The dawn was bitterly cold, though the clear
sky spoke of an unseasonably fine day ahead. The ground was soaked
with dew and the Elves’ breath misted white on the air before
them. After riding through the night, Erestor had called a halt at
a roadside clearing, suggesting it would be a good place for the
escort to make camp and wait while he and Lord Elrond were
elsewhere occupied. He offered no further explanation but waited
till the fire was burning properly and then set about making tea
with quiet efficiency.
Elrond sat cross-legged before the fire, long-lashed grey eyes
slitted against the smoke. He stared unblinkingly into the flames,
absently tidying his hair while he waited. At some point in the
night he had finally reached a compromise with the unruly dark
mass, fastening a generous amount back from his face to hang in a
thick braid down his back while leaving the rest free. It was a
style he would eventually adopt almost permanently.
He kept quiet for as long as he could, having developed the
suspicion that the more questions he asked the more Erestor was
laughing at him, but eventually it became more than he could
stand. “All right, so we’re meeting someone here. Are they late,
are we early or are we going to spend the next few days camped
here? If that’s the case, you’ll excuse me if I catch up on my
sleep rather than keep you amused?”
The pot began to boil and Erestor moved it carefully to a flat
stone beside the fire before adding tea from a small pouch and
sitting back on his heels to wait for it to infuse. He looked
across at Elrond from under thick black lashes and smiled very
sweetly. “I told you it was meant to be a surprise. You’ll
understand soon. We made good time and we’re a little earlier than
planned.”
Elrond sighed and moved over to join him. “All right. We rode
through the night to be on time for something… or someone. Now
we’re early and we’re going to do what? Sit here and drink tea and
wait?”
Erestor nodded cheerfully. “Yes, that’s about right. You catch on
really fast, don’t you?”
Elrond pushed him sharply though without rancour. “I used to think
that,” he agreed. “ Of course that was before I blindly followed
you out into the night. If I was so smart, I’d have given that a
bit more thought.”
The long ride had in fact been an excellent opportunity to think,
while at the same time reducing the inclination to dwell too
morbidly on his personal catalogue of loss. He had explored
memories of his brother and of his parents, and had spent the best
part of an hour wondering what might have become of Maglor based
upon the rumours he had carefully pretended not to listen to, but
this had all been balanced by a sense of anticipation and
overwhelming curiosity. He assumed this had been at least part of
Erestor’s intention.
The tea had been poured and they were sipping it when Erestor
suddenly raised his head and sat very still as though listening,
after which his face warmed into an anticipatory smile. One of the
warriors half rose, but Erestor caught his eye and shook his head
and he relaxed again. Centuries later when Elrond encountered the
mortal belief that his kind could appear and disappear at will, he
would remember that early morning alongside the road and the way
that, without warning, the empty clearing suddenly filled with
Elves.
Erestor reached out a hand before he could give voice to his
confusion and drew Elrond to his feet. Indicating a tall Elf with
red-brown hair, he explained, “This is Araslagor, leader of my
Company. He has given permission for us to pass the day with
them.”
The tall Elf approached them, dark grey eyes glittering in the
half light, and placed a hand over his heart, inclining his head
gravely. “Elrond Eärendilion, you are welcome amongst us. If we
could leave at once? Time grows short, and we wish to be in
Forlond by midday.”
~*~*~*~*~
The day that Elros and his people were due
to leave for the New Land got off to a bad start for Gil-galad. He
woke spooned up against the warmth of Glorfindel and had lain
content for the few minutes it took before he realised he was in
Forlond, he was not in his own bed and it was probably almost time
for breakfast. He had already dressed and kissed his sleepy and
slightly confused lover good morning before he thought to open the
drapes and look out the window, to discover that what he had
thought to be morning light came mainly from Vingilot. It now hung
so low above the sea that the shape of the great ship could almost
be discerned.
He breathed a sigh of relief and headed for the door, ready with a
story about an early morning walk should he encounter anyone other
than his personal guard. As he was leaving, a drowsily amused
voice from the bed told him, “I warned you not to fall asleep.
I’ll see you after the hunt.”
He would have liked to ask what hunt, but the door was already
open and anyway Glorfindel had turned over and was settling back
into sleep.
He reached his rooms more or less simultaneously with his early
morning tea, brought to him by Medliel who, since his arrival in
Círdan’s household all those many years ago, had taken care of him
with the same common sense affection she showed her three sons.
“Overslept,” he replied to her cheerful query as to why he was up
so early. He wondered if others found his own early morning good
humour irritating, too. “That damn light kept me awake most of the
night.”
She knew where he had been, of course. She knew all about him and
Glorfindel. At home the tea was left in the sitting room after a
discreet knock on the bedroom door. She never referred to the
relationship, and neither did he. He preferred not to know if she
disapproved as much as Círdan did. He supposed it was likely.
After requesting a large breakfast to set him up for a long and
tiring day, full of speeches and high words – and Eönwë, who he
would have to remember not to attempt to throttle on sight – he
drank his tea in moody silence, thinking back over the previous
night’s conversations with both Elros and Glorfindel.
Hot water was brought for washing, after which, pulling a face at
the ornate formal robes that had been laid out for him, he dressed
casually in loose pants and a plain shirt until it was time to
leave. His hair was a more complicated matter and he spent some
time carefully twisting and knotting it into the style, popular
long before his birth, which he favoured for public occasions.
Finally, after searching through the small selection of jewels
that had been brought along for him, he circled his brow with
mithril set with dark blue sapphires, a crown that had apparently
been favoured by Fingolfin.
The day, however, continued as it had begun. The relaxing
interlude ended when a knock at the door, which he thought
heralded breakfast, announced instead the arrival of Thenin
carrying the obligatory collection of papers for him to read and
approve. His assistant looked at him in surprise.
“Aren’t those clothes a little – unusual – for a council meeting,
Sire?”
Gil-galad looked at him blankly. He had a faint memory of Thenin
outlining the schedule for the day and of nodding agreement, his
attention elsewhere. Thenin was good with dry detail and the King
tended to leave him to get on with it. This approach worked better
on some occasions than others.
“You agreed to attend a meeting of Master Edhelûr’s council this
morning,” Thenin reminded him. “The full council, plus a number of
senior trades people. After which…”
“I saw every trader I had any need to talk to yesterday, and as
for Edhelûr’s council, they’re his concern, not mine. I get the
reports, I read them, he does an excellent job, that’s all I need
to know about it.”
“After which,” Thenin continued as though he had not been
interrupted, “you are expected to join them for a light lunch. You
will spend the afternoon down at the harbour, of course, attending
the formal farewell and watching the ships sail. Then this evening
there is a formal dinner in your honour which will be attended by
the town’s dignitaries and their families.”
“Damn it, Thenin, this was meant to be a break from work, not one
long round of formalities…”
Thenin, who knew how to manage his King, was adamant. “I’m sorry,
Sire, but this was all arranged well in advance – and presented to
you in comprehensive detail, I might add. If you absent yourself
now, it will be regarded as a slight.”
Gil-galad grumbled but, with no one to blame but himself, was
forced to somewhat gracelessly concede defeat. To make matters
worse, he had to watch those unencumbered by responsibility ride
out to take part in the alternate activity arranged for the
morning, namely a boar hunt. The sight of sunlight glinting off
golden hair did nothing for his mood. Even his lover had deserted
him. Growling softly at his unsympathetic assistant, he exchanged
the crown for a simple gold circlet, hid his clothing under a
comfortable old surcoat and prepared to work.
As Thenin was well aware, the day to day business of running a
large town always interested the King and he was soon immersed in
ideas to extend the farmlands and plans regarding increased trade
with settlements beyond the borders of Lindon. Nýrád was also
present to put forward the intriguing possibilities of expanding
trade with the Dwarf realm in the south-east, which had been
Master Edhelûr’s main reason for seeking Gil-galad’s presence at
the meeting. Only the King had the authority to approve trade
outside the borders of Lindon.
It proved a pleasant morning. Gil-galad believed that these
smaller, more mundane concerns were what built a strong, secure
kingdom, far more so than wars and mighty deeds. He suspected that
his illustrious predecessors might not have agreed, though he had
recently been quietly pleased to discover that Glorfindel
certainly did.
~*~*~*~*~
Shortly after lunch and dressed in the more
formal trappings of his rank - heavy blue robes overlaid with
intricate silver embroidery - Gil-galad rode through town at the
head of a procession made up of his nobles, Master Edhelûr’s
councillors and other leading citizens of Forlond. When they
reached the harbour, they found that many of the ships were still
awaiting their chance to come alongside the quay and take on board
crates and bags and furniture and even livestock from the wagons
that trundled in a steady stream down the path to the water’s
edge. There were people milling around everywhere, both Elves and
Men, some working, others waiting for the formalities to begin.
The noise was remarkable.
The guests’ horses were taken with smooth efficiency by members of
Master Edhelûr’s household, sent ahead for that purpose. The
King’s party were conducted away from the traffic and up hastily
constructed wooden steps to seating in a casual though exquisite
shelter of silk and tapestries. Edhelûr had shown his usual
attention to detail, right down to small tables bearing plates of
pastries and dried fruits and jugs of a highly popular pale, sweet
wine.
Finding himself walking next to Dalbros, who was scribbling away
with graphite on board in a harried attempt to take notes,
Gil-galad remarked, “You’d hardly say it was the same quiet place
we visited yesterday, would you, Master Dalbros?”
“Sheep!” Dalbros responded in an amazed voice, barely noticing to
whom he was speaking. “They are taking sheep with them? Ah, that
would be for the wool of course...” He hurriedly made another
note.
Gil-galad turned to watch the uncertain progress of the sheep, his
lips twitching with amusement. Perhaps, he thought, reconciling
himself to the extreme discomfort of a throne-like, high backed
chair, the afternoon would be less tiresome than expected.
~*~*~*~*~
The ceremony followed a predictable pattern:
speeches, a long monologue from Eönwë on the wonders awaiting the
travellers to the New Land, a respectful response from Elros who
disclosed a gift for making carefully rehearsed replies sound
spontaneous and sincere, more speeches… Other than declarations of
war – and dubious oaths – experience had taught Glorfindel it was
quite safe to ignore the sort of wordy politeness produced at
formal gatherings. He had no part to play in the proceedings, and
was occupying himself with watching the other guests’ attempts to
look awake and interested.
Gil-galad sat straight and alert, apparently giving each speaker
his full attention, occasionally nodding in agreement at some
sentiment expressed. Glorfindel very much doubted that he was
hearing more than one word in ten. Círdan looked tired. Rumour had
it he had been up all night, conferring with his mariners and
double checking Eönwë’s instructions. Edhelûr looked satisfied and
relaxed, his town having acquitted itself admirably. As for Elros…
the King of Númenor’s face had remained blandly expressionless,
though his eyes betrayed tension.
Glancing over at him, Glorfindel was just in time to see Elros’
face suddenly soften, touched by a smile that began in his eyes.
Following the general direction of his gaze, the blonde scanned
the crowd. After a few moments he caught sight of the familiar and
utterly unlikely figure of Galadriel standing amongst yet slightly
apart from the crowd. As he watched, she raised her hand to her
forehead in greeting and salute and nodded to Elros, smiling in
return.
No one else seemed to have noticed. Leaving his seat, Glorfindel
moved quietly to the side of the pavilion and dropped lightly to
the ground. As he made his way through the crowd, he wished he had
some way to cover his distinctive hair. He hoped that when his
absence was noticed it would be assumed that he had either gone to
relieve himself or else had become bored with the endless
formalities.
She was watching the company in the pavilion, an eyebrow slightly
raised in a cynical expression that he remembered from childhood.
Círdan had begun speaking in a slow, carrying voice that suggested
he intended to continue for some time. A glance at Gil-galad’s
expressionless face and still form confirmed this. The King was
present in body only at this point. He had probably already heard
portions of the speech rehearsed several times.
The blonde almost managed to catch Galadriel unawares, but she
looked around at the last moment, her eyes widening slightly in
surprise. He threaded his way between a small family, a husband
and wife and three children who were torn between respectfully
paying attention to the speeches and excited speculation as to
which would be ‘their’ ship, and joined Finarfin’s daughter in
leaning against the side of a storage shed.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, made blunt by concern.
“Where’s…Celeborn?” It took him a moment to call up the name. He
had not yet had the chance to meet the Sinda.
Galadriel treated him to a bland look. “Nice to see you as well,
cousin. At home I very much hope. This held little interest for
him, so I came alone. It’s a lovely trip down the coast on the
ferry. Have you tried it yet?”
“You can’t travel alone like that, it’s…it’s dangerous!” He knew
he was defeated before he even opened his mouth, but he felt
compelled to try.
Eternally self-assured, Galadriel chuckled. “Of course I can. The
babe’s not due for at least another month, and it’s by far the
safest way to travel – there were at least four members of the
palace guard on board, in fact. What could possibly go wrong?” She
looked at the uncertainty written large on his face and her tone
softened. “It was quite safe, my dear. A quiet sail could do the
babe no harm, I would never do anything to put him at risk. And I
am fit and strong and well able to take care of myself; I’m
pregnant, after all, not ill.”
“But why…?” Galadriel was impulsive, he knew, but she never did
anything without a reason.
Her eyes darkened and her face grew serious. “So many here to see
them leave, so many who want to be able to tell their children
they saw the sailing of the Secondborn to Númenor… I wanted
Melian’s kinsman to know someone had taken the trouble to be here
for him alone, to wish him good journey and watch him sail. Other
than Ereinion, I doubt there is anyone else here he feels close
to.” She paused, looking westward across the sea. “Such a brave
thing he does,” she added softly. “He deserves to know someone
cares.”
Glorfindel had been unaware she knew Elros all that well, but he
certainly agreed with her sentiments. “You know the reason why he
and Elrond are following different paths then? Did Elros tell you?
Gil-galad only found out last night…he’s - not pleased.”
“Oh, no one had to tell me anything. I never imagined there had
been any kind of choice involved,” she said with a slight shrug.
“Elrond has abilities that are the heritage of Melian’s line; that
power belongs amongst us. Elros…” She turned from the sea to him,
her face sad. “He has other gifts. He will make a great king.”
He nodded silently, remembering Elrond describing that afternoon
on the beach with Eönwë and the way Elros had taken charge. One
thought led to another. “Nerwen, I’m sorry about Elrond, about the
training,” he said hesitantly. He had never crossed Galadriel’s
will before.
She slanted an unreadable glance at him, then shrugged and said
evenly, “We must each listen to our heart’s wisdom. We shall see
what comes of it. No doubt it will all fit in admirably with Their
plan.”
Before she could pass any uncomfortable comments on the less
likeable aspects of the Shining Ones, Glorfindel hastily changed
the subject. “Have you any idea what the crossing will be like? I
don’t think I understand what they mean about the sea being
bent…?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Anything would be better than the road we
survived to reach here, would it not? I believe they sail to a
point where the water drops away beneath them, rather like a
gigantic waterfall, but at the same time the sea flows smooth
ahead. A few hours of turbulence and careful sailing and then a
calm journey into the Uttermost West.”
“How do you know that?” An icy chill ran down his spine as he
considered the possibilities. He had no idea of the extent of her
power, or how far her mind could range.
She guessed his thoughts and gave an unladylike snort of laughter.
“I asked one of Círdan’s mariners of course. How else? I like to
know how things work, remember.”
He had barely nodded acknowledgement, his face flushed with
embarrassment, when she was distracted by a particularly large
wagon making its way down to the edge of the quay. “Oh look at the
size of that one. I wonder what it carries.” Suddenly all eager
curiosity, she turned to him, her eyes sparkling. “Come, let’s go
and look.”
Glorfindel tried to point out that the footing was rough and that
she needed to take care, and that this was probably a good time to
go and join Gil-galad in the pavilion, but his arm was taken in a
firm grasp and he was forced to join her in hurrying alongside the
road down which the wagons still moved. “Oh do stop fussing,
Findel, I’m fine. And why would I want to go and join Ereinion in
pretending to listen to Círdan trying to out-bore Eönwë? And don’t
tell me you aren’t interested in ships. All males love ships.”
As ever, there was no arguing with her.
Most of the attention was on the pavilion and the dignitaries
gathered there, and little heed was paid to the tall, strikingly
blonde couple as they made their way along the quay. Glorfindel
soon found them excellent seats atop bales of hay on an unattended
cart. Galadriel was forced to put aside her independence for once
and allow him to help her up.
“I think this might all belong to Elros.” Glorfindel recognised a
few items of furniture from the private wing of the palace as well
as several pieces he had noticed on the journey to Forlond. “Fit
for a king’s household anyway.”
Nodding, Galadriel sat swinging her feet lightly, watching the
calm, blue-grey water and the ships jostling close to the quay.
Eventually she turned her attention back to her cousin. “Who was
the young girl I saw him talking to earlier? With the pretty brown
hair. Do you know?”
“I think her name’s Faengil,” Glorfindel replied after a moment’s
consideration. “She’s the daughter of his Treasurer. Why do you
ask?”
She shook her head, her eyes distant. “I just wondered. She seemed
to fit well with him, and she looked like a sweet child. He
deserves kindness.”
They sat together on the cart in the clear winter sunshine and
watched the assortment of items being wrestled into place over the
side of the ship. From the shouts being exchanged between crew and
shore workers it appeared the wagon had been delayed and the ship
should have been loaded long since. In the background Círdan’s
voice droned on, while in counterpoint they could hear the murmur
of the crowd, the swell of the ocean, creaking wood and crying
gulls. Glorfindel felt unexpectedly peaceful and at ease, and
rather as though he were playing truant. Not that he had much
experience of that. He had been a dutiful child. According to her
admiring brothers, Galadriel had been a complete terror.
She placed her hand on his arm. “Findel, look! Why is Elrond’s dog
going with them? Rather an extreme gift surely?”
Laslech was being hoisted off the wagon as she spoke. The dog was
curled up on the floor of the cage and her whimpering carried
clearly to them. She must have been terrified, Glorfindel realised.
Rather like Elros, he supposed. “She was a present to Elros,” he
explained. “I don’t think he has much interest in dogs – Elrond
took a liking to her and she adopted him. Elros refused to leave
her behind, he felt it would imply he didn’t value the gift. I
asked Gil to speak to him about it, but…”
Galadriel’s total outrage surprised him. “What absolute nonsense!”
she exclaimed. “Since I arrived in Lindon, I don’t know that I’ve
ever seen Elrond without her. Really, I would have expected
Ereinion to have made a bit more of an effort to persuade Elros…”
“I think he had other things on his mind, Nerwen,” Glorfindel cut
in, quick to defend his lover from the implied criticism. She
threw him a glance dripping with scorn.
“I rather expect a king to be able to focus on more than one
matter at a time,” she retorted.
What Glorfindel might have said next was swallowed in a round of
polite applause; Círdan had finally finished speaking. Instead of
returning to his seat, however, he left the pavilion. Glorfindel
glanced at Galadriel, his eyebrows raised and she shrugged.
“Probably needs to give some last minute instructions,” she
suggested. “The more I get to know him the more I realise he would
never delegate anything he could reasonably expect to see to
himself.”
“Like you, in other words?” Glorfindel asked blandly, his face
expressionless. She punched him amiably in the ribs, rather harder
than he might have expected.
“Like me I suppose, yes,” she admitted. “I drive Celeborn insane.
He keeps saying he cannot see the point of us having servants as I
have such a compulsion to do everything myself.” She looked
suddenly almost ordinary and rather endearing as she added, “I
like seeing to things for him, sewing on buttons and the like.
Taking care of him. I’ve never had someone to take care of
before.”
Glorfindel impulsively slid an arm around her waist. “I’m sure he
loves every minute of it,” he said affectionately. “He must be
exceptional. I look forward to meeting him.”
“My brothers weren’t too impressed.” Her expression was
momentarily wistful. Of all Finarfin’s children, only his daughter
had survived the vicissitudes of life in Arda.
Glorfindel gave her a sympathetic hug. “Your brothers adored you
and thought no one good enough for you,” he reminded her. “Had
there been time, I’m sure they’d have approved, especially once
they saw how happy you were with him. You are happy, aren’t you?”
The old Glorfindel would never have dared ask such a question,
even of someone he was as close to as Galadriel.
She gave a laughing sigh and returned his hug. “Yes cousin, I’m
very happy with him. We fight like cat and dog of course, but
that’s to be expected. We both have strong wills and stronger
ideas – and somewhat different views on the world. But we’ve
become rather good at compromise.”
“My lady, I had no idea you were expected. His Majesty mentioned
nothing to me.” Cirdan, wearing his formal best and looking none
too comfortable in it, had arrived beside them unnoticed. He
looked vaguely shocked, which Glorfindel thought was a reasonable
response to discovering royalty sitting on a bale of hay.
Galadriel looked at him with complete equanimity, though her nails
digging into Glorfindel’s arm were a stern instruction that he
resist the impulse to get down until she was ready. “A spur of the
moment decision, one I’m afraid I neglected to discuss with
Ereinion. It never occurred to me that I might need his permission
to watch this – unique event.” She had her head tilted slightly to
one side, her expression all polite concern. Glorfindel
surreptitiously kicked her in an attempt to make her behave.
Círdan, however, had lived a very long time and was not about to
be intimidated by Gil-galad’s unconventional aunt. “I was merely
concerned that Master Edhelûr would feel he had been negligent in
not arranging seating for you,” he explained reasonably. “I assume
you came by sea? In that case, too, he would have wished to
provide you with a suitable escort from the dock…”
Galadriel flicked her eyelashes at him, but decided there was no
sport to be had here. “As I said, I decided this on a whim. No one
expected me. Glorfindel merely spotted me in the crowd and came to
keep an eye on me.”
She slid down off the cart unaided, all grace and golden hair and
sweetly feminine smiles, and accepted the arm the aged Telerin
offered. She paused to watch the last few boxes being loaded,
while from the ship itself they could all hear the sound of sharp,
concerned barking. Glancing at Glorfindel, she said, “Perhaps you
should go on ahead and give them a few minutes to arrange a seat
for me – and can you organise some apple juice? I’m very thirsty.”
She turned back to Círdan, gravely polite. “If you’ll be kind
enough to assist me up to the pavilion, my lord?”
As he left, Glorfindel heard her low voice continuing. “I was
wondering if I could ask you two small favours? Firstly, is there
any possibility of one of your sailors going on to Tirion with
messages from me to my family? I may be exiled, but nothing was
said about letters…”
Glorfindel had no excuse to linger, so he regretfully had to miss
hearing the second request.
~*~*~*~*~
There was a festive atmosphere on the
hillside overlooking Forlond. The Elves of the Wandering Companies
had gathered from far and wide to watch the spectacle of the fleet
of ships preparing to sail into the West. The departure itself was
an affair of Men and had little emotional impact on the Elves,
unlike the wonder of a Silmaril visible in daylight for the first
time since the end of the War of Wrath. Watching the light on the
water, they were conscious of great events in motion, driven by
the will of those who dwelt in the Undying Lands and held the
governance of Arda.
The event also provided an excellent opportunity to spend time
with family and friends within other Companies and to exchange
news and gossip. This was also a rare chance for the younger Elves
present to meet potential love interests or to make new friends.
Two dark-haired Elves sat on a flat rock sharing bread and cheese
and a few early winter apples. They also had a small flask of
liquor, about whose type and origin Erestor was carefully vague.
They ate in comfortable silence, Elrond sitting up very straight
with his eyes fixed on the ships as they began moving out into the
bay, while his companion leaned casually against his shoulder.
Eventually Erestor tilted his head to look back and up at the
Half-elf. "Was I right to bring you here?" he asked softly. "You
weren’t as angry as I expected, but still…"
Elrond looked down at him, then rested his cheek briefly against
the top of Erestor’s head. The silky black hair was warm from the
sun and felt strangely comforting. "What, to bring me here to see
them leave? Yes, of course, otherwise it would never have been
real - like my mother changing into a swan or my father piloting
Vingilot through the skies each night. Just words… No, you were
right. I’m sorry I shouted at you – not that it seemed to bother
you much. How did you know what I needed?”
Erestor smiled and shook his head. He took another sip from the
flask and passed it to Elrond before straightening up and moving
to sit behind him. “I didn’t,” he admitted. “It was just a good
guess. Yesterday I saw Araslagor at the palace and I just – well,
I usually trust my instincts, so I went and asked him if we could
join them. That’s why I set such a pace last night,” he added
with a grin, his deft fingers busy unfastening the untidy braid
Elrond had enforced on his hair during the ride. “There was no
time to make alternate arrangements should we miss them at the
meeting place. I expected you to yell a lot more than you did, by
the way. I certainly would have.”
“Your instincts are good,” Elrond assured him, relaxing under the
touch of Erestor’s confident fingers. “And there’s not much point
in yelling at you. You just stand there and blink and look bored.”
He watched the Elves around them, groups forming, splitting into
twos and threes, reforming, and he listened to the soft murmur of
many voices broken by laughter and the occasional call. They all
knew who he was; he had been greeted with courtesy and then left
to deal with a matter that they all respected as a private grief.
These were the people he would presently be sent to live amongst
as part of his training. They were, he realised, the Kindred of
his choice, just as those on the ships now leaving harbour were
his brother’s. It felt right to be watching the one from within
the circle of kinship of the other.
He looked up towards Vingilot and wondered briefly if the
legendary Elf knew that his son was amongst the travellers whose
way he lit, and if so whether he even cared. There was no way he
would ever know, so Elrond let it go in a way he knew Erestor
would be proud of when he told him later. For now, he had no
desire for speech.
A movement on one of the leading ships caught his eye as a banner
was unfurled. Even at this distance he recognised the crest of his
house, unmarked by the colours of Númenor. Elros’ final act was a
silent reminder that no matter the title and history that was
about to become his own, he left Middle-earth as a child of the
First Kindred, Elros Eärendilion, a descendant of Thingol and
Turgon.
Erestor’s hands came to rest firmly on Elrond’s shoulders,
steadying him even as his eyes misted and his chest tightened. As
they sat watching, the soft wind that had been rising steadily
over the last hour suddenly increased, filling the ships’ sails.
Guided by Círdan’s experienced mariners who had been awaiting this
moment, the vessels moved into formation and, in a mass of green
and gold, crossed the bay towards open water, carrying the new
line of Men and their King to their protected home beyond the
Sundering Sea.
~*~*~*~*~
