The Stars Above the Sea by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 2

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“So you did find him, but he would not come?”

Elrond’s voice was barely recognizable, hoarse and difficult like a man being strangled, even as he filled the strained silence blanketing the council chamber.

The face of the Lord of Imladris had grown sharp and drawn from months of waiting in tortured uncertainty, but underneath the bulky fall of robes grown large on his wasted frame lay a core of ancient steel. Elrond stood straight as a lance, all of his impressive skill of Sight trained on his returned emissary. The light of a golden spring afternoon washing over him from the council room’s mullioned windows only worsened the sorrowful image he presented, a mockery of his anguish.  

Gathered around the great round table was the same company as on the day Glorfindel was sent out, now nearly a year ago. Surprisingly, Elrond and Celebrían had allowed even Elladan to be present for the first telling of his news. Before today the boy had set foot in the council chamber only on the rarest of occasions, usually to receive some foreign dignitary Elrond could not risk insulting. His parents had endeavoured to give him some semblance of a careless childhood, as far as was still possible bearing the deep sorrow that was Elrohir’s disappearance. Glorfindel questioned the wisdom of breaking with the habit now. One Peredhel twin wasting away from grief was quite enough.

Celebrían stared at him with such unconcealed longing. It broke Glorfindel’s heart how this meeting would serve only to dash the very hope that had lent the previous one such a thrilling character.

Glorfindel was ill at ease in the travel-stained clothes in which he had ridden hard all the way from Tharbad, where Círdan’s sailors delivered him back onto dry land after a frantic rush north. He desperately wished that the kind-natured Peredhel would allow himself at least this one outburst of rage. Anger would have been easier on Glorfindel, too, the sharpness of shouts or curses less agonising than this silent upwelling of grief.

Celebrían had almost collapsed into her chair, her legs unable to support her.

“Has he forgotten us?” she demanded with tears in her voice.

To endure failure and dishonor with grace was a lesson neither of Glorfindel’s long lifetimes had taught him well. For a month of sleepless nights and hard, agonising days at sea Glorfindel had dreaded Elrond and Celebrían’s reaction to the ill tidings he brought. In this very moment he had so fearfully anticipated, surprisingly the hardest thing of all was to look Elladan in the eye.

The playful boy who once trailed his father’s legendary captain with barely concealed adoration was no more. Elrond’s older son had grown to manhood in a single winter, and his face had lost all traces of that lovable roundness of youth. To any other onlooker the resulting fair, finely cut features would bring to mind Elrond, or even a young Turgon. When Glorfindel gathered the courage to raise his eyes to Elladan’s he was briefly confused by a spike of irrational hope that this could somehow be Elrohir, flown to Imladris on eagle-back by an unhoped-for grace of the Valar. In a heartbeat the bitter reality reasserted itself.

Elladan appeared to have inherited an ample measure of his father’s admirable stoicism in the face of adversity. He was pale as death, but his eyes met Glorfindel’s with a composure that would have befitted an Elf ten times his age.   

Glorfindel grappled for words that would serve to explain Elrohir’s absence and spare the three of them what pain he could.

“He is on his way here as we speak, and I have no doubt that he is making good time. But he chose to travel alone.”

Elrond’s voice cut him off. There was the slightest edge of hysteria to it. “By himself without guard or companions, all the way from Far Harad?!”

A tidal wave of sheer terror emanated from both Elrond and Celebrían at the thought of their son wandering alone and unprotected. Glorfindel’s chest ached at the sight of their agony. He desperately tried to convey a trust he did not feel himself.

“Elrohir will come to no harm. He is canny, and hardened. He left me no choice in the matter.”    

Elrond’s only answer was an incredulous stare. Glorfindel could not help but be transported back to the court of Gondolin, now ruined and drowned, where he had once returned with similar tidings. The shame had been as great then as it was now. Maybe this was even worse: Aredhel had been a woman grown, mighty among the Noldor and at least in part responsible for her own misfortunes. Whatever fate might befall Elrohir on his long journey north, the ultimate responsibility would rest entirely on Glorfindel’s shoulders.

Elladan’s voice broke the leaden silence, surprisingly calm and collected.

“How was he? Where did you find him, what was he doing? Please tell us, Glorfindel, and show us his face!”

Glorfindel found another measure of courage in the unexpected gentleness of Elrond’s other son. He spoke until the afternoon faded and warm lamplight lit the circle of faces around the table, pouring the alien tangle of light and darkness that was Harad into words and images. Pellardur and its slave-market. The Haradrim, the vast emptiness of their desert under the stars. Elrohir, his face, his voice, his firm and quiet way of being. Next Glorfindel spoke of the journey across desolation they had taken together in search of the Ringwraith. The confirmation of what the loremasters of Imladris had fearfully suspected since Isildur’s failure -- that Sauron himself and his servants survived the loss of the One Ring -- was a painful blow, but Elrond made a conscious effort to lay aside the resurrection of their enemy until tomorrow, in the light of a new day.

Finally Glorfindel’s tale reached the final battle of the Haradrim against Umbar, and its aftermath. As he told of Elrohir’s flight and the message he left behind, all daytime sounds of Imladris outside had ceased and Eärendil’s light was visible through the vaulted windows. Silence descended on the room.  

Elrond was the first to speak, voice cracked, as he clasped Glorfindel’s hand. “Thank you, my old friend, for all you did for my son.”  

He turned to Erestor with new vigour. “Will you prepare messages to be sent in the morning?”

Judging by his harried expression, Erestor was already composing the letters in his mind.

“Consider it done. Glorfindel is right, Elrond. Once he leaves the desert to enter Gondor he is easily tracked down, whether he goes by land or by sea. We shall alert Círdan’s folk and all wandering companies from here to Belfalas. Celeborn will no doubt wish to set a watch on the paths of the White Mountains.”

Glorfindel was quick to interrupt. “Have them be careful. If some over-keen marchwarden lays a hand on him things may turn very ugly.”  

Celebrían looked at him sharply. “He is not well, is he?”

Ever since their first meeting an age ago in Lindon, Glorfindel had known her to perceive even what was deliberately obfuscated. She took after Galadriel in that respect. He had meant to spare his lady the state her son had been in when he ran into the desert alone. She would have none of it.

“Elrohir is beside himself with grief. His adopted people were decimated in the battle against Umbar. The loss left him very much adrift. I told him in no uncertain terms that the Enemy may already know his identity, and he has to leave Harad or risk being captured. He did take my advice, at least.”

“Alone.” Celebrían was not satisfied.

It took all Glorfindel’s courage to look her in the eyes. “He did not trust me, in the end. The Lord of Umbar has a considerable price on his head. He would not take the risk that I might choose to collect it if he went to the coast with me.”       

Elladan was aghast at the depth of his brother’s mistrust. “Has he gone mad?”

The underlying assumption of Glorfindel’s absolute trustworthiness was a greater consolation than the Elf in question dared to admit to himself.

He shook his head. “He is quite sane, I believe. Harad has a way of instilling a man with distrust. Let him come to us if you can help it.”

He looked at Elladan wistfully. “You are all he remembers. Despite my best efforts he has little recall of your mother and father. It is the separation from you that pains him like a wound. Consider yourself our bait, Elladan. He will come to you, one way or another.”