Music for this chapter: Your Father Would Be Proud, Michael Giacchino
Chapter 9: The Fluttering Flame
Coirë. Tuilë. Lairë. Yávië. Quellë. Hrivë.
The Elven year turns, and Elrond kneels on.
At first there are murmurs in in all the cities of Aman; from Avallòne to Valimar, to the Doriathrim who live in the northernmost forests of Oromé. Then as the months go by and Arien and Tilion cross the sky time and time again, the murmuring quiets. It becomes accepted that every dawn an eagle of Manwë will descend to a cliffside house north of Avallónë and bear a single rider west, to the gates of Máhanaxar.
There, Elrond Peredhel will set down a small packet beside him, and kneel. Occasionally he kneels alone; more often than not he has visitors; friends or extended family, and strangers from Valimar or Tirion who are curious and wish to make his acquaintance. There are understandably few who come from Alqualondë, but when the sun reaches its zenith, Elrond often has company as he unpacks his noon meal.
Fingon and Finrod had been the first to come that first morning, having ridden through the night from Tirion; bringing with them a cushion, a horrendously gaudy parasol, and enough wine to make even Turgon drunk. Elrond had taken one look at them and laughed, the sound surprising himself more than his cousins; but it had been a fine day before the gates of Máhanaxar, and made the following days easier.
There are still days when Elrond kneels alone, with the soft wind across the plain tumbling through his braided hair and the sunlight setting the eight-rayed star of his braid clip afire; but even those on those days, when the sun touches the horizon behind him, there will always be the cry of an eagle from above, come to carry him home.
The eagle lands every evening beside the clifftop house above Avallóne as the first stars begin to stud the sky, and Elrond is welcomed in to evening meal.
Much of the evening is usually spent in Celebrían's company – what little other time Elrond has he spends reviewing reports from his aides in the Fëanorian district, and writing letters to his four children in Middle-Earth for Círdan's ships to take East.
Then there is the blessed emptiness of sleep – and another dawn, and the marble gates before him again, still and silent and impenetrable.
He returns home one evening, a year and a half after his first ordeal at the Ring of Doom, and finds Celebrían waiting for him with two tall figures beside her, and two much shorter ones before them, one of which is nearly bouncing with delight at seeing the eagle approach.
Elrond finds himself smiling widely as he slips from the eagle's neck.
"Bilbo Baggins!" he says. "Looking hale as ever, as I see! And it is good to see you as well, Master Frodo."
"Master Elrond!" Bilbo says cheerfully, eyes bright and energized despite his head of white hair and the walking-stick in his hand. "You do know how to make an entrance!"
The eagle screeches once in greeting, and bows its head in deference to the two ringbearers. Bilbo looks briefly startled at the noise, but joins Frodo in smiling in wonder at the great Eagle before them.
Elrond greets Galadriel and Gandalf graciously, curling a hand surreptitiously in the eagle's feathers to steady himself. His knees and calves are always nearly recovered by the time he returns home, but Celebrían usually leads him straight in to evening meal. There is an ache slowly building in his ankles now, the longer he stands here on the windy clifftop.
Galadriel gives him a look that seems to spear right through him and bare his fëa to all, and Elrond returns her stare calmly, just short of challenging.
She smiles faintly at him, as though acknowledging his strike, and steps forward to greet him as a mother-in-law should.
"It would seem there is much my daughter has yet to tell me," she says quietly as she steps closer, eyes like cool steel. "Come, let us eat. You must be weary."
Elrond takes a breath, and releases his grasp on the eagle's feathers with a murmur of thanks.
As he ignores the pain and steps forward determinedly to offer Celebrían his arm, Elrond spares a thought that he is grateful Celeborn seems to have decided to delay sailing.
Then he considers Galadriel's considerable aptitude for Osanwé, and hurriedly seals the thought behind mental fortifications of steel as they enter the house and at last sit to evening meal.
(:~:)
To Elrond's surprise, Eärendil chooses to visit the Ring of Doom several times a month. Occasionally Eärendil comes riding from the direction of Taniquetil, but at other times Vinglot itself descends from the skies to anchor in the wildflower fields beside the Ring of Doom, with Eärendil leaping nimbly from its prow with a rope in hand.
The first time Eärendil had done that Elrond had initially done nothing but stare, until his birth father had laughed out loud and brought out sea-aged wine and fresh fish to augment their noon meal.
Elrond never sees the Silmaril, and Eärendil never speaks of it. They converse instead of Sirion and the sea, and the many lost years between them. Eärendil speaks of how in the early days of the Second Age he would take Vinglot as far east as was permitted, so on days when the sea-haze lay heavy on the waves he would see the shape of Elros's ship emerge from the mist, and father and son would call out to each other across the insurmountable distance between them, laugh, weep, and be glad.
Elrond finds himself wiping away tears at the end of that particular tale. There too are tears on Eärendil's cheeks, and he pulls Elrond into a gruff embrace, awkwardly with Elrond still kneeling and Eärendil sitting beside him, with the fire-pit of their abandoned noon meal still smoldering before them.
The embrace is different from Maglor's, who had always embraced with fëa as well as physical form; it is different from Maedhros's, who had always held the twins carefully as though they were something impossibly precious and fragile.
Eärendil's hands are worn with rope-callouses, his shoulders broad and not quite Elven, and his beard scratches at Elrond's shoulder – but it is earnest, and fatherly, and echoes back to something he had felt eons ago as a small child.
It is a balm for Elrond's overwrought soul, and he is glad for it.
Then there is the matter of Elwing.
Elrond tries.
He invites his birth parents to dine at his house on Tol Eressëa, hoping that the buffer of Bilbo and Frodo's presence will dampen any conversational flames that might erupt between him and his mother. It succeeds for the most part, as they dance around Sirion and Máhanaxar and the sons of Féanor – but then halfway through dinner a messenger from Tirion arrives regarding a matter of some urgency in the Fëanorian District, and Elrond sees Elwing turn sheet-white as he steps out to speak to the messenger.
When he returns Elwing has composed herself, and evidently makes an effort to continue conversing, but despite her visible efforts to master herself she is unable to fully hide her disgust and bitterness, and the conversation never reaches its previous ease.
Frodo makes a few diplomatic verbal flourishes that are commendable, and Bilbo has the good grace not to stare disapprovingly at Elwing (though he later admits that he very much wanted to), and the evening meal finishes at last.
As she leaves, Elwing presses a kiss to Elrond's brow, almost apologetically, and Elrond folds his hands so tightly around each other in his sleeves that they ache.
It is not wholly her fault, Elrond knows. Elwing has survived two kinslayings; lost parents, brothers, and sons to the House of Fëanor. It is her choice whether she chooses to forgive, or to remember – and she is not obligated to forgive.
And yet.
It is difficult to have a mother that disagrees with everything about him – his chosen house, his duty, and the manner which he spends his days.
He holds Celebrían close and carefully shutters his fëa – his exhausted, overworked fëa – before retiring for the night.
He makes an effort to meet Elwing every few weeks afterward, and they are perfectly cordial with one another, but the old wounds between them only heal slowly as the months pass into years.
(:~:)
One particular morning before the gates of Máhanaxar, three years on, on one of those rare days that Elrond finds himself kneeling alone, he senses a change in the wind behind him, and twists in place to find himself face-to-face with two Elven boys.
No. Not exactly Elven.
He stares at them, at their midnight hair and grey eyes, so much like his own; and at their faces, which are just maturing out of the chubbiness of youth and into the sharper edges of adolescence. They both wear bright silver tunics almost completely covered in dirt and burrs. Their hair is a mess of broken twigs.
The children stride a half-circle around him, hand-in-hand, and plop down cross-legged opposite him, backs to the marble gates, which remain closed as they always have for three long years and more.
"Greetings," they say in unison, in Sindarin. They both have not let go of the other's hand, despite the awkward angle of their clasped hands in the grass.
"Greetings," Elrond says carefully in the same language. He looks at their identical faces, at their obvious resemblance to himself and to Elladan and Elrohir.
The list of names as to who they could be grows rapidly shorter.
Elrond twists around, to survey the woods at the edge of the great flower fields before Valimar.
Not another soul to be seen.
"Mother says you're our nephew," one of them says matter-of-factly.
Elrond turns back towards them. "I am," he says. He looks carefully them again; finds them apparently well-fed, but with a visible few days of dirt ground into their faces. They look closer to adolescence than the young children the tales of the Fall of Doriath had told, but they have surely not returned from the Halls for long.
"Mother also says you're betraying our line," the one on the right pipes up, completely without inflection. "She says we're not to come see you."
Elrond raises an eyebrow. "I see. But you have come all the same. Did you come alone?"
Both boys blink several times.
"We ran away," the one on the left says.
"We wanted to see," the one on the right adds.
Elrond briefly considers the political consequences of the boys being discovered sitting before the gates of the Ring of Doom, with only Elrond in his Fëanorian-star-studded robes for company.
He suppresses a wince.
"Well," he says. "I cannot say I approve of you running away. But you two must have been very brave to go through the forest alone."
The boys stare at him.
"We have done it before," they say together, plainly.
"There were wolves then," the one on the left says. "There aren't any now."
"The woods are safe here," the one of the right supplies.
Elrond does wince at that. He glances up, and notes that the sun is almost at its zenith.
"You must be hungry," Elrond says, reaching next to his knees to undo the knotted kerchief of the packet beside him. "I would be honoured if you shared my noon meal with me."
A spark in two pairs of clear grey eyes; the boys shuffle forward within arm's reach, and eagerly accept the leather bottle of water Elrond hands them.
Elrond has only one spoon and one fork, and gives one to each. They are halfway through scarfing down the lembas and stew Celebrían had made before they seem to realise that Elrond is not eating, and insist he join in.
"I am not hungry," Elrond says, pressing quietly down on the ache in his stomach, and smiles as they dive back into their feast.
He notes that neither of them has released the other's hand, preferring to remain hand-in-hand even when leaning over the same packet of food.
The healer in him runs quick eyes over them, at the unshielded curl of their fëar, and does not like the conclusions that come.
"Now, you know my name, and I know yours," he says lightly, once the boys have finished eating. "But I find myself utterly bemused as to which is which! Do tell me which one of you is Eluréd, and which Elúrin! I would much like to better know you both."
The boys both start speaking at once. It would appear that the one on the left is Eluréd, and the right Elurín. They have returned from the Halls no more than two years of the Sun ago, and their mother prefers to keep them within sight of her at all times, so they have not seen much of Aman except during the ride east from the Halls of Mandos. They have met Elwing but once two weeks previous under the eaves of Orome's forests, where the Doriathrim now live; but other than that their days are mostly spent quietly playing or studying in their mother's presence.
By the end of this particular conversation Elrond is drawing on his healer's habits to keep his face gently smiling and unassuming.
"I gather you two chose to be numbered among the Eldar?" he asks.
The twins fall silent. There is something suddenly very old and very pained in their grey gazes.
Six thousand years and more they have waited in the Halls, Elrond realises. They are children, yes – but also not.
"Mother would have missed us," Eluréd says quietly.
Elurín looks away.
Elrond pauses.
"Did you…wish to be Elves?" he says.
Elurín looks up. There is fire in his gaze where there had only been placid acceptance until now.
"Mother would have missed us," he repeats in an echo of his brother, and clamps his lips tightly into a white line.
Elrond looks between them.
"So you chose to be numbered among the Eldar, out of love for your mother," he says lightly. "I see. It is a noble thing, to sacrifice that which you want most for another, and yet it still pains those who do."
Elúred swallows painfully. Elurín picks at a blade of grass by his boot with his free hand.
"How did you do it?" Elurín says abruptly.
"Do what?" Elrond says, but Elurín has turned away.
"How did you choose differently to your brother?" Eluréd says, where his brother has fallen silent. "How could you bear to be apart? Even before he died."
The twins are holding each other's hand so tightly now their fingers are white and bloodless in the grass.
Ah.
Elrond closes his eyes and breathes out against the old ache.
It has been long, long millennia since he felt Elros slip away. He is used to this.
"We wanted different things," he says. "We liked different things, and we had different duties before us. Elros was the other half of my soul, yes – bound to my fëa like none other. But he was his own person, as was I. We cared for each other very much. And so it is with this knowledge, and this care, that we remained so very close even when leagues of sea separated us, until the very moment he died."
Eluréd and Elurín remain quiet for a long while.
Then: "We find it difficult to be apart," Eluréd says. "Not that mother would allow either of us out of her sight, but–"
"But we have spent a long time together," Elurín says. "It…it is frightening. To be apart."
"Well," Elrond says gently, "There is no need to put leagues between you two, at least not to begin with. Why don't you try releasing each other's hands? You will be remaining right here beside each other, and I am here as well. You are quite safe."
Eluréd and Elurín look at each other, and at their clasped hands between them.
"You don't have to if you don't want to," Elrond reminds them.
Eluréd and Elurín look at each other, and Elrond feels the ripple of soul-flame between that signifies speaking mind-to-mind. He smiles; he had used to do much the same with Elros, speaking directly into his brother's mind as easily as breathing.
The twins nod once in unison, take a deep breath, and let go.
A moment of stillness, where they look wide-eyed at the space between their hands there in the emerald grass. Both are breathing a little too quickly.
"There," Elrond says, and smiles at them. "You have done well."
They look up at him then, grey eyes already welling with tears – not of sorrow, for their fëa blaze too openly – but with tears of gratitude and hope.
Elrond opens his arms, and two dark-haired heads blur forward into his ribs. There are suddenly two warm bundles at his side, arms curved tightly around his middle, not quite touching each other, and Elrond is reminded of his own sons in their childhood, seeking him together in his study after waking from some nightmare.
"Now," Elrond says, placing a hand on each of their silken heads and brushing the burrs out of their hair. "The hardest part is over. Now you may take time to discover what you like."
"What we like?" Eluréd sniffles into Elrond's sleeve.
"What each of you like," Elrond corrects gently. "Individually."
A long pause, where he senses both of them thinking hard.
"I want to visit Tirion," Elurín says. "I want to learn from the architects."
"I want to learn from the ship-masters at Alqualondë," Eluréd says. "From our cousins under King Olwë."
"Without mother," they chorus together, and Elrond stamps down on the echo of his own bitterness regarding Elwing before the twins can sense it through his fëa.
"Well," Elrond says, smoothing the braids of one twin and then the other, "Now you know what you wish, you may bring your requests to your mother."
"She won't let us," a morose voice comes from his waist.
"Oh, she would be afraid," Elrond says gently. "Understandably so, given what happened to you. But you are both individually yourselves, and you cannot remain beside her in the forest forever. Aman is a land of peace. There are none that would hurt you here."
A sniffling gasp as the twins tighten their hold on him.
"Mother says you want to bring them back," Elurín says. "The ones who might hurt us."
Elrond inhales sharply at that, and runs soothing fingers through their hair.
"I do not think they would hurt anyone again," he says. "Not intentionally, at least. They made a poorly worded promise many years ago, and were bound to hurt and kill because of it. They killed many and wronged more, but they are no longer bound to that promise, and I know they bitterly regret their deeds."
"Oh," Eluréd says. "Is that why you want them back? Because they're sorry?"
Elrond smiles, as the breeze curls over the field, sends wildflowers and petals cascading into the air.
"No," he says. "Because two of them are my foster-fathers and I have named all of them my family."
This seems to instantly gratify Eluréd and Elurín's curiosity.
"We understand," Eluréd supplies. "We lost our father, too."
Elrond closes his eyes. Dior had been mortal.
And the twins had initially wished to be numbered among men…
Oh. Elrond's heart aches for these children, who had wished to follow their father, but had at last given up their one choice for their mother.
Eluréd and Elurín burrow deeper into Elrond's side, and in the heady afternoon heat, their breathing grows gradually slow and deep.
Elrond looks down at the two sable-haired heads, and thinks of his own sons, now full-grown and still riding out among the foothills of the Misty Mountains, clearing the last remnant of Sauron's filth from Middle-Earth.
He breathes a quiet prayer to Elbereth to watch over them, and hums a lullaby that Maglor used to sing for him.
(:~:)
On the horizon, the orange-red brushstrokes of dusk have almost bled away completely to cool cerulean by the time the eagle makes its landing at the northernmost edge of Oromé's forests.
Elrond slips off the Eagle's neck, hiding a wince as his abused ankles take the impact, and begins helping Eluréd and Elurín down.
"Halt!" a shout comes from the trees.
Elrond settles Elurín on his feet, and straightens to see six Elves emerge from the treeline, bows at full draw and pointing directly at the Fëanorian star embroidered on his collar.
The eagle screeches in fury.
"No!" two small voices cry. Two short sets of arms wrap around his middle, effectively rooting him in place.
"He's our nephew!" Eluréd and Elurín yell.
Slowly, the Elves lower their bows.
A cry from the treeline, and a silver-haired elleth sprints across the grass in a flash of silver robes.
"Eluréd! Elurín!"
"Nana!"
Nimloth collapses to her knees before her children and crush them to her; the twins bury their faces in her shoulders.
Elrond lets out a slow breath, and curls a hand in the eagle's feathers to steady himself.
"You're both well? Unhurt?" Nimloth runs questing fingers over their faces, their hair, their sleeves. "Oh, I will never let you from my sight again!"
"We're fine," Eluréd pipes up. "Elrond fed us."
Nimloth inhales sharply, and stands, pushing her children behind her as she draws up to her full height and looks Elrond full in the face. The snap of her scrutiny is like flame to pitch.
Elrond inclines his head. "Greetings, Grandmother," he says in Sindarin.
Nimloth is trembling.
"Get thee gone from our home," she whispers, voice shaking. "Get thee gone."
Elrond feels the barb hit home, straight into a fëa already bleeding.
He inclines his head respectfully. "I will, good lady," he says. "But, if I may; Eluréd wishes to learn from the ship-masters under our cousin King Olwë, and Elurín wishes to see Tirion and learn from the architects there. They are your children, and the decision is yours, but it would make them very happy."
Nimloth takes a step closer, and the blazing fire of her eyes almost flares heat in his face.
"Get thee gone," she says again, takes her children by the hand, and turns to go.
Elrond meets the gazes of the six sentinels of the forest, who regard him without any emotion at all – without hostility or care. It is as though he does not exist.
Swallowing past the pain in his throat, Elrond bows shallowly.
"Farewell, cousins," he says, and climbs up onto the eagle's neck.
As the eagle takes to the air, he sees Eluréd and Elurín break from Nimloth's hold at the treeline, and run out onto starlit grass to wave goodbye.
Elrond waves in return, mustering a smile.
He maintains his composure during the long flight back to Avallónë.
The eagle lands on the grass of the cliff. There is a cry from within the house, and Celebrían rushes out. He blinks at her as he dismounts.
But of course. He is late.
"I am sorry," Elrond breathes, and takes her into his arms.
Celebrían embraces him in return. "Elrond! I was worried for you."
He buries his face in her silver hair, and tries to master himself.
"Elrond?" Celebrían says, a note of confusion in her voice.
Elrond can fight no longer.
He shoulders begin to shake, and he gasps silent sobs into his wife's hair.
"Darling," Celebrían says, alarmed, and leans back in his hold to press a hand to his cheek. "What happened?"
Elrond shakes his head, crystalline tears spilling down his cheeks, and lowers his head into Celebrían's shoulder.
He weeps for Doriath. He weeps for Sirion. He weeps for Eluréd and Elurín, robbed of a chance of a normal childhood, who are unfurling like spring flowers in their first rain but remain shadowed on the forest floor by the terrible, all-consuming love of their mother. He weeps for Nimloth, who lost so much, and wishes only to protect what she has left, but harms her children in doing so. He weeps for Elwing his mother, who has done the same.
Celebrían holds him until his tears are spent, murmuring soothing words into his temple, until he is at last ready to speak of it.
(:~:)
Timelessness.
The Noldolantë.
Five battles Maglor has sung, and he sings on; he sings of Doriath, and the surrounding Ainur and Maiar recoil in horror. His father puts his fiery head in his hands. Maglor sings of Sirion, and Fëanor begins to weep molten drops of liquid flame.
He sings of victory against the darkness at last, the crash of Angband falling; then he and Maedhros's last bitter deed, and the burning of their hands.
But here, where Maglor had last left the Noldolantë unfinished, he now weaves in a new theme.
Elrond and Elros, his two greatest treasures; in their blood the noble houses of Thingol and Fingolfin, of the Maiar, and of men.
Maglor sings of learning to love; of the bridging of fëar. He feels Maedhros step up beside him as he sings, and curls an arm around his brother as Maedhros does the same to him.
He sings of sons that are chosen, not born; of fathers with whom children share no blood, but share in fëa.
He sings of Elros, first King of the Edain of Númenor; of his great deeds in the War of Wrath and after, his wisdom and his bravery.
He sings of Elrond, healer, who should have been High King of the Noldor after Gil-Galad passed, but who instead chose to be master of a homely house; who lost his mother and his father, then his foster fathers, then his daughter and foster-son.
Maedhros, standing beside him, wears an expression of utter pride as he listens to Elrond's deeds, and yet he too is weeping bright sun-beamed tears.
Maglor sings of the Battle of Bruinen, of his last desperate song, of Elrond's final promise to him as he lay dying in his son's arms.
Last of all, he sings a blessing; a blessing on Elrond and his people, for joy and health, and to forget – to forget Maglor, this last shadow of a ghost, and to live under the Sun in Aman for long days hereafter until Arda is remade.
The last note fades, and Maglor falls silent. His sea-salt tears have long halted.
The Ainur and Maiar before him do not speak. They seem stunned into silence.
Maglor turns around. All six of his brothers are weeping. Fëanor too has tears of flame slipping down his cheeks.
Maedhros pulls Maglor into a gentle embrace, and Maglor buries his face in the warmth and light of his brother's shoulder.
"I knew you would be proud of him," Maglor whispers.
"I am," Maedhros murmurs. "But I am proud of you as well, 'Laurë."
A tide of thought gathers among the assembled Maiar and Ainur.
This will not do, they murmur, directly into the mind of the Fëanorians. This will not do!
Maglor feels Maedhros tense, and beside them their father and brothers do the same.
"So you have heard our crimes," Maedhros calls, his voice harsh and terrible. "Do you come now to bring further judgment upon us?"
No! the emphatic cry comes. Maglor blinks as many warm presences gather around him and Maedhros.
You and your son, one of the Ainur say, waves of heady emotion roiling through the thought-currents of Ainur and Maiar alike. The one whom the two of you call your son! You cannot remain here. This will not do. We must reunite you with him.
Oh.
Maglor straightens out of Maedhros's embrace, and turns to look at his audience. They do not have fëa-bodies like the Fëanorians do, but the currents against the translucent silver walls suggest that this hall is packed to overflowing.
Something delicate and frail and utterly dangerous flowers within him.
Hope.
How can we help you? the voices say.
"There is a door," Fëanor says suddenly, and the fire of inspiration is suddenly in his voice, as it had been Ages ago at his workshop in Tirion. "But it is guarded by the one that has forgotten how to sing. Morgoth."
Yes, their audience says. The loud one that only knows how to sow discord in a theme. But we do not know how to get past him.
"We need swords," Curufin says, stepping up beside his father.
But this is not Eä, the gathered say. This is not the World that Is. We have none of these swords you speak of.
"Song," Maglor says suddenly, looking down at the sea-foam and aquamarine water of his hand. "Song, and fëa."
Fëanor looks at him then, and the pride in his eyes strikes Maglor to the core.
"Yes," Fëanor says, smiling. He turns to the throng. "Teach us to sing, O thoughts of Eru. Teach us to sing fëa into helms and swords."
The shape of thought! the Ainur and Maiar exclaim. Yes! That we can teach you! But suddenly, disquiet rings among them like a discordant note.
But we are not permitted to unmake the one who has forgotten how to sing, they say.
"Then let us be the ones to accomplish this," Fëanor says. "Morgoth walks the void without a care for any who occupy it. He seeks to tear thought from fëa and song from breath. And he is no longer bound."
A murmur rises as thought-streams crisscross the gathered spirits.
Then: We understand and accept, they say. But Eru has yet to pronounce his judgment on this. If he speaks, we will listen to Him.
Fëanor does not look wholly happy about that, but he inclines his head in agreement.
The press of warm presences all around Fëanor and his sons, and the voices rise as they begin to teach.
Maglor listens, and as he begins to sing, the fragile flower of hope takes root in his core, and begins to grow.
(:~:)
Tuilë. Lairë. Yávië. Quellë. Hrivë. Coirë.
Spring, summer, autumn, fading, winter, stirring.
The years turn as Elrond kneels, and the gates of Máhanaxar remain shut to him.
Ten years of the sun. A breath in the life of an Eldar, and a long span of years for the Secondborn.
For Elrond, it is simply time.
Visitors thin in number after the first few years, save for Elrond's family and close friends. It is something Elrond had expected, and yet when the days he kneels alone begin to number more than the days he has company, he finds himself…not lonely, not exactly, but stretched thin.
He wakes with the dawn, kneels, returns in the early evening, and makes sure to spend time with his wife. What time not spent governing the Fëanorian district is spent visiting extended family and friends, and often it is the late watches of the night before Elrond can finally blow out the candles at his desk and fall into an exhausted sleep.
Occasionally Elrond finds himself almost drifting asleep kneeling before the gates of Máhanaxar; once he forgets to drink, and only remembers to fumble for his water bottle when the sun grows hot overhead and his head begins to swim. Another few times he forgets to eat, or prefers to keep his eyes closed than to bother with unwrapping the meal, and has to eat quickly in the short minutes of sunset before the Eagle comes, for fear of worrying Celebrían.
Finarfin takes him aside halfway through the sixth year and asks if Elrond would like to further delegate some of the burden of governing the Fëanorian district. Elrond had politely demurred. He has delegated enough, and Aerlind and her capable lieutenants are the reason he is able to catch a few precious hours of sleep a night. He is grateful for them.
Fingolfin and Finarfin have recently taken to staring somewhat intensely at Elrond at extended family dinners. Elrond cannot imagine why; he has managed well enough, kept himself presentable, and his reports to Finarfin regarding the management of the Fëanorian district are always delivered on time.
Bilbo, whom despite the years looks somehow younger than when he first arrived in Aman, has taken to insisting Elrond sit with him occasionally after dinner, so that Bilbo can recite new poetry and Elrond can listen.
Elrond had initially thought the request benign, until one evening where he realised that Bilbo was making up verses on the spot in order to keep Elrond in the room.
Bilbo had then admitted that he thought Elrond could do with some rest, and Bilbo had done the best he could in keeping Elrond away from his study. Elrond had smiled, thanked the elderly hobbit, and returned to his desk, where his smile turned wan at the sight of the stack of correspondence there.
He sets ink to parchment, and when the hours of the night grow long, he at last climbs into bed beside his already sleeping wife, and releases his tenuous grasp on consciousness.
Coirë. Tuilë.
The days of the Harvest Festival come to Aman, where Manwë had once declared a high feast in praise of Illúvatar when the first fruits of Valinor ripened ready to be picked.
The east-west road from Tirion to Valimar that day is packed with Noldor making their way to Valimar or the slopes of Taniquetil; thousands of them, adorned in shimmering jewels and bright cloaks of every shade.
The numbers thin as night approaches, and when the sun finally rests its golden circle on the horizon, Elrond stirs.
He climbs slowly to his feet, breathing shallowly against the agony that flares through his legs from knees to ankles. He is quite alone, here with his shadow thrown out before him to the gates of the Ring of Doom. He can hear the festivities begin in Valimar, golden notes of choirs and laughter.
There will be no eagle to come for him today – this one day of the year, when all West of Calacirya are gathered in Valimar or on the slopes of Taniequetil for the Harvest festival.
Elrond straightens his circlet and brushes out the creases in his robes. He had donned a richer set than usual this morning in expectation of the night's festivities.
Before he takes the first step he considers the state of his fëa.
Thin and wavering a little; but it will have to do. There is an ache behind his eyes, but there always is; at least he can likely walk without stumbling.
For a moment, he is tempted to just lay there in the wildflowers and sleep. Surely that could be permitted, this one day of the year when all are celebrating and none are working.
Then he thinks of Celebrían, who had promised to meet him at the gates to the city.
Elrond bolsters his mental walls, and begins to stride slowly around the great marble pillars of Máhanaxar, making for the west gate of Valimar.
(:~:)
"Have you seen Elrond?" Fingon says, stepping out from the shadow of the great pillared entryway.
On the slopes of Taniquetil, a great hall of white marble stands shining in the setting sun, surrounded by the golden grasses of the mountainside. The hall is already nearly packed full to the brim, save for a few stragglers climbing up from the city; Valimar will also be packed to bursting tonight, but the noble houses of the Noldor and Vanyar are gathered here, closer to the seat of Manwë.
Finrod frowns at his cousin's question, and turns, diamond-studded tresses swinging, to look down the slope towards Valimar.
"There!" He exclaims, pointing. There are two figures approaching from the East gate of Valimar. The light of the setting sun catches on Celebrían's silver hair and the silver stars embroidered on Elrond's robes.
Fingon raises a graceful hand to his eyes to shield them from the glare.
He narrows his eyes. "Finrod," he says sharply.
His cousin turns towards him, instantly on guard. "Yes?"
"He doesn't look well," Fingon says. Concern is slowly rising in his throat as he looks down at the slow-moving figure of Elrond, who stops to rest a moment every two dozen steps, one hand on his wife's arm.
Beside Fingon, Finrod stares down at his niece and her husband. He frowns. "I saw him the week before last, at that awful state dinner my father insisted on holding. The Doriathrim glared daggers at Elrond the whole time, but he seemed hardly affected. Though he does look a little worn, now you mention it. Do you think-"
"No," Fingon says, as Elrond reaches the first group of Noldor stragglers who greet him cheerfully halfway down the hill. "I'll talk to my father. Both you and your father have enough to manage tonight; I'll make discreet enquiries and find you later."
Finrod claps him on the shoulder and turns to stride into the hall, where is father already stands with Ingwë behind the long table on the dias.
Fingon remains behind, looking down the slope of golden grass at Elrond and Celebrían, as the concern in his chest turns slowly to dread.
(:~:)
Elrond is frighteningly good at osanwé.
That is the first thing Fingon realises when he steps forward to greet his cousin; Elrond's mind is shut behind impenetrable walls, and his fëa is similarly closed off behind his cordial smile.
"Elrond," Fingon says, greeting his cousin warmly. "Arafinwë and my father will be glad you could come."
Elrond smiles reassuringly at his wife, and Celebrían excuses herself to look for Galadriel after one more glance at her husband, thinly veiled with worry.
Fingon hides a frown.
Despite his wife's visible concern, Elrond seems completely at ease. "Did Frodo-?"
"Yes," Fingon says. "He's been placed with some of the people from Imladris, and seems quite at home last I saw him. I gather Bilbo did not wish to come?"
"Oh, he did," Elrond says. "But he agreed he would unlikely be able to stay awake for the duration of the event, and so decided to stay home."
"I see," Fingon says, leading Elrond through the chattering crowd towards the dias.
Elrond follows at a sedate, careful pace, but he slows further as they approach the high table, where Ingwë, Finarfin and their eldest sons are already seated. Fingolfin ascends the dias, and leans close to Finarfin's ear to say something over the murmur of the crowd.
Fingon notes Elrond's hesitation. "I'm afraid it's the high table again," he says apologetically. "My father tried to argue against it this year, as you requested, but you are acting head of the House of Fëanor. You'll be sitting next to me."
For a moment, Fingon sees Elrond's mask slip.
There is apprehension there, but also, deeper behind Elrond's gaze, a glimmer of desperate exhaustion.
Then, with such speed that Fingon almost wonders if he imagined the whole thing, the warm smile returns Elrond's face.
"Of course," Elrond says.
Fingon looks sharply at him.
Elrond continues to smile, and Fingon is suddenly reminded that Elrond is of Melian's line.
A nudge against Fingon's mind, through the parental bond. He glances at the high table, and finds his father looking at them both with intense scrutiny.
Elrond's lips thin into a white line.
Fingon's heart aches. "Elrond-"
"No," Elrond says, firmly, in the exact same tone he had used a decade ago in his first ordeal at the Ring of Doom, when Fingon had offered him water. "I am well."
The lie hangs between them.
Fingon knows it is a lie. He can see by Elrond's challenging gaze that Elrond knows that he knows.
Fingon narrows his eyes, and opens his mouth-
Around them, the crowd begins to quiet as beyond the great western-facing doors of the hall the sun slips below the horizon at last.
Fingon looks back up towards the high table. His father is deep in whispered discussion with Arafinwë, both of them surreptitiously glancing at Elrond.
"Please," Elrond says quietly beside him. "Not here. Not now."
Fingon inhales sharply, and nods once. He throws an arm around Elrond's shoulders in an image of cousinly camaraderie, and takes as much of Elrond's weight as he can without rendering it visible. He feels the too-sharp bones of Elrond's shoulder shift under his palm.
The dread in his chest turns to pain, and guilt.
How could they have missed this? How could they all have missed it?
"Come," he whispers, guiding Elrond up to the dias. "Come and sit."
"Thank you," Elrond breathes, a susurration of syllables.
They find their places at the High Table and stand before their chairs. High King Ingwë speaks - for far too long in Fingon's opinion – and Fingon feels Elrond sway a little beside him as the speech goes on.
Then mercifully, it is over, and there is a great rustling of cloth and scraping of chairs as all the assembled sit at last.
Fingon notes in the corner of his vision that Elrond has folded his hands into opposite sleeves.
Fingon would bet every jewel in Tirion that those hands are trembling.
His flare of anger lasts but an instant before he furls it again behind mental walls of steel.
On his other side, Finrod nearly chokes on a gulp of wine. Fingon feels his father's attention snap towards him, a questing flare over his mind, and Fingon grits his teeth as he makes a discreet gesture to show all is well.
Elrond had gone quite still as the acid wash of Fingon's anger flooded over him, but now he reaches for his spoon as the first course is served. Fingon does the same.
Stewed turbot soup, heavy with spices. Fingon pushes the delicate fish about his bowl and attempts not to glare at it too much. Beside him Elrond is eating with delicate, precise bites.
"I apologise," Elrond murmurs to him, as the attendants come to take away their dishes.
Fingon looks at Elrond, thunderstruck. Beside Fingon, Finrod's sharp hearing has also picked out the words; he too turns to their youngest cousin, disbelief on his features.
"You can't be serious," Fingon says. "If anything, we should be the ones–" he cuts himself off, holding his tongue until the second course is before them and the attendants are out of earshot. "If anything, we should be the ones apologising," he whispers. "What kind of family allows one of their own to suffer so alone?"
Elrond smiles wanly at both of them.
"I am managing quite well," he says quietly. "I do not wish any of you to worry. Celebrían most of all."
Finrod is smiling as he looks out over the assembly, but he digs an elbow into Fingon's side, and Fingon speaks for them both.
"For pity's sake," Fingon hisses out of the side of his mouth. "When was the last time you had a full night's sleep, Elrond? You look about half a shade less pale than death, and what you're allowing us to see of your fëa isn't much better–"
"Please," Elrond whispers, and Fingon startles at the plea in his voice. "Please. This is– I need to finish this."
"Elrond," Fingon sighs, but Elrond looks away.
After the last course there is dancing, and Fingon almost opens his mouth to stop Elrond when Elrond strides to Celebrían to ask her to dance. The two of them make a brilliant pair, Celebrían with her silver hair caught up in diamonds and Elrond with his midnight tresses braided back in a silver circlet, one of Makalaurë's white-jeweled braid clips in his hair.
Elrond does not miss as single step as the dance progresses; but Fingon narrows his eyes at Elrond's fëa, focused and seeking, and he catches the slow seep of exhaustion that bleeds from every leap and every turn, that a casual observer would not see.
Fingon sets down his cup of wine, and turns in place. He must find his father.
He startles to find Fingolfin already there, eyes glittering like ice where they are fixed on Elrond.
"Father," Fingon says quietly.
"Findekáno," Fingolfin says, with no inflection at all. "The north saloon. A quarter of an hour. Bring him. Arafinwë is speaking to Findaráto. Artanis will ensure Celebrían is occupied."
Fingon closes his eyes briefly, and nods.
Fingolfin's hand finds his shoulder briefly, and then they both go to do what they must.
(:~:)
Elrond moves carefully towards the nearest chair.
He intends to use the opportunity afforded by Galadriel twirling Celebrían into the next dance to sit a while. His head is perilously light, and his abused ankles scream with pain. The flames of his fëa are stretched thin from the effort of keeping him upright.
A flash of golden ribbons in midnight hair, and Fingon has hooked an arm through his and is pulling him steadily away from the crowd.
Elrond opens his lips to protest, but the next moment diamonds in fair hair shimmer before his vision and Finrod has captured his other arm.
Elrond murmurs, "Cousins–"
"Be. Quiet." Fingon hisses, and Elrond snaps his mouth shut.
Fingon and Finrod continue to smile and greet others courteously as they guide him towards a set of doors at the side of the hall. The voluminous sleeves of their robes hide the fact they have a vice-like grip on Elrond's arms, and Elrond moves with them, protests dying on his lips.
Argon and Angrod are casually lounging by the doors. They skewer Elrond with identical looks of veiled worry, and usher in the trio.
The doors close behind them. Elrond notes that Argon and Angrod have remained outside– to stand guard, his frazzled mind supplies.
Finarfin's voice. "Elrond. Please sit."
Elrond straightens. Finrod and Fingon release his arms and step back against the door, as though to bar his exit.
Finarfin and Fingolfin stand at the centre of the chamber, faces grave. There is a fire roaring in the grate, and the chamber is simply and tastefully furnished in the classical Vanyar style, but something of the atmosphere snaps across Elrond's mind like a whip.
He blinks, frozen.
Finarfin draws a hand over his face. "Elrond. I am your High King, and more importantly, the grandfather of your wife. Sit."
Elrond takes three numb steps forward and lowers himself onto long cushioned seat before his great-great grandfather and the High King of the Noldor. There is a similar couch behind Finarfin and Fingolfin, but neither of them seem inclined to do the same.
Finarfin looks at his brother.
"Elrond," Fingolfin says.
Elrond startles. He had thought Fingolfin would be severe, and chiding.
Fingolfin sounds as though he might be about to weep, instead.
Elrond spares a thought that Fingon and his father really are quite similar.
"Ten years ago, we cautioned you to take care in your cause," Fingolfin says, and takes two steps forward to sit beside him. "You said you would seek to simmer, and not to burn."
"I did," Elrond says.
"Pityo," Fingolfin says, taking his hand. The term of endearment washes over Elrond's battered fëa, steadies his thrumming heart. "You are suffering alone again. You do not need to do so."
Elrond closes his eyes.
He is so tired. The thought of returning to the Ring of Doom to kneel again on the morrow almost makes him want to weep.
But he cannot miss a day. He cannot afford to.
"They are waiting for me," he whispers. "Atar and Atarinya."
At least he thinks they are. Ten years in the void – or whatever the equivalent of ten years are in the timelessness there – could have unmade them.
Atar and Atarinya. It is the first time he has referred to Maglor and Maedhros thus in the presence of any other than Nerdanel and his wife. Elrond hears Fingon inhale sharply behind him.
"Then leave the Fëanorian district to another," Finarfin says, striding forward to sit on Elrond's other side. "Forgive me," he says quietly. "I should have acted sooner. Use the time you would have spent on governance to rest."
Elrond shakes his head. "They will not follow another," he says, smiling wanly. "Not unless Celebrimbor is permitted to return from the Halls."
Fingolfin's eyes are wet.
"Elrond," he says, and as he speaks, the fire roars in the grate and flares out into a golden silhouette, and Eonwë suddenly stands among them.
"High King Arafinwë," Eonwë says, bowing gracefully to Finarfin.
Finarfin stands and inclines his head in return. "Eonwë, herald of Manwë," he says. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?"
Eonwë turns his gaze onto Elrond, and Elrond fights a flinch. The Maia's spirit is too bright, too glaring, and it almost burns through the translucence of Elrond's own thinned fëa.
"Elrond Kanafinwion," Eonwë says, and all four other Elves in the room shift abruptly at the name. "I have been sent to–" he pauses, gold-lit eyes flitting over Elrond's form.
"You are not well," Eonwë says plainly. "What have you done to yourself, child?"
Both Finarfin and Fingolfin swivel to stare at Elrond pointedly. Elrond can feel Finrod and Fingon's gazes burning into the back of his head.
"What I must," Elrond breathes. There are many words he could choose to say, but he is so exhausted now he wishes only for the emptiness of sleep. He forces himself to stand, gritting his teeth against the scream of his calves.
"Please," he says to Eonwë. "Tell me the nature of your errand."
Eonwë regards him with an inscrutable gaze.
"Elrond Kanafinwion," he says. "My lords Manwë and Námo wish to speak to you. You may proceed to Máhanaxar at once, if you are able."
Elrond's knees give way.
His back collides heavily with the back of the couch.
"I see," he hears himself saying. "Please convey my thanks to lords Manwë and Námo. I will set out immediately."
Eonwë nods once, and dissolves into stardust.
Stunned silence, save for the crackling of the fire. Finarfin and Fingolfin have each seized one of Elrond's shoulders.
"If I could trouble one of my cousins for an arm," Elrond says, feeling as though he is speaking from very far away. "I cannot make the walk unaided."
Next up: The Ring of Doom, where Elrond speaks to the Valar, and a decision is made.