Haunted by StarSpray

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

They had heard from the eagles that after Doriath had fallen, a remnant of its people had settled at the mouths of Sirion. Eärendil huddled under his mother’s cloak while she, Tuor, and others argued whether to make that their destination. Tempers were raw, and dark circles hovered under everyone’s red-rimmed eyes. Eärendil smelled smoke still clinging to Idril’s cloak and wrinkled his nose. Smoke and ash and blood – it seemed that the smell would never fade.

“Do you think the Sindar will welcome us, after what happened this winter?” Idril asked skeptically, eyeing the map spread on the ground before them. Its corners were held down with rocks of varying sizes that would leave dirty smudges behind when the map was taken up again. Eärendil could see Gondolin on the map, encircled by mountains and seemingly, deceptively safe.

“Círdan rules on Balar just off the coast,” someone else argued. “He has always been friendly to the Noldor, and his people know we are no Kinslayers.”

“Artanis still dwells with the Iathrim,” someone else added. “Your cousin, Lady Idril.”

“Galadriel,” Idril murmured absently. “She has not answered to Artanis since she wed.”

“Galadriel, then. She will speak for us, surely? And Ereinion dwells with Círdan…he is High King of the Noldor now – someone must get word to him…”

Eärendil had heard these names before – Cirdan, Artanis Galadriel, and others – in conversations only half-listened to in Gondolin, when trouble was always faraway and happening to someone else, or in half-wistful reminiscences of times long before even his father had been born. Now he hung on every word, wondering just who these people were – relatives he had never met, who may or may not welcome them to their havens by the sea, and the Kinslayers, whoever they were, whose actions might somehow taint them, who had slain nothing but orcs.

In the end it was decided that they would make their way to the mouths of Sirion. If the Sindar would not welcome them, they would settle somewhere else, in Arvernien perhaps – somewhere close to Balar where Ereinion was. There were too few Noldor left for them to remain scattered across Beleriand.

Eärendil stared at the map again, tracing the river all the way down to the sea. It seemed like a very long way.

And it was a very long way – but at least, at first, they were traveling in the summer, and there was no fear of freezing, and food to forage and hunt for along the way.

They followed the River Sirion as it flowed, muddy brown and lazy, along toward the sea, and passed through forests that had once been impassible, it was said. Mists and enchantments had twisted all the paths and kept out all enemies for years, until Elu Thingol had been slaughtered by Dwarves, and his Maia queen had shed her Elven body and fled West in her wild grief – so Idril told Eärendil as they passed through Brethil and Neldoreth, where white flowers blossomed in the meadows. Some of the Sindar from Gondolin left the main host where Sirion met the Esgalduin, insisting upon visiting Menegroth – or what remained.

Not knowing what they would find, Tuor agreed to halt the host to await them. The orcs had not seemed to pursue them further after witnessing Glorfindel’s battle with the Balrog in the mountains, and though they all still feared pursuit, or attack by other, unrelated marauding bands, the woods of Doriath seemed safer than the open shores of Sirion, eerie as they were.

“This is a place of ghosts, now,” Tuor murmured as someone walking near them wondered aloud of the glade they camped in had been the one where Beren first beheld Lúthien Tinúviel dancing spring into flower.

“Then all of Beleriand is haunted,” Idril replied, tightening her grip on Eärendil’s hand ever so slightly.

“Not like this,” Voronwë murmured, getting up to go gather firewood.

It was not long before the Sindar returned to them, eyes red and voices hoarse. They would not speak of what they had found. At night they sung quiet laments that made Eärendil shiver, because their grief was doubled, for both Gondolin and Menegroth, Turgon and Thingol.

The forests were beautiful, but Eärendil did not like the shadows at night, deeper than darkness should be, or the tangle of branches overhead that blotted out the moon and stars. And he especially did not like the sounds – animals crying in the night, owls hooting their disapproval of the Elves tramping through their hunting ground, mysterious rustlings and twigs snapping.

One evening as he drifted toward sleep, he thought he heard someone piping in a nearby glade, faintly and distantly. He asked his father in a whisper, “Do you hear the music?”

Tuor rose up on an elbow and cocked his head, brow furrowing as he listened. His pale blue eyes seemed to glow in the semi-darkness, and the light of the campfire danced on his hair. “What music, Eärendil?”

“Piping. Can’t you hear it?”

“I cannot.”

Idril stirred on Eärendil’s other side. “You are imagining things, Eärendil,” she murmured. “Go to sleep.”

Fully awake, he did not hear the piping anymore. He tried to return to sleep, but the mysterious remembered music mingled with the sound of the river, and prompted dreams of a beautiful woman with shadows for hair dancing through the niphredil and roses, pale arms flung wide as she spun, her laughter like nightingales.

The image stayed with him after he woke. Listening to the stories and lays sung around the campfire, Eärendil started to think that maybe he had dreamed of Lúthien herself, and the piping he had heard was an echo of long-ago Daeron, who was said to be an even greater musician than Maglor Fëanorion.

Ghosts indeed.

They followed Sirion south, following a path Tuor thought must have been made by the Iathrim when they fled southward, and came finally to Nan-tathren, where willow trees provided shelter, and there was plenty of game. No one wanted to travel further, for they were ready to collapse. Two women in the company were carrying children, and gave birth not long after they settled among the willows. To try to ease their grief, and to celebrate the continuance of life, Idril set about planning a feast. Eärendil wandered through their camp listening to many quickly-constructed lap-harps and lutes, and carved wooden flutes as songs and laments for the fallen were composed, the music mingling with the healthy cries of two newborn babies.

He found his father humming bars and strumming a harp that Eärendil was startled to recognize, for he had not known Tuor had brought his harp out of Gondolin. Tuor chuckled, and pulled Eärendil onto his lap. “I stowed it away in the tunnel with the lembas your mother prepared,” he said.

“What are you playing?” Eärendil asked, leaning against Tuor’s chest.

“You cannot listen to it yet,” Tuor replied. “I’m not finished.” He strummed the harp strings, filling the air with sweet music that reminded Eärendil of summer evenings sitting by the fountains in the square, singing hymns to Elbereth. And that was what Tuor played for him, singing quietly, his chest humming gently, comfortingly, beneath Eärendil’s ear.

They stayed in Nan-tathren for many weeks, as summer drifted slowly towards autumn. Tuor’s song for Eärendil was the tale of Ulmo’s coming to Nevrast, and Tuor’s first sight of the Sea – and a great longing to see it grew in Eärendil’s heart – to see the sunlight sparkling on the waves, and to hear them crash against the shore instead of listening to music that merely mimicked the steady, rushing rhythm.

Tuor admitted to feeling the same when Eärendil confided in him, and he, Idril, and the other leaders took thought again to continuing on to the Havens of Sirion. Winter was coming, and they could not stay in Nan-tathren, especially with children and infants. So Eärendil followed his parents southward again, following the river in search of the Havens. Autumn was setting in, and the nights grew chill and damp, heralding the coming frost, and their path took them through muddy fens so that water seemed to get into everything, and not even the brightest fires seemed to get them dry.

At last, though, the breeze took on a salty smell, and the cries of gulls filled the air; Eärendil, through the haze of a bad cold that had just set in, saw much of the tension drain from his father’s shoulders as he smiled – for the first time since Gondolin. He hoisted Eärendil into his arms and jogged ahead of the host, to the top of a bluff covered in crackling brown grass. “There it is,” he breathed.

Eärendil gasped, aching throat and running nose forgotten. The sea stretched out before them, a vast expanse of blue and grey, dappled with sunlight that made it sparkle. On the shore, he could see a small walled settlement, with smoke curling gently toward the sky from chimneys. The wind carried the sound of the waves to them, a steady musical rhythm. “What do you think?” Tuor asked.

“It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” Eärendil croaked, making his father laugh.

“That was what I said when I first beheld the sea,” he said, and added as Idril joined them, “but then I met your mother…” She smiled.

They were met outside the settlement by representatives of Círdan, the Sindar and Green Elves who had founded the Havens, and by Lord Celeborn, once Prince of Doriath and now leader of the remnant of its people. They were all so different from the Noldor of Gondolin. Eärendil rested his head on Tuor’s shoulder and stared at Lord Celeborn. He had never seen anyone with silver hair, like moonlight spun into fine thread.

It was the Green Elf who stepped forward to inquire after who they were, and what brought such a bedraggled group to the mouths of Sirion. The look in his face suggested that he suspected the nature of their tale, and indeed no one seemed surprise to hear they were refugees. They were surprised when the name of Gondolin was spoken.

“But how did the Dark Lord learn of its location?” Círdan’s man asked, stricken. “What new devilry – ”

“Not any new devilry,” Idril said heavily, and Tuor put his free arm around her. “I fear we were betrayed. We have come to Sirion because we learned the remnant of Doriath was welcomed here, and because Ereinion dwells with Círdan on Balar. My cousin Galadriel will speak for us, I am sure…” She looked imploringly at Celeborn, who nodded.

“She has already spoken well of Turgon, and of you, Lady Idril.”

There was no question, it seemed, of turning the Gondolindrim away. It was late in the year, so plans for homes were quickly drawn up for those who could not say with others in the settlement until spring. Eärendil was taken with his parents to a house atop a cliff, overlooking the town and the sea. Lady Galadriel greeted them at the door; she took one look at Idril and embraced her, before leading them all inside. Eärendil was set on a soft chair beside a bright hearth, and a mug of pungent tea was thrust into his hands. He sipped at it, sighing as his throat eased, and his head cleared a little bit.

Then he became aware of another child, as dark as he was fair, staring at him from the shadows beside the chair opposite. Eärendil lowered the mug of tea and stared at her. She gazed back unblinking with wide grey eyes, and hair falling like feathery shadows across her face. Eärendil stared at her until he felt a sneeze coming on, and had to turn away to cover his face and prevent the tea from spilling.

When he turned back, she was gone. Eärendil blinked, and wondered if he had only imagined her. Or if she was a ghost who had followed him from the forest.

Idril came then to pick him up and take him to bathe, and then to bed. “What do you think of Sirion, Eärendil?” she asked as she tucked him into a trundle bed in the room all three of them were to share.

Eärendil yawned. “I like the Sea,” he said. “But I miss the mountains.” It was strange to look out of the window and see nothing for miles and miles.

Idril smiled a little sadly. “Yes, I suppose it will take some getting used to. Sleep well, Eärendil. You’ll feel better for it.” She kissed his forehead, and left. Eärendil lay staring at the stars out the window until he fell asleep, and dreamed of flying through them, only to find that he was not flying but swimming, sending stardust rippling in his wake.

He woke feeling much better, sometime after his parents had risen and left the room. He found a tray sitting beside the bed with breakfast, still warm. He ate quickly, and dressed in the clothes he found freshly laundered laying on his parents’ bed. It felt more than good to be clean and full and warm and dry again.

Eärendil wandered through the strange halls until he came to a closed door, in front of which crouched the girl from the night before. He stopped, and she looked up, tensing as though prepared to flee. She didn’t, instead pressing a slender, pale finger to her lips. Eärendil nodded and padded softly to join her. Pressing his ear against the wood, he could hear voices – his parents were in there, with Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel.

He looked at the girl, startled to realize how close they were; her nose was only inches from his. She stared at him unblinking, eyes grey like steel, framed by long, dark eyelashes. She was so pale, and her hair so dark, that he still wasn’t sure she was quite real. She looked like the maiden from his forest dreams shrunk to a child’s body. “What are they talking about?” Eärendil whispered.

“Your journey here.” Even so close Eärendil could hardly hear her; her whisper was hardly more than a breath.

The talk inside eventually back to the events leading up to Gondolin’s fall, and Eärendil stepped away from the door, not wanting to listen to that tale. He’d lived it – that was enough.

The girl followed him into an empty parlor. “Your mother said you passed through Doriath,” she said, still speaking quietly, but at least now he could hear her voice. It reminded him a little bit of the nightingales they had found in Neldoreth. “Did you find any children?”

“What?”

“Children. Two boys. Twins. Older than me.” The girl’s voice never rose, but it felt like it did as her desperation grew. “They say the Kinslayers took them to the forest and left them. Celeborn does not want me to know, but they can’t stop me listening.”

Just who was this girl? Eärendil shook his head. “I’m sorry. We didn’t find anyone. Some of my mother’s Sindarin followers went to Menegroth, but they did not bring anyone back. They didn’t tell anyone what they found.”

Tears shimmered in the girl’s eyes, but did not fall. She had had as much practice not crying as he did, Eärendil thought. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

She shook her head, hair falling across her face, so fine it seemed to float around her head. “It isn’t your fault,” she whispered. “I asked Lady Galadriel. Your people aren’t Kinslayers. You’ve been hidden away in the mountains, safe from everything.”

“Not everything,” Eärendil said. “Orcs came, and balrogs…” He had not seen the balrogs that had entered the city, though he knew Ecthelion had slain one. He had seen the one in the mountains, though Idril had tried to shield him and to cover his eyes. It had been massive, a creature of flames and thick black smoke that curled around it like wings. Glorfindel had grappled with it single-handedly, and plunged off the cliff onto the dark rocks far below. His body had barely been recognizable – all burned and blackened and broken – when the eagle had brought it back to them.

“They brought fire,” Eärendil and the girl whispered at the same time, and both froze, staring at the other.

After a moment he said, “My name is Eärendil.”

“My name is Elwing.”