The Horns of Ylmir by cuarthol

The Horns of Ylmir

Read The Horns of Ylmir

Idril woke in darkness, reaching in the bed and finding the sheets cold as she had done for so many nights before.  She let her hand rest in the absence of Tuor and thought of the many holes in their lives, ruined realms and fallen kin.  She did not forget that Tuor’s life had been marked by grief and loss long before he had come to Gondolin.

The small house they lived in was far from the grand palaces of stone which her father had built.  Yet it was not their humble surroundings which left her unsettled.  Even after more than ten years, Sirion did not feel like home.  It felt like holding her breath, waiting for some unseen future to arrive.

Rising, she pulled a robe about her shoulders and found Tuor standing on the balcony, his eyes fixed upon the furthest edge of the western sea that his mortal gaze could reach.

She slipped her arms about his waist, and he closed his hands over hers.  They continued on in silence, the stars turning overhead and the waves churning below, until in the distant east the light of Arien began to grow and the gulls called to welcome its return to the sky.

“What has you so restless?” she asked at long last, nuzzling into his shoulder.  “Sleep has never been a burden for you.”

“I still hear his call,” Tuor murmured, turning away from the dawn-brightened sky and drawing Idril into his embrace.

She knew, or had guessed, at least.  “It has never really left you, has it.”  Though she was glad it had brought him to her, she knew that she was not why he had been sent.  “It only slept a while.”

He nestled his face into the bend of her neck, breathing in her scent.  “It pulls at my heart.  The more I try to refuse, the greater I feel it.”

“I will follow you,” she breathed softly, and his arms tightened around her.  “Ulmo has blessed you, more than any I have ever known.  What greater future may yet lie ahead?”

He laughed.  “Oh, my love.  I do not think I can bear much more of the Vala’s blessing!  ‘Tis as much a burden.”  Pressing kisses to her cheek, he sighed and turned his eyes back to where the last stars were failing, one by one.  “But nor do I think I can resist the call any longer.”

***

The surf swept over his feet and curled around his ankles, eyes sparkling like sun on the water as he looked upon the Alqarámë.  A sense of pride filled his chest at the beauty of it.  Still, there was some lingering uncertainty that this was the right path.  Was this truly the will of Ulmo, or only the longing of his heart?

“It is as fine a ship as any that has sailed,” Círdan said.  “And you, as fine a wright.  It could take you all the way to Ulmonan, should the Lord of the Waters permit.”

Tuor gave a soft laugh and smiled at his friend.  “You did more than a little to bring this about.  But where it shall take me, I do not know.  I only feel him - hear him, calling to me.  Or it is what I tell myself, at any rate.”

“It is good to follow that call,” Círdan agreed.  “The desire comes from somewhere.”  The sorrows of those who had failed to heed Ulmo’s warnings would not soon be forgotten, two realms now fallen for it.

Still, more than most, Círdan recalled the many ships already sent west, the docks from which they had sailed still mourned their loss.

They stood in silence a while, watching the gentle roll of the ship along the pier.  The prow was gilded and set with pearls, deep twilight-purple sails lay slack in the gentle breeze, and blue banners bearing the swan-wing hung along the rails.

“What of Eärendil?”

Tuor’s smile faltered.  That was the only thing that still held claim to him here, and he was loath to leave him.  He had never wanted his son to know the pain of losing his parents, though such childhood fears were long past.  Still, it was enough to make him question his path.

“By rights Eärendil is Turgon’s heir,” Círdan noted, though Gil-galad had long held the title of High King.

“Kingship over the Eldar belongs not to the Edain,” Tuor said.

“Yet Eärendil belongs not wholly to the Edain.”

“No, but his fate is thus,” Tuor said.  “He is already a grown man by our measure of life, soon to be wed, to have children of his own.”  Tuor’s voice softened, sorrow creeping in as he mused, “But what peace there was to be found shattered when he was a child still himself.  Where is left to raise them?”

Círdan remained silent, understanding the question was not for him to answer.

“Ulmo guided me once,” Tuor finally said, turning his gaze back to the sea.  “I must trust he will do so again.”  He hoped this time his words would be heeded.

***

“She is finished, then?”

Tuor turned to find Voronwë coming down the pier, carrying a lidded basket.  Even with his wooden leg, the Elf moved as silent as ever and he seemed no less nimble for the loss.

“She is,” Tuor said, stepping lightly from Alqarámë’s deck.  “Though with any luck, she will see but one journey.”

Voronwë’s eyes went wide at that and he nearly dropped his burden.  “Do you mean not to return?”

Tuor shook his head, but said, “My intention is only to follow the longing that grips my heart. I do not know what lies beyond, but I must trust it will not remain hidden.  If at the end of it all I am released, I will find this harbor again and perhaps at last my wandering days will be at an end.”

Voronwë gave him a lop-sided smile.  “I do not think your wandering has an end.”

Tuor rubbed at his arm absentmindedly where a careless moment had left him with a bruise.  Though he had meant it in jest, Voronwë’s words had touched on something else.  “I feel my age, my friend.  I am weary of this constant searching.”

“You are barely grown,” Voronwë laughed.  “Fifty years is nothing.”

“Oh I have years left in me,” Tuor insisted, “but more behind me than ahead.”  He drew closer then, lowering his voice.  “I do not know how I shall ever leave her when I am at last called.”

Voronwë’s gaze was drawn up to where gulls passed overhead, their mournful cry fading away as they flew out across the waves.  He knew he held no answer for that fear.

“I should not tempt Ulmo's mercy a second time," Voronwë mused.  "My tongue has not forgotten the taste of the sea.  But I love you too well to be parted.  I shall go with you, if you will have me.  To whatever end may await us."

It took a moment for his words to sink in, then Tuor’s face broke into a broad grin and he embraced him joyfully.

“How I had longed for your company,” he said, “though feared to ask it of you.”

“‘Twas Ulmo himself who thrust us together,” Voronwë assured him.  “And for your sake was I spared.  I dare not abandon you now.”

***

There was more gray in his father’s hair than Eärendil recalled, more lines upon his weathered face.  But there was a brightness returned to his eyes that he had not seen for many years.

“Do you remember the song I used to sing you as a child?” Tuor said.  Then with a low voice, heavy with the weight of years, he sang: “'Twas in the Land of Willows that I heard th' unfathomed breath, Of the Horns of Ylmir calling—and shall hear them till my death.”*

“Do you go to your death?” Eärendil asked, not hiding the grief in his voice.

“The Horns of Ylmir did not call me to my death before,” Tuor said.  “I do not believe they shall this time, either.”

Eärendil nodded silently, though his sorrow felt no less for his father’s assurance.

“Look for me,” Tuor said, though in that moment did not understand the weight of his words.  What he meant as a promise to return became instead the lure of his own son toward that fated destiny that Ulmo alone had seen.

At last Tuor kissed his son’s brow, and Idril held him long, and what words were whispered between them they alone knew.

Then Tuor, Idril, and Voronwë departed upon Alqarámë, and her twilight sails unfurled caught the first rays of dawn and a strong westerly breeze.  Tuor stood upon the prow and his heart swelled with joy to be following this call at last.  He thought he saw in the distant roll of the waves the great Vala, clad in shimmering armor like scales, blowing a rolling deep hymn upon his conches.

---

Chapter End Notes

*Passage taken from JRR Tolkien, The Shaping of Middle-earth, "III. The Quenta: Appendix 2: The Horns of Ylmir"

Since the prompt was from BoLT, I used the name found there for Tuor's ship: Alqarámë - Swanwing.