Northern Skies by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 16

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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.

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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.”

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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.  

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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