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The Valley is Jolly  by Canafinwe

Chapter XXVII: Before the Tower of Orthanc

Dusk was deep over the Gap of Rohan when the delegation from Imladris reached the gates of Isengard. They had ridden hard across Dunland, passing their nights in wary watches, but no misfortune had befallen them. Such was the awe and dread that the Lord of Rivendell inspired in the hearts of men, Elrohir said, only half in jest. Elrond, for one, cared not if it were dread that kept the wild men at bay, or luck, or the devices of Saruman. He was merely thankful that they had not been waylaid. The swifter they went, the more quickly they could return to the North. Elrond’s heart foreboded that all was not well in Rivendell.

They passed through the long, echoing tunnel that led under the walls to the gates. It seemed they were expected, for a guard in livery of white was waiting to thrust open the great iron doors. He made no reply to Elrond’s word of thanks, but bowed as the riders passed, and then drew the gate closed behind them.

Within the mighty ring-wall that joined with the mountain to encircle the ancient fortress of Men, there was a verdant bowl a full mile across. Fair avenues wound about it, passing beneath groves of trees laden with summer fruit. There were laughing streams running down from the mountains to the broad lake, and the air was sweet with the fragrance of flowers and the memory of the day’s sunlight.

‘Here is a welcome change from the barren plains!’ Calmiel said. ‘I had not imagined a place so fair.’

‘Fair indeed,’ Elrohir said. His voice sounded lighter now than it had for some days. Lately he had wandered restless while others slept, his brow drawn as if in pain, but when questioned he would not reveal the source of his distress. Elrond was pleased to hear some of this now care lifted from his words. ‘For Saruman is a wise lord and a good, and here he preserves something of the beauty of the South Kingdom of old.’

It seemed indeed the truth, for little could Elrond see that had changed since his last ride hither. Yet as they rode down a winding path that led towards the great tower of Orthanc, uneasiness stirred in his heart. Was there something different after all, in the gentle winds that rippled in the fruit-trees? Or was it merely his apprehension, knowing as he did the long debates that lay ahead? Or some other matter entirely, some ill happening in his home that was calling to him across the long miles. The last he feared most of all.

He put the uneasiness from his mind and drank in with all his senses the beauty of the orchards and the serenity of this sanctuary of light and order in an increasingly dark and chaotic world. Somewhere near at hand a nightingale was singing, and the trees had a music of their own, untroubled by any thoughts of desperate councils or Dol Guldur or defenceless children left behind to face the malice of the Shadow alone. Elrond drew in a deep breath full of the perfume of ripening pears, and forgot for a moment the stink of dread that came from the foresighted certainty that whatever the Council accomplished in this fated autumn, it would not be enough. The stars were out now, shining high above and visible periodically through the canopy of trees: their hope never faded, for they had seen the rise and fall of Morgoth, and the slow corruption of Númenor, and the thriving of the Elendili despite immeasurable hardships, and the muster of the hosts of Gil-galad and the casting down of Sauron, and the advancement and the destruction of Angmar. To them this latest threat of doom was but a part of the unending cycles of the world; they knew no fear and felt no pain, for they would shine on even when all those on whom they now looked were gone to their graves. The stars, at least, would endure forever unchanged.

At length the travellers emerged from beneath the trees at Orthanc’s very base. There, upon the bottom step of the great, broad stair that led up towards the tower, stood Saruman the White. On the ground upon either side of him there stood a servant bearing a bright lantern, and in the light of the pale flames Saruman looked like a king of old, smiling benevolently upon supplicants from the far countries.

‘Welcome, Elrond Peredhil, child of Lúthien, Lord of Imladris, King of the Noldor in these latter days,’ he said. His voice was melodious and strong, yet soft as summer rains and silky as the twilight. Every word radiated welcome, and graciousness, and good will. ‘I trust your journey has been swift and pleasant, free of danger and hardship?’

‘It has indeed,’ Elrond said, dismounting with deliberate grace and moving forward several paces. ‘Thank you for your welcome, Saruman the Istar, Warden of Orthanc and Leader of the Council. Yet I fear you have forgotten that I have never been crowned, nor do I use the title of king.’

‘Do you not?’ Saruman asked smoothly. ‘Forgive me, I had indeed forgotten. For a king you are, among the remnant of Gil-galad’s people, and you honour my humble home with your presence.’ To punctuate this assertion he stepped down onto level ground and came towards Elrond. ‘Swift are the horses of Imladris: you are the first to arrive though your road is the longest – save perhaps that of Gandalf the Grey. Who can say if he will even reach us through the perilous paths he walks?’

‘Gandalf will come,’ Elrond assured him. ‘He has given his word to me that he would, and the oaths of the Grey Pilgrim are a force to rival that which binds the very fabric of the world.’

Saruman smiled serenely. ‘Fair words from a noble friend,’ he allowed. ‘I mean to offer no offence; I confess that I merely lack your unwavering faith in his invulnerability. There are many dangers in the world, and our dear comrade seems over-fond of seeking them out.’

‘Better to seek them out and destroy them than to sit safely in your tower of stone while all the world is overrun with evil!’ Elrohir exclaimed. Elrond’s head snapped to the side so swiftly that his neck made a sound of protest, grey eyes commanding his son to be silent.

Saruman turned benevolent eyes upon Elrohir, unrepentant in his saddle. ‘All the West thanks you for your tireless labours, child of Elrond,’ he said courteously. ‘We are not ungrateful for your sacrifices, and many tales have been told of your valour and that of your noble brother. Yet not all of us can fight the Shadow with our swords, is that not so, Peredhil?’ He looked again at Elrond. ‘It seems your son does not know his duties, if he cannot stand in respectful silence while you converse with your peers. Perhaps you will have better fortune this time?’

‘He is not over-fond of flatterers, however sincere,’ Elrond replied, wondering with bewilderment what Saruman meant by his last words. ‘And we are weary after our long road. If we might retire to the rooms prepared for us I think we would all be most thankful.’

‘Of course,’ Saruman said, inclining his head. ‘Regretfully I had not looked for your coming for another three days or more.’ Now his voice was that of a well-meaning host, caught unawares by inconsiderate guests and filled with sorrow as he deprecated his own inadequacies. ‘The fair chamber in which I intended to house you is not ready. Your escort, of course, will perforce be made comfortable among my own guard, but it will take some hours to prepare your room. Perhaps you might sup with me while we wait? Unless of course you wish to bed with your soldiers.’ From his tone it was plain that no lord of might, however wayworn, would stoop to such humble lodgings.

Elrond, however, had no desire to linger over a meal filled with purposeful pleasantries and clever manoeuvring while Saruman tried to draw him, alone and unprepared, into debate. He was weary, and he was afraid that he might weaken the case that he and Gandalf had spent so many nights constructing if he was left alone with the sweet voice of Saruman. It would be better to go at once to his rest and to hope that on the morrow he would have better mastery over himself. An arduous task lay ahead, to win Saruman over to their cause. He could not make light of it, nor imperil it by pitting his addled wits against Saruman’s indomitable powers of oration, for the Istar was wise, and crafty, and proud – and every bit as stubborn as Gandalf.

‘Thank you,’ he said; ‘I would be pleased to go with my folk. I regret that our competent woodcraft has caught you thus unawares: next time we shall endeavour to find some misfortune to waylay us a little.’

‘The years have made you bitter, Halfelven,’ Saruman said sadly, and now it seemed that he was filled with grief as he witnessed the woes of a dearly beloved friend. ‘It is a hard thing, to dwell alone. It is not fair to expect you to endure it forever. But my lieutenant shall show you to your lodgings, if that is what you wish,’ he said, turning with a grand gesture and sweeping onto the stairs. He turned on the fourth step and smiled down at the travellers. ‘Rest well,’ he said. ‘There is much work to be done.’

Then he moved and ascended the stairs, vanishing into the tower. His servants with the lanterns followed him, and Elrond and his folk were left standing in the twilight to await the arrival of Saruman’s lieutenant.

lar

Elrohir was seething. He strode down the narrow corridor, past the doors behind which his soldiers were preparing to rest, in the hopes that he might stride away his fury. The hallway was not long enough. He reached the last door and opened it wrathfully.

His father was seated on the edge of one of the hard, narrow cots, unlacing his surcote. As Elrohir entered he looked up, his face a mask of mild surprise.

‘Calm yourself,’ he said. ‘There is no cause for anger.’

‘No cause for anger?’ Elrohir echoed tersely, slamming the door and stripping off his cloak. ‘Atarinya, are such slights to be borne? You are his equal – nay, his better! He ought to receive you as a knight receives his liege-lord, and yet he has the gall to house you here!’ He gestured broadly, his arm sweeping through almost the whole of the little barracks room. ‘You are the mightiest lord of the Eldar yet left in Middle-earth! It behoves him to treat you as such!’

‘I am not his liege-lord,’ Elrond said serenely; ‘nor would I wish to be. Saruman is a lord of wisdom and might, and he is the leader of the Council and the master of this fortress. We are his grateful guests, and it behoves us to behave with grace and humility.’

‘If we are his guests, then that is but a greater reason why he should treat you with deference!’ said Elrohir, undaunted. He was anxious and overwrought, and he was in no mood for rationality. ‘Never have you treated a guest with such disdain! Caught unawares, you would have made Thorin Oakenshield comfortable in your own bed before you sent him to share such a cell as this with one of his servants!’

‘You are not my servant; you are my son,’ said Elrond. ‘And as for my bed, I would not have emptied that had Dúrin himself been riding to Erebor.’

‘Because Estel was in it,’ Elrohir muttered irately. It was infuriating that even after the White Wizard’s slights his sire was still so... reasonable. ‘I know you take my meaning! Never would you tell a guest that he had come too soon, nor suffered him to be led to his bed by a lowly lieutenant while you turned your back and vanished into the twilight! Never—’

‘My son,’ Elrond said, his voice firm and grave and almost as overpowering as that of Saruman. Elrohir fell silent as keen grey eyes caught his gaze and held it fast. ‘What is amiss with you? You know Saruman’s ways, and never before have you behaved so shamefully. It cannot be mere indignation on my behalf, for you must know that tomorrow I shall be housed in all the comfort that Isengard can offer. What troubles your heart this night?’

Elrohir crumpled onto the other cot, stooping his shoulders low over his knees and hanging his head. ‘Elladan is in pain,’ he said. ‘I can feel it.’

The Lord of Imladris nodded, understanding in his eyes. He, too, had once had a twin. He understood the togetherness, the intuition, the unity even across the vast miles. Others dismissed or maligned such claims; none could comprehend them save those who knew what it was to be one of two souls knitted in harmony, like matching blades tempered in the same fire. ‘Do you know what is wrong?’ he asked softly.

Elrohir shook his head miserably. ‘For three days and four nights I have felt it: pain and uncertainty and guilt. The pain was at its worst last night before dawn, and it has lightened considerably since then. The shame and culpability are worse now than ever. I have tried to touch his mind, but he is weary and unable to find comfort. There is a feeling of failure. Something terrible has happened.’

He waited for some reassurance, some promise that all would be well. Instead Elrond sighed softly, chaffing one hand against his brow. ‘I, too, have felt that something is amiss,’ he said. ‘I fear I have chosen poorly: mayhap I should not have left Rivendell. I had hoped that my influence would be slow to face, and would safeguard the Valley for a time. Ere it could begin to wane, I thought, we would be upon the Necromancer’s doorstep and he would have no ill-will to spare for distant lands.’

‘I do not know...’ Elrohir said slowly, unwilling to wholly commit to his suppositions. ‘My brother’s distress seems more private, more personal than a fear for the safety of the Valley. Whatever calamity has befallen him, I do not think it imperils Imladris itself. I wish—’ He caught himself, but not soon enough.

‘You wish that you were with him,’ Elrond said, sad knowledge and remembrance in his eyes. ‘It is a grievous thing to be separated when one of you is suffering. If you wish, you have my leave to ride forth this very hour to seek Elladan out.’

‘And abandon you unguarded in the South?’ Elrohir said dismissively. ‘Never. Someone must look out for your interests, if Saruman will not.’

‘That is most unfair,’ Elrond chided. ‘Though I will allow that we have never been close friends, Saruman is a just leader and a worthy ally. You ought not to judge him by his skill as a host: he is a lord of might, after all, and not an innkeeper. Isengard does not see so many guests as Imladris; it may well be that he has forgotten the proprieties, or that his mind is occupied with weightier matters. I am sheltered and dry, and if once you help me off with my mail I shall be quite comfortable.’

Elrohir grimaced. His fit of choler was past, and he was rather ashamed of his anger and his outburst before the tower. He was weary and distraught, worn down by his brother’s distant distress. He sorely needed rest. ‘Forgive me, Atarinya. I am too old to behave like a spoiled youngling. I will not shame you further.’

Elrond rose and moved to sit beside his son. He wrapped his arm around the warrior’s back and with his other hand pressed Elrohir’s head against his cheek. He was holding him now as he had held him in his youth, with the arms that had comforted him through all the trials of his long life. Elrohir stiffened briefly in surprise, but swiftly submitted to the consoling embrace. ‘You have not shamed me,’ Elrond said softly. ‘I could never be ashamed of you, my bright valiant one.’ He kissed his son’s brow. ‘Now, let us do off with the gear of war and go to our rest. I will help you find sleep, and in the morning we shall turn to the tasks for which we came hither.’

lar

As Elrond had expected, Saruman was as good as his word. After the morning meal, at which the wizard sat with the two Peredhil in a hall in the ring-wall overlooking the lake, Saruman showed them to a suite of rooms with broad windows open upon the plain with an unobstructed view of Orthanc. It seemed that the chambers had been meant for some trusted seneschal of Gondor, for they were artfully furnished and yet functional. There was a large bedchamber amply supplied with all that was needed for comfort, and a handsome anteroom in which someone had placed several volumes of lore that might interest a visitor from the North. A smaller room provided a place for a bathing-tub, and there was a second bedroom opening on the first, that had most likely been occupied by a squire or manservant. This last consideration did much to placate Elrohir, who sent for his own pack and mail, and firmly established himself within, satisfied that he would be on hand to guard his sire.

Saruman tried again to address the reasons for the gathering of the Council, but Elrond remained firm. He had no wish to discuss these matters without Gandalf’s support. Instead he kept the conversation deliberately trivial, and managed to persuade his host to take him on a walking-tour of the orchards and gardens.

The afternoon was bright when the air was pierced by the clarion call of trumpets, echoing amid the mountain heights. Saruman halted in his commentary upon the difficulties of cultivating roses in this climate and a smile touched Elrond’s lips. ‘Lothlórien approaches,’ he said.

Saruman led the way up the path to the foot of his stair. As he had surely done the night before, he took his place on the lowest step, arranging his robes carefully and waiting in serene patience. Elrond took up a position on the wizard’s right, though he did not presume to place himself on equal footing with his host.

There were few folk about, but such of Saruman’s people as were near at hand gathered by the fringes of the trees, watching avidly as the fair panoply approached. The contingent from Lorien was one score strong; woodsmen and archers and proud-eyed knights riding in tight formation. Two handmaidens of the queen were mounted on fair palfreys, their mantles and their kirtles, short-skirted for travel, rippling lightly in the gentle wind of their passage.

At the head of the assembly rode the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien. Celeborn the Wise sat high upon his stallion, silver hair about his shoulders and solemnity in his eyes. His raiment was of palest green beneath the ethereal grey of his cloak, and his brow was bound with a slender filet of gold. Beside him, mounted upon a war-horse with her shimmering hair in twin plaits down her back, rode Galadriel. Her kirtle was of white, remarkably unstained despite the long miles she had ridden. Sturdy boots of soft grey leather sat in her stirrups: unlike her ladies she rode astride, the soft folds of her gown falling gracefully despite their unorthodox position. Her mantle was thrown back over her shoulders, and she sat erect in the saddle, proud and puissant and perilously beautiful in the sunlight.

Elrond’s own folk had heard the call of the horns, and they too were gathering to greet the newcomers. Elrohir reached the foot of Orthanc just in advance of the horses, and stepped forward, offering a hand to Galadriel as she alighted.

‘Thank you, my noble knight,’ she said, and she kissed his brow.

Celeborn had dismounted, Galadriel moved to take his arm. Deftly, Elrohir skirted around to take the reins of the two horses, watching as his grandparents moved forward towards Saruman. The formal words of welcome were exchanged, and the Istar stepped forward with a pleasant smile on his lips.

‘It is a delight to look upon you again, lady,’ he said with courtly courtesy. ‘You bring with you such beauty as Isengard has not seen in many long years.’

‘I hope I may bring insight also,’ Galadriel said, gently rebutting his attempt at adulation. She looked about. ‘But where are the others?’ she asked, indicating Elrond. ‘Are we three the only ones who have arrived?’

‘I fear my brethren travel at a somewhat more leisured pace than Elven horsemen,’ Saruman said. ‘As for the envoy from Lindon, rumour has come to me of fair folk on the Old Road. They shall most likely arrive tomorrow or the day after.’

Celeborn strode over to Elrond and clasped his arm. ‘Kinsman, well met,’ he said. ‘Long has it been since last we looked upon one another. I could wish that we did so now under happier circumstances, but I am glad of the meeting nonetheless.’

‘And I, too,’ Elrond reciprocated earnestly. There had been a time, long ago, when he had lived in awe of the silver lord and feared even to raise his eyes in his presence. Now they knew each other well and loved one another as only those who have shared and lost a dear treasure could. ‘I hope your journey was as peaceable as mine.’

‘The orcs may breed like flies in the mountains, but they have not yet grown so bold that they will lightly risk the wrath of Finarfin’s daughter,’ Celeborn said. ‘We passed through the Wold unassailed.’

Saruman drew near, turning his attentions from the wife to the husband. ‘I shall be glad of your council, lord,’ he said to Celeborn. ‘There are grave matters to discuss and many questions to resolve.’

‘They shall not be resolved today,’ Celeborn said sagely, placing his hand upon Saruman’s elbow and drawing him away towards the fruit-groves. ‘Though we might proceed without Círdan’s emissary, it remains still for Mithrandir to arrive. Then we shall be long locked in serious discourse. For now, let us stretch our legs and roam in your fair gardens, and you can tell me the news of your land. In these dark days so few missives from other realms come to Lórien.’

As they moved off, Elrond turned his gaze upon Galadriel. Their eyes met, and he could feel her mind touching his. She beheld his anxieties about his home and his folk, and she offered her comfort: nothing could be too gravely amiss, or he would have known it, through the weaving of Vilya’s power with the Valley.

‘You are weary of heart, Peredhil,’ she said softly, drawing near and lighting her fingers upon his face. ‘Greatly has your strength been tried in recent weeks.’

‘I wish only to return home as swiftly as I may,’ Elrond confessed. Before her majesty and insight there was no chance of dissembling. ‘There are tasks which call me thither.’

Profound, seeking orbs delved into his soul, and drew forth the image of Estel, sombre and still, with pain in his young eyes that he strove so valiantly to hide. ‘He is very dear to you,’ Galadriel murmured. It was a sad thing, she told him without uttering the perilous words, when a father must be separated from his son while the latter was so young.

‘It is only for a time,’ Elrond said, as much to convince himself as to reassure her of his competence. ‘Tell me, how is my daughter?’

‘She is well. She is eager to see you. She begins to ache for the vales of her home, I think. To speak with you again will do much to quiet the yearnings of her heart.’

She did not speak the words, but the meaning was clear. Not one among them would suffer this fairest child of Lúthien to dare the passage of the mountains while the danger was so great. Not even in the company of a host of thousands would Arwen Undómiel be permitted to traverse the Hithaeglir until the day when the passes were once more deemed safe. Her mother’s capture and torment had nearly broken the family, and if the same fate should befall the pure and noble maiden of Imladris it would destroy them all.

‘We should follow my lord and Curunír, lest they should stray too far,’ Galadriel said, and her voice and eyes were suddenly merry. She held out her hand to Elrohir, who passed the reins off to one of Saruman’s grooms and moved to take it. ‘Come, my sweet warrior,’ she said fondly; ‘and tell me of your errantries.’

Elrond followed them into the grove of trees, lost in unhappy thoughts.





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