Slight Air and Purging Fire by mainecoon

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Chapter 11

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They had left without her.

For a long moment Narvi remained rooted to the spot. Horses dozed in the lazy calm of a summer morning in Rivendell’s stables, swishing their tails at the flies that buzzed around them, but Bumblebee was missing, her bridle taken from the wall. Narvi had hurried to catch up after she had realized that Celebrimbor’s belongings were already removed from the guest room; too late. Too long she had lingered near the council, waiting in vain for Galadriel.

They had left without her.

She knew their general direction. It would be possible to catch up; she could move fast and needed no rest. And yet.

The plaza before the bridge was bustling with activity. The Company of Khazad was assembled, fastening their backpacks, making sure the weapons were ready: they were clearly preparing to leave. Thorin was giving commands, Balin and his warrior brother conversed in low voices, Bofur whistled a marching tune.

“Where are you heading, my lady?” someone behind her asked in Khuzdul. “Would you care to join us?”

She turned to see Bifur looking directly at her, expectantly, as if he did not find her strange at all.

For a moment, she wished that it could be so. She longed be with her own again. She would share their songs and stories, march along to wherever the road took them. There would be no ancient, unforgotten evil. She would not have to watch the man she loved slowly slipping into madness -

Celebrimbor.

No, she told Bifur. I wish in my heart that I could! But my husband is not well. I must find him.

“The crafting elf from the holly-land.” Bifur nodded. “Thorin minds him less than the others. Perhaps he can come too.”

He left already. I fear for his safety.

Bifur’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Why?”

Narvi considered the question for a moment. We were both betrayed and murdered, and his hurt is still a gaping wound. When we started our quest, he wanted redemption. The guilt was not even his to bear! But now I believe he seeks revenge .

“Against?”

Against Sauron the Deceiver.

Bifur whistled softly between his teeth.

“Do you know why there are only thirteen of us?” he asked. “Fourteen, if you count the hobbit.”

Narvi shrugged.

“It is because our quest is foolhardy too,” he explained. “We are heading towards the Lonely Mountain. We mean to take it back from the dragon.”

You want to fight a dragon with thirteen warriors.

“We mean to take it back,” Bifur repeated, unruffled. “Oh, we’re not all of us warriors. Miners, traders, craftsmen. I’m a toymaker myself. I used to be a fighter before…” He gestured towards the axe in his forehead. “But does that mean we should not go? We cannot leave the Mountain to Smaug. He has no right to it. If we do not try, no one will.”

Thirteen dwarrows, a ragged band of campaigners, led by the son of a missing king. There was little hope for them to survive their quest, but Narvi could see why they went regardless.

May the blessing of Mahal be with you , she said.

“And with you, daughter of Khazad-Dûm.” Bifur gave her a little bow. “Find your elf and help him. Maybe then your path will lead you to Erebor after all.”

Someone called his name, and he gave her a wink before he turned and joined his cousins. Narvi stood and watched as the Company marched across the stone bridge and strode along a narrow path into the Misty Mountains.

Withered white stones with engraved Tengwar signs marked the ancient path that led from Imladris into the deserted land of Eregion. The entire day Narvi headed South, passing through rough, barren country once she had left the sweetness of Imladris behind. The merciless light of a midsummer day almost blinded her, even now that she had no living eyes to shade. Celebrimbor had planned to cross the Misty Mountains at the Gelion pass, which was located several hundred miles south of Imladris. They would need over a week to reach it even if they travelled at a quick pace.

She did not feel Celebrimbor’s presence when evening fell, so she continued through the night and the following day. There was not much to see beside thickets of thorn bushes and huge boulders of pale grey rock, sometimes surrounded by patches of heather in violet bloom. Once, after ascending one of the steeper slopes, she saw in the distance the outline of mountains that had once been her home. But there was no time for heartache: she needed to find her companions first.

When night fell again and she ploughed on through the darkness, she felt the first twinges of worry. Celebrimbor would not have forgotten her. No matter what powers had taken hold of him, no matter if it was the Rings calling to him or the legacy of an ancestor she should have asked about, there was no doubt that his love for her still held true. He knew she was close behind. He should have lagged, should have waited, hoping that she would catch up soon. And even if by some evil fate his mind had clouded so suddenly, Maglor knew that she was following them. But she had seen no trace of her elves.

In fact, it had been long since she had seen one of the elvish stones that marked the way. They were set far apart and often in places that likely made sense only to elves. Still, the right course had been obvious even without the markers.

At least she found it obvious: heading straight towards the pass, it offered shelter in rocks and bushes while avoiding woodland, and the breathtaking view towards the Misty Mountains resonated deep inside her soul. Any dwarf would have been drawn towards this route. But dwarves had not made the path she was meant to follow.

Realization dawned. She sat down upon a rock and clutched her braid in frustration.

There was no way to tell when she had departed from the elven road, but it had to be over a day. Celebrimbor and Maglor must have noticed by now. Were they waiting for her, or did Celebrimbor believe she was trying to force his return to Imladris through sheer obstinacy? He would not take it well.

To locate him in the Wilderlands north of Eregion was akin to finding a fallen diamond in a coal mine. Turning back would delay her further: surely, he had not done the same. The only way to go, then, was onwards. She would meet them at the base of the Gelion pass.

Onwards, for many miles and days. She missed sleeping, if only because it interrupted the endless string of hours and thoughts. Dwarves were not made for a solitary life, least of all for walking alone in daylight without even the soothing touch of rock. The mountains, closer now, had not changed in millennia. Her heart was drawn towards them, though she knew what it would find there. Often she thought of Celebrimbor as he had once been, a spirit bright and ancient and unyielding, and of what had been done to him; and she feared, Mahal, she feared that it could happen again.

Beside a shallow stream that whirled around pebbles under grassy banks, she saw the first holly tree. She went towards it and put her transparent hand upon the stem: old it was, very old, but not one of those that had grown in Celebrimbor’s time. But this meant that Eregion was not far. The landscape would soon change from bushland to sun-filled woods, bright groves and clearances with summer flowers, and the rock… but she could not touch the rock anymore. Now she could not even f eel the bark of the tree, as she had when she had strolled the woods near Ost-in-Edhil with Celebrimbor.

And just as she remembered, through the night air came the sweet sound of elvish singing.

She had never found to be sweet until now . Elven music was floaty and strange and made no sense to her ears. But as she stood alone on the border of the ancient elf-land, the melody called to her in a wordless cry of beauty and sorrow.

Maglor?

Narvi turned and walked along the river towards the sound. It stopped for a moment, then began anew, louder this time. Sadness wove a gentle net around her, so that she could hardly remember a time when she had not been sad and lonely – not drifting, for millennia…

Maglor! Narvi shouted, although she began to understand that it was not him. The sorrow that engulfed her almost made her howl, and she was overcome with yearning for another soul, anyone to ease her endless solitude. Memories were dragged to the surface, in a way she could neither comprehend nor control : Her parents’ happy faces when they saw her first designs; Northri, beaming, showing off the diamond earing that was Nyr’s courting gift; Jari with a pint of ale in one hand and a quill in the other, arguing about blueprints; Celebrimbor’s naked body under her hands, muscles flexing as she drew him close to join him in pleasure; the same body dangling from a pole, mutilated, pierced with arrows, lifeless eyes wide open in a last echo of terror…

No! Narvi tried to pull out of the spell. These are my memories! Keep out!

But a distinct presence engulfed her and held her tightly in place, and the terrible singing filled the air, full of longing, full of power. The voice was female, Narvi realized, and there was no darkness in it, but still it threatened to tear her apart, like the current of the waterfall that does not hate the droplets it hurls into the deep.

Let me go, Narvi roared. Let… me…

Now she saw Ost-in-Edhil, elven homes amidst fountains and holly trees. A summer night turned into an inferno: the city burned, fire, blood, save them all, and there was Erestor in armour with fury in his eyes – the Lord was lost, they were fleeing, but the orcs came after them – running, running, for days, and there were armies but they could not get through. Orcs. Orcs.

Narvi gathered her strength. She had used a shield against the dark wraiths, but they had not invaded her mind. Now she needed a different sort of strength. She conjured up granite to shield the core of her being, and ithildin to glow in the darkness. The warmth of a hearth to drive off the cold – the faces of her family to remember who she was -

The voice wavered.

Let me go, Narvi urged. Then we can speak!

But as the grasp of the presence slipped, the singing dissolved into a low wail and died. Not even a brush of wind moved the night air. Narvi looked around.

Who are you? she called.

But there was no answer.

She did not search for the spirit. Perhaps she would have found her, perhaps not. She pitied the unhappy soul who had to be one of Celebrimbor’s own people, but the risk was too great.

Without further incidence she reached the base of the Gelion pass. From there she followed the elven path, clearly marked at this point, back into the direction of Imladris. Her friends could not be far behind, but Bumblebee needed rest and surely they had spent some time waiting for her, which gave her a lead. The path wound through rolling hills sparsely wooded with holly trees. Broad rays of sunlight reached the ground and made the dancing midges shimmer like bright spots of gold.

But it was not only midges that floated in the summer breeze. The flakes of ash were few at first, but as she moved on the drift became denser. She quickened her pace. These were not the light, fragrant ashes of a wood fire.

In a small clearing she found the source, and it brought her a visceral memory of sickness. A pile of bodies had been burned beside the road. Greasy smoke hung in the air, but the fire had died: not long ago, surely, or the wind would have dispersed the smoke. The bodies were orcish, ten perhaps or twelve, judging by the charred remains. No elves, she noted with cautious relief. But where were the elves?

A battle had taken place, that much was clear from the blood on the grass, from broken branches and trampled ground. But what had happened next? The woods were as silent as they had been before, with birdsong and the quick rustle of animals in the bushes the only sounds. The brambles all around the clearing were torn and crushed. This is work for a hunter , she complained to an unreadably churned patch of ground . Whose idea was it to send an architect upon this quest?

She was still examining the bushes when she felt the brush of a familiar presence. It was like Maglor, yet not entirely so. Grief, ancient and unspeakable, paired with raw power that did not belong in the world as she knew it: Maglor possessed both, but he was not the only one.

Narvi whirled around. Hello?

The vague shape of a person glimmered against the smoke, pale like the reflection of lightning against clouds.

I know you. You are Maglor’s companion, are you not? Narvi Norisul, at your service.

The figure shone a little brighter, which seemed to take great effort: it made the apparition flicker like a blue candle-flame. Narvi recognized the reedy outline of an elf, likely male, judging by the form. She felt the pull of his spirit. He wanted something. He was angry.

Have you seen them? Narvi stepped closer. Where are they?

He pulled again, then moved off the road and into the forest, and Narvi followed his lead.

For a company of this size, the orcs were remarkably quiet. Narvi heard little of them before she reached their camp in a valley nearby. Seventeen of them had survived the skirmish. They had posted guards, and some were gathered around fires to roast game, but many rested, for it was daytime and they seemed to have little fear of an attack.

Celebrimbor and Maglor were sitting with their backs against a large holly tree, both bound on hands and feet. Gagged too, Narvi noted, likely because the orcs had not known which of them was the infamous bard. Celebrimbor’s face was streaked with blood, but his eyes were watchful. Maglor leant against him, either relaxed or injured; knowing him, it could be both at once. But they were held not far from the Southern border of the camp. Narvi could not see their baggage, except for the swords and Maglor’s harp, which were piled in a careless heap among orcish cooking gear and spare weapons, beside a small brook. Bumblebee was nowhere in sight.

It shouldn’t be hard to free them, Narvi mused. But a body would be helpful.

Her guide hovered beside her, quivering, as though even this faint shadow demanded all his strength.

A body.

Narvi let her gaze wander through the orc horde. Two soldiers squatted beside the prisoners. One was carving a piece of wood with inexperienced hands, the other idly throwing leaves into the fire.

It was forbidden. Moreover, it was utterly repellent. These were orcs . The mere idea made her sick.

But it might be possible . She told herself it was not curiosity that made her consider the idea. Likely it was the only way to save her friends. Narvi turned towards her companion.

Have you ever tried to possess another being?

He recoiled a little.

Neither have I, but let’s save the qualms for later. If we can cut them free and distract the orcs… they’re both good fighters. They’ll escape.

She waited for a moment, but he did not answer. A vague sense of terror that was not her own prickled in the back of her mind.

I’m going now , she informed him. We cannot waste time. It will be hard to escape once night falls, and I dare not imagine what will happen then.

She circled the camp, letting go of her focus on holding a solid form and drifting towards the two prisoners . A short distance behind them she halted. Celebrimbor’s presence was cold and slippery as an icicle and barely reacted to her touch. If there was terror underneath, he held it under tight control.

She focused on the carving orc, mostly because the way he abused the wood was too much to bear.

The orc seemed to be in good spirits. He was grunting some sort of marching song under his breath, more or less in time to his knife strokes as he carved. As she watched, he and his companion exchanged a few words in their guttural speech. Both laughed, and the second guard threw a handful of leaves at the first, who stabbed them onto his knife and flicked them into the fire.

So far, so good. She had no elvish telepathy to hold onto, as she had done when she had when she had touched Celebrimbor’s mind. Instead she channelled her powers, just as a magnifying glass intensifies light, and plunged.

She had not expected the pain. The orcish body would have screamed had she already controlled his voice. Narvi felt herself tarnish at the edges, corroded by the contact with the twisted soul. Darkness, clammy like half-dried blood, stinking like a rotting corpse, driven by cruelty and primal fear: she lit ithildin against it. Khazad ai-mênu! The mind of the dwarves is like rock and will not be defeated!

He was weaker than the elven spirit who had tried to ensnare her, and merely put up a brief struggle before he slunk back into a dark corner of the orcish brain. It was easy, far too easy for an act so illicit and blasphemous. But her spirit was not made for this form. Pain like acid burned her, like the slimy, poisonous algae that grew in the Northern tunnels beyond the emerald mines of Khazad-Dum.

She forced her soul to take control and assessed her surroundings. T he body had frozen under her assault and now sat unmoving, glaze-eyed, its hand still clutching the knife half way through slicing a curleque of wood from the stick. The orc eyes were not as sharp as her own and watered in the sunlight, but the disadvantage was compensated by a heightened sense of smell. Apart from the stink of rot and orc skin, which almost made her retch – you are an orc now, so behave like one, you fool - she could separate at least three different flavours of burnt wood from the fires, a fox slinking through the bushes behind her, the distinct smell of elven blood. She risked lifting her orc’s head up to look around. No one paid attention to her. Only the guard beside her was near enough to pose a danger, but he had not changed his pose, though he had ceased to throw leaves into the fire.

He was sitting perfectly still. Too still, in fact. His eyes were glittering with a distinctly un-orcish radiance. Reflecting treelight, Celebrimbor had said, when she had asked him why his own eyes looked so strange.

With a grunt Narvi made the body rise and stagger to Celebrimbor’s side. She felt a chill when she met his gaze. The light in his eyes had turned into the pale glow of frost: hard, cold, unforgiving hatred. She longed to reach out to his fëa but could not risk to release the tight control over her stolen body.

Instead she crouched beside him as if to check his bonds. Celebrimbor stiffened. One particularly bulky orc looked up and barked a few words that sounded like an admonishment; the leader, probably, and she had no idea what he wanted. All she could think of was to nod and point at Celebrimbor’s ties, while the captured soul beside her stirred and trembled. The orc stared for a long moment with his hard yellow eyes, then turned his attention back to his meal. Narvi waited a few seconds before she made the body cut through the rope that bound Celebrimbor’s hands.

Later she would scold herself for her lack of foresight.

There was no time to scream. As soon as Celebrimbor’s hands were free, he caught her wrist, whirled around, snatched the dagger and slashed the orc’s throat. Agony nearly tore Narvi’s spirit apart. The dark shadow of the orc’s own soul whirled around her, wailing, drifting – he was dying, and so was she, and she felt the pull as he was called away, he was – he had to go, and she…

Narvi? What are you doing there?

Celebrimbor’s fëa called out to her, blinding light reflected on silver, urgent, panicked. Narvi! No! Why are you – no, stay with me!

There was a summons, but it was not for her. The orcish spirit struggled briefly before it relented and faded away. His presence left an echo of pain and terror and – there was a tinge of something softer, transparent like swirling dust. It felt almost like the touch of an elven mind, a faint memory of sorrow and relief.

Narvi!

Celebrimbor had freed himself and was now cutting Maglor’s ties. At close range Narvi could see that Maglor’s shirt was stained red, but he was fully alert.

I’m here, she assured, her voice a little rattled. That hurt.

“Couldn’t be helped,” he murmured. Around them the orcs began to shout and reach for their weapons. But the body was dead - fool of an elf, why could he not hold still while he was freed - and the moment for distraction had passed. Celebrimbor clutched his knife. Maglor ripped the dead orc’s scimitar from its sheath and slaughtered his way towards his harp.

In the general uproar the second guard had risen unnoticed. He staggered towards the leader who was barking commands and paid him no heed, drew his sword, and beheaded him with one clean stroke.

That distraction was effective enough.

Cries of outrage went through the horde, but leaderless, they were uncoordinated. Some turned against the traitor who fought viciously but soon fell under their strokes, others tried to hold the captives, but without unity, they could not match the elves. There were too many to kill them all, but it was easy for Celebrimbor and Maglor to grab their own weapons and run, run, run, across glades and through thickets until the shouting stopped, then for a while along the riverbed to mask their scent, until Maglor’s tunic was soaked with blood and Celebrimbor swayed on his feet.

When the sun had long set and they could not go on, they retreated into a grove of hazel bushes. Now, and only now, Celebrimbor collapsed to his knees with a soundless scream. Maglor held him and sang softly as he sobbed and thrashed, and Narvi called his name until he looked at her with large, unseeing eyes, unable to recognize her. It was long before he calmed enough to nestle into Maglor’s arm, trembling like a sick child.

“My brother was like this after he escaped from torture.” Maglor brushed a wet strand from Celebrimbor’s forehead. “He will recover. But we have reason to worry. We were ambushed, which means that Sauron is searching for us along the roads towards the South. He probably controls the pass across the mountains, too.”

I lost my way and went along the dwarven route , admitted Narvi. There were no orcs around. Only an elf ghost who desired my company.

“A houseless spirit.” Maglor sighed. “They lose themselves if they remain alone for too long, and then they become dangerous. There was nothing you could do.”

I figured as much. Narvi considered asking after Maglor’s companion but decided to forego it for now. But what do we do, if all routes are watched?

“Not all routes.” Celebrimbor did not open his eyes, but his voice was almost steady. “Only the elvish ones. We will go through Khazad-Dûm.”