The Longed For That Cometh Beyond Hope by cuarthol

The Longed For That Cometh Beyond Hope

Read The Longed For That Cometh Beyond Hope

Water rushed across the deck, knocking Erellont off his feet and sending him careening into the far rail. Falathar hauled him up and together they pulled at the steering oar, forcing the craft to turn into the waves. The next surge lifted Vingilot like a seabird, cresting and crashing down the far side, making Erellont’s stomach turn.

The oil lamps had long since been snuffed out by driving rains and the stars could not pierce the clouds. Even with the pale crystal lantern at his belt, Aerandir’s keen eyes could barely discern his captain’s form at the prow, clinging to the headstay as if to defy the very heart of the storm.

“My lord!” Aerandir cried, his voice losing to the roar of the winds. “Come down before you are lost!”

If Eärendil heard him he did he heed his plea. He filled his lungs and cried with all his might, “Ulmo, Lord of Waters! Did you not thrice guide my father? Will you not guide me now?”

“My lord!” Aerandir cried again, coming forward with a line to tie about his waist lest he be swept away. “Ossë will drown us; his fury rages unsated! We must turn back!”

“To what do we return?” Eärendil cried. “What is left but the hope of the West? Did not my father blaze the path before us, called forth by Ulmo’s horn?” Turning back to the storm, he shouted, “Tuor! Idril! Will you not aid your son? What fate keeps you from me?”

“We know not what fate they met,” Aerandir said, pulling at Eärendil’s sleeve to urge him back from the ledge. “But I know which we shall meet if we do not heed this storm! This darkness will be our end and the sea our tomb!”

When Eärendil still did not give way, he added, “What of the lady Elwing? Who shall carry such news to her if we do not return?”

A stab of grief crossed Eärendil’s face and he relented at last. As his heart turned to Sirion a dark fear came over him, breaking his will. All his thoughts then bent to Elwing and his sons, wishing now only to be with them once again.

“To Sirion,” he agreed, letting Aerandir guide him down. “And may this gale at least serve to see us swiftly back.”

It seemed that with this decision the storm abated, and the raging winds now hastened them eastward. But even with that aid, the days dragged on and the nights felt endless in the face of his longing.

Night after night he remained at the helm as if by his hand he might lend speed to their journey. Falathar urged him to rest but he would not be moved, Erellont brought him meals which he left untouched. Aerandir alone brought something more. Coming alongside him, he gazed into the night with the moon waxing nigh full above and the stars glittering in the dark expanse.

“So much like your grandfather in his youth,” he said wistfully, casting a sideways glance at his captain. “It grieved me that Tuor never knew him.”

Eärendil tightened his grip on the oar but he did not respond.

“Only thirteen years,” he continued. “I did not then understand how quickly the Edain grew.”

“I have passed twice that number and more,” Eärendil said.

“But you remind me of him; bright and keen, eager to see and know all there was. Húrin was bold and full of cheer, but Huor was fierce and thoughtful. He had something of foresight, I think.” He gave a soft laugh of happier memories long past. “I daresay if they had stayed, Turgon would have deemed the brothers his foster sons and raised them as princes.”

It drew to Eärendil’s mind the love of his grandfather, and his heart felt heavy in his chest for the loss of so many dear to him. “They are all of them gone now.”

“Aye; but they did not hasten themselves to their own ends,” Aerandir said. “They knew their time was short. Even in fair Gondolin, with a thousand things to see and do and learn, he still took food and rest. Do not foreshorten what is short enough already.”

The rebuke was given with such affection that Eärendil could not even feel anger for it. “True friendship speaks truly,” he murmured. “I will take your words to heart.”

“Then take your meat and bread,” Aerandir said. “And I will deem my task done.”

Eärendil smiled at that and stood aside to let Falathar steer while he ate, and afterward he found sleep for a while. Even so, he did not long stay his hand from the helm, but took whatever Erellont brought him to hearten and sustain himself.

It was on the night of the full moon that Eärendil gazing east saw a bright star low in the sky, and it seemed to him it moved in a strange course.

“Aerandir, your eyes!” he called, and the Elf leapt to the bow to look out over the waves.

There he saw a great white bird, shining in the dark, carrying the jewel of Sirion and he cried out, “Ai! Ai! If only my eyes did not see, for this news I would give anything not to tell!”

Eärendil ran to the bow but could see little but the light and do nothing until the bird had come to them at last, falling nigh dead upon the deck.

Falathar lifted the creature reverently and spoke soft words of healing over it. “It will live, but what this sign means is beyond even me.”

“Too late! Too late!” Eärendil brought the bird to his chest and stroked it gently, heedless of his own tears. “Would that Manwë’s Breath had proved the swifter! Alas! Ulmo, why have you sent me such an ill omen? What fell fate has befallen fair Elwing that the Silmaril comes to me thus?”

That some great doom had come upon the Havens seemed too great to bear, and yet they could give no other account for the tale their eyes told them. Overcome with grief, Eärendil carried the bird to his berth, wrapped it in a blanket and laid it upon his chest, then fell into a restless sleep.

Dawn came brighter than it had seemed for many long months now. Eärendil threw an arm over his eyes, knowing only that the pain of waking was more than he could yet bear even if he could not quite recall why. But soon his instincts rebelled against such a light, for the ship should not be angled so far north to catch the bright morning sun through the starboard side. A momentary panic rose in his breast and he almost fell out of the bunk before he realized there was a warmth and a weight over him that he could not remember being there before.

He at last blinked cautiously and found it was not dawn that lit the cabin so, but the Silmaril, the blanket which had obscured its light now fallen aside. But that realization was entirely lost in the recognition that where the bird had lain the night before, there sprawled rather his wife, more glorious than any jewel.

She stirred as he clutched her tightly, kissed her face, wept unashamed at her presence. “Elwing! Elwing, my harbor, my heart! Was it you who flew to me? Oh, Elwing, how did you come to be in my arms?”

When she returned his kisses he felt more alive than he had since sailing from Balar. Was it a dream? Had he perished and found his peace beyond the world? It did not matter, he only wanted to hold her forevermore, to never again leave her side.

But her own sudden weeping broke his heart anew. “All is lost!” she cried. “Elros, Elrond! I know not their fate, but it can hardly be less than my own brothers! Taken or killed or left for dead, who is to say? Sirion is fallen; as Doriath, as Gondolin! Oh, why did you not return sooner?”

“Forgive me.” He pulled her to his chest, and any other words he might have said died on his tongue. The memory of dragons and balrogs and fire consuming his childhood warped into the loss of his own children. The blame she leveled was no less than what he laid on himself. “I beg you, forgive me, though I’ve no right to ask it.”

But Elwing wiped her eyes and drew a breath to steady herself. “You could not have forestalled it. Whether you had been there or no, it would have fallen, and I know you too well to think you would not have fallen with it, for you would not have let yourself be pulled from the fighting by a hundred men.

“No,” she said, cutting off his objection. “In truth I do not blame you, though I know not how many nights I stood on the pier and longed for your return. Mights and could-haves are of no use now. But Ulmo himself has brought me to you.”

“Then he has shown more grace to you than I," Eärendil said, and kissed her again. "But come, beloved, we must find you clothes for your feathers have gone and left you with naught!”

Eärendil dressed her in his own tunic and begged of Erellont his long coat to wrap her in. He brought her a basin of water to clean herself, and combed her hair while she told him what she could bear to speak of the loss of their home and sons.

When he brought her up, the three mariners were no more amazed to see her standing before them than they were grieved to learn of the fate which had brought her to them, for they also had family in Sirion and Balar.

Then she took the Silmaril from her neck and bound it to her husband’s brow and said, “Let its light be now born by you, for I am weary of the burden of it.”

Then he stood upon the prow and gazed east as far as his eyes might see, but he had not the keen eyes of the Eldar and nothing of the shore of Beleriand revealed itself.

At length he said, “I am now settled in my course. Beleriand is lost to us, and Tuor and Idril have passed where I cannot follow. One way only is left, and perhaps it needed only this. Westward, then, and it may be that the light of the Silmaril will pierce that blackness which hindered us.”