Under strange stars by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 5

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Once the departing riders had disappeared beyond the shimmering horizon, Elrohir saddled his own camel. He was quiet; whether from sadness at the parting or unease around him, Glorfindel could not tell.

There was much more packing than before. In addition to Glorfindel’s pack and Elrohir’s own belongings the others had left them as much food and water as they could spare. Elrohir expertly balanced the leather-wrapped bundles and tied them down in such a way that his weapons would still be in easy reach. The kneeling beast seemed to disagree, groaning loudly and snapping at Elrohir with every pack he added. Elrohir was clearly unimpressed. He simply kept pushing the large head with its yellow teeth aside, gently chiding the animal in Haradi.

“Can he carry all this without collapsing?” Glorfindel asked with concern.

Elrohir gave him a ghost of a smile. “Of course. Ot is just a little cantankerous at times.”

“Ot? Is that his name? I thought that word meant 'no good'?" Glorfindel was genuinely intrigued.

“It does. Ot has been with me for many years. He’s a fine camel but he gets grumpy. Mind his muzzle!” Elrohir’s hand shot out to push Ot’s head aside before the jutting teeth could snap shut on Glorfindel’s fingers.

Glorfindel smiled, glad that Elrohir’s years in Harad had not robbed him of all his laughter. He did make sure to keep well away from Ot’s front end as he mounted the kneeling beast. A click of Elrohir’s tongue and up they went.

They rode for what remained of the day, and much of the night. Glorfindel took advantage of the hours to talk to Elrohir, speaking of home. The arid landscape passed unheeded under pale moonlight, all dunes alike onto the horizon. A few times Elrohir brought Ot to a stop to stand up in the saddle and study the strange southern stars to determine their direction.

By morning Glorfindel could feel Elrohir’s muscles relax for a brief instant, his head lolling forwards before he could straighten himself out again. Gorfindel was deeply alarmed at first, thinking some strange illness had befallen the Peredhel. The next moment it dawned that he had no idea how long Elrohir had already been in the saddle when he met Amuk’s company the previous night. He certainly had not slept since.

“We should stop, and rest.”

Elrohir shook his head. His grip on the reins was white-knuckled. “Ot is fine. He could walk twice as far if we needed him to.”

“It is not Ot who concerns me. You are no help if you arrive there unconscious.” Glorfindel dared a comforting hand on Elrohir’s shoulder, but quickly retreated when the boy flinched as if struck.

‘I can sleep in the saddle,” Elrohir retorted.

“You are the one steering us! We could amble off in the wrong direction for hours and I would never know.” Glorfindel realized with mounting concern that between the two of them he was currently the only one making sense.

Elrohir shrugged. “It’s fine,” he murmured evasively.

With a jolt Glorfindel understood. Elrohir did not dare to sleep for fear of being at his mercy.

“If I meant you harm I could have done it days ago.” His voice was gentle, all kindness and reason. “Whether or not you are asleep makes no difference. Please stop, and rest. I will do nothing but guard you.”

Elrohir turned around to look Glorfindel in the eye. He clearly was miserable. His eyelids were red and swollen, his face pale underneath his tan.

More to himself than to Glorfindel he said, “You’re right. I’ll have to fall asleep at some point, and risk waking under a spell of white-fiend sorcery. I might as well be done with it.”

He brought Ot to a stop and bade the camel to kneel. It did so with a moan that, to Glorfindel clearly expressed relief. Elrohir did not even bother with the tarp. He simply unsaddled Ot with trembling hands, hobbled the camel, and lay down where he stood with the saddle blanket for pillow. A moment later his body relaxed into sleep.

In silence Glorfindel set the tarp over the still figure and sat down next to him to take watch, true to his word. He did not need sleep as Mortals did, and it would be many days before he would need to walk the paths of memory.

The sun rose over the dune sea in a radiant display of rust and orange. In the reddish light Elrohir’s face looked even younger than his forty-eight years. He slept like a Mortal, eyes closed and mind on the strange, fragmented paths the minds of Men take when exhaustion has become too great for dreams. He was still wearing his sword-belt and the leather harness that had held his crossbow, the weapons lying forgotten on the ground beside him. The whole scene was jarring. In these days of peace in the North no Elf of Elrohir’s age would need to touch a weapon.

Eärendil’s star was setting in the East. Glorfindel found himself annoyed with it, wishing he could somehow flag down the Mariner and make him carry his grandson to safety. He would not come, Glorfindel knew, just like he had not for his own twin sons as they grew up in army camps raised by kinslayers. Glorfindel had never sired children himself but he was keenly aware of how precious they were. He had never understood Eärendil’s heedlessness. He made a conscious effort to abandon his resentment for more constructive lines of reasoning. It was dishonest to accuse the Mariner of indifference to Elrohir’s fate. He was bound to the heavens, forbidden from interfering in the affairs of Middle-earth by the Valar themselves, and Glorfindel knew it.

Elrohir awoke at noon, bleary and disoriented at first. His evident relief upon finding himself unharmed would have amused Glorfindel if it had not been so harrowing. After a small meal of waybread and dates and an even smaller drink of water they rode again for what remained of the day.

Glorfindel felt an ominous change creep up in the desert around them. What small animals scurried here -- lizards, snakes, the tiny crawling creatures burrowing in the sand -- diminished in number, then disappeared entirely. Leaden silence descended on the frozen sea of dunes. With it came an oppressive dread, constricting the heart and mind. Ot became reluctant, and Elrohir had to apply all his skills to keep him going.

As the sun dipped towards the west with an absurd display of color reminiscent of spilled blood, a red rock formation appeared on the southern horizon.  It dominated the landscape despite seeming small at such a distance. The pervasive fear that saturated this place somehow radiated from it like heat from a brazier. Ot balked at the sight, and could not be persuaded to take another step. The camel’s sounds of protest echoed frighteningly loud in the tomb-like silence. They rode back a small ways, into a sheltered valley between the dunes. There Elrohir unsaddled Ot, and left him hobbled with their packs, continuing on foot in the falling dusk.

Elrohir had told Glorfindel that the rocks held a cave. Not long ago it had been a stopping place for Haradrim caravans. Now nameless terror had taken residence there, coming and going at will. Glorfindel took care to hide himself and Elrohir from the creature lurking in the rocks. Against its unsleeping eyes he sang songs of power, of cloaking, fleeting shadows and secrets kept. Thus they reached the cave mouth unhindered. 

To an ancient immortal a Ringwraith held little terror, but Elrohir’s youth and his Mortal blood made him far more sensitive. Until then he had walked beside Glorfindel without a word, but at the dark, gaping maw of the creature’s lair, the Elda could tell his young companion was at breaking point.

“Wait here,” Glorfindel whispered, and the sound of his fair voice seemed to break the bleak press of fear for a moment.

Elrohir did not protest as Glorfindel entered the lurid darkness by himself.

Glorfindel did not need to search. The Ringwraith had lain in wait only a little way into the cave. Elrohir could not discern a thing in that unnatural darkness so thick it was almost a physical presence but Glorfindel, who could see in both worlds, saw the creature as a tall and ancient Man, crowned with iron and lit only by the corpse-glow of his own flesh. The Wraith drew no weapon, but opened his semblance of a mouth and screamed.

Elrohir had tried to resist, regain his courage and enter the cave behind Glorfindel, but at that terrible sound his legs gave out. He sank to his knees, folding in on himself as if struck. 

Glorfindel released all disguises. Suddenly there was a light, clear and pure and as bright as if the midday sun had risen inside the cave. Glorfindel stood the center, a tall figure of white and gold, barely discernible in such great radiance.

His voice rang out, fell and clear. “A Elbereth! Lacho calad, drego morn!”

The Wraith screamed once more, but it was the sound of panic at the unexpected confrontation with an enemy he remembered well indeed. Sauron’s captain drew blade. This was not the mighty black sword he had once wielded and lost on the Dagorlad, but a smaller, dagger-like one of a strange, dull grey color. 

Glorfindel unsheathed the dented sword he had carried on his hip since leaving the gates of Imladris. With all concealment lifted it was sharp and well-made, glowing with a fierce blue light of its own. Hadhafang was its name, throng-cleaver, an heirloom of Elrond’s house nearly old as Glorfindel himself, and as sharp. Faced with the wrath of an Elf-Lord of Aman the Ringwraith fled shrieking towards the mouth of the cave.

There he found easier prey. With shock and horror Glorfindel felt the vile creature’s attention shift to Elrohir. From the dark inside the cave the Peredhel had heard the telltale sound of steel being drawn, and he had done the same with his own scimitar. He now held it up blindly in front of him, trying to deflect a lethal blow from an opponent he could not see. 

Glorfindel could feel echoes of a vicious attack on Elrohir’s mind, seen and recognised for what it was: smaller and weaker than his companion, a prize ripe for the taking. With a shriek that could have crumbled rocks the Ringwraith threw himself at Elrohir, Morgul-blade aimed at his heart. Elrohir deflected the first blow by instinct more than sight.

Glorfindel’s blood turned to ice -- he had failed to foresee this, and through that oversight the Enemy might win this battle yet. There was no time for panic or regret, only for the swift action instilled by yéni of training. Glorfindel leapt onto the Ringwraith’s back like a great cat pouncing, bringing him down to the ground with him.

Glorfindel touched Elrohir’s mind, roughly pushing all other thought aside. “Stand back!”

They grappled for Glorfindel knew not how long with Elrohir looking on in dismay from the cave mouth. The Wraith had once been mortal, but that weak body was melted away by Sauron’s dark arts long-years ago and replaced by bone and sinew that was more than physical flesh. Finally, after a small eternity of terror and an agonizing near-miss with the poisonous blade, Glorfindel wrested the weapon from the Wraith and tossed it far into the cave. He struck his enemy in the face with a resounding crack, deeply satisfied by the dry crack of bone beneath his fist.

It seemed the Wraith could not bear to look at the light in Glorfindel’s eyes, and at the sight of him so close he screamed again as if tortured.

Glorfindel raised his voice in song. The song’s raw power brought Elrohir to his knees once more, shivering under its onslaught. It was mighty, like an unstoppable flood or the roaring of thunder leaving destruction in its wake, yet carried in itself a wild, untamed joy that lifted the heart and sent it soaring. 

The white light in the Elf-Lord’s face became too bright even for Elrohir to look into. The Ringwraith, trapped in Glorfindel’s hold, screeched in pain-filled madness. 

At the song's end Glorfindel spoke in a fair, ringing language. Elrohir had no recollection of Quenya, but he understood nonetheless.

“It is not your doom to die by my hand this night, but you tried to take one of mine for your own and for that I will have my vengeance,” Glorfindel spoke, well aware that he looked more like a wrathful Spirit of Light than a man. “As blinded as you are by this light, you will remain to all things with your waking eyes. The Unseen shall be the only sight left to you. Glorfindel of Gondolin is my name. Remember it!”

With that, Glorfindel stood and released the Ringwraith. He fled instantly, gibbering madly as he crossed the desert floor below the rocks towards the East.

When Glorfindel turned back to Elrohir the Peredhel scrambled away from him, sword in hand and eyes wide with terror.

“Ai Eru! what are you?!”

Glorfindel crouched to look him in the eye.

“I am no wraith, Elrohir, nor any other creature of evil. Merely an Elf who has lived long and travelled far, in unusual ways. I have fought this long battle against the Enemy and his servants for three ages of the world.”

“For a creature of the Light you seem awfully dangerous,” Elrohir retorted.

Glorfindel smiled. “That is one way of putting it. You could call me dangerous, but so are you,” and in a sudden burst of generosity “and all Haradrim, in your own manner.”

Elrohir seemed only half convinced, but stood up nonetheless. He bowed to Glorfindel with formal grace and said, “Whatever you may be, you saved my life this night, and many others with me. I am in your debt.”

Glorfindel replied with equal formality. “Then this I would ask of you as repayment: that you come home to Imladris, and end your family’s long wait.”

Elrohir's face fell. “Do not ask me the one thing I cannot do. I will not desert on the eve of battle. I cannot go anywhere but the Pass of Horns.”

Glorfindel managed not to show his frustration at the Peredhel’s stubbornness, his insistence on getting himself killed or worse in this senseless battle between Mortals that should never have concerned him. It was frightening, how all it had taken for a descendant of the High King of the Noldor to identify with a ragtag band of Secondborn suffering disturbing religious delusions was a mere forty years of proximity. Despite his annoyance, Glorfindel found he could not force Elrohir to abandon the Haradrim. An oath was an oath, a duty a duty, even towards the Followers.

“I did not ask you to do it straight away.” Glorfindel answered. “Duty and oaths taken are the same here as they are in the North. Let us ride to the Pass together. But remember that you are no Haradrim. They are Mortal Men and you are something else entirely, more so than you now realize. You may have sojourned with them, but it must come to an end so you can return to your own kin and be one of us.”

Elrohir did not answer at first, but stood staring at the pale expanse of the empty desert under a crown of blazing stars. He was silent as they walked back to the valley where they left Ot. Glorfindel could practically hear the turning of his mind. When he finally spoke, it was with a sharp honesty reminding him of Elrond.

“I know. I have suspected it for a few years now, and had my thoughts confirmed when the wraith singled me out.” He spun to face Glorfindel, suddenly frantic. 

“Look at me! I must be over forty years old by my own count and there is no way of telling I am a day over twenty. My friends, the people who were young with me have begun to age; some have died already. Someone is bound to notice. Maybe not yet, but in ten years they certainly will.”

Glorfindel nodded in agreement.

Elrohir continued with an air of desperation. “I know noble households, Glorfindel. I grew up serving in one. How many half-brothers do I have, beside my twin? What position does our mother hold? Wife, concubine, or slave? How many of my father’s wives will gnash their teeth in the harem at my arrival, plotting to poison me and secure their sons’ place in the line of succession? I’d be easy prey, a friendless foreigner. I’d prefer to die in the desert.”

Faced with such colossal misinformation, Glorfindel hardly knew where to begin. He made no effort to hide his disgust when he spoke.

“You should not mistake the perversities of the Black Númenóreans for the norm in more civilized places. Your father’s house has no harem, and your mother is the only woman for him. You have just one brother. Elladan nearly died of grief for your absence … the very idea of him plotting your downfall is madness!”

Elrohir did not answer, and saddled Ot in silence. With the Ringwraith’s departure the leaden weight of fear had lifted from the landscape, but neither of them had any desire to linger in the area.

Soon they were in the saddle again, their direction carefully determined by Elrohir’s stargazing. Glorfindel left him to his thoughts. When he spoke next, it was about something else entirely.

“Why did you tell the Ringwraith your name?” Elrohir asked. “He will seek revenge, and so will his eight brothers. You have conveniently provided them with your identity.” Elrohir did not turn around, awaiting Glorfindel’s answer while adjusting Ot’s direction.

“A good question.” Glorfindel said, slow and thoughtful. “I will not shield you from the answer. You are no longer a child by any stretch of the imagination.” 

Glorfindel could not help but feel a certain grim satisfaction in delivering this most decisive of his arguments. “The first time you encountered The Ringwraith he recognized you for what you are: a son of Elrond, neither Mortal nor fully of the Elves. There are no others like you and Elladan in Middle-earth. Tonight he was lying in wait with a Morgul-blade, hoping to bring his master an invaluable prize: one of Elrond’s sons, trapped in the spirit world as a slave-wraith.”

A shudder ran down Elrohir’s back, but he was not nearly frightened enough. Glorfindel drove the bitter reality of it home. “It would be a fate worse than death. A loss beyond weeping, and a devastating blow to all your House. If your kin should wither with grief they cast the free lands of the West into Sauron’s lap. I have just sent the Enemy a clear message that Elrond’s children are well protected. 

Glorfindel placed a comforting hand on the rigid line of Elrohir’s shoulder, grieving that he could not afford to be merciful. “While you remain in Harad the Ringwraiths will come for you again, Elrohir, and if they fail their master will collect his prize himself. I alone have no chance of standing against Sauron. We need to get you home before news of your identity can travel into the East.”

At this, Elrohir did turn around in the saddle. Glorfindel could tell from the way he had paled, concern written large in his eyes, that he understood.

“So I must go north whether I want it or not.” 

Elrohir sank into pensive silence, and looked wistfully at tumbled ochre rocks under the blazing dome of southern stars. A herd of gazelles elegantly leapt away at Ot’s approach. They were descending from an escarpment down a small canyon, coming out into a vast plain of crusted salt without end in sight, white as bleached bones. The eastern horizon had begun to brighten to pale pearl.

“Let us rest here for the day,” Elrohir said. “The shadow beneath the cliffs will be cooler than the plain. Crossing the salt will take three nights. On the other side we reach the Desert Mountains, and from there the Pass of Horns.”

“Three nights is a long time, with the water we have left,” Glorfindel said matter-of-factly.

Elrohir shrugged. “I have crossed the this salt-plain before. Ot will not fail us. We will be thirsty for a while, but there is water at the other end.”

Glorfindel struggled with the Haradi name of the place. “Kes Ubil, that means…”

Elrohir interrupted him. “It means ‘go in, and you won’t come out’. The name is meant to scare off foreigners. The Haradrim pass unharmed, most of the time.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Glorfindel said wryly.

Sitting under an overhanging part of the escarpment, their backs against the cool stone, they shared the inevitable dates and waybread while Ot grazed the dusty shrubs nearby.

Elrohir was quiet, his eyes guarded as always. Glorfindel could tell his inner agitation from the way he was fidgeting with a loose thread on the sleeve of his robe. 

“Will you not tell me what bothers you?”

Elrohir sighed. “The Wraith used me as a pawn in a much larger scheme, and if not for you he would have succeeded. Somehow I failed to see it. I wonder what else has escaped my notice. We have plans at the Pass of Horns but those are risky, and I am one of those who stood for them in the council. There is no way back now. I can only hope my folly did not seal all our fates.”

With that he fell silent, clearly unwilling to reveal more.

“You knew too little of who and what you are, and what the Ringwraith is.” Glorfindel soothed. “He will never again have that advantage over you. Fighting the Umbarians holds no secrets to the Haradrim. From what I have seen of their skills, the plan is like to be sound.”

Elrohir smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. “May Eru prove you right! Instead of brooding, we should sleep while we still can. Would you prefer first or second watch?”

“You may sleep all day,” Glorfindel replied as he turned towards the fiery spectacle that was sunrise in a sky saturated with dust. “I need no more rest than to sit here and watch the desert.”

Elrohir looked at him with new doubt. “You are an alien creature. You have gone five days without a wink of sleep. I know not if I am more concerned that you’ll fall over at some point, or that I might wake up alone, and you long fled with Ot and our packs.”

Glorfindel looked his charge in the eye once more. In the reddish light he saw how washed-out Elrohir looked, skin wan despite his tan, the deep-lying eyes and the way his hands trembled once more after restless days and nights in the saddle. The Peredhel might need less sleep than a Mortal, but certainly more than an Elf. Even among Elves young ones had more need of rest than those full-grown. 

“Please, Elrohir. I am an Elf, a very old one. Sleep as Mortals know it is alien to me. It is no hardship to sit here for the day. As for your other fear… I am no Kinslayer. I could no more abandon you to die of thirst than I could cut off my own hand. Let not even the thought of such horrors darken your heart. It will not happen. Please, go to sleep.”

Glorfindel reached out in mind and touched Elrohir, the way he would do with Elladan at times. Elrohir allowed it, and Glorfindel let his own feelings be perceived: concern for Elrohir’s safety, joy at having found him, love. He knew them seen and understood when he next read Elrohir’s eyes.