Thanks to those who are still reading, and especially to those who review. It always encourages me to write.

Thanks too to Spiced Wine for the loan of her character, Tindómion.

Beta: As always the very wonderful Anarithilen.

Chapter 22: The Lost.

For a moment Asfaloth and his rider were still, standing in the brilliant pooled light of Eärendil, looking into the sky where the Nazgûl's winged lizards had leapt ponderously into the air and their huge serrated wings thumped against the wind. Their hoarse bellows receded further and further away, until there was no sound from either Nazgûl or their steeds.

They had gone. How, he did not know but the glorious warrior and Asfaloth still stood in the diamond brightness of the Silmarils, light during from his sword, from his helm. Angmar, the WitchKing who had du his claws deeply into Elrohir, who had pierced Glorfindel with a morgul blade in his desperation for the Ring, had fled.

Vanquished.

There was absolute silence for a moment and then, slowly, it seemed to Elrohir then that the Song ebbed back; it became distinct, audible where it was only ever a slow rhythm of his heartbeat, or in the pulse of his blood and the breath of his lungs. And he marvelled that he could hear it now: it began with a slow and utterly beautiful melody that threaded its way through the air and then mingled with others. He found tears pricking at his eyes and his heart soaring for joy though he had no words to describe it. The Songs of the Elves and the horses merged with the slow harmonies that were trees and even the hilltop itself, the metallic chime of the stars, everything wound together as one Great Song that was amplified, so the huge chords and streams of sound rose up around him, caught him in its uplift and he could not speak or move so spellbound was he by its beauty. It had been there all the while, he realised, but it was as if he had been asleep and just awoken to all the brilliance and sounds of Arda.

He was not the only one to be standing in silent wonder. All around him, the Elves stood lost in bewildered awe and the horses too had their heads up and ears flickering as they listened. Elrohir saw that the stranger had turned and looked at them for a moment and it seemed to Elrohir that he was the reason they could hear the Song, as if he somehow amplified it and he thought perhaps that was what had driven off the Nazgûl; that somehow the stranger and his sword had brought harmony where the Nazgûl were Discord. He must be one of the Valar, thought Elrohir at first. Surely it is Oromë?

'Come,' spoke the warrior to the men who followed him. 'You have driven evil from this hilltop and now it is free once again. Let it become Amon Sûl once more, the Watchtower of Arnor in the war that is coming.' His deep, rich voice resonated within Elrohir's breast, so compelling that had he but asked once, Elrohir would have followed him to Mordor itself. 'Let it stand against the Nazgûl and guard the approaches to the West. Clear it of the carrion that sullies it and raise it up once more. ' Proudly now the Mithlond and Imladrian elves who had ridden into the fortress with him dispersed, greeting their comrades with relief and looking about to start the hard work of cleansing the fortress. Their horses wandered off to nose each other and crop the short grass.

But Asfaloth walked forwards, his proud head low; he whickered softly and in distress, stopping where Glorfindel lay crushed beneath the pile of rocks, still and unmoving. The horse dropped his nose to his beloved lord and snuffed at his golden hair that was fanned across his face while the stranger dismounted and knelt one knee on the ground beside Glorfindel.

He moved Glorfindel's hair to gaze down upon his face. 'Laurëfindessë?' he said wonderingly and touched his cheek lightly with his still gauntleted hand. 'I heard that he had returned, but I did not believe it.'

Looking over the strange warrior's shoulder, Elrohir saw that Glorfindel's face was deathly pale. White. As if all the blood had been drained from his body. An intense weight lay heavily in his chest, as though it were him beneath the rubble. He half staggered forwards in shock, realising that he was not alone and that other elves had turned towards Glorfindel now in concern, hardly daring to breath themselves in dreadful anticipation.

The stranger reached in and touched Glorfindel's throat where a tiny bruised cut pierced his skin and the blood had dried on the earth beneath like some sacrifice. He spoke again, not loudly but his voice was compelling and urgent. 'He lives but barely. Quickly, help me to remove these rocks.'

As if a spell had been broken, Elrohir threw himself beside the warrior and began hauling the stones from around Glorfindel. Suddenly there were other hands there and carefully the stones were removed until gradually Glorfindel's battered body was revealed. Elrohir scanned him quickly, feeling trepidation for even though he lived, his body was so broken that he wondered if they could even move him. And then there was the wound from the morgul blade itself- which had bled so little but which had still been enough to cut the fëa from the body. But looking at him now, Elrohir could believe that Glorfindel's soul might have already fled.

'Gently my friends,' Annael was there now too and hovering anxiously as Glorfindel's bruised and broken body was carefully lifted and carried out of the rubble. Annael guided them to a sheltered place near the walls that had somehow escaped the destruction wreaked by the Nazgûl's terrible lizards.

Annael threw his own cloak upon the ground so that Glorfindel might be laid upon it and others immediately followed suit. 'Someone get a fire going from those ashes!' he said urgently as they lay Glorfindel's body down as gently as they possibly could, like a precious and fragile treasure so careful were they.

The strange warrior leaned down and touched the ashes of a dead fire that had been put out by the rain, and instantly they flared into life. Then he stood aside while they lay Glorfindel tenderly upon the piled cloaks and made him comfortable.

The stranger had not yet taken off his helm and the flames from the fire leapt and glowed on the beautifully wrought helm; the long finely etched cheek-guards were like hands cupping a beloved face, and the plume that flowed from the crest was a long, black horse's tail. Helms had not been made like this for two Ages, Elrohir thought and could not help but stare. The stranger was Noldor certainly, but Elrohir had only ever seen one set of armour like this and that was Erestor's, and his was not as fine as this man's: he wore only greaves and vambraces, cuirass and helm as Elrohir himself, but the light armour was mithril perhaps wrought so thinly and so finely it seemed fluid, more like silk than metal.

Elrohir wanted to touch it but thought that somehow this man was as likely to have his sword at Elrohir's throat for daring to touch him as not. He had come to their aid but he seemed beyond them somehow; he was quiet at the moment and aiding them but if taken unawares, could become intensely dangerous. Like Erestor.

And then Elrohir realised. 'I have seen you once,' he said in sudden recognition, astonishment. 'Upon the Hithaeglir. You passed me like a ghost.'

The warrior smiled slightly as he pulled off the gauntlets he wore that were edged with five pointed stars. 'I have sometimes walked in those Mountains,' he said quietly. 'And sometimes in the Eastern deserts. Or the great ice caps of the North.' But there was such a world of loneliness in those words that Elrohir's chest tightened.

'And you are one of the Sons of Thunder,' said the man, looking up. His eyes were silver grey and like mithril in their mercurial gleam. This warrior must have seen the light of the Trees before they were destroyed by Morgoth, Elrohir realised. This meant he had crossed the Helcaraxë… Or sailed with Fëanor.

'I have heard of your valour,' he said. Elrohir ducked his head, for revenge and horror were the cause of his valorous deeds, and shame cringed in his heart.

But as if the warrior knew, understood, he reached out and touched Elrohir lightly on the cheek. 'Blood of Finwë,' he murmured softly. 'You have the look of him,' said the stranger and there such longing in his voice that Elrohir lifted his eyes and stared. The stranger smiled at the wonder on Elrohir's face. 'And now you look like your father when he was very young,' he said and this time, there was no doubt about the yearning.

Elrohir felt a strange excited shiver down his spine and the hairs on his neck stood on end. A tingling in his fingers and neck at the possibilities. 'You know my father?' he asked cautiously.

The warrior smiled very gently in memory and the slightest sigh escaped his lips. 'Long ago. In his childhood. He was always a healer - he tried to heal everyone even then.' He glanced down at where Saeldir as kneeling beside Glorfindel with tears on his face. Gently, he and Annael began to wipe Glorfindel's hands and face so they were clean of blood and stroke his hair back from his face. Their hands hovered over the light wound in his throat where the morgul blade had pierced.

'Such a little wound,' cried Annael in despair. 'If only we had broken through sooner!' He turned his face up to the stranger. 'You have our thanks, my lord. Without you we could not have driven off the Nazgûl in time to save him.'

The warrior pulled his helm from his head. Long, long very straight black hair streamed down his back to his waist. High cheekbones, full lips. A beautiful face, but full of memory and loss.

'We must rid him of that shard of the morgul blade,' the warrior was saying. He looked at Annael appraisingly, and then the wounded Saeldir. 'Who are the healers amongst you?' He turned his head to gaze at Elrohir astutely. 'You have your father's Power?'

'Some,' replied Elrohir. And then he added, for it was true, 'Although I am too immersed in blood for the true healing he has.'

There was a wry grunt, and Elrohir thought that perhaps this strange Elf from the First Age felt the same as he.

'Athelas will help.' As soon as the warrior spoke, Saeldir tutted at himself and fumbled in his tunic and others ran off to rummage through the packs left strewn on the ground by the devastation wrought by the Nazgûl's beasts. In no time there were several packs of athelas thrust towards Elrohir for every Elf carried it. Annael turned and sent someone off to fetch water from the stream below the hill and then he set the anxious, watching men back to work, clearing the devastation, collecting their dead, piling the bodies of Orcs and Wargs.

The stranger crouched beside Glorfindel and looked down, his face hidden from Elrohir now. He probed the single wound in Glorfindel's chest and easily removed the shard of the morgul blade as if it had been a stone in a horse's hoof. It flipped onto the stony ground and the stranger stood and carefully pushed it aside with his boot.

'Do not touch that,' said the man with a hard look at the shard. 'Do not let anyone else touch it either.' He glanced at Saeldir and Annael, then he crouched again beside Glorfindel and firmly probed the wound. A little more blood leaked from the cut, but there was black bile too that oozed thickly. Elrohir did not want to touch it for the dark corruption of the morgul blade was still lodged there and the memory of Angmar's own touch upon Elrohir was raw and too recent to ignore.

But the strange warrior was still looking down at Glorfindel; he held out his own hand, palm upwards towards Elrohir. 'Give me your Power,' he said softly, firmly. 'I need it to shape the Song for healing now, and not destruction.'

Elrohir baulked for a moment; it was not only in horror of Angmar's corrupting stroke upon his memory, his rifling though Elrohir's secret desires, but he also remembered the last time another had used his power. The brutal force with which Elrond had used him to heal Elladan had been raw and agonising, but he had not minded that, not for Elladan.

And is not Glorfindel also deserving of your healing? The silver-grey gaze of the strange Elf met his, not challenging, but demanding, and somehow it felt a rightful demand.

Elrohir placed his hand trustingly in his.

There was a moment when their eyes met and Elrohir was suddenly intensely aware of the bustle and business of the camp. As though all sounds were amplified, and the colours intensified. Movement seemed somehow larger, clearer. Elves were clearing up, throwing the bodies of Orcs and hefting those of Wargs into a huge pile to burn, carefully pulling the bodies of the archers from the rubble that had buried Glorfindel.

The strange Elf smiled slightly and clasped Elrohir's hands in his, pressed them together like a prayer.

This is for Glorfindel. The words formed in his mind and he stared. Then he simply let his hands lie in those of the stranger and gave himself over to him.

He did not see the knowing and thoughtful look the warrior gave him. All he felt was the warmth of those hands upon his as they touched the fatal wound. Everything else disappeared; there was only him, and the stranger. Slowly, a fierce white heat grew in the palm of his hands that did not burn. His own crimson power leapt up from his belly in response, wanting to meet that intense white energy head on; crimson power surged along the nerves of his arms, hands, fingers, raw and tempestuous like a storm for he could only wield it like a weapon. It burst upon the white heat in a crescendo, smashed into it. But the white energy simply opened and curled around the crimson like a welcome, like love, bathed it in its brilliance and light so the crimson hurt and fury was gentled and calmed, smoothed and shaped into something else entirely.

There was that Note again - a single note, like a bell that rang from somewhere deep and faraway, lost in memory, lost in time. He felt it resonate in his bones and his blood and felt his face was wet for all that had been lost. Another note joined it and another until a melody was strung together, a harmony that was lovelier than any song Elrohir had ever heard played in Imladris. He felt a great peace descend not only on him but the hilltop. Sounds ceased and the other men fell silent and still and merely listened.

Elrohir suddenly wanted his father, so he could embrace him, find that warmth and solace that they had for that moment after they healed Elladan. He longed for his father, his brother with an intensity that he had never felt before and knew then that his own feelings were merging with those of the stranger: he had lost everything. And he grieved for the loss of everyone he had ever loved. Ever.

Like a star in space, his loneliness was all encompassing and Elrohir wanted to run from it before he was lost. It was standing on the brink of the Night, seeing yourself as utterly insignificant, a mere speck in the universe. Knowing that it was only time before you stepped off the ledge and plunged into the Eternal Night. The Dark.

Elrohir covered his mouth with his free hand to stifle a scream and squeezed his eyes closed against the pitiless horror. He needed to escape this. He needed to run along the snow, where eagles cried and the stars were hard and bright in the sky. He needed to bury his head in long hair pale as wintergrass and smelling of meadow hay. He needed to sink into the grey forest stream than gushed over grey slate and moss and pooled in the shady pools where ferns grew green and lush…

Instead he was teetering on the edge of the Night and …falling…

'Come back.' A compelling voice he would die for spoke as if from far away and long ago. It summoned him back to himself and guided him to awareness. Slowly he blinked and looked up into the immense compassion of the stranger. Those grey eyes held the light now lost to the world forever, and were full of deep grief. His hand rested gently upon Elrohir's shoulder. 'You are with me, Elrohir Elrondion,' he said with gentle kindness. 'You are safe.'

Elrohir gulped air and leaned over slightly.

He was aware of a murmur of concern from Annael and Saeldir, and hands under his elbows, lowering him to the ground, warmth as a cloak was thrown around his shoulders where he sat, shaken from the expenditure of such immense energy.

'Take care of Elrohir,' the stranger said to Annael quietly. 'He will be disorientated and confused for a while.'

Then there was a sudden retching gasp nearby and Elrohir looked up dazedly to see that Glorfindel suddenly gasped for breath.

There were cries of astounded joy, and Annael and Saeldir fell to their knees beside Glorfindel, taking his hands carefully and touching his face to reassure themselves that he did indeed live. There was purple bruising where the blade had pierced him but the darkness of the wound had gone.

Elrohir stared in wonder. 'How…how did you…?'

The stranger was wiping his hands on an old cloth that he had brought out from somewhere. He threw it on the ground and Elrohir's astonished eyes followed it. It was stained with blood and black bile. 'Angmar had not killed him. He did not drive it deep. Too busy savouring the moment.' He crouched beside Glorfindel and lifted his head so he could drip miruvor onto Glorfindel's lips from the flask that Annael offered.

'It was you who saved him.' He flashed a smile at Elrohir that blazed in Elrohir's heart, it gave a thump of joy. 'You threw off Angmar's spell.'

I would die for this man, he thought. I will follow him anywhere. It was not love in the romantic sense, no. But love nevertheless. Elrohir stared in absolute adoration.

'You came from the West in the First Age.' he said wonderingly. 'You have the light of the Trees in your eyes. Your armour is Fëanorian.'

A wince of pain crossed the man's face fleetingly. 'I came from the West,' he agreed, giving Elrohir an oblique look. 'But I can never go back.'

He smiled down at Glorfindel and Elrohir followed his gaze to see that Glorfindel's blue eyes were wide open in absolute shock and regarded the stranger. 'Some have called me Hecilo,' the stranger continued with a wry smile, still looking at Glorfindel. 'But I prefer to be called Vanwë.'

The Lost, thought Elrohir. It was fitting indeed. 'Vanwë seems more polite than Hecilo,' he agreed softly. Better Lost than Outcast.

The warrior, Vanwë, glanced up at Elrohir as if he had forgotten he was there.

'Come back with me,' Elrohir pleaded suddenly. 'Come to Imladris. My father will welcome you.'

Vanwë turned away quickly but Elrohir had already seen that his eyes were bright and full of yearning. 'Please,' he begged. 'You don't know how…lonely he is sometimes.' He felt a jolt at the truth of his own words for he had not truly realised it until now. 'How it would please him to know, to see you. Just once.'

Vanwë winced and closed his eyes briefly. Steeling himself. 'And then? When Imladris divides against me, for me? Where does your father stand then?' He shook his head and looked first at Glorfindel and smiled very gently at him, and then raised his eyes to Elrohir and gazed at him with love. 'I will not do that, not to him. Not to you.'

'For him then? Just once. He will come here. Meet with him?'

'No. It would not be enough. I have hunger enough to devour the world.' He reached out and touched Elrohir's cheek. 'You have given me hope. Love. Sustenance enough for the famine ahead.' Vanwë leaned in to him and said softly, with immense kindness, 'Forgive me, child. Do not speak of me to him. Do not give him hope where there is none.' White power, energy warmed him where Vanwë touched him, smoothed itself through his nerves and curled about his wounded crimson power, warmed him right down to his belly, and cradled him like a child.

He found himself huddled into the cloak that Anneal had thrown around his shoulders and pressed into Vanwë's chest, like a child. A low murmur of a song wound about him, soothed him and lulled him. He felt himself slowly relax against this man, and remembered how hard a battle had been fought, how he had been so close to Angmar, how Khamûl had taunted him, that his unclean lust corrupted him. And yet Vanwë still accepted him.

There was a thrilling of his heartstrings like he had been called, understood, and tears streamed down his face for the love, the understanding. He was cherished. He was accepted. Elrohir's dark lust and secrets did not matter to Vanwë, the helico, for he was reviled and loved in equal measure. He found himself leaning against Saeldir, passed from one warrior to another like a sleepy child and watched through heavy eyes as Vanwë crouched beside Glorfindel, and placed his hand upon Glorfindel's shoulder. Glorfindel's eyes were wide with shock, and recognition. Vanwë leaned down, whispered secret words in the Elf lord's ear. And Elrohir, though he forced himself to waken and be alert, could not hear what was said.

But he could see how Glorfindel closed his eyes and shook his head slightly.

Vanwë whispered again, more urgently and this time, Glorfindel nodded once, carefully for he must have hurt in every bone, in every ligament and tendon of his body.

Glorfindel whispered something, and Vanwë had to lean right down to catch the words. He frowned and his lips parted in disbelief, then urgently questioned Glorfindel more.

At that very moment that there was a clatter of hooves trotting through the gap where the old gateway had once been. It was even more ruined since the Nazgûl had driven their huge winged reptiles through the old fort. Elrohir turned and smiled tiredly, euphoric with utter relief that his friend lived, for it was Tindómion. Tindómion's face was filled with joy as he greeted the Elves that gathered about him and he caught Elrohir's eyes upon him and lifted his hand in greeting.

Elrohir leaned heavily on Saeldir and struggled to his feet. But as he turned, he saw that Vanwë had half risen to his feet, hand stretched out towards Tindómion and his face was raw and so vulnerable, full of loss and disbelief and yearning.

'Nelyo…' he whispered.

For a moment it seemed that Vanwë could not tear his eyes away from Tindómion, and then, there was a flicker of doubt. He froze. And then it seemed to Elrohir that there was a moment of shocked recognition.

Quickly as if burned, he pulled his hand back down and sat hunched over Glorfindel and pulled his cloak over his shoulders. It seemed to Elrohir that he almost disappeared from view. Suddenly the warrior who had ridden to their rescue on Asfaloth, who had charged the Nazgûl shining as if he wore the Silmaril itself in his helm, was an ordinary wayfarer who they might have passed with no more than a casual greeting. Elrohir himself was no stranger to a glamour, a veil over which the eyes of others could skip and see what they expected, but he could not understand why Vanwë might want to melt away now when all wanted to fete him and sing his praises.

For a moment, Vanwë sat silent and still while all the excitement and bustle passed around him. He laid a hand over Glorfindel's eyes and the wounded Elf lord seemed to fall into a deep sleep. Then he rose to his feet and glanced at Elrohir. 'I am glad to have met you, Ravéyön, son of Thunder. And mayhap our paths will cross again some time.' He looked away and without the blaze of his eyes upon him, Elrohir thought again how the old cloak made him look unprepossessing and unremarkable. Already the other elves were looking over him, through him, seemed to have forgotten him almost. Elrohir felt a terrible loss, a tragedy and reached out.

At his touch, Vanwë froze.

He pulled his cloak about himself and rested his finger upon his mouth. It was a shockingly familiar gesture and Elrohir realised that he had seen Elrond do the same. 'Forget me now,' he said and leaned over and kissed Elrohir on his brow…And then he was striding away between the stones, his drab cloak flowing and his dark hair straight down his back. He reached he wall and leapt lightly over it, disappearing into the dark.

0o0o

tbc.

Note: Tindómion is Spiced Wine's character whom she has kindly leant me.

In case you had not guessed it, of course Vanwë is a name Maglor has adopted to disguise his true identity. If you are not familiar with the Silmarillion, Maglor is the second son of Fëanor and of course, Maedhros' brother. Maedhros' family name is Nelyo. And he has just seen Tindómion, his son, who in my verse looks very like Nelyo/Maedhros. When the two brothers attacked Sirion to take the Silmaril from Elwing (rightfully in my view:) she jumped into the sea with the Silmaril but leaving her two children behind. Maedhros and Maglor took the boys, Elrond and Elros of course, firstly as hostages (I imagine) and then came to love them deeply. They had already sent the boys off to Cirdan or Gil-Galad when the Silmarils were recovered and they took them back (not stole them in my verse.) So Elrond sees Maglor as his true father.