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 Two


The evening sun dappled over the horizon in a tapestry of vivid colours, gilding the Lórien skyline with a stunning, golden radiance. It was never truly bright in Caras Galadhon however, the soaring mallorns imparting a faint dimness, obscuring the heliomass of the sun. Haldir and his brothers strolled along the familiar timbered path back to their talans, mulling over the day’s tumultuous revelations and stopping every now and again to engage their comrades. By mid-afternoon, the entire wood was abreast of the Mirkwood massacre and the impromptu covenant between the elven realms to see the perpetrators brought to justice.

“What of Lindon?” asked Rúmil.

“Lord Elrond has already dispatched envoys to the Grey Havens,” answered Haldir. “It appears that in spite of their closer proximity to Angmar they are not in any immediate danger.”

“No, why bother with a handful of dispossessed elves in Lindon when you can strike at the heart of elvendom in its biggest realm,” sighed Orophin.

Rúmil nodded and crossed his arms, his violet eyes peering down at the flowering shrub at his feet as they walked on. Haldir noted his younger brother’s concern and pulled his arm around him.

“I didn’t realise,” murmured Rúmil.

“What’s that?”

“That Mirkwood was the biggest of elven realms.”

“Aye,” Haldir confirmed. “Maybe you should visit Greenwood on your next leave.”

“Maybe I shall. It’s been decades since I last saw Legolas,” said Rúmil thoughtfully, pertaining to King Thranduil’s son and heir, now that his firstborn had been killed.

The brothers reached a narrow cleft in the woods where Orophin and Rúmil’s talan loomed before them amidst ancient cedars and the fragrant nightbloom of jasmine.

Orophin yawned. “I’m knackered,” he commented. “Coming up for a nightcap, Hal?”

“Nay, I have errands to run before our departure to Rivendell tomorrow morning.”

“Uh huh,” chuckled Orophin and ascended the mallorn to his talan. “Quel esta.”

Haldir arched a brow and faced Rúmil. “I don’t know where your brother gets his ideas from.”

“He was your brother first, Hal,” chuckled Rúmil. “And I daresay that centuries of sharing a talan with you and your amorous hordes has had something to do with it.”

“My amorous hordes!”

“Yes, brother. You are quite prolific.”

Haldir laughed. “And you, Rú, are a cheeky monkey.”

Rúmil chuckled. A gentle choral hymn drifted through Lórien bidding the Galadhrim a safe journey upon the morrow, and they paused to listen to the ethereal tones reverberating through the woods.

“Will you be all right, Rú?” Haldir asked at last.

“Yes,” Rúmil sighed. “You’ll only be gone for what, a few weeks, just take care.”

“You have my word.”

The brothers embraced and bid each other farewell.

Haldir walked briskly back to his own talan, a familiar ache forming in his chest. He cursed silently for not having enough time to sup with his lieutenants, nor visit with his friends or carry out a plethora of other activities that he had long anticipated since his return from Gondor before the equinox. He barely had the chance to spend time with his brothers before Glorfindel and Nestadion arrived from Rivendell seeking the Lord Celeborn’s aid.

“So mote it be,” sighed Haldir as he ascended the mallorn to his talan.

The Marchwarden carefully disengaged his weapons, removed his tunic, and hauled himself on the bed. He yawned as he stretched his toned limbs over the soft eiderdown, his mind running a mental checklist of errands that beckoned his attention before he could retire.

A soft knock at the door. Haldir groaned and got up to see who it was.

“Quel undome,” lilted a young elf-maiden.

Haldir flashed her a brilliant smile and reclined against the door’s frame. Of all the elves that could have darkened his door this evening, her presence was the least expected.

“Quel undome,” Haldir replied. “To what do I owe this pleasure, Aranel?”

“I heard you were leaving tomorrow morning.”

“Aye.”

“To Imladris.”

“Aye.”

“To lead a consignment of elves from Rivendell, Lórien and Mirkwood to the Angmar.”

“Something like that,” whispered Haldir and stroked Aranel’s cheek, his thumb lingering momentarily over her bottom lip. Aranel swallowed.

“I wanted to give you this,” she held up a leather pouch. “Dandelion root. For your well being. Add a sliver to any herbal infusion, it provides many minerals and nutrients,” she breathed as Haldir planted slow, featherlike kisses upon her neck. “It is also known to cleanse the liver of toxins.”

Haldir chuckled. “Hannon lle, lirimaer.”

Aranel blushed and took a step back. “Have a safe journey.”

“I will.”

The pretty elf-maiden beamed at Haldir and turned to descend the mallorn.

“Aranel.”

“Yes?” she looked back at Haldir.

“The dandelion root.”

“Oh!” Aranel exclaimed and returned to Haldir. “How silly I am, here you go,” she handed the pouch to the Marchwarden, her green eyes glinting in the moonlight. Haldir took hold of her hand and smoothed it over his cheek, taking in her dulcet scent.

“Aranel,” he murmured. “Please don’t go,” he motioned her into his talan and grinned as he closed the door behind them.

~~*~~

At the same time, two thousand miles northwest of Lothlórien, Elrohir pored over the chronicles of Manwë and jotted down annotations in a scroll. He looked out at the night sky, his gaze carrying over the flickering constellation of stars, and smiled to himself. For the first time in weeks the young elf was at peace, and a languid contentedness spread through his limbs. He took a hearty swallow of mead and cast the goblet aside, his head humming lightly with the effects of the fermented wine.

“Aaye, ‘Ro,” a familiar voice resounded.

“Quel undome, Dan.”

“Gosh, I could eat a horse!” exclaimed Elladan. “Will you be joining us in the mess hall tonight, or are you still avoiding Ada.”

Elrohir heard the bedsprings squeak behind him. “Probably not,” he ignored the intimation a propos their father. “I would like to get this done by tomorrow.”

“Right,” Elladan rolled his eyes. “So what is it this time, a re-composition of the Ainulindalë for lute and orchestra?”

Elrohir dipped his quill into the ink pot. “Have a care, Dan. In the olden days elves were racked for such blasphemy.”

“Rubbish!” Elladan spat. “Who told you that, Tor? Or Mithrandir, I bet it was Mithrandir!”

Silence. Elrohir turned a page in his tome.

Elladan sighed and joined his twin brother by the vast window, taking in the magnitude of scrolls and manuscripts scattered over Elrohir’s bureau.

“Seriously, ‘Ro, what are you working on?”

Elrohir finally looked up at his brother. “Do you really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“I am studying the dynasty of Ainu. The bloodline of Manwë and the Dark Lord Melkor. Or rather I am engaged in a comparison between the ancient texts of Maia to the tomes we have in the library.”

Elladan blinked. “I thought the ancient texts of Maia were in Quenya.”

“Aye,” Elrohir affirmed. “They are.”

“But,” Elladan paused, noticing the unfamiliar characters in Tengwar adorning some of the volumes on Elrohir’s desk. “Elbereth! Since when do you read Quenya?”

“Oh, for a few years now.”

Elladan gawked at his brother, speechless.

Elrohir did very well not to chuckle—though by the Valar, he dearly wanted to. He cast his quill aside and stood up, stretched his limbs, and drained the last of his mead.

“So when is Fin back?” he moved closer to Elladan, sitting on the windowsill.

Elladan followed suit. “Soon. Ada said he would be returning with the Galadhrim,” Elladan reached out to touch his brother’s tousled plaits. “’Ro,” he beckoned. “Will you do me a favour?”

Elrohir arched a brow. “As long as it doesn’t land me in the brig.”

Elladan smiled pensively, running his fingers through Elrohir’s russet locks. This was the only physical dissimilarity between the twins; while Elladan’s tresses were black as the purest ebony, Elrohir’s mane glinted with deep tones of burgundy, which were especially visible in the sun. Other than that, the Imladris twins were indistinguishable.

“It won’t.”

“Not this time, eh,” Elrohir savoured his brother’s ministrations. “Well?”

“Please let me fasten your braids.”

“I hear an ‘and’ there somewhere.”

Elladan grinned. “And come have supper with us.”

“All right,” Elrohir smiled at his twin. “As a personal favour to you.”

The brothers laughed, and Elladan proceeded to comb Elrohir’s locks.

~~*~~

A couple of days later the emissaries from Lórien, with Glorfindel and Nestadion, passed through Eregion, the ancient kingdom of the Noldorin. As they strolled through the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil under the shadow of the Misty Mountains, they commiserated about the once majestic elven capital.

“How the mighty have fallen,” Glorfindel murmured, as he stood on a rock overlooking the crumbling fortress.

“Lost to antiquity,” Haldir sighed. “Come, mellon, the hour grows late, and I would like to get as much distance as possible between us and Khazad-dûm before nightfall.”

“I second that,” echoed Orophin a few feet away.

Glorfindel nodded and retrieved a map from his rucksack.

“Here,” he pointed at a northwestern route heading straight for the river Bruinen. “I suggest we ride to the riverbank and camp there for the night. It should take us no longer than three hours to reach Rivendell upon the morrow.”

“Agreed. Orophin!” Haldir called out to his brother, who was in conference with the others. “We ride west.”

“Thank the Valar,” whispered Anyriand. “I was afraid they would have us camp at the foothills of Moria.”

“Don’t be daft,” tittered Nestadion. “Don’t you trust your Marchwarden?”

“On the contrary,” Anyriand retorted. “It’s your Marchwarden I don’t trust.”

“Sentinels!” Haldir called out to the group. “Tolo hi!”

The company mounted their horses and caught up with their captains.

By sundown the warriors had reached the banks of the Bruinen and set up camp by a small creek overlooking the river. Orophin and Nestadion assembled the tents, sharing anecdotes about life in their respective guards, while Anyriand tended the horses nearby. Haldir and Glorfindel sat by a crackling hearth, talking quietly among themselves and poring over maps of the terrain.

“Carn Dûm be cursed!” spat Glorfindel. “That wretched fort has been the thorn in my side well before the Battle of Fornost, you realise.”

“I do. But there we must go if we are to obliterate the descendants of Ulfang and any other damned creatures allied to the Witch-king. If our theory is true,” Haldir lowered his voice, "then bands of marauding Uruk-hai are the least of our worries.”

“Sauron,” Glorfindel murmured.

Haldir winced imperceptibly.

“Meldir,” Glorfindel sighed. “We’re going off on a tangent here. We do not know that Sauron has arisen, or that the Witch-king has partnered with him. We have no hard evidence to support this hypothesis.”

“Who needs evidence when Lord Elrond and the Lady Galadriel have the gift of foresight,” Haldir countered. “My Lady was very clear about the balance of power shifting in their favour, and it would serve to explain how the Witch-king knew about Thranduil’s plan.”

“Aye,” Glorfindel nodded. “I hear what you’re saying, but if I had a sliver of mithril for every time I heard that evil is brewing in Mordor I would inherit the riches of Moria.”

“Fair enough,” Haldir chuckled. “Now tell me how Erestor and the children are faring.”

Glorfindel smiled. “Hmm,” he looked up at the moon and studied its circumference. “Well, I bet I could tell you precisely what Tor is up to at this very moment.”

“I’m all ears,” Haldir smiled and unfastened his braids, his long platinum hair spilling in rivulets over his grey tunic.

“Bathing.”

Haldir raised a brow, fingers running through his silky tresses. “And how would you know that?”

“Because Erestor has bathed at the same hour every day for over three millennia.”

Haldir laughed. “Wonderful. And do you ever join him?”

“Haldir,” Glorfindel narrowed his eyes, his finely chiselled jaw forming a cheshire grin. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I believe you know precisely what I mean,” Haldir rebraided his hair.

Glorfindel smiled and lounged back, propped up on his elbows. The cool night air wafted through his golden tresses. Haldir left the Eldar to his thoughts as he finished plaiting his hair and prepared a fresh pot of tea. He used the herbs that Aranel had given him to brew an infusion of spearmint, chamomile and dandelion root. Anyriand and Orophin talked quietly by an adjacent hearth, while Nestadion filed his sword.

“I adore him,” Glorfindel finally said, almost to himself. “But we are set in our ways, Hal. It would be strange and inappropriate to rock the status quo now, and rather unfair on the others.”

“The others?”

“The twins, their Adar.”

“The twins,” Haldir smirked. “They are but elflings, why should they care?”

Glorfindel smiled. “Elflings. When was the last time you saw them?”

“Well, they never seem to be around when I’m in Rivendell. Probably a century.”

“Aye, Elrohir is always holed up in his study and Elladan on patrol.”

“Patrol?” Haldir blinked. “They must be older than I remembered then.”

“I’ll say,” Glorfindel sat up and stretched his arms.

“Have they reached their majority yet?”

Glorfindel chuckled. “Yes, mellon, thirty years ago.”

“Interesting,” Haldir said pensively and poured the tea.

“What about you?”

“I reached my majority about 2000 years ago,” Haldir grinned and handed Glorfindel a steaming goblet.

“Very funny,” Glorfindel lilted. “Hannon lle. I meant, are you seeing anybody special?”

Haldir sipped his tea. “Nay.”

The crackling flames of the hearth reached out and tickled the shadows that cavorted about them, while nocturnal bird calls and the chirping of crickets swept across the Rhudaur as night descended over Middle-earth.

~~*~~

Early the next morning, Elrohir and Erestor strolled through the labyrinthal gardens surrounding the family’s estate. They edged a path lined with magnificent, scented geraniums and stopped by the riverbank. A faint mist blanketed the Bruinen as the sun peeked over the distant Hithaeglir. The soft rustling of leaves was barely audible as a gentle zephyr carried through the perfumed foliage, and everything was serene, save for the slightly jarring, recurrent splash of the water against the bow of a lone canoe.

Erestor lay back against a tree hedge, his iridescent eyes carrying over the cobalt river. He wore a navy tunic with intricate gold detail, and his silkspun locks fell in dark tresses over his robes. Elrohir smiled.

“You are very handsome.”

“Diola lle,” Erestor replied. “As are you, ‘Ro.”

Elrohir chuckled somewhat depreciatingly and reclined back against his elbows. He closed his eyes, savouring the first rays of the morning sun. Erestor considered him; his face was exquisitely handsome in the slanting light, each marvellously sculpted angle a study in aesthetics.

“You don’t think so?”

“I do not think of myself in such terms.”

“Fascinating.”

“Tor,” Elrohir grinned, his grey eyes shimmering in the soft light. “I could recite the ingredients of porridge and you would find it fascinating.”

“Perhaps,” Erestor grinned. “When was the last time you looked in the mirror?”

“Yestereve, in the mess hall.”

Erestor narrowed his eyes. “What, at dinner?”

“Aye. I sat opposite Elladan.”

“Oh,” Erestor laughed. “That’s not quite what I meant, ‘Ro.”

Elrohir smiled and toyed with a rose shrub, its aromatic oils dissolving into his nimble fingers. A moment later, their sharp elven ears picked up the beat of horses’ feet galloping in the distance, and the pair stood up and peered over the valley. The chink and creak of saddles and the thud of hooves sounded closer now, as five riders galloped over the clearing on their way to Lord Elrond’s palace.

“Ahh,” Erestor smiled. “Glorfindel and Nestadion are back.”

“Accompanied by three Galadhrim, by the looks of it.”

“Aye,” nodded the counsellor. “Come, we shall engage them by the gates.”

“Must I,” cringed Elrohir as he followed Erestor down the path.

“Haven’t you missed them?”

“Yes, of course I have missed Fin and Nestadion,” sighed Elrohir. “But I’m not very good at greeting foreign dignitaries.”

“Foreign dignitaries! Our Lórien brethren are hardly foreign, Elrohir. One would think I asked you to greet a horde of raging dwarves. Don’t be silly.”

“Sorry,” mumbled Elrohir and swept his hands over his loose braids, flicking a dark wisp behind a pointed ear and adjusting his robes. Erestor smiled.

A few minutes later they emerged by the monument for Dagor-nuin-Giliath, marking the entrance to Lord Elrond’s palace. Erestor engaged a nearby sentry and asked him to alert the palace to the delegation’s arrival, just as the quintet galloped in through the stately gates and dismounted their steeds.

“Mae Govannen, melloneamin,” beamed Erestor at the approaching contingent.

“Aaye, Erestor!” grinned Glorfindel. “Quel re, Elrohir.”

“Haldir, always a pleasure,” smiled Erestor and shook the Marchwarden’s hand.

While the company bade their salutations, Elrohir stood mute like a scarecrow in a cornfield. Something about Haldir, his air and countenance, transformed the young elf into a quivering mess. He felt like a lone reed gusting in the coils of a fevered storm, tongue-tied and discomforted.

“Elrohir,” Glorfindel narrowed his eyes. “The Marchwarden has asked you a question.”

“Oh,” Elrohir swallowed. “Apologies, I was miles away,” he mumbled and sneaked a quick glace at Haldir, who observed him closely with a smile.

“Worry not,” Haldir shook his head. “I merely asked how you are faring.”

“Hannon lle,” Elrohir managed.

Erestor arched a brow, and an awkward silence ensued. “Elrohir is faring well,” he finally said, sharing a perplexed look with Glorfindel. “Come melloneamin, I wager you could all do with a stiff drink by now, and I have an intimate knowledge of the wine cellar.”

“Aye,” Glorfindel grinned. “And we have much to disseminate.”

The company proceeded towards the palace, talking spiritedly amongst themselves and chortling out loud. Elrohir paced quietly behind them, and just as they were about to ascend the marbled steps into the palace, he turned around and crept back into the gardens.

CONTINUED IN CHAPTER THREE......