Under Agate Skies by Isilme_among_the_stars  

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Rivendell, Again

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On a windy day in March, Erestor lays swathed in the dim reaches of his chamber. Over a year has passed since the journey that brought him, Elrond’s household, and the battered remains of the fellowship of the ring home from Minas Tirith to Rivendell. Time has not yet undone the damage to his health that travel wrought and on this particular day, Erestor wonders if it ever will. He is quick to spiral into exhaustion now; it takes so very little. After a single, ill-advised night in the Hall of Fire that stretched on too close to dawn, he finds himself once more able to endure only one small excursion from his rooms each day.

“What will it be?” Glorfindel asks. His feet pad softly across the stone floor and curtains are thrown back from the window. Cool, grey light leaks inside. Behind the panes branches dance in the gusty air, sending kaleidoscopes of bright green leaves and dusky blossoms dancing through pale blue and grey skies.

“Might we venture outside? I wish to breathe the fresh air beyond these walls.”

“That is well,” Glorfindel remarks, coming near. “Master Elrond hoped for your company, and he is little inclined to abide the indoors of late.” Patiently, he drags a brush through Erestor’s long, thick hair and secures it in a tight weave that the wind might not tease it badly. Combing out tangles has been difficult for him to endure of late, bringing on awful headaches.

“Is he well, Glorfindel?” Elrond dispenses his duties as flawlessly as ever, but for one such as he that means little. Lordship is embedded in the very grain of his timbre, such that nothing short of the direst of circumstances could tarnish his amiable public facade.

“No, Erestor, I do not believe he is.”

The spring morning is wild with motion. The sharp bite of sweet, cool air in his lungs invigorates even Erestor’s beleaguered body. He sits beside Elrond on a carven bench where the garden opens to woodland, a shawl wrapped about his shoulders. Bird-calls sound above the distant chatter of the Bruinen and the shushing of wind as it upsets the leaves of gnarled beeches and stately oaks. On the forest floor serpentine-hued greenfinches forage in the company of bramblings with their brindled backs and carnelian breasts. Erestor savours their high, vibrato calls and is glad of his choice, even though the bathhouse would have been a sensible one; a sheen of sweat and oil has settled, rancid and uncomfortable, over his skin. His scalp prickles and his skin has begun to itch. A pity both needs could not be satisfied this day.

“Come with me,” Elrond says. Into the West, he means, having made no secret of his firming resolve to sail. Only one question now remains.

“When will you go?” Erestor asks.

“In September, I think.”

“September?”

“I wish for one more summer,” Elrond admits, with a small, crooked smile.

“Why?” Erestor asks, curiously.

“I want to walk through the high fields on the ridges as they burgeon with wildflowers in all of their myriad colours, see apples swell on the trees that Celebrían planted in the orchard long ago, and taste their sweetness once more as autumn arrives. I want to score these things, indelibly, into my memory.”

“Are they not irrevocably writ there already?”

Elrond shrugs. “Perhaps.”

This land is not so easy to forsake. It is their home. Peace must be made with its loss. Erestor knows this well. Elrond is close enough, almost, to kiss the resigned acceptance he needs in order to do so. Erestor has not yet found his. This land has not released its hold on him, and the sea does not sing strongly in his heart. “I will not come. Not yet.”

“Even now?” Elrond asks, surprised. “When most of those who still abide with us make ready to depart, at last. When—” When his body fails him, yet again. Elrond does not say it, but he looks quickly away and Erestor knows he thinks it all the same. He affords Erestor the dignity of leaving the words unspoken, at least. They have covered this ground thoroughly before. Elrond has never sought to coerce him, and that he comes so dangerously close to doing so now betrays something of the Lord of Imladris’s state of mind. It is as Glorfindel supposed. He is not wholly well. “I only wonder why.”

“Your heart,” Erestor tells him, “has turned all to seawater and far, distant shores, and your longing resounds with the cries of gulls. But mine is as green as the holly growing in Eregion, my lungs swell even now with the scent of juniper and pine drifting down from the high ridges above, and my blood sings with the sweet sight of harebells under the wide open sky. The iron and mithril and gems that twist like a spine through the Misty Mountains are in my bones, Elrond! And Rivendell is the fire warming my soul. I am not ready to leave my home.”

“So be it,” Elrond says with shining eyes. “I will miss you dearly.”

“And I you,” Erestor returns, taking Elrond’s hand in his own. And because they are alone before the uncaring forest and the vast sky, Elrond allows himself to weep. Because Elrond is dear to him, Erestor draws him near and endeavours not to shudder as Elrond raises his hand to run distracted, self-soothing strokes along his prickling scalp.

“Oh, this has become terribly oily,” Elrond remarks absently. “Shall I have a warm basin sent up to your room this evening along with someone to help you wash it?” And they both laugh through their tears.

✧ 

September brings with it a raft of companions and the promise of change. Rivendell resembles nothing so much as a hive of busy bees as all the requisite preparations are made for the departure of a sizeable swathe of her population. Many from Lothlórien have come, who will accompany them to the Grey Havens and beyond. Galadriel finds Erestor in the midst of a passionate debate with Rivendell’s seneschal. They argue back and forth regarding the most efficient and fair re-distribution of duties with a majority of those currently fulfilling essential roles soon to depart. There is a healthy flush to his cheeks and a lively animation to his movement as he gesticulates toward the West Wing, suggesting it could be functionally closed to reduce required upkeep. He is well this day, and with returning strength comes fervour. Gone is the despondency that lurked beneath the Chief Counsellor’s stubborn determination on the road to Minas Tirith two years ago.

Galadriel draws near and the debate stutters to a standstill. She clears her throat self-consciously. “I believe I judged you unfairly, Chief Counsellor. You are certainly determined, but no fool, I think. Let it not be said that the Lady of Lothlórien is too headstrong to offer apology for her discourtesy.” Though the apology comes late, Erestor does not find it difficult to receive. Galadriel’s pride may cause her to misstep occasionally, but she is sincere, and had offered her care without comment or condescension on a number of occasions between the gap of Rohan and the Redhorn Pass, while their respective houses journeyed together.

“The former Lady of Lothlórien, I hear,” Erestor says with a wry smile.

“I am merely Galadriel now, I suppose.”

“Galadriel, princess of the houses of Finwë and Olwë, and Doriathrin royalty by rite of marriage,” scoffs Erestor genially. “And, I hear, kin by some vague connexion to High King Ingwë too. Is there any royal house you do not represent, my Lady?”

Galadriel’s laugh is bright and genuine.

It warms Erestor’s heart. “Your apology is accepted.”

“Good,” Galadriel says with finality, and launches into a lengthy explanation of the intricate social connections, rivalries, and talents of the Galadhrim set to join their Lord Celeborn as he relocates to Imladris. Half of Rivendell’s staffing challenges are on their way to being solved before she finishes talking.

Glorfindel exclaims in mock shock, looking up from his seat by the window, “Are the Galadhrim so complex as all that?” Already, Erestor knows, he will have ear-marked half a dozen likely captains to assist in the post-war recovery effort he is tasked with coordinating.

“I’m afraid so, my Lord,” the Lady teases. “Not all elves can be reduced to a simple equation of loyalty and courage, such as your good self.”

Peace has restored an ease and geniality to their communing such as was once enjoyed in the early Third Age, before such gatherings became fraught with discussions of military threat and conflict. Alas, it is not to last, for the day of parting draws near. New confidences are forged and responsibilities handed over. Celeborn seeks out Erestor one busy afternoon and draws him aside, for they too must come to an understanding if they are to govern well together.

“I must confess myself surprised at your decision to take up residence among the less than peaceable Noldor,” Erestor says.

At this, Celeborn chuckles. “You must not forget I dwelt in Eregion for many long years. And have you not met my wife?”

“Why have you come?” Erestor asks. In the absence of Elrond, the governance of Rivendell would have fallen to his sons, and would thus have remained largely on the shoulders of Erestor, who has been capably stewarding its affairs for much of the sanctuary’s existence. Elladan and Elrohir are bright, brave, and capable, but would have leaned more heavily on Erestor than their father did, at least at first. Now, however, Celeborn is set to take on a high position. Erestor wonders if he has been weighed, measured, and found wanting, or at the least unreliable enough, due to the unpredictable nature of his health, to fill the role.

“Truth be told,” Celeborn admits, “it is family that draws me. I crave closeness to my grandsons. And I find I tire of the woods of Lórien, without the light of Galadriel to brighten them. They fade, now, lacking the sustaining force of Nenya.” Celeborn’s stately face looks more wistful and weary than Erestor has yet seen it, as an aged statue eroded by time and overgrown with ivy. “Besides,” he goes on, “I grow weary, too, of Lordship. Rather than remain in Caras Galadhon and govern alone, it shall be a pleasure to share the burden with one so capable as yourself. Your company will indeed be a comfort to me.”

“I believe we shall be a comfort to one another.”

It rains on the day that Elrond and Galadriel leave. A constant crackle of myriad droplets beats against the flagstones. The eaves drip. Elrond looks up to the graphite-dark skies as rivulets run down his hood and stream from his brow and says, “How fitting.” The sky weeps, but Elrond does not, having spent his tears in the hills above Edoras some years earlier at another parting. There Arwen had kissed the salt from his cheeks and Elrond had wiped his daughter’s tears softly away with his thumbs. Erestor is not dry-eyed, and neither is Glorfindel beside him. For, though they will unite with their friends again, still it is bitter to be parted.

It is an underwhelming sunderance, in the end. Elrond mounts his horse with no more ceremony than had his leavetaking been merely for a pleasurable afternoon ride. While Galadriel stoops in her saddle to embrace Celeborn one last time, Elrond turns toward Erestor and Glorfindel. “Until we meet again, on the other side of the sea,” he says, clasping their hands. Then he turns, coaxes his mount to an unhurried walk and is gone from the valley. A great procession follows. Slowly the echo of hooves clattering against the road fades and the last sight of the company is swallowed by distant rain.

“Well, Chief Counsellor,” Celeborn says, turning his back on the road and setting his sights toward Rivendell’s merry sprawl. “There is much to be done.”

Deep within the green, shadowed vale, beneath the western slopes of the Misty Mountains, where an undimmed remnant of the Eldar still cling, steadfast, to the hills and spill their songs merrily into the valley, there is a sanctuary and refuge. It will not remain forever, for as surely as the summits above shall endure as silent guardians for countless ages of the world, so too are its people ever drawn westward, to the sea. And yet, while it stands, the weak shall grow strong here, the despairing, hopeful, and light and song shall live on, radiating into a vibrant world that resists all things dark, hostile, and mean.

On this particular day, to Erestor, the promise it represents feels solid as rock and as precious as rubies. He is not always well, nor does hope always wax so strongly in his heart, but Rivendell continues to nurture him on the best and worst of days, and all those in between. Soon enough, he too will journey to Mithlond, seeking passage on a ship, never to return. But until that day, though the walls of the sanctuary may at times feel stuffy and close, Erestor will rest easily in the refuge he has found in its halls, and meet the challenges as they come, with patience and determination.

✧ ✧ ✧