Under strange stars by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 10

Glorfindel’s arrival in the crowded lower passages caused a sensation, a ray of light amidst sorrow so heavy it weighed down even the good-natured Elf.

The Haradrim army had been decimated. What few warriors remained had combed through the battlefield by torchlight during the night in search of wounded survivors. Haradrim were carried to the keep, Umbarians executed where they lay. 

Given the sheer numbers the Haradrim had no hope of bringing their dead off the battlefield for burial. It was decided to simply round up any roaming camels and leave everything else. 

Glorfindel thought to suggest a pyre, but held his tongue when he realized the desert held nothing for them to burn.

For once Glorfindel was grateful for the incessant whistling wind that blew over the Pass. If not for the constant stream of fresh air they would have had to abandon the keep to escape the eye-watering stench of rotting flesh and the legions of carrion-flies. 

Even with no one left alive there was still a din on the battlefield. Swarms of vultures were squawking over their prizes, and in the distance entire packs of hyenas had set to feasting on friend and foe alike. Already the wounded Haradrim were being moved to the top of the plateau to distance them from so much death.

To Glorfindel’s surprise and delight Amuk had indeed survived and was firmly in charge of the proceedings. When the chieftain of the Haradrim laid eyes on the Elf he, too, received a pleasant shock. It turned out that in the confusion of battle, Glorfindel and Elrohir had been presumed dead along with most of their company. There were a few survivors whose faces Glorfindel did recognize from the meal they had shared in Hamalan’s camp, two days and an eternity ago.

Their joy at Elrohir’s unhoped-for survival was great, as was their concern for him. They would not be appeased until Glorfindel took them to see Elrohir and his injuries with their own eyes. Glorfindel kept the visit brief; Elrohir was in too much pain to be glad to see them.

Afterwards he lay still with his eye closed, not sleeping but suspended in a private bubble of misery. He did look up when Glorfindel’s voice resounded through the cave, deep and melodious. Glorfindel improvised the lines of the Lay of Leithian in Númenórean despite the jarring way the Mortal language broke the meter of the ann-tennath, so Elrohir would understand the words and be uplifted by them.

“The leaves were long, the grass was green,

The hemlock-umbels tall and fair

And in the glade a light was seen

Of stars in shadow shimmering.

Tinúviel was dancing there

To music of a pipe unseen,

And light of stars was in her hair,

And in her raiment glimmering ...“

Elrohir could not possibly have understood all of the northern lay, but when the song came to a close the weight of his pain and sorrow seemed to have lifted somewhat. In his unguarded mind was Elladan’s face, and a sweet kind of longing for half-forgotten things, the memories barely beyond his grasp. 

Once more Glorfindel sent him sleep, and Elrohir allowed tiredness, heavy beyond resisting, to pull him down into the dark.

----

 By the third day Glorfindel’s arts of healing and Elrohir’s innate stubbornness had him well on the mend. The dark blue of his bruises had begun to lighten into greenish yellow, and his eye slowly reappeared as the swelling went down. 

As his body grew stronger, his restlessness increased. He seemed given to brooding, the long hours of forced immobility setting his mind spinning in circles like a water-wheel. Despite Glorfindel’s attempts at drawing him into conversation he remained quiet, standoffish even. Once he was able to stand up and take a few steps without vertigo bringing him down, he insisted they move to the top of the plateau.

Glorfindel carefully walked beside Elrohir after the arm he had offered for support was summarily refused. Elrohir was clutching it before they had even left the cave, his breaths coming in small, halting gasps. When they emerged into the white-hot midday sunlight above Glorfindel was half-dragging, half-carrying him, both his good eye and the swollen one tightly shut.

Despite his physical pain the sight of the desert and the the open sky seemed to lift Elrohir’s spirits. Once seated comfortably, shielded from the whipping wind with his back against one of the mud-brick walls of the storerooms, he opened his eyes and deeply breathed the crisp air with the first ghost of a smile Glorfindel had seen on him since the battle.

The company of Elrohir’s comrades was a decidedly mixed blessing. While he did seem glad for their companionship they were also a constant reminder of the ones that were lost. That even now Elrohir had not once spoken Hamalan’s name was concerning, to say the least. The sweeping views the plateau offered of the horrors in the valley below did not help either, in Glorfindel’s opinion.

A small ray of light appeared in so much grief when they learned that Ot was among the camels that had been rounded up from the battlefield. Elrohir insisted on a visit, and Glorfindel allowed him to walk all the way down to the camel pens despite needing to hold himself up against the wall every few steps, only to set his mind on happier tracks. His plan succeeded, but the lifting of Elrohir’s gloom was only as brief as their short visit to his loyal mount. 

Faced with the problem of climbing back up, to which he clearly had not given a thought beforehand, Elrohir had to admit defeat. In one of the lower passages his knees buckled and he sank down with his back against the rough wall. After expanding Glorfindel’s knowledge of the many interesting profanities endemic to the Haradi language, he rested his head on his knees and sat stock-still, his eyes closed as he battled his crippling dizziness.

Glorfindel gave him a few moments, then tried to take his arm so he might help him up.

“Leave me be!” Elrohir’s voice trembled with far more than mere annoyance at his own helplessness. He buried his face in his hands.

Glorfindel knelt down in front of him.

“Elrohir, I am sorry. For the very fact that you are in this situation, for the loss of your friends, for the way my news has burdened you even more. I am truly sorry.”

There was no response except the sound of swallowing and deep breaths drawn for composure. When Elrohir looked up his eyes were shiny and his voice hoarse.

“As am I. You have traveled so far, and let yourself be drawn into this disaster on my behalf. If not for you I would have been dead twice over.”

Glorfindel had not planned to have this particular conversation seated on the floor of a public walkway, but it was as good an opportunity as he was likely to get.

“Let me take you home,” he pleaded. “You have more than fulfilled your obligations towards the Haradrim. Further delay will only bring more pain, both to you and those at home who count the days awaiting your return.”

Elrohir gasped as he fought to hold back tears. In all the time Glorfindel had known him he had never looked this vulnerable, suddenly devoid of the sturdy, warrior-like appearance afforded by his Mannish heritage, leaving only a lost, forty-year old elfling. Glorfindel’s heart ached for so much senseless pain. Had this been Elladan, he would have pulled the child into his arms to let him cry his fill. He knew Elrohir well enough by now to predict that attempts at closeness would only upset him further. For long moments they sat side by side on the sand-covered cave floor, a foot of empty air and an abyss between them.

“I don’t know.” Elrohir finally whispered, looking Glorfindel in the eye with a searching gaze. “What do you want with me, in your cold land where the stars are strange?”

“I promised your family that I would bring you home. There is no ulterior motive. You may not remember Imladris, but you will find your welcome there anything but cold and strange.”

During their long nights in the saddle, Glorfindel had tried to explain to Elrohir where Imladris might be found. It had been a difficult exercise given the Peredhel’s complete ignorance of the world north of the river Poros. Gondor he considered a nebulous and almost mythical realm. The question of what might lie to the north of it seemed never to have occurred to him. 

Here be dragons, Glorfindel thought wryly, recalling the whimsical writing on Erestor’s nearly blank maps of Far Harad. The very notion of travelling to such alien places, never to return to the desert he knew, was terrifying Elrohir. Glorfindel now regretted the tales he had spun in their hours of starlit riding. He had spoken of ice and snow, long winter nights, the soft grey light of northern days and the wonder of bare branches and fallen leaves renewed in spring. Intended to entice and entertain, they only served to further distress Elrohir in his current state of darkness.

For a moment Glorfindel was convinced that Elrohir would refuse, that even his given word and the Ringwraith’s threat would not suffice to lure him back to a home he could not remember. He reached out to Elrohir’s mind and found his answer, burning like a signal-fire in the night. 

Elladan. The agony of missing his brother had become unbearable. Elrohir would give in to that pain, rather than to Glorfindel. It was not a comfortable thought, or a proud one, but Harad’s harshness allowed no such luxuries as kindness or honour.

Elrohir silently nodded his assent, to Glorfindel’s immense relief. “What do we do now?”

Glorfindel could not help but smile. “I will help you get back up to begin with. Take your time to say your goodbyes, at least until you feel well enough to ride. Then we go west, to the coast. I have friends there who will take us to the North.”

That had been a mistake. At the mention of travelling to the coast, into Umbar, the blood drained from Elrohir’s face. His former openness disappeared like spring turning to sudden winter.

“I am a wanted man in Umbar. Now even more so than when I was there last. For me to go there is suicide.”

Glorfindel tried to reassure him. “I will keep you safely disguised.”

Elrohir sat up straight now, buoyed by sheer terror. “I do not have a forgettable face, Glorfindel!” he exclaimed.“If I stick as much as the tip of my nose over the border with Umbar I will end up nailed to three different city gates! Eventually, that is, once they’re done torturing me.”

He looked at Glorfindel with eyes so guarded there was hardly any light left in them, back rigid as steel. “Unless that is what you are after. As you doubtlessly know I am worth my weight in silver, for the one who brings me in alive. A pretty sum, even if the Umbarians should swindle you by lopping off some of my heavier parts before they pay up.”

For the first time in many long-years Glorfindel was struck dumb. Not once in either of his lives had he been accused of treason. His loyalty and the strength of his word were all his honour, and never had the slightest shadow of doubt been cast upon them. He had every right to a display of righteous outrage, but the absurdity of it all kept him from feeling even a shred of anger. He was relieved by how measured his voice came out when he finally managed an answer.

“I admit that the Elves have harboured the darkest of traitors, cruel enough to deliver their people and their King into the hands of the Enemy. Two ages of the world have passed and still we sing of them, bitter songs that will never let us forget.” 

He drew a deep, shuddering breath and turned his thoughts from Gondolin to the present. “Even so, not once have I heard of an Elf who sank so low for as mean a thing as silver.”

He looked Elrohir in the eyes. “Sorrow weighs heavily on your mind. Dark are its counsels and the specters it casts, and they are far from the truth. In your heart you know it is not so.”

Elrohir remained silent as he hauled himself up against the gritty red stone of the cave wall.

Even without their quarrel the climb to the plateau would have been an ordeal. Judging from Elrohir’s cold aloofness he would rather have spent the night alone in the camel pens had Glorfindel not insisted they go back up together. He had no choice but to lean on Glorfindel as he slowly stumbled his way through the cool dark of the winding passageways. Glorfindel nearly carried him like a dead weight for the last part, awkwardly holding their torch aloft with his other hand, driving leaping shadows before them as they passed.

In the days that followed they had several conversations about the way North, and they all began and ended with Elrohir’s dogged refusal to even consider going anywhere near the coast. With the benefit of hindsight Glorfindel often told himself that he should have foreseen what the Peredhel was going to do. Maybe it was naivety that deceived him, maybe wishful thinking. Glorfindel liked to believe that betrayal was so alien to his very nature that even in his second life he seemed unable to fully grasp its winding ways.

Meanwhile the keep’s population dwindled. Many wounded were beyond help despite Glorfindel’s best efforts. As soon as the injured warriors they attended to were either healed or laid to rest most Haradrim chose to leave that place of death behind and revert to the hard-won freedom of their nomadic ways.

Elrohir watched each company depart with a sorrow that nearly made Glorfindel falter in his mission. The knowledge that every goodbye he now said would be utterly permanent was yet another wound. His longing for the open desert, away from the constant reminders of the horrors of war was obvious even without reading his mind. Between that and his yearning for Elladan, Elrohir was torn in two like a hare between two snarling wolves.

He grew ever more silent and withdrawn, his sea-grey eyes over-large in the pale oval of his face. Glorfindel began to worry in earnest, afraid that the weight of all this misery combined might be enough to sever his spirit from his body. He gently tried to touch Elrohir’s mind, but was turned away every time.

From the moment Elrohir could be safely left alone Glorfindel had spent many hours in the the open tents of the waning field hospital, assisting the Haradrim healers. There came a day when he was asked to attend to a dying woman. She had suffered for nearly two weeks after being speared through the gut.

At first she held up well, kindling a false hope in both healers and her kin. The past days her fever had risen as her pale face wasted away, and the cloying smell of rot emanating from her soiled bandages left no trace of doubt that she would inevitably succumb to her injuries. Her grieved husband begged the Elf to if not heal her, then at least ease the torture that was her passing. Glorfindel possessed the skill to painlessly snuff out the very spark he had so often kindled back to brightness, but the gravity of such an act made him loathe to perform it save in utmost need. To be sure, he subjected the deliriant woman to yet another painful examination before giving in to her relatives’ begging. When the deed was done he felt he could not in good conscience turn away from her burial rites.

As was their wont in joy and grief, the Haradrim sang to the alien rhythm of their drums as they laid her to rest under a simple mound of stones, her face towards the sunrise. The words of the funeral song struck Glorfindel to his core. It was a defiant celebration of the Gift of Men, their joyful hope of freedom beyond the circles of Arda Marred, where neither Vala nor Morgoth held sway. After the crowd had dispersed Glorfindel lingered long beside her grave, wondering in awe and melancholy where the strange fate of her people might have taken her.

When Glorfindel returned to the tent he shared with Elrohir his hair stood on end the instant he opened the tent flap. Inside he found only his own belongings. 

He ran down to the camel pens, already knowing he would be too late. 

Ot was gone. 

Swearing like an Orc, Glorfindel dashed into the blinding sunlight outside to find no trace of the camel or his rider. As Glorfindel stood before the keep straining his eyes, distress and anger battling for precedence, Amuk came out after him with Elrohir’s message. The man did not even seem to fully grasp why Glorfindel was so agitated over the Peredhel’s stealthy departure. In times of peace the Haradrim went as they pleased within their vast, trackless desert, choosing their way and their companions freely. 

Elrohir sought solitude to gather his thoughts, Amuk said. Surely Glorfindel did not begrudge him that, after all that had come to pass? He would turn up again when he was good and ready. 

At Glorfindel’s protests that Elrohir might get himself killed or worse, Amuk was even more bemused. A Haradrim lived and breathed the desert like a fish did water. These lands had never been safer with both the Ringwraith and Umbar defeated. Elrohir had wanted Glorfindel to know that he would travel due north, as promised.

Glorfindel stormed up to the plateau once more to look out on the vastness and desolation that was Harad. Elrohir had vanished into the mountains’ web of canyons and gullies. There was no trace of him or Ot, and nothing moved among the decaying bodies on the plain.

With a sinking feeling Glorfindel stared across miles upon miles of unfathomably empty wilderness, recalling the vast distance Elrohir and he had covered on their way to the Pass. As much as he wanted to ride out and search the wastelands, without a Haradrim to guide him it would amount to taking his own life. 

That accursed Peredhel had clearly known it as well. Glorfindel had no choice but to carefully retrace the steps of Arnuzîr’s army due west and meet with Círdan.

Glorfindel did not doubt for a moment that Elrohir would indeed head North. His preoccupation with seeing Elladan had bordered on the obsessive. His journey would inevitably lead out of the desert, and into Gondor. 

The Elves would be waiting.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you all for bearing with me! I hope you enjoyed reading this tale as much as I did writing it! Authors thrive on feedback, so please let me know what you think.

Unfortunately neither our favourite Balrog-slayer nor Elrohir are anywhere near home yet. Watch for the sequel, coming soon... 

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