A/N: Wow. It feels so weird to be writing A/Ns again.
I haven't written fanfic in forever, but I found a half-finished version of this kicking around and decided to complete it. Warning: if any of you old timers who know me are still around, this story is not at all like what I normally write. Repeat: It's not funny. At all. This is appropriately labeled angst.
Lord Elrond sat in his study reading a very long, very dry book as a cool spring breeze and the sound of clashing steel drifted in through the open window. It was spring in Rivendell, and Elladan and Elrohir were practicing their fencing in the garden, at home for once, though not for long. Elrond smiled as he glanced at them from the window. They were enough to make any father proud.
He watched as Elrohir twisted Elladan's sword out of his brother's hand, tossing his own aside and tackling him with his bare hands. That was like something Elros would do, Elrond thought, quietly laughing as the two elves wrestled on the grass. Then he sighed. It was very like something Elros would do. Elrohir grew more like his uncle everyday. It was too bad they would never meet each other.
For a moment, he was back again, back to the days when he and Elros had romped as children in the hills of Himring, Uncle Maglor joining in, as playful as though he were an elfling again himself. Uncle Maedhros' sober, war-beaten face brightened by a slight, wistful smile as he watched.
Elrond sighed again as the vision faded and turned his attention back to his book. But the words blurred before his eyes, and his mind suddenly became unable to comprehend the strategy behind this or that battle.
He remembered when they had first been told of the Choice. He had chosen without question, nearly without thought. He would be of the Eldar, the race of Luthien and Idril his grandmothers, of Maglor and Maedhros who had treated him and his brother so kindly in their youth, and of Gil Galad, who had appointed him his herald. It had been the obvious choice.
He had expected Elros to choose the same, and had been puzzled when his younger brother had paused, obviously hesitant. What was there to hesitate about?
He was reliving it, now. Elros had raised his head, apparently having come to a decision. "I choose to be counted as one of the Edain," he had said, quietly, but quite distinctly.
He was there, heard himself gasp, felt the sudden clenching in his chest all over again. Elros had heard the gasp, too, and cast him a beseeching glance. "Try to understand," that glance said. "Please. Please try."
"Why?" Elrond had stammered, as everything had seemed to sink away around him. "Why?"
"I-I'm sorry, Rond," said Elros. He hadn't called him Rond for so many years, 'til then. It was a pet name used in their youngest days. Rond and Ro, they had called each other. "I'm sorry," he said. "But that is my choice."
Elrond shut the book with a bang. It was no good trying to read. He stood by the window and gazed out at the garden. Lindir walked along the paths, waving a butterfly net. The twins had set aside their swords for bows.
"Hey, Ro," joked Elladan, who'd just made a bull's eye, "bet you can't do better than that!"
Elrond shut the window suddenly. The early spring breeze was chilly, and had made him shiver.
He sat down at his desk and began to write a letter, but it was no good. It kept coming back and crowding into his mind. There had been a chilly spring breeze that day, too; but instead of being scented of flowers and rain and newly cut grass, it had borne the salty smell of the great unending sea.
"You really won't sail, then?" asked Elros, as they stood facing each other awkwardly.
"No," replied Elrond, trying to hide how wretched he felt. "I belong here."
Elros was going to Numenor, where he would be crowned king. Elrond would remain in Beleriand as King Gil Galad's herald.
Elros looked away suddenly. "Will I see you again?" he asked after a moment.
Elrond didn't know what to say. He didn't know anything. But he knew Elros wanted an answer.
"Of course you will," he said, hoping he wasn't lying. Then he suddenly reached out and hugged his little brother.
Elrond sighed and opened his eyes. Elros had always been mature for his age...he was already mature enough to be a good king at only 90 years...but Elrond was still the older brother. They were so different: Elros so light-hearted and brave, Elrond more sober and cool-headed. His brother had looked up to him.
But not enough to follow him everywhere. It had been Elros' choice, and he had made it. Elrond still didn't understand. He wondered if he ever would.
He stood up. He had a lot to do...too much to sit around day-dreaming, he scolded himself. He stepped out of his study, adjusting his robes.
Elros was gone now, and Elrond couldn't understand it. It had been so short. It seemed but a day since their parting when when he heard that the King of Numenor was dead. Not of any wound or illness, but of old age. He had lived but 500 years: a mere moment in Elrond's life. And yet he knew it was far longer than most men lived.
Elrond suddenly realized that he was old. He had watched a whole line of kings be made, reign, and break. He was very old.
He stopped and gazed at the shards of Narsil. He had not meant to come to the chapel, but somehow as his mind wandered, so had his feet, and they had brought him here.
Here to the sword of Elendil, the man who he had loved not only as a nephew, but as a friend. Here to the remembrance of Isildur, also, whom Elrond had cared for as much as his own sons. And yet it seemed that Isildur had returned no love.
The guilt was so strong, and yet Elrond kept telling himself there was nothing he could have done. Could he have slain his friend's child, the descendant of his own brother, in whom so much of Elros was preserved? Then surely the line of Numenor would have ended, and no king ruled from Gondor. And so he had let Isildur keep the ring and throw away the honor of his ancestors. He had stood by and said much, but done nothing.
It had all been to no purpose. Isildur had been shot by a wandering orc party, and the line of kings was broken, though his heirs lived on in the wild. He had been helpless to help him, he knew, but the guilt was still there.
He resumed his walk, the huge mural on the wall catching his eye as he did so. It showed Isildur battling Sauron, a dead Elendil in the background. Elrond turned abruptly, with a frown. He would have to tell Erestor to paint over the image. It was too disturbing. What if Arwen came in here some time?
He wandered listlessly out onto the terrace. Lindir had apparently stopped waving his butterfly net and was singing, several other elvish voices joining his in a slow, sad lament.
"Gil Galad was an Elven-King,
Of him the harpers sadly sing…"
Elrond listened sadly. Elendil was not the only friend who had died in that battle. Gil Galad...his King, his friend, his mentor...had perished by the heat of Sauron's hand and his spirit had passed to the Halls of Mandos. Years had gone by, but the sorrow had not diminished.
But this he was able to understand. Someday Elrond himself might perish in battle, and his spirit too would go to the Halls of Mandos. Yet not even the Valar knew where men went at death.
And yet that was the path Elros had chosen. And Elrond would never understand.
TBC.
