Gathering Dusk by Idrils Scribe

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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.

  

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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