Northern Skies by Idrils Scribe

Chapter 31

Autumn approached the hidden valley in splendour. The air already had a distinct crispness to it, but where Elrond was sitting cross-legged on a sunwarmed rock some ephemeral trace of summer still lingered. The south-facing meadows sloping down to the banks of the Bruinen were dotted with enough blooming white yarrow that they seemed covered in snow.  The willow curtains trailing the water were still vibrant green, but the oak and beech forests on the lower slopes had already burst into exuberant russet, yellow and golden brown.

Elrond nearly singed the sleeve of his simple linen shirt as he gauged the temperature of the hot ash at the fire’s edges. It was ready to receive the trout he had prepared earlier, each fish stuffed with butter and sage and neatly wrapped in its parcel of chestnut leaves. He had not cooked a meal with his own hands in several long-years, and had nearly forgotten how deeply satisfying the experience could be.

From his folding chair across the fire, Glorfindel had an amused smile for his lord’s newfound domesticity. His own shimmering tunic was a deep sapphire, but without gold trims or showy embroidery as a concession to the distinctly Sindarin character of the day’s pursuits. It was as much of an apology as Celeborn was likely to get.

Elrond and Glorfindel had spoken long. Seeing his advice laid aside had been hard for Glorfindel, both for his genuine concern and ancient wounds torn open by another desperate search for a missing ward who did not wish to be found. Bruised pride came into it as well, for the proud Lord of the Golden Flower. Today Glorfindel demonstrated why, of all the princes of the Noldor, the Valar returned him and no other to Middle-earth. His heart truly was too great for petty grudges.

For a moment they both let their eyes rest on Elrohir, who stood knee-deep in the river, laughing at Elladan’s mock exaggeration of a hunting heron’s perch. Spearfishing was dirty work. River mud smudged his bare calves and the rolled up edges of his breeches, and fallen birch leaves dotted his dark hair like strewn flecks of gold. It was finally long enough that braiding was no longer a struggle. Elladan had done it in a Sindarin plait that morning, and Celebrían’s face lit up at the sight.   

Shafts of sunlight falling between overhanging willow branches speckled the clear, speeding waters of the Bruinen. In the depths Elrond could discern every pebble and stone on the riverbed -- green, grey and tender pink like an assortment of jewels. Where the water deepened the light hit swaying weeds: a stranger, more secret forest to mirror the ones above.

The rounded stones underfoot were slippery, and Elrohir’s careful steps still carried an unnatural stiffness. Ardil hovered nearby in case of mishaps while skilfully pretending to search for fish. Elrond’s efforts had Elrohir recovering nearly as fast as a full Elf, but the cursed blade had cut a grave wound to body and spirit. Even today Elrohir’s spear had seen most of its use as a walking stick. Nonetheless he looked better than Elrond had ever seen him. He had shed some of his wary observance, to be replaced with an openness that -- given time and care -- would blossom into trust.

At the edge of hearing came a reflection of the Sindarin fishing tune Celeborn and Celebrían were singing to lure fish into the shallows. Elrohir was not quite singing along, just humming the melody under his breath. His voice was hoarse and hesitant, but Maglor Fëanorion at the pinnacle of his art could not have brought Elrond greater happiness. He found himself blinking back tears of pure, unfettered joy. Glorfindel’s smile grew wider, almost triumphant. 

Yesterday’s feast had been a triumph indeed, Elrond mused, or at least as much of one as could be salvaged from Elrohir’s misadventure. It had been sheer delight to embrace Elrohir before all Imladris, have him seated at the high table between himself and Celebrían, her joy bright as the sun. The feast could have been a mockery of its true intent, a cynical pretense of love on both sides. Yesterday, all those present could witness it was not so. Elrohir was home, and so was his heart. 

Elrond allowed himself a moment’s regret for Erestor’s absence today. Erestor, too, deserved to witness the fruit of his long labours on Elrohir’s behalf, but it was not to be. Celeborn had been unusually reasonable. He had accepted Erestor’s presence at Elrohir’s court hearing and the reconciliation ceremony without causing any altercations. He had even voiced a modicum of appreciation for Erestor’s moving and expertly delivered address in his grandson’s defense. After such unprecedented concessions, sharing a sunny afternoon of leisure with the Fëanorian had proven one step too far for the Lord of Lórien.

A sudden splash drew their gazes upstream. Graceful and deadly as a swooping kingfisher Elladan leapt, drops of water trailing his bare feet like an arc of diamonds. His barbed spear struck true. When he lifted the writhing, rainbow-speckled trout from the river in triumph both Celebrían and Elrohir gave gleeful shouts of approval. 

From his perch on the stone and shingle bank, feet trailing the water, Celeborn drily pointed out that the clamour chased off every fish within a mile. The wry amusement in his voice was unmistakable.

Celebrían laughed as she retrieved her own fishing lance from where she had wedged it between the pebbles of the riverbed, her long silver braid unravelling and cheeks blushing with exertion and sheer undiluted joy.

“It does not matter. We have enough.”

Elrond thought it the aptest thing she ever said in many years of wise counsels. None of this was what might have been, had all their fates been different, but it was enough.

Chapter End Notes

At last Elrohir makes it home in every sense of the word, and we reach the end of this long tale.

The Under Strange Stars series is very near and dear to my heart. Writing it took me two years, but the idea is much older. Way back when the LoTR movies first came out I read a now-vanished fanfic in which a young son of Elrond returned home after being raised by Mortals. I was fascinated by his struggles to come to terms with his identity as a (Half-) Elf. The plot quickly moved elsewhere, but I decided that one day I'd write a story exploring the idea in full. And here we are!

The series is far from finished. I love to write in this universe, so expect more stories detailing various events throughout the timeline. I'm very much open to readers' suggestions, so leave your idea in the comments section if there's something you'd like to see! One addition is already planned: over the next weeks I'll be posting 'The Roads Not Taken': various outtakes, abandoned plot lines and deleted scenes. Keep an eye out if you'd like more about these characters and a behind-the-scenes look at the writing process!

Elrohir's long way home has made it out of my head and into the world. Letting go of a story that has been with me for so long is sad and happy at the same time. My creative muses have taken flight once more, and landed on Gathering Dusk, an epic tale of the rise and rise of Angmar and its war against the Dúnedain of Arnor, as seen from Rivendell. You'll find a sneak peek in the next chapter. If you'd like to see Elrohir and the entire cast of Northern Skies take on the Witch-king, keep an eye out for Gathering Dusk!

I'd like to thank all of you for reading and supporting me. Your comments, kudos, or even just the hit counter's steady rise let me know that real people are out there enjoying my work, and that is every writer's wish! Please leave one more comment and tell me your thoughts, not just on this final chapter but the series as a whole. It'd mean the world to me!

Being an ancient fandom dinosaur I have no social media presence. I'll be eternally grateful to anyone who'd be so kind as to recommend the Under Strange Stars series or individual stories on Tumblr/Dreamwidth/LJ/wherever the kids hang out these days.

Of course I can't say goodbye to this story without special thanks to Dawn Felagund, who was incredibly welcoming and generous to a perfect stranger who asked her for writing advice one day. Dawn is a great beta, an excellent writer (go read her stories!) and an all-around inspiration. Her support and excellent advice made this story so much better!  

Northern Skies has been a wonderful journey. Thank you all so much! Enjoy the sneak peek in the next chapter, and see you soon for Gathering Dusk!

Idrils Scribe