Northern Skies by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 22

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Imladris had been Elladan’s home his entire life. He had observed the house and its inhabitants in every season, in bright joy and deep sorrow, at feast and in mourning. All in vain, because his parents’ house had grown utterly strange to him in the course of a single night. 

Below the polished surface Imladris proved more than a fair dwelling place. The valley was a keep -- the last military stronghold of the dwindling Noldor, their bulwark against the tide of Sauron’s forces washing over the West. 

The house was silent, but this was not its usual soothing nighttime quiet. At the very edge of perception glimmered an uneasy restlessness, spurring body and mind into motion. Elladan walked familiar hallways beside a silent Ardil, and met only strangers. Every Elf they crossed paths with moved with determined, disciplined purpose. Familiar faces looked unexpectedly grim above coats of mail, shadowed by steel helmets. Elladan felt their eyes on him, weighing, possibly accusing, but no one spoke until they reached the guarded wing that housed Imladris’ government. The strange walk ended before the carved oaken door of its inner sanctum: Elrond’s study. The door had been carefully designed to allow neither sound nor light to escape to the hallway outside, and after the dark corridor the brightness of so many Fëanorian crystals was briefly blinding. No light of star or moon shone into the room with every window tightly shuttered.

Elladan had somehow expected to find this space as it was on other evenings: bathed in the soft light of two silver lamps on Elrond’s desk, and his father waiting for him in his usual place. Instead the desk chair stood empty, and a constellation of lights had been hung above the round council table where they illuminated a jumbled collection of maps. One chair stood empty, and terror gripped Elladan at the sight. Clearly those gathered here had far more pressing matters to attend to than meting out punishment to a child. This was a council of war. 

Elladan knew his father could appear formidable and distant when he wished to. This night Elrond seemed more stern than ever. At his quick, impatient gesture Elladan sank down in the chair as fast as his legs would carry him. To keep his hands from shaking he tangled them in the embroidered hem of his tunic under the table.  

There was little comfort to be had from the others. Elladan had never before noticed Glorfindel’s sleek deadliness in full armour. Gone was the elegant, gold-plated ceremonial cuirass, topped with a swirling copy of his legendary green-and-gold celandine cape, that Elladan knew from ceremonies and receptions. This night Elrond’s captain wore the utilitarian mail of an ordinary guard, camouflaged with a dull grey-green finish. The only signs of his rank were the insignia on his surcoat. A Sindarin cloak of the exact grey colour of the Misty Mountains’ bedrock hung across the back of his chair as if he might rise and disappear into the midnight forests at any moment. 

Celebrían and Celeborn were dressed likewise, and even his mother appeared strange for the way the austere warriors’ braids in her hair cast unfamiliar shadows on the well-known shape of her face. Elrond and Erestor seemed clothed and braided as usual, but their sharp looks and impatient tug at Elladan’s mind only added to the general sense of urgency.  

Elrond lost no time on either reassurance or reproach. 

“Elladan, where is he?”

Elladan thought of Elrohir’s desperate plea, and the memory granted him the courage to say the inconceivable.

“I cannot help you. Elrohir wants to leave and I believe you should let him. What is the sense in dragging him back here against his will? Will you lock him in his rooms, chained to the wall?”

Elladan had expected harsh words and reproach, not this … collapse. 

Elrond blanched, his face a mask of agony. His pain could not have been greater if Elladan had speared him through the heart. Celebrían could not hold back her tears. She leant on her stricken husband like a felled tree held up by its neighbour. 

Elladan could not bear to watch his parents’ suffering, and he hung his head to look only at his own hands, still in his lap. His determination to stand by Elrohir proved greater than his compassion. His jaw clenched in painful tension as he kept his silence. 

Elrond straightened himself, and Elladan admired the hard-fought steadiness in his father’s voice. 

“We are searching for Elrohir with every means at our disposal and we will continue until he is found. This search is not under debate. Not because I want him here with us, though I do with all my heart. Neither do I seek to keep him from Elros’ choice by force. Manwë himself does not have the authority to withhold the Gift of Men. Even if I wanted to rob your brother of his birthright, such a thing is far beyond my power.” 

Elrond appeared to hesitate, and his shoulders sagged under both grief and compassion as he delivered a deathblow.

“No, Elladan. If Elrohir escapes us it is to a fate worse than death. He may seek to hide among Mortals but he is something else entirely. The curious case of the wandering Peredhel is already known to our Enemy. Sauron will pursue him by every possible means.”

Elladan understood Elrond’s individual words, but together they rang hollow through his mind, utterly senseless.   

“Sauron is fallen and fled. Even if he were to return this very night, what would he want with Elrohir?”

“His fall was not as deep, nor his flight as far, as you have been led to believe. A captive son of Elrond would make a priceless hostage. This night Sauron has but to lift his hand to grasp one.”

The realisation struck Elladan that this world, this Imladris he had inhabited until now was as unreal as the visions of a minstrel’s enchantment, a glimmer drawn over some far darker reality kept hidden from him on purpose. Elrohir had seen straight through it, and now Elladan understood his brother’s uneasiness, his vexation at Elladan’s naïve innocence. When he raised his eyes to Elrond’s all he felt was a sharp, indignant anger at the deceit. Elrond seemed to read it but was incited not to remorse but to further revelations. 

“Despite Sauron’s defeat the Orc tribes under these mountains continue to move with striking purpose and coordination. Few of ours who descended into their caverns have ever survived to bring tidings, but what intelligence our scouts have gathered indicates at least one of Sauron’s lesser Maiar, clad in Orc flesh. He may be less in power than Sauron himself, but remains drawn to his master’s will. 

“Should the Orcs fail to capture Elrohir, the Ringwraiths will pursue him to the ends of Middle-earth once the rumour of his passing spreads. Imagine, if you can, your brother’s long suffering at the hands of Sauron the Torturer. Death would be a mercy. One Elrohir shall be denied until his usefulness has run its course.”

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On the high mountain passes surrounding Gondolin, Glorfindel once witnessed one of his fellow guardsmen struck by lightning. The bitter understanding that now dawned on Elladan reminded him of that initial moment, shock and perplexion descending before pain could set in. 

All colour drained from Elladan’s face as the full gravity of Elrohir’s situation sank in. The boy crumpled, burying his face in his hands to hide welling tears of panic. 

Elrond was an experienced interrogator. He did not relent. 

“Elladan. I ask you again and I beg you to answer me. Where is your brother?” 

Elladan looked his father in the eye, his own red-rimmed ones alight with terror.

“What will you do with him?”

Celebrían took her son’s hand in both of hers across the table with a gentleness almost painful to watch. 

“When he comes home we will let him speak his truth, and find a way to set right whatever drove him off. No locked doors, no punishment of any kind. I give you my word.”

Elladan froze, paralysed by doubt. Celeborn gave the final push.

“Elladan, your brother made a terrible mistake. Saving him from the consequences is no betrayal but the greatest possible loyalty. Elrohir is in the gravest danger of his life. The Orcs will know who and what he is the instant they set eyes on him. If he is captured you will never see him again, unless to watch his torture when Sauron next feels need to provoke us. I beg you, allow us to retrieve him, to spare your parents the worst of all sorrows.”

Elladan straightened himself. He turned to Celebrían once more. 

“Take me with you. He will come willingly only to me.”

Glorfindel could almost see the battle of wills pass between Elrond and Celebrían, the still air between them crackling with frenetic energy. Finally Elrond sagged, a broken man.

“Go.”

Elladan’s entire being radiated relief, and he spoke hastily. 

“I saw the sky an hour ago, through his eyes. From the sight of the mountains he is in the vale south of the High Pass, the one with the three waterfalls. He will attempt to reach Rhovanion through the pass to the Gladden Fields.”

Glorfindel’s heart froze inside his chest. He had no more time for compassion.

“That area is crawling with Orcs like an anthill! Does he know?”

Elladan shook with terror. 

“He knows about Orcs, he will stay out of the caves!”

“How would he know where the cave mouths are without scouts to guide him, or even a map?” A situation was truly dire when Erestor failed to suppress his penchant for dramatic rhetorical questions. 

Elladan sank his face into his hands. Glorfindel hastened to turn the boy’s mind to more practical tracks before he would dissolve into tears.

“What weapons and gear does he have?”

“His own, from Harad.”

Glorfindel sagged with the blessed relief that Elrohir at least had weapons he knew how to use. The comfort fizzled out with the realisation of what that kit lacked.

“Surely that is not all he has? Please say he is wearing more than his shirtsleeves and a cloak!”

Elladan shook his head. 

“We could not take mail from the armoury without alerting the guards.” 

No warrior of Imladris would put a single foot outside the boundaries of Vilya’s wards without a coat of mail, and with good reason. Erestor swore in Quenya with a heavy Fëanorian accent. In an alarming testament to the depth of Elrohir’s peril, Celeborn did not bat an eye.

Elrond’s voice was hoarse with fear. 

“You ransacked this very study. My armour is right here on the stand. Why did he not wear it?”

“Elrohir thought he would be hunted harder if he took valuables.” 

Stunned silence descended as Elladan struggled and failed to explain a train of thought that must have appeared perfectly logical just hours before. 

“What does he take me for, a dragon?” When stressed past a certain point Elrond wielded a caustic sarcasm. Glorfindel had last seen it surface in Gil-galad’s campaign tent on the plains of Mordor. Elladan’s eyes shone wetly, but he kept his composure. 

Celebrían stood up to her full Finarfinian height and addressed her husband in a glacial tone.

 

"Shall we sit here apportioning blame to a pair of boys of forty-eight until the worst has come to pass?"

 

Elrond was on his feet already, turned towards Elladan to grab him by the sleeve and hold him back from leaving with the others. The look in his eyes was unreadable

 

"Stay. I will dress you."

 

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Elladan had worn mail only once before, and never with any intention of going into battle. Donning a hastily brought hauberk and uniform of the guard as if he was one of his father’s warriors in sooth was a jarring experience. Glorfindel remaining perched on Elrond’s worktable to attentively watch the proceedings only added to his deep sense of strangeness.

His father’s movements were unexpectedly skilled and sure, given that Elrond was normally dressed by his own esquire. With his hands occupied with tying the fastenings of Elladan’s grey leather gambeson, Elrond gave his son a look of mindless grief upon perceiving his surprise. 

“I was Ereinion’s herald, once.”

The horrors that followed Elrond’s last performing this particular duty for his king tied Elladan’s tongue.

Glorfindel was quick to interrupted his lord’s dark musings. 

“Things are not so grim, this time. We will bring both of you home in one piece.”

Elrond let out the softest of gasps. At first Elladan thought the sound was annoyance at some flaw in the vambrace Elrond was securing to his forearm. The armoursmiths of Imladris were highly skilled, and with a stab of dismay he realized his father was fighting tears. 

Glorfindel stood to face Elrond, and Elladan perceived an unknown brightness about his familiar shape, as if some white fire burned within, banked and hidden. That very flame shone in his eyes, fell and dangerous, and for a moment Glorfindel’s voice lost its usual merriness, growing heavy with veiled power.

“I will not take an oath, for those can turn to ill ends, but know that the Ones who sent me have no desire to see your House fall before the time of its great task has come. I know the stakes, lord, and I will not fail while there is strength within me. I will return your son to you from wherever he may go, or is taken, from the uttermost East to the West, and every pit and cave below.” 

Elladan recoiled in fear, thinking for an instant he had betrayed Elrohir after all.

Glorfindel’s look became softer. 

“Elladan. Why do you believe I returned to Middle-earth, rather than remain at home in Tirion?”

The question was unexpected enough to jar Elladan out of his state of alarm.

“At the request of my grandfather Eärendil, I imagine?”

Glorfindel shook his head. 

“Eärendil was little more than a babe in arms when I died in Gondolin, and the Valar would not permit the re-embodied to cross the Straight Way in pursuit of old loyalties. If they did, the Elves of Ennor would soon find themselves knee deep in resurrected heroes of the War of the Jewels.”

Glorfindel carefully took up Elladan’s second vambrace and began to tie it to his forearm, lamplight playing across the golden crown of his hair as he bent his head. 

“There is knowledge in Valinor that the Song of Illúvatar can only find its fulfilment through Sauron’s complete destruction and the unmaking of his Ring. How this will come to pass remains hidden even from Manwë himself, but Imladris and the House of Eärendil have some vital role to play. If Elrohir is taken, Sauron will use him to destroy your entire House. Losing one son to the Enemy and the other to grief will deal your parents a wound for which I see no healing this side of the Sea. Imladris will fall to ruin, and with it whatever unknown purpose it is meant to serve in the fullness of time. If I can prevent that outcome by my life or death, I will.”

Livid anger washed over Elladan. He pulled his arm free from Glorfindel’s hold to turn towards Elrond.

“Why did you not tell us?! Such cruelty, to leave Elrohir with the illusion he might break free, when there can be no escape from the will of the Valar themselves! And why? Elrohir and I are no kinslayers! We never took that accursed Oath, nor fled Valinor. We are of the Sindar as much as we are Noldor, and still the Valar see fit to inflict their Doom on us?”

Elrond looked Elladan in the eye, and he seemed weighed by some great and dark matter.

“The Doom of the Noldor was fulfilled an age before you were born. What burdens my House is another matter entirely, and know that it was me alone who brought it upon you, not your mother. When the king fell in Mordor I took it upon me to lead the High Elves to war against Sauron, until he is brought down entirely.”

Elrond took up the sword-belt, a simple length of grey-dyed leather. The sheath was similarly unadorned, but when he withdrew the sword from it Elladan gasped. Hadhafang, Elrond’s own sword, gleamed in the blue light of the Fëanorian lamps, ancient and deadly and heart-stoppingly beautiful, the last surviving work of Curufin son of Fëanor. Elrond sheathed it once more, and began to tie the belt around Elladan’s waist with the practised poise of a seasoned esquire. His voice was strangely devoid of emotion, like a man who finds his every hope turned to folly. 

“None of the High Kings has escaped the Dark Lords’ pursuing hatred. I once believed I might outsmart Sauron, that styling myself a mere regent and letting the title go extinct would protect me. Not only was I wrong, I was selfish to beget children before my task was complete. I have forever marked you two for the Dark Lord’s fiercest hate. I cannot undo your existence, nor would I. The only choice within my power to grant you and Elrohir is the way forward. I no longer expect you to take up my battles. Whatever obligation you were told you had towards me, I hereby release you from it. Go find your brother, and may both of you find peace across the Sea.” 

 

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Even after coming to terms with the full magnitude of Elrohir’s disappearance, Elladan was unprepared for the sight that greeted him in the great courtyard when they emerged from the house. 

He had not known what to expect, but he never imagined that Erestor and Glorfindel would muster what appeared to be an army in a single night. The space between the two wings of the house was filled to capacity with a great gathering of mounted warriors, a rippling lake of dulled mail and grey cloaks of stealth. The upturned shafts of their lances were a moving forest of strangely bare saplings. Between the riders silently went several companies of Silvan scouts and trackers, grey- and green-clad, their faces painted to resemble the dry summer grasses of the mountain flanks. Elladan had seen greater crowds assembled there, but never one so entirely devoid of mirth or song.  A heavy silence settled among the warriors when their lords emerged from the house onto the portico. 

Elrond’s address was brief and most grave. He gave his troops nothing but the bitter, unvarnished truth: Elrohir must be found, or come to a fate far worse than death. Elladan’s skin crawled at hearing the words spoken once more. 

At the sight of Rochíril, his own horse, tears of bitter regret sprang to his eyes and he had to blink hard to hold them back. The grey mare had been readied for battle. Elladan’s bow hung at her saddle, cased and strung beside his quiver of white-fletched arrows. Tied to the pommel was the lead rope of her twin Rochael, Elrohir’s horse, her coat of dappled silver pale as the moon. 

 

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Chapter End Notes

I hate to fall into the sad cliché of an author nagging for feedback but I haven't had any sign of life for a while now. Is anyone still reading?