On the Starlit Sea by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 6: It’s been a long day/Falling asleep on someone

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Glorfindel’s fingers have been itching from the day he first laid eyes on the unwashed tangle beneath Elrohir’s Haradi headcover. He could not bring himself to drag Elrohir into one of Pellardur’s shady bathhouses, knowing that every moment in that city of horrors was torment. No amount of grumbling about reckless water-waste will deter him now. 

The ship’s dwindling barrels will not permit an actual bath, but washing Elrohir’s hair will give him some comfort and dignity, and it is something to keep him grounded instead of withdrawing ever deeper into his own mind. 

Glorfindel lifts a crisp linen towel from the generous stack provided, tips some of both hot and cold buckets into the wash basin until the result is pleasant, and pulls up a stool. 

“Sit down”, he says with a flourish, “and tip your head back.” At Elrohir’s look of bewildered concern, he adds, “If we end up dying of thirst, do it without your lice.”

The task is a mighty one indeed, but when Glorfindel’s bar of good Imladrian soap is half gone and the third rinse runs clear, Elrohir’s hair is clean at last. 

The next stage of the proceedings brings more grousing about the merits of a proper haircut, but Glorfindel is merciless. 

“If we cut your hair even shorter,” he replies, his tone stern but with a smile to soften it, “you will look like a convict. Now let me comb it, or this tangle will draw nesting gulls.”

He wields the lice comb first. Thoroughly, but careful not to pull or snag. Elrohir’s hair barely falls down to his earlobes: pitifully short, not even enough for the simplest of braids. He looks like a convict indeed, or a thrall. He was one, not so long ago. Glorfindel recalls Pellardur, and his strokes grow even gentler. 

When he finds no more nits he switches to a soft-bristled brush and works Elrohir’s hair until it gleams smooth as a skein of dark silk. Elrohir sits very still, and lets him. 

Clean clothes are next. Celebrían has sent along a chest for Elrohir, a wardrobe for the journey home. Glorfindel lifts out an undershirt, and stills to admire her work. The lady’s power shimmers in the silken drape of the finest linen the weavers of Imladris can create. The collar and cuffs bear a delicate whitework pattern of beech-leaves, the stitches so fine that even Elvish eyes can hardly tell where one ends and the next begins - hours upon hours of loving labour, words of ward and blessing Sung into the very threads. 

He adds a grey tunic of feather-soft wool, leggings and underclothes, a silver-tooled belt and stout seaman’s boots. 

Elrohir eyes the growing stack with a pinched expression. “Glorfindel …” he begins cautiously, “I have some money, but I cannot afford -”

“These are yours.” Glorfindel quickly cuts off that line of reasoning, and holds out the clothes  for Elrohir to take. “Your mother made them for you. I beg you, do not ever try to pay her. She has sorrows enough as it is.”

Elrohir stands still, his head held at that angle when he is trying to make sense of something that eludes him.

Glorfindel understands, having seen Elrohir’s world with his own eyes. He proffers the clothes once more, and now Elrohir takes them, a pensive look in his eyes. 

Glorfindel turns his back, mindful of his Haradi sense of modesty, and has a quick wash in what remains of the water. Elrohir does not offer to comb him, and Glorfindel does not ask. Elvish manners will come later. 

The Nemir’s cook clearly feels personally offended by Elrohir’s half-starved state. The knock on the door comes a mere moment after Glorfindel brings out the used water, and what is carried in from the galley is a feast to tempt even a fading man: warm raisin-studded bannocks beside a generous pat of butter, a thick, spicy-sweet fish stew and a truly excellent bottle of Gondorian white that must have come from Galdor’s personal stash.

Glorfindel uncovers the serving bowls with his eyes on Elrohir instead of the bounty. Losing Ot has deepened that tell-tale transparency into outright fading, and breathless fear makes Glorfindel forget his own hunger. Elves resigned to Mandos will not eat. What will he do, if Elrohir is so far gone that he sees no more need for sustenance? 

“Would you like some?” he offers with deceptive calm as he lifts the cover from the plate of bannocks. Sweet-scented steam wafts up. 

Estë the Healer, Gentle Lady, have mercy… 

Perhaps Glorfindel’s prayer is heard, or else Elrohir has some lingering memory of Elvish food. He tears off a wedge of bannock, drags it across the chunk of soft butter, and tucks in. 

Glorfindel is dizzy with relief, but then his stomach unknots, and he ladles out two generous bowls of stew. Before this journey he used to wonder at the way mortals tend to relish even the simplest elvish food. Surviving on Haradrim war-rations granted him a deep compassion for the folk who must live their entire lives off such plain fare. 

They sit side by side on the bench, bowls and plates in their laps, and demolish the spread. 

“So,” Elrohir says eventually, between bites of thickly buttered bannock. He looks more solid with a hint of colour to his cheeks. “First you turn out to be an Elf, then a sorcerer, and now a General, too?” 

Glorfindel smiles, immensely relieved at this lighter mood, and refrains from telling him not to talk with his mouth full. He swallows his own mouthful of stew, washes it down with wine, and confirms. “That I am.” 

Elrohir’s eyebrow rises. “You did not think it worth mentioning?”

“You never asked.”

“Indeed.” Elrohir knocks back more wine. “What, exactly, are you general of ?”

Elrohir’s glass is nearly empty, and Glorfindel fills it again unasked. Let him sleep tonight.

“Formerly Lindon’s armed forces,” he says, pouring another ample measure, “currently those of Imladris.”

“They sent their general to Harad?” Elrohir seems genuinely baffled. 

Good . Let him understand that he is no trifle in his own father’s eyes. 

Glorfindel dares to shoot for that smile he has not seen in weeks. “Did you expect them to send their cobbler?” 

“Depends.” Elrohir pauses to shovel another spoonful of stew into his mouth. “Can the cobbler do that trick you did with the wraith?” His face breaks open into a wry grin, and Glorfindel could sing for joy at the sight.

He shakes his head, laughing, but his words are serious. “Few Elves can.”

This is food for thought, it seems, because Elrohir nods, and says nothing. 

He takes another sip of wine, and as Glorfindel looks on, his eyes fall closed and his head tips forward. He had nothing but short, haunted snatches of sleep since before Pellardur. He valiantly rights himself, has another bite of stew, but even as he downs the spoon he slouches sideways until his head rests against Glorfindel’s shoulder, and his breathing grows slow and even. 

Glorfindel smiles. Out like a light. Elrohir never likes to be coddled, but for a moment Glorfindel indulges in the warm weight against his shoulder, the gentle rise and fall of his chest. 

Better not leave him there for too long. He will be indignant.

Glorfindel wakes him with a gentle shake. Elrohir blinks, bleary-eyed, and rises only long enough to drape his tunic and belt over the chest before sliding into his berth. In moments he is fast asleep, sunken into the closed-eyed darkness of exhaustion. 

The sight is a burden off Glorfindel’s shoulders. His own bone-deep tiredness rears up like a drowning wave, and he sways on his feet for a moment. He has not slept in weeks, not since Elrohir’s spirit-sickness grew so bad he had to be spared the night watch. He has guarded Elrond’s son and cared for him, all his power and his will given to bringing him safely through war and death and the worst dregs of mankind’s cruelty. 

Now Elrohir is among his own people and he sleeps - real, restful sleep in a proper bed -  clean, well fed, and as safe as one can be while still in Umbarian waters. 

It is done. 

Suddenly his eyes sting. He swallows, passes a hand over them until his sight no longer blurs. Then he turns the lamps down to a gentle golden twilight, and finds his own bed.