Deific Flame

By Bejai

"Those who used the Nine Rings became mighty in their day, kings, sorcerers, and warriors of old. They obtained glory and great wealth, yet it turned to their undoing. They had, as it seemed, unending life, yet life became unendurable to them . . . And one by one, sooner or later, according to their native strength and to the good or evil of their wills in the beginning, they fell under the thraldom of the ring that they bore and under the domination of the One, "

~ The Silmarillion

Chapter 4: The Nine

The man tilted one manicured, bejeweled hand. "Sit, please," he said, indicating the silk-covered chair opposite his own. "I think no lord of Númenor has been graced by so fair a guest."

"Most kind," the other answered, and did not dispute the point. He sat, his golden robes flowing around him, and the garish opulence of the room withered in the penumbra of his might. The man was awed by it, and not a little afraid. With a sniff to cover his unease, the lord snapped his fingers, and a cowering, thin worm of a boy leapt forward, all knees and feet and awkwardness. Wine splashed on his master's robes as he poured the drink with shaking hands, and he flinched away from a backhanded cuff, the edges of a diamond ring bloodying his face. Trembling, he bowed into the shadows.

The man casually caught his goblet and brought it to his lips. "There are rumors about you," he said over the rim after a brief sip.

The other chuckled richly and caught his host in a mock-glower. "Of course there are. And they are all true."

They laughed together. "And what," the man said, swirling his wine, "what may this humble man do for you, Lord Annatar?"

Annatar lifted an eyebrow and smiled faintly. "I have no patience for humble men. Great men, yes, fated men … but humble? A timid virtue for those who have not strength. I would not have come to a humble man."

The man inclined his head, pleased. In his youth, the man had been a minor noble in the house of the king, a cousin whose royal blood boiled at the injustice of his lesser birth. The king had sent him into exile long ago, under the pretense of granting his kinsman a royal fiefdom in Middle Earth. But he had gone willingly, eager to rule. Better still that it was in a land of elves, whom he revered and hated. He had loathed their pure faces, the fine visitors of Tol Eressëa, who were as eternally youthful and joyful is his days as the days of his father, and his father's fathers. Dominion here was sweet revenge.

Once, he himself had been elven-fair, but now was sliding into the abyss of age and opulence. His sight was dimmed, his eyes struggling ever more from within the pouches where they had sunk. His jowl quivered, its form lost in the relentless pull of years. Though his hands were still strong, grasping, his fingers were covered in rings rather than the calluses of sword and bow. 'Twas when he looked into the glass that he most despised the foolish ways of his ancestor, the coward who had given away the gift of immortality for the curse of time.

When he had first come to Middle Earth in the days of his youth, the man had sought Elrond Peredhil, hoping to find the qualities that Elros Tar-Minyatur had so obviously lacked. The half-elf had been difficult to find, but the man had succeeded at last, and had been awed by his first glimpse of the breathing legend, a living reincarnation of the portrait in the hall of the kings that he had so often brooded over. Equally angry and worshipful, he had sought Elrond's counsel, but was quickly disappointed. He had made nothing of his gift. Contemplative and mild, Elrond had spoken of peace and service, and had deftly turned aside the man's questions of immortality and power. Their audience rapidly deteriorated, and the man had turned away, disgusted. But at the end of the conversation, as Elrond had stood and dismissed the man with some meaningless twaddle, his eyes had flashed, deep and angry, and the man knew he seen what he had come to find. Later, he had railed at the injustice of it, the waste, but held dear the knowledge that those of the line of Eärendil could burn with the might of their birthright, had they the wit to embrace it.

Now across from him was one, at last, with such fire. Annatar smiled briefly, dangerously, and laced his fingers in front of his face. He studied the other for a moment, his eyes thoughtful and calculating. The man lifted his chin and returned the gaze. "No. There is not humility in you," Annatar said at last, and with a casual shrug placed a small, cunningly carved box upon the table between them. "A token, then, from a neighbor and admirer, if you have the strength to take it."

The man sat upright in his chair and licked his lips. "What is it?" he asked, and carefully set down his glass so that it did not fall from his trembling fingers, which betrayed him more often in these years.

Annatar leaned back in his chair and stroked the rim of his goblet, commanding silver cries from the fine crystal. "Power," he said, and leaned suddenly forward to slide the box forward, his long finger adorned only by a simple band. The man felt the word twine sinuously through his mind. "Dominion," the voice continued, lustful, rapturous. "Control. Immortality. Open it."

The man shifted in his chair, seared with the desire of it. He rolled the box's latch between his fingers and it opened to him. From within spilled a single ring, and it glittered, even in the subtle light of the room, its gem catching and outshining all the trappings of wealth and power that surrounded it. He saw his own reflection in the band, drawn thin and tall in the eternal round.

"What price do you demand for so great a gift?" the man whispered, closing his hand around it, and gasped raggedly as it touched his skin.

Sauron smiled. "I seek your assistance on a small matter."

"Say on," the man said recklessly, and threw back his wine with his free hand.

"I shall be lord of this world," Sauron said.

The man choked. "That is … most blunt."

Sauron waved in dismissive irritation. "You do not have the time for charmed words, aged one, and I do not have the patience."

"Forgive me, lord," the man said, and he knew he smelled of sweat and fear. "I am merely trying to understand. The world … all the world?"

Sauron stood with a snort. "I see I have misjudged you. Farewell. Die quickly," he said, and moved to take the ring.

"Nay," the man beseeched, and clutched the ring to his breast. "Valinor as well?"

Sauron sat again with a dangerous smile. "That is better. Yes, Valinor as well."

"Mmm," the man said, feigning deep thought. "What of the Valar?"

Sauron threw back his head and laughed loud and long. "You still fear them?" he asked when he had mastered himself. "The pretenders who shroud themselves in mystery and hide in the mountaintops? They, who demand undeserved worship from their less-favored children? They have no care for you; you should have none for them."

The man nodded slowly. "And Ilúvatar?"

The golden lord rolled his eyes in pitiable disdain. "An old myth, a dead idol. Do you have any more callow questions?" Their careful flirtation had disappeared in the face of Sauron's irritation, and the man frowned, insulted. He would have stood in a rage and cast the shoddy bauble at the feet of this contemptuous scoundrel … but it would not hurt to forbear …

Sauron walked out of the audience, the clear air brushing away the fumes of incense and opium that the fat fool used to ease his aches. A slave to the needs of his addictions, this one would break quickly, unraveling from his body while retaining all the agonies of its cravings. Exquisite. He lifted his face and sneered at the stars while Eärendil passed angrily overhead, powerless, chained by the indifference of his keepers. It was all intensely amusing.

"Boy," he said, gesturing to the shadow lurking at the corner of the building, sullen. Frightened. Enthralled. "Do you hate him?" he asked, reaching out with a casual finger to etch a line in the thick blood upon the fair youth's cheek before tenderly brushing a lock of unruly dark hair from his eyes.

The boy lifted his smoldering glare, dark with the roiling passion and turmoil of youth.

"Good," the dark lord continued languidly, holding the gaze. "Yes, lovely," he said softly, tracing the boy's jaw before pressing a small band into his palm. "Now, come with me."

The boy followed.

"I did not expect to find you standing on the shore," Calandil said, coming to stand shoulder to shoulder with his old friend.

"The day reminds me of another I once saw," Celeborn answered after a moment, reluctant, his gaze long. "As drab, as cold. One of my earliest memories; I could not have had more than a double handful of years. I remember standing on the shore, ankle deep in the ocean, and it was a day like this, with the mist, and the oppressive gray, and my grandfather was holding my hand. Tightly, desperately, as if he feared the sea might sweep me away. I looked up at him, I remember. He seemed as tall as a tree. Do you know, Calandil, I don't know how tall he was? I do not know if I would look him in the eye, or tower above him, or if I would still need to look up to see his face. He was gone before …"

Celeborn shook his head.

"I looked up at him, and he was utterly silent, but there were tears streaming down his face." Celeborn lifted his hand and absently rubbed his jaw. "They were coursing off of his chin, off of his cheeks, and falling into the sea."

"The final sundering of the Teleri?" Calandil asked quietly.

"It must have been," Celeborn answered, and turned to face his friend. "And the sea always renews the grief."

"It is good, then, that we will not be staying in Edhellond," Calandil answered. "The southern peninsula has enough of the sea to calm Galadriel's heart, and enough of the forest to calm yours."

"You have never asked me 'why Belfalas?'" Celeborn said suddenly. "You have never asked me why I would move my family, my people to this damp edge of oblivion."

"I do not need to ask," Calandil said. "Particularly because I know that the answer is not entirely clear even to you. Galadriel wills it, and you trust, and that is enough for me, as ever it has been. Now come, ancient one," Calandil teased gently. "There will be time enough to contemplate the sea. We ride for Imladris."

It was good to be back in the generous woods of Rivendell, Celeborn thought later, even if the return was temporary. His first introduction to these fierce, merry trees had been in an hour of great need as they harbored his ragged people, the exhausted and grieved refugees of Eregion.

He recalled, through distant, red-tinged memory, that they had straightened his back and strengthened his wavering soul, even as his body had strained on the foggy edge of collapse. Through the long siege those young, pure trees had been their staunchest allies, and they had quickly learned to fight evil with the malicious mischief of their Elders. The trees had suffered in those days, as had they all, but had exchanged innocence for wisdom and healed into a sly, hale weald.

He would miss them. He had spent these last weeks on the shore, preparing to relocate his household, though after a few dark days surrounded by the brooding omnipresence of the surf, had been ready to ride back to Imladris and inform Galadriel that if she wished to live near the sea, she could so without him. Fortunately, he had found a worthy compromise: a spur of land jutting into the Bay of Belfalas just down from the elf-haven of Edhellond, and thus very nearly surrounded by the sea that Galadriel so longed to hear, but also inhabited by an ancient forest that immediately soothed Celeborn's riled soul. The forest by the sea was not as buoyantly loquacious as the trees in the mountains at Imladris, but it reminded him poignantly of the earnest, mist-wrapped groves of his childhood.

While smaller and lesser known than Círdan's havens at Mithlond to the north, the havens of Edhellond was far older. Elves had first come to the bay in the now-distant First Age -- sailors fleeing the destruction of Falas so long ago. As the First Age crumbled into the Second, a remnant of the people of Doriath had immigrated to the southern haven to escape the Noldor influence, and for the last two millennia, the population had been bolstered by adventurous Silvan seeking the sea.

Celeborn had been gladly welcomed by the elves of Edhellond, many his distant kin or acquaintances of old, and their joy when he told them he hoped to move his family nearby had been embarrassingly overwhelming. Several had been prepared to declare Celeborn and Galadriel the de facto Lord and Lady of Belfalas then and there. He had demurred, but some would not be dissuaded. Even those of Doriath who had distrusted Galadriel long ago were willing to overlook the unfortunate nature of her Noldor heritage. Besides, they were quick to point out, she was half Teleri, was she not? and so kin. Any treachery in her blood could be overlooked in light of her valiance in Middle Earth. It had been amusing to hear them accept her now as they had not before -- and sad, for he had hoped the old prejudices had drowned with their lost land.

With the preliminary matters arranged, Celeborn now rode back to Imladris, where he had dwelt since Eregion's fall, and where Galadriel and Celebrían had joined him for these many centuries. It was time to move on, time for Elrond to lead without feeling that he owed them the courtesy of consultation on all matters of state. That Galadriel wished to dwell near the sea did not surprise him; that she wished to move to sparsely populated Belfalas instead of Mithlond had. But she had been adamant, and he was willing to be swayed.

"My Lord," a voice intruded on his musing. "There is a contingent of men about to intersect our path. Do you wish us to remain unseen?"

Celeborn frowned, dismissing his brief annoyance in favor of more pressing concerns. "What type of men?"

"Númenoreans by their look and speech."

The lord laughed softly. "If you were near enough to hear their speech, you were near enough to hear what they said. Tell me."

The scout smirked. "They seek Imladris. But they seem to be … lost."

"Permit them to see you and several others of the patrol. The rest of us will remain unseen, but strategically present." Celeborn leveled a severe gaze at the other. "I wish to know more. Be unthreatening, Calandil."

"As you say," he answered, though his voice was light with mischief, then gestured to three elves to join him and turned purposefully toward the company of men, lifting his voice in a bawdy song that lilted playfully in the ancient Doriathian dialect in which it had first been sung. Celeborn was no longer certain, but he was fairly confident that he had himself written it to entertain his weary troop on some dreary march before the time of the sun.

Celeborn shook his head in longsuffering and faded into the trees.

It did not take long for the wandering mortals to stumble into the clearing, for their sojourn in the wilderness had been frustrating search for the elves rumored to live in the mountains. They fell in around Calandil, their expressions nearly reverent, though a hint of envy and fear lurked in their eyes. The song ended and Calandil turned placidly toward the men, his smile the only acknowledgement he gave them.

At last, one of the men cleared his throat. "Hail and well met, Master Elf," he said, his Sindarian shifting softly on Andunic tonalities.

"Hail and well met, Galador, man of Numenor, captain of the guard" Calandil answered promptly.

"How did you …?" the man started, for Galador he was, but Calandil lifted his hands, a beatific and mysterious legend from nearly-forgotten tales.

"You are in the woods of Imladris," he answered, "where many things are known."

"Imladris …" the man breathed. "We are near it, then?"

"Near enough."

"We have sought it long, and were nearly despaired of finding it. Will you guide us there?" Galador replied.

"Yea. Or nay. Why do you seek it?"

"Do you not see our purpose?" the man asked, regaining his bearings. "I thought that this was wood of Imladris, in which many things are known."

Calandil revised his opinion of the man. He was no simpleton, no brute who had forgotten that he was a child of the One, but a proud youngling aware of his own worth. Calandil met the arrogant gaze with the full measure of age and wisdom in his own. "Perhaps I do know, and question to hear if truth falls from your lips," he answered levelly.

Galador could not long withstand him, and chastened, dropped his eyes and his pride. The man studied the palms of his hands, then lifted his head, his face weary. "We are told that great wisdom dwells in Imladris. Great age, and eyes that have seen most of the years of this world. We seek counsel, master elf, though it is hard thing to ask."

"'Tis true, what you have been told," Calandil said. "In fair Imladris there is great wisdom, and great patience, for the Wise suffer vain seekers and fools with kindness. I am less wise, less patient, less kind than they. I am not convinced of the urgency of your cause nor of the need to bring you on straight paths when you may learn more in seeking wisdom by longer roads."

The man smiled bitterly. "Would that we men had such time. And even the time we have been given in the circles of this world is wrenched from us, for in recent months our settlements and cities have been beset by an evil we have not seen and a terror we can scarily fight. Like unto men," he said, his voice low and horrified. "Yet a twisted mimicry of our own natures."

Calandil did not permit the man to see his sudden concern. "Surely you do not bring us tales of orc?" he said, light and mocking.

"No!" the man replied vehemently. "Orc are dangerous and frightening, with power from their arms and numbers. And pitiable. But these of which I speak of are no orcs! Their strength is strange and familiar, their terror complete."

"Enough, Calandil," a voice spoke from the trees, and the men startled as a hidden troop of elves stepped into the clearing, utterly surrounding their small band. Galador fingered the hilt of his sword, his palms damp with sudden fear. "Peace," the voice spoke again, and a figured stepped forward, seeming to materialize from the empty space before the man's very eyes. He gave a dismissive gesture and most of his compatriots bowed and disappeared again. "I am Celeborn," he said mildly, and waved for them to sit. The elf reclined gracefully at the base of the tree, enthroned by the grove.

The man struggled to calm his wild heart and knew he could do nothing about his agape expression. He breathed deeply. "Your name is known to us, Lord. You are one we hoped to find."

"You have found me," the other rumbled, and Galador looked up sharply. Surely that was not humor in his voice? The elf's face was placid and his eyes unreadable, but there was a faint deepening in his expression as he spoke on. "Your words concern me. We will guide you to Imladris, for there are others there who may be able to counsel you better. But first tell me of your enemy, that we may all begin to think on the question you have brought."

The man shook off his wonder and puzzlement. "It began some months ago," he said crisply, for here was one, he knew, with whom he would never find equality, but from whom he could hope to earn respect. "A feeling that our cities were being watched, our people hunted. There were terrible cries in the night, and strange tales of an encompassing fear. I am uncertain when we first saw our enemy, but the description is certain. They are tall, with the form of men, shrouded in black. Their faces we do not see. They are as … " he grasped at the air, struggling mightily to explain the black fear. "They are not so much living beings as they are as shadows given form, horror birthed into substance. Our darkest nightmares standing before us in waking terror." The man shrugged helplessly, aware that his words seemed overwrought hyperbole. Yet 'twas truth.

Celeborn frowned and brought steepled fingers to his lips. "Strange…" he whispered, then focused his gaze on the man. "You have seen them," he said. It was not a question.

The man bowed his head in shame. "Is my fear writ so clearly?" he murmured.

"I know what it is to fear," Celeborn said quietly, his voice pitched for the captain's ears alone. "I know what it is to agonize for your people, to mourn the graves of children. The burden is what is written in your eyes." He raised his voice. "They are accompanied by a cloud of horror, you say? And so they are not merely wild and strange creatures. Not dwarves, not waking trees, not small folk, not beast of the forest?"

"No, lord," the man said, regaining his composure in the familiar cadence of a scout's report. "Many a marvel dwells in this remarkable land. Some are dangerous, I know, but not actively malevolent. Our enemy is such."

"Orcs, trolls, goblins, wargs?" Celeborn asked, anticipating the answer.

Galador shook his head.

"Not a dragon?"

"I …" the man hesitated. "I have not seen a dragon. I did not know they existed beyond tales to frighten children. But no. These have the form of men."

Celeborn grimaced. "A balrog, perhaps?"

"A what?"

"A servant of Morgoth from the deep years. Shadow and flame," Celeborn replied.

"Shadow certainly. Flame, no … unless you are being metaphorical?"

"No, I speak it quite literally. You would know it, if that is what you saw." Celeborn shared a bemused look with his lieutenant and settled his chin into his hand, his eyes distant. "What numbers do you face?" he asked slowly. "One? Two? A legion?"

"Nine, lord."

The elf lord, who had previously been a study in meditative repose, surged suddenly to his feet. Startled, Galador threw himself backward, flopping gracelessly as his palms hit the ground behind him.

"Nine?" Celeborn asked, and the men paled at the sound of dread echoing in an immortal voice. He looked down on Galador, the very weight of his ancient gaze pinning the man to the earth. "Are you certain?"

"Reasonably so," he croaked, his voice catching in his dry throat. "The timing of the attacks and reports of eyewitnesses all indicate nine. And never more than nine have been seen at once, though a full gathering seems rare. Lord, do you know our enemy?"

Celeborn sat down again, a weary weight evident in the lines of his shoulders. "Perhaps, though it would be best to consult with Galadriel and Elrond in Imladris. But if my guess is correct, this is a new evil, one that we have never fought nor faced, though our errors may have had a part in their making. You bring me fearful tidings, man of Númenor, which confirm a dread long held and the prospect of agony in later days I do not wish to face. And a warning, though I am certain we shall not heed it." Celeborn sighed, and for one mad moment, Galador did not envy him his immortality. Far better, perhaps, to fight to the end of one's strength and then fly beyond the world, than forever trudge its churning circles

continuing …

A/N: My deep apologies for the length of time between chapters. Just as the chapter was starting to come along well, I fell off a cliff. And not a metaphorical one. It took fourteen screws to put my foot back together, and between the pain and the drugs, the muses were utterly silent. Things are better now; many thanks for the well wishes of so many of you. I'm quite hopeful that the next chapter won't be interrupted by broken bones.