Part II: Fire and Water
So the fleet sped eastward, like a flock of white and silver birds sailing a deep black sky. The Silmaril blazed before them all, a guiding star drifting on the inky sea. The wind that drove them never ceased, and Ossë and Uinen followed them; the tempest-loving one of the two granted them speed on the waves, and the other made certain that her husband did not grow too wild.
"Lord Aulë," Eärendil inquired as he handled Vingilot's tiller, "do your people know that they must travel west? They surely live far from any harbors."
"Irmo has sent visions of forewarning to the men and dwarfs alike, as well as the people known as hobbits, or periannath in your tongue," the Vala informed him calmly. "Worry not; this will not take as great a span of time as you may think."
The mariner nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on the due eastern horizon. "Yes, sire."
----
Aboard his own ship, Elwing, Elrond shivered a bit in his sleep, pulling his blanket more tightly round himself.He swam in and out of visions shrouded in mystery. Varda's sweet, compassionate voice reached his ears like the gentle music of a flute.
"You have the blood of the angels in you, my nephew… even if you do not realize it now, it will become real for you in the end…"
What do you mean? Elrond cried in confusion. What will become real?
"Wait and see, Elrond… Star-dome, Maia-born…"
Her voice began to fade, even as the elf called out after her in desperation. He could feel himself drifting upward toward consciousness, and he fought against the irresistible pull on his mind, but all in vain.
With a jolt Elrond came awake, sweating and shuddering in the aftermath of the uncanny dream. He turned onto his side, letting his eyes glaze over again, and when he woke up in the morning, Varda's message had faded from his memory without a trace.
----
"Land ho, dead ahead as she goes!"
The shout descended from Vingilot's crow's-nest and reached the sharp ears of Eärendil, who called up in answer, "Well spotted, Cirdan!"
The lamps of Mithlond flickered faintly in the infinite blackness of the starless night, and the fleet from Valinor homed in on the pale golden pinpricks of light. As the long-empty elven harbor drew nearer, the keen eyes of the elves could discern many shadowy forms standing on the quayside. Some were tall, and others were only half as high. All of them were waiting.
Vingilot was the first vessel to reach the port, and by the Silmaril's light Eärendil beheld the men, dwarfs and hobbits grouped on the docks. He glanced up and inclined his head as Aulë moved up to his right side, and all of the waiting figures bowed reverently low to the ground. They crept back like a receding tide as the Vala leapt from the ship's deck to the pier.
"People of Arda!" he cried, his voice ringing forth like a great brazen bell. "You all know why you have been summoned to gather here. Your might is needed in Valinor to contest against the great Darkness, which is arising even as I speak. Morgoth is coming. The Day of Doom is near."
This sent the Men, Dwarfs and Hobbits into fearful chatter. Aulë lifted one leather-gloved hand, and they fell silent again.
"We will need every ounce of your strength to vanquish the Dark One," he continued. "I am well aware that you are frightened; your alarm is not unfounded. Indeed, even I hold a share in your fear, and I am not ashamed to confess it. For any one of us not to be afraid – with the notable exception of my kinsman, the Vala Tulkas – we would be fools."
"What would you have us do, my lord?" a voice spoke up from the dwarfish sector of the crowd. The voice was gruff, as all dwarf-voices were, but this one had an oddly feminine quality to it.
The rest of the throng stared at one small person who took a few paces forward, looking expectantly up into the deep, glinting eyes of Aulë. The Vala dropped to his knees before the one who had spoken (and even then he was taller than all of the dwarfs), looking into the bright blue eyes that were all but fully concealed behind facial hair and a helmet.
"Gilda, daughter of Gimli the Fifth?" he asked.
"Yes, sire." The dwarf-maiden bowed, and Aulë smiled. Dwarf females were incredibly rare – they only made up roughly one-third of the population, if even that – but they were every bit as hardy and steadfast as their male kindred. Every one of them would be a very valuable asset in the war.
Aulë clapped Gilda gently on the shoulder before rising and speaking to everyone again. "I would have you all come with us to Valinor," he proclaimed. "The war is beginning to brew even now, I fear. We must reach the Blessed Realm as soon as possible, for the sake of all. Come now and board the fleet – we set sail immediately!"
----
Every ship was filled to its capacity with people of all races. The armada now sped in the direction which the Sun had once sunk in the evening, with only the spiritual magnetism of Valinor itself to direct them, and Manwë, Ossë and Uinen to grant them speed. Sleep was found only rarely, but Lórien often lingered awhile with each dreamer, to give words of hope and support through the visions he sent.
No-one could tell how much time had passed, but there came at some point a weird noise of something crackling ominously around the ships. Eärendil stared over Vingilot's rail in trepidation, seeing by the light of the Silmaril. The sea had frozen solid around the ships. The fleet was trapped!
"It has begun," said Aulë grimly, coming to stand beside the mariner. "Morgoth is trying to hinder us, and buy himself more time to ready his own forces. We must keep moving – the ice has to be broken, or melted."
Hearing them from the deck of Elwing, Elrond stared mutely down at the ring he wore on his right hand; an ornate golden band set with a blood-colored ruby. Narya it was named, the Ring of Fire. He had borne it for many millennia, and used it more than once to battle with Morgoth himself; it had helped him in saving the life of his son-in-law, Voronwë, as well. Now as he stared intently at the crimson jewel, it seemed to take on a radiance of its own, as it always had when the essence of Fire was needed.
The half-elf leapt over his ship's railing, using a rope to clamber down to the chill surface of the frigid sea. Already the dwarfs were busy making themselves useful, hacking the ice apart with their broad, double-bladed axes. But the water just seemed to freeze over again every time the surface was broken. Progress was almost nonexistent.
Elrond knelt anxiously upon the ice, placing both hands palms-downward on the smooth, cold surface, and closing his eyes in concentration. He summoned Fire, nothing of a new practice, and smiled when the ice beneath his hands turned to slush. When water began to seep into his clothing he moved hastily to another spot and repeated his actions. Aulë was there to assist him, and the two friends quickly set about freeing the icebound ships.
Elrond had just applied a careful measure of heat to an area of ice when he felt water slap around his right foot. Glancing behind him, the elf scrambled to get up when he saw that his foot had sunk into a deep fracture in the ice. He leaned backward and pulled, with no such luck; his foot was held fast. Even when Eärendil rushed to help, they fared no better. Aulë crouched beside the half-elf and melted the ice around his foot, and at last he could pull himself free. But then disaster struck.
Elrond suddenly found himself neck-deep in the ice-cold water, surrounded by fragments of broken ice. His father held him firmly by the wrist; it appeared that only this had kept him from being entirely submerged. But something had also grasped the elf's ankle in the same instant, and was pulling him forcefully downward.
Elrond was caught in the middle of a vicious tug-of-war. Eärendil and Aulë strove to haul the half-elf back onto the ice, while the thing in the water, whatever it was, was hell-bent on dragging him under. More than once his head vanished beneath the surface for a short time before he was heaved upward again, coughing and gagging on the cold, briny water. And was it only his imagination, or was the hole around him slowly shrinking?
He was tugged violently underwater, completely this time, as his father cried his name in dismay. Frantically Elrond clawed at the water above him (there was more and more of it with each second gone), trying to reach his father's groping hand. His fingertips had just barely brushed it when the water's surface fully congealed, trapping him beneath a thick, green sheet of ice, with Eärendil's hand still clutching his own.
Above him, Aulë positioned his hands on the ice around Eärendil's wrist at the same time as he sent a thought to the submerged elf: Elrond, remember Voronwë! I will help you!
Elrond struggled to hold his breath as he strained against the fierce downward towing of whatever was trying to drown him. Narya's ruby flared with scarlet light as the elf called on the might of Fire, first reaching down to his bound ankle and hoping to scorch or burn away the thing that held him. His fingertips met with something cold and slippery, like a thick rope or tendril of some sort. The water churned with bubbles as the whatever-it-was released him, leaving behind a searing pain in his ankle and a cloud of what could only be blood.
The half-elf reached upward again, now striving to melt the ice above him as Aulë did the same. With their combined powers, it was the work of a moment; Aulë and Eärendil both grasped Elrond's wrists in their strong hands and pulled him up, while Elrond swam up awkwardly with one good leg and one injured ankle. He sobbed for breath when his head came above the surface at last.
Aulë was quick to pull the elf onto firmer ground (or ice, as it were), his dark eyes wide with alarm at the sight of his kinsman's ankle and foot. Elrond turned his head a little to look at the injury himself, and immediately felt nauseous. His clothing and skin had been literally ripped away, leaving behind raw flesh and warm blood. A lot of blood.
A whirl of pale grey and a flowery scent in the air heralded the arrival of Estë. The Valië knelt at Elrond's side without a word, gently laying her hands on the elf's bloody ankle as he placed his own hands atop of hers. Her fingers drenched in the red liquid, Estë poured out her healing energy together with her brother-in-law, and the gaping wound eventually closed. Both healers rinsed their hands in the cold sea, and the Valië nodded mutely to the half-elf before vanishing like aromatic smoke.
Elrond climbed to his feet, uncomfortably aware of every person's eyes boring into him. Eärendil pulled him into a tight, fond embrace, weeping in gratefulness for his son's well-being. The half-elf himself was shaking, more from relief than the cold. Steam rose from his dripping body, and slush was rapidly melting into his hair. They both withdrew after a time, and Elrond murmured, "We need to keep moving. Time is running shorter than we know."
----
The arrival of the ships in Alqualondë was an uncannily solemn affair. Manwë and Varda greeted the new arrivals graciously, but gravely; and Mandos led them all out to the wide hills of Valinor. By the Star-Queen's radiance, everyone could see the gathering troops of the warriors of the Light. The army seemed to stretch on for miles; all the better for them, in the face of what was to come.
The Doomsman drew Elrond to his side, speaking in soft, insistent tones.
"You know things that many of the people here do not," he said. "In your two lives, and especially the first, you have seen sides of their hearts that they themselves are not aware of. Many people who know, or knew, nothing but peace in their lives were once warriors in times of darkness. You know what they are capable of, you can see the embers of great courage in their souls, and you must be the one to kindle those flames. Go."
