The Elendilmir by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 17: The Heralds

Valandil rescues an injured peregrine chick and demonstrates an unexpected talent. An eagle arrives in Imladris with tidings from the siege: victory comes at a heavy price. Later, the herald of Gil-galad returns to his home.

Thanks to the Lizard Council (Claudio, Jael, Moreth & oshun) for critical feedback.

A character list is given in the End Notes; see also the appendix.

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Spring whispered in the valley, struggling against the roar of late winter winds to find its voice. Sailing on those winds, the peregrines dove and spiraled around one another in their spectacular courtship flight. Soon after, the falcon and the tercel took turns sitting on their eggs in the scrape nest on a ledge above the forge. The eggs hatched, and chicks’ hungry wails, which became as welcome as the song of a garden warbler, echoed off the cliffs. The tercel soared over the valley, seeking food for his mate to feed their young ones. Valandil, often accompanied by Galfaron, trudged up the path to the forge to look up toward the nest and keep track of the two young birds’ progress.

On a blustery afternoon about three weeks after the chicks had hatched, Val’s cry of alarm pierced the rattle of my office's wind-battered windows. I had been sketching out a design for an improved water bellows since our old one was increasingly in a state of disrepair when I heard his call from outside. For a brief moment, I remembered the little boy trapped on the rocks in the middle of the river, and I was out the door in short order.

Val stood below the nest-ledge, his dark hair whipped wild in the wind. In his hands he held a downy falcon chick, its right wing hanging at an odd angle. The mother falcon screamed from the high ledge, and the tercel clattered in warning overhead, but they did not attack.

“She fell out of the nest. I think she is hurt,” said Val. The chick, surprisingly large, did not struggle or cry, but panted through her gaping beak, her tension and pain evident.

Galfaron bounded up the path, alerted by the commotion of the adult birds. He examined the fledgling’s injured wing, and tucked it back against the chick’s body.

“Her wing is broken. I’m sorry, but I cannot set such delicate bones. They are filled with air. But we can care for her, even if she never flies again.” The hunter met my eyes, conveying his unspoken opinion that the future did not bode well for this chick. “Bring her to the stables. I will make a nest for her.”

Tears streamed down Valandil’s face. The chick squawked, a thin plaintive sound borne away in the wind. Then a strange thing happened.

My young friend closed his eyes tight and squeezed out more tears. He inhaled and exhaled slowly, his face relaxed and peaceful, but his lips moving in silence. Neither Galfaron nor I interrupted him. I assumed that he prayed to Yavanna or perhaps Manwë, the guardian of the wings. He remained in this trance long enough that I became concerned and laid my hand on his shoulder.

Val’s eyes flew open at my touch. The chick struggled a little in his hands so he loosened his grasp on her. The bird then lifted her wings and flapped them weakly. Both were straight and true as they should be.

Galfaron said nothing, but his face bore an astonished expression, reflecting my own surprise. My hand tightened on Val’s shoulder; he winced, so I relaxed my grip.

“What did you just do, lad?” I said, keeping my voice serene even if alarm clenched my guts.

“I looked into her bones, Istyar, like the time you told me to imagine what the maple wood looked like inside.” He turned to the hunter. “They are like you said, Master Galfaron. Her bones are filled with air and are like nets. I pretended that I knitted them together, just like Mother knitted your scarf, Istyar.” He stroked the chick, now calm and nestled against him in his arms.

Galfaron reached for the bird’s wing and extended it. The chick swiveled her head toward him, fixing her dark eyes on the hunter. He commented with even measure.

“Yes, the wing is healed. But she still will not be ready to fly for some time yet. We cannot return her to the nest.” He craned his neck to view the birds that still eyed us from the cliff above. “Val, come along with me. We’ll make her comfortable in the stables. You must be her mother and father now. Do you think you can kill a wood pigeon with your sling? She will need fresh meat, you know.”

Val nodded eagerly and followed the hunter down the path. Galfaron looked back over his shoulder at me, raising his brows in question. I was left to wonder just what had been triggered on that day in my workshop when Valandil had imagined the interior of the wood.

~*~

The following month found Valandil, Galfaron and me standing at the cliff’s edge by the forge. Val wound his sling and let fly its contents, not a stone, but a small chunk of duck meat with a few feathers and skin still attached. A grey and white streak dropped from the sky, striking the grisly target. The young falcon caught the meat in her talons and brought it back to the ledge before us where she looked up at Valandil with almost childlike pride.

“Well done, Pilin! Well done!” exclaimed Valandil.

The bird tore at the duck flesh, scattering feathers. In the blue sky above, Pilin’s mother and father clattered while they trained the young falcon’s nest mate to hunt. Pilin glanced up at them for a moment. Then with nothing less than human expression in her black eyes, she gazed at Valandil with love. She turned her attention to her catch, ripping more gobbets from the duck until sated, and then flapped up to perch on Valandil’s gloved hand. She muttered with contentment and nibbled at the glove in a gesture of affection.

“She thanks me for the meat, but she wants to go to the moors to hunt. That’s what she says, Master Galfaron!”

“Yes, young Turko! I heard her, too.” Galfaron reached out to the bird that hooked his finger delicately with her beak. “And we shall do so, but Lady Pilin is not quite ready for such great hunting yet.”

The falcon and the prince had become nearly inseparable, so much so that Val had taken to sleeping in the stables until Galfaron assured him that Nella, the wolfhound who grew by inches daily, guarded the young bird. Valandil grudgingly gave up sneaking out of his room to take his rest among the horses, the dogs and the falcon, his mother complaining that he smelled like a sweaty horse. Yet the connection between the falcon and boy was an amazing one.

“You are like my master,” Galfaron said, reaching out to stroke Pilin’s barred breast feathers with his finger. “Like Celegorm. The birds and beasts speak to you, too.” The young mortal grinned at the ancient hunter who had followed Fëanáro’s son from Aman.

While we fussed over the young falcon, Nella had lain quiet nearby, but something in the wind interrupted her slumber. She raised her head and whined, then leapt to her feet and trotted to the edge of the cliff. She sniffed, straining to catch a scent, holding her tail stiff behind her at first, but then sweeping it back and forth with an accelerating wag. Her full-throated barks resounded off the cliffs and across the valley – not bays of warning, but trumpets of greeting. The adult peregrines’ cries pierced Nella’s deep barks; the birds wheeled above us and shot across the sky toward a distant speck emerging from the far mountains.

The speck swiftly resolved into the silhouette of an eagle -- a huge one. More and more birds rose from the valley and flew toward the approaching raptor, forming a winged vanguard. Galfaron shaded his eyes against the spring sun. He spoke, his voice barely above a whisper:

“A Herald has come.”

By the time the great eagle began his spiraling descent over the valley, most of Elrond’s household congregated in the pasture near the stables where the skeleton of a dead oak tree stood alone. The eagle landed on a thick bare branch from which he surveyed the elves and mortals who gathered below. Gildor, with Galfaron at his side to act as interpreter if needed, stepped forward.

Valandil stood by me, his falcon silent but shifting back and forth on his hand while she eyed the huge raptor. Nearby, Elerína waited with Irimë and Yavien at her side. Conversations jumbled together to create a swell of voices. The eagle screamed, silencing all. Then he spoke, his words human but their articulation alien and grating; the incongruity sent shivers down my spine.

“Children of the All-Father, hear me! The siege has ended! The Abhorred has been defeated.”

The eagle’s piercing call to order cut short our rising cries of jubilation.

“Alas! Victory was gained with sorrow. Gil-galad Ereinion and Elendil the King have perished at the Abhorred’s hands. May the Guardian of Wings speed their spirits’ flight from this troubled world.”

Sorrow’s cold waves crashed down upon our brief exultation. Both kings were dead. Cries of shock swept through the ranks of the Firstborn, but settled into the reactions I had seen too often among my kind: the grim stoniness of masculine grief and the mournful lilt of women's weeping.

Astaron called out amidst the escalating grief: “Master Elrond! Does Master Elrond yet live?” Those around him echoed his question, all looking to the Herald perched on the bare branch.

The agitated eagle only screamed in response.

Elerína slumped into Irimë’s embrace, the women of Elerina’s house forming a cluster of grief around her. Galfaron took Pilin so that Valandil could go to his mother and comfort her and seek comfort himself. I met Elerina’s tear-filled eyes before she left the greensward to return to the house. I could only mouth that I was sorry.

Thorno led Lairiel away, her head against his shoulder and tears streaming down her face. The crowd of grieving Firstborn dispersed, leaving Galfaron to extract what details he could from the eagle. Before I left, the bird fixed his golden eyes on me. I returned his inquisitive regard. Strange but nonetheless human-like sentience probed my mind, seeking deeper contact. I politely pushed the eagle away, wondering why the ancient spirit that had incarnated in this creature expressed such interest in me.

~*~

Spring’s song blossomed into summer’s chorale, but that year’s season of green leaves, warm breezes and abundance remained somber as grey winter. Messengers from Amon Sûl and officials from Annúminas came often to the valley, and sequestered themselves with Gildor and Elrond’s minor advisors, and then with Elerína and Lady Vórwen. Elerína became distant, immersed in her concerns over the burdens that would fall to her as the new king’s consort, but most of all, her worries for Isilmë consumed her.

I had given one of those messengers a letter to Isilmë. Fretting over each word, I struggled to write the short note, but offered what solace I could. The Moon of Flowers had waxed and waned when her missive came to me:

I thank you for your condolences and for all that you have done for my family. I will walk the dark path soon, my friend. I dearly wish to see you and say farewell before I leave.

Her words confirmed what I had feared: the death of her beloved husband was more than she could bear. I had sought Elerína after reading Isilmë’s response, finding my friend in a corner of the library where she wrote entries in the monthly ledgers. With her eyes and a half-moon smile, she beckoned me to join her in the circle of gold light from the lamp by her side. I pulled the chair up to the oak table, resting my elbows on its polished surface.

“Why are you inside calculating figures?” I pushed one of the beads on her calculator along its thin metal rod, delaying what I truly wished to ask. “You should be out listening to one of Lindir’s songs or at the very least sitting on the porch so that you can hear the nightingales.”

“Lindir now sings nothing but laments,” she said. “And the nightingales have learned his sad songs, too. I would just as soon take comfort in numbers.”

“You sound like Lord Glorfindel. That is what he does as well.”

“A man after my own heart then.” She set aside her quill. “We have not spoken for a while, Sámaril. How are you?”

“Well enough. I received a letter from Queen Isilmë. She has asked that I come to Annúminas.”

“Yes. She wishes to say farewell to you. To all those dear to her.”

“How can you bear this?”

“Death is as natural to us as long life is to your people. It is a gift that Isilmë can willingly let go of her life.”

“Yes, I know all this. I just don’t understand it.”

“Men have their own form of immortality, and Elves have theirs. We will never understand the other.”

This would lead us into an uncomfortable conversation, like others before in which Elerína and I reached no resolution, echoes of a much older conversation between an elven-man and a mortal woman. So I changed the subject.

“Will Valandil go to Annúminas, too? Isilmë has expressed concern for his safety.”

“With Master Elrond and the other Firstborn, including you, as escort, I doubt that any intrigue will touch him.”

“So we await Elrond’s return,” I said, fiddling with the beads on the rods while I gathered my courage to ask my next question. “Will you remain in Annúminas or return to Imladris?”

“I have made no decision yet.” She turned and stared out the window at the night beyond the light of the lamp before looking at me again. “Valandil has been restless for the past few days. Do you think you could...”

“I’ll take him fishing tomorrow. The woodland pond.”

“Thank you, Sámaril. He loves to fish. Such a Númenórean!” She yawned and rubbed her eyes. “Excuse me. I’m weary, but I really must finish the ledgers.”

“So I cannot tempt you to abandon your work and listen to the nightingales with me? I will ask Lady Vórwen to accompany us.”

“Thank you all the same but no. Unlike you, my friend, I do not have all the time in the world.”

~*~

The plunk of baited hook sent ripples across the pond that mirrored the summer sky above and the ring of trees that surrounded it. Valandil settled back while I lay in the grass, my fishing pole wedged into the earth and braced by a pair of rocks. I half-slept in the golden summer light, listening to the birds warbling in the woods and the insects humming in the bracken. Nella sprawled on the grass nearby and in the distance, I heard Pilin’s whistle. The dog and the falcon were never far from their human friend or from one another.

“Istyar? Are you awake?”

“Yes.”

“When will we go to Annúminas?”

“I don’t know. Sometime after Master Elrond arrives, I expect.”

“Mother is sad about Grandmother. She will leave us soon.”

“The queen has lived a long life,” I lied. To me, Isilmë’s life was ephemeral as the butterflies that flitted among the yellow flags at the pond’s edge. “She wishes to join your grandfather.”

“I know, but I will miss her. I wish she could see Pilin.”

“You will see her soon, Val. I have no doubt that Pilin and Nella will follow you to Annúminas.”

“You will come with us, too?”

“Yes, I will come with you.”

“Grandmother loves you.”

“I love her, too. She is a most extraordinary woman.” I closed my eyes against the sorrow that my mortal friend would soon give up her life, and that I had let the years slip by and had not come to Annúminas to visit her in better times.

“Istyar?”

“Yes?”

“I like to fish like this. It’s so quiet here. But sometimes I wish I could fish with a pole in the river.”

“These poles are too fragile. Their lines would break.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose I’ll keep using my spear when we fish in the river.” Valandil scratched his head, quiet for a moment, and then switched subjects abruptly. “What will happen to the Elves, Istyar? Will you have a new king? My father is the High King now.”

“I don’t know. I have not been given counsel on these matters, either for my own people or yours. Rather, I have been seeing to the forge and enjoying your company.”

Valandil’s companionship proved a welcome distraction. Even though the fall of Sauron should have been a cause for celebration, uncertainty roiled among us all. Would Elrond, Gil-galad’s herald and beloved friend, now take the kingship? Given how few of us remained, it was likely a moot point. A regent for the remnants of my people did not concern me as much as a matter unspoken: the fate of the One Ring. Nothing had been said, but then the subject of the Rings of Power was knowledge that was not shared among all and sundry.

Turning my thoughts from such troubling concerns, I soaked up the lazy summer warmth and listened to the songs of birds and insects. I let my mind wander toward the borderlands of dreams, not knowing where their paths would lead. Soon I walked in a waking dream and stepped out into an early autumn evening in Ost-in-Edhil.

~*~

Needing respite from the noisy and increasingly inebriated celebration that was Ferenwë’s betrothal feast, I had ventured into his parents’ lush garden to take in the fresh night air. However, I was not the only one outside for there in a corner of the garden stood Istyar Aulendil holding Cúroneth, Teretion and Midhel’s little daughter.

I froze, not wishing to interrupt the fascinating tableau of my mentor during an unguarded moment. The Istyar and the tiny child, who was barely more than an infant, together looked at a spider that had strung her web between two rose bushes, their late season blossoms sending their fragrance out into the night.

“See here, Cúroneth?” said Aulendil, extending his forefinger toward the orb weaver that hung motionless in the center of her gossamer net. “This little she-lob will not harm us. In fact, she and her web are marvelous things.”

The spider disconnected her legs from the web, one by one, and climbed on to Aulendil’s finger. He moved the spider so that the child in his arms could see it more clearly.

“Look at her legs. Here are the tiny hooks she uses to clasp her web.” He whispered something to the little creature, which then lifted her round abdomen. “And here. These are her spinnerets. She uses two types of silk to make her web. Would you like to hold her?”

“Yes, Istyar!”

“Hold out your hand and call to her. She will come.”

“Here, little lhingril! Come!”

The spider stepped delicately from Aulendil’s finger to Cúroneth’s open palm. The little girl examined the spider for a while and then the creature crawled back to Aulendil’s hand. My master extended his finger so the spider could return to her web.

Cúroneth yawned and rested her little head against Aulendil’s shoulder, her fair silver-moon curls against his dark hair. He sang, his baritone voice rich but soft in lullaby:

The spider, dropping down from twig,
Unfolds a plan of her devising,
A thin premeditated rig
To use in rising.

And all that journey down through space,
In cool descent and loyal hearted,
She spins a ladder to the place
From where she started.

Thus I, gone forth as spiders do
In spider's web a truth discerning,
Attach one silken thread to you
For my returning.

Cúroneth had fallen asleep in his arms. Although I remained quiet, Aulendil’s attention turned to me, or rather behind me, when Midhel came out into the garden, looking for her child.

“I believe this belongs to you.” He carefully transferred the sleepy child to her mother’s open arms and turned his attention to me. “Sámaril! What are you doing out here?”

“Just getting some fresh air. That was a lovely song, Istyar.”

“One that little girls like apparently. Come! Let’s go back inside. I need more wine, and you really ought to be paying more attention to your lady love.” He grabbed the empty glass on the nearby table and threw his arm over my shoulders, leading me back into the light and laughter of the party. “Look! That Sindarin fellow is wooing her right out from under your nose. You are hopeless when it comes to courtship, lad.”

~*~

Sharp pain jolted me awake. I sat up and tried to shake away the jagged shards that stabbed my left hand and the agonizing memory of Aulendil’s display of affection in contrast to the fate of the child he had held in his arms.

Attach one silken thread to you for my returning. He had returned to her as he had returned to all of us: bearing fury in one hand and death in the other. When I had fled from the crumbling city, I had seen Cúroneth’s disemboweled body among the slain, cast aside by the orcs that had assaulted her and the others trying to escape. I rubbed my throbbing hand with its uninjured mate.

“What’s wrong, Istyar?” Valandil asked. He set aside his fishing pole and came to sit by my side. The sweet urgency of his concern drove the anguished memory away.

“Nothing to worry about. A cramp in my hand, I think.”

Just as I leaned back on the grass, the pain in my hand receding to a dull ache, the peal of a silver bell rang through the valley. The breeze stirred the leaves of the birches, birdsong became a chorus, and Pilin chattered high above in response to the bell’s summoning.

“Reel in your bait, Valandil,” I said, brushing a few clinging leaves from my clothing after I stood. “We had best return to the house.”

~*~

The six riders – all elves judging by their movement -- had dismounted by the time Valandil and I crossed the bridge over the foaming river; grooms led their horses to the stables.

The master of Imladris stood out among the others, his presence commanding attention. Broad-shouldered, lean and tall with thick dark hair, Elrond resembled a man of my people, but his grace reflected the lightness of the Sindar and his demeanor and open expression, the immediacy of Men. Elrond made himself all things to all people: wise counselor, powerful warrior, keen scholar, and a man as kind as summer. Before my eyes, he shifted from the scion of elven-kings to the kindred of Men when Elerína approached him, bowing her head in deference.

Elrond’s streak of Mannish demonstrativeness came to the fore, casting aside elvish detachment as he opened his arms to embrace her. Discarding formalism, they held one another for a long moment. Then they stood apart but kept their hands clasped. Even from where I stood, I could clearly see the tears streaking down Elerina’s cheeks and Elrond’s expression of condolence for the wife of his kinsman – a woman who was herself distant kin to the master. Then Elrond swept his keen eyes over the gathering on the terrace and spotted Valandil and me at its edge. His subtle nod summoned us to him, but his gaze fixed on Valandil.

“Go on, Val,” I said, taking his fishing pole.

The boy’s steps slowed as he approached the man who was the brother of his ancestor. Valandil stood before Elrond, his head bowed. Elrond reached forward and cupped Valandil’s chin, lifting the boy’s face.

“You have grown so much since I left.”

That was all he needed to say for Valandil’s stiff posture to melt. Elrond enfolded the boy in his arms. It was then I was struck by the resemblance between Elrond and young Valandil – the shape of their eyebrows and the turn of their jaws, even the propensity for their fair skin to flush with exertion or emotion. Elrond and Val even had the same smile as demonstrated when the master of Imladris grinned at his young kinsman’s estimate of a fish's length -- somewhat exaggerated -- that he had caught during one of our expeditions.

“I am glad to know that the Istyar has not only been a good teacher to you, but also a fine companion. A boy should know how to fish,” said Elrond. The master then raised his grey eyes, now piercing, to me, his expression grave.

“Istyar Sámaril, you and I must speak and soon. I have much to attend to today and must rest tomorrow, but will two days hence be acceptable?”

“Yes, my lord."

“Very well. Come to my study in the morning the day after tomorrow.”

He draped his arm over Valandil’s shoulders and led the boy away, walking together toward the open doors of his home where his household gathered. A pang of envy shot through my heart when my young mortal friend turned to look up at the lordly elven-man with awe and admiration, creating a circle of noble kinship that excluded me.

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Chapter End Notes

 

Galfaron (Noldo) - chief hunter of Imladris
Astaron (Noldo) master of the kitchen
Lairiel (Noldo) – master weaver

Thornangor "Thorno" (Noldo) – master smith
Vórwen (Dúnedain) – Elerína’s sr. lady-in-waiting

Teretion – master smith of Ost-in-Edhil (Tyelperinquar’s former apprentice); forged seven Rings of Power (see The Apprentice & Risk Assessment)

Midhel - Teretion's wife (see Risk Assessment)

Sauron/Aulëndil's verse is E.B. White's The Spider's Web.