Northern Stars by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 8

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“The Haradrim offer thrice, do they not?” Elrond’s eyes are on Elrohir as he pours two cups of wine. 

Clouds have rolled in, enfolding the Nemir in silvery twilight and rain clattering against the stern windows. Inside the great cabin the lamplight is a pour of warm gold around them. 

Elrond seems to think that something stronger than tea is called for, but surely a carafe of unwatered claret is an unusual schoolroom accessory even for Elves. The rest of his setup on the table seems more commonplace - a neat stack of wax tablets flanked by two styli, a roll of reed paper, an inkstone he must have borrowed from Galdor, carved in the shape of a ray breaching with its wings outstretched. Beside the writing implements sits a plate of sea-green Elvish porcelain, stacked with little cakes.

Elrohir now has enough skill at mind-speech that he can answer Elrond’s question with his thoughts alone, at once a simple yes and the knowledge shown in memory. He nods as well, more out of politeness than necessity.

Elrond’s approval is a bright little burst of radiance. Ever since the Laegrist’s coming, Elrohir is constantly aware of that thread of invisible light spun between them. He feels Elrond’s presence like he feels the sun even through closed eyelids, and Elrond knows the same of him. He should be afraid, and yet somehow there is a strange rightness to it.  

“In the North we do it but once, and you need not refuse unless you truly want none.” Elrond holds out the plate.

Elrohir takes a cake with measured care. Eating in the presence of an Umbarian prince would be a suicidal breach of protocol. He left that court long ago, and still he has to force himself to put the sweet into his mouth and chew it right there at the table, under Elrond’s eyes. His mouth is dry, and he swallows the crumbs too quickly to taste them.

Elrond watches him, but mercifully he does not comment. He waits for Elrohir to wash down the cake with some wine - which is very good, but very strong indeed - then takes one himself and holds out the platter once more.

“Here,” he says, with a smile that reaches his eyes. “Redhril makes them. She used to work for a friend of mine before Círdan poached her. My friend was furious . The recipe is her secret, and she has kept it for an age of the world. They really are delicious.”

He is not wrong. Elrohir has another, more slowly. Ginger, cinnamon and honey burst into his mouth. 

Elrond grins conspiratorially as he snatches one more and pushes the plate back towards Elrohir. “Between you and me, I think we can finish the plate.”

Somehow he looks disarming, enough so for Elrohir to chance a third, which he chews with gusto. 

Elrond’s eyes light up. “You and I might learn from each other,” he says, still smiling. “I would like to know more Haradi. My teacher did not speak it well.”

Only one man could have taught Elrond that language, and until recently Elrohir was convinced that he had killed him.

Ruhiren. Eru save the poor fool!  

Elrohir hesitates, breathes in as if to speak, then decides against it, but Elrond is already leaning in to listen. 

“If you please …”  Elrohir waits until Elrond has nodded his permission. “How is Ruhiren?”

Elrond smiles. “Better than he was. His journey north was a hard one. He has been a guest in Imladris since he arrived, and he seems to be on the mend.”

“Thank you for looking after him.” A moment’s hesitation. “I thought he was dead.”

If Elrond knows what befell between Elrohir and Ruhiren, he does not show it. “He sends his greetings. You will see him again when you come home.” He looks at Elrohir, then mercifully changes the subject. “He told me you read and write the letters of the Haradrim?”

“Aye,” Elrohir nods cautiously, unsure if he is about to be scolded. 

“Will you teach me?” Elrond asks, all eagerness. 

“Of course.” Elrohir manages as he tries not to stare in astonishment. Elrond seems in a good mood, and so he dares to ask, “why? No one here uses them.”

“ You are here.” Elrond says decidedly. “Languages shape our minds. They are a way of looking at the world. I would like to understand yours better, and return ours to you.” 

Elrohir shifts beneath the weight of Elrond’s focused attention. He is not used to such a thing spelling anything good. Elrond knows it. With his mind he drapes warmth around Elrohir’s. Somehow, it does not feel like a fly being spun into a web. Elrond’s touch wraps him like a cloak on a cold morning, one he can freely shed whenever he should want to. 

“Which languages do you speak already?” Elrond asks, smiling. 

“Haradi, Adûnaic, some Sindarin, and Khandish,” Elrohir says quickly, hoping that Elrond might see some use for them.

“Khandish?” Elrond is clearly intrigued. “How did you come by it?”

“The tribes of Khand trade silk and gemstones with the Haradrim.” Elrohir keeps his answer concise, but at once Elrond’s curiosity gives a bright little tug at his mind. No force behind it, no demand, but all the more eagerness.   

Elrohir obliges, and for a moment he loses himself in the giving of the memories. Men and camels small as ants as the caravan moves across a vast expanse of emptiness, wide beneath the sky. Lions and great-horned kine and other beasts beyond Western imaginings. A red sunset shimmering with heat. Silver curtains of rain breaking over dusty plains. Songs never heard by Eldar ears. 

Elrond sees through his eyes, and drinks it in like a thirsting man. “I will gladly learn all you wish to tell me,” he says eagerly, “and I will teach you Sindarin, spoken and written.” 

Elrohir nods, but Elrond shows no signs of slowing. “After that you might learn Quenya, the language of some of your kin both in Middle-earth and over the Sea. Vanyarin is Glorfindel’s cradle-tongue. He would enjoy speaking it with you. Then there is the speech of the Dwarves, and many Mannish ones.” 

He lays out the languages as if Elrohir and he are a pair of children at play, trading coloured pebbles. 

“Thank you,” Elrohir says, a little overwhelmed.  

Elrond holds out his cup, sealing their strange bargain with a toast. Elrohir has no choice but to follow suit. The wine tastes of spice and sunlit orchards. It leaves him warm and dizzy, in a pleasant way.

Elrond tops up Elrohir’s cup and feeds him his fourth biscuit before he begins the lesson proper. 

“All these tongues are written in the same letters, the Tengwar. Before you learn them you should know how they came to be.” 

Elrohir sits up straighter. He may have lost his taste for song, but he is a bard still, and he likes few things better than a good story. Glorfindel has told him many, and it seems Elrond is taking up the habit as well. 

“There once lived an Elf named Fëanor. He was the eldest son of a king, a prince of great magnificence, but also a scholar. As a young man he wrote in the old letters, called Sarati, but he was not satisfied. He thought they might be improved.” 

Elrond has a pleasant voice, and he keeps his cadence slow enough that Elrohir can puzzle out the Sindarin sentences as he hears them.  

“Fëanor designed new letters, very clever ones, whose shapes showed the manner of their speaking, so that by seeing the ink on paper one may know how a word will sound, even in a language never heard before. 

“These letters we call the Tengwar, or Fëanorian letters. They were so well-crafted that not only the Elves, but many other kindreds adopted them for their own writing. Some among the Dwarves did, and Men, too. This is how the Tengwar came to Númenor and from there to Umbar, but they are not Númenórean.”

Elrond pauses, to emphasise the point. 

Elrohir feels the tips or his ears go warm with both wine and embarrassment. There will be no more talk of Númenórean letters, that much is clear. 

“Fëanor must be proud,” he blurts out, just to fill the silence.

“He was proud indeed.” Elrond does not smile, but his mind is warm against Elrohir’s. “Fëanor excelled at every art and skill he turned his hand to, and those were many. He was the cleverest, craftiest and fairest of all Elves.” 

Elrond pauses, and his eyes seek Elrohir’s. “Never shall his like be seen again,” he says, and falls silent.

Elrohir breathes in slowly. Here is a challenge. Elrond is dangling the story in front of him like the lure for some skittish animal, drawing him out. Ask or not.

He bites. “What became of him?” 

The sound of Elrohir’s voice brings a smile to Elrond's face. He gives both their cups another generous pour from the carafe. Elrond drinks, and Elrohir must follow. His cheeks glow with it by now, but Elrond seems unaffected. 

“Here,” Elrond’s eyes are merry as he holds out the plate once more. “Nothing like wine and cakes to put some flesh on hungry bones.”

Nothing will do but for Elrohir to have yet another one. At this rate he will end up as fat as an Umbarian priest.

Elrond’s expression grows sterner as he resumes his tale. “Fëanor’s renown made him haughty and pitiless. When he was slighted, he sought vengeance recklessly. Driven by a mad oath he shed innocent blood, and destroyed much that was fair.” A shadow of pain fleets through the weave of Elrond’s mind, but he quickly masters it. 

“In the end, Fëanor rode into battle in a fit of dark rage. None of his people could change his course, be it by counsel or by pleas. He brought too few companions against a foe too great for him. Thus he was slain.”

Elrohir looks aside. “The cleverest of all Elves?” 

Only then does he catch himself. 

That damned wine!  

He forgot who he is speaking to, blurting out wry banter as if this is Glorfindel. The cabin is suddenly airless as the taut focus of danger comes over him. He stills in his chair, ready to dodge in case Elrond means to box his ears for his insolence. 

Elrond only laughs, a silver sound that brightens the cabin. “I did not call him wise.” 

Elrohir’s relief makes him bold. “Did you know Fëanor?” he dares. He must make the most of Elrond’s openness - Glorfindel was rarely this forthcoming with Elrohir’s questions. 

“He died long before I was ever thought of, but I knew two of his sons.” Elrond pauses, but seeing Elrohir’s fascination, he continues. “Maedhros and Maglor were their names. They were once great princes and captains of the Noldor, but by then they had become shadows of their former selves, consumed by their ill deeds in the name of that terrible oath. They came to bad ends.” 

Elrond does not say more, but it is plain to see that the loss grieves him. 

“Apologies. I did not mean to pry.” Elrohir has already begun a deep and formal bow. He stills halfway through when he remembers that Elrond dislikes them. 

Elrond raises his hand, waits, and when Elrohir does not flinch he cups the wine-flushed skin of Elrohir’s cheek. His touch is light and cool, and it brings their minds even closer. The sensation is not unpleasant. 

“You did not pry, Elrohir. Whatever you wish to know, you may ask. I will answer, always.” 

Elrond releases him, takes up a wax tablet and holds out the stylus for Elrohir to take. “Now, will you show me some Haradi?”

----

Glorfindel descends through the foredeck grate, down two decks to the cabin that houses the Laegrists’s brig when Círdan goes pirate-hunting. The ship’s carpenter hung a proper door to replace the usual grid of steel bars, but the iron bolt remains, be it unlocked. When he knocks, the door swings open at once. 

“Welcome, sir!” Canissë gives him a smart salute. 

Glorfindel salutes back, and then he must bow his head to clear the lintel as he steps inside. 

Smells of burned lamp oil and close-quartered bodies stand thick in the windowless, red-lit gloom, but Canissë has shed none of her spit-and-polish style of command. Glorfindel gave his lieutenant the courtesy of advance warning, and now he could eat his dinner off either the floorboards or the rough-hewn planks of the tightly made bunks. 

The Fëanorian guard stands at attention. Their boots gleam, tunic buttons fastened to the throat, not a hair out of place in their perfect regimental braids. They would present their arms, had they been allowed to keep them.

Glorfindel is glad to see them - these are all old and loyal hands, the backbone of Imladris’ armed forces. Elrond and what he carries are well protected. 

Every eye is on him, the silence heavy with tension. It seems the cook’s aides who bring the Fëanorians their hardtack have not deigned to share much news. Glorfindel wishes he had thought of sending someone down here sooner. 

He limits himself to the essence of the matter. “Elrohir took a bad wound in Umbar, but his father has tended him and he seems to be improving.” 

Stern faces break into smiles. 

“Lord Elrond thinks it best that Elrohir remains on the Nemir for the remainder of the journey. The Laegrist is escorting her to the Havens. She will make port tonight.”  

The company all sag a little at the prospect of yet more confinement. Setting the Fëanorians loose on the streets of Mithlond on the wine-soaked night of the Nemir’s triumphant return is asking for a brawl, a beating, or worse.  

Glorfindel is quick to reassure them. “We of Imladris will disembark before that, at the king’s old lodge across the bay. Lord Círdan has loaned us the house for the duration. We will staff and secure it ourselves.” 

Glorfindel can almost hear their collective sigh of relief. 

He turns to Canissë. “You are familiar with the place. Draw up rosters for guards on every entrance and scouts on the perimeter. Lord Elrond is in your hands. Ardil shall take charge of Elrohir.” 

Canissë has been Elrond’s bodyguard ever since his sojourn with the Sons of Fëanor. She is clearly relieved to have him back under her wing.

“Have a care around Elrohir.” Glorfindel has no desire to lay out the list of Elrohir’s many misfortunes, but the guard must have some warning. Ardil handled Elrohir’s strange behaviour with grace, but Glorfindel does not care to repeat the experiment with some hot-tempered Fëanorian swordsman. “Remember that he finds himself among strangers. He recalls nothing of our ways, and he has been ill-treated. Do not give him reason to fear you. Never touch him, not even in jest. When there is trouble, fetch Elrond or me at once.

He needs not elaborate. The Fëanorians are all veterans of the War of the Jewels, and they have seen much sorrow in the evil days.They long ago learned not to startle a newly freed prisoner. Learned the hard way. 

Canissë sends him a look of unveiled concern. Glorfindel knows the tale: that scar running white and jagged down her cheek marks a frenzied jab from Maedros’ bread knife. She would have lost the eye, had Maglor not had the foresight to blunt his brother’s cutlery. 

“The Haradrim are like Wood-elves,” Glorfindel says in an even, conversational tone. “There is always another knife. Elrohir is never unarmed, and when frightened, he will draw. Beware.”

Canissë was already standing at perfect attention, but now her shoulders straighten. Her stony expression does not change. “Where?” 

“Belt, boot, one or both sleeves. More in his bag.” 

“He would surrender them if you ordered it.” Canissë’s tone is soft and low, but her suggestion is no less pressing for it.

“Perhaps. But he would never trust me again.” Glorfindel speaks a painful truth. Elrohir’s faith is gossamer-delicate, so easily lost. “Lord Elrond is trying to have him hand over the weapons willingly, but he needs time.”

“Elrohir could kill someone before that.” Canissë does not mince her words. “One bad dream and he might skewer the night guard.”

Most Elves speak of kinslaying only in euphemism and carefully couched whispers. Not the Fëanorians. Three bloody-handed massacres have rendered the unspeakable almost banal, robbing them of the need to sugarcoat their deeds, or anyone else’s. 

Glorfindel looks her in the eye, unflinching. “Your task is to make sure he does not,” he replies, layering his authority beneath the words. 

“As Lord Elrond commands.” Canissë will do anything for Elrond. Even this.

Glorfindel smiles, deliberately changing the mood to something merrier. “You will soon see the stars again - and then Imladris will show the Falathrim how it is done!” 

“Aye, sir!” fifteen voices boom at once. 

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Chapter End Notes

And so Elrohir gets his first lesson, in history rather than reading, but he also learns a thing or two about Elrond. And the Fëanorians can finally look forward to freedom.
I'd love to hear your thoughts about both Elrond's boozy educational methods and the upcoming Fëanorian Liberation. Comments make a writer's day!
See you soon for the next one,
IS