The Elendilmir by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 18: Breath of Summer's Being

Elrond recalls the fall of Gil-galad, Elendil and Sauron as well as how the literal fall of Barad-dûr will be accomplished. Sámaril learns the fate of the One Ring and counsels Elrond on the nature of the Rings of Power: that even the Three Rings of the Elves are not altogether benign.

Thanks to The Lizard Council, notably Oshun, Jael and Moreth, for critical feedback.

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The scent of freshly brewed tea greeted me when I entered Elrond’s study, a large room set off the side of the library. Bookshelves and cabinets lined three golden oak-paneled walls. In the spaces not occupied by shelves, tapestries hung and small marble statues of Varda, Yavanna and Nienna stood mute on pedestals in alcoves. A telescope, its brass casing engraved with swirling patterns of stars and stylized mathematical symbols, balanced on a tripod near the bank of west-facing windows. Green-hued light, reflected from the trees illuminated by the morning sun outside, suffused the room.

“Come in, Istyar.” Elrond beckoned to me from where he sat behind his broad chestnut desk. He rose and walked around to the polished cherry-wood sideboard where he poured the steaming liquid from a sapphire-glazed teapot into two matching ceramic cups. “I brought this tea back with me. Glorfindel found it tucked away in one of the storerooms of the Barad-dûr. It’s unusual. From the very far East, we believe. Maybe even as far as the Lands of the Dawn. I hope you like it.”

I took the blue cup from him and sipped the hot tea, its fragrance smoky with an undercurrent of fermentation. “Yes, it’s unusual but very good. Thank you.”

“Please, sit down.”

I settled into a cushioned chair in front of his desk.

“Lord Glorfindel sends his regards,” said Elrond, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his desk and folding one hand over the other. “I assume you received his letters?”

“I did. I have been working to preserve and bind them. They are quite a collection of his thoughts.”

“Yes, I was surprised that he turned to writing what has amounted to a journal. I would have thought Erestor might have done this. Instead, my scribe has found entertainment of another sort: slaying the spawn of Ungoliant that infest the Ephel Dúath.”

“Spawn of Ungoliant? I take it these creatures are spiders?”

“Yes, and large ones, too. Some are the size of a wolfhound. Wretched things!” The bow of Elrond’s upper lip curled in disgust. “We suspect that the last of Ungoliant’s daughters has survived and established a lair in the high western pass near Minas Ithil. She churns out offspring from there, but even Erestor has been unwilling to seek the matriarch out.”

“The spiders...do they make webs?”

“What kind of question is that, Istyar?” Elrond snorted at my earnest but oblivious question. “Of course, they make webs! The vales of the Ephel Dúath are thick with their snares.”

“Do you think that Master Erestor might bring some of the spider webs back to Imladris?” Elrond’s eyes widened at my query. “I have a project in mind,” I added hastily.

“A project with spider webs?” Elrond shook his head but smiled. “You are an odd one, Sámaril, but then you are a smith so why should I think otherwise? I expect Erestor will accommodate your request. A courier will be returning to Mordor in two weeks time so you might send a letter to him then.”

“I will do that.”

Elrond leaned back in his chair, rubbing his left shoulder with his right hand, perhaps massaging away the stiffness of his long journey. His face was still ruddy from wind and sun.

“It will be some months, maybe as late as next spring, before Master Erestor and the rest – what there is left of us – return to the valley," he said. "There is much to be done in the aftermath of the siege, not the least of which is the destruction of the Dark Tower. I would have liked to stay to watch its downfall, but the need for me here is far greater.”

“Destruction of the Dark Tower? How will this be accomplished? I am given to understand it is a large structure.” If my vision in the palantir had been accurate, it was more than large – it was massive.

“I should have known that this would appeal to you! Táraner, the chief field engineer of the Dúnedain, had the idea. He consulted with Macilion, who agreed the plan could work, but neither Táraner nor any of the others under his guidance had on hand the precise formula for what they required – and the formula had to be exact.

“Macilion remembered Istyanis Naryen’s formula for fireworks, of all things, and thought it could be adapted. The soldiers of the Dúnedain and Firstborn escorted Táraner and Macilion throughout the Ered Lithui, following the hordes of bats that fled from the sun at dawn, until they located their cave. The men hauled piles and piles of bat dung from the cave. Our intrepid engineers crystallized saltpeter from the foul mess. Then they mixed it with brimstone and charcoal…well, I expect you know what they concocted.”

“Black powder! I’m impressed that Macilion remembered that.”

“Macilion remembered every detail from his teacher’s work and was clever enough to adapt her formula and the containers for the powder to a larger scale. We were lucky that they didn’t blast us all to pieces with their tests. It was bad enough that the Enemy used such explosives during the beginning of the siege. Fortunately, that did not last long. I would guess that Sauron depleted his stores of such evil weaponry.”

“And other than his own hands,” I said, “he might not have had anyone in his service clever enough to make black powder. It is a tricky process.”

“That might be so, to our fortune.” Elrond took a long drink of the tea and rose to refill my cup and then his own. He returned to his chair behind his desk and continued.

“Táraner has been marking the load-bearing structures of the tower. Glorfindel is now working out the equations for the sequence and timing of the detonations. Macilion and Táraner say the strength of the explosive is limited against stone, but if the charges are large enough and placed precisely…”

I could not help interrupting Elrond. “So they plan to destroy the Dark Tower by blasting it down?”

“That is correct.”

“Ingenious.”

“Quite. The explosives are only a start though. Machines are already being moved from Osgiliath toward the Morannon to complete the razing, but the Númenórean engineers know their stonework. I also think many underestimate Glorfindel’s intellect. At their peril, I would add.”

“Or their embarrassment.”

Elrond smiled. “Yes, I have been the victim of that myself. I am glad to see him so engaged though. This war – and the siege – has been as hard on him as the rest of us.” Elrond’s pleasant expression clouded. “What we found inside the tower was terrible: many of the Men were starving and wracked with illness. The orcs had begun to prey upon them.”

“So Lord Glorfindel speculated in his letters.”

“His deductions were confirmed. I will spare you the worst of the details. The conditions within the Barad-dûr were unspeakable after seven years of siege. Many of the Men that survived sued for pardon, but the Black Númenóreans took their own lives rather than submit to Isildur. I am certain the dire straits of the Men drove Sauron out of the tower to confront us.”

Elrond rubbed his eyes with travel-battered fingers and looked out at the morning sunlight on fluttering green leaves. A breeze puffed in through the open windows, toying with a smoky strand of Elrond’s dark hair.

“Forgive me for bringing such darkness to you on a day of light,” he said. “The memory is a difficult one, but I must tell you what happened.” His focus shifted and his eyes looked into the distance, toward a darker place than the comfort of his study.

“The murk in the sky that day was worse than ever while the fiery mountain belched fumes to choke us and obscure our sight. A sortie erupted from the tower, the largest since the beginning of the siege. We were driven back along the road to Orodruin. The dark legions of orcs and Men had more order and purpose than before, as if a strong will gripped and unified them. Our forces were pressed hard against the mountain. We knew then that we had come to the turning point. Sauron had come forth.

“Clad in black helm and hauberk, vambraces and greaves he was. Every inch of flesh was covered save for his eyes. He wielded a sword of fire and a mace of iron, his strength now revealed. All fell back before him, but Gil-galad and Elendil did not flinch. They attacked him and called upon the Valar in their need.

“The fight was so desperate and so personal. Isildur, Círdan and I guarded Elendil and Gil-galad’s flanks, but no one dared approach the three combatants. An uneasy truce set in among the battling armies, even the orcs, while all around watched the spectacle there on the lower slopes of Orodruin.

“Sauron’s strength was not so great that Gil-galad and Elendil were unable to wound him. Aeglos tore through the black mail and Narsil followed, slicing deep into the Enemy’s side, severing organs and an artery. Yet Gil-galad and Elendil paid the price for their blows. Sauron wrestled them to the ground even while he was dying. Gil-galad…” Elrond paused and swallowed his grief. “Gil-galad was burned to death. I tried to warn him, but it was too late.  The Enemy had thrown off his gauntlets and laid his bare hands on my king, my beloved friend.  Gil-galad’s skin blistered under Sauron’s grip. His screams of agony will haunt me forever.

“After the Enemy killed Gil-galad, he broke Elendil’s neck with his bare hands. Narsil snapped beneath the King when he fell.”

“Narsil broke?” Icy remorse swept through me.

“Yes, Narsil broke, but it still could bite.

“When Sauron fell, his soldiers lost their will and fled, and our men pursued them. With only Círdan and I as witnesses, Isildur leapt forward and took the hilt of his father’s broken sword, ready to kill Sauron, who had fallen, mortally injured. The Abhorred’s life flowed red over the black rocks of Orodruin. Isildur stood over Sauron, and then the sun broke through the murk above. The One Ring shone golden in the column of light, its beauty irresistible. With Elendil’s broken blade, Isildur cut the Ring from the Deceiver’s hand. What little remained of Sauron’s bodily life died then.”

My left hand throbbed. So that was what happened to the Ring. I also knew that Sauron was not truly dead. A light knock on the door punctuated the silence that fell in the master of Imladris’ study.

“Come,” Elrond called, and Maedhel opened the door, balancing a tray with plates of fruit, breads and cheeses on her right hand.

“My lord,” she said. “Breakfast as you requested.”

“Thank you, Maedhel.”

She placed the tray on the sideboard and left us, shutting the door behind her. Elrond swept his arm toward the sideboard.

“After you, Istyar.”

I picked three strawberries and a small piece of cheese from the plates, but nothing more, my stomach tied in knots. Elrond, on the other hand, had no hesitancy in piling a number of berries, bread and a large chunk of cheese on a plate, digging into them with vigor.

He looked up at me, his mouth full of bread, sparks in his twilight-blue eyes. He swallowed the bread and smiled, wiping the corners of his mouth.

“Forgive my enthusiasm. I cannot tell you how much I have missed fresh fruit and soft bread these past several years.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” I said, reminded yet again that I had been forbidden from going to war as a man should and that I had lived a soft life while my friends had suffered and even died.

While I picked over the ripe berries, which tasted no better than straw to my numbed senses, I mulled over the One Ring and the breaking of Narsil.

Why had I not repaired that flaw left from Telchar’s less-than-optimal tempering? It had been within my grasp and certainly within my ability. Yet something had stopped me. Sharp-toothed imps of guilt gnawed at my conscience when I considered my reluctance to tap into the deep arts to weld the tiny rent in the metal. Had I contributed to yet another man’s downfall?

Then there was the One Ring. I had allowed Sauron to rifle through so much of my thought and to link himself with my talents. I had trusted him. We all had. He studied us more deeply than we could have imagined, extracted our knowledge, violating it, and had created a receptacle for his power. Bad enough when the Ring was on his hand, but what of another?

“Isildur has it then,” I said.

“Yes. He claimed it as weregild for his father’s death. Círdan and I tried to persuade him to take it to the Sammath Naur and cast it into the fire, but he would not be swayed. The One remains with us in Isildur’s hands.”

I shuddered. “So close to being unmade.”

“Yes, so close. And that is why I need your counsel. Do you have the skill to unmake it? Among any of us living, you know the most of Sauron’s craft.”

“A dubious distinction,” I said. I pushed myself out of the chair and walked to the nearest window, looking out into the vivid green of early summer so far from the jagged plain of Gorgoroth. “It is with this knowledge that I can tell you with certainty that it cannot be unmade. The fires of my forge are not hot enough. Even if I constructed a pressurized furnace like those we had in Ost-in-Edhil, the heat would not be sufficient. The opportunity was lost when Lord Isildur spurned your counsel.”

Elrond rose from his chair, walking around the desk and joining me by the window. “I feared this was the case. So this thing remains with us, but in another’s hands. Would that Isildur had destroyed it! Yet I cannot condemn him. I could no more destroy this than he could the One.” Elrond lifted his left hand, revealing Vilya, its stone casting a brief flash of blue light. Gil-galad had given the ring to him shortly after the fall of Eregion, but Elrond had been cautious with its use while the One was on the Enemy’s hand.

“You intend to wield it openly now?”

“I am considering it, yes. That will depend very much on Isildur’s disposition with the One. I would think that since the master ring is no longer in Sauron’s hands, wielding Vilya becomes safe.”

“You put much faith in Isildur.”

“He is an Elf-friend. I can only hope that he will realize the nature of the burden he carries and can be persuaded to return to Mordor to destroy the thing. And even if there are...” Elrond paused, pursing his lips and knitting his arched brows while he picked his words with care, “...difficulties with Isildur and the One, he will never have the strength of will that Sauron did. I believe it is safe to use the Three.”

“May I speak frankly, Master Elrond?”

“Please do.”

“Then I speak as a Ringmaker. None of these rings are benign. Even the Three.”

“Why do you say this? You know as well as anyone that Celebrimbor crafted these with benevolence in his heart and to high purpose.”

“Yes, Celebrimbor’s good intentions are interwoven in the Three but you must realize that they are crafted with the exactly the same deep arts that went into the One. So they are tied to it. Furthermore, I believe what they are meant to accomplish is unnatural to Middle-earth.”

“Unnatural? How could that be? Celebrimbor brought forth the Three to preserve beauty and memory and to kindle hope. What is unnatural about that?”

“Yes, they are meant to preserve beauty and memory, to replicate an environment that echoes Aman here in Middle-earth. But all the Rings of Power create stasis within a world that is meant to decay.”

“Decay comes from the marring of Arda,” Elrond said with conviction.

“I respectfully disagree, sir. Decay is a natural law of the world. Trying to slow the wear of time is not. Decay allows renewal, growth, and change. I agree that the Three confer great benefits, but I fear that our people will not progress if we rely on these devices and keep our eyes turned to the past that we have lost.”

“Yet the past informs us,” countered Elrond. “Our people will lose their culture and dwindle to a feral folk of dales and groves if we do not look back to what our forefathers brought with them from Aman – if we do not preserve our ways.”

“I share your concern, Master Elrond, but I believe there are other ways to achieve this that are more fitting for these mortal lands. You have not said it, but the hubris of my colleagues – of myself – to believe that we could create a version of Aman here in Middle-earth led to our downfall. That was a hard lesson so I simply cannot separate the Three from the others. I saw their effects magnified.

“As we crafted ring after ring and wielded them, the enchantment they laid upon Eregion became more pronounced. Those of us who traveled most frequently between Eregion and mortal lands first noticed their effects. From my journeys to and from Tharbad before and after the Rings of Power were crafted, I became more and more aware of the contrast. Others noticed this, too. You know that in those years before the war, Lady Culinen often visited the lands of Men that bordered Eregion?”

“Yes, I am aware of Culinen’s charity, may her fëa be at peace,” said Elrond, looking out the windows toward the West. “Her goodwill toward Men was much like her father’s although his was not so well-considered as he discovered with Ulfang. She improved the lives of those people. Mothers and babies survived thanks to her healing skills. Their people avoided contagion.”

“Then you may also must know that the Istyanis often accompanied Culinen when she visited the camps and settlements of the Minhiriathrim,” I said, receiving a nod of assent from Elrond. “While Culinen instructed the healers and midwives, Naryen taught smith-craft to their men. Náryen and her mother crossed the boundaries often. I journeyed with them on occasion in those years after Annatar left and while Celebrimbor forged the Three.

“The difference between the elven-realm and mortal lands became so stark that moving from one to another became like hitting a wall to us. At the time, I believed this was a natural consequence of what we were trying to accomplish, but it troubled Naryen because this did not harmonize with the cycles of the earth, something to which she was so well attuned. She expressed grave doubts to Celebrimbor, but that did not dissuade him from completing the Three...”

“But surely you must agree that such preservation of beauty and memory is worthy!” Elrond interjected. “Even from a pragmatic standpoint, the structures of Imladris can be held in better repair as well as the implements of your forge. You can free your time from the mundane and turn to more creative endeavors once I put the powers in Vilya to work.”

Elrond then proceeded to extol the many virtues of Vilya, Nenya and Narya. I knew then that Vilya had as much of a hold on his mind as the One did on Isildur, but I strived to defend my misgivings.

The sun shone through the west-facing windows by the time our unresolved debate fizzled to silence. Elrond laid his hand on my shoulder amiably.

“I have kept you long enough, Istyar. Thank you for your counsel. I also wish to thank you for all you have done for Valandil. As his kinsman, I will be taking over his teachings and his care until his father returns.”

“Of course. That is only fitting.” An uncharitable pang of jealousy snapped within me.

“I intend to depart for Annúminas in three weeks time. I understand that the queen has expressed her desire to see you?”

“Yes.”

“Have you experienced a mortal’s death before?” He looked me square in the eye.

“I have. Many times.” I thought of the dying I had comforted during the fire-pox that had roared through the settlements clustered around Tharbad, when I held the hands and wiped the brows of those consumed by a disease that had only caused me a day of aches and chills. “But have I experienced it with a mortal who is a dear friend? No.”

Elrond returned his gaze to the summer light outside the windows. “I think you have an idea how bitter this will be. Prepare yourself. It is not our world, mortality. I look at them — at Elendil, Isilmë, Isildur and his sons, Elerína —  and I see him: I see the echoes of my brother, his bloodline scattered and diluted, but ever present. I am always reminded that he is lost to me forever.”

“I am sorry, my lord.”

He set his chin, but the faintest glimmer of tears in the corner of his eyes betrayed his emotion.

“Never mind that." He turned to me, his expression collected and calm. "You will see to the ordering of the forge in your absence?”

“Master Thornangor is quite capable.”

I turned to leave and rubbed my still throbbing hand.

“What is wrong?” Elrond placed his hand on my arm, staying me, and examined my pained hand.

“I’m not sure. I may have injured my hand in the forge. I do not remember. It started three months ago.”

Elrond massaged my palm and fingers. “Isildur cut the Ring from Sauron’s left hand — his left forefinger — three months ago.”

My heart sank. “Elendil and Gil-galad may have slain Sauron’s body, but he lives on. My connection to him remains. He will not let me go.”

“Let me ease your pain.” Elrond’s eyes met mine, seeking permission to enter the gates of my mind.

Elrond had tended my wounds many times before: burns and cuts that I had acquired in the forge, setting broken fingers and once had pulled a broken tooth that had resulted when an errant lever smacked me in the face. None of these treatments required anything more than straightforward medicine. But now he wished to alleviate a deeper injury that would take more than massaging my hand. What he sought was something I had not experienced with him before. What would he see in me if I allowed him into my thoughts? Yet I trusted this compassionate man, and the pain in my hand tormented me.

With a deep breath, I closed my eyes and opened my thoughts to him. The ease with which he slipped into my mind and the matter of my body startled me. The interweaving of his presence with mine was little different than Aulendil’s had been, but instead of the bright silver fire of my mentor, Elrond was the billowing summer wind. He swept away the clouds of pain in my hand and my thought. The ache dissipated and I was left only with warmth when Elrond extracted himself from my mind.

As kind as summer. That was what was so often said about Elrond, and it was with that kindness that he advised me before he released my hand.

“I think it is you who must let your teacher go.”