Northern Skies by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 13

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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.  

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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.