Northern Skies by Idrils Scribe

Chapter 1

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“How did you find me?”

 

Elrohir tried to make sense of the world once more as Glorfindel led him away from Tharbad’s city gates along a footpath winding through fields of ripe corn. Shining leaves and ears rustled in a breeze carrying the bracing scent of rain. The land’s lush emerald and golden hues were a far cry from the arid deserts Elrohir knew. He briefly stopped to marvel at a cheeky flock of starlings descending upon an orchard to greedily peck into an absurd abundance of apples. The North’s sheer richness was overwhelming.

 

Glorfindel gently touched his arm, and Elrohir meekly fell into step with his Elvish guide, driven equally by his desperate longing for Elladan and the simple fact that he had nowhere else to go.

 

Glorfindel’s relief at Elrohir following him willingly was obvious. His smile had become a thing of brilliance. The Elf-lord had taken to his task of bringing Elrond’s long-lost son home from Harad with remarkable tenacity. In Harad, Elrohir had remembered little from his early life beyond a deep, wordless yearning for his brother, and he took badly to Glorfindel’s unusual message. He bolted, leaving the Elf behind to make his own way back to Imladris from Far Harad while Elrohir did his utmost to travel North undetected in search of Elladan.

 

He had crewed on a ramshackle merchant’s ship, the Beinalph, for the journey from Pelargir to the river port of Tharbad. The shock of finding Glorfindel patiently awaiting him on Tharbad’s quay as if their separation and Elrohir’s journey of a thousand lonely, miserable miles had never happened left Elrohir reeling. He could barely process the churning contradiction of astonishment, fear and relief at finding a familiar face amidst the strangeness of the Far North.

 

All Elrohir’s careful considerations and his best laid plans on how to discreetly inquire about Rivendell and the Elves had come to nothing. Somehow Rivendell found him, and he was headed there with all possible speed whether he wished it or not.

 

Glorfindel’s voice bore no trace of resentment or anger at his wayward charge when he finally answered.

 

“Our people in Pelargir let us know you were on the Beinalph. All I needed to do was wait for you on the quay.”

 

“So they were yours after all. I thought I had shaken them off.”

 

Elrohir recalled his flight from the Elvish sailors who recognized him among the milling crowd on the docks of Pelargir. Glorfindel deftly caught Elrohir’s memory of provoking a drunken mass brawl only to vanish into the resulting confusion, and once more laughed his musical laugh. The familiar sound briefly let Elrohir share in his shining, wholesome joy.

 

“They were not mine but Círdan’s, who is a dear friend to your father. You led them on a merry chase, but the dockmaster told them all about you. They spoke with his brother, too. He seems a kind man, that Elemir.”

 

Elemir, a Gondorian merchant, had arranged Elrohir’s position as a deckhand on the Beinalph, a selfless act of genuine charity. Concern for his benefactor gnawed at Elrohir. He suddenly realized he had been beyond selfish to accept the help Elemir offered out of a kind heart, while leaving the man entirely in the dark about the strange creatures hunting him. Among the Black Númenoreans of Umbar, assisting a fugitive was a capital offense. Elrohir had seen the gallows in use often enough to know the grim reality of it. He wondered how Elves might deal with a mortal man found to have defied them so. Whatever fate had befallen Elemir at their hands, it was long done now. Irrationally, Elrohir nonetheless felt he owed his friend one last plea.

 

“He only helped me out of kindness. He had no way of knowing I was on the run, or from who.”

 

Glorfindel looked at him with sudden sadness.

 

“Through Elemir’s interference you could travel North safely. He and his brother have been named Elf-friends, a title that comes with great honor in Gondor. It will increase the fortunes of their House.”

 

Elrohir’s relief at hearing Elemir had been rewarded rather than punished was almost a physical sensation.

 

“I thank you. Elemir deserved some good after what he did for me.”

----

The Elves’ camp was a gathering of grey tents cleverly hidden among a stand of alder and willow on the banks of the Gwáthlo. A merry fire burned brightly in the blue twilight of early dusk, promising warmth and company. Seen from a distance nothing about it seemed particularly menacing.

 

Upon closer inspection Elrohir was glad that what little daylight remained allowed him a proper look at the Elves. Glorfindel’s people were deeply alien creatures. Tall they were, men and women both, slender and elegant as blades. Their eyes held the same ancient, otherworldly light that shone in Glorfindel’s gaze. In every ageless face lay a sharp and martial beauty that was wholly strange to the Mortal world Elrohir knew. Their very presence touched the mind, a subtle press of an unknown will, and Elrohir shuddered from the sheer otherness of it.

 

The Elf-warriors seemed well aware of Elrohir’s unease, and kept a reassuring distance as Glorfindel led him into the camp. The looks he received held nothing but kindness. Nonetheless Elrohir keenly felt how much of a stranger he was, a lesser bird among eagles.

 

His welcome was no less warm for it. Nightfall in autumn brought a cold sting to the northern air, and Elrohir could not help but shiver in his light sailor’s smock from Gondor. Glorfindel must have noticed, because he sat Elrohir down on blankets spread beside the fire, its light washing him with yet more gold in the deepening dusk.

 

For the first time Elrohir truly felt robbed for not being able to remember a word of Sindarin. He thanked the smiling Elf who handed him a steaming cup of mulled wine, but had to do so in Númenórean as he did not know even this most basic of expressions in his own mother tongue. To his surprise the answer came in fluent Númenórean. A soft, lilting accent that had to be Sindarin mildened its harsh consonants.

 

The elegant cup warmed Elrohir’s chilled hands. Inhaling the rich, spiced smell of the brew, he remembered the terrifying tales of foul Elvish sorcery from his fellow seamen on the Beinalph. A single mouthful of the Elves’ enchanted draughts might ensnare hapless human wanderers. Somehow Elrohir mastered his panicked impulse to pour the wine onto the grass. Nothing good could come from insulting his strange hosts. The back of his throat contracted at his first, tentative sip. The second went down more easily. Bewitched or no, it was far better stuff than the rotgut the Beinalph’s captain had been serving his men.

 

Elrohir studied the Elf as he walked to and fro bringing a meal of leaf-wrapped flatbreads, a sharp yellow cheese and some sweet wild berries. This one seemed younger than Glorfindel. His sea-grey eyes lacked Glorfindel’s distinctive radiance. Whether it was by years or by ages, Elrohir could not tell. The Elf was dressed like his fellow warriors, in a dark wool tunic and grey leather surcoat. His movements held a feline grace and economy that belied his slender frame. Throughout his desert years Elrohir had sized up enough opponents to know that here was one he had no hope of defeating if things should come to a fight. The next moment the Elf turned around and smiled at him with such merriment in his eyes that Elrohir felt foolish for the thought. Glorfindel smiled too, sensing the mood needed some lightening.

 

“Elrohir, the one grinning at you like a child given sweets is called Ardil. He will look after you.”

 

Ardil gave a small bow, long flaxen braids briefly falling in front of his face. Elrohir returned the greeting with careful politeness. He surmised correctly that Ardil’s task would be to guard him. That Glorfindel had gone to such lengths to prevent a repeat of Elrohir’s flight in Harad was vaguely embarrassing.

 

After months of subsisting on hardtack even the simplest fresh food would have been a feast, but Elrohir could not recall ever having eaten such good bread. The flattened wafer was a golden brown on the outside, and the inside was the colour of cream. He somehow managed not to wolf it down to the last honey-flavoured crumb. In Harad’s arid lands no well-mannered guest would angle for a second helping their host might not be able to spare. Glorfindel remembered the customs of the desert well enough, because he wordlessly pressed another wafer into Elrohir’s hands before he had finished the first, and a third soon followed. Gnawing hunger had been Elrohir’s constant companion long enough that a full belly had become an unusual sensation. Once he sat back to bask in it, Glorfindel turned to him with a questioning look.

 

“Would you like to rest, or shall we break camp and gain some miles towards home? The harvest moon is full, so the way is lit.”

 

Food and warmth had done a great deal to restore Elrohir’s spirits, but he had toiled all day rowing upriver at the Beinalph’s oars. Exhausted or no, asking these eerie creatures who needed no sleep to delay their journey just so he could go to bed seemed an impossibility. He nodded silently, and at Glorfindel’s signal the Elves began to dismantle their camp with fluid efficiency.

 

Ardil motioned for Elrohir to step inside one of the tents to offer him a change of clothes. The high-collared tunic and breeches were of a whisper-soft grey cloth similar to Ardil’s own uniform. The Elvish fabric felt light as a feather but proved surprisingly warm, far better suited to northern climes than Elrohir’s summer garb from Gondor -- although the outfit had clearly been made to fit a taller man.

 

On the leather surcoat gleamed a six-pointed star picked out in a contrasting grey thread. A finely worked clasp in that same shape held the silvery cloak closed at Elrohir’s throat. He felt ill at ease in the rich garb, but Ardil shot him a glance of wholehearted approval before hurriedly packing the discarded clothes away as if he sought to remove the last traces of mankind lingering about Elrohir, who watched the honest homespun linen of Pelargir disappear with trepidation.

 

Matters grew awkward when Ardil offered to braid Elrohir’s hair. At first Elrohir thought he must have misunderstood the Elf’s accented Númenórean. When the bizarre proposition was repeated he was quick to refuse, disturbed by the very idea of a grown man plaiting another one’s hair. Ardil’s reply was a warning.

 

“A word of advice, young lord. Among Elves loose hair is for children, which is what you will look like to all those you are about to meet.”

 

Elrohir, who until then had never owned a comb, acquiesced to the embarrassment of a highly unpleasant half-hour of pulling and wrangling his salt-caked, unwashed locks into some semblance of Elvish order. Ardil doubtlessly tried his best to be gentle, but they were both glad to be done when he fastened the last tie.

 

As Elrohir turned around the Elf studied his face with wonder and sadness in his eyes. His annoyance at Elrohir’s lack of cleanliness seemed momentarily forgotten.

 

“You are your brother’s image. Both your faces hold such deep memory for those who remember the old days. It is good to have you back.”

 

Elrohir knew not what to say, except for thanking him.

 

While Ardil tended to Elrohir the camp had silently dissolved as if it had never been. The warriors had brought their mounts, probably from some nearby pasture. Elrohir knew enough about horses to tell that these were the finest he had ever laid eyes on. Like their masters, they seemed made of less ordinary stuff than the mortal world surrounding them. Glorfindel led Elrohir to a friendly-looking mare, her dappled grey coat gleaming in the willow trees’ shifting shadows under the rising moon. She had been saddled, and slung over her back was Elrohir’s saddlebag. Her head looked strangely bare, with neither headstall nor bridle. Elrohir searched in confusion, expecting to find one lying nearby for him to put on her. The horse looked at him with something akin to understanding in her dark eyes as he stood there looking in vain with Glorfindel half a pace behind him. Thankfully Glorfindel had seen enough of Mannish ways to understand his bewilderment.

 

“Rochael is trained without bit or bridle. She will carry you wherever you ask her to.”

 

All around them warriors were mounting their equally unbridled horses. Elrohir mounted and found the mare attuned to the slightest change in posture and movements of his legs.

 

So began the strangest ride of his life. The full moon bathed the world in silver, rippling over the pale horses and glistening mail of their riders. Their hooves crushed the fallen leaves and weeds of this once-familiar land, releasing scents that woke long-forgotten memories of walking and playing among willow, ground-ivy, and bramble. With them came glimpses of faces and places he did not know he had forgotten. Ardil, among others became to Elrohir’s exhausted mind a curious hybrid of the stranger he had just met and a familiar presence that had once towered over him as a source of safety. Above all he was pervaded with such desperate longing for Elladan that he would have kneed Rochael on to leave the others behind if only he had known the way.

----

The company rode upstream along the banks of the Gwáthlo, a tight knot of heavily armed Elves with Elrohir and Glorfindel at its centre. At first they passed through fields and pastures of the orderly region around Tharbad. Gradually the farms stood further apart and stretches of empty shrubland became wider, until they left civilisation behind entirely to ride between low stands of holly, gorse and birch.

 

Glorfindel glanced sideways at Elrohir as he directed Asfaloth to keep up an easy trot at Rochael’s side. The sight of him in Elvish clothes proved at once a blessed relief and a slap of unexpected sorrow. With a touch of possessiveness Glorfindel relished his young ward finally looking like a son of Elrond instead of a ragged Mortal, the star of Eärendil gleaming on his breast.

 

The labours of ruling Imladris left Celebrían with little time or care for needlework, yet this particular outfit she had made with her own hands. Her weaving was so fine and tight that the shimmering cloth of Elrohir’s grey Sindarin cloak might hold water. Sizing the tunic to Elladan’s measures had been a sad mistake. Hunger and harshness had left Elrohir nearly a hand’s breadth shorter than his twin, and his rolled-up sleeves would brutally confront Elrond and Celebrían with the damage. Glorfindel briefly contemplated asking one of his fine-boned Silvan guardsmen to pass Elrohir their spare tunic. In the end he thought of Celebrían’s lonely, straight-backed figure at the great loom of Imladris, singing her very soul into the threads that would clothe the son she so deeply longed for, and did not have the heart to let her work go unworn.

 

Glorfindel did not miss the slight tremble to Elrohir’s hands as he wound them in Rochael’s long mane in search of warmth. He was slumping forward in his saddle, face wan with exhaustion. Ardil shot Glorfindel a look of outright reproach as he brought his own mare closer to Elrohir’s so they might catch him between the two of them if necessary. The surreptitious looks of dismay as his warriors caught sight of their lord’s returning son had been equally telling. Elrohir did not know it himself, but he was dying. Death in every form imaginable was inescapable in Harad, where Men’s lives tended to be brutal and brief, yet he remained unaware of the one illness that might kill an Elf.

 

Elrohir’s fëa was deeply wounded by the cruel war between the Haradrim and the Black Númenóreans of Umbar -- Sauron’s followers, aided by the Dark Lord’s mightiest servant, the captain of the Ringwraiths. Even now the foul creature’s Black Breath still lay heavily on Elrohir. His nearly translucent appearance, with eyes that seemed focused beyond the waking world, struck fear into Glorfindel’s heart. The thread that bound Elrohir’s injured spirit to his body was fraying perilously thin. Another day spent frightened, alone among strangers and mired in strangeness and sorrow might suffice to release it to Mandos’ halls -- or beyond. Glorfindel regretted having to make Elrohir ride the night through, but given the state of him the reunion with Elladan brooked no more delay.

As they rode Elrohir’s eyes widened with awe and confusion. Glorfindel understood: the waters of the Gwàthlo whispered louder than they should, and a strange silvery sheen just a little too bright to be the full moon’s reflection played across the waters. Ancient eyes watched their party from the river. Glorfindel did not turn to look, to avoid drawing Elrohir’s attention to the otherworldly shape -- neither woman nor fish -- that tumbled in the waters’ grey depths. The weight of that lidless gaze altered the very fabric of reality. Uinen rarely ventured this far upriver. Her presence showed Ulmo’s hand in safeguarding the House of Eärendil once more. This night was heavy with shifting threads of possibility, and Elrohir perceived it like any of Lúthien's descendants would.

Several hours into the ride a well-known touch brushed Glorfindel’s mind. Elrond’s capacity for ósanwe had already been formidable before the Rings of Power were ever thought of. With Vilya on his hand he could make himself heard across vast distances, and he now had all of his considerable Sight fixed on Elrohir. The touch brought to mind the color of sapphires, its aura radiating joy. Despite Elrond’s gentle manner he startled Elrohir enough to nearly unhorse him. Glorfindel reached out to steady him as he swayed in his saddle. He turned towards Elrohir with a smile and relief in his eyes.

 

“That was your father. We will reach their camp before morning. You will meet Elladan soon.”

 

Elrohir was quick to arrange his face, but Glorfindel nonetheless perceived the stab of fear that marred his anticipation.

 

Chapter 2

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Elrond’s hatred for Vilya was bitter as bile, the day the ring came to stand between him and the search for Elrohir. From the moment he received it from Ereinion’s hands he had known that to bear a jewel so powerful would demand sacrifices. On his king’s orders Elrond had permitted his mind to become inseparably entwined with Vilya’s invading power. He had accepted being forever confined to the physical safety of strongholds and armed escorts: Vilya could not be risked. Elrond had acquiesced and given his very self for its safekeeping without hesitation.

Until Elrohir went missing, and the Lord of Imladris found he could not risk his ring, and with it the fates of all Elvendom in Ennor, by taking part in the search. When Erestor first pointed out that harsh truth forty years ago Elrond had thrown Vilya across his study, spat at it and spun on his heels to leave the jewel behind and go find his son. He had not quite made it out of the house before the ring’s pull on its bearer became unbearable and Elrond’s immovable sense of duty reasserted itself.

“Keep it secret. Keep it safe.”

Ereinion’s last words to Elrond, rasped from his charred throat as the High King lay dying from his burns on the slopes of Orodruin. It would take a callous man indeed to lay aside such an order, and Elrond was not one.

He had wept before Celebrían’s compassion, limitless despite her own anguish, and agreed to stay behind in the safety of Imladris as she rode out with Glorfindel to oversee the long search that remained fruitless until today.

As the company from Imladris advanced southeast along the banks of the Gwathló to finally retrieve Elrohir, Elrond was grateful for Vilya’s enhancement of his senses. He could perceive Elrohir’s presence long before any other Elf in the riding, the sensation waxing as physical distance grew smaller.
Elrond withdrew from the sight of his waking eyes, the rolling hills of Eregion with their blanket of purple heather just coming into the splendour of autumn, to turn his gaze to the Unseen and bask in the presence of his youngest son’s mind. It was unmistakably half-Elven, unique in its complexity and matched only by Elladan’s. Elrond relished the first stirrings of a connection he prayed would never be broken again.

Celebrían was just as eager for her horse’s every step to bring her closer to their lost child. She perceived the echo of Elrohir’s mind through their bond. Elladan had grown frantic, constantly pressing to ride faster and longer into the darkening autumn evenings.

 

----

 

As the afternoon of the ninth day began to darken Elrond brought the convoy to an early stop amidst tall holly bushes in a small valley. A full harvest moon was rising as the Lord of Imladris ordered cooking fires lit and tents raised. Elladan had already turned his horse around to face his father and protest the delay when it dawned on him that all this was intended to receive his brother.

Elladan kept his hands and mind occupied helping his father's guard set up camp. Once he had exhausted all possible tasks to busy himself, Elladan found he could not bear the jittery atmosphere of joyous anticipation around the campfire. He withdrew to his own tent and lit a single oil-lamp before sitting down on his cot in the spill of golden light, trying to regain some semblance of normalcy. He could not fully grasp that his twin --known only by the gaping wound that was his absence-- would soon be standing next to him. How inconceivable -- that Elrohir would spend the coming night on the camp bed standing empty next to Elladan’s own. He tried to imagine his brother beside him, both physically and in mind, but his attempts came up empty.

Elladan’s dark musings were interrupted when the tent flap rustled to admit Elrond. He felt a swell of gratitude for his father’s habitual kindness of setting aside his own agitation and uncertainty to extend care to those around him. Elladan let himself be drawn into an embrace like the child he no longer was.

“Glorfindel’s party draws close. Can you feel him yet?”

Both knew Elrond’s question did not concern Glorfindel. Elladan concentrated, stretching his mind as far as it would reach to find only familiar Elven minds, pulsing like many-hued living lights against the dark expanse of the world around them. He shook his head, dejected.

Elrond pulled Elladan closer, extending his own consciousness to encompass him. Somewhere in the remarkable depths of Elrond’s perception were more Elves, Glorfindel and his warriors. Among them, strange yet unmistakably familiar, was another fëa like his own, neither Elf nor Man. Elladan’s heart was roughly torn from his body, so fierce was the sudden pain of longing. Nothing else would do, nothing would ever be well again if he could not get up and leave now to go seek Elrohir and undo the intolerable wrong that was their separation.
Elrond muted his sight and held him close. His own distress was briefly visible before calm and comfort took over once more.

“Peace, Elladan. I only meant to ease the last hours of waiting for you. It seems I turned them to torment instead. Eregion is far too perilous for you to wander off in search of your brother. Glorfindel keeps him safe, and they are riding hard. Endure this for me, only a little longer.”

Elladan eyed his father with awe and compassion, well aware that Elrond could not blunt Elrohir’s presence from his own consciousness.

“Is this longing the same for you?”

Elrond smiled, a thin veneer over a deep well of sadness.

“You are twins. A parent’s yearning is not quite the same.”

Elladan was struck by the realisation that his father had endured an utterly permanent separation from his own twin. Elrond read the thought.

“Do not dwell in the past. For you and him, at least we have been able to set things aright.“

 

-------

 

Elrohir saw the campfires when the company rounded the crest of a hill. The pull of Elladan’s presence in his mind had waxed throughout the night, consuming him like a fever. At the sight of the tents in the valley below it became so strong he struggled to hold still. Standing in the stirrups he frantically tried to make out the figures moving between the tents and the signs on their banners. He whipped around to Glorfindel.

"Is Elladan there?!" he demanded without preamble.

When the Glorfindel nodded, Elrohir gave in and spurred Rochael towards the camp at breakneck speed. The mare perceived her rider's urgency and gave all she had.

Elladan froze as the connection to his twin returned, like a shuttered window opening to let sunlight stream back into a dark room. Elladan felt Elrohir’s eagerness, the fluid movements of the galloping horse under him and the cold wind whipping his face. He brusquely turned away from his father and stormed out into the night, blind and deaf to everything around him except Elrohir’s presence like a beacon in his mind.

The twins met in the deep shadows of a copse of holly trees on the valley floor. Elrohir felt no need to slow down for a look at the figure sprinting towards him in the dark. He knew that face well enough, and forty years worth of longing left no room for subtlety. He dismounted without slowing, already running as he hit the ground. There were just a few more leaps until he was caught in his brother's arms.

Elladan had been nothing more than a disembodied specter in Elrohir’s mind for so long that the thump of their chests cracking together in a violent embrace seemed absurdly solid.
Both twins struggled for breath as time froze to a standstill. Their minds touched fully once more after the long years apart. There was joy, and splendid relief from the agony of separation, like a broken bone pulled back into place -- but also grief and anger at their loss. Elrohir could not tell whose feelings were washing through him, or even down which one of their faces he felt tears streaming.

The instant their bond was remade a deluge of tangled memories swept them both away: toddlers played, roses grew, children climbed a tree. Someone rode a horse, another held a sword. Tears were cried, many miles traveled, friends gained and lost, songs sung, nightmares lived sleeping and waking. A red sun rose, snow fell, eagles flew, a tall ship sailed.
When Elrohir finally remembered his own eyes again and opened them, they were surrounded by many others.

Elrohir came back to his senses, suddenly and sharply aware that Elladan and he stood at the center of a growing throng of Elves. A circle of pale, perfect faces glimmered in the deep shadows beneath the trees, eyes alive with a light that was not entirely of this world. Elrohir shuddered. He had to suppress his ingrained soldier's reflex to spin around and face them standing back to back with his brother. Elladan keenly felt Elrohir’s fear, his mind a wordless stream of reassurance as he held Elrohir against him.

To touch Elladan once more, see his disjointed memories replaced with his brother solid and real in his arms was a joy worth every lonely mile from Harad to the North. Their newfound connection proved far more intimate than what Elrohir had experienced with Glorfindel. Elrohir could perceive his brother’s mind as a living, ever-shifting tapestry of thought and feeling, its background and accent colors changeable, but always familiar and beautiful for the joy it now held. He knew Elladan had a similar insight into him. He would have felt exposed, violated even if their proximity had not been so natural and fundamentally right. The relief of once more being complete -- a missing half no longer -- was immense.

A moment later the crowd parted. Ever since his first meeting with Glorfindel Elrohir had been dismayed and vaguely embarrassed by how precious little he remembered of his parents. Now that they stood before him in the flesh there could be no doubt. Elrond stood hovering over his sons, his eyes wet. Celebrían was turning Elrohir towards her by the shoulder and enveloping him in her ams. For a moment joy was all.

Elrohir was sobered when Elladan tried to speak to him, and soon found that Elrohir did not remember a word of Sindarin. Elladan’s look of sadness and frustration spoke volumes. After some confusion they had to settle on Númenórean. While Elrond and Celebrían appeared to speak it well Elladan had little. Having to use the language of his old enemy added to Elrohir’s pervasive sense of unease. Elladan immediately tried to quench it by embracing him once more.

With a sinking feeling Elrohir realised he had to tilt his head up to look Elladan in the eye. He knew for a fact they had once been of a height. Now Elladan was taller by at least a hand span, and his broad-shouldered figure highlighted the difference. Elrohir knew he looked hunger-lean. Being dressed in clothes sized for his twin would do nothing to soften the blow. Elrond and Celebrian were visibly struck, joy and sorrow battling for precedence in their eyes. Concern flashed through Elrohir’s mind. To be found wanting within moments of his arrival was an ill-starred beginning.
Elrond took Elrohir’s arm, gently breaking up the little world of their own the twins had sunk into. His Númenórean was perfect, though the accent of the Northern Kingdom added to the strangeness.

“Welcome home, my son. I understand the journey was long and full of hardship. Come, let us get you off your feet.”

With that he put an arm around Elrohir’s shoulders and led him towards the camp. Elrohir was deeply grateful to be spared the impossible task of distilling a reply worthy of the occasion from his nonexistent knowledge of Elvish manners. He let himself be guided in silence, flanked by his parents and his brother, towards the tents.

Elladan slipped into his twin's thoughts and perceptions as if he had never left. Elrohir could feel his brother’s quicksilver presence moving through his mind. It was all he could do to spare the concentration needed to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Elladan’s joy was infectious and he felt himself buoyed by it.

Elrohir felt marginally more at ease inside his parents’ tent. The pavillion’s night-blue walls, shot through with silver-grey stars, were a marvel in themselves and a welcome shield from the prying eyes of strange Elves. He had regained a curious sort of calm, achieved by distancing himself from all of it and observing like he would the movements of pieces on a gameboard, curious what he would think or do next. Beyond that detached separation lay a confusing jumble of emotions he could ill afford to visit.

Celebrían could not resist the temptation to pull him into her arms once more. Elrohir knew her fair, fine-boned face intimately, had known it all along. He could tell she was teetering on the brink of tears. He meant to console her, but when he managed a tentative, heavily accented “Ammë”, she briefly lost control and wept openly. He laid a hand on her shoulder, hesitant because he feared violating some Elvish custom, and whispered words of comfort in Haradi before realising she would not understand.

When Celebrían had regained her composure, Elrond laid a hand on Elrohir’s shoulder and turned his son to face him. His face, too was familiar, but surely as a child Elrohir had not found the eyes so utterly strange. He could not name what it was that unsettled him so deeply. Those starlit depths bore witness to uncounted years of growth and dying, wounded victory and deep defeat, laughter and sorrow turned to wisdom. No human being in all the ages of the world had ever had such eyes, a harsh reminder that nothing about this situation was normal.
Elrond’s gaze seemed to pierce Elrohir down to his very soul, and he reflexively closed his mind against it.

"I mean you no harm. Let me see you, so I know how to help you."

Elrond spoke calmly, opening his own mind and looking Elrohir directly in the eyes so he could see for himself the complete honesty behind the words. Elrohir took a leap of faith. He did as he was asked and let down all barriers. Instantly he was no longer alone in his own head. Elrond’s presence was as powerful as the Ringwraith’s, but brought none of its intense fear and loathing. If anything, the feeling was comforting and vaguely familiar. Elrohir allowed it to move about his mind.

Elrond went over Elrohr’s physical state, and Elrohir felt him note how tired he was, the pain he felt in various places, his absolute, pressing need for the closed-eyed sleep of Men.
Elrohir became aware of a song unlike any he had heard before. He could not tell if Elrond sang it physically or only in mind. The melody was light and joyful as a cool breeze playing through trees. Even though he could not understand the ancient language, he knew it spoke of light in dark places and peace for the weary. When the song reached its end the weight of Elrohir’s fears had lifted somewhat, and he found himself comfortable inside his own skin once more. At that, Elrond withdrew, leaving Elrohir in wonder. He felt refreshed, reassured, and much more capable of sleep than before.

Elrond smiled. “Now sleep, both of you. There will be time enough for talk when you are rested.”

Without words passing between them, Elladan took his hand and led him outside. Night had barely begun to turn to morning and the air was cold and wet. There were no stars to be seen, but a sea-grey light was spreading across the heavy rain clouds to the East. They headed to another tent nearby, with two camp beds and a small table with two cups of wine. It was strong stuff, and after he’d knocked back his in one gulp Elrohir could delay sleep no longer. He laid down fully clothed, kicking his boots under the bed, and knew no more.

-----

Once Elrohir's eyes had closed and his breathing grew slow and regular, Elladan sank into open-eyed dreams, equally exhausted from days of hard riding and emotional upheaval.
With great stealth even for an Elf, Elrond entered. He carefully scrutinized Elrohir’s face in the blueish half-light filtering through the tent’s canvas. The closed eyes were concerning, their lashes casting half-moons of sunken darkness on his cheeks. In sleep Elrohir’s mind was a foreign place, its patterns more Mannish than Elven.

Celebrían silently entered and sat between the beds of their sleeping sons after briefly fussing over Elrohir with another blanket.

Elrond put an arm around her and rested his head on her leather-clad shoulder. A gust of rain rattled the tent. He felt Celebrían think dreamily,

At last I can find joy in the weather again. At every drop of rain these past months, my mind kept returning to whether he was warm and dry, or out on the roads without shelter. Let it pour, now that he is safe with us!

---

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for reading, I'd love to hear what you think of the story so far!

Chapter 3

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When Elrohir woke he was alone in the tent save for his pack. Some Elf must have placed it beside him during the night. Judging from the yellow light filtering through the canvas roof it had to be past noon. Acutely embarrassed he reached underneath the camp bed for his boots. Sharp ears outside must have picked up the rustling of the blankets, because a moment later Elladan appeared. Judging by his efficient air and tidy braids he had been up for hours.

Despite his self-consciousness Elrohir could not help but smile for the newness and wonder of his twin’s presence. Elladan, too was beaming in face and mind both. He sat down beside Elrohir and touched his mind, part exploration, part caress. Elrohir briefly had to close his eyes to withstand the dizzying intensity before returning the gesture. For long, quiet moments the sounds of the camp and the tent’s half-light fell away as they relearned the other’s inner landscape, rediscovering what they once knew, and what had changed. When they finally parted they were both laughing.
Elrohir’s non-existent Sindarin and Elladan’s bare-bones Númenórean meant they could talk little, but neither minded it much. Their minds’ closeness was more efficient than speech. Elrohir was hungry, and Elladan set out to remedy it after helping him repair the overnight damage to his braids. He made for the tent flap, gesturing for Elrohir to follow.

Elrohir was glad to be in the outside air again. The night’s rain had blown over and the pale sun of late autumn was sinking west among fat grey clouds. He marvelled once more at the endless amounts of water this land seemed to possess. They stood at the centre of the orderly bustle of what appeared to be a well-organized army camp. Several Elf-warriors were about, caring for horses and cooking. They briefly paused their work to smile and greet them. Elladan cheerily returned their hails, but never slowed his pace as he led his brother to the largest tent.

Before he could touch the door flap it was thrown open from the inside. Celebrían stood in the doorway, her face radiant. Elrohir felt an unexpected stab of warmth at the realisation that he was the cause of her delight. He let himself be embraced and kissed on the cheek, astonished by a public display of intimacy that would have been considered unseemly in Harad.

Elrond rose from a camp chair, his smile bright enough to light the darkening day. Like his lady, the formidable Elf-lord appeared wholly unfazed by having been kept waiting while Elrohir slept half the day away. Elrohir let himself be sat down at an elegant folding table. The tent was remarkably bright. With his sight no longer misted by exhaustion he noticed the strange lamp overhead. Its white flame burned within a perfectly transparent crystal caught in a net of fine silver chains. Elrohir could discern neither fuel nor wick. A small shudder ran down his back while he presented his hosts with an expression he hoped was more polite smile than wooden grin. Even among real human beings Elrohir had never been one for small-talk or pleasantries. These Elves were real enough, but human they were most certainly not.

 

----

 

Elrond saw Elrohir’s eyes widen as he took in the tent’s interior, and wished he had given thought to having the Fëanorian crystal temporarily replaced with an oil lamp. A wave of yearning washed over him when Elrohir returned Celebrían’s embrace, stiffly at first but eventually with genuine affection. Elrond knew better than to try the same himself.

Despite the sickness weighing his spirit Elrohir had an observant eye. He clearly perceived Vilya’s aura of veiled power surrounding Elrond even if he could not begin to understand what it was that unsettled him so, and he recoiled from the strangeness of it. Regaining his trust would be a long and delicate task, one where a moment’s impatience might do irreversible damage.
Elrond recalled the day -- over an age ago now -- when he was left in Ereinion’s care after being freed from what he would later come to understand was captivity with the sons of Fëanor. That first meeting had been similarly awkward, the best of intentions on both sides groaning under more estrangement than could be lifted in a single day. And he had the benefit of an upbringing among Elves, even if they were Kinslayers.
Elrond took great care to keep his voice gentle.

“Such a long time it must seem to you, and all that you once knew grown strange. We will do all we can to help you feel at home once more.”

Elrohir nodded, clearly at a loss for words before abruptly resorting to formal politeness.

“Thank you for receiving me so well. I apologize for my … detour.”

Elrond was quick to ease Elrohir’s mind.

“There is no need. Glorfindel told us the whole tale. It is not unreasonable that you took some time.”

It took much of Elrond’s self-restraint not to point out exactly how dangerous Elrohir’s lonely flight had been, or how nerve-wracking. Reproach would only deepen his unease into outright fear. At the mention of Glorfindel he sat up straighter, well aware that he had a debt to settle and eager to get it over with.

“Please allow me to speak for Glorfindel. If he failed to carry out your orders to the letter it was not for lack of effort. I deceived him, when he had every reason to believe he had earned my loyalty. If not for Glorfindel I would be dead now, several times over. Please do not hold him in any lesser regard. This was all my doing”

Elrond was glad to see the loyalty with which Elrohir defended Glorfindel. Despite circumstances that were trying indeed their captain’s unfailing kindness and his peerless skill in battle had gained -- if not Elrohir’s trust, then at least his esteem. It was something to start from.

“Fear not. We know what Glorfindel did for you, and will always remember it with honour and gratitude. The manner of your arrival hardly matters in that light.”

 

------

 

Relief washed over Elrohir. Thoughts of Glorfindel returning home to condemnation and punishment for failing to bring the one he had been sent for had kept him awake many a night.

Someone rapped against one of the tent poles. At Celebrían’s reply a dark-haired Elf brought bowls of stewed venison and flatbread. Elvish food was invariably excellent. The meat was tender, the rich sauce sweet with the year’s last berries. This was the first proper meal Elrohir had since Pelargir. And before that… no. That did not bear thinking about.

Instead he hurried to smile, and compliment the food in the polished Númenórean turns of phrase that still came to his lips with unexpected ease decades after he last used them in his days as a slave in Umbar. With that thought, Elrohir realised that Elladan knew his mind. His twin’s sharp spike of concern was clearly palpable across their bond. It seemed their newfound connection could hardly be shielded, and even that not without great effort. Elladan, used as he was to Elvish thought-opening, comfortably leaned into it. He seemed happy enough to let himself be perceived.

Some detached part of Elrohir appreciated the irony that the one person he had no common language with would be the one to see into his most private thoughts. Most other parts were terrified. He could only hope he was managing to keep the emotion off his face. If she did notice, Celebrían did all she could to put Elrohir at ease, asking him about the weather at sea and the sights of Pelargir as if he had just returned from a brief boating trip. Elrohir gladly indulged her, immensely grateful for the unexpected reprieve from both a scolding for his disappearance and prying questions about Harad.

As the meal wound to a close fair voices lifted in song outside the tent. Someone played a merry tune on a stringed instrument of some kind. A flutist joined in to cheering and clapping. Elrond looked at Elrohir with both joy and sorrow in his eyes at having to lay the obligations of his high birth on him so soon.

“My folk are making merry outside. All here have worked long and hard in the search for you. Today is their victory, too. I know you are too burdened with grief and strangeness to enjoy music and song, but it would endear you to them if you would join them for a while nonetheless.”

Fortunately the feast was no hardship. True to Elrond’s word nothing more was expected from Elrohir than to sit on a camp-stool by the fire, his hands around a cup of warmed wine against the chill of the autumn evening, and listen. First to Elrond giving a short speech, all smiles and interrupted by rousing cheers on the mention of Glorfindel, who made a failing attempt to appear humble. Next several musicians performed to cheering, clapping and singing along, some decidedly off-key as the wine cask became emptier. While the music was hauntingly beautiful, the almost-familiar patterns of the Sindarin language remained frustratingly beyond Elrohir’s grasp.

 

----

 

In the pink light of dawn the Elves broke camp to begin the journey to Imladris. The weather was fair, a cold and shiny autumn morning fragrant with freshly fallen leaves.
The company was a sight to behold, all fair-faced Elves with the rising sun glittering off their mail and helmets, the blue and silver pennants on their spears snapping overhead in the cold northern wind. This was the first time Elrohir saw them all gathered. It was astounding how many warriors had been sent out on the simple errand of collecting one man from a ship -- and how heavily armed and armoured they were. Elrohir had been outfitted with a fine mail hauberk himself. Despite Glorfindel’s talk of peace and prosperity, clearly all was not well in the North.

Once mounted on Rochael, Elrohir was directed to ride beside Elladan in the middle of the column, flanked by warriors on both sides. Elrond and Celebrían rode in front of their sons, Glorfindel behind with his second-in-command, a serious, dark-haired Elf who was introduced as Gildor.

Despite the smiling faces and general air of cheerfulness there was a certain amount of tension in the air. Elrohir failed to understand the orders Glorfindel’s lieutenant called out to the warriors. He wondered what unknown foe could set these magnificent creatures that seemed born for battle so on edge.

On a few occasions sailors on the Beinalph had tried to frighten Elrohir with nighttime stories of Orcs, apparently some misshapen breed of Northmen onto whose shoulders were heaped so many atrocities and bad qualities that the tales could hardly be anything but gross exaggeration. Elrohir had scoffed and laughed at what he thought their superstitiousness. As he watched the determined faces of Glorfindel’s warriors under their helmets, bows strung and spears to hand while scouts silently moved through the undergrowth, it dawned on him that the ship’s old helmsman might have spoken more truth than Elrohir had given him credit for. He did not have enough Sindarin to discreetly ask Elladan, and did not care to display his ignorance on the matter to any of the others.

Instead he studied the banners, mounted on long, shining spears held aloft by the standard-bearers riding four abreast at the head of the column. Had this been a riding of Black Nùmenòreans Elrohir would instantly have recognised each banner, and known exactly which lord or company rode behind. The northern heraldry left him guessing. Three of the flags were midnight blue, showing various motives of stars and moons picked out in white gems and mithril. The foremost one bore the six-pointed star Elrohir recognized from his own tunic. The last one was different, a golden flower on a field of green. As Elrohir wondered why this particular expedition required no less than four, Elrond turned around in his saddle and followed his gaze, then bade his grey stallion fall back until he rode between the twins.

Elrond, at least, bore a smile that reached his eyes and seemed fully at ease. The aura of happiness that radiated off the Elf-Lord was infectious enough to take Elrohir’s mind off Orcs and raids.

“The banner in front, with the six-pointed star and the jewel is that of Imladris and the House of Eärendil, my father. Your mother’s is the round one, a winged moon and golden rays. Next, with the field of stars, is that of Gil-galad, who was High King not so long ago. Beside it is the standard of Glorfindel’s house, the Golden Flower.”

During their days in Harad Elrohir had never concerned himself with Glorfindel’s exact status in Elrond’s household, preoccupied as he was with his own troubles. He belatedly realised that his assumption that Glorfindel was simply one of Elrond’s warriors had been dead wrong. The knowledge once more underlined the sheer amount of effort expended in retrieving him from Harad.

Elrohir did not ask what befell Gil-galad, who apparently was King no more, for fear of opening old wounds and giving offence. Elrond sensed his curiosity.

“The day ahead is long, and so is the way. We still need to tell each other many things, but not while on the road among so large a crowd. Let me tell you the tale of the last High King. Like all stories of the Elves it is sad, but fair. It will shorten the miles.”

Elrond spoke long as they followed the river northeast through the desolation of what had once been Eregion. He told of Lindon, the fairness of its harbour city in the days of peace when Gil-galad established his reign, weaving some Elvish art into the words. Elrohir saw Lindon as it bloomed like a jewel of many colors set against the grey sea for an age of the world. Elrond spoke long, and by the time his tale ended, in a blaze of glory and grief on the battlefield in Mordor, the snow-capped mountains on their right had come closer. Elrohir had heard a few mentions of Dagorlad from Glorfindel when they rode in search of the Ringwraith, but was still awed by the nigh incredible bravery and sacrifice of entering single combat against a dark god. He managed to find words of high praise and condolence. Elrond looked at him with a smile. Even if the tale still pained him, he had clearly found solace in its telling.

“We will be reunited, one day. And meanwhile it is a comfort to see the fruits of his labour, the Shadow lifted from the world for a time.”

 

----

 

That night brought Elrohir little rest. He woke from a dream of blood and battle, his racing mind utterly beyond sleep. Elladan peacefully slumbered beside him, but the sight was far from reassuring. His brother suddenly looked distressingly inhuman with his eyes open and his mind wrapped in something that was not quite a dream. Suddenly overwhelmed with strangeness and longing for Harad, Elrohir quietly slipped on his boots and left the tent, meaning to walk about the camp for a while to collect his thoughts.

He had not taken two steps before the darkness beneath the dense crown of a nearby holly tree silently sprung to life and Ardil stepped forth. His grey uniform blended uncannily with the night’s every shifting shadow. It was all Elrohir could do not to startle, and for an instant fear clenched his throat. Ardil’s movements seemed unnaturally sleek and graceful. Elrohir’s eyes came to rest on the elegant bone handles of Ardil’s fighting knives. Elvish warriors were deadly creatures.

“Are you well, young lord?”

Ardil seemed genuinely concerned, looking at his charge like he was a wild hawk just caught for taming, as likely to come to his arm as to claw out his eyes. Elrohir supposed it was not entirely unfair.

“I did not mean to disturb you. I only wanted a breath of fresh air, if these lands are not too dangerous for such a thing.”

Ardil’s fair face was serious. “The land of Hollin is by no means abandoned, but it no longer holds any good folk.”

He did seem to understand Elrohir’s need to escape the tent and his own racing thoughts, and his voice was kind when he continued.

“This night nothing will pass our sentries. I am under orders not to let you from my sight. If you wish for company I would join you. Otherwise I will keep my distance and leave you to your thoughts.”

Elrohir genuinely appreciated the offer of companionship, even if it came from such an alien creature.

“I would be glad for some conversation. I know nothing of this land, that you call Hollin. Will you tell me more about it as we walk?”

Ardil obliged, and he turned out to be pleasant company. While talking he led Elrohir away from the camp through thickets of man-high brambles and gorse amidst scattered groupings of ancient holly trees, to the crest of a small hill where they had an eastwards view of distant mountains under the waning moon.
As they walked whispers came from concealed sentries in the bushes along their path. Ardil quietly answered in Sindarin. There never was as much as a trembling leaf to betray the guards’ presence, a feat that struck Elrohir as both impressive and unsettling. His own skills of stealth and evasion paled in comparison to the Elves’ preternatural abilities. There would be no escape from them, it seemed, unless by Elrond’s word.

Elrohir interrupted Ardil’s explanations. “Are the guards using magic, to move so quietly?”

Ardil seemed confused. “I do not know what you mean by that word. Mortals seem to use it for many different things, including the snares of the Enemy. Most of these sentries are Woodland Elves like myself, born friends to tree and bush. Their skills come from long practice and the blessings of the Lord and Lady go with them. Maybe that is what Mortals would call magic? To the Elves it is but the normal state of things.”

One more unfathomable and vaguely frightening thing he would have to get used to. Elrohir tried to divert the conversation to less disturbing topics.

“Where did you learn to speak Númenórean so well? Are you an interpreter?”

Despite the compliment the question appeared to bring up painful memories for Ardil, and Elrohir instantly regretted it.

“There was another king who fought and fell in Mordor beside the one whose tale you heard today. His name was Amdir. He once ruled fair Lorinand, which lays beyond those mountains. We laid siege to the Black Tower for seven years. During that time it fell to me to be the king’s spokesman in his councils with Men, for he did not speak their tongues, nor did he desire to learn them.”

Ardil’s sorrow was clear to read.

"I apologize for stirring up your loss. May your king’s name always be remembered with honour. I know I will do so.” Elrohir gave Ardil an apologetic smile.

“You are kind, young lord. I am glad you asked. My king deserves better than to be forgotten, which is what will happen when those who witnessed his fall let their tongues be bound by grief. If there is aught you wish to know, ask me and I will gladly tell you.”

Elrohir carefully asked “What happened to Lorinand after king Amdir fell? Did his realm fade like Lindon did?”

Ardil seemed somehow dismayed by this particular gap in Elrohir’s knowledge. After thinking in silence for a time he said,

“I do not believe it is for me to tell you more of this. Lorinand is now called Lothlórien. It flourishes still under the rule of Amdir’s son Amroth, though he bears greater love to trees and rivers than he does the business of governance. He has appointed regents, a noble lord and lady who have delegated me and many others here to your mother’s service. She will tell you more about them herself, and soon.”

What mysterious connection existed between Celebrian and the land beyond the mountains, Elrohir could not fathom. Clearly he would not learn it from Ardil. The Elf decisively changed the subject, telling Elrohir about the Misty Mountains themselves, from their snow clad peaks to the Dwarrowdelf underneath, guarded by impenetrable doors of mithril and stone. He spoke of mountain Orcs in warning tones, removing all doubt that the crew of the Beinalph had not only been right, but probably too kind in their ignorance of the horrors of these creatures. Ardil’s bitter hate for them spoke volumes.

As he spoke the eastern sky turned to pearl grey streaked with bright pink clouds. The rising sun briefly changed the very snow on the mountain peaks to fire, burning red and gold. As Elrohir and Ardil watched the spectacle in companionable silence the sound of eager footsteps sounded behind them. The gorse-bushes parted to reveal Elladan, bearing three loaves of still-warm flatbread, a bag of apples and a cheery smile.

Elrohir could tell his brother had been distressed at finding Elrohir’s bed empty, before learning from the guards where he had gone. He tried to convey an apology, which was gladly accepted. Elladan handed out the bread, and the three of them ate while Ardil and he spoke in Sindarin. Elladan and Ardil interacted with clear familiarity, and Elrohir wondered how, exactly, this Elf from Lothlórien fit into the intricate pattern of the mosaic Elrond’s household was proving to be.

Elrohir tried to pick up the thread of their conversation, intent on separating out the individual words to puzzle out the meaning of the sentences. Recognising a word here, a root there, it appeared to be about the weather and the road ahead. When they noticed him listening they both slowed down to make it easier. Elladan pointed at the eastern sky and dramatically stated something like, “few clouds, no rain, happy day!” in an ridiculously slow drawl. At his beaming smile once he knew his brother understood, Elrohir could not help but laugh. Despite Orcs and dead kings, it seemed that not all things in the North were dark, or complicated.

 

Chapter 4

Read Chapter 4

 

Their seventh day in the saddle was a dark one, with leaden clouds like a low-hanging roof and constant threat of an autumn storm. Heavy fall winds from the slopes of the Misty Mountains whipped the column of Elf-riders, flapping their banners and streaming the long hair of horse and rider alike behind them. The cold seemed to trouble Elrohir. He was shivering despite the fur-lined cloak he wore over his mail, and Glorfindel caught him surreptitiously removing one of his leather riding gloves to warm his hand under Rochael’s long mane.

Glorfindel watched as Elladan sang to his brother. The melody was a classic Sindarin travelling song, its rhythm measured to the beats of a horse’s gait. Elrohir could not have understood the whimsical, teasing words but he smiled nonetheless, probably at Elladan’s joy felt through their bond.

Elrond looked over his shoulder to where his sons rode behind him. His gaze was dark with concern when it caught Glorfindel’s. Elrohir’s illness had not escaped the observant eye of the master-healer. In fact the more experienced warriors had noticed as well: that typical pale, translucent quality to Elrohir’s appearance that Elves could only come by through enough grief to set the fëa free from the body. Elladan remained blissfully unaware of his brother’s peril. He was a child of peace, born well after the Last Alliance -- a generation that never had to witness Elves dying of sorrow. Elrond and Celebrían had decided to spare him the knowledge until their return to Imladris, lest Elladan’s distress worsen Elrohir’s condition.

Though highly dangerous the illness was not irreversible. Glorfindel thought the reunion with Elladan had already caused some improvement. Nonetheless Elrohir still looked very unwell. He ate and slept when asked to, was polite and accommodating and had thus far not made any attempts at running away, which was the best one could hope for until the company reached the hidden valley.

Glorfindel turned his focus back to his task. As commander of the guard he was the heart of a living web that stretched from the cordon of warriors around Elrond and his family to the hidden sentries scouting the surrounding heathlands, a fine-meshed lacework of eyes and minds. With the easy habit of many years he extended his own consciousness along its threads, lightly brushing his warriors’ thoughts to check for irregularities. He instantly detected a fault -- a note of discord in the familiar, vibrant song of their collective awareness. Something had agitated the Silvan scouts guarding their eastern flank.

On sunless days such as this even the small grey Mountain Orcs could grow bold, this particular clan apparently enough so to leave the safety of their caves high in the Misty Mountains and venture into the foothills to raid the outliers of a heavily armed Elvish convoy. As Glorfindel received intelligence through the open minds of his scouts he called out for part of the main host to break away and engage the Orcs. The remaining warriors formed a protective ring of spears around their lord and his family.

Elrohir’s eyes widened. He could not understand Glorfindel’s spoken commands, but the ring of steel on steel and foul voices screaming behind the hill crest to their east meant only one thing in any language. His hand shot to his left hip, where it closed on empty air.  Fear set in at the realisation that Elladan and he alone among the company were completely unarmed. Cursing under his breath in Haradi he spun around to his saddle bags, convinced he was about to have his throat slit while digging around for whatever weapon he kept in there. Elladan, admirably calm despite this being his first brush with battle, leant over to take Elrohir’s hands and still them. Somehow he managed to soothe his brother. Elrohir sat stock-still on Rochael’s back, eyes fixed on the man-high brambles hiding the skirmish from view of the main host.

Glorfindel exchanged another meaningful look with Elrond. From what he had seen in Harad, he could guess what was in Elrohir’s saddle bag. Knowing him it would be a small arsenal rather than a single weapon, and all of it would have to be confiscated at the earliest opportunity. They could not risk him being startled or panicking in his current state and committing an accidental kinslaying. 

Tonight , Glorfindel spoke into Elrond’s mind. 

The Peredhel silently shook his head.

Not on the road. It would end in a struggle. As soon as we reach Imladris.

Glorfindel deferred to his lord only grudgingly. The safety of the warriors under his command was his responsibility, and he dreaded the thought of Elrohir misguidedly attacking one of them. Both Elrohir’s weapons and his skills were crude to Elvish standards, but they could be deadly enough when he wanted. The Haradrim did not strike to injure.

When the sounds of the skirmish died down Glorfindel nudged Asfaloth away from the main host to go inspect the remains of the brief battle for himself. The last of the Orcs were being killed off. Borndis, the scouts’ commander, had things fully under control, as was her wont. Even after three ages of perpetual war Glorfindel had never grown used to their black blood, wafting the cloying stink of rotten meat even when freshly spilled.

Several warriors moved among the sprawled cadavers to stab them a second time and make absolutely sure. Glorfindel waited in silence for Borndis to finish impaling the nearest corpse through the chest with a boar lance. Judging by the writhing, gurgling demise that followed the Orc had indeed been playing dead. When the gnarled limbs ceased their twitching Glorfindel knelt to examine the creature. These Orcs had strayed far from their usual hunting grounds on the high passes, and seemingly with little organised purpose. All were small, grey-skinned Snagas -- a slave-caste among the mountain tribes. The beasts looked emaciated, and even by Orcish standards their gear was unusually filthy and ragged.

Borndis knelt by Glorfindel’s side, the movement fluid and absolutely silent as only a Wood-elf could be. Her Sindarin had the soft lilt of one who rarely spoke anything other than her native Silvan language.

“This was an act of despair, rather than a targeted attack on Lord Elrond. They were ravenous.”

She pointed at the edge of the clearing. With his back against a birch tree sat Glingaer, one of the Silvan scouts. A crude arrow fletched with raven feathers protruded from his shoulder, his grey tunic sleeve stained a shiny rust-colour by freely flowing blood. Two of his comrades were in the process of severing the arrow shaft so Glingaer could rejoin the main host to have the barbed tip removed by a healer at a more opportune time.

A more telling injury gaped on the meaty part of Glingaer’s thigh. Ragged edges of torn skin and muscle formed the perfect imprint of a fanged mouth a mere hair’s breadth from the great artery. The Orcs’ hunger had far exceeded their bloodlust. They lost interest in the ongoing battle the instant Glingaer had been shot down from his perch in one of the birches, and abandoned their ill-conceived raid to devour him. Borndis’ warriors had picked them off with ease as they squabbled over their prize. Only one had gained a single mouthful of Elf-meat for its troubles.

Glorfindel recalled Elrohir’s desperate plans to trek through the northern wilds by himself in search of Imladris. He shuddered at the realisation that this desolate stretch of grey moorland was where the life of Elrond’s second son would have come to a cruel and senseless end, had they failed to intercept him in time. One man alone -- even one as clever and quick as Elrohir -- stood little chance against a marauding band of famished Orcs. The ravenous beasts would have torn him to pieces the instant they caught his scent, leaving nothing but splintered bones for Elrond’s search parties to carry home to Imladris. Glorfindel possessed enough humility to acknowledge that Elrohir’s safe retrieval was not his own doing. Clear roads, favourable winds, news travelling quickly where it should and remaining far from where it should not -- all matters beyond Glorfindel’s or even Elrond’s control. A hand far mightier than theirs had reached out to change the course of Elrohir’s fate, deftly lacing a changed thread into Ëa’s very warp and weft. Glorfindel sent Ulmo another silent prayer of thanks for his long care for the children of the line of Tuor and Turgon.

He banished his dark imaginings by singing a staunching song over Glingear’s wound. Glingaer was a veteran of many campaigns. The good-natured Wood-elf could spare an anguished grin for his captain even as Glorfindel aided him to gingerly mount Asfaloth. Glorfindel turned to lead his injured warrior back to the main host, leaving Borndis to oversee the disposal of the Orcs.

As they were let through the ring of mounted spearmen a cold, drizzling rain began to fall.  Elrond dismounted to examine Glingaer, but amidst the bustle of horses and Elves he could not avoid Elrohir catching a glimpse of the bite before it could be bandaged. Elrohir’s eyes widened at the realisation that this was no ordinary war wound. His voice was carefully level in a way Glorfindel had last heard just before their final battle in Harad.  

“Who attacked us?” he asked in Haradi, clearly unwilling to proclaim his ignorance of what was obvious to everyone else.

Glorfindel replied in the southern tongue. “Creatures the Haradrim have no name for. We call them Orcs. Fear not, they were all killed.”    

“I have never seen one, can I go take a look?” Elrohir asked, probably seeking to confirm his misguided idea that Orcs could not possibly be as horrific as he had been told.

Celebrían, who learned a rudimentary knowledge of Haradi from Glorfindel, whipped around in her saddle at overhearing that. Glorfindel did not require his lady’s prompting on the matter. The sight of a burning pile of mangled cadavers was the very last thing Elrohir needed in his current state. He would see no more violence for as long as it took him to heal. If he met his first Orc in another long-year it would be too soon, Glorfindel thought with fierce protectiveness.

“You should stay here. I will show you drawings, when we are home. Ask me any time you want.”

Elrohir seemed to consider protesting, then thought the better of it and nodded. Elrond had finished packing Glingaer’s wounds and signalled for the company to depart once more, eager to move his sons away before the smoke from the Orcs’ pyre would reach them. The stench of burning flesh would frighten Elladan, and give Elrohir yet another disturbing reminder of horrors past.

The encounter had obviously destroyed what little peace of mind Elrohir had enjoyed in the company of the Elves. As they rode he constantly scanned the wind-swept moorlands. Elladan sensed his brother’s unease, and made a few fruitless attempts to engage him in practicing Sindarin. Elrohir would have none of it.  From the rigid set of his shoulders and the way his eyes darted to every small rustle in the undergrowth, Glorfindel could tell that his nerves were frayed. 

As soon as they had left the battle behind far enough to have neither sight nor smell of the dead, Elrond mercifully ordered that the day’s march was at its end despite the early hour. The weather was dark enough that midafternoon already looked like dusk, the westering sun indiscernible even to Elven eyes behind heavy clouds grey as ashes. The rain had picked up to a steady downpour, soaking rider and horse to the skin despite their oilcloth cloaks. 

Elrohir seemed bewildered by the daytime gloom. He was trying and failing to hide his shivering in his damp clothes and the scything wind. There was no dry wood for campfires to be had in such a deluge, but the shelter of a tent, a dry change of clothes and a drink of miruvor did them all some good. Glorfindel spared more than one thought for the sentries guarding them in the worst of the weather, setting short shifts to avail everyone of the opportunity to warm up inside. He gave up his own tent to the Silvan scouts who would normally sleep under the stars, and had his and Gildor’s cots moved to the twins’ tent.

 Elrohir had been among the first to be made warm and dry. He was sitting cross-legged on his camp bed, almost disappearing into the thick folds of a grey woollen blanket. It was a standard-issue bedroll of the guards of Imladris, skillfully woven to be warm even when damp. He had it tightly wrapped around his shoulders, looking well and truly miserable despite the smile he gave Glorfindel. He had clearly never been this cold in his entire life. Glorfindel was among those who once crossed the Grinding Ice and a chilly autumn day was nothing to him, but after experiencing the glowing furnace that was Harad he understood something of Elrohir’s plight. 

Elrond had finished tending Glingaer’s wounds and was seeing to his ailing son, his mask of the consummate healer firmly in place. There was deceptive levity to his face as he poured out a measure of miruvor for Elrohir from an engraved silver flask. Glorfindel only could tell how deeply concerned his lord really was. They were four days from Imladris at the very least, and today’s attack meant the pace would have to be slowed further to allow for more thorough scouting of the road ahead. A healthy Elf would hardly notice this weather, but another week of being cold, wet and afraid would sap what strength Elrohir had left. That he had given up his earlier pretense of being unaffected by the chill to sit bundled in the blanket was a telling sign. 

And cold it was. Even inside the tent their breaths came in white wisps that had entertained and alarmed Elrohir in equal measures when this first cold snap of the season began two days ago. There was no merriment in his eyes now, and he made no effort to hide his unease. 

“There might be more of them. Should we not be moving away?” 

Elrond was beside himself with concern for Elrohir, but he tried his utmost to convey a sense of the safety they all felt under the protection of Glorfindel’s warriors.

“Fear not. This was but a small band of displaced mountain Orcs. Judging from their ragged state they were scavengers, outcasts driven from the high passes over some quarrel with their den-mates. They were desperate enough to ambush our scouts for … supplies, but had neither the numbers nor the weaponry needed to engage the main host. None were left alive to spread word of our passing. Rest assured that we are well-guarded -- by more than sentries alone.”

Elrohir looked wholly unconvinced, but he did not dare contradict his father. Instead he sipped his miruvor in silence, concern writ large in his eyes. When the small cup was empty there was a bit of colour to his cheeks.

Elrohir silently watched the dying daylight on the dense curtains of rain through the open tent flap while Elrond, equally lost for words, watched Elrohir. Both Peredhil seemed caught on separate islands of fear. When neither could manage the words for a bridge, Glorfindel found another measure of good cheer.

“Elrohir, do admit that we have vastly improved your life. Just months ago your greatest concern was dying of thirst.”

Elrohir could not help but appreciate the irony, which would have appealed to any Haradrim’s keen sense of gallows humour.

“I thank you, Glorfindel, for providing me with all the water I could possibly need. Please don’t set me on fire if I ever complain of the cold.”   

With deep satisfaction Glorfindel watched father and son crack a nearly identical pair of wry smiles.  

Chapter 5

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Morning broke clear, cool, and wet. After a night of rain steadily drumming on the oilcloth tent roofs the clouds had drifted away to the east, leaving a sky blue as periwinkle to contrast the bright yellow-gold of the shedding birch trees. A flutter of sparrows flitted from branch to branch, seemingly undisturbed by the bustling of Elf-warriors and their horses beneath.

Elrohir inhaled deeply. The air itself smelled clean and new. Wet grass, glittering with myriads of tiny droplets, clung to his boots and breeches as he squelched his way to Rochael’s side. The poor mare looked bedraggled after a night in the downpour, steam rising from her back and hindquarters as she turned her body towards the weak northern sun to dry out. Elrohir wondered if she was as cold as he, or if the past night had been as nothing to this creature of the North, like a waterless day of scorching heat to a camel.

Out of habit, he mindlessly chattered to her in Haradi as he saddled and packed her, whispering the same silly nothings he would have told Ot to divert him from the tightening of the cinch.

The remembrance was suddenly painful, grief constricting his throat. Even as his breath hitched Rochael raised her head to lay her nose, wonderfully warm and soft, against his face. For an instant he flinched, afraid she might bite as his mercurial war camel undoubtedly would have done, but instead she appeared to breathe him in, her breath fragrant with fresh grass.

“She likes you.”

Celebrían smiled as she appeared beside him leading her palfrey. She had spoken Sindarin, and Elrohir marked it among the first sentences he fully understood in that language. He lacked the vocabulary needed to answer her and had to revert to Númenórean.

“She is a marvel.”

His mother eyed him wistfully before switching languages as well.

“Do you miss Ot?”

After a few days in his parents’ company Elrohir had almost grown used to their strangely detailed knowledge of every moment Glorfindel had spent with him in Harad. The name of his mount was among the less awkward snippets of information that abruptly found their way into various conversations. No matter how well-intended, it was more than a little disturbing and he suddenly wished for nothing more than to cut the conversation short.

“Ot would have bitten my face clean off.”  

She smiled, wholly unfazed by the grisly image. “And yet he was dear to you.”

For a moment Elrohir had the uncanny feeling she somehow knew or guessed that the only tears he had shed upon leaving Harad were for his parting from Ot.   

“He had his moments.”

Celebrían looked at him with searching eyes.

“Rochael cannot replace your friend, but she is special in her own right. She is a twin to Rochíril, your brother’s horse. For twin foals to thrive is a rare thing.”

She pensively stroked Rochael’s nose.

“Your father considered it a sign. He was convinced you would be found within the horse’s lifetime. Many thought it a grieving father’s folly. He takes particular satisfaction in seeing you ride her.”

Elrohir looked Rochael over once more. He did not dare ask Celebrían, but by the lightening of her dappled coat the mare had to be at least ten years old.

Ten years ago Elrohir had not the slightest thought to spare for any forgotten relatives he might have left behind in the North. Meanwhile these Elves had apparently summoned the foolish courage to rest such uncertain hopes on the fragile back of a horse. Elrohir was at a loss how he ought to feel about the knowledge. He opened his mouth to say something along the lines of an apology for his absence, for arriving even later than necessary, when she interrupted him.

“No apologies. None of this came about through any fault of yours.”

It seemed she wanted to raise her hand to touch him, but thought the better of it when she noticed they were among the last who were yet to mount, delaying the riding. Elrohir was deeply grateful they had been speaking Númenórean. At least some of the Elves had not understood what they overheard. Eager to escape their alien eyes on him he quickly mounted, taking his place beside Elladan as the cordon of warriors closed around them, the morning sunlight flickering off the points of their helms and spears like a constellation of daytime stars.

At Glorfindel’s command the column set itself in motion. Even this irrelevant matter the Elves achieved with grace and fluidity instead of the shouting, shrieks of bickering horses and brusque starts and stops that would inevitably mark the departure of so long a caravan elsewhere.

Elrohir stilled, passively letting Rochael follow in the tracks of Elrond’s destrier. In the wake of the Orc attack Elladan and he had been provided with helmets. Despite the image of supreme confidence Glorfindel  liked to cultivate, he was loathe to leave them vulnerable to stray arrows. These helms were as beautifully wrought as anything made by Elven hands, but the elegant side guards made Elrohir feel like a blinkered carthorse. Elladan caught his eye with a conspiratorial glance and a smile, the turn of his head equally awkward under the unfamiliar weight of metal.

Elladan was an enigma. It was obvious that no one in the company, including Elladan himself, considered him on par with the warriors. Elrond and Celebrían went well-armed, and by the knowing and efficient way they handled the blades both clearly had far more than a passing acquaintance with their use. Not Elladan, who appeared not just resigned to his alarming defenselessness, but fully accepting it as the natural state of things. The sight of a grown man of almost fifty treated like an overprotected child was unsettling.

Not that Elladan appeared at all childlike -- not after what he had suffered. Upon discovering the full extent of the scar that was their separation in his brother’s mind Elrohir had fought back tears of compassion and more than a little guilt. His own disturbing amnesia had been merciful, compared to the years of naked, untempered longing Elladan endured. The long sorrow left him both resilient and kinder than he might have been otherwise.

Elrohir’s musings were interrupted when Elrond turned around in his saddle, beckoning Elrohir to come ride beside him. He was cheerfully welcomed in Sindarin, and Elrond made a point of speaking no other language. Elrohir’s unease must have been palpable as he struggled, but the intense concentration needed to keep up left him no room to dwell on Orcs.

Elrond’s strange tutoring lasted for days of awkwardness, but simple necessity eventually brought back some of the language Elrohir once knew. By the day the convoy approached the hidden valley he had regained enough Sindarin to make himself understood about most simple matters, even if his Númenórean accent was so thick he had to keep from wincing of sheer embarrassment each time he opened his mouth.       

The spectacular road into Imladris never ceased to impress even those who had called it home for an age. To Elrohir it seemed a marvel. One moment he appeared to ride through an entirely unremarkable pine forest on endless moorland in the foothills of the snow-capped mountains in the east. The next, a sharp turn in the road revealed a deep valley cloven into steep, towering cliffs of craggy rock. Thundering waterfalls disappeared into forests of oak and beech just shedding the last of their yellow and russet foliage. Far beneath their feet the valley floor was a gently rolling quilt of green and gold -- rich pasture, apple orchards and the golden stubble of harvested wheat. Even this late in autumn the air carried a wholesome scent of freshness and growth.

A bright gleam of colour drew Elrohir’s eye towards the far end of the valley. The slanting light of sunset sparkled red, gold and green from the glazed roof tiles of a great house with many wings of ivory stone, built on the high banks of the Bruinen. A scatter of smaller cottages and outbuildings stood amidst the gardens in a seemingly disordered pattern that nonetheless pleased the eye. Had Elrond’s home been walled Elrohir would have called it a town rather than a house. Wood smoke spiraled into the cool evening air from many chimneys, an inviting promise of warmth. As Elrohir looked on the westering sun set every elegant roof line, column and window aglow until the entire dwelling appeared limned in light -- impossibly fair and drawn from an entirely different world.

Elrond and Celebrían kept a keen eye on Elrohir as he looked upon Imladris for the first time in forty years. If his utter lack of recognition disappointed them, they managed to hide it well.

A winding, treacherous track marked with white stones zig-zagged steeply down to the valley floor. At every twist the company was hailed by sentries keeping the path covered at bow shot from dizzying lookouts, cleverly hidden on the rugged cliff-faces above their heads. Once the guarded descent was past the river Bruinen, still quick and white-foamed so near the mountains, barred their path, and the riding had to cross in single file by a narrow bridge of carved silver-grey wood. The construction was remarkably light, its attachments designed to release in an instant should the valley’s defenders need to bar the crossing. Elrohir began to understand how this house had been spared in the war that ruined Eregion.

He kept a keen eye on the Elves as they entered the safety of their guarded realm. The sheer strangeness of them remained just as striking after a sennight in their midst. A rosy-cheeked warrior looking too young to grow a beard suddenly drew his bow and drove a succession of arrows, too fast for the eye to follow, into a the stump of a fallen tree, the white-fletched shafts cleverly aligned in a flower shape. Elrohir had known some excellent bowmen, but none who achieved such dizzying heights of skill before age would inevitably take their eyesight. The Elf’s female companion laughed, her perfect, milk-white teeth seeming more in place in the mouth of a young maid than a woman who had known life’s hardships.   

They did appear childlike at times -- jarringly so. Glingaer, the dark-haired Elf who was nearly devoured by an orc just days before, showed no sign of being at all affected or impressed by the experience. He was now enthusiastically leading half the company in a melodious chorus of what appeared to be a nonsensical nursery rhyme -- unless “Tra-la-lally!” would unexpectedly prove to have some deeper spiritual meaning in Sindarin.

Elladan seemed to find nothing unusual or disconcerting about their armed escort bursting into a children’s song about pancakes.

“They are Wood-Elves coming home, of course they are making merry! Do you not find it uplifting?”

Elrohir shot him a deeply skeptical look as he jumped to the only possible conclusion.

“Are they drunk?”

Elladan laughed. “They certainly will be, later tonight! For now they are simply glad to be home.”

Elrond brought his horse beside Elrohir’s. The Elf-lord, too seemed greatly relieved, but his eagerness was marred by apprehension. Elrohir noted that he spoke in Númenórean to make himself well understood.

“In an hour we will reach the house, and there will be a formal reception. Ardil will help you prepare. Know that we have kept the ceremonies to an absolute minimum. Your mother and I would have preferred to let you find your bearings first, but certain standards must be met, not in the least to establish your position in the household. We cannot achieve that by slinking you into the house unseen.”

A concerning amount of forethought seemed to have gone into the matter, with Elrohir blissfully unaware that there should be anything more to their arrival than unsaddling the horses. Elrond gave him a warm smile, softening the sternness of his words.

“We do not expect you to speak. You must only stand in your proper place on the dais, which is behind your mother and me, at your brother’s left. Elladan will guide you in all things. I will speak briefly before receiving my seal back from Erestor, who governed the household in my absence. When that is done Glorfindel will dismiss the guard. Keep your eyes on them as they salute, and stand still and straight. After we step inside the official part is done.”

Darkness had fallen when the company approached the house. Elrohir could not see much of it beyond the glow of backlit windows and the outline of high roofs. The great courtyard was lit by strings of crystal lamps, gold and white and silver, strung across the space on elegant chains. A crowd of excited Elves filled it to capacity -- a sea of upturned faces, pale in the flickering golden light. The gathered crowd was so large it spilled out onto the road, hemming the column of riders between rows of onlookers. Some Elves effortlessly balanced themselves on the bare grey branches of the great beech tree in the center of the courtyard.

Elrond and Celebrían were clearly well-loved here. When the head of the column rounded the last bend in the road the gathering took up a roaring cheer and chant. Elrohir understood only his own name, and even that became strange to him in their eerily beautiful voices. The clamour continued until the whole party had entered the courtyard.

Elrohir’s courage faltered under the weight of at least a thousand pairs of curious Elvish eyes. He was deeply grateful for being given a clean, finely embroidered surcoat to replace the travel-stained one he had worn from Tharbad, and the jewelled clips Ardil braided into his hair. Not that the looks he received held any malice -- it was almost embarrassing how overjoyed these perfect strangers appeared at the sight of their lord bringing in a very confused vagabond.

The daunting number of spectators was somewhat mitigated by the cheerfulness of it all. Clearly many were friends or relatives of the warriors, delighted to see their loved ones’ safe return from this dangerous expedition. At the sight of Glingaer’s bandaged leg a slender elf-woman with glittering hazel eyes and a dark braid woven with clumps of red berries called out a quip that had the entire company including Celebrían and Elladan roaring with laughter. Undaunted, Glingaer gave an exaggerated mock bow and threw her a kiss so salacious it sent everyone into another spin of mirth. Elrond was the only one to retain a very lordly gravity.

Elrohir could not muster as much as a smile as a flood of of homesickness struck him, a deep yearning to be among ordinary people and laugh with them at jokes he understood. It had been long enough since he last saw a friendly human face that he caught himself longing for the surly crew of the Beinalph .

The time of mirth abruptly ended when they approached the house itself. On the portico waited an imposing figure in stately robes of a deep burgundy. Erestor was ancient, Elrohir realised, with Tree-light in his gaze. Where Glorfindel was all golden radiance, this Elf was darker in both coloring and disposition, sable hair falling to the small of his back in a complicated pattern of braids tipped with silver. He was smiling, but merriment did not quite reach his strange eyes as they rested on Elrohir, seemingly appraising. One needed no knowledge of Sindarin, or Elves, to understand at once that here was one to be reckoned with by all who set foot in Imladris.

Elladan was Elrohir’s guide throughout what followed. His twin took it upon himself to be all that Elrohir was not: calm, collected and with a firm grasp of the proceedings. Their minds’ connection proved a well of reassurance. Elladan was closely directing his brother on when to dismount, where to stand, and what to do with his hands. Elrohir keenly felt how eager his twin was for him to make the best possible first impression. A stab of warm gratitude ran through him as he mirrored Elladan’s straight-backed posture. Elladan sensed it, and replied in kind without moving a muscle, eyes straight ahead to where Glorfindel lined up his warriors.

Elrond spoke briefly, his face nothing short of radiant. Elrohir had seen the Elf-lord’s tears on their first meeting, but only now did he fully grasp that underneath Elrond’s strange and commanding appearance he was somehow simply a man with his own emotions, which were perhaps more relatable than Elrohir had first believed. Not that Elrond should be considered transparent in any way. Elrohir knew better than to underestimate the ancient master of this strange place. From his confident manner, Elrond clearly knew what he was doing, and how it would be perceived.

Celebrían added a few words of her own -- more praise for Glorfindel -- who received another round of cheers. Erestor’s face remained schooled into the strange half-smile. When the speeches were done he handed Elrond a golden signet ring in what Elrohir thought was an unnecessarily pompous manner. The guard saluted smartly, but the instant Glorfindel called out his dismissal yet another rendition of "Tra-la-lally" rang through the courtyard even as the twins followed their parents into the house.        

The entrance hall was an imposing space. A vaulted ceiling was supported by columns of veined marble sculpted in the likeness of branching trees, as high and finely wrought as any of the lavish guild-halls Elrohir had seen in Pelargir. The splendour lay of this house more in celebrating the natural world than in ordering and subduing it in the manner of Men. The hall was brightly lit -- yet more eerie Elvish lamps-- and milling with organised chaos of Elves dashing to and fro.

Once everyone was inside Erestor turned around to face Elrohir. He was smiling, and now the expression did extend to the alien eyes looking him up and down. Elrond’s chief advisor might have flown to Imladris overnight straight from the imperial court of Umbar, so crisp and perfectly accentless was his Númenórean.

“Welcome home! It is a great joy to finally see you reunited with your family. My name is Erestor.”

Unsure how to address this Elvish dignitary, Elrohir quickly examined Elladan’s feelings for Erestor. His twin bore the formidable Elf a respect bordering on awe, and -- unsurprisingly -- a certain amount of apprehension.

“An honour to meet you, my lord.”

Judging from Elladan’s startled air that had been too much, but Elrohir’s years of slavery in Umbar had ingrained the habit of going overboard with the honorifics when in doubt.

Erestor cast Elrohir another appraising look. The depth of his gaze was unnerving, but when Erestor at last turned away to speak with Elrond and Celebrían Elrohir had the concerning impression that the formidable counsellor's eyes had a wet gleam.

 

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Chapter End Notes

And so Elrohir finally makes it back home! It took just 20 chapters in 3 stories posted over the course of a year ;-)
Now that his long journey is over I'd love to hear what you think of the story so far!

Next week we'll see the eventful first days of Elrohir's new life in Imladris.
Thank you for reading and giving feedback, and see you next week!

Idrils Scribe

Chapter 6

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The House of Elrond had an ephemeral quality, at once solid as carved stone and on the verge of shimmering away into another plane of existence. Small hairs on the back of Elrohir’s neck stood up - strange things were afoot in this place

The sorcery leaching into each breath he drew did not seem entirely unwholesome. The entire valley held a sharp brightness, as if they somehow stepped into some ancient tale of adventure and glory. The air itself thrummed with vibrancy, untainted and alive beyond any place Elrohir had ever known. It brought to mind a clean wind blowing in from the sea, carrying nothing but salt and foam. As he breathed it in some of the long ride’s weariness fell away, and he felt his spirits lift.

Suddenly the eerie tales from the Beinalph’s crew no longer seemed far fetched at all.  No one could set foot in a place like this and return unchanged. For mortal Men, to be touched by Elves was to be irreversibly altered. Elrohir was well acquainted with what Men in Harad would call magic. It had always been swiftly followed by bloodshed. He took a firm hold of his sudden panicked impulse to run and snuffed it. If Elves were anything like Ringwraiths, turning his back to them meant certain death.  

Elladan did perceive his anguish. He took Elrohir by the hand, the gesture all gentle reassurance as he led the way through the sprawling house. They walked through vaulted corridors with ceilings painted like a night sky of stars and up winding monumental stairs.

The Elves seemed buoyed by the very air of their home. Singing voices rang in cloisters fragrant with the last roses of autumn and loggias of sculpted ivory stone. At every window and open gallery sounded the ever-changing song of running water, a grounding counterpoint to the longing music. Their harmony was beautiful to the point of pain.

At last they passed through intricately carved double doors guarded by a silent pair of helmed and armoured spearmen, into a wing of the house that seemed given less to grandeur than quiet comfort. The bustling of Elves walking to and fro died down abruptly. Fragments of song elsewhere in the House filtered in, but in these apartments silence reigned and Elrohir relished the momentary relief from the strangeness. Elladan led him into a room hung with fair red and gold tapestries, sailing ships and charging knights, their embroidered figures almost leaping to life in the dancing light of candles. The air was fragrant with the resin of pine burning in the hearth.  

At the sight and smell a tidal wave of memory struck, sharp and painfully bright as the past relived. Elrohir had once been small enough to walk underneath that table. For a dizzying heartbeat two worlds existed at once. One where two little boys played a game, wooden pieces scattered across the floor as rain clattered against the windows. In the other he was a man grown with a much taller Elladan standing beside him. It was all he could do to remain upright as both universes spun and tilted. A hand reached out and steadied him until reality reasserted itself.

When the worst of the dizziness had passed Elrond let go. To his dismay Elrohir had no recall of the Elf-lord arriving, nor could he guess how long he had stood frozen on the threshold.  

Elrond looked at Elrohir expectantly. “Fear not. What struck you is memory as the Elves know it. What was it that came back to you?”

Elrohir rubbed his eyes. His mind felt unsettled, a boat pulled from its moorings at the mercy of the vagaries of wind and sea. “Elladan and I, playing a game in this room.”

He had to swallow a wad of emotion somewhere in his throat. “How can you bear it? It sweeps the mind away like a flood.”

Elrond laid his hands on Elrohir’s shoulders, as if to anchor him as he was gently but firmly led to a chair. The Elf was all warmth and reassurance.

“You are overcome with strangeness. It will pass.”

A cup of watered wine was set before him, its tart flavour a welcome anchor to the world outside Elrohir’s agitated mind. He could only be grateful the memory-spell had occurred here instead of outside, in plain sight of the entire courtyard. The strangeness of returning to a place once forgotten bit deeply. Without being told Elrohir knew which chair at the table had once been his. The sight of the room from that perspective was disturbingly familiar.

It robbed him of his last, tenacious kernel of doubt that this entire journey had somehow been an absurd misunderstanding, and somebody would soon notice and send him on his merry way home. At last Elrohir could no longer deny that he would never return to the life he left behind in Harad. Even so, this was not the time for mourning. He pushed back the rush of sorrow to focus on the faces of Elrond and Elladan. Hazy familiarity made Elrond’s inhuman eyes all the more unsettling. Suddenly Elrohir desperately wished to be free of that deep, knowing gaze. He rose to his feet.

“Thank you. I am well.”

Elrond smiled, but his concern was plain to see. His words were measured and careful.

“You should rest. The road has taken much of your strength.”

He was interrupted by a polite knock on the door. A solemn, dark-haired Elf appeared carrying Elrohir’s saddlebag, brought from the stables where it had gone with Rochael after they dismounted in the courtyard. He was struggling with the unwieldy thing, meant to be slung over a camel’s back. In these lofty surroundings the bag looked embarrassingly ragged. The worn and stained leather, patched and mended with many different threads, had weathered years of hard use. Elrond took it with a few words in Sindarin, and the servant retreated in silence.

Instantly there was a palpable tension to Elrond’s demeanour, and he spoke his next words with an uneasiness that seemed foreboding.

“You carried your belongings long and far, and I would keep them untouched by any hands save yours. The law of this house is that none may go armed, except the guards who defend us. To ensure your safety and that of all others here I must ask you to hand over your weapons for safekeeping.”

A cold weight of dread settled low in Elrohir’s chest. He had been glad of his knives a few times, alone with greedy men in dark corners of the Beinalph . Without them he would be defenseless. The favour of the Elves might yet prove a fickle thing. His fear ebbed at the realisation that he was surrounded by thousands of the creatures. After the awe-inspiring spectacle of Glorfindel’s battle fury Elrohir harboured no illusions. No amount of weaponry would save him if his hosts should come to wish him ill.

Silence descended on the room and two pairs of Elvish eyes looked at him expectantly. A reply was in order, and to rail against the inevitable seemed futile at best, dangerous at worst.

“As you wish.”

Elrohir carefully kept his eyes on the leaping fishes engraved on the silver cup of watered wine before him, offering no resistance. The awkward silence dragged on. Elrohir’s resignation seemed to distress, rather than please Elrond.

“I understand this is difficult to believe, but you have never been safer than you are now. No one in this valley poses the slightest danger to you, and between us and the darkness outside stands more than walls alone. There is no need to defend yourself against anything. No harm will come to you in this house. ”

Elrohir nodded mutely, his thoughts on foul enchantments, and knives in the dark. Despite the cold terror gripping his heart he did as he was told. To deceive one as far-sighted as Elrond was beyond Elrohir’s skill and he knew it. He had no desire to learn how disobedience might be punished among Elves.

He carefully undid the intricate string of knots on the bag’s ties. The pattern of knots was uniquely Elrohir’s own, and he noted with relief that it was indeed undisturbed from when he had fastened it that morning.  At least in this, it would seem Elrond had spoken the truth.

The first layer of contents was threadbare sailor’s garb from Gondor. Underneath lay turbans and tunics from Harad, still marked with faded bloodstains of battles past. Even after all these months a slight ghost of the comforting smells of the desert lingered, coal fires and camels. Elrohir was tempted to breathe it in ere it would evaporate forever, but he restrained himself. He could ill afford sentimentality in sight of the one who now held his life in his hands. What Elrond wanted sat hidden in the garments’ rolled up lengths, and Elrohir laid all of it out on the table.

First he brought out his scimitar, looted from the very first Black Númenórean Elrohir had killed long ago, and still bearing scratches where he had filed off the eye-shaped sigil of the Lords of Umbar. The wooden hilt was well-worn by years of hard use, but the blade had been fastidiously whetted, lethally sharp. Beside it came his knives, brought out from various hiding places. The small ones in his belt and boot, and his dirk, long and slender for stabbing through neck- and armholes of armour. He even offered up the skinning knife he used when hunting. Last to be relinquished was his crossbow, neatly disassembled and rolled in an indigo turban at the very bottom of the pack with its iron-tipped bolts. Elrohir’s hands went through the motions of putting it back together of their own accord, guided by the long habit of meticulous care for this precious thing that had saved his life countless times. Laying it down with everything else, unstrung, was the hardest thing he had done in a long time.  

He turned to Elrond.

“This is everything.”

Both of them knew it was the truth. Elrond smiled, but there was no joy in it as he gathered up the weapons.

“Have no fear of losing what you gave me. All these will be held for you as keepsakes.”

Elladan was staring at both weapons and gear with consternation, as if he had never seen a soldier’s kit before. His childlike innocence was disturbing. Not for the first time Elrohir wondered what, exactly, Elladan did with his days.

Elrond gathered the weapons in a bundle, which he carefully rolled in a linen cloth, presumably to keep them out of sight of passers-by in the hallway.

“Elrohir. I regret having to begin your life here by taking what is yours. It is a sad necessity you will come to understand, in time. Try to rest now. I imagine you would prefer to eat here tonight, and forego the dining hall. But we are all in dire need of a bath first!”

With that he smiled, clearly in search of solidarity for their travel-stained state. Elrohir felt a sudden spike of anger at this honey-tongued Elf who had so casually robbed him of his sense of safety, and now had the gall to expect a smile in return. Remembering in time the folly of displeasing someone who had him at his mercy, he managed to produce a rote, wooden grin. Instantly he was certain that Elrond knew, the hurt of rejection flashing in those alien eyes.

Elrohir did not want to feel sympathy for this great lord, or begin to understand the Elf’s sorrow at finding mistrust and estrangement where he must have expected something else entirely. He had enough problems of his own.

Instead of rebuke he received gentleness.

“I will not ask you not to be afraid. I might as well order you to sprout wings and fly around the valley. It will pass, given time.”

With that he took up the bundle of weapons and left. Elrohir felt himself shake as if he had run for miles. He would have liked to think it was exhaustion, or even anger. Both he and Elladan knew it was the abject terror of a deer before a pack of snarling wolves.

 

Elladan knew better than to offer childish comfort. What Elrohir needed was distraction, and Elladan delivered. He led Elrohir to a room covered in sea-green tiles where a steaming tub stood ready. Elrohir was well aware he had not seen the inside of a bathhouse since Pelargir. The sour smell of his own unwashed hair had grown so unpleasant he became glad of the Elvish braids keeping it out of his face. All unease pushed aside at this rare delight, he sank into the copper tub with a sigh of bliss, and could not resist taking his good time scouring himself with the almost forgotten luxury of real soap.

Cleaner than he had been since the start of the desert war, Elrohir dressed in the Elvish clothes that had been laid out. They fit him far better than what he had been given to wear on the road. Some fast-fingered seamstress had already altered the sleeves and hemline. With the clothes came soft-soled boots and a belt with a silver clasp engraved with yet another six-pointed star.

He pulled a fine-toothed comb through the uneven strands of his hair. In Harad he would have visited a barber to have it neatly cropped short before he could be civilised company once more. A haircut was out of the question here. Every single Elf he had met thus far, man or woman, wore their hair long and braided, down to the small of their back. The mere sight of Elrohir’s, barely jaw-length, had brought Celebrían and several others to the verge of tears. Admitting that he used to have it cut regularly -- by his own choice! -- caused such consternation he had not dared repeat the tale. Among Elves, ‘hair-cutter’ was an insult rather than an honest trade.

 

----

Celebrían found herself alone with her husband for the first time in a fortnight of emotional turmoil. She stood still for an instant to drink in the comforting familiarity of their bedroom with its arras embroidered with flowering mellyrn. Her esquire had removed her riding boots and mail, but before Baralin could start on the fastenings of her gambeson Celebrían had dismissed both her and Elrond’s manservant, eager for the opportunity to speak with Elrond without inevitably being overheard by their travel companions through thin canvas tent walls.

She had been headed for the bath that had been drawn for them when she brusquely turned around and walked back into Elrond’s embrace with a small sound between a sob and a sigh. He wrapped his arms and mind around her, grieved that he was powerless to make any of this better for her overnight.

An exquisite agony it had been. Elrond’s gasp of sorrow had resonated through both their hearts at the sight of their son lean with hunger, his beautiful hair cropped pitifully short, the way he politely refrained from stepping back when she tried to touch him but could not keep from stiffening. The worst of it had been those familiar eyes, so lively in Elladan’s identical face. Elrohir had his perpetually guarded. His expression changed as he smiled and spoke, but he never showed his mind if he could possibly help it.  

The harsh lessons of many wars had taught both Elrond and Celebrían better than to take their wishes for reality. They never harboured any illusions that Elrohir would be unaffected by his ordeal. From the ruined state of the escaped thrall who first put them on Elrohir’s trail, and Glorfindel’s tales of darkness, war and desperation there could be little doubt he would return under a shadow. The forewarning failed to make it any more bearable.

Elrond drew back from their embrace, always seeking to comfort. He took her face between his gentle hands and kissed her, softly and full of warmth.

“We knew he would be injured, and healing it a long work.”

Celebrían found herself absurdly grateful for being allowed to hope. “You do believe there is healing for his … shadow, on this side of the sea?”

He did not insult her with false comfort. “I will go the the very ends of my ability before I would even consider looking West.”

Dread knotted heavily in Celebrían’s chest, and she distracted herself by busying her hands. Elrond understood her without words. He sat on the carved stool kept in most Elvish bathrooms for that very purpose so she might undo his austere warrior’s braids. He leant into her hands as she deftly loosened each tie and removed the silver clasps.

“If not for Elladan he would never have come.” Celebrían said, relieved that this sad truth could finally be spoken aloud. “We are completely strange to him, in every sense of the word.”  

She combed her fingers through Elrond’s waist-length locks, releasing the scent of the cedar oil they had been braided with. He had never suffered the unspeakable indignity of having his hair cut, not even at the hands of the kinslayers. She wondered how long it would take for Elrohir’s to grow enough that the mere sight of him would no longer remind of cruelty.   

With his hair prepared for washing Elrond rose. Wordless in the easy habit of long years they switched positions. His fingers were skilled and gentle as he freed her silver hair from its stiffly plaited coronet without snag or pull. He, too tended to dwell on his troubles while his hands were occupied.

“Elrohir is afraid of us -- of me more than you. He watches my every move so carefully, as if he expects me to bewitch him when his back is turned.”

Celebrían sighed. “He fears being imprisoned. Ardil tells me he was asking about the sentries.”          

Elrond shuddered. “What is this madness, that drives us to guarding our own child like a prisoner? It did Elu Thingol little good, and it will bring us nothing but ill fate.”

As ever, Celebrían’s thoughts went less to ethics and historical precedent, and more towards practicality. She eyed him wryly.

“Lúthien was fully grown into her powers. When the same can be said of Elrohir he may depart with all my blessings. Snow will be thick on the ground soon enough. He has no concept of winter, or Orcs. To let him leave would be to kill him.”

She paused, thinking.

“In fact, the one good thing to come from our brush with those Orcs is to drive that home. It will deter him.”

 

----

 

The evening meal was a quiet affair, served by the same silent servant who had brought Elrohir’s bag. Elrohir could tell that great care was being taken not to aggravate him any further, the conversation as light and unthreatening as the food was heavy. Unlike Elladan, Elrohir was served liberal amounts of unwatered wine with his roast beef and buttered greens. It seemed his hosts badly wanted him to sleep.

Elrond and Celebrían took their leave after the meal. Elladan alone led Elrohir to what were to be his rooms.

“Ardil will spend the night in your anteroom, call him if you need anything.”

Elrohir nodded silently, well aware that Ardil’s presence had more to do with keeping him from leaving, than anyone else from entering.

Elladan fussed for a long time, clearly unwilling to leave Elrohir alone. After building up the fire he poured even more wine despite Elrohir’s protests, until there truly was nothing left to do and Elladan left his brother behind with a final, tight embrace.

In complete silence Elrohir set to exploring. The door to the anteroom, carved in a repeating motive of stylized stars, had neither latch nor lock. The disturbing knowledge that he might wake to a strange Elf standing over him kept all desire for sleep at bay. He sorely missed the safety of Elladan’s presence, but his twin was deeply engrossed in whatever conversation he was now having. Leaving this room in search of Elladan might violate a curfew of some kind, and Elrohir did not relish the thought of confronting his personal sentry once more. He would have to take this in hand himself, and he knew how to improvise.  

He surveyed the room with calm efficiency. Like the rest of Imladris it was Elven-fair, every object within a work of art - from the russet whorls of the walnut floor to the ceiling of cream-coloured stone, with a whimsical nesting bird carved in one corner of the cornice.  

Both the curtained bed and the wardrobe were solid oak, far too heavy for him to lift. An attempt to drag them across the room was sure to raise alarm. By the desk stood a lacquered wooden chest, decorated with a frieze of galloping horses. Inside he found a bewildering array of writing implements. The various glass ink-bottles would rattle if he should try to move its heavy bulk. He soundlessly lowered the lid again.

Finally his eye came to rest on the elegant spindle-legged chair at the desk.

Whisper-quiet Elrohir lifted the chair, to gently tip its carved back against the door. He searched the room once more. The desk held a writing set of quill holder and ink-pot on a matching metal tray, finely engraved with a pattern of vines and leaves. Dropped to the hardwood floor from a height it would make enough of a racket to raise the deepest sleeper. Careful not to drop the tray he balanced it atop the chair. The improvised construction might not make for an effective barricade, but it would serve to keep even the stealthiest Elf from surprising Elrohir in his sleep.

He turned his attention to the windows. The curtains had been drawn for the night. They were of the same heavy, night-blue silk as the bed curtains, embroidered with a pattern of interweaving stars. To his relief the set glass panes underneath latched on the inside. Outside there was nothing to see but darkness and the reflection of his own pale face. The ever-present murmuring of the Bruinen sounded close by. Presumably the room overlooked the river.

One more matter was left to attend to before Elrohir could chance sleep. With so many quills, how could there not be a pen-knife to sharpen them? Another search through the chest yielded only perfectly tipped goose feathers. Elrond had anticipated this line of reasoning.

The tiled side-room meant for his ablutions held nothing usable. The only object in the room that could conceivably serve as a weapon was the poker hanging beside the hearth. Its handle was cleverly shaped into another running horse. Whoever had equipped this room seemed rather fond of them.

As ill at ease as he was, Elrohir could not bring himself to soil the fresh, crisply folded bed linen by laying the soot-covered thing beside him. It would not do to antagonise the housekeeper on his very first day. He wiped the poker on an old rag from his bag as best he could, and placed it on the floor by the bed.    

Finally he removed his boots and carefully draped his overtunic over the chest before snuffing the candles and turning in. Despite the comfort of feather pillows sleep eluded him for a long time as he listened to the unfamiliar sounds of the river, the great house around him and distant song echoing through the valley. Once he thought he recognized Glingaer’s voice, leading a chorus of some kind. Whatever merry words the Elf was singing, Elrohir did not understand.

---

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy the story! If you do, please consider leaving a comment!

 

Chapter 7

Read Chapter 7

Clang!

In a single, fluid stroke of muscle memory Elrohir rolled to the floor, poker in hand,  brandishing it at the intruder who had set off his trap. The pink light of dawn spearing through the curtains was harsh on his sleep-blurred eyes.

In the doorway a copper-haired Elf-woman stood contemplating the toppled chair at her feet and her lord’s son crouching with a makeshift weapon. None of it seemed to particularly bother her, as if she was merely witnessing some quaint and charming foreign tradition.

All Elves were fair. This one was no exception, but hers was the everyday beauty of a small, resilient wildflower. Her milk-pale face had an air of sprightly efficiency. From the keys at her belt, she had to be some kind of housekeeper. She carried a tray with a loaf of white bread the size of a child’s head, a covered plate and what appeared to be a steaming cup of tea of some description. She carefully set it down on the desk before turning to Elrohir with a smile so warm he instantly lowered the poker, acutely embarrassed.

“I do realise you didn’t send for any of this, but I honestly couldn’t wait to see you. I didn’t expect to find you still abed. You were always such an early riser, and Calmion reckoned you would probably want eggs. There’s milk in your tea. I hope you don’t mind it being goat’s, the cows still haven’t come down from the high meadows with the weather so unseasonable. I’m expecting Doronion any day now, Yavanna willing!”

Elrohir could only stare at her silently as he rose from his defensive crouch, poker dangling by his side. She appeared to take it as encouragement, setting the fallen chair back in its place and unloading her tray as she kept up a constant stream of friendly, but utterly incomprehensible chatter.

“... and so I said to Glireth, of course he’s going to want a pair of skis, what’s that boy going to do all winter while his brother goes a-flying down the western slopes? She’s carving them even now, I reckon, which is quite a gesture on her part because she’s supposed to be making bows these days, and Lord Glorfindel sure won’t approve of those being delayed!”

She proffered the cup with an expectant look.

Wholly out of his depth at the notion that Elladan being capable of flight would somehow lead to Glorfindel’s bows arriving late, and half-convinced he had misunderstood most of her rapid Sindarin, Elrohir accepted it with his left hand, giving her a nod and smile he could only hope was more friendly than sheepish.

She deftly stepped up, relieved him of the poker and returned it to its holder with clear relief.

Suddenly her manner became serious. “You have no recollection of me, do you?”

Relieved she had reached that conclusion without needing him to say it outright, Elrohir nodded once more.   

“My name is Laerwen. I am your former nurse, and currently the chatelaine.” If she was disappointed when her name failed to incite any recognition, she hid it well.  

“Well met, Laerwen. My name is Elrohir.”

The moment the rote politeness left his mouth he knew it sounded idiotic. Laerwen seemed more inclined to tears than laughter.

“I know, child. It has been less than half a long-year since I last saw you.”

Elrohir wondered how old this deceptively fresh-faced maiden would turn out to be. There was no telling, with Elves. He did not venture to ask, not knowing whether such a question would be considered rude. Laerwen eyed him intently once more, her former chattiness abruptly cut short. When she spoke her tone was matter-of-fact.

“You may look like there isn’t a scratch on you, but hurt you are and no mistake. Whatever this wound of the fëa might be, I’m sure your father will find healing for it. Meanwhile you should eat something, ere the north wind carries you off like a dry leaf.”  

She lifted the lid off the covered dish she had brought, releasing steam and the mouth-watering smell of something cooked and wholesome.

“I’ll leave you to it. It’s good to have you back, sweet. May you be well soon.”

She abruptly turned and left with brisk efficiency, closing the door behind her. Elrohir could not shake the feeling he had somehow gravely disappointed her.

Unwilling to dwell on it further he cautiously eyed the plate on the desk. Eggs were eggs wherever one went, and these were scrambled with butter and herbs. The unidentifiable flecks of green briefly concerned him, but he tucked in regardless. Elves were highly effective creatures. If they meant to poison him they would not have wasted a week’s worth of opportunities.  

 

-----

 

A mystic aura of  preternatural omniscience was a thing worth cultivating when in charge of a large household, and Celebrían had learned from the very best. Even without the teachings of her formidable mother she knew something was afoot the moment Laerwen entered her study. In the bright light of mid-morning the chatelaine of Imladris squirmed under her burden of guilt like an over-laden packhorse, and Celebrían would wager her best hunting bow that the matter somehow involved Elrohir.

Laerwen tended to respond far better to the carrot than the stick.

“Something weighs you, Laerwen. Why not unburden yourself?”

The lack of resistance clearly showed that Laerwen had sought out her lady to do just that.

“I went to bring Elrohir his breakfast this morning, my lady.”

“So I heard. A rather … spontaneous departure from usual meal arrangements, but welcoming nonetheless.”

Celebrían carefully withheld her approval. Laerwen squirmed.

“I only wanted to see him. I know it’s not my place, not being family, but he was such a dear little boy and I thought, what harm could it do if I brought him his breakfast?”

Celebrían shot her a look of alarm. “Yet you believe it somehow did?”

Laerwen drew a long breath in an attempt to buy some time before speaking her mind.  “He appears … strange-tempered, my lady. When I startled him awake he seemed to think I was an Orc. He would have fought me, I believe. One might worry that those wraiths in the wild southlands could have gotten a hold of his mind, like the Morgoth did with his thralls in the evil days. But then, Lord Elrond would surely notice such a thing and have just the cure for it, would he not?”

Celebrìan eyed her chatelaine with barely concealed alarm.The overt suspicion in Laerwen’s eyes made her heart skip a beat in sudden terror. Her chest seemed too small to hold enough air for her to breathe. If this idea should spread through the valley it might prove disastrous to Elrohir.

Laerwen had been Celebrían’s right hand in overseeing the Last Homely House ever since her marriage. Once chosen for her aptitude at wrangling the gaggle of merry Grey-elves who kept the house running smoothly, what set her apart most of all was her immovable discretion. Never had the slightest morsel of gossip about the private dealings of Elrond’s innermost circle escaped from under Laerwen’s strict and conscientious oversight. Celebrían could only hope their chatelaine’s silence would hold under the weight of her fear. Never did she have greater need of Galadriel’s skill of projecting the image of the wise and unflappable lady despite great inner turmoil.  

“I assure you he is injured, rather than possessed. Surely the household of Elrond, barely a long-year after the Siege of Barad-Dûr, can accommodate one more strange-tempered soldier still fighting battles past? We have found healing for all of them,  and we will manage it with Elrohir, too.”

Laerwen folded her hands in her lap and considered Celebrían’s words. All in Imladris had witnessed strange behaviour from returned warriors caught in webs of memory. The fall of Eregion, the Siege and the Last Alliance had seen to that. She did not have the heart to point out how many of them had ultimately needed to look beyond the Sea for peace.

Elves took great delight in children, and Laerwen had loved Elrohir deeply. His long absence had neither diminished nor gentled that fierce protectiveness. Celebrían could see the realisation of her own foolishness sink in.

“I meant to make him feel welcome, but all I achieved was to frighten him, did I not?”

Celebrían nodded.

“Tell the staff to keep out of Elrohir’s room. He is perfectly capable of tending his own fire. Tell them …”

Celebrían’s voice wavered. Laerwen stood, hesitantly. Imladris was not the most formal of households, but nonetheless it was with trepidation that she laid a comforting hand on her Lady’s shoulder.

“... tell them he is ill. He will be well soon.”

When the door closed behind Laerwen a tide of despair washed over Celebrían. It filled her to overflowing until she needed to vent it lest she burst like a wine-skin left in the sun. But who to trust, with this? Elrond sat in a meeting, one she could feel was going less than smoothly.

There was one other with whom she could ruminate the ugly details of Elrohir’s condition without fear of endangering her son’s reputation. He already knew more than she did at any rate.

She found the captain of the guard in his study. One of his lieutenants was briefing him on the state of Imladris’ defenses in his absence. Between them on the table was a much-annotated map displaying the most recent Orc-sightings and the likely course of their underground connections.

As ever, Glorfindel looked both martial and splendid. The tunic of his deceptively simple guards’ uniform shimmered with interlacing patterns of celandine and the star of Eärendil, embroidered in threads of a lustrous grey silk. At the sight of her, he rose and dismissed his officer with a friendly word.

“Celebrían, how can I help?”

One could justly criticise Glorfindel for his peacock-like tendencies, but none could deny he was a deeply kind Elf. Suddenly tears burned behind her eyelids.

“Is aught amiss with Elrohir?”

She had to breathe deeply and compose herself to keep tears out of her voice.

“Many things, I believe, but Laerwen is why I am here. This morning she entered his room unbidden, startled him from sleep and found herself threatened with violence. She has come away with the notion Elrohir may be possessed by the Enemy. I have done my utmost to dispel this, and remind her of the discretion of her office, but if the idea should spread I fear for Elrohir’s welcome here.”

Celebrían sent Glorfindel a searching look. “You have seen Morgoth’s Elf-thralls, in the War of the Jewels. Does Elrohir remind you of them?”

For a moment Glorfindel sank into memory. When his sky-blue eyes focused once more he was decisive.

“Not at all. What set the thralls apart was their inability to act against Morgoth’s interests and their excessive, mindless fear of him. When I found Elrohir he was at war against the servants of the Enemy, viciously so, and in that he struck me as reckless rather than craven.”  

Celebrían hesitated, afraid to bring up what had haunted her ever since she turned her feet towards Glorfindel’s office.

“Forgive my opening old wounds, but what of Maeglin? You had dealings with him after Morgoth returned him to Gondolin unharmed, hiding his betrayal. With the benefit of hindsight, were there no tells?”

A darker hint of pain entered Glorfindel’s face. For him to drop his usual front of mirth and optimism to reveal the ancient scars below was a rare thing indeed, and Celebrían instantly regretted her frankness. Instead of being eased, this day’s pain apparently multiplied upon being shared.

“Maeglin, like all those set free by the Dark Lord, was placed under the spell of bottomless dread. It caused  him to wander as in a dream of fear, and he constantly felt Morgoth’s eyes burning on him from afar. Maeglin resumed his public life and his seat on the King’s council. He did not do a thing amiss, but we should have noticed his inactions, too. He no longer worked, which is to be remarked upon in the peerless smith he admittedly was.”

Glorfindel sighed.

“The knowledge is of little use today. None of us know Elrohir well enough to tell whether he is acting out of the ordinary. I doubt he would know it himself, under the circumstances”

His long, agile fingers idly folded the edges of the map before him, creasing the fine vellum.

“The best consolation I can offer you is this: we of Gondolin did not see the evil in our midst because we never thought to look. You have that advantage, at least. I have carefully used what Sight I have during my time with Elrohir, both in Harad and the North. Not once did I perceive aught but himself within his mind. Neither have you, it would seem, and I do not hold your talent for it in any small esteem. Our certainty in itself may suffice to still any wagging tongues. As ever, the smallest minds will prove the hardest to move to acceptance.”

----

Despite himself Elrond straightened his back at the knock on his study door, resisting a sudden, annoying urge cover the speech he was drafting.

Ardil was seen in by Istiel, one of Elrond’s younger aides. She was a tall Noldorin woman from a family formerly of Gondolin. She lingered by the door, an uncharacteristic display of curiosity. Istiel knew all too well this conversation could only pertain to Elrohir. Taking her good time in pouring unasked-for cups of wine for her lord and his visitor might allow her to catch word of his condition. Disappointed with the blatant lack of discretion, well-intentioned though it doubtlessly was, in one he considered a promising diplomat Elrond pointedly held his tongue until the wine was set out, then summarily dismissed her.    

Briefly presenting Elrohir to all of Imladris to his best advantage before spiriting him away to the family apartments had been both necessary and kind. He had held himself well, all things considered.

Even so, the short glimpse of him showing the unmistakable signs of fading had set the household and the valley beyond astir with wildly contagious rumor: Elrohir was on the verge of death and had secretly been rushed to the Havens that very night. Elrohir had been carried to Imladris by the grace of Ulmo with a message from the Lord of the Waters Himself. Elrohir was a prisoner, being interrogated by his own father on charges of collaboration with the Enemy. Erestor was already elbow-deep in digging out the more deleterious whispers by their spiteful roots, but a decisive official statement from the Lord of the Valley was sorely needed, and soon.

Elrond set his dark musings aside along with his notes. With a smile, the warmth of which was entirely borne of an age’s experience as a courtier, he turned to his visitor.

Ardil’s formal bow was faultless and respectful as ever. On this first morning after their return to Imladris Elrohir’s guard bore no signs of weariness from either the journey or his vigil. He looked lithe and sharp as a Sindarin blade in his crisp grey uniform and austere braids. It would take far more than a night’s watch to make a dent in the stoic exterior: the ancient warrior of Doriath was as much of an old warhorse as Celeborn, his formidable lord.  

As he directed Ardil to one of the carved chairs before his work table, Elrond dreaded the conversation they were about to have. It was no secret that Ardil’s loyalty lay with the one-time Prince of Doriath and his descendants. The valour and dedication of Celeborn’s personal guard was a byword among Sindar and Noldor alike. They brought Celeborn out of both sackings of Doriath alive, and their former captain would doubtlessly lay down his life for Celebrían and her children should the need ever arise.

Despite his own Sindarin royal blood Elrond knew himself excluded from that devoted allegiance on account of his Fëanorian upbringing, regardless of how involuntarily he had come by it. The Lord of Imladris would never allow Celeborn’s man to see how deeply that knowledge stung even after two ages.

“Well met, Master Ardil. How did this night treat you?”

Ardil saw no need to pretend it was his own wellbeing Elrond was inquiring about.

“Elrohir slept well enough, barring the unfortunate incident with Mistress Laerwen. He appears quiet as ever this morning. Elladan and he are in the lady’s garden now, with Borndis keeping watch. I shall relieve her when we are finished here.”

Elrond shot him an inquisitive look.

“Will you not be writing your letters to my good-father today?”

With most Galadhrim parties travelling between Imladris and Lórien secretly went a scroll in Ardil’s spidery hand, destined for Celeborn’s eyes alone. Those dispatches held the sort of news that tended not to grace Elrond and Celebrían’s own letters. Ardil had been left in the belief the Lord of Imladris was unaware of this state of affairs. Elrond managed to suppress his smile at the thought. Erestor probably had copies on file.  

The faintest flicker of surprise lit Ardil’s eyes before he decided denial would be useless.

“I have compiled most of my dispatch overnight. Is there anything in particular you would have me mention?”

“No. But certain things you should omit, in Elrohir’s best interest.”

Elrond was momentarily vexed at having to tolerate this pawn of Celeborn’s, not merely among his warriors but in the innermost sanctum of his family life. Celebrían revered her guardian from girlhood. The debates between her and Elrond on who was to guard Elrohir had been fiery, to say the least. When it came to her children, Celebrían was Celeborn’s scion. No Noldorin warrior in Imladris, no matter how venerable his age or undisputed his loyalty, could contend with this stubborn Sinda for the position of greatest trust in her household.

The fellow had enough sense of self-preservation to show no trace of insolence in his matter-of-fact reply.

“I would have Elrohir’s grandparents aware of his illness, so they may plan accordingly.”

The implications made Elrond gasp in pained shock and anger.

“You would invite them to his burial rites before we have even attempted to heal him?”

Ardil shook his head, his sorrow suddenly evident.

“I would grant them the opportunity to meet him, and say their farewells before he is taken to the Havens.”

Elrond straightened himself, well aware his larger frame would tower over the slender Sinda. His tone was acerbic

“All that my son requires to become well again can be found here, at home. Peace is what Elrohir needs most of all. I would grant him at least a year’s worth of it before burdening him with yet more estranged relatives. My good-father’s talents are many, but never has he been known for either his gentle demeanour or his rapport with Mortals. As for my Lady good-mother -- she is wise beyond knowing, yet her thought-opening has all the subtlety of a warhammer. As you have observed so astutely Elrohir has one foot in Mandos’ halls. In his current state the pair of them will frighten him the rest of the way there.”  

The outburst was a blessed relief. Elrond found no small amount of satisfaction in seeing Ardil dumbstruck for the first time in two long-years of acquaintance.

A heavy silence descended on the study, broken only by their breathing. Elrond imagined he could feel discord thrumming in the air between them.

“What would you have me do?” the ancient warrior finally asked, utterly calm and collected.

Already embarrassed at his own loss of composure, Elrond softened his expression.

“I shall not ask you to lie, even by omission. Merely that you include my advice, as a healer, and request, as a father, that they refrain from travelling to Imladris for the time being. Either Elrohir will improve, giving them all the time in Arda for a more opportune meeting, or he will not. In that case they shall be most welcome to join our riding to the Havens come spring.”

The mere thought of that pilgrimage of sorrow made something in Elrond’s chest constrict.

“Is he certain to live through the winter, in your opinion?”

The question pained Ardil nearly as much as it did Elrond, but his Sindarin practicality prevailed.

Elrond sighed. “He survived months of solitude to reach Tharbad alive. Elladan’s presence has strengthened him. I see no reason why he should succumb now.”

Ardil was not a heartless man, and he was a father himself. Elrond knew he once raised three fine sons of his own, now long grown into full-fledged marchwardens of Lórien. Sympathy was in his gaze as he rose and bowed.

“I shall do my utmost to be convincing. Rest assured that all tidings to reach Lórien regarding your son’s health will advise lord Celeborn to exercise restraint. This said, my lord’s final decision is out of my hands.”

Elrond smiled. “If both you and I counsel him to patience, we are sure to receive just that.” In a burst of generosity he added, “My thanks for your care for both my sons.”

Ardil bowed deeply once more, in the formal style of his native Doriath.

“I am honoured by the trust placed in me, my lord. Rest assured that in this matter we are wholly united in our purpose. Whatever you deem necessary for your son’s health shall be done to the best of my ability.”   

Resisting the temptation to enquire for what other purposes they might not be so united, Elrond dismissed Ardil.  

 

-----

 

Elladan and Elrohir had perched themselves on one of the carved stone benches of the terrace overlooking Celebrían’s gardens, Elrohir bundled up in a fur-lined cloak against the unfamiliar chill. The twins had been deliberately left to each other’s company that morning, and at Elrohir’s request they had gone outside. His first day in Imladris was clear, jewel-bright and cold. Winter sun caught in the hoarfrost clinging to every twig and blade of grass in the garden below and the pine forest covering the valley’s slopes, setting all the world to sparkle. Elrohir leaned his head back to marvel at the jagged peaks of the Misty Mountains towering over the valley, snow already covering them to the upper vales.

Elladan still felt the glow of Elrohir’s astonished joy at seeing ordinary water transformed. He had even plucked an ice-bauble from one of Celebrían’s prized rowan trees to taste and confirm that it was indeed nothing but water.

Elladan had laughed merrily at his brother’s momentary childlike glee.

“When the first snow falls you can shovel it straight into your mouth!”

His Sindarin insufficient for witty repartee, Elrohir had delivered a good-natured punch to Elladan’s shoulder, and even that small pain was a joy.  

Elladan cast his eyes to where Borndis sat cross legged on the frosted grass, her back against one of the rowans. Their guard appeared to contemplate the twittering flock of darting redwings and robins fattening up on the last of the rowanberries. Elladan was not fooled for an instant. The warrior’s meditative state would prove short-lived if Elrohir should stray from the garden.

Borndis clearly showed her Silvan blood, both in her litheness and her love for Yavanna’s creatures. As the twins watched she warbled a brief tune, and was promptly answered by one of the thrushes. The pretty red-striped bird landed on her outstretched hand, turning its clever, beady eye to hers.

Elrohir stared with equal parts awe and dismay. Elladan suppressed an irrational urge to sternly order Borndis to stop frightening him. He wondered what life among Mortals should be like, that it left his brother at once so wisened and deeply shocked by an everyday tableau of a Wood-elf conversing with a songbird.   

“What is she doing?”

Elrohir breathed the question, less than a whisper, as if they were a pair of hunters standing transfixed before an enraged bear. Borndis could shoot hares in the dark by sound alone, and she understood Elrohir’s words perfectly.

“I am bidding a fond farewell to my friends, young lord. Autumn nears its end, and our redwings will soon fly south. They are fat on a summer’s worth of berries, sure to thrive wherever they go, but foregoing their song for another cold winter saddens the parting nonetheless!”

She laughed merrily and whistled again, receiving an answer from the hopping little creature. Elrohir stared as if Borndis herself had sprouted wings.

“You are talking. To a bird. In bird-language?”

It was more of a statement of absurdity than a question. Borndis looked at him with a sparkle in her eye.

“Hold out your hand.”

Elrohir cautiously did as he was asked, and Borndis warbled once more. The thrush flitted from her hand to Elrohir’s, where it eyed him expectantly.

“You wouldn’t happen to have some grubs on you, or seeds?” Borndis enquired, her tone casual.

At first Elrohir seemed too perplexed to respond.

“No.” He eventually answered.

Immediately the redwing darted away as if it had understood, back to its feast of rowan berries.  

Celebrían chose that moment to step forward from the doorway where she had been watching the exchange with Ardil.

“Borndis is of the Nandor, the Green-elves who speak the tongues of all good beasts. What you saw is neither enchantment nor work of the darkness. We will teach you, in time.”

There was no assent from Elrohir, his face stony as the walls of a besieged fortress. Celebrían’s lips remained frozen in a good-natured smile, but Elladan keenly felt her wave of sadness at Elrohir’s distrust.

Elrohir’s connection with Elladan had been unavoidable and self-evident, like a pair of lodestones from Erestor’s compasses clicking tightly together when brought close. Without the benefit of twinship Elrohir was proving far more difficult to approach. Despite shared blood a gulf of strangeness gaped between him and their parents.  

Elladan meant to comfort his mother, but found she had already recovered. Instead of asking them inside she gracefully sat down beside her sons, her legs folded in the manner of the Wood-elves underneath the drape of her skirt, and simply let herself be seen. Elrohir eyed her with a neutral expression, not so much afraid as observant. He reminded Elladan of a clever wild daw. At the lean end of winter it might approach a wanderer in the woods, but never comes to a stranger’s hand.

Their mother picked the thought from his mind with a chuckle. There were few birds in any wood between Lórien and Imladris she had not brought to her hand eventually.

Chapter 8

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The mind cannot sustain a state of deep terror for long. When whatever one dreads fails to manifest, normalcy will inevitably return with the passage of enough time.

Celebrían knew that Elrohir rode to Imladris like a man led to the scaffold, half-convinced the Elves would consume his soul, possess his body or subject him to what other monstrosities passed for Elvish behaviour in the tales of Dark Men. A few days of calm and kindness slowly began to erode his constant state of alarm. They had him do very little except eat and sleep and bask in Elladan’s presence as his battered mind and body found genuine peace for the first time in forty years. The sight of it nearly broke Celebrían’s heart. Her son was wholly unused to the very concept of safety, to being warm, clean and well fed, to life among people who genuinely cared about his well-being. Even if he did not trust his newfound security yet, Elrohir’s eyes slowly lost some of that haunted look.

The reprieve could not last. A scant handful of peaceful nights was all the respite Elrohir received before the first nightmare struck. Celebrían had slept lightly in concerned anticipation, and she caught most of the first one. A shadow of fear haunted Elrohir’s sleep. Cold eyes crept ever closer, seeking him in the dark. Celebrían shuddered at the wave of deep terror that went before the Ringwraith.

Elrohir drew himself awake with an abrupt start, and elsewhere in the house Celebrían rose from her own bed. Elrond's instructions to the staff had been both clear and specific. He was deeply asleep now, exhausted from pouring all of his strength into healing Elrohir. A beam of moonlight from the windows reflected in his glassy eyes. Celebrían decided not to disturb him. She put on an over-robe and went to sit in the sheltering darkness of their anteroom to await the knock on the door.

Meneldil appeared with little delay. Elrond’s esquire entered in complete silence and was briefly startled to find his lady sitting up instead of in the adjoining bedchamber.

Out of deference to Elrond sleeping there he whispered, quietly even to Elven ears.

“My lady, Ardil sends word that Elrohir is awake. There is light and movement in his bedroom. Ardil requests permission to go in and check on him?”

Celebrían rose. “I will go myself.”

Elrohir’s anteroom bathed in the same white light of winter’s half-moon falling through the windows. It was bright enough for Ardil to embroider by. His work, a leaf-patterned saddle blanket, lay abandoned on the window-seat. Ardil stood in the middle of the room, quiet as a hunting owl, ears trained on the goings-on beyond the closed door to the bedchamber. The light of a single candle shone from under it. He had strict orders not to enter unless in dire need. Waking to an Elf standing over him would shatter what shaky trust they had built with Elrohir.

Celebrían entered the anteroom in silence, and briefly the sentry and his lady stood together, listening to the sounds within the bedroom. A soft clicking, as of dice being thrown.

Celebrían could not fathom Ardil’s thoughts. Was he, too, afraid Elrohir might be under some spell of darkness, or was it genuine concern behind the ancient eyes? She would not find out this night. With a few gestures of Nandorin sign language she dismissed Ardil. The warrior melted into the shadows of the hallway in a most Wood-elven way.

Making sure her footsteps were easily heard Celebrían approached the bedroom door and gave it a gentle rap. There was movement inside, and in a moment it opened.

The haunted night’s terror had left Elrohir without walls in his mind. Celebrían could tell the instant when the unexpected sight of her revived his fear of white-fiends and their sorcerous snares. Elrohir visibly tensed, kept from slamming the door only by an equal but opposite dread of offending the mistress of the house. He stood as a man unarmed before a charging Orc-troop, fear writ large in his eyes.

At the sight of her child suffering, Celebrían almost wished she could afford to retreat, call Elladan to attend his brother and spare Elrohir this terror. Allowing him to sink into sheltered solitude with his twin for a crutch seemed an act of mercy, yet in the end such dubious kindness would prove cruelest of all.

She considered her next words carefully, settling on simple politeness in the hope it would restore them both to a semblance of normalcy.  

“Good night. I know you expected no visitors at this hour, but sleep appears to elude you.”

Elrohir seemed torn between bone-deep relief at seeing another living soul, even one he was so ill at ease with, and his fear of Elves.

“I never meant to disturb anyone.”

Celebrían smiled as warmly as her concern allowed.

“I need little sleep. I would be glad to keep you company, if you should like. Unless you prefer me to leave you to your rest?”

Being left alone again with what haunted the night was even more frightening than facing an Elf. Celebrían inwardly rejoiced when Elrohir opened the door fully and stood aside.

In the flickering light of a single candle the room was neat as a pin. Elrohir clearly had a soldiers’ discipline with his belongings. The only item out of place was one of the pillows from the bed, placed on the bedside rug so he could sit on it like he was wont to do in Harad. Beside it lay an old leather purse and a square of painted hide showing a complex drawing of opposing triangles. The purse contained handfuls of what appeared to be white, egg-shaped seashells the size of berries.

At her questioning look Elrohir answered, “A game from Harad.”

Celebrían considered the symmetry of the game board. “Are you not meant to play against an opponent?”

“I am playing both sides at once,” Elrohir answered, dispassionately.

She felt a sharp stab of compassion. Of course. Elrohir was far too intimidated by his Elvish surroundings to do as much as open his door and ask Ardil to call his family. He could not read the thoughtful selection of books Elladan so kindly set out in the room, all of them in Sindarin. What else was there to take Elrohir’s mind off creeping shadows but a game against himself? Celebrían vowed to make sure he would never feel this alone again in his life.

She took another pillow from the bed and placed it opposite Elrohir’s before sitting down with a questioning smile.

“With some explanation I can probably relieve you of this half.”

Elrohir remained standing, carefully considering this unexpected development with something bordering astonishment, and for an instant Celebrían feared he would refuse.

To her delight he finally nodded. “I worked myself into a tight spot on that side. It would only be fair if we began anew.”

He swiped the board clean and began counting the shells into two equal piles. Celebrían lifted one to examine its gloss, finely speckled and shiny as decorated porcelain.  

“Cowry shells from the inland sea in Far Harad. They are used as money in the desert, or for games,” Elrohir explained.

Celebrían took great pride in her fearsome skill at chess. She had once been taught by none other than Galadriel, and being a worthy adversary for the lady’s beloved games of strategy had been a requirement for courtiers and councillors in Lórien and Ost-in-Edhil both. It took her no more than a single practice round to master the rules of the Southern game. Then Elrohir needed all his wits about him to hold on to his shells.

The familiar game and the concentration it required efficiently occupied his mind, leaving no room for darker thoughts. With satisfaction Celebrían watched the tension in his shoulders unwind, his terror replaced with a far more wholesome look. She made no attempts at conversation beyond what was necessary for playing, and no mention of dreams or creeping shadows. Some things were better spoken of in the light of day. Elrohir was visibly relieved at her silence.

As the beginnings of birdsong outside heralded the dawn his moves grew progressively ill-considered, his eyes glassy between turns. Celebrían righted herself.

“You are tiring. Sleep tends to be dreamless, in the early morning. I will leave you to it.”

Elrohir smiled politely. “Thank you for coming.”

“I had a good time. Please send for me whenever you find yourself in need of an opponent. There is a very similar Elvish game I would enjoy teaching you.”

Elrohir nodded, the gesture perfectly noncommittal. Celebrían knew well enough that her quiet son was as likely to order Ardil to raise the Lady of Imladris from her bed as he was to grow a Dwarf-beard.

She took her leave, and lingered in the anteroom long enough to see the candlelight go out and hear the rustling of bed linen as Elrohir turned in.

Ardil still stood his unfailing watch in the corridor beyond. To the sentry’s unspoken question, Celebrían answered.

“It seems to be sinking in that we pose no threat. Now that his watchfulness subsides, the nightmares come out.”

Ardil needed no further explanation. One did not lead troops to war against Morgoth’s creatures for three ages without becoming familiar with the inevitable aftermath.

She repeated Elrond’s instructions once more: a guard was to be present at all times but was forbidden from entering Elrohir’s room barring emergencies, and either she or Elrond were to be called whenever he stirred at night. Elrohir was free to go find Elladan or walk the gardens, but he should never be left alone.   

“Take care when selecting the guards. Only those with level heads and tongues not inclined to wagging,” Celebrían added.

Ardil shook his head. “With your permission I would rather do this myself, my lady. Elrohir has grown used to me. A strange face at the wrong time will only cause more suffering.”

Celebrían was at once struck by the self-effacing kindness of the gesture, and its folly.

“This will not be over in a few weeks’ time. Even you cannot stay awake for the duration.”

Ardil had already considered this. “Perhaps Lord Glorfindel could be convinced to take on part of it? Between the two of us we can ensure no outsiders need to be involved.”

A clever proposal, and one that would serve the need for discretion. Nonetheless the idea was highly irregular in more ways than one. As the commander of Elrond’s armed forces Glorfindel was well above simple guard duties. For Elrohir, the balrog-slayer was sure to agree to so humble a task without rancour. The remarkable part was Ardil’s sudden willingness to collaborate with his Noldorin counterpart, where those two only ever treated one another with cool formality.

“Will you not come to regret being yoked together with him for the foreseeable future?”

Ardil shot his lady a look of indignation. “This is neither about me, nor Lord Glorfindel. My warriors are loyal to the last one, but I would rather not have your son’s reputation depend on their silence. What has befallen Elrohir in the South seems a dark and strange matter indeed, and having the barracks abuzz with it before he ever sets foot in them would do him an ill service.”  

True words, and wise ones, Celebrían knew. Standing in the dark hallway of her sons’ rooms, the sounds of the waking house filtering in, she gained a new respect, both for Ardil’s shrewdness and his commitment to his charge. She could not within reason have imposed this long vigil on him, but he would stand it nonetheless, and collaborate with his longtime rival to accomplish it.

Ardil had once held the equivalent of Glorfindel’s position in Ost-in-Edhil. After such an illustrious career his role as Elrohir’s guard, with Glorfindel outranking him, had to appear somewhat of a barren honour.

“Ardil, I will not forget this. In time, when he improves, you may rest assured of a position more suited to your talents.”

Ardil shook his head.

“My lady, I have spent three ages of the world defending the House of Elu Thingol, and I will not lay down that task until Mandos takes me. Despite Glorfindel’s best efforts there will be plenty of Orcs left in Ennor when the time comes for me to go to war alongside your sons.”

Chapter 9

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Elrond sank into a boneless slump in the armchair beside the hearth in his study. Around him the room lay in shadows. As autumn slid into winter the fading sun drained all colour from the North, washing the world in deep grey. Noon could not be long past, but what little light reached the study through the diamond-paned casements was already blue as dusk. Elrond had shuttered the cool, incessant light of the Fëanorian crystals hanging over his worktable. A single oil lamp outlined a clear circle of gold around his solitude.

He breathed deeply, struggling to still his shaking hands enough that he might pour himself a cup from the decanter of mulled wine some considerate soul had left on the side table while Elrond drifted on the paths of the mind. The fragrant brew was still lukewarm: today’s venture had been shorter than previous ones. Exhaustion got the better of him. When Elrond poured at last he trembled like an elderly Mortal, splotching crimson drops onto the buttery gleam of the parquet floor. He only narrowly avoided the ruin of the swirling green and gold patterns of the winter rug underfoot. Beside the decanter on its silver salver lay a crisply folded napkin, but Elrond could not muster the strength to lift it and mop up the spill. Instead he drained the tepid cup in one tart, invigorating swig, and briefly allowed himself to sag under the leaden weight of his weariness.

Elrohir’s return was both the greatest joy and gravest task of Elrond’s life. A few short weeks of having his son at home had not diminished his sheer bewildered delight whenever he reached out in mind to find forty years of harrowing emptiness replaced with the living song of Elrohir’s fëa. And after each breath of happiness came the bleak, oppressive dread of losing him once more.   

The bitter aftermath of three great wars had granted Elrond a painful acquaintance with Elvish death from grief. Glorfindel’s tales of the violence and horrors of Harad were but a dim foreshadowing of the reality of Elrohir’s injuries. Elrond’s first look at his returned son had confirmed his worst fears: only Elrohir’s Mortal blood and his deep longing for Elladan had kept him from dying of sorrow before he ever reached the North.

Now that Elrohir was home every day was a fearful vigil. From Elrond’s first thought upon awakening until deep into the night his mind was trained on Elrohir. Learning a stranger’s fëa was not unlike learning their face. Even as Elrohir attempted to hide himself, Elrond gathered the little tells and quirks that betrayed the raw wounds to his spirit, cut by violence and darkness and the Ringwraith’s brutal assaults and left to fester untended beneath his quiet, composed veneer. Elrond poured all he had into the slow, painful process of cleansing and healing until his strength failed him, only to begin anew as soon as he emerged from the exhausted stupor that passed for sleep.

Healing, by its very nature, was the loss of one’s self, passing strength from one fëa into another. The gift had to be measured according to need, tightly rationed so a healer would have something left for the next injured Elf. Within hours of their reunion, Elrond learned he could not summon his usual detached reserve now that the one in need of his care was his own child

Celebrían shored him up as best she could whenever he fell down like a dead weight on their bed beside her, his eyes closed and face pale with exhaustion. Elrond’s share of the endless stream of foreign correspondence, envoys and petitioners flowing into the valley was wordlessly redirected to her study. Elrond still went to his own, blanketed in thick, unnatural silence in the absence of his councillors and the usual contingent of aides, only to wind up in this very chair, still as graved marble with his unseeing eyes on the flames as he poured out his very self like wine from a cup.

The day had been restless, with a creeping tension building throughout the darkening afternoon until the mountains discharged themselves in a ferocious autumn storm. Sleet drummed on roof tiles and shutters. The bare branches of Celebrían’s rowans whipped a sky grey as pewter as the gales howled around the Last Homely House. Its denizens huddled in the warm glow of the Hall of Fire for song, merriment and shared relief at being safely indoors.

In the twins’ chambers a far more disturbing scene unfolded. The howling wind carried Elrohir back to another storm, hot desert winds chasing up mountain-sized clouds of billowing red dust through which a malicious shadow hunted.

Elrond could feel his son’s terror, wide awake but deep enough in tortured memory that not even Elladan could draw him back to the here and now. He longed to touch Elrohir’s mind, to gently untangle the red, pulsating knot of pain and fear driving him past rational thought to soothe the gaping wounds underneath, but Elrond had been at this all day, and he no longer had the strength.

Even with nothing left to give, there always was one place he could turn for more. Vilya’s beckoning call was ever-present, lapping at the edges of Elrond’s consciousness. The Ring’s cool glimmer ran like a smooth lake of liquid sapphire eager to be moulded to its bearer’s will.

Elrond was no fool: whenever one wielded a Ring of Power there was a price to be paid. All things wrought by the Rings became ensnared in that fine, coruscating web of Song and Power Celebrimbor and Annatar spun so artfully, and that now tangled thick as cobwebs over every last work of the High Elves in Ennor. But oh, how sweet it was -- even to eyes that had never seen Valinor -- to have a taste of such bliss, of all things healed and preserved for eternity. What could be the harm in granting that to Elrohir? In the end, was it not Elrond alone who would pay the inevitable reckoning?

The moment he began to siphon Vilya’s thrumming power to Elrohir the door clattered and Celebrían stood before him, eyes blazing.

“No, Elrond. Not this.”

For a moment it was as if Celeborn had materialized in Elrond’s study in all his obstinate Sindarin directness. Elrond straightened himself back to a proper sitting posture, some detached part of him briefly wondering when and how he had managed to drop his cup. He numbly watched the spreading pool of wine until it began to threaten the silk tassels bordering the carpet. With an exasperated sigh Celebrían reached for the napkin and knelt. Elrond’s head spun, and for a moment he was furious with her for adding to his burden.

“I only mean to help ...”

Celebrían cut him off without hesitation. She was still crouching on the floor by his feet, wine-soaked napkin in hand, but with all the subservience of a snarling lioness. She had clearly come running from the reception room, the trailing sleeves of her samite robes of state primly folded to reveal hands ink-stained from whatever contract or treaty she had been signing. Her moon-bright hair was coming undone from its hard, gem-pinned coronet of plaits.   

“Elrohir will have no part in this. You were there as well as I, when Ost-in-Edhil fell. Have you not seen enough of what those accursed jewels can do to a man? You made your choice to take up a Ring of Power. Elladan cannot be anything but your heir. But not Elrohir! At least one of my children will be wholly free of the doomed trinkets of the Noldor. You may give him every aid you can, but not this.”

Her mind was all white fire as she spoke, doing away with their cautionary measure of leaving the Three unmentioned even in this very room. Galadriel’s daughter indeed. Only a fool would defy her, or a very brave man.

Elrond was unsure which one applied when he answered. “The Noldor and their deeds are in Elrohir’s very blood and bones. You cannot erase Finwë from him, and keep only Elu. And regardless of his ancestry, the mere fact that we brought him into this house will tie him to my fate.”

Celebrían rose to her feet, light and supple. She was as tall as her parents, standing over Elrond in his chair with eyes alight with defiance. Elrond had not heard that particular tone of  voice from her in many years.

“Tell me, loremaster, what will become of the Three and all they have wrought, should Sauron regain that little bauble he so desires? All doomed to be be laid bare before his Eye. Elrohir will not be among Vilya’s works, to be bound in eternal darkness. I would rather see him in Mandos than in Sauron’s grip.”

She was correct, of course, and Elrond was far too numb with misery to point out that Mandos was but one of two possible roads, should Elrohir be lost to his wounds. He nodded wordlessly. His legs were a dead weight, filled with lead, and the very thought of dragging himself to the twins’ rooms to deal with what awaited there without Vilya’s power shoring him up was torture. When he finally managed speech, his voice was even, dry and brittle.

“Give me a moment, and I will go. Elrohir is caught in memory and Elladan knows not what to do with him. I cannot pull him out of it completely, but perhaps my presence will ground him in the present.”

Only now did Celebrían take a proper look at her husband, and the reflected shock and compassion from her eyes and mind proved he did look as wrung out as he felt. Suddenly regretful and tender, she took his face between her hands to kiss his throbbing forehead. At times the ancient fractures that divided Elvendom ran deeply, even through their marriage.

“One day he will understand what you did, and what you spared him. He will love you all the more for it.”

 

------

 

Elrohir had no inkling of Elrond’s labors, or the source of his renewed strength. They left him in the dark, a conscious and well-considered decision. Mortals had nothing like it, the subtle, cobweb-fine thread of feeling and consciousness that bound an Elvish family together. Elrohir abhorred the very idea of such closeness between fëar, preferring to be entirely alone in his own mind and shielding even from Elladan whenever he could achieve it. At this delicate stage the truth could only serve to add to his distress.

Elrond took to telling his taciturn son long-winded stories in Sindarin about anything and everything that seemed inconsequential and unthreatening enough. Elrohir keenly listened to the rambling monologues winding this way and that, entertained equally by the intricacies of Dwarven society, herb-lore, snippets of news from the lives of councillors, scribes and healers he had never met or the finer points of wintertime horse husbandry, and meanwhile absorbed the language.

Attempts at engaging him in conversation about Harad never achieved anything beyond vague and nonspecific answers. On those occasions Elrond knew himself sharply observed with guarded, polite distance. It took weeks of undemanding presence for his efforts to bear fruit.

On one of winter’s first snow-days the valley lay muffled in brilliance. The surrounding mountains seemed dissolved in a blanket of clouds white as moonstone. Imladris’ waterfalls were frozen into towering columns of lace, and even for Elves the air cut coldly against the throat. Elrond and Elrohir sat by a roaring hearth-fire in the twins’ drawing room. Elrond felt over-warm beside the blazing stack of pine logs, while Elrohir finally let his hands emerge from the fur-trimmed sleeves of his heavy woollen overtunic, warming them with obvious contentment. That morning Elladan had taken his brother out for a happy reunion with Rochael and a long ride through snow-covered fields and orchards. The day’s exertions had left Elrohir pleasantly tired and in a good mood, but chilled to the bone. Elrond sent for some hot tea to warm him up.

As he elaborated on a curious ritual he once witnessed among the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm on a state visit with Ereinion, Elrond suddenly found himself the recipient of a real smile. He had embellished the tale more than a little in his eagerness to entertain his son, and now Elrohir chuckled, one corner of his mouth drawn up in a grin that showed clearly he did not believe a word of it but found the story amusing nonetheless.

From their first meeting in Eregion Elrohir had dutifully smiled whenever he felt it was expected of him, but for one to genuinely reach his eyes had been a rare sight, directed exclusively at Elladan.

“It is completely true!” Elrond hastily assured Elrohir, unwilling to be suspected of telling untruths, even one so insignificant.

There wasn’t a trace of mistrust as Elrohir laughed again. “It is a good story regardless.”

He said it in Sindarin. His grasp of the language was improving by the day.

Elrond dared a question. “Have you ever seen Dwarves?”

Elrohir thought for a moment, then deemed the tale harmless enough for telling. “Once, in Pelargir, but they never pulled each other’s beards.”

“Only at royal weddings,” Elrond replied, and felt a stab of warmth as he was rewarded with another grin.

Elrohir surreptitiously set his half-empty cup down on a side table. It was a healers’ draught,  its sour astringency barely masked by honey clearly not to his taste.

“You will feel better if you finish that.” Elrond smiled. “Though I am the first to admit it is not our best brew.”

Elrohir took up the cup once more and downed the remaining contents in one gulp. Judging from the small shudder that ran along his back it revulsed him. Elrond made a note to provide a different one next time.

“Remember when you made Glorfindel coffee, in Harad?”

Elrohir seemed confused at first, then looked at him in astonishment. “I had to brew that with pond water! I never thought it would delight him enough to sing its praises in the North. Coffee is an everyday drink, in Harad.”

Elrond had not just been told. He had vicariously lived Glorfindel’s memories of that particular morning several times. He wondered whether Elrohir would laugh or be upset if he ever learned how thoroughly every single moment of his time with Glorfindel had been detailed in Imladris.  

“Glorfindel did appreciate it.”

Elrohir instantly became apologetic. “He visited at the worst of times. All the poor man ever got from us were field rations. Which is why  one cup of murky coffee made such an impression.”

Elrond had run into a wall of silence whenever he had tried to engage Elrohir about Harad.  He ventured it once more.

“From the look of you, you did not get much beside field rations for a long time.”

As winter’s early dusk descended on the room the flickering firelight shadowed Elrohir’s cheekbones far too harshly. His face still carried the sharpness of hunger where a softer smile should have been. The Siege had granted the healers of Imladris a great deal of experience with refeeding the starved. Elrohir’s food was prepared following well-tried recipes and the five small but rich meals daily had the desired effect. Mere weeks already had him looking more substantial, his former sharp transparency softened by a trace of Peredhil solidity to his bones. Whether his battered body retained the ability to grow was impossible to predict, given his unique lineage. All that could be done was feed him and await the results.

Elrohir shrugged. “It was not the most successful of campaigns. At least I was being fed.”

This was a day of firsts. As glad as he was for receiving an answer, Elrond could not help but wonder who among the Haradrim had been sacrificed to spare rations for the army. In arid, unforgiving lands hunger was even more of a weapon of war than in the fertile North. It seemed both sides had wielded it mercilessly.

Perhaps it was his growing trust in Elrond, or more likely lingering guilt towards Glorfindel, but Elrohir suddenly volunteered a tale of his own.

“The war would never have gone so ill if not for the Ringwraith. Umbar could not touch the Haradrim in the deep desert, but when that thing began aiding them they suddenly had us by the throat. If not for Glorfindel’s interference they would have utterly defeated us. He is a very brave man.”

Elrond could feel the unspoken anguish behind the brief sentences. Dark and desperate tales of slaughter, of battles against an enemy who could not be vanquished with any weapon the Haradrim possessed, of enduring the unendurable. He wondered how many times Elrohir had faced the Nazgûl before Glorfindel could protect him. Far too many hopeless battles, judging by the damage the foul creature had wreaked on his fëa, left to sicken him untreated for lack of anyone skilled in such healing.

Elrohir suddenly looked at him sharply. “How did you know to send Glorfindel when you did? Had he arrived a few days later most Haradrim would have been dead, myself included. The timing could not possibly be coincidence.”

Elrond had given that question much thought himself, and come to a remarkable conclusion. Elrohir would not like the answer, but complete honesty was the only way to gain his trust.

“Ruhiren’s arrival in the North with tidings of you was remarkable indeed. He did not achieve the journey on his own. Like you, he was aided by Ulmo himself.”

For the briefest of instants Elrohir stared at his father with the sort of look folks of sound mind reserve for the harmlessly insane, before recovering a neutral expression.

“The desert is not where one would expect a Sea-God’s interference.” He was too polite to voice his doubts about Ulmo’s very existence.

Elrond smiled. “Rest assured that Ulmo is very much real, and he is lord of far more than just the sea. Tell me, is there any water at all, in the desert?”

Elrohir clearly dreaded where this was going. “Of course. There are wells and deep aquifers. Or it can rain, very rarely.”

“The spirits of Ulmo and his Maiar travel in all the waters of the world. Ulmo learned your whereabouts through his wandering folk, and when the Ringwraith appeared he knew that, too. He dispatched a messenger to warn me forthwith.”  

Elrohir was once more incredulous. “Ruhiren spent a couple of months with my company. There was nothing divine about him, and he was not much of a messenger either.”

“You were the one who sent him north?” This was new information for Elrond.

Elrohir did not meet his father’s eyes. He seemed embarrassed.

“Not quite. Ruhiren was a pitiable figure. My company freed him on a raid. The Umbarians had treated him even worse than most slaves. He was eaten up by the memory of it, and sick with longing for his home. He had a terrible habit of drowning all that in beer, or opium if he could get it. He was no use as a soldier: all he would talk about was returning to Arnor. He kept begging me to let him go north. In the end I gave him a camel and let him strike out for Harondor, simply because I was tired of his drunken antics and the constant nagging. It was a doomed enterprise and I felt terrible about it afterwards. I was convinced he had died of thirst somewhere along the way. The very idea of him being a messenger from the Valar is … odd. But it would explain how he survived the journey.”

Elrond smiled wryly.

“Your dubious kindness to a broken man saved your life and all of Harad. The Lord of the Waters has always had great care for our House. He rescued you, as he did your ancestors on several occasions, whether you choose to believe it or not.”  

Elrohir looked at Elrond expectantly.

“How is Ruhiren these days?”

Elrond knew Elrohir would judge his character, and probably that of all Elvenkind, from the answer to that question. This particular test he would pass with flying colours.

“As well as he can be, under the circumstances. Nénuwen, my envoy in Fornost, installed him in a friendly widow’s guest room and pays him a monthly pension. I am told that he still spends most of it on beer, but at least he has a roof over his head and food on the table.”     

Elrohir gave a fresh smile, not even trying to hide his relief at learning that his father was a decent man.

“Poor fellow. I thank you for looking after him. It would be beyond sad if he should starve after all he went through.”

What exactly had been done to Ruhiren in Umbar Elrond did not ask. Undoubtedly more senseless horror worthy of the Black Foe himself. There was no need to burden Elrohir with the recollection of it.

The thought painfully reminded Elrond of what had only just been averted, of a thousand ways -- from cruel to shockingly mundane -- in which Elrohir might have been forever lost to those who loved him. The Black Breath had very nearly claimed him. He could have been cut down by a Morgul-blade, felled by the bolt of an iron crossbow, captured and tortured to death by the Black Númenóreans, or simply fallen prey to the agony of thirst. The very thought of his son suffering was unbearable, and Elrond forcibly drew himself back to the here and now. From now on Elrohir was home, and the only threat remaining were the deep wounds cut by his ordeal, wounds that might be healed given time and care enough. From now on he would sleep in safety each night, surrounded by those who wished him well. From now on, Elrond could protect him.  

Elrond rose from his chair, a deep, visceral longing constricting his chest. He could only just keep from stroking a loosening braid from Elrohir’s growing shock of hair back from his face, a habitual gesture with Elladan he could not afford here. He diverted his hand to straightening his own robes instead. Elrohir looked at him with frank, curious interest. His eyes were bright as any Elf’s, sharp with the light of a tempered will.

He will be a force to be reckoned with, one day, Elrond thought, suddenly deeply afraid. If he lives.

 

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The stars of winter shone brightly over a cold, clear frost night. A fine coating of rime transformed the trees to living towers of radiance, every last bare branch crusted with diamonds to rival the splendour of Elbereth’s silver blossoms above. Their very boles creaked in the breathtaking cold.  

Ardil rose to add another pine log to the fire in Elrohir’s anteroom before turning to the window to pull back the padded winter curtains. Through the delicate lacework of frost ferns covering the glass he watched the Bruinen. The river’s merry voice sang low and slow, muffled by slabs of ice dusted in a thin layer of powder snow. Tonight’s singing, a jubilant chorus in praise of the Star-Kindler, sounded rather close by. The icy heart of winter made all but the most determined Wood-elves seek the warm sanctuary of Elrond’s house with its many hearths. In Doriath Ardil had grown used to harsh winters, all cold brilliance and invigorating chill. The beauty of frost never touched Lórien, and he doubted that mallorn trees would withstand it. For a long, timeless moment he stood immersed in bittersweet recollection of long-sunken forests crowned with snow.

Ardil returned to the night’s work, yet another dispatch for Celeborn detailing the state of Elrohir’s health and his readjustment to Elvish life. Before putting quill to parchment once more he held still to listen to the sounds beyond the closed bedroom door. It seemed that this night was to be a rare peaceful one. He caught nothing but slow, regular breathing and the occasional rustle of bed linen as Elrohir moved in the strange hybrid of memory and dream that was sleep for the Half-Elven.    

Ardil once thought them fair and wondrous creatures, the twin Half-Elven sons of the lady Celebrían. Soon after their birth they had looked like any other Elf-babe -- all round-faced charm, the first stirrings of their thoughts and emotions simple and sweet. As they grew their minds gained a complexity and otherness Ardil knew well, for he had seen it before in Dior and his children.

Celebrían’s choice of husband had wrought a particular grace: all of the Peredhil had been fair, yet in her sons by Elrond Elu Thingol’s blood ran in both male and female lines. The remembrance of Lúthien was stronger in them than in any other of her descendants.     

Ardil could only hope Elrohir had inherited more than his foremother’s looks. He would need  all her strength and tenacity. Ardil was no healer, but he knew well that fey restlessness to his charge, his air of translucency and the way his eyes seemed to drift away from the physical world before him towards the Unseen beyond. Any Elf old enough to have witnessed as much war and loss as Ardil had seen this before. The child was near to Bannoth’s Halls, and the gossamer thread that kept his mind tethered to his body easily severed. In spite of Elrond’s best efforts he likely wouldn’t have lived through the journey from Tharbad to Imladris if not for Elladan.

Ardil took great pride in Elladan each time he witnessed the boy’s patience and gentleness with his brother. The sorrow of losing Elrohir, the center of his universe, at such a young age had wizened Elladan far beyond his years. Unlike some young Elves of noble birth he had shown little mischievous recklessness or wine-fuelled ill judgment for his guard to contend with. Now that his brother had returned in such ill health Elladan’s kind nature and innate sense of responsibility drove him to standing a ceaseless watch over Elrohir. Only when Elrond or Celebrían insisted that he rest and eat in the dining hall among his friends instead of cooped up in the twins’ chambers, did he grudgingly depart for as short a time as he dared before taking up his vigil once more.            

Soon the snow would begin to fall in earnest, blocking all paths and passes into the valley and turning the eyes and minds of its denizens inwards. Elrohir seemed very much lost in what had to be an entirely new world to him. Winter’s starless nights and short, lead-grey days held nothing but strangeness, and the cold itself appeared to cause him physical pain. Ardil had little experience with Mortals and their capacity to endure such things, but neither Dior and his children nor Elrond and Elladan had never appeared this affected by winter’s chill. Even inside the house Elrohir dressed in layers of wool and fur as if about to set out for a midwinter hunt.

Nothing could be further from the truth. The lord and lady kept him to the family wing, a drastic measure that nonetheless met with Ardil’s full approval. It would have been wholly unnecessary in Lórien, where Elrohir might have found his bearings among wholesome Elvish folk, sheltered from undesirable influences by the safety of the Lady Galadriel’s fence.

Beyond the family rooms, closely guarded and accessible only to a select few intimates, Imladris was an open waystation, a hive of brisk trade and diplomacy between the King’s Road to Arnor and the HIgh Pass into Rhovanion and Dorwinion beyond.

Elrond insisted on opening the doors of his house to all save the servants of the Enemy. Exotic languages fluttered around his halls like a rainbow of butterflies. Secretive Dwarf jewellers from Khazad-Dûm broke Elvish bread with wine-trading Men from Dorwinion, while Erestor’s agents discreetly listened in to ensure Elrond’s levies were paid in full on every gem and barrel changing hands. King Valandil’s envoys were forever in and out of the council rooms. In cloisters and courtyards of ivory stone mingled adventurous Elf-sailors offering Lindon’s pearls and ambergris in exchange for Noldorin blades; silk merchants from Khand, astonished at finding themselves not just greeted, but haggled hard in their own language by Elvish loremasters; and wayward Golodhrim princes wandering the North at their leisure as if the Valar had never deigned to call them West. In Imladris every known tongue was spoken, every possible profit made and every last snippet of news snatched up by sharp Elvish ears.

Over a long-year of daily exposure to the boisterous, ever-flowing stream of mercantile folk of all kindreds had failed to reconcile Ardil with it. On some level he could understand Elrond’s wish to mingle with his brother’s chosen people, but the Mortals’ coarseness, the swift disappearance of  familiar faces after what seemed only a handful of years, and the sheer otherness of them often made Ardil think wistfully of Lórien or Doriath.

Ardil was glad to see Elrohir held well away from the bustle, kept to a guarded island of Elvish tranquility with only his family and trusted staff. Given the run of the house he would likely be rubbing shoulders with strange Men once more, instead of turning towards his own people.

The ceaseless passage of strange traders, fortune-seekers, the unwell in search of healing and ambitious students was all the more galling for the continuous presence of the Elf tasked with overseeing Imladris’ commerce and foreign relations. Erestor the Kinslayer was always about: arranging, mediating, speaking little and hearing much. People called him Elrond’s eyes and ears, and the knowledge that the Lord of Imladris was governing his realm with Erestor’s rabidly Golodhrim viewpoints dripping into his ears like blood-red candle wax was concerning enough. The less dealings Elrohir had with the wretched Ngoldo murderer, the better.

Perils of an entirely different nature were yet more pressing, and Ardil was well on his guard. When he first heard the tale of how Elrohir escaped from under Glorfindel’s eye he had been dismayed by the reborn Golodhrim’s carelessness. Now that the responsibility for Elrohir’s safety was on him Ardil keenly felt its weight. Beyond the safety of his father’s house awaited certain death. Whether it came about from cold, sorrow or at the claws of the mountain Orcs would hardly matter in the end.

Elrohir moved quietly, for a Peredhel. He spoke little, and his steps and movements had the practiced economy of one whose life depended on his capacity to remain undetected. Ardil had been a march-warden for two ages of the world. He had tracked far more elusive things. He grew intimately familiar with the sound of Elrohir’s breathing and the rhythm of his footsteps, even through walls and closed doors. Wherever he went, Ardil would follow like a silent shadow.

At first this task had been an easy one, without any untoward behaviour. That changed when the dreams began. As quiet and reserved as he was by day, at night a catalog of horrors besieged Elrohir. Some nights simple distraction sufficed to turn his mind from whatever relived horror had put that distinct, glassy look into his eyes. Often matters were far worse, with Elrohir scrambling away from the hands that gently tried to wake him, shouting in his strange Southern speech or begging for mercy in Númenórean. Afterwards he was both mortified and sullen.

Elladan grew frantic with concern, and Ardil could not fault the boy. The twins’ separation had torn a wound, the extent of which was revealed only now that they could once more experience what had been missing.  As far as Ardil could tell their minds and dreams had grown closely entwined. Elladan often appeared in Elrohir’s rooms long before Ardil noticed a disturbance. His most harrowing visits were those when no nightmare was forthcoming, and all Elladan needed was to see with his own eyes that his brother was still there.  

In the long watches where Elrohir was at peace, the quiet and even rhythm of his breathing a reassuring backdrop to the small sounds of night in the great house, Ardil wrote.

The first dispatch he penned for Celeborn had been heart-wrenchingly difficult. Ardil had always taken pride in providing his lord with clear, concise and thorough intelligence, but Elrohir was no Orc encampment to be broken down into tallies and positions. The brutally honest description of the boy’s look of long famine, what remained of his hair matted with filth and that fey detachment in his eyes had made a painful read. Ardil remembered his own sons at forty-eight, gangling and playful as fawns, and tried not to imagine the agony the rendition of his grandson’s suffering would cause Celeborn.    

Elrond had been absolutely correct: had Ardil’s letter not counselled against it, Celeborn and Galadriel would indeed have mustered their guard and ridden to Imladris without bothering to send a messenger ahead.  

Of late there had been some solace to interweave among the tales of night terrors and mistrust. For all his wariness of Elves Elrohir was clever, and quick on the uptake. He swiftly regained his Sindarin, listening with an uncanny focus as if he were trying to extract every morsel of forty years’ worth of missed knowledge from whoever was speaking to him at the time.

Ardil laid down his quill and packed away the letter when the light outside began to turn from blue to tender pink. As he snuffed the candles he noticed the pale, cloudy wisps of his own breath and went to build up the dying hearthfire with a stack of logs so the room would be comfortably warm for Elrohir. Ardil could hear him moving around his bedroom, rustling linen, pouring out washing water and opening the wardrobe. The days were finally settling into some semblance of a set rhythm. Elladan would be in shortly to take Elrohir to breakfast with the lord and lady, then outside into crisp air and sunlight for as long as he could bear the cold.      

Beyond the windows the rising winter sun poured pale gold into the valley. All things seemed fresh and new in her light. Ardil was relieved to see the sky, perfectly clear and blue as a cornflower. There would be no snow today. He eagerly awaited the last trading parties to enter the valley before snowdrifts would close the roads between Lórien and Imladris. Celeborn’s return message would contain his orders.

---

Chapter End Notes

A nice long chapter this week, in which both Elrond and Ardil do the best they can, in their own way.

Of course I'd love to hear from people reading here on the SWG, so please consider leaving me a comment!

Chapter 10

Read Chapter 10

The woman screamed -- a desolate, high-pitched sound utterly devoid of will or reason. Elrohir knew that if he were foolish enough to open his eyes he would see her writhing on the gravel a few steps away, unharmed at least in body as a shadow towered over her, cloaked in black and crowned with iron.

For a moment he allowed himself the illusion of safety in the darkness behind his eyelids as he pressed his face into the grit, praying for the howling to end. She lasted for an absurdly long time, growing hoarse as she tired. When the screams died down to a low croak Elrohir could have sworn was some desert animal if he hadn’t known better, he realised the creature would soon grow bored and seek its gruesome sport elsewhere.

The full weight of despair struck Elrohir like a mace. If he moved he would be next to thrash and wail until his voice gave out before sinking into deadly darkness. He willed himself small, silent, an unremarkable nothing amidst the debris, corpses and boulders strewn about the desert valley that held a Haradrim encampment mere hours before, begging Eru or any other god who might spare a sliver of pity that it would be enough.

Sudden as a thunderclap a tomb-like silence descended, both relief and a torture all its own. She was dead, Elrohir realised. Robes rustled when the creature threw back its head, glorying in the cruel victory.

Then came the scream. The voice of evil death itself, unbearable to any creature still drawing breath, the beckoning dark of an open grave. Cold words rang in that cry, pouring terror black as pitch over heart and mind until it smothered consciousness and only the agony of that sound remained. Before such horror there could be no thought of a fight, only of hiding, and crawling, and death. Elrohir was lost, jerked around and laid bare before its malicious will like a dust-mote suspended in a sunbeam.

When the ice-cold claw closed on his shoulder to turn him over he could offer no resistance, paralysed by the simple inevitability of it.The Ringwraith’s mask-face contorted in terrible joy at its find, and Elrohir screamed.

Elladan startled, abruptly releasing Elrohir’s arm as if his brother’s skin had scalded him.

A cresting wave of sheer terror had roughly woken Elladan and sent him rushing into the darkness of Elrohir’s bedroom. He hesitated beside the bed for an instant, before deciding that more touch, rather than less would likely serve to ground Elrohir. He pulled him up and into his arms, ignoring his struggling and the unpleasantly sweat-soaked nightclothes.

Elrohir’s breath came in heavy gulps. He was shaking, his mind's defenses ground down to nothing. Elladan could see into a seething cauldron of agitation far beyond terrified. He felt small and inadequate before the depths of it. He pulled Elrohir closer until he could feel the frantic hammering of his brother’s heart against his own chest. For lack of anything meaningful to say he whispered in Sindarin that it was over, that Elrohir was home, in Elrond’s house, and no evil could reach him here.

Elrohir’s mind was elsewhere and the words did not seem to register. In the end Elladan recalled a wordless song Celebrían and Elrond used to hum to a pair of frightened little boys, many years ago when monsters were still make-believe. Elladan sang into the dark as he held Elrohir, rocking gently back and forth until Elrohir’s racing heart and the turmoil in his mind had slowed.

Elrohir suddenly sat up, muttering in Haradi. His eyes were wide, taking in his bedroom in the dim glow of the banked fire’s embers, scanning the shadowed corners for movement before coming to rest on Elladan’s face. He began to frantically wipe his tear-streaked face on a fold of the tangled bedsheets, physically pushing Elladan away as he moved.

“Go back to sleep.”

Elladan was frightened enough to believe he might never sleep again. Elrohir’s terror was infectious, and for him, too, the room’s half darkness and shifting shadows had taken on a sinister appearance.

“I think we both need to light a lamp and do something other than dream.”

Elrohir had no fight left in him, and he let Elladan lead him to his anteroom. Ardil was nowhere to be seen. Unsure of what to do next, Elladan sat his brother down in a chair by the hearth. Elrohir stared into the remains of the day’s fire, motionless and dazed as Elladan swiftly lit a taper from the glowing coals.

From earliest childhood Elladan had it drummed into him that the servants at hand day and night were a rare privilege afforded by his high birth, and subjecting them to extravagant or fanciful demands would reflect badly on both his own reputation and that of their House. It had been years since he had raised any of them from their beds. He hesitated even now, unsure of what, exactly, he should ask them to do, apart from childishly have someone stay to ensure Elrohir and he were not entirely alone with the darkness haunting both their minds.  

Elladan need not have concerned himself. Before he could finish his circuit of the room  lighting every sconce, the spreading circle of light a relief to them both, the door to the hallway swung open decisively, without as much as a knock. Elrond clearly thought the situation dire enough to dispense with his usual pleasantries as he crouched beside Elrohir, face an impassive healer’s mask.

Ardil entered behind Erond, carrying an unadorned metal tray whose make Elladan recognised from the House of Healing. It held two simple earthenware cups and a steaming jug wafting a strong smell of athelas. The scent, light as dappled sun on green leaves, brought Elrohir out of his stupor. Judging from his startled confusion, he had no recall of how he had wound up in the brightly lit anteroom in his nightclothes, surrounded by pale-faced Elves. He tried to stand, but Elrond’s hand on his shoulder held him down.

“Don’t be frightened. You are safe. What ails you is a sickness we call the Black Breath. Drink this.”

He handed Elrohir a cup of the potion. Elladan knew his father’s bedside manner well enough to notice Elrond had to keep from lifting it to Elrohir’s lips himself when Elrohir hesitated to sniff it cautiously. Finally convinced that a thing that smelled so pure and clean could not be truly poisonous, Elrohir took a small sip.

Elrond caught his hand, still holding the cup, and raised it back towards his mouth.

“All of it.”

Elrohir obeyed, finished the cup in one swig. Only then did he seem fully present once more. Elrond almost imperceptibly sagged with relief.

Elladan could only be grateful that he was no longer alone to deal with this insidious darkness that had infected their sanctuary, that what tormented Elrohir had a name, and their father, in the wisdom of his many years, knew the cure. He felt tears sting from the sheer terror of seeing his stoic twin so undone. He was promptly handed the second cup.

“You too. You cannot share such dreams and remain unaffected.”

The fragrant draught, mostly athelas with a hint of valerian root at the edge of taste, settled Elladan’s panic until his mind was wholly his own once more. The room appeared to shrink to familiar proportions, its shadowy corners holding nothing more sinister than the stand with Elladan’s lute. The instrument was a disconcerting reminder of Elrohir’s easy smile just hours before, when he had basked in the hearth’s warmth like a contented cat to listen as Elladan practised classical Noldorin airs.  

In whispered tones Elrond had Ardil build the fire anew, and arranged for Elrohir’s tangled bed to be remade with fresh linen. The simple domesticity of those whispered conversations was a comfort in itself.

When they were alone once more Elrond sat in the chair beside Elrohir’s, beckoning Elladan to join them. Now that his sons had both taken athelas and come to their senses their father seemed eased, and his manner was gentler.

“Elrohir, do you know where you are?”

Elrohir failed to meet Elrond’s eyes, seeming embarrassed more than anything else.

“The North. Imladris.” He drew a  deep, shuddering breath. “I am well enough. I did not mean to wake you. It will not happen again.”

Elrond leaned forward as if he meant to take Elrohir’s hand, before thinking better of it. His voice was very gentle.

“It inevitably will. No apologies are necessary, now or in the future.” He looked at Elrohir searchingly. “Was this a true memory, or a dream?”

Elrohir stared in dismay. “Did you see it? Both of you?”

Elrond spoke carefully, like one explaining an unpleasant but ultimately self-evident fact of life to a child.

“You can always shield your mind when you wish to, but deep emotions can rarely be entirely guarded, especially from close kin. Elladan experienced your dream nearly as you did. Your mother and I less so, but enough to know the gist of things.”

Elrohir clearly did not want to answer any questions, but Elrond pressed on.

“You dreamt of a woman tortured to her death by the Ringwraith, before being assaulted yourself. Did this ever happen?”

Elrohir rubbed his eyes with hands still bearing the softening remains of a swordsman’s calluses. When they came to rest in his lap once more Elladan saw no sign of tears. His voice did tremble when he answered.

“Some of it. In reality the Wraith never noticed me. I don’t know why I dreamt differently.”   

Elrohir fell quiet once more. The cheerful snap and crackle of burning logs in the hearth only served to underline the heavy silence blanketing the room.  

Concern pervaded their father’s voice. “Was she a friend?”

Elrohir shook his head. “I hardly knew her.” His fingers folded the embroidered edge of his linen sleepshirt, twisting the pattern of geometrical waves. “She did not deserve to die like that.”

Elrond shook his head. “No one does. How did you get away?”

Once more Elrohir could not meet Elrond’s eyes. His entire being radiated shame. “By playing dead until that … thing left of its own accord. Or perhaps it just lost interest.”

Elrond’s tone was decisive. “Elrohir. You were alone in the dark, and you are so very young. All the foolish bravery in the world would not have allowed you to take on a Nazgûl by yourself. You had not a shadow of hope, and had you tried you would inevitably have shared that poor woman’s fate. Saving her was never a possibility.”

He looked at Elrohir searchingly, touching his mind. “The Ringwraith injured you, that night. The proximity of these creatures and such depths of despair cut deeply. The wounds need time to heal.”     

Elladan could feel his brother’s ice-cold terror slither down his own spine as he watched Elrohir shudder.

Elrohir’s voice was rough with panic. “Glorfindel gave it plenty of cause for vengeance. It might be on its way North as we speak.”

Elladan countered Elrohir’s wave of panic with thoughts of their father and Glorfindel, Celebrían, Erestor, their many warriors and loremasters who defended the stronghold that was Imladris with more than swords alone. He tried as best he could to project that sense of inviolate safety to his brother.

What he received in return was a vision of a living shadow slithering at the edge of a circle of firelight, forever searching its way in.

Elrohir’s face remained impassive and his eyes dry, but his fingers were now wringing the hem of his shirt as if the garment had done him a great personal wrong. Elladan was about to reach over and stop him before he would tear the fine embroidery to shreds. He held still when he realised that the bizarre little gesture was intentional, meant to conceal Elrohir’s shaking hands.   

Elrond must have noticed. He leaned forward, eyes fixed on Elrohir with an unfathomable emotion, and for a moment Elladan feared he would try to embrace him. Instead Elrond rose to take a woollen blanket an attentive housekeeper left on one of the chairs’ armrests, and drape it around Elrohir’s shoulders.

“Here. You must be cold.”

Elrohir’s fingers moved to clutching the blanket. His shoulders did relax somewhat under its warmth on top of his sweat-soaked nightclothes.

Elrond’s voice was soft and full of calm honesty. “I will not pacify you with the comforting half-lies we sometimes tell children and the innocent. Our Enemy is moving, out in far, wild lands. The Nine are drawn to their master’s side, and in time they might return to the North. Our defenses make this valley the surest refuge in all of Middle-earth. Allow yourself that safety and be at peace. The Ringwraiths are neither immortal nor invincible, and they can be fought. We will make the two of you capable of withstanding them. One day you will avenge your friends.”

Elrohir’s mind was awash in a confusing blend of grim eagerness and terror. Elladan felt the searing pain of his wounded spirit and the stranglehold of grief as his own. Sick with his brother’s suffering he turned to Elrond.

“Elrohir hurts. Can you not heal him?”

Elrond’s look became gentler, and he appeared to drift in memories of his own before answering.

“You are sick with war and death. No song, herb or word of lore can undo it. The one power that heals such wounds is time; simply letting many days of peace stream past in the manner of the Elves. It will seem impossible at first, but I predict that one day you will wake to the realisation that you have forgotten the feel of terror and remembered how to laugh instead.”   

With that he smiled at Elrohir, noticing the glassy-eyed look of exhaustion before casting a glance at the dwindling candles to check the time.

“You need to sleep. Exhausting yourself will do no good.”

Elrohir nodded, but the brave face was a mask and Elladan knew it. “I will sleep here tonight. Ardil can set up a pallet.”

The depth of Elrohir’s gratitude at not being left alone was painful.

When they were both settled, Elrohir in his own bed and Elladan beside him, Elladan sat up amidst the winter pelts covering his cot to watch his brother for a time. The uncanny closed eyes rendered Elrohir’s familiar face deeply alien. After their first night in each other’s company Elladan had sought out Elrond, gravely concerned with both his brother’s eyes and the seemingly random caleidoscope of his dreams. Their father’s reassurance that Elrohir slept in the usual way of Men had been cold comfort, for the way it highlighted their differences.

This night Elrohir’s mind had wandered on an Elvish path of dreams: recollection as crisp as events relived. Had it consisted of any other memory Elladan would have been overjoyed to see his brother’s Elf-blood manifest. As things stood, the experience brought Elrohir nothing but terror and he bristled against it like a frightened colt.

Even as he slept Elrohir looked pale and drawn. His sleep was troubled, his face furrowed as if in pain, and suddenly Elladan was afraid. For most of Elladan’s life his brother had been an absence -- a gaping wound to his deepest self. Now that their scattered halves were a whole once more the very thought of returning to that bleak emptiness was inconceivable. Elrohir was Elladan’s very essence. Without him there could be neither light nor life.

If Elrohir’s illness should prove beyond Elrond’s skill Elladan would gladly forsake Imladris and all of Middle-earth to accompany his brother across the Sea. In Valinor, Irmo and Estë would heal Elrohir’s hurts. The ironclad certainty had carried Elladan through Elrohir’s troubled homecoming. This night had cast Elladan down from hope into doubt. Who would heal Elrohir if what ailed him was not his wounded spirit, but his Elvish blood itself? A lump of deep, desolate fear settled itself inside Elladan’s chest.    

The night’s gloom and unease were getting the better of him, he finally decided. Surely Elrohir would soon gain mastery over his own mind, and come to appreciate the return of his stolen birthright.  

---

Chapter End Notes

As always, thank you for reading! I'd love to hear back from you. I cherish any and all feedback on my work so please consider leaving a comment!

See you next week, when Elrohir -and we! - get to meet Lindir.

Idrils Scribe

Chapter 11

Read Chapter 11

“Welcome to the library, young lord. My name is Lindir. We have met before, of course, but under the circumstances another introduction seems in order.”

The Elf smiled with confidence as he gave a small, polite bow, but slender fingers toying with the silver-tipped tie-end of his belt betrayed his nerves. Elrohir returned both bow and introduction, eying who he had been informed was Imladris’ youngest loremaster, newly reinstated to his former capacity of Elrohir’s tutor.

Elrohir had met enough Elves by now to know that Lindir’s twilight-dark hair, grey eyes and the broad set of his shoulders spoke of a pure Noldorin heritage.

Despite their shared background, Lindir’s appearance had nothing of Erestor’s commanding formality. His expression held far more curiosity and gentleness. The striking contrast between the two loremasters was accentuated by Lindir’s obvious lack of vanity. He appeared to have donned a formal sage-green robe for the occasion, but his hands had clearly been scrubbed in haste and still bore faint ink-marks, as did the fitted cuff of his pale grey undertunic. The overall effect was somehow endearing.

They had come to a passageway of arched stone the colour of ivory, with closed doors on either end. Unlike elsewhere in the house, the doors were cast bronze rather than wood. The room held neither books nor furniture.

Lindir noticed Elrohir’s eye resting on the doors, and in the fashion of harried scholars the world over, he dissipated his nerves by launching into a lengthy explanation.

“The library is housed in a wing of its own. We have tried to steer clear of wood and other flammable materials. This is but an anteroom, meant to induce quietness and remind visitors to leave any candles or lamps they might be carrying.  The library proper lies beyond.”

Lindir ran his palm down the geometrical etchings decorating the smooth bronze door panel.

“The doors are marvellous craftsmanship: heavier than stone, but perfectly balanced and very fair. Helwo, their maker, hails from Eregion. He used to head the workshops of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, and he does Lord Celebrimbor proud.”

Elrohir smiled and nodded. He was utterly clueless as to who Celebrimbor might be, but well aware that admitting that would only delay the proceedings with further lecturing.   

With an inviting gesture Lindir opened the far door, and Elrohir was left speechless.

After the relative darkness of the anteroom, the eye was dazzled by such a wealth of golden midday light that they might have stood in a glittering snowfield atop the mountains outside. The hall, for it could not reasonably be called a room, seemed to contain more glass than walls. Its vaulted ceiling rose three storeys high, adorned with a glittering mosaic of precious metal, golden stars in a silver sky. Elrohir was surprised by the ostentatious display of wealth, a jarring dissonant with the understated elegance Elves seemed to favour elsewhere, before grasping the mosaic’s purpose. It reflected daylight to readers sitting at the tables below, lessening the need to risk lamps or candles.

Galleries sculpted of Imladris’ creamy stonework wreathed around the space. Every surface that was not a window was covered in bookcases and honeycombed racks for scrolls, chiselled with whimsical decorations of strange plants and creatures of fantasy, no two alike. Elvish craftsmen possessed a wealth of time to shape even mundane objects into works of art, and the greatest among them had lavished their very best on this place.

Lindir stood at Elrohir’s elbow, delighting in his astonished admiration. Elrohir tore his eyes away from his surroundings and turned towards his host in an attempt not to look wholly like a gawking rustic. Solemn silence reigned in the library, and he lowered his voice to what even Elves would consider a whisper.

“It truly is a marvel, though I imagine you hear that on a regular basis.”

Lindir smiled with genuine modesty. “There have been larger collections, in Lindon and Gondolin of old, but never one so varied and rich in knowledge gathered by all the good folk, Elves and Men and Dwarves. Your father’s love of language and lore has created one of the wonders of the North.”

“You would not be bragging if you said the entire world. The Lords of Umbar in their bottomless wealth have nothing like this.”

On hearing that, Lindir perked up like a clever fox spotting a wandering rabbit. “So there is truth to the tales that you lived in Umbar for a time. Erestor thought so, from your accent when you speak Númenórean. A most fascinating city, it would seem. The way their consonant use is shifting away from the old Númenórean modes of Gondor is remarkable, in only a few generations since the Atalantë ...”

Lindir steered Elrohir towards a side door, hidden between two towering marble bookcases. Behind it was a comfortable-looking study containing both a flat worktable and a slanted writing desk. A large set-glass window washed the space in bright midday sun.

Despite Elrohir’s apprehension the unusual contents of Lindir’s personal bookcases made for an irresistible diversion. Elrohir less than politely drifted away from the loremaster’s linguistic ramblings to stare openly.  

At first sight it was a jumbled clutter of seemingly random objects: statues, helmets, weapons of various kinds and household items like pot-hooks and glassware. On closer inspection their one uniting characteristic was a complete lack of Elvishness. Most appeared to be of Dwarven make, but some had far more exotic origins.

Elrohir was struck by a wave of memory as he contemplated a mask of gilded ebony, such as the people of Harad’s far south used in the wild revels honouring their fierce gods. He forcibly recalled himself from a wide sky of desert stars, his heart pulsing with the drums and the exaltation of sunrise after a night’s dancing.

Lindir’s voice had fallen quiet. Elrohir whipped around, but his apology died on his lips when he noticed the bubbling enthusiasm radiating from the Elf.

“I have been wondering about that one for a long time. We obtained it from the royal archives of Osgiliath. A savage tribe from the Far South once presented King Elendil with it, or so I was told by the Gondorian archivists. They were loathe to give up shelf-space to what they considered the primitive work of wild men, and their loss became my gain. Tell me, is it truly from Harad?”

Elrohir was struck by the realisation that he had once known others like Lindir. Quiet and withdrawn people, single-minded enough to be perfectly satisfied in the company of naught but their work, but sure to open like a flower when others took a genuine interest. He thought of a passionate lute-maker, a dear friend devoured by the desert war. It was strange, to see such familiar traits in an immortal Elf.

Elrohir gave Lindir a warm smile. “Even further south. Beyond the desert, near the inland sea. That they travelled so far to offer tribute to the King of Gondor … it boggles the mind.”        

Lindir looked at him shrewdly. “Perhaps they sought to turn Elendil’s eye south, encouraging him to strike down their Black Númenórean oppressors. A moderately successful venture, it would seem.”

Lindir demonstrated an entirely unexpected grasp of Haradi politics. Elrohir was wholly surprised to meet an Elf whose gaze wasn’t fixed upon the ancient past and the West. His curiosity got the better of him.

“What, exactly, do you do for my parents?”

Lindir laughed heartily. “You mean what is my purpose in this house beyond theorising about language and scribbling on your father’s good vellum?”

Elrohir was glad the Elf did not seem to take his forthrightness ill.

“I am Imladris’ ambassador with the Dwarves, mainly the Longbeards of Khazad-Dûm, though I have ventured underneath the Blue Mountains a number of times. I do not reside in King Durin’s halls permanently, simply because no Elf could. I do visit at least once in every generation, and your father sends me out whenever a particular matter needs settling.”

Elrohir beheld Lindir with a new respect. “So you speak Dwarvish?”

Lindir nodded with no small amount of pride.

“I have both Dwarvish tongues, the speech they call Khuzdul as well as their signs, named Iglishmêk. I learnt them when I was barely older than you are now, as the apprentice of Pengolodh of Gondolin himself, on his sojourn under the mountains. Ost-in-Edhil still stood then, and the friendship between Elves and Dwarves was greater than it is today. The Khazâd remember this. I have their trust and good will, a highly lucrative thing when handled adroitly. Much of our prosperity is built on trade with the Dwarves. Durin’s folk are forever in need of supplies given that they neither sow crops nor husband animals, and they pay in mithril. The Sindar are much closer than we are, but they tend to cherish their age-old grudges like heirlooms, and there is little trade between the Khazâd and Lórien or the Greenwood.”     

A lecture at every opportunity was clearly second nature to Lindir.

With visible reluctance the loremaster turned away from the shelved items towards his work-table. He pulled up two chairs and cleared its surface, replacing an armful of densely written scrolls with a wax tablet and stylus.

“This said, comparative linguistics and foreign tongues are passions of mine. It pains me we have no time to speak of them at length today.” His tone was truly regretful.

“You and I have no mean task before us; in fact, we have several tasks. Before anything else I am to teach you your letters. Meanwhile we will improve on your Sindarin, grammar and pronunciation both. Please do not take me ill, but you have a rather distinct Númenórean accent, and your syntax needs work.”  

He shot Elrohir a measuring glance, sounding his response.

It flowered into visible relief when Elrohir laughed. “I know. One or two of my relatives have mentioned it.”

Lindir, too, chanced a smile. “In a few years’ time you will grasp the magnificent irony of a son of Elrond of Imladris having anything less than perfect làmatyàvë. By then we will have remedied it.”    

He handed Elrohir a piece of vellum covered in blocks of calligraphed Tengwar.

“First of all, tell me what you know already?”

Elrohir shook his head dejectedly. “I am afraid I read only Haradi, not Elvish letters.”

Lindir suddenly beamed as if Elrohir had passed him a sack of diamonds.

“So the Haradrim do write? In a script of their own?”

If the loremaster had bubbled with quiet enthusiasm previously, it had now swollen to a fountain. “And of course Glorfindel never thought to mention it to me. He made the Haradrim seem an entirely preliterate culture. Serves to prove that decent observations in the field are too much to expect from a warrior.”

He winked conspiratorially at Elrohir; who nodded silently, perplexed. The sheet of Tengwar was summarily laid aside and replaced with the wax tablet.

“Show me?” Lindir beseeched as he eagerly pressed the stylus into Elrohir’s hand.

“What would you have me write?”

“Your name, perhaps?”

Elrohir complied, only realising midway through that force of habit had made him write his Haradi name. For a moment Lindir sat transfixed by the flowing script, then shot to his feet.

“Oh, I knew it! We have just the thing!”

With that exclamation he spun, robes aswirl, and disappeared through the door to the main library. Elrohir tried his best not to laugh out loud, all melancholy dispelled by the pleasant chaos that seemed to reign this peculiar corner of Imladris. In moments Lindir sailed back into his study, bearing an engraved metal cylinder the size of a quiver.

“This has been laying around ever since Erestor’s last venture to Annuminas. He took it off the royal librarians’ hands to keep the scrooges from scraping the vellum for re-use. It is said to have come from the Venturers’ Guild archives in Númenor. They had no idea what it was, and neither did we. I would be much obliged if you would settle a few long-running wagers?”   

With practised ease Lindir lifted a roll of ancient parchment from its protective housing and laid it out on the table, careful to touch only the leather tags attached for the purpose and not the sheet itself.

Elrohir bent over it, and could not help but smile at the sight of old friends.

“It’s a collection of songs, well-known ones. Most of these are being sung to this day, in Harad.”   

“What does this one say?”

“A very sappy love song. 'Your eyes are a gazelle’s, your lips like pomegranates, your rear  a …' well, so onwards for about ten stanzas.”

Lindir positively buzzed. “And this?”

“Part of an longer tale, a classic of two sundered lovers. ‘I shall engrave your image in blackest ink under the lids of my eyes, so that I may gaze upon you in my eternal sleep.’”

Lindir shot him a pointed look. “How cheerful. And very Mortal.”

Elrohir smiled apologetically.

“That’s Harad. Songs invariably end with the deaths of all involved in the ghastliest of ways, but they have their beauty, before that.”  

Lindir grinned.

“You will have a readily developed taste for Noldorin lays, then. I will start you on the Noldolantë.”

Elladan had already read his brother a couple of tales, of an evening, and Elrohir smiled.

“Ah, yes. Betrayal and amputated limbs. It made me feel right at home.“

Both laughed together, briefly unguarded, before the sight of Lindir’s smooth, high-cheeked face reminded Elrohir who he was talking to. Had their fates been different, and Lindir a Haradrim, or merely human, Elrohir knew for sure they would be friends.

Lindir was kind enough not to mention the sudden fall in Elrohir’s mood. Gently as a mother handling her newborn he returned the scroll to its cylinder and closed it.

“This is a fortunate discovery. The whole document shall need copying soon. Its vellum is aging, it will crumble to dust in the span of a few long-years. Would you be so kind as to make a book of it, with an annotated Sindarin translation alongside the original text? A fair copy as a courtesy to King Valandil’s library would not go amiss. Consider it the first task I will set you as your tutor.”

Elrohir was taken aback by the very idea that he should be remotely capable of crafting a book, much less one fit for the library of Imladris.

“Surely many others here are far better suited to the task? All I ever wrote were tallies and dispatches. I am neither scribe nor bookbinder, and I haven’t the first notion of Tengwar. All you will get out of this is a costly waste of parchment.”

Lindir shook his head. “Bookbinding is a trade onto itself, one we will leave to its masters. But I see no reason why you should not write out the pages. You do not strike me as ungainly. In just fifteen years you can develop a passable hand at calligraphy. You could finish both the book and its copy in five more, working at your ease.”

Elrohir could only stare in disbelief at casually being set a task so momentous it would take half a lifetime to complete. By the time he finished he would be seventy years old. By rights his body should fail him then, and release his soul to Eru. He knew for a fact it would not, that he would not look a day older than he did today, and the unexpected reminder of his own otherness stung.   

Lindir, being an Elf, could not begin to understand his sudden melancholy, but tried to ease it nonetheless.

“You do not have to do this, if it grieves you somehow. The book itself is not the main objective, though I admit I am aching to read it. Your education is.”

Elrohir shook his head. “I will try.” He knew he sounded far from enthusiastic.

Lindir’s tone turned grave.

“Lord Elrond has good reasons for sending you here before setting you to any other teachings. Your time in this library will soon prove wisely spent. A Noldorin noble is always a scholar. Complete mastery of words and letters is expected of one of your lineage. Your writing will be judged as much for its beauty as for the contents. It will represent you and the entire House of Eärendil across Middle-earth and beyond, to those who may never meet you in person.”

Lindir shared the peculiar Elvish habit of watching Elrohir’s eyes to read back the effect of his words. There was curiosity in Lindir’s own, to see what stuff Elrond’s second son was made of.

Elrohir laughed inwardly. Mostly pragmatism, was probably the answer.

“A miracle in just twenty years is a tall order, Master Lindir. We should get started.”

Soon two dark heads were bent over Lindir’s parchment. Talk flowed between them, punctuated by laughter that grew easier as the afternoon wore on.   

A sudden knock on the metal door rang through the study like a bell-strike, startling them both. Elrohir looked up for the first time in what he now realised had been hours. Beyond Lindir’s window the sun was setting, streaking light changing the ivory stone of the walls to poppy red.   

Lindir jumped to his feet, cheeks flushed. “I do believe I was meant to walk you back to your rooms an hour ago. Surely that is Master Ardil, come to see if you have tied me to my desk and run off.”

They exchanged a conspiratorial glance.

“Would you like me to pretend that I did? It should save you an upbraiding.” Elrohir’s whisper was only half-joking.

Lindir laughed, mirthful and unrestrained. “Do not trouble yourself on my account. My forgetful tendency has worn out Erestor’s sternness through the years. He has given up on berating me.”

Lindir swiftly opened the door to reveal a smiling Ardil. Elrohir felt a sudden wave of kinship with the ancient Sinda. He, too appeared to feel out of his element in the silent library, where Elves were the only living creatures amidst their inanimate works of stone and parchment.

“He is all yours, Master Ardil, with my sincere apologies for running so late.” Lindir gave a polite bow, which Ardil returned.

Elrohir followed Ardil, and they easily fell into step with one another. Intrusive as it was, Elrohir had to admit he no longer minded Ardil’s constant companionship as much. The man’s quiet but adroit manner had defused many an awkward situation, and he seemed to possess an endless patience for Elrohir’s difficulties.

Ardil sent Elrohir a searching look. “Did you enjoy your lesson?” There was another layer behind the question, one Elrohir could not fathom.

Knowing Ardil, he opted for practicality. “Lindir has important things to teach. And he is a pleasant man.”

Ardil smiled with genuine mirth and a tinge of relief. “That is well. You will need your letters.” In the next instant his tone sunk as for an admission, or some great confidence. “The library is not a place where you should necessarily linger. Certain other teachings are equally worthy of your attention, though you are not well enough for them yet.” He gave Elrohir an affectionate look. “In the spring perhaps, when you have gained some strength.”

They had reached the family dining room. The door stood ajar, spreading a wedge of golden lamplight on the patterned tiles of the hallway. Inside, Elrohir saw Celebrían rise from the table at the sound of their footsteps, beckoning him with a smile. Ardil had melted into the shadows of the darkening hall before Elrohir could ask him more.

---

Chapter End Notes

And so Elrohir begins to connect with his Elvish heritage - or at least the Noldorin parts of it.

Thank you for reading, of course I'd be thrilled if you let me know what you think of this new chapter! 

See you next week, when Elrohir is shown the Sindar side of things.

Idrils Scribe

Chapter 12

Read Chapter 12

In less than a season Elrohir grew restless. When he first arrived in Imladris, bone-weary and injured in body and spirit, he had been content to bask in the peace and plenty of the Last Homely House. Now that he began to recover the ordered rhythm of  life indoors became constraining.

His thoughts kept straying to Harad. Whenever the remembrance of violence and horror receded it was replaced with longing, sharp as a blade. It filled his heart with wide skies, the tender pink light of sunrise over the desert and the smell of woodsmoke and camels. Opening his eyes to ceilings where the stars should be, to find the sky framed by windows and courtyards, sparked a deep, wordless longing inside him. He knew well enough how sensitive the matter would be to his family, and held his silence.

It was Ardil who caught him in the family wing loggia, looking out across the valley at the snow-capped mountains beyond, his mind filled with longing for wild lands and freedom. No Wood-elf could abide a wild creature in a cage -- certainly not Ardil, who once roamed Beleriand under the stars.

“My Lady, your son needs to go out among the trees.”

Celebrían had no need to ask which one of her sons prompted Ardil’s unusual visit to her study on the day of spring’s first stirring in Imladris. Behind her, the casements had been opened wide to admit fresh, adstringent air and the frantic chirping of nesting sparrows. She bade Elrohir’s guardian sit in one of the elegant chairs flanking her worktable and called for wine.

Celebrían held Ardil and his advice regarding Elrohir in highest regard. The Sindarin warrior had faithfully served her since the day she left Lorien to ride to Imladris for her wedding. When Celeborn’s beloved daughter chose a Noldorin spouse, her concerned father sent Ardil to be her protection and his eyes and ears in the valley.

Celebrían eyed Ardil expectantly as she laid down her goose-feather quill and sanded the letter she had been drafting. She had grown used to the sight of him in the grey uniform of the guards of Imladris instead of Lórien’s green. He looked drawn and tired, as far as such things could show in an Elf his age. Ardil’s task had been a demanding one. He had barely let Elrohir out of his sight all winter, foregoing rest of his own. Ardil listened in to night after night of agony, ever at the ready to safeguard her son from the demons in his own mind. A bond had been forged by it, as she had hoped. When Ardil spoke of Elrohir something more than duty was behind his words.    

“He has hardly left the house for months. It is well to keep him close when he is so ill, but he needs light and open air or he will wilt like a potted flower. I have seen him long for the mountains.”

Celebrían balked at the mere thought of Elrohir leaving her sight.

“He is not well enough for the wilds. He is still far too thin, and he loses himself in his memory-spells almost daily.”

Ardil was matter of fact.

“His memories will hurt regardless of where he is. I respectfully suggest you allow him a measure of freedom before he starts perceiving his safety as a snare.” He smiled wryly. “I promise I will feed him.”

She shook her head, not ready to concede yet. “His studies should not be interrupted.”

It sounded weak to her own ears.

Ardil was serious once more. “From your own blood, oak and beech are your son’s birthright as much as the library is. Would you deny it to him?”

The unspoken accusation hung between them, that she had abandoned her father’s heritage to become Noldorin with her husband.     

“Do not presume to guilt me into this.” Celebrían’s tone had turned to steel. She had little patience left these days, all of it consumed by constant care for her children.

Ardil realised his mistake, and bowed his head, arms crossed before his chest in a warrior’s salute. “My lady, I presume nothing. My only concern is your son’s well being.”

He looked her straight in the eye, gaze open and exposed. ”He needs the song of Arda as much as he needs bread, and certainly more than letters.”

Celebrían softened at the realisation that this was the truth, and one that would avenge itself if buried underneath pretenses of keeping Elrohir safe when she would have him cooped up only for her own peace of mind.

She briefly withdrew into her own mind to reach out for Elrond’s thoughts on the matter.

“You see clearly, old friend. Take them both out for the day, tomorrow. Keep to the valley proper to begin with.” She gave Ardil a warm smile, covering her fear in jest. “And take care not to let him slip away.”

Ardil was dead serious when he answered. “I would be proud if he manages to elude me one day, but there is no chance of it before he spends at least a long-year learning woodcraft on the marches of Lórien.”

Celebrían could almost hear her father’s voice behind the words.  

------

A cold, clear day had just dawned, painting red the snowy crests of the surrounding mountains while the valley floor and the house still lay in shadow. Elrohir shouldered the rucksack he had been given. It fit snugly over the layers of wool and leather he was wearing against the chill. Ardil and Elladan were similarly equipped. Ardil was the only one to carry weapons, his pair of Sindarin long-knives.

It was an strange errand they went on, Elrohir mused. The outing was first brought up in Elrond’s study the night before, while Elrond taught his sons Quenya. Together they read classical Valinorean literature while Elladan wrote essays on the contents and Elrohir battled the inflections. The language bore no resemblance to anything Elrohir had ever heard or spoken before, but Elrond seemed to possess the patience of a Vala. Elrohir had begun to suspect that those evenings were as much for him to enjoy their company as for actual teaching.

Elrond had smiled when he saw out his sons. “Tomorrow Ardil will take you to meet the trees. He has much to teach you.”

He abruptly grew serious, addressing Elrohir. “Please stay close to him, and follow his directions. He is a good man, and your safety is all his honour.”

Elrohir was quick to reassure him. It seemed he would not hear the end of his stealthy escape from Glorfindel anytime soon. Elrond brushed against his mind, joyful and teasing.

“In a few long-years perhaps, when we have recovered from the scare.”

In the light of morning the purpose of their outing seemed even more bizarre, but Elrohir was far too grateful for the opportunity to leave the house to ask questions. Instead of following the main road from the house into the valley, meandering through fields of winter wheat and apple orchards, Ardil led the twins up a steep and narrow path into the forest that began just beyond the gardens. With one step they crossed the threshold into a different world, leaving the crispness of the sunlit meadow glittering with late hoarfrost for the ever-shifting grey-green shades of the bare branches of ancient oak and beech. The very air was alive with the spicy smell of decaying leaves.

Ardil took a deep breath, clearly relieved. Elrohir felt a pang of guilt at being the cause of his winter of confinement to the house.

Keeping up with Ardil and Elladan was a challenge. They soon left the path behind to pick their way up the valley’s slope through the forest itself. Ardil’s passage was absolutely silent, his movements blending with the shifting shadows. His grey tunic appeared to change color with the light. Elrohir had to keep his eyes fixed on the bright mass of his flaxen hair to keep track of him. Elladan seemed to possess some skill of eyesight that allowed him to follow without effort.

It was a joy to be running again after months spent indoors, to feel the muscles of his arms and legs pumping and breath rush through his lungs. Just when the first pull of tiredness began to weigh, Ardil stopped at the foot of a large oak. With what little he knew of trees, Elrohir could tell it had to be ancient. It would take at least three people to ring its massive bronze-coloured trunk. High above their heads the bare branches quivered in softly whistling mountain winds.

Ardil beckoned him closer. “Come Elrohir, meet the Old Man of the Valley.”   

Ardil laid his palm flat against the trunk and briefly closed his eyes. Elrohir looked at him with an expression carefully balanced between incredulity and politeness, unsure whether he was about to become the butt of some strange Elvish joke. Such cruelty would be very unlike Ardil, though, and neither would Elladan stand for it.

Ardil turned around, took Elrohir’s hand and laid it against the tree beside his own. “See his mind as you would that of an Elf. He is rooted deep and his thoughts are slow, but he knows all things that pass through his forest, soil to sky.”

Elrohir felt a strange chill down his spine at the contact with the trunk. “How old is he?”

“He was old already when your father laid the foundations of the House, during the Siege of Imladris. He may have stood here since the Elves first came over the mountains, though I have never heard him sing of that.”  

The rough bark under his palm felt strangely alive. As Elrohir waited, dreaded lacking the senses needed to detect what Ardil and Elladan felt so easily.

In the next instant something touched him. The tree was utterly strange, its consciousness slow and unmovable, seemingly welling up from the wet and fragrant soil under his feet. It wrapped around his mind like tendrils of green shoots, feeling him as he stood rooted to the spot. After a while it seemed to laugh, if such a thing could be said of a tree, a flash of golden summer sun on green leaves, before withdrawing.

Ardil smiled, his fair face lighting up like cloudbreak. “See, he is glad to see you. He will tell his brethren, through soil and sap. Before the day is through the whole valley will know you are back.”

“Do they know every Elf in Imladris?” Elrohir asked, astonished.

“Of course, though many of the Noldor hardly ever come out here. The trees mean us well. They are part of our defences as much  as the guards.”

“Are they dangerous?”

“Not to us.” Ardil’s grey eyes blazed. “But they do not suffer Orcs or crude Mortals with axes. Be warned never to take living wood from these forests, for any reason!”

Elrohir was shocked. “Where does our firewood come from, then?”

“From the skill and negotiation of the foresters. One day, when this Old Man dies he will give himself up for oak beams to lay a new roof on the Hall of Fire.”

Elrohir laid his hand on the tree once more, saddened by the thought of such an ancient, joyful creature dying. Ardil looked at him with approval.

“Come, we will break fast up in the branches, with our eyes on the mountains!” With that he grabbed a branch over his head and lightly swung himself onto it, seemingly effortless.

Elrohir knew he could not replicate that graceful leap. Instead he pulled himself up from a lower branch, walking his feet up against the trunk until he could heave his body onto the bough. It was hardly a display of Elvish elegance. Mercifully neither of his companions commented on it. Higher up the branches were closer together, making for easier climbing. It still took time and careful consideration of where to put his hands and feet to reach Elladan and Ardil. They were each seated on a branch, backs against the oak’s trunk and legs dangling on either side, superbly comfortable in their precarious positions. Sure and nimble as if he were walking on solid ground Ardil rose to lend Elrohir a hand and point out a branch for him to sit. Elrohir gingerly maneuvered onto it, making a conscious effort not to look down to where the forest floor had grown concerningly distant.

There was plenty of distraction. From this high up the valley’s western slope they had an unobstructed view of the Misty Mountains clad in their winter white, brightly silhouetted against a cloudless sky of cornflower blue.

Then Ardil was softly singing, and Elrohir could not help but feel his heart soar. The words were the Sindarin of Doriath, unknown to him, but the lilting tones recalled the first coming of spring to ancient forests, clear sunlight and cool days with the soft, light green of new leaves unfurling. The tree itself rejoiced. Elrohir could feel it extend its delight in the singing Elf sheltered in its boughs throughout the valley to all living things within it, a pulsing web of light seen sharply with a sense that was not sight. For a time that living radiance was all the world.

A thought struck Elrohir, that this would be what Elves perceived all their long lives, how they came to be at the same time so superior in their mastery of Arda, and inextricably bound to it.

I am turning into an Elf, he realized, distantly amused by the fact that mere months ago the very idea would have terrified him.

Today he was not unsettled in the slightest when Elladan picked the thought from his mind and replied out loud, the voice of reason. “Don’t be daft. You were Peredhel all along.”

Ardil laughed, ringing and musical. “Get out of each other’s heads, you two, and eat. Especially you, Elrohir, or your mother will have my hide.”

Their packs held fresh bread, cheese and the last apples from the storage-barrels, wrinkled and sweet, and for a while they were quiet.

If anyone would have told Elrohir a year ago that he was to spend a whole day up in a tree he would have laughed, hard. Yet it was exactly what they did, and it was heavy work. After setting Elladan to more advanced exercises, Ardil made Elrohir climb up and down the old oak, pointing out the growth patterns of the branches, so he would know where the next one would be found without need to look at it. Those basic shapes differed among different kinds of trees, Ardil explained. Elrohir would need to practice again and again with beech, pine, birch, and so many others. By then the trees would bear leaves, and training to keep from rustling and betraying his presence would be in order, followed by exercises jumping from one tree to the next.

Elrohir did not protest, but his opinion that this was an unreasonable amount of effort to be expended merely on climbing trees was clearly read. Ardil shot him a sharp look, then took Elrohir’s hand to pull him down to sitting on the branch they were sharing.

“Come here. See.”

A memory was thrust into Elrohir’s mind.

Starlight on a wood in high summer, the sleepy hum of insects the only sound above the canopy. Elrohir felt a light breeze caress Ardil’s face, carrying the scent of juniper and pine resin. The stars were a river of light spread across the sky, seeming closer and larger than they should be. There was no moon.

Ardil’s mind reached out to other Elves. A company of warriors was hiding in the branches, armed as he was with long knives and bows.

Elrohir could feel Ardil’s watchfulness, the way he tapped into the weaving pattern of forest sounds as he scouted. The jangling dissonance of loud, crude footsteps and ragged breathing was impossible to miss. Through Ardil’s eyes Elrohir saw the hideousness of his first Orcs. Their faces were a pasty grey colour, with slanted yellow eyes and mouths too small for the crooked mass of decaying teeth they were meant to contain. The ragged clothes on them were filthier than Elrohir had seen any Mortal wear, even in Harad’s most abject poverty. Even their gear was a pain to look upon, all of it ill-made and ugly without even the pleasure that can be derived from an unadorned but well-crafted piece. The smell that wafted up, unwashed bodies, excrement and the sweetish odor of infected wounds, would have been enough to bring a lesser man to terror. Not Ardil, who lowered himself a few branches in complete, cat-like silence, to take a closer look.

The party below consisted of more than just Orcs, Elrohir realised with a sick feeling. Bound Elves were driven forward between them. As Ardil watched a woman stumbled and was roughly pulled to her feet by the nearest Orc. The creature cruelly pawed her to jibes and cheers from its comrades. Ardil hastened back through the canopy, expert leaps from branch to branch without disruption, the only movement of the leaves aligning with that of the summer wind itself. High up in the boughs of a mighty beech he found his captain.

Here was another familiar face, Elrohir realised. Silver hair braided back from a face that strongly reminded of Celebrían, with deep grey eyes. With a start he realised this had to be his grandfather, Celeborn. Almost like a vengeful spirit of the forest he seemed, his shape dissolving into the dense summer foliage in his shimmering tunic of green and grey. Ardil could perceive his captain’s anger, sharp and cold as his blades.

Celeborn reached into the open minds of his warriors, directing them above and around the Orcs. In absolute silence they moved, disturbing neither leaf nor twig until the creatures were fully surrounded. Another signal came to Ardil’s mind. He nocked an arrow with fletching green as summer leaves, choosing his mark. All the world became that one Orc, its beady right eye roving under an ugly boiled leather helmet for a few heartbeats of breathless waiting for a blackbird’s warbling. When the signal rung out Ardil loosened his arrow, and the creature died without ever knowing from where death came. In the blink of an eye the only ones left alive on the forest floor were Elves.    

Elrohir emerged from the memory slightly dazed. He clung to the branch for a moment to let it pass, Ardil’s hands firm and solid on his shoulders and the coarse bark a grounding support beneath his palms.

Ardil waited patiently for Elrohir regain enough stability to turn and look at him.

“How would that have ended, had we rustled any leaves for the Orcs to notice before we were ready for the kill?”

Elrohir had seen enough slaughter of that very kind not to harbour any illusions.

“Very badly, for the prisoners at least. Consider your point well made.”

He hesitated. Surely Ardil understood that Elrohir could never hope to match the level of deadly skill he had just witnessed.

Ardil sensed it. “It seems impossible to all young ones, at first. Every warrior you saw spent a few mortal lifetimes training and making embarrassing falls before they were ready for the marches. We have time, more of it than you can possibly imagine. Your brother is learning and so will you. You only need to put in the work.”

Elrohir was intrigued by the strange world he had just witnessed, as deeply Elvish as Imladris, yet with an entirely different, wilder spirit.

“When was this, and where? And was that mother’s father?”

Ardil sat on the branch beside him, joined by a flustered Elladan who felt he, too, had earned a break from his exertions. Shadows were lengthening and the light turned golden around them as the sun approached the western valley rim. It was getting cold again. The night would bring frost and their breaths swirled in the strange little wisps of steam that could still amuse Elrohir after his first winter in the North.

Ardil’s voice took on a meditative air. “This was Doriath, the Fenced Land. Nothing now equals the beauty of its brooks and dells as it lay beneath the stars — alas for the land of my birth! Your grandfather defended her once, one of Elu Thingol’s commanders in the years before the Moon. He learned the skills of war from Beleg Cúthalion himself, the unbegotten one. Long before the first Noldo ever set foot in Ennor they withstood Orc and Warg and Flame.”

Ardil spoke with fire in his voice, of long-lost forests, the dance and music of the Grey-elves and the marvel that was Menegroth. Elrohir had heard some of these stories before. Celebrían had filled entire winter nights with them whenever she needed to take his mind off the darkness in his dreams. Told by one who witnessed them firsthand, and in their proper place they took on a different and far more realistic character, as if the pages of a storybook were suddenly turned into windows of clear glass through which their living tales could be seen.

When Ardil finished his telling the sun had set and the stars came out, bright and sharp on one of winter’s last cloudless nights of frost as they climbed down to walk back to the house.

Ardil fell into step beside Elrohir. The Elf became a sleek, half-perceived shape, barely silhouetted against the grey pillars and shades of shifting indigo of the forest at nightfall. Elrohir was grateful for his company. Darkness saw the woods, already a foreign territory to him by day, transformed into an entirely new and alien realm of moving shadows and suspicions. Even the northern stars seemed caught in its net of tree branches like a strange, living lacework stitched with jewels.     

Ardil sensed Elrohir’s apprehension and tried to ease it in a most Elvish way. His fair voice lifted once more in a soft, lilting song that flowed like water among stones. Elrohir had to keep himself from elbowing the Elf to quiet him, lest he betray their whereabouts to what unknown threats might lurk amidst the shadowed trees. Ardil’s soothing touch to his mind was instantaneous and the compulsion passed. The song must have been a well-known one because Elladan fell in with Ardil, his voice less Elven-smooth and all the more comforting for it.    

They had almost reached the path to the house, a grey ribbon winding downhill among brambles under the pale spring half-moon, when the hairs on the back of Elrohir’s neck stood up. His every battle instinct screamed in alarm, heart hammering against his ribs as he spun around and dropped to a defensive crouch. Once again he cursed Elrond to Mordor and back for leaving him with only his fists and feet against whatever slid soundlessly towards them through the undergrowth. Some Elf-sorcery was at work, confusing his eyes. Even as he felt an unknown gaze nearby nothing stirred in the solid darkness beneath the spruce trees towering over them like silent sentinels.

Elrohir was eased only a little when Ardil did not reach for his knives. Neither did he raise his voice, but in the leaden silence it nonetheless rang like a bellstrike. He spoke, not in Sindarin but a far stranger language, soft and unobtrusive as the rustling of leaves. It held an edge of recognition, but its meaning remained maddeningly beyond Elrohir’s grasp. Elladan stepped to the fore, his back suddenly ramrod-straight. His tone in the foreign tongue was the most lordly and commanding Elrohir had ever heard from him.

The forest’s shifting shadows of ash and pewter drew together into new and wholly different shapes. Terrifyingly close by, three concealed Elves willingly exposed themselves to Elrohir’s alarmed gaze.

They were unlike any Elf Elrohir had encountered before. Their long locks were braided, not with silver or pearls as he had come to expect, but with feathers and pierced pebbles. As he looked on he realised that what at first sight appeared to be patterned tunics was in fact the bare skin of their chests and faces tattooed with clever leaf-shapes, so that they could disappear from sight amidst their forests. They wore simple breeches and cloaks of cloth of nettles dyed the mossy grey-green of winter’s bare boughs. Their moccasins were made of bark. They appeared both ancient -- far older than the trees or even the valley itself -- and wilder than the polished inhabitants of Elrond’s house.

One among them, a short, lithe man with the willowy figure of a dancer stepped forward, appraising Elrohir with unveiled curiosity. His Sindarin was halting, as if he bore the language little love and spoke it only grudgingly.

“I am Serdir, son of Saeros. And you are the one the Golodh have searched for under every leaf for the past forty summers. You are an unexpected find, Star-knight. A stranger to the trees, and the mark of the Aftercomers heavy upon you. Your mother is kin to Aran Thingol. She carries leaf and branch and the Lindar in her heart. In yours, Serdir sees only the shadows of a darkness unknown.”

With that he stepped back, and in a single fluid motion he and his companions vanished once more. Mere moments later even the perception of their presence had faded. Elrohir, Ardil and Elladan were alone in the forest once more.

Ardil turned to Elrohir with fierce protectiveness on the fore of his mind.

“Pay Serdir no heed. He bears you no more ill will than he does anyone whom he perceives as either Mortal or Golodh. This is but his usual gloom and insularity. I had hoped to spare you his acquaintance for a while yet, but even I cannot move in these forests without him knowing. I felt him observing us earlier and hoped that would be all, but it seems he wanted a closer look at you.”

“Are there many Elves like him?”

“Seen from Elrond’s house it may not look that way, but most inhabitants of this valley are Nandorin Elves. They are a mingled people, the survivors of many wars who placed themselves under the protection of your house. Only a few choose to live as Serdir does, the old way of the Laegrim of Ossiriand who did not hunt and wore no skins. You will meet them but rarely. They keep to themselves, refusing to walk under roofs of stone or even contribute warriors to the very guard that keeps their forests safe.”       

Dismissive as he was of the strange Elf, their meeting with Serdir dislodged some deep unease in Ardil. He hastily led his charges back to the house and unexpectedly asked for Glorfindel to step in for his night’s watch over Elrohir. Whatever urgent and secretive business Ardil might have had elsewhere in the house, neither twin managed to catch wind of it.

------------

The great library was unlit, shadows lying deep between the honeycombed shelves with  scrolls reaching all the way up to the gallery, where they were lost in darkness. There was no sound but his own breathing and the soft rustle of his robes as Elrond gently closed the door to the main house behind him.  

Despite his Mannish blood he needed little sleep, and with each passing long-year the need diminished further. Whenever the Lord of Imladris was given to nightly wanderings he found himself gravitating to the one loremaster’s study adjoining the library proper that was still lit. Elrond soundlessly opened the door, and Erestor looked up from the document before him, Tree-lit eyes locking into his lord’s without a hint of surprise. Two crystal glasses and a decanter with good Gondorian wine stood ready on the Chief Counsellor’s worktable.

Depending on who one asked, Erestor was either Elrond’s best asset or his greatest lapse in judgement. Being wise, the Lord of Imladris had realised he was unsuitably placed to judge the merits of his former tutor. He had deferred to Ereinion’s opinion on the Elf who once stood as Chief Counsellor to Fëanor himself. The High King’s judgement was to allow Erestor to remain at court, a central figure in Elrond’s retinue for the better part of two ages.

A wise decision, certainly from a Noldorin viewpoint. Erestor had already been a shrewd politician and renowned loremaster before he ever set foot in Beleriand. He had served first High Kings Fëanor and Maedhros, then the remnants of the dwindling House of Fëanor, as advisor, spymaster and diplomat. There was no Elf alive in Ennor, and probably beyond the Sea, with a more profound understanding and broader scope of knowledge about the Morgoth and his artifices. When the true nature of Annatar was finally revealed and the fate of Eregion hung in the balance, Celebrimbor in his panicked dismay sent for none other than Erestor.  

Between Erestor and a thriving career at the heart of Elvish political power stood the not insignificant matter of the Kinslayings. Erestor had conducted the doomed negotiations that preceded all three, and the Sindar did not forget. The image of him standing before Dior in the Great Hall of Menegroth, a smooth black crow before the King of Doriath in his radiance was the stuff of song among the surviving Eluwaith. Erestor had knelt like a supplicant before Dior’s throne, while behind him Celegorm’s mail-clad warriors were already trooping the hall like a rising tide of steel.

Erestor might have Elrond’s ear, but for many long-years he had to whisper into it from a place in the shadows, anathema to half the Elves remaining in Ennor. The loremaster’s fortunes had seen a complete and unexpected reversal upon Elrond’s marriage to Celebrían. Instead of demanding the dismissal of her husband’s controversial Chief Counsellor, Celeborn’s marvel of a daughter had embraced Erestor before all the gathering, declaring with great authority that in her new home, she would have peace.

Celebrían’s motives had not been entirely selfless, Elrond mused as he watched Erestor’s dark-haired head bent over a weighty tome of lore. She had brought one of the most skilled and powerful Elves in Ennor deep into her debt, an obligation from which her son was about to benefit once more.

Soon they were comfortably seated, and the wine drew some of the tension from Elrond’s shoulders. Several wax tapers, ensconced in glass tubes for safety, cast a flickering golden light over frescoed seascapes on the walls. Outside the door Imladris was quiet. The lord and his advisor were at ease for the night. Elrond briefly wondered what, exactly, Erestor had been researching. Spread over the polished mahogany was a priceless collection of ancient scrolls and books. None of them were dusty, the librarians of Imladris were far too diligent to allow such a sacrilege, but yellowing and cracked bindings betrayed both age and so little use that no one had deemed it necessary to copy or rebind them.

For four ages of the world Erestor’s apprentices had called him ‘Master Crow’ behind his back, in whatever language was in use or permitted at the time. The nickname was older than the Silmarils, and it had outlasted the very earth of Beleriand itself. It had stuck because it was apt, Elrond mused as he watched his oldest counsellor tilt his head to contemplate him with avian cleverness.

“What has befallen Elrohir, to make you haunt the library in such a state? Another member of the household provoked into a flashback to the First Age?”

Erestor did not even consider the possibility that his lord’s unease might be about anything but Elrohir. Elrond knew his attention rarely lingered elsewhere, these days.

“Serdir sought him out today. Ardil came to Celebrían urgently with word of how he was … less than friendly. It seems Serdir has trouble deciding whether he resents Elrohir for being too Noldorin or too Mannish. To settle the matter he all but called him a traitor.”

Erestor smiled sourly. “Ah. Serdir’s usual charming delivery of a logic all his own.”

At the sight of Elrond’s pained expression he grew serious once more. Erestor had not come to hold his current position by underestimating potential threats.

“You have been generous to a fault, Elrond, in receiving the fealty of the son of Saeros.  After two ages Serdir has neither forgotten nor forgiven his father’s death at the hands of a Mortal.”

Elrond shook his head. “Need I remind you that Túrin was my kinsman? Some might argue a blood-debt, long unpaid. How could I refuse Serdir and his folk a haven in this valley when they fled Ossiriand? It would have been ungracious, to say the least.”

Erestor was entirely unconvinced. “Serdir has unfortunately inherited his father’s worst attributes: a mercurial temperament and a long memory for grudges. What is worse, he is a perilously rigid thinker, incapable of compromise in any way. The Nandor know this, and they are no fools. Very few among them accept him for their chieftain. Still, he is the staunchest preserver of their ancestral way of life, and it grants him a certain moral authority. Your concerns about Elrohir’s reputation among the Wood-elves are well-founded, with Serdir’s disapproval upon him.”     

Whatever changeable winds might steal through Imladris’ sheep sheds and across its high spruce forests, murmuring beside winter’s bonfires dotting the valley, Erestor heard of them. Now that he deemed Elrond’s concerns valid, they grew all the heavier.  

With unseeing eyes Elrond leafed through the book lying closest to him, simply to give his fingers something to do.

“Celebrían might ride into the woods and seek him out. If any of us can hope to reason with Serdir, it is her. She is of a mind to do it”

Erestor shook his head.

“Do not seek to reason with fools. A visit from the lady herself will only serve to validate Serdir, strengthen his position. You need to prove him wrong. Or, to be precise, Elrohir does.”

A wave of despair threatened to drown Elrond. Erestor sensed it, and laid a strong hand on his shoulder. The gesture carried them both back to a war camp under the eaves of ancient forests, now long sunk beneath the waves. Erestor was one of few in Imladris who still ventured such a gesture with the formidable lord Elrond had become, and the comfort was just as great now as it had been when he was still a forlorn elfling, orphaned in all but name. Elrond’s voice almost wavered.

“Consider Elrohir incapable of conducting any kind of public life for the foreseeable future. The Black Breath is heavy on him. I have applied all my skill, but he remains haunted by spells of memory.”

Erestor nodded knowingly.

“Lindir described one to me in great detail. Apparently it happens even during lessons. But surely this is nothing you have not treated before, Elrond? I distinctly remember you pulling Elendil back from the very brink of death in Mordor, after the Nine attempted to break our siege.”

Elrond shook his head dejectedly.

“For all my care he is sinking further into it. When the terror becomes too great he tolerates my interference, at best, but there is little trust between us. Instead he leans on Elladan so heavily that I am growing concerned for him as well.”

Erestor sat up straight, his expression both compassionate and determined.

“If your current approach proves fruitless, I suggest you try an entirely different one. A return to duty and responsibility can be a blessing in times of sorrow, both distraction and a scaffold for the grieving mind to right itself against. Elrohir has been cloistered in the family apartments for long enough. Perhaps a more complete understanding of Imladris and its workings will prove beneficial.”

Elrond regarded his counsellor with disbelief. “I can hardly seat him on the council and ask him to take minutes for us.”

Erestor laughed, and this time there was genuine mirth in it.

“Lindir tells me he will soon be capable of it, if you are not overly particular about the penmanship. But I suggest you start him on a less clerical task. Have Elrohir attend Yestarë, and swear him in with as much pomp and circumstance as you think he can withstand. Serdir will of course decline the invitation, as he does with every gathering that takes place indoors, but the heads of all other Nandorin houses will be at the feast. We will seat them where they can get a good look in. Let the Wood-elves see with their own eyes that Elrohir is neither Morgoth’s thrall nor an axe-wielding Mortal, and that he is as devoted to Imladris as his brother or any other member of your household. There is an element of risk, but if he impresses the Nandor favourably, their esteem for Serdir will be further diminished. This would serve our interests well, in the long run.”   

Intrigue had become Erestor’s second nature after four ages as a courtier. Serdir’s  isolationism and defiance had been an irritation to Elrond for many long-years. The Laiquendi chieftain had been tolerated this far, but this night’s harsh treatment of Elrohir might provoke his final undoing at Erestor’s hands. Elrond could only be grateful for having an Elf so dangerous firmly on his side.

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Chapter End Notes

This unruly mammoth of a chapter refused to be broken up, so here's another long one!

Elrohir meets the local vegetation, some strange and disconcerting Elves, and his grandfather - be it by proxy, and we meet Erestor in all his Fëanorian complexity.

Remember that fanfic writers thrive on feedback. I'd love to hear what you think of the chapter. Please consider leaving me a comment!

See you next week, when we'll watch Erestor's plan unfold.

Idrils Scribe

Chapter 13

Read Chapter 13

Elrohir’s first Yestarë in Imladris reminded more of the past winter than of the new year to come. Rain pattered the high roofs of the Last Homely House, rushing through gutters and gargoyles to join the merry burbling of the Bruinen below the House. The downpour drew silver curtains around the elegant grey limbs of the naked alders on the riverbank. Leaden cloud veiled the Misty Mountains and even the higher slopes of the valley itself. By noon the rain had abated to a fine drizzle, setting sparkling drops like tiny diamonds on the hair and finery of the merry Elves dashing between the buildings.

Elladan stood enjoying the sight of the bustling preparations.

The dark weather did little to quench the high spirits of Imladris’ denizens, eager for what was to be the first New Years’ celebration in forty years with merriment unhampered by grief. In Elrohir’s absence the great festivals had been subdued affairs, with Elrond and Celebrían visibly straining to create some semblance of festive atmosphere when clearly all they could think of was their one son missing and the burden of loss weighing the other. Last Yestarë had been especially harrowing, with Glorfindel in Harad for long, torturous months without news.

This unknown Imladris, so mirthful and unrestrained, was new to Elladan, and he found he liked it far better. Despite the early hour the lamps were already lit. A rich golden glow bathed the great dining hall and the Hall of Fire, where two red-cheeked singers and a harpist had given in to the temptation to get the festivities off to an early start.

The smells of spiced honey cakes and roasting meat cheerfully clashed with that of mulled wine and the garlands of freshly cut pine and holly, still the only green leaves to be found in the lean end of winter.

Elladan ended his exploration of the halls in their splendour to return to the rooms he shared with his brother. Elrohir was in their drawing room, seated stock-still in a chair by the fire. Celebrían stood behind him, face furrowed in concentration as she improvised something resembling the complex braiding the occasion called for with hair too short for it. She was still in a simple linen shift, but her own hair was already done up in a coronet of shining silver decorated with a circlet of mithril-set leaves of emerald.

Elladan knew she could have left Elrohir’s braids to Laerwen, who had likely done Celebrían’s own, but the rare opportunity for physical closeness with Elrohir had proven too precious to pass up. She seemed to be brushing his hair for much longer than strictly necessary. Elrohir did not enjoy having his hair combed and braided like an Elf should. Even Elladan was rarely allowed that small, everyday intimacy, though he offered each morning.

Today Elrohir sat still and let it happen. His face was milk-pale, his mind sharply focused.Elladan knew his brother was intimidated by what was to be his first public appearance since his return six months ago. Elrohir had missed the Midwinter festival without even being aware of its existence, beset by a string of bad nights that left both Elladan and Celebrían with equally red-rimmed eyes and frayed tempers. Elrond alone had put in an appearance at the high table for Turuhalmë, as brief as decorum would allow, before leaving the proceedings to Glorfindel.  

The difference with Yestarë could not have been more striking. Elrohir certainly looked the part of Elrond’s son -- dressed in a mithril circlet and formal robes of midnight and silver-grey, eyes guarded, his face a mask of dignified composure.

Celebrían deftly clipped the last gem-studded clasp into Elrohir’s dark locks.

“There! Seen from the front, where it counts, no one can tell the difference!”

Elladan smiled and took Elrohir’s hand to spin his brother around, standing beside him to face their mother.

“See? Which is which now?”

The sight of her so radiant with joy warmed Elladan like a draught of mulled wine. Even Elrohir managed a smile. Under pressure his words were always the first thing he lost, sinking into a strained silence broken only for necessary communication. What went on beneath the veneer was hard to discern even for Elladan.  He wondered if Elrohir had been like this constantly, in Harad.

Celebrían did see her youngest son’s distress, and laid an arm around his shoulders. “I know you will do well. You have the goodwill of every Elf in Imladris, and they are all good folk. Follow Elladan’s lead, he will steer you right.”

A rhythmic knock on the door announced a smiling Meneldil. “My lady, Lord Elrond asked me to check in on your progress.”

Celebrían’s habitual tardiness in getting herself ready for events was a long-standing source of humour in the household. Even Elrohir had picked up on it by now. With an exasperated look and a smile Celebrían turned to the door.

“You both look handsome. We will see you in our rooms in half an hour. For the love of Vána, do not stain anything in the meantime!”

The dining hall of Imladris buzzed with talk and cheerful laughter like a beehive, if bees would ever be found to light their abode with golden and silver lanterns. They shone on table upon table filled with smiling faces, the light reflecting off silver tableware and robes of fine silk.

Even Elladan was impressed. Despite having known his parents his whole life he appreciated the dignity and splendour of Elrond in his dark blue robes of state, seemingly straight from the royal court of Lindon or even Gondolin. Celebrían under her cloth of silver baldaquin was a vision of ethereal Sindarin beauty in emerald silk and sparkling white jewels. Even Glorfindel, seated next to her in his green robes embroidered with yellow celandine, his hair a jewel-clipped waterfall of gold, almost paled in comparison.

There was one sharp dissonant to the evening, and Elladan was concerned despite the festive cheer. Elrohir was ill at ease in his seat at the high table, hardly touching his food and avoiding the wine to stay sharp. It was a small consolation for Elladan to know he was the only one who could tell. To everyone else, the youngest twin wore a mask of lordly composure, constructed from mannerisms studied and copied from his brother and father. He spoke little, but was generous with smiles and cheers where those were called for during the various speeches.

With a pang, Elladan realised where his twin must have learned the art of dissimulating his inner life to such an unhealthy extent. A well-watched slave could not afford to let light spill out through the cracks. The thought soured the evening completely for Elladan, making him wish for nothing more than to take this stranger with Elrohir’s face to the quiet of their rooms where he might be turned back into his brother.

The night’s most critical moment was yet to come for Elrohir. After a splendid and very satisfying meal all those newly arrived to Imladris in the past year were called before the dais to swear a formal oath of allegiance to its Lord. Most years they were journeymen from other Elven realms or Men of Arnor, taking on apprenticeships with Imladris’ craftsmen, healers and warriors, their oaths a quick formality. This year the valley had seen a new arrival of an entirely different nature. The dining hall was packed to the rafters with Elves keen to hear Elrohir’s first public address, however short.          

Elladan had known that Elrohir was less than enthusiastic about the oath from the moment the situation had been explained to him a few weeks before, and ascribed the emotion to stage fright. Despite his misgivings Elrohir had memorized the words and diligently worked on his Sindarin pronunciation with Lindir until there was barely a trace of a Númenórean accent.

Now that the time for his performance drew near he did his utmost to shield his mind even from Elladan. Erestor, ever the stickler for protocol, had personally overseen Elrohir’s final rehearsal and was now directing him to stand before Elrond’s chair. As a mark of his high birth Elrohir was to swear on the dais instead of before it.

Elladan could tell his twin was troubled, but only from seeing his mind through their bond. Outwardly Elrohir looked every inch the collected, confident Elf-prince with his elegant robes and straight-backed posture. He had once stood his ground before the Imperial legions of Umbar, and clearly wasn’t about to let Sindarin declamation get the better of him. His voice rang out clear and strong as he knelt before his father, face pale and eyes guarded.

“Here do I swear fealty and service to the realm of Imladris, the House of Eärendil and its Lord. To speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, until my Lord release me or the World end. So say I, Elrohir son of Elrond of Imladris.”

The hall erupted in such deafening clapping and cheering that Elrond could barely make himself heard.

“And this do I hear, Elrond son of Eärendil, Lord of Imladris, regent of the High King, and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valour with honour, oathbreaking with vengeance.”           

He rose to take Elrohir’s right hand, pull him to his feet and embrace him. From up close Elladan could see the wet shine to their father’s eyes, but also the flash of concern, brief and quickly hidden, with which he regarded Elrohir. They would talk, but this night was not the time.

There was a throng of well wishers and New Years’ greetings to contend with, stretching from the high table all the way to the Hall of Fire. Elrond and Celebrían went first, then Elladan and Elrohir followed by Glorfindel, Gildor, Erestor and all the members of the household. When they finally reached the hall, Elladan was convinced they had clasped hands with and embraced every single inhabitant of Imladris, and quite a few members of the various wandering companies wintering in the valley.

An irregularity in the line before them drew Elladan’s attention, and instantly Celebrían’s knife-sharp glance of concern was upon them. Rodwen, daughter of Gildor. She was one of those ladies for whom to be married to a son of Elrond was an Elf-woman’s highest calling. Their House was among very few who stubbornly continued to address the Lord of Imladris as ‘Sire‘ after Elrond declared he had no intention of claiming the title of High King of the Noldor. It took Erestor’s prompting, eventually beyond what might be called subtle by any stretch of the imagination, to settle them on ‘the Prince Regent’. Still far too pompous for the gentle, scholarly image Elrond sought to veil his power in for the age to come, but naked ambition could only be hidden so far.

Forty-eight was not too young to wed, and Elladan had wisely been warned, often and with explicit clarity. It rendered him immune to tricks of this kind years ago. To his dismay he now found those very same coy, long-lashed looks trained on his brother.

The underlying cynicism required for such a move set Elladan aflame with protective anger. Elrohir was still unwell and a stranger, a lone sparrow among a flight of hawks. It only made him the more likely to be manipulated into losing his head. Elrond and Celebrían would never approve the match, but if Rodwen succeeded in catching Elrohir’s eye a meeting might be contrived, a situation engineered. And once the deed was done … High Princess of both Noldor and Sindar was a fair title, to be snatched up and carried into Valinor on a gold ring. If said ring was hastily engraved after the fact it would not show, in Tirion’s sparkling halls.   

Elrohir caught Elladan’s thought, and the reflection was one of visceral disgust. He had never laid eyes on a woman as fair as Rodwen, admittedly the epitome of classical Noldorin beauty, but the concept of political advancement through the bedchamber was familiar enough. Rodwen received the exact same smile and hand-clasp as the stately matrons flanking her, and Elrohir swiftly advanced down the line under Celebrían’s approving eye.   

Glorfindel went out of his way to embrace Elrohir. Elladan sensed his brother’s relief at seeing a familiar face. They spoke quietly among themselves for a time, probably the best moments of the evening for Elrohir.  He grew weary, and to the knowing eye it began to show.

Fortunately it was the silent hour, where conversation had to cease so all could listen to Glaeriel perform a solemn hymn to Manwë and Varda. It granted Elrohir a welcome respite in which to recover. High-backed chairs had been set for them before the performer’s dais beside the hall’s namesake. Elrohir had set foot inside the Hall of Fire for the first time only that morning, when Celebrían and Elladan walked him through the half-lit, cavernous space to ensure he would not be surprised by it later, with the eyes of all of Imladris on him.

The experience had allowed Elladan to see the room through his brother’s eyes. A forest of tree-shaped pillars held up the roof, their white stone boughs branching out to support the ceiling vaults. The centerpiece was the a great hearth carved from the same ivory stone, its eternal fire crackling with fragrant logs. Beneath the Elves’ feet the winding geometry of inlaid marble was a marvel of Noldorin stonecraft.

The most remarkable object in the room was the great harp of Imladris. Glaeriel’s fabled instrument was polished to a golden shine, its exquisitely carved maplewood the colour of dark honey. The fireside tale of how Elrond, then chief Counsellor to the High King, once coaxed Lindon’s finest instrument makers into crafting a man-sized Fëanorian harp following ancient manuals written by none other than Maglor son of Fëanor was a perennial favourite, as was Erestor’s suffering at the logistical nightmare of transporting the unwieldy thing to Imladris in one piece. As young as he was, Elladan appreciated Elrond’s cleverness in having the controversial instrument played by a Sindarin harpist.    

Their Chief Minstrel surpassed herself this year. Her chosen piece, the well-loved “A Elbereth Gilthoniel”, was no less moving for being an ancient classic. Even concern for his brother could not keep Elladan’s heart from soaring in delight at the solemn harmony Glaeriel coaxed from harp and voice.

Celebrían had kept a keen eye on both her sons throughout the evening. She leaned sideways in her seat to  breathe a whisper in Elladan’s ear.

“Take your brother to his rooms when Glaeriel finishes. You may leave him with Ardil and return to the feast if you wish.” She shot him a twinkling smile. “You have both done well tonight.”         

Just a year ago Elladan would have jumped at his mother’s permission, so long denied,  to attend the all-night revelries that were to follow the official ceremony. Today wine and dancing could not entice him from Elrohir’s side. His brother was tired and tense, a combination that would almost certainly make for another bad night. When the last note of Glaeriel’s excellent performance rung and the silence started to fill with chatter, the twins said formal goodbyes to their parents, their bows perfect mirror images, and left the Hall of Fire behind.  

In their rooms silence reigned, a precious relief. All of the staff were at the feast. Ardil had joined Elladan and Elrohir as they left the Hall of Fire. He cast a knowing look at Elrohir’s air of knife-edged tension and exhaustion and unobtrusively took his seat in the anteroom. Elladan alone had any hope of making this any better.

The twins helped each other out of their formal robes, ending up sprawled on Elrohir’s bed with a carafe of wine Elladan had obtained from a passing server in the hallway outside the Hall of Fire. With the onslaught of curious eyes at an end Elrohir finally released his guardedness, and Elladan could tell how deeply the night had sapped him. He melted into the pillows with a sigh of relief, agile fingers worrying the edges of his sleeves. Elladan knew the telling little gesture well by now, and warmth bloomed in his chest at this small familiarity regained. Something concerned Elrohir, an irritation like a grain of sand in the turnings of his mind.

“What is the matter?”

Elladan had asked with a smile, but at Elrohir’s shadowed look he instantly knew that whatever this was, it was no laughing matter to his brother. Some deep-seated pain he did not wish to share.

Instead of answering, Elrohir rose and firmly occupied his hands and mind by pouring them both a cup of wine.

“Nothing to concern yourself with on so fair a night," he answered as he reached over Elladan’s cup.

For tonight’s doubly festive occasion, the seneschal had laid out one of the cellar’s finest Dorwinion feast wines. Judging from the full ruby colour it had barely been watered. With a knowing half-smile, Elladan took a fragrant sip and let himself be distracted.

“Tell me more of what I saw tonight?” Elrohir asked. “There were Dwarves in the hall, and at the far tables I saw Men from Khand. What trade does our father offer, to draw such canny folk this far from their homes?”

Elladan gladly obliged him. The ephemeral moment of relaxed closeness with his brother, talking amicably of inconsequential things as they basked in the pleasant interweaving of their minds, was at once sheer delight and saddening reflection of what might have been if not for Elrohir’s ordeal. No, Elladan thought, setting aside his melancholy. It was what they would share permanently, once Elrohir’s wounds were healed.

The heady wine only added to his weariness. He still needed sleep the way Mortals did. Elladan could feel the effort it took to keep his eyes open. It was just as well - Elrohir would find the informal dances far more difficult to navigate than the Hall of Fire, where the Singing was done by Glaeriel and her minstrels. Outside, around the bonfires all Elves together wove the Song that was Imladris, each individual voice a thread in the greater tapestry. Few would be able to wrap their minds around the very idea of an Elf - or a Peredhel - who would not join his voice to theirs. And how could Elrohir’s spirit ever truly heal if he did not Sing? Elladan had asked, pleaded, cajoled Elrohir in various ways both gentle and insistent. He needed not pretend either happiness or health: both Elladan and Celebrían had offered to teach him a lament so he might set his own words of grief to it -- to no avail. For all his quietness Elrohir could be stubborn as the mountains. When he set foot in the North, he left his Song behind in Harad’s red sands    

Elladan rose to embrace Elrohir. On the journey home physical closeness with his brother had unsettled him because Elrohir smelled strange, and so very wrong. Of the sea, foreign spices, and the sour tang of fear. This night Elladan could bury his nose in a dark shock of clean hair and smell Imladris: the scented soap supplied to the household and a pleasant smell of woodsmoke from being beside a well-tended fire all day.  

“I will leave you to your rest. Sunrise is hours away yet, and this year I can join the Wood-elves’ dances without need to hide under a cloak lest mother send me to bed. I intend to make the most of it.”    

Elrohir smiled at him as if he were a child proudly holding up some endearingly crooked piece of beginner’s craft, and for a moment Elladan felt his cheeks flush with a strange blend of embarrassment and indignation.

Elrohir’s eyes were heavy-lidded enough to make Elladan decide to let this go. His words were kind, even if they grew a little sleep-addled.

“As you should. After the winter you had, you have earned a dance and a drink.”

Ardil remained at his vigil in Elrohir’s anteroom. He shot Elladan a questioning look as he closed the bedroom door behind him.

“All well?”

Elladan nodded enthusiastically and left the carafe, still more than half-full, behind to sweeten Ardil’s watch, humming in anticipation of the night to come as he bounded down the stairs.  

------

Ardil knew his peril the moment he saw Elrohir’s eyes. They were wide with terror, fixed on some unknown horror only he could perceive. Silent as a houseless spirit the boy stood in his bedroom doorway barefoot and in his nightclothes, clearly without the slightest notion of where he was.  

Careful as a hunter evading some fierce thing cornered, Ardil called his name. Vacant eyes stared straight through him. Suddenly Elrohir spoke in that guttural Southern language of his, a rough, low whisper with a tone of urgency. The words doubtlessly held some sinister meaning, but they were spoken for other ears than Ardil’s.

“Elrohir. What is the matter?”

Ardil tried once again, and meanwhile prayed that Elrond would perceive Elrohir’s distress and could extricate himself quickly enough from the festivities to come to his son’s aid.

No one else would, Ardil realised when disjointed fragments of a dancing reel played on flutes and drums drifted in from the riverbank below the windows. The day’s ceiling of rain clouds had broken open to reveal the full moon gleaming like a pearl above the first stirrings of spring in the valley. On so fair a night Elrohir and he were likely the only ones left inside.

Elrohir moved towards the door, driven by some desperate thought of escape. Ardil rose from the window seat, unsure how to proceed. He was loathe to upset the child any further, but in this state Elrohir could not be left to roam the house with its many stairs and balconies overlooking sheer drops. Even if he managed to navigate his environment, keen Elvish eyes would inevitably notice Elrond’s son aimlessly wandering the hallways, half-dressed and insensate. The resulting talk would suffice to undo Elrohir’s successful appearance at the feast.   

The emptiness in his eyes was frightening. His body might be present in Imladris but his mind was in some far darker place. Ardil briefly feared he might be witnessing the exact moment Elrohir’s injured fëa departed for Badhron’s halls. The stab of dismay led him to a dire mistake. He reached out tentatively, careful not to startle, but the instant his hand brushed Elrohir’s the young Peredhel struck like a whip.

Elrohir gave Ardil a vicious kick in the knee. The crunch of cartilage was absurdly loud in the night-quiet room. His opponent immobilised, Elrohir ran as if chased by Morgoth’s werewolves. Despite his Mortal blood he was nimble enough, and well used to fighting, but illness had sapped him. Against a battle-hardened Elf-warrior he stood no chance. Ardil launched himself after his fleeing charge to grab him around the waist and bear him to the ground before he could reach the door. Elrohir fell, but not before landing a punch that would have shattered a Mortal’s jaw.

Their speed sent them crashing into the table. Celebrían’s jet and ivory chess set and the empty wine-carafe went clattering to the floor along with several chairs as Elrohir fought Ardil with the desperation of a snared animal at the hunter’s approach. Once downed with his arms pinned he could only injure himself with his frantic struggle for escape. He was beyond terror, and burning in his mind stood the absolute certainty that he would die if he could not get away.

The sheer strangeness of the situation would have thrown Ardil if he had not been old enough to have seen and done this before, for other Elves after other wars. He was as gentle as he could afford to be, but his soothing words in both Númenórean and Sindarin fell on deaf ears.

Elrohir only snapped back to the here and now at the resounding slam of the door thrown open so hard it bounced against the wall, and Elladan calling his name, voice thick with unshed tears. He sagged instantly, limp as a shot hare.

Had this been one of Ardil’s own sons he would have held the child, sung of peace and healing, heard the memory behind this nightmare to give what small comfort the sharing might bring. Not with Elrohir, who would come away from such attempted kindness with nothing but stung pride - and dismay. Ardil understood well enough that here was a tale Elrohir would not care to tell even to Elladan.

He released his grip but remained close beside Elrohir on the floor. A lukewarm trickle of blood ran down his face. He could ill afford to wipe it, not with both hands still raised to take hold of Elrohir again if he should do anything unexpected. Now that the focus of fighting abated his knee began to throb. Not broken, but certainly badly sprained. The sight of both Elrohir’s shoulders still in their sockets was a relief. Even for Ardil, injuring one of his charges to the point of needing a healer would be a sad first.

When his arms came free Elrohir sat up. Realisation dawned on his face as he surveyed the surrounding chaos. The boy froze, still as those absurd marble Valar the Golodhrim insisted on having in their gardens.

Elladan, too, stood transfixed. He must have come running from some fireside revel, still in his fine silk tunic but with his formal robes long abandoned and his gem-pinned hair windblown from dancing. All festive mirth had fled him instantly as he stared wide-eyed and bewildered at the inconceivable made real: his brother and his trusted guard come to blows, drawing blood and upending furniture. He was still frozen in place when the door opened once more.

Ardil’s relief at seeing Elrond and Celebrían was an almost physical sensation. Whatever sickness of the spirit was poisoning Elrohir, it was far beyond anyone else’s ability to mend. The Peredhel had made a name for himself as a healer since he laid down all weapons after the death of his Noldorin king. Ardil prayed to Lórien and Estë that that sterling reputation would hold up when applied to his own son.

Elrond was the first to break the silence that had settled over the absurd tableau, fragile as glass. His face betrayed neither dismay nor anger, as if he were looking at nothing more sinister than a spilled wine cup or broken quill.  

“There is a misunderstanding, it would seem. Thank you for seeing to it, Master Ardil. Come, Elrohir, let us clean you up.”

He gently helped Elrohir to his feet, mindful of the boy’s wrenched shoulders. Elrohir meekly let himself be led, his face a study in acute embarrassment. Eager to end the spectacle his youngest son was providing to the gathered housestaff, Elrond led him back to his bedroom. Elladan followed, deftly closing the door behind them.

Celebrían dealt with the small audience with her usual air of highly efficient authority. Ardil was glad of his lady’s staunch practicality -- her response to him tackling her youngest to the ground was grim appreciation rather than wrath. She directed Meneldil to discreetly locate a healer among the dancers to have Ardil's knee looked at and put some of the gawkers to good use tidying the room, before sternly demanding secrecy from all. Ardil had known Celebrían since the day she was born, and he was fairly sure he alone saw the depth of her consternation beneath the steely exterior,

Ardil shot one last look at Elrohir’s closed bedroom door before he accepted Meneldil’s supporting arm to limp to the House of Healing. Little love had been lost between him and Elrond, the Golodhrim lord with Dior’s face, but this night he pitied the man.

Chapter 14

Read Chapter 14

“What did you dream of?”

The question weighed the air between Elrond and Elrohir like iron despite the bright light of midday streaming into the drawing room and the sweet smell of honeyed tea. It was chamomile and athelas - Elrond clearly felt that a mild sedative was called for.

Elrohir’s head was still warm and drowsy from his long spell-induced sleep, a sheltering darkness beyond dreams. It left him feeling almost wine-drunk, but with none of the headache or queasiness. Elrond had been embarrassingly gentle with him, both last night and this morning. That leniency in itself was concerning. The Elf seemed to think yesterday’s altercation a sign of some strange illness, rather than bad behaviour.

Among Harad’s troops, unruliness and brawling would have earned him harsh reproach and a lashing. Given the choice Elrohir would have preferred even that to Elrond’s kid glove handling. It forced him to face the terrifying heart of the matter: the sudden tidal waves of memory sweeping him, as helpless to steer his own mind as a leaf riding the raging melt-waters of the Bruinen. If this was what it meant to be an Elf, Elrohir was unfit for it.

Perhaps it was simply what going insane was like. He recalled ragged beggars rocking themselves back and forth with unseeing eyes in the corners of Umbar’s market squares, permitted to eke out a miserable existence in relative peace because their gibbering madness precluded the Black Númenóreans putting them to any profitable use, and shuddered.

Elrohir fixed his eyes on the swirling patterns of the inlaid wooden tabletop, his teacup, Elrond’s hands folded in his lap. Anywhere but his father’s eyes. While he understood on a rational level that this was not Umbar and there would be no punishment for displeasing the lord, refusing a direct request from Elrond was still a terrifying proposition.

The mere thought of a conversation about this particular nightmare was far worse still.  

“I would rather not say.”

Elrond showed no sign of annoyance. He seemed entirely calm and emotionless.

“Let me tell you what I have seen. You dream of a man, entirely shadowed, and much taller than he could have been in reality. You must have been smaller at the time. I will hazard a guess that he owned you once, and treated you cruelly. You escaped, but in your nightmares he still pursues you. Is there truth to this?”

”I would rather not say.”

In Harad, Elrohir had been taught not to improvise under questioning. Mechanically repeating a short sentence gives the pressured mind an achievable task to accomplish and ensures no information is divulged by accident. The technique was sound, Elrohir knew from painful experience, but it was a widely known one.

Elrond seemed familiar with it, judging from his sharp dismay.

“Then you should not. Your mind is your own.”

At that Elrohir was astonished enough to look him in the eye. It was a mistake, because now Elrond did sink in his claws, gentle but determined.

“Silence does you no favors. You told me not long ago that your mind is swept away by a tide. An apt description, but this flood should be stemmed at the source: your memories.”   

Elrohir sounded plaintive even to himself. “These dreams never came to me in Harad, or even on the way north. Something in this house is causing them.”

Elrond was quick to cut off that line of thinking.

“What is causing them is the simple fact that you are no longer alone and fighting for your life. You can now afford to deal with your mind’s injuries, and it will force you to confront them. If not in the day, then by night.”     

Elrohir shook his head. “It has been over thirty years. Long enough to forget.”

It earned him an incredulous look.

“Even for a Mortal that would be unlikely, and you are something else entirely. Memory relived is both the burden and blessing of the Elves.”

Maybe it was dismay Elrohir felt at that, or maybe compassion for an endless existence under such habitual torture. “Some blessing, to relive the worst moments of one’s life for all eternity.”

“That is not how it should be. The paths of memory may seem a curse to you now, but that is temporary and it will pass.”

Fear flitted almost imperceptibly across Elrond’s face.

Elrohir knew that fleeting shadow from Elladan’s mind. His brother’s greatest fear had been impossible to overlook. He dreaded losing Elrohir once more, to death by grief or its only possible cure, sailing West.

The very idea had seemed preposterous at first. To Mortals death from sorrow was no more than a sentimental notion from overheated, syrupy love songs. For an Elf it lay well within the realm of possibility. Elrohir knew he was being watched with utmost care in search of subtle signs of it. Elladan’s cresting wave of relief whenever he polished off a full plate or laughed out loud was telling enough.

Elrond sipped his tea, appearing all equanimity. “What can be the harm in telling me?”

Speaking so casually he sounded almost human. Elrohir was having none of it. His last conversation with a real human being had been months ago and half a world away, and this strange mockery of it only served to light a sharp, cold pain of homesickness.

“What could you possibly hope to gain from this?”

Elrond must have noticed his agitation, and yet he prodded further.

“To pull whatever it is out into the light where it can be dealt with, instead of buried deep and haunting the night. So that when the next dream comes you will remember the telling of the tale rather than the reality of it, and it will be more easily cast aside.”

Elrohir knew he raised his voice above what was seemly in the presence of his father. He was past caring.

“You are mad if you expect me to dig around in that to satisfy your morbid curiosity.”

Elrond grew stern, and his voice carried a steel edge Elrohir had never heard before.

“Only sheer luck and Master Ardil kept you from harm last night. Have no doubt there will be a next time, and you may not be so fortunate then. I will not allow your decline to continue unopposed until your fëa has sunk into memory so deeply that it will release itself from your body. The idea may seem unreal, but rest assured it can and will happen. Last night’s incident is how it usually begins. Do not expect us to stand idly by as you pass to Mandos. Either you will indeed dig around for me, many times, or the only alternative is for us to send you across the Sea for healing.”

The world slowed, then spun sideways. Elrohir could not find the words to answer at first.

“There is nothing wrong with me. I am not dying,” he finally stammered.

“Your body is healthy, and will remain so until the very moment your fëa leaves it behind. You would hardly notice by then. Awareness of the here and now tends to be lost days before the moment of death. I have always felt such a passing to be the hardest on those forced to watch.”

A vision of Elladan bent like a snapped branch, sobbing in Celebrían’s arms hit Elrohir like a punch in the gut.

“So we understand each other,” Elrond added, his face a deep well of pain. “Your mother stands to lose both her children by this.”

So do you. And her, too. Elrohir’s thoughts fluttered, some rational part of him admiring Elrond’s composure.

Instead he said, “Elladan would not allow us to be separated.”

Elrond nodded, his tone almost wooden.

“Indeed he would not. It is an ill thing, for twins to be pulled apart. If you were to sail, so would he.”

He briefly paused, took a deep breath before continuing.

“The certainty of one day being reunited with both of you in Valinor would sustain your mother, if that came to pass. If you should die now, with your Choice unmade, you leave her to grieve without even the mercy of knowing whether she is entirely bereaved.”

The enormity of it lay on the table between them, a weapon for Elrohir to wield as the Lord of Imladris sat still and unprotected, hands folded in his lap.

One strike and I could break him, Elrohir thought. All he felt was terror.

Elrohir had brushed closely with death on many occasions. Each time came some pivotal moment where he had simply refused to accept the end of his life. It was sheer stubbornness, an indignation that this should be all there was that drove him to get up, lift his weapon and run through the next Umbarian who came at him. That determination was still within him, unchanged. In the end Elrohir was left with the simple fact that he did not want to die.

He sat up straight and somehow managed to summon the nerve to look his father in the eye.

“I will not die.” His voice cracked. “And I will not sail, either.”

Some grander statement was probably in order, but it was all he could think to say. Elrond, too had clearly exhausted his repertoire.

“Then do as I tell you. Help me understand where you went last night.”   

Where to start, with such a tale? Elrohir could only manage the essence of it.

“I killed someone.”

Elrond watched him, wholly undisturbed, until the silence grew too long. His voice was kind, offsetting the bluntness of his words.

“You killed many people, over the course of the war. What you mean to say is this person was not your enemy. And whatever circumstances drove you to it, you do not want to tell me because you fear my condemnation.”

Elrohir found it disconcerting to admit he did, and not just because he ate Elrond’s bread and lived surrounded by his armed guards. Somehow, and he wondered when, the Elf-lord’s opinion of him had come to matter for its own sake.    

Elrond kept his eyes on Elrohir’s as his tone grew almost pleading.

“Tell me all, this one time only. Whoever it was, whatever the situation, I will not presume to judge desperate measures from a place of comfort and safety. Your tale will never leave this room. Not even Elladan or your mother need to know, if you want it so.”

It sounded far too easy.

“The two of you are entwined. Does she not know all you hear?”

“Not if I hold it back. I will hold your confidence to the end of Arda, whatever it may be. I am quite skilled in the keeping of secrets.”

What skill at reading Elves Elrohir possessed told him Elrond was not lying. To buy time, he lifted his abandoned cup of tea and took a stone-cold sip as he made up his mind. A gentle rain pattered against the windows, another reminder of how far they were from Harad. Elrohir decided on one of many loose threads to begin unpicking the convoluted mass of what he was going to tell.

“Did Glorfindel mention there there was a price on my head, in Umbar?

Elrond leaned forward to listen, all sharp focus.

“Of course. The very reason you refused to follow him there. Your weight in silver for the one to bring you in alive, if I remember correctly. A remarkable sum, for one Haradrim warrior among many. Glorfindel checked the story on his way home, and found it entirely true. Strangely, the Black Númenóreans he spoke to could not tell him your crime. Am I about to learn what you did to merit lord Zimrathôn opening his coffers for you?”

And with that there was no way back. Elrohir’s next words dropped like stones in a still pond.

“I killed his father.”

A sharp glance struck Elrohir, and an inquisitive tug on his mind. One did not tell the Lord of Imladris half-truths easily.

“You did kill the previous Lord of Umbar, somehow. Word of his death reached even this far north, but we never heard it was an assassination. The imperial household must have deemed that detail too destructive for morale. The recollection clearly distresses you, but this is not the death that burdens you so. The whole tale, Elrohir, please. One time.”

Whenever Elrohir later recalled that conversation with his father, he couldn’t help but marvel at Elrond’s skill at drawing forth information. He sat back, positioning himself out of Elrohir’s line of sight and relieving him of the task of looking him in the eye. For some reason words came easier with his eyes fixed on the fire in the hearth.

“I was auctioned, at the Great Market in Umbar, just months after I was taken. My appearance was considered rare, and expensive. The final buyer was the imperial household. I spent years there, as you guessed correctly from my Númenórean accent. After striking down another uprising the old emperor, Zimrathôn’s father, went on progress to his subjugated eastern provinces. Haradrim spies infiltrated the household, and I was recruited to a conspiracy to assassinate him. I should not claim sole credit for our collective effort, but I was the one to enter his tent with a knife to do the actual deed. I cannot say I regret it. The emperor was an evil man, a great worshipper of the Zigûr, whom you call Sauron. Even by Umbarian standards he took far too much pleasure in his sacrifices. He practised dark sorcery, and over the years it robbed him of his last shred of humanity. The old emperor deserved a far worse death than being murdered in his sleep.”

A wave of nausea swept Elrohir at the flood of memory. Fear and flickering half-darkness, the crimson, lidless Eye looking on from its gilded altar through wisps of wreathing incense. That strange, wet give of windpipe and veins under the knife. Pushing down on the slack-mouthed face with a balled sheet of cloth-of-gold until everything smelled of sharp copper and his hands were soaked in red.

For a humiliating moment he was convinced he would vomit. In a few deep breaths it subsided, replaced by the sensation of cold sweat on his back.

Elrond must have perceived the memory as clearly as he, but the sight of a sleeping ruler having his throat slit by a servant did not seem to disturb the Lord of Imladris in the slightest. He silently refilled Elrohir’s cup so he could rinse the foul taste from his mouth before leaning back, unobtrusive once more.

“So you found yourself beside a dead emperor, in a tent surrounded by a great encampment. What did you do next?”

Elrohir could feel a long shudder draw across his back. He had no desire to continue, but there was now no going back on his words.

“There was another boy there, a slave like me.”

Elrohir’s voice cracked, and he fell silent for a moment. Elrond poured him more tea. It seemed absurd, that so simple a gesture as one man handing another a cup could express such tenderness.

“What was his name?”

“Sixth boy. We had no names, there.”

This, at last, brought a flash of shock to Elrond’s face, and the genuine sorrow behind it was enough to help Elrohir speak. Suddenly the words came out in one great gush like an abscess being lanced, the most words Elrohir had spoken at a time since leaving Harad.

“Together we mopped up the blood with sheets, and bundled the body in bed, made him look like he was sleeping. The guards believed us when we said he ordered us away, and we were allowed to leave the royal enclosure.

"I think neither of us had planned for escape because in our hearts we did not believe we would manage to kill him. We lost precious time disagreeing among ourselves. We did not dare to try stealing camels, and we would not have known how to ride them had we managed it. In the end we simply slipped away into the desert in our silk court livery, barefoot and without provisions.

"Neither of us could remember a life outside the imperial household, and we knew nothing of the desert save that we should go east to find the Haradrim, who were little more than whispered tales of barbarism to us. We both reckoned they could not possibly be worse than the Black Númenóreans.

"We ran for what remained of the night, and the day after. Just before sunset we heard the bloodhounds baying, and knew ourselves pursued. At court, being flayed alive was a common punishment for slaves. The emperor had it done on a whim, for the smallest offences. He made the household attend some poor bastard’s execution regular as the moon. I try not to imagine what they would have done to the emperor’s murderer. My friend, he ... he could run no further. They would have found him, and made him tell where I went before the end.”

Elrond’s voice held nothing but compassion as he spared Elrohir having to utter the actual words.

“And so you killed him yourself.”

“I still had the knife. We did not speak then, but I think he understood. He did not fight me. I left him as he fell; they must have found him eventually.”

Elrohir had sunk into the memory of it so deeply it took him some time to become aware that he was crying. Ashamed, he frantically wiped his eyes with his sleeves. Thankfully Elrond had the sense to ignore it. He would have resented the humiliation of being handed a handkerchief. Suddenly the need to unburden himself became strong enough to throw out even the most shameful detail.

“I took his jewelry, to have something to trade if I met people.”

“Sensible, under the circumstances. How did you get away?”

For a high-born lord, Elrond was remarkably practical. Elrohir felt his hands shake. He twined his fingers together in his lap and let the wide sleeves of his overtunic drape over them, eyes glued to the hearth-fire, the tabletop, anywhere but Elrond’s eyes.

“I ran east, for days and nights. In the end all I wanted was to die of thirst before the Umbarians caught me. I stumbled into Haradrim territory, and they did not suffer my pursuers to enter. They were raided, and I rescued.”

Elrond seemed surprised.

“The Haradrim took you in on sight?”

“They take in all who escape, and they received me well. Having assassinated the emperor was not a bad start to a military career.”

No, that came out wrong. Elrohir sighed.

“I say it as if I went on my merry way, after. It was … not a good time. I spent years trying not to think of Sixth Boy.”

Elrond shot him a measuring look.

“Where is his family? Could we somehow make amends to them?”

It was a kind offer, and a clear demonstration of Elrond’s utter incomprehension of life in Umbar. This time Elrohir found himself inclined to explaining, rather than anger.

“He was slave-born. There is no way of knowing who his mother might have been; he did not know it himself. Even if we somehow found out, she is undoubtedly dead. His father was most likely some Black Númenórean who never laid eyes on him.”  

Elrond winced as if struck.

“Was it like that for you? Where did the Umbarians tell you they obtained you?”

Elrohir shrugged, and waved dismissively, as if throwing away a thing without value.

“The past was a dangerous place to dwell. The emperor could see into the mind, at times. If I displeased him, he would detail how he would sacrifice me to the Zigûr if only I had not been so expensive. Had he seen your face in my mind, or Elladan or mother, he would have sunk his cost and gone through with it.”

The sight of Elrond visibly shaken was new, and disturbing.

“I am sorry. That you had to live like that, surrounded by cruelty, without even your name or the memory of us to sustain you. You deserve healing, rather than judgement.”

It was too much, too easy -- absolution this freely given. Elrohir shook his head, suddenly frantic.

“You do not understand. I was the one who insisted on killing the emperor. Sixth Boy did not want to do it, and he might still be alive today if I had listened. His death is on me in more ways than one. That I was the one to survive is undeserved, to say the least.”

Elrond sat up straight, casting off sadness and at once appearing more distant and lordly.

“Would you like to hear me confirm your guilt, this misconception of yours that justice would somehow be served by you having died alongside him? I will not. I thank Eru and any Vala who cares to listen that you were returned to us, whatever it took to bring you home alive. Dying is easy. It takes but a moment of dramatic bravery, then brings instantaneous release from responsibility for one’s actions. Facing the consequences and striving to set them right is a courage far harder to gather, one rarely sung in heroic ballads. If you feel you owe your friend, live to fight the Zigûr another day.”

The insight struck Elrohir, that here was someone who knew. Elrond understood the press of evil that covered those days in Umbar like a sheen of dirty oil on water, choking him until even his thoughts were no longer wholly his own. This Elf knew the poison it leached into heart and mind, and the sad certainty there were no depths to which it would not stoop.

“Let me tell you a secret of my own. A battle-healer’s decisions can be ugly, and a commander’s are even worse. When one is pursued by an army of Orcs baying for Elf-blood, and carrying litters is no longer a possibility, who is strong enough to survive the retreat on horseback? How many horses are there? How many more wounded? And what to do with the rest? Wash my hands of them, precious innocence intact, and leave them for the Orcs to toy with? Order one of my aides to take the burden on herself? I have killed more Elves than many who are maligned as kinslayers.”

Elrohir had been told several times how unnatural it was, how immense a thing, Elf killing Elf.

“I admit to thinking you and I had little in common. You prove me wrong: we are both murderers.”

Elrond did not even smile.

“Say rather we share a painful ability to do whatever becomes necessary. The nub of the matter lies in carrying on with life, after. Allow me to guess what you believe, in your heart of hearts. You say to yourself, ‘How can anyone do the things I did, and still be a decent person?’ And from there it follows that you are not, that you deserve the pain you feel now. Take it from me that you do not, none of it. You are as good or bad as any other, and equally worthy of peace.”

Elrohir could not meet Elrond’s eyes.

“I am not nice at all. Ask Ardil.”

“You were not fighting Ardil last night. Unless I am very much mistaken you were wholly convinced he was a Black Númenórean.”

Elrohir shrugged, dismissive.

“His jaw is no less broken for it.”      

“I went to speak with Ardil this morning. He understands far better than you seem to think. In fact, his first concern was for you, and I am to pass on his sincere well wishes. His injuries are minor. He returns tomorrow, at the latest.”  

“With a cracked knee and a broken jaw? I imagine he is abed, eating mash.”

Elrond smiled.

“Ardil is an Elf, and a very old warrior. You could not do him a serious injury if you tried twice as hard as you did.”

“What if this happens again?” Elrohir was genuinely afraid.

Elrond leaned forward and looked him straight in the eye. “We asked much of you last night. You gave us all, and the effort took more than you could spare. You paid a steep price. For that I must ask your forgiveness. A regrettable mistake, one we will not repeat.”

This gave Elrohir pause. To hear a man in Elrond’s position issue an apology to one of lesser rank was an astounding first. He could only nod in silence while Elrond continued.

“What you need is peace, sunlight, the company of trees and stars, and to be cared for instead of put to work. You will have all the time in Arda to take up public life when you are better. Ardil and Glorfindel will guard you, and your mother or I remain close at all times in case of trouble. Trust us to keep you safe while you heal, for as long it may take.”

Elrohir shook his head, at a loss for words to politely capture his unease. In the end he raised his hand in a sweeping gesture indicating the fire burning in the hearth, the fragrant tea on the table between them, his own dove grey tunic of woolen broadcloth, soft as a feather and embroidered with a swirling pattern of leaves finer than any Mortal hands could create.

“I would rather have another chance at earning my keep. You have fed and clothed me all winter for naught in return. After that, none of you should have to spend your days nannying me.”

“Elrohir.” Elrond’s voice was gentle, but hurt was clear in his eyes. “You are my son, and I will provide all you need without question of any reckoning or debt. We did not bring you home from the ends of Middle-earth in search of payment for services rendered. You have been all alone and fending for yourself for too long. No more. You only need to let yourself believe it.”

 

Chapter 15

Read Chapter 15

“Would you like to go shooting?”

Celebrían had sent Elrohir a conspiratorial grin, well aware that she was about to break her own rule. The smile she received in return was a ray of sunlight after a starless night. A single winter at home had changed him beyond recognition. Her son no longer resembled the half-starved, wary wanderer with old warrior’s eyes Glorfindel brought home from Harad.

One spring day Celebrían had to choke back tears of sheer relief when she noticed how tightly Elrohir’s tunic sat around his shoulders, his gangly wrists sticking out of sleeves grown too short to cover them. The measurements for his new clothes had been eerily close to Elladan’s.

A few days later a distracted Lindir became the first Elf in forty years to mistake Elrohir for his twin. Elrond and Celebrían saw the difference well enough, but they still marvelled at the stunning likeness of their sons’ faces now that Elrohir’s bones were no longer sharp from hunger.

He remained the quiet one. Some days and nights he still spent wrapped in painful memories, but he laughed more often these days. Celebrían treasured those smiles like the rarest of jewels. She found she truly liked Elrohir. That she would love him was a given, being his mother, but it was a wholly different matter to find him a kind and pleasant man with whom she enjoyed spending time. Harad did not change him all that much. She remembered a barefoot little boy, adorably dusty, running towards her across a summer lawn bearing a fistful of daisies and an air of delighted anticipation. Elrohir had always been exquisitely sensitive to the happiness of those he held dear, and as he began to accept her back into that closely guarded circle she held him in the palm of her hand once more.

He had begun to tell the occasional story about himself, when she was alone with him. Never about the war, the Ringwraith or the dead friends whose names he still called out some nights, but the small joys and intricacies of his life before, all the more wrenching for the knowledge of how it would come to ruin.

One day he fondly recalled a lion hunt, and showed her a handful of razor-sharp teeth the size of her thumb. At that she could no longer resist. Hunting was Celebrían’s passion and delight, a pleasure she had denied herself since Elrohir came home in dire need of all the care she had to give. She had longed for it throughout that long winter. To rise before the dawn with the light clouded like sapphire, leaving the burdens of rule behind in the house. Riding into the forest with the trackers and the baying dog pack. Gathering her Nandorin gamekeepers to drive the chosen stag from its shelter, give chase with horse and hound through dappled sunlight and the lively, green smell of crushed ferns. Her father had passed her the taste for it, one of few windows where the spontaneity of a wild Wood-elven existence could still shine through to the well-ordered, responsible life of the wife, the mother, the Lady of Imladris.

She longed to share all that with Elrohir, but soon encountered a practical issue: he had never held a longbow. Both Elrond and Celebrían had no wish to ever lay eyes on his iron crossbow from Umbar again. The Black Númenórean weapon looked almost Orcish in its clunky, unadorned design intended for nothing but war. Elrohir had been upset when Celebrían broke it to him that he would not be given back the foul thing. In his eagerness to join Elladan he nonetheless agreed to start learning a proper Elvish bow instead.

Elladan and he were stringing one now, standing barefoot up to their ankles in the lush, dew-sprinkled grass of the archery range in the rosy light of dawn. A clear sky and the mountain ranges streaked with glowing bars of orange promised the first hot day of the year. Celebrían sat on the trunk of a fallen oak tree, knee-deep in buttercups and daisies, and drank in her sons’ lively chatter.

Elrohir struggled with the bow’s unwieldy length. He needed some time yet to grow used to his new gangly height and find his centre of balance. Elladan helped him secure a leather bracer to his forearm. He positively glowed at getting to teach Elrohir this beloved art. Elladan had almost bent beneath his fear that his brother would be lost to his wounds of the fëa. With Elrohir showing the first hopeful signs of improvement, Elladan’s bright spirit was righting itself like a blade of grass after a passing storm. The twins grew more entwined by the day, each fiercely protective of the other and resisting all attempts at separating them for more than a few hours. After the pain of their years apart it seemed they now needed one another like they needed air. Celebrían simply accepted it, for the time being. Both her children had suffered pain enough. After all they endured she would not begrudge them each other’s company.    

With Elladan's help Elrohir had strung his bow, and was now nocking a white-fletched arrow from the bundle lying in the grass at their feet.  The weapon was Elladan’s, its draw not yet as heavy as a warriors’ bow, but enough for hunting deer. If today went well Celebrían would speak with Glireth, Imladris’ master bowyer, to commission Elrohir’s own.

Elrohir’s first arrow went wildly astray, hitting the side of the straw target beside the one he had been aiming for before tumbling into the grass. Elladan teased him and Elrohir laughed, easy and relaxed. Even now that sound still felt like a grand achievement.

She rose to stand beside them. “Draw with your whole weight, not just your elbow. It may not seem so at first, but it is easier that way. Now, again.”

By the time the sun had climbed above the treeline it had grown too hot to comfortably stand on the unshaded archery range, and the twins joined their mother in the shade, drinking cold spring water from an earthen jug.    

Elrohir smiled. “That was harder than it looks. Your warriors make it seem so effortless.”

“It will come to you, given time.”

Celebrían reached out and straightened his tousled braids. Of late she could afford that everyday gesture of affection common to all Elvish parents without him pulling back.

Elrohir smiled again. “By the looks of it I need practice, rather than time. I want to make sure I can hit what I aim for, when we hunt.” His tone was questioning.

Learning the bow well enough to take part in even the easiest of hunts in just a few months’ time was a tall order. Knowing Elrohir’s sheer stubbornness he would probably accomplish it, given permission to practice. The challenge would keep his mind occupied and build up his physical strength.

“Very well. Ardil gets free rein. He taught me in ten years’ time, so this will be a fine challenge. I should warn you, though, you will have sore shoulders before the week is through.”   

Elrohir shrugged. “We will manage. Even if I cannot get a feel for Elvish bows in time, a spear is still a spear.”

Elrohir was uncannily good at spearing from horseback, the benefit of a warrior’s life spent in the saddle. His knee-jerk rejection of animal speech as perilous Elf-sorcery saw a striking reversal when he realised the possibilities of conversing with horses. Things had come a long way, from the day he all but fled from Borndis warbling at a thrush in the garden. Celebrían had gladly obliged in teaching him. To her delight he now rode in the Elvish manner as if he had done so all his life, his mind closely entangled with Rochael’s. True to his father-name he had managed to inspire the grey mare to great devotion. She would have cantered into the house to take up residence in his rooms if he had let her. He could turn her on the spot steering with nothing but his mind, and Rochael would face any foe for her adored rider. To see those two hunt boar promised a thrill.  

The distant sound of horns resounded between the valley walls. Judging by the startled flight of woodpigeons flapping above the canopy it had come from the bridge to the western road, hidden from their sight by a stand of oak and beech just coming into their new leaves. Celebrían abruptly raised her head at the familiar notes. Elrohir froze beside her, his right hand almost imperceptibly moving to his waist. He wore a plain a canvas belt without as much as a penknife, but the habit seemed to die very hard.

Elladan was quick to reassure his brother. “Messengers from Lórien. They would not normally arrive in such pomp. I wonder what the matter is?”

He eyed Celebrían questioningly. On the path from the house they could see Laerwen, hurrying to retrieve her barefoot lady and dress her for a reception. Celebrían rose from the tree-trunk, straightening her breeches and linen summer tunic.

“Whoever it is, they will need seeing to in short order.”

-----

  

Both twins silently watched their mother’s retreating back for a moment before Elladan turned to his brother with a smile, holding up the bundle of arrows.

“A few more?”

Elrohir gladly agreed, and between the giddy excitement of shooting and the ephemeral beauty of Imladris in spring neither twin gave the matter any further thought.

By mid-afternoon they returned to the house by way of the kitchen, hot, dusty and hungry as wargs. Inside the high arched space it was pleasantly cool, the north-facing windows keeping out the heat. After the golden sunlight outside the large hearthfire appeared a pale, ivory colour. Several dogs rested there, hopefully eying Calmion, the head cook, and his assistants as they dressed elegant serving platters for the high table that evening.

Calmion was an enigma. The man was as jolly and rotund as an Elf could be, and had apparently been a cook for three ages of the world. How anyone could spend five thousand years roasting venison and still be entirely sane was beyond Elrohir, but Calmion seemed to have achieved it.  Instead of his usual friendly chat and a steaming bowl of pottage, Calmion received them with a mysterious message.

“I am to send you straight to the baths, young lords, and from there to your father’s study. Something to do with our guests. All of you for the high table tonight, I am told!”

For Elrohir to set foot in the kitchens without the staff insisting on feeding him was unprecedented. The situation had to be dire indeed.   

Alarmed, Elrohir briefly considered going straight to Elrond to find out what was wrong, but Elladan talked him out of bursting into their father’s study looking like they came running all the way from Fornost. If this was not urgent enough for them to be called in from their archery practice, it could certainly wait until they had a bath and a change of clothes.

When they were finally seen in, sweet-smelling and dressed in midnight blue tunics fit for a councilroom, Elrohir knew he had been falsely reassured. From Elrond’s look of concern and the hard determination on Celebrían’s face, the matter at hand was serious indeed.

“What happened?”

Elrohir spoke as soon as they crossed the threshold. Under the circumstances he did not see the point in pleasantries.

Elrond gave a tired smile.

“Mae govannen, Elrohir. Fear not. Imladris is not at war, and neither has anyone died. You have a visitor.”

For the smallest of moments, Elrohir’s heart leapt with joy at the absurd idea of a friend from Harad somehow having tracked him halfway across the world. He quenched it as fast as it had come.

A silver-haired Elf, tall enough to overtop even Elladan by a handbreadth stood by the cold hearth, seemingly contemplating its floral arrangement. After an instant of bewilderment Elrohir realised he had seen that fine-boned Sindarin face before, in the memories of others. The short glimpses had done nothing to prepare him for the reality that was Celeborn.

Elrohir once thought Elrond ancient, at once acutely present in the current moment and distant as the mountains. Celeborn was far beyond that. Those grey eyes were older than the Sun and Moon. They had seen the bones of Middle-earth itself crumble and change, and in their depths shone the remembrance of ten thousand years of joy and sorrow. The feel of Celeborn’s mind was deep as oceans, rich and complex as a living forest, and utterly and completely Elvish. Elrohir was struck silent, wondering how a mayfly should properly greet an oak.

Someone must have warned Celeborn that Elrohir did not like to be touched by strangers. He did not embrace him, but laid his hands on his shoulders, and those alien eyes seemed to drink him in. When Celeborn finally spoke, he made Elrohir’s name sound like a benediction.

“Elrohir. It is a great joy to finally meet you, child, and an even greater one to find you looking so well.”

The accent was pure Doriathrim, like Ardil’s.   

Elrohir allowed rote politeness to take over as he gathered his leaping thoughts. Lindir had painstakingly taught him the proper formal Elvish greeting, and the words now rolled from his lips as fluently as they had in the loremaster’s study.

“Elen sila lùmenn’ omentielvo.”

Celeborn seemed taken aback for the briefest of instants, and his eyes darted to Elrond’s.

“Fairly spoken, grandson. I can tell your teachers have done their utmost, to have you greet me in Quenya already.”

Elrohir knew something was not right. He had given offense, in some unfathomable way. Celeborn was far more grieved than he had any right to be over a simple mistake in grammar or syntax, and Elrohir was fairly sure he had not made any. He arranged his face in the most generic smile he could manage and allowed silence to blanket the room, unwilling to risk further insult.

Suddenly everyone present but him appeared to come to some mutual understanding. Celebrían rose from her chair.

“Fairly spoken indeed. Elrohir has a fine ear for languages. He spoke four Mannish ones already when he returned, and learned Sindarin in mere months. You will be impressed with the result, Adar. Shall I show you the gardens, before dinner?”    

For a moment Celeborn stood poised as if to refuse, but with a rueful look at Elrohir he briefly embraced Elladan before following Celebrían out the door.

No longer intimidated into muteness, Elrohir spun to face Elrond.

“What did I say to upset him?”

Elrond gave him a sad smile.

“The offence was not your greeting, but the language it was delivered in. Quenya is … contentious, to your grandfather, and he did not expect it for your first words to him. I regret I did not think to warn you. Please do not let this deter you from speaking with him further. He is equally afraid of offending you. His vexation with the Quenya is directed at me.”

The situation eluded Elrohir, and he did not care to be left blind to the lines of any conflict going on in his vicinity.

“Quenya is the second language of this house. The library hears little else, it would seem. Why does Celeborn abhor it so?”  

“Ah ... an enmity older than the Sun, and one not easily explained before we are to welcome our guests at evening meal. Your grandfather’s escort consists of the knights of his household, some of whom are of such age and renown that they would warrant a formal reception in their own right. Your mother and I must see to this tonight. Whether you want to join us is your choice.”

In the purposeful silence that followed Elrohir decided he could. He had not lost himself in memory in weeks, and he risk of dislodging another Yestarë incident seemed small. He nodded, and Elrond’s face lit up.

“Tomorrow, at dawn I will sit with you, tell you all you need to know and answer your questions. Until then, try not to let it trouble you. The company may look formidable, but they made a perilous journey especially to meet you, and you have all their goodwill. As long as you steer clear of historically sensitive languages, you can do no wrong in your grandfather’s eyes.”

Far too much uncertainty remained for Elrohir to be the slightest bit comfortable with any of it. Elladan deftly plucked his questions from his mind and voiced them for him.

“Ada, there is more to this. Both Mother and you were wholly surprised by his arrival. Why did he come unannounced, without Grandmother, even?”

Elrond clearly had rather not answered that particular question, but he was entirely and brutally honest, as one needed to be when talking to Elrohir.

“Ardil was gravely concerned for you after the incident at Yestarë. Enough so to warrant an urgent dispatch to your grandfather, one we failed to catch. The news understandably brought your grandparents to believe you might die of your wounds of the fëa, or else need to be sent to Valinor. Celeborn travelled to Imladris in haste because he wanted to meet you at least once. Your grandmother had to stay behind in Lórien for her own safety, the price and burden of rule. Make no mistake, Elrohir. Your grandfather is not the most even-tempered Elf you will ever meet, but his care for you is beyond measure. On his arrival he stepped into this room a broken man. When we told him you were outside practicing archery instead of at Námo’s gates, he wept.”

Celeborn did not strike Elrohir as man of easy emotions, and judging by Elladan’s astonishment this was an unusual occurrence indeed.

Elrond gave an apologetic smile.

“That gentled state did not last long enough to spare us his prickliness over being greeted in Quenya.”

Elrohir was lost in an unknown world that grew more complicated by the minute.

“What should I do?”

“For now, go dress yourselves like a pair of Sindarin lords and be gracious to him and his company at dinner. I believe Laerwen is waiting for you, she will make sure you both look the part. Practice your formal address with Ardil once more. He will help you with the Doriathrim inflections.”

Elrohir’s world slid further into confusion.

“It was Ardil who brought them down on us. Why do you still trust him?”

“Your grandfather’s people are hardly a battalion of Orcs. As for Ardil … see his intentions, rather than the naked facts. All that ever drove him was care for you, and for your grandfather. Celeborn has deep roots in Middle-earth. Had we been forced to spirit you away to Valinor the separation would have been a long one indeed. Ardil meant only to allow you at least one meeting. Try to find mildness when you judge him.”

------

The westering sun bathed Celebrían’s garden in slanted light the colour of yellow wine. With a small, happy sigh she hooked her arm through her father’s and led his comforting presence through a lane of rowans, stately as queens crowned with a wealth of delicate ivory flowers. He gently laid a hand on one of the trunks, the grey bark smooth and glossy as polished stone, as one might stroke a favoured horse. She could tell how the tree soothed him. Governance and war might see him in the council chamber and away from his woods more often than not, but Celeborn of the Trees he would remain.

“It seems I managed to frighten your son back into his shell, and that over an ancient grudge of which he has no concept.”

Four ages of lordship over as many realms had taught her father awareness of his own sharp tongue and quick temper. Sadly, it often did not arrive until after the fact, when it could only drive him to painful rumination. For a moment she watched him castigate himself as he pondered the droning cloud of bees surrounding the tree, before she attempted to quell his misery.

“Elrohir is not easily cowed. He merely takes his time to look before he speaks. We get these spells of silent observation on each new introduction, and they always prove temporary.”

“The boy takes after his father, it would seem. Still, I should have been much gentler.”

Celebrían smiled. “You have a way with first impressions, Ada. It is a good thing you tend to turn them around on the subsequent meetings.”

He looked at her questioningly. He had ridden hard for weeks, a perilous journey made in terror of what he would find at the end. Only now, safe in the knowledge that the unthinkable, the loss of Elrohir and likely Elladan with him, had been averted, did he stop to wonder about his welcome in her house. A stab of tenderness for his great heart filled her.

“Of course. We might go riding tomorrow? Elrohir is bound to enjoy anything involving horses, even with strange old Elves in attendance.”     

He let out a long breath, at that.

Celebrían had been shocked to her core, earlier that day. When he burst into Elrond’s study Celeborn had carried a pale, straight-backed demeanour she had only ever seen on him when in charge of a battle. Direct as usual he had turned to her without preamble, his many questions reduced to their essence.

“Elrohir?”

Both Elrond and she had rushed to pour out reassurance. Celeborn had crumbled to silent, dignified tears the moment it sank in he would not lose yet another loved one to the Shadow. His emotions at getting to know the grandson he fully expected to bury, or set upon a ship to be equally lost to him, were clearly hard to contain.

They walked on in silence, the light around them turning from gold to palest blue as the sun sank behind the mountain ridges surrounding the valley.

“Elrohir seems greatly improved, from the descriptions in the first letters.”

Celebrían’s eyes suddenly brimmed with tears, born from a violent need to unburden herself to the one who still remained the all-powerful protector of her childhood, even after two ages, and realms and wars lost.

“Oh Ada, he was so ill! If we had not come for him, had not brought Elladan, he would have died on the roadside somewhere in Eregion. When he came home he would barricade his door at night for fear we would kill him in his sleep. It took Elrond weeks to get as much a smile. And then came the dreams, and the Black Breath …”  

“What did those Second-born savages do, to injure him so badly?”

“Elrond knows some of it, but Elrohir swore him to secrecy. It is well, because now at least he talks, and it diminishes the dreams. Elrond is shaken for days whenever they have one of their conversations.”

“Does Elrond believe he might be healed enough to take up his duties, with time?”

She understood, to a certain extent. Her sons were all the hope of Celeborn’s house. Still, it galled her to hear him ask, not whether Elrohir was happy, but if he might still be what every descendant of Elu Thingol must: a warrior, his people’s bulwark against the Enemy.

Her father knew her well enough to read her displeasure.

“There is no other way to live, daughter. Not in Middle-earth.”   

His plain Sindarin pragmatism took some getting used to, after years surrounded by lofty Noldorin principles.

“Elrohir is resilient. Given time and peace enough he will heal even from this.”

“Then time and peace he shall have. I will endeavour nothing but gentleness in his earshot.”

Celebrían gave her father a look of alarm.

“You might begin by burying old grudges for the duration. Our Chief Counsellor’s name is Erestor. Not ‘the person,’ ‘you there’ or, Araw forbid, ‘kinslayer.’ If you utter that particular one at the table tonight you will saddle Elrond with the task of explaining its meaning to Elrohir, whom we have deliberately spared the story. My husband will probably turn you out onto the roads without as much as a pack of lembas if you defy him in this.”

Celeborn laughed. “I am willing to put up with much for such news as you gave me today, even Master Erestor!”

Chapter 16

Read Chapter 16

Tonight’s reception certainly appeared to be a grand triumph of Celeborn’s House, Glorfindel mused as he surveyed the fair company gathered in the great dining hall. All stood facing the western windows thrown wide open to the balmy air of a clear spring evening. This standing silence had been carefully timed for Ëarendil’s ascent, and the sight of a Silmaril rising over the valley ridge, remote and holy, was uplifting indeed.

Elrond’s mind was unreadable as he watched his father for as long as he might in good manners before calling for all to take their seats.   

The lord and lady sat at the centre of the high table, underneath the blue and silver banner of Imladris hung on the wall. Celeborn as their guest of honour was at their right hand, facing the hall. His elegant circlet was of mithril, but his formal robe seemed remarkably austere - a deep charcoal velvet with only the sparsest embroidery. Only then did Glorfindel realise that the sombre garment had likely been packed with a very different ceremony in mind.

The Lord of Lórien shone with grandfatherly delight at having both grandsons seated beside and across from him. Given the occasion Glorfindel had ceded his usual place of honour at Elrond’s side and taken the seat beside Elladan. Seated below them were Celeborn’s knights, carefully intermingled with Gildor and other senior members of Elrond’s household. Erestor, who normally would sit high, in Glorfindel’s immediate vicinity, had diplomatically absented himself to dine in his rooms.

A wise decision, given the gathered company.

Celeborn appeared to have hand-picked his escort with loyalty and discretion in mind. All were Doriathrim, his oldest and most trusted officers. Among them were names of great renown: the Lady Aglarebeth, a heroïne of the defense of Eregion, once second in command to none other than Beleg Cúthalion on the marches of Doriath, and Master Tinwion, singularly gifted as both archer and tactician, who had been among Melian’s own retinue before entering Galadriel’s service.

In the hall beyond the dais two long trestle tables had been added to the usual setup to accommodate their armed company, rows of grey- and green-clad warriors of Lórien’s mingled folk. Here a chestnut Nandorin head, there a narrow, fine-boned face that might have been pure Avarin if not for the sea-grey eyes betraying a strand of Finarfin’s blood, doubtlessly from one of Galadriel’s retainers married into some Silvan tribe.

Two of Ardil’s sons had made the journey. The eldest, one Haldir, apparently in the capacity of newly minted captain of a company of archers. Ardil glowed like a full moon as he sat between them, three wheat-blond heads bent together in what was obviously a joyful family reunion.   

Quite a few awed looks were cast at both twins, and Glorfindel understood why. He never had the pleasure of meeting Lúthien Tinúviel in person, given her father’s insular tendencies, but those who had consistently marvelled at the twins’ uncanny resemblance to their illustrious foremother. This night would only increase their fame among the Sindar of Lórien.

Whoever dressed the Peredhel brothers had cleverly steered clear of the matching outfits of their childhood, which would have served only to draw the eye to their differences. Clothed as they were, Elladan in indigo silk, Elrohir in soft grey of a different cut flattering his slighter frame, one could not help but notice the striking likeness of their faces despite the sad state of Elrohir’s hair. And even that had been well taken in hand. Someone, probably Laerwen’s deft fingers, had managed to create a formal Sindarin fishtail braid, and compensated its lack of length with an abundance of white jewels befitting a Prince of Doriath. He certainly looked the more Sindarin of the pair.

Glorfindel caught Elrohir swatting the tinkling strands behind his head only once. Their eyes briefly met across the table, and both thought of how outraged Elrohir would have been not a year ago at finding himself dressed ‘like an Umbarian concubine done up by a magpie.’ His exact words, delivered in Haradi, the first time he set eyes on Glorfindel’s festival finery. The shared memory gave them both a conspiratorial chuckle.

It would be Elrohir’s only real smile of the evening. Glorfindel could tell he was nervous, but less so than Celeborn. Whatever had occurred between those two upon their first meeting in  Elrond’s study, clearly introductions had gone less than stellar and they were both desperate to compensate.

By the third course, a commendable dish of thinly sliced raw river fish with herbs and lemon, conversation was dead in the water. Grandfather and grandson were sporting near-identical rictus grins. Celeborn was not wholly to blame. Glorfindel had met boulders with easier table conversation than Elrohir in one of his taciturn moods, and the public eye never failed to elicit them. Erestor would have his work cut out for him, if Elrond wanted any hope of making a usable diplomat out of his second son.

The pain on Celebrían’s face was well hidden. Glorfindel knew how exquisitely sensitive she was to Elrohir’s wellbeing, or the lack of it. Watching him struggle at conversing with his own grandfather pained her even more than it did Celeborn. Ever the gracious hostess, she rescued her youngest with the ease of long practice by turning to hunting talk.

Glorfindel could practically hear the exhale of relief run the length of the high table. Hunting was the beloved pastime of every Elf present save Elrond, who -- being a healer -- chose to abstain. A few grandiose renditions of past achievements of the gathered noble company would steer clear of any awkward topics and see the meal through in a far more pleasant fashion.

Elladan took after his mother in his love of Oromë’s arts, and his enthusiasm charmed the Lórien delegation. Elrohir smiled, and nodded, and seemed on the whole overjoyed to unobtrusively stay out of it. His shoulders had just released some of their tension when Celebrían dragged him back in, doubtlessly with the best of intentions.

“Elrohir will join us in the autumn. They did some fine lion hunting, in the desert.”

Elrohir was quick to arrange his face, but the look he shot her could not have held more alarmed dismay if she had set an actual lion on him right there in the dining hall.   

Of course Celeborn jumped at it.

“Lions? Then your approach must be similar to what one does with lynxes?”

Elrohir, utterly clueless what a lynx might be but not about to admit it, nodded vigorously just as Elladan shook his head.

“Not at all, daerada. Lions are more like bears.”

Even to the most well-meaning onlooker the resulting effect had to be comical. To his credit, the corners of Celeborn’s mouth did not budge.

“A noble pursuit. Tell me, where in Harad are these creatures to be found?”

Glorfindel knew for a fact that in Harad culling lions was a dangerous chore, grudgingly taken up by idle warriors only when enough hapless goatherds had been eaten and there was no other fighting to be had. Raids on Black Númenórean caravans were considered a far more worthy and lucrative occupation for skilled fighters.

Elrohir was clever enough not to mention that prosaic reality.

“In east Harad, by the Inland Sea.”

At this, Celeborn was genuinely impressed.

“There still is an Inland Sea, in the uttermost East?”

He was obviously referring to the Sea of Helcar, on whose shores was said to have lain the sacred land of Cuiviénen.

Elrohir, wholly out of his depth once more, eyed him with grave concern.

“It was there when I last looked. Have you tidings of it disappearing?”

Thankfully the stewards chose that awkward moment to serve the final course, aniseed-flavoured strawberry tarts, sparing the pair further confusion on vanishing geography.

Elrond had remained silent throughout the hunting talk, but now took matters in hand, firmly engaging Celeborn on the more mundane aspects of trade between their realms.   

Glorfindel gave Elrohir a smile of reassurance. The boy looked for all the world as if he had just done battle.

----

Dawn broke over Imladris with a truly magnificent glow of tender pink and orange on the snow-capped peaks. Elrond’s east-facing study offered a sweeping view of the Misty Mountains. Had their planned subject matter been anything but doomed oaths and fratricide, he would have delighted in breaking his fast there with his youngest son.

The Lord of Imladris was an early riser. Before Elrohir’s return his usual morning meals were solitary affairs as he reviewed the night guards’ reports and signed his outgoing correspondence before the messengers would ride out. Neither Celebrían nor Elladan were inclined to join him in the productive habit. Only Elrohir seemed to have inherited his father’s restless inability to remain horizontal once the pre-dawn bird chorus set in. This was perhaps a trivial thing to have in common with his returned son-turned-stranger, but it granted Elrond time alone with him. He found a deep contentment in these quiet hours, too early for government affairs to command the attention of the Lord of Imladris, so the father might ask and listen, watch, read every small inflection of voice and face to map the foreign continent that was Elrohir.

It had been harsh, seeing his child so frightened, so miserable, so close to fading. Elrohir came to the very gates of Mandos, but closeness and loving care had returned that stubborn, unbreakable determination to his eyes. He would carry the pain of his injuries for years to come, but he would live.            

Elrond smiled, releasing a breath he did not realise he had held as Elrohir unthinkingly lifted a second spiced honey cake from the tray that stood between them, biting into it with relish before sipping his strong, black tea. Years of famine had made him so used to tight rationing that the very idea of seconds amounted to near-unspeakable selfishness in his eyes. Getting him to eat his fill had taken some convincing, and to see him reach for another pastry without as much as a second thought or a trace of guilt was a small victory to sweeten the sad lesson.   

Elrond drew out the moment, leading Elrohir to the open casements to point out the Silvan cowherds and their flocks moving against the jewel-green tapestry of distant mountain meadows. The tinkling of bronze cowbells and merry singing carried down into the valley. Elrohir laughed at the disjointed fragments of a scandalously creative rendition of “Tra-la-lally” that drifted into the study at the edge of hearing. The moment’s rare intimacy and the warm solidity of his shoulder beside Elrond’s own almost tempted him to lay his hand on it.

Soon all traces of sweetness had fled, and Elrohir grew ever more quiet and drawn as he listened, cooling cup of tea forgotten between his stilled hands.

Some disjointed stories of the Elder Days he had already heard. One could not live in Imladris for any amount of time without becoming enfolded in living history. On Elrond’s orders he had been spared the greatest horror of the War of the Jewels: that not all of its casualties had died on Orc-swords. Elrohir had seen enough slaughtered innocence of his own.

Only now that full understanding of the workings of his new world had become necessary, Elrond laid it all out on the table between them.

Fëanor, from the pinnacle of his achievement to the ugly depths of his fall, and that of the Noldor with him.

The Teleri and their kinship with the Sindar. Alqualondë. Erestor and Galadriel facing each other on the quays, both with swords dripping red.

Doriath, and Celeborn’s place within it. Elu Thingol’s ban on Quenya.

Of Dior and Nimloth, Eluréd and Elurín, Elrond could speak dispassionately, in a tutorial manner. He knew from long experience that he could not do so about the sack of Sirion, so he abandoned his tale there, final kinslaying untold.

Elrohir had heard more than enough. He laughed, seemingly unaffected.

“Eru in Ëa! Elves are as savage as the Black Númenóreans. Glorfindel was canny, to hold back these particular stories. I would not have dared to come north for fear of you!”

His light-heartedness was all bluster, and Elrond knew it. The small, intimate peculiarities of Elrohir’s face and mind had grown familiar enough by now that his best efforts no longer sufficed to hide his terror.

The fragile sense of safety they had worked so hard to create for him over the past months was fracturing, and beneath its shards lay the fear of a hunted creature. For an instant, Elrond cursed his wife’s father to the Void for blundering into his home unbidden as a cave-troll in a pottery.

“Peace. The last kinslaying took place over three thousand years ago, and there will be no more. We are safe.”

Elrohir had a practical mind, and an unparalleled sense for when he was being pacified.

“What I saw yesterday looked less like a well-healed scar than a raw wound. Erestor’s curious absence at the table is well explained. Who else in your household are former Fëanorians? How, exactly, are you keeping them separated from the Doriathrim? And for how long will this truce have to hold? Celeborn seems unlikely to show us the back of himself anytime soon.”

Elrond decided to let the lack of respect for his elders slide.

“Excellent questions, and they have already been taken well in hand. This is not Celeborn’s first visit to Imladris, or even his fifth. We have the schedules drawn up by now.”

Elrond’s hope that framing the matter as a logistical issue would lead Elrohir’s mind along less violent tracks was short-lived.

He leaned forward, concern evident on his face. “When it comes to it, where do we stand, Elladan and I?”

An acute sense of dread descended on Elrond.

“Comes to what, exactly?”

Elrohir looked at him as if he was a bit slow on the uptake.

“To blades. I spend my nights behind an unlocked door with one of the staunchest Doriathrim on the other side. I would hate to be counted a Noldo, come fighting time. We already know for a fact that I cannot take Ardil hand-to-hand. He could gut me like a herring whenever it takes his fancy.”

Elrond was harshly reminded that despite his quiet demeanour Elrohir remained steeped in violence. He had lived and breathed savagery, both undergone and committed it, for long enough that peace had become a thing beyond imagining.

Time, Elrond reminded himself. Time alone could gentle Elrohir, and they had all the time in Arda.

“Ardil is no kinslayer, and his loyalty towards you is absolute. He would die himself before he lets you come to harm. The very idea of him threatening you is absurd.”

Elrohir eyed him with disbelief, a sentiment Elrond rarely found himself on the receiving end of.

“The very least you could do is arm me. Am I to be defenseless?”

Both the conversation and Elrohir’s frame of mind swiftly deteriorated from concerning to downright alarming. By now Elrond knew for a fact that his youngest son was intimately familiar with the act of killing: the jerk of a blade parting muscle and sinew, putting his weight behind the stab to make sure. There would be no dramatics to the calamity, none of the valiant duelling of minstrel’s songs. If Elrohir should decide he needed someone dead he would dispatch them stealthily, without as much as a scuffle.

Elrond understood, up to a point. Elrohir’s former life required a reputation for harshness and violence. Quick knives, blood first and questions later, if at all. A well-worn pattern was easily followed, when one grappled for guidance in a strange place.

Elrond straightened himself to his full, lordly height.

“Yes, in your own best interest.”

Slowly, and carefully he reached for Elrohir’s hand, uncurling it from the cold, forgotten teacup to hold it between his own as he beseeched his son. Genuinely surprised by the gesture, Elrohir allowed it.

“Your greatest peril lies not with Elves of any kind, but in misguidedly killing one. A kinslaying is a grave matter, far more of an abomination than murder among Men. All the goodwill and kindness you received here would vanish in an instant. The matter would come to court, and being your father I should step down as judge and have you tried by my counsellors. I expect your tender age and unusual circumstances would move them to mildness. You would keep your life, but for the greatest crime of all there can be no lesser sentence than referral to the highest court, which means you would be deported to Valinor in chains. What fate would befall you there I cannot say.”

Elrohir was no fool, Elrond noticed with relief. He knew danger when it stared him in the face. There would be no more talk of weapons, but the boy was nowhere near reassured.

“Then why is it that Erestor has not just the run of this valley but a seat on your council? He is the greatest among the remaining kinslayers.”

Elrond managed to hide his annoyance. Someone, and Ardil was the prime suspect, had dared to circumvent Elrond’s ban on talk of violence in Elrohir’s presence, and planted the seeds of a deep mistrust towards Erestor.

“Erestor was tried by the Valar themselves. His sentence is apt, and heavy, and unlikely to be completed for another age of the world. Even the Sindar were satisfied when it was pronounced .”

Elrohir stared in horror and fascination. “What did they do to him?”

“Erestor is considered old even among the Quendi. As ancient Elves do he grows weary of Middle-earth, where the years fly past bringing only decay and fading. His longing for Valinor, the land of his birth and the only place where his body and spirit may find renewal, was already great when the War of the Jewels ended. Today, after another age of the world, it has grown near-unbearable, yet Erestor remains banished from the Blessed Realm. He is sworn to my service here in Ennor, until the day I sail West. Rest assured that he feels the weight of his years and his deeds every single day.”

Elrohir did not seem overly impressed. As punishments went, the Black Númenóreans of Umbar were doubtlessly far more gory and ostentatious than the Valar. Knowing the full measure of Erestor’s long and weary suffering, Elrond doubted whether they were the crueler ones.

“What would you have me do?”

Elrohir was nothing if not practical. When faced with a situation he could not grasp, he had the sense to listen to people who did.

“Nothing at all. Go riding with your grandfather. He can be a truly pleasant companion. Have no doubt he greatly cares for you.”

That dislodged even more disbelief.

“He first set eyes on me yesterday afternoon, when we exchanged all of two extremely awkward conversations. By now he probably thinks I left most of my brain behind in Harad.”

Elrond recalled the sight of Celeborn in tears in this very room, and later at the feast in his mourning robes, and stood up for the Elf despite his meddling.  

“He first came here to meet you fifty years ago, weeks after you were begotten. He visited again when you were born, and came to stay with us for two years when you were five years old. Since then I know for a fact that barely an hour has passed when you were not in his thoughts. From the day you set foot in this house there was a letter from your grandparents with every party travelling between Lórien and Imladris. I will show them to you someday, when you can fully appreciate how wrenching they are.”

----

Elrohir no longer knew how he should feel. A deep desire swept him to be outside in the clear wind and sunlight, away from the tangle of ancient horror and whispered secrets suffocating the very air in this room. He stood, rather abruptly judging from Elrond’s startled look of concern, and meant to turn towards the door when Elrond rose and made to follow. Hesitantly, as if Elrohir might break Elrond raised a hand to touch his face with obvious tenderness.

“Peace, child. You are in no danger, and never will be within this valley while my power over it lasts.”

Fear pulsed through Elrohir’s body like a battle drum. He had no words in the face of Elrond’s apparent self-delusion. How long could any lord hope to last who ruled so deeply divided a people?

The gentle click of the door of Elrond’s study closing behind him was an unspeakable relief. In his eagerness to get away he barely noticed Ardil rising from his chair in the anteroom and falling into step beside him as he let his feet make their way to the stables. The morning was turning out very fair indeed, and all around the walking pair the great house was bathed in shafts of golden light falling through the arched windows. Little breezes played through the cloisters, heavy with the scent and snowy petals of flowering mayblossom. Elrohir’s unseeing eyes failed to register both the radiance of Imladris in bloom and his guardian’s looks of unveiled concern. His mind was spinning like a water wheel.  

After six months among the Elves Elrohir had stumbled upon the most disturbing of their many contradictions. On the surface Imladris seemed peaceful in every conceivable way. Poverty, theft, rape or murder were unheard of. Even in small everyday interactions the Elves deeply abhorred violence. The lack of aggression or force in any dealings had bemused Elrohir, but he had not asked what lay beneath. He might have known that a taboo so heavy could not arise without good reason.

In hindsight Lindir should have been Elrohir’s first clue. The cane was a well-used part of any Mortal teacher’s equipment. Elrohir remembered well enough the hard-handed scribe who quite literally knocked the Haradi alphabet into him over the course of three painful months, until Elrohir had enough and abruptly ended his formal schooling by breaking the fellow’s nose with a single, highly satisfying punch. He fully expected Lindir to resort to the same time-honoured educational method the day Elrohir accidentally knocked over a bottle of calligrapher’s ink on Lindir’s worktable. Lindir had swooped in with a half-loud curse, bearing a rag and a look of exasperation, but he grew truly distraught at Elrohir’s reflexive flinch from a slap that never came. The very idea that Elrohir believed him capable of physical violence caused the loremaster far more grief than his stained tabletop, and Lindir’s stream of reassurances had lasted far longer than the cleanup.

While Elrohir dismissed the incident as yet another trivial Elvish quirk, Lindir had clearly thought it a very grave matter. That very evening Elrond had pulled Elrohir aside to ask details of his education in Harad as if it was some horror on par with the desert war. Elrond’s dismay had been plain to see. He took pains to reiterate yet again that no Elf would ever raise a hand against Elrohir. Would, not should, as if he was completely certain.   

Elrohir had settled into this charmed existence too eagerly. He allowed himself to forget that one only needed to look upon an Elvish warrior, sleek, elegant and utterly lethal, to know them capable of extremes of violence that far exceeded the skill of any Mortal.

The signs were all around him, Elrohir realized as they passed the pair of armoured and helmed spearmen guarding the doors to Elrond’s workrooms. He had never set foot inside the sprawling compound that housed Imladris’ barracks, armoury and training grounds, but it was obvious that Glorfindel presided over a fierce and deadly army in there. Elrohir wondered at Glorfindel’s deeds in Alqualondë. He recalled well enough the Balrog-slayer’s raw power in his duel against the Ringwraith, a golden flame that both lit and devoured. He shuddered to imagine the sharp, deadly light in Glorfindel’s eyes and the might of his Song trained on the defenceless, and was left to wonder whether the differences with the Ringwraith’s sorcery were truly as great as the Noldor would like to believe.

He was swept by a disturbingly vivid image of Glorfindel helmed and clad in mail, his broadsword dripping red into his iron gauntlets while he cut down fisherfolk armed with boat hooks and paddles, the water between the jetties turning red as discarded bodies bobbed like flotsam.

At last Elrohir understood the full extent of Celeborn’s hurt at being greeted in Quenya. That Elrond and Celebrían kept the tale from Elrohir until their hand was forced was a stinging reminder of his own sheltered ignorance. He wondered what other dark secrets Elrond might keep hidden behind his wise and benevolent facade. Celeborn suddenly seemed relatable in comparison. The ancient Sinda remained unfathomable as ever, but Elrohir found he could no longer fault the Elf for refusing to sully his ears with the language of his people’s murderers.

Elrohir and Ardil emerged from one of the house’s many doors into the bright sunlight of the stable courtyard. A handful of grooms milled about currying and saddling four horses. Celebrían and Elladan were already mounting theirs. Rochael’s ears pricked up at the sight of Elrohir. She whinnied affectionately, shoes clicking on the cobblestones as she trotted up to bury her soft nose in the folds of his riding coat in search of the apple he never failed to bring. Elrohir’s mare was not the only one who had keenly anticipated his arrival.

Celeborn did seem more approachable out of his formal robes, but his gaze remained just as piercing and observant. Elrohir did not miss the meaningful look he exchanged with Ardil. With their concerned eyes resting on him Elrohir fought to suppress a deep shudder.

In essence Imladris was not unlike the desert: fair enough to make the heart weep, but utterly perilous to the unwary.  

---

Chapter End Notes

Hi there!

Just to let you know that we've reached the halfway point on this story. People do seem to be reading it if the counter is anything to go by, but the silence is getting a bit heavy after 15 chapters. 

If you read and like Northern Skies here on SWG, please consider letting me know! 

IS

Chapter 17

Read Chapter 17

Wild bluebells were just bursting into flower, carpeting the forest floor with lush pools of purple. Celebrían breathed in deeply enough to fill every last space inside her head with their scent. The very air was rich with life and growing.

Outside of Imladris the sun had long risen, but within the bowl of the valley pale morning mists still lingered, streaked with long bars of butter-yellow light. Above their heads the crisp green of new beech leaves unfurling made a living roof for the pillared hall of their grey trunks.

Four horses leisurely moved along a winding path through the woods at the western end of the hidden valley. Further on, the track would curve up to ascend the valley ridge, climbing through the cool twilight of hardy pine forest towards mountain meadows strewn with wildflowers in a series of dizzying hairpin bends. Tucked into a hidden side valley lay their destination for the day, a mountain lake from whose banks keen eyes could make out some of the Great Eagles’ eyries. The family outing had no need for an escort. The lake lay well within the influence of Vilya, and Glorfindel’s scouts had left no stone unturned in yesterday’s thorough sweep of the area.  

Celebrían watched from the corner of her eye as Elrohir mindlessly wound and unwound a strand of Rochael’s silver-grey mane around his fingers until the placid mare grew annoyed by his plucking and tossed her head. He immediately released it, rubbing the spot in silent apology. Their connection and Elrohir’s uneasiness accounted for Rochael’s skittish behaviour today. His breakfast with Elrond had left him pensive and even more cautious with his words than usual, though he seemed to take pains not to appear aloof to his grandfather. 

For a moment Celebrían allowed herself a swell of pride in her sons. The pair of them sat on their twin horses tall and fair as young oaks, faces both handsome and exotic for the slight touch of un-Elvish stoutness in their bones. 

Elladan was no longer a boy, she realised as she observed a clever young diplomat plying his trade, leading his brother and grandfather towards common ground in a skilled and subtle manner. Crafty Elladan knew his twin well enough by now to have him in the palm of his hand despite all Elrohir’s precocity. Celeborn had been an old hand at such games three ages before Elladan was ever thought of, but he too seemed to savour his grandson’s burgeoning skills and gladly let himself be entertained with talk of horse-racing and ring-tilting.  

When they reached a wooded hollow the path widened and became soft with mud. The three Imladrian horses grew restless.This was where Celebrían and Elladan usually gave them their heads, and Elrohir had joined these rides often enough for Rochael to anticipate the thrill of a race. As she pranced and snorted under him, head high and ears pricked, Elrohir turned to Celebrían for guidance, unsure whether an ancient Elf-lord’s dignity would allow for such mundane pleasures as a hard gallop in the woods. 

Before she could reassure Elrohir, Celeborn used the brief inattention to overtake them, Elladan on his heels. Elrohir’s reaction was whip-fast. From the adroit way he jockeyed for position on the narrow path he had ridden more than a few races. Elladan had a fine horse, but Elrohir was the more experienced rider by far. 

His brother overtaken, cautious Elrohir hesitated once more behind Celeborn, unsure whether he was expected to politely cede victory to their lordly guest. Elladan’s voice boomed through the woods loudly enough to silence the birdsong. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, get him!”  

Elrohir made fierce attempts to get past Celeborn as they flew down the narrow path, pelting Elladan and Celebrían with clods of earth thrown up by the thundering hooves. Despite the flying mud Celebrían revelled in the speed, the lightness, the sheer joy of it. Celeborn skillfully kept his grandson behind him, outmaneuvering Elrohir at every turn and even attempting to force him to fall back by pushing Rochael towards low-hanging branches in the undergrowth. 

The mare brusquely deviated to gallop through a copse of young beeches bordering the path, their branches whipping Elrohir’s ears. Suddenly he disappeared. With a gasp of dismay Celebrían searched the leaf-litter on the ground, convinced that a bough had knocked him off his horse, when she heard Elladan’s shout of glee. Elrohir hung aside Rochael, holding on to his saddle with a single arm and leg as low branches scythed overhead. It was the evasive maneuver of a mounted spearman, Celebrían knew, and among the horseless Wood-elves of Lórien few riders were experienced enough to pull it off.

The shortcut through the woods allowed Elrohir to overtake Celeborn on the path. In a heartbeat he was back in the saddle, the motion supple and uncomplicated as if he merely sat down in a comfortable chair. With the race’s end in sight Rochael gave her all. At the fork in the path beside a venerable chestnut tree they spun around to await their pursuers.

Elrohir did not smile. His expression was carefully neutral, as far removed from smug as possible in case Celeborn tended to hold grudges. Celebrían knew he did so with great relish, as much as the next Sindarin prince, but never over petty matters. Not once in her long lifetime had she known him to be a sore loser, and he was laughing heartily already.

Her father was looking at his grandson, truly seeing him, for the first time, and Celebrían knew he found himself staring into a mirror.

Elrohir had an clever eye for strife, a visceral understanding of the delicate tangle of cause and effect underlying the course of violence. It was the very thing that made him always kick first, and kick hard, that had him unsheathing his sword half a heartbeat before his opponent could draw, that told a raiding party now hold, and now charge according to the mere sight of the enemy marching along the valley floor below. The skill had kept him alive as the desert war devoured the people of Harad all around him. Part instinct, part practice, a grisly talent to be nurtured and tempered to devastating perfection over time. Celeborn knew it on sight, being the originator of this particular family trait, and he now beheld Elrohir with dawning understanding. His smile grew wider, a warm and fierce thing.  

Elrohir’s in return was fox-like in its intensity, sharp as a fine blade. 

Celebrían could see the moment it happened, warmth and fondness rushing through Celeborn’s mind like an incoming tide. Besotted was too vulgar a word for it, for her father was far above such foolish mistakes as damaging a child through overindulgence. Celeborn was a forester at heart, well used to guiding long, slow growth from frail beginnings into towering strength. Where he loved, he loved fiercely, with a touch of that Dwarf-like possessiveness of Elu Thingol. 

Elladan caught up with the both of them now. He was radiant, with his wind-blown hair a cloud of midnight and a triumphant smile at successfully thawing out his brother. With easy familiarity he leaned over to playfully tousle Elrohir’s unravelling braids.

Celebrían was well aware of how far Elladan’s extensive formal education had distanced him from his Sindarin blood. Elrond and Erestor had imparted the heir to Imladris with a great love of books and those kinds of lore the Noldor liked to write down in them. Elladan was a marvel among Elf-princes, Celebrían thought. He could debate jurisprudence against Erestor himself, draft a treaty and translate it into flawless Quenya, sing any lay you might care to name in its entirety while accompanying himself on either harp or lute, hunt with falcons and excel on the archery range. 

Whenever Celeborn visited, he had duly listened to Elladan reciting the Fall of Gondolin, admired his fine calligraphy and taken him on expeditions into the woods which Elladan enjoyed, but that failed to move him to the passion inspired by Lindir’s firsthand accounts of Ost-in-Edhil’s libraries. 

Not ten years ago Celeborn had sharp words with his daughter upon learning how poorly Elladan spoke the Silvan tongue of Imladris’ own Nandorin folk. The matter was soon rectified, but Celebrían nonetheless felt a stab of burning shame when her father candidly pointed out that she had raised a son who, in all his forty-eight years, had never felt the need to address the Wood-elves who did his laundry and tended the geese for his quills in their own language. 

For all the soul-deep love Celeborn bore Elladan, at times the full weight of three ages’ worth of incomprehension and resentment between the Elf-kindreds pressed down between him and his oldest grandson. 

Elrohir was a second chance, Celebrían realised. A grandchild leaning towards his own Sindarin blood in talents and disposition, unburdened by the expectations heaped upon Elrond’s heir, and marked from birth to take up Celeborn’s own warrior’s trade. For that, Celeborn would forgive Elrohir his aloofness and Mannish tendencies a thousand times over. 

Knowing Celeborn he was already hatching a tactic, or most likely several along with their various contingencies. As relieved as she was to see her father taking a shine to her son, in her heart Celebrían knew it would spell trouble. 

----

Elrond eagerly proffered the silver carafe of white mead to fill Celeborn’s cup once more. Whatever it was his good-father had come to discuss so unexpectedly, mellowing him beforehand was likely the wisest course of action. 

The sun had begun to sink below the western rim of the cloven valley amidst an absurdly bright display of scarlet-striped feather clouds. Touched by the red-golden evening light Celeborn brought to mind a time before Anor’s first rising: the wild Sindar of Ennor, grey-clad, their dark, fierce eyes trained on stars only they could see. 

Not that the formidable regent of Lórien appeared particularly unyielding this evening. Celeborn strode onto the loggia adjoining the family quarters bearing the rosy, contented look of one newly bathed after vigorous exercise outdoors. 

The unannounced arrival interrupted Elrond’s daily evening briefing with his chief counsellor, but even Erestor’s continued presence failed to vex Celeborn. The unusual mildness marked an unprecedented ceasefire in age-old hostilities. Elrond dared allow himself some hope.

“You seem in good spirits, and so did Elrohir. Has the ice been broken?”

Celeborn smiled fondly. 

“It has. A fine boy, if a bit quiet, and a clever horseman.”

Celeborn leaned forward in his chair, cup in hand. His unbraided hair, still damp from the bath, stirred in the gentle wind of spring singing through the valley.

“Elrohir is a very fine boy indeed, Elrond. What are your plans for him?” 

Celeborn’s expression was uncharacteristically soft. Of course. Trust Elrohir to be his taciturn, unyielding self, and trust a hard-headed, unpredictable Sinda like Celeborn to adore him regardless.

“He needs time to get well first. Beyond that … we shall see where his interests lie. He is the younger son. We can afford him greater leeway than we did with his brother.”

Celeborn shot Elrond a look of sharp reproach for so blatantly taking his wishes for reality. Elrohir had as little choice in his future as any child born into a ruling House of Ennor. He could style himself a musician, loremaster or smith if he so chose, but harsh necessity would always make him a warrior first and foremost. 

These were peaceful times, and Elrond had allowed himself to indulge in pretenses that his beloved sons would escape the ceaseless demands of war. Celeborn had seen enough grinding repeats of the Enemy’s fall and inevitable resurrection to harbour no illusions. Valinor was Elrohir’s only possible reprieve from a life of bearing sword and bow. Even more so because Elladan, Elrond’s heir, would have to be kept behind the lines in relative safety.

Elrond’s smile was wry, and bitter. Had he known Celeborn less well than he did, he would have called his good-father cruel. The exact opposite was true. Three ages of fighting the long defeat taught Elu Thingol’s former commander many painful lessons about the perils of wishful thinking, and he sought to spare those he loved as much of their bitterness as he might. Bringing out the unvarnished truth sooner rather than later was a kindness.

Celeborn threaded his fingers together in the well-known gesture that usually announced he was about to bluntly speak his mind.

“Elrond, I am not asking you to keep him unlettered, or rustic in any way. Only that you not repeat certain ... omissions you made with Elladan.”

At that, Elrond’s head shot up in barely veiled outrage. 

“Omissions?!”

“Elladan is a Noldo for all intents and purposes, despite Ardil’s best efforts. He may have the blood of Elu Thingol, but his heart is given to the House of Finwë. It might have been otherwise had he received tutoring among Sindar, but you have always kept him close. Understandable perhaps, under the circumstances, but the consequences will be hard to undo. Celebrían foresaw this when she named the boy so aptly.“

Elrond was not beyond pride in his own diplomacy when he refrained from reminding Celeborn who, exactly, had named the twins according to Noldorin tradition. Celeborn paused to give Elrond an imploring look. 

“She named both of them well. Elrohir has a heart for wild lands and the hunt. A warrior born, if ever I saw one. Send him to Lórien for fosterage. First at court in Caras Galadhon, then with the march-wardens. He would be more than welcome. King Amroth’s longing for a child grows by the year, but he remains besotted with Nimrodel and she will not wed him. He would embrace Celebrían’s son as his own. I shall return Elrohir to you well-prepared for his first captaincy, and beloved by Sindar and Silvan folk alike.”

Erestor had silently and steadily continued the letter he had been composing, destined for King Valandil’s trade minister in Fornost. This absurdity sufficed to make the Counsellor lay down his ivory pen beside the sheet of vellum. 

“My lord, his health does not allow it.”

Celeborn turned neither face nor eyes towards the Noldo.

“Temporarily. I am familiar with the Black Breath, Erestor.”

Celeborn gave Elrond an appreciative smile.

“Your care has been exemplary. Ardil tells me there is progress already. Another ten years at most will see him ready for court. In twenty he will be begging you to begin training with the warriors, and I recommend you let him. War may be a sad necessity, but this one has a talent for it.”

“There is plenty of warcraft to be learned here in Imladris, should the need arise,” Elrond interjected.

“And all of it of a decidedly Noldorin bent. Not one of your officers knows the first thing about mounting a woodland defence. A long-year spent exclusively in Imladris and Elrohir, too, will be Noldorin through and through. A scion of the House of Finwë indeed.”

At that barb, Erestor bristled. 

“You would have the heirs of Gil-galad live in huts of bark, dining on beech mast like the wild Avari?”

“I would have the heirs of Elu Thingol know their heritage, and their place in the world. Here in Imladris the Noldor may fashion themselves the Lords of Ennor still, but your numbers dwindle. Most Elves who remain this side of so wide a sea care more for leaf and bough than jewelcraft or libraries.”

To leave blatant provocation unanswered was not in the Noldorin character, and Erestor’s many years had seemingly failed to teach him better.

“And shall your grandson watch the flames of Barad-dûr rekindled from a tree branch, dressed in cloth of nettles, while Sauron’s Orcs wield well-forged steel? We would have done Elrohir greater kindness by leaving him in Harad.”

Celeborn raised his eyebrows. 

“The march-wardens of Lórien are outfitted as well as any guard of Imladris.”

Erestor scoffed. 

“Thanks to your lady’s reviled Noldorin smiths, it would seem.”  

“Say not reviled. There are no kinslayers among them.”

Celeborn turned towards Elrond. 

“Which is not the example I would choose to set before my grandsons.”

Elrond kept a deceptive calm, seemingly contemplating the fragrant cloud of lemon-yellow honeysuckle winding around the loggia’s pillars. A fat bumblebee buzzed from one of the chalices, covered in pollen so thickly it had trouble taking flight. He gently tapped the struggling creature’s wings, dislodging enough of the bright powder to set it free.

“Apply some logic, good-father, ere ancient grudges run away with you. Erestor tutored me from a far younger age than the twins are now, and it did not impart me with any kinslaying tendencies. In fact, I believe he acquitted himself rather well.”

Celeborn looked at Erestor with unmitigated fear. 

“Ten princes did you teach. Fëanor himself, his seven sons, and the sons of Elwing. All but one of them came to strange and bitter fates and are utterly lost to Elvenkind. You will forgive me for not being inspired to faith in you by the numbers.”

Erestor’s face betrayed grief-stricken agony, but he quickly righted himself.

“Do not lump Elros with the Fëanorians. He chose his own fate, one we Elves may yet come to envy in the fullness of time. Even as we speak his descendants rule all of Middle-earth in might.”  

Erestor looked like he had suffered enough provocation to mention the Dagorlad, or Oropher, or -- Varda forbid -- Amdir, which never failed to devolve any conversation Celeborn might have with a Noldo into a shouting match.

Swiftly and with the ease of long habit Elrond interfered. 

“I think we ought to put the matter to Elrohir, when the time is right. He should have the final say.”

Suddenly, and rather astonishingly, he found Erestor and Celeborn united against him, their faces aghast. Celeborn was the first to find his voice. 

“He cannot begin to understand what it is he should want.”  

Erestor nodded in wholly ironic agreement. “Clearly he is in need of guidance in the matter. Elrohir does strike me as capable of burying himself in some rural backwater for the entirety of his formative years, simply because it is made to sound like a grand adventure.”

Celeborn’s fingers closed around the stem of his artfully engraved cup with enough force to bend the silverware. The Sinda’s voice came out frighteningly restrained.

“A grave insult to Caras Galadhon. I imagine you might know better if you had ever laid eyes on it. Remind me, vassal of Fëanor, why you never granted us the honour of a visit as you did in Doriath of old? It would behoove you to understand where the true heart of Elvendom in Ennor lies these days.”

His bile discharged, Celeborn turned to Elrond once more. 

“In time, we might send Elrohir to Thranduil’s court in the Greenwood. Not an easy posting for one with Noldorin blood in his veins, but he might re-establish diplomatic ties for you if he secures Thranduil’s approval. His son, Legolas, is about the twins’ age. A fine opportunity for diplomacy through friendship. Our alliance would be renewed by it for the age to come, to the benefit of us all.”

Celeborn’s cup dangled forgotten from his fingers by the stem as he gestured, his voice taking on a beseeching quality.

“Elrond, your children are the image of Lúthien reborn. The mere sight of them is a dive into deep memory for all the Eluwaith. Let the Sindar look upon your sons, and remember their oldest allegiances rather than their grudges.”

Elrond was too much of a politician not to recognize a canny strategy when he saw one laid out. Celeborn had been Elu Thingol’s most valued counsellor two ages before Elrond was ever thought of, and not even Erestor could deny his skill at brokering peace with haughty Sindarin princes. A possible end to the bitterness that reigned between Imladris and the Sindarin kings of both Lórien and the Greenwood ever since the Last Alliance was most tempting indeed. But with the cleverness of a hunting spider his good-father had driven Elrond into a corner. Drawing Elrohir entirely within his sphere of influence would allow him to mould the boy in his own likeness.

“This conversation is premature. Elrohir is unwell, and in no way capable of what you envision.”

A defense already rebutted once that evening, and Celeborn knew it. 

“I am not demanding you send him along when I return to Lórien. You are the healer, Elrond. I defer to your judgement in the matter of his health.”

Celeborn had all the time in Arda. He would wait, patient as only an Elf could be.

Stars came out above the eastern valley rim as Eärendil rose in the west, where the sky still held the colour of palest blue sea-glass. Black tree-shapes on the ridges stood sharply outlined against the sky. Somewhere beside the ceaseless murmur of the river a chorus of Nandorin voices took up a cheerful dancing song, accompanied by much hand-clapping, foot-stamping and, judging by the instrument’s fair, rounded timbre and the skill of the player, Glaeriel’s fiddle.

Elrond turned his back on Celeborn to face the distant merriment, hands white-knuckled on the carved terrace railing. He was grasping at straws. 

“Can we not simply leave them in peace?”

At his shoulder, the answer came with unexpected gentleness. Elrond was reminded he was talking to a kinsman and, depending on one’s definition of the term, a friend.

“As you and Elros were at that age? While Sauron endures there is no peace to be had. This is the world that is. The only choice you have is how brusque your sons’ awakening to it will be.”

---

Chapter End Notes

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Chapter 18

Read Chapter 18

Without a doubt, Oromë himself sent this marauding herd of wild boar as a trial for Celebrían. Laerwen’s tone as she proclaimed it was decisive. 

The Lady of Imladris bit back a vinegar-sharp enquiry as to whether she had not been tried enough yet these days. She knew well enough that Laerwen’s long-standing penchant for excessive religiosity held no malice. Celebrían held her tongue and left the curious idea unchallenged.

Besides her duties as chatelaine, Laerwen was the chieftainess of Celebrían’s Yavannildi, her circle of Elf-women skilled in growing lembas-grain and the making of the wafers. Celebrían had learned Yavanna’s arts from Galadriel and her council of venerable wise-women. Upon her marriage to Elrond she had become Imladris’ Besain, the lady bread-giver.  At times filling this lofty role in a realm of her own seemed absurd, her mother’s mantle too heavy for her own shoulders even after nearly a long-year as the Lady of Imladris. Today was one of those moments of self-doubt. 

Laerwen was nothing if not dutiful, and her fair face bore a deep frown of concern. Both Elf-women stood shoulder to shoulder in the rose-tinted light of summer dawn. All around them a jewel-bright cloud of robins and finches chirped merrily as they pecked the remaining seed grain. The small creatures’ delight at their unexpected bounty only served to deepen Celebrían’s dejection as she surveyed the overnight devastation on one of their groves of lembas grain. The season had been very fine for wheat, with warm days and nights bringing plenty of mild rain. All around them the apple trees’ boughs were heavy with the beginnings of sweet fruit, and Imladris’ verdant kitchen gardens promised a wealth of fresh vegetables. 

There would be little harvest from this particular field. Tender green shoots had been trampled and uprooted by the foraging swine. The sheer number of cloven hoofprints indicated at least twenty ravenous animals.

The Yavannildi had sown other fields, of course. Lembas was far too critical a resource to keep all eggs in a single basket, but this loss was a concerning one nonetheless. Many lives depended on the sacred waybread Celebrían and her women provided: warriors safeguarding the valley on long, dangerous patrols; Elrond’s envoys braving the perilous roads of the Wilderland; and wounded Elves fighting battles of their own in the House of Healing. To ensure a steady supply was a queen’s privilege and her duty.

Celebrían turned to Laerwen. “Plough the field anew and resow it. There may still be time for the grain to ripen, if winter drags its heels a little.”

Celebrían knew for a fact that it would, upon her request, but she refrained from sharing the comfortable certainty with Laerwen. There was no need for her to learn Vilya’s whereabouts, much less the control Elrond held over the valley’s wind and weather 

Laerwen’s eyes drifted to the deep furrows rooted in the rich black soil of the valley floor. Her concern was obvious: where wild pigs found good foraging once, they would return. 

A luminous idea struck Celebrían, so obvious she berated herself for not having thought of it sooner. 

“Do not concern yourself about the boar. I will take it in hand.”

---------- 

The kennel attendant carrying buckets of offal and table scraps was received with ear-splitting baying, whining and jumping. Celebrían drew a deep breath, delighted as a lady of Gondor in the Imloth Melui. Suddenly ravenous, the pack of hunting dogs turned from playfully licking their mistress’ hands to burying their heads in the feeding trough. 

“They seem very … keen.” 

Elrohir had carefully kept his arms folded across his chest, his own hands well out of reach of the tall, coarse-haired hounds trying to press their wet noses into his palms. He was tense as a bowstring, and only then did it dawn on Celebrían that he was genuinely uneasy with her beloved companions.

“Do the Haradrim not keep dogs? Then how do they go about hunting lions?”

Elrohir nodded. 

“They do, but yours seem awfully large. What breed did you say this is?”

Celebrían knew she was beaming with pride. 

“Valinorean wolfhounds, descended from none other than Huan the Brave. He sired many a fine litter for Celegorm Fëanorion before shifting his loyalties. Your father received some of their get as parting gifts from … well, there is a tale for some other time.” 

She quickly caught herself.  “They are mighty hunters, the cleverest there are. Make friends out of them and they will serve you well.”

Elrohir crouched some distance from the ravenous hounds in silent observation. Clearly he knew better than to approach a feeding pack. Celebrían smiled knowingly. Elves had nothing to fear where Mortals could only tread at their peril. 

“They know you will not begrudge them their meal. Go on, touch them.”

He sent her a look that plainly stated he doubted her sanity.

The pack began to disperse with much yipping and wagging of tails once the last drop of the meat juices had been licked clean. Celebrían made a coughing, bark-like sound and a brindle bitch detached herself from the throng to stand before Elrohir. She was one of the forerunners, both experienced and reliable. Celebrían caressed the animal’s wiry coat, taking care to avoid the bloodstains matting her face. 

“This is my friend Suletal. She is a fine boar-hound.”

“She should be of a height with it!”  

Elrohir’s smile had a certain grudging appreciation to it.

Suletal was indeed a commanding presence: her muscular withers stood hip-height to a tall Elf. With Elrohir sitting on his haunches she overtopped him. For a long moment the pair were poised in motionless silence, eyeing one another. 

Celebrían grew concerned. She had watched with approval as Elrohir won Rochael’s adoring friendship. His skilled and gentle manner spoke of experience and delight in the company of good beasts. Perhaps her expectation that his fondness of horses would extend to dogs had been wrong. If so he would find little enjoyment in the upcoming boar hunt. 

As she looked on he sat up straight to look Suletal in the eyes, and introduced himself in very passable hound-speech. Pride bloomed at seeing her teachings bear fruit. Dogs had no names for one another, as such, but ‘"other-pup-of-mistress" was a clever approximation. Suletal wagged her mighty tail and bounded forward to bury her nose in Elrohir’s clothes, taking in his scent. The rest of the pack soon followed their leader. They were curious creatures, genuinely delighted to meet a new and interesting-smelling Elf. 

“Learn this one,” Celebrían barked. “My pup, one of our own. Obey and protect.” 

Elrohir’s life would one day depend on this nascent friendship. The considerable expense of feeding a pack of large dogs was no mere indulgence of Celebrían’s pleasure in hunting. These hounds’ usual prey was far more disturbing than mere venison for Elrond’s table. 

A ferocious hatred of Morgoth’s creatures was innate to all Huan’s descendants. Like their forefather they seemed almost clever enough for speech, canny and powerful combatants in their own right. It was no coincidence that the kennel lay adjacent to the barracks. In secure metal boxes the attendants kept warg-skins and filthy, coarse garments stripped off slain Orcs, used to provoke the sweet-natured dogs into a frenzy of growling and bared teeth before they were set upon the enemy. This pack could flush out the coal-dark passages of an Orc den faster than a company of Elvish warriors. 

There was no need to darken Elrohir’s view of his new friend with the knowledge. He had momentarily shed his usual reserve, and Celebrían basked in the rare sound of his easy laughter. Suletal rolled in the sand at his feet in panting, writhing adoration as he scratched her ears, murmuring a lilting stream of incomprehensible Haradi endearments. 

The visceral stab of grief and longing that winded him abruptly needed no language. Some beloved friend lost to the fates of war, the memory sharp as a blade. Elrohir’s stroking hands stilled. His Sindarin may be honed to near-perfection, but it would be a long time yet before he would find words for this. 

As she looked on Celebrían’s sight warped like a tarnished mirror. Suddenly a younger Elrond kneeled beside her as he had been newly returned from Mordor, his carefully arranged face covering a well of sadness.  

Celebrían hesitated. Elrohir let her embrace him at times, when he was upset enough, but she knew better than to try it in public. Instead she laid a hand on his shoulder. She had no words to offer him, but her presence was enough. 

Elrohir covered her hand with his own and gave a small, apologetic squeeze, eyes honest and vulnerable. His hand was warm, and months after his return Celebrían still marveled at finding it solid and real, the palm rough with softening sword callousses. 

If in that very moment Eärendil had descended from the heavens to present her with his Silmaril, Celebrían would not have withdrawn her hand to take it.

   

----- 

Elrohir’s quarry suddenly turned on him, pressed beyond terror into fury by Suletal’s ceaseless chase. The great hound’s deep growl rung hollow between the pine trunks as she took a protective stance before her master. Elrohir felt Rochael freeze underneath him as the horse came to a sliding stop on the muffling carpet of fallen pine needles. The fine hairs on Elrohir’s neck stood up, and he began to regret his decision to chase this boar sow by himself.

The high pine forest on the valley’s western slopes was an eerie place. Pole-straight trees without side limbs reached up to the sky, their dark green crowns of needles too dense for even the midday sun to penetrate. Undergrowth was sparse, no more than a few scattered holly bushes. The atmosphere was that of a vast pillared hall filled with silence and shifting shadows.  

At the sight of the boar’s fey desperation Elrohir knew he was in danger. The sow was experienced, in her fifteenth summer. Celebrían’s Nandorin gamekeepers had marked her for death along with most of the herd’s males. The bristles on her broad back stood nearly to a rider’s knee. Deep-lying yellow eyes fixed on Elrohir with fierce, mad cleverness as she gave a menacing growl, foamed spittle dripping down to the needle litter from her jutting tusks.

The Elvish boar lance smoothly came to his hand. Celebrían’s gift was well balanced: it felt far lighter than eight feet of solid ash with a head of shapely, razor-sharp steel should.   

Instantly the squawking of disturbed wood-pigeons and distant Elvish hunting songs morphed into the familiar slowness and silence of an earnest fight. In a flash Elrohir worried that Rochael might bolt in fear and doom them both, but the horse stood firm, awaiting his command with every fibre of her small, sensitive mind. The very idea of steering with reins now seemed absurdly crude. He only had to think his plan, project its image to her. A feint to the left, and then full forward.

The nimble speed with which the mare obeyed awed him even after months of riding her, clumps of sand flying behind them and the wind hard in his face. She wove between the pines, cleverly zigzagging to confuse the frenzied boar.

From the corner of his eye Elrohir saw the approaching flash of chestnut that was Celeborn’s great destrier. Help would be at hand, should he miss. He had no intention of doing so. With grim determination he turned once more, swerving towards the raging boar. 

Speed and direction and aim crystallized into one perfect, pivotal moment. Conscious thought fell away as the spear became a natural extension of his right arm. All his mind and will focused on the boar’s left flank, to strike that briefly exposed space behind the foreleg before she could swerve her tusked snout around to disembowel Rochael. 

This particular act of violence Elrohir knew as well as he knew his own hands, and he felt no surprise when the Elf-spear struck true with a familiar crack of ribs.

The sow was furious beyond pain. Even impaled on Elrohir’s spear, she sought to run up the shaft to maul him, bellowing in fury. The impact of her heavy bulk against the crossguard nearly shattered his right arm. It took every ounce of his strength to hold against the frantic advance for several beats of the animal’s pierced heart. For a moment they were poised like a pair of dancers, Elrohir’s grey eyes meeting yellow ones slowly losing their gleam, until at last she sagged and went limp at Rochael’s feet.  

Elrohir had to breathe deeply at the sight of blood staining the carpet of browned pine needles. It would not do for some ancient Sindarin noble to discover him staring into nothingness beside his kill, lost in memories of war. He dismounted to pet Suletal, who began to noisily lap at the spreading pool of red. Elrohir dispassionately rolled his right wrist against the pain before poking the boar with his foot. Dead as nails. 

On some level he was aware he should be feeling something other than vague relief at not being the one to emerge from this encounter sprawled on the forest floor in a puddle of his own blood. He should celebrate this kill with as much relish as Elladan had shown for his, that very morning. Instead he struggled to suppress an unconscionable desire to quietly disappear and leave the dead animal behind. He only managed to quell it because of Celeborn.     

On his approach the Elf-lord had sported a proud grandfather’s beaming smile. He was perceptive enough to quickly change it to concern even as he swung down from his saddle to stand beside Elrohir. 

“Your enjoyment of hunting should return gradually, as the memories of war recede. I see we were far too quick with this. A mistake born of eagerness.”   

Elrohir knew not what to say. Both agreement and denial seemed potential causes for misunderstanding. Instead he busied his eyes and hands by retrieving the spear. After increasingly forceful attempts to free the weapon, he was forced to admit it would take a hunting knife to lever the deeply embedded spearhead out from between the sow’s shattered rib cage. As usual Elrohir was unarmed. He shot Celeborn a questioning look.

Instead of proffering the dagger hanging from his own belt in a silver-tooled sheath, Celeborn turned around to face the sparse undergrowth of tangled holly, seemingly addressing empty air in soft, lilting Doriathrin. 

Elrohir’s months in Imladris had markedly improved his skills of perception. He did notice the march-wardens of Lórien a fraction before they rose to enter the open space between the pine trunks. The foremost one lowered his grey hood, revealing distinctive wheat-blond hair. Haldir’s resemblance to Ardil was striking. Celeborn’s captain politely inclined his head to acknowledge Elrohir before crouching beside the sow and unsheathing his knife. In moments the spear was free, and the Elves efficiently set themselves to bleeding and gutting. 

To Elrohir’s surprise, Celeborn swung back onto his stallion. 

“Come. Leave the beast to them. You have seen blood enough for today.”

----

Suletal frantically ran to and fro, bursting through the bracken in delirious gratitude for the praise both riders were heaping on her. As they weaved their way uphill, pine and holly gave way to brushland. Elrohir realized Celeborn meant to leave the valley. Months of having his horizons confined by steep mountain flanks gave the idea a surprising appeal. 

They scaled the western rim by a path so steep and well-hidden among brambles Elrohir doubted he would ever find his way back down without Celeborn’s guidance. 

Then open land and wide skies filled his vision, and it was all he could do not to grin like an idiot from the sheer joy of it. The heather was just coming into bloom, the high moors a rolling sea of soft purple dotted by the dark emerald of windswept juniper trees. A hunting buzzard wheeled slow, lazy circles through a sky clear as glass. To the west, tumbled hill-lands were lost in hazy distance that shimmered in the harsh midday light of high summer.

Despite his delight Elrohir half-suspected they were breaking some rule of Elrond’s. Celeborn perceived his thought, and smiled. 

“Fear not. Your mother knows, and she approves. I only mean to give your mind some breathing room. I am reliably informed you crave it from time to time. I thought to speak with you for a while, if you will.”

Elrohir had seen enough of Wood-elves to know apparent solitude could prove highly deceptive.

“That depends on who is hiding in the undergrowth.” 

Celeborn laughed heartily as he swung himself off his horse and opened his saddlebag. 

“Ah, the constraints of lordship. We are as near to alone as is wise, in the wilds. Ardil is nearby, of course, but I doubt anything the both of us could tell one another would be news to him. The remainder of our guards are keeping themselves out of earshot.” 

Haldir had passed Elrohir the sow’s ears and tail, wrapped in a square of linen. Suletal eagerly fell upon her reward, chewing with great gusto and splintering of cartilage. 

As he absentmindedly stroked the great boarhound’s rough back, Elrohir kept wondering whether he had truly been alone to chase this particular boar, and how many hidden spectators had witnessed the kill. He purposefully allowed the questions to drift to the forefront of his mind.

Celeborn had been removing an engraved silver bottle of miruvor from his bag. His hands momentarily stilled as he gave Elrohir a look of genuine astonishment. 

“Did you think us capable of pitting you against an angry boar all by yourself? Both your guard and mine had her covered at bowshot. You were never in danger.”

The knowledge that the poor creature had stood no chance at all evaporated what little satisfaction Elrohir had felt over his kill. The full absurdity of his situation struck hard. He once survived and thrived amidst Harad’s ceaseless wars on nothing but his own skill and wits. It was bitter, to find himself reduced to staged hunts and being granted a peek over the valley rim like a child handed a sweet. 

He deeply missed Harad’s southern stars, songs in languages no Elf had ever heard, the freedom of the nomad, at home wherever he went and some newness or wonder behind every hillcrest. Elrohir wondered how long it would take for the pain of longing to subside, and when it finally did, whether he would be left like Elladan, content in his confinement only because he knew nothing else.

A strong, irrational desire came over him, to leap into Rochael’s saddle and flee. Celeborn’s destrier was a fine horse, but bred for strength more than speed. His own long-legged mare would prove the faster, and surely the hidden archers would not stoop to kinslaying by loosing on a fleeing Elf. 

He briefly indulged in the fantasy, but reality struck soon enough. The Elves might be unwilling to harm him, but they would have no such qualms about Rochael. 

Celeborn’s alien gaze weighed on Elrohir. Even the thought of escape in the vicinity of so perceptive an Elf was insanely dangerous. Elrohir would get no more than one opportunity, if that, and he knew better than to recklessly spend it in haste.    

---

Chapter End Notes

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Chapter 19

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Elrohir rested his head against the rough bark of the tree trunk behind him, eyes on the narrow swathe of stars left visible by the steep valley walls. Above, silver birch leaves bloomed into gold where leaping firelight touched them in their ceaseless fluttering. The mild summer air was alive with bracing scents of woodsmoke and resin.  

Elrond had let Glorfindel preside over the grand fireside revels that traditionally followed a hunting day. Instead he chose this small clearing amidst the birch forest on the banks of the Bruinen for a more intimate gathering of family only. Elrohir knew he was being spared the curious eyes of both the household and Celeborn’s company, and counted his blessings. 

He felt ill at ease with the bright eyes of the Sindar of Lórien resting on him. Celeborn’s people were utterly strange. They somehow seemed more present than the wizened Elves of Imladris, wilder with a fierceness that, to Elrohir’s concerned eyes, carried a hint of danger. Few among them spoke any language other than their distinct Doriathrim dialect, terse and monosyllabic compared to the flowing Sindarin of Imladris, and their well-intentioned attempts to engage him in conversation suffered a great deal for it. Celeborn himself was among a small few capable of speaking with Elrohir in the Sindarin he knew, and he made a point of doing so at every opportunity. Despite his best intentions the ancient lord’s sheer Elvishness made deciding what to say - and more importantly, what not to say - a daunting task.   

This evening Elrohir could lean back against the trunk of the silver birch behind him and ground himself in the moment without such concerns. Elladan was singing some Wood-elf ballad, all mirth and cheerful mockery, accompanying himself on his lute with a deceptive ease that betrayed a fine tutor and decades of practice. Elrohir could not make anything of the Silvan words beyond a disjointed root or phrase here and there, but Celeborn proved well-acquainted with the song when he joined his warm, rounded baritone to the counterpoint. 

Elrohir let his eyes rest on Celebrían. Her smile from where she sat cross-legged on a spread blanket across their small fire could have melted glaciers, her cheeks rosy with more than the fine Gondorian wine. She had been in high spirits all day, but night under the stars had her absolutely radiant with joy. A wave of warmth washed over Elrohir at the sight, even though his own contribution to the day’s excitement had consisted of little more than spearing a wild pig and quietly nodding along with whomever was talking to him at the time. These, at least, were tasks Elrohir felt he could be counted upon to reliably handle. 

Elrond laid an arm around Celebrían’s shoulders to pull her against him as if he was a village lad in love instead of the formidable Lord of Imladris. The unexpected glimpse of humanity was what brought Elrohir to finally relax, folding his hands around his silver wine cup and settling himself more easily on the blanket beneath him. For a fleeting moment Celeborn’s song wrapped itself around him to carry him into an Elvish memory where the smooth black expanse of some long-vanished forest lake reflected a bejewelled filigree of leaves and stars. 

Celebrían must have read Elrohir’s gentled mood, because she immediately pressed her advantage. When Elladan and Celeborn’s song wound to a close she keenly leant forward.

“Well sung! But I do think Elrohir and I can do better.”

Not for the first time Elrohir cursed his mother’s inability to grasp that only one of her children shared her outgoing nature. His answer sounded, if not smooth then at least polite to his own ears. 

“I know no songs myself, but Elladan will gladly perform any of your choosing.” 

Celeborn’s posture stiffened, poised between horror and deep compassion, and for a fleeting moment he reached for Elrohir as if to embrace him. He could not have been more dismayed if Elrohir had informed him he had lost both his hands.

“Ai, child … when you were little you would hardly stop singing long enough to draw breath! Surely some of that joy is left to you? To hear your voice would lift all our spirits, yours not in the least. How can sorrow ever heal without being sung?”

Thanks to Lindir’s teachings Elrohir understood some of his grandfather’s shock. The Sindar held Song as dear as crafts were to the Noldor, as essential as breathing. Elf-children sang before they learned to speak, and would do so every day of their long lives, in either joy or sorrow. 

A sudden, irrational anger washed over Elrohir at finding himself pitied like an invalid instead of a grown man at liberty to decline when he did not fancy performing. Elrohir had not once felt like singing since setting foot in the North. Celebrían had remarked on it before tonight, but unlike her father she had never pressed him. 

Elrohir kept a mulish silence. His eyes met Celebrían’s, wide with shock, and the stark contrast between the Man Elrohir had become and the Elfling he had once been struck them both like a blow. He could tell she already regretted the unsubtle request. Unfortunately the matter was out of her hands. 

“Do the Men of the South not sing?” Celeborn enquired softly, sadness colouring his voice.

“They do.”

“Then will you not sing us a song of theirs?”

Elrohir knew many. Epic lays and ballads, songs of grief and glory, rebellious and devout and plain funny ones. In hindsight his fair voice had always betrayed his Elvish blood. When Elrohir sang people stopped what they were doing to listen, and there had been a time when he joyfully obliged. 

No longer, and even if he somehow forced himself to indulge Celeborn it would gain him little. Elrohir’s shaky grasp of even the simplest Sindarin words and melodies could only fall flat after Elladan’s effortless mastery, and the music of Harad would sound alien to Northern ears.  In the early days of the Desert War -- before the Ringwraith -- when the sheer number of dead among the Haradrim had not yet grown too great for burial rites, Elrohir had sung himself hoarse on lamentations. He had since watched a fellow singer die of the Black Breath, screaming at hallucinations. The image of their flutist’s battered corpse vividly stood before his mind's eye, an accusing stare in her open eyes as they had to leave her body behind for the jackals to find. 

All things considered Elrohir would rather wrestle another boar barehanded than sing as much as a ditty, every note a betrayal of those for whom he still mourned, dead or left behind in a different world. He shook his head, eyes fixed on empty air somewhere over Celeborn’s breastbone.

“I regret that I cannot. Please ask another. None here would refuse you.”

The harmony of merry voices drifting up from a great bonfire on the greensward beside the house, where Glorfindel and the household hosted the guests from Lórien with roast boar, music and good Dorwinion, only served to deepen the awkward silence that descended over this small clearing. 

In Celeborn’s ancient eyes stood pain and bafflement rather than anger. Elrond, Celebrían and Elladan bore matching expressions of dismay at what had to be breathtakingly offensive, from an Elvish perspective. Elrohir’s courage fled him at the sight, a tight knot of fear settling low in his throat where his heart frantically hammered against it. For a torturous moment he was convinced he had stretched Elrond’s patience beyond its breaking point and called down some terrible Elvish punishment on himself. Elrohir was reasonably certain his father would not cause him lasting harm, but Elrond might make his life highly unpleasant nonetheless. 

Never in his life had Elrohir been so deeply grateful as when Elladan lunged sideways to retrieve the lute he had laid aside and struck up “The Return of Elwë”. 

Elladan’s choice of song was clever. Under any other circumstances Celeborn would have been well pleased by this triumphant celebration of the love of Elu and Melian and the glory of Doriath’s founding. Now the reception was lukewarm at best, but Celeborn’s respect for both the art and the ballad’s subject matter kept him from bluntly interrupting Elladan to further question Elrohir. Relief washed over both twins when their grandfather settled back down on his blanket in frustrated silence. 

As the last note rung, Elrond rose and motioned for his sons to do the same. For a terrifying instant Elrohir feared it was in preparation for his upbraiding. His body tensed like a bowstring of its own accord, poised as if about to be struck, but Elrond’s voice was gentle. He understood Elladan’s intentions well enough. 

Elrohir’s Mannish need for nigh-incredible amounts of sleep, several hours each and every night, had been explained at length to a bemused Celeborn, and Elrond now took advantage to grant him an escape.   

“The day has been long, and you seem in need of rest. Tomorrow we will talk. Goodnight, my children.”    

----

Elladan kept his anger on a tight rein of silence as they walked the riverside path back to the house. It fermented further with Elrohir’s every quiet step, his lack of an explanation for yet another kindness rebuked.

Closer to the main house, garlands of evergreens and primrose festooned the alders on the riverbank. A colourful crowd of Elves of Imladris and Lórien feasted there with great merriment and uproar, on grass studded with niphredil. The golden light of their great bonfire blended with the silver of Fëanorian lamps strung between the trees like as many fallen Silmarils, and for a moment Elladan set aside his vexation to wonder if the sight of the Two Trees at their mingling might have been anything like this.    

Glorfindel’s tall shape, radiant in gold and cornflower blue, spun past among a ring of dancers silhouetted against the man-high fire. The Lady Aglarebeth was in his arms, all quicksilver and elegance sharp as blades. As they turned and leapt to the pulse-quickening whirl of pipes and drums the pair lit up the clearing, a tale of wonder from the Elder Days come to life.

Elladan noted Ardil at one of the long trestle tables laden with heaping bowls and carafes of wine. Elrohir’s guardian wore an easy smile. The cheerful  wreath of marigolds crowning his flaxen braids was tipping slightly askew as he laughed heartily at some jest from Haldir. By the unsteady grandness of their gesturing, both father and son were deep in their cups of Dorwinion. 

Elrohir did not slow his pace towards the house, but his eyes lingered on the feasting Elves with more than passing interest. 

Once they had entered the cavernous twilight of the deserted entrance hall, Elladan fell out of step with Elrohir to turn towards the library. A solitary night of diverting his pent-up rage towards the intricacies of Númenórean commercial law seemed a wiser course of action than to unchain the first blazing row of their renewed brotherhood.  

Elrohir’s hand moved lighting-fast, holding him by the sleeve. 

“We need to talk, for our ears alone. Where can we go?”

His face was strange and ominous, a pale oval amidst the darker shadows of the hall. A shudder of foresight ran down Elladan’s spine. 

Elladan had never shared in Imladris’ general dislike of the dilapidated Great Forge. He was a child of peace, born well after the age-ending cataclysm that was the Last Alliance. Few others in Elrond’s household could look upon the empty husk of the greatest weapons’ forge that ever stood in Middle-earth without being assailed by loss and grief and remembered horror. 

The Elves had left these smithies and the barracks that once housed Elendil’s army of Men to fall into ruin, and they now gently crumbled back into the valley’s eternal spruce forests. 

When Elladan was a boy his solitary explorations there had been grand adventures, sweetened by the thrill of trespassing on forbidden ground. Once he outgrew the childish pleasure it remained his place of quiet and contemplation. Even on those days when the main house became an anthill, bustling and busy with guests of every possible stripe, Elladan had not once met another soul out here. 

Neither living nor houseless, for such were the fireside whispers on autumn nights, when the mists blanketing the valley swirled eerily through these gaping doorways. Elladan payed them little heed. Mordor was far away, and surely the fallen warriors knew more riveting places to haunt than these empty rooms filled with dessicated leaves and old voles' nests. 

His own confidence and familiarity must have been palpable, because Elrohir followed him there without question. Elladan did not turn around until they stood in what was once a smithing hall. A long-year ago it must have rang with the hammer strikes of the finest Noldorin bladesmiths. This night young oaks grew in the fertile ashes of the great hearth, and the twins’ rustling footsteps on their leaves of autumns past disturbed a family of wood pigeons who cooed dreamily from their nests in the rafters. 

Elrohir craned his neck in astonishment, and for a moment Elladan beheld the faded might of the Noldor through his brother’s eyes. Rusted chains dangled from great roofbeams that were lost in the darkness overhead, interspersed with jagged slices of summer stars through the gaping holes where roof-trusses had collapsed. A line of abandoned anvils like great crouching animals was slowly being overgrown by brambles, their tiny flowers a cloud of white stars in the twilight. The air smelled fresh and sharp, of thriving green things.

 

-----

 

Mortal eyes would have found the space pitch black, and even to an Elf the dusk was heavy. Elrohir caught Elladan’s eyes, and in that instant a familiar line reappeared, separating two opposing sides. Elf and Mortal eyed one another across the divide. Elrohir stood firm under Elladan’s searching gaze, arms crossed and feet planted slightly apart like a swordsman grounding himself.   

“Thank you for rescuing me.”

Elladan was not mollified in the slightest. 

“You could have done her a kindness. After all Mother went through while you were gone … you could have sung her a stanza or two of Harad’s coarsest drinking song and she would have been delighted. But no. Nothing is ever that simple with you.”

Elrohir held his tongue. Elladan’s anger was like a desert storm: long in building, fierce, and soon blown over. Nothing would be achieved by arguing with him in this state. Better to let the tempest pass unopposed.

“What in Varda’s blessed name possessed you?! Are you this self-absorbed by nature, or is there some Mortal logic to your behaviour?”

Elladan fell quiet, seething. Elrohir was pleasantly surprised by how measured and even his own voice came out.

“I cannot sing merry songs just to wile away an evening. I simply cannot.”

The images in Elrohir’s mind needed no words. The sheer horror of it made Elladan take a step towards his brother and gently lay an arm around his shoulders to draw him back to the present. 

“Mother and Grandfather would never have asked you, had they known. Why did you not tell them, or me? You never tell me anything!”

“I did not expect to be asked to sing.”

This finally turned Elladan’s wrath to exasperation. 

“Elrohir, have you ever met an Elf!?”

Elrohir gave a wordless shrug. In hindsight he might have handled the night’s events more elegantly. He once possessed an uncanny knack for foresight, planning, strategy. It fuelled his swift rise through the ranks of Harad’s rebel militias, where the lives of the unwary tended to be short. The ability had wholly and completely deserted him upon setting foot in Imladris. He no longer sought to shape his circumstances or plan for contingencies. Life merely happened, and Elrohir watched it stream past with uncaring detachment. 

The realization made uttering his next words easier. In no language of Men or Elves could he conceive of a proper introduction to this, or a way to make it palatable.

“Elladan, I need your help.”

Elladan’s bright eagerness made his stomach sink.   

“I need to leave Imladris, and it must be tonight. Another opportunity like this will be a long time coming.”

 

----

 

The world Elladan knew, the stars and the forest and the balmy night wind carrying distant sounds of merriment and the murmurs of the Bruinen to his old childhood haunt, contracted violently, splintering to jagged pieces. This fey stranger who somehow was Elrohir did not relent.

“Both Glorfindel and Ardil are completely absorbed in the feast. No one has remembered to warn them that I have left. By the time either of them sobers up enough to notice the oversight I will be long gone.”  

There were no words for the enormity of this, and Elladan could only embrace Elrohir tightly, as if he could physically keep his brother with him, his fingernails making little white half-moons in the bare skin of Elrohir’s upper arms.

“Have you lost your mind?! Why?” 

It did seem an act of great will for Elrohir to step back from their embrace, and launch into a what appeared to be a long-considered talk.

“I never intended to stay in Imladris indefinitely, even if our parents thought that idea self-evident. I came north for you, to see with my own eyes if you were well. And you are. You are wise and strong and deeply beloved by all who surround you, the worthy heir to a great lordship. That certainty has lifted a weight off my shoulders. Now I should see to my own affairs.” 

Elladan shook his head in angry denial.

“Any affair of yours is mine. This is your place. Can you not at least try to grow into it?”

Elrohir shrugged in his hard, Mortal way.

“I do not fit in here any more than you would among Mortals. To keep trying will only bring more pain, for both of us.”

Elladan knew he was crying, but he made no attempt to hide his sorrow. In a tear-streaked voice he pleaded.

“Elrohir, what has gotten into you!?”

Elrohir took one of the fine mithril clips holding his braids between his fingers and held it in front of his face. Faint starlight filtering in through the broken roof caught it like a gem. The ornament was identical to Elladan’s own, part of a feast-day set they had since childhood.  

“No gift is ever truly free. Imladris is a wealthy house, and I was received well indeed. The price of all this generosity proves even higher than I feared: a mere lifetime of obedience will not satisfy our father. Eternity is what he wants.”

Elladan leapt to defend Elrond. 

“That you have the life of the Eldar is not by Father’s will. You are simply not Mortal.”   

“Death is not hard to come by, beyond these borders. It will find me eventually. Meanwhile I will choose my own path.”

Their raised voices had frightened the wood pigeons from their high nests. A dusty cloud of flapping wings and drifting feathers accompanied Elladan’s retort. 

“Our father is kind. He has no desire to go against your will in any matter.”

Elrohir turned towards what had once been the smithy’s great double doors, now a gaping hole in its crumbling wall. He stood silhouetted against the starlight outside, looking out to where the massive grey bulk of the Misty Mountains, snow-clad even at the height of summer, blotted out the sky.

“True. Nonetheless he expects me to follow where he leads.”

Elladan could not refute his words. Elrohir would receive great forbearance from his family and all in Imladris for many years, but that time was not infinite. Certain expectations existed, some unspoken, others less so. He closed the distance to where Elrohir stood in the doorway and spun his brother around to face him.  

“I cannot bear to be parted from you again. Take me with you, to the Harad or wherever you mean to go!”

Elrohir grasped both his hands, and at the sight of tears in his brother’s eyes Elladan felt a gaping abyss of sorrow open under his feet to swallow him whole.

“I could not steal you away from the only home you ever knew. It would rob our parents of the light in their lives. Stay where you belong, and live the life that was meant for you. I will go and seek mine. Now that we have found each other our minds will never be wholly separated, no matter how great the distance between us.”

Elladan shook his head, and suddenly they were both crying.

Elrohir’s mind was a well of agony, and finally he muttered in a small, tear-streaked voice. 

“Ask me to stay and I will, for you.”

Insight struck Elladan like a blow. 

“You would. Until love is no more, slowly replaced by loathing, and I would lose you completely.” 

"Aye. You would."

Even with Elrohir this close his mind was already distancing itself, running along open roads and wind-swept hillsides under strange stars. 

“Would you not prefer me to leave while I can still think of Imladris with love in my heart, the memory of it untainted, instead of like a prisoner despising his gaoler? You and I, we are two halves of the same fëa. I want to remember you with love for the rest of my life. How can I be myself if I feel any other way about you ?”   

Elladan gave a small sigh, almost a sob.

“One condition. Swear it.”

“Anything.”

“Do not choose Mortal death before we meet again. Neither by risking yourself in battle, nor by calling upon the Valar to make the Choice, or any other way. Stay alive until you return to me, or I come find you.”

Elrohir knelt before Elladan in the deep leaf litter among scattered clumps of iron ore, his hands in his brother’s and his words slow and solemn. 

The instant he finished Elladan pulled him up and into his arms. They stood motionless, entwined in fëa and hröa, for a long time before Elladan disentangled himself. 

“Your weapons are in a locked chest in father’s study. I know where he keeps the key. I will bring them, and lembas from the House of Healing.”

Elrohir beheld him with a reverence bordering on awe. 

“Thank …”

To hear him finish those words would somehow make this unbearable, and Elladan cut him off sharply.       

“Do not thank me before you see what you are about to unleash. You underestimate Erestor’s long arm, and Glorfindel’s trackers. Remember how they caught up with you on the way north!”

Grim determination flooded Elrohir’s mind.

“You forget that I was travelling towards them at the time. Eru knows I have many failings, but being easy to catch is not among them.”

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Fanfic writers thrive on feedback, and I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter! Please consider leaving me a comment if you're enjoying the story.

Summer's here, and yours truly will be spending some time in wifi-less places. This means I won't be able to update on Mondays 15th and 22nd of July.

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The normal posting schedule will resume Monday July 29th, after which weekly updates will continue to the end without interruptions (save RL emergencies).

Thank you for reading and commenting, and see you then!

Idrils Scribe

Chapter 20

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Elrohir slipped inside the house while Elladan saw to his stealthy errand. Without lighting lamps that might remind onlookers on the greensward outside of his existence he made a circuit of his rooms with a merciless efficiency he had not been capable of since Harad, sorting his belongings into two piles. The larger one consisted of anything too heavy or impractical to be carried on a long, lean trek through the mountains. His bulky saddle bag from Harad was discarded in favour of an oilskin rucksack. Food and gear left no room for keepsakes. 

Elrohir did not let himself wonder whether he grieved for his possessions from Harad, or was relieved at leaving behind the memories of darkness and sorrow that weighed them down. He unceremoniously piled everything into the saddle bag and hid it in the back of the wardrobe in deliberate avoidance of the question what would become of his cast-offs. 

Of all the fair and artful Elvish objects in that room, Elrohir took only warm winter clothes. His discarded mithril hair-clips made an accusing sight in their lacquered bowl on the washstand. No doubt Elrond and Celebrían would feel grieved by his disappearance, and a sudden pang of shame left him incapable of compounding the offence by stealing valuables. His own face in the polished silver mirror looked strangely Elvish, framed by his unbound hair. He tied it back with a simple leather tie, leaving the colourful silk ones behind. 

His weapons from Harad gave him a strange comfort. Their shapes were wholly manmade: stout, honest and reliable against the ethereal Elvishness of the house. Elladan looked on with something between awe and concern as Elrohir deftly reassembled and strung his crossbow, the motions so deeply ingrained his hands could even now perform them of their own accord. His fears that Elrond might have had the weapon sabotaged proved unfounded. The bow’s metal mechanism was still well oiled and clean, without a trace of rust. When he pulled the trigger the string released with a telltale sound that was music to Erohir’s ears. His blades, too proved as sharp as when he handed them in. His Umbarian scimitar in its plain leather sheath went on his left hip, and his hand found the hilt’s well-worn smoothness as naturally as if he had last drawn it yesterday instead of in what now seemed another lifetime. 

Fear showed in Elladan’s eyes. 

“Should you not wear mail?”

Elrohir contemplated it. In Harad he could never have afforded so precious a thing as a shirt of mail. Here in Imladris armour was in seemingly endless supply, enough for even the lowliest warrior of the guard to have their own.  

“Can you get me one without being seen?”

Elladan shook his head, dejected. 

“The armoury will be guarded, even on a festival night.” 

An idea like a glinting silver fish darted into Elladan’s mind. 

“Father keeps his armour his study!”

Elrohir swore at not having thought of that himself, but his enthusiasm cooled on a second consideration. Elrond’s gold inlaid cuirass was a priceless, irreplaceable masterpiece. Elrohir had heard the tale of how Celebrimbor and Narvi wrought it together, imbuing the mithril-coated steel with secret Dwarvish Songs of warding. If stolen, such a valuable object would unleash a manhunt in its own right.

Elrohir shrugged, disinclined to fret over what could not be changed. Elladan was concerned, but there quite simply was no mail to be had, and in the end he let the matter go.

“I have checked the stables. The grooms are at the feast, and well in their cups. You can take Rochael.”

Elrohir gave his brother a look of stunned disbelief. Surely Elladan understood the folly of his words. 

“Rochael is useless, for this.”

Now it was Elladan’s turn to be baffled. It dawned on Elrohir that his brother truly had no inkling of how gilded, how set apart from the mud and grime of everyday life Imladris was. A fresh wave of outrage struck him. Elladan deserved better than to be smothered in the silk wrappings and blinkers of a gilded cage that would eventually, inevitably fail to shut out reality.

“She stands out, Elladan. Outside Imladris only the well-to-do keep horses, and few can afford one as fine as Rochael. She is fit for a prince. I have no hope of going unnoticed riding her. Even if the Northerners prove honest enough not to waylay me for her, they will remember us when the Elves come asking questions. Unremarkable people go on foot.”    

The shock in Elladan’s eyes made a painful sight, but to his credit he quickly righted himself. 

“Where will you go? Harad?”

Confronted by the question he had not dared answer even to himself, Elrohir felt lightened. Setting the unvoiced desire to words made it seem possible. 

“No. Harad is full of ghosts. I need … someplace new, a blank slate. I know not yet where, but I will write to you, if I can.”

Elladan’s flash of unexpected joy at the prospect of a letter soon passed to sorrow.

“If you write me where you are, Glorfindel will arrive there faster than any return letter could.”

“Fear not. I will be more careful than that.”

Elrohir embraced Elladan one last time, willing his body to retain every detail of the touch, to somehow keep hold of it.    

“What should I do now?” 

The sight of Elladan’s misery, the knowledge that he left his brother utterly lost and in tears was almost enough to make Elrohir reconsider. To step back and break up the embrace took all his strength of will.

“Lie down in my bed. If someone should check the room before morning they will think you are me. It may grant me a few more hours.”

-----

Elrohir landed with an embarrassing thud, and for a moment he could only be grateful that no one would witness him gingerly scrabbling back up and rubbing his sore, mud-soaked knees. The steep, wet rockface of the valley’s eastern wall seemed to glower over him. He had lost his hand- and footholds in yet another promising spot on its crumbling grey stone, and slid back down the almost vertical slope, dragging a glaringly obvious trail through the green carpet of wet ferns and saxifrage covering the ancient rock. 

The Elves maintained a path out of the valley and into the Misty Mountains, smooth for horses’ hooves and marked with white rocks. Elladan had helpfully pointed it out, along with the silent sentinels guarding the entire length, from the valley proper to the high pass into Rhovanion. Elrohir had set out from the house in a more southerly direction under the mistaken impression he might climb his way out of the stronghold that was the cloven valley in some remote and unguarded place. The folly of that idea was beginning to sink in.

From the dark crown of a nearby oak a hunting pine marten called for its mate, a high and forlorn sound. Cold night winds fell down from the snow clad peaks above Imladris and Elrohir shivered from more than his wet clothes alone, before turning south to search for yet another place to attempt the hard and weary climb.

When the acute sense of presence came over him he first believed this was the end, that he had already been missed and tracked down. In the next heartbeat Serdir’s slim, dark shape materialized, sitting cross-legged on a mossy boulder. The Green-elf gave Elrohir a look between fear and contempt.

“Hard to find the way, is it not, my Secondborn friend?”

These woods were Serdir’s undisputed territory. Elrohir was truly alone with the dark Elf, with even Elladan unaware of his peril. His eyes came to rest on Serdir’s bow, tucked safely inside his quiver for the time being. He straightened his shoulders and filled his voice with false bluster.

“What do you want?”

It did nothing to hide his fear from Serdir, who was ancient and clever. The Elf smiled, and the perfect white of his teeth made an eerie contrast with his shadowed face.

“Not what you are thinking. I am no kinslayer. I came to offer you a bargain.”

Elrohir was all too familiar with the kind of bargains one struck with one party at arrowpoint. For a moment he cursed his own sentimental naïvety in leaving the mithril hair clips behind. A handful of them might have satisfied Serdir. 

“I have nothing to give you.”

Serdir’s fox-like smile grew even wider.

“Quite the contrary. I know the way out of this valley, and we both want you gone from it. A fine agreement can be reached from that.”

Elrohir knew well enough that something was very wrong, and he would come to rue whatever arrangement Serdir would propose. Even so, this night’s point of no return had passed when Elladan broke into Elrond’s study to retrieve Elrohir’s weapons. Elrohir could not turn back, and the way forward would lead past Serdir. 

“You, of all the Elves in Imladris, would lift a finger to help me?”

Serdir laughed, a sound like the wind through bare branches.

“True, I am no friend to you, but I want you gone before you can do my people harm. I am more than willing to help you remove yourself to live among Mortals, where you can no longer threaten us.”  

Despite his intentions to leave the Elves of Imladris far behind, the remark somehow cut Elrohir to the quick.

“What harm could I possibly do you?”

“The Golodh may choose to forget the lessons taught by the evil days of old, but the Lindar remember. The darkness returns no one, unless with a purpose. We know the tale of your kinsman Maeglin, and how he betrayed his city of stone. Such traitors came among our own folk too before we learned better than to take them back in. You only look Elvish to eyes clouded by parental sentiment, and you will grow even more dangerous if our lady’s misguided attentions should turn you into something resembling us.” 

Serdir delivered the cruel barb with casual ease. Elrohir needed all his strength not to grant the Elf the satisfaction of seeing him flinch.  

“If you think me a traitor, why waste this splendid opportunity to put an arrow through my eye? Instead you alert me to your presence to debate ancient history and offer your services as a guide?”

Serdir shook his head. 

“Why should I unleash the hatred of all your House upon mine, when I can simply point out the way to the inevitable doom you seem to wish upon yourself?”

He slid down from the boulder to stand before Elrohir, lean and lithe as a willow-wisp.

“What shall it be, Half-elf? Will you continue to blunder through this forest like a herd of blind trolls for what remains of the night, until your father sends his lackeys to fetch you? Or shall I show you the path?”

“I do not care to wind up in your debt.”

Serdir scoffed. “Your continued absence is payment in full.”

Elrohir held out his hand for Serdir to shake, but received only a look of deep suspicion and contempt before the Elf turned around and broke into a supple run.

Elrohir was a fraction slower, and to his great annoyance he could no longer track Serdir’s stealthy movements between the dark pillars of the surrounding pine forest.

“Do try to keep up!” 

The mocking, disembodied voice whispered somewhere to his left. Elrohir withstood the temptation to turn the other way.

----

Elladan spent the longest hours of his life in Elrohir’s bed. His brother’s darkened rooms offered no distraction from the waves of grief that washed over him in between what brief stretches of tortured sleep he could eke out. Elrohir had deliberately dulled and dimmed their connection the instant he left the house, and in its place once more gaped a familiar wound, an amputation. The pain ground Elladan down far enough that he wondered how Elrohir remained capable of walking. Time flowed unbearably slow and thick. By the liveliness of the singing voices down by the river dawn was hours away still. 

The sounds of a door opening and quiet footsteps in Elrohir’s anteroom brought a perverse relief. Once Glorfindel or Ardil resumed their watch over Elrohir, Elladan’s suffering would at least serve a purpose. 

In the next heartbeat cold horror congealed his blood. The door to the bedroom itself was opening. Outside stood not Ardil, but Elrond.

Elrond needed no explanations of any kind. The sight of Elladan in Elrohir’s bed confirmed whatever nightmare or foresight had driven their father to this unusual nighttime visit. All colour drained from his face, jaw slack with senseless misery in an expression that etched itself deeply into the bedrock of Elladan’s nightmares. 

Outside the window lay a wholly different universe: the golden shimmer of the lamplit greensward, where Glaeriel played the violin as Glorfindel’s sonorous voice rang out in praise of Tillion’s rising over the valley rim.

“How long?” Elrond’s voice was an unrecognizable croak.

Elladan leapt from the bed to touch his father, embrace him, do anything to ease this floodwave of suffering that threatened to swallow Elrond whole. The brusqueness with which he was held off, and the gleam of anger in Elrond’s eyes seemed to belong to some fey stranger. 

“Ada, I ...”

Down by the river the music rose and jubilated in triumphant celebration of fallen Telperion’s last flower.

Elrond’s tone was clipped. “Not a word from you, save to answer questions. How long has he been gone, and in what direction?”

Courage is found in unusual ways. Elladan saw Elrohir as he had been in Glorfindel’s accounts of Far Harad. A small, forlorn figure dwarfed by the vast emptiness of a barren land, standing firm before an army of evil Men baying for his blood. Elladan found he could do nothing less.   

“He does not want me to tell you.”

His father’s eyes were blazing pools of anger. Elladan had always held a vague belief that the tales of Elrond’s fury in battle concerned some hypothetical other by that name, rather than the kind and soft-spoken father he knew. In that instant he learned better.

Men were said to beat their own children, a cruelty unheard of among Elves. For an endless,  stretching moment Elladan believed that in his rage Elrond would follow the call of his Mortal blood. Instead he drew a shuddering breath. His voice was low and dangerously calm. 

“Go to your own rooms. You will not step a foot outside them until I send for you. Do not dare disobey me.”

In a whirl of festive silk robes Elrond was gone. From the hallway sounded hasty summons and running feet. Elladan closed his eyes against burning tears. 

Glorfindel’s distant song gave him some small comfort, until a moment later it broke off mid-sentence, leaving fractured silence.

---

Chapter End Notes

And so Elrohir finds that escape from Imladris is not without its difficulties.

Welcome back everyone, and thank you for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts about this chapter. Comments make me a very happy writer!

See you next week, when both Elrond and Elrohir take decisive action.

Idrils Scribe

Chapter 21

Read Chapter 21

Elrond’s world had tilted in an instant, lurching from the easy ways of peace to well-worn wartime patterns. The night passed in a blur of summoning every warrior left sober enough to stand on their feet, coordinating patrols and sending scores of pale, shocked faces off into the night, the long shadows of horse and Elf leaping before their own feet in the flickering torchlight.

Celebrían had disappeared to the armoury, both she and Erestor lost in the task of breaking open the storerooms, calling for reinforcements and mounting an expedition. 

Elrond did not dare hope their frantic preparations would prove unnecessary. One of the patrols searching the valley proper might yet ride into the courtyard with a bedraggled Elrohir in tow, plucked from some farmer’s hayloft or roadside ditch on the way to Fornost, but it was no more than a theoretical possibility. Elrohir had been gone for hours, and knowing him he had doubtlessly put his time to good use. He was far too clever to run off into ordered farmlands where a fugitive on foot stood no chance against a mounted search party. 

The very thought of Elrohir in the mountains wrapped a cold vice of dread around Elrond’s heart. Danger lurked far too close for comfort: a swift messenger could ride from the great courtyard of Elrond’s house to the horrors that awaited in an Orc-den in a single day. 

Entire tribes of Orcs had dug themselves in deep under the Misty Mountains, breeding like rats in their dark labyrinth of caverns. The gathered skill and experience of all the warriors of Imladris had not sufficed to flush them out. The more Orcs Glorfindel’s patrols killed, the more cave openings they collapsed, the more of the vile creatures seemed to pour out of ever new crevasses. 

Sauron might not have retrieved the One yet, but other Rings of Power would further his designs nearly as well. His malicious will was searching the Three even now. He might not know Vilya was on Elrond’s hand, but despite the greatest possible secrecy he doubtlessly did suspect, and his spies crept close to the borders of Imladris. 

Glorfindel shot Elrond a look of deep concern as he gasped under an onslaught of sheer terror at the thought of Elrohir in the darkness of an Orc den - beaten, maimed, brutalized. 

Few Elves dared to dwell on such dark matters, but healers went without the shield of blissful ignorance. Elrond had felt enough broken bodies writhe in terror under his hands to know what awaited his son. Few survived, and those who did were wrecked in body and spirit beyond what could be mended this side of the Sea. Elrond had seen fearsome Elf-warriors take ship as a hollow-eyed shell of their former selves, their bodies mutilated and minds snapped like brittle twigs beneath inescapable memories of torment. He had often wondered what became of these Elves in Valinor, how much truth was in the comforting fable that Irmo and Estë might heal even the worst of Morgoth’s marring. 

Elrond rose from the council table under the startled gazes of Glorfindel, Canissë and a handful of lieutenants receiving instructions. He murmured something about searching for clues before fleeing his own study as if chased by wargs. 

Elrohir’s room was grave and silent as an empty husk. Save for the unmade bed where Elladan had lain the space was tidy as ever, as if Elrohir had merely stepped outside for a midnight stroll. 

Not since Ereinion’s death had Elrond longed so deeply for another’s smile, their voice, their very being, while at the same time being thoroughly furious with them. Desperate for any lingering trace of Elrohir’s presence he frantically, irrationally began searching the room. At the bottom of the wardrobe lay the battered old saddlebag from Harad, deflated but by no means empty. Elrohir had been ruthless in abandoning anything and everything too heavy or useless to carry. 

Elrond methodically emptied it, spreading out his finds on the bed. Clothes from Harad. Strange insignia stared at him like mocking eyes, bitter reminders of where Elrohir’s first loyalty lay. 

Several sheets of crumpled reed paper, densely covered in flowing Haradi script made for a surprising find. There was no telling whether they were personal correspondence, old dispatches from wars past, or something else entirely. A small, leather bound book was equally enigmatic. Elrond laid all of it aside for Erestor and Lindir to look at, but he had little hope. The only one in all of the North who could have made heads or tails of these writings was gone. 

Then Elrond’s searching hands struck a parcel wrapped in hide. Out came his undoing - a small harp of strange southern make. Elrohir must have been a fine harpist, once. The instrument recalled his touch, and his strumming fingers had worn the polished wooden surface smooth and dull. At Elrond’s tentative plucking, strings long untuned rang a jangling dissonant through the bedroom’s tomb-like silence. A vision fluttered into Elrond’s mind -- Elrohir’s face, alight with the pure, unguarded joy of singing. Elrond might never see that expression on his son with his waking eyes, and that fear was an exquisite agony. 

Elrond cursed his own ignorance. He had known well enough how closed and clever Elrohir was. His son’s sharp, unknown mind could be felt, whirring like a fine Dwarvish clock beneath the impassive facade. And yet Elrond had failed to perceive that the present plagued Elrohir as much as did the past. His darkness had been so deep he had left behind even the remembrance of song. Elrond’s view of the discarded belongings littering the empty room grew misty, and when at last he set the instrument aside it was with shaking hands.

He could have wept with the devastating loss, the injustice of it. Elrohir had been home less than a sliver of the endless span of years he should have had with his family. Elrond had been waiting for him turn back towards life and light, patient as only an Elf could be. He had been naïve in believing he had time. Time enough to tease out those small suggestions of wry laughter that broke the surface of Elrohir’s mind at times, and learn what kind of jokes he would make. To get to know his face as he laughed, or slept with easy dreams. To grow familiar with the sight of joy reflected in his eyes. To see what craft Elrohir might have chosen, and the work that would come from his hands. 

That small, restless gesture of his, plucking his sleeve between his fingers whenever he thought deeply about something, the one that was all Elros. 

All that was lost, but the worst of it, the thought that broke Elrond like some soft animal laying in the destroyed remains of its shell, was that Elrohir would never sing again. Their quiet boy would be taken, and tortured, and the only hope remaining was that death would be swift.  Elrohir’s voice would be broken along with his body as he screamed himself hoarse beneath whip and claw and cruel iron. It would never mingle with Elladan’s in Imladris’ silver summer nights, to rise up to the leaves and the stars. Elrohir was gone, and the loss would destroy those who loved him. 

Elrond had lived three ages of war and violence and yet he refused to accept that Arda might hold such cruelty. Once more he found himself chained to Imladris by his responsibility for Vilya, and once more Celebrían and Glorfindel would be the ones to ride out and search for Elrohir in his father’s stead. 

Elrond rose. He might be the prisoner of his own well-guarded borders, but he was far from powerless. For a fleeting instant he contemplated the enormity of the deed he was about to commit, its harshness and the damage it would inflict. Elrohir would be deeply hurt, but he would live to one day understand the difference between cruelty and necessity. Elrond prayed that in doing so he might forgive.   

He turned towards the windows, white-knuckled hands clasping the sill, and sent his thoughts outwards, gathering Vilya’s power. He became Imladris, every whirl and eddy of the high winds jostling between the mountaintops, the living breath of every Elf in the valley, the flight of night birds in the branches of each starlit tree. Far to the south, in a green hollow between towering mallorn trees an answer came, concern and deep dismay. 

Elrond paid it little heed, raising his hands like a weaver upon a loom set with the jewel-bright, invisible threads of the mind.    

-----

Night in the mountains brought a sharp, wintery chill to the air. Elrohir drew his fur-lined cloak tight around his shoulders. Months of gazing at these snow-clad peaks from the safety of Imladris had rendered their shapes as familiar as his own hands. Seen this close they seemed far more forbidding, wholly covering the eastern stars and appearing to bend over him like malevolent, eyeless giants.

Elrohir chastised himself for the thought. He had never been one for superstitions. 

His back tingled with that inexplicable sensation of being watched. He spun to look behind him, seeing nothing but darkness lying heavy over desolate grey slopes, the treeline a shapeless black mass far below. Serdir was long gone. His unexpected guide had wordlessly disappeared the moment they reached the head of the secret trail that wound its way out of the valley, little more than a goats’ path lined with thorny brambles. 

Elrohir’s own steps were as silent as he could make them, but the unnatural absence of the  night sounds of the wilderness -- small animals skittering amidst the grasses and the hoot of hunting owls -- made each footfall stand out like a drumbeat. Elrohir’s fingers closed white-knuckled around the hilt of his sword. He had lost sight of Elrond’s house when he scaled the valley rim hours ago. He imagined it lit for the feast, golden light spilling from its many windows. 

At the very edge of hearing rang the silver tones of the belfry far below. The tolling bells went on far longer than usual, and Elrohir tried his utmost to remain calm in the knowledge that he had been missed, and now the hunt would begin. He should devote all his attention to that, rather than the raw wound in his mind where Elladan should have been, empty and painful, a gaping hole of his own making. Had their ruse been found out, or betrayed on purpose? Elladan was undoubtedly in Elrond’s study now, either helping to draft search plans or being questioned.

Elladan’s tortured expression as he handed Elrohir his weapons had been a pain beyond any Elrohir had felt before. Elrohir now knew for a fact that his marvel of a brother was the kindest, most generous creature in all of Man- and Elfkind. Elladan did not weep, rage or beg for Elrohir not to leave him. He could so easily have betrayed Elrohir to one of their many guards, either overtly or in stealth. Instead he had embraced his brother. 

“Don’t die.” 

Elladan said nothing more. Elrohir had taken his hand, and that simple gesture meant more than the direst oath he had ever sworn. Whatever fate awaited in the wild lands, Elrohir would live. 

To achieve it he should keep his attention on his feet where it belonged. Elrohir swore under his breath as he narrowly avoided causing a noisy rockfall. Once more his frightened thoughts turned to the mountain Orcs. The subject had been studiously avoided by any Elf he ever asked. From what disjointed snippets of information Glorfindel had revealed, the creatures were noisy, smelly and utterly without skill at stealth. His advice had been grim. 

"Never travel alone. Never travel at night. Jump off a cliff before letting them catch you."  

Elrohir had failed to heed two of Glorfindel’s counsels. He prayed Eru there would be no need to compensate with the third.

In the cold, thin mountain air the stars blazed like a field of jewels almost close enough to touch. Here was Menelvagor, there the Remmirath, and rising above a remote mountain rim cloaked in snow, Eärendil. 

The sight of the Valacirca, seven stars gleaming white and cold in the northern sky, flung Elrohir back to a night when Elrond rescued him from the darkness haunting his dreams by showing him the observatory atop the belfry towering over the library. For a moment memory carried him back unbidden. They had sat in one of the carved stone benches, surrounded by bronze astronomers’ instruments shaped like alien sea shells, the many lights of Imladris at their feet. Elrohir sat wrapped in layers of fur while his father delivered a fascinating lecture on Elvish starcraft in nothing more than his robes. The midwinter frost stung Elrohir’s face like a knife, but the stars of the North in their splendour had chased the shadows from his mind. 

Elrohir came back to himself quickly enough, but panic struck hard at the unexpected return of his memory spells. He had stood still during this one, thank Eru, and on the surrounding slopes nothing appeared to have moved. Every warriors’ instinct he possessed was screaming in alarm. He did not know why, or how, but he had to get away from this exposed place and the uncanny way the wind whistled across the barren slopes. 

Even as he walked the looping whirls of his thoughts took on a life of their own, and focus rapidly eluded him. His mind ran unmoored as an abandoned boat whipped to and fro, straying to memories of Imladris whenever his concentration wavered from his steep climb. 

Celebrían singing with delight as a summer shower drenched horse and rider to the skin. 

Elladan’s face, his mind, his presence and the agony of lacking it. 

Elrohir froze abruptly. He stood looking at a cliff face he was sure he had seen before. His planned trajectory climbed up, towards the jagged peaks surrounding the pass to the Gladden River, but now the terrain appeared to steadily drive him down. All paths and footholds descended towards the valley, every step up led to nothing but an endless circle back to his starting point. 

With the sinking feeling of sheer terror Elrohir understood. Glorfindel had whispered the secret one fearful night while trying to ease his terror of being hunted by the Ringwraith. 

“To those who seek this valley against your father’s will, the mountains will become trackless, and feet and mind both ensnared in the maze.” 

Whatever power Elrond held over Imladris and the surrounding foothills was now set against Elrohir leaving. It twisted and knotted the mountain paths into an impassable labyrinth while luring, beckoning, enticing him to give in to the steady pull downwards, to turning back.

Panic sang through Elrohir’s veins for the briefest of instants before it was cut off abruptly.  

There would be no fight, no pain, no hardship, coaxed an eerie voice that a moment ago had been nothing more than the wind whistling among craggy rocks. 

All he needed to do was give in, succumb to the pleasant heaviness in his legs, the warmth softly cottoning his head. 

Suddenly night in the high vales was no longer cold at all, and some distant part of Elrohir’s mind recoiled in horror. 

All would be well, if only he heeded that voice, so soft-spoken, kind and reasonable. It would lead him home.

All would be well, if only he let it steer his leaden feet downhill.

All would be well, down in the valley. 

Elrohir shook his head like a horse beset by flies in his desperate struggle to dislodge Elrond’s grip. He fought to to think of anything and everything but the warm languor pouring into his mind thick as honey.

He remembered nothing, except that he needed to go up, his face towards clear, cold wind and stars instead of down. 

Down, to warmth and golden light.

Elrohir would have howled with frustration at feeling himself take a step downhill, if only he could recall why up had once seemed so important. 

Surely it could not hurt to let his willing feet carry him down just a little. 

Elrohir staggered like a drunk on the narrow path, had already turned around when the ground under his feet gave way. A churning mass of falling rocks sucked him in, allowing a single thought to cut through like a clarion call over the din of battle. 

“Scree!” 

Time itself slowed as he tumbled down within the rockslide, the pain of the pummelling stones a vague and distant occurrence. His body remembered what to do even if his mind did not. With a groan he rolled aside onto firm ground. 

He must have lost consciousness for some time, because when he next looked up the stars had wheeled further in their sweeping arc across the sky, and the eastern horizon was lightening. 

Sitting up was agony like another beating. Elrohir hissed in pain as he inelegantly rolled to his knees to survey his scattered belongings. 

With clinical detachment he felt himself shiver, chilled to the bone. A warm trickle of blood slowly seeped into the collar of his tunic from a plum sized bump on his head. He briefly had to close his eyes against another wave of pounding, venomous headache, but his mind was all his own, and the path uphill right before him where it had doubtlessly been all along.

----

Elrond swayed, and Glorfindel reached out to keep his lord from falling out of his chair. Once righted the placid Peredhel brusquely struck the council table with both fists and a let out a muffled groan of agony. Vilya was briefly unveiled, catching the light of the Fëanorian lamps overhead in an angry flash of sapphire. At first Elrond’s eyes were dazed from the deep trance. A moment later they held nothing but terror. 

“I drew him in too deeply. He lost his footing on a scree. I had to let go.” 

Elrond’s breathing was heavy as he buried his face in his hands while the remainder of his war council looked on in horror. After a small eternity of silence he regained his clarity. 

“He is in the mountains, as we feared. Send riders after the search parties on the western road. Redirect them.” 

Erestor ducked outside, and from the hallway came an echo of whispered orders.  

Celebrían sent her husband a scathing look. Glorfindel knew how she abhorred the very idea of Vilya touching her sons. Elrond and Erestor both had words with her before she agreed to stand aside and allow Elrond’s act of despair to unfold. Even if this whole disaster somehow ended well there would be a harsh reckoning between the lord and lady.

“How is he?”

Elrond sighed, his face wan with exhaustion. “Concussed, but about to regain consciousness. I drew him into danger. I will not risk doing so again. He needs his wits about him.”

Celeborn rose. 

“Ardil is readying the horses. We ride out.”

“And where will you ride to, my lord?” Erestor’s voice was sharp as a dagger. “He could be beside any one of hundreds of screes. Do you envision taking a grand tour of them all without drawing the attention of a single Orc-scout?” 

At the mention of Orcs, Elrond crumpled. His body folded with a soft gasp as if an unexpected blow had winded him. Glorfindel knew what haunted his lord, because the same horror was beating at the doors of his own mind.

On a clear frost day cold enough to bite mortal skin, a dark embassy of Men of Dunland rode to the Elvish encampment. Black banners snapped in the icy wind as they dismounted, horse and rider knee-deep in the snows of Eregion’s bitterest winter. 

Elrond Peredhel, commander of High King Gil-galad’s forces, received Annatar’s envoys flanked by Glorfindel and Celeborn, the forlorn captain of what sad remnant of Eregion’s former troops escaped the wholesale slaughter of its fall. 

The Elf-lords were summarily handed a mahogany chest. An exquisite mother-of-pearl inlay marked it as plunder from Ost-in-Edhil. Inside lay Celebrimbor’s namesake, crudely sawn off, its blackening fingernails painted with silver. Glorfindel tried not to remember the accusing sight it made on its cushion of dark hair pulled out at the roots.

Even though it nearly broke Elrond and Erestor both they made no terms that day, no surrender, and Celebrimbor’s torment had lasted all winter. Not until spring, when birdsong and shockingly yellow gorse flowers made a mockery of their abject despair, did they witness the raising of Sauron’s grisly new banner.  

Glorfindel knew Sauron desired the Elven Rings to preserve his mutilated spirit until the One might be recovered, but his hunt for Vilya was not the Dark Lord’s only unfinished business with the House of Eärendil. Sauron voraciously lusted after Elrond’s blood since the Last Alliance, desired to take and torture and destroy the architect of his downfall like he had Celebrimbor. 

The fallen Maia could achieve just that without setting foot near Imladris, should Elrohir fall into the clutches of the mountain Orcs. Perhaps the suffering of the son would be even sweeter to Sauron than the father’s, knowing Elrond would gladly have gone to torment himself if it might have spared his child.

Whether Elrond and Celebrían would be sufficiently unmoored by their grief to believe that Sauron would honour any terms they agreed upon in exchange for Elrohir, Glorfindel did not dare predict. He hoped he would never have to find out. Erestor would not be fooled -- not after Maedhros -- and neither would Celeborn. If the worst came to pass the unlikely pair of them might be all that stood between Imladris and surrender.

Celebrían rose, the motion brusque and wooden, and opened the door to speak to Ardil in the halway beyond.

“Send for Elladan.”

She spun back around.

“Enough, Elrond! Elladan is bound to his brother. Once he understands the stakes he will aid us. Elrohir cannot hide from him.”

Elrond shook his head. Even in this room, the very heart of Imladris, Vilya was never mentioned aloud. 

“Elladan cannot know. Even if his judgement were sounder than what he demonstrated tonight, he cannot keep such a secret from Elrohir. The pair of them might doom all Elfkind!”

Celebrían cut him off.

“There is no need to tell all. We did not raise a halfwit. Faced with reality, Elladan will see reason.”

Glorfindel recalled Tuor standing tall and straight before Turgon’s throne in Gondolin’s Great Hall, the unwelcome message of a Vala on his lips. He imagined Elwing, who took the last hope of Eldar and Edain off a cliff rather than relinquish it. Ëarendil, turning Vingilot’s bow due west as if the Doom of Mandos were a mere suggestion. 

Faced with reality, the scions of this House tended to see unusual things, reason rarely among them.  

---

Chapter End Notes

And so Elrohir gets in trouble, Elrond takes a big risk, and Celebrían takes action. Of course I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter. Comments make a fanfic writer's day! 

Wondering who Canissë is? Check out my First Age stories to meet her in her Fëanorian days.

See you next week!
Idrils Scribe

Chapter 22

Read Chapter 22

Imladris had been Elladan’s home his entire life. He had observed the house and its inhabitants in every season, in bright joy and deep sorrow, at feast and in mourning. All in vain, because his parents’ house had grown utterly strange to him in the course of a single night. 

Below the polished surface Imladris proved more than a fair dwelling place. The valley was a keep -- the last military stronghold of the dwindling Noldor, their bulwark against the tide of Sauron’s forces washing over the West. 

The house was silent, but this was not its usual soothing nighttime quiet. At the very edge of perception glimmered an uneasy restlessness, spurring body and mind into motion. Elladan walked familiar hallways beside a silent Ardil, and met only strangers. Every Elf they crossed paths with moved with determined, disciplined purpose. Familiar faces looked unexpectedly grim above coats of mail, shadowed by steel helmets. Elladan felt their eyes on him, weighing, possibly accusing, but no one spoke until they reached the guarded wing that housed Imladris’ government. The strange walk ended before the carved oaken door of its inner sanctum: Elrond’s study. The door had been carefully designed to allow neither sound nor light to escape to the hallway outside, and after the dark corridor the brightness of so many Fëanorian crystals was briefly blinding. No light of star or moon shone into the room with every window tightly shuttered.

Elladan had somehow expected to find this space as it was on other evenings: bathed in the soft light of two silver lamps on Elrond’s desk, and his father waiting for him in his usual place. Instead the desk chair stood empty, and a constellation of lights had been hung above the round council table where they illuminated a jumbled collection of maps. One chair stood empty, and terror gripped Elladan at the sight. Clearly those gathered here had far more pressing matters to attend to than meting out punishment to a child. This was a council of war. 

Elladan knew his father could appear formidable and distant when he wished to. This night Elrond seemed more stern than ever. At his quick, impatient gesture Elladan sank down in the chair as fast as his legs would carry him. To keep his hands from shaking he tangled them in the embroidered hem of his tunic under the table.  

There was little comfort to be had from the others. Elladan had never before noticed Glorfindel’s sleek deadliness in full armour. Gone was the elegant, gold-plated ceremonial cuirass, topped with a swirling copy of his legendary green-and-gold celandine cape, that Elladan knew from ceremonies and receptions. This night Elrond’s captain wore the utilitarian mail of an ordinary guard, camouflaged with a dull grey-green finish. The only signs of his rank were the insignia on his surcoat. A Sindarin cloak of the exact grey colour of the Misty Mountains’ bedrock hung across the back of his chair as if he might rise and disappear into the midnight forests at any moment. 

Celebrían and Celeborn were dressed likewise, and even his mother appeared strange for the way the austere warriors’ braids in her hair cast unfamiliar shadows on the well-known shape of her face. Elrond and Erestor seemed clothed and braided as usual, but their sharp looks and impatient tug at Elladan’s mind only added to the general sense of urgency.  

Elrond lost no time on either reassurance or reproach. 

“Elladan, where is he?”

Elladan thought of Elrohir’s desperate plea, and the memory granted him the courage to say the inconceivable.

“I cannot help you. Elrohir wants to leave and I believe you should let him. What is the sense in dragging him back here against his will? Will you lock him in his rooms, chained to the wall?”

Elladan had expected harsh words and reproach, not this … collapse. 

Elrond blanched, his face a mask of agony. His pain could not have been greater if Elladan had speared him through the heart. Celebrían could not hold back her tears. She leant on her stricken husband like a felled tree held up by its neighbour. 

Elladan could not bear to watch his parents’ suffering, and he hung his head to look only at his own hands, still in his lap. His determination to stand by Elrohir proved greater than his compassion. His jaw clenched in painful tension as he kept his silence. 

Elrond straightened himself, and Elladan admired the hard-fought steadiness in his father’s voice. 

“We are searching for Elrohir with every means at our disposal and we will continue until he is found. This search is not under debate. Not because I want him here with us, though I do with all my heart. Neither do I seek to keep him from Elros’ choice by force. Manwë himself does not have the authority to withhold the Gift of Men. Even if I wanted to rob your brother of his birthright, such a thing is far beyond my power.” 

Elrond appeared to hesitate, and his shoulders sagged under both grief and compassion as he delivered a deathblow.

“No, Elladan. If Elrohir escapes us it is to a fate worse than death. He may seek to hide among Mortals but he is something else entirely. The curious case of the wandering Peredhel is already known to our Enemy. Sauron will pursue him by every possible means.”

Elladan understood Elrond’s individual words, but together they rang hollow through his mind, utterly senseless.   

“Sauron is fallen and fled. Even if he were to return this very night, what would he want with Elrohir?”

“His fall was not as deep, nor his flight as far, as you have been led to believe. A captive son of Elrond would make a priceless hostage. This night Sauron has but to lift his hand to grasp one.”

The realisation struck Elladan that this world, this Imladris he had inhabited until now was as unreal as the visions of a minstrel’s enchantment, a glimmer drawn over some far darker reality kept hidden from him on purpose. Elrohir had seen straight through it, and now Elladan understood his brother’s uneasiness, his vexation at Elladan’s naïve innocence. When he raised his eyes to Elrond’s all he felt was a sharp, indignant anger at the deceit. Elrond seemed to read it but was incited not to remorse but to further revelations. 

“Despite Sauron’s defeat the Orc tribes under these mountains continue to move with striking purpose and coordination. Few of ours who descended into their caverns have ever survived to bring tidings, but what intelligence our scouts have gathered indicates at least one of Sauron’s lesser Maiar, clad in Orc flesh. He may be less in power than Sauron himself, but remains drawn to his master’s will. 

“Should the Orcs fail to capture Elrohir, the Ringwraiths will pursue him to the ends of Middle-earth once the rumour of his passing spreads. Imagine, if you can, your brother’s long suffering at the hands of Sauron the Torturer. Death would be a mercy. One Elrohir shall be denied until his usefulness has run its course.”

----

On the high mountain passes surrounding Gondolin, Glorfindel once witnessed one of his fellow guardsmen struck by lightning. The bitter understanding that now dawned on Elladan reminded him of that initial moment, shock and perplexion descending before pain could set in. 

All colour drained from Elladan’s face as the full gravity of Elrohir’s situation sank in. The boy crumpled, burying his face in his hands to hide welling tears of panic. 

Elrond was an experienced interrogator. He did not relent. 

“Elladan. I ask you again and I beg you to answer me. Where is your brother?” 

Elladan looked his father in the eye, his own red-rimmed ones alight with terror.

“What will you do with him?”

Celebrían took her son’s hand in both of hers across the table with a gentleness almost painful to watch. 

“When he comes home we will let him speak his truth, and find a way to set right whatever drove him off. No locked doors, no punishment of any kind. I give you my word.”

Elladan froze, paralysed by doubt. Celeborn gave the final push.

“Elladan, your brother made a terrible mistake. Saving him from the consequences is no betrayal but the greatest possible loyalty. Elrohir is in the gravest danger of his life. The Orcs will know who and what he is the instant they set eyes on him. If he is captured you will never see him again, unless to watch his torture when Sauron next feels need to provoke us. I beg you, allow us to retrieve him, to spare your parents the worst of all sorrows.”

Elladan straightened himself. He turned to Celebrían once more. 

“Take me with you. He will come willingly only to me.”

Glorfindel could almost see the battle of wills pass between Elrond and Celebrían, the still air between them crackling with frenetic energy. Finally Elrond sagged, a broken man.

“Go.”

Elladan’s entire being radiated relief, and he spoke hastily. 

“I saw the sky an hour ago, through his eyes. From the sight of the mountains he is in the vale south of the High Pass, the one with the three waterfalls. He will attempt to reach Rhovanion through the pass to the Gladden Fields.”

Glorfindel’s heart froze inside his chest. He had no more time for compassion.

“That area is crawling with Orcs like an anthill! Does he know?”

Elladan shook with terror. 

“He knows about Orcs, he will stay out of the caves!”

“How would he know where the cave mouths are without scouts to guide him, or even a map?” A situation was truly dire when Erestor failed to suppress his penchant for dramatic rhetorical questions. 

Elladan sank his face into his hands. Glorfindel hastened to turn the boy’s mind to more practical tracks before he would dissolve into tears.

“What weapons and gear does he have?”

“His own, from Harad.”

Glorfindel sagged with the blessed relief that Elrohir at least had weapons he knew how to use. The comfort fizzled out with the realisation of what that kit lacked.

“Surely that is not all he has? Please say he is wearing more than his shirtsleeves and a cloak!”

Elladan shook his head. 

“We could not take mail from the armoury without alerting the guards.” 

No warrior of Imladris would put a single foot outside the boundaries of Vilya’s wards without a coat of mail, and with good reason. Erestor swore in Quenya with a heavy Fëanorian accent. In an alarming testament to the depth of Elrohir’s peril, Celeborn did not bat an eye.

Elrond’s voice was hoarse with fear. 

“You ransacked this very study. My armour is right here on the stand. Why did he not wear it?”

“Elrohir thought he would be hunted harder if he took valuables.” 

Stunned silence descended as Elladan struggled and failed to explain a train of thought that must have appeared perfectly logical just hours before. 

“What does he take me for, a dragon?” When stressed past a certain point Elrond wielded a caustic sarcasm. Glorfindel had last seen it surface in Gil-galad’s campaign tent on the plains of Mordor. Elladan’s eyes shone wetly, but he kept his composure. 

Celebrían stood up to her full Finarfinian height and addressed her husband in a glacial tone.

 

"Shall we sit here apportioning blame to a pair of boys of forty-eight until the worst has come to pass?"

 

Elrond was on his feet already, turned towards Elladan to grab him by the sleeve and hold him back from leaving with the others. The look in his eyes was unreadable

 

"Stay. I will dress you."

 

--------

Elladan had worn mail only once before, and never with any intention of going into battle. Donning a hastily brought hauberk and uniform of the guard as if he was one of his father’s warriors in sooth was a jarring experience. Glorfindel remaining perched on Elrond’s worktable to attentively watch the proceedings only added to his deep sense of strangeness.

His father’s movements were unexpectedly skilled and sure, given that Elrond was normally dressed by his own esquire. With his hands occupied with tying the fastenings of Elladan’s grey leather gambeson, Elrond gave his son a look of mindless grief upon perceiving his surprise. 

“I was Ereinion’s herald, once.”

The horrors that followed Elrond’s last performing this particular duty for his king tied Elladan’s tongue.

Glorfindel was quick to interrupted his lord’s dark musings. 

“Things are not so grim, this time. We will bring both of you home in one piece.”

Elrond let out the softest of gasps. At first Elladan thought the sound was annoyance at some flaw in the vambrace Elrond was securing to his forearm. The armoursmiths of Imladris were highly skilled, and with a stab of dismay he realized his father was fighting tears. 

Glorfindel stood to face Elrond, and Elladan perceived an unknown brightness about his familiar shape, as if some white fire burned within, banked and hidden. That very flame shone in his eyes, fell and dangerous, and for a moment Glorfindel’s voice lost its usual merriness, growing heavy with veiled power.

“I will not take an oath, for those can turn to ill ends, but know that the Ones who sent me have no desire to see your House fall before the time of its great task has come. I know the stakes, lord, and I will not fail while there is strength within me. I will return your son to you from wherever he may go, or is taken, from the uttermost East to the West, and every pit and cave below.” 

Elladan recoiled in fear, thinking for an instant he had betrayed Elrohir after all.

Glorfindel’s look became softer. 

“Elladan. Why do you believe I returned to Middle-earth, rather than remain at home in Tirion?”

The question was unexpected enough to jar Elladan out of his state of alarm.

“At the request of my grandfather Eärendil, I imagine?”

Glorfindel shook his head. 

“Eärendil was little more than a babe in arms when I died in Gondolin, and the Valar would not permit the re-embodied to cross the Straight Way in pursuit of old loyalties. If they did, the Elves of Ennor would soon find themselves knee deep in resurrected heroes of the War of the Jewels.”

Glorfindel carefully took up Elladan’s second vambrace and began to tie it to his forearm, lamplight playing across the golden crown of his hair as he bent his head. 

“There is knowledge in Valinor that the Song of Illúvatar can only find its fulfilment through Sauron’s complete destruction and the unmaking of his Ring. How this will come to pass remains hidden even from Manwë himself, but Imladris and the House of Eärendil have some vital role to play. If Elrohir is taken, Sauron will use him to destroy your entire House. Losing one son to the Enemy and the other to grief will deal your parents a wound for which I see no healing this side of the Sea. Imladris will fall to ruin, and with it whatever unknown purpose it is meant to serve in the fullness of time. If I can prevent that outcome by my life or death, I will.”

Livid anger washed over Elladan. He pulled his arm free from Glorfindel’s hold to turn towards Elrond.

“Why did you not tell us?! Such cruelty, to leave Elrohir with the illusion he might break free, when there can be no escape from the will of the Valar themselves! And why? Elrohir and I are no kinslayers! We never took that accursed Oath, nor fled Valinor. We are of the Sindar as much as we are Noldor, and still the Valar see fit to inflict their Doom on us?”

Elrond looked Elladan in the eye, and he seemed weighed by some great and dark matter.

“The Doom of the Noldor was fulfilled an age before you were born. What burdens my House is another matter entirely, and know that it was me alone who brought it upon you, not your mother. When the king fell in Mordor I took it upon me to lead the High Elves to war against Sauron, until he is brought down entirely.”

Elrond took up the sword-belt, a simple length of grey-dyed leather. The sheath was similarly unadorned, but when he withdrew the sword from it Elladan gasped. Hadhafang, Elrond’s own sword, gleamed in the blue light of the Fëanorian lamps, ancient and deadly and heart-stoppingly beautiful, the last surviving work of Curufin son of Fëanor. Elrond sheathed it once more, and began to tie the belt around Elladan’s waist with the practised poise of a seasoned esquire. His voice was strangely devoid of emotion, like a man who finds his every hope turned to folly. 

“None of the High Kings has escaped the Dark Lords’ pursuing hatred. I once believed I might outsmart Sauron, that styling myself a mere regent and letting the title go extinct would protect me. Not only was I wrong, I was selfish to beget children before my task was complete. I have forever marked you two for the Dark Lord’s fiercest hate. I cannot undo your existence, nor would I. The only choice within my power to grant you and Elrohir is the way forward. I no longer expect you to take up my battles. Whatever obligation you were told you had towards me, I hereby release you from it. Go find your brother, and may both of you find peace across the Sea.” 

 

---

 

Even after coming to terms with the full magnitude of Elrohir’s disappearance, Elladan was unprepared for the sight that greeted him in the great courtyard when they emerged from the house. 

He had not known what to expect, but he never imagined that Erestor and Glorfindel would muster what appeared to be an army in a single night. The space between the two wings of the house was filled to capacity with a great gathering of mounted warriors, a rippling lake of dulled mail and grey cloaks of stealth. The upturned shafts of their lances were a moving forest of strangely bare saplings. Between the riders silently went several companies of Silvan scouts and trackers, grey- and green-clad, their faces painted to resemble the dry summer grasses of the mountain flanks. Elladan had seen greater crowds assembled there, but never one so entirely devoid of mirth or song.  A heavy silence settled among the warriors when their lords emerged from the house onto the portico. 

Elrond’s address was brief and most grave. He gave his troops nothing but the bitter, unvarnished truth: Elrohir must be found, or come to a fate far worse than death. Elladan’s skin crawled at hearing the words spoken once more. 

At the sight of Rochíril, his own horse, tears of bitter regret sprang to his eyes and he had to blink hard to hold them back. The grey mare had been readied for battle. Elladan’s bow hung at her saddle, cased and strung beside his quiver of white-fletched arrows. Tied to the pommel was the lead rope of her twin Rochael, Elrohir’s horse, her coat of dappled silver pale as the moon. 

 

---

Chapter End Notes

I hate to fall into the sad cliché of an author nagging for feedback but I haven't had any sign of life for a while now. Is anyone still reading? 

Chapter 23

Read Chapter 23

In the misted gold of early morning Borndis knelt in a bed of fallen oak leaves, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her calloused palm skimmed the top layer, gentle as a caress.

“Elrohir rambles back and forth across the eastern slopes in search of the path. And here, in this remote forest far from any place he could possibly wish to go, he has a sudden epiphany and makes a beeline for the trailhead?”

Borndis’ voice tapered off in confusion. She stood and wiped off the humid leaves clinging to her breeches.  

“The only possible explanation is he met someone here, one who knew the trail and guided him to it.”

Celebrían interrupted her Nandorin tracker. “A person who left no tracks?” Fierce anger burned in her eyes. “Have someone find Serdir and bring him to Elrond. I care not where he is hiding, or what today’s objections are. Either he appears before his lord to account for his whereabouts last night, or he admits his guilt.”

Borndis hesitated.

“If Serdir has no wish to be found few in this valley can do so. Our time is perhaps more wisely spent searching for your son.”

Celebrían had grown pale with rage. Glorfindel almost interrupted her for fear she might let slip word of Vilya, but when she spoke her voice was frighteningly calm. 

“We keep tracking. Elrond is capable of shaking Serdir from whatever treetop he is hiding in like a rotten pear. Have the heralds call out across the valley that he should present himself at the house or face the consequences. If my suspicions prove true, Serdir should pray Araw that we find Elrohir before he comes to harm.“

----

The cave mouth menaced the pass like a malicious, all-seeing eye. Elrohir felt its leaden gaze from his hiding place in a stand of tenacious hazel bushes. The sound of his own heart hammering against his ribs seemed so loud that for an instant of panic he believed that they might hear.    

“Yrch.”

Orcs caused the unnatural silence blanketing the valley, the absence of animals of any kind. Even with the high midday sun spilling warmth across his shoulders Elrohir was in danger. Should the hidden watchers in that dark, gaping maw catch wind of him, nightfall would bring down all of the horrors he had imagined whenever an Elvish conversation partner cleverly deflected his questions on the subject of Orcs. 

Elladan claimed that somewhere in Imladris existed secret maps depicting the vast cave systems that gnawed through the very roots of these mountains like veins of hidden rot, but his frantic search of Elrond’s study had come up empty. Elrohir’s own cavalier shrug that he would simply have to be careful and stealthy enough to elude the Orcs now proved the height of foolishness. Elves and Orcs had him caught between hammer and anvil. 

The Imladris he once believed he inhabited had proven an illusion, a thin veil of kindness drawn across violence every bit as malicious as that of the cruelest of Men. Worse, even, for these deathless White-fiends neither forgot nor forgave slights older than Mankind itself. They proved eager enough to shed fresh blood to avenge a dead king whose eyes had never seen the sun, as if those ancient wrongs had been committed only yesterday. Mortals’ capacity to forget, to let their dead grandfathers’ grudges dissolve into the ebb and flow of everyday life seemed a high blessing indeed. The earthy wisdom of simple folk had proven true once more: Elves were as treacherous as they were fair, and few hapless souls escaped their clutches. 

Elrohir shuddered to imagine what would have awaited him, had he stumbled back to that bewitched valley with his mind wrapped up in Elvish wiles like an ox stunned with a hammer blow before the butcher’s knife. 

For a moment the sheer horror -- his body moving by an alien will while in some small corner of his mind his own consciousness shuddered in revulsion -- nearly made him falter. He struggled against the mad desire to put more distance between himself and the pursuing Elves as fast as he could, and disregard the Orcs because they could not be as bad as that.  

Elrohir had lived through days far more desperate than this by keeping his head. The Orcs did not know or expect him, and the Elves knew not where to look. He had hope, still, and once he left these accursed mountains behind the advantage would be his.

The length of the vale was a long, slow, painful creep from boulder to bush with all the art and skill of silence Elrohir could bring to bear with the sharp midday sun torturing his sore eyes and his throbbing, battered head. 

He did not stand up until the cave mouth had finally disappeared behind a pine-covered outcrop jutting from the jagged peak that loomed over the valley. The yellowing sun still stood a hand’s breadth above the western ridges. Pain, tiredness and the myriad demands of his exhausted body became afterthoughts while he stuffed a piece of waybread into his mouth as fast as he could chew. If he wanted to live, he had to run. 

Elvish bread gave remarkable strength, and Elrohir ran through afternoon and evening into night. Hope had almost made him careless when he heard the voice. It rang strange and hollow, emerging from a small, trough-shaped side valley crowned with wild cherries. The murmur of the little stream at its floor carried far in the cold air of this uncanny night without bird or beast. 

Silent as a ghost, Elrohir sank down on the wet ground behind a mossy boulder on the eastern slope to seek the speaker. The language was the folk-speech of Arnor, and his first naïve thought was that he had chanced upon a group of rough Mannish travellers. When he listened more closely the coarse, ugly voice left no doubt that he would come to regret meeting its owner. 

“You filthy Snága!” 

An unmistakable slap of fist against flesh rang through the night’s strained silence. 

“Shelakh saw some disgusting bright-eyed Elf-wight out here, and you will damn well hunt it, or I will cut out your little flapping tongue and have it for my dinner!” 

A thin, gruesome moan was the only answer.

Another voice inserted itself, this one almost cloying in its heel-licking subservience.

“Oohh yes capt’n! I saw it alright, crawling past the western window like a fat white maggot! One of those tall Golug with the horrible star-eyes!”

Another ringing slap was its reward and the Orc -- Shelakh, presumably -- whined like a dog. 

“Then go grab it!” boomed the first voice. “The Great One called me to the nethermost hall over this Elf-business of yours, and even you worms know what that is like! Gave me this little poker to stick it with! He’ll send for us all in the morning, and then we bring him that Elf or the lot of us crawl home without our skins!”   

Not even Elrohir’s breathing betrayed him. Another man took over, one he had not been since the Desert War. The old Elrohir cleverly crawled a half-circle towards a better vantage point, ignoring the chilled night dew that soaked through his clothes. He counted ugly heads without being revulsed into a panicked flight that would spell certain death. 

Seven. 

He derived, from the slant of the moonlight and the direction of the night wind, the best possible place to sit. Made himself and his weapons as ready as they might be. Knew the world through the iron sight of his crossbow better than he knew himself. 

The firm, wet thud-and-crack of bolt meeting face sounded more glorious than any silver battle horn. Elrohir’s hand was a blur as it shot to his quiver to reload his crossbow faster than mortal eyes could follow.

The Orcs had no time to register the falling corpse before it rang again. 

Thud.

Their curses and wordless cries of panic were music to Elrohir’s ears. He reloaded once more.  

Thud.

Elrohir saw his captain from Harad, the whites of his eyes glimmering between face veil and turban in a face dark as jet.

“The worst thing about sharp-shooting,” the old warrior remarked with deceptive levity, “the really shitty part of it, is that the bolt points to wherever you’re sitting.” 

The Orcs knew this all too well. Four hulking black shapes raced up the slope with disturbing agility. Speed was everything, and reloading a crossbow took precious time. 

Thud.

They had become more than outlines. Elrohir could discern the angry red of their gaping mouths under helmets of blackened steel. A fine target. 

Thud.

And then he could count every rusted link on the forerunner’s mail. The time for shooting had run out.  As Elrohir rose to his feet his sword slid from the sheath with a sound like tearing cloth. 

The big Orc fell upon him first, wild-eyed and bare-fanged.  It laughed, rather than be grieved by losing five of its comrades, fierce with blood-lust. The creature’s deep-lying yellow eyes were neither beastly nor dumb and suddenly, with visceral disgust, Elrohir realized they were almost Elvish, and far older than he. 

The Orc brandished an ugly scimitar of blackened steel. The blade was covered in menacing runes, and it reflected the moonlight with that strange, oily shine of poison. At the sight Elrohir felt true terror for the first time that night. 

Despite its massive bulk the Orc was nimble enough to parry Elrohir’s first thrust with ease, as if he were swatting a fly. The shock of steel meeting steel rang through his body as if he had been struck rather than his weapon. Before he could recover the Orc’s iron-gloved hand had him by the arm like a clawed shackle, pulling him down, seeking not to kill but to take him alive. 

Elrohir’s terror made the Orc bellow in triumph, and with a shock he realised he needed to silence it soon or he would be captured regardless when the noise drew reinforcements. The knowledge drove him closer to his opponent. A terrible risk, but a necessary one. 

Fear and focus rooted out out any sense of pain. At first Elrohir failed to understand the fierce triumph flashing in the Orcs’s eyes even as he cut out its throat in a gushing arc of warm black blood that soaked his sleeves to the elbows. It fell at Elrohir’s feet, and would never again utter any sound but a moist splutter that would cease soon enough. 

Elrohir could not fathom why it had died with such glee until his own left side erupted in a  strange, tingling cold. His searching hand came away warm and wet. 

There was no time to stop, to feel. The last Orc, the one called Snága -- if that was a name, rather than their word for slave -- stood struck with terror at its captain’s fall, torn between death on Elrohir’s sword or a crossbow bolt in the back upon running.

It abruptly sank to its grubby knees. The bug-eyed face contorted in abject misery as a strange keening sound emerged. It took Elrohir a moment to understand that the Orc was weeping.

Battle often brought an absurdity all its own, and had he been less desperate Elrohir might have appreciated the grim oddity of this conundrum. The creature would either fall quickly by Elrohir’s hand, or be skinned alive by its evil masters when its failure was discovered. He had already loaded and raised his crossbow when a wild idea struck him.

“Do you want to live?”

The grey-faced thing immediately fell silent. Its eyes were coal black between the greasy wisps of unkempt hair in front of its face. There was ... something in the shape of it, the set of the narrow shoulders and the fall of what colourless rags barely covered its nakedness.  

This was no it. This Orc was female. 

Elrohir knew himself capable of many vicious and violent things, but to shoot a sobbing, kneeling woman in the face was not one of them. His plan was insane, but it was all he could think of and it would have to do. 

“Take off your boots.”

Her face betrayed a disturbing amount of blunted resignation when she misunderstood and began hiking up her skirt to offer him something he had no wish to contemplate. 

“No! Not that! Your boots.”

Her hands shook with fear, but she obeyed. 

“Throw them towards me. Hit me and you die.”

Two stinking, ill-made clumps of unidentifiable animal skin landed at his feet. 

Elrohir had lived, slept and breathed with his crossbow for most of his life. He could hold his aim one-handed while taking off his own boots, strong and supple Elvish leather. They made two soft thumps in the gravel before the Orc. 

“Put them on.”

She was too astonished to move, and for a few heartbeats they stood utterly still. In the trees behind him a hunting owl’s hoot broke the thick silence.

“This is your final chance. I will let you run away if you put on my boots. Obey me, and you are free.”

She needed no more prompting. The oddity of her ragged, pitiable figure in a pair of well-made shoes drove home to Elrohir that he was not doing the Orcish woman any favours. Had she known what would soon be tracking her she would almost certainly force his hand into dealing her a quicker death. 

“Head south, into the side valley, and keep the boots on. I will know it if you divert, and I will kill you. Run!”

She stood frozen in wordless terror for an absurdly long time, and when Elrohir at the last approached to shoo her like a recalcitrant sheep she sobbed once more, a thin and reedy wail. 

Nauseated disgust at the whole revolting situation struck Elrohir deeply, but before he could reconsider and raise his bow once more to put her out of her misery, she obeyed. She tore away, crashing through the undergrowth like the Zigûr himself was on her heels.  

Pain struck Elrohir like a mace once the sound of her retreating footsteps had faded beyond his hearing. His entire left side was cold fire from shoulder to hip. Something lukewarm and liquid steadily trickled down his flank. He would have to stand in the stream while bandaging himself with spare clothes to keep from leaving a trail of blood for trackers to follow. 

And then he needed to put on his new shoes. 

The ruse would not deceive Elvish scouts for long and their dogs would not be fooled at all, but Elrohir was desperate for what little time the resulting confusion could buy him.

His first step towards the brook was a stagger, and after the second one he found himself looking at the nearest Orc cadaver from a confusingly low viewpoint. The crossbow bolt sticking from its gaping mouth was inches from Elrohir’s face, and the combined smells of fresh blood and old filth made his stomach twist. He had not eaten since noon, but the small amount of bile he eventually brought up was painful. Even as he felt himself shake and sweat the only possible explanation presented itself. Poison.

Elrohir permitted himself a small rest, his breathing laboured and probably far too loud. The temptation to close his eyes and withdraw into darkness was sweet and heavy, but he knew well enough that only death awaited him there. Eventually a numbing, bone-deep cold spurred him up, and onwards. 

---

Chapter End Notes

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Chapter 24

Read Chapter 24

Celebrían enfolded Elladan in her arms as a burst of agony brought him to his knees. For a heartstopping moment he screamed like a man being tortured. The sound echoed in strange and garbled ways between the forbidding mountain ridges looming over their camp. For an instant of devastation Celebrían believed that all was lost, Elrohir dead and Elladan soon to follow. Her shock was too great for tears, and she could offer her son no comfort but to hold and gently rock him there amidst what hardy tufts of grass and stonecrops managed to cling to the bare rocks in these unforgiving heights. Sharp, wet gravel bit her knees unheeded. 

With a brusque lurch Elladan pushed her off and turned away to dry heave a few steps beyond their circle of firelight. When he righted himself his complexion was a sickly, sweat-sheened grey Celebrían had hoped never to see on anyone she loved. Elladan gave another hoarse grunt and closed his eyes against a cresting wave of inexplicable pain. It brought Celebrían a cruel relief. Houseless spirits did not hurt. If Elrohir suffered, he still lived. Elladan turned back towards her, wholly ignoring the growing throng of anxious faces around them. 

“I need to find him.”

As if that was all the explanation he owed anyone, Elladan made for the horses grazing nearby. Elrohir had managed to convince Elladan that they were capable of existing separately. He had believed it himself. Now that things had come down to blood spilled in the dark, all masks dropped and pretenses fallen by the wayside, Elladan would blindly ride to his own destruction only to seek his brother. He would have mounted Rochiril’s bare back to melt away into the heavy dark of night cloaking the deserted slopes, had her hand not come down heavily on his shoulder.

“Wait. Tell me.”

Elladan’s voice was hoarse with panic, his eyes wide in the ashen oval of his face. 

“Elrohir needs me. He fought them off and now he is alone again, but he is badly hurt. I will go to him now.”

Celebrían could tell how frighteningly thin the walls between her sons’ minds had worn. Elladan’s hand moved towards his left hip in a gesture she knew well from Elrohir, who instinctively reached for a weapon whenever he startled. Terror snapped at her throat like a snarling wolf, but with the grace of her long years she kept it at bay.

“You and I together, with an escort. Lead us to him.”

Elladan grew frantic. 

“Only me. He is frightened enough to bolt even from you, and he should not be running at all. It might kill him.”         

Celeborn was less patient. He took Elladan’s mail-clad shoulder and spun his grandson around to face him. Her father’s self-control was legendary, but now his voice held the faintest trace of panic. 

“Where, Elladan?! Name the place and we will rush you there!”

“I know the direction. I cannot put a name to it, but I can find him if you let me.”

By the smallest gesture of Glorfindel’s hand the camp dissolved itself like mists of dawn at sunrise. In moments none but the most skilled of scouts would notice the subtle traces of their passing. Fires were put out, bedrolls wrapped and horses packed in a silence so profound Celebrían heard only the night wind’s forlorn whistling across the barren slopes. 

----

At the foot of mount Alagras lay a quiet little dell.  Jewel-red berries grew thick on a stand of wild cherry trees and a small mountain stream murmured between sunlit boulders. A charm of finches interrupted their bath, flittering up with a volley of warning tweets at the Elves’ arrival. 

Black blood tainted the water, soaking into the pebbled streambed among sprawled corpses. Celebrían sprang forward with a howl, frantically searching a slender, dark-haired shape among them. Glorfindel could not offer her any comfort for his own terror. He could not say which he feared most - finding Elrohir’s dead body, or tracks indicating that he had been dragged into an orc-cave. 

 Elladan was eerily calm as he took his mother by the arm. “Elrohir is not here," he declared with visible certainty. 

 Celebrían drew a shuddering breath as her eyes flitted between the Orc carcasses. Trackers fanned in all directions, and soon enough Borndis approached her captain to report. What he heard made Glorfindel’s face harden with grim determination. 

 Elrohir had raided a party of Orc scouts in the fashion of the Haradrim guerrilla, from ambush amidst a jumble of boulders higher on the slope. The Orcs had been executed with ruthless efficiency, each cadaver fatally wounded by crossbow bolts to either face or chest. Only the last one to fall -- a burly, pale-skinned brute from Gundabad, doubtlessly the patrol’s leader -- had come close enough to require a blade. Elrohir had taken out its throat. The result perhaps lacked Elvish finesse, but was thorough all the same.

 Borndis’ face and mind were closed and impassive as only a Wood-elf’s could be, but her hands shook as she held a bloodied Orcish scimitar up for Glorfindel’s inspection. She had the good sense to grasp the vile thing through a piece of sturdy leather to protect her own palms. 

 It was all Glorfindel could do to keep his expression neutral, and spare Celebrían at least the sight of his distress. Beside him Celeborn and Ardil attempted the same, with marginal success. Their small mercy went unnoticed. Eregion and the Siege of Imladris taught Celebrían harsh lessons in the destruction wreaked by such blades. Glorfindel had last seen that shaken, death-pale expression on her during the worst days of their desperate stand. 

 He leant in to study the runes on the blade. Even in broad daylight the black steel oiled with poison was a horror to look upon. Glorfindel’s seething anger at Elrohir’s recklessness evaporated, leaving only compassion for the waking nightmare that befell the boy. Where Elrohir’s blood had caked into the engravings the foul runes stood picked out in russet against the black steel. Glorfindel barely maintained his impassive facade as he read. The inscriptions removed his last shred of doubt that one of Sauron’s Maiar ruled the pits beneath these mountains. Here was a blade wrought by hands more powerful than any Orc-smith’s, the very matter of it befouled with curses and pervaded with bitter hatred for the Elves. The sword was made to rend and tear past mending, let life itself bleed from the body and mire the unhoused spirit in darkness and despair. Glorfindel’s eyes met Celebrían’s over the weapon.

 “He was well enough to gather up his bolts afterwards. It cannot be so bad.” 

 Cold comfort, and Celebrían knew it. Her eyes went to the goat’s path leading up the slope towards the Alagras’ peak towering over them. Several Silvan scouts crouched there, examining a trail made by hobnailed Orc boots. Fear strangled her voice. 

 “He did not take them all out. At least one Snága escaped to tell the tale. When it brings word to their warlords they will be baying for Elrohir’s blood. Tonight the Orcs will hunt.”

 All eyes turned towards the sun, already on its inexorable descent towards the western ridges. Elrohir’s time was now measured in fleeting hours. 

 “Half my people will pursue that Orc. The rest will track down your son before its den-mates can.” Glorfindel could only hope he sounded more confident than he felt.

 “Elrohir’s trail runs south from here,” Borndis hastily pointed out.  

 Glorfindel straightened to gauge Elladan, who had weathered the confrontation with both the horrific weapon and the casualties of his brother’s raid surprisingly well. With a jolt Glorfindel realised that none of it was news to him. 

 Elladan shook his head and pointed eastwards. “Elrohir exchanged his boots with an Orc’s to deceive our trackers. He went up, himself. He means to climb the Alagras and hide as high as possible to evade the Orcs.”

 All conversation in their vicinity ceased instantly, and Elladan found himself at the centre of a circle of dismayed faces.

 “An Elf, in league with an Orc?” Haldir asked, his voice rough with shock. 

 Was it bafflement or overt mistrust Glorfindel read in the marchwarden’s eyes? He shared a look of deep concern with Celebrían. They needed to cut this off at the root or Elrohir would find the Hidden Valley fermenting with rumour and suspicion upon his return. 

 Elladan shrugged with shocking equanimity. “He had it at arrowpoint.” 

 Haldir’s fine-boned face was a study in disbelief. Glorfindel caught Ardil’s eye in wordless understanding. It felt strange to find himself united with his longtime rival. He had never seen eye to eye with the ancient Sindarin warrior, but that dissension ended where Elrond and Celebrían’s children were concerned. Ardil firmly rebuked his scowling son. 

 “You have played far more elaborate tricks on Orcs yourself, Haldir! The poor child is as scared of us as he was of those Orcs. Can you blame him for trying to throw us off his trail? Thank Araw he kept his head, or we would now be searching for him down in the tunnels!”    

 Elladan shuddered at Ardil’s grim words, and grasped the sleeve of Celebrían’s surcoat as if to drag her along.  

 “Come, Naneth, make haste! Elrohir needs help and he would run from anyone but us.”  

 Celebrían righted herself with all the authority of the Lady of Imladris. She ordered gear packed for Elladan and herself, then turned to Ardil and Glorfindel.

“Secure all paths up that mountain. The Orcs will return to hunt Elrohir and I will not have them finish their work. Dispose of the cadavers, and set up tents and supplies. Elrohir will need much care when we bring him.” 

 

----

Even in his painful predicament the view gave Elrohir pause. Far below, spread out under the westering sun like a tapestry of gold and green and silver, lay Eriador. The Misty Mountains gave way to craggy green hill-lands woven with deep valleys, each one with its own brook or river sparkling like a web of silver threads. Out of the hills, towards the smoother lands of Eregion flowed the Bruinen, clearly seen even from this dizzying lookout. In the far, blue-tinged distance to the west Elrohir could discern a dark line on the edge of the world that had to be the Weather Hills in Arnor. 

 For a moment, fear and pain and weariness fell away and he was swept with delirious joy at the fierce beauty, the sheer vivid freedom of it all. Elrohir stood high above the world, untrammelled as the eagle coasting the slopes above him, in spite of everything. 

 The elation fizzled out when he turned to take the next limping step of his long and weary climb. Whatever poison had coated the Orc’s scimitar was designed to deal out death in slow, painful increments. The wound was all vicious agony, and even hours after it was inflicted it refused to stop bleeding. A small, lukewarm trickle steadily ran down his side. He has stopped as often as he dared to pack and rebandage the cut. Now that every last piece of cloth he possessed was soaked through he could only resign himself to the telling trail of bright crimson blotches he left behind. 

 A child could have tracked him, and the Orcs were sure to claim their prize once the sun dipped below the western ridges. Elrohir looked up the slope he was climbing. The grey stone of the mountainside was wet with runoff from the high snowfields, covered in the tiny, delicate bud-flowers of green moss. The summer sun set the doughty green fronds of little ferns to gleam as if some Elf-smith had sculpted them from emerald. 

 Sinking to his knees in a sheltered hollow beside the path, he pulled great handfuls of moss from the ground to stuff them into his wound without care for cleanliness, hoping against hope that the pillowy substance might serve to stem the unnatural bleeding. He watched his hands shake and felt the vertigo of crippling blood loss. Elrohir was a realist. He could no longer pretend he had anything left to choose but the manner of his death.  

 A stab of longing doubled him over at the thought of Elladan. Since leaving Imladris Elrohir carried a gaping hollow where his brother should be, a wound more painful than his physical one. Elladan was trying his utmost to reach him, but he was not here now and unlikely to make it before the Orcs. Elrohir could not keep his promise. This folly of his own making that was their parting would not be set right again, perhaps never for all the ages of the world.

 Elrohir turned his face towards the green, living world below, and watched the pale blue shadows of clouds chase beams of golden sunshine across the verdant hillsides and the liquid mithril surface of the Bruinen. Bitter regret rang through his hazy mind, clear as a bell-strike. 

This is the last day of my life, and it is a beautiful one.  

 His heart seemed to swell until it held all Arda. He looked to where the glittering ribbon of the Bruinen became the mighty Gwathló, to dissolve itself in hazy distance to the south, to Tharbad and the Sea. The Misty Mountains stretched alongside, seemingly without end, to where the edge of vision made them bluish and distant as a miniature painting. It was a comfort to know that beyond them, somewhere, Pelargir still existed. Even further south lay Elrohir’s desert, great plains and canyons and endless white flats where only the crack of sighing salt disturbed the eternal silence.

 Tomorrow all the world would still be there, wild and vast and incomprehensibly beautiful. Only he would no longer be. Elrohir realized with astonishing clarity that the very idea was deeply wrong.

---

Chapter End Notes

As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter. If you liked it, please consider commenting, it'd make my day!

Due to site issues I've been unable to answer some comments. I'll do it here instead ;-)

Glorified: 

Thank you for leaving a comment! 

I'm glad you liked the Orc woman! Half of all Orcs must be female and yet in all of Tolkien's works not a single one gets mentioned. My theory is that they were mostly kept as slaves. Elrohir takes pity on her because he is able to look at her without Elvish prejudices and see an individual rather than a representative of an enemy race. As a former slave he naturally sympathizes with her situation. This said, she's still an Orc. Elrohir doesn't realize it, but she deeply hates all Elves and if their encounter had been the other way around she would have tortured and killed him without a second thought.

Elrohir is deeply divided between his past and present, which is all the more poignant because he really is a hybrid of the two kindreds and one of just two people in all Arda who do have a choice. 

Of course you can't run away from yourself so he'll eventually have to face that the 'elvishness' he's running from is as much part of him as his mortal side.

Eldawisdom: 

That's very high praise, thank you so much! 

Elrohir has now realized the danger he's in. Let's hope the experience won't kill him! And yes, poor Elladan. Elrond and Celebrian meant well when they tried to give him a sheltered childhood, but that has backfired in a horrible way. In a way this is Elladan's coming of age, the point where he realizes that his parents aren't omnipotent and there are problems that even Elrond and Celebrian can't solve. 

As you can imagine Elrond won't be too pleased with Serdir. More about that later ....

Thank you for commenting!

 

Chapter 25

Read Chapter 25

Elladan and Celebrían neared the snow-line, and even for Elves the air grew thin. At this dizzying height the very bones of the land lay bare. Nothing grew but hardy lichens that clung to the naked, windswept rock, speckling it in grey and green shot through with dabs of shockingly bright red. 

Elladan was blind to the Alagras’ desolate splendour as he scrambled up its rocky slopes like a man possessed, his mind filled with nothing but his brother. Elrohir’s pain had blended with Elladan’s own longing, a bone-deep craving like one drowning might gasp for air. 

They were close enough now for the sound of their footsteps to carry in the heavy silence without bird or beast. Elladan knew he would be treading a delicate line. He motioned for Celebrían to stay behind and let him seek out Elrohir by himself. For an instant her mind touched his. Under the calm facade she, too, was frantic with longing and fear of what they would find when they reached him. She understood nonetheless: this belonged to Elladan alone. In silence she reached into her pack for a small object that caught the height’s sharp sunlight like a star. As he caught his breath Elladan stared at the silver flask of miruvor in dismay that Elrohir’s hurts would be bad enough to need such precious medicine. He pocketed the bottle with a nod of thanks. 

Celebrían sat on a boulder, avoiding the ridge of windblown powder snow gathered on the leeward side. She had her bow in hand, arrow nocked and ready in the manner of Lórien’s marchwardens. Her only movements were the swirling wisps of her breath in the icy air and her eyes, darting as she scanned the surrounding desolation for sign of Orcs. 

Onwards Elladan rushed, and when he could no longer run he climbed to where he knew a grouping of great boulders, once sculpted by grinding ice, would form a secluded, roofless chamber. Elrohir had the instincts of a wounded animal, hiding away from hostile eyes and the scything wind. His brother’s presence sang through Elladan’s veins heavy as wine, at once sweet and painful. He no longer needed his eyes for the last few steps. Navigating by Elrohir’s memory alone he ducked through a narrow gap between the stones into a shadowed hiding place. 

Neither knew which twin uttered the wordless sob of relief that rang through the small hollow where Elrohir lay curled up around his wound. Elladan ungently crammed himself into the narrow space beside his brother to pull him into his arms, touch his face, bask in the untarnished rightness and wonder of being reunited. 

The moment was brief enough. Elrohir’s cheek was disturbingly cool to Elladan’s stroking hands, and once the first elation had passed Elladan noticed his own clothes growing wet and sticky where their bodies touched. The metallic tang of blood stood heavy in the still air of the hollow.  Elrohir’s face was ashen, its features sharply drawn in a way Elladan had seen only once before, an accidental glimpse of a returning warrior being rushed to the House of Healing. Elladan knew he tended to rattle when he panicked, but the sound of his voice brought Elrohir such obvious comfort that he did not hold back.

“You are cold! Here, have my cloak atop yours, I have no need of it. The stains don’t matter. Laerwen will know how to get them out. She can wash out anything. This one time I dropped an ink bottle all over that patterned rug in mother’s study and she …”

Elladan nearly sent the pair of bronze pins that fastened his heavy fur-lined cloak clattering to the ground in his haste to pull it off and cover Elrohir. Once he was wrapped up to the best of his ability, Elladan was left searching for something, anything he might do that would be of better help than a stream of meaningless household anecdotes. With a jolt he remembered the flask of miruvor.

“Here, have a drink.”

Elrohir obediently reached for the bottle, and with dismay Elladan noticed that his fingers were as blue as his lips. The draught of cordial seemed to lend him some strength, but soon his eyes closed once more and he lay still. Elladan pulled his brother closer, until he could feel Elrohir’s gasping breath and his quick, thready heartbeat. Elrohir curled in on himself, wrapped in Elladan’s arms as if he was suddenly the younger by far more than mere minutes. Elladan held him as tightly as he dared, stroking the matted locks of his hair. They basked in each other’s presence for a few stolen moments until Elladan dared not delay any longer.

“Mother is beside herself with worry. May I call her?”

Elrohir’s lassitude instantly lapsed into terror. 

“She should not be out here, and neither should you. The Orcs will …”

Elladan was quick to interrupt him.

“Do not concern yourself with Orcs. Glorfindel and Grandfather will chase them. You are safe, and going home.”

This had clearly been the wrong thing to say. Elrohir had been ill at ease before, but now he grew frantic, drawing back from Elladan’s embrace with wild eyes.

“Imladris is dangerous. Our father hides … horrible things.” His voice broke at a memory of the eerie way the very path shifted beneath his feet as his mind was drawn into Elrond’s grip. 

“Forgive me, Elladan, for leaving you behind there. I am so glad to see you again.”  

The words came whisper-soft, as if the both of them were now in hiding. Elrohir’s eyes shone bright with tears, and fear gripped Elladan at what Elrohir might do in this state. He took a firm hold of Elrohir’s hand, clammy and rough with grit.

Elrohir’s voice was a low whisper against Elladan’s chest. “I cannot go back. Not to that .”

Elladan shook his head, shocked by this terror beyond reason. He wrapped Elrohir up in his own memories of Imladris, of being warm, and safe, and home.  

“No one will hurt you, Father least of all. He was near to madness in his fear for you. He deeply regrets using force. He gave me his word: never again.”

Elrohir’s mind seethed with terror. “He is a sorcerer!” 

Elladan turned Elrohir over to look him in the eye. 

“So are you and I. We are of Lúthien’s line. You know it is true, Elrohir. You knew it even in Harad. You cannot outrun your own blood.” 

He touched Elrohir’s face once more, and his warm fingers stroked skin cool and pale as marble. 

“Trust me if you trust nothing else. Come with me. You need not feel this cold, or be all alone. You should never have been alone. Will you not come home? We will take the pain away, keep you safe so you can sleep. You are so tired. Imagine resting in your own bed and being warm again. I will stay with you, always. Please, Elrohir, come home?”

Elohir nodded, but did not speak. He had no fight left in him. He lay silent in Elladan’s arms when Elladan tried to rouse him. His mind seemed distant, almost dreamy. The closed eyes lent his face that alien Mannish look once more. Combined with the pallor of near exsanguination the effect was unsettling. Elladan’s unease grew as he waited for a reply, watching wisps of vapour rise from Elrohir’s mouth to freeze to tiny white pearls where the cloak’s fur trim bordered his face. Elrohir did not speak and the rim of frost grew, until the sudden realization of what his brother looked like struck Elladan. He had never seen a dead body, but the image of Elrohir’s seared itself into his nightmares.

Elladan’s floodwave of panic instantly brought Celebrían to the shelter’s entrance. The rocky hollow had no space for three, so Elladan dragged Elrohir out, half-crawling and half-carrying the limp weight of his unresisting body. 

Celebrían keened in terror at the sight of Elrohir. The harsh sunlight and a gust of icy wind roused him, and he pushed himself up to sitting, his ungloved hands slipping on rocks covered in a veil of drift snow. With a gasp of relief Celebrían pulled him into an embrace so strong it clearly served to hide her tears. She was Galadriel’s daughter, a veteran of many desperate hours, and her struggle for composure was brief. 

Elrohir stiffened in her arms, braced for her anger, but when she spoke her voice was soft.

“There you are. I am so glad to see you.” 

She made to stroke his hair, only to get her fingers tangled in crusts of old blood.  

“Let me help, sweetling. Don’t be afraid. All is well now that we have you. All will be set right, if we can only get you home. Please, let me help you.” 

Whether Elrohir understood, or this was some measure of trust built over their months together, Elladan could not tell but he saw Elrohir sag against her, boneless with relief. Celebrían held him for a moment more before pulling back to unwrap both cloaks. 

 Slow and considerate, she untied Elrohir’s makeshift bandages of moss and wadded clothes. They were soaked, sticking to him in layers of old and fresh blood, and when Celebrían had finally removed them all her hands were slick and red. Through a gaping tear in Elrohir’s ruined tunic Elladan glimpsed a sight that would haunt him for an age to come. His brother’s side had been slashed open from shoulder to hip. The wound was crusted with grime, and deep down Elladan imagined he could see the white ridges of Elrohir’s ribs like a diagram from some exceptionally lifelike anatomy book. Only sheer luck had kept the Orcish blade from nicking his gut. Blood welled quickly, as if the obscene gash had been cut mere moments ago.  

Celebrían’s half-loud Nandorin curse would have brought a seasoned marchwarden to blushing. Elrohir did not understand the words but their meaning was clear, and in the face of her terror his own grew even greater. Celebrían laid her hands on the wound, her face darkening further at the foul feel of it. Her eyes grew glassy with concentration when she raised her voice. The song was heartbreakingly beautiful, but every line and cantrip faltered against the unforgiving winds howling around the peak. Elrohir’s still face seemed paler with every new attempt. What began high and strong, assaulting the senses with its sheer might and power to scourge foul things clean, gradually waned, diminishing until only gentleness and the desire to comfort and soothe remained.  

 Whoever made that accursed blade has power beyond mine . 

Celebrían’s dismay was for Elladan alone. 

Her manner grew more stern and efficient than Elladan had ever seen. She tightly packed the wound with strips of clean muslin from her own pack, before wrapping Elrohir in both cloaks once more and drawing one of the hoods up around his face. Still unsatisfied, she removed her own lambskin gloves to put them on Elrohir’s blue-tinged hands after breathing some warmth into them. She had done the same for Elladan countless times when he was small and cold from wintertime play. Watching the motherly gesture gave him a sharp pang of sorrow. This first time Celebrían did this for Elrohir might well prove the last.  

Not if your father has a hand in it. 

Only then did both Elladan and Celebrían notice Elrohir’s feet. The Orc boots were ugly, ill-made things, spreading a goatish stench Elladan recognized from the cadavers. Celebrían’s face overflowed with sorrow at the sight. The laces of badly tanned leather had grown waterlogged and caked with mud. She yanked hard on the swollen knots, and when they would not give she swore with abandon.  

Elrohir flinched when she drew her hunting knife, and the realisation that even now he was still afraid of her stoked the fires of her desperate anger even higher. She cut the boots off his feet with quick, jerking movements. Before Elladan could move to stop her, she righted herself to toss them down the slope with far more force than necessary. Celebrían’s right arm carried an archer’s strength, and the Orc-work flew far, bouncing against the mountain flank before finally tumbling out of sight. Elrohir could only stare with a strange expression between fear and complete bewilderment. Elladan stood aghast, convinced he would have to climb down after them or risk Elrohir’s feet to frostbite. 

A hand on his shoulder kept him in place. Celebrían miraculously produced a pair of felt-lined warriors’ boots from her pack. Elladan and Elrohir shared a wave of sudden comprehension. This had clearly been planned the very moment she found out Elrohir’s strange boot-swapping feint. She had even thought to bring thick woollen socks. 

“Here. These are much warmer, and they are clean.”  

She paused her gentle ministrations to press a kiss to Elrohir’s cheek.  

“You need not wear anything of theirs .”  The unspoken part was clear: you are ours .  

At her wordless glance Elladan proffered the flask of miruvor. Celebrían let Elrohir drink another measure, sip by careful sip. The cordial lent his mind new clarity. His eyes met Celebrían’s with frightening calm.  

“New boots for a dead man?” 

To Elladan’s astonishment Celebrían did not dissolve into tears, and it seemed Elrohir had not expected her to. Here were two people who knew war and its grim, implacable realities. Tears served no purpose. They were held back for later, if a later might still exist. 

“That cursed blade is causing this unnatural bleeding. I feel it moving through you, burrowing deeper by the hour, but I have not the power to remove it. Your father is the only one who might. We must get you home.”  

Elrohir looked down to where the fine broadcloth of Elladan’s cloak began to show a spreading bloom of red.

 “I have not enough time left to be carried down this mountain. Spare me and yourselves the pain of trying.” 

She gave him a sad look as she stroked a strand of his hair back behind his ear, seeming desperate for the touch.  

“You were poisoned in body and spirit. The blade’s maker sought to sow despair. You were exquisitely sensitive to it in your state of mind, and now it speaks through your mouth. I will not let it take your life.” 

Elrohir’s face went soft, and his gloved hands took hers as if he sought to warm them. 

“That seems inevitable. All this is on me, not you. Remember that, after.” 

She did not answer him, and her face grew hard and stern once more when she rose to her feet.

---

Chapter End Notes

And so the twins are reunited once more, but in much worse circumstances than last time! 

Like the first reunion, this was a challenging chapter to write and I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. If you enjoyed it please consider leaving a comment. Those make a writer's day! 

 A bug in the SWG website won't let me answer comments in the usual way. The mods are working hard to fix it, and until they do I'll answer comments here.   

  Lindariel:    Thank you so much for all your lovely reviews on my stories!!! I'm having trouble finding the words to express how wonderful it is to get such enthusiastic feedback on a series so close to my heart. I'm sorry that I'm unable to reply to your reviews on the other stories in the series, but I've read and squeed over them all and I will reply as soon as the bug is fixed! 

The series' premise is a bit unusual indeed. It came about because I wanted to write a story exploring the differences between Elves and Men, and Third Age Imladris as a meeting place of different cultures and races. Being essentially a Mortal who is suddenly admitted to the inner circle of Elrond's household, Elrohir gains a unique perspective on Elves and their society - one even the most trusted Mortal visitor would never have.   

I researched war-related PTSD to describe Elrohir's issues and his character development. Dawn, my beta, also contributed a lot to his characterization. I'm thrilled to hear that it turned out believable!   

At the time of this story Elrond and Celebrian have been married for less than a century. The Noldorin and Sindarin inhabitants of Imladris haven't had much time yet to get used to each other, so the place feels a lot less settled than when we see it through Frodo's and Bilbo's eyes in LOTR 3000 years later.    

Glorified:   

I'm afraid that this week's chapter won't do much to settle your nerves ;-) 

The Elves are definitely prejudiced about other races, but in the case of Orcs those prejudices are right. 

Elrohir has had an epiphany that maybe Mortal death isn't quite the right thing for him ... Let's hope Celebrían and Elladan will manage to keep him alive!  

See you next week!

Idrils Scribe

Chapter 26

Read Chapter 26

Serdir was ancient, and well-versed in stealth and deception. Unearthing the guilt that burrowed in his mind like a red-eyed snake had taken Erestor the better part of two days and nights. Only now, as the daylight was dying for the second time and sunset spilled red across the cell’s whitewashed walls, did Saeros’ proud son break under the relentless barrage of ever more pressing questions.

A sheen of cold sweat coated Serdir’s pale face as he slumped on the tiled slab that served for bed and bench, his dark eyes closed against tears. Erestor recalled Elrond’s similar expression, his lord’s white-knuckled grip on the bell tower’s parapet as he watched his loved ones ride out into danger, and could not summon even a trace of compassion for Elrohir’s would-be murderer. 

“So you admit to it now? You overheard the Lords Elladan and Elrohir debate their ill-advised plans in the old forge. Instead of alerting us to Elrohir’s peril you tracked the boy through the valley, and when he lost his way you intervened to ensure he reached the mountains.”   

Serdir looked Erestor in the eye, his mind pried fully open at last. With grim satisfaction Erestor noted that his captive was terrified. He cast a questioning look at Gildor, who had been appointed as Serdir’s counsel, and received no objection. Gildor, too, looked worn from their long session, but he had had little cause for interruptions. Not a hair on Serdir’s head had been harmed - Erestor had no need of such unsubtle methods. Serdir was digging himself in deep enough.

“I led no boy from the valley, but a full-fledged warrior geared for battle - one who followed me of his own free will. His chances in the mountains are as good as anyone’s. When we reached the path he thanked me.”

Erestor imagined it. Elrohir’s cautious, earnest way of talking to strangers. His soft-spoken voice - so like Elrond’s at that age - shaping the Sindarin words with care as he politely thanked his father’s faithless vassal for the ultimate betrayal. It was all he could do not to howl with fury. 

“His chances !? Elrohir has never seen an Orc, let alone fought one! To give him a chance he would need a long-year’s worth of training, a mail hauberk, a pack of Orc-hounds and at least ten scouts. You left him alone in the dark, in his shirtsleeves!”

At his raised voice guards stirred in the hallway beyond the cell’s heavy oak door. These were no suggestible younglings or Wood-elves of uncertain allegiance. For the task of guarding Serdir Erestor had called his oldest and staunchest Fëanorians back from the search. They were fiercely loyal to Elrond alone, and each was a kinslayer many times over. 

The door opened to a small crack. 

“Al well?” came a mellifluous woman’s voice speaking the most ancient Quenya.

Erestor’s feral smile bared his teeth, and he revelled in answering her with a thick Fëanorian lisp that brought shock to Gildor’s face, and a fresh layer of misery to Serdir’s. 

“All well. Thank you, Canissë. (1)” 

Serdir shook with terror at the unsubtle reminder of what unspeakable deeds Erestor had proven himself capable of.

“What will you do to me?”

Erestor shook his head, and rose from his high-backed chair, one of a pair that had been brought into the cell for him and Gildor. It was otherwise empty, save for a lidded pail in one corner.

“Nothing, for the time being. Elrohir’s fate remains uncertain. We can hardly pass judgement before we know the full extent of your crime. Meanwhile you should speak with your counsel. I shall leave you to it.”

Serdir looked about himself, at the austere cell with its high, small window. It would normally show a sliver of starlight, but this evening heavy cloud veiled the sky. He sounded shrill and plaintive.

 “I am of the Nandor. You cannot hold me beneath a roof of stone!”

Serdir’s imprisonment would smart by now, Erestor knew from long experience dealing with the Laiquendi. Given time the sting would grow to a nagging pain, a blade driven ever deeper into the fëa until sharp longing for the woods and their Song became torture. Keep a Wood-elf captive past that point and their fëa would release itself from the body. Elrond was wholly incapable of such cruelty, but Serdir need not know it just yet. Let Gildor give him the glad tidings later.

“You are kept comfortable. More so than the child you threw to the Orcs.”

The full gravity of that accusation appeared to strike Serdir only now, and he was quick with justification.

“Elrohir is no child. A foolish, wilful Man such as he once took my father’s life. King Elu forgave Túrin the murderer, and he lived to prove himself a poisonous viper many times over. Must Imladris suffer Nargothrond’s fate before your eyes will open?”  

Erestor sat back down to consider this, and allowed a torturous silence to blanket the cell. Outside, the valley itself was unnaturally quiet. Not even the Wood-elves were singing. All cause for merriment had fled, and no-one yet knew whether laments were in order. 

“Aye. Elrohir is like a young Túrin, in a way. A mere child alone among strangers, his spirit wounded by grief. But he never raised a hand against you or yours! And yet you dealt with him even more cruelly than your father did of old. How did you imagine Elrohir would die? Orcs do unspeakable things to their prisoners! I should delay your sentence until we learn Elrohir’s fate, and make your punishment fit his suffering.”

Serdir blanched, and Erestor made a note of the man’s damning terror. He had known well enough what horrors awaited in the mountains. 

Serdir struck with the desperate ferocity of a trapped wolf at the hunter’s approach. “Your bloodlust shows, Fëanorian! You are not the Lord of Imladris. By what right do you presume to judge me?”

Erestor stood, his voice and bearing all sharp gravity. 

“Lord Elrond was once my ward - an orphan, and a hostage. He grew wise through many sorrows and they left him kind as summer. Not in all my years have I known a prince more deserving of loyalty and love. Your treachery might cost him both his children and yet he ordered an inquest, not an execution. For that and many other deeds of kindness I will spare him the burden of shedding your blood.” 

Erestor came to stand before Serdir, and his face must have seemed so fell and fierce that for a heartstopping moment Gildor half-rose as if to physically defend his charge. 

“Have no fear of being left to languish here, Serdir.” Erestor said, low and menacing. ”You will be fed and watered, and none shall raise their hands against you. The very hour we learn Elrohir’s fate I shall return. You will receive justice at my hands.” 

Serdir straightened himself, tall and proud as the chieftain he no longer was. His next words were in Doriathrin. The ancient language winded Erestor like a blow. 

“Erestor the bloody-handed, butcher of Menegroth. The Belain were far too lenient when they let you keep your life!” 

Serdir was a Moriquendë, unskilled in the finer arts of ósanwë, but in his terror he nonetheless seared Dior’s dead face, mouth slack and eyes staring into emptiness, into Erestor’s mind. Others followed - Nimloth, another pair of little twins with grey eyes and midnight hair.

“You prove unrepentant, Erestor. You may kill again, but there will be a reckoning - for every last one!”

Erestor faced Serdir across the suddenly airless space. Gildor had risen and stood hesitating, unsure which one of them would need to be restrained first. Erestor recalled Elrond’s grief and laughed, bitter and wholly without mirth.    

“I have stained my hands for far lesser causes, and they are bloody indeed. Do not flatter yourself, Serdir. One more will make no difference.”

----

Elladan took notice of his surroundings for the first time since he began his frenzied climb. Far below, the path where Celebrían and he had stood that morning was a grey winding ribbon in a sheet of green. At this distance Elladan could discern neither Lorien’s marchwardens nor the warriors of Imladris, but the ferocious baying of Orc-hounds resounded as Glorfindel and Celeborn turned Elrohir’s pursuers from hunter to prey. 

Nightfall came early in the deep cloven valleys between the mountains, where bluish shadows lay pooled already. Imperceptibly slow, the light had changed from lemon-yellow to copper as the sun approached the mountain ridges in the west.

Celebrían turned towards it, a look of intense concentration on her face. Above their heads, Alagras’ white peak became washed in red and gold. Elladan watched with bitter, churning anger. Elrohir’s precious time slipped through their fingers like loose sand while beauty made a mockery of their despair.

Celebrían seemed wholly untouched by it. She raised her arms, face turned towards the West, and sang. The day’s last sunlight caught the mithril coating on her mail and outlined her tall form like a living flame as she sang of the high airs, sun glinting off cloud and tearing speed, the swift grace of a lethal strike. Elladan felt lighter for hearing it, excited, filled to bursting with a wild exhilaration and the need to run, jump high and do something truly spectacular. 

The feeling vanished abruptly as the song came to its end, to be replaced by falling dusk and the press of concern. The ceaseless whistling of the wind was once more the only sound in these empty places. Celebrían remained with her face towards the setting sun, staring intently as if she expected the Valar themselves to somehow rescue Elrohir.

Elladan’s vision swam with tears of frustration. When he furiously blinked them away, a small blemish remained on the glaring white expanse of distant snowfields. Astonishment that any living creature would be foolish enough to venture such unforgiving places kept his eyes fixed on the tiny black stain. He had been wrong: it was moving fast, against the wind. This was no man or animal walking across the snow, but a fleet-winged bird. Awe filled him at the beating of wings he should not be seeing at all, at such a distance. A bird indeed, but one of such majestic size it seemed drawn from some glorious tale of the First Age. Elrohir shook with fear, but Elladan could only laugh aloud with joy when he understood their mother’s brave and brilliant plan. He wrapped Elrohir up in his arms and helped him sit, so he might see this wonder.

The Eagle had seen them, and it sped like a well-aimed arrow, growing larger with each powerful wingstroke. Elladan could soon make out the shape of its terrifying beak and count each feather where the setting sun backlit it in gold. The great bird took a majestic swerve above the slope, stretching out talons the size of broadswords. The blast of its wings was like a rising storm, scattering the light blanket of powdery snow in every direction, a dark blot of shadow leaping along beneath. The landing itself was unexpectedly light and supple, executed with the silent rush of a hunter. The Eagle primly folded its wings, and the fearsome beak turned towards Celebrían. Plate-sized eyes of gold and jet fixed on her with strange, avian cleverness. Their mother stood unfazed.

“Greetings, Gwaihir, Lord of the Winds. Blessed is the hour of your coming.” 

Her eyes did not leave those of the great bird. She had some experience with the Eagles’ perilous tempers. 

“Greetings, Lady of Imladris. What brings you to call upon our eyries?” 

Gwaihir’s voice, shaped by beak instead of mouth, was strangely shrill. To Elladan’s astonishment, Celebrían knelt on the stony ground before the Eagle.

“Only the greatest possible need. In the name of my good-father Eärendil, once your Lord’s companion in battle, I would ask a boon for this son of his House.”

Gwaihir’s great head tilted from side to side to fix each alien eye in turn on Elrohir.

“My folk have watched your venture from above. In every brood those fledgelings who flee the nest too soon will perish. This rallying against the natural ways of the world is among the Elves’ more pointless habits, lady.”   

Celebrían was undaunted. “The laws of Eagles may not be right for Elves, swift one. We beget but rarely, through our long lives, and we value every single child beyond measure. My son was struck by a cursed blade. Poison spills his blood beyond what I can cure. Of all our kin who remain east of the sea, few have the power to heal this. Elrond of Imladris is among them. Will you not carry my son home, where he might be saved?”

Gwaihir spread his great wings, shadowing Celebrían like a canopy, and began to preen his sleek copper feathers, seemingly offended.  

“I am neither a courier pigeon nor a beast of burden. You have another child, Silver-queen, and you may hatch a new brood come spring.”

Despair crashed down upon Elladan like a mountain of blackness, and for a moment he could no longer pretend, not even to Elrohir, that this might somehow still end well. Celebrían seemed wholly unaffected by the Elrohir’s inevitable demise. She stood steadfast before the great bird.

“How many branches can one pull from a nest before it falls to shambles? Ours might take all the West down with it. My son’s grandfather Eärendil battled Morgoth’s fire-dragons beside you, in the skies over Thangorodrim. He carried the body of your Lord Thorondor away from the Mountains of Ash with honour. (2) Will you now abandon the House of the Mariner in the hour of our need?”

This gave Gwaihir pause. The great head righted itself and blinked with reptilian, sliding lids over bright orange eyes, before coming to rest on Celebrían once more. 

“Let it not be said that the Eagles are faithless. I shall honour your good-father’s valour as he has honoured us.”

The time for goodbyes was short, and awkward under the Eagle’s unrelenting gaze. Getting Elrohir up on Gwaihir’s back was an ordeal. Elladan was terrified he might lose his grip and fall off in midair. Gwaihir seemed capable of reading it.

“Fear not. I will not drop what I intend to carry!”

When Elrohir finally sat astride the great bird’s back he sank deeply into a thick layer of silk-soft feathers. Celebrían set his gloved hands to grasp large fistfulls, and bade him not let go. He nodded silently. The feverish gleam to his eyes betrayed he might no longer be perceiving her for who and what she truly was, but he seemed unafraid, at least. 

Celebrían bowed to Gwaihir once more. “The thanks and good will of Imladris and Lórien go with you, oh Windlord!”

The Eagle appeared to laugh, if birds could manage such a thing. 

“All things have their price, Lady. When my brethren next visit the cloven valley, your shepherds will lay down their slingshots.”

Gwaihir crouched, and the stretching of his great wings raised a tempest as he leapt into emptiness. For a frightful moment Elladan feared to see Elrohir tumble into the abyss but they soared up, circled one more time as the eagle gained height, and turned West where the moving dot finally appeared to be burned up in the setting sun.   

-----

Elrohir knew he could not possibly be dreaming. Icy winds buffeted him until tears ran down his face to freeze on the collar of his cloak. The cold would have sufficed to raise the dead from slumber, yet the sight before his eyes was an impossibility. A strangely flattened  blanket of mist covered the landscape below. Only the highest mountain ridges broke through, standing out like splintered roof-beams from a flood. Elrohir had to scrunch up his eyes against the red light of the setting sun reflecting off the roiling white when sheer wonder cut through his initial confusion. 

Clouds. He was looking at the clouds from above . 

When the dying sunlight gave way to night, mighty Gwaihir seemed a mere speck, an ant slowly crossing a vast hall of sky, floored with living cloud and roofed in stars. In this strange realm silence reigned, save for howling wind and the soft swish of the great bird’s wings. Here, invisible to those walking in the shadows below, was a world on its own, achingly beautiful yet wholly strange, whose paths he could never hope to tread. The full awareness of his own insignificance struck deeply. What other worlds might there be, always near and yet beyond the sight of ordinary eyes?

Eärendil, the evening star, shone in its proper place as it always had, but somehow at this extraordinary angle Elrohir saw it differently, and knew himself seen in kind. The star dimmed and brightened again, and for a moment he felt strengthened by a loving regard.

Holding on against the pummelling wind took strength, and despite the wondrous view it soon became easier to close his eyes, rest his head within the mass of feathers in front of him, and leave only his back exposed to the breathtaking cold. Had Celebrían not passed him her gloves he doubtlessly would have lost fingers to its bite.

He dreamt strange dreams, of a dead sky over trackless plains of ash where his running feet threw up grey clouds that no wind would scatter. 

Each time he woke the Eagle appeared to gain speed, until the wind’s howling grew so fearsome he looked up no more.

----

Footnotes:

(1). Canissë is an OC from my First Age series From the Sun's First Rising. 'The Art of Speech through Smithcraft' has more about Canissë's Fëanorian past. She also briefly appears in 'The King's Peace' and 'Dry Lightning'.

(2). Thorondor is never mentioned again after the great aerial battle in the War of Wrath. Gwaihir is lord of the Eagles when they appear next, so it seems probable that Thorondor died in battle. The story about Ëarendil retrieving his body is made up by me.

---

Chapter End Notes

Fanfic writers run on comments, so please consider leaving me one if you liked the chapter!

Glorified:

Thank you for commenting! Circumstances are forcing Elrohir to accept the reality of his situation: he is not simply a mortal and acting as if he is will not solve that for him. Don't despair though. There's always hope... Injury and healing in Tolkien seem to consist of two distinct aspects: the physical wound and the spiritual one. To keep Elrohir alive Elrond will have to deal with both.

 

Chapter 27

Read Chapter 27

“An Eagle! An Eagle is coming!”

Elrond needed neither the calls of keen-eyed Wood-elves posted on rocky outcrops throughout the valley, nor the frantic tolling up in the belfry. He recognized Gwaihir and his passenger the instant they crossed into Vilya’s wards. The touch of a Great Eagle’s mind was an alien experience: sharp, almost metallic and utterly other , thrumming with the power of an immortal spirit. 

The feel of Elrohir’s was what made Elrond rush to the House of Healing to check their readiness one more time. Whatever had befallen his son out in the mountains had his life on a knife’s edge.  Elrond could feel him drifting away to darkness. It was all he could do to call Elrohir back, keep him focused on his hands and legs holding on to his winged mount lest he plummet to his death within sight of rescue. 

 Elrond received the Eagle on the greensward in front of the house, lit by many torches. Beside him lay what he expected would be a well-received gift: the still-warm cadavers of two fat, unfortunate sheep. This was to be one of the more unusual diplomatic exchanges of Erestor’s long career. 

Elrond himself would be otherwise occupied. At the sight of Elrohir being half-pulled, half-carried from the great bird’s back, limp as a rag doll, he was convinced he could do nothing more for his son than make him look seemly for his last rites. Only after a small eternity of sorrow did he notice the Eagle’s heaving flanks, the great beak opened wide from panting, and it dawned that bringing home an inevitable loss would not make Gwaihir exhaust himself as if the hot breath of Morgoth’s firedrakes were behind him.

From then speed was all that mattered. Elrond had been a healer long enough to have treated every kind of poisoning known to Elfkind. Still the sight of Elrohir’s head lolling like too heavy a flower on too thin a stem while Lindalië cut away what remained of his clothes, stiff with dried blood, would later keep coming to his mind’s eye unbidden at the most unexpected of times.

The stressed mind works in strange ways. What finally made Elrond dissolve into speechless rage was not the oozing, bone-deep sword slash running down Elrohir’s side. He performed surgery on that wound with a steady hand and clinical detachment. The unbearable injury had been a tell-tale group of livid, finger-shaped bruises on his arm. Here was undeniable proof that some ill-begotten creeper of an Orc had laid hands on Elrond’s child, and his wrath became an ugly, visceral weight. 

Erestor had come to the House of Healing the instant Gwaihir took to the sky clutching his grisly gifts. Elrond found his counsellor in the shadowed cloister, rinsing sheep blood from his hands in the marble basin of a babbling fountain.

Elrond was beyond politeness. “Send out another company. I want that Orc den exterminated to the last Snága.” 

“Is Elrohir …” Erestor did not dare speak the word. 

“He still lives. I need them all dead regardless.”

Erestor’s eyes darted to his in alarm. “What did they do to him? He was never their captive, according to the Eagle.”

 “Would poisoning and nearly gutting him not suffice? That, and I wish to contain knowledge of this incident, if such a thing remains possible.” 

 “Truly, I do not know. I will try.”

 Elrond nodded, secure in the knowledge that his order would be carried out to the very last Orc. He turned, back ramrod-straight, to his ailing son and a long night’s watch. 

 “He let himself be found, in the end.” Erestor’s voice was soft.

 Elrond spun back around, face ugly with bitter, impotent rage. 

 Erestor was wholly unimpressed. “He made that choice and no other when he grew desperate. It should count for much, when you pass judgement on him.”

 Elrond’s hands clenched into fists until his fingernails biting into his own palms seemed the only thing grounding him. “I spoke the truth to Elladan. Elrohir will not be punished.”

 “You seethe with anger, and vicariously slaughtering Orcs will not cool it. If -- when -- Elrohir recovers, strive for mildness.”

 Elrond’s voice deserted him. He could only make a sweeping gesture to encompass the courtyard. Flickering lamplight painted its rooflines in sharp relief against a starless night sky of clouds thick as velvet. After sundown anything other than darkness and tranquility in the House of Healing was an ominous sign, and this night light spilled from many windows.

 The surgical theatre was being cleaned. Beside the entryway a basket of linen stained dark with Elrohir’s blood awaited the launderers. Through the open pharmacy door two white-smocked apothecaries could be seen, bent over their tiled workbenches busily weighing, pestling and mixing. Their lilting Nandorin voices wove together in supplication for Estë’s blessing. The chant clashed inelegantly with Lindalië raising yet another staunching song in one of the sick rooms a few doors down -- that accursed wound was soaking yet another dressing. All their efforts had failed to staunch the ceaseless bleeding, and Elrohir’s very life was trickling away.     

 A stab of desperation tied Elrond’s tongue, but Erestor knew him well enough to understand. “How could he inflict all of this on himself, and on you? He did not foresee where his actions might lead, a flaw not unheard of at the ripe old age of forty-eight. The theme may seem familiar even to you.”

 The crushing weight of responsibility struck Elrond cold, extinguishing his anger like a bonfire doused with water. Would the outcome have been different without Vilya’s interference, without Elrohir crippled and struck with deep terror of his rescuers from the very beginning? Likely so.  

 “If he dies, I will …”

 Erestor caught him as he swayed on his feet. “We will not allow it.”

 

 Inside Elrohir’s sickroom a constellation of Fëanorian lamps created unnatural brightness, a false daytime for the healers to work by. Lindalië’s face under her crisp linen cap was a study in misery. She leant over her patient, forcefully pressing a thick wad of soaked muslin bandages onto the wound in a last-ditch effort to stem the bleeding.

 “My lord, it will not clot!” 

 Her hands told the tale more eloquently. They were slick, stained bright red up to the wrists.   Elrohir lay still as a corpse under her ungentle ministrations, and the harsh coppery tang of blood stood thick in the room’s stuffy air.

 “Perhaps if we undo the stitches and apply cautery once more we might ...”

 Elrond shook his head. “Lindalië, my brave. You have done everything in your power, and I thank you. Please leave us.”

 Lindalië was a veteran of many battlefields, but Elrohir was among the youngest she had ever cared for. To her great credit she did not dissolve into tears before the door had closed behind her.

 Erestor drew the bolt, murmuring a chant of warding before doing the same with the window shutters. He took one of the hearthside chairs, placed it in front of the door and sat, a silent sentinel. 

 Elrond sank down on the narrow bed beside Elrohir, heedless of the red stains that instantly soaked his healer's smock, and splayed both hands across his son’s chest. Elrohir’s paper-white skin was cold as stone, the pulse beneath fast and thready.

 Elrond’s spirit reached for that bright, thinning thread connecting fëa to hröa. Summoning Vilya’s full might required far more than a physical voice, and Elrond was not entirely sure he was making any sound at all, to ordinary ears. Beyond the veil, his power roared like a controlled gale. 

 

 Elrond closed his eyes, and stood alone on a dead plain of ashes under a starless sky. Vast, shapeless wastelands stretched in every direction, on to a horizon that appeared to shift and shimmer in a disturbing way that was not quite real : the Unseen had no end or boundary that an Elvish mind could grasp. 

 Somewhere in this desolation Elrohir’s fëa wandered, lost and in peril of being ensnared. Other things roamed here, nameless shapes of malice and devouring, and only the foolish or the very powerful could afford to reveal their presence. Elrond had risked himself here many a time in search of other wanderers. Such lost spirits had to be called back.

 Vilya’s true nature could hardly be hidden in this place. A coruscating white light shone from Elrond’s right hand, and when he closed his fist around it the glow turned blood red, pulsing with his heartbeat. Elrond knew from painful experience that he had little time before this much light and life would attract the hungry. 

 He raised his voice and sang of things beyond this land’s imagining. Sunlight on the leaves of summer, the merry babbling of Imladris’ waterfalls and the sound of sweet rain. His voice carried far in the still air, to every crevice of that desperate place. When Elrond paused to listen the sudden silence was absolute. No living wind, no beast or bird stirred the choking dust. 

 A faint, chitinous clicking made Elrond spin around to face his audience. The creature was a lesser spirit, no doubt in some way related to Ungoliant, but it had taken inspiration for its form from far older, or perhaps deeper, days. With a shudder Elrond recalled the swollen, writhing creatures half-seen and half-suspected in the depths of cave pools far beneath the Misty Mountains. 

 This thing was that same sickly, sunless pale, its skin emitting a faint corpse glow in the low half-light. The shape was unmistakably that of a spider -- be it an eyeless one. A blind, vestigial head turned towards Elrond. The only discernible feature were pincer-like mouthparts the size of daggers, frantically waving to and fro as the fallen Maia tasted its prey on the air. 

 “Come.” It hissed with raw Power thrumming behind the words. “Come to me. I have hungered for so long, and you are sweet!”

 A lesser Elf would have been drawn in, but Elrond stood firm, and even allowed himself a breath of relief. If Ungoliant’s little sister was ravenous, it meant she had not found Elrohir yet. He did not deign to answer her, but gathered Light about him like armour and weapon both.

 “Be gone!”

 Vilya flashed, briefly blinding even to Elrond. The spider-thing screamed in agony and scuttled away, lunging sideways like a crab with its chitinous legs eating up the ground at disturbing speed, until it vanished into the shimmering, unsteady horizon.

 Elrond righted himself, winded by the Power expended in their brief struggle. He could not afford to rest. Uncountable hordes of fallen spirits roamed the Unseen in hungy search of a trace of the Light they once turned their backs on. His very presence would continue to attract them like moths to a candle flame. 

 His voice rang out across the barren plains once more.

 Only the faintest trace reached Elrond at first, the most welcome sound of his long life. Elrohir’s voice took up the song, soft and hesitant. Elrond sang back -- calling, beckoning, turning his feet towards the answering voice across dead and trackless land. 

 The sight of Elrohir running towards him was a wonder so great that Elrond might have stopped to burst into tears of relief if he had not known what would inevitably be drawn to their singing. Elrond fell silent the moment they had eyes on each other, and they both broke into a sprint until they stood face to face. 

 Elrohir’s face was pale and sharp with terror. He had seen enough to understand what hunted him. At the sight of Elrond his eyes were full of genuine wonder. Even here he remained a man of few words.

 “You came for me.”

 A whole world of dawning insight condensed in a single sentence. Elrohir’s bond with Elladan was as simple and everyday as breathing, and as essential. With his sight unveiled he now recognized that same love in his father’s eyes - fierce, uncomplicated and eternal as the stars. 

 One Sindarin word had been among the first Elrohir had been taught, in unspoken hope, but he had never said it. Not once in all their days together, from the encampment in the wilds of Eregion to long nights of darkness and healing in Imladris, through a foolishly forced and broken oath of fealty. That silence had been a wound, a gaping emptiness in Elrond’s heart. Now at last, amidst the shadow and peril of the Unseen, Elrohir spoke. 

 “Adar.” 

 Never had a single word held such meaning. Hope, healing, love, belonging, grief, gratitude, regret, every possible thread weaving the oncoming days. Father. Elrohir did not need to say anything more, and the greatest orators among the Noldor could not have bettered him.      

 Elrond reached out to gently touch his son’s face, a clean white light playing along his outstretched hand.

 “Always.” 

 Elrohir closed his eyes against tears of sheer relief. He was shockingly vulnerable here, not yet grown into the power only the fullness of time and teaching would grant. Elrond was quick to wrap himself around his child, a shield against the dangers that haunted this place.

 

At once something fought him, a strong and malicious will. 

 A massive, hulking shade disturbed the strange unlight at the horizon. Half-seen and half-suspected at the edge of perception the shadow approached, a mountain of shifting darkness flowing across the dead landscape. Horror went before it.

 The blade that cut Elrohir’s wound had oozed with vile and powerful curses against the High Elves. The master of that black sorcery had come to claim his prize. At the sight of his prey Sauron’s semblance of a face contorted in mad victory.

 “Once yours.” The Dark Lord gibbered triumphantly in some horrible thing that was not quite a voice. “Now mine!”

 When Elrond last faced Sauron, the sheer power and malice emanating from the Maia’s embodied form  had terrified him beyond words. To remain standing at Ereinion’s shoulder when Elendil’s broken body was crushed into the smoking ashes of Orodruin and the empty visor of Sauron’s massive iron helmet slowly turned towards the High King of the Elves was the most gut-wrenching feat of his long, war-filled life. 

 But not this time. This night it was not fear but a fierce, protective anger that filled every fibre of Elrond’s being. Swords and armour were useless on this battlefield of the spirit, but the light that outlined Elrond’s figure was equally sharp and deadly.  

 “Be gone! You are nothing. Faceless, formless, voiceless. Scatter your ashes on the wind and plague the living no more!”

 The mouthless shadow laughed, and the sound reverberated unnaturally, a warped echo of the Void itself. It carried loudly in the oppressive air of that lightless non-place.

 “Your craven secrecy will not avail you, Half-elf,” Sauron hissed, the words dripping with hate. “This is one of your mongrels, half-bred and half-wit. I will devour him, spirit and flesh! I will take all of your House, and break them like I did your Silver-fisted kinsman. You shall wallow in your losses at my feet before I allow you to beg for death!”

 Elrond once more raised his voice in a song, powerful as the wind itself, and he might have beaten his enemy back had not a sudden, brutal blow of foresight struck him, a premonition of dread to come. 

 Matted clumps of silver hair, the sweetish smell of pus, a grimed hand laying cold and still in his own. 

 Elrond stumbled under the onslaught, winded as if by a physical blow. The shadow that was Sauron gorged on his misery until it rose over him tall as a mountain of malice, flaying him with unbearable laughter like acid and venom. 

 “Cower in your hidden valley, oh lord of dwindling ghosts. I will come for you, and burn you like I did your usurper king, and string up your remains for my banner. Now flee and bury your whelp! As you dig his grave, know that his spirit abides with me!”

 Elrond knew the vile words were the truth, that Elrohir was lost. Elladan and Celebrían would be taken next, until he stood alone, bereaved of all he had ever loved. Ugly, sobbing despair would have brought him to his knees, forced him to release the fragile, pulsing shard of life that was Elrohir, when a flash of gold cut through the darkness.

 Even in that dead land with its sky the colour of decay, light lingered on Galadriel. Tall and fair as a white flower made of steel she stood between Elrond and the Shadow as he desperately clutched his fading son. The unbearable weight of Sauron’s hateful gaze came to rest on her. 

 “Here comes the Man-maiden. Vala-cursed bearer of ruin for every realm you ever touched!” Spat the Shadow, “How fitting, that this half-breed, the bastard of many lines, should cower under women’s skirts! Finrod your brother once dared to challenge me. Did you forget how I took him, and chained him, and threw his remains as fodder to my wolves?  Do not presume to challenge me . Step aside, or even Námo will not know what to do with what is left of you when I am finished!”

 Sauron did not wait for Galadriel to abandon her kin. He raised his fist, a hammer of shadow so black it seemed a gaping rent in the fabric of reality, and brought it down.

 Elrond could only wrap himself around Elrohir to shield his son’s eyes from the death-blow, but Galadriel stood. The impact of the strike against her wards groaned through the very structure of the Unseen like an earthquake. Elrond watched in bleak despair as his champion was brought to her knees. Galadriel’s heart was great enough to take on any foe, but this was Sauron himself, once mightiest among the Maiar. This bravest of her many battles would be the final one. They would go down together, unseen and unsung. The iron fist of Shadow rose once more, and light itself wavered in sight of certain defeat.

 Darkness would have covered and crushed them all, but then Galadriel’s voice unleashed a storm. As she sang her face was fair and fierce, limned with light, terrible to behold. She caught Sauron’s strike with a resonating note of wordless rage, sending strange sparks up to the lightless sky. 

 This side of the veil, the wrath of Finarfin’s daughter was a tempest of white light and mithril. The raw power of her song might have shifted stars and moved mountains. Galadriel remembered her brother’s fall well indeed. She had strived with all her will to increase her skill beyond what his had once been. Long had she been taught by the greatest mistress of all. There was a certain rightness to this duel: Melian’s arts plied in defence of Melian’s descendants.

 Before that white-hot anger Sauron fled. He was no longer the mighty shapeshifter, Lord of Werewolves, who once bested Finrod Felagund. The loss of his Ring had reduced him to a shadow of his former might, an empty, ceaseless hunger. Elrond neither knew nor cared whether this sudden retreat was indeed weakness, or Sauron deemed the time not yet ripe to reveal to the High-elves how much of his power he retained. 

 Galadriel’s smile was drawn, and Elrond could almost see her with his waking eyes, slumped over the steaming basin of her Mirror, a white-clad figure silhouetted against the grey mellyrn towering over her garden like silver sentinels. Her warm attention touched him like a ray of sun in that unnatural darkness. Carefully cradling his precious living child, he turned to her and watched her fair face light up at the sight. 

 “Well fought, my son.” 

 Elrond’s heart still fluttered in panic. “He will get to them! I have seen it.”

 Galadriel stilled. “Foresight is a perilous thing. Some visions will come to pass only if we should alter our course to avoid them.”

 Her own fear was quickly hidden, but not fast enough to deceive Elrond. She said no more, but gently sang over Elrohir, her touch all sorrow and yearning. 

 “Soon,” Elrond promised. “He will be healed, and we will bring him to meet you in the light.”

 

Leaden exhaustion pressed Elrond down the moment he came to himself in the stuffy air of the locked sickroom. He lay slumped onto the narrow bed, half on top of Elrohir’s still body, both of them tacky with dried blood. Sunlight spilling through the window shutters sliced the space into a strange latticework of dancing dust motes. Judging from the angle it was past noon. 

 Someone was rapping the door, then switched to a solid pounding even as Erestor rose from his chair to open it.

Gildor's voice was strangely shrill with concern. “My lord, the search party draws near on the eastern road. What news may I send out to meet them?”

 An instant of agonizing doubt passed before Elrond’s searching hands found the brave, steady thrum of Elrohir’s heart. The bandages Lindalië had pulled tight across his chest were so soaked with old blood that they felt stiff as boiled leather, but the wound below was dry. 

 Heedless of Gildor’s shocked stare at the state of them both, Elrond lifted Elrohir’s limp body to hold his living, breathing son. Elrohir’s head came to rest on his father’s shoulder, close and trusting as if forty years of separation had suddenly ceased to exist. 

 Elsewhere, in a different, irrelevant universe Erestor’s voice was giving a steady stream of orders -- for aides and hot water and clean linen. 

 Elrond could not bring himself to care. He could only bask in the gentle rise and fall of Elrohir’s chest in the circle of his arms, marvel at the warm, solid weight of him, the elegant line of his cheek where it rested against his own, that beloved face at once alike and wholly different from Elladan’s.

 When Elrohir’s mind began to stir back to awareness, dazed and panicky, Elrond gave it a gentle push down into sleep. Today, at least, there would be no more pain.       

---

Chapter End Notes

It's a big chapter this week, and writing it was an emotional rollercoaster! I'd love to hear what you think of it. Please consider leaving me a comment, feedback from readers is what keeps fanfic writers going!

The site issues have been fixed, so you'll find replies to comments in their usual place!

See you next week, when we watch the aftershocks of Elrohir's escape ripple through Rivendell.

Idrils Scribe

Chapter 28

Read Chapter 28

“I thought you wiser, than this, Elrond!”

 

Elrond flew up from his chair as if stung by a wasp, hands balled into fists on the table. He spun with a swordsman’s agility to face Glorfindel and lowered his voice to a blistering growl.

 

“And I never thought you this cruel. I am his father!”

 

Shafts of the rich light of sunset fell through the councilroom’s arched windows, painting Glorfindel’s hair and the shimmering silk of his robes in tones of gold and copper, a vision of Valinor’s glory east of the Sea. The angelic effect was brusquely countered by his look of fury. A bleak press of fear came over Elrond at the knowledge that Glorfindel was no fool, and neither did he possess an ounce of cruelty. His captain’s harsh proposition was likely the course of wisdom.

 

“Unlike other fathers, your overindulgence could mean the death of every soul in Imladris!” 

 

Glorfindel’s fist struck the council table hard enough for an elegant silver wine carafe to wobble precariously on its salver. Erestor reached to still the flask before splashing Dorwinion would ruin the inlaid tabletop. 

 

Glorfindel never noticed. “ You are to hold the North, Elrond! The Valar did not return me to Middle-earth to fill your ears with honey. You of all people should understand that while some medicines are bitter, still they must be swallowed.”

 

This brought Celeborn to his feet as well, eyes burning with anger. Glorfindel’s insistence had raised ancient grudges from their shallow graves. 

 

“Naturally you are incapable of solving any problem without looking West for divine intervention,” Celeborn sneered. “My grandsons are children of Ennor. This land runs in their very blood. Neither has the slightest desire to sail. Would you force them across the Sea against their will?”

 

The wrath of the Lord of Lórien made an imposing sight. Glorfindel and Celeborn were peers in age. At Ereinion’s councils in Lindon they had always borne each other a grudging respect despite their differences. Today they faced off across the table, both expressions hard and tight with anger.  

 

“If we brought Elrohir to Lórien, as you propose, do you imagine the Lady Galadriel might hold him where Elrond could not? And would a mere change of cage keep the bird from sickening further?” 

 

Celeborn’s voice cracked. “At least we in Lórien will not wash our hands of him without as much as trying!”

 

Beneath that remark Celebrían bent her head, the fall of her silver hair -- still damp from a hasty bath -- for a moment concealing her pale, shaken face. Bone-deep misery swept Elrond at the sight. That battlefield air of stern efficacy had gone out of her the instant she set eyes on Elrohir’s sleeping face, safe in his own bed. This was the look of a woman who lost her child once to the vagaries of fate, and a second time to his insidious injuries of the spirit that Elrond had failed to heal.

 

Glorfindel retaliated with his eyes fixed on Celeborn’s smouldering face, unwittingly dealing Celebrían another blow. “Some hurts only the West can heal. Elrohir is not Lúthien, who could humble Sauron in his own stronghold. If he escapes again he will inevitably be captured and used against this House for all he is worth.” 

 

A shadow of remembered horror flitted across Glorfindel’s fair face, and for a moment the most fearsome warrior in Imladris shuddered. “Does Elrohir not deserve our protection, even from himself? Or shall we stand by and watch him meet Celebrimbor’s end? Aman would be a great mercy in comparison!” 

 

He turned to face Celeborn. “Your lady would say as much, if she were here.”  

 

For an instant Elrond believed Celeborn would strike Glorfindel, and hit hard. Not even after being deposed by Celebrimbor’s coup in Eregion had he seen his good-father this enraged. 

 

“Do not presume to know my lady’s mind!” Celeborn hissed sharply, fists balled. “She has other considerations beside your masters’ will! She stood against Sauron himself for our grandson, and neither would she willingly surrender him to the hard-hearted Lords of the West.”    

 

Glorfindel was unimpressed. “Perhaps her own expectations steer her wrong, in this. Elrohir will find neither judgement nor ancient debts in Valinor, but only the goodwill of the Valar and the love of all his kin.”  

 

The look of sheer agony that Celebrían sent Glorfindel instantly silenced the Balrog-slayer. When she spoke her voice was level and sharp as a blade. “I do not know you for a liar, Glorfindel, so I must question your judgement. Elrohir is not wholly an Elf. The land of Aman itself would consume him like a moth in a candle flame.”

 

Glorfindel shook his head. “Tuor and Elwing and Eärendil have never ...”

 

Celebrían cut him off, whip-fast. “They chose the fate of the Eldar. The Choice of the Peredhil will be laid upon my son the instant his ship reaches Eressëa. I do not doubt the outcome, when it is put to him with his heart full of sorrow and bitterness towards his kin who cast him away like damaged goods. If Elrohir goes West now, unwilling, it is to the fate of Men. Will you have me send my own child to his death?”  

 

Glorfindel took a gasping breath as if physically punched, but then shook his head in vehement denial. “Elladan will keep him from it.”

 

Celebrían faced him with icy, dry-eyed calm. “Elladan loves his brother beyond will or reason. He would follow Elrohir into the pits of Angband, or beyond Arda itself. If we lose one, we lose them both.”

 

Grief exploded inside Elrond’s chest, a starburst of bitter agony. He had to flee the room or embarrass himself like he had not since he was a child of six engulfed by a waking nightmare. With his last fraying thread of composure he turned to stumble for the door like a blind man. Celebrían somehow retained the strength to deal with with both Glorfindel and her equally stiff-necked father. Elrond closed the door behind him, perhaps more firmly than intended. 

 

The anteroom beyond was mercifully empty. Elrond sank into one of the elegant chairs intended for waiting petitioners, and rubbed his sore eyes. When he next opened them, a crisp white handkerchief and a flask of miruvor were before him. Behind the kind offerings was Erestor’s face, arranged in a carefully neutral expression.  

 

“Thank you.” Elrond’s voice failed him, and his cheeks were wet, but thankfully this was Erestor, the most discrete Elf in Arda. “What is wisdom, my friend? Do I safeguard my children, or my purpose here in Ennor?”

 

Erestor had taken one of the chairs, and for a moment he seemed engrossed in the gem-studded model of Arda on the low burl wood table before him. Given Celebrimbor’s peerless understanding of the laws governing matter and energy, he had known well enough that a true perpetuum mobile was an impossibility. Nonetheless this was a close approximation. The clever little device had last been wound up nearly a long-year ago, and still a golden Anor and silver Ithil unerringly completed their circuits over Ennor, Númenor and Valinor picked out in jewels, masterfully set into the mithril image of a mirror-flat sea that was no longer.

 

Erestor’s voice was gentle with the compassion born from his long and bitter years. “I once knew a child who was kind and great of heart, but wholly convinced that his father had set him aside. This kindled in him a smouldering fire that others stoked high to serve their own malicious ends. He burned, and all his people with him. Three ages have passed and still the darkness and sorrow that came from it has not been healed entirely, nor will it ever be.”

 

Elrond twirled the vial of Miruvor between his fingers, letting it catch the last of the dying daylight. “Are you counselling me to keep Elrohir in Imladris?”

 

Erestor’s finger traced the coast of Aman, where a small but finely shaped Taniquetil, cut from a single perfect moonstone, towered over a diamond inset representing Tirion. 

 

“Glorfindel fears to see past horrors repeated, and his concern has merit. Still, of all the grief and hardships that have befallen the Eldar, I cannot think of any that were caused by an excess of kindness, or forbearance.”

 

-----

 

Elrond could not face returning to the gathering, and instead found his feet turning towards the family wing. His troubled heart would find no ease there. The twins’ suite of rooms was sparsely lit and steeped in heavy, unnatural silence.

 

Lindalië sat her faithful vigil in Elrohir’s anteroom. In his current state he needed a healer instead of a warrior, and it was unsettling to see her at this table instead of Ardil or Glorfindel. The pharmacopoeia Lindalië had been working on lay open on the table before her and her inkwell was uncapped, but the page showed the very same entry. No lines had been added since Elrond took his leave an hour before, when the two of them had finished tending to Elrohir. 

 

“Any trouble?”

 

“None, my lord. They are both asleep now, and Elrohir’s vital signs are stable.” 

 

Lindalië was an unobtrusive person, even more so than most Elves of her venerable age. Her question remained unspoken, but was fully present nonetheless. 

 

Elrond knew not what to answer her. “Varda help me, I know not what to do! I will speak with him when he wakes. Will you excuse us for a time?”

 

Lindalië rose, hesitating. She wore heavy robes of a solemn grey, and her pristine coronet of dark braids melted into the deepening shadows of the unlit room, leaving the pale moon of her high-cheeked Noldorin face afloat in shadows.  

 

“The decision is yours, my lord, but he would not need to sail alone,” she offered, “I would gladly accompany him, should you choose to send him across. I was the Lady Estë’s disciple once, before Fëanor’s madness took us all. She will heal what ails your son. I might see him to the doors of Her house and beyond, if Lord Glorfindel speaks the truth and She has indeed forgiven us.”

 

This heartfelt kindness from one turned wise by sorrow, an offer made in true repentance, almost sufficed to sway Elrond. It seemed destined that Lindalië, in whom suffering had kindled gentleness where once was pride, should earn her final redemption by delivering his children to safety. 

 

He dared not answer her for fear it might send the tears in his voice pouring out. Lindalië understood even that, after an age in his service, and with a silent curtsy she withdrew.

   

Surely it was abnormal for any father, Man or Elf, to be this apprehensive of visiting his own sons? Son, even. Elladan alone was fully present. To spare Elrohir further pain and keep him from tearing the hard-wrought stitches on his wound Elrond dosed him with enough poppy to make him forget his own name, and the very existence of such perilous ideas as getting up. 

 

The sight that awaited him in the pale blue twilight of Elrohir’s unlit bedroom was both peaceful and unsettling. Elladan reclined against the headboard, his brother’s head cradled in his lap. It was the only part of Elrohir left uncovered by layers of woollen winter blankets. Their cheery patterns of interlocking stars in sky blue and saffron seemed out of place in the day’s grave atmosphere. The chill of the mountain heights proved hard to dispel, and Elrond had ordered the hearth fire built high and the casements closed against the summer evening’s gentle winds, leaving the room steeped in the bracing scent of athelas tincture and burning pine. For a long, sweet moment Elrond stood in the doorway, overwhelmed by a strange blend of love and longing as he drank in the sight of his sons sleeping at peace, warm and safe behind the many walls and watchers that defended this house from the horrors outside.  

 

Elladan stared ahead with the vacant eyes of sleep while the fingers of his right hand gently wound through Elrohir’s hair, mindlessly knotting the freshly washed strands into a tangled nest. Elrond knew the strange little mannerism well enough. He had brushed out the resulting snarls many a morning forty years ago, when the twins habitually refused to sleep anywhere but together. Elladan had left behind what remained of his childish innocence like an outgrown tunic when he rode into the mountains with the search party. This sudden regression to the habits of toddlerhood was jarring. 

 

Elladan woke at Elrond’s approach and traced his surreptitious look of concern. “I will brush it for him tomorrow.” 

 

Elladan saw no need to whisper. Elrohir had sunk into sedated oblivion deep enough that the familiar voice failed to ripple the stilled surface of his mind. Elrond lifted the blankets to check the bandages covering Elrohir’s torso from breastbone to hip. Lindalië had done the same at regular intervals throughout the afternoon, but Elrond was still irrationally pleased to find the muslin wrappings as creamy white as when he had first applied them. Elrohir’s slack hand was warm beneath his own, pulsing with life. 

 

He will live.

 

Faced with irrefutable proof of his own good fortune, hot tears shot to Elrond’s eyes. He managed to suppress them in front of Elladan, who had witnessed enough emotional outbursts from his elders for one day. He felt raw and exposed like never before in the company of his son, with no more patience for embellishment or distraction. He took the bedside armchair, bringing his face level with Elladan’s.

 

“We had bitter words about what to do with your brother, but the course of wisdom still eludes me.” 

 

Elladan’s eyes held both defiance and deep terror. “You could obtain him a position at court in Fornost, if he wants to live among Men. King Valandil owes you a long-year’s worth of fosterage.”

 

Elrond shot his eldest son a shrewd look. “The King of Arnor would return that particular favour only grudgingly, and I have no doubt Elrohir’s welcome would be a cold one.” At Elladan’s look of stunned shock Elrond carefully elaborated. ”Valandil’s kingship stems from the blood of Elros, worn thin with the passage of twenty-five generations. The king would look upon Elros’ own brother-son taking up residence at his court, and see naught but a potential usurper.”

 

A leaden silence descended. Elrond did not need to speak the words. Talk had been grim, during the search party’s hasty ride home. Elladan knew what Glorfindel had so adamantly counselled his lord do with his wayward son. Elrond laid a hesitant hand on Elladan’s shoulder. 

 

Elladan shook his head. “Elrohir does not want to sail. I only see him getting worse if you should force him. Glorfindel doubtlessly tried his best to persuade you otherwise, but we all know Valinor will be the death of Elrohir.”

 

“Elladan …” Elrond said gently, “Glorfindel has nothing but Elrohir’s best interests at heart.”

 

“Glorfindel has stability for Imladris at heart. Elrohir has proven unpredictable, a potential threat for him to secure. He very much wants to believe that Valinor is a painless way to achieve it.”

 

Elrond sighed. “Glorfindel is a better man than you give him credit for. Valinor is no prison, and life there far from a punishment. No healing art of mine can rival what Irmo and Estë might do for Elrohir. When he is well again he would find a host of loving relatives more than willing to provide him with all he could possibly need.”

 

Elrond could only hope he sounded more convincing to Elladan than to his own ears. Apparently not, because Elladan straightened himself as far as Elrohir’s body resting on his legs would allow, steel in his gaze as he laid a protective arm around his brother.

 

“There is no ‘him’! Only us. Wherever Elrohir goes I will follow.” The echo of Celebrían’s grim prediction was uncanny, and Elrond had never heard this gravity in Elladan’s voice. “Will you deal with us as Dior did with Elwing, and she and Eärendil with you? A sad tradition of our House, where you in turn cast off your children in pursuit of loftier ambitions, to either heal or perish among strangers.”

 

Elladan had inherited Elrond’s own gift of words and the painful ability to wield them like blades. Hindsight and distance lent his son’s insight a disturbing clarity. 

 

Elrond had to breathe through a heavy weight on his heart before he could begin to string together some semblance of an answer. “Casting off is a strange choice of words, for having you taken to a place of safety and comfort to be cared for by the loving hands of your kin.”

 

Elladan scoffed. “By that definition you, too were raised among kin. The Sons of Fëanor were as close to you in blood as those distant relations in Aman are to us.”

 

Elladan’s voice had gone shrill, and he had to swallow tears before he could finish. “You are Elrohir’s father, and his lord. His fate is in your hands. Know what lies in the scales here beside your war against the Enemy. How high a price are you willing to pay, for Sauron’s head on a pike?”

 

Elladan’s eyes held bitterness, yet for a moment Elrond was proud of his eldest despite his sorrow. Nonetheless he had to speak the facts of the matter.

 

“Unlike other fathers, I have more to consider than my children alone,” he said, gentle but firm. “Whether you rue it or not, I am indeed the Lord of Imladris, and regent of the High Elves in Ennor. Every soul in this valley and countless ones beyond look towards me for protection against the Enemy. Elrohir’s rashness could have doomed us all. Glorfindel has the right of it when he reminds me that I cannot allow your brother to risk himself like that again.” 

 

Elrond drew a deep breath, and launched into the most sorrowful part of his message. “Your grandfather suggests guarding Elrohir in Lórien. He would be left free to wander the woods as he pleases. Between the keen eyes of the Galadhrim and your grandmother’s wards another escape is unlikely. Tell me what you believe should be done?”

 

Pain stood clear as day in Elladan’s face. “Nothing. Elrohir belongs nowhere but here. His heart would be turned from you forever if you send him away, assuming he survives the sorrow of it! Elrohir loves us, and he now knows his own mind. For that alone he will bear the strangeness of the Elves long enough to become one of us.”

 

Elladan’s right hand had gently combed through Elrohir’s ruffled hair throughout their conversation, smoothing it once more before coming to rest cupping his brother’s cheek. For a moment Elrohir’s slow, deep breathing was the only sound in the room.   

 

“Elrohir will not do this again.” Elladan murmured it, as if afraid his brother would overhear. “He will see reason.”  

 

Elrond’s reply was matter-of-fact. “By which you mean that you will try your hardest to persuade him.”

 

Elladan did not respond, but the harsh determination in his eyes was a strange counterpoint to the tenderness of his hands.

 

Elrohir stirred, his mind briefly flaring up to almost-consciousness. Elladan splayed his hands over his brother’s shoulders. Elrond felt echoes of the wave of warm reassurance that passed between them, and Elrohir sank back into stillness. Elladan sagged. His stroking hands shook almost imperceptibly. This night would bring him another long and weary vigil, and Elrond could tell how deeply the previous day’s frantic ride in fear and doubt had sapped him.

 

“Would you like me to sit with him for a time?”

 

Elladan shook his head. “He will panic when he realizes you are not me, and do something regrettable to your stitches.”

 

This smooth, natural authority Elladan acquired overnight was both unsettling and a source of fatherly pride. Elrond was no longer in charge of Elrohir’s care. He now deferred to one who effortlessly held a level of understanding he could never aspire to. 

 

Complete darkness had fallen outside. A wedge of poppy-coloured light from the hearthfire spilling across the floorboards was the room’s only illumination. Elladan resumed stroking Elrohir’s hair with hands that now trembled outright. Elrond longed to hold Elladan, comfort him like a father should, like he would have done but days ago. Not today. Somehow their closeness had been lost along with Elrohir. 

 

Elrond found himself merely a part of a hostile world trying to pull the twins apart. With a heart full of sorrow at how things had come to this, Elrond rose to kiss Elladan’s cheek and the pale, bruised skin of Elrohir’s before taking his leave. 

 

----

 

He found Celebrían waiting in Elrohir’s anteroom. She seemed to be contemplating the black rectangle of the window. The night was clouded and the diamond-paned glass showed little but her reflected face, pale and grim. She had changed into her most formal robes of state, the draped folds of night-blue samite stiff with silver embroidery. The mithril clasps holding her strict, gem-pinned braids glinted like lightning, and her in eyes shone anger fierce as  starlight upon steel.

She was holding Elrond’s sword, Hadhafang, in its bejewelled ceremonial sheath, and with a shudder of premonition Elrond noticed she had already undone he gold-threaded peace ties. Never before had he seen the Lady of Imladris seethe with such calm, calculated fury.

“The council has gathered, and Glorfindel is swearing in the witnesses." Celebrían said with an air of sombre dignity. "Come, Elrond. Let us get this over with.”

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Writing this chapter was a balancing act, particularly in the characterizations. Emotions run high and everyone wants what's best for Elrohir, if only they could agree on any given definition of best!

I'd love to hear readers' thoughts on the chapter! What do you think should happen next? What do you expect Elrond and Celebrían will do?

For those wondering who Lindalië is, she first appears at Maedhros' bedside in my First Age story 'The King's Peace'.  

Chapter 29

Many thanks to Raiyana and Ignoblebard for helping me figure out the inner workings of the Elvish criminal justice system.

Read Chapter 29

Clouded night lay heavy over the great house when a silent, grey-robed company crossed the courtyard towards a forbidding stone building near the barracks. Gildor was among them, as was Borndis, tall and regal in her Nandorin chieftainess’ cloak of gleaming magpie’s feathers. In the light of day the artful cape would have been a many-coloured delight of iridescent blue and green, but this starless dark made it glint like armour. Celeborn had relegated a stony-faced Lady Aglarebeth as witness for the Sindar of Lórien, and Elrond a throng of others who should observe the proceedings in some official capacity. 

 

Erestor led the sombre procession, sword and sceptre in hand. He had his calm magistrate’s face firmly in place, though his hold on the symbols of Elrond’s authority was white-knuckled. He would have preferred his own sword for so delicate a task, but he knew better than to publicly display a blade marked with the star of Fëanor.

 

Once inside, the reddish light of their oil-lamps seemed to wash the cell’s white walls in blood. Serdir rose from his bench, blanket dropping to the floor as he stood to face his nocturnal visitors. His pupils widened at the sight of the High King’s sceptre in Erestor’s hands. He knew what was to come, and his face fell from terror to despair to bleak understanding as the stern company trooped into the small room. 

 

“Do the lord and lady approve of your slaughtering their prisoners in the night?”

 

Serdir’s eyes were wild. His entire body tensed like a snared animal holds still for the hunter’s approach, only to leap up and grab his throat.   

 

“Rest assured that they do.” Erestor answered dispassionately. “But moments ago I took an executioner’s oath before them. They have heard all testimonies, and your sentence was pronounced. You will not see another sunrise over this valley.”

 

“So their son has died.” Serdir’s eyes shone wet, and he swallowed around a lump of tears. “Please tell me, did he suffer? I never meant for him to suffer!”

  

Whether this was genuine remorse or merely concern about the manner of his own punishment Erestor could not tell. 

 

Before he could answer Borndis’ voice slapped like a whip. “The child lives!” she snarled, the melodious Silvan words ugly with rage. “He was cut open, body and spirit, and had to run for his life with those injuries. Even Erestor does not have the stomach to inflict the same on you!” 

 

Elrohir’s misfortunes had reopened many old wounds, Borndis’ among them. She lost a son on the Dagorlad, Erestor recalled, a merry, dark-haired archer who had not yet seen two long-years when Sauron’s orcs tore him to pieces. 

 

Serdir buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook, and for a moment Erestor felt something like compassion. Some deeds were irreversible no matter how deeply one regretted them, a dark faultline running through the fabric of life to its very end. He could offer no mercy but swiftness. 

 

Erestor gestured for Canissë and Ardil. The Fëanorian and the son of Doriath stepped from the throng of mingled warriors with identical efficient grace. Serdir did not struggle against the hands that held him still to undo the collar of his tunic, exposing the white expanse of his neck. His face was ashen and he was murmuring a Silvan prayer to Elbereth under his breath. Neither Ardil nor Canissë wavered when Erestor unsheathed Hadhafang, Elrond’s own sword. Borndis watched, silent and pale. 

 

Serdir’s simple dark braid fell down to his hips. In a strange mirror of a lover’s intimacy Erestor lifted the thick cable of hair and wound it around his hand to pull back Serdir’s head. 

 

Erestor had inflicted this particular punishment seven times over three ages in both Maedhros’ and Elrond’s names, and still it felt like a greater violation than an actual kill. Hadhafang snicked through Serdir’s braid with a tearing sound, and the pitiable remnant of his hair fell loose about his face. Erestor dropped the severed braid to the floor with a revulsion sprung partly from the similarity to an amputated limb, partly from the sheer impropriety of handling a stranger’s hair.      

 

Serdir looked up in astonishment. With a jaw-length bell of dark strands falling around his head he looked much like Elrohir had when he returned from Harad. Serdir had had no part in inflicting that particular humiliation on the boy, but it still seemed fitting to have him subject to it now. Erestor contemplated the serendipitous justice with a wave of regret. Even this would not suffice. To complete Serdir’s full sentence he switched to the sleek Sindarin hunting dagger Ardil proffered. He recognized the finely engraved weapon as Celebrían’s, loaned for the purpose. With the smaller blade Erestor could lop off great fistfulls of hair close to Serdir’s scalp without shedding blood. It felt sleek and oily against his palm, and each cut made an alien, swishing sound. Flocks of hair drifted down to cover the pale flagstones like soot-blackened snow, the strands gleaming a dull red with the light. 

 

Serdir went limp with shock, held up by Canissë and Ardil’s restraining hands. His breath came in great, irregular gasps that might have been sobs, but Erestor remained dispassionate as he continued his task.  Their observers were silent, looking on in a strange blend of horror and fascination. Erestor knew that most had never before witnessed such a punishment – and each one imagined their own locks falling as Serdir’s, which was half the point of their presence. Some among Elrond’s liegemen could do with a reminder that their lord’s healing hands were capable of making a formidable fist. 

 

Gildor’s face and mind were shuttered as he watched his charge’s sentence carried out. He had never been one for wanton cruelty, but he would see the law upheld. Erestor cut away a final handful of hair, and suddenly Serdir did look like a thrall, his leaf-shaped ears standing almost bat-like from a skull covered in little more than ragged bristles. 

 

“Now your head looks as wicked as your heart,” Ardil sneered. “And let all who meet you know it.” 

 

Erestor quelled him with a dark look, kicking a bit of loose hair off his boot. He handed the dagger hilt-first to Ardil and stepped back to look the condemned man in the eye.

 

“You are no kinslayer,” he said, hardly surprised to see relief mingling into Serdir’s expression like a ripple across a pond. “It was a near thing, though.” Fixing Serdir’s trembling form with a sharp glare, Erestor continued, his words cold as the mountain peaks. “Elrohir’s injuries are grave but he will recover, and none of our warriors lost their lives rescuing him from your wickedness.” 

 

He did not mention Elrond and Galadriel’s knife-edged battle. That particular tale touched too closely upon this House’s best guarded secret.

 

“Hear now your lieges’ judgement for your high treason, Serdir son of Saeros!” Erestor spoke in his orators’ voice, making sure even those watchers crowding the hallway outside could hear. “Your allegiance to the House of Eärendil is ended, and their protection withdrawn from you. You are hereby banished from Imladris, Lórien and any other realm ruled by the Houses of Finwë and Elwë.” 

 

“Will Lord Elrond not allow me to plead for clemency?” Serdir asked, looking like he believed such a thing remained possible. Erestor did not know what he saw in his face, but Serdir’s voice quivered when he continued: “Or the Lady Celebrían?”

 

At that, someone at the back of the room gasped, a strange sound between a sob and a snort. Erestor paid them no heed. 

 

“The lord and lady are tending to their sons, and neither has any desire to leave them to deal with you.” He nodded at Ardil and Canissë, who released their captive at once. 

 

“Consider it a mercy,” He continued, watching Serdir scramble to his feet. “The sight of you might enrage the lady enough to have you thrown from a cliff after all.”  

 

He paused to look Serdir in the eye, letting him see the very real desire he still felt to do just that.

 

Serdir blanched. “What of my people?”

  

“Your folk have been asked to renounce you and elect another chieftain,” Erestor replied. “They are swearing new oaths of fealty as we speak.” 

 

Serdir shuddered once, and part of Erestor felt a reluctant respect for his display of dignity; he had expected more protests from the proud and stubborn man he knew. 

 

“Those who wish to follow you into exile may do so, but the same punishment will fall upon them.” 

 

Serdir winced as if struck, his eyes darting down to the scatter of dark hair around his feet. 

 

“Go now.” Erestor motioned towards the open cell door. “None will hinder you while the night lasts, but your life is forfeit if sunrise finds you within the borders of Imladris. You have some hours left.” 

 

He paused to look at Ardil and Canissë. Both faces were grim with the eager determination of a hunting wolfpack. “I suggest you make haste. Some here are keen on catching you.”

 

Seen from the well-lit cell the starless dark outside was a wall of solid black. Serdir stared at it in horror. “So Lord Elrond’s executioner turns me out to die by other hands. You know what awaits in the mountains.”

 

Erestor shook his head. “You are permitted the use of the Great East Road across the High Pass. You will find it entirely free of Orcs.” 

  

-----

Water sang with merry voices as it ran over a bed of stones. 

The sound pulled Elrohir up to consciousness. Dazed, he wondered how he had been careless enough to fall asleep on a riverbank. His heart lurched when sudden understanding dawned. 

 

The Bruinen. 

 

Imladris.

 

It took all his self-restraint to keep his eyes closed and his body relaxed, give himself time to find his bearings before announcing to whoever was guarding him that he was awake. His searching fingertips met the soft give of clean linen. When he dared to open his eyes it was to his own bedroom instead of some sombre place with a locking door. 

 

Elrohir blinked against the light stinging his eyes. Outside, a fair day was dawning. The casements stood wide open to a view of distant slopes, their pine forests rich and green under the golden light of a summer sunrise. Robins twittered in the flowering honeysuckle that climbed against the house. The fresh scent of its elegant blooms, bright little rubies sprinkled among the leaves, stood sweet in the balmy air. For a moment he allowed himself to rejoice in how safe and familiar this place seemed after the last days’ horrors. 

 

Soon enough the reality of his situation struck once more. His increasingly frantic search for Elladan found his brother’s mind still and unreachable. Elrohir shook with terror at the thought of what might have happened to Elladan in the mountains. His panicked attempt at sitting up caused a stab of pain so fiery that he sank back against the mattress with a groan. 

 

Somewhere beside his head came a rustling of robes. A cloud of silver hair drifted into his peripheral vision as Celebrían rose from an armchair at the bedside.  The sight of her made for an even rougher awakening: pale and drawn, skin taut over the sharp bones of her face. Only in her eyes the light of her spirit still lingered. 

 

Given the state of her that radiant smile was a jarring contrast, an unexpected mercy where he had braced himself for her anger. Elrohir had only the briefest of moments to examine the expression before she leant in to embrace him and buried her face against his shoulder. Elrohir would gladly have returned the gesture had a white-hot spike of pain not pinned him to the bed, flat on his back. 

 

As he turned his head to give her at least some response, a lock of his own hair fell on his face.  With great effort Elrohir raised a hand to push it out of his eyes. His arm weighed like lead, and he recognized the languorous heaviness of poppy milk. If his memory served his head should be matted with caked blood. His hair felt clean now, with a faint scent of Elvish soap. Even his hand seemed somehow changed, and with a jolt Elrohir realized that all traces of blood - both the Orc’s and his own - were gone, and his torn fingernails neatly trimmed. Even in his drugged haze he understood he had to be very ill indeed if he had slept through all that. 

 

The mattress dipped as Celebrían sat down beside him. She caught Elrohir’s hand and took it between her own. Relief washed over him at the sight of his mother, and the feeling was mutual. Celebrían’s mind brimmed with it as she felt the pulse at his wrist, seeming greatly reassured by what she found.

 

“Elladan?” Elrohir had meant to say more, make a proper sentence, but the crow-like croak that emerged from his sore throat was painful.

 

Celebrían pointed across the room. “He refused to leave you, but he was exhausted.” 

 

Only then did Elrohir notice the cot set up beside his own bed. Even with Elladan’s eyes open in the glassy, unfocused stare of Elvish dreams his face was the most beautiful sight of Elrohir’s life. Whatever unpleasant consequences might come from his failed escape, at least Elladan had survived.

 

Elrohir’s tongue seemed too stiff to form words, his mind stuffed with wool. On some level he was afraid, but the medicine let him float above it. He felt unstable, about to sink back into the warm darkness pulling him down between threads of thought.

 

 It took him several tries to manage another word. “How long?” 

 

“It is the morning of the second day since Gwaihir carried you home.” Celebrían’s voice was soft and hoarse with exhaustion, but her care seemed genuine. “The weapon that struck you was poisoned, and some of it remained in the wound. Your father removed it soon after your return. Still you bled much and spiked high fevers. I am glad to see you awake.”

 

Her smile grew drawn. Clearly she had taken no rest at all. Nonetheless Elrohir could feel her mind surround his own, holding him up.

 

“No more. You are not well.” He croaked.

 

“Well enough,” Celebrían smiled, “And all the better for hearing your voice. I would be glad if you drank some water. You have gone without for too long.”

 

Her hands were gentle when she pulled him to sitting. Despite the poppy even that small movement was agony like being sliced in two once more. Elrohir had been determined not to embarrass himself, but he cried out nonetheless. Celebrían winced at the hoarse, desperate sound. He sagged against her, his head on her shoulder and his eyes screwed shut beneath a sickening wave of red-hot pain. For a time Celebrían did nothing but hold him. Her hand made, long, comforting strokes through his hair as she sang some half-remembered Elvish cradle song. 

 

When he could hold up his own head again she handed him a cup. The water tasted of honey and herbs, fresh as springtime. His first careful sip awoke a ravenous thirst, and he drank greedily until she folded both her hands around his to take the drink away. 

 

“You can have more later, or you will make yourself ill.” 

 

Easing Elrohir back down against the pillows proved a slow and painful process. When she finally tucked the blankets in around him he was shaking.

 

“Are you cold?”

 

The question was absurd, at midsummer, but Elrohir shivered as if he was once more being hunted on the high snowfields in the sharp and pitiless cold. Celebrían understood. 

 

She disappeared through the half-open door to the anteroom. There were hushed whispers, another woman’s voice. Laerwen, perhaps. Moments later Celebrían returned with a fur-lined winter blanket, still bearing a faint scent of cedarwood from the linen chest. 

 

“Here. You will feel warmer soon, when you regain your strength.”

 

She took her place beside him once more, curling up in the armchair like a sleepy silver cat. 

For an instant Elrohir simply enjoyed being warm and well cared for, Elladan’s presence, the knowledge that his brother was safe. Sleep eluded him despite his drugged exhaustion.

 

“The woman, what did they do to her?” His voice sounded passable now, at least to his own ears. 

 

Celebrían’s look was all confusion. “What woman?”

 

“Snága.”

 

Her face grew unreadable. “The Orc. Did you speak with it?”

 

“Yes. Or no.” He hesitated, unsure whether an Elf would understand pity for an orc. ”I ordered and she obeyed. But she was ... very sad and very scared. What happened to her?”

 

Judging from Celebrían’s wave of sorrow Elvish warriors did one thing only, with Orcs. Elrohir closed his eyes against a flood of unbidden tears. They escaped regardless, running down the sides of his face to wet the hair at his temples. 

 

Celebrían could have pretended not to notice, and Elrohir could then have feigned sleep -- a polite and dignified course of action for them both. Instead she stroked his face with hands so gentle it seemed she expected him to crumble to dust at her touch. Her own cheeks were as wet as his.  Seeing her in pain was unbearable somehow, and Elrohir reached for her with shaking hands. 

 

Somehow it came to her holding him as he cried in great, gulping sobs he could not hold back even though each one seemed to burst open his wound. At first it was for the dark-eyed Orc-woman, her terror, the hopelessness of her death; in the end he wept for many things, most of them long ago and nameless.    

 

Celebrían wept too, but from the way she kept murmuring his name like a prayer it was definitely for him.

---

Chapter End Notes

This chapter was a challenge, plot-wise, and I'd love to hear readers' thoughts on how it turned out. Was Serdir's punishment what you expected? And Elrohir's waking? What do you expect will happen to him now?

Chapter 30

Read Chapter 30

Elrohir could not keep from startling at the shocking cold of the tincture against his wound. The scents of athelas and strong spirits were overpowering despite the open windows. Elrond deftly swiped a few stray drops with a wad of gauze before they could run further down Elrohir’s chest. There was surprisingly little pain, and soon a wholesome warmth began to spread through his body. Elrond pored over the long line of fine silk stitches running down Elrohir’s side as if appreciating some particularly artful piece of Elvish embroidery. When he straightened himself he smiled, relieved and satisfied.

 

“We will leave them in for another two days,” Elrond said, stoppering the vial of medicine. “The wound is healing well, but I would not risk the lower part reopening. Even so, you may leave your bed for a while.”

 

A smile and a nod were all Elrohir could manage from where he lay stretched out on his side, left arm folded over his head to leave his wound exposed for Elrond’s ministrations. Even before his flight conversations with his formidable father had carried a certain awkwardness. The words to capture today’s daunting level of unease eluded him in any of his expanding collection of languages. Even fully clothed and capable of standing he would have struggled for some sensible thing to say. From his current position a look of contriteness and as little eye contact as possible were all he managed to produce. 

 

He longed for Elladan and that prim, diplomatic manner his brother could summon at will. Elrond’s first deed upon setting foot in Elrohir’s room had been to summarily dismiss Elladan, who stumbled with exhaustion after two days and nights at Elrohir’s bedside, to sleep off the long vigil in his own bed.  

 

“I will replace the bandages. Would you like to wear a loose shirt over them?”

 

Elrohir nodded, and Elrond pulled him to sitting on the edge of his bed. Crippling dizziness struck hard. As Elrohir dry-heaved and embarrassed himself even further, Elrond quickly retrieved a copper bowl from a side table laden with healers’ supplies. He waited with perfect equanimity for Elrohir’s stomach to settle. Between retches a warm hand came to rest against the bare skin of his shoulder, and the pulse of strange, tingling heat that flowed from it seemed to ease the unrest in his body. 

 

Elrohir still needed a frustrating amount of help to raise his arms enough for Elrond to wrap him in fresh bandages from shoulder to hip. When the wound was dressed to Elrond’s apparent satisfaction he fetched a linen tunic from the wardrobe. He carefully lifted Elrohir’s left arm to ease it into the sleeve, and pulled the garment over his head. Now that the worst of the pain had abated Elrohir began to resent needing to be dressed like a child’s doll. Elrond tactfully left the buttons at his throat to him, and turned away to divest himself of the healer’s smock he had worn to protect his fine silk tunic.

 

“Would you like to sit by the window and see the sky?”

 

In different circumstances the sheer Elvishness of the offer would have made Elrohir crack a smile. The painful hobble from bed to windowseat was a stark reminder of how close his brush with death had been. He made it with great difficulty, leaning heavily on Elrond’s supporting arm. Despite the effort what had to be a mild, rainy summer evening felt cold enough for a fur-lined winter cloak. The one Elrohir had absconded with -- and ruined beyond salvaging -- had been quietly replaced.

 

Outside the casements low grey clouds, soft as down-feather blankets, curled around the mountain ridges and draped over the dripping crowns of the spruce forests. They lent the late dusk of high summer falling over the valley a sense of intimacy. The sight, along with the bracing outside air with its clean scent of wet pines, filled a longing he had not consciously perceived.  

 

Elrohir should have known that Elrond would slide into the seat opposite his, to send him an unnerving Elvish look that seemed to pierce him down to his very soul. He could not summon the nerve to meet his father’s eyes, but he had never been one for postponing the inevitable.

 

“Apologies will not set this right, but for what they are worth ...”

 

Elrond shook his head, and Elrohir’s voice faltered like a sail in a sudden lee.

 

“I appreciate the sentiment,” Elrond said, ‘But I should have seen this coming, and kept you from it. I should have been far more perceptive.”

 

Somehow being deprived of responsibility for his own actions was worse than any censure, enough so to make Elrohir bristle. “I am no child, whose nursemaid should have paid better attention.”

 

Elrond shook his head. “No, you most certainly are not. You are on the cusp between child and man, neither and both in that unprecedented way unique to our House. My task was to keep you safe, and I have failed you. I should indeed have paid better attention.”   

 

Elrohir was entirely at sea, but he knew that between the two of them Elrond should not be the one falling prey to self-reproach. He soldiered on, eyes fixed on the intricate silver brooch holding the collar of Elrond’s tunic closed at the throat. 

 

“I should thank you ...” He hesitated, faltered, began anew. ”Both Mother and you, for risking yourselves to save me from … from Him.” Elrohir shuddered at the memory of the shadowed lands, and the sheer horror of the one who would have bound him there if not for Elrond and Celebrían. 

He had to force the words from his unwilling mouth. “His Eye … He saw straight through me, knew all about me, about Harad, somehow. He had no voice but he still spoke, terrible things. Is he truly …?” 

 

Elrohir found his tongue too stiff and dry to bend itself around that name.  His voice failed him, and it was as if a shadow deeper than the falling twilight covered the river and the gardens outside. He battled a sudden, irrational desire to slam the window shut, or at least get away from it before some horror might leap through. His wound stung with sharp, breathtaking pain.

 

Elrond took Elrohir’s hand between his own much warmer ones. He did not speak, but sang a single cantrip of sonorous Quenya. Elrohir could not tell whether it changed the world around them or merely eased his mind, but the fear and pain receded as quickly as they had come. 

 

Grey curtains of rain descended, silver in the last of the waning daylight, as if to cleanse the valley of the last vestiges of shadow. For an instant Elrond appeared transparent, a cloaked vessel carrying a great power, as he had been beyond the veil. Knowing himself protected, Elrohir felt no more threat when the answer to his question came at last.  

 

“He is Sauron, or the Zigûr as you heard him called in Umbar. He knows our House well indeed.” A trace of some ancient pain rippled across Elrond’s face as he spoke. “I am counted among his greatest enemies, and all my kin are singled out for his particular hatred. While he endures it will pursue you wherever you may go from East to West, unless you choose to pass beyond the Sea.”

 

A sudden, unthinkable insight struck Elrohir like a well-aimed arrow. “He is a god, and you mean to kill him!” He shivered despite the unseasonable cloak. “That is why this house still stands, why you have not sailed West after your king fell. You will avenge him first!”  

 

The very idea that anyone, even an Elf as ancient and powerful as Elrond, would dare threaten a god seemed impossible to contain. 

 

Elrond nodded, his face all hard determination. “Destroying one of the Ainur may seem impossible, but greater deeds have been achieved with naught but Estel.”

 

Elrohir shot him a look of disbelief. “You have more than hope alone. I saw you wield some great Elf-sorcery, in the Empty Lands.”

 

Elrond did not bat an eye. “We do not speak of that even here. The Enemy suspects, but he does not know. We must hold on to that advantage, and keep him in the dark.”

 

Elrohir’s entire left side had become a deep, throbbing agony. He surreptitiously leant on the windowsill for balance, trying to hide the shaking of his hands beneath the fur trim of his cloak. At the sight Elrond rose to pour him mulled wine from a small copper kettle left to steep over the fire. Elrohir was grateful for it as he warmed his chilled fingers on the cup. The wine was sweet and fragrant. A bitter, medicinal aftertaste had been covered with skill, barely perceived beneath cinnamon and spooned honey, and soon the pain began to recede. 

  

“I will not burden you today with the long list of realms Sauron has laid to ruin, nor with the names of the slain, the captured, the missing.” Elrond said. His face was darkened with pain as he sat down in the window seat beside Elrohir, close and yet not touching. “My aim serves more than vengeance alone. The sons and daughters of Númenor are my kin, my brother’s children. I will not wash my hands of them, to retreat behind the wards of the Valar while they inherit a world blighted by him.” 

 

He turned to face Elrohir with an unfathomable expression. “I alone took this upon me, not you or Elladan. Your lives are your own, but while you remain in Middle-earth I cannot lift the Enemy’s persecution from you. You have my blessing to sail West at any time, should you wish it. ”

 

Elrond left the idea floating in the air for Elrohir to grasp -- or not -- while he remained seemingly impassive. Straightforwardness was a rare thing among the Elves. For a painful moment Elrohir was left to wonder whether he was being asked to leave in the gentlest of ways, or the exact opposite. All he knew was that this particular choice was not his alone.

 

“Elladan has no desire to leave his home.” Elrohir’s eyes caught Elrond’s, and he saw something much like relief. It gave him the courage to continue the plea he had silently rehearsed every waking moment of the past day. “I have done nothing to earn your good will, and I do not presume to ask for favours. For Elladan’s sake only would I ask you not to separate us. Should you allow me to stay, I will be of better use than I have, and aid your cause in whatever way you think most useful.”

 

Elrond was quick to cut him off. “Child, the simple fact that you exist entitles you to a place in my heart and house, without need for you to serve any use at all.” 

 

Elrond’s eyes lit on Elrohir’s harp from Harad, so long unplayed. In all this commotion some Elvish harper had found time to restring it and polish the battered cedarwood to its former gloss. The instrument now stood on display on a sideboard, a wordless invitation. 

 

“If all you achieved for the foreseeable future was to sit beside the Bruinen and play the harp, that would be enough.” The words were spoken with a ghost of a smile.

 

Elrohir briefly contemplated the curious -- and most Elvish -- idea before shaking his head. “We both know it would not,” he said dispassionately. “Not with a war ongoing. I might as well try my hand at killing gods -- I have an account of my own to settle with the Zigûr.”

 

Elrond took Elrohir’s hand from where it rested in his lap, turning it over in his own to trace the faint purple outline of vanishing bruises where the great Orc had grasped his wrist. 

Elrohir shuddered at the memory. The creature’s brutal force, its stench, the horrific realization that it wanted him alive. 

 

“I will not say that I forgive you, because you should carry no guilt over any of this.” 

Elrond’s voice was soft, and gentle as the rustling rain outside. “I ask but one thing: never risk yourself like that again. All alone, unguarded and unguided ... you knew the danger, in your heart of hearts, but you felt fey and fearless because what would befall you did not seem to matter. As you have seen it matters very much indeed to a great deal of people, myself included.”

 

Elrond’s eyes were open and honest when they caught his, and Elrohir was quick to nod. The simple, private gesture somehow seemed far more binding than the solemn oath he had been made to swear in the great hall, what felt like an eternity ago. 

For a long time Elrond did nothing but hold Elrohir’s hand between his own, and that wordless show of care did more to calm his fears than any lengthy outpouring of reassurance could. It was a reminder, firm and tangible, that Elrohir was no longer alone.   

 

Night had fallen, wrapped in deep, moonless cloud. The waters of the Bruinen rustled with rain, and somewhere on the banks a lone woman’s voice wove the river’s song into her own: the sweet pain of longing for other rivers, under younger stars.

 

The well-lit room at their backs turned the view before them to a sheet of solid black, broken only by illuminated windows in other wings of the house and the small storm lanterns carried by patrolling guards. Elrohir knew there would be other sentries moving invisibly through the night, a fine web spread out to make the entire valley into an impenetrable stronghold. Whether one felt caged or secured on the inside was entirely a matter of perspective. 

 

Elrohir vowed to keep this promise. He would make himself grow used to it, in time. 

 

Elrond’s mind appeared to run along similar lines. “The walls of this valley tend to close in on those who need moving feet in order to quiet their thoughts. You will travel far in years to come, to the wildest and the most cultured of places, and speak on behalf of our House in many tongues.”  

 

Elrond had never been a predictable man, but this sufficed to leave Elrohir flabbergasted. “I broke my oath of fealty, needing rescue at great peril, and your response is to make me an envoy?!”

 

His stunned face must have been a sight to behold, because Elrond smiled, a brief flash of mirth across his grave face. “In due time. You are very young, and very unwell. Demanding that you take your oath so soon was a heavy-handed attempt to obtain an allegiance you would likely have offered freely, had I shown you greater patience.”

 

The smile disappeared like sun behind heavy cloud on Elrond’s next thought. “Your father sees nothing to forgive, but you swore that oath to your lord.” He took a deep breath, like a healer would before delivering ill news. “A case could be made that you committed desertion. Both in this house and abroad there are those who would take my silence on he matter for weakness. Justice must have its course, even for a son of the House. Once you regain your strength your first public appearance will be a court hearing in the presence of my council.”

 

Fear leapt snarling at Elrohir’s throat, and Elrond winced in sympathy. “You will not stand trial alone! I have appointed Erestor as your counsel. He is the greatest scholar of law alive in Ennor.

 

Elrond’s voice grew matter-of-fact as he set out what was clearly a well-considered plan. “He will plead extenuating circumstances, and direct you in a suitable public display of contrition. Once you have convincingly repented of your deeds Erestor will petition for a full pardon.” 

 

He smiled with fox-like cleverness. “Rest assured that one will be granted. You and I will reconcile with proper pomp and circumstance and a feast in the great hall, so all in Imladris can bear witness that their ruling House stands undivided.”    

 

Elrohir belatedly realized that this would be no trial but a play, a public performance carefully scripted to make Elrond’s people witness their lord’s strictness -- and his mercy. To play the part of the remorseful penitent would be reparation rather than punishment.

 

In the mountains Elrohir’s fevered imagination had dreamt up a grisly parade of punishments Elrond might inflict in retribution for his escape. The reality of it seemed too good to be true.  “What will your people say of a lord who lets desertion go unpunished?”

 

“They will call me wise.” Elrond answered. “You have suffered pain and fear enough.” He shuddered, seemingly upset at the very thought. “You would never forget it if I were to inflict some petty cruelty on you out of spite. Harshness breeds nothing worth having, neither love nor loyalty.” 

 

He hesitated for a moment, then touched Elrohir’s face in a gesture both tender and restrained. “I would have you stay under my roof  for more than duty alone.”

 

There it was again, Elrond’s deeply honest admission that in this particular arena Elrohir held the mighty Lord of Imladris in his hands. The responsibility felt unbearably great, and for a moment Elrohir flinched at what the sight of this very room abandoned must have done to Elrond. In the same heartbeat a tide of relief washed over him. To flee the ties of his very blood and break a sworn oath had seemed an unforgivable, irreversible deed. It seemed he could overcome even that. 

 

“I thank you for your kindness, but will it be enough?  My disappearance must have ruffled some feathers. Glorfindel has lost me twice now.”

 

Elrond thought for a moment. “Do not mistake Glorfindel for a bearer of petty grudges,” He explained, clearly eager to restore Elrohir’s trust in his rescuer. ”He never sired children of his own, and he has a father’s care for mine. Seeing you a hair’s breadth from being captured has shaken him to his core. He lost one of his wards before, long ago, and great evil came from that. You would be safest across the Sea, and I admit that Glorfindel has argued for you to be set upon that road. I will explain to him my reasons for disregarding his advice -- he will come to accept them.”   

 

Since he had opened his eyes Elrohir had not seen or spoken with a living soul beside Elladan, Celebrían and Elrond. The solitude had let him forget what accusing whispers might be flying beyond the sheltering walls of his bedroom. 

 

Elrond sensed his apprehension. “You remain a child to the eyes of my people, and the Elvish fondness of children is near endless. Your mother and I had hard work keeping your well-wishers at bay so you might have some peace.” 

 

Elrond’s smile seemed almost indulgent. “Ardil sends his regards. He spent the past night hunting on your behalf. The larger game seems to have eluded him, but he did bring in a grouse for the broth you ate this afternoon. He insists that tame chicken cannot compare. 

 

“Your grandfather and he insist that you need forest air. They will visit in the morning, unless you object to being carried outside to sit beneath the trees -- I could tell them that you are still running a fever?”

 

Another impossibility was made real when Elrond Peredhel, son of the Evening Star, Lord of Imladris and greatest of the remaining princes of the High Elves in Middle-earth, clearly and indisputably winked. 

 

The sight of it was so cheerful and unexpected Elrohir could not help but laugh. “The sooner I get it over with, the better.” 

 

A moment later all mirth fled him at the thought of being out in the woods. “What of Serdir?” The memory of being desperate and at the Elf’s cruel mercy was fresh and painful. 

 

For an instant Elrond’s mind was awash in anger, brief and quickly hidden. “Serdir no longer poses a threat. You may sit under every last tree in this valley without fear.”

 

On some level Elrohir had known that Serdir’s blatant challenge to Elrond’s authority would not be allowed to stand. Even so, he felt only shock and dread. “What did you do to him?”

 

“Know that Serdir fully intended for you to die.” Elrond’s hands curled into fists as he spoke. “The path he set you on is so infested with Orcs that even our most experienced warriors tread it with great care. To abandon you there was high treason, the act of a kinslayer. Serdir was dealt with as such.”

 

Visceral horror gripped Elrohir’s throat at the image of Serdir’s blood washing the courtyard’s pale flagstones in red.  

 

Elrond shook his head. “He was exiled. I will have neither your reputation nor this valley stained with Elvish blood.”

 

Elrohir did not know if what he felt was shock or relief. “Where will he go?”

 

“Neither Lindon nor Lórien will accept him after this, and he knows it. He has nowhere to go but east.” Elrond’s voice held a distinct note of satisfaction. “Your grandfather sent one of his people to the court of the Greenwood to recount the full tale before Serdir sets foot in that realm. He will find Thranduil’s doors closed. He shall have to carve out a life in some remote Silvan settlement.”

 

This seemed far too easy a resolution to Serdir’s hatred. “Will making him a martyr stamp out his ideas, or reinforce them?”

 

Elrond smiled, vicious as a great cat hunting, and Elrohir was reminded that here was a man who had commanded armies. “Elves -- regardless of kindred -- take most unkindly to kinslayers, especially when the very young are involved. Serdir left this valley without a single retainer. His people swore their new oaths of allegiance to your mother. Proving your mettle to the Elves will be a long work, but that fool unwittingly provided you with a fair chance at it.”       

 

Elrohir’s eyelids grew heavy. Something suspiciously like poppy struck his mind with the warm weight of sleep, and he remembered how the wine had tasted of more than honey.  

He was loathe to give in to the pull just yet. 

 

“I dreamt of a golden lady.” He managed to utter despite the sleepy slur in his voice. “Sauron was afraid of her. Is she a god too, or a figment of my imagination?” 

 

Elrond mulled this over as he rose to help Elrohir limp back to the blessed relief of his bed. He pulled up the blankets and took his time arranging the pillows so Elrohir’s movements  would not jar his wound as he slept. When this was done his expression grew unreadable, until he leaned in to kiss Elrohir’s forehead. Despite the gesture’s abrupt intimacy it felt somehow appropriate. Elrohir let himself bask in this new sense of belonging, his consciousness already unraveling at the edges. 

 

In silence Elrond extinguished all but one of the wall sconces before settling down for the night in the golden pool of light it cast over Elrohir’s writing desk. Elrond’s esquire had brought in a sheaf of parchments earlier, and soon the polished oak surface was covered in official correspondence in various states of composition, some already bearing the blue wax seals of Imladris. 

 

Elrond’s voice held a certain wry amusement when he finally answered Elrohir’s question.

 

“Your grandmother is neither Ainu nor figment. Be sure to mention Sauron being frightened when you meet her -- she will be delighted. They have an old account to settle.”

---

Chapter End Notes

For the first time ever I'm actually nervous about posting! This chapter was the hardest thing I've ever written. It's the entire series' capstone: Elrohir and Elrond had to pick up all of the plotlines and tie them into a resolution, and they both had to stay in character while doing it. Of course I'm dying to hear from readers if it's working!

Would you like to read more about Elrohir's life in Harad? Take a look at my new story 'The Art of Ending'

Also, I proudly present a completely rewritten and improved version of 'Under Strange Stars'

Chapter 31

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Autumn approached the hidden valley in splendour. The air already had a distinct crispness to it, but where Elrond was sitting cross-legged on a sunwarmed rock some ephemeral trace of summer still lingered. The south-facing meadows sloping down to the banks of the Bruinen were dotted with enough blooming white yarrow that they seemed covered in snow.  The willow curtains trailing the water were still vibrant green, but the oak and beech forests on the lower slopes had already burst into exuberant russet, yellow and golden brown.

Elrond nearly singed the sleeve of his simple linen shirt as he gauged the temperature of the hot ash at the fire’s edges. It was ready to receive the trout he had prepared earlier, each fish stuffed with butter and sage and neatly wrapped in its parcel of chestnut leaves. He had not cooked a meal with his own hands in several long-years, and had nearly forgotten how deeply satisfying the experience could be.

From his folding chair across the fire, Glorfindel had an amused smile for his lord’s newfound domesticity. His own shimmering tunic was a deep sapphire, but without gold trims or showy embroidery as a concession to the distinctly Sindarin character of the day’s pursuits. It was as much of an apology as Celeborn was likely to get.

Elrond and Glorfindel had spoken long. Seeing his advice laid aside had been hard for Glorfindel, both for his genuine concern and ancient wounds torn open by another desperate search for a missing ward who did not wish to be found. Bruised pride came into it as well, for the proud Lord of the Golden Flower. Today Glorfindel demonstrated why, of all the princes of the Noldor, the Valar returned him and no other to Middle-earth. His heart truly was too great for petty grudges.

For a moment they both let their eyes rest on Elrohir, who stood knee-deep in the river, laughing at Elladan’s mock exaggeration of a hunting heron’s perch. Spearfishing was dirty work. River mud smudged his bare calves and the rolled up edges of his breeches, and fallen birch leaves dotted his dark hair like strewn flecks of gold. It was finally long enough that braiding was no longer a struggle. Elladan had done it in a Sindarin plait that morning, and Celebrían’s face lit up at the sight.   

Shafts of sunlight falling between overhanging willow branches speckled the clear, speeding waters of the Bruinen. In the depths Elrond could discern every pebble and stone on the riverbed -- green, grey and tender pink like an assortment of jewels. Where the water deepened the light hit swaying weeds: a stranger, more secret forest to mirror the ones above.

The rounded stones underfoot were slippery, and Elrohir’s careful steps still carried an unnatural stiffness. Ardil hovered nearby in case of mishaps while skilfully pretending to search for fish. Elrond’s efforts had Elrohir recovering nearly as fast as a full Elf, but the cursed blade had cut a grave wound to body and spirit. Even today Elrohir’s spear had seen most of its use as a walking stick. Nonetheless he looked better than Elrond had ever seen him. He had shed some of his wary observance, to be replaced with an openness that -- given time and care -- would blossom into trust.

At the edge of hearing came a reflection of the Sindarin fishing tune Celeborn and Celebrían were singing to lure fish into the shallows. Elrohir was not quite singing along, just humming the melody under his breath. His voice was hoarse and hesitant, but Maglor Fëanorion at the pinnacle of his art could not have brought Elrond greater happiness. He found himself blinking back tears of pure, unfettered joy. Glorfindel’s smile grew wider, almost triumphant. 

Yesterday’s feast had been a triumph indeed, Elrond mused, or at least as much of one as could be salvaged from Elrohir’s misadventure. It had been sheer delight to embrace Elrohir before all Imladris, have him seated at the high table between himself and Celebrían, her joy bright as the sun. The feast could have been a mockery of its true intent, a cynical pretense of love on both sides. Yesterday, all those present could witness it was not so. Elrohir was home, and so was his heart. 

Elrond allowed himself a moment’s regret for Erestor’s absence today. Erestor, too, deserved to witness the fruit of his long labours on Elrohir’s behalf, but it was not to be. Celeborn had been unusually reasonable. He had accepted Erestor’s presence at Elrohir’s court hearing and the reconciliation ceremony without causing any altercations. He had even voiced a modicum of appreciation for Erestor’s moving and expertly delivered address in his grandson’s defense. After such unprecedented concessions, sharing a sunny afternoon of leisure with the Fëanorian had proven one step too far for the Lord of Lórien.

A sudden splash drew their gazes upstream. Graceful and deadly as a swooping kingfisher Elladan leapt, drops of water trailing his bare feet like an arc of diamonds. His barbed spear struck true. When he lifted the writhing, rainbow-speckled trout from the river in triumph both Celebrían and Elrohir gave gleeful shouts of approval. 

From his perch on the stone and shingle bank, feet trailing the water, Celeborn drily pointed out that the clamour chased off every fish within a mile. The wry amusement in his voice was unmistakable.

Celebrían laughed as she retrieved her own fishing lance from where she had wedged it between the pebbles of the riverbed, her long silver braid unravelling and cheeks blushing with exertion and sheer undiluted joy.

“It does not matter. We have enough.”

Elrond thought it the aptest thing she ever said in many years of wise counsels. None of this was what might have been, had all their fates been different, but it was enough.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

At last Elrohir makes it home in every sense of the word, and we reach the end of this long tale.

The Under Strange Stars series is very near and dear to my heart. Writing it took me two years, but the idea is much older. Way back when the LoTR movies first came out I read a now-vanished fanfic in which a young son of Elrond returned home after being raised by Mortals. I was fascinated by his struggles to come to terms with his identity as a (Half-) Elf. The plot quickly moved elsewhere, but I decided that one day I'd write a story exploring the idea in full. And here we are!

The series is far from finished. I love to write in this universe, so expect more stories detailing various events throughout the timeline. I'm very much open to readers' suggestions, so leave your idea in the comments section if there's something you'd like to see! One addition is already planned: over the next weeks I'll be posting 'The Roads Not Taken': various outtakes, abandoned plot lines and deleted scenes. Keep an eye out if you'd like more about these characters and a behind-the-scenes look at the writing process!

Elrohir's long way home has made it out of my head and into the world. Letting go of a story that has been with me for so long is sad and happy at the same time. My creative muses have taken flight once more, and landed on Gathering Dusk, an epic tale of the rise and rise of Angmar and its war against the Dúnedain of Arnor, as seen from Rivendell. You'll find a sneak peek in the next chapter. If you'd like to see Elrohir and the entire cast of Northern Skies take on the Witch-king, keep an eye out for Gathering Dusk!

I'd like to thank all of you for reading and supporting me. Your comments, kudos, or even just the hit counter's steady rise let me know that real people are out there enjoying my work, and that is every writer's wish! Please leave one more comment and tell me your thoughts, not just on this final chapter but the series as a whole. It'd mean the world to me!

Being an ancient fandom dinosaur I have no social media presence. I'll be eternally grateful to anyone who'd be so kind as to recommend the Under Strange Stars series or individual stories on Tumblr/Dreamwidth/LJ/wherever the kids hang out these days.

Of course I can't say goodbye to this story without special thanks to Dawn Felagund, who was incredibly welcoming and generous to a perfect stranger who asked her for writing advice one day. Dawn is a great beta, an excellent writer (go read her stories!) and an all-around inspiration. Her support and excellent advice made this story so much better!  

Northern Skies has been a wonderful journey. Thank you all so much! Enjoy the sneak peek in the next chapter, and see you soon for Gathering Dusk!

Idrils Scribe  

Chapter 32

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“And it came to pass after the days of Eärendur, the seventh king that followed Valandil, that the Men of Westernesse, the Dúnedain of the North, became divided into petty realms and lordships, and their foes devoured them one by one.”

The Silmarillion, Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age

 

Imladris, the year 861 of the Third Age

The first signs of an opening rift in the fabric of history proved laughably small: Elladan’s escort was larger than it should have been.

Elrond had alerted Elrohir to the unexpected addition the instant the company forded the Bruinen. The Last Homely House lay silent under the pale, milky light of a late autumn afternoon bearing the scent of winter’s first snow. All the valley brooded in a heavy, watchful silence. Even the indefatigable Wood-elves had spared these arrivals their usual good-natured teasing. Leaden clouds chased across the darkening sky as the household gathered on the great house’s portico, awaiting the returning son of Imladris and his tidings with trepidation. 

The troop of mounted warriors clattering into the great courtyard was expanded considerably from the small escort that had accompanied Elrond’s eldest son on his summer-long diplomatic mission to Arnor’s venerable King Eärendur in Fornost. Elladan’s usual security detail seemed engulfed by an entire company of travel-stained royal guards of Arnor. The Dúnedain elite troops stood proud and straight, but the men were clearly awestruck by their Elvish surroundings, and more than a little wary. 

A shiver of foreboding ran down Elrohir’s back. In all his years he had never seen King Eärendur’s personal guard ride out in full battle gear – high, winged helms and shining mail instead of the stately black and mithril livery they wore at court. Elrohir dreaded to learn what unknown threat might haunt the deserted, wintry roads of eastern Arnor, to drive Eärendur to such effort in safeguarding his longtime Peredhel friend.

Elladan rode at the center of a tight knot of warriors, his sky-blue cloak a splash of colour amidst their sea of stern battle dress. The sight of his brother was a balm to Elrohir’s uneasy heart. Beside him on the dais Arwen let out a near imperceptible sigh of relief. At first glance Elladan looked unscathed. His surcoat, embroidered with the silver star of Ëarendil, bore no telltale marks of violence, and his horse was the same Elvish destrier he had ridden out on in the early spring. 

Nonetheless Elladan’s face was grave when he dismounted. Elrond’s heir had had protocol and propriety drummed into him from the cradle. His formal bow in greeting to his parents was impeccable. Celebrían was quick to pull him up and into a lingering embrace. Elrond gave her the briefest of moments to revel in having her son safe at home, but he soon drew Elladan from her arms to look him in the eye and feel his mind. Elrohir had already done so the instant he perceived his twin’s return to the valley, to the same concerning result.  Elladan was guarded, as was his wont when something weighed him beyond what he could put into words. Whatever had befallen him in Fornost, he would need time to turn it over, both in his own mind and with Elrohir.

By the warmth in his voice Elrond did share in his children’s sense of relief. “Welcome, Child. It is good to see you home safe before the first snow.”

As if on cue, a trickle of small, dispersed flakes began to fall. Elladan watched them with nothing short of dread. 

“Well met, Father, Mother, I am glad to find all of you well.” 

Elladan embraced Elrohir and kissed Arwen on both cheeks, rosy with cold. With reluctance she let him turn away to greet Erestor and Glorfindel, overt concern in her eyes. Elrond’s formidable Chief Counsellor was in his usual place at his lord’s elbow. Erestor had watched the exchange with mounting unease, veiled by his usual stern demeanour. 

“Well met, Erestor. King Eärendur has kindly provided me with an additional escort. These brave Men have guarded me well. They have orders to return to Fornost with all haste. Would you see that they are housed and fed, and their horses tended, so they may depart for home before winter hardens their road?” 

Out here, before the eyes of so many outsiders, Erestor strictly maintained the most formal of protocols. 

“It will be done, my lord.”

Elrohir considered that his cue to move any further discussion indoors.  The formal dismissal of the guard fell to him as Glorfindel’s second-in-command. Elrohir stepped forward and saluted the captain of the Mortal warriors, who bowed far too deep. To have a proud Dúnedain of Arnor groveling like a thrall was unsettling, and unexpected. Elrohir had seen many Mortals rendered speechless by the sight of Imladris, but here was something beyond what awe of Elvish surroundings might explain. 

Canissë, the captain of Elladan’s security detail, stood at attention beside the Man with an amused expression. She was a tall, ancient Noldo with light in her eyes and blood on her hands, once among the finest warriors to follow Fëanor across the Sea. 

Elrohir turned to face the warriors, Elves and Men, standing at attention in the courtyard. 

“Dismissed!”

Orderly ranks dissolved into controlled chaos as Elves and Mortals began to dismount and grooms moved in to take horses and luggage. Elrohir paid them no more heed. Elladan’s mind churned with worry, and Elrohir laid an arm around his brother’s shoulders to lead him into the house, towards warmth and light and laughter.

 

----

 

With a most unlordly groan of delight Elladan sank under the hot, pine-scented water once more, feeling it close above his head as the unbound strands of his hair floated around him like dark seaweed. To be warm and clean once more brought some small relief from the nameless menace that weighed on his heart. 

The ride home had been dark and eerie. Their mingled company crossed brown, wintry hill-lands laying deserted beneath an unnatural silence, broken only by howling gusts of icy wind battering down from the northern wastes. The superstitious and sharp-eared among the Men had claimed to hear a cold voice howling on the unseasonable storms. The Elves did not confirm these rumours, but neither did they gainsay them. 

Elladan stepped into his bedroom while towelling off and froze, heart hammering in his throat. Beyond the door came the sound of breathing, and that subtle rustle of clothes against a moving body. Someone was in his anteroom.

Elrond and Celebrían remained occupied with their unexpected Mortal guests. Arwen had only just taken her leave, after lingering long in a fruitless attempt to cheer Elladan with tales of the Wood-elves’ summer antics. Only one other would be admitted to Elladan’s rooms without question or announcement. 

“Elrohir?”

“Who else?! You must have wrinkled to a prune by now. Throw on some clothes! I volunteered to deliver your supper.”

A bloom of contentment warmed Elladan’s heart at hearing that much longed-for voice.  Elrohir’s strategic mind would get a handle on the vague yet persistent sense of dread, insubstantial like the small wisps of smoke announcing an approaching forest fire, that weighed on Elladan since what would doubtlessly prove his last visit to his mortal friend Eärendur.

Elladan hastily wrung the water from his hair with a linen towel. The dark waves of it fell to the small of his back. It was not dry enough yet to keep from making water stains on a dyed tunic, so he stepped out to meet his brother in breeches and a long-sleeved cambric undershirt.  

Elrohir had made himself comfortable at the table in Elladan’s anteroom, leaning back in his chair with a cup of mulled wine. Being half-dressed himself, Elladan was relieved to see that he had replaced his formal guards’ uniform with a simple tunic and breeches. Elrohir looked tanned and lean after a summer spent patrolling the High Pass to keep the mountain Orcs from harrying travellers and trade on the road into Rhovanion. 

Beyond the windows the clouded afternoon light had turned to pale blue dusk, and it was now snowing in earnest. Inside, the hearth fire had been built high and the lamps lit. The room’s elegant wall hangings seemed to light up in the dancing light; bright red, sapphire and saffron. 

Set out on the table was a meal for two, the strange hour making it either a very late midday meal or something bound to ruin appetites for dinner. Elladan did not mind in the slightest. At midday his company had been within sight of the Bruinen, and in eagerness to reach Imladris they kept moving and contented themselves with a little waybread chewed on horseback. By now he could eat like a Warg.

Elladan smiled upon recognizing Elrohir’s hand in the impromptu meal. His brother’s skills as a huntsman had granted him a highly privileged relationship with the kitchen staff. All of the dishes were Elladan’s personal favourites: freshly baked seed cakes, a bowl of soft cheese stirred with honey and herbs, and smoked river trout from the Bruinen. Despite the pampering Elladan wondered at his twin’s unexpected visit. On days like this Elrohir would usually meet him in their shared drawing room for a glass of wine and private conversation before the household would sit down to a formal dinner. 

Elrohir did not leave him puzzled for long. “I know it is a little overwhelming to descend on you before you have had time to towel off, but something weighs you. Whatever the news, I would rather hear it sooner than later – so would Mother and Father, I imagine.”

Elladan knew he was being scolded for his reticence. “I never meant to withhold the least of it.” He answered. “I knew not what to say – whether the tale is a complicated one, or in fact several connected matters are occurring at once. I need to untangle it first.”

Elrohir smiled as he lifted a cake and broke it in half, releasing the wholesome scents of caraway and butter. “I will gladly see to your tangles. But I expect they will wait a moment longer.”  

Elrohir was polite enough to eat a little but he had obviously had his midday meal, because he soon sat back, nursing his cup of wine while Elladan singlehandedly demolished the tray of cakes. He had not missed them on a conscious level – Eärendur laid an excellent table – but the familiar taste of Elvish baking was a comfort nonetheless. 

When he had enough Elrohir briefly disappeared into Elladan’s bedroom to emerge with a comb and the porcelain bowl that held his hair clips. Elladan had gone months without this everyday ritual, and he leant his head into his twin’s hands as they combed and smoothed. For a moment all cares fell away before the soothing touch. The simple comfort loosened Elladan’s words.

“The Princes of Arnor do not see eye to eye, far beyond normal sibling rivalry. Amlaith, the eldest, is truly despised by both his younger brothers, while Aratan and Ciryon seem united only by their disdain for him. And King Eärendur … his health is failing. He was – is – a great lover of lore. My past visits were spent debating history and linguistics. This time I found him chair-bound, incapable of walking or even of holding a book. I wish I could tell you of his grace in old age and his sharpness at the council-table, but he slips – in distressing ways. Queen Vardilmë draws a dangerously thin veil over the king’s decline. Eärendur can no longer rein in his sons, but neither will he accept the Gift of Men and allow Amlaith to take up the sceptre in his stead.” 

Ellladan had befriended a young Eärendur when the then-crown prince stayed in Imladris to be tutored, as was traditional for the royal heirs of Arnor ever since Valandil’s long sojourn in Elrond’s house. He had liked every one of these bright-eyed young Men of Elros’ line, but vibrant and outspoken Eärendur, a great scholar, had been especially dear to him. The sight of a king of the blood of Elros, desperately clinging to the sceptre as he descended into a second childhood, had shocked Elladan to his core.

Elrohir’s mind sought his, gentle yet eager. He abandoned his combing to take Elladan’s hand in his own in a habitual gesture nearly as old as the twins themselves. Elladan laid their joined hands against his pounding heart. He felt near dizzy with relief at his brother’s presence, so deeply longed for. For an immeasurable moment they stood together in closeness and comfort, until Elladan took a deep, shuddering breath, and showed all. Elrohir remained still, all sharp attention. He let Elladan purge his mind of a scattering of disjointed memories that painted a disturbing picture. 

 Strained conversations between courtiers, quickly hushed at the passing of the son of the Lord of Rivendell. 

The ruddy cheeks and excessive joviality of Crown Prince Amlaith, heir apparent to the throne of Arnor, taken with wine, women and a gambling habit so devastating he carried debts in concerning places despite the vastness of his father’s wealth. 

The spurned fury of Amlaith’s wife Lindissë, who fled the daily humiliation of her husband’s philandering to her father’s house in Elostirion. Her indefinite absence from court provided yet another source of discord in the royal family.

The silent festering of the younger princes, Aratan and Ciryon, clever and ambitious men, passed over and perpetually outraged, ready to stretch out their hands to snatch the crown their spineless brother failed to secure.

 Deep sadness washed over Elladan. “I know not where it will end, but my heart tells me that blood will be spilled. May the Valar grant that they limit themselves to mere fratricide. This could grow darker than even that.”

Elrohir was shaken, yet his hands were steady as he resumed creating perfect, gem-clipped braids for Elladan to wear to his formal welcome dinner in a few hours. 

“Surely you diplomats can think of a way to limit the damage? It is not the way of the Edain, to ascend the throne over an older brother’s corpse ....” His voice trailed off.

Elladan reached into the artful, leaf-shaped bowl before him on the table to take a mithril hair-clip and hand it to his brother. 

“Yet it will soon be the way of Arnor, whether it pleases the Elves or not. The alternative, I fear, is civil war.”

This brought Elrohir’s hands to a standstill. “Grief darkens your sight. Speak with Father and Mother tomorrow, in the light of day. Much can yet be done to prevent open war.” 

He once more resumed his work, gently and with the skill of long habit. 

“This is not all you mean to tell me, though I know more about the rest.” Elrohir said as he smoothed Elladan’s hair down his back in a fall of midnight silk. “Our scouts have not been idle this summer. The Hill Tribes of the north grow weary of paying tribute to the Kings of Westernesse. They are led by new chieftains of a fell, warlike kind, with talk of open rebellion against Fornost. We saw dark hill-forts being raised on the Ettenmoors, and raids on Arnor’s remote garrisons. It seems only a matter of time before the king will lose his grip on the northeast. That Eärendur dared not send you along the Great Road itself without additional guards is a grave sign indeed.”

Elladan had silently watched melting snowflakes trace serpentine shapes against the darkening windows. He knew he failed at keeping the mournful tone from his voice.

“That is but half the tale, and the other side is equally disturbing. The Dúnedain now scorn and despise the very people they govern. They have grown obsessed with the blood of Westernesse. I saw only Númenórean faces at court, where previously the king chose his advisors among all the peoples of his realm. I can scarcely blame the Hill Tribes for their uprising, when the king demands his tithes while closing his ears to their voices at council.”

Elrohir placed the final fastener, the star-and-Silmaril device of the House of Eärendil picked out in mithril, with a steady hand, but Elladan could feel his brother’s inner doubt. 

Nonetheless he unburdened himself of the whole disturbing experience, and found his own voice unsteady with dismay. “The Kings of the North have always received me with honour, but this time it was different. I was announced to the court, not as the son of Elrond, but Elros’ brother-son, whose blood was deemed purest of all. All but the royal family lowered themselves before me in worship. The Dúnedain are obsessed with the glory of their past. Never before have I seen such fawning and servility among the Men of the West. Elrohir, they knelt at my feet!”

He shuddered at the memory. He could not see his brother’s expression, but Elrohir’s tone seemed deliberately light, eager to bring Elladan some cheer. 

“I imagine Canissë had a field day.”

The memory of the merciless teasing from his level-headed Fëanorian guard finally brought a real smile to Elladan’s face. 

“Canissë’s tongue remains as sharp as her sword. She kindly composed a Quenya ballad recounting the incident, to entertain the Hall of Fire for years to come.”

Elrohir chuckled. “I look forward to the singing, but perhaps not while we host our Arnorian guests.”

Warm hands came to rest on Elladan’s shoulders, a solid comfort.  

“My sleep has been uneasy while you were away. It is good to have you home. Save your cares for tomorrow. Let tonight be for joy and good company.”

 

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Chapter End Notes

It has been a long time since we last saw Elladan and Elrohir, and look how they've grown! I'd love to hear your thoughts on the twins and this new part of their story, so please consider leaving me a comment. I cherish any and all reader feedback, especially right now during the writing process!

Idrils Scribe