The shadows of Declan Rice would haunt the Real Madrid crew in their nightmares for months to come. In both ties that he bent to his will with his balance, vision, charisma and leadership, he was the dead end Madrid repeatedly ran into. One minute, he was the unbudging defensive screen, blocking, muscling and thwarting their progression in nascence; the next second he was the midfield conduit, dictating the rhyme and rhythm, the man with a compass in his head to thread the most precise pass to break Madrid’s midfield lines. As though he had deployed an army of lookalikes assembled from Wilko, he is bouncing near the byline, slipping a cute pass into the path of false nine Mikel Merino. Or slithering to snatch the ball off the forward’s feet in the opposite box. Wherever they gazed, they could only see the muscular frame of Rice, his unsoiled shirt despite the work-rate and his hair slick and tidy. His tour de force in both legs would be etched in Champions League folklore, comparable to …