On the Starlit Sea by Idrils Scribe

Chapter 10: “Why did you save me?”

“This one is called a sextant,” Galdor explains, not without a hint of pride. The instrument glitters in the midday sun, a clean-lined, gem-set masterpiece of Falathrim craftsmanship. “It has a double mirror, see? The arc here measures the angle between any celestial object - the sun by day, or the pole star by night - and the horizon.” 

Elrohir nods along, rapt. His eyes have not left the sextant since Galdor began his lecture. Elrohir was a master at navigating the desert by the stars, and now the arcane art of determining a vessel’s position out on the open sea has him spellbound enough to drive the pursuing Corsairs from his mind. 

Galdor knows it, judging by his smile as he holds the sextant up for Elrohir so he can look into the eyepiece. Galdor, too, seems to be enjoying himself. Elves delight in children, and it has been long indeed since the Nemir’s battle-hardened captain last had one to teach. 

Glorfindel leans against the mizzenmast to watch the impromptu lesson unfold, and allows himself to relax. He can almost imagine that they are sailing Lindon’s friendly waters, that it is high summer and they are taking Elrohir out on a pleasant practice jaunt across the Gulf of Lune. Almost. 

“Now we release this clamp here,” Galdor lectures his eager student, “and shift the arc until the sun is at the horizon. Go ahead, turn the screw, you could not break it if you tried. There, you did it!” He is all but cheering. “We call this ‘shooting the sun.' With this angle and the precise time when it was measured, we calculate a position line on the chart. This gives us our current latitude.”

The chart in question lies open on the table, held by weights of wave-green sea glass. 

“So we are somewhere along this line?” Elrohir runs his finger along one of  the gilded meridians. 

“Indeed!” Galdor nods with a smile. “Now for the longitude, we need to measure the lunar distance. I will show you tonight! What we do is -”

Elrohir’s head jerks up. He has gone pale, his mind closed tight, but Glorfindel can almost see the cold shiver running down his back.  

The Umbarian ship has stalked closer, all her red sails billowing. Her oars, three stacked rows of them, are stroking back and forth like the wriggling insectoid legs of a millipede. Atop the main mast flies the black serpent on a field of scarlet. 

The very day seems to darken, and when Glorfindel looks west he sees storm clouds massing, grey and stern as moving mountains. 

“Look here, lad,” Galdor tries to draw Elrohir’s gaze away from the Umbarian. 

Elrohir will have none of it. He turns to the railing to watch white-knuckled how their enemies gain ground. “You are in great danger, all on my account,” he says, to no one in particular. “Why are you so kind to me?”

Galdor comes to stand beside him, his arms folded, almost relaxed. “We would be kind to anyone your age,” he says. “Elves delight in children.”

“Sir,” Elrohir turns to Galdor with the resigned look of a man facing the executioner. “With your permission-” he waits, eyes on the pearl-set insignia on Galdor’s tunic. Whatever else he may be, Elrohir is a soldier born and bred.

Galdor nods his permission. 

Elrohir’s eyes flick over to the Black Eye billowing on the Corsair’s sails, blood-red against the darkening sky. “Enough delight to take on the Umbarian navy?”

“Enough indeed, and plenty to spare.” Galdor’s grin bares his teeth. Glorfindel has seen that look before, in Mordor. Galdor can be a sly tactician, but when things come down to courage and cold steel, the man is a lion. 

“Sir …” Elrohir is baffled, but he quickly rights himself and points over the railing, “that is the Prince of Pellardur commanding an imperial trireme. You are outnumbered. Badly outnumbered.”

“I am aware.” Galdor stands up straight, his shoulders relaxed, one hand on the pommel of the cutlass at his hip.

Elrohir stares at him wide-eyed. Glorfindel cannot help but smile as he watches Elrohir’s shaky opinion of Elvenkind make a stellar leap. For this conversation alone, Elrond owes Galdor a cask of something rare and delicious from his private cellar, and Glorfindel will tell him so.

“He may be after me, personally.” Elrohir swallows, cannot look Galdor in the eye. “There is a  …  a prize on my head. Not a small one.”

Galdor nods. “So I have been informed,” he says, voice gentle and even. Glorfindel asked him not to pry, and instead Galdor points a thumb at the Umbarian over his shoulder without looking back, casually as if the great warship is a mildly interesting passer-by in the street. “Your old friend there will have a hard time collecting it.”

Had any of this been less desperate and dangerous, Glorfindel would have laughed out loud at Elrohir’s look of absolute bafflement. 

“Do you not understand!?” he exclaims. “He will not stop until he has my head stuck on his bowsprit, and yours behind it!”

“I know what he wants,” Galdor says, calm as a stone.

“Are all of your people this eager to die on my account?” Elrohir asks in a soft whisper, his back to the crew. Fear stands open in his eyes. 

“My crew are volunteers.” Galdor replies out loud, without a trace of doubt. “Old hands who knew what they signed up for. We have faced the Corsairs before, and we shall defeat them again.” 

Galdor lays a hand on Elrohir’s shoulder, then gently turns him to look him in the eye. “ You are why they are risking their lives. If I hand you over to Sauron’s errand-boy there, this entire mission was in vain.”

“What am I to you!?” Elrohir demands. “Why would you do this?”

“Because it is the right thing to do,” Galdor says. “You may be a son of a great House, but if Mithlond’s humblest deckhand stood in your place I would not surrender him.” Galdor’s hand remains on Elrohir’s shoulder, as if anchoring him to the Nemir’s deck. “Today is but one battle in a long war. An ancient war you know little of, though it has touched you deeply indeed. It will be another age of the world, perhaps, but one day our saving you, and saving your House the loss of you, will turn the tide.”

Glorfindel knows Galdor’s words for truth, and foresight. They will have battle indeed - the very sky looks wrathful: roiling castles of towering clouds now cover the sinking sun. The light has turned that strange, pale yellow before a storm. 

“Thank you, Galdor of Mithlond” Elrohir says, and bows deeply. “I will never forget this.”