Northern Skies by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 15

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“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.”

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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.”

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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!”