Gathering Dusk by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 3

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

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