Glorfindel's Flower Knights followed the edge of the forest until the afternoon darkened into twilight and the distant mountains loomed bright in the gold of evening against the awakening stars. The rocky grasslands of the first foothills of the Pelori swept up to the sparse edge of the forest where fragile aspen clung to the stones.
They rode with the boy atop his unicorn protectively in their midst, occasionally casting him glances of friendly curiosity as he rode bareback, like a Sinda. Most of the bright-eyed warriors were Vanyarin and spoke only a very outdated and heavily accented form of Quenya, but their halting conversation was pleasant.
Those few Gondolindrim who had followed their Lord to a violent death ages ago were interested in the changed state of the world. Although the calamities of the Second age were familiar to them, they seemed endlessly entertained by the childlike perspective on history and were soon arguing above his head in their strange, rolling tongue about some philosophical point that Eldarion struggled to follow.
The company of flower knights reached the encamped armies of the high elves just as the sun was descending into the Western haze behind them. As they approached, Glorfindel began a song that his men seemed to know and expect. Their voices echoed in the hills and were answered by the songs of unseen scouts. The music of greeting filled the night as they came around a corner.
Not since the first age had such an alliance been formed so quickly. The encamped tents spread across the grassy hills in a rolling pattern of canopies decorated with the radiant stars of elvish heraldry. Campfires flickered to life as the sun sank below the horizon. Somewhere, someone blew a long and merry trill of welcome on a horn.
The last vermillion light painted the distant towers of a city set on the side of a gap in the mountains. It had no walls, nor any sign of defense; the sculpted pinnacles were ancient and elaborate and decorated with a flowing texture of sculpted detail. A thousand windows glimmered out across the planes.
For a moment, Eldarion was reminded of Minas Anor, and his heart ached for home, he wondered how much time had passed in the mundane world.
"Is that Tirion?" he asked, coming to ride beside Glorfindel on their mounts.
"Indeed," Glorfindel looked pleased, "this is the country of my birth and of your great- grandmother's. The High Queen, who now awaits us in yonder encampment." He pointed to a large tent, which all the others seemed to be arranged around in a vast wheel.
"But I thought Finarfin was the high king of the Noldor in Aman?" Eldarion asked, keeping his voice low to disguise his embarrassing ignorance. "And what of the other kindred and their leaders?"
Glorfindel smiled down at the boy fondly, "And just how long was he expected to maintain that position?" Eldarion had never considered that one might grow tired of kingship after one had spent many mortal lives upon the throne.
"So, he… retired?" Eldarion asked.
"Yeni ago," Glorfindel tossed one hand, "your great, great uncle Ingoldo was, in name at least, the bearer of the title when we returned. He was all too eager to see it passed to his sister," and, he smirked conspiratorially at the boy, "I suspect that she enjoys it."
A column of riding cavalry moved towards the center of the camp from another direction, bearing banners of blue and gold, announced by a trill of pipes and a clear voice calling on the wind. All around them was the bustle of a swiftly assembled host, horses stood beside campfires and tall warriors oiled their blades and adjusted their armor as if they were preparing for a great battle.
"I'm going to be king someday," Eldarion said, wondering if he would ever want to retire.
"Not for many years, I hope." He thumped Eldarion's shoulder kindly, a shadow passed across the boy's face and he seemed to gain the gravitas of a man twice his years as some scrap of innocence was lost forever.
"Lorofindilë!" a clear voice called from the broad roadway between the tents of the assembled armies as they approached. Two elves, an ellon, and an elleth, were walking towards them. The elleth had her silver curls pinned into a pile on her head and the Ellon had his hair done in jeweled warrior's braids. They were dressed as if they had been riding, and they looked to be close kindred. Glorfindel responded in Quenya, spoken too fast and casually for Eldarion to catch the meaning of his words, but it made the male elf laugh and make a dramatic gesture like he had been struck with a verbal missile.
Glorfindel dropped from his horse into the muddy pathway, embracing the male elf and bowing deeply to the female. Eldarion followed his example, suddenly more nervous than a lifetime of court appearances should warrant. He became distracted by the way that his oversized tunic bunched up around his baldric, which had its extra-long straps tucked in awkwardly. Riele huffed a reassuring breath into the side of his neck as he folded his hands and looked at the ground, waiting to be introduced.
"You jest," the elf woman was saying, switching to Sindarin and holding the warrior by the arms and blinking unbelieving up into his open expression. Glorfindel took a step to the side and guided Eldarion gently forward. "My lady, may I present Prince Eldarion Telcontar of the Reunited Kingdoms, son of the Evenstar."
Even as her uncle caught her by the arm, Celebrian told herself that Firstborn ladies of the line of Finwë did not faint from shock. But the boy kneeling in deference in the mud without a spark of recognition in his grey eyes could, in no universe, be here. She was torn between embracing the child who looked so much like her lost daughter and running for her mother in fear.
"This is a trick…" she whispered, looking between the other two for reassurance, "some deception of the enemy. He cannot be here!" Eldarion held his arms close to his body, wishing that he could shrink into himself and disappear. The full peril of his quest seemed to crash in on him all at once like the collapsing roof of the market, and he felt claustrophobic and horribly alone under the judgment and scrutiny of these ancient beings. Could it be that he had come so far and risked so much only to be rejected by the only people who could aid him? Was he serving The Enemy? Was he bad? He wouldn't cry, he wouldn't.
"Hey," a hand lifted his chin. Eldarion opened his eyes to see the kind face of the strange male elf kneeling in the mud in front of him. He spoke Sindarin flawlessly, "Mae Govannen, Eldarion, my name is Ingoldo. I'm your…" he thought for a moment, "great, great uncle." The elf's face broke into a tree-lit smile, "are you hungry?"
Eldarion nodded. He held his breath to stifle the squeal of delighted admiration as he gazed wide-eyed into the face of his childhood hero, turning pink to the tips of his ears and doing his best to sniff back his tears.
"You're ruining your mother's embroidery," Celebrian said, sounding half-strangled, still looking at the child like he was some nameless thing from deep under the mountains. She told herself to embrace the short-haired mortal boy who was shaking the mud off his trousers but felt frozen in place until she felt Glorfindel's concerned touch on her elbow.
"He's real, princess," he assured her as Riele stepped around them to touch her nose to her back, and a crowd began to gather, "some unforeseen grace has guided him here on a ship made of dreams."
"Eldarion," she said, and she liked the way the name felt on her tongue. Her daughter had named him well. Elrond should have been here to meet him. She brushed her thumb across her grandson's cheek in complete awe before drawing him into an embrace. He was warm and solid in her arms, "I'm your grandmother!" he returned her embrace for a long moment before stepping back and it was like her affection burst a dam.
"You're Finrod Felagund!" Eldarion nearly shrieked, momentarily forgetting his fear, his hopeless quest, and his manners as he brushed aside his grandmother for his hero. "Ai Eru! My dad told me all about you! You taught the ents to talk! You killed a wolf with your teeth!" he babbled on in a stream of insensitive questions as Ingoldo winced and led the boy away, leaving Celebrian and Glorfindel behind them looking betrayed.
"A deception of the enemy?" Glorfindel said to Celebrian when they were out of earshot.
"How can this be, Loro?" Celebrian looked after them in wonder as her uncle led Eldarion towards his own tent where his wife stood waiting in curiosity beside a cookfire.
"I hope that your mother has some insight." Glorfindel gestured for the princess to follow him, "Let the boy have some refreshment before we bring him before her."
They approached the large tent at the center of the camp just as the stars were brightening above them. It was lit by a ring of torches, and the draped silk was dyed in the bright orange
and red of Finarfin's crest. They could hear raised voices as the guards nodded for them to pass.
"How long would your master have had us wait?"
"After all we have done for his family, he will be fortunate if Namo sets him free before the end times." said a ringing voice that echoed with authority. Celebrian blanched, hesitating to open the tent flap.
"The Valar would grant him foresight and deny him the only means of stopping it?" Galadriel's rage did not come with any shrillness. Rather, the Queen's voice dropped to take on the menacing quality of distant thunder.
"He has made himself a Kinslayer by taking his own life. I would not have advised this course of action. I cannot speak for the Doomlord's justice."
Glorfindel stepped inside and observed the scene silently for a moment. The tent was crowded and brightly illuminated by a flameless lamp that hung from the red and gold peak. The high queen and the Herald of Manwe faced each other across a large table with a detailed map of the crescent-shaped continent of Aman. He could still smell the wet ink where it had been annotated. Eönwë glittered in silver armor, his curled mane of tawny hair the same color as the great, muscular wings tucked like a cloak behind him. The feathers were ruffled in irritation. Galadriel was a vision of elegant violence in silver mail that fell in chevrons around her knees and a sword at her hip; her hair was braided around her crowned head in loops.
"The Doomlord's justice?" Galadriel put her fist on the table hard enough to rattle the figurines carefully arranged across the map. Her caustic wrath was as hot as a dragon's breath. At a glance at the map, Glorfindel could see that their regiments held the line around the overthrown fortress of the dead. "Does this look like justice? To build hell upon the shores of our homeland while we believed our realms to be kept safe by the Powers? Was that the plan? To keep all the dead servants of Morgoth locked away, hoping that nobody, in all of eternity, would find a key to release them? The arrogance!" her eyes flashed, and her sparkling mail shimmered in the crystalline lamplight, "and what of those who have not been embodied by Namo's grace? What of his father?" she gestured to the elf with the gold ribbons in his dark hair, standing to her left, who seemed to be trying to shrink into the shadows. Fingon was dusty from what must have been a long ride from his holdings in the North.
"What my cousin means is…" he came between them, desperately trying to restore diplomatic dignity, but he was interrupted.
"My husband is no killer," Celebrian pushed Glorfindel aside and stepped up to the table, looking coldly at the winged maia, "what cowardice would hold the Valar back while they condemn his sacrifice?"
"Cowardice?" Eönwë looked between them in apparent offense, "If you desire mass destruction, Princess, I need only say the word."
"Do the Valar know how to combat this magic or not?" she stepped close to him.
"We?" He looked at Fingon for help and then to Glorfindel, who folded his arms and waited for the Herald of Manwë to answer their question.
"The Valar do not understand death." Eönwë admitted, "This power is only the domain of the Doomlord, and he is fallen by dark magic beyond our comprehension. We each have the power of our own domains, but none of us may hear all of the Music. Only the Secondborn Children of Illuvatar can do that in mortal death. The only one among our number who knew Namo's deepest secrets was Affirista, and he fled into the far East of Endor, where he fell to madness and shadow and went beyond sight and hearing to the bitter ends of Arda. He may aid you, but we cannot!" He spread his wings to fill the close space, and there was a gust of wind that made the sides of the tent snap, and the remaining figures on the table slide to one side, followed by utter silence.
"Muk!" Galadriel cussed, throwing off Fingon's hand and scattering the finely carved cavalrymen from the table.
"Ai!" Glorfindel stepped forward, "Affirista, who is called Allatar!" the eyes of his lords and commanders went to him for the first time.
"What know you of this Maia?" Galadriel asked.
…
Elrond, Damrod, and Aragorn kept to the wall of the dimly lit cavern as they crept forward in single file. The ground was covered by some liquid, which they quickly determined was not water but a shallow pool of reflective oil that surrounded the feet of the eerie statues. Looking at them closely, Aragorn could see that they were all unique, formed by a hand that left no mark on the dark stone.
"How do we wake them up, my lord?" Damrod asked after they had gone some way. He experimentally touched one of the figures, finding it cold to the touch.
"I don't know," Aragorn admitted, studying the stone curls in another one's beard with his fingers.
"This oil will burn," Elrond stood from a crouch, feeling the dark substance as it clung to his fingertips, "We are fortunate that we carried no torch," he sent Estel a dark look, and his eyes glittered like stars in the dark as he wiped his hand on his tunic.
"Is that how they are to be awakened?" he asked his foster father.
Elrond shrugged, "it seems an odd choice." He took a deep and thoughtful breath, straining his eyes to see the distant glittering luminosity from the undulating ceiling, trying to calculate how many thousands of the stout creatures were filed away in this space and for how long. "we would all be killed if it were to be ignited, and perhaps they would as well." He shook his head, "No, someone has devised for this chamber to be destroyed."
"I can't imagine who," Aragorn scoffed. They continued through the vast halls for some time. They seemed to continue in every direction beyond the edge of even Elrond's sight, ranks
upon ranks of statues.
"Alas, that I was not killed with a ration pack and a water skin," Damrod said when they stopped at a place where the ground was raised in a dry ledge, and he could slide down to sit against the wall. "Even salted pork and dried dates would be better than nothing." Aragorn watched him sadly. His face was silhouetted in the dim light, "my wife was making scones before..." He said, blinking back his tears.
"I'm sorry," Aragorn said as he sat beside his chancellor, holding his injured knee between his hands, "I may be returned to my family if we escape this place," He looked to Elrond for reassurance, but he was gazing far away across the cavern, "I would trade my place with yours if it were possible."
"Nay, my lord!" Damrod looked mildly offended. He leaned back and closed his eyes, "It was my privilege to see your house restored to its place of honor. I am at peace." He said as if he could not believe it himself. He closed his eyes for a moment, and it seemed to fade and flicker like his body was dissolving at the edges. "Can you not hear the music?" he asked.
Aragorn listened but could only hear the distant sound of dripping liquid echoing through the darkness. "I pray that you do not, my lord, for once you hear the call of the infinite, there is no choice but to follow. Everything will be well." He sounded entirely at peace, "Tell my wife that I love her, and my son, he works as a groom in the pastures out on the Pellenor, hates the city, says it stinks. I suppose he's right."
"When I return, I promise to do all I can to ensure that your family wants for nothing." Aragorn laid a hand on his shoulder and tried to imbue his own healing energy into his Chancellor's body. He was sharply reminded of Boromir, Halbarad, and so many others who had laid down their lives in his service while giving him that look of absolute confidence. But Damrod loved order and luxury, a warrior only in desperation, and he deserved to live a long life full of guest accommodations and drapery.
"But it would be remiss of me to follow that call while my lord is still in peril." He seemed to re-solidify as he sat up away from the wall.
"Quiet," Elrond was looking far away into the darkness and frowning, "there's a light," he whispered, pointing as Aragorn and Damrod stood and followed his finger. Indeed, there was a light, not the light of a torch, but of a flameless blue lamp. It came from very far away and shone out across the heads of the statues. "Get down," he ordered, crouching so that whoever was coming would not see them above the rows and rows of figures.
"You truly believe that they will follow you?" Elrond Recognized Maedhros' rich voice.
"They will follow me, or they will be destroyed," Curufin responded smugly, "as an apprentice of Aulë, I should be able to appeal to their loyalty. They will know their maker's skill in me and have no choice but to follow."
"Of course." Maedhros sighed impatiently. "One must wonder how much control the great necromancer truly has over his troops."
"Watch your tongue, brother, before I part it from your body."
"What is the point of this excursion, Atarincë?" Maedhros gestured as he spoke. He was chained and his shackles made a sound like bells.
"Why, brother, to illustrate the superiority of my strategic position, of course, and to convince you that I am in the right."
"The High Queen refused to treat with you, then?"
"She returned my envoys without their heads!" he hissed. "You sent her shambling corpses, Atarincë!"
"And a very nice letter!" he pouted, "do you not love our father, Maitimo?" Maedhros did not dignify the question with an answer. "I am fighting for him, for all of us, for freedom. I thought that if you saw…" he huffed, "but never mind, if you wish to spend this campaign behind bars, I will return you to that half-breed whelp, and you can compare your techniques of self-destruction for all eternity! A fun father-son activity!"
The two turned a corner, which took them closer to the hiding place. Elrond, dashing at a crouch, led the other two between the statues, where they kept themselves low, trying to stay as still as possible.
"Have you found our other brothers?" Maedhros asked, ignoring his casual cruelty. He had endured Yeni of healing since his suicide and before the overthrow of Mandos, he had been convinced that he was ready to be returned to the living, humbled and softened by time and suffering, and reborn whole and free.
"That is privileged information for my allies," Curufin said, and as they passed, the blue rays of the lamp in his hand pierced the gaps between the statues, passing over their faces.
Aragorn held his breath as the two Fëanorians came less than twenty feet away. Maedhros walked with dignity between two armed orcish warriors. Aragorn thought that he could take them both without much trouble. He was unarmed and injured, but the orcs carried crude knives that would be of more use than nothing. They soon came to the collapsed stairwell.
"If only you had some Dwarves to clear this rubble," Maedhros said sarcastically. "It is no matter," Curufin said lightly, "we will exit as we came."
Elrond flicked his eyes to Aragorn, and Aragorn looked to Damrod. They all nodded. As Curufin, Maedhros, and the two hulking guards came around the corner again, they were followed by three shadows.