Posting for Anariel (since her Ao3 is being dumb)
Casual warnings just in case desired… minor violence (mostly descriptions of injury), unreliable narrating, author is sleep-deprived….
Just a Step Away (1-4 of 7)
“If a man pays back evil for good, evil will never leave his house.”
The word Peredhel had little association in Vändel’s early years. There were a few Elves of… obscure lineage, but they seldomly crossed paths, led quiet lives, and were never assigned to his company.
With the first Kinslaying came mourning followed by a chaotic fluster to defend an ancient bloodline, and with the second slaughter came an uneasy sense of futility that sickened even the trees for years after. Vändel knew the names well — Eärendil, Elwing, Elured and Elurin, the lost twins — but they were names only and were dismissed as such as the seasons marched on.
Death was not a new thing after Morgoth awakened the Balrogs.
When the word Peredhel stirred the forests again, Vändel shared the curiosity of his clan and thereafter the dismay. Captives they were called by some — usurpers by others. Twin youths steeped in Fëanorian customs with brute swordsmanship and pert tongues and starlight gracing their brows on warm summer evenings. They were brought into the High King’s company and treated as wayward children, as if they could shake off the upbringing of the ones they called foster fathers like a birch discarded its leaves in winter.
Vändel took note of the Fëanorian crests integrated into their cloaks, and he remembered blood slipping under his heel as he returned the last survivor against Maglor’s host, and he spake his mind freely to those who shared his distrust.
Though Vändel was not privy to Gil-Galad’s council, he was nonetheless summoned one afternoon to convey his insight. The High King listened to his censure and skepticism in solemn, finger-twitching silence, and without any closure on the fate of the insurgents he assigned Vändel’s company to the border patrols. The rebuke was unwarranted for one who had proven his loyalty since the latter days of Sauron’s vengeance, and Vändel’s troops supported him in the aftermath of his disgrace, soothing his battered reputation and supporting his gumption to warn the king of the cuckoo fledglings that would one day push him from his own throne.
Three years later, Vändel’s suspicions were vindicated as the twins were thrust from the palace and assigned to his company. Castaways as was his lot, he expected more humility and respect as acting commander and received scorn and belligerence instead. So he curbed the rebels as he was taught in the first days of the war, using cutting words and bruising stripes to heel their arrogance, and the only soldier who challenged him was the fool who had exiled himself from Lindon within weeks of reassignment. Lannah and Nuëlon validated his disgruntlement for rebellious children who snubbed the simplest orders, and if not for the High King’s inexplicable interference and the eerie silence of grey eyes shearing down the bars of good sense, Vändel might have succeeded in forging model soldiers from the offshoots of Fëanor.
He was never assigned to the same company with either twin again, nor was he burdened with carting messages to Eregion. Centuries passed and the only association he shared with the word Peredhel was the conflicting rumors from the inner courts.
Elros had made himself a king, just as they anticipated, but his regime was short-lived under the wasteful years of Men.
The younger twin — the one with quiet resilience and glimmering coals of fury that scalded Vändel’s favor with the king — was now a fully-fledged cuckoo who had integrated himself into the palace, tantalizing the aspirations of scattered Fëanorian clans and challenging the High King with silken whispers that led him down bramble trails without any warning that he had left the path of his foreparents.
No one was surprised when Elrond defied the king and followed the same reckless flight as Elwing.
Nay, the true abhorrnce was the public display of favor which followed, when Gil-Galad promoted a thief to commander — of Galadriel’s company no less. Not idly did the Scourge of Sauron choose her soldiers, favoring insight and instinct above brute strength, and to see her plucked from her position by the same halfbreed who had humiliated her stirred up buried rumors of crafty birds shoveling out both eggs and young from an unguarded nest.
Old grievances curdled in hot swells of resentment as Vändel’s company was recalled from the border patrols to defend a city steeped in Fëanorian influence. Their commander was young and foolish and wasteful, squandering one opportunity after another in order to bargain with the enemy, and they paid for it in noble blood that far outranked his sullied breeding.
Ghelnon was skewered with arrows by the wall.
Nuëlon was crushed under a troll’s stride.
Balvôn bled out after his arm was lopped off and no one could sheathe their sword long enough to tie off the wound.
Lannah was pinned down and stabbed through while the Peredhel knelt and waited for death.
In a brutal reminiscence of the last days of war, Vändel was herded into the ring of survivors — the last of his company. He had no tokens of his comrades save Lannah’s hair pin, which he had snatched from the mud before the Orcs divided her body into portions like a butchered steer. The ridges of a silver lily dug into his throbbing hand and he buried the names of his soldiers like the rest of the dead.
So many were lost, while the one who led them into slaughter placed a ring on his hand and claimed his place at the king’s side.
If Gil-Galad expected them to pay homage to Elrond now, then he was well and truly swayed under the halfbreed’s spell.
They were led into the forest, together with Eregion’s feeblest urchins, and for the first time in centuries there was no division between exiles and nobility. All had suffered, reduced to hunted prey on the hillsides as bands of Orcs stripped carcasses to bone and sniffed out fresh blood. Without any consideration of former divisions or companies, assignments were meted out. Those who could hold a sword would defend, those who could not would forage to sustain them.
Vändel found himself in the familiar role of guarding the outskirts of the camp. Whether this was a deliberate assignment to keep him away from the Peredhel or simply a reflection of his previous duties, he cared not. No one had the time or strength to spare for speculation, and he would not hear any other view.
In the end, he knew he was right. The soft-spoken rebel had claimed his throne.
Nearly a fortnight into their exile Vändel found himself on the cliffside where the elms grew sparsely and the hardened slope eroded into shale. Here the stars gleamed vibrantly and the swishing of tall grass was the only whisper to be had, for there were not enough soldiers to pair off every vantage point and Vändel knew very few of them. On nights such as this it was easy to be pulled into the past. Lannah would have grumbled about the moon ruining her scope of the shadows and Nuëlon would have procured apples with some ridiculous tale of acquisition and Ghelnon’s voice would ring sweeter than a harpist’s chords, no matter how softly he sang. Yet here Vändel stood alone, with only the memory of discarded bones and torn armor to carry him through the long night.
So ensconced was he in this nightmare which he could not slake that he startled at the flicker of crushed grass and nearly skewered the one who stepped into starlight. Grey eyes flew wide and pale hands were raised in peace, the tentative smile poorly concealing an anxious flutter at the throat.
Centuries had passed, and while the fledgeling may have adopted the feathers of the invaded flock, his tenuous stance proved that he had no place among them.
“Vändel,” the Peredhel greeted carefully. Cordial and companionable as he portrayed himself, the underlying apprehension reflected the same shaken youth who paled whenever his brother’s faults were brought to light.
A curdling sense of accomplishment was muddied with disdain for such flimsiness. This was no warrior. The High King paraded his soldiers under the direction of a child and then left them to suffer in disgrace.
Gritting his jaw, Vändel sheathed his sword and turned back to the valley.
He did not imagine the pensive sigh or the tension in lean shoulders bereft of armor. The halfbreed treaded carefully, worn boots finding spongy turf beneath one of the elm saplings, and he awkwardly mimicked Vändel’s stance.
“Vorohil mentioned you limping at the noon meal. If it troubles you I could…..”
“I am neither impeded nor in need of aid,” Vändel said briskly before the commander could judge his merit. He was loyal to the king’s line before this urchin breathed his first cry.
With a measured breath the Peredhel ventured forth again. “I do not question your ability, Vändel. I merely seek to ease your affliction, if I can.”
The bitter laugh that sprang free startled Vändel moreso than the meddler. “You would seek to ease my pain?”
How strange that after so many years, he found this role familiar; standing over a wavering orphan, too caught up in anger to gage his motives and too weary to care.
”You think that by winning us over now — when we have nothing left to lose —that we will forget what was taken,” Vändel said thinly, blinking back brightness that burned in his throat and tore open wounds that had never ceased to bleed. “Did you not stand idly as my lieutenant reached for her last hope? Were we not a company of twenty before yesterday’s sunset? Was it not your order to cease the charge and deliver us all into Adar’s scheme?”
The mustered attempt at warmth and brightness was snuffed at the first accusation, and muddied grey glimmered by the third. Yet Vändel was no longer in command, just as the Peredhel was no longer a child. Valiantly Elrond raised his chin, averting his gaze to the moonlit valley beyond, and when he spoke his voice was clear and unwavering.
“It was my charge that faltered, and my diplomacy which failed in the hour of need. For this I shall seek reparation to my last days in Middle Earth. But what I can salvage now I will try to amend —”
“They were my brothers and sisters in all but blood!” The testament broke free in a croak as Vändel spurred forth, glad when the Peredhel skittered back instinctively for at least in this he felt some sense of control. “You who were soused in bloodshed and brought violence and sacrilege to our peaceful lands — now will you sweep us all to our deaths?”
“Is that what this is all about?” The scabbing lip curled over pointed incisors and Elrond planted his stance in the fashion of seafaring Men, as if he could sweep aside Vändel’s arguments with one clever stanza. “Is this why you hated us? Ever since we were brought to Lindon I have tried to understand you — to become one of your people —”
“If you were one of us then you would not have knelt when our king sounded the charge!” Vändel snarled. Bright and sharp was the vision, as wrenching as when he first turned around and saw the blade disappear into Lannah’s chest. “If you were one of us then you would not justify the slaughter of my people!”
Each outcry brought him closer, the Peredhel stumbling back step for step, as if they had never left the border patrol when Vändel was commander and the young upstart a fool to be brought to heel. “If you were one of us you would have sooner died than give yourself over to Sauron’s work!”
Shale crackled and gave way. Boots that were worn-through with weeks of running about slithered on the stone without purchase and Elrond floundered for balance, clouded eyes widening in alarm. Instinctively Vändel reached out to steady him….
He hesitated, fingers curling just within reach.
Without a sound the Peredhel dropped, a flutter of grey robes catching the moonlight like the fabrication of a sonnet, and Vändel flinched when he heard the thud.
For a moment he simply stood beside the elm tree, unable to breathe.
He had not pushed the halfbreed, nor fancied his demise. Lannah could vouch for him —
Lannah was dead and no one could prove his innocence.
Shuddering as the stars gleamed cruelly and moonlight shone on the crumpled form, Vändel flitted along the cliff face towards the rocky slope where Orcs were more likely to seek cover.
He never saw the commander.
He had never left his post.
Planting his forehead against a sturdy oak, Vändel shuddered through each breath until the lies were rehearsed and he could almost believe it himself.
He would not even know where to look for the wayward Peredhel.
In his role as an unassuming cartographer, Camnir did not burden himself trying to befriend all of his comrades. He tolerated many and was comfortably dismissed in turn, for he had little place amongst who were those trained to draw swords instead of mountain passes. He swiftly gravitated to those few friends he had come to trust, steering clear of the ones whose harsh stances impressed upon him traces of battle smoke and stale corpses. He did not care for such associations and such soldiers seldomly took interest in his affairs, and thus he was content to be but one more tool in their company, fulfilling his part and then escaping at the most reasonable opportunity.
In this secluded forest there was no escape to be found, and Camnir found himself conversing with many hardened warriors who found themselves equally adrift and bored as one night drifted into the next. He learned new names and was quickly forgotten just like before, but some of the soldiers tried to keep him in mind and soon he found himself picking out the ones who preferred dull company to silence and which ones would greet him in the morning and who would huff amusedly if he was wont to prattle.
Elrond never minded if he carried on, but the only time Elrond could be found near the tents nowadays was if he was near collapse and dragged back by a concerned scout to be waylaid by their two healers and self-declared healer’s apprentice. The prognosis was always the same — he was still Peredhel even whilst in command, and he must eat and sleep and drink without having such needs forcibly addressed. As they had too few commanders and too many warriors sickened in hröa and fëa alike, however, there wasn’t much that anyone could do except grumble when Elrond disappeared again and haul him back when he nearly face-planted the river.
Tonight was such a night, when the stars were cold and Elrond had not appeared since the morning meal and every guard who came to the fire verified receiving a kind word of affirmation before he flitted down the pathways he had marked out for patrols, and Camnir silently packed his own rations and a waterskin to set out in search. He would fetch Elrond himself this time and scold him for driving himself into the ground and then perhaps he would ask Lorel to sit on him and make him sleep for a full candle. They were hard-pressed enough without losing one more commander to such a trivial thing as exhaustion.
The wind tugged at Camnir’s scalp as he trotted down the faint path which only Elves could trace, warning him of evil stirring near their hidden slopes, and he quickened his pace. Elrond was not fit for a skirmish tonight. Too little sleep and regulated rations swallowed in haste had shadowed his bright fire and were the enemy to find him he surely would not stand for long. If Camnir could only bring him back to the camp then they could wait out the night with the strength of many, and perhaps then Elrond would finally rest.
The wind suddenly altered its path, slapping the trees with such force that the branches scraped like howling wolves, and Camnir shuddered as Eärendil’s ship flashed brighter than a sea tower’s pyre.
Something was terribly wrong.
He ran along the path now, skirting the traps they had set for Orcs, and besieged every guard he passed by.
“Has Elrond come this way? Is he well? When did he set forth?”
Though his father was an explorer and his brother chased down storms, Elrond craved familiarity and followed the same path as ever before. One winding loop around the forest sanctuary would bring him to each soldier who held vigilance despite lingering wounds and weary spirits, until at last his aching feet would find the camp and he would throw himself into the least obtrusive task where no one would hunt him down until he was too exhausted to dream.
For this Camnir could sympathize, for the aftermath of the battle haunted his wanderings when he let his mind drift in sleep, and Elrond perceived only failure in a clash against legions of darkness, which no commander could have thwarted without the Dwarves’ timely aid. But Elrond would never see the good he had wrought, or the hope he even now stirred amongst the survivors. Evermore did he search within, prying at every weakness and shielding himself with false bravado until he was hollow and shaking within, and one kind word from Camnir would bring it all to his eyes in a swell of uncertainty. He would not believe even now that his comrades searched for him with haste, anxious as the stars trembled and mountain sparrows screeched for intervention.
Camnir did not understand the nuances of birds quite like Mellírin, but he knew that they shared a special affinity with Elwing’s family and they flustered about whenever Elrond was upset. Often he could find his friend simply by following the sound of wrens warbling sweet comforts, or the owls bringing him fresh mice when he had strayed from the trail in an exhausted stupor.
This chaos was nothing less than avian anarchy, and when the wind and stars echoed their displeasure Camnir clipped his satchel to his belt and ran. He did not stop to inquire of the guards thereafter, following the whirl of wounded chatters that jolted Halvera to pass him her own water skin and a small loaf for one who might need it more, and he nearly tripped over his boots when he finally came to the source of commotion and saw Vändel agitatedly batting away the sparrows that clawed at his hair.
Though Camnir would like to say he bore no ill will towards any of his comrades, he had few pleasantries to associate with Vändel, for he poked sticks into fox dens and had smacked away a falcon when it butted him for a head scratch. Something had happened before Camnir properly knew the twins, when Elrond was young and easily startled and awkwardly floundering about in new colors and styles that made his lean frame look pitifully gangly and underfed, and though he did not speak of it Camnir saw the unease that stole his confidence whenever he saw Vändel ride into the city, and the ruthless shields that clipped his voice whenever he took the commander’s report for the king. There were those who still voiced disapproval for the mingling of races, and others still who harbored a particular disliking for Elrond, but they were treated as diplomats to win over in the natural course of time. Vändel made Elrond’s fëa shiver and Camnir took care to linger close by whenever his duties permitted him. He never saw a manifestation of that unspoken dread, but he hovered and he wondered.
He spotted the sparrows long before the glint of Vändel’s fair hair. With furious chatters they flitted about the guard, scratching his face and hands as he batted them away. In that instant he drew his sword to smite them, and Camnir barreled forward with a boldness he didn’t know he had.
“Nai!” he cried out, seizing Vändel’s wrist with both hands. “They cannot slay you!”
The sparrows scattered, judging them from nearby branches, and Vändel paled as he staggered away from Camnir’s touch. He sheathed his sword with a snarl, looking wildly over Camnir’s shoulder. “You are far from the tents, Mapmaker.”
“I am looking for my friend,” Camnir said, coals filling his belly as he wiped his hand on his tunic, shivering at the memory of Vändel’s clammy skin. “I followed Halvera’s directions. She said Commander Elrond came this way.”
“I have not seen him,” Vändel said thinly as a woodpecker rattled its displeasure. “Perhaps he returned to the camp in your absence.”
Camnir knew that he was small and unimpressive, that he was not clever like Elrond or fierce like Vorohil or brave like Rían, but he wasn’t a fool. He could read the birds just as well as any other Elf and that owl looked ready to tear out Vändel’s throat.
“Please help me find him,” he said with careful precision, trying to mimic the way Elros would speak to the High King when he realized that shouting made him no more heard than the thundering waterfall. “He came this way, and he is lost.”
With a macabre huff, Vändel shook his head.“I cannot leave my post. You should have brought a proper scout with you, instead of fluttering off on your own.”
The words stung and Camnir had no weapon to parry them. He swallowed the sense of foolishness, reminded once more that he lacked the foresight and strategy needed for command, and he shuffled down the path before he said something stupid or struck a ranking officer.
“Don’t hurt the sparrows,” he mumbled, though it would do little good. “They are smaller than you and they have no swords.”
The shrieking continued soon after he left and he put his hands over his ears so that he would not hear the ring of steel. The path wound about the rocky cliff face, treacherous and slippery after each rain, and he breathed a gusty sigh of relief when he put the dizzying height behind him. There were three more watch posts between here and the camp. Perhaps Vändel had simply been distracted and had not seen Elrond pass by.
The birds did not seem to think so.
The next soldier he found was both a relief and nuisance to behold. Whistling tunelessly against the piercing wind, Lorel bounced back on his heels and wrapped a bowstring in his hands, twining it into loops and shapes and inevitably purpling his fingers. He was useless without Nuréin to nudge him to attention, but his hearing was keenest of the King’s guards and he snapped around as Camnir approached, greeting him with a merry wave of his fingers.
“You’re out late. Where’s the fox kit?”
Vorohil had seen too many summers to be called a youth, but Lorel was older than Galadriel and he had no respect for his commanders. Arguing the ranks with him would be a waste of words, however.
“I came alone,” Camnir said, shielding his face as the wind shoved them both.
“What’s the Peredhel done this time?” Lorel grunted, grabbing his cloak as it whipped over his head. “Does he mean to blow us all into the sea?”
Though some spoke it with a sneer, as though Peredhel was a slight against one’s moral character, Lorel batted it around like one more mischievous title. Vorohil was the fox kit, Galadriel was Her Ladyship, and Elrond was Peredhel (or more often Starshine when Lorel wanted to make him scowl). It was not right, but neither was it malicious, and Camnir only sighed as he pulled his hair away from his eyes.
“Elrond came this way, and Vändel has not seen him.” He knew that Lorel had bounced through every guard posting before Nuréin promised to tolerate him, and let the unsaid settle the rest.
Blue eyes flashed as narrow teeth bared in a snarl. “That old horse whipper? Where’s he posted?”
“Just up the way,” Camnir said, and then skittered back as Lorel shoved past him. “He said he could not leave his post —”
“He’d foist it off easy enough if an archer passed his way,” Lorel scorned. “You’re sure the Eldritch spawn followed the path?”
“He does not like divergence — not when he is weary,” Camnir insisted. “I fear an Orc scout or some other evil slipped into the valley.” Or else Elrond had followed the trail himself and fallen into foul hands.
“Not with the rings,” Lorel said, trailing his fingers over the drop as though plucking invisible harp strings. “You can feel them singing. Anything came this way we’d hear it.”
“But Elrond does not carry a ring, and they are far away in Lindon,” Camnir reminded him.
Lorel snorted. “Who do you think spun the barrier before he gave Nenya back? Move faster — your legs are too short.”
He led the way along the path, covering three of Camnir’s quick steps with each long stride, and his visage darkened when he heard the sparrows. “I don’t have feathers in my brain like Nur’s cousin, but they’re mad.”
“Vändel is a bully and if you know a saddle blanket from your mother’s skirts, you’ll stay away from him,” Lorel snapped. “Nothing good comes from that patrol. Came from,” he added as an afterthought. “Whole lot got butchered. Makes me almost feel sorry they’re gone.”
He did not approach the distant flurry, holding out his hand instead to stop Camnir as a pair of robins fluttered on the path in distress. There were more birds here than when Camnir ran past, or perhaps he was so discomfited by Vändel’s remarks that he had not seen them. Waving Camnir back, Lorel prowled to the elm trees where finches clustered and scoped the limbs before looking out into the valley.
He stepped back with haste, plastering nonchalance over the wild look in his eyes, and batted Camnir’s shoulder. “Go fetch Yenneth, eh? I’ll have a look around.”
He had asked for a real healer and not Nuréin, and his hands were shaking in the way they did when he was trying not to hit something. Staggered, Camnir tried to shove past him and cried out when he was grabbed around the waist and plonked back onto the trail.
“Go get Yenneth or the only thing you’re seeing is the next Age,” Lorel said coolly. “Now walk on.”
“Let me see,” Camnir begged, batting long-fingered hands away as his heart cried out with the robins. He has fallen, he is lost, and I left him there!
In two limber strides Lorel sidestepped him and stooped, clasping Camnir’s face and stealing his view of the valley. “Scribbles. You are two posts away from the camp. We need a healer. Go get Yenneth, and by the time she packs her knapsack I’ll be right here waiting for you. Now run like there’s a troll harassing you — and that’s an order.”
He pushed Camnir onto the trail before he could look over the edge and then stamped and snarled at him, gripping his sword like he would actually commit violence. Skittish energy spurred Camnir’s flight and he scampered before sense caught up to his legs. His heart pounded faster than his boots, the same terrible thought a prayer to Eru.
Please do not let him be dead.
The last time Camnir had run like a thousand wargs hounded him they had been fleeing Orcs, and Elrond had set the pace. Vorohil was the first by the fireside to spring up and loosen his sword.
“I must — Yenneth,” Camnir burst out, staggering long enough to convey that silent plea for higher wisdom before he sprinted to the ring of tents.
Nuréin cursed like a goblin and grabbed his satchel, taking off down the path. Waving down his comrades, Vorohil followed their cartographer to the healer’s tent.
“I think — I don’t know — I didn’t see him, Lorel wouldn’t let me,” he heard Camnir stammer while Yenneth filled her pack. “The cliffside is — it is very steep and — and the birds are angry and —”
“Peace, Camnir,” Mellírin hushed, clasping his hands and chivalrously overlooking his sudden flush. “You’ll do him no good if you fall over. Now, take Yenneth back while we make ready.”
Elrond. Certainty knit in Vorohil’s fëa as he clasped Camnir’s shoulder as he followed him from the tent. Though he had known little more than the history of the rescued Peredhil twins before Elrond was assigned to their company, Vorohil understood that he was closely knit with Camnir and had quickly come to admire his instinctive leadership and mindfulness for stragglers. (Camnir in particular tended to dodge off the path whenever his attention was diverted to some brightly colored mushroom or a new beetle, and Elrond’s patience in fetching him despite the urgency of their mission swayed Vorohil’s trust even before they reached the sabotaged bridge.)
The implications of calamity were grave indeed, and Vorohil considered sending Camnir to the fireside to wait, lest sorrow taint his fëa if a healer’s aid proved unnecessary. Yet before he could propose that he would lead Yenneth himself, brown eyes assailed him like a hidden dirk and he raised his hands in surrender.
Never let it be said that Camnir was a mere mouse with a penknife.
Doggedly the mapmaker led the way, his short, quick strides more agitated as he was forced to wait for their healer’s easy lope. Yenneth never ran. She covered twice the ground as a patrol guard with long strides that allowed her to hold her pace for days on end. In the days of war, when they had few healers to spare, she had crossed the mountain pass time and again to intercede for each straggling camp and village. Running the healer into the ground would not save the dying, she declared, though Vorohil wished she would show some urgency when the situation merited it.
He feared those desperate moments when life would pass from one breath to the next, and he prayed that they were not already too late.
They passed Lorel’s unguarded post and Vorohil chaffed that there were not enough of them hale enough to position in pairs. Sense demanded that he take the guard’s place, while concern for his commander buried it.
Let the hills defend themselves for once.
When they reached the vantage point Camnir described, Lorel was already warching for them. He stood at the edge, bereft of cloak and outer tunic, and scowled when he saw a small company instead of one healer. Jerking his chin at Camnir, he said curtly, “Shale’s loose. Keep back as far as a dragon’s tail — unless you want us bringing back two concussed fools.”
Don’t let him see, Vorohil read in that stark, clear gaze. Yet he could not hold back Camnir when his mind was set (the mouse with a penknife tended to bite), and Camnir was no fluttering poet. He would not interfere with Yenneth’s efforts, and he might even soothe Elrond while they moved him.
Lorel’s growl was wolflike, shadowed with premeditated murder. “It’s a narrow ledge. Just enough room for one person to crouch by him. Yenneth can trade off with Nur and then we’ll know if a harness is enough.”
Camnir swayed. A ledge brought hope, and sending Yenneth first meant that care was still required. Lorel would have carried him back himself if there had been no other outcome.
On the other hand, Lorel certainly would have done so already if Elrond was stable enough to make the climb.
Squeezing Camnir’s shoulder once, Vorohil accompanied him to the precipice. Lorel followed quickly on his heel, loudly berating “Her Ladyship’s band of fools and their ears of lead,” and the looming guard sliced an arm out before the two could set foot on the crumbling edge.
“It’s a long way down,” he said dourly.
Nodding his understanding, Camnir grabbed hold of an elm and knelt, blinking rapidly at the blur of trees far below. Vorohil steadied him with a hand on his arm, bracing himself for the worst.
It wasn’t as macabre as he feared, for Nuréin had mopped up most of the blood with sodden wads from Lorel’s shredded cloak, but the curled, feeble form tore a soft cry from Camnir’s lips. Elrond was always fairer in summer than his distant cousins, but in the moonlight his skin faded like parchment, splashed with threads of deep scarlet that had escaped Nuréin’s ministrations. One eye was swollen shut and the other was as muted as a river stone, fixed on the Mariner who had not left his place since the wind turned. The rest of Lorel’s cloak was wrapped around his legs, and here and there the fabric was darkly stained in testament to the crushed bramble skirting the ledge.
Elrond’s right arm was twisted under his side and Nuréin had not moved it — indeed, there was scarcely enough room for him to kneel on the ledge without compromising his footing. He had jarred the commander enough to bind a rope around his waist, similar to his own tether, and Vorohil presumed the curled posture meant there were no spinal contusions. A hopeful sign indeed, provided Elrond’s skull had not sustained the greater damage.
Whistling sharply, Yenneth waved for the self-declared apprentice to make himself scarce. Nuréin clasped Elrond’s shoulder twice and murmured a brief stanza of comfort or praise or perhaps good luck as he exchanged places with the healer who could make Gil-Galad question his use of the Western tower. Like an armored squirrel he scuttled up the rope, surrendering it to the mountain scaler who could probably flit down the cliff with a full pack and twelve iron pans strapped to her back.
Nimble hands prodded head, neck and spine in turn, soothing with lilted voice as Elrond keened, and ruthlessly ignoring his cries as Yenneth lifted him and untucked a shattered right arm. His wrapped legs were probed and dismissed and his chest was kneaded for softness. Only after Yenneth had peered into his swollen eye and nearly spiraled him into a panic by gaging the beat of blood in his throat did she nod at the spectators and nip up the cliffside.
“Lorel will carry him,” she stated crisply before Vorohil could seize the rope. “His frame is broader and will prove steadier. You three — gather wood for a travois.”
Flashing white teeth were savage with eagerness that was almost possessive as Lorel snatched the rope and knotted it around his shoulders. Long had he guarded the king’s herald, through circumstances which Vorohil was only privy to through offhand rumors about narrow calamities and poorly assigned squadrons and a lunge from the falls. It was not mere chance that two of the king’s own guards were assigned so far from the palace.
(Granted, Eregion was an ideal place to lose the one guard who had survived banishment to Gondolin according to popular rumor, but since Lorel always showed up at his post a week after the king declared him unfit for guarding a chicken coop the stragglers had stopped pondering the seriousness of the assignment and opened a betting pool gaging how long before Elrond threw his hands in the air and demanded better staff.)
Grim anticipation purged the whimsy from such ruminations as Vorohil stripped the leaves and knobs from fallen branches and laid them in rows for Yenneth to lash together with cord and sheep hide. Agitated when he was shooed away while Yenneth tested the springiness of the travois, Nuréin whittled down one of the narrowest branches, peeling off strips until he had little more than a green riding crop that whipped about with a pitched whistle. He swished it like a parrying knife and nearly tripped over himself when Lorel cleared the edge with Elrond bound to his chest and loomed over him in six lunging strides, snatching the reed away and flinging it over the precipice. Scathing words in a dialect better versed by spiders and goblins rolled over the shorter guard before Yenneth yanked Lorel’s ear and clawed at the knots tethering his charge.
Castigation forgotten, Lorel batted her away with suddenly gentle hands and knelt for Nuréin to slide the commander onto soft sheepskin. Grey eyes had fluttered shut and shallow breaths deepened in fleeting consciousness. Camnir shoved in for his place to grip Elrond’s hand as he muttered prayers and reassurances. Feeling like a stranger in this circle of defenders, who gathered around this unassuming herald much like Galadriel’s soldiers raised their swords for her cause, Vorohil took his stance at the front of the travois and said nothing when Nuréin repositioned his hands and compelled him to gentle his stride.
Since that night in the dark forest when Elrond wielded a sharper mind than Galadriel’s sword and vanquished the Barrow Wights with their own weapons, Vorohil knew he would follow him to the ashlands without question. When Elrond vowed to defend the walls for one night — the only night he expected to survive — entrusting Vorohil with Eregion’s future when he himself could have been spared, Vorohil saw the nobility of Eärendil flicker on his brow and vowed never to seek another command post.
Yet when the commander was injured his true friends were made known; those who knew which words and gestures would soothe the pinched furrow in his brow. Camner threaded the fingers of Elrond’s left hand and Nuréin softly sang over him healing and hope, and Lorel stared forward with the scalding oath that he would bear the travois singlehandedly if Vorohil so much as stumbled.
His fear was unfounded, for Vorohil’s stance was steady and his stride was light and sure. He bore their charge to the camp where a small throng had gathered after Yenneth was fetched, and nodded for them to scatter as they entered the warmed tent already filmed with steam and pungent herbs to cleanse the lungs. Eru help them if a winter malady took hold now.
Nae, Vorohil acknowledged as three sets of hands slid Elrond from the travois to a cot and his eyes rolled back in agony. They needed more than prayer to steer their commander away from the long night.
He brushed past Camnir without a word and hastened to saddle his horse.
Rings had saved Galadriel from falling into the shadows; surely they would be enough for Elrond.
He would ride to them now.
Though she was loathe to abandon Elrond as the stragglers of a fallen legion returned to Lindon, Galadriel did not leave him unguarded. Her own soldiers she placed at his side; Vorohil, who trusted Elrond’s judgment more than Galadriel’s sense of justice; Féirna, who had learned her Rúmil alongside Elwing and knew which stanzas would brighten his eyes; Eidenar, whose knowledge of herbs would bring sustenance and slumber to one who scorned the need for both; Maedér, who would guard Legin like his own child and ensure that her saddle blanket was free of burs in the morning, lest someone housing unworthy deliberations saw fit to spur Elrond from his horse when he was too weary to suspect foul play.
Though Galadriel chaffed to think so low of her people, she could not deny that some would hold Elrond accountable for the slaughter outside of Eregion’s walls. For even though the High King had summoned his commanders and ordered the march, it was Elrond who sounded the charge, and it was Elrond who faltered when he was forced to choose one life over the rest.
Galadriel would ever berate him in her thoughts for prizing her freedom above victory, yet she knew that were their places exchanged she would renounce the ring to save him.
In this manner at least, Elrond had always been stronger. He trusted her to carve her own path, while all along she had tried to navigate his as if she could spare him further guilt and loss.
Perhaps that was why Galadriel finally left him to his own command, far away from Lindon and her influence, where he could learn to trust himself and those who expected him to lead. If he faltered, he had the wisdom of Eregion’s salvaged scrolls. If he stumbled, there were noble hands on all sides to steady him. If he was threatened from within….
Then his assailants would learn to fear something more devious than Orcs and belligerent than Trolls. For this purpose Galadriel had sent with them Camnir, who would conceal Elrond from the king himself if he was forced to choose, and would not be silenced with threats or promises of ill-devised fortune. And for his part, Gil-Galad left behind his two fools; those mockers of tradition who bribed the kitchens for sweetmeats which Elrond could not resist and jammed the locks to his room so that he could not shut out his friends and hemmed his horse between their own when he swayed and carried him forcibly to healing halls whenever he braved the early spring rains.
King’s guards they might be named, but they were welcome in neither Mithlond nor Eregion, and had not been assigned to the inner halls until Elrond was found standing on the edge of the sea one night, his brother’s sodden cloak clinging to his shoulders and his bare feet bleeding into the sand. It was the undesirable who noted his absence and tracked him down, and from thereon they were subtly assigned to the halls which Elrond frequented, becoming as much the personal escort for the king’s herald as unwanted advisors to the king.
(For advice they would give, though such nattering was neither prudent nor desired, and though Gil-Galad had often threatened to cut out Lorel’s insolent tongue he had also taken to heart those offhand snarks that warned them when Elrond was losing himself — when he could not eat and dreaded sleep and avoided even Camnir lest he admit in a rush that he could not bear the weight of eternity as the past and future glimpses of his brother sailed beyond his sight. In such times the High King listened to fools and children and reached out to a fading spirit, pulling Elrond back from the darkness long before he realized how far he had strayed.)
Indeed, with the balance of these three guarding Elrond’s spirit, Galadriel felt certain that his enemies had more need for fear than she. For Camnir was a relentless shadow, the unseen observer who would not be silenced, while Lorel would defend his charges with a curdling smile and bloodied fists, and Nuréin would reason for all of them and be healer and minder and counselor until the matter was properly addressed by those who reported to the king. And woe to those who evaded judgment, for Lorel had singled out every cheeky insurgent wherever he was reassigned, and there was not a tailor or pastry roller or silver polisher who would not gleefully harass his chosen enemies.
With these three to mind him, and Lindon’s most trustworthy soldiers to guard his back, Elrond was supposed to be safe.
When Vorohil rode into the grove with perspiration matting his red hair and the throb of arrow scars stooping his shoulders, Galadriel knew she had failed. Failed to gage the threats surrounding a small company who was ostracized from their home city. Failed to ensure there were no lingering wounds clinging to disheartened spirits. Failed to scrutinize every listless soldier for resentment that would spur violence as surely as an Orc craved blood.
They had sent Elrond to the destitute as a healer, and in their blindness they had left him vulnerable to those who would twist his heart and cast him to the wargs.
“You must go to the healers. I will ride forth at once,” Galadriel commanded before Vorohil could speak, sending Thaníl to saddle her horse.
Drawing himself up with a resigned nod, Vorohil shifted in the saddle and made no move to dismount.
“Tell me what I must know, and then rest in healing halls,” Galadriel prompted him once more.
“I will tell you all as we ride,” Vorohil answered, quietly defying her in a manner he could only have learned from Elrond. “It would be expedient if Vilya also accompanies us, for Commander Elrond is gravely wounded and his spirit languished even as I rode forth.”
Nothing more needed to be said. For though he was neither father nor brother nor immediate kin, Gil-Galad had sworn his oath over Elrond much as Elendil would have done for Isildur, and he would ride with the haste born of fear until he held that pale, trembling hand and sang fidelity and resilience where doubt and silence had wounded the heart. He would call Elrond back, and then Galadriel would heal him, and if this failed they would hail for Círdan so that Narya might shake him back to himself with the boldness of a sea breaker.
Snatching two more wayfarers from their tasks, Galadriel sent one to fetch rations for Vorohil and the other to inform the king, and then settled in to wait. It would not be long. For Gil-Galad would not rest until he saw for himself that Elrond breathed without strain, and the one who had wounded him was dead or awaiting justice.
For the one who had wrought evil against his cousin, there would be no mercy.
If only Elrond had struck his head harder, or experienced the disassociation that animals achieved when they felt the pierce of fangs, or boasted of that frail consciousness which swept Men from their pain as swiftly as sleep. For though he shared many ills of his mortal kin and battled those traits which set him apart, his endurance carried him well beyond the suffering Men could endure.
So it was that he found himself trapped in body and mind, pinioned by the narrow spears of the bramble he had slammed into, his right arm crushed beneath him after a futile attempt to redirect his plight. Blood tacked his right eye where his temple had struck stone, the clamping pressure muddying his senses as he stared at the flayed left hand which he could not associate as his own. He recognized piercing pangs in his legs, and the cooling wetness associated with congealing blood, but the hurts were easily dismissible compared to the blinding throb of crunched bone in his right arm and the knives in his ribcage that shunted each breath.
He could not escape and he could not find relief, nor could he find the words to plea for deliverance as he gazed at his father’s ship with silent tears.
For so many nights he had lost himself, salvaging what was rended and speaking words of hope when he had none himself, only for the curse of Eregion to find him in the end. Had he known the pain that Vändel harbored… nae, nothing Elrond said could have assuaged it. For he had lost himself when the sun rose on futility, denying Lannah even a comrade’s clasp to ease her passage into Mandos’ Halls, and when Adar sheathed his sword he struck out not for vengeance, but anger that he had been left behind.
If not for Vilya stirring him to remember his oath to Elros, that he would not follow swiftly behind while Númenor sank into despair, then he might have unwittingly followed his soldiers; one more cold shell drowned in the mud of the Bruinen.
That same oath cleaved to Elrond now, caging his fëa as surely as the bramble snared his legs, and he whispered empty pleas to the stars — a fragmented blend of Quenya and Sindarin that had no meaning save to beg for reprieve.
He blinked and saw the cold dismissal in Vändel’s eyes, the same that had disconcerted him when he and Elros were assigned to the border patrols. Peredhil they were named at birth, the heritage of their parents slurred into a curse when they rode into Lindon with the crests of their chosen fathers and the tongue they were adjured to forget. In his anxious youth Elrond had tried to divert the stigma by proving his willingness to change and adapt to a new regime. Nothing seemed to satisfy Vändel’s ire, however, and now he realized that he had played the fool, ducking and pleasing and making excuses for the calloused scorn he could not understand, and it would have been better to treat the commander with the coolness merited for a sneering diplomat than try to make amends.
At least now Elrond could confess that he had done something worthy of that derision, but the bewilderment still burrowed deep; a child’s protest that he didn’t deserve to be shunned and waylaid like a wolf cut off from the pack. Yet perhaps it was the wolf pack he should have heeded all along. He thought himself the outsider before, fumbling around new laws and customs and petty criticisms for his upbringing, but now he considered the merit in Loreláthon’s muttered criticisms and Camnir’s hovering whenever Vändel made his report. Not idly did Gil-Galad assign the border patrols, as Elros once groused.
He should have heeded his instincts and implored the king to reassign Vändel far away from Eregion.
Mired in pain and self-recrimination, Elrond did not hear Camnir calling his name until the cartographer was nearly above him. Relief spurred his beating chest and he drew a shallow breath to shout —
Only to come to himself in a spiraling haze as the spearing sensation in his lungs pierced from breastbone to shoulder. Tears of pain flooded his cheeks with warmth and he held his breath until the spasm dulled, plonking his head onto the rock as he found himself once more alone.
Unconsciousness never seemed so tantalizing and so far away.
Eärendil hovered above him imperiously, whether in pity or scorn for his son’s frailty he dared not contemplate, and Elrond swamped himself in the illusion that his father would take note and carry his prayers to Eru.
He was still lisping broken pleas when Lorel slid down the cliff face, twin strands of Elvish rope promising salvation. He buried his shame in the crook of his arm as teasing blue eyes cringed with dismay.
They had played this role before; back when Elros offended the wrong commander and scabbing welts split with each infraction. He told Lorel the same lie now, unfeeling words tumbling to his lips as he relived that absurd, long-buried fear of being judged the traitor for speaking out against the king’s guards.
“I — I fell… I could not shout… I slipped on the stones….”
“Okay, you can stop talking,” Lorel murmured, soothing tones smothering violence as long fingers danced down Elrond’s spine and ribcage. “If someone dies you won’t be incriminated.”
He prattled heedlessly, failing to distract as he slid the rope around Elrond’s waist and tied it between his shoulders. “Scribbles is fetching the Purger but Nur will probably be here sooner and he has that willow tonic you like for those glowy spells.”
Willow would veil the symptoms of a head wound, and Elrond tried to say so, but all he could manage was a groan as Lorel gingerly sawed through the bramble threading into flesh. Like arrowheads the stems burrowed and caught, staunching blood as well as spurring it, and so he left the deepest barbs untouched and shredded his cloak, binding the darkest patches that sluiced with fresh warmth.
“Almost done, Starshine. Soon as the card cheater gets here you won’t feel a thing.”
Lorel was an effusive liar and Elrond said just that. (What words he lost were conveyed just as effectively in a low growl, and the bat to his curls confirmed that the sentiment was noted and discarded as one more petty complaint.)
Too quickly Lorel abandoned him, taking away Elrond’s shield against the wind. He shivered and dug his fingers into the ledge, bracing himself for the excruciating effort to draw himself up just enough to free his arm, and dual voices shouted at him until he lay back down to blink away the confusion. Immediately thereafter Nuréin skittered down, scattering rocks and dirt as he tugged off his cloak in clumsy haste. His boots thudded without an Elf’s usual grace but his hands were sure as he cursorily scanned Lorel’s bandages, dabbing the spots to test where blood had soaked through and loosening the knots that would otherwise form bruises. His wavering song reflected uncertainty when he tucked his cloak around Elrond’s shoulders, and pity gripped his eyes as he uncapped a vial of concentrated lavender and comfrey, dabbing his finger and rubbing it into pressure points at the temple and neck.
Rudimentary measures to soothe pain until a proper healer gaged the underlying wounds.
Elrond wished he could say he hardly felt anything at all now, as his knuckles split from exposure and his fëa was gripped with that dragging, weary ache so familiar that it was almost nostalgic, but he could never be so fortunate. The song slid away from him like water skittering across stone, and the only escape he found was the detachment of crawling time until Nuréin traded places with Yenneth and the explosion of movement shattered his senses.
Bony hands soothed with healing gifts but he felt the sharp edges of bone stab into muscle and when he turned to vomit he was dazzled by starry bursts where there was only rock. Yenneth held him still, the tune of a forgotten Age numbing his arm as she bound it to his chest, and still he could not fall away.
Was this his penance, to endure every agony suffered by those who were trampled on the battlefield? Did anyone deserve such a fate?
Celebrimbor did not, and yet Sauron had crippled his hands first.
Rían did not, yet she breathed where she had fallen until an arrow was twisted through her lung.
Even Bavlôn deserved more kindness, though he threw stones at the ships children folded, yet he lay in pooling blood until he was dragged up with his horse, one foot still caught in the stirrup, and was cast into a makeshift pyre by a rampaging troll.
Elrond never wished ill fate upon his comrades, yet it dogged his legacy from the blood spilling from his nurse’s abdomen to the arrow in Camnir’s stomach. Ai, he wished he could blot it from his mind like the Children of Men fled their trauma. The stench of sullied mud and blood still clung to his hands, to his hair, to Celebrimbor’s robes as he was raised above the city wall, and despair slammed into Elrond with the weight of a troll’s backhand. In a sudden flicker of calamity the shroud of apathy folded around his chest, slowing the need for air. When Lorel gingerly plucked him up he leaned into him without a sound, too numb to acknowledge relief for the lack of sensation. At last there was nothing to feel; no thoughts to tether his mind to waking torments.
Perhaps he would finally be permitted peace.
(that’s 4/7 rest is still WiP) 👻
