The day dawned and Aragorn rose, moving gently to rise without waking Faramir. The younger man groaned slightly, settling back once more as Aragorn walked to the basin nearby. It sat on a box and he poured the basin full, washing quickly in the cold water. He dried his face and turned, noting Faramir's eyes on him.
"How do you feel?" Aragorn asked, pausing for a moment.
"I feel fine," Faramir replied. He sat up, sighing deeply as he rubbed his face with his hands.
"How often do you have visions?" Aragorn asked, pulling on a clean shirt and fastening his belt.
"Not often," Faramir replied, pausing. "Well, not in a predictable way. I have had them all my life."
"It is said that your father had them," Aragorn replied.
"He did. My father could see things before they came to pass."
"Boromir? Does he have that capacity?" Aragorn said, moving to let Faramir use the basin.
"Not that I could ever tell," Faramir said, splashing his face. "He did have the first vision once, the dream that led him to Imladris. We argued over who would go and see what it meant. He won, of course. He always does. He steps in and takes hard tasks on."
"He protects you," Aragorn said gently.
"He does," Faramir replied, smiling slightly. "Then he gets hurt himself when it was my place. I fear that he will die in my place some day."
"Is that a fear or a vision?" Aragorn asked, handing him a shirt.
"Neither. Both. I do not know clearly but the idea of it has been with me a long time. It fills me with disquiet."
Aragorn turned him around and looked at him, measuring him for a moment. "You can live in fear or you can live. It seems to me that you have a great gift. Just remember it is just a gift and not the last word of things."
Faramir smiled and slipped his arms around Aragorn's neck, relaxing as Aragorn hugged him tightly. "I have a vision."
"You do?" Aragorn asked, swaying gently as he held his lover.
"I dream of a time when we can be together and the threat is not upon us."
"What do you see?" Aragorn asked.
"A summer's day by a lake some place. A summer's day and you and I together, walking along the shore by ourselves. I dream of it, being alone with you, taking our pleasure in the comfort of a real bed."
"As do I," Aragorn replied, smiling. "Some day, if the world is not lost, perhaps we can find our way to a lake some place, a lake dappled by the sun."
Faramir smiled, squeezing him tightly and then a sound on the other side of the curtain broke the moment. Aragorn kissed Faramir quickly and then turned, stepping out to speak to someone. Faramir stood a moment and then turned, his eyes falling on his bunk. For a moment it was normal and then sounds faded around him. He stared at the doorway and then back at the bunk, starting at the sight of Aragorn sitting upon it. He held his head in his hands, his shoulders were sagging and then he leaned back, letting his arms fall to his sides.
He was distraught, his eyes wet with tears but he made no sound as he bitterly wept. For a moment he didn't move and then he sat up and looked at his pack, reaching into it and taking out the jewel that he had worn until Faramir's enquiry. He stared at it and leaned down, resting his elbows on his knees. He pressed the jewel against his face, gasping with misery and then rose, walking toward the curtained door.
He passed it and walked out, the cavern filled with sleepers and Faramir followed him, his disquiet growing. Aragorn walked into the clearing in the front of the cavern and stared at the sky, at the brightest star above. He looked at the jewel, the brilliant silver token and then at the sky and the star above.
"Why!" he called out. "How can you stand by? Is there not enough that are dead without -" He didn't continue, bringing his hands to his head and then he fell to his knees in despair. "How am I to go on? How can I go on? How much blood do you have to ignore before you hear our despair? How can you sail the sky and not hear our lamentations?"
Faramir walked to Aragorn and knelt in front of him, staring at him with anguish. The jewel was in Aragorn's hand and the sorrow of bitter tears on his face and he didn't know what it meant. He reached out but he couldn't touch Aragorn's face, the older man sitting and weeping without a sound.
Faramir rose and looked at the heavens, the ship once more sailing through the midnight sky. A bright light shown like a beacon in the darkness and the soft sound of words whispering filled his head.
"What would you give up?"
The words echoed through him.
"What would you surrender for the salvation of those you love?"
He turned to Aragorn but he was no longer there, the walls forming around him of their living alcove. He turned around, staring frantically about until he paused, his heart pounding in his chest. The pack was lying by the bed and he longed to take the jewel. He wanted to take it and fling it away some place where Aragorn couldn't find it. What it meant to him, Faramir didn't know but it felt doomed somehow and therefore dangerous.
"Faramir."
He turned, pausing to stare at Aragorn, who stood half in the alcove.
"Are you all right?" he asked, his eyes darkening with worry.
"I am fine," Faramir said. "I was thinking I need to trim my beard."
Aragorn smiled, rubbing his own face. "You and me both. Come. Let us eat and move out together."
Faramir nodded and moved with Aragorn into the cavern and its rising activity. They would eat together, making plans for patrols and before too much longer, they would be gone on their way.
He would not tell Aragorn about his vision this time.
At the same time...
"You have little to say."
Legolas stared at Éomer, slipping his belt through its loops. "You are hardly a master of debate," he replied, a smile gracing his lovely face.
Éomer smirked and rose, gripping Legolas' arm. "Neither of us are. That does not mean that words are not necessary. I think we should talk. After all, that is the only intimacy that we have not recently shared."
Legolas smirked at him, pausing and holding his gaze. "You wish words now? After all, I have given you my carnal body and you, yours. What words can do or undo that which has already transpired?"
"Do you wish to undo them?" Éomer asked, his dark eyes piercing Legolas' glib good humor.
"Not a moment," Legolas replied, his voice soft and breathy. He sighed and looked away from the heat of Éomer's eyes.
"Then what does it mean to you, Legolas?" Éomer asked, persisting with great discomfort.
Legolas turned and looked at him. "At first, it meant great surprise. I am not given to strangers, taking that which is sacred to me and handing it over with wrath and ill temper. I burned much that was harsh and intemperate in the heat of our couplings. That is what I first came to know."
"And now?" Éomer asked, stepping closer. Their chests nearly touched and Éomer slipped an arm around the Elf.
"Now?" Legolas whispered, his eyes level with Éomer's. "Now I would grieve at your loss. Now, I would be bereft of contentment, of passion and the sense of belonging again. I am adrift from my family. My people have fled to the West, yet you were there when I needed you and that means much to me."
"Do you love me, Legolas?" Éomer persisted, his lips nearly touching his lover's. "Say you love me."
"You wish that," Legolas replied, his lips brushing Éomer's, the fullness of such ripe fruit making him light-headed. "You have that."
"You love me," Éomer persisted, his hands gripping Legolas' rounded ass as he slipped his arms tightly around him.
"You have it," Legolas replied, crushing his mouth against Éomer's as the big rangy man devoured him back. Legolas groaned and pulled back, stepping away and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "Do not start what cannot be finished here and now."
Éomer stared at him, like a predator at his prey and nodded, pulling Legolas roughly into his arms again. "You are then mine?" he asked, passion as explosive as a rushing waterfall driving him to know. "Tell me then that you are mine."
"Tell me, Éomer...tell me what your heart feels."
They stared at each other, their hearts pounding as they spoke of things neither were inclined to say to another.
"I would kill any man that laid a hand upon you, fight any duel, suffer any indignity. I love you," he said, swallowing hard as his cheeks flushed red with emotional discomfort at so public a declaration. "I do not have the words to say to you what you might be more used to hearing, but I do love you and I want you to tell me that you are mine alone."
Legolas smiled slightly, shaking his head with amusement. "That cost you a bit, to tell me of your heart."
Éomer nodded, tightening his grip of his lover, pressing his groin against Legolas'. His taut trousers plagued him and he squeezed his lover until he grunted. Legolas smiled and kissed him softly, pulling back from his tight embrace. "You have that from me, Éomer of Rohan. I am yours as you are mine until the end of the world."
"That may not take long," Éomer replied with a grin, his lust-filled eyes ever fixed on Legolas' face. He longed to press him to the floor and make him moan but they had to go and so he sighed deeply in frustrated lust.
Legolas smirked and leaned in, slipping his tongue into Éomer's mouth. Éomer closed his eyes and then it was gone, the tease of it pooling in the middle of his gut.
"You are a brutal wench," Éomer said, taking his sword from his lover.
"And you are a brutal rider, horse master," Legolas said, picking up his own weapons. "I assume that we are meant for each other."
Éomer smirked and followed him out, grinning to himself that this one was his alone. As they walked to the dining room, pride of possession on Éomer's handsome face, he leaned toward his lover and smirked. "You will not get an argument from me."
At the Palace of Thingol of Doriath...
They entered the great courtyard, the house set up high among trees just beyond them and they turned, pausing as others walked toward them. One of them walking along with Turgon was a beautiful man, tall with long and plaited dark hair. He had eyes that looked far, directly into your soul and as they paused before them, Turgon smiled.
"You came," he said, holding out his hand.
Elrond took it, smiling weakly. "I have a well-developed conscience, Grandfather," he replied. The tall stranger smirked, nodding as he stared at Elrond, his intense gaze upon him from the moment he rode in. Gil-galad moved to one side, seeking an unobstructed view. He glanced at Cirdan, smiling for a moment and then the kingly facade fell into place.
"That will please many, none the least this goodly figure," Turgon said, turning to the tall man. "I am honored in more ways than can be counted to introduce you, Elrond son of Earendil, to Dior, your grandfather and father to your mother, Elwing the White."
For a moment Elrond didn't move, his eyes flickering from the warmly smiling face of Dior to the king and back again. Then he took the proffered hand and bowed as he grasped it, his eyes stinging with tears.
"Grandfather," he whispered around the lump in his throat and then he was enveloped in strong arms. They stood together, dappled light filtering through gently swaying trees as grandfather met grandson for the very first. Gil-galad watched them, feeling intense gratitude that a fatherless child could know his family again. Of their life together, little was spoken of the family that had died and fled, leaving Elrond and his twin behind.
He had given great thought to this in the early years of his return from Mandos Hall and had made effort to find all of Elrond's kin that were living here. He felt great emotion and deep satisfaction as he watched Elrond slowly be surrounded by family he had never known.
Dior stepped back, his hands resting on Elrond's shoulders and smiled. "You are a beauty like your mother."
"I cannot remember her," Elrond said, his voice cracking. "I cannot recall her, Grandfather."
"Then you must meet her," Dior said, conviction in his voice. "You must meet your parents and tell them of your life."
"And my brother," Elrond said, wiping tears from his eyes.
"And of Elros," Dior agreed, his voice wistful. He turned and glanced at his companions. "I am going with you to help with your cause. My grandfather is a redoubtable man but not without compassion, his time in Mandos a reflective and goodly thing. He loves his family and will be well pleased to meet his grandson," he said, turning to smile at Elrond, taking his hand into his own. "As well pleased as I am."
Gil-galad smiled, turning to Glorfindel, who stood beside Erestor, a smile on his face. "Then you must go, my Lord Dior. And with you goes the prayers and hopes of a world in darkness."
Dior turned to Gil-galad and nodded. "I will do my best, as shall my grandson," he said, turning and smiling at Elrond proudly. "I have been made aware by those who are knowledgeable," he said, glancing back at Gil-galad, "that he is quite gifted in a number of things."
"I cannot know who you speak of, my Lord," Gil-galad replied with a grin. He reached out and squeezed Elrond's arm. "Go and meet your kin, my brother."
Elrond nodded and turned with Dior, walking toward the winding stairs that would take them to the talan of his grandparents, three generations removed. It was as if Lothlorien had come alive again, such was the beauty and tranquility of this lovely place. Galadriel and Celeborn had patterned their own kingdom on its unique and utterly Elven grace. At the fall of Doriath, when all was lost, Melian had taken its memory with her.
Standing in the gardens, weeping for her husband, she was reunited with him eventually. They had taken their own dominion near to his brothers and had rebuilt their lovely kingdom once again. They lived there in splendor, the only part of perfection missing, the daughter they had loved more than any other thing. They kept nightingales in their house, their music soothing and a memorial to the daughter they would not see again.
Elrond climbed the stairs, walking with Dior, followed by Turgon, Cirdan and Glorfindel. They reached the top, to a room of such splendor that he had no words to describe its beauty. There were colors there that had no counterpart in Middle-earth and flowers filled the air with perfume.
A tall man was standing before a white chair by himself, the room empty otherwise. They paused and Dior smiled, leading the way and bowing with the others as they paused before him. He was tall, perhaps the tallest Elf Elrond had ever seen and the beauty of his face was beyond compare. He wore simple yet very rich garments, a silver fillet surrounding his head. His hair was thick and black, braided in long plaits that reached his waist, silver and gold thread entwined within. He stood and looked at them, with eyes so filled with wisdom that Elrond could scarcely hold their gaze.
He turned and looked at Dior, the younger Elf smiling and then stepped down, pausing before Elrond. Thingol looked at him, then he touched his face, delicately tracing the line of his jaw. Then without a word, he reached out for his grandson and gathered him into his arms. He embraced Elrond, holding him tightly, this fragment written large of his beloved daughter, Luthien.
Dior glanced at Turgon, at the third kinsman of the Peredhel and smiled, swallowing around the lump in his throat. Turgon smiled back, glancing at Glorfindel, the elder Elf drawn with emotions of his own. He had come back to Middle-earth to serve their people and had given centuries of his life to this one single person. Elrond was as his son, his beloved and only child and to see his heart healed thus was overwhelming.
The sound of nightingales sang in the branches of the trees that formed part of Thingol's house. Standing on a balcony nearby, their fingers entwined, Galadriel and Melian looked on in joy.
They reached the river, pausing by its shining embankments, the distant lands beyond peaceful under a dull haze. The sky was being devoured, this he had noticed and he wondered how long before the sun was shut out. They were going to the road to search for the enemy and hopefully they would be able to handle what might be there.
Boromir looked over his shoulder, noting his brother's composure and the grim-faced determination of Aragorn. Halbarad was with him, other Rangers and Rohirrim and they paused as they scanned the land below.
"I wish Legolas were here," he whispered, a Rohirrim nodding grimly. "He would tell us better what might be hidden below."
Éomer and Legolas, with Gimli and others were going in the opposite direction to scout along the Pale. They would check in with watchers, people who stayed until relieved, who were their first line of defense against the coming tide of evil.
Aragorn glanced at Faramir, both of them nodding in their peculiar shorthand and then all of them rose and began to descend. They would scour the ground, reading the tracks and by doing so determine the level of building threat. They moved through the brush, melting into the ground cover and soon there was nothing to show they had been there.
In the House of Thingol...
They sat at a table with a crystal top and drank the most unusual wine Elrond had ever taken. It tasted of sunshine and flowers and rivers and the gentle breeze of summer against your cheek. It wasn't like anything he had ever imbibed and he sipped and savored it as small talk was made.
Thingol stared at him, his gaze unwavering and then he set his glass down on the table. "You have come a long way, my grandson, to seek the intercession of the Lords of the World. That is a big undertaking even for me."
"I come on a mission of the greatest urgency, begging for the greatest empathy that can be fostered, Grandfather." He paused and swallowed. "Not all your kinfolk have found their way here. Some of them cannot come no matter what we can do. They have not been given that right."
"Turgon and Dior have told me much about your twin, my grandson. He was a goodly man, my Elros. I am beggared into great poverty of spirit in that I have and never will know him myself."
Elrond swallowed again, looking at his grandfather. "I wish you could have. I wish you had known him and then you would understand why I cannot turn away. His blood line continues, his people continue and I have an obligation to seek respite from the terror that has engulfed them. They cannot stand alone, my lord. I beg you without shame or falseness to help us in our quest."
"You have no faith that I will?" Thingol replied, watching his grandson closely.
"I do not have hope in many things, my lord. I beg in my prayers that I am wrong but there has been so many disappointments that I do not allow myself to believe. I beg you, grandfather, to hear me and decide for yourself what is the right thing to do."
Thingol sat a moment and then he rose, holding out his hand. "Come. Walk with me."
Elrond rose and took his grandfather's hand, walking toward a wandering veranda that was made to bend around the great trunks of the trees which they lived in. They walked together until they came to a flet that overlooked a forest and beyond that a small lake. It was breathtaking, the beauty of the view and Elrond stood staring, unaware that his grandfather was watching him.
"This is like Doriath?" Elrond whispered, almost afraid to speak and break the spell.
"Very much. My Queen remembered our beloved kingdom and we created it again as best we could." He turned and looked at Elrond. "You remind me of my daughter and her great heart."
"The Lady Luthien lives on in my own daughter it is said," Elrond said, smiling slightly.
"So I am told." Thingol sighed and stepped closer, turning and looking out at his domain. "I have loved Middle-earth with a passion that has repaid me in death and sorrow. My daughter, my family, my kingdom... I have lost it all including my life. We get a gift, our people, of a second chance and then it is up to us to do the right thing." He looked at Elrond, considered his profile. "What would you give up, my beloved grandson, to make right what has transpired?"
He turned and looked at his grandfather, at the light of his visage and his eyes. "I have sacrificed all my life, Grandfather. I have given all that I have."
Thingol nodded, touching Elrond's cheek. "All?"
Elrond looked down, feeling intensely vulnerable, as if the figure before him could see into his soul.
"You have a passion that is forbidden among our people. What would you give up to save the world?"
Elrond looked up, his eyes filled with pain and he knew then that his grandfather was aware of the king. Elrond stepped back, hesitating for a moment and then turned, staring out at the lake once more. It seemed so far away, so out of reach of sadness and the affairs of the world that plagued them now. He thought of his brother, of his father and his mother and of the King to whom his heart would ever belong. He stood a long time, considering in wretchedness that there was something he hadn't sacrificed that he could still give up.
Turning, his face a mask of misery, he walked to his grandfather and took his hand. He brought it to his lips and kissed it gently, his tears falling upon it as he made up his mind.
"I have something I can sacrifice...the passion that you spoke of and I would foreswear it forever to save the world from this doom if that is what it takes."
Thingol looked at him, at the child of his children and sighed before pulling Elrond into his arms. He held him, swaying gently as he felt pride and love fill him, pride and love for this child of his Luthien.
"You would give up the King to save strangers, abandoning the one thing that you desire overall?"
Elrond looked at him, his face streaked with tears. "If that is what is needed, then I will do it."
Thingol's expression gentled, his dark eyes filled with compassion. "You are much like my Luthien, with your brave and sacrificing heart. I am glad that she lives in you, my son." He sighed, shaking his head. "I cannot take from you that small vestige of happiness? What you must do about it is not my place to say. It seems our doom to love in difficult circumstances. I have spent much reflection in the sanctuary of Mando's Halls and many years here on these peaceful shores. My wife, your grandmother, is a wise woman and I have learned to take her counsels. There is a need for us to do what is right for those beyond our shores. I am not going to stand in the way of that. I am on your side."
Elrond looked at his grandfather, at the beautiful and legendary figure of his childhood and hugged him again. Thingol held him, comforting him as he considered what it would take for them to mount an expedition of this size.
On the trail...
They cleared the plains, heading along the forest line, their keen eyes spotting old tracks and very little else. Orcs had come through here, traveling light and fast but that was a while ago. Farther up, closer to the Gap, they might find more activity coming down from Isengard.
It was nearly mid-afternoon when they spotted dark figures moving along the hillside. They appeared to be trying to avoid being seen, so feared were the hit-and-run tactics of the rebels now. Faramir notched an arrow, moving toward the flank of the figures who didn't seem to see them yet. Boromir went with him as Aragorn took the short straight path through covering brush to head them off. Men split into two parties and they moved with skill and stealth, repeating for the hundredth time this very maneuver.
The smell of creosote was heavy as they crept up behind the orcs, measuring their speed against the other group of hunters. Faramir was in the lead, his bow sighted on an orc and when they were within range, it sang out. It struck an orc in the neck, cutting off his squeal but others were less lucky to die that fast. Arrows from behind and arrows from in front met them and they died before they could gather a defense.
For a moment it was silent and then they came from hiding, staring at the dead as they gathered around. Faramir glanced at an orc, slaughtered and bloody and as he did, the world around him slowed down. Boromir was to his right, standing and talking to Halbarad, while Aragorn was across from him kneeling over an orc.
He turned and saw a figure, black and shrilly screaming and then he saw the bow and arrow in his hands. He turned and swung his bow, hitting Aragorn full on the face, knocking him backward to fall flat against the ground. Then he turned and shoved as hard as he could, pushing Boromir into Halbarad and out of the way.
He turned, bow in hand and reached for an arrow, feeling the dull thud of the orc's dart as it pierced his chest. Beside him, their voices stretched and eerie, others fired on the beast and he fell to the ground dead. He, himself stood for a moment and then he fell to his knees, staring down at the middle of his chest. A big black arrow stuck out of his chest, piercing his breast bone and exiting through his back.
Aragorn sat up, his eyes transfixed on Faramir, his cheek battered from the blow of his bow. Then he rose, unconcerned about any further fighting and ran to Faramir and fell to his knees. Faramir looked up, staring at him with fading eyes as blood trickled from his mouth. He felt his heart seize, then he sensed the darkness coming as he slumped forward into Aragorn's arms.
He stared at the sky, a fading blue square, the terrified eyes of his lover filling his vision. "Sacrifice," he whispered as the cold crept over him and then his spirit slipped his body and floated away.
Aragorn sat holding him, panic so violent in his mind he could hardly breathe. He had seen men die before, people that he had loved but this was Faramir and he was destroyed. He couldn't talk, he couldn't move. He couldn't breath or think or act.
Boromir fell to his knees, gripping Faramir's hand, devastation and shocked disbelief on his face. He looked at Faramir and things fell away inside of him, so he rose and pulled his sword from its sheath. He turned and walked to the orc that had killed his brother and with a maniacal rage hacked him to bits.
Aragorn sat holding his lover, rocking him gently as he struggled to consider what to do. Halbarad knelt down and touched his shoulder, shaking his head in sorrow.
"We have to go, Aragorn. There could be more."
Mad eyes greeted him and Halbarad was taken aback. "We are not leaving him."
The others stood quietly and then Halbarad nodded, moving to cut tree limbs to make a stretcher. They would lay Faramir gently upon it, covering him with blankets and then with a distraught Aragorn in the lead, they would head north for home.
That night...
They had left an hour later, Elrond making plans to return the next day. Gil-galad rode beside him, noting Elrond's silence and even though Dior and Turgon had told him of the success, he was apprehensive about his lover's demeanor. The ride back seemed shorter somehow and when they reached their temporary home, it was with relief for all concerned. Elrond hugged his wife and greeted the others, walking with them to the hall to dine. Gil-galad ignored the hard looks of Elrond's twins, sitting in his place of honor at the long rectangular table. Dinner was served and then questions were proffered, dozens asked and dozens answered.
The dinner finally wound down and the party moved to the sitting room where all of their conferences were held thus far. Wine was poured and they all sat together, the specter of war their next ordeal.
"Who will go to the King, then?" Elladan asked, sitting next to his mother, holding her hand.
"We will go, that is, Celeborn, myself," Turgon replied, "Elrond, Dior and Thingol King."
"This is remarkable," Galadriel said with a smile. "I have not been this filled with relief in ages."
Elrond smiled slightly. "He is a remarkable man, Thingol."
"He loves family, especially those of his daughter," Turgon replied. He is a tough man, our Thingol."
"His word is enough for Ingwe. And perhaps out of this moment something that needs forgiving can be put to rest," Glorfindel said, glancing at Elrond. "I would hope so."
"And I," Dior said, shaking his head. "If I can make some accommodation to what transpired, then there are few to say otherwise."
"Have you, Grandfather?" Arwen asked.
He looked at her, at the image of his mother and smiled. "Mostly. It is like all hurts. You do what you can each day."
"I expected it to be harder," Elrohir replied. "I expected Thingol to make it harder."
"You have never been to Mandos," Dior replied. "You cannot come out until you find a way to live with your past. Thingol is a hard-headed figure but he is a man who spent a lot of time thinking over his life. That cannot be discounted."
Elrohir nodded and then smiled. "When will we get to see our grandmother? When can we see Elwing and Earendil?"
Dior glanced at Elrond and shrugged slightly, smiling for a moment before sipping his wine. "That is yet to be seen."
At the encampment...
They came in late, the sun only hours away and when the word of Faramir's death reached them, they were waiting in silent groups, standing in the light of torches. They moved through the group, Boromir and Aragorn holding the ends of the stretcher as they had for most of the journey back. They carried him inside and put him on the table, Aragorn staring at his body in a daze.
Someone had cut the arrow off, the fragment remaining slipping in out of sight. His face was ghostly, his eyes staring and Boromir gently closed them again with his hand. He leaned down and kissed Faramir's cheek and Aragorn felt himself breaking apart.
"He...he needs to wash his hands," Boromir stammered, shock still shadowing his face. "I think he needs to wash his hands," he repeated as Frodo started and hurried to get water and cloths. They stood in mute silence, struggling to comprehend the calamity that had overtaken them when Frodo reappeared with a basin and a cloth.
Boromir looked at him uncomprehendingly and then he took it and set it on the table by his brother's body. For a moment, he just stared at it and then he took the cloth, dipping it in the water and turning to his brother. With the gentlest touch he would ever bestow in his life, Boromir of Gondor washed his brother's face for the last time.
Aragorn stared at them, at the enormity of his loss and turned, stumbling into the alcove they had shared. He sat on the bed, his head in his hands and wept like he had never wept before. Sam stood by the door, feeling rather than hearing the searing sadness of his friend and comrade. He closed his eyes, a tear trickling down his cheek as he remembered the kindness they had encountered in Ithilien.
He glanced at Frodo, standing to one side of the table and they looked at each other, their thoughts the same. If they hadn't failed, this would never have happened and Faramir would be alive this day. Sam looked away, unable to bear the sadness and sat by the door of the alcove. He could offer little solace to anyone around them but if Strider needed Sam, he would be there not matter what he needed or when.
Nearing Mirkwood...
He walked in chains, his mind rent with terror, stumbling through the mud and dirt as they ran overland. Behind him, also chained, his accomplice scurried, more weary than he had ever felt before. They had been found by a party of foraging orcs and had been taken prisoner to Sauron when they realized who they were. He had hoped they would just kill them instead of taking him to the Demon and his mind twisted with the horrors he expected to face.
They hurried down the Old Forest Road, veering off on the road that would take them to Thranduil's seat of power. Farther to the southeast, it was already beginning as big spiders began to move into Lorien. They would have the southern wood but could come no farther as Sauron expected to keep this domain his own.
They hurried through the wet grass and stumbled over the rocks as the orcs dragged them closer and closer to their doom. Grima Wormtongue was already rehearsing the arguments that he would give to Sauron in a bid to save his life. He would switch his allegiance or whatever it was he gave his master to the evil beast who had them now. Saruman was on his own, the old stupid bastard and Grima would be hung before he would die for the wizard's sins.
Late at night...
He had sat on his bunk for hours, ignoring the pleas of his friends to eat and rest. Nothing could save him from his sorrow now. His friend, his companion, his lover...the one that he had come to love and depend upon was gone in the blink of an eye. For a moment futility and precarious hopelessness overtook him and he cast around his alcove for a token of comfort. Nothing was there but Faramir's bow and small bag but he didn't have the heart to look inside. He reached for his pack and pulled out the jewel, the one she had given him long ago.
He stared at it, at the loss it encompassed and pressed it against his face in searing anguish. Then he rose and stumbled out, hurrying through the crowds of sleepers until he got outside. He moved to the middle of the small cleared yard and stared at the sky above.
"Why!" he called out. "How can you stand by? Is there not enough that are dead without -" He didn't continue, bringing his hands to his head and then he fell to his knees in despair. "How am I to go on? How can I go on? How much blood do you have to ignore before you hear our despair? How can you sail the sky and not hear our lamentations?"
Halbarad stood in the doorway, near to him stood Sam and they watched him until he staggered once more inside.
"Do not go near to him. Let him grieve."
Legolas pulled his arm free and moved past Éomer, pausing for a moment beside where Boromir sat. He looked up and nodded, gripping Faramir's hand in his own as he sat in a miasma of searing pain. Legolas shook his head, unable to articulate what he wanted to say and then moved onward, pausing outside the alcove that was Aragorn's. Halbarad looked at him, shaking his head.
"He has not come forth since this happened nearly two days ago. He has not eaten nor slept."
"Were he more of Elf kind he would be dead of sorrow."
Halbarad nodded and Legolas pulled the curtain back, entering to see him sitting on the bunk, hunched over his misery. Food on plates sat nearby but it wasn't touched. Legolas walked over and knelt, placing a hand gently on Aragorn's knee. Eyes looked up, eyes mad with sorrow and Legolas swallowed hard as he searched them.
"How may I help you now?" he asked in his gentle voice.
Aragorn looked at him and then shook his head. "You cannot."
"Then we must find a way for you to live."
"There is no living. The light of the world went out. Its going out everywhere. We are fools, Legolas, to think it could be otherwise. You should go to the Havens and flee. At least you will be alive to remember us."
"Do you think I would?" Legolas asked, moving to sit next to him.
"I cannot think. I cannot...comprehend...it is all too much," Aragorn replied, closing his eyes in weariness. "He had a dream."
"What kind? A vision?" Legolas asked gently.
"He said only part of it. He hid some of it from me. Maybe he foresaw this, I do not know."
"Then it was ordained."
Aragorn looked at him, fire in his eyes. "Then there are no gods and everything we do, everything we believe is a lie . All is futile and nothing we do makes any difference!" He rose and swiped the plates off his table, turning and fixing enraged eyes upon the elf. "What is there to need of gods if it is all planned ahead? Is this planned, this calamity that swallows us all up? What does this mean for our beliefs...our hope? Are we all fools praying to the sky ghost, the one who we invented so we wouldn't be alone ? What if you are right? What if it is all planned in advance and nothing we do can make it different? There is no hope, Legolas," he said, his voice breaking. "No hope."
Legolas rose and embraced Aragorn, holding him tightly in his arms. He felt devastation and loneliness and for a moment no hope as he held their leader weeping in his arms. Standing by the door, peering through the curtain, Éomer of Rohan watched them together. It was impossible for him to carry anymore sorrow and so he watched it as detached as he could manage to be. Later, if there was one, he would fall to his knees and weep until the sky crashed to the ground. But for now he was determined to push away the darkness until that last moment of freedom when he died on his feet, Legolas by his side.
The next day...
They dressed him in his best clothing, putting the few possession that he had with him, minus a small book that Boromir kept for himself. They stood together as they carried him to a hillside and lay him into the cold damp earth. Wrapped in blankets they could ill afford, they buried Faramir of Gondor under an overcast sky. They piled rocks on him, a cairn to protect him from the winters that would surely follow their doom.
Aragorn stood silently, as if etched in stone, his eyes shuttered and his pain hidden as they sang sad songs. Elf songs, man songs and a short halting poem from a hobbit with tears in his eyes all broke the unbearable solemnity for a moment. When they were done, they drifted away and left their chieftain alone on the hill. Aragorn would stand without moving for the entirety of the night and in the morning come down a changed man. Gone would be the uncertainty, the caution and the stealth. The man who would lead them had been transformed by death. He no longer feared it, this calamity of the world and he made a vow to take the fight to the enemy.
They would not just hit and run, they would destroy and rend, beginning with the tower of Orthanc in Isengard. The enemy would be denied the tower for a base, as Aragorn had deciphered that much from the palantir. They would find it inhospitable if he could manage it and their efforts in the south and the mountains delayed.
He walked to his alcove and closed the curtain, staring at the jewel he held in his hand. He felt nothing for it but the rage that iced his heart and so he put it back on to keep that focus intense. He would remember Faramir's uncertainty when he had asked what it was for. Now he had a reason for continuing to wear it. It was his talisman, his token, his good luck charm and as long as he wore it he would remember to hate.
He sat on the bunk and held his head in his hands as he tried not to think that he had laid the best part of himself into the cold dark ground.
In the courtyard of the House of Manwe...
They had arrived separately, gathering in the courtyard of the great mansion on Taniquetil that was the home of the Lord and Lady of the World. Ingwe had arrived earlier, going into the great house to speak with his lord and friend, Manwe.
As they stood talking together, a radiant figure came from the house. He walked down the steps, smiling broadly and extended his hand to Turgon. Turgon smiled and bowed, turning to his companions.
"My Lord Fionwe, you know most of my companions, but a few," Turgon said. He turned and smiled. "This is my great-grandson, Elrond son of Earendil. You know Glorfindel and the others here gathered."
He gripped Elrond's forearm, smiling and nodding. "I am well acquainted with all but you, son of Earendil."
Elrond bowed and smiled, the whirlwind of conversations and meetings leading to this moment a blur behind him. They were at the house of the Lord of the World, Manwe, greeted by his son and his heart pounded in his ears. Behind him, standing with degrees of relaxation he felt he would never remember again, his family and colleagues stood quietly.
Erestor and Glorfindel, salt and pepper, stood side by side as ever for him. Celeborn and Galadriel, Thranduil and Oropher, Ellan and Haldir waited with enormous dignity. Behind them, talking quietly together, Gil-galad and Thingol exchanged thoughts. It was strange and unearthly being in such company in such a place but it was the last best hope of the world and her people.
Elrond stared at his grandfather, Thingol, talking in earnest with Gil-galad and the conversations of the past few days came home again. They had just gone from Thingol's house to dinner and from there to a private conversation in the library. They had sat quietly, Gil-galad waiting for Elrond to tell him what was on his mind. They were a jumble of thoughts and images and he had to sort through them in his own time.
"I am overcome," Elrond finally said, the glass of wine in his hand forgotten.
Gil-galad nodded, gripping Elrond's hand.
"I am overcome."
Gil-galad smiled, shaking his head. "I understand. You are speechless."
Elrond nodded, looking at Gil-galad with a shaken expression. "We talked."
Gil-galad nodded, waiting. Elrond sighed and closed his eyes a moment.
"He talked to me about sacrifice. He asked me what I was prepared to give up to ensure that there would be relief for Middle-earth."
"And you told him what, melme?"
"You have not asked what he asked of me."
Gil-galad looked at him, his expression quizzical. "What did he ask you to forsake?"
Elrond looked at him, his expression filled with strain. "You."
Gil-galad looked at him, then sat back, sighing deeply. "Well, that was interesting. What if I may ask was your answer?"
Elrond drained his glass before answering. "I told him if that was the price to save the world, I would pay it."
Gil-galad nodded, looking at his lover. "You do not sell low, my brother."
Elrond glanced at him, a painful expression on his face. "He did not require the sacrifice. That I was prepared to make it was enough."
Gil-galad nodded, then drained his own glass. "I am interested, my brother...how did he know about the two of us?"
"I believe," Elrond began, sighing, "that there are few anywhere who do not know that you and I had been together as more than King and Herald for a very long time. I also believe that there would be few places in my mind where I could hide a thought from him."
"Frightening, that one," Gil-galad replied. He leaned back, staring at the fireplace. "He is as formidable now as he was then."
"I am weary," Elrond said, gripping Gil-galad's hand tighter. "I am torn between two obligations, my lord. I do not know what to do."
"Do not do anything now," Gil-galad said. "We have many other worries to take care of." He squeezed Elrond's hand. "It may be that we have no future together. Maybe your sacrifice will be needed in another time. Let us put it aside for now."
Elrond nodded and brought Gil-galad's hand to his lips. "No matter what happens, I will never love another the way I love you."
"Then that is enough," Gil-galad said. "That will be enough for now."
"Elrond?"
He turned, embarrassed. "I am sorry, my lord," he said, giving his attention back to the moment at hand.
"You must focus, my friend," Glorfindel said, patting Elrond's shoulder.
"I am sorry," Elrond said. He smiled at Fionwe. "Forgive me, Lord. I am distracted over too much family. I, who have ever been alone, find myself awash in family who were only hither before names on a page. I am overcome."
Gil-galad looked at him, the word resonating between them. Fionwe smiled, glancing from one to the other. "Do not despair, my friend. Things will be all right. Take one step at a time."
Elrond smiled, nodding. "Wise advice."
"Then come into the house," Fionwe said, turning and beginning up the stairs. "Lord Ingwe is with my father and mother but you are most welcome. I am honored to escort you inside."
Elrond stared at the mansion, the heart center of the world and looked at Fionwe. He felt the others generous spirit and peace settled over him. With a nod, they walked up the steps together.
In the camp, three days later...
They moved out, heading for Isengard, hoping to reduce the tower to rubble. Aragorn led them, the palantir in a bag carried on his back. They had horses this time and rode into the night, leaving before the sun came and it made hiding more difficult. They hoped to cover most of the distance in a day or two instead of the long and winding week of trekking through safer country.
He had paused by Faramir's grave, standing for a moment alone by the cairn. They waited silently until he came down from the hill, his face cold and emotionless. Éomer and Legolas were coming with them and they sat on their horses as overhead the great star continued on its journey. They had hope that destroying Isengard would make putting forces into the south untenable and they knew that the ride would be long and hard.
Aragorn climbed into the saddle and with a glance at his men, he turned and rode down the path that would take them to the back trails and the great road beyond. Standing nearby, watching them riding, Frodo and Sam glanced up at the sky. It was filled with stars, one brighter than all the rest. It would be a relatively dark night and that would work in their favor. Sam sighed and grinned at Frodo, following him as he turned and walked into the cavern.
In the Halls of Manwe...
Elrond stood silently, staring around the opulent and enormous ante room to the great king's audience hall. Everyone was silent and expectant, as one would be in such a moment and the air was filled with tension as they waited to be called inside.
Elrond wondered what they would be like, these lords of the beginning of the world. They knew Iluvatar, having seen his face and heard his voice and the mere idea of it made him feel small and insignificant. Fionwe had gone ahead, slipping through the doors, disappearing from view in the blink of an eye.
Gil-galad stepped closer, squeezing Elrond's shoulder. He nearly jumped, turning and smiling, the King's presence worth more to him than he could articulate. At that moment the door opened and Fionwe reappeared, walking toward them with a smile. "You may come," he said, turning and waiting as Thingol stepped forward as senior petitioner.
Next came Turgon and Glorfindel, then Erestor, Gil-galad and Elrond. The others followed, all of them walking through the door into the hall where the King of the World received guests. They entered a huge room, one with the illusion of clouds and the heavens surrounding them on a gigantic ceiling that seemed more real than contrived. Two chairs, gilded and beautiful, stood alone in the back of the room, which was open, with pillars that broke the vista. Beyond it lay white capped mountains and the curve of the world, with eagles flying lazily in the blue sky. They were above the clouds and they lay like snow on the top of the sky that covered the world.
Two people waited, a woman and a man and at their side stood Lord Ingwe of the Vanyar. They crossed the glossy floor, the figures becoming more distinct, even though for the rest of their life they would not be able to describe them with accuracy. Each of them saw them, Lord Manwe and Lady Elbereth, but each of them saw them as they thought them to be. Elrond saw a beautiful older woman with a timeless expression of intense joy. Glorfindel saw a young girl, full of light and the vivaciousness of youth. They paused before them and bowed, a suffusion of peace falling over them, adding to their comfort in the presence of divinity.
Manwe reached out, raising his hand, blessing their presence before sitting down. Elbereth stood a moment and then sat, a smile of such radiant beauty on her face that Elrond found himself without words. He stood a moment and then noticed that people were waiting for him and so he came forward and bowed again.
"My Lord and Lady, I am...I am honored to be in your presence," Elrond stammered. His cheeks felt hot from his embarrassment but when he looked at Elbereth, it faded away. He stared at her and something began, an exchange between them happening without words. It was as if all the days of his life were open and she read them like a book page by page. He wasn't alarmed, but rather soothed for he felt her love as one does a soft caress. It comforted him, for there was no other word that could describe what he felt at that moment.
"My Lord Elrond," she whispered, her smile gentle in his mind. "I am most happy to meet you in person at last."
Then the scenery changed and he was standing on a ledge looking out over the world with her by his side. He stared at the horizon, at the way it curved over and he felt a terrible urge to fly. A hand touched him, a soft and feminine hand and he turned, smiling with pleasure at the lady beside him.
"Elrond," she whispered, smiling back. "You have been a faithful servant of the Valar. We are most pleased with you, son of Earendil."
"I have never seen him, my father," he said, shaking his head.
"You will some day. Soon," she said. "What we must do now is turn back the darkness. In that, you have a part to play."
"We cannot do it alone, Lady," Elrond pleaded. "We cannot stand up to his power. We beg you for the sake of the world to come to our aid. It must be soon."
She nodded and touched his brow, his anguish falling away and when he opened his eyes, he was standing in the chamber once more. The others were staring at him, watching him intently, then all faded once more and he was back on the ledge. No one was with him and he glanced around quickly, his anxiety rising once more.
"What do you fear, son of Earendil?" a disembodied voice asked.
"I have a heavy duty, my Lord. Where are you that I might beg for your pity on the world below?"
"I see all things, my son," the voice said. "All things."
"Then you know that we are lost without you."
"I am aware of the darkness that threatens the Little Kingdom and I know that the time for reckoning has arrived. You were its messenger, Elrond of Imladris, the conduit through with freedom will return."
"What must I do?" Elrond asked. He turned and watched as an eagle flew past. It was beautiful and he watched it transfixed. "What must I do?"
"Go back to the Little Kingdom with the Army of the Powers and prepare to take back that which is lost."
Elrond stood a moment staring at the mountains and then they disappeared. He was back with the others and the room was empty, just the party and Fionwe, the Lord and Lady gone. He glanced around, unnerved and Gil-galad took his arm, steadying him.
"We are to go now," he said kindly. Turning to Fionwe, he nodded and bowed. "We are in your debt, my lord."
Fionwe nodded and smiled, watching as they walked back through the doorway. By the time they got to the courtyard, Elrond's head was clear. They paused and gathered around, Gil-galad smiling.
"What happened to you?" he asked.
"I...I think we have what we came for," Elrond said, shaking his head.
"They talked to you alone," Ingwe replied, nodding respectfully. "We are going to war then?"
Elrond nodded, rubbing eyes. "We are going to war."
Isengard...
They crept closer, the miasmic swamp that was Isengard before them. No one seemed to be around and they waited, intent to make sure that they would be safe when they crept to the door that stood slightly ajar. In the war, it had been destroyed of effectiveness by the rage of the Ents. Now it stood abandoned but they knew it would not be for long. Eventually the orcs would be able to return and make it a base for their western incursions.
Aragorn looked from one side of the drowned compound to the other, searching for any sign of life. There wasn't any and he felt a cold and grim satisfaction. They would have time to search for a way to make the fortress uninhabitable. The orcs might come but they would have no forward base if he had any hand in the day's work.
Nodding to Halbarad, they began to creep forward, crossing the still drowned courtyard on the backs of stones. They moved to the door, sword and bow at ready and when they entered the dark and cool confines it was obvious they were alone. Aragorn stood and looked up, the ceiling hundreds of feet up, a darkling place that gave a deep sense of foreboding to them as they stood below.
He glanced around and then turned to his party, signaling some to be guardians and support those still stationed outside. The others were divided into teams and together they set out to find a way to being the stone tower down.
Éomer and Legolas moved up the stairs, weapons in hand as they crept upwards. Into each room they peered, one standing guard while the other searched, ever going upward in total silence. Below them, moving equally silently, Aragorn and three men made for the cellars. Dreading deeply what might be lurking in such a terrible place, they descended the staircases, torches in hand.
They peered into rooms, most of them empty until they came to one that had an acrid smell. Aragorn paused, remembering that odor from another time and place. Moving forward, he peered into the gloom, shadowed and wavering with the flicker of his torch. Barrels stood side-by-side, one of them loosely covered and he pried off the lid and reached inside.
Black granules, grains of a sooty greasy material he pulled into the light and he sniffed them, the picture of what they were like formulating in his mind. He smiled grimly and found a scoop lying on the floor, filling it with the material and turning to go. They followed him, his men, flying up the stairs and once in the foyer again, he called upwards.
"Legolas! Éomer! Come!"
With that, he turned and hurried outside. Legolas and Éomer, with two other archers, hurried down the stairs and out of the door. When they reached the steps they paused, watching as Aragorn knelt nearby, working with a black substance on a flat dry rock. He had placed the scoop on the rock, balancing it carefully, then he rose and turned, hurrying up the stairs and disappeared for a moment into the silent tower. They watched curiously, patiently waiting for the reason for Aragorn's behavior. He returned with a thin white cord in his hands and kneeling once more he put one end into the dusty black pile. The other he laid carefully on the ground, standing and looking at them.
"I remember something important. Gandalf used to make fireworks for celebrations. The powder he used was like this. If this is what I think it is, if I light this cord, it will burn to this substance and cause it to explode."
They all stepped back, looking at him and then the black dust, almost as if expecting it to explode right then and there. He took a torch and knelt, lighting the end of it and then turned, urging everyone to step away. They turned and moved back, watching with fearful fascination as the fire burned up the length of the cord. It faltered a moment and then reached the funnel, sputtering and then exploding with a frightening blast.
Rocks were shattered and peppered them, drawing sharp exclamations of surprise and pain. They turned and stared at the place where the scoop was, now a charred and blasted hole in the stairs. Rubbing a bruised arm, Aragorn stared down at the blast hole, smiling with grim satisfaction. He turned and looked at them and then up the tall tower, his decision made for him already.
"We can destroy this place. I know how. Right now, I need your strength and cooperation."
They turned with him, following him up the stairs and into the building once more. For the next two hours, they moved the barrels, taking them to different levels of the tower. They placed them near to windows, opening and casting off the lids. Éomer went from each, tearing curtains and sticking one end of them into the dark material. The other end, he dangled out the window and then carefully, he poured kerosene on the cloth. He soaked it to the edge of the black substance, very careful to not let it get too wet.
Then he moved to another level and did the same until there were five barrels of explosive dust ready to light. Sweating with effort, Aragorn gathered his people and they left the building, their explosives in place. Hopping from rock to rock as they put distance between themselves and the tower. Behind them, like tongues dangling grotesquely from black cavernous mouths, the curtains flagged the barrels.
Aragorn paused and turned to Halbarad, Legolas and three others. "Make a fire arrow and light those fuses."
They nodded and with a moment of effort, five flaming arrows were ready to go. They took careful aim, Aragorn standing tensely watching, and with almost simultaneous release, they flew through the air. They pierced the cloth, flames bursting into sight. For a brief second they burned and then almost as one, explosions appeared.
The building convulsed, shuddering for a moment and then exploded into pieces, erupting into the air. They turned and ran, tugging the horses behind them as the air rained down death from the shattered tower. The tower poured flame and dust, pieces of itself falling everywhere and when it was over, they stood on a nearby hillock.
The tower was gone, just the barest of jagged rock indicating where it had stood. It jutted up, like a broken tooth and smoke issued from it as bits of masonry still fell. The blast had been deafening, the loudest they had ever heard and they stood in shock at the destruction they had wrought.
Legolas turned and looked at Aragorn, stilling at the sight of the coldness on his face. That kind of satisfaction he had seldom seen. Aragorn turned and nodded to Legolas, turning and walking to his horse. They mounted up and turned to ride, secure in knowing that the opportunities to hurt them had been struck a hard blow.
In another place...
"Father."
He turned and looked at her, his beautiful daughter and smiled, holding out his hand. She came to him and hugged him, the same sense of security filling her again.
"Father? I have to talk to you."
"Very well," he said, comforted by her presence.
They turned and walked to the settee and sat, Arwen gathering her thoughts in silence for a moment. Then she looked at him, taking his hand into hers.
"I have a difficult question to ask you, one that I must, Father."
He nodded, frowning a moment. "Ask, daughter."
"Father...I want to know about the King..."
He bit his lip and nodded, disquiet filling him. "The King and I...we were partners in the leadership of our people for a very, very long time."
"I am aware of that, Father. I am also aware that you were very close to him...intimate."
He sat a moment and then rose, turning to face her. "That part of my life was before you and your mother. I am not prepared at this time to talk about it. That time...that history..." He paused, sighing deeply. "It was another time and place, Arwen."
"It was," she agreed. "What I want to know is if there is a portion of that past that has come into the present. Is there anything between you and the King that will trespass on our lives now?"
Elrond felt his heart squeeze and he turned from her anxious gaze. "Arwen...I cannot discuss what even I do not understand."
"You still love him. And he loves you," she said, quietly.
Elrond shook his head, his expression filled with pain. "Arwen..."
"Father," she said, rising and walking to him, placing her hand on his arm. "I will not burden you further, but we must talk about this later. Tell me that you will."
He sighed painfully and nodded, avoiding her eyes. Then she turned him and hugged him tightly. He hugged her back, remorse filling him. Then she smiled, her eyes brimming and kissed his cheek.
"I love you, Father."
"And I, you, daughter," he whispered, watching as she turned and walked to the door. She paused and smiled and him and then left, the door closing silently. He stood for a moment, his heart filled with pain. Then he pushed it aside, turning to his table where plans for their invasion lay.
On the trail...
They rode hard, leaving the smoking ruin of their great success behind them. They would reach shelter by nightfall and the cavern of their rebel friends the next morning. The victory they had achieved had been a great thing and morale would be lifted for a while. Aragorn rued that they had not taken more than a couple of bags of the material with them but even that much was better than nothing. They would have a chance to make and leave behind little surprises and as they got better at using it, wield great victories out of certain defeats.
They rode onward, moving across the flatlands as they headed for the mountains and the sanctuary and safety of the forests beyond.
Late that night...
He stood before the door, hesitating for a moment and then he knocked, entering at the sound of a soft voice. Gil-galad was there, sitting in a chair by a table, papers and scrolls littered over the top. He paused, smiling and then rose, waiting as his lover crossed the room. They stood before each other and then embraced. It was silent for a moment and then Elrond sighed.
"Things are too complicated right now," he whispered, rubbing his cheek against Gil-galad's. "My daughter came today. She wanted to discuss you and I."
Gil-galad sighed and looked into Elrond's face, unable to measure the emotions behind the mask that was so firmly in place. "I am sorry to hear this. But I am selfish enough to still want you."
"It is not in doubt where my feelings stand but for now, I can only manage to do what I must. I am asking you, my dearest friend, that you give me some latitude to do this first thing because it is so important."
Gil-galad nodded, kissing Elrond on the lips. "I will grant you that, melme. But I will serve you notice that I am not prepared to surrender what I feel for you."
"I am not asking you to," Elrond replied, unable to meet Gil-galad's eyes. "But I am asking that we hesitate for the good of all. At some date when there is a chance to think about this, then we must do it. But now, I cannot bear the reproaches that surely will come if this erupts into something we cannot control."
"Fair enough," Gil-galad replied, considering the misery on Elrond's face. "Life is complicated, isn't it. I remember simpler days even though there was danger everywhere. I do not know what may happen when we finally traverse these shoals but we shall sometime in the future."
Elrond nodded and embraced Gil-galad, kissing him back with all the devotion of a lifetime of love. Then he sighed and looked at the table, at the plans that were being drawn to move an army unprecedented since the days of the Beginning.
"May I help you?" he asked, glancing at his lord.
Gil-galad smiled, kissing him softly. "There is not a moment of any day in which you do not do that, my brother, in some way or another."
Elrond sighed and squeezed his King's hand and together they worked into the early hours of the night.
In the world...
They circled lazily, watching the ground below as they flew over the earth. Below, unaware, creatures moved, heading ever westward toward the mountains beyond. Dark specks moving swiftly, encamping along the eastern side of the river, dark specks that were the enemy of freedom and peace. They circled and watched and then flew toward the ocean and the lord who loved them and depended upon their allegiance. They were the messengers of Manwe and he asked them to tell him of the movements and placement of Sauron's troops.
Sauron rued his Nazgul, dead and destroyed by Gandalf. He had no eyes and ears in the sky. He had only information he could divine from his foot soldiers, his collaborators and his own cosmic powers. He was divine but not infallible and as he sat in the Halls of Thranduil, he languidly considered his progress thus far. He was in no hurry, so completely confident in his victory was he, so the resistance that he was hearing about didn't bother him a bit.
He had other things to think about, turning and glancing to his left. Hanging by chains, stretched spread-eagled, Saruman gasped in pain. He glanced to his left and spied Grima, sitting on the floor, a collar around his neck. He was Sauron's pet, his own personal canine and when he walked about his domain, Grima came along at the end of a leash. It amused Sauron to humble them thusly...
Saruman was a long term commitment in his mind, a slow and torturous death was on the agenda for that duplicitous bastard. He had sold out his master, trying to take the Ring for himself and for that there would be no mercy at all. He looked at the chain that lay at his feet, the end of which was attached to Grima's collar. He smiled to himself, amused that such weaklings could think they could overpower someone such as he. The Ring had sought him for three thousand years. It had needed him as much as he needed it and now they were together, inseparable and unbeatable, the masters of Middle-earth until the end of Time. He had plenty of time to defeat the remnants, rather relishing the idea of having that for a diversion over the course of time.
He relaxed in his chair, resting his eyes on Saruman's torment and considered the pleasure of his coming sojourn in Rivendell.
At the encampment of the resistance...
They arrived late in the afternoon, the news of their triumph bringing a surge of happiness that had not been seen in their ranks before. Aragorn moved to the dining hall, pausing as Boromir gripped his arm, the big man's eyes filled with emotion. They stepped aside, Boromir taking his hand.
"You did well, I am told," Boromir said, gripping Aragorn's hand.
He relaxed a moment, his expression gentling. "We leveled Orthanc. They have no base in the south now."
Boromir nodded. "We have eliminated a spy network in the north along the river. Our watchers were right about orcs setting up hidden outposts. They are mostly, to our best knowledge, eliminated from here to thirty leagues north of us."
Aragorn nodded, sighing tiredly. "Good work," he said to someone he counted upon, the one who was slowly and tentatively filling Faramir's tactical role in his mind.
Boromir hesitated and then he held up a small book, one that Faramir had in his personal effects. "You should have this."
Aragorn looked at it, his eyes darkening with emotion. "That is yours. Your brother -"
"It has things that you might want to know. I...I give it to you because of that. I have memories of my brother. You have less. Take it and if you ever want to give it back, I will take it. But for now, I think it would do you good to have and read it yourself."
Aragorn swallowed hard and reached out, taking the small leather-bound book into his hand. He nodded again, his eyes expressing what his lips could not and then he turned and walked into the alcove that was his home. He paused and then sat on the bunk, staring at the book in his hand, a small brown leather bound journal of some quality. He unfastened the clasp and opened it, the neat hand of his lover filling the pages. Tears came to his eyes and he leaned back against the cavern wall, closing his eyes against the loneliness he felt.
He sniffled and then sat up, staring at the page and found his name written therein. He looked at it, the finally drawn handwriting and turned to the front to read. He sat all night, reading page after page, his dinner untouched as it sat on a box. He read and mourned, learning Faramir's heart and when he was finished, he was as lonely as he had ever felt.
He rose and put it in his pack, carefully concealing it and then walked through the silent cavern to the door. He walked through the yard beyond and up the hill to the solitary cairn where Faramir slept. The stars were bright overhead, the biggest star of all shining through the scattered clouds. Dew formed on the grass at his feet, the elevation ensuring that the temperatures at night were cool even in summer.
He stared at the rocks before him, a mounded heap of them and sighed, closing his eyes with pain. Faramir's words came back to him, halting thoughts about what it could mean to live in a world without hope and then grim determination to do the right thing, to be strong for his men, to help Aragorn against the burden that had fallen upon him.
Help Aragorn.
It stuck in his mind, his heart filled with grief and as he stood in the darkness, he felt tears in his eyes. He quashed them ruthlessly, unwilling to give in once more to the horror of what had happened in the split second of an unguarded moment. He had saved others and died in their place, Boromir included. He had once said that he feared his brother would die in his place and the opposite had happened. The desolation that Boromir bore on his back was evident to him. He felt it too.
He had no hope that there would be a part of himself that would be private and emotional until that night when they had given in to each other. Now it was all gone and he was bereft. He would turn that suffering into action, he knew, but it gave no comfort.
'Behold the end of tribulations...born on wings, the illuminating light of ancient days. Shadows fleet before the powers, ruthless end to the tyranny of one. All shadows shall be vanquished, sacrifices noted and repaid in kind. One alone shall triumph and the fallen shall rise again. Blessed be the peacemakers...'
The words of some vision that Faramir had written down in his book came to him and he mulled them, unwilling to believe that they meant more than just that. He sighed, staring up at the heavens and felt more alone then than at any other time in his life. They were truly alone. The Valar knew, surely, what was happening. But they did not come. They were on their own now.
Turning, he walked down to the yard, passing sentries and softly whispering groups before entering the cave. He walked to his alcove and entered, reaching into the pack for Faramir's book. He stared at it and then put it in a pocket of his tunic, the feel of it against his heart comforting. Then with great effort, he lay alone on the bunk and closed his eyes, willing sleep to come.
Nearby...
Legolas sat beside Éomer, working the shaft of an arrow. With skilled hands, he shaved with a sharp knife along the long nearly straight grain of the wood, making it more in keeping with his meticulous tastes. Éomer worked a whetstone on his blade, sharpening it to suit himself. It was quiet in the yard, the two leaning against a big rock, comfortable in the cool evening air.
"What will you fletch that with?" Éomer asked, admiring Legolas' skill with blade and wood.
"I have feathers in my kit. I put feathers I find in the pouch and use them against rainy days."
Éomer smiled, nodding. "Resourceful you are, Elf."
"I find it pays." Legolas smiled slightly. "What are you, human?"
Éomer glanced at him, shrugging slightly. "I am the last King of Rohan."
For a moment it was silent and then Legolas sighed. "I am sorry I asked you. Forgive me."
"There is nothing to forgive," Éomer replied stoically. "It is what it is."
"Perhaps," Legolas replied, sighing. He looked up and saw the evening star, the brightest star above them. It was far away, out of his reach and he knew that the Mariner didn't see them. How could he, he wondered, thinking for the thousandth time about his family. How could Earendil know? He glanced at Éomer, watching his sure hand work the blade and sighed.
No one anywhere could know.
On the shores of Valinor, three days later...
Ships sailed into the harbors and sheltered anchorages of the shoreline as they gathered to begin a transport that had not been seen in the living memories of at least half the inhabitants of Valinor. In domiciles and squares all over Aman, Elves gathered to listen to their chieftains. The situation was explained, the risks sorted and in great numbers they picked up their weapons.
Armor was secured from cabinets where it had lain unused for centuries. Helms, mail, swords and bows, all of it was gathered, cleaned and repaired. Men gathered their horses, tack and gear, all of the logistical and material needed for a war overseas.
They began to come in armies, marching behind their leaders, banners and symbols streaming in the cool breeze. They massed on the shores and when given the signal, began to board the ships that would take them away. Women and children and all others who were not going, stood on the shoreline and watched. Ululations rang through the hillsides as the People of the Stars began to gather for war.
It wasn't festive. It wasn't frivolous or light-hearted. The seriousness of the crowds was evident. The Powers were coming to the Little Kingdom to remove once and for all the manifest evil that lingered from the Elder Days. They could feel the presence of greatness all around them and the sea thrummed with energy as the moment approached. It wasn't as rough as once it was but the steady chop of small waves was evidence enough of the interest of the gods who roamed the depths. They would be carried over the domain of Ulmo with care.
The breeze was brisk, the emanations of Manwe bearing themselves on the backs of the wind. His anger could be felt gathering and they drew from it what they needed as they began to make this thing happen for the first time in ages. Ships filled and sails were raised, moving them offshore to make space for others to come. They waited together, all of them gathering to land in Middle-earth at the very same time.
They stood together on the shore, all of the leaders of the Eldar, clothed in their armor, their weapons were in hand. As they did, Elrond felt a soft breeze, something familiar but very faint and then the mists parted and a beautiful ship appeared. It was graceful in a way that defied description and the sails were as white as the whitest snow. It signaled its presence before it was even seen by the bright light that shown from its prow. It came closer, gliding rather than sailing and when it finally reached the shore, they knew who it was. Cirdan was smiling, admiring the lovely lines of the ship he had made so many years before. It was magical, this vessel, Vingilot they called it and it was obvious that it was one of a kind.
The sails were pulled in as it glided to a stop, floating in the water off the shore where they stood. Elrond stared at it transfixed, his eyes searching the deck until he found what he was looking for near the bow.
A tall figure stood there, his hair in a black plait that hung to his waist. He wore simple clothing but made of very rich materials and of a style he could barely remember from the time of his childhood. A sword hung at his side, the necklace of Thingol was around his neck and in the brow of his crown a very bright jewel pulsing with light.
Elrond closed his eyes, remembering the soft glow of the Silmaril in repose, when its light was not needed. He had touched it himself, a far away memory when his mother had shown them what it was like. He opened his eyes, noting the presence of another, a tall and lovely woman with beautiful eyes. Elwing the White, the daughter of Turgon, stood beside her husband on the deck of his ship. Elrond stepped forward, Turgon catching his arm and he paused, swallowing around the lump in his throat.
"Wait until they dock," he said, smiling at his grandson as the ship began to move without sails pulled up. It found the dock and pulled even with ease, stopping without effort from anyone on board. Elrond and the others turned and walked to the stairs, climbing down to the water level. Along the wooden structure they went until they came to the ship and the plank that was laid to allow them to board.
Elrond paused, looking at the couple who stood there, their faces wreathed in tears and smiles. They knew him, he sensed, before they ever met him as an adult. They had not forgotten him in the long, long years apart. He hesitated and then stepped onto the plank, crossing to the deck without a word. His father turned, smiling at him with pride and held out his hand, gripping Elrond's. They stood a moment and then embraced each other as his mother stood nearby, tears on her cheeks.
The others waited until he had embraced his parents before boarding the ship that would take them to the Grey Havens and the war beyond. Elrond held his mother, images of Elros in his head and made a vow to tell them everything that he knew. The wind was soothing against his tear-stained cheeks, the sun middling warm against his skin. Soon they would sail out to save a world where the last surviving descendent of his brother fought alone.
In Mirkwood the Great...
He hung by his wrists, willing himself to expire but the beast prevented it as if he could read his mind. He was beyond pain, beyond terror and it would not become less than it was right now. Sauron was stretching out his suffering, making sure that he lasted before he decided how he would kill the wizard.
Saruman could die a mortal death, that much was certain but Sauron kept ii from him like a dangling carrot. It was torment unmatched and he struggled to resist it but the power over him was just too great. He would last and last before the end came and from there, he was uncertain where he would go. No one would allow him to shelter in Mandos, the Valar would know of his terrible treachery. He would end in the Void, tossing into oblivion with Melkor, to spend eternity bereft of the warmth of God. Hell was an absence of the love of Iluvatar and as he hung in his misery, he felt the sorrow of his life fill him. But it wasn't for the right reasons. He was selfish to the end and as orcs laughed and poked at his plight, he wept silently for his own sorry hide.
On the shores of Valinor...
They lined the beaches and the cliff sides for more than a league, witnessing the greatest armada to leave these shores in the remembered history of their people. Vanyar and Noldor stood side-by-side on the decks of ships with Teleri, kindreds all. The wind was favorable, Manwe sending them toward the east with fulsome gusts.
The great Armada was going to war and eagles flew onward to scout the land ahead. Ship after ship sailed behind Earendil as he sailed Vingilot with ease. Standing by his side, holding his mother's hand, Elrond watched as the mists formed around them. Ulmo was concealing them, preventing their discovery and there would be more than this in the days ahead, he knew.
Tulkas had been seen, it was said, riding his horse along the shore. He would be there, leading the army against the demons and smiting them dead with his sword and his hands. He closed his eyes, thinking of the days when the world was young and so was he. He wished Elros was with him to see this moment when the family they had never known had come to his aid.
The sky was obscured and the mist refreshed him as they sailed with the armada toward their native shores. In a few hours they would be there and the press eastward would begin. Once more the Eldar would stand against the darkness. Celeborn and Galadriel stood behind him, as did Turgon and Dior and Thingol King. The members of his family had joined his friends and they went to war with him and his twin sons.
Cirdan stood on deck, watching the sure hands of Earendil steer the great wheel of the ship he had made. The magic of the vessel he could feel beneath his feet, this ship that could fly across the sea and the sky. He felt the years fall away as they came ever closer to the fabled shores of his beloved home. Soon they would disembark and form into armies and ride out to meet the demon for the very last time.
Glancing back, he considered Valinor. Soon it would be his home too. For now, he would do his best and make sure that liberation was successful and worry about the future when it was certain it would be there.
In the mountains...
He paused by a stream, bending down to drink. The cold water felt good on his parched throat. They were working along the forest, fighting back roving bands of orcs who were trying to find a way into the higher up ground. Legolas stood waiting, watching Aragorn as he drank. The man was tense and strained. He lived for the hunt now, for destroying his foes and he knew it was sorrow that drove him onward.
Éomer was walking back when he paused, staring behind them. Then he drew his sword, catching their eye. Aragorn rose and pulled his sword as Legolas pulled an arrow from his quiver. They paused for a moment as a very bright light formed in the trees just behind them.
"What is it?" Éomer asked, moving to stand with them, gripping his sword with great tension.
"I...do not move," Aragorn said, hesitating himself as a sense of peace he had not felt in over a year came to him. He hesitated again and then stepped forward, Éomer gripping his arm.
"Do not go there," the Rohirrim said, his face filled with distrust and fear.
Aragorn squeezed Éomer's hand and stepped forward, lowering his sword. He came to the edge of the trees and paused, the light growing until it hurt his eyes. Then it faded and a figure stepped forward, youthful and beautiful with kindly eyes. A smile graced his lips, warm and friendly and when he came to Aragorn, the figure touched his face with his hand.
Aragorn closed his eyes, the peace that transmitted through that simple gesture soothing and overwhelming. Tears came to his eyes and spilled down his face. The youthful figure smiled. "You despair, my brother. Do not give up hope. There are those that are coming who will stand with you. Have faith."
"Who are you?" Aragorn whispered, reaching his hand to the creature, touching his long hair with wonder.
"You have known me by many names. Now you see me as I truly am. Olorin, I am called."
Aragorn felt his heart squeeze and tears spilled once more. "Gandalf," he whispered. "Gandalf." His voice was broken with pain and astonishment and he felt his heart rend in two. "You have come back."
"Yes," Olorin replied with a smile. "I will not be leaving you until the ends are achieved."
Aragorn nodded, swiping at his eyes. "I missed you, Gandalf."
"And I, you," the youth replied. "Do not despair. I am with you even when you cannot see me. I will return."
With that, he faded and the light went out, leaving Aragorn alone once more. He stared at the emptiness and turned, agitated, looking around himself frantically. "Don't go!" he shouted, but to no avail. The figure didn't reappear again.
"Aragorn," Legolas said, rising from his knees, his eyes filled with concern for his friend.
Aragorn stopped and gathered himself together, his iron control reasserting itself once more. He sighed painfully and nodded to the two, moving toward the stream once more. He splashed his face and turned to them, a grim look of satisfaction on his face. "He said others are coming. The Valar are coming."
"I cannot give myself that much hope," Éomer replied.
Legolas squeezed his arm, a slight look of amusement to his normally calm expression. "The Valar are coming. They are coming to destroy Sauron and it is up to us to make sure that they do." He glanced at Aragorn, nodding with a smile. "My people are coming back."
Aragorn looked at him and then nodded, glancing at the men who had gathered silently around the three of them. He turned and looked at them, measuring the moment and decided that truth was the best option.
"There was someone here that has given us a sign. The forces of Aman are gathering."
They shifted, surprised, smiles of hopefulness on the faces of some.
"They are coming to avenge our world. What we have to do now is hold the line. We have to hold on until they come." Aragorn turned and looked at his partners, nodding. "Let's go," he said with steely determination.
They moved out, melting into the mountains and when they were gone, it was still again. Out on the sea, moving with the wind, the greatest armada the world would ever see made its way to Middle Earth.
On the shores of the sea...
They huddled for miles and miles, lining the shores of the sea. The misery of their situation relieved as best could be done by the Elves that still lived in the Havens. They gave what they had and helped with the sick but there was not much left to do. They boarded ships, filled with anguish and left for safety beyond sight of men. Behind them, watching with rage and despair, the Strangers were reluctantly abandoned to their fate.
The crush of refugees had slowed somewhat because the rebels in the mountains were able to stem the tide of enemy that had harried them thus far. They rested in all the lands between the mountains and the sea, yet ever they moved westward in a futile attempt to find sanctuary.
The night was dark beneath the clouds of the heavens and the days were wet and dank. But this night the clouds parted and the heavens were open to the people below once more. She stood by the fire, staring at the sky, bothered by something she could ill define. Turning to her father, who was sitting beside her mother, she frowned.
"Papa?"
He looked at her, his eyes filled with despair and followed her finger as it pointed to the sky. He frowned a moment, then rose to stand, considering the element that appeared to be gone.
"The star, Papa. Where is the star?"
He stared at the sky, vainly searching for the evening star that was always there. It was gone and he felt terror, so he gathered his daughter and huddled near his wife as the night wore onward. He didn't know what it meant but it couldn't be good. Nothing was ever going to be good again.
At the Havens...
They woke to a drear day, the mists from the ocean rolling inward toward the land, forming dew on everything and pain in joints made weary by cold. Old people groaned and young ones muttered as another day of despair dawned. She stood and stared at the restless ocean, her eyes roaming from the sea to the shore and as she turned, she paused for a moment, wondering what it was that she saw that was new.
A light flickered, a bright and piercing light and so she turned and stared as it came ever closer. She had never seen one so bright and it drew her toward it, making her hurry down the steps toward the guarded docks. An Elf turned and held out his hand, kindly halting her in her tracks.
"Look!" she said, pointing out to sea. "A light."
The guard turned and looked, surprise crossing his ageless face and the two stood together, watching the light grow. Activity paused on the cliff side above them and on the wharf beyond and around them as well. Eyes turned to the sea, to the steadily growing light and when the mists finally parted it was breathtaking to see.
White ships emerged, swan ships glittering with gold, silver and purple, with banners flying in the crisp morning breeze. They were filled with armored soldiers, with colorfully cloaked officers and in the lead of them all sailed a beautiful white ship. On the deck, steering it forward stood a tall dark-haired figure and on the brow of his crown shown a spectacular light.
She gripped the Elf's hand, looking with joy into his face. "It's Earendil, isn't it? It's the Silmaril, like in the stories," she asked.
He turned, his own face filled with joy and nodded, so overcome with emotion was he, himself. He leaned down and kissed her forehead, glancing up to the shoreline where people began to gather and cheer with abandon. "Go up and stay back. My people are coming," he said with pride, tears burning in his eyes.
He turned and ran forward, rousing deck hands as the horizon began to fill with white swan ships. They stretched across the horizon as far as could be seen and they came in more numbers than could be counted. They were led by Vingilot and as they entered the harbor, hands on shore scrambled to give them a berth.
They glided in, pulling up on the docks, ropes were tossed and orders briskly given. Orderly lines of soldiers disembarked while on the stable ships horses where brought from the holds. They moved toward the cliff side and the roads that would bring them topside and people moved aside, hysterical with joy. They reached their hands to touch the soldiers, crying their relief and their hopes as well.
The armies disembarked and would until the next day, gathering together on the flatlands above. Horses in their livery, soldiers in their armor would regroup on the shores of the sea as other ships took their places, dispensing their loads. Moving then to anchorages off shore, still others came and disgorged their loads. Horses and Elves, archers and foot soldiers came in numbers to join the war. Then with the sound of horn calls the greatest hope of all could be heard in the distance. They were coming, the gods of the world, coming to lead them forward into the gathering fight.
Tulkas and Orome and Fionwe as well would go before the armies as they marched toward the east. In the air all around them, they could feel the presence of Manwe while in the mists against their faces and the thrum of the rivers, Ulmo made himself known as well.
The people parted, making way for their saviors and offered their prayers and their thanks. Men joined them, gathering their weapons and with horses and on foot, they went with the tide. The Elves welcomed them, pulling them into their ranks and together they went forward to save the world.
Civilians walked beside them until they moved beyond the shelters, heading for battles beyond the shores. When they were lost to sight, people stood for a long time, unable to assimilate that they might not be enslaved. It was silent and still in the camps along the ocean for a long, long time.
In the front of the army...
They had their plans laid and their captains determined, the army organized and their roles assigned. Elrond rode beside Gil-galad, bearing his standard and before him rode the Elder kings and captains of the guard. His father stayed behind, his own role defined and with his grandfathers company, Elrond rode off to war. Thingol led them, Ingwe by his side, with Turgon and Dior following behind. Others came, figures from the pages of books and he knew that his sons were nearby as well. Celeborn and Glorfindel, Erestor and Ellan, all of the Elves of the great houses were there. Chieftains of Kindreds, some returning for the first time since the Great Journey, rode side-by-side toward the gathering fight.
The sky had begun to clear as they moved steadily forward, the laughter of Tulkas distinctly heard. They had ridden ahead, going out to hunt the enemy, clearing the path to the den of the Beast. Tulkas claimed the honor of destroying Sauron as he had destroyed his master eons before.
Elrond sighed, glancing at Gil-galad, catching the ghost of a smile on that formidable man's face. He returned it, his heart lighter for it and together they continued into the growing dusk.
The rain fell steadily, a soothing soft sensation. He crouched under the cover of trees and watched the river. The Anduin swept by, dark and full, coursing toward the sea far away. Beyond there were orcs, camping in groups and they crouched tensely, as if waiting for a signal.
All along the tree line, archers were also waiting, prepared to make any crossing dear. Aragorn and Gimli squatted together, while farther down the line Éomer and Legolas sat watching as well. They were heartened now, knowing that they were not alone and so it would be their lot to hang on.
As they waited, he listened, a niggling thing bothering him, like one missing thing out of many. There was something out of joint here, something just a little askew and as he considered what it was, he heard a sound behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, his adrenaline surging and froze at the sight of a very tall man. He was standing by himself, watching over the river just like they were.
He was tall and very muscular and dressed in a style of clothing that was ancient and functional. He had long blond hair and a blond beard, eyes piercing like daggers and a smile on his face. He stood silently, glancing at Aragorn with bemusement and then he disappeared into thin air.
The static of the air soothed, becoming less electrical and he felt his nerves relaxing again. Turning, he glanced at Gimli, who was still staring at the orcs and smiled slightly, gratified. Tulkas. He had seen Tulkas, or so he thought. The god of the hunt was with them. As he sat on the ground, he considered the possibility that there might indeed be hope.
The sound of bells came over the breeze, soft and gentle and totally out of place. Gimli turned and glanced at Aragorn, frowning. Then he turned and looked at the orc camps beyond the river. Some had risen, watching toward the north as the sound of bells became louder. All along the line, archers turned northward and stared into the gloom for the source of the sound.
Aragorn stood, peering through the trees as beyond the bend of the river a light could be seen. It was coming closer, the sound of dogs added and when it rounded the bend, it could be seen as a rider. Upon a white horse he came, a horse unlike that seen in Middle earth in many ages of Men and Elves. Big dogs ran beside the horse, massive jaws slavering and dark eyes seeking battle, they wore collars dark and studded around their big necks.
Aragorn sat up, rising onto his knees and peered through the limbs of the trees that shrouded their position. With the rider, a big and powerful man, came others, lesser beings but no less beautiful. He paused, staring out at the encampments of the enemy before calling to them in a language that Aragorn didn't know to any great detail.
Those with him raised their voices, calling out their challenges as well before raising horns to their lips. They rang out, bellowing sounds of great purity and Aragorn found himself on his feet, sword in hand. He moved from the trees, called to battle by the horns of Orome and as he stumbled forward, his feet moving as if with a mind of their own, the horsemen drew swords and spurred their mounts forward, their shouts ringing out.
For a moment, the orcs just stood dumbfounded and then they turned and began to run, some dropping their weapons in terror and others pulling theirs to make futile stands as the riders went through them like a hot knife through butter.
All along the line of defense, archers stepped forward weapons poised, called almost without thought to join the forces before them. Legolas was moving, shooting fleeing orcs, the first to recover from the awe that had taken the rest. Then Aragorn was running, reaching the edge of the river and as he did, he began to engage those that had crossed. More joined him as the slaughter continued and before he could even think, it was over.
The stillness was almost painful as they stood among the dead, turning as one to the riders among them. They were beautiful, impossibly so and they exulted in their victory before turning their gaze to the Elves and men in their midst. Aragorn stood transfixed, watching Orome circle him, astride his horse. He met Orome's gaze, unable to look away and as he did, feelings and words filled his mind.
The tumult of ages became clear to him, faces of people he had never seen but instinctively knew showing themselves as almost memories of his own. He could see him, Elros, tall and beautiful, the picture of Elrond in the crown of his fathers. Others came, images all and then they faded away in the silence surrounding them.
"You must not despair," Orome said, smiling at Aragorn. "You are not alone."
Aragorn nodded, nearly numb with fatigue and revelation. "Why the memories?"
"Because they are your legacy. It will not end with you," Orome said, turning and looking toward the east. "I have to go. There is much hunting to do before the world is free of the Shadow."
"Don't go," Aragorn said, stepping closer.
Bright eyes regarded him and Orome smiled. "The hunt calls me." He looked at his companions and then back at Aragorn. With a smile, he turned his horse and began to ford the river. They stood watching as the group rode away, disappearing into the darkness of the eastern lands. Éomer let out a breath he had been holding and turned to Legolas, caught by the expression on the Elf's face. He was filled with pride and awe, a strange mix of love and longing, as if something had been renewed and remade inside of him. He was watching the darkness where the gods had disappeared and then he turned to Éomer and smiled. Nodding, he glanced at Aragorn and turned to the forest, walking back through the orcs on his way to shelter.
They all began to follow, Aragorn the last, until they disappeared into the shadow of the trees once more.
On the trail to the East...
They made their first camp in the wilderness that led to the Valley of the Bruinen. Elrond stood by the door of his tent and considered how strange it all seemed and how long ago it was that he had left this land in retreat. Now they were back, armed and ready to fight, passing through tides of suffering humanity as they moved back to his longtime home.
Gil-galad watched him, pausing on his way back to the tent he would share with his herald. The sadness that suffused his lover was hard to watch. This land was not unknown to him. He had spent many days traveling across it on the way to the hospitality of the Last Homely House. It was Elrond's land, he had always thought in his mind, the place he had chosen to make his stand.
Somewhere ahead, an abomination had happened, the destruction of a place the like of which would never be seen in the world again. They were too late for the traditions and grace of that redoubtable domicile but they could exact their revenge in consolation.
Celeborn was for revenge, Gil-galad knew, a sentiment that he himself could hold to. Others were less direct about their motivations but they all felt it, this need to punish. Ingwe and Thingol were sitting together, along with Dior and Turgon and a number of others who would leave in the morning with Fionwe to go to the Gap of Rohan. Earendil was gone, sailing his vessel into the sky, flying away to help in his own way.
Elrond had watched them go, his parents standing side-by-side and the wistful look on his face was painful to Gil-galad's eyes. He had spent his small stores of spare time with his herald, the mere presence of his person a comfort to him. Being here was painful, memories of places long gone tugging at the vision of the new reality. Doriath was gone, as was Gondolin and other places treasured and known as well.
More land was inhabited by men, lesser and greater and they were going toward the great White City of Elendil. It had fallen, a terrible thing to contemplate and now they must liberate it but before that could happen, they had to engage the enemy. Rivendell would be the first place they would do that, he considered, the first place of many they would seek out the Beast.
The passes were narrow and so they would have to be careful, marshalling their forces both north and south. A group would be moving toward the Gap of Rohan, making for Isengard and the garrisons expected there. He himself would be going to Rivendell, leading the forces that would secure that locale. He continued forward, greeting Elrond's wan smile with his own. "You look tired."
"I don't know what to think. I was a child last time something this big happened. I feel like a character in one of my books rather than a person in the midst of history."
Gil-galad smiled, sitting down beside his lover. He squeezed Elrond's hand. "History is just one day following another, occasionally punctured by interesting events."
"You have a way to make even exciting things mundane," Elrond said, smirking with a sigh. "I love that about you, your accessibility."
"That I am guessing is a very sophisticated way of saying that I am easy."
Elrond smiled, shaking his head, his dark eyes filled with passion. "There is nothing about you that is easy, my King."
"You speak to me formally," Gil-galad said, his hand gently massaging the tension of Elrond's neck. He watched his lover's eyes close, a sigh escaping his lips. "You and I are more than that."
"I have never forgotten that, melme," Elrond sighed. "I cannot forget that. Ever."
"Nor I," Gil-galad said, his hand falling to his lap. He sat back, relaxing his big frame. "I wish for you tonight."
Elrond nodded, grinning for a moment. He looked at his lover, at the relaxed and familiar sight of his king in battle garb. "There seems as if little time has passed from the time we did this as brothers together."
"Some things are timeless. Like you and me."
"You are hopeless," Elrond said, chuckling. "I am glad for that, for I find that hopeless describes my heart for you. It describes my regard for you, my King."
Gil-galad's gaze was dark with emotion as he met Elrond's. He reached out, drawing his fingers down the side of Elrond's face, the Peredhel's dark eyes closing at the tenderness of his touch.
"You break my heart," Elrond whispered, sighing with emotion.
"I do not wish it, Elrond," he replied quietly. "But you know my own."
"I do," Elrond replied, staring at his lover. "And you know my dilemma."
"That is so," Gil-galad replied. "We are hopeless, you and I. I am not even sure that the wisdom of the Valar can make this right."
"Later," Elrond replied, sighing. "When there is time to think. Then we can see what...what we can do."
"It is a callous and terrible thing, my beloved brother, that such should befall two so devoted for so long, that we should be reduced to debating whose tears must fall to ensure another's happiness."
Elrond nodded and looked into the night sky, the evening star missing from its accustomed place. "My father is a miracle, or so I have been told. He wept when I told him of Elros. He has never known us, I thought, but he told me that he watched over us every night." Elrond swallowed around the lump in his throat. "I find that sadder than the idea that he never knew us at all."
Gil-galad squeezed Elrond's arm. "Your father loves you," he said quietly. "Your mother does too." He sighed. "You and I are fated to be different, to have different burdens. We are not like other people."
Elrond smiled slightly, glancing at his lover. "It is our curse?"
"Sometimes," Gil-galad replied, chuckling. "Our curse and our very great burden," he said, sitting up and leaning close to Elrond. "But in the midst of our deliberations, we are entitled to joy, Elrond."
"At what cost?" Elrond asked, watching as his king rose and turned to the door of their tent.
Dark eyes half shuttered met his own, eyes that smoldered with need. "That is to be determined later, my brother. We can only know about now." With that, he turned and entered his tent.
Elrond watched him go, sitting quietly, his own thoughts a jumble in his mind. Then he rose and stared at the sky, sighing with fatigue once more. For a moment he just stared and then he turned, entering the tent he would share and the open arms of his lover. As he did, another watched, his dark eyes filled with sadness and then he turned and walked onward as was his custom in the evening. Celeborn stared upward, at the newly strange sky and wondered where Earendil sailed this night. Around him the camp settled in sleep, gearing up for the entrance into Rivendell the next day.
"You can not sleep?"
Éomer stared into the concerned eyes of his lover and shrugged, moving slightly so that Legolas could sit beside him. They sat together, staring at the sky. "The night star is gone."
"I noticed. The Mariner is freed from the Heavens and joins the Powers in the war against our Enemy."
"That makes sense," Éomer said, nodding. Then he smiled slightly. "That is, if anything can make sense these days."
Legolas smiled and squeezed Éomer's arm. "Do not despair. Orome came to us today and Olorin. They are with us."
"Too many are not," Éomer said softly.
Legolas sighed, shaking his head, staring at the toe of his boot. "I am shaken by the notion of your gift, Éomer. It would seem that gift may not be the most accurate description of what your frailness entails."
Éomer smiled slightly. "There will come a day when the end of my life will intrude and you will be left alone. I do not envy you the passing of all that you love." Dark eyes fixed themselves on Legolas. "You are not given to display, Legolas, but I must hear it from your own lips. Do you love me?"
Legolas' expression gentled, his eyes warm with emotion. "Aye. I do.
I love you, Éomer son of Eomund. I do not know how it came to be but I do. You were there when I needed someone and in that, for me, came love."
Éomer nodded, overcome with relief. He stared at Legolas' hands, long fingers of amazing strength and agility. "I worried. I will admit it. I am a mortal and you are of Elven kind. You will some day watch the passing of my spirit from beyond your knowing. Only in the End of Time will we know where the other fled to when our mortal homes fall to dust."
Legolas nodded, taking Éomer's hand into his own. He pressed his lips against it, sighing softly. "You are a curse to me, Éomer, and a great blessing. I am doomed to suffer your loss even as I rejoice at your company. It is a two-edged sword, our friendship."
Éomer sighed, nodding. "I will not regret a moment. I will regret only leaving you."
"Then let us live now and not rue what might come some day. We are here and it is now. There might be no more than this. Let us not regret the future."
Éomer nodded. "I am given to moroseness tonight."
"You have lost much," Legolas replied.
"And you."
"My family will be restored to me someday if they have gone beyond the circle of this world. I do not know where you go, brother. Maybe it is in some way the same for you but only among Men to know. I do not myself. There is only guessing for my part."
Éomer nodded and looked at the sky, the absence of the night star keenly felt. "Tomorrow. That is something that I can almost consider now. Maybe there will be one."
Legolas smiled and rose, pulling Éomer to his feet. They stood together, their gazes level and then Legolas leaned forward, kissing Éomer with the softest brush of his lips. "Maybe," he said, smirking. "Forget it now."
Éomer smiled and nodded, turning and walking back into the light of the campfire with his lover. They would lie together that night and in the morning pick up their arms to fight once more.
On the road to Rivendell...
They moved slowly, armed to the teeth. They were going to Rivendell to make a shelter for their master. They had learned to be very careful, since the enemy was like smoke, issuing practically straight from the ground and disappearing into the forest without a trace. They were merciless, leaving no one alive and so they moved with discretion and many armed guards.
No matter how much they told their lord, Sauron refused to be interested yet. He was preoccupied with other things. Exploring his domains and gloating were his main diversions and he knew he would wipe out the remaining opposition in his own time. Who but the pitiful remnants of Man and Elf could stand against him? It would amuse him and keep him occupied in the endless years of his domination to come.
They moved slowly, wains heavy-laden, rolling ever westward toward the narrow valley of Rivendell.
On the Plains of Pelennor...
They rode slowly across, a band of warriors, their unnatural countenance casting an eerie glow. Before them, driven like cattle, the enemy ran, dropping their weapons as they fled. Beyond them, draped in scorched disarray, Minas Tirith gaped into the darkening sky. It was ruined and broken, banners of hatred flying from its ramparts, and it beggared the mind to see it thus.
He rode forward, another by his side, a shining and beautiful youth. The crowds ran, their foul refuse scattered before them as the party made their way through the ruined grounds. Word went on before them and the city began to empty as forces fled the coming of death. By the time they reached the great gate, the city was almost deserted, the enemy conceding their hard-won gains.
The few that remained or were unable to leave were dispatched without comment by dog and sword. Up every winding level the party continued until they reached the great Citadel at the very top. The youth dismounted and entered the main chamber, walking toward a place that he instinctively knew.
Sword drawn, the light of his countenance the only illumination, he braved the stairs that led to the dungeon. Past cast off weapons, past cowering enemy remnants, he moved forward until he came to the place he intended. Pausing, sighing, he touched the metal locks, the manacles releasing themselves at his mere touch.
The doors opened and wretched creatures peered out, men who had been captured and held since the city fell. Among them, bowed and bedraggled, the Steward of Gondor limped toward the youth. Kind eyes greeted him and a hand steadied him as Olorin of the Maiar helped Denethor out.
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