Chasing Mirages by Russandol

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Doom

Erestor is not happy about the decision to send Frodo to destroy the Ring in the fires of Orodruin. Eönwë makes plans.

 

Special thanks to SurgicalSteel for her invaluable advice on knife injuries.

 

This chapter fits the following B2MeM 2012 prompt:

Discoveries - G51: Songs of Power

 

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35. Doom

 

Imladris, Year 2850 of the Third Age of Arda - Winter

‘You crossed Taur-e-Ndaedelos alone and on foot? ’ asked Glorfindel, incredulous.

‘Yes, I did,’ said Olórin calmly, lighting his pipe and exhaling strings of bluish smoke. ‘And after chilling my bones in the dread that pervades the forest and listening to Thranduil’s despair about his people forced to retreat from the encroaching shadow, I decided to pay a visit to Dol Guldur.’

Elrond, Glorfindel and I stared at him, speechless from amazement, while the rings he blew floated up higher, growing in size and fading into the thick cloud above us. I waved my arm before my face, in exaggerated disgust at the foul pipeweed habit Olórin had recently picked up from the folk he often visited in the region he called “the Shire.”

‘Tell me you did not enter the Necromancer’s lair...’ Elrond’s voice faltered.

‘I had to, in order to see with my own eyes, and to sense him.’ Olórin glanced at me. I held my breath, guessing. ‘But I went in disguise.’

‘Disguise or not, I am surprised you ever came out,’ remarked Glorfindel.

‘It was a risky adventure.’ Olórin puffed on his pipe. ‘But fruitful too, though the news is bad, as we expected.’

‘So it is him!’ I blurted. ‘Sauron.’

Olórin nodded, gazing at me with pity from under his bushy eyebrows. Then he shifted on his seat and grimaced, as though his joints hurt him. ‘We must oust him from his fortress. If he has not openly attacked us yet, it is because he lacks strength,’ he said. ‘From what I saw, he has gathered a small army, and he commands the Nazgûl, dangerous allies, but not enough force to launch himself into a war of conquest. Not yet.’

‘Despite our constant vigilance at the pass, Orcs keep swarming into Eriador through Moria, attempting to cut us off from Lórien and the realm of Thranduil,’ replied Elrond. ‘I agree with your counsel, Mithrandir. We must act before it is too late. I shall summon the White Council.’

Knowing with certainty the whereabouts of our foe had at last given us a target to aim at.

When Curumo, leader of the Council, ruled that we should wait despite Olórin’s urgings, reasoning that the One Ring was lost to Sauron for good, we were angry and dismayed.

Not long afterwards Elrond suffered one of the seizures that brought him foresight. ‘The Ring will be found,’ he said when he recovered. ‘And the war that will follow shall end this Age, for better or worse.’

‘Did you see darkness?’ I asked, holding my breath.

His eyes were pained. ‘Yes, Erestor. Great darkness. And if there was light beyond, it was hidden from me.’

Impotent, we waited while our enemy gathered his forces.

 

 

Imladris, Year 3018 of the Third Age of Arda

‘You cannot allow this folly, Elrond!’ I cried, as soon as the door to the library had closed behind us. ‘To send those two Periain into Mordor, even under the protection of dauntless companions, is condemning them to certain death. Not idly did I call that option the path of despair.’

‘I am tired and hungry,’ said Elrond, shrugging off his formal robes. ‘After that lengthy Council, I feel as though my head could burst. I am glad Bilbo’s sense and rumbling stomach put an end to our debate. Can we leave the matter until we have eaten?’

‘No! I did not wish to contradict my sworn lord in front of such a gathering, but now...’

‘You heard all the arguments, Erestor. We have no better choice; from all the alternatives, destroying the Ring has the most merit. And the hobbits have the same chance of success as anyone else, or better. They will not blare trumpets and stomp through the Morannon as we once did, but might be able to cross the bounds of Mordor by stealth. May I remind you that Bilbo stole into Smaug’s lair?’

‘Even though the Ring made him invisible, the dragon detected his smell,’ I retorted. ‘This time, Sauron will sense the presence of the Ring.’

‘Not unless Frodo puts it on. But after the attack at Amon Sûl, he knows the peril.’

‘The Ring will lure him into betraying himself,’ I said. ‘Can you not feel its pull when Frodo comes near you?’

The door opened and Elrond withheld his answer. Glorfindel and Aragorn entered.

‘I knew you would be here, so I have asked the kitchen staff to bring us a repast,’ said Glorfindel. ‘We have much to discuss.’

‘Where is Mithrandir?’ I asked.

‘With Frodo and his companions,’ said Aragorn. He smiled. ‘Tucking into a hearty meal.’

I looked at him fondly and felt my lips tug upwards at their corners. Arathorn’s son was a tall, wiry man, dark haired and with the grey eyes of his ancestors. His brow was lined by toil and sorrow now, but it did not seem that long ago that he had arrived, a small burden in Gilraen’s arms, his eyes wide from wonder and fear, clutching a dirty rag from which it took years to wean him.

As he grew older Aragorn had often reminded me of Elendur, Isildur’s eldest son, and of my friend Anárion even more; like him, Aragorn smiled rarely but, whenever he did, his grave face was lit by the most contagious joy. Over the years he had proved to be shrewd, hardy and generous, while learning to become a wise, respected leader.

The Chieftain of the Dúnedain, Heir of Isildur, and a banished Maia incarnate in the shape of Elrond’s stern counsellor had far more in common than at first sight might seem possible: both of us yearned for a lover; and both of us were faced with seemingly insurmountable odds before a bittersweet reunion were possible.

‘I must go with Frodo,’ said Aragorn, without preamble. ‘Or better, instead of him.’

I gazed at Elrond in triumph. Before I even opened my mouth, he cut me off.

‘No, Erestor. Neither Glorfindel nor you will be going anywhere. As for you, Aragorn, you must weigh your options with care. Minas Tirith is where your presence will be needed most. Choosing the messengers that will take the Ring is a decision not to be rushed. All must go willingly, aware of the dangers of this mission.’

I shifted uncomfortably. ‘Have you considered that the power infused into the Ring may not be destroyed in the Sammath Naur but merely released, again available for Sauron to claim if he undoes the spell?’ All gazes turned to me. ‘None live who know the secret workings of this curwë, except its maker. Will we be merely handing back to him the might he invested when he wrought the Ring?’

A deep silence followed my words.

‘Do we lose anything asking Iarwain to keep it for us, instead of guessing what he would or would not do?’ I insisted. ‘His presence in Endórë must have a purpose.’

I had been shocked when Frodo had described how the Ring had not affected the eccentric fellow who named himself Tom Bombadil. Until then I had believed him to be one of the Quendi, but during the Council Olórin had implied that he might be a Maia, or maybe one of the other spirits who entered Eä with us.

‘Mithrandir knows him well. If he says Iarwain is not the best guardian for the Ring, then we must believe him,’ said Glorfindel.

‘The road back to Bree and beyond is plagued with spies, even through the wild lands,’ said Aragorn. ‘Sauron would unleash his minions against anyone going westward with the Ring. Outside this valley they would soon be slain.’

Reluctantly, I had to agree. Yet again I racked my mind for a spark of inspiration or an overlooked scrap of knowledge that might save us from taking the Ring straight into the hands of our foe, along with the dominion over the whole of Endórë. I found none.

‘We cannot take it near Sauron,’ I cried in frustration. ‘There must be another way!’

‘Not within our reach,’ said Elrond, shaking his head.

 

That evening I rode up the path that led out of the valley into the moors. There I called out both with voice and thought, asking, even begging my friend Lintavailë or any of his kindred to succour us. None came.

Subdued, I returned to the house.

‘Why the sulking, friend?’ asked Olórin, who sat in the garden despite the late hour and the chill of the night.

‘It seems madness to walk the long, perilous path to Mordor when the deed may be achieved far less painfully with the right allies. I called the Eagles, or tried to, at least. But my cries were either lost in the emptiness or ignored. Most likely, Manwë has forbidden his winged servants from lending me their aid ever again. Will you summon them? They came to your aid at Erebor and Orthanc.’

‘They do not answer to me,’ he replied, ‘and I would not command them to serve us this way.’

‘Why not, when the stakes are so high? One of them could at least fly the Ring away from here and closer to Orodruin.’

‘The risk is too great,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘Sauron would immediately guess our purpose and unleash all his servants to capture the Ring.’

‘But his Nazgûl have been dismounted and dispersed. We have some time until they regroup,’ I objected, irritated at his obstinacy to see flaws in my reasoning.

‘Even so,’ he said, ‘he has many spies and other beasts on the ground and in the air. An Eagle would act as a beacon signalling the location of the Ring. Instead, a small party of walkers, several of them not even warriors but seemingly helpless hobbits, is less likely to draw the enemy’s eye. Sauron must be led to believe that Elrond is planning to keep the Ring and wield it, or maybe to send it West instead.’

‘Are we meant to sit, wait and do nothing?’ I exclaimed, angrily. ‘Do not tell me that this is written in the Music, and therefore meant to happen.’

‘The outcome is,’ he said with conviction. ‘But indeed, we must play our parts so that we can face the future knowing that we did all we could.’

Berated, I felt myself blush. Olórin squeezed my shoulder in reassurance.

‘I know how long you have fought and how deep your wound is, but you must endure a bit longer,’ he said. ‘Do not let despair win when the end is so close. Despite being bound in flesh, neither of us is without resources.’

 

Several days later, I spent most of the morning collating requisition lists in order to procure as much as we could hoard in preparation for a long siege. Leaving my office with rows of figures still parading before my eyes, I walked briskly, as I was late to meet Glorfindel and Laergil at the archery range to shoot a couple dozen ends before the midday meal.

The three of us were hoping that Legolas, son of Thranduil of the Greenwood, would accept our invitation to join us; rumours about his mastery of the bow spurred us to measure our skill against his. Besides, after Elrond had declared his intention to offer him a place in the Fellowship that would accompany Frodo, I was keen to gain a better insight into his temperament and disposition.

In my haste I nearly stumbled over a hobbit who was crouched down with his head almost touching the ground on the edge of the path next to the carp pond.

‘Are you well?’ I asked, concerned.

He rose to his feet in haste and gave an endearingly clumsy bow.

‘Oh, yes sir. But look at this... the irises are in flower! And they smell so sweetly.’ His brown eyes shone with wonder.

‘Well, this is a very sheltered spot, moist and sunny,’ I offered. ‘But I am no expert as to their seasons.’

He eyed the unstrung bow and the quiver full of white-fletched arrows that I carried.

‘You are a warrior as well as a counsellor, sir?’

‘We are all forced to be warriors during these dark days,’ I answered. ‘Yet it looks as though the most important task will fall on you, Samwise. And please call me Erestor.’

‘On me?’ He blushed, flustered. ‘Oh, no, I will only go along to help my master.’

‘Frodo may carry the greater burden, but you must be there to catch him and put him back on his feet, were he to fall. That is a great responsibility.’ I paused, uncertain. ‘Have you felt the Ring’s malice?’

‘Sometimes I have heard whispers, but could not tell what they meant,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘A bit like leaves rustling in the wind.’

‘Your people seem able to endure its lure much better than we do. The Ring even speaks to me, offering what I once... Never mind.’ I laughed, ruefully. ‘Anything it offers is a lie. Never forget that. You may have to help Frodo overcome temptation and carry on, even when his path seems lost or his will falters. Now tell me yours is not as important a task as his.’

‘Spoken so neatly, it seems so, sir... Erestor.’ He smiled, then his forehead creased into a frown. ‘But I am no good with a bow, or with a sword. This quest seems a bit too big for the likes of us hobbits.’

My heart gave a painful lurch at the thought of the many ugly fates the hobbits and their companions might yet suffer. I schooled my face to hide my dismay at his candour about his fears, which mirrored my own.

‘Others will go with you to wield weapons,’ I replied. ‘Not me, for my duty is to Elrond as yours is to Frodo, and my lord’s will is that I work at his side to defend this realm and its people. But if I can serve you in any way, say the word.’

‘You are most kind, sir,’ he answered politely, giving another bow. His eyes widened in surprise when I bowed in return, before walking on. After a few strides, I looked back and saw him with his face amongst the irises, eyes closed, breathing their fruity, musty scent, which reminded me a little of my sister Ilmarë when free from her raiment.

I was struck with longing. Nikteháa had once claimed that I smelled like ‘a warm breeze in the hills, on a late summer day when heather is in bloom.’ For an instant I savoured the memory, craving the freedom to weave myself with the rushing wind, travelling far in space and time back to the lost bliss of those days in Kiinlúum.

My heart leapt with a flash of inspiration, the seed of a plan.

 

 

Endórë, Year 3019 of the Third Age of Arda

I knew with complete certainty the time at which Frodo and Sam stood against all odds on the fiery brink of the Sammath Naur. Or rather, I perceived the exact moment when Frodo claimed the Ring, and Sauron was aware of his deadly peril.

In Imladris it was a cold, dull afternoon. Foreboding hung in the air as thick as fog. Trees were lazy in their awakening and the whole valley was wreathed in silence. Not even the clang of the smithies could be heard; all steel had been forged and riveted long ago. Our preparations for a siege had been completed, our patrols watched our borders tirelessly, jumping at shadows and slaying the Orcs that ventured too close. We waited, fretting, deaf and blind to the events abroad.

Or almost deaf and blind.

Mairon’s screech of wrathful terror shook me with the same intensity I had sensed as he was vanquished by Isildur on the slopes of Orodruin.

I was ready. For months I had been listening to the range of echoed feelings that every so often were emitted by the mithril shackle, eagerly awaiting the right moment. It had come at last.

I must act quickly, but a mistake would prove costly. With trembling fingers, I unsheathed the long knife that I had carried continuously at my waist during the day and placed under my pillow at night ever since the Fellowship departed. I had fastidiously run through the whole armoury until I found an ancient Noldorin weapon whose white horn hilt was inlaid with curls of gold, so much like the blade I used to release Celebrimbor from his torment. However, too much hung in the balance to yield the success of this task to superstition alone; its double edge was razor-sharp.

After sparing a brief glance at the cold gleam of steel, I pressed the point between my ribs to the left of my sternum, aiming it straight back, at my heart. My sweaty hands were tight around the grip, left over right, firm against the guard to avoid slipping.

One last time I inhaled, deeply. I only dared spare a spark of regret at having to discard my hröa in exchange for a flimsy chance of accomplishing my goal. Worse still, I cringed at the distress I would cause my friends. I clenched my jaw and cleared my mind; there was no room for doubt.

With one decisive motion, I brought my hands back towards my chest, thrusting the blade through the barrier of muscle. Despite having braced myself for the surge of agony, the white-hot star that burst inside me and racked every nerve was overwhelming. I fell to the floor, writhing, choking; commanding every shred of will and wit against the pain, I rolled to my front, so that the hilt pushed against the tiles and shifted the blade within, rending my flesh to speed its task. My fingers loosened their grip but it no longer mattered.

Unlike my first death, this one was swift. The ties to my hröa weakened as it grew numb, then they snapped, and I burst free.

Free to soar and to outrun the wind, fast as thought and light entwined, for that is my nature. I called Olórin while I flew, in case he could hear my ósanwë. ‘Summon the Eagles, friend, for this is the hour of doom!’

When I arrived at the glowing chasm inside Orodruin, an instant was all I needed to perceive the details of the scene before me, on the edge of the fissure above the rumbling heart of the mountain.

Frodo lay on the floor, clutching his right hand, and Sam staggered towards him, his head bleeding, while he ripped a rag from his tattered shirt. Another creature, a stunted, shrivelled shadow of a hobbit, no doubt the one called Gollum, was so entranced with joy at the Ring that glowed between his thumb and forefinger that he stepped too far and, with a shriek, toppled into the chasm of fiery lava.

A glint of gold flew up from Gollum’s hand as he fell to his death in the blazing depths. For an instant the Ring seemed suspended in mid air before dropping swiftly towards the river of molten stone.

At that moment, Sauron sped into the chamber as a gale of darkness and dived down to rescue the Ring from its fall. Like me, he had forsaken his carnal shape and reeked of corruption and fear. I threw all my being against him to divert his course.

Had we been inside our hröar, our grapple would have broken bones. Incorporeal, our fight could be better described as a crackling swirl of two slippery currents of sparks, each of us attempting to curl the other into a ball and wrap ourselves over it, preventing movement and escape. As well as evading him, I had to keep Mairon from reaching the Ring. I soon realised I was stronger, but if he claimed his old power back, he would turn the tables and all would be lost.

Again and again he eluded my traps, sliding through my openings and twisting away like an eel. He had ever been a better strategist and a faster fighter. But I sensed his mounting panic, his desperation, as we kept falling and the Ring with us.

Time and gravity were on my side.

‘To the Void with you, Eönwë!’ he roared into my mind. ‘Let go of me!’ His anguish thrummed louder than his curse.

Then, two things happened at once. Tendrils of his power closed upon the Ring, while I engulfed him at last and welded my being all around him, like a fist trapping a spider. He fought in vain, screaming his terror and outrage as I sped up our descent with the Ring tangled in the folds of our mingled, warring fields of energy. Once it became submerged in the abyss of fire whence it was born, it would be destroyed.

If I had been embodied, I would have smiled to savour my victory.

As the lava drew nearer, I felt every particle in the Ring starting to warm up and vibrate wildly, threatening to irreversibly escape the bonds that shaped its structure. I sensed Mairon desperately wrapping himself around the Ring and pouring his energy onto it to fight the tug of the heat. He abandoned the fight to become a shimmering orb, a ball of dark star-like radiance which would blind any creature that set eyes upon it. Enraged at being outwitted, I jabbed him with sharp spikes, hoping to pierce the living shield and destroy the delicate balance of pressure and temperature he sustained within to protect his creation.

As I pummelled him, the reverberations of his voice, beautiful, fell, and so familiar, rippled through me and I was filled with dread.  He was invoking the Song of Power that would extract his might back from the Ring. This could not happen! I was so close to victory! With strength born of desperation, I hacked away at his barrier; if I could breach his sphere before he finished reciting the incantation, the Ring would be unmade.

Every time I struck, a wave of his pain coursed through me, but I did not relent. His Song faltered, and the spell that had begun to shimmer died. He was too weak! All he could do was to keep his will bent on his shield around the Ring to prevent the perfect band of metal from melting and spilling his potency into the fiery stone flow.

In this moment of triumph, all I could feel was pity.

‘Let go, you fool!’ I cried. ‘You will fade to a spark if you hold on.’

‘Without it the Void awaits me.’ Fear radiated off him stronger than rage or hatred. I paused, reluctant to hurt him more.

A brief flicker of conscious thought near me signalled the death of Gollum, consumed by the flow of lava. My fight with Mairon had taken no more than a couple of heartbeats from the time we all fell into the chasm.

The tremors seemed stronger. Stirred by the Song of Power, the very core of the mountain had begun to crumble. Lava hissed and leaped, bubbles bursting like viscous, fiery arrows that bounced off the sphere I had become over Mairon. The fumes, the sparks, the unbearable heat and the increasing shaking were irrelevant to both of us.

The cries above me, faint amidst the din of the nascent quake, reminded me of those who had risked their lives to guide me to this moment. Unlike me in my new freedom, they were not immune to the mortal dangers of our surroundings.

After a violent yank failed to dislodge Mairon from his precious creation, I plunged with him to the very bottom of the river of fire. When I released him, I was satisfied that he would be imprisoned under the tons of flowing lava unless he relinquished the Ring to its end; he had lost too much of his might to be able to save both himself and his trinket.

‘Leave it and come with me, Mairon!’

‘Curse you!’ he cried, knowing he had been defeated.

I was torn in two, but I could not wait for him. ‘I shall come to you when you wish it, as I once promised,’ I said.

I leaped up to the edge of the fissure, where Sam was running towards Frodo. The whole mountain shook and lava began to surge up within the crack, threatening to overflow into the cavern. Sam pulled his master to his feet and half dragged, half carried him to the entrance on the rocky slope.

I spread myself over them, so that falling rock and glowing splatters of molten stone could not harm them. From the heights I witnessed the collapse of Barad-dûr, its walls of steel and adamant shattering into a dark cloud of dust that rose high in the sky like a final ghost of Sauron’s shadow. Above us, the humming sky was rent by lightning, and the roar of thunder was drowned in the angry shaking of the earth. Fat drops of rain, as black as the clouds, began to fall, tentative at first, then in a deluge that drenched the hobbits and made the hot soil hiss and steam.

Orodruin erupted with a violent blast beneath and above us just as the screeching Nazgûl flew overhead and were shot out of the sky by bolts of fire. Hot ash replaced rain.

Unaware of my enveloping presence, the hobbits descended the winding path until they reached the plain of Gorgoroth. Half of Orodruin slid down in a mighty crash, and lava poured like iron from a smelter’s crucible out of its broken cone and down the slopes towards us until we were surrounded on a low mound by a sea of fire and blazing pits spewing smoke. Despite the shield I had built, Frodo and Sam coughed and gasped, choked by heat and the poisonous fumes. Helpless, I watched them faint, hand in hand.

A cool wind came from the North blowing the shadow away, and on its wings glided the Eagles, carrying Olórin.

Followed by the servants of Námo.

They cast a shimmering web around and over me to block my escape, and waited in silence, beings of light unyielding like marble. Once Olórin and his winged friends departed to fly the hobbits to safety, the Maiar ordered me to accompany them.

Looking around at the dark clouds of smoke veiling the ruin of Orodruin above us and at the writhing lava flowing past, congealing in places into charcoal snakes, I wondered if Mairon had finally forsaken the Ring and fled from the ruins of his domain. I could not sense his presence.

‘I shall not return to Aman,’ I answered. ‘Tell your lord that I must first fulfil my promises, that I will face his judgement for disobeying the terms of my banishment, but not yet.’

‘You must come with us,’ the Maiar repeated grimly, closing upon me.

‘Not yet! Let me...’ I almost betrayed Mairon’s location and my true feelings. I forced myself to feel nothing, to feign a thirst for revenge that had already died in the fire of the mountain. ‘He is not wholly defeated yet. I must pursue him!’

Frantic, I resisted their command. They bundled me up in their force fields and carried me with them. Tasting the bitterness of defeat is not how I had imagined victory.

A very long time ago, I had dreamt of Mairon suing for mercy at my feet, as he once had, before giving himself to the justice of the Valar; I had dreaded their terrible judgement that yet spared him from the Void, allowing us a glimmer of hope for a distant future. Instead, I had all but destroyed him, only to abandon him again, buried under the desolation of Gorgoroth. He might even be too weak to flee to the dark empty vaults beyond the furthest stars. And I was the one about to face my doom.

Or so I thought, until I realised I was not being escorted back to Mandos, not even to Aman.

We were going to Imladris.

 

 

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Notes:

 

Taur-e-Ndaedelos (Sindarin) forest of great dread; a Sindarin name for Mirkwood

Iarwain (Sindarin) the Eldest; “Iarwain Ben-adar” is the Elvish name for Tom Bombadil.