Chapter 2 - Erestor of Imladris

Erestor stood in the courtyard of the Last Homely House, tall, refined, regal, stunning; the very image of a noble and esteemed elven Lord. Renowned for his unparalleled finesse in statecraft, his encyclopaedic knowledge on the histories of all the free peoples upon Arda, his prowess with sabre and sword, and his legendary taciturnity, Erestor of Imladris stood still and silent, arms firmly crossed over his chest, waiting. While not unacquainted with such an activity, he was less than pleased to be thus engaged on this particular afternoon, though his external appearance betrayed none of his internal frustration.

He wore garb befitting his station, bedecked in high black boots polished to a rich sheen fit to rival Ithil's, dove-grey leggings beneath a fine tunic of heavy damasked silk in a smoky rose hue, and a tailored undershirt of white satin that was nearly decadent in its luxuriously soft and supple texture. A wide sash of deep indigo defined the lean contours of his predatory form at the waist, its crisp folds securing a short dirk there while the fringed and tasselled ends draped against the curved scabbard of the blade sheathed at his side. The mighty Lord's inky locks were carefully plaited into a thick, weighty queue and bound up securely in a glossy topknot, for Erestor's ebony hair was fabled to be so beautiful that to behold it unbound would prove too much of a distraction for anyone fortunate enough to see this sight.

Yes, the wily kinsman to Elrond Half-Elven was a vision both inspiring and daunting, even though all this majestic perfection was reduced to mere suggestion, obscured beneath the voluminous drape of a heavy hooded cloak, drawn close and snug to protect his person from the relentless rain.

For close to an hour he had been patiently standing there in the seemingly ceaseless downpour, waiting for the expected delegates to arrive. Word had been sent from sentries at the ford that the entourage had been spotted nearing the borders at dawn; surely they would reach the Last Homely House ere long. What could possibly detain them? There was no chance of an encounter with orcs once inside the protected realm. Erestor almost frowned. Could they be lost? Was it possible the foreign envoy had mistaken another residence for Elrond's famous abode? Erestor almost sighed; a protracted inhalation succeeded by an equally lengthy, though silent, discharge of his lungs' air. He shifted slightly in the saturated soil and reversed the order of his folded arms, left overlapping right.

Above his head a sturdy yet elegant canopy, supported by two shivering, grim-faced, and thoroughly soaked pages, sheltered him from the merciless torrent of the interminable deluge. All around them the air was dim and dark, pierced and shredded by long wet lances of precipitation streaming down, drumming a harsh, monotonous percussion upon the earth. Behind them, the water in the basin of the fountain leaped and dimpled, a thousand spiky peaks and ripple-rimmed depressions dancing across its fluctuating surface. The melodious ribbons of fluid normally issuing from the central sculpture were absent, replaced by the constant efflux from above, a high-pitched staccato accompanying the innumerable drops as they pelted into the exquisite marble bowl. The container had filled beyond its capacity hours ago; thin, sinuous rivulets cascaded over the gleaming sides and ran in winding muddy gullies over the red clay at their feet.

A low rumble of thunder followed the brief brilliance of lightning bursts flashing overhead, illuminating the fabled refuge beneath ominous and glowering clouds. No wind tossed the trees or billowed the oiled canvas cover; the storm was clearly content to remain right where it was for an indeterminate amount of time.

The Chief Advisor to Imladris' Lord was accustomed to protracted periods of stationary stoicism poised beside the courtyard fountain, albeit not in the pouring rain. Lord Elrond, though he was known as the most gifted and compassionate healer in all of Middle-earth, had no patience for the solemn and stately pomp generally associated with welcoming visiting dignitaries to his hidden haven. Whenever possible Elrond left such tasks to his loyal and reliable seneschal. Over the long centuries in service to Eärendil's son, Erestor had become quite adept at inventing official and important sounding reasons to give the many guests and visitors, apologising for his Lord and masking this oversight on the part of Rivendell's revered leader.

Indeed, he had turned it into a personal contest to come up with original and unique, while at the same time utterly believable and incontrovertible, alibis for his kinsman whenever the need arose. It was a point of honour for Erestor never to duplicate an explanation within a given coronar (sun-round, a year) nor to state a bald untruth.

It was customary for Elrond to participate in the alibi-game, helping concoct the phoney obligations to which he had previously given priority before learning of the imminent arrival of whatever person was scheduled to appear. Many were the morning meals marked by a mood of scheming intrigue, evinced by the two friends' hushed conversations and spasmodic outbursts of wicked snickering. In this instance, however, Elrond had eschewed to play, deciding straightaway upon reading the missive from Mirkwood that his attention was not required.

For once Erestor had grimaced over his assigned station, wondering aloud if perhaps one of his subalterns might be sufficiently important for the unexpected delegation from the normally isolationist enclave of silvan elves. Elrond had refused to let him beg off, however, stating that to shunt the greeting onto some lesser diplomat might prove detrimental to such an unprecedented loosening of the Woodland King's intolerant attitude toward outsiders. No, Elrond had gravely asserted, he could only trust Erestor to receive the visitors with the proper level of decorum and respect.

Erestor had wondered exactly what that meant since sylvans were not known for their refined aspect of culture and sophistication. Standing in the mud-mired yard, he was still uncertain whether the Wood Elves even possessed the concepts of gentility and courtly behaviour.

The letter had arrived barely two months ago, tucked in amid a bundle of papers and correspondence from Lorien, and had been overlooked for some weeks upon its delivery. That was primarily Celeborn's fault, for he had concealed the announcement within a lengthy scroll cataloguing the resources at hand among the various human settlements near his lands. Celeborn was a gracious leader, though a virtually invisible one to the world beyond his borders, and nearly as xenophobic as his Sindarin cousin to the north; yet he made it a point to aid the human colonies scattered around the fair Ardh o Mellyrn Taur. (Realm of the Golden Wood) Every year he conducted an exhaustive inventory of the population, the abundance or dearth of game, the quality and quantity of domestic livestock and of the agricultural harvest, the robustness of the peoples' health, and the degree to which the dark forces of the world successfully preyed upon them.

While such an intensive study of the conditions of outlying settlements surrounding Lothlorien was not something Elrond would ignore, and in fact he found the information valuable as he did much the same for the towns and villages surrounding Imladris, said report was not a document that would garner immediate attention. He was far more likely to read intelligence on the location and numbers of orc encampments first, all his personal correspondence second, the accounts of folk leaving for the Havens next, discuss and decide upon all petitions for immigration to his realm fourth, and only then peruse the lengthy tract on the viability versus vulnerability of the frail humans and their scattered colonies. Elrond did just these things in exactly the stated order and therefore the communication regarding Thranduil's intent to send a party of his warriors to Imladris was not discovered until nearly two months had gone by.

Erestor grinned despite his annoyance to be kept waiting, recalling that revealing moment when Elrond had at last reached for the innocuous looking parchment scroll, absentmindedly breaking the seal without even checking to see whose it was. The seneschal was certain he had never beheld so much of his kinsman's eyeballs as the size of the Elf Lord's orbs expanded to elaborate proportions of disbelieving denial, his aristocratic, aquiline nose wrinkled in undisguised distaste. For while the general population frequently sneered at Thranduil for his unenlightened ways and his unhidden prejudices toward other peoples, Elrond generally kept his own lack of broad-mindedness concerning Wood Elves well concealed. Not so on that occasion.

"Erestor," the Lord of the Vale had said in grim displeasure, "what crimes have I committed lately? Have you noticed my generosity waning or my judicial management of our affairs to be lax? Is there some innate flaw in my character that would prompt the Valar to single me out for chastisement?"

"Whatever are you talking about?" Erestor had replied, perturbed by the tone of these queries. "Is some trouble bespoken in that letter?"

"There is. Do you know whence this document originated? Perhaps you noticed it when the messenger from Lorien arrived. Noticed yet failed to call it to my attention."

"I never interfere with the post from Celeborn!" Erestor had drawn his noble dignity close about his sleekly lupine frame and stared at his cousin in strong disfavour, brows drawn down and eyes narrowed. "What prompts such base accusations?"

"You did not see it?" Elrond demanded a second time, not intimidated one bit by the menacing presence projected by his Chief Advisor, having known Erestor his entire lifetime.

"I have already stated so." In light of the failure of his threatening posture, the seneschal next elected to take on an attitude of wounded honour.

"My apologies," Elrond sighed. "Once you have heard this news you will understand my reluctance to accept it as fact. The words herein portend naught but vexation at best and utter destruction of our peaceful world at worst. It is from Thranduil."

Erestor startled, unable to prevent his eyes from expanding to the limits of their sockets. "What does he want?"

"An opportunity to strengthen the ties between our lands."

"There are no ties between Imladris and Mirkwood."

Elrond quirked a brow at his kinsman's remark, though he did not contradict Erestor. "Permit me to quote the Elven King: 'We propose to send two of our sons to abide for a time in fair Imladris, there to undergo the tutelage of Lords Glorfindel and Erestor for instruction in combat and state-craft, respectively.'"

"What? I didn't know he had more than one son. Why is he suddenly so keen on foist uh…fostering his children out?"

"It is all Celeborn's fault. According to the note, he sent Haldir, Orophin, and Rumil to study archery among the troops of Thranduil's guard. While only complimentary phrases are used, the tone between the words is anything but conciliatory. The ink practically radiates Thranduil's exasperated rage to have been thus indisposed."

"They must have caused a good deal of mischief for the King to wish for revenge so strongly that he set aside his disdain for Noldorin ways. Wouldn't it make better sense to retaliate against Celeborn? He should send his offspring to Lothlorien."

"Thranduil could certainly send his sons to foster in Lothlorien, but he would have to ensure that they were on their very best behaviour. If they acted out of turn in any way, it would be seen as a response to the antics of Haldir and his brothers. That would be dishonourable, for Celeborn and he are cousins."

"Yet it was not dishonourable for Celeborn to impose the Terrible Trio upon Thranduil."

"No, for there is nothing to indicate he sent them with the intent to cause trouble, even though it is highly probable that he did. In fact, I believe he sent them for exactly that purpose, knowing full well that Thranduil would retaliate by inflicting us with his barbaric princes. I am suddenly interested in speaking with my sons about their last trip to the Golden Wood."

"Ah. That is marginally clearer, though the silvan sense of honour is rather convoluted," Erestor had grumbled. "I simply can't believe he really means to send his sons here. Perhaps it is all a hoax."

"Nay, he has sent a formal communication in the old language. You know better than any the protocol for these things. If after a fortnight no official refusal is sent, the response is deemed a 'yes' even if no reply is made at all. It would be nearly a declaration of war for him to beg off or for me to refuse after the customary two week grace period has expired."

"Then what is he up to?"

Elrond's shoulders had uplifted in an elaborate shrug of absolute bafflement. "It can't be good, whatever plot he is brooding. Perhaps these elves he sends are not his sons and their elite guard but a pack of scoundrels and criminals he wishes taken off his hands. He means to weaken us from within and then take over the valley. No doubt he has finally realised what a deplorable place Mirkwood truly is and wishes to relocate."

"How elite can a silvan troop of archers be? More likely, his sons and their warriors are scoundrels and thieves. Mayhap their intent is to spy on us and abscond with some precious relics the old treasure hoarder has heard are kept here. Valar! They will make the Rangers seem genteel." Erestor was thoroughly displeased once he had come to accept that this awful event was truly going to come to pass. "What are we to do with them? How long do you intend them to stay?" Images of wild, half-clad elves skulking in the trees of the fair vale, shooting the domestic livestock for food and frightening the citizens with their uncouth manners assailed his mind. The noble steward shuddered.

"There is nothing we can do about it now," Elrond's lips had curved downwards into a particularly sour grimace of dissatisfaction. "We must minimise the damage, however. Where are Elladan and Elrohir? No doubt they know something of these primitive princelings and the reason we must endure their presence." Elrond half rose from his seat, scanning the upper balconies for his sons, then tipped back his head and drew a deep breath. "Ionath!" his shout rang through the valley but the twin Lords did not respond. Their sire scowled as he resumed his seat.

"They have a certain knack for escaping just when you prepare to corner them, Elrond. I would wager they're half way to Fornost by now," chuckled Erestor. "We'll have to deal with Thranduil's invasion force on our own."

Elrond snorted in scorn at that. "We do not need help. It is a simple matter of keeping them busy, too busy to cause trouble. The less they interact with the citizenry the better."

"What do you propose?"

"Let it be just as Thranduil states and again I quote: 'Treat them as you would your own retainers and dispose of their obligations as you deem fitting; they are not to be coddled and catered to as princes or noble lords, for they are warriors first in the defence of our realm. Let them serve beside your guard, aiding in the defence of Imladris. Whatever decree you may make, it shall be to them as our own words.'" Elrond smiled, a venomous expression brimming with sly devilry.

"They shall live among the soldiers in the barracks, go forth on patrol with Glorfindel to monitor the borders, and study the Histories with you. Quenya, Erestor, you must see to it they learn to read and speak passable Quenya in order to suitably impress their father and King upon their return home."

"What? Surely that is inadvisable, Elrond." The seneschal had dropped all indications of amusement over the situation upon hearing this. "They will clash with our warriors and who knows what sort of trouble will be stirred up. You can't seriously expect me to hold classes for them as if they were elflings. Besides, I doubt if they can even read."

Again the dramatic lift and fall of the Lord's shoulders had emphasised his lack of concern. "How else will they learn of the customs and manners of the Noldorin warriors unless they live among them? How will they learn anything about our fighting skills if they do not get mixed up in a few fights?"

"I don't think that is the type of skirmish in which their father wants them to participate."

"If they cannot read then you shall teach them," Elrond continued, ignoring the interruption. "Writing may be too much to hope for, but do not let my dismal outlook prevent you from attempting to instruct them. You could hold the classes in the Hall of Fire so everyone can observe their progress from ignorance to educated enlightenment." Elrond had held up his hand to halt his kinsman's next protest. "No, this is the best way to manage them, given their arrival is nearly upon us. I leave it to you to apprise Glorfindel of the situation. There is no need for me to be involved with them during their stay."

"Very well, but I want to state that I am emphatically adverse to this plan. I would also have you note the injustice in singling me out as the chief person to suffer their company when it is clearly Celeborn's fault that they are coming here." Erestor had a strong desire to have this on record, for any fool could see this was nothing but a disaster brewing.

He also had no intention of adhering to Elrond's mandate for the delegates' disposition. His plan was to keep them out on patrol for the duration of their stay. Unfortunately, Glorfindel had balked at that and between the two of them a schedule of activities had been devised. The Wood Elves' time would be divided between extended patrols, gruelling training sessions, and formal feasts and fêtes designed to introduce them to Noldorin customs and hospitality.

It was not a compromise the seneschal was pleased with, for the activities under Glorfindel's supervision would tend to leave the visitors too exhausted to get into any mischief while those for which the steward was responsible were fraught with opportunities for catastrophe. Who knew how the aboriginal elves would behave among polite company? Erestor had decided then and there that Elrond owed him an extended vacation in Mithlond for all his troubles.

A tremendous boom of thunder roused Erestor from his recollections. Glaring into the gloomy sky, he was reminded that the clever subterfuge he had devised to deceive the Wood Elves was no longer necessary, for it had disintegrated in the aftermath of an unexpected attack upon the humans inhabiting the Angle, the fair lands in the crux of the Bruinen and the Mitheithel. Most of the folk had been slaughtered and their lands set aflame, homes and farmsteads burned. Elrond was busy with the work of healing those wounded who had survived and fled to Rivendell. He would never leave the healing wards when his aid was required, not even if Manwë were to come pay a call. Erestor did not begrudge his Lord's dedication; rather, he was disgusted that more important work he could be doing must be set aside to wait upon the appearance of the visitors.

His dry and subtle sense of humour had long ago given way before an inundating rage that rose in concert with the depth of the ruddy slurry sluicing around his boots. The mud was currently ankle deep and the tempest gave no indication of abating. Outwardly, the seneschal maintained his inscrutable, aloof demeanour yet within his soul the surge of his wrath had yet to crest. He mentally lambasted the King of Mirkwood with disgusting and detestable oaths and obscenities, all centred around the theme of fluids and the various bodily orifices from which they issued. Not only was the over-bearing Sindarin dictator determined to wreck the serenity of Imladris, and of Erestor personally, but naturally he must send his brats abroad just now, arriving on the heels of a crisis uncommon in Eregion since the Witch King of Arnor brought war and death across the lands.

A jarring flare of white light was followed seconds later by a suitably strident and fulminating crack of thunder, underscoring his bitter ruminations.

The sky was growing murky as the day waned and still the heavens wept in wrath as if the impending arrival was the most wretched and foul offence upon the land, which the Chief Advisor deemed a fit description of the disruption about to be perpetrated upon his comfortable routine. He sighed in aggravation, earning shocked glances from the miserably wet and thoroughly chilled pages, and gazed down the road toward the impressive gates of the estate. No sign of the Wood Elves was apparent. He shifted indecisively; should he give up and go inside, send riders out to search for them, or wait upon the possibility that they were nearly there?

"Enough of this!" he exclaimed. "They are probably camped somewhere in the woods; we won't be going to seek them in this vile weather. Come along, mellynen, (my friends) we have duties awaiting our actions."

Accompanied by the relieved sighs of the drenched esquires, Erestor turned to stomp up the broad marble stairs into the front hall, having wasted enough of his valuable time, but before he had gained the third step the sound of boisterous singing met his ears. He halted and half turned, for the bawdy verses were coming from the back of the house, somewhere behind the kitchen. He frowned as the voices suddenly ceased and minutes later the silence was shattered by the noise of a great fracas. Hastening through the storm toward the locus of the escalating pandemonium, Erestor was grimly certain he had at last found the missing guests when an elf came racing through the front door and skidded to a stop just before he bowled the seneschal over.

"Lord Erestor!" he gasped out. "You are needed at once in the cook-house, sir. Please hurry; I fear that someone is about to be killed!"

TBC

© 29/12/2006 Ellen Robey

Disclaimer: Main characters and settings originally created by JRR Tolkien. Just for fun, no money earned. OC's and story are erobey's.
Elvish names and such:

Celon'lîr (River Song - Thranduil's eldest)
Ûrrusc (Fire Fox - Thranduil's nephew)
Tuiw. (Sprout - a pet name for Legolas)
Faron (Hunter - also Thranduil's nephew)
Mallavorn (Black and Gold - one of the warriors)
Filigod (Little Bird - Thranduil's councillor)
Condir O Gladgalen (Mayor of Greenwood - Filgod's Official Title)
Giliach (Star Crossing - Cel's false identity while in Lorien)
Tôradar (brother-father: uncle)
Hîren Adar (My Lord Father)
Hîr Adar mín (our Lord Father)
Ernil (Prince)
Ernil Vain, (Pre-eminent Prince)
Ernil Daid (Secondary Prince)
ion-an'weath (son-by-bond - son-in-law)
aurlinn (day-bird, a wood thrush)
Minya'mmë (grandmother)
thêl dithen. (little sister)
muindor laes, (baby brother)
nâr (rat)

Disclaimer: Main characters and settings originally created by JRR Tolkien. Just for fun, no money earned. OC's and story are erobey's.