Crossroads by Gwanath Dagnir

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Best Laid Plans

The War of Wrath lasted 40-some years. Earendil's sons were born 532 and would have been 13 years old when the Hosts of Valinor came to aid Middle-earth. Tolkien's elves physically age very slowly, being considered adults at 50 and full-grown at 100. I propose the twins matured faster than full-blooded elves, but far slower than full-blooded men, being about half-grown at 30.

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CIRCA 562, F.A. - BELERIAND

 

One particularly violent lurch of the wagon startled him awake in a panic. He strained to lift himself up from the floor that rocked like a boat in choppy waters.

“Ai, easy there, stay down. Wheel caught a rut in the path is all,” said a voice indistinguishable from his own. The hand resting across the back of his neck massaged gently, bringing calm and more context. 
He let his face relax against the restless wood as their circumstances groggily pieced together from the scattered images of fever dreams and dark memories. Captive. Scrimmage. Rescued. Marching.

“Oh, bore. And here I hoped for a rematch.” His voice came out weak and cracking, which encouraged the joke. “I’m ready. Where’s my sword? Let me at them.”

“Ha,” his brother said, mirthless, and helped him drink from a canteen, the stale water warm as leather-flavored tea. “None of our adversaries survived the wrath of your tardy saviours, I’m afraid, though their defeat came at a price. Nay, alas – you shall have to beg Finarfin for leave to find your own revenge on the proper battlefield once we return. At least that should be the smallest grace to beg for, after the mess we made of this.” His tightened voice turned toward the mouth of the canvas framing the scene of hard-won victory shrinking in the distance. “Sorry, never mind that. Try to rest.”

“I am resting. This is luxurious.” An even worse bump that bounced his brow off the floor seemed to disagree with comedic timing. “Well, comparatively.” The constant jostling pinned him between pain from bruised ribs that bore his weight, and pain from the scored flesh of his back tugged by every movement. He purposefully recalled to his mind that putrid orc den, echoing with cries of despairing elves chained in the darkness, quieted only by the crack of a whip that struck like lightning, over, and over. Then opening his eyes with a grateful breath of free air, he smiled up at his twin’s dour face, half-covered in swaying light and shadow thanks to a gap in the canvas overhead. “Oi, handsome. Which one am I this time?”

“Elrond.” His twin faked a smile to give comfort. “You must have taken a worse beating in there than I thought. Here, this will help.” Elros had folded a cloak and replaced it with the paltry cloth left to imitate a pillow after the last redressing of his wounds. “Now rest, please – unless you’ll take more of that tonic first?”

“Threaten me at your own peril. You saw what happened to the last who dared.”

“Ha,” said Elros, somber again as he watched the grim past retreat outside. “I did indeed.”

 

Over the next several days of travel, Elrond gathered a roughly comprehensive account of the campaign from the Liberators’ perspective. All had gone according to plan up to a point on both ends. After Elrond posed as easy prey lost in the wild and successfully baited some passing orc scouts, his abductors returned with him to their encampment where a slave labour force was embedded. As always, he relayed the path and location to his twin via the uncanny link twixt their minds, and in turn Elros rallied the battalion for pursuit from their place of hiding nearby. Yet things went afoul for Elrond from the onset, exactly as wiser commanders had warned during the planning of this latest campaign (a whole harsh winter since the previous): the Half-elven were grown too mature now -and developed too obviously as a race neither elf nor man- to fool even lowly creatures into mistaking them for mere elvish younglings. His composure, unusual visage, and anticipatory compliance swiftly attracted the eyes of the sharper-witted slave masters and sealed his fate.

Meanwhile, the party that Elros guided met their own complications. After years of executing such daring raids that freed countless thralls and crippled the enemy supply chain, word of their tactics had spread to this particular orc-hoard with enough notice to prepare. Their encampment occupied a dried-up reservoir accessible via a long passage closed in on both sides by sloping walls of silt and jagged rock, and behind every boulder an orc guard hid in waiting. By the time the Liberators poured onto the path, the guards had already been alerted of the strange spy found in their midst, and waited until the elvish ranks were fully embedded to launch a relentless assault from the advantage of higher ground. After a slow and grueling haul through the gully, the battered company reached the encampment to find its orc residents equally prepared for their arrival, and what was supposed to be an explosive surprise attack upon an unsuspecting labour camp spiraled into a brutal melee. At long last, the elves prevailed but at great cost, taking as many casualties in this single campaign as in all their past raids combined.

 

On the final day of their return journey, dawn stained the cloudy sky blood-red, an ominous welcome home.

“Finarfin would not ask this of you,” said Elros, the latest of ongoing protests. He applied a medicated balm to what remained of his brother’s wounds with intense delicacy.

From their perch straddling a felled log, Elrond focused on the camp sprawled before them as it came to life under the breaking of day. The thralls freed from the orc encampment still slept, woke, ate, and huddled together anxiously, like a herd of harried livestock amidst the army bustling with purpose around them. As always, he wondered if they would ever separate, reintegrate, or if they were bonded together by shared torment and changed beyond the ability to find belonging alone amongst the uninitiated. “It is what I want regardless,” said Elrond. He had insisted on joining the commanding officers when they reported to Finarfin forthwith upon their arrival. “None of us are completely proud of this outcome, but we two share most of the blame. I will stand beside you and our brothers in arms to hear Finarfin’s rebuke firsthand.”

“We are officially but lieutenants,” Elros murmured, laying a stretch of clean linen over each shoulder and around the waist to help blunt the friction of armor. He would be the youngest commander in all the history of Middle-earth’s many wars, but at the age of thirty still begrudged the title. “Customary to retire and await our summoning, should it occur.”

Whatever their rank, the brethren were the informal architects of these campaigns, owed to the critical role that they alone can perform. Elrond said, “A dozen elves were slain in a raid we misjudged as less risky than usual. We will be summoned.”

“I know.” Elros sighed with the weight of the dead upon his conscience. “So be it, already. I only wished that we could take some rest before facing the inevitable; you especially, after hardly resting in all this time.”

“What do you mean? I’ve laid prone for a week and been tended to like a helpless babe newborn.”

Elros stood up to make space while an esquire helped his twin into a tunic, watching as another approached carrying armor that dwarfed his own size. “Even so, you’ve kept one ear tuned to every passing word outside, and coaxed every elf you’ve laid eyes on to fill in the blanks. Would you call that resting?”

“Well, I would call it restful.”

“Ai… how is it that I ended up with a reputation for being the stubborn one.” Elros took the breast plate from the esquire’s boyish hands, making a rough conversion of the elvish lifecycle to estimate their ages as similar, though Elros stood a head taller and twice as thick. “We shall handle the rest – please go now and prepare our horses.” The esquire spread gleaming chain mail across the log and darted away dutifully. Elrod stared down at the heaviness of it. “At least forego the mail, brother. It will only pain you needlessly.”

“And bear it I shall, but not needlessly. Today we ride to answer for the fallen – those who placed their trust in the Half-elven should behold us rightly prepared, and know that the lesson has been learned.”

The last moments of sunlight made a dazzling spectacle of Finarfin’s vast host; pristine standards waving high from glittering spears crowned the barricades protecting an enclave of tents, stables, and wagons. They navigated a maze of swiftly lengthening shadows to reach Finarfin’s headquarters, where they were made to wait for his audience.

On the cusp of nightfall, a dozen elves poured out of the tent and scattered with purpose derived from their long council, while one remained firmly in place. “Hail,” he said. “I am Aranon, Finarfin’s herald.” He raised a hand that dissuaded questions. “Newly appointed. Alas Harndur who you knew has perished. The King will hear your report now.”

They assembled in order of rank to pass under the entrance canopy – Aranon put out his arm to stay only the Half-elven who walked last. “Wait here for your summoning, lieutenants.” He followed the commanders inside.

An admirable length of time passed before Elros broke. “I told you so,” he said.

Elrond shifted under the building pressure of chainmail against tender flesh. “What ill timing to bring more bad news. I wonder how recently Harndur met his end…” he trailed off.

“At least it isn’t raining,” Elros glared at a riddle of clouds darkening the stars overhead. “Valar, I’m hungry. How long will they debrief, do you suppose?”

“Longer if an archivist is in attendance.”

Elros changed his feet like an unruly steed put to stall. “This is ever the hardest part for me – waiting. One reason I prefer to play the captive. It seemed like an age before you were finally taken, this last time. But of course we know now those orcs were wise to the ruse. Moreso, I’m sorry it happened to be your turn considering how poorly things went. They might have been slower to detect me – I am a bit shorter, as you often point out. And you might have been more cautious of the road. Anyway, how are you keeping? That armor must be a torment by now.”

In response, the gentle song of virgin rainfall seemed to mock his anxious prattle. Elros lowered his head with a defeated sigh.

“I’m hungry too,” said Elrond, arching to let the rain wash over his face.

The twins were soggy and chilled when Aranon emerged to usher the commanders out. They laid encouraging hands upon the brethren’s shoulders as they passed but spoke no words. To a paranoid eye, Aranon kept watch from his post at the entrance to ensure it was so. “The King will see you now, Half-elven,” he said, gesturing within.

The tent serving as Finarfin’s headquarters was as close to a royal hall as the twins had beheld in their humble years. Etched poles thick as columns pitched ornate tapestry into a peak over three separate chambers, and a treasured stove in the center radiated welcome heat. At the furthest end from the entryway, the King sat upon his chair carved out of a massive tree stump that resided here long before his host erected this camp. To his side, an archivist was hastily collecting the days’ work from a long desk, the last of the King’s staff to be dismissed. The twins approached in awkward silence, suddenly cowed by the King’s illegible gaze and the burden of their own guilt.

“Thank you for your service,” he said.

They hastily bowed, then exchanged embarrassed glances to realize that he was addressing the scribe as she left.

“Condolences for your late herald Harndur, lord,” said Elrond, trying to recover. “He was perceptive and steadfast and will be remembered fondly.”

“Ai, yes, alas Harndur!” cried the King, and he signed. “Misfortune fixed its eye upon many of our designs these past weeks.” The way he came elbow to knee and scrutinized his guests seemed to command their silence. But he said thoughtfully, “Perhaps of all his deeds, we owe the most thanks to Harndur for espying you twain amongst Maedhros’ gaggle those years back, and recognizing two who could be none other than Melian’s progeny. Perceptive indeed, good Harndur! His keen eye saw you delivered into my keeping, whence many valiant feats have you since wrought. But now we have come to a split in the path with a riddle to solve – for you stand before me at the age of elven adolescents but in the form of men half-grown! And though your skills are impressive and your mettle is doubtless, time betrays you: no longer shall youth of body conceal your guile to deceive our foes.”

Elros folded both hands over the pommel of his sword to stop himself from fidgeting. “So feared our seniors as we made plans ere this last raid, yet in overconfidence we naysaid them, and to no fault of their own they acquiesced. Many brave elves paid for that err with their lives, and we deserve all blame.”

“Then I must blame myself foremost,” said Finarfin with a glint of amusement. “For was it not by my own decree -against the advice of opposing counsel- that you were permitted to embark upon the very first of these perilous campaigns? And so great the reward for your toils, time and again, that I acted too slowly to reassess the risks, despite knowing by the very nature of the ploy that those risks increased day by day as you matured. Tell me; is the blood of the fallen also upon my hands?”

“Erm…” Elros wrung the hilt of his sword unconsciously.

“Yes,” said Elrond. “But success is not measured only by emerging from every conflict unmarred, nor is failure measured only by the sacrifice that it may cost to prevail.”

Finarfin peered intently at this response, as though challenging Elrond to recant. At length he nodded. “That is how I judge it as well. War is not a scorecard of flawless wins and utter losses with each weighted equally; it is a battlefield of complex values upon delicate scales, some balanced closer than others.” He sat back, softened. “Still, this was a hard hit to take. I can see that it weighs heavily upon you both, and that you yearn for absolution. Therefore, I tell you as I told your commanders: no punishment shall I dispense, for I deem that none is due. We suffer enough that the long winning streak of Finarfin’s renowned Liberators comes to an end on such a sour note. As for atonement, look to your own hearts for arbitration in this matter. None of us has authority to provide it to another, save Eru himself.”

Elros straightened, finally confident. “For my part, I would find redemption on the battlefield, lord, with your leave.”

“For myself as well,” said Elrond. “We may have outgrown our usefulness in this game of feigned captive and psychic bloodhound, but as warriors we will only grow stronger.”

“Indeed,” said Finarfin. His fair face seemed to struggle with emotion, until he surrendered to a smile. “Forgive me. You have proven yourselves as astute and capable as any elf your own age. Yet to my eyes you are still boys nonetheless! Many years separate you from the full strength of your manhood. Once, I overruled wise counsel and allowed you to take great peril upon yourselves under the protection of subterfuge, and from that gamble we won far more than we lost. But lo! I will not tempt luck again by sending you prematurely into the brutality of open warfare.”

“But then-” Elros flinched at the pitch of his own voice. “What is to become of us?”

“Behold the split in the road,” said Elrond.

Finarfin spread his arms with open hands as if to disarm the impasse. “My own heart’s desire is to send you to Balar where Gil-galad can keep you under his charge. He is a young king, but wise beyond his years, and beloved by his people. He heeds my advice to wait out this storm in the relative safety of his island stronghold, and tirelessly facilitates safe passage for the countless refugees fleeing Beleriand’s troubled shores. His domain is the last elven haven with any semblance of peace that remains this side of the Sundering Sea. Eärendil’s sons would be well-regarded in his court.”

The brethren shifted while he spoke, as if the same discomfort twisted them in unison.

Finarfin finished dryly, “Alas, I can see the prospect has not gained appeal since I broached it when you first came to me. I expected as much, regretfully. So be it! You must be put to task otherwise, until such time as you ripen completely and return to me in adult form.” He stood, and as though summoned by some invisible cue, his valet entered the tent to join his side. “For now, take your leave of me in peace and be well rested, Half-elven. My decree shall be delivered to rouse you soon enough.”

The brethren bowed low and measured their steps so as not to seem overly glad to leave.

Outside, the fresh air was fragrant with all manner of things washed by the storm that had passed, and the stars shone upon them.

“Well,” said Elros at length, “that could have gone worse. What do you suppose he has in mind for us?”

“Something between fodder for the front lines and prisoner in an orc den,” said Elrond bemusedly. “But I can imagine few assignments more daunting than life coddled at Gil-galad’s court, so I think we should be grateful.”

Elros laughed. “Fair enough. Let’s find a stew pit before I start eating my own arm, and then get you out of that armor.”

~TBC~

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Chapter End Notes

It's always been my interpretation that Elrond and Elros played an active role in the War of Wrath. At the Council of Elrond in FoTR, Elrond compares the Last Alliance to the hosts of Beleriand when Thangorodrim was broken, indicating he was a firsthand witness. Also, I surmise Elros' relatively quick ascent to King of Numenor indicates he was a well-regarded figure among the Men who fought in the war against Morgoth.