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'Time's Passages'
Chapter Three
“He was always a bit
cynical, but this is different. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.
He’s bitter and angry and - it was as though he looked down on us
for having the bad taste to like it here, to like them. God, Hal… by
blood he’s part mortal himself.”
Erestor stopped to draw breath and went on in calmer tones,
“Whenever I’ve run into him, the first thing that always struck me
was how… unchanged he seemed. Quieter maybe, that’s all, and that’s
right and normal after burying three children. The last few times he
was travelling with a Silvan girl and seemed almost happy again.”
Haldir squinted at him from the end of the bed, his interest piqued.
“A girl? Why didn’t you ask about her?”
Erestor had the grace to look embarrassed. “Couldn’t remember her
name,” he admitted, picking up the old, stuffed dog that held pride
of place up against the pillows. He held it absently, rather like a
cushion. “Fin would know, I must have told him. I’ll find out next
time he phones.”
“You’ll forget, too busy asking what he’s doing, and is he eating
properly, and…”
“Oh shut up, Hal.”
They were in Erestor’s room, which was the smaller of the two
bedrooms, but suited him as it looked out onto the back garden and
was sunny in winter but cool in summer. Hal, now wearing a vest and
shorts, lounged across the bed, while Erestor, who had changed into
an old t-shirt and pajama pants, sat with his back against the
headboard, a pillow behind him for comfort.
The house was quiet. Cars seldom passed along their side street this
late at night, and the only sounds came from a chorus of crickets
out in the garden, joined occasionally by a lone frog. The overhead
light was off, the sole illumination in the room came from the
bedside lamp with its cheerful orange and yellow shade.
Since dinner Haldir, normally the more impulsive and hot-headed of
the two, had opted for tolerance.
“You pushed,” he now said in a voice so reasonable that Erestor’s
jaw muscles twitched. “His reasons for staying are his own, Res. He
doesn’t have to explain why he’s still here after all this time. Not
to you, not to me. Not to anyone. I mean, if someone asked me why I
hadn’t sailed, I’d tell him to shove off. It’s no one’s business but
my own. And yours, because you’re my friend,” he added hastily after
a glance at Erestor’s expression.
“Nothing strange about you staying, it’s not hard to understand. Not
really.”
“Not something I’d share with a stranger though.” Haldir lit a
cigarette and passed it up the bed so that Erestor could take his
customary two draws before returning it. He was trying to kick the
habit for the fourth time, which in practice meant he no longer
bought his own but smoked part of Hal’s instead. “And you? Nothing
complicated about why you’re staying, is there? Be happy to explain
them to anyone.”
Erestor stopped with the cigarette half way to his lips and looked
up sharply. “I could if I wanted to, but it’s no one’s busi… Oh shut
up, Hal.”
“See? You don’t want to talk about your reasons either. Staying for
love, like someone in one of Marta’s Mills and Boon books. All
hearts and flowers.”
“That’s not just nonsense, it’s not even true. It was a joint
decision and you know it. We both wanted to stay and watch the new
world grow around us a while, do some exploring…”
“Yep,” Haldir cut in, propping himself up on an elbow, serious eyes
belying a bantering grin. “And after that, after it wasn’t new any
longer? You still stayed. He’s still trying to save the world, and
you’re just killing time till he’s tired of it all and ready to go
home. This stopped being about what you wanted centuries ago.”
This was an old argument to which Erestor was about to make his
customary rebuttal, but the conversation raised an entirely
different question. He spoke slowly, feeling his way into the words.
“You know – Fin was born over there, born there twice in fact. But
he’s in no hurry to go back. He won’t talk about it much, but enough
that I’m not sure ‘over there’ is as good as legend always made out.
That’s what stops me every time I’ve thought of doing it – finding
the Last Haven, asking Círdan when the next ship sails. Fin would
leave if I wanted to, he promised me that at the start, but – I’m
not sure. Sometimes it’s better to stick with the devil you know.”
Haldir could see he wasn’t getting his cigarette back any time soon.
He lit a second for himself, and they smoked in silence for a while.
“They lied,” he said at last, his voice flat. “About us diminishing
and fading if we stayed. About not being able to leave much past the
time of Elessar’s death. They’ve lied about a lot of things. When
you think about it, there’s no good reason to believe the story
about the perfect land, Elvenhome-beyond–the-Sea, either. It stinks
of propaganda. The Lady was like your Fin - never seemed convinced
of it, either. I saw her in the days before she left. Grim, set. Not
like someone heading home for a big family reunion.”
“Well, she was a rebel and they exiled her for millennia. It must
have seemed a mixed blessing, going home.” It was forever since
Erestor had thought about the Lady, tall and grave, golden-haired
like his lover. The last time he saw Galadriel, she had been
standing in the stern of the White Ship, watching the shore recede
as they turned out into the channel and made for the open sea.
Facing the land, looking back, not forward. Exhausted by the long
battle against shadow, she had been unable to remain on the Hither
Shore - unable, not unwilling. He wondered as he had then what her
choice would have been had her body not been drained of strength by
its long acquaintance with the Ring of Water.
“She left because she had to, not from choice.” Haldir had been
watching him carefully and seemed almost to have read his thoughts.
“It was written on her, on him as well – my Lord. I knew even then
that sailing would be my last choice.”
“But Celeborn sailed. Eventually.” Erestor pointed out sombrely.
“That he did,” Haldir agreed, tipping ash into the battered-looking
abalone shell he was using as an ashtray. “But not because he wanted
to see Aman at last. He sailed for love. Much the same reason you
stayed. So -- let Elrond be. His grounds won’t be the same as theirs
or ours, but they’re his own and he’s a right to them. Just as we
have.”
~*~*~*~*~
‘Early morning
here, only recently light. Sitting on the heap of rubble that was
once part of the outer wall of the castle, watching Sidon come
alive. Thinking of you, remembering that the last time I was in this
city it was with the knowledge that you were only a few miles away
--- Acre then, I think, Tyre before that. How long did we live in
Tyre, do you remember? It feels good to be back, I always loved this
part of the world.
The work is tiring and time-swallowing, so much to do. Refugee camps
are all the same - so many suffering, so many dispossessed by war
and by the aftermath of war, pawns of the politics that leave people
homeless, without means of support, without hope. There is a scent
the camps have, Ere - not unwashed bodies and illness, but a quiet
desperation. Hopelessness. I do what I can, we all do what we can,
but there are so many it can never be enough.’
He put down the pen and sat with the notepad resting on his raised
knee, looking out across the harbour at the ancient city of Sidon.
The sun’s rays were starting to move down the hill, drawing
buildings out of shadow and flashing light off a mosque’s gilded
dome. Across the narrow stretch of water the call to prayer had just
concluded, and in thousands of homes families would be getting ready
to break their fast and face the day. While he wrote his lips had
been moving, soundlessly following the morning’s praise to Allah. He
had lived a long time and was at home with all the world’s great
faiths.
The morning light warmed his hair, deepening the shade from pale
blond to gold. Thick, wavy, he wore it drawn back from his face into
a broad plait that reached more than halfway down his back. Its
length might seem an eccentricity in the world within which he
moved, but it fitted his look and manner, seeming at one with his
classical features and the far-seeing eyes that matched the
blue-grey of the harbour waters. He flexed broad shoulders briefly
and then leaned back against a portion of wall. Since before
recorded history, an elf sitting still and quiet became almost
undetectable to mortal eyes. Somehow, tall and well built though he
was, he seemed to blend into the brickwork, barely visible to a
casual glance from the shore.
‘I remember this castle had a grace, a certain beauty, it seemed
a compliment to the city it protected. They still maintain the
causeway, but a large part of the building and most of the outer
walls have been demolished over the centuries. I remember keeping
watch from these very walls. What were you doing then, do you
recall? The years fall into one another for me sometimes, your
presence being the only constant thread.’
Reading back over the words, he wondered if it might be wiser to
start over in Sindarin. He was not a believer in clinging to the
tools and manners of the past, because survival in an ever-changing
world depended on flexibility and knowing how to blend in. Still, he
and Erestor had often found the old tongue invaluable when their
correspondence might be intercepted. In this case the chance of that
happening was slim and the reference obscure, so he let it stand.
‘I tried phoning you last night. This has been my first overnight
in the city since I arrived, and I thought to treat myself to the
luxury of your voice but there was no reply. Either you were out,
very sensibly enjoying the evening, or I had a bad connection – more
than likely. I hope things are going well down there. I hope that
you are content, that there is laughter in your life, and that the
business is thriving. I hope that Hal is behaving himself. I hope
you miss me at least half as much as I miss you…’
A glance at his watch had him nodding, unsurprised. Time to start
making his way back. The transport would leave at 8 sharp with or
without him, and there were children with diarrhoea that was not,
please Lady, the beginnings of cholera, and mothers to advise on
nutrition under circumstances so Spartan that the citizens of that
ancient city state would have looked askance. And then there were
the elderly; displaced, confused, afraid, often more in need of a
kind word and some reassurance than any medical aid he could offer.
Where it was practical, he always sought out work where he could be
useful, where his skills as warrior, healer and teacher could be
best put to use. Currently he was a medic operating under a red
cross intriguingly similar to the one he had once worn as a Templar
knight in these same lands. A very long time even before that he had
promised Erestor that when there was no more work for them to do, no
more aid to offer, they would sail, and one day they would. But not
today.
Glorfindel penned a last few words to the letter, words of love and
longing. He had included few details about his work, because by now
Erestor could guess the shape of his days and already had a
description of the camp and the medics' living quarters. There was
also no need to try and explain why he was doing this, because that
was a question Erestor never asked; he understood.
After folding the page neatly in three, he placed it in an envelope
already addressed and stamped, and rose to his feet with easy,
cat-like grace. He stretched, emphasizing his height, and gave his
head a brief shake to clear it of the memories of other days, a
different cityscape. Then, without apparent haste, he began his
journey back across the causeway, ready to face yet another day’s
work amongst the dispossessed refugees of southern Lebanon
~*~*~*~*~
“Oh yes, right. Of course I’ve got time to run the office and
do the real work around here while you head off to town with m’lord.”
Erestor leaned against the doorframe and gave Hal a bland stare over
the top of his coffee mug. Haldir was in the middle of servicing a
scruffy-looking Ford Granada, a car he disliked with a vehemence
that almost amounted to a personal grudge. The wind had dropped and
summer was making a final resurgence before autumn set in. It was
airless in the workshop and there were oil streaks across Hal’s face
where he had wiped away sweat, making him look as hot and irritable
as he sounded.
“Well one of us has to take him back to town, I promised. And we’re
better off with you doing my work than with me doing yours.” Erestor
could service the Ford if he really had to, but anything more
complex was best left to Haldir who had an instinctive feel for
things mechanical that he lacked. The choice was logical; their
reputation depended on consistent results.
“Why does one of us have to do it anyhow? Doesn’t he know anyone who
can come through and pick him up? Or --- he can take the bus. What’s
wrong with the bus?”
“Bus to town only runs once a week, on Tuesdays. So that’s not much
use,” Erestor reminded him. “And it doesn’t matter if he has someone
who can fetch him or not. We offered.”
“You. You offered.”
Erestor watched with interest as Haldir ran a hand over his head in
frustration, leaving oil streaks through his pale hair. He
considered drawing attention to it but if Hal wanted to be annoying,
he had to take his chances. “Yes, I offered. You want to work on the
fancy, up-market car? Well, I want us to get the word of mouth
advertising from having it here. And anyway, we help one another,
that’s always been the way of it. Right?”
Haldir glared at him but finally gave a reluctant nod. Erestor, who
knew Hal couldn't really argue the practical benefits of being
entrusted with repairs on such a specialised vehicle, sipped coffee
and returned the nod. There was also his final point, which summed
up a basic tenet that bound all elves still remaining in
Middle-earth: they looked out for their own. It was a simple rule
which had evolved as the centuries passed, as lands opened up and
elves scattered across the earth. Some, confronted with the massive
expansion of the new race, had soon decided enough was enough and
made their way to Círdan’s Haven and from there, home. Others
though, drawn by the lure of new places and customs, had remained,
at least for a while.
By the time Rome spread her empire across much of the known world,
the dwindling number of elves hiding amongst their mortal
counterparts knew they could only depend on one another for help in
staying unnoticed. Old ties and rivalries became meaningless; they
were family now, with all the occasional bickering, disputes and
absolute loyalty the word implied.
Getting Elrond back to town lacked the urgency of producing forged
documents to substantiate a background, or providing bed, board and
a new identity for someone who had to move on hastily when the lack
of physical aging had sparked deadly suspicions regarding the black
arts. But still, an elf needed their help and turning him down was
unthinkable.
Erestor pulled himself back into the present. He had been dwelling
on the past rather more than usual lately, and running into Elrond
had probably fuelled it. This always happened when more than three
weeks passed without either a letter or a brief, indistinct phone
call from Fin, causing his over-active imagination to start calling
up memories of other times, other elves, stories with a variety of
nightmarish endings.
“You all right?”
“Fine, just deciding when to leave. I’ll try and get as much done as
I can first. I have a few orders to place, things like that, and
I’ll do the banking for you. Then I’ll take him through to town,
have something to eat and come straight back. Four hours, tops. I’ll
be back before closing time.”
“Because you don’t trust me to close up without you to hold my
hand?” Haldir glared at him, running his hand back over his hair in
irritation and incidentally adding yet another streak of grease.
Erestor leaned his head back against the door frame and closed his
eyes briefly, trying not to laugh. “No, Hal. Because it’s Friday.
Payday, remember? Last time I looked, making up the pay and handing
it out was my job, not yours. I’ll be back before five.”
~*~*~*~*~
Chapter 4
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