Coverart belongs to the very talented artist Elena Kukanova. Thank you to Lydwina Marie for the encouragement!
"Lord Elrohir."
A shadow was cast across the doorway of the armory, and Elrohir looked up from his sword. With a sigh of resignation, he slid it into the silver embossed scabbard and stood up. "Yes?"
The healer's apprentice stood in the entrance holding on to either side of the door frame, silhouetted by the sun behind her back. "Nestànu desires your help."
He rose to his feet, his sword by his side and the young apprentice skipped backward over the lintel and into the clearing. The armory was separated from the main house of Rivendell and was surrounded by a wide circle of trees. She was clad in the practical garb of the healers. Her dress came to her knees and her elbow length sleeves were tight. Hair tied away from her face and streaked with new leafy light, she went nimbly along the path, followed by Elrohir. Imladris lay in the open, although it was surrounded by aspens and bathed in the midsummer sunlight. They crossed the slim bridge that spanned a rushing tributary of the Bruinen and entered the courtyard. The apprentice walked in quick, short steps but Elrohir's longer, slower strides brought him close to her. She smiled at him; the white healer's sigil made of ciréd fabric shone in the sunlight, in contrast to the plain green muslin of her dress and leather belt.
"What is it, Gwindel?" he asked at last, as together they went up a flight of narrow marble steps that overlooked a patch of fragrant laurels. "Nestànu is a talented Healer, and well revered in the Healer's Guild."
Gwindel shrugged. "I myself have not seen the patient, my Lord. Perchance she is overwhelmed."
"Overwhelmed?" Elrohir opened the latticed door. "Overwhelmed with one or two?"
"You forget that the hunting party came from the Trollshaws this morning. And they say that the trolls are growing more cunning." called back Gwindel, already descending the steps. "I must gather herbs."
Elrohir closed the door behind him, drawing a deep breath. These rooms smelled of fragrant plants and sunlight spilled through floor-length windows into molten gold on the tiled floor.
Nestànu hurried by him, carrying a salver laden with clean bandages. She kicked the door to and nodded to Elrohir. "You are here to see to one of your brother's apprentices. His leg was mangled by a spiked troll club."
Elrohir winced. "So, that is what happened to the troll hunters?"
Nestànu shook her head, laying down the tray on a bed-stand. "The hunters were all hot-blooded youths. The brutes gave them a poor reception."
"And Elladan?"
"He was the only one who suffered merely a scratch, but mind you, from the accounts told, he was no less hot-blooded. His mother must speak with him. She is the only one who can coax sense into that foolish head of his."
"I will tell her when she returns," answered Elrohir, approaching the bedstead of his patient, a dark-haired youth who lay insentient.
His gaze was drawn by the glint of gold to the bed beyond, and he drew in his breath sharply. An Elf-maid lay there. Her face was very pale, but to offset her pallor, thick waves of honey-colored hair splayed across the pillows, and gold gleamed in their midst as if sunbeams were ensnared in the tresses. She was slender and appeared to be shorter in stature than many Elves, but the lineaments of her face were drawn in childlike innocence, bearing an indefinable enchantment.
"Nestànu," he called softly. "Who is the maid?"
The healer did not turn from her charge. "That is a young Elf woman was riding along the pine ridges. Her horse stumbled and she fell to the bottom."
"Horse?" echoed Elrohir blankly. "Since when do Elf horses stumble?"
"No, Elf horses do not," answered Nestànu briskly. "Do you remember the young horse that was caught a fortnight ago? It was not an Elf horse. Some foal from the Horse-lands, perhaps. Anyway, it tripped and broke its neck, unfortunate beast."
"And it's rider?"
"She fell into the river below and was rescued by her companion. She broke several bones and has a deep injury to the head. She is still insensible, but we have hopes that all be well with her. Now, do not neglect your patient."
Elrohir tore his eyes from the girl, focusing all his attention on the twisted leg. The bone had been crushed into fragments, and the skin ripped by the curved barbs the trolls spiked their clubs with. Washing his blood-stained hands in the warm water, he said, "I do not know that Calharn will have two legs to walk on."
Nestànu turned to him, her tawny hair coiled around her head in a manner typical of the females in the Healers' Guild. "We must make all our efforts to save his leg." She examined Elrohir's work and gave him a rare smile. "Very good, master Elrohir. You are measuring up to your father's reputation."
Elrohir grinned at Nestànu's praise, and bowing, left the room.
He found Elladan, dressed in a sleeveless jerkin, wading in the rushes. Elrohir followed him, down the steep bank. The bank was thick with reeds and his feet sank into the mud. This was one of their childhood haunts, for an old tree leaned over the shallow, pebbly pool. Its trunk was hollow, although leaves still budded on its monolithic branches.
Now his twin sat on a mossy boulder, his head on his knees, staring into the rippling pool. The light came pale green through sun-drenched leaves, illuminating the dust motes in their beams.
"Elladan," he began, understanding his brother must feel disheartened and ashamed. "I'm sorry."
"For the love of peace!" shouted Elladan, disturbing a flock of belted kingfishers, who fled away behind a leafy bend, their rattling calls ringing in the air. "You're sorry! I am the one who is sorry! I led them into an ambush." He was growing wild. "We could smell the stench of the trolls, but we could not see them! And then… Oh, it was a cunning ruse for those rhach covndhol, those thasta…"
"Elladan, I understand the jist of it. Pray continue."
"A weighted net fell on us. We must have sprung a trap unintentionally. Most of us were tangled up in the meshes, but some of those who scouted, myself including remained free. But we could not stop the trolls. We had hardly begun sawing away the hemp when they burst out, and set about hammering us with clubs and maces." He laughed, a raving mirth that was defense against his tears. "Many of us were turned to the jelly Melenesta used to make. Bruises and blood. Black and red. Like blackberries and…"
"Enough of your gruesome comparisons, Elladan," broke in Elrohir again, the severity of his words belying the tenderness of his tone. "Elladan, tears are not a sign of weakness." he began again, but his brother's jaw was suddenly hard and he stood up, speaking with a forced gaiety that was always a foreword to sudden fits of rage. "Of course, of course. Do you suppose Melenesta still makes that jelly?"
"I am surprised you have the hunger," answered Elrohir bitingly.
"Pray do not be mordant," replied Elladan. "I am going."
"Where to? The kitchens?"
Halfway up the bank, Elladan turned around, his face a cold, fixed mask. "To the sickbay. Did you think I was off to raid jellies and rolls from Melenesta?" he spat through gritted teeth.
Elrohir stood up. "Why yes. Yes, I did."
His twin gone, Elrohir waded down the bend in the river and watched the iridescent flash of the kingfishers as they fell arrow-like into the warm water, stabbing at silvery minnow shoals that hurried hither and thither. Those who were victorious returned to a snag with their prize in their black beaks; the others tried their luck again.
At last, when the westering sun became warm on the front of his face, he turned towards the Homely House, to see how Calharn was faring.
The Healing Wing was empty of Nestànu and her apprentices, but Half-Elf heard the undulating murmur of voices from the herb gardens below.
He found Calharn still unconscious, no doubt because of a sleeping draft Nestànu had administered to prolong the swoon. Elrohir sighed. "Arwen will never forgive me. You were her best play-mate, even if she quarreled with you from dawn to dusk."
The pillows rustled, and looking past Calharn he saw the maid stirring. She winced, laying a hand on her bandaged head, and then sat up, staring dazedly at Elrohir with wide forest-green eyes.
He gazed back at her, grey eyes as shocked as green ones.
"Why am I here?" she muttered, shifting her gaze perplexedly to the carved ceiling.
"You are in the-"
"Healing Wing. I know that," she said. "But why?" She turned his face towards him, and when the delicate contours of her tilted face suddenly came in contact with the afternoon light, Elrohir was lost. But when she raised her brows inquiringly over the green depths of her eyes, he answered dispassionately, "You fell off your horse."
The Elf-maid sighed. "And Rocaran?"
"I am sorry, but I believe he broke his neck."
"Pour Rocaran," she lamented. "He was a worthy beast. So different from our Elven Horses, but nonetheless, he was good."
"I am sure he was."
Grasping the ledge of a window sill, she tottered to unsteady feet and fell back again onto the bed. "Yes, he was." she agreed. "May I impose on you and ask you to fetch my sister?" she added with a strained smile.
Elrohir jerked suddenly out of his trance. "Of course. What is your sister's title?"
She sighed, suddenly remembering. "But you will not find her here. They went as escorts with the Lord and Lady of Imladris, of course."
"Is there any other kin you would desire to see…" He raised his eyebrows questioningly.
"Itarille. And no, many thanks."
He bowed stiffly and departed.
~.~
Itarille perched on the balustrade, swinging her legs aimlessly as a light rain misted over her. It was a warm evening, and the earthy scents of spring rains surrounded her. The healers had freed her a week ago, much to her delight, for she had yearned to return to her music.
There was a firm knock on her door. "Come…wait, no!" she cried, suddenly recollecting where she had left her high harp.
The door opened even as she rushed in through the curtains. There was a terrible crash. Itarille shut her eyes and when she opened them she found a raven-haired Elf sprawling at her feet, having tripped over her harp. She looked down at him in surprise, and then to her delicate instrument, which lay on its side.
Suddenly he was on his feet, apologizing to her, and she was surprised at how much she had to tilt her head to look him in the face. "I am so very sorry. I heard you say…I apologize, I know how much instruments mean to their players. I hope it is not broken, I will try to compensate you if it is."
Itarille's eyebrows were arching higher and higher at each word. Was this stammering Elf really the cool, reserved one she had met in the Healing Wing?
"I hope you are well, that I did not alarm you…" He trailed off, abashed.
Itarille looked at him suddenly, startled out of her thought. "Oh! Oh, yes, I am quite well, though I am afraid I cannot say the same for my harp."
The Elf winced, setting the instrument upright on its pedestal, and then moving it from the entrance. "I have overstayed my welcome, as your harp may attest. Is it damaged?"
Itarille ran an experimental hand over the strings. "The sound is not damaged, but the crown…" She motioned to the ornate carving that completed the pillar of the harp. The most delicate apex of it was snapped off, a curled frond of a fern carved from polished black walnut wood.
"I will carve it again." said her visitor eagerly, reaching for the harp. Itarille instinctively hugged it to her, and he let his arms drop to his sides. "I am very sorry," he repeated, eyes downcast. "Pardon the damage I have caused."
"It is no matter," answered Itarille, trying to speak lightly.
The Elf was retreating to the doorway, looking hunted. "Is there anything I can do?"
Itarille had knelt to pick up the carving that lay on the ground, wondering if she could somehow fasten it together. She looked up. "No, no thank you, not at all."
The door fastened behind him, but Itarille had a lasting image of a miserable countenance. She fell down gracelessly on her bed, closing her eyes to shut out the image of the strong-jawed face. There seemed to be some hint of playfulness about him, or would have been if he had not broken her harp. His hair had been plaited untidily, tangled into one thick raven braid. She had not seen that style before in any other of the male Elves, but something about seemed wonderfully charming, especially the way the loose wisps framed the high cheekbones and penitent grey eyes. He was so charming now, caught off guard. She had disliked his aloofness when they had first met, but…
Itarille sat up and swung her legs over the bed. "You are a little fool." she reproached herself out loud and set herself to the task of mending her harp.
~.~
"Anymore, Calharn?"
The Elf grimaced. "No."
Elrohir put the plate on the bedside. "Calharn, cherries will help dull pain. Besides," he added lightly. "I picked them myself. Surely you do not want to disappoint me."
"I care not for that. Send out a pretty maid tripping out to pluck them for me and it might be different," answered Calharn through pain-clenched teeth.
"Gwindel!" called Elrohir, as the comely Elf closed the shutters in preparation for a damp night.
"No." she answered sharply, turning round on her heel to glare at Calharn. Her curly mane, wrapped in a knot in the back of her head and secured by a braided strand of hair, was beginning to tumble from its fastenings. "He has done nothing but harp at us the whole day. If he will not eat the cherries, give him poppy milk or nothing."
"Willow bark tea?" asked Elrohir meekly, raising his eyes beseechingly to the irate apprentice.
Gwindel was gone in an offended flurry of skirts.
"Why did you do you ask for willow tea?" asked Calharn petulantly. "Poppy milk numbs the pain altogether."
Elrohir rose. "We must wean you off it. I have been lessening its strength for the past week, as you may not have noticed. Lovely Gwindel will make a strong brew of willow tea, and it will numb the pain enough for you to sleep."
"Quite so." snorted Calharn disbelievingly.
"Quite right," answered Elrohir with an air of overriding assurance. "And if you cannot, remember it is your own fault you blundered into the net of dull-witted trolls."
"That ruse was not half-witted in the least." insisted Calharn angrily, his grey eyes suddenly ablaze with anger. "That was not trolls who set the ploy! See for yourself!"
~.~
Itarille tucked the violin under her chin, lifting her fingers along the polished maple neck. She flexed her left hand. It was still clumsy and bandaged. Picking up the swan-billed bow she floated it over the strings. They quivered, vibrating with sound, but she winced as the strings shrilled in answer to the awkward movements of her bow.
For a moment she paused, trying to focus her mind on the euphoria of music she had always felt, whether she played or listened, but to her dismay, she felt something breaking in concentration, a barrier to the complete surrender to the joy of music.
She narrowed her eyes at the grafted scroll and began again, only to hear the notes stridently loud to her judgmental ear.
Itarille tried again and made it through a strain of the music before she was forced to stop. With a sigh, she tenderly laid the instruments in the velvet lined case and went to tell the musicians she could not join them.
When she returned from her advent, she found that the young moon was rising, a thin crescent of ivory over the jagged silhouettes of the Misty Mountains. It lit the mist that wandered through the damp spring woodlands. A wet, warm wind was caressing equally her face and the pale green of newborn leaves.
Raised voices came to her ears, and Itarille leaned over the railing.
"Dear gods, Elladan, where is your prudence! Do you truly understand what you are suggesting to do?!"
"Yes, I know! Enjoy your stay as Captain of Rivendell's Guard, brother mine."
She recognized the lower voice now as the one of her strange visitor and covered her mouth with her hands. So he was Elrohir, son of the Lord of Rivendell. His tones were dangerously quiet and trembling with rage. "You do not know that, Elladan. You must first ask the leaders."
"You were always one to follow the rules, Elrohir! Why? There is no cause to be a pedant!"
She could see them now, as the moon rose. One was standing, statue-still, the other was pacing in hardly-constrained fury.
The youngest son of Elrond swung round in a violent counterattack. "The lives of your apprentices mean so little to you!" he challenged his raging brother. "They are simply proof to attest that you are worthy of a station beyond your wit or your skill!"
Itarille drew in her breath, a faint fluttering sound of surprise as she saw Elladan turn round as if to strike a blow. Elrohir caught the hand and pushed him back, face grim in the pale radiance, but his eyes were hidden by shadow.
Suddenly Elladan dropped back. Crossing his hands over his chest, he bowed his head and departed, a symbol of regret. Elrohir stood alone and motionless, his eyes wandering across the skies until they fell on her. Mortified, Itarille stood immobile under his piercing gaze, until Elrohir turned and wandered into the shelter of poplars.
When he had disappeared from view, she rushed through the curtains. Her heart was thudding, her face flushed with shame.
Spying on the son of Lord Elrond! Oh, that was a pretty thing to be caught at! She groaned out loud, her head slumped in her hands. She could feel the rising heat on her cheeks.
She jumped upon hearing a knock at the door and remained silent then, hoping that he would give up. The knock was repeated in a brisk series of raps on the wood, and a firm voice said "I am aware that you are within. Please let me speak to you."
"I….am sorry. I feel unwell," she called out, looking longingly towards the window. Velvet dark obscurity beckoned her away from the flush of humiliation.
"And you hoped a breath of fresh air upon the balcony would restore your faultless health," answered Elrohir. "I am not one to believe lies, Itarille."
"Very well, enter if you must," she answered curtly, but if she had hoped to dissuade him by her tone, she failed, for the door opened cautiously. Elrohir looked around before he opened the door fully and stepped in. "I am glad to see your harp is safe," he said, nodding the instrument that stood restored in the far corner of the room.
Itarille folded her arms over her chest, her eyes shifting around the room before her gaze was pulled unwillingly towards his. "Lord Elrohir, is there something I can aid you with?"
"Indeed, yes. I believe you were an unwitting listener to the conversation between my brother and I. I would pray that you would not pass it on. That is my duty." He fixed his cool steel gaze upon her, eyes of impenetrably hard grey. "But if you must speak of it, tell it to one of your companions. But not to the War Council."
"I wouldn't dream of it. Telling anyone at all." she stuttered. His face was like a mask, calm and composed. She knew he had emotions, that the fieriest of passions could be hidden beneath a disguise of stone….
"Very good." He bowed, a wry smile playing around his lips. "May the dawn better your health."
Her eyes widened. She took an involuntary step backward, but Elrohir was gone. The door shut quietly behind him.
~.~
He paced, his hands behind his back, as he waited for the Council to assemble. He had forgone his usual method of braiding and had neatly plaited his hair in a more conventional manner.
The sun was rising, gilding the uneven peaks of the Misty Mountains. The cool air of spring was laden with the fragrances of dew and growing things, and low spring mists hovered near the ground.
"Oh!" It was an exclamation of involuntary surprise that made him turn, and he saw Itarille retreating slowly.
"My apologies, Lord Elrohir," she said, seeing he had noticed her. Her voice held nothing of the stutter of yesternight. "I did not know you were here."
"No matter. I am merely waiting for the Council to assemble. I would be glad for the company, but you seem to have some pressing engagement." He eyed the short, belted tunic and then let his gaze travel up to her face, where her hair was braided around her head in a thick crown.
"Indeed, I was going out to practice my archery skills while the morn is cool. In troubled times like these, all who can should learn how to wield their weapon of choice."
"I think that is an admirable sentiment," Elrohir answered.
There was uncomfortable silence before Itarille exclaimed. "I think I hear…..I mean, I think I should be leaving." She withdrew hastily and Elrohir watched her departure with enamored eyes.
A quick, steady footstep alerted him to Glorfindel's approach. The Balrog-slayer looked strangely grave, and his famed gold hair, instead of being loosed to glorify the winds, was braided.
"This is a fine morning, my Lord."
"Is it?" answered the other.
Elrohir's brow furrowed. This was indeed unlike his mentor. "It looks…"
"Enough with the morning. We are speaking of a subject less fair. Your brother."
Grey eyes fell. "Glorfindel," he began to plead, but the Vanya broke in tenderly, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I know you will feel the disgrace as deeply as your brother, Elrohir, but he was recklessly foolish. The Captain of the Guard may never be imprudent. Too much depends on him."
"What of the War Council?" stammered Elrohir, searching the blue eyes.
"We have decided unanimously. I abdicated from that position fifty years ago. Now I will succeed to it. Bring your brother, I will bring the other members." Glorfindel smiled consolingly at his once apprentice. "Take heart, my young friend. I have no doubt that Elladan would soon take up that rank once again."
With a heavy heart, Elrohir left the room, leaving Glorfindel staring at the window, his hands behind his back. He loved the two Peredhil as his own sons, and he had felt a father's pride in furthering Elladan as he succeeded through the ranks of Imladris's echelon. But the firstborn of Elrond was wild, lacking his father's wisdom but having in ample measure his mother's obstinacy and fiery temper. Celebrían must have been a trial indeed as a child, he thought, laughing inwardly, but the mirth was soon quenched.
Elladan's position was too vital to allow for any show of imprudence, and what he had done had been rash indeed, endangering the lives of his followers to the greatest measure.
"My Lords Gildor and Erestor," he said without turning.
"Should we abstain judgment till the other members return?" demanded Erestor without preamble.
Glorfindel turned around. "No. No. Fair as their judgment might be, they are still prejudiced for their son. Ah. Peredhil, pray enter."
The twins stood there. Elrohir was silent, Elladan fuming with hardly concealed rage.
Erestor continued in the abrupt manner that distinguished him. "Elladan son of Elrond, you already know or at the least guess, if you have any manner of wit about you, why you were called."
Glorfindel intercepted the curt speaker smoothly. Erestor's judgments were effective, but in this instance, they would only add salt to the wound. "Elladan, while your courage is admirable, your prudence is lacking."
Elladan's knuckles were white as his fingers curled into his palm.
"Not only bravery but also strategy is necessary to hold such a high position as Captain of the Guard. The choices of that Elf decide the very safekeeping and secrecy of Rivendell. As such, I commend your courage but advise you to learn digression. I will take over your position for now, though I hope you will soon resume again. You will be a soldier with now a rank in the Guard. I wish you every fortune along the way." He bowed his head slightly. "You are dismissed."
Elladan left the room strangely calm. Glorfindel had been waiting for an outburst of rage, but for now, the passion had subsided to the ice of inevitable humiliation.
"Well," sighed the former Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, staring with quiet longing out to where the sun shone. "I suppose I must be about my duties."
~.~
"There were three counsellors of Elrond's own household: Erestor his kinsman (a man of the same half-elvish folk known as the children of Luthien), and beside him two elflords of Rivendell." (The Return of the Shadow)
