They watched in silent stillness until Elrond was out of sight, hardly daring to move. Glorfindel's eyes flitted about the battlefield, as if searching for some elusive deliverance; Cirdan merely stared after Elrond, his face grave.
"We cannot simply abandon him," Glorfindel said under his breath. He felt helpless; and the feeling was unaccustomed, even after the long years of siege. To do nothing would be intolerable, and to be barred thus from helping pained him.
"No," Cirdan said heavily. "We cannot abandon him - and nor do I propose to." Glorfindel glanced across at him sharply, looking at him closely for the first time. He looked grey and gaunt, and slightly unsteady, and Glorfindel found himself wondering if the long years of war had taken too severe a toll on him. "I will seek him forthwith."
"I will go with you," Glorfindel said quickly. "My path leads towards the camp also. We are building the pyres a mile upwind of it."
They set off in the direction of the camp, walking quickly in spite of the weight of fatigue that hung on them. "What ails him?" Glorfindel asked softly.
He saw Cirdan hesitate, glance round as if afraid of eavesdroppers, and then hesitate a second time.
"Isildur has taken the enemy's ring."
"Ah ..." The syllable was as the soughing of wind in the evening. "And he will not destroy it?"
"No."
"But that is madness. He knows what it is, and what was wrought in it, surely?"
"Yes," Cirdan said bleakly. Glorfindel glanced across at Cirdan's face, but the shutters were down, and he could read nothing in it. "Yes, he knows. But he will not - or cannot do so."
"Could it not be taken from him and destroyed? His strength is not great. He is but a man, after all."
Cirdan paused, the pale blue eyes searching Glorfindel's face sadly. "If you knew that an arrow was barbed, would you pull it by force from another's flesh?" He asked the question without condemnation, but Glorfindel felt the rebuke of it and flushed.
"You believe it would harm him," he said hesitantly.
"No. I believe it would destroy him altogether."
"And what destroys Isildur, destroys also Elrond," Glorfindel said very softly to himself. "Whether the Ring be destroyed or no, it destroys them both. Too close have they been, for too long." Cirdan gave no sign that he had heard the words and Glorfindel fell silent, frowning slightly at his own forwardness. He had long had misgivings about Elrond's fondness for the mortal, but to give voice to them now would be churlish, achieving nothing and perhaps doing great harm. "Forgive me" he said aloud. "It was a foolish suggestion, and should be forgotten. If another were to take the ring from him ... well, the danger would still remain for its new holder, would it not?"
"Very likely. The ring has never before been out of its master's grasp. We do not know enough about its power to understand its effects." Cirdan smiled uneasily, and it seemed to Glorfindel as if he was gathering his strength. "Really, there is nothing we can do, but to be watchful, and to be at hand, should we be needed."
Glorfindel nodded. "I hope we may be in time. If what you say is true, then Isildur is placed in mortal danger - and Elrond, too, I fear."
They walked on awhile, in silence, until they drew level with the place where Sauron had fallen. A small group of the Men were gathered there, seemingly aimless in their stillness. The ground had been cleared, and the bodies borne away, but still the place seemed steeped in loss.
Here, Elendil had fallen. And here, too, Gil-Galad had met his end. The Kings of Elves and Men - nay, the hopes of all their peoples - destroyed. And never again will their like be seen. For a moment, Glorfindel felt bereft, as the full weight of what had been lost bore down on him for the first time.
It could have been seconds or minutes before he managed to gather himself again, shaking himself a little, as a dog that emerges from water, looking around him with eyes a little too bright.
Cirdan stood silently beside him, still seemingly lost in his thoughts. And was that truly a cause for wonder? Well as Glorfindel had known Gil-Galad, and dearly as he had loved him, he could never have counted himself close to the King - not as Cirdan had been.
Glorfindel reached out to touch the old Elf lightly on the arm, and watched him return to himself with a soft sigh and a softer apology, before turning his face again towards the camp. They continued in silence a great distance.
"I am sorry for your loss, Cirdan."
The shutters descended behind Cirdan's eyes, and the voice that replied was just a little too casual. "It is all our loss," Cirdan said with seeming ease. "He was a great King."
"Yes. He was a great King - and we will all greatly feel his loss," Glorfindel agreed softly, leaving the words in his heart unspoken. But to you he was as a son. Cirdan, he knew, had never had children of his own. There had never been any other to usurp or to share Gil-Galad's place, from the days when he had been simply Ereinion, Fingon's young son, sent to Cirdan at the Falas to be safe from the tides of battle.
Cirdan smiled, as if he heard the unspoken words. "You need not fear for me, Glorfindel. When the time comes, I will mourn him, as will we all. But until them ..." He left the sentence hanging delicately in mid-air, a silent, subtle dismissal of the subject, leaving the silence again to fall about them. The two walked on again in silence, picking their melancholy way through the desolation left by the long years of battle.
The going was slow in parts, for the Mordor-thistles grew thick and fierce in places, finding any crack even in the Elven armour, and lacerating the skin beneath with its stings. In these parts, few bodies lay - few, Glorfindel supposed, had ventured this way - and those bodies which lay amid the thistles were torn and bloodied beyond anything he had yet seen.
It was ironic, perhaps, Glorfindel thought, that for all the fires and foulness which had covered the land, none of them seemed adequate to clear the ground of its scrubby covering. Or had that been by design, to sting his foes with petty torments even after his passing? 'Twould be like him, he thought, and allowed himself a grim smile.
He hesitated suddenly, and then halted, sensing some presence within the thistles at their left hand. He found that he had reached for his bow without conscious thought, and noted an instant later that Cirdan had drawn his sword, moving slightly apart from him to give himself space to use it, if need be.
The thistles shook, and parted, drops of red blood flying from their thorns as a head and one bare, bloodstained shoulder rose above them, and Glorfindel heard an unmistakably Elvish voice crying aloud, cursing the misbegot thistles, the misbegot Orcs and misbegot bloody land of sodding Mordor.
Glorfindel exchanged a glance with Cirdan, and the elder sheathed his sword and stepped forward. Glorfindel did not lower his bow. He had seen too much evil to be at ease even in victory.
"Who's there? Are you much hurt?" Cirdan's voice was gentle, and the Elf's head turned towards him, his eyes wild and angry.
Glorfindel stared at the Elf's face and frowned. Whoever he was, he could have been little more than a child, certainly not yet out of his first century. He had, still, a child's softness - a half-formed beauty as incalculable as it is fleeting - though Glorfindel could barely perceive it, underneath the severe injuries that marred the skin.
The Elf-child was a mess. His hair had been burned almost all off, and what little remained - probably once blond, though it was nigh impossible to tell - was thick with blood and dirt. The gaunt face below it was dirty and bruised, striped by rivulets of blood from the thistles' stings.
The boy lurched to his feet, stumbled, and swore again, an oath he had almost certainly learned from one of the rougher companies of Men. He was dressed in the green and brown of Greenwood, though it was so tattered and bloodied now that it was impossible to tell his rank or lineage. Cirdan caught him by the arm just before he fell again, and steadied him with difficulty, assessing his injuries with remote, thoughtful eyes.
"Leave me be! I can stand without a nanny at my side," the boy said angrily.
"It would be better not." Cirdan scanned him again. "That ankle of yours is broken and requires attention. To walk on it-"
"Are you my mother, to talk thus? Leave me *be*!"
Glorfindel suppressed a sigh. He saw Cirdan release the boy's arm, and the boy took three awkward, limping steps before falling face-first into the thistles again, swearing like a particularly ill-bred human. Cirdan walked quickly to him and picked him up once more, hauling one of the boy's long arms across his shoulder to hold him up, enabling him to keep his broken ankle off the ground. The boy opened his mouth to complain, and Glorfindel shot him a mock-friendly smile. "Lord Cirdan is the soul of courtesy, child. *I* would have slung you across my shoulder like a piece of baggage, and carried you all the way back to the camp. Would you have preferred that?" he asked sweetly, and received no reply. "Now, what's your name, child?"
"Thranduil. Son of Oropher, King of sodding Greenwood the Great. Where are you taking me."
"To Lady Narglin of the Healers."
"Her!" The boy spat uncouthly on the ground. "She has the tact of a Dwarf and the forbearance of a Balrog. She-"
He shivered, and pulled himself together. It was
considered unnatural
for an Elf to fear his dreams. He had never mentioned
this one to any
other, save once, to Elrond.
"The lady Narglin also happens to be my sister," he
heard Cirdan say to
the boy, with more amusement than censure in his tone,
but the boy gave
no sign of having heard the comment.
"I hate this place," he said morosely. "Hate this whole
sodding war.
Wish I'd never have listened to father in the first
place. Never did
have any grasp of sodding strategy, did he?" He stumbled
and swore
loudly. Glorfindel looked around, wondering if they
should consign this
distasteful creature to the care of one of Cirdan's
people and continue
unhampered. Unfortunately he could see only two within
earshot, and both
were already encumbered with the wounded.
Thranduil, unfortunately, now that he had begun to
speak, seemed to have
breached a dam of silence. "He dragged us all along
here, all five of
us, and now they're all dead but me. Tatharlas and
Aelinsil took charge
after he got himself killed, with me and Neldor at the
flanks - as if we
knew the first thing about warfare! He even brought my
youngest brother
along - and he not even in his fiftieth year yet! Got
himself cut to
pieces by Orcs two weeks ago. I was right beside him
and I couldn't do
a bloody thing about it - not a bloody thing. It wasn't
fair, he was
just a child, he shouldn't even have been here.
Legolas, his name was,
he always was the best of us."
He coughed, and shivered, and began speaking again, as
though it was no
longer in his power to be silent. "Give him another
hundred years, and
he'd have made a rare bowman. Poor little sod never got
the chance.
They should have left him at home. Should have left me
at home, come to
that. I don't fight well, and I don't like war. I like
easy living, I
like wenching and drinking, and I haven't had a wench in
seven years.
Haven't had a drink either, come to that, all thanks to
sodding Sauron.
I hate Mordor - even the water stinks."
He stumbled again, and cursed, and straightened up,
resuming his inane
ramblings. "Shock," Glorfindel murmured softly to
Cirdan. "It takes
them that way, sometimes."
"No, no, I'm just fine. Give me a drink, and I'll be
even better." He
stumbled again, and this time Glorfindel was forced to
take his other
arm to stop him collapsing altogether. "Can't believe
they're all
dead," Thranduil said, his speech slurring and
indistinct. "Can't
believe it. Only left me to run his sodding kingdom,
hasn't he?"
He went limp suddenly, hanging emptily between the two
of them.
"Unconscious," Glorfindel said unnecessarily, and
Cirdan swung the
young Elf up easily to carry him in his arms.
Glorfindel stared down
for a moment, at the injured childish face and battered
body.
"Poor young idiot," he said softly, and then he turned
away. "Let us be
going. We have delayed too long already."
* * *
"My Lord?"
The voice seemed to come from far away, and it took
Elrond a few seconds
to realise that it was he who had been addressed. He
wheeled round to
face the speaker, startled from some futile remembrance.
"My Lord, are you injured?"
It was one of the commanders of the Falathrim, a tall
elf with dark
hair, and eyes that seemed almost black. The name was
Galdor, his mind
informed him, and he wondered fleetingly if Cirdan had
sent him. "I am
not, I thank you, Galdor," he replied shortly. "Merely
in need of rest,
as are we all."
He left without waiting for a reply, quickening his
steps again towards
the camp. Am I injured? No; it is Isildur who needs
our aid.
Isildur never needed any man's aid.
He would be furious if he believed it was being given
unwanted. It had
always been his way, even when Elrond had first met him,
a creature of
fire and passion and pride, quite infuriatingly
independent for a youth
of two-and-twenty, as Isildur had then been.
He had been so young, with such responsibility already
on his shoulders
- and yet had not let it steal his passion for life. He
would entice
danger, and then dance away from it unscathed, often
untouched.
Always had he seemed to invite trouble, and many of the
Elves had seen
him as little more than a foolish, unreliable human,
unfortunately the
heir to a great man's throne. Few had seen beyond it,
to the flair with
which he would extricate himself from all manner of
woes. Luck, it must
have seemed, and luck, often, it was called; but it had
been self-made
luck, opportunities created out of nothing, or slim
chances recognized
and seized. More than once Elrond had owed his own life
to Isildur's
talent for luck; and many others, too, had found their
lives preserved
by Isildur's misnamed rashness. Seldom - if ever - had
*he* needed
others' aid.
He needed it now; he would never accept it.
And in all honesty, Elrond could hardly believe himself
in a fit state
to give it.
He had known for many centuries that love could tear a
soul apart; but
never before had he realised that his own feelings had
strayed so close
to that madness. It was well enough to acknowledge the
love that he had
for Isildur; but to be so much mastered by it-! He had
become little
more than the helpless victim of his own emotionalism,
plunged from one
irrationality into another, helpless to rein in his
emotions or even to
curb their excesses.
It was hardly the state of mind in which to aid one who
was under the
influence of dark magic, he told himself, with quite
unnecessary
fierceness.
He halted for a moment, straightened his back and raised
his head,
putting on dignity as another might put on armour. The
camp was not far
before him now, and he let himself walk faster to its
gates, not heeding
the Mordor-Thistles tearing at his ankles and legs.
The guards were of his own people, and they saluted him
as he entered
the encampment. He noted with approval that they
remained alert and
watchful, in spite of the day's victory. He returned
the salute without
conscious thought, and then turned away, straight to the
tent that he
and Isildur shared.
It looked no different from any of the other tents
around it - small,
perhaps, and dark inside, of the grey weave that was
made only in
Lorien. He watched it for a moment, wondering whether
Isildur was
within, and then, contemptuous of his moment's
hesitation, opened the
flap.
It was dark within, standing empty and abandoned. He
stepped inside,
letting the flap fall down behind him, and the warm
darkness of the tent
close around him.
Isildur had been past that way: he had left his armour
and helm behind
there, flung carelessly on his bed-roll like discarded
toys. It was
typical of him, a compulsive untidiness that military
training ought by
rights to have beaten out of him years before,
scattering his
possessions as a tree its leaves, and ill-at-ease unless
surrounded by
his own clutter.
It had been always a bone of contention between them, an
old saga,
played out many times in the last seven years: Elrond
would return to
find the tent in chaos, with Isildur reclining
unconcerned in the midst
of the mess. Elrond would scold, Isildur would tease
and jeer and goad,
and the conversation would degenerate quickly into the
inevitable
mock-battle - a battle that left him far too breathless
to complain at
anything, weak and helpless and ruing the day that
Isildur had
discovered the sensitivity and ticklishness of Elven
skin.
The breath caught in his throat at the memory, and he
cursed his own
weakness. Truly, he thought bitterly, I could
hardly have
bettered myself had I set out deliberately to exploit my
own
weaknesses.
He picked up the armour to restore it to its rightful
home, acutely
aware of the smell of human skin and sweat that clung to
it, a smell
that was as familiar and intimate as its owner, unmasked
even by the
reek of the dark Orc-blood that marked it. He set it
down carefully in
a corner, and stood there staring at it in the
semi-darkness.
Where would he be now? Where would Isildur go?
Nobody had ever been able to predict Isildur's actions.
It had been
part of his brilliance - his sheer power to surprise
even those who knew
him best. Elrond had known him better than most, but
even that was
insufficient to understand Isildur's particular brand of
wayward
inspiration, or what it might suggest to him at a
moment's notice.
But he would be within the camp, of that, Elrond could
be certain; and
if not here, then where? With others, or alone?
Elrond turned his back on the armour, and walked to the
door of the tent
and looked out, letting his gaze rake along the row of
small tents
before him. Two rows of seven, belonging to the captains
of the Elves
and Men, though most of their occupants would never now
return. In any
of those -
He could feel its presence, if he shut his eyes - an
amorphous shape
hovering somewhere on the edge of his retinas,
malevolent and
impersonal, mocking in its elusiveness. Somewhere close
by...
He closed his eyes, and, with a grimace of distaste,
focussed on the
cankerous cloud. A few seconds later, he started to
walk swiftly to the
tent in the centre of the row before him - the tent that
had once
belonged to Elendil.
As he neared it, the awareness of the Ring's presence
hardened into
certainty. Elrond stopped outside, and for a few
seconds stood there
motionless, drawing on all the reserves of power that
remained to him.
Then he lifted up the flap of the tent and stepped
quickly inside.
A brazier had been lit in the corner, and the room was
full of its smoky
red light. Isildur was standing beside it, waiting for
him, with a
smile very like the one that had always set Elrond's
soul on fire.
"Isildur," Elrond said softly.
"Elrond. I'm glad you're here." The smile faded. "We
have ... many
things ... to discuss."
Elrond met his eyes for a long moment, but the eyes that
once been so
open had changed, and he could no longer read what was
written there.
Then he stepped forward, away from the entrance, and the
flap of the
tent swung shut behind him.
Continued in Part 3