On the Starlit Sea by Idrils Scribe

Chapter 5: Concern/”You can rest now”

The Elf-ship is beautiful in its own alien way, its swan-wings outstretched to the sea-wind, each feather sculpted down to the foam-white barbs edged in silver. 

Before Elrohir reaches the top of the grey rope ladder, a pair of sun-tanned hands heave him up over the gunwale and set him on his feet on the white wooden deck. They belong to a strange creature. A bright smile in a young man’s face, and yet the long cable of braided hair is silver as starlight. The Elf wears the same sea-grey as his fellow sailors, but on his surcote’s breast shimmers a white conch-shell picked out in pearls.

“Elrohir son of Elrond,” he says in crisp, perfect Adûnaic, and bows politely in the Númenórean fashion, with a hand over his heart. “I am Galdor of the Grey Havens. This vessel is the Nemir, of Lindon’s fleet, and I have her command. You are most welcome aboard.”

Elrohir returns the bow - somewhat deeper and a fraction longer than Galdor’s, to be on the safe side. When he straightens, Galdor's eyes find his, and Elrohir understands that this Elvish sea-captain is anything but young. His gaze has the depth and gravity of a commander tried by many battles. 

Galdor looks Elrohir over as he stands there on the gleaming white deck of the Elvish ship, and a glimmer of sadness passes over him, quickly hidden. Only now does Elrohir think of what he must look like - road-stained, half starved and wearing a slave’s tattered garb. A low murmur passes through the Elves on deck at the sight. Elrohir blinks. His eyes feel full of grit. His last proper night’s sleep was weeks ago, before Pellardur. It is all he can do not to sway on his feet. 

“You will find rest and healing here,” Galdor says solemnly. Then, with a smile, he adds, “and as fine a table as we can lay.”  

Then he turns, because behind him, Glorfindel has lighty leapt over the gunwale. To Elrohir’s astonishment, Galdor salutes. “General, welcome once more. Out of great danger you return victorious.” 

General . Elrohir can only stand and stare. He already knows that there is more to Glorfindel than meets the eye, but the surprises just keep piling up. 

Glorfindel smiles, the depth of his relief open in his eyes, and salutes back. “Not entirely out of danger yet, old friend.” 

“Ossë sent us a fair wind.” Galdor's grin is sharp as a knife. “The Corsairs must learn to fly if they mean to catch my swan.” 

Elrohir swallows, his mouth suddenly dry when he understands that leaving dry land has only worsened the danger. Sailing an Elvish ship across Umbarian waters is a perilous proposition: the Corsairs are skilled seafarers, and they rule the waves with an iron fist. Only now does he notice how the Elf-ship is wreathed in darkness. Not a single lantern shines out over the waves to betray their presence. 

Not that these sailors would need lamps, even in the moonless dark -  they are more than human. Galdor calls out in the grey tongue, fair words that flow like the sea-wind, and from all around them the order is answered. 

Elves are everywhere - aloft in the rigging and at work on deck, where slender grey-clad figures have already winched aboard the sloop. Elrohir can feel them the way he feels Glorfindel, the touch of their minds bright and clear, an alien sense of presence that is neither sight nor sound. 

They seem friendly enough - wherever he looks, every young and flawless face bears a smile. One dark-haired woman up in the rigging overhead even gives a wave, grinning from ear to ear as if about to burst into laughter from the sheer delight of seeing him, Corsairs or no. 

Elrohir smiles back, astonished. 

Sails are hoisted in silence, silver-white against the stars, but then they snap and billow in a sudden stiff breeze, and the dark mass that is Umbar begins to fall away into the night. 

Elrohir turns around, his hands white-knuckled on the railing as he holds up his bone-weary body, watching all he knows in the world disappear beyond the horizon. He summons the last dregs of strength for this final, desperate vigil. His head spins, but his eyes dart back and forth. Is that a light, out on the distant waves? The tiny flicker might be nothing - a low-standing star, perhaps, or a simple fishing dhow. Or an Umbarian man-of-war on a ramming course. He squints into the distance, unsure of what he is seeing but desperate to know. 

“Peace, Elrohir!” Elrohir is dazed enough that he startles like a spooked horse when Glorfindel walks up behind him. Glorfindel lays a hand on his shoulder, eyes him for a moment, then gently turns him around and points up into the rigging, to the dark silhouettes high on the main mast. “Galdor has tripled the watch, and nothing escapes a Falathrim lookout.” 

He gives Elrohir a gentle pull towards the aftercastle. “Come. You had enough of the dark. Let us take care of you now.”

Down they go by a white wooden staircase, the railings shaped like wave-crests, into a hallway with doors all inlaid with mother-of-pearl and carved with sea-birds and leaping dolphins. One opens into a lamplit cabin. Glorfindel snicks it closed behind Elrohir, locking them in with the light.

This entire ship smells clean, as if someone just scrubbed down every inch of the woodwork. Judging from the polished shine, that is probably the case. Elrohir stands and looks, his eyes flicking about the room, searching and failing to find what it is that makes it seem so familiar. 

A wing-shaped window set with real glass, now covered with a shutter. In the daytime the white-walled space must be awash in light. Tonight lamps of silver and faceted crystal cast a golden glow. Two chests standing side by side, one carved with gilded flowers, the other with a frieze of galloping horses. A copper wash basin on a stand, engraved dolphins leaping around the edge amidst clean-lined waves. A padded bench lining the wall. Two berths made up with crisp linen and bright woollen blankets. 

He never set foot on this ship before, and yet he recognizes something about this room. He is strangely glad, as for some longed-for but nameless thing glimpsed from afar, but the feeling only sharpens into a bone-deep yearning he cannot name.      

He stands frozen, overcome with strangeness. The cabin is silent save for the sea’s endless sigh and churn beyond the curved wooden wall. 

Glorfindel breaks him out of his own mind. 

“Aha! Ulmo bless our dear Galdor!”  The Elf grins like a lion holding a kill as he hefts a steaming bucket of what appears to be hot water. “No offence, my friend, but you are in dire need of delousing.”