Northern Skies by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 25

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Elladan and Celebrían neared the snow-line, and even for Elves the air grew thin. At this dizzying height the very bones of the land lay bare. Nothing grew but hardy lichens that clung to the naked, windswept rock, speckling it in grey and green shot through with dabs of shockingly bright red. 

Elladan was blind to the Alagras’ desolate splendour as he scrambled up its rocky slopes like a man possessed, his mind filled with nothing but his brother. Elrohir’s pain had blended with Elladan’s own longing, a bone-deep craving like one drowning might gasp for air. 

They were close enough now for the sound of their footsteps to carry in the heavy silence without bird or beast. Elladan knew he would be treading a delicate line. He motioned for Celebrían to stay behind and let him seek out Elrohir by himself. For an instant her mind touched his. Under the calm facade she, too, was frantic with longing and fear of what they would find when they reached him. She understood nonetheless: this belonged to Elladan alone. In silence she reached into her pack for a small object that caught the height’s sharp sunlight like a star. As he caught his breath Elladan stared at the silver flask of miruvor in dismay that Elrohir’s hurts would be bad enough to need such precious medicine. He pocketed the bottle with a nod of thanks. 

Celebrían sat on a boulder, avoiding the ridge of windblown powder snow gathered on the leeward side. She had her bow in hand, arrow nocked and ready in the manner of Lórien’s marchwardens. Her only movements were the swirling wisps of her breath in the icy air and her eyes, darting as she scanned the surrounding desolation for sign of Orcs. 

Onwards Elladan rushed, and when he could no longer run he climbed to where he knew a grouping of great boulders, once sculpted by grinding ice, would form a secluded, roofless chamber. Elrohir had the instincts of a wounded animal, hiding away from hostile eyes and the scything wind. His brother’s presence sang through Elladan’s veins heavy as wine, at once sweet and painful. He no longer needed his eyes for the last few steps. Navigating by Elrohir’s memory alone he ducked through a narrow gap between the stones into a shadowed hiding place. 

Neither knew which twin uttered the wordless sob of relief that rang through the small hollow where Elrohir lay curled up around his wound. Elladan ungently crammed himself into the narrow space beside his brother to pull him into his arms, touch his face, bask in the untarnished rightness and wonder of being reunited. 

The moment was brief enough. Elrohir’s cheek was disturbingly cool to Elladan’s stroking hands, and once the first elation had passed Elladan noticed his own clothes growing wet and sticky where their bodies touched. The metallic tang of blood stood heavy in the still air of the hollow.  Elrohir’s face was ashen, its features sharply drawn in a way Elladan had seen only once before, an accidental glimpse of a returning warrior being rushed to the House of Healing. Elladan knew he tended to rattle when he panicked, but the sound of his voice brought Elrohir such obvious comfort that he did not hold back.

“You are cold! Here, have my cloak atop yours, I have no need of it. The stains don’t matter. Laerwen will know how to get them out. She can wash out anything. This one time I dropped an ink bottle all over that patterned rug in mother’s study and she …”

Elladan nearly sent the pair of bronze pins that fastened his heavy fur-lined cloak clattering to the ground in his haste to pull it off and cover Elrohir. Once he was wrapped up to the best of his ability, Elladan was left searching for something, anything he might do that would be of better help than a stream of meaningless household anecdotes. With a jolt he remembered the flask of miruvor.

“Here, have a drink.”

Elrohir obediently reached for the bottle, and with dismay Elladan noticed that his fingers were as blue as his lips. The draught of cordial seemed to lend him some strength, but soon his eyes closed once more and he lay still. Elladan pulled his brother closer, until he could feel Elrohir’s gasping breath and his quick, thready heartbeat. Elrohir curled in on himself, wrapped in Elladan’s arms as if he was suddenly the younger by far more than mere minutes. Elladan held him as tightly as he dared, stroking the matted locks of his hair. They basked in each other’s presence for a few stolen moments until Elladan dared not delay any longer.

“Mother is beside herself with worry. May I call her?”

Elrohir’s lassitude instantly lapsed into terror. 

“She should not be out here, and neither should you. The Orcs will …”

Elladan was quick to interrupt him.

“Do not concern yourself with Orcs. Glorfindel and Grandfather will chase them. You are safe, and going home.”

This had clearly been the wrong thing to say. Elrohir had been ill at ease before, but now he grew frantic, drawing back from Elladan’s embrace with wild eyes.

“Imladris is dangerous. Our father hides … horrible things.” His voice broke at a memory of the eerie way the very path shifted beneath his feet as his mind was drawn into Elrond’s grip. 

“Forgive me, Elladan, for leaving you behind there. I am so glad to see you again.”  

The words came whisper-soft, as if the both of them were now in hiding. Elrohir’s eyes shone bright with tears, and fear gripped Elladan at what Elrohir might do in this state. He took a firm hold of Elrohir’s hand, clammy and rough with grit.

Elrohir’s voice was a low whisper against Elladan’s chest. “I cannot go back. Not to that .”

Elladan shook his head, shocked by this terror beyond reason. He wrapped Elrohir up in his own memories of Imladris, of being warm, and safe, and home.  

“No one will hurt you, Father least of all. He was near to madness in his fear for you. He deeply regrets using force. He gave me his word: never again.”

Elrohir’s mind seethed with terror. “He is a sorcerer!” 

Elladan turned Elrohir over to look him in the eye. 

“So are you and I. We are of Lúthien’s line. You know it is true, Elrohir. You knew it even in Harad. You cannot outrun your own blood.” 

He touched Elrohir’s face once more, and his warm fingers stroked skin cool and pale as marble. 

“Trust me if you trust nothing else. Come with me. You need not feel this cold, or be all alone. You should never have been alone. Will you not come home? We will take the pain away, keep you safe so you can sleep. You are so tired. Imagine resting in your own bed and being warm again. I will stay with you, always. Please, Elrohir, come home?”

Elohir nodded, but did not speak. He had no fight left in him. He lay silent in Elladan’s arms when Elladan tried to rouse him. His mind seemed distant, almost dreamy. The closed eyes lent his face that alien Mannish look once more. Combined with the pallor of near exsanguination the effect was unsettling. Elladan’s unease grew as he waited for a reply, watching wisps of vapour rise from Elrohir’s mouth to freeze to tiny white pearls where the cloak’s fur trim bordered his face. Elrohir did not speak and the rim of frost grew, until the sudden realization of what his brother looked like struck Elladan. He had never seen a dead body, but the image of Elrohir’s seared itself into his nightmares.

Elladan’s floodwave of panic instantly brought Celebrían to the shelter’s entrance. The rocky hollow had no space for three, so Elladan dragged Elrohir out, half-crawling and half-carrying the limp weight of his unresisting body. 

Celebrían keened in terror at the sight of Elrohir. The harsh sunlight and a gust of icy wind roused him, and he pushed himself up to sitting, his ungloved hands slipping on rocks covered in a veil of drift snow. With a gasp of relief Celebrían pulled him into an embrace so strong it clearly served to hide her tears. She was Galadriel’s daughter, a veteran of many desperate hours, and her struggle for composure was brief. 

Elrohir stiffened in her arms, braced for her anger, but when she spoke her voice was soft.

“There you are. I am so glad to see you.” 

She made to stroke his hair, only to get her fingers tangled in crusts of old blood.  

“Let me help, sweetling. Don’t be afraid. All is well now that we have you. All will be set right, if we can only get you home. Please, let me help you.” 

Whether Elrohir understood, or this was some measure of trust built over their months together, Elladan could not tell but he saw Elrohir sag against her, boneless with relief. Celebrían held him for a moment more before pulling back to unwrap both cloaks. 

 Slow and considerate, she untied Elrohir’s makeshift bandages of moss and wadded clothes. They were soaked, sticking to him in layers of old and fresh blood, and when Celebrían had finally removed them all her hands were slick and red. Through a gaping tear in Elrohir’s ruined tunic Elladan glimpsed a sight that would haunt him for an age to come. His brother’s side had been slashed open from shoulder to hip. The wound was crusted with grime, and deep down Elladan imagined he could see the white ridges of Elrohir’s ribs like a diagram from some exceptionally lifelike anatomy book. Only sheer luck had kept the Orcish blade from nicking his gut. Blood welled quickly, as if the obscene gash had been cut mere moments ago.  

Celebrían’s half-loud Nandorin curse would have brought a seasoned marchwarden to blushing. Elrohir did not understand the words but their meaning was clear, and in the face of her terror his own grew even greater. Celebrían laid her hands on the wound, her face darkening further at the foul feel of it. Her eyes grew glassy with concentration when she raised her voice. The song was heartbreakingly beautiful, but every line and cantrip faltered against the unforgiving winds howling around the peak. Elrohir’s still face seemed paler with every new attempt. What began high and strong, assaulting the senses with its sheer might and power to scourge foul things clean, gradually waned, diminishing until only gentleness and the desire to comfort and soothe remained.  

 Whoever made that accursed blade has power beyond mine . 

Celebrían’s dismay was for Elladan alone. 

Her manner grew more stern and efficient than Elladan had ever seen. She tightly packed the wound with strips of clean muslin from her own pack, before wrapping Elrohir in both cloaks once more and drawing one of the hoods up around his face. Still unsatisfied, she removed her own lambskin gloves to put them on Elrohir’s blue-tinged hands after breathing some warmth into them. She had done the same for Elladan countless times when he was small and cold from wintertime play. Watching the motherly gesture gave him a sharp pang of sorrow. This first time Celebrían did this for Elrohir might well prove the last.  

Not if your father has a hand in it. 

Only then did both Elladan and Celebrían notice Elrohir’s feet. The Orc boots were ugly, ill-made things, spreading a goatish stench Elladan recognized from the cadavers. Celebrían’s face overflowed with sorrow at the sight. The laces of badly tanned leather had grown waterlogged and caked with mud. She yanked hard on the swollen knots, and when they would not give she swore with abandon.  

Elrohir flinched when she drew her hunting knife, and the realisation that even now he was still afraid of her stoked the fires of her desperate anger even higher. She cut the boots off his feet with quick, jerking movements. Before Elladan could move to stop her, she righted herself to toss them down the slope with far more force than necessary. Celebrían’s right arm carried an archer’s strength, and the Orc-work flew far, bouncing against the mountain flank before finally tumbling out of sight. Elrohir could only stare with a strange expression between fear and complete bewilderment. Elladan stood aghast, convinced he would have to climb down after them or risk Elrohir’s feet to frostbite. 

A hand on his shoulder kept him in place. Celebrían miraculously produced a pair of felt-lined warriors’ boots from her pack. Elladan and Elrohir shared a wave of sudden comprehension. This had clearly been planned the very moment she found out Elrohir’s strange boot-swapping feint. She had even thought to bring thick woollen socks. 

“Here. These are much warmer, and they are clean.”  

She paused her gentle ministrations to press a kiss to Elrohir’s cheek.  

“You need not wear anything of theirs .”  The unspoken part was clear: you are ours .  

At her wordless glance Elladan proffered the flask of miruvor. Celebrían let Elrohir drink another measure, sip by careful sip. The cordial lent his mind new clarity. His eyes met Celebrían’s with frightening calm.  

“New boots for a dead man?” 

To Elladan’s astonishment Celebrían did not dissolve into tears, and it seemed Elrohir had not expected her to. Here were two people who knew war and its grim, implacable realities. Tears served no purpose. They were held back for later, if a later might still exist. 

“That cursed blade is causing this unnatural bleeding. I feel it moving through you, burrowing deeper by the hour, but I have not the power to remove it. Your father is the only one who might. We must get you home.”  

Elrohir looked down to where the fine broadcloth of Elladan’s cloak began to show a spreading bloom of red.

 “I have not enough time left to be carried down this mountain. Spare me and yourselves the pain of trying.” 

She gave him a sad look as she stroked a strand of his hair back behind his ear, seeming desperate for the touch.  

“You were poisoned in body and spirit. The blade’s maker sought to sow despair. You were exquisitely sensitive to it in your state of mind, and now it speaks through your mouth. I will not let it take your life.” 

Elrohir’s face went soft, and his gloved hands took hers as if he sought to warm them. 

“That seems inevitable. All this is on me, not you. Remember that, after.” 

She did not answer him, and her face grew hard and stern once more when she rose to her feet.

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Chapter End Notes

And so the twins are reunited once more, but in much worse circumstances than last time! 

Like the first reunion, this was a challenging chapter to write and I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. If you enjoyed it please consider leaving a comment. Those make a writer's day! 

 A bug in the SWG website won't let me answer comments in the usual way. The mods are working hard to fix it, and until they do I'll answer comments here.   

  Lindariel:    Thank you so much for all your lovely reviews on my stories!!! I'm having trouble finding the words to express how wonderful it is to get such enthusiastic feedback on a series so close to my heart. I'm sorry that I'm unable to reply to your reviews on the other stories in the series, but I've read and squeed over them all and I will reply as soon as the bug is fixed! 

The series' premise is a bit unusual indeed. It came about because I wanted to write a story exploring the differences between Elves and Men, and Third Age Imladris as a meeting place of different cultures and races. Being essentially a Mortal who is suddenly admitted to the inner circle of Elrond's household, Elrohir gains a unique perspective on Elves and their society - one even the most trusted Mortal visitor would never have.   

I researched war-related PTSD to describe Elrohir's issues and his character development. Dawn, my beta, also contributed a lot to his characterization. I'm thrilled to hear that it turned out believable!   

At the time of this story Elrond and Celebrian have been married for less than a century. The Noldorin and Sindarin inhabitants of Imladris haven't had much time yet to get used to each other, so the place feels a lot less settled than when we see it through Frodo's and Bilbo's eyes in LOTR 3000 years later.    

Glorified:   

I'm afraid that this week's chapter won't do much to settle your nerves ;-) 

The Elves are definitely prejudiced about other races, but in the case of Orcs those prejudices are right. 

Elrohir has had an epiphany that maybe Mortal death isn't quite the right thing for him ... Let's hope Celebrían and Elladan will manage to keep him alive!  

See you next week!

Idrils Scribe