Northern Skies by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 5

Morning broke clear, cool, and wet. After a night of rain steadily drumming on the oilcloth tent roofs the clouds had drifted away to the east, leaving a sky blue as periwinkle to contrast the bright yellow-gold of the shedding birch trees. A flutter of sparrows flitted from branch to branch, seemingly undisturbed by the bustling of Elf-warriors and their horses beneath.

Elrohir inhaled deeply. The air itself smelled clean and new. Wet grass, glittering with myriads of tiny droplets, clung to his boots and breeches as he squelched his way to Rochael’s side. The poor mare looked bedraggled after a night in the downpour, steam rising from her back and hindquarters as she turned her body towards the weak northern sun to dry out. Elrohir wondered if she was as cold as he, or if the past night had been as nothing to this creature of the North, like a waterless day of scorching heat to a camel.

Out of habit, he mindlessly chattered to her in Haradi as he saddled and packed her, whispering the same silly nothings he would have told Ot to divert him from the tightening of the cinch.

The remembrance was suddenly painful, grief constricting his throat. Even as his breath hitched Rochael raised her head to lay her nose, wonderfully warm and soft, against his face. For an instant he flinched, afraid she might bite as his mercurial war camel undoubtedly would have done, but instead she appeared to breathe him in, her breath fragrant with fresh grass.

“She likes you.”

Celebrían smiled as she appeared beside him leading her palfrey. She had spoken Sindarin, and Elrohir marked it among the first sentences he fully understood in that language. He lacked the vocabulary needed to answer her and had to revert to Númenórean.

“She is a marvel.”

His mother eyed him wistfully before switching languages as well.

“Do you miss Ot?”

After a few days in his parents’ company Elrohir had almost grown used to their strangely detailed knowledge of every moment Glorfindel had spent with him in Harad. The name of his mount was among the less awkward snippets of information that abruptly found their way into various conversations. No matter how well-intended, it was more than a little disturbing and he suddenly wished for nothing more than to cut the conversation short.

“Ot would have bitten my face clean off.”  

She smiled, wholly unfazed by the grisly image. “And yet he was dear to you.”

For a moment Elrohir had the uncanny feeling she somehow knew or guessed that the only tears he had shed upon leaving Harad were for his parting from Ot.   

“He had his moments.”

Celebrían looked at him with searching eyes.

“Rochael cannot replace your friend, but she is special in her own right. She is a twin to Rochíril, your brother’s horse. For twin foals to thrive is a rare thing.”

She pensively stroked Rochael’s nose.

“Your father considered it a sign. He was convinced you would be found within the horse’s lifetime. Many thought it a grieving father’s folly. He takes particular satisfaction in seeing you ride her.”

Elrohir looked Rochael over once more. He did not dare ask Celebrían, but by the lightening of her dappled coat the mare had to be at least ten years old.

Ten years ago Elrohir had not the slightest thought to spare for any forgotten relatives he might have left behind in the North. Meanwhile these Elves had apparently summoned the foolish courage to rest such uncertain hopes on the fragile back of a horse. Elrohir was at a loss how he ought to feel about the knowledge. He opened his mouth to say something along the lines of an apology for his absence, for arriving even later than necessary, when she interrupted him.

“No apologies. None of this came about through any fault of yours.”

It seemed she wanted to raise her hand to touch him, but thought the better of it when she noticed they were among the last who were yet to mount, delaying the riding. Elrohir was deeply grateful they had been speaking Númenórean. At least some of the Elves had not understood what they overheard. Eager to escape their alien eyes on him he quickly mounted, taking his place beside Elladan as the cordon of warriors closed around them, the morning sunlight flickering off the points of their helms and spears like a constellation of daytime stars.

At Glorfindel’s command the column set itself in motion. Even this irrelevant matter the Elves achieved with grace and fluidity instead of the shouting, shrieks of bickering horses and brusque starts and stops that would inevitably mark the departure of so long a caravan elsewhere.

Elrohir stilled, passively letting Rochael follow in the tracks of Elrond’s destrier. In the wake of the Orc attack Elladan and he had been provided with helmets. Despite the image of supreme confidence Glorfindel  liked to cultivate, he was loathe to leave them vulnerable to stray arrows. These helms were as beautifully wrought as anything made by Elven hands, but the elegant side guards made Elrohir feel like a blinkered carthorse. Elladan caught his eye with a conspiratorial glance and a smile, the turn of his head equally awkward under the unfamiliar weight of metal.

Elladan was an enigma. It was obvious that no one in the company, including Elladan himself, considered him on par with the warriors. Elrond and Celebrían went well-armed, and by the knowing and efficient way they handled the blades both clearly had far more than a passing acquaintance with their use. Not Elladan, who appeared not just resigned to his alarming defenselessness, but fully accepting it as the natural state of things. The sight of a grown man of almost fifty treated like an overprotected child was unsettling.

Not that Elladan appeared at all childlike -- not after what he had suffered. Upon discovering the full extent of the scar that was their separation in his brother’s mind Elrohir had fought back tears of compassion and more than a little guilt. His own disturbing amnesia had been merciful, compared to the years of naked, untempered longing Elladan endured. The long sorrow left him both resilient and kinder than he might have been otherwise.

Elrohir’s musings were interrupted when Elrond turned around in his saddle, beckoning Elrohir to come ride beside him. He was cheerfully welcomed in Sindarin, and Elrond made a point of speaking no other language. Elrohir’s unease must have been palpable as he struggled, but the intense concentration needed to keep up left him no room to dwell on Orcs.

Elrond’s strange tutoring lasted for days of awkwardness, but simple necessity eventually brought back some of the language Elrohir once knew. By the day the convoy approached the hidden valley he had regained enough Sindarin to make himself understood about most simple matters, even if his Númenórean accent was so thick he had to keep from wincing of sheer embarrassment each time he opened his mouth.       

The spectacular road into Imladris never ceased to impress even those who had called it home for an age. To Elrohir it seemed a marvel. One moment he appeared to ride through an entirely unremarkable pine forest on endless moorland in the foothills of the snow-capped mountains in the east. The next, a sharp turn in the road revealed a deep valley cloven into steep, towering cliffs of craggy rock. Thundering waterfalls disappeared into forests of oak and beech just shedding the last of their yellow and russet foliage. Far beneath their feet the valley floor was a gently rolling quilt of green and gold -- rich pasture, apple orchards and the golden stubble of harvested wheat. Even this late in autumn the air carried a wholesome scent of freshness and growth.

A bright gleam of colour drew Elrohir’s eye towards the far end of the valley. The slanting light of sunset sparkled red, gold and green from the glazed roof tiles of a great house with many wings of ivory stone, built on the high banks of the Bruinen. A scatter of smaller cottages and outbuildings stood amidst the gardens in a seemingly disordered pattern that nonetheless pleased the eye. Had Elrond’s home been walled Elrohir would have called it a town rather than a house. Wood smoke spiraled into the cool evening air from many chimneys, an inviting promise of warmth. As Elrohir looked on the westering sun set every elegant roof line, column and window aglow until the entire dwelling appeared limned in light -- impossibly fair and drawn from an entirely different world.

Elrond and Celebrían kept a keen eye on Elrohir as he looked upon Imladris for the first time in forty years. If his utter lack of recognition disappointed them, they managed to hide it well.

A winding, treacherous track marked with white stones zig-zagged steeply down to the valley floor. At every twist the company was hailed by sentries keeping the path covered at bow shot from dizzying lookouts, cleverly hidden on the rugged cliff-faces above their heads. Once the guarded descent was past the river Bruinen, still quick and white-foamed so near the mountains, barred their path, and the riding had to cross in single file by a narrow bridge of carved silver-grey wood. The construction was remarkably light, its attachments designed to release in an instant should the valley’s defenders need to bar the crossing. Elrohir began to understand how this house had been spared in the war that ruined Eregion.

He kept a keen eye on the Elves as they entered the safety of their guarded realm. The sheer strangeness of them remained just as striking after a sennight in their midst. A rosy-cheeked warrior looking too young to grow a beard suddenly drew his bow and drove a succession of arrows, too fast for the eye to follow, into a the stump of a fallen tree, the white-fletched shafts cleverly aligned in a flower shape. Elrohir had known some excellent bowmen, but none who achieved such dizzying heights of skill before age would inevitably take their eyesight. The Elf’s female companion laughed, her perfect, milk-white teeth seeming more in place in the mouth of a young maid than a woman who had known life’s hardships.   

They did appear childlike at times -- jarringly so. Glingaer, the dark-haired Elf who was nearly devoured by an orc just days before, showed no sign of being at all affected or impressed by the experience. He was now enthusiastically leading half the company in a melodious chorus of what appeared to be a nonsensical nursery rhyme -- unless “Tra-la-lally!” would unexpectedly prove to have some deeper spiritual meaning in Sindarin.

Elladan seemed to find nothing unusual or disconcerting about their armed escort bursting into a children’s song about pancakes.

“They are Wood-Elves coming home, of course they are making merry! Do you not find it uplifting?”

Elrohir shot him a deeply skeptical look as he jumped to the only possible conclusion.

“Are they drunk?”

Elladan laughed. “They certainly will be, later tonight! For now they are simply glad to be home.”

Elrond brought his horse beside Elrohir’s. The Elf-lord, too seemed greatly relieved, but his eagerness was marred by apprehension. Elrohir noted that he spoke in Númenórean to make himself well understood.

“In an hour we will reach the house, and there will be a formal reception. Ardil will help you prepare. Know that we have kept the ceremonies to an absolute minimum. Your mother and I would have preferred to let you find your bearings first, but certain standards must be met, not in the least to establish your position in the household. We cannot achieve that by slinking you into the house unseen.”

A concerning amount of forethought seemed to have gone into the matter, with Elrohir blissfully unaware that there should be anything more to their arrival than unsaddling the horses. Elrond gave him a warm smile, softening the sternness of his words.

“We do not expect you to speak. You must only stand in your proper place on the dais, which is behind your mother and me, at your brother’s left. Elladan will guide you in all things. I will speak briefly before receiving my seal back from Erestor, who governed the household in my absence. When that is done Glorfindel will dismiss the guard. Keep your eyes on them as they salute, and stand still and straight. After we step inside the official part is done.”

Darkness had fallen when the company approached the house. Elrohir could not see much of it beyond the glow of backlit windows and the outline of high roofs. The great courtyard was lit by strings of crystal lamps, gold and white and silver, strung across the space on elegant chains. A crowd of excited Elves filled it to capacity -- a sea of upturned faces, pale in the flickering golden light. The gathered crowd was so large it spilled out onto the road, hemming the column of riders between rows of onlookers. Some Elves effortlessly balanced themselves on the bare grey branches of the great beech tree in the center of the courtyard.

Elrond and Celebrían were clearly well-loved here. When the head of the column rounded the last bend in the road the gathering took up a roaring cheer and chant. Elrohir understood only his own name, and even that became strange to him in their eerily beautiful voices. The clamour continued until the whole party had entered the courtyard.

Elrohir’s courage faltered under the weight of at least a thousand pairs of curious Elvish eyes. He was deeply grateful for being given a clean, finely embroidered surcoat to replace the travel-stained one he had worn from Tharbad, and the jewelled clips Ardil braided into his hair. Not that the looks he received held any malice -- it was almost embarrassing how overjoyed these perfect strangers appeared at the sight of their lord bringing in a very confused vagabond.

The daunting number of spectators was somewhat mitigated by the cheerfulness of it all. Clearly many were friends or relatives of the warriors, delighted to see their loved ones’ safe return from this dangerous expedition. At the sight of Glingaer’s bandaged leg a slender elf-woman with glittering hazel eyes and a dark braid woven with clumps of red berries called out a quip that had the entire company including Celebrían and Elladan roaring with laughter. Undaunted, Glingaer gave an exaggerated mock bow and threw her a kiss so salacious it sent everyone into another spin of mirth. Elrond was the only one to retain a very lordly gravity.

Elrohir could not muster as much as a smile as a flood of of homesickness struck him, a deep yearning to be among ordinary people and laugh with them at jokes he understood. It had been long enough since he last saw a friendly human face that he caught himself longing for the surly crew of the Beinalph .

The time of mirth abruptly ended when they approached the house itself. On the portico waited an imposing figure in stately robes of a deep burgundy. Erestor was ancient, Elrohir realised, with Tree-light in his gaze. Where Glorfindel was all golden radiance, this Elf was darker in both coloring and disposition, sable hair falling to the small of his back in a complicated pattern of braids tipped with silver. He was smiling, but merriment did not quite reach his strange eyes as they rested on Elrohir, seemingly appraising. One needed no knowledge of Sindarin, or Elves, to understand at once that here was one to be reckoned with by all who set foot in Imladris.

Elladan was Elrohir’s guide throughout what followed. His twin took it upon himself to be all that Elrohir was not: calm, collected and with a firm grasp of the proceedings. Their minds’ connection proved a well of reassurance. Elladan was closely directing his brother on when to dismount, where to stand, and what to do with his hands. Elrohir keenly felt how eager his twin was for him to make the best possible first impression. A stab of warm gratitude ran through him as he mirrored Elladan’s straight-backed posture. Elladan sensed it, and replied in kind without moving a muscle, eyes straight ahead to where Glorfindel lined up his warriors.

Elrond spoke briefly, his face nothing short of radiant. Elrohir had seen the Elf-lord’s tears on their first meeting, but only now did he fully grasp that underneath Elrond’s strange and commanding appearance he was somehow simply a man with his own emotions, which were perhaps more relatable than Elrohir had first believed. Not that Elrond should be considered transparent in any way. Elrohir knew better than to underestimate the ancient master of this strange place. From his confident manner, Elrond clearly knew what he was doing, and how it would be perceived.

Celebrían added a few words of her own -- more praise for Glorfindel -- who received another round of cheers. Erestor’s face remained schooled into the strange half-smile. When the speeches were done he handed Elrond a golden signet ring in what Elrohir thought was an unnecessarily pompous manner. The guard saluted smartly, but the instant Glorfindel called out his dismissal yet another rendition of "Tra-la-lally" rang through the courtyard even as the twins followed their parents into the house.        

The entrance hall was an imposing space. A vaulted ceiling was supported by columns of veined marble sculpted in the likeness of branching trees, as high and finely wrought as any of the lavish guild-halls Elrohir had seen in Pelargir. The splendour lay of this house more in celebrating the natural world than in ordering and subduing it in the manner of Men. The hall was brightly lit -- yet more eerie Elvish lamps-- and milling with organised chaos of Elves dashing to and fro.

Once everyone was inside Erestor turned around to face Elrohir. He was smiling, and now the expression did extend to the alien eyes looking him up and down. Elrond’s chief advisor might have flown to Imladris overnight straight from the imperial court of Umbar, so crisp and perfectly accentless was his Númenórean.

“Welcome home! It is a great joy to finally see you reunited with your family. My name is Erestor.”

Unsure how to address this Elvish dignitary, Elrohir quickly examined Elladan’s feelings for Erestor. His twin bore the formidable Elf a respect bordering on awe, and -- unsurprisingly -- a certain amount of apprehension.

“An honour to meet you, my lord.”

Judging from Elladan’s startled air that had been too much, but Elrohir’s years of slavery in Umbar had ingrained the habit of going overboard with the honorifics when in doubt.

Erestor cast Elrohir another appraising look. The depth of his gaze was unnerving, but when Erestor at last turned away to speak with Elrond and Celebrían Elrohir had the concerning impression that the formidable counsellor's eyes had a wet gleam.

 

Chapter End Notes

And so Elrohir finally makes it back home! It took just 20 chapters in 3 stories posted over the course of a year ;-)
Now that his long journey is over I'd love to hear what you think of the story so far!

Next week we'll see the eventful first days of Elrohir's new life in Imladris.
Thank you for reading and giving feedback, and see you next week!

Idrils Scribe

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