Northern Skies by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 14

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“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.”