Northern Stars by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 11

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Sunrise flames red and gold upon the guest suite canopy, gilding the embroidered stars of Ereinion’s banner against their sky of indigo velvet. 

Glorfindel remains wide-eyed, staring up from amidst down feather pillows and linen scented with lavender. From the silver birch trailing its leaves beyond the window rings a merry chirrup, the garden’s chorus of robins and finches greeting the dawn. The song holds little comfort. 

Elrohir’s scream still rings in his ears. To make himself stay abed and leave the matter to Elrond was an act of pure will. His eyes sting with sleeplessness. 

When the light turns from gilded fire to soft citrine, the chatter of the grooms drifts up as they lead the horses to pasture. Outside in the courtyard the cook begins her fire-lighting song. Glorfindel sighs, rubs his eyes, and rises. 

He finds the greensward empty. A patch of flattened grass is all that remains of Elrond and Elrohir’s presence. Elrohir slept the night through, but just before sunrise Elrond must have woken him and led him bleary-eyed back to the house, sparing him the pitying looks of the housestaff.   

The scent of clover wafts up as the sun begins to warm the dew-speckled meadow. The sea beyond is a mirror of burnished silver. For a moment he turns back to the house, running his gaze from window to window in search of a glimpse, and at once feels Elrond’s mind against his own. 

Elrohir is well. A flash of mirth flutters beneath the words. Go! We will not perish while you have your day on the town. 

My errand-run, you mean. Glorfindel smiles as he lightly descends the switchbacked path down to the pier, leaping from stone to stone amidst the yellow flowers of saxifrage that sway in the light sea breeze. The boatmen are already rigging the sloop.  

Best of luck, my friend. Elrond’s parting touch is all warmth. Give her my regards.

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Mithlond wakes wrapped in morning mists, her white towers rising from the golden haze. Across the water drifts the silver song of the bells that signal the opening of the city gates. Glorfindel breathes deeply of the salty sea-air, crisp and wholesome. All peace and Elvish loveliness, a world away from Umbar’s sere and shadowed desert. 

He climbs from the longboat onto the quay’s white flagstones. From here he can see the Nemir . Her familiar silhouette looks strangely barren as a team of carpenters and sailmakers strip her of sails and rigging to begin repairing the damage done by the Umbarian fire-grenades. None of the crew are to be seen - doubtlessly off enjoying their well-earned shore leave. 

Glorfindel wanders the stately squares and avenues in the heart of the city, where flocks of white seabirds swoop from tree to tree while Mithlond’s merchants and craftspeople ply their trades beneath. 

The soaring arches of the Great Market remain as they were in Ereinion’s day, a marvel of white carven marble. The forest of pillars and the fine stone tracery of the ceiling still stand. Light of many colours pours down from great windows of stained glass shaped like roses unfolding. 

The trading floor is rightly called a wonder of the North. In his days as Ereinion’s general, Glorfindel liked to wander here amidst the scents of cedarwood and spices. The king may have fallen, but this place still trades all the goods in Middle-earth. 

The great hall echoes with the calls of sellers hawking their wares and the auctioneer calling out the lots over the rumble and clatter of the working harbour outside. He came too early for his errand, and busies himself strolling the market, wrapped in memory. He stands for a while observing the auctions - vats of Dorwinion wine and Gondorian olive oil, boles of Rhûnian silk, dark ingots of dwarf-mined iron. 

The jeweller’s stands offer coral from southern seas besides amber from the icy Bay of Forochel and opals mined in Khand’s scorching deserts. When he lingers before a glass display-case to admire a matching set of deep-hued sapphires, he finds himself greeted like an old friend. 

Lindon’s gem smiths used to make a small fortune off Glorfindel, in the days when needed to dress for court. These stones would make a fine brooch indeed, but he is in no mood for pageantry today. He takes his leave with no more than a look and a promise to visit again before he returns to Imladris. 

A fruit-importer's wares are a bright splash of colour and scent. Amidst the stacks of lemons and oranges from Gondor his eye falls on a small crate, and he smiles. 

The seller counts his order onto her scales with great precision, then names a hefty price for such exotic goods. Glorfindel gladly parts with the silver. A well-chosen gift is a pleasure to the giver, too, and it is with happy anticipation that he steps back into the open brightness of the square outside, the linen-wrapped package in his satchel, and turns into a side street. 

His destination lies away from the splendour of the Great Market. The dockside quarter is - not shabby, because Círdan cares well for his people - but certainly less ordered than the city’s fancier parts. Every few paces, a flagstone has been lifted from the pavement to make space for climbing roses running up the trellised house fronts. Their sweet scent wars with the racks of drying saltfish and the spice of the smokehouses. 

Those who live here are mostly dockhands and fisherfolk. Even this early, the taverns do a lively trade. Every square is full of awnings with tables underneath where people sit knitting nets. Their merry shanties weave through the streets and always, at every gap between the whitewashed houses, there is a glimpse of the sea.    

Nonetheless, Glorfindel must ask several times before a sour-looking bakeress will give him directions. 

Once he finds the street, the shop sticks out like a sore thumb - from the extravagant masonwork on the facade to the mechanical clock chiming the hour with a chorus of dancing dolphins over the door, and the gold-lettered sign. 

Mistress Netyarë, manufacturer of fine nautical instruments.

And beneath, in smaller letters, 

Purveyor to the Royal Navy.

A silver carillon plays when he pushes open the door. The song is from Eregion. Glorfindel smiles.

The crystal-lit shop is silent. He walks around for a moment, eyeing the wares. Some devices sit in glass display cases, whirring away at whatever their unknown purpose may be. Behind perfectly ground disks of flawless crystal, engraved hands move against gem-inlaid dials indicating numbers that mean nothing to him. Others sit silently on the worktable, their panels lying open to reveal the metal of their inner mysteries. A shelf holds a row of gleaming sextants, each one more intricate and precious than the last.

“Ah, Lord Laurefindelë. Well met!” Netyarë herself bursts through a door in the back of the shop. She hastily lifts the loupe from her eye and leaves it to dangle on its silver chain around her neck. “Be welcome in my house, and my congratulations on your success!”

She looks far better than when he saw her last. Her treelit eyes are bright, and she has regained that brisk efficiency of a master craftswoman.

“Thank you, Mistress Netyarë, and well met! You look well.” It is good to speak the ancient Quenya of his childhood once more without fear of giving offence.

Netyarë shares the sentiment, judging from her wide and warm smile. Unasked, she turns to the door to shift the copper sign outside to ‘closed’, and turns the key. 

“Come into the parlour, lord.” she gestures at a glass-paned side door. “Your errand shall go better over a drink.”

She leads him to the room where she receives her customers. Glorfindel looks around while Netyarë busies herself with a silver samovar on the sideboard. 

A small but rich room with walls covered in frescoed seascapes. Whoever painted them has a fine eye for the art. Waves of green glass sparkle in the painted light of an unseen sun, so real that Glorfindel can almost taste the salt spray on his tongue. A few comfortable chairs stand around a table inlaid with precious woods from every corner of Arda.

He accepts a steaming cup of jasmine tea, brewed in the manner of Tírion. They both pause for a moment to relish the fragrant steam. The aroma is so perfectly delicate that for a single heartbeat, Glorfindel is once again a lanky youth sat at his mother’s table.

“My compliments,” he says when he has shaken off memory’s hold. “I never knew that this quality could be grown in Ennorë.”

“It is imported,” Netyarë says apologetically. “An old lady’s indulgence.”

Glorfindel makes a small half-bow of gratitude. Open trade between Middle-earth and Valinor ceased with the Fall of Númenor. Círdan’s swan-ships carry only passengers across the Straight Road, and they return empty. It seems the crews are allowed some leeway, and the occasional crate of tea from the slopes of Taniquetil finds its way east. Netyarë must have paid a king’s ransom for this taste of home.   

“How are you?” Glorfindel asks after the first delicious sip. 

“Better than I was. This place has done me good.” Netyarë sets down another specialty of Tírion’s tea-houses, a tray of rosewater-scented marzipan cleverly shaped and coloured like the real thing. She certainly looks better than she did in her final days in Imladris, wracked with sea-longing. 

“I am glad to see it,” he smiles, and lifts a sweet from the tray. The scent is an old delight, long forgotten. “You have heard of our return already?” 

She smiles back, but it does not reach her eyes. “The city was at feast all night. Galdor’s crew like a merry do, and they had reason aplenty.” 

Glorfindel knows what tends to happen when the Falathrim get in their cups. “You were not bothered, I hope?”

She takes a long breath through her nose, then sighs, clearly long-suffering. “There is always at least one hothead who feels the need to end their wild night by passing water against my storefront. I pay a lad to scrub the stoop first thing whenever the wine-houses have been lively. It is no matter. Their captains remain eager enough for my wares.” She grins. “I keep myself from etching in the Star.”

Netyarë is one of few Mirdain who survived the Fall of Eregion, and not the least among them. She makes the best ship’s chronometers east of the Sea, compasses that keep true north, and barometers to forecast the mighty storms of the northern seas. The Falathrim may not like their resident Fëanorian, but the quality of her work cannot be argued with. 

“Ah, well,” she laughs a little, and this time those ancient eyes do show a trace of mirth. “You did not come here to hear my troubles with the local carousers. What may I do for you? Surely you do not mean to outfit another expedition?”

“Lord Elrond sends his regards. He needs your services for a patient.” 

Now he has Netyarë’s full attention. Her eyes widen as he explains Calear’s predicament. “Calear is no friend to the Fëanorians. He will not be inclined to accept my help.”

Glorfindel says matter-of-factly, “his choices are either that, or a double amputation.”

“That might do it.” Then, on second thought. “My lord, I will be honest. My expertise lies in sextants and chronometers, not bone-screws. They were Telperinquar’s project, as you may remember.”

“It is said that there were no secrets between you.” He eyes her over the porcelain rim of his cup. “Surely he told you about their making?”

“A few basics, no more. Half-knowledge leads to Melkor, as we smiths say. I would not risk delivering less than perfect work.”

“Imperfect screws are better than none, given what Calear stands to lose.” 

She shakes her head, and behind her eyes is genuine concern. 

“Allow me to explain my situation, lord.”

Glorfindel nods, and leans forward to listen. 

“My welcome among the Falathrim is tenuous at best,” Netyarë turns her empty cup between her hands. “For the time being they still need my services, but they do have instrument-makers of their own. The guild has been taking my work apart for a yén now, and the copies grow better by the year. Calear is something of a local hero. Círdan holds him in high esteem. If I attempt this and it fails, Círdan might decide my presence in Mithlond is no longer required. Where, then, will I go?”

Glorfindel understands, to a point, but still he shakes his head. “ When you succeed, your situation will improve. Elrond has Círdan’s ear. He will see to it.” 

“Lord Elrond will soon return to Imladris, while I must stay.”

“Do not doubt yourself. You remain the finest at your craft.” Glorfindel tries a touch of honey. 

“Thank you,” she says, without a trace of false modesty. Netyarë was once apprenticed to Fëanor himself, and she does not forget it even now. 

He eyes her. “Besides, when did the Mirdain ever back away from a challenge?”

She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms, grief bright in her eyes. “Had we done a little more backing away, Telperinquar and I might now be taking morning tea in his workshop in Ost-in-Edhil.”

“Námo rest him.” Glorfindel says softly.  

“Ai, such fools we were.” She sets down her cup, her eyes on the pattern of red-berried holly branches along the rim. “You warned us against Annatar, and so did Lord Elrond. We did not listen.” 

She laughs bitterly. 

“Look at me now! Telperinquar’s chief counsellor and the first among his Mírdain, reduced to making compasses for a bunch of galled Sea-Elves who piss on my front porch.”

“Come back to Imladris with us,” Glorfindel offers. “Your workshop still stands as you left it.”

Netyarë shakes her head. “Sea-longing is not to be trifled with, my lord. The hidden valley no longer holds any joy for me.” She smiles her sad smile. “Besides, business is better here - not much call for sextants in a mountain stronghold.”

Glorfindel’s eye comes to rest on the painted seascapes surrounding them. “Do you resent your Judgement?”

Netyarë rises, and busies herself at the sideboard, preparing them both another cup. Only when Glorfindel thinks she will refuse to answer, her voice comes soft and low. “I killed but once, where others did so twice, or thrice. A murderer by a lesser degree, but those Teleri are no less dead for it.” 

She turns back to him, cups in hand. Her voice has gone rough, and she blinks. “I wish I could go home to Tírion. I wonder if my house still stands. Those I abandoned in my folly might even deign to take me back.” Her hands shake as she sets down the tea and sits.

Glorfindel reaches across the table and takes her hand in his. “You will see them again, one glad day when the task is done and the debt paid.”

She swallows, then smiles once more, though her eyes remain shiny. “When Elrond sails West in triumph, bearing Sauron’s head on a platter.” A touch of amusement plays in her voice. 

Glorfindel has known her long, and whatever her deeds, she was always a woman of good courage and a glad heart. 

“There will be no actual head, I expect,” he takes up her jest. “He is said to be formless of late.”

Now she is smiling outright. “Pity. I would have liked to sculpt the beheading scene in bronze.” 

“I will commission it from you one day. Make it Noldorin baroque, as outrageous as you can. All involved naked but for a wisp of cloth, and Elrond with muscles like Tulkas.”

At that, she laughs fully at last. They share a moment’s mirth together, but when the laughter dies down, Netyarë does not agree to take on Calear’s screws. 

Glorfindel’s arsenal is not yet spent. He reaches into his satchel and brings out a leather wallet. “I have another task for you, of a more personal nature.”

Netyarë eyes him in confusion when he tips a plain red pebble onto the lacquered tabletop. 

Elrohir’s keepsake from Harad is not much to look at indeed. When Glorfindel asked him for the stone he relinquished it only hesitantly, as if Glorfindel expected a gem, and would toss the thing once he realised his mistake.

“A memento,” he explains, pushing the pebble towards her. “I would like it set in silver meshwork, to be worn as a pendant.”

“Ah.” Netyarë picks it up between her fingers. “The sort a Peredhel prince might wear?”

“Indeed.”

She turns the red sandstone of Harad between her fingers. “How is he?”

Elrohir’s scream still echoes in Glorfindel’s memory. “Wounded,” he says, bluntly. “Grieving. Lost between his old life and the new.”

Her sight is sharp, and she reads with ease the fear behind his words. “Will he live?”

He answers her with the unvarnished truth. “We hope so.”

“May Manwë order it.” Netyarë lays the pebble on the flat of her hand, and falls silent for a moment, thinking. “Lord Elrond has been just to me, and very kind besides,” she says softly. “It is not right that he should worry about anything but his son.” 

She raises her eyes to capture Glorfindel’s gaze. “Tell Calear that I shall make what is required, if he is willing to bear my touch. I will do what I can. Come what may.” She hesitates. “As for the jewel … I will Sing a Song of keeping into the metal, so the stone will last. Perhaps in time the grief may turn to strength.”

“May it be so,” Glorfindel says with another bow. “I thank you, Netyarë.”