The Stars Above the Sea by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 4

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Chapter Text

Sailing agreed with him, Elrohir decided. The vastness and silence of the sea, the White Mountains of Gondor nearly lost in blue-tinged distance on the northern horizon, reminded him of the desert. It did much to calm his racing mind. Every moment spent high up in the masts and rigging, the ship and the world at large spread at his feet, was an exhilarating joy.

It almost compensated the meagre meals Berengil provided for his crew, consisting of tightly rationed seabiscuit and salt fish, and the flea-infested sleeping berths with their sour smell of rats. Things were even worse at rowing benches, situated above the bilges and exposed to the eye-watering stench of the bilge-water.

Everyone on board seemed used to this state of affairs. Elrohir did not complain either. He was well aware of his status as a charity case, and recalled staying in far worse accommodations as an unwilling guest of the Umbarians.

This particular voyage north was the smoothest one the Beinalph had ever made, according to captain Berengil. Not a single summer storm troubled their sailing all the way through the Bay of Belfalas. Superstitious like all sailors, Berengil never failed to make a spectacle of convening the crew on deck for a song of thanks to the Lady Uinen. Elrohir’s years in Harad had left him with little regard for the Valar. Nonetheless he dutifully sang along. Whether it was due to the daily displays of piety or not, their unusual luck held. As high summer broke the Beinalph met only gentle weather and favourable winds. They rounded the Cape of Andrast around midsummer, turning north towards Eriador.

Watching the landscape change as they went north was a tortuously slow farewell to Harad and all things familiar. Every day the colours of the hills gliding past lost more of their southern ochre and brown tints, to be replaced by an unfamiliar green. Olive groves and vineyards gave way to apple orchards, and each of the small Gondorian harbour towns the Beinalph called into seemed more northern in both architecture and the cool manners of its people. Elrohir was almost grateful that the heavy work of rigging the sails and rowing whenever the wind failed them left him little time to dwell on it all.

The companionship of his fellow sailors was no consolation. They were crude, small-minded men, all hailing from Tharbad like Berengil. Elrohir was an outsider among them and they made sure he knew it. Their thick northern accents made understanding them a challenge. During the first days of the voyage Elrohir uttered the words "please repeat" so often they were mockingly bestowed as his nickname. He had as little to do with the other sailors as he could, volunteering for night watch more often than not both to avoid their company and for the comforting familiarity of the nighttime hours.

When he did share his meals with the regular crew he tried to sound out what they knew about Elves, playing the part of the curious, ignorant southerner. What he heard was decidedly ambivalent. The older seamen had heard firsthand accounts of Elves from their fathers and grandfathers, commending the valour of the Elvenking on the battlefield of Mordor.

Other crew members were far less praiseful. The helmsman, a burly fellow from Minhiriath called Abrazîr, relished frightening Elrohir and whoever else cared to listen with terrifying tales of uncanny and dangerous beings he called "white-fiends".

Abrazîr truly outdid himself on Erulaitalë, the Northern midsummer feast. After Captain Berengil sacrificed a handful of grain to Eru by throwing it overboard with a great deal of pomp and circumstance, the crew was given some hours of downtime to celebrate what was apparently the greatest holiday of the year in the North. By way of a feast their captain offered nothing but the inevitable salted fish and hardtack, but every man received a full belly’s worth of it along with a cup of wine, which was festive enough.

Despite his unpleasant character Abrazîr was a singularly gifted storyteller, a highly praised talent on long sea voyages. Soon he was enthroned on a large coil of rope, a makeshift canopy of sailcloth protecting him and a gaggle of listening seamen from the hard afternoon sun shimmering off the placid waves of the Great Sea.

The crew had no eyes for the spectacle provided by the great white gannets perching on the Beinalph’s masts. The majestic, gold-dusted birds casually speared into the glassy green water without as much as a splash, to emerge with writhing silver fish in their beaks. Meanwhile the men were enthralled by Abrazîr’s blood-curdling tales of the Elves: their strange piercing eyes, the cold fire of their shining swords, the wickedness of their sorcery. They drove men to strange and violent deeds, Abrazîr stated with great certainty, enthralled women and spirited away children, to be returned with their minds irreversibly altered.

“The good folk of the North must take care out on the roads on those haunted nights when the stars are out and strange music flies on the wind!”

Determined not to be cowed so easily, Elrohir shrugged.

“I can’t imagine King Valandil allowing them to waylay travellers on the King’s Road.”

He immediately regretted that remark, because Arnuzîr shook his head with an air of sheer delight.

“My old man took me along to Fornost once, when I was a lad, and I saw them with my own eyes. Elves flock to all that’s fair and shining. The court of our good King Valandil has them swooping in like a flock of magpies! If you ever set foot inside the Royal Quarter you’ll see them in the broad daylight, as real as you and I!”

Elrohir could not suppress a deep shudder, and Abrazîr lapped it up.

The eerie tales brought Elrohir little peace with his decision to travel north. What he had seen of Glorfindel’s powers left no doubt there was likely a kernel of truth, even if the storyteller obviously had malignant intentions. It was distressing knowledge that even in Fornost, which he had imagined filled with ordinary folk, he would have to be careful.

That cloudless summer night Elrohir was on lookout duty, a task he was set to often since Berengil had discovered his excellent eyesight. He sat on a small wooden platform nailed to the main mast, bare feet dangling above a lethal drop to the deck far below. A length of rope tied around his waist held him securely to the mast as the ship gently rocked to and fro. They had almost lost sight of land, the coasts of Enedwaith a distant horizon. A perfect dome of stars reflected on an ocean as dark and smooth as glass.

Elrohir had little appreciation for its beauty as he huddled into his felted wool jerkin against the chill ocean wind. He looked up to the stars, missing the constellations of Harad. Northern stars, for which Elrohir had no names, had taken their place. At the loss of the bright night skies of the desert, his constant, intimately familiar guidance in the darkest days of the war, he was struck by the full weight of what had befallen him in the past months. The sheer desperation of Harad’s impossible war against Umbar and the Ringwraith, the shock that was Glorfindel and his revelations, the deaths of so many friends. At the time their slaughter had seemed like a loss so momentous it could never be rivalled by any other pain. It had proven merely the first one in an inescapable chain of losses of all he ever knew, until even the stars grew strange and only Elrohir himself was left, alone in all the vastness of an unknown world.

Suddenly his whole plan, this journey to the uttermost north by land and sea, braving a thousand perils across distances so great they boggled the mind, in search of a brother he had last seen almost a lifetime ago, seemed utter foolishness.

There was no way back to Harad, Elrohir thought bitterly. The Beinalph certainly wouldn’t turn around on his account, and stranding himself in one of the sad, poverty-stricken fishermen’s villages of the grey lands they were now passing would not improve his situation in any way.

What to do once they reached Tharbad seemed impossible to figure out, his mind tangling in grief and despair like a netted fish each time he thought about it. He rested his cheek against the polished wood of the mast, and watched without blinking how ship and horizon distorted as they swam with tears.

Where the Beinalph’s bow disturbed the ocean great clouds of phosphorescence swirled below the surface. The sight was so mesmerizing that Elrohir’s eyes began to play tricks on him. The longer he looked on, the more he could have sworn he saw an impossibly tall woman in the looping, ever-moving curls of dark and bright water. She smiled kindly at him, her hair feathering like blue-green seaweed.

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On one of the sweetest days at the height of summer Elrond found himself aimlessly wandering his sun-drenched physic garden. The spacious courtyard within the House of Healing was lined with slender white columns beyond which lay shadowed galleries with inlaid floors and benches where convalescents could stroll and rest. The stone filigree of the rooflines framed a sky of unblemished cornflower blue. The Lord of Imladris overlooked the well-tended beds where his healers grew the many herbs of their trade. There was fragrant athelas; large expanses of deep green speckled with the merry white, red and purple of poppies; and the delicate pinkish cream of valerian flowers. Against the northern wall three straw beehives provided the peaceful scene with a soporific hum. All things within this beautiful space had been carefully designed to bring peace and healing to body and mind. To its lord all it held was bitter agony.

Neither beauty nor meditation or even the distractions of duty had been able to divert Elrond from the poisonous fears for his missing son gnawing at his heart. The knowledge that in this very moment Elrohir likely wandered a barren, war-torn land all alone was terrifying. The possibility he might be chased by one or more Ringwraiths turned it to torture.

Of late Elrond caught himself losing his temper, taking his pain out on those around him. Celebrían, Glorfindel and Erestor had the mettle to call him out on it, and he did try his all to contain his bile. His success varied, though, which was undoubtedly the reason behind the apprehensive look the dark-haired Silvan healer kneeling in the poppy bed gave him as her sap-stained knife made neat rows of cuts in the seed pods.

Elrond had meant to walk towards the woman for a friendly word to counter his earlier curtness with her, when he felt a stir in his constant ring-enhanced awareness of the boundaries of Imladris. The Fords of the Bruinen were being crossed by a company of Elves riding at speed, doubtlessly messengers. He turned so fast the swishing hem of his robe caught on the woody stalks of the bed of thyme behind him. Suppressing a curse he bent down to untangle the precious summer silk, then strode towards the main house with as much dignity as could be recovered. With a pang he realised the look that followed him was one of deep compassion.

It was all the Lord of Imladris could do not to make a fool of himself by standing around on the greensward in front of the house when the messengers arrived. He lingered in the entrance hall instead, its shadowed interior hiding him from eyes on the sunlit lawn outside, and let Erestor perform his usual duties. As soon as the riders came into view Elrond’s heart leapt. They were undoubtedly Círdan’s folk, of slender dark-haired Falathrim stock wearing the grey and pale blue livery of the Lord of the Havens.

A cluster of house-staff and grooms stood ready to receive horses and riders, and Erestor moved through the throng towards its head with his usual efficient grace. The visitors were dismounting as he stepped forward to greet them. Erestor gave their leader, a tall woman whose sinewy arms betrayed her as a sailor, a small but courteous bow, greeting her in Sindarin with a perfect Falathrim accent.

Erestor was the most venerable survivor of the Lambengolmor in Middle-earth, and he made the effort of welcoming every Elvish delegation visiting Imladris in their native dialect, no matter how ancient or obscure. Judging by her startled look and wavering voice, Cirdan’s messenger was rather intimidated by the formidable Noldorin loremaster.

She seemed unused to being received in this manner. As was customary Erestor was about to lead her inside, and one of the grooms stood ready to take charge of her horse. The woman was visibly nervous and clung to her chestnut mare’s mane for support, oblivious that she was keeping both men waiting. Erestor was far too polite a host to point it out, and their uneasy introductions dragged on for some time. The hapless messenger’s name turned out to be Nengeleth, and she indeed bore a message from Círdan, to be delivered to none other than Elrond and Celebrían personally.

Not only did Erestor manage to camouflage his agitation, he also refrained from asking any further questions as he guided her directly to Elrond’s study. This testament to his ancient councillor’s ingrained discretion and self-restraint impressed Elrond even now.

Inside Celebrían was already waiting. Her silk dress, blue as a robin’s egg, rustled as she rose from her usual seat beside Elrond’s to speak gracious words of welcome. Erestor took his place behind Elrond’s chair, a comforting presence at his lord’s back. There was a strong rap on the door and Glorfindel entered, quick and silent as a flash of golden sunlight.

Nengeleth made a hesitant curtsey. When she spoke it was haltingly. She clearly was no trained message-bearer.

“My Lord and Lady, I apologise for not greeting you properly. My name is Nengeleth. I am a sailor, more suited to sea and harbour than the council-room, but Lord Círdan bade me to ride to you with these tidings nonetheless.”

Elrond knew his cue in this well-rehearsed play Erestor, Celebrian and he had been performing together for many years. The lord of the House should now stand up to graciously welcome the distraught visitor to his home so she might tell her news in reasonable comfort. He found himself incapable of any word or deed that might delay the telling of Negeleth’s tale for even an instant. He kept his inhospitable silence, hanging on her every word in a less than polite way.

Nengeleth’s rope-calloused fingers were in constant motion as she nervously fiddled with her wedding ring, voice hoarse with nerves.

“In the last days of Ethuil my companions and I were in Pelargir, as it is such a beautiful season on the southern seas. We had met your captain Glorfindel earlier ...”

She paused to look at Glorfindel, who nodded encouragingly.

“And he asked us to look out for a man from Harad with the look of your son Elladan. I am here to tell you that I saw such a person on the docks of the harbour.”

Elrond clasped Celebrían’s hand, unable to utter words for the avalanche of emotion. The only sound in the room was the absurd clicking of Doronion’s shears as the gardener clipped the lawn outside.

Erestor was the first to find his bearings.

“And…?” he encouraged Nengeleth, failing to keep impatience from his voice.

Nengeleth, seeming unsure whether she was about to be scolded or praised, bravely soldiered on.

“Our encounter was very brief, if it was an encounter at all. He ran from us as if we were Wraiths, and we could not find him again. But we were in luck. Our friend the dockmaster knew of him. He had come from Harad and wanted to travel North, crewing on a Mortal merchant’s ship, the Beinalph. It sailed the very night we saw him. Our Lady Uinen forced the winds in our favour to bring you these tidings, and She keeps the Mortal’s ship in Her good graces. It is a crude vessel, unsuited to the open sea, so her going along the coast is slow. I believe they will not make it to Tharbad before summer’s end.“

Hope flooded Elrond like the sweetest of tides. Before surrendering to it he needed to be sure.

“I thank you from the bottom of my heart, dear lady. Will you share the memory, so we may be sure before we allow ourselves this joy?”

Glorfindel was already beside her. Nengeleth’s memory was no more than a glimpse of Elrohir’s startled face across a crowded street, but it was enough. Glorfindel nodded, his absolute certainty clear to see.

Elrond rose, and managed a single step towards Nengeleth before an avalanche of emotion swept him away. As he fought to even out his breathing he could not think, could not speak or even conceive of something remotely appropriate to say to the bewildered Falathrim woman. It was all he could do to remain standing, struck silent in the middle of his own study as the gathering degenerated into confusion around him.

Elrond knew he had never managed to shed the strict Noldorin formality his foster fathers had instilled in him. In later years, Gil-galad had been no supporter of the Fëanorian ways, but the high king of Noldor and Sindar was a hard-headed statesman. He possessed the very same straight-backed, imperturbable courtesy that must once have reigned the fallen court of Tirion. A true ruler kept their head up, shoulders straight and face and mind both arranged into an impassive mask, whether faced with ruin, glory or the Dark Lord himself.

Celebrían had no such compunctions. Elrond stood marvelling at the grace with which his beloved wife displayed her emotions as the Lady of Imladris rose from her chair to embrace Nengeleth, tears of joy running down her face.

 

The following days were a blur of frenzied activity. Elrond, Celebrían and Elladan wished for nothing more than to depart for Tharbad at once. None of them could bear to contemplate Elrohir arriving there without anyone waiting for him, and potentially vanishing again.

Both Erestor and Glorfindel protested vehemently. An armed escort large enough to safeguard them in the Orc-infested wilds of Eregion could not be mustered in a few days’ time. It would do Elrohir a poor service, Erestor pleaded, if his entire family should get themselves killed or worse by their haste to retrieve him. Elrond’s own reply was admittedly less than gracious, and by the time Erestor bade his lord to remember the disaster of the Gladden Fields they were almost shouting at each other. To their great credit Elrond’s councillors managed to restore their lord to his rational senses.

Glorfindel and a gwéth of his warriors rode at once to Tharbad with great haste. After that company left, Erstor’s preparations intensified. His call upon all who were skilled at arms gathered plenty of volunteers from the mingled folk of Imladris. Noldor, Sindar and Silvan Elves alike left their peacetime occupations and took up the arms and armour they laid down after the Siege of Mordor to gather under Elrond’s banner once more, this time for a far happier cause. In mere days, Elrond, Celebrían and Elladan could depart with enough of an escort that Erestor, who would rule Imladris in Elrond’s absence, had at least a reasonable hope of seeing his lord and lady and their heir return in one piece.

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Chapter End Notes

Hearing back from readers makes me a very happy Scribe!