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They make camp just under a day's march from the plains; the mountains will hide their number from the enemy, and give them both shade and food until all have come from their strongholds and refuges. Most had joined them through the long march East, but still more came, such as those who had been displaced and those who lived in hiding. The mountains would shield them too, for Arda itself seemed to aid them on their plight - there had always been game enough to feed the host, but never more than needed; the river ran clear when they drew water, even if it was despoiled by black blooded skirmishers and the land's sickness that it fought off for long enough to respond to the requests they made of it. Such was the spirit that the free peoples lived in, bonded together by fear and yet forging them anew amidst favours and new friendships.
Gil-galad did not find this pleasing or even heart-warming as he surveyed the gathering forces from his tent, high up on a cliff's edge. He felt cold, lately, and he was not able to shake it, nor the whispering in his very fëa that begged him alternately to turn back and to steal the swiftest horse so that none could follow him into the Black Keep.
"You have not been yourself," Elrond speaks from behind him, and Gil-galad finds that his mind's disquiet eases when he turns.
"It is this," Gil-galad says, and he knows Elrond understands.
"Círdan has felt it too."
"And yourself." Gil-galad knows this from the shadows in Elrond's eyes, their light dimmed and his gaze never high enough to meet his own.
"I am also not immune." And as such, they do not need to explain the feeling, the pull forward and the darkness that shrouds them in a suffocating cloud that lifts not even for the strongest wind or the brightest light. It is enough that they are not alone in the darkness, that others know it is not of their making.
"It is Sauron's work," Celeborn says, and their quiet moments end as the Lords gather for council. "I sense it only; it is a feel oily and primitive, and yet it pervades in tainting our hearts and minds."
Thranduil, emissary of his father, aloof even in the face of a united threat, is silent, though he stands at the opening as if to guard the tent from listeners and intruders alike. He is not affected; they all know this, and his father still rankles from not being gifted a Ring, though it had been a decision not of their making, and not even widely known until the Alliance had brought them together. But Thranduil still comes to council, and still stands guard like a golden warrior reminiscent of the High Elves and times past, as if there is nothing barring such minor rifts from being healed in time, and none would grudge the right of the Sindar to fight alongside them.
But that is not their concern, as the evening sets in and starlight aids in their aim for stealth and secrecy as the latecomers join the host, and the Men, slow but hardy, follow.
"It is as if you are all under Sauron's hand, though he cannot take you as easily as the Nine," Thranduil says, once they have bickered about flanks and strategy already decided and settled.
Celeborn nods, though it is as beyond his ken as that of Elrond, who was but a child in the War of Wrath, and Gil-galad, who was not yet a King. Their rejection was based on the same feeling they cannot shake now, that weighs on them like the heaviness of a fever, and not their memories of the fall.
"Círdan has offered to stand in our stead, should we wish to accompany a scouting party," Gil-galad says, though he was loath to leave and had already dismissed the thought.
"Our captains and my father have preparations well in hand. It would perhaps be wiser for me to go, rather than mere scouts." They know it is not outside Thranduil's training to be silent, to dim his fëa such as to blend with the shadow when stalking prey, to listen to more than he hears. And yet, Gil-galad is still uneasy, until Elrond agrees to go as well.
"Three will be enough; your absence will not be noticed." Celeborn stands and sweeps out of the tent; his robes drag on the dirt behind him, leaving a smooth trail that fades as the breeze mars the lines he leaves in his wake, until it was as if he was never there.
And so it shall be; Thranduil leaves to gather his weapons and inform his father, and Gil-galad and Elrond doff their robes in favour of doublets and hose.
"This is the right thing, isn't it?" Gil-galad says, as Elrond laces gauntlets onto his forearms. They are soft leather, and silently, Gil-galad gives thanks to the deer who was sacrificed for them.
"It is the only way we'll know," Elrond says, and Gil-galad sighs. Elrond has the Sight, but if his vision is clouded by this, and by the spreading, creeping darkness, then it must be that they use their own eyes.
And it is under darkness that they leave, that same darkness hiding the stars from their camp and their footsteps from the enemy scouts as they cross the plain and scale the walls of Mordor. Thranduil is the most agile of them, and leads the way, showing Gil-galad where best to place his feet and hands. It is still not easy; his sword bangs on his thigh with the awkwardest of movements, a problem Thranduil does not have with his bow and arrows strapped to his back, and Elrond with his knives short enough to not impede his reach. But his scabbard is the same leather that is on his arms and shins, and it does not make sound if it hits the stone, so he grits his teeth and focuses instead on the pain in his hands, where the hewn stone roughs them. The earth speaks to him, it seems, for the pain is not entirely his own, and it is anger that propels him over the wall and guides him to land on even ground. The same distaste and rage is etched in the set of Thranduil's mouth and the narrowing of Elrond's eyes, and they crouch low to the ground and skirt the shadows without needing to confer. In and out, they had decided; learn what they can and be back by dawn, whatever colour it is when Anor greets the land. But it is not so easy; Elrond's hand on his back and Gil-galad comes to a stop, just as Thranduil dodges a thrown, ragged bone, with meat still clinging to it and the marrow leaking from gashes where teeth have mauled it. Gil-galad feels a huff of air as Elrond muffles his laughter at the distaste evident on Thranduil's face. The levity does not last, though, as they shuffle closer to the wall and narrowly avoid stumbling into a pack of sleeping Orcs.
They have reached the army of Sauron and it is vast, of a near match to their own in variety and size, though the haphazardness of their camp suggests a lack of discipline that would advantage them, perhaps. It is luck alone that they too are resting before the battle to come, allowing their passage to go unmarked, though only so far.
Again, it is Elrond who stops Gil-galad, but this time Thranduil stills too, and not because they have circled the camp such that they are at the far point from where they dropped from the wall; Elrond's eyes are unfocused, and Thranduil ducks under one arm as Gil-galad takes the other and they guide him to the ground together. There is not much more they could learn without entering the camp, crossing between fires and restless creatures to reach the fortress of Barad-dûr, where surely their entrance would not be so easily granted, for the army fans from around it and the darkest of them surround its base as if drawn there. Though it had been, perhaps, somewhat foolhardy to expect they could scout so close, Gil-galad had not expected that Barad-dûr itself would be so fortified within its own walls.
"He's coming," Elrond says, quieter than a breath, almost as if he had to force the words out on his breath. Gil-galad can feel how tense Elrond is from the arm over his shoulders; Thranduil has the worst of it, for Elrond has his hand tightly gripped, but Thranduil seems not to mind and instead strokes Elrond's arm with his free hand and whispers in his ear, some calming lullaby that even eases Gil-galad's disquiet. He tilts his head to a rock, not far to his right, and Thranduil helps him guide Elrond to it; the three of them rest with their backs against it as a roar seems to push the very air outward above them.
Gil-galad ducks away from Elrond and Thranduil takes the extra weight without question, for the speech that follows the roar is one they all understand though they have never heard it spoken, especially not so fluently and gutturally. It is the Black Speech, and Sauron has roused his army to address them.
"They will attack before dawn," Thranduil says. "We must return."
"Wait," Gil-galad says, and he leaves the shelter of the rock, listens to the screams of the earth beneath his feet, and joins the mass of Orcs clamouring for the favour of a glance from their leader. He is grateful then for the lack of a chance to bathe, for the smell and grime serve to deflect any from noting his differences and looking too closely past the thick black mane; he is but another restive deserter, and they are none too few.
There is a glint of gold on Sauron's hand as he raises his sword, and Gil-galad uses the answering rally cry to separate from the pack and slink back to the rock. He doesn't dare unsheathe his sword, for it would catch on the firelight, but he does batter those few who collide with him nonetheless, and his is not the only infighting in the ranks.
Small comfort it is that the enemies of darkness will just as soon fight each other.
It is not long before he reaches the rock, where Thranduil is waiting for him, arrow nocked and bow ready.
"So why did you bring a sword if you weren't going to use it?" he says, but Gil-galad kneels in front of Elrond, recovering.
"Did you see it, too?" Elrond nods.
"We'll use the army to get back out, skirt the woods until we reach the mountains. Speed is vital." Gil-galad gives Elrond his hand on which to pull himself up; he won't be fighting when they reach camp, not after such a vision. Thranduil, to his credit, does not ask, and does not disarm; they follow at only a small distance behind a gang of black-skinned deserters. Thranduil's fëa is dimmed such that he appears human to even Gil-galad's gaze, and he stumbles as if he were one, only to be whipped by an Orc rider. Gil-galad's nails dig into his palm around the hilt of his sword, but he does not retaliate. Thranduil's eyes blaze briefly, and Gil-galad knows that Orc is marked for death. They run to the trees as soon as they clear the walls, the fresher air serving as if a hearty meal for lifting the heaviness from their limbs and spirits.
"So foul," Elrond mutters, and for a moment Gil-galad can see the Elf he will become, after the war, tall and proud and wise, and he is heartened. They can move at speed in the trees, enough to outrun the army, lumbering and lazy. It is when they run parallel to the head of the host that Gil-galad decides, and he signals Thranduil to stop. Elrond is flagging, and the rest will help him, but that is not his reason.
"Thranduil, go ahead of us, gather the council, and only the council, at my tent. Your father must come, and Círdan. Tell them to leave their commanders to be ready to form at dawn, and pass word to the Men and allies. But none must ride out until we have returned." Thranduil grew up in the trees, and he is the fleetest of them, and though Gil-galad can tell he perhaps resents being sent as if an errand boy, he is also wise enough to know that war means they do what must be done irrespective of station. He will grow to be a strong king, indeed.
Gil-galad does not like being shown the future of others and not himself, or the foreboding that stays in his heart long after the shadow has been left behind. But as Thranduil disappears into the trees in front of them, Elrond drinks the last of their water, and nods. They stay on the ground, and soon a path opens for them; they lose sight of the army and soon the sound of armour and horses is lost in air devoid of birdsong and the rustling of leaves. As if the mountains absorb not only sound but light, they meet the first rays of sunlight on the far side of the pass. Gil-galad is resolute; he will not allow the exhaustion and the darkness taint the surety of his step or slow his mind, not until they have told the others all. As they reach the tent and Elrond stumbles again over his own feet, Gil-galad wonders if that will even be possible.
It is Celeborn who has thought to bring them a breakfast and fresh water, though Gil-galad would much rather miruvor. Elrond seems the most grateful; he does not even wait for Thranduil to return before, disregarding his manners, he tears a loaf into pieces and eats it, bite by bite.
"It is serious, then," Círdan says, and Gil-galad nods, removing his gauntlets and doublet on his own. It is illogical, but he can feel the heavy, smoky weight of Mordor air on his shoulders even as he sits in but his undertunic and hose.
"My father has taken his battalions and ridden out," Thranduil says as he enters the tent, last to arrive; his hair streams behind him and his hands are shaking, with rage or exhaustion Gil-galad cannot know.
"Then we must go, too. Tell us your news, swiftly," Círdan says, and signals the page following on Thranduil's heels to sound the call to arms. It will still take time to mobilise, not as much as if the commanders had not already been woken, but as much as it takes for thousands of Elves and Men and Dwarves to understand each other and move in the same direction.
Gil-galad pushes a plate of fruit towards Thranduil, first. It is important to him, somehow, to show Thranduil is still to be included here, and it seems the gesture is not misinterpreted. Thranduil lets his quiver fall to the ground carelessly and sits, leaning against the supports as if they are for him and not the tent. None of them, it seems, were unaffected.
"The enemy, too, has a Ring." Gil-galad says.
"It is forged with Sauron's own fëa," Elrond says, and the fact that none question him shows that they understand his paleness means he saw something, a thing beyond their own Sight. "It bears its will over all, even ours, though forged in secret."
Celeborn is the one closest to Celebrimbor, for all their ranks and breeding. "The magic in the Rings forged with Sauron's help may have left a mark on his tools, enough to taint our own Rings, and perhaps not just them."
None of them brought their Rings, instead leaving them behind to fuel the magic protecting their own realms, and Gil-galad is not sure if this is a good thing, or a bad thing. It is not the only thing, however.
"I believe," Elrond says, and without the days, books, and counsel that he would normally use to understand what he has seen, Gil-galad can tell the uncertainty weighs on him as a burden by the way he pauses, closes his eyes.
"You're the one who is best placed to understand what you saw," Thranduil says. "My people do not have time for you to doubt your instincts."
Gil-galad knows Círdan would censure Thranduil for that at any other time, but Celeborn stays him with a hand on his arm. Gil-galad also knows Elrond is afraid of being wrong, in case it costs the lives of thousands who answered his call. It is the same thing that weighs on all of them, and the very same which sparked Thranduil's words.
"I believe we must destroy that Ring in order to end this conflict. I saw Sauron forging it in the volcano itself; that is where it must be melted down and his fëa returned to the circles of the world. If we cannot do that, we cannot win a peace that outlasts his evil."
"Then Sauron will not come out to fight unless he is forced," Thranduil says. "Immortality, it seems, has a fragile cost and it would not be sensible to risk it on the first day of battle."
"We must ride to such a victory that he has no option but to emerge. He stayed behind, in Barad-dûr," Gil-galad says. "It will take much for him to leave there if he will so easily send his forces without him." And, for a second, he flashes on that roar, the sword raised high. "He can control his army from within, and most certainly the Nine."
"I heard his voice in my head," Elrond says. Thranduil stops eating at that, putting half an apple back on the plate. Gil-galad, too, has no appetite, but not from that. The first horn has sounded.
"We will take command today," Círdan says. "There is not much else we can do if we must force Sauron from his keep, for there is no sense in raiding it if it leaves you three fit for nothing but to sleep."
"It is too late," Elrond says. "It has already begun."
Thranduil closes his eyes and Gil-galad sees him praying, mouth moving around the words but without sound. Elrond no longer fights sleep, as Círdan and Celeborn slip out of the tent to join Elendil at the head of their own host.
And so starts the war of our times, Gil-galad thinks, for none remain who could hear if he spoke. If only he could not see how it would end.