Shore Beyond the Shadowy Sea by Quente

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A sudden voice up-soaring sheer

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Rubbing his eyes at the late-night muster, Elfwine noticed that the Elves were not wearied at all by their journey. Urgent they seemed, however, for the distance between Himring and their High Queen was great, and they were eager to begin the journey.

Caranthir handed Elfwine a flask of hot tea. “I’ve ridden with my share of Men,” he said. “And none of you can do anything on little sleep. It is a great failing of your race.”

“And I’m sure the Men you told this to enjoyed the tea more than your words,” Elfwine responded, but drank it nonetheless.

The road was so dark that Elfwine did not know how they would guide the horses, but then Fëanor took up a song, so soft that it was nearly beneath his breath – and the whole company joined their voices with his. Around them, and on their path forward, a silvery glimmer glowed – enough to illumine the road for their horses’ feet.

Quickly they rode. Súretal’s muscles bunched beneath him as they swept along the glowing path, under a field of stars. Elfwine knew not what they rode toward, but in that moment, in the dark, and riding with a company of warriors toward peril, he found that he was powerfully compelled to sing, too.

Raising his voice, he began the chant of Eorl in his own tongue, describing Eorl’s ride to the defense of Gondor with a seven-thousand strong Éoherē, to the Field of Celebrant. Elfwine let the low rise and fall of the voices around him serve as his rhythm and sang loud above them. Even as he shouted his words into the wind of their passing, he built the meaning of it in his mind, adding it to their push forward.

The murmur of the Elven song abutted his words, and everything became strange again.

Did Elfwine see, out of the corner of his eye, the low mountains shift and throng with riders, spears shining in the starlight? Did he hear the mass of thousands of hoofbeats falling in a great clamor around their own company? Did Eorl the Great ride out on a horse of shining white light to lead the Éoherē?

Did the miles somehow fall away beneath their own horses’ hooves as if they were swimming with the current of a rapid river?

Elfwine was singing, and he was in a song.

His heart was full as he felt Súretal respond to his joy, and she leapt forward with her sisters, and they were at one with each other, and with the flowing land. Long, they rode. And long, he sang. And yet it felt like no time at all.

Thinking back upon it, Elfwine did not know if Eorl and his Éoherē had truly come out of time and legend to join their ride, but suddenly, with his chant nearing the end, it was time for the very last words: Eorl, swearing his eternal friendship with Cirion of Gondor before the Tomb of Elendil in Halifirien. Elfwine felt a bell-like note hanging in the air, harbinger of something he could not quite decipher.

The final words of the chant were in Quenya, for the oath of Cirion was spoken in that language.

In the growing dawn, and with the feeling of a great fate laid upon him and an Ese’s voice in his throat, Elfwine cried out loud as he called upon Ilúvatar, loud enough for all to hear above the hoofbeats and the wind:

Let the friendship between us stand for the glory of the Land of the Star, and of the faith of Elendil the Faithful, in the keeping of those who sit upon the thrones of the West, and of the One who is above all thrones for ever!

And then Elfwine closed his eyes against a sudden brightness and sense of rushing wind, and when he opened them again, he saw the astonished faces of Fëanor and his sons turned toward him. But suddenly the land melted and changed beneath their feet…

…And their host came to a slow halt in a glade beside a high tarn, just as the sun touched the still water, and the company shouted their surprise.

Maedhros wheeled his horse and rode up to Elfwine, his expression full of wonder. “Beyond hope, we have come to Tarn Aeluin, perhaps half a day east of my mother’s house, and two days’ ride from Himring – all that distance in half a night. Your music changed our song as we rode, and we are here.”

They came to him then, Amrod and Amras, Maedhros, Celegorm, Caranthir, and their father Fëanor. In a circle around him, they were silent, gazing upon him until Fëanor finally spoke.

“You’ll forgive us our moment of wonder, young Elf-friend – or Elendil, as you styled yourself in Quenya just now, in that oath. There are few who would call upon Eru Ilúvatar to swear a binding oath with my house.” Fëanor reached out to clasp Elfwine’s shoulder. “For my part, I thank you, it brings me closer to the aid of my wife. But do you know what it is you have done?”

“An Ese brought me here through his portal, and an Ese guided my thoughts during our ride. And for that last part, I felt as though I sang with a greater voice than my own. It felt like…” Elfwine struggled to identify the feeling he’d had as he spoke. “His apology to you, or his thanks.”

Fëanor blinked, and then chuckled. “Well. Ulmo owes me that, at least, for the use of my pathway! Ever he works in subtle ways, like the water that is his domain. Did you manage to decipher your purpose, too?”

“His purpose is still hidden to me – but I felt…” Elfwine laughed suddenly, clasping Fëanor’s shoulder too, “I felt as if I was finally a part of the great stories – here, in this world, taking up my own part in this tale.”

“Ulmo is with you.” Maedhros said, “And by dint of that, beyond my own understanding…he is with us. I find that our family must thank you for the swift passage.” He bowed. “Forgive us if we do not vow anything to you in return, that tends to go poorly. But you have our gratitude.”

Fëanor dismounted and walked to a statue that sat, moss-covered and crumbling, at the edge of the lake. It was carved in soft and much-decayed stone, and looked to be two figures gazing west together over the water.

Ignoring it, Fëanor studied the distance. “Oaths or not, my heart forebodes that things go ill at Calissir. For this alone was my road between worlds repaid: the song of the Rohirrim quickened our pace. Especially that final part!”

Fëanor laughed then, just as the sun sent rays of red-gold to touch the waters of the Aeluin. “Son of Éomer, called Elf-friend, I name you Vandameldo, Oath-friend, who brought us here on the swiftest paths to the relief of Calissir. Look now into the water! Perhaps you shall find wisdom within.”

Dismounting, dazzled by the light and their evening’s shining passage through the hills, Elfwine Vandameldo – newly named – came to the water. The surface was still, a shield of beaten gold in the sunrise. He bent to look at the surface of the water, and for a moment, as if by a trick of his vision, he saw two figures – his own face, but transfigured by the water to look like a maid’s, with dark hair flowing. And gazing upward from the water, a tall Elf with shining silver hair behind her. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw Caranthir standing there, his face limned with memory.

“Ah, you see Andreth looking up at you,” Caranthir said. “I see the one beside her – we are akin, Aegnor and I, in more ways than one; we feel this pain together, beyond the remaking of the world. We let ourselves get attached to a child of Men, and we ache for them forever after. But Aegnor was more fool than I.”

“Why was he a fool?”

“Aegnor died before he spoke of his regard for her,” Caranthir said. “At least I was more honest in my love for Haleth, my sister in all but blood.”

Touched by the sorrow in his eyes, Elfwine did not know what to say. He felt exhaustion flood through him then, a strange, deep wave of tiredness that came from more than just his body. He heard Caranthir call his name, but he slumped sideways onto the leafy bank of the lake, and his eyes closed.

~

Elfwine came to himself again feeling the motion of a horse beneath him.

“Good rising, Elfwine named Vandameldo,” said Orvanis behind his back, as she held him in place against her. “The sun is nearing noon, and it is a good thing you’re compact, or Larcatal here would be complaining.”

The horse huffed in agreement.

Elfwine flushed and stroked Larcatal’s neck. “I fell asleep?”

“I don’t fault you for it, you pulled us forward a good thirty leagues with that chant of yours!”

“I did not mean it thus. If the Ese was not within me, that song would only be a riding song; I would sing the same for my fæder’s Éored.”

Orvanis chuckled. “And so with the assistance of a handy Valar, you opened your mind to us, and called forth many thousands of mounted warriors, and had them ride with all haste beside us to clear danger from our path…and then you swore an oath of friendship with the house of Fëanor, demanding Eru as your witness, and we ended the song in a great rush to arrive here…all by mistake?”

“Probably,” Elfwine said, and felt sheepish. “I am not used to music being such a serious matter. I am learning otherwise.”

“By accident or fate, I am glad of it; we are within a few leagues of the High King’s home Calissir in the highlands. He foretells bloodshed and strife already.”

~

Riding more slowly now, with Celegorm ahead of them to scout, they came upon the edge of the slope that rose up to a highland covered by a thick pine forest. A glimmering stream fell from its side, wending south through the woods and toward the country below.

Celegorm came running back to them then. He had been up the slopes. “The woods are thick with wolves – I cannot count the number. I saw someone lying dead in the wood – I could not tell who it was. We shall have a bloody time of it fighting through to Amil.” Celegorm’s expression was fierce, his eyes intent. “My hunters are there protecting her, that at least eases my heart.”

“We shall go to her, and recover the body when the woods are clear,” Fëanor said. “Sons, you have lived here far longer than I, and know the ways of such beasts. What is your counsel?”

“We ride along the Esgalduin toward the keep,” Maedhros said. “I would send some of us with Celegorm in a vanguard to clear the way, and move with what speed we may. Then, from behind the walls of the keep, we can regroup and await Nimloth for a final assault – they will be as surprised as I am to see that we have outpaced them.”

“Lords,” Elfwine said, stepping forward. “There is another song I might sing, of my cousin Théodred and his last campaign; he came to an untimely end due to the treachery of his father’s advisor. If you think it helpful, I can sing again as we ride, together with your song as we did before.

“I do not quite understand how my last song worked,” Elfwine said, “but I deem there is enough Elf magic in your music that Théodred would heed my words, even from the halls of our fathers. It may be that Théodred tires of hearing of the deeds of others, and desires to ride to battle once more.”

Celegorm shrugged. “We could try it. Wouldn’t hurt, plenty of wolves to go round.”

“We shall try it,” Maedhros said. “Father and I will sing with you, with Amrod and Amras as our guard on either side. If singing does not avail us, we will draw our swords.”

~

Elfwine joined Maedhros and Fëanor in the middle of the company as they wended upward along the Esgalduin toward the flat of the highland. After a hasty consultation, Maedhros borrowed a lap drum, and Fëanor a small harp, and as they rode along the river bank, the three wove together the steady beat of a war song.

Concentrating on the rhythm, Elfwine took a breath and used Elladan’s tutoring once again to lay out a clear image in his mind. This time, he reached out to his fæder-cousin, long lost and never met, and sang of his last stand at the Fords of Isen. He closed his eyes and remembered when his aunt Eowyn sang it for him – mournfully, at her hearth in Ithilien, far from the land of their fæders.

Now Théodred lies in darkness,
Beloved kin, fiercest of fighters.
The high-strings of the harp shall not wake this warrior;
nor shall women raise the wine-cup,
nor his hawk hie through the hall,
nor his horse stamp swiftly through the courtyard.
An evil death has denied us this noble warrior.
This song sing I, the sorrowing heir of Meduseld:
My noble cousin, long dead to me,
His tale in darkness, lasting forever. [1]

“Come,” Elfwine added unspoken, sending his thoughts along with the song. “Come forth, cousin! Fight with us in this new land, fight with this heir of Rohan!” Still, not knowing if his words would have any power at all, he drew his sword in preparation.

The wolves discovered them nearly immediately, coming in twos and threes, and finally in a pack as they approached the bend of the river that flowed from the high-terraced pine wood. As Elfwine sang, he watched Amrod and Amras turn and move together to cover each other’s weaknesses. It put him in mind of fighting in orc raids with Elladan and Elrohir, and made his heart pang for them.

Soon he found that Maedhros had laid aside his drum and drawn a sword. A wolf battled his way past the guard and stood in front of them, snarling and enormous. Elfwine had heard the cries of the Elf who’d caught the clamp of that grey muzzle. Still singing as he dodged a swiping claw, Elfwine brought his sword down upon the haunch of the wolf. But Maedhros rode close, and with a hard downward stroke of his sword, hewed the wolf’s great neck until it fell.

As that wolf came to its knees, another was revealed, crouching behind the corpse, eyes gleaming with a strange pearlescent sheen.

Then Elfwine saw something glimmering, like the sun between the trees, or a trick of the light on water. The wolf was distracted by it, and then shied back: for lo! A blade like a shaft of sun danced forward to wound it on the leg. Elfwine’s song nearly faltered – he’d gotten to the part where he told of Grimbold standing over the body of Théodred as he lay, injured but refusing to abandon his post at the Ford.

The dancing light made an ending of one of the wolves, and Elfwine thought he could see a sword rise in triumph. He raised his fist to the shape of light. Had it worked? “Westu Théodred hál!” He cried, pausing his song, and received a flash of brightness in return.

“Sing, Vandameldo! Fear not for us,” Maedhros urged, and he and his brothers formed a shield wall around Elfwine. Amras was next to a wolf not a moment later, bringing his sword pommel down in a heavy strike to knock it to the side.

Elfwine took a deep breath and sang again, and in his mind he gathered up a force – the dead who fought at the first battle of the Isen. From memory he drew Grimbold of Théodred’s Éored, long dead, fallen on the fields of the Pelennor. And with him, he drew others, out of song, out of their Halls, who had died for the glory of the Mark.

Harding and Guthláf, Dúnhere and Déorwine, doughty Grimbold,
Herefara and Herubrand, Horn and Fastred!

Envisioning them riding forth together, around him in the woods of Dorthonion, he called upon them to join his cousin’s ghostly Éored. Horses, too, he drew forth from memory: Brego with the white star on his forehead, the steed of Théodred, who survived him to seat yet another mighty warrior. Out of light and wind he drew them, feeling ever the swell of Fëanor’s harpsong lending power to his own.

And – to Elfwine’s great wonder (and not a little relief), his people came. Light, like a storm of fireflies or white-hot sparks from a fire, blew around the company of Elves, and one by one, horses of dappled light came forth bearing riders like white flame.

Elfwine closed his eyes now and sang for all he was worth, hearing the battle surge around him in howls and cries and the sounds of swords and arrows. He sang, and sang, and hoped that the words of the tale of Théodred were long enough to sustain them all in battle. Or that his body would sustain his singing — unlike the last time, he felt exhaustion grow even while he raised his voice.

Then, when he’d sung until his voice was near hoarse, almost down to a whisper – he heard the sounds around him finally fade. He took one last breath, and whispered the final notes of the tale.

Elfwine opened his eyes to see the warriors of light flash their blades one final time, and Théodred put a fist of flame to his chest: the greeting of one heir to another. Elfwine did the same, bowing his head in acknowledgement, feeling the battle-fury in him drain out in a flood.

Silence fell, but Maedhros seized Elfwine’s arm. “Well done,” he said. “But we cannot rest yet.”

“Gather the wounded quickly! On to Calissir!” Fëanor called in a great voice. “There is a pause in the assault!” And without even waiting to clean their blades or collect arrows, the company helped the wounded to mount, and hastened away.

They rode hard along the east bank of the river. Wolves gathered behind them as they flew, but such was the speed of their mighty horses that they outpaced them. They came into view of the keep as they rode around a bend in the river.

Elfwine only saw the keep in a brief and scattered glimpse, feeling more the harsh beating of his heart as it echoed the pounding of Súretal’s hooves. But later, looking back to remember it as they departed, he saw that it was a remarkable building that embodied well the spirits of the two who dwelt within.

Calissir straddled the banks of the Esgalduin – a long building of stone with high towers on each side of the water, and a waterwheel between, swiftly stirring the current into a tumult as it passed below the high walls. A flag flew from each tower – one, a great silver hammer set within a circle on a field of gold, and the other a many-rayed sun in the colors of sunset, within a diamond of white.

The great gate into the keep stood on their side of the bank, and at a Fëanor’s signal, Celegorm sounded his horn for their approach. After a moment, the doors were thrust open by Elves dressed in black garments emblazoned with silver stars, and Fëanor’s company all clattered through the gate and into the cobbled yard at the center of the keep.

A few wolves followed at their heels as they came into the courtyard, but these were dispatched by the guards at the gate, while others rushed forward to haul the gates shut.

The gates closed behind them, and Fëanor dismounted, crying, “Nerdanel!”

Out of a smaller door on the far side of the courtyard a tall elven woman with hair of flame came running toward them. Fëanor caught her up into his arms and they held each other close.

For a long moment, Elfwine caught his breath, swaying in his saddle.

Maedhros took command of the company then, directing some to care for the horses, and beckoning the wounded into the great hall.

Elfwine dismounted quietly with the rest, and feeling deep exhaustion, tried to follow the grooms after Súretal. A hand fastened around his arm and he was led instead toward Nerdanel. “Are you well?” Amras asked, catching him. “Come, let us get you sitting, at least.”

~

Nerdanel pulled away from Fëanor and led them all into the great hall. There, healers came with steaming water and poultices for the wounded, and draughts of miruvórë to ease the company from their weariness.

When they were washed and the wounded sent to rest, a stew of grains and salted meat, as well as some waybread and pitchers of beer, were set upon the tables.

“I am sorry we do not have more to offer – we have been unable to leave the keep to hunt or forage, of late,” Nerdanel said. “And I hate to think of the state of our fields!”

“Aid is coming, and has come,” Fëanor said, his arm falling across her shoulders, pulling her close. “And yet, we would not have come so swiftly, nor with such a great force, if not for the guidance of Ulmo.”

“Ulmo!” Nerdanel said, astonished. “It is still strange to me that you are friends. We spent so many ages feeling like we were in deep disgrace, and having the assistance of the great powers again is something to get used to. But how did he assist you?”

“Come, Elfwine Vandameldo – tell your tale.”

Nerdanel turned, blinking at Elfwine.

“Ah – and here I thought you were Fingon all this time! I see that you are not,” Nerdanel said. “Your name is quite interesting. Indeed, I see by your eyes that you were one born more recently, although you have the look of Fingon about you. You are most welcome, and you have my thanks!”

Elfwine opened his mouth, but his voice came out in a harsh whisper. He reached for his beer and drained it instead. His throat ached with each swallow, and his head started to pound fiercely.

Caranthir went to him, and put his hands on Elfwine’s back. In a moment, a slow wash of gentle energy passed through Elfwine, easing his throat and allowing him to sit straighter. “He is a son of Men, although he does have some Nandor in him from Nimphrodel’s folk as he tells it, and perhaps even a trace of our own blood through Númenor. Poor little rat,” said Caranthir to Elfwine. “We have been running you ragged. Amil, do you have honey?”

Nerdanel immediately beckoned to one of the people of her keep, and gave instructions. “Heat some water and steep ginger in it — add honey and a touch of miruvórë.”

Elfwine sank forward a little onto his arms, pillowing his head. He felt depleted, more than he had ever been before. “Sorry,” he croaked, resting his forehead against the cool skin of his forearm.

“Ah, he’s burning up,” Caranthir said, feeling his neck. “We’d best get him to bed.”

“He sang for an entire night and day, songs of power that brought speed and the shades of his people to aid us.” Celegorm said. “He is the reason we came so swiftly. First, Ulmo sent him from a shipwreck forward through time from Middle-earth. He came through one of father’s portals, near Caranthir’s fastness. We just happened to be near when he arrived.”

“This is a strange story indeed,” Nerdanel said. “I sense the Valar at work here, if a son of Men happened to drop through Fëanor’s pathway, and you happened to be near, and he happened to have such power as could aid us in our relief. Yes, let’s get him to bed, and I’ll hear the rest of your story then.”

“Up you go then, little rat,” Caranthir said, and hefted him up.

Elfwine did not have the strength to even protest, undignified though it was. He rested his face against Caranthir’s shoulder, and hazily heard Maedhros take up his tale.

“But it was not until father mentioned Gondolin that Ulmo’s true purpose came forth,” Maedhros said. “We do not know this purpose in full yet, but Elfwine stood and spoke when he heard the name of that city – he spoke like Tuor did of old. He said, ‘We must go to Gondolin,’ in a voice that none could gainsay.”

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Chapter End Notes

• [1] Théodred's Lament is something Eowyn sings in the Two Towers movie, tweaked just a little in translation to modern English:

  Nú on théostrum licgeth Théodred se léofa
  hæ´letha holdost.
  ne sceal hearpan sweg wigend weccean;
  ne winfæ´t gylden guma sceal healdan,
  ne god hafoc geond sæ´l swingan,
  ne se swifta mearh burhstede beatan.
  Bealocwealm hafað fréone frecan forth onsended
  giedd sculon singan gléomenn sorgiende
  on Meduselde thæt he ma no wære
  his dryhtne dyrest and maga deorost.

  It is super convenient when other people just write this stuff for me yanno?