Crossroads by Gwanath Dagnir

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An Unexpected Detour

takes place 5 years after chapter 1

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CIRCA 567 F.A. – BELERIAND

Even in its best days, crossing the Sarn Athrad made for an uninviting entryway into East Beleriand. Now, the barren expanse was a grim memorial of the first major conflict that Finarfin’s host waged against an enemy outpost stationed to control the passage there. All these years later, orcish footprints still pocketed the ground, baked by the sun into morbid clay from their own black blood that spoiled the dirt. For leagues around, mounds of what remained of decomposed corpses that had been piled and set aflame littered the landscape. Other than the crest of Amon Ereb far in the distance, there were few other landmarks immediately visible, and scarce signs of life.

For the fifth time in as many years, the Half-elven brethren girded their nerves to set out this way, leading a host of refugees under armed escort.

Before leaving the relative safety of Thargelion, they had elected to put the Gelion to their backs and push straight across toward the gap between Ramdal and Amon Ereb; the shortest path, if not the prettiest, and the least likely to attract unfriendly attention along the river.

Elros took first turn at the head of the progression, riding alongside Finarfin’s standard bearer and flanked by two scouts currently awaiting dispatch. Behind them, the assemblage three hundred strong followed untiringly, determined to put the worst of this terrain behind them. They had been marching already two hours before the sun rose, and they would carry on for a few hours more before rest.

The sound of three horses gathering speed gained up from behind – Elrond wheeled his steed around to join his brother’s side, while the scouts traded places with their counterparts in the rear, keeping their eyes stimulated and senses sharp.

“Hey, handsome! Good news?”

“Good news,” they exchanged in shorthand for nothing to report.

Elrond adjusted the strap of his helm, glancing behind begrudgingly as he did so. “Camping alongside Rathlóriel again was a mistake,” he said. “They keep finding more of those cursed coins to fish from the riverbed. Can you hear it? Their satchels chatter like rattlesnakes. It puts me on edge – this place is eerie enough without help.”

Elros laughed. “Oh, what a relief. All this time I feared that was the sound of orcish ghosts stepping on their heels! Anyway, did you say Rathlóriel, like in the chronologies? I daresay that new name is already outdated, O scholarly one. The river Ascar is all but plundered back to its natural state.”

“If only...” Elrond shook his head. “Argh! I will be half mad from the sound of that churning by the time we reach the Havens.”

“Speaking of which, we’re making good progress. This stretch isn’t much to look at, but it’s easy on the hoof.” He leaned forward to pat his steed on its shoulder. “And on the foot, I hope. How fares everyone back there?”

“Glad to be one day closer to asylum, but eager for greener pastures. I overheard it repeated that this part is just as dreary as we warned them to expect.” Elrond gestured to the horizon. “Ah – but I see the treetops up ahead already.”

North of their route between the Ramdal and Amon Ereb was an incongruous patch of forest like an island upon the greater plain. The sunlight glittering on the roof of its canopy always seemed illusionary as it first crept into view. When Finarfin’s host first passed this way years ago, they set quickly to work cultivating it to provide supplementary provisions for the supply chain, and to serve as a place of shelter for passing troops.

“We can reach it before dawn, if we temper our rest and press on.” said Elros. “Easy for us to say from horseback, of course. But that was the plan.”

“Yes, let us keep to it. I believe the people are willing, and the last time we camped overnight out here in the open, we regretted it.” Suddenly Elrond spun his head around, peering with narrowed eyes to the south.

“What is it?”

He did not immediately answer. “Just one of those orcish ghosts, I hope.”

 

The company stopped for rest when fresh grasses began to grow again, and they had not crossed any remnants of bygone battles for several leagues. Both the island forest and the Amon Ereb had come into full view; the gaping passageway between the two landmarks -their ultimate destination- seemed to beckon enticingly. After the horses had grazed and rested, the elves reassumed their position marching on the interior of two columns of armored troops on either side. The twins traded roles for the next duration: Elrond leading at the head of the progression and Elros riding to-and-fro keeping the formation engaged and -to the best of his ability- spirits high. The sheer size of this party was an ambitious undertaking, a logistical concern during preparations that the counsel of well-meaning peers had reinforced. In private, the twins had shared the same foreboding: anyone hoping to escape the war who did not reach Balar now would have to find a more perilous way across the Ered Luin. Over the years, this endeavor seemed more and more a race against time, pressed by the increasing ferocity of Morgoth’s resistance as the host of the Valar continued to advance from the western lands while Finarfin held firm his foothold in Estolad, a hammer and anvil of epic scale.

Fortune continued to favour their journey in the hours that followed. By nightfall they had reached the wood, so relieved by the accomplishment that the elves lit small fires in celebration, prepared a decent meal, and sang until the embers were cold.

The twins left the shelters and hammocks to the refugees, reclining instead shoulder-to-shoulder between the toes of a great tree while the armed guard alternated their delicate elven naps in shifts. The Half-elven were as hardy as the Eldar in most respects, in some even hardier, but in this one less so: they struggled to forego the deep and hard slumber of Men over extended durations. Their full-blooded (and full-grown) peers liked to tease that they would yet outgrow a daily sleeping cycle, but truly, no one could predict the nature of their unique breeding. Yet with a sort of reverence that the twins found unnerving, the elves were glad to accommodate the idiosyncrasies of Eärendil’s earthbound sons, Luthien’s last descendants, and youngest of Finarfin’s famed Liberators.
So when they were shaken awake by firm hands in the middle of the night, it could only be of utmost importance.

“Sorry. Please come. Messengers have arrived from the Ereb. This way.”

The twins hurried to collect themselves and picked their way quietly through a maze of people at rest, following the guard out to the edge of the wood.

Under a bright moon, three Elves in plate armor shone like firebrands in the tall grasses, their golden hair and bright eyes a telltale sign of the Vanyar of Valinor which made up the majority of Finarfin’s host. Their white steeds stood behind, each tied to a staff burrowed into the ground and bearing Finarfin’s standard. The horses arched to sniff the air, curious at the smell of unfamiliar creatures approaching.

“Hail, Half-elven,” one messenger said, as the brethren came to stand beside their officers. His gaze moved back and forth between them in a way the twins had grown to expect when seen side by side for the first time. “Ah – you do bear the look of Melian as it is said. We were glad to spot your company crossing the plain beyond the bridge yesterday.”

“We would have sent a hawk carrying instruction to come straight to the stronghold – but you do not travel with a falconer,” said another, in-between a question and passive judgement.

“We take our instructions from your king Finarfin personally,” said Elros. “This squadron is assigned to escort refugees to the Havens at Sirion, at our discretion.”

“So we surmised, as you drew close enough that we could see clearly,” said the third elf. “We were informed that Finarfin’s Liberators are dedicated now to evacuations, yet the sheer number that you lead confused us. Three hundred is an ambitious undertaking!”

“Be that as it may, the ship has sailed and fares well enough,” said Elrond, unwilling to revisit a moot debate, particularly one that still haunted him with worry and doubt. “Now, what news do you bring?”

“The rearguard dispatched South last week to oppose a force mobilizing unforeseen out of the Taur-im-Duinath. We thought at first yours was the company of reinforcements that we requested, until we realized your citizens outnumber your troops.”

The twins traded a grave look. Maedhros and Maglor held the rearguard. “There are no reinforcements immediately behind us, either. Word of this had not reached Finarfin before our departure at the New Moon.”

The elves shifted uncomfortably until the first admitted, “Then you confirm our worst fear. We sent riders only when two hawks did not return. Maybe not soon enough, alas!”

Elros instinctively reached for the hilt of his sword that he had left leaning against the sleeping tree. “How many is this force that the rearguard faces alone?”

“From what we know, it seems substantial. Likely that they picked their way through Ossiriand to remain undetected and amassed far in the south – not a swift strategy, but cunning. Morgoth grows desperate to cripple our advance! And these orcs have dwarves aligned with them also.”

“Or they could be Men of poor breeding, or both,” said the judgmental elf. “Preliminary reports are uncertain – the mortal races are hard for us to discern.”

Elrond put out his leveled hand and waited until his brother uncrossed his arms, letting the retort he stifled come out as a controlled breath. “Our objective is to reach the Havens safely. Yet if I understand your concerns, this force may overwhelm the rearguard.”

“That is our estimation, though the Kinslayers calculate odds of success very differently and were all too eager to embark. But if we judged aright, they will be forced to withdraw to Amon Ereb and await aid behind its fortifications. In any case, we implore you to do the same for the time being!”

“Of course. The last place we want to end up is pinned between the Andram and whatever becomes of this conflict.”

Elros said, “We will make ready our ambitious entourage and see you upon your walls before supper. Pray you not mistake us for dwarves as we approach!”

 

The messengers were quick to depart while the twins exchanged instructions with their officers before returning to their spot in the tree, where sleep refused to return to them for the remaining hours of night. The emerging sun began to change the sky as they sat side by side and head to head with arms interlocked, a familiar pose during uncertain times in their youth.

“Awake?”

“Alas.”

“I wonder if we’re thinking the same.”

“Definitely. If those snobby High Elves cannot even tell Men apart from Dwarves, it’s no wonder that an entire army of them were mistaken for the trees of Ossiriand as they crept by.”

“…What? No.” Elrond sighed. “I was thinking how the rearguard rode outnumbered against foes unknown, with nary even an estimate of when relief may follow.”

“Oh, that.” Elros fell quiet for a while. “It troubles me as well, though we should expect such brazenness. As I recall, Maedhros did not take kindly to being relegated to rearguard. I think he will see some grand demonstration of great worth as redemption of the insult, and this may be the first opportunity to achieve it in all these years waiting.”

“It will be the final opportunity, if they are overrun. You heard the messenger, Elros. They did as they always have done: divine some miraculous chance of success against all odds through the brute force of their own obstinance. This madness will be the death of them both!” His breath hitched on the last word, and his hands clenched as if to stop the portent from finding its destiny.

Elros froze as well. Foresight had come unto his brother before, and never had it lied. The air hung heavy with foreboding. “Well, listen. We have with us one hundred decorated soldiers, and half as many civilian veterans who will wield the sword if necessary. When we reach the hill, let us hear from the commander of the watch, and let us see how many guardsmen are held in reserve behind the walls there.” His brother seemed to breathe easier beside him. “Anyway, as loath as I am to delay our mission after making such good progress, just imagine the look on Maedhros’ face if we of all people were to come to his rescue!”

Elrond looked downward as a fleeting grin vanished. “The expeditiousness of this mission will be the least of our concerns if the rearguard falls, and Amon Ereb comes under siege.” Just then, the cry of a hawk cut through the air overhead. They barely could look up in time to see its wingspan before the trees overhead blocked the view. It cried again, already distant as it sped on toward its destination. “Perhaps we ought to travel with a falconer after all…”

“I’ll add it to the list for next time.” Elros stood up and yawned. “Come along then. Let us rouse these elves and break the news of this unhappy detour, and then go find out what that bird has to say for itself.”

 

By noon, their procession had reached the outmost perimeter of the Amon Ereb. Its fortifications atop a sloping hill presided over the greater plain like a crown upon a pillow. In the surrounding fields, Elves were hard at work making spiked barricades and trenches arrayed in such a pattern that rendered swift or straight advancement upon the hill impossible. An attacking army would be forced to navigate these obstacles under a torrent of arrows before reaching so much as throwing distance to the bastion.

The gates yawned apart as they neared, and an Elf on horseback rode out to wait on the inner side of construction while the company picked their way through the work underway. He was as regal as any of Finarfin’s host, but underdressed compared to someone whose purpose is errantry, and he did not carry a standard. The twins steered their horses ahead of the company’s slow progress to meet their host.

“Hail, sons of Earendil,” he said. Instead of the usual wide-eyed gawking of identical twin Half-elves, he tilted in his saddle to look around them. “What is that I hear?”

Elros looked backward briefly – the muffled rustle of hundreds of coins in hundreds of pockets had become ambient noise by now. “Sounds like rattlesnakes. I hope your men are careful out here.” His brother made a choking sound and smoothed his face.

“Ah.” The elf seemed to recalculate. “I am Lormar, commander of the watch.”

“I am Elrond, and my brother Elros. Do not be troubled to tell us apart.”

“Good – the moment you change places I will be at a loss. We received a bird since my messengers found you in the wood, then but hours ago word from the rearguard reached us as well. I have valets waiting in the bailey to receive your company and horses, but if you would forego your own settling-in, I will lead you to the tower keep where I stepped out of council to fetch you.”

He hardly waited for their agreement before reeling his steed around, and had already crossed the rampart while the twins gave brief instructions to their officers. They followed after Lormar beyond the gates and through a bustling courtyard cluttered with tools of farming and barrels and tents – telltale signs of preparations to withdraw from the outer lands and brace for siege. The brothers exchanged a knowing look, sharing the same notion that tidings from the rearguard may be grim news indeed.

They left their horses at a trough outside the tower keep, and barely caught the door before it fell shut on the tail of Lormar’s billowing cloak.

“We all marveled to spot your party yesterday,” his voice echoed back as he climbed the spiral staircase two steps at a time. “Though you were not sent to aid us, you have arrived in just the nick of time.”

“That is a knack we seem to have,” Elros answered, looking back at his brother with a wry grin.

They reached the top floor, where a table occupied most of the space and any chairs had been pushed to the perimeter. This was not a place for rest or comfort. Elves in various stages of dress between full armor and casual leisure were pouring over the parchment mosaic of maps and ledgers from all sides. They stood at attention to give brief introductions for the newcomers.

“So what pending doom has dragged you all out of bed and field alike to knit your brows here together?”

Lormar gestured to the table where someone pushed other papers aside to reveal a map underneath. “The King has dispatched reinforcements per our request, but we calculate their location at approximately one week’s marching distance as of this day.”

“That’s the good news,” said the field marshal. “We also just learned that the rearguard is indeed vastly outnumbered, as we had anticipated.”

“Yet Maedhros will not pull back his force,” Elrond said flatly.

Lormar gave him a calculating look. “I forgot that you knew him. But yes.” He picked one parchment out of several on the table and shook it in the air, as though to bring it to reason. “That maniac is inexplicably optimistic and has dug in with both heels. ‘Success is assured and will be nigh at hand in days’, he wrote… read it for yourself if you wish,” he flung the parchment back to the table and wiped his own hand clean.

Elrond stared at it unmoving.
Elros asked, “How many are your reserves?”

“We have roughly the same number as you,” said the field marshal.

“Even all combined, I believe it is too few to turn back the advance,” said Lormar. “But it should be enough to hold the line until reinforcements arrive.”

The twins exchanged a thoughtful look before Elros spoke, “Then let us put the serendipity of our arrival to good use – or to hard work, I should say. Fortune favours the Half-elven best when we are at our most valiant, after all.”

Elrond added, “And if it happens that our own perseverance depends upon controlled retreat, I trust that Maglor at least will hearken to reason and compel his brother. Maedhros may be stubborn, but he is not foolish.”

“I hope we can take your word for that much and leave the truth untested.” Lomar released a deep breath. “But this fills me with relief! Please – help yourselves to some rest now and let us reconvene under light of star when hope is highest. I must ask to exchange your civilians’ labour for my guardsmen currently toiling in the yard, in case the worst still comes to pass. We can sort these arrangements overnight, and in the morning, prepare to march.”

~tbc~

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Chapter End Notes

Read about the history of 'old Rathlóriel' (the river Ascar) here:
https://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Ascar

Also huge kudos and thanks to the creator of this map that I used as geographic reference:
https://www.deviantart.com/sirielle/art/The-Realms-of-the-Noldor-and-the-Sindar-2-933072716