The Chain That Snaps by StarSpray

Then sudden Felagund there swaying
Sang in answer a song of staying,
Resisting, battling against power,
Of secrets kept, strength like a tower,
And trust unbroken, freedom, escape;
Of changing and of shifting shape,
Of snares eluded, broken traps,
The prison opening, the chain that snaps.
- The Lay of Leithian, Canto VII

- - 

TA 2941

The Necromancer’s retreat was marked by a sudden shift in the air; Elrohir felt his ears pop with it. Just as suddenly confusion fell over the orcs still fighting outside the tower, and the battle swiftly became a rout. Elrohir fought back to back with Elladan, as they always did, moving in tandem; Glorfindel was close by, a bright golden beacon under the dark clouds swirling in the sky overhead, and the blades of Lothlórien flashed around them; Glamdring shone with pale fire; arrows fell like rain upon the orcs as they fled. The ground was treacherous, rocky and barren, uneven, scorched and littered with rents and pits where the devices of Saruman and Gandalf had made their marks—and bodies, and bones, and bits of old armor or weapons cast aside and forgotten, left to rust and fade away. Fires still burned in places, the fumes settling in a smoky haze over the wide clearing around the tower.

All in all the battle lasted less than two days—far shorter than Elrohir had been expecting. He’d been prepared for a siege to last until the snows came. The worst was at the end, when they had to drive the orcs out of the tower itself when they fled back into it, down into the dungeons to slaughter the prisoners there before they could be rescued. There were many places to hide in the twisting and turning corridors and maze of rooms inside—many places for ambushes and traps. Fortunately for them all, the orcs were too frightened for many of them to realize it, and by nightfall on the second day the last of them had either fled into the forest or had been killed. 

Once they were certain it was safe, Elladan and Elrohir paused to check on each other, looking for wounds that might have gone unnoticed in the melee. Elrohir had been struck once in the side, but though they ached his ribs were not more than bruised. Elladan had an ugly gash on his forearm that Elrohir quickly bandaged, finding it shallower than it had looked at first glance, though it bled freely. Then they leaned on one another for a moment, catching their breath and letting the tremors come and go. It was always thus after a battle. Elrohir rested his head on Elladan’s, and Elladan gripped the back of his neck. They did not need to speak. They’d made it through, and they would make it home again.

Then: the prisons, cells and pits and dungeons filled with horror and darkness. Elrohir followed after Elladan, both of them calling in all the tongues that they knew that were used in this part of the world; others from Lórien followed them, also calling out, all of them carrying bright lanterns to chase away the shadows. They received few answers, and those they did were weak and in many cases incredulous, fearful and disbelieving that their fortunes had changed so dramatically so suddenly. Elrohir wondered if they had even been aware of the fighting above. The weight of the stones over their heads was oppressive, even with the doors all flung open and the Enemy departed, and fresh air allowed to make its way down the stairs, flowing like cool water into the deepest parts of the dungeons.

They checked all the doors they came to that would open to them, regardless of answer—there were fewer prisoners than they had feared, but many were too weak to answer at all. There were Men and Elves, though no dwarves—poor Thráin had been the only one, and he was long dead. They found many bones, too, and those were taken to be buried in a fair place by the river where flowers would be planted over the mounds to bloom in the sunshine, as unlike this terrible place as it was possible. 

One door caught Elrohir’s eye as he passed it, but it seemed to have been left closed for a long time—its lock was rusted shut, and when he tried the handle, it wouldn’t turn however hard he pulled. “Elrohir, over here!” called Elladan, and Elrohir left to help with prisoners in a cell that would open. But every time he passed back that way he looked at the rusted lock, and felt more and more certain that he needed to see what lay beyond it. 

Finally, he stopped to try again, this time just slamming the pommel of his dagger against the rusted metal until it fell in pieces to the floor. He pushed at the door, slowly opening it as the hinges screamed until it stopped, suddenly—the warped wood caught on the uneven floor beyond—but he’d gotten it wide enough to shine the beam of his lantern into the darkness beyond. He squinted into the gloom as Elladan came up behind him. “Leave it,” he said. “There can’t be anyone in there if the door won’t even—”

“There is someone!” Elrohir gasped. He’d seen movement, and heard the drag of metal chains over the floor. “I saw—here, help me—” He set the lantern down and threw his shoulder against the door. Elladan joined him on the next try, cursing as he hit his wounded arm. Elrohir’s ribs hurt too, but it was little enough price to pay to get whoever was in there out. 

He could scarcely imagine the horror of it, being thrown into a dark and freezing cell and left there for so long that the door rusted shut. When the door at last splintered and broke, folding in half with the force of their combined weight he stumbled, tripping over it. Elladan caught him, and they hurried over to the prisoner. 

Whoever he was, he was terribly thin, pale from so long in the dark. His hair was long and matted with dirt and probably other worse things; it fell over his face, which was turned away from the lantern light, and he was trembling like a leaf in a stiff breeze. Elrohir dimmed the light and set it down where it would not shine too brightly. 

“Ai, Elbereth,” Elladan murmured. “Look at his chest.” His whole body was a patchwork of scars. The stones beneath him were rust-colored with the dried blood of long ago. The worst of the marks was obvious—a livid brand on the middle of his chest depicting the Eye. None of the other prisoners they’d seen had received such a mark, and Elrohir wondered at it.

But even that was not as horrible as what Elrohir next caught sight of. “Look at his mouth,” he breathed as he reached out to touch the prisoner’s arm, to start looking for any fresh wounds that needed attention. He jerked away from Elrohir’s touch, smacking his head against the wall. “Easy,” Elrohir said, trying to be as gentle as he could, though he wanted to scoop the prisoner up and carry him out of there as quickly as possible, out of the dark and cold into the sunshine; but that would risk further harm, and probably just frighten him even more. “We’re here to help you, not hurt you.” Tears leaked out of tightly shut eyes. “Elladan.” Elrohir looked over his shoulder, and Elladan nodded, rising to his feet. “We’ll need a stretcher.” 

Elladan hurried away, and Elrohir checked for other wounds, for broken bones or fresh bruises, but found none. At last he took the prisoner’s face in his hands, turning him towards the light so he could take a better look at the stitches through his lips. The thick thread was dark, and the skin around it had long healed, sealing his mouth shut tightly. “Can you hear me?” he asked. “Can you open your eyes?” He was fairly sure the prisoner could hear, but it might be that he had forgotten the tongues of the outside world. 

He had not forgotten. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the lantern light. He stared at Elrohir with a strange look—horror and helpless fear mixed with longing and perhaps…recognition? But Elrohir did not recognize him, he was sure. And there was something else in his eyes too—a Light that Elrohir had seen before only in a handful of people, dimmed by pain and fear, but not extinguished. “It’s all right,” Elrohir said. “We’re going to take you away from this place.” At that the tears fell more quickly, and he wiped them away as best he could, continuing to speak words of comfort, promises of sunshine and warm blankets, and fresh air and cool water, but he wasn’t sure that the prisoner really heard any of it. 

Elladan returned with Glorfindel and the stretcher, and with something to cut the chains. The prisoner closed his eyes again, turning his face away from them. It was as Elrohir took up the prisoner’s right hand to wrap bandages around the raw and tender skin of his wrist that he discovered more scars on his palm. They caught his attention because otherwise his hands were unharmed, aside from ragged fingernails and weakness. He turned the hand over to see the remnants of an old burn—there was a strange pattern to the scars, as of the facets of a jewel. 

Oh. Elrohir looked at the prisoner’s face again; tears still fell silently, sliding down his temples and into his hair. Then Elrohir looked at Elladan and Glorfindel, who looked at the hand and then sharply at the prisoner’s face—at Maglor’s face, for who else could it be? The stitches through his lips made a sudden, horrific sense. 

They worked quickly, breaking the rest of chains and wrapping Maglor in a thick blanket. Elladan sang as he worked, a lullaby that first made Maglor shudder, until he was caught up in its soft melody and drawn into sleep—a real slumber, gentler than any he would have found in this place. 

“How came he here, I wonder?” Elladan said as Elrohir and Glorfindel lifted the stretcher. It was not heavy, and that was a worry in itself. 

“Time enough for wondering later,” said Glorfindel as he carefully stepped over the remnants of the door. “I fear he will not survive long now that the Necromancer has gone. We must get him to Lady Galadriel, and quickly.” 

It had taken all night to clear the dungeons, and dawn was breaking as they carried Maglor up out of Dol Guldur. Radagast was there with Saruman, but Gandalf was nowhere to be seen. “Word came suddenly that Smaug has been slain,” Radagast told them when Elladan asked after him, “and Gandalf has gone away into the north. He is quite concerned about the party of dwarves that he aided on their way to the Mountain. Is this the last of the prisoners?”

“I think so,” said Glorfindel, “but there are others making sure the place is empty. We must get all of them back across the river as soon as we can.” 

“Yes,” Radagast agreed, shivering. “The soon we leave this place the happier I will be.”

“I wish to look again inside,” said Saruman, “to see what secrets the Enemy may have left behind in his haste. I will join you in Lothlórien when I have finished.” He did not so much as glance a Maglor on the stretcher, though Radagast looked, and shook his head in sad pity. 

Dawn had brought clear skies with it, even over Dol Guldur, but it remained dark and gloomy beneath the thick trees. Radagast went before them with his staff illuminated, and Elladan carried the lantern; others fell in beside and behind them, carrying other prisoners or helping those that could—or insisted that they could—walk on their own two feet. The chaos and noise of the battle had chased away all the fell creatures that lived in that part of the wood, and the only sign of spiders they saw were broken bits of webbing hanging from the trees overhead. The trees were full of dark thoughts, though, and the darkness was all the more oppressive knowing that somewhere above the thick and tangled canopy was bright sun and blue sky. Someone began to sing, and kept singing though her voice fell flat in the still air beneath the trees, and the rest of them soon joined her, defiant against the shadows and the evil that had dwelt there. Some of the rescued prisoners wept—those who still had strength for shedding tears.

It was with relief that they passed out of the wood at last. Elrohir felt as though he could fill his lungs properly again. They could move more quickly then, and by evening they came within sight of the river, and by the time Gil-Estel rose over the horizon they were at the water’s edge. There they stopped to rest while they waited for the boats to come from the other side. Elrohir sat beside Maglor and took his hand. Maglor slept on; his breathing was steady and even. In the starlight he seemed almost ghostly, his skin so pale as to be nearly translucent. Elladan crouched beside Elrohir. “We must send a message to Ada as soon as we can,” he said softly. Elrohir nodded. 

Elrond did not speak often of his childhood, or of Maglor, and all of his children had learned early not to ask. Not because he would refuse to answer—he never refused—but because they could not bear to see the flash of sorrow that always crossed his face before he hid it behind his usual warm smile. Elrohir knew, though, that many of the lullabies of their childhood had been first sung to Elrond by Maglor, long ago, and he knew that there had always been a room set aside for him in Rivendell, though hope that its intended occupant would ever come had dwindled a little more with each passing year. And now here was Maglor, found in the most terrible and unexpected of places. The knowledge of it would bring great grief to their father, Elrohir knew. No one deserved to suffer such a fate.

“We will take you home to Rivendell,” he whispered to Maglor, as Elladan left to speak to Radagast. “You must not fade away before we can.” Maglor, of course, did not stir, but even in sleep a few tears escaped. Elrohir wiped them away.

The boats came at last, riding up onto the stony banks of the river with a wet crunch. Everyone moved swiftly, helping the freed prisoners into the boats; others kept watch with their bows ready, arrows upon the strings, lest some last trick of the Necromancer seek to catch them unawares. Elrohir stepped into a boat as Glorfindel and Elladan lifted Maglor from the stretcher, which was quickly rolled up and tucked into the boat alongside them. They handed Maglor into the boat, and Elrohir cradled him against his chest, holding him steady against the rocking and the current and able to count the bones of his spine beneath the criss-crossing scars—and then they were off, oars slicing through the waters as the current carried them downstream until they came to the Silverlode and passed out of the Anduin and upstream to the landing place just outside of Caras Galadhon. Galadriel awaited them there.

“Grandmother!” Elladan jumped out of the boat as Glorfindel took out the stretcher, and steadied the boat for Elrohir to climb out with Maglor. Elladan spoke quickly and quietly to Galadriel, and she came back to their dock with him, kneeling to look into Maglor’s face, placing her hand on his cheek. He flinched but did not wake. 

“Where did you find him?” she asked. Elrohir had never heard her voice shake before, but it was unsteady now, and her fingers trembled slightly as she traced them over the scar across Maglor’s cheek.

“In one of the deepest dungeons,” Elladan said as Elrohir and Glorfindel shifted Maglor back onto the stretcher. 

“We had to break down the door,” added Elrohir. Galadriel’s face was pale in the lamplight, her lips pressed tightly together. She bent down to run a hand over Maglor’s face once more before straightening. “Ask Eleryn to find a room for him, close to ours,” she said. “Do not let him wake before I come. We must—we must free his mouth before anything.” She kissed each of them, Elladan and Elrohir, swiftly on the forehead before turning away to someone else who needed her attention. 

Arwen was with Eleryn when they came at last to Galadriel and Celeborn’s talan in the center of the city. “Who is this?” she exclaimed, rising from her seat. 

“Our grandmother wishes a room made ready for him near the family quarters,” Elladan said to Eleryn. 

“I know of one,” said Eleryn, nodding briskly. “This way!” She led them down a hallway and to a small room very close to the one Elladan and Elrohir shared when they were in Lórien. The bed was nestled by the window that was open to let in a fresh breeze, and warm rugs covered the floor. “What else do you need?”

“Athelas,” said Arwen as Elrohir and Glorfindel lifted Maglor onto the bed. “But first warm water and soap, and clothes, and a comb…?”

“Shears, I think,” said Glorfindel, grimacing as he lifted some of Maglor’s hair, all matted and clumped together. “And then a comb. When Galadriel comes, we will remove these.” He touched a finger to Maglor’s lips, and the cords that bound them together. 

As Eleryn departed almost at a run, Arwen pressed her fingers to her own lips. “But who is he?” she asked. 

“Maglor, son of Fëanor,” Glorfindel said grimly. 

“Maglor—he was in Dol Guldur?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure he knew what was happening when we found him,” Elladan said. “He kept looking at us like we would transform into orcs at any moment.”

“Or like we were ghosts,” said Elrohir. He sat on the edge of the bed and pressed a hand to his aching side. 

“Well, of course,” said Arwen, as though she had expected nothing less. All three of them looked at her, startled. “The two of you look so like Ada—of course you would frighten him, appearing so suddenly in the dark. Who knows what other horrible tricks were played on him in that place?”

“Oh,” said Elladan blankly.

Eleryn returned with a basin of warm water, soap, and rags, and she and Arwen left to get the other things while Glorfindel and Elrohir began the process of washing the filth of Dol Guldur from Maglor’s skin. He was so thin and fragile that they opened new cuts as they wiped away the grime, and left bruises no matter how gently they handled him. They worked quickly, and by the time they were done Arwen was back with a nightshirt and with shears that Elladan used to cut away the worst of the matted snarls of Maglor’s hair—which was most of it. By the time he finished it was so short that it barely covered his ears. They washed it then and combed out the remaining tangles; it was uneven, but that didn’t matter, and could be fixed when he was stronger, and it had grown out a little. When Eleryn brought athelas, Arwen crushed leaves and cast them into a basin of clean water that she used to clean the raw and inflamed flesh around Maglor’s wrists and ankles before wrapping bandages loosely around them. 

At last, Galadriel came to them. She smiled briefly at Arwen, and then sat on the bed beside Maglor, taking his face in her hands so she could look more closely at his mouth. “It will be impossible to cut these away without causing him pain,” she said at last, “but we cannot delay it. Arwen, will you help me? Elrohir, hold him still.” There was a flurry of activity as cloths were laid out and more water was heated and more athelas cast into it, so the room smelled fresh and sweet and clean. Elrohir sat at the head of the bed and put his hands to Maglor’s temples, holding his face steady as Galadriel snipped the stitches with a small pair of shears. Then came the removal of them from his flesh, and that was a much slower process—and Maglor woke almost immediately. Elrohir felt him go rigid underneath his hands, and he leaned down to murmur reassurances that he feared went unheard. Elladan and Glorfindel reached for Maglor’s arms, but he did no more than grasp weakly at the blankets, too weak for any real resistance. Arwen and Galadriel both sang as Galadriel worked; in Arwen’s hands was the Elessar, but though its power made it easier to remove the cords it did not seem to dull the pain. Tears fell unceasing from Maglor’s eyes, still squeezed tightly shut. 

At last it was done, and Eleryn whisked away the shears and the bowl that held the remnants of the cords. Elladan pressed a cloth to Maglor’s mouth, soaking up the blood. Elrohir picked up a cup of water to help Maglor drink. He still did not open his eyes; perhaps even the gentle lamplight was too much after the darkness of Dol Guldur. 

Galadriel leaned forward to rest her hand on Maglor’s forehead as they settled him back against the pillows. “Rest now, Maglor,” she said. “You are safe. Sleep.” He went limp immediately, releasing a shuddering sigh. Galadriel pressed a kiss to his forehead; she had tears in her own eyes, though they didn’t fall.

Both Galadriel and Arwen were called away afterward, for there were many others who needed care; Glorfindel went with them. Elrohir and Elladan stayed with Maglor, to make sure his lips stopped bleeding, and that he would be comfortable when he woke—as comfortable as possible, given his wounds. 

“He did not make a sound,” Elladan murmured as he finally set the last cloth aside. Maglor’s mouth was swollen and painful looking, raw and red, but the bleeding had at last stopped. “Did you notice? Anyone else would have been screaming.”

Elrohir smoothed Maglor’s hair back from his face. It was clean and still a little damp, not curling but settling in gentle waves. “I noticed.” 

“Would that we were closer to home.” Elladan unfolded another blanket to cover Maglor, who was shivering slightly in his sleep. Elrohir nodded. Elrond would know what to do, even better than Galadriel. “I am glad that we’ve found him,” Elladan went on, “but I wish it had not been like this.”

They had gone several times over the years on long journeys down the Gwathló or the Baranduin to search along the coastlines, going as far north as Lindon and once as far south as Andrast before turning back north and returning home by way of the Isen and the Gap of Rohan. Once Elrohir was certain that he had heard Maglor’s voice on the wind, but they had not caught up to him then, and had never seen so much as a footprint in the sand. They had never told anyone of it, not even Arwen—and certainly not Elrond. 

Finding him on one of those journeys would have been a far better ending to Maglor’s wandering than this. “How long do you think he was there?” Elrohir asked quietly. He didn’t stop stroking his hair; it had soothed him when he’d been young, and he hoped Maglor would feel something of it, though he was deeply asleep.

“Too long,” Elladan said. He dropped a few leaves of athelas into a bowl of fresh hot water to set beside the bed, and their fresh clean smell filled the room. It did not put Elrohir in mind of the sea, as he had thought it might—it reminded him more of Rohan, of the wind over the grasslands and the rolling hills and the wide open sky above. “Someone should be here when he wakes.”

“I don’t think he will until the morning,” said Elrohir. He didn’t like to leave Maglor alone, but he could feel every inch of his skin that was covered in the grime of battle, and he wanted to get out of his armor. “Come on. I want to take another look at your arm and clean it properly.”

“All right.” Elladan rose, picking up the basket of bloody cloths as he did. “I want to make sure you don’t have any hidden wounds, either.”

“I don’t think I do,” said Elrohir. He felt bruised all over, and stiff from having sat down for a while, but nothing a long hot bath wouldn’t fix. He looked back at Maglor one last time before leaving the room, disliking how still he was, how shallow his breathing. He disliked even more the terror that had shown on his face when they’d found him, the horror at the sight of their faces. Elrohir knew better than to expect that fear to leave him when he realized that they were not some last cruel trick of the Enemy, that he was truly away from that place, somewhere safe. He only hoped that it would not cling to him as tightly as it had once clung to Celebrían—for if there was no healing to be found for Maglor in Middle-earth, there might be no healing at all.

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