This story is set immediately after the close of my story Choices. You
haven't read it? Shame. Hie on down at once and don't forget to leave a
review (you **know** you count the number of reviews to see if a story's
worth reading). Still here? OK. What you need to know is that AFTER takes
place immediately after the fall of Sauron in the Second Age. Isildur has
taken the ring and Elrond has done a *very bad thing*.
Thanks to Elizabeth for the beta. Any wincers and howlers left belong to me. (OW!)
+++++
AFTER
One: To Be Alone
"Elrond!"
Cirdan was hailing him. Elrond did not acknowledge the summons. He called again, louder this time, and now Elrond could sense unease from those around them at his discourtesy towards the elven lord. Let them wonder, soon they would have more than speculation to go on.
Still he did not turn, continuing to make his way towards the tented area occupied by the men of Numenor. It was crowded here, and confused, but the silk banners of the white tree flew proudly over the makeshift camp, marking the dwellings of Elendil and his kin.
"Elrond!"
The voice was musically beguiling even when shouting the orders of battle. Even here, even now, it stirred him. So many ways Cirdan had said his name through the years – with amusement, exasperation, passion, even in anger - but always with that bright thread of love running through. Never like this. He was---
Whatever he was, he was not a coward. He had made his choice and would abide by it without pity or complaint. He turned.
The Lord of the Havens caught up with him, moving swiftly, with the grace he gave to all things. Cirdan's face was grim, his pale hair unbound, the loosely falling strands almost indistinguishable against dull metal armour and the grey of his cloak. Long fingers closed over Elrond's arm, the hold firm but impersonal, as he spoke, "You are weary, Lord Elrond, or you would have heard my calls sooner. Come, you are needed by your people."
The words were loud enough to be heard by those nearest.
"My people?" Elrond repeated, only now it was a question and acid on his lips.
Which people - elves or men? Isildur was dead. It was necessary to see Isildur's sons to tell them. To tell them… To tell them what? Men are weak. But words refused to form. Indeed, even standing was only achieved by an act of will. In the distance the volcano rumbled, its roar loud even in the camp, but the assembled companies paid no heed. They had long grown used to the unassuagible anger of Mount Doom and there were other, more immediate, concerns close at hand. He shuddered.
"Come, Elrond, you are needed," said Cirdan again. He paused for a moment then continued, the words lower this time, meant for him alone, "Needed by your own people and also those of men."
Around them weary soldiers dismantled the watch towers and battering rams of war and prepared to leave this cursed place where they had been held in siege for seven long years. There would be drinking and songs tonight but the toasts would be to the fallen and the songs about those who were lost. Only in the days to come, as they made their way back to hall and farm and the loving arms of their waiting kin, would the survivors come to be grateful for the fact that they had been spared. It was over now. At least he could be sure of that. It was something to cling to, but not enough. He wished he were dead.
Elrond let Cirdan guide them through the crowd without protest. Centres of healing had been set up and all who had knowledge in these arts now turned their thoughts away from war and to the restoration of life. He should help – healing was his calling - but Cirdan's hand on his arm kept him moving through the throngs to the tents of their encampment. It looked different. It felt as if he watched the scene through eyes that belonged to someone else, someone who was not Elrond. There were the banners raised high – the blue ships of the Telerin elves, his own with the signs of the house of Finwe, and above them all…Realization hit him knife-sharp. Gil-galad's standard had been lowered. His king was dead. Once again, eternity stretched before him, sundered from all he held dear. It had happened before - with his parents, Earendil and Elwing; his foster father, Maglor; Elros, his brother who had chosen mortality and was lost - but these partings had all been forced upon him and he had to learned to accept and adapt. This isolation he had chosen for himself.
"Come." Cirdan's voice called him back, the pressure on his arm an anchor to reality. He tore his eyes away from the empty air were Gil-galad's banner had flown and managed the last few steps that would take him to his tent. His squire, Nulondion, waited on his return. The young elf greeted them anxiously, obviously concerned at the time that it had taken Elrond to return from the battle.
"Later," said Cirdan, cutting across his enquiries. "I must speak with Lord Elrond privately. Let no one enter." Nulondion's eyes widened at this brusqueness and he quickly glanced at Elrond for confirmation of the order. Elrond said nothing, but whatever his squire saw in his face must have convinced him because he moved away from the door of the tent drawing open the heavy canvas to allow them to enter.
"One moment," Elrond stopped Nulondion as the elf prepared to leave. He issued a swift series of commands. If possible the squire's eyes widened even further but he made no demur as he set out to follow instructions. Voices could heard outside, followed by footsteps, indicating that a guard had been mounted to ensure their privacy.
Once alone Cirdan let go of him at once as if he had been burned. Elrond had expected no less. He moved away as if the parting had been mutual, needing to establish some space between them. Without any clear idea of what he was doing he dropped down on the sleeping pallet and began to unbuckle the heavy guards that protected his arms with clumsy fingers.
Cirdan watched him and made no move to help. The expression on his high- boned face was unreadable. Of course, he would not willingly touch Elrond again. At last the ties were done, first the right and then, a little easier, the left. He unbuckled the heavy belt and lifted the close-forged chain shirt over his head dropping them carelessly by his side. Lightly clad in shirt and breeches he was aware how the dust of battle clung to him. Cirdan read his thoughts and silently passed a damp cloth for him to wipe face and hands. He accepted it equally silently wondering if he ever find the words to speak. It seemed Cirdan hesitated, too, equally reluctant start a conversation that could only end in bitterness and parting.
Thanks to Elizabeth for the beta. Any wincers and howlers left belong to me. (OW!)
+++++
AFTER
One: To Be Alone
"Elrond!"
Cirdan was hailing him. Elrond did not acknowledge the summons. He called again, louder this time, and now Elrond could sense unease from those around them at his discourtesy towards the elven lord. Let them wonder, soon they would have more than speculation to go on.
Still he did not turn, continuing to make his way towards the tented area occupied by the men of Numenor. It was crowded here, and confused, but the silk banners of the white tree flew proudly over the makeshift camp, marking the dwellings of Elendil and his kin.
"Elrond!"
The voice was musically beguiling even when shouting the orders of battle. Even here, even now, it stirred him. So many ways Cirdan had said his name through the years – with amusement, exasperation, passion, even in anger - but always with that bright thread of love running through. Never like this. He was---
Whatever he was, he was not a coward. He had made his choice and would abide by it without pity or complaint. He turned.
The Lord of the Havens caught up with him, moving swiftly, with the grace he gave to all things. Cirdan's face was grim, his pale hair unbound, the loosely falling strands almost indistinguishable against dull metal armour and the grey of his cloak. Long fingers closed over Elrond's arm, the hold firm but impersonal, as he spoke, "You are weary, Lord Elrond, or you would have heard my calls sooner. Come, you are needed by your people."
The words were loud enough to be heard by those nearest.
"My people?" Elrond repeated, only now it was a question and acid on his lips.
Which people - elves or men? Isildur was dead. It was necessary to see Isildur's sons to tell them. To tell them… To tell them what? Men are weak. But words refused to form. Indeed, even standing was only achieved by an act of will. In the distance the volcano rumbled, its roar loud even in the camp, but the assembled companies paid no heed. They had long grown used to the unassuagible anger of Mount Doom and there were other, more immediate, concerns close at hand. He shuddered.
"Come, Elrond, you are needed," said Cirdan again. He paused for a moment then continued, the words lower this time, meant for him alone, "Needed by your own people and also those of men."
Around them weary soldiers dismantled the watch towers and battering rams of war and prepared to leave this cursed place where they had been held in siege for seven long years. There would be drinking and songs tonight but the toasts would be to the fallen and the songs about those who were lost. Only in the days to come, as they made their way back to hall and farm and the loving arms of their waiting kin, would the survivors come to be grateful for the fact that they had been spared. It was over now. At least he could be sure of that. It was something to cling to, but not enough. He wished he were dead.
Elrond let Cirdan guide them through the crowd without protest. Centres of healing had been set up and all who had knowledge in these arts now turned their thoughts away from war and to the restoration of life. He should help – healing was his calling - but Cirdan's hand on his arm kept him moving through the throngs to the tents of their encampment. It looked different. It felt as if he watched the scene through eyes that belonged to someone else, someone who was not Elrond. There were the banners raised high – the blue ships of the Telerin elves, his own with the signs of the house of Finwe, and above them all…Realization hit him knife-sharp. Gil-galad's standard had been lowered. His king was dead. Once again, eternity stretched before him, sundered from all he held dear. It had happened before - with his parents, Earendil and Elwing; his foster father, Maglor; Elros, his brother who had chosen mortality and was lost - but these partings had all been forced upon him and he had to learned to accept and adapt. This isolation he had chosen for himself.
"Come." Cirdan's voice called him back, the pressure on his arm an anchor to reality. He tore his eyes away from the empty air were Gil-galad's banner had flown and managed the last few steps that would take him to his tent. His squire, Nulondion, waited on his return. The young elf greeted them anxiously, obviously concerned at the time that it had taken Elrond to return from the battle.
"Later," said Cirdan, cutting across his enquiries. "I must speak with Lord Elrond privately. Let no one enter." Nulondion's eyes widened at this brusqueness and he quickly glanced at Elrond for confirmation of the order. Elrond said nothing, but whatever his squire saw in his face must have convinced him because he moved away from the door of the tent drawing open the heavy canvas to allow them to enter.
"One moment," Elrond stopped Nulondion as the elf prepared to leave. He issued a swift series of commands. If possible the squire's eyes widened even further but he made no demur as he set out to follow instructions. Voices could heard outside, followed by footsteps, indicating that a guard had been mounted to ensure their privacy.
Once alone Cirdan let go of him at once as if he had been burned. Elrond had expected no less. He moved away as if the parting had been mutual, needing to establish some space between them. Without any clear idea of what he was doing he dropped down on the sleeping pallet and began to unbuckle the heavy guards that protected his arms with clumsy fingers.
Cirdan watched him and made no move to help. The expression on his high- boned face was unreadable. Of course, he would not willingly touch Elrond again. At last the ties were done, first the right and then, a little easier, the left. He unbuckled the heavy belt and lifted the close-forged chain shirt over his head dropping them carelessly by his side. Lightly clad in shirt and breeches he was aware how the dust of battle clung to him. Cirdan read his thoughts and silently passed a damp cloth for him to wipe face and hands. He accepted it equally silently wondering if he ever find the words to speak. It seemed Cirdan hesitated, too, equally reluctant start a conversation that could only end in bitterness and parting.