Northern Stars by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 2

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Behind Elrond’s back the sky brightens over the Tower Hills. The coming dawn fires the Gulf of Lune into a ribbon of molten silver winding through the green land. Before him the coils of the Great East Road weave down to the shimmering waters.

The twelfth sunrise since the coming of the gull. Elbereth, grant me time! 

Does Elrohir still live? Elrond likes to think that he would know it if his son had died. 

His horse stumbles with exhaustion, flecks of lather spattering from the arched neck. A muttered word of comfort, and the bone-weary stallion gives him his last burst of strength. He has ridden horses to death under him before, in the desperate retreat from Eregion, but Valar, it still feels like an ill omen to herald Elrohir’s return with such a sacrifice. He allows the animal to slow a little. 

Around him, his escort changes positions, shifting the foremost spot amongst them to burden all horses equally. These are all old hands, hardened warriors capable of weathering this mad dash across Eriador. 

And hard the road has been. They have ridden by day and by night, taking neither rest nor sleep ever since they galloped from Imladris’ stableyard as if the whips of Morgoth’s Balrogs were behind. They have stopped only to exchange their wearied horses for fresh ones wherever they could get them. Elrond hates to think of the trail of lamed and staggering mounts the company must have left in its wake, all along the Great East Road. It could not be helped. 

One horse only they held onto all the long miles from Imladris, but never rode. Rochael gleams a pale, dappled grey in the twilight. Long has the mare awaited her rider’s return. She will carry Elrohir home.  

At Elrond’s side rides Ardil of Doriath, once Celeborn’s second-in-command. Celebrían sent her most trusted retainer along to aid the retrieval. Grey eyes older than the sun are sharp beneath the hood of his cloak. 

That the old Sinda agreed to travel with Canissë, the captain of Elrond’s Fëanorian guard and notorious kinslayer, speaks to the grim necessity of their errand. A tight cluster of Fëanorian knights follow her. 

Around them ride a handful of hand-picked scouts, hardy Wood-elves from the Valley led by Borndis, their chieftainess. 

A small retinue, only a score altogether, but all are age-old elite warriors, and they make as formidable a fighting force as Arnor has seen since the Last Alliance. It was the only way Elrond dared to carry Vilya from the valley, even into the well-ordered realm of Arnor.

Theirs is a simple disguise: all are dressed alike in grey cloaks. They carry messengers’ bags and emblems so they may cross Arnor’s borders under diplomatic immunity, pretending to rush some urgent dispatch from Imladris to Lindon. No banners, no weapons carried openly. They met no hindrance - King Valandil does not interfere in correspondence between his Elvish neighbours.     

Almost! They are almost there! 

The road rounds the last hillcrest, and below them the twin havens of Mithlond embrace the Firth of Lune like a lacework of sculpted white stone set amidst the green hills. The great shipyards lie dormant still, but the Tower of the Lamp casts its silver beam through the twilight, and high upon its pinnacle flies the Shipwright’s banner. 

A forest of masts rises from the harbour’s mist-cloaked waters. Is Galdor’s Nemir among them? Elrond cannot tell. He senses nothing of Elrohir’s spirit in the sleeping city.

Onward he drives his exhausted company until white city walls loom overhead, their gates of ironclad oak closed for the night. At their approach, the wicket swings open soundlessly, and the Warden of the East Gate steps out onto the road. 

Instead of hailing them she at once sets her silver horn to her lips. From the tower atop the gatehouse another horn rings a bright answer, and the portcullis begins to rise. 

“Lord Elrond, welcome!” The guard seems wholly unsurprised to find the lord of faraway Imladris galloping on her gate at dawn, disguised among a grey-cloaked company. “You are expected on the Quay of Swans!”

Elrond allows his horse to slow to a stagger. Bereft of the steady rhythm of the gallop, he finds himself dazed with exhaustion. “Expected?” he manages.

“The ship lies ready,” she replies in that lilting accent of the Falas, as behind her the great gates swing open. “Lord Círdan sent word of your coming. You are to sail with the tide. Make haste, lord, or you will miss it!”

Elrond touches a hand to his forehead in a gesture of awe and deference to the Valar. Around him, his escort follows suit, even the Fëanorians. Círdan is both Ossë’s friend and Ulmo’s chosen, and his foresight reaches further and deeper than any other in Middle-earth. He must have Seen more than Elrond, or else Galdor has sent further messages. Elrond has no time to stop and wonder which. 

“Onward!” He commands, and rouses his panting horse into a brisk trot. His people fall into line behind him as he plunges into the lantern-lit tunnel behind the gate. 

He navigates the sleeping city with unseeing eyes, winding past shops and store-houses and the soaring stone arches of the Great Market. He knows Mithlond well, even in twilight - she was the High King’s capital for almost an age of the world, and Elrond himself the king’s young herald. 

He grew to manhood walking these white stone avenues, serving both in the High King’s army and on the swan-ships of Círdan’s navy. To ride here once more is a comfort even now, as if Ereinion might come strolling around the corner any moment.  

When they emerge onto the Quay of Swans, the light has turned to the deep red of sunrise, making the quay’s silver lanterns glow pale and strange. Only one ship is moored there, and yet the quay swarms with a crowd of porters and crew, their work-songs bright amidst the cool morning mists that drift up from the water. 

Círdan’s own four-master, the Laegrist, lies ready to set sail, her sails and the white wood of her swan-shaped bow stained scarlet by the coming dawn. 

By the gangplank awaits Círdan himself. The Master of the Havens is dressed in a grey captain’s uniform. He bears a welcoming smile, but there is something of haste in his stance, and his ancient face with the neat silver beard is lined with concern. 

Elrond’s horse has reached the end of its endurance. The poor beast stumbles on the quay’s white flagstones, and with a quick motion he leaps from the saddle before his weight can send the animal down onto its knees. 

“Well met, Lord Shipwright.” Though he staggers with the weight of twelve sleepless nights, Elrond lays a hand against his chest and bows deeply to his elder. “My house owes you great gratitude, not in the least for the welcome we received at your gates, calling unbidden at this strange hour.” 

“Well met, Elrond Peredhel. Timely is your coming.” Círdan’s eyes are keen as stars, and within lies the wisdom of many, many years. “I have been expecting you.” 

“How?” Elrond manages, as behind him his escort dismounts their lathered horses. Grooms in Círdan’s livery step forward to take the poor beasts.

“The Sea tells tales, at times.” Cirdan’s hand lands on Elrond’s shoulder. His forefinger may look bare, but Narya’s heat thrums beneath the touch, and against the dull dark of Elrond's fears, hope kindles once more. Elrond stands up straighter. Then Círdan’s hand closes around his arm, and he finds himself firmly directed to the gangplank. 

“Come, my friend,” Círdan says, open concern in his voice. “We must make the tide if we are to meet the Nemir.”  

At Elrond’s signal Ardil, Borndis, and her people step aboard, welcomed by one of Círdan’s stewards bearing a steaming pitcher of mulled wine.

Elrond turns to follow, when behind his back, he becomes aware of a disturbance. 

Canissë has not moved. 

“Is it allowed, lord?” she asks when Elrond turns to face her, indicating her fellow Fëanorians. 

The proud knight does not look in Círdan’s direction, her eyes downcast to the white flagstones underfoot. 

Only now does Elrond notice: the sea-shanties have fallen silent, replaced with hard stares from both the Laegrist’s crew and the crowd of dockers lining the quay. Clenched jaws, low mutters. Not outright enmity, perhaps, but clear contempt. 

‘Elrond’s pet kinslayers’, the Falathrim call Canissë and her warriors. They are considered the one vice of Eärendil’s beloved son. No Fëanorian has set foot on a swan-ship since the day the truth about Alqualondë first reached the Falas. 

And then came Sirion.

Círdan’s ships were first to reach the carnage. The laments say that the Shipwright dug through the piled corpses with his own hands, desperately seeking Elwing and her sons among them. 

Elrond does not like the thought of leaving half his people behind, but nothing must keep him from Elrohir now. Asking Círdan to suffer a company of kinslayers aboard his own flagship is too much, especially after all he has already done for Elrohir.

“I know your thoughts on the matter, and I will always heed them.” Elrond says to Cìrdan with a nod of deference. “The Fëanorians shall stay behind.” 

Canissë bows and steps back, her face inscrutable. For a moment, Elrond wonders where she will take her people once he has sailed. Few in this city will feed or lodge them. Not for all the silver in Imladris. 

There is one who might. 

“Will you visit her while I am away?” he asks Canissë. “She will expect you. Give her my regards.”

“Aye, lord,” Canissë bows, and makes to turn towards her new errand.

Then Círdan raises his hand, stopping her retreat. “I would not deprive you of your escort, Elrond,” he says after a moment’s thought. “Nor mar your son’s return with ancient bitterness.

If Elrohir dies, he wants me to have my own people around me. The thought hits Elrond like a hammer blow, and for a moment he stands stricken.

“Will Ossë suffer them?” he asks at last. “He might drown us all in his anger.”

Maedhros’ former retainers are banned from Valinor until their new lord brings them across. Any premature attempts at sailing West will end in a watery grave. Like Círdan, Ossë has not forgotten the bloodstained beaches on both sides of the Sea.

“Ossë favours our errand, and he would not sink any ship that carries the Mariner’s son. Or me, for that matter.” Círdan turns to Canissë with a piercing look. “Step aboard, mistress,” he orders her, curt but tolerably polite. “You will only cause my people grief if we let you loiter here.”

 

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Chapter End Notes

Welcome back everyone!
Elrond is having a rough time of it, and so are his guards. Good thing that Círdan is there to help.
This was a tough chapter to write because it introduces a whole new Elvish realm and a bunch of OC's. Of course I'd love to hear your thoughts on all of it!
Is Círdan being kind, or is there some ulterior motive? And what's next for Elrond, Ardil, and the Fëanorians?
A comment will make my day!
See you soon for the next one,
IS