Part III: The War Begins

As Elrond nodded, drew in a deep breath and started down the hill toward the great army, Mandos held out his right hand, palm upward. A golden hourglass appeared, hovering in the air just above his hand; all the sand was in the bottom bulb. The Vala turned the glass over in a smooth movement, staring into the sand as it began its descent. He ignored the other Valar all around him, who were busily organizing the Children of Eru and Aulë into ranks, and speaking to them.

Elrond softly approached the first familiar face in the militia: a male hobbit in his middle years, with dark hair and brilliant blue eyes. The elf smiled as he stooped a little to place a hand upon the halfling's shoulder, and gently spoke his name: "Frodo, son of Drogo?"

"Yes?" Frodo's eyes held quiet respect along with mild surprise and curiosity. But the elf could plainly see the fear lurking just behind all that, trying and failing to remain unseen. Elrond's eyes radiated calm optimism and benevolence as he spoke again.

"You've never seen a battle in your life, have you?" he inquired. He nodded when Frodo shook his head. "Of course not. You were born in the ages of peace, long after the defeat of Sauron. But I have seen another lifetime of yours; a lifetime in which Sauron's iniquity lingered on, long past what only appeared to be his downfall. His life-force was bound in a ring, a Ring with a mind and a will of its own.

"Down through the years, that Ring found its way into your hands. You carried It into my home, where a council met to decide the Ring's fate. We decided that It should be wholly destroyed, and you were the first to rise to the task. With a Fellowship of eight comrades at your side, an elven blade tucked in your belt and the Ring on a chain around your neck, you set out on a perilous journey into the unknown.

"And as the months passed, even when all hope had faded and all but one of your friends of the Fellowship were forced to part ways with you, you struggled onward. You walked into the land of Mordor, up the slopes of the Mountain of Fire and into the heart of Doom itself. The Ring was utterly destroyed, and you survived, although a little less than whole. Your right middle finger was lost, but it was a small price to pay for the fate of the world as a whole."

Frodo's eyes were wide with awe at this revelation. "You saw that, sir?"

Elrond nodded. "Oh, yes. And you still have that courage deep inside of you, even though you may not be able to sense it. As a very wise woman once told you on your Quest, even the smallest person can change the course of the future. You have that chance once more, right now."

Above, Mandos smiled to himself, still watching the sand pour…

Elrond moved on through the ranks, pausing here and there to offer words of advice to all those who needed it – humans, elves, dwarfs and hobbits alike, of both the living and the once-dead. He spoke to Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, telling her of her competency as a Shieldmaiden; to Boromir son of Denethor, of his willingness to sacrifice his own life for the sake of his endangered kinsmen; to Thorin Oakenshield, of his courage in leading the dwarfs of Erebor to victory against the huge, malicious dragon, Smaug. He halted before Maedhros, son of Fëanor, smiling up into the face of his old friend and one-time enemy. The handless redhead stared quietly back, eyebrows slightly raised.

"Maedhros," the half-elf began, "whether as a friend or an enemy to me, you have always been a great warrior. You have a strength of will that few can rival, and yet you also have compassion. That may have come about only after your most untimely demise, but still, it is a part of your heart. However, now is the time to again stir up the warrior blood in you. I've seen you in war; I know what you are capable of doing when your spirit is properly roused. Call on that old strength again, my friend."

Maedhros smiled a little, but then stared dolefully down at his blunt wrist stumps. "How can I hope to wield a sword when I don't even have any – hands!"

The last word came out as a yelp of shock, as both elves gaped at Maedhros' wrists as he lifted them to eye level. The stitched-up sleeves of the redhead's tunic were ripping apart, and the flesh and bone underneath were expanding, growing, and taking on a new shape. Two flat, rounded, lined protrusions formed, and each branched out five separate times. These new digits were each jointed twice, and ended with fingernails.

Maedhros was struck dumb with disbelief at the sight of his pristine appendages. Slowly, carefully he moved each finger and thumb, curling and uncurling his fists and testing his wrists. He reached down to grip the hilt of the sword he wore, drawing the weapon out of its sheath and staring at it, while Elrond tried to look as though this had not been an utter shock to him as well.

The two comrades looked up sharply as a tall, dark figure appeared at Elrond's right side. Mandos (still holding the hourglass, now in his left palm) smiled rather nonchalantly at the elves, who hurried to bow. He raised them both to their feet, and swiveled his gaze to Maedhros; he gave the son of Fëanor a calm pat on the shoulder, and nodded courteously to Elrond before vanishing in a deep violet and cerulean swirl. Maedhros stared after him, looking quite awed and somewhat mortified.

"Well," he managed after a minute or two, grinning feebly, "that wasn't so bad, was it?"

----

Elsewhere, Aulë stood before a great brigade of his progeny, the dwarfs; all of them were gazing up at him in silence as he spoke.

"Your time is now, my children!" he cried. "This night you shall join with the Children of Eru to vanquish the Darkness once and for all! It is not to our own glory that we shall rise in war – nay, not even to the glory of my kindred, the Valar. I know well that you call me Father and Maker, yet I am still a son to the Creator of All. It is to His glory that we come to battle now! For Eru Ilúvatar!"

"For Eru Ilúvatar!" The answering roar rose from thousands of throats as countless keen axeblades shone in Varda's radiance, the only light to penetrate the absolute darkness that now blanketed all of Arda. An echo trumpeted forth from the elves, men and others, and Mandos, standing among the Valar and Maiar, knew that the moment was right. The sand in his hourglass was still; he flung the vessel aside, where it smashed open on the ground and disappeared.

In that very instant, a terrible voice shook the earth to its foundations.

Fools, all of you! The earth will be MINE, as it was always meant to be! Your stand is futile. Submit to me and you may keep your lives!

"Never!" shouted Manwë in answer. To his troops he called, "Stand firm!"

Stand DOWN, if any of you value your lives!

Varda's light then revealed what was approaching from the utmost West. The blackness had substance now; it flowed and slunk forward like an evil tide, with a million gleaming scarlet eyes. There were huge, hairy beasts with dripping fangs, wraithlike forms in long black robes, horned and winged demons, hideous Uruk-hai and orcs, and many horrific, enormous spiders; all that nightmares were made of. There were even a very few elven-looking figures. The starless heavens thrummed with the beating of myriad wings: great flocks of murderous ravens, crows and other black carrion-birds had gathered in alliance with the forces of Darkness.

But the greatest, and the most terrible by far, was the Lord of the Void himself.

Towering a hundred feet above even the tallest Vala, Morgoth's red eyes blazed like twin fires of blood, madness and deepest loathing. In one massive fist he gripped the long iron shaft of his black war-hammer; the other was raised in a gesture of defiance to Manwë. A sickening smile twisted his bloody lips.

His body bore the gruesome evidence of many past battles; his left leg was deeply scored, his face was cleft in two. But the most grievous injury, and the most recent, was the great hole in his belly, crusted with dried black blood. An Icicle had once spitted him through, but had melted away long since in the flames of Morgoth's rage. That fight had been over for many millennia, but the pain had never once subsided, even the very least amount.

Manwë turned briefly to nod to his kin, the Valar and Maiar, and they all began to change at once, growing swiftly, escalating in height until each of them was on eye level with the Dark Lord. The others below were like insects in comparison, completely dwarfed by the holy (and most unholy) beings. Now, not only Varda's body was ablaze with light; every Vala and Maia in the army of Manwë literally shone with their strength and pure divinity. But they were not the only ones.

Several gasps arose in perfect unison from a select group of people in the mighty throng: Lúthien Tinúviel, Dior Eluchil, Elwing, Eluréd, Elurín, Elrond, Elladan, Elrohir, Arwen and Caranel II. These were the descendants of Melian, a Maia who had fallen in love with a king of elves and borne his daughter, Lúthien, who some time later wed a mortal man and birthed Dior Eluchil; and the line went on. The light of the Holy Ones, the Ainur, blazed out strongly in them, and all those who had come after – the lineage of the Half-elven.

The voice of Manwë tugged insistently at the minds of the half-elves, who came quietly, obediently forward to stand amid the Ainur; all except for Elwing, who, in the swan-body Ulmo had given her many Ages before, had been chosen to lead the eagles and the other birds of Manwë in the air. She hovered high, even above the Valar's heads, on white and silver wings, awaiting her lord's commands.

Manwë closed his eyes for a moment, as a voice slipped effortlessly into his mind. It was the voice of Mandos, whispering strange forewarnings to him. Do not fear, Manwë; this war will not engulf the earth in blood. Rather, it will be the opposite – even when our foes perish, they will leave scarcely anything of themselves behind.

The Wind-lord nodded mutely, completely trusting his omniscient kinsman. He raised his eyes to look into the scarred, blood-covered face of his former brother, calmly matching a tranquil pale-blue stare for a furious blood-red glare. They came to an agreement of sorts, both nodding in unison and sending orders to their minions.

Forward.

Attack.

The armies met.

The clarion cries of the horns of elves, men, dwarfs and hobbits were drowned out by the resounding voice of the Valaróma. Swords clashed upon claws, and fangs were deflected by shields. Eagles' shrieks and ravens' harsh caws filled the air as feathers rained down from the skies, all of them iridescent and black. Arrows hissed shrilly through the sky, all meeting their targets, in the bodies of the warriors of Manwë and Morgoth alike. But the outcome was unexpected by all (save one).

Finwë, one of the first of the Firstborn of Eru, stared down in shock as a barbed arrow hit him squarely in the chest. He saw the head enter his chest, followed by the wooden shaft, and finally the feathered flights. The whole thing disappeared into him, leaving behind… nothing. No wound, no pain, not a tear in his clothing. And yet the many enemies he had seen, struck by elven arrows, had all burst into ashes! Was this battle to be truly and fully bloodless?

Standing beside his father, Fëanor couldn't hold back a shudder at the sight of the drifting dust. He himself had perished in much the same manner, his body crumbling to ash as his spirit fled in flame to the Halls of Mandos. His name's meaning, Spirit of Fire, had been realized only in that moment. But today he, a former Kinslayer and a father of the same, pushed the past from his mind as he cut down foe after foe with his own seven sons at his side. For the glory of Eru, they hewed a path into the thick of the war.