First of all a big thank you to my wonderful beta, Dawn Felagund, without whose invaluable help and advice this story would never have made it out of my head and onto the internet.
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In the end their answer came from an unfortunate Arnorian sailor by the name of Ruhiren.
It was terrifying, Erestor thought, that the final piece of this puzzle that was the long search for the lost son of Elrond and Celebrían should come from a man so sad and damaged. Elrond's chief counsellor met the Mortal in a run-down watering hole in one of the seedier districts of Fornost. They were far indeed from the polish and splendour of King Valandil's court.
Ruhiren ordered a leather flask of thin, sour beer, something he clearly had done far too often of late. Erestor kept his hood up, not trusting the greasy, tangled mess he'd allowed his hair to turn into for this secretive errand to fully hide his ears. He was unsure how much Mortal eyes would discern in the reddish half-light of smoldering grease-lamps.
Ruhiren returned with the beer and two wooden mugs. As he set them down the scars from slavers' manacles on his wrists were clear to see.
Unwilling to spend more time in these surroundings than necessary, Erestor dove straight in.
"Did you see the child we seek in Umbar, at the slave market?"
A spark of cleverness remained in the Mortal's eyes, knowing the question for the trap it was.
"No child did I see, but a man grown. He's been there for many years, as you know well. And he wasn't at the market either."
Erestor remained silent, carefully opening his mind to the alien pitch and rhythm of the Mortal's thoughts. He kept eyes trained on the man's face in his effort to discern falsehood. He found none. Ruhiren's story was the truth, or at least what the man believed to be true.
"I met him after I'd been freed. It was in the deep desert. He's one of the Haradrim army of freed slaves fighting the Lords of Umbar. He told me he was a freed Northern slave himself."
"Why do you believe he is the one I seek?"
"I've seen the King a few times, from afar. It is said our Valandil is a relative of your Elf-Lord. The one I speak of has that same look. Bears the family resemblance, so to speak."
"How would I find him, if I were to travel there?"
Ruhiren laughed bitterly. "The matter is as simple as travelling to the deep desert. It is the domain of the Haradrim and once you enter it they will find you. They might lead you to your lost prince if you somehow convince them you aren't a spy from Umbar. Fail, and your Immortal life will end then and there. I wouldn't bother asking the Umbarians. They will hang you just for speaking his name."
"Which is?"
"They call him Thanak, of the House of the Four Winds"
"So he does have kin there?"
"Oh no, there are so many freed slaves without a home to return to, they have started a House of their own. Bearing that name is a statement that he has no kin."
"Maybe it would be easier with you as my guide?"
Once more Ruhiren laughed his bitter laugh.
"That desert is a place of terror, Master Elf. The Umbarians are cruel as vipers, the locals are more than a little mad, and every surviving dark creature that good King Elendil flushed out of Mordor crawled down there to hide. I've had the good fortune to make it back home after winding up there once, and I won't tempt the Valar twice."
"Not even for silver coin?"
Ruhiren put down his mug, wiping his mouth and wafting an eye-watering smell of stale alcohol towards Erestor, who bravely kept from flinching.
"Not even for the Royal sceptre. If you think my tale worth your reward, then pay me what you promised. If not, at least pay for the beer."
Pacing the verandah of the Last Homely House was beneath the dignity of its Lady. Nonetheless Celebrían did just that as she waited for Erestor to return from his inquiry in Fornost.
Elrond had sensed him entering the hidden valley an hour ago, and all that time she had walked up and down the width of the house like a caged lioness, her skirts rustling behind her as she strode under the elegantly vaulted arches. On the lower branches of the great beech tree shedding its leaves in the courtyard she could make out the dark shape of Elladan, waiting for possible news of his twin as anxiously as she was. Elrond was inside, mindlessly rearranging the clutter on his work-table and attempting to hide his agitation.
Over the past forty years there had been many days like this one, and always they had been followed by such bitter disappointment. Elrohir being kept prisoner by wild hillfolk, abducted into the East, buried under such-and-such oak tree. The stories had all been dead ends, no trace ever found of the youngest twin or his escort. As the years wore on, the stream of fortune-seekers spinning fancy tales in hope of earning the reward offered by the Lord of Imladris had worn down to a trickle, then stopped entirely.
Until a few weeks ago, when word reached Imladris from Elrond's envoy at the court of King Valandil in Fornost. Nénuwen had written to her Lord and Lady dutifully, but with her usual amount of level-headed scepticism. Her letter had painted the strange tale of a missing sailorman's unhoped for return from the Far South with a wild tale of being captured by corsairs, sold into Umbar as a slave, and making a miraculous escape by way of the deep desert. In that strange and wild place he claimed to have met the one mortals in Arnor now called the "Lost Elf-Prince". That very day Erestor travelled to Fornost to investigate, not through their official channels at the court but quietly. And so the Lady of Imladris paced as she awaited the return of Elrond's chief counsellor and spymaster on this radiant autumn afternoon.
Erestor had barely dismounted when she spun him around to face her so she could look into his eyes to extract every last bit of information she could from his mind. Celebrían had inherited much of her mother's capability of mind-opening. Then and there, she knew. With a small sound between a sob and a sigh she embraced Erestor as he stood there in his travel-stained, ill-made mannish clothes. Her old friend of two ages returned the embrace, while looking at a hastily approaching Elrond over her shoulder.
Celebrían turned around and offered her husband a single memory, wafer-thin and fragile. It was what all of Erestor's ages of experience in mind-opening had managed to extract from a mortal mind neither equipped nor suitable for such sharing. An image, its periphery hazy and dreamlike but gaining sharpness towards the centre where the dark shape of a face took form. It was covered in cloth, a turban perhaps. The only feature properly visible were the eyes: grey as the sea, and within them the remembrance of starlight. She could feel, rather than hear, both Elrond and Elladan gasp, as struck by the enormity of this moment as she herself.
They convened in Elrond's council chamber as soon as Erestor returned from a quick detour to the baths, his sable hair drying in damp waves as it spilled down his usual immaculate robe. Celebrían looked around the bright, vaulted room with its round table, finely inlaid by one of the Noldorin craftsmen in Imladris. Elrond, Erestor and Glorfindel were seated around it in various states of agitation. It was clear that someone would travel to the Far South in all haste. Who, exactly, was the subject of heavy discussion. Elrond insisted on making the journey to retrieve Elrohir himself, while Glorfindel and Erestor protested that he could not risk his own life, or-even more catastrophic- risk Vilya falling into the hands of the Enemy. So very rarely they mentioned the very existence of Elrond's ring aloud, even in this room. It was the reason Elladan had not been allowed to attend, despite his protests. Their son-sons!-had not yet come of age, and Elladan had been deliberately kept in the dark about the true extent of his father's responsibilities. Only nine Elves knew the whereabouts of the Three Rings. Two of those had passed into Mandos' halls, and four of the ones remaining were now sitting at Elrond's table.
The debate went around in circles until Elrond silenced Erestor mid-sentence with a clearly frustrated gesture and looked at Celebrían. Despite his composure, she could tell his control was fraying at the edges and that he was in fact rather closer to tears than he'd have Erestor and Glorfindel believe.
"Hervess, what say you? You have heard us all out several times, and have only looked on, doubtlessly seeing much. Give us the benefit of your wisdom."
Celebrían looked at her husband in the fading light of early evening. Decades of grief, concern and desperation had dulled his bright spirit and taken the gleam from his eyes. He reminded her of the way he had been newly returned from Dagorlad, still deep in mourning over Gil-galad. Wise, he certainly was, but she acutely saw how his emotions in this matter had overpowered his judgement. No good would come from it if he travelled to Harad, and too much would be risked.
She took a moment to straighten out her words before speaking them aloud, and from the corner of her eye noticed Glorfindel leaning forward in anticipation. His hands were twiddling with the edges of a hastily procured map of the Far South, earning him a peeved look from Erestor. The ancient warrior had been Elrond's strategic advisor and the commander of Imladris' military force since his miraculous return from Valinor. While initially awed by the momentous importance of his mission in Middle-earth, Celebrían had found the Elf behind the historical reputation to be kind and good-natured despite his sometimes brazen and cocky manner. His loyalty to Elrond as the last descendant of the line of Turgon in Middle-earth ran deep. It assuaged her sadness over having to tell Elrond that she sided with his advisors in the matter. On hearing her words, he buried his face in his hands. Only she knew how hard he fought to keep the tears burning behind his eyelids from falling.
When he finally looked up, his ever practical nature had taken over. There was a campaign to organise.
When Glorfindel left Imladris mere days later he had been disguised with all the considerable art at his and Elrond's disposal. Though still fair to the eye, his golden majesty and the light of Valinor in his face were veiled. He'd been outfitted in mannish clothes and mail, a serviceable but slightly dented sword at his side. His mount was a dun-coloured packhorse, a far cry from the white destriers he normally chose.
He rode for the Grey Havens, with letters from Elrond to Círdan requesting passage to Umbar. He made record time, reaching the Havens before the first winter storms.
Glorfindel knew Círdan well from the years he had spent in Lindon on his return to Middle-earth. In those days the return of a legend reborn to walk Ennor once more as a symbol of defiance to the Enemy had inspired many. On this occasion the Lord of the Havens received Glorfindel and his message with equal measures of relief and concern for the sheer distance and complexity of the task before him. Despite the circumstances Círdan couldn't help but appreciate the irony of the resplendent Lord of the Golden Flower, who normally wouldn't dress in silver embroidery if he could get gold, having to play the part of a rugged Mortal traveller.
Without delay a ship was outfitted and crewed with eager volunteers from Círdan's folk. Elrond was well-loved among them, a central figure of the High King Gil-galad's court in Lindon for almost an age. All other work in the shipyards ceased as many skilled hands readied victuals, rigging and sails in record time, allowing them to set sail only a week after Glorfindel rode through the Haven's gate. Círdan captained the grey ship himself.
Their journey south was so blessed with favourable winds, that it was as if Ossë and Uinen themselves sought to bring home their beloved Eärendil's lost grandson.
Once they reached Southern part of the Bay of Belfalas the time had come to make a difficult decision about Glorfindel's landing place. It was impossible for an Elvish ship to openly approach the Southern harbours where Black Númenóreans ruled, their worship of Sauron still as ardent as before his defeat at the hands of the Last Alliance.
Glorfindel had no choice but to land in Harad secretly, in the dead of night. Ruhiren had told Erestor about meeting Elrohir in a lawless desert province called Kes Arik, home to nomadic tribes and an army of liberated slaves resisting the Lords of Umbar amid the ever-shifting sand dunes. Nowhere in the lands of the West existed a map of that place. From an ancient sea-chart drawn when Númenor still stood, Círdan picked a deserted stretch of arid coastline to the south of Umbar, two days' ride from the town of Pellardur.
From the sea Umbar looked as unforgiving as Ruhiren's tales. As far as Glorfindel's eyes could see ochre sand and rocks stretched to the horizon without a blade of grass in sight.
Cirdan had voiced his misgivings about what he called abandoning Glorfindel alone in this desolate and hostile land with so few clues to Elrohir's whereabouts. Glorfindel insisted on going forward as planned. And so it came to be that Círdan rowed back to the grey ship, leaving the Balrog-slayer and his dun mare alone on a dark, wind-swept beach under strange stars.