Gathering Dusk by Idrils Scribe

Chapter 1

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“And it came to pass after the days of Eärendur, the seventh king that followed Valandil, that the Men of Westernesse, the Dúnedain of the North, became divided into petty realms and lordships, and their foes devoured them one by one.”

The Silmarillion, Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age

Rivendell, the year 861 of the Third Age

 

The first signs of an opening rift in the fabric of history proved laughably small: Elladan’s escort was larger than it should have been.

Elrond had alerted Elrohir to the unexpected addition the instant the company forded the Bruinen. The Last Homely House lay silent under the pale, milky light of a late autumn afternoon bearing the scent of winter’s first snow. All the valley brooded in a heavy, watchful silence. Even the indefatigable Wood-elves had spared these arrivals their usual good-natured teasing. Leaden clouds chased across the darkening sky as the household gathered on the great house’s portico, awaiting the returning son of Imladris and his tidings with trepidation. 

The troop of mounted warriors clattering into the great courtyard was expanded considerably from the small escort that had accompanied Elrond’s eldest son on his summer-long diplomatic mission to Arnor’s venerable King Eärendur in Fornost. Elladan’s usual security detail seemed engulfed by an entire company of travel-stained royal guards of Arnor. The Dúnedain elite troops stood proud and straight, but the men were clearly awestruck by their Elvish surroundings, and more than a little wary. 

A shiver of foreboding ran down Elrohir’s back. In all his years he had never seen King Eärendur’s personal guard ride out in full battle gear – high, winged helms and shining mail instead of the stately black and mithril livery they wore at court. Elrohir dreaded to learn what unknown threat might haunt the deserted, wintry roads of eastern Arnor, to drive Eärendur to such effort in safeguarding his longtime Peredhel friend.

Elladan rode at the center of a tight knot of warriors, his sky-blue cloak a splash of colour amidst their sea of stern battle dress. The sight of his brother was a balm to Elrohir’s uneasy heart. Beside him on the dais Arwen let out a near imperceptible sigh of relief. At first glance Elladan looked unscathed. His surcoat, embroidered with the silver star of Ëarendil, bore no telltale marks of violence, and his horse was the same Elvish destrier he had ridden out on in the early spring. 

Nonetheless Elladan’s face was grave when he dismounted. Elrond’s heir had had protocol and propriety drummed into him from the cradle. His formal bow in greeting to his parents was impeccable. Celebrían was quick to pull him up and into a lingering embrace. Elrond gave her the briefest of moments to revel in having her son safe at home, but he soon drew Elladan from her arms to look him in the eye and feel his mind. Elrohir had already done so the instant he perceived his twin’s return to the valley, to the same concerning result.  Elladan was guarded, as was his wont when something weighed him beyond what he could put into words. Whatever had befallen him in Fornost, he would need time to turn it over, both in his own mind and with Elrohir.

By the warmth in his voice Elrond did share in his children’s sense of relief. “Welcome, Child. It is good to see you home safe before the first snow.”

As if on cue, a trickle of small, dispersed flakes began to fall. Elladan watched them with nothing short of dread. 

“Well met, Father, Mother, I am glad to find all of you well.” 

Elladan embraced Elrohir and kissed Arwen on both cheeks, rosy with cold. With reluctance she let him turn away to greet Erestor and Glorfindel, overt concern in her eyes. Elrond’s formidable Chief Counsellor was in his usual place at his lord’s elbow. Erestor had watched the exchange with mounting unease, veiled by his usual stern demeanour. 

“Well met, Erestor. King Eärendur has kindly provided me with an additional escort. These brave Men have guarded me well. They have orders to return to Fornost with all haste. Would you see that they are housed and fed, and their horses tended, so they may depart for home before winter hardens their road?” 

Out here, before the eyes of so many outsiders, Erestor strictly maintained the most formal of protocols. 

“It will be done, my lord.”

Elrohir considered that his cue to move any further discussion indoors.  The formal dismissal of the guard fell to him as Glorfindel’s second-in-command. Elrohir stepped forward and saluted the captain of the Mortal warriors, who bowed far too deep. To have a proud Dúnadan of Arnor groveling like a thrall was unsettling, and unexpected. Elrohir had seen many Mortals rendered speechless by the sight of Imladris, but here was something beyond what awe of Elvish surroundings might explain. 

Canissë, the captain of Elladan’s security detail, stood at attention beside the Man with an amused expression. She was a tall, ancient Noldo with light in her eyes and blood on her hands, once among the finest warriors to follow Fëanor across the Sea. 

Elrohir turned to face the warriors, Elves and Men, standing at attention in the courtyard. 

“Dismissed!”

Orderly ranks dissolved into controlled chaos as Elves and Mortals began to dismount and grooms moved in to take horses and luggage. Elrohir paid them no more heed. Elladan’s mind churned with worry, and Elrohir laid an arm around his brother’s shoulders to lead him into the house, towards warmth and light and laughter.

  

----

 

With a most unlordly groan of delight Elladan sank under the hot, pine-scented water once more, feeling it close above his head as the unbound strands of his hair floated around him like dark seaweed. To be warm and clean once more brought some small relief from the nameless menace that weighed on his heart. 

The ride home had been dark and eerie. Their mingled company crossed brown, wintry hill-lands laying deserted beneath an unnatural silence, broken only by howling gusts of icy wind battering down from the northern wastes. The superstitious and sharp-eared among the Men had claimed to hear a cold voice howling on the unseasonable storms. The Elves did not confirm these rumours, but neither did they gainsay them. 

Elladan stepped into his bedroom while towelling off and froze, heart hammering in his throat. Beyond the door came the sound of breathing, and that subtle rustle of clothes against a moving body. Someone was in his anteroom.

Elrond and Celebrían remained occupied with their unexpected Mortal guests. Arwen had only just taken her leave, after lingering long in a fruitless attempt to cheer Elladan with tales of the Wood-elves’ summer antics. Only one other would be admitted to Elladan’s rooms without question or announcement. 

“Elrohir?”

“Who else?! You must have wrinkled to a prune by now. Throw on some clothes! I volunteered to deliver your supper.”

A bloom of contentment warmed Elladan’s heart at hearing that much longed-for voice.  Elrohir’s strategic mind would get a handle on the vague yet persistent sense of dread, insubstantial like the small wisps of smoke announcing an approaching forest fire, that weighed on Elladan since what would doubtlessly prove his last visit to his mortal friend Eärendur.

Elladan hastily wrung the water from his hair with a linen towel. The dark waves of it fell to the small of his back. It was not dry enough yet to keep from making water stains on a dyed tunic, so he stepped out to meet his brother in breeches and a long-sleeved cambric undershirt.  

Elrohir had made himself comfortable at the table in Elladan’s anteroom, leaning back in his chair with a cup of mulled wine. Being half-dressed himself, Elladan was relieved to see that he had replaced his formal guards’ uniform with a simple tunic and breeches. Elrohir looked tanned and lean after a summer spent patrolling the High Pass to keep the mountain Orcs from harrying travellers and trade on the road into Rhovanion. 

Beyond the windows the clouded afternoon light had turned to pale blue dusk, and it was now snowing in earnest. Inside, the hearth fire had been built high and the lamps lit. The room’s elegant wall hangings seemed to light up in the dancing light; bright red, sapphire and saffron. 

Set out on the table was a meal for two, the strange hour making it either a very late midday meal or something bound to ruin appetites for dinner. Elladan did not mind in the slightest. At midday his company had been within sight of the Bruinen, and in eagerness to reach Imladris they kept moving and contented themselves with a little waybread chewed on horseback. By now he could eat like a Warg.

Elladan smiled upon recognizing Elrohir’s hand in the impromptu meal. His brother’s skills as a huntsman had granted him a highly privileged relationship with the kitchen staff. All of the dishes were Elladan’s personal favourites: freshly baked seed cakes, a bowl of soft cheese stirred with honey and herbs, and smoked river trout from the Bruinen. Despite the pampering Elladan wondered at his twin’s unexpected visit. On days like this Elrohir would usually meet him in their shared drawing room for a glass of wine and private conversation before the household would sit down to a formal dinner. 

Elrohir did not leave him puzzled for long. “I know it is a little overwhelming to descend on you before you have had time to towel off, but something weighs you. Whatever the news, I would rather hear it sooner than later – so would Mother and Father, I imagine.”

Elladan knew he was being scolded for his reticence. “I never meant to withhold the least of it.” He answered. “I knew not what to say – whether the tale is a complicated one, or in fact several connected matters are occurring at once. I need to untangle it first.”

Elrohir smiled as he lifted a cake and broke it in half, releasing the wholesome scent of caraway and butter. “I will gladly see to your tangles. But I expect they will wait a moment longer.”  

Elrohir was polite enough to eat a little but he had obviously had his midday meal, because he soon sat back, nursing his cup of wine while Elladan singlehandedly demolished the tray of cakes. He had not missed them on a conscious level – Eärendur laid an excellent table – but the familiar taste of Elvish baking was a comfort nonetheless. 

When he had enough Elrohir briefly disappeared into Elladan’s bedroom to emerge with a comb and the porcelain bowl that held his hair clips. Elladan had gone months without this everyday ritual, and he leant his head into his twin’s hands as they combed and smoothed. For a moment all cares fell away before the soothing touch. The simple comfort loosened Elladan’s words.

“The Princes of Arnor do not see eye to eye, far beyond normal sibling rivalry. Amlaith, the eldest, is truly despised by both his younger brothers, while Aratan and Ciryon seem united only by their disdain for him. And King Eärendur … his health is failing. He was – is – a great lover of lore. My past visits were spent debating history and linguistics. This time I found him chair-bound, incapable of walking or even of holding a book. I wish I could tell you of his grace in old age and his sharpness at the council-table, but he slips – in distressing ways. Queen Vardilmë draws a dangerously thin veil over the king’s decline. Eärendur can no longer rein in his sons, but neither will he accept the Gift of Men and allow Amlaith to take up the sceptre in his stead.” 

Ellladan had befriended a young Eärendur when the then-crown prince stayed in Imladris to be tutored, as was traditional for the royal heirs of Arnor ever since Valandil’s long sojourn in Elrond’s house. He had liked every one of these bright-eyed young Men of Elros’ line, but vibrant and outspoken Eärendur, a great scholar, had been especially dear to him. The sight of a king of the blood of Elros, desperately clinging to the sceptre as he descended into a second childhood, had shocked Elladan to his core.

Elrohir’s mind sought his, gentle yet eager. He abandoned his combing to take Elladan’s hand in his own in a habitual gesture nearly as old as the twins themselves. Elladan laid their joined hands against his pounding heart. He felt near dizzy with relief at his brother’s presence, so deeply longed for. For an immeasurable moment they stood together in closeness and comfort, until Elladan took a deep, shuddering breath, and showed all. Elrohir remained still, all sharp attention. He let Elladan purge his mind of a scattering of disjointed memories that painted a disturbing picture. 

Strained conversations between courtiers, quickly hushed at the passing of the son of the Lord of Rivendell. 

The ruddy cheeks and excessive joviality of Crown Prince Amlaith, heir apparent to the throne of Arnor, taken with wine, women and a gambling habit so devastating he carried debts in concerning places despite the vastness of his father’s wealth. 

The spurned fury of Amlaith’s wife Lindissë, who fled the daily humiliation of her husband’s philandering to her father’s house in Elostirion. Her indefinite absence from court provided yet another source of discord in the royal family.

The silent festering of the younger princes, Aratan and Ciryon, clever and ambitious men, passed over and perpetually outraged, ready to stretch out their hands to snatch the crown their spineless brother failed to secure.

Deep sadness washed over Elladan. “I know not where it will end, but my heart tells me that blood will be spilled. May the Valar grant that they limit themselves to mere fratricide. This could grow darker than even that.”

Elrohir was shaken, yet his hands were steady as he resumed creating perfect, gem-clipped braids for Elladan to wear to his formal welcome dinner in a few hours. 

“Surely you diplomats can think of a way to limit the damage? It is not the way of the Edain, to ascend the throne over an older brother’s corpse ....” His voice trailed off.

Elladan reached into the artful, leaf-shaped bowl before him on the table to take a mithril hair-clip and hand it to his brother. 

“Yet it will soon be the way of Arnor, whether it pleases the Elves or not. The alternative, I fear, is civil war.”

This brought Elrohir’s hands to a standstill. “Grief darkens your sight. Speak with Father and Mother tomorrow, in the light of day. Much can yet be done to prevent open war.” 

He once more resumed his work, gently and with the skill of long habit. 

“This is not all you mean to tell me, though I know more about the rest.” Elrohir said as he smoothed Elladan’s hair down his back in a fall of midnight silk. “Our scouts have not been idle this summer. The Hill Tribes of the north grow weary of paying tribute to the Kings of Westernesse. They are led by new chieftains of a fell, warlike kind, with talk of open rebellion against Fornost. We saw dark hill-forts being raised on the Ettenmoors, and raids on Arnor’s remote garrisons. It seems only a matter of time before the king will lose his grip on the northeast. That Eärendur dared not send you along the Great Road itself without additional guards is a grave sign indeed.”

Elladan had silently watched melting snowflakes trace serpentine shapes against the darkening windows. He knew he failed at keeping the mournful tone from his voice.

“That is but half the tale, and the other side is equally disturbing. The Dúnedain now scorn and despise the very people they govern. They have grown obsessed with the blood of Westernesse. I saw only Númenórean faces at court, where previously the king chose his advisors among all the peoples of his realm. I can scarcely blame the Hill Tribes for their uprising, when the king demands his tithes while closing his ears to their voices at council.”

Elrohir placed the final fastener, the star-and-Silmaril device of the House of Eärendil picked out in mithril, with a steady hand, but Elladan could feel his brother’s inner doubt. 

Nonetheless he unburdened himself of the whole disturbing experience, and found his own voice unsteady with dismay. “The Kings of the North have always received me with honour, but this time it was different. I was announced to the court, not as the son of Elrond, but Elros’ brother-son, whose blood was deemed purest of all. All but the royal family lowered themselves before me in worship. The Dúnedain are obsessed with the glory of their past. Never before have I seen such fawning and servility among the Men of the West. Elrohir, they knelt at my feet!”

He shuddered at the memory. He could not see his brother’s expression, but Elrohir’s tone seemed deliberately light, eager to bring Elladan some cheer. 

“I imagine Canissë had a field day.”

The memory of the merciless teasing from his level-headed Fëanorian guard finally brought a real smile to Elladan’s face. 

“Canissë’s tongue remains as sharp as her sword. She kindly composed a Quenya ballad recounting the incident, to entertain the Hall of Fire for years to come.”

Elrohir chuckled. “I look forward to the singing, but perhaps not while we host our Arnorian guests.”

Warm hands came to rest on Elladan’s shoulders, a solid comfort.  

“My sleep has been uneasy while you were away. It is good to have you home. Save your cares for tomorrow. Let tonight be for joy and good company.”

 

“After Eärendur, owing to dissensions among his sons their realm was divided into three: Arthedain, Rhudaur, and Cardolan. In Arthedain the line of Isildur was maintained and endured, but the line soon perished in Cardolan and Rhudaur.”

The Lord of the Rings, Appendix A, Annals of the Kings and Rulers: Eriador, Arnor, and the Heirs of Isildur: The North-kingdom and the Dúnedain

Chapter 2

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It was in the beginning of the reign of Malvegil of Arthedain that evil came to Arnor. For at that time the realm of Angmar arose in the North beyond the Ettenmoors. Its lands lay on both sides of the Mountains, and there were gathered many evil men, and Orcs, and other fell creatures. The lord of that land was known as the Witch-king, but it was not known until later that he was indeed the chief of the Ringwraiths, who came north with the purpose of destroying the Dúnedain in Arnor, seeing hope in their disunion, while Gondor was strong.

The Lord of the Rings, Appendix A, Annals of the Kings and Rulers: Eriador, Arnor, and the Heirs of Isildur: The North-kingdom and the Dúnedain

 

Rivendell, the year 1300 of the Third Age

 

Elladan turned the tightly rolled strip of parchment over in his hands. A mere piece of calfskin. So small and insignificant a thing, and yet four fine warriors had met their deaths so the information it contained might be carried back to Imladris.

Moonlight and song wove over the high roofs of the Last Homely House, and a warm wind of summer carried the resinous scent of the high pine forests down into the valley where it mingled with the living music of falling water. 

Borndis’ voice was low and hoarse with exhaustion. “This news is dearly bought. A company of Longbeard Dwarves on a pilgrimage to Mount Gundabad witnessed unusual travellers headed into the Ettenmoors. The scouts they sent to learn their destination were slaughtered, as were four of my hunters who came upon that battle. The Naugrim are hardy folk, but no match for – for the shadow that grows in the Far North. The Dwarf who wrote this message is the sole survivor.” 

Elladan breathed deeply before saluting her. 

“Thank you for your brave service. May the trees of home bring you peace.”

Borndis was silent as she saluted, less than smartly. Judging by the bleak press of horror in the Nandorin scout’s eyes it would take more than her beloved forests to restore her to anything resembling peace. Not after the loss her company had suffered. Borndis silently melted into the shadows of the colonnade bordering the courtyard.  The Wood-elves were out singing tonight, and this time of year their birch sap wines were brewed particularly strong. By the time he was done with this message Elladan would likely be in need of a drink himself.  

The restricted wing that housed Elrond’s administration was dark and abandoned save for the armed guards set on every entrance. Elladan’s workroom was a modest-sized room adjacent to Elrond’s study. A wide oak table dominated the space, neatly covered with the tools of his trade. 

Quills and pens of every possible shape rested in orderly arrangement on an engraved silver tray. The fitted trays beside it held a multitude of clear glass vials containing many shades of regular ink, beside coloured bottles of far more exotic and noxious fluids. Aside, where it would easily come to Elladan’s hand, stood his abacus, its colourful beads of semi-precious stone neatly moved to one side. Overflowing bookcases all but obscured the walls. The window was large enough to let in shafts of moonlight despite the stout metal filigree of leaves and vines shielding the glass: this room sheltered some of Elrond’s most closely guarded secrets.

Elladan briefly turned his face towards the window, contemplating the flowering lilacs in the courtyard outside, before closing and bolting the wooden shutters with a whispered chant of warding. Darkness was deep and instantaneous until he slid the silver covering from a Fëanorian lantern. The crystal contained within its fine mesh of wires bathed the room in clear white light, bright as a false dawn. Only then, safely ensconced within walls upon walls of stone and Song and the watchfulness of so many did he break the message’s near-invisible seal. 

The hapless Dwarf-messenger had done fine work: the dispatch was coded so well that no message appeared to be there at all. It seemed a mere scrap of waste parchment – stained and crumpled and kept only for apprentices to test new quills. 

Elladan took out a small tray made of mithril and carefully filled it with brownish liquid from an elegant vial of sea-green glass. Its alkaline stench stood heavy in the room as he soaked the parchment with a fine pair of mithril tweezers. He sang a song of power under his breath as he worked, as much for timing as to facilitate the reaction. At last he lifted the wet scrap – careful not to spill a single caustic drop onto the pockmarked tabletop – to dunk it into a bath of clear vinegar. The lines of gibberish that flashed into existence held no discernible meaning, except that the easy part of Elladan’s task was now finished. 

Any fool could follow instructions for pouring and soaking, but Elladan was among a rare few with a natural eye for the elegant order underlying all Eä. His love of mathematics had begun as a transient obsession with musical theory, a side quest in his study of Song. Soon the lore of numbers became a delight in itself, a game to be indulged whenever the rigours of studying law and lore left him free to comb the library for classical Valinorean texts on analytic geometry or differential calculus. It had been Erestor, ever pragmatic, who suggested Elladan put his passion to practical use by diverting it to cryptography – the art of setting language to secret numbers.

If not for the abject horror of what he slowly uncovered this night of silent contemplation, broken only by the click of the abacus, the rustle of paper as Elladan consulted some book or table, and disjointed fragments of the Wood-elves’ songs drifting through the shuttered window, would have been a pleasant break from the frenetic rhythm of his daytime work. 

Elladan knew his high birth had granted him opportunities open to few Elves his age. The price was steep enough: to always work hardest, be the first to begin and last to leave. Erestor was a second father to him, but in his capacity of chief counsellor the ancient loremaster demanded nothing less than perfection. Where the safety of Imladris was concerned the good-natured Fëanorian morphed into an utter tyrant. As Elrond’s heir and Erestor’s apprentice in state- and spycraft Elladan bore the brunt of his ceaseless demands for more, better, faster. 

These days it was rare for any of Elrond’s counsellors to find a lull in the endless stream of negotiations and organized violence necessary to keep Imladris a centre of lore and diplomacy instead of a besieged fortress hemmed by a spreading sea of enemies. Perhaps the day where those efforts would ultimately fail had come sooner than expected. 

Even with all his arts of secrecy Elladan had long known that his father had ways of knowing all that transpired under his roof. The sound of footsteps in Elrond’s study came the instant Elladan laid down his pen and began rubbing his eyes in bleak dismay, wondering how to go about waking the Lord of Imladris without alarming half the household. A short, polite knock on the door announced not just Elrond, but Glorfindel at his lord’s shoulder. Both quickly stepped inside, closing the door behind them to lock in the wedge of light spreading into the dark, cavernous space of Elrond’s study beyond. 

“Elladan. What news?” Elrond’s voice was soft and low as if Sauron’s spies might hide amongst the lilac bushes outside the window.

With a sinking feeling of dismay Elladan realized that his father’s bright-eyed eagerness as he scanned the table for the deciphered message was born of fear.

“Dwarves witnessed the Hillmen raising yet another stronghold against the King of Rhudaur. This one lies very near the Northern Waste, upon the western branch of the Ered Mithrin. Carn Dûm, they call it. What need the Hill Tribes have of a great keep in such desolate lands remains unknown, but their purpose is doubtlessly a foul one. Some of the stonework appears of Orcish make, alike to their fallen stronghold at Mount Gundabad. Strange Men are moving through the Northern Wastes, Easterlings whose kind has not been seen in the West since the War of Wrath.”   

Glorfindel sent Elladan a sceptical look. “The Hillmen bear the Dúnedain little love, but they are not foolish enough to seek alliance with Orcs. The one certainty in such dealings is betrayal of some kind.”

Elladan shook his head, his mouth suddenly dry. 

 “A strong will may keep Orcs from treachery. The fortress at Carn Dûm is inhabited by a great power. The Hillmen were seen bringing rich tributes of food and beasts and slaves. They ride under black banners bearing a ghastly skull-face, proclaiming themselves the subjects of one who names himself the Witch-king. ‘Angmar’ the Men now call all the lands from the Ered Mithrin to the banks of the Hoardale.”

The shocked silence was deep enough that even Glorfindel startled when it was suddenly broken by a chorus of Wood-elves – clearly well in their cups – greeting the Morning Star from the bank of the Bruinen near the house. Inside the tightly shuttered room the night appeared to deepen. 

“Might this king be some ambitious Easterling chieftain? Or perhaps a lesser Maia clad in Orc-flesh, pursuing a crown of his own?” Elrond had never been one for undue panic.  

Elladan shook his head, forcing the words past the ball of terror in his throat. 

“Dwarves have long memories. Never before have Durin’s folk encountered any creature that could wield such power. None save Sauron himself.” 

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Chapter End Notes

Welcome everyone! I'm excited to present my new story, part of a series meant to cover the entire course of the Angmar war.

Those of you who are familiar with the Under Strange Stars series will recognize some headcanons and OC's, but this series can stand on its own perfectly well.

Of course I'd love to hear your thoughts on this story. What do you think of Elladan's occupation? What will Elrond do next? And will the Elves soon learn the mysterious Witch-king's identity? A comment would make my day.

See you soon for the next chapter, in which we meet Elrohir at his occupation.

Idrils Scribe

Chapter 3

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Dawn came early in high summer, but Elrohir and Glorfindel were earlier yet. A chilly summer rain had set in overnight, and fat drops steadily drummed down on Imladris’ training grounds. An age’s worth of pounding warriors’ feet had packed the sand hard as stone underfoot. Instead of seeping into the earth the rainwater formed great, shallow puddles. When the rising sun’s first ray of watery light struck Glorfindel he appeared to be standing on a burnished mirror of shimmering silver.

Elrohir realized that their morning training was no time for serendipitous poetry when Glorfindel suddenly spun aside to dodge his half-hearted slash. In the next heartbeat the pommel of Glorfindel’s wooden practice sword cracked into Elrohir’s face. Glorfindel had not struck as hard as he could have, but nonetheless blood welled from Elrohir’s nose, dripping down to stain the front of his linen smock. Elrohir stilled to dab at his face with his rain-soaked sleeve, and promptly had to dodge a vicious stab at his unprotected belly. It was all he could do not to wind up face down in one of the puddles.

“What in Udûn’s pits did you do that for?!” Elrohir did not quite manage to keep irritation from his voice.

Glorfindel kept advancing on Elrohir. “Because you gave me the chance! If I were an Orc you would be down at my feet clutching your own entrails. Pay attention, Peredhel!”

This was uncharacteristically callous even for a teacher as demanding as Glorfindel, and Elrohir had grown from student to sparring partner long-years ago.

“What has gotten into you?!” Elrohir’s warrior instincts had taken over, and he was facing his captain and friend with his own wooden sword raised, dripping nose and stained shirt forgotten.

“A moment ago you looked me in the eye, and told me with a straight face that you would rather train tonight, when the weather looks up. This peculiar sentiment I have heard more often of late, from other warriors who should know better! When was the last time you fought anyone like you meant it? Do you practice for unarmed combat in inclement weather? How many times, exactly, can you run the length of this valley before your hands shake too hard to put an arrow through an Orc?!”

Glorfindel had not quite barked his last angry word when he came at Elrohir with one of the masterstrokes that made him such a fearsome opponent. A feint left followed by a viper-quick lunge forward, forcing Elrohir to step back and cede ground to his opponent. Elrohir leaned in instead and caught the crossguard of Glorfindel’s sword against his own. Glorfindel had the speed and stamina of the Elves, but Elrohir’s Mannish blood granted him bulk and sheer force of muscle. He brought all of it to bear to lever Glorfindel’s weapon from his grasp. 

With a face as smooth and closed as if he was sitting at the council-table in Elrond’s study Glorfindel’s left hand moved to his belt to seek the dagger he carried in a hidden sheath. Elrohir was not born yesterday, and now that all courtesy was past he grabbed the offending hand and twisted the fingers so hard he felt the telltale crack of cartilage beneath his fist. Glorfindel promptly headbutted Elrohir in the face once, and twice for good measure until stars wheeled before his eyes. A spike of white-hot anger granted him the strength to wrest Glorfindel’s sword from his hand and toss it out of reach. His victory came at the expense of a throw that sent him sprawling to the ground. Glorfindel came down on him like a toppling mountain of wrath, hands outstretched to clasp Elrohir’s throat. 

They rolled in the mud like a pair of enraged swine, viciously grabbing, kicking and twisting. Soon they were both equally slippery and flecked with blood, Elrohir’s at first, but when Elrohir struck Glorfindel full in the mouth with the bone handle of his own dagger there was no more telling who was staining what. 

At last, after what seemed hours of desperate, agonizing struggle Glorfindel had his legs wrapped tightly around Elrohir’s upper body, pinning his arms. One hand was fisted in the ruin of Elrohir’s braids to roughly pull back his head for the other to press a small boot-dagger to the pounding artery in his throat. The mean little thing was razor-sharp, and the sting of a small cut opening up beneath its bite was another note in the chorus of pain singing through Elrohir’s body. The bizarre fight had been so harsh that for a heartstopping instant of terror Elrohir was convinced that this stranger with Glorfindel’s face would slash his throat to the bone. 

Instead he was released, and Glorfindel drew back to sit on his haunches. Nothing about this wild, dangerous creature with burning eyes resembled the merry, exquisitely dressed lord who graced Elrond’s halls. Elrohir’s stung pride was eased by the knowledge that he had done genuine damage. Glorfindel’s lip was torn, an eye was rapidly swelling shut and he clearly favoured his left hand. His simple linen smock was in bloodied, mud-soaked tatters. Only at the second glance did Elrohir recognize the emotion veiled by Glorfindel’s fog of battle rage, and a dark cloud of dread drew over his heart. 

Glorfindel, the battle-hardened Lord of the Golden Flower, twice-born Balrog-slayer and envoy of the Elder King himself, was afraid.  

Elrohir pushed himself up to sit cross-legged. His head pounded like a battle drum. He was in the middle of a puddle but he could not trust his legs to support him if he should try to move. There would be no getting back into the house without leaving a trail of mud and blood for all to notice. He did not look forward to providing an explanation for his current state, one that should somehow draw a veil over Glorfindel’s erratic behaviour. This stroke of madness was entirely out of character. One thing only could drive Glorfindel to such extremes of violence. 

“Elladan was tight-lipped this morning, but his night’s work must have contained very ill news, to have you this frantic.”

Glorfindel’s eyes darted this way and that as if Morgoth’s spies might be lurking in the practice yard. It was still early, and he found no eavesdroppers but a forlorn row of rain-soaked straw archery targets. His voice was flat, and the sheer desperate misery in his friend’s eyes tore at Elrohir’s heart despite his indignation. 

“It was brought to our attention that Sauron may have reappeared. Our old friend did well for himself – he is comfortably settled in a fortified keep in the Ered Mithrin, from where he commands an army of Hillmen, Orcs and Easterlings.”

Elrohir could feel himself grow pale. Glorfindel continued in that low, wooden tone.            

“The long peace has made us soft. Until now I could afford to demand less than perfection from my warriors, including you. No more. War is upon us.”

A spark of insight struck Elrohir. 

Gondolin .

Glorfindel rarely mentioned the city, and Elrohir had never heard him speak of its fall. He had never asked. No one understood better than Elrohir that some wounds healed best when left undisturbed. The vision of Imladris standing like an island in a rising sea of black had reawakened ancient ghosts. Glorfindel knew firsthand the agony of seeing his warriors overrun, his home pillaged and the people whose lives were his to defend slaughtered or taken into thralldom. 

There was precious little the Lord of the Golden Flower would not do to prevent a repeat of the Fall of Gondolin in the realm he now called home. If Imladris’ defences might be improved by administering a solid beating to his second-in-command, the captain of the guard would gladly see to it. 

Elrohir knew well enough that Glorfindel was right. After the Last Alliance the North enjoyed nearly ten long-years of unbroken peace. Many of Elrond’s warriors had never seen large-scale combat. In war, complacency would kill. Comfort and ease would see Imladris destroyed. Anything less than absolute perfection was unforgivable. 

“I will call in the commanding officers of all companies for a briefing. Their lieutenants, too. The training schedules must be redrawn, and then the warriors will learn the hard way that they are mere suggestions and that our additions will be both unpleasant and unpredictable.”

Glorfindel smiled apologetically. “May I suggest you bathe and ask your father to tend you before attempting any of that? You look rather – wild. The good people of Imladris might take fright.” 

Elrohir grinned. “So do you. Standards are slipping, if the captain of the guard and his lieutenant are caught brawling like drunk Dwarves. You should reassign us both to sewer maintenance for the next five years.”

Glorfindel stood and reached Elrohir his hand to pull him to standing. He had regained a trace of his usual mirth.

“With what I have planned, you might soon wish that I would.”

 

----

 

“Has Glorfindel lost his mind?!” 

Elladan’s face was a stormcloud when he rushed into Elrond’s workroom in the House of Healing, silver-trimmed robes of state swirling behind him and an anxious-looking clerk at his heels. His entry broke the room’s intimate bubble of golden lamplight and rain pattering against the window into sharp, fractured edges. 

“We were only sparring. He came away looking as bad as I do.” 

Elrohir’s lighthearted attempt to rein in his brother’s wrath fell on deaf ears. 

Elrond supposed it was not entirely unjustified. Elrohir sat on the healer’s worktable bare-chested with a towel draped around his shoulders, a constellation of purpling bruises on full display. The remains of his tunic, soaked with blood and mud, lay discarded in a bucket at his feet. He was shivering despite the roaring hearthfire, one hand wrapped around a steaming cup of honeyed willowbark tea, the other pressing a dripping cloth to his face, which was swelling rapidly despite the ice. Elrond had just finished the painful process of setting his broken nose and was now applying a single stitch to the small cut in his throat. 

Elrond was vexed at having his healer’s focus on Elrohir interrupted. He continued his Song despite Elladan’s entry, taking secret delight in the closeness and comfort it gave Elrohir, who was no longer a child that might be seen leaning on his father outside of these rooms. 

Elladan opened his mouth to retort, but then remembered they were not entirely in private yet. He turned to his aide, who stood frozen in wide-eyed curiosity.

"You may return to the councilroom. Please have Lindir offer my apologies to Lord Frór and his folk, and tell him that I will rejoin the session shortly. Have some Dwarvish ale brought up from the cellar to ease their wait. We will finish the contract today.”  

The young scribe bowed and left in silence, clearly disappointed at missing out on her lords’ fascinating antics.   

Once the door had closed behind her Elladan spun to face Elrohir. 

“Now tell me, did last night’s tidings render the Captain of the Guard insane, or has he developed an Orcish taste for cruelty?”

His hand shook with anger when he pointed at Elrohir’s throat. “The fool was a hair’s breadth from making himself a kinslayer!”

Elrohir shrugged, as far as Elrond’s hands at his throat permitted such a thing.

“A hair’s breadth is a vast distance, given Glorfindel’s skill with blades. He only cuts what he means to. This is a warriors’ matter, between him and me, and I bear him no grudge. Peace, Elladan.” 

Elladan made a wordless sound of rage and faced Elrond.

“Father, will you countenance this … this Orc-work in the ranks?”

Elrond was obliged to cut his Song short, and he mourned the dimming of his connection with Elrohir’s fëa as he straightened himself to look his eldest son in the eye. His gaze was keen enough to see behind Elladan’s outrage to its deepest, uncomfortable source – guilt. 

Elladan spent his days in Elrond’s councilrooms, the very heart of power in Imladris, and his nights conversing with all and hearing much in the Hall of Fire. Meanwhile Elrohir more often than not rode out on Elrond’s errantry: patrols, reconnaissance, embassies considered too perilous to risk the present or future Lords of Imladris personally. The long and frequent absences inevitably diminished Elrohir’s position in his own home. 

A bitter irony, to Elrohir as much as to Elrond, who never failed to do his utmost to recognize his younger son’s labours. Nonetheless at times Elrohir envied his brother the relative ease of a courtly life free from rigid warrior’s discipline, the unquestioned authority that came with being the heir to Imladris and the regency of the High Elves in Ennor. 

Elladan knew this well enough. Hence the fierce protectiveness whenever Elrohir suffered as much as a thorn’s scratch in the course of his work. He had received many injuries over the long years, both in training and battle. Elrohir bore them rather stoically, but each time Elladan raged and fussed and blamed, all of it out of unspoken dread of the day Elrohir might blame him for his own comfort and safety, for the random coincidence of birth that determined their fates.   

Elrond gently touched Elladan’s face. “Aye, I will countenance it. I will not interfere with the proper running of the guard. Glorfindel governs his warriors as he sees fit, including Elrohir. And he does little without good reason.”

Elladan brusquely turned to kiss Elrohir’s forehead and embrace him, as careful and gentle as his words were harsh.

“Remember that fealty is sworn, Father, but love tends to perish beneath contempt. You have two sons and yet you treat one of them like a mere tool for your works.” 

The heir to Imladris was above slamming doors, but the angry clack of his boots on the flagstones of the hallway was eloquent enough.   

Elrond and Elrohir were left in tension that might be cut with a knife. Elrond breathed deeply. Asking Elrohir whether these truly were his own secret thoughts spoken aloud was pointless. Loyalty would tie his tongue especially now, faced with the gathering dark. Elrohir’s face was still and unrevealing. He had always been the quieter of the two, and when he wanted he could build silence into a shield and a fortress. Elrond would find himself waiting a long time before he might get to the bottom of this, if ever. A cold pain sparked inside him. What use was winning wars if he stood to lose what mattered most regardless? 

One thing he might still do. Elrond’s hands gathered Erohir’s matted hair. In silence he released it from its ruined warrior’s braids and took up a brush to painstakingly remove clumps of mud. Despite everything Elrohir let out a small sigh of contentment. With his hands busy in his son’s hair Elrond could talk to him. 

“Elladan is more right than you know. I work both my sons for all you are worth, but that I can still call myself the Lord of Imladris after last night’s ill news spreads about the valley will be your achievement.”  

Elrohir did not understand, at first. “The guard functioned perfectly long before I was ever thought of. They have not forgotten how to defend Imladris without me.” 

Elrond shook his head before remembering Elrohir would not see. Having to speak this aloud drove home the full sorrow of it.

“As long as my own son stands on the front line, as long as I send my flesh and blood out into peril, my authority to command the children of others to their deaths stands above reproach. That very credibility keeps all Elf-kindreds united under the banner of our House. To be a warrior is a hard road. Even if you had shown less natural talent I would still have to set you upon it, precisely because of who you are. This was a choice made for you at birth, and nonetheless you give us your all.”

Elrond’s voice faltered. What would he do – what in Arda would he do if Elrohir, his sweet, quiet elfling, would be lost to this madness that was the long defeat of the Elves? Only now did Elrond fully understand Ereinion’s choice not to marry, to sire no children. How had Fëanor borne the very thought of his sons in such peril, how had Fingolfin and Oropher and Amdir? What was the secret to blithely sending one’s child off to where the Darkness might get at them, instead of spiriting them away to some other place – any place – of safety?

Elrohir turned around to give his father an inscrutable look, and bereft of his hands’ occupation Elrond quickly filled the silence between them. 

“Whichever way our fortunes may turn, know that I will never forget this, nor take it for granted. Your path is different than your brother’s but no less beloved, or honoured.”

Elrond embraced Elrohir, and stood marvelling at the warm, solid presence of his son for as long as he dared. This was the answer then. One buried the horror of it beneath such empty notions as duty and honour, and then looked elsewhere in case it crawled its way back up.

---

Chapter End Notes

And so Glorfindel both makes a point and shows his vulnerability as the dangerous reality of the situation begins to dawn.

What do you think about Glorfindel's methods, and Elrond's reaction? Is Elladan right? I'd love to hear from you in the comments! 

The next update will show Arwen reinforcing the defenses in her own unique way.

Idrils Scribe

Chapter 4

Read Chapter 4

“Pendants are cumbersome. You should wear this beneath your armour, or the Orcs will get their claws on it.” Arwen turned a coil of perfectly drawn mithril wire over in her hands and gave Elrohir a look of frustration across her workbench. “Unfortunately certain historical sensibilities keep me from setting it in a ring.”

Elrond’s daughter was clad in a sooty leather apron over a smock riddled with burn holes. Not a strand of her chestnut hair escaped from the austere braid, looped twice around her head, that kept it from singeing in her brazier.

Elrohir laughed with genuine mirth for the first time in days. He had been deeply grateful when Arwen offered to make a jewel to ward him in the war to come. Taking an hour out of his long day’s work in the barracks to spend with her was a rare delight in these busy times. His fiery-tempered sister came into her own here in her jewelsmiths’ workshop, surrounded by heat and smoke and and an aura of thrumming, arcane power. 

“I would pay to see Erestor’s face when I ask him how he likes the stone setting on my brand new Ring of Power.” Elrohir gave Arwen a rebellious grin. 

She did not smile as she deftly measured the glimmering wire to the right length before snapping it with fine pliers. Arwen first pursued jewelcraft out of sheer defiance. Her apprenticeship with the last remnant of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, former Fëanorians who lingered in Elrond’s house rather than face judgment across the Sea, had ruffled many a Sindarin feather. Celeborn had been especially displeased, but Arwen clung to her chosen craft with mulish insistence. By the time her work rivalled Celebrimbor’s best pieces even Celeborn had to acknowledge her talent.

“I would pay good money to be as far away as possible when Grandfather catches wind of it! He already thinks this craft of mine far too Noldorin without me giving free rein to our House’s – what were his exact words again? – Fëanorian tendencies.” 

Arwen’s words deepened Elrohir’s smile, but she herself remained serious. Elrond’s children walked an eternal tightrope between the various races and kindreds of their mingled lineage, fraught with both duty and risk. 

He watched her silent, furious hammering – as if the mithril had done her some personal wrong – shaping the setting for a fine ruby she had bartered from the mines of Khazad-dûm, no small feat given the growing danger on the roads. She had cut the rough gem into a perfect oval with the mastery of a true Mírdain, so that bars of reflected light overlapped inside its blood-red depths. It now lay gleaming like the Star of War atop its leather wallet on her workbench, still inert. Singing Power into the stone was a precarious task that could not withstand the curious gazes of the uninitiated. Arwen would likely perform it some cloudless night, alone beneath the stars in the jewelsmiths’ secret hideaway high in the mountains. 

As he watched her skillful hands at work Elrohir wondered which path his strong-willed, independent sister would have chosen, had she been born to parents of less renown. What would Arwen have become, unencumbered by the pressing weight of her lofty ancestry? Judging by her faraway look she must ask herself that question far too often. Elrohir was suddenly determined to brighten this day for her.

“You are absolutely correct, sister mine. A pendant it is, unless you mean to outfit me with Arda’s very first Earring of Power?”

This time she did laugh, and Elrohir basked in the sound of her mirth, heard so rarely nowadays. 

“It would hardly be fitting for my final piece of jewelcraft!”

Elrohir was taken aback.  “Mother and Grandfather have disapproved of your profession for almost five long-years. You never paid them heed. Surely you will not fold now?”

Arwen shook her head furiously. The silver clasps of her braid reflected the midday sun falling through the open doorway, sending dancing flecks of light across the smithy’s walls. 

“I have no intention of giving up smithing, only a change of specialization. I will turn to blades and armour. Helwo has kindly granted me an apprenticeship. I already know the basic techniques. Obtaining full mastery should take no more than five years.”

Elrohir was struck speechless. “Why?!”

She gave him a long, pointed look. “That you of all people should ask me that question! Did no one in the barracks remember to tell you that we have a new Dark Lord on our hands?”

Elrohir smiled indulgently. “I did notice. Even so, you need not give up your passion on his account!”

He had carelessly hit a painful nerve. Arwen dropped her hammer on her anvil with an earsplitting clatter.

 “I may be the youngest of Elrond’s children, but I am no child to be indulged! Elladan has his place in the councilrooms – Father has no need of me in his dealings with the petty kings of Men. You have found yours among the warriors. But what am I? Neither a ruler nor a warrior nor even the lady of a house of my own. I have no taste for killing, and yet my blood is as fierce as yours. Shall I remain coddled in the lap of luxury, creating pretty trinkets while my people pay for our freedom in blood? My works will serve the warriors of Imladris when they ride against our foes.”     

Arwen drew a deep breath, remembering that she was talking to her staunchest ally. Elrohir knew well enough what it was to be the younger child, left outside the councilrooms to carry out decisions made by others while his elders grappled with the politics.

“One more jewel I will make, my finest one yet. A stone to ward you in the battles to come. After that, nothing but swords and mail will come from my hands until peace returns.”

Elrohir decided that lightness might draw her out of this fey mood. “It may be a long time, then, before you get to make anything controversial enough to upset Mother.”  

A flood of warmth washed inside his chest when she laughed in shared remembrance of Celebrían’s vocal disapproval of Arwen’s more Fëanorian-inspired projects. 

“I am just ambitious. Swords bring their makers more honour than bracelets!”

 Elrohir chuckled, relieved at her lighter mood. “I have not heard many songs in praise of bladesmiths.”

Arwen bent to her work once more, but this time she did smile. Her hands were more gentle as she selected a fuller from the rack beside her. 

“True, but have you heard what they sing about those mad jewellers?”

-----

Arwen hitched the silky coil of hithlain rope over her shoulder and craned her neck to look up to the summit of the towering mass of grey rock jutting up from the valley floor, draped in windswept, gnarly pines.

To reach its foot she had carried the rope and the metal tools that would help her scale the height up a series of steep switchbacks, ascending through the solemn quiet of dark spruce forests. Birdsong came in lulls and bursts, weaving together with the wood’s profound silence to create a music more ancient than any Elvish voice. Here in the woods the harsh, revealing light of the sun was muted, touching all things more gently than out on the open meadows. She sat for a moment, drinking the water remaining in her flask. She would refill it in the brook burbling its merry way downhill beside her before beginning the long climb. 

She would have to be quick – the sun was at its zenith. Soon it would begin the inexorable descent towards the western valley rim. For a moment her hand strayed to the ruby in its wrappings, resting against her heart in the inner pocket of her tunic. She needed to finish her climb and prepare herself and the gem before Eärendil’s rise, or be forced to spend a day on the bare, windswept height waiting for the next one.

A sudden sense of presence was all the warning she received of her unexpected visitor. 

The commander of Imladris’ Silvan scouts had been trained on the marches of Lórien, and knew all the Wood-elves’ arts of stealth to the hilt.  

“Mother.”

Arwen cursed inwardly. She had planned to be discreet about this project, have Celebrían first set eyes on the ruby as a fait accompli hanging around Elrohir’s neck. There was not enough time left in the day for both this climb and yet another reiteration of an old and acrimonious disagreement. 

Celebrían materialized from a young stand of silver-green fir. Arwen’s eyes widened at the sight of the climbing gear draped over her back. 

“A fair day – well chosen for a climb. I would join you, if I may?”

“Gladly, if my purpose up there will not offend you.”

Celebrían gave her a hard stare. 

“Elrohir will need all the help he can get. Perhaps even Celebrimbor’s old folly.”  

---

Arwen briefly allowed herself to rest her weight on the balls of her feet as she lifted one hand from the rockface to wipe her brow, heedless of the white chalk traces she left behind.  

Celebrían looked down from her perch atop a wider ridge, where a few elegant, windswept birches grew into miniatures of those on the richer soils below. Sunlight dappled her in gold and green. A sweet, melodious babble echoing from far below betrayed the course of the brook, cut deep into the mountains’ craggy bedrock. The walls of this chasm were steep and wet enough for thick pillows of moss and little ferns to have sprung a small forest of their own where no trees could take root. 

A rare beam of full sunlight warmed their destination: the bole of a fallen oak lying across the sheer drop, painstakingly dragged up here for the purpose. There was no flat surface, no handrail, only the mossy, lichen-covered trunk crossing like a bridge, part of the unmarked track to the summit. Arwen felt her mother’s look of concern. The cleft was deep enough to ensure a broken leg or cracked skull if Arwen should lose her balance, and she was no Wood-elf. 

“Why have you smiths not built a stone bridge here, complete with parapet and decorative gilding?”  

Arwen laughed. It seemed that Celebrían’s unhoped-for leniency had its limits. 

“Because the path is secret, as is the destination. We cannot have all and sundry running up and down this rock to disturb our Singing.”

Celebrían smiled, and turned around to attach the rope securing her to yet another of the iron hooks driven into the rock for the purpose. 

“Only the Noldor would call a few bars of iron hammered into bare rock a path. Everyone else has the sense to climb trees instead. Could you not perform this Singing from the great oak?”

“Boldly spoken, for a half-Noldo.” Arwen basked in this comfortable, teasing familiarity regained with her mother, her acceptance. 

It was hard work, pulling themselves up from one tenacious handhold to the next. Once they climbed out of the crevasse to reach the bare rockface the harsh afternoon sun and an incessant mountain wind rendered the world clean, cold and bright. When Arwen finally lifted herself onto the great rock’s flat summit, beauty struck her with silent awe. 

The valley of Imladris lay spread at her feet in its green and golden summer glory, bordered by the wild, soaring pinnacles of the Misty Mountains crowned in white. Waterfalls, pearl-white as ribbons of the finest lace, thundered down to disappear into the emerald roof of forests of oak and pine. A pair of Great Eagles appeared small as toy birds soaring above the distant slopes, their mighty wings outstretched as they wheeled in pursuit of a leaping herd of horned mountain sheep. Arwen breathed deeply. The air was as pure and clean as if Eru had newly shaped the world especially for her that very morning, and the radiance of high summer poured over all creation like a blessing.

Helwo and his Mírdain had been the first Elves to scale this height, in the year of Imladris’ founding as a refuge under siege. The iron path Arwen and Celebrían had taken was their creation, but they had done more. They hauled up the stoneworkers’ tools to shape a great boulder of grey rock into a flat, smooth table atop the very summit. Arwen now carefully lifted the ruby from its wrappings to place it in the hollow at its center, where it gleamed like a piece of living flame. 

Arwen Sang the first Song of the stone’s making, bidding it to drink in the sun, to take up the light, the spirit of the thriving valley and all life within, so its wearer would find strength in the living memory of what he defended. Now the stone needed to absorb the wind and the height’s bright sun.  

Celebrían had carried up a bottle of cider, a loaf of bread and a small wheel of Imladris’ sharp yellow cheese, covered in wax. They ate in companionable silence, sheltering from the mountain winds that whistled endlessly across the height amidst low shrubs of fiery red snowroses in bloom. 

A noisy pair of choughs descended to peck their fallen crumbs. These birds mated for life, and the sight of their squabbling aerial acrobatics brought Arwen little peace.  

 “What am I, Mother? I have lived twenty lifetimes of Men as a child in my father’s house and still I make jewels to ward my brother instead of a husband, or a son.”

Celebrían’s reply was matter-of-fact. “Suitors are not hard to come by for any child of our House. You yearn for more than a spouse.”

 “Ambition is in my blood. Both you and Grandmother have sought and found rule.”

Celebrían took a deep, measured breath. “Erestor has been remiss in his tutoring, if he left you with the foolish idea that ruling Eregion brought your grandmother much happiness.”

Arwen felt her own shoulders stiffen in outrage.“I am not cursed by a Vala. And is my blood less royal than my brothers’? No one questions their seats on the White Council.”

Given their longstanding disagreement Arwen had never set much stock in the fabled insight of Elvish mothers into their children's destinies. Celebrían’s analysis was uncanny nonetheless. 

“Your brothers have their tasks in service of this realm. You crave that same fulfillment, but even if you were to turn your hand to soldiering or politics I expect it would elude you. Elladan and Elrohir are content being the sons of Elrond and seeing to their father’s affairs. You lack the necessary … complaisance. A change of career will not change your nature.”

Arwen made a sweeping gesture to encompass the sky, the mountains, the shimmering, endless depth of vastness and distance surrounding them. 

“Is there not space enough in all the world to build something entirely new, something unthought of?”

Celebrían shook her head. “The Eldar no longer begin new works in Ennor. If you would become more than you are now, you must look across the Sea.”

“Who decreed this? On what authority? In Valinor the likes of us will be latecomers to realms long established. How could anything new be begun in so ancient a place?”

Celebrían did not answer, and Arwen regretted her ill-considered question. What could the Ennor-born daughter of an Exile and a Moriquendë truly know of life across the Sea? To the Elves of Middle-earth, the one certain fact about Valinor was that there could be no return. In that respect the crossing was not unlike Mortal death. 

After a time of silence, broken only by the chattering of the birds and the incessant winds playing through craggy rock Celebrían spoke, tentative. 

“There is one last queen’s crown to be gained, if you can be patient. Prince Legolas of the Greenwood is not yet spoken for. The match has been talked of ever since you were begotten. He will be the Woodland King, should Thranduil choose to sail. Would you propose to him?”

Arwen shook her head, as she had at that very question at least once every long-year since her coming of age. 

“Queen Síloril is no friend to the Noldor, and Thranduil even less so. They will not accept a jewelsmithing half-Golodh for their good-daughter.”

Celebrían leapt to her daughter’s defence. “You have as much Sindarin blood as Legolas. He is half-Silvan!”

“Thranduil will beg to differ, and his word is what matters in the Greenwood. No, Mother. Let Legolas marry some barefoot Silvan chieftainess with leaves in her braids and a rabbit-bone through her nose, one who will sing of nothing but trees. I wish him joy of her.”

At that image Celebrían could not help but laugh, and for a moment mother and daughter sat drinking in the majestic view in peaceful understanding. It was not long before Arwen rose to her feet. Eärendil would soon rise, and it was time to weave her Song.  

The sun had sunk into the western valley rim, painting the grey mountain faces shades of russet and madder. Arwen took up her ruby once more and lifted it in her cupped hands to a sky the colour of flame. 

Standing barefoot on the living rock she Sang words of calling and creation, summoning the slow, flowing life of the deep roots of trees, the hidden streams below the earth, the Secret Fire burning at the heart of all Eä. The ruby caught the last light of midsummer’s day as if Arwen’s hands suddenly overflowed with flames. 

Her voice resounded between the sheer cliffs when she gathered the rainbow of colours hidden in Anor’s light, the rising of the stars, the flow of the quick, sweet waters of Imladris’ many falls. She called upon her grandfather the Mariner, and for a moment the light of the Silmaril rising above the valley rim grew bright enough to outline Arwen’s shape against the mountains at her back. 

At the horizon now rose Carnil, the red Star of War, and Arwen called its bright and brave essence to the gem in her hands. She Sang of vibrant, thrumming life, secret words of guard and ward, of valour and victory, strength to lift the heart and steel it in courage.The highest blessing of all she sang at the majestic rise of the Valacirca, seven stars set by Varda Elentári in defiant challenge to the Enemy.

Celebrían’s voice soared with hers, and even now Arwen was astonished by her mother’s sheer power, her deft way of commanding the very threads of reality by her Song. Arwen wove some small spark of her own fëa into the Singing, a part of herself to seal the work. The ruby flamed to life one final time, bright enough to light both women’s faces as they marvelled at their creation. It was done.  

When Elrohir rode out to war, he would have every advantage Elvish arts could provide.  

---

Chapter End Notes

And so Arwen demonstrates her controversial career choices and Celebrían comes up with some unusual mother-daughter bonding.

Of course I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter! What do you think about Arwen's chosen profession? And Celebrían's handling of what appears to be her daughter's rebellious phase? A review would make my day!

The board is set ... see you next week, when the mysterious Witch-king makes his first move.

Idrils Scribe

Chapter 5

This chapter and the next ones contain canon-typical violence: battles, but also violence against non-combatants and prisoners of war. There are mentions, but no detailed descriptions, of torture, chattel slavery, rape, and its aftermath (forced pregnancy). Proceed with caution if this subject matter might trigger or offend you. There will be no separate chapter warnings to avoid spoilers.

Read Chapter 5

 

 

 

Arveleg son of Argeleb, with the help of Cardolan and Lindon, drove back his enemies from the Hills; and for many years Arthedain and Cardolan held in force a frontier along the Weather Hills, the Great Road, and the lower Hoarwell. It is said that at this time Rivendell was besieged.

The Lord of the Rings, Appendix A, Annals of the Kings and Rulers: Eriador, Arnor, and the Heirs of Isildur: The North-kingdom and the Dúnedain

 

Rivendell, the year 1356 of the Third Age.

 

Imladris had fallen.

Elladan could no longer deny it when he saw a vengeful Hill-troll take its club to Glorfindel’s battered body before the doors of the Hall of Fire. Thick, acrid smoke from the burning library filled the halls and passageways, obscuring the collapsed belltower and covering what remained of the ivory stonework of the Last Homely House in a greasy layer of soot. Elladan stepped to the fore to fill Glorfindel’s empty place in the gap-toothed line of defenders. Behind his back Elrond was still Singing in a hoarse, nearly broken voice, but the aura of power and malice that radiated from the iron-crowned shape approaching through the hall’s shattered doors could not be opposed. No mere Elf could hope to strive against the Dark Lord. 

Sauron raised his great mace, and Elladan was thrown aside like a dry leaf by what would have been a deathblow if mercy had not forsaken Imladris entirely. For an instant pain was all he felt as he hit a broken pillar with a dry crack of bone and slid to the rubble-covered ground in a slick of his own blood. He landed half on top of Elrohir’s corpse. Elrohir had been on the front line of their desperate stand, among the first to be killed. The look in his open eyes remained as accusing as when he had fallen with a crossbow bolt through his windpipe some hours ago. The foul barbed thing remained lodged in his throat – there had been no time to grant him even that small dignity.

Elladan’s traitorous body kept drawing breath and he remained cruelly embodied to see Arwen and Celebrían disarmed and carried off by jeering Orcs, clawed hands already pulling at their mail. Elladan struggled desperately to stand, retrieve his bow and grant his mother and sister a merciful arrow before the monsters could lay them bare, humiliate and break them body and soul, but his spine was broken and his limbs paralysed. They were dragged from the hall into the great courtyard, where disarmed survivors had been herded like cattle so they might watch the complete destruction of their ruling House before being driven off to wherever such thralls would go. 

A strange, rhythmic keening emerged from the hall’s very end, where the great hearth had at last gone cold. The remnants of Elrond’s guard had been cut down during their last stand around their lord, and with a fresh wave of nauseating horror Elladan realized that his father was weeping. 

 

“Elladan!”  

For a confusing instant Elladan’s vision of horror was overlaid with the familiar sight of his bedroom, the windows open to a summer night sweet with moonlight and the song of running water. Beneath his body smouldering rubble turned to scented linen. The stinking, clawed hand pawing his face was now soft and clean, stroking his tear-streaked cheeks with genuine tenderness instead of twisted mockery.    

“I am here, Elladan. I am here. It was but a dream.” Elrond was dressed in a robe hastily put on over nightclothes instead of battered, sooty armor. He looked pale and concerned but nowhere near tears as he drew Elladan into a tight, lingering embrace. 

“Ada!” Elladan was distressed enough that for some time he did not even wonder what the Lord of Imladris would make of having his counselor of several long-years weep like a babe in his arms. Elrond did nothing but hold him, gently rocking as if he were calming some sick child in the House of Healing.

“Peace, Elladan. Peace. Here, wipe your face.” 

How many Mortal lifetimes had gone by since Elladan last dried his tears in his father’s handkerchief? Elrond did not seem to mind. When Elladan’s breathing had calmed he moved to pour him a cup of apple cider from the jug on the desk. The tart, refreshing drink was Imladris’ own produce. The Orcish blockade of the High Pass had been in place for two years now, making their last barrels of Dorwinion a carefully rationed treasure. Once Elladan had drained the cup Elrond rose to retrieve a robe from the wardrobe and hand it to his son. 

“The Shadow is heavy tonight. Let us seek some light.”

 

Elrond and Elladan emerged from the dark stairwell into the splendour of an unveiled dome of stars atop the belfry. The wide, flat roof with its lace-like parapet contained an astonishing collection of astronomical instruments whose like existed nowhere else east of the Sea.

All Elves had keen eyes, but with the aid of their finely ground lenses the Noldor had uncovered the glorious intricacy of Elbereth’s creation. Elladan knew that stars were not merely static points of light: all the heavens were alive with movement. Some lights overhead were not stars at all, but spinning disks and spirals and whorls of abstract colour in dizzying, pulsating glory. Others whirled around one another in intricate dances of twos and threes, each step governed by the elegant law of numbers that moved raindrops and planets alike. 

The most beloved star of all had no regard for such mundane rules: Eärendil’s circuits followed only his own desires and the Valar’s need to have eyes on Middle-earth. On clear nights and with a great telescope it was possible to discern the faint outline of Vingilot’s shape, but Elladan had never seen any sign that its captain was aware of his grandson’s scrutiny. Nonetheless the light of a Silmaril on his face drove out the lingering remnants of horror.

Troubled times no longer allowed for leisurely stargazing. The observatory had been given over to intelligence gathering. Istiel, one of Imladris’ astronomers-turned-spies, had been observing the valley’s eastern rim, judging from the position of the largest telescope. She politely greeted Elrond before turning back to her work, guessing correctly that her lord and his son had some grave and private matter to discuss.   

Elrond stood outlined against the menacing red glow blotting out the western stars, where the legions of Orcs and Hillmen pouring into Angmar’s great encampment had hacked down Rhudaur’s pine forests to light great watchfires. As Elrond stood watching his father’s star Elladan knew his mind was on Elrohir, out there somewhere beyond Vilya’s wards, commanding their western line of defence.

At last Elrond sat on the farthest of the stone benches. To the east the Misty Mountains’ slopes seemed pockmarked by thousands of small campfires, lit by swarms of Orcs. At the Witch-king’s call, shocking numbers of the creatures came crawling from their deep tunnels like locusts. The heights were cold even in summer, and for firewood the Orcs had felled every last tree they could get their claws on. This night their thick, acrid smoke wafted down as if the very skies abhorred it, and even at this distance Elladan’s skin crawled at the smell of burning dung.

Despite their miserable circumstances the Orcs were fierce and fell, driven by a malicious will. The Witch-king himself had taken charge of the eastern front against Imladris. Glorfindel led what warriors could be spared from the western defences, but he could do little more than hold them off as best he could. Imladris had been under siege from all sides for nigh on two years. They had lost many fine warriors, and both hope and supplies were wearing thin. 

The valley at their feet had lost its usual nighttime peace. Lamplight and a flickering, poppy-red glow spilled from the open doors and windows of the armoury and the great forge that serviced it, where frantic hammer-strikes rang out into the night. Arwen and her smiths toiled without end to crank out weapons and armour for the warriors. 

She was down there now, Elladan knew, stooped over her anvil as she dismantled a shirt of mail that had been savaged by a Hill-troll’s spiked mace. The hapless Elf-warrior bludgeoned to death in the hauberk had no more need for armour, but any metal was carefully hoarded. Link by link, the gear of the fallen was snipped apart and reforged into arrowheads to supply the living. 

Elladan looked Elrond in the eye. This night was an unhoped-for opportunity to persuade his father and he was keen to get to his point. “If this is what it is to be foresighted, my esteem for you and Grandmother is all the greater.”

“Your dream was likely not foresight. The Witch-king is close, and we all feel that weight. Despair is a powerful weapon, one he delights in wielding.”

Elladan let out a deep, shuddering breath. “What I saw this night can still be averted?”

Elrond’s face was unreadable. “All outcomes remain possible. I wish I could assure you that Imladris is not Gondolin and my doom not Turgon’s, to be overrun by the black tide on the steps of my own house. You are wise enough to know such comfort for a lie. We may strive to best our Enemy, but uncertainty is the fate of us all.”  

A tide of despair seemed to swallow Elladan whole. “Imladris is not Gondolin indeed. Your arts of warding may hide the paths into the valley, but the Witch-king knows well enough where we are.”

Elrond pointed at the valley’s western walls where a dark frieze of pine trees stood outlined against the red glow of the burning forests. “Sauron once stood atop those very cliffs, under his gruesome banner. He was still fair of form in those days. Clad in red and gold, both wondrous and horrific to look upon. Annatar he called himself, though by then we all knew the true nature of his gifts. He laid siege to this valley for three years. All the might of his armies, fat on the plunder of Eregion, could not break our defenses of rock and Song and arms.”

Elladan knew his history, and he was not so easily pacified. “Even so, hunger would have slain you all had the Men of Númenor not come to your aid.” He sent his father a dark look at the thought of how the Dúnedain had fallen since those days of their glory. “This time the Elves find themselves friendless. When those foolish lordlings tire of fighting one another they still have the Hill Tribes’ insurgence to contend with. Rhudaur teeters on the brink of destruction, and neither Arthedain nor Cardolan can spare armies for our defence.”   

Elrond shook his head. “There is strength left in Elros’ line, the blood of Númenor. The Kings of Arthedain are the rightful rulers of all Arnor – our kin. They remember that as well as we do.”

Elladan kept a pointed silence. He would have delivered a stinging rebuke, had such naïve words come from any other than his father. Elladan was not cruel enough to point out to Elrond to what depths Elros’ children had lowered themselves in their unquenchable thirst for power, their wanton neglect of their stewardship over Middle-earth. The ancient taint that consumed Númenor had once more reared its ugly head: the pursuit of ever more, richer, longer. Morgoth’s deeds and words on yet another grinding repeat: brother killing brother, the strong feasting on the weak.     

As the eldest son, carefully prepared to be Elrond’s heir, he knew the winding, treacherous pathways of diplomacy inside and out. Elrond, Erestor and their staff of counsellors and envoys had toiled for many Mortal lifetimes to smoothen the petty quarrels dividing the Dúnedain. Even the sternest advice from Elrond and Círdan combined could not make those would-be royal houses cease their bickering long enough to consider the greater good of the Northern Kingdom. If such a realm could still be said to exist, now that it was sliced into three warring provinces, one for each proud princeling.

“I will not begrudge you that hope, Father," Elladan answered at last. "But it is a perilous one. King Arveleg and his armies are nowhere in sight, and this siege has begun to bite deep. We need to save ourselves.” Elladan carefully turned his next words over before speaking them. “Elrohir should not be alone to bear that burden.”

They had had this particular argument so many times that Elrond’s answer came by rote. “Elrohir is far from alone. He has every single warrior and resource Imladris can muster, including your mother and her scouts.”

“All except one. I am here, cloistered in safety instead of with my brother where I belong.”

The reason could not be spoken of, out here in the open. Elladan stood to inherit more than lordship of Imladris alone. The burden and responsibility that was Vilya dominated his future.

“Your task is different, but no less honourable. Imladris cannot afford to compromise your safety. The enemy has many spies. We should be equally prepared for treachery as for open warfare.”  Elrond was vexed. This, too, had been argued one too many times. Spies and traitors were among the Enemy’s well-used stratagems. Elrond’s demise would leave Vilya without a wielder, and the ring-made defences warding the valley would dissolve like swirls of morning mist. 

Against the possibility, Elrond had taught Elladan to wield the Ring when Shadow fell on the North once more. The strange lessons had taken place in deepest secret, locked in in Elrond’s study and sheltered by wards of Song not even Elrohir’s keen gaze or the closeness of twinship could breach. Vilya was the one secret Elladan had ever kept from his brother, painful though it was. Elrohir risked capture every day, out beyond the wards, and torture could shatter even the closest bonds of love and loyalty. Once caught in Angmar’s claws, even the bravest of warriors could only hold back what they did not know. 

Elladan shuddered at the memory of Vilya shimmering into existence out of what appeared to be thin air when Elrond released the ring’s concealment and took it off his hand for the first time in half an age. 

Resting on the polished oak surface of his father’s worktable, it had seemed almost insignificant – a single sapphire set in an elegant but simple band of gold. The strongrooms of Imladris held far more ornate and valuable pieces. It had felt surprisingly heavy in Elladan’s palm, and when he put it on the ring became an alien presence, an inhuman power intertwining with his very fëa until he seemed to be riding a storm like Manwë’s Eagles – and yet he was the wind itself. His consciousness spread and multiplied to contain the entire valley and all that moved within. Vilya left Elladan both utterly spent and exhilarated. The experience taught him a new respect for Círdan, Elrond and Galadriel, and fed his frustration at his own insignificance. To be a true Prince of the Eldar in Middle-earth took more than high birth alone.  

Elladan’s words came out with more bitterness than intended. “Mine can hardly be called a task – merely to exist against the unlikely chance of ever being needed.” 

“Your skill at statecraft and diplomacy does much good for Imladris.” Elrond doubtlessly meant well when he spoke the words, but they ignited Elladan like a spark in dry grass.

With a sweeping gesture he pointed out the menacing red sky, the tools of espionage lining the roof, both their faces lean with hunger after two years under siege. 

“Diplomacy is well and truly past! Would you have me negotiate a treaty with the Witch-king and his swarm of rabid Orcs? I am needed in the war! Elrohir is restless tonight, alone among many under the burden of command. I would be both aid and comfort to him.”

Elrond’s voice was decisive. “You are the scion of kings. With high birth comes duty, and not all valour is proven with the sword. If I had no son to inherit Glorfindel would have stood in your place. He, too, could not have turned away from his charge when the desire for another path struck him.”

Elladan’s anger swelled to an ugly, poisonous thing filling his chest. His voice came out strange. “You speak of peaceful duty now – after you defended Eriador and conquered Mordor! Am I not a warrior of the House of Eärendil the Dragonslayer? I am a child no longer, to be held back in safety among the soft-handed and the fearful. Can I not choose my own path?”

Elrond appeared wholly unfazed. “Few in our position may do that with honour.”   

Elladan was bitter as bile at yet another rebuke where he had dared to hope that Elrond would at last see reason. “Then dishonour is my lot whether I obey you or not.”

Silence fell, and for a long time they sat, side by side and with an abyss between them. A pale sea-blue colour began to stain the heavy clouds driven in from the east. Soon the belfry beneath their feet would ring out, calling them down to a meagre breakfast of carefully portioned-out porridge and their respective duties. 

As if by unspoken agreement father and son turned their backs to the sunrise to stare West where, somewhere amidst the perilous, shifting battle lines of the foothills, Elrohir held back Elladan’s nightmare. 

 

----

 

“Rodwen’s company suffered two additional losses overnight. Neither the bodies nor their gear could be recovered. I am afraid that the kitchen must sacrifice yet another cauldron if we want to keep both fronts supplied with arrowheads. I considered smelting the great bell, of course, but the impact on morale would be devastating …” Erestor’s voice trailed off as he paused to gauge Elrond’s response. He received a terse nod of agreement. 

The crisp light of a summer morning streaked through the windows of Elrond’s study to scatter many-coloured pools of brightness onto the Noldorin floor mosaics. Erestor liked to pace when he spoke. Where beams of light struck the counselor’s moving figure the deep, nearly black purple of his robes brightened to an exuberant burgundy. Its cheerfulness was wholly out of place.

Arwen folded the trailing sleeve of her dress around her arm once more so she might take notes without staining the precious crimson silk with ink. Even with the Witch-king upon their very doorstep Elrond insisted that all members of his privy council be dressed in formal court attire. It was a matter of morale rather than haughtiness, he had explained when Arwen remarked that opulence did not befit these times of war. Court robes did not eat, and the House of Eärendil could ill afford to infect the valley with despair at the spectacle of their ruling family abiding in squalor, living proof that Angmar’s stranglehold was choking Imladris. 

And so Arwen had sacrificed an hour’s work that morning to change out of her linen workshirt and the leather smith’s apron she had worn to toil over her anvil through the night, and allowed Laerwen to braid her hair into a cap of silver lace and dress her in the elaborate attire of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain: precious silk in Fëanorian black and red, her bodice so heavy with embroidered mithril stars that it might serve for a cuirass. 

In Celebrían’s absence Arwen sat at her father’s right hand at the high table, so all might see a Lady of Imladris presiding over the morning’s bread-giving. Thinking of their pauper’s breakfast, a small bowl of watery oatmeal lacking even the nicety of a drizzle of honey, Arwen could not help but smile at Elrond’s brilliant sense of irony.      

Having to take her own notes at council was another reminder of scarcity. Arwen’s personal secretary had volunteered as an archer the very day the net of besiegers had closed around the valley. Last Arwen heard, Rodwen had valiantly distinguished herself in one of Glorfindel’s companies on the eastern front, but she did leave her lady to wrangle the ceaseless requests and requisitions that assailed Imladris’ weaponsmiths. 

Elladan cast her a solemn look of solidarity across the table as she scribbled away at Erestor’s laundry list of arrowhead shortages, dented armour and shattered shields.  He, too, had dutifully dressed for the public eye: sumptuous brocade over midnight blue velvet, his trailing sleeves folded like hers. Elladan’s own scribe had disappeared in a similar manner, to his barely concealed envy. Word of the poor woman’s horrid demise impaled on an Orcish war-banner had done little to cool his frustrated ardour.  

Elrond remained silent as the meeting wound to a close. Despite his impeccable appearance he looked stricken as he surveyed his counselors from his high-backed chair at the head of the table. Celebrían’s long absence and his concern for her and Elrohir had cast a shadow over him. Arwen had grown nearly as skilled at reading her father’s moods from his face and the surface of his mind as her mother, yet she failed to see how today’s council could have the stoic Lord of Imladris so distressed. This session was but one more identical bead strung on a seemingly endless chain of disheartening monotony. 

Lindalië, the head of the healers, had dutifully recited her grisly accounting of the injured and deceased. Laerwen, as Elrond’s castellan, tallied their diminishing stores and lack of provisions. Elladan had transcribed yet another one of Elrohir’s or Glorfindel’s ciphered dispatches. Missives from the eastern and western fronts proved remarkably similar. Both captains were tying themselves in literary knots to accurately detail the raw power behind Angmar’s tightening fist without sowing despair on the home front. As always, reinforcements were urgently required. Knowing looks had been exchanged across the table: Imladris had no potential warriors left to recruit. Elladan’s face was inscrutable as his eyes settled on Elrond. Arwen could feel discord radiate between them like heat from a kiln. 

Elrond held Elladan’s eye with steel in his gaze when he sat up straighter, casting off his mantle of dark contemplation to appear commanding and lordly once more. Some great and irreversible matter was at hand. He turned to Lindalië and Laerwen with an alien expression that could barely be called a smile. 

“Please leave us.”

The circle shrunk: Elrond, his two remaining children, and Erestor. They alone would seal the final fate of Imladris. Elrond fiddled with the slender golden wedding ring on his right forefinger. For an instant he sank into deep thought and his hand strayed to his left, seemingly touching thin air. At Erestor’s look of alarm he quickly withdrew as if scalded. 

“Elladan, you shall write to Elrohir. Cipher this in his personal key, marked for his eyes alone. Tell him he is to proceed. All must be prepared three days from now at the waning crescent’s first rise. He must execute the scheme we agreed upon in full.”

Elladan was deliberately ignorant of the specifics of whatever plan he would order Elrohir to set in motion, and so were Glorfindel, Celebrían and any other in Imladris.The Witch-king was a highly skilled torturer. He a took vicious delight in displaying the grotesque results of his arts of horror, and the Elves had understood the dangers well: Elrond alone had full knowledge of Imladris’ last stand.   

“Next you will write Glorfindel, with the same precautions. Three days from now at dusk Glorfindel is to ride forth from the wards and challenge the Witch-king to single combat.”

Arwen gasped for breath as if all air had suddenly been drained from the study. Erestor’s expression showed only sorrow, not surprise. He must have had prior knowledge of at least this part of the scheme. Elladan clearly had not.

“Alone against Sauron?! You are sacrificing him.” Elladan’s voice was hard and cold as a frozen stream.

If Elladan was ice, Elrond was adamant. “Elendil and Gil-galad struck Sauron down once. It can be done twice. Glorfindel is sworn to defend our House and has already laid down one life for that cause. He will gladly die again to keep Imladris from ruin.”  

“Yet another glorious demise – the songs shall grow repetitive. Pray that someone will recall Elrohir’s name when he enters Námo’s Halls in such illustrious company.” Elladan’s face bore a dark expression, and Arwen had never before seen such harshness in her brother’s eyes. 

Elrond looked like a man emerging from a lost battle, eyes dull with grief. Arwen realized with a shock of compassion that for her father this decision had never been a crossroads, but the road’s end. All choices were now past, the path ahead a prison. She ran the chain of names in her head. Ereinion, Turgon, Fingon, Fingolfin, Fëanor. Bitter choices came to all the High Kings of the Noldor, and now Elrond had made his. One faithful captain sacrificed. One son sent into mortal peril so he might safeguard another. He stood to lose Elladan regardless. 

Erestor’s shoulders stiffened as for a blow when Elladan turned to face his father. In a flash of insight Arwen rose and took a firm hold of Elladan’s wrist before his sharp tongue would utter Elrond’s undoing. 

“Come, brother. Let us inspect the forges.” 

Beneath her white-knuckled grip Elladan’s pulse leapt like the drums of war. For a terrifying instant she believed he would lose all composure and raise his voice against his lord and father. In the end, ten long-years of courtly upbringing and diplomacy won out. 

 

Elladan had always been the most mercurial of Elrond’s children. Outside the study, in the filtered light of the hallway, she could see the wet gleam of angry tears. 

“Arwen. Ai, Arwen.” Elladan had lost all his eloquence.   

He drew a deep, shuddering breath and accepted her embrace. For a long moment they stood together, two pebbles in the raging river of time and fate. 

Elladan was the first to draw back. “It must be done.”

Arwen did not know whether he meant writing Glorfindel’s likely death warrant, the order for Elrohir to venture some equally desperate scheme, or his own unseen and unsung toils far from the glory of battle. It mattered not. 

She looked her brother straight in the eye, and loved him all the more for the enduring courage she found there.

“Aye. It must.”

---

Chapter End Notes

And so the war challenges each of Elrond's children in their own way.

I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter. Can you understand Elladan's frustration? Do you expect he'll rebel against Elrond, or will Arwen hold him in check? Can Glorfindel hold off the Witch-king? And can Elrohir and his warriors hold the line? A comment would make my day.

See you soon for the next chapter,
Idrils Scribe

Chapter 6

Please heed the warnings in chapter 5

Read Chapter 6

Under a sky of chasing cloud grey as pewter a vast encampment stretched across the heathlands of eastern Rhudaur, rows upon rows of drab brown tents and fuming peat-fires spreading like an oil slick. Hemmed between this army and the legions of Orcs pressing from the Misty Mountains, the Hidden Valley had become an island, a precarious sandcastle amidst the rising tide of besiegers. 

The banner flying over the lavish central tent was Angmar’s: a ghastly skull-face upon sable. Beside it the telltale marks of allegiance to Sauron stood on gruesome display: the bodies of captured defenders. The grisly spectacle had been going for several days, and the Elf-warriors turned to banners had finally fallen silent and ceased their writhing. A cold, poisonous knot of rage settled in Elrohir’s stomach at the sight of his luckless brothers and sisters in arms. All were stark naked, impaled upon long iron-tipped spears with their arms tied to crossbars lengthened for the purpose. He wondered what kind of songs a smith would sing over the molten metal while crafting tools of torture, or if such horrors were created in silence.

Orcs were predictable creatures. Despite their innate, obstinate cleverness they were governed by their basest instincts: once their bellies were full the beasts invariably turned their efforts to violent domination of anything weaker than they. No commander worth their salt would leave them in charge of strategic decisions, even in their own battalions. 

The commander of Angmar’s assault on Imladris’ western flank called himself by a Black Númenórean name, but it was but recently acquired. By the look of him Azulzîr did not have a drop of Númenórean blood. He was a tall Easterling with teeth filed to Orc-like points and an eerie pattern of geometric ink-marks obscuring most of his face. 

It made him difficult to read – likely the design’s intended purpose, Elrohir thought as he observed the man from the narrow sharpshooters’ den Borndis had just vacated to allow her captain a good look at the enemy. Her lookout’s position amidst low shrubbery on a rocky outcrop of the foothills was a daring one, and highly precarious. Keeping cover required all the art of stealth the Nandorin warriors of Imladris could bring to bear. Despite the Wood-elves’ unrivalled skill, the pale oval of an Elvish face moving amidst the sparse foliage would be spotted soon enough. The green and brown patterned linen of Elrohir’s mask was soft against his skin, but inside the light cloth his own exhaled air was oppressive, and the narrow eye-slits obliterated his peripheral vision. He was lying flat on his front. The small pain of Arwen’s ruby pressing into his chest beneath his gambeson was grounding. He could feel the power within the stone, aiding his desire for concealment. 

Elrohir watched a pair of Orc-scouts approach their Mannish commander to report. One seemed a Snága, one of the stunted slave-castes kept in thralldom and abject poverty, circumstances that would make them envy Elvish cattle. It shuffled along in silence behind its master, shoulders hunched and eyes firmly on the trampled mud at its feet. The one who spoke was a great warrior-Orc with distinctive, fang-like canines protruding from its mouth. The beast was brutish and almost Troll-like in its heavy, well-fed build. 

Whatever news on the Elves’ defences these scouts had carried in seemed to greatly displease Azulzîr. The small slave crouched in fear of both its superiors. The reason for its cowering became clear when the report was finished and the scouts had saluted and turned around. Azulzîr swore, judging by his foul expression, and kicked the Snàga in the shins so the beast fell to the sludge-covered ground. It lay there writhing under a hail of kicks, trying to shield its unarmoured belly while its owner, the large Orc, stood by with a carefully neutral expression. 

Azulzîr did have the sense to keep from bludgeoning the pitiable thing to death. When he finally allowed it to rise it staggered so badly from its injuries that Azulzîr opened the leather purse on his belt and thrust a handful of small copper coins at its owner to compensate the damage to his property. The tall Orc appeared satisfied, or else wary of rebuking its superior. The pair strode off without retaliation, the small slave limping bloody behind its owner.

The habitual cruelty alighted an idea in Elrohir’s mind. Neither Orcs nor Easterlings could resist an opportunity to prey on the weak, a consistent and predictable pattern. He smiled without mirth beneath his mask. In war, to be predictable was to die.

 

----

     

The gorge was narrow, craggy and deep, all rushing white water and ice-carved grey stone draped in ferns and stunted oaks. A perilous place even in peacetime. Orc-scouts were clever enough to see that it was ideal for a stealthy Elvish ambush, and Angmar’s troops had steered well clear of it. 

Ardil watched in silence, mouth pinched into a thin line of concern as Helwo’s hammer descended once more on Elrohir’s pauldron to make the final dent just a little more convincing. “You look like a flock of shot birds. Please don’t let them pick you off like a one-winged pheasant.”

Elrohir spared a smile for his guard. Ardil had fiercely and vocally disapproved of what they were about to attempt, but he was loyal to a fault. Now that the decision was made and Elrohir’s daring scheme agreed upon, Ardil would see it done. His presence considerably calmed Elrohir’s raging nerves. Things were not so bad as long as Ardil still went wherever Elrohir did. The ancient Sinda had kept a close eye on his ward for half an Age, and would keep protecting him until either of them passed to Mandos. Elrohir prayed it would not be today. 

Elrohir pulled his cloak – bright carmine and with some of the most garish geometrical embroidery the Noldor had produced east of the Sea – a little more askew so the large tear, smeared with sheep's blood, would show the better, and fastened it with a great silver brooch bearing the six-pointed star of Eärendil. The same device shone brightly, picked out in mithril on a field of midnight, upon the torn, stained banner of Imladris that was raised on a crooked standard. Around them Elrohir’s escort were mounting – all volunteers, most of them ancient, doughty Fëanorians, dressed likewise in battered, bloodstained gear. Two lean years of siege had their armour looking large on their slender frames. The Elves desperately needed this scheme to work. A third winter of cold and slow starvation would break Imladris.

Ardil silently took up his great longbow and left the others behind to begin his lonely climb to an archers’ eyrie high up on the cliff-face. He meant to spare his ward the knowledge of his purpose there, but Elrohir understood. Ardil would shoot neither Orcs nor Easterlings today. He would have eyes only for Elrohir. If things went ill, he would deliver mercy. 

The company was deliberately kept small, and Elrohir chose their path to skirt occupied territory. He knew the forested heathlands on Imladris’ western rim like the back of his hand. In more joyful days he had hunted here often, with Elladan and Arwen and Celebrían, chasing hart and boar through dappled light on green leaves and the warm scent of sunlit heather. Not so long ago the Wood-elves would climb these very trees to sing beneath the stars, cradled high in the swaying branches. Now the remaining boles were defiled and disfigured by the Witch-king’s skull emblem crudely carved into the bark, and Elrohir was the quarry as he rode beneath their boughs.  

Their strange little company needed not go far before they acquired a following of Orcish scouts. The creatures stank, and their loud breathing and the undergrowth rustling at their passage were far from subtle. By the time they had circled back to the gorge the pursuers no longer bothered with stealth. 

Behind them came loud baying and that sharp, telltale stench of fouled fur and excrement.  Elrohir looked over his shoulder to stare into the red jaws of death. A company of Warg-riders had joined the chase. He kneed Rochael on to a gallop as his warriors closed ranks around him. All rode fine warhorses, the very best Imladris could breed and train, but this particular enemy kindled any horse’s deepest instinct to flee. They grew skittish, harder to control. 

The Orc-riders drank in the sight of their fear and redoubled their efforts. Black-fletched arrows came whistling, wasp-like. Elrohir was briefly winded when one bounced off his coat of mail in what would have been a lethal hit between the shoulder blades. Another grazed Rochael’s flank past her barding, ripping out a plum-sized lump of flesh. The mare screeched and bucked in blind panic and for a heart-stopping moment Elrohir thought he would be thrown from the saddle before he could master her. To be unhorsed here was to die, torn apart by the slavering maws of the fell wolves drawing ever closer. He only just managed to grab hold of the pommel. The barrage of arrows abated when several Elvish archers turned back in their saddles to pick off the Orcish bowmen. 

As they sped back into the gorge the Orcs’ captain, the very same fang-toothed scout Elrohir had observed mere days before, called out in mocking tones. “C’mere, little lordling! I’ll rip out your hair for my bowstring before I set you among my slaves!” 

Cruel laughter echoed between the gorge's towering walls. Crazed with bloodlust, the Orcs saw only what they wished to see: one of Elrond’s sons, injured and dangerously exposed as he limped home beneath his father’s banner with only a small, battered escort. The beasts roared in fierce delight: they would either capture a valuable prisoner, or pursue their fleeing quarry far enough to discover the hidden path into the valley of Imladris. Either way victory seemed assured. 

When Elrohir spun his horse around only their captain seemed to realize that things were about to turn very ill. His yellow eyes met Elrohir’s and for the briefest of instants a mute understanding shone there, of the tipping of the scales between hunter and prey. 

As Elrohir looked upon his would-be captors the leaden roof of cloud broke in the west, towards the sea. For a moment he stood lit in a golden beam of the westering sun as the wind lifted his battered banner. The next he raised his voice in song, calling up a dense mist. 

Wargs howled and Orcs blanched and shrieked in terror as they were swallowed by roiling fog. Through it Elrohir weaved confusion, shifting figures and shadowy, insubstantial shapes that moved like fleeing Elves towards sinkholes and weak riverbanks overlooking perilous rapids. To follow meant death. 

Singing to air and water was one of Melian’s arts. Elrond’s children had the skill running in their blood. Nurtured by Galadriel and Celebrían’s teachings, Elrohir’s battlefield abilities had grown truly formidable. The mist grew denser as he Sang, the phantom Elves moving within ever more substantial. A crowd of strange, garbled reflections of Elrohir’s own face stared back at him from amidst the swirling vapours, his hollow eyes filled with terror as he rambled towards the river, the ravine, towards a multitude of treacherous paths where Nandorin archers awaited, silent as ghosts. Orcs and sniffing Wargs chased what looked like easy prey, never to return from the billowing curls of fog. 

All but one. Elrohir and his warriors did not set this elaborate trap to pick off a few straggling scouts. This ambush was but an opening gambit. If Imladris was to be saved they needed to take on an entire army – Orcs, Easterlings and these foul halfbreed Trolls who moved in the daylight, and they needed them all dead. Such momentous slaughter was more than Elrond’s guard could hope to achieve in open battle, even with some of the finest warriors in Middle-earth among their ranks. The boldest part of this endeavour was yet to begin.

By a secret signal Elrohir had marked the great Orc and his Warg, tallest of its snarling pack. Arrows zoomed past the captain as he bellowed in fury to restore order among his dying underlings, but the Elvish archers took great care to only graze without piercing. Soon a deep, eerie silence returned to the gorge, broken only by the Warg’s panting. 

As a wind from the west dispersed the last whorls of mist, the Orcish captain beheld the seemingly deserted ravine and the wanton slaughter of his men and their mounts. In the distance, where the path was lost in the brook’s winding behind an outcrop of rough grey rock, came the ringing hoofbeats of Elvish horses in frantic retreat. The Orc bared its fangs in a lustful grin, and whipped its Warg around to bring the commander of Angmar’s armies word of his lucky find.  

 

----

 

“My boys had that Golug lordling pinned like a piglet on a spit! He crawled back into his accursed valley, but slowly enough to show me the way! It’s right down that blasted gorge!!”

Captain Burzum’s scarred warrior’s hands seemed to take on a life of their own as he gesticulated wildly in the red light of smouldering grease-lamps. Spittle flecked his fangs and lips, his carefully studied Mannish manners forgotten in the heat of his argument. 

Across the command tent’s trestle table the Commander of Angmar was more restrained. Azulzîr hailed from the East, beyond the Sea of Rhûn, where Mortal warlords had grown well-versed in the snares of Elvish trickery. Exterminating the fell White-fiends and pillaging their nests was no task for the gullible, and the Witch-king had selected his second in command for his cunning as much as his cruelty. 

Azulzîr was wary. “Bah! Even if this fancy tale proves more than a made-up excuse for your cowardice, it could well be a trap!” 

He shook his head in disdain. The garnets set in his thick golden torc sent flecks of lamplight, red as splattered blood, onto the tent walls and the unreadable, tattooed faces of his personal guard of Easterling warriors. Azulzîr was clever enough to trust neither Hillmen nor Orcs with that job.   

Snagabúrz winced involuntarily as she knelt beside the door to await Burzum’s command. Losing an entire company of fine Gundabad warriors and their Wargs without loot or a single Elf-prisoner to show for it had left her proud master as ill-tempered as a sick goat. All of Burzum’s slaves were in for a highly unpleasant night if he should fail to get his way from the Easterling commander, but Snagabúrz was his favourite. Tormenting her was Burzum’s way to vent frustrations whenever he couldn’t have prisoners for his sport. His hand had been less harsh of late, with his pup growing in her belly, but that accursed tark was provoking him to an incandescent, humiliated rage Snagabúrz had never seen before. There was no telling what Burzum might do in this state.

“It was one of them lordlings alright! Called up mist and everything the way the high ones do! Elves don’t have the balls to bait a trap with their own young!” Burzum spat in fury at his commander’s barely veiled contempt, and a cold flame of terror ran down Snagabúrz’ back. 

Azulzîr was unimpressed. “That accursed half-breed is smart, and he has whelps to spare. He bred his Elf-bitch three times! Even if it was one of Elrond’s mongrels that slipped through your fingers today, that’s no guarantee that that bloody ravine’s their secret entrance! ” 

Burzum appeared to have passed through his blind rage to emerge into a curious state of calm. He sent Azulzîr a shrewd look that seemed out of place on his scarred face. “Of late the Witch-king’s not as friendly as he used to be, is he? Thinks you and your tarks are taking a mighty long time to smoke out the Elf-rats!” 

This had clearly hit a nerve. Azulzîr looked stricken, and Burzum was not one to back down at the smell of blood. 

“It’s not just him alone that’s begun to doubt! You foreign lot were set above a whole bunch of fine Gundabad lads because you said you knew how to take on holed-up Elves. Scraggly eastern ones perhaps …. Seems to me that these big star-eyed Golug we have out West are proving too much for you!”  

Azulzîr’s face showed no sign of annoyance, but underneath the table his fingers curled into fists. The pair of guards tensed almost imperceptibly. They were quick with knives, those Easterlings. Snagabúrz shuddered when Azulzîr’s eyes lit on her, kneeling in her corner. His voice was terrifying in its calm.

“Tell your lads to break camp. Get’em ready to move their lazy asses in an hour.”

Snagabúrz shot to her feet almost before Burzum did, dizzy with relief. Before Burzum could head for the door flap Azulzîr’s hand shot out to grab him by the shoulder.

“For a mere Orc you presume much, Burzum. I have the Witch-king’s ear. A token of your fealty wouldn’t go amiss – unless you want word of your little cock-up today to reach Carn Dûm?” 

Burzum blanched. He had overplayed his hand, and Azulzîr knew it. Hierarchy among the Witch-king’s mingled troops was straightforward and pitiless: Orcs were always at the very bottom. 

Azulzîr spun to roughly grab Snagabúrz’ chin. She had learned long ago not to resist her betters, and kept herself still and pliable. His fingers stank of pipe-weed and old blood as he turned her head this way and that to study Burzum’s clan brand on her forehead before leisurely settling his eyes on her belly. Snagabúrz had done her utmost for months, but there was no more hiding the blasted bulge. Azulzîr’s face looked barely human, grinning like a Warg about to sink in its teeth.

“Leave the slave.”  

---

Chapter End Notes

And so the commander of Angmar is well and truly tricked. What is Elrohir playing at with his strange magical ambush? What do you think about this Orcish society? And what will become of poor Snagabúrz?

I'd love to hear your thoughts about this chapter. A comment would make my day!

See you soon for the next chapter,
Idrils Scribe

Chapter 7

All of the warnings given in chapter 5 apply.

Read Chapter 7

All things in Middle-earth were fleeting, worn and diminished by time like water erodes rock, and yet much remained the same. 

Glorfindel turned the order that might prove his death warrant over in his hands. Elladan’s firm, elegant handwriting was recognizable even in cipher. In a fit of melancholy he stroked his thumb across the reed paper’s smooth surface before feeding it to the glowing coals in the brazier heating his command tent. Even summer evenings were cold this high in the Misty Mountains.   

Soon the sun would touch the western foothills in a great wrack of colour like Aulë’s fires, and the Balrog-slayer of Gondolin would once more battle a waking nightmare. That first time had been the easier one – the Balrog fell upon the Gondolindrim from ambush, leaving Glorfindel no time to dwell on his peril. He now had a tortuously slow crawl of hours to imagine the possibilities: a second taste of Námo’s ungentle mercy, failure and dishonour, capture. 

He could not help but wonder what desperate battle Elrohir would be waging tonight, to warrant a diversion of this kind. His breath hitched at the thought. Elrohir was Elrond’s son, but Glorfindel had been his teacher in the skills of war. Over the long years Elrohir had grown from Glorfindel’s student to his lieutenant, and his friend. Glorfindel would never sire a child of his own, but through Elrohir he had tasted the joys and cares of shaping one to thrive and take his place in the world, the depth and power of a father’s love. To spare him the horror that was the Witch-king Glorfindel would gladly lay down this life. 

The tent flap was drawn back to admit Rodwen, his herald. Like all her house, Gildor’s daughter had once been the quintessential Noldorin courtier, a honeyed tongue and a mind buzzing with intrigue. Like a moon in orbit, shining but cold, she used to circle the ruling house of Imladris – and especially Elrond’s sons. Today her voice was poised as ever, bearing no trace of the terror Glorfindel could feel pulsing through her mind. War had improved Rodwen like fire tempers steel.

“Lord, it is time.”

Glorfindel rose from his camp chair with cat-like ease despite the bulk of his armour. Without prompting Rodwen held out the first iron gauntlet for him to don and fastened its buckles with hands that seemed steady as the mountains. A promising lieutenant indeed.

“Are the banners ready? And Asfaloth?”

The question was redundant, serving only to settle his nerves and fill the silence. Rodwen cast him a knowing look as she held out the second gauntlet. Glorfindel knew that both the great banner of Imladris and that of the Golden Flower would stand ready outside the tent, beside Asfaloth curried to shining white perfection, saddled and barded in gold and green.

“All is prepared as you ordered, Lord.”    

 She moved to the door flap to hold it open for him. The opening faced west, and a sharp wedge of light cut through the dust motes dancing in the tent’s still air, red as fire or spilled blood. At the sight Glorfindel had to draw in a deep breath, fill his lungs with crisp mountain air to dislodge the mass of shadow and flame writhing inside his chest. That burden he had long released into Námo’s keeping. Glorfindel stepped outside to mount, hale and whole and free of the weight of memory.

Rodwen brought her own stallion beside Asfaloth, and now the great lance that held Elrond’s folded banner did tremble in her grip. Glorfindel laid a hand on her shoulder with a melodious chime of his gauntlet against her pauldron. The stars were opening in the blue-tinged east, and in the bloodshot western sky the sign and symbol of all their hopes burned brightly.

“Aiya Eärendil elenion ancalima!” (1)

Glorfindel’s voice was fearless and full of the fierce joy of battle. His standard bearers took up the call, answered by every Elf in the camp until the mountains rang with it as they rode forth.

“For Eärendil! For Imladris! Aiya Eärendil elenion ancalima!” 

(1) "Hail Eärendil, brightest of stars!" Frodo’s outcry when faced with Shelob at Cirith Ungol. I imagine this to be the battle cry of the warriors of Imladris, which Frodo picked up during his stay there. 

 

----

Nothing about an advancing army is fast, or quiet. Azulzîr commanded a great force of Hillmen companies from Rhudaur, Orcish infantry, Warg-cavalry, and a seemingly endless supply train of Trolls grumbling beneath their heavy packs. All had to set themselves in motion with much shouting and cursing in their various foul languages, march to the gorge mouth beneath their gruesome Elf-banners, and await their turn to enter the narrow, stony footpath beside the brook where only two could walk abreast. 

Orcs and Trolls had cats’ eyes for the dark, their natural element, but the Men needed light to march by. Thousands of smoking torches held aloft made the companies of Hillmen and Easterlings look like a river of fire snaking its way into the canyon. The firelight painted the craggy walls blood red, casting giant, leaping shadows. A narrow swath of stars above was barely visible, the rising moon a mere waning crescent. A night made for ambushes. 

Elrohir’s eyes met Ardil’s in mute agreement. Both warriors smiled without mirth beneath their masks.

Time became a thick flow of anxiety, slow as trickling mud as the gorge below filled up with the enemies of Imladris. Timing was essential: as many as possible should enter the canyon before the vanguard would reach its dead end. They had several miles to go until – instead of a sweeping view of the Hidden Valley – Azulzîr’s scouts would find sheer walls of rock and the brook emerging noisily from a deep, inaccessible cave system, and know the trap for what it was. Once the alarm was raised desperation would make the trapped army bold and strong. 

Preparations had been thorough, with every warrior Glorfindel could spare from the precarious eastern defenses climbing into place, laden like pack mules with both their own gear and the special supplies Elrohir ordered. 

A familiar touch came to Elrohir’s mind, firm and determined. Celebrían was coordinating a fine-meshed web of her Nandorin scouts on the hills above, where they would track any Orcs or Hillmen who might attempt to bypass the gorge. These Wood-elves could flit through the trees like silent shadows, running along the boughs and dropping down unseen to slit a throat or send a well-aimed arrow. Not a single one of the scouting parties Azulzîr sent into the gnarled pine forests on those windswept heights would escape the Lady of Imladris to warn Angmar’s commander against the ambush he was marching into.  

Elrohir sought his warriors’ minds and found them open to his, united in grim preparedness. All was well, and all was ready. 

 

----

 

From Glorfindel’s war camp it was not far to that last fearful step where Vilya’s wards ended abruptly and one stood exposed to Orc and arrow and foul sorcery. In a high vale of ash-grey stone Glorfindel and his standard bearers crossed into the Witch-king’s domain. 

Glorfindel remembered starlight on these mountain meadows, lush grass and wildflowers waving in the summer breeze. This had been a place of bright sunlight and pure winds, with a small mere glittering blue as a cornflower beneath the sky. A colony of stout, cheery marmots once burrowed here feasting on thyme and sedge, hunted by Great Eagles with bright orange eyes. The Silvan shepherds of Imladris roamed freely all summer and sang Yavanna’s praise for the bounty of their flocks. 

Two years of fighting and Orcish occupation had left nothing but bare rock and filth.    

Rodwen blew her silver horn, and its bright, clear voice resounded from peak to peak. The Elves unfolded their banners. One was midnight blue bearing many white jewels that marked the Star and Silmaril of Eärendil’s House, the other green as grass in spring with a great flower picked out in threads of gold.   

Here, beyond Vilya’s power a suffocating blanket of cloud covered the sky, and Glorfindel knew that even from great distance he shone like a golden flame in the starless dark with his cloak and armour edged in gold and the flowing brightness of his hair. Elrond’s timing had to be deliberate. Darkness was Angmar’s strength, and the Witch-king’s power waxed with the setting of the sun. Let him see a gleaming prize in easy reach and grow reckless with greed. 

“Come forth!” Glorfindel cried, and his voice rang like a bell in that unnatural silence without bird or beast. “O craven Lord of Angmar, master of thralls, come forth! Fight me with your own hand and sword! Too long have you cowered behind your slaves. Glorfindel of the Golden Flower awaits you, foe of the West! Show your face and stand against me if you dare!”

No answer came, but beneath their feet, somewhere deep in the mountain’s Orc-infested core, a great war-drum pounded like the beat of a diseased heart – once, twice, and was still. Only the wind whistled through naked, craggy rock. 

 

----

 

Elrohir raised his hand, and at the signal flint struck steel. 

Boom! 

The very earth shook beneath his feet in what proved a truly impressive explosion, followed by an even more satisfying collapse. Despite breathing through a miners’ mask he could not stop himself coughing from the thinning upper whorls of the dense cloud of grey dust that filled the canyon. The Orcs below had no such preparation, and from the choking, impenetrable dust rose an earsplitting din of foul voices crying out in terror, howling Wargs and hacking coughs. 

Black powder had originally been a Dwarvish invention, but once the Noldor understood its potential for mining they soon winkled the recipe out of their Naugrim trading partners. This particular batch and its placement had been a joint effort between Noldorin alchemists and a company of Longbeard miners from Khazad-dûm. On their errand of delivering a shipment of mithril to Imladris’ jewelsmiths, they had found themselves trapped in a besieged valley for the past two years. At the sight of their handiwork Elrohir gained a new level of respect for the Children of Mahal: the gorge mouth – and Angmar’s retreat – was well and truly blocked. All that was left to do was keep the Witch-king’s army trapped inside the gorge – and kill them.

 

----

 

The Witch-king could walk invisible to Mortal eyes but Elves had other, keener kinds of sight. All their company could feel the Monster of Carn Dûm approach. The very air became heavy, oppressive, unclean as if infested with rot. The stars seemed to dim and the mountain wind’s whistle amidst the rocks shifted and grew unbearably strange, until Glorfindel realized he was listening to heavy breaths drawn through a jumble of worn, ruined teeth. Horses reared up in blind terror with wild, white-rimmed eyes. All Glorfindel’s art of horsemanship barely sufficed to keep Asfaloth from bolting.

Here was one who wielded fear as his weapon, and his skill at arms was great indeed. 

Shadow sprung to life and coalesced into flowing shape, a living unlight cloaked in black. The wide hood came down to reveal a crown of black steel, shaped like the jagged blades of Orc-swords. Between rim and robe lay nothing but gaping emptiness and a deadly gleam of eyes. At the sight Rodwen groaned like a small, hunted animal. Glorfindel’s heart brimmed with ice-cold anger that his young companion should face her childhood nightmares made real, this monstrosity whose very existence was a stain upon the goodness of creation. 

The Witch-king’s voice hissed cold as the gales that once howled across the Grinding Ice, filled with hunger and hatred for the blood of the living. 

“Elrond’s tame peacock, strutting out of bounds! I shall cut that frippery off your back and chain you in the dark!”

Glorfindel recognized that voice, and laughed. At that sound, merry as bells ringing through the suffocating press of terror, all in his company found new courage.

“You are but one of Sauron the Abhorrent’s thralls. I was expecting your master, oh craven Lord of Angmar! I shall chase you from the North in disgrace, that you may remind him of the reckoning that awaits!”

Red anger flamed in the faceless eyes, and the Lord of the Nazgûl raised his weapon – a great mace, cruelly spiked and black as the Void beyond the stars. Before such horror even Asfaloth shrieked and bolted. Glorfindel lightly leapt from his back, gold-inlaid shield in one hand, his sword in the other.  

With a mighty clang the dark weapon struck Glorfindel’s blade. This was Maircaril, the Elder Queen’s gift to the envoy of the Valar in Middle-earth. Against the pressing darkness its gleaming blade shone bright and sharp as a wrathful flame. Blue steel shaped in Aulë’s own forges met foul, spell-wrapped iron with a ringing note, sending silver sparks to the starless sky.

 

----

 

Elrohir touched his scouts’ minds, and smiled. Panic was spreading like wildfire among their enemies. Along the length of the column the smaller Orc breeds were breaking rank to flee in terror to the canyon’s exit. Their drivers, big Gundabad Orcs wielding iron-tipped lashes, stood tall and raised their voices to restore order to their panicking underlings. Elrohir signalled his hidden sharpshooters, and volleys of white-fletched arrows picked them off. Once bereft of their whip-wielding officers most Orcish slave regiments abandoned all pretense of order and turned to mindless flight, trampling their hapless fellows. 

Warhorses and pack mules alike bolted in terror, crushing their attendants underfoot; Wargs turned snarling maws upon their riders. The roiling crowds broke like waves upon entire companies of Trolls, standing frozen by indecision like massive grey pillars amidst the clamour. Torch bearers dropped their load in their eagerness to save themselves, shrouding the canyon in darkness too deep for Mortal eyes. A hellish chorus of Men’s voices screaming in anguish joined the din. 

The well-aimed rockfall had dammed the stream that ran down from the mountains on the bottom of the gorge, leaving Angmar’s troops knee-deep in a newly created lake. Corpses and debris floated in the rising waters. The canyon floor was a seething, writhing mass of bodies stained dusty grey and the slick red of blood under the incessant rain of Elvish arrows. They were no longer an army, merely a large number of trapped enemies.

For an instant Elrohir could feel nothing but dismay and horror at having inflicted such suffering on any living creature. His resolve hardened when his eye caught one of the gruesome banners, an impaled Elf battered beyond recognition, falling down to be swallowed by the stream’s fouled waters in a final indignity. Its standard bearer, a helmed Hill-troll with a white-fletched arrow sticking from one of its beady eyes, went on a mad, braying stampede, trampling a gaggle of small, grey-skinned Snágas in its path. Orcs hated water with a passion. None had ever been known to swim, and the mail-clad beasts had already been struggling, waist deep in the murky, treacherous stream. Once swept off their feet they vanished beneath the surface never to rise again.

Azulzîr’s elite troops of Hillmen and Easterlings were not so easily dispatched. They rallied to form a protective shield wall around their commander, deflecting both the barrage of Elvish arrows and the mindless charge of their own maddened troops. Azulzîr’s voice resounded between the gorge walls, twisted and amplified far beyond its natural reach, speaking cold words of Power in Black Speech. 

Angmar’s troops were once more possessed by their master’s will. Discipline was restored to the scattered remains of his Orc-regiments and a nearby company of pack-trolls. Azulzîr commanded the lumbering giants to raise a defensive wall of debris, abandoned luggage and corpses, while volleys of Elvish arrows plinked harmlessly off their scaly hide. 

Elrohir let out a filthy soldier’s curse. That accursed Easterling had placed his makeshift fortification high on the bank, away from the slowly rising water. Azulzîr had dug himself in, and the Witch-king would soon come to his lieutenant’s aid.  

 

----

 

Larcatal screeched and bucked in terror at the Witch-king’s approach. In his mad flight the stallion threw his rider. Rodwen had to let go of her standard when she hit the stony ground with a bone-crunching crack. 

Once the breathtaking pain began to lift, the miasma of dread that emanated from the Nazgûl strangled her once more. Beneath the horror of those faceless eyes she could not breathe, could not quiet her raging heart. Her limbs would not obey her will, and she writhed in the mud as one whose spine is snapped. Beside her, brought low in defeat upon the Orc-trampled filth of the battlefield, lay the lance that held the great banner of Imladris. All hope fled Rodwen at the sight of her failure. Despair washed over heart and mind until there could be no thought of rising, only of hiding her face from that awful gaze, crawling and grovelling in the mud like the worm she was.   

The Witch-king’s black mace came down on Glorfindel’s sword like the weight of tumbling hills. The steel of Aman held, but for an instant the Elf-lord was struck down to one knee. Tall and untouchable as the very mountains the Nazgûl seemed as he towered over his prey, a monstrous storm-cloud terrible in its wrath, crowned with jagged iron. His right hand still bore his great warhammer, and his left now drew a long knife that glistened with a pale corpse-glow in the failing light. 

“Glorfindel of the Golden Flower, the most vainglorious of Elves!” hissed the Witch-king, and he raised his Morgul-knife in mocking salute. “Did you expect the mercy of another death? I will enslave you, and carry you to the Houses of Lamentation, and bring you naked before the Lidless Eye!” 

Glorfindel stood, and in the darkness of that desperate place the fading light seemed to dwell only on him. Rodwen watched it glimmer like a fleeting memory of sunshine on his glittering mail and the waterfall of golden curves that was his hair. So must High King Fingolfin have stood before the Morgoth, small and bright and doomed beyond all hope.

 

----

 

Elrohir beckoned Canissë. Her fair, high-cheeked Noldorin face was stern beneath her crested helm. He signalled for his esquire to bring his own before turning to his lieutenant.

“Select a company of your best close-quarter fighters. Those who have experience with Trolls.”

Canissë was loathe to contradict her young lord, but her wave of concern was clear. 

“We might spare ourselves the peril of going down there if we wait for the river to drown the lot.”

Elrohir shook his head. “Azulzîr is calling for the Witch-king. He will soon learn that his lieutenant has been put to rout, and rush to his aid. We cannot stand against the Dark Lord!  Azulzîr must be finished and we safely inside the valley proper when he arrives. We must climb down and get them.”

Canissë nodded and turned away almost eagerly. Three ages of fighting the long defeat had left her without a shred of mercy for Morgoth’s followers. Elrohir watched the gathering of armoured knights who would follow him in this mad sally to bring down the commander of Angmar. Canissë had chosen well. These were all old hands. Fell and fey Noldor, the veterans of many battles lost and won. Their eyes were grim, their hands white-knuckled around their sword-hilts. At times like this Elrohir found himself struck with awe at finding living legends as willing to rally around Elrond’s banner as they once did Fëanor’s.

It was Ardil who brought Elrohir’s helmet and placed it on his head. He would be the only Sinda among their party. Ardil’s armour had been made in Doriath before the rising of the Moon. He was a flash of blue steel, slender and strong amidst the hulking Noldor. Whatever lay in wait for Elrohir down in the gorge, it would have a hard time getting past Ardil. 

Canissë beheld her young lord with grim approval.The light of the Two Trees in her eyes had grown sharp and dangerous, starlight upon steel. For an instant he saw himself reflected in her polished cuirass. A tall, helmed figure, clad in silver and grey, with fury in his gaze and a sheen of distilled Maiarin power behind his eyes. 

“Lead the way, scion of Finwë.”     

Elrohir’s archers had defended a small side canyon, a pathway down into the dark swirl of madness that was the gorge. Elrohir’s company poured into it like a rippling stream of mithril, as if light travelled with them. The filth and murky water only seemed to make the Elvish warriors shine more brightly.

A shrill clamour of enraged shrieks greeted them as they reached the near-solid darkness befouling the canyon floor, to be faced with a wall of shields and coarse iron polearms. The Orcs’ yellow eyes were lit within by their master’s malicious will. Where first was terror they were now possessed with mindless rage, fanged mouths foaming with spittle. The screeching din-horde leapt forwards, every Orc scrabbling over the ones before it in rabid eagerness to get at the Elves and hack, bite or claw them into the stinking mud underfoot.

On Elrohir’s signal his warriors formed a Dírnaith, and the leaping flood of Orcs broke against the wedge of armoured knights driven into their shield wall. Barbed arrows of black iron uselessly plinked off Elvish armour as the beasts were struck down like wheat before the scythe by bright, blue-edged blades. 

Elrohir narrowly avoided being impaled as he ducked beneath a swinging pike. The grey-faced Snága hissed, eyes burning with hate, but before it could attack again Ardil whirled towards his young lord. His sword described a perfect, almost leisurely curve, and the beast’s helmed head came clean off. Black blood spattered Elrohir’s cuirass. He paid it no heed, grunting something that might have been thanks as he hacked the legs from under the snarling Orc that leapt at his throat over the falling corpse. 

So relentless was the assault that Elrohir was briefly astonished when no others were coming to take its place. A call went up among the lines of smaller Orcs, some foul repetitive chant.

“Burzum! Burzum!”

The beasts held back with a purpose: Elrohir faced their captain. Here stood the fang-toothed warrior who unwittingly damned his fellows by drawing them into Elrohir’s trap. This was a behemoth among Orcs. A lumbering, almost Troll-sized Gundabad goblin wielding a great scimitar of black steel oiled with poison. The creature’s eyes were wild and fey, their yellowed whites shockingly bright in a face contorted by ferocious hate. 

The Witch-king was an unforgiving master. Elrohir tried not to imagine the vile, drawn-out torments awaiting the failed captain, were it foolish enough to survive this night. This Orc was dead already, and its last living hope was to take Elrond’s son down with it. The smaller Orcs jeered, mocking and cursing Elrohir, but they kept well clear. He was their captain’s prize. 

The beast let out a raw, wordless scream of rage and came in like a battering ram. Time slowed, flowing thick as syrup, and it seemed to Elrohir that he moved as in a dream when he spun, catching the giant Orc’s deathblow on his shield. Strange, silver-like sparks flew where dark, cursed steel met the mithril Star-and-Silmaril device of Imladris. So heavy was the force behind that strike that Elrohir’s shield-arm went numb with a sharp, stinging cold. He paid it no heed, but kept wheeling in a fluid, languorous arc. In his right hand Hadhafang shone with a fell blue glimmer. Elrond’s sword seemed possessed by a will of its own, unerringly drawn to the Orc’s head to cleave it clean in two with a sound like a butcher dividing a carcass. 

At the slick warmth of black blood soaking the linen sleeves beneath his vambraces the world came rushing back – screams and the smell of gore, the sickening pain of his broken shield-arm and Ardil like a wall at his back, deftly dispatching the sneaking little Snága who would have skewered Elrohir as he stood reeling.

No Orc was left standing between the Elves and the hillock where Azulzîr and his officers would take their last stand behind makeshift fortifications. Azulzîr was desperate, and he had one final, terrible defence left. 

The Troll company came charging at the Elves, dreadful in their wrath, their deep roars like the breaking of hills. 

 

----

 

“Aiya Eärendil elenion ancalima!” 

Glorfindel’s fair voice resounded between the mountain flanks, and for a fleeting instant the Lord of Angmar knew fear. Glorfindel was not Fingolfin, who rode to the gates of Angband at the defeat of all his hopes. The Balrog-slayer had passed through deepest despair into Mandos’ keeping to emerge fearless and full of joy. 

He stood tall before the Nazgûl, hefting his keen-edged sword, and laughed in the Witch-king’s face. The merry ring of that sound seemed to vanquish his enemy’s foul sorcery like wind breaks up a cloud. To the West, Eärendil’s light broke through the roiling vapours to outline Elrond’s champion in shimmering silver, glinting off the hard, bright fish-scales of his mail, the proud crest of his high helm, the flowing brilliance of his unbound hair.

Rodwen watched it glimmer on the white jewels that marked the sigil of Imladris on the great war-banner lying fallen beside her. The six-pointed Star-and-Silmaril of Eärendil’s house lit up in the radiance of his star, and in that blessed light she managed to stand and lift up the standard, driving its end deep into the muddy soil. She leaned on the great lance as the banner unfolded in the west wind, and stood reeling from sheer terror as she watched Glorfindel do battle. 

The Witch-king lunged forward, and for a heartstopping moment Rodwen believed he would impale Glorfindel on his Morgul-blade. The foul knife clattered against her captain’s chestpiece. The Lady Arwen’s skill and Song was bound in that armour and it held, deflecting the thrust with a strange shriek of metal. Quick as a striking viper Glorfindel’s iron-clad hand shot out to grasp the brittle steel of the enchanted blade and snap it like a twig. The Witch-king screamed in blind rage – the very sound of the Void, unbearable to any creature of light, and raised his great war-hammer.

 

----

 

Elrohir had doubted this plan many a time, but now that the time for his most disputed order had come he did not hesitate. His voice rose loud and clear between the valley walls. 

“Fire!”

A volley of clear glass bottles sailed through the air, launched toward the crowding Trolls from high on the cliff’s edge by Wood-elves wielding slingshots with flawless accuracy. They shot so many that the very air seemed to sparkle with fist-sized crystal hailstones in a fleeting instant of absurd beauty.  

Then the first one struck grey, scaly skin and splintered into a fountain of fire. The Troll bellowed, its massive limbs flying in blind panic and splashing its comrades with viscous droplets of flame that clung to skin and armour. 

These containers of sudden flame, filled with a mixture of various strong spirits and a lump of white phosphorus to alight on contact with the air, were an invention from Nargothrond’s Fëanorian period. Like most of Curufin’s achievements they were highly contentious. Some Elves thought them a cowardly form of warfare, others deemed the death they dealt too cruel even for the Enemy. What little compunction Elrohir had left under the circumstances had melted into grim enthusiasm after witnessing the devastation the prototypes wreaked on a straw troll. A team of Fëanorian artisans had cranked out entire crates of the mean little devices. Elrohir’s and Celebrían’s approval had sufficed to overcome the Silvans’ reticence. Now that he saw the bottles in use he blessed every last one of the heated arguments he had with Ardil and Borndis over the so-called Orc-work. 

Soon the Trolls were hardly distinguishable as individual beings, changed into a writhing, bellowing heap of burning flesh. Many plunged themselves into the rising waters only to be dragged down by their armour, drowning and burning all at once. When Noldorin alchemists lit a thing on fire mere water would not suffice to thwart them. Eerie pools of red firelight licked and shimmered beneath the surface of the muddy river wherever one of the hapless creatures had sunk to the bottom, swallowed by both water and flame until the fuel ran out and the deadly waters darkened once more.

There was no time to stand, watch, contemplate the horror of it. Azulzîr’s men were pouring over the walls of his last stronghold, a stain spreading like burnt oil over water.  Behind them Azulzîr’s voice boomed out with dark words in the Black Speech, and the darkness seemed to draw itself together above the height where he sheltered behind a wall of corpses. 

Elrohir’s shield-arm hung limp and useless by his side. He had no choice but to let Canissë lead the charge and remain behind, protected by Ardil and the knights of his personal guard. Swords were but one way to wage battle, and Elrohir was far from spent. Lúthien’s children had an innate power of Song, and Celebrían had been thorough when she taught Elrohir her mother’s arts. Slowly but surely the writhing shadow receded and starlight reached the canyon floor once more. The lieutenant of Angmar was not without skill of his own, and the might of the Witch-king was behind him. Foul claws sunk deep into Elrohir’s mind, battling to wrest control of the winds of the valley from his grasp. Had he been younger or less experienced Elrohir would have frozen in terror. He staggered, held up by Ardil’s arm around his shoulders, but he stood. 

A small thread of consciousness sprang to coruscating life and Elrohir felt Elrond’s focus on him, adding weight to the words from his mouth. Elrohir shuddered, caught in his father’s raw power of Song like a leaf whirling on a stormwind. Even here, outside the boundaries of Imladris, air and sky were bent to Elrond’s will. Together they drove back the roiling cloud of darkness, and the troops of Angmar faltered and were swept away by a wave of Elvish steel. Corpses piled up in heaps, staining the rising river red.

When Azulzîr’s voice fell silent Elrohir expected a final, desperate sally or some vile trick. Instead a deep, disconcerting silence blanketed the canyon, broken only by the voice of running water and distant din of battle where Celebrían and her Wood-elf companies were picking fleeing enemies off the surrounding cliff faces. The warriors turned to their captain in search of direction. Elrohir rose from where he had been sitting on a rock so Ardil could tie his arm into a makeshift sling. 

“Come. We should see this through to the end.”

 

----

 

Glorfindel sank to his knees when the spiked mace pummeled him like a battering ram. His shield shattered under the sheer power of that strike. Rodwen could hear the sharp hiss of pain as he righted himself, letting the pieces fall from his hand. Darkness deepened, and Glorfindel called out the battle-cry of Elrond’s House once more. 

“Aiya Eärendil elenion ancalima!” 

This time weariness dampened his voice, but the words seemed to wake Rodwen from her daze of fear like a swimmer escaping the icy pull of a dark lake. Her shoulders suddenly recalled the familiar weight of her quiver. The heft of her bow in her hands was an anchor, and when she nocked an arrow the elegant arrowhead, shaped and sung over with all the Elvish arts of smithcraft, glinted cold and sharp as a wrathful star of vengeance.   

The Witch-king screamed again and Rodwen shrank in renewed horror, but the dreadful cry came too late. She had already loosened her flight. The arrow thudded into the Nazgûl’s mighty thigh. Black mail split under Elvish steel with words of Power hammered into its shaping, and Rodwen’s arrow buried itself deep into the cursed remnant of what once was Mortal muscle and sinew.      

Again the Nazgûl cried, but this time pain and panic were in his voice, and both Glorfindel and Rodwen took heart. Glorfindel stood up once more, and he spun Maircaril so the sword blurred into an arc of silver flame. 

“Come then, O thrall of Gorthaur, and take me if you dare!”

A wind from the West burst apart the clouds once more, and Eärendil’s light bathed the dead valley in silver. Wild, irrational hope washed over Rodwen. Glorfindel raised his blade high to deal the final blow when suddenly a foul voice called words in Black Speech upon the wind. Unnatural darkness fell, but the Witch-king did not take his sudden advantage. 

Whatever message the wind had carried, it seemed to bring the Lord of Angmar great dismay for his next utterance was a wail of shock and alarm. The red glow of his eyes dimmed and vanished. An empty crown clattered to the stony ground, covered by the falling folds of a heavy black cloak. 

Glorfindel cursed, staring west with his face filled with horror, pale as death. 

The Witch-king had fled. 

 

----

 

The ring of jumbled pack-crates, Troll corpses and boulders Azulzîr’s troops had erected on the embankment was high enough to shelter what lay within from sight. The Elves pulled a section of it down without meeting resistance of any kind. What lay inside explained the uncanny silence. Faced with overwhelming defeat Azulzîr and his inner circle had chosen death over the Witch-king’s displeasure.

The Easterlings had fallen on their own swords. Tall men they were, their inked faces as inscrutable in death as during their brief and violent lives. Their personal effects and every written document that could be recovered were gathered to be taken to Imladris, so Elladan might glean whatever information they contained.  

Little else here seemed to be of interest, Elrohir thought as he eyed Azulzîr’s final mystery. Easterlings despised Orcs, and officers did not associate with their underlings beyond the issuing of orders. Nonetheless a single Orc had breathed its last here, in Azulzîr’s inner sanctum. Amidst the Mortal corpses lay a small Snága, a misshapen creature with a disproportional, jutting belly. Telltale blotches marked the sallow skin – for some unfathomable reason the Men had beaten their Orcish slave black and blue before cutting its throat. Dulled yellow eyes stared up to the sky in mute reproach. 

For an instant Elrohir stood staring at the carcass, frozen by pain and bone-deep exhaustion. His arm throbbed, and much remained to be done and seen and decided before he might rest and seek out a healer. He turned away from the unanswered question, glad to see the pitiable thing put out of its misery.  

Ardil intercepted him, laying a gentle arm around his shoulder. His fair face was stern with worry.

“Elrohir! Time runs out. The Witch-king is coming.”

Elrohir was too worn-out to produce anything but a terse headshake.

“Not now. I need to check …”

Ardil cut him off with a rough gesture, all urgency. With a jolt Elrohir noticed the fear in his stoic guard’s eyes.

“Whatever that is about, Canissë has it in hand. She has called the retreat. We are out of time. The Witch-king’s wrath will be terrible, and your father’s wards our only escape. Come now, or I will carry you like a sack of flour!”

Ardil was right. Around them the gorge resonated with the din of battle, screams and dying groans and the clang of steel on steel, growing sparser as the dark waters rose to swallow all. The retreating Elvish host was an outgoing tide of silver mail. 

Running with a broken arm was agony, blunting all the senses until nothing remained but Ardil’s guiding hand on his shoulder, that dull, relentless pain and the pressing need to put one foot before the other. Out of the gorge they climbed, up into the rustling dark of the pine-covered foothills. 

Even beneath the cool, resin-scented shelter of the boughs Elrohir could feel him . The very trees seemed to tremble with revulsion at the Witch-king’s approach. Darkness deepened, turning these beloved forests into a place of terror and slithering shadow. A cold voice rode on the wind, calling out words of hate and bitter rage. 

The cries seemed to slice Elrohir’s very soul, and a voice cut through his mind, foul as acid and venom. 

Elrohir son of Elrond! Fear me, you half-bred get of a cowering father, for we will have a reckoning!

Elrohir’s broken arm flared in icy, breathtaking agony, and he stumbled on the uneven ground. He would have fallen had Ardil not grabbed hold of him. The sharp jostle made him bite back a howl of pain. His guard paid it no heed, but laid his own arm around Elrohir’s shoulders to half-drag him along and keep up with the company’s relentless pace. 

In the next heartbeat a wholesome warmth flowed from Arwen’s jewel, pressed against Elrohir’s heart beneath layers of steel, leather, and linen. The familiar weight of it somehow granted him the strength to keep running despite the horror hunting him through the darkened woods. 

Running, running until blood beat in his ears and throbbed in this arm. Small animals of the night would feel like this when the hunting owl swooped down upon them with open beak and claw.

At last, at the very end of Elrohir’s endurance came that final step, the one that crossed into the wards of Imladris, taking them to safety. Elrond’s defences were stronger than ever – not even the echoes of the Witch-king’s impotent rage carried into the valley. Here the air tasted clean and the bleak press of terror was lifted from the land. 

Ardil’s face glistened with tears as he turned to embrace Elrohir amidst the throng of laughing, sobbing, singing warriors, and with genuine astonishment Elrohir realised that in nearly ten long-years of close companionship he had never seen the ancient warrior cry. 

“We won, elfling! The siege is broken!” Entire Mortal kingdoms had risen and fallen since the last time Ardil called Elrohir by that childhood endearment. 

It seemed too much to contain, that this leaden weight of dread upon every breath one drew in Imladris had lifted at last. For a moment Elrohir refused to believe his own good fortune lest it prove a dream, sweet and impossible and bound to vanish at dawn. 

He did not weep, not until he looked about himself and found the stony path awash in silver light. He turned his face to the sky, and suddenly felt tears washing the soot and grit from his eyes. He could feel them running down his cheeks and into the high collar of his mail. A great, shuddering sob shook him, then another, until he sagged in Ardil’s embrace, slack with relief and bone-deep exhaustion.

Above the Hidden Valley the night’s cloud-wrack was broken, and In the great swath of stars above their heads Eärendil’s light shone clear and bright like a blessing. 

---

Chapter End Notes

And so both Elrohir and Glorfindel win a hard-fought victory.

I was quite nervous about posting this chapter. I've never written anything like it: two simultaneous epic battles with alternating scenes, a large and varied cast and some ethical dilemmas for all involved ... It was a big challenge and I can only hope that it came out right in the end. 

Hearing readers' thoughts and feedback would mean the world to me here. Seriously, if you were ever going to comment on this story, this chapter would be an excellent place to do it. 

See you soon for the welcome home party and its aftermath ...

Idrils Scribe

Chapter 8

Read Chapter 8

A column of warriors marched home singing with the sun glittering off their mail, gem-strewn banners streaming in the summer wind. The road to Elrond’s house wound through the mossy shelter of a copse of beech and ancient oaks. As the vanguard emerged from its dappled green shade into the golden sunlight bathing the house, every bell up in the tower began to chime and the minstrels’ song changed to jubilation in all the tongues of Imladris. 

“Eglerio!”     

“A laita te, laita te!” 

Elrohir felt a hard, fierce satisfaction at finding the house and its denizens arrayed for a feast. Let music and laughter ring from the House of Elrond, and let Angmar’s Orcs gnash their teeth in bitterness! 

He shifted in his saddle, the movement unnaturally stiff with his broken shield-arm bound tightly in a makeshift sling. He did catch Celebrían’s concerned look as she steered her grey palfrey to come alongside him. Elrohir had refused a seat in the covered wagons carrying home the wounded, unwilling to dampen his warriors’ high spirits with the sight of their captain laid low. The long, winding descent into the valley on horseback had pained him, but soon the dull throb was wholly drowned in deep, heady joy.

 It seemed to Elrohir as if he rode in some beautiful dream.  The greensward sloping from the house to the Bruinen remained studded with yellow elanor like myriad stars fallen to earth. How bizarre, that even after the horrors of the burning gorge, the midsummer sun still poured golden over the Last Homely House, setting the glazed roof tiles ablaze in many colours. Garlands of summer blooms bedecked the house and the alders on the riverbank with bright splashes of colour, radiant in the midday sun, and the clear, ringing music of harps and flutes streamed across the valley like a blessing.

For a brief moment the memory of the Witch-king’s threat made his breath stutter. His arm burned with venomous pain, and a fleeting shadow seemed to cover the valley. 

Elrohir son of Elrond! Fear me, you half-bred get of a cowering father, for we will have a reckoning!

From their birth Elrond’s children were marked for the Dark Lord’s particular hatred, but after this battle the Darkness knew Elrohir’s face, his name and his deeds. When he next set foot beyond the valley’s wards, he would be hunted. 

The Orcs of Arnor had just cause for their vengeance. Elrohir shuddered as he recalled his final inspection of the battlefield. Another calculated explosion had drained the newly formed lake and surfaced the full horror below. The gorge was a charnel house of corpses. Men and Orcs and trolls with limbs charred and blistered into grotesque dancing poses, their expressions melted into featureless caricatures of agony. Some had been trampled to a bloody pulp by their panicked fellows. The very worst were those who had merely drowned. Slack in death, their coarse, sallow faces regained a humanity that was lacking in life, and suddenly they had seemed just people . 

Elrohir needed to silence that thought. For all the wanton destruction The Witch-king had wreaked on Rhudaur, his foulness did not defile this beloved valley. With a shout he kneed his mare into a brisk gallop. Celebrían and their personal guard followed suit, a breathtaking, soaring delight of flying speed and fresh wind unfurling their starred banners until they reached the portico amidst song and cheers and laughter.

Elrond, Elladan and Arwen stood waiting, their hands full of wreaths of white blossom. Elrohir laughed, exhilarated. Despair had passed like mist at Anor’s rising, and those he had fought for still lived. 

Celebrían leapt from her horse and was caught in Elrond’s arms. For a single, perfect heartbeat the Lord and Lady of Imladris stood joined body and spirit, revelling in the wonder of being reunited, a thrill of pure, untainted happiness to remember until Arda’s end. 

When Elrohir recalled himself, it was to find Elladan and one of the grooms already holding out supporting hands for him to lean on. Elrohir nearly startled when, in an unusual breach of protocol, the Lord of Imladris untangled himself in a rush to personally help his injured captain dismount. When Elrohir’s feet touched the flagstones Elrond took his face between his hands to kiss his forehead and simply look, drinking him in like a thirsting man would cool water. With a strange jolt of warmth Elrohir realized that he had never seen his father’s face more alight with joy.

And joy there was aplenty, heady and complicated like the very best of wines. First came the songs of grief and remembrance, the laying of flowers and speaking of names, the silent standing, facing West where those beloved spirits rested in Námo’s care. Then Elrond praised and rewarded many who had distinguished themselves. Glorfindel was foremost among these. Next came Rodwen, and Gildor shone like a star when Elrond praised his brave daughter’s skill and named her a friend to his House until the end of Arda. 

The golden day passed to blue, starlit twilight in song and laughter, embraces, sweet tears and the telling of many tales, glory and grief mingling to something more than either alone. For the first time in years the evening winds falling from the mountain heights carried the grassy spice of summer meadows in bloom and clean snow instead of Orc filth. Eärendil blazed overhead, bright enough that every tree seemed cast in silver, save where the warm light of lanterns strung between their boughs painted the fluttering leaves in gold. Then Glorfindel sang of Valinor, and his voice, rich and deep as honey, brought every listener a vision of Tirion alight in the glory of Laurelin and Telperion’s mingling. For the time of a single song present blended with past, Ennor with Aman. 

By midnight Elrohir was lightheaded with more than the cellar’s finest Dorwinion, laid by through dark days for precisely this occasion. Celebrían had risen from her seat at the long trestle-table with Elrond’s hand in hers, to be swept up in the thrumming, pulse-quickening whirl of dancers spinning around the great bonfire. Arwen wheeled past in Lindir’s arms, dressed all in silver-white, her cheeks rosy and her laugh bright as a star fallen to Ennor. For an instant she appeared regal and mysterious as Galadriel herself, even barefoot and with her midnight cloud of windblown hair cascading down her back where it escaped the confines of her circlet of diamond flowers.

Even ever-grave, ancient Canissë had succumbed to Elladan’s relentless silver-tongued coaxing. His clever brother now spun Fëanor’s own swordmaster through the swirling steps of a Doriathrin galliard as if the War of the Jewels had never been. 

Elrohir’s broken shield-arm made dancing thoroughly impossible, but he did enjoy the music and Glorfindel’s cheerful company from the cushioned seats set beside the fire for the comfort of the wounded. Elrond had set the break, bound the arm in a leather splint and sang a song of mending over the bone. It still hurt, but not enough to keep Elrohir from a hearty laugh when Glorfindel spun one of his many fancy, not-quite-unbelievable tales about Aman, gesturing with a flamboyance that made his wristbands of damascened gold sparkle in the firelight.

Elrohir basked in warm contentment at seeing his loved ones safe and happy. This night, all in Arda was as it should be. 

 

----

 

“Elrohir, come see my surprise!” Arwen looked more like a girl of fifty at her first dance than the chief armour-smith of Imladris commemorating a battle won. She was barefoot on the grass, cheeks red with wine and merriment, her windblown hair strewn with diamonds like a midnight field of stars. 

Elrohir shifted in his chair as he contemplated the problem of getting up. Despite Elrond’s ministrations his broken arm still throbbed with a dull, bone-deep pain. Glorfindel had taken it upon himself to ease it by steadily topping Elrohir’s cup with heady red Dorwinion. Elrohir could only hope that the onlookers would chalk up the resulting unsteadiness to his injury. 

“Can I not see it from here?” he tried. 

Glorfindel cast him a look of wry amusement. “Come, Peredhel, you are not so drunk as that!” He laughed, and pulled Elrohir to his wobbly feet. Arwen hooked her arm through his good one and steered him onto the elanor-studded greensward.

Oddly shaped cylinders of what appeared to be coloured paper had been stood up on canes stuck in the ground, looking not particularly decorative. One of the Dwarves from Khazad-dûm, a stocky sapper called Náli, stood amidst the strange objects, laughing and holding a burning taper. Recent events had granted Elrohir great respect for Náli’s peerless skill with explosives. 

The top of the dwarf’s head barely reached to Elrohir’s chest, so he had to step back to look him in the eye. “Well-met, Master Náli. What manner of craft will you show us tonight?” 

Náli smiled and gave a formal bow. The elaborate braiding of mithril in his russet beard flashed in the golden firelight, precious metal tinkling like many bells with the movement. “Lord Elrohir, well-met indeed! You have seen our secret arts put to the needs of war. Today the Dwarves shall bring joy instead of destruction!”  

Elrohir’s head spun with drink and confusion. Surely Arwen would not allow the Dwarves to demonstrate an explosion amidst so many people, or so near the house? He could only stare, utterly bewildered.

“These are called fireworks.” Arwen explained. “The Mírdain had a performance like this one staged each summer, in Ost-in-Edhil. Thank Aulë we had enough black powder left over from your antics to make them!”

Náli carefully lit the first wick, and the firework shot up with an ear-splitting shriek. A magnificent flower of red and gold blossomed against the sky. Elrohir wobbled on his feet as he tilted his head to look. Elladan had not let his brother from his sight all night, and he quickly stepped in to steady him with an arm around his shoulders. Stability restored, both twins gasped and laughed along with everyone else. 

In the next breath the scent of black powder and saltpeter hit Elrohir like a punch. 

All of Imladris clapped and cheered as another bloom of coloured light rose glittering against the dark velvet sky, silver-bright and green as emeralds, but Elrohir did not see. Before his mind’s eye, fiery arcs of liquid flame rained down on the writhing bodies of speaking creatures, screaming as they roasted like spitted meat. His next breath choked his lungs with that unmistakable smell of burning flesh.

Ai Irmo have mercy!

Elrohir shook with terror and revulsion, battling his wild, irrational impulse to run and hide in some dark place. These rivers of flame and the howling, writhing death they dealt were his own designs, his deeds, even if done by the hands of others. The gorge, the thousands dead by water and fire, the sheer horror of their suffering.  

Elrohir had thought himself long past such sentimental notions. Long-years of training and inescapable necessity had taught him to kill with remorseless efficiency. He had heaped entire mounds of corpses over the years of Arnor’s slow disintegration. Even so, this ambush had been the very worst thing he ever did. 

Erestor and his scholars claimed that Orcs might once have been Elves. Elrohir prayed it would prove a lie. If killing Morgoth’s creatures was a kinslaying he would be counted among the cruelest of Fëanor’s followers. Imladris had been saved, or perhaps merely granted another respite, but the luxury of clean hands was past. Elrohir had bloodied his beyond all redemption. 

Elrohir breathed deeply. He knew well enough that he tended to grow maudlin when drunk. It would not do for Elrond’s son to behave so at a feast -- especially not this one. The road to the Havens lay open once more, and each one of Elrond’s people to abandon Middle-earth was a drop of Imladris’ lifeblood leaking away. Tonight’s show of strength would do much to stem the coming hemorrhage.  

Another firework bloomed golden in the sky. At Elrohir’s side Elladan laughed, wholly absorbed in joyous awe, his hand still resting easily on Elrohir’s shoulder. Elrohir shuddered beneath the touch, suddenly bitter and relieved and envious all at once. He had wanted his brother to remain this innocent, careless and unstained. For two years of darkness and doubt he had prayed that Elladan might be spared from the war. His pleas had been heard -- his own fall had made it possible. 

Elladan’s eyes caught his and for a single heartbeat his distress was visible. Then Elrohir closed his mind and smiled once more, taking a firm hold of his shame.   

 

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Glaeriel stood tall and straight before the assembly. The dark crown of her braided hair, sleek and blueish as a raven’s wing, shone in the light of a constellation of lanterns when she formally bowed to Elrond and Celebrían in their high-backed chairs before taking her place on a carved stool before her great harp. The instrument was tall as a man, its maple wood the colour of dark honey and polished to a smooth shine. The burnished notes of a stately pavane fell light and sweet as spring’s first stirrings, bringing visions of sunlight on fresh birch leaves and mayflower in bloom. Imadris’ chief minstrel had peerless mastery of her remarkable instrument.

A wave of joy swept Elladan at the well-known music washing through the glade. His home was once more as it should be. His parents sat in their usual place of honour before the performers, the unwavering axis around which orbited the whirl of ever-flowing life and colour that was Imladris. The household was out in force, and the ambience one of unfettered mirth. 

Glaeriel’s next piece was the evening’s most eagerly anticipated performance. A company of discerning music lovers with long memories, the Elves of Imladris were always eager for entirely new compositions. This particular one called for a singer to join the harpist, and Lindir rose from his blanket to join Glaeriel on the dais. The tall, broad-shouldered Noldo standing together with the willowy Sindarin lady seemed to personify Glaeriel’s eclectic style. Minstrels from Lindon and Lórien had begun to call it the Imladrian tradition: a Noldorin ballad set in a classical Sindarin key. 

The piece was excellent, but at first Elladan failed to understand why Celebrían lit up with pleasure at the opening notes. Elrond took her hand, elation clear on his face. Their gazes turned towards a startled Elrohir, who had been deep in conversation with Glorfindel. The  Elf-lord’s twinkling eyes betrayed that he, too, was part of this mysterious, joyful conspiracy.

Lindir’s rounded baritone rang out deep and clear.

Elrohir was genuinely astonished when every eye in the gathering turned to him. When the song mentioned gullible Orcs and a dark, deep gorge, understanding struck both twins at once. To be praised in song before the household was an honour Elrond bestowed but rarely, and only on the most deserving of his warriors. This night the Lord of Imladris glowed with pride at finding his own son worthy of the distinction. He beckoned Elrohir, who rose to stand beside his father, his one good hand caught in Elrond’s. 

Elrohir’s startled surprise at finding himself the center of attention had sufficed to sober him up. His demeanour was calm and dignified, without a trace of either vanity or false modesty. 

Elladan was not bitter. Not at all. 

The skills of war were Elrohir’s domain, a natural talent enhanced by long-years of gruelling training with the hardiest warriors and armsmasters of both Imladris and Lórien. He had come to full mastery long ago. When Elrohir led his father’s troops into battle he was as ruthless as he was cunning, both vicious and valiant, beloved by his people and unfailingly loyal to Elrond’s cause.  

Elrond had arranged this performance with a clever purpose. Among the various travellers marooned in the valley by Angmar’s siege was a mingled company of Sindar and Silvan Elves of the Greenwood. The bard and loremaster among them, a slender, dark-haired Wood-elf marked by a leaf-shaped tattoo on her face, was listening raptly, her lips moving along with Lindir’s lines. Thranduil’s Elves saw no need for such Noldorin fancies as written lore. Silvan loremasters trained their minds into living repositories of the oral history of their people, all of it rendered in song. Even after a single hearing this minstrel would faithfully reproduce Glaeriel’s composition in her home forest, spreading the reputation of Elrond’s son and his warriors far into the East. Lórien and Lindon would hear of Elrohir’s feat even sooner, now that the constant stream of news and trade between the realms could flow once more. Haldir and his march-wardens were sure to take fierce delight in their former student’s achievement.   

Glorfindel’s smile as he watched Elrohir’s moment of glory could have lit the darkest depths of Angband. With an unpleasant jolt Elladan was struck by the realization that Elrohir was no longer considered anyone’s apprentice. Where Elladan remained a perpetual child, a moon trapped in his brilliant father’s orbit, Elrohir had grown from Glorfindel’s student into his fellow captain – and his friend. 

Elladan was not bitter. 

By their very nature the arts of government and diplomacy generated far less subject matter for heroic ballads or moments of crowning glory. Negotiations were not battles with clear-cut lines between loss and victory. In the councilrooms Elladan listened more than he spoke, and few of his deeds were anything but the – be it skillful – execution of plans laid by his elders. Even if Elladan rarely decided on anything without the approval of either Erestor or Elrond, what of it? His contribution was no less appreciated for that, or so he hoped. 

Of Elrond’s children, had not Elladan alone been trusted with knowledge of Vilya? By that trust Elrond had placed the fates of all Elvendom in his hands. Still, no feat of Elladan’s in nearly ten long-years of study and toil had sufficed to inspire Elrond to the kind of praise he now showered on Elrohir, and the knowledge stung. 

Elladan shook his head as if to clear it. Their House stood victorious, and Elrohir had been returned to him, safe and sound. His beloved brother, constant companion, the second half of Elladan’s very soul. Their closeness was both reassurance and delight, and in Elrohir’s absence there could be no joy. The lightening eastern sky was the harbinger of another fair day, a day of freedom, the dawn of a new chance at peace. 

Elladan was not bitter. 

 

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Chapter End Notes

First of all I'd like to give many, many thanks to my wonderful beta readers, Dawn Felagund and Cherepashka, and Anoriath for her help with the final chapter. This story would have been a great deal less interesting without their invaluable advice and support. All remaining mistakes are mine. 

As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts, both on this chapter and the story as a whole. What you think of the celebration and the currents running below the surface? Do you feel for Elladan and Elrohir's respective troubles? Did Elrond and Celebrían handle this one well? A comment would make my day. 

Of course this tale is nowhere near finished, with the Witch-king still out there and hellbent on revenge.
The series' next installment is called False Dawn. You'll find a sneek peak in the next chapter.

Thank you for reading, commenting and supporting, and see you soon for False Dawn!

Idrils Scribe   

Chapter 9

Sneak peek for False Dawn

Read Chapter 9

Imladris, the year 1409 of the Third Age

 

A pale moon hung low above the western mountain ridges looming over Imladris. High above the Misty Mountains the star-strewn east had begun to brighten. Down in the valley a battle was raging, and the coming dawn would bring Elrohir no relief. 

Exhaustion got the better of him, and he was a fraction too slow to dodge. He lacked the breath to do more than wheeze as a swift elbow to his ribs winded him. There was no time to wonder whether they were broken. This fight had dragged on with neither mercy nor quarter for two gruelling hours, and Elrohir’s opponent advanced yet again, sword aloft and a harsh, wrathful fire in his eyes. 

Their blades connected with an ear-splitting clang. Elrond spun aside, feinting left only to come in with a killing cut to Elrohir’s right flank. This was one of Maedhros’ clever, left-handed moves, very nearly unbeatable, but Canissë had drummed this very lesson into her student so thoroughly that Elrohir’s body remembered it as well as his brain. Nimble as a Wood-elf he dodged Elrond’s deathblow and sought to plunge his dagger into his father’s throat, only to find Elrond’s right hand pressing a dirk into his stomach.

“We take down each other. Well fought!” Elrond smiled, fell and fierce, and for an instant Elrohir saw no gentle healer but the formidable commander whose armies once trod the Black Tower into the dust. 

Elrohir laughed as he returned the blunt, weighted practice blades to their wooden chest and turned to his father bearing a decanter of watered wine. As he poured two cups of the tart drink, cooled in ice from the cellars, the sun rose above the eastern valley ridge and birdsong erupted across the forest bordering the family garden.

Elrond drained his cup in one long, thirsty swig and blotted his face with a linen towel. Elrohir stood contemplating his father with an expression he knew would betray his concern. Of late, Elrond had taken to roping Imladris’ finest sword fighters into these lengthy practice sessions.  What disastrous foresight had convinced the Lord of Imladris that he might need to lay hand to blade himself, Elrohir had not yet dared to ask. This morning would provide the perfect opportunity though, and he intended to take it. Elrond’s vision could not be worse than the dark imaginings that had plagued Elrohir on the road.

Elrohir’s musings were interrupted when Elrond took his empty cup from his hand to set it in the grass. Elrond's brow furrowed in concentration as he laid a hand against Elrohir’s ribs where his elbow had struck, and sang a single cantrip of sonorous Quenya. Elrohir let the warm wave of power wash through him unopposed, and felt the forming bruise retreat, muscle and sinew knitting together. Dealing out injuries, no matter how small, would disturb Elrond’s gift of healing. These were perilous times, and some unfortunate warrior of Imladris might pay the price for his lord’s indulgence in swordplay. Allowing Elrond to undo what damage his hands had inflicted would preserve his skill for future need. 

“Take a deep breath?” Elrond asked in his bedside voice, eyes on where his hand rested over Elrohir’s battle-stained linen smock.

Elrohir did, and found the movement entirely painless. Elrond laughed, easy and relaxed as he rarely was these days, and laid an arm around Elrohir’s shoulders to steer him towards the breakfast laid out for them on a trestle table nearby. Elrond and Elrohir were the habitual early birds in a family of late risers, and their pre-dawn meals together were a habit of many long-years. Breaking his fast with his younger son tended to leave the Lord of Imladris in a gentled mood. His counsellors had taken to scheduling the more contentious meetings whenever Elrohir was home from a campaign. 

Elrond and Elrohir were alone, or as near to alone as the Lord of Rivendell could afford to be in these dark times. Elrond’s contingent of Fëanorian guards no longer left his side. Even now a pair of them, decked out in full battle dress and armed to the teeth, stood at the far end of the garden. So ancient were these warriors that the light of the Two Trees shone in their eyes. Once they were Maedhros’ personal guard, kinslayers many times over, fiercely loyal to Elrond, and Elrond alone. Their lord’s foster-son was now the last of Fëanor’s heirs in Middle-earth. 

The guards kept a polite distance, an illusion of privacy, but they were close enough to leap to Elrond’s aid in case of trouble. And trouble there was aplenty, of late. Elrohir was newly returned from overseeing yet another long reconnaissance mission into heavily contested territory. He had compiled a formal report and explained its conclusions to the council, but on these occasions Elrond never failed to speak with Elrohir at length and in private, both to detail the state of war-torn Eriador and check his son’s well-being. 

Elrohir sank into his chair and poured them both wine, generously watering it. A single maple leaf, a lacy star of perfect vermillion, fluttered down from the tree overhead. Elrohir caught it by the stem to twirl it between his fingers. Autumn’s golden dawn set its delicate splash of red alight against white linen tablecloth and fine porcelain, pale blue as a robin’s egg. For an instant he lost himself in the ethereal beauty of Imladris, so welcome after his journey’s grim, violent despair.  

Elrond was patient. He understood the sentiment well enough. In silence he took up a loaf of white bread, still warm from the oven, and cut it to lay a slice on Elrohir’s plate before buttering his own. He did not speak until Elrohir managed to extract himself from his own mind with an apologetic smile, and reached for a steaming bowl of pheasant in almond sauce. 

“Stay in the garden when we are finished, and rest in memory for the day,” Elrond said. “You need it. Did you sleep at all, on the road?” 

Elrohir shook his head. “We only rested the horses. The land crawls with enemies, Orcs and Hillmen both. I thought it wise to keep moving.”

“Nonetheless your company suffered few casualties. Has Angmar gone quiet?” Elrond asked.

Elrohir’s fingers fiddled with his sleeves seemingly of their own accord. He had to make a conscious effort to still them when he noticed Elrond’s look of concern. “With a purpose. The Witch-king seeks to evade our eyes. I cannot say what manner of foul scheme this is, but I like it not at all.” 

He took a deep, grounding breath as he struggled to put to words these past weeks of nameless, insubstantial dread, crawling like rot beneath the skin. “Something is wrong.”

Elrond did not bat an eye at the grim prediction. He simply cut a wedge from a small wheel of aged cheese as if Elrohir’s words were entirely expected. The lack of surprise was a terror in itself. 

Elrohir had barely taken his first bite of tender, well-spiced meat when a small, pained gasp sounded from across the table. He looked up to find Elrond frozen into stillness, eyes blank and distant. His right hand clamped his left forefinger as if something pained him there, but Elrohir saw no blood dripping from the white-knuckled fist. 

In less than a heartbeat the Fëanorian guards were beside their lord, surrounding Elrond with swords drawn. Elrohir was both terrified and relieved to see no tell-tale blue shine on the blades. No Orcs, then. Here was an assault that could not be parried with arms.

“Stand down,” Elrohir commanded as he reached out to touch Elrond with hand and mind, both movements slow and careful. Before he could pry open Elrond’s clenched fist his father gasped, then gave a deep, rattling sigh. 

The Lord of Imladris returned to the here and now to find himself scrutinized by his son and his equally white-faced guards. 

“I am well.” Elrond addressed the Fëanorians in a decidedly lordly tone. “As you were.”

These warriors were no fools. They knew trouble when it stared them in the face. Nonetheless they obeyed their orders, and retreated to the bottom of the garden. 

Elrond and Elrohir were alone at the table once more, and the wafting smells of good food only served to heighten the dread beating through Elrohir’s veins like the drums of war. Every ounce of warriors’ instinct he possessed was screaming in alarm. 

Elrond calmly filled his cup from the silver decanter of heady Gondorian red, and drank it down unwatered.  

“Fear not, Elrohir. This was but a vision, a fickle thing, perhaps real and perhaps not,” he said at last, voice hoarse with an emotion Elrohir could not fathom.

He shot his father a silent look of disbelief, and was about to press the matter when he spotted  something moving from the corner of his eye. He whipped around, hand on the hidden dagger in his boot. 

Erestor came down the path from the house, formal robes billowing behind him as his long legs ate up the lawn at a pace barely short of outright running. Both Elrond and Elrohir stiffened in their chairs. None but his formidable chief counselor would disturb the Lord of Imladris at a family meal, and never over trivial matters.

Something was very wrong indeed. 

 

 

A great host came out of Angmar in 1409, and crossing the river entered Cardolan and surrounded Weathertop. The Dúnedain were defeated and Arveleg was slain. The Tower of Amon Sûl was burned and razed; but the palantír was saved and carried back in retreat to Fornost, Rhudaur was occupied by evil Men subject to Angmar, and the Dúnedain that remained there were slain or fled west.

The Return of the King, LoTR Appendix A, Annals of the Kings and Rulers: Eriador, Arnor, and the Heirs of Isildur

 

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Chapter End Notes

I hope you enjoyed this little taste of False Dawn. A review with your thoughts and feedback would be most welcome. 
See you soon!
Idrils Scribe