Enormous thanks go to Anarithilien as always for her generous and brilliant editing, and Spiced Wine who has generously lent me a scene from Dark Star, which is a glorious spin-off of Sons of Thunder but with her own gorgeous and heady mix. And to both for the great discussions we are having about quantum mechanics - which are just richly bewildering.

Chapter 3: Nazgûl.

Ahead of them, the air shifted and seemed to part lightly, to thin. A prick of dim light was ahead of them in the gloom, and high, high above the wind soughed very softly; Glorfindel could almost believe there were still the remains of tattered banners or the silks of which Erestor had spoken. But that was impossible- it was thousands of years since these halls had been inhabited.

Something brushed against him.

Cold.

It must be the wind, he told himself, but the smell was familiar… old and empty tombs.

Because those who should occupy those tombs walk still. Erestor spoke into his mind, and he agreed.

I am not afraid of a ghost.

Nor I.

He drew his sword, and although there was little light in that forsaken place, it shone with its own fire, for had he not fought all Nine and held them at bay so that Frodo could escape? 'I am Glorfindel of Gondolin and Imladris,' he said evenly, neither raising his voice nor softening it. 'Declare yourself.'

Nothing.

He thought he heard a sigh, or it may have been the wind from high up from an unseen shaft.

He took a step forwards, feeling Erestor's warmth nearby. Glorfindel's own blade, Eruvatorë, gleamed with an eerie light that told him the Nazgûl was close.

Erestor was not so diffident. 'Come!' he cried aloud. His voice was shocking in the silence. 'Show yourself! Cease this cowering in the darkness.'

Eruvatorë sent a light flaring against the shadows and for a moment they saw the greatness of the hall, its high roof where once mithril and copper had twined, where the great swirls of azure, emerald, garnets had been melted and curled in immense and fantastical patterns on the marble roof.

'We will not let you pass,' Glorfindel spoke again and he filled his voice with Power so it rang like a clear bell. 'There is a soul at stake and you will release it.' He strode forwards then and let a silver light curl along the edges of his blade. It blazed ahead of him and cast bright light to drive back the shadows,

And the darkness suddenly fell back. Ahead of them they saw the ghoul. It was kneeling, looking back over its shoulder at them, something flickering with light in its skeletal hand.

I do not answer to you, Glorfindel of fallen Gondolin…

It was a hiss, like the cold wind through the gaps in the ruined walls. The thin black shroud rose slowly and the Nazgûl seemed very tall. In one skeletal hand it had a drawn sword, a great broadsword of iron. Something dangled from the other bony hand, something that struggled, fluttered weakly, like a bird caught by a predator. It was a silver-blue light and fading.

'Then you have forgotten who you were…and now you are nothing.' Erestor's sword scraped from its sheath and it flashed like azure lightning. He swiped the air with his sword for emphasis and it struck blue sparks from the stones. A Fëanorian blade, thought Glorfindel with a start. 'And since you do not know your name, I shall call you…pitya-angu*.'

That is not who I am… The dark coiled and hissed and the thin black shroud lifted slightly in the cold wind that snapped around the empty chamber.

'That is what you are called now.' Erestor cut the air with his sword and sparks flew. 'I name you Worm.' Then he turned outrageously and walked away from the Nazgûl. 'You are nothing.'

As Erestor walked away, Glorfindel saw him as a shining figure of light. If he had been tall and lean before, if he had been beautiful in a hard and aquiline way, he was even more so now; he was filled with light, fearless, strong, tempered like the glorious sword he carried. It seemed to Glorfindel then that where Erestor walked, he melted a way through the dark, and where he passed there was light and power. The Song was visible in him and colour flooded the air.

But the light attracted Shadows which reached down from the high domed roof, skittered down the walls like spiders and reached out to the blazing light of the elves, like Ungoliant reached for the great fire of the Silmarils. Where the Nazgûl stood there was a greater darkness, Unlight. It sucked all colour, all light, into it and at its edges all was sepia, shadow.

You underestimate me. Fëanorian. Accursed. Kinslayer.

Erestor stopped a few steps away. 'And you flatter me.' He turned on his heel and strode back to meet his foe, swinging his great sword in a circle over his head as he approached the Nazgûl and it seemed that sparks struck from the stones as Erestor walked and he was Fire itself.

'Come, pitya-angu. You have something that belongs to Imladris and you will give it back.'

At that very moment, a shriek split the air, filled the cavernous hall so it rang like nails on boards. Glorfindel wanted nothing more than to clap his own hands over his ears, for the screech went on and on and suddenly there was a rush of wind and his cloak was ripped back, pulling round his neck, his hair tugged back. The wind tore round the chamber and seized the shining figure that was Erestor in a whirlwind, spun his hair up into a coil and dragged at his cloak as if it were a fist clenched about his throat. Erestor flung up his sword arm and cut down with a mighty blow, threw his cloak from him and spun on his heel, flourishing his great sword as if it were a mere knife. Sparks flew and he struck the stone, then whirled and cut upwards. More sparks flew as if he had struck metal. The runes on Erestor's sword glowed and became molten, silver words flashed and gleamed and seemed to be left, spelled in the air as it flashed and thrust and cut.

Glorfindel slashed down with his own sword and there was a howl of rage and pain. The shrieking increased, a fever pitch, but Glorfindel was aware too of a strange cry beneath it, like a wounded animal and he turned his gaze for a moment away from the Nazgûl. The pale patch of fading light that the Nazgûl had had clutched in its bony hand seemed to flutter even more like a wounded bird and fade a little more. He glanced at Erestor who was laughing as he fought the Nazgûl.

'Do you think this will make us run?' Erestor was shouting as the wind flung itself away from his fiery blade and screamed around the room and up into the darkness above. Erestor laughed loudly and clanged his sword on the stones. His blade flashed like lightning. 'Glorfindel- I have forgotten. What is the name of Moringhotto's minion?' he cried, panting a little from the fight. 'Does this slave not serve that lesser minion? Mairon? I have forgotten his name now. That lesser god.'

Glorfindel stepped quietly towards the fluttering, wounded light, gently coaxing. Rhawion? he called softly.

There was a screech of fury and he glanced back towards Erestor's shining figure and the wind that screamed around the empty hall caught Erestor's black hair. He flashed his white teeth and whirled the blade upwards once again, cut down on the wind as if it were a limb, and another shower of sparks flew into the darkness. The wind thickened and billowed outwards like smoke, became denser, black and coalesced slowly, thickening until it became one thick column of black, writhing and thrashing like a serpent coiling with terrible speed around Erestor and tightening about his legs, his thighs, his waist.

Erestor flashed Glorfindel a quick glance. Go! The word was bright and urgent in Glorfindel's mind and he saw how the light was weakening. He hesitated for a moment for the dense smoke was a thick black serpent now, its horrible jaws open and gnashing at Erestor's face. Erestor slashed at it with his bright sword and the serpent writhed and thrashed about and struck at his face again. Unbelievably he laughed and as Glorfindel edged towards the fading light he heard Erestor shouting insults at the Nazgûl.

'Pitya-angu! Why has your master set you to watch this place when you are so very weak?'

Glorfindel did not go to Erestor's aid, instead he slowly leaned towards the fluttering light which seemed to scuttle away from his approach. Meanwhile the hideous serpent lashed at Erestor with its fangs and then thrashed back at the blade biting deeply into the dense smoke. A horrible screeching filled the air as the bright sword bit deeply, filled the chamber with light and the snake's shape billowed and changed, dissolved and fled upwards into darkness shrieking so that the echoes filled the cavernous chamber. It seemed to dissipate into the shadows but Glorfindel knew better.

Reaching gently for the shivering light, he softly offered his hand. It is I, Glorfindel. I have come for you. Come out of this darkness.

For a moment its brightness shone on the palm of his hand and then there was a rush of cold air, a smell like empty tombs. The trembling, weak light fell back, and a thin darkness came between it and Glorfindel.

You have come for this nîmir? You shall not have him.

Then everything happened at once; there was a scrape of old iron and Erestor shouted at the same time as the fluttering light flared so it seemed to leap at the Nazgûl itself.

Glorfindel felt rather than saw the heavy broadsword descend upon him. He threw his arm upwards and Eruvatorë smashed against the heavy iron at the same time as the weakening light hurled itself at the empty hood of the Nazgûl. Glorfindel felt the impact of the swords judder all the way up his own arm but he locked blades and shoved the heavy iron sword back hard and heard it ring against the stones. But the Nazgûl itself had retreated furiously into the far reaches of the chamber.

So you wish to sacrifice yourself for your captain?

It did not speak to either Erestor or Glorfindel butin its bony hand, the glimmering light struggled weakly. The Nazgûl lifted it and turned its empty hood towards them and they saw reflected by the shivering light, a dreadful face, skin that melted over it and haggard eyes.

Will this cause your hearts to break? The light flared suddenly as if gathering itself for a last terrible struggle and seemed to writhe in the bony hand that held it fast.

Glorfindel surged forwards at the same time as Erestor but too late. The Nazgûl had raised its skeletal hands so it held Rhawion's desperately struggling fëa and was shredding the fluttering light, as if pulling the feathers from a small bird and piece by piece the light fell like dying sparks from a fire, into ash until there was only the bright glowing heart of it. Before they could reach it, the Nazgûl had raised it to the empty hood and the light flickered again over the gaping mouth, open like a serpent's. The Nazgûl swallowed the light. There was a brief flare like a guttering candle and it was gone.

'No!' Glorfindel leapt at the same moment as Erestor and their blades clashed against the Nazgûl. He felt it sink through old iron and the ghoul writhed away from it in fear and agony. Suddenly it sank back and paused for a moment before emptiness.

And it was gone….

Glorfindel's sword fell on empty air, clanged on the stones. His brightness did not dim but intensified for a moment and had they looked around they would have seen a huge Mirror, its obsidian surface reflecting the light, reflecting the high vaulted ceiling with its ghosts of tattered flags and banners. They would have seen strange instruments of gold and bronze, locked by disuse and neglect. They would have seen dust drifting on the surface of the Mirror, like dim light far away but moving closer.

But they were oblivious. Erestor sank to his knees and covered his face. Glorfindel sheathed his sword and looked away. They had failed.

0o0o

In Imladris, Gandalf felt Narya burn suddenly, flare against him, scorch his skin and he cried out.

Instantly Legolas was at his side and his hands reaching out to catch the Wizard.

'Don't fuss, child,' he snapped, unfairly he knew but he could not bother with the niceties of politeness just now.

Something had happened. Something significant.

It was not the first time he had ever felt this, but not for many, many years. Not since the end of the Second Age and all in Aman had felt it then. Oh, there had been minor events since then but those had been a mere trembling in the Song as if someone, or something, were about to break it, to wrench apart the delicate threads. But he knew what this was; a fëa had gone from the world. Not just faded; that would not disturb the world. No. This was extinguished. Only an elven fëa, bound to Arda, would cause this shock ripple through Narya. He felt it pull at Vilya and Nenya too.

Legolas had ignored his brusqueness and had pulled a chair out for him. At least he had stopped scraping away at that damned fiddle*, Gandalf thought petulantly.

'I told you to stop playing, Legolas,' Pippin said, pushing a cup of something into Gandalf's hand and looking up at him with wide anxious eyes.

'I thought I was getting better,' Legolas quietly murmured but Gandalf could not attend them.

'Get me to Elrond,' he said urgently. Leaning heavily on the arms of the chair he had just been pushed into, he heaved himself to his feet. His bones and mortal flesh felt too heavy, too weighted in this earth for him to move and he struggled until Legolas put his strong arm beneath Gandalf's and pulled him to his feet. The Wizard grunted a grudging thanks and clutched his staff. Instantly Power began charging through him, replenishing him after the shock.

'Get out of my way, Peregrine Took,' he said irascibly, for Pippin was hovering about like a concerned bluebottle. 'There is work to do!'

Pippin scuttled to the side and Gandalf looked up into the very green and concerned eyes of Legolas.

'And don't you think to stop me either, Thranduillion,' he snapped.

The green eyes widened imperceptibly but the Woodelf only smiled and bowed slightly. 'I have no intention of doing so, Mithrandir. Indeed I will help you.' He offered the old Man his arm and Gandalf, still not quite himself, grumbling, accepted it and leaned on the strong Elf as he shuffled out of the room.

He leaned on his staff in the other hand and felt the Power in Narya and the staff together leaping towards each other, charging, the energy forcing itself along his reluctant sinews, nerves, flooding his muscles so that he leaned less and led more. By the time they had reached Elrond's rooms, Gandalf was striding along and Legolas following, and so they met Elrond who was already opening the door of his private rooms and welcoming them with a worried frown.

'Come, Mithrandir. You felt it too.' Elrond ushered them into his spacious and airy rooms which seemed all glass and marble, and looked out over the Misty Mountains. Tall windows were thrown open and the cold breeze lifted the gauzy veils that seemed more like mist. 'Galadriel too?'

'Undoubtedly.' Gandalf strode into Elrond's rooms. He had always liked these rooms but he had no thought for them now. He noticed Legolas had followed him in and was standing irritatingly solicitous as though he might fall down at any moment. He tapped his staff irritably.

Though Elrond's face was smooth and unperturbed, Gandalf knew differently. 'I have only rarely felt such a thing…' Elrond came to stand beside him, looking out over the Mountains, his eyes gazing south along the march of the Misty Mountains, to where they disappeared, faded into the distance. 'Only once before. Long ago…And I did not have Vilya then and only felt it as a spirit burned away**.'

'Hm. That was a terrible business,' Gandalf tutted and his face was full of compassion. Olórin had always regretted the loss of so many bright souls and even now, in his deepest thoughts, he could not accept the judgment of the Valar upon the House of Fëanor***. It always comes back to Fëanor, he thought. And I will not be surprised if this does as well.

Elrond had turned and was pouring cold, pale wine into three goblets.

'Legolas will not be staying,' Gandalf said a little more kindly than before. He did not want Legolas to hear this; he was just as likely to run off to Phellanthir, full of guilt and recrimination and do something impulsive and ridiculous when Gandalf wanted him here with the Hobbits.

He nodded gruffly at the Woodelf. 'I am quite capable of standing up on my own, thank you, Legolas. I'll thank you to go and keep young Peregrine Took out of mischief. He has been unattended for at least five minutes and I do not trust him to bring the whole House down around our ears in that time.'

Legolas looked at him shrewdly and for a moment, Gandalf was struck by the likeness to his father, and smiled inwardly. The boy was not the fool he thought himself. It was the Ring, he knew, that made Legolas doubt himself. That would go once they struck out on the Quest.

'You do not have to think of something for me to do, Mithrandir,' he said wryly. 'I will keep practising my fiddling. It makes Gimli happy to know he can best me at something and keeps him out of mischief.' He gave a blinding smile that always warmed Gandalf and alarmed him in equal measure. 'You have no idea the damage that can be done by an idle dwarf.' He bowed slightly to Elrond and then he closed the door quietly, discretely behind him. Gandalf was thankful again for the very well brought up sons of Thranduil who had assisted him on more than one occasion when none other could have been trusted.

Elrond had sunk into a chair and looked haggard and drawn, as Gandalf had felt only moments earlier. He clutched the stem of the goblet but had not drunk any of the miruvor.

'Here my friend. Sip it,' Gandalf urged him gently. 'We will need to think this through carefully.'

'You know what this means?' Elrond said, obeying Gandalf. He took a sip of the cordial but he still stared into nothing. His voice was flat. 'Legolas was right. This is Rhawion we felt leave these earthly circles of the world. Where has he gone?'

'And how is it that he has gone and yet the Valar have not intervened?' Gandalf added tightly. He too sipped the cordial and let the light flood his mouth. It was strange how it revived him further and he felt his head clear. 'Úlairi,' he said. 'Have we not speculated before on their origin?'

Elrond looked up now in concern. 'The Rings devoured them, consumed their fëa,' he said slowly. 'This we are sure of. Do you think then that the Rings still have an appetite? That they still feed?'

Gently, Gandalf said, 'It has been quite clear to me for some time that they still feed. It was Saruman who scoffed at the idea.' Even now the betrayal was still so bitter. Everything he did he looked back on now through the prism of that betrayal and saw how stupid he had been, how beguiled, how he had been deflected and distracted by Saruman's questions and observations. He sighed. No good crying over that now; it was done and they would all reap the storm of it. But Rhawion had paid a terrible price for Gandalf's trust of Saruman. 'Usually on the souls of Men, I suspect, for we have not felt it as we have now. We do not where go the souls of Men, but it is different for an elven soul.' He shuddered at the thought of it; an elven fëa was energy, each one a resonance in the Song. That an elven fëa had just been snuffed out completely, had vanished from the world, from the Song was unimaginable. Although the Valar had taken that course with the tragic and accursed House of Fëanor, that had been their judgment. This was different.

He turned to Elrond suddenly even more troubled. 'How delectable to a Nazgûl would be an elven fëa with its brightness and Power?' He felt a cold chill steal down his neck, his spine. 'It had taken Rhawion by chance. It has been feeding off him, keeping his fëa alive- just enough to keep feeding. And now for some reason, it no longer feels it needs to…'

He found Elrond's eyes fixed upon him in horror. 'Is this true? Rhawion was being kept alive? So it could feed…' He closed his eyes.

Gandalf looked at Elrond with compassion. It was beyond his companion's comprehension just yet but soon he would realise and then the true horror would strike him.

'For now, Elrond, we must also consider why it feels it can…' He took a breath before the next word. 'Why it feels it can devour him completely…' He let that thought percolate. 'Erestor and Glorfindel are there.'

'And Elladan and Elrohir are yet on the road from Lothlorien!' Elrond came to his feet abruptly. 'You think the Nazgûl devoured Rhawion because it believes it has two other souls for its larder? We must send out a troop.'

Gandalf nodded. 'I think so. And I will go with them.'

tbc

0o0o

Notes

pitya-angu: Quenya- little snake. Worm.

*In More Dangerous, Legolas is learning to play the violin. Hence the reference.

**Elrond was fostered by Maedhros and Maglor after the Fall of Sirion. Maedhros is supposed to have thrown himself into a fiery chasm with the last Silmaril.

***The Oath taken by Feanor and his sons is this:

'Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean
Brood of Morgoth or bright Vala,
Elda or Maia or Aftercomer,
Man yet unborn upon Middle-earth,
Neither law, nor love, nor league of swords,
Dread nor danger, not Doom itself
Shall defend him from Fëanáro, and Fëanáro's kin,
Whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh,
Finding keepeth or afar casteth
A Silmaril. This swear we all…
Death we will deal him ere Day's ending,
Woe unto world's end! Our word hear thou,
Eru Allfather! To the everlasting
Darkness doom us if our deed faileth…
On the holy mountain hear in witness
and our vow remember,
Manwë and Varda!'

Some believe that Feanor and his followers are in Mandos' Halls, and some believe they are doomed by the Valar to the Everlasting Dark, as they swore. It is a hard and cruel Oath and you begin to understand why the Sons of Feanor were so driven by it- to avoid the Dark and to release the souls of their brothers already killed before the Oath was fulfilled.

The Doom of the Noldor was pronounced by Eonwë, the herald of the Valar:

'Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains. On the House of Feanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also. Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass. The Dispossessed shall they be for ever.

'Ye have spilled the blood of your kindred unrighteously and have stained the land of Aman. For blood ye shall render blood, and beyond Aman ye shall dwell in Death's shadow. For though Eru appointed to you to die not in Ea, and no sickness may assail you, yet slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief; and your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos. There long shall ye abide and yearn for your bodies, and find little pity though all whom ye have slain should entreat for you. And those that endure in Middle-earth and come not to Mandos shall grow weary of the world as with a great burden, and shall wane, and become as shadows of regret before the younger race that cometh after. The Valar have spoken.'

So it seems that the Valar judged they should go to Mandos' Halls of Waiting but their own Oath suggests the Everlasting Dark if they did not succeed. One could argue that the Silmaril, taken to Aman by Eärendil, was not recovered as they were not content to let the other two stay with the Valar. One does wonder why the Valar just didn't give them the Silmarils and finish it all before the last kinslaying at the end of the War of Wrath (I can hear pencils being sharpened for the furious arguments already!)