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Elrond was already injured enough to warrant concern—even for an elf. A sword through the chest certainly would not help matters, but his task was not yet complete. He refused to fail, to allow Adar to use Galadriel’s ring for his own ill intents, to allow Celebrimbor to remain subject to Sauron’s cruel whims.
But he could not prevent both at once, not without a plan.
The orcs ran gracelessly past him, thinking him dead on the muddy ground as they poured into the city past the collapsed wall. Their thundering steps against the earth perpetuated his already splintering headache, and dazedly he looked across the battlefield to see the High King and other soldiers battling with what little strength they had left. There were not many orcs remaining, the majority of them already inside the city so it would not be long until the battlefield settled into silence.
All that was left was corpses and injured soldiers… Elven healers had not accompanied them this far and were back at the small base camp at least a couple miles away.
Elrond himself was a healer—he was more suited for it—but Middle Earth needed a warrior, now. The High King would have to use his ring, as loathe as Elrond was to admit it, to heal their soldiers in whatever way he could… the way Elrond wished he himself could.
He could not be certain if Gil-galad had met his gaze from afar while knelt next to the Silvan elf. Elrond did not leave time for the High King to move towards him if he had noticed him, scrambling up from what could have been his muddy grave had Adar not spared him.
He dragged his sword alongside him, stumbling along until he built enough mental fortitude to lend his body one last surge of strength to reach his goal.
Elrond knew that Adar wanted to kill Sauron, and he knew that Sauron likely held Celebrimbor captive. There was also Galadriel to consider, who likely would be in the midst of any battle against Sauron. In summary, if he found one of them, he would find the others.
The orcs for the most part took no notice of him, and when they did he silenced them with his blade. Elrond crept along the side streets of Ost-in-Edhil, a once pristine city now covered in damp darkness and dried blood. Some straggling citizens’—innocents’—screams echoed down a stone alleyway, and he flinched. A flash of a memory from a time long passed flared in his mind, and the effort it took to shove it away left him leaning against the stone wall for support. A sworn oath lead to the heartbreak of that day, and another sworn oath had lead to this day.
He could have kept charging, decimated the orcs’ front line so easily that they would not have needed Durin anyway… it was what he had sworn to Galadriel when she gave him her ring—if it came to her or the ring, he was to choose the ring and the destruction of Sauron.
But he could not keep that promise.
His heart had not hardened so much that he would abandon her to torment and death. While he did not believe Galadriel beyond Sauron’s influence, he could not deny that who she was at her core had not changed—powerful and determined, but still wise and caring. She was his dearest friend, his guiding light, and he did not know who he would be without that light in his life. Elrond had lost enough loved ones in his time on this Middle Earth, he could not bear to lose another.
Not Galadriel.
Which was why he needed to find her as well. If he could, he would run both Adar and Sauron through for their deeds. He should not hate—he believed it beneath him—but perhaps it was the man in him that roared for blood as recompense for his fallen friends. Not for the first time in his life did his soul ache for the companionship of his brother. Half-elven like him, but even with his mortal life somehow more venerable than Elrond. Perhaps he would have been able to spare Eregion from annihilation. But Elros had been dead for millenia, and there was no use in wishing otherwise or pondering what could have been.
The thought did nothing to soothe the ache within him.
He bore the pain in his heart and body with grit teeth, forcing himself to carry on with his mission and focusing on the pull of light that was Nenya. It mimicked Galadriel’s light that had entranced Sauron so. Elrond grimaced at the thought, a rush of nausea flowing from his stomach and lodging itself in his throat.
Another orc noticed him as he reached the old dwarven tunnels that lead out of the city. He tried to dispatch of it quickly, but the fiend was able to grab a fistful of Elrond’s hair and slam his head against the wall of the tunnel entrance. Stars exploded across his vision, and he wildly swung his blade without grace or finesse. By some luck that was not his, his blade struck true and the orc was silenced.
He whimpered as the world tilted sideways and something dripped into his eyes, temporarily blinding him.
By the Valar, he was not going to survive this, was he?
Elrond gathered himself. He could not despair—
—even though Durin abandoned him, Galadriel had lied to him, Celebrimbor was likely dead and thus had failed his father—
“No,” he muttered to himself. He would not give into it.
Elrond continued onward, wiping what he had discovered to be blood out of his eyes and using the walls of the tunnel as support.
After what felt like years in the dark tunnel with only his distorted elven sight to guide him, Elrond came upon a stone clearing amongst the trees.
He stood for a moment, appreciating the quiet noises of the wildlife that remained untouched by the battle behind him—or so he thought. He could hear the clashing of blades distantly and heard a cry of anguish that sounded all too familiar.
He was going to scream Galadriel’s name, but he had to raise his sword hastily to block an incoming strike from an attacker before he could.
It was the damned Uruk.
Elrond’s neck still stung from his harsh grip earlier, and his health had certainly declined since then.
“I can’t have you distracting her, peredhel,” the Uruk mumbled, eyeing him warily. “This is the way to rid this Middle Earth of Sauron’s influence, can you not see? Who are you to impede upon destiny?”
Elrond did not retort, having grown far too tired to entertain Adar with idle conversation. Normally, Elrond loved to engage in such negotiations and debates. At the moment, he would rather the Uruk be silent—permanently. Besides, how could he argue the concept of “destiny” to one who had no foresight, no wisdom?
Adar moved from a place of pain and it clouded the future before him. Elrond had suffered as well—was currently suffering—however, he never let it take root in his mind. He would remain good.
Being good did not serve him well in the moment, of course.
The subsequent fight was laughably short—seeing as Elrond was stumbling through it—and Adar had cornered him. He kicked Elrond to the ground, his boot pushing down on the elf’s assuredly cracked ribs.
Elrond wheezed, clawing for enough air to scream in pain but he could not breathe—
“I was once like you, peredhel. Beautiful, kind, perhaps even as venerable as you and your bloodline. And with these rings, I could be so again. I would destroy Sauron.” Adar leaned closer, a smirk growing upon his visage at the sight of Elrond struggling. “You, who would consider yourself wise, have proven to be a fool.”
Elrond wished to roll his eyes in exasperation, but he had not the energy to do so. The rings would not make Adar whole again, they would only amplify the pain within him. It was why Elrond feared them in the first place. What would they bring out of his friends? Were they not touched by Sauron anyway?
At the moment, Adar still held Nenya in his cursed grip. He removed his boot from Elrond’s chest and raised his blade in his other hand for a killing blow.
Elrond could block this strike, but he knew himself too weak to repel the Uruk’s blade for long. What mattered was the ring, though damned he believed it to be. He had a fleeting thought—Gil-galad would surely have chided him for it—and did not dwell on what consequences his next action would bring. He prayed this final instinct would be enough.
Elrond swiped his blade at the hand that held Nenya, severing it from Adar’s arm. At the same time, the Uruk’s blade pierced Elrond’s abdomen just below his sternum where his boot had been moments earlier.
It was a pain unlike any he had ever felt before and it stole any breath in his lungs that could have produced a scream. Adar’s scream was born of annoyance more than anything else but was loud enough to echo through the woods, just as Elrond intended. The clashing swords in the distance stuttered to a stop, and the elf’s lips twitched into something like a smile.
Galadriel wanted nothing more than to kill Sauron, this much he knew. But he also knew, either by foresight or some other intervention he could not name, that the servant of evil could not be destroyed by her hand alone. It would be far in the future, and what mattered most was the survival of their race—Galadriel’s survival. His goal had been to pull her away from that duel and to protect the ring from one who would use it to destroy.
Elrond did not foresee his own death in any vision, which was strange—he certainly felt like he was dying, so he must have missed it. If he could, he would have chuckled bitterly.
Blood pooled in the corners of his mouth, running down the sides of his face. Blood flooded his lungs. Blood leaked out beneath him. It was all he could taste, all he could smell, all he could speak of, if gurgling could be counted as speech.
Adar staggered backwards, taking his sword with him and removing it from Elrond’s flesh. His own black blood ponded around Nenya and his severed hand, which lay a few yards away between the two of them. The Uruk moved towards the ring, but was stopped by two arrows piercing his cursed flesh in quick succession.
It was the Silvan elf—he had followed Elrond’s path and happened upon them. Elrond could see the young elf’s vengeance flaring to life as he fought the Uruk, but his neck grew too tired to hold his head up and he let it fall to the ground limply.
He did not know what transpired around him anymore, letting his mind go off to places far from the torment he suffered now in his body. If he was to go to the Halls of Mandos, he prayed it would be soon to spare him from this agony—he felt he was owed that much.
“Commander!” the Silvan elf’s voice cut through the silence he’d grown accustomed to. A face swam before his vision, but he could not truly see the elf above him. He’d fought valiantly, and likely had defeated the Uruk. For that alone, Elrond would trust him.
“What is your name?” he muttered brokenly in Sindarin.
“Arondir.”
Elrond hummed, satisfied that he knew who would be able to protect Galadriel once he was gone. They would be safe with Adar dead or destroyed, and that would be enough until they could amass an attack against Sauron. He had done his duty—perhaps now he could rest.
“No, no, Commander! Do not answer the call, not yet,” Arondir spoke urgently.
Elrond wheezed again, the pain returning as he drew his consciousness back to himself. He feared there was something else that had need of him and that was why Arondir panicked. It was habit for him to put duty above all else, even his own peace. He did not think he could hold on for long, however.
Something metal was pressed into his palm, and the warm hands of Arondir enclosed his own. Elrond did not realize how cold he had become, and he nearly pressed his hand further into the other elf’s touch.
“You must put it on, it will heal you.”
At once, he realized what Arondir asked of him.
“No,” he whined. “No, keep it away, keep it away…”
“Commander—”
“Elrond!” Galadriel’s voice was a sweet boone, like the sound of the wind rustling the leaves of Lindon, the waves crashing against the bluffs of the Havens of Sirion…
“Elrond, my dear friend, do not go where we cannot follow,” she spoke in Quenya, the words washing over him in wave of warmth that was soft like the silk of the dresses she always favored. “I cannot lose you, not to death. Do not leave me, dearest one.”
Elrond gurgled once more, opening his eyes to see the star-kissed glint of her hair—even in battle, it shone with the light of the Trees that he had never even seen but perceived with only a glance at her beauty. How lucky was he to have a friend so ethereal? And he had shut her out from his heart, for what?
Finally, tears welled and spilled down his face, mingling with the blood.
“Galadriel…” he mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut. She hushed him, though her voice wavered.
“He refuses to wear the ring,” came Arondir’s voice. “I do not know if you can convince him.”
She shook her head. “We have lost many elves today, but we cannot lose Elrond—that is too high a price,” she said, muttering the last bit.
Galadriel wiped the tears from his face, dirtying her hands with his blood and dirt. Her skin was not as soft as it once was, but the callouses were familiar and just as comforting.
“Will you let me help you, my dear friend?” she asked sweetly, brushing blood-matted hair back from his face.
“I cannot… the ring, it is dangerous…” he trailed off, turning his head to cough and spit blood all over the ground and Galadriel’s hand.
She was quiet for a moment, pondering her next words.
“I trust you, I trust you with everything I am. Can you trust me like I trust you, Elrond?”
He thought back to what Círdan had said to him weeks ago—the bearers of the rings were those he trusted most in this world. He could not abandon them because of his fear or his pride. Elrond just could not bear the thought of losing them to darkness. He had thought Galadriel changed because of the Ring. She had indeed, though not in the way he expected. Some desire for power and vengeance inside of her was now sated, and she put the lives of those she loved over her mission—a feat she had yet to accomplish.
Galadriel had abandoned her battle with Sauron to be at Elrond’s side. He believed that warranted his trust enough.
He had not the strength to speak anymore, instead dragging his eyes to meet hers. They were stern, but behind her piercing gaze he saw her fear and terror. All he wanted was to soothe that pain behind her eyes, and he supposed this was the best way to do it.
Elrond nodded weakly and watched Galadriel’s visage soften with relief immediately. She slowly slid the ring upon his forefinger, and almost instantly his pain was soothed. The ice that settled in his veins melted away, traveling up his arm and towards his heart. The sensation was unlike anything he had ever experienced—it was euphoric compared to his previous state of being.
“Come back to us,” Galadriel whispered as she rested her forehead against his own. A tear fell down her face and dripped onto his cheek. With his newfound strength, he was able to raise his arm and brush the tears away from her own cheeks.
She smiled, causing Elrond to smile in turn.
He did not know if it was the ring or Galadriel that urged him to rest, but the silent suggestion was very welcoming. Here, he was safe to let go—no longer to the Halls of Mandos, but to blissful unconsciousness. He knew upon waking he would be surrounded by those he loved, and that was quite the encouraging thought.
When Elrond awoke, he lay on soft linen draped over fluffy grass. The ring was gone from his finger, along with his armor and any hint of his injuries aside from a bone-deep tiredness.
He took in his surroundings, finding himself in a beautiful rocky glade. Below him ran a clear stream and musical waterfall, the survivors of Eregion camped out along its grassy shores.
“If you do anything like that again, Elrond… I swear I will go mad.”
Elrond slowly turned his head, grimacing as he leant up on his elbow to face Gil-galad.
Oh, he was in for it.
“Why is that?” he said, his dry throat causing his voice to break. The attempt at humor fell flat, and Gil-galad stood up hastily.
“It is because—”
“Because you are our dear friend, and without you this Middle Earth would frightfully dull and lacking,” interrupted Galadriel. She raised an eyebrow at the King whilst she glided towards Elrond with a water skin in hand.
He took the water graciously, drinking it down slowly so as not to make himself sick. Elrond pushed himself upright, though his arms shook, and swung his legs around his makeshift bed to face his friends. Galadriel guided him as he turned slowly due to the weakness in his limbs. He was used to being the caretaker, knowing intimately the steps to heal someone ill. He found it strange to be on the receiving end of it.
“Thank you.”
Galadriel only smiled in response. The starlight in her eyes twinkled, and Elrond could not help but lean against her shoulder as he basked in the comfort she offered freely.
“Where is Arondir? I should like to thank him as well.”
“He is helping the survivors set up camp, though he will be meeting with us soon to discuss our plans moving forward,” she explained.
Elrond’s heart sank. “Celebrimbor?”
Galadriel sighed, and her gaze turned sorrowful. “I am sorry, Elrond.”
He looked away, guilt burning in his gut. “No, I am sorry. I failed. I failed my King, and I failed my father, who foresaw that Celebrimbor’s life would one day be in my hands…”
“Elrond, you did not fail,” the High King said, moving forwards and kneeling before Elrond. “I asked that you lead an army to certain death, and still you managed to help us save all of these people here in this glade.” He gestured to the elves surrounding them all. He did not notice at first, but here were many survivors—more than he originally believed. “And we almost lost you. I would never have been able to forgive myself if that had happened. But you are here, and I have never been more grateful.” Gil-galad rested a hand on Elrond’s shoulder.
Elrond accepted the words of praise with a warm heart, but he could not let go of everything he had witnessed, all the elves that perished…
“This was all Sauron’s design,” Galadriel sneered, though her words did not have as much bite to them as they usually did when speaking of the Deceiver. She soon mollified when she met Elrond’s gaze. “Most of it we could not have prevented. But what will happen is another matter entirely. Will you help us, dearest friend?” she asked, bringing a hand to his cheek.
He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes.
“Always.”