Círdan

Having rested, the Noldor, save Aldanwë and the twins, leave on the next day. I closely observe Elrond and Elros. They do not speak with one another until the evening, but after the dusk has fallen, they return from the seaside together. Tears are still glistening in their eyes, but there is also peace, and that makes me hopeful.

The next morning I see Elros speaking with Aldanwë, whom he has rudely dismissed before. The boy is obviously apologizing now; his eyes are downcast in remorse. On Aldanwë’s face there is sympathy; he lifts Elros’ chin and speaks to him quietly. Elros nods, but then his composure breaks. He casts himself in Aldanwë’s arms and weeps.

“He loved them so,” says a quiet voice beside me, and I look with question at Elrond, who has approached unseen and now watches his brother’s grief with deep sadness and compassion in his eyes. “Our uncles. Elros has always been saying that he would be like uncle Maedhros when he grows up.”

I regard him closely. “And what of you?”

He turns abruptly, and I see him at struggle with himself. In the end, his words reveal his decision to reply truthfully.

“I, too, loved them. And I did not find enough bitterness and anger in my heart to condemn them as my brother would have wanted me to. As would have been right to do, perhaps.” He falls silent and looks at me intently for a while. “Does it make me weak, lord Círdan?” he then asks quietly. “Am I a traitor of our mother’s people because I gave my love to those who destroyed them and found not enough anger within me when I learned the truth?”

There is concern in his gaze, so earnest that I pity the boy.

“No, Elrond.” I shake my head. “You found something else instead of anger. Something better. You found forgiveness, and that certainly does not make you traitor. It was right to forgive. Your uncles made terrible mistakes, but they merit your compassion. And your compassion is a gift from Ilúvatar. It is your strength, not weakness. Your brother will see it too, in time.”

“Do you truly think so?” he whispers.

“Yes, I do.”

The relief and gratitude in Elrond’s eyes stab my heart, and I think that I may have become wiser myself since yesterday.

I am glad to see Elrond and Elros at peace with one another, but I am concerned for them both. They are like young trees, taken from the good earth of an orchard and planted in the dry coastal sand. Even though they find some consolation in each other’s company or sometimes speak with Aldanwë, they make no friends among the people of my house.

They are alike, as twins often are, but there are clear differences in them, too. They are both quiet, but for each of them it means something different. Elrond’s silence is mournful while his brother’s silence is irate, and Elros mostly answers with one or few words when spoken to, his curtness bordering on discourtesy.

Elrond is different. When I speak with him, he replies respectfully, but I cannot dismiss the feeling that the end of each conversation brings him relief, and that he rather sees me leaving than approaching. Elrond also loves the Sea much less than his brother. He often sits alone in the garden, reading, and what he reads is always the same – a leather-bound notebook, its pages covered in dense, even writing, or some loose sheets of paper, written by the same hand. The notebook makes him smile sometimes. The sheets bring only sorrow.

Elros seems restless. He does not miss a single sunset, and every day walks long stretches along the strand regardless of the weather. But he is as gloomy and cross as his brother is sad. I have not seen a true smile on either of their faces.

Several weeks pass like this. The spring storms abate and summer sets in, with bright long days and warm nights, filled with the fragrance of gardens. We are still untroubled by the war in the north, save some rare news brought by a weary messenger. The tidings are always the same. Morgoth’s fortress is besieged. Our aid is not needed.

Then, one morning, a different visitor comes. There is a clear horn-call, and after a while a mail-clad rider enters the courtyard, followed by several others. They dismount, and the foremost rider hastens towards me.

“I am glad to see you, my King.” I bow in greeting.

“Forget the titles, Círdan, would you?” Ereinion Gil-Galad laughs and embraces me. “Have I changed that much since our last meeting?”

“No, I would not say that you are changed that much.”

I smile and return the embrace, but then regard him closely. Ereinion’s cheerfulness fails to convince me, and there is worry in his blue eyes. Seeing my gaze, his laughter fades.

“Still, you would ask why I have come,” he says quietly.

“I would indeed. And I might also add that the King of the Eldar should not wander around Endor these days with but a small following.”

“Maybe.” A stubborn flash in his eyes brings forth my smile against my will. None could say that King Gil-Galad lacks courage, though he would maybe do better with more caution. “I had to meet you, Círdan. I need your advice.”

“You shall have it. But only after you and your men have had some rest and refreshment.” From their appearance I can see that they have ridden fast and far.

Ereinion laughs and departs to the room that has been his for many years. After a short while he returns. His chainmail is exchanged for plain clothes, and he has washed off the dust of the road. I have a light meal ready, and we sit in my study, its windows open towards the Sea. Ereinion’s gaze is concerned, and soon he starts speaking.

“I have received news from the north,” he says. “It should bring hope, but I am not entirely convinced. The host of the West is there, and they say they need not our aid. But the siege lasts for almost a year already. To me it seems that the war in the north is not going well. The walls of the Iron Fortress may be too strong even for the Valar. What should we do?”

“Wait,” I reply. “We should wait and build new ships. This war will not end swiftly. But we must be ready for the day when it will be over.”

“You know more than you reveal.” Ereinion looks at me intently. “But I believe that you would tell everything you can, and were there any good tidings, you would share them with me.”

“I have indeed said all I can, for now,” I reply. “The knowledge that the Sea brings to me is vague. Wind and currents unforeseen may shift the course of the future. Still, there are some good tidings, yet maybe of a different kind than you would expect. Elwing’s sons are here.”

His eyes widen in disbelief as I tell him the story, and when I fall silent, there is wonder and relief in his gaze.

“Who would have thought…” the King says quietly. “There were rumours, rumours I refused to listen to, and I am glad that they indeed proved false. I was loth to believe that my father’s friends could fall so low as to kidnap children.”

“Indeed.”

Slightly ashamed, I think to myself that I was more than ready to believe just that. But then, I have lived much longer in this world. I have seen more evil and treachery than Ereinion. Maybe that offers some excuse.

The first meeting of the King with Elwing’s sons is awkward. The twins are shy and quiet; only after some time Ereinion succeeds to draw Elrond into something that resembles a conversation. But Elros remains silent and speaks only when spoken to, and there is a poorly hidden distrust in his eyes whenever he looks at the King.

During the following days I watch this distrust growing, as his brother spends ever more time in the King’s company. They find that they have much to speak about for they both love lore and books, and Ereinion’s sincere and cheerful nature opens up a way for what I hope may grow into a true friendship. But while Elrond’s sorrow slowly lessens, jealousy grows in Elros’ heart. He does not turn his annoyance against his brother, but he does not join their conversations, always finding some excuse to leave, and afterwards I see him walking along the shore or sitting in the sand, alone and mournful. His anger, that had somewhat abated after his reconciliation with his brother and Aldanwë, is now smouldering again, and it is only a question of time when the distrust and dislike the boy feels towards Ereinion will turn into open enmity.

It is a bright and warm morning with barely a cloud in the sky when I find Elros by the Sea again. He sits in the dunes with a face like a thundercloud, and his fingers are tearing stalks of grass to pieces. He barely returns my greeting, and when I ask where his brother is, his eyes glint.

“He went riding afield. With the King of the Noldor.” The tone of the last sentence is an insult.

“And you?” I sit down beside him, pretending not to have noticed his insolence.

“I did not want to go. I enjoy his company not.”

He throws the shredded pieces of grass on the sand and makes a move to rise. I restrain him.

“We must speak, Elros. This will not do.”

For a brief while it appears that he will leave anyway. He glares at me, but in the end remains sitting, arms folded on his chest.

“Elros, why are you so angry?” I ask. “You will not lose your brother to any new friends he may find. From everything I have learned about you both, Elrond is not like that. And he desperately needs friends. As do you. You will not be enough for each other.”

He looks at me, somewhat surprised. Apparently he has expected me to speak of something else – maybe chastise him for his rudeness.

“I know that Elrond needs friends,” he replies after a while gloomily. “Only… why does it have to be… him? Anyone else, just not him!”

“You are unjust.”

“He is one of them,” he says stubbornly.

“Who are ‘they’, Elros? Are all the Noldor the same to you now? Ereinion was not in Sirion. He has done no evil to your family.”

“His father was a friend of Maedhros and Maglor.” His voice is bitter.

“I think you are wiser than to judge people by their parents’ friendships. Besides, you two are more alike than you think. No, let me speak.” I raise my hand when I see that Elros is about to object angrily. “Ereinion was little more than a child when his father had sent him to Havens, to keep him safe from the war in the north. He was barely of age when his father was slain in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, and still very young when he had to take upon himself the duties of the King.”

“I do not care,” Elros mutters sullenly.

I look at him intently and see that it is not true. His irritable bearing hides a kind and generous heart, and, against his will, he is moved by the fate of one he was ready to call his enemy but a while ago.

“I think you do. You are anything but indifferent to the suffering of others, Elros. I know that you are angry with your uncles, but it is not fair to ascribe their crimes to all Noldor.” The reminder that the twins are themselves in part Noldor, I wisely keep to myself.

“I just do not want to have anything to do with them any longer,” he whispers.

“That I can understand. But it does not mean you have to hate them. Hate does not become you, son of Elwing.”

Elros bites his lip and looks away, towards the wide expanse of the Sea. There is a sheen of tears in his eyes, but he fights them back; he will not cry in my presence.

“I am sorry,” he says quietly after a while. “I should be glad Elrond has someone else to speak to. But I cannot find any joy within me. All this is just so… so terrible.”

“It is.” I agree. “But you cannot change what has already happened, Elros. You cannot reshape the past. But you can shape your future. Allow some time to pass, allow yourself to heal, and you will see that there is light where there was darkness before.”

“I do not see that light now,” he whispers. “I am alone in the dark.”

“You are anything but alone, even though you may not see those around you now. But you must at least try to believe that they are there.”

He nods and we sit in silence for a while, but then he turns towards me again.

“Did you… did you know my mother and father, lord Círdan?” His voice trembles slightly.

“Yes, I knew them both.”

“I barely remember them. Can you tell me of them? Please?” There is no more anger. No more insolence. Beside me sits a child asking to hear of the parents he lost.

I tell him. I tell of Elwing, of his gentle and joyful mother. Of her bright smile that could bring light into the darkest of days. I tell of Ëarendil, of his strong and determined father. Of his laughter that made all others around him laugh also. Of his determination to bring a message to the Blessed Realm. I tell of Vingilot – of the ship I helped him build for his journey, of white timbers of birch trees. And as Elros meets in my tale the parents he barely remembers, a single silent tear slides slowly down his face.

“Father’s ship…” he says when I cease speaking. “Elrond said… The first time we saw Gil-Estel rising, Elrond said that it was a ship, a great shining ship. I have oft thought of that, and oft imagined my brother’s words to be true – Vingilot riding the sky and our father there, standing at the helm.”

“Who knows,” I softly reply. “The Valar are powerful. One thing is clear – your father delivered the message. So Vingilot made it to Valinor. One day, we may learn the true story.”

I see a spark in Elros’ eyes as he speaks about Vingilot, and a thought occurs to me suddenly.

“Would you like to see the shipyard?”

“Yes, please!” The excitement on his face is the only answer I need.

We go to the harbour, enter the building and walk around, and I tell about the work that we do here. His eyes shine as I show him the new ships that we build.

“I remember this scent from my childhood,” Elros says, resting his hand on the white timbers of the hull. “The wood and tar. The sea-spray. When I was little, I always thought that I would one day go to sea, like my father.”

Sadness clouds his gaze again; he sighs and draws back his hand.

“Would you like that?” I ask. “To go to sea?”

He raises his face towards me. “I…” The longing in his eyes fights pride and distrust he still bears towards me, but I plainly see now what I already suspected – Elros has the sea-heart of his father.

“Come with me,” I say and lead him to the docks where a small sailboat is moored on the leeward side of the pier. “We changed her rigging lately, and I need to see how she runs. Will you aid me?”

Elros does not reply but the look in his eyes speaks volumes. We board the boat.

“Release the mooring lines and drop them on the pier,” I say.

He does as he is told; I raise the sail, and the fresh breeze drives us away from the dock. The boat heels towards port and takes up speed. I steer her a safe distance away from the coast, adjusting the sail with one hand and holding the helm with the other; this is a small boat, easy to sail single-handed. Yet that is not my intent today. I turn towards Elros who stands at the stern, holding on to the rigging, his excited face turned towards the skyline.

“Take the helm.”

“But… I do not know what to do!” He looks at me, clearly frightened.

“I will tell you all you need to know. It is easy; if you turn the tiller left, the boat will head right, and the other way around. Now, remain on the windward side, take the helm and keep it straight, in the same direction we are heading.” He reaches for the helm, and I see his hands trembling; his fingers firmly grasp the wooden tiller. I adjust the sails to the direction we are sailing. “Do not be afraid. Feel the wind. Look how it fills the sail. Feel the boat, her movement.”

I explain how the wind works in the sails, how to steer, how the different parts of the boat are called, and Elros grows more confident with each mile we cover. His anxious grip on the tiller relaxes, and after a short while I notice that he knows what to do. He is steering the vessel surely and calmly, feeling every change in the wind and adjusting the tiller, so that the little boat retains her speed and smooth movement over the waves. And I do not see the irate, sullen boy any longer. I see a tall youth, strong and assured, with shining eyes and excited joy on his face. The Sea sings loud in the blood of Ëarendil’s son.

It is long past midday when we return to the shore. Ereinion and Elrond are back from their ride. They sit in the garden, Elrond’s face is troubled, and I see that Ereinion is attempting to reassure him – with little success. When they perceive us, Elrond jumps to his feet and nearly runs towards us.

“Elros, where have you been? Nobody in the house knew; I was so frightened!”

Then he notices a change in his brother and halts, unsure and amazed. But Elros reaches him in a few swift steps.

“I was sailing! Sailing, Elrond! Lord Círdan took me along on a sailboat, and I was steering her, can you imagine that? It was like flying! We went so fast over the waves, the wind sang in the rigging; there were gulls, too, and…”

He speaks and speaks until he is out of breath; then he laughs, and embraces his brother, and Elrond laughs too. I exchange glances with Ereinion who looks at the twins with a smile. I smile in return. They are both on their way to healing.

Still, I cannot chase away sudden sadness and foreboding. The Sea will be Elros’ salvation. Not so for Elrond. But such is Arda Marred, where joy is ever entwined with sorrow, and happiness comes at the cost of grief.