Northern Skies by Idrils Scribe

---

Chapter 30

---

Elrohir could not keep from startling at the shocking cold of the tincture against his wound. The scents of athelas and strong spirits were overpowering despite the open windows. Elrond deftly swiped a few stray drops with a wad of gauze before they could run further down Elrohir’s chest. There was surprisingly little pain, and soon a wholesome warmth began to spread through his body. Elrond pored over the long line of fine silk stitches running down Elrohir’s side as if appreciating some particularly artful piece of Elvish embroidery. When he straightened himself he smiled, relieved and satisfied.

 

“We will leave them in for another two days,” Elrond said, stoppering the vial of medicine. “The wound is healing well, but I would not risk the lower part reopening. Even so, you may leave your bed for a while.”

 

A smile and a nod were all Elrohir could manage from where he lay stretched out on his side, left arm folded over his head to leave his wound exposed for Elrond’s ministrations. Even before his flight conversations with his formidable father had carried a certain awkwardness. The words to capture today’s daunting level of unease eluded him in any of his expanding collection of languages. Even fully clothed and capable of standing he would have struggled for some sensible thing to say. From his current position a look of contriteness and as little eye contact as possible were all he managed to produce. 

 

He longed for Elladan and that prim, diplomatic manner his brother could summon at will. Elrond’s first deed upon setting foot in Elrohir’s room had been to summarily dismiss Elladan, who stumbled with exhaustion after two days and nights at Elrohir’s bedside, to sleep off the long vigil in his own bed.  

 

“I will replace the bandages. Would you like to wear a loose shirt over them?”

 

Elrohir nodded, and Elrond pulled him to sitting on the edge of his bed. Crippling dizziness struck hard. As Elrohir dry-heaved and embarrassed himself even further, Elrond quickly retrieved a copper bowl from a side table laden with healers’ supplies. He waited with perfect equanimity for Elrohir’s stomach to settle. Between retches a warm hand came to rest against the bare skin of his shoulder, and the pulse of strange, tingling heat that flowed from it seemed to ease the unrest in his body. 

 

Elrohir still needed a frustrating amount of help to raise his arms enough for Elrond to wrap him in fresh bandages from shoulder to hip. When the wound was dressed to Elrond’s apparent satisfaction he fetched a linen tunic from the wardrobe. He carefully lifted Elrohir’s left arm to ease it into the sleeve, and pulled the garment over his head. Now that the worst of the pain had abated Elrohir began to resent needing to be dressed like a child’s doll. Elrond tactfully left the buttons at his throat to him, and turned away to divest himself of the healer’s smock he had worn to protect his fine silk tunic.

 

“Would you like to sit by the window and see the sky?”

 

In different circumstances the sheer Elvishness of the offer would have made Elrohir crack a smile. The painful hobble from bed to windowseat was a stark reminder of how close his brush with death had been. He made it with great difficulty, leaning heavily on Elrond’s supporting arm. Despite the effort what had to be a mild, rainy summer evening felt cold enough for a fur-lined winter cloak. The one Elrohir had absconded with -- and ruined beyond salvaging -- had been quietly replaced.

 

Outside the casements low grey clouds, soft as down-feather blankets, curled around the mountain ridges and draped over the dripping crowns of the spruce forests. They lent the late dusk of high summer falling over the valley a sense of intimacy. The sight, along with the bracing outside air with its clean scent of wet pines, filled a longing he had not consciously perceived.  

 

Elrohir should have known that Elrond would slide into the seat opposite his, to send him an unnerving Elvish look that seemed to pierce him down to his very soul. He could not summon the nerve to meet his father’s eyes, but he had never been one for postponing the inevitable.

 

“Apologies will not set this right, but for what they are worth ...”

 

Elrond shook his head, and Elrohir’s voice faltered like a sail in a sudden lee.

 

“I appreciate the sentiment,” Elrond said, ‘But I should have seen this coming, and kept you from it. I should have been far more perceptive.”

 

Somehow being deprived of responsibility for his own actions was worse than any censure, enough so to make Elrohir bristle. “I am no child, whose nursemaid should have paid better attention.”

 

Elrond shook his head. “No, you most certainly are not. You are on the cusp between child and man, neither and both in that unprecedented way unique to our House. My task was to keep you safe, and I have failed you. I should indeed have paid better attention.”   

 

Elrohir was entirely at sea, but he knew that between the two of them Elrond should not be the one falling prey to self-reproach. He soldiered on, eyes fixed on the intricate silver brooch holding the collar of Elrond’s tunic closed at the throat. 

 

“I should thank you ...” He hesitated, faltered, began anew. ”Both Mother and you, for risking yourselves to save me from … from Him.” Elrohir shuddered at the memory of the shadowed lands, and the sheer horror of the one who would have bound him there if not for Elrond and Celebrían. 

He had to force the words from his unwilling mouth. “His Eye … He saw straight through me, knew all about me, about Harad, somehow. He had no voice but he still spoke, terrible things. Is he truly …?” 

 

Elrohir found his tongue too stiff and dry to bend itself around that name.  His voice failed him, and it was as if a shadow deeper than the falling twilight covered the river and the gardens outside. He battled a sudden, irrational desire to slam the window shut, or at least get away from it before some horror might leap through. His wound stung with sharp, breathtaking pain.

 

Elrond took Elrohir’s hand between his own much warmer ones. He did not speak, but sang a single cantrip of sonorous Quenya. Elrohir could not tell whether it changed the world around them or merely eased his mind, but the fear and pain receded as quickly as they had come. 

 

Grey curtains of rain descended, silver in the last of the waning daylight, as if to cleanse the valley of the last vestiges of shadow. For an instant Elrond appeared transparent, a cloaked vessel carrying a great power, as he had been beyond the veil. Knowing himself protected, Elrohir felt no more threat when the answer to his question came at last.  

 

“He is Sauron, or the Zigûr as you heard him called in Umbar. He knows our House well indeed.” A trace of some ancient pain rippled across Elrond’s face as he spoke. “I am counted among his greatest enemies, and all my kin are singled out for his particular hatred. While he endures it will pursue you wherever you may go from East to West, unless you choose to pass beyond the Sea.”

 

A sudden, unthinkable insight struck Elrohir like a well-aimed arrow. “He is a god, and you mean to kill him!” He shivered despite the unseasonable cloak. “That is why this house still stands, why you have not sailed West after your king fell. You will avenge him first!”  

 

The very idea that anyone, even an Elf as ancient and powerful as Elrond, would dare threaten a god seemed impossible to contain. 

 

Elrond nodded, his face all hard determination. “Destroying one of the Ainur may seem impossible, but greater deeds have been achieved with naught but Estel.”

 

Elrohir shot him a look of disbelief. “You have more than hope alone. I saw you wield some great Elf-sorcery, in the Empty Lands.”

 

Elrond did not bat an eye. “We do not speak of that even here. The Enemy suspects, but he does not know. We must hold on to that advantage, and keep him in the dark.”

 

Elrohir’s entire left side had become a deep, throbbing agony. He surreptitiously leant on the windowsill for balance, trying to hide the shaking of his hands beneath the fur trim of his cloak. At the sight Elrond rose to pour him mulled wine from a small copper kettle left to steep over the fire. Elrohir was grateful for it as he warmed his chilled fingers on the cup. The wine was sweet and fragrant. A bitter, medicinal aftertaste had been covered with skill, barely perceived beneath cinnamon and spooned honey, and soon the pain began to recede. 

  

“I will not burden you today with the long list of realms Sauron has laid to ruin, nor with the names of the slain, the captured, the missing.” Elrond said. His face was darkened with pain as he sat down in the window seat beside Elrohir, close and yet not touching. “My aim serves more than vengeance alone. The sons and daughters of Númenor are my kin, my brother’s children. I will not wash my hands of them, to retreat behind the wards of the Valar while they inherit a world blighted by him.” 

 

He turned to face Elrohir with an unfathomable expression. “I alone took this upon me, not you or Elladan. Your lives are your own, but while you remain in Middle-earth I cannot lift the Enemy’s persecution from you. You have my blessing to sail West at any time, should you wish it. ”

 

Elrond left the idea floating in the air for Elrohir to grasp -- or not -- while he remained seemingly impassive. Straightforwardness was a rare thing among the Elves. For a painful moment Elrohir was left to wonder whether he was being asked to leave in the gentlest of ways, or the exact opposite. All he knew was that this particular choice was not his alone.

 

“Elladan has no desire to leave his home.” Elrohir’s eyes caught Elrond’s, and he saw something much like relief. It gave him the courage to continue the plea he had silently rehearsed every waking moment of the past day. “I have done nothing to earn your good will, and I do not presume to ask for favours. For Elladan’s sake only would I ask you not to separate us. Should you allow me to stay, I will be of better use than I have, and aid your cause in whatever way you think most useful.”

 

Elrond was quick to cut him off. “Child, the simple fact that you exist entitles you to a place in my heart and house, without need for you to serve any use at all.” 

 

Elrond’s eyes lit on Elrohir’s harp from Harad, so long unplayed. In all this commotion some Elvish harper had found time to restring it and polish the battered cedarwood to its former gloss. The instrument now stood on display on a sideboard, a wordless invitation. 

 

“If all you achieved for the foreseeable future was to sit beside the Bruinen and play the harp, that would be enough.” The words were spoken with a ghost of a smile.

 

Elrohir briefly contemplated the curious -- and most Elvish -- idea before shaking his head. “We both know it would not,” he said dispassionately. “Not with a war ongoing. I might as well try my hand at killing gods -- I have an account of my own to settle with the Zigûr.”

 

Elrond took Elrohir’s hand from where it rested in his lap, turning it over in his own to trace the faint purple outline of vanishing bruises where the great Orc had grasped his wrist. 

Elrohir shuddered at the memory. The creature’s brutal force, its stench, the horrific realization that it wanted him alive. 

 

“I will not say that I forgive you, because you should carry no guilt over any of this.” 

Elrond’s voice was soft, and gentle as the rustling rain outside. “I ask but one thing: never risk yourself like that again. All alone, unguarded and unguided ... you knew the danger, in your heart of hearts, but you felt fey and fearless because what would befall you did not seem to matter. As you have seen it matters very much indeed to a great deal of people, myself included.”

 

Elrond’s eyes were open and honest when they caught his, and Elrohir was quick to nod. The simple, private gesture somehow seemed far more binding than the solemn oath he had been made to swear in the great hall, what felt like an eternity ago. 

For a long time Elrond did nothing but hold Elrohir’s hand between his own, and that wordless show of care did more to calm his fears than any lengthy outpouring of reassurance could. It was a reminder, firm and tangible, that Elrohir was no longer alone.   

 

Night had fallen, wrapped in deep, moonless cloud. The waters of the Bruinen rustled with rain, and somewhere on the banks a lone woman’s voice wove the river’s song into her own: the sweet pain of longing for other rivers, under younger stars.

 

The well-lit room at their backs turned the view before them to a sheet of solid black, broken only by illuminated windows in other wings of the house and the small storm lanterns carried by patrolling guards. Elrohir knew there would be other sentries moving invisibly through the night, a fine web spread out to make the entire valley into an impenetrable stronghold. Whether one felt caged or secured on the inside was entirely a matter of perspective. 

 

Elrohir vowed to keep this promise. He would make himself grow used to it, in time. 

 

Elrond’s mind appeared to run along similar lines. “The walls of this valley tend to close in on those who need moving feet in order to quiet their thoughts. You will travel far in years to come, to the wildest and the most cultured of places, and speak on behalf of our House in many tongues.”  

 

Elrond had never been a predictable man, but this sufficed to leave Elrohir flabbergasted. “I broke my oath of fealty, needing rescue at great peril, and your response is to make me an envoy?!”

 

His stunned face must have been a sight to behold, because Elrond smiled, a brief flash of mirth across his grave face. “In due time. You are very young, and very unwell. Demanding that you take your oath so soon was a heavy-handed attempt to obtain an allegiance you would likely have offered freely, had I shown you greater patience.”

 

The smile disappeared like sun behind heavy cloud on Elrond’s next thought. “Your father sees nothing to forgive, but you swore that oath to your lord.” He took a deep breath, like a healer would before delivering ill news. “A case could be made that you committed desertion. Both in this house and abroad there are those who would take my silence on he matter for weakness. Justice must have its course, even for a son of the House. Once you regain your strength your first public appearance will be a court hearing in the presence of my council.”

 

Fear leapt snarling at Elrohir’s throat, and Elrond winced in sympathy. “You will not stand trial alone! I have appointed Erestor as your counsel. He is the greatest scholar of law alive in Ennor.

 

Elrond’s voice grew matter-of-fact as he set out what was clearly a well-considered plan. “He will plead extenuating circumstances, and direct you in a suitable public display of contrition. Once you have convincingly repented of your deeds Erestor will petition for a full pardon.” 

 

He smiled with fox-like cleverness. “Rest assured that one will be granted. You and I will reconcile with proper pomp and circumstance and a feast in the great hall, so all in Imladris can bear witness that their ruling House stands undivided.”    

 

Elrohir belatedly realized that this would be no trial but a play, a public performance carefully scripted to make Elrond’s people witness their lord’s strictness -- and his mercy. To play the part of the remorseful penitent would be reparation rather than punishment.

 

In the mountains Elrohir’s fevered imagination had dreamt up a grisly parade of punishments Elrond might inflict in retribution for his escape. The reality of it seemed too good to be true.  “What will your people say of a lord who lets desertion go unpunished?”

 

“They will call me wise.” Elrond answered. “You have suffered pain and fear enough.” He shuddered, seemingly upset at the very thought. “You would never forget it if I were to inflict some petty cruelty on you out of spite. Harshness breeds nothing worth having, neither love nor loyalty.” 

 

He hesitated for a moment, then touched Elrohir’s face in a gesture both tender and restrained. “I would have you stay under my roof  for more than duty alone.”

 

There it was again, Elrond’s deeply honest admission that in this particular arena Elrohir held the mighty Lord of Imladris in his hands. The responsibility felt unbearably great, and for a moment Elrohir flinched at what the sight of this very room abandoned must have done to Elrond. In the same heartbeat a tide of relief washed over him. To flee the ties of his very blood and break a sworn oath had seemed an unforgivable, irreversible deed. It seemed he could overcome even that. 

 

“I thank you for your kindness, but will it be enough?  My disappearance must have ruffled some feathers. Glorfindel has lost me twice now.”

 

Elrond thought for a moment. “Do not mistake Glorfindel for a bearer of petty grudges,” He explained, clearly eager to restore Elrohir’s trust in his rescuer. ”He never sired children of his own, and he has a father’s care for mine. Seeing you a hair’s breadth from being captured has shaken him to his core. He lost one of his wards before, long ago, and great evil came from that. You would be safest across the Sea, and I admit that Glorfindel has argued for you to be set upon that road. I will explain to him my reasons for disregarding his advice -- he will come to accept them.”   

 

Since he had opened his eyes Elrohir had not seen or spoken with a living soul beside Elladan, Celebrían and Elrond. The solitude had let him forget what accusing whispers might be flying beyond the sheltering walls of his bedroom. 

 

Elrond sensed his apprehension. “You remain a child to the eyes of my people, and the Elvish fondness of children is near endless. Your mother and I had hard work keeping your well-wishers at bay so you might have some peace.” 

 

Elrond’s smile seemed almost indulgent. “Ardil sends his regards. He spent the past night hunting on your behalf. The larger game seems to have eluded him, but he did bring in a grouse for the broth you ate this afternoon. He insists that tame chicken cannot compare. 

 

“Your grandfather and he insist that you need forest air. They will visit in the morning, unless you object to being carried outside to sit beneath the trees -- I could tell them that you are still running a fever?”

 

Another impossibility was made real when Elrond Peredhel, son of the Evening Star, Lord of Imladris and greatest of the remaining princes of the High Elves in Middle-earth, clearly and indisputably winked. 

 

The sight of it was so cheerful and unexpected Elrohir could not help but laugh. “The sooner I get it over with, the better.” 

 

A moment later all mirth fled him at the thought of being out in the woods. “What of Serdir?” The memory of being desperate and at the Elf’s cruel mercy was fresh and painful. 

 

For an instant Elrond’s mind was awash in anger, brief and quickly hidden. “Serdir no longer poses a threat. You may sit under every last tree in this valley without fear.”

 

On some level Elrohir had known that Serdir’s blatant challenge to Elrond’s authority would not be allowed to stand. Even so, he felt only shock and dread. “What did you do to him?”

 

“Know that Serdir fully intended for you to die.” Elrond’s hands curled into fists as he spoke. “The path he set you on is so infested with Orcs that even our most experienced warriors tread it with great care. To abandon you there was high treason, the act of a kinslayer. Serdir was dealt with as such.”

 

Visceral horror gripped Elrohir’s throat at the image of Serdir’s blood washing the courtyard’s pale flagstones in red.  

 

Elrond shook his head. “He was exiled. I will have neither your reputation nor this valley stained with Elvish blood.”

 

Elrohir did not know if what he felt was shock or relief. “Where will he go?”

 

“Neither Lindon nor Lórien will accept him after this, and he knows it. He has nowhere to go but east.” Elrond’s voice held a distinct note of satisfaction. “Your grandfather sent one of his people to the court of the Greenwood to recount the full tale before Serdir sets foot in that realm. He will find Thranduil’s doors closed. He shall have to carve out a life in some remote Silvan settlement.”

 

This seemed far too easy a resolution to Serdir’s hatred. “Will making him a martyr stamp out his ideas, or reinforce them?”

 

Elrond smiled, vicious as a great cat hunting, and Elrohir was reminded that here was a man who had commanded armies. “Elves -- regardless of kindred -- take most unkindly to kinslayers, especially when the very young are involved. Serdir left this valley without a single retainer. His people swore their new oaths of allegiance to your mother. Proving your mettle to the Elves will be a long work, but that fool unwittingly provided you with a fair chance at it.”       

 

Elrohir’s eyelids grew heavy. Something suspiciously like poppy struck his mind with the warm weight of sleep, and he remembered how the wine had tasted of more than honey.  

He was loathe to give in to the pull just yet. 

 

“I dreamt of a golden lady.” He managed to utter despite the sleepy slur in his voice. “Sauron was afraid of her. Is she a god too, or a figment of my imagination?” 

 

Elrond mulled this over as he rose to help Elrohir limp back to the blessed relief of his bed. He pulled up the blankets and took his time arranging the pillows so Elrohir’s movements  would not jar his wound as he slept. When this was done his expression grew unreadable, until he leaned in to kiss Elrohir’s forehead. Despite the gesture’s abrupt intimacy it felt somehow appropriate. Elrohir let himself bask in this new sense of belonging, his consciousness already unraveling at the edges. 

 

In silence Elrond extinguished all but one of the wall sconces before settling down for the night in the golden pool of light it cast over Elrohir’s writing desk. Elrond’s esquire had brought in a sheaf of parchments earlier, and soon the polished oak surface was covered in official correspondence in various states of composition, some already bearing the blue wax seals of Imladris. 

 

Elrond’s voice held a certain wry amusement when he finally answered Elrohir’s question.

 

“Your grandmother is neither Ainu nor figment. Be sure to mention Sauron being frightened when you meet her -- she will be delighted. They have an old account to settle.”

---

Chapter End Notes

For the first time ever I'm actually nervous about posting! This chapter was the hardest thing I've ever written. It's the entire series' capstone: Elrohir and Elrond had to pick up all of the plotlines and tie them into a resolution, and they both had to stay in character while doing it. Of course I'm dying to hear from readers if it's working!

Would you like to read more about Elrohir's life in Harad? Take a look at my new story 'The Art of Ending'

Also, I proudly present a completely rewritten and improved version of 'Under Strange Stars'