Northern Skies by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 7

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Clang!

In a single, fluid stroke of muscle memory Elrohir rolled to the floor, poker in hand,  brandishing it at the intruder who had set off his trap. The pink light of dawn spearing through the curtains was harsh on his sleep-blurred eyes.

In the doorway a copper-haired Elf-woman stood contemplating the toppled chair at her feet and her lord’s son crouching with a makeshift weapon. None of it seemed to particularly bother her, as if she was merely witnessing some quaint and charming foreign tradition.

All Elves were fair. This one was no exception, but hers was the everyday beauty of a small, resilient wildflower. Her milk-pale face had an air of sprightly efficiency. From the keys at her belt, she had to be some kind of housekeeper. She carried a tray with a loaf of white bread the size of a child’s head, a covered plate and what appeared to be a steaming cup of tea of some description. She carefully set it down on the desk before turning to Elrohir with a smile so warm he instantly lowered the poker, acutely embarrassed.

“I do realise you didn’t send for any of this, but I honestly couldn’t wait to see you. I didn’t expect to find you still abed. You were always such an early riser, and Calmion reckoned you would probably want eggs. There’s milk in your tea. I hope you don’t mind it being goat’s, the cows still haven’t come down from the high meadows with the weather so unseasonable. I’m expecting Doronion any day now, Yavanna willing!”

Elrohir could only stare at her silently as he rose from his defensive crouch, poker dangling by his side. She appeared to take it as encouragement, setting the fallen chair back in its place and unloading her tray as she kept up a constant stream of friendly, but utterly incomprehensible chatter.

“... and so I said to Glireth, of course he’s going to want a pair of skis, what’s that boy going to do all winter while his brother goes a-flying down the western slopes? She’s carving them even now, I reckon, which is quite a gesture on her part because she’s supposed to be making bows these days, and Lord Glorfindel sure won’t approve of those being delayed!”

She proffered the cup with an expectant look.

Wholly out of his depth at the notion that Elladan being capable of flight would somehow lead to Glorfindel’s bows arriving late, and half-convinced he had misunderstood most of her rapid Sindarin, Elrohir accepted it with his left hand, giving her a nod and smile he could only hope was more friendly than sheepish.

She deftly stepped up, relieved him of the poker and returned it to its holder with clear relief.

Suddenly her manner became serious. “You have no recollection of me, do you?”

Relieved she had reached that conclusion without needing him to say it outright, Elrohir nodded once more.   

“My name is Laerwen. I am your former nurse, and currently the chatelaine.” If she was disappointed when her name failed to incite any recognition, she hid it well.  

“Well met, Laerwen. My name is Elrohir.”

The moment the rote politeness left his mouth he knew it sounded idiotic. Laerwen seemed more inclined to tears than laughter.

“I know, child. It has been less than half a long-year since I last saw you.”

Elrohir wondered how old this deceptively fresh-faced maiden would turn out to be. There was no telling, with Elves. He did not venture to ask, not knowing whether such a question would be considered rude. Laerwen eyed him intently once more, her former chattiness abruptly cut short. When she spoke her tone was matter-of-fact.

“You may look like there isn’t a scratch on you, but hurt you are and no mistake. Whatever this wound of the fëa might be, I’m sure your father will find healing for it. Meanwhile you should eat something, ere the north wind carries you off like a dry leaf.”  

She lifted the lid off the covered dish she had brought, releasing steam and the mouth-watering smell of something cooked and wholesome.

“I’ll leave you to it. It’s good to have you back, sweet. May you be well soon.”

She abruptly turned and left with brisk efficiency, closing the door behind her. Elrohir could not shake the feeling he had somehow gravely disappointed her.

Unwilling to dwell on it further he cautiously eyed the plate on the desk. Eggs were eggs wherever one went, and these were scrambled with butter and herbs. The unidentifiable flecks of green briefly concerned him, but he tucked in regardless. Elves were highly effective creatures. If they meant to poison him they would not have wasted a week’s worth of opportunities.  

 

-----

 

A mystic aura of  preternatural omniscience was a thing worth cultivating when in charge of a large household, and Celebrían had learned from the very best. Even without the teachings of her formidable mother she knew something was afoot the moment Laerwen entered her study. In the bright light of mid-morning the chatelaine of Imladris squirmed under her burden of guilt like an over-laden packhorse, and Celebrían would wager her best hunting bow that the matter somehow involved Elrohir.

Laerwen tended to respond far better to the carrot than the stick.

“Something weighs you, Laerwen. Why not unburden yourself?”

The lack of resistance clearly showed that Laerwen had sought out her lady to do just that.

“I went to bring Elrohir his breakfast this morning, my lady.”

“So I heard. A rather … spontaneous departure from usual meal arrangements, but welcoming nonetheless.”

Celebrían carefully withheld her approval. Laerwen squirmed.

“I only wanted to see him. I know it’s not my place, not being family, but he was such a dear little boy and I thought, what harm could it do if I brought him his breakfast?”

Celebrían shot her a look of alarm. “Yet you believe it somehow did?”

Laerwen drew a long breath in an attempt to buy some time before speaking her mind.  “He appears … strange-tempered, my lady. When I startled him awake he seemed to think I was an Orc. He would have fought me, I believe. One might worry that those wraiths in the wild southlands could have gotten a hold of his mind, like the Morgoth did with his thralls in the evil days. But then, Lord Elrond would surely notice such a thing and have just the cure for it, would he not?”

Celebrìan eyed her chatelaine with barely concealed alarm.The overt suspicion in Laerwen’s eyes made her heart skip a beat in sudden terror. Her chest seemed too small to hold enough air for her to breathe. If this idea should spread through the valley it might prove disastrous to Elrohir.

Laerwen had been Celebrían’s right hand in overseeing the Last Homely House ever since her marriage. Once chosen for her aptitude at wrangling the gaggle of merry Grey-elves who kept the house running smoothly, what set her apart most of all was her immovable discretion. Never had the slightest morsel of gossip about the private dealings of Elrond’s innermost circle escaped from under Laerwen’s strict and conscientious oversight. Celebrían could only hope their chatelaine’s silence would hold under the weight of her fear. Never did she have greater need of Galadriel’s skill of projecting the image of the wise and unflappable lady despite great inner turmoil.  

“I assure you he is injured, rather than possessed. Surely the household of Elrond, barely a long-year after the Siege of Barad-Dûr, can accommodate one more strange-tempered soldier still fighting battles past? We have found healing for all of them,  and we will manage it with Elrohir, too.”

Laerwen folded her hands in her lap and considered Celebrían’s words. All in Imladris had witnessed strange behaviour from returned warriors caught in webs of memory. The fall of Eregion, the Siege and the Last Alliance had seen to that. She did not have the heart to point out how many of them had ultimately needed to look beyond the Sea for peace.

Elves took great delight in children, and Laerwen had loved Elrohir deeply. His long absence had neither diminished nor gentled that fierce protectiveness. Celebrían could see the realisation of her own foolishness sink in.

“I meant to make him feel welcome, but all I achieved was to frighten him, did I not?”

Celebrían nodded.

“Tell the staff to keep out of Elrohir’s room. He is perfectly capable of tending his own fire. Tell them …”

Celebrían’s voice wavered. Laerwen stood, hesitantly. Imladris was not the most formal of households, but nonetheless it was with trepidation that she laid a comforting hand on her Lady’s shoulder.

“... tell them he is ill. He will be well soon.”

When the door closed behind Laerwen a tide of despair washed over Celebrían. It filled her to overflowing until she needed to vent it lest she burst like a wine-skin left in the sun. But who to trust, with this? Elrond sat in a meeting, one she could feel was going less than smoothly.

There was one other with whom she could ruminate the ugly details of Elrohir’s condition without fear of endangering her son’s reputation. He already knew more than she did at any rate.

She found the captain of the guard in his study. One of his lieutenants was briefing him on the state of Imladris’ defenses in his absence. Between them on the table was a much-annotated map displaying the most recent Orc-sightings and the likely course of their underground connections.

As ever, Glorfindel looked both martial and splendid. The tunic of his deceptively simple guards’ uniform shimmered with interlacing patterns of celandine and the star of Eärendil, embroidered in threads of a lustrous grey silk. At the sight of her, he rose and dismissed his officer with a friendly word.

“Celebrían, how can I help?”

One could justly criticise Glorfindel for his peacock-like tendencies, but none could deny he was a deeply kind Elf. Suddenly tears burned behind her eyelids.

“Is aught amiss with Elrohir?”

She had to breathe deeply and compose herself to keep tears out of her voice.

“Many things, I believe, but Laerwen is why I am here. This morning she entered his room unbidden, startled him from sleep and found herself threatened with violence. She has come away with the notion Elrohir may be possessed by the Enemy. I have done my utmost to dispel this, and remind her of the discretion of her office, but if the idea should spread I fear for Elrohir’s welcome here.”

Celebrían sent Glorfindel a searching look. “You have seen Morgoth’s Elf-thralls, in the War of the Jewels. Does Elrohir remind you of them?”

For a moment Glorfindel sank into memory. When his sky-blue eyes focused once more he was decisive.

“Not at all. What set the thralls apart was their inability to act against Morgoth’s interests and their excessive, mindless fear of him. When I found Elrohir he was at war against the servants of the Enemy, viciously so, and in that he struck me as reckless rather than craven.”  

Celebrían hesitated, afraid to bring up what had haunted her ever since she turned her feet towards Glorfindel’s office.

“Forgive my opening old wounds, but what of Maeglin? You had dealings with him after Morgoth returned him to Gondolin unharmed, hiding his betrayal. With the benefit of hindsight, were there no tells?”

A darker hint of pain entered Glorfindel’s face. For him to drop his usual front of mirth and optimism to reveal the ancient scars below was a rare thing indeed, and Celebrían instantly regretted her frankness. Instead of being eased, this day’s pain apparently multiplied upon being shared.

“Maeglin, like all those set free by the Dark Lord, was placed under the spell of bottomless dread. It caused  him to wander as in a dream of fear, and he constantly felt Morgoth’s eyes burning on him from afar. Maeglin resumed his public life and his seat on the King’s council. He did not do a thing amiss, but we should have noticed his inactions, too. He no longer worked, which is to be remarked upon in the peerless smith he admittedly was.”

Glorfindel sighed.

“The knowledge is of little use today. None of us know Elrohir well enough to tell whether he is acting out of the ordinary. I doubt he would know it himself, under the circumstances”

His long, agile fingers idly folded the edges of the map before him, creasing the fine vellum.

“The best consolation I can offer you is this: we of Gondolin did not see the evil in our midst because we never thought to look. You have that advantage, at least. I have carefully used what Sight I have during my time with Elrohir, both in Harad and the North. Not once did I perceive aught but himself within his mind. Neither have you, it would seem, and I do not hold your talent for it in any small esteem. Our certainty in itself may suffice to still any wagging tongues. As ever, the smallest minds will prove the hardest to move to acceptance.”

----

Despite himself Elrond straightened his back at the knock on his study door, resisting a sudden, annoying urge cover the speech he was drafting.

Ardil was seen in by Istiel, one of Elrond’s younger aides. She was a tall Noldorin woman from a family formerly of Gondolin. She lingered by the door, an uncharacteristic display of curiosity. Istiel knew all too well this conversation could only pertain to Elrohir. Taking her good time in pouring unasked-for cups of wine for her lord and his visitor might allow her to catch word of his condition. Disappointed with the blatant lack of discretion, well-intentioned though it doubtlessly was, in one he considered a promising diplomat Elrond pointedly held his tongue until the wine was set out, then summarily dismissed her.    

Briefly presenting Elrohir to all of Imladris to his best advantage before spiriting him away to the family apartments had been both necessary and kind. He had held himself well, all things considered.

Even so, the short glimpse of him showing the unmistakable signs of fading had set the household and the valley beyond astir with wildly contagious rumor: Elrohir was on the verge of death and had secretly been rushed to the Havens that very night. Elrohir had been carried to Imladris by the grace of Ulmo with a message from the Lord of the Waters Himself. Elrohir was a prisoner, being interrogated by his own father on charges of collaboration with the Enemy. Erestor was already elbow-deep in digging out the more deleterious whispers by their spiteful roots, but a decisive official statement from the Lord of the Valley was sorely needed, and soon.

Elrond set his dark musings aside along with his notes. With a smile, the warmth of which was entirely borne of an age’s experience as a courtier, he turned to his visitor.

Ardil’s formal bow was faultless and respectful as ever. On this first morning after their return to Imladris Elrohir’s guard bore no signs of weariness from either the journey or his vigil. He looked lithe and sharp as a Sindarin blade in his crisp grey uniform and austere braids. It would take far more than a night’s watch to make a dent in the stoic exterior: the ancient warrior of Doriath was as much of an old warhorse as Celeborn, his formidable lord.  

As he directed Ardil to one of the carved chairs before his work table, Elrond dreaded the conversation they were about to have. It was no secret that Ardil’s loyalty lay with the one-time Prince of Doriath and his descendants. The valour and dedication of Celeborn’s personal guard was a byword among Sindar and Noldor alike. They brought Celeborn out of both sackings of Doriath alive, and their former captain would doubtlessly lay down his life for Celebrían and her children should the need ever arise.

Despite his own Sindarin royal blood Elrond knew himself excluded from that devoted allegiance on account of his Fëanorian upbringing, regardless of how involuntarily he had come by it. The Lord of Imladris would never allow Celeborn’s man to see how deeply that knowledge stung even after two ages.

“Well met, Master Ardil. How did this night treat you?”

Ardil saw no need to pretend it was his own wellbeing Elrond was inquiring about.

“Elrohir slept well enough, barring the unfortunate incident with Mistress Laerwen. He appears quiet as ever this morning. Elladan and he are in the lady’s garden now, with Borndis keeping watch. I shall relieve her when we are finished here.”

Elrond shot him an inquisitive look.

“Will you not be writing your letters to my good-father today?”

With most Galadhrim parties travelling between Imladris and Lórien secretly went a scroll in Ardil’s spidery hand, destined for Celeborn’s eyes alone. Those dispatches held the sort of news that tended not to grace Elrond and Celebrían’s own letters. Ardil had been left in the belief the Lord of Imladris was unaware of this state of affairs. Elrond managed to suppress his smile at the thought. Erestor probably had copies on file.  

The faintest flicker of surprise lit Ardil’s eyes before he decided denial would be useless.

“I have compiled most of my dispatch overnight. Is there anything in particular you would have me mention?”

“No. But certain things you should omit, in Elrohir’s best interest.”

Elrond was momentarily vexed at having to tolerate this pawn of Celeborn’s, not merely among his warriors but in the innermost sanctum of his family life. Celebrían revered her guardian from girlhood. The debates between her and Elrond on who was to guard Elrohir had been fiery, to say the least. When it came to her children, Celebrían was Celeborn’s scion. No Noldorin warrior in Imladris, no matter how venerable his age or undisputed his loyalty, could contend with this stubborn Sinda for the position of greatest trust in her household.

The fellow had enough sense of self-preservation to show no trace of insolence in his matter-of-fact reply.

“I would have Elrohir’s grandparents aware of his illness, so they may plan accordingly.”

The implications made Elrond gasp in pained shock and anger.

“You would invite them to his burial rites before we have even attempted to heal him?”

Ardil shook his head, his sorrow suddenly evident.

“I would grant them the opportunity to meet him, and say their farewells before he is taken to the Havens.”

Elrond straightened himself, well aware his larger frame would tower over the slender Sinda. His tone was acerbic

“All that my son requires to become well again can be found here, at home. Peace is what Elrohir needs most of all. I would grant him at least a year’s worth of it before burdening him with yet more estranged relatives. My good-father’s talents are many, but never has he been known for either his gentle demeanour or his rapport with Mortals. As for my Lady good-mother -- she is wise beyond knowing, yet her thought-opening has all the subtlety of a warhammer. As you have observed so astutely Elrohir has one foot in Mandos’ halls. In his current state the pair of them will frighten him the rest of the way there.”  

The outburst was a blessed relief. Elrond found no small amount of satisfaction in seeing Ardil dumbstruck for the first time in two long-years of acquaintance.

A heavy silence descended on the study, broken only by their breathing. Elrond imagined he could feel discord thrumming in the air between them.

“What would you have me do?” the ancient warrior finally asked, utterly calm and collected.

Already embarrassed at his own loss of composure, Elrond softened his expression.

“I shall not ask you to lie, even by omission. Merely that you include my advice, as a healer, and request, as a father, that they refrain from travelling to Imladris for the time being. Either Elrohir will improve, giving them all the time in Arda for a more opportune meeting, or he will not. In that case they shall be most welcome to join our riding to the Havens come spring.”

The mere thought of that pilgrimage of sorrow made something in Elrond’s chest constrict.

“Is he certain to live through the winter, in your opinion?”

The question pained Ardil nearly as much as it did Elrond, but his Sindarin practicality prevailed.

Elrond sighed. “He survived months of solitude to reach Tharbad alive. Elladan’s presence has strengthened him. I see no reason why he should succumb now.”

Ardil was not a heartless man, and he was a father himself. Elrond knew he once raised three fine sons of his own, now long grown into full-fledged marchwardens of Lórien. Sympathy was in his gaze as he rose and bowed.

“I shall do my utmost to be convincing. Rest assured that all tidings to reach Lórien regarding your son’s health will advise lord Celeborn to exercise restraint. This said, my lord’s final decision is out of my hands.”

Elrond smiled. “If both you and I counsel him to patience, we are sure to receive just that.” In a burst of generosity he added, “My thanks for your care for both my sons.”

Ardil bowed deeply once more, in the formal style of his native Doriath.

“I am honoured by the trust placed in me, my lord. Rest assured that in this matter we are wholly united in our purpose. Whatever you deem necessary for your son’s health shall be done to the best of my ability.”   

Resisting the temptation to enquire for what other purposes they might not be so united, Elrond dismissed Ardil.  

 

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Elladan and Elrohir had perched themselves on one of the carved stone benches of the terrace overlooking Celebrían’s gardens, Elrohir bundled up in a fur-lined cloak against the unfamiliar chill. The twins had been deliberately left to each other’s company that morning, and at Elrohir’s request they had gone outside. His first day in Imladris was clear, jewel-bright and cold. Winter sun caught in the hoarfrost clinging to every twig and blade of grass in the garden below and the pine forest covering the valley’s slopes, setting all the world to sparkle. Elrohir leaned his head back to marvel at the jagged peaks of the Misty Mountains towering over the valley, snow already covering them to the upper vales.

Elladan still felt the glow of Elrohir’s astonished joy at seeing ordinary water transformed. He had even plucked an ice-bauble from one of Celebrían’s prized rowan trees to taste and confirm that it was indeed nothing but water.

Elladan had laughed merrily at his brother’s momentary childlike glee.

“When the first snow falls you can shovel it straight into your mouth!”

His Sindarin insufficient for witty repartee, Elrohir had delivered a good-natured punch to Elladan’s shoulder, and even that small pain was a joy.  

Elladan cast his eyes to where Borndis sat cross legged on the frosted grass, her back against one of the rowans. Their guard appeared to contemplate the twittering flock of darting redwings and robins fattening up on the last of the rowanberries. Elladan was not fooled for an instant. The warrior’s meditative state would prove short-lived if Elrohir should stray from the garden.

Borndis clearly showed her Silvan blood, both in her litheness and her love for Yavanna’s creatures. As the twins watched she warbled a brief tune, and was promptly answered by one of the thrushes. The pretty red-striped bird landed on her outstretched hand, turning its clever, beady eye to hers.

Elrohir stared with equal parts awe and dismay. Elladan suppressed an irrational urge to sternly order Borndis to stop frightening him. He wondered what life among Mortals should be like, that it left his brother at once so wisened and deeply shocked by an everyday tableau of a Wood-elf conversing with a songbird.   

“What is she doing?”

Elrohir breathed the question, less than a whisper, as if they were a pair of hunters standing transfixed before an enraged bear. Borndis could shoot hares in the dark by sound alone, and she understood Elrohir’s words perfectly.

“I am bidding a fond farewell to my friends, young lord. Autumn nears its end, and our redwings will soon fly south. They are fat on a summer’s worth of berries, sure to thrive wherever they go, but foregoing their song for another cold winter saddens the parting nonetheless!”

She laughed merrily and whistled again, receiving an answer from the hopping little creature. Elrohir stared as if Borndis herself had sprouted wings.

“You are talking. To a bird. In bird-language?”

It was more of a statement of absurdity than a question. Borndis looked at him with a sparkle in her eye.

“Hold out your hand.”

Elrohir cautiously did as he was asked, and Borndis warbled once more. The thrush flitted from her hand to Elrohir’s, where it eyed him expectantly.

“You wouldn’t happen to have some grubs on you, or seeds?” Borndis enquired, her tone casual.

At first Elrohir seemed too perplexed to respond.

“No.” He eventually answered.

Immediately the redwing darted away as if it had understood, back to its feast of rowan berries.  

Celebrían chose that moment to step forward from the doorway where she had been watching the exchange with Ardil.

“Borndis is of the Nandor, the Green-elves who speak the tongues of all good beasts. What you saw is neither enchantment nor work of the darkness. We will teach you, in time.”

There was no assent from Elrohir, his face stony as the walls of a besieged fortress. Celebrían’s lips remained frozen in a good-natured smile, but Elladan keenly felt her wave of sadness at Elrohir’s distrust.

Elrohir’s connection with Elladan had been unavoidable and self-evident, like a pair of lodestones from Erestor’s compasses clicking tightly together when brought close. Without the benefit of twinship Elrohir was proving far more difficult to approach. Despite shared blood a gulf of strangeness gaped between him and their parents.  

Elladan meant to comfort his mother, but found she had already recovered. Instead of asking them inside she gracefully sat down beside her sons, her legs folded in the manner of the Wood-elves underneath the drape of her skirt, and simply let herself be seen. Elrohir eyed her with a neutral expression, not so much afraid as observant. He reminded Elladan of a clever wild daw. At the lean end of winter it might approach a wanderer in the woods, but never comes to a stranger’s hand.

Their mother picked the thought from his mind with a chuckle. There were few birds in any wood between Lórien and Imladris she had not brought to her hand eventually.