Chapter Text
“I’m going to be fine.”
Fatal words were accompanied by that sheepish grin as Elrond kicked off in the skiff, packed with fishing rod and second lunch and all the carefree wiles to be found on this side of Middle Earth.
If only Elendil had listened to his instinct. He would have sent for him long before the wind turned foul. Before the sky turned black and towering waves smashed into their harbor. Before the skiff washed up that morning, smashed to pieces with a blue cloak wrapped around the mast.
If he had only listened to Ulmo’s warning, there would be no search parties or frantic letters to Isildur asking him to watch for signals that an Elvish castaway had found unsavory refuge with passing ships. There would be no nights of fear; endless days combing the shorelines and the seabed; anguished prayers that Ulmo would guide their wayward sailor home.
If he had only listened to that inner sense of dread, Elrond would be home right now, laughing at his sister’s teasing and sneaking into the kitchen as the only scamp who was allowed to snag sweets before supper (with the expectation that he share the loot).
Two weeks had passed and Elendil was forced to remember the last time Elrond had inhaled seawater. Though his prayers and hopes demanded they find the the lad alive and hale, he could not quench the creeping doubt.
If he had only heeded his instinct, he could have prevented disaster. Now he feared he would not even have the chance to say goodbye.
If Adar had listened to his instinct, he would have thrown the thrashing shark back into the water and allowed Ulmo to decide his fate. Why an Elf with a face like the Maia would swim to a ship with black sails defied reason, particularly when said Elf looked more disgruntled with the rough handling than the disfigured faces surrounding him.
“Where is Captain Ondir?”
As if there was room for two commanders on one sea vessel. “I am captain of this ship.”
Unease finally flickered in grey eyes that churned like the abating storm. “Pray tell, what ship is this?”
“This is the Ashmor, led by Adar — Lord Father and champion of the Uruks!” Vugül sneered.
The stilted face was more aggrieved than apprehensive. “Pleasure making your acquaintance.”
In the face of such disrespect Adar was tempted to douse the Elf a second time. That might cool the ire in the lanky frame which trembled with fury. Or perhaps that was shivering he’d misinterpreted. It had been so long since they encountered an Elf outside of the slave harbors.
“Where did you escape from?” he asked, lowering his tone to something less threatening. Perhaps this one had only just recently slipped his handlers. He was thin enough, and his garments reflected the higher quality of an established line. A house slave, then, purchased for some ornamental purpose like one more painted urn. Truly a pitiable fate for one who was born in sunlit lands.
“I didn’t escape, I was drowned,” the Elf said with a rueful snort. He held up his bared wrists, as if the faint shackle scars would further prove his point.
Chuffing disbelief filtered through the witnesses and even Adar cringed at such waste of life. His children held no particular reverence for other life forms, be they Men or Dwarves, for they had shown their revulsion for twisted skin in bloodied battle and deserved no mercy in return. Elves, however, were not only precious in trade but nearly extinct as a race. To extinguish eternity on a whim was unfathomable.
In that moment Adar disregarded the niggling foreshadowing of regret and stepped forth in a rare example of compassion. He did not often pray to Ulmo for guidance but the intentions of the Valar were clear: no idle storm had brought this tormented youth to their ship. Fortune had saved him from the seabed and dredged him alongside one of the few corsair ships who would not pawn him off at the nearest port.
“What us your name, Elf?” Strange how Adar could nearly place the face; something elusive and ancient that spake of a heritage older than the mountains and years fewer than the hardest oak. There was pride in that young face that defied the breaking associated with shackles and separation from kin. How he had survived the centuries without losing spirit was a mystery that Adar was determined to resolve. “How long were you their captive?”
“I’m not,” was the defiant proclamation as the Elf wrenched against the hands pinning him on either side. “I was stranded in a storm. Even now they’ll be looking for me.”
If that was meant to be a threat, it was poorly phrased. Adar had buried Men and Dwarves alike beneath the waves. One more flagship would not daunt his children.
“I asked a question,” he repeated softly. He reached forward, intrigued by silvery glint, and tugged out the chain from which hung a ring as pure as starlight with a stone that changed hues like the evening horizon. There was one harbor with a pathway to Eregion that was rumored to shelter such survivors. Perhaps the Elf had made it so far before he was recaptured. It made his plight more pitiable indeed. “Tell me who you are.”
“I’m the scourge of your ship if you don’t send me back to my people,” the Elf said with unwarranted smug. An interesting response for one who should be cowed by the threat of chains.
“You think I would return you to your captors?” Such accusation was as much an insult to Adar’s children as to himself. They did not deal in slavery like common corsairs.
“If you have the wisdom of a father as well as the name, then yes,” the Elf replied. “You know not who follows after me.”
Bold words were hollow without a name. “Tell me who seeks to claim you and I will consider.”
“He is the one who stands before Ulmo and Manwë,” the Elf said coldly. “The one who carries the bloodline of kings and the pride of his people. He who called upon the waters of Eregion and thwarted Þauron himself.”
The Uruks trembled at the name, their curiosity devolving into jeers and hisses as they shook the obstinance out of their captive. Adar held up his hand for calm.
“Sauron is dead,” he established. “We came upon him when the trees burned and the rivers were dammed by the fallen walls of Eregion.”
“Þauron is dead,” the youth confirmed, unflinching. “Before then he was king of Amon Duiniaun. He was slain by Isildur son of Elendil and his spirit fled back to the shadow.”
Isildur the Wolf Hunter. Adar knew this name. A recent whisper in dark ports where coin was subtly palmed and goods were carted for exorbitant prices. So the legend had even reached the iron walls outlying Khazad-Dûm.
Or else the youth was an accomplished liar.
“Bring him below,” Adar decided, nodding at his children to be gentle. Experience had proven it was difficult to hold amicable conversation whilst the party in question was nursing a mangled limb. “He’ll join us for supper.”
“If you have any sense you’ll send me on my way!” the Elf warned, kicking out and crippling Gôgnuk without a shred of honor. “I was brought here with no ill tidings but do not think I will go with you willingly!”
Lashing out at the fair neck, Adar snatched the silver chain and snapped it in one brisk yank. Grey eyes flew wide and for an instant there was fear.
“If you want this,” he said with measured tones, watching the expression that steeled like the cooled stone of a fire mountain, “You will accompany me.”
He turned to the hatch, expecting his children to follow, and paused in the space between starlight and the abyss. “If he struggles, break his legs.”
A careful breath and soft boots rattled down the steps in silence. Well, then. Perhaps the boy carried the wisdom of his Maia ancestry after all.