Disclaimer: Middle Earth, Arvedui, etc. is property of the JRR Tolkien estate. I do not claim ownership, authorization, or money for this fiction. "October" lyrics copyright of U2.
October"Arvedui you shall call him, for he will be the last in Arthedain. Though a choice will come to the Dúnedain, and if they take the one that seems less hopeful, then your son will change his name and become king of a great realm. If not, then much sorrow and many lives of men shall pass, until the Dúnedain arise and are united again."
- Malbeth the Seer to King Araphant, father of Arvedui
The only sound in the room was the gentle scritching of pen on paper. King Arvedui of Arnor sat alone at a small table in the highest room of Minas Hen, the tallest tower of his castle in Fornost. A look of child-like concentration marked his face, though there was nothing else of the child about him. He was a man in his middle years, and he looked older than his age – the Seer's prophecy and his name, "Last-king," had weighed heavily on him throughout his life. That weight had grown more difficult to bear as the Witch-King's power grew in the North.
Arvedui scrubbed his hand through his greying hair and chewed on the end of his feathered pen. With a start, he noticed what he was doing, and looked around guiltily as if expecting a scolding for his mistreatment of the writing utensil. But there was no one there; and if there had been, they would hardly have raised an objection against the King's behaviour.
A light misty breeze stole through the open windows. There were eight of them, facing into all directions and affording an evening view of the realm of Arthedain, the northern part of Arnor. The breath of air swirled through the room, clasping hands with the flame in the little lamp on the table. Air and fire danced merrily, casting beams of light around the room with generous unconcern. The golden rays tripped innocently across the surface of the table, tumbling down its legs and onto the shining scabbard of Arvedui's sword.
The sword leaned against the table, forgotten for once by its owner; the King had put away his weapon for tonight in favour of a mightier tool: the pen.
Arvedui placed the inky tip gently against the parchment and began to write, slowly, deliberately. A single word appeared on the paper.
October.
Arvedui stopped and looked at his work critically. There was more he wanted to write, much more. A whispering multitude of thoughts clamoured softly to be recorded...
"...It is autumn in Arnor, and the trees are fading. The summer of my people draws to an end; a brief autumn passes. I feel the chilly wind, the nip of winter already garnishing its spicy breath. Here in the tower of Minas Hen I can see across my fog-wreathed land. The hills are red as blood, and smoke rises from them; smoke from the houses, but it is as a vision of war, of the freezing fire that will come..."
The King shook his head and bent back to his work. Once more, letters took shape beneath the black point of his pen.
And the trees are stripped bare,
"...Bare as our defenses. A wind comes from the North and tears the leaves from the branches, leaving them naked and grey. Soon more than wind will come, and the cold hands of the Witch-King's servants will strip us of all we have as well. Menechenneth, Palace of a Thousand Windows! With a bitter foresight I see the broken glass, the frosty crystal spilled onto the floor to be crushed by foul feet..."
Of all they wear ... what do I care?
"...To be King is not an easy task, but to be Last-king well-nigh impossible. Malbeth, why spoke you that cursed verse to my father? Arvedui you shall call him, for he will be the last in Arthedain. I am Arvedui, the last. My struggles are nought, for my failure was foreordained. Why, then, do I continue to fight? If the North must fall, why do I labour to save it? But a King may not waver, and the kingdom yet stands. As long as Arnor stands, I stand by it, until my feet are hewn beneath me. But may my blood curse the merciless fates!..."
October.
"...It is autumn in Arnor, and the Dúnedain are fading. I feel the wind of fate; it carries whispers of the future on its indifferent breath. The blood of Númenor declines, and petty squabbles have torn us apart. There is murder and treachery in my court, and the roots of corruption go deep. They cannot be torn out, not without tearing apart my kingdom. A frost comes to chill them; our winter is coming..."
And kingdoms rise, and kingdoms fall.
"...The Witch-lord's kingdom rises; the North kingdom falls. Armies flock to the Black Captain's red-ringed banner, while my people dwindle in number and strength. The wheel turns, the balance tips, and darkness follows day. It is a cycle of doom, and we are pawns in the spinning spokes. But will spring come again to the North? Will a new day yet dawn for the Dúnedain?..."
But you go on....
"...But we go on. Ever weaker and lesser, our footsteps falter on twisted paths. We will follow the wild ways, the winding waters, the whistling winds. Our wisdom has deserted us and our craft splintered into nothingness. But we do not lay down the sword, though our arms tremble; our songs do not still though the music has fled; our pride burns still though the dark creeps close. But we go on..."
"We go on," Arvedui murmured aloud absently. He dipped the pen into an inkwell, and was about to continue when a knock at the door startled him. "Enter," he said, unconsciously covering the paper with his hands as if to protect it from prying eyes.
The door opened, and a servant in palace livery stepped in, bowing respectfully.
"My Lord," he said, "A large company of Elves has come from Lindon. Lord Thorondil leads them; he has asked to see you. He says he has come for the war, and he brings urgent messages from the Havens and from Bree."
"Thorondil?" Arvedui said, a keen light in his eyes awoken, smothered again, "Then Lindon has not abandoned us!" He stood up smoothly, the secret paper still in his hands. "Very well," he continued, "Inform Lord Thorondil that I will meet him immediately; then lead him to the throne room. I will be there directly."
"Yes, Highness," the servant bowed his way out, and in a moment the King was as alone as if his deferential subject had never been.
Arvedui looked at the parchment in his hands. The six lines of graceful script stood out starkly against the white surface. Poetry. The King's mouth tightened, perhaps in contempt, perhaps in regret. With a sudden swift movement, he crumpled the paper into a ball. Stepping to the north window, he tossed the ball out into the foggy evening. Then he picked up his sword slowly, and buckled it to his belt.
"Everything has its time," he said softly to himself, "And in time of war, the pen must bow to the sword."
He stepped swiftly out the door, leaving the lamp flickering over the few drops of ink that had splattered onto the table.
* A/N: Arthedain, Arnor: In this time period (exact date Third Age, year 1974), the king in Fornost claimed all of Arnor as his realm. In practice, however, his influence extended only across Arthedain, the northern part of Eriador; Rhudaur in the east belonged to the Witch-King, and Cardolan in the south had no ruler, its people minding their own affairs. I generally refer to Arvedui as King of Arnor, but he could also be called King of Arthedain.
* A/N: Why do so few fanfic authors write about the pre-Ring War Third Age? There's so much potential there. *shakes head* Arvedui is a canon character expanded on by myself. Thorondil is an OC. More about both of them, about Thorondil's message and the war, and about the circumstances surrounding this fic can be found in "Nyáreonie: The Fall of the North."