Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

Mine	By : IdrilsSecret Category: +Third Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 3171 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or places of Lord of the Rings/Tolkien. No money is being made. This is for personal enjoyment only.

Chapter List
- 9
- 10
- 11
Chapter 10 – Lair of the Witch-king

Upon entering the fortress, Erestor was transported to his vision. He’d been here before, done exactly what he was doing now, and seen what his eyes were seeing before him. The smell of mold and rotted sewage was the same. He took care not to touch any of the walls, remembering the feel of cold slime. He must concentrate though. When he was brought here through his vision, he was pulled along, not needing to remember directions. Now, if he wanted to get himself and Glorfindel out quickly, he had to pay close attention to the halls.
Erestor looked for anything that might be easily remembered, a particular lamp, an odd shaped doorway. Even some of the stones that made up the walls took on some familiarity. And then he reached a hidden alcove. He couldn’t remember this from his dream for it had not been there. Something pulled at him, wanting him to pull back the leathery curtain that hid its secrecy. It was not important, he told himself. It hadn’t been a part of his vision. Neither had dozens of other doors and halls, but none of those called to him as this place did. Erestor’s fingertips brushed along the texture of the curtain. It felt smooth and fairly thin. Lines ran here and there, sometimes connecting, sometimes branching off in different directions. Why did it seem so familiar? He touched one of the lines and found that it was raised, as though embroidered, but there were no stitches. It was just as smooth as the rest of the fabric. Something hard beneath the material then, sewn between the layers? What an odd thing, he thought until his mind made the connection with the feel. He jerked his hand away quickly when he realized what the curtain was, leathery … yes, but not from a cow’s hide, not fabric, not embroidery, but cured flesh and veins. This was part of a wing from a beast like the one in his vision, like the one the Witch-king rode upon. Had he found the lair of the Nazgûl himself or did this lead to some secret torture chamber. Some unseen force still pulled him to enter, to draw back the winged curtain and find out what was hidden in the darkest parts of Dol Guldur, but he fought it with every inch of will power he had.
“No,” he whispered in defiance, “No.” He took a step backwards, finding his feet unwilling to move, as though they were permanently affixed to the stone floor. His boots slide along the uneven surface, feeling like they were made of lead. Erestor began to panic, his breath rapid, but his attention stayed focused upon the alcove. Finally, movement returned to normal, and he took the opportunity to turn and run until he knew he was far away from this spot. But as he turned and took his first step, something caught him by the arms, holding him in a vice-like grip. His hand felt for the hilt of his sword that hung at his side, but before he could draw his weapon, his captor spoke.
“Erestor, what—” Glorfindel started, but he was silenced by Erestor’s hand.
“Quiet you fool!” he demanded. “Get away from here.”
“Why, what have you found?” Glorfindel asked as he peered over Erestor’s shoulder.
He didn’t what to tell him what he felt. Glorfindel would not resist the urge to find out what was behind the curtain, “It’s not the way. This place was not in my dream, but I know where to go from here. It’s not far.”
“So you knew I was here?” Glorfindel asked as Erestor led the way down the hall.
“Yes, and I knew you’d ignore orders and come on your own. You used me, Fin. You found out all I knew about this place from my dreams, then you sent your scouts with a mental map of my visions. And now, when I told you not to go from my sight, I find you here in the very place that I said could be your deathtrap,” Erestor scolded.
“I admit to my deceit,” Glorfindel said sincerely, “But at the same time, I’ll admit that I’m glad you were angry enough to come after me. You were right about this place; it is tricky. I was lost when I heard a scuffling noise coming from this hallway, and here you are.”
Erestor thought he heard a bit of fear in the elf lord’s tone, something he’d never heard before, “That’s what this place does. It confuses the mind. I don’t blame you for feeling a bit anxious.”
Glorfindel dared to smile, if only slightly, “It’s not this place, meldanya, but the wrath of the March warden, Haldir, once he knows I ignored his orders.”
Of course, Erestor thought, always finding humor in a situation, but this was no laughing matter, “We must leave. It is too dangerous. More enemy troops are coming. Even if we could rescue the prisoners, we’ll have nowhere to take them with a battle going on outside, and we cannot stay within the fortress. We’ll be found for sure.”
Glorfindel, with his mind for war, disagreed, “This is the perfect time. All the attention will be on the battle, not inside the fortress. You said there was a back way out of here. We’ll slip out that way, and no one will be the wiser.”
It seemed like a foolish plan, but Erestor knew Glorfindel would follow it out with or without his help. Better with it, though, since he knew the way out. He would not argue at this point for it would be folly. Once Glorfindel set his mind to something, there was no stopping him. Erestor sighed in resignation, “Fine, this way then.”
Left, right, left twice, right, left again, down a set of stairs, and there it was looming in the distance … the wooden door. As they approached, Erestor’s heart beat so fast, he thought it would fail him at any moment. There had been no sight or sound of anyone else in the castle, and that gave the elves an uneasy feeling. It was because of the battle, they told themselves. The muffled sound of war was evident as they made their way through the fortress.
They were approaching the door when Erestor stopped. Glorfindel looked back at him and waited. Finally, Erestor spoke, “I hadn’t told you about this. I didn’t find it important at the time, but in my dream, the door was alive, cloaked in flesh, living and breathing, crying in pain, groaning with pleasure. I think it is a sign of what we will find behind it.”
Glorfindel was silent a moment, then came to stand at Erestor’s side, “You should know what it is we might find.”
“I already know, tortured elves, horridly tortured souls,” Erestor responded.
“Have you ever witnessed the affliction bestowed upon an elf held too long in captivity?” Glorfindel asked.
“No, but I have read firsthand accounts in the library and—”
“No matter what you have read, words cannot prepare you for what you might be about to see,” Glorfindel interrupted. “They are changed from the inside out. When the soul begins to die, but the body is kept alive, they morph into hideous creatures. There is no saving those affected beyond reversal.”
Erestor knew what that meant, and he instantly thought of the story Glorfindel told him about his friend, Taryon from Gondolin, the one who was beyond saving after repeatedly being raped and having pieces of his flesh stripped away and devoured while he yet lived. His soul was already dying when Glorfindel and Astarion found him draped over a cart. It was Astarion who ended their friend’s suffering, saving Glorfindel from the agony of looking into those tormented eyes, and mercifully killing a close friend.
“Let’s hope they have been recently captured,” Erestor said quietly.
Glorfindel reached out and barely touched the door. Erestor felt his insides coil, remembering warmth of flesh. Fin looked over his shoulder, “It’s only wood.” He pushed the door slowly, finding it unlocked, and it swung quietly on its hinges.
Inside, they found cells lined against one wall. A few had elves locked inside, but most were empty. The prisoners saw Glorfindel and ran to the iron bars of their cages. It was a good sign. They were not so tortured that they were incomprehensible. They hadn’t been here long, but long enough to see the fear in their eyes. Erestor went to them while Glorfindel searched for a key or something to use to break the locks.
“What is your name?” Erestor asked one elf. He seemed the most aware, though his face was pale and cheeks sunken.
“I am Raegnir, and these others were in my company. We were traveling past the Rhovanion, and though we knew not to enter the dark woods, were ambushed. Most of my men perished in the fight, but those of us who survived were taken captive.”
“How long have you been here, Raegnir?” Erestor asked. As he listened to the man’s story, he looked into the other cells. They all seemed to be in a similar condition.
“It’s difficult to say, three maybe four months,” the elf answered. “Are you going to get us out of here?”
Glorfindel was at Erestor’s side with a key, “If this is the right one, then you’ll be out in a moment, but we must hurry. Are any of your men injured?”
“I think we can walk. Our injuries are not physical,” Raegnir said, “The nightmares, do you think they will go away once we leave?”
Erestor could only imagine what they had been subject to, but he was glad they weren’t too shaken, “I’m afraid I cannot answer that. There is no telling what kind of dark magic was used upon you and your men, but it’s possible you were being used for information since your injuries are limited.”
Glorfindel tried the key and it worked. He released the prisoners, seven in all, and started to lead them from the room, when Raegnir stopped him, “There are others, somewhere in the fortress, but I do not know where. We hear them sometimes, but whoever they are, they have been here far longer than us. They wail and moan,” Raegnir shook his head as if he could hear them now, “It is not the sounds of the injured or dying. It is the cries of the hopeless. Whatever has happened to them, they are not who they once were.”
A shiver ran down Erestor’s spine. Were these the elves that were kept alive for the breeding of the orc army, or were they alive for other reasons? While he pondered, he looked over to find Fin speaking with Raegnir. He could just hear Glorfindel giving him directions. “What are you doing? We can’t send them alone. We must go with them to make sure they get out safely.”
“If there are others here, I will not leave them,” Glorfindel said, “Raegnir and his men will find their way. I have told them what to look for and where to go once they leave.”
Erestor was surprised that Glorfindel did not recruit him to lead this debilitated group of survivors to safety, but he wasn’t going to mention it. He wouldn’t have gone anyways, and now was not the time for an argument. Instead, Erestor retrieved a small knife that he kept hidden in his boot, and gave it to Raegnir. Glorfindel took his extra knife and a dagger from his belt, and handed it to two other elves. Then he put a comforting hand on Raegnir’s shoulder, “It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.”
As soon as the rescued elves were gone, Glorfindel turned to Erestor, “The doorway where I found you earlier, I think it might lead somewhere, perhaps to the place where the rest of the prisoners are being held. I … felt something, as though I was meant to go that way.”
“I felt it too,” Erestor said somberly, “But I was not fool enough to act on the insistency.” Something felt very wrong about the whole thing, and he did not hesitate to tell Glorfindel what was on his mind, “This could be it, the trap from my dreams, to lure you away into the mouth of the castle where the Witch-king will clamp his jaw onto you and never let you go. Do my warnings for you safety mean nothing to you?”
“That is a chance I will have to take,” Glorfindel countered, “I will leave none behind, even if it means putting an end to someone’s misery. The Nazgûl shall not inflict any more pain on any elf, no matter what.”
“You are the most unreasonable, resolute … difficult elf I have ever known,” Erestor shot back. “And if you said you were walking into the fiery chambers of Sammath Naur, I would follow you without hesitating.”
Glorfindel smiled and his eyes shone with amusement, “I know and I am glad you are with me.”
“And you know you had no choice in the matter,” Erestor added.
“I’ll let you believe that, meldanya,” Glorfindel replied, “Now let’s be going while we still have a chance.”
They reached the secret doorway quickly and drew their swords. Glorfindel used his to cut down the fleshy curtain. Neither elf wanted to know the feel of the beast’s wing again. The alcove turned out to be a dark tunnel. Erestor had grabbed a torch before going inside, so that they would have something to light the way into what felt like the bowels of Dol Guldur. The stench of filth and rot was almost too much. Erestor held his arm over his mouth and nose, hoping that he would eventually adjust to the smell or that it would become less pungent as they went deeper.
“It feels as though we are on a decline,” Erestor mentioned as he followed Glorfindel.
“I believe we are going underground. Dol Guldur is much larger than I had imagined. There was no mention of any chambers below the bottom floor,” Glorfindel said, remembering what he’d seen on the maps.
“Those were elvish drawings, from the Silvans who occupied this place before it was besieged. These dungeons were probably added after Sauron took ownership.”
“You are probably right,” Glorfindel nodded, “You know much more about these things than I do.”
“It is just a guess. We have no knowledge of what Sauron does until it’s too late.”
“The same could be said about elves. The eye of the dark lord only sees so far.”
Erestor wished that were true, “But that is what his spies are for. The rancid beasts of the forest, the orcs, the Nazgûl … they are all his eyes and ears.”
“That may be true, but you, Librarian, hold a great wealth of knowledge. I have lived in both Valinor and Middle-earth, yet you have told me about things that I had never known. Your natural modesty keeps you from seeing your full potential. It is as though you are a living book of history.”
Erestor huffed, “And that is my great power?” It didn’t seem like such a great thing though. “Too many hours spent reading and researching, that’s what it has been.” He was about to go on when Glorfindel held up his hand, stopping them from going any further. Erestor stopped and waited in silence.
“There is a breeze,” Glorfindel finally said, “Coming from this direction.” They had stopped at a fork in the tunnels. Either way was more darkness, more stench, but Fin had pointed to the right.
Erestor felt the slight movement of air flowing from that direction. He nodded with agreement, “That way then.”
The ground had evened out a ways back. They were no longer going down, but staying on a steady level path. “I do not think we are too far below. Maybe there is another way out,” Erestor said.
“Let us hope so. I don’t like the thought of going back through the tunnels,” Glorfindel mentioned.
Finally, they could go no further. A gate stood before them, thick iron bars blocking their path. The room in which it led into was dark. The only light came from the flicker of their torch, but it was enough to see that there were many doors lining the opposite wall.
Erestor looked around at the gate. It was solidly made. There would be no way to get past it … unless—
“Glorfindel, do you still have that key?” he asked, but the clicking of the lock was his answer.
Glorfindel pushed the gate open, and they carefully entered the dark room. The torch showed them that it was round with a domed ceiling, no windows at all, only these solid doors. It seemed that the way they came would be the only way out, unless one of the secret heavy doors led to another tunnel or hallway.
“What do you suppose this place is?” Erestor asked, but he was afraid he already knew the answer.
“There’s only one way to find out,” Glorfindel answered, “We must check in every room.” He looked at Erestor for a long moment, as though he was making up his mind about something. “Keep your sword at the ready.”
Erestor nodded and they walked to the closest door. There were no locks, only an iron rod that slid into a pocket. These doors could not be opened from the inside. Erestor pulled on the rod until the door opened freely. Inside, was complete and utter darkness. Glorfindel took the torch and stuck it through the crack of the door. Something moved in the corner, and the rattling of chains was the only sound they heard. Whatever was in here was shackled.
Glorfindel raised the torch over his head, trying to illuminate more of the small room, and the figure in the corner made a whimpering noise as it shook violently from fear, crouched into a ball. Erestor narrowed his eyes and stared at it. The skin was deathly white. The body was severely emaciated. Long straight hair as white as the skin covered its nakedness. But it was the shock of discovering the pointed ears that stuck out of the thinning hair that pierced a hole in Erestor’s heart. This creature was, or used to be, an elf. He gasped as the realization struck out at him.
“They are all elves,” Glorfindel whispered, “If there are any more to be found.”
“Why? Who would do such a thing?” Erestor asked, his own voice in a whisper.
“To ruin them, steal their souls, use them for whatever purposes Sauron had in mind. It is said that the first orcs were tortured elves. Because we are immortal, there are ways to keep us alive, but drain the essence of what makes us elvish from our very hearts. This poor creature has not transformed into the hideous beasts that we fight. Most orcs are descendants of those first ruined elves, but the practice of transformation has not been abandoned.”
“Can we help him?” Erestor wondered.
Glorfindel did not answer, but he walked further into the room. The prisoner covered his head with his hands, as though trying to hide. Glorfindel handed the torch to Erestor, who lowered it, trying to dull its intensity. Then Glorfindel approached the figure, sword held at the ready. He spoke softly in Quenya, “I am Lord Glorfindel, and we are here to set you free. No more harm will come to you.”
The ruined elf lowered his arms until the white knuckles of his hands dragged on the ground. Then his head turned to the side as he looked at Glorfindel. Erestor moved so that he could see the face, but his blood ran cold when he looked into the empty black holes where the eyes should have been. Even Glorfindel started at the sight, repulsion being a natural reaction to such a thing. But the elf lord collected himself quickly and asked, “We will lead you from this place, if you so choose it. Tell me how I may help ease your suffering.”
The elf opened his mouth to speak, but only a gurgling sound emerged from him. Glorfindel closed his eyes and turned his face away. He opened them, and looked up at Erestor, slowing shaking his head from side to side. Someone had gouged out the eyes and cut off the tongue of this elf, leaving him blind and mute. The next thing that happened made Erestor’s stomach clench tight as he felt bile rise to his throat. The elf felt around with his hand until it came upon the cold steel of Glorfindel’s sword. Then he felt along the length until he found the sharp tip. His hand lifted the end of the sword, and he brought it to his chest, lining it up with his heart. It was obvious that this tortured being wished for death as his means of escape.
Glorfindel sighed and bowed his head, “Is there nothing else I can do for you?”
The elf made a pitiful moan, shook his head and kept the blade’s point directed at his heart. He was begging for a mercy kill. Glorfindel kept his hand on the hilt of his sword, and with the other, he cupped his hand behind the elf’s head, “May your soul find its way to the Halls of Mandos, and might his judgment be fair and swift.” With that, Glorfindel thrust the sword into the elf’s chest, angling it between the ribs where it would impale the heart. Death came silent and swiftly as the tortured elf died before them. Then, Glorfindel lowered the body to the floor and carefully removed his blade. He whispered something that was too low for Erestor to hear, but he thought it to be a prayer of some sort, maybe something said for such a situation.
The sight was too much for Erestor, and he calmly left the room, only to find himself heaving the contents of his stomach on the floor. When he recovered, Glorfindel was standing next to him. His blade was wiped clean, all evidence of the killing left in the cell.
“The first time is the hardest,” Glorfindel commented.
“You’ve done mercy killings before?” Erestor asked, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
Glorfindel nodded, not something he was willing to admit, but this definitely was not his first time. “It never gets any easier.” He went to the next door, but Erestor hung back this time. Glorfindel looked over his shoulder and nodded, “Stay here.”
Erestor would not argue. The sight of the first elf had implanted itself into his mind. He was still trying to comprehend what he had seen, and he was not ready to move on just yet. He watched as Glorfindel entered the next cell, closing the door part way. Erestor could hear him ask the same question, then the sound of his sword leaving its sheath, a muffled cry and then silence. He did this for the next two cells, leaving each one alone with no survivor following him out. When he came out of the fourth cell, he just stood there, unmoving, looking at the ground at his feet. Erestor felt like he should do something to ease this burden that Glorfindel bravely accepted as his own to spare the counselor of the nightmares this would surely leave behind.
“Are they … all the same?” he asked, “Eyes and … tongue?” Glorfindel nodded but remained silent. Perhaps he couldn’t stand to hear the sound of his own voice right now. Erestor thought that he wouldn’t want to either.
After a moment, Glorfindel reached for the bar of the fifth and final door. Erestor could feel his hesitancy and knew it was wrong to let him continue without reprieve, but could Erestor do this. Could he execute another elf, even if it was out of mercy to end their suffering? He had killed before, of course, but never one of his own kin. Still, he must remind himself that these beings were not who they once were. They were ruined, tortured beyond repair. They longed for the solitude of death, welcomed the silence it would bring them. Anything would be better than the place in which they now dwelt, physically or mentally.
“I’ll take this one,” Erestor’s voice came out in a croak.
“No, I can’t let you—”
“You cannot do this all on your own, and I know this is what they want,” Erestor said as he approached Glorfindel and laid a hand on his shoulder, “I can do this … for their sake. You were right, they should suffer no more.”
Erestor hadn’t remembered ever seeing Glorfindel look so defeated. The elf lord was a constant symbol of strength and perseverance, but now, in this moment, he was as vulnerable as Erestor had ever seen. If there weren’t others to attend to, the counselor would have cradled Fin in his arms like a child needing comfort from the harsh reality that surrounded them. And neither did Glorfindel put up a fight. Instead, he sunk to his knees, laid his head upon Erestor’s thigh, and began to weep for those whose lives he had just extinguished. Erestor’s hand fell upon the gilded head as he looked down at his love. Then he closed his eyes and prayed silently, “Should there be just one who will walk out of this place with us, let him be behind this next door.” He leaned down and kissed the top of Glorfindel’s head. Then he walked to the last door. His hand grasped the bar and began to slide it.
“Erestor,” Glorfindel called, “Remember to go between the ribs and angle upwards with a hard thrust.” These were the only words of wisdom or comfort he could think of at the moment.
Whatever bile was left in Erestor’s stomach started to rise again, but he swallowed hard, nodded and opened the door. The smell that flowed out was indescribable, not just the mixture of sweat and filth, but something else that Erestor could not explain. He remembered caring for a sick and dying man once, many years ago. Just before death took him, his body had a similar aura, as though the flesh were already dying, but not like that of decay. It was perhaps the scent of disease, how the human body could destroy itself from the inside out, fruity and sweet, yet sour … an awful smell that Erestor would never forget. That was what he smelled now, very strong and it made his flesh crawl. What or who was in here?
Erestor stepped into the cell, the torch in one hand and his sword in the other. He allowed he eyes to adjust to the darkness, the torch casting shadows as they flickered about on the walls.
This time it was different. There was a figure sitting in a chair. His head was bowed so that his chin rested upon his chest. Long dark hair spilled forward, thin and unkempt. Most of it seemed to have fallen out. His skin looked very pallid, lacking any vitality as though he were a living corpse. He wore only a loincloth, and Erestor could see how frail the elf’s body was. Every rib showed, every bone in his arms and legs. His eyes were sunken in and black around the edges, at least he still had his eyes. His lips were cracked and flaking. He was nothing more than a skeleton covered by a paper-thin layer of flesh, an elf not of the living, but not allowed to die.
Erestor carefully stepped towards him and placed the torch into its holder on the wall. He bent down on one knee and observed the elf, but the body did not move or acknowledge his presence. “Can you speak?” Erestor asked and after a long moment, the head nodded slowly. “My name is Erestor and I’m from Rivendell. I am here to help you.”
“Help? There is no one who can help me now. I am beyond saving,” the elf said. His voice was a choked whisper.
“I am prepared to give you a merciful death if that is what you seek,” Erestor made known.
Strangely, the elf began to laugh and sputter as it turned to a cough, “Death should have been my fate long ago, but here they will not let me die.” He lifted his head and his eyes rolled up to meet his visitor.
Erestor gasped involuntarily when he saw that there was no color in the eyes, nor was there a pupil. They were milky white, empty where there had once been a portal to a soul. What had they done to this poor ellon? “How long have you been here?” Erestor asked.
“Well, I … I don’t know exactly. Sometimes I am still in Gondolin. Then the voices come and remind me that my home fell, but they won’t tell me when.” The elf stopped and watched Erestor. “I don’t remember seeing you before. It’s been a very long time since they sent me a new visitor.”
“I am not here for a visit, as I said earlier. I am here to help you if you so desire,” Erestor reminded the confused elf.
“It is too late for me, but Gondolin … go and fight for my home,” the elf said.
“No, I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood. This is not—” Erestor was interrupted by Glorfindel, who had come into the room.
“Are you from there?” Fin asked.
The imprisoned elf turned his head towards the new voice, “Yes, yes I am. Have you heard any news? They tell me horrible things, but I refuse to believe it. I am a soldier … of the House of the Golden Flower.”
Erestor’s mouth dropped open as he looked back at Glorfindel. He had been the captain of that house. This could very well have been one of his men, but that had been millennia ago. “Glorfindel?” he started, but the elf lord put a finger up to his lips, silencing the counselor.
“Glorfindel,” the elf repeated, hearing the name. He shook his head almost violently, as though he was trying to shake off some unbearable memory. “No … No! He is dead. He is dead!” the crazed elf demanded.
“And why do you think that?” Glorfindel asked.
The elf’s voice was soft and almost inaudible as he answered, “Because if he had survived, he would have come. We had made a pact a long time ago, oh such a long time. I can feel it in my bones, you know. It has been much longer than I know.” His head bowed down against his chest again and he became silent.
Erestor moved next to Glorfindel and whispered in his ear, “He is confused. One moment he thinks war is still being waged in Gondolin, and the next he seems to be in the present.”
Glorfindel ignored Erestor and went to the tortured elf. He knelt down before the poor soul and looked at him long and carefully. Finally, he let out a gasp of surprise, “Blessed Valar!” he said in a desperate whisper. “Tell me soldier, what is your name?”
Without lifting his head he mumbled his answer, “Astarion.”
“But … it cannot be. I saw you sacrifice yourself to the orcs,” Glorfindel said amazed, “You … I thought you had died back there … back in the tunnel.”
Astarion lifted his head, his empty eyes settling on the elf lord, “The passage … Idril’s Secret Way.”
“Yes, yes that was it.”
Two bony hands reached out and lightly touched the bewildered face before him. Astarion’s lip began to tremble as he made the realization, “Then it really is you. Glorfindel?”
“Astarion,” Glorfindel said and he took the elf into his arms, cradling the skeletal figure against his breast as the other cried.
Erestor watched the scene unfold before him, feeling like an intruder, but while he wasn’t part of the reunion, he found himself wondering how this could be. Astarion had lived in Valinor, before the Fall of Gondolin. How could he have survived captivity and torture through all these millennia? Surely he should have faded centuries ago. And how did the enemy happen to transport him to Middle-earth? But what really plagued his mind was what had been done to this poor ellon and how changed had he really become. The latter question was about to be answered.
As Glorfindel held Astarion, he hadn’t seen the change happening to the elf’s countenance. Erestor could see from where he stood. The vacant foggy eyes were now rimmed in red, as though blood filled the outer edges. The trembling lips clamped tight into a thin line, and then a smirk escaped the corner of his mouth. The elf spoke, but his sorrowful voice did not match the malice that fell upon his face.
“All these long centuries, I thought you were dead. You had to be, I told myself, for the mighty Captain of Gondolin would never leave an elf to ruin. And now, here you are, looking so vigorous and solid,” Astarion said.
Erestor kept a sharp eye on the change happening while Glorfindel was oblivious to it. He still held Astarion in his arms while he spoke, “I saw you give your life to the orcs. You dropped your weapon and offered yourself to them. I called to you … told you to run, but you just stood there. And then you were gone, swallowed up by the feral mob.”
“And you thought they killed me? Did you not see what they did to their victims? Do you not remember looking into the horrified eyes of our friend as they raped him? Taryon stared straight into my soul as I ended his suffering, my arrow lodging into his head. I expected you to do the same for me when the time came, but you let them have me. I waited and hoped that you’d come. To die by the hand of the mighty Glorfindel would have been a most honorable death, but you never came. You left me to them, the black masses of orcs.”
“No,” said Glorfindel, defending his action of so long ago. “Even if I could have gotten to you in time—”
“You … did … not … come!” Astarion yelled, carefully pronouncing every word. Then he opened his mouth and let out a primitive shrill.
Erestor watched the mouth spread unusually wide, producing pointed teeth, as the empty eyes glowed blood red in the light of the torch. Then they focused on Glorfindel’s neck where the veins were close to the surface. Erestor, without much time to think, withdrew his sword and shouted, “Glorfindel, get away from him.”
At the same moment, Glorfindel released is hold on Astarion, pushing the seemingly frail body away to get a better look at what was happening, but it was too late. The vicious mouth was about to clamp onto his neck.
Remembering the first imprisoned elf’s reaction to the brightness of the flame, Erestor snatched the torch from the wall as he advanced. He waved the flame and cried out. Astarion released Glorfindel and covered his eyes. Erestor was there faster than one could blink, shoved Glorfindel out of the way, and pinned Astarion to the chair with the point of his sword aimed at the thin white throat. He narrowed his eyes menacingly at the sickly elf, “You will not touch him.”
Astarion hissed and recoiled from the light, which seemed to have a better effect than the sword’s point that was trained on him.
“Erestor, stand down!” Glorfindel demanded.
“He tried to rip out your throat! He is not the same elf you once knew,” Erestor demanded.
The redness in Astarion’s eyes faded back to an empty white. The harsh lines of his face receded and softened. His demeanor changed back to the pitifully helpless elf they had first encountered. Then his hand came up, his finger tapping Erestor’s blade, “Please, give me the mercy of death. I cannot go on like this any longer.”
Erestor stared at Astarion while his breath returned to normal, “You heard him, Glorfindel. He asks for death.” He turned his sword so that the edge of the blade ran parallel to the throat. A quick slash and it would all be over.
“No!” Glorfindel yelled, and he grabbed Erestor from behind, throwing him down. The counselor’s head hit the stone floor and his sword flew from his hand. The room started to spin as his vision went in and out of focus, threatening to lose consciousness.
What was happening? Erestor thought as he lay on the floor. Glorfindel was kneeling in front of Astarion once more, telling him that he would not kill him as he asked. Astarion was arguing with him, demanding that his life end now before the evil could surface again. Erestor tried to tell Glorfindel to listen to Astarion, but he could not form any words.
Suddenly, there was a gust of wind and the room lit up with an unearthly glow. Erestor could not hold consciousness much longer, but long enough to see what illuminated the room. It all happened so fast. The ghostly image of a corpse dressed in the ancient robes of a king floated close to the ceiling. Astarion looked up with his white eyes and shuddered at the sight. At the last, Glorfindel followed his friend’s line of sight and saw the ghost, crown imbedded into his skull, eye sockets empty and black. In his hand, he held a blade. Erestor recognized it right away.
“The Witch-king of Angmar,” he tried to warn, but it came out as a whisper.
Glorfindel had obviously made the connection right away. Erestor watched as the elf lord rose to his feet, sword in hand, and eyed the ghost, “You’ll not bring harm to him or any being ever again.” He stood before the Witch-king without fear, terrifyingly beautiful. “Go back to your master and tell him that Dol Guldur has fallen.”
The Witch-king laughed, the bellowing sound resonating around the cell, around the room outside, shaking the very stones of the fortress. “I was not prepared the first time we met, but that did not matter much. I eventually got what I wanted and Eärnur fell. It is much too easy to bend the will of men. Elves, on the other hand, are much more complicated, but I adore their longevity. Isn’t that right, Astarion?”
The tortured elf quaked with fear, but he answered as he was taught to do, “Yes, my lord, I am here to serve you in whatever way you see fit.”
Glorfindel brought his sword in front of him and glared with an icy stare at the Witch-king, “You’ll not harm him ever again.” Then he swung out at the apparition. The Witch-king disappeared into thin air, and regenerated behind Glorfindel.
“You have no power here within these walls,” the Nazgûl claimed and he blew poisonous fumes towards Glorfindel. The elf lord dropped to the ground, choking and wheezing, but he tried to crawl back to Astarion.
The Witch-king abandoned Glorfindel and turned his attention to Erestor, who was still trying to maintain consciousness. The horror of knowing his vision had come to pass struck at the center of his heart. This was the moment he had feared since the sight of his nightmare. He would overcome Glorfindel and steal him away to use as a weapon against the armies.
“Glorfindel!” Erestor cried, finally finding his voice.
The Witch-king seemed amused, “And you, Librarian, played right into my hands. Do not worry about the ancient one. He will not suffer long. It was never my intention to use him. It was you all along.”
Erestor tried to get up, but the dizziness was too much and his head ached where it hit the floor. “Get away or I’ll cut your throat.”
The Nazgûl laughed again, but he continued to float towards Erestor. “Fool, there is no weapon you possess that can harm me. I am of the Unseen world. Now,” he said as he hovered above Erestor, “are you prepared to join me in this world? You will be very powerful, should you choose to. You see, Librarian, your knowledge, once you become a Nazgûl, will know no end. Just think, everything you have absorbed in the libraries of Imladris, the stories, the war strategies, the myths and the truths, people of the past and prophesies of the world to come … all of that will benefit my master’s cause. He will know all that you know and Middle-earth will be ours. All you have to do is join me in the underworld, and you will be invincible, stronger than anyone the Valar could put forth,” he claimed as he gestured to Glorfindel, who was struggling to breathe where he lay on the floor.
“No!” Erestor demanded, “I will never join you. I will see you vanquished back to the world in which you came.” Somehow, Erestor managed to get to his knees and raise his sword, but the Witch-king countered the attack with his own blade, shattering Aicalango into tiny silver shards. Then the Nazgûl raised his Morgul blade and brought it to Erestor’s chest.
“I have only to stick you with my dagger and you will become like me, willingly or unwillingly,” the Nazgûl leader claimed.
Erestor could feel the point touch his skin, feel the unbearable heat from the poison. Only a tiny slice would be enough, once his blood mixed with the poisoned magic. Suddenly, it all made sense. It had been Erestor that the Nazgûl wanted all along. Glorfindel was merely the decoy, knowing the elf lord would not be able to resist the urge to enter the fortress and free the slaves. And, of course, Erestor would follow him wherever he went, to protect him and keep the dream from becoming a reality. He had failed miserably, fallen straight into the clutches of the wraiths. And now he would become one himself, used for his wealth of knowledge. The secrets of mankind and elvendom alike would be revealed to Sauron and he would use any and all information to rule. “To rule them all,” Erestor whispered.
The apparition smiled fiendishly. “Sleep,” he said slowly, and a white mist emptied from his mouth, falling upon Erestor. Darkness took the counselor, the waking world disappeared, and he lost all sense of existence.
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