Northern Skies by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 9

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Elrond sank into a boneless slump in the armchair beside the hearth in his study. Around him the room lay in shadows. As autumn slid into winter the fading sun drained all colour from the North, washing the world in deep grey. Noon could not be long past, but what little light reached the study through the diamond-paned casements was already blue as dusk. Elrond had shuttered the cool, incessant light of the Fëanorian crystals hanging over his worktable. A single oil lamp outlined a clear circle of gold around his solitude.

He breathed deeply, struggling to still his shaking hands enough that he might pour himself a cup from the decanter of mulled wine some considerate soul had left on the side table while Elrond drifted on the paths of the mind. The fragrant brew was still lukewarm: today’s venture had been shorter than previous ones. Exhaustion got the better of him. When Elrond poured at last he trembled like an elderly Mortal, splotching crimson drops onto the buttery gleam of the parquet floor. He only narrowly avoided the ruin of the swirling green and gold patterns of the winter rug underfoot. Beside the decanter on its silver salver lay a crisply folded napkin, but Elrond could not muster the strength to lift it and mop up the spill. Instead he drained the tepid cup in one tart, invigorating swig, and briefly allowed himself to sag under the leaden weight of his weariness.

Elrohir’s return was both the greatest joy and gravest task of Elrond’s life. A few short weeks of having his son at home had not diminished his sheer bewildered delight whenever he reached out in mind to find forty years of harrowing emptiness replaced with the living song of Elrohir’s fëa. And after each breath of happiness came the bleak, oppressive dread of losing him once more.   

The bitter aftermath of three great wars had granted Elrond a painful acquaintance with Elvish death from grief. Glorfindel’s tales of the violence and horrors of Harad were but a dim foreshadowing of the reality of Elrohir’s injuries. Elrond’s first look at his returned son had confirmed his worst fears: only Elrohir’s Mortal blood and his deep longing for Elladan had kept him from dying of sorrow before he ever reached the North.

Now that Elrohir was home every day was a fearful vigil. From Elrond’s first thought upon awakening until deep into the night his mind was trained on Elrohir. Learning a stranger’s fëa was not unlike learning their face. Even as Elrohir attempted to hide himself, Elrond gathered the little tells and quirks that betrayed the raw wounds to his spirit, cut by violence and darkness and the Ringwraith’s brutal assaults and left to fester untended beneath his quiet, composed veneer. Elrond poured all he had into the slow, painful process of cleansing and healing until his strength failed him, only to begin anew as soon as he emerged from the exhausted stupor that passed for sleep.

Healing, by its very nature, was the loss of one’s self, passing strength from one fëa into another. The gift had to be measured according to need, tightly rationed so a healer would have something left for the next injured Elf. Within hours of their reunion, Elrond learned he could not summon his usual detached reserve now that the one in need of his care was his own child

Celebrían shored him up as best she could whenever he fell down like a dead weight on their bed beside her, his eyes closed and face pale with exhaustion. Elrond’s share of the endless stream of foreign correspondence, envoys and petitioners flowing into the valley was wordlessly redirected to her study. Elrond still went to his own, blanketed in thick, unnatural silence in the absence of his councillors and the usual contingent of aides, only to wind up in this very chair, still as graved marble with his unseeing eyes on the flames as he poured out his very self like wine from a cup.

The day had been restless, with a creeping tension building throughout the darkening afternoon until the mountains discharged themselves in a ferocious autumn storm. Sleet drummed on roof tiles and shutters. The bare branches of Celebrían’s rowans whipped a sky grey as pewter as the gales howled around the Last Homely House. Its denizens huddled in the warm glow of the Hall of Fire for song, merriment and shared relief at being safely indoors.

In the twins’ chambers a far more disturbing scene unfolded. The howling wind carried Elrohir back to another storm, hot desert winds chasing up mountain-sized clouds of billowing red dust through which a malicious shadow hunted.

Elrond could feel his son’s terror, wide awake but deep enough in tortured memory that not even Elladan could draw him back to the here and now. He longed to touch Elrohir’s mind, to gently untangle the red, pulsating knot of pain and fear driving him past rational thought to soothe the gaping wounds underneath, but Elrond had been at this all day, and he no longer had the strength.

Even with nothing left to give, there always was one place he could turn for more. Vilya’s beckoning call was ever-present, lapping at the edges of Elrond’s consciousness. The Ring’s cool glimmer ran like a smooth lake of liquid sapphire eager to be moulded to its bearer’s will.

Elrond was no fool: whenever one wielded a Ring of Power there was a price to be paid. All things wrought by the Rings became ensnared in that fine, coruscating web of Song and Power Celebrimbor and Annatar spun so artfully, and that now tangled thick as cobwebs over every last work of the High Elves in Ennor. But oh, how sweet it was -- even to eyes that had never seen Valinor -- to have a taste of such bliss, of all things healed and preserved for eternity. What could be the harm in granting that to Elrohir? In the end, was it not Elrond alone who would pay the inevitable reckoning?

The moment he began to siphon Vilya’s thrumming power to Elrohir the door clattered and Celebrían stood before him, eyes blazing.

“No, Elrond. Not this.”

For a moment it was as if Celeborn had materialized in Elrond’s study in all his obstinate Sindarin directness. Elrond straightened himself back to a proper sitting posture, some detached part of him briefly wondering when and how he had managed to drop his cup. He numbly watched the spreading pool of wine until it began to threaten the silk tassels bordering the carpet. With an exasperated sigh Celebrían reached for the napkin and knelt. Elrond’s head spun, and for a moment he was furious with her for adding to his burden.

“I only mean to help ...”

Celebrían cut him off without hesitation. She was still crouching on the floor by his feet, wine-soaked napkin in hand, but with all the subservience of a snarling lioness. She had clearly come running from the reception room, the trailing sleeves of her samite robes of state primly folded to reveal hands ink-stained from whatever contract or treaty she had been signing. Her moon-bright hair was coming undone from its hard, gem-pinned coronet of plaits.   

“Elrohir will have no part in this. You were there as well as I, when Ost-in-Edhil fell. Have you not seen enough of what those accursed jewels can do to a man? You made your choice to take up a Ring of Power. Elladan cannot be anything but your heir. But not Elrohir! At least one of my children will be wholly free of the doomed trinkets of the Noldor. You may give him every aid you can, but not this.”

Her mind was all white fire as she spoke, doing away with their cautionary measure of leaving the Three unmentioned even in this very room. Galadriel’s daughter indeed. Only a fool would defy her, or a very brave man.

Elrond was unsure which one applied when he answered. “The Noldor and their deeds are in Elrohir’s very blood and bones. You cannot erase Finwë from him, and keep only Elu. And regardless of his ancestry, the mere fact that we brought him into this house will tie him to my fate.”

Celebrían rose to her feet, light and supple. She was as tall as her parents, standing over Elrond in his chair with eyes alight with defiance. Elrond had not heard that particular tone of  voice from her in many years.

“Tell me, loremaster, what will become of the Three and all they have wrought, should Sauron regain that little bauble he so desires? All doomed to be be laid bare before his Eye. Elrohir will not be among Vilya’s works, to be bound in eternal darkness. I would rather see him in Mandos than in Sauron’s grip.”

She was correct, of course, and Elrond was far too numb with misery to point out that Mandos was but one of two possible roads, should Elrohir be lost to his wounds. He nodded wordlessly. His legs were a dead weight, filled with lead, and the very thought of dragging himself to the twins’ rooms to deal with what awaited there without Vilya’s power shoring him up was torture. When he finally managed speech, his voice was even, dry and brittle.

“Give me a moment, and I will go. Elrohir is caught in memory and Elladan knows not what to do with him. I cannot pull him out of it completely, but perhaps my presence will ground him in the present.”

Only now did Celebrían take a proper look at her husband, and the reflected shock and compassion from her eyes and mind proved he did look as wrung out as he felt. Suddenly regretful and tender, she took his face between her hands to kiss his throbbing forehead. At times the ancient fractures that divided Elvendom ran deeply, even through their marriage.

“One day he will understand what you did, and what you spared him. He will love you all the more for it.”

 

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Elrohir had no inkling of Elrond’s labors, or the source of his renewed strength. They left him in the dark, a conscious and well-considered decision. Mortals had nothing like it, the subtle, cobweb-fine thread of feeling and consciousness that bound an Elvish family together. Elrohir abhorred the very idea of such closeness between fëar, preferring to be entirely alone in his own mind and shielding even from Elladan whenever he could achieve it. At this delicate stage the truth could only serve to add to his distress.

Elrond took to telling his taciturn son long-winded stories in Sindarin about anything and everything that seemed inconsequential and unthreatening enough. Elrohir keenly listened to the rambling monologues winding this way and that, entertained equally by the intricacies of Dwarven society, herb-lore, snippets of news from the lives of councillors, scribes and healers he had never met or the finer points of wintertime horse husbandry, and meanwhile absorbed the language.

Attempts at engaging him in conversation about Harad never achieved anything beyond vague and nonspecific answers. On those occasions Elrond knew himself sharply observed with guarded, polite distance. It took weeks of undemanding presence for his efforts to bear fruit.

On one of winter’s first snow-days the valley lay muffled in brilliance. The surrounding mountains seemed dissolved in a blanket of clouds white as moonstone. Imladris’ waterfalls were frozen into towering columns of lace, and even for Elves the air cut coldly against the throat. Elrond and Elrohir sat by a roaring hearth-fire in the twins’ drawing room. Elrond felt over-warm beside the blazing stack of pine logs, while Elrohir finally let his hands emerge from the fur-trimmed sleeves of his heavy woollen overtunic, warming them with obvious contentment. That morning Elladan had taken his brother out for a happy reunion with Rochael and a long ride through snow-covered fields and orchards. The day’s exertions had left Elrohir pleasantly tired and in a good mood, but chilled to the bone. Elrond sent for some hot tea to warm him up.

As he elaborated on a curious ritual he once witnessed among the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm on a state visit with Ereinion, Elrond suddenly found himself the recipient of a real smile. He had embellished the tale more than a little in his eagerness to entertain his son, and now Elrohir chuckled, one corner of his mouth drawn up in a grin that showed clearly he did not believe a word of it but found the story amusing nonetheless.

From their first meeting in Eregion Elrohir had dutifully smiled whenever he felt it was expected of him, but for one to genuinely reach his eyes had been a rare sight, directed exclusively at Elladan.

“It is completely true!” Elrond hastily assured Elrohir, unwilling to be suspected of telling untruths, even one so insignificant.

There wasn’t a trace of mistrust as Elrohir laughed again. “It is a good story regardless.”

He said it in Sindarin. His grasp of the language was improving by the day.

Elrond dared a question. “Have you ever seen Dwarves?”

Elrohir thought for a moment, then deemed the tale harmless enough for telling. “Once, in Pelargir, but they never pulled each other’s beards.”

“Only at royal weddings,” Elrond replied, and felt a stab of warmth as he was rewarded with another grin.

Elrohir surreptitiously set his half-empty cup down on a side table. It was a healers’ draught,  its sour astringency barely masked by honey clearly not to his taste.

“You will feel better if you finish that.” Elrond smiled. “Though I am the first to admit it is not our best brew.”

Elrohir took up the cup once more and downed the remaining contents in one gulp. Judging from the small shudder that ran along his back it revulsed him. Elrond made a note to provide a different one next time.

“Remember when you made Glorfindel coffee, in Harad?”

Elrohir seemed confused at first, then looked at him in astonishment. “I had to brew that with pond water! I never thought it would delight him enough to sing its praises in the North. Coffee is an everyday drink, in Harad.”

Elrond had not just been told. He had vicariously lived Glorfindel’s memories of that particular morning several times. He wondered whether Elrohir would laugh or be upset if he ever learned how thoroughly every single moment of his time with Glorfindel had been detailed in Imladris.  

“Glorfindel did appreciate it.”

Elrohir instantly became apologetic. “He visited at the worst of times. All the poor man ever got from us were field rations. Which is why  one cup of murky coffee made such an impression.”

Elrond had run into a wall of silence whenever he had tried to engage Elrohir about Harad.  He ventured it once more.

“From the look of you, you did not get much beside field rations for a long time.”

As winter’s early dusk descended on the room the flickering firelight shadowed Elrohir’s cheekbones far too harshly. His face still carried the sharpness of hunger where a softer smile should have been. The Siege had granted the healers of Imladris a great deal of experience with refeeding the starved. Elrohir’s food was prepared following well-tried recipes and the five small but rich meals daily had the desired effect. Mere weeks already had him looking more substantial, his former sharp transparency softened by a trace of Peredhil solidity to his bones. Whether his battered body retained the ability to grow was impossible to predict, given his unique lineage. All that could be done was feed him and await the results.

Elrohir shrugged. “It was not the most successful of campaigns. At least I was being fed.”

This was a day of firsts. As glad as he was for receiving an answer, Elrond could not help but wonder who among the Haradrim had been sacrificed to spare rations for the army. In arid, unforgiving lands hunger was even more of a weapon of war than in the fertile North. It seemed both sides had wielded it mercilessly.

Perhaps it was his growing trust in Elrond, or more likely lingering guilt towards Glorfindel, but Elrohir suddenly volunteered a tale of his own.

“The war would never have gone so ill if not for the Ringwraith. Umbar could not touch the Haradrim in the deep desert, but when that thing began aiding them they suddenly had us by the throat. If not for Glorfindel’s interference they would have utterly defeated us. He is a very brave man.”

Elrond could feel the unspoken anguish behind the brief sentences. Dark and desperate tales of slaughter, of battles against an enemy who could not be vanquished with any weapon the Haradrim possessed, of enduring the unendurable. He wondered how many times Elrohir had faced the Nazgûl before Glorfindel could protect him. Far too many hopeless battles, judging by the damage the foul creature had wreaked on his fëa, left to sicken him untreated for lack of anyone skilled in such healing.

Elrohir suddenly looked at him sharply. “How did you know to send Glorfindel when you did? Had he arrived a few days later most Haradrim would have been dead, myself included. The timing could not possibly be coincidence.”

Elrond had given that question much thought himself, and come to a remarkable conclusion. Elrohir would not like the answer, but complete honesty was the only way to gain his trust.

“Ruhiren’s arrival in the North with tidings of you was remarkable indeed. He did not achieve the journey on his own. Like you, he was aided by Ulmo himself.”

For the briefest of instants Elrohir stared at his father with the sort of look folks of sound mind reserve for the harmlessly insane, before recovering a neutral expression.

“The desert is not where one would expect a Sea-God’s interference.” He was too polite to voice his doubts about Ulmo’s very existence.

Elrond smiled. “Rest assured that Ulmo is very much real, and he is lord of far more than just the sea. Tell me, is there any water at all, in the desert?”

Elrohir clearly dreaded where this was going. “Of course. There are wells and deep aquifers. Or it can rain, very rarely.”

“The spirits of Ulmo and his Maiar travel in all the waters of the world. Ulmo learned your whereabouts through his wandering folk, and when the Ringwraith appeared he knew that, too. He dispatched a messenger to warn me forthwith.”  

Elrohir was once more incredulous. “Ruhiren spent a couple of months with my company. There was nothing divine about him, and he was not much of a messenger either.”

“You were the one who sent him north?” This was new information for Elrond.

Elrohir did not meet his father’s eyes. He seemed embarrassed.

“Not quite. Ruhiren was a pitiable figure. My company freed him on a raid. The Umbarians had treated him even worse than most slaves. He was eaten up by the memory of it, and sick with longing for his home. He had a terrible habit of drowning all that in beer, or opium if he could get it. He was no use as a soldier: all he would talk about was returning to Arnor. He kept begging me to let him go north. In the end I gave him a camel and let him strike out for Harondor, simply because I was tired of his drunken antics and the constant nagging. It was a doomed enterprise and I felt terrible about it afterwards. I was convinced he had died of thirst somewhere along the way. The very idea of him being a messenger from the Valar is … odd. But it would explain how he survived the journey.”

Elrond smiled wryly.

“Your dubious kindness to a broken man saved your life and all of Harad. The Lord of the Waters has always had great care for our House. He rescued you, as he did your ancestors on several occasions, whether you choose to believe it or not.”  

Elrohir looked at Elrond expectantly.

“How is Ruhiren these days?”

Elrond knew Elrohir would judge his character, and probably that of all Elvenkind, from the answer to that question. This particular test he would pass with flying colours.

“As well as he can be, under the circumstances. Nénuwen, my envoy in Fornost, installed him in a friendly widow’s guest room and pays him a monthly pension. I am told that he still spends most of it on beer, but at least he has a roof over his head and food on the table.”     

Elrohir gave a fresh smile, not even trying to hide his relief at learning that his father was a decent man.

“Poor fellow. I thank you for looking after him. It would be beyond sad if he should starve after all he went through.”

What exactly had been done to Ruhiren in Umbar Elrond did not ask. Undoubtedly more senseless horror worthy of the Black Foe himself. There was no need to burden Elrohir with the recollection of it.

The thought painfully reminded Elrond of what had only just been averted, of a thousand ways -- from cruel to shockingly mundane -- in which Elrohir might have been forever lost to those who loved him. The Black Breath had very nearly claimed him. He could have been cut down by a Morgul-blade, felled by the bolt of an iron crossbow, captured and tortured to death by the Black Númenóreans, or simply fallen prey to the agony of thirst. The very thought of his son suffering was unbearable, and Elrond forcibly drew himself back to the here and now. From now on Elrohir was home, and the only threat remaining were the deep wounds cut by his ordeal, wounds that might be healed given time and care enough. From now on he would sleep in safety each night, surrounded by those who wished him well. From now on, Elrond could protect him.  

Elrond rose from his chair, a deep, visceral longing constricting his chest. He could only just keep from stroking a loosening braid from Elrohir’s growing shock of hair back from his face, a habitual gesture with Elladan he could not afford here. He diverted his hand to straightening his own robes instead. Elrohir looked at him with frank, curious interest. His eyes were bright as any Elf’s, sharp with the light of a tempered will.

He will be a force to be reckoned with, one day, Elrond thought, suddenly deeply afraid. If he lives.

 

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The stars of winter shone brightly over a cold, clear frost night. A fine coating of rime transformed the trees to living towers of radiance, every last bare branch crusted with diamonds to rival the splendour of Elbereth’s silver blossoms above. Their very boles creaked in the breathtaking cold.  

Ardil rose to add another pine log to the fire in Elrohir’s anteroom before turning to the window to pull back the padded winter curtains. Through the delicate lacework of frost ferns covering the glass he watched the Bruinen. The river’s merry voice sang low and slow, muffled by slabs of ice dusted in a thin layer of powder snow. Tonight’s singing, a jubilant chorus in praise of the Star-Kindler, sounded rather close by. The icy heart of winter made all but the most determined Wood-elves seek the warm sanctuary of Elrond’s house with its many hearths. In Doriath Ardil had grown used to harsh winters, all cold brilliance and invigorating chill. The beauty of frost never touched Lórien, and he doubted that mallorn trees would withstand it. For a long, timeless moment he stood immersed in bittersweet recollection of long-sunken forests crowned with snow.

Ardil returned to the night’s work, yet another dispatch for Celeborn detailing the state of Elrohir’s health and his readjustment to Elvish life. Before putting quill to parchment once more he held still to listen to the sounds beyond the closed bedroom door. It seemed that this night was to be a rare peaceful one. He caught nothing but slow, regular breathing and the occasional rustle of bed linen as Elrohir moved in the strange hybrid of memory and dream that was sleep for the Half-Elven.    

Ardil once thought them fair and wondrous creatures, the twin Half-Elven sons of the lady Celebrían. Soon after their birth they had looked like any other Elf-babe -- all round-faced charm, the first stirrings of their thoughts and emotions simple and sweet. As they grew their minds gained a complexity and otherness Ardil knew well, for he had seen it before in Dior and his children.

Celebrían’s choice of husband had wrought a particular grace: all of the Peredhil had been fair, yet in her sons by Elrond Elu Thingol’s blood ran in both male and female lines. The remembrance of Lúthien was stronger in them than in any other of her descendants.     

Ardil could only hope Elrohir had inherited more than his foremother’s looks. He would need  all her strength and tenacity. Ardil was no healer, but he knew well that fey restlessness to his charge, his air of translucency and the way his eyes seemed to drift away from the physical world before him towards the Unseen beyond. Any Elf old enough to have witnessed as much war and loss as Ardil had seen this before. The child was near to Bannoth’s Halls, and the gossamer thread that kept his mind tethered to his body easily severed. In spite of Elrond’s best efforts he likely wouldn’t have lived through the journey from Tharbad to Imladris if not for Elladan.

Ardil took great pride in Elladan each time he witnessed the boy’s patience and gentleness with his brother. The sorrow of losing Elrohir, the center of his universe, at such a young age had wizened Elladan far beyond his years. Unlike some young Elves of noble birth he had shown little mischievous recklessness or wine-fuelled ill judgment for his guard to contend with. Now that his brother had returned in such ill health Elladan’s kind nature and innate sense of responsibility drove him to standing a ceaseless watch over Elrohir. Only when Elrond or Celebrían insisted that he rest and eat in the dining hall among his friends instead of cooped up in the twins’ chambers, did he grudgingly depart for as short a time as he dared before taking up his vigil once more.            

Soon the snow would begin to fall in earnest, blocking all paths and passes into the valley and turning the eyes and minds of its denizens inwards. Elrohir seemed very much lost in what had to be an entirely new world to him. Winter’s starless nights and short, lead-grey days held nothing but strangeness, and the cold itself appeared to cause him physical pain. Ardil had little experience with Mortals and their capacity to endure such things, but neither Dior and his children nor Elrond and Elladan had never appeared this affected by winter’s chill. Even inside the house Elrohir dressed in layers of wool and fur as if about to set out for a midwinter hunt.

Nothing could be further from the truth. The lord and lady kept him to the family wing, a drastic measure that nonetheless met with Ardil’s full approval. It would have been wholly unnecessary in Lórien, where Elrohir might have found his bearings among wholesome Elvish folk, sheltered from undesirable influences by the safety of the Lady Galadriel’s fence.

Beyond the family rooms, closely guarded and accessible only to a select few intimates, Imladris was an open waystation, a hive of brisk trade and diplomacy between the King’s Road to Arnor and the HIgh Pass into Rhovanion and Dorwinion beyond.

Elrond insisted on opening the doors of his house to all save the servants of the Enemy. Exotic languages fluttered around his halls like a rainbow of butterflies. Secretive Dwarf jewellers from Khazad-Dûm broke Elvish bread with wine-trading Men from Dorwinion, while Erestor’s agents discreetly listened in to ensure Elrond’s levies were paid in full on every gem and barrel changing hands. King Valandil’s envoys were forever in and out of the council rooms. In cloisters and courtyards of ivory stone mingled adventurous Elf-sailors offering Lindon’s pearls and ambergris in exchange for Noldorin blades; silk merchants from Khand, astonished at finding themselves not just greeted, but haggled hard in their own language by Elvish loremasters; and wayward Golodhrim princes wandering the North at their leisure as if the Valar had never deigned to call them West. In Imladris every known tongue was spoken, every possible profit made and every last snippet of news snatched up by sharp Elvish ears.

Over a long-year of daily exposure to the boisterous, ever-flowing stream of mercantile folk of all kindreds had failed to reconcile Ardil with it. On some level he could understand Elrond’s wish to mingle with his brother’s chosen people, but the Mortals’ coarseness, the swift disappearance of  familiar faces after what seemed only a handful of years, and the sheer otherness of them often made Ardil think wistfully of Lórien or Doriath.

Ardil was glad to see Elrohir held well away from the bustle, kept to a guarded island of Elvish tranquility with only his family and trusted staff. Given the run of the house he would likely be rubbing shoulders with strange Men once more, instead of turning towards his own people.

The ceaseless passage of strange traders, fortune-seekers, the unwell in search of healing and ambitious students was all the more galling for the continuous presence of the Elf tasked with overseeing Imladris’ commerce and foreign relations. Erestor the Kinslayer was always about: arranging, mediating, speaking little and hearing much. People called him Elrond’s eyes and ears, and the knowledge that the Lord of Imladris was governing his realm with Erestor’s rabidly Golodhrim viewpoints dripping into his ears like blood-red candle wax was concerning enough. The less dealings Elrohir had with the wretched Ngoldo murderer, the better.

Perils of an entirely different nature were yet more pressing, and Ardil was well on his guard. When he first heard the tale of how Elrohir escaped from under Glorfindel’s eye he had been dismayed by the reborn Golodhrim’s carelessness. Now that the responsibility for Elrohir’s safety was on him Ardil keenly felt its weight. Beyond the safety of his father’s house awaited certain death. Whether it came about from cold, sorrow or at the claws of the mountain Orcs would hardly matter in the end.

Elrohir moved quietly, for a Peredhel. He spoke little, and his steps and movements had the practiced economy of one whose life depended on his capacity to remain undetected. Ardil had been a march-warden for two ages of the world. He had tracked far more elusive things. He grew intimately familiar with the sound of Elrohir’s breathing and the rhythm of his footsteps, even through walls and closed doors. Wherever he went, Ardil would follow like a silent shadow.

At first this task had been an easy one, without any untoward behaviour. That changed when the dreams began. As quiet and reserved as he was by day, at night a catalog of horrors besieged Elrohir. Some nights simple distraction sufficed to turn his mind from whatever relived horror had put that distinct, glassy look into his eyes. Often matters were far worse, with Elrohir scrambling away from the hands that gently tried to wake him, shouting in his strange Southern speech or begging for mercy in Númenórean. Afterwards he was both mortified and sullen.

Elladan grew frantic with concern, and Ardil could not fault the boy. The twins’ separation had torn a wound, the extent of which was revealed only now that they could once more experience what had been missing.  As far as Ardil could tell their minds and dreams had grown closely entwined. Elladan often appeared in Elrohir’s rooms long before Ardil noticed a disturbance. His most harrowing visits were those when no nightmare was forthcoming, and all Elladan needed was to see with his own eyes that his brother was still there.  

In the long watches where Elrohir was at peace, the quiet and even rhythm of his breathing a reassuring backdrop to the small sounds of night in the great house, Ardil wrote.

The first dispatch he penned for Celeborn had been heart-wrenchingly difficult. Ardil had always taken pride in providing his lord with clear, concise and thorough intelligence, but Elrohir was no Orc encampment to be broken down into tallies and positions. The brutally honest description of the boy’s look of long famine, what remained of his hair matted with filth and that fey detachment in his eyes had made a painful read. Ardil remembered his own sons at forty-eight, gangling and playful as fawns, and tried not to imagine the agony the rendition of his grandson’s suffering would cause Celeborn.    

Elrond had been absolutely correct: had Ardil’s letter not counselled against it, Celeborn and Galadriel would indeed have mustered their guard and ridden to Imladris without bothering to send a messenger ahead.  

Of late there had been some solace to interweave among the tales of night terrors and mistrust. For all his wariness of Elves Elrohir was clever, and quick on the uptake. He swiftly regained his Sindarin, listening with an uncanny focus as if he were trying to extract every morsel of forty years’ worth of missed knowledge from whoever was speaking to him at the time.

Ardil laid down his quill and packed away the letter when the light outside began to turn from blue to tender pink. As he snuffed the candles he noticed the pale, cloudy wisps of his own breath and went to build up the dying hearthfire with a stack of logs so the room would be comfortably warm for Elrohir. Ardil could hear him moving around his bedroom, rustling linen, pouring out washing water and opening the wardrobe. The days were finally settling into some semblance of a set rhythm. Elladan would be in shortly to take Elrohir to breakfast with the lord and lady, then outside into crisp air and sunlight for as long as he could bear the cold.      

Beyond the windows the rising winter sun poured pale gold into the valley. All things seemed fresh and new in her light. Ardil was relieved to see the sky, perfectly clear and blue as a cornflower. There would be no snow today. He eagerly awaited the last trading parties to enter the valley before snowdrifts would close the roads between Lórien and Imladris. Celeborn’s return message would contain his orders.

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Chapter End Notes

A nice long chapter this week, in which both Elrond and Ardil do the best they can, in their own way.

Of course I'd love to hear from people reading here on the SWG, so please consider leaving me a comment!