The Darkest Season by Elleth

Chapter 1

News arrives at the stronghold on Amon Ereb in early winter 506, and three Fëanorian soldiers find themselves faced with an unwelcome predicament.

Dark, high clouds rolled towards Ereb from the North at evening, and the pair of watchmen on the western walls drew up the hoods of their cloaks. It was the beginning of Narbeleth, and an early first snow day of the year. The hand of Morgoth extended further south each year, and whoever could would find shelter soon. Already they were casting longing glances at the lit window of the guard house in the courtyard tower, where candles and fireplace set an unsteady golden glow about the room, dice were clattering, and someone had begun a song that echoed faintly up to the fortifications. The lucky few who had drawn the lots to toll the hour bells, worm their way through paperwork, and even the usually unpleasant task of caring for the homing pigeons (not to mention the off-duty soldiers who nonetheless appeared, for company and mulled wine), were the envy of their fellows this night.

"Lucky, aren't they?" asked Asgarvain and snorted. Her breath condensed as white mist before her face. "But Manwë be merciful, we'll be back inside by the time the clouds start to unload. I could do without being snowed on tonight, and so could my shoulder. Thundersnow, I'd wager. It'll twinge less if I get to warm up." Asgarvain rolled her shoulders. She had taken an arrow to the shoulderblade in the Nirnaeth, and the old injury had been plagueing her each winter for more than thirty years now, especially with a snowstorm impending.

"Go ask Celeblith if he will take your shift. You know he never manages to tell anybody no, and especially not you," Handrin laughed. Although he was breathing on his fingers to keep them warm, his good cheer rarely depended on the weather, unless it was raining.

"Celeb won't say no, but he's off duty tonight, and that means he will have met his brandy bottle for some intimacy and be well on the way to not walking straight. What did you expect? He's one of Lord Maglor's people, sensitive artist souls the lot of them. The singing earlier when we went outside, 'Alas my love, farewell my leaf,' that was him. Hardly anyone you want for company tonight; he'll go tumbling over the bannister before you've made a round."

"Convinced," Handrin, chuckling again, took a step back with both arms raised in surrender against her sour look, and Asgarvain ducked the shaft of his spear. "Careful, you, or I will retaliate. You know I will."

"What, with your shoulder, old lady? Well, at least sparring is likely to keep us warm," Handrin swivelled his spear around dramatically, but Asgarvain had quickly stepped out of his reach and gave him another, more warning look when her ears picked up a sound in the dark.

"Shh, quiet! Didn't you hear the horses?" She peered over the parapet into the gathering murk outside the walls. Hooves were clattering over stone in a gallop below them, but there was nothing to see yet. The road to the gate snaked up the west slope of the hill in a serpentine, and whoever was approaching would have to pass below them. Asgarvain's fingers crept toward her horn and closed around it. It was unlikely that the Enemy would attack them on horse, his cavalry consisted almost entirely of the great wolves of Angband, but an unexpected return in the dark was rarely a good portent. They were not looking for the return of any traders or scouts until three days hence.

The group of five came in view as they raced up to the gate. Red livery shot with gold and black, Lord Caranthir's banner that flashed as they passed beneath the lantern lights on the wall. Asgarvain gave the signal – three horn calls, high and clear – open the gate, a scouting party has returned – and, slipping down the last of the icy stairs as a flash of light burst across the sky, hurried into the courtyard. The expression on Commander Hwestonnen's face heralded either something great or terrible, but either way it was not one she had seen in a long time – not since he had called the retreat in the chaos that followed the Easterling attack on the Fëanorians, as one of the few who kept their heads, literally and figuratively. They had grown close fleeing together, and for this almost certainly momentous occasion, she was sure, a brief departure from her post would be tolerated.

Just as the courtyard gate was pushed closed again by the men on gate duty, thunder rolled, and it began to snow in thick, grey flakes.

"What is it?" she asked after a quick hailing him, and winced when her shoulder spasmed. "What news from the borders?" She held up her lantern to better see his face and dimly noted that Handrin hurried to her side. Hwestonnen dismounted and leaned close.

"A Silmaril," he said. "A Silmaril burns again in the woods of Doriath."

Asgarvain barely heard the next clap of thunder over the blood rushing in her ears.

Chapter End Notes

Hwestonnen's piece of dialogue is almost directly taken from the Silmarillion.