Chasing Mirages by Russandol

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Downfallen

After the events of Ost-in-Edhil, life goes on.

Thank you, elfscribe, for permission to do the little crossovers with Elegy.

 

This chapter fits one B2MeM 2012 prompt:

Emotions - O64: Horror

 

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33. Downfallen

 

Imladris, Year 3262 of the Second Age of Arda

‘Our informants claim that Ar-Pharazôn has sailed back to Númenor, taking Sauron as a hostage,’ said Glorfindel, shaking a handful of parchments under our noses, as though to ratify his unlikely news.

‘Impossible,’ huffed Elrond. He rolled the report he had been reading and stacked it neatly on top of other paperwork. ‘Sauron could have held the Númenóreans at bay for years from behind the Ephel Dúath. It must be one of his lieutenants they have captured.’

‘No,’ insisted Glorfindel, dragging a chair to sit by our lord. I left my own desk and stood next to him, peering at the notes over his shoulder. He handed them to me.

‘The reports are clear. Several different sources have seen with their own eyes the one they call Zigûr and names himself Annatar being marched, in chains,’ he paused for effect, ‘down the streets of Umbar and up the plank of the King’s ship.’

After a short puzzled silence, Elrond cried, ‘But it makes no sense! Why in Vé would Gorthaur surrender?’

‘To build a trap and catch a rich prize, offering himself as bait so that Ar-Pharazôn will not see the noose,’ I said.

I stared out of the window overlooking the greenness of the valley, and with a pang recalled a defiant Mairon walking out to his execution in Kiinlúum. I recognised his current move as a bold but perfectly sound strategy to defeat his most hated foes. Númenor’s might had so far prevented his expansion west of Mordor. Now he would resort to stealth in order to destroy their opposition from the inside.

‘How can Annatar set a snare if he is a powerless prisoner himself?’ asked Glorfindel.

‘He will not be powerless for long. Like in Eregion, he will slowly gain influence until one day the King of Númenor will be under his spell,’ I said, aware of the bitterness that had seeped into my voice. ‘I wonder if he has risked taking the Ring with him. Either way, he will seduce and lie until he grasps what he desires. He may even conquer Númenor.’

I thumbed through the reports that Glorfindel had brought. The heading of one of them made me curious and I read it from beginning to end.

‘You have found something, I can tell from your face. Stop frowning and tell us what it is,’ urged Elrond.

‘I wonder... It says here that the Regent of Umbar was publicly put on trial for diverting taxes to his own pockets and the King had him executed shortly before sailing away. Rumours speak of a confession extracted by sorcery.’ I compared the dates on several parchments. ‘After Annatar was taken to Umbar.’

‘You believe Sauron had a hand in toppling this Regent a mere few weeks after his capture?’ Glorfindel shook his head, incredulous. ‘You give him far too much credit!’

‘Possibly.’ I sighed. ‘But you know why I would rather err on the side of caution with him.’

‘I shall write to Tar-Calion warning him about his hostage,’ said Elrond. ‘I know the Númenóreans no longer consider us as allies, but this is too serious a risk to ignore under the excuse of enmity or indifference. Pharazôn may be an usurper, but he is kin, after all.’ His tone was that of a long-suffering parent.

‘Be cautious with your choice of words,’ I said. ‘Arrogance is making this King of Númenor throw caution to the winds, if he believes he can tame Sauron. Your concern might appear patronising and he may suspect that you doubt his mettle as a ruler. In that case, he will toss your letter in the fire without reading past the opening lines.’

‘Fair point.’ Elrond twirled a quill between his fingers. ‘I will do my utmost not to ruffle his delicate feathers. I must also pen a note to Amandil. He will recognise the danger but may underestimate Sauron’s ability to cause harm before it is too late.’

‘Is it a good idea if Gil-galad writes officially, or would that be too intrusive?’ asked Glorfindel.

‘It may sound like criticism. Let us keep it in the family for now.’ Elrond sighed and placed the quill back with all the others. ‘Sometimes I am glad Elros is not alive; he would weep if he could see the dissension and strife in his beloved island, its slow decline from the bliss he created. Their excessive pride, that has prompted them to turn their backs on the Valar, and their mounting obsession with longevity are becoming disturbing.’

Another memory screamed at me, of Mairon predicting woes about the gift of extended lifespan to those who had fought to defeat Moringotto. Would he use their fear of mortality as a lever to gain advantage?

‘Nothing good can ever come out of this,’ I said. ‘Get those letters written, Elrond, and I will have them dispatched to Lond Daer as soon as possible. I am afraid they may need to be shipped to Umbar, unless our messengers happen to find a Númenórean ship ready to depart back to Rómenna.’

‘Is there no shorter route?’

‘Their ships no longer travel to Lindon. Unless you wish to set sail in stealth, my lord, there is not.’

 

 

Imladris, Year 3319 of the Second Age of Arda

Answers to Elrond’s repeated warnings never arrived from Númenor, not even when he resorted to pleas heeding caution against Sauron’s guile. Messages from Amandil were few and infrequent, until they also ceased. We knew the Faithful were spied upon, all but accused of treason, and we fretted for long about the safety of the Lord of Andúnië, until news reached us at last confirming that he was alive but exiled from court and from the favour of Tar-Calion.

Years later, we began to receive confused, clipped reports of dark sacrifices in the newly erected temple of Melkor, and about the building of a mighty fleet, the purpose of which was a closely guarded secret that our handful of agents were unable to unveil, or perhaps unwilling to disclose, as they kept demanding higher fees for scraps of dubious news. Elrond’s fretting turned to frenzy. Glorfindel and I volunteered to sail to the Land of Gift to find the truth.

Over many months we patiently arranged for passage to Númenor with an Umbarian skipper who claimed to know how to make contact with the Faithful and would risk his life to sail in secret to their meeting place, but only in exchange for an exorbitant price.

In the end, I persuaded Elrond to trust the mission to me, if only because I might have a slim chance of survival, were I to fall in the hands of the Zigûr. He explicitly forbade me to seek Sauron in any way.

‘No excuses, Erestor,’ he commanded, as he embraced me in farewell. ‘You must come back. Unscathed.’

I never revealed to my lord that I barely escaped Númenor with my life.

Ossë seemed to conspire to keep me off the island, stirring a terrible storm that almost sent our creaking boat to the bottom of his master’s domain, but after three days his strength was spent and he loosened his hold. The skipper, true to his word, delivered his part of the bargain: two men were waiting for me on a rugged, secluded beach of Andustar and took me to their lord on the following day.

Anárion, Elendil’s youngest son spoke a dreadful tale of informers, night arrests and disappearances, followed by false accusations of treason, prison, torture, and death; he told me of history being rewritten and falsehoods taught to children so as to incite their hatred against those that had once been allies; I learnt of the crafting of weapons of war, of madness and ugly sickness like none of the Atani had suffered before. And of men’s chests ripped open so that the High Priest of Melkor, the mighty Zigûr, could offer their deaths as tribute to the Lord of Darkness.

Incredulity and denial demanded that I witness this abomination with my very own eyes. Anárion pleaded and threatened but I was unmoved. In the end, he cut my hair in the fashion of his people, clad me in suitable clothes, including the sable cloak of the followers of the cult of Melkor and accompanied me to Armenelos.

We queued to enter the grandiose temple, built entirely of black granite, keeping our hooded heads down in an attempt to melt into the crowd of eager worshippers of all ages. I was startled to see that the faces of almost a quarter of them were blistered or pocked, and their hands were wrapped in bandages, or covered in weeping sores. Most of those not afflicted carried small sticks of burning incense, waving the thick, sickly clouds of smoke in front of their faces, as though to ward themselves from danger.

‘What are they doing?’ I dared whisper to my companion.

‘They hope to avoid contagion of the latest pestilence,’ murmured Anárion, covering his nose and mouth with the edge of his hood.

When we stepped past the impassive spear-wielding soldiers that guarded the doors, I almost expected a heavy hand to fall on my shoulder and the alarm to be raised with loud cries. But nothing happened.

After a long wait, the King arrived in a covered litter and the whole congregation bowed as he stepped out, a wizened man bent under the burden of his magnificent jewelled regalia. Only when he sat in his throne did the priest of Melkor climbed the altar to perform the ceremony.

Oh Eru, I believed I had already seen the worst of Mairon’s depravity, but how wrong I was!

His hands, that had often glided over my skin or caressed my hair in the past, plunged a serrated obsidian blade into the chest of a breathing man, one of Amandil’s kinsmen, stretched taut on the altar of the temple of Darkness.

The elaborate rituals and empty chants meant to invoke Melkor’s blessing and his boon of long life for the mob of deluded worshippers filled me with a fury so blind that I almost got myself killed. Rooted to the spot, I wished to rip Sauron apart with my bare hands. My heart was as broken as that of the man futilely sacrificed in a performance perfectly staged to arouse both terror and a fanatic thirst for the favour of a fake divinity.

‘Let us go,’ urged Anárion, pulling on my sleeve. ‘Several people are looking at us; you are not bending your knee and your eyes glare daggers.’

Yet I could not move. When Sauron lifted the beating heart from his victim’s ribcage and over his head, so that warm blood dripped into his eager mouth, I almost fainted. I am certain that he felt my presence at that time, because he stopped at once to scan all the enraptured faces crowded before him, and commanded his Black Guard to search for enemies of the Lord of Darkness. I owe a narrow escape only to the quick wit and courage of Amandil’s grandson, and to his unmatched knowledge of the underground sewerage tunnels that connected every main street and square in Armenelos. Mercifully, they had not overflowed at the time.

‘How can you do nothing?’ I cried when we reached safety outside the city. ‘We must...’

‘Do you think we bear these blasphemous atrocities lightly? That man was my youngest cousin on my mother’s side,’ countered Anárion, brushing a hand over his moist eyes. ‘Believe me, we have tried everything ever since Sauron set his foot on this land, even plotted his assassination several times. Somehow he always knew and his revenge was dire… His eyes and ears are all around us.’ He glanced around and over his shoulder, a habit I had noticed several times. ‘Had you tried anything against him, you would be strapped to that table and die under his knife after months of slow torment, and a hundred more of our people with you.’ He was trembling, and his voice cracked. ’I have seen it too many times before.’

‘I am sorry…’ My words felt utterly meaningless. ‘I wish I could do something to help.’

‘You cannot help us. Nobody can. We are powerless while almost everyone believes his lies about eternal youth. My grandfather sailed Westward three years ago, carrying our prayers to the Valar, that they may grant their forgiveness and free us from Sauron and his corruption. But we have not heard from him again. Maybe his boat hit a storm and capsized, or perhaps the Powers punished him because he breached the Ban. Whatever happened, we are alone and helpless. Now the King’s fleet is getting ready and Pharazôn will soon send his soldiers to force us away from our homes to man the ships. What can we do? We tell our father to set sail for Ennor, but he still hopes for a miracle. Death will find us all if we tarry…’

 

Dejected, I was smuggled out of that wretched land that once had been the joy and pride of the Atani. Back in Imladris, we waited.

Not for long. One day when a mighty gale rushed along the valley making the window shutters rattle and the tree branches snap, Elrond had a vision of a tall dark wave crowned in white foam. I was stricken down by a surge of intense, shocked dread and a desperate urge to flee, which were Sauron’s, not my own. At that time I was hopeful that the Valar had answered Amandil’s plea and unleashed their power to make battle against the Dark Lord.

For several weeks we were restless.

We only learnt the truth of the ruin of Númenor when Gil-galad sent a flurry of fast messengers to Elrond with the news of Elendil’s ships having all but crashed upon the shores of Lindon. Those on board bore tales of terror and grief, of wrathful seas and a foundering land. Other couriers travelled along the coastal villages to enquire about Isildur and Anárion, whose ships, sails torn and masts snapped, had veered South away from their father, as vulnerable as coracles in the mighty tempest.

The letter also conveyed Círdan’s findings and those of his sea-travelling folk, and maybe words from Ulmo himself. Arda had changed. Not just the shorelines, which had sunk and shifted shape in many places after the onslaught of the huge tidal wave, but the very paths upon the ocean. So that the route to Valinor had become a Straight Road above a world that was now curved upon itself.

‘Mariners claim that the Land of Gift is indeed no more, that it fell into the abyss when the seabed was torn by a deep rift to separate Aman from Ennor and place it in hiding,’ said Elrond, after scanning the pages of the long missive. Unspilled tears shone in his eyes. ‘I do not believe it. Why would the Valar punish all, innocent and guilty alike? Why did they not act against Sauron before it came to this?’

‘Because until the fleet of Númenor reached their shores they had not been directly threatened,’ I replied, with a voice that cracked from anger. ‘Until then, safe in their bliss, they were free to ignore Sauron’s machinations.’

‘Could they not see how Gorthaur played on the dreams and greed of the Edain, exactly as he did with the Mírdain, how all underestimated his malice?’ Elrond’s anguish pierced me like needles.

‘How persuasive his tale must have been, to trick them into taking war to Valinor,’ said Glorfindel. ‘How could Tar-Calion be swayed into such madness?’

‘The Light of Aman was too bright and too close, and the Ban only served to make Sauron’s honeyed lies more plausible,’ I said, digging my nails into the palms of my trembling hands. I was reeling at the inconceivable magnitude of the catastrophe he had triggered. ‘The temptation to grasp immortality became too great to resist. But surely Manwë would not...’

‘They were deceived, swayed to darkness by that monster, even if they were not wholly innocent! Did they deserve this end?’ cried Elrond, pacing in circles around the room. He dried his eyes with a hasty sweep of his hand, before looking at both Glorfindel and me in turn, as though searching for answers. ‘What of him, then?’

‘This violence was possibly the necessary means to defeat Sauron,’ said Glorfindel.

‘Has he been vanquished or slain, if he can indeed be slain, or is he a captive of the Valar? How can we know?’ asked our lord, almost yelling.

Like me, he desperately wished to discover the reason that had justified such callous devastation. But I suspected there was none.

‘He escaped from the cataclysm, though he quaked in terror when he almost fell with the realm he ruined,’ I answered.

When I clasped the shackle with my right hand and raised it for them to see, Elrond and Glorfindel became aware of the means by which I spoke with such certainty. After the damage wrought by my silence, I had vowed there would be no secrets beyond those imposed by Manwë.

‘As a rudimentary trial of his curwë, he infused this band, my... long lost lover's gift, with a minute level of sentience before...’ I faltered. ‘Before we parted. When he is overwhelmed or if he wishes me to, I can sometimes sense him. Now I know he is still free.’

‘What worth is the guardianship of the Valar, if the source of this abominable evil is still abroad?’ Elrond asked. ‘Their cowardly negligence in this matter makes them accomplices in every death even if, as Círdan implies, they relinquished their authority to the One.’

‘Is that the falsehood they wish us to believe?’ I cried ‘Never!’

Elrond and Glorfindel stared at me, startled at my vehemence.

‘Ilúvatar may have indeed taken Aman from the Circles of the World, and that news fills me with sadness. But he need not destroy half of Arda to do so. This tragedy is not of his doing.’

My last bit of faith in the Valar died that day. If Eru deserted us too, all hope was lost.

 

~o~

 

Dagorlad, Year 3434 of the Second Age of Arda

The war council ended after several hours fraught with disagreement amongst the leaders of the Alliance. I was relieved when, unexpectedly, they reached consensus on the strategy for the assault of the Morannon and Elendil and Gil-galad dismissed us all, captains and advisors, with orders to make our armies ready at dawn.

Glorfindel departed in haste towards the inner sentry perimeter; he was scheduled to go on duty until midnight, in command of our patrols and scouts. I had the shift following his. Until then I could do with a rest.

On leaving the council together, Elrond and I watched Oropher, the headstrong King of Eryn Galen, stride away arguing heatedly with his son Thranduil and one of his commanders about the position allocated to their forces at the front of the right flank.

We walked back in silence to the small tent that we shared with Glorfindel. The moon was high. Our huge camp, a city made of canvas, lay quietly beneath the silver sheen, dulled by the stifling mist perpetually exuded by the nearby swamps. Rows of fire pits glowed between the tents, and somewhere a voice rose up to the sky in song, accompanied by the sweet notes of a flute. My heart twanged with regret and longing for a very distant past.

With a burning twig from the nearest fire, I lit the small oil lamp we always left near the tent entrance and followed Elrond inside. He flung his helmet onto his cot and began to fumble with the straps of his armour.

‘Curse this place,’ he muttered, tugging in frustration.

‘Let me help you. Lift your arm.’ I took off his right pauldron, then his left, and placed them next to the helmet on the cot. ‘You reek, my lord. Shall I get you some hot water and soap?’

‘What, to swap my enticing musky sweat for the stench of sulphurous mud?’ He laughed tiredly. ‘You are ripe, too, in case you had not noticed.’

‘Enticing musk? Hardly, my lord.’ I chuckled. ‘Your lady would not come closer than a league, in your current condition.’ I undid the buckles and lifted the steel and leather cuirass off his shoulders. ‘Where is your worthy esquire?’

‘I sent the lad off to sleep, knowing the council would end late,’ he replied, with a yawn. ‘I am dead on my feet.’

In the dark shadows cast by the flickering lamplight, his face seemed angular and gaunt, and his eyes hollow like those of a corpse. I shuddered.

After I helped him out of his thick silk gambeson, he sat down to take off his boots and socks and made a grimace of disgust at the sight and smell of his blistered feet. Feigning suffocation, I opened the tent flaps, and ducked to avoid one of Elrond’s boots flying at me. I hurried outside, towards the fire. There I poured water from a cauldron on the coals into a large bucket, and topped it up with cold water from a barrel.

When I entered the tent again, Elrond was wrapped in his blanket, pensively stroking the pale blue ribbon flower that hung from a thong around his neck, more precious to him than a jewel. It was no secret that Celebrían, whose token it was, would have been his betrothed already, had it not been for the call to war.

I placed the full bucket on the ground and rummaged around the tent until I found several clean cloths and two bars of soap.

‘Your bath is ready, my lord,’ I announced grandly.

‘Wash yourself too, or I will be unable to sleep from the stink,’ he growled. Glad at the invitation, I peeled off my own sweaty garments and dipped a cloth in the warm water, before working out some lather. It was bliss to wash the grit and grime from my face.

‘If only...’ His words died into a sigh. ‘Do you believe we will survive this war?’ I had not seen him in such a despondent mood before.

‘I have no doubt,’ I lied, rubbing the soapy cloth around my neck and under my arms. ‘You will wed your lady in a glade under the stars and have several beautiful children whom you will spoil rotten.’

‘And you, Erestor? What future do you dream for yourself?’ There was no malice in his voice. On this night, maybe our last before crossing the threshold of Mandos, he was curious.

I wrung the rag in my hands until it creaked.

‘I hope for nothing,’ I answered, as evenly as I could, ‘except defeating him. I have vowed to do so.’

‘What of your lost love?’ He reached out to touch the mithril band around my wrist. When his fingers slid over my wet skin, they trembled. ‘Is he the one who fills your mind today, at the brink of death?’

‘Yes, he is,’ I admitted, ‘but I fear he is dead.’ I broke down and could not contain a sob. Mairon, not the monster that had taken his place, would forever own my heart.

‘Come here, Erestor,’ he said. A command, gently spoken.

When I sat next to him, he threw the blanket, still warm from the heat of his body, over both of us. With my skin pressed to his, I made up my mind.

‘If we die tomorrow.... No, hear me out.’ I paused and started again. ‘If we die tomorrow, I would take with me to Mandos the dear memory of someone I have desired for many yéni. Of something I have craved for a long time. As you have.’ I gazed into his eyes, ready to be rejected.

He took a deep breath.

‘I would welcome sharing that memory, Erestor.’ He hesitated. ‘If we survive...’

‘If we survive, I will wish you and your bride much joy and make rattles for your children.’ With that, I leant forwards very slowly, in case he wished to change his mind.

He did not, and I kissed him.

Neither did he resist when I unlaced his shirt and pulled him to his feet to remove his trousers, until we stood side by side, matched in everything including our arousal, awakened by the touch of skin on skin.

We spread our blankets on the floor and lay down, taking time to learn what touches wrought the greatest pleasure. I explored his lean chest and muscled arms, while probing with my tongue inside his willing mouth, then ran fingers down his back, making him arch and shiver, and laugh when they became ticklish. I relished and returned the tightness of his embrace, not meant to constrain or dominate, but just to bring us closer.

When I took his cock in my hand, he broke off the kiss.

‘What is it to be?’ His tone was tentative, demanding nothing.

‘Whatever you wish,’ I offered. ‘Anything.’ I picked up a loose strand of his hair and tucked it behind his ear, before leaning down to nibble its lobe. ‘Everything, if you wish it.’ His whimper of pleasure went straight to my groin.

‘Everything,’ he murmured. ‘This once we shall have everything.’

And so we did. I set the pace, slow to allow us to savour the wonder of this unexpected boon, but it soon quickened into playful roughness, for our strengths were matched and we found great pleasure in this intimate bout, as we had ever done in the arena.

What we shared was not the quick comfort of fellow warriors, wishing to feel fully alive one last time; this was a desire that had smouldered for over twenty yéni, and now that the flame was at last allowed to flare, the strength of our lust caught us both by surprise.

We gave all to each other on that sole night, if not out of love, out of a bond of friendship that had withstood the onslaught of suspicion and betrayal. War, titles, roles, Dagorlad and even Mairon were forgotten in the thrill of this freedom and the heat of our bodies.

When at last we lay spent and entwined on the blankets, we smiled and fell asleep having found the respite that we had wanted for so long.

 

A shake on my shoulder made me awaken with a start. The lamp had burnt out. Glorfindel’s tall outline towered over us, blacker than the dimness inside the tent and I could not see his face. With care not to disturb Elrond, who still slept, I disentangled myself from his limbs and arranged the blanket to cover him better.

I rushed to get dressed and into my armour, as quietly as possible in the dark. Still without a word, Glorfindel helped me with the straps and handed me my helmet and sword.

‘You are very late. I waited for Laergil; he is in command until you arrive.’

‘Thank you,’ I muttered. ‘I lost track of time.’

Glorfindel snorted, before inclining his head to look at our lord.

‘I am glad you did,’ he whispered.

‘So am I.’

I walked out into the cold night.

 

 

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Notes:

 

[1] The events surrounding the trial of the Regent of Umbar are a fond reference to “Elegy for Númenor”by elfscribe, a brilliant story about the “surrender” of Sauron to Ar-Pharazôn and his subsequent intrigues to seize power. I am thrilled she was happy for me to incorporate this little crossover.

[2] Tar-Calion is the Quenya name of Ar-Pharazôn

[3] My short story “Hospitality” describes the arrival of Eönwë to the shores of Númenor. It is a (most likely AU) crossover with “Elegy for Númenor”, with her permission.