~MANDOS~
Allatar wrapped his mantle around his face, securing his hat with one hand as he dashed across the vast construction site. A dark cloud loomed over him, turning the noonday sky to ash. The upturned earth was crisscrossed by rails and scaffolding as a thousand industrious dwarves swarmed like bees to the music of ringing hammers. Great furnaces and smelteries churned up clouds, and everywhere, the great labor of repair was well underway.
Allatar kept one hand on his hat and another lifting the hem of his robes from the muck. he stopped to look around, at once espying a distant, temporary structure near the center of the chaos made from heavy timbers and belching out plumes of smoke from one of the six brickwork chimneys. Kicking the mud off his pointed boots, Allatar made for the structure with a huff, following a raised pathway.
"Hello! My friend!" Allatar stopped and turned around, recognizing the voice with raised eyebrows and a look of dread.
"Olórin." He acknowledged his fellow Istar with a slight elevation of his hooked nose. They had not spoken since their departure in Endor an age before.
"What brings the cleric of Mandos out into the waking world?" Olórin asked cheerfully. He strode across the muddy ground without concern for his white linen robes, wicking up the moisture from the ground.
"I seek answers in the name of a mortal soul," Allatar admitted, glancing up at the lofty structure standing in grey silhouette in the smoggy air.
"So, you come to the workshop of Mahal?" Olórin narrowed his sky-blue eyes at the other wizard, "Is your client a dwarf?"
Allatar felt that this was unnecessarily intrusive. He had a sense of professionalism, after all. "Dwell not on it." He waved a hand dismissively, "I sense a greater disharmony has brought about his troubles. Which, I do hope, is what brought you here."
"Don't you think it's unseasonably cold?" Olórin asked, and indeed, the air turned white with his breath and caught his white ringlets in its path.
"I do," Allatar said, "Something is amiss. The souls are restless. And the music…" he looked westward for a long moment as if seeing some echo of destruction.
"There is much ill afoot in the lands of the Valar." Olórin stroked his beard, and Allatar waited for him to continue, "The Grace of the Fruit Giver has abandoned the Quendi in Aman. The fields of the Yavanildi are grey with blight from here to Tirion, and an unholy fire sparks within the granaries of Valimar. The White lady was blinded. The two lights of her eyes put out like so many trees… The scent of chaos is in the air. Can you not smell it?"
"I smell something." Allatar hid his smirk beneath his mustache.
"A spring has come without flowers." Olórin continued ominously, "Many say that the Grace of the Valar has abandoned us. Curumo may reveal something of his master's mind."
"So, we seek answers in the wisdom of a traitor." Allatar scoffed. A lonesome bird cried from far above.
"Some have called you that, brother." Olórin reminded him, but before he could retort, the sound of laboring machinery came to their ears. A lavishly decorated cable car rumbled through the flooded expanse of shallow muck, guided by tracks of iron and operated by a pair of dwarves. One had a red hat, and one had a blue. The dwarf in the blue hat seized a lever to release the cable as the whole contraption splashed its way to a stop beside the platform.
"Milords, we saw you from afar." Said one of them with a bow. The other stepped forward and offered the wizards his ring-laden hands.
"Mister Gandalf, I'd know you anywhere!" The Dwarf in the red hat beamed up to him as he helped the Maia onto the cart.
"Balin, Son of Fundin. By the Song." Olórin took Balin by the shoulders, a warm sparkle to his eyes as he knelt to embrace the dwarf.
"This here's Rory." He gestured back at the Dwarf in the blue hat. The afterlife was treating Balin well if the large gold hoops in his ears were any measure. He appeared in the prime of life; his beard was the color of polished brass, and the tools in his belt glinted. He bore the air of one who has looked upon the face of his Maker and seen his own reflection. "How goes the labor of Mandos, old friend?"
"A paradise undreamed for beyond the edges of the world," Balin held on as the cart lurched into reverse, the blue-hooded dwarf skillfully operating a set of levers and pullies. Rippling the shallow water behind them, they rattled off towards the high structure. "The old world is passed away, and we are blessed to partake in the making of the new."
"Have you been hard at work, old friend?" Olórin smiled fondly at the dwarf, who turned his face into the chill wind as they sped along.
"Aye, the work is never finished." He looked around, and as they shifted gears to leave the flooded plain behind, the tone of the cables changed into a clacking rhythm that synchronized the music of the workers.
"I was surprised to learn that our brother did not hasten to the void upon the breaking of Mandos," Allatar observed lightly, and Olórin snorted.
"I suspect that he still sees himself as useful; he serves his lord with great devotion, and Aulë has granted him clemency." Olórin narrowed his eyes, bracing himself as they rose above the layer of smog, walls of vertical timber, and delicate scaffolding looming above them. "And it is not he who I seek, but his master. There is an imbalance in the powers of Arda." He looked around him at the opening landscape, the ruined portion of the Halls had been largely repaired, and then expanded in several places with new construction.
"Our lord labors day and night," Balin asserted, a hint of unease in his tone, "the temples of creation burn hot with his divine power. None may enter the deepest crucibles of his sacred Making."
"Then who is the foreman of all this industry, whose orders do you follow?" Allatar asked the dwarf.
"The Maker sends his messengers, great maiar who tell us his will." Balin nodded but the doubt in the wise dwarf's eyes was clear for both to read.
The two wizards looked at each other with unease as the cable car lurched to a stop before a wide platform high on the peak of the excavated hill.
"Welcome, brothers, to the dominion of Mahal." Allatar and Olórin raised their eyes. The maia who occupied the platform, surrounded by a dwarven guard in polished armor, wore robes of oily darkness and grinned at his guests hungrily.
"Curumo." Allatar greeted him.
Olórin laughed, "I should have known that you were behind this, Saruman."
~EILENACH BEACON~
Arwen had taken the search party to the beacon to learn what they could from the watchman and then fan out in groups of two across the forest. As they had travelled, the weather worsened until the sky grew dark as evening flash floods surged down the narrow roads and violent winds tossed the trees until they threw down their spring foliage and looked as if they would uproot themselves to go dancing off down the wind. She was glad to find the stone shelter was warmed by a smoldering bed of coals in the hearth which one of the men immediately went to rekindle. A few minutes after they had piled inside, Edanil appeared at the door as if called, silhouetted by a flash of lightning.
"I followed the river as far as the falls," Edanil explained after graciously bowing to his queen and steward and explaining his encounter with Merry. Rain thundered down on the stone roof, nearly drowning out his voice as he gave his report to the Queen. He took a piece of charcoal from the hearth and drew a rough map of the forest on the table. He tapped the line that represented the Palewater and began his report. "I have found the place where he and sir Brandybuck came under fire, it's a few miles downhill," he began in a rough voice, "there is no sign of the prince, except for this." He lay a broken bolt on the table; its shaft had been splintered, and the white wood was stained brown with the tinge of blood that the river could not wash away. All those assembled leaned in to look at it, and Faramir picked it up. He lifted the shaft to his nose and sniffed.
"It's human." He reported, studying the weapon and handing it to Arwen.
"It's him." She confirmed, handing the accursed thing back to Faramir without looking at it.
"The Halfling said he was shot through the shoulder." Edanil informed them, "If the bolt was ripped out in the water, it would have caused significant bleeding. The river is flooded, my lady." He dared not say what he was thinking. Arwen's face looked ghostly between the firelight and the eerie glow of the storm outside.
"Ai Eru." Faramir passed one hand across his face, barely suppressing the sob of raw emotion.
"He's not dead," She insisted, the firelight reflected in her grey eyes, "not yet." The wind howled around their shelter, whistling in icy tendrils through the ancient stonework.
"Anything swept into the Palewater will be halfway to the sea by now," Edanil said, and Arwen staggered. She felt Faramir's hand on her arm as he guided her onto one of the benches.
"Let us follow the river down to the Entwash!" One brave ranger named Mordel put his hand on the table, upset by the look of dismay on his Queen's fair face. "Ill weather be cursed! We must find him!" His words were drowned out by a boom as lightning hit the roof of the beacon above them, and everyone flinched.
Arwen shook her head, clinging to the fraying connection that she could feel with her son. Alive, Eldarion was alive but weakened and in terrible danger, she was certain. But to send more into the storm after him would be folly, "We wait," her voice shook, "If I am right, he will survive a bit longer, by the grace of the Valar… and if I am not…" Her voice broke, and a gust of wind stirred the coals in the chimney.
"Do we know the location of the Drúath camp?" Faramir asked after a moment.
"We know that they keep to the sheltered valleys beyond the canyonlands at the headwaters of the Palewater. The forest thins at that altitude, but…" The old ranger shook his head, "there is a dark power in those lands. Red eyes in the dark. Many have gone missing in those tangled corridors."
~TIRION~
"My lord!" Lindir rushed up to them on the landing as soon as Elrond and Finrod exited into the grandiose stairway that led down the entrance hall. "I have an urgent message from Alqualondë." The chamberlain held out an opened scroll.
"And?" Elrond led the three of them down the carpeted stairs. The wind howled, and hail rang off the high windows. He took the scroll, pausing mid-tread to read with creased brows.
"By order of the queen they are suspending trade for safety concerns, the passes are blocked, my lord."
"Safety concerns?" Finrod laughed, but Elrond put up a hand to stop him at the top of the stairs. The crowd of elves who had been gathering in the plaza were rushing into the hall with their soaked garments above their heads. The grand foyer of the administrative building was a riot of high-Noldorin Rococo with fecund maiar frolicking across a background of eggshell blue and yellow filigree. The high windows were grey with precipitation, and the light that filtered down on the gathering crowd gave their upturned faces the pallor of corpses.
Glorfindel stood just inside the doorways, managing the inflow of soaked citizens who came flooding into the foyer. Elrond only had a moment to take in the scene before someone recognized them.
"Lord Elrond! Lord Finrod!" someone yelled in relief, and the chatter of voices quieted as they came to the landing. Elrond held up a hand in recognition, and a hush spread across the chattering crowd as the gathered host looked up at him for leadership.
"Go to the kitchens," Elrond ordered Lindir in a whisper, "make sure we can feed everyone and find dry clothing and blankets."
"Yes, sir." Lindir bowed and scampered away.
Elrond descended the stairs, and the crowd parted when he showed no sign of making a speech. They seemed to hold their breath as he went to the door. Finrod dropped off behind him to speak with someone in the crowd. Glorfindel rushed through the last group of freezing and soaking stragglers and, with some exertion, managed to slam closed the heavy glass and bronze doors against the howling wind.
"The storm came out of nowhere, my lord." He peered past the window, where they could see snowflakes clinging to the branches of the great tree.
"Something is deeply, deeply wrong, Loro," Elrond said in a low voice.
He did, in the end, make a speech. But it contained no lofty, Fëanorian rhetoric. Instead, he instructed the sheltering host towards the kitchen and told them that their Queen was healing. Although the administrative complex contained little as far as bedding, Lindir was able to gather up the embroidered tablecloths used for official banquets for people to dry themselves with. Soon, there were gathered groups sitting around the large fireplaces throughout the building, bureaucrats and citizens who tried to hide the worried glances they sent up to the white windows. The snow accumulated quickly, and Elrond found himself wondering how Celebrian was faring in their ancient villa above the city as he watched the gathering snow bend the budding branches of the great tree.
He soon remembered the curious seeing stone he had pocketed the night before, and as the long hours passed, he found his mind drawn to it. Giving into the temptation, he drew it from his pocket and gazed upon it thoughtfully, he could see his wife, searching the house in frustration, he had not taken the pendant intentionally, but had found it in his pocket after he left th house. If he turned it another way, he could see his daughter looking out from a small window into the rain. He could see his grandson dodging wet branches as he navigated a tangled forest.
The storm passed sometime after sunset, having accumulated enough volume to cover the lower part of the windows. Glorfindel was the first to step out into a changed landscape, he stood atop the snow gazing into the sky. His loose hair flying in the wind which had turned the clouds to shredded tatters, revealing the bright stars beyond. The roofs and trees of the city lay hidden and muffled under a thick blanket of white, gleaming lamps shining from windows out onto the snow, and Glorfindel's breath hung in the air as others followed him outside.
"Since the rising of the sun, the Valar have held spring and autumn in even measure." He said to Elrond as he stepped up beside him. Struggling in the deep powder with his half-elven weight.
He was about to respond, but there was a shout of joy as someone pointed to the distant ridge of the Pelori rising above the shrouded city. There, the light of Eärendil could be seen rising into the night above the storm. From this perspective, they could just make out the gleaming outline of Vingilot as it passed above the peaks.
Cries of joy and hope went up from the emerging crowd, and soon a chorus of bright elven voices were raised in the cold air, an old hymn in praise of Varda's lights that rang across the fallen snow.
Elrond felt something coming, a flash of foresight a moment too late. Everything in him told him to close his eyes. "Ada…" Elrond gasped, stumbling into Glorfindel.
"Is something wrong?" Finrod asked, taking him by the arm and frowning into his face.
An elleth screamed and pointed, and Finrod turned in time to see the ship pitch to one side. A plume of fire and smoke erupted from her sails, leaving a lazy curve of drifting grey before the stars; careening for a moment out of control, swanlike in her descent, Vingilot crashed into the face of the mountain.