The Roads Not taken by Idrils Scribe

An Unexpected Meeting

This scene was cut from 'Northern Skies' at some point after Chapter 14.

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The young Khandian was as brave as she was curious, to wander among the marble bookshelves this deep into the great library of Imladris.  

Elrohir knew that delegations from Khand and Rhûn had come to the valley. Negotiations with Arnor and Gondor were the crowning achievement to a long-year of diplomatic efforts to unmake Sauron’s influence in the East. Faint echoes of the whirlwind that was Elrond’s house abuzz with diplomats, courtiers and interpreters of every kindred had seeped into Elrohir’s seclusion in the family wing. That very morning Elladan had departed the twins’ rooms dressed in what Elrohir thought were frighteningly pompous robes of state, to attend the official reception over which Elrond and Celebrian would preside. 

Elrond had been apologetic, but firm when he explained matters to Elrohir. Imladris could not afford any gaffes or a potential repeat of the Yestarë incident while hosting representatives of three kings of Men in search of a fragile peace. Elrohir found himself relegated to a day’s calligraphy practice in the library. It seemed that this girl had suffered a similar fate.

She could not be a day above twenty, and Elrohir liked her on sight. Her sleek hair was as blue-black as a magpie’s wing, her keen eyes the colour of cinnamon, with a sparkle of daring mischief. Judging from the gold thread on the galloping horses embroidered around the collar and cuffs of her silk tunic she might be a well-to-do merchant’s daughter, perhaps even a noble. Above all she was Mortal, the first human being Elrohir had come face to face with since Glorfindel led him out of the gates of Tharbad. A sudden, soul-deep longing winded him like a physical blow at the sight of her, but she failed to notice.

Her delicate face lit up at the pages of calligraphy in bright red and blue ink Elrohir had spread out on his work table. To the discerning eye of an Elvish loremaster they were obviously beginner’s exercises, rows upon rows of identical Tengwar done on reed paper instead of precious vellum, but Khand’s nomadic tribes were not given to bookishness and Elrohir’s scribblings were likely the finest his unexpected visitor had ever laid eyes on. 

She tried her best to tell Elrohir so in Numenorean so halting it was barely understandable. Her first great journey abroad, then. 

Elrohir smiled warmly to counter the shock his words were about to cause. “Thank you for your kind words, young horse-mistress, and welcome to Rivendell.”

The Khandian girl was briefly struck silent with astonishment at being addressed in flawless Khandic by an unknown Elvish scribe. She did demonstrate a lordly upbringing by how quickly she recovered.

“And I thank you for so gracious a welcome. May I be so bold as to ask the name of my kind host? Mine is Vidumavi*, daughter of Vidugavia, of the Clan of the Golden Serpent.”

She raised her folded hands to her forehead in the traditional Khandic greeting, which Elrohir returned in kind. 

“I am Elrohir, second son of Elrond of Rivendell. What brings your clan so far west?”

Vidumavi’s eyes widened, and she folded in half like a jackknife with the depth of her bow.  The Khandic sign of great respect and submission briefly confused Elrohir. It was too much, from one young noble to another. Only then did the realisation strike that Vidumavi was ill at ease with Elves, and she clearly believed Elrohir was one. His elation waned as quickly as it had come. He nonetheless gestured for Vidumavi to take the chair next to his own, and the girl sat down eagerly. She was as keen to have a proper conversation with an Elf as Elrohir was for this unlooked-for fragment of the world he once knew. 

“Elrond’s people are truly hospitable, if even their princes afford such kindness to passing travellers.” Vidumavi said. “My father seeks to trade silk and jade for Elvish blades, and we have found the finest of those in your father’s house.”

Elrohir smiled, and delighted in the expression mirrored in Vidumavi’s face, all bluster and the untried confidence of youth. The daughters of Khand were not easily cowed.

“I have no steel to trade, but perhaps you will give me some news nonetheless? What word from Khand? Is Matharavi still Leader of All Clans?”

Vidumavi shook her head. Her posture relaxed as she launched into her tale. “He died in the autumn, may the Golden Sun have his soul. The Great Gathering convened on the winter pastures and the clans chose …”

“Elrohir!”

Ardil’s raised voice tore through the library’s hallowed silence like a knife through silk. His long legs ate up the tiles as he sprinted towards them from amidst the surrounding bookcases, face pale with shocked concern. For a heart-stopping moment Elrohir believed his guardian must have some urgent and terrible news to relay. In the next heartbeat Ardil inserted himself between Elrohir and Vidumavi. With a visceral jolt Elrohir recognised that particular stance. Ardil was among a highly select few who went armed in the inner sanctum of Elrond’s household. The warrior did not have his hidden knife in hand just yet, but he stood ready to draw it in the blink of an eye and slice Vidumavi’s throat to the bone. 

Vidumavi was princess of a warlike tribe, and she recognized her peril. She knew better than to startle backwards or make any brusque movement, and instead laid both hands on the polished oak of the tabletop, empty palms up. 

“I mean your prince no harm!” she stuttered at the irate Elf-warrior looming over her, reverting to her halting Numenorean. 

For a small eternity the three of them stood motionless as if encased in clear glass. Elrohir’s heartbeat drummed in his ears as he racked his brain on how to go about incapacitating Ardil long enough for Vidumavi to escape with her life. 

Erestor averted a tragedy when his sonorous voice echoed between the bookshelves in perfect Khandic. “I do not doubt it, Lady Vidumavi, but Lord Elrohir’s guard is rather thorough where his safety is concerned.”

Erestor emerged from the doorway of his private study. The formidable loremaster looked truly intimidating in his formal robes of a maroon velvet so dark it seemed almost black. Somewhere behind Elrohir’s back a door clattered and Istiel, one of the younger loremistresses, dashed in from the general direction of her own workroom with the pale, tight-lipped expression of one whose dire mistake has just been exposed by their superior. Clearly she was supposed to be keeping an eye on the girl.

“If you would be so kind as to follow Mistress Istiel, she will direct you to a number of very interesting histories of your people.”

Erestor’s remark was no mere suggestion and Vidumavi rose as if her chair had caught fire, casting a fleeting glance at Elrohir as she was shepherded away. Ardil did not relax until the door of Istiel’s study had closed behind the hapless loremistress and her charge.

“Elrohir, are you well?” Ardil’s eyes darted up and down Elrohir’s body as if he expected to find a mortal wound hidden somewhere. 

Elrohir was in no mood to be coddled. “What possessed you!? She meant me no harm, we were only talking!”

Ardil’s eyes and mind flashed with a hot anger born from terror. His hand came down heavily on Elrohir’s shoulder. “Sitting alone and unarmed with Dark Men is far from harmless. Have you lost your mind? She is a Variag, for Bannoth’s sake! What did you say to her!?”

Erestor intervened. “Have no fear. I overheard the whole exchange, and not an inappropriate word was spoken. Elrohir, where did you learn Khandic?”

Elrohir withstood the temptation to answer him with a churlish ‘In Khand’. “I travelled in those parts when I was a caravan attendant.”

Erestor took this information in stride while motioning Elrohir towards the open door of his study. “Come inside. I want to talk to you.” 

Erestor turned towards Ardil. “Master Ardil, my thanks for your timely intervention. Please discreetly inform Lord Elrond of the incident. Make sure Elladan is reassured that his brother is well. I will rejoin the reception shortly. Saelbeth will walk Elrohir to his rooms when we are finished.”

Ardil turned away grudgingly.

Elrohir had never set foot in Erestor’s study before. The space was much grander than Lindir’s homely abode, with tall south-facing windows interspersed with marble columns. The view of the Bruinen’s falls and the valley beyond was marvelous, but the room’s true wonder lay inside. The windows spilled a wealth of midday light onto spectacular frescoed seascapes covering the walls. The Sea seemed an unusual interest for the chief councillor of a mountain stronghold, and Elrohir filed the thought away to ask Elladan later, once this upbraiding was over. 

Opposite Erestor’s grand mahogany desk stood a round table with eight chairs, and it was there that he sat down beside Elrohir. His assistant, a good-natured Noldo who had been introduced as Saelbeth, brought strong black tea seemingly unasked before withdrawing in silence. Elrohir’s throat was parched, but he left his untouched. Trying to raise the fine porcelain cup to his mouth would betray his shaking hands. When Erestor finally spoke he did not seem at all angry or upset, but Elrohir knew well enough that reading an Elf so ancient was far beyond his abilities.      

“Ah, Elrohir… I am glad to discover another Khandic speaker among the household. Our specialist in the eastern tongues of Men sailed West after Dagorlad, leaving us short-staffed. Tomorrow you and I should take some time out of your lessons to converse in the language. I will brief you on the latest developments in the East. There has indeed been a fraught succession. Now that I know you take an interest I will keep you informed.”

Erestor paused to sip his tea and give Elrohir an uncharacteristically warm smile over the rim of his cup. “There is no need for you to mingle with your father’s guests. We will gladly answer any questions you may have about the goings-on outside Imladris.”

Elrohir had no interest whatsoever in conversing with Erestor in any language on Eru’s earth. “Am I a prisoner, that keeping me away from outsiders is worth holding a girl at knifepoint?”

“Ardil never drew his weapon.” Erestor’s benevolent facade did not slip, but his voice brooked no argument. “Commendable, given that we would have had a major diplomatic incident on our hands if he had. His response was entirely justified. Bear in mind that he carries the final responsibility for your safety. That girl might not have been as unarmed as she seemed, and women from Khand are as quick with blades as their men. The mere fact that she was able to wander in here and come face to face with you is highly irregular. Your father will not have you exposed like that, for good reason.”

The argumentation made precious little sense.

“Elladan is meeting Vidumavi’s father as we speak. Is his daughter more dangerous than he?”

Erestor shook his head. “Your brother’s conversations with our Easterling guests are well supervised exercises, part of his education in diplomacy. You will receive that same training in the future. These Variags of Khand may be guests in your father’s house, but historically they are not our allies and you cannot be allowed to risk your own safety and that of this entire realm in unsupervised exchanges with any of them. If knowledge of foreign affairs is what you seek, your father will be overjoyed to see you take an interest. He will gladly answer your questions.”  

Erestor was not a man to be crossed with impunity. Elrohir fell silent, eyes on the fine inlay of the tabletop and mind as impassive as he could achieve.

Erestor’s expression became gentle. “I look forward to teaching you, once all this is past. You will become a great help to your father. Have but a few years worth of patience, until you are well.”

 

*Tolkien's Vidumavi was from Rhovanion instead of Khand, and she lived over a millennium after this story takes place. I used the name because it is among very few canonical names we have for non-Edain Mortal women.

---

Chapter End Notes

Why was this particular road not taken?

I wrote this scene to show the reader the usual goings on in Rivendell, and Elrond and Celebrían's responsibilities as rulers of an Elvish realm. It does achieve just that, but at the cost of Elrohir seeming more like a prisoner held against his will than a son of the house. Holding their son captive seemed OOC for Elrond and Celebrían. I also felt it made Erestor look creepy, and portrayed Ardil as ruthless and violent.
Elrohir could not trust any of them again after this, at least not in a believable way, so Elrohir's Khandic friend was sadly cut from Northern Skies.

What do you think about the scene itself and the OC? Would you have liked to see them in the story? Please consider leaving me a comment.

See you soon for another road not taken,
Idrils Scribe

Begetting Day Present

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The table in Elrohir’s anteroom was strewn with wax tablets bearing unreadable Elvish scribbles, as if a small but exceptionally elegant animal had hopped across their soft surfaces. Glorfindel looked up from his night’s work with a look of cheerful anticipation when Elrohir stepped from his bedroom. 

Sunrise was hours away yet. A crackling hearthfire kept the room pleasantly warm, but outside the world glittered sharp and white beneath the winter moon. Packed snow lay high on the windowsills.

“Good morning, and congratulations on your begetting day!” Glorfindel beamed as he stood to embrace Elrohir. “Elladan will be here soon, but your first gift will be from me.”

The Elf smiled with an expectant air as he passed Elrohir a small box of engraved bronze. The instant he lifted the tightly fitted lid a familiar fruity scent wafted up and Elrohir could not keep from gasping in shock.

“Glorfindel, how in Eru’s blessed name did you find dates in a country under four feet of snow?!”

Elrohir belatedly realized that sheer astonishment had made him revert to Haradi. Glorfindel’s fair face lit up at Elrohir’s delight in his unexpected gift. 

Nonetheless the answer came in crisp Sindarin. “They are imported, of course. Nenuwen came across them at the Great Market in Fornost, and she thought of you.” 

Glorfindel telling an untruth was new, and distinctly odd. For a man of so many talents he was a rather poor liar. 

Elrohir had never met Nenuwen, Elrond’s ambassador at the court of King Valandil of Arnor, but he could not imagine her going about her days in search of birthday presents for her lord’s sons. Glorfindel must have ordered the dates from some trader in Fornost Erain. They were likely the most expensive food in all of the North, given that they had been shipped all the way from South Gondor through Pelargir, Tharbad and Fornost. 

The gift’s odd mixture of thoughtfulness and opulence was so typically Glorfindel that Elrohir could not help but laugh. Glorfindel looked for all the world as if he had just won a prize. Still laughing, Elrohir half-jokingly bowed, one hand over his heart in the Haradi gesture of thankfulness. 

“Thank you very much. You are generous, Glorfindel.”

Glorfindel’s look grew soft, and his mind was open. Elrohir glimpsed wide skies of grey and silver clouds over rolling green hills, the air fresh and wet and clean. Campfires and starlit roads walked singing. Golden forests and cities of white and sailing ships. A thundering cavalry charged, their proud banners streaming in the west wind. 

“Is this a vision?”

“They are but a few threads in the weave of the coming days.” Glorfindel mused. “No doubt we will meet darker ones too, and some may slip from our fingers entirely.  All Sight is imperfect, but I do believe you and I will see most of these together.”  

Glad for something to occupy his hands Elrohir poured two cups of watered wine and handed one to Glorfindel before raising his own. “At last Elladan can taste those dates I keep telling him about. Thank you for a memorable birthday gift.” 

“Begetting day. Not birthday.” Glorfindel said.

“What do you mean?”

Glorfindel carefully explained, as he had so many things. “Today we celebrate the day Elladan and you were begotten. Not the day of your birth, which is three days from now if I remember correctly.”

Once more the Sindarin language had Elrohir puzzled. “I still misunderstand, I believe. What does ‘begetting’ mean? The child’s naming?” 

Glorfindel shook his head. “A child’s first naming is called Essecarmë, and it takes place after the babe is born. Begetting means conception.”

Elrohir lowered his eyes to his half-empty cup, the floor, anywhere but Glorfindel’s. Blood rushed to his face as he scrambled for a polite reply to this unexpected obscenity. On some level he was aware that Elrond and Celebrian must share a bed, but to publicly announce such base bodily functions and put on yearly celebrations of the act veered far beyond the boundaries of human propriety. 

He was suddenly half-convinced that Elves might have some ethereal way of achieving pregnancy, unknowable to Mortals. The relief was so great it showed on the surface of his mind.

A bemused Glorfindel was quick to disabuse him of the idea. “The Haradrim, and Mortals in general have some … distinct ideas. Elves are less restrained. There is no shame for parents in announcing that a child was given to them. Are Mortal children not conceived in the same manner?” 

Elrohir felt his cheeks turn a luminous beet-red. That exasperating Elf managed to sound so damned innocent !

Eru Allfather in His endless mercy chose that exact moment to have Elladan burst into the room with a shout of glee and envelop Elrohir in something that was half hug, half wrestling hold. 

By the time Elrohir finished his retaliation and Glorfindel could stop laughing enough to stand up straight once more, the subject was forgotten.

---

Chapter End Notes

Why was this road not taken?

Mainly because the light, humorous tone seemed too jarring, and I couldn't find a place where it seemed to work with the surrounding scenes. It was originally meant to sprinkle in some comic relief, but these chapters are so full of night terrors and talk of fading and Ringwraiths that I just couldn't fit it in anywhere.

Chronologically, the best spot is probably in or around chapter 9. Elrohir is no longer scared of the Elves, but he hasn't gotten used to them either and he's still very much a beloved but awkward stranger. That Elladan and Elrohir's begetting day is in the dead of winter is pure headcanon, JRRT gives us the year (TA 130), but not the date.

What do you think of Glorfindel's characterization here, and his developing relationship with Elrohir? Would you have liked to see this scene in the story? Any thoughts on he awkwardness of the concept of begetting days?
A comment would be much appreciated.

See you soon for another road not taken,

Idrils Scribe

Times of Peace

This scene takes place a couple of hours after Elrond and Elrohir's conversation in chapter 14 of 'Northern Skies'.

Chapter warning for swearing.

Read Times of Peace

“Thank you, Borndis. You may leave him with me.” Glorfindel sounded positively enthusiastic despite the late hour.

With Ardil in the House of Healing, it was Borndis who had appeared in Elrohir’s rooms come evening. Instead of taking Ardil’s place in the anteroom to guard Elrohir for the night, she had led him to this unexpected meeting in the garden. The Silvan scout gave her captain a smart salute before disappearing between the silver trunks of Celebrian’s rowans. 

Glorfindel wore a padded arming jacket, and in the light of the full moon his smile lit up the silent gardens as he knelt beside an elegant chest of inlaid wood resting in the grass at his feet. 

At Elrohir’s questioning glance he answered. “Your father is convinced that he provoked yesterday’s mishap by overtiring you. I believe you were not nearly tired enough, or perhaps the wrong kind of tired. Tonight we put my theory to the test.”

Elrohir's cheeks grew hot with shame at the mention of last night’s incident. He cast his eyes down, studying the mysterious chest, and nearly startled in shock when Glorfindel opened it to reveal a pair of Elvish swords. The blades appeared oddly dark and dull, and it took Elrohir a moment to realize that they were made of wood. Glorfindel expertly flipped one around to hand it hilt-first to his bewildered charge.

“These are wasters -- weighted replicas. You will get well acquainted with them when you join my warriors. Tonight we get an early start.” 

He proceeded to hand Elrohir a padded gambeson of the kind Elf-warriors wore beneath their mail. 

Elrohir could not believe this unexpected stroke of good fortune. “Does Mother know this?” He asked as he buttoned the vest. 

Glorfindel laughed. “I have her permission to ravage the garden as needed. The training grounds are in use at the moment, and my warriors tend to watch like hawks and gossip like sparrows. You are not quite ready for your official debut.” 

Elrohir experimentally swung the strange facsimile. There had to be a metal core inside, because it balanced like a real weapon, the weight and heft familiar and pleasant in the hand. 

Glorfindel’s look was unreadable as he raised his own. “Have at me!”

Raising a blade against Glorfindel seemed unnatural. Elrohir’s opening strike was half-hearted, weak even to his own eyes. 

Glorfindel parried it effortlessly and smiled, cat-like. “I have seen better from you. Come on, Peredhel! You would have a hard time injuring me if that was a real blade.”

He laughed at Elrohir’s look of alarm.

Glorfindel was maddening. He danced away from Elrohir’s strikes, anticipating his every move and feint and bending like a willow-wisp even as he blocked with the force of solid rock. Elrohir gave his all out of sheer stubborn determination, but by the time the moon stood high above the mountains the gambeson was plastered to his skin. His heart drummed in his ears and he was nowhere near to passing the Elf’s impenetrable defences.

Elrohir put his weight behind his strike, and in that minute instant of overbalancing Glorfindel’s leg hooked behind his, quick as lighting. He met the ground with an undignified thud. It was all he could do not to fall on his own sword.

“Fuck!” The Haradi curse left his mouth before Elvish restraint could set in.

Glorfindel laughed heartily. “When pressed, you fall into your accustomed style every time. And what would be a good defense with a scimitar only serves to make you easy pickings with a longsword. I will have to make you unlearn it.“ 

That outrageous Elf was grinning as if he could not think of anything more enjoyable. As he rubbed his sore shoulder Elrohir began to wonder whether Glorfindel had truly forgiven him for being abandoned in Harad. 

Elrohir feinted, turned the other way to skewer Glorfindel from a different angle. The Elf parried, quick and limber, and danced from his grasp once more. This time Elrohir’s stumble was born of exhaustion, the dull throb of abused muscle. Glorfindel knew it.  

“Enough!” He cheerfully announced, lowering his waster. “That should send you to sleep!”

Elrohir’s stung pride was somewhat eased by the winded gasp in Glorfindel’s voice and the sweat dappling his brow as he blotted it with a linen towel. 

“Thank you.” Elrohir said. “I need to find my hand for combat again!” 

In silence Glorfindel turned to where a flask rested in the grass. Sadness stood clear in his eyes when he passed Elrohir a cup of watered wine. “You should not wield blade for anything but enjoyment. Not for a long time yet. Be at peace, Elrohir. There will be war enough in years to come.”

Like all things made by Elves the drink was a delight: tart, golden, and just cold enough to be refreshing. 

The taste seemed to carry Glorfindel back in time. “I was ten times your age when I held my first sword, and a sorry fool I was with it! You children of Ennor have war running in your blood.” He sighed. “Alas, child, that I must teach you bloodshed instead of worthier arts! But I will teach you well. One day much will depend on your skill.”

He laid a hand on Elrohir’s shoulder, and somehow it was not strange to walk back to the house like that, separate and yet together.

---

Chapter End Notes

Why was this road not taken?

This scene, which was one of my personal favorites, ended up being cut because it seemed like too much healing too soon.
Elrohir is seen forging a long term friendship with Glorfindel, who gives him a sense of belonging, a perspective of his future place in his new world. Having that so soon would have rendered Elrohir's flight and all that came from it redundant. Also, the one to bring Elrohir to that insight was supposed to be Elrond, not Glorfindel.
What do you think about Glorfindel's therapeutic swordplay and his evolving relationship with Elrohir? How would Northern Skies have gone if this scene had stayed in the story? I'd love to hear your thoughts!

See you soon for another road not taken,

Idrils Scribe

The Hunt

This is the opening chapter of an alternative storyline for 'Northern Skies'.

Read The Hunt

“Come in!”

Elrond’s private study was an inviting room, small and intimate. Wherever the eye turned it caught some artful thing of beauty - the rich whirls of colour of Noldorin mosaics, frescoes depicting Gondolin and Doriath, an elegant model of Vingilot in silver and mother-of-pearl. On the far wall a great seabird spread its white wings against a star-strewn sky, a Silmaril shining on its breast. 

Elrohir breathed deeply, and managed to take his seat at the table beside Elladan with a modicum of calm. At the edge of his consciousness Elladan’s mind thrummed with unease. Clearly Elrond did not summon them for an impromptu Quenya lesson. Something had to be very wrong indeed, for Elrond and Celebrían to call their sons to a formal council in the presence of a stern-faced Erestor.

Elrond’s eyes had remained glued to the thick, gilt-edged parchment before him on his worktable. He was twisting the elaborate wax seals that dangled from it on ribbons of blue silk, as if the sumptuous letter had given him some personal insult. 

Once his sons were seated Elrond was mercifully quick to come to the point. “You have received a letter.” He stated dryly.

Elrohir gave his father a look of silent bafflement. He could not think of anyone he knew outside Imladris who was not dead, illiterate or both.

“A letter from Valandil” Elrond continued, “The King of Arnor, who invites the Sons of Elrond on a hunting expedition in the Weather Hills. This hunt is to be a grand affair: Gondor’s crown prince, who is called Eärendil - presumably in my father’s honour - will be among the king’s guests.”

Judging from Elrond and Celebrían’s dismay this royal invitation might have come from Sauron himself. Elrohir turned towards Elladan in search of an explanation and found him equally puzzled. Clearly nothing like this had ever happened before.

Elrohir tried to inject some logic. “Can you not write him back and decline?” 

Elrond smiled, a tinge of sadness in his eyes. “Were it that simple. Refusing Valandil’s hospitality would give offence to more than just the House of Isildur. Eärendil’s involvement would make it a snub to Arnor and Gondor both. Short of death or recent dismemberment there is hardly an excuse not to attend.”  

Elrohir was well aware that more was at play than the king’s desire for the pleasure of their company.

Elladan voiced both their thoughts. “What does Valandil want with us?”

Erestor gave a wry smile. “His sole purpose is for Eärendil of Gondor to speak with Elrohir.”

“Why me?” Elrohir stammered, what little eloquence he possessed in Sindarin quenched by sheer terror.

“Gondor is preparing to invade Umbar.” Elrond answered. “Young prince Eärendil is to command this conquest. The man dreams of rich spoils and a place among Gondor’s captains.”

Elrohir could only stare at his father, mute as a fish. 

Elrond filled the awkward silence. “Eärendil is ambitious, but he is also a clever tactician. He wants to question you about Umbar’s hinterlands and the state of its military.”

At that absurdity, Elrohir regained his voice. “Surely Prince Eärendil has many informants. Why would he need me?”

Elrond’s answer was matter-of-fact. “Word of the Ringwraith has spread north, and it’s making Gondor skittish. They do have a very fine army of spies, but the Haradrim are tight-lipped about what goes on in their deserts. You were one of their officers. Your news is a year old, but it remains valuable for what is to be Eärendil’s grand patriotic undertaking.”  

Elrohir’s astonishment grew by the minute. “The Crown Prince of Gondor has travelled north to meet me ?”

Celebrían smiled wistfully. “Your stay in Pelargir caused quite the stir, once the Gondorians learned your true identity. The tale of how a merchant adventurer from Gondor found the lost Elf-Prince went all the way to court. King Cemendur summoned Círdan’s sailors and your friend Elemir to hear the story for himself.”

Elrohir knew not what to say, but inwardly he thanked every deity he could think of for escaping Pelargir before Gondor’s royal guard came knocking at his ramshackle lodgings in the sailors’ quarter.  

Celebrían knew it, and she broke her revelation gently. “Cemendur has been sending us a steady stream of envoys requesting access to you. We have denied them all out of concern for your health. Today’s invite is another attempt, one we cannot decline so easily. Whether we like it or not, you must hunt boar alongside Prince Eärendil.” 

Once more Elrohir was lost at sea in an unknown universe. He recalled no sign of emissaries from Gondor. He had been sheltered indeed, blissfully unaware of what went on outside Imladris while he found his feet in this new world. He did not know whether to be grateful or vexed. 

He looked Elrond in the eye. “I will go gladly. Any enemy of Umbar is my friend, and hunting is no hardship.” 

Elladan, too, seemed keen avenging Elrohir, no matter how vicariously. 

Both Elrond and Celebrían appeared to sag with relief. “Excellent. You shall both attend Valandil’s hunt!” 

Elladan was better versed in the intricacies of dealing with kings, and he turned towards Erestor. “Will Elrohir assist Eärendil out of the kindness of his heart? What is in this for Imladris?”

Erestor’s smile was one of pride in his student’s shrewdness. “Many things. Some as immaterial as good will between our kindreds. Others far more tangible: taxation, land rights, trade and the levies upon it. My staff are already drafting the treaties. Elrohir will indulge this ambitious princeling, and Gondor shall pay handsomely for the pleasure.” 

----

“It is a thing of beauty, but I cannot get it on!” 

Elrohir would not dream of criticising Elvish fashion, but the formal robe of blue and silver samite that was brought to Erestor’s study for the counsellor’s final inspection was quite simply unwearable.

Erestor rose from the window seat with a sigh, part amusement, part exasperation, and deftly untangled his lord’s son from the knot he had wriggled himself into. 

“That would be because formal robes are put on with the help of another person. Which I would have given if you had let me.”    

He lifted the robe off Elrohir’s shoulders, taking care not to let the precious fabric touch the floor. Elrohir was acutely self conscious in nothing but breeches and a matching silk undertunic. 

“Elladan will give me a hand with it.” He said, just to fill the silence.

Erestor shook his head. “Elrond’s sons will not dress each other like a pair of paupers. The Princes of Arnor and Gondor will have their esquires for that, and so will you.”    

“Who would that esquire be?” Elrohir’s heart leapt in his throat. Erestor looked far too pleased with himself for this to bode well. 

Erestor gave a mock bow. “I have dressed a few princes in my day. I have not forgotten how to tie a robe.”

Elrohir could only gape at the formidable chief counselor like a stranded fish. “Why would you do that?” He finally croaked. The very idea of weeks of uninterrupted scrutiny form Erestor was enough to make him reconsider the entire hunt.  

“To keep an eye on you,” answered Erestor. “King Valandil is a shrewd man. If I present myself as your advisor we will find ourselves separated in short order, but he will not deprive you of the loyal body servant carrying your cloak.”

Elrohir clung to his last ray of hope. “Valandil was raised in this house. He knows well enough who you are!”

Erestor chuckled. “Reality and illusion are hard to distinguish, to Mortal eyes. I will appear a wholly unremarkable manservant.”

Elrohir knew not what to say, and so he blurted out another question. “Who will be Elladan’s?”

“Ardil. Your grandfather would have a fit if we left his spy at home. We might as well put the man to use.”  

Erestor finally noticed Elrohir’s growing discomfort at his state of undress, and raised the robe once more. “Now stand still, and stretch your arms to the side.”

Elrohir did as he was told. Erestor carefully draped the intricate folds around him and started doing up the concealed fastenings with practiced ease. 

“You have done this before.” Elrohir croaked into the awkward silence blanketing the room.

Erestor smiled, and his expression grew softer. It looked strange on him. “This design came into fashion at King Finwë’s court in Tirion. I find it as beautiful as it is formal. Between Fëanor himself, his sons and your father and uncle I have indeed done this thousands of times.”

Elrohir was taken aback, both awed by Erestor’s formidable age and well aware that most of those he had named were dead. “I feel for your losses.”

“Loss is the way of Middle-earth, child. But the old is ever replaced with the new.” Erestor answered with another unfathomable smile.

“There.” Erestor took a step back to inspect his work. “An Elf-prince indeed. You could walk into the King’s Hall in Tirion without looking out of place.” 

Erestor’s utilitarian study did not contain a mirror, so Elrohir had to take his word for it. 

---

Chapter End Notes

Why was this road not taken?

This was an attractive plot because it offered a great opportunity to explore the similarities and differences between Elves and Men. When I tried to outline it I realized that before Elrohir could deal with Mortal kings and princes he'd first need to recover from his PTSD and accept his place among the Elves of Imladris. That didn't seem realistic. More importantly, it would have forced me to quickly skip over Northern Skies' central themes of healing and acceptance. Valandil's royal hunt would have made an entertaining story, but not the one I wanted to tell at the time.

I rather liked the scene with Erestor and the robes. Unfortunately I couldn't come up with an occasion where he'd be helping Elrohir into his formal wear in the final version of Northern Skies, so it had to go.

What do you think about this storyline? Would you have liked to read it? What about nostalgic Erestor? I'd love to hear from you in the comments.

See you soon for another road not taken.
Idrils Scribe

Winter Journey

This chapter is part of an alternate ending for The Stars Above the Sea.

Read Winter Journey

Hollin was desolate, a vast wilderness of tumbled foothills climbing to the snow capped mountains that loomed in the east. 

Elrohir was a fortnight into his journey from Tharbad to Rivendell, and he was utterly and completely alone. He had found neither hamlets nor homesteads, no charcoal burner's hut, not even a lonely fur trapper or vagrant - let alone a mythical Elvish realm. 

All around him the land lay still, expectant. No beasts crossed his path, no birdsong greeted the sunrise. There was no sound but his own footsteps and the wind whistling in the holly trees’ branches. Both seemed far too loud for comfort. 

He had never known that loneliness might hurt. A dull ache throbbed behind his breastbone whenever he thought of Harad. He did not let himself think of Hamalan, because then the pain would flare up, roaring like a bushfire until tears sprung to his eyes. He must not cry. 

Still, it would have been nice to have a companion - anyone, really. A friend, or even just a friendly face. Someone who might talk to him - how he missed the sound of a human voice! - look at him with a smile, share a laugh and perhaps some food. He had little, but then he had not felt like eating much, of late. 

Or someone to ask directions. Following the river Loudwater upstream had seemed such a simple proposition. Elrohir was not lost, as such - not with an entire mountain range to keep him oriented - but two weeks of wandering had made it abundantly clear that he had vastly underestimated the distance and the confusing, craggy lay of this land. 

One time he came upon a ruined carcass that must have been a watchtower. Once it must have been tall and fair, with arches of white stone soaring to the sky. The tower somehow reminded him of Glorfindel, but the thought held little comfort. Its pinnacle lay tumbled now, its white walls fire-blackened, and the north wind whined forlornly through gaping window holes. Elrohir did not enter - he had no desire to find out if anything lived there still. 

Autumn was fast fading into winter. The nights grew icy and his pack grew light, and still there was no sign of Rivendell. Each morning snow crept lower down the mountain slopes, and each morning fear clawed at Elrohir’s throat at the hoarfrost caking the holly leaves. The clothes he brought from Gondor were unfit for a northern winter. 

Elrohir was no fool - he knew well enough that he was in deep trouble.

He nonetheless killed the first person he met. 

Elrohir heard the man approaching in the night, just from the way he sniffed - like an Umbarian bloodhound searching its quarry. He silently slipped from the circle of light around his small fire, loaded crossbow in hand. 

When the sniffing man reached the fire he looked almost pitiable - a hunchbacked, sallow-skinned fellow not much taller than a child. He was armed but clad in rags, perhaps a beggar or vagrant of some kind. 

Elrohir pitied the wretch, and he had been alone for long enough that he would have offered any chance met traveller a seat by his fire. Even a man whose yellowed teeth jutted from his mouth like fangs.  

He rose from his crouch. “Hail and well met …”

He got no further. The man snarled and leapt for Elrohir’s throat, leaving no doubt of his intentions.  

Elrohir had been ready. His crossbow sang, and his guest thudded against the frozen ground like a dropped puppet, a bolt sprouting from his eye. 

Elrohir’s heart thundered in his chest but he remained stock-still, hidden in the darkness beyond the fire. Only when the twitching had stopped completely, did he step forward to prod the slackened body with his toe. 

Dead. Good.

He bent down to retrieve his bolt, and froze in horror. 

The dead man’s blood was black. Not the dark, saturated red of a slow bleed, but that deep, unnatural colour of pitch. 

Panic fluttered in his chest. 

Orcs are real. 

They were real, those horrors from the Northerners’ tall tales, the ones Elrohir used to laugh at. Monsters, defilers, man-eaters. Thank Eru above that his first one had been a loner instead of a pack. 

Elrohir’s desert instincts took over. He had to disappear, and fast. In a frenetic rush he drained his waterskin over the fire, plunging the campsite in darkness. There was no hiding the smells of woodsmoke and spilled blood. Others would come.  

He did take a moment to pick the corpse bare. The Orc’s clothes were too small for him, but he yanked them off all the same. The underwear was too filthy to contemplate, but the tunic and breeches seemed relatively clean. He stuffed them into his own shirt for warmth, and donned the orc’s short cloak beneath his own. Winter was upon him, and he could no longer afford to worry about lice. 

The Orc carried a longknife, ugly but sharp, and a crossbow. Elrohir had handled many ill-made crossbows in his time, but this was the lousiest he had ever seen. Even so, he would not leave it for another Orc to find. He smashed it to pieces against the frozen ground and added the bolts to his own quiver as spares. 

The Orc carried a small purse of greenish copper coins, which he pocketed. Only its food he did not touch. He dared not wonder what - or who - those strips of dried meat might be. Let the wolves squabble over them. With some luck it would keep them off Elrohir’s trail. 

He ran into the night without a second look at the unburied corpse.  

He did not rest all night to put miles between him and the camp, the mountains growing closer and more menacing as he approached. When day broke he kept going, chewing a small ration as he walked - quickly, before something might pick up the smell of food. 

Dusk came, and with it the scything north wind. It howled about the mountains’ tumbled foothills, long ridges of red stone cutting up the barren country, driving a sharp, numbing hail of powder snow into every exposed bit of skin. 

It was cold, so absurdly cold! A dull, deep ache throbbed in every muscle down to the bone. His fingertips were going white and numb. He could not risk another fire, so he wrapped his tattered cloak from Gondor tighter about himself, pulled the hood, then topped it with his blanket.

The moon was new, and a low roof of chasing, lead-grey clouds covered the stars. Without light he could not navigate these foreign lands with their ravines and crags where water had gnawed apart the very stone, and he was not fool enough to try. Tharbad lay far behind, and Rivendell further away still. There would be no help if he broke a leg scaling some treacherous gully in the dark. He did not dare sleep, but neither could he press on.

Strange sounds seemed to carry on the wind, and suddenly Elrohir knew, with terrifying certainty, that he was being pursued. He had to get out of the open. 

He ran towards a ridge of stone, a looming black bulk against the sky. As he approached he noticed a deeper darkness, a small hollow opening up where the rock had been scooped by an ancient stream. The hollow was not a true cave. It was too shallow for bears or worse things to make their lair, but it was dry, out of the wind and protected from enemy eyes. He would find no better place to sit and suffer until morning. When he crawled inside the cutting wind’s absence was sweet relief. 

Then he startled, and leapt back. On the gravel floor lay a flat, square object. 

A package, wrapped in what appeared to be dry leaves. It was tied with a piece of perfectly ordinary hemp string.  Elrohir merely stood there at first, staring, convinced that the desolation of the northern wastes had him hallucinating. 

Hunger could drive a man stark raving mad, but he had never heard of scented illusions. 

The package smelled of bread. Not ordinary bread, but that sweet, wholesome scent that rises when a fine loaf is torn open straight from the oven, the white crumb steaming and soft. Elrohir swallowed the spit that leapt into his mouth. His stomach roared, but he did not touch the bundle.  

He stood amidst a vast, monster-infested wilderness a fortnight’s march from the nearest human habitation. This bread - if bread it was - could only have come here through some foul trick or sorcery. 

In a way it was a relief: an end to this string of lightless days, setting one foot before the other under a cloud of despair. He felt numb, so numb that he could barely recall what purpose kept him moving north instead of laying down beneath a holly bush to freeze to death. Even if Rivendell did exist, he would not reach it in time. 

And he was so hungry.

He prodded the bundle with the tip of his sword, then picked it up with a gloved hand, arm outstretched as were it a poisonous snake. 

The package should dissolve into thin air like the witchery it doubtlessly was, but no harm manifested when he hefted the solid weight of it. Then his curiosity got the better of him. He untied the string and folded back the leaves. 

Bread indeed - two flat loaves, some kind of cram . Elrohir breathed deep of the scent, then made himself close the leaf wrapping tight about the bread once more. He should toss it out into the night. Only a fool would eat something so dubious.   

But he was so hungry.

He unwrapped the flatbreads again, turned them over in his hands, searching for some clue or mark. 

There! The baker had pressed a stamp into the dough so the baking bread would rise around it. 

A six-pointed star. 

Elrohir knew little of Orcs, but they did not seem capable of baking, nor likely to decorate the result with stars. That thought and the torturous scent proved more than his empty stomach could bear. 

The golden crust broke to reveal a creamy white inside, and Elrohir cautiously sampled a single crumb. It melted on his tongue, soft and sweet as honey. He tasted no trace of poison.

He might as well hang for a sheep as a lamb. One delicious bite led to another, and then he gave in and wolfed down the entire loaf. 

The bread seemed to put heart into him. His despair lightened, and the night no longer felt as cold. He sat up straight, sword in hand and his eyes on the hollow’s entrance. If any Orcs wished to make a meal of him, they would pay dearly.

Morning found him still in human shape and in command of all his faculties. He broke his fast with part of the second loaf, stashing the rest for later. 

The North was a strange place indeed. Elrohir wondered if Glorfindel would laugh that silver laugh of his at the tale of the mysterious bread. Perhaps Elrohir would live to tell him, one day. He caught himself smiling at the thought. 

The joy was short-lived. When he stepped from the hollow he found a white world. Hollin lay dusted in a fine layer of powder snow, and the air cut cold as ice against his throat. Elrohir winced. Winter’s grip was tightening. He was running out of time. 

Even so, he stood still for a time and looked about himself, carefully searching the silent foothills for movement. There was a watchful air to the place, but the land was empty and the snow undisturbed. The dark shapes of holly trees stood like alien calligraphy against the white landscape. Only the wind howled across the barren slopes. 

He saw no sign of people, be they Orcs, Elves or Sorcerers. He could almost believe that some unlucky traveller had simply lost the package as they sheltered in the hollow. Almost. Even so, he dared not linger.

Elrohir turned his face north, to where he could hear the Loudwater’s rushing song, and followed the river in search of Rivendell. 

---

Chapter End Notes

Why was this road not taken? 

I outlined this chapter while trying to decide whether Elrohir should meet Glorfindel in Tharbad, or make it to Rivendell under his own power. The former scenario won out, mostly because it seemed unlikely that the Elves would fail to catch up with Elrohir until he was on their doorstep. 

I'm still working on a second chapter for this AU, and I'd love to hear readers' ideas and expectations: what happens next? And who left that packet of lembas? A comment would make me a very happy scribe!

Seen you soon,
Idrils Scribe