Retiring Fogs by StarSpray

Retiring Fogs

Read Retiring Fogs

SA 3431
Imladris

The cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched out on the hills, resting. Or rather, most of the army was resting—much of it was still making its way into the valley, as it had been all night, a mixture of Men from Arnor and Elves from Lindon. Fires burned, pinpricks of light scattered throughout the rows of tents; the smell of burning wood and cooking food hovered over the valley like the fog. Banners hung from their poles; there was no breeze to set them waving, but Eluréd knew them to be bright and colorful, and expected the sight of them when the wind did pick up to be very impressive. Armies always were, before the fighting started.

He had a very good view of the whole valley from his seat atop Elrond’s roof, near the great chimney that rose out of the Hall of Fire. The stones were warm at his back, a pleasant counterpoint to the lingering chill in the air; the day would be warm, later, but the nights were still frosty. He had a set of pipes in his pocket—a gift from Goldberry when he and Elurín had passed through the Withywindle valley on their way to Imladris—but he had decided against playing anything. They were made for cheerful songs—tra la la lally or hey dilly dol, and the atmosphere in Imladris this morning was not fit for those songs. Even the elves that usually hid in the fir trees to laugh and tease visitors were silent—if they were there at all. The only music came from the many streams flowing down from the mountains, and from the river, but the fog had muffled them, and even now that it was lifting they seemed too quiet. There were no birds at all.

It had been a very long time since Imladris had last been a military outpost. Those had been dark days—now Eluréd was used to thinking of the valley as home, as a refuge under his nephew’s very capable hands. And it was still that—the armies of the north would not be there long before they departed again, marching away down south past the ruins of Eregion and then on through the Gap of Calenardhon, through Gondor…and then to Mordor.

“There you are.” Elrond’s head popped up over the edge of the roof before the rest of him followed. The practiced ease with which he hauled himself up suggested that Eluréd was not the only one who made a habit of roof-sitting. “I thought I told you to rest your ankle.”

“I am resting it,” said Eluréd, gesturing at the ankle in question, which he’d twisted rather badly when he’d tripped into an open rabbit hole while playing a game of catch-me with the valley’s children the morning before. “I hardly put any weight on it at all to get up here.” Elrond gave him a flat look that said he didn’t believe a word of it, even though it was true. Eluréd was hardly going to do anything to make it worse. Bad enough that he’d had to stay behind while Elurín went out with the rest of the scouts to ensure the lands on either side of the Misty Mountains were clear of enemies or their traps. “Aren’t you supposed to be doing some herald-ish things at the moment?”

“There’s nothing more to do,” said Elrond, “except wait for the scouts to return.” He paused, and then said, “Neither you nor Elurín have said what you plan to do. Are you going to go south with us, or remain here in the north?”

“Which would you like us to do?”

Elrond hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said. “I would like to have you with us. But if all goes ill—I do not know what will happen to the lands in the north. I feel there must be someone here to keep a place of refuge—here in Imladris or somewhere else even more hidden, I don’t know. The Elves will flee to the Havens, but the Men…”

“We will remain,” said Eluréd. The Dúnedain were their kin, too—their sister’s children. Neither Eluréd nor Elurín would abandon them to face alone whatever terrible end Sauron had in store any more than Elrond would. “We will do what we can to keep the roads to Mithlond open, and to mount a defense of whatever remains of Númenor. But I do not think we will have to—I think this darkness will pass like a storm cloud and the sun will shine out again after, and you will return here to Rivendell to peace and joy, and I hope when you return you will finally speak to Celebrían.”

Elrond did not usually roll his eyes, but they were alone and already sitting on the roof, so there was little point in dignity. “I speak to Celebrían on a daily basis,” he said.

“You know what I mean,” said Eluréd. “Did you know nearly everyone in the valley has a wager on you? I’ve already lost three very fine knives because I was sure you wouldn’t delay this long.”

“Now is hardly a good time,” Elrond said.

“Well, no, of course not. It’s not our fault you waited.” Eluréd glanced toward the path that descended into the valley. “There are the last of the soldiers, and that is Isildur’s banner.”

“That will be Elendur and his brothers.” Elrond sighed. “Will you come down?”

“Must I?”

“You can play with little Valandil while the rest of us take council.”

“Oh, well, in that case.”

Eluréd slid down the roof, following Elrond, who watched very carefully as Eluréd swung himself down, dropping lightly and almost entirely onto one foot. He had to steady himself with his bad leg, but only for a second before snatching up the crutch that the healers had given him. “See?” he said. “I will have you knock that I’ve healed from far worse hurts than this, Master Elrond.”

Elrond did not roll his eyes this time, but Eluréd laughed anyway, because it was a near thing. “Yes, I know. You are very fond of telling the tales. Some might call you a terrible influence.”

“You had your fill of terrible influences long before we appeared,” Eluréd informed him.

“But if it makes you feel better, I promise that I shall stay off of rooftops and out of trees until my ankle heals.”

“Thank you.”