False Dawn by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 2

To soothe both Brannor’s injured pride and his troubled heart, Elladan personally walked the Dúnadan to the House of Healing to visit his injured men. 

Despite his battle-stained state Brannor had a proud and noble bearing as he fell into step with his Elvish host for the walk through the sprawling house. Imladris was at its fairest in autumn, when the last vestiges of summer sunshine lingered in cloisters already floored with the pale gold of fallen leaves. Brannor drew their spicy scent deep into his lungs, and Elladan could see tension bleeding from his shoulders, to be replaced with bone-deep exhaustion. A fine time for smoothing ruffled feathers.

“Forgive us our directness, Lord Brannor. News is hard to come by in troubled times, and all here are keen to hear how Arthedain fares against our Enemy.”

“No offence was taken. In war not even the Elves can afford to hold on to the pleasantries of gentler days. The Lord and Lady of Rivendell may be as direct as they please, and I shall thank them for it if they aid Arthedain in its plight!”

A ghost of a smile played across Brannor’s bearded face. ”I was pleased to see your brother Elrohir among those present. Our minstrels still sing of his valour in breaking the Witch-king’s siege of Rivendell. Perhaps your father will send him to Fornost to face our common foe once more?”

Elladan knew he had failed to keep the slap of—of what precisely? displeasure? envy? off his face when Brannor’s eyes flitted to his in frank curiosity. This Mortal was no mere soldier, but a noble well acquainted with the intrigues of courtly life. Elladan kept his voice carefully neutral. It would not do to send Brannor home carrying baseless rumours of dissent between the sons of Elrond. 

“Whether Imladris will deploy its troops remains for my father to decide.” 

They had reached the path that wound from the main house to the House of Healing through a half-wild shadow garden of moss sheltered by fiery red maples. A small brook murmured down towards the Bruinen over cleverly placed rocks. The water’s song seemed unnaturally loud as awkward silence descended between them, and Elladan quickly filled it with distraction.

“Do you have kin in Fornost?”

Brannor flinched as if struck. “My wife and son were among those who sheltered in the crypts beneath Amon Sûl’s great tower.  Whether they were trapped there by the flames or escaped with the company headed to Fornost, I do not know.”

Elladan recalled the fortress of Amon Sûl. He had visited the great stronghold of the North many a time on Elrond’s business, to convene with this king or that lord. Walls upon walls of jet-black stone hard as adamant, built sky-high without gap or crack by the lost arts of Westernesse. He shuddered to imagine the power and malice that might raze a keep so strongly warded. The loremasters of Imladris had spent a Mortal lifetime debating the true identity of the Witch-king, but there could be no doubt that he was a mighty foe indeed. Brannor’s family was unlikely to have escaped his wrath. 

The Mortal’s face was hard, closed like a walled fortress. 

“Your journey to Rivendell may yet be their salvation, if we can relieve them at Fornost,” Elladan said.

Brannor did not answer him, his eyes firmly on the path’s moss-edged flagstones. Clearly this talk had only brought more pain, and Elladan regretted that he had no better comfort to offer the man.

The great double doors to the House of Healing were cast from green-tarnished bronze depicting the gardens of Lórien in Valinor. One stood ajar to reveal a glimpse of the frenetic activity within. When Elladan and Brannor stepped through into the house’s courtyard, the bustle assaulted every sense. 

White-smocked healers darted to and fro, some bearing stretchers, others the various menacing tools of their trade or baskets of linens both clean and red-soaked. The air was thick with the coppery tang of blood, pungent herbs and distilled spirits. The lightly wounded awaited their turns on benches in the shaded gallery. From several treatment rooms sounded Elvish voices raised in various Songs of healing. The Singing could not quite mask the snarl and rattle of a surgeon’s bone saw. From one windowless room on the far side of the courtyard came the sound of mourning—great, wailing sobs. A brother perhaps, or a friend close as one. 

Brannor’s dejected air fled him in an instant. Elladan watched his sullen guest change into a stern, efficient captain as he knelt beside the nearest stretcher and spoke softly to an ashen-faced lad who could not have seen twenty summers. 

Elladan, who was neither healer nor soldier, found himself no longer needed. He gently let the great bronze doors fall closed behind him and breathed the garden’s clean, mossy scent, his heart heavy in his chest. 

Canissë had been lounging in the dappled sunlight on one of the carved marble benches, still as the stone itself save for one slender hand drawing her dagger across a whetstone. 

Her sharp, pure Noldorin face had been called beautiful at times, by Mortals who remarked upon such things. An Elf might have thought the nose too aquiline, if not for four Ages of war and sorrow shining from light-filled eyes older than the Sun and Moon, lifting the ancient warrior beyond mere aesthetics.  

Canissë had been Elladan’s personal guard since the day he took up public life as Elrond’s heir, yet he still felt that tiny shiver of awe as he sat down beside the Elf who was once Fëanor’s own lieutenant.

She now cast him a knowing look. “Peace, Elladan. You will not want for occupation after today’s tidings. There is no need to begrudge Elrohir his.”

Elladan shook his head with curt, sharp frustration. As Elrond’s firstborn son and heir, these dark times found him safe within the valley, hoarded like a swaddled jewel in its box while his younger brother won battlefield renown. Canissë was too perceptive to miss Elladan’s growing resentment, though he hoped it eluded others. 

He was quick to cover the flash of hot shame that washed through him at his own spite, and decisively changed the subject. “What do you make of this Brannor?”

Canissë cast him a knowing look, but seemed loath to go against his wishes. “Some strange fate is on him, and he knows it.“ 

Three ages after she sailed to Middle-earth, red-plumed and bloody-handed in Fëanor’s train, her regard still held that piercing light of Valinor. Many in Imladris found that gaze hard to bear, but Elladan had been glad for her keen insight many a time.

Elladan thought for a moment, as a maple leaf drifted down from the canopy overhead, perfectly shaped and red as a clot of new-shed blood. With a swift flick of his hand he plucked it from the air to twirl the stem between his fingers and breathe in the spiced, lively scent of wild forests. 

He felt better for something to organize, at least. “Put a guard on Brannor. I want our stealthiest tracker hounding every step he takes within this valley.”

“Consider it done.“ Canissë was quick enough to acknowledge Elladan’s order, but something like compassion darted through her mind even as she spoke. 

Elladan knew her words were no lie, but an untruth nonetheless. A heartbeat later he understood, and his fist clenched on the leaf in a blaze of hot, shameful anger at finding himself superfluous once more.

Brannor was under guard already, and had been for hours. At Elrohir’s orders. 

 

----

 

Elrohir looked up from his harp at the brisk tap of a wooden staff on the path’s leaf-covered flagstones. For an instant he failed to hide his annoyance at the disturbance. His short-lived scowl was met with a smile like a wrinkled apple breaking open. 

“Ah, just the fellow! Well met, son of Elrond. This is a rare opportunity!”

Elrohir had been elusive indeed—he had spent the morning in the House of Healing, speaking at length with Brannor and those among his men left capable of answering questions, and the afternoon ensconced in Glorfindel’s study. Together they had hammered out the foundations of a strategy—one that would need a great deal more thought and  tweaking before it would stand up to scrutiny at tomorrow’s privy council.  

With his fingers busy on his harp strings Elrohir’s mind could fly far and free. He had sought seclusion in the western garden, a half-wild bower of birches sheltering fresh green ferns and delicate orchids. A well-placed bench of carved stone offered stunning views of the Hidden Valley beneath autumn’s pale blue evening sky and Eärendil rising above the western walls. 

This garden was open to all who wished to enjoy it, but the denizens of Imladris knew better than to disturb Elrohir when he went to play there on the eve of a campaign. His unexpected visitor seemed blissfully unaware of this tacit understanding. Elrohir politely refrained from showing further annoyance and stood to welcome his father’s guest. 

“Well met, Mithrandir. How may I help you?”

Strange birds of every possible feather flocked to the generous hospitality of Elrond’s house. Over the years Elrohir had observed a colourful procession of remarkable guests wind its way through his father’s halls. Mithrandir was among the more unusual strays to wander into the valley. 

On their first meeting Elrohir had found the Grey Pilgrim rather disconcerting. He had never met one of the Ainur, unlike his elders who lived through the Exile or the War of Wrath. Mithrandir’s absurd guise of a wizened Mortal greybeard—a weather-worn face and the bushiest eyebrows Elrohir had ever seen on anyone who was not a Dwarf—stood in jarring contrast to the immortal fire burning bright within. Elrohir knew not whether his unease sprung from the inherent strangeness of the Ainur or Mithrandir’s personal peculiarities. To eyes that could pierce the veil of his Mortal flesh Mithrandir burned bright indeed, and in the light he cast all things grew strange to Elrohir’s eyes.  

Upon Mithrandir’s first visit, straight from the ship in Lindon, many in Imladris had shared Elrohir’s reservations. This was not the first Maia to walk among the Elves of Middle-earth seeking to learn and teach. Annatar had taught the survivors of Eregion a lesson indeed—one they would never forget. Mithrandir would have found little welcome in Elrond’s house if not for Glorfindel. 

The reborn hero had hailed Elrond’s suspect visitor as his old friend Olórin, wisest among the Maiar and once the companion of Irmo and Nienna in the Gardens of Lórien. The emissary of Aman tactfully declined Elrond’s offer of a home in Imladris and a seat on his council, but chose to range far and wide across Middle-earth, vanishing from the west for long-years at a time. Where he went Mithrandir would not say, but he always made his way back to the House of Elrond to find ease from his journeys and take counsel with the High Elves. Elrohir had never caught the greybeard at anything that might be construed as political maneuvering or attempts to influence Elrond and Celebrían’s private counsels. He fiercely hoped that today’s ouvertures would not prove a first.

Mithrandir smiled, and it was as if the midday sun broke through clouds. “Might I have your company for a time? I am much grieved by today’s news, and I would hear the thoughts of Elrond’s warriors. I will make it worth your while.”

He dove into the wide sleeves of his grey robe, and for a brief and miserable instant Elrohir wondered how he should tactfully refuse some bribe in exchange for his father’s secrets. When Mithrandir’s calloused hand emerged he held neither gold nor gems, but strange paraphernalia.   

Two long-stemmed objects ending in cups carved from cherry wood came into view. Mithrandir proceeded to stuff them with a brown, thread-like substance from a small silver box. Judging by the dried herb’s aromatic scent it was Sweet Galenas. With a muttered whisper both briefly caught fire and extinguished themselves to remain smouldering. Fragrant blue smoke rose to the roof of shivering birch leaves above their heads. Mithrandir smiled like a cat in a dairy house before handing one over to Elrohir, who accepted the burning thing out of sheer politeness with a bewildered nod of thanks.

“Pipe-weed! An indulgence of the river-folk in the Vales of Anduin. You’ll find the habit most enjoyable—a worthy compensation for being kept from your harp.” 

There was nothing for it but to copy Mithrandir as he took the pipe’s narrow end between his lips like a bottle-fed lamb, and breathed in the burning weed’s vapours. In the next heartbeat Elrohir’s tongue seared with burning pain from the hot smoke, tears shot to his eyes and it was all he could do not to cough up his lungs like a sickly Mortal. He had to blink ferociously against the tears that would have run down his face. Once his vision was restored he found Mithrandir eying him with rapt, cheerful expectation, and could not bear to disappoint the Istar. 

“It is ... unique. Unlike anything I have tasted before!”

Mithrandir’s wrinkled smile lit up the darkening garden.

“Few Elves seem to care for a pipe. I am glad to finally come upon one with a taste for it!”

In the interest of diplomacy a second draw at the infernal device seemed inevitable. Elrohir took a shallower breath this time. The smoke stung less, and he managed to keep his smile and his dignity intact. 

 Mithrandir puffed, muttered in Valarin, and from his mouth sailed a tall ship, smoky sails taut in a wind of illusion. His mortal form had a warm laugh, a deep baritone, and Elrohir could not help but join him. It was disarming, this unquenchable fount of merriness—childlike and yet not: Mithrandir’s joy sprung from great wisdom and many bitter sorrows.  

With a smile lingering on his face Elrohir turned to his unexpected visitor.

“That is remarkable. Even our chief minstrel could not call up such vivid images—if Glaeriel could ever be convinced to take up a pipe.”

Mithrandir remained silent for a moment, taking another lungful of smoke and relishing it, his grey eyes closed like a contented cat.  When at last he spoke his voice was gentle.

“Elrohir, are you satisfied with life?”

Elrohir was perplexed. Nine long-years of errantry at many a great court had not prepared him for this unfathomable Maia. The Lord of Darkness and his army of rabid Orcs had Arnor by the throat, and yet Mithrandir saw fit to interrupt the strategic planning of Elrond’s armed forces for this ?

“The entire North is in peril, and so is Imladris. I will not be satisfied until my home and people are safe.”

Mithrandir turned to look Elrohir in the eye, and he suddenly felt like one of Arwen’s gemstones, turned this way and that beneath a magnifying glass in search of fault lines.

“In Aman, princes do not receive their fathers’ crowns unless by strange and bitter fates. The sons of Men have the certainty of inheritance. You and Elladan have one foot in both while your Choice remains unmade. Have neither of you ever desired to be lord in your own right?”

“I have little use for such speculations. Imladris is not Tirion, and Elladan and I no leisured princelings. Neither are we lords of Men.” 

 A sinking feeling of foreboding came over Elrohir when the strange question’s terrifying implications struck him.

“Did the Valar send you to extract our Choice from us? Why this sudden haste?”  

Mithrandir shook his grey head. “That is not my purpose. The hour of your Choice remains set by your father leaving these shores.” 

He turned to look Elrohir in the eye, open and unveiled. “Elladan chafes at his fate, and he is less than subtle about it. Those old enough to have seen this before are concerned, and rightly so. It is how great houses are broken.” 

Another puff of blue smoke rose at Elrohir’s shoulder, this time shaped like a flying dragon. In all his years as an officer Elrohir had thought himself calm and even-tempered in rebuking the impudent, the foolish and the incompetent alike, yet this Maia’s presumption somehow unleashed a hot, irrational anger. 

Elrohir had no need to ask which counsellor’s loose lips ran away with him. With a brusque jerk of barely suppressed rage he dropped the pipe beside him on the bench. Glorfindel’s loyalty should have been to Elrond and his House instead of this impudent Maia, and Elrohir would remind him of it as soon as he finished this conversation. 

“You know my brother not at all,” he replied, stiff and overly formal, “if you believe he would yearn for the ways of Men. Elladan is faithful to our House and its sworn task. Faithful to a fault.”

Mithrandir had a way of drawing forth confidences. Elrohir was shocked at hearing himself imply—to an outsider, no less— that Elrond was at fault for his dogged insistence that Elladan remain in Imladris, held back in safety to take up lordship in case of his father’s demise, while Elrohir rode to deeds of renown on the battlefield. Father and son had fought bitterly when Imladris came under siege. Elladan had obeyed Elrond then, but the coming battle for Arthedain would soon raise his old bitterness from a shallow grave.

Mithrandir seemed unfazed by Elrohir’s rebuke, because he stood to reverently touch the tears running down the face of a moss-covered statue of Nienna in its bower of trailing birch branches.

“As often in such matters, neither and both are in the wrong. Enabling a loved one’s errors is a poor service. You are your father’s most loyal captain, yet in this matter you should do more than execute his orders. A cracking wall is best rebuilt before it falls to rubble.”

Mithrandir’s face grew shadowed with a terrible foreboding, and a cold shiver ran down Elrohir’s spine. “You must mend this rift, Elrohir, or your House shall face the rising dark divided against itself!”

That same terrifying truth had been haunting Elrohir’s sleepless nights for years. A cold shiver of dread slid down his back, and he knew he was failing to hide it. Mithrandir’s sight was uncomfortably keen. 

“My skill is at making war, not peace,” Elrohir answered. “Between the two of us, Elladan is the diplomat. You should speak to him.”

Mithrandir sat down beside Elrohir once more. He seemed wholly unfazed by Elrohir’s rebuke as he took up the cold, forgotten pipe and stuffed it anew. 

“Such times as these require the unexpected, from all of us.” He handed the strange thing, now merrily belching out a plume of blue smoke, back to Elrohir. “You must expand your repertoire.”

Chapter End Notes

Welcome back everyone! False Dawn has been almost two years in the making. I was halfway when COVID19 struck, and for a while writing fanfiction fell by the wayside. My story seemed irrelevant, a luxury for gentler times now become unreachable. Then, as the bleak and busy weeks went by, it dawned on me that in dark times stories grow more, not less important, because they remind us that there's always hope.
I went back to writing, much slower and perhaps less inspired than before, but I managed to get through with the help and encouragement of my wonderful betas Anoriath and Dawn Felagund (they're both excellent writers, so please go read their stories when you have time!)
I hope that my writing can brighten this long winter for you, wherever you are.

Idrils Scribe

PS: hearing back from readers makes me a very happy Scribe!

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