The Elendilmir by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 24: The Shards of Narsil

Tension mounts in Imladris when Isildur and his elite Guard do not arrive in the autumn of the second year of the Third Age. Valandil has his worst nightmare yet at this time, causing Elrond and Sámaril to wonder if this is an echo of the drowning of Númenor. This leads them to discuss Valandil's sensitivities. Elerína's anxiety for her husband increases. The following spring, three soldiers of the King's Guard stagger into the valley.

Many thanks to picking of the nits by The Lizard Council. (Jael, Aearwen, Drummerwench, elfscribe, Moreth).

The reader's familiarity with "The Disaster of the Gladden Fields," Unfinished Tales, J.R.R. Tolkien is assumed.

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Reluctant to leave the warmth of my bed, I mashed my pillow around my head, willing the persistent knocks on my door to go away, but they only became more urgent. Then a woman’s voice called: “Istyar? Istyar?” Groaning, I surrendered to the summons, the cold air of my bedchamber hitting my naked skin when I tossed back the down coverlet, its captured warmth evaporating. I shoved my arms through my wool dressing gown, slid sheepskin slippers over my feet and went to my door, opening it to find Gaereth. Frightened green eyes in a pale face beseeched me.

“Please, Istyar,” she said, wringing her hands. “Please forgive me for disturbing you, but it’s Valandil. The fit is worse than it has ever been.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Gaereth,” I said, shutting the door. I strode through candlelit corridor with Gaereth trotting alongside me.

“When did it start?” I asked.

“Not so long ago. He cried out so loudly that he woke us all. My lady summoned Lord Elrond, but even he...even he cannot reach him,” she stammered, a sob catching in her throat.

“Don’t worry, Gaereth,” I said, striving to sound confident, assuring myself this was no different than any of his previous nightmares. “I will find him.”

After turning left and right down corridors and up a flight of stairs, we arrived at the main door of the Dúnedain women’s chambers. Lady Vórwen opened the door, her usually pleasant face haggard.

“My lady and the master are with him. Come with me, Istyar.” I followed her down the dark narrow corridor through the complex of bed chambers and washing rooms.

Valandil’s dark dream took him two or three times a year, and I had always been called on to comfort him. Over the years, I had helped him learn to find the quiet part of his mind that would let him emerge from the black waters that engulfed him, but when I saw him on that night, I was terrified.

Valandil’s thin body arched in rigid spasm, his jaws clamped down on a strip of cloth, and his hands curled into tight fists. Elerína, pale and trembling, sat on one side of the bed. Elrond, who sat on opposite, turned to me, his expression calm but drawn.

“I cannot reach him,” he said with an uncertainty that unsettled me. “He will not allow me into the dark place where he is trapped. He cries for Isildur only.”

Elrond rose and I took his place beside Valandil, working his hand open to clasp it in mine. Without hesitation, I plunged into the familiar dark waters of Valandil’s nightmare, but this time, unexpected pain overwhelmed me: a vise gripped my chest and a knot of fire in my throat choked me. Tendrils of blood snaked across my field of vision. My arms and legs were paralyzed in the murk. Muffled shouts and harsh voices reached my ears as if from a far distance while my sight in the murky waters failed. My heartbeat faltered – once and then twice.

Dying. I am dying.

Searing pain ripped through my lungs when frigid water flooded them. Then I floated in an uneasy peace with a strange sensation of relief, as if I had been rid of a dreadful burden. I sent the last vestiges of deep regret to whomever might hear me.

A mote of light pierced the dark water in which I floated, its spark expanding to a brilliant white beam. From this light, a chorus of voices beckoned to me. I moved toward the light, reaching out to touch it. Then from far away, I heard faint calls, not the harsh panicked shouts of earlier, but soft weeping: Atya! Atya! But then a whimper: Sámaril.

The beam of light blinked out. Life coursed through my limbs again. I shot upwards, breaking through the dark water’s surface. My lungs filled with cool air, and my mind’s eye could see again. I swam against a stiff current until I reached the boy, huddled alone in the corner of a large chamber, its upper reaches lost in darkness, but with wide stairs leading upward through an arched door toward dim light. I hauled myself out of the cold waters and called to him.

Valandil. Come.

He remained motionless. I called again. Slowly, he raised his head and then stretched out his trembling arm toward me. I gripped his hand, pulling him into my embrace, soothing him while he wept and assuring him of the love that surrounded him. I lifted him in my arms, carrying him through the door and up the wide black stairs to silver gates that swung open silently, golden light pouring over us.

His blue eyes snapped open. He gasped as if emerging from deep water but the rigor in his wiry body melted. We were back in his bedchamber. He clung to me, his slender body shaking but no longer locked in spasms.

“Istyar...I was afraid you would not find me.”

“I will always find you, Val.” I smoothed his sweat-drenched hair, holding him close to me until his heartbeat steadied. I laid him back against his pillows but stroked his hand and forearm, singing softly to him. His eyes closed, the fringe of black lashes now resting against pale skin.

I released his hand, rising from the bed. Elrond then examined the boy. He turned to Elerína before he left Val’s bedchamber. “I will prepare a draught for him should he reawaken...”

“There is no need,” said Elerína. “Once Sámaril has brought him back, he sleeps peacefully. Thank you, Lord Elrond.”

Before I left the room, she took my hand, staying me. “Sámaril, I cannot thank you enough for what you have done for Valandil. I have never...” She paused, swallowing hard. “I have never been so...” She clasped my hand tighter but could not stop the sob that broke forth. Casting propriety aside, I took her into my arms where she shook with weeping from the fright she had suffered from her son’s fit. 

“He should have returned by now. He said...Isildur said...” Elerína gulped air, determined to speak. “He promised me he would be here by the end of Narquelië! Where is he?” Although her sorrow poured forth in her tears, there was anger in her voice. She struck my chest with her fist, confirming the resentment I thought I had heard. I clasped her fist before she could strike me again.

“Elerína...”

She collapsed against me. I repeated her name and pressed my cheek against her hair, its silkiness taunting me as I comforted her – a king’s wife – while she grieved for his absence.

“The high pass is deep in snow by now,” I said, almost whispering while I held her. “If they did not reach the foothills before the snows fell, then they are probably bivouacked in the Vales of the Anduin, perhaps even in the great hunting lodges of the Men who are Isildur and Thranduil’s allies, enjoying the fires in the hearths, draughts of mead and roast boar. They will come in the spring.”

“Do you think so? Do you think they truly made their way North instead of remaining in Gondor?”

Puzzled that she might think Isildur, his sons and their elite guard of knights and soldiers had lingered in Gondor when the last missives had explicitly stated these Men of Arnor would be setting out in the month of Yavannië as the Númenórean exiles called it. I affirmed my belief.

“Yes. I think so.”

She pulled away from me abruptly. I dropped my arms to my sides.

“Forgive me for that display,” she said, wiping her eyes. “But between Valandil’s fit and Isildur not being here with still no word from him. It is just too much for me.”

“It is understandable, my lady. I think your son needs you.” I looked over at the bed where Valandil lay, asleep but stirring restlessly. “I will bid you good-night now.”

She smiled wanly. “Good-night then, Istyar. He needs you, too. Make no mistake about that.” Then she returned to the bed where she lay down beside her son, curling her arm over his head and resting her hand on his thin arm. Valandil stilled, dropping into peaceful slumber.

Elrond waited for me in the parlor with Lady Vórwen. We left their quarters and walked together down the dim corridors, lit by flickering candles in sconces that set the tapestries hanging on the walls into false motion. The faint honeyed scent of beeswax hung in the still air.

“Is Lady Elerína well? You took your time returning to the parlor.” A slight arch of his brows informed me that Elrond had noticed I had lingered longer than necessary with my friend.

“Yes. She’s anxious for her husband. Angry with him, too.”

Elrond pursed his lips. “I, too, am concerned about the delay. They should have arrived by now, given Isildur’s last communication. The high pass surely is blocked with snow. I do not think we should expect them until spring.”

I murmured agreement.

“What do you make of Valandil’s nightmare?” Elrond asked, changing the subject.

“An echo of the drowning of Númenor, perhaps?” I said. “Elerína says dreams of drowning in dark water are frequent among the exiles, even in their descendants who never lived there.”

“That may be it. When did these dreams begin?”

“Shortly after Isildur left," I said, recalling the first time Valandil had fallen into the dark nightmare.

“It was so vivid. I felt as if I were drowning myself.” Elrond coughed, a soft sound, but one that made me wonder if he recalled his lungs burning while immersed in the dark water.

“Yes, cold water, blood and pain," I said. "Those are the common themes, but it was much worse tonight.”

“He strikes me as...how should I put this? He is an unusual child,” said Elrond.

“He is perceptive. Isilmë told me once that he reminded her very much of Tar-Palantír,” I said.

“He has a way with birds and beasts, too,” said Elrond. "I have seen Val summon warblers and wrens to his hand in the gardens. His falcon and wolfhound obviously adore him."

“Yes, he has a strong affinity for birds and beasts," I said. "Galfaron calls Val his ‘young Turko.’”

“I’ve heard our great huntsman call him that,” Elrond said. "Perhaps the blood of Melian runs strong in him after these many generations.”

“Like the sports among the Istyanis’ peas.” I said absently, my thoughts trailing back to my friend and her studies.

“Peas? How did you arrive at Náryen’s peas from the queen of Doriath?”

“It sounds like an unlikely tangent, doesn’t it? The Istyanis grew sweet pea vines in her family’s garden – not for consumption, but for study. Over the years, she cross-pollinated strains and catalogued the outcome. I often assisted her, taking notes for her while she rattled off descriptions of flowers, pods and leaves.”

“Ah, so she studied inheritance! Stands to reason that she would pick up that interest from her mother.” Elrond said, his expression remote in memory for a moment. “Lady Culinen was most enthusiastic about her fruit flies. We corresponded over the years about our pet theories.”

“You studied inheritance, too?”

“Oh, yes! Maedhros was keenly interested in the subject, infectiously so. His studies piqued my curiosity, and I learned so much from him. I bred rose hybrids in Gil-galad’s gardens for a short time as a means to study inheritance." He laughed. "Culinen maintained that I would gather more data with the shorter generation time of fruit flies. I countered that my subjects smelled better." He shook his head slightly, and I knew he remembered a lost time and a lost life. "I have been thinking about resuming the hobby again. So do you believe that a lost trait is now being expressed strongly in Valandil? One that causes this sensitivity?”

“Yes. That’s it exactly. The Istyanis believed the peas carried within them discrete elements that passed through generations; she thought that the Children of Ilúvatar must carry these elements, too. Just like the peas, these characteristics may disappear and come back again. Perhaps that is the case with Valandil. His perception may be more powerful than that of other Men.”

I did not add that Valandil had shown some degree of talent for the deep arts by his ability to manipulate the substance of wood and most disconcertingly, that he had tapped into these to knit the bones of the injured peregrine chick. I was not sure how Elrond would receive such knowledge because many considered the deep arts to be perilous.

“That must be it,” mused Elrond. “If so, then his talents must be nurtured carefully. His fit tonight troubles me deeply.”

“And me as well. I feared that he wouldn’t come back.”

We stopped at the door to my quarters. Elrond laid his hand on my shoulder. “Have no doubt he will come back to you. I want you to know this, Sámaril. I may be his kinsman through the generations, but you are more than that. He loves you dearly.”

“Thank you, my lord. He is…” my voice caught. “He is dear to me, too.”

Elrond’s face was weary, but his smile was kind. “Good night, Istyar. Leave the dark waters behind. May you dream of blossoms of sweet peas.” He walked away, silent as an owl in flight.

I returned to my bed, burying myself into the covers, and promptly fell asleep, the images of frilled pink and white flowers drifting along the paths of my dreams.

~*~

No more nightmares troubled Valandil while the second year of the Third Age drew to a close. The New Year burst forth with spring-green leaves, silver rain, golden sun and white apple blossoms whose sweet scent drifted throughout the valley. The moon waxed and waned twice but still, Isildur and his men did not return.

Elrond tried to reassure Elerína and her ladies who all waited for their men but with limited success. Elerína became increasingly irritable, immersing herself in her work in attempts to distract herself, but her anxiety erupted into anger when she and Erestor clashed over the household ledgers. Their raised voices carried from the library on that morning. Laurefin had intervened, settling Erestor and bringing Elerína –- red-faced and tight-lipped -- to me.

“Let us go for a walk, my lady.” I offered her my arm, but she refused it, stumping swiftly away from me toward the entryway of the great house. Then she looked over her shoulder at me before she stepped over the threshold.

“Well? Aren’t you coming?” So I followed with Lady Vórwen in tow.

We hiked along one of the paths that ran along the rises and little dells within the larger breadth of the valley. By the time the sun was near its zenith, Elerína had walked most of her anger out of her system. Feeling it was safe to query her, I asked what had happened to set off the disagreement when we stopped to rest, the three of us sitting on a rock on a rise that afforded an expansive view over the vale, blanketed in the pastel colors of spring.

“Master Erestor informed me that my assistance with the ledgers was no longer needed,” Elerína said. Then she cocked an eyebrow. “I took umbrage at that. I enjoy working with the numbers in the ledgers, figuring the tallies and inventories. I felt like something was being taken away from me.”

“I would think the loom would be enough for you,” I said, ensuring my tone was blatantly teasing. Lady Vórwen stifled a snort of laughter when Elerína swatted my upper arm with the back of her hand in a playful gesture that was nonetheless hard enough to sting.

“You know it is not! I need to occupy my mind with the ledgers, especially now.”

“Then speak to Elrond about your need. Erestor has been at this for a very long time, and it may be that he feels threatened. However, there is enough work to be done that I am sure we can find similar work for you.” I mulled this over while I watched a flock of blackbirds dip and spin in the distance. “In fact, I could use your assistance in the forge. I am expecting a shipment of ores and minerals from the Dwarves of the Ered Luin soon. I'll need someone to take inventory of these, weigh the ingots, make measurements...”

“Something one of your assistants could do. You needn’t patronize me, Istyar.”

Something snapped in me then. I grabbed her arm, my grip firm.

“Do not ever think I would patronize you!”

She looked at me, startled. I added, “My lady.” Then she smiled and patted my hand where I held her. I released my grip, embarrassed by my less than measured reaction.

“Forgive me, Sámaril. I am still a bit irritated, I suppose.”

“And I apologize for manhandling you. Let’s walk a little longer. The exercise will lift our moods.” We rose from the rock and continued on our hike.

~*~

After that day, I made a point of taking Elerína and Lady Vórwen, along with anyone else who wished to accompany us, on hikes along the paths of the valley. Although the exercise and company eased Elerina’s cares, they did not remove them. She remained worried for her husband and sons, always looking toward the east while we walked along the paths, watching the snows recede into the heights.

Elrond maintained optimism but his mounting concern became evident.

“I wonder if they took the longer road?” he fretted. “But we would have heard if they had.”

Valandil was restless, infected by his mother’s anxiety. I set aside most of my work in the forges to spend time with him, most often by taking our rods and reels to fish in the river.

Valandil and I had been casting our lines into the rushing waters of the Bruinen on that perfect afternoon in waning days of Tuilë, the sun bright and the sky crystalline blue when the horns of the guards blared in alarm across the vale to be answered by the urgent peal of the tower bell of the house. The peregrine screamed overhead and streaked toward the high moor where, when I squinted, I could see small figures beginning their descent into Imladris.

We quickly stowed our gear and stuffed our trout into our creels. We ran along the riverside path to the house where we halted at the end of the path to catch our breath while others poured from the house and the outbuildings to gather in the court before the House of Elrond, all watching the figures make their way slowly down the path into the valley. Valandil and I edged through the crowd to where Elrond and Elerína stood. Rather than anticipation, a sense of dread settled over all who waited for those who trudged down into the valley.

At last, they crossed the bridge: three young Men of the Dúnedain escorted by the elven-guards. The men’s grey cloaks were tattered, boots encrusted with dried mud and their breeches torn. Their hauberks glinted in the sun, but blotches of rust marred the metal links. Their gaunt faces were smudged, dark circles shadowed their eyes, and their hair was lank and ragged. But the most unsettling sight was their stained black tunics bearing the emblems of the High King, leaving no doubt that these young men were soldiers of the King’s Guard.

Only the breeze whispered and birds sang when the men walked forward, one of them limping. Lady Vórwen’s cry broke the silence. She took two steps toward the men but stopped at Elerína’s signal.

The men halted. The tallest of the three came forward. He carried a bundle of cloth in his arms, cradling it like a child. Step by deliberate step he walked to Elerína whose face was as white as cold marble.

“My queen, my lord." He bowed to Elerína and Elrond. "I am Cánomir Arinnerion, squire of the High King, and this is Estelmo, squire of Prince Elendur and Haryondur, squire of Prince Aratan.”

Elerina’s lips tightened into a thin line. She straightened, stiffening her slender body as if preparing for an assault.

“You are well known to me, cousin, as are your companions. Speak.”

“I bear terrible tidings. The King has fallen.”

The collective gasps and cries of shock among mortals and Firstborn alike silenced the breeze and birdsong.

Elrond opened his mouth to respond, but not before Elerína did.

“Tell me, Cánomir son of Arinner. Tell me what happened.”

“We were on our thirtieth day of the march from Osgiliath. We traveled near the northern borders of the Gladden Fields,” he said. “The King had led us to the eastern path that follows the river and leads to the Elven-King’s realm.

“It had been a fair day, and we were all singing when we were ambushed by orcs.” Cánomir paused, gathering himself to continue. “They screamed their hideous war-cries, bearing down on us from the eaves of the forest on our right. We were greatly outnumbered and at a disadvantage on the slope.

“The King drew us together as best he could in the thangail, but the orcs were driven by great ferocity, and they began to break through our defenses. It was then my King commanded me:

“‘Ohtar,’ he said, "I give this now into your keeping' and so the King gave these to me.” Cánomir raised the bundle in his arms slightly. “The sheath and the shards of Elendil's sword. King Isildur then said to me: ‘Save it from capture by all means that you can find, and at all costs; even at the cost of being held a coward who deserted me. Take your companion with you and flee! Go. I command you!’

“So Haryondur and I fled as our King ordered us. Our travails are a tale for another time, but later Estelmo found us, and we made for the high pass. We nearly reached it but were trapped in the heights by the snow. We wintered over in a cave below the tree line. Winter did not release his grip on the heights for months. We almost starved, but we persevered through great hardship and now bring the dire tidings and this to you:”

Cánomir then unwrapped the cloth bundle, revealing the sheath and the broken blade. Sunlight glared off the shards of great sword. He extended them to his queen, his head bowed, while she took them from him. Then she fixed him with her eyes, now icy-blue, her face still stern but her voice trembled when she asked the heartbreaking question.

“My sons,” she said. “What of my sons?”

Cánomir turned to Valandil, who was stricken silent and pale as a wraith. “Long live the King,” the squire said, barely audible. Tears rolled down his cheeks, leaving tracks on his grimy skin.

For a moment, Elerína stood still as a graven image, but then her eyes rolled back in her head. Her knees buckled, the broken blade and sheath ringing when they hit the stone, but Elrond and Laurefin caught her before she fell to the hard pavers. Lady Vórwen rushed forward, torn between her queen and the young man who stared at the broken sword lying on the pavers. She faced him.

“Cáno, where is your father? Please. Tell me!”

“Oh, Mama...” His face crumpled, and Lady Vórwen took her tall son into her arms.

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Chapter End Notes

I have used The Reckoning of Time in Valinor and Middle-earth Throughout the Ages as a guide for the names and months of seasons. To the best of my knowledge, this site is not blatantly inaccurate but I'm sure caveats apply. I figure Sámaril would "think" in terms of the calendar of Imladris whereas Elerína would refer to the Númenórean calendar. Although my interpretation holds that Elerína speaks Sindarin (bilingual mother tongue with Adûnaic), she would refer to the months in Quenya, much like the names of our months give reference to Latin.

Narquelië - approximates our October
Yavannië - approx. September
Tuilë - approx. mid- to late spring

Isildur's words to Ohtar are quoted directly from Unfinished Tales. With regard to "Ohtar's" given name, footnote 17 in the "Disaster of the Gladden Fields" makes note of the following:

Ohtar is the only name used in the legends; but it is probably only the title of address that Isildur used at this tragic moment (bold text, pandemonium), hiding his feelings under formality. Ohtar "warrior, soldier" was the title of all who, though fully trained and experienced, had not yet been admitted to the rank of roquen, "knight." But Ohtar was dear to Isildur and of his own kin. [Author's note.]

"Ohtar" is often used as a given name in fan fiction. I have chosen to acknowledge the footnote in UT and have given the fellow an actual name: Cánomir, a somewhat Sindarized Quenya name derived from the brilliant mind of Pixellated Fëanor™, mostly because I thought it sounded better than Cánomirë or Cánomiro.