The Stars Above the Sea by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 5

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Even in the golden sunlight of a radiant autumn day, the city of Tharbad and its great bridge straddling the river Gwàthlo looked like a grey steel collar trammelling some wild creature.

Glorfindel went straight to the riverside docks. Tharbad’s river port was vital to the flow of trade between the Northern and Southern Kingdoms of the Dùnedain and Aration, the city’s lord, was an important man. Erestor’s diplomatic skills had ensured that Glorfindel was received most warmly when he presented himself at the lord’s impressive dockside residence.

The stained glass panes of Aration’s study speckled its walls of white marble with a rather busy pattern of bright red, green and blue. Even Glorfindel -- who had never been known for his subdued taste in decorations -- felt it was a bit much. The best that could be said about the ostentatious windows was that they presented a fine view of the Gwàthlo.

Glorfindel rose from his chair to look outside, leaving the silver cup of excellent wine and the sugared almond biscuits Aration’s visibly nervous servant had brought to sweeten his wait for the master of the house. None of the ships lying at anchor outside appeared to match the Falathrim sailor’s description of the Beinalph. Either Glorfindel had arrived well in advance or Elrohir was long gone, and where to was anyone’s guess.

“Elen sila lùmenn’ omentielvo, my lord. I am greatly honoured to welcome Lord Elrond’s noble representative to Tharbad. What may I do to assist you?”

Aration’s bow as he entered his own study was deep and formal. His greeting was in a passable -- if somewhat accented -- Quenya. That he spoke the language at all betrayed a fine education, as might be expected from a man close enough to King Valandil to be trusted with control of Arnor’s southern trade routes. Aration had clearly made an effort for his unexpected Elvish guest. His rotund cheeks were still shiny from the razor, and he had donned a tunic of imported Gondorian silk as colourful as his windows. The overall effect was rather dazzling.

“My Lord Aration. A very fair welcome indeed! My lord has sent me to wait for a merchant’s ship, the Beinalph. Have you any news of it?”

Aration seemed taken aback, but he quickly pulled himself together.

“Captain Berengil is expected any day now, my lord. I expect he had good sailing. No word has reached us of of ill weather at sea, and our navy has cured the wild men of Enedwaith of their piracy.”

Glorfindel managed to keep a straight face while he inwardly sagged with relief. Aration shot him a shrewd look as he handed Glorfindel his abandoned wine cup and poured one for himself.

“If I may impose, my lord, the Beinalph tends to carry wares of a quality that … differs from what Lord Elrond is accustomed to. Whatever your lord may have asked you to purchase from Berengil, perhaps something more suitable might be found in the city’s storehouses? The wine you were served is from Tarnost, in Dor-en-Ernil. We received a shipment only a fortnight ago...”

As much as Glorfindel wanted to appease Aration and direct his attention away from Elrond’s interest in the Beinalph, he could hardly burden himself with a ship’s worth of Gondorian wine, even such a fine one as this.

“I must thank you for your assistance, but my business is with one of the Beinalph’s passengers rather than its cargo. Lord Elrond has tasked me with escorting this person to Rivendell.”

Aration could not have been more astonished if Glorfindel had turned himself into a hawk to fly around the study.

“The Beinalph is no passenger ship. She has seen better days. If I may be frank, I cannot imagine one of the Fair Folk choosing to travel like that.”

Glorfindel kept his face impassive.

“My errand calls for the greatest possible discretion. We would very much appreciate it if the city guards would make themselves scarce when the Beinalph pulls into the dock. Lord Elrond will be most grateful, and he will be sure to remember your name upon his next meeting with the king.”

Aration was an intelligent man, and for an instant Glorfindel feared he would put two and two together and realize the fabled lost Prince of the Elves was about to arrive in his city. It would be hard to dissuade him from staging an official reception for the son of Elrond of Rivendell, and even harder to control Elrohir’s unpredictable behaviour. Glorfindel was almost relieved when it turned out Aration’s mind was running along more mundane tracks.

“With all due respect, I must remind you that only the king’s representative has the authority to make arrests in Tharbad. What crimes has this man committed?”

Glorfindel drew himself up to his full Noldorin height. Aration was of Nùmenòrean blood, but the Elf-Lord still overtopped him by nearly a handbreadth. Aration’s grey eyes briefly darted to the sword at Glorfindel’s hip.

“He is no Man, but one of our own folk, and as far as I know he has broken none of the king’s laws. Our business with him is of no concern to anyone in Arnor. The matter is of vital importance to Lord Elrond, enough so to spark an unprecedented diplomatic incident if you should cross him in this.”

The threat proved unnecessary. Aration had breathed a sigh of relief upon hearing Glorfindel’s quarry was an Elf, and therefore out of his jurisdiction. He was keen enough to let this supposed Elvish criminal be apprehended by Elrond’s warriors instead of risking his own men.

“I have no desire to meddle in the private affairs of the Elves. We will make sure to clear the quays on the ship’s arrival.”

Glorfindel shook his head. Elrohir should not be alerted to their presence until he was within physical reach, lest he do something foolish and desperate.

“I assure you that there is no need to alarm the populace. Let the Beinalph’s arrival proceed as usual. My people will take care of everything.”

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Glorfindel had his gwéth discreetly set up camp in a copse of willow trees not far from the city gates. He far preferred the splendour of autumn among the colouring trees to the cramped uncleanliness of Mortal guesthouses. They kept a keen eye on the comings and goings of boats on the Gwàthlo, mostly Arnorian navy ships, flat-bottomed river-boats and the occasional trading caravel. Their wait was a short one. In the afternoon of the third day their lookout by the river returned to camp announcing that the Beinalph was being rowed into the harbour.

Glorfindel made his way to the docks to join a crowd of excited sailors’ families and well-wishers waiting for ship and crew. He strategically positioned his warriors throughout the city and at the gates. If Elrohir should attempt another disappearance he would find hidden sentries waiting.

At the sight of the Beinalph Aration’s disbelief at the very idea of an Elf among the passengers became understandable. The people of Tharbad honoured their Nùmenorèan heritage in their fine mastery of shipbuilding, and their seafaring vessels looked sleek and shiny, sculpted with the same fluid elegance as the seagulls wheeling overhead. Next to them the Beinalph had a battered air, like a bird flapping away from a dog’s jaws, mudstained and feathers sticking out at odd angles. Glorfindel gave yet another silent prayer of thanks to the Lady Uinen for sparing the battered ship from summer storms.

As the ship drew level with the quay, mooring lines were thrown and the crowd cheered as the gangplank was laid down. Those gathered were mostly simple folk, women and children in homespun and wooden shoes trying to catch a first glimpse of their returning husbands. Glorfindel hid his face in the hood of his grey cloak. He did not want to alert Elrohir by causing a stir.

With a flood of relief Glorfindel noticed Elrohir’s face, a point of stillness among the row of waving and whooping sailors hanging over the railing. He looked little better than when Glorfindel last saw him, months ago in Far Harad. His fey, almost translucent appearance, eyes seemingly focused beyond the waking world, struck fear into Glorfindel’s heart. He had seen that look of pervasive sorrow before, in other Elves after other wars, and for many among them there had been no cure but Mandos’ halls.

At least Elrohir’s war wounds seemed fully healed. His face was tanned from a summer at sea. He had had the good sense to grow out his hair. It now hid his unusual ears in the unwashed tangles Mortals seemed to favour. The Beinalph’s captain had been too miserly to properly feed his crew: Elrohir looked as gaunt as he had in the desert. He wore plain sailor’s garb from Gondor, linen and felted wool, the very same saddlebag from Harad slung over his shoulder.

With a pang of sadness at having to stalk Elrond’s son like he was game to be hunted Glorfindel let him disembark. When he reached the middle of the quay, too far from both ship and city to rapidly duck into either, Glorfindel stepped from the throng of city folk into his path.

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Elrohir’s mind had been fully occupied with the practicalities of finding a bed for the night. His heart nearly stopped when a cloaked shape seemed to spring from the quay’s mud-covered cobbles in front of him. He knew who it was even before Glorfindel had lowered his hood.

To his own surprise what he felt was not fear at all. There was nothing but bone-deep relief that the uncertainty of his lonely journey was finally over. Whatever fate would befall him at the hands of the Elves, it was a relief to be done waiting for it.

At first Glorfindel only looked at him, his unusual blue eyes intently searching Elrohir’s face as he touched his mind. The sensation remained familiar even after months apart. Elrohir found he did not mind the Elvish thought-opening, glad as he was not to be alone anymore. He fully expected Glorfindel to be furious with him, bracing for an onslaught that never came. Instead he was swept up in a rib-cracking embrace.

“Well met, Elrohir. A long journey you made, and a hard one, by the state of you.”

The Elf spoke Haradi in an attempt to put him at ease, Elrohir realised. He had believed himself above such emotional tricks, but it was impossible to deny the simple joy he felt at hearing words in a language other than Númenórean with a thick, ugly Northern accent.

“I am well, Glorfindel. Are you?”

Elrohir did not know what else to say to this golden, ageless creature with light-filled eyes. From what brief glimpses he had seen he knew that this, rather than the veiled reflection he had worn in Harad, was Glorfindel’s true nature. The knowledge did not make the sight of it any less intimidating. The many different apologies he had mentally rehearsed over the past months seemed to fall flat before leaving his mouth. He soldiered on regardless.

“Glorfindel ... for what it's worth, and I am aware that is probably precious little, I apologise for leaving you behind. I hope you didn’t get into too much trouble for returning without me.”

Glorfindel laughed, and Elrohir recognised that merry, musical sound at once.

“No more trouble than I could handle. Although I do expect my second homecoming will be the merrier one!”

The Elf pulled back from their embrace and his eyes came to rest on Elrohir’s, their open gaze full of joy.

“You kept your promise to come north. Most importantly you are safe, which is all that matters. The long way home is almost at an end.”

With that he led Elrohir through the bustling streets towards the city’s north gate.

“Did you come to Tharbad all by yourself?”

Elrohir knew his question had failed to sound casual the moment it left his mouth. Glorfindel knew well enough that he was calculating the odds of another escape. Still the Elf’s face and mind remained gentle, and Elrohir did not doubt for an instant that his answer was the truth.

“I rode here with a gwèth of your father’s warriors, both for protection on the road and to ensure you would not run from me again. We are being watched. Please, Elrohir, do not make me chase you down the street like a fleeing cutpurse. We only mean to keep you from harm. The North is perilous to lonely travellers.”

Elrohir froze in terror at the thought of an entire company of armed Elves lying in wait for him, the horrors in Abrazîr’s tales fresh in his mind. His heart thundered in his chest like a battle drum, and for an instant it seemed his body would attempt a mad dash for freedom of its own accord. Glorfindel must have perceived it, because he laid a comforting hand on Elrohir’s shoulder. His palm felt surprisingly warm and solid through Elrohir’s linen shirt, and a curious sense of calm flowed from the touch.

“Elladan sends you his love. He has missed you very much. Will you not come with me and meet him?”

As distractions went this was less than subtle, but an effective one. A visceral stab of longing tore through Elrohir’s body at the very mention of his twin.

“Is Elladan here?”

Glorfindel began walking again, gently leading Elrohir along. He shook his head.

“Not yet. My gwéth and I rode hard to assure we would not miss your ship. From Imladris to Tharbad is ten days in the saddle at the least, more if you want to do it in reasonable comfort. Your parents and Elladan followed as soon as could be arranged. They are probably only a day or so behind now.”

Elrohir made another brusque stop.

“Where are we going?”

He had expected Glorfindel to turn towards an inn or a livery-stable. Instead they made for the city gates.

“Our camp. Elves do not like to stay in Mortal dwellings.”

In that moment Elrohir felt as wary as the day he first rode into the desert with Glorfindel. He stood still and looked about himself, at the world he knew. They were standing in an an ordinary street with thatched houses of grey stone, weeds springing up between the cobblestones and its folk going about their daily business. Washerwomen returned from the river with heavy baskets, chattering like a flock of geese. Three laughing men sat outside an alehouse. A barefoot farmer slowly drove an ox-cart piled high with hay into the city. Their lined faces held a flowing, ever-changing life that was utterly lacking in the perfection of Glorfindel’s ageless features.

Elrohir understood with alarming clarity that he was being led to some strange fate, and that his next step, the one that would take him out of the city, would bring some grave and wholly irreversible change. Glorfindel clearly read his trepidation. The Elf calmly stood aside on the muddy cobbles beneath the city gate, and raised his hand in a beckoning gesture.

“Not all that is strange, is evil. You are unlike these people in ways you cannot begin to understand. Do not share their fate without knowing what you truly are.”

With nothing but empty miles behind him he was left with no other choice, Elrohir realised as he followed Glorfindel out of the gates, leaving the world of Men behind.

 

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Chapter End Notes

Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear what you think of the story so far. All of your thoughts, ideas and concrit are very much appreciated.

Of course this is not the end of Elrohir's long way to Rivendell, and when he gets there his troubles are far from over ...

See you soon!

Idrils Scribe