Weirdly ffnet will now let me copy from A03 but only small chunks so you've got this chapter broke down into chunks 0 which has already been posted on Ao3- sorry, and the new chapter (hopefully) which is new out today. I really hate ffnet! but I love the readership. Hope this is not too broken up for you.
Beta: my very lovely Anarithilen.
Chapter 14 part a.
Elrond trod the sweep of stone steps that led to his chambers, his feet heavy and stone-mortal. He looked down at them, too tired to look anywhere else and too heart-sore to try.
He thought about Elladan lying still and silent not far away, and though he no longer fought for his life, he was far from well. There was no more Elrond could do now, nor Elrohir. Elrond knew that he had exhausted both himself and Vilya. He needed rest.
He knew that Glorfindel and Erestor had more to tell him about Phellanthir but it had been enough to see his sweet child lying so still and pale in Elrohir's arms to drive out all other concerns or questions. He had not left his child's side until now and though Erestor had sat with him, they had not spoken of what had happened. Only how Elladan had come to put himself between Erestor and a morgul blade. A small voice nagged him that he should seek them out, that there were important matters. But he could not even begin to think about any of those right now. He needed rest.
Quietly he opened his door and went into his own cool airy chambers. The long casement windows stood open and the cold night air flooded his rooms, a light breeze lifted the gauzy veiled curtains, so they were more like mist than fabric. Huge mirrors lined the walls and moonlight reflected off the glass and pale marble so that even at night the chambers seemed insubstantial, not an interior at all but instead reflected over and over the mountains, forests and the waterfalls that roared and cascaded all around the House until you could not know what was real and what imagined.
It had been a feat to build. Even Celebrimbor had said it would be difficult, but he never said impossible. He never said that.
Elrond stared out across the frosted lawns, glittering under the hard moonlight. Below him a figure stood. It looked strange, its shape unnatural. Head too thick and arms too short. Until he realised it was an Elf struggling to pull on his tunic. Suddenly a pale head popped out. The Elf stooped and then hopped on one foot for a moment too and Elrond realised he was pulling on his boots. A glint of moonlight on pale hair was enough then to identify the Elf, for it was not Glorfindel. It was Legolas Thranduillion.
He watched for a moment, dully thinking of that first time he had seen Legolas. The young Elf was similarly half-dressed then. He wondered what had happened this time.
Legolas wobbled on one foot and almost fell over and then lifted the other foot to pull on his other boot. Elrond studied the Elf; Legolas now stood properly clothed and still in the moonlight as if considering what next to do. He could not have been drenched as he had been the last time, Elrond thought absently, for his clothes were obviously dry else he would not be putting them on. Slowly it dawned upon him; Legolas must have had a tryst, perhaps had been surprised and fled. Elrond smiled to himself and wondered who the maid was. Perhaps her parents had called her in before it had gone too far, or she had another suitor? He hoped Legolas was not dallying with some girl's affection for he saw the lightness and ease of the Woodelves and Legolas was certainly not giving his heart away here in Imladris, that much was clear. Should he wish, Elrond could have looked into the hearts of all his folk, but he was not Galadriel.
Legolas slowly turned and made his way across the silvered lawns and Elrond felt a dreadful sadness in his heart; in less than a week, he thought, he would be sending this youngest son of Thranduil on a journey that could well take him to Mordor, or into battle at the least. Perhaps even the very lands where his grandfather and so many Woodelves had lost their lives for he knew that despite the fact that no oath lay upon him, Legolas would not turn towards Mirkwood once they had crossed the Mountains. None of them would.
He turned away and sank into a plush, comfortable chair, too tired to undress and climb into his own bed, cold, and empty. It had always felt too small with Celebrián in it, he thought. And then it had filled up with children who wanted the comfort of each other; climbing in with cold feet to place lovingly on their parents' warm bodies...He shoved that image away. It was too much and he was not strong enough to let the memories come, not with Elladan lying still unconscious so close by.
Vilya was warm on his hand; she caressed him and he filled his lungs with clean air so he could slow his thoughts, cool his blood, rest. The long casement windows let in the cold mountain air. It smelt of snow and pine. Below, the Bruinen roared and gushed over rocks, ice-cold, melt-water. He merely rested his head against the back of the chair and let the breath leave him for a moment. He emptied himself and though she too was drained, he let Vilya sing...
One strain at first, like ice forming. Thin, metallic chimes, and then the upward soar of Song and he felt it sweep him upwards in a building crescendo so he no longer felt entirely alone. He wondered where Maglor was and wished he was here, safe in Imladris. He often thought of those lost ones; his beloved foster fathers...One lost somewhere and the other lost in another-where...It was because of them, and because of Elros that he fostered the Heirs of Isildur, over and over. Raised them. And lost them too...
You have lost everyone. Everything.
Ah. Ash Nazg again. Everyone was stretched by the constant nagging of the Ring; all felt it, he knew. There was discord in Imladris and he was hard put to hold together the generosity and tolerance of the House. Ash Nazg dug its subtle, insidious fingers between the cracks, found weakness and worked upon them. Indeed he felt it too much. It sought Vilya always, knowing her Power, wanting it, seeking her. Even now, Elrond felt it winding its tendril about Vilya's purity, shadowing her clarity and light.
He sent a short prayer to Elbereth, for her strength, her guidance for surely she had the greatest love for Middle Earth and still mourned its loss? It was why Ólorin had been sent, and Glorfindel, was it not? They had not been forgotten, not abandoned.
Are your prayers always answered thus? With emptiness and silence?
He ignored the voice and pushed himself to his feet, took one long stride to the table where a tall jug of cold wine stood, and a bowl of ripe fruit from the South. He poured wine into his glass, and stood for a moment. Really he should disrobe and go to bed but he was in that state beyond exhaustion and there was too much going on in his head for sleep.
The Valar have given Middle Earth to me.
He stood for a moment and drank slowly, let the acid and fruitiness soak his mouth, and watched the snow clouds gather over the mountain tops. Deliberately ignoring Ash Nazg.
Curunir has already turned.
He did not respond, but in his heart he knew now that was true. Saruman's betrayal was bitter. How could they have not known? How could they have let him betray them? But it hurt more deeply than that, for Elrond had trusted him, had liked him. They had a shared interest in lore, in healing... Saruman had taught him much, his intellect different from the fiery integrity and courage of Mithrandir. Elrond had corresponded, had spent time with Saruman, learning and teaching him alike.
And are you so sure of the Shipwright? Are you so sure of Her? Another cold laugh, a sneer. Did you think I did not know where are the Three?
He let Vilya close around him, a silver-blue veil over his thoughts, careful to shut Him out before the truth about the keepers of the Rings was revealed*. He turned back to look at the garden. The stars were bright, white gemstones but dimmed in the stronger light of the Moon which scryed a silver path towards dawn. Legolas had gone and left only a set of light prints across the frosted grass to show where he had ever been.
How long before Ólorin succumbs?
Mithrandir? Ólorin? He will never succumb. Elrond guarded his thoughts, his surprise. His great work is to defeat you. And he will.
He was always mine.
Elrond did not respond to that. Mithrandir was enigmatic, disliked being questioned and sometimes his motives were unclear. But in this, his opposition to Sauron was beyond doubt.
You know there is danger...Shadow and Flame...We have both seen it...
It was goading him, he knew and again, he pulled the veils of Vilya about him, shrouding his thoughts from the One Ring. Looking upwards he watched the Mariner sail the great sea of Night and thought, as he had many many times, how silly that anyone would think that truly his father, Eärendil. Elrond had been taught by Maedhros himself, perhaps one of the most learned Elves either here or Aman, and he knew the stars were not beings, knew the firmament was not finite. Although the star might as well be the Silmaril for all the good that did anyone.
A little wine had spilled onto his robe he noticed but he did not care much. He gulped the wine, feeling the warmth sink into his throat, his chest, his belly, and refilled his glass, took it back to the chair and sank down into it.
Celebrimbor had understood, he thought. His subtlety and secret craft had been a little like Elrond's own quest for knowledge, but it was healing that was the subject of Elrond's quest, not curvë for itself. Theirs had been an easy, interested friendship of sorts, for he did not harass Celebrimbor for secrets, not like Galadriel.
The Master of Imladris let his fingers stroke the blue stone that was part of Vilya's secret mechanism. Vilya was not like Nenya, a more cunning mechanism that unlocked Power. But still the words of Ash Nazg about Galadriel circled him; close, too close to the truth. Elrond was not certain of Galadriel. He knew her ambition. Nenya was not as Vilya, did not wish to heal as Vilya did. Nenya wanted Power, knowledge. Nenya wanted curvë, to discover, to invent, to innovate... and for Elrond, that did not always mean progress.
He sipped the wine and thought about his illustrious, courageous, terrifying mother-in-law. She was dangerous.
Elrond let the half-empty glass dangle between his fingers for a moment. Elrohir had agreed with him that the Ring would tempt her, but would it succeed in seducing her where so many others had failed?
Through the window, he could see the Misty Mountains where they marched away south. The Mariner arced above him.
He let his head sink into the back of the chair, wondering what Celebrimbor's true purpose had been in making these three Great Rings of Power... there was some great secret that he did not understand even yet about Vilya... something that trembled beneath the surface when the Three came together and the air was so charged that sometimes he thought the Rings had a purpose all their own and separate to anything the wielders might intend.
He thought that perhaps Annatar, Sauron, had known or at least guessed at their true purpose.
They had arrived too late at Ost-in-Edhel and already the city was razed. Completely. Only broken stones and ruined walls where there had once been a busy and prosperous city. No one escaped who had not already fled. Every single soul who had been connected in some way with the making of the Rings had been slain or taken even though the prize had already vanished for Erestor had brought the Rings to Elrond in secret, at Celebrimbor's command. And though Imladris' army had ridden like the wind, it was too late. They had all known that Celebrimbor was as good as dead.
The wine was sharp on his tongue now, his mouth had grown used to the sweetness and no longer tasted it. But he drank anyway, feeling the burn of it in his throat. He saw in his mind's eye the scarred and pitted ruins of Ost-in-Edhel,, the gaping wounds that afflicted the land from wars and desolation. Beneath the sea was fair Beleriand, and beyond the Hithaeglir, Rhovanion, the Wilds, and far countries that had never known the Eldar...How could he heal the great wounds of Middle Earth? How could he, alone with Vilya, reach beyond the known West to those hinter tribes of Khand and Harad and even further?
Perhaps not alone...
Narya will help, he thought...
But that will not be enough and if Mairon is defeated, then Ólorin will return with Narya... He found himself thinking: the Rings do not belong in Aman.
He could almost hear Celebrimbor's voice, defiant, angry that even the suggestion that his Rings, his scrying devices, his fabulous technology should be taken to Aman. 'It belongs here! Celebrimbor had cried, throwing out one hand angrily in a gesture so like Maedhros that Elrond's breath caught. 'The Valar would stop me from using it, would try to control it - like they did Fëanor's.'
Was that true? he wondered.
A sliver of doubt eased its way across his mind.
Another gulp of wine. Ah, he was tired. His mind bled dreams, from the past that he did not want now... Elros. Their last meeting. Elros an old Man, bent over, hair white and skin creased. It had shocked Elrond beyond words. But Elros had smiled and lifted a shaky hand to his brother's smooth cheek in wonder.
He found himself thinking again of those he loved and had gone beyond him... For once he let himself remember them all, and he wished, oh how he wished he could bring them all home, and he could look his fill upon those he had loved, that he could stretch his hand across the Sea and touch his sweet Celebrián, and heal her of all her hurts, steer the grey ship safely home and hold her once again; that he could unlock the Door of Night and bring Maedhros, shining, gasping, out into the light once more...He took a gulp of wine. Where were they now, those glorious sons of Fëanor? Had Maedhros stopped falling? Had he found Eru? And Maglor...was he even on these shores or had he wandered so far now that he was forever lost? And more than anything, he wished he could turn back Time itself and forbid Arwen her journey to Lorien that had brought Aragorn to her. If only there were a way to stop her from going, to change everything so her heart was not given to Aragorn. Perhaps if he died?
He stopped, shocked at himself, though in truth it was not the first time he had thought such things.
And suddenly in that moment, a surge of Power wrestled Vilya from him and he was caught in the upsurge of Air seething and swelling around him. Great chords blasted in his ears for the Song was loud, discordant. It crashed over him. Vilya's Power shot above him like lightning bolts, huge, spiraling, spinning upwards in a silver-blue tornado of Air as she struggled with a tremendous Power. Ash Nazg, sensing Vilya's exhaustion, had used her own Power as a conduit, and attacked her.
A mighty wind rushed around the room, sweeping objects from tables. The glass jug smashed to the floor beside him and his half empty glass hurtled into a mirror and cracked loudly over the surface. Elrond struggled upright and lifted his arms, pouring out his own incipient Power to help Vilya wrestle the malignant Ash Nazg, but it writhed and poured around her, spinning its dark coils tighter and tighter about Vilya so she became one sharp blue spike of Power spiraling, shooting upwards. Elrond gathered himself, his hands filled with light and then he pulled back and shot Power like lightning into the spiral. The wind coiled upwards, tugging at him, his hair streamed in its wake, his feet felt they were no longer anchored to the earth and a terrible voice filled the air...
Ash nazg durbatulûk,
An Eye opened, a terrible lidless Eye surrounded by flame. It searched, always searching though it could not yet penetrate Imladris for Vilya still surrounded it, obscured it from His view. But Ash Nazg would open a channel if it could and bring the Eye to penetrate Imladris. Already he felt it burn...His skin was on fire, flames licked along his hands, tore into him like knives but he did not let go of Vilya.
Vilya's silver-blue light, her spiralling energy fought against the coiling dark. Elrond did not waste himself in word-battle with the great Enemy, but poured himself instead into Vilya for there were thin streaks of emptiness in the silver-blue light.
Ash nazg gimbatul,
Like black cinders, the words flew around him, malevolence so great they seemed to prick the air, seep like ink into his lungs...
Ash nazg thrakatulûk Agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.
'Eru help me!' Elrond cried, knowing Ash Nazg was winning, that it would take Vilya's Power to itself and Elrond with it, would crack open Imladris to let Sauron in, not just the Eye for he already knew where the Ring was, but his armies, the Nazgûl. Vilya shuddered with the strain, and he felt the crackling of Power, splintering, shattering.
He did not hear the door crash open. He was barely aware of the spurt of crimson Power that streaked to Vilya's aid until he heard Mithrandir, Ólorin speak, felt Narya's heat like fire. Silver- blue and red twirled, curled, lit, ignited together and suddenly the Eye was gone, the flames that scalded him, burned him, were gone. Vilya convulsed, silver-blue light bled into the air. And suddenly it was quiet...
Elrond fell shaking to the floor, on his knees, head bowed and barely felt hands on him, lifting him, pressing him down into the chair. He retched and the hands that held him were agony on his burned skin. Vilya was curled around him, pulsating, trembling and he drew her close, each nursing the other.
A glass was pressed into his burned hand, words murmured in concern. At first he thought it was Elros and he cried out, lifted his other hand to that beloved, long-lost face, caressed the cheek so gently, disbelieving and the lips moved, face frowned in concern. Something was held to his dry lips and he drank, automatically registering athelas and something more potent...ayudenya perhaps? Two drops in water?... Slowly, his hands realised they were not burned and Aragorn's face was before him, concern in those grey eyes. Not Elros then, he thought anguished; his foster- son, his treacherous foster-son whom he had nurtured and who had come to take away his daughter to death, where he would not meet her again until the Ending of the World...
Vilya sighed and there was the breath of the world. Light and air again filled him Elrond blinked. Aragorn. His beloved foster-son. Tears filled his eyes and he stroked the stubbly cheek again, but this time knowing it was not Elros but Aragorn. He smiled.
'I am sorry, father. I wish...' Such anguish too in Aragorn's voice.
'I know.' It was all he could say.
He felt again the comfort of Vilya, and where Narya touched Vilya too. He struggled upright and saw that the glorious light that was Ólorin had dimmed and that it was only Mithrandir who stood staring out of the long, open windows southwards, where the Misty Mountains spread, the spine of Middle Earth, tailing far, far into the distance.
'I do not know what just happened.' The Wizard's voice was sober. 'But without shadow of doubt, He is coming,' he said emphatically. 'And swiftly.'
Elrond let his gaze drift, follow the line of cold mountains that closed about the Valley.
'We must go soon before it is too late,' Gandalf insisted. 'But they will be watching every road that leads from here. We need a decoy.' And then he said with a heaviness in his voice that reflected the weight in his heart. 'Sauron must believe they are taking the One to the Havens. His spies and the Nazgûl will follow.' He looked sympathetically at Elrond. 'You need to send someone West.'
And who would that be, Elrond thought bitterly. As if he had not lost enough. In his mind he saw Elrohir kneeling beside him in despair as they watched over Elladan.
'As a sacrifice?' Elrond said bitterly, suddenly looking up at Gandalf. 'Is it still not enough that you and but eight others go into Mordor? We must send more?'
'This is not the First Age,' Gandalf said gently. 'This is not Morgoth. The Valar will not arrive with some great army.'
Elrond looked away.
'I will send Glorfindel and Tindómion west along the Old Road,' he said at last.
Mithrandir nodded and glanced at Aragorn. 'We must ready the Fellowship. We leave under cover of dusk and make for the Redhorn Pass. It is still unguarded if what Elrohir says is true. Sauron does not expect us to bring the Ring to him so we go while we still have the advantage.'
Aragorn gently touched Elrond in his hand and Elrond covered his eyes. He knew what Aragorn would ask and he could not bear it.
'Ada, send Elrohir with Glorfindel. Give him something or he will go mad with grief. You have seen him?'
Elrond squeezed his eyes closed; this was sending his child to his doom. He had not forgotten the darkness he had seen in Elrohir and he felt a shiver crawl across his neck at the thought of Elrohir at the mercy of the Nazgûl, and without Elladan's guiding light to bring him home.
He felt Mithrandir's hand on his shoulder, Narya suffused the air with warmth and there was, as there always was with Ólorin, the scent of frost and a slight breath of the Sea. 'Such a death I do not foresee for him,' Mithrandir said comfortingly for the connection between Vilya and Narya was still strong. 'He has much to accomplish yet.'
Yes, but what might that be? Elrond thought. He shook his head. And Vilya was warm on his hand and images of Elrohir flooded him; Amon Sûl lightning flashing around him, a dark blade hissing in his hand striking like the serpent it was, the unearthly shrieking of the Nazgûl, a flash of good to his left, Glorfindel and his own light shining forth, three blazing figures on the high hill…and if they were not there? he asked. Darkness. The golden light that was Glorfindel was no longer. A blaze of red hair that he knew for Tindómion fluttered on the dead grass where he lay. Nine screaming wraiths and their winged steed blocked out the sky….
He took a breath. And another. Then he looked down at Aragorn and nodded. For if Elrohir did not go with them, he knew now that the wraiths would quickly find they had been fooled and they would be in pursuit of the Fellowship before they had time to reach the Redhorn Pass. And Glorfindel, Tindómion would fall.
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