Northern Skies by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 3

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When Elrohir woke he was alone in the tent save for his pack. Some Elf must have placed it beside him during the night. Judging from the yellow light filtering through the canvas roof it had to be past noon. Acutely embarrassed he reached underneath the camp bed for his boots. Sharp ears outside must have picked up the rustling of the blankets, because a moment later Elladan appeared. Judging by his efficient air and tidy braids he had been up for hours.

Despite his self-consciousness Elrohir could not help but smile for the newness and wonder of his twin’s presence. Elladan, too was beaming in face and mind both. He sat down beside Elrohir and touched his mind, part exploration, part caress. Elrohir briefly had to close his eyes to withstand the dizzying intensity before returning the gesture. For long, quiet moments the sounds of the camp and the tent’s half-light fell away as they relearned the other’s inner landscape, rediscovering what they once knew, and what had changed. When they finally parted they were both laughing.
Elrohir’s non-existent Sindarin and Elladan’s bare-bones Númenórean meant they could talk little, but neither minded it much. Their minds’ closeness was more efficient than speech. Elrohir was hungry, and Elladan set out to remedy it after helping him repair the overnight damage to his braids. He made for the tent flap, gesturing for Elrohir to follow.

Elrohir was glad to be in the outside air again. The night’s rain had blown over and the pale sun of late autumn was sinking west among fat grey clouds. He marvelled once more at the endless amounts of water this land seemed to possess. They stood at the centre of the orderly bustle of what appeared to be a well-organized army camp. Several Elf-warriors were about, caring for horses and cooking. They briefly paused their work to smile and greet them. Elladan cheerily returned their hails, but never slowed his pace as he led his brother to the largest tent.

Before he could touch the door flap it was thrown open from the inside. Celebrían stood in the doorway, her face radiant. Elrohir felt an unexpected stab of warmth at the realisation that he was the cause of her delight. He let himself be embraced and kissed on the cheek, astonished by a public display of intimacy that would have been considered unseemly in Harad.

Elrond rose from a camp chair, his smile bright enough to light the darkening day. Like his lady, the formidable Elf-lord appeared wholly unfazed by having been kept waiting while Elrohir slept half the day away. Elrohir let himself be sat down at an elegant folding table. The tent was remarkably bright. With his sight no longer misted by exhaustion he noticed the strange lamp overhead. Its white flame burned within a perfectly transparent crystal caught in a net of fine silver chains. Elrohir could discern neither fuel nor wick. A small shudder ran down his back while he presented his hosts with an expression he hoped was more polite smile than wooden grin. Even among real human beings Elrohir had never been one for small-talk or pleasantries. These Elves were real enough, but human they were most certainly not.

 

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Elrond saw Elrohir’s eyes widen as he took in the tent’s interior, and wished he had given thought to having the Fëanorian crystal temporarily replaced with an oil lamp. A wave of yearning washed over him when Elrohir returned Celebrían’s embrace, stiffly at first but eventually with genuine affection. Elrond knew better than to try the same himself.

Despite the sickness weighing his spirit Elrohir had an observant eye. He clearly perceived Vilya’s aura of veiled power surrounding Elrond even if he could not begin to understand what it was that unsettled him so, and he recoiled from the strangeness of it. Regaining his trust would be a long and delicate task, one where a moment’s impatience might do irreversible damage.
Elrond recalled the day -- over an age ago now -- when he was left in Ereinion’s care after being freed from what he would later come to understand was captivity with the sons of Fëanor. That first meeting had been similarly awkward, the best of intentions on both sides groaning under more estrangement than could be lifted in a single day. And he had the benefit of an upbringing among Elves, even if they were Kinslayers.
Elrond took great care to keep his voice gentle.

“Such a long time it must seem to you, and all that you once knew grown strange. We will do all we can to help you feel at home once more.”

Elrohir nodded, clearly at a loss for words before abruptly resorting to formal politeness.

“Thank you for receiving me so well. I apologize for my … detour.”

Elrond was quick to ease Elrohir’s mind.

“There is no need. Glorfindel told us the whole tale. It is not unreasonable that you took some time.”

It took much of Elrond’s self-restraint not to point out exactly how dangerous Elrohir’s lonely flight had been, or how nerve-wracking. Reproach would only deepen his unease into outright fear. At the mention of Glorfindel he sat up straighter, well aware that he had a debt to settle and eager to get it over with.

“Please allow me to speak for Glorfindel. If he failed to carry out your orders to the letter it was not for lack of effort. I deceived him, when he had every reason to believe he had earned my loyalty. If not for Glorfindel I would be dead now, several times over. Please do not hold him in any lesser regard. This was all my doing”

Elrond was glad to see the loyalty with which Elrohir defended Glorfindel. Despite circumstances that were trying indeed their captain’s unfailing kindness and his peerless skill in battle had gained -- if not Elrohir’s trust, then at least his esteem. It was something to start from.

“Fear not. We know what Glorfindel did for you, and will always remember it with honour and gratitude. The manner of your arrival hardly matters in that light.”

 

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Relief washed over Elrohir. Thoughts of Glorfindel returning home to condemnation and punishment for failing to bring the one he had been sent for had kept him awake many a night.

Someone rapped against one of the tent poles. At Celebrían’s reply a dark-haired Elf brought bowls of stewed venison and flatbread. Elvish food was invariably excellent. The meat was tender, the rich sauce sweet with the year’s last berries. This was the first proper meal Elrohir had since Pelargir. And before that… no. That did not bear thinking about.

Instead he hurried to smile, and compliment the food in the polished Númenórean turns of phrase that still came to his lips with unexpected ease decades after he last used them in his days as a slave in Umbar. With that thought, Elrohir realised that Elladan knew his mind. His twin’s sharp spike of concern was clearly palpable across their bond. It seemed their newfound connection could hardly be shielded, and even that not without great effort. Elladan, used as he was to Elvish thought-opening, comfortably leaned into it. He seemed happy enough to let himself be perceived.

Some detached part of Elrohir appreciated the irony that the one person he had no common language with would be the one to see into his most private thoughts. Most other parts were terrified. He could only hope he was managing to keep the emotion off his face. If she did notice, Celebrían did all she could to put Elrohir at ease, asking him about the weather at sea and the sights of Pelargir as if he had just returned from a brief boating trip. Elrohir gladly indulged her, immensely grateful for the unexpected reprieve from both a scolding for his disappearance and prying questions about Harad.

As the meal wound to a close fair voices lifted in song outside the tent. Someone played a merry tune on a stringed instrument of some kind. A flutist joined in to cheering and clapping. Elrond looked at Elrohir with both joy and sorrow in his eyes at having to lay the obligations of his high birth on him so soon.

“My folk are making merry outside. All here have worked long and hard in the search for you. Today is their victory, too. I know you are too burdened with grief and strangeness to enjoy music and song, but it would endear you to them if you would join them for a while nonetheless.”

Fortunately the feast was no hardship. True to Elrond’s word nothing more was expected from Elrohir than to sit on a camp-stool by the fire, his hands around a cup of warmed wine against the chill of the autumn evening, and listen. First to Elrond giving a short speech, all smiles and interrupted by rousing cheers on the mention of Glorfindel, who made a failing attempt to appear humble. Next several musicians performed to cheering, clapping and singing along, some decidedly off-key as the wine cask became emptier. While the music was hauntingly beautiful, the almost-familiar patterns of the Sindarin language remained frustratingly beyond Elrohir’s grasp.

 

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In the pink light of dawn the Elves broke camp to begin the journey to Imladris. The weather was fair, a cold and shiny autumn morning fragrant with freshly fallen leaves.
The company was a sight to behold, all fair-faced Elves with the rising sun glittering off their mail and helmets, the blue and silver pennants on their spears snapping overhead in the cold northern wind. This was the first time Elrohir saw them all gathered. It was astounding how many warriors had been sent out on the simple errand of collecting one man from a ship -- and how heavily armed and armoured they were. Elrohir had been outfitted with a fine mail hauberk himself. Despite Glorfindel’s talk of peace and prosperity, clearly all was not well in the North.

Once mounted on Rochael, Elrohir was directed to ride beside Elladan in the middle of the column, flanked by warriors on both sides. Elrond and Celebrían rode in front of their sons, Glorfindel behind with his second-in-command, a serious, dark-haired Elf who was introduced as Gildor.

Despite the smiling faces and general air of cheerfulness there was a certain amount of tension in the air. Elrohir failed to understand the orders Glorfindel’s lieutenant called out to the warriors. He wondered what unknown foe could set these magnificent creatures that seemed born for battle so on edge.

On a few occasions sailors on the Beinalph had tried to frighten Elrohir with nighttime stories of Orcs, apparently some misshapen breed of Northmen onto whose shoulders were heaped so many atrocities and bad qualities that the tales could hardly be anything but gross exaggeration. Elrohir had scoffed and laughed at what he thought their superstitiousness. As he watched the determined faces of Glorfindel’s warriors under their helmets, bows strung and spears to hand while scouts silently moved through the undergrowth, it dawned on him that the ship’s old helmsman might have spoken more truth than Elrohir had given him credit for. He did not have enough Sindarin to discreetly ask Elladan, and did not care to display his ignorance on the matter to any of the others.

Instead he studied the banners, mounted on long, shining spears held aloft by the standard-bearers riding four abreast at the head of the column. Had this been a riding of Black Nùmenòreans Elrohir would instantly have recognised each banner, and known exactly which lord or company rode behind. The northern heraldry left him guessing. Three of the flags were midnight blue, showing various motives of stars and moons picked out in white gems and mithril. The foremost one bore the six-pointed star Elrohir recognized from his own tunic. The last one was different, a golden flower on a field of green. As Elrohir wondered why this particular expedition required no less than four, Elrond turned around in his saddle and followed his gaze, then bade his grey stallion fall back until he rode between the twins.

Elrond, at least, bore a smile that reached his eyes and seemed fully at ease. The aura of happiness that radiated off the Elf-Lord was infectious enough to take Elrohir’s mind off Orcs and raids.

“The banner in front, with the six-pointed star and the jewel is that of Imladris and the House of Eärendil, my father. Your mother’s is the round one, a winged moon and golden rays. Next, with the field of stars, is that of Gil-galad, who was High King not so long ago. Beside it is the standard of Glorfindel’s house, the Golden Flower.”

During their days in Harad Elrohir had never concerned himself with Glorfindel’s exact status in Elrond’s household, preoccupied as he was with his own troubles. He belatedly realised that his assumption that Glorfindel was simply one of Elrond’s warriors had been dead wrong. The knowledge once more underlined the sheer amount of effort expended in retrieving him from Harad.

Elrohir did not ask what befell Gil-galad, who apparently was King no more, for fear of opening old wounds and giving offence. Elrond sensed his curiosity.

“The day ahead is long, and so is the way. We still need to tell each other many things, but not while on the road among so large a crowd. Let me tell you the tale of the last High King. Like all stories of the Elves it is sad, but fair. It will shorten the miles.”

Elrond spoke long as they followed the river northeast through the desolation of what had once been Eregion. He told of Lindon, the fairness of its harbour city in the days of peace when Gil-galad established his reign, weaving some Elvish art into the words. Elrohir saw Lindon as it bloomed like a jewel of many colors set against the grey sea for an age of the world. Elrond spoke long, and by the time his tale ended, in a blaze of glory and grief on the battlefield in Mordor, the snow-capped mountains on their right had come closer. Elrohir had heard a few mentions of Dagorlad from Glorfindel when they rode in search of the Ringwraith, but was still awed by the nigh incredible bravery and sacrifice of entering single combat against a dark god. He managed to find words of high praise and condolence. Elrond looked at him with a smile. Even if the tale still pained him, he had clearly found solace in its telling.

“We will be reunited, one day. And meanwhile it is a comfort to see the fruits of his labour, the Shadow lifted from the world for a time.”

 

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That night brought Elrohir little rest. He woke from a dream of blood and battle, his racing mind utterly beyond sleep. Elladan peacefully slumbered beside him, but the sight was far from reassuring. His brother suddenly looked distressingly inhuman with his eyes open and his mind wrapped in something that was not quite a dream. Suddenly overwhelmed with strangeness and longing for Harad, Elrohir quietly slipped on his boots and left the tent, meaning to walk about the camp for a while to collect his thoughts.

He had not taken two steps before the darkness beneath the dense crown of a nearby holly tree silently sprung to life and Ardil stepped forth. His grey uniform blended uncannily with the night’s every shifting shadow. It was all Elrohir could do not to startle, and for an instant fear clenched his throat. Ardil’s movements seemed unnaturally sleek and graceful. Elrohir’s eyes came to rest on the elegant bone handles of Ardil’s fighting knives. Elvish warriors were deadly creatures.

“Are you well, young lord?”

Ardil seemed genuinely concerned, looking at his charge like he was a wild hawk just caught for taming, as likely to come to his arm as to claw out his eyes. Elrohir supposed it was not entirely unfair.

“I did not mean to disturb you. I only wanted a breath of fresh air, if these lands are not too dangerous for such a thing.”

Ardil’s fair face was serious. “The land of Hollin is by no means abandoned, but it no longer holds any good folk.”

He did seem to understand Elrohir’s need to escape the tent and his own racing thoughts, and his voice was kind when he continued.

“This night nothing will pass our sentries. I am under orders not to let you from my sight. If you wish for company I would join you. Otherwise I will keep my distance and leave you to your thoughts.”

Elrohir genuinely appreciated the offer of companionship, even if it came from such an alien creature.

“I would be glad for some conversation. I know nothing of this land, that you call Hollin. Will you tell me more about it as we walk?”

Ardil obliged, and he turned out to be pleasant company. While talking he led Elrohir away from the camp through thickets of man-high brambles and gorse amidst scattered groupings of ancient holly trees, to the crest of a small hill where they had an eastwards view of distant mountains under the waning moon.
As they walked whispers came from concealed sentries in the bushes along their path. Ardil quietly answered in Sindarin. There never was as much as a trembling leaf to betray the guards’ presence, a feat that struck Elrohir as both impressive and unsettling. His own skills of stealth and evasion paled in comparison to the Elves’ preternatural abilities. There would be no escape from them, it seemed, unless by Elrond’s word.

Elrohir interrupted Ardil’s explanations. “Are the guards using magic, to move so quietly?”

Ardil seemed confused. “I do not know what you mean by that word. Mortals seem to use it for many different things, including the snares of the Enemy. Most of these sentries are Woodland Elves like myself, born friends to tree and bush. Their skills come from long practice and the blessings of the Lord and Lady go with them. Maybe that is what Mortals would call magic? To the Elves it is but the normal state of things.”

One more unfathomable and vaguely frightening thing he would have to get used to. Elrohir tried to divert the conversation to less disturbing topics.

“Where did you learn to speak Númenórean so well? Are you an interpreter?”

Despite the compliment the question appeared to bring up painful memories for Ardil, and Elrohir instantly regretted it.

“There was another king who fought and fell in Mordor beside the one whose tale you heard today. His name was Amdir. He once ruled fair Lorinand, which lays beyond those mountains. We laid siege to the Black Tower for seven years. During that time it fell to me to be the king’s spokesman in his councils with Men, for he did not speak their tongues, nor did he desire to learn them.”

Ardil’s sorrow was clear to read.

"I apologize for stirring up your loss. May your king’s name always be remembered with honour. I know I will do so.” Elrohir gave Ardil an apologetic smile.

“You are kind, young lord. I am glad you asked. My king deserves better than to be forgotten, which is what will happen when those who witnessed his fall let their tongues be bound by grief. If there is aught you wish to know, ask me and I will gladly tell you.”

Elrohir carefully asked “What happened to Lorinand after king Amdir fell? Did his realm fade like Lindon did?”

Ardil seemed somehow dismayed by this particular gap in Elrohir’s knowledge. After thinking in silence for a time he said,

“I do not believe it is for me to tell you more of this. Lorinand is now called Lothlórien. It flourishes still under the rule of Amdir’s son Amroth, though he bears greater love to trees and rivers than he does the business of governance. He has appointed regents, a noble lord and lady who have delegated me and many others here to your mother’s service. She will tell you more about them herself, and soon.”

What mysterious connection existed between Celebrian and the land beyond the mountains, Elrohir could not fathom. Clearly he would not learn it from Ardil. The Elf decisively changed the subject, telling Elrohir about the Misty Mountains themselves, from their snow clad peaks to the Dwarrowdelf underneath, guarded by impenetrable doors of mithril and stone. He spoke of mountain Orcs in warning tones, removing all doubt that the crew of the Beinalph had not only been right, but probably too kind in their ignorance of the horrors of these creatures. Ardil’s bitter hate for them spoke volumes.

As he spoke the eastern sky turned to pearl grey streaked with bright pink clouds. The rising sun briefly changed the very snow on the mountain peaks to fire, burning red and gold. As Elrohir and Ardil watched the spectacle in companionable silence the sound of eager footsteps sounded behind them. The gorse-bushes parted to reveal Elladan, bearing three loaves of still-warm flatbread, a bag of apples and a cheery smile.

Elrohir could tell his brother had been distressed at finding Elrohir’s bed empty, before learning from the guards where he had gone. He tried to convey an apology, which was gladly accepted. Elladan handed out the bread, and the three of them ate while Ardil and he spoke in Sindarin. Elladan and Ardil interacted with clear familiarity, and Elrohir wondered how, exactly, this Elf from Lothlórien fit into the intricate pattern of the mosaic Elrond’s household was proving to be.

Elrohir tried to pick up the thread of their conversation, intent on separating out the individual words to puzzle out the meaning of the sentences. Recognising a word here, a root there, it appeared to be about the weather and the road ahead. When they noticed him listening they both slowed down to make it easier. Elladan pointed at the eastern sky and dramatically stated something like, “few clouds, no rain, happy day!” in an ridiculously slow drawl. At his beaming smile once he knew his brother understood, Elrohir could not help but laugh. Despite Orcs and dead kings, it seemed that not all things in the North were dark, or complicated.