Chapter Text
It was an hour into the ritual exchange of welcome, messages and gifts that Elrond Peredhel, Lord of Imladris, first paid attention to what was before him. Prince Legolas (“Prince,” his mind supplied) had offered fine gifts: a costly circlet of mithril-laced gold, shining with Greenwood emeralds; a dozen fine hunting dogs bred in Thranduil's kennels; a bolt of finest cloth for Arwen. But then Prince Legolas hesitated, and for the first time Elrond, who had been offering formal, courteous replies automatically, actually noticed what was happening before him.
There was an elleth—no, a child, really—among the retinue of Legolas. She wore a heavy leather jerkin with no shirt, and trousers that were more patch than whole cloth. Sturdy, ancient boots, and now that she had removed her hood, he saw the child's left ear was a half-healed mess of scab and infection. How had he not noticed this ragged child among Legolas's splendid retinue from the first? But her stature was slight, perhaps she had hidden.
No more hiding now. She stepped forward with purpose into the awkward pause of her prince and gracefully knelt, directly before Elrond's throne. Her eyes were downcast, and she pressed her forehead to the marble of the hall before lifting her head to speak, though she remained on her knees. “Lord of Imladris, I humbly ask your attention. I am Ingalir, daughter of Caernavon. I am my father's debt, the shame of our house repaid with service to my liege. For thrice a hundred springs, my father broke the oath of our line that each generation should pay service to our liege, and ignored the call of our sovereign. In mercy, the King of Greenwood has allowed me to pay my father's debt in service, fulfilling his oath. This debt the honored and merciful King Thranduil asks that you accept in token of the friendship and ancient ties of duty between Imladris and the Greenwood, as a living sign of that alliance.”
Elrond stared. She had spoken entirely without passion, and her face, though white, was absolutely still. It was like hearing Thranduil himself speaking through the girl's lips, and Elrond knew well that was exactly what the bastard had intended. A living sign...merciful hells, this child was a token in some ugly joke.
“Lindir,” he snapped. “See 'the debt' to quarters in my household.”
Lindir bowed slightly. “My lord.” And behind him, Elrond heard his daughter's skirts move off to the side. But the Lord of Imladris had attention only for the princeling who still stood before him, though his face was ashen. He had not known the girl would speak thus, Elrond surmised. That kind of sickness could not be feigned—at least not to his eye. He had not even to stretch out a thought to know that.
Elrond stood before the prince could gather himself to speak. “Be welcomed,” he said flatly, then stalked out of the receiving hall before Legolas could reply, away into his private study where he could rage without jeopardizing diplomatic relations entirely.
There, in solitude, he let out an oath that was only just not blasphemous and began to pace his study, up and down, over a worn rug that showed how many times it had borne the tread of its lord's impatience. But today he only paced the length a score of times before he heard his daughter's soft voice. “Ada.”
No matter his anger, that face was not for his daughter, never for her, and Elrond took in a deep breath to soften himself before he turned. “Yes, Arwen?”
“Dear father, you frightened the girl. Did you not see how young she is?” Arwen stepped forward and laid her hand on his arm, and it was the utter confidence in her face that made the gesture so effective. “I know your anger was for Thranduil, and perhaps Legolas, but you called her 'the debt.'”
Elrond drew in another slow breath and let it out before he responded. “I wanted her out of it. You are correct, of course, child, and I thank you.” He was very stiff and correct, which was as irritable as he allowed himself to be with his daughter, as a rule.
“But Father, do you not see? She is obviously not a century, probably not even twenty. You may foster her here, and let your kindness be a rebuke to his monstrosity and an example to all. If you forgive the debt, Thranduil perhaps will then call her to her own service, for she said every generation was bound. Please, Father, let your goodness shine on her.”
And with that, Elrond felt his frustration melt entirely, so tenderly did she plead. His beautiful daughter—how on earth had he fathered an elleth so purely kind? Celebrian... And the thought of his wife made him close his eyes and take a third, final, deep breath. “Very well.”
Arwen darted forward and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “And she will be here while I am in Lothlorien, and keep you from getting cross.”
“I doubt she will prove so skilled in the art.” It was right for Arwen to have time with her grandparents. Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel had always adored their daughter's youngest child, and cherished her the more now that Celebrian was gone. It was not fair for him to hide the Evenstar here in his lost valley, he thought, a little sadly.
“You will go to her now, Father?” Arwen urged, curtsying demurely as if she had not routed him entirely and made him do exactly as she wished.
“Tell Lady Galadriel she has my full permission to cure you of your insufferable smugness, child.”
Arwen bit her lip, but she was still smiling too. “Yes, Father.” And as he turned to go, she called, “She is in my nurse's old chamber—the one next to mine.”
She had arranged that before she had even tackled him, and he thought to rebuke her for pressing too far. But she would be gone in a few days, with Prince Legolas—bloody stupid princeling—to lead her escort to Lothlorien, and he could not bear to make her sorry for one of those moments they had yet. Not for so gentle a crime, anyway.
Elrond opened the door just down the hall from Arwen's solar and saw the girl kneeling on the floor in the late afternoon gloom. Though the room smelt slightly of a snuffed flame, the candles were not lit. He did not speak at first, but took up a candlestick and carried it out to light in the hallway. When he returned, her posture had changed only slightly—she had turned her body toward him, though she remained on her knees, eyes downcast. “Ingalir,” he said quietly, calling forth the name from his memory with a touch of his power. “Why are you kneeling?”
She drew in a sharp breath, the first actual reaction he had seen her give to anything. “I was praying when you entered, my lord, and it seemed wrong to rise without leave in your presence.”
Elrond found that oddly reassuring, that she answered him in words so simple and honest, that Thranduil had not crushed her so that she could not answer him. And he noted to himself that he should have knocked. “Sit on your bed, please.”
Her eyes darted to the bed in the center of the room, plainly the only bed he could be referring to. “Do I need to repeat myself?” Elrond asked. He kept his tone neutral, but he was interested to see how she managed, what was her mettle.
“No, my lord.” She immediately rose and went to the bed. She sat, back straight, hands folded in her lap, head up and eyes down. Elrond felt a wave of distaste for that last detail—he knew Thranduil did not permit eye contact from any he called servant. Yet the elf she had named as father, Caernavon... It was a name after the fashion of Gondolin, but he did not know it.
“Speak your line, please, and then I would hear how you came to the King's service, exactly.”
“I am Ingalir, daughter of Elberethiel and Caernavon, son of Amarthadlen, daughter of Eredthuleth, daughter of--”
“You are from Haermalthorn,” he said, though he had not meant to interrupt her. But his mind had startled as it made the connection between the high, fine bearing, the ragged clothes, and the Mirkwood. Of course. She was of Eredthuleth's line—of Gondolin, in fact. He remembered Galadriel's distant kinswoman, and that daughter who had carried a single mallorn into the Greenwood and been exiled from her people because of it. But the mallorn survived in that hollow, and it brought a light that was still perceptible, even as Greenwood became Mirkwood. No, it was more perceptible now, Elrond corrected himself. Before it had illuminated, now it was a last beacon against growing darkness. Her line were sworn to Thranduil, of course, as punishment for not planting the mallorn at his palace. In late years, he had heard the line had fallen into a careless, backwoods hall for hunting gentry, known for drunkenness and disorder. And now this child. He shook his head. “Excuse me. I know your line now. Tell me exactly how you entered into Thranduil's service so young.” She was a child, and to pretend she could pay any debt, even her own, was a cruel absurdity.
“I have a sister, my lord. Falfidhra is my elder, but she was hurt three autumns since when her horse rolled on her. My father does not reside in our halls, and the healers of my grandmother's house, the ones who did not go into the west with her, were not skilled enough to help her. So I went to Haermalthorn itself, the great mallorn, and I found a healer. And she said she would not help the oathbreaker's child. I did not know...” Her face grew sorrowful, and she swallowed. “I did not know, that my father had an oath, or that I was its heir and Falfidhra too, to go if the King called. And I did not know the King had called for my father. Or that...or that the King harried the town and only just consented to leave the big mallorn alive when my father did not go. So I said I wasn't an oathbreaker's child. Because I would answer the call, and the oath would not be broken, only delayed. I said I would set my face from Haermalthorn until every debt was paid. I promised her.”
“She made you swear?” Elrond asked, frowning a little at the thought of a little girl being asked to swear like that to save her elder sister. Such an oath could never be binding, anyway.
“No, my lord. She looked at me queerly, but told me she would go, and I must stay there and mind her house and chickens until she returned. Because our hall is at least day's ride from the Great Mallorn, and there are scarcely bridle paths, down into the hollow. So I stayed there, and I minded her house, and when she came back, she told me that Falfidhra would walk again, would ride, would—that she would be healed. But she seemed so sorrowful. I don't know. She gave me lembas and told me the way to the King's court.”
What had the healer seen to make her send a child of... But no one else had gone for healing when the elder daughter was injured. That alone suggested a hall that was not safe for a child like Ingalir. “How old are you, Ingalir?”
“Seventeen, my lord.”
“And when you arrived there, how did you come to see the King?”
“Only by chance, I think. The guards kept laughing at me, but then the Captain of the Royal Archers, Captain Brenion, heard them and ticked them off, and I asked him if he could please help me to fulfill the oath, because I would redeem my honor, and Falfidhra's. And he did. King Thranduil laughed at me too, but he gave me to his huntsman, and then Captain Brenion put me on a patrol last year. Then when Prince Legolas was to come, the King summoned me and said my debt should be a gift, to you, my lord.”
Elrond was silent for a long moment. She gave almost nothing away as she spoke—her spirit was shrouded, tightly wrapped, so constrained its power was almost certainly tremendous. A daughter of the Eredthuleth house in Gondolin. But the constraint was ragged in places, worn thin, and Elrond perceived again the mess that had been made of her ear. He went into the hall and sent one of the messengers there for his healer's chest and a light luncheon. “Tell me what happened to your ear, please, and look at my face when you speak to me.” Another test of her mettle.
But she met it, though her spine seemed to stiffen even further as she absorbed the correction. “I was punished, my lord.” Her eyes were gray and piercing, extraordinary in a girl her age. “I pushed Lord Dircoll into a spring, my lord, and I was punished by his hawk.” Again, no emotional reaction, but now Elrond perceived that his duty would be to soften more than strengthen her.
“Very well. I shall tend your ear, and while I do so, I shall explain the service you shall give to me. You will also look at me when I speak to you.”
The servant brought his healer's chest, and a steaming kettle from the kitchens and stack of clean cloths. Her ear was in bad case, but he could see someone—perhaps the girl herself—had made efforts to keep it clean, and there were bits of yarrow and tree moss someone had used to stanch the bleeding. “This will hurt. Try to listen to my voice, Ingalir.”
She nodded, and a little, hesitant jerkiness there was her only sign of fear. “Yes, my lord.” Her voice was clear and brave.
Elrond began cleaning the wounded ear with gentle, but purposeful, movements. “Good girl. Then understand that the service I shall ask of you is both easier and more absolute than that of my hunters, or even our patrols. In Imladris, we follow the old laws, and under the old laws, I became your foster father when you entered my household. The service you will give me is that of an obedient daughter—that which my daughter Arwen offers to me, that which you would give to father or mother, neither more nor less. Do you understand?”
“No, my lord,” she said bluntly, and Elrond had to hide a half-smile. Though she was dark, shadow, negation in so many ways, in that moment she reminded him of Glorfindel, and he considered that Glorfindel would be interested to meet the child of his old friend.
“Under those laws which were written in Valinor before both my people and yours crossed the sea from the west, an elf of less than a century who enters a lord's household becomes foster, to be held dearer than the son or daughter of the lord's blood, in many ways. What King Thranduil may do in his court holds no interest to me. I follow the laws of my ancestors, the laws blessed by the Valar, and you will call me Father, please.” He pushed the fresh injunction on her just as he drew a scalding hot rag across her wound with ruthless speed. It was kinder to do it quickly, but patients seldom appreciate that bit of healer's wisdom, at least in the moment.
She was panting, though her eyes were dry. “Y-y-y...” She gulped hard, and then he saw her take a breath to collect herself into deliberation. “May I say Lord Father, please?” She had locked away the stutter, but he made note of it.
Elrond considered that for a long while, using delicate tools to clean the last of the debris from her wound. He knew what he was doing was agony, but he did not begin a soothing song, not yet. “You may,” he said finally. If he didn't agree, Ingalir would tie herself in knots about it.
“Thank you, Lord Father.” Her voice was a little faint, but still controlled.
“Good.” And then, Elrond began to hum, weaving a song of relief and refreshment, one that would unknot the pain from her body and spirit.
She jerked at that touch of power as she had not jerked from the touch of his hand, and he saw that where her fingers were hardened from the bow and her face roughened by wind and rain, despite its youth, her spirit was as tender as a newborn's. He added a strand of peace, something from a lullaby, into the tune, finding words as he sang them, absorbed in the familiar task of healing.
Ingalir did not cry. She did not shrink from his hands, and he would have been proud of Elladan or Elrohir to bear the pain so well. But he could feel that she could not accept the peace, only curled herself tighter and tighter still against his song, and the pain.
He bound her ear, falling silent as his task was done. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing rapid, but otherwise, Ingalir had almost disappeared into herself. She needed space, and Elrond stepped over to the window to light another candle, to clean his tools and arrange them again into the chest. A servant came with hot, spiced milk and a light, crisp oatcake, and they were laid on the bedside table.
“Eat, child,” Elrond instructed. “We will have some hours before the banquet this evening, which cannot be avoided. Arwen, stop listening at the door like a servant and come in, please.” He made his even tone exactly the same as he had used when he had instructed Ingalir.
Arwen opened the door, looking a little abashed. “I did not wish to interrupt your healing, Father.”
He merely raised an eyebrow, then turned back to Ingalir, who was nibbling at her oatcake. “Your foster-sister will find you dress for this evening. Follow her and share her place. I expect you to behave with the dignity befitting a daughter of your line and a child of my house, is that clear?”
“Yes, Lord Father.” Her clear grey eyes were fixed on his face. She was well controlled. Amazingly so, for her age. Such composure did not usually betoken a happy childhood.
Elrond gave Arwen a grave nod, then left the room. Ordinarily, he might have kissed Arwen's forehead, but a kiss would have frightened Ingalir, and he was determined to show her that he meant what he said—she would be more, not less, precious than his own child.
***
Elrond then had to work with the minor lords who had been sent as diplomats—none of whom was called Dircoll, he was disappointed to learn—and his own counselors on the official business of the visit, the tedius minutiae that underpinned alliances and trade. As a result, he did not see either Arwen or Ingalir again until he arrived in the banquet hall, hungry and harried. There, where Arwen's seat was always just behind his left side, when guests were in residence, were now two chairs, and Arwen stood, dresses impeccably in midnight blue velvet, beside an unrecognizable Ingalir. Her hair, which had been braided back tightly and doubled up on itself, was now clean and half loose, in a beautiful hairstyle that hid her wounded ear. Her gown, modestly cut, he recognized as the gown Arwen had worn to feasts when she was only eleven. It had been quickly outgrown and laid away in perfect condition: saffron velvet with long laced sleeves and an intricately embroidered lawn chemise beneath. Though Ingalir was seventeen, the gown of Arwen's childhood fit her well. Neither wore jewels, and Elrond mentally gave his daughter credit for more subtlety than he had expected, and acknowledged her good work with a nod, meeting her eye.
To his credit, Prince Legolas seemed chastened, and his speech was so humble that Elrond had to believe the boy understood how thoroughly hateful the task his father had given him was. He conducted himself gravely, as a man in disgrace, though Elrond did not speak of Ingalir, or to either of his daughters, during the banquet. Elrond did, however, hand a dish of fish and sorrel greens back to them, with another gentle nod. It might be a state banquet, but Ingalir should know he considered her, and the astringent, earthy greens would cleanse her of that white, pinched look, in time.
As early as was barely courteous, after the plates had been cleared and formal healths drunk, Elrond rose, repeated formal words of welcome, and left the hall. He heard light, half-running steps follow behind him, and Arwen, Ingalir's hand clasped in hers, caught up to him. “Father, your blessing on us before we retire?” Arwen asked, her breath coming quickly.
And again Elrond took a long breath, and addressed himself to both girls. “Your grandmother will think I bred a mannerless hoyden, Arwen, if you run from a banquet like that, but I suppose I ought to have let you precede me. Come.” And he held up both his hands, with his palms toward them. How long had it been since Arwen asked his blessing before bed? But when she was a little girl, she had refused to sleep without it.
Arwen pulled Ingalir in close, still holding her hand tightly, and Elrond lay his palms flat, one on the forehead of each girl. So strange to see the wounded youngling in Arwen's old gown, and to remember his daughter's plump confidence at that age. The exile's granddaughter, and now, his foster child. “May Eärendil this night witness sweet and peaceful slumber from you, my daughters, and may dawn find you as blameless as the grass new sprung.” A soft pulse of power accompanied his words, and he was pleased that Ingalir didn't jerk this time, though she didn't relax, either. Then Elrond lowered his hands and kissed first Arwen, then Ingalir, on the brow. “Rest as long as you like in the morning, both of you. One has a long journey ahead, and the other a long journey behind her.”
He heard soft thanks from both girls, and sighed as they departed to their chambers. His daughter shone as brightly as the evenstar, and Ingalir might too, if she allowed herself. Who knew? Her grandmother had chosen her visions and exile, and planted the Far Mallorn to be a light in darkness.