Far Horizons 24:  Coming Together

He had left it behind.  Minastan rifled through his pack again.  How could he have been so stupid?  It was not as if he had been forced to run – he had had plenty of time to organise himself.  Half the things he had brought had not really been that important: he had only packed them as a precaution.  But this – the one thing that could truly give the wretchedly nosy elves somewhere to start their search – had been overlooked.

He checked again in all the dark corners and poked through the pockets, but it was not there.  He had known that it would not be.  Once things started to go wrong for you, providence had a way of relishing your discomposure.  He closed his eyes.  Think.  Think now.  When had he last had it?  It had been on his finger when he last saw the elleth.  He was sure of that, because she had been hinting that it would make a good betrothal ring.  As if he would give anyone his adar’s ring – the only thing that he possessed that had belonged to that elf he had never known.

He had not worn it again – it was too distinctive, and he had not wanted to attract any notice. 

Of course, should they find it, distinctive could be his undoing.

He drew deliberate breaths to calm himself.  What should he do?  If they searched his rooms, they would find it.  If they found it, they would be looking for more than shadows.  But they might not have looked in the right place.  It was worth taking a risk and returning to seek the ring.  If it was not yet in their hands, he wanted it. It was part of who he was. 

He grabbed the debris that he had thrown from his bag and crumpled it back in place.  He would take the chance.

Fate owed him this.

***

Calion rolled his shoulders.  They ached.  There was no evading it – he was finding the drills hard.  Too many years of idling had softened his muscles and given him the idea that he was too important to spend his time maintaining the skills he had been taught as an elfling.  And now Thranduil’s captain seemed determined to rid him of both his arrogance and his idleness.  It was not that he was made to work harder than anyone else – he was just struggling along from several yards behind the starting line.

Hithien looked at him with amusement.  He was resolved not to complain – like an elfling undergoing punishment, determined to prove that he was adult enough to endure it.  She would not intervene unless she thought the pressure was unreasonable: it would not be fair on him, but there was no need for him to endure aching muscles when that could so easily be put right. 

‘Here,’ she said.  After checking that the elflings were playing happily in the box of sand that Thranduil had had brought up from the shore, she stepped behind him and began to massage his shoulders.  He gasped as she managed to find the most painful spots and worked to release the tension.  His head dropped forward and he drew a deep breath. 

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘I have some liniment I will rub in later,’ she told him briskly. ‘You will smell rather fragrant, but it will help ease the discomfort.  And you are getting better,’ she said. ‘If you continue to improve, you will soon be ready for me to challenge you to a match.’

He looked up and smiled at her warmly.  Hithien returned his gaze, looking away only as Surion came and leaned on Calion’s knee.

‘I am bored,’ he confided.  ‘It is all very well for little elflings to play in the sand, but I am too big to find it fun.  Can you not take me somewhere else, Calion, so we can do the sorts of things ellyn enjoy?’

Hithien grinned.  ‘Like drinking too much wine and eying up passing ellyth?’ she murmured in Calion’s ear, too quietly for Surion to catch.

‘Shall we play ball over there on the lawn?’ Calion suggested. ‘Or I could help you make castles in the sand.  I always enjoyed doing that.’

Surion looked at him doubtfully.  ‘You would have to leave your sword with Hithien,’ he instructed him, ‘and take off your boots.  Naneth does not like it when we bring sand indoors.’

‘When I was younger,’ Calion told him, ‘and we stayed with my grandparents, my brother and I would spend days building great castles on the shore as the tide went out, and then we would wait for the sea to come back and wash them away.  I never tired of it.’

‘Could we do that?’ Surion asked hopefully.  ‘I think I would enjoy that.’

Calion frowned.  Something in the memory was eating at him.  The wide foreshore, wet sand gleaming as the water shivered in the ripples, the drier patches circling their footprints as they danced naked in the sunshine.  Behind them; the dunes, crowned with rough grass, the dry grains blowing in the constant breeze and, watching them, a tall figure, face shadowed, his black hair blowing.  His naneth had been uneasy, he remembered, the laughter that filled her when she was at her parents’ house had stilled and she had called them back to her side.  After that, their daeradar had sent guards with them, to sit, bored, at the head of the beach, watching the land rather than the water – and his naneth had stayed at home, sending instead their nursemaid with them to play in the sand. 

‘Please,’ Surion pulled at his sleeve.  Calion blinked and looked at him helplessly.

‘Soon,’ Hithien said, ‘soon, I hope.’

***

She wondered why her daughter had left the notebook at home.  Nessariel had always been one for sitting there in the evening, expressing her thoughts in the series of journals that had been among her begetting day gifts from the time she started to learn to read and write.

Ancalime had not even noticed at first that the shelf in her room had acquired these extra volumes.  There were, after all, so many.  But something, she did not know what, had made her go and look at this record of her precious child’s life.  She had slipped out odd volumes at random, reading snippets about new gowns and old friends, complaints about her tutors and paeans of praise for immature youths who had disappeared from her mind as quickly as they had arrived. 

As she worked her way along the shelf, the Nessariel she saw grew older and increased in seriousness.  No longer satisfied to remain at home, carrying out the duties of a daughter, she wanted to spread her wings and venture out into a world that seemed full of promise.  Tears stung Ancalime’s eyes and she nearly abandoned the remaining journals.  Her little one.  Her sweet trusting daughter, who had been manipulated and twisted before he betrayed her to her death.

Then Ancalime noticed them.  There were two.  Newer than the others and slightly different in style, they must be the last volumes that Nessa had written, although they were out of sequence.  Her naneth frowned.  One, maybe, she could understand.  Nessa might have brought one finished book when last she visited. But why would there be a second?  She took them from the shelf and settled in the rocking chair by the window to see what her daughter had felt it necessary to place here; hidden in the open with all her other diaries.

Before she was halfway through the first journal, she began to see why her daughter had not wanted to keep these documents with her.  He had been like a poison, this lover who had cost her her life; a slow insidious poison that had caused her to rot from the inside.

Nessariel – open, frivolous, light at heart – had begun to change.  At first no more than a little; small changes made in the hope of pleasing her adored – she had spent less time with her friends, she had cultivated others whom he wished her to know, she had listened more and spoken less.  None of them bad in themselves – but the signs of things to come.   He had demanded that she keep him secret – presented it as romantic, as a sign of her devotion: she had, of course, complied.

Ancalime closed the first of the diaries and wiped the tears from her cheeks.  When had her daughter started to fear him?  Under the shadow, the addiction of her love, her voice was no longer happy. 

Only the first few pages of the last journal had been completed.  He had discovered a painting she had made of him and put in a locket.  He had struck her and ripped the jewel from her neck – and threatened retribution if he found any evidence that she had kept what he had told her to destroy.  She could no longer risk writing her thoughts, she said.  Only silence would be safe.  Only here, she wrote, would she risk leaving all she had of him.  From between the leaves of the slim journal, Ancalime removed a few sheets of paper.

She looked at them for several minutes before forcing her shaking hands to open her daughter’s treasures: a thin lock of his hair, braided and twisted into a circle; a small painting done in delicate watercolours of an intense dark-haired elf with stormy grey eyes; a sketch of a hand wearing a noticeable ring and a brief unromantic letter.

Ancalime lifted her eyes to the window, where the sun shone brightly on the verdant meadow and elves sang with joy as they worked in the pure air of this Blessed Realm, and she wept at the pointlessness of it all.

***

It was such a small thing.

It sat on the table before them, reminding Elrond with a chill of another unwelcome gold circlet that had lain before his eyes.  This, at least, did not throb with the power of evil, but still it compelled their attention.

‘It was found tucked away in a place of concealment deliberately cut out to hide it,’ he said.  ‘Neither the hiding place nor the ring had been there long – it must belong to our quarry.’

It was a solid ring; a symbol of power.  Created from two shades of gold, the faceted emerald catching the light, it was a piece designed to be the only one of its kind.

‘I know it,’ Thranduil said slowly.  ‘I have seen it before.’  He stretched his hand out to touch it.  ‘I carried with me for some time, until I was able to give it to his widow.  Terendul wanted it returned for his son.’  His eyes were dark as he recalled that bitter time.  ‘When finally we returned to the forest, grieving for our losses, she had borne the child and he was growing in the image of his adar.  She called him Gurthion.’

‘A cruel burden to inflict on a child,’ Celeborn said softly.  ‘His adar’s death was not his fault.’

‘His naneth resented him.  Terendul had made her promise that, should he die, she would survive him for the sake of their son.  She could not forgive the elfling for that.’ Thranduil brooded over his memories. 

Celeborn placed a hand on his shoulder and gripped reassuringly.  ‘You could do nothing to change it, Thranduil,’ he said.  ‘Comfort yourself with the knowledge that you dealt differently with your own loss.  You gave more of yourself to Legolas because he lost his naneth – and you raised a son of whom you can be proud.’

Thranduil brought up his hand to cover his cousin’s and cleared his throat.  ‘She sailed,’ he continued.  ‘Her parents saw that she would not heal, so they took her and the ellon and came to these lands.  I have never thought to wonder what became of Terendul’s son.’

Elrond pushed the ring with his long forefinger.  ‘I think we know now,’ he said soberly.

‘And we have our trap,’ Celeborn said with decision.  ‘This is something that will draw him back as sure as honey attracts a wasp.  He will not have meant this to fall into our hands – it is too much a part of his identity.  If he has treasured this throughout more than an age of Arda, he will come back for it.  All we need to do is wait and watch.’

***

Sirithiel sat cradled in the branches of her favourite beech and allowed her head to droop.  She was glad to know that he was safe, she told herself firmly.  She was, but she had not realised how much she would ache for him.  The big bed seemed empty without his strong body warm against hers, too silent without his soft breathing, lonely and unwelcoming.  Neither did her home feel hers any more.  She was living in his adar’s house, and, for all the care they offered her, she felt an outsider.

It was not just her.  Even Miriwen, who had Elrin to keep her busy, was less than happy in Elladan’s absence. And less observant than usual, too, for otherwise she would have noticed that all Sirithiel wanted to do was curl up and sleep, as the developing elflings drained her and she hungered for the strength and support that only Elrohir could offer her. 

She leaned her head back against the solid strength of the tree and hummed a plaintive song of loneliness.

‘We need to bring Elrohir back,’ Celebrian murmured firmly to her naneth.  ‘He might be at some risk – but Sirithiel’s need outweighs it.  She requires his presence during this time.  Twins put a huge demand on their naneth as they grow within her.  Elerrina found it hard enough, even with Legolas beside her.  Elrond felt that, at this stage of pregnancy, Sirithiel would be able to cope, but I am not convinced.  I will need you to add your authority to my words.’

‘Bully him, you mean?’ Galadriel asked.

‘If necessary.’ Celebrian said flatly.  ‘This is too important for politics to spoil.  Contented elflings are born of happy parents – Sirithiel needs Elrohir now.’

‘It is not an invariable rule,’ Galadriel commented, ‘but I concede that it helps.’  She looked at the pale elleth moping in the tree.  ‘Shall we join her?’ she suggested.  ‘We can provide her with a measure of support at this time.’

It was indicative of Sirithiel’s current state, Celebrian thought sympathetically, that her son’s wife did not even notice their arrival.  It was not until Galadriel rested her slender hand on Sirithiel’s bare arm, that the elleth’s eyes focused and she registered their arrival.

‘I am sorry,’ she said shyly. ‘I am so sleepy at the moment that I do not seem able to keep my attention on anything.’

‘I felt like that when I was carrying Celebrian,’ Galadriel told her.  ‘I believe that my lord would have been more than happy for me to bear him many elflings, for he says it was the only time in all our long years that I was restful and compliant.  He always says that his missed his opportunity to extract various pledges from me.’

Sirithiel giggled at the idea of a serenely co-operative Lady Galadriel.

‘Oh, you may laugh,’ her husband’s daernaneth smiled. ‘Yet, even so, I found it an experience like no other.’  She perched next to Sirithiel and slipped her arm around her waist.  ‘You must let us support you, my dear one,’ she said.  She pushed back the fair hair and looked into the soft grey eyes.  ‘For the ellyth, if not for you.’ 

Slowly Sirithiel nodded.  ‘Thank you,’ she agreed. ‘I think that I need help.’

‘You have it,’ Celebrian promised.

Galadriel said nothing, but took Sirithiel’s fair head on her shoulder and began to hum, a gently soothing melody that imparted comfort and strength as it twined with the song of the tree that held them.  Celebrian joined in with a higher harmony, taking and massaging her daughter-in-law’s hands.

Sirithiel smiled as a pale flush of rose coloured her cheeks and her eyes brightened. ‘Oh,’ she gasped as a faint fluttering stirred within her.  ‘Oh, I think -,’ she paused in sudden uncertainty.  ‘I think -.’

‘You did,’ Lady Galadriel told her softly.  ‘You felt them move.’

***

‘I remember them,’ Celebrian said.

Elrond sat beside her in the window.  ‘They were at Imladris for a very short time,’ he said.  ‘I had no recollection of them at all when Thranduil spoke, but later the description of the family nagged at me.’

‘I knew his eyes,’ his wife sighed.  ‘He had eyes like storm clouds, full of rage and misery.’ 

‘Her parents brought her to me,’ he told her.  ‘She was – not mad, as Men go mad, but – neither was she entirely sane.’

‘I believe I was visiting Imladris when they came there on their way to the Havens,’ Celebrian continued.  ‘He was quite young, but he was already unhappy.  His naneth’s parents were so worried about her that they paid him little attention and she, of course, was so bound up in her despair at Terendul’s death, that she barely knew of his existence.’

‘It would have been better for him if one of his parents had had a sister who could have taken him into her home and heart,’ Elrond commented sadly.  ‘I suggested to his grandparents that they should seek foster parents for him, but they were insistent that his naneth needed him.  They could not see that what he needed was something entirely different.  I was hopeful that, once they reached the Blessed Realm, someone would be able to intervene to see that he obtained the love he required and that she would make an eventual recovery to bring him comfort.’

‘Gurthion,’ remarked his wife sympathetically.  ‘Death’s son.  I am not surprised he wished to be known by another name.’

‘I wonder why he waited until now to start his campaign against the world,’ Elrond mused, slipping his arms around his wife and kissing the tip of her ear as she rested her head against him.

‘Thranduil,’ she suggested. ‘I daresay his naneth harped continually on his safe return from war, blaming him for living when her husband had died.  Perhaps Thranduil’s arrival was the last straw for the poor elf.’

Elrond sighed.  ‘And yet,’ he said, ‘however much we may pity him, his actions put him outside society.  We may forgive him, but we cannot condone what he has done.’

Celebrian took his hand.  ‘A tragedy born of war and loss,’ she mourned. ‘Surely something can be done to help him.’

‘I do not know.’  Elrond sounded weary. ‘And I doubt whether he would let us, even if we could.’

***

The room overlooking the market was quiet.  Minastan stood in the shadows, watching patiently.

He would gain nothing if he walked into a trap.  It was one thing to wait while your victim approached your own carefully-set-out nets and to relish the closing of every escape route.  He knew enough about that to want to avoid a similar destiny.

There was no-one inside the room that had been his haven over these long months, but that he knew that did not necessarily mean that he would be unobserved.  The market was an ideal place for people to keep guard – where else could someone spend a whole day wandering over such a small area, or sit patiently keeping a small stall?  If he kept out of sight here, he would soon see who it was that was remaining when they would normally have gone on their way and, once they were known, it would be easy enough to avoid the watchers.

The pattern on the pavements altered as the light shifted, but he remained immobile out of view, waiting for his opportunity to act.  He was accustomed to waiting.

The sky clouded over and a fine drizzle began to fall, making the broad stone square glisten as the cobbles reflected the light.  Minastan smiled as the elves drew up their hoods.  Those who could finished their marketing and headed for home, leaving the sellers to fix up extra side awnings to protect their goods, or to huddle under their canvas canopies.  Good. He now had even less chance of being observed. 

From the other side of the market, hidden in the mouth of a narrow alleyway, the pale elf whose recognition of him had alerted Minastan to his danger shrank back out of sight.  He was not yet close enough to risk being seen by his target.  Once he was near enough that the amoral elf could not hope to avoid him, he did not care who watched as he taught his daughter’s killer a lesson fully intended to be his last. 

Shadows among the roof tops surveyed them both.  ‘Which is the one we seek?’ breathed one to another.

‘I cannot be entirely sure,’ he murmured.  ‘They both fit the description.  It should not matter – we will watch both equally closely.  We will wait until our quarry enters the room before we make any move.  There is less chance that he might escape.  Ensure that all know what to do – but do not let either of them see you.’

The younger elf grinned.  ‘Be sure of it,’ he whispered and slipped away.