Chapter Forty
"Well, if we can't provide them with proof, than this means we have no allies," Estela said grimly. She sat on a chair, lips pressed tight as her eyes flashed.
"What shall we do without them? We do not have the numbers to mount a full assault on Sauron's rebuilt forces when they come."
"We do not," Ereinion agreed. Estela sighed in frustration.
"The problem is, acquiring one."
Estela scoffed. Of course that was the problem.
"Well?" She demanded.
"Send out scouts," Ereinion answered. "Send word to Elrond, at least. He will know what to do."
Estela raised her eyebrows. "Ereinion, tell me, can we prevent this?"
"The All-Father has never let evil gain victory in this world," Ereinion said sternly. "And I doubt very much that He will now. Send out word. We will be ready when he comes."
Estela looked at him for a long while, sighed, and nodded, realising to argue with him was futile. She rose and left.
Ereinion watched her go. In all truth, he would rather she stay close to him, or behind with Vanimelda. But she was the most capable military commander besides himself, what else could he do?
But still fear knotted his gut, unlike when he came close to death himself, when he thought of his wife and remaining child.
What will happen to them? He swallowed all thoughts. What must be done, will be done.
Vanimelda played in her nursery. The golden ball, carved and embossed with intricate flowers and leafy stems and beautifully painted top were only touched half-heartedly today. Her doll lay discarded after a while.
Something was not right. Vanimelda closed her eyes.
She reached out, and she saw a mountain. No, she was on the mountain.
The highest mountain there ever was. Peaked with snow. And around them stars. So many stars, all of them brighter than they looked down below, shining as if with a secret fire. They seemed to dance, and many of them moved. They burned with a life of their own, and she as she looked in wonder at the light and colour, she seemed to notice what appeared to be a number of maidens, save that they were seemingly silver-white in colour- scooping handfuls of a glowing substance from huge vats.
Then they lifted them into the sky and the balls of light floated up and burst into a pure, coloured flame, and became stars.
Vanimelda watched with wide eyes.
She turned around. The place changed.
She saw green fields and meadows, deep cut valleys, so rich a green, they were positively vibrant with life. Flowers of all kinds, bloomed among the green, of creamy pastel shades or deep, richly vivid colours.
She saw a group of beings, male and female, green like the vegetation, or coloured like the blooms, or wood- resembling a strange, and yet hauntingly beautiful mix of elf and plant-life- tending to the vegetation, stroking the flowers, helping them grow towards the sun, to bloom, to burst in different colours, and to make the shoots burst forth to create new trees.
She turned around. She saw some similar beings- but different in that they seemed more akin to the trees and with incredibly slight animal features, such as the ears of a deer- guiding the herds out into the meadow.
She turned again.
She saw a huge city, rising on a green hill. On top of which, a towering silver lantern, sparkled like crystal in the daylight.
It was made of marble, with vines and rich flowers bordering just about everything, and jewels. Since when were they so common?
"Tirion," she heard a female voice say. "City of the Noldor upon Valinor. Birthplace and home of your forebears.
"And someday, you shall return here, Vanimelda."
Vanimelda turned to look at the source of the voice, but instead found herself back in her nursery.
The nursery seemed peaceful. Nothing was out of place. All her toys were there. The paintings on the walls, done by her mother, were still beautiful, rich and shone with colour and seemingly, life. She rose and touched one.
It was a city, out in the distance. On a hill.
"We have proof." Someone declared.
Ereinion and Estela turned sharply around as one of their councillors, named Alyano was beaming exuberantly from the doorway.
Estela looked bewildered at Ereinion. Ereinion raised an eyebrow.
"An army of orcs march across Minas Anor- the newly-built capital of Gondor- this very moment. Elendil calls for aid."
"What?!" Nearly everyone jumped at the harsh, almost enraged tone of Ereinion's voice.
He looked furious. Contrary to what Alyano naively believed.
Estela came over and touched her husband's arm. He calmed down.
"Send out for a muster," he ordered. "Call out for as many as you can."
A general nodded and left to carry out the High King's orders.
Brooding a storm, Ereinion turned to the window. This was not good.
Suddenly, Elrond came in. Ereinion raised an eyebrow. "Elrond, this is an unexpected arrival. But Minas Anor is to be laid at siege by Sauron. Do you bring aid?"
"Better yet, my king," Elrond replied, leading Ereinion's eyebrow to go higher. Puzzled, everyone looked at him. Elrond smiled, and parted, making way for an elf, tall as the ancients- though not as much as Estela's father- with alabaster skin, noble, chiselled features, hair like pure gold in some lights and bright golden in others, and the deepest blue eyes. He was dressed in Noldorin armour- by the likes of which Estela had not seen since the end of the First Age. In fact, most of it looked like….
It had come from the Noldorin of Aman. And about him, an outer spring-green cloak with a crest bearing an emblem- a golden rayed sun.
The elf bowed. He radiated such magnificence and majesty, strength and grace, reminiscent of the Golden Age of the Elves. Only Gil-Galad matched him in presence.
Everyone fell silent at the entrance of this lord.
For a while no one spoke. Then someone- no one remembered who it was- asked, "Who is this?" In a choked, dry voice.
The majestic elf did not even bat an eyelid. He seemed to shine with the light of the Ainur, with so much purity, strength and grace that he could have beena legendary figure of greatness in the days of old.
How true they turned out to be.
"My King, my Queen," Elrond announced. "May I present, Lord Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower."
Elendil, son of Amandil, looked worried. His sons, Isildur and Anarion stood nearby, watching him on the walls of Minas Anor.
How in Arda did the city manage to rise so quickly? Only with their skills and brains, and those of the elves.
The gleaming city now rose from Hill of the Guard, which itself jutted out from Mount Mindolluin. With seven levels, each one rising one hundred feet above the last, with the King's House, the courtyard with the White Tree- sprung from the fruit of Nimloth stolen from Armenelos- overlooking the Pelennor Fields, where it had a good view of, well, everything.
And although human eyes, even Númenórean ones, could not see what was happening, the scouts- who barely escaped with their lives- reported back what was approaching.
They were in trouble.
Elendil sent word to Gil-Galad for aid.
Isildur looked grim, Anarion worried, and both knew Sauron would have an overwhelmingly large force. He always had.
It was his style. Not merely to strike fear and terror in the hearts and minds of Men, but to crush anything as ruthlessly as could be.
Elendil looked at his sons, at the city built by them, at the new-found realm around them, and wondered, how strong were their people and line to withstand Sauron, Morgoth's lieutenant from an Ages ago.
"Shouldn't he be in Valinor?" Someone asked still dumbstruck.
Everyone gawked in awe at the legendary Balrog-Slayer of the First Age. It wasn't possible.
There was no way this could be Glorfindel. But this person…
Who else could it be? Only a hero of old. Or a Maia.
The shining elf bowed again.
"I assure you, my King and Queen that this is Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin. He has been re-embodied and returned from Mandos."
"But then shouldn't he still be on Valinor?" Someone blurted.
"He has been sent here." Elrond finished. "For a purpose, my King." The golden Balrog slayer said.
"A purpose?" Gil-Galad asked. He was possibly the one who recovered from the shock best of all. "What purpose would the Valar have in sending the Balrog Slayer back to Middle-Earth where he should endure and suffer pain and to fight alongside us, instead of basking in the bliss of the light?"
Elrond said, "Perhaps, I'd better let him explain." He moved aside further.
Glorfindel moved closer to the table. If he was aware, and uneasy at all the gawking they were giving him, he gave no sign.
"My King, my queen." Glorfindel began. "Yes, it is true. After I fell with the beast of Morgoth, I arrived in the Halls of Mandos. I thought to be judged and to remain in Valinor for all my days. But a decision was made, by more the one Vala that sent me back here, where I fought and lived before my end." Estela narrowed her eyes.
She spoke nothing, though. Why should she?
She only stood by her husband's side as the regal and imposing king looked nonetheless impressed by the Balrog-Slayer.
"I see, so you have come to help us defeat Sauron?" The Balrog-Slayer nodded.
"If my King will accept my help." He got down on one knee, and withdrew his sword. Placing the blade flat on the palms of his hands he presented it to Gil-Galad.
"I offer you my sword and allegiance as it is."
Everyone's eyes turned to Gil-Galad to see his reaction. His eyebrow was raised, and while Estela watched warily, he moved forwards slowly, and placed his hand on Glorfindel's shoulder.
"Rise." The warrior did so. "I accept your fealty, Lord Glorfindel and am more than honoured to do so, as are we all." Glorfindel looked up. "By your experience and wisdom, surely we can count on you as more than a steadfast ally? Can we count you as an advisor in these matters? For surely, you better than anyone, know of the danger that awaits a battle with evil."
Glorfindel bowed his head, hand over his heart. "It would be considered a great honour."
Later, Ereinion walked through the hallways.
"Where is the Queen?" He asked a passing attendant.
"In her weaving room, Sire." The maiden curtsied, and left carrying a stack of towels.
Ereinion sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. She only went there to relieve her stress about something. Or worry. Or anger. Or boredom.
Being a gifted weaver meant that one could easily unwind oneself amidst all the miniscule knots and tiny, prickling needles of weaving fabric, he thought ruefully. He could never understand her love of the art, though he certainly was in awe of the results, as the rest.
He arrived in the weaving room- and it was not a small room, by the way- and noted Estela sitting on the stool in front of her monumental loom. Acres of fabric extended from the machine out to various hooks and sections of the place built to hang and hold fabric of all lengths and types. It was lush and luminous in colour, the material. She often made her own clothes, and just about everyone's, he reflected. Even the clothing the servants wore. And tapestries, drapes- anything for trading. Her own gift had come from a foremother she resented, though she kept it to him and herself.
"Estela?" He closed the door.
Estela said nothing and gave no indication she even knew he was there. She simply used the shuttle on the fabric, before pulling and closing the shed of the loom. She put the shuttle down.
"I'm amazed the Balrog-Slayer is here." She said. He raised an eyebrow and regarded her in silence. "What do you have against him?"
"Nothing," she said, turning back to her weaving. "Just surprised to see someone from Turukáno's guard arrive here all of a sudden. From Gondolin." She remarked.
The High King remembered something. "You were close with Idril, weren't you?"
"Yes." She said. She used the shuttle to comb the fabric again. "Though I didn't see her since we parted ways and never knew of her marriage and son, until Maeglin's betrayal. I never knew him either."
"Huh." Ereinion moved slightly. "What was your relationship with Turukáno?"
"Quite well, actually," Estela said, still weaving. "Though I don't know whether he blamed my grandfather, father and uncles for his wife's demise."
Ereinion grunted. He moved closer to her.
Estela put the shuttle down and faced him. "I don't know if this elf from the First Age sees me as the same as the stories of my family. Why should he want to see me? Shouldn't he blame me, for all the misfortune there was? My grandfather dragging him and his kin out of the safety of Valinor and wonder if the daughter is something like the father? That is what one would wonder, isn't it, if they never saw or heard of me fight."
She rose. "What makes you think that?" Ereinion demanded. "Because forgiveness is a very rare thing in this world, as I've discovered. If it was would Númenor have been lost? Would Orodreth have had this feud with-"
"So you judge that he has feelings towards you without knowing you?" Ereinion demanded. "Come now, Estela. You're more intelligent than that. I thought you've stopped blaming yourself for what your family has done."
"Maybe," Estela said.
"Then why the fuss?"
"Because I cannot get rid of my feelings towards my family. I cannot condemn them the way others have. I cannot rid my memories of love and happiness and speak ill of them. And therefore, people will think ill of me, if they ever know of that."
"You cannot know that." Ereinion said. "Not all the records show them in a bad light." Estela's lip curled. "The kinslayings are recorded in every history book there is. The Kinslaying at Alqualondë- the breath-takingly beautiful harbour of the swans. The Sacking of Doriath- that great city. The Havens of Sirion- a safe place for elves- or so it was."
"Elrond speaks no ill of them- they raised him, and they raised him well. You did as well, as I recall." His eyes narrowed.
Estela was silent.
"What will you have me do?" She asked. "Do you really think this person would really be willing to take orders from the granddaughter of Fëanor, should the time come? After all that's happened to him- do you think he'd want to?"
The exile of the Noldor. The Fall of Gondolin. The Balrog that he slew but caused him to fall to his death. What if he had been haunted and scarred by the past, to be willing to see her in a new light?
And even though she never admitted it, Estela feared above all else, apart from what could befall the ones she cared about, was reliving the ghosts of a past she had sought to bury a long time ago.
Estela was not in any miniscule way flawed as a queen, military commander and stateswoman or even a hostess, and she gave absolutely no indication of what she felt having the Balrog-Slayer there, she did not seek him out the way everyone else expected her two-after all, why wouldn't two military commanders, and legendary figures who had lived through the First Age want to meet and interact with one another, talking about military experiences.
But as it happened, Estela barely exchanged words with the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower. Unless one counted formal greetings and instructions as to where and when the next briefing would take place.
In fact, though people did not see any deliberate action of the queen in this, though they certainly remarked upon it, she downright avoided him.
That is, she did what she could to do just that without seeming rude.
After all this time, Elrond thought, frowning to himself. Glorfindel, though he had not voiced it, had wondered if he had done something to offend the queen.
But as one would have it, Estela was packing textiles, many of which she had spun and woven herself, rolling them up and packing them away in preparation for the moving to Minas Anor, instructing the others on how to properly pack weapons, when Glorfindel arrived in the room.
The weaving room had mostly been emptied, save for the loom. After all, how was she supposed to use that while on the march? There were more than enough bandages, blankets, spare clothing of all sizes, towels, wash-cloths and so forth, that she already made. Now there were mostly boxes and chests.
Glorfindel looked upon this with a carefully guarded expression.
The queen wore riding clothes, nothing fancy. But I no way did this diminish her beauty. Her gold-and-silver-streaked copper hair- and the colour was truly striking- was done in braids swept away from her face. She was a blade used for battle, a helm. Not a useless bauble or trinket.
Eventually, Estela registered his presence. "Lord Glorfindel." She said emotionlessly.
He bowed. "My Queen."
"What brings you here?" She asked him.
"The High King asked me to escort and assist you in any way if need be." He replied.
Estela's arched eyebrow raised. "Well, we are actually well and sorted, my lord Glorfindel. And most of the things have already been packed ever since we decided to go."
He nodded but could not keep his eyes off her. He was looking intensely, no scrutinizing her. There was no denying that.
Estela turned back to the remaining fabric and rolled it up. Tucking it into a leather case, she turned back to the Balrog-Slayer.
She cocked her head to one side. The Balrog-Slayer was studying her with no small amount of curiosity, interest and fascination, and… was it wistfulness?
"My lord?" She enquired coolly.
The Balrog-Slayer blinked. "Forgive me, my Queen." He bowed. "I had no intention of being discourteous, especially to you. It's just that… The Princess Idril speaks greatly of you."
"Itarillë?" Estela could not help the look of intense shock that spread across her face.
He blinked. "Yes, my lady. She said you were quite close."
Estela blinked spastically.
No one apart from those that had known them personally in Valinor, had ever known her and Idril to be close, sisters in fact, in spirit if not in blood, though they were kin.
She recovered herself. "Yes," she said, trying to regain her composure. "Long ago. But I did not see her again since… well, I think you know. We never even bade each other farewell. I never saw her again, nor have I heard of her since the Fall of Gondolin. Only that she and Tuor sailed to Valinor. Nothing more of her."
Glorfindel registered this for a moment, with pain. "I'm sorry, my lady I should not have mentioned it."
"None of it was your doing," Estela murmured, passing a hand over her face, before turning back to the packing. "Was she happy?"
Glorfindel appeared mildly surprised at this question. "Yes, I believe so." He looked at her again, studying her closely. "She never stopped missing you. She wished you were there with her. It pained her that she did not hear news from you and did not meet her son." The words were spoken softly, yet were harsh with a remembered pain, for what was long gone.
Estela closed her eyes. "Yes. I felt the same." She was amazed her voice did not tremble and remained strong. Estela opened them, and looked into Glorfindel's. "Those days are long-since passed. The Sun has been shining for nearly two Ages now."
"Yes." Glorfindel said softly.
"I hope she finds her peace," Estela said quietly. "Wherever she is."
Itarillë had married a mortal. Who knew if she still lived, or her body had faded and she chose to stay in Mandos with her fëa-mate.
They were both silent for a while.
"I pray you find your peace, Lord Glorfindel." Estela said quietly. He looked up at her, blue eyes searching, with more than just wistfulness now. They were both elves who had lost something.
"Just as I pray for you, my lady." Glorfindel said, sincerely and sorrowfully. Estela nodded her thanks, and the ice broke between them. Even if they did not speak of more painful things. She went and finished her packing.
"Is it done?" Sauron's mighty but cold voice, more chilling than the thought of being in Angband, boomed.
"Yes, master." The orc hissed in pleasure. "The plans for attack have been set in motion as you requested." It licked its parched lips and leered. "Soon, we will have a war they cannot win."
"I doubt that." Sauron said. "I would never underestimate the High King and his wife. Estela alone does more damage twitching her little finger than the orcs do in their tens of thousands."
The orc flinched, expecting to be struck- or worse.
Sauron's back was turned to the orc. He stood over a chasm, of which overlooked a sea of lava. It was inside Mount Doom, as he called it.
Here, the last and greatest Ring of Power would be made.
"Do you have it?" he asked someone else.
Another orc came with a box. It opened it, and inside, gleaming and winking in the fiery light, were sixteen rings.
He had obtained the Rings of Power.
Sauron always had his ways.
If the helm showed it, they would have seen Sauron smile. But that chilling sight was never seen, as all was silent, save for the noises of the lava below.
"The boy?" Sauron said suddenly. "Is he safe?"
The orc bowed, twitching. "Yes, master. He is safe. He will not leave."
"Good." Sauron turned back to the lava. "Make sure he never does."
Estela met with Celebrimbor before they left.
"Do you wish me to ride with you?" He asked.
Estela hesitated, looking back at Ereinion. "I think we have enough. And besides, we're worried Sauron might pull up a surprise attack on Lindon, Eregion, Imladris, or anywhere else. With him wearing Vilya and leaving, the whole of Lindon will be vulnerable- unless you count the power of Narya with Círdan in the Grey Havens. Please… just be safe. Be safe and keep your wife and child safe, the way I wished for my firstborn, and would hesitate nothing to do the same for my second child."
Celebrimbor frowned. "You know I don't like you going into battle without me."
"I know." Estela said. "But it's not like we haven't done it before. Sometimes we need brains rather than sheer numbers- and we certainly would need it in order to defeat Sauron's forces in Minas Anor." She looked pained. "I will miss riding out with you. I always will. But at least I am consoled you are with your family. And nothing can compete with that."
"Family is everything," Celebrimbor murmured. And he went over and touched her shoulder. "As is all of mine. All. My daughter and my wife. And my sister. My Osellë."
He used the Quenya word for bond-sister. They were cousins, true, but they were not siblings in flesh and blood. But they were bond-siblings in heart and spirit and that would never change. She choked on emotion. But her composure held, save for a sad smile.
"And mine as well, Otorno," she said referring to him by the male term.
"Take care, and be safe." Estela whispered, as the two pulled together into an embrace. "I love you, brother of my heart. And there is nothing I wouldn't do for you. Ever."
"And I you, Sister." Celebrimbor whispered, trying to supress his tears. "Keep yourself safe and come home. Come home to us, to your child- to all who love you more than you know."
She nodded, and turned to go back to the horses.
As she turned one last time, Estela had the eerie, creeping, horrifying feeling that something was about to cut the anchors that held her down through all the turbulence her life had given her. That when she looked at Celebrimbor for the last time before they took off, that she was memorising his face and form, though she already knew it by heart, as if she would never see it again.
He was doing the same thing.
Estela and Ereinion rode all the way to Minas Anor.
"What will happen once we reach there?" She asked him. "Will we find the hosts of Mordor already camped and ready for battle?"
Ereinion frowned. He was worried. His brow furrowed. "I do not know. There is much we have yet to learn."
"He has every reason to attack Gondor," Estela said. "So why do we feel so uneasy?"
Ereinion looked at her.
"It isn't that this attack came all of a sudden, soon after Númenor's downfall." Ereinion said. "It isn't that he managed to gather a large host in time, and built and fortified the land of Mordor to suit his needs."
"So what is it?" She asked desperately.
"I do not know."
Estela's mind wandered back to her daughter.
She had knelt in front of the little girl, and gave her a kiss. But not before giving her a pendant. It was mithril swirls similar to the rays of the eight-pointed star, the symbol of the House of Fëanáro-or the stars of her father's coat of arms. The heart of the pendant was a white stone, glittering and glowing with white light so pure and bright, it seemed to have a life of its own.
"You, my child." She whispered. "Are the most precious thing in this world to your father and I. Never forget that. I will love you, far more than my own life, even more than you can ever know. I love you, and so does your father, more than anything or anyone can ever describe in words or gestures."
Estela brought herself back to reality. Her heart clenched and threatened to tear. Tears sprung in her eyes but she did not show them. She hoped the Valar and the All-Father would keep her safe, no matter what happens, no matter what came and threw itself into the world. Now that they were so far away from Valinor.
If not for her, than at least for her daughter. There was nothing- nothing she wouldn't do for her daughter. She would do, kill or even be anything for Vanimelda. She would even die by torment.
When did I become like this? She mused. So emotional. A wreck, even?
She had no answers for herself. It could have been the trauma of what happened to her son. It could have been that marriage changed her feelings. Estela, once so in control, had becoming like the storms of Ossë inside. Unpredictable. Uncontrollable. Wild even, though she shrank from the idea of being that.
But she prayed nonetheless, with all her heart, to the All-Father, silently praying that Vanimelda would not suffer torment and death, or a life like the one her mother had lived.
Hopefully, she would grow and flourish in joy and peace. As any child deserves.
The Rings of Power have been distributed. Only the elves were too blind to see it. Not even the Power of the Three held by Gil-Galad, Galadriel and Círdan could sense that.
The humans had taken the Rings eagerly. In fact, they did not even bother to question the giver, when their eyes lit up and gleamed with greed and a lust for riches and power which Sauron had ever managed to manipulate to his benefit.
A weakness shared by the dwarves. But the dwarves took some convincing, some grumbling, many of them were naturally suspicious. They were not as weak as Men. Eventually, he would give up on them- but not just yet.
Sauron stood, and saw all.
Mordor marched upon Gondor- they were just a doorstep away. But he was the Trickster. The Deceiver.
They had no idea what was coming.
Let them have their victory- at least, so they think.
Estela was wrenched out of the thoughts of her daughter, when she saw Minas Anor rise in front of her.
Minas Anor- City of Kings. Tower of the Sun. And oh, it gleamed the marble in the light was breath-taking. Truly one of the wonders of the world.
Everywhere around her, she heard exclamations of amazement and awe. She tried to supress a smile.
"Impressive," Glorfindel said. "It appears the Race of Men has grown great." She had almost forgotten that he was never there to see Númenor rise from the sea, or humans start civilisations of their own.
"You have no idea," Estela murmured, and urged her horse forward.
They rode, whereupon the guards permitted them entry with great ceremony and fanfare.
Was that truly necessary?
But Elendil himself, his wife and sons, came and bowed low to the High King of the elves and his wife, which was returned by Ereinion.
"Mellon-nin." Elendil bowed, the greeting which was returned by Ereinion.
"It is good to see you," Elendil said. "Hope has returned with your arrival."
Estela watched from the horse, before dismounting. Elendil turned to her.
"My lady." Elendil said.
Estela bowed her head in respect. "My lord."
Ereinion smiled. "We only hope that we can work together to drive Sauron from these lands."
Hopefully we can do something more than that, Estela thought. She wanted him annihilated.
"I pray soon." Ereinion said, and Elendil agreed. Ereinion motioned for Glorfindel to come forth.
"And who is this?" Elendil asked, after a moment of awe for the gold-haired elf.
"Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower in Gondolin, and Slayer of Morgoth's Balrog."
There was a gasp from the humans assembled.
Estela stifled a wry smile, as Glorfindel bowed. He would never be another soldier amongst them.
Mordor marched against them.
Estela knew they came.
They were not at Gondor yet. The news was that they had received was that the landing of ships- consisting of humans- corsairs, orcs (who hated water and would only sail upon it if someone like Morgoth or Sauron was commanding them) human mercenaries, and Dark Númenóreans, remnants of the King's Men on Middle-Earth.
They would land in the Bay of Belfalas.
How clever. Then they would draw them out of Anórien, the capital province surrounding Minas Anor.
And what happened then?
"They would hold our attention, and since they outnumber us, they have enough troops to spare." Gil-Galad murmured quietly.
"Then they would go around and attack Minas Anor." She couldn't remember who spoke- it was either her husband or Glorfindel.
Instead, Estela's mind was far away.
How in the name of the Valar did they have enough troops to spare- or more than enough? How was it that every time elves, men and dwarves either separate or combined, faced the forces of darkness, led by Sauron or Morgoth, they were always outstandingly outnumbered? Of course, numbers did not always win. In fact, many times, strategy and courage saved the day for all Middle-Earth. But if there was one thing all the history she had had taught her, is that always they were outnumbered.
How?
Of course, she knew how orcs were first made by Morgoth, or Melkor. But Morgoth was long gone, and Sauron was no Morgoth in terms of power- though he certainly outwitted even his master in cunning. How did Sauron manage to get an army of vast proportions so fast, minus the humans that came to his side? By all accounts after the War of Wrath, orcs and trolls were scattered and disbanded, hunted down by all others, and the Balrogs disappeared deep underground.
If this was how much he had, he was bound to have many more at his disposal in Mordor.
"What are we to do?" Estela heard herself speaking as if from a great distance.
"A plan has been developed, which would work on their weakness as well as their thinking they have the upper hand," was the response from Ereinion. "A window of opportunity has opened up to us, and it would be dangerous to let it get away."
"Most of us would be on foot," Glorfindel continued. "In phalanx formation. In the hills above Belfalas we would have a clear look at what the enemy is doing." Ereinion explained. He was pointing to the hills on the map of Gondor and Arnor's territories.
"They outnumber us. They have humans and orcs- many of the humans are Dark Númenóreans, survivors of the King's Men of Númenor, who left to colonise and invade Middle-Earth. Their archers are from Khand, cavalry riders from Rhûn , and Dark Númenóreans swordsmen.
"They are formidable," Ereinion said dryly. "But they have weaknesses which we can exploit. They have little in common with one another, and they look down and detest the orcs, who hate them in return, although Sauron's power keeps them from ripping each other to shreds. So I think you can guess their weaknesses."
"They may not even share a common way of fluent communication." Estela realised. "They do not have a language to share, and they hate one another, fighting only out of greed, bloodlust and fear of Sauron. But then…"
She dared not say more.
"The commander, Dolguzagar, the Dark Númenórean, has concocted a plan," Ereinion continued. "He desires nothing more than a quick victory, planning only to attack us unawares. Of course, as has been spoken, he plans to hold and overwhelm us, whilst attacking Minas Anor through the long way. Whereupon the cavalry and quantities of infantry would sail to the capital, whereas twelve thousand orcs and men would stay to attack us in the coast of Belfalas."
He scoffed.
Glorfindel smiled slightly and shook his head. "They will not have the time. It will take ten hours in the very least, to get to Minas Anor, and we shall attack them- whilst their cavalry is far away.
"We shall ready them for battle." "And there we shall move, not in the usual phalanx, but in another shape and form which will disallow them to take advantage of our small size and close in around us, like the arms of death." Ereinion said grimly.
"The widest range possible shall be used to form our new phalanx." He continued. "It shall be weakened, compared to the ones we normally use, but though the centre be thin, the wings are strong and will close in on them, when they come forwards, rather than they upon us."
Estela expelled the breath she didn't even realise she was holding.
"That's not what bothers me," Estela said. "With every elf and man we lose, and we are likely to lose many, Sauron has more than two orcs to jump and take each loss' place for his side. If he has so much now, how much more will he have the next time he chooses to strike, if he wins, and we are still recuperating from a loss? We cannot afford to lose."
Everyone else looked at each other, and they knew she was right.
"And even if we win, they will still attack," she said. "We need time, time to build up our numbers, time to heal wounds, gather fresh supplies and re-group. So do they- but they have other forces at their reserve. Retreat for them may be necessary, to lick their wounds, but they are still more formidable and dangerous than us, if you count their numbers."
"Which is why we cannot allow this window of opportunity to pass," Ereinion said. "Everything depends on it."
She grimaced inwardly and frowned. Ereinion saw and his look softened.
"I know you do not like going through with so little options for retreat, regrouping and another attack in case this one fails," he said. "But here we have no choice. In every other aspect, they will outnumber and are likely to prove successful against us. The All-Father and the Valar has presented us with a window of opportunity and we must arise and take it in our grasp before it passes."
Ereinion did not move his gaze from his wife, who hesitated, then reluctantly nodded. Sauron was even worse than Morgoth in some ways.
"Where is Sauron?" He asked suddenly. "That servant of Morgoth is not anywhere to be seen. He lurks in Mordor, but do we know that he will not come out?"
"He will never risk himself," Glorfindel said suddenly. "Not in a 'minor' battle such as this. He will keep to the shadows of Mordor."
"But what is he doing?" Estela asked quietly. "It's what he's doing and what he's planning next that can be more dangerous than the last move."
Celebrimbor awoke in the middle of the night. Something by far was not right.
"Silmiel," he shook his wife awake. "Silmiel!"
She woke suddenly and she gasped. "Telpe," she whispered. "What's going on?"
Without answering, Celebrimbor slid out of bed and left to enter his safest store house. Here, the wards were powerful and strong, and Celebrimbor opened them, so he could look into the box where the sixteen Rings were supposed to lie.
Except that when he opened it, they weren't there.
He knew then, they were in serious trouble. This was no mere dream.
"Alert the dwarves!" He ordered one of his sentries when he emerged. "Send messengers to Círdan in Lindon, Elrond in Imladris and Galadriel in Lothlórien. What we have feared the worst has come to past."
The chilling question was, what was Sauron planning to do next? He needed a way to bind the sixteen rings to him, through another ring, but why would the former Maia of Aulë need him to make those Rings for him?
Because Sauron, then Mairon, had never been the best Maia at smith-work. Even Fëanor did better than him. Sauron's strength lay in forgery of a different kind. The reason why the Silmarils were so sought after, and the Palantiri. The reason why he needed Celebrimbor to make the Rings of Power. Because they had great strength and beauty of another quality that none could imagine.
And Celebrimbor knew where the last Three lay. Sauron would want them, no matter what the cost.
Very soon, the walls started to shake and orcs started to arrive on the fringes of Eregion.
Estela, oblivious to her cousin's peril, saw the armies dismount and noted the ships set sail.
They had waited for a long while. Now was the time to strike.
The phalanx moved forwards and the sneering orcs and their human allies, stood in place.
"The archers," Ereinion said quietly. Both she and Glorfindel, who was standing nearby, knew what he meant. Their archers could cause serious damage. In the meantime they had to concentrate what was in front of them.
"We have to go quickly," Glorfindel said, and Estela nodded. He was right.
But they had planned for this. And they were capable.
"Send out the signal," Ereinion said. "Keep marching. For now."
And so they did.
And so they waited. And so the enemy waited. For now.
Then the signal came. The elves and Dúnedain broke into a run, much to the shock of the awaiting enemy ranks.
No one ran in armour. Yes, these were elves, strong and light and quick on their feet, but even so, this was unusual. Most times elves leapt out of nowhere. Most times they waited before charging. They did not run recklessly into battle.
Suddenly they had to quell their fears. The sight of elves, dangerous, lethal actually, ready-armed and running towards them, ready to kill, does strange things to one's nerves. Their own infantry wasn't so heavily-armed.
"Form ranks!" The order was given both in Black Speech and the humans' various tongues.
They hastily did so, managing not to trip, somehow, but barely had any time to react as the elves and Dúnedain rained upon them like the end had come.
The enemy men fought with no fear left, and with all the strength they could muster. They gritted their teeth and pushed on. They would not give in. They would not bow down. They would resist at all costs. But it was of little avail.
The orcs screeched and brutally cut down any who came upon them.
The Enemy Commander ordered them to push forwards. No matter the cost, push forwards! They did so and despite the strength of men and elves, by sheer numerous weight alone, they managed to succeed.
Glorfindel gritted his teeth, and Estela shook with rage. They had no time for this! They had to move quickly!
Ereinion also gritted his teeth and his eyes flashed with rage, but he gave the signal.
Suddenly the wings closed in on the enemy's charging ranks and proceeded to push and cut down the enemy line from the sides.
They pushed. Inwards they went, and they pushed.
Again they pushed and they fought, again the pressed forwards and harder than ever. They gritted their teeth, and sweat poured down men's necks, while muscles and veins bulged as their eyes flashed with rage, but they still fought tirelessly.
They cut down the enemy like they were butter, and annihilated most of them, all the while, pushing and driving them closer to the sea.
Stupidly, belatedly, the stunned archers, desperate, shot their arrows, but the problem was, their own troops and allies, were so packed closely with their enemy that their own soldiers started to fall due to friendly fire alone.
"Forwards!" Ereinion shouted. Glorfindel led the charge, glad to do so, once again.
The screams of men and orcs could be heard as they were either slaughtered, pushed back or both. And still the humans and elves kept pushing them back towards the sea.
Watching from his ship, his eyes wide, the second-in-command of this force ordered the retreat. They hastily rushed towards the water, and tried to reach the ships desperately. The elven archers shot at them, but then paused.
"Cut them off!" Estela was heard shouting. "Cut them off!" Glorfindel led his contingent to do just that.
Few survived the onslaught.
While the surviving humans sailed off, refusing to help any of their disgusting allies, whom they were happy to leave for dead in the Bay of Belfalas, those that were not so lucky, mainly orcs, were left to be slaughtered in the water they so hated. After all, when had one ever seen an orc bathe or drink pure water?
"We have no time!" It could have been either Estela or Glorfindel who said it, but Ereinion did not pay attention. He was already moving onto the next phase of the plan.
"We march and ride to Minas Anor," he said. "Now!"
In the meanwhile, Dolguzagar, the Dark Númenórean commander, had just received the news. Shocked, he was even further so, and horrified to see that they were in position, ready to defend Minas Anor. The attacking force froze.
They knew they had lost this day. And Sauron was not going to be pleased. But while most of the humans fled to their own lands, the orcs were the ones who bore the brunt of it all. The whip and lash inflicted by an enraged Sauron, onto his useless servants, would come later. After his own personal triumph.
Celebrimbor put on his armour.
The attack was coming, and he knew it.
"Silmiel," he called. "Silmiel!"
His wife came running. "Telpe, for Manwë's sake, what is it?"
"We're under attack," Celebrimbor chose not to mince his words and he tightened the straps of his cuirass. He summoned one of his guards. "Sound the alarm. We are under attack." The elf hastily bowed and ran off.
"Get Eleniel!" He barked to his wife. "Retreat to the courtyard. Now!"
Pale and terrified, Silmiel ran to get her daughter.
Celebrimbor drew his sword, the metal gleamed menacingly in the moonlight.
Sauron was coming. This much he was certain.
The orcs came. They attacked the city, and many of their inhabitants fell.
Thanks to the clever, yet secret system of communication Celebrimbor devised for his ally, the dwarves of Khazad-dûm, the dwarves had arrived quickly and began to help their friends defend the city.
Wave after wave of orcs attacked, and the elves and dwarves combined pushed them back, like a flood, and victory it seemed was drawing near.
They thought too soon.
Celebrimbor drew Azkâr, his great bow, and shot two orcs as they came towards him. Black blood squirted from the eye socket of the first of the orcs as they fell.
Celebrimbor's only thought was protecting his family. They were behind him, Eleniel clutching at her mother in fright.
Celebrimbor drew his sword and they came. He slashed one, spinning to one side, and cutting its throat by the side. He quickly sliced the middle of the next one, and cut down a third, before fighting a pair who tried to overwhelm him, by stabbing one in the throat and the other in the gut. He didn't even keep count, as he, Celebrimbor, scion of one of the mightiest warrior Houses of all the Eldar, spun his sword and sliced into many more, untouched by any, uncatchable by all, invincible, glorious and legendary to all those who beheld him.
Yes, victory seemed near.
One more to go, Celebrimbor desperately thought, wishing nothing more than his family to be safe.
He gave a mighty leap through the air, and plunged his sword into the heart of the next foul creature who wanted to dispatch his family to the Halls of Mandos, or even worse, Mordor.
But as he thought it was over and thought that he could breathe in relief and get them out of there, a light exploded in front of him, knocking him back, and causing him to land on one knee.
It made even the strong elven Celebrimbor shield his eyes. But it was not a holy light.
A huge, gigantic figure, armoured in iron, with a helm crowned with spikes, covering his face, appeared at the edge of the courtyard.
Sauron.
Now Celebrimbor knew he was defeated. But he had no choice. He would give his all, still, to save his family no matter what.
He leapt and lunged.
Celebrimbor, mighty scion of Fëanáro's House.
But the mace struck.
And the last thing Celebrimbor saw was his family being dragged away by Sauron's foul creatures. His wife screaming his name, and his daughter crying, "Atar! Atar!" He tried to reach out to them, but others grabbed him and he saw a pulsing red light emitting from the mace of Sauron, as the great, huge, hulking figure made his way towards him, with booming footsteps that threatened to shake the foundations of everything.
And the voice, deep, chilling, and terrifying even to the bravest hearts.
"Take him to Mordor."
Celebrimbor knew this was just the beginning of the end.
Estela rode to the command tent. Whatever it was, it was not good.
The enemy had retreated- fled even. But something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. She emerged in the command tent to find her husband alone. No military advisors. Not even Glorfindel, whose advice he took greatly now.
"Estela," Ereinion said. His voice was grim, and full of strong warning. His eyes were agonized. Pained and hating what he had to do next.
"What's the news?" She asked breathlessly.
"You were right." He said. "The armies of Sauron marched upon Eregion."
Estela's breath caught in her throat. Eregion… no!
She nearly fell. Clutching the table and gasping, she struggled to see, to function, to even breathe. Eregion, no!
Celebrimbor! Silmiel! Eleniel! They were there, in Eregion! Her otorno!
She should have never left.
She ignored Ereinion's pulling her up, to wrench away from him, and sank down to her knees, giving out a wretched, shattered, broken-spirited cry.
The scream echoed through the camps, and everyone outside jumped startled, and panicked, thinking that the High King and Queen were under attack, or possibly in mortal peril.
Ereinion went down with her, but Estela would not stop crying. Her spirit was torn, shattered, ripped from her, and cast out, and she could never get it back. She howled and screamed, wanting nothing more than to claw her heart out, rip it out of her chest, to gouge out her eyes, to scratch her lips and cheeks until they bled, to rip out her hair- anything. Anything to get rid of this pain.
Ereinion caught her, and held her tightly, too tightly for her to push away, and muffled her cries onto his shoulder.
When someone entered, alarmed, he gave them a sharp look and they hastily left as quickly as they came.
And Estela screamed as she felt a part of her soul and heart, the cousin who was more a brother than she could describe, disappear from this world, vanish from the earthly realm…. Forever.
The brother who had been there, when all else had died, and left her be. The last remaining link to a happier past. The only ones she had, save for her husband and children, of her blood-family.
And she was not there to help them. And she could now. Not like in the War of Wrath. And she would never forgive herself for not being there for her Otorno.
Like all the rest of them. And that was why she never truly forgave herself- not because of the shame of her family's deeds, or the Doom of Mandos, the curse inflicted upon her House, but because she wasn't there.
And how do you justify the reasons, to your own heart?
Celebrimbor gritted his teeth, not wanting to give Sauron the satisfaction of hearing him scream in torment.
They held him down. These were no ordinary trolls. Celebrimbor was too strong for that. And he had killed many of them, before they were replaced and they began torturing him to try to find the whereabouts of the Three Elven Rings. But they separated him from his family, which was even worse than the torture, and held him down on his knees as the great menacing armoured figure of Sauron made his way to him, but crumbled and melted away in black shards and dust to reveal the glowing form of… Annatar.
It was Annatar the Fair, the Giver of Gifts who made his way towards him now. But now, Celebrimbor knew just who this was, and what it masked.
Sauron had cut his ring finger. But though black, viscous blood, thinner than normal blood of elves, men or dwarves, appeared, so did a bright, pulsing light that filled Celebrimbor with horror.
His fëa had been exposed. And it showed through the open finger out to Celebrimbor as Sauron placed his hand against his strong, noble jaw and forced him to look into his eyes.
He heard words from a terrible tongue, as terrible as the depths of Utumno and Angband. As terrible, and harsh, horrifying and painful as no mere words should be to an elf.
And although his lips did not move, Celebrimbor heard all.
Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatulûk…
But he fought, and so hard, Celebrimbor, descendant and inheritor of one of the mightiest elves, if not the mightiest, in hröa and fëa, Fëanáro, the Spirit of Fire.
But even the mightiest of spirits could not hold sway against the dark power of Sauron. And so as if by another, as if by afar, Celebrimbor heard himself say the last lines of that verse.
"Agh burzum-ishi krimpatul."
They released him. He rose and stood before Sauron before making his way to the cliff over the lava in Mount Doom.
He had managed to keep the Three Rings hidden from Sauron against all odds and the torture they inflicted upon him.
But in the end, Celebrimbor would pay a terrible price- one even worse than the one he was doing now.
All the information he had had, Sauron gleaned. And so there out of the fires of Mount Doom, out of gold, a ring so perfect, so lustrous and pleasing to the eye was made, of highest quality.
And so Sauron put it on his finger, and the still soft gold shone painfully bright with unnatural, unholy light. And inscriptions of the elegant Tengwar, invented by the grandfather of Celebrimbor and Estela, as horrible a mismatch as could be, appeared in red-flame colouring around the perfectly moulded band. Bearing the inscription that Sauron himself spoke to Celebrimbor and forced him to say the final words of.
No one yet knew.
The One Ring had been forged in Middle-Earth.
Okay that was done! The battle on the Bay of Belfalas in Gondor was inspired by the Battle of Marathon in which the Greeks defended Athens and the rest of their homeland. The tactics and strategy was the same used by the Greeks and the Persians (they showed part of this battle in 300: Rise of an Empire, but they weren't overly concerned about accuracy). The term, Dark Númenóreans, as I've said in the last chapter, was so that the term 'Black Númenóreans' would not have to be used and thus sound offensive to modern audiences- they weren't even dark-skinned. And I know Glorfindel pledged service to Elrond but I'm getting there. He was also supposed to arrive after the War of the Last Alliance, but I'm not the only one who makes it as he has a part to play in this. Sorry!
The One Ring has been made. And I know that they said Sauron forged it in secret, but I'm trying to reconcile both canon, the game The Shadow of Mordor, and the movies together, and provide explanations as to why Sauron needed Celebrimbor's help to create the Rings of Power. He was a Maia of the Vala Smith Aulë, after all. Otorno is the Quenya word for a bond-brother and Osellë for bond-sister. Sorry for the length!