Music for this chapter: Resurgam, Anne Dudley
Chapter 8: The Ever-Fixéd Star
"Are you quite sure you're well enough for this, darling?" Celebrían says.
"I'll have to do this eventually," Elrond replies as they emerge from the cool shadow of the King's gate. Before them the wide thoroughfare of the Finwëan district lies brilliant and shining in the afternoon sunlight.
"It's a rather long walk," Celebrían says, reaching up to straighten Elrond's cloak-pin. Elrond has chosen to dress in diplomatically correct green and grey, but the sleeves of his robes are lined with crimson, and the Fëanorian star glitters in the cloak-pin at his collar.
It should be enough to avoid too much attention in the streets of Tirion, save at one place where the absence of Fënorian red and the presence of Nolofinwëan blue would likely cause problems.
"I'll manage," Elrond says, leaning close to press a kiss to his wife's silver hair.
Celebrían flushes pink as she glances quickly about for observers. Elrond hears a pair of Eärwen's handmaidens titter behind them, and smiles all the more widely for it.
"I'm still not used to you being here," Celebrían mumbles, ears pink.
"I'll be back by evening meal," he says, smiling down at her.
"It's only been a little over a week," Celebrían says, squeezing his hand. "Don't overdo it. Be careful."
"I will," Elrond says, pressing another kiss to her brow in farewell, before turning and making his way down the steps to the street.
Here, so close to house of the King, the streets are lined with many banners of gold and blue – Finarfin and Fingolfin's colours. The city is alive with laughter and song; children with bright grey eyes darting between the graceful columns, dark-haired Elves dancing in sun-soaked squares of white stone, a kaleidoscope of jewels in braided hair.
And every corner, every stone, every brick and every gate shines white-silver, echoing with the memory of Telperion long fallen, and the light of Laurelin enmeshed in the glimmer of gold-stained glass.
Elrond pauses there in the middle of the street, taking a moment to breathe.
Rivendell had been green and white and brilliant golden in the autumn, unchanging through the centuries, almost unbelievably ageless in the eyes of the Dúnedain and the Dwarves that passed through it; but Tirion is ancient to her foundations – the silver-white seat of the Noldor since they first beheld the full luminance of the Trees.
Elrond walks on, carefully and slowly, still feeling the too-rapid beat of his heart if he moves too quickly. He passes through many fair streets and fountains, impossible creations of delicate glass and silver, until at last the banners of blue and gold thin in number.
Elrond passes under a tall archway hung with blue and gold on one side, and on the other–
Red.
Crimson cloth all around him; hanging from archways, flowing in pennants from steepled towers, cascading in silver-lined scrolls down shining white terraces, bright-dyed in the tunics and cloaks of the Elves that pass by.
And everywhere, etched over doors, in mosaic patterns on the pavement, adorning flagpoles and sleeves and tunics and pennants and hair-clips, is the eight-rayed silver star of Fëanor.
Elrond presses a hand to the cloak-pin at his collar, swallowing past the tide of emotion in his throat.
He has worn this sigil alone for so long.
It is difficult to say who sees him first. But there is a gasp, then another, then shouts ring out as many dark-haired heads turn towards him–
"Is that him–"
"It is–"
"Son of Princes Nelyafinwë and Kanafinwë–"
A dozen, then a score, and then hundreds; more and more people pour out of smithies and workshops and artisan's suites to call joyfully out to him. Most of them are armed; Elrond sees more swords buckled to belts and knives sheathed in boots within three paces than he saw the entire way down from the King's courtyard.
These are a people who do not easily forget the war that forged them.
"Lord Elrond!"
Elrond blinks, and recognises the sharp-eyed face of the elleth that shoulders through the crowd towards him.
Last he saw her, she had been shouting in Fingon's face in the midst of a rainstorm, before the gates of the Ring of Doom. But now she is smiling radiantly in the afternoon sunlight, the crest of Maglor's house gleaming at the collar of her cloak.
One of Maglor's captains.
"Lord Elrond," she says, coming to attention a pace away and bowing sharply. She raises her voice to speak over the cacophony. "I am Aerlind. I served under your father on the plains of Lothlann."
Elrond greets her courteously, or as courteously as he is able with the press of the crowd on all sides.
Another voice, to his right. "Lord Elrond! I served with the Prince Neylafinwë at Himring!"
"Ossirand under the Ambarussa!" a call from Elrond's left.
"Curufinwë and Tyelkormo at Aglon, my lord!"
"The foothills of Mount Rerir under Carnistir!"
"Ost-in Edhil with Lord Telperinquar, Lord Elrond!"
This last shout comes from an Elf in a work-apron spattered with the iridescent dust of many gems. His expression is one of pure delight.
He is not alone; hope and memory shines out of hundreds of faces before Elrond.
There are those here who were at Doriath, Elrond knows. There must be some that were at Sirion.
Elrond looks at them – his fathers' people, the people of his chosen house – sees the hope and the love they put on his shoulders now, as the last heir to the House of Fëanor. He recognises but a few of them.
It is strange, to be so loved by people he does not know.
He feels–
Aerlind is suddenly standing at his side, and steady at his other side is a determined-looking ellon with scarred hands whom Elrond finds unsettlingly familiar, until he blinks again and remembers those selfsame hands sneaking berry pastries to him and Elros under their fathers' noses in the kitchens of Amon Ereb.
Aerlind calls a few laughing words into the roiling throng, and a path opens up through the crowd.
"Come now, my lord," Aerlind whispers, still smiling, though her gaze is concerned. "Let's get you somewhere quieter."
"My thanks," Elrond manages, feeling sweat begin to gather between his shoulder blades. He is glad for his long sleeves. His hands are shaking again, and each step feels impossibly heavy.
Somehow, he keeps his back straight and his head high as he is led through the streets. Behind him, the wide thoroughfare from Fëanor's Gate bursts into song; great battle-songs of East Beleriand, where during the days of the long peace the sons of Fëanor had guarded those lands from the orcs and fell beasts of Morgoth.
"I wager you didn't quite expect that welcome," Aerlind says as she leads Elrond through several narrower streets, and up a short slope towards a larger house set a little apart from the rest.
Elrond shakes his head. He does not dare answer, for fear of the spots in his vision overwhelming him at last.
On his right, a scarred hand slips discreetly under his elbow, hidden by his cloak, and Elrond leans on it gratefully as they climb the last few steps up the slope.
"My thanks, Aldanil," Elrond murmurs, once he is able to spare the breath to do so.
"My fealty and sword, my lord," comes the quiet words at his elbow, and Elrond can do no more than twist and stare before the hand is gone from his arm and the speaker already disappeared down a side street.
Aerlind reaches out for the great brass door-knocker and raps it thrice, smartly.
The door opens, and Elrond glimpses a mass of unruly red hair before Aerlind clasps his elbow and pulls him inside, pushing back the figure at the door as she does so.
"Hey!" an indignant voice says.
The door slams shut behind them.
"I apologise for the intrusion, my lady," Aerlind is saying. "But I wanted to get your grandson out of the noise and the crowd as soon as possible."
Leaning heavily against the wall, Elrond raises his head just in time to see Nerdanel lunge for him, her eyes wide.
"Elrond! Did you walk all the way here from Arafinwë's house? What were you thinking?"
"I misjudged the distance," Elrond says hoarsely as Nerdanel guides him to an alcove window, where a cushioned bench is set against panes of iridescent, translucent glass. "I didn't think I'd be recognised."
For a few moments, Elrond simply breathes, eyes slitting shut, one temple pressed to the cool glass. Dimly, he hears Aerlind take her leave, and the urgent pattering of Nerdanel's steps over the marble floor.
"Elrond," Nerdanel says. A rustle of cloth as she lowers herself onto the cushions beside him and brings a cup to his lips, a mirror of her actions a dozen days ago before the gates of the Ring of Doom.
Miruvor, sweet and brilliantly cool, like liquid starlight. Elrond exhales, and feels the fire in his lungs abate and the ache at his temples subside to a low thrum.
He opens his eyes fully and meets Nerdanel's furious gaze.
"That was a damned foolish thing to do," she snaps, placing the cup aside and pressing the back of her hand against his brow to check for fever. "I hope you're feeling sorry for yourself."
"I may have underestimated the distance from the King's house," Elrond admits as she sits back. "I did not expect to be instantly recognised, either."
Nerdanel folds her arms and stares him down. "I wasn't speaking of your ill-advised walk," she says. "I was speaking of kneeling before Máhanaxar."
She looks very fierce, his grandmother, here with the iridescent light of the window splashing in a waterfall of colours over her flaming hair.
Elrond smiles wanly. "I have already had that conversation with my wife, and again with Nolofinwë and Arafinwë. I am sorry."
"As well you should be," Nerdanel says, swatting his arm. "Goodness knows you've got no sense of self-preservation. It was that way with all my boys; even Makalaurë used to throw himself into fights as a child if his brothers were involved. He took being second eldest very seriously."
The familiar ache starts up behind Elrond's sternum again as he hears Maglor's name.
It would seem Nerdanel feels the same. Her face is a mask of bitter control where there is the pain of Ages behind her gaze. Finrod had told Elrond that Nerdanel had said nothing, only quietly wept, when he told her of Maglor's death.
Elrond breathes through the pain, and places his hand over hers.
"Arafinwë offered me governance of the district," he says. "I came to hear your opinion."
"Oh, he did?" Nerdanel says, clasping his hand a little too tightly, as though he has offered her a lifeline. "Wise of him. You'd do a wonderful job, judging by what I hear of Imladris."
Elrond smiles ruefully. "That is what Nolofinwë said, almost to the word. But I'm not quite sure if I'm suited to the task. Atar and Atarinya named Elros and I as their heirs, but I don't know if– there are many beyond this district who wish to remind me I am Elwing and Eärendil's son, and lost my childhood home because of the sons of Fëanor. I do not know if I would be the appropriate choice."
Nerdanel squeezes his hand between both of hers. Her callouses are rough and comforting on his knuckles.
"Judging by what Aerlind told me before she left, I think most of the district have already made their choice," she says.
He looks at her desperately. "But wouldn't you be a better–"
"Oh! Not at all!" Nerdanel barks a laugh. "I've watched people return to these streets one by one for seven thousand years and more. The Fëanorians need someone who has seen Middle Earth to lead them – someone who knows what it is to wield a sword in the face of the darkness that killed Finwë."
"But I'm so–" he catches himself. Young, he had been about to say. What would his children think if they knew their father thought himself too young!
Nerdanel's face softens.
"You give them hope," she says. "Do you know why?"
Elrond shakes his head. He is not sure if he wishes to hear this.
"The House of Fëanor has wronged you," she says. "And yet you call two of its princes your fathers. You name yourself of Fëanor's house, and you knelt before Máhanaxar to the point of breaking for my husband and sons." She looks at him with challenge in her gaze. "Do you not see? There is hope that the rift between the House of Fëanor and the rest of the Noldor will last be healed. You, who should have nothing but hate for the sons of Fëanor, have chosen to forgive."
Elrond looks at her, stricken.
"I am a simple healer," he says, and knows as the words leave his lips that it is not true – not by blood, nor by adoption, nor by deed.
"I think we could all rather do with some healing," Nerdanel says lightly, patting his hand. "You'll do a wonderful job, and there's really no need to pressure yourself. Delegate. I'd recommend Aerlind, as a start."
Elrond nods numbly.
"Now," Nerdanel says, "If you are able to walk a short way, I have a gift for you."
She leads him through grand hallways and bright-lit gardens overgrown with flowered vines. The house is large – too large for one person, and while part of it is obviously lived in, the greater part of it is still and silent.
Nerdanel draws a ring of keys from under her kirtle and unlocks a heavy oak door. Beyond, another wing of the house appears – fair hallways lined with gold-threaded tapestries dulled with age; old portraits, their paint cracked and faded. Above a set of crimson-carpeted stairs, the largest painting hangs proud and tall.
Nine figures smile out of the dust-smeared patina that has formed over the surface of the painting. Nerdanel and a fierce-eyed midnight-haired Elf beside her, each of them holding a red-haired child in their arms; beside them stands Maedhros, looking younger and healthier than Elrond has ever seen him, one arm slung around Maglor's shoulders – Maglor smiling radiantly, with a joyful lightness to his features. Before them, a light-haired, younger Elf, and two dark-haired children of slightly differing ages, smiling toothily.
"This way," Nerdanel says, pointedly looking at Elrond rather than the painting, and Elrond blinks away the sudden film of moisture over his vision as he follows.
A short, sunlit corridor, and Nerdanel opens a set of mahogany doors. Dusty wooden floors creak under their feet as they pass by furniture draped with linen sheets; some of the shapes appear odd to Elrond, and he realises abruptly that there is a harp there under one of the dusty sheets, and beside it the shape of a music stand–
Nerdanel steps smartly across the room and opens a door into an airy bedchamber done in soft greens and cool silver. She crosses to a table and pulls open a drawer.
"Here," she says, turning. "I thought you might like this."
There is a braid clip in her hand, bright white gems in gold settings untarnished by time, set in the eight-rayed star of Fëanor's house.
Elrond stares at the braid clip. He could swear he remembers braiding an exact twin of it into Maglor's hair as a child…
"Makalaurë left this behind when he left for Formenos with his father and grandfather," Nerdanel says quietly, running her thumb over the gems in an achingly gentle motion. "It was part of a pair his father made for his begetting-day gift. I think– I think he was wearing its twin when he rode East."
"He was," Elrond says hoarsely.
"May I?" Nerdanel gestures at the braid clip.
Speechless with emotion, Elrond nods. He bows his head, and allows her to fasten it amongst his braids.
"There," Nerdanel says, straightening the clip. "You now wear the crest of your chosen house in your hair, as is fitting."
"Thank you," Elrond whispers.
She steps forward and embraces him lightly, here in the dust of her second son's bedchamber that has lain empty for millennia.
"Now," Nerdanel says as she steps back, "We must see to getting you a horse. It wouldn't do to have you stagger back to Celebrían looking like a wilted reed."
"She sends her greetings," Elrond says ruefully, linking his arm with Nerdanel's. She pats his elbow fondly and wordlessly takes some of his weight.
"Speaking of Celebrían," Nerdanel says as they slowly descend the stairs, "You're long overdue for a conversation with the poor girl. You and I both know you're far too stubborn to give up your cause. Makalaurë and Maitimo wouldn't, and neither would you."
Elrond exhales. "I am aware. I…have been giving the matter some thought."
"I'm sure a solution will present itself," Nerdanel says, skewering him with a sharp glance. "You are far too dedicated to your wife not to work out a compromise."
Elrond hides a wince at the reminder of Formenos – the thought of Nerdanel watching her husband and sons ride away, leaving the house still and dark and empty behind them.
Then there are the stables, and a high-stepping horse which stares down Elrond and seems to find him lacking, but consents to bear him all the same.
Elrond waves farewell to his grandmother, and rides up through the bustling streets of the Fëanorian district as the light of the setting sun sets the star on his braid clip afire from within.
(:~:)
The following morning, after Elrond makes his formal acceptance of Finarfin's offer, he goes to find Celebrían.
"Where are we going?" Celebrían says as Elrond leads the way towards the stables.
"I thought a picnic," Elrond says, catching her hand in his.
"Just the two of us?" Celebrían says, and smiles brilliantly when he nods.
Finrod spots them as they trot out of King's gate, grins, and wolf-whistles.
Celebrían blushes, and Elrond gives their cousin a pointed look that has Finrod inclining his golden head in apology.
They ride down to the foot of Túna together, let their horses graze freely, and unfurl a blanket among the wildflowers.
For a while, there is simply the warm morning sunlight and the heady scent of wildflowers about them, and birdsong in the air.
Then Elrond takes a breath, and takes his wife's hand.
"Celebrían," he begins. "I–"
"This is about the Ring of Doom, isn't it," Celebrían says. She meets his gaze unflinchingly.
"Yes," Elrond says.
"You plan to kneel before the gates again," Celebrían says steadily. Her eyes are calm and utterly dry in the morning sun.
"Yes," Elrond repeats. "I made a promise to my foster-father I would not rest until he and his kin were returned." He tightens his hold on her hand. "But I do not wish to hurt you, nor will I kneel to the utter end of my strength as I did before."
Celebrían's gaze turns perceptive. "You have thought about this," she says.
"I have," Elrond says gravely, running a thumb over her knuckles. "I have considered every option, but it remains that Valimar is two days' ride from Avallónë. Short of taking a house in Valimar, I cannot kneel every day before Máhanaxar."
"Taking a house in Valimar," Celebrían says, with no inflection at all. Her eyes are veiled.
"I will not," Elrond says, folding his other hand over hers. "I do not wish to be parted from you. We have been apart on either side of the Sea for too long."
"Then what will you do?" Celebrían says quietly, bringing up her hand to brush a soft thumb over his cheek. "You cannot stay with me on the Lonely Isle, and still fulfill your promise to your father."
"I–" Elrond halts, blinking. "I don't know."
Celebrían shifts closer and leans her head on his shoulder. He wraps her in his arms and drops his chin onto her silver hair. The wind mixes their tresses, silver and sable, like white-capped waves on a midnight sea.
They hold each other for an indeterminate time, both their souls aching for the knowledge that they do not wish to hurt one another, but that the two choices before them will both bring pain, albeit in different ways.
A shadow flits over the grass, come and gone in a heartbeat.
Elrond raises his head, and glimpses Thorondor, greatest of Manwë's eagles, wheeling against the cerulean sky far overhead.
Eagles.
Celebrían makes a startled noise as Elrond stands abruptly.
"Darling?" she says.
Elrond shakes his head, takes two steps forward onto the crisp green grass, and throws back his head.
He sings as Maglor taught him to do.
O Thorondor, greatest of the Eagles of Manwë! he sings. Hear my plea!
Far above, an answering cry. The winged silhouette before the sun drops into a dive.
Elrond hears Celebrían inhale sharply behind him as Thorondor lands with an earsplitting thud of enormous wings.
Elrond bows deeply.
"Hail, Thorondor," he says. "I owe you a debt of gratitude for bearing me here from Máhanaxar."
Thorondor turns his head to look at him with one deep yellow eye, and gives a piercing screech.
Elrond smiles wryly. "I have a boon to ask of you, O great eagle. I do not know if your lord will permit it, but still I must ask."
Thorondor stays very still as Elrond makes his request.
In the distance, lightning strikes on the peak of Taniquetil.
Thorondor lowers his head and presses the great curve of his beak to Elrond's forehead in assent.
Elrond takes a breath of relief so deep it chokes in his chest. "Thank you," he whispers, closing his eyes and bringing up his hands to rest on the feathers about the eagle's beak. "Thank you."
He hears Celebrían rise, and the next moment her head is on his shoulder and the fingers of her right hand thread through his where they rest amongst the feathers.
There are those who look down from fair Tirion on the peak of Túna and wonder at the tableau of three figures down below.
In the King's gardens, Fingon Nolofinwion rests his chin on his folded hands as he leans on the balustrade, watching his cousins and the eagle below.
He smiles.
(:~:)
Maglor sings of the coming of Oromë; of the journey West; of the light of the Trees, and Tirion the white city on the emerald hill; of the joy of the Elves and the Valar, and the peace of the Noontide of Valinor.
His audience is enraptured; Ainur and Maiar alike surround Maglor and his kin, thought-echoes of pure delight pulsing from their translucent forms.
Maglor sings of brothers who loved one another but did not speak of it; he sings of pride and foul deception and a drawn sword, and of the Silmarils, and the purity and beauty of the light of the Trees bound in their jeweled forms.
As he sings, he sees the longing in his father and brothers' gazes – not due to the Oath, for the Oath is done – but for their home in Tirion under the light of the Trees, when all was at peace in the world.
Time moves differently here; Maglor sings for what might be a day or an age, and as he sings, he wonders at his song's ending.
There is yet much to be sung, but perhaps…
Elrond and Elros.
A fitting end to his song; the two most brilliant stars to be born out of broken Beleriand, out of the blood and the mire and the fall of the Noldor.
Sea-salt tears cascading down his cheeks, Maglor lifts his head, and begins the Noldolantë; only this time, he will sing to its final ending.
(:~:)
The eagle comes to the house on the cliff as dawn breaks over Avallöné.
Elrond and Celebrían are waiting on the Cliffside.
"I'll be back by evening meal," Elrond says, shouldering his pack of supplies and pressing a kiss to his wife's cheek.
"I'll be waiting," Celebrían says.
With one last smile, Elrond climbs onto Thorondor's lowered neck.
And, with a gust of wind that rustles through the emerald grass of the cliffside, eagle and rider take to the air, and turn west towards Valimar.
A/N: *cough* so Maglor holds a concert and Elrond gets a day job.
Next up: Fortitude, endurance, the the passage of time. Elrond recieves two unexpected visitors before the gates of Máhanaxar.
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