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Deific Flame
By Bejai
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"[T]heir enemy, Sauron, had also returned . . he came with great force against the new realm of Gondor, and he took Minas Ithil . . . But Isildur escaped, and taking with him a seedling of the Tree he went with his wife and his sons by ship down the River, and they sailed from the mouths of Anduin seeking Elendil. Meanwhile Anárion held Osgiliath against the Enemy, and for that time drove him back to the mountains; but Sauron gathered his strength again, and Anárion knew that unless help should come his kingdom would not long stand."

- The Unfinished Tales

Chapter 10: The Last Alliance

From the thunderous fury of Ilúvatar's wrath, Sauron was thrust suddenly into darkness. Stripped utterly of his glorious form, he remembered that his body had been a conditional gift. He also bitterly recalled what he had forgotten -- that despite his dominion and bold boasts, the universe was filled with powers greater than his own. Nay, he had not forgotten. In the crystalline truth of the formless deep, he admitted that he had counted himself among those deities -- above those deities -- and he wailed soundlessly at his error, spread for an eternal moment between the burning suns from whence he had been formed.

But from that forsaken waste, a voice came at last, calling him by a forgotten name of light -- his first name, a gift mightier even than his shining body. The voice was familiar, and how could it not be? It was the voice that had organized his intelligence from the cacophonous stars, the voice that had gently sung him into being.

Return, it said with infinite love. Repent.

And perhaps, in this moment of utter defeat, he would have -- perhaps, had it been his choice. But he did not have the power to refuse the loathsome command of a golden ring, hidden deep in a mountain on an obscure world. He realized, too late, that his soul was irrevocably entwined with a chain of his own design, bound to an abyss darker than this endless void. In the formless despair of his helplessness, he believed he had nothing. He did not even have the ring, for in truth, it had him. But when he awoke in his fetid womb of rebirth, he saw that he was not utterly bereft. As he brooded in the dark, conjuring a new and terrible shape, he realized one thing had grown in his absence, which gave him strength to take up the great Ring and cloth himself in its power, ere he turned his burning eye toward Elves and Men.

He still had his hatred.
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"You ride alone, father?" Amroth asked without preamble, catching the horse's bridle as the other swung to the ground. Celeborn had come unexpectedly to the Golden Wood, unaccompanied and grim-faced. He gleamed silver and green, clad in the mithril armor that Amroth had not seen in many centuries. As a boy, he had remembered touching the cunningly wrought joints that caused the metal to move like silk, awed at the graceful lines he now knew had been brilliantly engineered to shrug off deadly blows. Its maker, Celebrimbor, had laughed at his little kinsman's expression. He had begged the master smith to make him such a gift, and with a twinkle in his eye, Celebrimbor had solemnly agreed to do so once young Galadaran reached his full height. By then, however, Celebrimbor had been enthralled by his rings, and the promise had gone unfulfilled.

Celeborn slapped his heaving horse's neck with thankful approval, and swung a rucksack of gear from the creature's shoulder to his own. The beast snorted, grateful to be still, and Celeborn handed it off to a young elf with murmured instructions to sooth the weariness from its limbs.

"I had need for speed," Celeborn said, answering his son's question and clasping his shoulder in greeting as he looked to where Amdír, King of Lorien, swiftly approached. Celeborn's eyebrows quirked in surprise when he saw who accompanied him.

Amroth smiled faintly. "Your timing is impeccable, father. Murmurings of ill tidings have already reached us, and Oropher arrived from Greenwood yesterday, to discuss what should be done. They have been in counsel since this morning, and will welcome your insight."

"Perhaps," Celeborn said guardedly.

"This bodes ill," Amdír said bluntly, stepping forward to embrace his friend as Amroth smoothly relieved his father of the rucksack. "Celeborn, clad in armor, arriving unexpectedly and with no guard--looking for all the world like a shadowy captain of Doriath I once knew."

"Remembering who you truly are," Oropher stated flatly. The King of Greenwood stood slightly apart from the group, his arms crossed across his chest.

Celeborn shrugged. "It's been a long time, Oropher." Amroth could not tell if he father was talking about an age long passed, where they had fought together beneath Elu's banner, or if he was speaking of their last meeting, which had ended with harsh words neither could take back.

"True, cousin," Oropher said mildly. Amdír glanced cautiously between the two elves and, apparently satisfied that they did not intend to come to blows--at least for the moment--gestured toward the great hall across the glen.

"It is unusual to see you utterly unaccompanied," Amdír observed as they walked. "I would expect to see at least faithful Calandil at your side."

Celeborn stripped off his gauntlets and slapped them absently against his palm. "I have just come from Osgiliath," he said, "and Gondor needed every hand that I could spare."

"Then it is as we have heard?" Oropher asked, closing the door behind them as they crossed the threshold. "Sauron is moving?"

"Has Minas Ithil fallen? What of Isildur?" Amdír interjected before Celeborn could answer.

"It has fallen," Celeborn answered heavily, shaking his head as he sat down. Amroth handed across a mug of mulled wine and noted a slight, almost imperceptible clumsiness in his father's fingers that spoke volumes about his weariness. "The White Tree is dead, and of Isildur I do not know. Anárion has rallied at Osgiliath, but he is hard pressed. He cannot hold long, and when he fails, the orcs will be at all our doors. I have not seen evil armies such as this since the old days, my friends, when we fought against Morgoth in the darkness."

"It is Sauron; you are certain?" Oropher pressed, pacing. "I thought that the exiled men said he was dead."

"They thought he was," Celeborn agreed. "But Galadriel and I believe that the One Ring remained in Middle-earth, and are both firmly of the opinion that so long as it survives, Sauron survives. But the point is entirely philosophical. There is no question: the enemy is moving, and that enemy is Sauron." The pronouncement hung heavily in the air between the kings and lord.

"Has there been any discussion about a response?" Amdír asked after a moment.

"I'm sure there has been," Celeborn said. "Gil-galad sent us a missive several weeks ago, requesting that Galadriel and I come to Lindon for a council."

Oropher snorted derisively, and Amdír threw him a warning look.

"Obviously, I am not there," Celeborn continued, ignoring his cousin. "For I had just received a desperate request from Gondor, and thought it more prudent to lead a force to its aid before it was too late, than ride the other direction to talk about it. However, I intend to ride to Lindon soon; indeed, I will need to leave before this day is ended. But given what I have seen at the borders of Mordor, there is only one answer. War is inevitable." He stared piercingly at the kings before him. "Tell me that you will join us."

Both elves sighed. "I know not about you," Oropher said, looking at Amdír and Amroth, "but the Silvan Elves in Greenwood have little desire to meddle in the affairs of the Nolder and Sindar, of Dwarves, and Men, and Orcs."

Celeborn stirred, but Amdír raised a quieting hand.

"It is as you say, my lord," Amroth answered. "I have spoken of such matters with Nimrodel, her heart is aligned with the will of her people. They know that darkness is afoot, but would rather slip gently before it than stand against it and be battered. They whisper that they can live more happily spread abroad, dancing in the starlight and disappearing before enemies appear, than standing before the gates of Mordor, waiting to die." Amroth shrugged. "They say that they have done it before."

"They have," Oropher answered sadly.

"That is foolishness," Celeborn dismissed flatly. Both Amdír and Amroth flinched.

Oropher turned slowly toward his cousin, knotting his fists. "Would you impose your will on them? Force them to see the world your way, as the Noldor tried to do with us? As your wife has clearly done with you?"

"Ai, Elbereth," Amdír sighed under his breath.

Celeborn surged to his feet, his eyes hardening. "Galadriel has nothing to do with this."

"No?" Oropher challenged.

"No," Celeborn growled, bring his face within inches of the woodland king's. "It is easy to sing songs and mourn for the elder days, when the world was new. But those songs conveniently forget to mention the terror of Morgoth's minions, of women defiled and children slain while they 'danced under the starlight.'"

"Believe me, Celeborn, they haven't forgotten," Oropher barked bitterly, shoving Celeborn back several inches. The silver lord shifted on his feet and clenched his jaw. "But 'foolishness,' you say, to wish to escape inevitable slaughter? They know what is like to stand outnumbered and ill-equipped before a rabid foe. They know what it is like to die by the thousands, which is why they are not eager to do so again. They might call your method 'foolishness,' your willingness to spend their blood for kingdoms and countries, when they could slip quietly away with their families, and find a measure of peace."

"Peace?" Celeborn laughed incredulously, his armor whispering as he gestured. "You may choose to abdicate your responsibility to Middle-earth and its free peoples--people who have, by the way, bled and died in the past for your kingdom's safety--but if Sauron is not stopped, the elder days will return in truth. They will die either way," he snapped, and then stepped back with a groan as he realized exactly what he had said. "They will die unless Sauron is stopped," he amended.

Oropher chuckled hollowly and turned away, the fight going out of him. "No, you have the right of it, Mandos damn you and your cruel precision. My Silvan elves will die either way, but peace will not return unless Sauron is overcome. You will have it your way. Greenwood will raise an army for the High King. Amdír?"

"Loriand will stand with you," Amdír answered quietly, and Oropher nodded curtly.

"Good seeing you, cousin," Oropher spat over his shoulder, and surged angrily out the door.

Amdír passed his hand over his eyes and took a shuddering breath. "You are leaving today?" he asked pointedly.

Celeborn slumped in his chair and threw back the remainder of his wine. "If you have a fresh horse I could borrow," he said dully, "I am leaving now."

The king glanced at his friend, his expression softening. "You do not have to leave today," he said gently

Celeborn put his head in his hands, "Ai, but I do. You have not seen what I have seen. I am not certain we have even hours to spare. Sauron is moving with great speed; perhaps -- perhaps -- too much. He may be making errors. But the only way we can exploit them, and the only way we can save ourselves from been swept aside in the torrent, is if we catch him first."
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Isildur knew he had been standing helpless in the High King's garden the entire night, studying the pale stick that poked pathetically out of the soil of a too-large vessel, and chasing his thoughts in churning circles. But he could think of nothing else to do.

His White Tree was dead, and he had been able to save only this ever-weakening seedling from the dark flames that consumed his beautiful city. In the preceding years, he had watched in growing dread as Mordor awoke at his doorstep. When the mountain in the east began spewing plumes of smoke, he had prayed it was merely Middle-earth's temper, until his spies brought terrible tidings of a Dark Tower rising out of the pit. On that day, he abandoned prayer and began arming his people for war -- but their preparations were as futile as his petitions, as vain as his belief that the Snake had died with Númenor. Sauron's minions had melted through Minas Ithil's defenses as if mere babes manned the garrisons. He had barely escaped the ruin, sailing down the Anduin with his wife and his sons, and now they all -- mortals and tree -- lived off the charity of his father and Gil-galad. In his desperate flight, he had even abandoned his brother and Osgiliath to stand alone against the enemy.

"Isildur," a gentle voice intruded on his dark thoughts.

"Lady?" he asked, gathering himself as he looked up with polite humility at one of the few beings who could command respect from a prince of men.

"Celeborn has come at last," Galadriel said. "You are needed."

Isildur frowned. "And you come for me yourself?" he asked, bemused.

She smiled in her maddening way. "Walk with me," she commanded, pausing to take his proffered arm. They strolled together in silence, and Isildur knew that he was following her, though they stood side by side.

"Your sapling, the scion of your beloved White Tree, is dying," she continued bluntly.

"Yes," he answered shortly, stopping in his tracks. He knew better than to expect light discourse to pass the time, but did she think him blind? He knew it was dying; it was a deep grief that throbbed in his bones, and robbed him of all endurance in dealing with elves. She looked piercingly at the man, who shifted nervously. He had never been able to meet her gaze, and he knew not why.

"The tree will live when it is convinced you want it to live," she said, "and when you are convinced you care to live yourself."

Annoyed, he recklessly met her gaze, which she coolly returned with a faint arch of amusement in her brow. It was too late to retreat, and so he forged ahead.

"What do you see," he asked with righteous anger, "that you can look at me as if you have forgiven me for something I have not yet done?" He was uncomfortably aware, as he looked into her prophetic eyes, that she could see directly into his soul, while he could only flounder in the millennia obscuring hers. "What do you see?" he repeated stubbornly. She turned away first, and he would have exulted in his victory if he did not know she was being merciful.

"Nothing specific," she murmured. "Simply that there are some means that cannot be justified by any end."

Isildur felt his breast fill with enraged frustration at her obfuscations. "Do you know what I see in you?" he burst out.

"Tell me," she said, almost fondly, as though he had finally lived up to the faith she had in him. Flummoxed, his anger fled.

"You are like …" he paused, grasping for eloquence, suddenly desperate to fill this rare opportunity with a thousand words. "Like some majestic bird briefly visiting the earth ere you spring again to the heavens. You can see what is coming, and what has been, but have no hands to change things now."

Galadriel turned back, and his heart lurched at her sorrow. "You see truly," she answered. "But in this I am not alone. The race of elves is aging to obscurity, too heavy with time. The day is coming when we will be able to do little else than lift our voices in warning." She raised her eyes again to his, leaving him gasping, before she turned away to the east. "But those who have hands would do best to listen."

It occurred to him, as he recalled the feverish war-beat of orcish drums, that an admission of impotence by one's only allies did not bode well, particularly on the eve of war.

"Fear not, Isildur," Galadriel said, looking fondly at the approaching figure of her husband. "We are not yet emptied of our strength."

As she spoke, the new day crested the horizon, and she released his arm to face the rising sun. How odd, he thought as he watched the morning light tumble through her hair, that one who had seen so many days could still rejoice in the start of another, when he, for whom so few remained, could barely bring himself to care.

"Lady," Celeborn murmured reverently, coming up beside them. He wrapped her hands in his own and lifted them to his lips.

"Ah," intoned the weary voice of Elrond Peredhil, coming up behind them "Celeborn comes to Mithlond at last. Perhaps that will appease Gil-galad's impatience."

I came as quickly as I could," Celeborn said reprovingly. Elrond shrugged. "Isildur," he continued warmly. "It is good to see you alive. We feared the worst when we heard of Minas Ithil's fall."

"It is good to be seen alive, lord," Isildur answered with a kind of inadequate flippancy. Celeborn studied the prince with a frown, and Isildur knew that the ancient lord did not require an explanation. He too had lost cities to Sauron.

"Elrond," Celeborn said, looking away from the man as his mood shifted to exasperation. The half-elf had started not-so-subtly herding the group toward the great library. "I quite literally just rode through the gates. Do I have time to change?"

Elrond sighed, but Galadriel laughed, a sound of aching beauty to mortal ears, and took her husband's hand with a gesture older than Isildur's race. "The High King has been ensconced in the library since yesterday afternoon, muttering about absent allies who were supposed to arrive days ago. Elrond and I only just escaped; Círdan, Glorfindel, and Elendil are still trapped there with him. Have mercy on us all." She then pulled him near and whispered something softly, which caused him to ruefully acquiesce.

"Celeborn!" Gil-galad roared as they crossed the threshold into the study, scarcely looking up from one of the maps strewn across the table as he shook a rolled scroll in rebuke. Glorfindel glanced up with a welcoming smile.

"I apologize, Ereinion," Celeborn said ruefully, releasing Galadriel's hand as she took a seat beside Círdan and the King. "I am, perhaps, somewhat late."

"A month," the High King said, looking up pointedly. "Galadriel has been here a month. As I recall, my missive requested the presence of both the Lord and Lady of Belfalas? Or, perhaps in my great haste, I neglected to include the Lord?"

Celeborn snorted and shook his head, unmoved by the gibes. Then he drew up, his posture echoing his somber words. "I bring news from Anárion in Osgiliath," he said.

"Ah," Gil-galad sighed, pushing away from the table and settling back in his chair, his sarcasm gone. "Say on.

"Indeed," Elendil echoed, his face lined with a father's concern.

Celeborn nodded and breathed deeply as he waited for Elrond and Isildur to take their places. "When we heard that Sauron was moving on Gondor, I took a small company of men and elves from Belfalas, and rushed to Osgiliath. Alas, too late to save Minas Ithil, as you know," he said, nodding at Isildur. "I sent Calandil to the city in stealth, to see what had become of it. In his opinion, it is now utterly occupied by dark forces, include at least one of the Nazgûl."

"Then call it not Minas Ithil, but Minas Morgul," Isildur mourned sorrowfully, pressing his fingers into his scalp.

"He says the White Tree is dead," Celeborn said, his voice heavy with regret.

"I know," Isildur replied. "And although I saved a sapling ere I fled, I have little hope that it will survive. Perhaps, Lord Celeborn, if you . . ."

"I will do what I can," Celeborn answered quietly.

"Nazgûl?" Gil-galad prompted impatiently, drumming his fingers.

"Mordor has made several attacks on Gondor since then," Celeborn continued. "Yet Osgiliath still stands, although many of its people have withdrawn to Minas Anor, which they are calling Minas Tirith. I left my soldiers with Anárion, who has driven the enemy back into the mountains for the time being. But Sauron is gathering his strength, and Gondor will not long stand without help."

"It is as we feared," Elendil said heavily.

"What is the disposition of the enemy?" Círdan interjected, gesturing vaguely. "How many? What kind?"

"They are largely hidden in Mordor's mountains," Celeborn replied, stepping forward to indicate the position on Gil-galad's map. From what I saw, we have not faced an army such as this since the ancient days. Sauron is collecting Morgoth's spawn, plus dwarves, and men -- not a few of them dispossessed Númenorean lords. And I very much doubt that the Valar will care to come this time."

"We will need all of us," Gil-galad summarized. "All free beings to fight for their lives."

"What of Lorien and Greenwood?" Glorfindel asked.

"None can escape this war," Gil-galad replied testily.

"I spoke to Amdír and Oropher as I came west," Celeborn interjected smoothly as he took a seat, his report ended. "They agree that peace will not return unless Sauron is overcome. They will stand with us."

"Forgive me, Lords, Lady," Elendil said, rising to his feet. "We mortals cannot escape this war, but the elves can. You have Valinor, and frankly, I need to know what you are going to do."

The High King nodded slowly, brooding as he rested in chin on a fist.

"For many of us," said Celeborn angrily, glaring at Gil-galad, "that is no option."

"I would be irresponsible not to consider it," Elrond retorted.

"Elendil," Celeborn said, leaning forward with a sweeping gesture of finality, "I am not leaving. Neither are Amdír and Oropher."

"Perhaps not. But can you speak for all the warriors in you armies?" the half-elf rebutted.

"Very few, if any, will leave from Lorien and Greenwood," Gil-galad mused.

"Some will leave from Imladris," Elrond said slowly. "Perhaps many."

"I can think of several elves from Lindon who will undoubtedly sail when they hear of this," Círdan agreed. "Elves who have seen too much war, and for whom another in untenable."

"We will lose elves from Belfalas," Galadriel said. "We will," she repeated, and Celeborn nodded reluctantly.

After a moment of heavy silence, Gil-galad spoke. "Sauron will grow too strong, and overcome us one by one if we do not unite against him. Elendil, I cannot say how many of us will stand with you. But we will stand with you."

"An alliance?" the king of men pressed.

"Yes," Gil-galad replied firmly.

"A last alliance," Galadriel amended, and Celeborn glanced at her.

"Very well," Gil-galad said, springing to his feet to pace. "We have no time to waste. Elrond, we will stage at Imladris, gathering our forces as we go. Glorfindel, we need a swift call to arms to go out, today, and will march in a fortnight. If that is agreeable to you, Elendil?"

"It is," the man answered.

"Círdan, I will need you with me," the king commanded, and the mariner nodded.

"My last war," he said softly. "I will fight no others."

"That leaves Lindon leaderless," the king mused. "Lady Galadriel, I will ask you to rule in Mithlond in our absence. You will have two roles. First, you will be the most removed from danger, and must be the heart of the army's supplies. Second, you are also our final resort. If we fail, the elves will flee here, and you must be prepared send them to Valinor."

"As you say," the lady answered. "But I suggest that we use Edhellond as an additional refuge. Our daughter is skilled in such matters, and well loved in that city. Between the two ports, we may also be able to move some supplies by sea outside the enemy's sight."

"And if the battle goes ill, would permit more of our people to escape," Gil-galad continued. "I agree. Please see that Celebrían clearly understands her role."

The king turned and splayed his hands on the table. "Elrond, I will also need you by my side."

"As always, my lord," the half-elf answered.

"And I will be at his," Glorfindel said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The king dropped his head in thought, and then raised it, his expression reluctant, as one facing an inevitable storm. "Lord Celeborn, I have a different role for you."

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continuing …
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Next chapter: A seven year war.

A/N: For Redheredh, who sent me an email that inadvertently inspired me to finish this chapter, despite (or perhaps because of) a million other things I should have been doing.