°∴,*⋅✲✦ ( ♕ ) ✦✲⋅*,∴°

━━━━»•» act four. age of glory

49. a touch of darkness «•« ━━━━

* ✧                                   .°

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ third age ━━ year 3019

𓇻 rohan; edoras

*.                            ✦                           °.

THIS TIME HER SLEEP WAS WITHOUT DREAMS, ALMOST PEACEFUL. Almost, because beneath her slumber, the pain of the decision awaiting her still lingered. It echoed within her, even when she slept. Or maybe it was Gyda's pain, thinking about that same decision. Elgarain wondered whether she could tell if her feelings were her own, or if they belonged to her friend. Though perhaps they had simply spent so much time together she was perfectly able to sense Gyda's thoughts even if they weren't bound by soul.

Elgarain wasn't sure if all this occurred to her in her sleep, or in that strange mist of being almost awake and not yet quite asleep. It felt as though she had been awake for hours, yet she knew she also slept. She wondered if this was how humans felt when they were injured. Elves did not need sleep the same way they did. Though she'd been feeling exhausted for so long now, she hardly remembered what it felt like to have truly rested.

Yet she knew, without a single sliver of doubt, that she would do it all over again. Saving Gyda the way she had, how could she ever have made any other choice?

You'd save the life of one, instead of the thousand lives within your care? The whisper was cold, yet it burned within her with a flaming intensity.

A shadow eclipsed her heart. Something poisonous was dripping into her soul. A voice not her own was speaking within her mind. It terrified her and yet the words were mesmerising.

When it spoke again, the entire body shivered from the strange sensation of being slowly covered by both shadow and flame. You could rule the world with the might of your jewel, yet you waste its power on the life of one who hardly thinks you're capable.

Elgarain wanted to shout at the voice to be quiet but found she could not speak. She was paralysed within her own mind, aware of the evil surrounding her yet unable to do anything about it. Powerless, as they'd all been as soon as they set out on this quest...

Yes, they are all powerless. Except you, tarinya. You who wield such power. You could be so much more than an Elven Queen. You could save so many more lives with your power.

Perhaps this was the only path left for her to take. She could use Vilya's power for so much more than saving the life of Gyda. She could summon torrents of water, could heal or break souls. She could rule the way she wanted to, lead her people the way she believed to be right.

High Queen of Ñoldor, first and last of your name. Ruler of Lindon and the lands beyond the sea.

The sea...beloved place of her father...No, this was wrong. This was not what she wanted, she had never wanted power, never wanted to rule with a mighty hand. Her hands were the hands of a healer, that was why she wanted to rule. To heal, not conquer. Just like her father had.

The voice hissed, like a snake caught in a trap, upon hearing those thoughts.

With cold dread, she suddenly realised who had intruded her fëa. The very evil she had been fighting from the moment they had stepped foot outside of Rivendell. The very evil her father had died to destroy.

He was laughing, the Dark Lord was laughing, her fear amused him. Indeed, she-elf, your father died that day. What makes you think you can do what he could not?

She refused to play this game of promising whispers and painful taunts; she would not let him destroy her precious memories of adar. Without wasting a single breath, she reached for Vilya's light. That frightful night on the river when the Nazgûl had attacked them resurfaced within her memory. The ring reacted the same as it did then. She let the ring guide her and imagined her soul lighting up like a star, driving away the darkness of the night. The silver light was a comfort on her shivering soul.

Slowly, the shadow faded but it didn't disappear. She could feel it lingering within her mind. Its focus was no longer on her, but on someone else. Someone without the power of an Elven ring to protect them.

She opened her eyes, her heart beating far too fast. She tried taking a steady breath to calm herself, but the feeling of having been touched by pure evil left her shivering from the intense cold.

"Elgarain," a calming voice spoke, a familiar hand touched her face.

Aragorn moved closer towards her on the edge of the bed. It seemed he'd been watching over her after Gyda left. She hadn't even heard him enter the room; she must've been asleep already.

"Breathe," he said, breathing slowly with her, guiding her through the soft rhythm of inhaling and then slowly exhaling. "Slowly."

She did as he told her and slowly but surely her heartbeat calmed down. But her fear did not fade.

"What happened?" Aragorn asked, a worried frown on his face.

Words died on her tongue, how could she explain what she had felt? "I-I," she shook her head, trying to start again. "I don't know how, but he spoke to me." Vilya lit up again, the mention of the Dark Lord was enough for the ring to shine its light of protection. "He's here Aragorn, something has opened a path for his fëa to enter here."

There was no need to say his name, for the alarm within Aragorn's gaze told her he understood who she meant. Then his alarm turned into realisation. "The Palantír," he muttered.

The mesmerised face of Pippin as he took the black stone from the water resurfaced within her memory. "Pippin," she said, eyes wide. Only the Hobbit could have been led by his curiosity to touch the stone again, not knowing what evil might take hold of him if he did.

Aragorn was on his feet within seconds and Elgarain followed him, her strength returned by the burning desire of saving their friend from the dark grasp of Sauron. She was glad for Aragorn's silence. He knew any arguments to try and get her to stay here would be futile.

They moved through the hallway. The shadow still lingering within her soul was pulling at her, telling her without words where to go, drawing her to him. Down the hall, to the left. Aragorn opened the doors, and they entered a sleeping hall. Men were spread on mattresses around the room, half of them still waking up, the other half whispering, wide-eyed staring at the sight before them.

The air felt wrong, heavy, like a smoke clouding the room. And at the very centre, an eye wreathed in flames. She followed the light, her eyes landing on Pippin—no, not Pippin. The light wasn't coming from him, but from the Palantír cradled between his hands. His face was ghost-pale, eyes wide and unblinking, locked on something far beyond this room. The stone pulsed with a sickly radiance, veins of shadow flickering across its surface like cracks in glass.

Sauron's spirit had entered their midst, pierced the Hobbits' mind and now clouded the entire room in his darkness, heavier than stone, colder than death. Her breath caught in her throat and for a terrifying moment, she was unable to move. Steady arms wrapped around her shaking body, and she looked to her right to see Gyda beside her.

"Elgarain, no—you shouldn't be up—"

The words barely registered, with wide eyes she stared at the glowing ball of fire clutched within Pippin's hands. "I felt him," she whispered. "Like knives in my chest."

Finally, her gaze was torn away from the eye of darkness when Aragorn rushed forward in a desperate attempt to help the Hobbit. He tore the Palantír from his hands without a care for his own life.

The effect was immediate.

He jerked as though struck by lightning, his spine arching violently as he collapsed to his knees. A cry escaped his lips and Elgarain made to move forward. She would have taken the stone from his hands without thought or care if it wasn't for Gyda pulling Elgarain closer, steadying her.

"Stay here," she breathed into Elgarain's hair, voice trembling. "Please."

It was Legolas who moved to steady Aragorn, catching him before he would fall to the ground. The Palantír rolled free, clattering against the stone. As soon as the stone had left his grip, Aragorn opened his eyes and breathed freely again.

Elgarain sighed with relief, but the Palantír hissed in anger at having lost a host.

The light surged—and then Gandalf was there, awakened by chaos. His robes flew behind him as he lunged forward, tearing a thick blanket from the bed and casting it over the seeing stone.

The light died.

Darkness fell, and for one brief, blessed second, silence returned.

A breath of fresh air filled her lungs, and the dark was no longer scary but a welcoming blanket of comfort. She could feel Gyda's fingers trembling where they clung to her wrist and she placed her hand on hers. The shadow of Mordor had a place in Gyda's mind for a long time and feeling it again so expectantly must have brought back many unpleasant memories.

"Fool of a Took," Gandalf started as he turned, robes bristling, his expression thunderous. But when his eyes fell on Pippin, his anger melted like snow beneath the sun.

Elgarain followed his line of sight and gasped when she saw the hobbit. He lay motionless on the ground, wide, glassy eyes staring unblinking at the ceiling.

"Please no," Elgarain muttered.

Gandalf ran to the small hobbit, pushing a worried Merry aside as he leaned over him. He was clutching his hand while moving his other hand over his face while whispering healing words in an ancient tongue. A breeze like a soft spring wind moved through the room and when it died down, Pippin broke free of his trance-like state.

He gasped—once, twice—his body convulsing, and then his back arched with a strangled cry. Sweat beaded along his brow. Finally, his eyes rolled toward Gandalf, the white bloodshot and wild.

The darkness clung to the stone walls like oil, thick and pressing, moving where it should not move. Elgarain stared at the Hobbit with a trembling heart, hoping against her better knowledge that Sauron had not damaged him in any way. That he had not been forced to endure what she had when the Dark Lord breached the sanctuary of her spirit. Pippin trembled on the floor, his small frame convulsing as if the very shadow they all feared had taken root in his bones. The healer inside of her wished to examine him but knew full well that Gandalf had the situation in hand. Besides, there was no cure against having been seen by the fallen Maia.

"G-Gandalf..." Pippin gasped, eyes glassy with terror, tears tracing clean paths down his cheeks. "Forgive me."

She felt her eyes burn with tears. Of all good things in the world, the Hobbits certainly belonged among the very best. But even they were not left untouched by the darkness spreading from Mordor. Seeing her friend so fearful made her heart tremble.

"Look at me," Gandalf said, low but commanding, one hand cupping the hobbit's jaw, angling his face gently. "What did you see?"

Pippin blinked rapidly, lips twitching as he fought to form the words. He opened his mouth once, twice—nothing. Beside her, Gyda took a slow step forward, as if her nearness might lend him strength and Elgarain tightened her grip on her friends' hand.

Then finally he managed to find the words to describe the terror he'd witnessed. "A tree," he whispered, voice threadbare. "A white tree in a courtyard of stone... it was dead."

Her eyes widened, there was only one such a tree she knew of...

"Minas Tirith?" Gandalf softly asked. "Is that what you saw?"

"I saw..." Pippin's face twisted, eyes lined with tears. He was shaking, fear clouding his face. "I saw him." His breathing was uneven and Elgarain felt her heart shatter. "I could hear his voice in my head."

"And what did you tell him?" Gandalf asked, voice growing impatient.

Pippin shook, eyes faraway.

"Speak!"

His eyes came back into focus. "He asked me my name. I didn't answer." He was crying. "He hurt me."

Gandalf's eyes seemed wild, the blue of his iris like a storm, "What did you tell him about Frodo and the Ring?"

THE GOLDEN HALL OF EDORAS SEEMED TO HAVE LOST ITS LUSTER. The darkness of night still remained, clutching their bones as they stood gathered beneath the high wooden beams. Elgarain stood next to Aragorn, his hand clutched tightly in hers. His presence was a steady comfort beside her weary bones. Next to them stood Gyda, like a faithful guard she had her hands resting on the shoulders of the two Hobbits, who stood before her. Pippin still trembled beneath her touch—his small frame tense, as though he were holding himself together by the thinnest of threads. Legolas and Gimli stood to their left, the latter looking worriedly at the Hobbit every now and then, though trying his hardest to hide it.

On the other side of the fire stood Théoden King with his household. The White Wizard had just finished retelling the happenings of that night to the King of Rohan. "There was no lie in Pippin's eyes; a fool, but an honest fool he remains." Gandalf's voice cut cleanly through the stillness, neither sharp nor scolding. His gaze shifted between King Théoden and the trembling hobbit. "He told Sauron nothing of Frodo and the Ring."

From nearby, Elgarain heard Gimli let out a small, audible sigh—less relief than quiet gratitude. Even the uttering of a single word could have ended them all.

"We've been strangely fortunate," Gandalf continued, his white cloak shifting like mist in the morning, "What Pippin saw in the Palantir was a glimpse of our enemy's plan." He approached their fellowship. There was solemnness in his eyes. "Sauron moves to strike the city of Minas Tirith."

She felt Aragorn tense beside her, the mere mention of the city he belonged to being under threat seemed to be the last piece he needed to complete the picture of his destiny.

"His defeat in Helm's Deep showed our enemy one thing. The heir of Elendil has come forth. Men are not as weak as he supposed. There is courage still—strength enough left to challenge him. Sauron fears this. He will not risk the people of Middle Earth uniting under one banner."

Her gaze shifted to the man beside her, who was watching Gandalf with his grey eyes, silent but determined. Something had changed within him since Helm's Deep, maybe even before that. Since the passing of their dear friend...Boromir had brought back the belief that men deserved to be looked at with hope, that they could be better, that they were worthy of being saved, worthy of having someone willing to fight for them.

"He will raise Minas Tirith to the ground before he sees a king return to the throne of men." Gandalf continued, voice bleak, before he turned to the King of Edoras, "If the beacons of Gondor are lit, Rohan must be ready for war."

Tension filled the room, thick and heavy as Theoden looked upon Gandalf, his brow furrowed, and his voice laced with bitterness. "Tell me, why should we ride to the aid of those who've not come to ours?" All eyes turned to Theoden. "What do we owe Gondor?" his voice rang through the hall as he lifted his head.

She felt herself shaking her head slightly. The elves had come to honor the Last Alliance and now Rohan would refuse to return that favor to the men of Gondor? Was this truly what remained of her father's legacy of uniting the people of Middle-Earth? The bitterness and grievances of old men?

"I will go." Aragorn spoke up.

Unwillingly, her hand clutched his even tighter. She knew he would have to go, but she wasn't sure she could let go of him.

"No." Gandalf shook his head.

"They must be warned." Aragorn pressed, and for the first time there was something resembling impatience within his voice.

"They will be," the Wizard assured him as he walked toward Aragorn. He spoke in a hushed voice—so no one but Aragorn and the elves could hear him. "You must come to Minas Tirith by another road. Follow the river, look to the black ships—" He raised his voice once more. "Understand this, things are now in motion that cannot be undone."

Elgarain felt the shift—like the world itself had taken a breath and held it, waiting for the storm to break. The walls of Meduseld seemed to pull inward, the firelight dimmer.

No one could deny the impact of Gandalf's words. Their fellowship would shatter even further. No one knew where Frodo and Sam had gone with the Ring—if they still marched toward Mordor to save all of Middle Earth. There was only hope, hope that perhaps the fight that awaited them would be for something.

"I will ride for Minas Tirith." Gandalf announced, "and I won't be going alone."

All eyes turned to follow him.

Pippin seemed more frightened than before when he realised Gandalf had chosen him. 

°∴,*⋅✲✦ ( ♕ ) ✦✲⋅*,∴°

TRANSLATIONS:

Fëa ― Spirit or soul

Hröa ― Body