False Dawn by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 3

The council gathered in Elrond’s study, a high, sun-warmed room so bright with colourful Noldorin frescoes that it shone like the inside of a jewelry box. Elladan let his eyes rest on the painted perfection of Gondolin’s spires pricking the heavens. A pair of Great Eagles—every last feather perfectly rendered and trimmed in gilding—wheeled over snow-white towers set against a sky blue as sapphire. 

Across the mother-of-pearl inlay of the council table—yet more bright Fëanorian geometrics -  Glorfindel was taking his usual place. He invariably chose the seat beside Erestor, facing the casements with their sweeping view of the Misty Mountains, his back turned to the likeness of his fallen city. 

Glorfindel’s startled slap of agony had been obvious, the day Elrond presented the freshly painted masterpiece to his gathered council. Elladan recalled the moment’s awkwardness, Glorfindel’s barely audible gasp and the smell of drying paint in his nose. Elrond’s dismay, the young artist’s mortification, their hasty insistence on having the reminder of ancient sorrows painted over. 

Glorfindel had adamantly refused his lord’s kindness. “The Eldar should remember the errors of the past,” he declared with his usual flair for the dramatic, “lest they be repeated.”  

With a strange blend of pride and jealousy Elladan noted how set apart Glorfindel and Elrohir seemed, an island of austere warriors’ grey against the autumnal palette of courtly robes. Elrohir seemed wholly unaware of his brother’s scrutiny. His mind thrummed with thought and determination as he leant forward with a focused urgency Elladan only ever felt from him before a battle.

It was Glorfindel who brought forth the fruit of their labour. “The Great East Road will be impassable, but Elrohir can take a company of light cavalry to Fornost Erain across the northern hill country in less than a sennight. He will come to Arnor’s aid if we find them still under siege. Even if he finds the city sacked, he may at least bring you certainty about the fates of the royal family and the Palantir.”

Elrohir nodded his assent in silence. Spread before them on the table was a detailed military map of the Weather Hills, riddled with small, coded ink-marks showing the positions of Angmar’s troops. The additions were so numerous that they rendered the original map nearly unreadable. 

Elladan worried the edge of his own notes, the reed paper soft and supple beneath his fingers. Beside Elrohir’s map, Elladan’s calculations looked unbearably pedestrian, the bland, undignified minutiae of war—rations and arrowheads and horseshoes. 

Elrond gave his youngest son a quick nod of approval. “Take no unnecessary risks, Elrohir,” his voice warm as it rarely was for Elladan. “If Fornost has already fallen you must turn back without revealing your presence. Should you find a siege ongoing, you have my leave to engage the Enemy as you see fit.”

Elrohir barely noticed the fatherly affection, his face hard, and closed. Elladan saw his brother’s dejection for what it was: a single company had little hope of delivering Fornost from Angmar’s gathered might. If he found Fornost under siege, Elrohir would have to turn his warriors around and slink back to Imladris, or risk getting them slaughtered in an attack against overwhelming odds.   

“Your first priority is to safeguard the Royal House,” Elrond continued his instructions to Elrohir with his hands folded on the table, as dispassionate as if he were speaking to any other among his officers. His shoulders were tense though, and his mind in turmoil: the father’s concern hidden beneath the lord’s calm, commanding exterior. 

“Young Araphor is the last of Isildur’s line,” Elrond said. “His survival is paramount. If you deem it needful, evacuate him and the Sceptre of Annúminas to Imladris by any means necessary. Second, but only just, come the Palantíri, both the Fornost stone and the Master Stone of Amon Sûl—assuming it did reach Fornost. These, too, you should carry to Imladris.”  

After a brief, uneasy lull Elrond added, “Elrohir, you must exercise great caution in your words to King Araphor.” His voice grew soft with compassion at what he was about to command. “Imladris has some strength of arms to offer him, but we cannot extend our arm as far as Fornost without leaving our own borders at risk. First we need to secure reinforcements from both Lindon and Lórien. You must assure the young king of the Elves’ unwavering friendship without making premature promises of aid.“

Elladan’s heart leapt. This was wrong, a surefire way to lose Araphor’s trust, and all Arthedain’s with it. He opened his mouth to intervene, but Elrond turned to him and spoke first. “Elladan, you will lead a delegation to Lórien and petition King Amroth for military aid. Use whatever means of persuasion you deem necessary. Amroth is no friend to the Noldor, but Imladris is a Sindarin realm, too, and Lórien needs its allies. He will not see us besieged a third time. You should make it back before Turuhalmë, with at least five battalions of marchwardens.”

So this was it. Elladan would not even remain in Imladris, but be dispatched to even greater safety, like age-old warriors send their youngest companions back to fetch whatever imagined necessity springs to mind at the first sign of Orc. He felt his face flush hot at the shame of it.

Celebrían unknowingly drove the knife in deeper. “Amroth is my friend. We were young together, and he has not forgotten it. I will give you letters for him, Elladan.” 

Elladan breathed deeply, lest he blurt out a rebuke so outrageous it would ruin all his chances.

Celebrían failed to notice because she had turned to Arwen, who had followed the proceedings with mounting unease. “You should go to Lórien with your brother’s company.”

Arwen sat up straight, skin pale as clouds against the heavy oxblood velvet of her robes. She reminded Elladan of Galadriel at her most determined. “I am needed in the forges, Mother. Are the warriors to do battle without swords?”

Elrond cut in before Celebrían could reply. “This house is exceedingly well supplied with smiths, but we have but one daughter. I would have you safely behind the lines, if the fortunes of war should turn ill.”

Elrohir drew a sharp breath. Elladan felt the flash of his twin’s disapproval, a twinge of pain at the edges of his mind, but neither of them spoke: Arwen needed no defenders.

She balled her fists below the table, her voice dark with indignation. “You would hide me away like a Dwarf squirrels an ingot? Do you think so little of me that you will not have me beside you at the last?”

Not for the first time Elladan admired his sister’s fierce independence. He himself could not afford it, being the heir and sharing in Elrond’s burden of Vilya’s safekeeping, but oh, how he dreamed of one day speaking his mind like Arwen could!

“I am giving you a great responsibility,” Elrond replied, bemused. “All in this valley who cannot bear arms are to remove to Lórien, and you will take charge of this evacuation. I will not preside over a slaughter of innocents while we can avert it.”

Arwen’s fair face was tense with distaste. “I shall lead in name only,” she retorted, “with Elladan travelling in the same company. All will look to him for guidance while they indulge me by pretending to ask my opinion. His will be the genuine task, to go before King Amroth and secure his aid, once he has delivered his sister and her ladies to safety like a basketful of eggs.”

Arwen’s gaze locked with Elrond’s, both caught in hurt and anger. Celebrían drew breath to steady her voice, but Elladan was quicker. 

His words fractured the uncomfortable silence. “You are no egg, sister, and I no errand-rider. I should ride to Fornost. Araphor knows me, and I have his trust.” 

As the Elves counted time, a mere blink of an eye had gone by since Elladan tutored the young Crown Prince of Arnor. Araphor’s fostering in Imladris had come to an abrupt and premature end when rising danger on the roads forced King Arveleg to hastily recall his heir to Fornost.

Glorfindel sent Elrond a telling look, and another flash of shame flushed Elladan’s cheeks. All of Elrond's children had been thoroughly taught the sword, but Elrohir alone had proven himself in combat. To Elladan swordplay was no more than a diplomatic art, a social lubricant to be indulged in against visiting lords and dignitaries. 

He owned a matching set of blunted weapons with handles of sculpted ivory and fine gilding along the blades, to be brought out into the gardens on those golden summer evenings when some Mortal prince or other needed entertaining. Elladan had won many a duel over the long years, but none had ever ended in blood. Whether he could hold his own against the Witch-king’s Orcs remained to be seen. Perhaps he would share his brother’s gift for clear-headed command and battlefield pragmatism, but he certainly lacked Elrohir’s extensive experience with leading troops into battle. 

Elrohir leapt in to spare Elladan from embarrassment. His smile was just a tad too jovial to be genuine. “Then join me, brother! Long has it been since last we rode out together.”

His words struck Elrond and Celebrían like a blow. Shocked silence filled the room, but then Erestor was quick to break the grim reality of it. “We cannot risk both sons of this House travelling in a single party. One of you may ride out, but the other must be kept safe. You should stay here, Elladan”

Elladan’s eyes sought Celebrían, then darted back to Elrond. Neither offered him any hope. “If my skills are found wanting,” he retorted past the knot of anger in his throat, “you have no one but yourselves to blame. No party that includes Canissë will fall short of military expertise. Let her handle the Orcs, and I shall deal with Araphor. The boy calls me friend. Even in his distress he will listen to me. Not Elrohir.”

This was nothing more than the truth. Elrohir had been away on various military campaigns more often than not during Araphor’s fleeting sojourn in Imladris. Whenever he briefly returned to the valley he was inclined to seek healing for his wounds of body and spirit, and the calm company of Elves—not a rambunctious Mortal princeling whose mind and mouth overflowed with a ceaseless stream of questions. Araphor had been awestruck by Elrond’s formidable warrior son. What little conversation they had shared at the high table never went beyond a superficial exchange of courtly pleasantries.

Elrond’s face remained expressionless, seemingly unfazed, and Elladan wanted to howl. How it smarted! So little recognition for all his painstaking work with the coltish boy the King of Arthedain had sent to Imladris to be tutored. While Elladan laboured to shape young Araphor into a man worthy of kingship, Elrohir had barely noticed the child’s presence. 

Elrohir knew it, “Elladan has the right of it, Father! The crux is not reaching Fornost, but what to say once there. He, not I, will serve you best.” Humble and generous words, and yet somehow they failed to soothe the sharp spike of Elladan’s jealousy.

Elrohir turned to their sister and smiled that sweet smile he kept only for her. “And we all know that Arwen is perfectly capable of wrangling Amroth.”

Elladan knew not what came over him, but he swept to his feet before Elrond could refuse and put an end to all his hopes. He came to stand before his father’s chair like a petitioner, or a man putting forth a challenge. A beam of golden afternoon light fell through the high windows to set the maroon velvet of his robes aglow, red as devouring flames. Elladan stood awash in that fire, proud and defiant.      

Long enough had he abided by Elrond’s will, obeying his father’s every word while his rightful share of fame and glory passed him by. He would not, could not bear the humiliation of yet another rebuke. Long-standing and bitter was this quarrel, and today at last they had reached its end—Elrond had refused Elladan once too often.

By the startled look in his eyes, he knew it well enough. 

Elrond’s final words shattered the breathless silence, grave as the Doomsman’s voice. 

“So be it.”

 

----

 

Brannor had found little peace in the Last Homely House. The man had wandered the halls all day, trailed by his invisible guards as he paced with the restless energy of a pained animal. 

Elladan found him in one of the reading rooms adjoining the library. Brannor stood eyeing a glass-fronted cabinet with rapt fascination, and Elladan winced inwardly when he remembered its contents. 

On his approach the Mortal’s eyes flashed with barely veiled indignation. “Greetings, Lord Elladan. May I ask how the Elves came by an heirloom of the Northern Kingdom?”

From the safety of their case the shards of Narsil glimmered in the autumn sun. The ancient sword was long shattered, and yet it seemed untouched by time, unrusted, lethally sharp.

“Which kingdom?” Elladan could not keep from asking, though he did see the grief at the root of Brannor’s prickiness. “Three quarreling kings divided Elendil’s broken blade. When Rhudaur fell and Cardolan was overrun, we of Rivendell retrieved their pieces before the Witch-king could. Are we wrong to safeguard them until Arnor’s rightful king is restored?”  

Brannor cast him an inscrutable look. “Will the Elves be the judge of that?”

“Peace, my friend!” Elladan answered, eager to change the subject. “I did not seek you out to debate Mankind’s ancient quarrels. I bring news: my father has tasked me with leading a company to aid Fornost.” 

So far, Brannor had borne his grievous circumstances rather stoically, but now it seemed a thin veneer over something much like panic. “Why does he not send your brother?!” he demanded, suddenly looking savage and more than a little dangerous. 

Elladan sensed his hidden guards’ sharp, focused alarm, their knuckles tightening about their weapons. The air grew thick with tension. One suspect move would now spell Brannor’s death. He needed to end this, and quickly.

He straightened himself to his full Noldorin height. “When I last looked, Elrond Peredhel ruled Imladris, not Brannor of Arthedain. My father will send what aid he deems necessary.”

Brannor was a fine warrior, and he knew when to retreat. His tone grew placating even if his words were anything but. “With all due respect, my lord, but your brother has defeated the Witch-king before. We placed our hopes in him doing so once more!”

Elladan managed to keep insult off his face, if only because Elrohir’s warriors would doubtlessly report every word of this conversation. 

“You will not want for skill with arms,” he replied. “Canissë, my second-in-command, was Elrohir’s lieutenant on that occasion. For many mortal lifetimes before that she was his teacher. Will you dismiss a warrior who stood beside Isildur at Barad-dûr?”    

This seemed to calm Brannor down enough to be reasoned with, but beneath his seeming acceptance lurked something else, quickly hidden like a darting fish flits beneath murky water. 

Before Elladan could probe any deeper, Brannor bowed and touched his hand to his forehead in contrition. “Forgive my rudeness, lord. Between you and her, Arthedain shall be well served.”

 

Chapter End Notes

Hi everyone! I hope that the week has been kind to all of you, and that you enjoyed this chapter. What are your thoughts about the family dynamic so far? Will Elladan's long expected journey set things right between him and Elrond? And what will Elrohir do with himself with both his siblings gone?
Comments make my day!
See you soon,
Idrils Scribe

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