Northern Stars by Idrils Scribe

---

Chapter 7

---

Elrond rushes through a grey hallway. His running feet stir up the dust of ages. 

Doorways gape on either side, rectangles of darkness flashing past. The rooms beyond are full of whispers at the edge of hearing. Elrond does not stop to listen - that way lies madness. 

Ahead, Elrohir’s fleeing shape flickers in and out of sight as he runs past light and shadow. Elrond knows not if Elrohir is running from him, or something else entirely. He dares not look behind, where the whispering dark closes in. 

He is the faster, and with a wild stab of joy he reaches out his hand and grasps the trailing edge of Elrohir’s desert-coloured robe. Elrohir jerks around. His eyes are wide with horror.

When Elrond reaches out a hand to touch him, he shatters. Like ill-fired clay carried from the kiln will crumble in the potter’s hands, Elrohir’s face and form crack into shards and grit that runs through Elrond’s grasping fingers, smudging his face as he weeps.

The world shifts and jerks, and then he remembers his real eyes and opens them. 

Galdor’s great cabin lies pale and silent in the first grey of dawn. Elrond is alone. Glorfindel has gone across to the Laegrist , to join Galdor and Círdan for a nightcap and some diplomacy. 

Elrond sits up and rubs his tear-streaked face. Mortal sleep with its fractured kaleidoscope of disjointed dreams comes upon him but rarely. This night his exhaustion got the better of him. He prays it is just that, naught but the nightly surfacing of his deepest fear, a breaching sea monster rippling the dark waters of the mind. 

Oh Manwë and Varda, let it not be foresight!  

He turns to the stern windows. The gulls have awoken, and over the silver expanse of the firth the light is turning blue. 

He slides from Galdor’s bed and sits for a moment as he feels around in mind.

The ship is quiet. His son is on it. 

He must steady himself against the curve of the hull, dizzy with relief, unable to grasp so good a fortune. 

Then he notices it - Elrohir is awake. 

Elrond touches his mind to Elrohir’s as careful and unobtrusive as a herdsman approaching a wild colt. The outer layers are easily read - blue light shimmering on the waters, the cold of the morning air against his throat, the sea-wind in his face. Elrond does not probe deeper, wary of alarming him. 

He smiles and reaches for his tunic and belt, draped over a chair. He, too, is an early riser, and has always whiled away the blue hours of the morning by himself while Celebrian and Elladan slept until sunrise or far beyond. Perhaps he has found a kindred soul. 

He is already in the galley, watching the cook heft his great copper kettle to pour two cups of tea, when the man asks that simplest of questions. 

Elrond is struck silent. He does not know how Elrohir takes his. Or whether he likes tea at all. 

Such an absurd thing for a father not to know about his own son. He stands there for a moment, and watches confusion and dismay chase each other across the cook’s face as he freezes, kettle in hand. 

Elrond puts a quick end to the poor cook’s apologies, musters a friendly smile, and goes with honey and cream in one cup, plain tea in the other. Elrohir gets to pick.

Up on deck yesterday’s revellers have all found their hammocks. Only the night watch patrols the ship. Ardil lingers on the quarterdeck, his eyes resting on Elrohir. He has not been introduced yet, but is somehow managing to keep an eye on his charge without being noticed, no small feat in narrow shipboard quarters.

Elrohir sits out on the stern deck cross-legged, his back to the mizzen and his eyes on something only he can see, somewhere at the meeting of sea and sky. 

He rises at the sound of Elrond’s approaching footsteps, half-turns, smiling, seemingly expecting Glorfindel. Elrond can tell the moment he realises his mistake. 

Elrohir straightens. Stiffness creeps into his smile and the set of his shoulders. Then, with a measured, polite bow, “good morning.” 

He uses the formal inflection.

Elrond smiles through it. “Good morning.” Informal. “Please, do not bow.”

“As you wish,” Elrohir says. He remains standing, awaiting further orders. 

Elrond motions him back down, sits beside him, and offers him both cups of tea. 

Like a distressed bird, Elrohir’s gaze flicks from one cup to the other, alights on Elrond’s face for the briefest of instants before settling on a point somewhere beneath Elrond’s breastbone. 

He seems to think the choice is some kind of test, which he resolves with a determined hold on the plain one, leaving honey and cream to Elrond.

He does not drink before Elrond has done so. That wooden smile looks pleasant but opaque as a painted effigy on a warrior’s shield. 

Elrond tries to sweeten him with a bowl of little cakes. Círdan’s own bakeress is among the Laegrist’s galley staff, and she baked the crisp little mouthfuls overnight. They are still warm, wafting the scent of honey and spices. The child Elrohir once was would scoff these by the fistload whenever he could get a hold of them, all crumb-speckled smiles. 

This familiar stranger needs to be offered thrice before he politely lifts a single one between thumb and forefinger, slow and guarded as if Elrond is a wild wolf he must approach with careful restraint lest it strike at a rash move. If the taste stirs up any memories, he keeps them off his face.

Elrond has yet more to offer him. He has not handed over these treasures yesterday, only because he feared they would steal the sleep Elrohir so dearly needs. 

Now he passes him the letters from Elladan and Celebrían. The rolls of parchment are still wrapped in their sturdy leather cover, sealed with the star-shaped sigil of Imladris pressed into blue wax .  

“Here. Read them,” Elrond smiles. “They both have much to say to you.”

Elrohir takes the cylinder from him awkwardly, with wide eyes, and cradles it to his chest with one arm, seemingly hesitant to break the seals. 

“Aye, lord.” Elrohir nods. Something like dismay crosses his face before it settles into that vapid smile once more. “May I take them to my cabin?”

Elrond had hoped to be there as he read, to see his true smile at last. Instead he grants his son permission to depart like he would dismiss a company standing at attention, and remains to watch his retreating back.

----

The cabin door snicks closed behind him as the ship’s bell is rung for the day’s first watch. It sounds like a death knell. 

Elrohir looks at the leather tube with dread, knowing what it must contain. 

His fingers are clumsy with fear as he fumbles with the seal, and he has to stop and breathe against his rising panic. He should hold on to his wits. There must exist some path past these treacherous times. Somewhere through the quicksand runs an elusive trail that will lead him out to safety. Only with a cool head will he find it.

Slowly now. Snap the wax seal in two and loosen the silver-grey Elvish cords that so artfully bind the wrapping. What falls into his hand is the best kind of parchment. New, well-tanned calfskin soft as butter. With a sinking heart he unrolls both pieces. 

Númenórean letters dance before his eyes, row upon row as if some strange, impossibly elegant bird has hopped across the vellum. 

He knew this writing once, perhaps, long ago. No more. 

Hoping against hope for some impossible stroke of remembrance, he scans the length of both letters. The first lines must, logically, contain his own name. The last ones that of the writer, be it Elladan or Celebrían. He cannot make out either.

“Read them,” Elrond commanded, his very first order to his returned son. Elrohir must be seen to obey, somehow.

Pretending will not do. Without a doubt Elrond knows exactly what is in these letters, and he is bound to ask after it the moment Elrohir steps out of his cabin. Elrohir has no desire to learn what happens to fools who openly lie to an Elf-lord.

Elrohir has but one hope left: Glorfindel. Too bad he is on the Laegrist .

He thinks for a moment, then dives into his saddlebag. Amuk paid him his fair share in the spoils of war, but compared to all this Elvish wealth his purse is meagre indeed. He lifts an Umbarian silver castar from the leather pouch. He is loath to sacrifice the precious coin, not knowing what needs might lie ahead, but there is nothing else for it. 

The wheat-haired Elf must still linger in the hallway. He has trailed after Elrohir since he set foot on board at Elrond’s side, but there seems little friendship between the two. Elrohir has seen that much. Whoever sent this fellow, it is not Elrond, and Elrohir might exploit that division, whatever its nature.

“Hail, master!” Elrohir whispers into the dark hallway. 

The Elf steps to at once from where he stood, half-hidden in the shadows. It is frightening, the way he seems to spring forth from nothing at all. 

“Well met, Elrohir. My name is Ardil.” The guard has ancient eyes, but his smile is not unfriendly. His Sindarin is strangely accented, archaïc and melodious.

Elrohir motions him inside the cabin. Ardil follows.

“Well met, Master Ardil. Will you run an errand for me?” Elrohir asks in a low tone once the door falls behind them.  

Ardil gives him an inquisitive look. “What errand?” His eyes dart to the letters, lying open atop Elrohir’s sea chest. 

Elrohir swears inwardly, and summons some false bluster from he knows not where. “Head to the Laegrist ,” he says, watching Ardil’s face, “and bring Glorfindel to me. I must talk to him at once, but no one else is to know.”

Especially not the lord. He needs not say it out loud. Ardil understands well enough, of that he is sure. 

Ardil remains silent, waiting for Elrohir to say more, explain himself.  

Elrohir has no intention of doing so. “I will pay you for your trouble.” He produces a conspiratorial smile, letting the castar flicker between his fingers before he takes Ardil’s hand to slip it into his palm.

Ardil clenches his fist before he can slide in the coin. “I will gladly help you, but not for silver.”

For an instant they stand with eyes locked, too close together, while Elrohir imagines the horrifying possibilities of what this Elf might desire in exchange for his silence. Many spring to mind, all deeply unpleasant, and he steels himself against them. He will have to bear them and pay the man’s price, whatever it may be - he is in too deep now.  

Then Ardil steps back far enough that he leaves a foot of empty space between them, and holds up both hands, empty and unthreatening. “I am sworn to defend you, son of Celebrían. I took that oath before one who bears you great love, even if you no longer know it.” 

A pause, a searching look. “If you wish for counsel, I will give it.” Once more Ardil waits, but when Elrohir does not answer, he continues, “and any honourable thing you ask of me, I will do.”

“So you will find Glorfindel?” Elrohir asks, baffled by this unexpected reprieve.

“At once,” Ardil says. A flash of a smile lights his fine-boned Elvish face. “And for free.” 

He reaches for the door, and with only the slightest stirring in the hallway’s shadows, Ardil is gone. 

----

“He ordered me to read these, but I have forgotten the letters. Will you read them to me?” 

Elrohir thrusts Elladan’s letter into Glorfindel’s hands the instant he crosses the cabin’s threshold.

“I have a good head for messages. If you read them out once, I will remember.” He is rattling in Haradi, wide-eyed as if a stalking Nazgûl might leap from the scroll. 

Valar! Glorfindel keeps from wincing. Elrohir’s return proves riddled with pitfalls. He should have foreseen this particular one, and warned Elrond. Too late now. 

Glorfindel lets his eyes skim the letter in his hand, more to give himself time to think than with any intention of reading it, but quickly rolls the vellum closed and hands it back. This is a private thing, not meant for him.  

Elrohir does not take it, but pushes the roll back into his hands. “Please, Glorfindel! He is bound to ask me what was in them!”

“Elrohir …” Glorfindel struggles to sound kind, but determined, “Whatever words your father may have spoken, he did not mean to order . Let us go to him, and ask him to read these letters to you. You need not lie.”

“I do not. He will never ask me if I can read Númenórean, because he already thinks I can. What difference does it make if you teach me now?” 

“Elrohir …” Glorfindel falters. Elrohir is no liar. Even in Harad, Glorfindel has never seen him be anything but forthright. Elrohir likes his debts paid, his truths spoken, his promises fulfilled. To see him reduced to half-lies and deceit is heart-wrenching. 

“At least tell me the sound for each letter?” Elrohir whispers in rapid Haradi, a note of despair to his voice. “I knew them once. They will come back to me.” 

He kneels before his sea chest and bends over Celebrían’s letter resting upon it, his eyes darting back and forth across the calligraphed lines of her love and longing. Clearly he cannot read a word of it.

Glorfindel produces as reassuring a smile as he can manage while he contemplates this quandary. “Why not ask your father’s help?”

Elrohir’s head whips up. He stares as if Glorfindel just suggested that he throw a garden party and cordially invite the Zigûr.  

“Glorfindel, I beg you!” There is genuine panic beneath the words.

Glorfindel sits down, motions for Elrohir to come sit beside him. “Your father is kind. What do you fear he will do?”

Elrohir remains kneeling beside the chest. “What does he do when he is disobeyed?” His voice is hoarse with tension. “Do tell, because I am about to find out!” 

Understanding strikes Glorfindel. 

Umbar.

This is an old lesson, beaten into Elrohir’s bones. The lord is master of all life. His every whim is law. He must be pleased at any cost, or there will be blood. 

This cannot stand.

It comes to him then, what he should do. 

----

“Elrond, a moment please.”

The door to Elrond’s cabin opens before he can knock. “Glorfindel …  What is the matter? Elrohir had you summoned.” Elrond eyes him. “If he needs anything you have but to name it. What ails him?”

“Please come with me.” Glorfindel turns, and without looking back to see Elrond following him, he returns to the cabin where Elrohir seeks shelter from the eyes of his own people, whose ways have escaped him like mist through grasping fingers. 

Elrohir sits on the floor, like the Haradrim do, on the Nemir’s white-scrubbed planks. He has spread the letters out before him, still bent over them in muttering concentration as if literacy might strike him any moment if only he tries hard enough. 

When they enter he startles like a man caught at a crime. 

Elrond shoulders past Glorfindel and sits down beside his son, who bravely keeps himself from shrinking away. 

Glorfindel, too, sits cross-legged on the floor, and for a moment he wants to laugh at the absurdity of the three of them sitting like a gaggle of gossiping Wood-Elves.

Then Elrohir straightens himself. Glorfindel last saw that look of fey resolve on him when he challenged a Prince of Umbar. 

----

“You wished for me to read these messages, but I cannot. I apologise.” Elrohir’s voice comes out steady, but his eyes are wide with fear. “I cannot read Númenórean letters.” His hands clench in his lap, his gaze on the smooth white oak underfoot.

For a moment Elrond wonders at hearing Fëanor’s Tengwar called Númenórean. Then understanding strikes him, and it is all he can do not to weep.

Elrohir bows. Valar in the West, he bows .

It cannot be borne. 

When Elrond reaches for him, there is a horrible split second where Elrohir recoils,  convinced that Elrond means to throttle him. 

The next, Elrond has him in a proper embrace.

Touch renders Elrohir more familiar, less surreal. Elrond leans in, cups the back of his head and strokes the too-short tangle of his hair. It feels warm, and the cut ends are rough against his palm. It will be a while yet, before the length will be enough to wholly pull out the curl. Elrohir sits very still, but his breathing has slowed. 

His presence is easier to contain now that he can be touched. It seems almost believable that Elrohir is truly here, that Elrond is holding him. Ever since the coming of the gull he has walked as in a dream, afraid to even speak Elrohir’s name lest he break the spell and wake up to the familiar dread of emptiness and uncertainty.

This is his son. They are not at home yet, surrounded by the sheltering peace of Imladris, but for now, it is enough.

Elrond sits holding Elrohir for a long time, stroking his hair. Elrohir does not embrace him in return, but neither does he draw back. 

When Elrond opens his eyes, Glorfindel has gone.

“Will you sit with me later today?” Elrond says at last, when they are both upright again. “Your letters should return quickly if we work for some time each day. When we make port I will have school books brought from the city, to help you remember.” He is glad for something to keep Elrohir close, and keep him busy. 

“Thank you,” says Elrohir. His eyes dart to the letters, then quickly back to a point in the air before Elrond’s chest, as if Elrond might take them away if he draws his attention to them.  

“Would you like me to read them to you?”

Elrohir scans his face in search of mockery. When he finds none, he lowers his eyes once more. “Please.”

“Which one would you hear first?”

“Which one is Elladan’s?”

Elrond points, then holds out his hand for Elrohir to pass him the letter. Before handing it to him, Elrohir runs his fingers over the vellum, the touch almost reverent. Elrond recalls Elladan at his writing desk making a similar gesture before the seal went on, in awe of the parchment headed to the hands of his brother. 

Their separation gapes like a wound. This close to Elrohir, Elrond feels the pain of it beneath his own breastbone. A familiar agony.

Not long now, dear one. Let me help you bear it but a little longer. Then never again, I promise. 

Whatever else may come, his sons will be together. He will make sure of it.

Elrond has been a king’s herald. He knows how to read out a letter the proper way: that measured, even tone that lets the reader’s voice disappear so the writer's may be heard. 

He quickly skims the first paragraphs, then recites them from memory so he can raise his eyes to Elrohir’s face, and see the first smile bloom.