Northern Skies by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 4

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Their seventh day in the saddle was a dark one, with leaden clouds like a low-hanging roof and constant threat of an autumn storm. Heavy fall winds from the slopes of the Misty Mountains whipped the column of Elf-riders, flapping their banners and streaming the long hair of horse and rider alike behind them. The cold seemed to trouble Elrohir. He was shivering despite the fur-lined cloak he wore over his mail, and Glorfindel caught him surreptitiously removing one of his leather riding gloves to warm his hand under Rochael’s long mane.

Glorfindel watched as Elladan sang to his brother. The melody was a classic Sindarin travelling song, its rhythm measured to the beats of a horse’s gait. Elrohir could not have understood the whimsical, teasing words but he smiled nonetheless, probably at Elladan’s joy felt through their bond.

Elrond looked over his shoulder to where his sons rode behind him. His gaze was dark with concern when it caught Glorfindel’s. Elrohir’s illness had not escaped the observant eye of the master-healer. In fact the more experienced warriors had noticed as well: that typical pale, translucent quality to Elrohir’s appearance that Elves could only come by through enough grief to set the fëa free from the body. Elladan remained blissfully unaware of his brother’s peril. He was a child of peace, born well after the Last Alliance -- a generation that never had to witness Elves dying of sorrow. Elrond and Celebrían had decided to spare him the knowledge until their return to Imladris, lest Elladan’s distress worsen Elrohir’s condition.

Though highly dangerous the illness was not irreversible. Glorfindel thought the reunion with Elladan had already caused some improvement. Nonetheless Elrohir still looked very unwell. He ate and slept when asked to, was polite and accommodating and had thus far not made any attempts at running away, which was the best one could hope for until the company reached the hidden valley.

Glorfindel turned his focus back to his task. As commander of the guard he was the heart of a living web that stretched from the cordon of warriors around Elrond and his family to the hidden sentries scouting the surrounding heathlands, a fine-meshed lacework of eyes and minds. With the easy habit of many years he extended his own consciousness along its threads, lightly brushing his warriors’ thoughts to check for irregularities. He instantly detected a fault -- a note of discord in the familiar, vibrant song of their collective awareness. Something had agitated the Silvan scouts guarding their eastern flank.

On sunless days such as this even the small grey Mountain Orcs could grow bold, this particular clan apparently enough so to leave the safety of their caves high in the Misty Mountains and venture into the foothills to raid the outliers of a heavily armed Elvish convoy. As Glorfindel received intelligence through the open minds of his scouts he called out for part of the main host to break away and engage the Orcs. The remaining warriors formed a protective ring of spears around their lord and his family.

Elrohir’s eyes widened. He could not understand Glorfindel’s spoken commands, but the ring of steel on steel and foul voices screaming behind the hill crest to their east meant only one thing in any language. His hand shot to his left hip, where it closed on empty air.  Fear set in at the realisation that Elladan and he alone among the company were completely unarmed. Cursing under his breath in Haradi he spun around to his saddle bags, convinced he was about to have his throat slit while digging around for whatever weapon he kept in there. Elladan, admirably calm despite this being his first brush with battle, leant over to take Elrohir’s hands and still them. Somehow he managed to soothe his brother. Elrohir sat stock-still on Rochael’s back, eyes fixed on the man-high brambles hiding the skirmish from view of the main host.

Glorfindel exchanged another meaningful look with Elrond. From what he had seen in Harad, he could guess what was in Elrohir’s saddle bag. Knowing him it would be a small arsenal rather than a single weapon, and all of it would have to be confiscated at the earliest opportunity. They could not risk him being startled or panicking in his current state and committing an accidental kinslaying. 

Tonight , Glorfindel spoke into Elrond’s mind. 

The Peredhel silently shook his head.

Not on the road. It would end in a struggle. As soon as we reach Imladris.

Glorfindel deferred to his lord only grudgingly. The safety of the warriors under his command was his responsibility, and he dreaded the thought of Elrohir misguidedly attacking one of them. Both Elrohir’s weapons and his skills were crude to Elvish standards, but they could be deadly enough when he wanted. The Haradrim did not strike to injure.

When the sounds of the skirmish died down Glorfindel nudged Asfaloth away from the main host to go inspect the remains of the brief battle for himself. The last of the Orcs were being killed off. Borndis, the scouts’ commander, had things fully under control, as was her wont. Even after three ages of perpetual war Glorfindel had never grown used to their black blood, wafting the cloying stink of rotten meat even when freshly spilled.

Several warriors moved among the sprawled cadavers to stab them a second time and make absolutely sure. Glorfindel waited in silence for Borndis to finish impaling the nearest corpse through the chest with a boar lance. Judging by the writhing, gurgling demise that followed the Orc had indeed been playing dead. When the gnarled limbs ceased their twitching Glorfindel knelt to examine the creature. These Orcs had strayed far from their usual hunting grounds on the high passes, and seemingly with little organised purpose. All were small, grey-skinned Snagas -- a slave-caste among the mountain tribes. The beasts looked emaciated, and even by Orcish standards their gear was unusually filthy and ragged.

Borndis knelt by Glorfindel’s side, the movement fluid and absolutely silent as only a Wood-elf could be. Her Sindarin had the soft lilt of one who rarely spoke anything other than her native Silvan language.

“This was an act of despair, rather than a targeted attack on Lord Elrond. They were ravenous.”

She pointed at the edge of the clearing. With his back against a birch tree sat Glingaer, one of the Silvan scouts. A crude arrow fletched with raven feathers protruded from his shoulder, his grey tunic sleeve stained a shiny rust-colour by freely flowing blood. Two of his comrades were in the process of severing the arrow shaft so Glingaer could rejoin the main host to have the barbed tip removed by a healer at a more opportune time.

A more telling injury gaped on the meaty part of Glingaer’s thigh. Ragged edges of torn skin and muscle formed the perfect imprint of a fanged mouth a mere hair’s breadth from the great artery. The Orcs’ hunger had far exceeded their bloodlust. They lost interest in the ongoing battle the instant Glingaer had been shot down from his perch in one of the birches, and abandoned their ill-conceived raid to devour him. Borndis’ warriors had picked them off with ease as they squabbled over their prize. Only one had gained a single mouthful of Elf-meat for its troubles.

Glorfindel recalled Elrohir’s desperate plans to trek through the northern wilds by himself in search of Imladris. He shuddered at the realisation that this desolate stretch of grey moorland was where the life of Elrond’s second son would have come to a cruel and senseless end, had they failed to intercept him in time. One man alone -- even one as clever and quick as Elrohir -- stood little chance against a marauding band of famished Orcs. The ravenous beasts would have torn him to pieces the instant they caught his scent, leaving nothing but splintered bones for Elrond’s search parties to carry home to Imladris. Glorfindel possessed enough humility to acknowledge that Elrohir’s safe retrieval was not his own doing. Clear roads, favourable winds, news travelling quickly where it should and remaining far from where it should not -- all matters beyond Glorfindel’s or even Elrond’s control. A hand far mightier than theirs had reached out to change the course of Elrohir’s fate, deftly lacing a changed thread into Ëa’s very warp and weft. Glorfindel sent Ulmo another silent prayer of thanks for his long care for the children of the line of Tuor and Turgon.

He banished his dark imaginings by singing a staunching song over Glingear’s wound. Glingaer was a veteran of many campaigns. The good-natured Wood-elf could spare an anguished grin for his captain even as Glorfindel aided him to gingerly mount Asfaloth. Glorfindel turned to lead his injured warrior back to the main host, leaving Borndis to oversee the disposal of the Orcs.

As they were let through the ring of mounted spearmen a cold, drizzling rain began to fall.  Elrond dismounted to examine Glingaer, but amidst the bustle of horses and Elves he could not avoid Elrohir catching a glimpse of the bite before it could be bandaged. Elrohir’s eyes widened at the realisation that this was no ordinary war wound. His voice was carefully level in a way Glorfindel had last heard just before their final battle in Harad.  

“Who attacked us?” he asked in Haradi, clearly unwilling to proclaim his ignorance of what was obvious to everyone else.

Glorfindel replied in the southern tongue. “Creatures the Haradrim have no name for. We call them Orcs. Fear not, they were all killed.”    

“I have never seen one, can I go take a look?” Elrohir asked, probably seeking to confirm his misguided idea that Orcs could not possibly be as horrific as he had been told.

Celebrían, who learned a rudimentary knowledge of Haradi from Glorfindel, whipped around in her saddle at overhearing that. Glorfindel did not require his lady’s prompting on the matter. The sight of a burning pile of mangled cadavers was the very last thing Elrohir needed in his current state. He would see no more violence for as long as it took him to heal. If he met his first Orc in another long-year it would be too soon, Glorfindel thought with fierce protectiveness.

“You should stay here. I will show you drawings, when we are home. Ask me any time you want.”

Elrohir seemed to consider protesting, then thought the better of it and nodded. Elrond had finished packing Glingaer’s wounds and signalled for the company to depart once more, eager to move his sons away before the smoke from the Orcs’ pyre would reach them. The stench of burning flesh would frighten Elladan, and give Elrohir yet another disturbing reminder of horrors past.

The encounter had obviously destroyed what little peace of mind Elrohir had enjoyed in the company of the Elves. As they rode he constantly scanned the wind-swept moorlands. Elladan sensed his brother’s unease, and made a few fruitless attempts to engage him in practicing Sindarin. Elrohir would have none of it.  From the rigid set of his shoulders and the way his eyes darted to every small rustle in the undergrowth, Glorfindel could tell that his nerves were frayed. 

As soon as they had left the battle behind far enough to have neither sight nor smell of the dead, Elrond mercifully ordered that the day’s march was at its end despite the early hour. The weather was dark enough that midafternoon already looked like dusk, the westering sun indiscernible even to Elven eyes behind heavy clouds grey as ashes. The rain had picked up to a steady downpour, soaking rider and horse to the skin despite their oilcloth cloaks. 

Elrohir seemed bewildered by the daytime gloom. He was trying and failing to hide his shivering in his damp clothes and the scything wind. There was no dry wood for campfires to be had in such a deluge, but the shelter of a tent, a dry change of clothes and a drink of miruvor did them all some good. Glorfindel spared more than one thought for the sentries guarding them in the worst of the weather, setting short shifts to avail everyone of the opportunity to warm up inside. He gave up his own tent to the Silvan scouts who would normally sleep under the stars, and had his and Gildor’s cots moved to the twins’ tent.

 Elrohir had been among the first to be made warm and dry. He was sitting cross-legged on his camp bed, almost disappearing into the thick folds of a grey woollen blanket. It was a standard-issue bedroll of the guards of Imladris, skillfully woven to be warm even when damp. He had it tightly wrapped around his shoulders, looking well and truly miserable despite the smile he gave Glorfindel. He had clearly never been this cold in his entire life. Glorfindel was among those who once crossed the Grinding Ice and a chilly autumn day was nothing to him, but after experiencing the glowing furnace that was Harad he understood something of Elrohir’s plight. 

Elrond had finished tending Glingaer’s wounds and was seeing to his ailing son, his mask of the consummate healer firmly in place. There was deceptive levity to his face as he poured out a measure of miruvor for Elrohir from an engraved silver flask. Glorfindel only could tell how deeply concerned his lord really was. They were four days from Imladris at the very least, and today’s attack meant the pace would have to be slowed further to allow for more thorough scouting of the road ahead. A healthy Elf would hardly notice this weather, but another week of being cold, wet and afraid would sap what strength Elrohir had left. That he had given up his earlier pretense of being unaffected by the chill to sit bundled in the blanket was a telling sign. 

And cold it was. Even inside the tent their breaths came in white wisps that had entertained and alarmed Elrohir in equal measures when this first cold snap of the season began two days ago. There was no merriment in his eyes now, and he made no effort to hide his unease. 

“There might be more of them. Should we not be moving away?” 

Elrond was beside himself with concern for Elrohir, but he tried his utmost to convey a sense of the safety they all felt under the protection of Glorfindel’s warriors.

“Fear not. This was but a small band of displaced mountain Orcs. Judging from their ragged state they were scavengers, outcasts driven from the high passes over some quarrel with their den-mates. They were desperate enough to ambush our scouts for … supplies, but had neither the numbers nor the weaponry needed to engage the main host. None were left alive to spread word of our passing. Rest assured that we are well-guarded -- by more than sentries alone.”

Elrohir looked wholly unconvinced, but he did not dare contradict his father. Instead he sipped his miruvor in silence, concern writ large in his eyes. When the small cup was empty there was a bit of colour to his cheeks.

Elrohir silently watched the dying daylight on the dense curtains of rain through the open tent flap while Elrond, equally lost for words, watched Elrohir. Both Peredhil seemed caught on separate islands of fear. When neither could manage the words for a bridge, Glorfindel found another measure of good cheer.

“Elrohir, do admit that we have vastly improved your life. Just months ago your greatest concern was dying of thirst.”

Elrohir could not help but appreciate the irony, which would have appealed to any Haradrim’s keen sense of gallows humour.

“I thank you, Glorfindel, for providing me with all the water I could possibly need. Please don’t set me on fire if I ever complain of the cold.”   

With deep satisfaction Glorfindel watched father and son crack a nearly identical pair of wry smiles.