Under strange stars by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 1

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In the end their answer came from a luckless Arnorian sailor by the name of Ruhiren. Erestor thought it terrifying, that the final piece of this puzzle that was the long search for Elrond and Celebrían’s lost son should come from a man so sad and damaged.

Elrond’s chief counsellor met the Mortal at a run-down watering hole in one of the seedier parts of Fornost. They were far indeed from the polish and splendour of King Valandil’s court.

Ruhiren ordered a jug of sour ale, something he clearly had done far too often of late. Greasy wisps of dark hair framed a face that once possessed that near-Elvish handsomeness of the Dúnedain, now bloated and sallow with drink. 

Erestor kept his hood up as he sat down at a corner table, his back to the wall. He did not trust the tangled mess he had allowed his hair to turn into for this secretive errand to hide his leaf-shaped ears. There was no telling how much Mortal eyes would discern in the reddish half-light of smouldering grease lamps. 

Ruhiren returned with the beer and two leather tankards. As he set them down his ragged sleeves failed to cover rings of tell-tale scar tissue. Here was a man who had worn shackles. 

Unwilling to spend more time in these sordid surroundings than necessary, Erestor did away with pleasantries. “Did you see the child we seek in Umbar, at the slave market?”

A spark of cleverness remained in the Mortal’s sea-gray eyes. He knew the question for the trap it was. “No child did I see, but a man grown. He’s been there for many years, as you know well. And he wasn’t at the market either.”

Erestor remained silent, carefully opening his mind to the alien pitch and rhythm of the Mortal’s thoughts. He kept eyes trained on the man’s face in his effort to discern falsehood, but found none. Ruhiren’s story was the truth, or at least what the man believed to be true.

“I met him after I was freed.” Ruhiren said with no more than the slightest of slurs. “This was deep in the desert. He’s with the Haradrim, fighting the Black Númenóreans of Umbar. He told me he’s a freed Northern slave.”

“They must be thick on the ground in those parts. What makes you think he is the one I seek?” Erestor asked.

Ruhiren’s eyes flashed with indignation. “I’ve seen the King a few times, from afar. Our Valandil is your Elf-Lord’s kinsman. The man I saw has that same look. Bears the family resemblance, so to speak.”

Erestor’s senses were strained to breaking point, but still he could discern no lie behind the extraordinary claim. “How would I find him, if I were to go looking?”

Ruhiren laughed bitterly. “It’s as simple as travelling to the deep desert. Once there, the Haradrim will find you. They might lead you to your lost prince if you somehow convince them you aren’t a spy from Umbar. If not, your Immortal life will end then and there.” He paused for another swig from his tankard. “I wouldn’t bother asking the Umbarians. They’ll hang you just for speaking his name.”

“Which is?” Erestor tried his best to show neither emotion nor enthusiasm.

“They call him Thanak, of the House of the Four Winds”

Erestor pounced upon the inconsistency. “So he does have kin there?” 

Ruhiren shook his head. “Oh no. Harad is overrun with freed slaves without a home to return to. They’ve started a House of their own. Bearing that name is a statement that he has no kin.”

Erestor’s sense of foreboding grew with every glimpse of this disturbingly alien place. “Maybe the search would be easier with you as my guide?”

Once more Ruhiren laughed his mirthless laugh. “That desert is a place of terror, Master Elf! The Black Númenóreans are cruel as vipers, the locals are more than a little mad, and every last evil thing our good King Elendil flushed out of Mordor crawled down there to hide. I’ve had the good fortune to make it back home once, and I won’t tempt the Valar twice!” 

As if to make his point, Ruhiren gulped his remaining sour ale as if it were the finest Dorwinion.

“Not even for silver coin?” Erestor tried, knowing well enough that Elrond would willingly hand over a king’s ransom for his son’s safe return.

Ruhiren plopped down his tankard with an unsteady hand, wiping his mouth and wafting an eye-watering smell of stale alcohol towards Erestor, who bravely kept from flinching.

“Not even for the Royal Scepter. If you think my tale worth your reward, then pay me what you promised. If not, at least pay for the beer.”

----

Pacing the portico of the Last Homely House was beneath the dignity of its Lady. Nonetheless Celebrían did just that as she waited for Erestor to return from his inquiry in Fornost.

Elrond had sensed him fording the Bruinen an hour ago, and all that time Celebrían had prowled the house like a caged lioness, silk skirts rustling behind her as she strode under the elegantly vaulted arches. On the lower branches of the great beech tree shedding its leaves in the courtyard she could make out Elladan’s dark shape, waiting for possible news of his twin as anxiously as she was. Elrond was inside, mindlessly rearranging the clutter on his worktable and attempting to hide his agitation.

Over the past forty years there had been many tales like this one, and always they had come to bitter disappointment - Elrohir being kept prisoner by wild hillfolk, abducted into the East, buried under such-and-such oak tree. The stories had all been dead ends, no trace ever found of the youngest twin or his escort. As the years wore on the stream of fortune-seekers spinning fancy tales with their greedy eyes on the reward offered by the Lord of Imladris had worn down to a trickle, then stopped entirely.

Until a few weeks ago, when word reached Imladris from Elrond’s envoy at the court of King Valandil in Fornost. Nénuwen’s missive came with her usual amount of level-headed scepticism. The letter painted the strange tale of a missing sailor’s unhoped-for return from the Far South. Once home the poor fellow had taken to stumbling between ale-houses, entertaining any listener willing to buy him a cup with wild tales of being captured by corsairs, sold into Umbar as a slave, and making a miraculous escape by way of the deep desert. In that strange and wild place he claimed to have met the one mortals in Arnor now called the "Lost Elf-Prince". 

That very day Erestor travelled to Fornost for a discrete investigation, avoiding Elrond’s official channels at court. And so the Lady of Imladris paced as she awaited the return of Elrond’s chief counsellor and spymaster on this radiant autumn afternoon.

Erestor had barely dismounted when Celebrían spun him around to face her. She had much of her mother’s talent for seeing minds. Then and there, she knew. 

With a small sound between a sob and a sigh she embraced Erestor as he stood there in his travel-stained, ill-made mannish clothes. He awkwardly returned the embrace while looking  over her shoulder at Elrond, who came running from his study without regard for the dignified reserve expected from the Lord of Imladris.

Celebrían turned around to offer her husband a single memory, wafer-thin and fragile. This was what all of Erestor’s skill at ósanwe had managed to extract from a mortal mind neither equipped nor suitable for such sharing. An image, its periphery hazy and dreamlike but gaining sharpness towards the centre where the dark outline of a face took shape. It was covered in cloth, a turban perhaps. Only the eyes were sharp and bright: grey as a clear evening, and within them the remembrance of starlight. Both Elrond and Elladan gasped, as struck by the enormity of this moment as Celebrían herself.

----

They convened in Elrond’s council chamber as soon as Erestor returned from the baths, his sable hair drying in damp waves as it spilled down his customary immaculate robes. Celebrían looked around the bright, vaulted room with its round table, finely inlaid by one of the Noldorin craftsmen in Imladris. Elrond, Erestor and Glorfindel were seated around it in various states of agitation.

Someone had to travel to the Far South in all haste. Who, exactly, was the subject of heavy debate. Elrond insisted on making the journey to retrieve Elrohir himself, while Glorfindel and Erestor protested that he could not risk his own life, or – even more catastrophic –  risk Vilya falling into the hands of the Enemy. So very rarely they mentioned the very existence of Elrond’s ring aloud, even in this room. It was why Elladan had not been allowed to attend, despite his protests. Their son – sons! – had not yet come of age, and Elladan was kept in the dark about the true extent of his father’s responsibilities. Few Elves knew the whereabouts of the Three Rings. Two of those had passed into Mandos’ halls, and four of the ones remaining were now sitting at Elrond’s table.

The debate went around in circles until Elrond silenced Erestor mid-sentence with a frustrated gesture and turned to Celebrían. Despite his lordly composure, she could tell his control was fraying at the edges. He was much closer to tears than he would have Erestor and Glorfindel believe.

“My lady, what say you?” Elrond asked, voice hoarse with emotion. “You have heard us all out several times and you have doubtlessly seen much. Give us the benefit of your wisdom.”

Celebrían looked at her husband in the fading light of early evening. Decades of grief, concern and desperation had dulled his bright spirit and taken the gleam from his eyes. He reminded her of how he had been newly returned from Dagorlad, still deep in mourning over Gil-galad. Wise, he certainly was, but she acutely saw how his emotions in this matter had overpowered his judgement. No good would come from it if he travelled to Harad, and too much would be risked.

She took a moment to straighten out her words before speaking them aloud, and from the corner of her eye noticed Glorfindel leaning forward in anticipation. His hands were twiddling with the edges of a hastily procured map of the Far South, earning him a peeved look from Erestor. The ancient warrior had been Elrond’s strategic advisor and the commander of his guard since his miraculous return from Valinor. At first Celebrían had been awed by the momentous importance of Glorfindel’s return to Middle-earth, but she had found the Elf behind the historical reputation to be kind and good-natured despite his sometimes brazen and cocky manner. His loyalty to Elrond as the last descendant of the line of Turgon ran deep. 

The knowledge eased her sadness over having to tell Elrond that she sided with his counsellors. On hearing her words, he buried his face in his hands. Only she knew how hard he fought to keep the tears that burned behind his eyelids from falling.

When Elrond looked up, his ever practical nature had taken over. There was a campaign to organise.

----

When Glorfindel left Imladris mere days later, he had been disguised with all the considerable art at his and Elrond’s disposal. His golden majesty and the light of Valinor in his eyes were veiled beneath an unremarkable Mortal face. He had been outfitted in mannish clothes and mail, a serviceable but slightly dented sword at his side. His mount was a dun-coloured pack horse, a far cry from the white destriers he normally chose.

He rode for Lindon bearing letters from Elrond to Círdan requesting passage to Umbar. He made record time, reaching the Grey Havens before the first winter storms.

Glorfindel knew Círdan well. The first long-year of his second sojourn in Middle-earth he had spent in Lindon. In those days the legendary warrior, returned to walk Ennor once more as a symbol of defiance to the Enemy, brought hope and inspiration to the lingering remnant of the High Elves. 

On this occasion the Lord of the Havens received Glorfindel and his message with equal measures of relief and concern for the sheer distance and complexity of the task before him. Círdan did smile his irreverent Telerin smile upon realizing the irony of the resplendent Lord of the Golden Flower, who would not dress in silver embroidery if he could get gold, having to play the part of a rugged Mortal traveler.

Without delay a ship was outfitted and crewed with eager volunteers from Círdan’s folk. Elrond had been chief counselor to High King Gil-galad for almost an age, and the Peredhel was well-loved among his former folk. All other work in the shipyards ceased as many skilled hands readied victuals, rigging and sails in record time, allowing them to set sail just a week after Glorfindel rode through the gates. 

Círdan himself captained the grey ship, and sang its sails seaward. Their journey south was so blessed with favourable winds that it seemed that Ossë and Uinen themselves sought to bring home their beloved Eärendil’s lost grandson.

Once they reached southern reaches of the Bay of Belfalas, the time had come to make a difficult choice. 

No Elvish ship could openly approach Umbar, or any other southern harbour where Black Númenóreans ruled, their worship of Sauron still as ardent as before his defeat at the Last Alliance. Glorfindel had to land secretly, in the dead of night. Cirdan had voiced his misgivings about abandoning him alone in this desolate and hostile land with so few clues to Elrohir’s whereabouts, but the Balrog-slayer stood firm.  

Nowhere in the lands of the West existed a current map of Umbar. From an ancient sea-chart drawn when Númenor still stood, Círdan selected a deserted stretch of arid coastline to the south of Umbar, two days’ ride from the town of Pellardur. Seen from the sea, Umbar looked as unforgiving as Ruhiren’s tales. As far as Elvish eyes could see sage-speckled sand and bare red rock stretched to a horizon shimmering with heat.

And so Círdan rowed back to his grey ship moored in the shallows, leaving Glorfindel and his dun mare alone on a dark, windswept beach under strange stars.