Rating: NC-17
Characters : Elrond, Glorfindel, Círdan, Celebrían, Gandalf and others.
Summary: In the land of Valinor, Elrond meets someone believed long lost to him.
Notes: This is set after Return of the King, when Elrond and other elves of Middle-earth have departed for the West and the Undying Lands.
Thanks to: Nienna Calaquendi for beta-reading this story - a thousand thanks. Claudio, for elvish translations and Silmarillion canon checks. And Dusk, for whom I have three words: All Your Fault! No, truly, thanks for the encouragement, research and for putting up with me complaining about GG.
Note from the Archivist: An illustration for this story by Nellas of Doriath can be found in the FanArt section.
"The further you run, the more you recall,
The loss of your innocence, after the fall."
October Project: After the Fall
He signed his name without his title, and sat looking at the curling script upon the page. Over familiarity with his own hand made strange the individual crafting of the letters. It had been so long since he, amidst official paperwork, had held no status to claim it. By his father's rank alone which had grown great in the crescendo that brought the First Age to an end he had been recognised, and partially for running wild with Feanor's sons, though that choice had not been his own. Deserted by them, he had made the choice to walk into eternity and the court of the High King as merely Elrond. But therein, with Gil-galad's guidance, he had ascended, his talents as a scholar quickly raising him to loremaster, then healer - by Gil-galad's deflection - and finally the herald of the high king. Before the fiery close of another Age he had built the house in which he now sat, and become Master of Imladris, Lindon's second stronghold. Over four thousand years he had held that place and now, at the closing of the Third Age, it was relinquished. This final letter signed and sealed upon a more personal note the coming of his sons into their inheritance: lords Elladan and Elrohir now the Masters of Imladris. Tomorrow, he would ride out of his valley for the final time.
He knew he need not go, that he could remain in the dwindling sanctuary of his creation. But to do that was to make a choice: to become, if not mortal, then nearly so; in time those who remained here would fade, as the world turned over to the Second Born. There was curious comfort, he discovered, to impress the seal of Imladris into the hot wax and close the letter. He was perhaps the only elf to have ever made that choice before, when his path parted from his twin at the beginning of the Second Age. Peredhel in name and nature, Elrond's ancestry mixed the blood of mortals and that of elf kind in equal measure, as such, and as it had been to his parents, his choice at majority had been simple: to adjoin himself to one race and with it take death or eternity. Elrond's lips turned up in a wry smile: a simple choice indeed. Eternity lay, endless, behind and before. Yet as he placed the letter upon the final stack of completed papers, he felt the weight of the world lift a little off his shoulders. Twice confronted with the 'impossible' choice, he had made the same decision.
His gaze settled upon his handiwork, and as it did so it occurred to him that the papers were disarrayed. Reaching a hand to straighten them, he found the leaf before him written in a foreign tongue: Quenya. The language of the kinslayers had long been forbidden in Middle-earth, but as his hands moved to lift sheet after sheet he could find no words of Sindarin inscribed. A frown passed like a shadow across his brow. As he raised his eyes, he realised that the familiar grey stone of Imladris' walls was slowly fading to the shimmering white of chalk.
Elrond ran his fingers over the grain of his desk; the wood was newly crafted unlike the one he had worked at for the better part of two centuries yet another exact copy of the one he had designed to suit himself in Imladris. He turned in his chair to find the room strange to him. The windows opened eastwards to the mist-veiled oceans. The swell of music rose with every wave, humming along his veins as he focused upon it; yet absence lay where before there had been the persistent, suppressed desire to cross it. The chamber itself was wide and airy, beams of sunlight warming the interior to shades of gold and scattering across the white sheets of the bed. The armour he had not used since the Last Alliance stood in the alcove, beneath the banner of the Lindon shining with the twelve stars of its high king's shield. Upon the shelf above the dresser were his eclectic collection of bottles and bundles of raw herbs that filled the room with the distinctive scents of sage, vervain, and mint. The windows reached almost to the floor, a low balcony visible beyond the veiled drapes that ghosted inward with the sea breeze. Set against the sections of wall that separated the three windows were tall bookcases, the most prized of his extensive library in Imladris building a new wall within the first.
Curious, Elrond rose to his feet and, as he stepped into the first line of sunbeams, as soft knock preceded the opening of the chamber door. Celebrían left the door open as she entered. Cupped in her hand she bore a tiny vial that outshone the daylight, the pure white glow of Earendil's star trapped inside the crystal. She smiled at him and shook her head.
"It's late," she said softly, "You should be resting."
Elrond glanced away from the starlight to the day beyond the window, and then back to Celebrían, who had set down the crystal upon the bedside table and was seated upon the white sheets, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from them. She lifted her eyes as he frowned.
"Celebrían," Elrond said, "It's still light."
"The sun doesn't go down anymore."
From the doorway a second voice spoke and Elrond whirled to face it. Distantly he was conscious of his heart slamming up into his throat, of his eyes filling until he was blinded, but he was aware that he stood quite still, a smile upon his lips, unsurprised by the arrival. Gil-galad stepped into the room. He was garbed quite simply in cobalt breeches above dark leather boots, his tunic unadorned save the crest of his former kingdom emblazoned upon the front in gold thread. The only reminder of his status was the mithril circlet crowning his dark hair.
Elrond looked between his king and his wife.
"I don't understand."
Celebrían half-smiled, lifting her eyes to meet Gil-galad's. They glanced toward him, secret knowledge warming their eyes, and spoke in unison.
"You will."
The papers on his desk came into focus before him and Elrond blinked at the grey stone of Imladris' walls. Twisting around, he found his chamber unchanged from that one he had occupied for the last Age. As the dream vision faded, he wiped his eyes and smiled. The words echoed in his ears as he rose and moved to the window, to look westward across the Sundering Sea allowing himself to feel the ocean's pull.
"I don't understand."
"You will."
Valinor. The pearly crested waves arched up, swelling into a swan neck of silver-blue water that rose and soared gracefully inland to smoothly rinse the pebbles from the edges of the shoreline. The bronzed sand was soft and cool beneath Elrond's bare feet as he walked, leaving faint imprints where he had stepped. Behind him the tall grey cliffs stretched upwards into a sky hazy with a light mist. The spray of the sea dampened his cheeks and the slight breeze blowing from the east stirred his hair into waving tendrils. Valinor. The Undying Lands.
Upon Elrond's finger, the blue sapphire Vilya was a familiar weight now that its power was naught. It sat in place beside his wedding ring. He was barely conscious now of that light, golden band. It no longer symbolised the unity of two beings who are joined in free will to unite kingdoms and raise children. The kingdoms were since deserted and the children raised and grown. Arwen now resided in Gondor, wedded to the King, Aragorn, formerly Estel, whom Elrond had fostered as a child. Elladan and Elrohir had taken up lordships in Rivendell, while they lingered in Middle-earth culling the remainder of Sauron's forces from the land. Perhaps they would cross the sea when Celeborn left Lorien for the West. Perhaps not.
The marriage token had never symbolised true love - at least as the Eldar are known for it. When Elrond had wedded the child of Galadriel and Celeborn, daughter of the Golden Wood, in the year 109 of the Third Age, he had not believed that he could love again. His one true love, his king, Ereinion Gil-galad, the last High King of the Noldor had perished then barely a hundred years before, during the Last Alliance. Elrond, though familiar with Celebrían from his counsels in Lorien as Gil-galad's herald and acknowledged lover, held no desire to wed the lady. Fond though he was of Celebrían, Elrond had not been able to foresee a future for him that would be far from Gil-galad's side. Only the curse of his Peredhil blood had prevented him from slipping his soul upon the slopes of Mount Doom alongside his lover and king. Staggering under the weight of his heart-stopping grief, Elrond had blindly stood with Círdan as the strength of men failed and Isildur, son of Elendil, took the Ring of Power for his own instead of casting it back into the fires of Mordor. Duty had bound Elrond to the earth then - that and a profound sense of disgust at the idea of sullying his fighting blades with his own blood.
Though he had willingly taken Celebrían for his own when their kingdoms both needed to be shown to be united in the face of the ever-lingering evil of Sauron, Elrond had never believed that he could feel love for the woman he called his wife. Yet he had. And when Sauron's forces took her from him, Elrond knew grief once more and his agony was great.
Now however, upon the honeyed shores of the West, Elrond could not find in his heart the love that he had felt for Celebrían. And nor, more surprisingly, for she had never loved another before him, could she. Though their reunion had been delightful, their conversations many and deep as they covered swiftly all that had happened since last they were together, they had parted in the early hours of the morn following the first night of his arrival - for separate chambers. Celebrían had been saddened that not one of their children had chosen to come into the West and they had walked the shores for many long days thereafter, consoling one another and talking at great length. But it seemed that too much had changed and, as if with the loss of their children, the first cause to deeply unite them in love, they found that the old feelings had deserted them too.
It mattered not. They were among friends and would gladly keep each other's company, however disinclined they were now to share one another's beds. Not a one of their companions reproached them for it; even Galadriel smiled upon a friendship that had blossomed from the ashes of their former affection.
"Elrond!"
A hail from the sea signalled the arrival of Círdan and Elrond lifted a hand in salute as the shipwright guided a small fishing boat into the rocky cove several yards ahead. Glorfindel, Elrond's seneschal while he had resided in Rivendell, leapt from the bow of the ship to secure her mooring rope to a projection of rock. Teleri blood ran in Glorfindel's veins and with it the insatiable desire for the sea. He and Círdan regularly sailed for the simple pleasure of the activity. For Elrond, to walk beside the sea and listen to the soft music of Ainur that whispered in the waves was more than enough to sate his desire for the swirling waters of the sea god Ossë. Smiling in welcome, Elrond hurried to meet them. Glorfindel's face was flushed by the soft slap of the breeze and his eyes sparkled with the light of Anor as he greeted Elrond warmly. Círdan, too, greeted Elrond cheerfully, his long silver-grey hair tangling with his beard as a stronger gust of wind swept along the edges of the shore.
"Ciiiiiiirrrrrrdaaaaaannnn!" A yell from the cliff top startled the elf-lords, causing them to lift their heads. Silhouetted upon the high peak at the edges of the cliff length, two small, slender figures stood, dark against the skyline. One of them lifted a hand and waved violently.
"Valinor Ahoy!" Círdan called back, raising a hand to them. "I assume I have permission to land?"
"I assume I have permission to land, what?" There was an audible giggle, denoting the voice as female.
Círdan chuckled softly, rolling his eyes for Glorfindel's benefit. "I assume I have permission to land, Captain?" he suggested.
Another giggle answered his call, a touch of smugness in this one. "Permission to land granted."
Círdan opened his mouth, whether to reply with gratitude or sarcasm Elrond was never to discover, for the figures upon the cliff top wheeled at that moment, like banking gulls caught in a slip stream, and fled away, over the crest and out of sight.
Smiling, Elrond turned to the shipwright, amused by the childish antics. "Well, Círdan," he said. "You did not tell me that you were fostering once again."
Círdan glanced at him, his expression curiously guarded. "I trust that you will forgive me the slight, Elrond," he muttered, instantly busying himself with something under the thwart of the boat.
Rebuffed, Elrond stared in bemusement at the shipwright's back, exchanging a puzzled glance with Glorfindel. "Círdan?" he said curiously. "Forgive me, I did not mean to speak as though I were offended."
Círdan briefly glanced at him, his unease apparent. "Nay, nay, I did not think it so," he assured Elrond, forcing a smile that was too bright, too false.
"Then what...?" Elrond began, perplexed by the sudden change in his old friend's demeanour. But Círdan was speaking to Glorfindel, asking for ties to secure the boom and other such pieces of marine equipment that Elrond knew nothing of. With a shake of his head, Elrond laid the matter aside.
And there it might have remained, until it was lost amidst the mists of memories far more important, had it not been for a subsequent event that occurred but a month later. The storm that had been threatening for several weeks was raging passionately outside. Wind howled wretchedly around the vast sanctuary and sheets of rain lashed at the window drapes. Elrond was dining late with the other elf-lords and ladies of high station from Middle-earth, namely Glorfindel, Círdan and Galadriel. Celebrían too was present, along with Gandalf and Frodo and Bilbo Baggins, when the door opened a fraction to reveal a tousled blond head. A slight, golden-headed child inserted himself through the chink in the doors, lingering there with an attempt at a bored expression schooled onto his features. Círdan looked up sharply, putting his cutlery aside.
"I thought that I told you to go to your chambers," he said, his tone mild but distinctly reproving. "While you are not a mortal and do not need to sleep you should get some rest and you cannot do so while you are wandering around."
"And I would if I could," the young elf replied insolently. "But none of the others will do so. They are arguing about what monster the storm is. Someone said it was a Balrog and now they think it is Sauron trying to blow up the mountains."
Celebrían dropped her cutlery with a clatter and Círdan cast her an agitated look as she rose swiftly. "Stay," she said, as he too pushed back his chair. "I will go to them at once. My lords, my lady, please excuse me."
She hurried from the room. Círdan watched her go, his ancient face lined with anxiety.
"Oh dear," Gandalf chuckled, trying to lighten the suddenly tense atmosphere. "Imaginative youngsters you are in charge of, Círdan."
Círdan stiffened, casting Gandalf a frown. "Yes, quite," he said, rather abruptly. "The storm is upsetting them that is all. I expect that they are frightened their boats will be damaged."
"I thought that you helped them bring their ships into the boat houses earlier?" Elrond remarked, glancing at Círdan.
The shipwright nodded. "I did. But with the wind a wail like so, it fires, as Gandalf said, the imagination."
Elrond smiled fondly, thinking with no small measure of sadness about his children once more.
Glorfindel however, was eyeing Círdan with curiosity."Less than a year we have been upon this shore, that I grant," he observed quietly. "Yet never once have you mentioned that you were fostering again, Círdan. I did not realise that any children of this house were your own."
Círdan tensed again and Elrond, pausing with his wine glass lifted, caught the tail end of the shipwright's unsettled look in his direction. Gandalf too looked up.
"Do you mean to say that you have not told them, Círdan?" he asked, his tone distinctly disapproving.
"And what, Gandalf, was I supposed to tell?" Círdan's pale blue gaze was steely as he held the wizard's eye, his own communicating a caution to be silent that was not lost upon those at the table. "That I have once more taken children beneath my wing? Is that so strange? Yes, Glorfindel, I am surprised indeed that you did not know. I have three youngsters currently in my care."
"Did you know of this?" Glorfindel asked of Elrond.
The half-elf nodded. "Celebrían revealed to me that she is co-guardian of a trio of children when I first arrived. She did not want me to be unaware of the fact and was most anxious to reassure me that they were not a replacement for our own protégée." Elrond smiled a little. "Forgive me, my old friend, it was remiss of me not to tell you, but without making the acquaintance of these beings I did not think to broach the subject for the sake of mere curiosity. I was unaware that Círdan was the second of the guardians, however."
Círdan was watching their exchange warily, though he offered a weak smile and a shake of the head when Elrond raised an eyebrow at him.
"Why have you not introduced them, Círdan?" Once again it was Gandalf who spoke, his tone bordering on accusatory and his stare challenging Círdan's.
The old elf laid aside his cutlery and sighed, spreading his hands upon the table. "Forgive me," he appealed to both Glorfindel and Elrond. "I did not wish to bring children into your lives again so soon - when your offspring, Elrond, are so recently departed from you. It was for the same reason, Glorfindel, that I did not think to tell you. I know that you were very close to the family."
Elrond chuckled, honestly amused. "Oh Círdan, you concern yourself too much. Do you believe me so low in spirit that I cannot take pleasure in another's children? Truly, I do not begrudge others their offspring now that mine have all chosen to fly the nest in one fell swoop. It would give me pleasure to see children about the place, so you need not fear for me."
"Nor I," Glorfindel added.
Círdan smiled. "My heart is greatly eased to hear that," he said, seeming genuinely relieved. "Well, well, good. I shall introduce you to them on the morrow."
And so too it might have ended. Yet it did not. For with each new dawn the rising of Anor seemed to bring with him some new excuse as to the absence of the children from Elrond's sight. So much was this so, that he would have begun to think the youngsters mythical had not he caught occasional sight of them either upon the shore or heard their clumsy, childish footsteps carelessly loud upon the stairs when they were supposed to be in their chambers at night. It became almost a source of amusement to both Elrond and Glorfindel that these children could be both seen and heard and yet managed to be apparently non-existent in the household. Gandalf however, seemed to find it less amusing and once by chance, when taking a walk, Elrond heard his name spoken. Then came Gandalf's voice, gruffly raised, saying, "You will have to tell him at some time, Círdan!"
It was then that Elrond made up his mind to confront the shipwright once more, convinced that Círdan was concealing somewhat from him, particularly as Celebrían too had of late grown cagey when mention of the children was made. All that had so far restrained Elrond was the nagging suspicion that Círdan would not hide something from ones he had named as his friends for many years without very, very good cause. As it turned out, however, Elrond did not need to enquire. All was revealed in the most chance manner possible...
"I am the king of the castle!"
A triumphant yell sounded across the sprawling sands of Valinor. Squinting against the golden beams of the sun, Elrond could see in the distance a young man, standing bold and tall upon a rock at the base of the cliffs. His wooden blade he held imperiously before him as though he were drawing it from the rock itself. Though his features were indistinguishable from such a distance, shielded by a thick fall of dark hair, there was a certain regal air to his stance that seemed to support his bold statement.
"All must kneel before me!" The young elf added as an afterthought.
From beneath him came a rude snort. An elf-maiden, whose unusually coloured auburn hair, the colour of flames that flickered in the light, had knelt. However, a second youngster, this one blonde, still stubbornly stood. Beside him, another blonde-headed child was half-crouched, as though uncertain whom to obey.
"I am not kneeling to you!" the mulish blonde retorted. " I want to be the king."
At this the red-haired girl looked up."You cannot be king," she said most firmly, rising too. "You are mean and ignorant and no one would ever kneel to you!" She poked her tongue out at the rebel.
Beside Elrond, Glorfindel chuckled softly; he too caught in the entertaining spell of the children's play.
"Well I want to be king - so there!" came the obdurate retort and a fist was shaken at the "king". "I refute your claim to the throne. I... I will fight you for it!" The blonde speaker boldly snatched a wooden sword from his scabbard.
The girl with flame-coloured hair suddenly held a sword, though her movement had been so swift that neither Glorfindel nor Elrond had seen her draw it. Glorfindel's startled intake of breath echoed Elrond's own.
"I will defend my king unto my death," she said, her voice carrying clear and unafraid across the waters.
The words belonged to a much older elf, one who had seen such days and yet Elrond was able to smile now, knowing that this elf-child would probably never be in true need of that phrase - nor the strength to back it up. Yet had she needed it, Elrond found himself believing that she could have found it, for she stepped into a defensive stance with easy skill, her blade whispering through the air, even its wooden edge wielded as though she could have cut the clouds from the skyline.
Glorfindel whistled softly, casting the girl an admiring glance as he turned to Círdan, who walked with them. "If we were in need of such a creature I would venture to ask that you train the little lady as a bladesmaster," he said, frankly impressed.
The cocky blonde wavered and was hurriedly towed away by the other blonde elf. The latter, who had formerly been uncertain as to whether to kneel or defy, was evidently clear in his thinking that his friend should refuse such a formidable challenge from the dark-haired "king's" supporter.
Elrond, watching, was inclined to agree with his seneschal. Círdan avoided their gazes, his footsteps turning away from the children up the beach.
"Perhaps," he replied. "But we must thank Elbereth that it is not necessary."
"And we do," Elrond agreed fervently.
He cast Glorfindel a frown over Círdan's head as the shipwright guided them towards the cliff steps that would take them from the beach. Their original course had been to the boathouse, nearby where the children were at play.
"Círdan!" Celebrían's call lingered in the air like the hanging note from a melody. Her long, silver blonde hair streamed behind her as she ran up the beach toward them. She had been sat upon a rocky shelf, keeping a weather eye upon the play from distance enough that the children felt free from their mindful guardians. Elrond idly realised that they must be very young to be so observed or their caretakers were simply overprotective out of habit, having lived in such dangerous times. Celebrían drew to a breathless halt, falling into step with them, one hand clasped to her bosom as she inhaled rapidly before she could speak.
"I have a request to take the boats out this afternoon. Are the children permitted to sail within the harbour or must they wait for you to accompany them?"
Círdan glanced briefly back towards the ever-distant rocks. Continuing to walk, he rubbed his beard as he considered the matter. "If they stay in the port this time they may go out alone," he said slowly. "But only if. I will take the boats out of the water if they disobey me again; please remind them of that."
"Why will you not tell us yourself?" The blonde boy, who had defied his friends earlier and appeared to be the same as the one who had interrupted their meal some weeks ago, called to Círdan.
Unnoticed, the group of youngsters had followed rapidly in Celebrían's footsteps and now hovered eagerly several feet away. Startled, Círdan turned.
Before he could speak, the girl shushed her companion savagely. Holding up a warning finger, she then imitated the call of a trumpet and cried aloud: "Make way for the king!" With an impish grin upon her fine-boned features, she peered up through her tangled curtain of scarlet hair and added, "All kneel before him!"
The would-be king, a tall youth with hair the colour of night, ebony-black hued faintly in deepest navy, which tumbled across his features, snickered inelegantly. The blonde boy scowled again, his brows drawing into a thick knot of displeasure.
Winking at Elrond, Glorfindel fell to one knee. "It is an honour to meet you, your majesty, King of the Big Rock," he grinned.
The girl looked at him disapprovingly. " High King of all Valinor ," she corrected haughtily and then, sucking the tip of her thumb for a moment considering, she shrugged. "Which is really all one big rock anyway."
"And who are you?" Elrond enquired. A sidelong glance at Círdan revealed the elf's plain discomfort to him and he wondered at it. "The queen?"
"Yeeuch!" The little girl was emphatic. "Definitely not! I would have to marry him." She jerked her thumb at the darker haired elf. "And I like girls," she added confidingly. She seemed slightly disconcerted by this fact, however, and bit the tip of her thumb, falling suddenly silent. Elrond chuckled appreciatively, though briefly he wondered at the conviction of one so young in a statement of that ilk.
Círdan roused himself after a moment. He had been standing tensely, a troubled expression in his eyes as he scanned the company of youngsters. His gaze had turned to Celebrían, though she had shrugged, an open-palmed gesture of defeat. Glancing at her from the corner of his eye, Elrond registered also a tall figure standing at the top of the cliff steps, pointed hat piercing the horizon.
"Well," Círdan said, with an effort, accompanied by a very strained smile. "Perhaps we should make the introductions at long last. My lords Glorfindel and..."
"Elrond!" One of the children, the dark-haired "king" spoke aloud before Círdan could finish. His voice was lit with astonishment.
"Ahem," Celebrían's gaze ticked nervously to Círdan, though she continued to delicately reprimand her charge. "Titles are still used here until such time as the lord or lady grants permission to relinquish it."
But the youngster barely heard her. He looked up properly for the first time, one sandy hand pushing aside his dark mane of hair. A pair of wide, midnight blue eyes met Elrond's and held fast, though the orbs continued to grow as his gaze swept over the former Lord of Rivendell. "Elrond?" he repeated in the same shocked voice.
Elrond caught his breath painfully. The soft rush of water on the beach suddenly roared in his ears. The sand seemed to shift beneath his feet like the waves that lapped its edges. Age had not yet deepened the voice to its familiar baritone, nor crinkled the corners of the lips and eyes, yet the expression within the face was unmistakable.
The young elf took a stumbling step backward.
"Watch out!" the irritable blonde elf said sharply. "Whatever is the matter with you? Anyone would think that you had seen a ghost!"
"I..." The "king" faltered. He was still staring at Elrond, fixated by the elvin lord, as is a rabbit with its encroaching doom. His face paled and his vivid eyes were huge in their sockets. "I know you."
"Do not be foolish!" The blonde sniggered derisively. "You could not!"
"Oh no?" The stunned lad cast him a fleetingly annoyed look. "His name is Elrond Peredhil, brother of Elros, who became the first king of Númenor in the thirty-second year of the Second Age. Elrond is...was... Lord of Imladris, known in the common tongue as Rivendell. His parents were Eärandil and Elwing."
"You could have found that along with a portrait in any old book," the blonde retorted scathingly, though the other youngsters were watching with more curiosity.
The youngster pushed a lock of his dark hair impatiently out of his eyes, looking distractedly at Elrond."He has a scar on his right side, below the fifth rib. Elros shot him with their first bow and arrow when they were aged eight years and three months old. How do I know that?" The words were thrown challengingly, yet the fear on his face he could not mask. Wild, alarmed eyes were lifted to Elrond's. "Your favourite fruit is apricots and...cream..."
He trailed off and suddenly coloured hotly, averting his eyes. Elrond closed his own in silent agony.
The night was cool, a chill breeze stirring against his skin. Sleepily, Elrond rubbed at his eyes, rolling over in the darkness and feeling for his covers to cease the niggling of the draft. Long fingers closed over his groping hand, guiding him to lie upon his back and then pinning his hand above his head. His question was silenced with a kiss.
"Shh." The sound was but a whisper in the night.
Elrond lay back, puzzled but compliant. Weight pressed across his legs, effectively trapping him where he lay. Soft lips brushed over his again, never lingering but moving inexorably southwards in butterfly caresses that made his skin tingle. The covers were eased back to fold across his knees, baring the rest of his body to the cool air. Elrond gasped aloud, almost doubling up as something icy cold and liquid spilled over his abdomen.
"Ai!" he hissed sharply. "What...?"
"Shh!" came the vehement repetition.
The sweet, musky scent of apricots tickled his nostrils and the soft flesh of the fruit pressed against his lips. Obediently Elrond took a tentative bite, smiling as the succulent tang filled his mouth. Warm lips claimed his own, suckling of the juices from his mouth and nibbling at his lower lip until it grew fat and full. Elrond reached for his lover, but already he was gone. Lips pressed against his stomach, spreading the icy liquid as the taut muscles were caressed by his lover's tongue. Elrond sucked in his breath as the fluid trailed a cold passage southwards to meet with hot, sensitised flesh. He writhed beneath the touch, biting back a moan. A low chuckle reverberated in the quiet room. Lips claimed his own once more, the smooth texture of cream mingling with the sharpness of the apricots.
Elrond opened his eyes with difficulty, pain etched visibly across his features.
"What book can tell me that?" The whisper was soft, desperate as the youngster read within his eyes the memory there. Midnight blue orbs fled Elrond's own as the youngster wheeled and ran, sand scattering beneath his feet.
"No!" Círdan's alarmed cry rang out into the ensuing silence. "Ereinion!"
Ereinion. A thousand thoughts crowded and competed in Elrond's mind for voice that his ears could hear them, yet he brushed them all aside. Only one could take precedence. The name beat inside his skull to the heavy pounding of his heart. Shock coursed through his veins, rendering them limp and he swayed upon the spot. Disbelief consumed him. He dared not believe it was possible. And with the child gone, the fleeting phantom of the past was whisked once more away from his astonished eyes, tearing away his proof. He had to find the child again, instantly. Recriminations and fears could come later, in their own time and place. For now all that mattered was to find the child before he ran too far or injured himself. All it mattered was to find Gil-galad .
Dimly, he heard Glorfindel say in a hushed voice to the agonised shipwright, "They are returnees from Mandos, Círdan?" in tones of amazement and the curt return,"They are not aware of it, Glorfindel. Or they were not. Quickly," Círdan added, turning rapidly to Celebrían. "We must find him at once; we cannot know how much of his memory is returned."
"Where are we to look?" Elrond asked, his voice sounding dazed even to his own ears. Distantly, he felt Glorfindel lay a comforting hand upon his shoulder.
" You must not," Círdan said firmly. "Elrond, please, do not ask of me questions, but later come to me and I will tell you then what I can. For now I would rather that you remained out of sight. Celebrían and I will find familiar aid. Glorfindel, would you assist?"
The elf-lord nodded swiftly, squeezing Elrond's shoulder sympathetically as he hurried after Círdan at once. The remaining children tailed uncertainly in their wake.
Left alone, Elrond stood frozen and swaying upon the spot. The ringing in his ears, far from subsiding, had increased and now wailed with the gulls that sobbed overhead. Nothing before his eyes seemed constant: not the swirling sea nor the swaying cliffs, not the rippling horizon nor the bobbing clouds. The scenery shifted sickeningly around him, turning to grey and indistinct smudges of colour. It scarce seemed possible and with that impossibility - a solid, conceivable fact - all reality now seemed to blur. Dizzily, Elrond turned, taking a few, unsteady paces towards the steps carved into the cliff edge.
Ereinion Gil-galad, his lover and king for over a thousand years, was alive. Reborn, as Glorfindel had been before Elrond was even conceived, Gil-galad was now little more than a child. He could not be more than twenty years of age, in human terms less than even half those years. Three and a half thousand years had passed between that fateful day atop Mount Doom, in which Gil-galad must have lingered alone in the Halls of Waiting, only to lose mind and memory in his rebirth... or most of his mind and most of his memory.
Each blinking back of the hot tears that threatened stung Elrond's eyes as he fought for control. On hurried feet that carried him, before ever his mind had chance to catch up - or perhaps the decision was made without it registering - Elrond found himself tracing the path of Gil-galad's flight. He was drawn, as though by an invisible thread, through the maze of rocky outcrops that peppered the beach. Though he knew not where he was going he felt his feet moving faster, carrying him forth in a running pace. The sand slithered beneath his feet, the soft grains now bruising his soles and grazing the skin of his ankles as it sprayed about him.
He had to find Gil-galad. Reality slipped further from his grasp with each moment the seeming spectre of the past was absent from his sight. He dared not believe. He could not see. And yet he believed more fiercely than he thought possible. There was no one else whom that child could be. Gazing into his widened eyes, Elrond had been staring at the other half of his soul.
As he passed the third headland peak, Elrond paused, registering a half-hidden fissure in the rock, grooved enough that hands and feet might find purchase if one chose to climb. Fresh sand was scattered upon the small ledge at the base and faint imprints in the sand suggested the passing of feet, hasty enough to mark the dry shingle. Gathering his robes around him, Elrond stepped onto the first ledge, gripping a knot in the rock with his fingers to lever himself into position for the next foothold. The rock was cool, though dry beneath his fingers, hard and secure as he climbed steadily. Beneath him the bay of sand stretched out thick and golden, while above the tufty edges of tough scrubby grass poked over the edge of the precipice. Two thirds of the way up the face he came upon a narrow ledge, hidden from the ground, and from then on there were no more foot nor finger holds. It mattered not. Sat upon the ledge, a fair distance from the lip - so that he would not be seen by one who did not climb - his knees hunched up to his chest, was Ereinion.
Startled eyes, almost frightened, grew huge in the blanched face as Elrond emerged. Approaching as he might a nervous beast, Elrond moved slowly. The elf-lord did not speak. Instead, he quietly completed his ascension and seated himself next to the child, drawing his own knees up to his chin and looping his arms about them in imitation of the child's posture. For a moment, silence reigned supreme.
"How did you know I was here?" The question was not unexpected. It came, low and hostile into the silence.
"I know where children go when they run," Elrond said, with a small smile as he thought again of his own children.
"No." The reply was quiet, certain. "You knew. No one else knows about this place. How did you know?"
Elrond was silent for a moment, unable to explain what force of will had guided him to the secret cove in which the child, who had in another life been his lover, had chosen to hide. "I do not know," he said after a pause. "Purest chance I do fear."
The child glanced at him for the first time since his arrival. The blue eyes took on an expression of interest, casting Elrond a brief, appraising look. "At least you are honest," he said finally.
Elrond smiled a little. "I try," he confessed.
A slight twitch at the corner of the youngster's mouth revealed what might grow to be a smile. "Why did you come?" Ereinion asked, his deep blue eyes now fixed upon Elrond, the gaze every bit as intense as it had been three and a half millennia ago.
Elrond hesitated. Because I remember who you were, even if you do not. Because I still love you, though I see you now as a child. And I know who you will become. "Because I was worried about you. I feared that I had frightened you," he replied, truthful, in part.
"You did." Ereinion shrugged as though it did not matter. "You do." He met Elrond's eyes again and bit his lip. "I know you. I... I know things about you that I could not know." He shook his head as if to banish his thoughts. "I am sorry if I offended you."
Elrond shook his head in turn. "Nay," he said quietly. "You spoke only truth and that is not offensive to me."
"I am but twenty summers old and you are many thousands of years my senior. The information about you comes into my head from nowhere." Ereinion looked uncomfortable. "I do not understand this."
He wrapped his arms around his legs, gripping his hands together tightly and resting his chin atop his knees. After a moment he glanced at Elrond again, his eyes lit with confusion and uncertainty. "What is happening to me?"
Elrond searched every language that he knew for words to express what he suspected as the truth. His heart ached deep within him and years of emptiness settled around him, turning his limbs to reluctant wood as he realised what he had to say. Finally he sighed.
"I think," he said slowly. "That you are going to have to find that out for yourself."
Summoning every scrap of will within his being he forced recalcitrant muscles to raise him to his feet. He moved away, to the edge of the rocky shelf and began his descent alone. He did not look back. He could not look back. Though with every step the weight of history drenched the sand, which seemed to suck at his legs, he walked away down the beach.
"Why, in the name of Mandos, did you not tell me?" Elrond demanded.
He stood before Círdan and Celebrían, his features grim with barely restrained fury. Círdan stood behind his desk, a barrier between himself and the enraged lord of Rivendell. Celebrían, accustomed to Elrond's rare, if impressive, anger, was perched upon the edge of the desk, her features crossed with guilt. Apart from a few curt words that had indicated the well being of Ereinion and, though Elrond felt this a betrayal, his location, Elrond's previous speech had been minimal.
"Elrond, please, calm yourself," Celebrían began soothingly.
"Do not tell me to be calm, Celebrían!" Elrond said sharply. "I am beyond understanding how it has come to be that the two in the world who knew the depths of my feelings for Ereinion could be the very ones to conceal his return from me!"
His words lashed like a whip and Celebrían visibly flinched. Círdan sighed, rubbing a hand over his forehead as he faced Elrond wearily.
"It was because we were so very aware of your powerful love of Ereinion that led us to make the decision that we did. Elrond, forgive me. We believed that we were acting in your best interests. The burden of Vilya that you have unflinchingly borne this last age brought you to us gravely drained. To add to this your children have not accompanied you to these shores and we were loathed to cause you further grief.
"And Elrond, had we told you, could you have sworn to keep away? Ereinion is not yet aware of his history and for him to fully shoulder the weight of his years, which will come to be very great, it is vital that he can rejuvenate first."
Elrond was silent. Inwardly he seethed at the presumptions that had been made upon his behalf, as yet unable to appreciate the touching concern behind them. It was the only final reason of all held the sway, even through the reason-obscuring mists of his anger. Biting his lip, Elrond held his tongue.
"It is for this very reason, above all others, that I beg of you now to isolate yourself from Ereinion, Elrond. Do not believe I ask this of you lightly," Círdan continued sorrowfully, seeing the wash of pain across Elrond's features. "But for his sake..."
Though the sting of another loss bit deep into his bones, Elrond sighed. "For his sake," he echoed softly, swallowing down the aching numbness that instantly engulfed him, with the masterful skill born from years of practice. With studied acceptance he added: "I have waited over three thousand years for his return. Círdan, I can wait a little longer."
Círdan's hand was heavy upon Elrond's shoulder as the shipwright moved to his side. "Thank you, my friend," he said soberly.
Elrond nodded, unable to trust his voice. It was no more than he had expected, for knowing Glorfindel as well as he did had taught Elrond a great deal of the ways of those returned from the Halls. He knew that the memory of all life gone before was lost. Childhood was allowed to flow unscathed by past actions. The innocence, though a temporary state, lifted spirit and soul so that when the memories returned the lightness of a second childhood eased the burden of the years. And memories returned, but gradually. Dim recollections and a haunted feeling of something lost that must be regained. Only time could encourage them to surface. Time and triggers, those which caused one to remember.
Having turned to leave, seeking the sanctuary of his chambers and solitude to reflect and recover from his shock, Elrond paused at the door.
"May I ask of you one thing?"
"When he remembers, to tell you?" Círdan asked softly.
"That," Elrond frowned, "I should hope goes without the need for saying so."
Círdan inclined his head. "That is so. Please, continue with your request."
"Why is it I who must stay away?" Elrond queried. "When you, who raised Ereinion before as a child, do not."
"Because," Círdan's smile twisted at the corners of his lips, "Because he does not remember me."
Had Elrond truly wished his chambers to be deserted, he would have been sorely disappointed. When he opened the door to his room, located upon the fourth floor of the magnificent mansion that housed the greater percentage of the Valinorian elves, he found Glorfindel stood beside the empty fire grate. He was obviously awaiting Elrond's return. Long golden hair flowed down Glorfindel's spine to his waist, where his elbows loosely rested upon his hips, hands twisting together at his abdomen. The seneschal wore an expression of concern upon his deceptively youthful face, his ancient eyes penetrating instantly through Elrond's brittle semblance of composure.
If he had desired true solitude, Elrond could easily have requested some space and a little time, knowing Glorfindel would not be offended. Yet in the deepest caverns of his heart, Elrond could admit that the last thing he wanted at that moment was to be alone. Without speaking, Elrond walked to this window, gazing out across the strangely empty beach toward the concealed ledge that lurked secretly behind the rocky promontory. He swallowed hard, quelling the rising knot of throat-thickening grief that threatened to overwhelm him. Shock deadened the blow, but only a little.
Sensing Elrond's mood, Glorfindel moved quietly behind him, placing his hands upon his lord's shoulders. Gratefully, Elrond leaned back against the older elf, feeling Glorfindel's arms slip around his waist, pulling him closer. Folding his arms across himself to ward off the sudden chill in the air, Elrond gripped Glorfindel's bicep muscles tightly. His fingernails bit in until the seneschal winced. Glorfindel's lips lightly touched Elrond's hair, his hands moving up to grasp Elrond's forearms lightly, smoothing the soft fabric of the elvin robe.
Elrond accepted the comfort wordlessly. Many countless hours had his seneschal willingly surrendered, first at Gil-galad's death and then later, after Celebrían's departure, to ease Elrond's pain with his familiar, constant presence. There were no words sufficient to express the gratitude Elrond felt. Drowning in emotions that flowed thick and fast below his forced and tenuous grip upon his self-control, Elrond felt beyond words to begin to express his feelings. It was a dire straight for one so learned as he and a loremaster of high regard, yet Elrond was beyond caring about such trivialities. Ereinion Gil-galad lived. Yet having him alive and walking upon the same shores, a stranger, known but unknowing, was almost more painful than his death.
"It is him, is it not?" Glorfindel's soft murmur startled Elrond, though he had expected the question. Glorfindel tilted his head to catch Elrond's eye. "Gil-galad?" he pressed.
"You recognised him?" Elrond asked, not particularly surprised. Glorfindel's hair brushed against his cheek as the seneschal nodded. Closing his eyes, Elrond leaned further back into Glorfindel's embrace, feeling the older elf's arms wrap more tightly about him.
"The girl," Glorfindel said after a long pause. "The red-haired one, I believe is called Ardís."
Elrond frowned, the name rang strangely familiar but for a moment he could not place it.
"I think she was supposed to have been raised by Círdan with Gil-galad," Glorfindel added as an after thought. From the dim depths a memory surfaced.
Elrond was sat inside the vast white tent of the battlefield healer, having an arrow wound to his arm tended and bound by the elder of the physicians. The disapproving clucking of her tongue was strangely soothing. The light pouring through the pale tent walls was muted; the sounds of the battle dimmed somewhat by the feeble barrier. The air was pungent with the scent of boiled herbs.
The tent flap swept back with an abrupt clap and Gil-galad stalked in. Even in the dull illumination of the tent, his armour gleamed like the brightest of silver stars. The King's long, night-hued hair cascaded loose over his shoulders as he wrenched off his helm and flung it with a ringing clang into the corner of the tent. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and a fresh bruise defined the high arch of his cheekbones. His lips were set tight and anger burned darkly in his eyes.
"Ardís is dead," he said shortly.
He waved away the healer's concerned approach, though he accepted the proffered cloth and wiped roughly at his mouth, wincing, though more from irritation than pain. Elrond was startled. Ardís had been Gil-galad's childhood companion, raised from her early youth alongside him, though she by two years was the senior. For a time, Elrond had believed them to be lovers, until he had come to discover that Ardís had no more interest in men than Gil-galad himself had in those of the female persuasion. Ardís had also, and more notably, been a bladesmaster, of quite unsurpassable kill. Her death came as no small surprise.
"How?" Elrond demanded, rising to his feet and moving to Gil-galad's side.
The King shrugged angrily, giving Elrond's wound an anxious glance and running bloodstained fingers lightly over the fresh bandage.
"Ill chance I believe," he said curtly, once satisfied his herald was not seriously hurt. "One Orc too many, despite all she said about luck being created for oneself and the odds being best when against one."
He clenched a fist, bowing his head for a moment and uttering a single, wretched curse. Careless of the onlookers, Elrond took Gil-galad's knotted fists in his own hands, holding them tightly, his eyes closed in sympathy.
"Did you know of her then?" Elrond asked, tipping his head back to catch his seneschal's eye.
Glorfindel nodded, his expression pensive. "She and I rode together for many years, when we were on reconnaissance with Mithrandir."
"I did not know that she went," Elrond observed, realising as he did so that it was not such strange an occurrence.
Glorfindel chuckled sadly. "The bloodthirsty wench who could sharpen her blade on a sunbeam and cut the horizon from the landscape? Of course she went. She rode with practically every hunt there was during the Second Age."
Elrond nodded, remembering vaguely Gil-galad's concern for the flame-haired, lithe and almost feline creature who had lived in Lindon during Elrond's stay there, in the years before the founding of Rivendell. He was surprised himself now at his failure to recognise the girl, though given that he had stood before one whom he had long believed dead and forever lost to him, it was not so unexpected.
"What is to happen now?" Glorfindel asked after a moment. His hand moved up to stroke Elrond's hair as he spoke.
Elrond sighed. "Círdan was most explicit. I am in no way permitted to have any contact with Ereinion."
Glorfindel was startled; clasping Elrond by the shoulders he spun his former lord around to face him."What? Why?" he demanded.
Elrond sighed again."Círdan does not wish for Ereinion to be exposed to his past. He believes that he should spend a few years recuperating from his return, unplagued by his memories, before he is to face the past." Elrond spoke in the weary tone of one who accepts a lot he is not pleased with.
Glorfindel drew away from him, concern etching lines upon his features. "I do not like that idea at all," he said. He began to pace the flagstones in an unusual display of agitation. "It may already be far too late for that. Ereinion has seen you now. He remembered you - when clearly he has not recollected anything of note before. He is not going to forget that, not when it has survived both his death and his return to life. Cutting him off from his memories is as dangerous as too swiftly inducing them, to leave them absent too long may mean when they come, they will overwhelm him..." Glorfindel was walking quickly now, pushing handfuls of hair out of his eyes with hands that shook.
"Steady, steady." Alarmed as he was by Glorfindel's words, Elrond recognised the fear that flashed into the seneschal's eyes. For that Glorfindel of which had spoken had happened to him. Disruptive nightmares had molested his sleep when he was newly returned from the Halls and growing into his adulthood where the memories resurfaced. They occurred every so often, plunging Glorfindel into the phantasmagorical realms for a time. During one such event, Elrond, youthful and unwitting at the time, had added to the nightly drink taken by his seneschal sufficient quantities of a herbal concoction to suppress the dreams. Then, one night, Glorfindel had forgotten to drink it.
Elrond stepped into Glorfindel's path, catching the older elf by the shoulders and gripping him tightly."I will not allow that to happen," he said firmly. "Not after what I saw happen to you." He quelled a shudder at the memory. "And in any case, I believe that Círdan is aware of the dangers and so the situation will not be permanent. He has promised me that should Ereinion recollect anything more he will come to me."
Glorfindel took a deep, tranquillising breath and nodded, pushing his hair back one last time. "Of course." He exhaled quietly. "Forgive me, my lord..."
Elrond placed a finger firmly over his lips. "You have naught to apologise for," he insisted. "And please, Glorfindel, there need be no more formalities between us. Long have I counted you not among my servants but among my friends. 'My lord' is a term long redundant between us, cast it into the sea."
Glorfindel nodded, a smile touching his lips. "As you wish, Elrond."
"Good." Elrond stepped away and smoothed down the slightly rumpled silk of his robes.
As if upon a cue, the musical chime of a bell signalled that luncheon was being served in the Great Hall; though meals were optionally taken and each elf could easily carve their own private life within the giant residential house, it was custom among their people to dine together and hardly an arduous task.
Shaken from his thoughts, Glorfindel turned toward the door. His hand upon the handle he paused, realising that Elrond had not followed him. "Elrond?" he said. "Will you not come?"
Elrond shook his head."No, Glorfindel, you go on. I may join you in a few moments, but I do not think that I am yet ready to face another conversation with Círdan just yet. Allow me to collect my thoughts a little first."
Glorfindel released the door, facing Elrond seriously. "I need not go, if you would wish me stay," he offered quietly.
Elrond felt a small smile touch his lips at the kindness of his seneschal, whose first concern was, though no duty bound his obligations, to his lord. The formal relationship that they had entertained was insignificant to the strength of the friendship between them. Again Elrond shook his head.
"No. No, I am more in need of a little solitude," Elrond replied. "I thank you anyway, but you should find some sustenance and I will take a walk while I gather my thoughts."
With a searching look and finally a nod, Glorfindel exited the room.
The soft silence that lingered after the seneschal's departure stagnated in a matter of moments. Elrond stood in the centre of the room, hearing the quiet dry out around him, until it seemed to hold him rigid with its oppressive walls. A void of nothingness surrounded him, as though he stood alone upon a pillar of rock, with vast, endless drops upon every side. Absence surrounded him, the loss of Celebrían, Elladan, Elrohir, Arwen, even Elros, buffeted him as though great winds whisked across his lonely peak. And before him, where he could pitch headlong into its darkness of despair, lay the chasm in his life created by the loss of his king, his first love, Ereinion Gil-galad. Yet worse still, a bridge lay before him to cross that afore unbreachable gully - yet the way was barred and he could not even fall.
"Oh Elbereth," Elrond whispered despairingly. "I cannot do this, my Lady. I cannot."
The words faded into the air and Elrond knew he had no choice. Yet unable to bear the interminable, infinite silence, he whispered instead five more.
"I love you, Ereinion Gil-galad."
And these words hung upon the silence as a mirror on a wall, awaiting the reflection, or the answer.
The second winter of the ring-bearers coming to Valinor shimmered frostily upon the land. Elrond knelt before his bed. The flags were cold, even through the thick elven silks of his winter attire. As the months had moved by, Glorfindel had abandoned his robes of state, lest some formal occasion called for them, in favour of closer fitting breeches and simple tunics. Elrond, however, had not yet found it in himself to break the habits of a lifetime. Velvet of the deepest sapphire blue adorned him; richer colours he always preferred in the cold clutches of winter and, though spring was hesitating around the corner, the temperatures had yet to climb.
Outside the land was still frosted with the night's dew, chilled into icy crystals that webbed the grass and the earth. The sea was muted in hue, deep greens swirling within the indigo waters. The trees that peppered the wide expanse of landscape stretching back from the cliffs were bare-branched and naked in their rough brown bark, clothed only in the resilient lichens that patched their trunks with pale peridot colours. The vast house in which Elrond was knelt, the House of Valinor, blended into the magical mists that ceaselessly shrouded the islands from the outside and mortal world.
Around Elrond, scattered like leaves in a gale, were sheaves of papers, artistic portraits of memories. Though Elrond himself had a fair hand for drawing, the sketches were not his work but Glorfindel's. The scenes at first glance seemed to be of historical import alone. Various notable occasions were depicted, where the Lords of Rivendell, Lindon and the Golden and Green Woods had met in state. Yet to the observant eye, details of greater note still were visible. At one conference, concern was etched deeply upon the faces of those at the great table. Galadriel stood speaking, her face sombre, Celeborn at her side. Círdan braced his knuckles against his mouth, elbow upon the tabletop and Oropher gesticulated angrily. And beneath the table, the high king held hands with his herald. There were a great many of similar ilk; the look in an eye or the lingering touch of a hand, forever frozen in inky memory.
Elrond sat back on his heels with a sigh, one such picture still held in his fingers. It was harder, so much harder, than he had ever anticipated to put away the keys to his heart once more and keep only to his library of memories, when he knew that the one he had long awaited was now within the walls of the same building, not lingering in some untouchable dimension awaiting the grace of Mandos. He had thought initially that it would be possible, that the years of being alone and of loving, after a time another, would mean that he could now patiently wait and see what would develop. But the wound he had thought healed had reopened with a vengeance and he struggled not to fall into the despair that had so engulfed him when first his king had been lost to him.
Try as he might, Elrond had not been completely able to hold to his promise to Círdan. In nights and lonely days he had watched from afar, observing his now child-like lover in sleep or at play. In this he had earned himself the concern of Glorfindel, who begged him to come away and cease torturing himself. Yet the pain of watching, as acute as it was, distracted from the more solitary, gnawing ache of waiting.
Upon the peaceful shores there was precious little in the way of distraction. Where before duty and fatherhood had occupied his days, for better or worse, there was now nothing but endless serenity. Despite his efforts, Elrond was unable to lose himself in the music of the sea, the whispers in the breeze and the deep, rumbling voices of the trees. Perhaps he was trying too hard. His skill with a bow was sharper than it had been in more years than he could count, though it had never been poor. He knew by heart every ballad sung in the halls and had devoured every book the numerous libraries had to offer. Nothing distracted him. Though he was resigned to his timeless ordeal, he indulged his nostalgia as frequently as he tortured himself with his distant observations.
Caught in the spell of the past, Elrond was unaware that even as he watched, he was being watched. From the doorway, midnight blue eyes studied the former lord of Rivendell. The soft fall of the night-hued hair that spilled over his shoulders, clad in robes of the deepest blue was closely scrutinised, even to the patterns of woven leaves in an aquamarine green almost indistinguishable from the sapphire fabric that edged the robe and the tiny strands of silver that highlighted the leaves. Every line and limb, clearly defined beneath the carefully cut cloth, was studied where they were accentuated by the pale light from the window, dancing with dust motes, touched in sparkling beams upon Elrond's form.
Elrond's velvet-clad shoulders heaved in a sigh. Slowly he became aware of the presence that lingered in his doorway, and surprised, turned at the sound of a voice.
"I know why I know you."
Leaning against the doorpost, his arms folded across his chest and a note of accusation in his voice, stood Ereinion Gil-galad.
Elrond caught his breath involuntarily. It had been a year of time-weighted months since he had seen the young elf at such close quarters. Already he had perceptibly changed, gained a little in height, sinewy muscle forming upon the arms crossed against a chest that had expanded in breadth. Gil-galad was almost twenty-two.
Swallowing hard, Elrond kept his voice neutral. "Is it a habit of yours to intrude upon the little known members of your household with erroneous statements?" he enquired.
A flicker of annoyance crossed the younger elf's face. "What erroneous statement can you call this?" he demanded, his tone far more adult than Elrond had anticipated.
"Am I supposed to know what it is that you meant?" Elrond said lightly.
"I know you know." The childish conviction was formidable. "Upon the beach, when Círdan first introduced us, you would not tell me why I knew you. You said that I would have to find out for myself. Well," he shivered suddenly and wrapped his arms more tightly about himself. "Now I know."
Quelling the jolt of hope - and alarm - Elrond reminded himself that Ereinion might yet be ignorant of the truth and simply testing theories. "Oh do you now?" he said, keeping his tone jovial.
Ereinion nodded.
"Well," Elrond pressed after a pause, beginning to suspect that the little elf was trying to extract the information on the pretext of knowing, Arwen's youthful whiles had deceived him often enough in Rivendell. "Will you not dazzle me with your knowledge?"
The ghost of a frown creased the high-arched brow. Ereinion eyed Elrond with the dubious yet curiously intense scrutiny of a child, unsure as to whether he may trust those older than he. Slowly he nodded. Stepping into the room, he walked to the end of the bed. For a moment he stood in silence, loosely clasping the bedpost with one hand and picking at a splinter. When he finally looked up, his eyes were troubled.
"I have lived before," he said quietly. "I do not know when, or for how long, or...what happened to me. But I have lived before. And I knew you."
All the oxygen seemed to have been sucked from the room. Internally Elrond reeled as the quiet, matter-of-fact tones penetrated his startled conscience.
"I have read about it happening," Ereinion continued. "I know that true immortality is the gift to our kind and that we may be reborn if the fea is sundered from its bodily house. I stole the key to Círdan's restricted library..." He broke off, frowning with clear irritation. "I was caught by one of his guards though. But... the man called me 'Gil-galad' prefixed with 'my lord'. I thought he was being patronising at first and I told him so, then he apologised - and called me his lord again, accidentally."
Elrond winced, although the fault was not his own. "What did you do?" he asked tentatively.
"I told him that if I was his lord then I should be able to go into the library."
"And?" Elrond asked, half amused, half pained by the oh-so-familiar attitude.
"He told me to 'run along'." Ereinion scowled. "As if I were a child."
"Without intending offence," Elrond pointed out politely. "You are a child."
Ereinion eyed him shrewdly. "Sometimes," he said softly. "And sometimes not."
"What makes you believe this?" Elrond asked.
Ereinion placed on knee on the bed and then allowed himself to fall forward across the eiderdown, propping his face in his palms. He stared up into Elrond's eyes, frowning a little as he considered. Discreetly, Elrond slid the pictures he had been examining beneath the bed once more.
"I know things," Ereinion replied seriously. "Things that I could not possibly know. When people tell me about places in Middle-earth, I remember them, as if I had been there before. Círdan told me about a place called Lindon once, the kingdom of the High King in the Second Age and I drew him a picture of it. He laughed and said that someone had beaten him to it in terms of educating me. But they had not. I knew what the place looked like, even the private passages, without anyone telling me." His eyes grew uncertain. "Does this sound ridiculous?"
Elrond hesitated. Círdan had not given him permission to speak of Ereinion's former life to the child; indeed he had expressly forbidden Elrond to go near him in order to prevent such an occurrence. But faced with such an enquiry, Elrond could see little in the way of an alternative. He did not condone misleading children, under any circumstances.
"No," he said slowly. "But I wonder why it is that you asked me of this an not Círdan."
"Because I do not believe Círdan would tell me. He has gone to a great deal of trouble to avoid my reading a number of books, he will not answer my questions properly and he has tried to keep me away from you. And I know you knew me."
Elrond grimaced inwardly at the astuteness of the child. He mentally berated Círdan's folly in believing that it would be possible to conceal the truth from Ereinion and wondered what madness possessed the elder elf, who had once known Ereinion almost as well as Elrond, that he had thought it possible. It was not Círdan's usual practice.
"And Círdan did not know you?" Elrond asked carefully.
Ereinion paused, frowning. "Sometimes I think he did...at others, I am not so sure," he said finally.
"But you believe that I did?"
Ereinion's stare was challenging. "I know that you did."
For another moment, Elrond debated. Finally he nodded. "I did."
The child did not seem relived by this, but slowly, he nodded too. His eyes ticked back to the bed sheets and with a quiet exhale, he placed his palms flat on the mattress. He swallowed hard.
"Will you help me?" he asked softly. He lifted deep, ocean-coloured eyes to Elrond's.
"Help you with what?" Elrond asked, hardly daring to breathe.
Ereinion's reply was suspended in the silence. "Help me to remember."
The dawning of the new day came as a welcome relief from the night. The deep purple-blue of the midnight sky had paled into a pinkish dawn, promising rain later in the day, and a light mist hung in the valleys, stretching ghostly fingers across the shore. Elrond, dressed in breeches and tunic, with his winter cloak wrapped tightly about him, for the dawn was chill, hurried down the steps of the house and into the grounds. It was early, for the moon still lingered faintly in the sky and the sun was barely touching the horizon, painting only the faintest blush upon the clouds. Elrond had watched the night fade and, at the earliest moment, departed his chambers. He had not rested much and fatigue laced his bones, a slight, warning drag that cautioned him against further sleepless nights. But the dreams had stolen away his desire for slumber.
When fully awake he could school his mind to shut out the memories that haunted him, yet when he allowed his consciousness to drift, it strayed automatically down the paths of recollection. He had dreamed of his first night in the great palace of Lindon, not homesick for he had neither loved nor hated Maglor and his home, but desperately missing Elros. Eternity had stretched before him, not the vast, possibility-filled forever that it had seemed when he had spoken the words that bound him to the fate of the Eldar, but suddenly, terribly, infinite. He had stood at his window in the great stone chamber, shivering in the draft and trying to swallow down his misery.
The door opened without a knock and Elrond turned sharply, startled. Even the servants knocked and the unannounced arrival at such an hour took him by surprise. Ereinion Gil-galad, still dressed in his robes of state, his crown woven into his hair glinting in the pale beams of the moon streaming through the window, had entered then.
Looking at him, Elrond felt intimidated, wondering how he could have come to choose life with the Eldar, and partly because of this man, who stood now, imposing and regal in his royal robes.
"I came to see how you fared," Gil-galad had said, closing the door behind him.
"I am well, your majesty, I thank you for your concern." Elrond knew the words sounded stiff and formal, yet he could find no others, unable to see anything now in Gil-galad save a kingly stranger.
Gil-galad nodded. But he did not leave, he crossed the room and sat upon the bed Elrond had not yet touched. "I remember well when I left my childhood home," he said. "I was raised by Lord Círdan - do you remember of whom I speak? - the silver-haired elf lord who accompanied me the first time I visited you. He was my foster father. My father sent me to Círdan after the fall of Doriath, in which his own father was slain. He was later slain in the fifth battle, that of Nirnaeth Arnoediad. When I left my childhood home it was to take up the crown of High King. My uncle had borne it for a number of years, while I was still in my minority and unable to do so. And I stood alone in a vast palace, wearing a circlet of responsibility of which I felt I could not conceive. All the brave words I had spoken, even believed, about this being my right, my duty, my destiny, were completely lost amidst a sense of complete helplessness at what I had undertaken." He spoke with a nostalgic, half-smile upon his lips, his eyes gazing back into the past. Suddenly he met Elrond's gaze, his expression amused. "So will you tell me, how it is that you can make a decision of similar magnitude and yet be 'well,' to use your own word? I would dearly love to possess that talent."
The tease in his voice and eyes was unmistakeable. Despite himself, Elrond smiled sheepishly. "I would confess I do not have that knowledge to share. I am missing my brother and I feel very alone this night. But it will pass and I do not wish to trouble you, for you must be extremely busy."
"Yes and greatly tired." Gil-galad made no attempt to move. "But the necessities of duty can await the dawn and your concerns cannot."
"Your majesty..." Elrond began to protest.
"'Your majesty' is going to hide in your chambers from the duties he is quite prepared to deal with, but in the morning. Tell me, Elrond, will you bid me leave you to your loneliness when there are any number of people who may accost me between this chamber and my own? At least let me remain until they are retired to rest."
Elrond found himself chuckling. "So is this concern of yours a clever disguise to absent yourself from the duties that no one else believes can wait another minute?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth he caught his breath, wondering if he had spoken unwisely. Yet such had been the nature of his conversations with Gil-galad before they came to Lindon that he forgot himself now that the king was back in his palace and once more attending to affairs of state.
"Well," Gil-galad drawled, grinning guiltily himself now and not at all offended by the casual address. "Let us call it mutually beneficial, shall we not?"
Elrond smiled again, suddenly finding that, despite the robes of blood-ruby and the silver crown of his rank, Gil-galad was the same as he had ever been. The king roughly detached his crown from his hair and slipped out of his cloak, bunching it carelessly in his lap, curling one leg beneath him in the manner he had adopted during the nights he had spent in Elrond's company while they sailed the sea to Lindon. Catching sight of Elrond's study of his motions, Gil-galad grinned again.
"In spite of the years Círdan spent lecturing me, I find that my slovenly habits creep back in at a moment's inattention," he said. "Now, come away from that window, young one; you look frozen to your very bones standing there."
Hesitantly Elrond had stepped forward, pausing as he heard Gil-galad chuckle softly.
"Come," he repeated. "I know I have rather claimed your bed, but it is yours after all. You are entitled to tell me to move."
"Of course," Elrond ventured. "So I may say 'your majesty, get off my bed' as though you are not the High King and merely an obstruction."
Gil-galad laughed this time, heartily, his long hair spilling down his back. "Do not treat me as a king, Elrond," he said gently.
Elrond cocked his head. "But you are and it is only fitting that I must acknowledge this."
"Perhaps," Gil-galad had admitted. "And in public it might be wiser to maintain the expected measure of formality. It could cause great scandal otherwise and some people take quite enough liberties as it is." His countenance darkened briefly before he washed the expression away with a smile. "But otherwise you may continue to address me as a piece of the furniture if it pleases you."
Elrond drew back his covers and slipped beneath them, leaning back against the headboard to study Ereinion. In the few years he had come to know the king, Elrond had grown comfortable around him, finding in him confidante and friend, something he feared would be lost when they returned to the more public ground of Lindon.
As the years flew onward from that night, their relationship had not only been retained, but more had grown from it. Publicly, Elrond had moved from steward to scholar to the herald of the high king. Privately, their friendship had moved them closer and closer. They had held back for a time, the king more than aware of his duties and the expectations of his people, Elrond new to the ways of lovers and also conscious of his station within the court society. But they grew tired of denying what had bound them tightly into the earlier phases of their relationship, from their first meeting, and, upon the eve of Elrond's hundredth birthday, they had moved from friends to lovers.
So it had been for nearly a thousand years. And now the roles they had played seemed reversed, for it was Elrond who knew the ways of life and love, far exceeding the knowledge that Ereinion currently held. Once again, Elrond prayed to Elbereth that he had the strength to be the guide and the guardian Ereinion needed him to be.
"Good morning."
Ereinion's voice from his left startled Elrond, his senses less acute in his weariness. The younger elf was dressed as Elrond was, and led with him two horses: a tall grey mare with gentle eyes and a smaller bay, who snorted and started at the misty shadows. They followed him without rope or halter, obedient and willing.
"Good morning," Elrond echoed, brushing his mind against that of the grey, silently requesting permission to ride her. Assent was in her eyes and he vaulted atop her as Ereinion sprang onto the back of the bay. "They are beautiful horses, Ereinion; to whom do they belong?"
"The grey is Círdan's; she is known as Seashell and this one is my own." He patted the crested neck before him with obvious affection. "He is called Prince."
"Well, if they will consent to bear us, where do you wish to ride?" Elrond enquired.
Ereinion considered for a moment and then replied only that they might allow the horses to chose the route so that they might converse.
"And what if they should decide they do not wish to walk together?" Elrond asked, amused.
Ereinion smiled impishly. "Then they shall have to run."
With that, he pressed his heels to Prince's sides and sent the bay cantering away. He reached the cliff edge and, slithering suddenly in a shower of stones, disappeared. Seashell whickered, tossing up her head and flirting her ears back and forth. Alarmed, Elrond signalled her forth, following hastily in Ereinion's wake. Where the child had vanished, a rough, winding path led down to the shore. Elrond felt the mare's hooves skate on the loose rocks as he nudged her down.
Ereinion was waiting for him at the bottom, the impatient Prince side-stepping excitedly. He half-reared as Seashell landed on the sand and sprang away in a gallop. Elrond, feeling he had been challenged, urged his mare on, until she too flew along the waterline, the lapping waves foaming around her hooves. Ereinion glanced over his shoulder, kicking Prince onward. They raced along the wet packed sand; their hoof-beats thudding loud above the whisper of the waves, echoing in the sound-distorting mist. The grey drew alongside the bay. Elrond caught a glimpse of the laughter-animated face of his young charge, Ereinion delighting in the speed and the chase.
As the promontory drew near they slowed, first to canter, then falling back into trot and finally walking again. Elrond leaned forward, clapping the sweat-dampened neck of his mare. "Well," he said, amused. "That certainly blew out the cobwebs!"
Ereinion glanced at him, his lips curved into a satisfied smirk. "I think that the horses will walk together now, do you not?"
"I believed you the first time," Elrond said, laughing.
Ereinion's expression was thoughtful and he considered Elrond with new eyes, aware that the older elf spoke the truth. "Good," was all he said, but Elrond sensed from the single word that he had achieved a great deal more respect, both for accepting the challenge and for not chiding the child.
They rode on for a time, part in companionable silence and part in more everyday conversation, speaking a little upon the weather and their vague plans for the day.
"And whom do you count among your friends, anyway?" Elrond enquired, for the topic arose in due course.
"Ardís, of course, and she is probably my closest," Ereinion remarked, naming the female who in his former childhood had been of similar import to him. "There are a few others, but none of greater significance."
"Who was the blonde child with whom you were occupied when I first saw you?" Elrond asked.
Ereinion considered for a moment and then scowled. "Oh, Oropher," he said in a disgusted voice. "He is certainly not one whom I would name as a friend, an acquaintance perhaps - and more is the pity."
"Oropher..." Elrond began and then broke off, picturing the child once more and remembering the arrogant manner in which he had behaved. Death had not suitably changed him. "He is another of Círdan and Celebrían's, adopted I assume?"
Ereinion nodded. "Yes, he is my foster brother," he said. "I..." He bit his lip, hesitating and then pulled a face. "We do not get on particularly well."
"I had noticed," Elrond observed, amused.
The youngster grinned guiltily. "It is that obvious?"
Elrond nodded, recalling the interactions on the beach, where Oropher had defied Ereinion's right to be the "high king of the big rock", and smiling to himself.
"Oops," Ereinion said, though his tone was distinctly lacking in guilt.
"It is of no consequence. His s...ah, a relative of Oropher's is an elf by the name of Thranduil. He has remained in Middle-earth and not travelled to these shores yet. He and I were not friendly either and I am told it was distinctly noticeable to all else present." He smiled conspiratorially. "Once," he added confidingly. "We actually had a duel to settle a dispute between us - and I confess not a particularly honourable one."
Ereinion grinned appreciatively. "May I use that as an excuse to Círdan next time he scolds me for my behaviour?"
Elrond laughed. "I do not think he is best pleased with me as it is," he cautioned. "I do not think we should allow him to know that I am setting you a bad example atop my other sins"
"Nor is he with me," Ereinion replied. "I accidentally - on purpose - left the sketches Oropher was making upon the window sill in our study room so that when it rained all the ink ran."
Elrond raised an eyebrow. "Ah," he said, wishing he could set a better example and not find such antics amusing. "And what had he done to provoke this?"
"He insulted me," Ereinion answered simply, sounding strikingly like one of Elrond's twins. "And to be fair, I did not hit him."
"How very restrained of you," Elrond said, smiling at his companion. "Oropher is a fellow student then, I presume? What was it that you were examining?"
"The Elven Rings of Power," came the reply.
Elrond paused and then, carefully, continued. "Oh? Do you study much in the way of history?"
"A little," Ereinion shrugged. "I wish that we could do more, but Círdan seems to think that it is best to put the past in the past and focus upon what each day brings."
"So very like him," Elrond murmured, almost to himself.
Círdan was troubled, though in a far more minor degree than Galadriel, with vague impressions of the future. A sense or suspicion of what was to come. Long had Elrond rued that he had paid less attention than had proved wise to Círdan's suspicions regarding Isildur. As a result of his nature, Círdan was more observant of daily occurrences, concentrating on what may or may not be influential, and aware that the past could not be altered, yet the future still could.
"So," Elrond went on, rousing himself. "What do you know about the history of the elves in Middle-earth?"
Ereinion shifted his seat on his mount and smoothed the dark mane as he considered. Then he began to speak, briefly sketching out the creation story of the music of Ainur, by passing the First Age almost entirely and then moving onto the Second.
"The Dark Lord first began to stir again in the realms of Middle-earth around the year 1000, when he built Barad-dur. He tried to win the support of the Eldar and was refused by the High King of the Noldor..."
Elrond wanted to ask if Ereinion knew the identity of the High King, but it was all too apparent that he did not. Keeping his silence, Elrond continued to listen.
"The smiths of Eregion were won over and forged the Rings of Power. There were nine rings for the race of Men, seven for the Dwarves and three for the Elves. These were supposed to grant them all the power to rule themselves. Following this, the Dark Lord forged in secret the One Ring, which was meant to give him power over all other races. The elvin master smith discovered this and in 1693 the war between the Dark Lord and the Eldar began. War continued for many years between them and in 3430 the High King of the Noldor and one of the kings of Men founded the Last Alliance. In 3434 the siege began and in 3441 the Dark Lord was overthrown. The One Ring was taken by the son of the man-king and the spirit of the Dark Lord lived on."
The outline of the Second Age was, at best, brief. Elrond realised as Ereinion spoke that Círdan had declined to name any of the major participants. Celebrimbor became only the 'master smith' and even Sauron himself was not spoken of by any of his names. It was a wise technique, if one wished to disguise the identity of any important figures - such as that of the High King of the Noldor...
It was also the vaguest coverage of the Second Age that could possibly have been given, the mere skeleton of all that had occurred and, for an instant; Elrond resented the need that had dictated this. It felt wrong that so many deeds, so many key figures had been eliminated and that the Age he had shared with Gil-galad, something that would later become so very significant to the child, had been barely acknowledged in his historical studies, almost as though its worth was nothing. Elrond let his gaze scan the landscape around, inhaling deeply of the salty sea air until he could keep a-hold of his tongue.
In speaking of the Third Age, Ereinion grew much more explicit. As Elrond knew from conversations with Glorfindel, the suspension in time that occurred in Mandos' Halls did not cut the spirit off from witnessing all that elapsed on the mortal plains: Vaire the weaver's tapestries that adorned the walls of the Halls detailed all that continued in the world beyond. Clearly Círdan had not feared to speak of the Third Age for, whether or not they now recollected it, the spirits within the now child-like elves had witnessed its passing. Ereinion chattered on until he had reached the quest of the Fellowship and its subsequent ending, until the passage of most of the elves into the West. Elrond nodded a few times, making the occasional comment but otherwise mostly contemplating the situation.
"Well," he said at long last, when Ereinion had finished. "You have covered a lot more than 'a bit' in my eyes."
"Yeesss," Ereinion said slowly. "But we have missed a lot out. Círdan says it does not matter for we have been told the important things, but I would like to know more, even so."
"That is understandable," Elrond acknowledged but, wary of the ground he now stepped upon, he did not hasten to enlighten the child on the hazy topics. "Remember though, he has taught you a lot in what cannot be more than seven or eight years, apart from the creation story of course, which I am sure you knew from your earliest years. What was the most recent topic then, the Rings of Power?"
"Only the Elven ones," Ereinion explained.
"And what were they called?" Elrond prompted.
"Vilya, Narya and..." Ereinion screwed up his brow to remember. "Nenya."
"Do you know who their bearers were?" Elrond asked, probing cautiously.
"Of course. Mithrandir has Narya, the Lady of Lothlórien has Nenya and you carry Vilya."
Elrond stretched his fingers out to reveal the sapphire ring he wore in acknowledgement of this truth. "Not that she possesses any power these days," he pointed out.
"The Ring of Air," Ereinion murmured thoughtfully.
Elrond nodded. "And what were the others?"
"Narya was the Ring of Fire and Nenya was..." again Ereinion faltered over this one. "Oh, the Ring of Water."
"That is correct," Elrond noted. "Did you realise that they were not always carried by those people, though?"
"They were not?" Ereinion seemed surprised. "I know that Círdan had Narya for a time, but of the others..."
"The High King used to carry two of the rings," Elrond said.
"Vilya and Narya," Ereinion replied instantly...and froze. He stared at Elrond for a minute and then looked away again, his expression distinctly unhappy. "I did not know that," he said, sounding uneasy.
Once again, Elrond regretted pushing the issue and found himself at a loss for words to ease the situation. "But you did," he said quietly.
"Not in this lifetime!" Ereinion replied shortly. He twisted his fingers into the mane of his horse, glaring down at the animal's withers.
"Does that make the recollection less valid?" Elrond asked gently.
Ereinion hesitated and then made a passable attempt at a smile. "No," he said eventually. "I think not."
For another few moments they rode on in silence before Ereinion spoke again. "You must have known the High King," he said thoughtfully.
Elrond exhaled quietly and then spoke. "Yes, I did."
Ereinion turned curious eyes upon his companion. "Did I?"
Elrond drew another breath in slowly and released it. To his relief, his voice was calm when he answered. "Yes. Yes, you did, rather well in fact."
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