Gathering Dusk by Idrils Scribe

Chapter 2

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.” 

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