115: After the Election

Glorfindel was eyeing the street in front of Edhellond, staying well within the shadows created by the wall where it met one of the gates when he heard shouting from within and without. The shouts from within the mansion were faint but he thought there was an element of joy to them, but the shouts from down the street were anything but joyful and he had the feeling that trouble was on its way. He pulled out one of the walkie-talkies he had taken out of storage, having given the others to those on patrol who knew how to use them. Naturally, Finrod had insisted on one and was given a quick demonstration on how they worked.

He tuned it to a particular frequency. “Gondolin to Nargothrond.”

There was a moment of static and then Finrod was there. “Go ahead Gondolin.”

“I think we’re about to have company and they’re not bringing tea and crumpets. Get everyone at your end up here. I’m going to need reinforcements. Leave one person behind to keep an eye on things in case these idiots actually try to surround us.”

“I am on my way, gwador. Do nothing stupid until I get there. You’re not allowed to have all the fun.”

In spite of the situation, Glorfindel couldn’t help grinning. “Well, you’d better hightail it, gwador, if you don’t want to miss out on anything.”

“I’ll be there shortly. I have to make a detour first. Nargothrond out.”

Glorfindel just stared at the walkie-talkie, wondering what kind of detour Finrod needed to make, then decided it really wasn’t his business and even the former king of Nargothrond was not immune to calls of nature. He shrugged to himself and dialed a different frequency that would let him speak to all the other walkie-talkies. “Okay, listen up, people. I have bogeys at three o’clock coming down Sycamore from Kodiak and they sound very angry. Either Peterson lost or he won. Either way, I need you all up front. Someone keep an eye on the walls, though. These people may try to surround us.”

There were short acknowledgments from the others. Glorfindel put the walkie-talkie away and quickly climbed the wall to get a better look. When he had first heard the crowd, they had still been several blocks away on Kodiak and therefore invisible to him, but now they had reached Sycamore and were heading his way. They were carrying electric torches, but he recognized an angry mob when he saw one, having experienced them more than once in his long life. At least they wouldn’t be able to burn them out, but that didn’t mean they weren’t dangerous. He wondered if there were others trying to attack the encampment and his smile became feral at the thought of even a large number of puny Mortals confronting just a single Maia who probably had the power to destroy whole worlds. He almost wished he were there to see it, then shook his head at that rather bloodthirsty thought, jumping back down to the ground even as Finrod emerged from the house bringing Turgon, Daeron and the kings with him. Valandur trailed behind them along with others, mostly the ellith, who had been inside.

“Locke won,” Daeron said without preamble. “Not all the votes are in, but Locke already has a three-quarters majority. Peterson conceded.”

“Ah, I figured that might be the case,” Glorfindel said, “but, you know, I think this crowd would’ve been here even if Peterson had won. They are too organized and they had to be on their way here even before Peterson’s announcement.”

“They were going to attack us whether Peterson won or lost?” Finrod asked.

“I’m assuming so,” Glorfindel said. “Ah, they’re almost upon us. Swords out, everyone.”

By now, most of the others who had been on patrol as well as those who had been in the house had joined them. The patrollers were all armed with bows, but others had swords, though the three kings and Turgon had to borrow theirs from Edhellond’s armory.

“Do we close the gates?” Haldir asked.

“But that would be rude,” Glorfindel said with a grin. “Archers, find a spot on the wall. Everyone else, let’s greet our guests.”

Those with bows quickly climbed the walls on either side of the gates, settling in position, while the others congregated around Glorfindel and Finrod with Turgon on Glorfindel’s left and Arafinwë on Finrod’s right. Ingwë and Olwë stood directly behind Glorfindel and Finrod with Valandur and Daeron flanking them. The western horizon was still light with the sun which had set a half hour earlier but the stars were peeking out to the east.

“What do they hope to accomplish?” Finrod asked quietly as he stood beside Glorfindel, idly fingering the hilt of his sword, his eyes on the approaching crowd.

“Who knows?” Glorfindel said with a shrug. “And ultimately, who cares? I doubt even they know what they plan to do.” Then he pitched his voice loud enough so those on the wall could hear him, speaking Sindarin. “If you must shoot, don’t shoot to kill.”

“Honestly, Glorfindel, we know what we’re doing,” Brethorn said with a snort of disgust from where he was standing to the left, his bow at the ready.

“I’m just saying,” Glorfindel retorted.

And now the mob was upon them, apparently ignoring the dark figures standing on the wall, holding their bows loosely but at the ready with arrows in their other hands. Some of those with flashlights aimed them at the group standing at the gates.

“Blast! They’re blinding us,” Glorfindel exclaimed, putting his arm up to block out the lights. “So they want to play hardball, do they? Very well.” And the very calmness of his tone as he pulled out his sword alerted his fellow Elves that Glorfindel had ceased to be Loren DelaFiore, the amiable administrator of Elf Academy and friend to all, and was now in full Balrog-slayer-mode. Instinctively, everyone surrounding Glorfindel took a couple of steps away to give him more room.

Glorfindel, noticing, smiled fiercely as he stepped slightly forward into the glare of the lights. “Okay, that’s far enough,” he called out in a loud, commanding voice. “Any closer and I will order you shot down… starting with the women.”

As if that were a signal, every archer lifted his bow, positioned the arrow they’d been holding and targeted a specific female in the crowd, which Glorfindel estimated had to number around fifty or so with about a third of them women.

“You’re bluffing,” one of the men called out, yet the group came to a ragged halt, many of them fearfully eyeing the silent, implacable figures on the wall.

“I never bluff,” Glorfindel assured them, speaking in a more conversational tone. “I always mean exactly what I say. Now, what I want to know is why are you here and what do you hope to accomplish. Oh, and kill the lights before I order everyone with a flashlight shot between the eyes.”

And now all the bowmen shifted their aim just slightly and the Mortals understood that their targets had changed. Glorfindel thought he actually heard a couple of the closer Mortals gulping and two or three actually turned off their torches while the others merely shifted them downward so that the light cast eerie shadows, but the Elves could now see the faces of the Mortals more clearly.

For a long moment, no one spoke, each side staring at the other across a wide gulf that had nothing to do with the physical space between them. Glorfindel stood calmly, already having picked out the so-called leaders of this mob, which wasn’t saying much as far as he was concerned. He actually recognized one or two faces, but most were strangers to him, which made it easier. He would have hated to have to confront people he actually knew and dealt with on a regular basis.

“So, to what do we owe the pleasure?” he finally said. “Your man lost by the way, just in case you didn’t hear.”

“We heard,” one of the men growled, “which is why we’re here, to tell you you’re not wanted here.”

“And do you speak for all of Wiseman?” Glorfindel asked.

“I speak for those who haven’t been deceived by you demons.”

“Demons, is it? Have you ever met one?”

“They say even Satan can appear like an angel of light,” one of the women replied.

“Well that was true once upon a time,” Finrod said, stepping forward to stand beside Glorfindel, “but neither Morgoth nor Sauron are able to do so now and none of their minions were ever able to do so.”

“Morgoth, Sauron,” someone sneered. “Who are they? I don’t recall their names mentioned in the Good Book.”

“Well, names change over time,” Glorfindel said with a shrug, “but Morgoth was the one you know as Lucifer and Sauron was his lieutenant. I suppose you could call him Beelzebub or Azrael if it makes you feel any better. The point is, my children, we Elves have fought against demons in the past and we will probably do so in the future.”

“You’re the demons!” someone screamed from the middle of the crowd.

“Gun!” Gilvegil shouted and immediately several things happened at once. Even as the shooter was lifting his weapon, Glorfindel, with no time to sheath his sword, dropped it and moved, not toward the crowd, but toward the kings and Turgon, shouting for them to drop, grabbing Turgon as he did so and pulling him to the ground, covering him. Finrod was right behind him doing the same with Arafinwë. Ingwë and Olwë were being pulled down by Valandur and Daeron, respectively, while the others at the gates scattered to either side to avoid being hit. At the same time, one of the archers let loose his arrow, hitting the Man with the gun, who screeched, the gun going off and the bullet hitting the bars of the left gate at an angle and ricocheting.

And then everything was pure pandemonium.

A couple of other Mortals began shooting, though in their panic they ended up hitting the wall or one of the trees lining the street. A few people huddled over the downed shooter while others had the good sense to flee, but everyone else, maddened, attempted to storm the gates. What they hoped to accomplish, no one ever found out, for even as the archers were lining up their targets, the twilight burst into brilliant light that rivaled that of the sun, blinding them all. Some of the Mortals screamed in agony, clawing at their eyes, and even the Elves flinched as now several Beings of Light surrounded them all.

And standing before the gates facing the mob was Eönwë in full battle gear, his white cloak streaming behind him, his sword out, staring at them coldly.

For a long moment, no one moved or spoke, the Mortals staring up in awe and trepidation at the blazing figure of the Herald of Manwë, taller than the tallest of the Elves. Around them were other Maiar also in battle dress, their swords out, their expressions cold and remote, carved in alabaster, their eyes giving nothing away as they waited for Eönwë’s signal to either depart or destroy and even the dimmest of the Mortals knew on some visceral level that these Beings would indeed destroy them if ordered to. They might sorrow at having to do so, but they would do it without hesitation and even the Elves knew fear at that cold realization.

“Go home, children,” Eönwë finally said, speaking softly. “While you still can,” he added almost as an afterthought.

“He’s been hit,” a Woman sobbed. “My husband…”

“Erunáro,” Eönwë said, not even looking up as he continued staring at the Mortals.

One of the Maiar sheathed his sword and stepped forward, to kneel before the prone shooter. The Mortals shied away from him, even the Man’s wife, who watched in fear as Erunáro grabbed the arrow stuck in the Man’s right shoulder and broke the shaft before lifting the Man who was moaning in pain and shoving the arrow through, causing the Mortal to scream before he collapsed into unconsciousness. All the other Mortals around him shuddered and there was even the sound of retching as someone became thoroughly sick in the bushes. Erunáro ignored them as he placed a hand over the wound now pumping blood and within a minute it was closed. He laid the Man down on the sidewalk and stood, not a single drop of blood on him.

Eönwë nodded approval and Erunáro bowed his head in respect before returning to his original position beside his twin.

“Go home,” Eönwë reiterated, “but leave your weapons behind, all of them. You can place them here before me.” He used the tip of his sword to indicate the spot and glared at each and every one of them. Glorfindel, looking on, had the feeling that the Maia was remembering every face and mentally recording every name, though for what purpose, even he did not want to know.

At first, no one moved, then one of the warrior Maiar whom Glorfindel did not know stepped beside one of the Women, staring at her intently, silently pointing at the spot before Eönwë. She gulped and dropped the hunting rifle she was carrying at the Herald’s feet.

“And your ammo,” Eönwë said.

The Woman fished through pockets and carefully removed a box and placed it beside the rifle, stepping back. Now others were following her lead, some rather reluctantly, but they left their weapons and ammunition at Eönwë’s feet. Finally, the last gun was handed over and the Herald of Manwë stared at the pile for a time. Then, without a word, he thrust his sword into the middle of the pile and the night went incandescent. Some of the Mortals screamed. Glorfindel hid his eyes, still shielding Turgon. When darkness settled around them again, he blinked open his eyes and stared at where the guns had been, unsure of what he was seeing at first.

It was a statue, about three feet high, made of metal and wood and it was of a Maia or rather an angel with wings holding a bird in its hands, a dove by the look of it, and the angel’s features were suspiciously like Eönwë’s.

“Cute,” Glorfindel muttered as he stood, giving Turgon a hand up and retrieving his sword, sheathing it. Eönwë’s own expression did not alter, though there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes as he sheathed his own sword, his fellow Maiar doing the same. He stared relentlessly at the Mortals whose eyes were solely on the statue, most of them gaping in disbelief and awe.

Before anyone else could comment, there was the flash of multicolored lights and when they could see again, Námo was there in chthonic splendor, dressed in black velvet, his head crowned with a mithril circlet in the shape of flames with a large cut ruby in the center, dully reflecting starlight. His mien was grave, his eyes full of dark wisdom and knowledge. The Mortals all cringed at the sight, some whimpering. Several tried to flee, but Námo raised a hand and to their horror they found that they could not move. Glorfindel, seeing this, thought to make a smart comment, when he heard Valandur whisper, “Loren, Darren’s been hit.”

It was only then that Glorfindel realized that there were several people huddled over a prone figure. He rushed to Daeron’s side, people getting out of his way. The loremaster lay face down over Olwë who was still lying on his back, stricken with grief as he held his brother’s beloved minstrel in his arms. Melyanna was in Helyanwë’s arms, quietly weeping.

“Darren! Darren! Damn! Where’s the blood coming from?” Glorfindel exclaimed as he gave his friend a quick examination.

“I think the bullet nicked an artery,” Elladan said quietly as he knelt on Olwë’s other side, his eyes almost closed as he scanned the unconscious ellon. “It’s lodged close to the heart.”

“Let me see,” Finrod said, joining Glorfindel on the ground, doing his own scanning. “We will have to move fast if we hope to save him,” he said after a moment.

Glorfindel looked up at Námo, who had moved closer, watching them dispassionately. “Is that why you’re here, to take Daeron?” he snarled. Námo did not answer, his gaze fixed on Daeron with grave intent. Glorfindel felt the blood rush from him and he stood to face the Lord of Mandos. “You’re not taking him!” he screamed, launching himself at the Vala. “I won’t let you!”

“Glorfindel, no!” he heard Finrod exclaim as he attempted to attack Námo, not even bothering with his sword. Námo did nothing except raise his right hand in a warning gesture and Glorfindel found himself frozen in place, unable to move his feet. He screamed again, mouthing invectives, his expression full of hate and despair. Then he suddenly stopped and he stood there weeping, sounding like a lost soul.

Finrod, meanwhile, continued to consult with Elladan, the two of them attempting to determine just where the bullet was, ignoring everything and everyone else. Finally Finrod addressed Olwë. “Anatar, I need you to hold Daeron tightly. Any sudden movement could dislodge the bullet.” Olwë simply nodded, tightening his hold ever so slightly.

“Shouldn’t we call an ambulance?” Mithrellas asked.

“There’s no time,” Elladan replied. “If we don’t do something here and now, Darren will die before an ambulance can arrive.”

“What do you mean to do?” Valandur asked.

“What I can,” Finrod replied. “I need someone to hold his legs down.”

At once Barahir and Brethorn dropped their bows and quivers and knelt facing each other, each holding down one of Daeron’s legs. Finrod placed his hands over the wound sluggishly gushing blood and closed his eyes. They all saw him take one or two deep breaths and then to the astonishment of most, though not all, he began to Sing, the power manifesting itself as a white light that hovered over the loremaster’s prone body. Several of the Mortals gasped at the sheer beauty of the Elf prince’s voice as he Sang in an archaic form of Quenya, barely understandable to most of the younger Elves, though Valandur was seen to nod.

And then, Námo joined him.

Finrod’s voice was exquisite, but Námo’s was ethereal and haunting in its darkness, the very dark between the stars which he had helped to bring into existence with all the other Valar. Several of the Mortals, both men and women, fainted outright, the rest wept quietly or simply stared in stupefaction. Even the Elves, especially those not originally from Valinor, were visibly affected as well, swaying slightly at the Power being exhibited.

Time stood still for them all. How long the two Sang, Vala and Elda, none could have said. At some point, Finrod’s voice faltered, becoming a raspy whisper as he continued to exert his waning Power. Elladan reached out and held him upright. Námo never stopped Singing and in fact seemed to take over for the Elf at the very end, his voice crescendoing into a final triumphant paean of praise. And then, the Maiar, nearly forgotten by all, joined the Vala in the final refrain, their voices exultant, their expressions beyond joy, so that none could look upon them. The entire night sang and the white light around Daeron expanded like a miniature nova and his body seemed to shudder. Finrod actually collapsed over him as Námo and the Maiar fell silent.

Glorfindel had been as caught up by the music as any of the others, his weeping stilled, his emotions calmed. When the last note faded into eternity, he found he could move again. Námo never looked at him, still intent on Daeron. Glorfindel turned to see what was happening and saw Elladan helping Finrod to his feet, his gwador beyond exhaustion as he clung to the younger ellon. Glorfindel moved to take Finrod in his arms, freeing Elladan. Barahir and Brethorn had also risen, retrieving their weapons, staring at the prince in obvious awe. Arafinwë and Ingwë now came from where they had stood watching the drama unfold, kneeling beside Olwë as the Lindaran continued to hold Daeron in his arms, apparently unwilling to release him into the care of others. Arafinwë stroked his father-in-law’s hair, speaking softly, as if to a small child, and Olwë finally relaxed his grip enough for Ingwë to lift the still unconscious Sinda into his arms and without a word headed for the house with Elladan, along with Melyanwë and Helyanwë, beside him. Arafinwë helped Olwë up, hugging him, and then the two followed with Turgon joining them.

“You need to rest,” Glorfindel said softly to Finrod who stood swaying slightly, blinking in an attempt to remain upright and awake.

“Soon,” Finrod said as he gathered himself together and faced Námo. “Thank you.”

Námo nodded in acknowledgement, then stared at Glorfindel who gulped. The Vala’s expression could have been carved in stone. “I do not always take, child,” he said, his voice dark with something that none listening could safely analyze. “Sometimes, I am allowed to give. I was doing more than helping Finrod, I was also keeping Daeron’s fëa anchored in his hröa.”

“Why you, my lord, and not Lady Estë?” Valandur asked politely.

Námo’s expression lightened slightly. “My sister is more than capable of healing the hurts of your hröar, however damaged, but I, by virtue of my office as Lord of Mandos, am the only one with the power and authority to handle the fëar of mirroanwi. Daeron heard my call and would have come to me had I not stayed his flight.”

“Couldn’t you have… er… not called him?” Brethorn asked, giving the Vala a wry look.

Námo lifted an eyebrow. “Can you will your heart to stop beating?” he retorted. “But I do have discretion, very limited and as Eru decrees, as He did in this case.” He paused, giving them a considering look. Glorfindel steeled himself as from a blow when the Vala’s gaze landed on him, but there was no recrimination in Námo’s eyes, only compassion and even amusement and Glorfindel was reminded of Ingwë’s description of the Valar as elflings stirring up an ant’s nest.

Námo shifted his gaze and Glorfindel found himself able to breathe again.

“I think you may dismiss your warriors, Eönwë,” Námo said to the Herald. “I will handle this, but remain with me.”

Eönwë gave the Vala a nod of acknowledgement and without a word all the other Maiar gave him and Námo profound bows before fading from sight. Námo turned to face the Mortals who were huddled together, their expressions ones of fear. The Man who had been hit by the arrow was now conscious, his arms wrapped protectively around his wife. The Lord of Mandos glanced at the statue still standing before the gates and raised an eyebrow.

“Cute,” he said.

Eönwë laughed. “So Glorfindel thinks as well.”

“Of course,” Námo retorted, giving Glorfindel a wink, which surprised the ellon. Then his expression darkened as he returned his attention to the Mortals. Glorfindel and the other Elves watched dispassionately as they all cringed. “You are playing a dangerous game, my children,” Námo said almost conversationally, yet they all heard the dark threat behind the words. “If not for my intervention, you would all have been guilty of murder regardless of who actually pulled the trigger. As it is, I will have Eönwë speak with David Michaelson and he will give the good captain your names. We will let your police and the district attorney decide your fates. Do not attempt to flee or hide or I will send my Maiar to hunt you down and those who hold allegiance to me are far more deadly than any of the warrior Maiar you saw tonight.” He paused to let that tidbit of information and its implications sink in and then said, “Now I suggest you all go home… while you still can.”

There was a brief, painful moment of silence and then the Mortals were all scrambling to their feet and running. Soon, only the Elves, Námo and Eönwë were left. Námo turned to Glorfindel and Finrod. “Daeron will live, though he will be weak for some time. I suggest you go pick up the healers. Send the kings back to the encampment. It’s safe there.”

“What about here?” Finrod asked, his voice a mere husk of sound and he swallowed hard as if in pain.

“I will have one of my people keep watch,” Eönwë answered. “No harm will come to any within these gates.”

Glorfindel nodded. “I’ll go round up the healers. Val, you want to see to Finrod?”

Valandur nodded and took Finrod by the elbow as Glorfindel issued orders, dispersing everyone. “Barry, you’re riding shotgun,” he said to Barahir. “Here, Brian, take my sword, will you? Thanks.” He handed Brethorn his sword and Barahir handed off his own weapons to Haldir.

“What do we do with the statue?” Valandur asked as Glorfindel and Barahir started to walk away.

“Well we can’t leave it here,” Glorfindel replied, casting a scowl at the statue. “I don’t care. Just get rid of it. Last thing I want is to be staring at his face every time I turn around even if it is only a statue.” He nodded toward an amused-looking Eönwë.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Námo said in an off-hand manner. “It might keep you in line more if you are constantly reminded that others are looking after you.”

“I don’t need looking after,” Glorfindel retorted with a sneer.

Finrod started coughing, sounding suspiciously as if he were trying not to laugh, and Glorfindel glared at him. “Just get rid of it,” he ordered. “I—”

His phone rang and with a sigh he pulled it out of his pocket and opened it. “Yes, Randall… No, we haven’t forgotten you… we had some… um… unexpected visitors. They’ve just left and I was on my way to get you… Yes, I’ve got the keys in my hand as we speak. Listen, do me a favor. Call whoever’s at the clinic and tell them to make for the encampment and stay there tonight… I’ll explain everything when I see you… Yeah, ten minutes.” He closed the phone down. “Let’s go, Barry.” With that he walked away with Barahir following, casting a knowing smile at the others, rolling his eyes.

“Well, we should at least move the statue out of the way so Loren can get out,” Brethorn suggested.

Findalaurë, who happened to be closest, picked the statue up, grunting slightly as he brought it inside the gates and set it down by the wall out of the way. “It’s heavier than it looks,” he said apologetically. Headlights appeared and everyone moved off the drive to let Glorfindel through.

When the van was gone, Finrod ordered Brethorn to stand watch until Glorfindel returned with the healers while everyone else went back inside. No one paid much attention to either Námo or Eönwë. The Maia, in fact, faded from view on Námo’s orders, leaving the Vala alone with Brethorn, the ellon calmly standing by the gates looking out, his bow in hand.

“So, how are you faring, best beloved?” Námo asked after a moment or two of silence.

Brethorn gave the Lord of Mandos an amused look. “I haven’t had this much fun since I wreaked havoc in Mandos, my lord.”

Námo’s only response was a raised eyebrow.