Chapter Text
And Eärnur rode with with a small escort of knights
to the gates of Minas Morgul.
None of that riding was ever heard of again.
- The Annals of the Kings and Rulers;
Of Gondor and the Heirs of Anarion
The halls of the Morgul Vale were silent and bereft of life. Like a crypt left untended it had slid into decay, its once white walls now tinged with a pale, corpse-light. In that hall knelt Eärnur, his once fine surcoat now in ragged tatters, the white tree upon his breast slashed and cut by cruel knives. His hands and feet were bound in manacles affixed to a collar about his neck wrought from rough iron that dug into his flesh. He was alone, for there was no need guards in the Morgul palace, for how could he hope to escape such a place with his life? His head was bowed low from pain and anguish and yet from his lips came the soft words of a song he had heard long ago:
A Elbereth Gilthoniel
o menel palan-díriel,
le nallon sí di'nguruthos.
A tiro nin, Fanuilos…
With the sound of those words there came a hiss of utter hatred which filled the hall with unnatural venom and spite. It issued forth from a raised dias, upon which sat a throne of icy stone and wicked steel. Not so long ago it had been a seat of austere beauty but now it was a pinnacle of rusted thorns biting into stonework, stained white marble running red with ancient blood. Upon it sat a twisted thing daubed in shades of the blackest night. Its shape was define less by its edges and more by its blackened depths and the sound it made came forth not from a mouth but resounded from within its shadowed pall. For this was the Lord of the Nine, the Witch-King, and it would not suffer the words of the Elves in its demesne.
“Doest thou think that thy words will save thee, little king?” The voice was that of a viper toying with its food, delighting in its torment. Laughter rang throughout the hall but it carried no joy or mirth but only mockery. “The stars and moon are veiled from thee and thou shalt never see there light again.” Eärnur was not moved by the words of the Witch-King to falter and indeed he raised his head in defiance, intoning the words with renewed vigour.
A piercing shriek erupted from the throne and Eärnur was thrown back as if struck by a mighty blow. The Nazgûl’s howl was like a brand of fire pressed about his temple and the king writhed in agony upon the floor. “Thrice now have I issued thee a challenge and thrice now hast thou defied me.” The shadow detached itself from its seat and rose like a column of smoke, its arms raised aloft and its visage was laid bare before the king, “No more!”
To see a Nazgûl uncloaked was a terrible sight to behold, for beneath its black raiment was an abyss that bore its gaze upon the king, spurring him towards the precipice of despair. “Oh, King of Gondor, thou truly doth dwell within the shadow of death,” the Lord of the Wraiths descended from its dias and with each step the pain in Eärnur’s mind grew sharper. “For thou shalt live in torment forevermore,” the shadow descended upon the king as a wave crashes upon the shore, “Until I seest fit for thee to die.”
The wretched king struggled against his assailant but how could he fight against that which had no substance? The Nazgûl’s form poured into him as a draught of poison and he was overwhelmed with pain and madness. In ragged breath and halted words the king uttered a final cry, “A Elbereth Gilonthoniel! Glorfindel! Why have you forsaken me!” The halls of the Morgul Vale were silent, save for the laughter of the Witch-King.
Eärnur looked down at the shards of Narsil laid in state as finely as any great warrior. Though the glory of the Men of Numemor had waned across the centuries, still this blade held its fine edge as if it had been pulled fresh from the fire that morning. Such was the craft of the Elder Days, or so it was said amidst the lamentation heard in the great halls of Minas Arnor. This was the sword that had cut the ring from Sauron’s hand and ended his reign of terror upon the Men of the West. His ring, Isildur’s Bane, seemed to him to be little more than some wild story spun by his tutors to scare some sense into him. A tall tale created by those too old and weary to speak plainly with their sons. His great uncle, the old King Ondoher, spoke of it as the folly of greed, a literary device, conjured by bards and poets to warn their betters. He was dead now and the crown of Gondor now sat upon the head of his father, Earnil.
That was why he was here, in Rivendell, to reforge the bond between the realms of Gondor and Arnor which had long been strained by time and distance. He was to meet his cousin by some degrees, Aranarth the next king of Arthedain, though they were but distantly related. He had never met this boy prince and to him it seemed of little import for whilst his father claimed all the lands of Arnor as his own, the realm itself was little more than a petty fief having been carved thrice over for the past five hundred years. Their lands paled in comparison to that of Gondor, which had stood fast against her enemies since the days of Anarion, why should he stoop to meet with such a ragged house bereft of lordship and valour?
His hand reached out towards the broken blade, held in the arms of some nameless statue. He could just take it, steal it away to be reforged in his homeland. There it could be put to use fighting the enemies of Gondor once more, the splendour and glory of Numenor would once again shine out from above the walls of Minas Anor. Though the blade was an heirloom of Arnor, what did it matter? Those dishevelled lords had already tried to claim his father’s throne once before, it was only fair that he claim something they held dear. His fingers felt the well oiled handle of the sword and his hand wrapped around it to form a fist. It would be so easy. Those Southrons would quake in fear at the sight of Eärnur, High King of Gondor, wielding the burning flame of the isle of Numenor.
“Would that a blade would make a king,” the blade slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor at the sound of the voice behind him. Eärnur spun around and shuffled about in a vain attempt to hide the blade behind his legs. There stood a man, indeed an Elf, tall and fair, the piercing light of the brightest stars set within his eyes. Though they were keen, there was no sign of harshness about them, indeed he looked upon Eärnur with a glint of rascality, as if he were catching him in the pantry sneaked baked treats after lights out.
“Ah…sir,” was all he could muster in that moment, he felt his cheeks flush and his ears burn with embarrassment, “I was…just.” The elf chuckled and swept forward, the length of his robe obscured the movement of his feet, his movements had the grace and poise of a swan upon the water. The elf came into the pale light that slipped downwards from the skylight above and Eanur saw his fine features. Every part was aquiline but unlike a bird of prey there was a softness to him. He looked no more than thirty years of age but Eärnur knew more than enough to know that this Elf had seen many lives of men pass before his eyes.
He moved Eärnur aside, not by force, but as a river moves mountains. He knelt down to grasp the swords which lay upon the floor and held it aloft and in that moment Eärnur saw a subtle wash of emotion cross his face as the memory of ages long gone danced across his features. He spoke, no, he sang, for the words that escaped his lips bore such a lilting as to only be compared to the loftiest of songs. Eärnur understand not a word and yet they washed over him as a lullaby would.
“My Lord…I did not mean to,” Eärnur could scarcely speak, partly for he wished to hear the Elven tongue again, “That is I only wanted to,” the Elf rested the blade back upon the soft fabric, just as it had been. He turned his gaze upon the boy, for though by he was a man grown, to this scion of antiquity he may as well have been a babe.
“There is no need for such apologies, Master Eärnur. For no harm was done,” the elf smiled softly and this at once put Eärnur at ease and a nervous laugh escaped his lips. “The smiths of Nogrod would be poor indeed if their works could be marred by such a small mistake.”
“Indeed you are correct, my Lord,” Eärnur did not know for sure if this Elf was a Lord but all those who dwelt in Rivendell had such a noble quality about them that it made the little prince shrink further into his boots. He felt utterly foolish for thinking he could even escape this chamber with the broken sword in tow. “You speak of Nogrod, My Lord…” he paused for indeed he did not know this Elf’s name.
Once again the Elf’s smile bore down upon him like the breaking of the sun over the morning horizon, “My name is Elrond, young Master Eärnur.”
Again Eärnur’s face was flushed with shame. Of course he had embarrassed himself within the presence of the Lord of Rivendell, his host and tutor. What an impression to make upon first meeting a high lord of the Noldor but Elrond as if reading his thoughts took him by the arm and set him at ease.
“You wish to hear of the Elder Days?” Asked Lord Elrond as he led the boy about the tapestries that lined the halls of the chamber.
“If you have the time, Lord Elrond,” Eärnur stammered, despite the graciousness of his host he was still ill at ease. His mind still twinged with the traces of avarice he had felt when Narsil had been within his grasp. He did not know if Elves could truly read the hearts of men as easily as one would leaf through the pages of a book but still he pressed those thoughts down into a darkened hole within his mind. “I am sure the Master of Imladris has more important matters to attend to than to speak idly of the past.”
Elrond laughed high and clear, “The past does not idle, young sir, nor does the Master of Imladris,” he swept across the floor with Eärnur holding on like some knock kneed dance partner. “Come, Master of Gondor and I shall tell you of things your grandsires have forgotten.”
Elrond spoke of many things, tales longer than the lives of even the old kings of Numenor and Eärnur clung to every word. He spoke of Nargothrond and Gondolin, of the Ruin of Beleriand, of Tar-Minyatur, the first High King of Numenor. At this last story his eyes shone as if he were upon the verge of tears and yet they did not fall. “You must forgive me, Master Eärnur,” and for a moment Eärnur saw not a High Lord of the Elves but a young man ill at ease with grief. “It has been many a long year since I have spoken of my brother and even longer since I have last seen him.”
“Why,” Eärnur exclaimed, “I had not heard that our first king had an Elven brother!”
“Indeed,” sighed Elrond wistfully, “I suppose it would be but a footnote in the annals of your house, so great were their deeds besides. Though you may call him Tar-Minyatur,” at this Elrond’s voice caught within his throat, “but to me he was always Elros.” It was so strange to see the Lord of Rivendell in such a light, not as some great warrior or Elven Loremaster but as man who had lost his brother.
“Forgive me, Lord Elrond but I had heard that Elves do not perish as men do,” Eärnur felt his question linger in his throat, “How…how then did your brother die?”
The Lord of Rivendell smiled with gentle sorrow but he did not seem hurt or angered by the question. “It is true that my kindred do not fall to the wastes of time as men do. Though we may be slain in battle or succumb to the depths of grief, our spirits live on within this world.” Elrond brought his young charge to a balcony that overlooked the valley of Imladris. There they surveyed the brilliant hues of the trees as they spread out amongst the mountains and all at once before Eärnur the leaves of the valley turned all from green to gold. Was it simply the lingering light of the setting sun as it passed into shadow or was this some subtle magic of the Elven Lord? Elrond cast his hand from beneath his robes and pointed with a ringed finger towards to the great river Bruinen as it fell beyond the cliffs to the lands below. “Though it may have escaped your notice, young sir,” Eärnur’s eye followed Elrond’s direction and was this yet some new glamour or did he spy the guise of bodies made not of crude flesh but of foam and water dancing amidst the waters. About the cascades they moved wavering delicately about the precipice, at once a maddening deluge and yet filled with grace and mirth.
Eärnur ran to the balustrades and would have cast himself over the edge to gain a better vantage, such were the delights that he could see. “Then he dwells yet in the valley?” Eärnur’s voice was filled with wonder for he had believed that the tales of the Elves were an exaggeration, meant to please a child and comfort the aged. Then he felt a hand upon his shoulder and it moved him back as the wind does through the trees.
“Not so with Elros,” the Lord Elrond replied, “For men have always sought wither we cannot go and so it was with him.”
Together they looked out across the valley of Imladris as the last of the sun’s radiance dipped behind the mountains and was lost. Now it was barely a glint of burning red spread across a gloaming sky and as if in response the trees shrank back from the ensuing chill. Their lustre was gone and they transformed into little more than tender kindling.
“Come, Master Eanur,” said Elrond leading the boy away from the balcony, “We shall speak no more of such darkling histories. These halls are still fit for music and song as the cold evening draws in.” Though Eanur did not quite comprehend the final words of Elrond he did not chance another question upon the matter for he saw within his face the marks of sorrow that came so easily to his Father’s face. Instead he was lead away from the halls of remembrance, away from Narsil and the twinges of his greed.
They walked a while in silence, down long corridors canopied with elegant limbs of tendrilled boughs. These branches did not appear to be hewn and craved as would be the custom of his people, for he saw no sign of the hands of a craftsmen. It was as if the halls of Rivendell had sprout and been shaped by some unseen gardener, their design flowing from their roots, following some course unknown to Eanur but clear and plain to the hands that had nurtured them. The corridors unfurled from the Halls of Remembrance as the petals of a flower, winding hither and yon beyond his sight. It was a maze of arteries and he would have become lost in an instant if not for the Lord Elrond beside him. He walked with an unhurried purpose, if indeed he had a purpose at all. For it seemed Eanur that the Master of Imladris felt no need to reach some destined conclusion but rather that he was simply walking for the sport. Like a cat he wound his way from corridor to corridor with little regard for direction or purpose, instead relishing in the measured silence of an amiable companion.
Eärnur wished to break the silence but held his tongue for fear of breaking some spell that hung about the place in shadowed corners and unseen alcoves. From time to time they would meet a fellow elf wandering the halls, no words were said but with a gentle nod of understanding the Lord Elrond communed in silence with the denizens of Rivendell.
At last they came to a grand hall wrought within the confines of sinewed eaves and rafters. There were walls, of course, but these did not act as a boundary between within and without, for the fashion of this hall was such that the threshold was indistinct. The winds moved freely causing the many drapes and tapestries that hung about the space to dance like a waxing candle and yet there was no chill to be felt. For in the centre sat a quickening fire tended to by a solitary figure girt in delicate silver finery.
Her hair cascaded about her shoulders, as fine as raven’s feathers, and the light set within her eyes shone brighter than the reflection of the moon in still pools of water. She looked but a few years older than Eanur but in her eyes he could spy the wisdom of unnumbered years. She rose from beside the fire and greeted first the Lord Elrond and then Eärnur, “Mae govannen, mellon nin,” she uttered softly and even if Eanur had understood her words, so struck by a face of such tender loveliness and joyous grace that he could not find the means to respond.
“May I present to you, young master, my daughter, Arwen Undómiel, my most beloved star,” said Elrond. Eärnur had never been one to flustered by beauty but in this moment he could not help but be overcome and found few words to return to the lady. “Come, my dear,” he said, “The evening chill draws in and I would much love to hear these halls filled song and laughter.” And the Lady Arwen set with a delicate harp filled the room with her voice and slowly but surely there came an audience to listen to her sing:
A Elbereth Gilthoniel
silivren penna míriel
o menel aglar elenath!
Na-chaered palan-díriel
o galadhremmin ennorath,
Fanuilos, le linnathon
nef aear, sí nef aearon!
The words she sang meant little to Eärnur, for the Elven tongue was unknown to him but still he sat enraptured by the lilt of the lady of Rivendell’s voice. He did not notice the passing of the hours into night, nor the passing of the moon as it rose above the Misty Mountains. Indeed even his fiery heart was quenched by her words, for though their meaning was lost to him; still he understood the reverence and sorrow that flowed from her lips. At last as the moon drew to its height and the stars above glittered in night sky, he felt his eyes grow heavy with sleep and at last it overcame him and he drifted away to the sound of Elven songs and tales.