Northern Skies by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 17

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Wild bluebells were just bursting into flower, carpeting the forest floor with lush pools of purple. Celebrían breathed in deeply enough to fill every last space inside her head with their scent. The very air was rich with life and growing.

Outside of Imladris the sun had long risen, but within the bowl of the valley pale morning mists still lingered, streaked with long bars of butter-yellow light. Above their heads the crisp green of new beech leaves unfurling made a living roof for the pillared hall of their grey trunks.

Four horses leisurely moved along a winding path through the woods at the western end of the hidden valley. Further on, the track would curve up to ascend the valley ridge, climbing through the cool twilight of hardy pine forest towards mountain meadows strewn with wildflowers in a series of dizzying hairpin bends. Tucked into a hidden side valley lay their destination for the day, a mountain lake from whose banks keen eyes could make out some of the Great Eagles’ eyries. The family outing had no need for an escort. The lake lay well within the influence of Vilya, and Glorfindel’s scouts had left no stone unturned in yesterday’s thorough sweep of the area.  

Celebrían watched from the corner of her eye as Elrohir mindlessly wound and unwound a strand of Rochael’s silver-grey mane around his fingers until the placid mare grew annoyed by his plucking and tossed her head. He immediately released it, rubbing the spot in silent apology. Their connection and Elrohir’s uneasiness accounted for Rochael’s skittish behaviour today. His breakfast with Elrond had left him pensive and even more cautious with his words than usual, though he seemed to take pains not to appear aloof to his grandfather. 

For a moment Celebrían allowed herself a swell of pride in her sons. The pair of them sat on their twin horses tall and fair as young oaks, faces both handsome and exotic for the slight touch of un-Elvish stoutness in their bones. 

Elladan was no longer a boy, she realised as she observed a clever young diplomat plying his trade, leading his brother and grandfather towards common ground in a skilled and subtle manner. Crafty Elladan knew his twin well enough by now to have him in the palm of his hand despite all Elrohir’s precocity. Celeborn had been an old hand at such games three ages before Elladan was ever thought of, but he too seemed to savour his grandson’s burgeoning skills and gladly let himself be entertained with talk of horse-racing and ring-tilting.  

When they reached a wooded hollow the path widened and became soft with mud. The three Imladrian horses grew restless.This was where Celebrían and Elladan usually gave them their heads, and Elrohir had joined these rides often enough for Rochael to anticipate the thrill of a race. As she pranced and snorted under him, head high and ears pricked, Elrohir turned to Celebrían for guidance, unsure whether an ancient Elf-lord’s dignity would allow for such mundane pleasures as a hard gallop in the woods. 

Before she could reassure Elrohir, Celeborn used the brief inattention to overtake them, Elladan on his heels. Elrohir’s reaction was whip-fast. From the adroit way he jockeyed for position on the narrow path he had ridden more than a few races. Elladan had a fine horse, but Elrohir was the more experienced rider by far. 

His brother overtaken, cautious Elrohir hesitated once more behind Celeborn, unsure whether he was expected to politely cede victory to their lordly guest. Elladan’s voice boomed through the woods loudly enough to silence the birdsong. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, get him!”  

Elrohir made fierce attempts to get past Celeborn as they flew down the narrow path, pelting Elladan and Celebrían with clods of earth thrown up by the thundering hooves. Despite the flying mud Celebrían revelled in the speed, the lightness, the sheer joy of it. Celeborn skillfully kept his grandson behind him, outmaneuvering Elrohir at every turn and even attempting to force him to fall back by pushing Rochael towards low-hanging branches in the undergrowth. 

The mare brusquely deviated to gallop through a copse of young beeches bordering the path, their branches whipping Elrohir’s ears. Suddenly he disappeared. With a gasp of dismay Celebrían searched the leaf-litter on the ground, convinced that a bough had knocked him off his horse, when she heard Elladan’s shout of glee. Elrohir hung aside Rochael, holding on to his saddle with a single arm and leg as low branches scythed overhead. It was the evasive maneuver of a mounted spearman, Celebrían knew, and among the horseless Wood-elves of Lórien few riders were experienced enough to pull it off.

The shortcut through the woods allowed Elrohir to overtake Celeborn on the path. In a heartbeat he was back in the saddle, the motion supple and uncomplicated as if he merely sat down in a comfortable chair. With the race’s end in sight Rochael gave her all. At the fork in the path beside a venerable chestnut tree they spun around to await their pursuers.

Elrohir did not smile. His expression was carefully neutral, as far removed from smug as possible in case Celeborn tended to hold grudges. Celebrían knew he did so with great relish, as much as the next Sindarin prince, but never over petty matters. Not once in her long lifetime had she known him to be a sore loser, and he was laughing heartily already.

Her father was looking at his grandson, truly seeing him, for the first time, and Celebrían knew he found himself staring into a mirror.

Elrohir had an clever eye for strife, a visceral understanding of the delicate tangle of cause and effect underlying the course of violence. It was the very thing that made him always kick first, and kick hard, that had him unsheathing his sword half a heartbeat before his opponent could draw, that told a raiding party now hold, and now charge according to the mere sight of the enemy marching along the valley floor below. The skill had kept him alive as the desert war devoured the people of Harad all around him. Part instinct, part practice, a grisly talent to be nurtured and tempered to devastating perfection over time. Celeborn knew it on sight, being the originator of this particular family trait, and he now beheld Elrohir with dawning understanding. His smile grew wider, a warm and fierce thing.  

Elrohir’s in return was fox-like in its intensity, sharp as a fine blade. 

Celebrían could see the moment it happened, warmth and fondness rushing through Celeborn’s mind like an incoming tide. Besotted was too vulgar a word for it, for her father was far above such foolish mistakes as damaging a child through overindulgence. Celeborn was a forester at heart, well used to guiding long, slow growth from frail beginnings into towering strength. Where he loved, he loved fiercely, with a touch of that Dwarf-like possessiveness of Elu Thingol. 

Elladan caught up with the both of them now. He was radiant, with his wind-blown hair a cloud of midnight and a triumphant smile at successfully thawing out his brother. With easy familiarity he leaned over to playfully tousle Elrohir’s unravelling braids.

Celebrían was well aware of how far Elladan’s extensive formal education had distanced him from his Sindarin blood. Elrond and Erestor had imparted the heir to Imladris with a great love of books and those kinds of lore the Noldor liked to write down in them. Elladan was a marvel among Elf-princes, Celebrían thought. He could debate jurisprudence against Erestor himself, draft a treaty and translate it into flawless Quenya, sing any lay you might care to name in its entirety while accompanying himself on either harp or lute, hunt with falcons and excel on the archery range. 

Whenever Celeborn visited, he had duly listened to Elladan reciting the Fall of Gondolin, admired his fine calligraphy and taken him on expeditions into the woods which Elladan enjoyed, but that failed to move him to the passion inspired by Lindir’s firsthand accounts of Ost-in-Edhil’s libraries. 

Not ten years ago Celeborn had sharp words with his daughter upon learning how poorly Elladan spoke the Silvan tongue of Imladris’ own Nandorin folk. The matter was soon rectified, but Celebrían nonetheless felt a stab of burning shame when her father candidly pointed out that she had raised a son who, in all his forty-eight years, had never felt the need to address the Wood-elves who did his laundry and tended the geese for his quills in their own language. 

For all the soul-deep love Celeborn bore Elladan, at times the full weight of three ages’ worth of incomprehension and resentment between the Elf-kindreds pressed down between him and his oldest grandson. 

Elrohir was a second chance, Celebrían realised. A grandchild leaning towards his own Sindarin blood in talents and disposition, unburdened by the expectations heaped upon Elrond’s heir, and marked from birth to take up Celeborn’s own warrior’s trade. For that, Celeborn would forgive Elrohir his aloofness and Mannish tendencies a thousand times over. 

Knowing Celeborn he was already hatching a tactic, or most likely several along with their various contingencies. As relieved as she was to see her father taking a shine to her son, in her heart Celebrían knew it would spell trouble. 

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Elrond eagerly proffered the silver carafe of white mead to fill Celeborn’s cup once more. Whatever it was his good-father had come to discuss so unexpectedly, mellowing him beforehand was likely the wisest course of action. 

The sun had begun to sink below the western rim of the cloven valley amidst an absurdly bright display of scarlet-striped feather clouds. Touched by the red-golden evening light Celeborn brought to mind a time before Anor’s first rising: the wild Sindar of Ennor, grey-clad, their dark, fierce eyes trained on stars only they could see. 

Not that the formidable regent of Lórien appeared particularly unyielding this evening. Celeborn strode onto the loggia adjoining the family quarters bearing the rosy, contented look of one newly bathed after vigorous exercise outdoors. 

The unannounced arrival interrupted Elrond’s daily evening briefing with his chief counsellor, but even Erestor’s continued presence failed to vex Celeborn. The unusual mildness marked an unprecedented ceasefire in age-old hostilities. Elrond dared allow himself some hope.

“You seem in good spirits, and so did Elrohir. Has the ice been broken?”

Celeborn smiled fondly. 

“It has. A fine boy, if a bit quiet, and a clever horseman.”

Celeborn leaned forward in his chair, cup in hand. His unbraided hair, still damp from the bath, stirred in the gentle wind of spring singing through the valley.

“Elrohir is a very fine boy indeed, Elrond. What are your plans for him?” 

Celeborn’s expression was uncharacteristically soft. Of course. Trust Elrohir to be his taciturn, unyielding self, and trust a hard-headed, unpredictable Sinda like Celeborn to adore him regardless.

“He needs time to get well first. Beyond that … we shall see where his interests lie. He is the younger son. We can afford him greater leeway than we did with his brother.”

Celeborn shot Elrond a look of sharp reproach for so blatantly taking his wishes for reality. Elrohir had as little choice in his future as any child born into a ruling House of Ennor. He could style himself a musician, loremaster or smith if he so chose, but harsh necessity would always make him a warrior first and foremost. 

These were peaceful times, and Elrond had allowed himself to indulge in pretenses that his beloved sons would escape the ceaseless demands of war. Celeborn had seen enough grinding repeats of the Enemy’s fall and inevitable resurrection to harbour no illusions. Valinor was Elrohir’s only possible reprieve from a life of bearing sword and bow. Even more so because Elladan, Elrond’s heir, would have to be kept behind the lines in relative safety.

Elrond’s smile was wry, and bitter. Had he known Celeborn less well than he did, he would have called his good-father cruel. The exact opposite was true. Three ages of fighting the long defeat taught Elu Thingol’s former commander many painful lessons about the perils of wishful thinking, and he sought to spare those he loved as much of their bitterness as he might. Bringing out the unvarnished truth sooner rather than later was a kindness.

Celeborn threaded his fingers together in the well-known gesture that usually announced he was about to bluntly speak his mind.

“Elrond, I am not asking you to keep him unlettered, or rustic in any way. Only that you not repeat certain ... omissions you made with Elladan.”

At that, Elrond’s head shot up in barely veiled outrage. 

“Omissions?!”

“Elladan is a Noldo for all intents and purposes, despite Ardil’s best efforts. He may have the blood of Elu Thingol, but his heart is given to the House of Finwë. It might have been otherwise had he received tutoring among Sindar, but you have always kept him close. Understandable perhaps, under the circumstances, but the consequences will be hard to undo. Celebrían foresaw this when she named the boy so aptly.“

Elrond was not beyond pride in his own diplomacy when he refrained from reminding Celeborn who, exactly, had named the twins according to Noldorin tradition. Celeborn paused to give Elrond an imploring look. 

“She named both of them well. Elrohir has a heart for wild lands and the hunt. A warrior born, if ever I saw one. Send him to Lórien for fosterage. First at court in Caras Galadhon, then with the march-wardens. He would be more than welcome. King Amroth’s longing for a child grows by the year, but he remains besotted with Nimrodel and she will not wed him. He would embrace Celebrían’s son as his own. I shall return Elrohir to you well-prepared for his first captaincy, and beloved by Sindar and Silvan folk alike.”

Erestor had silently and steadily continued the letter he had been composing, destined for King Valandil’s trade minister in Fornost. This absurdity sufficed to make the Counsellor lay down his ivory pen beside the sheet of vellum. 

“My lord, his health does not allow it.”

Celeborn turned neither face nor eyes towards the Noldo.

“Temporarily. I am familiar with the Black Breath, Erestor.”

Celeborn gave Elrond an appreciative smile.

“Your care has been exemplary. Ardil tells me there is progress already. Another ten years at most will see him ready for court. In twenty he will be begging you to begin training with the warriors, and I recommend you let him. War may be a sad necessity, but this one has a talent for it.”

“There is plenty of warcraft to be learned here in Imladris, should the need arise,” Elrond interjected.

“And all of it of a decidedly Noldorin bent. Not one of your officers knows the first thing about mounting a woodland defence. A long-year spent exclusively in Imladris and Elrohir, too, will be Noldorin through and through. A scion of the House of Finwë indeed.”

At that barb, Erestor bristled. 

“You would have the heirs of Gil-galad live in huts of bark, dining on beech mast like the wild Avari?”

“I would have the heirs of Elu Thingol know their heritage, and their place in the world. Here in Imladris the Noldor may fashion themselves the Lords of Ennor still, but your numbers dwindle. Most Elves who remain this side of so wide a sea care more for leaf and bough than jewelcraft or libraries.”

To leave blatant provocation unanswered was not in the Noldorin character, and Erestor’s many years had seemingly failed to teach him better.

“And shall your grandson watch the flames of Barad-dûr rekindled from a tree branch, dressed in cloth of nettles, while Sauron’s Orcs wield well-forged steel? We would have done Elrohir greater kindness by leaving him in Harad.”

Celeborn raised his eyebrows. 

“The march-wardens of Lórien are outfitted as well as any guard of Imladris.”

Erestor scoffed. 

“Thanks to your lady’s reviled Noldorin smiths, it would seem.”  

“Say not reviled. There are no kinslayers among them.”

Celeborn turned towards Elrond. 

“Which is not the example I would choose to set before my grandsons.”

Elrond kept a deceptive calm, seemingly contemplating the fragrant cloud of lemon-yellow honeysuckle winding around the loggia’s pillars. A fat bumblebee buzzed from one of the chalices, covered in pollen so thickly it had trouble taking flight. He gently tapped the struggling creature’s wings, dislodging enough of the bright powder to set it free.

“Apply some logic, good-father, ere ancient grudges run away with you. Erestor tutored me from a far younger age than the twins are now, and it did not impart me with any kinslaying tendencies. In fact, I believe he acquitted himself rather well.”

Celeborn looked at Erestor with unmitigated fear. 

“Ten princes did you teach. Fëanor himself, his seven sons, and the sons of Elwing. All but one of them came to strange and bitter fates and are utterly lost to Elvenkind. You will forgive me for not being inspired to faith in you by the numbers.”

Erestor’s face betrayed grief-stricken agony, but he quickly righted himself.

“Do not lump Elros with the Fëanorians. He chose his own fate, one we Elves may yet come to envy in the fullness of time. Even as we speak his descendants rule all of Middle-earth in might.”  

Erestor looked like he had suffered enough provocation to mention the Dagorlad, or Oropher, or -- Varda forbid -- Amdir, which never failed to devolve any conversation Celeborn might have with a Noldo into a shouting match.

Swiftly and with the ease of long habit Elrond interfered. 

“I think we ought to put the matter to Elrohir, when the time is right. He should have the final say.”

Suddenly, and rather astonishingly, he found Erestor and Celeborn united against him, their faces aghast. Celeborn was the first to find his voice. 

“He cannot begin to understand what it is he should want.”  

Erestor nodded in wholly ironic agreement. “Clearly he is in need of guidance in the matter. Elrohir does strike me as capable of burying himself in some rural backwater for the entirety of his formative years, simply because it is made to sound like a grand adventure.”

Celeborn’s fingers closed around the stem of his artfully engraved cup with enough force to bend the silverware. The Sinda’s voice came out frighteningly restrained.

“A grave insult to Caras Galadhon. I imagine you might know better if you had ever laid eyes on it. Remind me, vassal of Fëanor, why you never granted us the honour of a visit as you did in Doriath of old? It would behoove you to understand where the true heart of Elvendom in Ennor lies these days.”

His bile discharged, Celeborn turned to Elrond once more. 

“In time, we might send Elrohir to Thranduil’s court in the Greenwood. Not an easy posting for one with Noldorin blood in his veins, but he might re-establish diplomatic ties for you if he secures Thranduil’s approval. His son, Legolas, is about the twins’ age. A fine opportunity for diplomacy through friendship. Our alliance would be renewed by it for the age to come, to the benefit of us all.”

Celeborn’s cup dangled forgotten from his fingers by the stem as he gestured, his voice taking on a beseeching quality.

“Elrond, your children are the image of Lúthien reborn. The mere sight of them is a dive into deep memory for all the Eluwaith. Let the Sindar look upon your sons, and remember their oldest allegiances rather than their grudges.”

Elrond was too much of a politician not to recognize a canny strategy when he saw one laid out. Celeborn had been Elu Thingol’s most valued counsellor two ages before Elrond was ever thought of, and not even Erestor could deny his skill at brokering peace with haughty Sindarin princes. A possible end to the bitterness that reigned between Imladris and the Sindarin kings of both Lórien and the Greenwood ever since the Last Alliance was most tempting indeed. But with the cleverness of a hunting spider his good-father had driven Elrond into a corner. Drawing Elrohir entirely within his sphere of influence would allow him to mould the boy in his own likeness.

“This conversation is premature. Elrohir is unwell, and in no way capable of what you envision.”

A defense already rebutted once that evening, and Celeborn knew it. 

“I am not demanding you send him along when I return to Lórien. You are the healer, Elrond. I defer to your judgement in the matter of his health.”

Celeborn had all the time in Arda. He would wait, patient as only an Elf could be.

Stars came out above the eastern valley rim as Eärendil rose in the west, where the sky still held the colour of palest blue sea-glass. Black tree-shapes on the ridges stood sharply outlined against the sky. Somewhere beside the ceaseless murmur of the river a chorus of Nandorin voices took up a cheerful dancing song, accompanied by much hand-clapping, foot-stamping and, judging by the instrument’s fair, rounded timbre and the skill of the player, Glaeriel’s fiddle.

Elrond turned his back on Celeborn to face the distant merriment, hands white-knuckled on the carved terrace railing. He was grasping at straws. 

“Can we not simply leave them in peace?”

At his shoulder, the answer came with unexpected gentleness. Elrond was reminded he was talking to a kinsman and, depending on one’s definition of the term, a friend.

“As you and Elros were at that age? While Sauron endures there is no peace to be had. This is the world that is. The only choice you have is how brusque your sons’ awakening to it will be.”

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Chapter End Notes

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