Northern Skies by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 29

Many thanks to Raiyana and Ignoblebard for helping me figure out the inner workings of the Elvish criminal justice system.

Clouded night lay heavy over the great house when a silent, grey-robed company crossed the courtyard towards a forbidding stone building near the barracks. Gildor was among them, as was Borndis, tall and regal in her Nandorin chieftainess’ cloak of gleaming magpie’s feathers. In the light of day the artful cape would have been a many-coloured delight of iridescent blue and green, but this starless dark made it glint like armour. Celeborn had relegated a stony-faced Lady Aglarebeth as witness for the Sindar of Lórien, and Elrond a throng of others who should observe the proceedings in some official capacity. 

 

Erestor led the sombre procession, sword and sceptre in hand. He had his calm magistrate’s face firmly in place, though his hold on the symbols of Elrond’s authority was white-knuckled. He would have preferred his own sword for so delicate a task, but he knew better than to publicly display a blade marked with the star of Fëanor.

 

Once inside, the reddish light of their oil-lamps seemed to wash the cell’s white walls in blood. Serdir rose from his bench, blanket dropping to the floor as he stood to face his nocturnal visitors. His pupils widened at the sight of the High King’s sceptre in Erestor’s hands. He knew what was to come, and his face fell from terror to despair to bleak understanding as the stern company trooped into the small room. 

 

“Do the lord and lady approve of your slaughtering their prisoners in the night?”

 

Serdir’s eyes were wild. His entire body tensed like a snared animal holds still for the hunter’s approach, only to leap up and grab his throat.   

 

“Rest assured that they do.” Erestor answered dispassionately. “But moments ago I took an executioner’s oath before them. They have heard all testimonies, and your sentence was pronounced. You will not see another sunrise over this valley.”

 

“So their son has died.” Serdir’s eyes shone wet, and he swallowed around a lump of tears. “Please tell me, did he suffer? I never meant for him to suffer!”

  

Whether this was genuine remorse or merely concern about the manner of his own punishment Erestor could not tell. 

 

Before he could answer Borndis’ voice slapped like a whip. “The child lives!” she snarled, the melodious Silvan words ugly with rage. “He was cut open, body and spirit, and had to run for his life with those injuries. Even Erestor does not have the stomach to inflict the same on you!” 

 

Elrohir’s misfortunes had reopened many old wounds, Borndis’ among them. She lost a son on the Dagorlad, Erestor recalled, a merry, dark-haired archer who had not yet seen two long-years when Sauron’s orcs tore him to pieces. 

 

Serdir buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook, and for a moment Erestor felt something like compassion. Some deeds were irreversible no matter how deeply one regretted them, a dark faultline running through the fabric of life to its very end. He could offer no mercy but swiftness. 

 

Erestor gestured for Canissë and Ardil. The Fëanorian and the son of Doriath stepped from the throng of mingled warriors with identical efficient grace. Serdir did not struggle against the hands that held him still to undo the collar of his tunic, exposing the white expanse of his neck. His face was ashen and he was murmuring a Silvan prayer to Elbereth under his breath. Neither Ardil nor Canissë wavered when Erestor unsheathed Hadhafang, Elrond’s own sword. Borndis watched, silent and pale. 

 

Serdir’s simple dark braid fell down to his hips. In a strange mirror of a lover’s intimacy Erestor lifted the thick cable of hair and wound it around his hand to pull back Serdir’s head. 

 

Erestor had inflicted this particular punishment seven times over three ages in both Maedhros’ and Elrond’s names, and still it felt like a greater violation than an actual kill. Hadhafang snicked through Serdir’s braid with a tearing sound, and the pitiable remnant of his hair fell loose about his face. Erestor dropped the severed braid to the floor with a revulsion sprung partly from the similarity to an amputated limb, partly from the sheer impropriety of handling a stranger’s hair.      

 

Serdir looked up in astonishment. With a jaw-length bell of dark strands falling around his head he looked much like Elrohir had when he returned from Harad. Serdir had had no part in inflicting that particular humiliation on the boy, but it still seemed fitting to have him subject to it now. Erestor contemplated the serendipitous justice with a wave of regret. Even this would not suffice. To complete Serdir’s full sentence he switched to the sleek Sindarin hunting dagger Ardil proffered. He recognized the finely engraved weapon as Celebrían’s, loaned for the purpose. With the smaller blade Erestor could lop off great fistfulls of hair close to Serdir’s scalp without shedding blood. It felt sleek and oily against his palm, and each cut made an alien, swishing sound. Flocks of hair drifted down to cover the pale flagstones like soot-blackened snow, the strands gleaming a dull red with the light. 

 

Serdir went limp with shock, held up by Canissë and Ardil’s restraining hands. His breath came in great, irregular gasps that might have been sobs, but Erestor remained dispassionate as he continued his task.  Their observers were silent, looking on in a strange blend of horror and fascination. Erestor knew that most had never before witnessed such a punishment – and each one imagined their own locks falling as Serdir’s, which was half the point of their presence. Some among Elrond’s liegemen could do with a reminder that their lord’s healing hands were capable of making a formidable fist. 

 

Gildor’s face and mind were shuttered as he watched his charge’s sentence carried out. He had never been one for wanton cruelty, but he would see the law upheld. Erestor cut away a final handful of hair, and suddenly Serdir did look like a thrall, his leaf-shaped ears standing almost bat-like from a skull covered in little more than ragged bristles. 

 

“Now your head looks as wicked as your heart,” Ardil sneered. “And let all who meet you know it.” 

 

Erestor quelled him with a dark look, kicking a bit of loose hair off his boot. He handed the dagger hilt-first to Ardil and stepped back to look the condemned man in the eye.

 

“You are no kinslayer,” he said, hardly surprised to see relief mingling into Serdir’s expression like a ripple across a pond. “It was a near thing, though.” Fixing Serdir’s trembling form with a sharp glare, Erestor continued, his words cold as the mountain peaks. “Elrohir’s injuries are grave but he will recover, and none of our warriors lost their lives rescuing him from your wickedness.” 

 

He did not mention Elrond and Galadriel’s knife-edged battle. That particular tale touched too closely upon this House’s best guarded secret.

 

“Hear now your lieges’ judgement for your high treason, Serdir son of Saeros!” Erestor spoke in his orators’ voice, making sure even those watchers crowding the hallway outside could hear. “Your allegiance to the House of Eärendil is ended, and their protection withdrawn from you. You are hereby banished from Imladris, Lórien and any other realm ruled by the Houses of Finwë and Elwë.” 

 

“Will Lord Elrond not allow me to plead for clemency?” Serdir asked, looking like he believed such a thing remained possible. Erestor did not know what he saw in his face, but Serdir’s voice quivered when he continued: “Or the Lady Celebrían?”

 

At that, someone at the back of the room gasped, a strange sound between a sob and a snort. Erestor paid them no heed. 

 

“The lord and lady are tending to their sons, and neither has any desire to leave them to deal with you.” He nodded at Ardil and Canissë, who released their captive at once. 

 

“Consider it a mercy,” He continued, watching Serdir scramble to his feet. “The sight of you might enrage the lady enough to have you thrown from a cliff after all.”  

 

He paused to look Serdir in the eye, letting him see the very real desire he still felt to do just that.

 

Serdir blanched. “What of my people?”

  

“Your folk have been asked to renounce you and elect another chieftain,” Erestor replied. “They are swearing new oaths of fealty as we speak.” 

 

Serdir shuddered once, and part of Erestor felt a reluctant respect for his display of dignity; he had expected more protests from the proud and stubborn man he knew. 

 

“Those who wish to follow you into exile may do so, but the same punishment will fall upon them.” 

 

Serdir winced as if struck, his eyes darting down to the scatter of dark hair around his feet. 

 

“Go now.” Erestor motioned towards the open cell door. “None will hinder you while the night lasts, but your life is forfeit if sunrise finds you within the borders of Imladris. You have some hours left.” 

 

He paused to look at Ardil and Canissë. Both faces were grim with the eager determination of a hunting wolfpack. “I suggest you make haste. Some here are keen on catching you.”

 

Seen from the well-lit cell the starless dark outside was a wall of solid black. Serdir stared at it in horror. “So Lord Elrond’s executioner turns me out to die by other hands. You know what awaits in the mountains.”

 

Erestor shook his head. “You are permitted the use of the Great East Road across the High Pass. You will find it entirely free of Orcs.” 

  

-----

Water sang with merry voices as it ran over a bed of stones. 

The sound pulled Elrohir up to consciousness. Dazed, he wondered how he had been careless enough to fall asleep on a riverbank. His heart lurched when sudden understanding dawned. 

 

The Bruinen. 

 

Imladris.

 

It took all his self-restraint to keep his eyes closed and his body relaxed, give himself time to find his bearings before announcing to whoever was guarding him that he was awake. His searching fingertips met the soft give of clean linen. When he dared to open his eyes it was to his own bedroom instead of some sombre place with a locking door. 

 

Elrohir blinked against the light stinging his eyes. Outside, a fair day was dawning. The casements stood wide open to a view of distant slopes, their pine forests rich and green under the golden light of a summer sunrise. Robins twittered in the flowering honeysuckle that climbed against the house. The fresh scent of its elegant blooms, bright little rubies sprinkled among the leaves, stood sweet in the balmy air. For a moment he allowed himself to rejoice in how safe and familiar this place seemed after the last days’ horrors. 

 

Soon enough the reality of his situation struck once more. His increasingly frantic search for Elladan found his brother’s mind still and unreachable. Elrohir shook with terror at the thought of what might have happened to Elladan in the mountains. His panicked attempt at sitting up caused a stab of pain so fiery that he sank back against the mattress with a groan. 

 

Somewhere beside his head came a rustling of robes. A cloud of silver hair drifted into his peripheral vision as Celebrían rose from an armchair at the bedside.  The sight of her made for an even rougher awakening: pale and drawn, skin taut over the sharp bones of her face. Only in her eyes the light of her spirit still lingered. 

 

Given the state of her that radiant smile was a jarring contrast, an unexpected mercy where he had braced himself for her anger. Elrohir had only the briefest of moments to examine the expression before she leant in to embrace him and buried her face against his shoulder. Elrohir would gladly have returned the gesture had a white-hot spike of pain not pinned him to the bed, flat on his back. 

 

As he turned his head to give her at least some response, a lock of his own hair fell on his face.  With great effort Elrohir raised a hand to push it out of his eyes. His arm weighed like lead, and he recognized the languorous heaviness of poppy milk. If his memory served his head should be matted with caked blood. His hair felt clean now, with a faint scent of Elvish soap. Even his hand seemed somehow changed, and with a jolt Elrohir realized that all traces of blood - both the Orc’s and his own - were gone, and his torn fingernails neatly trimmed. Even in his drugged haze he understood he had to be very ill indeed if he had slept through all that. 

 

The mattress dipped as Celebrían sat down beside him. She caught Elrohir’s hand and took it between her own. Relief washed over him at the sight of his mother, and the feeling was mutual. Celebrían’s mind brimmed with it as she felt the pulse at his wrist, seeming greatly reassured by what she found.

 

“Elladan?” Elrohir had meant to say more, make a proper sentence, but the crow-like croak that emerged from his sore throat was painful.

 

Celebrían pointed across the room. “He refused to leave you, but he was exhausted.” 

 

Only then did Elrohir notice the cot set up beside his own bed. Even with Elladan’s eyes open in the glassy, unfocused stare of Elvish dreams his face was the most beautiful sight of Elrohir’s life. Whatever unpleasant consequences might come from his failed escape, at least Elladan had survived.

 

Elrohir’s tongue seemed too stiff to form words, his mind stuffed with wool. On some level he was afraid, but the medicine let him float above it. He felt unstable, about to sink back into the warm darkness pulling him down between threads of thought.

 

 It took him several tries to manage another word. “How long?” 

 

“It is the morning of the second day since Gwaihir carried you home.” Celebrían’s voice was soft and hoarse with exhaustion, but her care seemed genuine. “The weapon that struck you was poisoned, and some of it remained in the wound. Your father removed it soon after your return. Still you bled much and spiked high fevers. I am glad to see you awake.”

 

Her smile grew drawn. Clearly she had taken no rest at all. Nonetheless Elrohir could feel her mind surround his own, holding him up.

 

“No more. You are not well.” He croaked.

 

“Well enough,” Celebrían smiled, “And all the better for hearing your voice. I would be glad if you drank some water. You have gone without for too long.”

 

Her hands were gentle when she pulled him to sitting. Despite the poppy even that small movement was agony like being sliced in two once more. Elrohir had been determined not to embarrass himself, but he cried out nonetheless. Celebrían winced at the hoarse, desperate sound. He sagged against her, his head on her shoulder and his eyes screwed shut beneath a sickening wave of red-hot pain. For a time Celebrían did nothing but hold him. Her hand made, long, comforting strokes through his hair as she sang some half-remembered Elvish cradle song. 

 

When he could hold up his own head again she handed him a cup. The water tasted of honey and herbs, fresh as springtime. His first careful sip awoke a ravenous thirst, and he drank greedily until she folded both her hands around his to take the drink away. 

 

“You can have more later, or you will make yourself ill.” 

 

Easing Elrohir back down against the pillows proved a slow and painful process. When she finally tucked the blankets in around him he was shaking.

 

“Are you cold?”

 

The question was absurd, at midsummer, but Elrohir shivered as if he was once more being hunted on the high snowfields in the sharp and pitiless cold. Celebrían understood. 

 

She disappeared through the half-open door to the anteroom. There were hushed whispers, another woman’s voice. Laerwen, perhaps. Moments later Celebrían returned with a fur-lined winter blanket, still bearing a faint scent of cedarwood from the linen chest. 

 

“Here. You will feel warmer soon, when you regain your strength.”

 

She took her place beside him once more, curling up in the armchair like a sleepy silver cat. 

For an instant Elrohir simply enjoyed being warm and well cared for, Elladan’s presence, the knowledge that his brother was safe. Sleep eluded him despite his drugged exhaustion.

 

“The woman, what did they do to her?” His voice sounded passable now, at least to his own ears. 

 

Celebrían’s look was all confusion. “What woman?”

 

“Snága.”

 

Her face grew unreadable. “The Orc. Did you speak with it?”

 

“Yes. Or no.” He hesitated, unsure whether an Elf would understand pity for an orc. ”I ordered and she obeyed. But she was ... very sad and very scared. What happened to her?”

 

Judging from Celebrían’s wave of sorrow Elvish warriors did one thing only, with Orcs. Elrohir closed his eyes against a flood of unbidden tears. They escaped regardless, running down the sides of his face to wet the hair at his temples. 

 

Celebrían could have pretended not to notice, and Elrohir could then have feigned sleep -- a polite and dignified course of action for them both. Instead she stroked his face with hands so gentle it seemed she expected him to crumble to dust at her touch. Her own cheeks were as wet as his.  Seeing her in pain was unbearable somehow, and Elrohir reached for her with shaking hands. 

 

Somehow it came to her holding him as he cried in great, gulping sobs he could not hold back even though each one seemed to burst open his wound. At first it was for the dark-eyed Orc-woman, her terror, the hopelessness of her death; in the end he wept for many things, most of them long ago and nameless.    

 

Celebrían wept too, but from the way she kept murmuring his name like a prayer it was definitely for him.

Chapter End Notes

This chapter was a challenge, plot-wise, and I'd love to hear readers' thoughts on how it turned out. Was Serdir's punishment what you expected? And Elrohir's waking? What do you expect will happen to him now?

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