Chapter 18 - Elwing's Shadow

S.A. 32 - Lindon

Elros left at first light, wrapped in furs against the cold which affected him more than was natural for an Elf, a bag containing the dearest of his treasures slung over his shoulder. Standing in the doorway facing his twin, Elrond knew that he would never again see himself mirrored back from another face in this manner, that no one else shared the memories of the nightmare of their growing years, no one else would remember him as a child. Elros reached out a hand, eyes locked with his, and they shared the warrior’s greeting, two clasps of hand to forearm and a meeting of palms, as they had seen it offered while they were growing up in the Kinslayers’ camps. Elros pulled his brother in for a quick, unaccustomed embrace, and for a moment they clung as they had not done since childhood, then he stepped back, nodded, mouthed ‘I’ll write’ and was gone.

Elrond had no idea if there would be anyone to deliver the letters, but Elros’ faith in the generosity of others was similar to Maglor’s, and he let it go.

Afterwards he sat staring at their untouched breakfast, listening to the large, mounted party setting out from the palace. There were, mixed in with the horses’ hooves, the sounds of the light wagons which were carrying the baggage of the small party of Men who had come up from Forlond to escort the new king to his fleet, plus the final few items Elros had not sent on ahead. Like Laslech, confined like a cat to a travelling cage.

When he was sure they were finally gone, Elrond went and changed out of the leggings and shirt in which he had slept, pulled on casual clothing and, remembering to avoid the place where he had kept the dog’s lead, set off down the garden, looking neither left nor right. The palace grounds ended in a swathe of grass which dropped away abruptly in a steep though shallow cliff at the foot of which lay rocks and then the sea. Elrond halted near the edge and stood staring out over the water, his arms folded, hands clasping elbows, the morning wind lifting and tossing his unbound hair around him like a cloud of smoke.

Out over the sea, far in the West, a star hung low on the horizon, visible even now in the early hours of daylight. It had been there for the last few nights, growing brighter, brighter still, signalling the readiness of the new land and laying a path of light across the sea for the sailors to follow.

Elrond had no clear idea how it worked that his father sailed the skies offering light in the darkness, and he didn’t much care. He was out there, leading Elros to the Land of the Gift, into history and exile. Last time they had needed a father’s intervention and protection he had been sailing as well, on the sea instead of through the night skies, always absent, leaving his family to fend for itself.

F.A 532 – Havens of Sirion

The other time, the night Eärendil’s presence might have rewritten his family’s history, had been long ago and had set the course for Elrond’s life. Sleeping on a still summer’s night, he and his twin had been roused to unfamiliar, disturbing sounds by their mother shaking them awake, her eyes dark with terror and memory. The Jewel, the great heirloom of their House which had only been shown to them once before, had been clasped around her neck, its otherworldly glow drawing the eye, even in the dark.

“They’re here,” she was hissing, in a voice unlike her own. “The same as last time…they are here, we’ll die, they will kill us. It will be as it was last time, as they killed your uncles, your grandparents…”

She had hurried them from their beds, not giving them time even to dress, taking their hands and leading them from the silent bedchamber. She was barefoot, Elrond had noticed, and her hair, black and shimmering, waved loose around her. Her feet barely seemed to touch the cold flagstones of the passage.

“Why must we go outside?” Elros had asked, trying to slow her down, get her to explain, but she had jerked his arm, forcing him on. Elrond, an affectionate child, had been shocked that their mother should be so rough and, fear starting to edge closer, had done his best to keep up.

She had taken them out onto the main terrace, which was built high above the water. This was a place where they were forbidden to play alone as it was regarded as unsafe, since the railing was small and delicate, meant for ornamentation, not protection. It was then that he understood what he had heard on waking – there were sounds of fighting coming from the houses below, even from the grounds of their own home, and there were fires burning in places where no fires should burn. He could hear voices raised, and the screams and cries were clearer to the ear out in the open, under the clear, star filled, moon bright sky.

He and Elros had stopped as one, trying to understand the inexplicable. “The Kinslayers, Fëanor’s sons,” their mother had gasped, her voice outlined with terror. “Maedhros is here, he must not get us; he will kill us as he did Ada and Nana.” She had been looking left and right as she spoke, her head darting like that of one of the little birds she loved, seeking escape, safety.

“We can hide,” he had told her, pulling her hand. He and his brother had been raised strangers to fear, but he was uncertain of this new mother, this unknown, hunted being. “Come back inside…”

“He will not have it,” she whispered, not hearing him, not really aware of them any longer. “He will soak his hand in blood for eternity but he will not have it. Nor will he have me…my fate is of my choosing, not his.”

She had spun round then, trying to grab hold of them both, draw them to her, but Elros had darted back and Elrond, truly afraid of her at last, had acted on instinct, bending to bite the wrist of the hand that held onto him. She had made a small sound, releasing him, and then one of her women had arrived. Thelenineth, who had fled with her from Doriath, and whose husband sailed with their father, had gathered the twins to her, crying in horror, “Lady, what are you doing? Come, we must hide.”

And Dior’s daughter had drawn herself up, her eyes catching light from the blazing Jewel, and she had cried, “I will not die at their hands as my family did before me, I will not be sport for them. Give me my sons, Thelenineth. This way is better, cleaner…do you not remember what they did with my brothers? They left them to starve…” Her voice had risen to a shriek, and the sound had drawn attention. Footsteps could be heard pounding down the passage, someone screamed in agony, and they had burst out into the night, a group of strangers carrying the torches that had lit the entrance of Eärendil’s home, tall Elves carrying blood-drenched swords, the foremost having hair as red as glowing coals.

In Elrond’s memory what followed seemed somehow to have happened slowly. Illuminated by torchlight, Elwing had turned and stared as though transfixed at the red-haired Elf. She had remained absolutely still for a moment, her hands raised to her face, then she had turned to run, a hand holding the Jewel almost as though for comfort, pale light spilling out between her fingers, and when she reached the railing she leapt straight over it like a young deer. She was still running as she tumbled slowly, slowly down to the water far below.

There had been shouting, Thelenineth and Elros had both been crying, and they had been shoved roughly aside as the intruders rushed to the edge. Standing unnoticed to one side, Elrond had soundlessly watched the light marking the place where his mother had fallen, still shining upwards from under the water. Even as the redhead shouted for a boat to be readied, the light began to move out to sea at a speed which, young as he was, Elrond knew to be at variance with the strength of the tide.

Their mother had been mistaken as it turned out, they had not been killed after all. While they were waiting for the party sent to find Elwing’s body to come back and admit defeat, a tall Elf with night dark hair and sad brown eyes had come over to them and said briefly to the leader, “Let these two go. No more children, brother.”

The leader had glanced at them, huddled against Thelenineth, shattered to silence and said, his expression grim, “They will grow, brother, and draw followers to them, and we have enemies enough.”

His brother shook his head, his hand moving close to his sword hilt. “These are mine. Do what you like with the rest, but these are mine. There will be no more young voices in my mind, calling for their mother and keeping me from my sleep.”

The leader had looked at him expressionlessly, then down at them, and something had moved in his eyes - Elrond went back over that moment many times over the years and could never decide if it had been guilt, regret, sorrow – then he had said briefly, “The line breeds to twins it seems. As you will, Maglor, but they come with us. I will have no dagger for my ribs left here to be raised by Círdan and the new so-called High King. I had only one interest here – and that bitch has taken it from us.”

Fëanor’s remaining sons had not found Elwing, nor the Silmaril, borne out to sea by an unnatural tide to a place and destiny of the Valar’s choosing. They took in their place Eärendil’s sons, Dior’s heirs, and faded back into the wild places from whence they had come.

~*~*~*~*~

S.A 32 - Lindon

The day proceeded in an ordinary and uneventful manner, though to Elrond the palace always felt different when the King was absent, as though there was an unfilled space somewhere, a quietness. Gil-galad involved himself in the day to day details of the running of his household in a sporadic sort of way, just enough for the staff to feel he was interested, not enough for it to be seen as interference. In his absence things went along as they always did, though accompanied by an air of waiting.

Elrond kept moving. Motion held thought at bay, distracted him from the reality of going back to an empty apartment, took his mind off the absence of the bright, inquisitive presence that no longer kept pace beside him. Elwing’s son had experience in dealing with loss, his life had been drenched in it.

late F.A., various camps

From the day he had been untied from the horse and put down in the camp full of Elves who spoke a different tongue, who were rough in their treatment of him and his brother, and whose armour and weapons were all too well used, he had learnt not to let them see his heart. While Elros tried to conform so that he would keep terror at bay through obedience, Elrond had simply pretended he didn’t care. Not about the lack of food, not about the lack of kindness, not about the loss of mother and father, certainly not about the weary, saddened, ever-hopeful Elf who had taken them into his care.

Maglor, drawing on memories of the needs of his younger brothers at their age, had kept them fed and clothed, and had even attempted something in the way of education. More importantly in such troubled times, he was their protector, on two occasions facing his own brother down over a drawn sword when Elrond’s tongue went too far. Maglor it was who had taught them their lineage and to be proud of it, reminding his brother when questioned that these were the great grandsons of Turgon of Gondolin, and in respect to his memory should be treated as such. This had worked well enough, though when he had started teaching them the Song of Luthien, Maedhros had drawn the line.

Through it all Elrond had treated Maglor with a cool suspicion that, as he grew, had matured into a permanent battle of wits between them. He had shown no gratitude to the tired, disillusioned Elf, offered no thanks for care and protection or for the glorious voice raised in song on the nights when fear walked close and sleep refused to come. Maglor had taken them into his care without reservation, and in public Elrond showed him the respect that was his due, at all times keeping the thoughts of his heart to himself.

When they had parted, when Elros had been close to weeping and had embraced their protector as a father, Elrond had held himself straight and proud as he had been taught, and nodded when Maglor told him he would be in touch when things settled down, not believing but nodding anyway. There were no words of love or regret. He had not told his mother he loved her, after all. His farewell to her had been his teeth to her wrist, an act of horror that played over and over in his mind, and he would give no more to others than he had to her.

Maglor had watched them depart, his face unreadable, though there was aching loneliness and regret in his dark eyes. Now, he too was gone, wandering Middle-earth in shame and despair said some, dead said others, the final victim of his father’s Oath. Gone from him as Elros had gone, as his mother and his father before her had gone, as the dog was gone…

~*~*~*~*~

S.A 32 - Lindon

Elrond pursued a busy but unexceptional day comprised of a double session of combat training, plus an hour with the bow, visits to the barracks and harbour to see what was going on, and several hours listening to Arthiel, one of the healers, as she explained the various ways to set a broken arm. The only unusual event involved an encounter he had near the steep flight of steps cut into the cliffside that led down to the harbour, an informal shortcut from the palace. He was crossing the grounds on his way back to lunch when he was hailed by Lord Círdan, who he had believed to be in Forlond waiting for the new King of Numenor.

There was no way to avoid the summons so he went over to the Gil-galad’s mentor, who was wearing plain brown leggings and tunic and an elderly looking dark green cloak. His hair was tied back in the way of the seaman, which naturally drew attention to his beard. Elrond found the beard interesting, though knew he was in the minority there. He could only suppose it appealed to some thread of his mortal ancestry. He assumed Beren had worn a beard. Tuor, he had been told, shaved daily in an attempt to fit in with the beardless Elves amongst whom he lived for most of his life.

“Hîren?” he asked, sketching a show of politeness as he had assured Gil-galad and, more importantly, Glorfindel that he would.

Círdan surveyed him thoughtfully but kept his council. “I expected you to have ridden with your brother this morning?”

Elrond’s face went bland as a sheet of virgin parchment. “We said our goodbyes already. There was no point in dragging it out in front of an audience.”

Círdan nodded slowly, accepting the reasoning as being flawed though consistent. “If you have had a change of heart, I travel to the Forlond now by water. I would be prepared to wait for you…”

Elrond shook his head. “No thank you, Hîren. There’s no need for that.”

Círdan inclined his head. “In that case, I will be on my way. When I return we could perhaps spend a few hours discussing what it is you wish to learn from me? Gil-galad was far from clear, other than the fact that he had no wish for you to study with Galadriel, with which I concur. Did you have any objective beyond controlling your abilities?”

Elrond sensed this was an important question, though he had no idea of the ‘right’ answer so he opted for simplicity. “I just want to make sure things stop happening by accident. Beyond that I’ve not thought. I wondered if you could tell me what was possible, then I could decide.”

Círdan looked almost pleased, if that were possible. “We can certainly discuss that when I return. It seems a sensible place to begin.” He moved towards the steep stairs then paused and turned back. “Was there anything you would like me to take to your brother? Something he or you may have forgotten?”

It was on the tip of Elrond’s tongue to say that Elros already had the best gift he could give him in Laslech, then, unbidden, the instinct that had nagged at him on several occasions in the last weeks returned, the feeling that he should give his brother the one item belonging to their family that referred to their mortal ancestry – Beren’s ring, the Ring of Barahir. From earliest childhood they had both been fascinated by the tale of how it had passed from Finrod through their great grandfather Beren and thence, finally, to them, and Elros had in particular been drawn to it. However, hurt about Laslech, and believing the treasury of a House of Men was no place for an Elven heirloom, Elrond had kept silent.

The emotions that waged across his face brought Círdan, who had been concerned at the icy control he had been witnessing, back from the top of the steps. “If you wish to fetch something, I will wait for you,” he offered, his tone more gentle than he was accustomed to using with this spirit of rebellion who put him so much in mind of Lúthien, Thingol’s willful daughter.

“It’s in the Treasury, for safekeeping.” Elrond hesitated. “I would have to get someone to unlock it for me and…”

Círdan sat down on a convenient tree stump, which had been left in place as a seat offering a wonderful view over the harbour. It had been a favourite spot of Elros’, Elrond remembered belatedly.

“Get along and fetch it then,” Círdan said equably. “I have time.”