False Dawn by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 1

Content warning: like the rest of the series, this work is heavily based in Tolkien canon, particularly the Silmarillion and the LoTR appendices. War is central to the story. Expect Silmarillion levels of violence, Orcs behaving Orcishly, descriptions of injuries and dead bodies, and character deaths (none go against canon). Rape and torture are mentioned and their aftermath described, but there's no detailed description of the acts themselves. As in Tolkien's own work, familial conflict is among the main themes. If it's in the Silmarillion, chances are that it'll turn up here. Proceed with caution (or not at all) if any of the above might trigger or upset you.

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Imladris, the year 1409 of the Third Age

 

High above the Misty Mountains the star-strewn east had begun to brighten. A pale moon hung low over the ridges looming over Imladris 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 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 dawn time 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 telltale 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. Something was clearly wrong, and he was about to press the matter when he spotted movement from the corner of his eye. He whipped around, hand on the hidden dagger in his boot. 

Erestor came down the path to 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. 

 

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Instead of the formal reception room, Elrond wisely chose a private audience chamber to receive their unexpected guest. 

The casements stood wide open to a gentle wind, rich with the scent of cool, wet leaves and a view of lush canopy at the peak of its autumn raiment. Birch in fluttering gold, oak in ochre, beech a deep, luscious russet. This entire wing of the house had been angled for a perfect view of one of the valley’s falls, elegant as a ribbon of white lace. The song of water clattering on stone mingled with the chirps of a cloud of finches come to feast on the rich bounty of honeysuckle berries growing against the house.

And yet, Elrohir could not take his eyes off the Dúnedain warrior’s cloak. It was good northern wool, spun and woven with that slight edge of roughness typical of Mortal work. The cloth had originally been dyed a rich dark green with a lavish silver trim. Black Orc-blood, now dried into stiff crusts, had soaked it so thoroughly that the bell of fabric might have stood on its own had its wearer chosen to abandon it. Small flakes of the vile stuff were peeling away to litter the gleaming parquet floor as he moved. The Mortal, Brannor was his name, was beyond noticing. A steward had offered to take the soiled garment when he entered the house, but he had clung to it as if it were his last worldly possession. 

As the man’s story progressed Elrohir realized that was indeed the case. 

Brannor was alone to appear before the Lord and Lady of Imladris and their hastily summoned counsellors. The remainder of his party of refugees, the battered remains of a battalion defending the great keep of Amon Sûl, had been taken directly to the House of Healing where Lindalië and her staff of healers would salvage what they could. 

Elladan, ever the convivial host, elegantly resolved the issue of the soiled cloak by plying Brannor with fortified wine until the liquor relaxed him enough to relinquish his grisly garb. The gambeson he wore underneath stank to high heaven of mud and cold sweat, but all present far preferred it to the stench of Orc.    

 “The Witch-king set every last Orc in the Northern Wastes on us,” Brannor explained, wild-eyed. “Cardolan is razed to the ground, not a stone left standing upon another, and Arthedain will soon suffer that same fate. Amon Sûl came under siege. Before the end my company was sent out through a concealed tunnel to seek aid from the Elves. Alas, we are too late! From the hills we watched King Arveleg fall to the Witch-king’s mace. The Witch-king broke his body in sight of the keep, and the men were struck with despair. The tower is fallen.” 

Brannor’s stance grew stiff, his back ramrod straight. His hands shook around his silver wine goblet. 

“The beasts impaled the king upon the pinnacle before they set fire to the tower. We saw him burn from miles away as we fled … ” 

His voice broke, and the proud Dúnadan turned his face to the wall for an instant, drawing a deep breath.

The images seared into the Man’s mind made Elrohir’s hand shoot to his hip in deeply ingrained muscle memory before he could master himself. It was a foolish gesture—Imladris was a peaceful house, and his sword was in the armoury. He suddenly felt ridiculously defenseless wearing courtly robes of heavy night-blue velvet instead of his gear of war. 

That same rush of dismay swept the gathered company. King Arveleg was Elrond’s distant kinsman and his death was grievous, but ultimately little more than another snapped link in a long chain of deceased Mortal kings. The grave heart of the matter was the loss of the strategic fortress of Amon Sûl and its treasure: not merely one of the Palantíri, but the Master Stone of the North, the one to see into all others. For it to fall into the Witch-king’s hands would be such a devastating blow to the Dúnedain that it might well lose them the war.

Celebrían was the first Elf to dare the question weighing everyone’s mind.  “Our deepest condolences at the loss of your liege, Lord Brannor. The Elves will remember King Arveleg and his valiant deeds until Arda’s end. Tell us, what of the palantír?”

The Lady of Imladris seemed gentleness personified in her elegant dress of moss-green silk. Silver hair cascaded down her back in gem-pinned waves, but her fingers bore archer’s calluses. Celebrían’s knuckles had turned white where she gripped the carved armrests of her chair. 

Brannor sent her a look of outright reproach, but he was wiser than to offend his Elvish hosts with rebuke.

“The Seeing Stone was carried back to Fornost in retreat, my lady. It now falls to Prince— King Araphor.”

For an instant Elrond beheld the Mortal with stunned bewilderment before regaining his mask of lordly politeness. “Araphor is eighteen years old. Surely Queen Isilmë will reign in her son’s stead?”

Brannor sent the Lord of Imladris a look of bleak despair. “I cannot say, lord. At this point we know not whether Fornost still exists.”  

 

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