Northern Stars by Idrils Scribe

Chapter 9

The sun sinks away into the West as the Laegrist and the Nemir anchor side by side in the blue twilit bay. The ships’ lanterns throw circles of pale gold upon the waves, and in the eastern sky the first stars begin to blossom.  When Elrond steps on deck, he walks into a dream of the past.  This hunting lodge was once Ereinion’s escape from the burdens of rule. The last High King of the Noldor built his solitary retreat large enough for comfort, but too small to admit the pomp and pageantry of court. The house perches alone on its green peninsula jutting into the Firth of Lindon. A low building of cream-coloured stone, wrapped in cloisters open to the wide sea. The forest of oak and  beech that shelters it from the wind is older than many kingdoms of Men. A scatter of stables and outbuildings lie half-hidden amidst the trees. A footpath winds down to a crescent beach, a pier of white wood, a moored longboat pale in the falling dusk. Light twinkles golden from the house’s windows.  Elrond stands still amidst the shipboard bustle, struck by lingering ghosts. He spent many merry days in this house, chasing hart and boar at Ereinion’s side, first as the king's ward learning statecraft, later as his vice regent. And through all that, as his friend. Ai, such loss! But this is not the time to grieve it.  He has not set foot here since those frenzied days when Ereinion put his affairs in order before setting out from Mithlond’s white gates on that campaign into hell the minstrels would later call the Last Alliance. With the clarity of hindsight, Elrond now sees that Ereinion understood that he would not return. For all Elrond had known, the house had been left to gently crumble back into the forest like so many places haunted by Ereinion’s memory. Erenion must have bequeathed the place to Círdan. The Lord of the Havens prefers to do his hunting by ship, but it seems he nonetheless took a liking to the old lodge, because clearly it has been kept in order.  As one of his many kindnesses to Elrond, Círdan has lent him the house. Elrond is deeply grateful once more. It is a wise choice, allowing him to bring Elrohir to this place of calm solitude. A city full of merry mariners eager to celebrate his return would overwhelm him.   Elrohir looks almost translucent when he appears on deck to say his goodbyes to the crew. Elrond’s touch has borne up his spirit, but it shines through his faded form like a lamp through misted glass. The threads between spirit and body are worn gossamer-thin.  Elrond should be saying his own farewells, but he cannot keep his eyes from straying to his son, as if he might catch Elrohir’s fleeing fëa like a child cups a butterfly in the hollow of its hand, if only he is quick enough.  The crew have gathered on deck to see their passengers off, and the mood is mirthful. Once Elrond and his company disembark they have but a little further to sail to the lamplit quays of Mithlond twinkling across the bay. Home and kin await the heroes’ victorious return.  “This is not farewell!” Círdan laughs with deliberate cheer, seeing Elrohir’s sorrow at yet another parting. “We shall have a feast soon!” Elrohir bows and thanks him with the formal Sindarin turns of phrase he practised so painstakingly. Once he has uttered them, he knows not what to do with such a great lord. Círdan understands, and fills the silence with gracious words of parting and the promise of merry reunions to come.  Galdor’s face is soft with fondness as he lays an arm around Elrohir’s shoulders. Retrieving Elrond’s lost son and bearing him home in triumph is a fine feat for the Nemir’s captain, but Galdor has a genuine care for his young passenger. The feeling is mutual - Elrohir will never forget Galdor’s words and deeds when faced with the Corsairs. He is distraught at the parting. Alphalas encloses him in a rib-cracking hug, which he returns. Elrond does not quite catch what she whispers to him, but for an instant he smiles, a brief flash of real mirth. It makes him look even more like his mother. Elrond wonders if Elrohir’s laugh will sound like Celebrían’s. He does not let himself think that he might never hear it. To Falver, Elrohir bows, and thanks her once more with few words but sincere ones. At the last Elrohir comes to Calear. He does not embrace, probably for fear of jostling Calear’s broken hands, but he speaks to him in soft Adûnaic, and passes him a gift - a flat package wrapped in linen. It rattles when he hands it to Falver, who stands beside her patient. Calear grins and thanks Elrohir with some witty word that returns Elrohir’s smile to his face. Elrond’s eyes meet Glorfindel’s with a look of knowing regret. Elrohir has so little. Ardil unloaded but a single battered saddlebag for him. Among the Haradrim he was fortunate, perhaps, in owning a war camel and the weapons with which to ply his soldiers’ trade. By Elvish standards he has fewer possessions than a wandering Wood-elf. There is no need for him to provide gifts from what meagre belongings he does have, all of them held dear in memory. Elrond will show all the Nemir’s crew his gratitude, Calear especially. Whatever Elrohir just handed to Calear must be some valued item he will come to miss. It is too late to stop him now, and to try would be a blow to his pride.  At last there is nothing left to say, and with clear trepidation Elrohir follows Elrond down the rope ladder into the longboat with the warriors of Imladris. He eyes the Fëanorians warily - to his eyes they are a crowd of grey-cloaked strangers, every last one armed to the teeth, their bright Elvish gazes trained on him. Ardil’s eyes have not left Elrohir, and now he manoeuvres himself onto the bench right behind him. Canissë and one of her Fëanorians make way unasked.  A gentle breeze picks up and ruffles Elrohir’s unbraided hair like playful fingers. The wind carries the scents of Lindon, wholesome as only a land long-beloved by Elves can be. Good dark earth and green things growing and clear streams singing their way down from the mountains to the sea.  Elrohir has lived so long in lands under the press of Shadow woven through the very soil, that he has lost all hope of its lifting. He shows nothing more than a small hitch in his breath, but his eyes widen with the shock of bewildered relief that lights up his spirit.  Elrond wishes he could reassure his son, but in his confusion it is Glorfindel whose gaze Elrohir seeks with his own, and Glorfindel whose easy smile soothes him into stillness once more.  Elrond looks away, pressing down the stab of hurt, but Glorfindel’s eyes are on him at once. No more. Glorfindel’s thought rings calm and clear against his own, his mind wholly made up. Tonight, I will pass him to you.     On the shore, a procession of lanterns moves down the path to the beach, and in the house voices pick up a song of welcome. The oars go down, and behind them the Nemir slowly fades into the falling night. ---- This Elvish land is not like other lands.  With every swish of her white oars, the longboat carries Elrohir deeper into strangeness. Dusk is falling, and yet the fading daylight seems clearer, the first stars bright as silver blossoms overhead, their fire more vivid than he ever saw them even in the desert night. The air is cool and fresh against his face, bearing a green scent of living things.  Somehow it all seems more … alive, and yet unfathomably ancient, years upon years washing over him like the waves wash the white beach ahead.  Sorcery, no doubt.  He should flee, but instead something deep within him, some soul-deep yearning left unsated for so long he grew numb to the pain, now springs to life, roaring for him to leap from the longboat and wade ashore and fall to his knees to press himself against the living earth of this strange land.  He remains seated - the Elves already think him half-mad. Ruining a good pair of boots would convince them he has lost what remains of his marbles. “What is this place?” he whispers to Glorfindel under his breath, his eyes on the apparition on the cliff above them, less of a house than a sculpture of soaring arches winding itself around the trees that grow around and within.   Glorfindel only smiles, and says nothing.  “A hunting lodge,” Elrond answers him instead. “We may use the house until Calear is healed and you are fit to travel.” He points across the darkening waves, where the Nemir is turning her swan-shaped bow towards the lights twinkling across the bay. “The city is but a short sail away. You will see your friends often while we stay here.” Elrohir makes himself smile, but Elrond sees what lies behind.  “What worries you?” he asks, his tone gentle. Elrohir hesitates, but Elrond does not look away. He calmly waits for however long it may take for Elrohir to speak his mind. “Is it enchanted?” Elrohir blurts out. “The house? No,” Elrond replies decidedly. “What you sense is Lindon itself. The Falathrim love their home, and they have lived here for a very long time. Lord Ulmo is their friend, and His blessing, too, rests upon the land. It remains part of Middle-earth, but it is, perhaps, closer to what the world would have been without the Darkness.”  “Is it dangerous?”  “Not to you.” He pauses. “Why do you think so?” Elrohir struggles for words. “It seems … alive.” “Elvish lands have their Song. Imladris is much the same, though less ancient.” Elrond looks sad, somehow. “I hope you will come to love it as you once did, and weave it in with your own Song when you find it again.” Elrohir has heard enough to know that when Elrond says Song , what he means is spell . Nightmarish tales of White-fiends and their sorcerous wiles come roaring back. This Song of his will change me. The thought strikes him with complete certainty, as clear as the stars overhead. Elrond turns to look at him, and with a start he realises that Elrond perceives his mind. Elrond’s mind is gentle against Elrohir’s, but he makes no denial. Would you remain as you are now, torn in two and hurting? You are not meant to feel like this. Behind the thought lies compassion, but eagerness, too.   Elrohir shudders. But the longing - oh, how he has missed these bright stars and the song and the clean light that washes over the land! The rowers bring the boat beside the white wooden pier, and Elrond lightly leaps ashore.  Elrohir follows, but the instant his feet hit the planking the world twists and tilts and he stumbles. The land’s Song surrounds him and fills him and it is at once familiar and wholly unknown, ancient and new-made, and so much . At once Elrond hooks his arm through his as if he is some courtly lady, or an invalid. Too overwhelmed to be offended, he lets himself be led down the pier to the shore. The land, too, sways beneath his feet. “Easy now,” Elrond says, his voice light and calm as he  lowers Elrohir down to the ground. “You have been away for years. You will grow used to it soon.” Elrohir rests his head on his knees and buries his hands in the grass. The last land he touched was some desolate, windswept beach in Umbar. Only now does he understand how choked with shadow that place was. It seems so long ago, as if it happened to somebody else. When the world stops spinning he looks up, and finds Elrond standing before him, his hand outstretched. Elrohir takes it, and is pulled to his feet.  “Welcome home, Elrohir,” Elrond says, and leads him up the path to the house. ---- Elrohir closes his eyes and sinks into hot water up to his neck. Elves are like Umbarians in some ways, and an uncanny skill at building baths is one of them.  The sunken pool with its tiled bench could seat six at the least, but he has been allowed to use it alone, no doubt out of deference to the customs of the Haradrim. The water spouting from a gleaming, fish-shaped tap in the wall is plentiful, clear as a mountain spring and just short of scalding, an almost-painful perfect heat, fresh with the faint pleasant scent of some northern herb he recognizes, but cannot name. The room holds neither hearth nor brazier, but the floor itself radiates a luxurious warmth. Eru knows how they do it, but it sure is nice. Elrohir usually tries not to dwell on the scatter of scars that came to litter his body over the years, but now their constant press of ever-present pain falls silent. He sighs, leans back with his head resting on the perfect slope of the pool’s wide edge, and allows himself to simply float with his thoughts. Whoever owns this house is an important man. The domed bathing chamber is small, but intricate as a jewellery box. Glossy tile mosaics wrap the room in the boughs of a flowering tree, each leaf and blossom perfectly rendered in green and gold. The white doves perched on the branches seem so vivid he can almost hear them coo. Overhead stars of inlaid silver  glisten between the topmost branches, sharp and clear against a sky of deepest indigo. A band of impossibly fine calligraphed Tengwar loops around the entire room, repeating a motif of two entangled letters. He recognizes them now - GG.  Whoever G and G may be, they own riches worthy of the Emperor of Umbar, save that the Emperor would never bathe without more slaves to attend him than could fit inside this room. Elvish magnates must scrub their own backs.    Elrohir scoured himself from head to toe before entering the pool - he knows not who will next use this water once he is done, but he is no boor, to sully it with a year’s worth of dirt. Baths were few and far between in a Haradrim war-band, and soap a distant dream.  Glorfindel’s fondness for the stuff proves a common Elvish trait, rather than a personal peculiarity. Mother-of-pearl boxes fill an entire shelf with various kinds of every possible colour and scent, along with an array of cut-glass vials holding fragrant liquids, the use of which he can only guess at. Something to do with hair, no doubt. Then the thought strikes him.  Hamalan would have loved this.  Elrohir once garrotted a particularly sweet-smelling Umbarian officer, and when he looted the man’s corpse he found a porcelain perfume bottle shaped like a bird in the breast-pocket. She laughed when he gave her the trinket, and said there was no call for the likes of her to smell like an imperial concubine. She did wear it, though, until the very last drop ran out. He recalls the scent - jasmine and roses - as if it were only yesterday.  No. He must not dwell on her. Deep within his chest sits a bottomless lake of grief, and he must not let it rise to the dam that holds back the flood wave, lest it drown him. He allows the rush of biting sorrow to roll over him, breathes, rubs his eyes, and fights it off. It will not do to linger in the bath spilling useless tears over what cannot be changed, and bring some Elvish guard swooping in to check if he has drowned.  He rises, the room’s warm air perfectly pleasant after the hot water, steps onto the heated tiles, and wraps himself in a towel.  The changing room is cool and quiet, tiled in silver-edged waves of sea-green and azure chasing one another across the walls. His clothes have been taken by some silent attendant, and clean ones left in their place.  He dresses himself in the device of Elrond’s house, takes up a comb from the many intricate ones provided, and begins to wrangle his hair into a semblance of Elvish order.  ---- Cirdan’s people have made up Ereinion’s apartment for Elrond.  Glorfindel walks into the many-coloured marvel of the dining room’s frescoes, and for a moment he is dazed with memory. How many evenings did he spend beneath this star-speckled ceiling of arched stone?  Long hours of amicable debate, the Sea singing beyond the open windows as the last High King of the Noldor sat cloistered with his general and his herald, bent over maps and reports and the ledgers of Lindon’s war chest. He loses himself before the windows, staring out at the ever-moving waves. The view has not changed, while the king burned and his realm fell to ruin. He struggles to shake the webs of the past and pull himself back to the here and now.  If Elrohir notices Glorfindel’s absent-mindedness, he does not comment on it. He has eaten little of the delicious welcome dinner, and emerged from the bath in that quiet, almost sullen mood that means he is miserable and desperate to hide it. Glorfindel knows not to ask - questions will only clam him up like an oyster. Elrond knows it, too. “We will sleep here,” he says instead, and opens a side door.  The king’s bedroom lies adjacent. Ereinion’s great mahogany bed remains, but in the corner another bed has been made up for Elrohir. A good setup, both for the healer tending his patient day and night, and the anxious father who needs his child close.  All very kind and well intended, but Elrohir warily eyes the open folding doors that lead to a wide sea view, no doubt seeing how easily a foe might leap through. The king’s lodge was built like a jewel in its setting, open to the sea air and wide views of the beauty around it; not to withstand a siege.  Elrohir found no peace out in the desert, where the Ringwraith haunted the night. Only the certainty that Glorfindel was awake and standing vigil allowed him a few snatches of fitful rest. He grows uneasy when he cannot see the one keeping watch - a soldier’s habit Glorfindel knows all too well.  He turns to Elrohir, eager to interrupt his fretting. “Ardil will be outside. He will guard you well, and there are others, too, beyond sight. Lindon is a safe land. Sleep without fear.” Elrohir can do no such thing, but he is too cowed to protest.  “Goodnight, Glorfindel,” he says, hesitating. “Goodnight, Elrohir.” Glorfindel understands all too well. He must draw back a little, and allow Elrohir to grow closer to his own father. To keep from imposing on the family, Glorfindel offered to head to the city with Círdan, but Elrond was adamant that he come. He is glad to be in the house now. Elrohir looks lost enough already with Glorfindel just down the hallway.  He can hardly bear the thought himself.  He has barely let Elrohir from his sight since their first meeting. He has guarded and guided him by day and watched over his sleep each night, all his will and all his strength consumed by the single task of bringing him home.  Now it is done.  Tonight, for the first time since Glorfindel found him, a world away amidst the desolation of Far Harad, Elrohir and Glorfindel will part.