Northern Skies by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 10

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The woman screamed -- a desolate, high-pitched sound utterly devoid of will or reason. Elrohir knew that if he were foolish enough to open his eyes he would see her writhing on the gravel a few steps away, unharmed at least in body as a shadow towered over her, cloaked in black and crowned with iron.

For a moment he allowed himself the illusion of safety in the darkness behind his eyelids as he pressed his face into the grit, praying for the howling to end. She lasted for an absurdly long time, growing hoarse as she tired. When the screams died down to a low croak Elrohir could have sworn was some desert animal if he hadn’t known better, he realised the creature would soon grow bored and seek its gruesome sport elsewhere.

The full weight of despair struck Elrohir like a mace. If he moved he would be next to thrash and wail until his voice gave out before sinking into deadly darkness. He willed himself small, silent, an unremarkable nothing amidst the debris, corpses and boulders strewn about the desert valley that held a Haradrim encampment mere hours before, begging Eru or any other god who might spare a sliver of pity that it would be enough.

Sudden as a thunderclap a tomb-like silence descended, both relief and a torture all its own. She was dead, Elrohir realised. Robes rustled when the creature threw back its head, glorying in the cruel victory.

Then came the scream. The voice of evil death itself, unbearable to any creature still drawing breath, the beckoning dark of an open grave. Cold words rang in that cry, pouring terror black as pitch over heart and mind until it smothered consciousness and only the agony of that sound remained. Before such horror there could be no thought of a fight, only of hiding, and crawling, and death. Elrohir was lost, jerked around and laid bare before its malicious will like a dust-mote suspended in a sunbeam.

When the ice-cold claw closed on his shoulder to turn him over he could offer no resistance, paralysed by the simple inevitability of it.The Ringwraith’s mask-face contorted in terrible joy at its find, and Elrohir screamed.

Elladan startled, abruptly releasing Elrohir’s arm as if his brother’s skin had scalded him.

A cresting wave of sheer terror had roughly woken Elladan and sent him rushing into the darkness of Elrohir’s bedroom. He hesitated beside the bed for an instant, before deciding that more touch, rather than less would likely serve to ground Elrohir. He pulled him up and into his arms, ignoring his struggling and the unpleasantly sweat-soaked nightclothes.

Elrohir’s breath came in heavy gulps. He was shaking, his mind's defenses ground down to nothing. Elladan could see into a seething cauldron of agitation far beyond terrified. He felt small and inadequate before the depths of it. He pulled Elrohir closer until he could feel the frantic hammering of his brother’s heart against his own chest. For lack of anything meaningful to say he whispered in Sindarin that it was over, that Elrohir was home, in Elrond’s house, and no evil could reach him here.

Elrohir’s mind was elsewhere and the words did not seem to register. In the end Elladan recalled a wordless song Celebrían and Elrond used to hum to a pair of frightened little boys, many years ago when monsters were still make-believe. Elladan sang into the dark as he held Elrohir, rocking gently back and forth until Elrohir’s racing heart and the turmoil in his mind had slowed.

Elrohir suddenly sat up, muttering in Haradi. His eyes were wide, taking in his bedroom in the dim glow of the banked fire’s embers, scanning the shadowed corners for movement before coming to rest on Elladan’s face. He began to frantically wipe his tear-streaked face on a fold of the tangled bedsheets, physically pushing Elladan away as he moved.

“Go back to sleep.”

Elladan was frightened enough to believe he might never sleep again. Elrohir’s terror was infectious, and for him, too, the room’s half darkness and shifting shadows had taken on a sinister appearance.

“I think we both need to light a lamp and do something other than dream.”

Elrohir had no fight left in him, and he let Elladan lead him to his anteroom. Ardil was nowhere to be seen. Unsure of what to do next, Elladan sat his brother down in a chair by the hearth. Elrohir stared into the remains of the day’s fire, motionless and dazed as Elladan swiftly lit a taper from the glowing coals.

From earliest childhood Elladan had it drummed into him that the servants at hand day and night were a rare privilege afforded by his high birth, and subjecting them to extravagant or fanciful demands would reflect badly on both his own reputation and that of their House. It had been years since he had raised any of them from their beds. He hesitated even now, unsure of what, exactly, he should ask them to do, apart from childishly have someone stay to ensure Elrohir and he were not entirely alone with the darkness haunting both their minds.  

Elladan need not have concerned himself. Before he could finish his circuit of the room  lighting every sconce, the spreading circle of light a relief to them both, the door to the hallway swung open decisively, without as much as a knock. Elrond clearly thought the situation dire enough to dispense with his usual pleasantries as he crouched beside Elrohir, face an impassive healer’s mask.

Ardil entered behind Erond, carrying an unadorned metal tray whose make Elladan recognised from the House of Healing. It held two simple earthenware cups and a steaming jug wafting a strong smell of athelas. The scent, light as dappled sun on green leaves, brought Elrohir out of his stupor. Judging from his startled confusion, he had no recall of how he had wound up in the brightly lit anteroom in his nightclothes, surrounded by pale-faced Elves. He tried to stand, but Elrond’s hand on his shoulder held him down.

“Don’t be frightened. You are safe. What ails you is a sickness we call the Black Breath. Drink this.”

He handed Elrohir a cup of the potion. Elladan knew his father’s bedside manner well enough to notice Elrond had to keep from lifting it to Elrohir’s lips himself when Elrohir hesitated to sniff it cautiously. Finally convinced that a thing that smelled so pure and clean could not be truly poisonous, Elrohir took a small sip.

Elrond caught his hand, still holding the cup, and raised it back towards his mouth.

“All of it.”

Elrohir obeyed, finished the cup in one swig. Only then did he seem fully present once more. Elrond almost imperceptibly sagged with relief.

Elladan could only be grateful that he was no longer alone to deal with this insidious darkness that had infected their sanctuary, that what tormented Elrohir had a name, and their father, in the wisdom of his many years, knew the cure. He felt tears sting from the sheer terror of seeing his stoic twin so undone. He was promptly handed the second cup.

“You too. You cannot share such dreams and remain unaffected.”

The fragrant draught, mostly athelas with a hint of valerian root at the edge of taste, settled Elladan’s panic until his mind was wholly his own once more. The room appeared to shrink to familiar proportions, its shadowy corners holding nothing more sinister than the stand with Elladan’s lute. The instrument was a disconcerting reminder of Elrohir’s easy smile just hours before, when he had basked in the hearth’s warmth like a contented cat to listen as Elladan practised classical Noldorin airs.  

In whispered tones Elrond had Ardil build the fire anew, and arranged for Elrohir’s tangled bed to be remade with fresh linen. The simple domesticity of those whispered conversations was a comfort in itself.

When they were alone once more Elrond sat in the chair beside Elrohir’s, beckoning Elladan to join them. Now that his sons had both taken athelas and come to their senses their father seemed eased, and his manner was gentler.

“Elrohir, do you know where you are?”

Elrohir failed to meet Elrond’s eyes, seeming embarrassed more than anything else.

“The North. Imladris.” He drew a  deep, shuddering breath. “I am well enough. I did not mean to wake you. It will not happen again.”

Elrond leaned forward as if he meant to take Elrohir’s hand, before thinking better of it. His voice was very gentle.

“It inevitably will. No apologies are necessary, now or in the future.” He looked at Elrohir searchingly. “Was this a true memory, or a dream?”

Elrohir stared in dismay. “Did you see it? Both of you?”

Elrond spoke carefully, like one explaining an unpleasant but ultimately self-evident fact of life to a child.

“You can always shield your mind when you wish to, but deep emotions can rarely be entirely guarded, especially from close kin. Elladan experienced your dream nearly as you did. Your mother and I less so, but enough to know the gist of things.”

Elrohir clearly did not want to answer any questions, but Elrond pressed on.

“You dreamt of a woman tortured to her death by the Ringwraith, before being assaulted yourself. Did this ever happen?”

Elrohir rubbed his eyes with hands still bearing the softening remains of a swordsman’s calluses. When they came to rest in his lap once more Elladan saw no sign of tears. His voice did tremble when he answered.

“Some of it. In reality the Wraith never noticed me. I don’t know why I dreamt differently.”   

Elrohir fell quiet once more. The cheerful snap and crackle of burning logs in the hearth only served to underline the heavy silence blanketing the room.  

Concern pervaded their father’s voice. “Was she a friend?”

Elrohir shook his head. “I hardly knew her.” His fingers folded the embroidered edge of his linen sleepshirt, twisting the pattern of geometrical waves. “She did not deserve to die like that.”

Elrond shook his head. “No one does. How did you get away?”

Once more Elrohir could not meet Elrond’s eyes. His entire being radiated shame. “By playing dead until that … thing left of its own accord. Or perhaps it just lost interest.”

Elrond’s tone was decisive. “Elrohir. You were alone in the dark, and you are so very young. All the foolish bravery in the world would not have allowed you to take on a Nazgûl by yourself. You had not a shadow of hope, and had you tried you would inevitably have shared that poor woman’s fate. Saving her was never a possibility.”

He looked at Elrohir searchingly, touching his mind. “The Ringwraith injured you, that night. The proximity of these creatures and such depths of despair cut deeply. The wounds need time to heal.”     

Elladan could feel his brother’s ice-cold terror slither down his own spine as he watched Elrohir shudder.

Elrohir’s voice was rough with panic. “Glorfindel gave it plenty of cause for vengeance. It might be on its way North as we speak.”

Elladan countered Elrohir’s wave of panic with thoughts of their father and Glorfindel, Celebrían, Erestor, their many warriors and loremasters who defended the stronghold that was Imladris with more than swords alone. He tried as best he could to project that sense of inviolate safety to his brother.

What he received in return was a vision of a living shadow slithering at the edge of a circle of firelight, forever searching its way in.

Elrohir’s face remained impassive and his eyes dry, but his fingers were now wringing the hem of his shirt as if the garment had done him a great personal wrong. Elladan was about to reach over and stop him before he would tear the fine embroidery to shreds. He held still when he realised that the bizarre little gesture was intentional, meant to conceal Elrohir’s shaking hands.   

Elrond must have noticed. He leaned forward, eyes fixed on Elrohir with an unfathomable emotion, and for a moment Elladan feared he would try to embrace him. Instead Elrond rose to take a woollen blanket an attentive housekeeper left on one of the chairs’ armrests, and drape it around Elrohir’s shoulders.

“Here. You must be cold.”

Elrohir’s fingers moved to clutching the blanket. His shoulders did relax somewhat under its warmth on top of his sweat-soaked nightclothes.

Elrond’s voice was soft and full of calm honesty. “I will not pacify you with the comforting half-lies we sometimes tell children and the innocent. Our Enemy is moving, out in far, wild lands. The Nine are drawn to their master’s side, and in time they might return to the North. Our defenses make this valley the surest refuge in all of Middle-earth. Allow yourself that safety and be at peace. The Ringwraiths are neither immortal nor invincible, and they can be fought. We will make the two of you capable of withstanding them. One day you will avenge your friends.”

Elrohir’s mind was awash in a confusing blend of grim eagerness and terror. Elladan felt the searing pain of his wounded spirit and the stranglehold of grief as his own. Sick with his brother’s suffering he turned to Elrond.

“Elrohir hurts. Can you not heal him?”

Elrond’s look became gentler, and he appeared to drift in memories of his own before answering.

“You are sick with war and death. No song, herb or word of lore can undo it. The one power that heals such wounds is time; simply letting many days of peace stream past in the manner of the Elves. It will seem impossible at first, but I predict that one day you will wake to the realisation that you have forgotten the feel of terror and remembered how to laugh instead.”   

With that he smiled at Elrohir, noticing the glassy-eyed look of exhaustion before casting a glance at the dwindling candles to check the time.

“You need to sleep. Exhausting yourself will do no good.”

Elrohir nodded, but the brave face was a mask and Elladan knew it. “I will sleep here tonight. Ardil can set up a pallet.”

The depth of Elrohir’s gratitude at not being left alone was painful.

When they were both settled, Elrohir in his own bed and Elladan beside him, Elladan sat up amidst the winter pelts covering his cot to watch his brother for a time. The uncanny closed eyes rendered Elrohir’s familiar face deeply alien. After their first night in each other’s company Elladan had sought out Elrond, gravely concerned with both his brother’s eyes and the seemingly random caleidoscope of his dreams. Their father’s reassurance that Elrohir slept in the usual way of Men had been cold comfort, for the way it highlighted their differences.

This night Elrohir’s mind had wandered on an Elvish path of dreams: recollection as crisp as events relived. Had it consisted of any other memory Elladan would have been overjoyed to see his brother’s Elf-blood manifest. As things stood, the experience brought Elrohir nothing but terror and he bristled against it like a frightened colt.

Even as he slept Elrohir looked pale and drawn. His sleep was troubled, his face furrowed as if in pain, and suddenly Elladan was afraid. For most of Elladan’s life his brother had been an absence -- a gaping wound to his deepest self. Now that their scattered halves were a whole once more the very thought of returning to that bleak emptiness was inconceivable. Elrohir was Elladan’s very essence. Without him there could be neither light nor life.

If Elrohir’s illness should prove beyond Elrond’s skill Elladan would gladly forsake Imladris and all of Middle-earth to accompany his brother across the Sea. In Valinor, Irmo and Estë would heal Elrohir’s hurts. The ironclad certainty had carried Elladan through Elrohir’s troubled homecoming. This night had cast Elladan down from hope into doubt. Who would heal Elrohir if what ailed him was not his wounded spirit, but his Elvish blood itself? A lump of deep, desolate fear settled itself inside Elladan’s chest.    

The night’s gloom and unease were getting the better of him, he finally decided. Surely Elrohir would soon gain mastery over his own mind, and come to appreciate the return of his stolen birthright.  

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Chapter End Notes

As always, thank you for reading! I'd love to hear back from you. I cherish any and all feedback on my work so please consider leaving a comment!

See you next week, when Elrohir -and we! - get to meet Lindir.

Idrils Scribe