OMG! I can post on ffnet but only in small chunks so this chapter is in two parts and although chapter 8 will be as cha 8 and ch 9. Sorry!
Acknowledgements: The title is taken from Spiced Wine's Dark Star, which is a wonderful fic of Elrohir and her fab Dark Prince. In fact it was a moment from her fic that was inspiration for some of this.
Beta: Anarithilen. Bless you.
Summary: (I know it's been a while since I updated) During the story More Dangerous, Less Wise, Glorfindel arrives at Phellanthir during the search to make sure the way is clear for the Fellowship. He has Legolas, Gimli and two Imladrian warriors with him. Rhawion is killed by the Nazgûl and Legolas retrieved by Glorfindel but wounded. In his delirium he is convinced that Rhawion's fëa is trapped in Phellanthir. Erestor and Glorfindel investigate and find that Rhawion's soul is indeed trapped and the Nazgul has been feeding off it. Rhawion casts himself at the Nazgul to defend Glorfindel and is destroyed. Glorfindel and Erestor are plagued with feelings of dread on Glorfindel's part, (for he senses an old adversary) and elation on Erestor's, who is convinced that his lord Maedhros is somehow present. They discover an old Mirror in the hall of Phellanthir, Celebrimbor's old city and it is clear that the Nazgûl was here to guard the Mirror. Glorfindel and Erestor have gone back to the glass to discover what its secret is. In the meantime, the Sons of Thunder have arrived and found and killed one of the winged beasts of the Nazgûl.
This chapter starts with Maedhros.
Chapter 8: Watchfires.
Like iron filings bending towards a magnet, shattered light and cold blue steel sparks of pure energy drew together towards the warmth that trembled still in the Glass; drawn together by more than gravity for here there was none. No physical presence, but a form of sorts… an awareness of itself….
And then…memory opened like a blossoming….
Burning molten rock. Lava seethed and churned.
It seemed fitting.
He fell, blazing like a comet and the Silmarils splintered into rainbows and burst in his eyes…Is it for this that I have sacrificed everything?
But as he burned, even after all this, he simply let the blazing lights fall so he could hold onto the silver and blue worn scrap of cloth, stained brown…crushed it to his heart. His last act was silent. A kiss pressed against the scrap of cloth worn thin with handling. The heat evaporated tears.
Slowly, space and time turned and rolled hugely, spiralled past in the soft darkness of oblivion. Those moments seemed an eternity. In that time there was only the Song; glorious, indescribable. He soared on wings of sound, of immense waves of huge chords rising and falling, symphonies of sound spiralling up and up, around him, lifting in a crescendo of sound and light and unutterable loveliness.
A distant voice, a still, small voice at first but that grew became tumultuous like the storm, like the Sea, like the vastness of space. In it were suns bursting over the horizons of far planets, the huge galaxies wheeling across the aeons.
Child of Fire…
The voice of Eru.
Stunned. Amazed, he was silent for Ages.
Child of Fire.
Slowly, wondering why he was not in anguish from the burning, he said quietly to the emptiness and air, to Eru, 'I am quite mad.'
I have you, Child of Fire.
He felt himself cradled as one would hold a windflower, in a breath that was benevolence itself… He did not want to leave. He did not want to be disembodied, senseless, formless. Whatever it was he would be in the Eternal Darkness to which his unfulfilled Oath had cast him. 'Will I still be part of the Song though I go into the Dark?'
Child of Fire, blessed and will be a watchfire in the Dark where you will fight your sworn enemy. He is your Bane and you are his. This, in truth, is what you were born for.
His heart swelled with Eru's great love for him, and sadness. It was needed. He was needed. And he would rather cut off every last remaining limb than heed Námo's ululation at his death.
Then let me dwell in the Everlasting Dark as I have sworn. Alone if I must and for Aeons. He will always be watched because I am here. This is Himring.
Yes…beloved Child….
The Voice was quiet now; still and utter calm softly fell around the burning spirit. He felt a flex of Power and knew that though he had no weapons, he was not powerless as he had been in Angband, against Morgoth, against the Valar…He went quietly into the Everlasting Dark and wondered if he alone guarded the World from the Outside.
Ages passed.
Here in the howling Dark, there was only malevolence and evil and his cold steel-blue spirit. Sometimes there were other spirits, warped and corrupted by Moringhotto Bauglir, and they cried, keened. There had been a Dragon once, a spirit of Fire swirling up and up and up as if it tried to reach beyond the bounds of Arda. As if it sought the Sacred Fire that it sprang from before its heart was corrupted. Like a moth it tried to escape the bonds of the Dark. Its cry haunted him still.
There were the Valarauki too. Shadow and Flame. There was nothing left but the fëa that were dark with malice and hunted him as he hunted them. In his hunting he found that there were places where the veils between the world and the Dark were thin, where the threads of Time and Space could be pushed aside. He knew that Moringhotto Bauglir wanted these places, would push, push against the veils, seeking ever a way into the world. One of these places he found himself drawn to, more and more…memories caught at him like cobwebs, dreams;
It was not Himring but somewhere else; the light silks at tall windows would never do for cold Himring, watchful Himring. A tall harp, beautiful, etched and engraved with runes and patterns stood in the centre of the elegant room. He could not remember where it was now. The places, the names, and all but one of the beloved faces faded in his grasp… Someone tugged at his empty sleeve and he turned and looked down kindly at the small child who reached up to hold his hand that was not there. Bright grey curious eyes that did not look away, a child's eager curiosity. Tyelpo. Strange, curious child. He had been as fascinated by his uncle's' silly experiments with wheat and steel as he was by the dark materials of the Palantri. All was knowledge, curvé..
This place drew him endlessly. And then a grey patch of twilight brightened in the Dark, it was like light flooded this place.
He had rushed to it crying No! No! for the light was what the corrupted spirits craved; it would pull them to it, like moths. This grey patch of twilight in the Endless Dark. Like a pool in the winter forest.
He had been even more alert in those days of the discovery of light, even more watchful, anxious that Moringhotto would know the Glass had opened a channel to the World; threads of light seeped across the Dark, trembled the strange delicate Space like a fly on a web. He guarded it, spun about it a glamour that concealed it. And he watched the grey light curiously, hungrily.
It was strange how the glass was lit from within. He could see now that there were ethereal lights on the other side of the glass, that spun into the darkness like splinters of rainbow fading impossibly into the night; he could see dim reflections, figures, shapes, as if he looked into water.
Even now, it was unbelievable. Through the glass darkly, he could see beyond to a real city, not a fortress. Its gleaming hall was full of light, jewelled lamps surpassing even those his father had made for Tirion- far, distant Tirion where he would never walk again.
The indistinct face that had peered into through the twilight was Tyelpo. It was Tyelpo who had drawn him here, with his longing and love for anyone of his blood, it had been a moment akin to Fingon's rescue - another face in the emptiness and the relentless Dark. Relief from being hunted and hunting in turn.
It was hard to communicate for Maedhros had no real voice; he was but fëa, pure spirit, drifting in the Dark spaces between worlds. He had no voice… but Tyelpo was clever; he had made a device that projected ósanwe. They knew each other's thought. It created a dream-like state where Maedhros saw Tyelpo's life, his dreams and thoughts as if they were his own. He even saw himself from Tyelpo's perspective and was a little shocked at how he was remembered, how adored, how venerated by the Faithful.
Tyelpo had wept when he saw Maedhros until he understood.
I am the Bane of Morgoth. The watchfire.
He knew Tyelpo's thought, knew there was another with whom Tyelpo worked although he did not come to the Glass, Tyelpo kept it secret as he kept the Rings secret. But the last time Tyelpo had come, he had been full of fear and betrayal… Sauron. Maedhros recognised him as soon as Tyelpo showed him in his mind and bitterly rued that Tyelpo had kept from him the nature of his accomplice for Maedhros would have recognised Sauron anywhere… Anywhere. The subtle silk voice, the smooth cruelty…
Do you see how he flinches? Heat that… Put that there. Insert this here…
Tyelpo had brought the Rings to their full power to open the device, to use the Glass. It was their purpose, the keys to the Dark. Tyelpo, he saw now, had dreamed of opening the door between, to release him from this prison. But it could open the door to more than he.
Why did you not speak of this Annatar until now? he cried in despair, for Tyelpo was doomed; they both knew then. And Sauron wanted to open the Dark.
He and Tyelpo could hide nothing from each other; so if Tyelpo had not known before, he saw now what Sauron had done to Maedhros in Angband, during those long, long years when Maedhros thought would never cease. And Maedhros saw what Annatar was to Tyelpo; for Tyelpo had lost a dear friend, a Dwarf and he mourned still.
Then he saw the One Ring created by Sauron to rule all others. It sought dominion over the Three. Over everything.
They both knew then.
You must destroy the Glass, Maedhros urged him. Sauron knows of it, and he will use it.
He does not know how to use it, Tyelpo insistent, as protective as Feanor of his creation.
Do not be a fool, Tyelpo!
But Tyelpo looked over his shoulder then in fear and there was a great boom that echoed even through the Glass, rang into the Dark. Tyelpo gave one last, terrified and defiant look at Maedhros. Maedhros reached out in fear for his last kin, tried to touch him, to warn, to reassure him…but Tyelpo hurried away and never came again.
The Glass closed to him.
Until now. Warmth had pressed itself against his fingers on the glass and they had sunk into it, like snow…
On the other side there was darkness too. A cold deathly shadow. He knew the touch of the Enemy was upon it and he stood guard, watchful. It was not his task to pursue the enemies of Light on Middle Earth; it was his to pursue Bauglir to the very bitter end of all things. And Bauglir was yet in the Dark.
But from behind, there was a roar building in the hungry belly of the Dark. It grew closer; it was hurtling through the darkness towards Maedhros. He turned his head slightly for he knew its name.
Ruinátoró
Shadow and flame.
0o0o
Although thin winter daylight filtered into Celebrimbor's once glorious city, the sweep of marble stairs, smooth as bone even now, faded into darkness above and a cold chill lay on the air. So cold Erestor caught his breath and his throat stuck like he was parched.
Glorfindel too faltered and half turned to Erestor, a slight puzzlement on his face as if he tried to remember something that just beyond his grasp. They had left their footsteps in the thick dust from last time, but there were other marks now, a strange sweep across the fine dust as if something else had passed.
'Guard your thoughts,' Erestor whispered and his hand went to his sword. He stared ahead into the gloom. Glorfindel nodded once and then turned and stepped silently up the wide, marble stairs.
It seemed to Erestor that it grew colder the higher they climbed and the darkness ahead even more like a mouth. All the hairs on his neck and back were stiff and he felt every nerve in his body alert, urging him to flee.
'They are here,' Glorfindel murmured over his shoulder. Erestor nodded only once as if he might disturb the air itself. They eased forwards. 'Let us surprise them.' There was a flash of white teeth.
'Be ware, Glorfindel. This is not just Pitya-angu,' Erestor warned. There was a sense of cunning and malice. He paused as if scenting the air, like a hound. Cold malice. Sorcery like a dark smear on the oily air.
Erestor let his hand touch the hilt of another blade at his hip; the morgul blade he had taken from Imladris, that Gandalf had brought from Dol Guldur. It seemed to vibrate slightly as if it sensed the Nazgûl, wanted to return to them. Do not believe for a moment I will not use you against your masters, he muttered to it.
A black burn spat itself against his mind and he almost stopped in surprise.
So you are not completely witless, he hissed back but he thought he would not trust the blade for it would turn against him should he use it. Wicked thing that you are, I would turn you against your lords and it would give me great pleasure.
A taste of burned flesh was in his mouth like revenge and he wanted to spit but he did not. He would not give the morgul blade an ounce of satisfaction. Instead he imagined the Nazgûl wailing in fear and pain and writhing about before vanishing in an explosion of poisonous green. He smiled thinly at the writhing hatred he felt from the blade against his thigh and he checked the sheath in which he kept it for he knew it would seek to pierce his skin if it could. Like a snake it was.
Glorfindel had stopped dead and was listening, his eyes half closed and his head tilted to one side. He held up his hand to Erestor and he too halted just at the top of the stairs before the arching mouth to the Óromardë.
Silence.
And then there was a shift in the air, cold drifted in as if someone had opened a door. Erestor lifted his head, met Glorfindel's eyes for a moment and they both turned, swords smoothly drawn from their sheaths.
There was the softest shuffle of boots on the cold stones in the hall below.
'Hush,' Glorfindel hissed, his eyes pinned Erestor, held him where he stood. They stared at each other for a moment.
'Have they brought orcs with them?' Erestor whispered. 'Two Nazgûl and a bunch of Orcs.' He showed his white teeth. 'Good.'
Glorfindel drew his sword silently from its sheath. 'Stay here,' he said to Erestor who opened his mouth to protest but Glorfindel glared at him, his piercing blue eyes almost burned. 'Do not go inside. There may be Nazgûl already there.'
He was so emphatic that for once Erestor did not demur when Glorfindel turned and faded into the shadows that clung to the grey entrance of the Hall. He heard the whisper of Glorfindel's footsteps, almost but not quite silent, as he crept down the wide stone staircase and Erestor turned and, in spite of- or perhaps because of Glorfindel's instruction to stay put, he paused briefly and only looked into the darkness of Celebrimbor's Óromardë.
Now that he knew, his eyes alit upon the mirror at the farthest end of the long hall. He saw now that it rested on a plinth which raised it slightly from the floor. Even from here he could see how it reflected the thin daylight, like a pool reflects light dimly in a dark forest.
A drift of cold stars, blue steel distant in the cold dark…
He was blazing like a comet. Burning. So his skin was melting from his bones. He held out his hand where the light was; shining white light that splintered into rainbows and burst in his eyes…It was for this that he had sacrificed everything…Father… But as he burned, even after all this, he simply let the blazing lights fall so he could hold onto the silver and blue worn scrap of cloth, stained brown…crushed it to his heart. His last act was silent. A kiss…The heat evaporated tears.
Erestor found himself gasping, clutching his chest for the viscerating pain that ripped open his heart and he bent over, a cry bursting from his mouth. His feet seemed to take him there without thought or effort on his part, seemed to fly indeed and he found himself on his knees before the Mirror.
But the glass only reflected the thin grey daylight that seeped between the cracks in the roof of the dim, silent hall. Dust drifted on the air that came up from the lower levels where Glorfindel had disappeared, lightly coated the surface of the mirror. He peered into it to see only his own face floating eerily in that ancient glass, thousands of years old. His amber eyes seemed hooded, deep, haunted and his mouth like a thin slash.
He grimaced at himself. What had he thought to see? Maedhros? He bowed his head and looked down at his hands, still clutching his chest for the pain was physical, a wound. He swallowed. Surely he had heard, feltMaedhros? Surely that burning, that light had been Maedhros? For the silver-blue scrap of cloth had been the one that he himself had torn from Fingon's bloody and crushed body.
He breathed in slowly, his hand resting now on the edge of the Mirror as he knelt, and he wondered if he had been completely deceived, that what he felt was just his desire, his wish that he could somehow deliver his beloved lord. It was this place, it played on one's dreams, fears in Glorfindel's case. But all was illusion.
There were scratches on the surface of the glass and he remembered Celebrimbor saying that it was important the glass was coated very thinly in copper but you would not know for it was very dark. But when he leaned to look at it more closely he realised he had seen something like it before; so smooth, so polished it was almost glass but it was not. Was it the same deep black metal as the Palantri? He brushed his fingertips lightly against the surface and again, had the sensation of sinking into cold darkness…He pulled his hand back quickly but he thought he left an imprint of his fingers somehow in the mirror itself, like it was not glass at all but some kind of clay. Not quite like the Palantri then. But similar.
He peered at the mirror closely. He saw himself again, sharp-angled face pale and eyes wide. Behind him…before him? he could not tell, cold steel sparks glowed like distant stars, drifting in the dark. He could not help but brush his fingers again over the cold darkness and this time the silver-blue sparks began to coalesce, to speed together as if his touch had ignited them somehow. They moved and glittered, like a shoal of silver-blue fish.
But the darkness was tinged with orange, like a fire raged somewhere still distant.
Wondering and bewildered he let his hand sink into the cold grasp of the Mirror and it yielded but did not break, like the skin of water when lightly touched. He reached out to the blue steel sparks that swirled now and rushed together like he had once seen iron filings to a magnet; it had been Maedhros who showed him when he was a boy. Blue lights shot across the glass like one of Mithrandir's fireworks exploding and flaring into something huge and glorious. A blaze of light lit the dim hall and in the Glass itself, there was an outline of steel-blue power.
Erestor found tears on his face once more.'My lord! Maedhros,' he cried. The mirror sucked him coldly and he felt it seep into his bones but he did not break his touch. Instead he pressed harder against the resistance of the glass and let his fingers sink deeper, push harder. The blue lights in the Glass shifted quickly and he was bathed in silver-blue light.
No! No! It will break. You do not know what is in here.
And the cry was desperate; he was sure it was from the mirror and not in his fevered imaginings, but as he slowly pulled his hand back, the cold glass almost sucked at his hand as he withdrew, horribly. He shuddered and then from the deep darkness of the Mirror there came a distant roar.
Erestor shuffled back alarmed.
He stared into the mirror to see that the steel-blue light seemed to turn away, towards the roar, towards the orange tinged darkness that seemed to ignite in a distant storm. A firestorm? he wondered and leaned in close as if he could see, or hear. The hall was dimmed once more.
I am quite mad, he thought but the voice in his head seemed detached as if if it were not his.
But he could not dwell on that for there was the whisper of cold breath of his cheek…the smell of empty tombs and with sinking dread, he turned away from the Glass towards the cold shadows.
The dark stretched away the length of the great, empty hall. Shadows lingered, gathered on the edge of the dark and he was suddenly cold. He let his senses slide out into the darkness, reached carefully into the corners of the silent hall and explored the cold emptiness.
Nothing. Silent. Empty.
Behind him something brushed against the dust that coated the marble floor, and a coldness stroked up his spine. In the corners and shadows, something seemed to skitter over the darkness. He felt all the hairs on his skin stand erect and he spun round, eyes wide, peering into the dark corners where the shadows were thickest, most impenetrable.
Something clanged, cold and hard. Like iron. A broadsword, old and wicked. Cold as ice. He turned his head towards it and found an empty hood next to his cheek.
Far from your home, Nármöfinion…
It could not be called a laugh for the dry scrape of sound was more a rusted sword, but there was no question of the mockery.
Far from your home, sunk beneath the Sea and all souls lost but three…
There was a slide of steel against his ribs and he jerked back. Soundless, his mouth opened to shout a warning to Glorfindel, but a dry, empty smell that seemed to suck the air from his lungs, left him nerveless with fear; eyes wide open, he stared at the empty hood that leaned in towards him.
This was not the weak presence he had vanquished in the Tower.
No.
I am Angmar.
I have come for you, Erestor Narmófinion. I remember you.
Suddenly there was a flash of blue-steel light in the glass like lightning, blinding it split the darkness and Erestor had a glimpse of the Witch-King of Angmar as he was; a skeletal ghoul, tattered black shroud that clung to bones. The lightning flashed again and Erestor saw that Angmar had raised his arm and stretched his hand so the palm faced outwards towards the huge doors to the Óromardë. The doors creaked suddenly and then slammed shut with a clang that sent a resounding echo shuddering through the emptiness and silence.
Angmar turned slowly towards Erestor and the Wraith's thin black shroud seemed to bleed like ink into the air, like tattered ribbons, and it seemed to slip around Erestor, catch in his feet and hands, slide coldly through his hair, across his skin. And then off to his left, Erestor became aware of a shifting of darkness and shadows. He glanced quickly and peered into the gloom. There was a mailed foot on the edge of that darkness. It moved and the edge of a thin black shroud brushed against the dust that coated the floor
Not just Angmar then.
No. It is I, Khamûl.
A fiery light reflected from the glass and tinged the darkness orange. Fire, he thought. Fire was the only thing that could drive away the Nazgul, but he had none and he could not see how the fire that blazed in the Glass could help him. Now he could see beyond the thin veils of the Ringwraiths, could see their dim forms, the skeletons they were, the grinning empty eyes that burned, the hunger that devoured them. A panicked fear shot through him, the image of the fluttering bright fëa as it fought and fluttered in the claws of the Nazgûl….No! Surely he could not end this way? Narmófinion, who stood with Fingon in that last great battle against balrogs and dragons, and yet survived. He would be slain here in this empty, abandoned place and he had never spoken; never told Elladan what was in his heart, had never said that the world existed only for Elladan and without him there was no meaning…but there was no time now.
I have come for you, Angmar's hollow voice was in his head. The bounds have been broken by our brethren…But still, we hunger. In his hand swung a huge old mace, spiked and heavy. One blow and it would kill Erestor.
Suddenly Erestor understood; the unnamed Nazgûl that had consumed Rhawion had broken some law set by Sauron, and he saw how angry was the Witch-king, how furious that this lesser wraith had had that which he craved. Oh, craved indeed. It was a dreadful, gnawing hunger that they could not satisfy, had been forbidden by Sauron. Their lust and desire could not be assuaged. They were starving.
But now that line had been crossed and the lesser wraith had tasted what Angmar had not. And here was Erestor and the mace swung lightly in Angmar's hand.
You are afraid.
It was an observation.
'Of you?' Erestor spat a jeer into the grey light, scared and defiant in spite of it because Maedhros was here, nearby, somewhere, he told himself again and emotion bubbled, swelled in his chest. He would not be defeated by these wraiths!
Khamûl stepped forwards now, and the shadows and dark seemed to cling to him. The great broadsword Erestor remembered so well was drawn and there was a slick of red gleaming on the blade.
Blood.
Glorfindel.
So now you begin to see, to fear.
0o0o