False Dawn by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 5

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'Nothing remains of it now but a tumbled ring, like a rough crown on the old hill's head.'

The Fellowship of the Ring, Chapter 11: “A Knife in the Dark”

 

Foresight struck Elrohir at the red hour of sunset, as he crossed the great tiltyard on his way to the house. One moment he was headed for his study and a long night’s work, his hands full of wax tablets filled with the everyday minutiae of war. The next, Irmo’s hand descended like a great wave from some minstrel’s song about the Atalantë, a moving, mountainous wall beating down upon his mind. 

He could not move, could not speak, could only let the vision wash over him as passing warriors swept around their transfixed captain like water swirls about rock. Elrohir had always thought himself too rational, too grounded to share in the ethereal visions that swept his father and grandmother. What little insight was granted him now held neither image nor sound, but only thought, feeling, ideas drifting to the surface, elusive as fish in murky water.

Elladan. Horror and loathing, the touch of evil lingering on his mind like soot after a house fire.

Elrohir recalled his last sight of his brother, Elladan’s beloved figure swallowed up by the grey-cloaked column of his escort. He had stood watching until the rearguard had disappeared over the valley’s western rim, a final glitter of midday sun on the points of their tall spears. Four days of hard riding across perilous lands now lay between them. Whatever atrocity Elladan was bearing witness to, he was beyond Elrohir’s comfort, or his aid.

Elrohir was too high-strung to remain still, fell with a cold anger at this marred world that required his bookish brother to face the realities of war.  He was ruined for desk-work tonight, but he might as well put his time to good use—it would not do for Elrond’s son to be seen idling in the Hall of Fire while others worked. He spun around and returned to the barracks. 

The cavalry stables lay quiet. With the grooms’ work done for the night, the airy stone buildings had filled with the sweet smell of hay and the content chewing of well-fed horses. 

“Halloth, my horse!”

Elrohir’s order had been rather brusque, and the Silvan head groom sent him a startled look of concern. He gave her an apologetic smile as she led Rochael from her stall and set to currying and saddling, her long chestnut braid sweeping behind her as she moved with the swift, measured strokes borne from long experience tending horses. 

Elrohir knew better than to draw blade within the borders of Imladris, but nonetheless he now unsheathed his sword and swung it under Halloth’s disapproving eye. The steel turned to a lethal arc of blurred silver with the speed of his movement. It would not remain so clean with its wielder spoiling for a fight. 

Elrohir caught himself hoping for a chance at confrontation tonight, an opportunity to purge the lump of incandescent rage burning inside his chest and wash it away in blood. He had not felt this fell since the worst days of the Siege. He would join one of the mounted patrols scouting a wide perimeter around the valley.     

Halloth led Rochael into the stable courtyard and passed the mare to Elrohir with a look of compassion that put him to shame. He did not bear Elladan’s absence well, and his staff knew it. With profuse thanks he lightly leapt into the saddle, and found a lance and shield held out for him to take the instant he reached out his hand. Halloth was soft-spoken, but she excelled at her work.

“Well met, Elrohir!” With quicksilver grace Glorfindel stepped straight into Rochael’s path, stopping Elrohir cold before he could join the patrol gathering on the greensward beyond the stable courtyard. 

“Tonight’s patrols are fully manned. I will meet with you on the revised schedules on the morrow. Meanwhile you should attend your parents.” Far-seeing blue eyes caught Elrohir's. Glorfindel had seen his eagerness for violence.

Elrohir opened his mouth to protest, but Glorfindel spoke first, in a low hiss meant for his ears only. “Compose yourself! Would you have your parents suffer two children in mortal peril in a single night?” 

Elrohir had been miserable enough that it never occurred to him that Elrond and Celebrían might share his suffering at Elladan’s absence. He stood caught between his terror for Elladan, hurt pride at Glorfindel’s rebuke, and the urge to do anything at all except be alone with this dark mood. 

The chain of command had been drilled into him once in the training of a warrior of Imladris, and again among Lórien’s marchwardens. He would not gainsay Glorfindel’s order, but oh, how hard it was to leap down from the saddle!  Without a word he fled to the house, leaving Glorfindel to deal with horse and bewildered groom.

 

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The fortress of Amon Sûl had been one of the wonders of the North. The great tower, carved from stone black as night, rose from within ringwall upon ringwall. It commanded the plains of Eriador and the Great East Road from its hill, a thousand feet above the winter-browned plains. 

Elladan had stood upon those heights beside many a Mortal king, where the eye could see unhindered from the snow-capped heights of the Misty Mountains to the distant Tower Hills in blue-tinged vastness to the west. In the lush rooftop garden the Kings of Arnor took counsel with Elrond’s envoys beneath the open skies of summer, while minstrels sang of Númenor and Elvenhome. A bounteous country unfolded at their feet in a tapestry of gold and green. 

Today the ice storms that howled from the north battered a barren wasteland. The blackened skeletons of razed farmsteads reached up like begging hands to winter’s lead-grey clouds, chased across the sky by the Witch-king’s sorcery riding upon the wind. 

Amon Sûl was a monolith of seamless, jet-black rock built with all the art and skill of the Men of Westernesse, and those were once great indeed. Their work withstood fire and battering rams and sorcery for ten long-years. Now at last the Witch-king had mastered the great keep of Arnor. The ringwalls had ceased to exist, their man-high stones torn down and scattered across the slope as if a giant hand had strewn about handfuls of pebbles. 

The tower itself had been broken in half. From his vantage point, hidden in a pine forest on the southern Weather Hills, Elladan could see the topmost part laid low, baring the tower’s inner chambers as if a child at play had cracked a stick of wood. Swarms of Orcs crawled the hill like cockroaches, pillaging and defiling. Nothing remained of the inner rooms’ rich furnishings, nor the bounty in the great storehouses. Curtains still flapped in the north wind from empty windows, soft pink and carmine as innards spilling from a corpse.

The keep still had a pinnacle, a tall pole of metal erected on the rubble covering the ruined stump. There the Witch-king’s banner snapped in the bitter wind, a ghastly skull-face upon a field of blackest sable. Beside the flagpole stood another lance. The oddly-shaped object dangling from it was too ravaged to be recognized at once. At first Elladan did not understand why the Men turned away their faces and Brannor wept. Only after a moment’s silent observation did Elladan realize he must be looking at the limbless trunk of King Arveleg’s body, blackened by fire and desecrated by the Orcs’ foul sport, the lidless Eye carved into his face. 

Elves attached little importance to the ultimate fate of an empty hroä, burying their dead in woodlands or beneath an unmarked green mound. Elladan knew that, for better or worse, even after the Fall the Númenóreans still sought solace for their fear of mortality in ornate tombs, opulent funeral rituals and the elaborate preservation of decaying flesh. Had Arveleg died in days of peace he would have been embalmed with the most precious of spices, wrapped in cloth of gold and laid to rest in the echoing halls of a great mausoleum of black and white marble. The dishonour visited upon their king’s body must be a terrible humiliation, not just for the House of Isildur but their entire people. 

Elladan averted his eyes and bowed at the grisly spectacle, deep and formal.  “Know that we grieve with you. King Arveleg was kin to my House. The Elves will not forget his fate! He shall be avenged, but this is not the day. We have not the strength to retake the keep.”

Grief stood in Brannor’s eyes, but then a glimmer of something darker turned his gaze away. "I thank you, Son of Elrond, for your faithfulness in dark days." A muscle leapt in his jaw. "Arthedain will not forget it."

Canissë—eminently practical as always—interrupted the stiff exchange of courtesies. “We should move, my lords. These hills are crawling with spies, and I dislike the look of those crows. Let us move north around the Weather Hills, and take the safest road to Fornost!”

Brannor shook his head, suddenly frantic. “No! North of the hills we are exposed to the wind from Carn Dûm! Can you not hear his voice upon it?”  

Canissë shrugged. “Let him howl.”

Elladan intervened. Canissë was unused to the company of Mortals, and failed to grasp their exquisite vulnerability to the Black Breath. “We shall have some thought for the needs of your man, Brannor, and choose a hidden path among the hills.”

“I thank you for your compassion, Lord,” Brannor replied, but instead of gratitude something darker flashed across his face. 

Canissë sent Elladan a look of concern. Unbeknownst to Brannor, her fingers flashed in the subtle sign language of Imladris’ warriors and diplomats. “Doubt,” she signed. “Danger.”  

Elladan replied in kind. “Proceed.”

Canissë turned away to oversee their formation, the pale oval of her face afloat in the darkness spreading beneath the trees.

 

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Glorfindel was an artist at heart. He enjoyed beautiful things, fine clothes and jewels, but above all the Lord of the Golden Flower delighted in this garden. It stretched from the wreathing ivory stonework of the terrace bordering his rooms, down the landscaped riverbank to the Bruinen, and all the folk of Imladris shared his joy in it. 

The great hothouse took pride of place, a wonder of Noldorin artifice. Elrohir stepped inside the warm green scent and silently followed one of the winding mosaic paths. The track snaked, lined with olive and box trees in glazed ceramic pots, through flowering hibiscus ablaze with colour, every shade of red and bright sun-yellow. Orange trees whispered in a gentle stream of mild air, their glossy leaves reaching for the morning sun falling through the glass roof overhead. Upon the same branch they bore golden fruit and pale, fragrant blossoms. The scent was intoxicating, a memory of sun-drenched Tirion sprung to life in the cold of Middle-earth’s North. This was far too glad a place for a dressing-down, and he wondered why Glorfindel had summoned him here instead of his study. 

Elrohir came upon a pair of elf-women seated on small stools tucked into the lush greenery. They were sketching the delicate swan-wing sculpture of a miniature orchid in a riot of varicoloured inks. At the sight, he clenched his fists until his fingernails drew blood from his palms. A sharp, sour rage drummed in his chest.

Ah, the folly of it! 

How dare these lighthearted geese waste their days on such unbearable trifles while all about them the Dark closed in? How could they giggle and chatter, while Elladan .... 

No. Best not to think of his brother now, not lest he do something foolish. Elrohir’s jaw hardened, and he let out a shuddering breath. Both the artists’ heads snapped up, startled at the sound. Elrohir recognized two of his Nandorin archers, their faces pale and shocked above the bright swirls of their sketchpads. He could barely bring himself to greet them, and with a terse nod moved on. 

At last Elrohir came to the very heart of the greenhouse, an elegant gazebo set amidst flowering jacaranda, a delight of scent and colour. Glorfindel received him with a jovial smile and a carafe of crisp white wine. His chess set—fine Valinorean work of onyx and moonstone—stood ready on the table. Beside the precious board sat an impossibility: a perfectly ripe melon. 

Elrohir had always been partial to these fruits from sun-drenched Valinor, but few gardeners could coax them to ripeness in Eriador’s cool climate. In summer the sweet treat would have been an achievement, but these deep days of autumn made it nothing short of a miracle.

Glorfindel knew this well enough, and he sliced and served the delicacy with a grand flourish. 

Despite Elrohir’s dark mood, his first bite of orange flesh, honey-sweet and aromatic, genuinely baffled him. “Glorfindel! That is delicious, how did you do it!?”

Elrohir’s praise widened Glorfindel’s smile even more. “The seeds come from Yavanna’s gardens. All they need is the right care, even in winter.” 

Even with Elrohir’s limited knowledge of horticulture he knew that it was nowhere near that simple. Glorfindel must have painstakingly sprouted the seed in a forcing bed, reared the plant, hand-pollinated its blooms, then Sang the fruit to exquisite ripeness. 

The master gardener set another generous slice on Elrohir’s plate. Affection shone clear in his eyes, and Elrohir felt a stab of shame at his earlier curtness.

“I know not what came over me. I feel surrounded by darkness, lost in it. With Elladan away I seem to … “ He lacked the words to describe the suffocating sense of wrongness .

Glorfindel gave him a look of genuine concern. “A great evil bides in the North. His gaze weighs the spirit, even here in Imladris. The darkness is stronger now than it ever was in your lifetime. ”

Elrohir could not keep the question from falling from his lips. “Was it the same, in Gondolin?” At once he regretted it: in all his years, not once had Glorfinel spoken of his fallen city. 

Glorfindel sat up straighter, eyes focused on the tender, white-and-golden perfection of a lily blooming out of season. Elrohir feared having offended, struggled to come up with some fitting apology, but then Glorfindel spoke. 

“Worse,” he said, “for we suffered both Morgoth’s hate and the Ban of the Valar.” He seemed to understand Elrohir’s desperate need to hear that Imladris was not Gondolin, and her fate would be different. 

“We of Gondolin may seem arrogant for ignoring Ulmo’s call, but it was no mere vanity.” Glorfindel grew agitated, defensive as one standing accused. “You would understand if you had seen it, Elrohir! The Seven Gates were tall as the mountains, massive, unassailable. The gatewardens were the city’s heroes, revered as little kings in their own domain, each one’s raiment more splendid than the last. They would stand against Morgoth for us.” 

He fell silent, drawing mindless swirls into the condensation pearling on the crystal of the wine-carafe. Then he appeared to reach some decision, poured himself another cup of wine, and drank deeply. “In the end it all proved meaningless prancing and posturing. All those proud gatewardens ever did was harass ragged refugees.” 

He was still for a moment, thinking, eyes firmly on the cup in his hands. “Yes, we were proud, foolish, and vainglorious, convinced that the blessings of Valinor could be ours to have in Middle-earth. But most of all we were naïve.” Blue eyes caught Elrohir’s, and in that gaze lay a disarming honesty. “We simply failed to imagine that our defenses might fall. We failed to imagine how even a Vala would find the city, hidden as it was.”

“Things are different this time,” Glorfindel stated with confidence. “Your father is a better ruler than Turgon ever was. He knows what it is to lose, to bleed.”  

That much was true—Elrond bore the scars of many lost battles. The thought held little comfort, and Elrohir worried at it like a scab. “Do you sometimes doubt, Glorfindel? The Valar sent you to Middle-earth with a purpose, but will their plans prove wise, or even feasible?” 

A bold question, almost blasphemous, but Glorfindel fielded it without flinching. “Time alone shall tell,” he answered, wholly calm. “My mission is simple: do whatever is needed to safeguard this House. To what purpose, Manwë and Námo alone know. Have faith in them.”

How strange, to hear the Valar themselves spoken of as if they were people, real persons  who might be met and spoken with. Even after an age in Imladris, Glorfindel remained an Elf of Valinor, born in the light of the Trees. He was a foreigner in Middle-earth.

The thought came to Elrohir unbidden, that his own ways would seem just as strange. He wondered whether Glorfindel was homesick at times.

Glorfindel sensed the thought. “I chose to return to Middle-earth, Elrohir. I knew that my task here would be a long one. My home shall await me when I return.”

When. Not if. Their eyes met, both acutely aware that Elrohir lacked Glorfindel’s easy certainty in that regard. Much had been said between them on the subject of the Choice, and not all of it amicable. Thankfully, Glorfindel let the matter rest. 

“Whatever the end shall be … I am grateful,” he said instead. “For the life I lead here in Imladris, for having a part in these great deeds.” He gave Elrohir a look that seemed tentative, uncertain. For all his good cheer, Glorfindel did not wear his heart on his sleeve. “I am grateful to have met you.” A sword-calloused hand came to rest on Elrohir’s shoulder

All Elrohir’s life Glorfindel had been a second father to him. It was Glorfindel who first Sang him the songs of Valinor, the ancient lays of the Noldor. Glorfindel who taught him the skills of sword and bow, the art of strategy. Here was one who knew Elrohir—truly knew him from earliest childhood, his good sides and his ugly ones—and yet loved him without reservation. 

Glorfindel smiled, all fondness. “There is hope yet, my friend. When estel is all you have left, you should let it carry you.” 

Elrohir returned his friend's smile despite himself. “Thank you, Glorfindel. For everything.”    

Glorfindel laughed his golden laugh, relaxed and joyful. He poured them both more wine and reached for the chess board. “Now elfling, expect no mercy!” 

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Chapter End Notes

Hi everyone,
I hope that all of you are safe and well, and that you enjoyed this chapter. Both twins find themselves in unfamiliar territory, each in their own way, and Glorfindel tries to help.
I'd love to hear your thoughts on the chapter and the story so far. A comment would make my day! 
See you soon,
Idrils Scribe