The guards had already subdued the new Haredhel when the council members parted from the main house. This was an Elf unlike any Erestor had seen before, for though his rust-coloured hair was plaited in the same manner as that of his kinsmen, he was clothed very differently.
He wore not the pale robes that Anorast and Lithir had favoured since their arrival, but garments of weathered canvas and braided brown leather. Woven into the right breast of his tunic was a small, eight-pointed star of gold, which Erestor took to be the symbol of Caras Hargil. Cast into the earth were two polished silver sais, along with a bow wrought of cyprus wood, and a quiver of dark arrows. The Haredhel's hands were splayed in the air, and he declared that he came only in peace many times, his eyes wide and flashing between the armed Imladris wardens who surrounded him.
"Please!" he implored them; "I mean no harm here - I only wish to speak to my Lord Lithir!"
The Rivendell guards exchanged glances, unsure, until Lord Elrond bade them to be at ease. Reluctantly, they lowered their weapons as Lithir and Anorast stepped forward.
"Luimenel?" Lithir questioned the younger Haredhel, a deep frown of concern upon his face, knowing that the warrior would have only travelled so far to bear bad news.
Luimenel dismounted his horse, his legs nearly crumpling beneath him. His shoulders stooped from exhaustion, and when he came to kneel before his lord it seemed more like a movement beyond his control than it did a show of respect - to an even greater extent when Lithir fell to his knees in front of him, and took his face in his hands.
"Luimenel, tell me, what has happened?" Lithir demanded, dread in his voice.
"The Haradrim," Luimenel choked. "Two weeks following your departure, they attacked sixty strong. We defeated them, but there was...loss of life. One loss."
"...who?" whispered Lithir, looking as though he already knew the answer, but was unwilling to voice it. That pain went to Luimenel, who raised his eyes to meet his lord's, apology and deep sorrow in his gaze.
"Your sister's son Timagol."
Lithir paled, his warm skin turning ashen, and bowed his head.
"Morloth despairs," Luimenel continued. "It is feared that she will soon fade into shadow, to be with her son and husband in the Halls of Mandos. But she...she wishes to see you before her passing from this realm."
Lithir closed his eyes, and Anorast, who had watched the scene unfold with a face of stone, stepped forward to his lord's side, poised to carry out an order he already knew was coming.
"Anorast," said Lithir, raising his head at last, a new hardness to his eyes that was evident even beneath the wetness of tears that remained hindered by his lashes, "ready the horses. Find my daughter. We leave before nightfall."
Anorast nodded once, then parted in haste to do as he had been instructed. Erestor felt a strange pang of grief as the South-elf breezed past him, and it was not due to Lord Lithir's loss of his nephew.
This should be cause for happiness.
It was a horrible thought, but one that made its way into Erestor's mind nonetheless.
Solemn was the mood as the Haredhil began to mount their horses that evening; Luimenel would stay behind two days to rest and recuperate, for both he and his mount had been riding in spurts of five days, with but a handful of hours' rest inbetween.
It had been arranged for the Elves of Caras Hargil to return to Imladris shortly, within a year if possible, to resume talk of peace and its terms. All were uncomfortable when the agreement had been made, as words that the Haredhil had not spoken aloud seemed to hang in the air nevertheless: How many more must perish amidst laments composed of talk and delay before action is taken, and lives preserved?
It had been only one life - was one life too many? How many lives had been taken by Haredhil warriors in times long past? And was it the Foredhil's place to say when idle vengeance had been taken in full?
Erestor mentally shook his head. Lithir's nephew had not been slain by the pettiness of Imladris, if there was pettiness at all to be found. The Haredhil had settled in Khand knowing well the risks it brought.
Risks which they now sought aid to unbind themselves from.
No - it was too soon for guilt. The whole story had yet to unfold; every possible angle had yet to be examined, and until such was done, Rivendell could not in good conscience act in any way. There was no wisdom to be found in rash emotions, and to feel without thought could be very dangerous indeed. Erestor would not allow the grief of the Khandian Elves to manipulate his own perception of their situation.
And still he could not hold at bay the awful wrench of his stomach as he looked up into Gwelwen's sorrowful face, stained with tears of mourning for her cousin. In her eyes he expected to see accusation, frustration, the same mute blame that resided in the gazes of her kinsmen that he could ignore, but none of these things he could find; only a numb sadness that caused him to shudder slightly, as though she had born such heartache before, and far more than once. In her black cloak, and with her hollow stare, she became once more the wraith he had thought her to resemble upon first sight. Inwardly, he could not stop contradicting himself, unable to be either pleased or saddened by her departure. The only certain feeling within him was that of relief - she would go, and mayhap his mind would find some peace.
Slowly, Gwelwen raised a trembling hand to him - To us, he corrected himself - in farewell. He returned the gesture automatically, and within a moment all three Haredhil turned their horses and began their long journey home. For quite some time, the group assembled in front of the Last Homely House watched their dark forms become small with distance. The Lord and Lady of the house retreated first indoors, and the others slowly trickled in behind them. Erestor did not realise he was the last one left until Glorfindel placed a coaxing hand on his shoulder, and led him back inside. Just as quickly as they had arrived, the Elves of Khand were gone once more.
All but one.
The guards stationed at the doors to the Hall of Healing wordlessly allowed him to pass after the morning meal the following day. Luimenel lay in one of the many beds - all of them empty, save his - still nursing a cup of miruvor and looking well rested, if still somewhat wary of his surroundings. Now bathed and in clean clothing, the Haredhel appeared almost an ordinary Elf, excepting the tight plaits that still adorned his hair. Erestor approached him slowly, as one might approach a wild animal, and pulled up a chair to sit near his bed.
"Good morning," the counsellor greeted him stoically, the pleasantries awkward and almost inane on his tongue. "How fare thee?"
The South-elf would not play along. "More questions?" he sighed. "Tell me, is every meal to be both preceded and followed by an interrogation?"
Preceded? Lord Elrond must have already seen to their guest before breakfast.
"No," Erestor replied. "This is an...unofficial enquiry. Its purpose is only to satisfy my own personal curiosities."
Luimenel bristled. "Am I bound to answer?"
"You are not."
"Then tell me, Foredhel, why should I pay any mind at all to your...curiosities?"
Erestor tilted his head, and focused a piercing gaze upon the warrior. "Do you love your people?"
Luimenel nodded once. "I do."
"Then you would be unwise not to heed my questions. I am Erestor, chief advisor to Lord Elrond. My influence upon him is great. If you would see your people protected and aided in leaving Khand, your cooperation at present may help me to more clearly see the needs of the Haredhil, and Imladris will not act until it understands fully what it is acting for."
Depending on semantics, Erestor's words could be considered truthful: he did need to better understand the Haredhil themselves in order to form an objective opinion of whether or not making peace with their kind would be beneficial to all. This he told himself, and many times over, so as not to allow his more selfish - and, in fact, more honest - motives a chance to provoke his conscience into protesting this symposium.
Luimenel narrowed his eyes, and scanned Erestor's calm, emotionless face. "You bribe me, Foredhel?"
Erestor shook his head. "No. I merely advise."
Shifting his gaze to the far wall, Luimenel swallowed uneasily. "So this is the savagery of the Northern realms: you duel minds in place of bodies."
Between Anorast, Gwelwen, and Luimenel, Erestor was beginning to wonder if a proneness to exaggerration ran in the blood of all Haredhil. "If that is how you wish to view it," he conceded, for he knew in a muzzled part of his heart that his words to the South-elf bordered on cruel, even if he could not help but take advantage of Luimenel's presence. With the workings of his mind being as thorough and calculating as they were, Erestor was gifted with the ability to bend the verities of others through the grace in his tongue, though it was a gift he rarely used or desired to use. This day, he turned his gift inward upon himself as well as upon the Haredhel, and quelled his scruples. "Tell me of Khand."
The beginnings of a sneer curled at Luimenel's mouth. His hands tightened around the cup of miruvor, and an inner conflict was apparent in his face. "What if it is not peace you entertain, but deception?" he growled. "Though your lord has shown me kindness, you are yet our enemies. How am I to know you would not use the knowledge I would impart to you to...to serve you in an attack against us, if peace cannot be reached?"
"Peace shall never be reached without trust," Erestor contended, adapting his coercions as the conversation progressed. "Your Lady Gwelwen counts me among her friends. Call you her ignorant?"
"Nay!" the South-elf said quickly. "She is known to be wise in matters of character, and is well-loved amongst our people!"
There, Erestor thought to himself, triumph ringing in his mind. "O? Tell me more of her virtues."
And in his haste to "defend" his lady, Luimenel did not even notice that Erestor spoke little of peace, and asked little of Khand outside of the maiden's ways.
"That was almost devious of you, gwador-nîn," a smooth voice echoed quietly in the corridor, once Erestor had finished questioning the Haredhel and left the Hall of Healing.
Elrond's chief counsellor bit back a cringe, his hands curling unconsciously into fists. With an air of forced indifference he turned to face Glorfindel, who leaned languidly against the wall some six feet away from Erestor. "Was it?" he asked lightly.
The golden-haired Elf pushed off from the wall and came to stand in front of his friend, his blue eyes twinkling, half-suspicious and half-amused. "Mayhap Lord Elrond was in error, sending you to discern Gwelwen's intentions," he smirked. Erestor levelled his gaze, refusing to succumb to the very strong and very immature urge he had to roll his eyes at the other advisor.
"I was merely gathering further information on the maiden which I had not a chance to collect ere she and her people departed," he reasoned.
"Of course," Glorfindel agreed with nary a hint of sincerity.
"They are gone, Glorfindel."
"But she will be back."
"And that is of no concern to me," Erestor snapped, and spun quickly on his heel to leave.
Glorfindel caught him by the arm and turned him around, and only just managed to duck his head in time to avoid the other Elf's reflexive strike. His eyes widened in surprise - rarely was his friend so overstrung as to react in such a way, especially to what he thought was simple banter. "Peace, good Erestor, peace," he soothed, slowly releasing his hold on the dark-haired Elf's arm. "I am sorry."
"Be not so," Erestor muttered, grey eyes refusing to meet blue. With a frustrated sigh, he shook his head. "It is I who should apologise. I did not mean..." he trailed off, and took a step back. "Speak not to me of her, Glorfindel, for there is nothing to be said."
Erestor turned once more to go, and Glorfindel frowned dubiously at his departing back. "According to your wish, gwador-nîn," he murmured, then started away for stables, where Elladan and Elrohir awaited his company for a morning ride.
The hoofbeats of Firithamrûn pounded a quick, steady percussion from the earth, their timing perfect enough to compose a song by.
The Haredhil remained silent as they rode, following the path of the Misty Mountains to the South. Resiliant as her kind were to changes in temperature, Gwelwen felt the wind - so very much colder here than in Khand - lash across her face, numbing her skin and causing her eyes to sting. She raised a hand to clear her vision of its fogginess, and noticed her father send a concerned, doleful look her way. Doubtless he thought she yet wept for Timagol.
They had been riding for six days now, and mourning her cousin's loss was strangely difficult for her. Though Gwelwen had loved Timagol dearly, and still felt much grief at the thought that his wide, childish smile would never again light the halls of Caras Hargil, she was unable to shed anymore tears for him, too distracted by a new anxiety, one that both filled her breast and made it weightless simultaneously. It had begun in Imladris: a queer urge to scream into nothingness, to cry out in joy, horror, confusion - indeed all of the emotions that she had ever felt - until she exhausted herself into a warm, black slumber. Needless to say, it was greatly unlike anything she had experienced before.
And it had not, as she had expected it to, remained in Rivendell when she had left. Like a half-starved jackel, it nipped at her heels as she rode, gnawing at her thoughts and preying upon her mind until she could scarcely concentrate on anything else.
In the beginning, she had thought it merely frustration, stress; certainly both were warranted by the circumstances of her brief stay in the Elf-haven. But she knew that such was not the case, when she found herself dwelling on the heat of his hands, and the deep grey of his eyes.
Like storm clouds, she mused; dark yet void of shadow, poised to quench the thirst of the desert with rain.
She had regarded him to be beautiful when first she had sighted him, though he was not classically handsome as Anorast, or Lord Glorfindel were. His face was smooth, and though its angles were not sharp, there was still something very...defined...about his features. His hair was black as a craban's feathers, and Gwelwen enjoyed the way it hung loose to the small of his back, and the way it danced behind him like a sentient shadow when he ran. She would have liked to have been able to allow her own hair such freedom, but Caras Hargil was frequented by strong winds, and sandstorms were not uncommon; to do so would have been impractical.
Yes, she decided, Erestor did intrigue her, and that would not do at all.
Her father would never approve of her interest in the Imladris advisor. In truth, her father would never approve of her interest in anyone. That Erestor was Foredhil would only serve to amplify Lord Lithir's forbiddance. Gwelwen understood this, and understood why, and though she might have run off on small, foolish adventures when her father's eyes strayed, there were some lines of loyalty which she could not cross - which she had vowed not to cross. And up until just over one week ago, she had never before been conflicted by that vow.
Despite the tragedies of her cousin's death and her aunt's desperation weighing heavily upon her shoulders, Gwelwen could not help but be grateful for the swift departure from Rivendell that they had brought about. Though she knew that she, her father and Anorast would in time return to the haven, the days that fell between now and then would do well to bring her focus back to her people. Caras Hargil sought aid from Imladris, and Gwelwen sought friendship in Erestor as a means to gain that aid. Nothing more.
Your childish behaviour the night ere you left did naught to reinforce that, she inwardly scolded herself, anxiety rising within her once more as she recalled the way her extravagent claims had had the opposite effect on him than she had intended. With my lies do my charms lessen...he did not act as if that were so...
If she did not believe that her friendship with the Foredhel would bear fruit, she would have gladly feigned indifference to his presence. He could not very well pursue a spiritless statue, and were she a statue, neither could she pursue him. And if the sudden changes in his demeanour when he was around her were any indication - that is, if the soft-spoken, serious side of him she had glimpsed between his bouts of petulant irritation was his dominant temperament as she suspected - no doubt he would have appreciated her efforts. They were two grown, mature Elves, above such a fledgling folly as infatuation. Their time for that sort of innocence had been over for many years, and to quest for it presently would be pointless and ultimately assayed in vain. There were more important things to tend to.
Perhaps next time she would turn her attentions toward Lord Glorfindel, or - as her father would approve of far more - seek companionship with the ladies of the house, Celebrían and Arwen. Neither had seemed unkind. Mayhap she could endear herself to the sons of Elrond as well, for surely the Lord of Imladris would heed the urgings of his family in matters of state, if they all wished the same.
Frowning, Gwelwen pressed Firithamrûn to hasten her pace. The support of the noble family of Rivendell would help, but after well over a millennia of watching her father rule, Gwelwen knew that, in the end, it was always a lord's council that won out, and it was mere happenstance if that council's judgement of a matter coincided with that of the lord's family.
Lord Glorfindel, then, to whom she harboured no real attraction. He had seemed a very charming Elf, full of vibrance and an intoxicating love of life. It was a wonder that he had not yet wed. Yes...Glorfindel would be...safe.
Nodding nigh imperceptibly to herself as if to assert her newfound resolve, the Lady of Caras Hargil urged her mount faster still, and tried to outdistance the lingering image of grievous storm-grey eyes and blue-black hair that gave chase to her from the North.
Luimenel - "blue sky"
Timagol - "little star blade"
Morloth - "dark flower"
Firithamrûn - "fading dawn"
And thus my brain withers, and my skull becomes naught more than a house for bugs. (It's currently half four in the morning. I need to go and die before I witness my second sunrise.) A mighty bellow of Thank You!! to my readers and especially my reviewers. Very much appreciated. xoxo