. He didn't know at all where his fate would lead, or whether it would have him slain in the darkness. But he couldn't let Morgoth know of his uncertainty, or it would surely be his downfall. He set his jaw, wobbling noticeably on his injured ankle, and tried hard to brace himself for the next inevitable assault.
Panting like a bellows, Morgoth lumbered forward yet again. Elrond II flung his body to the side as the black spear descended like a reaper's scythe, shrieking as it hewed the air. The half-elf wasn't fast enough to escape injury; he cried out in anguish as the spearpoint plunged into his bad leg, just above the swollen ankle, pinning him to the stone beneath. Trapped, Elrond could only lean backward, grope in the darkness behind him for Aiglos' shaft and pray for a miracle. He could hear the voice of the spear, soft yet insistent: I am here. It is nearly my time. I must be what I am. Only you can will it so.
Vairë wept bitterly as she wove on and onward, her tears beading like drops of dew upon the still-unwoven threads of her tapestry. But she toiled still through the mist of her grief; the twelfth hour was nearing. The loom counted off seconds one by one: tick, tick, tick…
But all at once there came a great jolt, a tremor building up from somewhere the Weaver couldn't discern. Vairë clutched the levers that worked the loom as though they were her life. Eru knew that they truly held someone else's. She forced herself to continue working even through the chaos erupting all around her. Elrond's soul, his destiny, the world – all of that hung in the balance.
Elrond II would never have an adequate explanation for what happened next. His battered body began convulsing wildly, limbs thrashing and flailing, as though he was in the midst of a seizure. His breath came in gasps, not quite sobs, and his eyes were wide and staring. As everyone around him – even Morgoth – watched in spellbound fascination, an unclear shimmering burgundy haze rose from Elrond's body and began to take on a definite form.
The figure of a tall woman with pale skin, copper-colored hair and a wine-red dress came into sight just above the elf, and as she became fully corporeal, she rolled to Elrond's left side and lay limply. Elrond II's spasms ceased in that breathless time. He lay gasping for air, trembling, and gazing up into the astonished, enraged face of the Dark Lord.
So, he thundered in fury, this is where she was hiding!
"I did say she was elsewhere," Mandos' calm voice spoke up from several feet away. The Doomsman had a vaguely bemused expression (the effect of which was rather diminished by his injuries), his eyebrows slightly elevated and his mouth a thin, straight line. He was rather pushing his luck, Elrond II thought to himself. But he remained tacit until Morgoth rounded on him again.
And how did you let her in? With a kiss? That does sound interesting… let ME try!
Before the elf could make a move to impede his enemy, Morgoth had grabbed him by the shoulders and was leaning toward his face. Elrond choked on the stench of the ex-Vala's blood and breath. Morgoth leered viciously at his revolted, terrified victim as he pressed his gory lips against Elrond II's mouth.
The elf writhed and twisted desperately, to no advantage. Morgoth's will to dominate and destroy was just as strong as Elrond's resolve to survive and escape. But the half-elf still choked and gagged upon his foe's blood as it dripped into his mouth, onto his tongue and down his throat.
But what had been most feared and expected… never happened. There was no relocation of a spirit into another body. Nothing of significance occurred at all, in fact.
Morgoth and Elrond both willingly tore their mouths away from each other, coughing and spitting in disgust. The elf was the first to speak, in a hoarse voice that was saturated with repulsion and disbelief. "That… had to be the very most… disgusting, and not to mention unsuccessful… attempt at possession I have ever seen. I can not believe you actually did that!"
Neither can I, trust me, the Dark Lord growled. Now, where were we?
A spark of inspiration kindled a desperate flame in Elrond's mind. It was a long shot, this idea of his, and more than foolhardy, but he was also more than willing to chance it…
"Well now, weren't you just about to… surrender?" he ventured, a crazy smile finding its way onto his features. "Hmmm?"
Morgoth gave a sardonic laugh, his good eye glinting dangerously. I think not. We will continue fighting as before.
"Oh, come now," Elrond II wheedled, grinning madly to mask his pain as waves of pure, hot agony surged from his wounds. He reached subtly over to his right side as he spoke. "You wouldn't strike an elf when he's down, now, would you? It, heh, wouldn't be very decent…" A feeble titter died in his throat as Morgoth crouched down and leaned toward him.
Such a pity I'm not known for my decency, hmm? he whispered.
"True enough," the half-elf nodded, his grin slipping to a half-grimace. "Well, I suppose I could be worse off…" His right hand gripped wood and metal. At a thought, both frosted over.
How could you possibly be worse off? the Dark Lord sneered.
Elrond's eyes gleamed with a weird light as he replied, "You could be a whole lot farther away."
The elf struck like a cobra with just a single icy fang, driving Aiglos deep into Morgoth's belly. The ex-Vala stared down in astonishment at his own blood, pouring forth in a dark deluge, then up again into Elrond II's smirking face. Morgoth slowly straightened up and staggered backward, and everyone could now clearly see the seven-foot icicle protruding from his abdomen. Aiglos had now truly become what he had always been.
How… the ex-Vala gasped, his good eye wide with shock. How did you best me?
"Ah-ha," said Elrond II, his triumphant smirk back in place. "So I've bested you, and you admit to it. Do you yield?"
Morgoth's rejoinder was an extremely painful-seeming snarl, gritted out through tightly-clenched teeth as, in an astonishingly civil gesture, he wrenched his spear out of Elrond's leg and held it in his own hand. Take your kinsfolk and get out of my Void!
As his opponent fled the board in a howl of flame, the younger half-elf sagged backwards a little and smiled weakly as his already-diminished strength began to lessen even further, and the pain of all his many wounds broke over him with their full potency. "I'll take that as a yes."
But, Elrond thought, closing his eyes, maybe the "civil gesture" hadn't been so thoughtful of the Dark Lord after all. Without the spear stuck in the dreadful wound, his leg was free to bleed profusely. And it acted upon that opportunity with a will.
A flurry of pale grey and a strong perfume of lavender told him that Estë was above him, standing just beyond his line of sight. He turned his head to the right, looking up into her pale purple eyes, which were glistening with tears of sympathy.
Without a word she bent over him, reaching forth to take care of the worst of his injuries, but she halted when the elf sent out a feeble thought to her: I believe Lady Vairë is more in need of your aid than I am at this point in time. He nodded weakly in the direction of the Weaver, who was now stirring slightly as she slowly came back to consciousness.
The Healer obediently moved a little closer to her sister-in-law, who tried and failed to sit up. Estë placed a hand on her shoulder, speaking softly to her in what must have been the language of the Valar, for Elrond II couldn't understand a word of what they were saying. He was soon quite distracted, however, as his mother and his elder half rushed to his side. Or rather, Elwing held Elrond I up as they moved very carefully to his side.
Elrond II saw his own wounds duplicated on his elder half's body, and felt as if he might vomit. Elwing had wrapped a strip of cloth from her own dress around the gash in Elrond I's leg, but that was stained a vivid, damp red. Elrond II carefully embraced his mother as she drew near enough to him, and their earnest tears mingled.
Elwing held her son closely to her as Estë, having done all she could for Vairë, moved on to her next patient. Elrond I and II both stiffened and hissed in simultaneous pain, despite the Valië's extremely gentle touch. But in a matter of moments they were wholly healed, and able to stand unaided.
As Estë moved on to tend to the many other wounded warriors, some of those who were lucky enough to be unhurt approached the half-elf. Nienna folded both of Elrond's halves tenderly in an embrace as soon as they were within arm's reach, and Elrond II graciously allowed her to cry on his shoulder. The elf forced himself to smile wordlessly at Oromë's congratulations, and nodded solemnly when Manwë and Varda expressed their feelings to him.
Elrond II turned to look behind him as Elrond I tapped his shoulder; both halves of the elf gazed sorrowfully at the two black-clothed figures who were approaching now; a golden-haired lady alongside a darker-haired lord. There was still one more wrong to right here.