Thanks always to those who keep reviewing and gently prodding me when I have got stuck. (This chapter took a long time and I have probably faffed around too much trying to get it right.) Especial thanks to Anarithilien, of course. 12 years now my beta.

Notes: The Great Barrow is based on New Grange in Ireland if you are interested, although the Iaun-Gynd in this has connecting chambers going deeper and further in and connecting eventually with a prehistoric cave system where the ancestors of Haleth once lived. Tolkien says that not all the Edain crossed into Beleriand, and many stayed in the Minhiriath and Enedwaith. It is likely that after the drowning of Beleriand, they will have migrated back to those more fertile areas and whilst the Numenoreans also settled there later, there will have been Haleth's ancestors as well as descendants already there.

Translations.

Lamma-nancasû – Song of Undoing

Elen síla lúmenn n tye-rehtien. Áva sorya. – A star shines for you, do not dread.

Ela! – Beware!

Helca! – Begone!

Thorendaw, Grippsenar and Þráinn – Names of the Barrow Wights. Maglor has discovered their names for, of course, he has been on this quest far longer than Elrohir. (I have used the Hrómundar saga where Tolkien took so much inspiration also for this.)

Hyandë – I will cleave you.

Auta i lómë! – The night is passing!'

Chapter 25 Grippsenar

In the dark beneath the barrow, Legolas stood upon the deck of the great longship and listened to the dying echo of the horn that had sounded from far away, dimly echoing through the dark chambers of the barrow to this forgotten secret place. The Last Prince stared open mouthed and the brooch upon his breast gleamed in the ship's silvered light.

It cannot be. It cannot be! They were slain and the horn lost, surely? Is this the End of Days?

His expression was beyond astounded, beyond words for he looked as if he could neither believe nor dare to hope for it exceeded all he might have dreamed.

The horn in the hills ringing!

The horn that calls us from the grey twilight, the ancient Kings of old.

Legolas was as astonished as he, for neither Aragorn nor Gimli had such a horn, and the only time he had heard such richness and depth from a horn, it had been Lathron, the Listener, Unbegotten, who had sounded it on Legolas' return from the War, and Lathron had carved it himself when the Elves were young. This was not Lathron now. Perhaps it was indeed Haleth, woken from the Sleep of Men and returned from wherever Men went in death, he thought.

The horn had sounded not once, but three times, like a summoning, a clarion call to arms and the Ghosts of Cardolan had turned towards it as one. Shock. Yearning. Desire. A forlorn hope that burst from them and Legolas heard their Song swell and fall like a breath, a sigh of longing, like the wind. And ever since the echo had died away, the ghosts had been stirring, like the sea, murmuring and restless rippled through the ghosts of the Children of Haleth, standing below the great dragon ship. They had not forgotten their ancestor and the murmur of her name grew amongst them

A whisper had started and grew into a murmur and then, like the wind in the grass, it had grown louder until it seemed like gale, like the wind sweeping over the empty moor, the tide of long dead voices, of bodies that were mere bone or dust.

Haleth! Haleth is returned!

The horn in the hills ringing!

Thin banners fluttered although there was no wind and Legolas thought he heard a distant clash of swords, the whinny of horses and the din of battle far off.

An awakening to grief.

An awakening to the treachery of a promise not kept?

But now there was anger mixed in with the elation and hope, and Legolas looked about himself in consternation; it was Aragorn's ancestor with whom they were angry, and he was afraid of what revenge they might exact from one of the treacherous King's blood.

The Last Prince turned to his people and held up his hands.

Is it time? he cried and there was a joyful enquiry in his voice. Is it time for us to walk forth and to face our ancient foe? Where is the Mergyll-Dagnir that we may fight them?

Behind him the army was gathering and there was the rising murmur of voices made strong by the hope the horn had raised, a distant whinny as if the ghosts of their long dead horses remembered too what it was to gallop over the short turf and into battle.

A shimmer of light reflected around the chamber and Legolas looked at them from where he stood upon the deck beneath the great mast. The army was moving, they surged around the ship as if they might lift it from where it was lodged and carry it high and into battle. Ancient tribes, chieftains, queens with shields and spears, men in wolf cloaks and short bronze spears appeared from the shadows of the chamber and they came and stood with the Dunédain of Cardolan.

The Last Prince strode down the gangplank and stood amongst his people and a star seemed to shine on his brow, his face so like Aragorn's, yet it remained unnaturally still, translucent skin barely covering the fine bones. The Ghost turned to Legolas and addressed him.

Who is it that blows the horn of Cardolan? Is the End of Days truly upon us?

Legolas shook his head. 'I do not know. I do not see how it can be. And I do not know that horn.' He turned his face towards the rock wall where he had been pulled by the Prince. 'I have to get back so I can help whoever it is, for he calls for aid.'

He shall have it, said the Prince determinedly. For he has summoned the Ancestors. He has released us. He looked at Legolas. Come with us, he bade Legolas. You have said you will help.

'And I will,' Legolas declared earnestly for he was not one to flee a battle, nor to leave such noble folk in their time of need.

Suddenly there came a loud BOOM and the chamber shook slightly. Small pebbles and stones scattered onto the floor, clattered against the timbers of the long ship. Legolas looked upwards and saw how the faults in the chamber ran lengthways; he had not been travelling with a Dwarf without learning something and he watched the mineral seams and faults for a moment.

BOOM.

It was as if something above them sought to crack open the chamber and haul them out and into the open so they might be slain, devoured, rent.

Another shuddering rumble.

There was a ripple of sound in the air, undiscernible at first, and then slowly within hearing. Legolas turned first.

It was a whine, a moaning sound, but it was not like it had been on the Barrow Downs. This had an undercurrent of something deeper, bloodier. A deep throated insistent rhythm. It reminded him horribly of Moria. The drums in the Deep. A low rumble of thunder from deep, deep below the ground. Like a deep throated clang of cymbals. The earth shook slightly like something monstrous was pacing on the other side of the rock wall.

They have come, said the Ghost. They have found us. He turned and stared at Legolas. They are clothed in shrouds of mist and fog, said the Ghost. But that is mere disguise. They are ancient demons of shadow and cold. They wish to destroy this chamber. They want to destroy the bones of our oldest ancestors. They wish to find the Mergyll-Dagnir.

0o0o

Thunder cracked over the Tyrn-Gorthad, and lightning tore the sky, flickering over the high mound of the tumulus, flashing on the white chalk wall of the entrance to the burial chambers. Clouds scudded over the darkening moor.

The tumulus was too steep for the horses and so Maglor indicated that they should dismount and climb the tumulus on foot. Barakhir pushed his soft nose into Elrohir's hand as he pulled off the saddle and bridle so that the horse was unencumbered should he need to flee, or to fight. He left his cloak too for already the wind was blowing strongly over the tumulus and he would have been held back by the heavy sable.

When he turned away from Barakhir, Maglor was pulling something over his head, a hauberk of mail that shimmered like fish scales. It moved like silk rather than metal and Elrohir realised it was akin to the mail shirt that Erestor had hanging in his chambers. Maglor pushed a helm down over his head too and only now did Elrohir realise that he had been carrying this all along, clipped to his belt but concealed under his cloak. A long plume unfurled in the wind and the helm clasped his face like cupped hands. The almond-shaped eye holes emphasised his grey eyes that reflected the molten-silver lightning.

Maglor looked at Elrohir intensely as if he were thinking hard and coming to a decision that he did not like. At last, he sighed heavily. 'They are up there.' He nodded towards the summit of the tumulus and Elrohir spotted three very tall figures moving about against the lightning and the storm.

It was they who caused this seething mass of bones to rise. He could hear the mutter of their sorcery, the harnessing of the wind to take their wordless spell to those whose blood banged in their veins. He could see how they moved the fog, their long fingers spinning mist like spiders spin silk into thick, clinging webs, and the fog poured over the tumulus like grey water, filling the stone circle below where the hobbits fought below.

'We have no choice but to get close enough to use these daggers,' Maglor was saying. 'You must guard yourself against the darkness. It will enter the eye, heart and mind, crushing the will. I will do what I can for all of us.' He turned and gestured towards the fighting to include Aragorn and their companions. 'But you and I are going to the heart of it, to where their power is greatest and there is the greatest danger from their Lamma-nancasû. If you hear it, or you feel bespelled or overwhelmed, hold onto this.' He pressed something into Elrohir's hand. 'Do not be fooled into thinking they are some lesser shadow or mere ghoul. They are Úmaiar, as are Balrogs. Instead of flame, they are of darkness and the cold.'

Glancing down, Elrohir saw a gemstone that flashed and glittered as if it had captured a star within, eight points of light. Elrohir gasped and Maglor rolled his eyes a little irritably. 'Don't be ridiculous. It's not…that. But it does have some power.' He slid his fingers along a fine mithril chain and slipped it over Elrohir's head. 'Keep it. For now at least. It will give you a little protection against their Lamma-nancasû,' he said, buckling his sword belt over the hauberk. 'But it is not a shield, or weapon. Do not expect more than it can give. Come. Let us destroy these vermin of Melkor.' He turned and strode up the steep hillside. Elrohir followed.

A bolt of white light struck the ground at their feet like a warning or a challenge. The wind blew over the great burial mound, flattening the long grass and dragging and tugging at Elrohir's hair like it would pull his fëa from his body. He had to lean forward against it. Grey coldness swirled about his feet, and he looked down in confusion for he thought he had waded into a lake.

'It is the Úmaiar, they are spell-casting, summoning the cold and fog. Do not let them in, Elrohir.' Maglor's voice rang through the storm like a clear bell, calling him on, and his silver-grey armour glimmered and flashed again, like a shoal of small fish. Elrohir nodded although Maglor could not have seen the gesture and he strode swiftly after Maglor, ignoring the fog that thickened and crept about his feet, his thighs. He could not see the Iaun-Gynd below, and he could barely hear the sound of battle for the wind howled and whistled around him. But he thought he heard Gimli shout his battle cry for a moment and hoped with all his heart that Aragorn was safe.

Suddenly the thunder clapped right above them and for a moment, Elrohir was deafened. There was a ringing in his ears, a shrill whine that scattered his thoughts and he could do nothing but think of it. He shook his head and then clapped a hand over one ear as if it might be a temporary deafness that merely needed shifting.

He found himself clutching the gem that Maglor had slipped about his neck, and he thought he heard a distant voice calling to him. 'Elen síla lúmenn n tye-rehtien. Áva sorya.' He thought it was Maglor and looked up to where the warrior was striding ahead of him, but the strong wind would have surely snatched the words from his mouth and thrown them skywards. Nevertheless, they seemed to dislodge whatever confusion he felt for he was clear-headed once more; like he had taken a deep breath of cold air and was standing on the mountains near Imladris in the snow. Above him, it seemed an eagle circled slowly over the mountains, and the waterfalls plunged down into the valley where the rose garden nestled in the frost, and the last petals were falling amidst the leaves of bronze and gold and brown.

He breathed in deeply, and then sped after Maglor, ignoring the fog and the lightning that flashed and glimmered over them. He saw that Maglor was waving to him, gesturing towards their left.

Orcs. Three of them scrambling up the steep slope towards the Úmaiar, leaning forwards against the wind even as Elrohir was himself. The Orcs paused and then slowly turned their empty skulls towards the Elves. One of them turned back towards the Barrow Wights and hurried ahead, its hands outstretched as if it bore a great prize, and the other two crouched, the lightning rendering the ivory of their bones and empty eye sockets even more ghastly.

Maglor gave him a quick appraising glance before he leapt towards the Orcs. With a loud SHRING, his sword leapt from the plain scabbard in that brief moment, Elrohir recognised the weapon as the twin of his own father's sword, but he had no time to wonder for Maglor brought it down hard upon the foremost Orc's scapula, and Elrohir rushed in to slash his own sword across the rib cage of the second Orc, but it swung round, and a rusted hatchet blocked his strike.

The Orc came at him hard then, with a steel sword in one bony hand and the hatchet in the other. Elrohir blocked and parried but found himself driven back by the sheer ferocity and unexpected power behind the blows. The Orc lifted the hatchet to bring it down upon Elrohir's shoulder and thrust forward with the sword at the same time, but the movement left its own spine unprotected and Elrohir leapt forward to thrust his own sword point between the vertebrae. He leapt aside as the hatchet sliced into the turf at his feet and he flicked his wrist in a move that prised apart the vertebrae. The skeleton sprawled before him and immediately it began to drag its fractured bones together. With a shudder of disgust, Elrohir kicked its skull as violently as he could, so it broke free from the neck and the wind caught it and it bounced away down the steep sides of the tumulus.

Elrohir glanced behind him to see that Maglor had already dispatched the first Orc for its bones too were scattered over the ground and already twitching as they tried to reassemble. Looking up toward the summit of the hill, Elrohir saw Maglor had gained on the last Orc and had held up his hand suddenly, forcefully, as if forbidding it to run further. The Orc slowed and slowed as if it were held by an invisible net and Maglor swung his sword at it, breaking first its spine and then smashing its skull so it hung off at a horrid angle. Still it crawled away, propelled by sorcery and hatred. Maglor put his foot on its spine and with his sword, jointed it like he would a carcass of meat. Then he leaned over the Orc's broken, wriggling torso and with a foot firmly planted on its spread hand to prevent it from grabbing him, Maglor reached down and plucked something from its fingers.

Maglor kicked the hand away and straightened, glancing back towards Elrohir. A rueful expression of his face, he held up what the Orc had been carrying to the Úmaiar. It glinted in the storm light, and red sparks glittered. It was one of the daggers that the Hobbits had been given by Tom Bombadil, the Mergyll-Dagnir.

Elrohir gasped and started towards Maglor; he could not bear the thought of how the dagger had been taken.

Maglor caught his look and said, 'It does not have to mean what you think.' But his face was troubled. Then he tossed it almost carelessly to Elrohir. 'But now at least we are both armed.'

Elrohir caught the dagger deftly. A shock of electricity charged through his hands. He had not felt such a thing since he had last clasped Aícanaro and in surprise, he pulled the dagger from its dark sheath to look more carefully. It gave a sibilant little hiss and he almost thought it coiled about his fist as Aícanaro had used to do. Runes slid and curled along the dark blade joyfully as if it delighted in the storm, in the battle.

'Alone shall he pass but not alone he will return,' Elrohir read. So, the runes on each of the blades were from the Prophesy of Malbeth, he thought. Is this about Aragorn? Where will he have to go alone? But it was not Aragorn who had sounded the horn, he thought. Perhaps it is not Aragorn who had to pass alone. A thought niggled at the edge of his conscious thought.

A jagged bolt of white fire stabbed into the earth. Above the barrow, the wind was howling, sending clouds scudding over the sky. Thunder rumbled and roared but it had an undercurrent of something unnatural; deep-throated and discordant, like a tuneless clanging of huge bronze cymbals. With the next clap of thunder, the tumulus seemed to shake under his feet, as if something monstrous paced about the summit of the Great Barrow.

Another fork of white fire cracked across the sky and flickered briefly over the three tall figures moving about on the summit of the hill. The Úmaiar. Elrohir could see them more clearly now; they wore dark helms and round shields were strapped to their backs. One carried a great sword over its shoulder and the other two rested their swords, taller than Elrohir himself, before them. They looked down towards the battle that raged below as if they watched it intensely. Fog poured over the edges of the tumulus like grey water and had already filled the stone circle below where the Hobbits fought. Now one of the Wights lifted a hand and viscous coils of darkness fell from it like serpents and slithered down towards the battle below.

Another flash lit up the sky. One of the Úmaiar turned its head. Lightning gleamed on its dark helm and its pale eyes shone like lamps scanning the hillside.

'Ela!' Maglor cried in a voice that rang through the tumult, and even against the wind that blew his voice could be heard. 'Helca! Thorendaw, Grippsenar and Þráinn! I name thee and have dominion over thee!'

Above, on the summit of the hill, the Úmaiar turned hastily as if in shock. One took a step forward as if searching for the voice that had summoned them. Their pale lamp like eyes scanned the slopes, sweeping over the grass and granite boulders. Maglor slid the dagger from its black sheath and held it aloft, letting the red gems glitter dangerously in the storm light.

'Who shall sound the horn in the hills, ringing?' Maglor shouted in ferocious joy, and the dagger reflected the lightning, red and black.

In his own hand, Elrohir felt the second Mergyll-Dagnir thrum with anticipation and lust. The lightning caught on the dark blade, and the red gems flashed.

On the hilltop, the Úmaiar seemed to be leaning together as if they conferred, and then one stepped away and turned back to peruse the battle that raged below, but the other two regarded Elrohir and Maglor intently. Their pale, lamp-like eyes caught them in their searchlight beam. A shiver began in Elrohir's bones as cold gripped him. Maglor glanced at Elrohir in concern, then he seized Elrohir's free hand and closed it over the bright gemstone round his neck.

Elrohir heard again the voice, as if someone stood just at his shoulder, and who loved him. Warmth flooded his limbs and he gasped.

Maglor gave him a quick, wry smile and drew his frost-bright sword. The runes slid and gleamed ominously in the storm-light. In his other hand he held the Mergyll-Dagnir, and the little red jewels in the hilt glittered hungrily. Maglor narrowed his eyes and then strode forwards.

'Utúlie'n aurë!'Auta i lómë!'

Elrohir heard his battle cry and felt an answering surge in his own blood and leapt after him.

The two huge figures moved suddenly, striding down to meet them. Their great swords were raised before them, and their cloaks of fog swirled and billowed in the wind that howled over the tumulus and then dropped low to whistle through the grass. Lightning forked and sputtered above them, and the thunder cracked and roared.

'Þráinn! Hyandë!' Maglor's voice swept back to him on the wind that flattened the grass and tugged at his hair.

'I am Þráinn.' A cold voice hissed on the wind, through the roar of the storm. 'Who are you to challenge me? I will send you into the Abyss.'

Þráinn sped towards Maglor then and with a huge leap, its great sword came ringing against Maglor's own blade. In a resounding clang of steel, it spun around, its cloak spreading grey mist about them and brought its huge sword down again and again. Þráinn sprang back and then leapt forwards wielding its sword in a whirl of flashing metal. Maglor stepped back and then struck against the huge sword but Þráinn leapt away and then whirled about, blocking each blow and landing his own which Maglor in turn, blocked. Þráinn's sword was huge, an ancient two-handed sword as long as Elrohir was tall, but Maglor's was made by the Noldorin smiths and if it was smaller and lighter, it was strong and agile. The swords locked once more and they struggled, the Úmaiar's far greater height and strength drove Maglor back and back.

Elrohir charged towards them, his sword raised high and the Mergyll-Dagnir in his hand. All he had to do was to get close enough the hurl the dagger into the Wight.

There was a rush of cold air and from nowhere, a huge, towering figure came leaping suddenly over the granite boulders at Elrohir, its great sword high over its shoulder, and smashed into him, fist and sword. Elrohir threw his sword above his head just in time to prevent the Umaiar's blade from cleaving him in two, but the blow was so hard that he was borne down to his knees, and he rocked there for a moment.

Elrohir leapt up against the Umair, his own sword rang against the huge broadsword, and he felt the creature's might, its strength and weight as they wrestled for mastery. Suddenly the Umaiar pulled back its sword and swept it about, so it was now coming at Elrohir from the side. He had no chance of blocking it and he quickly rolled to one side. The Wight's sword sliced into the earth where Elrohir had been a second earlier and he scrambled to get to his feet, the Mergyll-Dagnir in his hand and ready to throw but the Wight kicked him hard and heavy, knocking all the breath from him, and throwing him down the steep slope with such force that he rolled and rolled faster and faster down the steep slope and could not stop.

It was only because of Glorfindel's relentlessness in training that Elrohir kept hold of his weapons. Grit tore and grazed his hands and face, stones bruised his shoulders and hips as he gained momentum and could not stop. He stabbed the short dagger again and again into the chalky ground but each time, his impetus simply ripped it out again. Somehow, at last, he managed to thrust the dagger between two rocks and though his arm jarred in its socket and the dagger tore away from the rocks, it slowed him just enough to plunge his sword into the ground and skid to a slow halt.

There was nothing at all under his left leg and his foot dangled in air. Breathing hard, he peered down and saw the ground falling away beneath him. Below him was the chalk-faced wall of the entrance to the barrow and fifty or so feet below, was the monolithic spiral-carved kerbstone at the entrance of the barrow, swathed in a fog that curled about the kerbstone.

He was aware of roaring from above where Maglor battled with other Umaiar and great flashes of light leapt over the tumulus like wildfire through the darkness, but the wind seemed to have dropped here and Elrohir's feet scrambled against the edge of the tumulus, scattering small stones and pebbles onto the kerbstone below.

The Úmaiar was already racing down the slope after him, sword raised. Elrohir swung his leg back onto the grass and tried to scramble to his feet before it could reach him but too late for the Úmaiar was upon him and it stabbed its sword, almost forensically piercing the dorsal muscles, into Elrohir's outstretched hand that clung to the Mergyll-Dagnir.

The pain was blinding, and he opened his mouth and cried out in agony. With a hiss, the Umaiar twisted the blade, so Elrohir felt the metacarpals fracture and break and as his fingers twitched and spasmed, he let go of the Mergyll-Dagnir.

The Umaiar leaned down and in a horrible mirroring of Maglor's movements earlier, it plucked the hilt of the Mergyll-Dagnir carefully from between Elrohir's outspread fingers.

The Úmaiar regarded the dagger for a moment and then turned its cold, pale eyes upon Elrohir. It had no face, only eyes and he felt like his blood was slowly freezing in his veins and the air in his lungs was ice. There was a painful, rasping sound and he realised it was his own breath and his lungs felt starved of air.

'I will give thee the name of thy Death,' the Umaiar said grimly. It rested its huge, mailed fists on the hilt of its sword and abruptly pulled the sword from Elrohir's hand.

The shock was eviscerating.

'I am Grippsenar. Prepare thyself.'

His limbs were numb with cold, and his blood had slowed in his veins. It was only the pain in his hand that kept him alert, and he felt the shrill line of agony piercing the nerve up his arm and into his shoulder. It kept him alert. And then there was the gemstone that nestled against his heart and kept it warm and alive and pumping. A voice whispered to him, and he felt himself moving, gripping hard to his sword.

Grippsenar leaned over him. Its eyes intent and full of malice. It had no face but now a mouth opened, like it would consume him. Elrohir stared up in horror. It was not a maw filled with teeth to rend and devour. It was worse than that.

It was a vortex that was opening up in the face of the Umaiar as it closed upon him and there was the distant sound of voices screaming in torment and agony from within and he knew these were the souls devoured by the demon.

From the vortex a shrill wind dragged at him, sucking at him hungrily. His long hair swirled about his face and the gemstone was tugged at his neck. It dragged at the gemstone about his neck and sucked at him hungrily. The wind intensified, and he pressed into the ground and gripped his sword. He felt himself dragged along the ground towards that dreadful darkness but the Song of Undoing prised and prodded at him and he could not remember the snow or eagle or what was important about a thread of green-gold that danced on the breeze.

Clutching at the tussocks of grass, desperately he tried to hold on against the wind, but a scatter of crimson sparks flew into the yawning abyss and swirled around the edges of the vortex, like cinders from a fire. He cried out in anguish for it felt like he was being ripped apart. The crimson stars spun more and more wildly, and he felt the wind intensify further; he pressed his face against the chalky soil, gripping tightly to the sword he had dug deeply into the soil as an anchor, but inexorably, the Umair leaned right over him, and the abyss closed in upon him.

Suddenly, inexplicably, there was light, and he was back in the world. But there was a terrible screaming, like the wind high and shrill through the mountain passes. He lifted his head minutely to see that Grippsenar had reared up and was stumbling backwards. The vortex was thrown upwards from its gaping mouth and twisting up and up into the air, pulling the wind inwards, spinning it tighter and tighter until a column of dense air twisted up into the storm and was pulling the clouds and fog into it.

The tornado towered above Elrohir, lightning shattered as it was pulled into the swirling maelstrom, and the thunder cracked brittle and loud. The tornado whipped up faster and faster like a speeding top and the screaming wind became shriller and shriller until it erupted into a screaming that went on and on.

And abruptly stopped.

Elrohir's ears still rang with the echo of it, but Grippsenar had gone.

Something clattered near Elrohir's feet. It was the Mergyll-Dagnir. Scrambling to his feet he picked it up and as he did, he saw something else glinting. Another dark dagger.

With a gasp, Elrohir realised what must have happened; Grippsenar had had Elrohir's dagger so that had not been the cause of its end. He looked back up the hillside. He could not see Maglor anywhere. Nor could he see the Úmaiar which he had been fighting.

Lightning forked through the dark sky and thunder crashed loudly overhead. But the summit of the hill was bare.

Suddenly fire roared up from the battlefield below as if a dragon had come. In the blaze of light he thought he saw bones blasted sideways like something had exploded.

He ran to the edge of the tumulus where the white chalk wall plunged down to the entrance of the Barrow. In the hellish glow of fire and lightning, two black horses galloped, with riders whose cloaks spread behind them.

In his heart, a Song reached him. It was like coming home, the scent of snow and the last petals of the rose garden above the high thin waterfalls of Imladris. Like a warm hand had reached out and clasped him, or he was pulled into an embrace that as familiar as his own. And he suddenly realised that this had been coming closer all the time and he had simply been too preoccupied to notice it.

Elladan.

Elladan was there, galloping through the Iaun-Gynd, his sword flashed, and it was his black cloak that floated on the wind and with him was Erestor on his tall horse.

Utterly relieved and joyful, he gave a shout of salutation that he knew they would not hear but that Elladan would know he was close, and then began to climb to the summit of the tumulus to find Maglor.

0o0o0o