Let us Sing Together by StarSpray

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

Elrond spent the morning with the scribes, transcribing notes into proper text and putting to paper all that he himself remembered of the War of Wrath. He would never forget it—such a glorious array of banners and armies had never before been seen, and hopefully would never be seen again.

There was something soothing about mornings spent thus, with early sunlight slanting through the windows, the cool breeze carrying on it birdsong and the cries of gulls along the shore, and the tang of salt mingling with the flowers that flourished outside the burgeoning library and the smells of fresh parchment and ink inside. There was little speech, everyone absorbed in their work and content to labor in companionable silence. There were slightly more Men than Elves at work on this project, for it was primarily men who did and would benefit, in the coming years. Elrond was already compiling a list of works to copy and take with him to Elenna, when he was finally able to visit Elros, who was eager to compile a great library of his own.

By lunchtime, though, Elrond’s hands had begun to cramp, his fingertips were stained with ink, and he was starting to feel restless. Gil-galad didn’t need him for much these days, except for official engagements, which left him at loose ends the rest of the time.

So he went walking. He meandered through the streets of Forlond, paved with pale stone and still bright and sparkling in their newness, with the smell of paint and stone dust still lingering faintly in the air, beneath the smells of flowers and fruit and the sea. The builders had taken many liberties with both buildings and streets and courtyards, using different colored stone to create intricate designs around fountains that sent clear water arcing skyward before it fell like music into marble basins. Trees and flowering plants had been placed wherever there was room, where birds perched or nested, adding their own songs to the harmony of the fountains and elven harps.

He visited the bustling marketplace and chatted with acquaintances and friends, and purchased lunch from one of the many vendors on the street that sold everything from pastries to meat skewered and roasted with pungent herbs. He’d befriended some children over the past few months, and often he’d get drawn into one of their games, kicking a ball around a courtyard, or racing up and down the streets, or they would cluster around him asking for tales, or begging him to tend scraped knees and bruised shins.

Today his young friends were more interested in tales than in games. The boys clamored for the tale of Túrin Turambar and the slaying of Glaurung, while the girls wanted to hear of Haleth and her warrior-women. Elrond compromised by telling neither story, choosing instead to sing them the portion of the Lay of Leithian that told of Lúthien and Huan and the defeat of Sauron at Tol-en-Gaurhoth. It was a popular part of the Lay, and by the time he finished his audience had grown, and there were those in it who wept quietly, remembering fair Finrod Felagund and his tower by the river, or Lúthien as she once sang and danced beside the enchanted waters of the Esgalduin in Doriath.

As the small crowd dispersed, Lindir found Elrond still by the fountain, and slung an arm around his shoulders. “It isn’t too late to take up minstrelsy, you know,” he said. “With a harp in your hand you could have held the entire city spellbound.”

Elrond laughed, shaking his head. “I think I will leave that to you. But speaking of harps, where is yours? I thought you were in the middle of a new composition.”

Lindir sighed, head falling back dramatically. “I’ve given up on it,” he said. “For now. Perhaps in a century or two I’ll return to it.” When Elrond laughed again, Lindir gave him a wounded look. “You don’t understand,” he said. “You don’t have to live up to a kinsman like Daeron.”

“No,” Elrond said, arresting his smile with some effort. “I only have to live up to the legacy of such names as Lúthien, and Beren, and Eärendil, and Tuor, and—”

“Oh all right, all right. Be gone with you!” Lindir released Elrond and wandered off with a mournful sigh, presumably to find someone else to woefully misunderstand him. Elrond shook his head and straightened his robes as he stood. It was drawing toward evening, now. Nearby a nightingale perched in an apple tree to sing her sweet twilight song.

There was a tower in the midst of the palace, just completed. It had been built for stargazing and for keeping watch over the Gulf for ships and storms. Elrond wound his way through the streets toward it, a tall spire of pale stone, and dark spaces for windows at the top. Celebrimbor had made noises about a glass roof, the better for stargazing, but he had been overruled, since such a project would take longer than anyone cared to wait for the finished tower. Elrond thought it might have been worth it; he had heard that Celebrimbor now planned a similar project in Ost-in-Edhil, and was looking forward to seeing the final result.

When he reached the top of the tower, a seagull perched on one of the window ledges took flight with a cry, swooping away out over the harbor, where white sails gleamed pale orange in the light of the sunset. It blazed, that evening, the whole western horizon a riot of color—fiery oranges and sharp pinks and deep gold edging puffy clouds. Wheeling sea birds appeared as tiny dark spots against the clouds. Elrond could see fishing boats returning to shore, and larger vessels that sailed between the havens of Forlond, Harlond, and Mithlond. From the top of the tower he could hear the sailors and dock workers singing, faint chanting as they pulled ropes and hauled cargo in rhythm that, at this distance, looked easy.

Elrond leaned on the windowsill and gazed westward, toward the Sea, as out of the last vestiges of fiery sunset, Gil-Estel rose, a brilliant pinprick of light in the purpling twilight. The breeze picked up, whirling around the tower and tugging at Elrond’s braids, bringing with it the fresh salt smell of the open sea. He watched Gil-Estel rise for a little while, before dropping his gaze back down to the shore. In the distance, he saw a lone figure making its way back toward Forlond from the open beaches stretching north.

He left the tower, fetching a lamp on the way; the beaches were still jagged and sometimes unstable, and even the most sure-footed of Elves might stumble in the dark. He met the figure past the harbor, and there they stopped, standing together just above the tide line as it started to go out, watching the waves wash up over the shore, the rocks not yet worn smooth by water and time. The waves glittered in the light of Elrond’s lamp, and the light caught also Celebrimbor’s eyes, that flashed with the fire of Aman, but it was dimmed now by weariness and defeat. “You were gone so long I thought you might have found him,” Elrond said.

Celebrimbor smiled grimly. “No, but I wandered farther than I intended, following rumors of strange music and ghosts in the waves. But if it was him, he’s since moved on. And I,” he added, grimacing as he ran his fingers through salt-crusted tangles, “am thoroughly sick of the sea. I think I will move inland. Perhaps I’ll dwell with the Dwarves. There’s probably very little sand in their mountain halls.”

Elrond laughed. “You should ask them about it, after you’ve cleaned up,” he said.

“Are there Dwarves here?” Celebrimbor brightened, some of the tension bleeding out of his posture as he set aside, for the moment at least, the so-far fruitless search for Maglor that he and Elrond had engaged in intermittently since things had begun to settle after the War of Wrath.

“Yes, a trading party from the Misty Mountains,” Elrond said as they fell into step together. The light from his lamp swung over the wet rocks ahead of them, making them glitter and shine. “Some of them have already asked about you,” he added. “They’re impressed by your work here in Forlond.”

“That is high praise indeed.”

When they reached the street leading to Gil-galad’s palace they parted, Elrond to the palace and Celebrimbor to his home and workshops, agreeing to meet in the morning so Elrond could introduce Celebrimbor to the Dwarves. As Elrond approached the palace, he heard music and laughter in one of the many gardens, carried on the breeze with varied smells of food.

His own rooms overlooked the sea, like the bedroom he had long ago shared with Elros in Sirion, when they had been small enough to need to stand on boxes or precarious piles of toys in order to see out the window, where they spent hours watching the harbor or scanning the horizon, looking for certain familiar sails. Their nurse had scolded them more than once for it, telling them they’d certainly fall and split their little heads open if they continued making such constructions. When their mother caught them, she had just sighed and had a chair brought from another room, big enough for them both to sit with a good view, or for her to sit with them, letting them take turns with a spyglass, while she told them increasingly fantastic tales of the adventures their father was no doubt having as he sailed from one end of the earth to the other in search of the Blessed Realm. Elrond had always meant to ask his father if the stories were true, but he’d never gotten the chance. It didn’t really matter now, anyway, he supposed.

His thoughts tonight, however, did not stray far beyond the shores of Middle-earth. Celebrimbor had been gone for months, seeking the source of rumors of someone wandering the beaches singing haunting laments. But if it was Maglor, and not a wandering Maia lamenting the loss of Beleriand, or some being neither Ainu nor Elf nor Man, he was doing a very good job of hiding when folks came searching. It was time to give up—at least for now.

The next morning Elrond met Celebrimbor, who had scrubbed himself pink in an effort to get rid of all the sand and salt, outside the large workshop and forge that Gil-galad had had built. The Dwarves were keen to see what sort of work the Elves were doing, and they would be keener still to see Celebrimbor son of Curufin at work. Their leader, Magni, was renowned among the Dwarves for his gold smithing, and for his sharp mind, which was why he had been sent to negotiate trading with the Elven king. He and Celebrimbor looked each other over, one stout and sturdy, with rings on his fingers and rubies and gold thread woven into the braids of his dark beard that was tucked into a golden belt, the other tall and ornamented, save for a seven-pointed star pinned to his shoulder. After a moment, Celebrimbor smiled. “Shall I give you a tour?” he asked. It was hard to see Magni’s smile beneath his beard, but his eyes crinkled.

“Yes, indeed.”

Elrond left them to it. He found the other Dwarves exploring the library, and ended up sitting outside sipping ale and discussing their variations on Daeron’s runes. That was where Gil-galad found him. “It seems Celebrimbor wants to visit the mountains,” he said as they walked back toward the palace. “The Misty Mountains, I mean.”

“He mentioned it last night,” Elrond said. “And he made friends with Magni rather quickly.”

“Yes. He’s going to accompany Magni when he returns to Hadhodrond. Círdan and I are sending with them a chest of pearls—a token of friendship, for the Dwarf King.” An echo of Nimphelos, he did not have to add, the great pearl that Thingol had given the king of Nogrod, in the long twilight of Beleriand, before strife had come between Elves and Dwarves. Elrond nodded. “As my herald,” Gil-galad continued, “I am sending you to deliver it.”

The party left Forlond a week later, with the small chest of glittering pearls attached securely to Elrond’s saddle. Erestor accompanied them, send by Gil-galad in case Celebrimbor did not wish to return to Lindon with Elrond. It was a merry party; the Dwarves liked to sing as they rode, and when they were not singing they were telling jokes and outlandish tales, and when they were not laughing, they were willing to answer any questions Erestor or Elrond had about the lands they were traveling through. Eriador was nearly all forest, they said, and there were several rivers they would need to cross.

“There’s strange things living in these parts,” Magni’s second in command, Gróa told them, as they followed a path down a small, lazy brown river, lined with willow trees. “Take Forn, for instance.”

“Forn?”

“No one knows where he came from, or why. He’s not one of you folk, and he isn’t Mannish,” Gróa said. “And he’s certainly not one of us. No dwarf with a shred of dignity would caper about the way he does, singing nonsense all the day long. He’s not dangerous, as far as I know, but there is something else living in the river here.” She eyed the water warily. Elrond followed her gaze, watching a swirl of yellow willow leaves float by. “I’d not follow any pretty singing into the water, if I were you,” Gróa added, as though she thought this was something Elves were prone to do. Or maybe just men.

They camped near the river that evening. As he watched a couple of Dwarves get the fire going, Elrond felt a chill crawl up his spine. He turned to peer into the rapidly-growing gloom, but the forest around them seemed empty, except for tree frogs, crickets, and a couple of nightingales. He watched a bat flutter across an open space between the tree branches overhead, off for an evening of hunting insects. There was no sign of the mysterious singing Forn.

In spite of his discomfort, nothing happened that evening, or the next day. They camped that evening by a portion of the river that had spread and calmed enough to form a pool, where water lilies grew. The air was filled with their sweet scent. As they set up camp Elrond thought he heard laughter somewhere among the lilies, but when he looked up he saw nothing but ripples, probably from a fish surfacing briefly. Gróa glowered at the lilies before stomping off to gather more firewood. No one else seemed to notice at all; Celebrimbor was in the middle of some hilarious story about a mishap in one of Nargothrond’s forges, with the rest of the Dwarves as his audience, and Erestor had wandered off murmuring about a wild strawberry patch he’d seen.

After double checking his things—particularly the chest of pearls—Elrond went to the edge of the water, with some vague thoughts as to fishing, but mostly curious about whatever it was that made Gróa so uncomfortable. He peered into the clear water between the lily pads, but saw nothing but a few small silver minnows that darted away from his wavering shadow. He thought he heard the echo of laughter, but perhaps it was only the flowing of the water over stone.

But as night set in, other sounds made themselves known—including, after a while, the sound of a wailing woman, a piercing, lonely sound that made the hair on the back of Elrond’s neck stand on end. The Dwarves grumbled amongst themselves, but Celebrimbor and Erestor rose, reaching for their weapons.

“Put those away,” Gróa said. “You don’t want to see whatever it is making that noise.”

The cry came again, and this time there were words in it, laments and calls for help, for the maid was lost and alone in a strange land far from her kin. Celebrimbor got up again, but Magni gripped his arm, tugging him back down. Elrond stood, but did not move toward the noise. There was something about it that made him itch just under his skin.

He sat down again, and took out his harp. Gróa nodded approvingly as he struck a chord and began to sing. It was an ancient song that Círdan had taught him, a song of praise for starlight glimmering on the water, of the streams and lakes of Beleriand and the frigid springs in the mountains, and the Sea, fathomless and vast. Erestor joined him on the second verse. If the woman in the forest were truly an Elven-maid lost and alone, Elrond reasoned as he sang, she would hear the song and come seeking them herself. But if the wailing were a trap for unwary travelers, as the Dwarves seemed to think, then whatever creature it was would be driven away by real Elven voices.

The wailing died away, and no one came from the forest. But something did splash in the lily pool, and when Elrond went to sleep he thought he heard his song echoed back to him, in a voice old and young as springtime, and sweet as the lily-scent. There was strange power in that voice, too, but somehow different from the other.

Elrond woke suddenly in the dead of night, after the moon had set, to needle-like claws sinking into his ankle. He jerked, and whatever it was that grasped him started pulling, dragging him from his blankets into the deep tree-shadows. His yell roused the others, and Erestor, who was on watch, came running from the other side of their camp. But the thing that held Elrond was too fast, and in moments he found himself up in a willow tree, one clawed hand clamped over his mouth while the other held his wrists tightly behind his back. He felt the claws prick his skin, and warm blood trickled down to his fingertips.

“What a pretty prize I’ve caught,” hissed his captor, laughing nearly silently. Dark hair tickled his cheek. “One of Melian’s get; I could hear it in your voice when you sang tonight. But you cannot sing yourself a web of spells to save you now!” She spat Melian’s name like a curse, and something rustled in the branches around them. Wings? “Perhaps I will take you to my master; he would be pleased to have such a thrall in his dungeons!”

Something splashed beneath them, and the clear voice Elrond had heard singing called, “Shadow-bat, come out, come out! Why are you climbing when you could be swimming? There are shadows aplenty down in my lily pool!”

“Mind your business, River-daughter!” hissed the shadow-bat. “Or I shall come and rip up your lilies by their miserable roots!”

The River-daughter laughed. “Poor little shadow-bat, so far from her old master’s halls! You should not steal away poor Elven-wanderers, or Eldest might come and sing you right back from whence you came—if the Dwarvish axes or Elven-arrows do not find you first!”

Elrond could not speak or move his arms, but he could move his legs; he twisted suddenly, hard, and kicked at the vampire’s wings. She screeched, a sound like metal scraping on stone, and released him in a flurry of wings and flying hair. Elrond fell from the tree into the water, and immediately felt hands close on his shoulders, tugging him down into the water before he could do more than take a panicked gulp of air. The River-daughter seemed hardly better than the vampire, as she dragged him deep down into her lily pool, among the shadows of the lily roots, where she finally released him. Elrond shot to the surface, cuts on his wrists stinging, lungs burning, only to find himself surrounded by willow roots, and the muddy bank at his back, on the other side of the pool from his companions and the safety of their campfire, which someone had stirred to leaping flame.

The vampire shrieked again, and swooped low over the water, darker than the darkest shadows in the starlight. Bowstrings sang, but the arrows missed the dark wings and hit the water. Elrond tried to judge how far it was to the other side, but in the darkness it was difficult to see. “Elrond?” Erestor called. “Elrond!”

The River-daughter reappeared, clamping a hand over Elrond’s mouth just as he opened it to reply. “Hush! Or the shadow-bat will find you again, and take you away to her lair far from the river and the willows, where even Eldest may not find you!” Elrond jerked away. Who was to say the River-daughter was any less a threat than one of Morgoth’s old vampires? She laughed, softly. “You are a child of Melian, perhaps you should turn into a river-bird and stay with me! None would harm you here, and you could sing with me all the summer long!”

“No thank you,” he said, striving to find a way out of the roots.

The River-daughter laughed again, and he thought it was because he kept trying to escape, until she said, “So courteous, shivering in the dark! Very well. I will return you to your friends, if you will do me a favor in return.”

Elrond stared at her. Her eyes were bright as sun on clear water, even in the darkness. “What is it?” he asked.

She smiled, teeth flashing. “I heard you sing this evening,” she said, “and I would hear you sing again! Come back to my lily pool when your errand is done and sing in the sunshine with me, of birds and flowers and of growing things.”

Was that all? “Very well,” Elrond said. And then he had hardly time to take another breath before the River-daughter pulled him under the water again, and through the dark depths to the far bank, where he was nearly shot before his companions realized it was him.

“What happened?” they all wanted to know, as he squeezed water from his hair and stripped off his dripping clothes. “What did they want?”

“Me,” Elrond said, and shuddered.

No one slept any more that night, and as soon as it was light enough to see they packed up and left, though it was days before they started to feel certain they’d left the vampire behind. No one let Elrond go off on his own; at first it was comforting, but as the journey wore on it just became exasperating. “Is this how Gil-galad feels all the time?” he asked Erestor as they rode a little way ahead of the rest of the party. They were nearing the Misty Mountains, and had come to a road made by the Dwarves, wide and smooth and flat.

“I doubt it,” Erestor said. “Gil-galad is allowed to go off alone quite often.” Elrond glared at him, but Erestor only raised an eyebrow. “Well, he’s never been kidnapped by a vampire! Which is a sad bit of irony on your part, I might add, Elrond.”

“Yes, I know,” he said dryly. “Next time I’ll do my best to sing her into submission and steal her skin to wear as a cloak.”

Erestor laughed, but sobered quickly. “What worries me is her talk of her master’s dungeons.”

“She’s almost certainly mad,” Elrond said. “Morgoth’s dungeons are no more.”

They reached Khazad-dûm with no further trouble, and after less than an hour Elrond realized it would be as difficult to tear Celebrimbor away from here as it would be to take Lindir from his instruments. For his part, he enjoyed the tours of the parts of the city where visitors were permitted, and he learned much that the Dwarves were willing to teach. Gróa remained with Elrond and Erestor, acting as interpreter and guide. After they presented the pearls to the Dwarf-king, who was delighted with both quantity and quality, for pearls were rare gems indeed for the Dwarves, who did not dwell by the Sea, Celebrimbor disappeared with Magni and the other smiths, and they did not see him again for days.

“It is a good thing Gil-galad sent me along,” Erestor remarked. “We will certainly be returning to Lindon without Celebrimbor.”

He was right. Though they spent more than a year in the mountains, Erestor and Elrond were ready to leave, missing the stars and the wind in the trees, long before Celebrimbor was. It seemed likely he would be content to spend years in the forges of Khazad-dûm, especially once the Dwarves began to teach him their secrets of forging mithril.

As before, they traveled with a company of Dwarves, though many of them were left at the end of the dwarf-road, where they began working to expand it westward, the better for trade with Lindon. But it was not long before they were following paths that were little more than game trails through the thick woods of Eriador. Autumn was beginning, with leaves just starting to turn from green to gold and orange and fire-red. Squirrels were busy all around them as they passed, unheeding of the elven horses or dwarf ponies in their quest for nuts to store for the winter. Flocks of birds passed overhead, with phalanxes of geese leading the way.

There was no sign of any vampires or other fell creatures, and they reached the lily pool after many days of peaceful travel. They came to it in the middle of the afternoon, but Elrond called a halt. The Dwarves muttered amongst themselves, and Erestor looked pained. “You nearly drowned here, last time,” he pointed out as they made camp. “And Gróa did warn us about whatever lives in the pool.”

“The River-daughter saved my life,” Elrond said. “And I promised I would return to sing with her.”

The Dwarves had made the camp well away from the water, so Elrond was alone when he went down to the water’s edge. It was early enough in the season that there were still lilies in bloom, but only a few, and he wondered what the River-daughter did when her pool froze over the winter. He did not wonder long, however; as soon as he struck a chord on his harp the River-daughter appeared, laughing and splashing in delight. In the sunlight he could see her clearly, with bright eyes and sun-kissed skin, and long hair that pooled around her shoulder like liquid gold in the water. “Welcome back to the willow-river, Melian’s child,” she said.

Elrond smiled at her. “I did promise, though I almost thought you would not be here.”

She laughed. “Were you later in the year I would not be. I would be asleep under hill, dreaming of sunshine until spring thaws brought the songbirds back. But come! The sun is still shining warm, and there are flowers yet in blossom! Let us sing together, of sun and stars and colored leaves and fair autumn-weather! And perhaps Eldest will come and dance with us, if he is not busy chasing badgers!”

Elrond began to play, and the River-daughter to sing. Her song was a song as old as the river, and as fresh as sunrise. Eldest, whoever he was, did not join them; but when Elrond departed the next day, he did so with sore fingers and a fair tale for Gil-galad, of the sweet-voiced River-daughter in her lily pool, a friend to the Eldar at least, whatever the Dwarves might say.