Northern Skies by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 28

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“I thought you wiser, than this, Elrond!”

 

Elrond flew up from his chair as if stung by a wasp, hands balled into fists on the table. He spun with a swordsman’s agility to face Glorfindel and lowered his voice to a blistering growl.

 

“And I never thought you this cruel. I am his father!”

 

Shafts of the rich light of sunset fell through the councilroom’s arched windows, painting Glorfindel’s hair and the shimmering silk of his robes in tones of gold and copper, a vision of Valinor’s glory east of the Sea. The angelic effect was brusquely countered by his look of fury. A bleak press of fear came over Elrond at the knowledge that Glorfindel was no fool, and neither did he possess an ounce of cruelty. His captain’s harsh proposition was likely the course of wisdom.

 

“Unlike other fathers, your overindulgence could mean the death of every soul in Imladris!” 

 

Glorfindel’s fist struck the council table hard enough for an elegant silver wine carafe to wobble precariously on its salver. Erestor reached to still the flask before splashing Dorwinion would ruin the inlaid tabletop. 

 

Glorfindel never noticed. “ You are to hold the North, Elrond! The Valar did not return me to Middle-earth to fill your ears with honey. You of all people should understand that while some medicines are bitter, still they must be swallowed.”

 

This brought Celeborn to his feet as well, eyes burning with anger. Glorfindel’s insistence had raised ancient grudges from their shallow graves. 

 

“Naturally you are incapable of solving any problem without looking West for divine intervention,” Celeborn sneered. “My grandsons are children of Ennor. This land runs in their very blood. Neither has the slightest desire to sail. Would you force them across the Sea against their will?”

 

The wrath of the Lord of Lórien made an imposing sight. Glorfindel and Celeborn were peers in age. At Ereinion’s councils in Lindon they had always borne each other a grudging respect despite their differences. Today they faced off across the table, both expressions hard and tight with anger.  

 

“If we brought Elrohir to Lórien, as you propose, do you imagine the Lady Galadriel might hold him where Elrond could not? And would a mere change of cage keep the bird from sickening further?” 

 

Celeborn’s voice cracked. “At least we in Lórien will not wash our hands of him without as much as trying!”

 

Beneath that remark Celebrían bent her head, the fall of her silver hair -- still damp from a hasty bath -- for a moment concealing her pale, shaken face. Bone-deep misery swept Elrond at the sight. That battlefield air of stern efficacy had gone out of her the instant she set eyes on Elrohir’s sleeping face, safe in his own bed. This was the look of a woman who lost her child once to the vagaries of fate, and a second time to his insidious injuries of the spirit that Elrond had failed to heal.

 

Glorfindel retaliated with his eyes fixed on Celeborn’s smouldering face, unwittingly dealing Celebrían another blow. “Some hurts only the West can heal. Elrohir is not Lúthien, who could humble Sauron in his own stronghold. If he escapes again he will inevitably be captured and used against this House for all he is worth.” 

 

A shadow of remembered horror flitted across Glorfindel’s fair face, and for a moment the most fearsome warrior in Imladris shuddered. “Does Elrohir not deserve our protection, even from himself? Or shall we stand by and watch him meet Celebrimbor’s end? Aman would be a great mercy in comparison!” 

 

He turned to face Celeborn. “Your lady would say as much, if she were here.”  

 

For an instant Elrond believed Celeborn would strike Glorfindel, and hit hard. Not even after being deposed by Celebrimbor’s coup in Eregion had he seen his good-father this enraged. 

 

“Do not presume to know my lady’s mind!” Celeborn hissed sharply, fists balled. “She has other considerations beside your masters’ will! She stood against Sauron himself for our grandson, and neither would she willingly surrender him to the hard-hearted Lords of the West.”    

 

Glorfindel was unimpressed. “Perhaps her own expectations steer her wrong, in this. Elrohir will find neither judgement nor ancient debts in Valinor, but only the goodwill of the Valar and the love of all his kin.”  

 

The look of sheer agony that Celebrían sent Glorfindel instantly silenced the Balrog-slayer. When she spoke her voice was level and sharp as a blade. “I do not know you for a liar, Glorfindel, so I must question your judgement. Elrohir is not wholly an Elf. The land of Aman itself would consume him like a moth in a candle flame.”

 

Glorfindel shook his head. “Tuor and Elwing and Eärendil have never ...”

 

Celebrían cut him off, whip-fast. “They chose the fate of the Eldar. The Choice of the Peredhil will be laid upon my son the instant his ship reaches Eressëa. I do not doubt the outcome, when it is put to him with his heart full of sorrow and bitterness towards his kin who cast him away like damaged goods. If Elrohir goes West now, unwilling, it is to the fate of Men. Will you have me send my own child to his death?”  

 

Glorfindel took a gasping breath as if physically punched, but then shook his head in vehement denial. “Elladan will keep him from it.”

 

Celebrían faced him with icy, dry-eyed calm. “Elladan loves his brother beyond will or reason. He would follow Elrohir into the pits of Angband, or beyond Arda itself. If we lose one, we lose them both.”

 

Grief exploded inside Elrond’s chest, a starburst of bitter agony. He had to flee the room or embarrass himself like he had not since he was a child of six engulfed by a waking nightmare. With his last fraying thread of composure he turned to stumble for the door like a blind man. Celebrían somehow retained the strength to deal with with both Glorfindel and her equally stiff-necked father. Elrond closed the door behind him, perhaps more firmly than intended. 

 

The anteroom beyond was mercifully empty. Elrond sank into one of the elegant chairs intended for waiting petitioners, and rubbed his sore eyes. When he next opened them, a crisp white handkerchief and a flask of miruvor were before him. Behind the kind offerings was Erestor’s face, arranged in a carefully neutral expression.  

 

“Thank you.” Elrond’s voice failed him, and his cheeks were wet, but thankfully this was Erestor, the most discrete Elf in Arda. “What is wisdom, my friend? Do I safeguard my children, or my purpose here in Ennor?”

 

Erestor had taken one of the chairs, and for a moment he seemed engrossed in the gem-studded model of Arda on the low burl wood table before him. Given Celebrimbor’s peerless understanding of the laws governing matter and energy, he had known well enough that a true perpetuum mobile was an impossibility. Nonetheless this was a close approximation. The clever little device had last been wound up nearly a long-year ago, and still a golden Anor and silver Ithil unerringly completed their circuits over Ennor, Númenor and Valinor picked out in jewels, masterfully set into the mithril image of a mirror-flat sea that was no longer.

 

Erestor’s voice was gentle with the compassion born from his long and bitter years. “I once knew a child who was kind and great of heart, but wholly convinced that his father had set him aside. This kindled in him a smouldering fire that others stoked high to serve their own malicious ends. He burned, and all his people with him. Three ages have passed and still the darkness and sorrow that came from it has not been healed entirely, nor will it ever be.”

 

Elrond twirled the vial of Miruvor between his fingers, letting it catch the last of the dying daylight. “Are you counselling me to keep Elrohir in Imladris?”

 

Erestor’s finger traced the coast of Aman, where a small but finely shaped Taniquetil, cut from a single perfect moonstone, towered over a diamond inset representing Tirion. 

 

“Glorfindel fears to see past horrors repeated, and his concern has merit. Still, of all the grief and hardships that have befallen the Eldar, I cannot think of any that were caused by an excess of kindness, or forbearance.”

 

-----

 

Elrond could not face returning to the gathering, and instead found his feet turning towards the family wing. His troubled heart would find no ease there. The twins’ suite of rooms was sparsely lit and steeped in heavy, unnatural silence.

 

Lindalië sat her faithful vigil in Elrohir’s anteroom. In his current state he needed a healer instead of a warrior, and it was unsettling to see her at this table instead of Ardil or Glorfindel. The pharmacopoeia Lindalië had been working on lay open on the table before her and her inkwell was uncapped, but the page showed the very same entry. No lines had been added since Elrond took his leave an hour before, when the two of them had finished tending to Elrohir. 

 

“Any trouble?”

 

“None, my lord. They are both asleep now, and Elrohir’s vital signs are stable.” 

 

Lindalië was an unobtrusive person, even more so than most Elves of her venerable age. Her question remained unspoken, but was fully present nonetheless. 

 

Elrond knew not what to answer her. “Varda help me, I know not what to do! I will speak with him when he wakes. Will you excuse us for a time?”

 

Lindalië rose, hesitating. She wore heavy robes of a solemn grey, and her pristine coronet of dark braids melted into the deepening shadows of the unlit room, leaving the pale moon of her high-cheeked Noldorin face afloat in shadows.  

 

“The decision is yours, my lord, but he would not need to sail alone,” she offered, “I would gladly accompany him, should you choose to send him across. I was the Lady Estë’s disciple once, before Fëanor’s madness took us all. She will heal what ails your son. I might see him to the doors of Her house and beyond, if Lord Glorfindel speaks the truth and She has indeed forgiven us.”

 

This heartfelt kindness from one turned wise by sorrow, an offer made in true repentance, almost sufficed to sway Elrond. It seemed destined that Lindalië, in whom suffering had kindled gentleness where once was pride, should earn her final redemption by delivering his children to safety. 

 

He dared not answer her for fear it might send the tears in his voice pouring out. Lindalië understood even that, after an age in his service, and with a silent curtsy she withdrew.

   

Surely it was abnormal for any father, Man or Elf, to be this apprehensive of visiting his own sons? Son, even. Elladan alone was fully present. To spare Elrohir further pain and keep him from tearing the hard-wrought stitches on his wound Elrond dosed him with enough poppy to make him forget his own name, and the very existence of such perilous ideas as getting up. 

 

The sight that awaited him in the pale blue twilight of Elrohir’s unlit bedroom was both peaceful and unsettling. Elladan reclined against the headboard, his brother’s head cradled in his lap. It was the only part of Elrohir left uncovered by layers of woollen winter blankets. Their cheery patterns of interlocking stars in sky blue and saffron seemed out of place in the day’s grave atmosphere. The chill of the mountain heights proved hard to dispel, and Elrond had ordered the hearth fire built high and the casements closed against the summer evening’s gentle winds, leaving the room steeped in the bracing scent of athelas tincture and burning pine. For a long, sweet moment Elrond stood in the doorway, overwhelmed by a strange blend of love and longing as he drank in the sight of his sons sleeping at peace, warm and safe behind the many walls and watchers that defended this house from the horrors outside.  

 

Elladan stared ahead with the vacant eyes of sleep while the fingers of his right hand gently wound through Elrohir’s hair, mindlessly knotting the freshly washed strands into a tangled nest. Elrond knew the strange little mannerism well enough. He had brushed out the resulting snarls many a morning forty years ago, when the twins habitually refused to sleep anywhere but together. Elladan had left behind what remained of his childish innocence like an outgrown tunic when he rode into the mountains with the search party. This sudden regression to the habits of toddlerhood was jarring. 

 

Elladan woke at Elrond’s approach and traced his surreptitious look of concern. “I will brush it for him tomorrow.” 

 

Elladan saw no need to whisper. Elrohir had sunk into sedated oblivion deep enough that the familiar voice failed to ripple the stilled surface of his mind. Elrond lifted the blankets to check the bandages covering Elrohir’s torso from breastbone to hip. Lindalië had done the same at regular intervals throughout the afternoon, but Elrond was still irrationally pleased to find the muslin wrappings as creamy white as when he had first applied them. Elrohir’s slack hand was warm beneath his own, pulsing with life. 

 

He will live.

 

Faced with irrefutable proof of his own good fortune, hot tears shot to Elrond’s eyes. He managed to suppress them in front of Elladan, who had witnessed enough emotional outbursts from his elders for one day. He felt raw and exposed like never before in the company of his son, with no more patience for embellishment or distraction. He took the bedside armchair, bringing his face level with Elladan’s.

 

“We had bitter words about what to do with your brother, but the course of wisdom still eludes me.” 

 

Elladan’s eyes held both defiance and deep terror. “You could obtain him a position at court in Fornost, if he wants to live among Men. King Valandil owes you a long-year’s worth of fosterage.”

 

Elrond shot his eldest son a shrewd look. “The King of Arnor would return that particular favour only grudgingly, and I have no doubt Elrohir’s welcome would be a cold one.” At Elladan’s look of stunned shock Elrond carefully elaborated. ”Valandil’s kingship stems from the blood of Elros, worn thin with the passage of twenty-five generations. The king would look upon Elros’ own brother-son taking up residence at his court, and see naught but a potential usurper.”

 

A leaden silence descended. Elrond did not need to speak the words. Talk had been grim, during the search party’s hasty ride home. Elladan knew what Glorfindel had so adamantly counselled his lord do with his wayward son. Elrond laid a hesitant hand on Elladan’s shoulder. 

 

Elladan shook his head. “Elrohir does not want to sail. I only see him getting worse if you should force him. Glorfindel doubtlessly tried his best to persuade you otherwise, but we all know Valinor will be the death of Elrohir.”

 

“Elladan …” Elrond said gently, “Glorfindel has nothing but Elrohir’s best interests at heart.”

 

“Glorfindel has stability for Imladris at heart. Elrohir has proven unpredictable, a potential threat for him to secure. He very much wants to believe that Valinor is a painless way to achieve it.”

 

Elrond sighed. “Glorfindel is a better man than you give him credit for. Valinor is no prison, and life there far from a punishment. No healing art of mine can rival what Irmo and Estë might do for Elrohir. When he is well again he would find a host of loving relatives more than willing to provide him with all he could possibly need.”

 

Elrond could only hope he sounded more convincing to Elladan than to his own ears. Apparently not, because Elladan straightened himself as far as Elrohir’s body resting on his legs would allow, steel in his gaze as he laid a protective arm around his brother.

 

“There is no ‘him’! Only us. Wherever Elrohir goes I will follow.” The echo of Celebrían’s grim prediction was uncanny, and Elrond had never heard this gravity in Elladan’s voice. “Will you deal with us as Dior did with Elwing, and she and Eärendil with you? A sad tradition of our House, where you in turn cast off your children in pursuit of loftier ambitions, to either heal or perish among strangers.”

 

Elladan had inherited Elrond’s own gift of words and the painful ability to wield them like blades. Hindsight and distance lent his son’s insight a disturbing clarity. 

 

Elrond had to breathe through a heavy weight on his heart before he could begin to string together some semblance of an answer. “Casting off is a strange choice of words, for having you taken to a place of safety and comfort to be cared for by the loving hands of your kin.”

 

Elladan scoffed. “By that definition you, too were raised among kin. The Sons of Fëanor were as close to you in blood as those distant relations in Aman are to us.”

 

Elladan’s voice had gone shrill, and he had to swallow tears before he could finish. “You are Elrohir’s father, and his lord. His fate is in your hands. Know what lies in the scales here beside your war against the Enemy. How high a price are you willing to pay, for Sauron’s head on a pike?”

 

Elladan’s eyes held bitterness, yet for a moment Elrond was proud of his eldest despite his sorrow. Nonetheless he had to speak the facts of the matter.

 

“Unlike other fathers, I have more to consider than my children alone,” he said, gentle but firm. “Whether you rue it or not, I am indeed the Lord of Imladris, and regent of the High Elves in Ennor. Every soul in this valley and countless ones beyond look towards me for protection against the Enemy. Elrohir’s rashness could have doomed us all. Glorfindel has the right of it when he reminds me that I cannot allow your brother to risk himself like that again.” 

 

Elrond drew a deep breath, and launched into the most sorrowful part of his message. “Your grandfather suggests guarding Elrohir in Lórien. He would be left free to wander the woods as he pleases. Between the keen eyes of the Galadhrim and your grandmother’s wards another escape is unlikely. Tell me what you believe should be done?”

 

Pain stood clear as day in Elladan’s face. “Nothing. Elrohir belongs nowhere but here. His heart would be turned from you forever if you send him away, assuming he survives the sorrow of it! Elrohir loves us, and he now knows his own mind. For that alone he will bear the strangeness of the Elves long enough to become one of us.”

 

Elladan’s right hand had gently combed through Elrohir’s ruffled hair throughout their conversation, smoothing it once more before coming to rest cupping his brother’s cheek. For a moment Elrohir’s slow, deep breathing was the only sound in the room.   

 

“Elrohir will not do this again.” Elladan murmured it, as if afraid his brother would overhear. “He will see reason.”  

 

Elrond’s reply was matter-of-fact. “By which you mean that you will try your hardest to persuade him.”

 

Elladan did not respond, but the harsh determination in his eyes was a strange counterpoint to the tenderness of his hands.

 

Elrohir stirred, his mind briefly flaring up to almost-consciousness. Elladan splayed his hands over his brother’s shoulders. Elrond felt echoes of the wave of warm reassurance that passed between them, and Elrohir sank back into stillness. Elladan sagged. His stroking hands shook almost imperceptibly. This night would bring him another long and weary vigil, and Elrond could tell how deeply the previous day’s frantic ride in fear and doubt had sapped him.

 

“Would you like me to sit with him for a time?”

 

Elladan shook his head. “He will panic when he realizes you are not me, and do something regrettable to your stitches.”

 

This smooth, natural authority Elladan acquired overnight was both unsettling and a source of fatherly pride. Elrond was no longer in charge of Elrohir’s care. He now deferred to one who effortlessly held a level of understanding he could never aspire to. 

 

Complete darkness had fallen outside. A wedge of poppy-coloured light from the hearthfire spilling across the floorboards was the room’s only illumination. Elladan resumed stroking Elrohir’s hair with hands that now trembled outright. Elrond longed to hold Elladan, comfort him like a father should, like he would have done but days ago. Not today. Somehow their closeness had been lost along with Elrohir. 

 

Elrond found himself merely a part of a hostile world trying to pull the twins apart. With a heart full of sorrow at how things had come to this, Elrond rose to kiss Elladan’s cheek and the pale, bruised skin of Elrohir’s before taking his leave. 

 

----

 

He found Celebrían waiting in Elrohir’s anteroom. She seemed to be contemplating the black rectangle of the window. The night was clouded and the diamond-paned glass showed little but her reflected face, pale and grim. She had changed into her most formal robes of state, the draped folds of night-blue samite stiff with silver embroidery. The mithril clasps holding her strict, gem-pinned braids glinted like lightning, and her in eyes shone anger fierce as  starlight upon steel.

She was holding Elrond’s sword, Hadhafang, in its bejewelled ceremonial sheath, and with a shudder of premonition Elrond noticed she had already undone he gold-threaded peace ties. Never before had he seen the Lady of Imladris seethe with such calm, calculated fury.

“The council has gathered, and Glorfindel is swearing in the witnesses." Celebrían said with an air of sombre dignity. "Come, Elrond. Let us get this over with.”

 

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Chapter End Notes

Writing this chapter was a balancing act, particularly in the characterizations. Emotions run high and everyone wants what's best for Elrohir, if only they could agree on any given definition of best!

I'd love to hear readers' thoughts on the chapter! What do you think should happen next? What do you expect Elrond and Celebrían will do?

For those wondering who Lindalië is, she first appears at Maedhros' bedside in my First Age story 'The King's Peace'.