On the Starlit Sea by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 17: Breathing through the pain/Flowers

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The sun sinks into the West in a sky grey as grief. Ossë has calmed his anger, and the storm’s passing left only a light rain that turns the waves to silver glass. 

Elrohir and Calear’s last rites are a sad and sober affair. 

From the charred remains of the quarterdeck, Glorfindel watches the Nemir’s crew gather on deck in heavy silence. These hardened mariners are tearless, but grim. The drawn faces looking up at him hold more shock than sorrow, all stricken by the sheer wrongness of so young a life brutally cut short

The flame-scorched ship makes for a sombre backdrop. Charred ropes and torn sailcloth trail from the singed masts like mourning drapes. The stink of soot bites harshly in the nose. 

They all prefer it to the Shakalzôr. There can be no blessing aboard that ship of horrors. Even over here, Glorfindel’s mind is raw from the miasma of evil swirling about it, echoes of suffering and death leached into the very timbers. It is no place for the grieving. Even damaged, the Nemir feels clean. Galdor believes that she might be repaired at sea in mere days. But before they begin that work, they must say farewell.

How many Elves has Glorfindel buried? Too many, and he remembers each and every one. 

Death is alien to the Eldar, but Glorfindel has been a warrior through two long lifetimes. As Elrond’s general he has left a trail of scattered cairns, markers on the downward path of the Elves’ long defeat. He once believed himself hardened to the bitter bite of loss, having laid to rest the fallen of so many battles. Today shows him for the fool he is. 

After losing Elrohir he knows not what he feels - grief, or a white-hot rage so profound it makes him doubt his own sanity. Two lives he spent fighting this battle, and still it rages on. How much longer? How many more of his friends, his loved ones, will he lose before the end - whatever that end might be? 

Glorfindel failed to save Elrohir’s life, and even in death he has let him down. He can offer no wreath of flowers, and neither can he sit a night’s solemn vigil over his body. The hungry Sea has devoured it. He clenches his empty hands, desperately wishing he could have tended Elrohir like he did so many of his brothers in arms. 

There would be comfort in granting Elrond’s son the final dignity of what little finery can be found on board. Glorfindel should have bound Elrohir’s wounds, dressed him in the clothes his mother made, and laid him out with honour: pearls of the Falas braided into his hair and a grave-gift in his hands. Not his sword, but some fair and joyful thing - perhaps that little carving of a feisty gull that made him smile - so his empty hroä might rest in Ulmo’s depths unburdened by the tools of bloodshed. 

It is not so, and Glorfindel’s heart aches with that small grief heaped upon the greater one. 

He stands at attention and watches as the colours of Lindon and Imladris are lowered to half mast. The sight strangles his throat with a noose of bitter, boundless sorrow. Soon he will bring Elrohir’s family the worst possible news, and he cannot give them even a cut braid to be kept in a locket. 

Nothing of their lost son remains. Only memory and song. 

He cannot bear to think of Elrond. Elrond, whose kind heart bears the scars of loss heaped upon loss; who looks to Glorfindel with such boundless trust to help him fulfil the great task laid upon him. 

Elrond deserves all good things, every happiness Glorfindel could give him. But Glorfindel has failed, and he has nothing left to offer. All he can do is to build a cairn in some high and silent place overlooking the valley, so Elrond and Celebrían can climb there to sit with their son, even if his body is not there.

Glorfindel is pulled from his dark musings when Galdor begins his eulogy. He stands on the scorched planks of the quarterdeck as rigid and as still as a man bearing a mortal wound. A good captain takes every death to himself, and Galdor is a fine one indeed. He mourns for Calear, but also for Elrohir as if Elrond’s son were one of his own, briefly though he has known him.

With a calm and steady voice he names Calear’s deeds and praises the man he was. He makes a valiant effort to do the same for Elrohir, but what, really, can be said of one so young? It is madness. 

Grief sharp as a blade cuts Glorfindel’s heart, and he must breathe through it deep and slow lest he shame Elrohir and himself. 

He is glad when Galdor begins the lament. 

 

Who shall see a white ship

leave the last shore

the pale phantoms

in her cold bosom

like gulls wailing?

 

The ancient Falathrim elegy rings out over the restless waves. Glorfindel swallows his tears, fills his burning lungs with air, and adds his voice to those of the crew. 

 

Who shall heed a white ship,

vague as a butterfly,

in the flowing sea

on wings like stars,

the sea surging,

the foam blowing,

the wings shining,

the light fading?

 

In the west, the clouds part, and beside the setting sun Eärendil rises into the sky as they Sing his grandson’s final honours. Grief and beauty mingle into an aching sweetness sharp as swords. 

Over on the Shakhalzôr, the freed Mortals hear the Elf-song, and weep for their own sorrows.

 

Who shall hear the wind roaring

like leaves of forests;

the white rocks snarling

in the moon gleaming,

in the moon waning,

in the moon falling

a corpse-candle;

the storm mumbling,

the abyss moving?

 

Has Elrohir gone to Mandos? Distance is nothing to the Houseless, the journey quick as stepping through an open door. Glorfindel knows. He shudders at the memory of those Halls, where the naked fëa must confront the life it has lost. 

Not Elrohir, or at least not yet. First he faces the Choice of the Peredhel. Glorfindel can only hope that what little Elrohir has seen of Elfkind might suffice to sway him. 

Either way, no word of Elrohir’s chosen path will reach Middle-earth. His own kin will not know his fate until they sail into the West, and the uncertainty is its own torment. 

Will Elrohir await them on the quay in Eressëa? What would he look like as a man grown, healed and whole, with the light of Valinor in his face? Perhaps one day Glorfindel will see, and they will embrace as friends reunited. 

Perhaps not. Elros’ path lies wide open, and Elrohir’s feet were set upon it already. 

 

Who shall see the clouds gather,

the heavens bending

upon crumbling hills,

the sea heaving,

the abyss yawning,

the old darkness

beyond the stars

falling

upon fallen towers?

 

Glorfindel’s voice almost breaks, but he is a soldier. He keeps his eyes on the flags, his shoulders straight, his face arranged. 

 

Who shall heed a broken ship

on the black rocks

under broken skies,

a bleared sun blinking

on bones gleaming

in the last morning?

Who shall see the last evening?

 

When the song ends, many Elves weep openly.

Glorfindel’s eyes remain dry as Galdor begins the final roll call. There was no debate on the matter: Elrohir died in battle defending the Nemir . His name will be called as one of her crew.

“Calear of Lindon, son of Gelmir and Calithil.” 

Silence. Then a single roll of drums. 

Galdor swallows, hesitates, his eyes shiny with unshed tears. It is unconscionable. Not even half a long-year before Elrohir was snatched away. And yet it must be done. 

“Elrohir of Imladris. Son of Elrond and Celebrían.”

Silence. 

The drums roar with grief. 

Barely a dry eye on the ship when the hornsman plays the silver tones of the last salute. 

Glorfindel breathes, in and out, and stands up straight as a commander should. 

A moment, an eternity, and then it is over. The flags taken down and folded, the crew dispersed. Glorfindel wholly lost. 

What will he do with himself, without Elrohir to care for?

“Here, sir. Some flowers.” Falver’s venerable age left her gentle and gracious in her grief. 

Undemanding, she offers him a handful of dried elanor. As the ship’s surgeon she must have spared the herb from her precious store of healer’s supplies. A small kindness to a grieving guest. 

The petals are wrinkled, but the blooms have kept their pale golden hue. Their scent remains fresh and bright, and for an instant Glorfindel stands in the glades of Lórien on a shining summer morning. Only a moment - the next, he recalls that Elrohir will never see a mallorn. 

He cups his hand so she can tip the flowers in, shielding them with her other one lest the sea wind whisks them away too soon. When he searches her ancient eyes for some reproach, he finds only deep compassion.

With a small nod of thanks Glorfindel turns to the railing. He keeps his eyes on Eärendil’s star as he utters his final goodbye. 

“Fare you well, my friend. Wherever you may go.” his voice cracks, and he must swallow a wad of tears. “I am sorry. May we meet once more in brighter times.” 

The sun is sinking to the western sea, and with a wide sweep he scatters the flowers over the gold-tinted waves. 

Then the grief strikes him all at once, and he buckles beneath it. He turns, shoulders through the milling sailors and almost leaps down the stairs to his cabin, closing the door behind him. 

Elrohir’s sea-chest glares like an accusation. Beside it lies all that remains of him: the crumpled heap of his battered saddlebags. 

Glorfindel sinks down and pulls the thing against him, breathing Elrohir’s desert-scent of camels and coal-fires. 

He kneels there for a while, bent with weeping, his forehead pressed to the stained leather.