The Roads Not taken by Idrils Scribe

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The Hunt

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

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“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.” 

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“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. 

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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