Thanks to daw the minstrel for beta reading this chapter.

Warning: The war begins in this chapter, and I have tried to show the horror of what people saw through their reactions, rather than by telling the reader the explicit and graphic details.  I believe this is still suitable to be called PG-13, but the ideas that come to mind are disturbing. The Second Age was a dark time in Middle-earth, and the next several chapters are meant to reflect what appears to be the worst years for the elves.

Chapter 21: War in Eregion Part III: Lindon to Eregion

“The messenger arrived in Lindon with the news of the approaching army late in the fall . . .” began Erestor, picking up the story where Celeborn and Galadriel had left off.

~ ~ ~* * *~ ~ ~

“Elrond, Erestor, the king requests your immediate presence in the Hall,” said the page with a quick bow.  The young elf barely waited for acknowledgment before dashing off.

Erestor looked at Elrond questioningly, but the half-elf only shrugged.  They rose from their work, leaving the maps and scrolls spread out across the table, and Erestor followed Elrond down the long corridor to the Great Hall where Gil-galad held court.

The king’s chief advisors were present, but the Hall was otherwise empty of spectators.  Glorfindel stood near a worn and weary looking elf, but his eyes immediately swept over them as they entered, coming to rest on Elrond. Erestor could not help but smile to himself, for Elrond’s protector had always struck him as a bit overprotective considering the safety in which they lived in Lindon.

Gil-galad was not on his throne, but this also was not unusual when spectators and petitioners were not present.  He waved them over to a more intimate seating area, but remained standing himself.

“This is Barás,” Gil-galad introduced the elf who sat near Glorfindel. “He arrived a short time ago with messages from Celeborn in Eregion, but he is no ordinary messenger.  Barás has spent recent years searching for Sauron and learning of his plans. Celeborn sent him as messenger so that we might have opportunity to learn of all he knew. His news is dire.”

With that, Gil-galad motioned for Barás to continue. The elf kept his gaze primarily on the king, straying only to Glorfindel and the other soldiers present as he spoke.

“My lord, a massive army was approaching Eregion from the south when I departed from Ost-in-Edhil,” said Barás.  He slid his sketch of the encampment on to the table before them. Elrond reached for it immediately. “Celeborn was preparing to lead a sortie out against them when I left, in hopes of providing those wishing to escape the coming war the opportunity to do so.  Many elves are coming to Lindon, and most will wish to leave Middle-earth.”

“How many?” asked Círdan.

As Erestor turned slightly to look to Círdan, he glanced at Elrond and thought his mentor had visibly paled.  He barely heard the details of the expected numbers of elves coming to Lindon and how many would wish to sail, for Elrond pushed the drawing to him and he felt his own heart quail as he realized the size of the army Celeborn would be facing. They will be slaughtered, he realized. He lifted his gaze to meet Elrond’s eyes and saw the same conclusion reflected there. On the corner of the page was a series of letters and numbers, and Erestor recognized it as Elrond’s fine script listing the realms and the numbers of soldiers they could reasonably expect might come to the aid of the elves of Eregion. Below the drawing were Barás’s estimations of the size of the approaching army.  The total of the elves did not even compare to what Sauron had at his disposal.

“Círdan, clearly the arrangements for those who wish to sail rest with you. If you would also take responsibility for those who wish only to seek refuge in Lindon, I will turn my focus to the war,” said Gil-galad.

Erestor noted the discussions about how the refugees would be used to free up as many as could be sent to fight, tucking that knowledge away, but his mind was already focused on battle strategies.  How could they best use their people and resources against an army so much greater in size?  Would Celeborn even be able to hold out until help arrived?

“This group will be responsible for our military decisions,” said Gil-galad, interrupting Erestor’s thoughts.  Erestor suddenly realized that Círdan and many others had left, and only Gil-Galad, Elrond, Glorfindel, himself and a few other captains and advisors remained. “Celeborn’s message indicates that he sent word to Moria and Lorinand, seeking aid, so we will hope that they will send it.  We must consider what other allies might be willing to come to our aid, and quickly, for if these numbers are only half accurate, Ost-in-Edhil will not hold for long.”

“If I might lend voice to what seems a cowardly thought,” began Erilasta as he rose slowly to his feet, and Erestor gave the elf his full attention. A Noldo who had come from Valinor and stayed through the fall of Beleriand, Erilasta was, in Erestor’s experience, both wise and thoughtful. “Perhaps the first question we should answer is why we should go to war against Sauron.”

Faces all around the table grew thoughtful, and Erestor forced himself to ask why indeed.  The answer seemed obvious – Sauron was attacking their people, friends and kin, as well as subjects of the king.

“The obvious consequence of not fighting Sauron,” answered Glorfindel mildly, “is that Eregion will fall, then Eriador, and finally Lindon. We will meet our end with our backs to the sea, or we will flee over her waters to safety in elvenhome.”

“That may well occur even if we join in this fight,” replied Gil-galad gravely. He paused, turning to Erilasta again. “Which is perhaps your point. If the chance of victory does not exist, maybe we should seek only to flee these lands and leave Middle-earth to Sauron.” The room was silent. “Yet we have allies who can not flee to Valinor, and we would forsake them to slavery and death.”

“Sauron will not be content with enslaving only the Men of Middle-earth,” finished Elrond. “He fears Númenor and the presence they have created here. He hates them nearly as much as he hates the Eldar. Shadow will fall on Númenor in time.”

“What, then, is our responsibility to the Edain and to the lesser Men of Middle-earth?” asked Erilasta quietly.

“Our responsibility to them is as it has always been,” replied Gil-galad. “We stood together when Beleriand fell.  We lived together here until Andor was prepared.  Our responsibility to them is also their responsibility to us.” The king turned to Elrond. “How would those numbers appear if a mighty navy were to arrive on our coasts and rivers with aid?”

Elrond smiled. “In numbers we might yet be less, but in might we would be greater.”

Gil-galad turned to Erilasta, but his eyes grew distant as he spoke. “In Anardil Aldarion we had one of the greatest elf-friends among us in this age. His father Tar-Meneldur, with whom he was long at odds, surrendered the scepter to him for he knew he could not face the coming darkness.  Tar-Aldarion was long sighted enough to see that the shadow growing to our east would eventually darken Númenor as well, and we signed great treaties with them in preparation for war. That war did not come in Aldarion’s life. Thankfully it did not come during the reign of Tar-Ancalime, whose heart was turned from us.”

“But in Tar-Anarion, her son, you re-established the policies of his grandfather Tar-Aldarion,” added Erilasta, and none had to be reminded how grateful they were.  “Tar-Surion treated with us and his ships came regularly.”

“Tar-Telperion, however, did not wish for outside contact for Númenor, nor care much about the voyages of her captains,” remembered Gil-Galad.  “But she did correspond with me when needed and she maintained all trade policies.”  The king was quiet for a moment.  “In Tar-Minastir I have faith,” he finally said.

“In his son Ciryatan, I do not,” replied Erilasta, his voice soft yet resolute. All eyes turned to him, for it was seldom the advisor strongly expressed an opinion.  He tended to direct conversations by asking questions, allowing others to draw conclusions, although Erestor never doubted for a moment that were those conclusions different from his own, the questions would continue. “He is greedy of wealth. His sailors tell tale that on his last voyages he demanded tributes and tariffs from coastal settlements, and used coercion to force the people to shelter and entertain his men.”

“Tar-Minastir will not demand spoils of war or land or dominion as condition to aid us,” said Elrond finally. “But he is estranged from Ciryatan in many affairs, and Ciryatan may well demand this of us or merely take what he asserts is his due.”

“Tar-Minastir looks ever westward, not east,” interrupted Erilasta. “His heart is good, but his mind elsewhere.  We must reach him directly and not through Ciryatan if we hope to enlist his aid unencumbered.”

Gil-galad stood again. “Yet Celeborn cannot hold back this army for long.  We must bring what aid we can now; I cannot wait.”

“Send aid now,” replied Erilasta. “Lindon’s forces can be well eastward even as we negotiate with Tar-Minastir.”

The look on Gil-galad’s face showed that he had finally registered that Erilasta meant for him to not lead his army, but to send them ahead without him. The king glanced from his captains to Elrond and then Erestor, and Erestor knew they were being gauged.

“Celeborn cannot wait for us to gather our allies and come as one force, and we do need the aid of Númenor,” summed up Glorfindel succinctly.

“And you, my lord, need to negotiate with Númenor directly,” added Erilasta.

“Sending our army now could mean sending all to certain death,” said Gil-galad, his face reflecting his distress. “Yet not sending aid to Celeborn as quickly as possible could mean there is no one left to aid.”

Silence fell over the room as Gil-galad moved beyond their conference area to pace and think.

“Already it is late in the year,” began Erestor. “We will need to prepare for a journey through the winter and hope to arrive by early spring.  If we set up a series of message points, we might be able to keep the king informed of the size and strength of our enemy and the progress of the war. Perhaps this could be done by ship, if there are any to spare.”

“The harvest is in and our soldiers equipped, but there are many we need to train, elves who have not fought before as well as those who will come to supply the soldiers with food and weapons,” interjected Glorfindel. “If we begin preparations immediately, it will still be months before we are ready to move.” He glanced at Erestor. “Spring is the earliest we might hope for.  Summer may be more like it, depending on the spring rains.”

As Erestor, Glorfindel and the other advisors continued their planning, Erestor noted Glorfindel’s gaze shifting from him to something behind him, and he realized that Elrond had also left the area.  He turned slightly, even as he answered Glorfindel, to see Elrond standing in front of Gil-galad.  Gil-galad’s hand rested on Elrond’s shoulder, and their gazes were locked as they spoke with deep emotion. Erestor fell quiet, as did Glorfindel, and he knew they both were listening to what was meant to be a private conversation.

“If I am unable to lead myself, there is no one I would send in my place other than you, Elrond. Yet to send you, who is like a son to me, to what seems certain death . . .. Yet if a king is unwilling to give that which is of the most value to him, how can he ask the same of his people?” asked Gil-galad, grief in his voice.

“I will go in your name, and my hope will remain with you, that you will garner the aid we need and follow as quickly as you might,” replied Elrond steadfastly.

Gil-galad bowed his head for a moment, then returned his gaze to Elrond. “So be it,” he murmured.  Then he drew Elrond to him and Elrond bowed his head slightly as Gil-galad kissed him on the brow.  “May the Valar guide and protect you, and the Star of your father light your path.”

All eyes watched the two return to their places, remaining silent until Gil-galad spoke.

“I will send Elrond to Eregion as a first force,” he announced. “I will send word to Tar-Minastir and negotiate the aid of Númenor, and join you as soon as we are able.”

The group was dismissed soon after, and Erestor watched as Glorfindel moved immediately to Elrond’s side. There was no doubt that he would be serving as captain on the mission, but his role would always be to guard Elrond. Son of Eärendil, son of Idril, daughter of Turgon of Gondolin.  But also distant nephew to Ereinion Gil-galad, and Celeborn and Galadriel of Eregion.  An impressive lineage, thought Erestor, but more importantly, he is worthy of being followed. Elrond himself had trained him in his duties, and Elrond had seen to it that Erestor had every opportunity to learn and experience all that he wished. He had trained with the soldiers of Lindon, sailed on Círdan’s ships, and explored with Elrond and others east and south to increase their information about the lands and people who lived there. Erestor had spent considerable time with Elrond, and Elrond’s love of knowledge and lore had become his passion as well. An idea came into his head, and he walked swiftly forward to join the two.

“Elrond, I would like to work on a plan for scouting and mapping the way your army will follow, and setting up a message relay, if possible, to communicate with Gil-galad. I would also like to see if the rivers are navigable,” he said quickly, trying to suppress the eagerness in his voice.

Elrond’s smile was genuine. “Of course, there is no one I would trust more than you to assist me,” he answered. 

Erestor heard Glorfindel’s grunt of amusement, and he felt a brief moment of anger as he turned his eyes on the warrior. His anger dissipated into confusion when Glorfindel’s teasing eyes met his and he said, “Erestor’s maps are some of the best we have. He has a keen eye for evaluating the terrain and determining what route to take.”

The three entered Elrond’s office together, and Erestor took his normal seat, already putting ink to paper with ideas and lists.

“Erestor,” began Elrond, not continuing until Erestor gave him his full attention. “You are talented and have the skills needed to greatly assist in our preparations to go to war.  However, you are also still young in some ways, and you have not seen war before.  Many will die, possibly including all of us.”

Erestor nodded, waiting for Elrond to get to the point.  A look of sadness crossed Elrond’s face briefly.  “Nothing can truly prepare you for what battle is like, Erestor.  Boredom and tedium, mixed with bouts of frenzied killing.  Friends will die, some painfully and slowly. Some who live will suffer, and the conditions will only make their suffering worse.” Elrond paused, and sighed.  “Spend some time with your family before we leave. On this, I insist.”

Erestor felt a heavy weight settle about him at Elrond’s final words, as he realized that he might not return to see his parents or sister again. He finally nodded at Elrond, who was waiting for some acknowledgement that he had understood him.  “Then let us begin,” continued Elrond soberly.

* * *

Erestor stood on the steps of the palace, looking out over the wide terrace and courtyard at the spectacle before him.  He had not seen this many elflings and female elves in one place in all his days, and the laughter of the children as they played contrasted with the solemn soldiers who were laying out provisions in the adjacent field in preparation to go to war.  There was music and laughter about the fountain area, where most of the children were, but when Erestor looked closely he could see the weariness and sadness in their faces.  Some families were intact, with fathers choosing to sail with their wives and children, but most had left behind a father, brother, husband or son to an uncertain future.

The arrival of the refugees had been well planned for by Círdan’s assistants, arranging for those with kin in Lindon to join them and sending those without kin to appropriate shelters.  Some shelters were staging grounds to the ships; others provided more permanent housing for those who planned to stay or as yet had not made up their minds.

As Erestor made his way down the stairs and skirted the fountain area, he saw an elf standing on the library steps, tears streaming down his face as he looked out over the children playing.  In his hands he held a sword, sheathed in an old leather scabbard.  The runes upon it placed its origins in Gondolin. Erestor would have passed him by, leaving him alone with his contemplative grief, but the elf’s eyes followed him. He was nearly past him when the elf spoke.

“When does the army depart?” he asked hoarsely.

Erestor turned and walked back to the elf before replying. The elf was young, much younger than Erestor even, and his hands were shaking.

“Two weeks time,” he answered, reaching out and covering the elf’s hand with his own.  The elf clutched at his hand, nearly dropping the sword.

“Will they take me?” he asked hesitantly.

Erestor smiled. “They will take you. You look as if you have just arrived, though.”

Tears welled in the elf’s eyes again.  “I have,” he replied, his gaze again shifting to the playing children.  “Those are my sons; the older is yet a decade from his majority and the younger only ten summers.”

Erestor say the two young elves wave to them, and the elf beside him waved back.

“My father and brothers are in Eregion, but they convinced me to leave for the sake of my children.  So I have come, and we prepare to sail.  But now that I am here I cannot abandon my kin to face the might of Sauron alone.  I must tell my sons they must take their mother to safety – most of her family is there and they will be welcomed and cared for – but I must return to Eregion.” The elf’s voice was nearly a whisper by the time he finished.

Erestor felt conflict warring within his own heart.  He looked out upon the faces of the children and at the anguish in the elf’s face, and thought of the choice he was making.  Even if the war turned to their favor, he would face years of separation from his young sons. The greater probability was that he would die under an orc’s blade, and the next time he would see his sons would be at his re-embodiment far in the future.  Yet, they needed every soldier who could wield a sword or bow. Erestor had never felt more inadequate to advise anyone than he did at that moment.

The elf drew in a deep ragged breath and squared his shoulders. He walked down one step toward his family, then turned to Erestor. “I will see you on the field of battle, my friend.”  With that, he walked down the stairs to his sons.

Erestor watched him for but a few moments, for he did not wish to see the heartbreak soon to appear on the faces of the sons when they realized they would be parted from their father.  As he looked out at the other males mixed in the crowd, he wondered how many others he would see in Eregion as well.

Erestor’s scouts and messengers were waiting for him near the city gates with horses and provisions ready.  He had been surprised at how willingly Glorfindel had worked with him, ensuring that he had experienced scouts and messengers to assist him.  Both Elrond and Glorfindel were waiting at the gate as well.

“Gil-galad could not come himself to bid you fare well,” said Elrond. “A ship arrived this morning from Númenor, and he is meeting with the delegation.”

Erestor nodded; he had seen the sails as the ship entered the havens at Mithlond.

“Go with the wishes of all of Lindon and the favor of the High King.   May the Valar protect and guide you,” said Elrond, then he folded Erestor into his arms and embraced him. “We will not be far behind.”

Glorfindel grasped his arm in a warrior’s handshake, and then Erestor mounted.  Without a look back, he led his party out the gates and to war.

* * *

Erestor climbed to the highest branch that would support his weight and looked out over the river and plains that lay before him. The wind drifted from the southwest and though he knew it could not be possible at this great distance, he almost felt as if he could hear the sounds of battle and smell blood in the air.  Dark mud coated his boots, and he was suddenly grateful for it, as he recalled the dreams he had had of blood mixing with soil and clinging to him, a reddish brown mud with a tangy smell. Pulling his map from an oilskin pouch tucked into the top of his tall boots, he opened it, positioning it properly for what he was seeing.  Their army had fallen further and further behind the scouting party, hindered by mud and rain and, on several occasions, by blowing snow.  Erestor was farther ahead than intended, but his message system was working well, with riders and horses stationed now every 30 leagues back to Lindon.  Though he was guiding their path around the worst of the natural obstacles, mudslides and lowland flooding, the journey was still slow.  A whistle caught his attention, and he looked down to see that a messenger had arrived.

“The supply wagons are unable to cross the marsh here,” said the elf, pointing to a spot on Erestor’s map, a spot some distance away from the lines Erestor had marked.

“What are the doing trying to cross there!” exclaimed Erestor angrily. “I said that would bog down the wagons, that it was not passable!”

“Yes, Erestor.  Elrond sends word that your recommendations will not be disregarded in the future,” replied the elf calmly, holding the note out for Erestor to take.

Erestor grabbed the note, crinkling the parchment, and read through the short missive.  “He says that they were already further east when they received the report, and that some of those who had escaped Eregion before the war had indicated this way was open,” he snorted.  “I am sure it was open last fall when they went through!”  He folded the note and stuffed it into his pouch, then turned his eyes back on the road yet before them.  Finding a way through the muddy bogs and marshes would be their next project. He had gone far enough ahead to know it would be a tedious segment, but once through they would come to the crossing of the Hoarwell, east of Ost-in-Edhil.  Erestor felt his heart quicken in anticipation. He would catalogue the movements of the enemy’s troops, and Celeborn’s, assuming any yet lived, and a feral desire to surprise the enemy and decimate them rose in him.

“I smell blood,” said the elf softly. “I almost think I hear the noise of battle as well.”

Erestor turned sharply at that comment, and the elf looked at him in surprise. “I had just been thinking the same thing,” he replied. An indescribable fear filled him. Could Sauron’s forces have crossed the rivers into Eriador?

They quickly regrouped, and Erestor sent two scouts to the north and east while he and an older scout, Maecheneb, explored further south and east.  “Be on your guard,” he warned them. “We do not have the strength to take on even a small war party.”

Abandoning their horses in favor of stealth, Erestor and Maecheneb moved to the southeast.  They had traveled for several hours when Erestor heard the elf sniff, and he realized that the smell of blood was growing stronger.  The acrid smell of smoke soon followed, and moments later the most sickening smell he had ever experienced surrounded him.  Then cries and screams were heard along with sounds of destruction and plunder.  Hidden in a copse of trees, Erestor looked out at the small farming community before him.  There were four houses and a common barn, and beyond them spread out the fields they farmed.  Maecheneb dropped to his knees in despair at what was before them. The buildings were ablaze; in one Erestor could see a woman holding a child near the window as flames consumed the house around her, orcs mocking her until she fell to the flames.

Outside of the burning houses, worse atrocities had occurred and were still occurring.  Erestor watched in paralyzed fear, unable to stop the several dozen orcs who finally finished off the remaining woman and her children.  He could see two bodies of dead men, but more horrible were the two fathers who were forced to watch as their families were slaughtered before them.

Erestor gagged as he realized the orcs intended on torturing the last two men to slow death, and without conscious thought he reached for the bow and arrows strapped to his back.   It was not until his arm was twisted painfully that he realized that Maecheneb was restraining him from action.  I cannot watch this, he thought in despair. I cannot stop them.   He glanced around wildly, seeking some way to force the orcs to finish and move on. The men would die, he could not stop that.  There has to be some way to end their misery!  One of the men screamed in agony, and Erestor stopped his ears as tears streamed down his face.

Something clawing at his trouser leg finally broke through his panic, and he realized Maecheneb was crawling forward through the tall winter grass toward the homesteads.  Erestor dropped to his belly, moving silently alongside the elf.  Maecheneb hesitated though, as they grew closer, uncertainty in his eyes.  Erestor forced himself to calm, grateful that the tall grass prevented him from seeing what was happening.  Heat was pressing upon them from the burning structure as they neared it, and he realized that the orcs tormenting the men were also close to it. He tapped Maecheneb on the shoulder and motioned to the structure.  Communicating his intentions in pantomime, he crept behind the building with Maecheneb close behind him.  The orcs’ own noise and the cries of the men covered the sound of them wrenching free a plank.  Pressing it against the main support of the building, they both pushed with all their might.  A mighty crack was heard as the beam gave way, and the house began collapsing forward under their force. They pushed until they could reach no further without falling into the fire themselves.

The sound of the orcs’ frenzy increased, several screaming as burning timbers landed on them, and the screams of the men were silenced abruptly.  Erestor and Maecheneb dropped back into the grass, scurrying back to their cover in the copse of trees.  Erestor watched in grim horror as the orcs fought among themselves, blaming one another for the falling building. A captain suddenly broke up the fight, his words lost in the crackling of the wood as the houses began collapsing behind them.

“Come,” whispered Maecheneb. “They are all dead.”

Erestor turned to look one more time, but Maecheneb grasped his hand and pulled him away. “We will not watch any more,” he hissed.

Erestor finally vomited as the reality of what would happen next occurred to him.

They ran swiftly back to their base camp, stopping only to cleanse their burnt hands and arms in the cold waters of a stream.  They applied a burn salve and bandages to each other, then they continued on their way.

It was nightfall when they reached their camp; the two scouts who had journeyed north had returned as well.

“We found a burnt out farm and human bones in the fire pit before it,” the scout reported.  “They were at least a day old.”

Erestor allowed Maecheneb to report their story to the others as he penned a message to be delivered to Elrond.  He limited the details to what was important.  Sauron has invaded Eriador. The messenger left immediately.

Erestor slept little that night, but the pain in his hand was only a small reminder of the horror he had witnessed. The looks of terror, fear and pain on the faces of the humans as they died were forever etched in his mind.

~ ~ ~* * *~ ~ ~

Erestor’s gaze fell on the twins as he finished his story. Elladan stared at Erestor in shock.  Elrohir was still holding tightly to Erestor’s hand, his eyes slightly glazed from the medicine his father had given him, and he kept looking from his mother to Erestor, as if he wished to speak, but could not.

“Elrohir?” asked Elrond, concern in his voice as he moved across the circle to his son.

Erestor looked compassionately at Elrohir. “You fear that the orcs your mother fought would have done to her what I saw done to those families,” he stated quietly.

Elrohir finally nodded, and Erestor felt the young elf’s abdominal muscles tighten against his side where Elrohir leaned against him and knew what was to come. He quickly turned so Elrohir was leaning over his leg, facing away from everyone, and Elrond held his son’s hair back as he retched.

Erestor wrapped strong arms about the now-limp body in his lap, allowing Elrohir to recover.  Tears splashed on to his forearm, and Erestor felt an overwhelming compassion for the young elf.  Memories of other young elves near the age of the twins came to mind, and he thought of how many of them he had watched die, and how many he had held until they answered Mandos’s call.  He looked suddenly at his own hands, and thought of all the tears and blood that had fallen upon them.

“Sorry,” mumbled Elrohir.

Celebrían appeared with a cool cloth, which she dabbed gently at her son’s sweaty, grey face.  Elrond handed her a cup of water, and she held it Elrohir’s lips. He sighed with relief as the cool liquid slipped down his throat.  Minutes later, however, that too was ejected from his stomach.

“The medication I gave him has upset his digestion,” said Elrond quietly.  “He had tolerated it well before this.”

Erestor frowned.  “I think my story has upset him as well.”

Elrohir drew in a deep shuddering breath. “I am not upset,” he managed to say as another fine sheen of sweat broke out on his face, replacing the one his mother had just wiped away.

“Elrohir, does your leg hurt?” asked Elrond.

Elrohir’s eyes were closed, but he opened them to look his father in the eye. “Yes, Adar,” he finally answered.  His eyes closed again as his hands grabbed at what was around him, as if a wave of dizziness had swept over him.

“Hold on, Elrohir, I am going to pick you up,” said Erestor softly.  Then, as gently as possible so as not to throw Elrohir’s equilibrium off even more, he lifted him and carried him to his mattress.  The motion was too much for the young elf, however, and he retched dryly, as there was nothing left to bring up from his stomach.

Erestor stepped aside as Elrond and Celebrían tended their son, wrapping their fëar around his, strengthening him and then pushing him into sleep. Though it was now late and dark, Elrond was contemplating the cast speculatively.

“You want to remove it and see if more damage was done,” said Erestor. “Best do it while he is resting and unable to argue.”

A slight smile came to Elrond’s face and he laughed lightly. “Yes, you are right.  And you know, we never did disregard your instruction after that incident.”

“I should hope not,” replied Erestor. “That delay cost you what, a week and several wagon wheels?”

Elrond smiled grimly.  “Something like that.” He turned as Celeborn appeared with his casting tools, and began the process of removing the cast. “I was concerned for you, Erestor, for what you would see.”

“I knew that from the start, but I do not believe you could have said anything to prepare me for what I saw.  Maecheneb had fought in the War of Wrath, and he was nearly as distraught as I was,” replied Erestor.  He looked down at Elrohir, stroking his hair back. “Is it too much to hope that your children will never witness what we have?”

“We can always hope, but Sauron is not destroyed,” replied Elrond as he carefully worked a sharp blade through the layers of plaster.  “Elladan and Elrohir are older now than many who fought in Eregion; older than many who were at Dagorlad.  But I am grateful they are only hearing our stories rather than living their own.”

The cast separated the rest of the way, and Elrond carefully peeled it away from the injured leg. A sigh escaped him, and Erestor recognized it as one of frustration immediately.  He leaned forward to view the injured limb, the bruising, irritation and infection grossly obvious.

“The cast was wet inside,” said Elrond flatly. “And that fall was enough to re-injure the leg, though it is not broken.”

All were silent as Elrond sat with his head bowed for a moment.  Celebrían knelt behind him, wrapping her arms about his shoulders and holding him. He finally drew in a deep cleansing breath, and Celebrían released him as he set to cleaning the wound. He slightly twisted the leg and Elrohir moaned in his sleep, unconsciously trying to move away from the pain. Erestor saw the tears that Elrond blinked away, and it was easy to see his frustration and guilt.

Elladan appeared, settling next to and wrapping himself around his twin.  He concentrated on Elrohir, pouring himself through the bond they shared, willing Elrohir’s pain on to himself as their father cleaned, packed, bandaged and splinted the leg.

“No cast?” asked Erestor.

Elrond nodded. “Not yet.  That wound must be allowed to breathe and dry naturally, or the infection will grow. Hopefully, we will be able to make a cast over the splint, one that will allow the wound to heal better.  It will be heavier and bulkier, but if it is possible to do, I think it will be better.  Regardless, he will not be happy when he wakes.”

“Erestor’s words deeply affected him,” interjected Elladan.  “Elrohir will not complain over his situation.”

“No, he will not,” murmured Elrond in agreement.  “He has not complained thus far. I wish, though, that there was more I could do for him.”

Erestor was about to comment when he noticed Elrond fingering his tunic, a slight outline of a pouch visible beneath the fabric.

“Elrohir will recover; it is only a matter of time,” said Celeborn firmly. Erestor turned to him, and found the elf’s gaze focused intensely on Elrond. Under his scrutiny, Elrond’s hand immediately dropped to his side.

“Of course,” replied Elrond. He rose to his feet, his movements a little stiff.

Elrond and Celebrían retired to their tent, and the camp quieted until only a low singing by those seated around the fire could be heard. Erestor looked down at the twins, and realized that Elladan had already drifted into sleep with Elrohir still in his arms. Content that Elrohir was well in hand, he chose a spot to sit away from the others, where he might reflect on the memories kindled by the telling of his tale.  From his position, he could also keep a watch over Elrohir.

He was deep in thought, considering his own life in Lindon, the advantage he had of centuries of tutelage by Elrond and Gil-Galad, Glorfindel and others.  He had been experienced in many things in life, but innocent in the ways of war, when he left for Eregion.  He had certainly done what was expected of him, more importantly, he had done whatever needed to be done.  In his own mind, he was as much Elrond’s protector as Glorfindel was, though in different ways.  Nonetheless, he could not protect his lord from frustration, fear and guilt over his son’s injury. Yet he did not know what more could be done for the young elf. Patience and time seemed the only remedy, and they certainly had plenty of both to share with Elrohir until he healed.

A light glow in the moonlight caught his attention, and he focused his eyes on the shining form bending over Elladan and Elrohir.  Galadriel.  He had not known her well prior to Elrond’s marriage to Celebrían, but the story she and Celebrían had told earlier in the evening had spoken volumes of her fearlessness.  Fearless, unless it involved her child, I think.  He watched as she rested her hands on Elrohir, one hand on his head and the other on his broken leg.  To his wonder, the glow grew brighter and brighter as Galadriel deepened her concentration on her grandson, the light seemingly emanating from where her hand touched his leg. The light finally faded, and Galadriel sat back on her heels as she studied the young elves thoughtfully. She reached out, caressing Elrohir’s face gently; then she rose and returned to her tent.

Erestor grew aware of two others that had also watched, as Celeborn materialized briefly from the darkness before disappearing into the woods and Glorfindel followed a few moments later. Intrigued and concerned, he decided he would perhaps keep watch the whole night.

* * *

Elrohir woke feeling strangely refreshed.  The throbbing in his leg and head, the dizziness and nausea all seem to have left in the night.  He recalled his parents pushing him into sleep and nothing after that.  He shifted slightly, recognizing the always comforting presence of his twin next to him.  He blew lightly at Elladan, until his twin’s eyes focused gravely upon him.

“How are you, Elrohir?” asked Elladan, his free hand immediately touching Elrohir’s face, performing his own little examination.

“Wonderful.  What is for breakfast?” laughed Elrohir.  He tried to shrug Elladan off so he could sit up, but Elladan held fast to him.

“Wait, Adar had to remove your cast.  Your leg looked terrible again,” he said apologetically.

With Elladan’s assistance, Elrohir sat up and leaned forward to inspect what of his leg he could see. “Nothing hurts and what I can see looks fine,” he replied.

Elladan crawled down the bed, carefully peeling away some of the bandages to see for himself.  He looked at Elrohir in amazement, then began to swiftly remove the bandages until just the splint remained.  Sitting back on his heels, he looked at Elrohir in disbelief. “The wound is healed.”  He shook his head.  “Do not move,” he warned his twin.

Elrohir sat still, but could not help but run his fingers over the healed place where the bone had originally punctured through the skin.  Elladan returned quickly with their father, who had not yet even brushed his hair. Elrond brushed his son’s fingers aside as he examined the area thoroughly, appearing stunned, then he ran his hand over his side, as if seeking something. Finally, he stood.

Elrohir watched in confusion as his father looked around the camp, appearing equally confused.   Soon his mother appeared, then Arwen, and soon it seemed everyone in camp had come to inspect his leg.

“Elrohir!” said his father sharply, as Elrohir tried to rise. “The wound is healed, but I am less convinced of the bone.  I am still going to cast it this morning.”

“Yes, Adar,” replied Elrohir, confused at his father’s tone.

Erestor had watched the scene unfold, inspected the healed leg himself, and now stood back to watch how events would fall out.  He did not know what Galadriel had done, or how, or indeed if she was who had done it for sure. She appeared last, gliding serenely to her grandson and kissing him in greeting, before looking over the healed wound.

“I am glad for you, Elrohir,” she said as she caressed his cheek tenderly. “I hope the rest of the trip home is more comfortable for your now.”

“Adar says I still must have a cast,” said Elrohir, “but it does seem to be healed otherwise.”

“A cast is still wise,” agreed Galadriel.  She stood, meeting Elrond’s gaze solemnly, then took Arwen by the hand and led her away to breakfast.

Erestor catalogued the looks on each face carefully. Elrond was intrigued, Celeborn resigned and Glorfindel appeared somewhat sad.  He smiled, though, when he looked at Elrohir, who was nothing short of ecstatic.

This knowledge he would tuck away, for something was happening, and in time it would be made clear.

* * * * *

Author’s Notes:  These might be rather long, but I know some people like them.

There is very little detail about events that occurred in the Second Age. The Tale of Years(Appendix B of  the Lotr) lists major events in a timeline. Beyond that, Unfinished Tales seems to have the most useful information.

The timeline of when events happened truly leave one asking, “So where was everyone and what were they doing during these gaps in time?”  The Elven rings were completed in 1590’ Sauron finished his ring in 1600; he declared war on the elves in 1693 and the Three were hidden; in 1695 he invaded Eriador, and Gil-Galad sent Elrond to Eregion; in 1697 Eregion fell, Celebrimbor was killed and Elrond retreated to the mountains where he holed up and built Imladris; in 1699 Sauron overran Eriador; and finally in 1700 the Numenorians arrived.   This is truly a dark time in Middle-earth. Eregion fell, Eriador was overrun and Sauron must have been nearly to the doorstep of Lindon.  The elves in Lindon might have been able to flee, but the rest were surrounded and trapped.

So, some questions arise.  What in the world were the elves doing during the nearly 100 years between the time that Sauron finished his ring, they became aware of it, and he came in war against them?  I had to remind myself that they probably had very limited information during that 100 years as to what Sauron was up to.  They may not have known if he would attack, where or when.  Hindsight is always 20/20 – but at the time, you have to make decisions on what you know, and often that is little.

Another question is why did it take so long for help to arrive?  Again, considering distance and the lack of communication systems and the considerable time it would take to mobilize an army, the timelines are probably apropriate.  Most wars took years.

The big question to me in this chapter was: what motivated the Númenorians to help?  I could guess that they would perhaps have the foresight to see that they might be next, and they had befriended some men, so they might wish to aid the good men of Middle-earth, and they had some loyalty to the Eldar of Middle-earth.  But is that enough to go to war?   I was reading about the kings of Númenor and came across some wonderful gold nuggets in the story of Aldarion and Erendis, including a letter Gil-galad wrote to Aldarion’s father, then King Tar Meneldur.  It was perfect for laying the foundation of Gil-Galad building relationship with the kings, keeping them informed of the growing shadow and reminding them that that shadow would not forget them.  Yet, it is the son of the king that aids them (Ciryatan) that becomes a tyrant to the very people his father helped save!  Clearly, obtaining Tar-Minastir’s aid without allowing Ciryatan to demand tribute in exchange for aid seemed like it would take some skillful negotiating and was good reason for Gil-galad to stay in Lindon. 

That point also bothered me – why would Gil-galad stay behind?  He led his troops to Dagorlad – why, in a war where the elves were so clearly outnumbered that death seemed certain – would he send Elrond?  One could put a number of spins on the High King’s motivations, but everything Tolkien wrote about Gil-galad described a servant leader, devoted to his people and to Middle-earth and I wanted to stay true to that.  So he will retain his nobility and show up with the remainder of Lindon’s forces and the Númenorians.

Regarding the dwarves: Durin did allegedly receive his ring from Celebrimbor, which means it would have been in his possession while Sauron possessed the ruling ring.  So why did Durin, and later the other dwarves who eventually bore those rings, NOT become wraiths?  Had I been an elf in the know, the fact that Durin didn’t fall under Sauron’s control would sure make me wonder if those rings were really all they were cracked up to be.  I have my own theory for why the dwarves were resistant to the control of the rings, which I hope to work into the story.  Tolkien says that the rings increased the dwarves’ greed for gems and gold, so I tried to show that this had already begun.

The addition of the dwarfling was a fun, but probably unnecessary detail. Tolkien wrote that dwarves hid their women and children, and we all know Gimli’s comments about how people believed there were no dwarf women.  I figured if Galadriel and Celebrían were to pass through Moria (and versions of the story of Celeborn and Galadriel suggest at least Galadriel did and possibly on more than one occasion) then the least I could do is show a cute dwarfling in her natural home as the elves passed on by.

Regarding Galadriel and Celebrían: I made them messengers because I can see Galadriel insisting on having purpose to anything she did, and I needed good reason for her to head east, instead of west to Lindon.  There are several versions of the story of Celeborn and Galdriel, and those that placed them in Eregion had them flee east. Since I did not use the genealogy making Amroth their son, being a messenger seemed a good excuse to go that way. Tolkien also wrote that female elves were as strong or nearly as strong as male elves, and Tolkien wrote that Galadriel had seen battle.  We did not get to see too much of Galadriel’s skill, but I felt it more important to show her fearlessness, and I really wanted to show her as a mother willing to sacrifice for her child.  Did Tolkien say she was a good mother? No, but he said elves valued their children dearly.  I can’t imagine a mother who wouldn’t try to save her child. I hope it softened her image a little.  Celebrían was not terribly skilled with her weapons, but she was  using them in battle for the first time. She is also very young in this story  - under 100 years, which is when an elf is considered full grown. She was spunky and able to fight back, though, and I like the idea that Celeborn and Galadriel raised a spirited and self-sufficient daughter.

Regarding Erestor, very little is known about him beyond his position as an advisor of Elrond during the War of the Ring, and one mention in HoME that he might have been kin to Elrond. In my universe, he was born in Lindon, probably of Noldor descent, and trained by and devoted to Elrond.  He is a very skilled elf, but in this story he is growing into his position. It was fun to write him eager and a bit innocent.

If anyone wants specific references to anything, let me know. I have copious notes, bookmarks and underlined passages referenced. It is very important to me to keep to Tolkien’s themes, make things work in his timelines, and make the story plausible in terms of plot and character motivations (aren’t those the true challenges in fanfiction?). If anyone sees something I missed or has an idea, I would love to hear from them.