Chapter Text
“... and the cruel servants of Celegorm seized his young sons and left them to starve in the forest. Of this Maedhros indeed repented, and sought for them long in the woods of Doriath; but his search was unavailing, and of the fate of Eluréd and Elurín no tale tells....
The Silmarillion, Quenta Silmarillion, Ch 22, Of the Ruin of Doriath
Northern Weather Hills, the year 177 of the Third Age.
Heat like a leaden weight presses down on the Weather Hills. The sun glares overhead in a steel-blue sky, but over the north downs towards Fornost roil menacing castles of cloud. A storm is brewing.
For now, only the heat and a brooding stillness lie over the land. No bird or beast stirs. The stagnant air is hot as Morgoth’s breath.
Drying sweat itches Erestor’s face. As he rubs it a fine layer of dust from the dig scours his skin. The ground is so dry that every spade-stroke sends up a billowing cloud.
The Weather Hills tower a thousand feet above the plains of central Arnor. Their rocky heights are bare, but this hill alone is crowned by a solitary oak tree, so twisted by the ceaseless winds that it might have sprouted from its acorn before the coming of the Dúnedain.
Strange rumours have it that a murdered child lies buried beneath its roots. Even stranger ones name one child in particular. Erestor has led a company of Imladhrim warriors to this desolate wilderness to investigate whether there is truth to these tales.
No sound shatters the silence but the scrape and thump of spades and the haulers’ grunts as they hoist up baskets of sand to dump on the growing heap beside the pit.
Not a single one is singing work songs. Not for this job.
The oak sways its dusty boughs over the scar the Elves have dug in the earth. The pit is deep enough that the sides needed stabilising with wooden posts. Whoever buried this body truly did not want it found.
The diggers work bare-chested, so heavy is the heat. Erestor wishes that his dignity as Lord Elrond’s chief counsellor would permit him to remove his own tunic. The fabric clings to his body, sodden with sweat.
This strange summer brings both heat and disquiet. Throughout Arnor, portents have been seen: marshlights streaking the pale summer nights, seabirds seen flying far inland, Eärendil running strange courses in the sky. Something stirs, a change in the Song, a new thread set upon the Weaver’s loom. Erestor senses it, too. Whether it brings hope or hope’s end, he cannot tell.
Beside him the king’s reeve takes out an embroidered handkerchief to dab at his face. Erestor secured a royal permit for this search from King Valandil in Fornost, but he must allow a representative to observe the proceedings. If they find Elrohir today, Mortal eyes will bear witness to their grief.
The reeve is called Berior. He has ridden up from the nearest market town, dressed in the stern vestments of his office. On his chest flames the Star of Elendil stitched in silver thread. He looks like he has a measure of Númenórean blood, but his dark hair is shot through with silver. He is in the final years of his lifespan, if Erestor is any judge of such things.
Erestor’s musings are interrupted when Ardil climbs from the pit, wiping his face on his forearm. His silver hair has been pulled back into a single dusty braid. Sweat and clinging sand streak his bare chest. Ardil has been digging like a devil, as if the very soil has done him some great personal wrong.
Celebrían sent the old warrior to be her eyes at the dig. She and Elrond no longer attend such investigations in person. This is not the first one, nor the tenth, and every single one was torture beyond what any parent should have to bear.
“We have struck bone.” Ardil grants Erestor no honorific, and only the most cursory of nods without ever looking Erestor in the eye. His message delivered, the warrior turns his back.
Elrohir’s disappearance has torn open old wounds. Ardil is a son of Doriath. He stood in that valiant but doomed defence of the innermost chambers when the young princes Eluréd and Elurín were snatched up and left to starve in the winter woods.
Erestor remembers, as he remembers all the names and fates of all those who fought that day. It was his job to know, being Maedhros’ chief counselor, the architect of Doriath’s downfall.
They did search for the children. Oh, how they searched! For days and nights Erestor led the hunt through that desolate, snow-white forest of shadows, cold beneath the contemptuous winter moon. Until hours became days and days became weeks, and they all knew that no child could have survived that biting cold.
Two Ages, and now Erestor leads the search for another missing boy. Elrohir’s disappearance is a strange parallel, a repeat of that particular line in the Song.
Erestor must bring Elrond and Celebrian closure, no matter what fate has befallen their son. An ancient debt repaid by the one who failed before.
Erestor shakes his head. He must not lose himself in dark memory. He has a search to conduct.
“Halt!” he calls out, and down in the pit the diggers lay down their spades.
Sweat drips down his back as he climbs down the long ladder into the pit with Reeve Berior following behind.
At the bottom the diggers make space. The walls tower over them, cutting off the sky. It is cooler down here, where the deeper layers have retained some moisture. The scents of sweat, clay and old bones hit his nose.
“Here,” Ardil points to a pale thing at his feet.
The half-buried skull sticking from the soil is small enough to match the one they seek. Erestor’s heart sinks as he kneels beside it, but he keeps his face carefully arranged. All eyes are now on him.
Ardil stands right beside Erestor, towering over him as he kneels. Erestor ignores the looming shadow. He holds out his hand, and someone lays a brush and trowel in his palm without need for words. The diggers stand watching silently.
In the distance, thunder rolls.
Carefully, so very carefully, Erestor frees the small skull from its bed of clay. He takes his time so he does not destroy evidence with haste.
The cranial vault. The eye sockets. The cheekbones, their bony arches still full of clinging clay, and finally, after careful prying with the trowel, the lower jaw.
He picks up the skull and turns it over in his hands in hopeful search of signs of aging.
The teeth are unworn. The bony seams across the cranial vault still unfused. The skull itself is light, lacking the heavy definition of Dwarf skulls or the slight flattening of Halflings.
No. This belonged to a tall race. A child.
Erestor’s heart leaps in his throat. Let this not be the one he seeks. Not here. Not like this.
Merciful Valar, if you will hear an old kinslayer’s plea…
“Water!” Erestor orders and has it before the word is wholly spoken.
Pouring carefully from the pitcher’s lip, he rinses the clay off the skull. The cheekbones, once wholly exposed, prove not very pronounced. A hopeful sign.
The cause of death is clear. This nameless child’s skull was bashed in hard enough to send bone fragments into the cranial vault where they rattle amidst the pulverised remains of the brain. The murderer took no half-measures.
An angry mutter ripples through the watching Elves.
A dark ember of rage settles at the pit of Erestor’s stomach. He takes care to keep it off his face. A display of vengeful wrath at this child-killer would smack of hypocrisy. This and much worse has been done in Erestor’s own name.
At last he opens the jaw and studies the teeth. The missing incisors leave no doubt. The sockets contain the buds of new teeth set to emerge. These milk teeth were lost naturally, not knocked out in the struggle that killed this child.
Mortal and Elvish children both must shed and renew their teeth. Erestor recalls the twins with their gap-toothed smiles - endearing but short-lived. Elrohir already had his adult front teeth when he disappeared.
Erestor must close his eyes and swallow before he can trust his voice. “This skull is from a Mortal child around six years of age. It cannot be Elrohir’s.”
At Erestor’s side, Ardil releases a long, shuddering breath. Among the watching company the air of tension eases.
Erestor rises briskly and offers the skull to the foreman. “Unearth the rest of the skeleton, wrap it in a shroud, and hand it over to Reeve Berior along with any objects you find around it."
The Mortal official nods in polite thanks. Berior hesitates before the ladder, and Erestor must help him up the final rungs. How swiftly does time devastate Mortal bodies.
Outside the pit the sky grows dark with clouds. The wind is picking up, rattling the boughs of the lone oak.
“I thank you, Master Erestor.” Berior gives a polite half-bow. His Sindarin is accented, but very fluid. It remains the tongue of Valandil’s court. “Your deeds will ease a mother’s grief. At least she can give her little one a proper burial.”
Eluréd and Elurín had none, Erestor tries not to think. The woods never gave up their bones.
Berior gives Erestor a kind look. He is a Dúnadan, and his eyes see deep. “You have not found the one you seek.”
He understands all too well that uncertainty can be a torment greater than grief. Even so, Erestor tries not to discuss Elrohir’s disappearance with Mortals. All that achieves is to muddy the search by creating wild rumours of missing Elf-princes and the exorbitant rewards they command.
“We still have hope,” Erestor says non-committally. “For that I am thankful.”
Berior hesitates. Mortal minds are not shaped for osanwë, but Erestor has perfected the art of seeing into them over many years. Behind Berior’s eyes flames a spark, an intention of speech soon abandoned.
“Tell me what you are thinking.” Erestor cuts in, “You have a lead. Please share it with me. My lord and lady will wish it investigated, even if it should prove false.”
“I expect it will,” Reeve Berior says calmly. “False hope is a cruel thing.”
Erestor lays a hand on the Man’s shoulder. “Speak, master reeve, I beg you.”
“As you wish,” Berior accedes. “I was in Fornost a fortnight ago. In the market quarter a certain beggar roams the taverns, telling tales for beer money. Ruhiren, the man calls himself. A former sailor. He claims to have been taken prisoner by Corsairs of Umbar. They carried him off to Far Harad, where he escaped and wandered the deep desert. There, he says, he met an Elf-warrior among the Haradrim.”
“Have you witnessed this Ruhiren’s … performance?” Erestor’s skin prickles, but he keeps his expression wholly unmoved. He has heard many such tales, spun by charlatans eager for Elrond’s silver.
“Naught but the figment of a beer-addled brain, I reckon,” Berior adds quickly. “This Ruhiren is a yellow-eyed drunkard. I wish I had something better to tell you than this sad nonsense made up for no better reason than a few tankards of cheap ale.”
Sad nonsense indeed. Erestor manages to keep the sorrow off his face. He should not have insisted on hearing this story. How cruel fate can be. Yet another torturous hope springing up only to be ripped away once more.
“Thank you for sharing this with me,” He takes great care to show a warm expression. “My lord and lady will be grateful.”
That is a lie. He fully intends to spare Elrond and Celebrían these drunken antics at their missing son’s expense.
Berior’s attendants draw near, leading the man’s saddled horse. They keep glancing at the massing stormclouds overhead, eager to reach town before the storm breaks. One of the horses carries only a sad little bundle wrapped in the finest white linen. Some kind soul has tied a wreath of meadow flowers on top.
Erestor bids Berior and his companions a most gracious goodbye with words of good will between Imladris and Arnor. He will never see this Man again. When next he has dealings in this area he will find a son or grandson in his place, and him in his grave.
When the Men have left Erestor turns his back on the dig and follows a goat path that climbs up into the wild hills. A hot wind whips at his tunic and hair. The light has taken on that strange yellow colour that portends a storm.
Erestor climbs steadily until–at the hill’s ancient, battered head: a slab of grey stone grown with sere heath–he can see the Weather Hills rolling before his feet like waves in a stormlit sea. Ravens circle overhead.
Erestor throws back his head and utters a coarse, croaking sound from the back of his throat. He holds up his hand with a strip of dried meat.
A large raven separates from its flock and wheels down to settle before his feet. Erestor throws down the meat, and at once the black beak snicks open to peck at the offering.
“Greetings, Carc. Will you aid me once more?”
Carc hops up and down, his beak full of jerky.
Erestor waits patiently until the meat has been devoured. At last Crarc looks up from his meal, eagerly eyeing the pouch at Erestor’s belt from which more might emerge.
“My message is important. Hearken!” Erestor says.
The raven turns its head so one beady eye, then the other can study Erestor’s face.
“We found the bones. They are not Elrohir’s,” Erestor speaks slowly, articulating each word.
Carc caws, a harsh sound that cuts the eerie silence.
“The bones are found. They do not belong to your missing fledgling.” The raven’s voice is strangely sharp and alien. Elf-like, and yet not.
Erestor nods in approval and produces another strip of meat, which is eagerly accepted.
“Make haste my friend. You are awaited.”
The raven flaps into the air with a flurry of black feathers. Erestor stands watching as it spirals up on the thermals and speeds off towards the southeast, where behind the bulk of the Weather Hills lies the Hidden Valley. Elrond’s and Celebrían’s anxious wait will be over soon.
Erestor stands watching until Carc has disappeared from view, steeling himself for the inevitable unpleasantness that must now follow. He made this journey in unfortunate company.
Slowly he makes his way back to the dig. The warriors have dismantled the wooden supports, and the mound of dug-up earth is being shovelled back into the hole. Others are loading gear and supplies onto the mule train for the journey back to Imladris. In four days they will be home.
Ardil approaches. He has rinsed himself off and put his tunic back on, looking neat and tidy once more.
“Is the message sent?” Ardil demands curtly. Behind his eyes lies the old sorrow.
The ghost of Doriath haunts the search for Elrohir. Ardil spoke to Celebrían against putting Erestor in charge, questioning both Erestor's capability and his motives. Why should the man whose deeds caused Eluréd and Elurín to be driven into the woods, the thrice-bloodied kinslayer, now search for Elwing’s grandson?
Many among those present here did hearken to those words.
Erestor would challenge Ardil’s rudeness, if not for the depths of pain in the man’s eyes. Ardil loves Elrohir, just like he loved Eluréd and Elurín, who Erestor drove to their deaths.
Today Erestor has failed yet again. Elrohir remains lost. It will be a long journey bearing Ardil’s silent sorrow all the way to Imladris, where yet more grief awaits.
The knowledge burns in his chest like a brand. All the dead, the lost, the missing. Those who never knew their loved ones’ fates because Erestor failed to undo damage he wrought.
“Aye.” Erestor looks towards the west where the sun has begun to lower amidst a great wrack of storm-clouds. “It is sent.”
Fornost is but a few days’ ride away. A former sailor entertaining the alehouses with tales of an Elf-prince in the Harad. Nonsense, no doubt. Any rational mind would see that.
Still, it might be true. If there is the slightest chance that he might bring some small measure of relief to Elrond and Celebrian, then Erestor will try.
“I shall detour to Fornost,” he says, turning to face Ardil once more. “You may return to Imladris and deliver a full report. ”
Ardil hesitates. He may remember old griefs, but few are more dedicated to the search for Elrohir. And, of course, those who sent him here wish to keep an eye on every aspect of said search.
“I shall come with you,” Ardil sounds like a man about to step into something unsavoury, but he is nothing if not dutiful. However unlikely, he wants news of Elrohir more than he wants to rid himself of Fëanorian company.
Erestor thinks for a moment. He cannot bear the thought of travelling alone with this man. Somehow this day has him at the end of his patience. All those countless searches, the endless raising and dashing of hope, are wearing on him at long last
“No need, Master Ardil,” he gently refuses. “Doubtlessly this is another tall tale born of the beer barrel. I will make quick work of it. Go home and recount our search to Lady Celebrían. You will be a comfort to her.”
For a moment he fears Ardil will refuse, but the Sinda lets himself be swayed. Celebrían does find solace in Ardil’s calm and competent manner, and Ardil is always mindful of her. Ardil turns away to the line of saddled horses standing ready, leaving Erestor standing amidst the bustle of moving Elves and animals.
Erestor’s own horse is among them. Berior’s people made much of the Elvish horses when they first arrived at the dig. Erestor tries to see the mounts through Mortal eyes: tall and well-shaped, with the light of Valinor lingering in their moon-white coats. None but the High Elves possess such noble beasts. Causing a stir as he rides into Fornost astride one might not be the best way of announcing himself to this Mortal beggar.
Erestor calls the horse-mistress over with a wave.
“Untie one of those mules for me,” he orders. “And ask among the warriors if any might spare an old tunic and cloak. I am headed to Fornost, and I shall travel incognito.”
The horse-mistress has learned not to question the strange doings of Elrond’s chief counsellor. She does as she is asked.
Soon Erestor is dressed in castoffs and sat on a mule. He looks like a Breeland farmer headed to market.
He does not look back as he points the mule’s nose towards Fornost. Ardil’s gaze prickles between his shoulder blades until the campsite fades from sight behind him.
The sky has turned blue-black like a new bruise. The mule grows skittish, unhappy with being separated from its fellows and ridden into a storm.
Erestor strokes the beast’s neck, humming a calming song under his breath.
The storm will break this blasted heat, he thinks at the frightened mule. It will leave the world washed clean, ready for new beginnings.
Drops of rain begin to patter down, painting small stains in the dust. Erestor raises the hood of his oilcloak and breathes the freshness of petrichor.
Yes. New beginnings. Perhaps even for him.