8: The Pyre
A quiet moment following the largest bummer of the first half of Elrond's life.
Genre: h/c, friendship. Rating: K. I now realize my ratings aren't as amuck as I thought they'd be.
S.A 3441/T.A 1
Autumn
The honor and burden of lighting the fallen king's pyre had been offered to Elrond, but he had turned it down, along with the offer of the throne. Instead Círdan had wielded the torch, and had done so with a level of grace and dignity that only the shipwright would have been able to muster. Traditionally, every one of the war flags of a fallen king would be burned. Elrond had directed the pyre's construction, and he alone, having been vice-regent and herald, had brought together the thirty-five pennants, charred and frayed after having lead thousands through a decade of battle, to fly en masse and be consumed with the remains of Ereinion Gil-galad.
He had stood as close as the heat had allowed, backed by the rest of the silent host, at the burning of the pyre. It had burned very long, and it had burned very hot. The brilliance was such that the men had shaded their eyes, and never before and never again did any elf witness a sending-off of such splendid luminosity.
Many things plagued Elrond for a time after being witness to this event, and the giant among such issues was the thought that the age of the elves was over and the time of Man had supposedly dawned. Elrond had stood to see that in the cusp of the turning of the age, men had already taken to their knees in the face of the fear they held of their own Gift. He had watched Isildur as he left the ranks of the Free People he had fought for and next to during the Battle of the Last Alliance. Even after the dark lord was routed, Elrond had watched the seed of evil take root within mortal blood.
The bitterness in his spirit was the reason he now held the last of Gil-galad's mighty standards folded into a bundle and close to his heart – the first one created and the first one on the field – as he crouched alone near a small fire he'd set alight to brighten this layer of night. It was the flag Elrond had carried into their last battle, and it was the flag he hadn't been able to bring himself to burn over Gil-galad's body. Reserving it had not been a proper thing to do but nobody had noticed, and Elrond could imagine Gil-galad approving anyway. It wasn't as if he were going to tuck it away into his hope chest, where it would either sit and molder into dust or possibly be taken by a passing child, or a king.
Somebody approached slowly from behind, obviously taking care to step on several sticks along the way, so as not to startle him. He had fallen into a reverie, and was grateful for his visitor's consideration. He shifted slightly to see behind.
"Círdan," he said. "How did you know I wished to see you?"
"A feeling," the old elf said, and came to sit near him by the fire.
"When do you leave for Lindon?" Elrond asked.
"With the rising of the sun. There is nothing left here for me to do. And when do you depart for Imladris?"
"When my spirit has settled."
"And what do you hold there against your robes?"
"I can hide nothing from you," Elrond said, and drew out the flag. He handed it to Círdan without a word. Círdan brushed the silver stars and let his fingers rest across the trim.
"Your war standard. Saved from the flames?"
"Saved, or displaced."
"How do you mean?" Círdan, asked, handing the fabric back. Elrond refused it.
"Keep it. I mean to send it with you to Lindon. Sew it into the sails of the next ship bound West. Gil-galad's wish was to protect the next age for the Men who would rule it, and now Isildur has…" Elrond stopped himself, unwilling to fall back into a bitter lurch. "What I mean to say is that all of what our king stood for should not go up in smoke and ash. Let a piece of it sail West."
Círdan regarded him gently, through the centuries etched in his eyes. He had something to say, Elrond could tell, but first the shipwright waited to let the fire speak – a thin branch, blackened and scored, crumbled and sent sparks into the heat draft – and then the wind had its say, tugging brittle leaves from branch tips to rustle between trunks and brambles and to settle finally, softly, tumbling against the ground.
"You do know, I think, that the spirit of Gil-galad's actions has been pressed into the hearts of those who followed him. Into yours and mine," Círdan said in measured tone.
"Yes, master shipwright, this I know. My action was highly personal. Highly unnecessary as well, no doubt."
"But your spirit sits better for having done this. Preserved this standard for fairer shores."
"Yes."
"Or, as you say, displaced this standard…?"
"Yes…" Elrond said, and a bit of wistful nostalgia swept briefly across his features. Something else had flown over the pyre to be burned. It would have been too noticeable of a gap otherwise. The other thirty-four flags were so tattered, and what he had flown in this standard's place was so threadbare, that little difference was there to be seen. "You recall, no doubt, my history with tunics."
"A remarkable history indeed."
"Gil-galad was present for a number of those incidences. At the service I raised one on the pennant bar over the king's pyre."
"The one you wore into the last battle."
"Yes."
"A standard of its own. Perhaps more meaningful than any bit of woven fabric flown open to the wind."
"I cannot fathom from where my actions sprung…"
"As a seabass does not fathom the flick of the tail that sends it from its enemy, and the falcon does not fathom its tucked shape as it dives for prey. You were the herald, Elrond. The standards were your extension of the king's wishes. Some things we find we must do, and they are beyond our understanding."
Elrond looked long on the shipwright, who himself contemplated the flames. Círdan had acted with complete composure since the death of the king, and Elrond knew that Círdan and Gil-galad had known each other far longer than the king had known Elrond. Círdan had been a bit of a foster figure to Gil-galad, in fact. Elrond wondered if the shipwright hid his pain with the efficiency of ages of practice, or if death could no longer cast its shadow upon the brow of one so wise.
The old elf emerged from whatever memory, or thought, or prophecy, had been occupying his mind, and focused on Elrond again.
"So now you would send your hope to fly on the whims of fate?" he asked. "Are not sails at the mercy of irrepressible winds?" Círdan was testing him. His question was an easy one to answer, but Elrond would not have seen the answer had Círdan not asked.
"Sails are the medium through which the sailor and the wind take communion," Elrond said, and the angry grains of soul that had been rattling in his chest started to calm.
"You are wise as well, young one," smiled Círdan. He stood, flag folded and held close. Elrond stood too and they embraced, to say goodbye for a while and to be comforted by the torch that they each carried in their core. The era is young, Círdan's voice spoke in his head, and I sense it will be long years and the turning of another age before you will see the Grey Havens again. Do not forget your friends. Gil-galad's star burned bright as one in a legion of our vast empyrean.
