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Adrift  by Aldwen

Elrond

We depart from Himring on a sunlit morning, less than a day after we have learned the horrible truth. Our company is small: there is us, Aldanwë and three others. No more could be spared for a journey on such a short notice.

The air is warm, the first flowers blossom on the roadsides, birds sing loud in the bushes, and a light wind drives tiny white clouds across the sky. But despite the spring around us, I feel cold inside. With each step, the frost bites harder at my heart, until it becomes unbearable. We have ridden for less than a mile when I check my horse to a halt, so suddenly that the animal looks back at me with reproach. The others stop, too, and look at me with question.

“Elrond?”

My brother is frowning; he senses my mood. What I am about to do will drive a wedge between us. Yet I cannot do otherwise.

“I cannot leave like this.” My own voice sounds shrill to me. “Not without a farewell. Wait for me here a while. Please.”

Without awaiting any reply, I turn my steed and gallop back to Himring.

The old grey fortress upon the hill looks sad and lonely. Yet this has been our childhood home, home we have loved, and we have been happy here; these walls have known our running steps and laughter. I cannot leave it like this.

I ride into the courtyard, dismount and run up the short flight of stone steps. Some faces turn towards me, but nobody says anything. I enter the keep and go to search for my uncles.

I find them in the hall. Maedhros stands beside the fireplace, his hand on the lintel; the hearth is cold and empty. Maglor sits in a chair beside his harp, but his hands lay idle on his knees, and he stares down at them with a blank gaze. As I enter, they turn towards me, and there is confusion and disbelief on their faces.

I step over the threshold and suddenly do not know what to say, so we look at each other in heavy silence. Maedhros is the one to break it.

“Why have you returned, Elrond?” His voice has lost its depth and resonance. It is flat and nearly lifeless, a voice of one who is weary beyond all boundaries of weariness.

“I…” Grief tightens my chest and tears rise in my eyes, but I fight them back desperately. “I cannot leave without a farewell,” I repeat the words I said to my brother and the rest of the company a while ago. “You raised us. You gave us shelter. You taught us. You gave us your care. Your love. And… you must know that I am grateful for all that. Elros is grateful, too, only he is too enraged to admit that, but he will, with time, and…”

My voice breaks, and I fall silent. There is wonder on the faces of my uncles, wonder mingled with uncertainty. Maglor rises to his feet and looks me in the eyes now.

“We cannot ask you something that may be too much to give, Elrond, surely you understand that?” he says quietly and sadly.

“I understand,” I whisper. “But I would give it unasked. I do not know why you did what you did, how you could… But I… I forgive you. For my part, I forgive you.”

Ai, that look in their eyes! And my restraint breaks, and I cannot withhold my grief any longer. The world becomes distorted, and then Maglor is beside me. He draws me close and holds me as I weep, lamenting what I have lost, what we all have lost, and maybe also a little in relief and gratitude for that tiny piece we have retained.

At length I raise my eyes and draw a deep breath, willing the sobs racking my body to subside. Maglor brushes away my tears.

“We are grateful to you for your forgiveness,” he says softly. “It is of no avail now for you to know this, but we have regretted what we have done. Every single day.”

“I believe you. Long I have known that some shadow lies on your hearts. But he said you would one day tell us everything.”

“Who said that?” asks Maedhros.

“Celebrimbor.” One more piece of the puzzle clicks into place suddenly. Our cousin’s anger at his arrival. He had known. “He came to take us away, did he not? But then decided otherwise?”

“Yes. He changed his mind. He thought that here you would have the care you need. And we…” Maedhros’ voice falters for a while, but then he continues. “We tried, we sincerely tried to give you the best we could. That was a lie we told ourselves, maybe, for we could not replace your parents, and perhaps you would have fared better with your mother’s people. But we were too selfish to let you go. Your presence made us believe that there still was something good in us. If two such children as you could find in your heart affection for such as we are, it made us believe, if only for a little while, that maybe redemption was still possible.”

He falls silent and considers me a while closely, then goes to a locker in the corner and takes from there a sword in an ornate scabbard.

“Here, I want you to have this, Elrond.” I hesitate, and a shadow passes his face. Then – a bitter smile. “Fear not, this blade is not stained by the blood of the innocent.”

I blush fiercely, realizing that this is a two-handed sword Maedhros is holding out to me. I am about to apologize, but he shakes his head sadly.

“What else could you think?”

I take the sword and, to hide my embarrassment, bow my head and pretend to admire the ornaments on the scabbard. There is an air of ancientry to the flowing lines and there is an inscription in Tengwar, but I distinctly feel that this is not Elvish work. I look up at my uncle in wonder.

“Narsil was a gift to me from the Dwarf King Azaghâl,” Maedhros explains. “I chanced to aid some important Naucor in an encounter with Orcs. So King Azaghâl had it made for me as a token of gratitude. We had not met, and he did not know then that a two-handed sword was of little avail to me, save as an ornament on the wall. Still, this is a worthy blade and should not gather dust unused. Telchar made it.”

I gasp in wonder at the name of the renowned Dwarven smith. There is a story my uncle could tell, surely, about saving the Dwarf King’s people, about what King Azaghâl did when he learned that his gift was not fit for the one who received it… But my thoughts come to a sudden halt. There will be no more stories. Never again.

“Thank you, uncle,” I whisper, fighting grief. “I will put Narsil to good use. I promise. And I will honour what you have taught us.”

“I know that.” He smiles, then kisses my brow. “Now go, your brother awaits you. Go, and do not look back.”

I nod and turn to face Maglor who now holds out to me a small, flat parcel wrapped in velvet. He has likely gone to retrieve it while I spoke with his brother.

“Life and memory – they are akin in more ways than one,” he says.

I take the parcel and clutch it tightly, to stop my hands from trembling.

“Thank you. I will remember your songs, uncle Maglor. The happy ones and the sad ones.”

He makes an effort to smile and embraces me for the last time, and then there is nothing left to say. But as I leave the room, I hear a quiet whisper. “Farewell, iôn-nín.”

And then I am in the courtyard again; I strap the sword to the saddle and thrust the parcel in the saddlebag, mount and ride away without looking back.

The others sit in the shade of a large tree, all, save Elros who stands some steps away, arms folded on his chest. Hearing me approach, they turn. Aldanwë looks at me closely, then lightly nods. My brother’s eyes are hard and cold, and he is silent.

“We can go now.”

Nothing more is said. We resume our road in silence, and whenever I try to approach Elros, he turns away and rides ahead, too enraged even to speak.

My brother retains the distance also in the evening when we stop to rest. To the others, he says not a word more than strictly needed. To me, he does not speak at all. He sits apart, and after the meal, he stalks away in the shadows of the trees to nurse his anger in solitude. I remain by the fire, staring in the flames and feeling miserable, when Aldanwë sits next to me.

“Thank you, Elrond,” he says quietly.

“For what?”

“For going back to say farewell. It meant much to them.”

“So it seemed.” I look into the fire for a while, then raise my head towards the healer. “Why, Aldanwë? How could they…” My voice fails me again, and the last words come as a whisper. “They are not like that. I do not understand.”

“Do you want to? Knowledge can burden one’s heart, and more so – the knowledge of the suffering of those we love. Or… have loved.”

Aldanwë’s eyes are sad and ancient, and I wonder suddenly how old he is. Has he seen Valinor? The Light of the Trees?

“I have,” he replies softly, aware of my unguarded thoughts. “I have seen that Light welling over the land in waves of silver and gold and all creatures rejoicing in its purity. I have seen it cruelly put out. I have seen Maedhros, Maglor and his brothers grow up; I was their father’s friend. And I have seen them all become… what they became, in the end.”

“Will you tell me? I have forgiven them, but I want to understand. I need to know.”

Aldanwë looks at me closely, then slowly nods. “Yes. I will tell you.”                                                               

And he does. He speaks of things we have never learned of in their entirety, and of events we have never heard of at all, nor found in any book in the library of Himring. His story is the story of the one who has been present, who has seen the glory of the Valar and the beauty and the wonder of the Trees, who has admired this Light captured within Silmarils. One who has witnessed the unrest of the Noldor and their willingness to journey to Endor, set ablaze by Melkor’s treacherous whispers. One who has watched with a heavy heart his friend’s mind overshadowed by suspicion and pride, but has remained at his side nonetheless, despite Fëanor’s terrible choices. One who has tended his friend’s eldest son after his rescue from Thangorodrim and, in sorrow, has silently prayed for his release from suffering. One who has taken part in the long battle of the Noldor with Morgoth, who has seen the first few victories and the many devastating defeats afterwards.

Aldanwë speaks plainly. He does not offer any excuses. But his story helps me understand the depth of despair of those bound by Fëanor’s Oath. It takes many evenings for him to relate all this, and all this time my brother watches me askance, his rage smouldering. In the morning of the fifth day of our journey, he pulls me aside.

“Why are you speaking with him, Elrond?” he asks me in a sharp, loud voice, hands clenched in fists, eyes flashing. “He is one of them, do you not realize that? One of those who spilled the blood of our people in Sirion! Still, you speak with him. Why?”

“Because I want to understand what happened,” I reply. “I want to know why they did that.”

“Is it not enough that you know them to be blood-stained murderers?” He bristles.

“No, it is not enough. They are not evil at heart, Elros. I want to understand why good people do terrible things.”

“So you are on their side now?” His eyes narrow. “Fine, keep listening to the tales of that Noldo!”

He nearly spits out the last word, and his unwillingness to understand finally angers me too.

“You are the only one looking for sides, Elros!” I reply sharply. “There are none! And you, too, should listen to Aldanwë! You might become wiser for that, brother!”

“Better a fool than a wise traitor!” He turns towards his horse, but after a few strides looks back over his shoulder. “If you have become one of them now, Elrond, I hate you too!”

Elros’ words cut deeper than blades. He speaks not a word to me afterwards, and as we approach the coastlands, I realize that I may have gained some knowledge and understanding, but I also may have lost my brother. In my heartache, I doubt myself. Maybe I should stand with Elros in this. Maybe I, too, should speak angry words of reproach. Does my willingness to forgive make me weak, make me traitor? I do not know, and I doubt myself, torn between the love I have towards my brother and towards my uncles.

On the last evening as we camp in the wilderness before reaching lord Círdan’s house I pull out the small velvet-bound bundle from my bag. I unwrap it. It is a simple notebook, filled with writing in Maglor’s neat hand. “Tales from the Twilit Years”, says the title page in Quenya. “Stories of the Eldar about the Great Lands ere their Journey to Valinor, as retold by Nelyafinwë Fëanárion and recorded by Makalaurë Fëanárion.” The evenings by the firelight come back to my mind. Maedhros’ resonant voice. The soft sounds of Maglor’s harp.Life and memory – these two are akin in more ways than one.”

I smile sadly, but as I am about to close the notebook, I notice several folded sheets of paper resting against the back cover, covered with the same dense and neat writing. I unfold them. And when I have read the verses of Noldolantë, I know that I cannot find enough bitterness in my heart to please my brother.

 



Notes

iôn-nín – my son (Sindarin)

Nelyafinwë Fëanárion – Maedhros, son of Fëanor (Quenya)

Makalaurë Fëanárion – Maglor, son of Fëanor (Quenya)                        

NoldolantëThe Fall of the Noldor. ‘…that lament which is named Noldolantë, the Fall of the Noldor, that Maglor made ere he was lost.’ (The Silmarillion)





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