Note: excerpt from “The Lay of Leithian”, The Lays of Beleriand, The History of Middle-Earth Volume 3, J.R.R. Tolkien, edited by Christopher Tolkien.

Chapter XXXIII: The Artifice of Dol Guldur

At dawn the armies of the White Council set forth, moving swiftly through the undergrowth of southern Mirkwood. They were less than seven hundred in number now, for swift riders had been sent to warn Thranduil of the threat of the orcs, while a party of hunters from Lórien and Imladris had hastened forth in the hopes of finding and waylaying the errant band. There had been some debate on the matter, but in the end Celeborn’s adamant insistence that they could not sit idly by had won out over the dissenting voices. For his part, Elrond had been loath to give up even a small part of their strength when haste and swift might were most needed, but neither had he been willing to consent to complicity with the threat to his one-time friend.

The host came swiftly to a place where no trees grew. Of old the forest had encroached to the very base of Amon Lanc, but now the earth was poisoned by the incursions of the Shadow, and no green thing could abide its wicked fumes. Once they reached the edge of the unnatural clearing the legions dispersed, spreading themselves into a broad half-circle. Signals long arranged passed between commanders as the heralds stepped forward and the banners were unfurled.

Elrond watched the paltry panoply as their valiant theatrics unfolded. His heart was heavy. The great mass of stone and sorcery before them loomed above like the last bastion of doom. There were fortifications upon the outer wall, but no living thing – man or orc or beast – could be seen among them. The tower itself was silent, its gaping windows black and empty. There was no sign that they were expected, though they could not hope that their coming was a surprise. The stillness was at once perplexing and terrifying, and Elrond was put in mind of the eerie calm that had fallen upon the world before the unmaking of Beleriand.

A well-muscled shoulder brushed his own, the two bright shirts of mail singing softly against one another. ‘It is not too late,’ Elrohir said grimly. ‘You can hold back. You should hold back. When all is done these folk will have sore need of healers.’

‘I note you do not attempt to dissuade your grandmother,’ Elrond muttered grimly.

‘Nay,’ said Elrohir, the fell light of a warrior in his grey eyes; ‘for if I am to die today, I wish to die thrust upon the sword of one of the Ularí, not slain by the fire in the eyes of Finarfin’s daughter.’

Then Saruman stepped forward, taking his place before his standard-bearer. He drew breath for speech, and cast his eyes, cold and scornful, upon the gates of the Necromancer. The moment of reckoning had come.

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‘Shall we try to sleep a little?’ Elladan asked. His voice was hoarse and his face was grey with weariness. He was leaning now so heavily that had it not been for the crook between headboard and wall that supported him, he would have crumpled into a heap on the pillows. Having reached his bed with the aid of one of the cooks, he had resolved to stay awake through the remainder of the night, pressing Estel with questions that were answered in brief but purposeful syllables.

The child had passed these hours on the foot of the bed, long legs curled beneath him and head resting against the window-frame so that the starlight was on his face. Though at times he had seemed very distant, he had managed to keep up with Elladan’s questions and it appeared that his mastery over whatever evil thoughts tormented him yet endured. Gilraen, forsaking her own bed for a chair by the door, had watched with painful pride as her son had conquered the hours of peril and achieved the blessed respite of dawn. Now a frown furrowed her weary brow as he shook his dark head.

‘I do not want to,’ he said. ‘You sleep. I will stay and watch over you.’

‘Watch over me?’ Elladan said with a weak smile. ‘It is I who am meant to be watching over you.’

‘I do not want to sleep,’ Estel said.

‘Is this some evil trick of his mind as well?’ Gilraen asked, casting an anxious glance at Elladan.

The Peredhil looked equally perplexed. ‘Estel?’ he said. ‘Estel, is it the wicked voice that is telling you this?’

‘No! No.’ Estel shook his head, and his eyes blinked very slowly. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will rest for a while.’ He crawled up to the head of the bed and reached out to offer Elladan his arm. The adult smiled and accepted his assistance as he slid down and lowered himself onto the mattress. Estel drew up the blankets and settled beside him.

Eyes already drifting closed, Elladan wrapped a protective arm around Estel’s chest. Many times in recent days had they slept thus, almost like two brothers in their single bed. Gilraen rose and bent to kiss her son’s brow. ‘I’m going to see Halion,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll come back when he has broken his fast.’

Estel nodded, but his exhaustion was overwhelming him. He could not answer her. Gilraen settled the coverlet more securely over them, and then slipped from the room. Her son would be safe for an hour or two, she told herself. Elladan would protect him.

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They stood like scattered jewels on the bleak approach; the Elf-lords in their mail, lofty helms over flowing hair, and the three Istari, their robes rippling in the wind. To the troops that encircled them no doubt they were an inspiring sight: fair and deadly with bright swords drawn. To Elrond as he looked about they seemed like fools: a vainglorious clutch of petty princes, arrayed in the finery of their fading days and assembled for a hopeless enterprise that would lead only to a fruitless end.

In number they were eight, for Galdor had remained in Lorien. From Gandalf on the easternmost end to Galadriel to the southwest the distance along their scattered line of parley was perhaps a quarter of a mile. From the gates of Dol Guldur all could be easily seen: Gandalf with Glamdring, the Foe-hammer of Gondolin glowing brilliant in his hand; Glorfindel beside him, the Balrog-slayer of old. There was Radagast, his discomfiture well-masked by an expression of dogged determination, and Celeborn, tall and daunting in his silver mail and short blue cloak. Saruman had the place of prominence, in the centre of the road that rippled up the hill. There was Elrond, grave and grim, the only one of the eight whose sword still hung at his side; and beyond him Elrohir, the resolve of battle in his eyes and wrath writ on his brow beneath the bright stone he wore.

Last of all was Galadriel, resplendent in the glory of old. Her hair was coiled out of sight beneath a helm etched with bright stars and a fair, branching tree. Her breastplate was of mithril, a treasure as ancient as Glamdring and no less wondrous. Beneath it she was clad in white, soft folds of goffered linen falling in petals to her calves over chain-mail chausses. Her boots were white with tassels of gold, and her face was as cold and as fair as the light of the Sun upon a winter’s morning.

‘Necromancer!’ Saruman roared, his voice resonating once again off the walls of the tower. ‘Stand forth, coward, and answer for yourself! It does not please us that you see fit to dwell here, polluting our lands and threatening our realms! Stand forth, and do battle!’

Silence. Only silence. Above the gloom that hung low over Mirkwood, the Sun was climbing high. It was the time of the Council’s choosing: it did not suit the Enemy. Not all the goading of Saruman would drive him forth into the waking day.

‘Do not call him by the name he has taken himself,’ Celeborn said. Then he, too, raised his voice. ‘Sauron!’ he cried. ‘Sauron, come forth and face us!’

‘Accursed thrall of Morgoth, come forth!’ Glorfindel shouted.

There was no outward sign that their challenge had been heard, but to the three bearers of the Elven Rings it was plain that the Enemy was aware of their host. The hatred seemed to grow, pulsing and undulating through the forest.

‘Sauron, we are waiting! Stand forth or we shall ascend and cast you down!’ roared Elrohir.

Only silence; silence and malice. They waited still. Only silence.

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Gilraen found Halion in good spirits. His hands and ribs were all but healed, and he had spent much of yesterday working with the infirmarian. He was slowly regaining the use of his remaining leg with the help of a beautifully carved beech-wood crutch fashioned by some kindly member of the household. Today he was sore, but hopeful. In another week or two he could start learning how to balance on a horse, and then he would be able to return home, to his wife and his baby who would grow up knowing and loving his sire.

‘Something is weighing on your mind, Gilraen,’ the Ranger said as he began to peel his egg. ‘What is wrong?’

She smiled wanly. ‘It is nothing,’ she said. ‘I did not sleep well last night.’

‘If there is aught that it would ease you to tell me, be assured that I will alwa—’ He stopped, tensing suddenly and leaning forward in the bed. ‘Did you hear that?’ he hissed.

‘I heard nothing,’ Gilraen said, puzzled.

‘Hush. Listen.’ Halion held his breath, straining with his quick Ranger’s ears. Gilraen found herself unwittingly doing the same. This time, she heard it, faint and distant, filtering from an open window far above to the narrow casement of Halion’s chamber. A scream. A piercing shriek of terror.

Estel.

She flew from the room and up the stairs with almost the speed of an elf-maiden. She burst into the room just as her son flung himself off of the bed, falling to the floor with a resounding crash amid a tangle of blankets. Elladan, wild-eyed and pale, was pushing himself up onto his elbows on the mattress.

‘What is it, Estel? Speak to me!’ he cried, and it seemed not for the first time.

The little boy scrambled backwards against the floor, horror in his eyes as he stared at the Elven warrior. His breath was coming in short, sharp gasps, and he cried out in a voice made shrill and harsh with panic. ‘You were there! You were there!’

‘Where?’ Elladan clamoured out of bed and took a step towards the child. Estel screamed again, pressing himself into the corner and trying futilely to scurry still farther away. Elladan halted. ‘It’s all right. Do not fear. I will come no nearer. Estel, tell me what has frightened you so!’

‘A nightmare?’ Gilraen said softly, coming further into the room and holding out her hands, palms open.

Elladan nodded frantically. ‘At first it seemed he was not even awake,’ he said, breathless. ‘He cried out again and again, his whole body was tense, and then suddenly... Estel, please! Please, calm yourself.’

‘Y-you were there!’ the child repeated. ‘They were dying and you were there! Why? Why were you there?’ He burst into tears, burying his face in his hands even as he strove to make himself as small as possible, curling against the intersecting walls.

Gilraen tried to run to him, but as she drew nearer he shrieked in terror and thrust up his hands as if to shield his body. She froze.

‘One...’ he choked out. ‘In his eye! It s-struck the bone – why were you there?’ The last was aimed at Elladan: admonition and horror and unspeakable fear infusing the words with a sound so terrible that Gilraen could scarcely believe that it had issued from the lips of her sweet-voiced son.

‘I do not know – I do not know...’ Elladan said helplessly. He could not decipher the details of the dream any more than Gilraen could.

‘His eye...’ Estel sobbed. With his palm he dug at his own face, against his left eye socket. ‘B-black and fletched with red, it struck the bone...’

The last vestiges of colour drained from the half-Elf’s face. ‘Estel...’ he moaned softly.

The boy’s head snapped up, and the accusation and terror in the grey eyes was almost more than Gilraen could bear. The terrible expression was not fixed on her, but on the Peredhil. ‘Why were you there? Why?’

‘We were fighting for our lives,’ Elladan whispered like one entranced. His legs trembled and he sank to his knees. ‘I could not stop it...’

‘Into his eye...’ Estel cried again, and again he struck his own face, sobbing frantically. Elladan flinched and looked away, unable to witness the child’s distress. There was guilt in his eyes, and sorrow, and as he glanced furtively at Gilraen she understood.

For a moment she could neither move nor breathe. It was as if her last reserves of strength and resolve had been stolen from her. She had known that Estel dreamed of the suffering of the Dúnedain, and that he was visited by apparitions of death, but this...

She closed her eyes, trying to master herself, but burned upon her lids was the image of her husband, his face smeared with dark blood and filth and vitreous humour, his left eye burst like a pig’s bladder with an orc-arrow lodged in the shattered socket. A hair’s-breadth to the right, and it would have sunk deep in his brain, killing him swiftly; painlessly. The sons of Elrond had never spoken of the last, tortured hours of Arathorn’s life, before the swelling of the tissues damaged by fragments of dislodged bone had finally snuffed out the light of his spirit and freed him from his suffering. It had been left to Gilraen to imagine, hour after hour, night after night through the lonely years, the thoughts that had passed through the mind of her valiant husband as his skull had filled with fluid and his powers of reason faded. Dying in unimaginable agony, riddled with delirium and robbed of the last shreds of dignity – what broken words had he uttered before he lost the power of speech? She would never know...

Her knees grew weak, and she felt certain that she would collapse next to Elladan, insensate and overcome. But she opened her eyes, and she saw Estel, cringing in the corner, weeping frantically in the wake of an unspeakable nightmare that he could not understand. He was still digging at his eye as if by doing so he could expunge the memory of what he had seen in the shadows of his tormented mind.

‘Estel, stop...’ she breathed, hastening to his side. Now he did not quail from her: he was too far gone in his distress. Gilraen took his hand and drew it away from his face, deftly catching the other before it could assume its partner’s abandoned task. ‘You shall surely harm yourself if you do not stop.’

The only answer was a broken sob.

Gilraen stroked his sodden hair. Perspiration soaked his brow, running down into his eyes. ‘My love, my dear one, it was only a dream. A vision of sad things that happened many years ago. Come, beloved, let me hold thee...’

He did not move. She shifted her weight from her feet to her hocks, and dragged him into her lap. Wrapping her arms around him she rocked him back and forth, back and forth. ‘Hush, Estel. You are awake now. The visions will fade.’

‘No,’ he whimpered. ‘N-no...’

‘They will,’ she said, with greater conviction than she felt. ‘You are so strong, so brave, my heart. You must endure a little longer. Only a little longer.’

The next words came, soft and tremulous, from some place far inside of her, the depths of which she had never plumbed. It was a place of wisdom and selflessness that she had never before found. It was a place where there was only love, and understanding, and the desire to do whatever she must, to accept whatever she must, to comfort and protect her child. The words that came from that place came without pain. ‘Only a little longer, my love. Then your father will come home, and he will heal you. As he did before, he will heal you.’

The words seemed to soothe him. The trembling body in her arms fell still, and the poor tortured head rested upon her breast. Nearby, Elladan was panting softly as he struggled with his sorrow and his guilt, but Gilraen had care only for her son. She cradled him against her body, wishing for the first time that Master Elrond were here. She wished, at least, that she had some measure of his gift, that she might pour forth her strength and her love into Estel and salve the hurts of his gentle spirit. But she was only a mortal woman, and she had nothing more to offer him than the comfort of her arms, and of her voice.

Softly, unsteadily at first, she formed words with her lips, and her throat sent forth an unsteady melody, imperfect and not quite tuneful, but filled with love. She sang:

Her robe was blue as summer skies,
but grey as evening were her eyes;
‘twas sewn with golden lilies fair,
But dark as shadow was her hair...

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The afternoon waned. All day they had stood, waiting for the Enemy to answer them. The host was restive and the leaders of the Council were grave as they gathered to confer together behind the line of standards. Elrohir was overseeing the lighting of great bonfires, for night would fall soon, and they would be left in the darkness. It was this, of course, for which the Necromancer was waiting.

‘He will surge forth as soon as the Sun sets,’ Saruman said between teeth gritted in frustration. ‘Orcs will fight in daylight at need, but by night they are far more deadly.’

‘More deadly than orcs are the Ularí,’ Glorfindel argued; ‘and in darkness they are terrible.’

‘Then clearly we cannot wait for darkness,’ said Galadriel. Even her carefully composed voice was taut with irritation.

Radagast huffed cantankerously. Emboldened by aggravation, he said tersely, ‘What do you propose we do? Walk up to the gate and knock?’

‘That is not at all a bad idea,’ said Gandalf, thoughtfully turning his sword in his hands. ‘It is easy to ignore a rabble shouting in the woods. It is not so easy to overlook a direct assault.’

They waited until Elrohir was finished, and the pillars of smoke rose from the resin-soaked fir-wood fires. There were a few hours of daylight left. Enough, perhaps, to decide the victory, if the Enemy responded at last.

The delegates from Imladris and Lothlórien assumed the positions they had held before, but the three Istari strode forward, up the broad road to the very apron of Dol Guldur. They were a strange sight: three wizened old men in their simple garments, each leaning heavily upon his staff. Their blades were sheathed, and in the lee of the great tower they seemed diminished, shrunken to tiny parodies of living folk. Elrond had only a moment to offer a silent prayer for success before Saruman thrust up his arms.

‘Sauron!’ he bellowed, and the force of his voice seemed to send a concussion through the armies. ‘You are discovered! Come forth and face our wrath!’

Then as one the three Istari struck the door with their staves, and it seemed that there was a great flame ignited in the air, as if lightning had rent the gate. The hinges buckled and the ground shook.

‘Come out!’ cried Gandalf. ‘No more shall you skulk here! Stand forth and do battle, accursed slave of darkness!’

Then the three were obliged to turn and run back, for there was a sound of rattling chains and grinding gears, and a shrill, high shriek of some unearthly creature. The forces of the Council readied their weapons: arrows nocked, spears at the ready, shining swords drawn. The standard-bearers retreated behind the ranks and the eight who stood forward drew their blades, stepping back to join the front lines of their folk. Not a moment too soon did Elrohir shout the order to stand fast.

The enemy came.