3. Shadow and flame

January 25th, 3019 T. A.

A storm is on the mountains today. It rages on the peak of Celebdil, a wild, untamed dance of flame. The mountain has a crown of lightning, and columns of clouds are rising from it like steam from some underground forge. Ice falls like rain. Fire and snow. Light and shadow. Dancing in a deadly fight in the heart of the storm. The mountain trembles, the wind wails. It roars like a wild animal, and then it bears another tone on its wings, muted and quiet, then high and powerful. The roar rises to the surface, then drowns again. Roar and quiet, shadow and light. Elements dance. Elements fight.

No, it is not a storm. Two flames battle together. The light, the voice – the flame of Anor. The shadow, the roar – the flame of Udûn. I see two shapes, two figures entwined in a deadly fight. One of them... Is it possible? One of them I recognize! Olórin! Olórin! Fallen into the deepest pits I thought you, and on the highest peaks I found you! Shadow and Flame envelops you, but your light shines through them, shines like the brightest of stars! The darkness wants to choke it, it roars and burns with a devouring flame. Fight, Olórin! Fight for the light!

“Fight! Do not fear the darkness, Children of the West! Fight for a new day!” Eönwë’s voice sounded over the battlefield, encouraging those who wavered, pouring new strength into the hands heavy with the weight of sword and hearts heavy with grief for the fallen. But there was one who didn’t fight...

Eärendil waited above the low hanging clouds, a star glimmering among the smoke of the fires of Angband, smothered by their sinister fumes. In one hand he clutched the rudder of Vingilot, and in the other a shining sword, a gift from Aulë. He watched the hosts of Valar and of all the free folk assembled under their banners, and the vast dark armies pouring from the gates of Angband. The battle was like a tide, the waves crashing together, ebbing and rising in the clash of steel, a bloody song of swords.

He could not join the song below with the melody of his own sword. He could not set foot on these shores anymore. That was the doom that was laid on him when he reached the forbidden shores of Valinor. Yet the Valar did not forbid him to follow their hosts, dressed for battle, a star of hope shining for the Children of the West. They gave him a sword of mighty steel, made in the fires of Aulë’s forge, in a scabbard of chalcedony. The clothed him in shining armor, chained rings and silver habergeon, and gave him a helmet of adamant. His shield bore runes of warding from wounds and harm.

The shield lay at the deck beside him now – he needed one hand to guide the ship. And what for,he thought. The cries of wounded and dying reached up into the clouds. Anyone of them would use that shield better, he mused bitterly as he watched the ongoing battle below, where he could not tread.

Suddenly... a shadow swooped down from the peaks of Thangorodrim, mighty and terrible, bringing dread to the hearts of those fighting for the light. A dragon, black like midnight, his scales glistening like obsidian in the light of fires. His wings swished in the air, two, three mighty swings that carried him to the middle of the battlefield like a shadow of death. He whirled in the air, looking for prey. And Eärendil knew. This was his foe...

He felt his heartbeat quicken, and his hand gripped the sword more firmly. For a short moment he didn’t move, just watched the dragon, stunnedwith the overwhelming challenge. It was... huge. Its wings had twice the span of the sails of Vingilot, and flames flared from its nostrils. The sounds of the fight seemed dulled, and the dragon filled his entire field of vision. He hesitated just for a moment. Then the sounds from the battlefield reached him again, and with them, the thrill of fight – the life of the enemy on the edge of his blade, the game with death, and the fullness of every moment when He walks on the warrior’s heels, observing and waiting for a mistake. He turned the rudder sharply, and Vingilot obeyed his very thoughts. Like a silver arrow she descended from the clouds, and it seemed as if a star was falling from the sky, enveloped in a great glow. With a battle cry he charged the terrifying form of the black dragon, a clear light against the dragon’s shadow and flame.

Shadow and flame have melted the snow on the peak and turned it black with ashes. The flame of light replaced its pristine glow now. Terrible is the battle on the peak of Celebdil high above the clouds. They are grey and heavy with rain. Black were the clouds below me when I battled Ancalagon – black with the smoke of fires. They were like a heavy curtain, dividing two battlefields. It was almost peaceful when we broke through it, and the sound and cries of the fight below silenced. For a moment, nothing moved. Just me and my foe, the shadow of leathery wings and the living light of Vingilot.

Just you two, Olórin – you and your foe. Long have you traveled the paths of Middle-earth, Grey Pilgrim, giving advice, and setting things to move in a great scheme that only the mind of an Ainu could encompass. No more schemes, no more paths. Just one battle... that is everything that exists. That is everything that matters.

The clouds divide you from everyone and everything below. Your eight companions rest in Lórien now, listening to the gentle breeze in the mallorn leaves. They do not know. Nobody knows. If someone is looking at the peak of Zirakzgil in this moment, he must think that a storm rages on the mountain. Nobody will sing about the glorious battle on the peak. Nobody in Middle-earth.

But I see your battle, Olórin. I see and will not forget. Gloriously will the songs about your fight sound in the streets of Valimar. Songs about heroes and great deeds... gloriously they sound, but there is nothing glorious in that moment. The taste of blood, the smell of burning hair, and the weight of sword in your hand. It will be after the fight that they celebrate your deeds and honor you. But here, nobody will. You fight because you have work yetto do. You fight because you want to live.

Shadow and flame... a spectre of the ancient world. What foe did you encounter in the darkness beneath the mountain, Olórin? No, it is not a dragon. A spirit of fire: a flame tainted by Morgoth, fallen Maia, twisted into the shape of a horrible beast. A balrog...

“Balrog! Balrog!” someone cried out, and the terror in the voice frightened the boy that stumbled on the narrow passage of Cirith Thoronath, clutching his mother’s hand. There were ugly figures all around them, and the warriors fought them while they ran. It was the first time Eärendil saw orcs. But something more terrifying then orcs was behind them...

He did not understand what was happening. A day ago, there were bright banners, and flowers in the streets. There was a tournament, held in the occasion of the upcoming feast of the Gates of Summer. He sat with his parents in the kingly lodge and watched the fighters below.

“Ada, ada, I want to be a warrior too!”

Tuor smiled. “For that you have enough time yet. But if you are good, I will make you a wooden sword.”

“Truly?”

Tuor nodded, and the boy hesitated for a while, and then hugged his father in delight.

The warriors below raised their swords in greeting to Turgon. He stood up, and declaimed the opening speech of the tournament. While he was speaking, Tuor turned to Eärendil again, and whispered: “So which one are you crossing your fingers for?”

“Glorfindel!” the boy replied immediately, as if the fact were obvious.

“So you think I have no chance against him?”

Eärendil furrowed his brow like contemplating serious matters.

“You don’t fight with him today. Tomorrow I’ll be crossing my fingers for you...”

“Ah, good that I have the support of my own son! And if I fight against Glorfindel in the finale, who will win?

Eärendil looked critically at the golden-haired warrior, and then at his father. “Glorfindel,” he said then with a grin.

Tuor laughed and ruffled his hair. “I think so, too...”

And indeed Glorfindel won the first day of the tournament, as predicted by the expert. On the next day Idril woke Eärendil early. She was oblivious to her son’s pleas to stay up until morning like the grown ups, celebrating the shortest night and awaiting the dawn. But when she tucked him in the bed, he fell asleep immediately, tired by the day’s excitement. The sun has not risen yet, and he hurried to dress and join the Elves on the walls, and sing to Arien when she sailedabove the horizon.

Yet the light didn’t rise on the east, but in the north...

“Fireworks!” Eärendil cried out in delight.

“No...” he heard his father whisper, and the tune of his voice frightened him. “Dragons!” Tuor cried out, and his cry was echoed in the crowd.

Panic ensued. People ran. Dark shapes crossed the sky, breathing fire. Bringing destruction. Cries of terror. Whispers. “Morgoth...” they echoed. “Morgorth found us!”

“Ada! Ada!” the child’s cries were overvoiced by the crowd.

“Eärendil!” someone clutched him from behind.

“Nana!” he grasped his mother’s hand firmly, like something steady in the familiar world that has gone mad.

“We must flee!” Tuor’s voice rose above the panic. The captains of the houses were already assembling their warriors.

***

They fled. Through a dark tunnel, to the narrow mountain passes. Eärendil stumbled. The pace was too quick for his short legs. He did not comprehend what happened there, in the city. Idril clutched his hand, and didn’t let him fall. Shepulled him forwards in the mad flight. His father led the group, and Glorfindel covered their back. The city behind them burned. The bright banners flamed like torches. Steam rose from the fountains. Towers crumbled.

The ugly figures came suddenly from nowhere and surrounded them. Swords flashed. The cries. The warmth of his mother’s hand clutching his tightly. Suddenly there was a red light illuminating the faces of the refuges with a ghostlike glow, casting long, dark shadows before them, swaying in the rhythm of their steps. The fire was behind them. A terrible roar echoed in the pass.

“Balrog! Balrog!”

“Run!” a flash of golden hair glistened in the light of fire. The silver armor shone like blood.

And they ran. Eärendil wept in terror. They ran until the fires and roars were far behind. The eagles came. They were splendid. For a moment Eärendil forgot the terror around them and imagined how it would feel to fly like them. They chased the ugly figures away.

Finally they stopped. Eärendil realized that it is quiet. No roars were heard anymore. Then the biggest of the eagles flew to them, clutching something in his talons. Idril covered Eärendil’s eyes, and led him away, despite his struggles to see what is happening. Then she embraced him firmly, and held him long, and he could feel the tears running down her cheeks. He snuggled close to her, as all the terror crashed on him suddenly.

“Nana,” he asked with a weepy voice. “Will Glorfindel return?”

He did, my childhood hero. He never knew he was that, I think. I was too shy in his presence then, a lad of seven years in awe of a mighty warrior. He returned from the Halls of Mandos... and he returned to Middle-earth. I saw him on the same ship that carried the Istari. Why did he return? Why did he not seek rest in Valinor, a deserved reward for his deeds? Maybe it was the same knowledge that drives me forwards every night, that makes me sail and shine like a sigh of hope – the knowledge that there is evil in the lands below, and people who suffer under it, and people who fight it valiantly. The knowledge that I could make a difference. I have almost forgotten it, but I was reminded of it by the scion of my own line, and as I watch now, I’m reminded of it again and again. Glorfindel could not find rest in Valinor – not while he could make a difference in Middle-earth...

I can imagine him sitting at the hearth with Olórin, his hair reflecting the light of fire like molten gold, rising a glass of wine. “To us balrog-slayers!” he would say with a wide grin, and Olórin would nod solemnly with a merry twinkle in his eyes, and raise his own goblet. Then he would light his pipe and stretch his legs to the fire, and Glorfindel would wave the elaborated shapes of smoke away from him, snickering.

The longer I watch, the more I know that I’m trying to deceive myself. No, you will not sit at the fire with Glorfindel anymore. Never more will you drink wine and smoke pipe-weed. There is work yetto do, but not for you anymore. Your path ends here. Not in the dark pits under Moria, but high above the clouds – so close to the sky... You do not fight to live anymore. Yet you still fight – because you can make a difference...

The sword in your hand is glowing white-hot. I recognize the blade! It is Glamdring, the sword of Gondolin. I saw it many years ago – in the hand of my grandfather, when I saw him retreating to the tower. I saw him for the last time then. The darkness of Morgoth killed the white city – the Orcs, dragons and balrogs. Now this sword will bring revenge!

I see a flash of red light. Narya, the ring of fire, and you are a flame yourself, a flame of quick anger and joy, pure flame of a burning spirit. The flames reach high to the sky. The very air vibrates with power. You are giving everything that you have into the fight. You are leaving nothing to yourself, nothing for the future – there is none. The white flame surpasses the dark one! It shines brightly like a star on the top of the mountain, beautiful and terrible for a short moment. The dark flame dwindles, and then... it’s extinguished! A dark shape falls from the stone tower, and crushes into the snow below, a black stain against its whiteness. You won, Olórin! You won!

But the white flame wavers too. Oh, most faithful of Istari, high is the price of your victory! The flame dies in a last flicker of light. A body of an old man lies on the top of the mountain, pale against the ashes and debris of battle. The wind blows his hair from his face, but he does not move. A snowflake caresses his palm, but he does not feel it. It does not melt. The unseeing eyes are turned to the sky. You dream your last dream, Olórin...

And on the snow-covered stones below, I see a dark shape, still and unmoving, too. The wind blows. For a moment, there is a shivering shape of light above it. It is beautiful, untainted. The spirit of a Maia before the evil of Morgoth touched him, and swayed him to his side, twisted him. The light flickers, and the shape dissolves in the wind. Silence veils the peak of Celebdil.

There will be songs about your last fight, Olórin. But not today. Today, I can’t sing. I can only guide my ship, a learned, subconscious movement, and stare blankly at the sea below me. I do not wonder when I see Manwë at the shore, looking to the East. Tears are in the eyes of the Elder King...