Northern Skies by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 18

Without a doubt, Oromë himself sent this marauding herd of wild boar as a trial for Celebrían. Laerwen’s tone as she proclaimed it was decisive. 

The Lady of Imladris bit back a vinegar-sharp enquiry as to whether she had not been tried enough yet these days. She knew well enough that Laerwen’s long-standing penchant for excessive religiosity held no malice. Celebrían held her tongue and left the curious idea unchallenged.

Besides her duties as chatelaine, Laerwen was the chieftainess of Celebrían’s Yavannildi, her circle of Elf-women skilled in growing lembas-grain and the making of the wafers. Celebrían had learned Yavanna’s arts from Galadriel and her council of venerable wise-women. Upon her marriage to Elrond she had become Imladris’ Besain, the lady bread-giver.  At times filling this lofty role in a realm of her own seemed absurd, her mother’s mantle too heavy for her own shoulders even after nearly a long-year as the Lady of Imladris. Today was one of those moments of self-doubt. 

Laerwen was nothing if not dutiful, and her fair face bore a deep frown of concern. Both Elf-women stood shoulder to shoulder in the rose-tinted light of summer dawn. All around them a jewel-bright cloud of robins and finches chirped merrily as they pecked the remaining seed grain. The small creatures’ delight at their unexpected bounty only served to deepen Celebrían’s dejection as she surveyed the overnight devastation on one of their groves of lembas grain. The season had been very fine for wheat, with warm days and nights bringing plenty of mild rain. All around them the apple trees’ boughs were heavy with the beginnings of sweet fruit, and Imladris’ verdant kitchen gardens promised a wealth of fresh vegetables. 

There would be little harvest from this particular field. Tender green shoots had been trampled and uprooted by the foraging swine. The sheer number of cloven hoofprints indicated at least twenty ravenous animals.

The Yavannildi had sown other fields, of course. Lembas was far too critical a resource to keep all eggs in a single basket, but this loss was a concerning one nonetheless. Many lives depended on the sacred waybread Celebrían and her women provided: warriors safeguarding the valley on long, dangerous patrols; Elrond’s envoys braving the perilous roads of the Wilderland; and wounded Elves fighting battles of their own in the House of Healing. To ensure a steady supply was a queen’s privilege and her duty.

Celebrían turned to Laerwen. “Plough the field anew and resow it. There may still be time for the grain to ripen, if winter drags its heels a little.”

Celebrían knew for a fact that it would, upon her request, but she refrained from sharing the comfortable certainty with Laerwen. There was no need for her to learn Vilya’s whereabouts, much less the control Elrond held over the valley’s wind and weather 

Laerwen’s eyes drifted to the deep furrows rooted in the rich black soil of the valley floor. Her concern was obvious: where wild pigs found good foraging once, they would return. 

A luminous idea struck Celebrían, so obvious she berated herself for not having thought of it sooner. 

“Do not concern yourself about the boar. I will take it in hand.”

---------- 

The kennel attendant carrying buckets of offal and table scraps was received with ear-splitting baying, whining and jumping. Celebrían drew a deep breath, delighted as a lady of Gondor in the Imloth Melui. Suddenly ravenous, the pack of hunting dogs turned from playfully licking their mistress’ hands to burying their heads in the feeding trough. 

“They seem very … keen.” 

Elrohir had carefully kept his arms folded across his chest, his own hands well out of reach of the tall, coarse-haired hounds trying to press their wet noses into his palms. He was tense as a bowstring, and only then did it dawn on Celebrían that he was genuinely uneasy with her beloved companions.

“Do the Haradrim not keep dogs? Then how do they go about hunting lions?”

Elrohir nodded. 

“They do, but yours seem awfully large. What breed did you say this is?”

Celebrían knew she was beaming with pride. 

“Valinorean wolfhounds, descended from none other than Huan the Brave. He sired many a fine litter for Celegorm Fëanorion before shifting his loyalties. Your father received some of their get as parting gifts from … well, there is a tale for some other time.” 

She quickly caught herself.  “They are mighty hunters, the cleverest there are. Make friends out of them and they will serve you well.”

Elrohir crouched some distance from the ravenous hounds in silent observation. Clearly he knew better than to approach a feeding pack. Celebrían smiled knowingly. Elves had nothing to fear where Mortals could only tread at their peril. 

“They know you will not begrudge them their meal. Go on, touch them.”

He sent her a look that plainly stated he doubted her sanity.

The pack began to disperse with much yipping and wagging of tails once the last drop of the meat juices had been licked clean. Celebrían made a coughing, bark-like sound and a brindle bitch detached herself from the throng to stand before Elrohir. She was one of the forerunners, both experienced and reliable. Celebrían caressed the animal’s wiry coat, taking care to avoid the bloodstains matting her face. 

“This is my friend Suletal. She is a fine boar-hound.”

“She should be of a height with it!”  

Elrohir’s smile had a certain grudging appreciation to it.

Suletal was indeed a commanding presence: her muscular withers stood hip-height to a tall Elf. With Elrohir sitting on his haunches she overtopped him. For a long moment the pair were poised in motionless silence, eyeing one another. 

Celebrían grew concerned. She had watched with approval as Elrohir won Rochael’s adoring friendship. His skilled and gentle manner spoke of experience and delight in the company of good beasts. Perhaps her expectation that his fondness of horses would extend to dogs had been wrong. If so he would find little enjoyment in the upcoming boar hunt. 

As she looked on he sat up straight to look Suletal in the eyes, and introduced himself in very passable hound-speech. Pride bloomed at seeing her teachings bear fruit. Dogs had no names for one another, as such, but ‘"other-pup-of-mistress" was a clever approximation. Suletal wagged her mighty tail and bounded forward to bury her nose in Elrohir’s clothes, taking in his scent. The rest of the pack soon followed their leader. They were curious creatures, genuinely delighted to meet a new and interesting-smelling Elf. 

“Learn this one,” Celebrían barked. “My pup, one of our own. Obey and protect.” 

Elrohir’s life would one day depend on this nascent friendship. The considerable expense of feeding a pack of large dogs was no mere indulgence of Celebrían’s pleasure in hunting. These hounds’ usual prey was far more disturbing than mere venison for Elrond’s table. 

A ferocious hatred of Morgoth’s creatures was innate to all Huan’s descendants. Like their forefather they seemed almost clever enough for speech, canny and powerful combatants in their own right. It was no coincidence that the kennel lay adjacent to the barracks. In secure metal boxes the attendants kept warg-skins and filthy, coarse garments stripped off slain Orcs, used to provoke the sweet-natured dogs into a frenzy of growling and bared teeth before they were set upon the enemy. This pack could flush out the coal-dark passages of an Orc den faster than a company of Elvish warriors. 

There was no need to darken Elrohir’s view of his new friend with the knowledge. He had momentarily shed his usual reserve, and Celebrían basked in the rare sound of his easy laughter. Suletal rolled in the sand at his feet in panting, writhing adoration as he scratched her ears, murmuring a lilting stream of incomprehensible Haradi endearments. 

The visceral stab of grief and longing that winded him abruptly needed no language. Some beloved friend lost to the fates of war, the memory sharp as a blade. Elrohir’s stroking hands stilled. His Sindarin may be honed to near-perfection, but it would be a long time yet before he would find words for this. 

As she looked on Celebrían’s sight warped like a tarnished mirror. Suddenly a younger Elrond kneeled beside her as he had been newly returned from Mordor, his carefully arranged face covering a well of sadness.  

Celebrían hesitated. Elrohir let her embrace him at times, when he was upset enough, but she knew better than to try it in public. Instead she laid a hand on his shoulder. She had no words to offer him, but her presence was enough. 

Elrohir covered her hand with his own and gave a small, apologetic squeeze, eyes honest and vulnerable. His hand was warm, and months after his return Celebrían still marveled at finding it solid and real, the palm rough with softening sword callousses. 

If in that very moment Eärendil had descended from the heavens to present her with his Silmaril, Celebrían would not have withdrawn her hand to take it.

   

----- 

Elrohir’s quarry suddenly turned on him, pressed beyond terror into fury by Suletal’s ceaseless chase. The great hound’s deep growl rung hollow between the pine trunks as she took a protective stance before her master. Elrohir felt Rochael freeze underneath him as the horse came to a sliding stop on the muffling carpet of fallen pine needles. The fine hairs on Elrohir’s neck stood up, and he began to regret his decision to chase this boar sow by himself.

The high pine forest on the valley’s western slopes was an eerie place. Pole-straight trees without side limbs reached up to the sky, their dark green crowns of needles too dense for even the midday sun to penetrate. Undergrowth was sparse, no more than a few scattered holly bushes. The atmosphere was that of a vast pillared hall filled with silence and shifting shadows.  

At the sight of the boar’s fey desperation Elrohir knew he was in danger. The sow was experienced, in her fifteenth summer. Celebrían’s Nandorin gamekeepers had marked her for death along with most of the herd’s males. The bristles on her broad back stood nearly to a rider’s knee. Deep-lying yellow eyes fixed on Elrohir with fierce, mad cleverness as she gave a menacing growl, foamed spittle dripping down to the needle litter from her jutting tusks.

The Elvish boar lance smoothly came to his hand. Celebrían’s gift was well balanced: it felt far lighter than eight feet of solid ash with a head of shapely, razor-sharp steel should.   

Instantly the squawking of disturbed wood-pigeons and distant Elvish hunting songs morphed into the familiar slowness and silence of an earnest fight. In a flash Elrohir worried that Rochael might bolt in fear and doom them both, but the horse stood firm, awaiting his command with every fibre of her small, sensitive mind. The very idea of steering with reins now seemed absurdly crude. He only had to think his plan, project its image to her. A feint to the left, and then full forward.

The nimble speed with which the mare obeyed awed him even after months of riding her, clumps of sand flying behind them and the wind hard in his face. She wove between the pines, cleverly zigzagging to confuse the frenzied boar.

From the corner of his eye Elrohir saw the approaching flash of chestnut that was Celeborn’s great destrier. Help would be at hand, should he miss. He had no intention of doing so. With grim determination he turned once more, swerving towards the raging boar. 

Speed and direction and aim crystallized into one perfect, pivotal moment. Conscious thought fell away as the spear became a natural extension of his right arm. All his mind and will focused on the boar’s left flank, to strike that briefly exposed space behind the foreleg before she could swerve her tusked snout around to disembowel Rochael. 

This particular act of violence Elrohir knew as well as he knew his own hands, and he felt no surprise when the Elf-spear struck true with a familiar crack of ribs.

The sow was furious beyond pain. Even impaled on Elrohir’s spear, she sought to run up the shaft to maul him, bellowing in fury. The impact of her heavy bulk against the crossguard nearly shattered his right arm. It took every ounce of his strength to hold against the frantic advance for several beats of the animal’s pierced heart. For a moment they were poised like a pair of dancers, Elrohir’s grey eyes meeting yellow ones slowly losing their gleam, until at last she sagged and went limp at Rochael’s feet.  

Elrohir had to breathe deeply at the sight of blood staining the carpet of browned pine needles. It would not do for some ancient Sindarin noble to discover him staring into nothingness beside his kill, lost in memories of war. He dismounted to pet Suletal, who began to noisily lap at the spreading pool of red. Elrohir dispassionately rolled his right wrist against the pain before poking the boar with his foot. Dead as nails. 

On some level he was aware he should be feeling something other than vague relief at not being the one to emerge from this encounter sprawled on the forest floor in a puddle of his own blood. He should celebrate this kill with as much relish as Elladan had shown for his, that very morning. Instead he struggled to suppress an unconscionable desire to quietly disappear and leave the dead animal behind. He only managed to quell it because of Celeborn.     

On his approach the Elf-lord had sported a proud grandfather’s beaming smile. He was perceptive enough to quickly change it to concern even as he swung down from his saddle to stand beside Elrohir. 

“Your enjoyment of hunting should return gradually, as the memories of war recede. I see we were far too quick with this. A mistake born of eagerness.”   

Elrohir knew not what to say. Both agreement and denial seemed potential causes for misunderstanding. Instead he busied his eyes and hands by retrieving the spear. After increasingly forceful attempts to free the weapon, he was forced to admit it would take a hunting knife to lever the deeply embedded spearhead out from between the sow’s shattered rib cage. As usual Elrohir was unarmed. He shot Celeborn a questioning look.

Instead of proffering the dagger hanging from his own belt in a silver-tooled sheath, Celeborn turned around to face the sparse undergrowth of tangled holly, seemingly addressing empty air in soft, lilting Doriathrin. 

Elrohir’s months in Imladris had markedly improved his skills of perception. He did notice the march-wardens of Lórien a fraction before they rose to enter the open space between the pine trunks. The foremost one lowered his grey hood, revealing distinctive wheat-blond hair. Haldir’s resemblance to Ardil was striking. Celeborn’s captain politely inclined his head to acknowledge Elrohir before crouching beside the sow and unsheathing his knife. In moments the spear was free, and the Elves efficiently set themselves to bleeding and gutting. 

To Elrohir’s surprise, Celeborn swung back onto his stallion. 

“Come. Leave the beast to them. You have seen blood enough for today.”

----

Suletal frantically ran to and fro, bursting through the bracken in delirious gratitude for the praise both riders were heaping on her. As they weaved their way uphill, pine and holly gave way to brushland. Elrohir realized Celeborn meant to leave the valley. Months of having his horizons confined by steep mountain flanks gave the idea a surprising appeal. 

They scaled the western rim by a path so steep and well-hidden among brambles Elrohir doubted he would ever find his way back down without Celeborn’s guidance. 

Then open land and wide skies filled his vision, and it was all he could do not to grin like an idiot from the sheer joy of it. The heather was just coming into bloom, the high moors a rolling sea of soft purple dotted by the dark emerald of windswept juniper trees. A hunting buzzard wheeled slow, lazy circles through a sky clear as glass. To the west, tumbled hill-lands were lost in hazy distance that shimmered in the harsh midday light of high summer.

Despite his delight Elrohir half-suspected they were breaking some rule of Elrond’s. Celeborn perceived his thought, and smiled. 

“Fear not. Your mother knows, and she approves. I only mean to give your mind some breathing room. I am reliably informed you crave it from time to time. I thought to speak with you for a while, if you will.”

Elrohir had seen enough of Wood-elves to know apparent solitude could prove highly deceptive.

“That depends on who is hiding in the undergrowth.” 

Celeborn laughed heartily as he swung himself off his horse and opened his saddlebag. 

“Ah, the constraints of lordship. We are as near to alone as is wise, in the wilds. Ardil is nearby, of course, but I doubt anything the both of us could tell one another would be news to him. The remainder of our guards are keeping themselves out of earshot.” 

Haldir had passed Elrohir the sow’s ears and tail, wrapped in a square of linen. Suletal eagerly fell upon her reward, chewing with great gusto and splintering of cartilage. 

As he absentmindedly stroked the great boarhound’s rough back, Elrohir kept wondering whether he had truly been alone to chase this particular boar, and how many hidden spectators had witnessed the kill. He purposefully allowed the questions to drift to the forefront of his mind.

Celeborn had been removing an engraved silver bottle of miruvor from his bag. His hands momentarily stilled as he gave Elrohir a look of genuine astonishment. 

“Did you think us capable of pitting you against an angry boar all by yourself? Both your guard and mine had her covered at bowshot. You were never in danger.”

The knowledge that the poor creature had stood no chance at all evaporated what little satisfaction Elrohir had felt over his kill. The full absurdity of his situation struck hard. He once survived and thrived amidst Harad’s ceaseless wars on nothing but his own skill and wits. It was bitter, to find himself reduced to staged hunts and being granted a peek over the valley rim like a child handed a sweet. 

He deeply missed Harad’s southern stars, songs in languages no Elf had ever heard, the freedom of the nomad, at home wherever he went and some newness or wonder behind every hillcrest. Elrohir wondered how long it would take for the pain of longing to subside, and when it finally did, whether he would be left like Elladan, content in his confinement only because he knew nothing else.

A strong, irrational desire came over him, to leap into Rochael’s saddle and flee. Celeborn’s destrier was a fine horse, but bred for strength more than speed. His own long-legged mare would prove the faster, and surely the hidden archers would not stoop to kinslaying by loosing on a fleeing Elf. 

He briefly indulged in the fantasy, but reality struck soon enough. The Elves might be unwilling to harm him, but they would have no such qualms about Rochael. 

Celeborn’s alien gaze weighed on Elrohir. Even the thought of escape in the vicinity of so perceptive an Elf was insanely dangerous. Elrohir would get no more than one opportunity, if that, and he knew better than to recklessly spend it in haste.    

Chapter End Notes

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