Men Lie
I can only hope, against all I know of long, long years of experience, that Aragorn will return from this quest, whole in mind as well as body. I hold great fondness for the rightful King of Gondor, yet, it is not for him that I hope, but for Arwen; I hope that she will not come to regret her love for a mortal man, and that she may know the truest happiness, which I tasted only so briefly as to grieve its loss for all these endless ages.
Three thousand years ago, when last the dark lord Sauron moved in Middle Earth, when last the terrible Ring moved, there was a final great battle fought, and, Sauron was defeated by the shattered sword wielded by the man Isildur; Isildur in turn was defeated by the Ring, and brought to his destruction by his own weakness, and by my failing.
I should have done more than persuade, more than demand; I should have struck off Isildur's hand, if need be, to take the Ring, and cast it back into the fires of Mount Doom whence it came, should even have slain him, then, if I must, to destroy that embodiment of evil, and yet, I did not; could not, for I loved him.
We met, first, when an envoy from Gondor, led by the young Prince, came to Rivendell; I too, was a Prince, then, and, I fell as swiftly as any star from the heavens. Isildur had within him the desperate and daring fire of the best and worst of men, and I was the moth to that flame. I was beautiful, even more then than now, even among my own fairest race, but I knew the ways of men and elves are not at all alike, and so I pined in a misery of silent longing for Isildur, all the while as we became the best of friends in those worst of times.
I dared not speak my heart's desire, and yet, when Isildur, guessing it at last, had voiced it for me, I spoke to say that I did not expect that he would feel the same love for me. Those words took more of my courage than facing any foe I had ever known, for I expected, and dreaded, the moment, any moment, when his eyes, so kind upon me, and so warm, would grow cold and hard with his rejection; Isildur's laughter, not mockery, but delight, and his embrace, were the sweetest reward I have ever known, in all of my immortal life.
I did surprise him with my passion, my Isildur, for he had imagined that an elf would keep his regal aloofness even in the heat of lovemaking; I played the maid to him, for he could play no role but one, and yet I matched him, fire for flame, and, it was, the first time to the last, exquisite ecstasy.
No less exquisite were the moments after, in silken bed or forest floor, when simply we lay sated in one another's arms, and spoke of nothing but our dreams and hopes and fears, and of the life that we would share; I made the selfsame vow Arwen has made, of course: I pledged to Isildur my immortality, for the bliss of one mortal lifetime, shared, if we two survived the war that loomed ahead. At first he balked at the thought of such a thing being sacrificed to him for the sake of our love, but soon he saw it as I did- the only way, as right and needful as the rising of the sun, and it's setting, and as for myself, I never counted the cost, for Isildur's own promises assured me that I was of all things, his best beloved, his most precious, and I was content.
That there would be hardships, we knew, Isildur and I- he was wed already, to a human woman, and had sons; I would ever be the elven 'other', the secret all of his men knew and pretended they knew not. I would bear that indignity. Too, I would leave the ruling of my people to another, for I would give that up, as well, to be at his side. Never, until it was too late, did I account that all the sacrifices would be made by me, for in the light of love, they seemed as nothing.
There were years we had, Isildur and I, and perhaps it might seem that such a span in all these many years might be as a drop of rain into a flood, and yet, so sweet were those times, I know now that it is all the rest that has been the single drop, and our love which was the torrent by which all else was shaped, and measured.
The last day of great happiness in my life was the eve of that final battle; we knew what we faced, and what the odds, and, it was with a human desperation to equal Isildur's that I gave myself to him that final time, and after our lovemaking, we swore to fight by one another's sides to the last, and to fall, if we fell, so that our blood would join us forever as one in death, if life was denied us. So brave, and so young- those vows must prove it, that once, I, too, was young.
The rest is mostly in the history, the battle, and our blessed victory, Isildur's gaining of the Ring, and my taking him straight away to the mountain, allowing us no rest until we reached the edge of the fire, and I regret that, oh how I regret it, not making time for one last moment, but I knew too well the lore of that evil token's forging, and of what must be done.
Isildur refused to cast the ring into the fire of Mount Doom, determined then to keep it, and rule with it, making Gondor the kingdom of his visions. I argued with him, and demanded, and, yes, when he had run from the cavern of the fire, with me on his heels, pleaded, and almost, for one moment, I think that I nearly swayed him. Almost, he turned back, to do what should have been done, or so I choose to think, but in the end, Isildur refused. I spoke then, in my anger, threatening, and told him I would leave him for all time if he would not destroy the Ring, and then, at last, I saw him cold to me, as it was the Ring that Isildur chose over my love.
I could have taken him, could have beaten him and had the ring from his corpse, I knew it then as I know it now, but I did not. I watched him stride away from me, his new 'precious' clenched tightly in his fist, my sword stilled by love. Isildur never once glanced back, and perhaps that is a mercy, for he never saw my tears; he rode away, a King embracing madness, to his death. I returned alone, for I refused to ride with my companions, to Rivendell, and there heard of his sorry fate; I mourned him then as I mourn him still.
I wed, and I was blessed with my sons, Elladan and Elrohir, with my beautiful Arwen; I ascended the throne, and I ruled, and I think I have done well enough by my people. I have done, in any case, the best that I knew how, and, always, in the depths of my hidden heart, Isildur has lived.
Soon, I will go into the West. If I were yet young and full of folly, I would dream that what awaits me beyond is Isildur, but I am old, and weary, and, hope for nothing half so fanciful. I have but one wish left, and that, for her. For Arwen. I will not speak to her again of all my dire warnings; she would not be swayed, and, I would not taint a moment of her joy. So, now, I will only hope, that she, my daughter whom I have loved best among all Middle Earth, (excepting only one, and he long gone,) will never come to understand: men speak of love, and, indeed, they feel it, heating their blood, stirring their flesh, and even inspiring their minds, but the race of men is inconstant, and it is not the heart's love which they hold most dear, but the power which they crave and which slips ever through their grasp.
I am Elrond, King of the Elves, and this I alone I hope: may Arwen never learn that men lie, for their hearts are ever weak.
I can only hope, against all I know of long, long years of experience, that Aragorn will return from this quest, whole in mind as well as body. I hold great fondness for the rightful King of Gondor, yet, it is not for him that I hope, but for Arwen; I hope that she will not come to regret her love for a mortal man, and that she may know the truest happiness, which I tasted only so briefly as to grieve its loss for all these endless ages.
Three thousand years ago, when last the dark lord Sauron moved in Middle Earth, when last the terrible Ring moved, there was a final great battle fought, and, Sauron was defeated by the shattered sword wielded by the man Isildur; Isildur in turn was defeated by the Ring, and brought to his destruction by his own weakness, and by my failing.
I should have done more than persuade, more than demand; I should have struck off Isildur's hand, if need be, to take the Ring, and cast it back into the fires of Mount Doom whence it came, should even have slain him, then, if I must, to destroy that embodiment of evil, and yet, I did not; could not, for I loved him.
We met, first, when an envoy from Gondor, led by the young Prince, came to Rivendell; I too, was a Prince, then, and, I fell as swiftly as any star from the heavens. Isildur had within him the desperate and daring fire of the best and worst of men, and I was the moth to that flame. I was beautiful, even more then than now, even among my own fairest race, but I knew the ways of men and elves are not at all alike, and so I pined in a misery of silent longing for Isildur, all the while as we became the best of friends in those worst of times.
I dared not speak my heart's desire, and yet, when Isildur, guessing it at last, had voiced it for me, I spoke to say that I did not expect that he would feel the same love for me. Those words took more of my courage than facing any foe I had ever known, for I expected, and dreaded, the moment, any moment, when his eyes, so kind upon me, and so warm, would grow cold and hard with his rejection; Isildur's laughter, not mockery, but delight, and his embrace, were the sweetest reward I have ever known, in all of my immortal life.
I did surprise him with my passion, my Isildur, for he had imagined that an elf would keep his regal aloofness even in the heat of lovemaking; I played the maid to him, for he could play no role but one, and yet I matched him, fire for flame, and, it was, the first time to the last, exquisite ecstasy.
No less exquisite were the moments after, in silken bed or forest floor, when simply we lay sated in one another's arms, and spoke of nothing but our dreams and hopes and fears, and of the life that we would share; I made the selfsame vow Arwen has made, of course: I pledged to Isildur my immortality, for the bliss of one mortal lifetime, shared, if we two survived the war that loomed ahead. At first he balked at the thought of such a thing being sacrificed to him for the sake of our love, but soon he saw it as I did- the only way, as right and needful as the rising of the sun, and it's setting, and as for myself, I never counted the cost, for Isildur's own promises assured me that I was of all things, his best beloved, his most precious, and I was content.
That there would be hardships, we knew, Isildur and I- he was wed already, to a human woman, and had sons; I would ever be the elven 'other', the secret all of his men knew and pretended they knew not. I would bear that indignity. Too, I would leave the ruling of my people to another, for I would give that up, as well, to be at his side. Never, until it was too late, did I account that all the sacrifices would be made by me, for in the light of love, they seemed as nothing.
There were years we had, Isildur and I, and perhaps it might seem that such a span in all these many years might be as a drop of rain into a flood, and yet, so sweet were those times, I know now that it is all the rest that has been the single drop, and our love which was the torrent by which all else was shaped, and measured.
The last day of great happiness in my life was the eve of that final battle; we knew what we faced, and what the odds, and, it was with a human desperation to equal Isildur's that I gave myself to him that final time, and after our lovemaking, we swore to fight by one another's sides to the last, and to fall, if we fell, so that our blood would join us forever as one in death, if life was denied us. So brave, and so young- those vows must prove it, that once, I, too, was young.
The rest is mostly in the history, the battle, and our blessed victory, Isildur's gaining of the Ring, and my taking him straight away to the mountain, allowing us no rest until we reached the edge of the fire, and I regret that, oh how I regret it, not making time for one last moment, but I knew too well the lore of that evil token's forging, and of what must be done.
Isildur refused to cast the ring into the fire of Mount Doom, determined then to keep it, and rule with it, making Gondor the kingdom of his visions. I argued with him, and demanded, and, yes, when he had run from the cavern of the fire, with me on his heels, pleaded, and almost, for one moment, I think that I nearly swayed him. Almost, he turned back, to do what should have been done, or so I choose to think, but in the end, Isildur refused. I spoke then, in my anger, threatening, and told him I would leave him for all time if he would not destroy the Ring, and then, at last, I saw him cold to me, as it was the Ring that Isildur chose over my love.
I could have taken him, could have beaten him and had the ring from his corpse, I knew it then as I know it now, but I did not. I watched him stride away from me, his new 'precious' clenched tightly in his fist, my sword stilled by love. Isildur never once glanced back, and perhaps that is a mercy, for he never saw my tears; he rode away, a King embracing madness, to his death. I returned alone, for I refused to ride with my companions, to Rivendell, and there heard of his sorry fate; I mourned him then as I mourn him still.
I wed, and I was blessed with my sons, Elladan and Elrohir, with my beautiful Arwen; I ascended the throne, and I ruled, and I think I have done well enough by my people. I have done, in any case, the best that I knew how, and, always, in the depths of my hidden heart, Isildur has lived.
Soon, I will go into the West. If I were yet young and full of folly, I would dream that what awaits me beyond is Isildur, but I am old, and weary, and, hope for nothing half so fanciful. I have but one wish left, and that, for her. For Arwen. I will not speak to her again of all my dire warnings; she would not be swayed, and, I would not taint a moment of her joy. So, now, I will only hope, that she, my daughter whom I have loved best among all Middle Earth, (excepting only one, and he long gone,) will never come to understand: men speak of love, and, indeed, they feel it, heating their blood, stirring their flesh, and even inspiring their minds, but the race of men is inconstant, and it is not the heart's love which they hold most dear, but the power which they crave and which slips ever through their grasp.
I am Elrond, King of the Elves, and this I alone I hope: may Arwen never learn that men lie, for their hearts are ever weak.