THE HERALD

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Story Information

Title: The Herald
Author: Scribe of Imladris © 2007
Pairing(s): Haldir/Elrohir (major), Erestor/Glorfindel (minor)
Rating: R
Timeline: 2511 of the Third Age
Summery: Deep foreboding stirs the northern territories of Middle-earth, and all evidence points towards Carn Dum, former seat of the Witch-king of Angmar. When the Elves are reluctantly drawn into the puzzle, they unearth a dark secret that poses a threat to the free peoples of Arda.
Disclaimer: These characters & Middle-earth are copyrighted by the Tolkien estate. This story is not meant to infringe on that copyright, nor is any profit being made.
A/N: Set a century before the Quest. While there are AU elements to this story, it adheres to the general canon.

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Chapter One


Laurelindórenan, 2511 of the Third Age


A gentle breeze carried through the golden clippings of the ancient mallorns, and the shimmering leaves rustled in harmony with the sighing kindling. A lone eagle circled the tallest bough and nestled languidly, contentedly, in its brushwood. The very air heightened a tone of splendour, while the earth below exuded a dreamlike mist, casting its spell across the fragrant, steamy woodlands.

Nightfall in Lothlórien; its majesty unparalleled in the whole of Arda.

In a remote encampment by the Northern Pass, a hearth crackled amidst lush vegetation and the perfume of honeysuckle. A sentry yawned. He closed his deep, cerulean eyes, and let the swish and clatter of the woods course through his tired limbs. A smile graced his cerise lips as visions of flora and fauna loomed in his feverish mind; dancing, swirling and coupling to the sensuous beating of drums.

"Fereveldir," a voice carried upon the air.

The sentry’s eyes flung open with a start. “What, where?”

“Cavorting with Ilúvatar in Almaren, by the look of it,” Haldir smiled, in spite of his mild irritation at the sentry’s negligence. "It must have been beautiful. I would join you there myself were I not on duty.”

Fereveldir swallowed, and flicked a loose plait from his face. Haldir noted the dishevelled braids and arched a brow.

“Captain, forgive me,” Fereveldir lowered his head. “Shall I take Anyriand’s shift upon the mallorn?”

“And have you fall out of a tree? No, that won’t do at all.”

“Captain, I—“

“Mellon, listen to me,” Haldir kneeled before him. “I find myself in a predicament. We have served together for the better part of a millennia, but you are not only a gifted archer and an invaluable swordsman to my contingent, you are my friend, which makes things difficult when I need to reproach your performance.”

“Yes, captain.”

“Please don’t call me that when we are alone,” Haldir whispered, a dull ache forming in his heart. “Would it be easier if you were reassigned to Nilfalath’s patrol?”

“No!”

“Very well,” Haldir chuckled. “I shan’t mention your indignation to Nilfalath.”

Fereveldir grinned. “I have no qualms about being your subordinate, Haldir. You were always the better warrior, strategist, and natural leader.”

“Diola lle,” Haldir bowed his head. “What is the matter, then? You were rather curt with Nestadion this morning, too. I meant to ask you about that.”

“Oh,” Fereveldir sighed, pouring himself and the Marchwarden a blend of peppermint and eucalyptus tea. “I am not a tactician, Haldir, I am a soldier. I do not understand why the legation from Imladris are still here, borrowing their noses into our business and engaging me in inane prattle at the breakfast table.”

Haldir smiled and took a sip of the heady infusion.

“And the way Glorfindel simply groped my sword, as though it were a shared commodity to be trifled with, what was that all about? One does not manhandle a fellow warrior’s sword like that!”

“Aye. They do things a little differently in Rivendell.”

“What ho, sentinel,” Fereveldir emulated Glorfindel’s distinctive drawl. “That’s a rather feeble clunk of steel for the Galadhrim, eh!”

Haldir laughed. “The look on your face was priceless.”

“Hmm.”

Haldir smiled and gazed into the glowing embers of the hearth, the crimson hues casting a faint light over his handsome features. He drained the last of his goblet and set it aside, savouring the refreshing note of peppermint. Fereveldir leaned over and held the Marchwarden’s shoulder.

“I will not disappoint you again. You have my word.”

“Worry not,” Haldir sighed. “We are all doing double shifts at present to accommodate the new stratagem. Your fatigue, while unfavourable, is understandable. Now get off home.”

“What,” Fereveldir blinked. “I should be penalised, not rewarded.”

“Perhaps,” Haldir rose in one graceful sweep of his limbs, his eyes glinting in the moonlight as he focused them on the fourth mallorn to his left where a chortle resounded in the balmy air.

“What example would I be setting the new deputation if I left now.”

Haldir returned his gaze to Fereveldir. “Rúmil.”

“Amongst others,” Fereveldir sighed and rose to his feet.

Haldir nodded, and a moment’s silence ensued.

“Mind the garrison, sentinel. I have business at Caras Galadhon.”

“Aye captain,” said Fereveldir as he watched the Marchwarden disappear into the dense foliage.

~~*~~

In a faraway glade, on the banks of the river Bruinen, a lone elf breathed in the clear air of the Hithaeglir, his gaze carrying athwart the Misty Mountains. He knew these hills and leaden ridges well, and could often be found riding his horse over the grey cliffs. A cool breeze wafted from the north. The elf ran his fingers through the dark tresses of his hair, tucked an unruly strand behind a pointed ear, and proceeded to fasten his robe. It was getting cold, his stomach was rumbling, and he knew that he could not eschew the wrath of his father much longer. The elf sighed, mounted his steed and galloped back to Rivendell.

Fifteen minutes later he tip-toed into the darkened hall of his bedchamber and smiled as he disengaged his bow and quiver. Heartened by his evident success in avoiding the members of his household, the elf sprawled across the divan, his russet locks spilling over the opulent pillows shams.

“Quel undome.”

“Elbereth!” leaped the elf and squinted into the dimly-lit chamber where he could barely make out the form of a person seated in a far corner by the fireplace.

“Erestor, actually.”

“Very funny,” muttered the younger elf and joined Erestor by the fire. “What are you doing here?”

“I would ask you the same question, Elrohir. Where have you been this evening?”

“I went for a ride.”

“Where were you this afternoon?”

“I went for a walk.”

“And where were you this morning?”

“Doing my lessons.”

“You weren’t in the library.”

“Never said I was,” sniffed Elrohir.

Erestor leaned forward, the fire casting an ethereal glow over his striking visage. Elrohir had been his cherished protégé ever since he was a small elfling. The position was unofficially bequeathed to him after his mother had sailed to Valinor, leaving the family utterly distraught. Erestor had no intention of spending more than a couple of hours a day catering to Elrohir and his twin brother at Lord Elrond’s behest, one that he had accepted under the proviso that he would not bear the sole liability for the twins’ education. After all, Erestor was a counsellor, a politician – not a teacher, but he could not bring himself to refuse Elrond after the tragedy that befell the family.

Arwen, Elrond and Celebrian’s daughter, was soon dispatched to her grandparents in Lothlórien while Erestor, the brilliant tactician, coerced his long-time friend and confidant Glorfindel to share in the tuition of the brothers. The years saw Erestor and Glorfindel settle in their respective areas of expertise; the golden-haired Eldar instructed the twins in equestrian sports, swordplay and archery, while Erestor instructed them in history, philosophy and the sciences. Elladan, the more outgoing of the Imladris twins, gradually matured into a brazen warrior who spent his days sparring with Glorfindel and the Rivendell Guard on the practice fields, while the more studious and introspective Elrohir naturally gravitated towards Erestor.

Erestor joined Elrohir on the adjacent sofa and pulled his arms around the younger elf’s shoulders, embracing him warmly to his heart. Elrohir sighed contentedly in Erestor’s arms and twirled his fingers around a dark strand of the counsellor’s hair. Erestor smiled at the familiar gesture.

“What’s troubling you, pen-tithen?”

Elrohir sighed and disengaged himself from Erestor. “Nothing,” he answered flatly.

Erestor arched a brow. “Has Dan been at it again?”

“No.”

“Your Adar.”

“Why must it always be either Dan or Adar, I’m not that fragile, Erestor. I’ve just been feeling restless lately, disoriented. That is all.”

“Surely Elrond’s constant reproach doesn’t help matters.”

“True. I wish he’d just leave me alone. Isn’t one perfect son enough?”

Erestor sighed. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

“Elrohir, you are more precious to your Adar than all the mithril in Eä. But he does not understand your reclusive tendencies – or why you insist on eschewing his company. He is worried about you, can’t you see?”

Elrohir considered this. “Are you worried about me?”

“No,” Erestor shook his head. “But we are much alike, ‘Ro, and I can wholeheartedly understand the arduous pursuit of one’s destiny, especially when it is not so easily laid before one. ‘Tis a lonely path. The Valar know that I have suffered my own share of discontent.”

“Why,” Elrohir whispered. “Why is it so difficult for me? Dan knew his own mind ever since he was an elfling, everything comes so easily to him.”

“That is not true, Elrohir. It only appears that way because Elladan wears a cheery demeanour and has perfected the art of bravado. A natural born soldier. Delve a little deeper, and he may surprise you.”

Elrohir yawned, his gaze carrying out to the full moon gracing the heavens and igniting the night sky with its otherworldly brilliance. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he had not eaten a morsel since breakfast.

“I shall think on it. But I cannot do so on an empty stomach, have Adar and the others retired for the night?”

“Translation: is the coast clear for you to scavenge through the evening’s leftovers?”

Elrohir laughed. “Aye.”

“Please do not avoid your family much longer,” Erestor smiled warily.

“I promise.”

“Well in that case, I shall see you to the kitchens and retire myself.”

Erestor and Elrohir made their way across the grand hallways of the palace, talking quietly amongst themselves while great lanterns loomed above their heads casting wraithlike shadows across the winding passageways. They discussed Elrohir’s progress with Quenya, an ancient Elvish tongue that was no longer spoken in Middle-earth.

“It’s the syntax that I’m struggling with, there are no comparisons in Sindarin.”

“Perhaps, but the inflections are very similar.”

“Hmm, which makes Quenya easy to pronounce but impossible to understand.”

Erestor chuckled. They turned a corner into a narrow hall that led to the kitchens, and stopped by a marble statue of Ecthelion, Lord of Gondolin. Erestor smiled brightly at his charge, his intense eyes radiant in the candlelit foyer.

“Mära mesta,” the counsellor bade Elrohir goodnight in Quenya.

“Quel du,” Elrohir answered in Sindarin. Erestor smiled and headed for his quarters in the west wing of the palace.

~~*~~

The next morning in Lórien, the Galadhrim were assembled in the mess hall for a special briefing. Fereveldir and Orophin, Haldir’s younger brother, were talking quietly amongst themselves when Nilfalath and Tinion, the Marchwarden’s chief lieutenants, joined them by the twin pillars adorning the commons.

“Quel amrun, melloneamin,” Fereveldir greeted Nilfalath and Tinion.

“Suilaid, mellon,” said Tinion and nodded at Orophin.

Nilfalath’s eyes carried over the scores of Galadhrim congregating in the hall, a flush of irritation denoting his face when he spotted Nestadion chatting to Anyriand.

Fereveldir rolled his eyes. “So I’m not the only one who finds Nestadion distasteful.”

“What I find distasteful, mellon, is his constant presence on my watch!”

“Aye. Or Glorfindel sacking the arsenal,” said Tinion.

“Sacking the arsenal?”

“Well, either that or he has taken a keen interest in Lórien’s smithies.”

“Are you accusing Glorfindel of theft?” Orophin asked.

“Don’t be silly,” Tinion replied. “I am merely questioning the merit of their presence at every martial function in Caras Galadhon.”

“Aye,” Nilfalath and Fereveldir chimed in unison.

“You would do well to place your faith in our brethren before making irreverent observations like that,” said Orophin indignantly and stalked off.

Nilfalath raised a brow. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morn.”

“Nay,” Tinion sighed. “He is the Marchwarden’s brother, which makes it difficult for him to acquiesce with us on matters pertaining to our criticism of his brother’s orders.”

“True,” said Fereveldir pensively.

“Be that as it may,” frowned Nilfalath. “It still doesn’t warrant Nestadion’s presence on my watch!”

“Agreed,” nodded Tinion. “Now I suggest we buckle up and join the others,” he motioned to the entrance, where Haldir had just walked in with Glorfindel at his side.

Haldir walked straight up to his lieutenants and exchanged a few quiet words with them while the rest of the contingent lined up in waiting by the great arch. Following a brief chat in which Nilfalath and Tinion were finally briefed on the situation, the Marchwarden turned to address the rest of the Galadhrim.

“Greetings one and all,” Haldir’s voice resounded in the hall. “Firstly, I wish to bid our dignitaries from Rivendell a very warm welcome. While Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel have already extended their salutations at the spring equinox festivities, I deem it appropriate to reintroduce our fair guests and offer you an explanation as to why they have been shadowing us on the practice fields.”

“I’ll say,” whispered Fereveldir to Anyriand.

“I’ve never dallied with extended prologues, therefore I will cut straight to the chase and to the recent events inciting Lord Elrond to send a consignment to Lórien,” Haldir turned to Glorfindel, “Will you do the honours?”

“Hannon lle, mellon,” replied Glorfindel and stepped up to face the Galadhrim.

“Mae Govannen,” he started. “I am Lord Elrond’s Field Marshall, or Rivendell’s Marchwarden if you like, though I daresay my realm’s guard pales in comparison with your own. On this day one moon ago, a delegation from Mirkwood were killed on their way to Imladris,” he paused. “That’ll show Thranduil not to send envoys to Rivendell again, eh!”

Glorfindel’s crack was met with mixed emotions from the Silvan guard, whose reactions varied from raised brows, gasps and a few muffled sniggers. Haldir, well accustomed to Glorfindel’s eccentricities, barely suppressed a smile himself.

“Anyway,” Glorfindel cleared his throat. “They were intercepted in the Gladden Fields, not far from the Anduin, in what can only be described as a re-enactment of the events that befell Isildur and his sons when they were ambushed and killed by orcs in the second year of this age.”

The hall erupted in a chorus of chatter. “Silence!” Haldir called out.

“Yes,” mumbled Glorfindel. “Rather queer, that. In an effort to determine what happened, Lord Elrond dispatched a commission from Rivendell led by myself and his son, Elladan, to Mirkwood. Upon arrival in Taur-nu-Fuin, we learned that Thranduil’s first born was among the dead. This, as far as the Elvenking is concerned, is a decree of war.”

Haldir nodded. “Lady Galadriel has Seen an uprise in in the far north of the Misty Mountains, and while it is rumoured that the Witch-king of Angmar has fled to Mordor, his allies are still at large.”

“But I thought they were wiped out by the Rohirrim,” petitioned Rúmil, Haldir’s youngest brother.

Haldir exchanged looks with Glorfindel. “So did we.”

“I genuinely believed that we had defeated the forces of Angmar in the Battle of Fornost,” Glorfindel shrugged. “I was there, melloneamin, over a thousand years ago, with Prince Eärnur of Gondor, the Dúnedain, and a contingent of elves from Lindon and Rivendell.”

“An inspiring feat. One that we did not partake of in Lórien,” commented Nilfalath.

“Indeed,” nodded Haldir. “I have recommended to our Lord and Lady that we dispatch a scouting mission to the Ettenmoors, where we may observe the undertakings of northern Rhudaur and monopolise the territories as buffer zones should we run into any trouble.”

“Aye, and call upon the Rangers of the North for assistance if need be.”

“Seems like an awful lot of trouble to overthrow a few scattered tribesmen,” said Anyriand. “Cannot the Dúnedain fend for themselves, why should we get involved?”

Nestadion frowned. “Elves have been butchered, sentinel, is that not reason enough?”

“Nay,” Haldir shook his head. “Anyriand makes a valid point, mellon. I have struggled with this dilemma myself. The old alliances are over. Men have not the grace nor compassion that we here possess, and their pitiful lives are beset with the pursuit of wealth and power. But this is no longer about the divided Dúnedain realms of the north and their ongoing skirmish with orcs,” Haldir paused and looked at Glorfindel.

“King Thranduil believes that the Witch-king dispatched a contingent of Uruk-hai to reclaim the Rhudaur, and this, precisely, was the reason he sent messengers to Rivendell in the first place,” said Glorfindel. “To warn us.”

“Why Rivendell,” questioned Fereveldir. “We have closer ties with Mirkwood. In fact, the last I heard, Thranduil and Elrond were not even on speaking terms!”

“Aye, but our realm is closer than yours.”

A muffled chatter carried through the hall as the Galadhrim assimilated the information, and Haldir used the opportunity to confer with his lieutenants.

“It doesn’t make sense,” whispered Tinion. “How did the Witch-king know of Thranduil’s plan to warn Rivendell. Moreover, surely he realised that by killing Thranduil’s son he would risk the wrath of not only Mirkwood, but Rivendell and Lothlórien as well. Why take that chance given his defeat at Fornost?”

“The Battle of Fornost was over a thousand years ago, Tinion. He has had a millennium to mull over his defeat and plan his revenge,” Haldir paused, reflecting for a moment. “As for how he knew about Thranduil’s plan, we do not know that he did. This is Thranduil’s theory, not ours.”

“Nay,” Glorfindel sighed. “But I am beginning to acquiesce with it.”

Haldir furrowed his brow at the Eldar. “Well,” he murmured. “My Lady appears to acquiesce with it too, which is why she has sanctioned my plan.”

“When do we ride?” asked Nilfalath.

“You and Tinion will remain in Lórien,” Haldir explained. “I will be taking Orophin and Anyriand, we ride north to Rivendell upon the morrow to confer with Lord Elrond at Imladris before we make for the Ettenmoors.”

“Captain, will you not take at least one of your deputies on this mission?”

“Nay,” Haldir replied. “I need my chief lieutenants here lest something unexpected happens to us in the Rhudaur, lest we…”

“Walk into a trap,” Tinion finished the sentence.

Haldir nodded solemnly.


CONTINUED IN CHAPTER TWO......