Deific Flame

By Bejai

"[T]he sea-longing grew so strong in her that (though she deemed it her duty to remain in Middle-earth while Sauron was still unconquered) [Galadriel] determined to leave Lórinand and to dwell near the sea . . . and passing again through Moria with Celebrían she came to Imladris, seeking Celeborn."

-The Unfinished Tales

Chapter 3: Return

Amroth savagely turned to Durin, and for a moment the dwarf was taken aback. It was a strange, unbalanced moment in the midst of the swirling battle, and though he could not credit the thought, as he looked into the elf's face he felt that he had broken through a stone floor and was falling into an abyss where he had expected sure footing. A cavernous absence, perhaps, a presence withdrawn.

The elves were exceedingly strange.

"It is enough, Lord Dwarf," Amroth said, and he was again who he had always been. "We have done all that we can."

Durin shook off his bewilderment. "To Moria?" he asked.

"Yes, for you. I will lead my army to Caradhas, and perhaps our parting will divide our foe. My thanks, my lord," he said, and gripped the dwarf's forearm.

"My honor," Durin returned, and with a firm nod jogged into the night, calling his people to him in the language of rock.

Amroth caught his horse and shouted the retreat, which was taken up by the horns. Three notes followed by a trill down, the cadence of today's defeat, followed by one long blast to the height of the player's range, an unresolved chord of vengeance thrust up to the hallowed stars. Before he could heed his own command Amroth stumbled over a mass of bodies in the darkness. Something groaned, but even a cry of pain could not disguise an elven voice. Moving quickly, he shoved aside two dismembered orcs and knelt beside the fallen elf. Amroth was startled, for it was not one of his warriors; the elf was not dressed in the garb of Lórinand, but in ancient armor that bore the device of Elu Thingol. He gently turned him, and, despite the blood, recognized the face: Limnen, an ancient elf, a survivor of Doriath, a friend of his father. He had incurred Sauron's wrath during Celebrimbor's rebellion, Amroth remembered; he must not be left to the desecrating hands of the orcs.

There was no time to be gentle. Amroth fluidly hoisted the injured elf to his shoulder then draped him across the back of his horse. Limnen groaned again and fell silent, but Amroth did not have the luxury of compassion or concern for him as the army fled across the burning land. Thick, oily flames consumed homes, halls, and flesh, casting an eerie glow on tumbled stones and smoke-wrapped holly. Durin's folk scrambled up the road to Khazad-dum, desperate to win the dash to the safety of their stone mountain, while Amroth led his people toward the pass. The division confused the din-horde for several minutes, as Amroth had hoped, and it put many unpursued strides behind the army of light.

It was a mistake from which the orcs would never recover, though they would try for many days. Amroth smiled to hear their howls of rage when they reached the closed gates of Khazad-dum, which would open easily to friends, but no others. His people led their pursuers on a grim chase, praying that the wild flight would give a measure of relief to the battered, unseen army they had come to save.

The horde screamed when at last the trees of Lórinandcame into view, for they knew that their prey was lost if the elves gained the woods. "Fly!" Amroth cried, for he could feel the breath of the orc streaming upon his neck. "Run for your very lives!" One stride, another, and another, and the deep wood closed around them with an embrace of sudden silence, broken only by gasps as his compatriots heaved for air. The trees at the borders stilled after a moment, angry and malignant, and a fragrant Lórinandbreeze passed amid their branches to dispel the scent of death. Amroth looked across at the wondering faces of his lieutenants and laughed shakily, pressing his hands to his face.

"A chase for the ages, Galadaran," a raw voice gasped. "It was magnificent." Startled, Amroth moved quickly to Limnen's side. He was still draped across the horse where Amroth had placed him days before, for there had been no time for rest as the army fled, no time to see to the wounded or the needs of the flesh. Amroth had assumed that a quiet tomb was all that he could give this faithful elf.

"You are alive," he said, wonderingly.

"So it seems," the other returned weakly, and coughed.

Amroth soothed him, then glanced up at his men. "We are home," he said softly, lifting his hands in a gesture of release. The nearest soldiers nodded and the tension that had briefly held the army immobile lifted with one collective shrug of relief.

Galadriel waited for them at the edge of the city, as Amroth had expected. She stood regal, unflappable, and smiled benevolently at the returning heroes. For each, she had a touch, a kind word, and for the wounded a soothing hand on a fevered brow. In her eyes, they saw an affirmation, a blessing, a gift: a reflection of their true selves. At last, when all others had passed by and they stood alone, she looked upon him. He returned her gaze and lifted his chin, expecting judgment, perhaps, but willing to confront whatever truth she saw in him.

He knew the truth well: he was not like his parents. They had taught him of leadership by service and of duty beyond self, and he had done all that they had ever asked of him, yet his calling was not in their ways. He was born east of Ered Luin, and lived best with ancient rhythms and easy freedom of the elves who had always been here, for theirs were the choices of the heart, and always would be.

"My son," Galadriel said.

"My mother," he answered. He removed his helm, and rolled his shoulders, and raked his hand through his hair.

"You are well?" she asked, though it was not entirely a question.

"I am unhurt," he answered, and turned fully toward her, his face impassive. "Eregion is utterly destroyed. Celebrimbor is dead; I saw his body, or what remained of it. He had been tortured to his death. You may be betrayed," he said, and glanced at her hands.

"I think not," she answered. "I would know."

"As you say," he answered, and was not convinced. Then with a sigh he continued his report to her.

"It seems that Gil-galad sent aid to Eregion at last, though in the end it was not enough, and Elrond was trapped with what remained of our people. Father was with them. From what scant reports I had, including brief contact with him, I believe that we were barely in time to save them, but that our coming drew off the horde just long enough for them to escape into the wilds of the north. Whether they escaped indeed I do not know; they were far from us, across a seething mob, and I never saw them."

"Yet you were able to reach Celeborn?" she asked, relieved, and caught his arm as they began walking toward the heart of the city. "Well done."

Amroth grimaced. "I did not reach him as much as he reached me. Once. Just once, near the end of the battle, when he instructed me to disengage." He lifted his eyes and looked at his mother's face, fearing that she would divine the implications.

She was gazing north, her countenance grim and troubled. "To disengage …" she said slowly. "How did he seem?" she asked, her voice keen.

"Weary. Worried. And he bid me give you his love."

"Did he?" she asked. Then she stopped her son and turned him toward her. He sighed and shook his head; he could not withstand her. He never could.

"He was not well," Amroth admitted, his voice low. "I fear that he was hurt." Galadriel exhaled softly and stepped away.

Amroth glanced sideways, absently studying the pattern of bark on the tree beside him. "Did you see that I brought Limnen with me?" he said, awkwardly interrupting the silence. "He may know more, if he lives to say it."

Galadriel turned toward her son again, and though her eyes were anguished, she smiled. "Have I remember to say to you that you did well? Have I remember to say that you are a light in my life and a delight of my soul? That my heart rejoices to see you standing before me again, fierce and safe?"

He returned her wan smile, and bowed.

"Go now and rest, my son," she said kindly, and turned aside. But as Galadriel withdrew, another took his hand.

"Welcome home, beloved," she murmured, and kissed him.

"I did not do enough for them, Nimrodel," he said angrily, speaking to her in the ancient language of her people. "My country is fallen, my father may be dead, and my mother weeps. What more could I have done?"

"Nothing," she said reasonably. "You have done all that can be done, for sorrow is the way of this world. But come," she said, pulling on his hand so he could not watch his mother's retreating back. "You must rest."

"Lady," Limnen said, riding up to Galadriel. "All is prepared; we await you."

Limnen moved easily now, no sign of injury upon him, for he had spent many unmoving weeks under the healing hands of the lady herself. She had been a gentle and welcome companion during those long days, and they had reminisced much about the wonders and sorrows of another age. Ultimately, though, their conversation had turned to Eregion.

"Even before we knew that Annatar was Sauron, Celeborn's power had grown again," Limnen told her one afternoon. "In the first years after the revolution, he lived nearly as an exile in his own land. We of the old guard watched out for him, and he was usually successful in evading the Mírdain. But while Celebrimbor could lead a revolt, I believe he found it more difficult to lead a country. I do not think he imagined the mundane details of food and trade, dispute and judgment, council and administration. He grew restless, especially as such duties took him away from his forges, and in time Celeborn quietly returned to his old ways."

"That must have irked him," Galadriel said.

"He was so obsessed by the rings at that point that I do not think Celebrimbor noticed," Limnen answered.

Galadriel smiled. "I would think so. But you mistook me; I was speaking of Celeborn."

Limnen laughed. "You are perceptive, lady. He would rather have left Celebrimbor twisting in the wind, and better still if the 'annoyances' of governing slowed the forging of rings. But Celeborn would not permit the people suffer in neglect, not while he had strength to prevent it."

"What of Annatar?" Galadriel queried.

"Annatar fumed, and hated Celeborn all the more. But he had misjudged. He could not demand Celeborn's expulsion, for then he would have faced a revolt of his own. He could not demand that Celebrimbor take a firmer hand, for that would have slowed the progress on the rings. And he would not take charge of Eregion himself, for he sought power by force, not by service. It is fortunate, lady, that your husband remained behind, for when Sauron revealed himself, he found that Eregion was not as soft as he needed it to be."

Limnen faltered then, his expression pensive. "Near the end, four of us walked the borders of holly: Celeborn, Calandil, Celebrimbor, and I, ere we three of Doriath turned to slow the din horde and Celebrimbor to oversee the evacuation. It was sunset. One of the most beautiful I had seen, for the sun was red and orange from dust in the sky -- dust thrown up by the army coming to destroy us. We said little; what indeed could be said? But before we parted, Celeborn turned toward Celebrimbor. 'Do not betray us,' he said, and his voice was as angry and as grieved as I had heard since Elu was slain. Celebrimbor bowed low, and caught his arm, and pulled him aside. I did not hear what words they exchanged."

"I suspect I know," Galadriel interjected quietly.

"Against all hope we rode out against the horde," Limnen continued. "We purchased time with our blood, though when we heard Elrond's horns from the horizon, we prayed that some of us would live."

Limnen paused for many long beats. "It was near the end of the battle, and we were pushing toward Elrond," he said at last, carefully choosing his words. "Celeborn's attention was spread thin -- to the refugees still streaming from our land, to Celebrimbor's body made a foul banner, to our forces, to Elrond's, to the horde, and he had not reserved enough of it to himself. Calandil and I knew it was so, but we could not move quickly enough when a troop of orc berserkers broke through our line. Some hours earlier Celeborn had caught a heavy blow to his chest and had been forced to loosen the fastenings on his armor. It is dangerous, but without doing so he could not breathe … ai, forgive me, lady …" Limnen said, and broke off, his voice grieved.

"The berserker's swing was wild, and desperate, and accursedly well placed," he continued when he had mastered himself. "Calandil killed the orc and caught Celeborn before he could fall and do further injury, but I fear it was serious," he admitted quietly. "Beyond this I do not know, for my next memory was waking on your son's horse. I do not know how I fell, much less whether my lord yet lives."

Galadriel had stilled as Limnen spoke, unmoving save her clenching hands. "Galadaran was able to reach him a day or so later, albeit briefly," she answered at length, and her voice was strange -- as if breaking waves lurked beyond the calm, deep inflection of her tone. "The army did reach Elrond, and then perhaps turned north. Beyond this, I also know nothing more."

"I pray that it is so, lady. The host held more than my dear friends; my sons fought with our army. I will seek them with you, when the time comes to learn their fates at last." Galadriel had nodded, and they did not speak of it again.

Both bore the years with outward patience, tucked in Amdír's oasis, but inwardly they chaffed. News was scarce indeed, and fourth-hand when it did arrive. They heard of a great siege to the north. "Of what land and what lord?" Galadriel had pressed, and the messenger shook his head. "They say that it is Elrond and the remnant of his army, pressed into the cliffs near the Bruinen," he said, "but perhaps not." Another rider brought a plea from Gil-galad from the edge of defeat, but Lórinanditself was overextended and unable to answer his cry for help. And then, tales came to them of moral men from across the sea, not like the dark, scrabbling men of these shores, but like unto elves. "Elros' people?" asked Galadriel, but there were no answers, and she had determined that at the first opportunity she would seek them for herself.

"Lady?" Limnen said again, breaking her reverie. As Galadriel, he was dressed for travel, but also subtly for defense. Sauron had been driven back to Mordor and most of his hosts destroyed, but wandering pockets of evil remained.

"I shall join you in a moment," she answered, and turned toward Amdír and her son, who waited to see her off. "Will you not reconsider, Amroth?" Galadriel asked, pausing with her hand on her horse before she alighted upon its willing back.

He shook his head, though he looked regretful. "Nay. My responsibilities keep me here. There are yet many orc on our borders; though they cannot enter in here, I would rather destroy them than permit them to slip away and wreck their terror on more helpless populations. But will you not reconsider? I worry that it is too early to pass through these battle-weary lands."

"I must go, my son," she said. "The same restlessness that compelled the journeys of my youth stirs me again." She paused, and a flicker of wry resignation in her eyes. "My heart is never long settled."

Amroth chuckled.

"And …" she continued, then fell silent.

"And?" her son prompted.

"I must know."

The wind that now skirted across Eregion was quick and dry, as if it dared not tarry in the barren land. To the south, the three great mountains bowed, weeping; Caradhras, Celebdil, and Fanuidhol remained fair and proud, but innocent no more, and their anger could not be assuaged. The stones of the road and of the cities, which had been so carefully wrought from the hearts of the mountains, lay tumbled and ruined. Even moss had not dared disturb their grief, and they sang softly of the elves: Gone, gone, they are gone! The land would try to forget, try to purge the elven blood. Great evil had marked it forever, and yet . . .

And yet, there was the faintest stir of hope in the air, a premonition of a tune unsung, a breath not yet taken. As if, when the bones of elf and orc were rotted to nothing and swept away by time, the birds might sing again. A country cannot wholly forget the elves that once dwelt there, and the gift of the elves to Eregion was this: though nevermore the home of speaking beings, when the echo of the footsteps of armies faded into silence, the land would foster new life where death had been. In time, perhaps, only the memory of life would remain, for, save the grey-green trunks of the holly-trees, there were no trees, no grass. Such is the mercy of time to things not yet, and if anything new grew again, it would not remember.

But such mercy is not given to things that are, and as Celebrían stood amid the ruin of the land where she had been born, she wept. Her mother stood beside her and said nothing, though her eyes were deep as she consecrated the ruin beside Valinor Darkened and Doriath Destroyed.

"I am sorry, my child," Galadriel said at last, as if the coarse wind had pulled the words from her. "We truly ended the first age in hope. Somehow, we told ourselves, we would rebuild a world where our sorrows would not be the repeated grief of our children. Our hope was vain, our strength as dust. Forgive us our folly." Her lips tightened as she gazed across the blasted land. "But do not forgive this."

"I fear this, mother," Celebrían said, her voice low, "but for many reasons. And not the least is this: Father would not have allowed it. He would not have turned his back and left the land to such desecration unless all hope was spent. What if he stayed beyond hope?"

Galadriel looked away.

"You do not know," Celebrían continued quietly. "You have neither words of peace nor of confirmation. Ever before you have traced his paths. Ever before have your thoughts been his, and his yours. What now is different?"

"Ruin," she said, looking again over the land. "And folly, perhaps."

"And what of the sea, my mother?" Celebrían asked, her voice breaking. "The sea that pulls you on? For I know it calls you to hither shores.

Galadriel gasped and closed her eyes. Then she opened them again, and forced them to the crumbling land she had once protected. "The sea will wait until the will that wrought this evil is conquered," she answered at last. Then she turned to her daughter with a smile hard-bought. "And there are other reasons to remain," she said, touching her daughter's cheek.

"Love?" Celebrían asked, and lifted her face as the hot wind caressed it. "Yet if he is not in this world, will you follow him in love's name?"

Galadriel did not answer.

"I have seen Amroth's love for Nimrodel," Celebrían continued quietly. "He desires nothing more than to stand beside her for all time. Yet I remember how you parted with Father, in ire, on these streets, aye, these very streets, now crumbled. Have you ever loved as my brother loves?"

Galadriel sighed. "Love is many things. It is possession, it is passion. It is also forgiveness, and compromise. And sacrifice. Always sacrifice. It is not in parting, or in staying, but in knowing which is required, and allowing it to be."

"That is not entirely an answer."

"Perhaps not. But you will understand, my daughter, in time."

Galadriel gazed with approval across the valley that the refugees had crafted into a home. The river tumbled mightily over a series of cliffs with an omnipresent roar, between dwellings and halls that seemed woven into the trees and were alternately visible or unseen at the will of the wind that stirred the leaves. Their party came to a halt outside a great hall, still in the midst of construction. Several elves crossed quickly through the courtyard, their expressions filled with wonder.

"Lady Galadriel!" the first elf exclaimed in surprise as he extended his hand to help her dismount. She smiled fondly down at him before taking his hand.

"Elrond," she said. "I thought that the beauty of this place seemed to be your handiwork."

"Not mine alone, lady," he answered. "Imladris is the hope of many souls and the work of many hands."

"Imladris …" she rolled the word appreciatively and squeezed his hands. "Elrond, my daughter Celebrían," she said, gesturing. Elrond smiled up at her and helped her to dismount. "Celebrían, this is Elrond Peredhil, of many houses and many lands."

Celebrían alighted beside him and answered with a smile of her own. He blinked. "Lady," he said, "I had thought that this valley was beautiful. But I see now that it is poor indeed beside your radiance."

Celebrían dropped her gaze, but it could not hide her deepening smile. When she lifted her eyes again he saw a twinkle of merriment in their depths. "You will have to show me more of your fair land, my lord, and we shall see if my grace can sustain your opinion," she teased.

"Gladly," he said, and laughed.

Galadriel looked upon them and shook her head, a ghost of a smile playing around her lips. "This is Limnen, the leader of our guard …" Galadriel began.

" … of Doriath, and Eregion," Elrond continued, clasping his arm. "I have heard your name, but did not expect to see you on this side of the sea. I shall send for your sons at once."

"They live?" he asked, his voice shaking.

Elrond nodded. "What of the rest of your host?"

"All seek someone," Galadriel said quietly, her expression somber. "My daughter and I come seeking Celeborn, if he can be found. My son said that he last perceived him in your company fleeing north from Eregion's ruin. We have found the north, and we have found you…" she trailed off, uncharacteristically hesitant.

Elrond frowned and nodded. "Unfortunately, you have come too late." He glanced up, and seeing a flicker of despair in her eyes, he hastened to continue. "He rode out four days ago with Glorfindel and Calandil. They are searching for elves scattered throughout the wilderness and for coteries of orc that may have escaped our vengeance. They will return, but I know not when."

Celeborn walked into his quarters, still a rough and undecorated suite of rooms in an as-yet unfinished corner of Imladris. He had taken nothing from Eregion but what he carried into the last battle; all of his personal possessions, save those that Galadriel had whisked away to Lothlorien, had been destroyed, and he had had but little time and no inclination to replace them. He tossed a bag into the corner before he had fully entered the room and was pulling his sodden tunic up over his head as he crossed the threshold. The foray into the wilderness had been quite productive, but for the last several days he had hunted orc in the slimy pits where they lurked. Cleansing the land was unquestionably dirty work, and he was looking forward to availing himself of some of Imladris' crashing water.

A gentle hand on his back nearly sent him leaping out of his skin, but even before he could whirl about, he knew the touch.

"Galadriel," he whispered reverently.

She looked at him, her expression one of supreme joy cut with tremulous uncertainty. She nearly wept at the sound of her name falling from his lips just as it had when he had first uttered it. "I'm sorry," she said softly, speaking, perhaps, of startling him.

He gaped at her. She was dressed in supreme simplicity, a light white gown clinging gently to the curves of her body. The wind from an open balcony stirred her unbound hair, and she lit the humble room with the soft divinity of her soul. He looked down at the filthy tunic that he held in his hands, and his mind stumbled dully over the puzzle of what he was to do with it. Throw it upon the floor? Twist it into knots? Pull it back on? Or, he thought savagely to himself, he could continue standing here with his mouth open, half-naked and maladroit.

Smiling faintly, she stepped forward and took the shirt from his nerveless fingers. She folded it neatly and set it aside.

"That," he said, and cleared his throat to banish his sudden hoarseness. "That is completely filthy."

"I care not," she whispered, and stepped near him again. She raised her hand and traced the lines of his bare torso without touching him. He nearly gasped at the tingle that ghosted across his skin in the wake of that gesture. Her face was drawn in concern, and she hesitated over new scars, which held untold tales of pain and weariness. And nearly, she perceived, very nearly his death. It was not something they would speak of; it was never something they spoke of. But she knew, nevertheless.

He sighed and dropped into a chair beside his work-table, then tilted his hand in a wordless request that she join him. She sat, and the furniture stood between them. She glanced idly across the table top, which held parchment filled with his crisp handwriting. Rough maps, the design and dimension of buildings, lists of names, all eminently practical. And like the room, and like the man who sat across from her with his head in his hands, joyless.

"You did not anticipate this meeting," she said. It was a guess; she could not feel him. She had not been able to feel him since the moment that Celebrimbor had placed a ring in her palm, not so bright as a Silmaril, but still a great work, for he alone had kindled the light within. At least, she thought that was the moment of sundering; Nenya had so captivated her that she had not noticed Celeborn's absence from her mind and soul for many weeks.

"No," he answered, lifting his head. "I did not." As ever, he did not dull the truth, especially when it cut deeply. "When did you arrive?" he asked, civilly, changing the subject.

"A fortnight hence. Celebrían came as well," she answered.

He glanced at her sharply. "What of Galadaran?" he asked, his voice tinged with sudden concern.

"He is fine," she soothed. "He had duties in Lórinandthat constrained him for this journey, but bid me to give you his love.

"How was the journey?"

"Pleasant enough."

Celeborn nodded, and was struck by the absurdity of the moment. Between their last parting and this day lay battle and siege, the fall of a realm and the rise of another, Celebrimbor's ring and the tension between them that followed. Interspersed among such epic events lay the beats of the days: rising, resting, working, fighting, worrying -- all lived without one another. Yet their first conversation after four centuries held little more than hollow pleasantries. The children. The trip. The laundry. Celeborn chuckled, though it was without humor, and ran his hand over his face. They had been apart before, but never before had the parting commenced in fear and deteriorated into silence.

He was done being silent. "I would like to see it, please," he said. His voice was mild, as tranquil as the surface of a hidden pool, and as difficult to read in judging the depths beneath.

She tensed. She had expected another round of inane delay before he got to the point. It had been too long, indeed, if she thought he would observe social niceties while there was an argument brewing. Though it seemed the hardest thing he had ever asked of her, she slowly pulled the ring off of her finger and set it on the table between them. He watched her actions, unmoving save his eyes, and did not stir to touch it.

"What am I, next to this?" he asked quietly

She nearly answered in despair and anger, prepared to counterstrike a blow of rejection. And then she paused. He was truly asking. His question was neither rhetorical nor defensive, though if she answered in kind, he had his answer. But for a moment, whether through the ring or the memory of their marriage, she knew his heart. It was unchanged, but he feared that hers was not, and would not force upon her something she did not desire -- including his love.

She plucked up her ring and slid it upon her finger before she stood. "You are beloved," she answered. He released a breath that she did not know he had been holding and came to stand beside her. She reached out, and her hand trembled, and she touched him, her fingertips barely grazing his face. He looked into her eyes, then, his own melancholy, and saw her torment: the sea.

"Ai, Galadriel," he whispered, and he kissed her, sweetly, gently, and wept through laughter. She did the same, pulled back, and reached to trace his brow. She gasped; a sob amid a smile, and his tears wet her fingertips. She closed her eyes, her expression fractured, and kissed him in return, moving her hands to his chest. His hands hovered near her waist; he did not touch her, as if he feared to touch a dream, but she could feel them, like sunshine on the breeze. With a surge of fierce joy she stepped nearer still, into his hands. He inhaled sharply and pulled her to him, tracing her lithe form from hip to breast.

"Where do we begin?" he murmured.

"Beyond all hope, we stand together again. Beyond miracles, we have all survived this horror. We begin anew," she whispered. Then more softly still, she invoked the words she had spoken to him so many centuries before: "A Elbereth Gilthoniel, O Manwë Súlimo, bless this union." They were words of promise and binding; she had first said them as she spoke them now -- without audience or ceremony, but with both love and resolution.

He was amused. She did not care; she could feel that he was amused, and it was enough. "Eru Ilúvatar, let us walk together," he said, now, as then, willing to do her will. Then his amusement evaporated, and he added, low and pained, "as long as we are able."

She bowed her head. "Your terms?" she asked.

"Nay," he answered. "Yours." He studied her for a long moment, then stepped away. She hesitated, doubtful and hurt. "I am going to find a quiet spot to wash the orc blood and mud from myself," he continued softly, extending his hand. "Come with me, and we will also see what can be done to wash away the troubles between you and I."

continuing …

A/Ns:

Dedication: This chapter is for Sphinx, who insisted.

On Eregion and War: There is a wide field spread out from the town of, Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, the site of one of the bloodiest battles of the American Civil War. It is also one of the most beautiful places I have ever been. After 141 years, the birds sing and the grass is green, for that is what birds and grass do. But there is still a hush in that place, a hallowed reverence that comes from the land itself. It is older than us all, and it remembers.