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 way being
hidden…?”
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 there are strange mists and ghostly noises and the
waves are huge. They face 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.
