Chapter Text
The first thing Erestor registered was warmth. There were arms around him, held tight, and that person was...was...shaking? Why were they shaking? Lúthien had not –
Wait.
Erestor tried to open his eyes but they did not cooperate. His hands, too, were curled into claws about something hard, several somethings hard, and he could not relax them. All he could feel was a bone deep cold that did not seem to end.
Wait.
Erestor's first breath was explosive, his chest rising and filling, his head spinning as the world returned around him in a rush. His skin was tingling. His ears were ringing. He heard his name be cried out from several throats. Still he could not see. He needed to see. He needed...he needed...
“Erestor,” his father's voice spoke close to his ear. Celegorm sounded as if he had been screaming. “Erestor, open your eyes. Please. Open your eyes for me.” A hot hand ran over his forehead, smoothing away hair from his face.
He fought to open his mouth, his lips cracking as he did, something warm spilling down his chin. “Father,” he managed, a whisper of a croak.
“Elrond!” Celegorm's cry rang in his ears. There was a rush and it felt as though he was lifted.
“Erestor!” That was Glorfindel. He sounded...upset? Why was Glorfindel upset?
“Fin, let Elrond through.” That was Ecthelion. Erestor had never heard him sound like that before.
“Erestor,” finally came Elrond's voice. “Erestor...is that...”
“Elrond,” Erestor managed to say. He still could not open his eyes or hands. “Help me. I cannot see.”
He heard a harsh intake of breath, then, “Easy, my friend. Here – Glorfindel, get me a cloth, I need water –”
“Here,” came Bilbo's voice. Then Erestor felt something cool touch his face, making him flinch. The arms about him tightened. That cool damp cloth was laid across his eyes and then Elrond's warm hand was there, his voice touched by the power of Vilya as warmth started to finally seep into Erestor's bones.
Erestor blinked and then blinked again, feeling the cloth move against his eyes as his lashes parted at last. He tried to reach for the cloth but his hands felt frozen in place, curled like cages around the –
Oh. Right.
“Elrond,” he managed, his lips feeling strange and...painful? He felt someone dab at his chin and shook his head. “Elrond, I need –”
“What you need is to hold still,” Elrond muttered from above him. “Your lips are bleeding. Let me tend to this before you try to speak more.”
Ah. Well that explained the stinging. He held still as Elrond turned his face this way and that. His ears, though, were working just fine. He could hear Bilbo whispering to Thorin about – ah, yes, the Dark had been very cold, hadn't it? No wonder he had been frozen through when he came back. He could also hear Dori whisper something, but Erestor could not quite make out what he said. The silence from Thranduil was...concerning but Erestor pushed that worry to the back of his mind.
Then – there – came a whisper of sound, of the brush of a hem against the rocky ground. Erestor could feel the growl that came from Celegorm's chest and someone hissed at him to be quiet. Then another hand touched his face, a familiar hand now, as Elrond's presence pulled back.
“Well done,” Varda Elentári said from above him. The cloth covering his eyes was pulled away. Erestor squinted at the sudden light...and then at the Light that was spilling out through his hands, across his chest and face, filling the small clearing with gold and silver Light.
“My lady,” he managed, his lips still stinging. Her smile was soft, her eyes full of the same Lights he had seen in the void beyond the Door. He felt Celegorm's arms tighten around him as Varda bent close, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
“You have been brave,” she said as she pulled back. Erestor met that starlit gaze and heard Elrond hiss something from his side. “And you have done very well. What message from the Timeless Halls do you have for us, my dear?”
“My son is barely back from the Dark, how dare you –”
“Father,” Erestor said, not looking away from Varda's intent gaze. “The Lady is right. There is little time and much to do.”
“Erestor,” he felt Celegorm curl over him, lips pressed to the crown of his head.
“Tell us, child of what-might-have-been,” Varda said, meeting him stare for stare. “What must we now do?”
“I,” said Erestor, “am my mother and father's child, in all the worlds that were and would be.” He felt Celegorm's hold go strangling tight and then release. Varda's smile grew, even as she did not look away. “I met my mother in the Dark,” he told her, seeing the rest of their strange company gather close as he spoke. “She told my why I was sent here, why it had to be me.” Varda gave him a solemn nod. “The Song of Eru has been changed,” he said and felt the world still around him. From the corner of his eye he could see Aulë and Manwë step close, with Yavanna at their side. “Morgoth's plots run deeper than any being on Arda could see or understand. By his entanglement with the Secondborn, Morgoth has changed the Song in ways that not even Eru Ilúvatar can mend or command. By their very nature the Secondborn have free will, a will that Morgoth harnessed, a will that Morgoth used for his own dark pursuits.”
Movement made Erestor look away from Varda's starlit gaze. He saw Elros look down, look away, his shoulders up by his ears.
“It is not the fault of Men,” Erestor told him before looking back at Varda. “It is the fault of Morgoth and him alone. The change in the Song is what caused my presence in the world...and the visions that endured.” He looked to Elrond. “It was this change to the Song that allowed Men and dwarves and hobbits to stay in Aman. It was Eru's way to force us to work together, so that we would be able to face Morgoth and his evil forces in this new Song.”
He saw Elrond swallow and then nod. “What must we do?”
Erestor looked back to Varda. “I was given the last of the Light,” he said, extending his hands. The small vials were still clutched tight in the cage of his fingers. “For when Morgoth breaks through the Door – and he will – we will need all help we can get.”
“And so are we to use the Light to fight the Dark?” Varda smiled at him. “To be used as weapons, to cause pain and suffering in their wake?”
At that Erestor had to shake his head. “I do not know,” he said. “All I know is that this gift was given and it is up to us to decide how it is used.”
At that Varda sighed and sat back, her hands placed together in her lap, palms facing the sky. “I see,” she said. Still she smiled.
“Then what do we do now?” Bilbo was brave enough to ask. Erestor saw the way Bilbo's shoulders went tense when all eyes turned to him, but still his old friend held his ground. “Having the...light,” he waved a hand at the vials, “is all well and good, but now what? How long do we have? Do we still have to reinforce the Door or let it fall apart as is? Do we return to Tirion and arm ourselves, waiting for them to come? None of that seems the least bit sensible, I'll tell you that much.”
Erestor had to smile at the look on Bilbo's face, despite the way it made his lips sting. “I think we try to hold back the Dark, as long as we can,” he said. Then he shifted his gaze to Dori and held out his hands. “I believe you should be the one to decide how these gifts are used,” he watched as Dori went pale, stock still where he stood between Narvi and Celebrimbor. “For I have heard and seen much of your skill and I know you have the heart for it. Others will help,” he added, looking at both Narvi and Celebrimbor, and then at Curufin who would not meet his gaze. “You should find them all and see what you can all create, together. For this victory will not be won by one race alone. It must be done by all of us or we will fail.”
“Me,” Dori said, faint. “You want to give that Light...to me.”
“Yes,” Erestor said with another smile. “I do.”
~*~
Dori curled an arm about the pouch that held the vials Erestor had brought back from the Dark and tried to keep calm. They had spent three more days at the Door, studying it, before deciding to return to Tirion to gather more smiths and report back to Finwë and the others of what they had found. Erestor was still recovering from his ordeal, pale and wan, but with more and more energy as the days went on. The Valar had left after Erestor's decision to give the vials to Dori, with Mahal – Mahal! – giving him a solemn nod before vanishing with Yavanna. Varda had been the last to leave, sharing one last hushed conversation with Erestor that no one else had been privy to – much to Celegorm's anger. Manwë himself had intervened to give the two the space to speak and then Varda and the lord of all the Valar had left before anyone could get an answer out of them.
And Erestor was not speaking about it, either.
Dori knew he could put the vials into one of the many trunks they had brought with them but he could not bear to let them out of his sight. Not with what Erestor had to go through to get them. He had learned, along with many of the others, of just what these Lights were. The last of the Two Trees, Telperion and Laurelin, the last of the dew ever collected from their leaves, now safe in Dori's hands.
He was so terrified he would drop them.
“We'll need a full roll call,” Narvi said for the tenth time. His warmth was something Dori could lean into, holding the world steady as the carriage rocked on and on. Across from them sat Celebrimbor and Curufin, each with a frown on their face as they scribbled down ideas on reams of paper that had been produced from somewhere. Dori could not watch them for long, the act of their writing in the swaying carriage making his stomach turn. “All the First Smiths, at the very least. Telchar, Durin I should be included,” Dori looked up at that. “Yes, he crafts,” Narvi said at Dori's raised eyebrow. “Eöl, all of us, and...who else?”
“We need to find my grandfather, if we can,” Curufin said, head still bowed over his paper. An outline of the Door was sketched there.
“Your grandfather? You mean Finwë?” Dori asked as Celebrimbor bowed his head.
“Mahtan,” Curufin said without looking up. “My mother's father. He's the one that taught Father how to...how to craft.”
Dori caught the sad look Celebrimbor sent his father and filed that away for later. “Any other elven smiths?”
At that Celebrimbor looked up, a furrow between his brows. “We should convene the Gwaith-i-Mírdain,” he said, glancing at Narvi and then back to Dori.
Narvi was nodding before Celebrimbor finished speaking. “Yes, they would be a great help.”
Dori felt his ears ring a little at that. Of course he had heard stories of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, every dwarven smith had. A great union of dwarves and elves, working together in Ost-in-Edhil, where Celebrimbor and Narvi had crafted the Western Doors of Khazad-dûm and the great rings of power. Some of the most famed dwarven craftspeople had been part of that union, who would later go on to create such gems and tools that their kin would go on to use for the rest of the Ages in Arda. To think that they would call forth the Gwaith-i-Mírdain and Dori would be able to see them all, meet them all, along with Telchar and –
“You'll have the final say, of course, Dori,” Celebrimbor said as he went back to his piece of paper. “This is your project, after all.”
All words left Dori's head. “What?” He managed to stammer after a long moment of blinking. Both Curufin and Celebrimbor looked up at that and the matching frowns on their faces would have been humorous if not for what Celebrimbor had just said. “What do you mean it's up to me.”
“Well,” Celebrimbor said, “Erestor gave those vials to you.” He nodded at the pack that Dori was still clutching. “You have been put in charge of all of this project.”
“Me,” Dori repeated, feeling faint. He had thought he was just holding on to them, to – to help, not...Dori drew in a long, slow breath. Well, then. “I...” Those steady gazes made him want to curl away but the press of Narvi's shoulder against his made that fear curdling in his gut start to fade. “The...I like your ideas,” he said. “And the – the Gwaith-i-Mírdain.” Then he blinked and sat up straight. “Wait. Do you really think Telchar would join us? I thought he had put aside his crafting?”
“Oh he hasn't put it aside,” Narvi said with a snort. “Now if Azaghâl would just let him out of bed to get to the smithy –”
“Narvi!” Celebrimbor said with a laugh as Dori's face burned. The moment passed as Curufin and Celebrimbor went back to their papers as Narvi and Celebrimbor continued to bicker back and forth. Dori sat back, turning their words over in his head. He was in charge of this project. Not just someone to hold the vials until they returned to the Mountain, but Dori was the one to decide how they would go forward with the gifts they had been given. And as he sat there, the buzz of conversation filling the carriage, Dori let his mind drift, his fingers twitching on the pack nestled on his lap as plans began to spin together in his mind.
~*~
Galadriel woke to a faint pounding in her temples and the sound of her mother's song by her side. It had been Ages since she had woken so. There was a bitter herbal smell pervading the room and as she listened she realized she could hear her daughter speaking softly to someone in the room. It took far more effort than she wanted to admit to open her eyes, wincing as the light made the ache in her temples grow.
“Mother!” Celebrían's voice came close as Galadriel blinked to try and clear her vision.
“My daughter,” she said, her voice little more than a rasp, as she held out her hand. It was caught in a warm grip and another figure joined her daughter at her side. “Celeborn,” she said on a sigh, a relief she did not realize shaking through her at the sight of him.
“My dear,” he said as he took a seat on the side of her bed. Her other hand was caught up tight in his. She watched as he pressed the back of her hand to his cheek, his eyes closed as he sighed. “You worried us.”
“Forgive me,” she whispered.
Celegorm shook his head and opened his eyes. “There is nothing to forgive. Your warning has stirred your grandfather and preparations are being hurried as we speak. He wished to speak to you of the vision,” he said as the bedroom door opened behind him.
“Only if Galadriel is able,” Finwë himself said as he joined the small group about her bed. “Granddaughter,” Finwë then knelt, much to her shock, and met her gaze. “We have received word that the party that went to the Door is on their way back. From what I gather your vision took place as something happened at the Door, though they will not say more in their message. What can you tell me of what you saw? Are you well enough for that?”
Galadriel swallowed and looked to Celeborn. “Help me up,” she said. With his and Celebrían's assistance she was sat up, with a stack of pillows behind her. Galadriel had endured many things over her long life in Arda but never had she felt this weak before. “Grandfather,” she said once the room stopped spinning about her. “I told you that the Dark is already starting to gather. Sauron...” Her voice faltered on his name. A part of her would always burn with shame for not recognizing him sooner. For being so blind. And yet...and yet a part of her truly believed his repentance...at least at first. Perhaps she was naive. Perhaps she was a fool. “Sauron is close to returning to full power. When he regains physical form he will lay waste to Arda and gather his forces there.”
Finwë closed his eyes for a long moment. “So soon,” he murmured. “I had hoped...”
Galadriel reached out a hand and was relieved when he took it. “Do not despair,” she said. “Something happened at the Door. I felt it, felt Morgoth's fury, felt...” She shook her head. “There is time. There is time. Wait for those who went to the Door before you lose hope.”
Finwë looked at her, his eyes dark with an emotion she could not name. “I will wait,” he said. “What else can you tell us of your vision?”
Galadriel thought back to it, feeling the press of Sauron's power against her skin, the almost...desperate way he had looked at her, and his words. “Sauron believes he will rule with Morgoth, should they be victorious,” she shook her head again. “But that is a lie. Morgoth will never let another stand by his side and when Sauron learns this...” Here she faltered. “Perhaps when he realizes that he will turn from that dark power's side.”
“You are too kind,” Celeborn said, taking hold of her hand once more. She tried to smile at him but Celeborn shook his head. “You are. You have given him chance upon chance in the past. He has made his decision. It is time to leave him to it.”
At that she had to sigh. “Perhaps you are right,” she allowed.
Finwë squeezed her hand once and let it go, getting to his feet with a tired sigh. “Messages from the party that went to the Door say that they will return in the next few days. I would have you there at my side, Galadriel, when they come. I will convene a council of all those who held power in Arda when the world was young, and who had kept Morgoth contained for centuries. We will have much more to prepare once we hear what state the Door is in.”
Galadriel nodded, watching her grandfather leave with a heavy heart. She understood the importance of arming those left, of preparing Aman for the battle that was sure to come, but still she mourned the need for it. She knew Morgoth would not stop until he broke through the Door and tried one last time to conquer the world and burn it in the ashes of his madness and fury, but still she mourned. Mourned for the last of the innocence left in Aman that would be stained by this upcoming battle. Mourned for Arda and the darkness rising there. But perhaps...perhaps those who went to the Door had better news, could bring them some shred of hope that not all light would be lost.
Perhaps. All she could do now was hope.
~*~
Eldarion woke with his heart beating hard in his chest. He rose and on silent feet left his sleeping wife in their bed, slipping out of the door to the wide balcony. His robe fluttered in the cool wind that always seemed to blow these days, but when he looked up at the night sky the stars seemed...brighter. There were more than he remembered in the long months of reports coming in from all of his borders, telling of movements from the south, of wild men wandering right up to the edge of his lands and provoking his people there.
Eldarion let his gaze track over the ink-dark skies and even as he looked star upon star seemed to bloom into existence, some twinkling with a rainbow light he had never seen before. The long worry that had settled in his gut had not vanished, but seemed to...ease by degrees. Low on the horizon there was a streak starting to become visible, a comet his court astronomers said, heralding some great event to come. Eldarion believed them, for his dreams were full of warnings and worry, but perhaps...perhaps hope, now, too.
His dreams of late had been full of his mother and father, riding across some great sea of grasses that reminded Eldarion of those in Rohan, near Edoras. He saw another being, an elf, with dark hair and eyes that looked much like the uncles Eldarion knew in his youth, Elrohir and Elladan, though he had not seen them for decades, now. He saw a laughing woman at times in his dreams, not the Evenstar of his mother, but another woman with gray eyes and dark hair, with a brilliant laugh that would follow him into waking. Sometimes – rarely – he dreamed of a man standing on a black, blasted field, with the teeth of mountains surrounding him. Eldarion never saw his face but sometimes it felt like that man was watching him, a shadow that he could not escape. Those dreams always pushed him out into the fields, riding to watch over his people, and urging his generals to enforce their borders evermore.
But now, watching those stars reappear like a promise, Eldarion felt a hope he had thought had withered and died. It gave him the strength to face the day yet again, to plan with his generals, to bolster his borders and see that a new crop was peeking out of the fields when before their best weather-wise told him to expect failures and famine.
Eldarion felt hope for the first time in years.