Northern Skies by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 8

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The mind cannot sustain a state of deep terror for long. When whatever one dreads fails to manifest, normalcy will inevitably return with the passage of enough time.

Celebrían knew that Elrohir rode to Imladris like a man led to the scaffold, half-convinced the Elves would consume his soul, possess his body or subject him to what other monstrosities passed for Elvish behaviour in the tales of Dark Men. A few days of calm and kindness slowly began to erode his constant state of alarm. They had him do very little except eat and sleep and bask in Elladan’s presence as his battered mind and body found genuine peace for the first time in forty years. The sight of it nearly broke Celebrían’s heart. Her son was wholly unused to the very concept of safety, to being warm, clean and well fed, to life among people who genuinely cared about his well-being. Even if he did not trust his newfound security yet, Elrohir’s eyes slowly lost some of that haunted look.

The reprieve could not last. A scant handful of peaceful nights was all the respite Elrohir received before the first nightmare struck. Celebrían had slept lightly in concerned anticipation, and she caught most of the first one. A shadow of fear haunted Elrohir’s sleep. Cold eyes crept ever closer, seeking him in the dark. Celebrían shuddered at the wave of deep terror that went before the Ringwraith.

Elrohir drew himself awake with an abrupt start, and elsewhere in the house Celebrían rose from her own bed. Elrond's instructions to the staff had been both clear and specific. He was deeply asleep now, exhausted from pouring all of his strength into healing Elrohir. A beam of moonlight from the windows reflected in his glassy eyes. Celebrían decided not to disturb him. She put on an over-robe and went to sit in the sheltering darkness of their anteroom to await the knock on the door.

Meneldil appeared with little delay. Elrond’s esquire entered in complete silence and was briefly startled to find his lady sitting up instead of in the adjoining bedchamber.

Out of deference to Elrond sleeping there he whispered, quietly even to Elven ears.

“My lady, Ardil sends word that Elrohir is awake. There is light and movement in his bedroom. Ardil requests permission to go in and check on him?”

Celebrían rose. “I will go myself.”

Elrohir’s anteroom bathed in the same white light of winter’s half-moon falling through the windows. It was bright enough for Ardil to embroider by. His work, a leaf-patterned saddle blanket, lay abandoned on the window-seat. Ardil stood in the middle of the room, quiet as a hunting owl, ears trained on the goings-on beyond the closed door to the bedchamber. The light of a single candle shone from under it. He had strict orders not to enter unless in dire need. Waking to an Elf standing over him would shatter what shaky trust they had built with Elrohir.

Celebrían entered the anteroom in silence, and briefly the sentry and his lady stood together, listening to the sounds within the bedroom. A soft clicking, as of dice being thrown.

Celebrían could not fathom Ardil’s thoughts. Was he, too, afraid Elrohir might be under some spell of darkness, or was it genuine concern behind the ancient eyes? She would not find out this night. With a few gestures of Nandorin sign language she dismissed Ardil. The warrior melted into the shadows of the hallway in a most Wood-elven way.

Making sure her footsteps were easily heard Celebrían approached the bedroom door and gave it a gentle rap. There was movement inside, and in a moment it opened.

The haunted night’s terror had left Elrohir without walls in his mind. Celebrían could tell the instant when the unexpected sight of her revived his fear of white-fiends and their sorcerous snares. Elrohir visibly tensed, kept from slamming the door only by an equal but opposite dread of offending the mistress of the house. He stood as a man unarmed before a charging Orc-troop, fear writ large in his eyes.

At the sight of her child suffering, Celebrían almost wished she could afford to retreat, call Elladan to attend his brother and spare Elrohir this terror. Allowing him to sink into sheltered solitude with his twin for a crutch seemed an act of mercy, yet in the end such dubious kindness would prove cruelest of all.

She considered her next words carefully, settling on simple politeness in the hope it would restore them both to a semblance of normalcy.  

“Good night. I know you expected no visitors at this hour, but sleep appears to elude you.”

Elrohir seemed torn between bone-deep relief at seeing another living soul, even one he was so ill at ease with, and his fear of Elves.

“I never meant to disturb anyone.”

Celebrían smiled as warmly as her concern allowed.

“I need little sleep. I would be glad to keep you company, if you should like. Unless you prefer me to leave you to your rest?”

Being left alone again with what haunted the night was even more frightening than facing an Elf. Celebrían inwardly rejoiced when Elrohir opened the door fully and stood aside.

In the flickering light of a single candle the room was neat as a pin. Elrohir clearly had a soldiers’ discipline with his belongings. The only item out of place was one of the pillows from the bed, placed on the bedside rug so he could sit on it like he was wont to do in Harad. Beside it lay an old leather purse and a square of painted hide showing a complex drawing of opposing triangles. The purse contained handfuls of what appeared to be white, egg-shaped seashells the size of berries.

At her questioning look Elrohir answered, “A game from Harad.”

Celebrían considered the symmetry of the game board. “Are you not meant to play against an opponent?”

“I am playing both sides at once,” Elrohir answered, dispassionately.

She felt a sharp stab of compassion. Of course. Elrohir was far too intimidated by his Elvish surroundings to do as much as open his door and ask Ardil to call his family. He could not read the thoughtful selection of books Elladan so kindly set out in the room, all of them in Sindarin. What else was there to take Elrohir’s mind off creeping shadows but a game against himself? Celebrían vowed to make sure he would never feel this alone again in his life.

She took another pillow from the bed and placed it opposite Elrohir’s before sitting down with a questioning smile.

“With some explanation I can probably relieve you of this half.”

Elrohir remained standing, carefully considering this unexpected development with something bordering astonishment, and for an instant Celebrían feared he would refuse.

To her delight he finally nodded. “I worked myself into a tight spot on that side. It would only be fair if we began anew.”

He swiped the board clean and began counting the shells into two equal piles. Celebrían lifted one to examine its gloss, finely speckled and shiny as decorated porcelain.  

“Cowry shells from the inland sea in Far Harad. They are used as money in the desert, or for games,” Elrohir explained.

Celebrían took great pride in her fearsome skill at chess. She had once been taught by none other than Galadriel, and being a worthy adversary for the lady’s beloved games of strategy had been a requirement for courtiers and councillors in Lórien and Ost-in-Edhil both. It took her no more than a single practice round to master the rules of the Southern game. Then Elrohir needed all his wits about him to hold on to his shells.

The familiar game and the concentration it required efficiently occupied his mind, leaving no room for darker thoughts. With satisfaction Celebrían watched the tension in his shoulders unwind, his terror replaced with a far more wholesome look. She made no attempts at conversation beyond what was necessary for playing, and no mention of dreams or creeping shadows. Some things were better spoken of in the light of day. Elrohir was visibly relieved at her silence.

As the beginnings of birdsong outside heralded the dawn his moves grew progressively ill-considered, his eyes glassy between turns. Celebrían righted herself.

“You are tiring. Sleep tends to be dreamless, in the early morning. I will leave you to it.”

Elrohir smiled politely. “Thank you for coming.”

“I had a good time. Please send for me whenever you find yourself in need of an opponent. There is a very similar Elvish game I would enjoy teaching you.”

Elrohir nodded, the gesture perfectly noncommittal. Celebrían knew well enough that her quiet son was as likely to order Ardil to raise the Lady of Imladris from her bed as he was to grow a Dwarf-beard.

She took her leave, and lingered in the anteroom long enough to see the candlelight go out and hear the rustling of bed linen as Elrohir turned in.

Ardil still stood his unfailing watch in the corridor beyond. To the sentry’s unspoken question, Celebrían answered.

“It seems to be sinking in that we pose no threat. Now that his watchfulness subsides, the nightmares come out.”

Ardil needed no further explanation. One did not lead troops to war against Morgoth’s creatures for three ages without becoming familiar with the inevitable aftermath.

She repeated Elrond’s instructions once more: a guard was to be present at all times but was forbidden from entering Elrohir’s room barring emergencies, and either she or Elrond were to be called whenever he stirred at night. Elrohir was free to go find Elladan or walk the gardens, but he should never be left alone.   

“Take care when selecting the guards. Only those with level heads and tongues not inclined to wagging,” Celebrían added.

Ardil shook his head. “With your permission I would rather do this myself, my lady. Elrohir has grown used to me. A strange face at the wrong time will only cause more suffering.”

Celebrían was at once struck by the self-effacing kindness of the gesture, and its folly.

“This will not be over in a few weeks’ time. Even you cannot stay awake for the duration.”

Ardil had already considered this. “Perhaps Lord Glorfindel could be convinced to take on part of it? Between the two of us we can ensure no outsiders need to be involved.”

A clever proposal, and one that would serve the need for discretion. Nonetheless the idea was highly irregular in more ways than one. As the commander of Elrond’s armed forces Glorfindel was well above simple guard duties. For Elrohir, the balrog-slayer was sure to agree to so humble a task without rancour. The remarkable part was Ardil’s sudden willingness to collaborate with his Noldorin counterpart, where those two only ever treated one another with cool formality.

“Will you not come to regret being yoked together with him for the foreseeable future?”

Ardil shot his lady a look of indignation. “This is neither about me, nor Lord Glorfindel. My warriors are loyal to the last one, but I would rather not have your son’s reputation depend on their silence. What has befallen Elrohir in the South seems a dark and strange matter indeed, and having the barracks abuzz with it before he ever sets foot in them would do him an ill service.”  

True words, and wise ones, Celebrían knew. Standing in the dark hallway of her sons’ rooms, the sounds of the waking house filtering in, she gained a new respect, both for Ardil’s shrewdness and his commitment to his charge. She could not within reason have imposed this long vigil on him, but he would stand it nonetheless, and collaborate with his longtime rival to accomplish it.

Ardil had once held the equivalent of Glorfindel’s position in Ost-in-Edhil. After such an illustrious career his role as Elrohir’s guard, with Glorfindel outranking him, had to appear somewhat of a barren honour.

“Ardil, I will not forget this. In time, when he improves, you may rest assured of a position more suited to your talents.”

Ardil shook his head.

“My lady, I have spent three ages of the world defending the House of Elu Thingol, and I will not lay down that task until Mandos takes me. Despite Glorfindel’s best efforts there will be plenty of Orcs left in Ennor when the time comes for me to go to war alongside your sons.”