Gathering Dusk by Idrils Scribe

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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.

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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. 

 

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“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.”

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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