Lost Youth

Chapter Eight

Thanks to Escapistone for betaing this.

Again, for Isis. May all your Elves be Elrond.

Reviews are muse-friendly.

Crowded close about the rail, eyes staring, the peoples of Middle-earth marvelled, aghast in wonder and in terror. Their hearts slowed, and they clutched at one another, grasping hands seeking the reality of the world, the surety of solid flesh. They were silent, and their hearts, speeding once more beneath the reckless spur of fear, whispered and sighed in urgent rhythm beneath the sudden silence. The wind fell, and waves lapped at the ships, a restless tap of watery hands. A dolphin breached, foaming water spilling into the dark sky. A slack line slapped restlessly, its twisted length roiling and serpentine.

The High King worked frantically at his bonds, chaffing the salt-slicked rope against his wrists until his movements broke the skin and his fingers were scarlet with the trickling stream of his own blood. And yet his eyes were thoughtful, calm and even as a millpond on a day in midsummer when no wind blew. A dark bruise discoloured his forehead, and damp strands of hair fell unevenly in his eyes, and still he watched the fleet as it came upon them. Stars seemed to shine brightly in his fair countenance.

Great and terrible the fleet was in the cold, grey light ere the dawning, the swan-prows arching proudly across the dark seas. Hundreds of lanterns shone, their light pinioning the night with a hundred thousand lances. White-gold they shone, dimmed beneath that terrible starlight and the first faint hue of dawn, and yet they seemed to be very stars themselves, a bright constellation set against the darkness of the West.

Still, those who had fled from Balar were silent, and yet from the Valinorean host rose the sound of much singing, bright and joyful as silver trumpets, for all that they were armed and armoured for the deadly business of war. Slowly the great ships drew alongside the lesser, and the watchers marvelled at the artistry and majesty of them, each as their temper demanded. For the armada sent forth from out of the Utmost West blazed with gilded glory, a glory that almost the eyes could not bear, a wonder that the heart could scarce conceive.

At the prow of the flagship stood a great figure, tall and broad of chest, strong in thew and sinew. Dark of hair he was, and bright of eye. A cloak flew back from his shoulders, blue as the sky on a fair summer's day, and armour plate gleamed and glittered in the lantern light, engraved with many words that seemed to flow and shift as he moved. He bore no helm, and his hand rested upon the hilt of his broadsword. He was Eonw&235, herald of Manw&235, mighty amongst the ranks of the Maiar. Strength was in his arm; beauty was in his eye; and from his face shone out a great and golden light that was before the sun and the moon.

Ropes were cast from one ship to the next, binding them together. Círdan hurried to the gunwales, and the prince to his brother's side, fumbling with the water-tightened knots that fastened the king's hands.

For a moment, all eyes were elsewhere. A figure sprang across the ropes binding one ship unto another, lightly scaling the last few feet of netting. With an agile swing of one long leg, he leapt the railings and landed upon the deck. No Maia this, but one born of Elven kin. And yet his every movement spoke of vigour and of joy. His face was grim with the knowledge of war, but his eyes were bright, brimful of knowledge both of sorrow and things wondrous and high to behold. He wore light armour, little more than that of a common soldier in the armies of Men, and yet he had the easy faith of a great lord, a graceful fluidity that touched all who watched. A coat of arms was emblazoned upon the shield he carried slung across one arm. He wore no crown, but about his brow was bound a circlet of silver, wrought in the semblance of many leaves entwined. A smile touched his lips as he looked about him, and he tugged the billowing cloak tighter about his shoulders. His face, tilted slightly to one side as he examined the ship, was fine-boned, almost delicate, and yet great wisdom shone in those grey eyes, the eyes of one who has seen much and known much, and who still finds hope unshaken beyond the tremulous darkness.

"'Tis a dawn well met," he said at last, his voice soft and musical. He tucked his hands loosely in the sword belt. "I had forgotten how fair the seas of Middle-earth are beneath the sunrise."

As if in answer to some command no other heard, O n the Dwarf, Ralin's heir and but lately become the leader of his people, fell upon his knees, his face pallid and grey with seasickness, his brow bent almost to the wooden decking. What little of his face remained in sight twixt beard and timber was alight with a burning joy. On bent knee, he offered up his great war axe haft first.

The Elf blushed, his fair face flushing darkly crimson. "Arise, my friend. There is no need for this."

The Dwarf cocked his head, his dark beard bristling. "You were the friend of my fathers."

The Elf leant down and whispered something in the Dwarf's ear. O n keeled over, snorts of scurrilous laughter escaping him. His ruddy face was incandescent with mirth, his black eyes snapping. "Aye … too true," he managed at last, muffling rasping guffaws against the worn cloth of his sleeve. "Well pleased I am to have met you, felak-gundu."

"And I you." Finrod straightened, brushing his hair back from his face. His eyes went to the young king tethered firmly to the mast, and he smiled again. "And well met, my liege. I am glad to see with my own eyes one born of the line of Lúthien and Beren. It is a rare sight in this world, and wondrous fair."

Abruptly, Elrond ceased tugging at the ropes securing his wrists. He tried to bow, but the tight knots brought him up short and his face turned an ugly puce as they constricted his chest. "I wish that I might have met you in better times, Lord Finrod. I regret that you find me…" He inclined his head. "…So indisposed."

"I think your brother is set to remedy that."

Elrond glanced at his twin, and his eyes widened in alarm. Elros held a knife easily as long as his forearm and wickedly curved. The oiled blade gleamed ominously scarlet beneath the rays of the new sun. He would have edged away if the massive pillar of wood had permitted him to do so.

Elros scowled, and cut the ropes away with a precise snick.

The king grasped his own wrists, wincing at the runnels of pain that trickled through them. His fingers were raw and swollen, the knuckles almost invisible, and yet he managed a credible bow, his hair swinging about his shoulders in sodden rattails.

The elder Elf's fingers curled around his shoulder, bracing him upright when he began to sway uneasily. He staggered slightly, reeling backwards and forwards on the tilting deck, one arm outspread. Mortal as well as immortal, he could not help but shiver as the chill breeze blew across his soaked clothing, tucking his chin to his chest. "You are come upon an errand of war?" He pressed blue lips together and winced again. "I am a fool: why else would the host of the Valar brave the wide oceans but to bring stern war to the very gates of Angband?"

Finrod smiled faintly as the Shipwright tucked a worsted cape about the younger Elf's shoulders, fastening it with a tarnished brass pin, twisted and scraped with age. Bloodstains marred the cloak's hem, but the peredhel did not seem to notice, his hands curled deeply into its warm folds. Slowly, a little of the colour returned to his face and he straightened, seeming to take on once more the mantle of the kingship that time and fate had so rudely thrust upon him.

"Aye, we come to war," Finrod said, one hand gesturing to the fleet which rocked slowly behind him, the first sunlight striking polished wood and pale canvas like a memory of better days and meads untouched even by the reaching shadows. "The Valar are gone to war for the sake of Men and Elves alike. No other day shall dawn such as this one shall be." His voice was soft with awe, his gaze far distant.

"We had despaired and knew no hope that the West might come to our aid." Elrond shook his head. "Still this seems but a dream to me, a vision sent to comfort my sleep against the hopeless dawn."

"This is no dream, son of E rendil. What dream would send one whose fate it was to die in the dungeons of his own keep to bring you comfort?" he asked wryly.

Elrond shook his head, dazed. "Friend of my fathers O n called you in truth, Lord Finrod, and so you were a true friend to mine."

Elros made his way to his brother's side, gripping the elder twin's arm in reassurance.

"To have shared in their deeds made a glory even of folly." Bright pain showed for a moment in Finrod's eyes ere he veiled it with practised ease. "Have you not seen the beacon of hope shining in your skies these years past? E rendil your sire and your mother the Lady Elwing came upon the westernmost shores of the Undying Lands, and the endeavour they had so long tried came at last to fruition, for your father wore the Silmaril bound upon his brow. Thus it was that he was brought before the Lords of the World, sitting in judgement in the Ring of Doom. Then much was spoken of the ills of the world and the deeds of the Noldor in exile. And by the word of Manw this doom was set, that your father should sail in the heavens as a token of hope, and that Middle-earth should not longer languish beneath the fell hand of Morgoth who destroys and does not make, save in mockery. But of that it is not my place to speak further, nor is the hour yet full ripe for all tellings…"

Whatever else he might have said remained lost twixt the warp and weft of Vairë's weavings.

The sun, glancing low beneath the yards, pale and silvery with the winter's morning fell clean upon Finrod's head, a brilliant blow of light cleaving across his open face. The wind rustled the hem of his cloak. Very fair he seemed then, this figure from legend, a sword girt at his hip and mail about him.

Light footsteps, elven-quiet trod the companionway.

A brisk question.

"Lady Araliel…" Elrond nodded in curt welcome. "How fare the injured? I fear that the storm…"

He halted, abruptly aware that her attention was no longer on him. Her eyes were wide and glassy, her face bloodless. One arm hung limply by her side; the other hand had flown to her throat, her fingers twisted into ragged claws. Her mouth worked silently, as if words were suddenly beyond her.

"Elbereth preserve me…" a voice breathed, and Elrond swung round abruptly. Finrod was staring at the Elven maiden with stark horror in his grey eyes, a blanketing fear darker than starless night.

And then Araliel, pragmatic Araliel whom even the legions of Morgoth had not fazed, wavered and fell, crumpling to the wooden deck in a dead faint.

Before the king could do more than take a single step towards her sprawled and tangled form, Finrod was at her side, his fingers fumbling frantically for the broach holding his cloak closed at the neck. Another moment and Elrond knelt beside her, feeling for the pulse that beat slow and steady in her neck. The Noldo tucked his cloak about her, clutching her hand between both of his. There was no detached humour in his eyes now, and Elrond flinched back from the void in its place.

"Awake, beloved," Finrod whispered. "Awake, Amarie…"

Elrond met his brother's eyes and beheld his own shock mirrored therein.

TBC