OF RIDDLES OF DOOM AND PATHS OF LOVE
by Soledad Cartwright
Disclaimer:
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.
Rating: PG – 13, for implied m/m interaction.
Author's Notes:
As you can see, I continue breaking my long-winding stories into shorter chapters, in order to make reading easier. There might be the one or other added chapter later, as I continue re-edit and re-write my stories in retrospect to later plot development and constructive criticism. I take analytic reviews very seriously, because they tell me whether or not I have managed to deliver the things I intended to.
So thanks to all who take the time to read and review, and I hope I'll never disappoint you.
CHAPTER TWO: THE LORD OF THE VALLEY
They left the garden and – through another gracefully arched corridor – entered the huge, somewhat shadowy antechamber of Elrond's house. It was paved with hewn stones in the colour of deep copper and pale gold; heavy, rectangular pillars held its board stairways that led to the upper levels, high under the arched ceiling that was yet hidden in the shadows.
There were small writing tables of deep golden, polished wood, and tall, slender candle-stics of copper with honey-coloured, thin beeswax candles – everything in the rich, golden and brown colours of autumn, except a white marble bust of an ethereally beautiful Elven woman in front of the main staircase.
Boromir looked at the Ranger in askance.
''The Lady of Imladris'', Strider said quietly, ''Elrond's wife, Celebrían. Glorfindel says, in the happier days she used to welcome the guests to Elrond's house on this very spot. That is why Elrond wished to have at least her likeness there. For him, she never really left.''
He drifted off, for his keen instincts, sharpened in this very house many years ago, told him that someone was approaching them. And indeed, only a few short moments later, the Lord Elrond descended the main stairway with the customary grace of the Elven race. He was fully clad now, wearing a gold-embroided, pale yellow undergown beneath his heavy velvet robe, as it was custom among Elves of royal birth, and a delicately-woven mithril ring adorned his brow: the symbol of his power and heritage.
Boromir looked at him in wonder, for he never really believed that, at last, he would come to see Elrond with his own eyes – the Half-Elven of whom so many tales told, and whom he had thought a legend only a few months earlier.
The face of Elrond was ageless, but not the same way as Glorfindel's or even Legolas'. Ageless, indeed, neither old nor young, though in it was written the memory of many things, both glad and sorrowful. His hair was dark as the shadows of twilight and fell open upon his back, with only two ornamental braids above slightly pointed ears, held together by delicate golden clasps, and his eyes were grey as a clear evening, and in them was a light like the light of stars.
Venerable he seemed as a king crowned with many winters and yet hale as a tried warrior in the fullness of his strenght. He was the Lord of Imladris, mighty among both Elves and Men, and seeing him Boromir suddenly understood where the noble strength og the King of Westernesse came. For Elrond's own brother, who chose the fate of mortal Men, gifted it upon all his progeny, the Kings of Númenor, and those who came after them, the Kings of Arnor and Gondor.
//Many years earlier, as a boy, learning with his brother the tale of their sires and the history of their city, Boromir, who was displeased that his father was not King, asked him:
''How many hundreds of years needs it to make a Steward a Kind if the King returns not?''
And his father answered gravely:
''Few years maybe, in other places of less royalty. In Gondor ten thousand years would not suffice.''
At that time, young Boromir could not fathom this answer. Now, almost thirty years later, facing the living proof of that royalty, it became all very clear in a mere moment.//
Elrond looked at the big man, saw his aching heart and his tortured mind and great pity overcame him, for his eyes looked deeper than even those of most Elves, and he could see the invisible mark of death that was burned upon his tormented soul.
Many had he met and known from this sort among the Dúnedain of the North: single-mindedly focussed on their task, the battles and the defense of their homes, betrothed to death, without a single place of peace in their heart. If Denethor's son didn't find his path out of the darkness of pain and self-doubt, and soon, there was no power great enough in Middle-eart that could save him.
The Lord of Imladris reached the bottom of the stairway, greeted Denethor's heir with the usual grave kindness of his people and offered him some miruvor – the same clear and fragrant draught Boromir had already tasted in that very morrow for breakfast.
''Legolas has already told me of your errand'', he then said, ''but I wish to hear about it from your own mouth. What is it that you require from me?''
Boromir swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry, and wanted desperately again that his brother would be there with him, weaving a pretty braid of sweet words as he always did. Making this ancient, mighty Elf-lord understand, how dire the need of Gondor was, how much their depended on counsel and wisdom and hope, more so than on weapons of war.
''I do not seek allies in war, my lord'', he finally said. ''We know that the might of Elrond is in wisdom, not in weapons; or so the legends say. I came to ask for counsel and the unravelling of hard words. For those might hide the secret of Gondor's fate; and mayhap even her last, best hope.''
''Then counsel may you be given and hope shall you find in this house'', Elrond nodded solemnly. ''For the strange words of your dream, as Legolas repeated them for me, are not at all strange for the lore-masters of the North.''
Boromir looked at the agaless face and the shadow of despair seemed to clear up a little from his heart.
''So tell me, Lord Elrond'', he asked, ''do you know about the Sword that was Broken? Is it truly to find here, in your house?''
''It is'', Elrond answered, ''for it has been, among the other heirlooms of Arnor, given into my custody after the end of the North-Kingdom. I shall ask Estel to show it you'', with that, he looked at the quietly watching Strider with a smile. Boromir, too, turned to the Ranger in awe.
''You are Estel? The same one Legolas and Glorfindel spoke of upon my arrival?''
Strider shrugged.
''I was called Estel in my youth, yes. It was a name my mother gave me, for I was all the hope left her when my father was slain, and the Elves in this dale still call me that. But it is no name I would answer any where outside Imladris.''
''Why is that?'' Boromir asked. Strider looked at him solemnly.
''I am no Man's hope, Boromir, Heir of the Steward of Gondor. Not even my own. For dark times are waiting before us, and foolish it would be to put one's hope in any mortal Man.''
''So 'tis true that Isildur's Bane would emerge again?'' Boromir asked. ''Is then the doom of Minas Tirith come at last? But why then should we seek a broken sword?''
''The words were not the doom of Minas Tirith'', Elrond said. ''But doom and great deeds are indeed at hand. For the Sword that was Broken is the Sword of Elendil that broke beneath him when he fell. It has been treasured by his heirs when most other heirlooms were lost; for it was spoken of old among them that it should be made again when Isildur's Bane was found. Now we shall show you the sword that you have sought; when you have seen it, what would you ask? Do you wish for it to return to the Land of Gondor?''
''I was not sent to beg any boon, but to seek only the meaning of a riddle'', answered Boromir proudly. ''Yet we are hard pressed, and the Sword of Elendil would be a help beyond our hope – if such a thing could indeed deturn out of the shadows of the past…''
He looked at Strider, and doubt was in his eyes. The Ranger looked back at him soberly.
''We shall see'', was all he answered.
''And what about Isildur's Bane?'' Boromir asked. ''Has it, in truth, reemerged? Do you know, what it is – and where it is?''
''We do'', Elrond said, ''and so shall you, in a short time. But I cannot speak of it, not yet. I have to withhold the truth a little longer… til the messengers of other people, that had been announced, arrive. Are you willing to wait til the Council? I promise that all your questions shall be answered there.''
''What other choice do I have?'' Boromir replied bitterly. ''I cannot force you to tell me what you would not; and I cannot leave your house ere I have learnt the meaning of that riddle. Therefore, I shall wait. How long then?''
''Twenty days'', Elrond said. ''Mayhap a few less – or a few more.''
Boromir shrugged, He did not like it, but he did not have any other choice, either.
''A hundred and ten days I have journeyed, over many dangerous leagues between Minas Tirith and Imladris, most of it alone. I can wait twenty more lays in the leasure of this house.''
Elrond gave him a faint smile again.
''I shall see into it that you find some much-needed rest under my roof'', he said. ''Surely, Estel would prove a good host for you during your stay; for this house had been his home for a long time.''
Strider bowed in agreement, and Elrond took his leave from his somewhat displeased guest. The Ranger looked after him for a moment, his eyes thoughtful. Then he turned to Boromir again.
''So, do you wish me to walk you around the dale, my friend? There are many wonders, hidden for the naked eye, but I know every single one of them and can point out them to you.''
''Nay'', Boromir replied, ''not today. Right now, I wish to go back to my room and think.''
''Were a hundred and ten days alone in the Wild not enough for you to think?'' the Ranger asked. ''Would it not be better to share your thoughts with a friend?''
''Mayhap it would'', Boromir nodded, ''but I have no friends in this Elven dale. Nor do I need any. I am no spoiled princeling who needs to pour out his wee heart to the first Man who comes across. I am the heir of the Steward and the Captain-General of Gondor… accustomed to bear my burden alone.''
With that, he turned away to cross that narrow bridge again, this time without any guidance, leaving a thunderstruck Ranger behind.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
''That went well'', commented Legolas, appearing in one of the tall, narrow windows that looked at one of the many inner gardens and served as entrances as well.
Strider looked at him, frowning. Despite growing up among Elves, their custom of appearing seemingly out of thin air still unnerved him.
''I jumped down from the balcony above'', Legolas offered as an answer to his unspoken question; then he walked over to Elrond withe a frow of his own. ''I fear you have just made a grave error, meleth-nin''.
''In what way?'', asked Elrond.
''By keeping the Son of Denethor in the dark about many different matters'', the Prince of Mirkwood answered. ''He is not a mere messenger. He is the Heir of the Lord of the strongest realm of Men in Middle-earth, and though he is not called a Prince, he most likely used to be treated as one. And he certainly is used to partake any counsels of his father.''
''But we cannot reveal him the whole truth'', Elrond said, ''not before the Council. And some of the messengers that were sent out still have not arrived.''
''That I know'', Legolas nodded, ''yet I think you should have been more forthcoming with lesser tidings… or ask him for some, mayhap.''
''For what end?'', Elrond clearly did not understand.
Legolas rolled his eyes in frustration.
''For someone who has the blood of mortal Men in his veins you certainly have forgotten how to handle them. Men loath to be shut out of counsels… more so when they are of high birth. It hurts their pride and offends their honour, or so have I found during my dealings with both the Beornings and the Men of Dale… even though they are of much lesser birth than the Heir of Gondor.''
Elrond felt truly surprised by this.
''You believe I have offended the son of Denethor?''
''And rather deeply to that'', nodded Legolas. ''Regardless what we know of Estel's ancestry, right now the throne of Gondor waits for Boromir – even if he would only sit in the chair of Stewards, at this moment that chair is the highest one in Minas Tirith – in the entire South. He is a dignitary, and you treated him like a servant.''
''I did no such thing!'', protested Elrond.
Legolas shrugged.
''You refused to tell him aught what he longed to know. Instead you told him to go back to his rooms and wait til you would be ready to speak. I could see the flashing of his eyes from the garden; and I very much doubt that he would think kindly of you right now… of either of you. Which I even understand to some extent… Would you keep tidings of importance from me, I would not be delighted, either.''
''Never would I keep aught from you'', said Elrond with a fond smile, but Legolas tilted his head on one side with that strange, bird-like gesture that is only seen by Wood-Elves and always is a sign of irritation.
''And why is that? Because I am the Crown Prince of Mirkwood or because I share your bed?''
''Legolas!'', Elrond cried out in dismay, now clearly hurt.
Legolas took a deep, calming breath and laid his hand upon Elrond's forearm.
''Forgive me. That was uncalled for. But I hope you can see now what I meant to say. The son of Denethor is, by rank and dignity, not beneath me, yet you dismissed him as if he were but a too curious esquire. 'Tis something he would not take kindly. For he is a very proud Man.''
''He is more than just that'', Elrond sighed. ''I could feel the despair that fills his heart – despair and something else I had not felt from a Man for a very long time – not since the fall of the North-kingdom.''
''There is a shadow upon his heart'', Legolas agreed, ''a darkness that comes from despair rather than from an evil heart… I have seen that once, long ago, by one of our hunters who, by accident, came too close to Dol Guldur.''
''Can this be healed?'', Strider asked.
''I know not'', said Legolas sadly. ''That hunter I spoke of went to the Havens near Dol Amroth and left Middle-earth to seek healing in the Blessed Realm. Yet whether a Man could be healed from this, I cannot say. It would take a great love to save him… and he looks not like someone who is loved. Not the way he would need it.''
''What is your advice?'', asked Elrond. ''What should we do about the Heir of Gondor?''
''There is very little you or I could do'', Legolas replied thoughtfully, ''and even less that he would accept, I fear. We can try and leave him alone for a few days, til his ire cools down a little. Then we can decide our next move.''
''You speak of it as we would play a game here'', Strider accused.
''On but we do'', answered Elrond in Legolas' stead. ''A most cruel and perilous game, with all our lives and the fate of Middle-earth at stake. One wrong move and we shall not be the only ones who lose. If we fail, darkness shall come upon Middle-earth, and not even the Sea might offer us any escape…''
He trailed off, his eyes searching the westward windows, as it had become his custom in recent years. Strider cast a bewildered look at Legolas, but the Elf only shook his head, and upon his fair face there was deep sorrow.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
End note:
Some of the dialogues were lifted from Elrond's Council in the books, of course. I know they do not belong to an earlier encounter, but I could use them very handily, so be merciful with me, would you? g
I know, this was a rather short chapter, but it came here to its natural end, so I decided to keep it so. There will be at least two more chapters added later, though, for a certain wizard has yet to arrive…