On the Starlit Sea by Idrils Scribe

Chapter 3: Overwhelmed/”Say Goodbye”

“Elrohir … it is time.”

Glorfindel has delayed as long as he possibly could, but their time draws short. The red sunset has faded to indigo over the western sea, and the stars are opening in the east. The deed must be done.

Elrohir does not protest. He rises from where he sat with that thousand yard stare in his eyes and his head leaning against his reclining camel, and for a moment of terror Glorfindel thinks he can see the light of Elrohir’s fëa shining through him as through cloth worn too thin. 

Elrohir unsaddles Ot in silence. With practised efficiency he unbuckles the cinch and lifts first the saddlebags, then the saddle itself off the camel’s back. He thinks for a moment, then heaves both onto his shoulder and carries them over to drop them in a pile at Glorfindel’s feet. 

Behind them the beach stretches white and empty down to the Great Sea’s sighing churn. Elrohir does not look at it. 

He takes the halter and the reins, slides them off Ot’s head, and drops them atop the saddle. Ot stares with those large dark eyes, almost understanding. Elrohir feeds him a date.

The hobbles come off last, the heavy leather leg-ties that keep the beast close to camp when he is left to graze. Now Elrohir unknots them, and for the first time in years Ot is free of all tack. 

He rises at once. Sand rustles down from his coat. Elrohir stands and watches, his hands still by his sides, but Ot does not turn away. Elrohir is one of those soft-spoken souls who take to all good beasts, and they to him. Ot loves his master, and he knows that this is goodbye. 

“Go, buddy!” Elrohir’s voice has gone rough. 

Through all they have suffered together, Glorfindel has never seen him cry. Now he is close. Over a cantankerous bastard of a camel. The only friend he has left. 

Glorfindel is heartsick with Elrohir’s grief. His arms ache to hold him, promise him that all will be well, but Elrohir is not the hugging kind, and nothing Glorfindel might say will make this any easier.

Elrond and Celebrían have a horse standing ready for Elrohir. The finest foal Asfaloth ever sired, a grey Valinorean charger with a loyal heart and a breathtaking gallop. He will love that mare, once he meets her. But for now all he has is a messy pile of hard-worn camel tack and a heart full of sorrow.

  The three of them stand there for a time, silent. The desert wind dies down in the sere dune grass, but to the west the rushing sea sings still, and the stars wheel overhead. 

Elrohir cannot bring himself to end the torment of parting. Glorfindel can do at least that for him, and so he steps forward and lays his hand against the war camel’s great dun head. 

“Go now, faithful friend,” he whispers in soft Valinórean Quenya. “Go with every blessing I can give. Be free and merry all your life.”

Ot draws away from him, and turns to nose at Elrohir's face. Elrohir stands very still, his eyes screwed tightly shut, but his hands come up to stroke Ot’s cheeks. 

“Go!” Elrohir rasps, running his hand down the soft velvet of Ot’s nose. Then he lowers it, and Ot turns and walks away. 

Elrohir remains, standing with his arms crossed as if trying to embrace himself, and watches until the pale shape is swallowed up by the desert night. He looks so young and so lost, utterly uprooted. 

Grief gnaws at Glorfindel's heart at the pain of this parting, this deed of cruel kindness he must inflict. He has torn Elrohir away from all he ever knew, and what will come instead is far away yet. 

“Come, dear one.” Glorfindel lays an arm around Elrohir’s shoulder and gently turns him around so his face is turned towards the sea. Elrohir lets him.

Side by side they walk down to the beach.