A/N: Because I can never just read an AU idea and not write something for it. This is based on your-local-birb's "The Captain and the Elf-Lord" AU, found on their tumblr. Probably will have more chapters at some point, but marking as complete for now.

Also, "Feanorian" - followers of Feanor. "Feanorion" - son of Feanor ("ion" means son in Sindarin). And Talion paraphrases a quote from Plato: "The price good men pay for indifference to public affairs is to be ruled by evil men."

It was easier to feel nothing.

When he first woke from the - nightmare? vision? (memory) - of choking on blood and ash, Daerwen screaming as he burned at the foot of Mount Doom, it was easier to remember being hollowed out by the Ring, being empty and letting everything just drain away.

It was easier to feel nothing - to be nothing - than to face what had happened to him - and what he had done. It was easier to think this some new torment of Sauron's than to believe he had woken up in the past - that the Black Gate Garrison was not yet slaughtered, that his wife and son were not yet dead.

Yet as the days crawled by (he almost missed being nothing, standing still as stone and letting the world race by around him), Talion slowly came to realize that it was no torture, no vision, no nightmare or hellscape beyond death. Nothing was exactly as he recalled, nothing stayed the same if he moved to change it even the tiniest bit.

He wasn't walking through a waking nightmare, unable to shift the course from the inevitable end. This was real. Somehow, he was in the past - had woken up in bed with his wife nearly a decade before she was ritually murdered by the Black Hand along with their son. But now the question became, what did he do about it? He was no longer one of the Nine, no longer even the Gravewalker, so what could he do about it?

The (ex-Nazgûl) Ranger grimaced when ignoring his body stopped being an option. He had been sitting on the edge of the Morannon for hours now, staring out into Mordor like the Eru-forsaken land held all the answers, and now it was coming back to bite him in the ass. He muttered several uncomplimentary things about "this stupid fucking meat sack" as he stood and stretched, joints cracking and muscles straining. Then he looked back out from the Gate, this time towards Middle-earth.

Somewhere out there, Sauron was gathering his forces, recovering his strength, preparing to declare himself to Middle-earth. He did not know - had never learned - what caused Sauron to appear before he was fully ready, before his armies were bred and the One found, but it would happen soon enough. But after that, it would be many long years before the End (March 25, TA 3019), before the One was unmade and the Dark Tower broken at last to its uttermost depths.

He couldn't do nothing between now and then, couldn't merely stand and watch as he had from the walls of Minas Ithil when he had no longer had the strength to resist the call of the Ring and every battle threatened to send him under. He would fight - he had to fight, to redeem himself for his Fall, even if only to himself.

But while he was fighting, his family would be vulnerable. Dirhael had barely begun his training, and Ioreth had none at all. She was unlikely to learn, or to want to learn; in the past both of them had expressed desires to leave the Black Gate and start anew, but now…

"Talion?"

Speak of the Nazgûl. The Ranger turned to face his wife and raised his eyebrows in question.

"Are you all right?" she asked. She approached him slowly, carefully, as if he was Mount Doom about to erupt. "I've been giving you space because I thought you needed it, but I'm worried about you."

She cupped his face, which he realized only then was rough with the beginnings of a beard. He still wasn't used to his body moving with the flow of time; he would have to take better care of himself if he was planning on fighting.

He reached up and laid a hand over one of her own. "I… had a dream. Or I guess nightmare would be more accurate. It was horrible, and it seemed - so real. Like I was actually there - like it was really happening." He let his body shudder the way it wanted to. "I… dreamed that Sauron returned to Mordor, and he sent an army of orcs to slaughter the garrison here, under the command of three of his captains - Black Númenoreans. The Tower, the Hammer, and the Hand. Everyone here was killed - but you, Dirhael, and I were captured, and the Hand did some kind of dark magic on us.

"And then he killed us. One by one, he slit our throats. First Dirhael, then you, then me."

For an instant, he was back there, rain pouring down out of the black sky. His whole body was cold and slick, but the grips of the Tower and the Hammer did not relent. He saw the Black Hand carelessly draw the edge of his sword across his son's throat - his son, his little boy, his first and only child, who just the other day had taken up a sword for the first time. He saw his son gasp for breath until he couldn't anymore, red blood spilling out across dark stone, his body discarded like trash.

And then Ioreth, his beloved wife. The Hand had been almost loving with her - or perhaps mocking, given the sentiment of her last words - tilting her chin up to gaze into her eyes as he murmured the words of the ritual. "A sacrifice of blood and bone. A bridge for you to follow. You will emerge a shadow." He'd drawn the blade across her throat almost tenderly, like a lover's caress - and then she too was discarded. Dropped to the unforgiving stone like she meant nothing at all.

Not even the emptiness of the Nazgûl could swallow his horror. His body shook with it. "I couldn't do anything but watch as the Hand slit your throats, and then cast you aside to choke to death on your own blood."

He opened his eyes (when had he shut them?) and found his own horror reflected on her face. She pulled him into her arms and held him tight as he shivered, and only slowly released him when it died away. "Could it be a vision?" She asked.

"I am not of the blood of Númenor," he reminded her.

"And neither are you prone to flights of fancy or letting the slightest whim decide your course," she returned, "For something to have shaken you this badly… someone has to be trying to tell you something." She looked him over. "But we can talk about this more after you've rested. You look like you haven't slept in days."

"I probably haven't," he replied, and let her lead the way back to their quarters.

Once there, he sank into a chair and unbuckled his sword, pulling it off and leaning it up against his thigh. He rubbed his thumb against the handle. Even during his time as one of the Nine, Urfael had been unshakeable in his hands, finally shattering when he was cast down on the slopes of Orodruin.

The keen of the metal torn asunder had almost matched Daerwen's screaming when she found him, body broken from the lava bomb that had downed his Fellbeast. The fire drake had hunched over him, mantling her wings as protection even as he bled out. He'd wanted to send her away, but by the time she had found him, he'd been too far gone.

"You didn't tell me everything."

"Dirhael was listening," Talion answered, Ioreth's voice calling him back from the memory, "He was hiding behind the water barrels. I didn't want him to hear what kind of monster his father became."

"Talion-"

"I was one of the Nine," he said, and Ioreth went silent. "A lot happened… and I became one of the Nine."

Ioreth sank into the chair next to his. "Tell me."

So he did, from the blood-soaked beginning of her death, to the bitter end of his own with no witness save the most ferocious of his fire drakes - and also his most loyal. Through the deep shadow of Sauron's influence, he dimly remembered her following him as best she could wherever he was sent.

When he was done, they sat in silence, and Talion wondered what had become of them. Not just Daerwen, but all his people - Ratbag and Ranger, Idril and Baranor, the slaves he'd freed, the orcs who'd forsaken Sauron for one reason and another, and - Eltariel and Celebrimbor. Before he'd fallen into darkness, he'd sent them all away, ordered the evacuation of Minas Morgul. By that point he'd been so far gone that he'd barely had the strength to get the words out, and that had been the last time he'd seen any of them: long lines of refugees marching out through the city gates.

He hoped they had survived, lived long and well, found a land of their own and made it a home.

"That's… a lot," Ioreth said at last, and Talion made an amused noise of agreement. It was a lot, and he'd lived it.

Before he could respond, however, he yawned widely, then blinked, bewildered. "What was that?"

"A yawn, love. It means you're tired." Ioreth grinned a little. "Come on, let's get some rest. We can talk more in the morning."

Talion felt much better the next morning, but that didn't stop him from cursing his body again when it felt sluggish as well. He hadn't been tireless as one of the Nine, because even they needed rest, but it had been a far cry from this: he had gone without food or water or sleep, sometimes for months at a time, much to Idril's annoyance. She had been quite persistent in the belief that making an effort to behave like a human would help him maintain his humanity. He had tried, but the longer he endured, the less worthwhile it seemed to be.

And then he Fell, and no longer cared at all.

It could get surprisingly cold at the Black Gate, for an outpost on the edge of a land dominated by a volcano, and Talion cursed that too as he stumbled out of bed, shivering. The fire had burned low during the night, mere embers in the grate, and purely out of reflex he tossed a fresh log on and flicked his wrist to bring the fire back up, briefly forgetting his lack of a Ring.

He stopped dead when it reignited anyway, starting to crackle merrily as the flames licked at the logs.

Talion stared, holding his breath until his chest burned, hardly daring to believe it. He still had- He flicked his wrist again, a pulling gesture this time, and the blaze went out entirely, leaving the room mostly black.

The Ranger laughed softly in the dark, a hint of hysteria in his voice, and reignited it once more. Yet it wasn't as easy as it had been to do even this simple sorcery; already he felt the first touches of weariness setting in. He would have to train hard to reclaim his previous strength, this time without that damned Ring whispering in his ears. That in and of itself would make it easier - and yet harder, since he no longer had the Ring to amplify and focus his power.

But that would have to wait, at least for a little while. He had a scouting run to do beyond the Gate. With him and only a few men, it would be far easier to slip away and practice than at the more populated garrison.

Talion dressed quickly and gave his still-sleeping son a kiss of farewell before going to look for food and his wife - though not necessarily in that order. She hadn't been in bed when he woke, and if she'd risen before him, she would have been just as cold and so tended the fire.

He found her in the mess hall - or a large chamber the Gondorians had made into their mess hall - staring into a cup of the "coffee" drink from the south like it held all the answers. Though she looked put-together, there were bruise-like shadows under her eyes, her shoulders slumped.

"Did you sleep at all?"

Ioreth jumped, but relaxed again when she saw it was only him. She gave him a strained smile and said, "I tried, but my mind would not quiet. You've given me much to think about."

"Too much, it would seem." After a moment's hesitation, he sat down across from her. "What is it that troubles you the most?"

"In truth? Nothing you have said." Her fingers tightened a little around the mug. "But… you no longer want to leave. You want to stay and fight."

"...Yes," Talion said finally. It was true. "The world is changed - is changing, here, now - but I cannot abandon my people." Not the orcs who deserted from Sauron's forces or fled the slave camps, not the Men who did the same. Not Baranor or Serka or the Vanishing Sons, his brothers; not Lithariel or Idril, his sisters, the daughters of his heart. Not his mounts, the creatures of Mordor hand-picked and hand-raised for one quality or another - not his drakes. Not Deldúath, his first, nor Daerwen, his last.

And not Celebrimbor or Eltariel, either.

Ioreth sighed softly. "And what about me? What should I do?"

"Whatever's right for you." When she looked up at him, he said, "I mean it. Do whatever's right for you. Don't follow me out of duty or because you think you have to because I'm your husband. In four years' time, Hallas will be retiring and returning to Minas Tirith; if you want to go back, then go, because living in Mordor makes here look like paradise. I would rather you be happy in Minas Tirith than miserable by my side. And you're already unhappy here."

She reached for him, and he took her hand and squeezed it tight. "And Dirhael?"

"If you go, I would prefer that he went with you. Minas Tirith is relatively safe, at least for now. Mordor…" He huffed a biting laugh. "I died about twenty times in the first year alone."

"'Relatively?'"

"We both know it's not completely safe there, even before Sauron marched a hundred and thirty thousand orcs on her gates." He paused, rubbing a thumb over her knuckles. "Marched? Will march? I don't know. This is confusing."

"In more ways than one," Ioreth agreed.

He went on the scouting run without incident, quietly praying that Ioreth didn't think he was crazy and wouldn't tell Hallas to have him locked up on his return. But while he was in Mordor, he couldn't afford to be distracted by what might be waiting when he returned. He let the anxiety drain away to nothing (while also briefly worrying about what he was doing to himself, falling back on his Nazgûl nature), and focused on scouting.

He couldn't enter the Wraith World the same way as before, or leave his body behind - it felt like wading through mud that thickened the further he tried to go - but he still had something of the Second Sight it granted, enough to detect life forms around him and pick out orc captains. That was immensely valuable, because it let him mark accurate numbers from a relative distance.

It also gave him a heads up when the caragor came.

Talion had been sweeping a section of Udûn, eyeing a captain that seemed oddly familiar, when he glimpsed a flicker of red-orange out of the corner of his eye. He froze in place, concealed by some bushes, and slowly turned his head to see a caragor creeping toward him, eyes locked on him.

Power shimmered at his fingers - then flared to life, taking the shape of a ghostly green hammer, which slammed into the caragor as it sprang, knocking it out of the air. Yet even that one strike was exhausting, and Talion gasped, falling to his knees, then forced himself upright again.

The caragor did the same and growled, crouching to pounce again.

Talion hit it again before it could spring, and stumbled forward. It was enough for him to get a hand on the beast and push - not physically but mentally, spiritually. He fought the caragor's will for what felt like an eternity, but finally it broke under him, yielded to his greater strength.

He fell over almost immediately and lay on his back for several minutes, panting and staring at the sky while the caragor sniffed him. He managed to wiggle his fingers and scratch the beast's throat, earning a surprised purr.

After a few more minutes, he regained enough strength to climb onto the caragor's back and direct it - him - to the half-hidden cave where the Rangers had made camp.

There were cries of alarm when he arrived, but he was able to assure them that he was all right, just tired. He made it to his bedroll before passing out for several hours.

The caragor seemed to think a nap was a very good idea because when Talion woke again, he was sprawled out next to the Ranger, unconcerned about the cold stone below. He was letting out soft, wheezy snores that reminded Talion a lot of Nibble, another caragor he'd dominated (so named because of how he ate).

(In truth, he probably hadn't actually needed to dominate Nibble, but it added an extra layer of protection. He'd found the caragor alone and prideless, half-starved, on the Plateau of Gorgoroth, and brought him back to Minas Ithil, which wound up being a spectacular decision. He'd been the gentlest creature of Mordor Talion had ever encountered and looked after his charges like they were his own kits - even if they weren't even remotely the same species. That wasn't to say he was a pacifist - or the caragor equivalent - but he wasn't nearly as overtly violent as some of his kin. Talion hoped he found him again.)

"Uh… Talion?"

The former Nazgûl turned to blink up at a fellow Ranger. He was holding a bowl of stew - and a raw leg of some unknown creature? Oh, food for the caragor. Naredir was eyeing the caragor, but not nervously, not like he was afraid of getting attacked.

More like… he wanted to touch.

Talion let out a short, soft whistle, and the caragor perked up immediately, getting to his feet when he spotted the meat in the other Ranger's hand.

"Sit!" Talion barked, and the beast's butt plunked back onto the stone with an audible thump. "You can feed him," he told Naredir, "Just be careful, and don't try to touch until he's done."

The other Ranger nodded and handed him the stew before tossing the leg to the caragor. The beast snatched it out of the air and started wolfing it down immediately, tail seeming to wag in delight.

Talion turned to his own meal. By the time he was done, the caragor was on his back, wiggling happily as Naredir rubbed his belly. "I've always wanted to see a caragor up close - one that wasn't trying to kill me, at least," said the other Ranger, "but I wasn't expecting… this."

"Many inhabitants of Mordor are only monsters because they have no other choice - it's Sauron or death. That's not to say there aren't those who serve him willingly, who glory in the death and destruction he brings, but… Ulfang the Black was a Man who chose to serve Morgoth. Why shouldn't there be servants of Sauron who would choose the Light of the West, if given the chance?"

"I've never seen evidence of that."

"If you stick around a while and actually pay attention, then you will."

By the time they returned to the Black Gate, the caragor had a name - Thunder - and was almost entirely comfortable being ridden. He was not fond of the armor Talion had stolen for him, however, but he was learning.

The ex-Nazgûl himself had greatly improved his control over his powers, even if he wasn't actually that much stronger than when he left. The control enabled him to use his abilities with greater efficiency, at least, and therefore more frequently, even if he wasn't back up to his previous strength yet.

(And by Eru, he hated it. He hated being so weak - it had been decades since he had reached the limits of his power in battle, since he'd noticed the number of hammer throws and orcs raised at once increasing, since fighting the Other Eight had become easy - since Isildur's Ring hollowed him out and filled him with its own power.)

(It was one thing to be able to fight. It was another thing entirely to have the strength to do so without losing himself to the dark.)

There was more alarm from the other Rangers, but if Ioreth was as surprised as everyone else, she didn't show it. She just looked at the caragor, then looked at him and said, "I'm not feeding it."

"Fair enough." He swung down from the animal's back and said, "Sit!"

The caragor sat.

"Its name?"

"Eithion named him Thunder, 'cause that's what one of his farts sounded like."

"Of course he did. Men!"

Talion let out a bark of laughter, then paused in wonder. How long had it been since he laughed, really laughed, been amused in a way that had nothing to do with violence? Decades, probably. Since before the Ring, at least. Either of them.

Ioreth didn't seem to have noticed, eyeing Thunder warily before holding out a hand. The caragor sniffed her, then nudged her hand for scratches, which she gave. "They purr!"

"Caragors are sort of cats to the wargs' dog," Talion said, "but yes, they do purr."

Hallas was far from happy about Thunder, who very much enjoyed being scratched and petted by everyone brave enough to do so. Dirhael was one of them, and thought that his dad taming a caragor was the most amazing thing, something more of legend than real life.

(Talion didn't tell him that he was more the monster of the tale than the hero.)

There was no place in the stables for him - his scent frightened the horses - and caging him would have only upset him, so Ioreth finally agreed to let Thunder stay with them, on the condition that Talion reinforced Dirhael's bedroom door, which he did and added a few enchantments besides.

"Next thing I know you'll be bringing home one of these graugs or your beloved fire drakes," she grumbled without heat, watching carefully as Dirhael and Thunder stretched out on a rug in front of the fire.

Talion gasped hopefully.

"No."

"Aww. Not even just one?" He asked playfully.

She gave him a look that made him laugh again.

Hallas put Talion on the night watch and patrols as punishment for bringing "such a dangerous creature" into a Gondorian stronghold, but Talion didn't mind. He counted it a victory, actually, because it let him train Thunder on duty. Fortunately, he could be trained; not as catlike as some of the other caragors, who were too wild and free-spirited to be anything other than branded or killed.

(He hadn't liked releasing caragors his people had raised; they were acclimated to people, used to being fed by people, even if they also knew how to hunt. If they found their way back to a settlement, they could have caused a lot of problems.)

But being on the night watch brought something to his attention.

The spiders.

There were spiders at the Morannon, far larger and more numerous than he remembered. They skittered around in the dark places of the Gate, the deep rooms and unexplored tunnels, coming out only at night to hunt.

The good news was they kept the Gate free of rats and other vermin, but Talion knew better than to think their presence was a coincidence.

His watch ended early one night, and he took the chance it provided, slipping down one of the spider-claimed tunnels. The former Nazgûl was mindful of the webs and egg sacs, acutely aware of the countless eyes following him as he walked, from spiders as small as a droplet of ink to at least two the size of cats.

At last he reached the nest: an old hall deep underground, the walls and furniture so covered with web that he could barely make out the original shapes. He found a mostly clear spot on the floor, knelt, and closed his eyes, waiting.

Dozens of spiders skittered up onto him, and he suppressed a shiver at the prickle of their many legs, letting his body's revulsion drain away to nothing.

When he opened his eyes again, he was in Shelob's tunnels. They were the same as they had ever been, rough stone covered in web, but the nature of the vision made them seem washed out and strangely shadowed.

He was in his Nazgûl armor as well. He briefly flexed to feel the familiar shift of the plates and mail before looking around.

"Awake at last," Shelob purred, and she emerged from the darkness in full spider form.

"So it would seem," he replied, and briefly wondered at his metallic Nazgûl voice, now more familiar to him than his human one. He'd almost missed it. "You've been watching for me?"

"Oh yes, for many years." She descended to the tunnel floor and assumed a mostly human form. "Your family is lovely. I understand now why you pursued Sauron's Black Captains with such zeal."

"Indeed. But what is this, then?" he asked, "Have we truly been sent back to the past? Or did we merely receive a vision of what might be, so strong that it changed us?"

"That even I cannot answer," Shelob replied, "Regardless of what may have happened, we are here, and we are changed. The world is changed - and is still changing, in more ways than one."

The former Nazgûl narrowed his eyes. "You know something. 'The world-.'" He stopped. "Celebrimbor."

He remembered hearing the story of the Elven-smith twice over, first to the tune of Sauron's deceit in the guise of Annatar, the forging of the Nine and the Seven and the One, and the secret Elven Rings that Sauron never touched. Eregion was destroyed, Celebrimbor thought slain, and the Nine and the Seven given as "gifts" to those Sauron sought to enslave. But the second time…

"'Wiser and more discerning than his forebears, Celebrimbor the Elven-smith saw through Sauron's fair guise and turned him away at the doors of his realm, and veiled the land that none of the Dark Lord's servants might enter,'" the Ranger quoted in disbelief, "'but like Gondolin the Fair before her, Eregion was betrayed to her doom when Sauron assailed her.' He - what happened? What happened to Celebrimbor?"

"He survived the fall of Eregion," Shelob answered, "though he was grievously wounded fighting Sauron directly. But he did come see me, and gave me this."

She displayed the Ring on her finger. Her power was not so great as the New Ring, more akin to the Elven Three, but She was still a Ring of Power, wrought of dark steel and set with blood-red rubies in the shape of a spider. The Ring put Her name in his mind: Ungweya, the Ring of the Spider's Web.

"I'm surprised he did that, given how fiercely he spoke against counting you as an ally against Sauron."

"So was I," said the spider, a satisfied smile on her lips, "She is not the New Ring, but I have no doubt that that will go unmade, so this will suffice.

"But I was telling you of the Ringmaker. He was gravely injured and sought healing amongst his people. But his wounds were beyond them, and he had no choice but to sail."

All of Talion's breath left him at once. Celebrimbor had been so badly hurt that he had sailed? "That must have been quite a fight," he gasped.

"Indeed. The One Ring was not yet forged, for Sauron did not have the skill, and the Ringmaker made the Three and another for himself. That closed the gap between them, but not enough.

"As I understand it, some of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain grew envious of his 'secret skills' in Ringmaking and sought Sauron out, since Celebrimbor would not teach them. Under his guidance, they made the Nine and the Seven and opened Eregion to Sauron with them - before being slain, the Rings taken and later given to the dwarves and those who would become the Nazgûl."

"And then he made the One."

Shelob nodded and settled on a web-covered rock like it was a throne, even as Talion started to pace, mindful of the ghostly images of her children.

Celebrimbor had sailed. Celebrimbor was alive and had sailed. Had down so during the Second Age, thousands of years ago, and had not returned.

"Did he say anything to you? Before he left?"

"He said that he intended to return to Middle-earth before the fall of the Black Gate, but that doesn't mean he will. He was unsure the Valar would permit it, though he intended to try regardless."

"Damn the Valar!" Talion snapped, "First the Doom of Mandos and now this!"

"The Doom of Mandos?"

"How much do you know about the early years of Arda? Before the War of Wrath and the sinking of Beleriand?"

"Probably not enough, so pretend I know nothing and tell me what you know."

Talion sat down and crossed his legs. "A lot of what I know is second- or third-hand, but as much as I may have hated the Ring itself, while I wore it I always knew if someone was lying to me." He looked down at the Ring on his own finger. It was dark and dead, the gold band dull and ruby jewel ash-gray and cracked. "Back during the Years of the Trees, the Valar fought a war against Morgoth - the War for the Sake of the Elves - to protect the first Elves from him. They won, of course, tore open the doors of his stronghold and dragged him out, bound him in chains and cast him into the Halls of Mandos for three Ages.

"But in a way, that was their first mistake: they were too hasty, or perhaps not thorough enough. I was told they didn't search his stronghold from top to bottom, and Sauron remained uncaptured.

"At the end of the Ages, Morgoth was brought up out of Mandos' Halls. He feigned repentance, and Manwë had him released." The former Nazgûl let out a bark of bitter laughter. "They released him! And that's where all of this really starts.

"His captivity did nothing to mellow his malice; if anything, it increased it. But still, he feigned repentance and sought willing ears to drip poison into, willing hands to work his evil, however unknowing their owners. The Vanyarin Elves distrusted him, and the Teleri he deemed useless, but the Ñoldor… In them, he fought what he sought.

"So he worked his evil amongst them, spreading lies of his own making and truths the Valar had not spoken. He told the Ñoldor of the coming of Men and seems to have implied that the Valar brought the Elves to Aman to that Men could inherit Middle-earth and everything therein - or perhaps he made statements that caused them to assume as much.

"The Ñoldor grew to resent the Valar and spoke out against them, but the Valar themselves did not see Morgoth's hand in it and did nothing to stop it until it was essentially too late. They discovered the truth when they called Fëanor to answer for threatening his brother, but - essentially a lot of shit went down in quick succession, relatively speaking. Morgoth - and your mother, Ungoliant, as the Elves call her - destroyed the Two Trees, slew Fëanor's father Finwë, among others, and stole the Silmarils of legend before fleeing Aman.

"The Valar pursued, but to no avail, because Ungoliant obscured their passage." He snorted in disdain. "They didn't fucking think is what they did - Morgoth was slowed by Ungoliant, who could not completely shed her physical form and travel unclad through the Wraith World, but the Valar were not. They knew where his fortresses were, they must have known that's where he would return, they could have gone ahead and lain in wait, but no." He shook his head, then continued.

"Fëanor and his sons swore an Oath on the Name of the One, Eru Ilúvatar, to reclaim the Silmarils and to pursue with violence any who withheld the jewels from them, and they set out after Morgoth with a great host in three parts. The last - and smallest - eventually turned back, but the other two went on and ultimately killed many innocent Teleri in order to steal their ships and secure passage back to Middle-earth. For this, among other things, the Valar laid a Doom on them.

"'Tears unnumbered ye shall shed, and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains. On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that follow them it shall be laid also. Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass. The Dispossessed shall they be forever.

"'Ye have spilled the blood of your kindred unrighteously and have stained the land of Aman. For blood ye shall render blood, and beyond Aman ye shall dwell in Death's shadow. For though Eru appointed to you to die not in Eä, and nor sickness may assail you, yet slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief; and your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos. There long shall ye abide and yearn for your bodies, and find little pity though all whom ye have slain should entreat for you. And those that endure in Middle-earth and come not to Mandos shall grow weary of the world as with a great burden, and shall wane, and become as shadows of regret before the younger race that cometh after. The Valar have spoken.'"

Though he was not done, Talion fell silent after speaking the Doom, letting the quiet that followed give the words the weight they deserved. After a few minutes, he resumed. "Though they were the ones who loosed Morgoth on the world once more, for almost six hundred years, the Valar did nothing to oppose him, nothing to check his advance, and abandoned all the peoples of Middle-earth to him, even though they had to know what would happen.

"Many wars were fought, many battles, and two more kinslayings before Eärendil sailed to Valinor and persuaded them to act. They finally cast Morgoth out beyond the walls of Arda - but Sauron remained and feigned repentance, yet when the Valar demanded that he come to Aman, he fled, and they did not pursue him.

"And then a lot more bullshit went down, with the creation of the Rings of Power, the rise and fall of Númenor, the War of the Last Alliance, and here we are." The Ranger scowled. "All of this, because the Valar didn't fucking think, 'Hm. Morgoth's caused trouble before - like, a lot of trouble, even before the Elves showed up. Maybe we should keep an eye on him for a while. A good long while.'"

"Or pursue Sauron."

"Amen. But in a way, the Doom is almost as bad. Parts of it were already a self-fulfilling prophecy - Sauron is just a Maia, so I'm not entirely surprised Celebrimbor was able to fight him on relatively equal footing with a Ring of Power. But Morgoth was a Vala, many, many times stronger than Sauron. There was nothing the Ñoldor could have done. Dwelling in Death's shadow, the battles, the killing and the kinslaying - all of that would have happened anyway, even if the Valar hadn't mandated it, yet it seems as if they were just adding insult to injury.

"But - 'on the House of Fëanor' and all that follow them? All of them? Even those who didn't participate in the First Kinslaying? Even the children who were just following their parents? Even those who weren't even born yet? 'For blood ye shall render blood', but where is the justice in that? When the Black Hand restored all of Celebrimbor's memories, I saw it in his mind - he was still a child when the First Kinslaying took place, maybe the equivalent of seven or eight in the years of Men. And later, with the other Kinslayings, he repudiated both his father's and his uncles' deeds. Yet with everything that's happened, I have no doubt that he too is bound in the Doom. He and his mother and sister were brutally murdered by Sauron even though they had done nothing, so what else am I supposed to think?

"And the hiding of Valinor? 'Not even the echo' of their grief would be heard in Valinor? Again turning a blind eye to Morgoth and all the harm he could do? To the breaking of Elves into orcs? To the slaughter of the Edain alongside them? Morgoth may have been the choking vine, but they're the ones who planted the seed and let it grow.

"'To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well.' By the end of the First Age, all the Ñoldorin kingdoms in Beleriand had been destroyed, their cities ruined, their people slaughtered. And worse - Númenor. The first king of Númenor was Elros Tar-Minyatur, who was the great-grandson of Turgon, one of the High Kings of the Ñoldor who was slain during the sack of Gondolin - herself a city betrayed 'by treason of kin unto kin.' Was Númenor also bound in the Doom, and doomed to fall before it was even founded? Were the Rings of Power more easily perverted by Sauron because Celebrimbor had a hand in their making? Was Eregion destroyed - twice now! - because he was its lord and bound by the Doom?

"And then… after death, their souls would enter the Halls of Mandos and never leave. Even after the Elves they killed were re-embodied and started asking after them, worrying about them, begging for mercy on their behalf, the Valar would not release them, and they have no way of fighting back. No means of escape.

"And those who don't die, well… it seems to me that Morgoth wasn't entirely wrong when he said the Valar would allow Men to claim dominion over Middle-earth instead of the Elves who were here first. To 'grow weary of the world' and become a 'shadow of regret'..."

He sneered. "To me at least, that is not justice for the slain. None of it is. It's petty vengeance for living beings not behaving like good little toys. It's the Valar saying, 'You made your bed, now lie in it,' while completely ignoring that they're the ones who built the damned thing in the first place! It seems that Morgoth and Sauron aren't the only Ainur the Children of Ilúvatar need to be worried about! Damn the Valar!"

Both of them were silent for a long time. Talion didn't look up until he heard Shelob get up and come to stand in front of him. "And Celebrimbor?" she asked, offering her hands and pulling him to his feet, "What of him?"

"...I forgave him. Before the end. That doesn't mean I'm not angry. Because I am; first he denies me my death, and then he denies me my life because I wouldn't bow to his will? Because I wouldn't re-enslave a Man who had already been chained in the dark long enough? And I'm hurt, too. I counted him a friend, I was honored to work with an Elf of such legendary skill! But… 'You are but a vessel,' he said, and left me to die." Talion gritted his teeth as his eyes filled with tears. "He didn't even stay until I bled out! Like all the years I'd given him when I could have been at peace meant nothing at all!"

Much to his surprise - and her own, if her expression was anything to go by - Shelob stepped forward and embraced him. He returned it, realizing he must have unintentionally hit home; Celebrimbor's betrayal of him must have mirrored too close to Sauron's of her. "But then… 'To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well.' And since I had no way of knowing if it was him or the madness of the Doom or even the influence of Sauron through the New Ring… I forgave him. Him and Eltariel."

"Did you tell her that?" The spider asked, pulling back to look up at him.

"Yeah. All of it, to her and Swinsere."

"The minstrel that showed up at some point? Why him?"

"You knew him as well?"

"A little bit. Sometimes when he was traveling through the tunnels, he would linger a while and play for me."

"Ah. He went by Swinsere, which means 'Minstrel', but his real name was Maglor Fëanorion. He repented of his deeds long ago and eventually found his way to us. It was he who told me more of the early history of Middle-earth, because the records in Minas Morgul weren't exactly complete. It didn't really change anything, though. Screw all the Ainur, the fuckups."

That made Shelob laugh softly in the semidarkness.

Talion woke not long after, and waited for all the spiders to climb off of him before departing as silently as he'd come. On the way back to the surface, he continued practicing his sorcery, igniting and then extinguishing the wall sconces as he walked. By the time he got back to the rooms he shared with his family, he was exhausted, but his power and control were still improving. He doubted he would ever reach the mastery he'd had with Isildur's Ring, but anything would be better than nothing when the Black Captains came.

There were other things he needed to work on as well. Though it cost him greatly, this time he called the ghostly image of Azkâr to his hand and held the bow for a moment before he had to let it go, panting and sweating.

Though he had a skilled hand with throwing knives and Helm's Hammer, Celebrimbor had been the archer of the two of them, calling their bow and drawing and firing until Talion had been able to do it on pure muscle memory after- ...after. But now he was on his own, and as much as the Elf had criticized the skills of Men, there was indeed a wide gap between them. He didn't know how long it would take to reclaim even a tenth of their skill, but it was necessary; Azkâr had a much greater range than the thrown daggers and was far stealthier than the hammer.

But that brought the Elf-lord himself to mind. Celebrimbor intended to return, but to what end? Did he want a second attempt at dominating Sauron, or did he repent of that course, given the end it had brought him to? Or did he intend to try again independently, now that he didn't have to rely on others to manifest in the material world?

(You are but a vessel.)

Talion pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes and let out a shuddering breath that he refused to call a sob. What was it about this one damned Elf that undid all his control?

He stripped out of his armor and climbed into bed, but sleep was a long time coming.

He looked like shit the next day, if Ioreth's expression was anything to go by. Thunder yelped when he saw him and came over to give him a thorough scenting, probably to make sure he wasn't sick or dying.

"You were out late last night," Ioreth said at last, when Thunder sat for pets rather than attacking.

"I was talking with Shelob. We had a lot to discuss," Talion rasped.

"Shelob?" The name was awkward on her tongue. "The Spider?"

"Yeah. She-" Remembers? Saw? "-knows. About…" He gestured vaguely, which Ioreth seemed to understand. "She's- here, too. And apparently Celebrimbor and Eltariel as well."

Everyone who'd worn the New Ring, in other words. Talion still felt the echoes of its forging humming in his bones, had known before Shelob even said the words that Eltariel had cast it back into Mount Doom after the fall of Barad-dûr, sending it the way of its predecessor.

"Good news?"

"If you can call it that. Both Celebrimbor and Eltariel have sailed into the Far West, though they intend to return and fight. It's just me and Shelob right now. That's why there are so many spiders here; she's been waiting for me to 'wake up.'" He gave her a weak smile. "So I'm not completely mad."

"I never thought you were."

"I did," he admitted quietly, "There are still days when I wake up thinking this is Sauron tormenting me for resisting him for so long - giving me hope and waiting for just the right moment to snatch it away. And there are other days when I think I dreamed waging war in Mordor and falling into darkness to join the Nine."

"How did you handle it before? When you wore the Ninth, before you…"

"Fell?" he finished, "It's okay, you can say it. Um. Actually, I used to cook."

"You cooked?"

"Yeah. My men - well, both the Men and the Orcs, they'd been born in Mordor for the most part, and the food Sauron gave them… mm. Calling it 'bad' is generous. It was either tasteless slop from vegetables and grain, or meat that ran from 'raw' to 'charcoal' with very little in between. And grog - the less said about that, the better. I used to cook for them when I had the time, big meals for the whole fortress when I could. Used the drakes to keep the fires going and just…" He gestured, and again she seemed to understand. "Some of the people I rescued chose to leave Mordor, settled in the Morgul Vale and Ithilien or even went on to Gondor proper. Through them, we had trade with the rest of the world, at least a little, but where they couldn't give us anything material, they gave us recipes, guidelines for flavors. I actually think we did all right with some of it."

"Did the… orcs - like it?"

"Oh yeah. The meat pie the kitchen makes? They loved that. And bread - they loved bread, too, although for the longest time they thought it was made with magic so only the Mystic Tribe could make it. What else was there… sweets! Eru have mercy, they loved sweet things. One of my warchiefs actually retired so he could keep bees for honey."

"That's an - interesting visual. But we're actually making the meat pie today if you want to help."

So he did. Even if he no longer had his drakes to tend the fires - or the muscle memory for everything else - it was good to be back in the kitchen, working with his hands in ways that didn't involve weapons of war or raising the dead from their rest - rest he had denied himself, and been denied.

But his mind knew the steps to this dance, even if he had to move slower and more careful to let his body catch up.

He also found that he wasn't the only Ranger in the kitchen, though he was one of only a handful who were actually there to help instead of flirt or filch food. More than once he had to turn his "I Am Disappointed In You And Your Life Choices" face on his fellow Rangers because they were underfoot.

Of those that were actually useful, he was not surprised to see that Eston was among them. He'd always been a good kid; it was his older brother who was the asshole. He hadn't even done anything "wrong" the way Talion had, but the family's vassals had liked Eston better so after their father died, his brother had had him banished to the Black Gate.

He'd have to remember to tell Dirhael to train with him. They'd been fast friends last time; he hoped they would be again.

Probably the hardest thing about being "alive" again was taking care of his body. His flesh felt so awkward and heavy - no longer buoyed up, made light and easy by Wraith or Ring. Though he could compensate with sorcery in some ways, its limits dragged at him - he could no longer throw a dozen hammers with barely a blink, no longer tame beast after beast, no longer run for days without food or drink or sleep.

He hated it, and could regularly be heard cursing his flesh in Black Speech when it inconvenienced him.

Fortunately, Ioreth found it amusing rather than alarming. "Is it truly so different?" she asked, watching in more than a little amazement as the cream she smeared on his bruised shoulders seemed to sink into his skin. It aged the bruises before her very eyes, healing them in half a minute, leaving only smooth skin behind.

"Very," Talion grumbled, tying a poultice around his sprained ankles. He subtly wiggled his fingers, and again there was that greenish shimmer that made her skin tingle. He'd done the same to the small tin of ointment in her hands. "It used to be - there were these towers called Haedir. Were? Are? Whatever." He waved a hand. "They were at least fifty meters tall, but I could jump from the top and not even blink when I hit the ground. I'm so - limited now. Whoever did this to me: thanks, I hate it."

Ioreth started laughing. She couldn't really help it; her husband was so used to being some kind of Super Man that falling ten meters and ending up with only sprained ankles and bruises was "weak" rather than a miracle. Also, "thanks, I hate it"?

"What? What?"

"Oh, love. Most people would be dead after taking the fall you did."

Talion's bewildered blinking only made her laugh harder. "It wasn't that far!" he protested.

"Tal, you effectively fell from Minas Tirith's outer wall and walked away."

Talion blinked again, then subsided to muttering in what had to be Black Speech as he unwrapped his ankles and rolled them. Like his back, they too were fully healed, and once he wiped himself clean, he was able to walk with no difficulty.

Ioreth had no doubt that there was sorcery involved; no one healed that fast without it. Yet Talion was hiding it for some reason - and hiding it badly, at least to someone who knew him well. Was it because it was what he learned or did as one of the Nine, and therefore he was ashamed of it?

Actually, that was the most likely explanation, wasn't it? For all that he seemed to miss being undead and cursed his living flesh, Talion seemed to relish being alive; she often found him on high, flat places, basking in the sun like an oddly-shaped cat, or eating food slowly to savor the flavors, or carefully running rough fingers over soft fabrics to memorize the feeling.

(When he found some ancient - but still fine - velvet in an ancient chest deep in a forgotten storeroom, she often saw him rubbing it against his cheek to better feel the softness.)

Privately she wondered how long he thought he could keep his magic a secret when it had already begun to creep out into their everyday life. Dirhael hadn't noticed, but he was still just a child, even if he had begun training as a Ranger. He was careful when the other Rangers were around - or at least when he knew they were around - but she'd seen him using spells to help train Thunder. And to help clean in the kitchen. And a sort of dowsing spell that let him find three children who had wandered off into the depths of the Gate's tunnels.

He was making an effort, though. But how long would it last?

(Three weeks.)

"Ioreth? Ioreth!"

Every year, on the anniversary of the assault that changed their lives, Ioreth had nightmares about it, even now that it had been a decade since the attack. But in the nightmare, Talion never came for her, leaving her at Asgon's mercy. Sometimes he was content with raping her, but on others he cut Dirhael from her body and broke him on the unforgiving stone of the White City.

Talion woke her from the dream as he always did, and she held tight to him until her shaking died away. Yet as she calmed, she realized that the room was lit not by the fire in the hearth; it had burned down and sputtered fitfully.

The room was cast in a soft, almost sickly bluish-green glow. The light itself came from what appeared to be three floating bubbles filled with glowing mist, all uniform and identical. "What is…?" She reached up to touch one, but all of them vanished at once, plunging the room into darkness.

There was a long moment of silence. (She purposely stayed quiet a little longer than normal to let him sweat.) Then-

"Talion, is there something you'd like to tell me?"

She was close enough to hear him swallow thickly. Then he shifted, and again there was that shimmer that made her skin tingle.

One of the bubbles reappeared in his hand, glowing softly in the dark.

Ioreth touched it gently. The surface of the bubble rippled at the contact, but it didn't actually feel like much of anything, just cold air. "This is how you tamed Thunder."

"Yeah. My power isn't what it was, but given the price I had to pay for it, I'll take this instead. I'm working on it."

"And you can use it to heal. Have you thought about tweaking Maemben's stocks?"

He shook his head. "Has to be done last minute. Charging it in advance - the sorcery degrades the material if it sits too long."

"Pity. That would be useful, especially with all the scrapes you've been getting into. How did you learn you still had your power?"

So he told her, and showed her by putting another log on the fire and then reigniting it from their bed across the room.

"Mm. I trust you have enough control to where you won't set us all on fire."

"If I set someone on fire, it won't be an accident."

Years passed in silence. There was no word from Celebrimbor or Eltariel, and despite all her skill, even Shelob could not see into the Far West to find out what was happening.

So Talion continued on alone. (Mostly alone.) He trained relentlessly, and while he could never hope to match the power of Isildur's Ring, he did become more skilled, his control more precise. The less energy he wasted, the more spell work he could do.

He taught Ioreth as well - none of the truly dark things he was capable of, no necromancy or domination, just innocent little cantrips. How to hide, how to heal, how to make little lights to see by in the dead of night.

She had decided to stay, at least for a while. At least until the attack. ("You've been left alone enough, my love. I will stay for as long as I can.")

Hallas returned to Minas Tirith alone and gave Talion the captaincy. Hirgon absconded with his Outcast wife, but the ex-Nazgûl knew where they had gone and privately wished them well. All the while, he kept reinforcing the Black Gate, digging in in preparation for the attack but spreading out the requisitions over time so nothing looked out of the ordinary.

Talion tamed more caragors as well, because Ioreth still wouldn't let him bring home graugs or fire drakes. ("You'll be able to have all the drakes you want soon enough, but feeding them now will be a supply nightmare.")

Ioreth was getting invested as well - but in the evacuation, the retreat to Minas Tirith. Who would go? Who would stay? How much food could they take with them and how much would they have to find on the way? What about water? What about supplies in general? What could they take and what would they have to leave behind? What would they need to transport everything? What would the pack animals need?

"Have a care not to plan too deeply, love," Talion warned her, "No battle plan survives first contact with the enemy."

"I know. But I can't help but worry."

She wasn't the only one. As the attack drew nearer, the rest of the garrison caught on to their anxiety and began to grow worried as well. And the intelligence reports from within Mordor corroborated it all: the orcs were gathering, gearing up for something.

And there was really only one place they could go.

Talion was on the Gate when the horn sounded, checking on the containers of pitch that they would light and pour down on orcs trying to scale the Gate. The containers were being carefully warmed to keep it from hardening - carefully, because if they weren't careful, it would ignite.

He froze in place when he heard the blast, and for a second he thought it came from Mordor. His first thought was a panicked 'No! It's too early! We have a week! A week!'

But then he realized, and jogged to the Middle-earth side to look out over the Dagorlad.

There were people coming up the Harad Road - and not just any people, but Elves, armed and armored for war. There weren't many of them, maybe a hundred, if that, but Talion could tell just by looking at them that they were experienced warriors - and more than a few had an axe to grind.

Eltariel was at the head of the column, with weapons and armor similar to what she'd had as a Blade of Galadriel. But she no longer had her Lady's Light; instead there was a Ring of Power on her finger to perform the same function. Even as he glimpsed Her, the Ring put Her name in his mind: Aureya, the Ring of Day. She nearly glowed in the sunlight.

And next to Eltariel was Celebrimbor, somehow looking more unreal alive and whole than he ever had as a wraith. Everything about him was bright and vivid against the stark bleakness of the Dagorlad - his hair a spill of glistening ink, his skin a healthy cream, his armor glittering steel that had seen war and was yet unmarred, his robes so blue they put the sky to shame.

Yet simple cloth had nothing on his eyes - they burned, almost glowed, like the blue heart of the hottest flame. Those eyes swept the top of the Gate where the Rangers were gathering - and then caught and held on Talion's own.

They had shared an existence once, spent nearly a decade with their souls entwined more tightly than anyone before or since. They knew one another, and each read a mirror of their own relief in the other's form.

You're here. We're here.

But just like that, everything he'd suppressed would no longer be denied. The black hole inside him released everything it had ever taken - the joy and sorrow, the pleasure and pain, every wave of shadow and ripple of light. The grief. The hurt. The wrath. All of it rushed through him in a torrent too great to be stopped.

The anger won out. Though he had chosen to forgive Celebrimbor (and Eltariel), even after all those years he was still so fucking angry that for a moment he was paralyzed with it, body straining in a million different directions at once.

The Elf-lord knew and continued forward without fear - only grief and remorse and determination.

That broke Talion free. Almost before he knew what he was doing, he jumped from the top of the Gate, dagger in hand. The Elf saw and yet made no attempt to block or dodge, putting himself squarely in the path of his leap. He let the Man tackle him off his horse and only moved to absorb the impact of the fall - for both of them.

Talion's hand shook as he pressed his dagger (not Acharn, never again) against Celebrimbor's throat, but despite that, the edge barely kissed the Elf's perfect skin - smooth and unblemished, not cracked and withered as a wraith.

(should slit it open, let him see how it feels to die choking on blood and dust in Mordor while a once-friend looked on)

But Celebrimbor read that in him too, and tilted his head back in offering. This life is yours, if you desire it.

He did, but not to take it. Not truly.

("Celebrimbor's lust for power clouded his vision, and yet I miss him. No war should be fought alone.")

He pushed himself up off the Elf and turned away, calling for the other Rangers to admit the Elves and leading the way in.

He didn't realize he was crying until Ioreth wiped his tears away with her scarf - the same scarf he had worn tied around Acharn's sheath until he no longer remembered why either mattered. He buried his face in her hair and tried to get control of the renewed hope burning bright in his chest. Celebrimbor had come, as he said he would. That had to mean something.

Right?

There was no time to really process the arrival of the people who'd left him to die. They were a week out from the attack, and though the Elves had brought supplies - including better weapons and armor for the Rangers, forged by the Ringmaker himself - there was still only so much they could do.

Talion looked out over the blighted land of Udûn, hands going tight on the battlements of the Gate. It would have looked odd, refusing Celebrimbor's aid given the circumstances - too much like Castamir's betrayal of Minas Ithil. (Assurances of safety, of reinforcements that would never come.) And yet…

He touched the breastplate of his new armor. It had been the reason for the Elves' delay, it seemed; Elven steel had been good enough for the other Rangers of the Gate, but for Talion and his family, Celebrimbor had insisted on mithril, which, since Númenor was no more, meant mining in Moria in the utmost secrecy. Talion had done the same a few times, gathering the costly metal to sell; decades of war weren't cheap. But it was the Balrog within that had given him cause for concern. He had managed to evade it - and only actually seen it once - but even as one of the Nine, he could not have faced Durin's Bane without Carnán.

But the armor and weapons Celebrimbor had made for him were worth it - somehow a stylized, un-perverted version of his Ringwraith gear, the twisted shapes Isildur's Ring had given to all that he had brought with him from the Black Gate. Where that gear had been blackened, jagged, and cruel, this was subdued yet still bright, soft angles and smooth curves, and etching that was more than just random squiggles. Most of the Rangers saw the White Tree and Seven Stars woven into the markings, but those who knew and knew what to look for saw something else, too.

A fire drake, wings spread wide, a sword clasped in one taloned paw, a hammer in the other. His standard as the Wind-Rider of Mordor, before the darkness had swallowed him whole. It had made him cry silent tears when he spotted it, fingers tracing every line, before he finally pulled the armor on.

His hands fell back to the battlements of the Gate, then tightened. "I didn't think you'd come," he said finally, "I didn't think you'd be able to."

"We almost couldn't," Celebrimbor said softly, "When I arrived in Aman, I tried to get the Valar to promise that I could go back regardless of anything that happened. But after Númenor fell, they instituted the ban on returning and refused me."

Talion made a disdainful noise. "I thought they invited the Elves to live as guests and friends in Valinor, not prisoners."

He heard Celebrimbor's smile when he continued, "Indeed. No promises were actually made, but still, it-."

Felt like a betrayal. The former Nazgûl could have said something cutting but held his tongue, saying instead, "What convinced them?"

"You."

Talion whipped around to stare at the Elf-lord. "Me? How!? I wasn't even born when Númenor sank!"

"'The price good people pay,'" Celebrimbor quoted, "'for indifference to the world is to be ruled by Evil.'"

He had never said those words in Celebrimbor's presence - hadn't even so much as formed the thought until long after hearing Maglor's additional details. How had - but then he realized. "Eltariel."

The Elf-lord nodded, and moved up to stand next to him and look out over Mordor. "There are… ancient magics, and great power at the Ring of Doom in Valinor. Once such power - with the leave of the person in question - enables a mind and its memories to be laid bare for others to see.

"You caused quite a stir, even amongst the Vanyar."

"Good," he huffed, "Let them think. And the Valar themselves? What did they think of me?"

"Tulkas and Oromë were furious," the Elf answered, "especially about the accusations you made about them abusing their greater power over us. Some of the others were displeased as well, but Mandos spoke in your defense."

"Oh?"

Celebrimbor nodded. "He said, 'Are you angry because we are compared to Morgoth who has marred all that we have made - or are you angry because he is right, and you are ashamed?'"

"I bet they weren't happy with that, either," Talion muttered. Then, a little louder, "You said only 'some'?"

"Mandos spoke in your defense, as I said, and Nienna wept an ocean of tears at how you suffered in Sauron's hold. Estë also attended the councils of the Valar for the first time, and she, too, spoke on your behalf.

"But many were impressed by what you'd done for the peoples of Mordor - especially the orcs."

Talion snorted softly. "Once we figured out how to hold off Sauron's influence, it wasn't actually that hard to… build a society of sorts."

"But up until you, no one had even thought of using athelas as an infusion - at least for that specific purpose. What gave you the idea?"

"I remembered my Ranger training. We used to make infusions of it for headaches because of its properties - purifies the air, calms the mind. And since Sauron was the one who gave me the biggest fucking headache in existence, I thought, 'why not?' and gave it a go." He shrugged. "We're lucky we didn't accidentally poison ourselves."

"I don't know if that's even possible with athelas."

"Too much of a good thing can still be fatal. But you were saying about the Valar?"

"Yes. They spent a long time debating what to do, and what not to do, concerning the knowledge we brought. But most of their councils were closed to Fëanorians, so I don't know who said what on which side, only the results.

"There was nothing the Valar could do concerning the fading of the Eldar. That at least is the will of Eru also, that Men shall live in Middle-earth and Elves in Aman.

"But… although the Oath itself cannot be undone - or at least, not yet - the rest of the Doom of the Ñoldor has been lifted."

"Good!" Talion nearly snarled, hands going so tight on the metal of the Gate that his muscles immediately screamed in pain, "It should never have been laid in in the first place!" He bit his tongue again before anything worse could come out, then gritted out, "Morgoth was enough. Facing Morgoth without the Valar was more than enough."

Wisely Celebrimbor stayed silent until the ex-Nazgûl had mastered himself once more. "Is there more?" The Man asked.

"A little. Some knowledge, a promise, and an offer."

Talion tensed a little but said, "All right, let's hear it."

"First, knowledge from the Valar. Lord Manwë sought the guidance of the One on many things he saw in our minds, one of which concerned you greatly - the fate of the orcs after death." Celebrimbor met the Man's gaze when he looked up anxiously. "They are no longer Elves, but even they do not simply cease to exist after death. Rather, Eru has extended to them the Gift of Men; unless called back by necromancy, their fëar will pass beyond the walls of Arda, and there they will rest, free of both Morgoth and Sauron, until the End of Days when all are recalled to fight in the Last Battle."

It was only Talion's grip on the Gate that kept him upright. Such relief that swept through him at that moment - his people, his friends, were not lost forever if he could not call them back to Arda. They merely waited and rested, as all Men did. He could have wept, and nearly did. "What else?"

"With Sauron's demise, Arda will enter the Age of Men, and all legends of the Old World will begin to fade, save in the deep forgotten places of the world where time does not touch. All legends will fade, be they Elves or dwarves… or orcs or drakes." The Elf-lord held up a hand to forestall the protest that was sure to come. "Lord Manwë has commanded that the land of Avathar in the south of Aman be expanded and made habitable. If... Sauron is broken, as we remember, and the Dark Tower thrown down… then all the - non-Men - races of Middle-earth – may sail, and find the Straight Road open to them. They may not enter Valinor itself without leave, but even the orcs may dwell in Aman without fear."

That time Talion did fall to his knees and cry silent tears. Hope - hope for his people - such a tenacious thing it was, blazing bright with the slightest provocation. Hope for the Avari - Elves who refused the call of the Valar and lived hidden in the Forest of Carnán for many thousands of years; few in number but still strong. Hope for Maglor, wandering forsaken shores in Middle-earth, then following the rumor of his nephew into Sauron's domain. Hope for the dwarves - Torvin and Gerdi and countless others, endlessly working their mines and forges. Hope for the orcs - Ratbag and Ranger and all the others, slaves of one Dark Lord or another, even if their foreheads had never actually borne a brand.

And hope for his creatures - his caragors and graugs and drakes, years spent tweaking them just so and letting them bond with entire families when they became more than just weapons of war.

And Daerwen. Her screams still haunted his nightmares of his death. He could send her West, though personally he doubted anyone but Manwë himself could master her after him. She could be quite tenacious - as tenacious as hope itself.

Celebrimbor crouched next to him and laid a hand on his shoulder, and let him cry himself out. It took quite a while; everything had been building for so long that this was just what finally broke the dam.

At last his tears tapered off into nothing, but both of them stayed where they were, reluctant to disrupt the fragile peace between them. But Talion was no longer what he had been, and he couldn't stay kneeling on the Gate forever. He got to his feet, and while he did not brush the Elf-lord's hand away, neither did he make an effort to keep it in place.

Celebrimbor hesitated, then let his hand fall. "For me… My family has a bad history with Oaths, as I'm sure you know, so I will not swear to it, but… you were right. About many things, it seems, but mostly that I was well on my way to becoming the very monster we sought to defeat.

"I cannot promise that we will not disagree, or argue, or physically fight over what is or is not the best path forward. I cannot promise that we will not part ways over our disagreements, either - but I will never betray you like that again. I will not leave you to die, not if it is within my power to save you. On that you have my word, for whatever it may now be worth to you."

Talion met his gaze again. He wanted to believe the Elf, wanted to think that the changes wrought in him had been done by Sauron and the Ring and the Doom. He desperately wanted his friend back after so many years alone in the dark. He had fought alongside Eltariel for decades, but that couldn't compare to the intimacy he had shared with Celebrimbor, nearly nine years soul-to-soul, knowing one another inside and out.

But at the same time, he remembered the New Ring disappearing from his finger, the feel of Celebrimbor's fëa against his own suddenly gone, the willing departure more agonizing even than when Shelob had ripped him away. He had had only a second to process the emptiness before the ritual cut sliced back across his throat, blood pouring down his chest.

The power of Isildur's Ring had been a mockery of that bond, and its whispers had mocked him for missing the very person who left him to die. Its energy had filled him the same, but rather than shoring him up, it had worn him down like water over rock until he collapsed into its dark sea.

And yet…

("Celebrimbor's lust for power clouded his vision, and yet I miss him. No war should be fought alone.")

"I will hold you to that," he said finally, and the Elf-lord nodded.

Sudden drumbeats made them both look out over Udûn. The sun was beginning to curve toward the horizon; the attack itself would come after midnight. Most of the evacuation was already complete, a caravan of people heading south on the Harad Road. Some "civilians" had sent their possessions ahead but volunteered to stay behind to give the Gate the illusion of being populated - by more than the Rangers and Fëanorian Elves, at least.

(The Fëanorians themselves were Elves who had died fighting Morgoth in the First Age, mostly the Nírnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. When their souls had been released from the Halls of Mandos, they had been reborn in Valinor, and later competed amongst themselves to join Celebrimbor in opposing Sauron.)

Ioreth was staying, as was Dirhael - at least for now. His son hadn't wanted to leave at all, but Talion had convinced him to go by saying that his grandfather couldn't force his mother to remarry to produce an heir if Dirhael was there, clearly alive and well. So he was going - reluctantly, but he was going.

They all just had to survive the night.

Celebrimbor turned back to him, so the Man did the same. The Elf held out a hand, and opened it.

A whispering sigh brushed through Talion's mind. "And so, you come at last."

Like Her Sisters, Ungweya, Aureya, and Yaisaya - the Ring of Steel on Celebrimbor's hand - this Ring put Her name in his mind: Lomeya, the Ring of Night. Like Ungweya, Her band was dark steel, but She had a filigree of light- no, mithril - woven throughout in a faintly raised relief. The filigree took the shape of branches, seven diamond stars glittering amongst the leaves.

The White Tree of Gondor against the night sky.

Talion extended his hand, and Celebrimbor placed Her on his palm. She was cool despite the warmth of the Elf's body - and the afternoon sun - and shone only faintly in the light.

He knew without being told that She would really come alive after sunset, ithildin glowing faintly even with no light to reflect from the stars or moon.

"At last, at last." Her voice was the sigh of wind through the trees. "I have waited a very long time to meet you, Talion Wind-Rider."

Hello, Lomeya, he whispered, and felt Her smile in Her own way; a cool stream on a hot day, running through the shadows of a deep forest.

Celebrimbor had outdone himself. The level of detail on Her - the dark steel was smooth and featureless, save for the diamond stars, but the mithril had been carefully and expertly carved. When he brushed his thumb over the band, he felt the texture of the tree bark; when he lifted Her to his eyes, he saw the veins on every leaf. And the strength of Her…

The Ringmaker had outdone himself.

"She's magnificent."

The faintest tinge of pink appeared on the Elf's cheeks, and he looked away. "I made Her specifically for you," he said softly, "but I wasn't sure if…"

You would accept Her. You would want Her, after all that's happened between us.

Talion looked at the Ring. He couldn't sense any malice in Her, any corruption or deception - but then, he hadn't sensed anything wrong with the New Ring, either.

Yet he was no descendant of Númenor, no immortal Gravewalker. If he wanted to make it to the End, it was a risk he would have to take.

(There were worse things than being nothing again.)

He unbuckled his gauntlet and slipped Lomeya onto his finger, and She settled in place like She was meant to be nowhere else but there, calm and cool against his skin. Her power rolled into him, filled him to the brim with strength so like and yet very unlike the Elf-wraith and the New Ring.

Lomeya sighed again, and for a moment he felt strangely cool and smooth drake scales slide under his fingers where there was only empty air.

The image of Her appeared in his mind's eye. She was a fire drake, the shape of Daerwen wrought in diamond and dark steel. She turned Her moon-white eyes on him and hummed in satisfaction, then threaded Herself around his bones, shored him up inside, and settled in.

He buckled his gauntlet back on over Her; She didn't need the protection, but he did. He remembered all too well the agony of the Hammer crushing his hand.

He wouldn't get the chance this time.